Between Darkness and Light (113 page)

“I have none for you,” she said, hardening her voice. “Kusac was the victim here. I warned you to tell him about the female, and what he'd do if you didn't when he found out. He even gave you a chance to admit it to him. Your Security guard panicked and shot him. Kusac's shot was merely reflexive, he had no intention of harming you, never mind M'kou. He only wanted you as a hostage.”

“I'm not talking about the gun, I'm talking about how he went for my throat! Dammit, Zayshul, I would have been within my rights to have had him executed on the spot!”

“Had you done so—and if you let him die—you will alienate yourself from all of us who came with you! They know him, Kezule! He isn't a feared enemy, he's someone they've worked and played with, so is his crew!”

“His wound is not life threatening,” he hissed, grabbing his jacket. “I've seen civilians survive worse in battle. He will not be treated, that's final, and he'll be punished for this, that I promise!”

He was heading for the door when Giyarishis arrived. “What do you want?” he demanded. “To plead for his life, too? It's with his Gods now,” he snarled, pushing the small alien aside and stalking off down the corridor.

Zayshul sat there blinking back tears, frustrated and furious with both Kezule, and Kusac.

“Must live,” hummed Giyarishis' translator as he hovered in the doorway. “Cooperate they must!”

 

Kezule looked at the contents of the box that M'zynal had emptied onto the table in his office in amazement. Reaching out, he picked up a small unit that resembled a reader.

“What does this do?”

“It can hack into the engineering station on their level and trigger anything from blackouts to changing the addresses of our internal communications system,” his Security chief said. “Somehow he also managed to access the station and set it up to respond to signals from his device. Very clever, actually.”

Kezule put it to one side and picked through the various gadgets. “Garrotes,” he said, touching one of the pieces of wire.

“And lockpicks,” agreed M'zynal, reaching for another device which he held up for the General. “They'd made five one-shot stun guns like this,” he said, putting it back. “There are several small explosive devices—plenty of smoke and some damage, good for getting out of tight situations. And a couple of small welding devices.”

He picked up a bag of gray powder. “This?”

“Nitrogen-based fertilizer, an explosive compound when mixed with items such as fuel. Placed in the right areas, there's enough there to cause serious damage to Kij'ik.”

“Who had that?”

“We found it hidden in the Captain's quarters. As well as the gun you were given earlier, he was also carrying a spray of the same chemical as the pellets.”

“So all of them were preparing an attack,” he said, sitting back down, his jaw tightening. “Are you sure you found everything?”

“Their quarters are clean, but as for the rest of their level, we swept it as thoroughly as we could, but I can't guarantee we found everything.”

“Return them to their quarters and lock them in. Post guards outside.”

“Aye, sir,” said M'zynal, scooping the contents carefully back into the box and leaving.

Kezule sat back in his chair, staring into space. Now that some of his initial rage had burned off, his conscience was beginning to nag him. Much of what Zayshul had said was true, but Kusac's behavior had made it impossible for him to do anything other than what he'd done. Frankly, he didn't trust himself near the Sholan in the near future. Staring death at his hands—or teeth—in the face the way he had, had rattled him more than he liked. And what the pellet had done to his son, he couldn't forgive. The temptation to tear Kusac limb from limb was too strong right now. Whatever the provocation, and he had to admit there had been enough, there had been no excuse for the Sholan to react as violently as he had.

A knock at the door broke his reverie.

“Enter.”

M'kou came in, still pale, his arm in a sling, but otherwise looking well.

“Sit down,” he said, half rising. “You should still be in your bed.”

“I'm fine. I came to tell you that my wound was an accident,” said M'kou, taking the seat beside his father's desk. “When Kusac was hit, his gun went off as his hand clenched round the trigger. It was a reflex action, nothing more.”

“He shouldn't have been carrying a gun,” said Kezule grimly. “He'll be punished for the damage he's caused you and for attempting to kill me.”

“That was after he'd been shot, Father. You'd have done the same. His wound is surely punishment enough.”

“Have you come to tell me we need him, too?” he asked testily. “Seems everyone has an opinion that differs from mine!”

“We don't need the Sholans after us for killing him and his crew.”

“You've been talking to Zayshul,” he said angrily, getting up. “Stop pressuring me, M'kou. It's only making it more difficult for me to spare him.”

“Then there's no point in me asking you to give him medical treatment,” said his son, rising.

“None,” Kezule snapped.

“You do realize he's just handed us a weapon we can use against the M'zullians, don't you?”

Kezule stared at him. “And you do realize what it's doing to you, don't you? Zayshul did tell you that his drug is destroying what sets you apart as a Warrior?”

He nodded, a shadow crossing his face. “Our Gods at least have a sense of justice,” he said quietly. “My price could have been as bad as the one they're exacting from Kusac, and there's no reason for him to suffer.”

“Enough!” Kezule hissed, pushing him aside as he left.

 

He'd put off returning to his quarters as long as he could, but he couldn't avoid it any longer he realized as he keyed open the door to his suite.

Zayshul was in the lounge with Shaidan curled up on the sofa beside her, his head on her lap.

“Shaidan, why didn't you tell me your father had his telepathic abilities back?” he demanded, standing on the other side of the low table from them.

“You didn't ask me,” the child said sullenly.

“Kezule, leave him alone. I've only just got him settled. You know he's only programmed to answer direct questions,” said Zayshul.

“So he's still programmed, is he? Strange, he didn't behave as if he was earlier! I thought that perhaps you'd taken it into your head to alter that too!”

She looked up at him. “I haven't done anything to him.” Shaidan sat up on his haunches. “I want to see my father. He's hurt, he needs me.”

“You'll stay here where you belong,” said Kezule shortly. “Zayshul, put him in his room ...”

“I don't belong here! I belong with my father!” he said, springing at Kezule who instinctively caught him. The cub began to lash out with his fists and feet. “You hurt him! I hate you! I hate you!”

“Stop this instantly!” Kezule roared, shaking him till Shaidan was so dizzy he was clutching at him for support. He thrust the cub at Zayshul. “Lock him in his room,” he ordered. “When he's prepared to behave in a civilized way, he can come out! What is it with these damned Sholans? They go feral at the first opportunity!”

She hesitated.

“Do it now!” he roared at her.

When she returned, he'd gone.

Kusac surfaced about two hours later with a raging thirst and in acute pain. His leg had swollen to the point where the bandage was actually cutting into him. With shaking hands, he reached down and began to loosen it.

Despite the dressing, his wounds were seeping so much fluid that his upper thigh and the bedding beneath him were saturated and beginning to stick to his pelt. He was cold to the point of shivering, an early sign he was starting a fever. His tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth and he knew he urgently needed to drink.

Using his arms, he tried to push himself closer to the edge of the bed and swing his legs over the side, but his hip and groin muscles were so distended that flexing his left leg was impossible. To get off the bed, he was going to have to lower himself to the ground using his good leg.

In the end, he fell off, pulling the bedding with him, but luckily landing on his good side. He lay there gasping for breath, praying for the pain to subside. Even with his heightened tolerance, this was beyond the pain J'koshuk had caused him.

Luck was with him in that the bowl had bounced off the bed and rolled to within a few feet of the washbasin. Painfully, and slowly, using his forearms, he dragged himself over to the basin and throwing the bowl into it, hauled himself upright. Turning on the faucet, he put his head under it, lapping frantically as it streamed out from the tap. The edge taken off his thirst, finally he filled the bowl and drank from it. Twice more he refilled it before his thirst was slaked. Then he poured another two over his head and face in an effort to cool himself down.

His attempts at getting a full bowl down onto the floor resulted in a large puddle and a half empty container. Getting back up onto the bed was beyond him by the time he'd crawled back, taking the bowl with him. Pulling the covers off the bed, weak and dizzy, he spread them out as best he could then rolled onto them, making sure he was close to the bowl. Exhausted, he lay there and closed his eyes.

His sleep was riven by strange nightmares and visions. He heard the sound of familiar voices, and strained to hear what they said, but he couldn't make out the words. The voices trailed off, but one remained, speaking to him this time, calling his name, over and over. He was filled with a sense of urgency, a need to know and understand what he was being told.

A healing trance, Kusac, you must go into a deep healing trance.
The voice sounded familiar, very familiar. Vartra's face seemed to swim in front of his.
You must eat to fuel the healing. Remember, reach deep ...
The thoughts and the image of the God were fading as he began to wake.

The first thing he noticed was that his neck torc had been replaced by a metal collar such as his son wore. Ignoring it, and the way the blanket under him was clinging to his pelt, he pushed himself up on his elbow and he reached for the bowl of water. Beside it lay a tray of food and a large jug of water. Still light-headed, he leaned against the side of the bed and picking up the bowl, emptied it then refilled it, wondering if what he'd experienced had been real or just a fever dream. Putting it down, he reached for the bowl of food. He wasn't hungry but if the dream was real ... Luckily the food had been chosen to be easily digested whether hot or cold. Strips of meat in a creamy protein-rich sauce, with boiled eggs and fresh, nonacidic fruit.

He forced himself to eat, then when he'd taken as much as he could, he pushed the tray aside. Time to look at his leg and assess how much damage had been done. Only a sheet remained over him, he'd thrown the other covers off while he'd slept. Pulling the sheet back, he loosened the bandage. His leg was now almost rigid with the swelling and looked to be at least twice its normal size. The dressing over the entry wound was saturated and seeping a blood-tinged yellowish fluid. It had spread over the surrounding area of his thigh in a sticky, unpleasant mess that was matting his fur. Easing himself slightly onto his good hip, he could feel that the blanket below was stuck to his body from just above his hipbone to almost his knee. Not good, not good at all.

Returning to the dressing, he lifted it up. From his training, he knew what to expect, but it didn't prepare him for the reality of seeing his own charred and cooked flesh. He looked away as he let the dressing fall back, but his vision began to fade rapidly and he had to force himself to stay conscious by taking deep breaths.

He tried to be more dispassionate when he looked at it again. The entry hole, halfway down his thigh and on the outer edge of the quadriceps muscle, was actually reasonably small from what he could see under the fluid that was seeping out. Through his fur, the surrounding flesh showed tight and shiny and there was a fair amount of dead tissue that needed removing.

Replacing the front of the dressing, he rolled onto his good hip, twisting his upper body so he could lift the other side and check the exit wound. Three or four times the size of the entry wound, it covered much of the upper back of his thigh. He saw immediately that a sizable lump of flesh had actually been vaporized. The fluid loss was greater, and under the constantly welling liquid he could see that the irregular edge of the wound was again charred, with a ring of flesh beyond it that had obviously been cooked. Swelling here was, if it were possible, worse.