Rituals of Sacrifice, page 3
I heft Tegwin higher against my chest. My hand and forearm have ballooned under her relentless grasp.
“Goodbye, Iswa. When she comes around, please extend my apologies to Bréant. It didn’t have to go like this. There had to be some other way for the Diplomatic Corps to come knocking at my door.”
Barely hanging on, drifting in and out of consciousness, Tegwin modulates a simple stridulation. “Feel … cold.”
“Most exotics,” a friend once told me, “have the same basic medical needs as do you. Watch their respiration. Staunch any bleeding. Channel pain. Some exotics are more delicate than they appear.”
Still channeling our conjoined pain outward, barely remembering when I took the plunge in this direction, I gather Bréant’s weapons. Sprinting along the alley, letting my inner specters catch up as they may and veering through a turn, I jounce across a sequence of makeshift bridges and out across open country.
Quicksand isn’t always the threat it is cracked up to be. Skip a stone lightly across its surface and it can—should it come to smooth rest—reside there forever. After a dry spell and away from any local spring, so can a Dhydan flame rifle. We’re talking nearly three kilos with a full magazine but cast with an easy, level heave.
“Bullseye! Right down the middle!”
Of course, Dizzy can traipse across quicksand at will. Heck, the little guy could probably walk on water if he scurried fast enough. What does a male Cass mass out at, anyway? A hundred grams, max? One-fifty?
Gold speckles over a smear of buff white, he dances down my arm before leaping to investigate Tegwin’s fevered tresses.
“Yes, I see she’s borderline lifeless.”
Dizzy flares his sensory filaments.
“Yes, we’ll get her to a doctor. As soon as I get back to breathing normally. Just as soon as I finish coming down from the day’s confrontation, seeking medical aid is the next item on the agenda.”
When he is upset like this, Dizzy looks like the result of a fleeting romance between a tangle of crystalline rice noodles and a pissed-off seahorse.
Maybe I’ve already mentioned that.
Aided by the pressure of my hand’s profound swelling, I lever free of Tegwin’s grip. By the way, if you’re ever in need of ice or a cold pack to check swelling, Anatta’s the wrong planet for it. (And actually, it’s the wrong planet for a lot of things.)
The hanging flesh of my “good” hand’s pinky finger is on its way toward drying to salted jerky. Though I rarely put its powers of regeneration to the test, I hope my symbiont can see its way clear to doing something about that.
Shaking my head for clarity, reaching out to comfort Tegwin, I blink and yawn until the world seems to steady. I scrub a forearm across each cheek to clear dried sweat and road grit. I am feeling light-headed and weak, and test my neck’s left-right up-down range of motion.
So, the usual, covert fallback when dealing with an injured exotic is a quick check-in with a local veterinary clinic. Two problems with that. No one in this part of Anatta supports “pets” larger than the sand voles we allow within our walls to help level the insect population. Also, Bréant and Iswa would likely already have eyes on any registered clinic or hospital.
Three alternatives jump to the forefront. I could take her to any world government’s regional consulate. (Though the Moorad do not support an ambassador or mission on Anatta.) But that would involve little more than easing her on someone’s doorstep, ringing the bell and racing for cover. At least in my mind, “ding-dong ditch-it” isn’t an option. Especially if I still want to discover why Bréant and Iswa selected her in the first place.
Next: one of the ships squatting on the landing field might support a helpful medmind. And, of course, assuming I’m ready to negotiate compound interest rates, there’s always your local credit clinic and free-breakfast buffet casino to consider.
As I pack Tegwin for a more comfortable ride, Bréant’s knife tumbles from my waistband. It is a knife unlike any I have ever seen. Designed to lever within a Dhydan’s palm pads and accessorize their claws, the blade is a narrow, slow-curving shovel that reminds me of a shoehorn or serving spoon. The handle is some beautifully grained hardwood, well polished with handling. Gold curls swirl to frame some kind of worn emblem. A mechanical blade versus the usual spanned energy arc, it flicks closed and open with such startling speed that I accidentally drop it and reflexively snatch my toes out of the way.
Resting upright in the crusty salt pan, the reflections spearing from the gleaming blade decide our next direction.
I mean, what the hell?
Why not stick with random?
Chapter 3
Razor wire is easy to defeat. You just have to be nimble and willing to give up an old blanket or set of CAT-2 protection, miner’s coveralls. Barely conscious, Tegwin grunts as we swing over the security fence and drop. As my work boots thump the ground, a few stray tendrils encircle my throat and constrict.
“Come on, Tegwin! Cut it out. I know it’s mostly reflex, but enough already!”
Freeing my neck, readjusting carry straps, I keep my eyes focused on the west. There, bright lights and a diffusion of dust center on the executive landing field’s security hanger. Active scan and numbing pressure fields run counter to the hissing wind. Observation drones flock and spiral. When I sense an interlude of mute disregard, I tread as quietly as I can toward the Dhydan courier ship.
Stand three hammers on their handles with their striking faces equilaterally conjoined. Wrap them with duct tape, and you’ll have a good idea what a Dhydan courier looks like resting on its hard docking ring. Each hammer’s overhanging claws represent enormous engineering pods and engine bays. Without visible landing struts, the towering spacecraft looks forever ready to tip on its side. Exterior staterooms are easy to make out, as their viewports gleam with reflected moonlight. Somewhere above the engineering pods, I am sure we will find the galley and command bridge. As this is not a warship, the command deck need not lie central to its bulk.
Ducking under a cargo pod, I approach an airlock. Although I find the expected inset sheet of cobalt glass under a protective cover, I’m not sure what comes next.
This is so stupid.
I haven’t thought any of this through.
A shipmind icon appears, and I push my mind in the direction of my natural dream state. The place you might let your thoughts drift when traveling a familiar route and don’t have to navigate. As mentioned, one of my personality fragments is a Dhydan ship’s captain. Without giving Kitosh free reign, I mean to bring forth something of her mindset. In the few moments of transition this takes, I endure an odd and sinuous relaxing of my posture. My vision dulls. My damaged hands lift on their own and perform a confined lathering gesture in the air. Signing the Dhydan figure for
An oscillating, luminous ring coils. “Please identify.”
“Request permission to come aboard.”
“Identify,” it says, switching to Earth-standard Common. “I am not monitored to admit visitors at this hour.”
“Search your mission profile. You’ll recognize me.”
The shipmind icon knots. My full profile stratifies. Statistics. Biometric scans. A Dhydan-Cleve, bilingual version of my arrest warrant parades its commission seals. An outdated holo shimmers and rotates. Gray-green eyes. That dense dusting of freckles. Bleached by Anatta’s sun, my hair has gone curly with length since liaison training. I’ve also lost weight such that my jawline stands out more prominently, but my overbite remains a signature constant. As might the too-open expression that relentlessly petitions, “Why am I here? Will I ever be ready for this?”
“Larrivay,” says the shipmind. “Janek. Human. Planet of the origin: Anatta. Liaison, three. Symbiont enhanced. Non-graduate. Reward for live capture: 20,000 rin. Delivery to Sondalia mandated by—”
“Enough of that. I assume you have some accommodation prepared for me. Nothing fancy, I’m sure, but I’m tired and injured and here to take advantage. By now, you’ve alerted Bréant and Iswa to my arrival. I’m sure they’re in pursuit and close behind.”
“This is true. Yet, I am not to grant entry.”
“Then I will just have to go back the way I came.”
I hide a faint smile when the airlock hatch scrolls. This is not a police vessel. Entrapping stasis fields ought to be limited to cells ready for immediate occupancy and the command deck’s flight consoles. And I have to hope Kitosh hasn’t steered me here for some purpose of her own. I mean, if that’s still a possibility.
“Come on, Tegwin,” I say, swinging her into a better carry position. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You must be insane.”
“Yeah? Well, who’s arguing?”
The courier is as tall as a ten story building. With ship’s internal gravity conserving power, we come at everything sideways. Cargo areas, a crew’s lounge, a medical bay and a pair of washrooms. Engine and avionics access come next, and this is where I first confront a compulsion to turn aside.
Schematics slip into interior vision. Universal to Dhydan manufacture, access panels bear terse signage as well as the usual warning symbols. Lightning bolts. Icons suggesting laser beams. The need for hearing protection. Pushing past greenery set aside for plant conditioning and environment support, I kneel beside a hatch release.
The shipmind isn’t happy about this. Spewing Dhydan profanity (some quite original and clever), it generates a warning flag. Colors shimmer and seem to solidify in the air before drifting to block my way. Revealing unsuspected humor, the warning reads, “Is there life after death? Trespass further and find out.”
I chuckle at this, although it means Iswa must be monitoring my passage in real time.
“Hey there, Iswa,” I call. “Sorry about slamming you two with our projected pain. It was the only thing I could think of on short notice. Not sure if you can see me. However, I’m sure the shipmind can tell you exactly what I’m doing. In case it’s not obvious, I’m skyjacking your fancy ride. Hope you and Bréant don’t have too much trouble finding alternate means of travel.”
Still taking clues from within, I pop equipment panels. I loosen the usual three-pronged connectors and reach behind a bank of projection cones. The vibrations generate tiny blue sparks which needle the blisters along the back of my hand. I catch a hint of acrid ozone as my fingernails graze a stand of phasing dominoes. Counting by twos, thumbing small clips aside, I lift every sixth domino from its slot. Cool, gray fog trails each domino as I draw it forth and settle it in my lap. They look like tokens in a child’s board game. Pressing through layers of thick, magnetic soup, I ease circuit tiers out of alignment.
The power fades. Even if the shipmind can still perceive me, it can no longer interfere. Another panel, another adjustment, and someone will have to spend time bringing the ship’s comm suite back online.
“Hello, Iswa? Still there?”
No answer.
Given the traffic situation and the isolated location where I deposited Bréant’s flame rifle, Tegwin and I likely still have time to spare. Returning to the medical bay, I brace Tegwin in the usual scanner and set it to “auto-correct.” This will not completely restore her but should stabilize her for further travel. As the scan begins, I plunder ice packs and any small medical device I can conveniently carry. While Tegwin glares at me, I signal that I will be back in a jiff.
The command deck is a climb of an additional twenty meters above the radial passages to each engineering pod. There, I don’t need much astrogation book learning to select destination coordinates and an automated boost sequence. Here, I also ransack everything that isn’t tacked down.
By the time I get back to Tegwin, color has returned to her speaking strands. Her mostly opaque, owlish eyes sparkle and track with definite dislike. Dappled corneas flare. She flexes her palps in a rude gesture of irritation. Even so, it will be awhile before she is fully on the mend.
“I’m sorry, Tegwin. I know that must have hurt like hell and that you’re still in a lot of pain. Our next best move has us getting you to a real doctor. However, I think I need to leave that choice up to you. With your medical situation registered aboard this courier, Bréant and Iswa won’t have much choice when it comes to seeing to your safety. It might take a while, but you’re likely to see the skies of your homeworld sooner rather than later.”
Tendrils flick and snap. The air smells of something like crushed basil and lemons. Tegwin’s dermal blush peaks somewhere in the blue. “Is it true what they say about you? About your loss of identity? About what you saw and did after leaving Dar Cenia?”
Each stroke of her strands brings a slight over-precision of tone. Has the medmind’s autodoc feature overmedicated her?
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,’ I say, “but it’s likely all true. I’m sorry they’ve used you like this. I don’t know why they chose you to help find me, but I will make sure they pay for it. Right now, you can choose to come along with me or take your chances with the Cleve and Dhyda.”
“I may not have been a totally lucid, but I saw what you did.” She turns but slips and slumps against one of the scanner’s coil booms. “How you compromised the shipmind’s safeguards. You do not like showing much finesse, do you?”
“There really wasn’t time. Now, make a choice.”
“How can I trust Bréant or Iswa? Though I sincerely wish otherwise, I will go with you.”
“Terrific. Should I carry you or can you walk?”
As she tries to lever from the well of the scan bed, her motions are both deliberate and unsteady. A drunk earnestly hoping to pass for sober. “I can walk.”
“Then we’re out of here.”
She follows but swings a double take at the courier’s central passage when I head down rather than up. I guess she hadn’t been watching my alterations as carefully as she thought. Of course, there wouldn’t be any way for her to postulate the effects of my course alterations.
“Sorry,” I say. “We’re not actually commandeering this courier. I lied to Iswa. This way he and Bréant will have to assume we’re still on board. There’s also not much they’ll be able to do about our apparent theft and departure besides following with haste.”
I gather ration packs and more artifacts as we go, and we are already out and hiding behind a blast berm when Bréant and Iswa roll up. I almost can’t help laughing out loud when the airlock refuses to cycle for them, and they have to give ground as launch klaxons blare.
Boom, bam bing! Lifting with ceaseless acceleration, the courier punches into the night sky.
Awesome.
I don’t know how long it will take them to secure secondary transport, but I’m hoping I’ve bought us enough time to seek better medical facilities. I owe this cranky Moorad that much and more.
Yet, you would think I could do better than one of Anatta’s credit clinics and breakfast buffet casinos. Tucked in the lower reaches of a vacant brewery, our walk-in health center of choice suffers peeling cinderblock walls and the compost reek of old yeast and withered hops. A confusion of ductwork and exposed copper piping dominates the ceiling. The only touch of warmth, an oval synthhair rug, holds the stains of repeated enzyme spills and the salt-encrusted tread of a multitude of exotics.
Fortunately, although only briefly shunning their waitressing duties, the nurses come across as moderately competent. The doctors, homeschooled, rough-edged quacks who must have seriously pushed the limits of malpractice elsewhere, at least limit their tests to those fitting the size of each client’s bankroll.
The inner clinic reveals plastic chairs with shattered backrests. Heavy wax on chipped floor tile, once-white. Sheaves of actual “paperwork” in place of computer scans. Elaborate coin and cash counting machines. No clocks. No cameras. A tote board notes sky-high compound interest rates and the periodic preference for organ donations over cash.
(Right this minute, I could save several hundred rin and jump the waiting line if I only had access to an extra kidney, and not even necessarily mine.)
Talk about killer prices. Even after fencing most of the courier’s loose gear, I almost wish there was some way to take advantage of the bounty on my own head.
Awaiting triage, I kick back in a wonky morph cushion and let fatigue and reaction sweep over me. I want to stop running. To feel secure and to be able to control my Delasi components, so I’m not always coming across as such a freak. And if there’s some way to exonerate my ass for allowing Earth’s occupation, that would be really nice.
So, what’s my biggest problem? I mean, other than ensuring Tegwin pulls through in as good a manner as possible?
Guilt.
The galaxy had been at war. The Cleve and Dhyda had been destroying one another without regard for collateral damage. Despite the risks, Earth’s political hardliners had hoped to use this as an opportunity for territorial expansion. Vowing to help escalate the war while also keeping key alien races away from the bargaining table, an assassin struck down Earth’s top diplomat. That was Ambassador Pausha Riskin. Right there, on the eve of an important peace conference.
You know what? It’s not like I ever consciously “vowed” to avenge her death. Leastwise, not that I remember.
Yet, after accepting a symbiont meant to enhance vicarious emotion, I soon sensed the ambassador’s lingering awareness. Unable to resist reaching out to her seared and nearly carbonized body, I recall struggling as her dying thoughts rushed to invade my mind. The situation intensified as I then fought despair and tangled loyalties in an effort to set things right.
Whatever that means.
Hunted and on the run, along with Yasa Dotera and Sarika Pennier, I welcomed all allies. One was a Cleve named Grén. And it was at about the time I entered my first mental rapport with Grén that I first learned of a mysterious place called “Dar Cenia.” Oh, and of the true reason the Cleve hated the Dhyda.
