Ruler of Naught (23 page)

Ng smiled agreement. “I agree. How long?”

“That’s all standard ordnance: we have a large inventory
already. The cims won’t require more than about a day for any reasonable number
more.”

“Good. It will take us longer than that to prepare in any
case.”

The memory of the Archon’s screams wrenched Nilotis; he
could not prevent a twitch as he tried to banish them. Embarrassed, he looked
up, to discover similar reactions in the others. Everyone wanted action. But
they owed the people of Treymontaigne their best effort; haste would not help.

Here’s how we’ll begin,” said Ng after the briefest of
pauses. Swiftly she outlined the tasks she expected of her officers.

Nilotis half-listened to the orders—which he could check
later—and concentrated on the subtle signs of purpose: stiffening a shoulder
here, lifting a chin there. From confusion and bewilderment, they had moved
toward purpose.

Nilotis rose and walked over to where Rom-Sanchez was bent
over his compad, working earnestly. The lieutenant looked up and flushed again.

“Thank you, sir.”

Nilotis gestured in the mode of necessity. “Know that I’m on
your radiants, and intend to take that pod back if I can.” He smiled. “We’re
all Loonies now, and you and I have a lot of L-5 games ahead.”

Ivard was happy. Yesterday, Montrose had finally let him
move back to the cabin he had shared with Jaim since they left Dis. Even the
drug-dulled, constant pain in his back and shoulder couldn’t dent his spirits.

He stood up, restless. Gray’s tail thumped on the deck. “You
want to go see the others?” The black and tan dog swiftly lay down, head up and
gaze intent on Ivard, her tail thumping even harder.

Ivard laughed and tabbed open the hatch. As he walked slowly
towards the rec room, Gray kept pace by his side, looking up at his face.

He rubbed at his wrist where the Kelly ribbon had bonded to
his skin. Looking at it made him queasy, but at least it didn’t hurt. Mostly
numb, once in a while it tingled. Almost a tickle. Strange.

Afraid that Montrose would keep him in the dispensary
longer, Ivard hadn’t mentioned the weird dreams he’d had since the ribbon
bonded to him. He’d told Marim, but she’d said it was just the medication
Montrose was giving him for the burn.
Except I wish I didn’t have to take
stuff that makes me dream about Greywing being lost someplace big and cold and
dark.

The familiar ache hurt him inside at the reminder of his
sister. If only he hadn’t lost the coin she’d taken from the Mandala, with the
greywing image on it!
She was going to go back to Natsu to fight for
freedom.
That thought gave him a fresh pang. Losing her coin hurt even
worse than losing Markham’s flight ribbon.

He’d told Marim about all these things, and she hadn’t
laughed. Instead she said seriously, “Remember, Greywing didn’t feel anything,
and I bet she didn’t even have time to get scared. I hope I get that kind of
death when my turn comes. And as for that coin—if it’s on board, I’ll find it.
Your flight ribbon, too.”

That made him feel a little better, at least when one, or
better both of the dogs was at his side and the lights were on and he was
awake.

He lowered himself into a padded chair. Thinking about Marim
reminded him that he was supposed to be happy. He was rich and the woman he
loved seemed to love him.

His body prickled with heat tingles when he remembered the
fun they’d had yesterday. Marim had shown up only a couple of hours after he
moved back in, when Jaim was working on the engines. She’d made him put Gray out,
and as soon as he shut the hatch behind the dog she’d ripped off her shirt.

Ivard had had dreams about that, before the burn, but when
it happened, it was even better. “Now I’m gonna show you how to have great sex
without moving your shoulder,” she’d said, lifting the med-monitor from around
his neck and setting it aside. He thought his answer had been fairly offhand.
He hadn’t wanted her to know that he’d never had sex with another person,
except in his own imagination, ever.

“Don’t tell Montrose,” she’d said afterward, kissing him
with a loud smack. “I’m not supposed to get you excited. But I can’t help it!
You’re an exciting little blit.”

“Hey, I’m as tall as you are,” he’d protested. “And I’ll be
taller soon, too.” He didn’t add that his clothes were getting cramped in pits
and crotch, a sure sign he needed to get some more. That didn’t seem very
sophisticated, somehow.

“You’re looking better, Gray.” The voice belonged to the
Krysarch.

Ivard looked up, heat prickling him all over. But Brandon
was looking at the dog, not at Ivard. Trev was with him. Ivard liked the sound
of his voice as he bent down to ruffle Gray. Trev came over and nosed the Kelly
ribbon on Ivard’s wrist, then both dogs trotted ahead into the rec room.

Ivard followed, wondering what the dog smelled when he did
that. He tried breathing slowly, imagining eddies of scents on the air...

Lokri’s pale eyes flickered as Ivard walked in, and one of
his hands half lifted, as Brandon said to Ivard, “Good to see you out of the
dispensary. How’s that arm?”

Ivard hesitated, but Brandon did not turn away. He stood
there smiling, his blue eyes direct, waiting for an answer.

“Fine,” Ivard lied. He wondered if he should say anything
else, and then he remembered that they had something in common, after all.
“I’m sorry about your brothers.”

Brandon’s face altered, from concern to something a little
more serious. Though Brandon did not move, Ivard felt as if had stepped closer.
A vague sense of vertigo rippled through Ivard’s mind, but it was not
unpleasant.

Brandon said, “I am very sorry about Greywing.” He spoke so
softly that Ivard barely heard it. He sounded sorry, and for a moment it made
Ivard’s pain a lot worse. He could see in Brandon’s face that he shared the
hurt, too, which changed it somehow—lessened it—took the aloneness out of it.

“So you want to play more games?” Lokri asked from across
the room.

Lokri’s question had an ambiguity to it that made Ivard
wary. He hated it when Lokri did that. It had always upset Greywing, and
sometimes there was trouble afterward, and though nobody ever said it was
Lokri’s fault, somehow he was always
there
.

Brandon smiled and touched Ivard’s good shoulder before
turning to Lokri.

“No, I want to win the price of this ship off you so I can
start building me a fleet.”

Lokri cocked an eyebrow at Brandon. “That shouldn’t be too
hard for Constable Murphy.”

Surprise sizzled away the fog muffling Ivard’s thoughts. The
Constable Murphy?
That was a common gamer nom d’guerre in the Recontre
Sodality that ran Phalanx tourneys throughout the Thousand Suns and beyond. But
no one knew who was behind the Constable Murphy who’d taken first prize in the Arthelion
Tournament four years ago. Whoever it was had chosen the lesser payoff that was
the cost of continued anonymity. There was even a collection of that Murphy’s
games.

Ivard remembered how easily the Aerenarch had beaten Lokri
the first time, on the voyage from Dis to Arthelion, how it had taken both
Marim and Lokri to defeat him. “You were Constable Murphy?” he blurted.

The Aerenarch made one of those indecipherable hand gestures
of his. “I didn’t have a lot else to do, the last ten years.”

Lokri laughed. The sound had a bitter edge to it. “Don’t
start the timer yet.” He lounged over to the dispenser and got something cold
and dark to drink.

The fog began to descend again. Ivard licked his lips. Now
he was thirsty. But Lokri was already at his console, sitting down. Ivard
couldn’t ask him, but maybe he could ask Brandon. Except he was facing the
other way. And he was a nick.

Ivard scrunched down a bit in his chair, absently massaging
Gray’s thick ruff. Trev sat on his other side, pushing his head under Ivard’s free
hand.

Too bad dogs couldn’t understand, and even if they did, they
had no thumbs. If Ivard asked Brandon and he said no, Lokri might laugh and
he’d feel like blunge on a wall.

Do it for yourself. You ‘re supposed to be a man now.

Ivard shifted, wincing as a hot pain seared along his back
and pooled in his shoulder blade where the jac had done the most damage. The
Kelly ribbon tingled, making his hand feel cold, despite the dog’s warm fur. Deciding
he could drink later, he forced himself incrementally to relax again.

For a time he stayed thus, breathing softly so his shoulder
would not move and ache anew. The coldness from his hand seeped over the rest
of his body, numbing the pain. His thoughts were clear but curiously detached,
almost as if he watched a vid.

Light and shadow shifted in Lokri’s dark face, the only constant
being his careless smile. Ivard’s gaze moved downward, drawn by shaded contours
in Lokri’s shirt that revealed the tension in the set of Lokri’s shoulders, and
in his hands.

“It’s only a game they play.”
Who said that?
But thinking about it too hard made his head ache.

The Aerenarch sat relaxed in his chair, expression altering
between humor and reflection as his fingers moved fast on his keypads.

They did not talk, but Ivard felt their concentration. Felt?
No... he almost
saw
something. Or heard it, or tasted it. No, not that.

He squinted at the air between them, trying to still his
breath. The numbness had turned to a comfortable kind of coldness so that his
body almost floated, like in the low-grav dispensary cubicle.

I’ve stayed too long,
he thought.
I’ve got to get
back to my cabin.

He pulled his hands away from the dogs, which woke up the
pain again. Fire from his shoulder sent agony through him. He shut his eyes,
sinking back.

“... now?” A voice cut into his thoughts. “You have to go
back to your cabin,” the voice sharpened. “Montrose sent me.”

Ivard opened his eyes and stared for a few moments without
comprehension at an unfamiliar face: square, short dark hair, dark eyes, big
ears. Angry mouth.

“I’m to take you,” the man said.

Ivard remembered him. He was the nick navigator that the
other crew members called Schoolboy. Vi’ya had put him under Montrose, doing
Ivard’s old galley jobs. Osri Omilov.
A navigator—like I am.

“I can’t get up,” he said—or tried to. Somehow his voice was
gone.

Osri’s lips pressed into a thin line of impatience as he
pulled Ivard to his feet.

Ivard gasped as the new flesh over his burn stretched, and
Gray gave a whimper.

“Need some help?” Brandon asked, rising to his feet.

“No,” Osri snapped. “Thank you, Aerenarch.”

Brandon withdrew, making one of those little hand motions
that Ivard couldn’t decipher, but he heard Osri’s breath hiss.

Ivard hated being helpless, but the pain from his shoulder
was eating his entire body, making it impossible to get any of his limbs to
work.

Osri grunted, shifting his grip until he had taken all of
Ivard’s weight. Ivard counted the steps as they reverberated up his aching
body until they reached his cabin, where Osri helped into his bunk, then dialed
down the gees. The relief of weight was sweet anguish. The fire dulled and
died, leaving only the tingle in his wrist, which felt warm now instead of
cold. Ivard closed his eyes as Omilov helped him get arranged.

“Here,” Osri spoke. “I’m to—”

Ivard opened his eyes. “You’re not going to touch it.” He tried
to shield his shoulder with his good hand.

“No,” the navigator said impatiently. “You have to eat. And
drink. You have to drink two glasses of water while I’m here.” And, scowling downward,
“Go away. No dogs in here right now. You too, monster.”

Ivard hadn’t realized that all the animals had followed
them. “You gotta say ‘raus,” said Ivard, closing his eyes again.

“Raus,” Osri snapped.

Lucifur yowled, then Ivard heard cat feet racing away,
followed by rapidly clicking toenails. The dogs were trying to herd Lucifur
again. “Where is Montrose?”

Osri frowned, not in anger. “With my father. Some kind of
treatment.”

“Your father? Oh. The old man we found in that torture room.”
Ivard frowned. “Did I know that? Marim didn’t tell me he’s your father.”

“Here’s your first glass of water,” said Osri, his voice
even more gruff. “I’ll be back with your food.”

He returned with a tray, steam curling from underneath its
cover. “Here. Eat. I cannot leave until you do.”

Ivard obediently maneuvered himself so that he could pick up
a spoon.

Osri watched him eat, looking like Ivard had always pictured
Panarchist naval officers, his posture so stiff he ought to be in full-dress
uniform instead of a pair of Jaim’s old work coveralls. “The noktu lesl is
quite good today,” he said finally. “Did you prepare it?”

The question brought the annoyance back into Osri’s face.
“Yes,” he said.

“It’s the first thing I learned to prepare,” Ivard said.
“When I was in the galley. They learn it at the chef school, Montrose told me.”

“Drink,” was the only answer. Then, “More.”

Ivard tried to obey, took too big a swallow, then choked,
the fluid burning his nose. He coughed, sending pain racking down his arm. His
spoon went flying, but Osri caught it, and the tray, righting things with hasty
movements.

“Not so fast,” he said, his voice much milder.

Ivard leaned back, trying to catch his breath. The Kelly ribbon
tingled around his arm again.

“Eat when you’re ready,” Osri said, sitting back. “I’ll
wait.”

Ivard sighed, rubbing at his green wrist. “I wish he could
get that thing off.”

“How did it occur?”

As he ate, Ivard gave Osri a brief description of the
encounter in the Panarch’s palace, and more questions led to a retelling of the
firefight that had killed his sister and caused his wound.