Darkship Renegades

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  But there was something nagging at me. Doc had said Zen had contacted him, and now she said she’d call for help if needed. But I hadn’t seen her use a link, ever, in the time we worked together. It made no sense.

  I waited until we were in the borrowed flyer—Doc’s small get-about flyer, not his big surgically equipped one—and halfway to the Denovo’s compound. Past Center, while Zen set coordinates and altitude for the autopilot, I felt free to ask, casually, “Can you comlink ahead to the Denovo compound? I’d like Kath to pack Kit’s violin.”

  Busy with the controls and the settings, Zen answered as I hoped, without registering that I could have any ulterior motives for the question, or that I could use the comlink on my bracelet. “Uh? I don’t have a link on me.”

  I leaned back, not sure I liked it. She didn’t have a link—at least not one she’d admit to—and yet, she’d called Doc Bartolomeu for help. He’d said so.

  Or did she have a link that she didn’t want to admit to? Had she joined the other side of the fight, there, in the dark tunnel, where we couldn’t see our attackers? And if she had, what had caused her to call Doc? Had she known that Kit was hit? Had she thought he couldn’t survive? Had the call for help—on an associate’s link—been her way of covering her involvement?

  Kit trusted her. Doc Bartolomeu trusted her. But Kit had trusted his first wife, and Doc had been one of Daddy Dearest’s best friends back on Earth. Neither of them displayed the best of judgment when it came to people.

  Who was Zen? What did she want? Why had she volunteered for this trip?

  More importantly—which side was she on?

  WHO GOES THERE?

  RUN!

  Run!

  The thought, in my mind, made me jump, before I realized it was Kit’s mental voice and so he must be awake, or at least more awake than he’d been for the last day and a half.

  We’d just lifted off. Kit was in our bedroom, which had been arranged to look like our bedroom aboard the Cathouse, with bed and virtus cabinet and closet.

  Kit’s mind-touch came when I was fastened in at the control room, calling out coordinates to set our initial route. That route would be changed, needless to say, myriad times en route, to narrow it more and more. But if you started out badly wrong, the adjustments could take more fuel than you had.

  The coordinates were charted on a tri-dimensional grid, projected on the screen. I glanced up at it, then at the astrogation map in my head. I’d memorized it long ago, and my sense of direction helped me navigate it. “D–55,” I said, as I computed our route for minimum fuel consumption. “Now adjust to P–22–7.”

  Doc Bartolomeu, piloting, made the final adjustments to our orbit and trajectory, on our way out of Eden, headed for Earth. Normally after this point there would be very little piloting done, unless we met with an asteroid or some other emergency on the way. But the Hopper didn’t have the normal automatic pilot arrangements, and so someone would need to make course adjustments all along the way. And for the larger adjustments, during the initial liftoff, the navigator was supposed to help with the calculations, re-checking, and adjustments.

  The voice in my mind made me jump and, before my rational mind realized what my instinct recognized: that this was Kit, that Kit was still there, even if his body might remain unconscious, I had unsnapped the full-chest seat belt, pulled it off over my head, and was running full tilt towards our bedroom.

  Kit lay in bed. He didn’t have much choice on that, since he was strapped to it. The doctor had rigged the system of belts—loose enough to allow Kit to turn, but not loose enough to allow him to fall over the side. Which was the whole point. Doc was afraid he would fall, in the sudden, spasmodic movements that had shown up in the last twelve hours or so.

  Those movements worried Doc, I could tell that, though I couldn’t tell why. I’d tried to research Hampson’s disease in the Denovo compound links, in the few minutes I had after packing and before I had to leave. But it wasn’t in any database I could find and I started wondering if Doc had made it up.

  So I didn’t know if those sudden whole-body spasms and shakes were part of the symptoms.

  Doc had shrugged and given me more medical double-talk along the lines that each brain was different and that it was entirely possible that all that was happening was Kit was dreaming, having come close enough to consciousness to be dreaming normally, but that the inhibitor of movement during sleep wasn’t fully functional—possibly because of the drugs Kit had been given to speed his healing. In other words, Doc had told me that Kit was simply moving in his sleep, a milder version of sleepwalking. I wasn’t so sure.

  Kit had always been a restless sleeper, turning and shifting and sometimes mumbling. Shortly after we’d gotten married, he’d scared me by sitting up suddenly in the night, grabbing his pillow and flinging it, with intent and force, at the wall across the room. With such force, in fact, that the pillow had burst, letting bioengineered fluff fly all around the room.

  But these spasms felt like just that—spasms—involuntary, near-painful seizing and twisting of muscles. It looked more like epileptic seizures than anything else. I didn’t like it. I didn’t have to like it. There was precious little I could do about it.

  And all Doc could do was put belts around Kit’s chest, middle, and ankles.

  It took me a moment to register that Kit was fully awake, that his eyes were open, that he’d somehow—by force, probably—managed to tear the belt that had been around his chest and that he was now fumbling with the belts which fastened him middle-and-ankles to the bed frame.

  The fact that Kit was fumbling with the closures meant that he was still not fully rational, because all such belts had a button that made them retract.

  “Wait, Kit, I’ll release you!” I said.

  He looked at me, and for a moment his eyes were wild and blank with lack of recognition. Then he opened them more and shook his head as though to clear his mind. “Thena!”

  The word came out slurred and weirdly twisted, as if it were pronounced by someone who couldn’t quite control his mouth, and I froze. “Kit?” Had he got Hampson’s disease from the nanocytes? Was this one of the symptoms? Or had the nanocytes done something? Changed something?

  Kit tried to speak, and some incoherent sounds came out, and he hissed with frustration. Mentally, he said, Thena! There’s something wrong with my speech. I need to use the fresher!

  The last had the sound of a barely controlled scream in my head, and I grinned, suddenly understanding the wildness in his eyes. Bladder pressure can turn even the most civilized of men into a lunatic. I remembered what had been damaged was his speech center, and I said, “It’s all right. I’ll explain later.” I reached over, pushed the right button, which he could have found if he hadn’t been so desperate.

  He jumped out of bed and almost fell. “Wha?” came out from his mouth and a more coherent What’s wrong? From his mind.

  “You were lying down for a long time,” I said. “Also you have a thigh injury whose healing the doctor isn’t speeding up. Here, let me help you.”

  I supported him to the entrance of the fresher, where he, being male, insisted on going it alone. I let him do so, because the cube used for the fresher was so tiny—between the necessary appliances and the door to the fresher proper—that he could lose consciousness and still remain upright. I don’t know how doctors and nurses ever manage to make males accept care—at least males of Kit’s type—short of hitting them over the head hard until they lie down. Which would defeat therapeutic intent.

  I heard the noises of the fresher functioning, then the sounds of his washing his hands, and he opened the door and stood there, leaning on the door frame on the side of his bad leg. He tried to speak, but only grunts came out and he sighed. Am I going to be deaf mute the rest of my life? He asked.

  “You’re not deaf,” I said, and to his frown. “And no. It’s just that your speech center was damaged. The doctor has…done something to fix it.” I crossed
my fingers and hoped he wouldn’t ask me what. I had a fairly good idea he wouldn’t like it. “I can’t explain it, but I know it’s not instant. I mean, it’s much faster than it would otherwise be, but it will still take time. And practice.” I grinned at him, because he was looking very serious, and because I was so happy to have him back, in my mind and in body, standing there and glaring. “Which considering how much you talk, could take three or four years.”

  He snorted. An intentional snort of derision. His speech center might be damaged, but his snorting center was just fine, thank you so much. What happened? He asked. Last I remember I’d picked you up to take you back home for dinner, and then there was a sound in the darkness and I jumped to protect you. And you insisted on…scouting on your own.

  “Yeah,” I said. There was no point arguing, but I tried anyway. “It was stupid of you to try to protect me,” I said. “It wasn’t me they wanted. It was you. You know that, or should know that.”

  He frowned. They wanted?

  “To kill. How bio-technologically literate people can think that you have your…clone’s memories…”

  He shook his head. They probably believe the rumors.

  “What rumors?”

  Kit shrugged. Look, I don’t even claim to understand them. There was talk…At least Kath says there is, though of course, people don’t discuss these things around me, that I wasn’t exactly Jarl’s clone, just a…construct, with genes from my…from his wife, and supposed to look like him.

  “But that was the cover story!” I said.

  Yes, but…no. They said that I was a construct, not his genetic child, but that he had his brain transplanted into my head.

  “What? As a baby?”

  I don’t know, he said. It is an inconvenience of rumors that you can’t question those who spread them, and they can’t explain. I suspect they noticed my…well, there’s a resemblance to Jarl that’s more than skin deep, you know? I understand we have…largely the same base personality and we’re similar in terms of sociability and such. Even a lot of the same gestures and even posture and…If I’d been brought up by him, as had been intended, these things would pass unnoticed. But I wasn’t, and people need to explain these things to themselves, and…someone came up with that lovely idea.

  I snorted, in my turn, because there was absolutely nothing wrong with my snorting apparatus, either. “It wouldn’t be possible to transplant an adult brain to a baby’s cranium,” I said didactically. “And you’d think the idiots would know it. Or even to transplant a brain of a Mule into an unmodified homo sapiens body. We’re not that different, but we’re different enough that it would be rejected. There are genetic differences. It’s the whole point.” But even as I said it, my certainty wavered. An adult brain into an infant body, no. And besides, I was sure the Denovos wouldn’t have lent themselves to such a thing. But an adult brain into a teenage body? Possibly. And though I still knew the Denovos wouldn’t lend themselves to such a thing, either, most of Eden might not know it. They might be a powerful and well-known family, but they were also clannish and almost pathologically closed to outside prying. And they were descended from Jarl’s own bioengineered servants.

  The bond that persisted in Eden between former Mule Lord and the descendants of his servants seemed to me more paternal and almost protective than dictatorial, but who knew? Most, if not all people in Eden would retain family lore about that bond, in the probably stronger form it had exhibited on Earth. Perhaps they believed the Denovos wouldn’t have the ability to say no.

  Perhaps they thought Jarl’s brain had been kept somewhere, then transplanted into Kit.

  As for making a Mule brain function in a human body…it would be impossible on Earth, but was it impossible on Eden? “Perhaps in Eden science it is possible. To have a Mule brain in a human body? To pave over the genetic differences?” I said. “I understand near nothing of your science.”

  He gave a little chuckle, deep in his throat, and put a hand out, tentatively, to touch my wrist. That makes two of us. I’m just a vacuum-ship-pusher. Anxiety pulled his features taut, and he raised a hand in front of his eyes, staring intently at it as he wiggled his fingers. Is Doc sure it will come back? My coordination and speed?

  “Yes,” I said. And tried not to think of Hampson’s disease, not to let the words pass my mind, much less my thought projecting ability or my mouth. It was much like trying all my best not to think of a pink monkey, but I must have succeeded, at least to the extent of not projecting it, because Kit released breath and lowered his hand slowly.

  Good. Though I suspect it will need practice as much as talking. And when I didn’t speak, he said, So you see, I think it’s stupid people hearing stupid rumors and believing them that are responsible for our…friends trying to kill me. They’re afraid, poor idiots, that I have Jarl’s notes stored in my head somewhere, ready to spring back to my consciousness, and make it possible for Eden to plant vast massifs of powertrees. He shook his head. As though, if that were true, I wouldn’t have done it by now. I wonder if they think our going to look for Jarl’s notes is just a cover-up…

  I didn’t know and I didn’t want to think about it. I don’t like it when people behave irrationally. Yes, I’m aware I do it myself on occasion, but that’s no excuse. When I’m acting irrationally, I understand my own irrationality. But when others are doing things so far removed from logic that I can’t figure out their motives or reasons, it’s like being locked out of a machine sequence and unable to understand it. If I can’t figure out which buttons were pushed, I can’t stop the sequence. And trust me, I longed to stop this particular sequence.

  Kit put his hand on the edge of the dresser next to the door to the fresher, and hop-limped along it. That is a beauty of slice off my thigh. He said in my mind. What were they using? Water mining lasers?

  I shook my head, not in denial, but in denial of knowledge. My throat tried to close. Just for a moment I was back in that corridor, with the lasers, smelling charred flesh and hair. Kit.

  Easy, love. His hand clutched on my arm. Even if my thigh hurts like hell. I suppose the doctor didn’t want to give me anything to fix it that might interfere with whatever is fixing my brain.

  “Right,” I said.

  And I suspect the old butcher is flying this trap. Or are we far enough away that it doesn’t need constant babysitting?

  We’re a day out of Eden.

  So…Kit hesitated. I suppose I should go to him for examination?

  I don’t know. I’d left the Nav cage so fast, I hadn’t asked anything. It occurred to me belatedly if Kit had been psychotic, uncontrollable, or even sleep walking, I’d have had no idea how to handle it. I knew that one of the spare rooms in the ship was filled with medical equipment, though torture wouldn’t have got me to explain why Doc thought he needed it, because I simply didn’t know.

  When one of the bureaucrats that the Energy Board had designated to hinder the expedition had told Doctor Bartolomeu that he couldn’t take medical equipment because it wasn’t needed, Doc had growled back that medical equipment had a way of becoming desperately needed if you didn’t have it with you. I heard you in my mind, and I came and I…I suddenly remembered what he’d said in my mind. Kit, what were you dreaming when you woke up?

  Uh? I don’t think anything. Why?

  Because what you said in my mind was “Run!”

  Strange. He wrinkled his forehead. Perhaps the word was just triggered by my urgency in getting to the fresher, because…let me tell you, it was urgent. He gave me an apologetic smile. But if you ran off to come here, and Doc Bartolomeu didn’t come after you, he must know or suspect what happened, and he must be in no hurry to make sure that I’m still compos mentis. I mean, for all he knows, I’ve killed you and am now hiding the body.

  He wouldn’t want to interrupt you at that task. He’d wait until you were done cleaning up the cabin and throwing the pieces into the disposal.

  Of course. Otherwise, he’d have to help. Se
riously, Thena, don’t you find it weird that he didn’t come here at all? I could be having some weird symptom. Brain damage is tricky.

  I couldn’t help it. Laughter bubbled up from my throat before I could stop. It would be odd, I said. If the room com weren’t wired for sound and sight so that he could keep track of you while you were unconscious. In case you should suddenly need us.

  Kit looked towards the camera pickup in the room—a standard location as Cats and Navs often used the circuits to keep in touch with each other while working around the ship. This one was high up on the wall of the room farthest from the fresher, so that its sweep took in all of the bedroom and the door to the fresher. The fresher too, if the door were left open. Well, then I assume that Doc is in no hurry to see me, Kit said. Would you tell him, since I can’t seem to speak properly, that I’m taking a bath before I go to see him? And that that pickup better be shut in the future, whatever the old perv thinks?

  I said it, aloud, without the color commentary even while Kit wrinkled his nose and spoke on in my mind. Why didn’t you see to it that I got a bath or something? How long has it been? I smell like a chemical plant, and—ew—there’s blood on my neck and my suit. How could you stand to be next to me?

  We didn’t want to move you!

  Of course not. It would waft the smell farther off, he said, as he went into the fresher. I heard him clang the doors shut, heard the sound that meant it was functioning on minimal-water setting.

  At least he didn’t try to sing. Though he was more likely to hum a version of orchestral pieces, he had a stock of popular songs he’d been known to sing in the fresher, and those would sound very weird given his inability to speak properly.

  I stood outside, listening to the hum and splash of water. I wasn’t going to blame him for taking a real water shower, rather than a simple vibration one. Yeah, I know. Scientists have proven that vibrations can bathe us as sparkling clean as water. More. They supposedly even clean our teeth and, for all I know, condition and rinse our lungs. But that is not the point. After vibrating yourself clean, you still felt sticky and dirty. With water and soap, you felt clean.