Engaging the Enemy (39 page)

“I threw up. The first time.”

“Yes. Normal physiological response. I'm sure they told you that in the Academy.”

“Yes, they did.” Ky tried to steady her breathing.

“Most people take no pleasure in killing; that's probably biologically important, or we'd have wiped out the human race before now. But a small percentage do, and it's like being able to taste certain flavors or smell certain smells—it's innate, not something you choose. Do you understand that?”

“I…don't see how it can be. Not on worlds like Slotter Key anyway. We have genetic screening; parents can choose gene-mod packets…”

“But the gene components of pleasure in killing aren't defined,” Rafe said. “At least not on my world, which is at least as advanced as yours.”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think?” He grimaced. “Captain, what I recognize in you is what I carry in myself.” He stopped, and stared into nothing; Ky did not move or speak. Finally he went on. “When I was quite young, ten or eleven, someone subverted the security at our summer cottage. They got in sometime during the afternoon, we think. Hid until after we children were in bed. My parents were out for the evening; the nanny was downstairs chatting with the cook.” He paused, shook his head. “I woke up—I still don't know why. A noise, a movement of air. Whatever, I woke up all at once, and turned on the light.” Another pause, this one longer. Ky recognized his inward expression.

“He was in a programmable skinsuit,” Rafe said. “Black when I turned the light on, but shifting in a few seconds to a mobile camouflage—you had those in the military, I'm sure.” Ky nodded, but said nothing. “Hard to follow the movements, with the colors flaring and fading across the suit. I was off the bed in a flash, you can believe, and tried to get to the door past him; he grabbed me and I started fighting. I'd been taking martial arts classes since I was seven, but I was only a child, and he was an adult. I used everything I had, but he would've taken me…except that I'd bought a display sword, one of those Old Earth replicas, and my instructor had had me practice a few strokes. I managed to grab it off its display hanger and hit his wrist hard enough to make him let go. The thing was blunt, of course, and probably wouldn't have gone through the skinsuit even if it'd been sharp, but edge-on the blade had enough force to crush his windpipe with the backswing from that first blow. I didn't even realize what I'd done—he let go, and I went for the house alarm.”

“Mmm…,” Ky said, just to keep him talking.

“It wasn't working, of course. I had only a child-level implant, but everyone in our family had a skullphone link; I activated the emergency alarm. I remember, at that point, seeing him lying on the floor of my room, and feeling…triumphant. I didn't know yet he was dead or dying. I just knew I'd taken down an adult. I wasn't scared. Didn't have enough sense to be scared. I thought I was being very clear and logical, thinking through what had happened. I needed to protect my sister, and there might be more bad men. I would need a better weapon. My father's hunting weapons were locked up, and I didn't have the combination, but about then the man's skinsuit shut down its camo program, and I could see his weapons. I took his sidearm—I remember being very careful with it, finding the safety and flipping that off—and then went out into the hall.” He sighed. “I shot the first moving thing I saw, which was good, and the second, which wasn't…it was our terrified pet gammish, perfectly harmless. The third bad guy fled. When my parents and the emergency crews arrived—within seconds of each other—I was positioned correctly to cover the front door, had given my sister the second dead intruder's sidearm and told her how to cover the back door. She was hysterical, because she'd had to go through the kitchen, where the cook and the nanny were both dead.”

Ky could think of nothing to say; she looked at Rafe's somber face, imagining the eleven-year-old. How he must have felt, and looked.

“I was taken to therapy, to deal with the post-traumatic stress I was expected to have,” Rafe went on. “And, being eleven and an honest child up till then, I told the therapist exactly how I felt. Which was not, I learned quickly, how I was supposed to feel.”

“It must have been very difficult,” Ky said, and his mouth quirked.

“Yes, it was, a bit. The therapist warned my parents that I was at risk of becoming a criminal, said that I needed intensive therapy for a long period, and would probably do best in a closed environment.” He swallowed. “My sister was afraid of me, they all said. She had seen me kill the second intruder; he had her bound, gagged, and slung over his shoulder when I shot him. She saw me shoot our pet. And I admit, I slapped her to make her quit screaming when I wanted her to guard the back door. Everybody decided I had never been the good boy they'd thought I was up till then; that I'd been hiding a monster inside.”

“But you saved her, and yourself.”

“Yes, but eleven-year-olds aren't supposed to be able to do that,” Rafe said. “And they certainly aren't supposed to argue with the therapist and insist that they're proud of killing two grown men, professionals. That they liked the feeling.” He shook his head with a rueful grin. “That came from being a spoiled son of privilege. I'd heard my father tell people off—and my mother, too, for that matter. It never occurred to me to lie, or that I could get in trouble for telling the truth.”

“That's awful!” Ky felt a surge of indignation. “They should've seen that you were a hero.”

He shrugged. “You know better. What would your family have thought about the way you killed Osman? Don't you have some nonviolence in that religion Stella was telling me about? How are you getting along with that, by the way?”

“Not,” Ky admitted. “I can't seem to make it make sense anymore.”

“Yeah. Same here. I can remember picking flowers to put on the altar at home, but after all that…I can't remember why. Anyway, after six months or so, the family sent me off to a boarding school for troubled boys; the therapist told them it was the only chance for me to become a responsible citizen. It was educational in a way they didn't anticipate. I came in naïve, the obvious victim and fall guy, so of course I was in trouble for things I never did. Decided it was more fun to be in trouble for things I'd actually done, and then that it was even more fun not being caught. All this merely confirmed the therapist's warning, of course. I actually believed it myself for a long time. Anyone who enjoyed violence or killing was doomed to be bad to the bone. Might as well be bad and enjoy it.”

“Is that why your family sent you away?”

“Part of it. I came out of that school still interested in learning—I had managed to make good grades in academic subjects even while in trouble all that time—but university was just too…tempting. After the third pregnancy, when the girl was a Council member's daughter, my father had had enough.”

“So…do you still think that way? Once bad, always bad?”

“No. But it's taken me years, and I don't want you to make my mistakes. Ky—Captain—you're the same person you were, with a big lump of self-knowledge you didn't have before. I've watched you since I came aboard; I've seen you doing a lot of things, including dumping me on my back. You're smart, you're honest—more honest than Stella or me, when it comes to that. You're fundamentally decent. The little thrill you get when you kill someone doesn't change any of that.”

“It's not—it's not right!”

“Killing the
wrong
people isn't right. Feeling what you feel is just…feeling it. What you have to do—what I had to do—was figure out how to control it, not let it ride me either way. It's easier if you don't spend the next ten to fifteen years identified as a potential sadistic serial killer…that's what I'd like to save you.”

“You didn't want to kill that man—that agent back on Lastway,” Ky said, putting together some history.

“No. I could see that his death might be necessary, and that ISC might have terminated him, but I didn't want to be the agent of his killing. It's…too easy to go that way, become an assassin, paid or inspired by my own ideals. I won't let that happen again.”

Which meant it had happened. Ky suppressed a shiver. “I worried—”

“Of course you did. That's why you don't need to worry.”

“I even thought, when I knew my father had died, at least he wouldn't have to know about me—”

“Mmm. Not much on afterlife, are you?”

“Saphiric Cyclans believe in return without awareness,” Ky said a little stiffly. “But I'm not sure I'm a Saphiric Cyclan anymore. And I'm clearly not a Modulan.”

Rafe waved his hand. “Theology aside, do you understand what I'm saying? You're not sadistic; I've never seen you do one cruel thing. You're not eager to kill; I watched you with that spy who died unexpectedly. So far you have killed only at need, to save your ship and crew. You will not slide into the other kind of killing unless you let yourself, and it's my opinion that you are not likely to slide that way—unless you think it's inevitable.”

“So—you're telling me not to worry about that jolt of pleasure?”

“Not exactly. Humans are humans; we seek pleasure. You might be tempted more than most, in circumstances where it's a close call whether it's necessary or not. You need to admit it, at least to yourself, that you might be tempted, and watch for it, and control it. But you are planning to fight a war. You will kill again—that's what a war is. And you will enjoy it again, because that's how you're constituted. If you let fear of that pleasure keep you from fighting as you should, you'll get other people killed. And knowing you, that'll drive you into a whirlpool of guilt.” For a moment his face expressed sadness and exhaustion; then he forced a crooked grin. “If you're trying to think how to say that you don't want to be like me, don't bother. I know that, and I know you won't be. Does that help?”

“Yes.” Ky felt as wrung out as he had looked, and dredged up the outrage at his parents and therapist. “I still can't imagine telling you—a child—that you were doomed to be evil when you'd just saved yourself and your sister. They should have been proud of you.” Even as she said it, she wondered if her father would have been proud of her.

“I killed two grown men,” Rafe said, shrugging. “I didn't express remorse. Looking at it from their point of view, I can understand, though I still don't agree. And part of it was the very expensive and exclusive therapist they brought in, recommended by my family's religious adviser. Later on, I learned that he followed a form of psychological theory not much respected in the rest of the universe. But my father asked for the best, and got the most expensive.”

“Does your father still think you're that bad?”

“I'm not sure. We haven't met face-to-face for years, but the work I've done for the company has seemed to soften his attitude. The last time we spoke by ansible, he said he was willing to see me again. It wasn't quite an invitation to a banquet of fatted calf, but it was at least not hostile.”

“So…is that where you're going?”

“Yes.” Rafe looked away, as if embarrassed. “I'm concerned that in this crisis, they haven't pinged my cranial ansible. Yes, it takes an external power source to use for two-way communications, but I'd know if they sent an alarm. Cascadia's close enough to home—and the ansibles are up here and there—so I should have heard something.”

“Wait—you said the shipboard ansibles can't link into the regular net—”

“Cranials can,” Rafe said. His eyebrows rose. “In fact, Captain, if you want to cheat ISC of ansible charges, it's quite possible. I can teach you—”

“Never mind,” Ky said. “I don't expect to be using this thing.”

“A good commander ignores no advantages,” Rafe said, more seriously. “But back to my proposed itinerary. I could call home via a commercial service, but if there's trouble on the ground, that would alert the bad guys. Considering my father was a good guy, in spite of everything, if I just go there, I'll be among the hyenas before they know what's hit them.” His grin was feral.

“When—” the rest of
will I see you again
stuck in her throat. From his expression, he heard it anyway.

“I don't know,” he said. “Someday, maybe, when you least expect it, you'll smell limes and think of me, and there I'll be, peeling one. With, I assure you, no intent other than flavoring a drink.”

Ky laughed in spite of herself. “Rafe, you always have an intent. When are you leaving?”

“Today. There's a tradeship—not Vatta, alas—and I have a ticket. Under one of my traveling names, of course. Just time to teach you the tricks of our shared ability, if you're willing.”

Ky nodded. It would be stupid to ignore an advantage. She could imagine what her crew would think of the two of them spending time in her locked cabin, but this was not something she could explain. She was no more eager than Rafe to reveal the existence of technology that would make her more of a target. Two hours later, Rafe concluded the session by pointing out that she lacked the boosted external power jack he'd been given.

“You can use the one you've got,” Rafe said, “but it's not designed for the load the ansible needs. You're going to be limited to reception and very short transmissions. I don't recommend you use it except in emergencies.”

“I don't intend to,” Ky said, wrinkling her nose. Her first experience of the weird sensations and unpleasant odors generated by its use had been a strong deterrent to experimentation.

“And don't do direct implant-to-implant downloads, as we did, or you'll pass this on to someone else.”