They went down the corridor, up an elevator to the top floor, then down another corridor that was dark and obviously rarely used. The room they took Jennifer to had a steelreinforced door and thick wire mesh on the windows. Once inside, Brennan carefully lifted her onto the bed and watched anxiously as Tachyon examined her.
"Will she be all right?" Brennan finally asked after Tachyon straightened up, a distant, worried expression on his face." Her wounds," Tachyon said, "are not life-threatening. You did a good job of field-dressing them, and I can carry on from there. She should be in no danger from them." Brennan detected a hesitancy in Tachyon's voice. "She will be all right?"
Tachyon's eyes, as he looked straight at Brennan, were uncertain. "There is something else… wrong. Terribly wrong. I could not touch her mind."
Brennan stared at the alien physician. "She's dead?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice. Father Squid put a steadying hand on Brennan's right forearm as Brutus moaned softly from the head of the bed.
Tachyon shook his head. "Look at her, man. She still breathes. The blood still rushes through her veins. Her pulse is steady. Faint, but steady."
Tachyon seemed to be speaking in riddles, but the years Brennan had spent in a Zen monastery made him used to that. Tachyon was making a koan, a Zen riddle designed to teach a subtle lesson about the nature of life.
Brennan's mind seized on that familiarity of form like a life raft tossing about on the ocean of emotion raised by the possibility of Jennifer's death. "When is life like death, and death like life?" he said so softly that Tachyon and Father Squid could barely hear him. He looked from the priest to the doctor. "When the mind is gone," he finished.
Tachyon nodded. "That's correct. The strange thing is, I can detect no organic reason for her… emptiness."
"Was she attacked on the mental plane?" Father Squid asked.
Tachyon shook his head. "I could detect no damage to indicate forcible entry and removal of her mind. It's almost as if it'd been lost… somehow…"
"Can you find it again?" Brennan asked.
Tachyon looked at Brennan, uncertainty in his eyes. "I wouldn't even know where to begin," he said simply. Brennan groaned and grabbed the bed's headboard with enough force to crush a section of its tubular piping. "There's Trace," Father Squid said.
"Trace?" Tachyon snorted and shook his head. "That charlatan!"
Brennan looked at Father Squid. "What are you talking about?"
"A mysterious ace who calls herself Trace. No one seems to know much about her, but she has strange mental capabilities. She can find nearly anything that's been lost by `looking' back on its pathway of existence."
"Can she find lost minds?" Brennan asked. "I doubt it," Tachyon said firmly.
Father Squid shook his head. "I don't know," the priest said. "She has other rather odd powers. Or claims to."
"Get her," Brennan said. "Get anyone who can help."
"I'll try," Father Squid said doubtfully.
"If you can't bring her here," Brennan said forcefully, "I will."
The priest shook his head. "No amount of coercion would ever work on Trace. If she wants to help you, fine. If not, nothing on earth will ever make her change her mind. And she is the wrong person to anger."
"So am I," Brennan said.
"Don't make a hard situation more difficult," Father Squid pleaded.
"Okay." Brennan took deep breaths to calm himself. "Go make the call, or whatever it takes to get this Trace here. Tell her I'll do anything I can, anything she wants, if she'll only help."
Father Squid, eyes closed, nodded. "I already have," he said.
Latham chivvied the last bit of eggs Benedict onto his fork with the last half of the last muffin on the plate sitting on Kien's desk. "Bloat is getting to be something of a problem," he told Kien.
Kien poured himself another glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the decanter on his silver serving tray and washed down his caviar-covered muffin. He loved freshly squeezed orange juice almost as much as he loved wielding authority. Almost. Combining the two into a power breakfast was the perfect way to start the day. "Can we do without him?" he asked his lieutenant.
Latham considered the question as he chewed and swallowed, and finally shook his head. "Not yet. Perhaps soon." He fastidiously wiped his lips with his linen napkin. "I created another three jumpers last week. Soon we'll have a force big enough to deal with all the grotesque jokers Bloat has accumulated on the Rox."
"Three?" Kien repeated, impressed. Latham had gone without sex, as far as Kien knew, for the first twenty years he'd known the man. Now that his ace had turned, the heretofore abstemious lawyer was acting like a damn rabbit. Still, it was all to Kien's benefit in the long run. Latham created the jumpers, and Kien controlled them through his loyal lieutenant. Soon they'd be potent enough to add as a third main branch to the tree of the Shadow Fists: Immaculate Egrets, Werewolves, and jumpers.
Kien, in fact, had already availed himself of their services, obtaining through them this fine ace body that had once belonged to one of his less-loyal lieutenants.
The jangle of the telephone sitting on the edge of his desk cut through Kien's reverie. "Yes," he said quietly into the receiver as Latham looked on curiously.
"It's Lao."
Lao was the head of the assassin team he'd sent after Brennan and that bitch of his. Kien didn't like Lao's tone of voice.
"Yes." Kien's reply was sharper this time, and Lao hesitated. "We-we ran into some unexpected difficulties," he finally said.
"Is he dead?" Kien asked in a hard voice. "The woman is… I think…"
"You `think,"' Kien ground out. He growled deep in his throat, his fury robbing him of the ability to articulate. He waited for the blaze of emotion to fade so he could speak clearly again. "All right. You and the others come in. I shall give you a chance to redeem yourselves."
There was another long silence, and then Lao said, "The others are dead."
Kien swallowed his fury. "All right. I will give you another chance. Do not fail me again."
He didn't hear Lao's voluble reassurances as he hung up the phone. Good help, Kien reflected, was so hard to find these days. Wyrm was dead, Blaise-well, there was a possibility, but it was difficult to control the little bastard. The Whisperer-impossible to reach on short notice. Warlock and the Werewolves… another possibility, but Kien had secrets, many secrets, that he didn't want exposed. Latham, though, already knew most of them.
"I might," Kien said, struck by sudden inspiration, "have need of your jumpers again. Round up three or four that you can trust."
Latham nodded slowly. "All right. Three or four trustworthy, disposable jumpers."
"`Disposable,"' Kien repeated. "Good point."
They could get rid of them after the job and keep Kien's newest secrets even more closely held. Latham stood, folded his napkin down neatly on his breakfast tray, nodded, and left the room. Kien scarcely realized that he was gone. He was wondering what it would feel like to wear, like a newly purchased coat, the body of his longtime enemy.
3.
Brutus jumped down from Brennan's shoulder to the head of Jennifer's bed. He laid a tiny hand on her forehead and shivered. "She's cold, boss, real cold."
Brennan could only nod. The wait was excruciating. Tachyon had dealt with Jennifer's wounds as best he could, then had to leave on clinic business, leaving Brennan, Brutus, and Father Squid to their bedside vigil. It didn't help that Father Squid could offer no suggestion as to how long they'd have to wait for Trace or whether she would even show up.