Rift (28 page)

“Well, then, he is in no pain. Good. What would my visitors know from this thong?”

“Who are the orthong?” Marie put forward.

Kalid signed her question, but the orthong did not respond.

Reeve asked in halting sign.

Just then Loon darted forward and put her hand on the creature’s face, near its mouth. Spar lunged for her and dragged her back as she sucked on her finger. The orthong sprang to its feet in a surprising show of agility, prompting Dante to flinch into the opposite corner. In an instant everyone had moved well away from
the prisoner. Kalid brought the torch down to keep it between them and the orthong.

It stood even taller than Dante, but its limbs were thinner than the creature Reeve had confronted on the beach, and it stood swaying in place, as though the effort of standing had sapped its strength.

“Best that we leave, my lord,” Kalid said, leading Dante out of the cell. He clanged the door shut, locking it.

As the orthong moved as close to the door as its chain would allow, it signed something at them, but Dante was marshaling his tour again. “Tomorrow we will question it further. When it is … feeling better. Bring it more food,” he ordered Kalid as he proceeded onward into the dome’s underbelly.

Spar hung back with Reeve, muttering, “That thong’s ugly
and
rude.”

“What did it say?”

Spar hucked a wad of spit to the floor. “It said, ‘Bring me this woman.’ ”

Reeve whispered, “As though we would!”

Spar nodded. “Like I told you. Sex-starved.” He patted the sword at his side. “I’ll bring him somethin’, all right!”

Reeve followed along, his heart oppressed. Of all the pathetic creatures buried in this place, the orthong called Pimarinun bothered him the most. An orthong had spared his life once—had given him a scar to bear, but no worse a scar than a human or two had given him. He found himself thinking that he would come back and speak to this Pimarinun, and the thought gave him some comfort.

Dante stood before another of his cages, talking with Marie.

“Deformed,” she was saying. She peered in.

Joining her, Reeve tried to see what stood just beyond the bars, but in the gloom he saw at first only a man’s pale face. With a scrape of chained feet, the
prisoner came nearer. Reeve heard a low whistling sound in a one-two rhythm, supposing it to be very labored breathing. Something rippled on the neck of the man. As he breathed, gill-like structures fluttered there.

“Lord of Worlds,” whispered Marie. “What is this affliction?”

Dante laughed. “No affliction! He’s proud of that neck of his! Tell them, Kalid.”

“Their strangeness is their religion, Medea,” Kalid replied. “They are Somaformers, of the Mercury Clave. All this clave are monsters.”

The creature’s voice sounded like it rustled through straw: “Transformation is the burden of living creatures.… We are the Somaformers. You will become one of us.…” The prisoner appeared normal except for the neck—and the intensity of his gaze, as though he were buoyed by a desperate evangelism.

“So!” boomed Dante. “Have you such wonders in the great sky clave?” He looked from Marie to Reeve. “Well, Spaceman?”

Reeve bowed. “No, Lord Dante. Your dungeon is more terrible than any sky claver could imagine.”

“Excellent!”

“But the smell, my lord,” Marie said, looking shaky.

Dante lifted her hand and kissed it. Straightening, he announced: “Enough for today! Tomorrow we can visit again.”

They filed past the prisoners once more, Spar keeping Loon well away from the orthong’s cage.

Back in the lighted world of the upper dome, Reeve breathed deeply, but the gloom of the depths remained with him.

As the group dispersed, Reeve caught Kalid’s eye, and Kalid moved closer to him. “My lord has little mercy. I trust your fate will be better than theirs.” He glanced in the direction of the dungeon.

Reeve wasn’t so sure this was Kalid’s hope. Kalid
made a dangerous enemy, and Reeve meant to win him over if he could. “I have something to show you,” Reeve said.

Kalid gestured him onward, and Reeve made his way back to his quarters. From under his bed he withdrew a small parcel that Kalid obviously recognized.

“I asked Bunyan to fetch this for me. If you are displeased, punish me, not him.”

Kalid opened the wrappings. Inside lay the black lacquered box. He looked at Reeve, eyes narrowing.

“I found the right tools,” Reeve said.

After a long moment, Kalid gently raised the lid. A simple tune like a child’s song issued forth, in perfect fidelity. A smile began at the corner of Kalid’s mouth, then overtook his face.

Reeve said, “A favorite song?”

“Yes.” After a moment he said, “My thanks. It is a welcome gift.” Wrapping the box again, he bowed and turned to go.

“Not a gift,” Reeve said, plunging onward with his plan.

Kalid stopped and turned back. “No?”

“I was hoping for something in return.”

“And what can I possibly offer my lord’s exalted visitor?”

“Something I need to learn.” As Kalid waited, Reeve swallowed hard, and said: “I need to learn to fight. To kill a man.”

In the dull glow of the room’s gaslight, Kalid’s face was all in shadow. “This is easy. To kill a man.”

“Maybe it is for you. But I’ve never killed anyone. Will you teach me?”

Kalid considered Reeve for a long moment. “I’ll come for you in the morning. We’ll see if you are as soft as you look.”

2

Mitya was scraping pots when a commotion outside the galley signaled that the off-loading of the shuttle had begun. Koichi looked up from his preparation of Captain Bonhert’s preferred lunch of re-egg omelette. His hand gripped the frying pan handle without a pot-holder, as though he would use the hot pan for a cudgel if anybody spoke to him at that moment.

Through the galley door, Mitya glimpsed the crew bringing in the uranium casks for safe storage inside the dome. Under Uncle Stepan’s command, the second shuttle had buried the dead, picked up the survivors, and flown on to the Custler Ridge processing plant deep in the Titan Mountains, in the hopes that its treasures had survived looting and the containment casks had held true. Now Stepan had accomplished what the first shuttle had failed to do: retrieval of the ores, the fuel that was their coin of trade with the great ship. But many, including Koichi, held Bonhert responsible for the deaths, though outright accusations had subsided into quiet grudges.

Koichi pulled his apron over his head and began folding it into a neat pile. When the folded material could be folded no more, he set it down on the edge of the counter and walked to the door like one asleep, disappearing into the dome.

Mitya took that for permission to leave as well. He knew better than to tag along with Koichi, whose grief sucked everything into its wake. Mitya was alone, more than ever before. Not just a stowaway intruder, he was now a traitor, in his heart at least. After his interview with Captain Bonhert, it had taken him about three minutes to figure out that everyone in this dome except him was an outlaw, a terrorist. They had sabotaged Station to save themselves—to be among the one hundred offered berths on the great ship. They were monsters, and he hated them—even Stepan. He
was utterly alone, walled off by his own emotions. And at all costs, he knew, he must never let on.

Crew was coming through the air lock, bearing the long canisters, two men on each canister. Each four-foot titanium cask held an internal slug of exceptionally rich, unprocessed uranium ore. They carried them to the far side of the dome and set them on end, and when seven canisters had been unloaded the men went back for more. Everyone stared at the containers, the size of children’s coffins, but with housing to last the ages. Each contained cargo more precious than seven human lives. One by one the containers came through the air lock.

Oran stepped up next to him. “Your new quarters are right next to that hot stuff,” he said. “Give it a day or two, we’ll need sun visors to look at you.”

Mitya grinned. “I dare
you
to sleep next to them.”

“Yeah, I need a good tan.”

Bonhert had come out of his room and was scowling at the silent crowd gathered around the canisters. “This is the price of our bail, our rescue,” he said. “Though we paid a heavy price for the ore, Lord help us.”

To Mitya’s surprise, Oran whispered, “
You
didn’t pay a damn thing.”

As Bonhert urged them back to work and the group dispersed, Oran went on: “None of that crew needed to die. We had hull damage that affected the fuel lines—it was scheduled for work.”

“If you knew, why didn’t you say something?”

Oran snorted. “Lots of people knew! Cody knew. Captain knew.” He made full eye contact with Mitya. “Guess they were willing to suffer the consequences. Willing for
us
to.”

Mitya allowed himself to shake his head in disgust. He did feel some solidarity with Oran, and was relieved that someone had the sense to criticize the Captain.

“Don’t you boys have work to do?”

They turned around to find Bonhert standing there. Mitya felt a pang of dismay arc through him. How much had he heard?

“Yes, sir,” Oran replied in unison with Mitya.

As they peeled off in their separate directions, Bonhert called after Mitya, “Walk with me, lad.” Mitya could only comply as Bonhert strolled over to the ore casks, running his hand along the smooth side of one of them in a slow caress. He turned to Mitya, smiling. “Make you nervous?”

“Sir?”

“The radioactivity?”

From the Captain’s demeanor, Mitya thought he hadn’t heard them grumbling. Bonhert was in an affable mood, and Mitya strove to cover his own feelings. “Yes, sir, a little.” In truth, Mitya hadn’t given the ore a second thought, thinking Bonhert more dangerous than the canisters.

“Needn’t be, Mitya. The ore is shielded with lead housing. You can get more radiation from a short walk outside.”

Watching Bonhert as he talked, Mitya was aware again of what a physically powerful man he was. He had four inches more of height than Mitya and was maybe eighty pounds heavier. His broad chest and chunky upper arms suggested that the man could squeeze someone senseless with a hug.

“We need to look in the right direction when we’re watching for threats,” Bonhert said.

In the silence, Mitya threw out a
yes, sir
. More silence. Familiar now. This was the Captain’s way of prying words out of you. Mitya acted dumb, though he figured he knew what was coming.

“So then, lad, have you anything to report?”

Everybody hates you
was what he thought of saying.
I hate you
. But, “No, sir; everyone’s behind you, sir,” he offered.

The scowl on Bonhert’s face told him how far that was going to get him. “Now, son, I’m sure you think that’s what I want to hear. But understand this—my best lieutenants are those that are willing to tell me what I
don’t
want to hear. You see?”

Mitya nodded. “You don’t want yes-men. You want the truth.” He hated himself.

Bonhert smiled, shaking his head. “By the Lord, you’re no dummy! That’s just it, Mitya, I want the truth. Even if it’s a hard truth.” He nodded his encouragement. “Go ahead then.”

The inside of Mitya’s mouth was dried glue. He tried to swallow and couldn’t.

At his hesitation the smiling face on the larger man transformed first into neutral, and then into annoyance. “Mitya. I know that you hear things. People don’t perceive you as … fully grown-up. They let their guard down, I’m sure of it.”

Mitya touched one of the cylinders. It was covered in condensation, and his finger started a drop of water down the side like the sweat pouring out of his armpits. When the drop hit bottom, Mitya said, “Oran,” his voice a hoarse croak.

“Go on.”

Mitya cleared his throat. “Oran said you knew the shuttle fuel system needed work.” He looked up at Bonhert, who edged slightly closer. Mitya felt pinned between the big man and the cask behind him. Bonhert’s eyes demanded more. “He says it’s no skin off your nose if people died.”