Seeklight

“Drop these overboard,” said the captain to another pair of mertzers who had appeared in the doorway. He flung the staggering leader towards them.

As the subthane’s men were carried out, Daenek noticed a tiny drop of blood by his foot—one of the men had bloodied his nose on the mechanic’s massive forearm. As Daenek looked, he felt dizzy and the red dot grew, swelled into an ocean, a universe of blood. The mute watcher was there, drowning, and below him the Lady Marche. And even further in the depths, so far he could not discern his face, was his father. More deaths, a trail of them like a stream of air in the blood. I’d forgotten, thought Daenek, paralyzed with horror and anguish, I’d forgotten about all that.

A mertzer now? Something other than myself? Never—no world can claim me but this one, the one of blood and death. He knew it like a stone in his heart.

“What’s the matter with you?” It was the captain’s voice. “You look sick.”

“Nothing.” Daenek looked away from the drop of blood. The vision dissolved from around him.

“Then get out of here. I’ve got work to do. And so do you.

Report to the main engine room after you get stowed away.”

“You’ll be sharing your sleeping quarters with the other new man that got signed on.” The translator stopped in front of one of the doors that lined both sides of the corridor. “He’s probably at work already down in the engine room, so just go ahead and get settled. Here’s the key.”

Daenek watched the old man walk slowly down the corridor and mount the metal steps that led to the caravan’s upper levels.

The artificial light seemed strangely cold in the deserted hallway.

The translator had acted distant somehow, as if sensing something he hadn’t before. Maybe he smells the blood, thought Daenek. He winced, trying to squeeze the memory of the vision in the blood drop from his eyes.

A few seconds passed and then Daenek inserted the key into the door’s lock. It clicked and he pushed the door open.

The room was small, barely large enough to contain two beds, a folding screen and a pair of bat-tered footlockers. A few shelves were mounted on the walls, with curling flakes of paint exposing the metal beneath.

One bed had no blankets on it. Daenek tossed his bag of clothes onto it, then his cap. His gaze quickly surveyed the little cubicle. There was the sound of running water coming from another door opposite the entrance. He crossed the room in two strides and opened the door.

In a bathroom even smaller than the sleeping quarters, someone was standing in front of a sink, stripped to the waist and with hands and fore-arms covered with lather from a bar of soap. “How about some privacy, fellow?” A soapy hand slammed the door in Daenek’s face.

He sat down heavily on the uncovered bed, his head whirling in confusion. That must be the other one who just signed on, he thought. But that can’t be…

After a moment the bathroom door opened and the other new mertzer stepped out, fastening the last button on a shirt like the ones Daenek had stowed in his bag. Daenek studied the other’s short, lean body and sharp-featured face, dominated by eyes that seemed to fill with a disturbing feral hunger. He had never seen eyes like that before. The other returned Daenek’s stare with a growing annoyance: “What’s the matter with you?”

“You’re a woman,” said Daenek flatly. There was no doubting it, despite the hard-edged mannishness of the figure standing before him. What he had glimpsed through the door, the smooth arc of her small breasts, was unmistakable.

She put her hands where her hips should have been, and glared at him. “So what of it?” Her voice was a nasal tenor, a man’s voice.

“I’m the only one who knows,” said Daenek. “Aren’t I?” He watched her scowling face, judging by it that she was the same age as himself.

“Yeah, well, what good’s a secret nobody knows. Right?” She crossed over to the entrance door and leaned against it, as if to stop him from leaving. “I sure hope you’re not thinking this gives you some kind of advantage over me. ’Cause it doesn’t, friend.”

More than just her words sounded threatening to him. “What do you mean?”

“They told me that a busker who had gotten himself in trouble with some local guys had just signed aboard. But, you see—” Her face altered, became crafty. “—a busker is what I used to be before I got on here. I was born a busker. So I know you’re not one.”

Daenek thought he could feel something clench near his stomach. “So?”

“Come on.” Contempt filtered into her voice. “Buskers have never been so popular that anybody has ever tried to pass as one who didn’t have a good reason for hiding what he really was.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Daenek’s throat felt as if it were being slowly constricted.