Rift (29 page)

“That’s what he says, does he?” The Captain’s voice was low and measured.

“Yes.”

Bonhert nodded. “And?”

Mitya pleaded for release with his eyes. Bonhert continued to stand in front of him.

“And he says you’ll let us pay for your mistakes.”
Mitya was so sick of himself that he thought he would lose his breakfast. He was a miserable coward.

After a couple of moments Bonhert’s hand was on his shoulder. “I know that was hard for you, Mitya. You did the right thing. The brave thing. Believe me.” After a moment’s pause, Bonhert clapped him on the shoulder, then left him there, surrounded by the silver tubes that he wished would leak and strike him dead.

No one wanted to sleep near the canisters. Therefore, despite the feverish pace of work on the cannon, crew halted their labors for a rancorous discussion of whether the ore could be safeguarded from the orthong outside the dome. In the end Lieutenant Cody convinced them that the modules needed the highest security, inside. Then the meeting deteriorated into assigning sleeping slots on the floor. To Mitya’s dismay, Cody intervened for him, assigning him to sleep near the officers’ quarters. Afterward, Cody wouldn’t hear of changing the assignment, though the last thing Mitya wanted was special privileges that others would resent. Oran started calling him the “Captain’s boy,” a term that struck closer to home than Oran could know. Worse, Uncle Stepan started avoiding him, and in their few contacts regarded Mitya with cool detachment.

Every night after the officers retired he would take his pallet and carry it over to the canisters, sleeping there like a mouse on a bed of nails. No one stopped him, but he imagined that he noticed a difference in how the crew treated him. Once, Oran even donned a pair of sun visors, pretending that Mitya hurt his eyes.

That horseplay stopped for good, however, when the Captain assigned Oran to take Mitya’s place on kitchen duty.

3

Kalid and Reeve stood before a high wall of fiber-fuse suspended from the dome roof some seventy feet above. As they walked alongside the wall, it puffed out toward them like a great sail filled with wind. In places the material had torn, and through these fluted passages, the breeze piped in a low-throated moan.

“That was the keening I heard at night,” Reeve said.

“The wall has a voice,” Kalid said. “Some say it’s the voice of our fled ancestors, grieving over their lost dome. But it’s only the wind whistling through rips in the Red Wall.”

“Red Wall?” Reeve looked at the wide expanse of brown fiber-fuse.

“You will see.” Kalid ducked through a large rent in the fabric.

They entered a murky cavern, barely illumined from a splotchy section of dome wall. A wisp of sulfur met Reeve, along with a fecund aroma both like and unlike the ponics module of Station.

Here in this section the metal workings were nowhere to be seen, but in front of them was what appeared to be a park bench festooned with cobwebs. As Reeve’s eyes adjusted, he saw a circular construct about six feet wide, in the center of which stood statues of Greek goddesses bearing pots that they tilted into a now empty pool.

“This was the fountain of Dome Park. The ancestors came here to relax and watch the maidens poor water.”

Rather than water, the pool supported a small ecology of Lithiaform plants, the latest growth an arterial blood red, the bottommost a rust brown.

“So these are the plants of old Lithia,” Reeve said, peering at the alien-looking growths.

“Yes,” Kalid said. “And these.” He gestured back at the wall itself.

The fabric wall rippled. It was covered top to bottom in a red beardlike growth, an embankment of thick crimson polyps, sagging in places from the weight of long clumps.

The effect was like looking up into the frothing underside of a gigantic wave. Reeve stepped back for a better view. “What happened to this place?”

Kalid smiled. “I thought you might know.” When Reeve remained silent he continued, “Lithia likes this section of the dome. For whatever reason, these growths don’t venture past this point. So my lord had a curtain hung, that we might avoid looking at it.”

“Maybe it feeds on some spill here—some waste product.”

“Limestone,” Kalid said in answer. “They stored powdery kinds of limestone here.” He nodded at vats anchoring the far corners of the cavern.

Reeve knew something of the carbon dioxide—trapping processes of the old colony. Apparently the calcium carbonate, with its slow leak of carbon dioxide, attracted the polyps.

Kalid urged him on. “Come.” They made their way into the gloom until they stood in a small clearing.

“Here they played an ancient game with fence and rackets.” Kalid removed his jacket and cast it over a metal post standing devoid of its net. They faced each other. “So, Spaceman. You want to learn the killing art. Should I fear you then, when you’ve learned to kill with your bare hands?” His face blended into the permanent shadow of the region around him, darkened by large masses hugging the dome wall, likely more Lithiaform growths.

“You and I are friends, I hope,” Reeve said. “You spared my life—and fingers.” He grinned.

“Among the jinn,
friend
is not a word we use lightly, Spaceman.” Kalid made a beckoning gesture. “Attack me.” He seemed very relaxed for a man about to be assaulted, an attitude that needed some adjustment.

Reeve charged, butting Kalid with his head and fists, planning to knock the man to the floor and land on top of him. But a blow to Reeve’s exposed neck sent him to his knees. In the next moment, Kalid had him in a neck-lock. As Reeve struggled, he managed to angle his throat into the space next to Kalid’s bent elbow, but he was soon snugged close by a locked grip.

“First lesson: Never lead with your head.” Kalid tightened the vise.

“Enough,” Reeve sputtered.

Kalid released him. “So, that is one way to kill a man. Tighten your grip until he can’t breathe.” Standing up, Kalid beckoned him with his hands. “Again.”

Reeve surged forward to grab Kalid, managing to get a fistful of shirt and receiving a sharp blow to his hands in return. As Reeve stepped back to evade another blow, they circled each other, feinting and jabbing.

“Don’t grab in a fight,” Kalid said. “If you are close enough to grab, hit instead.”

Kalid was too relaxed. The man’s cocky attitude might be an advantage, Reeve thought. Seeing an opening on Kalid’s left, he moved in with a kick to the groin, which was blocked out of nowhere by Kalid’s knee. Kalid was grinning now. As Reeve lunged, Kalid moved in to grab his chin, causing a wrenching twist to his neck that sent Reeve staggering.

“That is the second way to kill a man.” He beckoned Reeve forward, demonstrating. “Push the chin one way with your hand, grab the hair and yank in the opposite direction.” He snapped his fingers. “Dead.”

Reeve nodded, filing the move away for future reference. “What else?”

“Size up your opponent before attacking. Begin with small blows to the hands and arms; see what response you draw. The better the fighter, the more cautiously you must fight. Don’t give it your all.”

“You’re saying hold back?”

“Calm your fire. Be dispassionate. And watch for your opening to do real damage.”

“Sounds like a slapping contest.”

Kalid’s mouth crumpled into an ironic smile. “If you can break my hand you can win a fight with me. Likely my hands are the only thing you will get close to.”

As Reeve charged, Kalid swung to one side, sweeping Reeve’s foot out from under him, sending him once again to the floor.

Reeve felt his head jerk back for a moment, then Kalid sprang off him. “Dead again,” he pronounced. Reeve lay staring at Kalid’s silver-tipped boots. His face appeared there for a moment, stretched into a rounded mound of pink flesh. Then, pulling himself to his feet, he faced his opponent once more.

After Reeve had taken several more falls, his initial goodwill was wearing thin. Kalid’s ready smile needed knocking off. Reeve was never the biggest fighter on Station, but he had a reputation for scrappiness, and no one had ever trounced him quite as thoroughly as this. The idea of winning Kalid over by becoming his humble student was beginning to reveal its shortcomings. Reeve’s right cheek was swelling from a particularly harsh blow and his left arm felt like it had been wrenched from its socket.

“Enough for one day, perhaps?” Kalid asked.

“Yeah.” Reeve turned to go. “Enough.” Then he spun on his heel and aimed a solid kick at Kalid’s groin, connecting. Kalid stumbled and fell into a roll, moving back onto his feet and crouching in a fighting stance.

“Better, Spaceman.”

They circled each other, with Kalid deflecting some of Reeve’s blows, but not all. Still, the man was hardly panting with exertion—unlike Reeve, who was quickly tiring. Kalid moved in, pummeling him, using what seemed like every part of his body as a weapon: elbows, knees, fists, in quick succession. As they closed, Kalid
spoke through gritted teeth. “Who is your enemy, if not me?” He broke away and lunged in again to yank at Reeve’s ear. “If it is my Lord Dante, then it is me, truly.”

“I am Lord Dante’s guest, not his enemy,” Reeve said. He managed to say this while looking into Kalid’s eyes, though he would rather not have lied to his face. Reeve resolved to bring Kalid down at least once, and hurled himself against the man so hard he thought they would both crash to the floor. Instead he found himself sprawled alone on the hard court surface.

Kalid stood above him. “What is in your heart when you fight? Fire or ice?” He held out a hand and pulled Reeve to his feet.

Panting, Reeve looked at his adversary. “That’s easy. Fire.”

Kalid nodded. “That’s why you are easy to topple.” Kalid feinted toward him. “You show me your next move in your eyes.” In a snap kick, Kalid’s foot brushed Reeve’s chest. “You must be cold. Watch your opponent. He’ll show you his belly, in time. Then kill him.” He tipped Reeve over with a slice of his foot and a tug on his arm. Reeve looked up to find Kalid’s boot on his neck. “Dead again.” Helping him up to his feet, Kalid said, “Next time we will fight with knives.”

They sat for a time drinking from a flask of beer. Reeve’s bruised skin was starting to blur into a blessed fog. After a time he said, “His name is Gabriel Bonhert.”

“Your enemy.” Kalid wiped his face with a kerchief. “The one who put the fire in your belly.”

“Fire.” He thought of the flowering explosion of Station. “Yes.”

As though Kalid saw the same vision, he asked, “He did not die then, with the rest of your clave?”

“No. He didn’t die. Yet.”

“It’s a strong fire, to carry so far.” They sat side by side, gazing into the abandoned dome section. Kalid
passed the flask of beer to him and Reeve took a long pull.

“Gabriel Bonhert killed Tina Valejo.”

Kalid looked at him, cocking his head.

“And then he killed the rest.”

“The rest?”

“The rest of my people.” Reeve screwed the cap on the flask and set it aside. It was either that or drink to oblivion.

Kalid nodded, slowly. “Where is this man with the name of an angel?”

The question bumped him out of his spiral for a moment. Angel?

There was a sound behind them. They turned to find Loon standing silently, watching them. Today she was dressed in a pale blue jumpsuit that glistened with a pearlescent sheen. Fine red leather boots hugged her feet to her calves. She had combed her hair straight back off her face, highlighting her cheekbones. Her beauty stirred him.

Loon was serious today. She put her hand on Reeve’s face, touching his bruises.

“Kalid is teaching me to fight.”

Kalid rose to his feet and bowed, saying, “Until next time, Spaceman.” His eyes flicked to Loon, and he smiled at them before turning and departing through the rent in the red wall.

Loon put her hand in Reeve’s and they strolled together down the metal paths of the dome. Every now and then she would slip into a crawl space, as though she heard or smelled something worth pursuing. He had begun watching Loon with some of Spar’s odd deference, half-believing, or half-convincing himself, that Loon followed a trail of meaning invisible to others.
Yonder, by the soil
. It was a trail that she could not or would not describe, but she pursued it with surefootedness and what looked like simple trust. This gave her a certain inevitability and definition so lacking
in himself. Here in this altered world, he had need to construct himself, piece by piece. He wasn’t sure what the end product would be.