Part 46 (1/2)

”Again!” Kosta shouted, scrambling to his feet and shooting a glance to his left. Ornina was standing there, her eyes wide, Kosta's shocker gripped in her hand. ”Hit him again!”

She squeezed the weapon. There was another buzz, and Trilling jerked again. ”Again,” Kosta ordered, gingerly trying to ease past the wavering knife. The shocker was still on its lowest setting, and that wasn't going to hold someone like Trilling very long. If Kosta could get to Ornina and dial a higher power- And then, with a sort of gurgling moan, Trilling lunged at him.

If he'd been in full control of his muscles, Kosta would have died right there. But two jolts from the shocker, even at low power, had scrambled his nervous system just enough. Kosta jumped back, and the knife blade sliced through his left sleeve instead of burying itself into the center of his chest. Reflexively, he slapped at Trilling's knife arm with his right hand, and to his own vague surprise the knife went flying away to clatter off the pipes and conduits lining the bulkheads.

For a fraction of a second Kosta could see his own surprise mirrored in Trilling's face at the loss of his weapon. Then, with a slurred curse, Trilling lunged again.

Kosta tried to slap away the hands stretching out toward his throat. But Trilling was already shrugging off the effects of the shocker and the counter-move failed. An instant later the hands reached their target, one grabbing him by the throat, the other closing around Kosta's left upper arm.

An agonizing wave of pain shot through the skin and muscle like a crack of lightning. He had just enough time to gasp once- And then his back was slammed against the bulkhead hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The grip around his throat tightened, cutting off his air, and Trilling began to beat his head against the cold metal.

Kosta's vision began to waver, fog alternating with sparks of pain with each blow. He tried to bring up his knee into Trilling's groin, but his body seemed to have turned into soft cotton. He was vaguely aware of someone screaming something in the background, but he couldn't make out the words. He reached up to try to pull Trilling's hand off his throat, but there was no strength there, and he was barely even able to grab hold of the other's wrist.

And then, suddenly, the hammering of his head stopped. Even as he wondered whether the halt was real or simply the hallucination of a dying brain, the grip around his throat loosened and then was gone. His head began to clear, and he found himself sagging against the bulkhead, gasping for breath, his left arm throbbing with pain.

And then Chandris was at his side, gripping his right arm. ”It's all right,” she said, her breath coming in shaky gulps. ”Just sit down, okay? Just sit down.”

”I'm okay,” he said, letting her help him down into a sitting position on the deck. The words hurt his throat to say.

”Here,” Ornina said, appearing on his other side with a first-aid kit. ”Chandris, can you start getting his s.h.i.+rt off?”

”Sure.”

She began carefully pulling off his s.h.i.+rt. Kosta winced as a line of fire flashed across his chest, joining counterpoint with the agony in his left upper arm, and to his amazement he noticed for the first time that the s.h.i.+rt there was soaked with blood. Apparently, that first slash had been deeper than he'd realized. Odd that he hadn't felt any pain there until now.

It was only then, as he raised his eyes from the blood on his chest, that he saw Trilling.

The man was crumpled on the deck behind Chandris, unmoving. His right hand was wet with blood where he'd been squeezing Kosta's slashed arm.

Protruding from his back was the hilt of his own knife.

Kosta looked back at Chandris. Now, for the first time, he could see the tears running down her cheeks. ”Chandris?” he asked softly.

”I had to,” she said, her voice so low he almost couldn't hear it. ”He was going to kill you. He was going to kill you both. There was nothing else I could do.”

”I know,” Kosta said, wincing as Ornina carefully rolled a bandage across the cut in his chest. ”I'm-”

”No, don't,” she cut him off, flas.h.i.+ng a tortured glare at him through the moisture br.i.m.m.i.n.g in her eyes. ”Don't.”

She dropped her gaze away, half turning toward the body lying on the deck behind her. ”He was my friend once,” she said, her body jerking with silent, gasping sobs. ”He was all I had. He cared for me, protected me.”

She bowed her head and closed her eyes. ”Loved me.”

Kosta gazed at her profile, at the tears still flowing freely.

And for him, at least, there was no longer any doubt. Chandris could protect her friends, yet cry over what she had had to do. She could make sacrifices for a higher need, yet retain her pride and dignity. She could feel anger, and sadness, and regret, and love.

The Pax propaganda was wrong. The angels weren't turning the citizens of the Empyrean into something less than human. If anything, they were allowing people like Chandris to become more human than they'd ever been. More human than they'd ever dared to be.

Ornina had s.h.i.+fted now to bandaging his arm. Their eyes met, and he read the message there. Reaching over with his good arm, he took hold of Chandris's shoulders and gently pulled her close to him.

And as if that had been the breaking of the final barrier, she turned her face into his chest and sobbed like a child. Like the child that in many ways she still was.

Like the child, perhaps, that she had never been allowed to be.

CHAPTER 36.

”I'm sorry, High Senator,” the doctor said, peering down at his hand computer. ”I'm afraid we still don't know what happened to Mr. Ronyon.”

Forsythe looked over at Ronyon. The big man was studiously fastening his shoes, with the same intense concentration he brought to every technically challenging job. ”But he is all right now?”

”As far as we can tell,” the doctor said. ”If you'd like to leave him with us for a few more days, we might be able to come up with something.”

”You mean you might be able to dream up some new test that no one's ever thought of before?”

The doctor shrugged uncomfortably. ”It does rather come down to that, yes,” he conceded.

”Yes,” Forsythe said. ”I appreciate the offer, but I think we'll pa.s.s.”

Ronyon finished his shoes and straightened up. Can we go now? he signed to Forsythe, his forehead wrinkled with nervous hope.

Yes, Forsythe a.s.sured him. It had been clear from their conversation earlier that afternoon that Ronyon was very unhappy here, lying in a strange bed and being periodically poked and prodded and frowned at by the small army of medical men and women who were continually carting him off to various examination rooms. There was no point in making him go through any more of that, particularly when they'd run out of ideas anyway.

And in truth, Forsythe was just as anxious to get the big man back at his side. The tension of not knowing what was happening at Lorelei was starting to affect him, making him moody and short-tempered. And everyone from Pirbazari to the temporary staff the Seraph government had insisted on a.s.signing to him knew it. The sooner he had Ronyon's happy innocence around him again, the better.

”Best of fortune to you, then,” the doctor said. ”If he has any more attacks, please let me know at once. Good-bye, Mr. Ronyon.”Are we going home now? Ronyon signed as he and Forsythe headed down the hospital corridor toward the admissions desk where Pirbazari should be about finished with the release paperwork.

Not yet, Forsythe told him, struggling to keep his emotion from showing in his face. For all they knew, there might not even be a home left for them to go back to.But of course Ronyon knew nothing about this. For the moment, it was best they keep it that way.

We're going to the Magasca Government Building, he added. We have some temporary office s.p.a.ce there.

Oh. Ronyon paused, his forehead wrinkling a little more. Why aren't we going home?We can't leave yet, Forsythe said, studying Ronyon's face. To the casual observer, he seemed to have recovered fully from whatever had happened to him at Angelma.s.s.

But Forsythe had known him a long time, and he could tell that there was still something lingering below the surface. There were new lines at the corners of Ronyon's eyes, and a thin film of solemnity lying across his expression like a nearly transparent veil.