by Jenn Burke
Elias cut the transmission and let his head flop back into the firm support of his puffy chair. “I can’t even find the energy to get all indignant at his tone, let alone pissed off.” A few squeaky moments later, Ness’s lavender scent wafted close and then a warm thumb traced a circle over his temple. “Mmm, that’s good.” He rolled his head toward her hand and she smoothed her palm across his scalp.
“You told him a meeting wasn’t feasible right now, didn’t you?”
“I did. I wonder if he got the message and is ignoring it, or if it really did go missing. Communications can get freaky around Central.” Looming gates to the far end of the galaxy, Guardian ships scanning everyone’s balls. AEF drift ships bouncing signals back and forth. “Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it now. We’re light-centuries away from Agrius territory and occupied with shit that’s way more important than this grudge he has going with us.” The indignation he’d failed to find earlier rose up out of the warmth of the chair cushioning his bony ass. “We haven’t killed any of his people recently. Not even the woman who threatened Qek.” His brows drew together. Nessa’s warm fingers followed them down before tracing circles across his forehead. “And whatever ran out of that creepy-ass forest on Risus was not on my payroll. We were told no weapons planetside, we took no weapons planetside.”
Nessa’s palm flattened again. “This isn’t much of a vacation, but Banqueler had one thing right. It is an opportunity for us to get away from it all and focus on what’s important right now. Helping Zed, supporting him and Fix. Looking out for Qek. To do those things, we need to look after ourselves. We can’t help them if we’re falling apart.”
Elias opened his eyes and looked up at Nessa. He reached for her hand, clasped it and brought it to his lips. “I don’t thank you enough for all you do.”
She answered with a beautiful smile.
Though their relationship seesawed between friends and more than friends, he knew that the underlying bond was firm. Whatever their current status, they were friends, and Nessa would always be there for him as much as she was for the rest of the crew.
Chapter Eleven
Zed could feel the Zone plucking at his consciousness. He imagined it like a circling coyote, just waiting for its prey to collapse with exhaustion before it darted forward, ripping out chunks of meat. Or, in his case, thoughts. Memories. Bits of who he was, who he’d built himself to be over the past thirty-one years.
How long would it be until there was nothing left of him?
“Hey.” Flick nudged his elbow. “You with me?”
“Tired,” Zed admitted, settling back into the comfortably puffy chair in front of Rhyniche’s empty desk. After explaining what he could of his symptoms, the doctor had examined him, referred to notes provided by Qek and Ness—then scurried off…somewhere. “Feeling scattered.”
“He’ll be back—” Flick frowned. “I shouldn’t call him him, should I?”
“Probably not.”
“Do I use it, then?”
“Seems kind of rude.”
“Yeah, to us. Because we’re human.”
Zed rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Whatever.”
Flick didn’t ask if his head ached—that was a given, now, and Zed appreciated not having to confirm it yet again. He didn’t complain about Zed’s exhausted tone, either, knowing it wasn’t directed at anyone or anything in particular. Just the situation.
“You haven’t Zoned in a while.”
“Well, now you’ve jinxed it.”
“I just meant—”
Clicks preceded Rhyniche into the room. The ashie doctor seemed excited—or at least more animated than it had earlier. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” it said, every other word partially obscured by clicks. After living in close quarters with Qek over the past few weeks, Zed was familiar enough with that ashie quirk that he could still interpret what the doctor was saying. “I believe we have a starting point.” It held up a hypo-syringe.
Flick stiffened. “You’re going to explain what that is, right?”
“Of course.” Rhyniche’s clicks became more subdued. “First, I must stress that this is not a cure. Based on what you and Dr. O’Brien and Qekelough have explained of your symptoms, however, this may help.”
“‘This’ being…” Zed prompted.
“A neural inhibitor based on a formula that was developed for ashushk soldiers during our war with the stin. You see, it is incorrect to state that it is the stin poison that is harming you. Rather, it is the neurochemical changes wrought by the poison that your body can no longer support. Do you understand thus far?”
Flick bristled. “He’s not an idiot.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to imply he was, only that I know that it is sometimes difficult to grasp the larger medical picture when you are in the midst of it.”
Zed entwined his fingers with Flick’s, rubbing his thumb across the back of Flick’s hand. “Go on,” he prompted.
“Given the magnitude of the changes to your bodily chemistry, and the fact that human physiology differs significantly from ashushk, I am unsure if the inhibitor will have much of an effect.” Rhyniche’s face grew smooth. “It may not affect you at all. Or it might slow the deterioration. As I said, it is a starting point. If it works, even in a minute fashion, we have a path to pursue toward a cure.”
Having more alien drugs injected into his body was not Zed’s idea of a good time, but if it would keep the coyote at bay…”Any expected side effects?”
“I would only be able to tell you what ashushk soldiers reported. The same may not apply to you.”
“And what did they report?”
“Drowsiness and sluggishness seemed to be the most common side effects.”
He was already sleeping a lot, as it was. Maybe he’d sleep more—or maybe the sleep he got would be restful instead of the light doze he allowed himself now out of fear he’d attack Flick again. “Okay.”
“Wait.” Flick jerked his hand under Zed’s. “What if this inhibitor reacts in a way you’re not expecting? You said yourself, you don’t know how it will affect him.”
“I do not believe it will harm him. I would not suggest it as a starting point if I did.” Rhyniche held Flick’s gaze for a moment, its large, unblinking eyes steady and showing no signs of subterfuge or a lack of confidence. “I will be blunt, Mr. Ingesson. The scan I took of Mr. Anatolius earlier showed intense degeneration of multiple areas of his brain. By comparing that scan to the ones provided by Dr. O’Brien, we can see that those areas are growing exponentially. Without any intervention, the damage to Mr. Anatolius’s brain will reach a critical point in a Standard week.”
A week. He had a week. He didn’t know who squeezed whose hand, but their combined grip was tight enough now to be painful. Damn it. He couldn’t not call Brennan now, not with a firm time limit staring him in the face.
“And if this neural inhibitor works?” Flick’s voice sounded strangled, tight. “How long will it add?”
“Days, at most.” Rhyniche clicked, the sound sad. “I am sorry I cannot offer you more at this time. But as I said, this is merely a starting point. We are not giving up. Even if the inhibitor does not work, we will find a solution.”
Zed had always been good at reading expressions, a skill his time in the AEF’s covert ops teams had only enhanced. Rhyniche might have a completely alien face, but he’d gotten used to Qek’s features, how they wrinkled, folded and smoothed—and right now, Zed knew that Rhyniche was putting a spin on things. Maybe only a slight one, but it was there. No, the ashies wouldn’t give up, but nor did the doctor think they’d solve the problem in the week he had left.
If a few extra days was all this trip to Ashie Prime would buy him, he’d still take it.
“Let’s do it.”
Flick’s fingers tightened on Zed’s. “You sure?”
“I haven’t really got anything to lose at this point,” he said, offering Flick a small smile.
>
Flick looked as though he might argue, but he kept his mouth shut as Rhyniche approached with the hypo-syringe. And he didn’t let go of Zed’s hand.
*
Moisture beaded the bottom of the clear substance that formed the bubble of their accommodations. Outside, mist writhed in murky tendrils, obscuring the view of the beach. How long had he been staring outside without realizing he could see nothing? Nothing but the vague reflection of his own face and now, the shadow of the man standing behind him.
A hand wrapped around his shoulder, warm but tentative. Felix tried not to flinch. He was so tight, every muscle held rigid, that it would probably hurt. Tear something. The ever-familiar scent of Zed wafted forward and Felix squashed the instinct to turn and bury his face in his chest, lose himself in a circle of strong arms. Zed needed him to be the sturdy one, the capable one, though surely the weight of a feather could break him—a gentle tap at the back of his spine would burst the balloon of grief he’d been carrying within since the night Zed had Zoned in his sleep.
His neck no longer hurt. The angry red marks had been evidence more of Zed’s struggle not to kill him, Nessa had said. Rather than crush Felix’s neck, he’d twisted his palm over skin, leaving more of a rash than a bruise. Even deep in the Zone and apparently deluded, Zed had not wanted to hurt him, not truly. The fear of that night lingered, however. So often over the past week, Felix had found himself jerking away from unexpected touches. That the pain of his reaction did not always reflect in Zed’s eyes only made it all worse.
Ignoring Zed now would hurt both of them, stupidly. He had to turn and face his lover and his nemesis.
As he turned, Zed’s hand slipped from his shoulder to hang in space as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Felix traced his fingers over the veins across Zed’s wrist, then tangled their fingers together, forming a small contact. He would wait for his skin to stop twitching before moving closer. He’d wait to see if Zed remained present.
“How was your nap?” The shot of whatever Rhyniche had administered had, indeed, made Zed sleepy. Rest was a good thing, though. They’d figured that out on the way to Ashie Prime. Nearly a week without any excuse to Zone—Agrius had yet to figure out how to ambush them in j-space—had given all of them a chance to relax.
“Good.” Zed squeezed his hand and let go—not to move away, but so he could move closer. Why was it so hard not to flinch? “How long was I out?”
Felix couldn’t answer the question without checking the time on his bracelet. “Three hours.” He’d been standing in front of the window for three hours? No wonder his legs felt like rusted iron bars.
Zed’s rough palm cupped his cheek. “Tell me you didn’t stand by the window for three hours.”
“I didn’t stand by the window for three hours.”
“Liar.” Sensual lips quirked upward. Zed was so handsome when he smiled—devastatingly so. Felix’s pulse kicked up, knocking through his chest and down his arms.
“Want to get something to eat?” He back-stepped, out of Zed’s reach, and angled toward the door.
“No, I don’t.”
“You should. Eating regularly—”
Zed caught his shoulder again, turning him slightly. “Flick, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
A sigh parting his lips, Zed let go of Felix’s shoulder and scrubbed his face. Felix watched with an odd degree of detachment as Zed’s features shifted beneath his hand, one eye widening and narrowing, his cheek pushing up, the deepening crease of a scar, the way blood quickly rushed back into furrows. The pinpricks of dark stubble, another scar—stretching and releasing. Skin.
He reached for his own face, numbed fingertips finding the scar that interrupted his left brow, danced across his left cheek and wrapped around his jaw. Did it shift like that when he moved it? Reflect light? Swallow skin and reproduce it? Change the map of his face so that he appeared at once familiar and strange?
Zed caught his hand, held it against his cheek, soliton tattoo flashing inside his wrist, and framed Felix’s face, his larger hands warm brackets over each ear. He leaned in and Felix thought he might kiss him. Despite the jagged pain in his chest, his chin lifted to accept the sweet gift. Instead, Zed closed his eyes and a breath later, his forehead came to rest against Felix’s.
Breath tickled Felix’s lips. “I’m sorry.”
Something snapped inside him. Felt like the pop of a rib. His breath hitched. “Don’t ever say that.”
“Flick…”
Felix shook his head, dislodging Zed so that he had to stand back. Their gazes locked and that was worse than feeling the small weight of Zed in the center of his forehead. In some deep, dark corner of his mind, Felix acknowledged that when this was all over—and it would end soon, whether he offered a cold shoulder or open arms—he would be lost. That all he lent to Zed would go with him. Will, mind, body and soul. His heart. He was afraid and he hurt. By the hour he fought the urge to run. Every hour, he convinced himself to stay, to take what little Zed had to offer him and to treasure it, by all those useless gods, because it was all he had.
Lifting his chin again, Felix dropped a light kiss to the corner of Zed’s mouth. Zed’s lips softened beneath his small caress and he moved so that they could meet in a proper kiss. Felix resisted at first, but Zed still held his face, thumbs locked about his ears. Falling into the kiss was easier. Felix tucked his hands around Zed’s waist and leaned in. Lips parted and tongues danced between small sighs of breath. The tightness in Felix’s chest loosened enough that he could breathe. Then his lungs hitched and his shoulders jerked.
Not now, Felix. Not now.
Zed pulled back. “Hey.”
Denying the ache building beneath his breastbone only drove him further toward expressing it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last told Zed he loved him. It had probably been an almost thoughtless admission at the end of a ripmail. Love you! After the first time, those words had been so easy to say. A greeting, a farewell, a reminder of those five glorious days they had spent together on Hemera Station before the war. Saying it now would feel too desperate or final. It would be a plea—him asking Zed not to die. Not to leave him again.
“C’mon, let’s sit for a bit.” Catching Felix’s strained look, Zed added, “We’ll get something to eat soon, I promise.” Zed directed him toward the largest poofy thing near the window.
Ashie furniture was just plain weird. All of it could be shaped and reshaped. The soft round platform that formed the bed could just as easily be a dining table. Didn’t even need a tablecloth as the material covering each piece self-cleaned, like an SFT. It also warmed and cooled and could change texture with the brush of a palm. The light blanket spread across the bed was made of a similar fabric. Both were made of a more robust material than his shirt and pants, though. Idly, Felix wondered if the material could be hardened into responsive armor.
Zed pulled him down into the cushioned embrace of a large puff, which relaxed and reformed around them, the fit not quite as close as that of the smaller “chairs.” He nudged his shoulder. “Let’s talk.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“I need to tell you—”
Felix pushed a hand across Zed’s mouth. Something warm swept across his palm and it took Felix a moment to relate it to the glint in Zed’s gaze. He pulled his hand away and wiped it on Zed’s shirt.
“You licked me.”
“Yep.”
“I could have had anything on my hand.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Poison or fish guts or just germs, weird ashie germs.”
A soft smile pulled at Zed’s face, curving his lips and softening the lines around his eyes. “You still have a thing about germs.”
“Hell, yeah. A bullet is quick, man. Germs are fucking insidious bastards. You can’t even see them. They’ll turn your insides out and…” Felix narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re getting me all distracted and then you’re going to talk me in a circle to something you want to talk about, which is going to be…” His lungs froze again. Holy fuck, what did Zed want to talk about? Felix dragged in a breath. “I don’t want to talk about what’s happening. We’re living it and that’s hard enough. I’d rather make up new flavors of ice cream.”
“Banana cream pie.”
“What?”
“That’s my ice cream flavor.”
A jagged pain sliced through Felix’s chest. When Zed was sharp, he was so fucking sharp. Quick, decisive, thoughts flowing a million klicks an hour in a million different directions. He could consider ice cream, his illness, Felix’s health, the dire straits of Idowu & Ingesson, LLC, Agrius and their Grand Fucking Moth, whatever the ashies had planned for him and galactic peace all at once. No, wait, Felix could manage that. Zed probably had four times the number of processes going—which was why the blank spaces between were so damned disconcerting.
“What’s your flavor?” Zed asked.
“Strawberry,” Felix whispered.
Warmth shifted through the mutable blue of Zed’s eyes and a hand tucked behind him, fingers curling around Felix’s ribs as Zed pulled him into a sideways hug.
“What was the name of that wine we had?” Felix asked, harking back to his memory of their stay on Hemera. The wine that had fizzed and popped in his throat. Zed had ordered it to go with their strawberries. They had just exchanged those special words, had admitted to each other that they’d never said them before.
First love, last love.
God, no.
Zed shook his head. “Nope, we’re not doing that, either.”
Felix exhaled shakily. “Okay. New chip flavor.”
“Banana.”
Gross, but…”They have that one. They have pickled Yelaktian squid too.”
“That sounds fucking disgusting.”
“Actually, it’s not bad if you don’t mind having your tongue go numb halfway through a bag.”
Zed offered a vague smile.
Felix continued. “They revived that competition. Remember that one? Create a new flavor and you could win an all-expenses-paid drift.” Drift ships looped through real space in long arcs, stopping at every tourist trap along the way. They had military drifts too. Ships full of supermains and implanted techs, but the AEF had a different take on all expenses paid. “I entered, a couple of years ago. Qek and I created twenty different flavors. Not one of them even made the quarter finals. Which I don’t get, because I think beer-flavored chips is just a natural thing, right? I mean, what goes better with beer than beer?”
