Blood Will Tell

by Christine Pope

  Miala wondered where she would ever find the time to fix the machine and continue hacking the security on Mast’s vault. Oh, well, sleep is highly overrated, I hear, she thought wryly, moving to the cupboards and pulling out a disinfectant wash and several unopened bandage packs.

  “Get back into bed,” she instructed, and to her surprise Thorn did as he was told, climbing under the covers and laying his head back down on the pillow. Perhaps even he had had enough by this point. She couldn’t begin to imagine how painful it must have been for him to continue firing those cannons as the skin on his hands broke and bled.

  So it was with more gentleness than she had first intended that she swabbed at his abraded palms, feeling herself tense as the antiseptic surely stung on the open wounds. Of course Thorn made no sound throughout these operations, but she thought he looked a little pale, and once or twice he shut his eyes as if to better cope with the pain.

  Finally she was done, Thorn’s hands newly covered in clean bandages. Miala hoped that she’d gotten the wounds clean enough, since she shuddered to think what kind of microbes could have been left behind by the last person to grip the handles of the cannons’ firing mechanisms. Mast’s personal security contingent weren’t generally known for their hygiene. Still, without the assistance of the mech, she was left with only the rough first aid she had learned growing up, tending her father’s occasional cuts and bruises as well as her own. Until her father’s heart attack, neither one of them had ever been ill enough to require the services of the local clinic.

  She gathered up the empty packaging and was dropping it into the waste receptacle when Thorn spoke.

  “You did well down there.”

  She looked over at him, startled. Was that actually a compliment? “Excuse me?”

  He looked at her steadily, expressionless as usual. “You do well in a crisis. Better than I had thought.”

  Trust Thorn to neatly undercut any words of praise in such a fashion. Miala felt the color flood to her cheeks. “Well, I know I’m just a girl,” she replied, her tone mocking. Better than he had thought? Nice to know that his expectations had been so low!

  “Precisely,” he said, completely ignoring her jab. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty standard,” she said. “As if that should make any difference!”

  Thorn moved his head on the pillow so he looked directly up at the ceiling and then shut his eyes before replying. “I don’t know many twenty-year-olds who could have handled themselves as well. So don’t argue with me, Miala,” he added.

  It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name. There was something oddly intimate about hearing “Miala” on his lips—as if this were the first time he had actually thought of her as a real person with feelings and thoughts of her own and not simply an unwelcome and unnecessary intrusion, or at best a tool to be used and discarded.

  “Thank you, Thorn,” she said at last, when she thought she could trust her own voice. She told herself she was just tired and overcome by the aftermath of the adrenaline rush of the battle. The warning sirens had pulled her out of deep sleep, after all—who wouldn’t be shaky after something like that?

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and again she could see the little quirk at the corner of his mouth that bespoke a secret amusement.

  After an awkward pause, she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the uncomfortable silence, “Well, I’d better be off to sleep, too. I’ll try to come back and check on you in a few hours.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  She supposed he probably would be—how long did it take for an infection to develop, anyway? More than just a few hours at least, and she knew she needed to get some sleep or she wouldn’t be of any use to anyone. Without the mech to alert her if Thorn’s condition took a sudden turn for the worse, she knew she didn’t have many options.

  “Good night, then,” she replied, and turned and left the chamber.

  It seemed as if there were far more stairs going back up to the slave girls’ dormitory than there had been when she had hurried down them only a few hours ago. Miala pulled herself up the long, weary climb step by step, fumbling her way in the darkness. Only when she finally returned to the narrow cot she had claimed as her own and laid her head down on the lumpy pillow did she feel herself begin to tremble with reaction.

  It hadn’t been enough to be attacked by unknown enemies. That had been frightening, of course, but she had mentally prepared for it as best she could. Also, somehow, she couldn’t feel as frightened as she knew she should have been, not when she had gone into battle with Eryk Thorn at her side. There was something strangely reassuring having someone next to her who had probably faced down much worse throughout his life. He had lived to fight another day, and so she’d been confident she would survive as well.

  No, that wasn’t it. What made Miala shiver now was the sudden wave of emotion that had passed over her when Thorn had spoken kind words to her—when he had said her name and looked at her with a new respect. She didn’t know exactly what that emotion was. All she knew was that when she finally wished him a good night, she’d had to fight a sudden urge to reach out and run her fingers through his wavy dark hair, to gently touch the bandaged hands that lay crossed on his chest.

  It was impossible. She didn’t even like Thorn very much. Was she so pathetic, so starved for human contact, that only a few kind words from him were enough to turn her into the sort of girl she had always despised, the ones who trailed after the boys in Aldis Nova, giggling and flirting and trading stolen kisses behind old Nala’s coffee house?

  You’re just tired, she told herself. It will all be better in the morning.

  But when she shut her eyes, all she could see was that tiny smile at the corner of Eryk Thorn’s mouth, and all her traitor mind seemed capable of was wondering what that mouth would feel like pressed against hers.

  Biology was a crazy thing. She much preferred the cool logic of computers, but logic seemed to have deserted her for the moment.

  Sleep was a long time coming.

  V

  The hospital bed was empty when Miala finally returned to check on Thorn late the next morning. Again she had overslept, although it was difficult to say whether her reluctance to get up that morning could be attributed to the disruptions of the previous night or a natural disinclination to avoid seeing the mercenary after such unwelcome feelings about him had surfaced.

  Still, having once steeled herself to face him—after a protracted grooming session in the dressing area of the slave girls’ quarters, when it seemed no matter what she did her hair would not behave itself—she was nonplussed to see that he was gone. The pieces of the broken mech had been gathered up and stacked neatly in a corner, and the bed itself was likewise made up, with the sheets pulled taut over the pillow and the coarse, dark blanket tucked in with military precision.

  Well, at least he’s not a slob, she thought, but still she felt a stab of irritation. Who did he think he was, anyway, getting up and roaming around the compound when he was barely healed? She would have thought he’d sleep until early afternoon after the excitement of the previous night, but once again he’d proven her wrong.

  She found him in the security station, of course. He sat in front of the main viewscreen, fast-forwarding through a series of images that looked as if they’d been taken from the cameras that watched the front palace gates.

  He looked up as she approached. The bulky bandages were gone. The skin that had been hidden underneath was still mottled and red in patches, but the healing process was obviously further along than she had thought. Somewhere he’d found a loose-fitting shirt and pants in standard-issue Iradian beige to cover himself. In the mundane garments he should have looked less exotic, less alien, but somehow their very ordinariness only served to contrast with the swarthy skin, the unusual cast to his features. Miala found herself wondering where exactly on Gaia his forebears had come from.

  She opened her li
ps to speak and found her mouth oddly dry. She swallowed, then said, “You should be in bed.”

  “No time for that.” He turned back to the images that scrolled in front of him.

  “What are you doing, anyway?” she asked, moving farther into the room. Somehow it was easier to approach him when he wasn’t looking directly at her.

  “Going through the old security logs. I’m trying to see if our friends from last night ever paid Mast a visit while he was still alive.”

  “Know thy enemy?” she asked, and was rewarded with a quick approving glance.

  “Right. But I’ve gone through eight standard months of these logs, and so far nothing. Doesn’t mean much, of course. People in Mast’s circle can hold grudges for a long time. Could be a crony of Mendel Bronson’s.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The boss who thought it would be a good idea to attack Mast as he was dropping prisoners off the Malverdine Cliffs. All that accomplished was killing everyone on both sides. Well, present company excepted.” He leaned forward once more, dark eyes flickering as he scanned the images on the screen.

  Typical that Thorn wouldn’t find anything unusual about being the sole survivor of probably the worst crime lord face-off in the last twenty years. She opened her mouth to ask how he had accomplished that particular feat, then decided he probably wouldn’t tell her. Fine. Instead, she forced her gaze away from his profile, which was actually very fine, with the firm chin and long, strong nose, and made herself look at the viewscreen as well.

  It was amazing what a collection of scum had come to call on Mast. Most of them seemed to have come to pay him sort of tribute. The great majority of the visitors revealed on the security cameras brought various boxes of loot—hard currency, precious metals, drugs, skeins of moon-moth silk—all of which were handed over to the security guards and secreted away somewhere in the vaults. The display brought home to her just how much treasure they were probably sitting on, as well as her continuing failure to recover it.

  “I’m going for some breakfast,” she said at last, when it grew obvious he didn’t care to indulge her in any more conversation. “You want any?”

  Still he did not look up. “Sure. And some coffee, if you’ve got it.”

  Back to kitchen drudge, she thought, but, after all, she had offered. They had to eat, and he was showing remarkable signs of improvement. Probably he was relieved that at least now he could be an active member of the team; she couldn’t begin to comprehend how the forced inactivity had probably chafed at him. If the mech were still functioning, she was sure it would have had a few choice words about Thorn getting up so soon, let alone removing the bandages, but in the final analysis it was the mercenary’s body, and he should have the power to decide what he was or wasn’t capable of. He didn’t seem be in a great deal of discomfort—not that that meant anything. Thorn had to be in the sort of pain that would have brought screams from lesser men before he’d allow even a grimace.

  Considering the erstwhile crime lord’s bulk, it wasn’t too surprising that Mast had hoarded off-world delicacies the same way he’d hoarded cash and narcotics. In the kitchen’s refrigeration units she’d found rare aged cheeses from Gaia itself, some kind of creamy sweet dessert topped by swirled nuts, and filets of the tenderest herd animals from Archeron, known for its vast grasslands.

  None of that seemed appropriate for breakfast, but there was still the bread she had made a few days earlier, as well as the makings of leth, a common grain-based hot dish common on Iradia. For protein she added several wedges of creamy cheese to the tray she had set aside to take back to Thorn in the guard chamber. During all these preparations, the coffee brewed away, sending its rich bitter-chocolate aroma into the air. In the process it woke up Miala’s stomach, which strenuously protested the lean rations she’d been feeding herself lately. She ate her own bowl of leth standing up as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. It was enough to keep her going until noontime, and she wanted to get back to work as soon as she took Thorn’s food to him.

  That thought brought to her the uncomfortable realization that the computer console where she did all her hacking was located in the same chamber where the mercenary was even now viewing the security recordings. True, the two workstations were situated on opposite sides of the room. However, up until now she had always had complete solitude in which to work, and she wasn’t sure how well she’d do knowing that Thorn would be less than ten feet away from her as she pounded away at the elusive code. Still, there wasn’t much she could do about it, save order Thorn out of the security station, and she wasn’t sure she had the courage to do that.

  Once the coffee had finished brewing, she poured it into two large mugs, one for her and one for Thorn, and set them both on the tray. The route from the kitchens to the security station was somewhat long and circuitous, but Miala had no doubt she could follow it in her sleep. She had gone that way far too many times already.

  At least the mercenary did her the courtesy of looking up and nodding when she came in with his breakfast.

  “That smells good,” he said.

  “Well, it’s nothing fancy, but it should be better than whatever liquids the mech was pumping into you,” she replied, relieved that she sounded relatively normal. Paradoxically, she found it easier to be with him now. There was certainly nothing in his voice or manner to suggest he had any idea that her feelings for him had undergone a significant alteration the night before. Maybe she would be able to get out of this without making a complete fool of herself after all.

  Thorn turned away from her, attention consumed by his breakfast and the ever-changing images that flickered across the viewscreen. Miala hesitated for a moment, then realized he would not bother to say anything else to her because right now he had better things to do with his time.

  Biting back a caustic remark about leaving a tip for the waitress, she clutched her own mug of coffee somewhat grimly as she crossed the room to take her usual position at the main computer console. After logging in, she sat staring at the screen for a few moments, frowning. Even though fewer than ten hours had passed since the last time she sat in front of this screen, it felt as if it had been ten days. How could she concentrate? How could she follow the unending streams of numbers and symbols, picking each one apart until she found the missing bits of data she could finally reassemble into the code that would unlock Mast’s vaults?

  Thorn was silent as always, but still she could hear each creak of the chair as he shifted his weight, the light tapping of his fingers on the keyboard—even, Miala fancied, an occasional sigh as yet another sequence of images revealed nothing. She typed in a few lines of code, then another, feeling she had to do something. He wasn’t holding a gun to her head, she thought, but he might as well have been. There was no way she could think with him in the room.

  “Excuse me,” she said at last.

  He looked around, one eyebrow lifted slightly.

  “Look, I know you’re trying to help, but I just can’t concentrate with you in here. Sorry,” she added lamely, although his impassive features certainly had not invited any apology.

  To her dismay, Thorn rose from his seat and came toward her. Then he paused a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest. He was not particularly tall, although he topped her by more than a few inches, but she hadn’t realized before now how well-built he was, how much strength was in the heavily muscled arms and chest. Of course, up until now most of his physique had been concealed by layers of bandages.

  He regarded her narrowly for a moment, the dark eyes unreadable. Then he looked from her to the streams of data that flowed over the computer screen, and back again. “Right,” he said finally, and turned and left without another word, pausing only to gather up the empty breakfast dishes and pile them on the tray. Then he was gone.

  Miala hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until the door whooshed shut behind him. Once she realized she truly was alone again, she let the breath out and shut h
er eyes, trembling slightly. The man definitely had a knack for intimidation, whether he intended it or not.

  “Okay, then,” she said softly. “Let’s do this.”

  After all, Thorn had granted her the gift of solitude. Now it was up to her to use it wisely.

  “Miala.”

  She pushed at the rough hand that clasped her shoulder, not really comprehending at first whose it was. “I’m almost ready,” she muttered, then realized she was face down on the keyboard, her left arm the only thing protecting her cheek from myriad square indentations from the individual keys. She sat up, pushing the chair straight back into Thorn’s midsection.

  “Easy now,” he admonished. He must have been standing behind her, reaching down to nudge her awake.

  “What—what time is it?” Her brain still felt fuzzy. After Thorn had gone she had buried herself in the code, working at it, teasing it, all to no avail. Every pathway she had gone down seemed to be a dead end.

  The hours had passed, and at one point she had begun to feel hungry again, but the pangs disappeared after a while as she continued to work. Some time later her eyelids had started to droop, and she had fought the weariness, forcing herself on, sure that the answer was almost within her grasp. At some point, she supposed, she must have simply passed out from exhaustion.

  “Past midnight,” he said. “I thought I’d leave you to work, but when I came back in from going over my ship, I saw the light still on, so—” He frowned at her. “Making yourself sick isn’t going to get us out of here any sooner.”

  “I’m okay,” she countered, even though she felt anything but all right. Now that she was awake, she felt ravenously hungry, and so dizzy she was afraid she’d have a hard time standing up.

  He didn’t bother to reply, instead handing her some kind of rough sandwich he had apparently cobbled together for her from the supplies in the kitchen.