Resurrection (23 page)

Adaiz suddenly saw the Plaguers as a race performing an elaborate balancing act, with the scales below them ready to tip one way or the other at any time. He struggled to regain the view of them he had held since childhood—a race barbaric enough to effect the destruction of another sentient race. The Lucien taught that their own ancestors bore much of the blame for the war and the Plague, but there was always the caveat that they, as a race, had changed, become more civilized, found religion in Omani and his gentler ways. For the first time, Adaiz thought that such a change might be possible for the Plaguers as well. Still, he clung to the wisdom of destroying Herrod. Lucien civilization was in a state of unprecedented prosperity, and it was in the best interests of the race to maintain full control over their home system. One’s own survival must come first.

“Just think,” Pruit continued, her words holding all the hatred that language could transmit, “if you had been born on Herrod, you might know these things and even feel concern for the future of your kind.”

Whatever sympathy Adaiz might have felt for her was killed by those words. “You are not my kind,” he said. “You will never leave here with the technology you seek. And your race will die.” He held her gaze for a moment, then turned his head away. Their discussion was over. A third strand of rope came loose, and he felt the whole grouping start to give.

Pruit let her head rest against the floor again. She felt spent. It took several moments for the anger to release her, but the pain finally brought her back to her current situation. She had not noticed her head as she argued with Adaiz, but now that they were quiet, the throbbing returned. She moved her attention to the black man. He was pacing by the window, something clutched tightly in his right hand. As she watched, he paused and opened his hand, looking at a small gummy cube of an amber shade. His other hand was clutching at his stomach. He appeared to be in pain.

Jean-Claude hesitated, then carefully set the cube of hashish in his mouth. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. How many times had that flavor meant the coming of a beautiful drug fantasy? But now, as the cube began to dissolve, Jean-Claude only felt the craving within him growing stronger. He spat out the hashish, and his arms hugged his abdomen. Nothing would satisfy or even soothe him anymore, nothing but his own antidote. He let out a low moan.

Both of his captives were looking at him now, but he didn’t care. Yes, he did care, he reminded himself, for he must watch them; he must watch them for the Mechanic. The Mechanic would be mad if something went wrong, and if he was mad, this craving would never stop; it would only grow stronger and then would come the convulsions, and they would eat him up, and if there was still no antidote, he would cramp up into a ball, and the pain would slowly kill him.

Watching the black man, Pruit saw his mounting panic. She had planned to wait without struggle for the Mechanic’s return. Surely he would question her and she would find a way to free herself and learn of his plans as well. But there was something wrong with the man. She watched him with her medically trained eye and realized he was experiencing withdrawal from something his body required. He had grown increasingly agitated, and now his digestive tract appeared to be cramping. There was, perhaps, opportunity here.

“He gives you something, doesn’t he?” she asked, intuitively deducing the Mechanic’s method of encouraging loyalty.

The young man’s head turned to her. His breathing was ragged, and now his fingernails were driving into his palm.

“He gives you something that keeps you with him.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.

“How often do you need it?”

“Every day.” He paused. “More often would be better.” He was biting the inside of his bottom lip now. His throat was dry and beginning to feel sore.

“Is that how he trapped you?”

“Yes…” He twisted his neck in a gesture of pain.

Adaiz watched this conversation warily and continued his quiet escape plan. His hands were losing sensation, and the muscles of his forearms were aching, but he steadily rubbed the rope on the clasp. With the other two now occupied, he began to edge very slowly toward the pile of weapons.

Pruit was beginning to see the Mechanic in the proper light. He had been a quiet, unassuming member of the crew, but he was an individual who festered on the inside and waited for a chance at revenge. He was someone who had no consideration or even thought for other people.

She saw her path to the upper hand with this young black man, and if it worked, she would be able to surprise the Mechanic when he arrived. “I can free you,” she said.

“Only he can do that,” he replied without emotion. The thought existed like a mantra in his head.
Only he can do that…
“He has it with him always, and only he can mix it.”

“Do you know who he is? What he is?” she asked.

“I am beginning to know.”

“I have come from the same place he has,” she said, “but my medical knowledge is better. I can free you.”

Warily, he allowed a small spark of hope to flare up in his mind. “Why should I believe you?”

“Where is the risk in believing me? If I can’t do what I say, you are no worse off. Let me free you. You have no loyalty to him, that much is easy to see.”

“You know nothing of me.”

She could see that he was almost beyond hope. He had nearly given up the idea that he would ever again have control of himself. “Untie my hands and I will show you,” she said softly.

He laughed derisively.

“You have disarmed me,” she pointed out. “Your master is coming soon. You can take my offer or not.”

Jean-Claude paced. The leg cramps were starting. Soon he would not be able to walk. What if she was tricking him? Did it matter? Surely he could defend himself. As long as she was still here when the Mechanic arrived, he would be safe. He rubbed his face with his hands, then made up his mind.

He moved to a wall cabinet and pulled out a slender silver thread with small handles on each end. Both prisoners recognized it. It was a garrote. Jean-Claude carefully wrapped it around the girl’s neck, then gripped it tightly in his left hand. He put a foot in the center of her back, pressing her down into the floor. With his right hand, he carefully untied her hands, leaving the ropes on her feet intact.

Adaiz continued to move toward the weapons. In all, he had moved no more than a foot or so, but this put him in close range of his knife and gun. He could feel the ropes on his hands beginning to fray.

As Pruit pulled her hands free, the black man tightened his hold on the garrote. His grip was unsteady. He was losing motor control. The razor wire pulled at Pruit’s skin. Any more pressure and it would cut her. Slowly, she pulled herself to a sitting position, feeling pins and needles in her hands as blood rushed back into them.

Pruit looked at him and spoke very gently. “What’s your name?”

“Jean-Claude.”

“Jean-Claude, I will have to touch my arm and then touch you.” Jean-Claude managed a nod.

She activated her skinsuit control panel, and it grew into view on the underside of her forearm. Jean-Claude seemed to relax at the sight of this alien technology. It gave her credibility.

For several minutes, Pruit manipulated the panel, preparing it for the examination she wanted it to make. This would be somewhat beyond the usual functions of the suit, but within its potential capabilities.

“I have to touch you now. Your ankle would be a good place.”

“Do it,” he said.

Gently, Pruit laid her hand on his dark ankle, with her fingers touching the large artery there. Her skinsuit kicked into action. Its cells congregated around her hand, growing out of her skin into a whitish layer that became thicker and thicker until it spread to Jean-Claude’s skin as well. He stared at her hand on his ankle and gasped slightly at the sensation of the suit penetrating his skin. It was more electric than painful as the cells of her skinsuit grew into his artery.

Pruit watched the readout as the tiny suit cells made a tour of Jean-Claude’s body to determine what ailed him. Several minutes passed, and then she had her answer. The suit had found what he was addicted to and, by analyzing the addictive need, could now reverse it.

Pruit smiled at Jean-Claude. “He has taken away your body’s ability to assimilate certain essential vitamins,” she explained. “The withdrawal must be very painful. But I can fix it.”

She manipulated the control panel, and the suit began to work on a cure for Jean-Claude. The layer around her left hand and his ankle grew thicker. Pruit began to feel a draining sensation. The suit was drawing heavily on the resources of her own body to perform this task. She felt herself becoming thirsty and then dizzy.

Jean-Claude’s muscles began to relax, and his hands steadied. Then his eyes became heavy, and he experienced nausea and a strange aching in his teeth. It felt to him as though a cure were coming too fast and changing his body at an overwhelming rate. It was still good, still right, but it was overtaking him, and he could not keep his eyes open.

Across the room, Adaiz scrubbed the rope harder on the clip, his motions no longer small and secret, for the other two were completely occupied.

Pruit felt the dizziness increase and fought to stay conscious. At last, the suit receded from his ankle and began to fade back into her hand. Its work was done.

“It’s finished,” she said.

Jean-Claude released the garrote, and it fell down along Pruit’s chest. She quickly unwound it and dropped it to the floor. Jean-Claude clutched his stomach as nausea overtook him; then he vomited. He rolled over on his side, and his eyes closed.

At last, Adaiz felt the final binding fiber give. The rope released, and he slipped his hands free. He saw Pruit turning toward him, her own hands loose, her face looking tired and pale. She was free also. She knew him and knew his mission, and she would now do whatever possible to stop him. She was his enemy.

Just as Pruit focused her eyes on him, Adaiz rolled quickly to the pile of weapons. He grabbed the closest one—one of Pruit’s knives—and cut the ropes on his feet.

Pruit lunged toward him, forgetting that her own feet were still tied. She landed on her knees. Without hesitating, Adaiz threw the knife by its blade. Pruit’s reaction was too slow. Before she could drop to the floor and roll aside, the knife arced through the air and embedded itself in the flesh of her left shoulder.

Her body hit the floor, and Pruit felt the agony of the knife wound. Despite this, there was a good sensation, the sensation of her body moving into action. She could feel the heightened awareness as adrenaline entered her bloodstream and exhilaration swept over her.

Adaiz reached for Pruit’s other knife and lifted it to throw. Pruit saw the motion and acted. With her right hand, she gripped the knife in her shoulder and pulled it out, then rolled, cutting through the ropes on her feet as she did so. The second knife arced through the air and landed in the rug, inches from her. Pruit jumped to her feet, grabbing the second knife with her left arm. Quickly, she checked function of the limb. It was minimal. The arm responded, but with almost no strength. The skinsuit was tending to the wound, working to seal the severed muscles and arteries. But it could not move fast enough to prevent her from bleeding. There was blood running down her undershirt.

She faced Adaiz. He had recovered his own knife and was now reaching for his gun. Pruit was unfamiliar with its type, but it did not appear to be a projectile weapon. Laser, then. That would make sense for a Lucien weapon. Projectile weapons would be taboo in a society that had grown up in enclosed asteroid colonies. If he managed to aim it at her, the fight would be over.

On the floor behind her, Jean-Claude was softly moaning and had begun to move.

Pruit leapt at Adaiz before he could secure the gun in his hand. Her body hit his and sent him sprawling backward, into a long shelf up against the wall. They hit this together, then fell to the floor, Adaiz on top of her, his gun fallen. He drove a fist down into her wounded shoulder, and Pruit screamed.

She twisted and unbalanced him, then made a slash along his ribs, a shallow penetration that began to bleed profusely. Adaiz reached for his guns, but she kicked them under the shelf and out of reach.

As Adaiz got to his feet, he felt the pain of the cut in his side and the surprise at her strength and training. She now faced him with a knife in each hand and a wash of blood down her chest. Her breath was coming hard, but her clarity and energy could not be mistaken. She was wearing only her underclothes, and Adaiz found himself distracted by the lean lines of her body. He tried to clear his mind, tried to gain the clarity of the egani-tah. He must encompass himself and her. He must see her actions before she preformed them, make her part of himself. He regulated his breathing.

I do not want to kill her. I must kill her. I have no love for her. I am human in name only. I am Lucien. I am one of the People. I am enlightened. I have known the stars and the universe. They have passed through me, and I have remained…

Adaiz tried to shut off these chattering thoughts, but they would not leave him. He tried to mentally touch her, but a wave of disgust washed over him, and he was pulled back into himself. She hated him, and he could feel it. Pruit was laughing, and though he was not very familiar with laughter, it was clear she was deriding him.

“You are surprised that I can fight you,” she said. “You don’t know your own race. You’ve been told we are weak.”

She was studying his motions. He was lean and fit, but the balance of his muscles was odd. His calves and legs were over-built when compared with the rest of his body. His stance and balance were good but not perfect. They spoke of a man who had been trained by a teacher who did not know human physiology. She would need this advantage, for she had only one arm working properly.