Bloodsong Ch. 05

There'd been something useful in that second bottle. Good. She'd badly needed that win.

Valerie stood, finished kicking Nick unconscious, discovered that standing had been a terrible idea and sat back down.

Although there were only a handful of things she'd have liked to be doing less, she made an inventory of the damage. There were the incisions left over from the bullet extraction, close to shut. The mess she'd made of her thigh was headed there. The stump, however, pulsed like an organ that ought to be inside her body. And it really shouldn't be bleeding this much still, although at least it bled slower than it had at the start.

There might have been too much paxpernia in the drugs she'd been given. Or she'd been given too many drugs, period. Trust Jack to be the sort of idiot who'd double-dose her while trying to do something vaguely not awful.

Whatever he'd given her had not only hindered her healing factor but also given it stupid, skewed priorities. The white strands where her arm ended continued to strain, reaching fruitlessly.

Valerie hadn't kept track of where the amputated hand had flown and wasn't inclined to search for it. It could be reattached. Slice off the portion bearing the blue line, join the parts, allow the twitchy strands to seal the connection. But then she'd end up with arms of mismatched length, and a hand that would be useless for half the days it took to grow a new one. Ultimately, it wasn't worth it.

She opened every drawer on the movable station planted beside the table, gathering supplies. In the end, she had the stump wrapped in enough gauze and surgical tape to stop it from leaking everywhere. The rest was close enough to healing that she didn't bother with dressings.

Clothes were next. She'd been stripped down to her underwear; another reason to curse Jack into darkness everlasting. Expanding her survey beyond herself revealed a messy pile of blue and red fabric on a nearby counter. She dragged herself towards it, still shaky on her feet but no longer certain that she'd topple after every next step.

Her pants and shirt were too shredded to be wearable, but the tiny vial of paxpernia had gone undiscovered. Valerie returned to the table and considered the unconscious man slumped against it.

Whatever else one might say about him, Nick had decent taste in clothes. The jacket would be big on her, and she could only pray those pants came with a belt, and the shoes were a no go, but there was enough there worth scavenging.

An alarm sounded somewhere while she slipped on the last item. Her time was running out, yet it was too soon to run. Head still too floaty. Movements too drunk.

She assembled every sharp implement in the vicinity and turned the table on its side, shielding behind it while the beating of feet drew nearer.

Ki-laar, by the sound of it. Good, best she could hope for. They weren't designed for battle. Marabeth would have wanted them to be, since it saved ever so much money to have a lab-grown, unflappably loyal indentured security force, but the High Council didn't look favorably on such things. Species that could give Tsikalayans a run for their money in a fight were prone to rebellion. Going around creating more posed too much of a risk.

However, as much as they weren't born warriors, they weren't brainless. They didn't line up waiting to be pelted with whatever she had at hand. Rather, as soon as the first one to enter got a kidney dish in the face, they skidded out and ducked behind the door.

Their physical weakness, Valerie was displeased to discover, was offset by them carrying those blue energy blasters. She had nothing so useful, and although the padded surface of the table was a poor conductor, if they got it into their heads to shoot at the parts that were metal . . .

There was no way around it. She'd have to move. She couldn't risk a stalemate that would give Jack or the other Tsikalayans on staff time to get there. Engaging them could only happen after she'd eaten something and replenished fluids; healing was taxing in the same measure of how much matter needed to be restored and how much energy she didn't have to spare. Right now, making up for the blood loss drained her more than sustaining it. It might be for the best that she was healing at a snail's pace, because she'd be running on empty once finished.

Nothing about the situation was ideal.

Then, suddenly, something was. Startled cries erupted from the Ki-laar contingent. Valerie herself made a reflexive, disbelieving noise.

The lights had gone out, plunging them into a darkness not everlasting, but unbelievably convenient.

Valerie didn't hesitate. Didn't think, didn't question what had precipitated it. She stood, swinging the table around to knock away the Ki-laar rushing in. They were easily located in the darkness, the blue glow of the blaster tanks betraying their positions. With other light sources out and her in the thick of them, she felt confident that they wouldn't shoot and risk hitting each other.

It disturbed her, when she gave herself permission to meditate on the subject, that Ki-laar were so simple to make dead. Getting through them was like barreling through a folding screen made out of rice paper. Feeling as weak as she did, it was the fairest fight she had ever fought against them.

There'd been attempts to unravel their unshakable, suicidal devotion to Marabeth, in light of them being as enslaved as the captives they worked on. The results, she'd been told, had been the opposite of encouraging. There simply wasn't much left to them, once one removed their drive to obey.

Knowing them unsalvageable only let wiping them out go a little lighter on her conscience.

Valerie wrestled the blaster off the one standing closest and slammed them into the floor. In the withering blue light, she saw them rupture like a squished grape and the concrete underneath fracture, cracks spreading from the point of impact. She wasted a fraction of a second too long on staring. Another Ki-laar jumped her. She caught their foot before they could land a hit to her stomach and flipped them overhead.

Now that her position was likewise signaled by the blaster, they kept coming as an unbreakable tide.

Time to make herself scarce.

The blaster's energy tank was full. She ripped it out. Tossed it up in the air. Threw herself through two Ki-laar rushing her as it fell, shattering on contact with the ground and yes, there it was. Magic breaking free in concentrated form, corroding all it touched as it sprayed around.

Fortunately, Valerie was out of the way by then, even stealing a second blaster as she went. On one hand, having it let her be seen. On another hand, having it meant having something to see by. On a third hand which outweighed all others, it meant that she was armed.

The power outage, or whatever had triggered the blackout — wasn't the Mayfly supposed to have an emergency generator? — might be resolved from one minute to the next. She'd make as much use of it as she could.

She limped ahead, keeping an eye out for glowing blue and her ears attuned to steps and blood songs. She couldn't tell which floor it was. Having the lights on would only have made it marginally less difficult. After so many years and dozens of break-ins of varying levels of success, she still had trouble finding her way.

Jack and Nick had spoken of down whilst discussing Mrs. Drakma. Worth considering, but later on.

The Mayfly was a chess board doubling as a labyrinth. Featureless corridors leading into more corridors, doors opening up into sterile spaces resembling operating theaters, gods above she hated this place. She opened doors at random, slipping silently past the ones through which she heard the chittering of Ki-laar. When the next she shed light through revealed a crew restroom, with an aluminum table, a coffee maker surrounded by mugs, a sink, a fridge, she could have wept.

Fluids took priority. Valerie filled a mug with water, an awkward thing to do one handed, poked holes in every sugar package she found, dumped them in and chugged as fast as she could.

The relief wasn't instant, but when it hit, it was with the force of a meteor strike. She refilled the mug twice before braving the fridge. The contents were disappointing. Plenty of condiments, but no food save for a block of cheese and a container of unidentified slop that she wasn't desperate enough to touch.

She emptied a bottle of aioli and polished off the cheese while she walked around, shining light on the surrounding surfaces, hoping to find something better. The search yielded a package of ground coffee. Refusing to indulge the urge to glare at it, she mixed the whole thing with tap water, making a lumpy black soup. She worked it down, reasoning that she did need the caffeine badly. Her head spun by the end, but it was an energized kind of spinning, and therefore alright.

What next?

The notes of a blood song drifted in from outside, putting that train of thought out of commission.

Valerie stood, sighing. She grabbed the coffee maker and lobbed it at Byron's head as he knocked down the door. He deflected it with a flick of a tentacle, feinted the chair she threw at him next, and stepped out of the way when she shot.

Valerie threw herself, twisting mid-air to land against him, kicking before he could use his limbs to trap her. There was a miniature earthquake when they collided, and neither got off lightly. While Byron hit the floor, a rogue tentacle slammed her against the wall. The impact was great enough to crush bricks, and ricocheted through Valerie's chest and spine, stealing her breath.

Out of all moments, the lights picked that one to flicker back on.

She was rendered blind while her eyes readjusted to the brightness. Thankfully, the same applied to Byron, making it a zero-sum game.

He was soon back on the offensive, however, lashing out and forcing Valerie to roll to evade him. The queasiness she'd thought to have shed returned with a vengeance. She might have broken something, too. Her back didn't feel right.

She needed to get rid of him. Permanently and posthaste, no ifs or buts.

A tentacle caught her by the throat and pressed her face down against the tiles. She was able to twist herself so that her attacker was pulled to her level. They rolled over the floor, Byron trying to strangle her, she trying to amputate him with her teeth, until they hit a wall.

Byron was the one who ended trapped against it, purely by coincidence. If the corridor were any wider or narrower, it would have been her in the same bind.

Valerie didn't enjoy that thought.

Putting all her strength in her one hand, she pressed Byron's shoulders to the wall. Her vision spotted with the effort and the lack of air, because that one tentacle was still exerting pressure on her throat, but she persevered, catching his fist with her teeth when he struck at her head.

Byron yelled something ugly and incoherent and hooked her with his other fist, right in the gut. Coffee and sugar water and bits of cheese splashed back into her mouth, but she didn't let herself double over and didn't let go.

"Godsdamned – give – up!" he bit out.

Valerie head butted him by way of replying and kneed him in the groin for good measure. He escaped her grasp, becoming a whirlwind of punches and growls, as determined to end her as she was set on ending him.

Fair, if inconvenient. She doubled her efforts to claw his face off.

Give up, she'd been told so many times, by those who believed they had her backed into a corner.

Don't you ever give up, she had also been asked, as many times or more, by those who'd seen her get out of those same corners in a maelstrom of anger and body parts.

Never, had always been the answer. Never while I live, and never even if it kills me.

Byron yanked her off by the neck. He meant to bash her into the floor. Valerie chomped on the thinner part of the limb, which still saw her go down but the landing softened, her legs having time to buckle and disperse what would otherwise have been an incapacitating hit.

She shirked him as he fell upon her. The ground took the brunt of the fall. Cracks spread. She had known that the floors weren't all too enduring from the damage a single Ki-laar had done, and Byron was heavier, much, much stronger, and had meant to slam the life out of her with that move. It impressed her that he could stand up after, and not even appear unbalanced.

Something which she fully intended to fix.

Valerie pointed the blaster at his feet. The floor; either target was acceptable. She kept firing at that one spot where the cracks ran deeper, until she could feel the warmth more than the magic itself.

Byron made the crucial mistake of wasting a second staring at her like she was crazy.

Valerie threw herself at him, pushing him down, minding little that she offered an opening for more limbs to wrap about her. The second blow was more than the weakened concrete could take. It crumbled under their combined weight.

Byron struck out with a tentacle, seeking purchase. Valerie made sure he didn't find it.

It felt like they fell forever. She got burned breaking through the heated cinder blocks, and then more when a splash of liquified metal, coming off the melted steel beams running through the floor, scalded the back of her neck. She still took the time to put Byron's eyes out. He hit the ground first, gravity and mass working against him, and when she crashed down on him a split second later, the fight was settled.

There was a messy denouement.

Valerie turned on her side, spat out leftover blood and wiped her mouth. Only after did she check where she'd landed. No blood songs, only the dying notes of Byron's, so far so good, but—

Shit.

Well, excellent, but also, shit.

Her spine screamed in the universal language of agony when she hauled herself to her feet. She bent back, shimmying until she felt the dislodged pieces settle where they were supposed to be. She would have stayed on the floor until healed, but she couldn't afford to take a break. The job would have to be concluded with her upright.

The chamber where she'd landed was vast, the ceiling way up high, explaining the long freefall. Gangways and stairs spiraled along the walls. From top to bottom, the space was laden with bodies as far as the eye could see. She still didn't know what floor this was, but it had to be among the deeper ones, for her to have fallen inside a holding room.

Valerie regarded the faces stuck behind glass panes, the rows and rows of them. They were bathed in semi-darkness. She could only make them out by the glow of reflective strips encircling them.

One encasement caught her eye. The man inside returned her stare and blinked.

"What—" Valerie paid the people she bypassed closer looks as she stumbled forward, and sure enough, most showed subtle signs of consciousness, which became glaring as awareness of her presence spread. She could see fear, thick enough to make her reflexively gulp. She hastened her pace.

It was blatant that the man who'd blinked had taken more than a few hits; his eyes were framed by ghoulish purple and blue splotches, one of them almost swollen shut. He was bulky, with a dark complexion and hair streaked with gray. More than when Valerie had last seen him, but humans were like that. Leave them alone for a decade and they'd wrinkle, go silver or bald, shrink until they were laid down to feed the earth and all that crawled within it.

Deep down, it never ceased to disturb her.

Valerie peeled the front of the container off, careful that she didn't break the glass. It wasn't advisable to pull someone out of these devices, since they had neural inhibitors built in, but by the looks of it, most if not all were inactive, else the captives wouldn't be awake. The man continued to blink while she broke off the plastic manacling him in place, as if he had trouble bringing her face into focus.

"Santos." She let him lean against her. The way his head bobbed on his neck concerned her. How old was he now? Pushing sixty, perhaps over. No age to be used as a punching bag, for a human. "Santos . . . shit. Charlie. Can you hear me?"

"Maria."

"Redmont. Valerie. Maria isn't here." Although to be truthful, she hadn't gone around and checked. "Look . . . can I leave you a minute? I'll see if I can find her." And find out whether there was anyone in better shape among the other known faces. She recognized some as having been part of the Westmont section back in her day. At least one of them was hanging on well enough to be shouting her name from the back rows.

"South end of the floor," Santos said, words slurred. "There's a room they use for batch training, another for—" He appeared to choke on something, speech fizzling out. Just as well. Valerie suspected that she knew where that had been headed, and would rather not dwell on it before she had no choice in the matter.

"Right. Don't talk. Actually, I'm making you sit down, because you probably shouldn't be standing. I'm going to check who's yelling." And now also banging their head. They would break the glass at this rate. Santos looked like he wanted to argue, but the reality of his position made him relent. His gaze drifted off her face to her left sleeve as she settled him against the container. His brows furrowed.

Valerie hurried away before he could ask.

The banger turned out to be both known and overjoyed to see her.

"Redmont, marry me!"

"Hello, Blakely. And that's a 'no, thank you' to that." Valerie exhaled with untold relief when the man didn't crash upon release. Since he looked like he'd been dragged through the plains of hell, she didn't bring up that it was life threatening to propose to her, even in jest. If Jack overheard that . . .

"What happened to your hand?"

"Damper. Had to ditch it."

"Still crazy, then. Awesome!"

"Mmn. Are you safe to stand on your own?" The thing she'd always liked about Blakely, and which the years had left unchanged, was that he was the type who took everything, up to and including the end of the world, in his stride. Crack a joke, get on with things. It made him easy to work with. "Good. I'm getting the rest of the Front out. You're more on top of who's part of the Westmont section these days, so. Help?"

"We're only freeing ours?"

"I think—" Valerie glanced at where she'd left Santos. As Mrs. Drakma's second-in-command in Westmont, these decisions were his to make. Considering the state he was in, however . . . "Ours only. We stand a better chance of making it if we don't have to worry about frightened civilians who will drop like flies if it comes to a fight. And it will come to a fight."

"Right, well, if that's your argument, then I'm getting this guy out." Blakely pointed at a sallow faced man in an adjoining container, who failed to trigger a twinge of recognition. "Name's Pembroke. Crazy motherfucker took down two Caheans and didn't even know what Caheans were. We talked a bit before they put us in here. He's ex-marine, or something."

"Fine, yes, alright."

"And that one over there," Blakely went on, talking rapid fire while pointing at a woman who Valerie had just passed over. "Mean right hook, put up a better fight than Harmon. Also an asset. In my opinion."

"Judith is d—" Valerie caught herself, because she couldn't start down that road, the road where she let herself feel things about information like that. Although Judith Harmon's personality was an acquired taste, she'd always had a soft spot for her. It was therefore a relief when Blakely shook his head with wry disgust.

"Phased out like a pussy right before the Keep Out spell went up. She's probably forgotten that we even exist. That's how it works, according to him." He waved at another man who Valerie didn't recognize, although she had a niggling feeling that she ought to. She narrowed her eyes, attempting to place him, while Blakely went on, fumbling with something at the back of the container. "I think there's some mechanism to get these boxes open without having to — aha! Found it!"