“Me?” She pointed at herself.
“Yes. You and—” He bit off the name, not wanting to distract Roxy by introducing the subject of Dee.
“Can we hurry this up?” Glover prodded. “Persey just might have mentioned us to people armed with more than clubs.”
Martin shot him an annoyed glance. “We’ll worry about that in a moment. Let’s find out if we can get off this planet first. Roxy?”
She rubbed her forehead and took a deep breath. “Yes. There is a cutter at the port.”
“Let’s go,” Glover insisted, gesturing toward the ward entrance with his weapon.
“Are we going home now?”
Martin took Roxy’s hand. He could feel the fragility of the bones beneath the skin. Worse, he’d lived with a telempath long enough to recognize how delicate the koltiri’s hold on reality was after far too much strain on her mental shielding. “Home soon,” he promised. “Off planet first.”
“Well, of course we have to get off the planet before we can go home. Where’s Dee?”
Damn. “She’ll meet us at the port.”
“Oh. I better get the ball. I borrowed it from CeCe. He’ll want it back.”
Martin led Roxy through the door, keeping his attention on the hallway before them. Glover followed closely, guarding their rear again. The hall was empty. Martin listened carefully, heard nothing but the low murmur of questions from the ward patients. He didn’t take the time to raise the door shield behind them. Better to leave the people in there a way out—so they could die of the plague like everyone else?
“Fuck it.” He began to pull Roxy down the hall.
She balked, digging her bare heels into the carpet. “We have to get the ball.”
“No,” Glover said, pushing her from behind.
She threw the Bucon a dirty look, but didn’t budge. “Viper?”
“No,” Martin agreed with Glover. “We haven’t time.” Maybe he would have to knock her out and carry her, if she’d stay out.
“I have to. And Dee—” She looked around anxiously. “I can’t feel her loving me.” Her stubbornness began to dissolve into pained confusion.
Glover spoke up with sudden cheerfulness. “Dee will bring your basketball.”
He was good enough to easily lie to a koltiri. Roxy’s troubled expression cleared. “That’s all right, then. Let’s go.”
Martin gave Glover a furious look, not sure why it was all right for him to lie to Roxy, but not anybody else. Roxy was already moving toward the stairs. He and Glover had to hurry to keep pace with her.
———
“I’m sick of living like a thief.” Pyr heard what he’d just said and amended, “As a thief.”
He was talking to himself. Bad habit, that. But sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he forgot no one was there. At least, that was the excuse he used. He spoke while staring at the ceiling. It was lost in shadow not too far overhead, and not particularly interesting even when the cabin’s lights were on, but since his body didn’t care for sleep, he was passing the rest cycle staring. And thinking. And rambling on to himself about all the problems he didn’t really have to worry about anymore. Letting go wasn’t easy. Letting go wasn’t even possible. Pyr knew that if he let go, stopped caring, permanent darkness would come crashing down on him even sooner. And he’d been rambling out loud because he had a fever. The ceiling, and possibly one of Pilsane’s aural sensors, had been getting quite an earful. Pyr could only assume that Pilsie was taking lots of notes.
He chuckled, and was resentful because the mirth hurt his chest. He nursed the resentment and punished his body by forcing it to sit up. It took some time before the combination of nausea and dizziness cleared enough to allow him to swing his legs heavily over the side of the bunk. This was really getting to be ridiculous.
He went back to thinking about his complaints while he tried to focus on where exactly his feet were in relation to the deck. We have nothing, Pyr complained, on the off chance some ancestral god might be listening. Nothing but what we’ve stolen or borrowed. Nothing to call our own but a code of behavior that makes no sense to me. Never made any sense for me and mine. Done nothing but keep us isolated—weak and frightened children. Not to mention feared and suspected by all those silent races we hold in contempt.
He slid forward cautiously, the fingers of his good hand clutching the side of the bed for support. “When was the last time I took off my boots?” Pyr hauled himself upright. He could see now, but the pain proved harder to get under control than usual. Usual? What was usual for a condition compounded of poison on top of Rust on top of plague? What standard did he judge “usual” by?
“Stop complaining.” Dead men had no business complaining. “What am I doing out of bed, anyway?” Change of watch, he reminded himself. You’re supposed to be on the bridge, Captain. “Rather be changing my socks,” he muttered. It was easier to go sit on the bridge, though. He needed to update the log, to make some notes for Linch. Might as well get glared at by the crew while I’m doing it.
———
“Get out of my chair, Kith.”
The League rep sneered meaningfully, and didn’t immediately jump to attention. He didn’t even bother to stand. And here I gave him a direct order, Pyr thought, almost too weary to feel annoyed.
The sudden silence on the bridge grew thick with expectation as Pyr approached Kith. He felt their gazes on him from the few manned stations, and disliked the attention. He hadn’t killed anyone for insubordination for quite a while; they assumed he was going to now. But everyone knew Kith couldn’t be killed. Pyr absorbed their eagerness for a fight. The emotion directed toward the center of the bridge was fueled half by hatred of Kith and half by boredom. Pilsane was right about these people needing an outlet. And Kith was far too sure of his immunity.
Pyr had no objection to disposing of the League rep, but the Pirate League would. It was an agreement with the League that gave him the means to protect the border. It was the League who insisted they have someone on board to look out for their interests. Pyr needed the League’s cooperation while he quietly developed other resources. Kith didn’t always understand that Pyr’s people were allies rather than just another client race of the oldest crime syndicate in the galaxy. Pyr was well aware that there were plenty among the crew still locked in the hold that would follow Kith rather than Linch if Pyr were out of the picture. When, he reminded himself. Through the growing discomfort and desperation, he’d almost forgotten his decision to somehow kill the Leaguer.
Later, Pyr decided now. He’d kill Kith later. It would be messy and hard and probably kill them both as well. If Kith’s death was going to be his last act, he didn’t want it to be public. He hated the idea of making one last sacrifice for the cause, but supposed it was inevitable, if he could only remember to put it on his agenda for the next twenty-four hours or so. If he had even that much time.
Right now he still had one good hand. He used it to grab Kith by the back of his collar and haul him out of the chair. He held him aloft for a moment as a reminder that he wasn’t just another Bucon. “Rust is making you deaf and paralyzed,” he observed as he tossed Kith away. “And forgetful,” he added mildly as the Leaguer came up hard against the view screen a dozen feet away.
Snarling, Kith spun to face Pyr. His fury flailed out at Pyr, which Pyr ignored—except for taking amused note that the Leaguer frequently forgot the differences between the Raptor’s captain and himself.
Pyr sat down in his chair. “Shouldn’t Mik have bridge duty, Kith?”
“He’s tinkering,” Kith answered. He rubbed a bruised shoulder and went to hover over the navigational sensors, his back to Pyr. Bruised through the shield? Interesting.
Simon spoke up from the communications board. “Mik said he was needed in Engineering. He left Kith in charge during watch change.”
Pyr’s lips twitched involuntarily. How like Mik to give the League rep a chance to act like an idiot as a subtle way of pointing
out to the captain that something firm needed to be done about the resident Leaguer. Pyr carefully crossed his aching legs. “We heard anything from outside?”
“Plenty,” Simon answered with a wide grin. “We’ve picked up a United Systems Security transmission. Tinna’s decode says that they’re curious about the Borderers pulling their ships back from the Rose but think it’s too dangerous to send any spy ships nosing around the border right now. There are too many quarantines and blockades and intersystem conflicts inside Systems territory for them to risk provoking fights with anyone right now.”
“That’s nice.”
“That will make raiding in the Systems easier for us,” Kith spoke up. “If you have the guts for it.” Kith was always urging them to raid the war-weakened Systems. Except that, from where Pyr sat, the Systems didn’t look all that weakened to him. Better for the Raptor to prey on the pirates who preyed on Systems shipping.
Pyr knew why the Borderers had pulled back, and why they’d been poised for a suicidal invasion of the Systems in the first place. Some clan factions had gotten the idea that the Unclean Evil Demon United Systems was responsible for infecting the farthest outpost worlds of the Holy Chosen People with Sag Fever and Rust. They had taken their ships and gone home because he sent the Clan Great House proof that the Systems were more affected by the disease than the People were. He and his whole clan had had to vow to find and destroy those truly responsible to stop a war the People could never win. Too bad his was a small clan, and soon to be smaller.
“Anything else?”
“A faint communications signal, Captain.”
Pyr jerked upright. “What?”
“Caught the signal just at watch change,” Simon told him, almost defensively, shoulders hunched and gaze on the multi-level board. “Been working on it for four minutes now. It’s faint, maybe an old echo. Mik said to wait until I was able to confirm it was a source and not a transmission shadow before reporting to you.” Simon’s fingers began to nervously rub along a strip of blinking green and yellow lights.
Let’s not worry Dha-lrm, eh? Pyr thought at the engineer. “Is it a source?”
“I can’t tell, Captain.”
Something like that, he was answered. Guess you want to do something about it.
You are getting your asses up here, aren’t you? Demons, it hurt to think. His mind just wanted to spread out and inhabit someplace without pain. It was so tempting to drop all shielding and…
We’re on our way, Linch’s mental voice intruded. It felt like ice water sloshed over Pyr’s burning mind. He waited for his senior crew to put in an appearance.
Kith kept his back to Pyr, his gaze on the datascreens, but his attention focused angrily on Pyr. “We have ships to hunt,” he reminded, rough voice soft with warning. “This could be prey at last.”
The door opened; Mik, Pilsane, and Linch hurried onto the bridge. Mik and Linch came to stand next to Pyr. Pilsane relieved Simon at communications.
Where? Pyr asked after Pilsane’s fingers stopped flying over the touch pads and control sensors.
“Definitely there, Bucon. But I can’t get a linear fix.”
“Damn.”
“It’s a trail.” Kith whirled around. He banged a fist on the pilot’s console. “Follow it!”
“A faint trail,” Linch pointed out. “Perhaps the ship is a month gone from those coordinates.”
“It’s the only trail we’ve crossed in days.”
Pyr frowned as he looked from Linch to the Leaguer. He uncrossed his legs, making a true effort to look as relaxed and casual as any Bucon. “I hate to say this,” he drawled, gazed fixed on the main screen. “But I’m going to have to agree with Kith on this one. Let’s follow the trail.”
———
“Dr. Martin Braithwaithe, I do not like you,” Martin said to himself as he came into Glover’s private cabin.
He’d brought Roxy in here as soon as they’d rendezvoused with Glover’s yacht where they’d left it on a dead world, well beyond the Bonadem blockade. She’d been asleep when he settled her long, skinny frame on the wide bunk, and she’d been asleep every time he’d checked on her since.
Glover had popped an orange capsule and taken over the single-station cockpit of the yacht when they’d come onboard. Glover said Rust had no effects, but Martin was all too aware of his sister-in-law’s debilitated condition. The woman he remembered had disappeared into a disoriented zombie, when she was awake at all. That was from treating Sag Fever and its cure. He also remembered the silent mob in Dallis—a mob slavishly following their dealers’ orders. He kept waiting for some aberrant behavior from the Bucon, though he hadn’t seen any so far. Maybe the only effect was that a Rust junkie would do anything for the lifesaving drug.
Glover had made it abundantly clear that he would take care of himself. Roxy was Martin’s concern. He carried two hypos with him this time, one a nutrient supplement, the other one of the few stimulants effective on a koltiri. He knew all about what drugs worked on koltiri, and every other telepathic, empathic, and sensitive humanoid being in the United Systems. In one part of his life, Dr. Martin Braithwaithe was a psychiatrist stationed aboard the Sector Ship Odyssey, who specialized in treating the physical and mental ills of the psi-gifted. But you didn’t serve aboard a Sector Ship unless you had more than one specialty. At this moment, Dr. Braithwaithe was not at all happy with sharing his existence with the ruthless security agent who went by the same name. He’d had too much time to himself in the last few hours, and that left him vulnerable to the compassion that plagued his conscience.
“I’ll get over it,” he said, and stepped closer to the sleeping woman. He’d cleaned her up, and dressed her in a long, red, silk tunic and loose black trousers he’d found in Glover’s closet. The clothes fit well enough, and had the advantage of not being crusted with blood.
He carefully injected Roxy with both hypos, then sat down beside her near the head of the bunk. “I wish we could do this another way,” he said, not for the first time. “You’re looking better,” he added reassuringly, using a soothing tone that would help calm her as she slowly came awake. “Really. You look like hell, which is better than death warmed over, which is what you looked like twenty-four hours ago. Still too skinny for my liking. Course, Reine’s looking all round and maternal right now. Baby’s a boy, in case she didn’t mention it. You koltiri ever figure out why you have trouble having boy babies? Physically she’s fine, and telepathically, but some of the other super powers have gone down the toilet. She’s not happy about that—not to mention a little on the paranoid side. Almost glad to be away from home right now. Not that I’m having any fun. I really wish we could do this another way. I’m so sorry about getting you into this.”
One deep purple eye partially opened. It was sunk deeply in the skull-like mask of her face. “Oh, hush,” Roxy muttered as she focused on him. “You’re not sorry, not deep down in that nasty, self-righteous core of yours, Martin Braithwaithe. Almost as bad as Rafael—only without the ego.” She rolled over on her stomach and buried her face in a pillow.
Martin stared hard at the back of her head. “Madam,” he inquired. “Are you impugning the character of the man I love?”
“Yes,” came the muffled reply. She lifted her head. “Besides, you do it to the man I love all the time.”
“That’s cause you don’t really love him.”
“Do to. Mostly.” She sighed. “He takes care of me.”
“You can take care of yourself.”
“You let Rafe run your life.”
“I let him think he does.” He snorted. “If we start fighting about Rafe and Eamon, we’ll be here for days. Don’t have time for a good family brawl right now.”
She grunted, then rolled over and sat up. She pressed her thumbs to her temples and complained, “I’ve got Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars running through my head. It’s my sister who collects old music, not me.” She glared at him. “Probably picking it up via
that link sort of bond thing you have with Reine.” She stopped rubbing her temples and leaned back against the headboard.
Martin settled down beside her and put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned comfortably against him. “How do you feel?”
She didn’t answer for a long time, probably doing an internal catalogue of her atoms, he decided. Finally, she said, “Half of me’s okay. The body is working, but the brain needs an overhaul. Reality has definitely become a subjective phenomenon. More so than usual.” She chuckled. “Sounded like a sentient being there for a second.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he answered, as lightly as he could. “The sentient mood will pass.”
“Unfortunately. Maybe if I can stay off the Rust and plague combination for awhile, I’ll be okay.”
“Very likely. Hungry?”
“Always. Did I really make a fuss over a basketball?” She moved restlessly within the circle of his arm and looked around. “We’re on somebody’s private yacht.”
“Glover’s.”
“Hmmm.” She sighed. “And Dee’s dead.” She gave him a hard look. “You lied to me about that.” Tears brimmed in her huge eyes, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.
He didn’t apologize. “A Rust dealer deliberately hunted her down and murdered her.”
Roxy nodded. “She was playing out of her league—and for all the right reasons.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, hell. She was in love with me and I always pretended I didn’t know.”
“She knew.”
“Yeah. Eamon didn’t—wouldn’t—well, the Tigris isn’t the Odyssey. We don’t do group marriages.”
“Every ship has its own culture. Your people are into that frontline warrior tribe thing—with the chest-beating chief having the best woman that he doesn’t share with anybody. Too bad. You could use someone to love you.”
She didn’t argue with him for once. “I didn’t exactly volunteer, now did I? I was drafted to serve on the Tigris. Hell, it was Dee who found me in the wreckage of the refugee camp and talked Eamon into taking a MedService doctor on board. She got me off that hell hole just before the Trins attacked again.”
Gates of Hell Page 14
