by Kathy Tyers
On second thought, anger felt good.
She’d confess later.
―――
Though the churning water had seemed warm at first, Graysha felt shivery, even sleepy. The rung kept slipping from beneath her feet, but it was her turn to watch the door. Her back ached from twisting around so far.
To pass the time, each had practiced ducking and holding the reed in place, near a rung for concealment. Lindon’s dark hair now looked caked with pale green dirt, and it hung lank, dribbling green slime back into the tank. They had talked, on and off, comparing their childhoods—her mother’s required Sunday morning indoctrinations, set against his family’s courageous step of giving all three children solid training and then full spiritual freedom. “I asked to be baptized when I turned eighteen,” he said. “It was my first decision as a legal adult.” He looked sleepier than she felt, and the dark circles under his eyes had a blue-green cast. He’d admitted staying up all through the previous night.
Graysha shifted her grip on the ladder rung. “Full immersion, I suppose,” she said lightly.
“Oh yes.”
“Could this count as mine?” She didn’t really think so, but she wanted to see him smile.
He did. Beautifully, peacefully. “Probably not.”
“Oh well,” she whispered, then froze in place. Had the door moved?
Lindon’s eyebrows sank. “Down,” he whispered, slipping a reed between his lips. He must’ve seen it, too.
She held the other reed to her mouth, clamped her nostrils shut, and pushed off.
Blind, she groped for lower rungs with one hand and both feet. When she found them—it felt like a long way down—she blessed Kevan for plucking long stems. She breathed as slowly as possible. For some reason, she felt warmer.
Her body wanted to float, especially when she inhaled. Thrusting her arm through a rung from underneath, being careful not to touch the glass, she wedged herself down and started counting slow breaths.
Her right hip pressed against Lindon’s left, a solid contact with reality.
The eerie darkness seemed green and stinking through her closed eyes and pinched nostrils.
. . . 75,76 . . .
. . . 399, 400. The shivering returned. Later, it stopped, and she no longer cared so much about the danger. In water this warm, even she ought to be able to last for hours. Her arm slipped, and she started to float upward.
Jolted awake by terror and loss of coordination, she flailed to catch the elusive rung. If only she still had her hair tie, she might lash one arm to the ladder.
If only they’d chosen the sludge tanks, they would be warm, and there’d be no trouble staying down.
Was she thinking clearly? Weren’t sludge tanks fatal?
Lindon’s arm bumped her, then curled around her back to grip a rung on her left side, pressing her against the rungs. His closeness eased the clammy chill settling into her flesh and bones.
Count, she reminded herself. She started again, 1,2,3 . . .
Would it do any good to pray? She wished she’d switched hands while she had the chance. Her right palm cramped from holding the reed while thumb and forefinger pinched her nostrils.
. . . 24,25 . . .
―――
Jambling lowered the snoop again. Several sets of faint footprints crisscrossed between walkways, making it hard to tell how many people had entered Wastewater and how many had left. The corridor was similarly overtracked.
Walking slowly, purposefully, he re-examined each waterway, forward along the concrete, back along the pebbles. His own tracks confused the search. At the back wall, he hurried past bubbling, evil-looking green and black sewage tanks, then peered behind them. Faint telltales of lingering heat ascended one ladder. Here and there were prints, and the right handrail barely glowed. Had the climber descended?
Gripping the trank gun left-handed, he peered inside as he mounted. No bright spot inside betrayed evidence of body heat. Perhaps it had been scaled as a vantage point. Cautiously he reached for a magnetic clamp.
Unlatched!
He let himself smile. Found her, Novia.
Soundlessly, he lifted all three clamps and levered the lid open.
Movement among the cattails made him freeze. Crouching up here, he was a sitting target.
But he also had a commanding view. Ventilators had kicked on, that was all.
He leaned over the tank and got one good breath.
Retching, he leaped down. The stench was horrible. Unquestionably toxic chemicals were boiling inside, purifying Axis’s drinking water. That tank was plainly unsafe for human habitation, and Graysha Brady-Phillips, microbiologist, would know it.
Covering the quivering cattails with his trank gun, he walked one more circuit. MaiJidda had been dead certain they’d be here. He keyed on his com. “It appears,” he said softly, “they scouted the facility for hiding places, as MaiJidda expected, but moved on.”
“That doesn’t feel right,” Novia’s voice murmured in his ear. “Duck out for a few minutes.”
How dare she challenge his judgment? Still, he had to take orders. He holstered his trank gun.
―――
Novia thumbed off the com and pounded her table once more. “That’s it,” she said to Supervisor Hauwk, “we can’t wait. We have to go. I can’t believe she did this to me.”
“Do you have other children?” Hauwk asked, sympathy softening her voice. Both women pulled on long coats.
“Oh yes. Better educated, more cooperative ones, but that doesn’t make up for losing one.” Abandoning the black fur ball on a concrete table, she shuffled to the upside stair. Her knee throbbed in rhythm. The co-op was almost empty now.
Blase LZalle paused at the doorway, did something to the side of his throat, then cried in a bass-heavy voice that boomed toward the corry, “I’ll be back with help, Trevarre!”
No one mentioned Jambling.
―――
Lindon felt two pats on his shoulder and flung himself upward, pushing Graysha in front of him. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, she clung to Kevan’s hands.
Kevan yanked her out of the water. Balancing her over one shoulder, he descended the outer ladder two rungs at a time.
Lindon came behind. “Graysha, are you all right?”
“Of course,” she began, “I . . . what . . . ?” Trying to step away before Kevan set her down on both feet, she stumbled. Lindon lunged to catch her. Her hands tightened on his arms, then relaxed.
Gently, he let her droop onto the walkway. Her ruined suit clung to her body. Her hair and face were as green as his hands.
Lindon pushed up her left sleeve. His formerly gray jacket—and her t-o button—were also dark green.
Relieved, he blew out a breath. “I’ve seen her worse.” He knelt down. “At least she’s not in pain this time.”
“Hypothermia,” Kevan said, “bad stuff. Her internal temp could go on dropping for an hour or more. Lie down beside her. Keep her warm. I’ll get help. The Gaea people are loading the lander. Final call just went out. But I gotta tell you, the lid to your tank was wide open. Duncan’s been watching the co-op door, and that nettech wasn’t in the group, and neither was Paul Ilizarov. They’re probably still searching. Here’s a pistol.”
Wide open? He’d heard nothing. Chilled, he took the weapon. “It’s come to this?”
“That’s why you trained with them.” Kevan scowled. “That stuff is disgusting. If the black tanks smell worse than this, you would’ve died of it.” He dashed out.
Gripping the pistol while watching the door, he lay down beside Graysha. Carefully he curled her onto one side to make sure she wouldn’t breathe any of the soupy water dripping off her green-gold hair. Then he pressed his knees against the back of her legs and rolled his chest against her back, warming her as well as he could.
He wished he’d slept last night. Lying down made him yawn. He must decide what he would do if the EB man—or Ilizarov—burst ba
ck in. There wouldn’t be time to think if it happened.
He didn’t want to kill or even wound anyone. The nettech would carry esoteric armament, though. Lindon didn’t doubt he was marked for death. For Graysha, capture would mean imprisonment . . . at least. Her own people would never trust her again, after she’d chosen to stay here.
Something rumbled in the upside distance, not the erratic gusting of wind but a planet-pounding shuttle lander taking off again. It brought him fully awake.
If there were causes worth dying for, surely there were causes worth killing for. He must cling to that decision and hope God approved. His next thought was a desperate prayer that he wouldn’t need to shoot anyone, even defending Graysha.
Paul Ilizarov might have a rotten core, but he was no habitual killer. The nettech, though, would keep trying to kill him and seize Graysha unless Lindon stopped him. With a targeting priority settled in his mind, Lindon smiled bitterly. So he was capable of considering other men as targets, of deciding what order he would shoot them in if the people he loved were in danger. So much for Henri and Palila Lwu’s efforts to protect humanity by rendering it long-lived and nonaggressive.
But could he—
The door flew open. Lindon raised the gun, hoping Kevan had returned.
A stranger’s voice called, “Come out, and you won’t be harmed.” Someone thin and pale-faced crouched in the doorway. Something red hung over one eye.
―――
Jambling wobbled in his firing stance, aghast. What insane overconfidence had made him holster the trank gun and draw his pistol? DalLierx lay with Graysha in front of him, using her as a body shield. He took an extra second to sight on DalLierx’s forehead.
That dark eye peering down gunsights was human and alive. For the longest quarter-second of Lindon’s life, he hesitated.
God forgive me! He fired before second thoughts killed him.
The pale man crumpled.
Echoes of the blast died away. Graysha groaned, twitched, and then lay still. Footsteps pounded away up the hall. Torn by the urge to chase the other attacker, probably Ilizarov, he clutched her against himself and aimed the gun again.
The nettech lay slumped in a heap, face down and bloody, arms and legs at unnatural angles. Above his body, a faint hazy splatter surrounded a small crater blown into the concrete wall.
D-group training had paid off. His marksmanship was flawless. He’d taken a life.
He started to shake.
―――
Graysha coughed herself awake, flailing for a ladder rung. Her hand caught on something soft. Startled, she opened her eyes. Crystal DalDidier gripped her wrist, loose braids dangling down a pale brown maternity smock. “You made it,” she said softly. “You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you some alfalfa tea with lots of honey. You lie still.”
A quick perusal told Graysha she was on someone’s apartment bed, under a thick blanket and a dull skylight. Her next good sniff made bile rise in her throat. The essence of Goddard—dead algae and processing chemicals—clung to her hair, clothing, and skin, and oh, her shoulders ached. “What time is it?”
“Nearly nine. Dr. GurEshel diagnosed acute exhaustion and hypothermia, then gave you the biggest hypo I ever saw and said you were free to walk out as soon as you felt up to it. Drink your tea first . . . please? And Lindon says this is yours.” Crystal handed her a tight black ball. “Someone found it at the co-op.”
“Emmer!” Graysha cradled the gribien in pale green palms. The steaming cup arrived half a minute later with Crystal’s husband, Duncan. “Where’s Lindon?” Graysha asked him, then nestled warm little Emmer over her shoulders and sipped as quickly as she could stand the heat.
The curly-haired man frowned. “In the front room. Dr. GurEshel says he’s all right, but he hasn’t rested, and he’s acting like he’s not well. He won’t tell us what’s wrong, either.”
Graysha drained the sweet tea and checked her tissue oxygen. If someone else was looking after Lindon, she could spend a few minutes to get warm and clean. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I’ve had a fast bath.”
―――
As soon as she’d scoured off the stench, dressed in browncloth coveralls from Crystal’s pre-maternity wardrobe, and settled Emmer on the coveralls’ collar, she joined Lindon in the apartment’s outer room. To her surprise, he wore a D-group pistol in a belt holster. “What’s that for?” she asked.
He looked everywhere but into her eyes. “Paul Ilizarov is still somewhere downside. Ari put out a call for him to give up, and she announced we’ll hold him unharmed for lander pickup, but evidently he hasn’t responded yet.”
“Paul?” A terrible thought occurred to her. “What about the nettech?”
Lindon looked down, splayed his fingers in his lap, and shook his head.
“Did you kill him?” she whispered. She saw now that his hands trembled. She’d heard that sometimes even police officers were excused from duty after killing an assailant, even one who was armed and dangerous. Lindon, with his too-kindly heart, must be in shock. He mustn’t be left alone, mustn’t be forced to shoot Paul, too. “Will . . . would Duncan walk with us, back up to the Gaea building?”
“Yes. Duncan, and Kevan, and about six others. Graysha, can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” She crouched beside his legs, mentally re-creating a scenario she had somehow slept through. “Lindon, he found us. Didn’t he?”
Lindon nodded once.
“I wouldn’t forgive you if you’d let him kill you. Do you understand? If I’d been the conscious one, I would’ve shot him. Or else I’d’ve spent the rest of my life despising myself for letting him murder you and drag me back to Novia.”
“It did seem,” he murmured, “the only thing to do. Still, maybe . . .”
His dark eyes, wide and blinking, had lost their fire. She doubted he even heard her. Suddenly she realized what he really feared. “He’ll forgive you, too. I know He will. You were defending me, after all. Thank you.
“So let’s get to the lab.” She gripped his hands. “I’ve got to get busy.”
―――
“Dutchy,” Trev called softly. “Dutchdutch, come to Pops. Want a treat? Tre-eat,” he repeated. He’d been walking these corries for three hours, cackling like some idiot mother hen.
Just about to give up, he strode around a corner . . . into the clutching arms and leering face of Paul Ilizarov. One hand clamped down over his mouth as the other arm twisted him around with all the strength of the Russian’s wide shoulders. Trev glanced down. Oh chips, another trank gun.
“They promised me safe passage off the planet,” Ilizarov growled in his ear, “but I think I’d better have someone with me to make sure they keep that promise. I’m not stupid enough to trust Ari MaiJidda. Besides, you’re wanted offworld. I’m going to retire on your father’s reward money. Forward.” He pushed Trev ahead of him. “To the CA building.”
It was only a trank gun, Trev reminded himself. He’d been tranked once already today. His head felt like someone was squeezing it in an airlock door, but he’d had worse hangovers.
Dutchy bounded up the hall, apricot blond against yellow-tan concrete. “That’s my cat,” he said, barely turning his head. “He’s really tame now. He’ll make you a good hostage, too.”
“Sure.” Ilizarov lowered the trank gun past Trev’s shoulders, aiming at the little cat.
He’d overdose Dutch! Trev grabbed for the gun, yanked Ilizarov forward with all his weight, and screamed. Up and down the corridor, metal doors popped open. He saw them as whirling objects as he tumbled with Ilizarov, first on top, then beneath. Dutchy snarled and swiped at them both.
“One . . . two . . . three,” he heard. Someone pulled him free from behind and came up with the trank gun. As he struggled to his feet, a second and a third colonist seized Ilizarov. A fourth fended Dutchy off with a broom.
Stinking soup, he’d have to retrain the stupid cat.
All right, Graysha thought, it’s plain enough that you really are there. You saved us at Wastewater. Please don’t leave us hanging now.
She lifted cloudy turquoise tubes one by one from the water bath. “These still aren’t ready for a visual exam, but I set the spectrophotometer to quantify certain wavelengths.” At least Flora Hauwk’s predators hadn’t taken away all the Gaea equipment. And though a few Gaea labs looked sabotaged, Jirina had plainly turned up her nose at that order. “If I get a negative reading—any tube where chlorine isn’t being liberated—I’ll know our culprit died in that tube and that we’ve found an organism that stops it from growing. I ran two specimens before you took me to speak with Ari.”
“I see,” he murmured, then yawned. “Can I help?”
She waited until his hand dropped from in front of his face. Not with those shakes. “That’s right,” she said, “you people practice job sharing. Would you keep records?”
He crossed his arms on the countertop and rested his chin on them. “Yes. Go ahead.”
Out in the hallway, Duncan and several friends sat in pairs, two guarding each bend in the passage. Two more watched the stairs. She reached into the water bath for a random tube. “Number 186,” she announced, scooting her pocket memo toward Lindon.
His head, laid sideways on crossed arms, remained still.
Finally asleep . . . and he must need it terribly. She let herself stare at his slanting eyebrows, straight nose, and relaxed lips, finally free to let herself care. She didn’t love him just for what he might do for her. Finally that seemed very clear.
She recovered her pocket memo and entered the tube’s number, dropping it into the reading port. Please, she repeated silently. You set the standard for being unselfish. This isn’t just for me. Her hand shook, rattling the tube against the port’s metal sides. Lindon, genetically predisposed toward nonaggression, had had to kill a man. Thank God he was able to do it. Time and love would heal him. She could give him plenty of the latter.
All our lives are short, compared to forever. Please heal him—heal us both. You were a healer, weren’t you?
