DarkShip Thieves (7 page)

And I had a lot of time to think. A lot of time. Getting into quiet rooms, in the dark, to think was one of those things that several counselors, psychiatrists and terrified people had told me to do. I'd never taken their advice till now, when I had no choice. I failed to see what was so special about it. So here I was, sitting in the dark. And slowly smiling at the idea that I had not been very nice to the poor ELF in his darkship. I'd attacked him . . . four? Five times? And by his view of it, had tried to kill him at least once.

So why was he being so nice and taking me to Circum?

I sat up suddenly, alarmed. What if he wasn't? What if this was some elaborate scheme to . . . I stopped, the mind beggaring. To have me completely at his mercy? But he did. My attacks of him had been countered. I'd never managed to do more than, as he put it, making a hobby of cracking my head on the floor. Repeatedly.

And besides, how could he have me more at his mercy now than he did when I was out there, on the ship, with nothing but a door he controlled between me and space?

The truth was, he could have killed me any of a dozen times, in there. Oh, forget counted times, he could have killed me at any moment. I'd have been completely in his power. So . . . why hadn't he, exactly?

Frowning at the memory of what I'd done to him, I couldn't figure it out. Anyone else—even those nice people who ran reformatories for young girls, and who had reason to be scared of Father and Father's money—would have killed me if they had a chance. At least they would have after I had tried to kill them. They'd just have told Daddy Dearest that there had been an unfortunate accident.

But the ELF should have no more reason to be scared of Father than of anyone else from Earth. He had a far greater reason to be scared of me. He could have killed me at any time, and he hadn't. And now he was repaying my saving him—while saving myself—by serving as taxi service to a location that was dangerous to him.

And he'd vibroed my slip on the repair setting, so that it was closed down the front, the silk shining slightly unevenly—clearly the man had no idea how to set a vibro, really—and lent me a brush to tame my hair, so that I didn't look like a refugee from a reeducation institute.

Which meant . . .

It wasn't possible he was stupid. No, really. He couldn't be. Not and keep anticipating me the way he did, let alone answering my jibes faster and more incisively than even Father—who just tended to yell. And it wasn't like he could expect kindness to me to pay him back. Father didn't know he existed and if he did, as a member of the ruling council of Earth, Father would be more interested in catching the darkship thief and imprisoning him and stopping the raids on the powerpods than in thanking him for saving me.

The ELF couldn't even expect me to put out in recompense. Well . . . he could have, but he hadn't tried it and now he was taking me to circum and unless the telepathy came with some sort of mind-sex setting he was screwed. Or rather not.

So . . . So it had to come down to he was mad. Mad, loony, crazy, touched in the upper works, driving with a defective power pack, flying without a stabilizer, brooming in the dark . . .

Fortunately, his madness seemed to be of the kind that wanted to do me a favor, not the kind that would kill me on sight. So much the better.

Having reached this point in my reasoning, I jumped at his voice in my head, icily polite and strangely calm for an obviously mad man.
We're as close as I dare go now. The door is open. Please maneuver your pod out.

As he stopped speaking, light came on—low level light, granted—but enough for me to see the less reflective black of the membrane to outer space. Of course, I couldn't be sure that the door was open beyond that. But again, why would he kill me that way? Wouldn't it be a very strange way to kill someone? And one that might damage his ship, as he couldn't know if my pod would go out in an explosion?

Right. Just a touch of paranoia, Thena. The result of growing up with Daddy Dearest.

I started the pod to liftoff, aimed for the membrane and sped forward. By the time I crossed the membrane, I was going fast enough that the airlock went by in a blur. And then I was . . . Up-side-down. Up-side-down whichever way I turned.

In space. Looking straight at the dark bays of circum, the ones out of rotation for the harvesters.

In my mind something echoed, that might have come from my friend the ELF, or else, might be completely imagined—it was that faint.
Good Luck.

Probably imagined because, first of all, why would he wish me well, after all I'd done to him? He might balk at actually killing me, and it was only sane for him not to want me in the ship with him, headed back wherever he was going. But why would he wish me well, after everything I'd done?

I had a memory of his eyes, wide and terrified as I tightened the garrotte around his neck. Right. The chances of his saying something more than "good riddance" were very low indeed. And second, there had been an almost wishful sound to his mind-voice, a sound I'd never heard from him. Right. So now I was imagining ELFs in my mind. Just great. Let's add madness to your many accomplishments Thena.

Clenching my teeth tight, not looking behind at the darkship, I headed straight for the deserted bay in the middle, and crossed the outer membrane at speed. At which point the sort of inner voice that has kept me from killing myself a dozen times—at least—whispered to slow down. So I crossed the second membrane slower. Which was good, because it meant that I managed to stop the pod just behind the huge, blue-ey metal harvester parked there.

Earth harvesters were massive compared to the darkships. Still slim, mind you. Slim enough to maneuver between the powertree trunks and collect the powerpods. But they were more cigar shaped, bright metallic and looked like some decadent artist's depiction of a glorified sewing needle.

Fortunately my inadequate pod was so small that I had plenty of room to park behind it.

As I opened the canopy, I wondered what I should do. That bulletin claiming I was in the midst of a psychotic episode probably made it unadvisable to just use the two-way com and tell everyone I was here and to come get me pronto, with the red carpet, the fawning and the—please, for the love of heaven—ready bathwater.

If I commed my arrival, I'd just get medtechs stacked three deep and dying to put me to sleep and deliver me to . . . Who knew who? I wasn't sure that Daddy Dearest was even alive.

On the other hand, I had to talk to someone eventually unless I planned to be one of those space legends, living in hiding in the space station and seen only by the unlucky few.

I'd go in. Go in and find some of my harvester friends. They'd listen to me. They wouldn't believe that I was psycho.

Still, the idea of marching in there unprotected set off alarms, and put cold shivers down my spine. Unfortunately, and contrary to normal procedure, I'd failed to beg, borrow or steal a burner from the ELF. Well, it would have been stealing for sure. Even he wouldn't be crazy enough to give me a weapon.

But I hadn't stolen it—frankly because he was so much faster than I he would have taken the weapon back and possibly shoved it somewhere unpleasant. I smiled faintly despite myself. I'd found someone who could match my speed and I was starting to understand why those who tangled with me usually got scared. Looking down by my feet, I realized I had only the weapon I'd first taken with me—the thick silver heel of my boot.

Grabbing the boot, I jumped off the lifepod and crept into the deeper shadows starting to round the harvester.

There was a movement in the shadows. Or so I thought. But it might have been just a reflection on the carapace of the harvester. I waited. Nothing moved. So I started forward again.

And then, suddenly—I struck out, before I realized what I was striking out at. Crashing into something hard, shocked me so much I almost dropped the boot. Lightning fast, between the first strike and pulling back to hit again, I recognized the square chin and brutal straight lips of Lars Einar, yet another of Father's goons. The second time, I hit out with a sense of relief, because when I'd first reacted, I wasn't absolutely sure I wasn't merely attacking some poor harvester doing a last inspection of his ship.

I heard a rustle behind me, and pirouetted, foot raised, to kick another of the goons square on the balls, and take him out with a smack of silver heel to the temple.

I wondered why they weren't wearing dimatough—but of course, that would look weird on circum when supposedly all they were doing was recapturing a Patrician's daughter. Without thinking, I hit with the heel again, to my left. I wasn't aware of having heard anything. Or seen anything. But I was aware of having hit human flesh and bone. And a soft sigh indicated someone who had gone off to a happy goodnight.

I had entered my speeded up state. I spoke to the shadows, "You can't get me. I don't care how many of you there are, you can't get me. Just let me go in and leave me alone."

There was no answer, though my heightened senses could feel a dozen of expectant presences, composed of little more than a stray breath, an odd rustle within the shadows. "Come on, come out of hiding. I'll take you all together or one by one. Come on, you piss bastards!"

"Athena."

It was the voice I last expected to hear. I turned, startled. In the shadows there was—

"Father," I said, at the same time I identified him. He looked like hell, pale and trembling, holding with both hands to a cane—something he hadn't used in very long and only used when he was feeling ill. His face looked more wrinkled, too, like crinkled parchment.

Above it, his merciless dark blue eyes, the exact color of mine, shone at me. "There is no need for all this, Athena."

Was he really here? Was it a hologram?

I took a step towards him, trying to see more clearly.

It caused me to miss the rustle to my right side. I struck out with the heel, but not in time. Something cold was already touching my neck.

As the whole world seemed to recede from my sight, I saw something fall and roll at my feet. A piss-yellow injector. Morpheus.
Oh, shit.

The world went black.

Artificial grav, I'm going to throw up.
The thought assembled in my mind, bit by bit, as if I were thinking with instruments totally unsuited for the task. My toes. Or perhaps my stomach. Which was clenching and . . .

Easy,
a thought formed in my mind, and it was easy, as if it had come from outside my head.
Easy there. It's Morpheus reaction.

Hands, firm but gentle helped me turn and something must have been proffered to catch the contents of my stomach, because there was no hint of dismay as burning bile came shooting out of my mouth. Just,
Easy, you'll be all right.

Don't be foolish,
I told myself.
There was no Morpheus. I took Andrija Baldo down. I escaped in the lifepod. No Morpheus.

As you say, Madame Patrician,
This time the voice had a tinge of almost sad amusement

Like the emotion evoked watching the vain efforts of a child to do something she's not capable of. And in my mind, slowly, another scene involving Morpheus assembled—a landing bay and . . .
Father!

There were no words in answer, this time. Something clanked nearby, sounding like a space cruiser's disposal chute leading to recycling facilities. Something soft wiped at my mouth. A hand touched my hair, pulling the curls back. For a moment, in total confusion, I thought it was my mother. My mother was the only person who did that as I lay down.
Mother.

My answer was a soft chuckle that sounded not at all feminine. I went into the darkness again.

I woke up in space. My first thought was that I was in Circum, that I'd somehow hallucinated the ambush and Father and the Morpheus and all that. But the artificial gravity of Circum Terra was almost like real gravity and didn't bother me. But then again, this didn't feel like the artificial gravity in Father's cruiser. This was a completely different quality of feeling, something that made me feel lightheaded, but not exactly nauseous.

Also, the bed beneath me did not feel like my bed in Daddy Dearest's Cruiser. It was firmer, and somehow cooler. A hand flung sideways felt a handful of silk, not the dimatough bed frame.

My head hurt like all the blazes, a rhythmic headache, concentrated on the top of my eyes, flashing, flaring, making me wish to whine with pain—only I had learned long ago not to whine. If you cry, if you give a sign of frailty, they pounce. It doesn't matter who they are. They are always there waiting to pounce. At the last instance, there was always Father, waiting for a weakness, ready to subdue me. I'd learned early and I'd learned well not to whimper, not to simper and not to cry. Unless of course it was to make someone think I was weak, just before I pounded them.

I forced my eyelids open against all my preservation instincts, making my eyes open, making . . .

There was no light. Or at least not the light I was fearing, the light I was sure would make my headache pound and make me throw up again. Instead, there was a soothing twilight, full of shadows.
Shadows.

I started to sit up, and the round bed—like something from Decadent Earth—the cabinets, the straight-backed chair, all found a home in my memory.
The darkship.

How and when had I come back here? Had he kidnapped me? Did he . . . ?

A memory of being ambushed, of Father or perhaps a hologram of Father being used to surprise me, to stop me long enough, made me flinch. If it wasn't Father, then his body guards had been set to capture me. And if it was Father. I didn't want to think about it. I couldn't think.

The door opened and closed softly, and there by it stood the strange ELF, staring at me. "Would you like light?" he asked, politely, like someone asking you if you wanted water, or perhaps food.

"A . . . little," I said. "But not if . . . not if it's going to blind you."

He slid his hand up the light switch. By the faint glow suffusing the room, I could see him smile, a tight smile, like he needed all his self-control to deal with me. The cat-like eyes were attentive. "It won't blind me," he said. "I have my lenses in." And then, to what must have been a look of incomprehension on my face. "I wear them when I'm not alone, and when I'm not harvesting. Most cats do. We can't ask our families to live in the dark, after all." The tight smile flashed again. "I am told it makes our vision almost normal, but that we don't see colors quite the way the rest of you do."