Some Things Transcend

by M. C. A. Hogarth

"I meant Jahir—"

  "He's got some bad-looking lacerations but they'll keep. Hold still. You, I mean, Vasiht'h. Stop moving, you're letting it leak."

  He gritted his teeth and did as she asked, closing his eyes against the shivering lurches of the ship. He couldn't close his ears to the too-quick talking happening at the consoles in the front of the room, but he could at least ignore them. If it left him prey to the sickening squelches and the low hiss of the sealer on flesh, at least he could pretend that putting Lisinthir back together represented the worst of their problems.

  "There, let up." Triona sat back on her heels and wiped her brow with her forearm. "Speaker-Singer. And no, don't ask me if he's going to make it. What he needs is a gods-damned transfusion and I'm not going to get one here. This ship doesn't even have a rhacking sickbay. What do the damned shapechangers do? Toss their injured out an airlock?"

  Vasiht'h flipped his ears back, but the Seersa was already rolling Jahir onto his back and tearing open the blouse from the seam under his arm. "Nice big holes your partner got put in him here. Did he hold still for it?"

  "No!" Vasiht'h said, horrified.

  Something in his voice made her glance at him, just the most fleeting of looks while grabbing the scanner. She sighed. "Sorry, arii, sorry. Just… we've lost so many people, and if we lose the Ambassador too, after all this…."

  "We won't," Vasiht'h whispered. More clearly, "We won't. He'll pull through."

  "Even if he does, we have to make it home," Triona said, running the wand over the deep, ugly slices. Was that… one of Jahir's ribs gleaming through the cut? No, he was imagining things, because if he wasn't, he was going to vomit. "And the damned dragons have jumped into the fighter craft and are trying to lame us. Presumably so their calls for help can arrive and finish the job."

  He started shaking. "Oh, Goddess…."

  "Prayer sounds helpful about now, yes." Triona shook her head at the wounds. "These are going to hurt him like hell and probably scar too, since we don't have the facilities to heal them prettily. But he's going to be fine. What did he do to his face?"

  "I think it was a wing to the nose."

  "Should have broken it. Lucky man, your partner. Let's have a look at you next, ah?"

  Vasiht'h suffered himself to be examined, but of the three of them he'd taken the fewest hurts. He'd bruise badly, but the few scrapes and cuts he had were pronounced 'cosmetic' and left untended—the medical kit only had so much power, and there was no easy way to connect it to the Chatcaavan vessel's power grids to recharge. "If someone can be spared from damage control later, I'll see if they can jury-rig some kind of outlet for me to use," Triona told him after she'd finished putting Lisinthir's feet up on the mounded remains of his coat. "Otherwise we're going to have to save it for the Ambassador, because if he doesn't get home all this is for hell."

  "What happened?" he asked, tentative. He couldn't fathom how she was ignoring the constant quakes and jerks of the deck with such equanimity, but she was... sitting next to him with her back to the wall, seemingly unfazed.

  "Nothing unexpected, I guess. They're vicious fighters—you've seen how fast they are?" She wiped her bloody forehead again, tired. "Right. Palmers work, but in corridors this narrow we could only shoot a couple of them at a time, and they were always right into us before we could get off more than a shot or two. We're lucky that they could only get to one or two of us at a time, too…." She trailed off, drew in a careful breath and finished, "Well. We fought our way to the bridge and took it. Cory got us moving and then started redoing the beacon, which is how we found out they'd sent a message out. We got our own out too, informing people that we've taken possession of the vessel and are under attack. We're going to have company at some point, and unless we're lucky some of it's going to be bad." She rubbed an eye with the heel of her hand, and for the first time her voice quavered. "We had to leave the Quicklance behind."

  "If we get rescued, maybe we can send someone back for it?" Vasiht'h offered.

  She shook her head. "If anyone managed to get to an escape pod...." She trailed off, then closed her eyes, and he knew then that there had been no chance, none at all, that anyone had survived. He opened his mouth to speak words of comfort... and stopped.

  "Arii?" she said, catching his expression.

  "The courier... it's gone," Vasiht'h whispered. He met her eyes. "The courier had the drug on it. The one the Ambassador needs. Or he'll have seizures."

  This time, even he didn't notice the battle going on around them.

  "Speaker-Singer," Triona breathed. "You mean to tell me that on top of being barely stabilized from a million wounds, I might have to contend with a crash withdrawal from a drug that's not even in the Alliance catalog?" At the sight of his stunned expression, she swore viciously.

  "It's not long to the border, right?" Vasiht'h asked in a small voice.

  "It doesn't matter that we're only a day and a half from the border at normal speed," Triona said. "If those fighters succeed in crippling us, we might never get there." She rubbed her forehead. "Hellfire, alet. I can manage his injuries—barely. But I don't have a cold stone's chance of doing anything about seizures. And if they're bad, they could trigger a real physical crisis. I'm tempted to slowsleep him, but I'm not sure what that'll do to him. It's contraindicated for some types of seizures, and I don't know what's causing his. Unless you two do?"

  Vasiht'h shook his head. "Neither of us trained in it. Jahir knows chemistry, but he doesn't have enough of a healer's training to guess at how it'll affect him based on his injuries."

  "So I could give him a dose and it might be fine," Triona growled. "Or I could give him a dose and it could kill him. Or I could give him one and it might put him so far under he might not come up again. And all of this is optimistic, because he still might die from internal bleeding or some other problem I can't even guess at because he's been taking a chemical cocktail that none of us have the first clue how to treat...! What the hell was he thinking?"

  He'd been thinking that it was the only way to stay alive long enough to service the Alliance, Vasiht'h thought... long enough to be useful. And maybe not much more beyond that, because what chance had there been that there would ever be a future for him?

  Except now there was. And what a future: full of conflict, war, joy, family, heartbreak and passion, all the things that Vasiht'h well knew moved every Eldritch, no matter how self-contained his presentation—or hers, for that matter. He'd met the Queen, Sediryl, and Jahir's mother. They all had that poetry in their blood. They'd all been made for great deeds.

  And that was all right, suddenly. Because there were great deeds to be done, and someone had to do them.

  Vasiht'h pressed his forepaws into the floor, firmed his resolve. "We can keep him from having seizures. Jahir and I. It's what we were doing with him before."

  "I thought you were keeping him dosed on some sort of schedule?" Triona asked, ears flipping back. "I saw the notes...."

  "It wasn't enough. He's had several," Vasiht'h said. "And we can treat them." He thought of the nerve blocks. "We might even be able to help in other ways."

  "I'll take all the help I can get." She sighed. "I don't suppose you heard whatever intelligence it was he went crusading after?"

  "The conversations were all in Chatcaavan," Vasiht'h admitted, ears sagging.

  "Of course they were." Seeing him deflate, she said, "Oh, don't. Don't be crestfallen. If you can do this with the seizures, you'll be more than earning your keep. They'll probably give you a citation, even."

  How ridiculous would that be! A medal to add to his unicorn necklace? How many parts was he made out of, anyway? Vasiht'h grimaced. He could accept a world full of great deeds, but he'd rather be the one helping others accomplish them. "I hope they don't." He rubbed his arms. "Jahir's got to be awake for it to work, though. I can't do it alone."

  Triona was silent then, considering the two Eldritch lying side by side. "Stay here," she said finally, and pushed h
erself up. Vasiht'h watched her head for the front of the bridge, there to listen to the conversations and ask questions. She was a little too far for him to easily hear distinct words without straining, so he didn't. He allowed himself to drift instead.

  Had he really just come through a fight? He hadn't fallen apart, either. He'd loathed the whole experience—that Lisinthir could find it exciting was beyond belief—but he hadn't frozen up, either. He'd been too terrified that his hesitation might get Jahir killed... and yes, Lisinthir too. Lisinthir, who was irresistible in his own way. Vasiht'h leaned down, slowly brushed the hair matted to the Ambassador's temple back until the blood released it. To that slack face, he murmured, "I guess every family needs its wild and dangerous uncle."

  The moment he said it, he liked it. Of course Jahir's children should have an uncle. Who else? And his own kits? Vasiht'h tried to imagine some stubbornly pragmatic Glaseahn girl tagging along after Lisinthir and almost laughed.

  "For that," he finished. "You have to live. So you'll have to."

  Triona returned, dropped down beside him. "The next few hours are going to be hard. You should rest if you can."

  "What happens then?" Vasiht'h asked. "Will we be all right?"

  "We won't be all right until we're docked at the station," Triona said. "But if we can finish off the fighters before they finish us off...."

  He glanced at her, incredulous. "And you think I'll be able to rest?"

  "I could sedate you?" She sat, resting her head back against the wall, eyes closed.

  He narrowed his eyes. "Will you sleep?"

  "Someone's got to keep watch on the Ambassador."

  "Then I'll keep the vigil with you."

  "Fine." Rousing herself to courtesy, she said, "I'd like that. And I'm sorry if I've been short with you."

  "Don't apologize," Vasiht'h said. "I understand."

  She smiled a little. "You know... I think you really do?" She managed a chuckle. "I guess that's how you get people to tell you their problems, huh."

  "I like to think I'm good at my job," Vasiht'h said. "But I'm better at it with him."

  The Seersa nodded, ignoring the fresh shudder beneath them. "We usually do better in company, don't we." She smiled a little. "Fleet motto, or should be."

  "Then we're going to be fine," Vasiht'h said. "Because no matter what, we're here together."

  "From your mouth to the Speaker-Singer's ears."

  Jahir woke abruptly, sodden with confusion, entwined with two separate minds and one of them in distress, the other clamoring equally for his intention.

  /What?/ he said, and couldn't tell if he said it aloud. /What—/

  /Seizure. Now—/

  Now? Adrenaline cleared his mind, sharpened his awareness. Yes, he could see it, the actinic sparkles in his cousin's mind. He dove for them, brought a cloak of coolth behind him, soothing, whispering lullabies, forcing the energy to disperse. It listened readily to him: either this was a minor event, or his had become a trusted intrusion, and his cousin's body acclimated to accepting instruction from him. How Lisinthir would laugh at that! Absolutely Jahir must tell him later, how the healer became the conqueror. But first, he needed to know their disposition. Rising from the dreamworld that had clouded his vision, Jahir opened his eyes and found Lisinthir lying on his side, exactly where he'd been left. Vasiht'h was sitting alongside their heads, bent close; Triona was on the other side holding a diagnostic wand and a tablet. Beneath him the deck was vibrating, slowly enough that he could perceive each discrete tremor. He frowned.

  "What goes on?"

  "Well, hell," Triona breathed. "I had to see it with my own eyes. How do you do that?"

  "Everything is connected," Jahir offered, and sat up, and only then became aware of how much he hurt. He listed and allowed Vasiht'h to catch him by the arm... awkwardly, because the Glaseah had grabbed for the one farthest from him. Why? Oh, there were pressure strips over his ribs. He touched them gingerly, winced. "We have survived, it looks."

  "Barely," Vasiht'h muttered, the mindline heavy as a plumb-line with his exhaustion.

  "Don't listen," Triona said. "We acquitted ourselves well. No way we should have survived against that many fighters when we don't have any strategy for dealing with them."

  "We're limping for the border," Vasiht'h told him. "But it's going to take us five days."

  "Five... days?" Jahir whispered.

  "Five days," Triona confirmed. "And there are messages out there telling both sides where we are and what's happened, so our chances of making it without attracting someone's attention are basically nil. Meanwhile, our Ambassador here is doing his best to die on me, and he's apparently going to be having withdrawal seizures. Vasiht'h tells me you can prevent those... so if you can, I'm afraid you're not going to be getting much sleep for the next week."

  Vasiht'h added, quiet, "We let you rest for a few hours."

  Appalled, Jahir looked down at Lisinthir's drawn face.

  "Silver lining-wise," Triona offered, "there's not much any of us can do for the next few days. So keeping watch is the limit of our responsibilities."

  "That and the other thing," came another voice, and there was Cory... Cory whose body looked much the worse for wear. Her uniform was shredded across an entire shoulder, showing off four strips of pressure bandaging, and where it wasn't torn it was stained and had dried in strange folds. She'd washed her face and pulled her hair back, but her exhaustion was palpable in the set of her ears and the weight of her tail. And yet... there was something good in her, Jahir thought: a calm. She had been tested and not found wanting.

  And then he paid attention to the words. "What other thing is this?"

  Cory nodded to Lisinthir. "He's got information we need. Recent information, intelligence he thought was important enough to go haring off alone in pursuit of it. And we need that information in case he dies."

  "She wants us to go after it," Vasiht'h murmured.

  In an unconscious mind? Jahir supposed it was possible. A terrible breach of privacy, but Fleet was within its rights to ask. These were people who had accepted two strangers into their minds in order to improve their performance, and done so without giving individual consent; they would think nothing of requiring it of Lisinthir, who while not technically Fleet had become vital to their success, particularly about information this important.

  Lisinthir would consent if asked, though; Jahir knew him that well. It was the implication that his cousin might die before they reached the border that troubled him... because he didn't think Triona would have brought it up to Cory, or allowed Cory to make the suggestion, had there not been a real danger of it.

  "Of course," was all he said. "We'll do our best."

  "Good," Cory said. "Is there anything we can do, meanwhile, to make your job easier?"

  Was there? Jahir glanced at his cousin, touched his shoulder and found it cooler than was its wont. His fingers were bright against the blouse, gone a pale rose at the seam where it had soaked blood-tinted sweat. Seeing them there, Jahir said, "Yes, actually. If you can spare someone to help us with the watch? I think having his head in some friendly laps might please him."

  /And give them something to do that makes them feel useful?/ Vasiht'h observed.

  /Yes,/ Jahir said, his sending muted. /But he'll know they're there. And their worries will draw his attention./

  /You think?/

  /I know./ Jahir looked up at Cory. "If, of course, you can find people to oblige him."

  Cory managed a rough chuckle. "Oh, I think we could. Even if none of us are very pretty to look at anymore, it would be fun to pretend like we are."

  "There you are, then."

  "I'll go fetch a volunteer," Cory said. "I've got the watch this shift, but I'll come when I'm off. Thank you, aletsen."

  "Do you need anything?" Triona asked Jahir. "I don't want you working yourself into a crisis yourself."

  Jahir smiled a little. "I'll be fine." He glanced at Vasiht'h and let some of his fond
ness saturate the mindline. "I have someone to remind me to sleep and eat already."

  Vasiht'h answered with the sort of quiet satisfaction that had been so common to them before this trip, and armed with that Jahir slid back down and into his cousin's psyche. He rested a hand on Lisinthir's arm, and spread out—out—over—until he felt thin as a film over all the shivering sparkles of that agitated nervous system. He hushed them, sank deeper, like water into soil, looking for damage and seeing it everywhere. Oh, God and Lady, cousin—

  A whisper from above him: /Triona suggested wishing she could dose him with slowsleep./

  That was a good idea. He also knew why the Seersa hadn't—he couldn't imagine calculating the right dosage for someone as habituated to sedatives as Lisinthir. The most credible scenario involved his cousin failing to react to ever-increasing doses until one of them finally threw him into metabolic crisis. /You think we can duplicate the effect./

  /We did the nerve block..../

  They had. But this would involve a great deal more effort. Maybe more than he was capable of. A frisson of fear shivered through him, fluttering the blanket he was holding over Lisinthir's responses, and he felt the response like barbs against his skin. That it felt good bothered him, but he set it aside. /I don't know if it can be done./

  /I can help you with the energy. You just concentrate, I'll feed you./

  /And who will keep you anchored?/

  A pause, measured in the too-swift heartbeats of his patient. Jahir tried not to count them, but they filled his ears, suggested a frenetic music.

  /Triona can pull me back./ At the flexure of his skepticism, Vasiht'h said, /I'm not like you. I'm more connected to reality./ Memories of tastes, sugar that burned the tongue, the pressure of a brush on pelt, the feel of wet pavement beneath pawpads. /It won't shock me to have someone else pull me back, the way it would you./

  /You are stronger than I am, ariihir./

  /No./ Firm as the deck of their starbase home, and exhilarating for what the epiphany it suggested. /I am stronger in a different way./ Gentler: /Try it, ariihir. Do your job. I'll do mine. And we'll all get home—I swear it to the Goddess./