by Sharon Lee
"High Port Medical Arts."
The hospital.
"Why?"
Er Thom moved his hand, smoothing Daav's eyebrows, brushing tumbled hair from his forehead.
"The response team brought you both in, of course," he whispered; the tears were running freely now. "They—there was no visible wound, and yet—you did not wake. Your life signs grew weaker, and the Healers—Master Kestra herself—said she would not dare to intervene, for she did not know what she was seeing."
The horror at the core of him grew toothier. He tried to pull his hand away, but Er Thom held on like a man with a grip on a lifeline.
"Aelliana?" he asked, and that was an error, for as soon as he spoke, he remembered: the shout, his turn, the sound of the gun, and Aelliana leaping, graceful and sure—her body torn by the blast, slamming into him, and a vortex of absence, sucking him out, out, alone, gone, dead . . .
"Aelliana!"
He twisted, prisoned by the bedclothes, desperate to escape the agony of loss.
Er Thom caught his shoulders, pressed him against the bed and held him there while he flailed and screamed, and at last only wept, weakly, turning his face into the tumbled blankets.
His brother gathered him up, then, and held him cradled like a babe, murmuring, wordless and soothing, and Aelliana, Aelliana . . .
"Another child," he whispered. "She had said we should have another child. We were late . . ."
"He thought he had missed you, going in," Er Thom murmured. "The gunman said as much before he died of his wounds. He thought to wait until the end of the play and catch you as you came away."
"Wounds? There was no one but us, on the street, who would have wounded—"
"You," his brother said. "The medics found your hideaway by your hand, and that prompted them to look for another who might be in need."
Had he been quicker, had he been more alert—he might have preserved her life.
"He said," Er Thom murmured, "that you were the target. That the Terran Party has a price on your head."
"She saw him," he whispered. "Timing and trajectory were blood and breath to her. She deliberately put herself into harm's way. Gods, Aelliana . . ."
"Pilot's choice," Er Thom said, though his voice was not by any means steady. "Brother, will you come home?"
Home? The rooms, her things lying where she had left them. Their apartment, with her scent and her imprint on everything. He could not . . . And yet where else was there to go?
His heart was beginning to pound. He drew a hard breath, and forcefully turned his thoughts to other questions; questions that Er Thom would expect.
"How long have I been—unconscious?"
"Three days," Er Thom answered, adding carefully, "Val Con is with us."
Val Con. Another bolt of agony shuddered through him. What was he going to tell their child? How could he begin to comfort Val Con, when he could scarcely hold himself rational from heartbeat to heartbeat?
"Daav?"
"Yes." He raised his head and kissed his brother, softly, on the lips. "Let us by all means go home."
Of course, it wasn't as simple as merely going home. The med techs needed their time with him, running suite after suite of diagnostics. He was found to be well-enough for a man who had sustained what the head of the tech team termed "a massive shock to the nervous and circulatory systems." One received the distinct impression that med techs had not expected him to survive.
If only he had not.
Blackness seized him; his breath went short; the room, the med tech, the instruments—all and everything smeared into a blur of senseless color. Dislocated, he fell—and his knees struck the vanished floor.
The jolt focused him; he gasped for breath; heard the med tech call out; felt a hand beneath his elbow.
"Are you in pain?" the tech asked.
Was he in pain? Daav felt something like laughter, if laughter were bleak and bladed and chill, snarling in his chest. He gritted his teeth and denied it.
"I am—a thought unbalanced," he managed, breath coming easier now. "A momentary lapse."
"Ah," the tech said and spoke over Daav's head. "Let us assist the pilot to the chair, please. Then, rerun the room readings for the last six minutes."
He allowed them to lend him support and crept to the diagnostic chair on their arms, like a toddler taking his first steps on the arms of fond family. Once he was seated, the shorter med tech left them, doubtless to find the room readings, as she had been directed.
Daav leaned back and closed his eyes, spent.
"Blood sugars critical," the tech murmured. "Systolic . . ."
He took a soft breath. "Attend me, Pilot. It would seem that you have suffered yet another potent shock to your system. Please rest here. The chair will give you several injections, to assist in balancing your body's systems. I will return in a moment."
He departed. Daav lay limp in the chair, scarcely caring when the injections were administered. Over in the corner, he could hear the techs speaking quietly, they thought. His hearing had returned with his eyesight, however, and he heard how worriedly they discussed plummeting blood pressure, a sudden, unexplainable crisis of blood sugars, and a glittering moment of cranial pyrotechnics.
"Seizure," the team leader murmured.
Fear flooded him, very nearly drowning the horror of his loss. If the med techs could prove brain damage, he would never fly again. He stirred in the chair.
"I am," he said, and stopped, shocked at how weak his voice was. He opened his eyes. Both of the techs were watching him, alarm clearly visible.
Daav took a deep breath.
"I am," he said again, "the surviving partner of a true lifemating."
The techs exchanged a glance.
"I suggest," Daav continued, "that I be released into the care of my kin, with whatever regimen will, in your professional opinions, best restore my strength. When I have had some time to become . . ." His breath grabbed; he deliberately breathed deeply, ". . . some time to become accustomed, then I will return for another series of diagnostics."
"If you have another seizure," the head tech said, "you will immediately return here."
"Agreed," he said, feeling considerably more awake. The injections from the kindly chair at work, no doubt.
"Very well," the head med tech said, motioning his subordinate out of the room ahead of him. "We will call your kinsman to you, and bring a mobile chair. Please remain in the diagnostic chair until the mobile arrives. The room is awake and watching as well."
And would certainly report another seizure or any other small infelicity, Daav thought. As it happened, he was content for the moment to rest where he sat.
"I understand," he told the med tech, who gave him one more hard look before he, too, departed, leaving Daav alone.
Carefully, wishing neither to think, nor to invite yet another state that might cause a med tech even the smallest concern, he began to review the Scout's Rainbow.
In general, he had only to think of the Rainbow in order to achieve its benefits, as accustomed as they were to each other. Now, however, he deliberately slowed the process, visualizing each color particularly and fully before moving on to the next.
He was contemplating, with difficulty, the color blue when he heard the door cycle, and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Er Thom.
But it was not Er Thom.
He straightened sharply in the chair, his heart jolting in what he could only hope was an unalarming and perfectly usual manner.
"Go away, Master Kestra," he said, his voice harsh. "I don't want you."
The Healer raised her hands, fingers spread wide.
"Peace," she said softly. "I had only come to look, now that you are aware again."
She paused, her eyes focused on some point just above his head, as Healers were wont to do.
"Well," he snapped, "and what do you see?"
"I am not certain," she answered, dreamily. "I note that I am neither blinded nor deafened in your
presence, and that we both know the Rainbow is not potent enough to quiet you. Normally.
"I see your pattern, and I see your anguish, and I see the abyss that you carry within. Apparently, choice is available to you."
She blinked, her face sharpening as she looked directly into his eyes.
"You are not brain-burned, if that soothes you, Daav."
"If I continue to have seizures, it will scarcely matter why," he pointed out. "If I continue to have seizures, the Guild will have my license, and rescind my right to fly."
"And you still care about that," the Healer murmured. "Deeply."
Anger licked through him, and he took a deliberate breath.
"Master Kestra, are you through looking?"
She bowed, gently. "In fact, Korval, I am. In this, I am timely. Your brother approaches."
With no further ado, she turned and walked toward the door, triggered it and stepped back, allowing Er Thom to enter first, in deference to his rank, and then the chair, in deference to the inept driver.
"Master Kestra," Er Thom murmured, pausing to give her a bow. "Have you business with my brother?"
"Our business is done," she said, inclining her head. "He does not accept my assistance. If it should come about that he requires it, please have no hesitation in sending for me."
Er Thom bowed. "Our House is grateful."
"Of course," she said, an edge of irony on her voice. "In the meanwhile, by all means take him home. Hospitals magnify every ill and pain; it is better to heal among kin, especially of such wounds as his."
She bowed then, and passed through the door. Er Thom turned to Daav and offered his arm.
"Daav."
Anne's embrace was sisterly and enveloping. He leaned his head against her shoulder and for a heartbeat simply accepted the comfort that she offered, feeling her warmth and her true affection.
She held him lightly, as would a woman accustomed to handling wild things, or small children, and released him the instant he lifted his head.
"Er Thom will have told you that the boy's with us," she said, in her lilting Terran. "He and his cousins have been having a fine time of it, running Mrs. Intassi ragged. I took it on myself to have some of your things brought up and a room made ready. You're to stay with us for as long as you want and wish to, understand me, laddie?"
"I understand," he said. "Thank you, Anne."
"No thanks," she said severely, and gripped him by his shoulders, forcing him to look up into her face. "No blaming yourself, either—do you hear me? She knew what she was doing."
"I think so, too," he whispered, and cleared his throat, blinking his eyes to clear them.
"Now, you'll tell me what you need to make you comfortable—a bite of food, maybe?"
"No," he said, striving not to sound as if he found the thought of food nauseating. "No, I—I thank you. I think that I wish . . . to be alone for a time." He paused and added, "I'm very tired," which had the felicity of being perfectly true.
She glanced over at Er Thom, who was leaning quietly against his desk. He straightened and came forward.
"Of course you are tired," he murmured. "Come, let me show you to your rooms."
Daav glanced back as he followed Er Thom out of the room and saw Anne watching him, a look of naked concern on her face.
"Would you like to stop by the nursery and speak with Val Con?" Er Thom asked, as they mounted the back staircase.
Val Con, with his green eyes, and his face so like hers . . .
He took a breath and shook his head.
"Not just—yet, please."
There was a pause before Er Thom said, "Of course," and sighed.
"You should know that Anne had told him that we had bad news from the port, and that his mother . . . would not be returning." He shot Daav a sidewise glance.
"Val Con refused to believe Anne's information," Daav said slowly, "and may have . . . lost his temper, just a little."
"Mrs. Intassi reports a display of epic proportion," Er Thom agreed. "She said that she was reminded vividly of yourself."
Daav said nothing, and they walked down the hall in silence, turning the corner into the family wing.
"Here," Er Thom said.
They had given him Sae Zar's old apartment; he recalled coming here once or twice as a child, with Er Thom. It was a gentle choice: on the family wing, yet removed enough from Anne and Er Thom's suite that he could be private in his comings and goings.
Daav put his hand against the plate, sighing as the house recognized him, and opened the door.
"Good evening, Brother," he murmured and took one step forward.
"Daav."
Nerves grating, the longing for solitude a thirst, yet he turned back to face his brother.
"Do you want me to stay with you?" Er Thom asked. He reached out to stroke Daav's cheek, a gesture that moved them both to tears. "Daav? I—I fear for you, alone."
I fear for me, alone, as well, Daav thought, even as he shook his head.
"I swear that I will do nothing . . . irrecoverable tonight," he said, and felt that, perhaps, he would be able to honor that oath. "And you—denubia, you are as exhausted as I am—more!—for it fell to you to do all that had to be done, for—for her, and for me. I—" He leaned forward and kissed Er Thom on his damp cheek.
"Go to your lifemate, darling. I—I will come to you tomorrow, and be as seemly as may be."
Er Thom bit his lip. "I cannot imagine," he said, his voice so low that Daav could scarcely hear him. "Beloved, I—" He moved, pilot fast; his embrace swift and fierce.
"Do as you must," he whispered. "I love you, Daav."
"I love you, Brother," he answered, but Er Thom was already walking away, back to his lady, so Daav devoutly hoped, and there to take what rest and comfort that he might.
Deliberately, he stepped across the threshold; closed and locked the door.
The suite was much as he recalled it from childhood: agreeable rooms of good size, overlooking the topiary maze. He found his clothes in Sae Zar's closet; the books that had been occupying his attention on the table beside the double chair; his knives and wood pieces—the worktable itself!—set agreeably before the window; the computer in the office niche displaying a secure connection to Jelaza Kazone's network and to his private sub-net.
Restlessness took him to the bedroom, neat and not overly ornate. His brushes and his jewel box were disposed atop the bureau. Idly, for no better reason that he must be doing something or he would surely go mad, he opened the lid of the jewel box.
Green flashed at him, and a gaudy rainbow of jewel tones. Extending a finger, he touched the emerald drop—the very one she had been wearing when they—his mind veered, and for a long, long moment he wavered on the edge of the abyss.
I can, he thought, feeling the coldness in his own mind, control this. I have a choice—Master Kestra said as much, did she not?—I do not have to fall into a seizure.
I do not have to die.
It came to him, then, the fullness of the choice that he had been given. He did not have to die. Nor did he have to live.
He took a breath . . . another. A third, and he was able to look again into his jewel box, seeing the Jump pilot's cluster gaudily flaunt a ship's ransom, and a humbler sheen, like moonlight seen beside the sun.
He picked it up—the old silver puzzle ring that she had had from her grandmother, as a death-gift. His eyes filled as he raised it and slid it onto the smallest finger of his right hand.
"Aelliana," he whispered, bending his head as his tears fell more rapidly. "Van'chela, how could you not know that I would have rather died a thousand times in your stead?"
I could not bear to lose you, Daav.
Her voice was so clear, with that wistful tone she adopted when stating something of extreme obviousness. He spun, lips parting for a reply, before he remembered that he would never see, nor hear her again . . .
Horror ripped through him and he saw it all again: her leap, the pellets striking;
the stink of blood, the coldness of extinction . . .
He dropped to his knees, unable to stand, put his hands over his face and sobbed; long, wracking sobs torn from the depths of him, until he crumbled facedown on the rug, exhausted; weeping silently now, and, finally, weeping no more.
When he felt he was strong enough to stand, he climbed to his feet, and, grimacing at himself in the mirror, fetched out his robe and strode into the 'fresher, emerging some time later clean, exhausted, and by no means interested in sleep.
He went out into the main room, pausing in the corner kitchen to pour himself a cup of cold water. Kneeling by the table, he sipped while sorting through his books, hoping to find something that might hold his interest.
There was a slight sound, as of a cat scratching at a door unfairly closed against it.
Daav frowned. Presently, there were no house cats at Trealla Fantrol, though there were several who worked the grounds.
The sound came again—a scratching, no doubt—and, yes, at the door.
He rose and crossed the room; touched the plate and opened the door.
A cannonball took his legs out from under him. He snatched, caught, and rolled until he stopped, on his back, halfway to the window, his small son clutched to his breast.
Across the room, the door closed, for lack of instructions to the contrary.
"Father!" Val Con struggled; Daav held him with one arm and stroked his back with the other.
"Softly, my child, I am not at the port."
"Father, you were gone so long . . ." That was said more seemly, excepting only that the boy's voice shook so.
"It was unavoidable," he said. "I never meant to distress you, denubia." He cleared his throat.
"I cannot help but note that it is well beyond that time when you should have been in bed. Did Mrs. Intassi bring you?"
That seemed unlikely. On the other hand, it also seemed unlikely that a small child, no matter how clever, could have slipped away from Mrs. Intassi, who was wise in the ways of childhood stealth and knew all the faces of deceit.
"Mrs. Intassi said I had to wait until tomorrow to see you," Val Con said. "But I had to see you now. Nova went to talk to Mrs. Intassi. Shan showed me how to unlock the door. We were supposed to be in bed."