by P. N. Elrod
* * *
Morning came when she woke. Kella hadn’t meant to drop off, intending to explore, but her body simply shut down. She was on the floor, her back to the wall of machines, and jerked awake, disoriented. It was strange to be in a warm, silent place, dressed in clean clothes with fresh, filtered air to breathe.
She sat up, noted a number of new aches, muscles stiff from the previous day’s forced march. Stretching helped.
The laughter brought on by the absurd results of her blind selection had had a relaxing effect, and she was able to slap the screen in a quick and random way. As long as she didn’t think about it, it wasn’t so bad. Of the many things that popped out she donned a System officer’s black combat fatigues, which afforded durable freedom of movement. No need for underclothes. She was almost as flat-chested as Farron, having lost weight and muscle tone at Riganth.
Footwear was less complicated, with fewer choices: scuffs or combat boots. With her blisters gone she sealed on the boots and felt ready for anything—within reason.
She had another look at the control node for the food dispensers, but gave it up as too complicated. Raw nutrient was good enough for now. If Farron got hungry he could cheat his way in to get a properly flavored meal.
Kella fed in solitude if not complete silence. Farron’s coughing was harder and more frequent. He moaned between bouts, which informed her he was awake and not enjoying it.
He looked far more miserable than when they’d slept in the open. His cough was thick with congestion.
“Hello,” she said.
He looked up dully, flashed his eyes wide then relaxed. “What a start you gave me. I thought you were one of them. Where’d you get the clothes?”
“Uniform,” she corrected.
“I can see that, but have you noticed it’s not for our side?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Donno, let me wake up first.”
She had to help him sit. On top of the chronic prison stink she caught a strange sour taint. His hands trembled. His face had a slick yellow tinge, the kind one got from serious illness and not confinement. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I’m just tired, a little rest and I’ll—”
“Fever?”
“What?”
“Don’t lie, Farron, you’re not good at it. Have you a fever?”
“I think so, everything hurts.”
“Do you know what it is?”
He shrugged. “Something making the rounds in our section.”
“What’s the treatment?”
“Nothing. You got better or didn’t.”
“Was there a treatment?”
“Immuno boosters and anti-virals for the guards; the rest of us got more pacifying drugs, so no one cared what happened. Three of my cellmates died; I suppose it’s my turn now.” He said it in a matter-of-fact tone, expecting no sympathy or reassurances and getting none.
Kella was not a happy woman. “I suppose there’s a better-than-even chance that I’ve got it, too.”
“Probably. Does the back of your throat tickle?”
She felt her expression go more grim than usual.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m having a look ’round. Rest and drink as much water as you can.”
“When you coming back?”
“Stay in this area.”
“Kella—!” He broke off, doubled over by his cough.
She walked out.
* * *
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.
The sound of her footfalls seemed to fill the empty, silent corridor. She stopped at critical intersections to check maps and kept the pace quick, finding a lot of locked doors. A few looked worth investigating, but could wait. Basic aid boxes were on the walls at strategic points next to fire extinguishing equipment, but their contents were for emergency trauma, not sickness. They had bandages, painkillers, stims, and respirators; the latter two might be useful to help Farron, but the anti-virals they needed were elsewhere. A complex of this size had to have a med-unit; it was only a matter of time before she found it.
She cross-sectioned the wing she was in, then took a connecting hall into the next area, which was central to the complex.
A single turn and she was abruptly facing the med-unit entry, its double-doors invitingly wide. She’d have gone right in if not for the bloodstain covering a substantial portion of the floor.
The red had dried to a rusty brown, but time had not mitigated its disturbing nature.
Her heart thundered loud enough to echo off the walls, or so it seemed for the first few seconds. Kella backed up, listening, hyper-alert, but whatever had happened here was long over.
She picked out footprints that had tracked through the stuff. Two sets, with drag marks between, led into the unit. One person injured, with friends to haul the body in for help. But the loss of that much blood. . .the injury had to have occurred on the spot.
Those open doors in the reactor section and drone quarters—she should have paid more attention to them, to what they signified. She should have been doing anything but lazing around stuffing her face and—
Never mind that.
She forced her scrambled thoughts into order.
All right, the System techs were here. She’d expected that from the gossip among the Riganth guards. It had been just another bit of useless information to her until a Resister assault group had dropped on the prison and blown everything wide open. Too far from the break to make contact with them, she’d seized a less likely route out by coming to the base. A risky move, but official attention would be focused on the fleeing Resisters, not on an incoming tech crew.
The techs would have a proper ship—not just a small, short-range shuttle—one with the kind of automatics that would allow even Farron to navigate them clean away.
Its accompanying techs would be no problem for Kella; she still retained her unarmed-combat abilities. The ease and speed with which she’d killed one of the Riganth guards was proof enough of that. Her plan had been to stay low and take out the crew one by one.
But the bloodstain was a complication.
Were the techs feuding amongst themselves? That hardly seemed likely. Had another prisoner gotten inside the base? For all she knew Riganth was full of bright specialists like herself, each one with access to the same gossip and also hell-bent on escape. Perhaps someone less crippled than herself was running loose here.
Competition was the last thing she wanted. The techs were now on the alert, blasters charged and ready, clogging the comm channels with calls for help.
Which should be here already.
The stain was at least two days old. Riganth would have sent a small guard party to look things over. She and Farron hadn’t exactly been cautious. A quick check of the base computer would reveal their power consumption and thus their location. What had delayed their ignominious recapture?
This flashed through her mind as she checked the walls, ceiling, and floor. All sported the near-invisible thready scarring of blaster fire. The stuff was hell on human tissue, but caused little damage to non-organics, which made it a good choice for space travelers. Internal ship combat was tricky enough without causing undue damage to the systems.
Behind her, she found a ragged line marking missed shots that extended as far as the corner she’d come around. Someone had waited just out of sight there, ambushed three people, hitting at least one. They’d returned fire, dragging their companion to cover. The attacker had retreated . . . and could be anywhere in the complex.
She briefly thought of running back to warn Farron, but dismissed it as a waste of time. That was sentiment or friendship or whatever they called it, and would only delay her. He was fine where he was.
Kella went through the entry, following the blood trail to a trauma station. Here it pooled, indicating that the victim had bled out. The trail eventually she led her to the body, sealed in a stasis-bag, in cold storage. No need to open it, she wasn�
��t curious. All that mattered was that she had one less target to remove.
The last marks of blood went to a sterilization alcove. The dead one’s companions would have cleaned up, perhaps acquiring fresh clothing from the dispenser unit. It was active, left on standby.
Where had the three come from? How many remained? The last wall map indicated a large gray area ahead. Though the labeling remained dark, she was certain—having eliminated other options in the color coding—that meant hangars and the ship she wanted, the ship she absolutely had to take.
Much as it grated her to leave her back vulnerable to the mystery shooter, it was better to keep moving forward.
* * *
Shivering, Farron tried to find a comfortable position for rest and failed. His limbs twitched, his joints ached, and coughing was a painful bore. His chest and stomach felt like he’d been in a sparing match with a couple of stones and lost.
And dammit, he was cold.
He gave up trying to sleep and tottered into the lounge. He puzzled over a number of packets scattered around a dispenser, then remembered Kella’s fresh black uniform. What was it with women and clothes? So long as he was there he punched an order for a bed blanket. It popped out, looking small until he opened the package and contact with the air expanded it.
That’s comfort, he thought, pulling it around his shoulders. Real fabric, what a luxury. Riganth used plastic sheeting. Easy to clean, but always too hot or too cold, with a danger of suffocation by accident or design if your cell mates didn’t like you. Now that the tranqs were out of his blood, he wondered how he’d ever lived through it.
I owe you, Kella.
He held no illusion that she’d rescued him for any other reason than that she had some use for him. She was one of those types that didn’t have or try to make friends. He didn’t understand them, but knew how to work with them. So be it. Whatever her motive, he was glad it got him free of that pit.
Ah, but for how long?
He owed her, but she was still an Elitist bitch. Always doing what’s best for herself and the hell with everyone else. It was just like her to run off and leave him to die, same as on the ship when the System dreadnaught had surprised them. She’d been doing her damnedest to get into one of the shuttle pods and escape. Fat lot of good it would have done had she made it. The other ship would have either yanked her back in with its tractors or blown her up. Good thing he’d been around to tap her behind the ear just hard enough to save her from herself.
Of course, after her time in Riganth, she might not thank him for the favor.
That had been a surprise, seeing her tagged for interrogation. It only happened when you were not what you seemed and the computers found you out. For all he knew she could be Spec-Ops or something even more secret and nasty. He’d been taken away because he hadn’t been military and they wanted to know why. Probably disappointed to find he wasn’t a spy, only hired help; they’d simply shuffled him away with the other mundane prisoners. To be forgotten.
Until the break . . . when Kella plucked him from the milling herd.
Why? She’d have a use for him, but Ops agents were supposed to be the best, trained to specialize in everything. That was their legend: inhumanly self-sufficient, ready for any emergency. Maybe she’d figured out who had tapped her and had dragged him away for the satisfaction of watching him die. If so, then she was missing the best part of the show.
He coughed his way to the main control node and, after a try or two, cheated into the system. Any 4K-day-old tech knew a few basic shortcuts. Most outgrew the phase, but Farron had kept up, learned the more difficult code cracks. It’s what made him good at his work, back when he’d had work. He brought up the power and looked over the food choices. He wasn’t hungry, but a hot drink would help. Some kind of soup or tea or—
Adjust things and have a real drink, old lad.
There was an idea. Alcohol killed germs, and disinfecting things from the inside out held a certain logical appeal to him. He didn’t want to think about dying; it was too damned depressing.
He fiddled with the base codes, introduced alcohol into a formula. The experiment took his mind off the wretched state of his body. While he waited for the request to cycle through, he used the auto-healer—gently—on the bruising she’d left on his poor throat. He dialed the intensity on the device down to minimum and went slow. Folk were always in a hurry with the things. Push the nanos too fast and they got in each other’s way, adding to an injury. Can’t have that.
A chime and blinking telltale called his attention to a liquid dispenser unit. Perfect timing. He pocketed the healer and tried the sample. It suited him: hot, thick, vaguely sweet, with a warming kick after it went down. He ordered a triple measure, then returned to bed to settle in for serious therapy. The stuff did seem to ease the aches. Blanket tucked around him, he drifted into a light doze. He couldn’t go fully out because of the damned coughing.
It was a shock—a thoroughly unpleasant one—when a man walked into his room. Farron looked at the blue stuff in his cup and wondered at the ingredients. He was mildly drunk, but nowhere near the hallucination stage yet.
The stranger was average in height, and walked with the alert, controlled movements of a trained fighter. He wore a System uniform and carried what looked like a full-auto blaster. Unhappily, it was pointed at Farron. He squinted to get a clear look at the man through his swimming vision.
“Who’re you?” he asked groggily.
“Stay where you are.”
“Be glad to, I’m harmless, but don’t come too close.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, I’m sick with something dangerous and you wouldn’t want to catch it. I donno what it is, but it makes you feel so rotten that dying would be an improvement. Are you a med-tech, by any chance?”
The man shook his head.
“Never hurts to ask. How did you get here?”
“Walked.” The intruder checked the room’s attached lavatory, then focused on Farron. “Where did you come from?”
“The outside, up there.” Farron pointed vaguely at the ceiling.
“From the prison.”
“No, just a misplaced traveler—”
“Wearing prison fatigues and a beard?”
“It’s the latest style off-world.”
The man almost smiled, which was encouraging, but the gun didn’t waver, which was not.
Farron shrugged. “Well, I had to try, didn’t I?”
“Where’s your friend gone?”
“What friend?”
“The one who doesn’t pick up his clothes.” His head jerked toward the lounge.
“Look, it’s a bit awkward like this, why not have a seat and introduce yourself? My name’s Farron, what’s yours?”
“Alard,” he snapped, ignoring a convenient chair.
“How do you do?”
“Where’s your friend?” He adjusted the weapon’s angle. “Answer straight or I’ll blow your foot off.”
Farron’s toes curled in response to the threat. “She’s gone away, I don’t know where, I really don’t.”
“Why did she leave?”
“Well, I’m sick aren’t I? She went to look for medicine. Not for me, mind, but because she might get sick herself. She’s like that.”
“Why did you come to this complex?”
“To hide, I suppose.” His throat dried up, and he gave in to a coughing fit that left him too exhausted to move.
Alard put more distance between them. “Hide? On a military base?”
“Thought it was deserted,” Farron whispered, out of breath.
“What else are you two after?”
“I just want to get better. I don’t know what she’s looking for.”
“But you have an idea.”
Farron managed a swallow of his drink. “I’ve lots of ideas, but no one’s inclined to appreciate them. What’re you doing here?”
“This base is being reactivated, I’m with a cr
ew sent to prep the systems.”
Farron finished the connection. If Kella had learned about a group of technicians working here she’d be after their ship. “Must be very interesting,” he commented aloud.
“How did you escape the prison?”
“I didn’t really, she did, and took me along.”
“You’re old friends?”
“She’d never admit it. . .for that matter, neither would I.”
“Then why take you?”
“I have my uses. I’m very good at opening doors, for one thing. You know, you should have something done about the security systems here. They’re terrible.”
“How long has she been gone? What direction did she take?”
“Is there a med-unit in this place?”
The man gave a curt nod and headed for the door.
Farron had meant to stall, keep him distracted with innocuous questions. “Hey! Come back here! I need help, dammit!”
“Stay where you are,” Alard repeated.
Bloody hell. I shouldn’t have reminded him of the med-unit. As with Kella, Farron watched helplessly as the man strode out, protests ignored.
The bastard probably won’t return either.
Something odd about him, though. Alard wore the black uniform with the proper equipment and trimmings, but his behavior was atypical for a System soldier. His first duty should have been to arrest Farron, then report. He’d had a comm-unit on his wrist, after all. Why hadn’t he used it?
Unless he also wasn’t what he’d appeared to be.
That particular idea gave Farron a shiver that had nothing to do with his illness.
“You’re feverish, old lad,” he said, his voice thin and small against the stark walls of the room.
It was quite likely that Alard had taken off to do bodily harm or worse to Kella if he found her. But if so, then why hadn’t he shot Farron?
“Not that I’m complaining,” he mumbled. “But it is untidy.”
