I was puzzled. “What difference would that make?” Max and Nat had been lovers since they’d been very young, and Max’s father hadn’t found out. Even if Lucius had been sexually interested in men, and his father had found out, what difference would it make? Max’s father could still have his brain transplanted into Lucius’ body, and the brain would still be his. Even if orientation were genetic—no one had ever been able to pinpoint a single gene, though there was a conglomeration of genetic pointers that might indicate it. But it’s hard to evaluate because you have to check on not just revealed behavior, and some people are very good at not revealing their behavior, but unspoken and often unacted-upon preference. In any case, the brain would retain its preferences. It had. After old Dante Keeva had his brain transplanted into Max’s body, he’d been chasing girls as soon as he was up on Max’s feet.
“I don’t know,” Simon said. “I think he might have thought it was epigenetic.”
“Epi…demic?”
“No, epigenetic. It means genes that turn themselves off and on throughout life, as you encounter you know, chemical or environmental influences.” He reached over to pet Mephy who was now almost completely on my lap. “I think he might have been afraid it would…you know, turn whatever the gene was on in his brain. Over time.”
“What a very stupid idea,” I said. “Throwing someone into Never-Never for that.”
Simon gave me a sudden grin. “Oh, yes. Without it, he could have got killed and his body stolen. A much better fate.”
“When you put it like that,” I said.
“I have to put it like that. At least he’s alive, and poor Max…” His eyes got unexpectedly shiny. Max had been our friend since we’d all been toddling around in the care of nannies. “At any rate, Lucius…he scares me. He might even scare you. They say he spent fifteen years in solitary. I understand the normal time to break, in solitary, is a few days. Strong-minded people last months. Really strong-minded people last a year.”
“Is he broken?”
“If by that you mean insane, no. He seems as sane as you or I. Which”—a voluble shrug—“admittedly might not mean much. But he’s intense. Single-focus…I think he scares Nat a little too.”
“Nat…knows?”
“Nat is his right hand, in…the rebellion, or perhaps it is the other way around.” He made a vague gesture. “There’s some council, and religion is involved. Usaians. Sons of liberty. All that.”
“I see,” I said, having found that was the best thing to say when the matter was, in fact, completely opaque. “So they hold Syracuse. Do you have a way to communicate with them?”
Simon looked around, then sighed, then said, “Not officially, but…yes. Why?”
So, Simon was part of the rebellion. Perhaps supplying them with weapons. Or playing a double game. I thought of what Jarl had said. But I didn’t see Simon betraying a fellow broomer. The rest of the world, sure. But Nat was a member of our lair, the Brooms of Doom. Everyone has internal boundaries he won’t break; can’t break and remain himself. “I need to go to the mansion. I think that Jarl’s notes are in the mansion somewhere. Yes, I know a copy was in the lair, and I presume they’ve disappeared, though it’s possible Nat or someone has them. Just not likely, and besides, they’re not what I want.” Disappearing was the normal thing for anything left unattended in the lair. No, not theft. A society where everyone is unstable and prone to pick fights without warning, is not a society with high levels of theft. It was more likely lost or Fuse used it as a fuse on detonating material. “But the copy in the lair was all about creating a Mule female. We need the rest of Jarl’s notes. I’m sure Father would have had them, in paper or in gem. And if I can find it, it’s one less thing I’ll need to beat out of Jarl.”
“Ah. So that’s what you’re doing.” But he looked worried. “Desolate, Thena, but you can’t go to the mansion.”
“Why? Active fighting? Doesn’t worry me.”
“No, because it’s unlikely to have anything in it like papers or gems, or anything else that will melt under heat and explosion.”
“What?”
“When the rebels took it. Incendiary bombs.”
Mentally I said goodbye to my paintings, and my dresses and, more painfully, all the books in the library only I read.
“Oh. Well, then it will have to be option two. Just as well, if I get Jarl out of here before he gets worse. Could I have the suits, and the oxygen masks, and a broom suitable for two please. About…as many burners as you can provide me. Oh, also about ten feet or more of sturdy rope and half a dozen rubber balls.”
His eyes widened at that, but I smiled at him, an impish smile—I hoped—and said, “Come, I just want to play a nice game of bouncy ball.”
His eyes widened again, then he sighed and gave me a sidelong glance. “Thena…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“I don’t think there’s any way I can escape what’s coming without doing that,” I said.
“Well, then,” he said, “don’t do anything I’ll regret. Like getting yourself killed.”
“We all have choices to make,” I told him, “and mine might not be yours.”
Because if it came to my life or Kit’s, I’d save Kit’s any day.
THE FOX AND THE WOLF
There are three ways you can capture someone who is bigger, stronger, faster, and smarter than you. The first one is to make them less effective. Poison or some narcotic can achieve that. The second one is to hit them behind the ear, then they will go unconscious, then you tie them securely. The third is to outwit them.
None of them operated between me and Jarl Ingemar, not while he was occupying Kit’s body. With whatever the nanocytes were up to in Kit’s brain, the last thing I’d do is introduce a narcotic to the mix. The same for rendering him unconscious with a good thumping. And as for outwitting him…
I have no illusions. Daddy Dearest had been designed to be an assassin. Jarl had been designed to administer a division or a continent or something. It’s hard to talk of pure intelligence, and I knew Father had been cunning. Cunning enough to go to ground as a Mule during the turmoils, to escape with his life when less bioimproved people had died horrible deaths because of their mods. Cunning enough to emerge from hiding as the Good Man of Syracuse Seacity with an impeccable natural human pedigree. Cunning enough to remain in power against all challenges for close to three hundred years.
Bully for him. But Jarl was a genius, and—I knew from knowing Kit, who had the same brain—could be just as cunning and twice as effective. The chances of my outwitting him were somewhere below the chances of my moving faster than Kit.
So it would have to be brute force. And the only brute force available, just at the moment, was that contained in a burner. I was all right with that. Weapons are awesome friends. They’ll keep you alive even if all your friends turn their backs on you.
In my room, I put on my broomer suit—layered leather and thermal fabric—and boots, attached the broom to my belt loops, made several loops of rope, and put them on my belt. Into the belt pouch that was part of any broomer outfit went the rubber balls and extra burners. Then I bundled the extra suit under my arm and went to Jarl’s room.
I’d have been alarmed if the door had opened quietly. It didn’t. Locked.
I burned the lock off, while I called mentally, Kit? How much control do you have over the body?
Not much. He sounded embarrassed. Why?
Because I need him to stay asleep yet a while longer. Can you do that?
I can try. Thena?
Yes?
He has the dresser wedged against the door.
Of course he does. Paranoiacs are always predictable. Particularly by other paranoiacs. How do I get in?
Just push. You should able to slip in. You’re stronger than a normal human.
I was indeed, which was good, because it took all my strength to slide the dresser about ten inches with the
door pushing on it, once the door lock had been burned out. Ten inches was enough for me to slide sideways, into the darkened room.
Do you have lenses in?
What?
Darkening lenses.
Oh. He sounded surprised, as if he’d never thought about it. He probably hadn’t. He wore the lenses for two weeks at a stretch, unless we were in the Cathouse, where we kept the lights comfortably—for him—dim, and thus he was able to deal with any tricky jobs of piloting that might be necessary. Yes, Kit said. He put them in in his retreat, in the morning. My eyes bother him. The way he sees things through them. He prefers the vision through the lenses.
And where are your extras?
Top drawer of the dresser, he said, and as I started edging a drawer out, he must have looked through my eyes, because he said, No, the left one. I slid the left one out, found the biopouch that contained Kit’s lenses, and put them in my belt pouch. This was part of looking after Kit and I’d gotten used to the idea that nothing would be done, ever, without Kit’s lenses being at hand. Because even if we were in darkness, light could come on suddenly. And a Cat’s eyes were shockingly easy to damage.
I need you to put a broomer suit on, I said. And I’m going to remove your lenses.
Thena?
I could hear the hesitation in his voice. Putting a broomer suit on, if he didn’t have full control of his body, would be tricky. Particularly when keeping Jarl asleep. Removing the lenses was insanely risky.
Once they were out, someone could blind him easily enough. Permanently blind him, meaning render him useless for the one trade he’d been designed to work in, for the one job he’d been trained in—so that even if we saved Eden, he’d have no place with it. Cat eyes were almost impossible to regen. Part of being a designed alteration. There were several proverbs in Eden about blind Cats. All of them implied these were pathetic creatures.
I need the lenses to be out and I need him to know they’re out. And then I need you to keep your eyes shut. Do you understand? All I need from you is to keep him asleep as long as you can. Can you do that?
I could hear a chuckle behind Kit’s mental voice. It will be tricky.
Yeah. Very tricky. Because you see, there was no way I could just walk to the bed, peel back Kit’s eyelids and pull out the lenses. It’s not that this was impossible, but that it was dark in the room. It had to be dark till those lenses were out. I couldn’t risk Jarl waking before that. And I’m not a Cat. I don’t see that well in the dark. Which meant, I’d have to go over and fumble with Kit’s eyes. I don’t think anybody—or any body—will remain asleep while someone is poking at his eyes and fumbling with his eyelids.
What then? Well, if Kit could keep him asleep…I had, more than once before, let Kit use my hands and eyes. It was part of that mind-link we shared and just short of full mind-mingling that we’d experienced when he was near-mortally wounded.
I had no idea how this would work with Jarl in the mix, but it was the only chance I had. If I could get Kit’s body to reach up and remove his lenses, Kit, presumably, had body-memory of the gesture. I’d seen him do it in nothing flat. Put his lenses in, too.
Brace, I told him. I’m coming in.
What? He asked, startled into alarm, and then he must have felt me, willing myself into his mind. Thena!
It was…different from any mind contact we’d been in. I could feel or sense Kit, as I knew Kit, my husband, the love of my life. And next to him, crouching, I could feel an older, darker presence that definitely tasted of Jarl. And I could feel Kit keeping the Jarl-self quiescent, even as Kit’s mind/personality spared mine a brief welcome touch, somewhat like a gentle kiss on the lips.
None of this bears much resemblance to what actually happened, but there is no vocabulary for the mind contact of Eden’s Cats and Navs. There was even less vocabulary for what was happening between Kit and Jarl. I hoped there never would be.
I could also feel Jarl hunched over control of the body, but I slipped underneath and wrested the hands and arms from him, without his realizing it. And then the rest of the body.
My own body moved forward and lay the opened suit on the bed. It was one that opened all along the length of each arm and leg, so it lay flat, when I set it on the bed. All I had to do, with my divided mind, was make Kit roll on top of it, then, by touch, close the seams. No boots, but the suit had a sort of socks that would encase the feet.
It took forever. I had to use the mechanisms that allow sleepwalkers to move, and Kit’s movements were fumbling and confused. I understood that I was overriding his control over his body and Kit’s personality was providing the sense of dreaming. Once the suit was on, I got it across to his body that he needed to take his lenses off. Projecting discomfort from the lenses in his eyes was enough. The body reacted. His hands seemed to do the thing on their own, going up and lifting one eyelid at a time, and ripping off the lens.
Just as the second lens came off, Kit screamed Thena!
The warning was unnecessary. I’d already realized the dark, quiescent presence in his mind had woken and was taking control. I snapped back, fully, into my own body. It felt as though I were an overstretched rubber band letting go of the other end. I came fully to my own mind and body with the sudden, startling feeling of having been slugged.
The feeling was so strong that I reeled back, and braced, even as I pulled a burner from my pocket, and yelled, “Lights!”
Jarl was on his feet by the bed, hands bunched, body bent forward, as though about to spring on me. In the next second the lights came on, full force. Bless the Good Men who programmed the lights in any room to come on at the full intensity and force of the illumination in an operating theater. Good, of course, for spotting intruders and for making sure no one was sneaking up on you, but really not good for Cat eyes.
Jarl screamed and closed his eyes. I hoped he’d closed them fast enough, but I knew even a few seconds of brilliant light were enough to blind Kit for hours.
Kit?
He sounded pained. Just do what you have to do.
Jarl still lurched in my direction, his eyes tightly closed. By sound, of course. But he was clumsy and much slower than if he had his vision—Kit’s vision—to guide him.
I sprang out of his reach, and took the safety off the burner with an audible click. He stopped. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, no? Try me.”
“You wouldn’t kill your husband.”
“Why not, if you are?”
“Because you have…hope.” His tone of voice gave me a queasy feeling in the pit of the stomach. Clearly he didn’t think I should have hope, and he despised me a little for having it. Fine. I’d been known to beat the odds and baffle professional opinion before.
“Right. So I do. But it doesn’t take much in the way of a burner ray to disable you, does it? So I won’t kill you, but I can burn off your feet, or your hands.”
“Even knowing your husband will suffer with me?”
“Oh yes,” I told him, and fervently willed certainty into my voice—the most brazen of bluffs. “Yes, I will. If it’s what I have to do to do what Kit asked me to do.”
“And what did Kit ask you to do?” Jarl asked, half amused.
“Take control of you, because you won’t let him, and you can’t.”
His face set, and his eyebrows descended over his eyes.
“You—”
“Oh, please. I don’t have time for this. We’re on a tight schedule.”
“We…what?”
“Turn and put your hands behind you. Both hands,” I said. “Together. Quickly. Extend them back as far as you can go. Now. I have a burner and I will use it.”
I must be the world’s best voice actress. The truth was, even though I knew Jarl was in control of that body, it looked and moved like Kit, and the idea of burning him or of causing him pain made a tight coil of near-pain collect near my stomach. But to save Kit, I might need to hurt him. I had to remember that. And I had to be strong.
I think—no, I know—from his bunched shoulders, his tensed legs, that he was ready to spring and grab me if I approached to do anything. After all, he had the advantage of Cat speed and accuracy of movement, even blinded. But I’m not stupid.
First I let him stew. Just a little. I didn’t move, and let him stay in what I knew was an uncomfortable position, while I counted slowly to two hundred. He was so aware, so ready to spring, that maintaining both the position and the readiness would, by itself, make him susceptible to overreact and panic.
Very carefully and, I made sure, silently, I took three of the loops of rope and hung them from my arm, where I could easily let them slide down and grab them. I reached into the pouch and got two rubber balls. They were the size to fit one comfortably in my hand, or, less comfortably one in my palm and one held between my fingers. I’d done my share of playing bouncing balls as a child. Like, who hasn’t? I think kids in prehistory were playing with rubber balls. There were prints of kids playing with them from six centuries ago.
But this time, I had to throw two of them, as close together in time as possible, and at two wildly divergent locations. You see, I didn’t want Jarl to break his position. I needed his wrists together and behind his back.
So the way was to startle him, then startle him again, before he could move. A tall order when dealing with Cat reflexes. But fortunately Jarl was only borrowing the reflexes, and not used to them or the body. With Kit, I wouldn’t even have considered this plan.
I threw the first ball, and, without sparing Jarl a full look, registered the minimal shift of his body in that direction, even as I flung the other in front of him, almost immediately.
Given enough time, he’d have understood what had happened. He didn’t have time.
As the second ball hit, I made a smooth leap, feet together, behind him, the first rope loop in my hand. And before he could react, I had the loop around his wrists, tightened and secured.
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