The Dark Reaches (10 page)

The soft, napped fabric of the coveralls warmed her clean body. A small machine strapped to Iain’s arm hummed gently, feeding him fluids, sugar, electrolytes—or so the nurse had told her. She had one on her arm, too, its plastic reservoir bag attached to her waist.

It was not uncomfortable; nothing weighed much here. The gravity pulled far more weakly than even the half-gee pseudograv of an orbital station. And yet this was really a world. A moon called Triton, the nurse had told her when she woke. At first Linnea had struggled to understand him and to make herself understood; people talked differently here. But it was getting easier. The language was almost the same—it was still what she would call Standard. Some of the sounds were different; that was all.

Their room was spacious, easily containing the two thinly padded beds that were all the gee required. A hanging against one wall was embroidered with wildly plumed, iridescent birds, and against another wall was a long, padded bench covered in shimmering red cloth. There was even a private bath. But the place was still an infirmary: sterile and cold, with a faint tang of plastic and cleaning chemicals in the thin air. These people were caring for them decently, treating them well—a hopeful sign. But no one seemed willing, yet, to give her the answers she needed.

She’d seen only two medical people so far: their nurse, and their doctor, a bony, white-haired woman in a severely cut white tunic and trousers. She’d come in once or twice to briskly assess their condition and give the nurse orders. She had nothing to say to Linnea, did not seem even to hear her questions.

The one time Linnea had tried to open the door and look out into the corridor, she saw a tall man in green leaning against the opposite wall, who straightened, looked hard at her, and said, “No, Miss, please”—clearly ordering her back inside the room. There didn’t appear to be any other patients on this hall; she heard no voices. Isolated, under guard—clearly they were still under suspicion.

But Linnea could not ease their captors’ fears until she could
talk
to someone. Answer all their questions—then ask hers. She looked down at Iain. If he would only wake, they could plan. If she knew he was going to be all right, she could plan. Until then, the haze of dread clouded her thoughts. She felt only fear for Iain, and the future stretched out blankly before her. Until he woke.

And there was another urgent matter. She had to get to her ship, make sure it was being repaired and replenished as it needed. But so far all her questions about it had been met with stony and apparently indifferent silence.

At least she and Iain were together. She touched Iain’s cheek. In the hard light of the lamp above his bed, the bones showed too sharp under his fever-sallow skin. Because he was larger, the decreased infusion had affected him more. “Wake up, you,” she muttered, for the tenth time—and caught her breath as his eyelids fluttered. Fluttered again. Opened.

She held her breath and waited. But this time, his eyes stayed open. This time, his gaze settled on her face—and he smiled faintly.

He saw her. He knew her.

Blinking back tears, she kissed his cheek. “Welcome back,” she said gently.

“We—made—it,” he said with obvious effort.

“We did,” she said. “We’re safe, so far.”

Iain tried to sit up. “Your ship?”

She pushed him down. “They have it. Somewhere out of reach. They won’t
tell
me anything! Except that this is a city on Triton.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Triton! Moon of—moon of Neptune.”

“Whatever that is,” Linnea muttered.

He grinned. “We—really did it. Earth.”

“Pretty far from Earth, I’m told,” she said. “Which is a good thing, remember.”

“Yes,” he said sleepily. “Out in the dark. Out on the edge. Hidden.” He licked his dry lips. “Water?”

“I suppose you can have some,” she said. “They left some by the bed.” She held the straw of the clear plastic bladder to Iain’s lips, and he took a few careful sips.

“No cup,” he said.

“Gee’s too light,” she said. “Only about eight percent, they tell me.” Water would have swirled and sloshed out of a cup at the slightest motion, or maybe even crawled up over the rim on its own.
Living here must be strange.

She cranked the head of Iain’s bed up and knelt on the floor again, so he did not have to look up at her. In this gee, kneeling was as comfortable as standing. When he’d emptied the bulb of water, she took it and set it aside. Then, looking down at her hands resting on the side of the bed, she said, “Iain—I’m sorry for this.”

“Don’t, Linnea,” he said, so gently that she looked up into his face. His dark eyes shone clear—the quiet determination that had made her love him in the beginning, that bound her to him even more strongly now. “Just be patient, love. We’ll find him. The one who called you.” He brushed a thumb along her cheek, a tender gesture.

She managed a smile.

“But until then,” he said, “it’s enough that we’re alive here. That we’re both still alive.”

It would have to be enough. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. She would take this moment of peace and relief; who could tell how many more they might ever have?

Then her head jerked up as their nurse hurried into the room. He said nothing, but his expression was grim. Moving quickly, he changed the reservoir bag on Iain’s IV for a full one. Then he went to work on Linnea’s reservoir; she sat down on the edge of her bed, her arms raised to keep out of his way, helpless.

As the nurse leaned closer to secure the full bag to her belt, he whispered in her ear. “Watch for the blue flower.” She took a breath to speak, and his hands dug into her arms in warning. “Watch and listen.” He straightened. “Being moved to better quarters,” he said out loud to Iain. “Both of you. You’re to be Madame’s guests.” He handed Linnea a flimsy printout. “Care for the pump units,” he said. “Bad signs to watch for, fevers. You keep that. And”—he caught her eye—“watch.”

The door opened, and a stranger entered: a man, tall and dark-skinned, his head shaved smooth, his eyes cold. He carried himself like a man armed with something concealed and deadly. The light-skinned man behind him was the one who had been watching the corridor. The dark one spoke rapidly to the nurse—then scooped Iain up lightly in his arms.

“No!” Panic sharpened Linnea’s voice. “He’s still very sick. You can’t just—”

And the other man picked her up, as easily as picking up a child. She tried to twist free.

“No, Linnea,” Iain said. “We have to trust these people.” His urgent expression added:
We have no choice.

She knew he was right: They knew nothing, had no way to escape. Bewildered, she stopped struggling. Tried to make sense of the nurse’s words.
Blue flower.
Had she heard that right? Did it mean anything at all? What had he meant,
Listen
—to a flower?

The corridors they passed through were empty—narrow ones first, the hospital, then gradually widening into what must be public spaces. Even there the walls and doors, neatly painted metal or plastic, looked spotless as a surgery under the bright, cold lights. Plants, precisely pruned, their leaves waxy, stood every few meters in orderly arrangements of tubs.

Every door they passed was tightly shut. Standard precautions, Linnea knew, in a station in what was essentially vacuum. And yet, to see no one visibly at work, to hear no voices—surely that was strange. She heard no machinery—no sound but the whisper of air, and the soft foot-steps of the men who carried them. The floors were smooth black, a soft polymer that seemed to grip the men’s shoes. They rounded a curve in the corridor; the flooring flowed partly up the walls and for a few moments they walked at a slant.
Light weight, same mass.
She was going to have to learn to walk all over again.

On a wall at one major intersection she saw an information board covered with official-looking notices, some of them flashing; next to it a pool of light marked out the flat portrait of a lean, dark-haired woman of middle age, her hands folded on a desk in front of her, her expression impassive. An intersection or two later was another board, another portrait—the same image. It was the only decoration she had seen here; even the walls and doors were painted a uniform light blue-gray.

Linnea struggled to gather her scattered thoughts, calm herself. This could finally be her chance to ask questions that would be answered. To begin to understand what she had let herself and Iain in for. She would need all her wits, all her skill with people, to protect them both.

They passed another man in green standing guard, and entered a different corridor—more spacious, more artfully lit. And the air was definitely warmer. Another guard stood at the end of the passage, in front of a high door made of copper-colored metal. As they stopped in front of him, he raised his wrist to his mouth and muttered something.

The door slid open, and they passed through into warmth and brightness.

A gust of fresh-smelling air ruffled Linnea’s hair. She blinked, looking around. Sunlight? That couldn’t be sunlight. And she smelled grass—

Their guards set them on their feet just inside the door. “You’ll walk from here,” the dark-skinned man said. “Madame expects it.” Linnea moved to Iain’s side, cradled his arm in both of her hands. She looked around, disoriented, a little afraid.

The space was huge by the standards of any station she had ever been on; larger even than a landing bay for a passenger shuttle. She couldn’t judge its size; the ground was grassy, rising and falling in little hills. Shrubs and clumps of small trees blocked her view of the space’s walls. But the air smelled green, alive. Somewhere birds were singing, though she couldn’t see any.

A nudge in her back, and she and Iain started forward along a path that looked like stone. Maybe it was. Iain had his head down, his strength already about gone, she guessed. It was up to Linnea to observe everything. That blue arching ceiling, meters overhead—that was no sky, of course, just artful paint. White clouds glowed here and there, concealing the light sources. A curve in the path brought them to a stone wall, more than man height, and a gate of—wood? She supposed it could really be wood. There were trees here. But how—

The guard spoke rapidly, and a distorted voice answered. The gate swung open. A short stretch of path, symmetrically lined with immaculate white pots of red flowers, led to a door painted glistening red. The door slid aside as they approached it. She could see only shadows beyond. She helped Iain over the porch sill and into the—house? The guards followed; the door slid shut, sealing them all in.

Linnea blinked in dimness. It was a large room—warm, softly lit, carpeted in amber and black. A window at her left must overlook the park—if that was the word—but heavy black curtains had been drawn over it. An arrangement of orange and blood-colored flowers stood on a tall table near the door. On a hearth beneath an open chimney of hammered copper, a stone glowed orange, shimmering with heat.

And from a high, flimsy-looking chair near the hearth, a tall figure rose to face them.

A woman. Clear, direct brown eyes met Linnea’s, moved to study Iain. Linnea knew at once that this woman held power. Black hair streaked with gray, pulled tightly back, framed a face that was still handsome. She wore a sleeveless tunic of shining red material that reached to her sandaled feet, skimming her body. Her pale, slender arms were bare even of jewelry.

With a shock Linnea recognized her: This was the woman in the portraits she’d seen in the corridors on the way here.

A woman who might have answers to give. But clearly Linnea would have to be careful.

The woman turned to Iain and spoke, her voice hard. “I am Tereu of family Perrin, First Citizen of the people of Triton. This is my residence.”

Iain only looked puzzled. But Linnea understood—she had been learning to hear these people, to understand the words framed in a strange accent, the vowels a different shape, words spoken quick and clipped. After a moment, she said, “He’s not used to how you talk here.”

“Your name,” Tereu said to her.

Linnea eyed her. “Linnea Kiaho.”

“I am addressed as Madame,” the woman said. “Family Linnea?”

Linnea blinked. “Family Kiaho. Madame.”

“I’ve never heard of either one.” Seeming to dismiss Linnea, Tereu turned again to study Iain. The baggy blue coverall hung on his tall, thin frame. The long, frizzled braid hung straight and still down his back as he stood there looking back at Tereu, his eyes watchful. Linnea saw Tereu’s hands clench into fists. “You are Line,” she said curtly. It was an accusation.

This time, clearly, he understood her. “No,” he said, and turned aside to cough. “I am a pilot, as Linnea is. But not Line.”

“A Line pilot would lie from fear, of course,” Tereu said. “And he would be right to fear, on Triton.” She did not move her gaze from his face. “Your name and family?”

“Iain, Madame,” he said. “Of family—of the family of Paolo.”

“We are not Line pilots, Madame,” Linnea said. “We—”

Tereu’s hand whipped up, palm out, and Linnea broke off. “I will not be lied to,” Tereu said, still speaking to Iain. “You look Line to me, from the old records. And this woman—
she
cannot be a pilot at all.”

“Madame, the ship we arrived in is mine,” Linnea said quietly. “I was pilot.”

Again the hand flashed up, commanding silence. Tereu studied Iain, then frowned, steepling her fingers at her chin.

Then she looked up, waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal, and their guards left them. As the door sealed behind the men, Tereu broke into a warm smile. “I apologize for my discourtesy, but it was necessary for me to judge you for myself before I could welcome you correctly. You have had a long journey, and I’m told you have both been ill. Come and rest by my fire.”

She waved her hand toward two chairs like her own, facing hers near the glowing stone. Puzzled by the change in Tereu’s manners, Linnea settled carefully into her own chair. She found that it held her more naturally and comfortably than a low chair would have done, with no need to bend herself tight in the middle. The hearth gave off waves of welcome heat. She hoped it would not make Iain sleepy.