Actually, that had disturbing implications.
Cousin? asked an entirely different voice in his head, like a cross between bells and a particularly chaotic wind-harp. Which posed a problem, because despite having been sired by a moderately famous violist, Jedao was as musical as a turnip. The voice went on: I wasn’t able to draw off all the Shuos, although the fight was grand fun. Shouldn’t you get out of there, though?
Another hallucination? All his cousins—Jedao winced in spite of himself. Even if some of them had lived past the immediate backlash after Hellspin Fortress, none would be alive centuries later. Even more worryingly, Cheris gave no sign of having heard this new voice.
She did, however, learn of the voice, thanks to the link. Her brow furrowed. “Jedao,” she said, “how long have you been hearing voices?”
There was no answer he could give that would be believed, so he said nothing.
Jedao took a risk; not like it would be his first. Do you have a way off this world? he asked the musical voice, which a faint, disquieting memory suggested he should call the Harmony.
The Harmony responded with a discordant peal of laughter. Cousin, have you forgotten what we are? If you can reach me, I am transportation. As long as no one figures out that my harness broke, anyway.
“We”? Jedao wondered. Then its last sentence penetrated: it was talking about a mothdrive harness. Which meant that he was—
“Jedao, no,” Cheris snarled, her patience snapping, “you are not negotiating with some figment of your imagi—”
{Trust me,} Jedao snapped over the link. “I know a way out.”
Unfortunately, he had neglected the servitors. After a moment’s confused hesitation, they opened up with lasers. Jedao had good reflexes, and he twisted instinctively to shield Cheris, but even he wasn’t fast enough to evade focused laser fire from six hostiles with line of sight.
He bit halfway through his tongue at the excruciating pain. The lasers cooked a hole in his chest, cauterizing as they went. Steam gushed out as the fluids in his body overheated. But he wasn’t dead, and he should have been.
Jedao staggered forward, a phantom memory telling him that he had nothing to fear even though common sense insisted otherwise. He half-expected security to redouble its efforts, or for the aggravated voice that had addressed Cheris earlier to demand that he stop; but no. The servitors scattered.
Cousin? the Harmony said again. Do you see my location?
He spent a confused moment trying simultaneously to speak down the mental link to Cheris, not what he wanted; out loud, also not what he wanted; and in the silent music-not-music language that the Harmony used. Directions?
You’re bringing the human?
Yes, he said, expecting an argument. None came. Instead, the othersense pulsed alarmingly, indicating a location. He sensed a mass the size of a small moth’s, although he couldn’t explain how he knew this.
The base shuddered again. Explosives. He reminded himself that he had a body, that he wasn’t dependent on an anchor’s reactions for his survival. He could puppeteer the body, whoever it belonged to, without having to coax its owner into doing it for him.
Cheris’s mouth tightened, then she handed the gun over. “You have better aim,” she said, “and you’re better at absorbing punishment.” She didn’t explain what she meant by the latter. “Clear us a way.” For her part, she pulled out a combat knife.
Testing the othersense, Jedao mapped a route to the Harmony. He was already fucked, so he might as well take the help it offered now and deal with any treachery on its part when it occurred. (“This is your idea of ‘tactics’?” Kujen had once demanded. “Brought me to you, didn’t it?” Jedao retorted, and the conversation died a merciful death there.)
Much as I’d normally tell you to enjoy yourself on the way, the Harmony added, they have reinforcements on the way and I can only do so much. Hurry and we’ll find some fun elsewhere!
Jedao’s attempt to locate the egress was stymied by the fact that he had no idea how to open the airlock. He hadn’t spotted any of the heavy tools necessary to cut through it, and who knew what awaited him outside, either. Too bad the othersense was more confusing than helpful, as he wasn’t certain how to interpret it.
The hostiles forced the issue by making their own opening. White-hot lines appeared in the wall, and someone kicked the resulting improvised door outward. It landed on the floor with a clang and a sizzle as metal vaporized.
Jedao crouched behind what passed for cover, a beautiful cloudwood table that suggested Kujen’s tastes hadn’t changed in the centuries they’d known each other. Cheris followed suit, careful not to block his sight lines.
When the first two operatives burst through, avoiding the hot edges of the opening, Jedao fired once, twice. Two perfect headshots. One of the operatives dropped. The other staggered and fired back, almost clipping Jedao.
Jedao had not stopped moving—only a fool stopped dead in a firefight—and instead dashed past the two and through the opening. Once again Cheris followed, letting him take the brunt of the fire that greeted them. Jedao forced himself not to dodge, because all the evidence suggested he was the only thing between Cheris and a bloody death.
A moment’s glimpse told him that they were badly outnumbered, with more operatives scattered ahead of him and continuing to fire, although his mind perceived the gunfire as staggered as it struggled to process everything happening. The fact that he could see the bullets, albeit as blurs, at the same time as he detected them through the inexplicable othersense only confused matters. And the erratic impressions he received of Cheris’s emotions through the link—everything from alarm to determination to a certain grim nostalgia—didn’t help, either.
More bullets. Without thinking, he reached back to grab Cheris, then accelerated through the obstacles. He heard screams, one of them his own, as he collided with one operative and bowled them over. There was a crunch as bones broke in one of his feet, because he was moving at fantastic speed but not running, by means he couldn’t explain, and he’d landed badly on it.
In fact, his bones felt like they were boiling inside out. The world shuddered black for a second, more pain—not just the impact but the effect it had on the injuries he’d already sustained. He retched, bringing up nothing but thin bile.
Jedao lost control of whatever had caused him to speed past the hostiles and collapsed in a heap. Cheris landed on top of him, and the breath whooshed out of him. He gasped, coughed, chest heaving with a futile attempt to breathe; his helmet had cracked. Panic seized him—was Cheris also going to asphyxiate?
Cheris disentangled herself from him. Her suit remained intact. {Stop trying to breathe,} she said. {You don’t need air.}
This made no sense, but Jedao was willing to try an empirical approach. He did as she suggested.
Curious. Cheris was right. He didn’t need to breathe.
The Harmony’s earlier statement returned to him. Had Kujen installed him in a moth’s body? He didn’t feel like a moth, and he seemed to be more or less human-shaped, but then, he had no idea what it felt like to be a moth, so that didn’t mean anything useful.