The Summer Queen

by Joan D. Vinge

  “Yeah,” Reede muttered, wiping blood from his eye. “Come on—” Dawntreader led him on along the echoing platform through what seemed to be an endless game of human carom. Reede thought he heard shouting behind them, someone calling his name again. “How far—?” he gasped, as they started out across the scaffolding between two looming transport hulls.

  “Other side,” Dawntreader panted, gesturing ahead. “See it, right there—?”

  Reede wiped his eye again, nodded. “Are they all—?” Something shook the catwalk like a giant’s fist, jerking it out from under him. He went down, with Dawntreader sprawling on top of him, as gouts of fire exploded through the wall of the bay high above. He watched helplessly as enormous chunks of twisted metal came hurtling out of the sky, falling toward them like deadly leaves. “Hang on—!” He shut his eyes, sinking his fingers into the grillwork beneath him.

  A sheet of metal larger than both their bodies slammed down on the catwalk half a meter behind his foot, shearing away the alloy as if it were cardboard; the metal platform under his body shrieked and bucked. More falling metal roared past him, and on top of him Dawntreader screamed once, a brief, raw paincry.

  Reede swore, shaking his head as he pushed himself up at last, trying to lever himself out from under the dead weight of Dawntreader’s unresponsive body without dislodging either of them from the broken platform. He heard shouting again, behind him; sure this time that the voices called his name. He looked back across the sudden chasm, saw the line of armed men barely visible beyond the still-intact hull of a cargo freighter, inching their way out onto the ruined scaffolding, trying to reach a point where they could get a clear shot.

  Reede struggled to his knees, pulling at Dawntreader’s arm. Blood matted Dawntreader’s hair, red on red. He couldn’t tell anything about the wound or how bad it was. “Come on,” he shouted, barely aware that he was shouting uselessly. “Come on, damn it, get up, get up—!”

  Dawntreader’s body shifted, slid; he saw Dawntreader’s legs go over the side of the catwalk, felt the other man’s body try to follow. He caught the back of Dawntreader’s tunic with both hands, digging in his heels, stopping their slide. But his own exhausted body refused to give him anything more. He swore, watching the progress of his pursuers toward them.

  Suddenly someone was behind him, beside him; he caught a glimpse of midnight skin and hair. “Here, boss—”

  “Ananke—” he gasped, “get him!”

  Ananke slid past, going out over the edge of the twisted walkway as if it were flat on the ground, not a hundred meters in the air. Ananke clung with an acrobat’s skill to the broken superstructure, levering Dawntreader’s unresponding limbs back onto the grid as Reede hauled with all his remaining strength. Something gave, and Dawntreader’s body slid forward suddenly. Reede pulled him onto the catwalk with a final heave.

  “Boss—!” Ananke shouted, pointing down. Reede followed his pointing hand, seeing Dawntreader’s belt, the thing that had tangled in the grid and trapped him until it had come apart. It hung from a claw of twisted metal below the catwalk; the pouch dangling from it was the pouch in which Dawntreader had carried the water of death.

  Reede flung himself down with a curse, pushing precariously over the edge, his hand flailing. But the pouch was impossibly beyond reach. Ananke crouched beside him, steadying him, until he came up again, white-faced, shaking his head.

  Ananke looked down through the grid, and up at him. Suddenly he disappeared over the edge, swinging out and down until only his feet showed. Reede watched through the grid as he pulled himself underneath the platform. In a moment he was back on top again, grinning, as if there were no gravity. He held something in his hands, held it out … the belt and pouch.

  Reede pushed up onto his knees, staring in speechless gratitude. He slung the belt around his neck as Ananke passed it to him, and moved to help him lift Dawntreader’s body.

  “We’ve got to hurry, boss—”

  “Kullervo!”

  Ananke straightened, looking back; screamed, falling, as the blinding beam of an energy weapon licked him.

  Reede grabbed him, pulled him close with furious desperation. “Move!” he shouted, willing sense back into Ananke’s shock-glazed eyes, willing Ananke’s brain to ignite with the urge for survival. “Run, crawl, get to the LB, goddammit!” He pushed Ananke forward, propelling him as he dragged Dawntreader’s body along behind.

  They made it to the far end of the catwalk, sheltered by the hulls of the big transports. He saw the LB lying like a toy in their shadow, heard more explosions echo through the bay, and more screams.

  Ariele was waiting, her voice lost in the cacophony, her face frantic. She ran forward to help him get the two men to the ship and drag them inside. Niburu was in the pilot’s seat, his face shining with an intensity of relief that should have been laughable. “Go!” Reede shouted, dumping Dawntreader into an acceleration couch, as Ariele pushed Ananke into a seat behind him.

  “Ananke, get up here!” Niburu called.

  Reede fell into the copilot’s seat, as Ariele dropped into the couch beside her father’s. “Ananke’s hit. He’s out of it.”

  Niburu turned, looking over his shoulder. “How bad?”

  “Don’t know.” Reede shook his head. “Won’t matter, if you don’t get us the hell out of here. Go. Go!” Niburu took them up before he had finished the words, the LB shooting down the length of the bay and out into the open sky like a beam of light.

  Beams of light slashed the air all around them, licking the crippled citadel from every direction including the top of the sky; taking it down millimeter by millimeter. The LB shuddered as raw energy glanced off its shields; Niburu swore. “Gods, shit, I can’t handle this alone. We’ll never make it through this crossfire—”

  He broke off, as the view ahead of them suddenly cleared of lightning; the images on the LB’s screens showed them a column of inviolate air, their trajectory rising out of the atmosphere, toward the Prajna’s orbit. Their way lay open, and as they arced toward the sky, behind them the citadel’s shattered spire immolated like a star gone nova.

  They flew on in utter silence, as if even a spoken word might break the spell and destroy them; their arc steepened, acceleration pressed Reede into his seat with a heavy hand. There was no pursuit, and no more random energy pulses struck their shields. Reede watched the sky, the only thing he could do; watched its serene blue slowly deepening toward black, watched the sun rise, a vast scintillating jewel, radiant against the starry night as they left Ondinee’s atmosphere behind. Reede wiped blood out of his eye again, and sighed.

  “Clear.” Niburu cut their acceleration. The LB’s momentum ceased, and Reede felt himself begin to drift up from his seat, weightless, beyond the reach even of the planet’s gravity. He caught the seat’s restraining straps, laughing out loud as he pulled himself down again, and locked himself into place.

  “Copy. Free and clear,” a voice said, suddenly and unexpectedly from the comm speaker on the panel. “Congratulations, survivors. Good luck.” And then silence.

  “That was Sandhi!” Niburu looked at him, stupefied. “What just happened?” he said.

  Reede felt a weary smile pull up the corners of his mouth. “I think we met some strangers far from home.”

  Niburu shook his head, looking out at the empty sky, at the curve of Ondinee’s surface far below, its atmosphere limned by sunlight. He murmured commands to the LB’s computer as his hands touched the instruments almost absently. Reede felt himself settle back into his seat, regaining substantiality as the LB’s drive kicked in again. “We’ll intersect the Prajna’s orbit in about six hours,” Niburu said. “The medical supplies are down there.” He pointed.

  Reede nodded, already rising from his seat, moving cautiously as he got a feel for what kind of gravity they were functioning in now. He pulled the supply box from its stash.

  Ariele was on her feet beside Dawntreader, mopping blood from his ashen face with the sleev
e of her robe. “Da…” she murmured. “Da—?”

  Reede edged her aside, gently, as Niburu pushed past them to see to Ananke. “Let me look.” He used his own shirtsleeve to wipe away more blood, seeing the deep gash in the side of Dawntreader’s head. Scalp wounds bled like hell, his own blood was still getting in his eyes. The blood didn’t mean anything; he only had to get it stopped. But a blow that hard probably meant a fractured skull, could mean something worse; he had no way of telling. He pushed back Dawntreader’s eyelids; one pupil was wide open, the other narrowed reflexively as the light hit it. “Shit…” he breathed.

  Ariele passed him coagulant and a compression bandage from the medical supplies as he asked for them; he got the bleeding stopped and the wound bandaged. Dawntreader did not stir or make a sound all the while; his breathing was shallow and not quite regular. But as Reede finished working on him, he moaned, and his eyes opened, staring glassily. He mumbled something; Reede couldn’t make out the slurring words.

  “What—?” Reede leaned closer as Dawntreader repeated them, with painful effort, reaching up to catch the front of Reede’s shirt in a spasmodic grip.

  “… Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise it.”

  “Yeah. All right,” Reede said softly. “I will. I promise it.”

  Dawntreader released him; his hand fell away, lay motionless across his chest. His eyes closed.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Ariele asked anxiously, as Reede straightened away from Dawntreader’s limp body.

  “Can’t tell,” he muttered, blocking her view. He touched the activator on the arm of Dawntreader’s seat, and the translucent gray shield suspended above it began to lower. “This will suspend his body functions until we can reach Tiamat, and get real medical treatment,” he said quickly, seeing her face begin to fall apart. “His condition won’t change. It’s the best we can do.” He took hold of her arms, drawing her away as they watched the stasis unit seal. He checked the readouts. “Okay,” he said softly. “That’s as safe as anyone gets.” He turned, looking into her eyes. “You’re next. And then me. We’ll all sleep, suspended, until Niburu gets us to Tiamat.”

  Her mouth trembled; she pressed it together. “A magic nap,” she whispered. “Da used to say, when I was little, ‘It’s such a long way, Ari … why don’t you take a magic nap? When you wake up, you’ll be home.…’” Her voice disappeared.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, holding her, “we’ll be home.” He kissed her hair, looked up again as Niburu came forward to get something from the medical kit. “How is he?” Reede jerked his head toward the seat where Ananke lay, half-hidden from his view.

  “He’s—” Niburu broke off, with a strange expression on his face. “He’ll be all right. A bad burn, but it’s superficial. I can treat it with what’s here.”

  Reede nodded, relieved, wiping the blood from his own face with a leftover strip of bandage. He tied the bandage around his head and stuck on a painkiller patch, feeling his wounds as he finally had time to think about them. Dawntreader’s belt and pouch were still slung around his neck. He pulled them down, opened the pouch and looked at the vial of the water of death. He sealed it shut again, and fastened the belt around his waist. He glanced at Ananke, able to see nothing but his face, eyes shut, mouth slack, and part of his shoulder.

  Reede turned back, drawing Ariele toward her seat again. He kissed her as she settled in; she put her arms around his neck, keeping his mouth on hers a last long, sweet moment before she let him go. He reached down to activate the controls.

  “Is it like suffocation?” she whispered. “Is it like freezing—?”

  “No,” he said, and smiled. “It’s like peace.” He watched the dome come down; she held his hand until the last moment. He let her go, the unit sealed. He could still see her face through the translucent shield; knew that she could see his. He saw the apprehension in her eyes, watched it fade. She smiled. Her eyes closed, and she slept.

  He checked the readouts, and then made his way silently to the final seat, which lay waiting for him. He settled into it. He felt no painful pressure anywhere along his battered body; it was as if he were lying down on clouds. He looked over as Niburu approached him, face to face with his pilot for once.

  “I can handle it from here, boss,” Niburu said, answering his unspoken question. “The hard part’s done.”

  Reede grimaced. “Don’t say that. Gods, don’t ever say that!” But he smiled again, faintly; touched Niburu’s arm. “What the hell would I do without you, Niburu?”

  Niburu grinned. “Stay in one place for a while, maybe.”

  Reede laughed. “They can put that on my grave.…” He reached down, triggering the shield that hung above his head. It began to descend. “Wake me up as soon as we reach Tiamat. I need to talk to Gundhalinu.”

  Niburu nodded, as the shield’s smoky gray came down like fog between them. Reede felt a moment’s panic, the same panic he had seen in Ariele’s eyes, as the shield sealed in place. His eyes clung to the dim image of Niburu’s face as he struggled to keep his body under control. But a cool, tingling vapor was already filling the air, and as he breathed it in his apprehension faded, along with his vision. He smelled fresh wind and sunlight and exotic spices, pleasure and release … silence … peace.…

  * * *

  Kedalion watched Reede’s eyes close, saw his blood-streaked face become young again as his consciousness slipped away.

  Kedalion checked the readouts, satisfying himself that the unit was functioning properly. He turned away in the sudden, clicking silence, back to where Ananke lay passed out in the other seat. He pushed aside the charred cloth of Ananke’s coveralls, that he had cut open for better access to the livid burn that ran from shoulder to hip down his side. He saw the stretch of blistered flesh again, and grimaced. And then he pushed the ruined cloth farther aside on Ananke’s chest, slowly, almost reluctantly, needing to confirm to himself that he had not imagined what he had glimpsed in one harried, distracted moment in the middle of chaos.

  He pushed the cloth aside. He stared, for a long moment, at what lay revealed beneath it: the smooth, gentle curve of a young woman’s breast.

  Carefully he drew the cloth down over Ananke’s breast again, hiding her secret, covering her painful vulnerability. And then, as calmly as he could, he treated her burns, sealed them with a protective film of bandageskin, and applied a line of anesthetic patches up the length of her spine, to deaden the pain when she woke again.

  At last he went forward to the pilot’s seat, climbed up into it; leaned back, staring out at the stars. Reaction caught him then, finally, overwhelming him with an exhaustion that was both physical and mental. He felt his eyes closing, against his will. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had felt safe enough, certain enough, to sleep for long, and he no longer had the strength to fight it. The LB was synchronizing orbits on autopilot; it would wake him when they eventually caught up with the Prajna. He could let himself sleep now, finally, for a few hours, if he wanted to … he could sleep.…

  * * *

  “Kedalion…?”

  Kedalion opened his eyes, groggy and uncertain even of what had wakened him. Ananke stood beside him; he started in surprise. “What—?” he said, not meaning to say anything.

  “Sorry to wake you up. I…” Ananke settled into the copilot’s seat with elaborate care, tight-lipped, wincing. “Sorry.”

  “S’all right.” Kedalion straightened up in his own seat, shaking himself out, abruptly wide awake. He glanced at the displays, out at the night, habitually reassuring himself that everything was still going according to plan. He looked back at Ananke—the same face, the same eyes, the same body he had seen every day for years—trying to detect a difference in what he saw; perversely trying not to. “What is it? You all right? You need anything?”

  “I’m all right.” Ananke shook his—her—head, gazing at him out of blue-black, slightly dazed eyes. “Did you … did you dress my wound?”


  He nodded. “Yeah. Probably makes you feel like hell right now. But it’ll heal fine.”

  She nodded, glancing away, biting her lip. “Hurts some, even with the pain stuff. Thanks, Kedalion, for—”

  “No thanks needed.” He smiled, shaking his head.

  She looked back at him, and he knew she was trying to guess what he’d seen, if he’d seen—if she dared to ask him …

  “Yeah,” he said, ending her suspense. “I know. I saw … I couldn’t help it. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a woman?” Half a hundred small anomalies over the years suddenly fell into place in his mind, making perfect sense in hindsight. The pathological shyness, the sidelong looks whenever he’d mentioned sex … “Why?”

  “Because you’re a man,” she said, as if that explained everything. Her arms rose unsteadily, one bandaged, one safely hidden by heavy clothing, to cover her breasts, as if they were exposed again, simply by his knowing they were there. “Anyway,” she looked away from him again, “you would never have hired me on if you’d known. Would you?” Her voice turned accusing.

  “Well … I don’t know,” he said frankly.

  “And Reede would never have let me stay.”

  “Maybe not … not then. Now—” He shrugged.

  She looked back at him, stiffening. “Does he know?”

  “No,” Kedalion murmured. He shook his head. “Nobody knows but me. And you.”

  She sank back into her seat, her body trembling visibly with the effort of having held herself upright. “Hallowed Calavre…” she whispered, her hands clenching and unclenching on the cloth of her coveralls. “Why did this have to happen?”

  “Why did you do it in the first place?” he asked. “Did you hate it that much, being a woman on Ondinee?”

  Her eyes opened again, black with memory. “Yes,” she muttered, looking down at her body. Her voice took on the faintly singsong Ondinean accent that he had not heard in her speech in years, as she slid deeper into memory. “On Ondinee, men are everything, and women are nothing—like animals in the marketplace, bought and traded. Some, the rich ones, are lucky enough to be like pampered pets, dressed in jewels and fine cloth, taught to read, so that they have the illusion that they are human.”