Grimspace (12 page)

We stumble on the settlement by chance.

My legs ache because we had to run in long, bounding strides to keep from sinking, slip-sliding along in the driving rain. I feel the sting of it on my skin long after the downpour finally abates. And my fingers feel cramped because he never let go of me; I understand why. Getting lost here would be a death sentence.

The community looks about as I expected.

But the mud mounds are the best biotecture I've ever seen; class P or not, this civilization clearly understood the value of a harmonious habitat. We walk through the deserted arcology and see no signs of struggle, no damage to external environs. Though I don't know what's on March's mind, I'm wondering what the hell happened here.

If we go inside one of the structures, we'll need to do it on hands and knees. The openings are more suitable for children, and I recall from my reading that the Mareq seldom reach more than 92cm at full maturity. A chill rushes over me as I realize we may be the only sentient creatures left on planet. I've visited dead worlds before, logged the existence of ancient ruins, but that doesn't possess the same immediacy as knowing you've glimpsed the death of a thriving culture.

As we explore, the sky overhead darkens to slate, and the gauzy star that functions as this world's sun slips below the horizon. Apparently this is the closest thing to true night Marakeq possesses, a dreamtime twilight where the trees take on fantastic shapes.

“I thought this run would tell us something,” he says finally. “What type of weapon was used, where they went…” Sighing, March taps the communicator to get in touch with the
Folly
.

“Everything all right?” Doc's voice sounds reassuring, even from four klicks out.

“Yes and no,” he answers. “We got nothing, but we're safe enough. Going to spend the night and head back to the ship in the morning. March out.”

“Let's find a place to pitch camp,” I say, tilting my head toward one of the larger structures. “In there might be good.”

“You think? If it was a disease that took them—”

“Where are all the bodies?” I shake my head. “Plus a disease that's fatal to the Mareq probably wouldn't even translate to our systems. We're fundamentally different; they're not even warm-blooded.”

As we're crawling inside the mound I indicated, something about what I just said resonates. I stop just inside the low arch, and March butts me with his head. “Get moving, Jax. It's fragging cold, and it's starting to rain again.”

But I'm waiting for my eyes to acclimate to the dim interior. Hoping I'm right. And yeah, there are small bulges all over the earthen floor.

I laugh softly, delightedly. “They're not gone. You said yourself, it's
cold
, March. They're in the ground. Sleeping until it gets warm again.”

“And their heat signatures have equalized to the earth around them. Shit, you're right. We
were
sharing a paranoid delusion.”

“Partly at least, and I don't think I've ever been so happy to be wrong.” I'm beaming at him over my shoulder.

He smiles back, a real one, not the parody that twists his mouth and never reaches his eyes. “Me, either.”

Backing out, we make a quick visual inspection inside all the buildings and find most of them are occupied, their residents asleep for the winter. When we find an empty edifice, probably a meeting place, not a home, that's where we make our last stop, hands and knees muddy beyond belief from all the crawling. Inside the hut, it's surprisingly inviting, cozy, the sloping walls covered in soft moss.

“So what do we do? There's no guarantee we can wake them, and I'm not sure that's a good idea, even if we can.”

“First thing we do is warm up,” he answers, digging through his pack. “Or we're going to die of exposure. Get your blanket, your lips are blue, Jax.”

There's no way he could tell that. Too dim in here, everything is gray. But I do as I'm told, fish out my supposedly weatherproof bedroll and wrap up. Sometimes it's stupid to argue. But why am I not surprised to learn that dinner will be squeezed out of a packet? I sigh and suck it down.

Later, I feel substantially warmer, and I've nourished my body, if not satisfied it. March sits across from me, leaning against the wall. His eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. He might as well hold up a sign that says:
I don't want to talk.

So I shut my eyes as well, and I'm nearly dozing when he murmurs, “I hate how well you understand me.”

“You're not exactly inscrutable.”

“The rest of the universe doesn't agree with you, Jax.”

At that I grin and open my eyes. “Right, sorry. You're the soul of masculine mystique. Better?”

A pale flicker tells me he's probably smiling. “Not what I meant, but I'll take it. Have you seen the ship's official manifest?”

Talk about non sequiturs.

I shake my head. “Why would I?”

“It's registered as a privately owned vessel out of Gehenna, full designation—
Svetlana's Folly
.”

Now it makes sense; he's just no better at segues than I am. “Who was that?”

“My half sister.” He sighs. “Long story, all that matters is…she was among your crew on the
Sargasso
.”

I want to show sympathy, but that'll earn me a rebuff quicker than anything I could say. So I just ask, “She joined the Corp?”

I sense more than see his nod. “She was tired of living hand to mouth. Said I'd one day grasp the value of working for the establishment. I didn't want her to go, but she wasn't somebody who listened to advice. When I could finally afford my own ship, I named it to poke at her that I'd made good, right? Without selling my soul to the corporation. We were supposed to meet up after she made the Matins run. Said she had something important to tell me and wouldn't trust open comm channels.”

I flinch.
March, I'm so sorry.
But I don't say it aloud, and I don't even know what I'm sorry for, really. Being alive? I don't recall what happened; I truly don't. Clearly, the Corp intended it to become my fault; they shaped my treatments so I wouldn't be mentally competent to deny charges laid against me. Whatever else, that's one reason they didn't kill me. A living cat's-paw serves a number of purposes, PR and otherwise. They probably hoped to get me to the point that I would confess, sobbing and broken. Apologize in tears to the bereaved families; you can't buy press like that.

“I understand,” I manage through an aching throat.

And I do. Much as I'd like to, I can't blame him for feeling I'm tainted by what happened on Matins IV. I can't blame him for seeing in me a living reminder of his sister's death. He probably wishes she was sitting here instead, and no, I can't blame him for that, either. I wish she was, too. Instead of family, now all he has is a ship bearing a name that probably hurts each time he hears it.

“No,” he says quietly. “You don't. If I hate you for what happened to Svet, then I'm no better than the Corp, practicing prejudice because it's convenient. And I've spent my whole life fighting against what they represent. I
wanted
you to be the cocky, care-for-nothing nav-star we saw on the holo. That woman, I could've despised. But…you're not. Maybe you were, I don't know. But that's not the woman I see now.”

Through the damp fabric of my coverall, bundled in my blanket, I feel naked. Raw. He sees more than I want, more than I can bear. It's like standing before him on Perlas all over again while he stares at my scars, pitiless and unmoved.

“What now?” My voice sounds husky, and I don't even know what I'm asking.

His shoulders surge in what I take to be a shrug. “We head back to the
Folly
tomorrow. It'd be wrong to disrupt their life cycle for our agenda. There are nine other planets, so we hope for better luck.”

See, this is where March differs from the Corp. Both agree the Mareq should be left alone. The Corp, however, take that stance because they believe the Mareq don't possess anything that would benefit them. Thanks to Saul's research, March knows better; he just won't exploit them. I understand why the others look to him—and what I thought before, Doc serving as his conscience, that's wrong. Because that's woven so thoroughly throughout his being, it doesn't register as a separate impulse.

“I liked it better when you sat around thinking about huge rocks falling on me,” he mutters. “Don't romanticize me, Jax.”

I sputter a laugh. “Are you kidding? Have you
seen
yourself?”

“Says the woman who looks like that.”

I can only imagine the mud-encrusted, matted-hair picture I present. Well, that comment silences me since he's right, but I smile as I dig the toe of my boot back and forth, making patterns in the soft earth. Then I freeze as I uncover something shimmering-translucent. I don't think he can see it from across the way, so I lean forward, raking more top soil away to see.

“March,” I whisper reverently. “Be careful in here. We're in the nursery.”

At that, he knee-walks over to examine my find, and I'm surprised to see his face light with a smile. “You're right.”

On my knees in a mud mound with thousands of little Mareq sleeping beneath us, I feel the most astonishing tranquility. We're surrounded by life, by perpetuity. They have language, customs, and these bog-runners will never have to worry about grimspace or the Corp. Who's to say they're not better off?

“Wishing you were Mareq?” he asks, then emits a throaty sound that mimics their speech better than I would've credited. He continues to croak, teasing me.

I don't mind. The air's clear between us, at least. Clean slate. But it's hard to say who looks more astounded when the egg I uncovered trembles and splits to birth a slimy, big-eyed Mareq that latches on to the back of March's hand.

Poetic justice.

Managing not to laugh, I ask, “So I've been meaning to inquire…how d'you feel about fatherhood?”

Doc's amusement is contagious.

He's tapping away at a terminal, educating the new father on nurturing his young. I can't help but snicker at the picture March presents. Because he couldn't transport the little guy back to the ship in the cold, he tucked it into his shirt, where it promptly attached to his chest.

Dina has propped herself against the wall just outside medical, so she can mock him conveniently. “Tell me you did this on purpose. This is how we're getting our DNA sample, yes? Because nobody's dumb enough wind up like this accidentally.”

“I'm
that
dumb.” March glares at her.

She smirks. “I always secretly suspected.”

“Leave him alone. You weren't there, were you?” So I'm siding with March? That's got to be a first.

“Tell me you've figured out a fix,” he begs Saul. “Come on, it's…licking me.”

Doc seems fascinated by what he's reading. “Well…yes. That's how it survives the first standard month. Apparently the parent that awakened the offspring expels protein-rich mucus through its pores, which the progeny ingests until it is old enough to digest more complex organisms like vegetable matter and insects.”

Dina's smirk becomes a grin. “This just gets better and better. You two smell utterly foul by the way. Just saying.”

He looks at the small lump beneath his shirt. “You're kidding, right?”

The little Mareq makes a weak sound, and I wince. “We have to find something it can eat, or we might as well have left it to die in the cold.”

March sighs, still looking down. “Why the hell did you wake up early, huh?”

Loras sits at the other terminal, skimming the minute data files. At that he glances up and says, “Apparently it's your fault. Well, you and Jax together. According to Canton Farr—he's a Fugitive xenobiologist who studied the Mareq covertly—for a birth, two conditions must be met. First, it is uncovered by the parent that will rear it, and second, that parent declaims what Farr calls the ‘Coming-Forth' song.”

“This is your fault,” March says, glaring at me. “You dug it up.”

“Yeah, but who sang the Coming-Forth song? That'll teach you to tease me.”

“Pointless bickering!” Doc shakes his head, glancing between us. “I'll do a biomolecular analysis and synthesize something. March, you'll want to depilate your chest before applying the nutri-gel first time, and you'll need to leave it on constantly for the first month, unless you're bathing. Then someone else will take over, but we'll want to avoid switching hosts as much as possible. The little one chose
you
, after all.”

“You're shitting me!” March makes two fists, but who's he going to hit? I've never seen him look like this. “I have to keep this thing on me for a month? Can't you rig something up? A surrogate?”

“You
are
the surrogate,” Loras points out.

“As far as I know, no one's ever raised a Mareq outside its own habitat,” Doc answers, his tone remarkably gentle. “It's vital we stick as close as we can to what we know of their natural life cycle.” With that, Saul gets busy, trying to generate something the baby can digest.

With its protuberant eyes, yellow translucent skin, suction toes, and scrawny useless limbs, it's actually so repulsive it's almost cute. Then again, it's not attached to
my
chest. The creature is no more than an oblong blob beneath March's shirt, barely seeming to breathe. I don't know how the oxygen-rich environment is going to affect its development or what other chemicals it needs to thrive.

“We should analyze the atmosphere here and the contents of the soil. Maybe take some of that mud with us for when it's older?”

Dina smirks at me now. “You're nesting. I mean you finally shagged, right? You two went out into the wild alone and came back with a baby. Should've figured your children would be ugly but daaaaamn…”

“Go
fix
something,” March bites out.

To my surprise, she does, but not quietly. “I get this ship flightready in less than forty-eight hours, and I'm begrudged a little amusement? When the revolution comes, I will destroy you all.”

“The revolution came,” Loras calls after her. “You lost.”

Her response echoes back: “Kiss Jax's ass.”

And I laugh softly.

“Body temperature's a little on the high side since we're warm-blooded, but its life signs are good. Just need a little more of this amino acid…” Doc mutters. “Hm, try this? Theoretically, it's a close enough match, and if the little fellow doesn't eat soon…”

“My chest hair,” he protests, as Saul comes for him with a glove full of goo.

“Good point.” Without so much as a “please” or “you look lovely tonight,” Saul yanks my coverall open to the waist and slathers the stuff on my sternum. “Pass the baby, let's see how I did. March, go depilate yourself.”

He heads for quarters, muttering, “This has to be a bad dream.”

“We need to know more.” Loras glances up from his research, uninterested in the spectacle. “We might be able to stumble through the first month, but we've no idea where to go from there, nothing about their skill development. The undisputed Mareq expert is Canton Farr, but he published his last article more than two turns ago.”

Oh Mary, it's slimy, licking me with its slithery pink tongue.
Probably going to be a wonder at catching bugs, later.
The nutri-gel is sticky, but its heartbeat grows stronger, steadier, thumping against my chest. The toes feel really bizarre against my skin. But there's a certain pride in what I'm doing, even if it's beyond disgusting.

“Last-known location?” Doc asks, still monitoring me and baby-it.

Loras shakes his head. “Doesn't say, but we don't have the range to search the full archives anyway, not to mention it would give away our position if we tried. I'm thinking we need to bounce a message to Keri and see if she can find out for us.”

“Do that,” March says from the doorway. “Encrypt the relay if you can.”

“Consider it done.” Loras waves and heads for his station.

“So what're we naming him?” I grin at March, who's staring like he's been hit with a shockstick.

His mouth opens, but all that comes out is, “Huh?”

Belatedly I notice his eyes aren't on mine, and I glance down. Shit, I'm standing around bare-breasted, nursing like some class-P village woman, my scars shiny with slime. Rest of me is covered in dried mud, and my hair looks like it belongs to a New Terran dirt-dauber priestess, so yeah, I've never looked better. But frag him, what do I care? I'm doing a good thing here.

Doc seems oblivious, so I glare at March. He's clean, the bastard. “Hey, I took your turn while you were making yourself silky-smooth. You could say thanks.”

He clears his throat. “Thanks, Jax.”

But I don't recognize that tone. Shrugging, I say, “I'm dying for a shower. Doc, you wanna grease March up?”

“Yep,” March mutters. “That's shooting
right
to the top of the list of questions I never want to hear again.”

The baby doesn't want to let go of me, and in the end, I have to gently peel its little toes away one by one. However, once it tastes the gel on March's skin, it seems content to latch on. I think it's the food source; thing isn't old enough to form emotional attachments, if the Mareq even do that as we know it. We really need to find this “expert” Loras was talking about.

What was his name?
Canton Farr.

I don't stay to listen to March's whimpering, miserable moans, and I'm proud of myself because I don't collapse laughing until I'm safely in quarters. But as I straighten I get a look at myself in the mirror above my bed. Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, it's worse than I thought. I squeeze my eyes shut and fumble to the san-shower because I don't want to see that filthy hag again.

Maybe an hour later, and yes, I took that long, my door chime sounds. Quickly, I scramble into the loose ki-pants and cami that serve as my pajamas and answer it. I'm surprised to find March standing there. The baby's well fed, it seems, and making odd little whirring sounds that I interpret as contentment. Think this is the first time he's sought me out since Perlas, where he had no choice.

His gaze drops to the sliver of skin where my trousers and shirt don't quite meet, and I become aware of my hip bone riding above the fabric. With a tug, I fix that and step back so he can come in, if he wants.

But he shakes his head. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“What for?”

“Making me do the right thing.” He glances down with some expression I can't begin to interpret.

But I know he didn't mean it, those first frantic moments gazing at the thing stuck to his hand. Didn't mean it when he muttered we should leave it. Through our interference, the little guy was born out of season, and none of the mature Mareq will stir until it warms up. Far too late—and March would never hurt something that couldn't fend for itself, not even with neglect.

“You've never needed me for that,” I say softly. “And you never will.”

He's smiling as I close the door in his face.