Lee, Sharon - Liaden 11 - Mouse and Dragon

“Aelliana!”

He twisted, prisoned by the bedclothes, desperate to escape the agony of loss.

Er Thom caught his shoulders, pressed him against the bed and held him there while he flailed and screamed, and at last only wept, weakly, turning his face into the tumbled blankets.

His brother gathered him up, then, and held him cradled like a babe, murmuring, wordless and soothing, and Aelliana, Aelliana . . .

“Another child,” he whispered. “She had said we should have another child. We were late . . . ”

“He thought he had missed you, going in,” Er Thom murmured. “The gunman said as much before he died of his wounds. He thought to wait until the end of the play and catch you as you came away.”

“Wounds? There was no one but us, on the street, who would have wounded—”

“You,” his brother said. “The medics found your hideaway by your hand, and that prompted them to look for another who might be in need.”

Had he been quicker, had he been more alert—he might have preserved her life.

“He said,” Er Thom murmured, “that you were the target. That the Terran Party has a price on your head.”

“She saw him,” he whispered. “Timing and trajectory were blood and breath to her. She deliberately put herself into harm's way. Gods, Aelliana . . . ”

“Pilot's choice,” Er Thom said, though his voice was not by any means steady. “Brother, will you come home?”

Home? The rooms, her things lying where she had left them. Their apartment, with her scent and her imprint on everything. He could not . . . And yet where else was there to go?

His heart was beginning to pound. He drew a hard breath, and forcefully turned his thoughts to other questions; questions that Er Thom would expect.

“How long have I been—unconscious?”

“Three days,” Er Thom answered, adding carefully, “Val Con is with us.”

Val Con. Another bolt of agony shuddered through him. What was he going to tell their child? How could he begin to comfort Val Con, when he could scarcely hold himself rational from heartbeat to heartbeat?

“Daav?”

“Yes.” He raised his head and kissed his brother, softly, on the lips. “Let us by all means go home.”

Of course, it wasn't as simple as merely going home. The med techs needed their time with him, running suite after suite of diagnostics. He was found to be well-enough for a man who had sustained what the head of the tech team termed “a massive shock to the nervous and circulatory systems.” One received the distinct impression that med techs had not expected him to survive.

If only he had not.

Blackness seized him; his breath went short; the room, the med tech, the instruments—all and everything smeared into a blur of senseless color. Dislocated, he fell—and his knees struck the vanished floor.

The jolt focused him; he gasped for breath; heard the med tech call out; felt a hand beneath his elbow.

“Are you in pain?” the tech asked.

Was he in pain? Daav felt something like laughter, if laughter were bleak and bladed and chill, snarling in his chest. He gritted his teeth and denied it.

“I am—a thought unbalanced,” he managed, breath coming easier now. “A momentary lapse.”

“Ah,” the tech said and spoke over Daav's head. “Let us assist the pilot to the chair, please. Then, rerun the room readings for the last six minutes.”

He allowed them to lend him support and crept to the diagnostic chair on their arms, like a toddler taking his first steps on the arms of fond family. Once he was seated, the shorter med tech left them, doubtless to find the room readings, as she had been directed.

Daav leaned back and closed his eyes, spent.

“Blood sugars critical,” the tech murmured. “Systolic . . . ”

He took a soft breath. “Attend me, Pilot. It would seem that you have suffered yet another potent shock to your system. Please rest here. The chair will give you several injections, to assist in balancing your body's systems. I will return in a moment.”

He departed. Daav lay limp in the chair, scarcely caring when the injections were administered. Over in the corner, he could hear the techs speaking quietly, they thought. His hearing had returned with his eyesight, however, and he heard how worriedly they discussed plummeting blood pressure, a sudden, unexplainable crisis of blood sugars, and a glittering moment of cranial pyrotechnics.

“Seizure,” the team leader murmured.

Fear flooded him, very nearly drowning the horror of his loss. If the med techs could prove brain damage, he would never fly again. He stirred in the chair.

“I am,” he said, and stopped, shocked at how weak his voice was. He opened his eyes. Both of the techs were watching him, alarm clearly visible.

Daav took a deep breath.

“I am,” he said again, “the surviving partner of a true lifemating.”

The techs exchanged a glance.

“I suggest,” Daav continued, “that I be released into the care of my kin, with whatever regimen will, in your professional opinions, best restore my strength. When I have had some time to become . . . ” His breath grabbed; he deliberately breathed deeply, “ . . . some time to become accustomed, then I will return for another series of diagnostics.”

“If you have another seizure,” the head tech said, “you will immediately return here.”

“Agreed,” he said, feeling considerably more awake. The injections from the kindly chair at work, no doubt.

“Very well,” the head med tech said, motioning his subordinate out of the room ahead of him. “We will call your kinsman to you, and bring a mobile chair. Please remain in the diagnostic chair until the mobile arrives. The room is awake and watching as well.”

And would certainly report another seizure or any other small infelicity, Daav thought. As it happened, he was content for the moment to rest where he sat.

“I understand,” he told the med tech, who gave him one more hard look before he, too, departed, leaving Daav alone.

Carefully, wishing neither to think, nor to invite yet another state that might cause a med tech even the smallest concern, he began to review the Scout's Rainbow.

In general, he had only to think of the Rainbow in order to achieve its benefits, as accustomed as they were to each other. Now, however, he deliberately slowed the process, visualizing each color particularly and fully before moving on to the next.

He was contemplating, with difficulty, the color blue when he heard the door cycle, and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Er Thom.

But it was not Er Thom.

He straightened sharply in the chair, his heart jolting in what he could only hope was an unalarming and perfectly usual manner.

“Go away, Master Kestra,” he said, his voice harsh. “I don't want you.”

The Healer raised her hands, fingers spread wide.

“Peace,” she said softly. “I had only come to look, now that you are aware again.”

She paused, her eyes focused on some point just above his head, as Healers were wont to do.

“Well,” he snapped, “and what do you see?”

“I am not certain,” she answered, dreamily. "I note that I am neither blinded nor deafened in your presence, and that we both know the Rainbow is not potent enough to quiet you. Normally.

“I see your pattern, and I see your anguish, and I see the abyss that you carry within. Apparently, choice is available to you.”

She blinked, her face sharpening as she looked directly into his eyes.

“You are not brain-burned, if that soothes you, Daav.”

“If I continue to have seizures, it will scarcely matter why,” he pointed out. “If I continue to have seizures, the Guild will have my license, and rescind my right to fly.”