The Iron Maiden (18 page)

“Great idea!” Shelia agreed enthusiastically. She was then barely eighteen, and subject to enthusiasm.

It had been a joke. But Spirit considered it. “You know, I wonder--?”

Megan nodded. “That would be truly novel. We really have nothing to lose at this point.”

So the joke became real. Hope made the ludicrous gesture of challenging the columnist Thorley to a public debate, since he couldn't get the incumbent to share the stage with him. They expected either to be ignored or to become the target of a scathingly clever column.

But Thorley accepted.

Bemused, they worked it out. “He must find this campaign as dull as I do,” Hope said. “This will at least put us both on the map of oddities.”

“True,” Megan agreed. “But do not take it lightly. Now we shall find out what you are made of. Debates are treacherous.”

“Like single combat,” Spirit said. Hope had always been good at that.

They prepared as carefully as if it were a major public event. They had acquired a certain cynicism about politics and the electorate as they experienced the insularity of supposedly public spirited organizations, but Megan had been completely unsurprised. She had been through it before. “Even the most bleeding of hearts becomes a trifle cynical,” she observed. Now she believed that this debate would be a formidable test, and Spirit had learned to heed Megan's judgments on such things. She drilled Hope on every conceivable aspect of the subject. He was letter perfect. But was it enough?

Thorley showed up on schedule. He was a handsome man of about Hope's own age, a fair Saxon, slightly heavyset, with a magnificently modulated voice. He shook Hope's hand in a cordial manner, then greeted Megan similarly. “It is an honor to meet so respected a figure,” he told her, his evident sincerity setting her back. “You are indeed beautiful.” He turned to Spirit. “And so are you, Miss Hubris. Had I a sister like you, I should have run for office myself.” Spirit was so surprised by the muted compliment she had no answer. He turned to Shelia. “And I would have needed a secretary like you to keep me organized.” Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted it to his face and kissed it. She, too, was momentarily stunned.

Thorley settled into the comfortable chair assigned to him as if he had been there all his life. In the space of hardly more than a minute he had fairly set back all three women supporting his debate opponent. His manner and presence disarmed them; he was completely charming.

Hope chatted with Thorley in the few minutes before the formal program, and it was clear that Hope also liked him. They had expected a sneering, supercilious snob, despite Megan's assessment; they had been disabused. In person he was not at all like that.

“I feared I would be late,” he remarked with a momentary slant of one eyebrow to signal that this was a minor personal crisis. “Thomas was not quite ready to come in.”

“Thomas?” Spirit asked. “I thought you were childless.”

Thorley grinned infectiously. “Naturally your camp has done its homework on the opposition, but perhaps imperfectly. Thomas is our resident of the feline persuasion.”

Spirit had to smile in return, touching her forehead with her four-fingered hand as if jogging loose a short circuit. “Oh, a male cat. We did not have pets in the Navy.”

“The Navy remains unforgivably backward in certain social respects,” he said. “Cats are admirably independent, but in this instance, with my wife visiting Hidalgo to cover for a discomfited relative, the burden of supervision falls on me. Regulations”--here he made a fleeting grimace to show his disapproval of regulations as a class of human endeavor--“require the confinement of nonhuman associates when the persons concerned are absent from the immediate vicinity.” His nuances of facial and vocal expression made even so small a matter as a stray tomcat seem like a significant experience. The man had phenomenal personal magnetism, and Spirit had to fight to maintain her objectivity. She realized that Hope might be in for more of a debate than they had anticipated, for Thorley could surely move an audience.

“Well, in a couple of hours you'll be back to let him out again,” Hope said.

“I surely had better be,” he agreed. “Thomas is inclined to express his ire against the furniture when neglected, as any reasonable person would.” That fierce individualism manifested in almost every sentence he uttered, yet now it became appealing.

Then the hour of the debate was on them. There was no holo-news coverage, but there were a couple of cub reporters and a still-picture photographer, and of course each side had its own machine recorder.

The audience was reasonable for the occasion, hardly filling the hall, about two hundred dutiful citizens.

There was no moderator, no formal rules; it was discussion format. Spirit knew that could be awkward, but Megan had assured them that it could also be the most natural and effective. They had agreed to alternate in asking each other questions, with verbal interplay increasing after the initial answers. They flipped a coin, and Thorley won the right to pose the first question.

Megan and Spirit moved to either side of the small stage, while Shelia merged her chair with the front row of the audience and took notes, which were bound to be the most relevant.

“I understand that you, Captain Hubris, in accordance with many of the liberal folly, are opposed to capital punishment,” Thorley said, his attitude and his language hardening dramatically as he got down to business.

“I am,” Hope agreed.

“Yet you are, or were, a prominent military man,” Thorley continued. “You could have been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of living people--”

“Thousands,” Hope agreed.

“How do you reconcile this with your present stand opposing the execution of criminals?”

It seemed like a trap, but Megan had anticipated it and prepared Hope for it. “The two situations are not comparable,” he said carefully. “As a military man, I was under orders; when killing was required, I performed my duty. I never enjoyed that aspect of it, but the Navy did not express interest in my personal opinions.” He smiled, Thorley smiled with him, and there was a ripple of humor through the audience. This was merely a warm-up interchange, and they all knew that it was the audience reaction that counted. “There is also a distinction between the violence of combat and the measured, deliberate destruction of human life that legal execution is. If a man fires his weapon at me and I fire back and kill him, that is one thing; but if that man is strapped to a chair, helpless, that is another. To my mind, the first case is defense; the second is murder.”

“Well and fairly spoken,” Thorley said smoothly. “But can we be sure there is a true distinction between the cases?” Thorley then proceeded to make Hope's position seem paradoxical, and it was apparent that he was scoring better with the audience than Hope was. Spirit realized that the man was not only privately charming, he was quite intelligent and thoroughly prepared. He was at least a match for Hope, and Hope was no slouch at playing scenes or moving audiences.

It was now Hope's turn to pose a question. He asked about the conservative's opposition to big government: did he prefer anarchy? Thorley fielded it with grace and felicity of expression, employing incidental metaphors that carried his meaning without being unkindly blunt. Spirit saw the audience nodding agreement, and when he likened too much government to a bloated stomach, they laughed.

What an image! There were things to be learned from this man, and Spirit would make sure that Hope did learn them.

With the next question, Thorley got serious. “It has been said that a free press is the best guarantee of honest government. Where do you stand on that?”

This was a difficult one. Hope had practiced censorship of the news during the campaign in the Belt, to keep the pirates from anticipating the Navy moves. Thorley would surely make much of that.

There was a commotion in the audience. A burly Saxon man was striding forward, brandishing a portable industrial laser unit. “You spics are stealing our jobs! We don't need none of you in office!” He brought his laser to bear on Hope and fired.

But both Hope and Spirit were already flying out of their chairs. Megan, no creature of physical violence, was standing stock-still, gazing at the worker with horror.

The first bolt seared into the floor where Hope's chair had been. Hope and Spirit were closing in on the man from the sides. But it would take them seconds to reach him; they had not come armed.

The Saxon worker's face fastened on Megan. “And we don't need no spic-lovers, neither!” he cried, and swung the laser to bear on her. Still she stood frozen.

Thorley launched himself from his chair just as the man pulled the trigger. The deadly beam sizzled and was muffled by Thorley's body. Steam spread out, and in a moment there was the horrible odor of fried flesh.

Then Hope reached the worker. Knowing that her brother would make short work of him, Spirit veered aside and went to Megan instead, leading her away from the violence.

In another moment Hope kneeled beside Thorley. The man was curled up in agony, trying to grip his left leg. The laser beam had seared into his thigh, not a lethal wound but certainly a hellishly painful one. It could cost him his leg if a key nerve had been burned out.

There were other urgent things to do at this moment, as the hall erupted into pandemonium. Thorley needed immediate medical attention, the police needed to take charge of the murderous worker, and Hope had to get Megan away from this place before she went into shock. But for the moment Hope remained with the wounded man. “Thorley,” he said. “Why did you intercede?”

“I don't believe in assassination,” Thorley gasped. “Not even of liberals.”

“How can I repay you?”

“Just--keep the press--free,” Thorley whispered, and passed out.

“Always!” Hope swore to the man's unconscious body. It was a vow he would keep.

Secret

Spirit was bringing heavy bandages from the hall's emergency supply, knowing that prompt attention to the wound was essential. All officers in the Navy had paramedic training; she knew what to do.

“Spirit,” Hope said. “Take care of this man.”

She nodded, knowing that he meant more than bandages. She worked efficiently, cutting away his burned trouser leg, applying the bandages to the seared flesh. No cauterization was required; laser wounds were already cauterized. It was necessary only to protect the surrounding flesh.

When the medics came for him with the stretcher, Spirit picked up Thorley's holo recorder and went with them. “His cat!” Hope called after her, and she nodded again. Thorley would be in competent hands.

No one questioned her presence; she was taken as a family member or employee or friend. She was that last, as of the moment Thorley had sacrificed himself to save Megan.

They took the ambulance to the hospital, where there was a flurry of competent activity. Thorley came partly conscious, in pain, and Spirit took his hand. “It is all right,” she murmured to his ear. “You are severely injured, but it is not lethal, and the doctors are tending it now.”

He nodded. “Thomas--”

“I will take care of him, if I may take your key.”

“Wallet--” Then he passed out again.

She felt in his jacket and found his wallet. It would contain his key card. But first she had to see to his registration. She went to the check-in window and used the information in the wallet to get him properly checked in and verified for insurance.

“It will be eighteen hours,” the clerk woman said, not needing any other medical input; she was going by the insurance limit. “Pick him up then at the outlet bay.”

That was it. Thorley would be booted from the hospital then, and someone had better be there to convey him elsewhere. She checked his wallet to see whom to contact, but found no one. Apparently there was only his wife, who was on another planet at the moment, and Spirit did not have her address.

Why would Thorley have expressed concern about his cat, unless he were living alone at present? Spirit had promised to take care of the animal; she would do so. With luck she would find information on some neighbor or relative or friend who could be trusted to see to the man's welfare during his recovery.

Certainly she could not leave this responsibility until she was sure it was safe to do so.

She took a taxi to the address listed on his identity card. It was an unpretentious suite in a mid-level residential complex, not poor but far from rich. She had had the careless notion that all conservatives were rich, but obviously that was no more true than the notion that all liberals were poor. She used the identity card to key open the door.

A stately white Persian cat was walking across the room toward her, but halted to deliver a hostile stare, his tail switching. That would be Thomas, dismayed to discover a stranger instead of his master.

Spirit had had no direct experience with cats since leaving Callisto at age twelve. Now she was thirty one. She remembered practically nothing. She would have to do some homework before doing anything.

She explored the apartment, discovering the family room, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, and an alcove chamber lined by physical books that had to be Thorley's office. Everything was in order except the bedroom, where the bed was unmade, and the kitchen, where old fashioned dishes were stacked in the archaic style sink. She smiled; for all his verbal and literary eloquence, Thorley was a typical man, unable to keep up with mundane housework on his own.

She pitched in, made the bed, washed the dishes, and then focused on the cat. There was a pan of sand in the bathroom that looked competent for a feline potty, but what about food? What about company?

She gathered that the animal did not like to be alone too long, but Thorley would not return for a day and a half, so it seemed that Spirit was it.

She found cat food. She did not know the feeding schedule, so guessed that it would be the same time as the humans ate. That would not be for a couple of hours yet. And what would she eat, if she did not leave the apartment? She checked the kitchen supplies and found them depleted; Thorley's wife had surely left plenty, but she must have been away for some time. More would have to be ordered.

She was about to use the vidphone, but paused. She was here to help, not to bring a whiff of scandal to Thorley's household. A strange woman calling from his apartment during his wife's absence might look amiss, never mind the circumstances. In fact, anything done on his behalf in her name could complicate his life unkindly.

She considered, then made a decision. She went to the bathroom and drew back her hair, which had become more femininely long since she left the Navy. Then she rummaged in his clothes closet and borrowed one of his work shirts and a set of trousers. She had to do some spot stitching to make them fit her, but their bagginess was to a degree an asset. She changed clothing, washed her face clear of all makeup, and donned the gloves she kept in her purse. She looked in the mirror. Still not right. She doffed the shirt, removed her bra, and found a suitable section of white cloth in the wife's closet. She bound this tightly around her chest, flattening her breasts, then put the shirt back on and tucked it in. Now she looked the part: the teenaged boy Sancho had reappeared after a lapse of fifteen years.

She took inventory of both the food remaining in the apartment, and the empty but not yet disposed of cans and packages in the garbage. This gave her a fair notion of the original store of supplies, including catfood. Then she took Thorley's identity card from his wallet. “I shall return,” she told the tail-switching cat as she left.

She walked to the nearest food store and selected her purchases. “I shop for Mister Thorley,” she told the checkout clerk as she presented Thorley's card.

She carried the bag back to the apartment, and put the supplies where they belonged on the kitchen shelves. So far so good. Then she tackled the cat again. She went to Thorley's cubbyhole and was relieved to spy what she sought: a book on cats. This one was on the Angora Cat, and its pictures made her realize that she had misjudged the breed; Thomas was not Persian but Angora, surely pedigreed.

“Sorry, Thomas,” she said apologetically. “I misidentified you. Now can we be friends?” She squatted and held out her hand.

The cat kept his distance. “Oh--I'm wearing the gloves,” she said. “That's the artificial me.” She removed the gloves and extended her four fingered left hand.

To her surprise, it worked. The cat approached and sniffed her fingers, then suffered himself to be stroked. She sat on the floor, crossing her legs, and in a moment he climbed into her lap. He had accepted her.

“But you want to know what happened to your master,” she said. "Or more properly, your associate.

Well, he suffered an injury in a noble cause, and will not be here tonight. But tomorrow night I will bring him home, and then all will be well."

The rest was routine. She made a simple supper for herself and for Thomas, watched the evening holovision, and slept in Thorley's bed, with Thomas curled up beside her. In the morning she showered and did some hand laundry, so that she would not use up more of Thorley's clothing than necessary. In the afternoon she phoned for a taxi to pick Sancho up and take him to the hospital. She was falling surprisingly readily into the male routine as the old habits and cautions came back; originally it had been a matter of life and death, and that had been excellent incentive.

The taxi waited while she entered the hospital to check Thorley out. The clerk never bothered to question why a Hispanic boy should be doing it; just so long as the patient did not run up any bill beyond the insurance limit. She found him at the outlet bay, parked in a wheelchair. She thought of Shelia with a certain obscure fondness; Sheila was a good girl.

“Thorley,” she murmured.

He glanced at her. “Evidently you know me, young man, but I doubt I have had the pleasure of knowing you.”

“I hope you will trust me, nevertheless,” she said, slipping off her left glove to give him a flash of her hand.

He took the hand, noting the missing finger. “I do. Your hand, my leg: we are compatriots of the left.” His smile was pained, yet still warming.

The taxi came up, and she had to help him to stand and to get into the vehicle. He was well bandaged, but it evidently hurt when he moved his left leg. She had to take hold of his knee and lift it slowly for him.

He winced, but did not complain.

As they sat beside each other in the relative privacy of the cab, he turned to her. “There is a reason?”

“I did not know who else to ask to take care of Thomas.”

“There is no one else. I fear I was not thinking coherently the other day. I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

“You saved my brother's wife.”

He shrugged. “It was necessary. Are you aware of her history?”

“Yes.”

“I would not say this in public, but I respect her more than I do Tocsin.” It seemed that even an arch troglodyte preferred an honest liberal to a shifty pseudo-conservative.

The taxi reached the complex. “Can you make it?” she asked.

“I shall have to.”

She used Thorley's card to pay the driver, then helped Thorley out of the taxi. They walked somewhat jerkily into the structure and to the internal lift.

Two husky young men in maintenance livery came to help. Spirit was glad to relinquish the support to them. “Mr. Thorley!” one said. “You are a hero!”

“I am?”

“It's in all the holos! You made a gallant sacrifice to save a woman.”

“One does what one has to do.”

They helped him all the way to his apartment, and set him in his chair. Thomas immediately jumped into his lap. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

“Thank you, no. My borrowed houseboy suffices.”

They nodded, then departed, leaving him alone with Spirit. “Thanks for not telling,” she said.

“You disguised yourself to spare me embarrassment.”

He had been quick to catch on. “I thought a woman in your apartment would be misunderstood, in the absence of your wife.” She fetched his wallet and returned his card to it. “I used your credit, because--”

“Yours would have been similarly misunderstood.”

“Yes. I will repay you--”

“You have already more than repaid me. You must return to your brother; I'm sure he needs you.”

“Yes.” But she hesitated. “You have friends to help?”

“I will manage.”

“I'm not sure you will. You have no insurance to cover home nursing.”

“It is expensive.”

“Who will help you?”

He frowned, dismissing the matter. “I will manage because it is necessary for me to manage.”

“Thorley, I don't want to interfere in your life. But I promised my brother I would take care of you, and I don't think my job is done.”

“You owe me nothing, Spirit. You have been more than kind enough already.”

“I owe my brother. I owe Megan. The job is not yet done.”

He looked up at her. “I seem to be unable to dissuade you from this sacrifice.”

“It is not of the level of the sacrifice you made.”

“I fear I am constrained to accept, though I am not easy about this.”

Spirit smiled. “I promise to do you no liberal mischief.”

He sighed. “That too, of course.”

She let down her hair and called Hope. “Whom did you appoint to care for him?” he asked Spirit when he saw her face on the screen.

“Sancho,” she said.

He was taken aback. He remembered Sancho from their time as refugees in the bubble. “Are you sure that's wise?”

She grimaced. “It's necessary. We can afford him.”

It was true that their finances were as limited as those of Thorley, and Sancho was as cheap as it was possible to get. Hope shrugged, refusing to interfere. “He can certainly do the job--if no one suspects.”

“No one will.”

“Thorley will! That man is no fool!”

“Thorley knows,” she said, meeting his gaze.

He made a motion as of washing his hands. “It is your affair, Spirit.”

She shut off the connection. “Affair?” Thorley inquired.

“Figure of speech. I have already promised not to molest you. How soon will your wife return?”

“That is problematical. Her sister has a terminal malady, and needs special care. I hesitate to summon her away from that.”

“Then it seems I am with you until you mend.”

“It grieves me to restrict your life in this manner. Perhaps you can return to your brother by day--or better, by night.”

“No. It is best that I travel as little as possible, in any guise. I dislike crowding you, but--”

“That is not the problem. I fear that I am not completely competent to rebandage my injury, or even to get around without assistance. This could embarrass both of us.”

She shook her head. “I bandaged it the first time. I am a Navy woman; I can handle blood.”

“The location--”

“I am long familiar with male anatomy. Think of me as a nurse.”

“I shall make the attempt, Miss Hubris.”

“Spirit.”

“It is an appealing name.”

She helped him lie on the bed, then fetched blankets for herself on the floor. “Please,” he said. “There is no need to visit this additional indignity on you.”

“No problem.”

“Please, I am embarrassed to allow a woman to be treated so. There is room for you on the bed.”

“As you wish.” She lay on his wife's side of the bed, and slept.

She settled in. She made his meals and took care of his household chores. She changed his bandages, cleaned him up, and helped him to use the bathroom and the shower. When she needed to clean up herself, he faced politely away.

She laughed. “Don't bother. I have seen all of your parts; you can see mine. It's only fair.”

“There is where there is a difference. You are a lovely woman.”

“I am Sancho, your Hispanic houseboy.”

“You are my liberal angel of mercy.”

“I am no angel!” Yet she was flattered.