“The bridge,” Sascha said. He straightened. “The distress call. They probably shut it off. We could get new a signal out... if they haven’t destroyed our comm facility.”
Hirianthial pulled the knife from his boot and tossed it to the Harat-Shar, who caught it with a frisson of silver-cold surprise.
“I can’t make it that far,” Hirianthial said. “The only way I can help is by distracting them.”
“Will that work?” Sascha asked, eyes wide.
“They’re looking for me,” Hirianthial said and managed a thin smile. “If they find me, they won’t have a reason to search the room. Good luck.”
“Hirianthial, wait!”
He stepped out into the corridor; the searchers were still four doors down.
“Down here,” he said.
They stopped and aimed their rifles at him.
“Presumably your employers prefer me alive to dead,” Hirianthial said. “Which suits me fine, since I’m not up to running.”
—set us on fire like he did that building—heard he can read your mind from fifty paces—looks like if you pushed him he’d fall over—
“Poor mortals,” Hirianthial said. “Any more afraid and you’d miss me if you shot.”
That sent sparks of anger shooting from them both. That the sparks were more real to him than the men gave Hirianthial cause for concern. Fortunately his tenuous hold on consciousness required so much energy he had none to spare for worry.
“You just come quietly,” one of them said.
“I had no other intention,” Hirianthial said. “Lead the way.”
“You first.”
He shrugged and started down the corridor, concentrating on setting his feet on the approximate location of the floor and bracing himself with a hand against the wall. The river of suspicion and resentment flowing past him felt so solid he kept trying to lean on it and surprising himself by beginning to fall.
“Are you drunk?” one of them asked abruptly.
“No,” Hirianthial said. “Just very, very sick.”
That gave them both unwelcome images of him vomiting. —shouldn’t rush him—boss’ll kill me if he keels over on our watch—yuck—
Hirianthial smiled grimly and kept going.
“Here,” one of them said finally. “In the mess hall.”
The Eldritch stopped at the door, barred by the miasma of black and sickened yellow, the smell of gagging bile and the sound of wailing. The distress was so real he couldn’t even see the door.
“Come on, pastehead, we don’t have all day.”
He grasped along the wall until he found the edge of the door. Even then he questioned his senses. Was that ridge the rounded molding on the wall or the softened edge of a halo-arch?
“Oh for—” The man behind him shoved an elbow into the small of his back with all the violence of a spear. His thoughts, edged like razors and raw as wounds, punched through the slight grip Hirianthial held on reality and shattered it. Was he on the floor? Standing up? Was the man looking down at him real or a construct formed out of Reese’s anger and Irine’s fear and Kis’eh’t’s numb horror?
He was fairly certain the blow to his ribs was real. Booted foot, his training supplied. He’d have a contusion, but the bone was fine.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing!” a voice exclaimed.
“You didn’t do nothing. You pushed him.”
“Well, he was just standing there at the door like he couldn’t find it! What was I supposed to do? Let him hang there?”
The voice above him hissed like water on hot metal. “You touched him? Are you an idiot?”
“It was just my elbow.”
“Get out of my sight before I show you what I can do with an elbow.”
The hot voice and monstrous presence hove near. Hirianthial tried to see it past the phantasmagoric mask painted on the face and failed.
“Still with us, spy?”
To talk would only give the man ammunition... but beyond his spiked body Hirianthial saw the huddled shapes of the others. His friends. When had they become friends? That didn’t matter. What did was how their shapes had been distorted by a terrible dread. Their thoughts wove them glittering halos, made of partial phrases: what-did-they-do-to-him and he’s-going-to-die-for-certain and better-dead-than-tortured.
Instead of talking to the demon, Hirianthial addressed those rattled thoughts. “Nothing is certain.”
Consternation shot through their auras. Maybe-he’s-already-dying—this-wasn’t-how-it-was-supposed-to-work-out
“It hasn’t finished working out yet,” he continued, and then added reflectively, “I could die here.”
He meant that to reassure them, but it failed. It also aroused the incredulity of his captor, who said, “You absolutely will not die. I’m scheduled to deliver you in one piece, still breathing.”
“You’re doing a poor job,” Hirianthial said conversationally. He simply could not take a satyr with a demon’s face seriously, even though his rational mind insisted that he was simply re-interpreting the detail he was receiving into images he could understand. Strange how that worked—like most Eldritch, he’d been controlling his mental talents since the moment of manifestation. He’d never experienced them unfettered. He’d never allowed himself. Particularly given how much stronger his talents had been than those of the average Eldritch, who needed touch to evoke the ability to sense thought and feeling. Perhaps this is how the fabled mind-mage Corel had always felt, and that was why he’d gone insane.
More likely this was the danger of his own broader-than-average ability, untrammeled. His brain could not process the wealth of information and began blurring the line between truth and hallucination. He’d never heard of esper synaesthesia. Someone should commission a medical study.
“Are you even listening to me?” the demon demanded, kicking him again. A new bruise. Too close to the fragile bones near the center of his chest, though. Hirianthial imagined the xiphoid process cowering.
The demon actually wanted an answer. Hirianthial said, “When you say something interesting, I’ll be sure to listen.”
Exasperation grew like twin horns from the man’s head. “Here’s something interesting, then. If you tell me what I want to know, I might let you go.”
“You’re lying,” Hirianthial said.
A blank stare. The halo of thoughts from the others started spreading, bouncing off the walls. he-shouldn’t-do-that-he’ll-incite-violence, what-can-he-possibly-know, oh-angels-if-he-hits-him-I’ll-scream
“If he’s going to be violent I won’t stop him,” Hirianthial said to the voices outside his head. “He’s not allowed to break me into actual pieces anyway. His employer was adamant on that point.”
Fury showered sparks from the demon, who straightened. “Think you know everything, do you, witch? Think I’m stupid? I’m not. I know exactly how to hurt you.” He motioned to two of the guards. “Put him in a closet.”
that’s-not-so-bad
“And dump him in with the rest of the prisoners. Let’s see how he likes being crammed in with them, skin to skin.”
The wince he heard as a strange combination of a violin squeal and a door creaking must have been visible, because the demon laughed. “Oh, that bothers you, fine Captain? I didn’t mean it literally—”
Don’t relax, Hirianthial thought.
“Until now. Strip them and get it done. The hour it’ll take us to get through to the cargo should reduce him to eager compliance.”
How little he understood. An hour in this state in close proximity to other people would reduce him to complete insanity.
Reese fought for every square inch of her clothes until it became obvious how much the pirates were enjoying her struggles. Then she took off the last few bits herself and handed them over. Irine had foiled their darker thoughts by writhing out of her clothing so provocatively they’d had trouble keeping their hands to themselves. And of course, Kis’eh’t wore only a v
est, which she took off without fanfare, and Bryer’s pants were mostly about providing pockets. Why was it that the only person with a decent nudity taboo was herself?
Well, herself and Hirianthial. Except she highly doubted he was in any condition to care. And he was a doctor, anyway.
The pirates chose the smallest closet they could find, which was far too small for Reese’s taste. Bryer went in first, flattening against the back wall. Then Kis’eh’t, making herself as small as possible but still taking up more than two people’s floor-space. Irine solved that problem by straddling the Glaseah’s back.
“Come on, Captain,” Irine said, patting the space in front of her. “There’s room for you here.”
Reese eyed the remaining space. If they scrunched up enough, they might be able to give Hirianthial a little clearance. She sighed and wedged herself in front of Irine, arms crossed in front of her chest. The air on her body didn’t just embarrass her... it gave her the uncomfortable feeling that every part of her body was now vulnerable. How could she possibly protect it when every inch was exposed?
The guards didn’t seem to know where to start with Hirianthial’s elaborate clothes. As one of them plucked at his buttoned collar, Reese couldn’t contain herself any longer. “I wouldn’t.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” the one holding the Eldritch up said.
“I don’t think you understand,” Reese said. “If you strip him and shove him in here with us, he’s going to go crazy.”
They eyed her suspiciously. She couldn’t blame them. She had no idea where her conviction came from, but she was certain. To be trapped in here skin-to-skin with so many off-worlders would drive Hirianthial’s mind away, permanently.
“The boss said... “
“Your boss said he was supposed to deliver him alive and capable of answering questions. Look at him,” Reese said. “He’s already half-gone. You want to be the reason why he ends up all gone?”
“We have orders.”
“Fine,” Reese said. “Follow them. But Blond and Nasty’s not going to get the axe when the Eldritch dies because you stripped him naked and shoved him in a closet... you are, for doing it.”
That gave them both pause. As they exchanged nervous glances, Reese hid her clenched hands behind Kis’eh’t’s back. Irine’s body trembled behind her.
“Don’t want him drooling crazy when they come for him,” one of the men said finally.
“Just chuck him in,” the other said.
A nod. They were agreed. They deposited Hirianthial in the closet fully-dressed and shut the door.
Irine hugged her tightly from behind. “They listened to you! I can’t believe they listened to you!”
“Well, I was right,” Reese said. “Kis’eh’t, can you arrange him so he has a layer of air between us?”
A hoarse whisper. “I can. Arrange myself.”
Reese ducked behind Kis’eh’t’s upper body. “I thought you were unconscious!”
“I’m not?” Hirianthial asked. He sounded curious, distracted. His eyes when she chanced a look at them failed to focus on any one person or point in space. Still, when he folded his limbs up, knees to chest and arms around them, Reese let out a relieved breath.
“Now what?” Kis’eh’t asked.
“We wait,” Hirianthial said. “For Sascha.”
“I miss him,” Irine said.
“Sascha,” Reese said, puzzled. “Where is he, anyway? Hirianthial?”
But the Eldritch had closed his eyes again, forehead lowering until it touched his knees.
“Hey, no, don’t do that. Hirianthial! Stay focused!”
He didn’t move.
“This is ridiculous,” Reese said, covering her face. “Ridiculous. I’m trapped in a storage closet while pirates ransack my ship.”
“Naked,” Irine added.
“You’re not helping,” Reese growled.
“Sorry,” Irine said. “If it helps, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of!”
Kis’eh’t fanned her feathered ears. “You could have phrased that better, Irine.”
“If I tell her she’s attractive in any other way she’ll decide I’m flirting,” Irine said.
“Are you?” Kis’eh’t asked.
“No,” Irine said. “Well, not yet.”
Reese scowled.
“Clear your minds,” Bryer said suddenly. “Or you will tax the healer.”
“Right. Easy for you to say,” Irine said.
Hirianthial mumbled something. Kis’eh’t bent closer, carefully. “Speak again?”
“Take the tabard. For the lady.”
“I don’t need your clothes,” Reese said, frowning.
“That’s just what I was saying!” Irine said.
Long white fingers unclasped one of the brooches, then the other. The tabard dropped forward into Hirianthial’s lap, crumpling between his knees and his stomach.
“He’s still dressed under it,” Kis’eh’t said, pinching one of the tabard’s edges and pulling it free before drawing the opposite side from behind the Eldritch.
“Why me?” Reese asked.
“Because you make more of it than we do,” Bryer said. “That disorders your mind more.”
“Well, your nakedness disorders me as much as mine does!” Reese exclaimed.
“Yeah, but he’s only got enough clothes for one more person,” Kis’eh’t said, twisting toward her. “Besides, we’ve got fur. And, er, scales. You don’t. Here, put it on.”
Grumbling, Reese accepted the fabric. Her fingers began petting it before she stopped being angry. It was very soft. She wouldn’t have called it velvet, but it had pile and it felt good on both sides. Irine helped her with the brooches, which were surprisingly heavy. Similar pins she’d handled in jewelry stores were usually hollow or alloyed with something lighter. These pressed on her shoulders like stones.
“Better,” Bryer said.
“I guess so,” Reese said. “How are we going to get out of this, though?”
“Sascha’s still free,” Irine said.
Or dead. Reese didn’t voice that thought. Instead, she asked, “Can we break out of the closet?”
“I can check,” Irine said.
“Do that.”
Irine sidled past her, skirting as far around Hirianthial as she was able—which was only a half-inch or so. She ran her hands over the door frame, sticking a claw-tip into the seam between the door and the pocket and checking the join and the corners. She ran her claws under the bottom, tapped along the opening edge, finally kicked it.
“No good,” Reese guessed.
“Closets aren’t meant to be opened from the inside,” Irine said. “Standard Alliance construction wouldn’t allow a closet to lock at all, but the Earthrise was built to a Terran spec that keeps doors on rooms under a certain size open while someone’s inside.”
“Except this door is closed,” Kis’eh’t said.
“If you short the circuit, the door will close and stay that way,” Irine said. “Actively. It’s supposed to be a response to possible decompression.” She flattened her hands on the inside of the door and dragged. “This would usually work, but the door’s holding itself closed.”
“If we could get enough leverage on it could we get it open?” Reese asked.
“Possibly,” Irine said. “But we’d need a door hook. If I had my clothes with me we could do it... “ She scanned the cramped walls. “Is there anything in here made of wire?”
“There’s nothing in here but us,” Reese said. “I didn’t use this closet for anything. I didn’t even bother with shelves.” She squinted. “You always carry lock-picks on your clothes?”
Irine shrugged. “Or things that can be made into picks. You never know when you’re going to be locked in a closet.”
“Nude,” Reese finished.
“I’ll have to start hiding them in my—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Reese said, covering
her eyes. “I don’t want to know.” She rubbed her aching brows. “Look, are you sure we can’t use something? A pin?”
Irine eyed the door. “You can’t make a door hook out of a pin. You need at least an arm’s length of heavy gauge wire. The short of the matter is we’re not getting out of here by forcing the door.”
Reese stared at her. “And you were hiding that kind of thing on your clothes?”
Irine shrugged, still pressing on the door frame. “I wasn’t wearing those outfits because I needed lift. You’d be surprised what you can do with steel-sprung boning.” She backed away from the door and snuggled back in behind Reese. “No go on the door. Not that way, anyway.”
“Maybe we could talk our way out? The way we did in the slaver prison?” Kis’eh’t said.
“Can they even hear us?” Reese asked.
“No,” Irine said. When Reese eyed her askance, Irine blushed at the ears. “Well, what good are empty closets if you can hear through the doors?”
“We could yell,” Reese said. “Or is yelling also not enough?”
“No, if you yell it’s audible,” Kis’eh’t said, and added, “And I have my own cause to know that.”
Irine blushed harder. “Sorry.”
Kis’eh’t waved a hand. “You have a nice voice at that octave.”
“Ack!” Reese said. “Moving on from this topic. So if we yell we’ll be heard. We need a plan.”
“We could just say that Hirianthial needs medical attention,” Kis’eh’t said. “That would be true enough.”
Reese tried not to look at the man slumped against the wall. “And then what? We jump them? They’re still armed and we’re not only not armed, we’re naked.”
“Bryer’s always armed,” Irine said. “And I’ve got claws, too.”
“There’s only room for one of you to jump out at a time,” Reese said.
“Bryer then,” Kis’eh’t said. “He’s more likely to succeed.”
“So we jump the guards,” Reese said. “Disarm them. Then what? Kill them all? How do we keep the Crawler and that second ship from sending more people? We can’t escape them with a dead Well drive.”
The door opened, flushing in a wave of cooler, fresher air. Stunned, they all looked out just as Sascha tumbled in, then fell over Kis’eh’t’s paws and landed in the narrow space between Hirianthial’s calves, Bryer’s claws and Reese’s thigh. The door swooped shut again.
Earthrise (Her Instruments Book 1) Page 31
