From Ruins

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Swallowing, Vasiht'h followed his lead and said, "We're heading for the Chatcaavan border. Maybe we'll have access to more information there?"

  "Maybe," Qora said. "But in my experience, dead people don't do much mentoring."

  She could breathe without feeling like she was going to hyperventilate.

  Discovering this surprised Sediryl, once she was "alone," insomuch as she could be alone anymore. She didn't know if she was numb, or if she'd moved past her terror, or if this was the first stage of some psychotic break destined to transform her into Pirate Sociopath Sediryl, but she welcomed it all the same. Somehow, she'd gotten to the flagship without dying and enlisted the help of a mentally unstable D-per, and now she was free to read up on her new fleet without worrying about her immediate demise.

  Her hands weren't even shaking. Much.

  The desk's interface worked like most of the higher-end systems she'd used. She brought it online and found several documents already waiting for her perusal, courtesy of Crispin. Written by him, too, if the condescending tone was any indication. But she was grateful for his assumption that she was clueless, because she was. She rummaged in the interface for a realtime view of her ships so she could keep an eye on their movements and concentrated on learning what Kamaney had bequeathed her with her violent death.

  Kamaney's bequest was awful.

  The pirate fleet was only barely a unified force, held together by Kamaney's force of personality and Crispin's iron fist. The commanders that had been elevated into positions of authority over the fleet's ‘task forces' could only be counted on to look out for themselves, unless they thought something would befall them if they didn't. The bios Crispin had (gleefully, no doubt) compiled for her were appalling. Had she been in her right mind, she would have resumed panicking.

  But she remained committed to her course, and too emotionally battered to care how hard it was going to be. Crispin, she thought, was the part that worried her. If he stayed on her side, she could keep the pirates in line. But she had to convince Crispin that supporting her would result in more destruction, and more entertainment, than letting the pirates turn on her and kill her.

  She tapped her fingers slowly on the desk.

  Seducing Kamaney had been a warm-up. Training for an even less sane target. Except that seducing Kamaney hadn't worked out well. Not that she was dead, yet, and while she was alive, there was hope? Wasn't there?

  So tempting to put her head in her hands. But Crispin was watching. She resumed reading, her shoulders tense, and observed that her breathing had, once again, become tight and painful.

  She'd been so sure she could handle this. She'd begged the Goddess and Lord for a challenge equal to her powers.

  She'd been such a fool.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Usurper put Jahir back on the wall two days after Oviin's death. With the gag, the plugs, and the blindfold. He did not explain himself-he didn't have to. His thoughts were so distinct Jahir could hear them across the room. He must not interfere again.

  Sadly for the Usurper, Jahir was already interfering again.

  To seep through the palace, infecting the dreams of the Usurper's captive courtiers... that was spending his life as surely as opening a vein. But he did it anyway, sowing dissent and doubt. Whispering of weakness. Of unFitness to rule. He hinted that the lords were better judges of the uses of their ships... and far better suited to disseminating the plunder. He filled their dreams with the war, and how the navy would rule it, leaving them nothing, or perhaps less than nothing: using it as an excuse to destroy their fleets, leave them helpless.

  And he smiled around his broken mouth, sensing their activity as they communicated to their trusted liegemen off-planet.

  He wondered sometimes if this was vengeance. If he had taken Oviin's death too hard and crossed some line. In sending the Twelveworld Lord away from Apex-East he had surely done all that was necessary for the war effort. Sanity demanded he husband his strength, wait for rescue. And to use a mind-mage's talents to affect the minds of other people without their consent could not be right, even if they were planning the death or subjugation of millions upon millions of innocents.

  None of that stopped him.

  He left the servants alone. What few females remained, most of them locked up in the individual suites of visiting courtiers, he passed over, or paused to soothe a nightmare away, or offer a breath of hope. He saved his energy for those who meant "wingless freaks" harm, and had the power to do something about it. But he wondered, now and then, if this was how Corel had begun his spiraling descent into madness and evil. Doing what was expedient, because it needed to be done by someone.

  He could almost hear Lisinthir tsking at him.

  For several days, the guards took him off the wall at the end of his tenure, fed and oversaw his use of the necessary, and dumped him back in his room. They did not feed him enough, nor wash him, nor see to the lacerations left by the gag or the gashes on his cheek that kept breaking open. The Surgeon was not sent to him, and he spent his nights on the cold stone floor, attempting to summon the energy to tend himself and failing.

  One day, an attendant was awaiting him.

  "Just leave him," this servant said. Jahir could not see him through the blindfold, only sense the ferocity of his aura. "You obviously don't know how to take care of him, so stop touching him already."

  The first guard growled. The one on the other side snorted, dropping Jahir's arm. "He's right. What do we care? This is beneath us."

  "That's right," the servant said. "Go do something more in keeping with your high station."

  That occasioned a pause as the two guards tried to decide if this was a veiled insult. The second one said, "Eh. Let's go."

  That was as much warning as he had before they dropped him. He fell onto his hands and knees, then toppled as his weakened wrists gave. Lying twisted on the ground, he concentrated on breathing, found a welcome distraction in the approach of that angry aura. Careful hands loosened his blindfold until it came free.

  Jahir looked up at this new male, with his smooth head and two horns, with a face he had been among Chatcaava long enough to know was beautiful, rather than handsome. And none of it mattered because he looked like Oviin.

  The male checked him for earplugs, saw none, started work on the gag. "Yes, I know. Yes, he was my nestbrother. Why no plugs today? That's odd. Did they forget?" He pulled the gag free and winced at the sight of Jahir's mouth. "Well, that's no good." He set his hand on Jahir's chest. "Do that other thing you do."

  Astonished, Jahir answered, /You know about that?/

  "Mmm," this male said. "Yes." He grasped Jahir's chin and squinted at him, turning the Eldritch's face slowly from one side to the other. "The Surgeon said this was going to be a problem, and that was an understatement. Can you talk at all with your mouth?"

  "A little," Jahir said. "It hurts."

  "Fine, keep on as you were," the male said. "I've brought things to tend you, but you're going to need a gel tank if this keeps up." He shook his head, mane flopping over his face. "I'm Tsonet. The Tyrant assigned me to you because his simplistic brain calculated that if you cared for Oviin you'd probably care for anyone who looked like him."

  /Good God and Lady,/ Jahir said. /You might look like him but you are nothing like him./

  Tsonet sniffed derisively. "The Tyrant doesn't understand Chatcaavan nature well enough to realize relationships don't operate solely on basic pattern-matching."

  For the first time since Oviin had died, Jahir found himself almost laughing. /Your humor cuts, alet./

  /So if I think very hard, you hear me?/

  /Yes./

  Tsonet made another mmming sound. "This will hurt. I have to clean these or they're going to fester."

  "I understand," Jahir managed past his damaged lips.

  The male went to work on his cheek first. /The Surgeon tells me this is how you communicated all your sensitive information to Oviin. Who then communicated it
outside the palace for you./

  /That's correct./

  Tsonet wiped the scratches down. "These aren't clotting at all. Why? Do you have some disease? Never mind, don't answer that. It doesn't matter." He sealed them with something gelatinous that began to tighten as it dried. "The Surgeon says this liquid suture is like killing a gnat with a cannon, but apparently nothing else is working, so we'll see if this stops you from bleeding."

  /Thank you./

  /I also have a nutrient injection for you, and a nutrient patch, which hopefully the Tyrant won't notice since I am going to stick it to your back under all this hair./

  /That would be welcome,/ Jahir said. /I am not sure I can eat enough anymore with my mouth damaged./

  /I don't imagine you can./ Tsonet continued painting the scratches. /I am now the new contact for you out of the palace. Oviin left me a note./ His aura dimmed for the first time, streaking with grief. /He assumed he would die because someone discovered what he was doing, and he wanted to make sure we knew how to shut it down so none of us would be harmed by implication./

  /That isn't why he died,/ Jahir whispered.

  Tsonet met his eyes, his own aquamarine ones furious. /I know. He died because none of us matter to someone like the Tyrant, or any of these other ‘masters' who claim to deserve their estates. We die because we are less than Chatcaava./ When Jahir inhaled, Tsonet said, /You will try to tell me that he died because he loved you, and the Tyrant wanted to punish you. But that's only how he died, Silence. The ‘why' remains the same, no matter how we die. We die because our lives aren't worth as much as a court male's./

  Jahir stared at him, unable to look away until Tsonet resumed work on his injuries. Then, soft, /What did you call me?/

  /We call you Voice in the Silence,/ Tsonet said absently, turning his face all the way to the side to study the angle of Jahir's jaw. /We hear you passing through the night./

  /Does everyone know?/ Jahir asked, startled.

  /Everyone knows,/ Tsonet said. /They might think it a superstitious fear, or like the servants, they might know that it truly is you, walking. But everyone knows. They say the alien seeks vengeance./

  Did he? Jahir said, finally, /I may, at that./

  Tsonet snorted. "Open your mouth. This part will feel even less good, but it must be done." When Jahir parted his lips, Tsonet craned his head down to peer inside his mouth. /You don't fool me, alien. You do not want vengeance for anything. The Surgeon told me you were a healer, not a warrior, and now that I'm here I can feel it in your voice in my head. You abhor all of this. The violence. The cruelty. My anger./ The male went for his tools and brought out a swab. /But you are not done here. The Surgeon is at work on bringing down the Tyrant, and you will be needed./

  /I did not assume my role here was over,/ Jahir murmured.

  /Good. Because it's not. And you are not allowed to die until it is./ Tsonet lifted the edge of one of Jahir's lips, squinting at the cracks in it. /The Surgeon has told me you aliens like to kill yourselves. Out of grief, or guilt. This is a luxury. I refuse you your death until I have avenged my nestbrother, and the Tyrant is dead. Anything else is selfishness. On your part. I am told this is how to motivate you./

  /The Surgeon said this?/

  /Everything about you tells me this,/ Tsonet said. /I am not stupid. The Tyrant is not the only one who can access palace records./

  /I am not my cousin,/ Jahir murmured.

  /I am not my nestbrother,/ Tsonet replied. /But I am Chatcaava and you... you are an alien. And even the Ambassador could be moved to action by the plight of others. Which is what you are going to do. Be moved. And I shall have my vengeance./

  The swab stung. Some sort of antiseptic, he assumed. He submitted to it, too exhausted even to gag.

  "No complaint?" Tsonet said, looking at him.

  Jahir thought of Oviin's body spilled and broken. Of the gore that had been spattered on his body and face, that no one had bothered to clean off of him for over a day. He thought of how much he'd been anticipating teaching Oviin the shapechange, some many, many years from now, when at last the male had been ready to learn it.

  "No complaint," he answered, husky.

  "Good alien," Tsonet said. "We're going to have a fine relationship. Very good understanding."

  After Tsonet delivered him to his room, Jahir concentrated on lying flat and expending as little energy as possible so that his extended probe would have no competition for what remained. The Surgeon was again in his clinic, studying a chart-people, maybe? In the palace? Jahir tapped the outside of his mind, and the Chatcaavan's head jerked up.

  /I find this mode of communication disturbing./

  /Not true,/ Jahir answered. /You find being surprised disturbing. The method of communication you find useful, and puzzling, and therefore interesting./

  A long pause as the Surgeon grappled with that. Jahir sensed exasperation, amusement, curiosity. It had no taste, the way such emotions would have in the mindline. He missed Vasiht'h painfully. At last, the Chatcaavan replied, /Very well. I cannot argue that. But this activity strains you, doesn't it? You should be conserving your strength./

  /For my task, is that it? Tsonet tells me I am to help you take down the Usurper./

  /Correct. I can't enlist your aid if you kill yourself./

  Jahir sensed the faint tug of the patch between the wings of his shoulderblades, just discernable when his ribcage lifted for each breath. /The patch helps, but I shouldn't tarry, no. What do you plan?/

  /The Emperor must return; to take control of the Empire he must kill the Usurper, who is here. My plan is to make it as easy as possible for him to achieve this meeting./

  /By...?/

  /Arranging for the planet's vulnerability is the first stage. The second involves the palace's vulnerability. And for that, I need to know what the Usurper plans. But he no longer permits me into his suite./

  Jahir frowned against the floor. It hurt his joints, but the cold felt good on his face. /I wonder why. His threat has less power if you aren't here, where I can see and be reminded of your fate./

  /I would like you to find that out, if possible. While I trust Tsonet with basic triage, I don't like leaving your health in his hands. You require a doctor./

  There, that pause at the end of the sentence... that had been a mental hiccup, hazed with words. Names, titles, classes of people: wingless freak, not-the-Ambassador, odd creature. /You can call me by name./

  /Names are for chattel./

  /And you will not call me Silence?/

  The Surgeon huffed softly. /You do not seem very silent to me./

  /Then,/ Jahir said, /Call me Healer./

  A pause. Sardonic amusement tightened the words in Jahir's mind, until they had edges. /And will this Alliance Healer kill, as he once asked a Chatcaavan healer? Or does the oath constrain you?/

  Jahir considered his response. Counted his heartbeats. Forced himself to slow his breathing. At last, he said, /Disease cannot be tolerated. And yet, when it is treated, it is eradicated./

  /We understand one another./

  /I think we do. Yes./

  The Surgeon nodded. /Rest, fellow Healer. This is a virulent cancer, and we will need to consider the patient's treatment plan at length./

  Jahir murmured, /Yes./ And withdrew, back into his body, realizing anew how compromised it was. Tsonet had done good work, but the treatment and the patch were literal: stopgaps only. How much longer did he have?

  Cousin, he whispered to the void. If you can at all hear me, soon would be good.

  The following day, Jahir submitted to the plugs, the blindfold, the gag.

  Then he planted himself in the Usurper's head.

  He had been avoiding this invasion, because it was invasion, and he was grateful that it revolted him. To speak with others mind-to-mind, with their full knowledge that he was engaging them was one thing. To pass through unconscious minds without permission was unsettling enough. To slip into a conscious mind unnoticed, like a thief
?

  He did it anyway, and once seated he wondered how much further he would go, having gone this far. From affecting the Usurper's mind to killing him from within it was a short step; even knowing he could not kill the Usurper because that kill belonged to someone else, it felt too easy, too close. But without his other senses, how else could he gather information? Would Vasiht'h tell him this was a natural use of his esper abilities? Would it matter, if he disagreed?

  He smiled a little, stopped before it could move his cracked lips too far against the gag.

  The Usurper's mind was not a comfortable place. The paranoia that Jahir had observed from outside it colored everything he perceived, skewing it a few degrees off from true. The communiques he received from Second now felt like threats. The reports from Apex-East, dangerous indicators of impending implosion. The activities of the courtiers were now attacks, not the restlessness of bored and agitated males seeking diversion. Nothing fit in the Usurper's neat boxes anymore, and the untidiness of it flustered him.

  Worst of all, by the Usurper's standards: he was no longer safe. This belief consumed his mind. Second had betrayed him, but he'd done so by leaving: a sin of omission, literally, omitting himself from the Usurper's support base. But the Twelveworld Lord... that was a betrayal of commission. The Usurper knew the Twelveworld Lord would be back, and bring his missing ships with him... here, to the throneworld. The unprotected throneworld, because the Usurper had committed all available military power to the war with the freaks.

  It was no longer acceptable for him to be without protection. To that end, he'd contacted several of his underlings in the Logistics chain of command, in Apex-East. Presumably Second had taken all the disloyal Chatcaava with him... besides, Second's contacts had been in the command area, not among the staff where the Usurper had worked.

  The Usurper's realtime comm request alert banished all his other thoughts. He looked at the wall, and Jahir saw himself through the Chatcaavan's eyes: muzzled, masked, impotent. A surge of satisfaction, and unease. The Usurper answered the call. "Is this line secure?"