“What’s on your mind, Phil?” Myoko asked.
“Your hair,” I murmured. “You use your TK to lift it, don’t you? You lift your hair whenever you lift anything else. To make a big show, so people will think you’re safe; they don’t have to worry about you pulling some sneaky TK trick because the hair always gives you away. But you do the hair deliberately. And you flipped Pelinor onto the deck without even wrinkling your brow. All that hard concentration you usually do is just another show.”
Myoko said nothing. Her eyes were lost in darkness.
“You’re hiding,” I said. “Pretending to be a low-talent nothing, useless for anything but teaching in a mediocre school like Feliss. When really—”
She put her hand to my lips. “Yes. When really.”
When really it was a clever ruse to protect herself from people who enslaved psychics. After all, if Myoko’s powers were what she pretended, how could she be used to someone’s devious benefit? She supposedly couldn’t do her tricks quickly; she couldn’t work without people noticing the levitating hair; and she demonstrated only modest lifting strength, about the same as a muscular man. So why would anyone kidnap her? There was nothing she could do psionically that couldn’t be done more simply by a common laborer.
“So,” I whispered, “bad guys leave you alone and you can have a real life.”
“No. If I had a real life, I wouldn’t he in bed every night making a mental list: the few people I couldn’t bring myself to kill if they ever learned the truth.”
Silence. A chill went through me. Myoko turned away. “Relax, Phil—you’re on the list.”
She walked stiffly back toward the others...as if I’d somehow injured her deeply and she was pretending the wound didn’t hurt.
Annah’s hand slid softly into mine. “She’s in love with you,” Annah murmured. “Myoko. The way she looks at you when you aren’t watching—in the faculty lounge, or when she ‘accidentally’ passes your classroom while you’re teaching—Myoko’s loved you for years.” Annah shrugged. “I used to ask myself why she didn’t tell you. Why she went out of her way to convince you she was ‘just one of the guys.’ What fear was holding her back?” Annah squeezed my hand. “It’s certainly a night for revelations.”
I couldn’t answer. I’d gone speechless.
Sometime in the past few minutes, the Dinghy had fallen silent: no more fighting, no noise of any kind. Now, a thump, thump, thump came from the ship, accompanied by footsteps and grunting. The sound was moving upward: someone carrying something heavy up a flight of steps. By the time the thumping moved onto the deck, the Caryatid had sent her flame to the height of the railing. “Hello,” she called, “who’s there?”
Pelinor’s head appeared over the rail. “Not to worry. We’re all in one piece.” He paused. “Some of us more than others”
“What does that mean?”
“Give me a minute.”
Pelinor disappeared. Part of the railing opened like a gate and a gangplank slid down to the dock. Oberon scrambled up at once, his mass making the plank bend and creak...but the plank’s reinforced wood was designed to hold rum barrels and other heavy cargo being rolled aboard, so Oberon made it to the deck without mishap. Myoko and the Caryatid hurried close behind; Gretchen followed at a more sedate pace, but she was clearly eager to see what was happening.
I was not quick to join the procession: my brain had slipped a gear, detached from the world. (Annah thought Myoko loved me. My good-time pal Myoko. Who had hidden her feelings because...because she was protecting her secret, and wouldn’t allow herself to get close to me. How do these things happen? I could have sworn I was just Myoko’s drinking buddy...and Gretchen’s sexual fallback, Annah’s excuse for melodrama. A stick man to them all: a convenience. Now, all three women had somehow changed into involvements. How do these things happen?)
Annah nudged me toward the gangplank. My feet responded but my head didn’t; she had to prod, drag, and coddle me before my wits rallied and I moved of my own volition. She gave me a wry look...then she released my hand and went up the gangplank unburdened.
On deck, the others stood in a circle around a white lump the size of a backpack. Myoko poked the thing lightly with her toe as Pelinor said, “So when I came through the door, Zunctweed caught one glimpse of my cutlass and he collapsed. Literally. Dropped to the floor and folded into this tight little bundle.” Pelinor pointed at the lump. “You wouldn’t think you could tuck a whole person into something that small.”
“Oh, demons,” Gretchen said with a dismissive gesture. “They all have a few silly tricks.”
Oberon tapped the whitish bundle with his forefoot. ‘This is obviously a defense posture. The top’s quite bony.” He pressed down harder. “And strong. The whole skeleton must be hinged to form a protective dome over the vital organs.” Oberon glanced at me. “Knowing you, baron, you must be consumed with scientific curiosity to dissect the body and see how the anatomy is constructed.”
A groan came from the bony white bundle.
“No one’s dissecting anyone,” the Caryatid said in a Children-must-not-misbehave voice. “I don’t know why you brought Zunctweed up here at all,” she told Pelinor.
“Because Impervia didn’t want him staying with her.”
“Where is Impervia?” Myoko asked. “What’s she doing?”
“Standing guard,” Pelinor said.
“Over what?”
“Over what Zunctweed didn’t want us to see.” He waved toward a companionway that led below. “Take a look for yourselves. I’ll watch the captain.”
Gretchen didn’t have to be told twice—she headed immediately toward the stairs. Oberon, the ever-faithful bodyguard, raced to go down ahead of her...only to find he couldn’t fit through the companionway’s narrow opening. He stood there squinching his whiskers in agitation until Gretchen rapped on his shell: “Move, slave. You’re in my way.”
“Mistress Gretchen, you don’t know what’s down there. You don’t know whether it’s safe.”
“Oh, it’s safe,” called Pelinor. “I think. Yes. I’d definitely say it’s almost certainly safe.”
This didn’t reassure the big red lobster...but Gretchen wouldn’t tolerate slaves telling her no. She banged again on Oberon’s shell. “Move. Now. That’s an order.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” the Caryatid told Oberon. “We’ll look after her.”
Still reluctant, Oberon shuffled away from the opening. Gretchen went down without hesitation, though she did it in the landlubber way: facing the steps and holding the iron banisters, like climbing down a ladder. The rest of us followed close after. (Just for the record, the Caryatid descended à-la-landlubber too; Myoko slid down like an old salt, back to the steps, face out, feet barely touching the treads; I attempted to do the same, though without much grace; and Annah almost seemed to teleport—one second she was at the top of the companionway, then her cloak billowed and she was standing beside me. Making me feel ridiculous for having poised myself at the bottom, arms out and ready to catch her if she needed help getting down. I really had to stop underestimating that woman.)
The corridor below-decks was short, but had four doors leading off: one forward, one back, one each side. Glittering came softly from behind the closed side doors. The NikNiks must have gone into hiding when Impervia chased Zunctweed—the little monkey-things had fled into the crew quarters till the furor died down. NikNiks didn’t like other people squabbling; it distressed them mightily, not from fear but embarrassment. They ran at the first hint of confrontation and would stay out of sight for days if necessary.
The forward door was open and lamps burned within. Though the room was appallingly small, it was clearly the captain’s quarters—it had a real bed (narrow but mattressed) and a small table whose legs were secured to the floorboards. Gretchen, the Caryatid, and Myoko stood before the table, blocking my view of whatever lay on top...but it had to be something of interest, because one of the women had just gasped in
surprise.
Annah and I squeezed into the room. Impervia was off in the corner, dour as usual and surreptitiously pressing her hand against the side of her chest. She always held herself that way when she’d cracked a rib but wanted to pretend it didn’t hurt. Obviously, Zunctweed wasn’t a total pushover when it came to fighting. I sidled toward the good sister, ready to tape her up—I carried first-aid supplies for just such contingencies—but Gretchen thought I was trying to get close to the table, so she made room for me.
That’s when I saw what Zunctweed had been hiding: a helmet of bright orange plastic. Featureless, except for a smoked glass plate in front of the eyes. It might as well have had PROPERTY OF SPARK ROYAL PRINTED ALL OVER IT.
Gretchen let out her breath. “That’s Spark armor, isn’t it?”
The Caryatid nodded. “It’s the same style as Dreamsinger’s.”
Annah glanced at me, as if I could confirm what Dreamsinger’s outfit looked like. I only shrugged. Still, the helmet on the table was undoubtedly of recent manufacture—it had none of the scratches or weathering you see on plastic from OldTech trash heaps—and these days, the Sparks were the only people who could mold plastic so flawlessly. This helmet had to come from them.
“Orange,” Gretchen said, still gazing at the helmet. “Orange is for Mind-Lords.”
Everyone in the room turned toward Myoko. Mind-Lords were masters of psionic power...and they spent their spare time getting to know other psychics. Especially psychics of first-class strength. Just as the Science-Lord had visited the best students at my university (completely ignoring me), a Mind-Lord must have visited Myoko’s school occasionally to chat with those who stood out.
Like Myoko?
She said nothing—just stared at the helmet. After a while, the Caryatid touched her on the arm. “Are you okay?”
“They called him Priest,” Myoko whispered. “He never gave any other name. Mind-Lord Priest. The saddest man I ever met.”
She lifted her head, accidentally caught my gaze, and immediately lowered her eyes again. “He was constantly talking about religion. All religions. New ones, old ones, bizarre ones. He wanted to believe in something, but he was too, oh, inhibited to make a leap of faith. The sort of man who reads books full of prayers but never says a single one; who could describe fifteen different meditation techniques, but had never sat down and closed his eyes. I think he was afraid of being disappointed. The saddest man I ever met.”
Myoko reached out as if intending to touch the helmet. A few centimeters short, she let her hand drop limply to the table. “He came to our school several times a year. Spent a day with each class: exactly from dawn to dawn. I don’t know when he slept. Maybe he didn’t need to. He’d just talk, let us ask questions. But he didn’t give direct answers; more like sermons on whatever came to mind. We loved him deeply. I suppose we couldn’t help that because of his power, but still...”
“What was his power?” Gretchen asked.
“You felt what he felt. Whatever made him angry made you furious; whatever made him happy filled you with joy. It seemed like you’d touched his soul and fully comprehended the wisdom of his opinions. Whatever he thought was right—whatever he considered necessary—you believed the same, as if everything in your life had led you to that conclusion.” She shook her head. “As if you understood exactly who Priest was, and saw that he was holy.”
Myoko suddenly clenched her fist. “I’ve told myself it was all just fake. He was a Spark, right? You can never take Sparks at face value. Wouldn’t a Spark Lord enjoy people thinking he was sweet and sad and poignant? He could wrap us around his fingers. But Priest never tried to exploit us...though, God knows, we were ripe for it. Young, idealistic, infatuated. Every last one of us would have walked through fire just to ease his terrible sorrow...”
Her voice trailed off. The rest of us didn’t speak. Finally, Impervia broke the silence: her words brisk, trying to dispel the deep melancholy that had gripped us. “I don’t know why we’re jumping to conclusions. Yes, this looks like a Spark helmet; yes, orange stands for Mind-Lords. But there can be more than one Mind-Lord at a time; why think this belonged to your Priest?”
“It’s his,” Myoko said. “I can feel it.”
“No, you can’t. You’re not the sort of psychic who feels things.”
“With this I can.” Myoko reached out again and this time touched the helmet with her fingertips. “That was Priest’s power: making people feel. I can feel his essence, and I know something happened to him. Something deadly.”
“You’re being ridiculous—” Impervia began, but Myoko cut her off.
“It’s his helmet! It couldn’t just fall off. I’ve seen Priest’s armor, and everything locked securely...”
Myoko picked up the helmet as if she was going to show us whatever mechanisms kept it attached to the rest of the suit. But the moment she lifted it off the table, something fell from the helmet’s neckhole, plopping softly onto the table-top.
Gooey white nuggets like curds of cottage cheese. Spilling from the Spark Lord’s helmet.
14
SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
“Eww,” Gretchen said. “What’s that?”
Nobody answered. Myoko set down the helmet, carefully covering the curds that had fallen onto the table. She stepped back quickly, bumping into the wall behind her.
The rest of us did the same—even Gretchen, who hadn’t heard the details of Rosalind’s death. There was something about those moist white nuggets that made you shy away.
“I think,” Myoko said, “we should ask Zunctweed where he got the helmet.”
Nods all around. We tried not to leave the cabin in an undignified stampede.
Up on deck, Oberon and Pelinor stood on either side of Zunctweed. The captain was still folded into a peeled-potato lump, headless, legless, armless. Impervia crouched beside the alien’s origamied body and rapped on his bony hide. “Open up! Now!”
A muffled voice answered, “Shan’t.”
“Shall,” Impervia told him. “Otherwise, we’ll tie a rope around you and toss you into the lake. Tucked in like this, you’ll sink like a stone...and the lake water here was ice a week ago. We’ll leave you until you start drowning, then we’ll drag you out. We’ll keep doing that again and again, leaving you under a bit longer each time till you’re ready to cooperate.”
Annah gazed admiringly at Impervia. “You have such a gift for teaching.”
Impervia almost broke into a smile...but her face went blank again quickly. Impervia hated to seem too human.
We never got to see how Zunctweed responded to ice-water. Impervia trussed him up with a rope Pelinor found—I hoped the rope hadn’t been attached to something important—and Myoko lifted the alien over the side by sheer force of will. We could have done the lifting by hand, but we thought Zunctweed would loosen up more if we went beyond the mundane: so Myoko put on an impressive show, furrowing her brow with fierce concentration, spreading her hair into a great intimidating sphere (hip-long tresses stretching to arm’s length in all directions), then shakily levitating Zunctweed off the deck, banging him against the rail as he went over the edge, bumping him repeatedly against the hull on the way down...at which point he moaned, “I know it won’t help if I beg for mercy; but consider how bad you might feel about this if someday you acquire a conscience.”
Myoko stopped his descent. Impervia called down to the hovering alien, “I have a conscience; what I don’t have is information. Where did you get the orange helmet.”
“Is that all you want to know? And you couldn’t ask before this? No, I don’t suppose you could. It’s more fun tormenting a slave than asking direct questions. What if I answered them willingly? Then you’d have no excuse for entertainment.”
Oberon, standing by the rail, gestured impatiently with his pincers. “Shut up and start talking.”
“You self-righteous claw-thing,” Zunctweed muttered. “Go back to licking your mistress’s boots.”
“Didn’t I say I would?”
“No.”
“Lift me up and I shall disclose the whole story.”
“We’ll get better answers,” Impervia said, “if you stay where you are. Provided”—she turned to Myoko—”you can hold him?”
“For a little while,” Myoko answered in a strained voice. “I’ll manage if he speaks quickly.” She winked at us all; we’d seen Myoko hold a human in the air for more than five minutes. But she let Zunctweed wobble a bit, just to center his thoughts on cooperation.
“I said I’d tell!” he protested.
And he did.
Dainty Dinghy had spent the winter offshore: far out in the lake where the water didn’t freeze. Zunctweed wasn’t the only captain to anchor in that neighborhood—he was part of a small contingent, nine boats this year, that spent the cold months afloat rather than going into dry dock or risking the ice in the harbor. With the first snowfall, Dinghy and the other ships offloaded all but a skeleton crew, filled their larders with provisions to last till spring, and sailed out to meet each other at a spot reputed to be the best winter fishing ground on the lake. The boats were lashed together in a cozy floating village, then the crews passed the season amicably: fishing with hook and line, playing endless games of Deuces High, and getting sozzled on whatever rotgut they’d stowed in their holds.
Thus the flotilla passed winter’s short days and long nights: taking a holiday from smuggling rum and netting small-mouth bass. Gossip was shared over the card table, including critiques of the Ring of Knives—everyone loved to expound on Warwick Xavier’s stupidity—but it was understood such opinions would never be repeated back home. The winter anchorage was a time apart...a season outside the real world, when you could tell your greatest secrets and know they would never come back to haunt you.
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