a glaring, sideways glance. "That must have been very disappointing for you. I must be sure to line up some virtus so you can experience it. I'm afraid you can only do so from the victim's side, but you'll doubtless enjoy it anyway."
I was stung now. I had forgotten, in the time I'd shared his ship—in the time he'd been polite to me, except for that tendency to lecture which might very well be inborne in the Y chromosome; in the time I was sure he'd curtailed his food so that there would be enough for me; in the time when he'd talked to me about music and history, the fury that he'd inspired in me when I first met him.
Okay, so part of it had been the fact that he looked so different, so alien. But the other part had been that anger as if I'd done something to upset him. When all I'd been doing was escaping. He had no reason to meet me with drawn weapon. No reason to force me ahead of him at gun point. And absolutely no reason to tie me to a chair.
And he had no reason to talk to me as if I'd shot his favorite dog. Whatever those virtus of being chased as a freakish bio through the streets of a long-vanished Earth had done to him, was not my fault. I had been born centuries after that. Even if some of my ancestors had been involved in the chasing—and I doubted it, as Father was fond of reminding me, people like us hired others to do that—I had not been. I curled my lip at him, remembering how surprised he'd looked with that belt around his neck. "I don't know what you think—"
"Identify yourself." The voice boomed all over the cabin, seemingly from everywhere at once, the sort of voice that leaves your ears ringing and makes you wonder exactly what kind of a giant can have spoken. It had the same accent as Kit Klaavil's.
Kit said "Light," and something that sounded like a word in an ancient language under his breath, then aloud said, "Cat Christopher Bartolomeu Klaavil, piloting the Cathouse for the Energy Board."
There was a silence on the other side, filled with crackling and the sort of rustles one hears on the other side of a com link while the other person gets up or shifts about.
"The responder must be broken," Kit said, to me, in a tone of explanation. "Normally it identifies on approach."
"Cat Klaavil?" The voice boomed again.
"Would you mind giving us you ID number?"
Kit rattled off a long string of letters and numbers. Crackling again. He was now frowning at the console, as if something either in the screen or in the keys were deeply offensive.
"Tell us the date at which you left?" the voice asked.
Kit rattled off a universal date three months back, only to be asked another string of questions, including his address. His frown deepened.
At the end of it, as the crackling silence filled the cabin, he cleared his throat. "This is Cat Christopher Bartolomeu Klaavil, piloting the Cathouse on behalf of the Energy Board. I have a full load of powerpods. Is there a problem?" No one answered and he repeated louder. "Is there a problem?"
"Our sensors show another living . . . being aboard your ship? We believe about 50 kilos?"
I wanted to protest that fifty kilos. At what I'd been eating—or not. I was never fond of fish—aboard the Cathouse, I'd probably lost at least two of those.
"About that," Klaavil said, which goes to show the only parts of my anatomy he ever noticed were the rounded ones.
There was a silence from the other side, this time without crackles. I felt as if the silence itself held its breath, trying to determine what Kit Klaavil meant. When the booming voice came back, there was a vibrato of uncertainty behind the booming. "You have another person aboard? Identify him."
" She ," he said, and followed it with a pregnant pause. "Is Patrician Athena Hera Sinistra of the Seacity of Syracuse on Earth."
"Pat—" Well. At least my title made someone choke, though perhaps not in a good way. "Where did you capture the Patrician?"
Capture. I almost snorted.
"Patrician Sinistra was
I was stung now. I had forgotten, in the time I'd shared his ship—in the time he'd been polite to me, except for that tendency to lecture which might very well be inborne in the Y chromosome; in the time I was sure he'd curtailed his food so that there would be enough for me; in the time when he'd talked to me about music and history, the fury that he'd inspired in me when I first met him.
Okay, so part of it had been the fact that he looked so different, so alien. But the other part had been that anger as if I'd done something to upset him. When all I'd been doing was escaping. He had no reason to meet me with drawn weapon. No reason to force me ahead of him at gun point. And absolutely no reason to tie me to a chair.
And he had no reason to talk to me as if I'd shot his favorite dog. Whatever those virtus of being chased as a freakish bio through the streets of a long-vanished Earth had done to him, was not my fault. I had been born centuries after that. Even if some of my ancestors had been involved in the chasing—and I doubted it, as Father was fond of reminding me, people like us hired others to do that—I had not been. I curled my lip at him, remembering how surprised he'd looked with that belt around his neck. "I don't know what you think—"
"Identify yourself." The voice boomed all over the cabin, seemingly from everywhere at once, the sort of voice that leaves your ears ringing and makes you wonder exactly what kind of a giant can have spoken. It had the same accent as Kit Klaavil's.
Kit said "Light," and something that sounded like a word in an ancient language under his breath, then aloud said, "Cat Christopher Bartolomeu Klaavil, piloting the Cathouse for the Energy Board."
There was a silence on the other side, filled with crackling and the sort of rustles one hears on the other side of a com link while the other person gets up or shifts about.
"The responder must be broken," Kit said, to me, in a tone of explanation. "Normally it identifies on approach."
"Cat Klaavil?" The voice boomed again.
"Would you mind giving us you ID number?"
Kit rattled off a long string of letters and numbers. Crackling again. He was now frowning at the console, as if something either in the screen or in the keys were deeply offensive.
"Tell us the date at which you left?" the voice asked.
Kit rattled off a universal date three months back, only to be asked another string of questions, including his address. His frown deepened.
At the end of it, as the crackling silence filled the cabin, he cleared his throat. "This is Cat Christopher Bartolomeu Klaavil, piloting the Cathouse on behalf of the Energy Board. I have a full load of powerpods. Is there a problem?" No one answered and he repeated louder. "Is there a problem?"
"Our sensors show another living . . . being aboard your ship? We believe about 50 kilos?"
I wanted to protest that fifty kilos. At what I'd been eating—or not. I was never fond of fish—aboard the Cathouse, I'd probably lost at least two of those.
"About that," Klaavil said, which goes to show the only parts of my anatomy he ever noticed were the rounded ones.
There was a silence from the other side, this time without crackles. I felt as if the silence itself held its breath, trying to determine what Kit Klaavil meant. When the booming voice came back, there was a vibrato of uncertainty behind the booming. "You have another person aboard? Identify him."
" She ," he said, and followed it with a pregnant pause. "Is Patrician Athena Hera Sinistra of the Seacity of Syracuse on Earth."
"Pat—" Well. At least my title made someone choke, though perhaps not in a good way. "Where did you capture the Patrician?"
Capture. I almost snorted.
"Patrician Sinistra was
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