The sound shocks Vel awake. I sense the moment he rejoins us, side-set eyes glittering up at me. His mandible moves, and his vocalizer kicks in a few seconds later. “Are you taking advantage of me, Sirantha?”
“Was that a joke?” Sheepishly I ease off him.
“And we’re out of here,” Jael says. “Is he conscious?”
“I am.” Vel answers for himself. “Can you help me up?”
Since I was just about to ask if he could walk, I certainly can. Between March and me, we haul him to his feet. As Vel drops a foreleg around my shoulder, not out of affection but from a need for support, I flash back to our hike out on the Teresengi Basin.
Vel seems to follow the thought because he sounds almost wry. “This is becoming a rather unfortunate tradition.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, once March and Jael move off to scout ahead. “You sure got the short straw when they partnered you with me.”
“I’m alive,” he says. “There are those who would’ve left me for dead, dismissing my injuries as too grievous to make me worth the risk of hampered travel.”
Damned twice over, I don’t know what to say. He receivedthose wounds trying to protect me, and once before, in another life it seems, I considered leaving March after a fight went bad. A wave of nausea washes over me, not because I’m covered in gore, or embracing an Ithtorian, but because I hate that Jax.
Does changing for the better absolve you of all the wicked shit you did before?
No. March fills my head like a warm glow. Instead you receive the twin delights of guilt and regret.
So he knows then. I’ve always wondered.
It’s what you do that counts, not what you consider doing.
He always knows exactly what to say. I swear to Mary, I could be dying, and he’d ease my final jump into the dark.
I thought we agreed you aren’t going to think like that? But he sounds resigned, as if he knows I’ll never stop thinking about two things: grimspace and my own death. Loving a navigator pretty much guarantees the dual obsession.
So far the hallway looks clear. March and Jael round the corner and disappear from sight. Of necessity, Vel and I move slower, but March will warn me if there’s trouble. I’m surprised nobody has asked how I know certain things before now.
“If we can find the control room, I can purge the vents,” Vel says.
“And that’s a good thing?”
“It might save our lives.”
Well, I’m all for that. “Clue me in?”
“They prefer a secure enclosure for their nests, and on a station like this, only the ventilation shafts make sense. The Morgut cocoon a corpse along with their eggs, and their larvae eat their way out. The young develop rapidly and could pose a significant threat before help arrives.”
He’s right. We can’t just drop off Kora, Surge, and baby here, as intended. Anyone with a glimmer of conscience would wait for the cleanup crew to arrive to secure the station, and I’m no exception.
“So what happens in this purge?”
“A burst of superheated air surges through the ducts and is vented into space. It works on a system of locks, so the station doesn’t decompress. They use it to clean debris out that bots can’t manage . . .” Vel hesitates. “And on more populous stations, it . . . discourages nomads from taking up residence there.”
“Or they wind up cooked and then spaced for vagrancy? Harsh.”
“The universe often is. Had you not noticed?” Yes, there it is again, the hint of humor. Since he’s so formal all the time, it’s difficult to discern, subtle and droll.
“I catch on slow, but I’m starting to get it.”
We come around the corner to find the hallway empty. Where the hell did the other two get to? I notice that their blood-smeared tracks simply end, which means they must’ve gone . . . up. Surely March would’ve touched base if trouble hit, though. If he could. If he’s dead or unconscious—
No. Not thinking that way.
Though my head is full of images, mainly the Morgut webbing them and hauling them up, I can only deal with one problem at a time. The bounty hunter leans on me harder, and we’ve only walked fifty meters. He needs the med center. In my considered opinion, purging the station can wait until I have him stabilized.
Plus, a purge might fry March and Jael, wherever the hell they are. Weak and dizzy from blood loss, Vel’s not thinking as fast as usual, or he would’ve noticed by now. Maybe I can keep him from worrying about it.
Time is ticking. My skin stings, my hip aches, and I can’t use my left hand. Why does shit always come down to me? But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe March and Jael are fine.
“I know,” I say aloud. “Let me ask 245 for a sample layout of an emergency station. It won’t be exact, but it might give us an idea where to turn.”
My PA wouldn’t have helped earlier, because even preciseblueprints don’t include dangerous Morgut nests, more’s the pity. In any case, I didn’t think of her until now. I pull the unit from my pocket, input my codes, and ask for the information I need.
She actually seems a bit miffed that I don’t have time to chat. Maybe I’ve talked to her too much during our ongoing experiment. Maybe she’s learned a uniquely human trait: loneliness.
“Yes,” she says, after a few seconds searching. “As part of my helpful information database, I have plans for emergency stations. They are designed to aid interstellar travelers in distress. Are you currently in distress, Sirantha Jax?”
“Yes, I most certainly am. Can you tell me where medical would be, assuming they didn’t deviate from the standard design?”
“Please wait.” Her new voice rings completely feminine. A few weeks back, while we were confined to quarters, I decided if I talk to her as if she’s my best girlfriend, then she should sound the part.
Then she flashes the location on-screen. On the plus side, it should be located on this level. On the minus side, it’s on the other side from where we are. That means we have two hallways to cover . . . without getting caught by whatever took March and Jael. I hate thinking like that, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.
I have to cordon off the terror and pain. Vel’s my responsibility right now. March made him my partner in case we got separated, and I’m not going to let Vel bleed to death while I go tearing around after the other two.
At this point, I tell myself, it’s better if the remaining Morgut snag March and Jael instead of us. I know that sounds callous, but they’re former mercs. They have a better shot at surviving than we do right now.
“Let us move,” Vel says. “I do not know how much longer I can stay vertical.”
One crisis at a time, Jax.
CHAPTER 20
The distance seems a lot longer than it actually is.
I remember Vel mentioning there might be traps laid, so we proceed with care. I try to stay to the edges of the hallway. My shoulders ache from the strain of holding him upright. He’s not helping much anymore, moving on sheer determination.
If he goes down, I don’t have the strength to get him on his feet again, so we have to keep shuffling toward Med Bay. Or where it ought to be. My PA sulks in my right front pocket; I don’t think she quite grasps the urgency of the situation.
The silence troubles me. I send a few experimental thoughts toward March, but I get nothing back. It’s more than his lack of response, though. The station itself seems oddly still. Could be my paranoia, I suppose. Maybe nothing’s left but us.
When we turn the corner into the last hallway, a web snaps down toward us, but we’re not quite in range. We stagger back a few paces while I try to control my heart rate. Lucky they placed the trigger off a few centimeters or we’d be finding out firsthand what became of March and Jael. I suspect they let themselves be taken . . . because it’s more comforting than the other options.
Why would they do that? I can’t even speculate, unless it sprang from some heroic urge to take on the rest of the Morgut without endangering Vel and me.
I spare a moment of gratitude that the med center is where 245 predicted. As I suspected, it’s unmanned. Vel collapses on a cot while I commandeer a workstation.
“Power on.” I hope these aren’t coded to require certain voice patterns. Then again, that wouldn’t make sense, given the budget for these outposts.
Pure relief surges through me when the screen lights up. “Access emergency medical database. Seeking treatment for an Ithtorian suffering from multiple bite wounds and blood loss.”
“Accessing.” This AI sounds cool and collected, which is reassuring in a medical system. “Recommend sonic cleansing and immediate application of liquid skin, type four. Contains antibacterial agents and macrobiotic, further intervention is not required unless patient exhibits signs of infection. Augment treatment with a transfusion of synthetic intravenous fluid, program med-bot to use type 1345AB.”
Liquid skin. Med-bot. Vel’s gone under again, which is probably best. Thankfully the station provides some guidance as to where I can find things. My hands tremble as I carry out the instructions.
They keep the med-bot in a cupboard, charging until he’s needed again. He powers up at my voice command, and I’m able to program him with treatment instructions that way as well. In efficient, mechanical motions, he handles the infusion, which should help Vel stay conscious.
As for me, I suck down a packet of paste. Won’t do any good if I pass out. I’m fucking exhausted, and I ache all over. For good or ill, we’re holed up here until we both feel better. I hope to Mary that March and Jael are all right, but I can’t save them. I just can’t. When they disappeared, I chose to stick with Vel.
That’s a fucking agonizing decision.
I love March.
I feel like I’m abandoning him, but presently he’s not my lover; he can’t be, or I’ll go nuts. As my captain, he gave me an order: Guard Vel’s back. I’ve never been much for authority, but I trust his judgment. So I force my worry down, compartmentalize it. I’m an old pro at that.
I’d kill to get cleaned up. That’s when I notice the san-shower, probably kept in here so the doc can wash up after dealing with messy injuries.
I hesitate only a few seconds. “Do you have a quarantine protocol?”
“Affirmative.”
“Activate it and secure the doors. Require my voice imprint to override.”
“State the name of the attending physician and the nature of the infectious illness for station records, please.”
Shit. I wrack my brain, hoping it won’t check my name against a credentialed list of physicians. Then I solve the problem. I hope.
“Saul Solaith, logging a case of advanced Jenner’s retrovirus.”
The machine pauses, which suggests I was right about the database. “Acknowledged, Dr. Solaith. Activating quarantine. Outside access to medical facility will require your authorization.”
Heh. Technology often manages to be both brilliant and wonderfully stupid. It apparently doesn’t care that I’m the wrong gender, or maybe it doesn’t register pitch and match it against official records. They run on a shoestring budget in places like Emry, and they wouldn’t have the latest innovations, luckily for me.
