Darkship Renegades (22 page)

I let Nat murder Max’s father,
I said. And flashed the memory at him.

So?
He said.
You did. But I haven’t. I have never murdered anyone. I’ve been accused of murder, and suffered for a murder I never committed. And now he’s made a murderer out of me. Yes, I know I killed in Circum—or he did—but it was a quick thing, almost an accident. That man might have been dangerous. But this…I could tell he was planning it. And I couldn’t stop him.

I stopped, just in front of the door to my room. I don’t claim to be a moral genius. Long ago, while engaged in a long argument over the death penalty and the fact that Eden didn’t have the ability to condemn anyone to death, Kit had flung something at me that I’d never thought of.

He asked why was it moral for the state to kill if it wasn’t for the individual? I’d bitten back with the example of psychopaths and people who killed for sexual pleasure—it’s possible Daddy Dearest had been on my thoughts at the time—and that they had to be stopped for the greater good. Then Kit had told me that murder was necessary sometimes, for the greater good. The Eden system of not penalizing murder hinged on that. If someone had no value to anyone and the murder was deserved, chances were the murderer wouldn’t pay for it. But the murderer had to make that bet. The individual had to assume that responsibility. There couldn’t be hiding behind the collective and saying “well, all of us decided to…”

No, the taking of human life was the ultimate moral or immoral decision, and as such had to be made by someone capable of taking the consequences. Not a crowd. Not a group. A moral conscience. An individual.

I had allowed Max’s father to be killed and I supposed if there were consequences, I would have to take them. I might have to ask Simon about that. Had there been consequences? He’d mentioned something about Max’s brother, which was a puzzle, since there were no brothers…I mean, none of us had any brothers, that I knew. Sometimes—rarely, it seemed—something happened to a clone, like what had happened to Fuse, and the Good Man made a replacement. But there shouldn’t be any brothers, as such. And Simon should have known it.

But if there was something I owed Max’s brother, I would have to pay. That was fine. I could accept that.

The problem with what Jarl had done was not that he’d served as Jury, Judge and Executioner. That was what any individual capable of moral sense could and would do when a threat should be removed.

The problem was that there had been no threat. Oh, yes, Good Man St. Cyr might have wakened. But after fifteen years, it wasn’t likely. And if it happened, it was highly unlikely he would be up and shouting orders the next day. If needed, Simon could deal with it. Simon knew what his father had done to previous clones, and I didn’t see Simon going quietly into that good night.

That was the first problem, but it got worse. Not only was there good reason to think that Jarl, operating, at most, on half a brain was not fully capable of thinking things through and weighing the pros and cons of his act—Kit said he was acting on impulse. That he had no control. Or little control, and losing that little.

But there was yet a third problem. Jarl had done this while in Kit’s body and in a situation where few—including himself, probably—would be able to say where one stopped and the other started. That was in a way to hide behind the collective, to say “we did this.”

Judges and juries throughout history have been only one thing: a way to deflect responsibility…and vengeance. I doubted Jarl had thought of this in terms of deflecting responsibility and vengeance. And I granted that it was unlikely that word of this murder would ever make it to Eden. But if it did, somehow—say Zen talked, inadvertently—then it would taint Kit with a crime he’d barely been exonerated of before. In the way public opinion worked, Kit would always be at best suspect. In the present circumstances, with the forces arrayed against us, if it ever became known Kit’s body had committed a murder, how could we prove it hadn’t been Kit’s mind. Kit would be a pariah.

I took a deep breath. And if Jarl killed again, say killed a citizen of Eden…Even if Kit got back, he could never get his life back. Not his family, not his professional standing, not even his position as an amateur musician with the Music Center.

One of the stories Kit had once insisted on telling me—because men like explaining things to women and I had no objection to letting him improve my rather skimpy education—was that of some Roman or other. It must have been before planes because there was an invasion led by some evil king who had been deposed, and the only way back into the city was through a bridge, and everyone else ran and this man, named Horatius, held the bridge alone against the invaders, until his comrades cut the bridge down.

The story, as Kit told it to me had a happy ending. The young man dove into the river and came out again and was a hero. But I suspect he was changing the story or softening it. No one falls from a bridge to a major river and survives. And besides, since his friends cut down the bridge while he defended it there would be bridge debris. And the way Kit used the expression
Playing Horatius at the Bridge
indicated the end was quite other.

Horatius had defended the bridge, against enormous odds, and known that in the end he would die.

Sometimes one had to do that. If I went up against Jarl, there was a good chance I would die. But there was an even chance, too, taking advantage of the fact the man seemed to like me or love me—perhaps through contagion from Kit’s mind and memories—that he would let me live long enough for me to get his notes, and also to figure out the formula for the nanocytes and save Kit.

And all it required was for me to be willing to die. Because I’d never been able to best Kit, much less Jarl. And, Jarl would lash out if he got cornered and his last chance was through me.

Well. I was going to save Kit. Or we were both going to die trying. Jarl would not get through me.

I wasn’t doing anything special with the rest of my life, anyway.

But first, I needed to talk to Simon.

NIGHT TERROR

Simon was still sleeping in the same room I’d known as his. Which of course made perfect sense, because he’d moved into his father’s room when he’d first inherited, even if it was a conditional inheritance.

The good thing about his being in the same room, was that the genlock was still programmed for my thumbprint. No, we hadn’t been that kind of lovers, not the kind who sleep with each other every night. But it had happened, now and then, that I’d decided to drop by after a party or a trip, and go up to his room in the dead of night seen only by servants I thought wouldn’t talk.

Apparently my gencode still worked. At any rate, the lock opened, soundlessly, when I put my finger in it, and I stepped in the room and closed the door, equally soundlessly. I could make out the shape of Simon, on his front, on the huge, old fashioned canopied bed. But there was something wrong. Very wrong.

In the middle of Simon’s back, just below his neck, was something that looked very much like a hump, and which seemed to be moving slightly up and down, as though breathing, with movements of its own. As I looked, it opened green eyes that glowed in the dark and looked much like Kit’s.

I screamed, echoed almost immediately by Simon’s scream. The something jumped off his back, and I realized it had been a very large cat, and that he must have taken strips off Simon’s back in bouncing off on his claws.

Then Simon said, “Lights!”

The light came on, and he sat on the bed, burner pointed at me. Without my having thought about it or realized what I was doing, I had my burner out, and pointed at him.

His eyes widened in surprise. “You?”

I hesitated, wondering if I should put the burner away. I still liked Simon and of course I trusted him, but I wasn’t about to put my burner away when someone had a burner pointed at me. “Me,” I said, thinking that was fairly safe to admit.

He frowned. “What the hell are you doing coming into my room with a burner drawn and pointed at me? You used to tell me when I upset you before you tried to kill me!”

“I never tried to kill you!”

“Ah, no? What happened when I accidentally broke your broom?”

“You didn’t accidentally break my broom. You put it in the middle of the lair and shot it with a burner. And then looked surprised when it blew up.”

“I was drunk,” he said sheepishly. “The manufacturer said it was practically indestructible.”

“It wasn’t your own damn broom. You could have tried it on your own damn broom.”

He frowned. “Well, but that would be…my broom. You still tried to kill me.”

“I hit you with the remains of the broom,” I said.

“They were on fire.”

“That’s why I threw water over you afterwards.”

“You threw liquor over me,” he said, looking full of long suffering patience. “Fortunately not good liquor.”

“That was an accident. I thought it was good liquor.”

“So you tried to kill me,” he said.

“Only a little bit,” I admitted reluctantly. I’d been furious.

“And now you’re pointing a burner at me.”

“Only because you’re pointing one at me,” I protested.

We both paused, glaring at each other. Then, slowly and ostentatiously, he put his burner down and reached back to shove it under his pillow. Just as slowly, I returned my burner to my pocket. We continued glaring.

He shook his head at me. “What on earth were you doing coming into my room and screaming?”

“I screamed because something opened glowing eyes in the middle of your back.”

He sighed, and reached a hand out towards the cat, who was making his cautious way back to the bed. “So I have a cat. Sue me. Come here, Mephy.”

“You never had a cat before. Mephy?”

“Short for Mephistopheles. I had to get a cat. You jilted me and broke my heart.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. He sighed. “Well, you broke the…the metronome closest to my heart.” Then he sighed again, looking up at my face. “Still no sale, uh? Okay, I confess, Mephy showed up on the terrace one morning, weighing about ten ounces of sodden fur and pitiful eyes. You know I’m a sucker for sad cases. Look at how I always look after you.”

I didn’t say anything. He did look after me.

“Oh, come on. You’re just going to take that?” He rolled his eyes. Mephy, a big, evil-looking tom who I was sure weighed many times ten ounces and was covered in lustrous, long black fur, climbed onto the bed in one easy leap. He sniffed at Simon’s extended fingers, then allowed Simon to pet him.

“Well, if you look at it one way, we’ve got a lot in common. We both like sleeping with big, male cats.”

Simon laughed. “What brings you to my room in the middle of the night? And is the nut case you are perhaps married to likely to follow?”

I had a moment of panic. Was Jarl awake? Was he likely to be looking at whatever portable snooping device he’d brought from his retreat?

Kit!

Yes?

Is Jarl…does he know where I am?

No. I think he’s asleep.

But you’re not?

No. It’s…Thena, we’re in trouble.

It’s okay, love. I’ll take care of it.

A long pause, and then the impression of Kit sighing.
You know, you always worry me when you say things like that.

When have I let you down?

Never. It’s just that you don’t have any brakes. Or even speed-moderating mechanisms.

You love me the way I am.

Yes. I do. But it still worries me.

I edged towards the bed, and sat down at the foot of it. Mephy was making a sound like an ill-tuned motor and parading himself back and forth across Simon’s legs, rubbing ecstatically against Simon’s chest, while Simon petted him. “Who’s a good boy?” Simon said, in the idiotic tone people use when talking to their cats. At least cats of the feline variety. Not that some female Navs in Eden didn’t sound like the world’s own twits while talking to their husbands. He looked up enquiringly. “So, is the wild man going to break in or not? Because I need that burner closer at hand, if there’s a chance I’ll have to defend myself, or your honor or something.”

“No. I asked Kit. He says he’s asleep.”

“You as— Oh. Mind-talk, that’s what you called it right?”

“Right.” Simon had always been good at hearing something once, then retaining it. Probably another modification for spying. At least it sounded useful.

“So, in what way can I serve you, my dear?”

I took a deep breath.

“Jarl killed your…killed Good Man St. Cyr…a few minutes ago.”

Simon’s hand stopped on Mephy’s back. For a moment, he seemed to stop breathing. Then something undefinable flitted across his features, and he said, “I see. So soon?”

It took a moment for this to sink in. “You wanted him to!”

“Not him. I wanted
someone
to. The…the surveillance must show it wasn’t me.” Simon looked more apologetic than he had over my broom on the day he’d blown it up. “With the revolt, the other Good Men—You must understand, I think the only reason they didn’t kill me when Father first had the accident was that they might get Daddy back. But now, they don’t have that much power anymore. I still couldn’t kill Daddy Dearest, because that would bring vengeance, in any case. If they had to kill themselves to do it. But the surveillance reels will show a stranger doing it. And with the war, it is perhaps best if my status as Good Man is unchallenged.”

He looked at me, and his expression changed minimally. “Did you expect me not to want him dead? Or do you expect me to grieve? Thena, you know what his plans for me were. What their plans for us were.”

“Yes, but…” I thought of the glimpses I’d had of Jarl’s friends’ life and childhood. Then I took myself firmly in hand. More sinned against than sinning is always a cop out, a way to bring the fuzziness of emotion to a clear-cut decision that should hinge on who the person is and what danger he presents to innocents.

As adults each of us makes his own decisions, and some people with awful childhoods chose well. Good Man St. Cyr had chosen the path that led to his end.

I shook my head. I was sorry Jarl had done it while in Kit’s body, but I wasn’t sorry Jarl had done it. Someone would have had to kill Good Man St. Cyr, one way or another.

I cleared my throat. “I’m going to need a few things. A large broom, two broom riding suits and oxygen masks. And uh…a burner with a larger charge than I have. Possibly two, in case one fails.”

His eyebrows went up as he scritched a point between Mephy’s shoulder blades and Mephy’s purrs climbed to orgasmic levels. “Is Thena going hunting? May I join in the fun?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure it’s fun. Or that it will be. I have to set this right and I see only one way. There’s a very good chance it will end up killing me.”

Mephy flopped on his back and Simon reached in to tickle the expanse of fuzz, only to have his hands grasped in all four clawed paws. “Owie,” he said, but not like someone who was really hurt, and waiting until Mephy relaxed to remove his hand, which brought Mephy, in a leap, to all four feet, and then quicker than even Kit could move, to swipe a clawed paw across the back of Simon’s hand. Simon sucked on the scratches, without comment, then said, “It’s not like you, this deciding you might as well die doing something. It’s more like you for you to decide someone else must die for you to do something.”

I grinned at him, a grin that was only half happy. “Sometimes,” I said, “things need to be done. And in this case, I’m the woman to do it.”

He returned to petting the cat as if nothing had happened. “You know your business, Thena, I just never expected…Anyway, if you need help. I mean, beyond those trivial items…”

“Well, I’d also appreciate the answer to a couple of questions. One of them might give me a way to achieve at least part of this without…without having to risk my life. The other part might be easier, too.”

“Yes?” Simon asked. Mephy stretched so he was within reach, and I petted him, gingerly.

“What happened to Syracuse Seacity?”

“Eh? Oh. I think Lucius is controlling it now. It’s part of the rebellious territories or whatever they’re calling it.”

“Lucius.”

“Lucius Dante Maximilian Keeva, Good Man Keeva of Olympus Seacity. He goes by Lucius, like Max’s father went by Dante and Max went by Max.”

“How could Max have a brother? He was…like us. We don’t run to big families, and we don’t have accidental children.”

Simon frowned a little. “No. It’s not…I think it was like Fuse.”

“So, Lucius is mentally damaged?”

“No. I think it was like that, only…different. Lucius was in Never-Never. When we broke into Never-Never to get your husband—”

“Lucius escaped?”

“Yeah,” Simon petted Mephy’s whiskers carefully, as though it were the most important thing in the world. “I don’t think Daddy would have been long for this world after that, even if Nat hadn’t taken care of it.”

“You think Lucius would have taken out Max’s Dad?”

The frown became more pronounced. “He was in Never-Never for killing a man, though I wonder if that was the real reason. I wonder if it was because he…was like Max and didn’t cover up as well.”

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.”