Some Things Transcend

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  "Speaker-Singer," the Seersa said at last. Borden, he remembered.

  "What did you specialize in?" Jahir asked as the blood tests began rolling up the display. He was aware of his body growing tenser.

  "First response nursing," she said. "And I can treat a head-cold or food poisoning. This...."

  This was beyond her. Well and again, it was almost certainly past him in some arenas. In others....

  /He's been drugged?/

  /No,/Jahir said, fingers trailing over the readings. /This is not a drugging, ariihir. This is drugs, in plural./

  Flash of screaming halo-arches, failing bodies, minds melting. Vasiht'h shuddered at his side. "But not that, because he's still alive."

  "Barely," Jahir conceded, and the Seersa was looking at them now, ears splayed.

  "Something I missed?" she ventured.

  "Why's his digestion such a mess?" Vasiht'h asked. "You think it was ingested?"

  "Maybe," Jahir said, flipping through the medical tests as the halo-arch ran them. Liver didn't bear speech—God and Lady knew how Lisinthir had survived with it in such a state. Neural response was strange... he didn't recognize the pattern. Enteric was excited, parasympathetic depressed. There were signs of adrenal exhaustion, but it hadn't killed the man yet. Where was the oxygenation number? Results for lung function? "It could also be that whatever it was had a secondary effect on it, however." To the Seersa, he said, "Has the bed started him on fluids?"

  "Yes—"

  Jahir glanced at the readings. "Is it running the nutritive solution via parenteral?"

  She shook her head. "It defaults to enteral, gastric via halo-push."

  "The results should be interesting," he murmured. "Can you run a separate test for foreign substances?"

  "Like toxins?" She nodded. "It's already on the plate."

  "Not just toxins. For anything that might be suggestive of their having been present at some point. Some sign of chronic inflammatory response, or humoral immune response."

  "Coming up."

  "He's also bleeding," Vasiht'h observed.

  He was, and that needed tending. And yet Jahir couldn't bring himself to strip another Eldritch to see to it. "Can you expose the wounds?"

  The mindline brought him a careful consideration that felt like a storm pending. He bowed his head and murmured, /We will discuss it, I so vow./

  Vasiht'h nodded and went to work.

  The wounds were not inconsequential. How had Lisinthir ignored them? Borden helped Vasiht'h seal them while Jahir ran through the test results as they came, trying to make sense of them. Alcohol abuse, that was obvious. But that didn't explain most of the results. What had the Ambassador been exposed to? Something inhaled, if the lung damage was any indication, but nothing in the Alliance u-banks matched the results. They had tried to poison him... with something he had to inhale? How did that make sense? Except that there was evidence of something amiss in the digestion. Perhaps it had been ingested, then? Had that caused the malnutrition, or had the malnutrition accelerated the effects of the drug? Had it even been one? Perhaps it had been two, one ingested, one inhaled… Jahir rubbed his brow, braced himself against the bed as the ship lurched again.

  Vasiht'h finally said, "Is it supposed to shake that way?"

  Borden's ears flattened. "No."

  "That makes me feel a lot better."

  Her chuckle had the gallows humor hint characteristic of the profession. "You did ask." Smiling, she added, "A little shaking isn't bad. It means we're diverting power to more important things than the internal stabilization."

  The lights flickered, swelled back to full.

  "And that?" Vasiht'h asked, the fur along his shoulders bristling. "More diverting power?"

  She was looking up at the ceiling, tail low and fingers clenched on the edge of the bed. "No, that was bad—"

  And then the lights failed entirely. When they came back up, it was to a red dimness that made the lights on the halo-arch display smolder like dying coals.

  "Can you handle things here?" Borden asked. "I need to go fore."

  "We'll be fine," Jahir said, and she was gone before he could finish speaking.

  Vasiht'h backed away from the bed until he was standing near a wall. "Maybe we should sit for the duration of this fight."

  "The Ambassador—"

  "Will be immobilized by the bio-bed," Vasiht'h said. "You and I don't have that kind of guarantee, and we won't be much use if this ship bashes our heads against it during one of Healer-assist Borden's diversions of power." He sat, tucking his paws close and wings tight. "Jahir? Please?"

  Jahir joined him on the floor beside the bench bolted to the wall.

  "Can you conclude anything from all that?"

  As distractions from the low red lighting and the constant shivering of the deck beneath them, it wasn't much. Jahir rubbed his arm, bunching the sleeve. "I'm no healer, arii."

  "No, but you've been in hospitals now for six or seven years, and training in chemistry for a decade."

  Jahir sighed. "I haven't seen anything like it. I have to hope he can make some report on it when he wakes. He was poisoned, perhaps, or drugged. And abusing alcohol."

  Vasiht'h slowly looked up at him, the mindline dense with dread.

  "I know."

  "Maybe alcohol was the only thing that made the situation tolerable," the Glaseah said, careful of the words.

  "Maybe," Jahir agreed. He flinched as the ship shivered. "We are being chased, it seems."

  "I don't guess your pattern sense has anything to say on whether we'll live through this."

  Jahir managed a smile. "I fear my own desire to live makes it rather hard for me to attend to its rather subtle whispers."

  "Figures. Lift your knees?" When Jahir had, Vasiht'h slid his forepaws beneath them. "Is it okay if I say this seems like the sort of situation where a hug is called for?"

  "No, I think a hug is very much called for." Jahir allowed the Glaseah to arrange himself, then curled his arms around Vasiht'h's shoulders and let his partner rest the length of a furred upper body against his side. The touch strengthened his perception of the breath-starved sense of panic Vasiht'h was fighting, but not enough for true discomfort.

  "You have blood on your face, you know."

  Jahir touched his cheek, felt the flake of it against fingertips gone far too sensitive, remembered the grasp that had streaked his skin. He frowned, sorting through impressions. A wild joy... and desire, hot as blood from a wound. Why had those things been foremost in Lisinthir's mind at the sight of him—no, not him. The sight of another Eldritch? Were there others in the Empire? The Heir, yes, but the Heir was sped, and female besides. Was it some memory from before he'd gone to the Chatcaava? He knew so little about Lisinthir's life prior to his assignment.

  His sigh ruffled Vasiht'h's forelock.

  "I wish they'd tell me what's going on."

  "I do too."

  CHAPTER 3

  "So you flew one of these fighters." Lisinthir watched the talon idly tracing a line down the inside curve of his hip. He kept his hand hooked idly on one of the Emperor's horns, not because he feared the talons, but because he enjoyed the trust it implied. Chatcaavan males did not allow other males to touch their horns. "I'm shocked you survived the experience."

  "Such skepticism," the Emperor said with a chuckle. "I would think by now you had some grasp of my prowess."

  Lisinthir snorted. "In some things. In this, I admit, not at all."

  "Then you will have to accept that we fly well, and flying a fighter is just another form of flight." The talon skated up, made a circle around his navel. "It was a good time. I learned a great deal."

  "About war?"

  "About trust." At Lisinthir's look, the Emperor grinned lazily. "It does exist among us, yes. The fighters in a wing work toward one goal, and each has his role to play."

  "Forgive me if I say I find that difficult to believe."

  "That we might work together?"

&
nbsp; "You find this a surprise? I have been here for almost a year now, Exalted. I've seen how Chatcaava work together."

  "You've seen how the court operates." The talon traced the edge of his navel, and Lisinthir flicked it off the inner curve. "Ah, do I tickle?" The Emperor grinned, then continued. "The court is not the Empire. The Navy is not the system defense forces. Commoners are not lords. Females are not males."

  "And wingless freaks are nothing."

  "Less than nothing in this equation," the Emperor said. "You must understand, Ambassador... the Empire exists in a precarious balance between the winners of the last battle and the losers preparing for the next match. You and I have fought this dominance to a standstill, but now... we have a peace." He paused, as if savoring the taste of the word and finding it alien before resuming. "There is no such outcome among Chatcaava. This is a nation of predators, and to keep it as stable as it is, one must set the predators at one another's throats in ways that distract them from accomplishing anything more destructive."

  Lisinthir turned onto his side and propped his head up on a palm. "And this is what you learned in the Navy."

  "What I learned in the Navy is that it is possible to create solidarity against a mutually chosen target."

  "Us—"

  The Emperor snorted. "Hardly. No, I set the Navy against the system defenses and their petty lords. And that won me the throne." He reached out and trailed a talon down Lisinthir's nose. "We have never turned our attention to your Alliance. We had enough to occupy ourselves here."

  "Should I fear that you will use us to unify your Empire?" Lisinthir asked, softer.

  "Ah, my Perfection." The male's eyes dimmed. "No. The unity I could buy with a war against the Alliance would be a falsehood. Nor would it last long. The dispensation of plunder would prick all the seething factionalism awake and leave us prey to an Alliance victory. And much as I have grown fond of you—and even agree that you have ideas worth keeping—I would not be your slave, any more than you would be mine."

  "The Alliance would not enslave you."

  "But it could not afford to keep us as uneasy friend, either." The Emperor smiled, just a hint of teeth at the edge of a dark maw. "No, as always, things are more complex than we would wish."

  When the dragon reached for him, Lisinthir let himself be rolled onto his back. "All this had its genesis in a sortie against another vessel. I can hardly imagine it. It seems too bloodless."

  The Emperor rumbled a laugh against his cheek. "Oh, the fighters don't exist to destroy ships, Perfection... but to deliver us to them so we can board them. And then there is blood enough for everyone."

  Waking in the care of a physician had become a hazy form of safety, a sign that he was among people Outside, that he could afford to be—briefly—weak. But Lisinthir preferred the relative autonomy of a Chatcaavan gel tank to waking up immobilized on his back. His first instinct, mercilessly suppressed, was to fight the force field; his second, to be perfectly still. There was someone in the room with him....

  ...ah, the Seersa. Pale, as Laniis had been, but without the soot points. He watched her move, saw the limp and the arm she held around her midriff, the wince as she shifted to the good limb. The digitigrade stance of some of the Pelted races made leg injuries difficult; they depended too much on muscle for balance and stability, and lacked a plantigrade biped's ability to rely on the joints to minimize movement.

  He didn't need to know how she'd gotten her injuries. The room remained lit only by emergency lights, and he couldn't sense the low tremor of the Well drive. They'd taken significant damage, then, but survived it.

  Turning toward the halo-arch, she checked the readings projected over his head and only then glanced down at him—and started, one hand flying to her chest. The motion disturbed her careful nursing of the leg and she hissed and touched a hand to the edge of the bed to steady herself. "You're awake," she managed. "I didn't notice."

  It seemed impolite to agree. "How bad was it?"

  "Ambassador?"

  Did they all think so slowly, or was he too used to the adrenalized speed required by a court of violent sociopaths? "How many got on board?"

  She stared at him, ears sagging. "You knew."

  "I told you," he said. "Or at least, I was trying to as I fell."

  Her pause then was longer, and then her pupils dilated. "You were right. About them using energy weapons on us."

  "How many?" he asked, more gently.

  "Four," the Seersa said, shoulders sagging. "They killed four of us."

  He'd been asking after the boarders. Four of the Fleet personnel, however, entirely dead... interesting. He'd assumed the Chatcaava would want prisoners, but killing meant they were after something else entirely. Him, yes. But to advance some political aim. And since they couldn't drag him back on their single-person craft, they'd probably been hoping to reduce the number of personnel who could work on repairs. Lisinthir was cautiously optimistic—it could mean their enemy's reinforcements weren't as numerous as he'd feared. "I assume the ship is adrift."

  That surprised look... he could grow tired of it. "Yes," she said after a moment. "Three of them came aboard. We killed two of them and the third... the third detonated his ship." She looked away. "It was clinging to the hull at the time."

  The Chatcaavan had probably assumed he could make it off the Fleet vessel in one of the other fighters. They didn't incline to suicide no matter the naval commitment to a shared goal. There were limits. "Did the third die?"

  "Yes."

  He considered. Adrift by design. "I hope we ran in some direction they weren't anticipating."

  She was studying him now with a frown. When he began to speak, she lifted a hand. "You... you are a very sick man, Ambassador. When you woke I was expecting questions about your own health, your prognosis, what your treatment plan should be. Or to ask when we'd be back. Instead I get... this? You're not well. You need rest."

  Rest was for the dead—literally, because to allow oneself the luxury was inviting poison, or talons to the throat. He judged that somewhat too harsh for her, however, and said instead, "I can't rest unless I am certain of the safety of myself and my charges."

  Her brows lifted. "Well, we're as safe as we can be, for now."

  It was evident she wasn't going to divulge anything else, so he let her be. "Very well. I trust my health is in competent hands?"

  "I like to think so."

  "That would be you...." He glanced at her uniform, found the name badge. "Healer Borden?"

  "Healer-assist, actually. And I'm not in charge of your case."

  "Oh?"

  She nodded. "That would be Healer-assist Jahir, and his partner, Vasiht'h. They were the ones summoned for you."

  So they had names...first names at least. Not enough for him to know anything more about the Eldritch, certainly. Who had summoned them on his behalf? Fleet? Or the Queen? What were they doing in the Alliance? What were they doing partnered, come to that? He flashed to the corridor, to the sight of them moving in tandem as if anticipating each other's footsteps. Very closely partnered, it would seem. "Not a healer either. Neither of them?"

  "No," she said. "They're xenotherapists."

  That made his skin go taut with alarm. Psychiatrists. They had sent psychiatrists to him... had put him in the care of people who would be responsible for assessing his mental health? Why? So they could declare him insane the way so many other ambassadors leaving the Empire had been? What did the Alliance do with the insane? Would they fetter him? Would they try to fix him?

  He didn't need fixing. He didn't want fixing. And he certainly didn't want to be subject to the meddling of two civilians who had no right to his confidences, much less to pass judgment on his mental state. They had not made his sacrifices, could not understand them. And an Eldritch! Living Air, to be condemned back to that life, one even more a prison than the Alliance? To the pampered suffocation of the role of an Eldritch heir, and one without power?

  They wanted
him to make answer for his deeds... to an Eldritch.

  It was risible. He wouldn't do it.

  This was all assuming that they survived the next few days. Lisinthir thought that not at all a given.

  "So," he said at last. "Do tell me about my health, my prognosis, and the health care plan."

  "I won't lie," Raynor said. "It's serious."

  Vasiht'h and Jahir were sitting in their quarters, having finally retired there after the harrowing few hours they'd just survived—and they had. Others hadn't.

  "So, if I have this right," Vasiht'h said, because Jahir didn't seem inclined to talk, "the engines aren't working, the chief engineer is one of the people who died repelling the boarders, and we're floating in the space between stars hoping no one will notice us while we make repairs?"

  "Essentially."

  "How far toward Alliance space did we manage?" Jahir said. "What is the likelihood of our being rescued?"

  "We didn't run toward Alliance space," Raynor said. "We ran deeper into the border, because when those ships come sweeping for us, they're going to look along the path straight back to the Alliance. That's the bad news. The good news is that Fleet sends Dusted ships through these sectors fairly frequently, and we have a good chance of being spotted by one."

  "If they can spot us, can't the Chatcaava too?" Vasiht'h asked, trying not to rub his forepaws together.

  "A calculated risk," Raynor said with a crooked grin. He let it fade. "Look, the two of you have work to do and Borden will need your help doing it. You do your job, we'll do ours, and we'll all get back home in one piece. Sound like a plan?"

  "I guess it's all we got," Vasiht'h muttered.

  "Exactly. And I'll start by suggesting you get a couple of hours' sleep. It's been a long day and you'll need to relieve Borden."

  "Right."

  Jahir added, "Thank you, Captain."

  "You have any questions, aletsen, you ask."

  After he'd left, Vasiht'h looked up at his friend. /What do you think?/