Darkship Renegades

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  Jarl lifted a fist, and would have let it fall on the panel of the communicator, if Doctor Bartolomeu hadn’t reached for his wrist and held it with improbable and disproportionate strength, as he said, “No, Jarl, listen—”

  “Nothing to listen to,” Jarl said. “You know what…that worm did. Without his…work in the shadows, most of which we still don’t know, the riots would never have happened, nor the turmoils. Oh, we knew that trouble was coming. We knew it and everyone knew it. They put us in charge of the whole Earth, and we were too flawed, too…We couldn’t do it. And we’d known it for decades. It was all right while we were generals and in charge of armies. That we could study and that worked. But controlling the economy of a whole world was beyond us then, and we knew there was trouble coming. Which is why we had the Je Reviens.” He turned towards me, his eyes burning in fury. “But there didn’t need to be turmoils. There didn’t need to be killings on the street and hunts for everyone even suspected of being bioimproved. It didn’t need to come to that. We might have slipped away in the night and not had anyone killed and tortured and…crucified…

  “Jean-Batiste was a spy. He was created to be a spy and a…an infiltrator. Which is why they gave him a very ordinary appearance and he looked less…prepossessing than the rest of us. He was designed to pass as human with other humans, to infiltrate. I thought he was working for us. We all did. It wasn’t until afterwards that I connected the dots, that I looked for…evidence. There was a slow, steady propaganda movement amid the homo-saps. There was…They were turned against us. Not just against our government but against us. Against the very notion of bioimprovements. Articles, subsidized research, everything…pointed to our very nature being evil. It didn’t take much, not after the Mule riots of a century before, where our…less fortunate brethren…killed and burned…” He shrugged. “It took me years, mining the data I’d taken with me to Eden, to realize that behind everything creating hatred against us, stood Jean-Batiste, nudging, pushing. It took me even more years to convince myself that my friend, Jean-Batiste, who’d sat at my table and eaten from my dishes, had done it all so he could get those of us who were not in his little…protected clique…killed, so that he and his friends, his…cohort, could take the Je Reviens and leave us out cold. If Bartolomeu hadn’t suspected it, from certain of his movements and made him one of those to whom he’d lied about when the Je Reviens would be ready; if it had indeed been still two weeks away from being able to liftoff, I’d have died in the turmoils, as would have Bartolomeu, and as would have all of our charges and all of our servants.” A muscle worked on the side of his jaw. “No, I cannot allow you to leave us at the mercy of a snake like that. Poisonous snakes should be killed, not coddled.”

  I took a deep breath. “Simon,” I said, emphasizing the name, “is not his father. Or his older clone, or whatever this Jean-Batiste was. He’s not…”

  “The personality is the same. The personality is there.”

  “I am not my father,” I said, “and Kit is not you.” The last was flung out with the intent of hurting, but he only smiled a little.

  “He’s more like me than you think. I know. I’m in his mind, or he’s in mine. Why do you think—”

  “Like hell he is,” I said. “Kit never killed someone who wasn’t directly threatening him. He never said that someone was unimportant because they weren’t skilled, or they were…impaired. He is nothing like you.”

  Thena, cool it. There’s more going on than you think.

  All right, then, tell the big moose that Simon is not his father. I trust Simon. You trust Simon, right?

  I barely remember Simon. But I trust what I’ve heard from you. And I know I’d never have got out of Never-Never without his help. And I’m trying to tell the big moose. And what do you mean big moose? Am I a big moose?

  You’re not this pigheaded. Which is damning with faint praise.

  Just then Jarl’s eyes went unfocused, as though he were carrying on a mind-conversation with someone. His forehead knit as though he were trying to understand something, then he sighed. “Your…my…Christopher tells me that I have it wrong,” he said. His voice was slow and stiff, as though he were making a great concession. “He says he has met this…Simon and that he’s trustworthy. For our purposes at least. I suppose if…if he were to try to betray us, we’re forewarned, and at least we’ll be nearer civilization.” He squinted at our surroundings. “A refuge is good, but it’s always easier to hide in the middle of civilization.”

  He paused, then said, “Liberte Seacity?” And he pressed a couple of spots on the panel. At the other end of the array, a floor-to-ceiling screen came on. And on it, stark naked, coming out of his shower, was Simon.

  I was so shocked that I did not react. Someone—I think Zen—gasped behind me, which must have been surprise, because it couldn’t have been interest. If, as Jarl said, Simon’s ancestor had been made to fit into normal humanity, it made sense, because unlike most of the Good Men he was not particularly powerful looking or extraordinarily handsome. Just a short, slim man with dark hair, an aquiline nose and lively dark eyes. And, at that moment, not just naked, but humming something that sounded martial, as he rubbed at his hair with a towel.

  As we watched, he dropped the towel and his walk took on the rhythm of his humming as he crossed a white-carpeted expanse of floor to what I recognized as his dressing room. The camera—was it a camera or some other sort of pickup? Wouldn’t Simon’s father have noticed a camera in all these hundreds of years? Surely the place had been remodeled or something, and it would have been discovered—followed him around, as he pulled open a curtain and stared, immobile, at an array of suits.

  “Simon,” I said. “Simon!”

  He didn’t turn. He didn’t even flinch. He just stared on, then made a slow, prolonged “Um…” in a tone of deep consideration and reached for a pair of dark trousers.

  “He can’t hear us,” Jarl said, amusement in his voice. Or rather, amusement burbling at the back of his throat, even as his voice remained steady. “This is how I found out dear Jean-Batiste was working against us.”

  Suddenly the enormity of it hit me. We were spying on Simon. On Simon who trusted me, as I trusted him. On Simon, who’d been my friend, my associate, my accomplice. Four of us were staring at him while he was naked and vulnerable; while he had no idea of being observed. Three of them were total strangers.

  Don’t mistake me. As children of Good Men, we grew up knowing privacy happened to other people. We were never fully alone. In houses filled with servants and bursting with retainers, you always had to assume strangers were watching, unless you were up to something pleasantly scandalous and took extraordinary measures. Even then, it wasn’t guaranteed.

  But we weren’t servants or retainers, and we had no right to violate his privacy that way. “Stop,” I said. “Turn it off.”

  Jarl gave me a surprised, not to say puzzled look. He shrugged, reached over and turned the video off, then went back to the original touch screen. “What is his code?”

  I gave it to him, and his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing about the facility with which it came to the mind. Which was good. He didn’t have a right to. Kit did, but Kit had never asked, never wanted to know, and if he’d inferred the inevitable from my stories about the lair and our adventures, he’d never made a jealous or even ill-tempered remark. He’d known what he was getting, I suppose.

  Yes, Kit’s voice in my head. I was getting you. It’s all I ever wanted. Who cares who was first, provided I’m last?

  That sounds slightly morbid, and what were you doing in my mind?

  Trying to talk to you. Thena, we have to do something. There’s something you must understand. Jarl is not…himself.

  What do you mean? I should hope he’s not himself. He’s partly you. I don’t want it to change in his direction. For him to be himself, you have to stop existing.

  No, I mean he’s not himself. That violence—

  “Thena!” Simon wa
s visible from the shoulders up, enough to see he’d slipped on some sort of a red shirt, and that his hair was still wet and standing on end. “Thena! Are you on Earth?”

  He looked so glad to see me, and his question was so casually inane, as though I were a commuter between Earth and Eden, that I wanted to giggle. Instead I said, “Yes, but…”

  I gave him a quick rundown of the situation, neglecting only to mention that my husband was possessed by the spirit of his elder clone. Part of the reason I didn’t mention it was because well…it was the easiest way to describe it. And yet I knew it wasn’t true. And once we got into nessies, Simon would start asking questions. Questions like “So is he Kit or not?” or “What are the chances of ever getting your husband back?” And I really didn’t want to answer, even if I could figure out the proper responses.

  Simon frowned slightly then nodded. “Weird,” he said. “History sometimes parallels itself.”

  “What?”

  “We’re in the middle of a fight for freedom ourselves. Liberte, egalite…er…fraternite,” he made a halfhearted gesture with his hand that could be interpreted as anything from a high-clap to a fist waved in air. “All very exciting. And deadly dull. Keeps interrupting supplies of wine and wrecking algie farming.” His voice was bored and dragging, but his eyes had an interested gleam. I wondered what was really going on and how deep in it Simon was. Simon was always more interested in things than he let on, and deeper in everything going on. I thought of Jarl’s description of his ancestor and shuddered. “Look, Earth is not our business. I’m worried about Eden. I just…I’d like to get hold of Jarl’s papers and go back as soon as we can, because Eden needs us.”

  Something like a regretful look flitted across Simon’s eyes. “I suppose that is your home now.” His gaze flickered to the side, where Jarl stood behind me, probably doing his best imitation of stern guardian.

  “I realize there’s nothing in it for you, and I hate to bother you,” I said, “but without you we’re sunk, you see, and I—”

  Simon bit his lip. “Ah, well, you’re a fellow broomer. Same lair. One has obligations as Max’s brother has brought to mind.”

  “Max’s brother?” I asked. Max, now dead, had been one of our lair. Like us he was the clone and heir apparent of a Good Man. He had no brothers.

  “Long story. Part of the little contretemps we’re going through. I can explain later, but it’s no big deal.” He smiled suddenly, the smile that reassured me because it was so much like the Simon I knew. I should correct my description of him. Simon was unprepossessing and uninteresting until he smiled. That smile was dazzling, like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. There had been a time it made my knees go weak. Now it didn’t, which was a good thing, since I suspected Jarl was glowering over my shoulder, but it did make me relax.

  “Give me your coordinates, Thena, and I’ll come get you. I suspect it’s covered under fraternite.”

  I gave him the coordinates, but I’d barely finished when Jarl said, “It’s a locked compound. You could bring a whole army, and you can’t get in without us letting you in. When you come to the entrance and the lock extrudes, just press the point that says to call within.”

  Simon frowned up at him, and I wondered if he was confused by Jarl’s stern cadences. Had he ever heard Kit talk? Enough to know how different they sounded?

  “Mais oui,” Simon said, and shrugged. “I won’t be there before tomorrow morning anyway. I have to arrange the route. With the rebellion and all, it’s become a wee bit difficult to just fly across the sea like that.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Jarl snarled. “Long enough to set up a treason.”

  Simon looked so genuinely startled that even Jarl must have seen it and recognized it. “Ah. No. It’s just that I greatly dislike being shot to pieces while flying over rebel-held territory, see, and I need to know how that has changed overnight, and if needed, get safe conduct.” He gave me a direct look. “Fear not, Thena. You’re still one of the lair. I’ll come get you, and then we’ll try to figure out where your…what’s his name? Jarl has hidden his notes. I will call on this and leave a message when to expect me.” His gaze flickered to Jarl, and then he reached forward, and the screen went blank.

  “We have a day,” Jarl said. “Let me show you my domains.”

  I thought it sounded odd. There was some story, in some holy book—not being raised with them, I had trouble remembering which one precisely—about the devil taking a demi-god to a pinnacle and offering him the kingdoms of the Earth. The way Jarl said this, sounded like that.

  And then I realized he meant it like that, too. Oh, not that he was offering us the kingdoms of the Earth in return for our subjection, though I suspected he would, if it got him our subjection. But more like he thought what he was showing us were the kingdoms of the Earth…or the better part of Earth.

  He took us walking up winding paths, to pick only slightly dusty fruit from huge, gnarled, venerable trees. He ate apples with the relish of a child, grinning between bites. “Damn vat-grown in Eden. Or even tree-grown. Might be very healthful and full of vitamins and minerals, but they don’t taste the same.”

  Then he led us to a huge rock, atop a small hill, from which we could contemplate the canopy of trees, with the birds fleeting among them. The air felt like a summer afternoon, and I’d never spent so much time just walking around amid trees. If my husband weren’t being held captive, I’d have enjoyed myself greatly.

  Kit?

  Here, Thena, still here. Don’t worry. Just…let him enjoy himself.

  You like him!

  And Kit’s voice, slow and thoughtful, I think…it’s hard not to like him from inside. I could…be him. If I’d had a truly awful life and then been treated like both an object and a threat and a demi-god, all at the same time. Even his achievements weren’t his own. They were a reason for his creators to be proud, instead.

  I didn’t know what to say. It seemed like a betrayal, like Kit had gone over to Jarl’s side, but Kit laughed in my head. Not on your life. We’re going to figure out how to beat this, Thena. We’re going to figure out how to defeat it. We’ll survive. But he won’t. Let him have his fun.

  I realized Jarl was offering me a handful of berries on his palm. “They’re very sweet,” he said. “I’ve tasted one.”

  I looked up into his eyes, and realized he’d been paying more attention to me than to the rest of them. Was it just because he felt guilty over Daddy Dearest? Or was it something else? Had Kit’s feelings for me leaked? Behind him, Doc was looking studiously up at the tree canopy or at the ceiling of the cavern up there.

  I took the berries and thanked him, with as much reserve as I could put into it, and ate the berries. They were sweeter, and juicier than in Eden, and I conceded this when he asked me. He was enjoying them so enthusiastically his hands were stained with the juice. “The fish tastes better too.” He looked over at Doc. “What do you say, Bartolomeu? Should we have a fish dinner by the creek? I have rations stored somewhere…but I’d prefer not to go into the deeper levels here. Also, rations will be good after three hundred years, but they’re rations.”

  Doc made a noncommittal sound, and Jarl turned, giving the impression of sudden, vital energy. He headed for the creek. Zen followed behind me and got beside me. “Do you still hear Kit?” she asked in a whisper.

  I told her what Kit had said and she shook her head. “See, that’s the difference between us. Kit was always softer. Let’s hope he’s not too soft.” She looked at Jarl’s back. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Uh…he’s your elder clone, just like Kit is—”

  “Did you trust your father?”

  “Well, no, but the stories of Jarl in Eden…”

  Zen sighed. “He killed his wife to continue with a mad scheme, Thena. I’m not saying he wasn’t a wonderful man…before. Doc seems to think so, and I respect him. But, Thena, when my husband’s father started—”

  She was interrupted by Jarl turning around from
the bank of the creek that ran through the compound and saying, “Oh. My. We won’t need fishing rods.”

  The creek boiled with fish. You could see them through the very clear water, and you could see the pebbled bottom. The creek wasn’t at all deep, perhaps waist high.

  “I seeded it with fish, and I guess being untouched this long…” Jarl said. “There are filters on the water at the entrance and there’s a life-barrier at the exit, which I suppose kept them safe. But I never expected this. Almost a kindness to thin the population.” He pulled off his shirt, revealing Kit’s muscular chest with its dusting of red-gold hair. He pulled off his shoes. And then he waded into the creek, with his pants still on, and turned in moments, a fish in each hand, and goofy grin on his face. “It’s devilish cold, but I’ve seen nothing like this in three hundred years. Won’t any of you join me? Bartolomeu? Thena? Zen?”

  “I’ll clean the fish,” Zen said, catching them as he flung them.

  Doc sat a little way away. “I’m too old to go into cold water, Jarl.” He looked at me, and I understood the unspoken message and sat by him. I expected the query of whether Kit was still there, but instead what I got was an intent whisper, “When Jarl’s brain got imprinted, the pattern already revealed considerable damage from Hampson’s. Impossible for it not to show now. And I’m seeing the symptoms. Jarl’s brain already showed loss of synapses and some neuron damage. He’d forget a name or a skill or become unexpectedly clumsy. I know these symptoms very well, because every time I treated Jarl again, he would forget everything since the last treatment. He left himself notes, but…There are other symptoms, too, harder to pin down. Poor impulse control. Paranoia. Thena, I want you to know that’s not who he was.” He looked towards the river, where Jarl was throwing a couple more fish at Zen, a happy smile on his face. “This is more like it. He was a kind, generous man, and unlike what happened at Circum, he would no more take life casually than Kit would. The Jarl I knew would never have killed Irena. But…he wasn’t himself. We figured in the course of the brain growing…”