Who: Milan Trane, Gerald Tarrant Where: City Section 1 (When: Later Evening Day 1, Sunday, December 9)
Gerald didn't sleep.
He wasn't sure that he would have anyway, hadn't needed to in a thousand years unless it was to let himself heal and even those quiet spans of time were more a still consciousness than any real human equivalent of sleep.
When the other room was as silent as his, Gerald sat up despite the small protests of muscles. He moved to the washroom and took some of the circulated bathwater to his face and neck, hands. Milan was still curled tightly when he stepped out, feeling better. Tomorrow they would find the man somewhere else to lay his white head.
Curbing the want to step outside, knowing that there would be no dark fae waiting to greet him, Gerald went back to his room. There would be time to go out and map the stars, perhaps, count the moons. He had gathered a distinct impression that he truly had nothing but time. Picking up Morbius' book on the Krell, Gerald settled down to read. For an hour, two, he hardly shifted except to turn pages.
Eventually he stirred, unpleased to find his back knotting. The man stretched, and flinched, as his back popped. He was not unfamiliar with pushing endurance; he'd had enough of that on his travels with Vryce in the three years, finding himself in miserable empty territory that had little in the way of the complicated fear that he needed to adequately sustain him. But these complaints of humanity - sore back, the blisters he remembered from before he died... They would not stop him, but were fatiguing in a way that he'd forgotten.
He summoned a thought of the bot.
In a minute or two, Robby came into the room.
"I believe I was summoned."
Gerald nodded. He held up the Morbius book. "Can you tell me about the man who wrote this?"
The lights in Robby's domed head blinked and whirred.
"Edward Morbius. Born on Earth, in Rochester New York, 2029, graduated from Harvard University with masters degrees in Linguistics and Comparative Philology. Signed on to the Bellerophon expedition at age 31, as part of the colonizing group assigned to the planet Altair IV. Wife, deceased, daughter Altaira aged nineteen."
Not for the first time did Gerald regret Casca's sacrifice, that all the history of Earth had been destroyed in a single act. It had been necessary to tame the Fae, but what a loss.
Still, Morbius' Earth was--apparently--not necessarily his ancestors'.
"How did he come to write scraps of the Krell history? Do you know that?"
"Professor Morbius discovered evidence of the Krell on Altair IV. Though all aboveground traces had been worn down through erosion of the planet, he discovered the underground areas fully intact. Morbius was able to learn a little of the Krell written language through study and consequently some of the Krell science. He used that science to design and construct me."
"Morbius made you?" But the robot had told him that it had been made just after he'd woken. And then something else occurred to Gerald. "You didn't give dates of death for Morbius. Or his daughter."
"That information is not in my databanks. As I explained, my databanks are incomplete. The original of me was constructed by Morbius. I am a copy based on his plans and recordings of his process."
The robot seemed unconcerned about being a copy. The incomplete databanks however did appear to cause a hint of strain in the robot's nonchalant voice tones.
"It bothers you that your information is incomplete?" Gerald didn't know one robot from the other. Could machines be distressed?
"Of course, sir. Incomplete data may result in errors." The admission was deadpan but there were several clicks and flashing lights.
"This is not Altair IV? Another Krell planet?"
"This is not Altair IV."
"Do you know what planet this is?" Just knowing that is was, in fact, a physical place would go a long way.
"It is not on any standard Earth star chart, therefore I have no method of designating it."
Gerald leaned back against the wall and was silent for a moment. "Robby, I need a blank journal. Paper pages, but bound in thin leather. Something small enough to be easily carried, with a writing utensil." And, another thought. "Do you have a map of the city?"
There were some clicks and whirs. "I have only been in this city slightly less time than you have. I have no maps. I could survey and create a map. Since I do not know the extent of the city I can not give an accurate estimate of survey duration."
The slot in the front of the robot opened and Gerald's book and a writing instrument were revealed.
"I can attempt to access a map from the Krell archives. The archives however are difficult."
"Attempt it. And anything else you can about this planet." A pause, and then, "but not at the cost of time to other things." Gerald took the journal and pencil--lead was neater than ink, though less staying. He'd make do. "I'll make the map myself." He'd have to make a new list of things for Robby to produce.
"Are there ways of locking these homes so that only one person would be allowed inside?" A millennium of living in the heart of his own, viciously attuned forest... and with Milan both obviously smart and unbalanced... Gerald did not like the thought that someone could wander into his home without contest.
There was a pause before the answer.
"The door will respond to verbal commands, however only in the Krell language. I will attempt to reset the door mechanisms for this domicile to respond to English, your voice only. It may take some time. Will that be sufficient?"
Gerald nodded. It would have to do. "Yes. Until then... you are not to respond to any intruder in my home. Unless the person--" he paused, "--human or otherwise, is accompanied by me."
"I understand. If there are inquiries, how shall I refer to you?"
A few things came to mind; Amoril had always referred to him as 'Excellency,' which is the title that had been owed to him in his mortal lifetime, as the Neocount as Merentha. But here...
"Your Master will be fine. And, Robby. Once," not if, "you find out how to reprogram the door to English? Make the same corrections to the rest of the voice-command mechanisms in the house. The lights, I'm guessing, are one?"
"That is correct, sir." There was another pause. "Might I know your name, sir? For my databanks."
The urge to be immortal, no matter what the means or ends, was too great for Gerald to resist. "Gerald Tarrant." With a pain, he left off his titles. They meant nothing here. "If you speak of it to anyone, Robby, I will find a way to erase the information. And I doubt I have the knowledge to do a specific job." The threat was there, if the robot prized his databanks.
"You wish your name kept confidential. I understand the instructions, sir." The mechanical voice was flat but there might have been a hint of hurt at the threat.
A silent, black-clad figure moved carefully into the doorway, using the frame for support. "Will you erase the information from my databanks as well?" Milan said, in a tone just short of amused.
Silver eyes flickered past Robby's arm to the figure that Milan cut, purest white against darkest black. It was not a flattering color for him, the pitch neosilk. "Perhaps." His smile made it hard to tell if Gerald was joking or not. "Did I wake you?"
Milan leaned his shoulders against the doorway and still managed to shrug. "I heard voices. I'm not used to hearing voices. Nor sleeping."
"Neither am I." Gerald glanced at the wall, if he might see through it. The lack of windows was maddening to him, Fae to see or no. "It might prove to be a long night, if that is the case."
"Rather be out exploring?" If Milan was studying Gerald, he was just one of many things about this environment. But by far and away, the most active.
"Yes." It was an admission that Gerald didn't bother keeping to himself.
"What's keeping you?" Maybe Milan could guess the answer but it would be interesting to see what Gerald would say.
There was nothing to guard, honestly. The books were hardly something to keep out of Milan's reach. "A lack of light in an unknown place." It was a half-truth, and seamless. "Without the Fae, I cannot see in the dark."
"Tell Robby to construct a flashlight."
Gerald stared at Milan. "I don't know what that is."
"Portable light source," the albino's tone lacked any implication that the absence of this knowledge was anything to be ashamed of. He pointed to the ceiling. "Like that, only you take it with you. Handheld, usually, though on environment suits it's convenient to have it on your head." He pointed to his.
Like a lantern, then, without gas. It was good to know that the glow lights could be made smaller. That was convenient. "Robby, do you know flashlights?"
"Yes sir. Will handheld be acceptable?"
"Yes. Two of them; will it take long?" While a flashlight was obviously being offered to Milan, a weapon was not. There was the fact that its construction would take too long for a journey tonight, as well as that the man was hardly able to walk by himself, let alone carry a weapon.
Not to mention that Gerald didn't need him to have one.
Nor did Milan appear to have any interest in one.
"Three minutes each, unless you want them powered by radio isotopes. That would take more time."
"How about a lithium battery," Milan suggested.
"Five minutes. Battery life would be 5.3 years."
Gerald glanced at him, and then at Robby. "A good solution then. Two flashlights. With lithium batteries." He had no idea what batteries were, but the words rolled off his tongue.
"Coming up, sir."
Robby began moving away.
"If one of those is for me, may I request another item?" Milan deferred to Gerald as he would have to Raven on anything that didn't really matter. And here, what did?
"Feel free." There was no specific stipulation, knowing that Robby would not do anything for Milan without him being around.
"Robby, an orthopedic support - a cane?" Milan said nothing more, curious what the robot would come up with.
"Certainly. What color?"
"Black is fine. Give it a silver handle if you think it's too plain." Milan was amused. The robot was so unlike the cybernetics he was familiar with, it seemed, like Gerald, something out of a romantic fantasy.
Gerald would have found the image of he as such laughable. Not that he'd explain his dark past in order to let Milan share in the joke.
He agreed with the cane, and nodded slightly. He hadn't intended to support the man any further.
"Very well. Two flashlights and a cane. Six minutes." The robot trundled off.
"Convenient, you finding Earth tech in this place," Milan commented.
A uninvested shrug twitched Gerald's shoulders. "I'd say it found me. Mere luck."
Milan smiled. "Luck is just misunderstood Chaos Theory."
Gerald smiled back. "Chaos is never a part of my agenda." Although now, without the fae... It was going to be so much harder to press control over his environment.
Nor had it been a part of Raven's. Milan simply nodded, fully aware that as he stood there, the Virus looking through his eyes, in his mind, he was Chaos. Krell tech might be advanced to almost a godlike level, but it was so tempting to see how it would react to what he carried. The only thing lacking to try was the motivation. And his curiosity. He realized he wanted to see what was happening here. Once he understood it, grasped it, then would be time enough to allow the Virus its need to meld with life, organic or otherwise, in order to try and grasp its essence. Its attempts left nothing unaltered. Only Serge had had a chance against it. Really, S.T.A.N.D. had been Raven's best attempt, and without Serge as a part of it, S.T.A.N.D. would have failed and been consumed with the rest.
"Do you know chess?" It was random, but would pass the time as well as allow Gerald to learn a bit about the way Milan thought. He had never made a habit of the game, but it was the least asinine of Ernan games, and he knew it well enough to be sure of himself.
"It has been years since I played," Milan admitted. "I doubt I'll give you much of a challenge."
Gerald smiled. "I'm sure that you will have time to regain your previous skill."
Milan laughed. "You're assuming I had any to lose."
It startled an honest, quiet laugh from Gerald. "Then, I'm sure that you will have time to learn."
"Perhaps so," Milan acknowledged. It was an overture or sorts, from the man, and Milan realized that made it rare. Perhaps interesting.
"How did you die?"
Gerald made a small, assenting noise, not without humor. "Less than you would think. Andrys had good aim."
"Why did he shoot you?"
Milan didn't bother to wonder if Gerald would answer or not.
"He felt that he needed to. He was being led by an Iezu who wanted me dead." There was no need to explain that Andrys was his last remaining descendant, nor that Gerald had killed all of the others.
There were no more questions, just then. Milan stretched, and yawned. "Can I get you a drink?" he said, as he turned to make his way into the room with the pyramid table.
Gerald blinked, thinking for the first time about food. Water. "Fine." He trailed just far enough to lean against the doorframe. "How did you die?"
"Which time?" Milan focused on walking, this time without walking along the wall. It was doable, but his muscles protested. He went to the table. "How did you work this?"
That caught Gerald's attention, but the answer didn't show it. "Both? And you just touch it; although I've always pictured that it was liquid that I required." Food... was still awkward for him. Some cynical side thought he should just ask for a cup of blood and be done with it. Water was so thin.
"Once I was shot in the head - do you know guns?" Milan stroked his fingers over the pyramid, the Virus surging up under his skin, making it burn. He coaxed it back and tried visualizing, having to struggle with it. Food and drink hadn't been part of his life for a long time but he could tell the human components of his body wanted both. But one thing at a time.
There wasn't any response at first. He thought about someone without the concept of money, trying to get a coffee from a vending machine. It almost made him laugh.
The pyramid vibrated and a circle opened, a shape like the one Gerald had produced rising.
"One more, please," he said aloud.
Words or intent recognized, another circle opened to the right and a second cup rose near the first.
"I had a pistol," Gerald said with a nod. That he could use it reliably had awed some and frightened others. He could still remember the look on Vryce's face that first night, as his eyes had seen it at his belt. It had never been a first line of defense for the Adept, however.
"This last time, the satellite I was... in..." A part of. Fused with? "Was destroyed."
It was time, but Milan still felt the loss of the Incubator.
"How were you brought back? Guns were not common on Erna but I know enough to know that a bullet to the head was not often something that one would walk away from."
Milan lifted the cup to his lips, and took a sip of the liquid. The sensation was still too immediate, too organic. But he swallowed.
"I was in contact with something... something that kept me alive. Repaired some of the damage."
"Sounds like I haven't been the only one with strokes of luck in my life," Gerald said evenly.
"Luck? Why?" Milan leaned his hip against the table, taking another drink of the odd tasting liquid.
"Is it common in your world, men surviving bullets to the head?"
"Not very," Milan smiled. "But I'm not sure luck was involved. My contact with... what I was in contact with was the reason Raven shot me."
Now, that was interesting. Gerald apparently reminded Milan of the man who killed him. "Luck can run two ways." He smiled, the edges of the expression sharp enough to cut. "Or call it God's will."
"God has no interest in exerting his will on individuals," Milan replied, as if stating the table he was leaning of was solid matter.
Gerald's eyes closed lightly and the words that he'd written so man long years again came to him, words of mercy and will, the precepts of the followers of the Church... Words that the Church had still preached, still taught its priests and knights a millennia after they'd thrown him out, cast him down, damned his soul...
When his eyes opened, there was a well-controlled menace in them. "No. I don't think he does either."
Milan wondered how this man would react if he said he was carrying God's will inside his body.
Somehow, he didn't think it would be well received, not if that expression was any indication.
If Gerald had been the type of man to, he would have laughed in Milan's face had the man said such a thing. Probably, instead, he would have said something dry and pithy about the bullet being luck after all, and written the man off with silent and complete disdain.
So, better than he hadn't, then.
Robby appeared, holding the cane in one mechanical hand and two flashlights, LED type, with large square lenses, and a strap attached to each that could be slung over the shoulder.
Milan smiled when he saw the cane. The robot much had accessed some image out of his databanks for the cane's design - it was functional but also a little elegant.
Gerald shifted his attention to the robot. Walking over--liquid untouched, left--he took one of the flashlights and looked it over before pushing the only thing that could be pushed. The end light up with the same bright, clear glow of the overhead lights, only bluer.
It was incredible. Absolutely... no gas, years of light...
Gerald could not not show his awe.
Milan found Gerald's reaction worthy of note.
Robby seemed to accept it as his due.
"Will there be anything else right now, sir?"
Blinking, Gerald looked. His face straightened, the moment passed. "No." He looked at Milan. "It is the one way to make your legs stronger." Perhaps there was a sadistic stretch to the smile that found his lips.
The expression was recognized and accepted.
"In that case, sir," Robby said, "I will retire and commence attempting to convince the Krell systems that manage the house to accept English instructions."
Milan slid the loop of his flashlight over his shoulder and picked up the cane. "Then you don't mind my company," he said.
Without answering the question immediately, Gerald took a moment and stepped back into the other room to take up the journal and pencil. More items were mentally scrawled onto his list for Robby; good ink and pens, another, larger journal. A large sheet of parchment that he could use for mapping and a leather satchel, something easily carried even though it would make him feel like a mule.
What he wouldn't give for one of his horses.
"It is the only company I have," Gerald said with a pleasantly bland smile. It curved a little further then was gone. Vryce would have laughed at him, perhaps. He'd never had much of a sense of humor.
Milan laughed. "Not gracious but who could expect graciousness in hell?" He bowed, leaning on the cane. "Or maybe you just want to laugh at me when my strength ends." He didn't seem to mind the idea.
"Perhaps," Gerald admitted with the same smile. "I have little else to amuse myself with."
Milan snorted. "I think you have too much," he said. He finished the drink and moved towards the door.
Gerald followed. Knowing that there was nothing truly out there and still he felt the pull of it. It was a long moment before he turned his flashlight on. He would have rather stood and soaked in the darkness.
Milan's light stayed off, there was no need for two. The darkness didn't frighten him, but Gerald continued to provide him with something interesting to observe. The man seemed to welcome the night as a lover.
It was a deeply accurate description.
In that moment of darkness after the door had been closed, Gerald turned his head up and his palms out, as if he hadn't been out in the darkness earlier. But that had been post-dusk, not the real twilight. Even though there were stars, and moon, and so this was no True Night, it hardly mattered.
It was almost painful, the silence of this planet's night.
The man beside him was still, easily. No human fidgeting, just calm observation.
To Milan, the night wasn't all that quiet. The mechanisms of the city were waking up, little by little. He couldn't pinpoint them, or divine anything useful, but the Virus was drawn.
Mechanical life, and organic life. There were samples of each besides the house behind him and the man next to.
After a moment, Gerald flicked on his flashlight against the shortcomings of his human eyes. He wasn't sure that he'd ever become accustomed to the lack of song, the lack of the deep violet paint strokes that the dark fae brushed across the world. It made him feel half deaf, blind.
He picked a direction and started walking, slowly enough for Milan.
The cane helped. He wasn't really weak, just unaccustomed, in mind and body, to resisting the hard downward pull. The adjustment would happen, but not in less than a day.
However he walked with uncertain grace, looking around, examining what the light revealed, and what it hid.
Gerald had nowhere in mind. Everything being new to both of them, there was always something to make a note on, to file away for future reference. His fingers itched to record but in the dark he had to rely on his memory. They moved north, away from where Gerald had found Milan.
The city in the dark was not quite an obstacle course. It was spacious - buildings had been set apart in the residential areas, rather than crowded up close together like a human city. Beyond the low residences there were towers of glass and adamantine metals, but they were behind the direction the two men were going. In front of them, the buildings thinned giving way to wide areas that had been cultivated for their beauty at one time but were now grown wild.
The pathway was smooth and unbroken, as if it had been laid yesterday. Thus is was startling when the paving was broken abruptly in front of them.
The destruction was ugly, as if a huge, three toed foot had slammed down, sizzling hot, melting and depressing the paving and the ground under it.
Milan walked up to the edge up it, and poked at the buckled edges with the cane.
"Interesting."
Gerald was frowning faintly in thought. He stepped right to the edge and, with an absent hand lowered to rock his sword, hunkered down. He held his hand above the depression to make sure it was cool, and then touched it.
It was stone cold. Milan moved to the edges of the paving, where the lawn like vegetation grew wild right up to the edge. He dug the end of the cane into them.
"This is old."
"What makes you say that?" Gerald picked up a chunk of the shattered pavement and turned it over in his fingers.
"The damage stops at the edge of the paving. See, here?" Milan pointed with his cane. "Whatever did this had high energy. These plant would have been scorched, blackened." He shook his head. "This happened long ago."
Gerald nodded as he looked over the vegetation. The rubble in his hand was smooth as glass on one side; he ran a thumb over it. "Better for us." Based on the size of the print... "Let's hope that it is long dead and has no surviving kin." A fragment of the journals came back to him.
"Perhaps this is what wiped the Krell out." He stood, tossing the paving down and clapping his hands free of stone dust.
"Wiped them out? Then they didn't simply die out of... natural causes?" Milan's attention turned to the man.
"Robby said something about there being a disaster." Gerald looked around them, searching for other equal indentations nearby. "It could very well have been natural; his information was lacking on the subject." The journal had alluded to the something but had never made specific references.
"Natural?" Milan's tone was skeptical. He poked at the frozen destruction. He reached for his own light for the first time and turned it on, flashing it around as if looking for more of this.
There were depression in the ground to either side, but they were overgrown.
Gerald stilled, thinking.
Morbius had been on Altair IV, which was--as far as could be assumed--not this planet. The Krell had lived here, yet Morbius had found traces of them as well on Altair, enough to build technology and learn pieces of their language. He made a note to ask Robby what had become of Altair IV. Perhaps they could contact others on that planet, using the similar technology.
Finally he moved away from the prints, stepping across it to get to the far side. "There is no one to tell us, here. Come on." And no Knowing could be done to try and draw up memories.
Milan felt as if something tingled up his legs from the massive impression. Unlikely. His nerves were still hypersensitive. But the print fascinated him. As he followed Gerald, he tried to imagine the thing that made it.
As was Gerald. His hand settled and stayed on his sword.
They were walking through scrub now, overgrown vegetation that was obviously long from any taming hands. But it didn't talk much walking to bring them onto a path--obviously there had been order here at some point.
Out of the loom of the buildings, there were more ambient sounds. It made this place feel, finally, more of a living planet than a shell.
There was a bit of a night breeze, and it rustled the vegetation around them. Milan heard other noises, some that couldn't be attributed to the wind.
The sounds didn't hush abruptly when they approached.
There was a wall ahead, visible when they got close. And a gap in the wall like an open gate.
The bean of the flashlight seem to warp and shimmer as it passed through the air in the gap.
Gerald slowed before it. He didn't look at Milan, just moved the flashlight over the edges of the open space and then as far as he could over the top of the wall to the right and left. It shimmered as far as the light would reach.
"A branch," he suggested. He was not going to stick his sword through it.
Milan smiled, tempted to stick his arm in the gap. He could feel the energy humming in it. The instrumentality that produced it was well hidden.
Bending, he pulled at a plant stem. The sensation of the plant cell against his fingers sent a slight, sickening thrill along his nerves.
He passed the torn, two foot stem to Gerald.
I suppose that I deserve that. He took the plant and threw it into the gap.
The stem was light and didn't cast like a rock. It reached the gap and seemed to stick, almost go through, and then when it reach the other side of the gap in the wall, it fell gently to the path as if it had lost its momentum.
The oddity prompted a second attempt before Gerald trusted his body to it. This time he leaned down himself, find a tightly packed clod of earth that he didn't think would break. He threw it with a bit of force.
The clod stuck... and then continued through the gap, losing some of its momentum and dropping to the path shorter than it should have.
Milan moved forward.
Gerald did not stop him.
Reaching the gap, the albino paused, and then moved between the two walls.
He felt the tingle of energy all along his nerves and it made him shudder and push forward instinctively. He came through, feeling the energy suck at him and try to hold him back, but it wasn't hard to escape its grasp.
He had perspiration on his skin when he turned, and looked at Gerald expectantly.
Gerald wasn't the sort of man who would press on into danger because of a challenge. He stepped forward because he thought it was safe enough. Because the need to see the other side was greater than the calculated risk.
It was... unpleasant. Without food on his stomach, it twisted as he lingered in the odd sensation and Gerald was, perhaps, a little paler when he came out on Milan's side. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"
"It's some kind of energy field," Milan said, without answering directly. "It's interesting tech." He turned and looked back along the path ahead of them. "It's either weakened, or it was designed to keep out something other than humans."
"Wonderful." It was hardly even dry. Maybe a hint of inappropriate excitement, very well concealed. He started up the path.
"I get the impression you are not used to technology, in spite of the fact that your planet was colonized by and obviously advanced Earth..." Milan's attention hardly seemed to be on Gerald even as he spoke. He was watching and listening to their surroundings. The plant life was even wilder if that was possible, and densely thick.
Gerald's attention was not on his answer when he spoke. "The colonists... one of them. Casca. He determined that a sacrifice would change the shape of the Fae. It was manifesting nightmares from their minds and killing them, one after another. They only had a limited span of time until their gene pool would be too small. Casca sacrificed all of their technology. Everything."
"So he sent his people back to the stone age?" There was hardly any expression around that, just mild curiosity. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary. But sacrificing knowledge...
"In order to save them all."
Gerald paused, his feet slowing, and then he was walking again. "It tamed the Fae enough to live with it. For some, to work it. But technology, machines... they are unreliable. Doubt alone will cause them to malfunction. The Fae is an incredible force." And if only the Church had listened to him, they could have focused it, harnessed it. Thousands of similar thoughts put to the same purpose...
Milan laughed. " 'Doubt alone will cause it to malfunction'? Is that your experience?"
Footsteps stopped completely. In the dim light cast up from his flashlight it was clear enough that Gerald did not share his laugh. "It is the only experience on Erna. I used a pistol but it was never my first weapon and I was the strongest Adept on the planet."
Milan inclined his head, as if deferring. "A pistol," he said however, "Is a very simple machine. Doubt wouldn't cause it to misfire, only poorly made parts, or low quality propellant in the cartridges."
Silver eyes seemed to glint though the glow of LED light was steady. "Are you doubting that I cared for my weapons? Or that perhaps I used those that were constructed poorly." In the dark, now, with his full attention on Milan... Gerald was imposing.
"Will my doubt cause it to be so?" Milan said, apparently unaffected by the intimidation. "I'm stating simple facts. Doubt does not cause misfires. Physical causes do, whatever they may happen to be. It's not a slight on your... what? What have I apparently insulted?" The question was cool, curious.
Gerald smiled, the gesture ice. "Not that you know Erna, or the Fae well. So I suppose that I could use that as an excuse, rather than assume that you have apparently not been listening to me. But then again, you obviously do not listen to yourself, either. On Erna, doubt causes misfires. And you are standing here talking to a dead man."
Milan smiled in turn, and it wasn't ice. If anything, quicksilver. "Then I misunderstood you. So conditions on Erna are unique. That doesn't make my statements any less true for elsewhere." It was almost gentle.
Maybe he had not been clear, earlier. He was... fatigued. And far from his element. If Milan's tone was anything other than what it was, Gerald would have...
Have what? Wrapped him in dark fae until his heart was pounding symphonies and his fear was thick enough to taste from here? What would he have done, taught him a lesson with the power he did not have?
"I worked my entire life to make those statements true for Erna, Trane. The Fae is a volatile thing, ready to turn on the sorcerer every moment of a Working. It is alive, waiting to swallow you, to feed itself. Machines are nothing compared to the will of man, and the Fae twists that will and brings it to life. If it were like that elsewhere, the colonists would have never gotten off of Earth's surface."
Machines are nothing compared to the will of man...
The laugh burst out of Milan to quickly to catch it, to cover it. He turned away from Gerald with an unsteady jerk, shoulders hunching as he bowed his head, covered his face. The words and the passion provoked the Virus to life. It wanted to reach out to the man, to merge with him, to change him. And Milan realized he wasn't ready to forsake being human so quickly as this.
The laugh was muffled quickly, the last bits sounding more like sobs.
"Enjoy the evening."
Gerald would rather be alone than endure being laughed at. He turned and walked away from Milan, back the way they had come.
"Wait..." the plea was soft, forced out over a shudder. "Please..." In the end what was pride? A human construct. "I'm very...sorry..." Struggling with the inhuman life inside him, Milan groped for human words, human concepts.
Gerald did not wait. A thousand years, and no one who have ever laughed at him had lived to laugh a second time. His hand itched on the butt of his sword.
There was a short, quiet rustle of the wild grasses near Milan.
The albino turned towards it, something in him welcomed it. It surprised him to feel emotion, to yearn not to be left alone. This death and return from it had brought back so much more of what was human than he remembered. It was painful, like the teasing of sensation on his skin. Like razors over flayed flesh.
The tiger stepped out of the vegetation, eyes on him. Confident. Curious.
Perhaps it was to be short, this additional life.
Gerald heard the rustle, sensed the shift of attention in the new quietness of the man at his back. For five steps, he wished whatever was hunting the damnable man good luck.
Then he turned with the breath of a curse silent on his lips.
Perhaps he should ask Robby for a crossbow.
It was a cat, obviously a cat, but far larger than anything Ernan. There were uncats, house animals, bred up from the slinking feral things in the forests, their two tails and strange, flat feet a break from what the salvaged Earth records rendered.
This was that specimen in an identifiable way, yet... a thousand times more grand. His sword slid free.
The tiger growled, its body low to the ground. Yellow eyes flashed in the lamplight and pupils slitted. There was no fear--it advanced slowly, stalking Milan.
"Go, Gerald," Milan said softly, holding those amazing gold eyes. "It's a Bengal tiger. Shouldn't be here." There was a hint of wonder in the calm voice, so quiet. And oddly, nothing of fear. But there was acceptance. Milan expected to die. What could he do? Run? Beat it with his cane?
Well there was one thing... the Virus surged in him, the quantum nanoparticles quite ready to infect this beautiful animal and alter it, mutate it. Migrate to another host without leaving the first. Milan would survive. If he let it happen.
It shocked him, how he suddenly clung to his humanity. It was like clinging to a child's belief in Santa Claus.
Gerald did not go. He advanced, gait even and smooth, grace uncanny for someone so tall but befitting him. His eyes drank in the tiger even as Milan's did. A tiger. Glorious. And if Milan knew it, then it was an Earth cat.
He did not want to kill it.
As he came nearer the cat flickered eyes his way and growled again, deeper, lips peeling back from large, menacing teeth. It stopped moving but stayed low.
Gerald's movement forward was recognized, one predator to another, as a stalk. The tiger hadn't been challenged in it's life, not like this. It snarled suddenly, and hindquarters tensed to spring.
Milan scraped his cane over the paving.
The sudden sound from the other direction broke the tiger's focus and returned its attention to the weaker seeming prey. But it did not want to turn it's back on Gerald.
Gerald's muscles had tensed as the cat's had. When they relaxed again, it was not so much. But the sound, and its reaction, gave him an idea.
"Go on!" he bellowed. He clanged his sword against its sheathe. "Go!"
A black and orange ringed tail lashed violently and the tiger's ears flattered completely to its skull. It backed up, creeping on its belly, stymied by this unforeseen and singular series of happenings.
It rounded suddenly and sprang, bearing Milan down to the ground with its weight. Unable to do anything else, the albino rolled, and jammed his forearm and cane into the wide open mouth. Razor teeth split skin easily but the cane kept the jaws from snapping closed completely.
Eyes wide, Milan stared into death as the Virus rose up in his blood and tissue. His eyes glowed, and not with reflected light.
Suddenly the tiger let go and backed off fast, nose wrinkling, tail curling tight to its flanks.
Gerald was too far away, too trapped in his human limitations, to reach Milan before the tiger pounced. He had closed the gap by the time it was backing off and afforded it something that he would not have given to a human in its place: life. Instead of slicing it open, Gerald dealt a flat blow to its backside, the blade laying bare a thin strip of flesh bloody through fur. It would not impede the animal for long, mostly shock and sting. Leaning down in nearly the same motion, Gerald wrapped bruising fingers around Milan's arm and hauled him to his feet and back, walking or pulling.
Two different blood trails were left, and Milan somehow didn't lose his grip on the cane, through his arm was sliced to the bone.
The cuts dripped and spattered and then slowly stopped as the Virus exerted itself to repair the flesh. By the time they reached the gap in the wall, the cuts were sealed, angry and red-looking, but no longer sliced apart.
Gerald hauled them straight through the shimmering field before he stopped, and even then dragged them to the side so that the wall was to their backs. He pulled up the bloody, rent fabric covering Milan's arm...
And stopped, shocked, stared at the puckered skin, bright with new life.
Milan's grip on the cane was slippery with his blood. He released it, the action an effort as his fingers were locked tight.
He looked up at Gerald, dredging fragments of human mind back together. The effort of keeping the tiger uninfected had exhausted most of his resources. He wondered why it had been so important to do, tried to remember.
Milan was obviously not with him. Was he some kind of Adept of his own? Had healing himself cost him too much? "I grow weary of carrying you," Gerald growled out. He sheathed his sword and picked up Milan's cane--and then the man. This time he chose the gentle way, a strong cradle.
The field between they and the tiger... and whatever else... was not enough for Gerald's comfort. He set off, back to his house.
The position made it too easy to rest against that broad shoulder. Milan stayed silent and still. Too close to the man, the contact prickled along already screaming nerves. He could hear heartbeat. He could feel the exhale of breath.
The Virus wanted to propagate. It existed for that. The longer he held it in check, the more useless he was going to be. The irony was almost amusing.
Gerald stalked their back path, moving without thought. Or, at least, none spared to his body's motion. His mind was whirling. The trip back was much shorter than the trip to.
Milan roused enough for a pale head to lift a little, seeing an odd-shaped doorway before them that looked slightly familiar.
There were things he could say, even a few he wanted to say. But he held his peace.
Gerald was not careful when he set Milan down along the couch that he'd earlier fallen asleep on. "How did you heal yourself?" The words were as ungentle as his touch.
Milan had no energy for prevarication. "The Virus," he said quietly. Looking up, his eyes glowed red. "First contact." He wanted to laugh but it seemed to upset the man. It wouldn't have been an expression of humor, exactly but he manage to squelch the impulse.
"What virus?" Gerald demanded.
Milan collected himself, pulled knees against his chest. "We were seeking communication," he said, struggling with it. How to explain to anyone, much less this man from a world of no tech and what would pass anywhere for magic. "When we made contact, the life form did not understand organic sentience. It tried to talk to the machines... not the meat objects that infested them..." Pause to suppress another inappropriate expression. "I made contact..." He looked down at his hands, at the red, closed wounds. "I am contact..."
"You are infected," Gerald supplied. He did not move, did not back away. He only used the words he did because Milan had referred to the thing as a virus in the first. The thing. The alien life. A starfarer. "And you live."
"The Virus doesn't kill," Milan said, looking up at Gerald. The Virus looked at him. It wanted him. "It alters. Merges. Most attempts produce monsters..."
"Raven shot you."
God, he wanted to laugh. "He was afraid."
"Because the virus in your blood would have turned him into a monster?" Gerald's tone was neutral. It was only a question.
"We didn't know that, then," Milan said, remembering. "He was just afraid... of the unknown. The not understood." He finally smiled. "He wanted to sacrifice knowledge for safety," he said, remembering. He'd listened to every word Gerald had said, after all.
Silver eyes turned flinty. He disliked having his words turned back on him, twisted. "Knowledge for safety or knowledge for life?"
"We didn't know, yet," Milan noticed blood drying under the nails of his hand.
"You know now."
"Are you making a point?" Scarlet eyes gazed up into silver.
Gerald smiled quietly, but sharply. "I'm asking you if you're dangerous. If the alien in your blood is dangerous." The Iezu... were like people. Good, and bad. Gerald's curiosity won over his other emotions.
"Definitely," Milan said. This extra life, it was not something to cling to and yet the impulse to do so was strong. It startled him.
"Both?" There was a note of amusement buried under the question.
"Yes." Milan watched Gerald.
Wonderful. As if Amoril hadn't been already one psychopathic albino too many. "Why did the cat back off?"
"It was afraid. I think it saw the Virus." Milan's words were just words, lacking in much tonal depth.
Not that animal couldn't sense things that were outside the human scope, but seeing the virus... Gerald made no comment. "You should sleep." He stood from his place on the edge of the couch.
It was on Milan's tongue to mention he'd just woken up not long ago. Instead of saying that, he chose something else. "Thank you."
For a long moment, Gerald looked at Milan. Finally he nodded his head, once. "Robby."
The robot appeared through a doorway. "Yes, sir."
"If I specified herbs from Earth, could you reproduce them?"
"I could reproduce the correct chemical composition of them, yes, sir."
Gerald, during his ten century stint on Erna, had never been able to heal. Healing was a part of life and against his pact with the Unnamed. To heal, any aspect, would have killed him. But unconsciousness, that he could do.
He named a few herbs, common to Erna and, he thought, Earth. "I need them steeped in hot water."
"Certainly, sir." Robby moved towards the room with the pyramid table.
Milan watched this exchange quietly.
Gerald pulled the leather-bound notebook from the waist of his pants and laid it on the table, along with his flashlight. When Robby came back, he took the cup and handed it over to Milan. "Drink it. It won't kill you."
Milan accepted the cup. He watched Gerald as he drank. When he handed the cup back, he said, "What will it do?"
"Make you sleep."
Milan shrugged. He guessed that Gerald wanted him out of the way for a while. He rose and moved towards the bathing pool.
Gerald grabbed his arm and steered him back around to the couch. "You'll drown. It will kick in quickly." Gerald was less concerned about shutting him up--he could just ignore him, after all--as the haggard look around his eyes. Virus or no, Milan had a human body. It had needs.
Milan allowed the redirect, but the blood caking under his fingernails made him nervous. He curled up on the couch and lifted his fingers to his mouth.
Gerald's nostrils flared, his eyes flickered to lips... and he stayed standing, turning his back.
It was a little bit of a surprise when unconsciousness came, pulling a blanket of numbness along Milan's overstimulated nerves. His fingers slid out of his mouth leaving a faint smear.
Gerald exhaled, long and slow. He turned to look and his eyes lingered on the red stain. With a force of will and shiver up his spine, he turned away and headed for the bedroom.