by Baen Books
“Sponsoring me…?” she felt a rising triumph warring with disbelief.
“And Mudswimmer—”
“Spinesnarl,” he said proudly, announcing a choice-name. “Spinesnarl Mudswimmer. Because that’s where it all started, for us, right?”
“Right,” she said, and suddenly it all burst in on her and she caught up the little Toad. “The Academy, Spinesnarl!” She tossed him up and caught him, laughing.
“We’re going to the Academy!”
Chimera
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
There'd been a lot of shouting at that meeting -- well, there always was shouting at the meetings Farnch took 'him to. Wasn't no use saying he didn't wanna go, on account the shouting hurt his head -- Farnch just called him an auntie, and shoved him into the nearest wall. Then Jewl would yell, and punch Farnch, too, if he wasn't faster'n her fist, which wasn't nobody faster'n Jewl's fist -- and Farnch'd get mad, but even Farnch knew better'n to swing on Jewl, so he'd just get madder'n madder, 'til Darby's head was like to bust with it, and either Farnch'd go out with his crew, or Darby'd go up to the garden 'til either he could hear himself think, or the tips of his ears started to burn in the cold, or Jewl sent one of the twins up to bring him back inside.
Jewl'd been feelin' bad these last couple days, and he'd just managed to get her to sleep when Farnch'd come home, growling about how there was a meeting and it was up to him and Darby help take Surebleak back. . .and all the other kind o'nonsense Farnch was on about lately, him having a grudge against the New Bosses. Farnch, he'd been ambitious, under the Old Bosses. He'd been working all the angles there was, and some that, in Darby's personal opinion, didn't really exist, looking to get onto Boss Goyan's staff. Farnch's big plan was to work his way up to insurance man.
He'd've prolly made, too, Farnch being just that mean, but then what should happen but Boss Conrad come to Surebleak, just particularly to ruin Farnch's life. Least, that's the way Farnch felt about it, and there wasn't any way at all that Darby could change what his brother felt about having his life-plan ruined.
So, for the sake of Jewl's rest, and his own fragile head, Darby'd come along quiet to the meeting, and sat through the yelling and the hating, and the wanting to do something-or-someone a lot of hurt and harm.
That last, that was the worst. He could mostly ignore the yelling and the hating. . .well, that wasn't so bad when there were lots of folks. The feeling got. . .spread out, somehow. Hate was a lot harder to deal with, when it was concentrated in one person.
The bloodlust, though, that got scarier'n a sleet-storm, real fast. Killing rage multiplied in a crowd, until it overwhelmed every sane thought in the room.
Hadn't been so bad tonight; tonight being a planning meeting. There was gonna be a shooting competition at Sherman's, and all the New Bosses were gonna be there with their 'hands. The Streeters for Taking Back Surebleak committee -- that was what Farnch's friends called themselves, though Darby didn't see that Surebleak'd gone anywhere. Sure, there was the new people come in -- Liadens and suchlike -- but Surebleak was still right there under the boots where it'd always been, far's Darby knew about it. . .
Anyhow, the Streeters for Surebleak, they was thinking maybe to disrupt that shoot, and show the New Bosses a thing or three, and put the fear of winter into 'em.
So that was the meeting, and he'd lasted 'til it was over, pretty well pleased to've come out in good order, with only the tiniest headache, and his ears ringing with the shouting.
"Darb, we're going on down to Rogin's and talk about this some more. You coming?"
No, no. He knew 'way better'n drinkin' with Farnch and his friends and talking some more about real 'bleakers and how the foreigners had taken every good thing that'd ever been in everybody's hand, like they'd forgotten the way it had been, with the Old Bosses.
Like they'd liked the way it'd been, under the Old Bosses.
Well, and that was just it. The way he'd understood it, the couple times he couldn't think of an excuse not to go with Farnch's crew, was they had liked the old ways better. They were strong, and liked violence, too -- that was the difference between them and Darby. He could hold his own in a fight -- wouldn't lived long on the streets after their Dad died, if he hadn't learned that. Wasn't as fast as Jewl, nor not as big as Farnch, but he was quick, and he knew where to hit.
Didn't like to fight, that was all. 'specially didn't like to fight when there wasn't anything to fight about.
Farnch, though -- was waiting for an answer, and Darby was walking the thin line of making him look bad in front of his crew.
"Can't tonight," he said, managing to sound like he felt sad about that. "Gotta check on Jewl; see if she's any better."
"Right," said Farnch, who'd been pretty put out with having to make his supper outta twin-made soup and handwich. "Tell 'er I expect to see her fresh as a new fall tomorra."
Jewl wasn't likely to be up tomorrow, but there wasn't any use telling Farnch that. Always worked out better with Farnch, if he just discovered things when they happened, 'stead of giving him to time to work up a mad.
So.
"I'll tell her," Darby said, and nodded to his brother's crew before he headed on down the street.
"Brother ain't real keen?" he heard Vesti ask. It'd be Vesti. Always making trouble, that girl.
"He's in," Farnch said, his voice getting thinner as the crew headed off in the opposite direction. "No doubt there. M'sister's been sick, is all, and he worries over her like she was our Ma."
In point of actual fact, Darby didn't remember their Ma all that sharp; she'd already been sick when he'd come along. Jewl'd been there from the first; Jewl'd had the raising of him, Jewl and Dad, 'til Dad got made a zample. Jewl'd got pregnant right after -- 'nother kind of zample-making, which was something he wasn't s'posed to know, and Jewl didn't never talk about. That got 'em the twins, and Jewl'd been first-minded to toss 'em into the snow. He worked with her on that, just putting weight and warm on what Gran Delaros said when she come to check in, which she'd done three, five times a day, at first, when Jewl wouldn't get up, and turned her face into the pillow when the twins was brought to suck. It took some time, it took some work, but the talk about snowbanks melted away, and she'd cuddle 'em a little when they sucked, and started in to play with them, and to pick 'em up, instead of leaving that to Darby or to Gran -- Farnch, he'd been out with his crew, mostly, 'round then, him needing to stablish his space on the sidewalk. . .
"Alien! I'm gonna stomp you inta paste you little --"
The voice was loud, and slurred, coming from the street on Darby's left. There was the sound of meat hitting meat, and a soft cry, then another yell -- and Darby was running, not away from the fight, which woulda been sensible, but toward it.
Darby recognized the big guy -- Pablo Gerstein, who'd been Boss Goyan's insurance man -- the guy Farnch'd planned to throw outta his job. Now Goyan'd gotten retired, Pablo, he'd kinda retired, too, bullying the local bartenders into giving him drinks, and staying just a little drunk, and a lot belligerent, all the time.
Nowadays, he got his money by beating up 'streeters less able with their fists, or less willing to give -- or take -- damage, than he was.
Tonight, he had his mark pushed up into a corner -- Darby had a fast glimpse of a short, slender figure, ducking not quite out of the way of Pablo's fist, and then he was on it, grabbing the big man by the elbow, and spinning him around with a yell.
"You bastid!" Pablo shouted. "Better get the sleet outta here, or I'll --"
Darby swung, taking advantage of the big man's chancy balance, to land a good one on his jaw.
That sent him staggering, but punches weren't the way to take Pablo down. Even a hard strike to the skull didn't always do the trick; years of drinking had given him a head as hard as a paving stone.
The big man'd already recovered, and was coming in swinging with his ham fists. Darby ducked inside the other's reach, got a good chest punch in, and turned his head to
yell at the mark, who was still standing in that corner.
"Run!"
Well, that was a mistake. Pablo's fist came outta nowhere, and the next thing Darby was seeing was snowflakes, in real pretty colors, and feeling the wall against his back.
Pablo was so mad, he didn't have any more words; he was still fighting, though -- roaring and all his attention on Darby.
Desperately, Darby pushed himself away from the wall -- and there was a flash of motion between him and Pablo, a short, slight figure that seemed to skate over the surface of the street, hand striking high, foot striking low. Darby heard something go crunch, Pablo screamed and -- fell over.
"Sleet and thunder!" Darby yelled. He dashed forward, grabbed the little guy by the arm and dragged him in his wake.
"C'mon! Run while he's down!"
Half a block away, Darby felt the little guy kind of stagger under his hand, and caught a spike of pain. He slowed, shifting his grip to give the boy some support under the elbow.
"Hey," he said, breathless, "you OK?"
The street was dark, but there was a little spill from the sign over Greenlie's Dry Goods, enough to see a thin face behind a long snarl of reddish brown hair, bruises already rising along a high, fragile cheek. Dark eyes looked at him straightly, brows pulled against that little burn of pain.
"You OK?" Darby asked again. "My place is just another block down. Can you walk that far? I don't think Pablo's gonna be chasing after us. That knee must hurt where you kicked him."
"Indeed," the voice was light, and somewhat unsteady. "If I remembered my. . .lessons, that knee. . .cap is crushed. Pablo will require a physician."
Something flickered over his face -- another sort of pain, Darby caught -- and that fast, it was gone.
"I am Kez Rel ter'Ista Clan Wilkin," he said. "I thank you for your. . .timely assistance." He paused, and Darby felt the shiver go through him. "What is your name, sir?"
"Darby Bajek, and I ain't a sir. Just Darby's good. You OK to walk down to my place?"
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself further. I will continue to my lodgings."
Darby eyed him, seeing the wobble in the knees, and feeling the flicker of pain, and something else, around the pain. He wanted a closer look at that, but first things first. The boy needed to sit down and collect himself, else he was gonna fall over onto his pointy little nose.
"'less your lodging's right next door here, you're better coming with me. Get you cleaned up, something to settle you -- my nephew made a big pot o'soup for our supper. Sure was good, and I'm betting there's still a cup left for you. While you're having that, we'll get you a taxi to the lodging."
Darby paused, considering. He didn't get the feeling that Kestrel Terista was afraid; sensibly wary maybe covered it. Still, couldn't hurt to say it out, plain.
"Won't hurt you."
He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the eyes widen, maybe in insult -- and then a wry smile.
"Thank you. . .Darby. I will come with you, and call a taxi."
"That's the ticket. Just right this way."
He thought about offering an arm to lean on, remembered that half-gasp of insult and bit his tongue. He did set a slow pace, though, down the street, toward home.
Ean opened up a crack, took in Kestrel Terista with one wide blue stare, and stepped back to fling the door open.
"Farnch?" he asked, when they were inside, and he had pushed the door to, but not locked it, yet.
"Down Rogin's with the crew," Darby told him. "This is Kestrel Terista, E. He got on Pablo's bad side. Kestrel, this is my nephew, Ean, E for short. He'll show you where to get cleaned up."
There was a weighted silence from his side, and he turned to look at his guest. The right side of his face was swollen and starting to go purple; his eye just a dark slit. The left side showed smooth, gold-colored skin, and a well-opened dark brown eye, just at the moment staring right at him.
Darby concentrated, and caught something like humor and aggravation twisted around together, 'til it was hard to feel one from t'other.
"If I done something wrong, you're gonna hafta tell me what it was so I can make it right," he said. "Only thing I can say is, I don't mean to offend. We're maybe not quite what you're used to, here."
Humor bloomed, and the thin mouth curved slightly upward.
"That is very true -- for both of us, I think. Thank you for your care, Darby. I am pleased to meet your nephew." He inclined his head, carefully, as Darby read it, in E's direction.
"Was it you who made the supper-soup?"
"Nah, that was Peor. I made the handwiches." Ean cocked his head to one side. "We got some o'both left over, if you need something to eat, after you wash your face."
"Thank you. A cup of soup would be. . .welcome."
"'k, then. C'mon this way, so you can wash up. . ." E led Kestrel down the hall toward the lav.
Peor came in from the kitchen side, looking worried.
"How's Jewl?" Darby asked.
Peor's worry was like a snowfog, clammy and chill.
"She was cold, and wanted another blanket," he said. "I brought her the one off our bed, but she was still cold, so I got your blanket, too, and our winter coats." He took a breath.
"We tried to get her to eat some soup, but she didn't want it. E got 'er to drink some warm water, and then she said her head hurt. I sat with 'er while E did his book work. He came to switch out with me when she was just back asleep. We looked in a couple times, but she was still sleeping."
Darby shivered; felt Peor's worry spike.
"You did good," Darby said, and smiled. "I'll go check on her now. You hear we got a visitor?"
Peor nodded. "We still got plenty dinner, like E said. Darb?"
"Yeah."
"Is Kestrel Liaden?"
"Pretty sure so, why?"
"Maybe better get him outta here 'fore Farnch comes home?"
Before Farnch came home after a full night drinking with his friends, and telling over all the wrongs that Liadens had put onto them.
"Yeah. Whyn't you zip down to Miz Prestoro's and call for a taxi? Oughta be here by the time he finishes his soup."
"All right," Peor said. And, "Is Ma gonna be all right, Darb? She was. . .she was crying, that's how cold she was."
Jewl never cried. Never. Not even the night she come home beat up and bleeding and all her nails and a couple fingers broke.
Darby controlled his own shiver, and gave Peor a nod.
"I'll go in and check on her. You two take care of Kestrel."
Peor nodded, and turned toward the door.
Darby went down the hall, to his sister's room.
He eased the door open, so's not to wake her, if she was still sleeping. The room lamp was on in the corner, with a towel thrown over it to dim the glare and to ease Jewl's aching head.
He didn't see her, at first, just the pile of blankets and winter coats in the center of the bed. Then he saw a movement, as his eyes adjusted -- a tiny constant movement of that mountain of cloth.
Shivering.
He crossed the room and knelt by her bed, reaching beneath the blankets to find her, the while feeling. . .feeling. . .
. . .absent, cold, so cold, and all his thought was focused on how to get her warm, if this wasn't enough.
His questing hand found hers, like ice.
A sound -- a whimper -- and he'd've never in his whole life heard Jewl make any such sound.
Carefully, he peeled back the edge of the blankets until he found her face, flushed, and damp, and when he put his hand across her forehead, burning hot.
There was a fever going 'round; Mister Warchiski, who worked at the clinic, he'd told him about it, two, three weeks ago.
"Summer flu," Mister Warchiski'd said, and added, like an afterthought, "nasty one."
Darby stroked Jewl's hair back from her face; it was soaked, like she'd just come outta the shower.
He needed help, he thought carefully, Jewl needed help. Clinic -
- but he didn't want to move her, sick as she was and maybe infectious, too. Call, then. Maybe the clinic had a travelling doctor.
Darby got to his feet, pulled the covers back over his sister, and left her, moving fast. Kitchen first, where Kestrel sat at their table, clean and neat, his hair combed and braided, and tied off with a piece of twine. There was still that little hot-spot of pain, wound around with whatever it was, but Darby didn't have time for that now.
"Kestrel, you gotta go," he said, which was maybe too abrupt, but there was Jewl back there in bed, freezing and burning at the same time.
Kestrel raised his head, and gave him a sharp look out of his one open eye.
"Immediately?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm sorry. Maybe Miz Prestoro'll let you wait for the taxi at her place. Peor went down to call it, so shouldn't be long. But you gotta go now. I'm real sorry, but my sister's sick, worse'n I thought."
Kestrel put the cup down, and rose from the table.
"Take me to her," he said, briskly.
Darby shook his head.
"Not smart. She's gotta a fever; prolly contagious."
"Yes, that's very possible. However, I may be able to help."
Darby blinked at him, seeing E sitting stiff at the table, his face white and his eyes wide.
"Help? How can you help?"
Kestrel was seen to sigh.
"I am a physician," he said, and stepped around the table, reaching out to pick up his jacket as he came. "Please. Take me to your sister."
Kestrel had taken an instrument case from inside his jacket, and opened it on the table next to Jewl's bed. He took a long moment to examine each object, his tension palpable, but not overstrong. Likewise, his relief upon finding his instruments undamaged was perfectly clear, without being overwhelming.
"Please, if you will pull the blankets back?" Kestrel said. "I would not wish to distress her with a stranger's touch, when she has kin by her."