Breathing Space

by S. J. Higbee

  “You’ll think I’m a spineless gaper. But I can’t face it. The pain. Lying flat on my back once more…”

  “We wouldn’t have considered this, if it wasn’t a quick, easy fix.” I took a breath. “I’m not going to promise it won’t hurt, but I’ll make sure you get all the pain meds going. I’m coming with you. You won’t be alone in this. My word.”

  Which was how we ended up sharing a room that first night as Gaiasts in a private ward, with Wynn nanobotted to a phagesac.

  “Should be back on your feet in less than no time,” I said over-brightly, wishing he wasn’t still wearing that veil.

  “How long’ll this take?” his voice was tight.

  “About a day. The nanobugs are programmed to head for bone lesions and then start seeding extra calcium into the damaged area. The initial stage is quite quick. Which is when the…” I stopped, realising he didn’t need to hear about the possible mishaps that happened in a vanishingly small number of cases. “That’s when they need to keep an eye on the process. And when it’s going well, they’ll be able to let you out. The bugs go on growing until your bones are repaired, and then they die.”

  “How much does this cost?”

  I shrugged. “A lot. Which I’m paying for. And – no – you don’t owe me a single cred. This is what should’ve happened years back. This is what you were promised by my father, till the lying scumsac clawed it all back, again.”

  Chris shifted in the corner of the room and I realised I’d said too much. However, when Wynn’s hand fumbled for mine and his calloused fingers stroked my knuckles the way he used to, I found I didn’t care.

  “Thank you.” He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Wish you’d seen fit to talk this through with me, first.”

  There wasn’t time! And I want to see you stride around like you used to. Leastways I managed to keep from blurting aloud those thoughts. My throat was tight with unshed tears. Though quite why, I wasn’t sure. And didn’t want to find out. “Tell you what, why don’t I read to you? I gotta whole library here on my com that I’ve never had the time to even look at.” I handed it to him. “Find something you’d like.”

  Because if I’m busy reading to you, I can’t go on remembering how it used to be. Or babble anything else that should stay tucked tween my teeth.

  Turns out, he’s a sucker for murder mysteries. So I read the translation of an ancient text – Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie – we’d studied her in Earth Classical Literature and it isn’t nearly as boring as you might think. Even Chris was so engrossed by the time Wynn fell asleep, that I promised to upload a copy for him the following day.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Surfacing from deep sleep, it took a long moment to recall exactly where I was. Though I realised as soon as I caught the smell of sterile dressings, antibac phages and occasional blasts of a salty something supposed to be ocean air – the default stink for most meat-suites as it’s a healing aroma. Apparently.

  What wasn’t smelling much, was me. Or Wynn. You’d think having lived inside these robes and veils for the last twenty-four plus hours we’d be on the ripe side of acceptable. Nope. And Wynn, being frightened and ill, should’ve been giving off that rank, fear stench I’d come to associate with sick soldiers, having spent more hours than I cared to recall sitting at bedsides. Though he was still snoring gently.

  Eileen was now on duty in the corner of the room. As I sat up and stretched, she whispered, “Morning, Sister.”

  I nodded in silent acknowledgement of her greeting. Gaiast priestesses didn’t wear out their mouths on non-believers, as far as I could gather, except for those droning sermons they specialised in.

  “The medic came in earlier and removed the phagesac,” Eileen continued in a low murmur, “As soon as he wakes, he’s free to go. Though the doc was against disturbing him. Reckoned he needed the rest. His serotonin levels are way down, apparently.”

  “Thank you,” I said, using Shinese.

  Within the P’s, we spoke a mix of English and Trader, though when dealing with Sector Two high-ups it was all Trader. Once on the liner, the default language would be Shinese, if their oh-so-helpful holo-guide was anything to go by, and although I could speak and understand it, I hadn’t used it in a while.

  “You’re welcome,” replied Eileen, with a cut-glass Shinese accent that would’ve passed muster on any top table in Homespace.

  My cool Gaiast act was blown to the edges of the galaxy. “Where’d you learn to talk Shinese like that?”

  Eileen never did cosy friendliness – most mercs don’t, especially women. Her body language radiated flooding well stay away from this subject, as she answered, “My aunt. Sister.”

  “Would you mind talking Shinese with me?” I switched back to English, “I reckon the liner passengers’ll be looking down their pointy noses at my slight twang—ˮ

  A throaty chuckle came from the bed. Wynn’s eyes were closed, but he was grinning, nevertheless. “Slight twang? Your accent is thick enough to stir with a stick, girl!”

  “Says the man whose Trader now oozes Ceran mud with every phrase that drops out’ve your mouth!” I snapped.

  Wynn sat up, all humour drained from his face. “But my life – and that of my family – doesn’t rely on my talking in chup-speak.”

  “Chup?” And now he’s pulling dialect on me!

  Wynn rolled his eyes at my denseness. “Cred-hugging useless prodders! All politicos… company execs… council chairmen… bosses… the flix-up merchants who have the nerve to call their sorry selves leaders.”

  It was Eileen’s turn to grin. “Solidly good description, Brother. Better get your veil on, though. Time to leave.”

  Wynn eased his legs over the side of the bed – and stopped. He stretched his leg and flexed his foot. “It doesn’t hurt. Not a twinge!”

  My throat ached at the shock on his face. For something to do, I grabbed his veil and handed it to him.

  He merely dropped it onto the bed as he stood up, gently putting his weight on his left leg. “Does this wear off?”

  I wasn’t at my shiny best. “What wear off?”

  “Moving around without feeling I’m being stabbed.” He was now pacing about the room with long, loose-limbed strides that shook free a flood of unwelcome memories.

  “If it does, I’ll be back to find out why. This should be a permanent fix.” It cost enough.

  “Shinese, Sister,” Eileen reminded me.

  I rolled my eyes and mimicked her smug expression, for once enjoying the fact that no one could see my face. This whole business was going to be a solid nuisance. However, if I were Eddy, I’d be putting out an Alert for any female, whatever her age, who spoke English or any other language with an English twa— accent. Until I smoothed over this trademark identifier, it was just as well Gaiasts weren’t over-chatty. And I’d need to get up to speed on upperlevel Shinese and Trader, or save myself the trouble of wearing Gaiast robes…

  So I swallowed down my sense of resentment at having to shed my mothertongue, and replied, “Thank you. And keep nagging. I gotta get this accent sorted out.”

  “I have to correct my atrocious accent,” said Eileen, her face blanker than null space.

  “I have to correct my atrocious accent,” I repeated, raising my voice slightly so I could hear myself over Jessica’s whoops of laughter.

  Eileen nodded. “That’s not bad. I’ll vid-cord some phrases on my com and upload them, seeing as we can’t use your augs.”

  Meantime, Wynn had pulled his veil on and was attempting to tie it to the back of his robe.

  “Oh, come here – lemme do that.” I pushed his hands away and fastened the row of ties in half-bows so they’d undo when tugged.

  “Come here and allow me to assist you,” corrected Eileen.

  As Jessica sniggered, I was seized with a longing to stamp my foot and howl. Prodding hells! I’ve covered myself from head to toe. I’ve teamed up with Wynn – who I’d rather keep at a dist
ance – and I’m headed Earthwards as fast as I can go. Isn’t it enough?

  Jessica’s humour evaporated faster than a raindrop on a sunspot. Nope. Not against the likes of Eddy. You saw what he did to Stationmaster Smith. D’you reckon he’ll hesitate to pull the same vile stunts with your Mum and poor little Luke? Like it or not – you’re their best chance of coming through this mess unscathed. And that relies on your ability to arrive on Earth still in disguise.

  I shivered, my robes suddenly flapping around my legs.

  Eileen bit her lip. “Apologies, Boss. I didn’t mean—ˮ

  “No. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. This…” I gestured to my robes, while Jessica managed to wrestle them into quiet folds once more. “This is my problem. I appreciate your help. And if I get grumpy, then feel free to remind me this mission requires that I stay incognito.”

  After I contacted the medic and paid him in stony silence – ensuring I left a generous bonus for a job well done – we headed back to our hotel. I was enjoying the sensation of stretching out to match Wynn’s easy, swinging gait, as Eileen and Chris quick-marched us through the crush. It was fortunate that in those Gaiast robes Mum wouldn’t have known me if she’d stepped on my toes, because Hawking was infested with P’s mercs. While some were on official duty, a fair number were taking their leave there and volunteering to spend their free time pulling unpaid security shifts, or working alongside the maintenance crews labouring around the clock to put the space station back together. It made me proud to see our brave people working so. However, it also meant I needed to take care. These folk would immediately recognise my face if they caught so much as a glimpse. So no sneaked moments without my veil – I simply couldn’t take the risk.

  We ate breakfast in our room and then, while Wynn and Sarge went in search of replacement tools, I lounged on the bed, com-combing to see what was going on back at Restormel. Prospective candidates in the upcoming leadership elections were campaigning – pompous, longwinded speeches from Andy Bulstrode and snappy, shorter statements from Jasen Starcaster, with plenty of supporting and/or dismissive comments from their followers. I was glad to see that Axil was in Jasen’s camp, electioneering for him.

  Unfortunately, my own name was coming up far too often in all my info-trawls. While I hadn’t expected journo interest in me to completely die after I’d disappeared, I did assume the full-on blare of publicity to ease down. After all journos generally had the attention-span of a sweet-stimmed toddler. Fortunately, David’s notion of sending a number of slim-built young women clothed in P’s dress uniform off in all directions had caused a forest of conflicting reports about my whereabouts. The current favourite was that I’d pitched up in New London to return to my roots, apparently.

  On a sudden impulse, I input Wynn’s name, poised to Finetune and even Deepsearch for any wisp on him, and found that was unnecessary. There he was in the firstline rankings, dressed in a tattered shirt and ripped trousers, looking disturbingly like the man who’d rescued us in Basement Level all those years ago. Pictured leaning against a bench, clearly relaxed and in his element, he was surrounded by a crowd of his sculptures in a small, well-lit barn. A fair number of his carvings were in wood, though I noticed he still worked in modcrete. And when I zoomed onto a couple of the smaller pieces – a cat patting a leaf and an offal gull gobbling a piece of rubbish – my jaw dropped at the asking price.

  I’d recalled Sarge’s comment, I’m not lolling around bare-arsed – not even for a Wynn piece. So he must’ve been aware of Wynn’s growing fame, which was probably why he was out right now, helping Wynn find another set of tools. That makes sense. Sarge doesn’t break a sweat to help someone unless he figures they’re worth it.

  I browsed through the sculptures on sale. His work had changed. While the style was apparently the same, with the tool marks scoring the surface, there was more emotion. The animals were invariably caught in mid-movement and if I blinked, I felt they’d take off and continue playing… or diving… or flying… While the girl he sculpted in several poses, one leaning against a boulder, one kneeling in the grass, one sitting cross-legged – a slim girl with shoulder-length curly hair in a long, close-fitting dress – always seemed to be waiting. Sadness poured off her. This was doubtless his farmgirl. Whore!

  I stared at these figures, feeling sick as my robe thrashed around. I’d envisaged her as sturdier, more thickset, even though I knew that Wynn’s taste ran to slim girls – otherwise how would we have snagged together?

  I dropped the dregging com on the bed, suddenly aware that I hadn’t gone through any staff drills since my hands had healed. While I had no intention of practising so hard again, it didn’t make sense to allow those hard-won skills to rust through lack of use. I leaned forward and picked up the staff, closing my eyes.

  I started clearing my mind and adopting the slo-mo hand movements up and down the staff, which was the tediously long-winded build-up to my favourite part of the drill, so was the section I normally skipped. My robes fell quiet immediately, the folds of material pooling around my feet as if they were inert.

  Jessica’s shock rang around my skull. And although she tried to hide it, I realised that she hadn’t had any part of the robe’s sudden stillness.

  Are these drills part of keeping the robes under control? It certainly seemed to be working. I stood up and placed my feet in the correct positions, changing my balance, while breathing in and out in time to the sweeping, measured swings – another section I’d been in the habit of skipping. It had been the fast-spinning flurry of jabs, swings and blows I’d focused on, concentrating on using the staff as a weapon. While this room was topline, it wasn’t overlarge and I couldn’t have executed my usual aggressive whirling spins without taking lumps out of the furnishing and ceiling.

  All the time I was practising, I felt bonded with the robe, becoming aware of the material’s every movement, every swish as an extension of my body. An amazing feeling – and I wasn’t the only one who found it so. As I steadily completed the final choreographed movement and brought the staff down in front of me, Jessica’s perfume filled my nose and I had the strongest feeling of her presence.

  Ah, Lizzy – that was wonderful. Could you do it, again? Please?

  Achingly sad for the beautiful girl who’d been cut down so brutally, I took a breath, moving my hands, just so… and so… upon the staff…

  I’m sure she used the door chime, though I didn’t hear it. Neither did Jessica.

  “Boss?” Eileen was standing by the closed door, an odd look on her face. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said she was scared. It took a lot to frighten Eileen, which was one of the reasons why she was part of my bodyguard on this, my most vital mission. “Can I ask a favour?” she wasn’t even speaking Shinese.

  “Sure. Ask away. I won’t promise to agree, though.” I was determined to use Shinese, even if it meant I’d be corrected.

  However she didn’t. “Take that headdress off. So I can check it’s you.”

  Undoing the ties, I lifted it over my head, tossing it onto the bed. Before I’d even lifted it free, Eileen’s aug-link was pushing updates at me. The info-flow poured through my brain, leaving me slightly giddy. I’d expected to feel a blast of relief at not being swathed in that glossy material and instead, I felt nakedly exposed. When I looked down, the veil was back in my hands.

  Eileen was clearly happier talking face to face. “I’ve been working on a few phrases you might find nifty. There. And the latest update is that Home Turf will be docking at 1700 hrs – though I spect you’ve already checked that out.”

  Swiftly I scrolled through all the other data stacking up for my attention. “And we can board at 1900 hrs. Though Home Turf won’t be leaving for another thirty-seven hours after that.” As an info-nugget from the Sarge chattered in my ear, I sniggered and shared a grin with Eileen.

  “So. Blondie is capering about like a know-nothing nipper.” She smirked.

  “Bet what really put a kin
k in Sarge’s airhose was him having to carry those lumps of modcrete and the bag of tools, while Wynn marched off in front of him, like he was Lord of the Universe himself,” I added.

  We both giggled at the notion, while Jessica cackled in my ear.

  Far too soon, Eileen hauled herself to a halt and became my professional bodyguard, once more. “Don’t forget to check out that list, Sister.”

  “Thanks— Thank you, Eileen.” As I scrolled down page after page of Shinese phrases, I added, “You’ve gone to so much trouble…” I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to sort this lot out.

  She flushed, evidently pleased at my limp effort to praise her. “Once we’re aboard, we’ll have to be far more careful. While they’ve got privacy screens, we don’t know how porous they are, so we’ll have to watch ourselves, even in our own cribicles.”

  Which could prove an almighty problem. “Would it help to delay our boarding?”

  She shook her head.

  I sighed. “Of course not.” We’ll have to assume we’re moving onto enemy territory, until we’ve thoroughly checked out how solid their privacy screening is. Yet one more issue we had to deal with. Leastways I didn’t have a pile of admin/meat-suite visits/meetings to attend/reports to read/journo interviews/Sector Two politicos to sweet-slime. On balance, I figured I was ahead.

  The door hissed open and Wynn erupted into the room, his robes swinging around his feet in wriggling jerks. He was busy untying the veil as Sarge stomped in behind him, hauling a trolley in his wake piled with scorched, misshapen lumps of modcrete and a battered workman’s bag, clearly full. The room filled with the bitter stench of charred modcrete.