DarkShip Thieves (17 page)

When I'd got the hang of hopping properly from spire to spire, Kit said, "My nieces and nephews and I used to play this game . . ." He tried to explain it and it made no sense at all, even taking in account that it had involved seven people instead of two. It sounded like a cross between checkers and tick-tack-toe in which you were a piece—or actually several pieces—and you hopped between the spires to mark your place.

"Like this," he said, and jumped.

I saw the flash in the air, but had no idea what it was. It seemed to me, for a moment, a mere glint, perhaps from the windshield of a passing flyer. Kit's scream seemed odd, but as he fell, between the spires, I thought he was joking, and hoped closer, half annoyed saying, "Come on, Kit, you were explaining . . ."

I hoped down near him, and recoiled, as I saw that his shoulder was all red. "What?"

I wheeled around and saw Joseph Klaavil. He stood on the nearest spire, and was aiming a burner at Kit.

It all happened very fast. I considered stepping in front of Kit, but Joseph's pinched, intent expression probably meant he wouldn't care and would cut me down on the way to getting Kit. And then I put on my desperate speed, jumping up to a smaller spire, then up again, to crowd Joseph on his. I hit his arm, and he turned to look at me, with the kind of shocked, blank look that meant he'd never seen me coming—he hadn't seen me move.

I hit his arm making the burner fall and then I kicked him hard, where Kit said I had an habit of hitting men. He fell off the spire, and I jumped down, to where Kit was, as excitement faded and I thought Kit was dead. Kit was dead and I was his ward and I didn't even want to think what they'd do with me now and—

Kit was sitting up, his hand clasping his shoulder tight. "What did you do to Joseph?"

Oh, thank you so much for your effusive gratitude, Cat Klaavil, sir. "I hit him." He gave me a level a look and I added, "Yes. There. He fell. I disarmed him."

Kit sighed. He was pulling at his jacket, which had a horrible, jagged tear at the shoulder, which matched the horrible, jagged tear in his flesh beneath. "I need to go to doc Bartolomeu," he said, his voice muddled and thickened.

"Can't we call him?" I asked. Communication devices of various kinds, usually embedded in rings or bracelets were all over Eden. "And ask him to come out?"

He shook his head. "I didn't bring . . . I wanted to be out of reach."

I cursed silently. I hadn't brought any sort of communicator, either. I hadn't figured out how to buy one yet, and besides, I didn't have any friends or anyone to call. And Kit dropped me off and picked me up. What could happen that he couldn't deal with.

"Right," I said. "Can you stand?"

He blinked. His inner eyelids were attempting to close, horizontally across his eyes. I had seen enough real cats—of the feline variety—on Earth to know this was definitely not a good thing. But thank heavens we were in the half g gardens. I managed to boost him up—though he was much taller than I—and hold him up, pulling his sound arm over my shoulders. I started half-leading-half-dragging him towards the garage.

And found Joseph in front of me, another burner held in his extended, trembling hands. "You killed my sister," he said.

"Don't," Kit said. "Don't. I—"

But I was furious. I had had enough of this. Let Kit not defend himself, if that was what he intended to do. Let him not react. Perhaps he couldn't react. His nictating eyelids were now almost completely closed. But I could.

I jumped and kicked Joseph's weapon out his hand. I punched him hard, sending him back into a spire. He fell in a heap, immobile. He was a light man, only slightly taller than I and of a slim build. I grabbed the burner. I pointed it at his head.

"Don't, Thena," Kit said. "Don't."

I looked over at him. He was very pale, clutching his shoulder. He shook his head. "He's Jane's only brother. He's the only child his parents have left. Don't."

I bit my tongue. I wanted to splat the creature's brains all over the ground. The fact that he was unconscious didn't even bother me. The thought that Kit might or might not have killed his sister didn't bother me. I knew the procedure in Eden was to take blood Geld or fight a duel. But this type of pursuit, and firing at Kit from cover was dishonorable, and trying to kill a wounded man struck me as evil. Trying to kill a man who wasn't—wouldn't—fight back seemed despicable. I was filled with rage.

But I was Kit's ward and I had some vague notion I could get him in horrible straights by killing Joseph Klaavil. So, instead, I pocketed the burner and returned to dragging Kit towards the garage.

By the time we got there, I had to jam his hand in the gen pad to unlock the flyer. And then I realized Kit couldn't drive the flyer. Actually, by then he was so close to full unconsciousness that I wasn't sure he could tell me where I was supposed to fly.

I though I could just drive to the nearest populated area, land and scream for help. People would be bound to come. But then I looked at how much bigger the dark, wet area on Kit's suit was, than it had been in the half g gardens, and I wondered if he would last long enough for someone to call specialized help.

He'd said he wanted Doc Bartolomeu.

I was crying as I dragged him into the passenger seat of the flyer and locked him in place, then examined the half dozen routes programmed into the memory. There was home, and the music center, and a couple of stores and . . . no Doctor Bartolomeu. And nothing that could be a hospital. I wanted to punch something and scream.

Instead, I turned towards Kit, whose eyes were barely open.

"Kit," I said. "How do I get to Doc Bartolomeu's?"

He opened his mouth, and then his eyes rolled into his head, and his body sagged.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Supposing I survived this, without anyone accusing me of killing Kit, I'd still be left alone in Eden. How would it work? I now worked for the Energy Board, but did that mean that I would be allowed to go free after work, and live in Eden on my own. People seemed to be very leery of Kit Klaavil, but at least half of them were as leery of me.

I looked over at Kit, on the passenger seat. Right. It went beyond that. He had saved me, once. I didn't understand his forbearance with this man attacking him, but it was clear there was a lot more going on than I knew. Did I like Kit? I didn't know. I knew that over our months together, for all his occasional dark moods, he'd been the only one to ever look at me as more than a token representative of Earth, an Earthworm. And when I'd mistaken the girl for an awful bioengineered monster today he hadn't sneered about prejudice of close minded Earthworms, or even about fear of science.

Reaching over, I shook his good shoulder, slightly. "Kit. Please tell me where Doc Bartolomeu lives."

There was no answer. Like most flyers on Earth or in Eden, his was gen-lock activated. Time and again I'd seen him reach to the dashboard of the flyer and press his finger into the grey membrane slot to have his genetic fingerprint recognized and start the flyer. This time it took my unsnapping him from the restraints and pushing his finger into the dashboard. He felt warm and he was breathing. I had no idea how seriously he was injured, but I knew enough from broom accidents to know people could die very quickly from bleeding out.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I'd seen him drive often enough that taking off was no problem, nor was maneuvering outside the garage, into a tunnel surrounded by holograms making it look like peaceful countryside. And now what? I had a vague idea how to get to Downtown Eden and I supposed there must be some sort of hospital or med center there, though I'd never asked or had a chance to look for it.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Thena,
Kit said, his "voice" or the feeling of it so clear that I jumped and looked over to see him still slumped in the seat, kept upright only by the seatbelt restraints.

He hadn't talked. He couldn't have talked.
Wonderful. I'm hallucinating now,
I thought as I sped what must be at least a frowned upon speed—even if they didn't have traffic regs—in these bucolic parts.

Not . . . hallucinating.
He said.
Mind . . . link.
There was a pause of nothing, then urgently,
Let me use hands/eyes. Words difficult. Faster.

What?

If you let me . . .

I felt him nudge me—push me aside, clamber close inside my mind, crowding in. It was as though my mind were a piloting chamber and he'd entered it. Whatever restraint he'd employed before was no absent. He was coming in with all he was, holding nothing back. There was an hesitation as I tried to figure out how to move over, how to let him have the controls.

And then he was . . . there. In my mind. All of him. Complex. Contradictory. Alive. Still alive. He must remain alive. A moment. Two. He was looking out through my eyes, using my hands. The fly took off.
Your reflexes are unervingly slow.

That was the last time I heard his voice in my mind as a voice. Something odd was happening as his presence there didn't so much push me out of the way but tried to . . . mingle with mine. Our thoughts shuffled and clung, our memories intermingled.

I remembered being a boy child in Eden, playing games in the half-g garden with a lot of boys and girls, all younger than him, one of whom was clearly a younger version of Kath. I remembered a mother and father who loved me, who delighted in me. I remembered flying a ship for the first time, the joy of the controls in my hands, and the world in split-second snatches of light and sound and color, strange and yet not strange. Different eyes. The dark a symphony of singing colors. The light muted by obscuring contact lenses.

I remembered a violin in my hands, the wood old and glowing under my fingers, and a voice that sounded like Doc Bartolomeu's saying, "It was your father's," in a tone that mingled loss and hope. I remembered playing, the music flowing.

I remembered a blond girl—first a girl, maybe fourteen? And then a woman, warm in my arms. I remembered loving her—loving her till my soul lost itself in it and it was like playing the violin.

What remained of me tried to pull back. It wasn't even possible for me to do the things I was doing in those memories, and I had never, ever, ever felt that way about a woman. Nor did I want to.

But the memories held me, carried me, like a river that submerges and pulls, and I felt cold, cold, cold. I felt my body shake, and realized it was Kit's body I was feeling, that he was going into shock as he lost too much blood. My-his fingers flew on the controls. Scenes flew by that made no sense to my eyes and that made him struggle, because everything looked different.

The memory of standing outside an airlock, calling, calling. The memory of mind-voice screaming
Jane, no!
of not being able to reach, of feeling through mind link as her body imploded, as her blood boiled, as the all-too-loved companion vanished forever into the cold of space, possessed my mind, obsessive and unrelenting like a drumbeat signaling an execution.

And then loathing came, in waves. Loathing and regret for being too cowardly to follow her out there. To put an end to it. Because it was my fault. Mine. His.

What remained of Athena in this odd mingled mind screamed
no.
And Kit pulled away. He retreated. His presence vanished from my mind.

I looked at him. He looked very pale, very still. But his chest was still moving. And we were stopped on a private plot by a little hill.

"Doctor Bartolomeu." The little hill had a door, a thick door that looked like oak held together with iron bands and rivets, but which was probably cleverly disguised ceramite. I pounded on it with both hands, before I realized that there was a knocker, and then I grabbed that—almost too large for my hand—and pounded that. "Doctor, please!"

What if he was out? What if he was gone? What if he didn't come back? What could I do to make Kit stop bleeding? The wound was on his shoulder. I couldn't use a tourniquet. What could I do? What if he died?

Another part of me, still shocked by the self loathing and pain it had felt from him insisted it might be better if he died, if he rested, if he were at last healed of grief. But the other part of me, still reeling from the most intimate contact I'd ever had with another human being refused to let him go. Forget that he would leave me alone. Forget what his family might think. Forget that I might be suspected of killing him. I didn't want to let him go. I couldn't let him die. "Doctor Bartolomeu. Please."

The door opened. The man who had come to the center to check us for bugs stood there, looking like he'd been asleep and had awakened to my pounding. "Who . . ." he said, then ran his hand backward through his sparse white hair. "The Earth . . . Sinistra. What is it?"

"It's Kit. Kit is wounded. Kit is dying."

I don't remember the next few minutes all too coherently. I know Doc Bartolomeu got his bag from the depths of the house and did something to Kit before he even tried to move him. And when he moved him, we laid him out on an antigrav platform, which he steered into the house.

The house itself was odd. I'd only seen the like in museums and holos and illustrations showing the mid-twenty-first century or older.

The room we entered was so low ceilinged that, had Kit been on his feet, he would have been obliged to duck. It descended at steep angles, on both sides too, a strange affectation in a home carved out of living rock and lacking a traditional roof, or, in fact, a roof of any kind. To the right was a dining table, just like in all those holos and reproductions, just big enough for four people, and doing a fine job of looking like innocently carved oak. Around it were four matching oak chairs, with high backs. Past it, a fireplace burned merrily and in front of the fireplace were two high, dark brown leather chairs. Past that again, a long, narrow living room, with a sofa covered in checkered material. The sofa had what looked like an honest to goodness paper book—I knew these because Father owned a library with hundreds of them—on its face, cover up. I read the title without meaning to.
Dragon's Ring.
Doc Bartolomeu removed it from the sofa and onto a low table in front it, and then I helped him lay Kit on the sofa, where the doctor proceeded to do other things to him, things that involved seaming and bandaging, and at the last treading an IV into the vein on the inside of his elbow and suspending a bag of blood nearby.