close to death as this.
He'd pulled the barbed missile out; he didn't understand why it hurt worse now, not less.
He was sick to his stomach and only intermittently did he recall his determination to get home. Home to his own safe haven, or home to Mama Becho's, where someone would tend him, home to... anywhere where he could lie down, where the Beysibs or the Stepsons or the 3rd Commando or the army wouldn't find him. He was sweating and he was thirsty and he was nauseated. There was a red film before his eyes that made it hard to tell which comer he was on. If he was lost in Downwind, he was nearly dead: he knew those streets like he knew the tunnels, the sewers... the sewers. If he could find a rat-hole, he could curl up in one; he didn't want to die in public. That thought, and that alone, kept him on his feet just long enough for him to stumble into Ratfall, where people knew him.
He heard his name called, but he was down on his knees by then, with his head between them. The only thing he could do was curl up before he passed out. When he woke he was under blankets; there was a cool cloth on his head. When he could he reached up and grabbed the hand there, held tight to someone's wrist.
He opened his eyes, and a face swam, unrecognizable above him. A voice from that direction said, "Don't try to talk. The worst is over. You'll be all right if you just drink this."
Something was pushed between his lips-hard like clay or metal; it grated on his teeth. Then his head was raised by another's will and liquid spilled down his throat.
He choked, sputtered, then remembered how to swallow. When he couldn't swallow more, someone wiped his lips and then his chin.
"Good, good boy," he heard. Then he slept a sleep in which his side burned and flamed and he kept trying to put the fire out, but it kept starting up from ashes, and his body walked away from him, leaving him invisible and lonely on a deserted Downwind street.
When he woke again, he smelled something: chicken.
He opened his eyes, and the room didn't spin. He tried to sit up, and then it did.
Voices mumbled just beyond earshot, and then a form bent over him. Long black hair brushed his cheek.
"That's a good one; here you go, drink this," said a blurry face. He did, and well-being surged through him. Then his vision cleared, and he saw whose face it was: the lady fighter, Kama of the 3rd Commando, was tending him. Behind her, the soldier-mage Randal craned his swanlike neck and rubbed his hands.
"Better, you're right, Kama," said the mage judiciously, and then: "I'll leave you. If you need me, I'll be right outside."
As the door closed and he was alone with his enemy, Zip tried to push himself up on his arms. He didn't have the strength. He wanted to run, but he couldn't even raise his head. He'd heard all about Straton's skill at interrogation. He'd have been better off dead in the street than being alive and at the mercy of such as these.
She sat on the bed next to him and took his hand.
He tensed, thinking: Now it will begin. Torture. Drugs. They've saved me one death to offer me another.
She said, "I've wanted to do this ever since I first saw you." Leaning close, she kissed him on the lips.
When she sat up straight, she smiled.
He didn't have the energy to ask her what she had in mind for him, or what the kiss was meant to mean; he couldn't find his voice.
But she said: "It was a mistake. Gayle didn't understand what you were trying to do. We're all sorry. You just relax and get better. We'll take care of you. I'll take care of you. If you can hear me, blink."
He blinked. If Kama of the 3rd Commando wanted to take care of him, he wasn't in any condition to argue.
DAUGHTER OF THE SUN
Robin W. Bailey
"Did you miss me?"
Kadakithis whirled away from his window at the sound of that voice and stared in mute disbelief at the young woman in his doorway. She moved through his apartment toward him, aswirl in a summer cloud of dazzling white silks and
He'd pulled the barbed missile out; he didn't understand why it hurt worse now, not less.
He was sick to his stomach and only intermittently did he recall his determination to get home. Home to his own safe haven, or home to Mama Becho's, where someone would tend him, home to... anywhere where he could lie down, where the Beysibs or the Stepsons or the 3rd Commando or the army wouldn't find him. He was sweating and he was thirsty and he was nauseated. There was a red film before his eyes that made it hard to tell which comer he was on. If he was lost in Downwind, he was nearly dead: he knew those streets like he knew the tunnels, the sewers... the sewers. If he could find a rat-hole, he could curl up in one; he didn't want to die in public. That thought, and that alone, kept him on his feet just long enough for him to stumble into Ratfall, where people knew him.
He heard his name called, but he was down on his knees by then, with his head between them. The only thing he could do was curl up before he passed out. When he woke he was under blankets; there was a cool cloth on his head. When he could he reached up and grabbed the hand there, held tight to someone's wrist.
He opened his eyes, and a face swam, unrecognizable above him. A voice from that direction said, "Don't try to talk. The worst is over. You'll be all right if you just drink this."
Something was pushed between his lips-hard like clay or metal; it grated on his teeth. Then his head was raised by another's will and liquid spilled down his throat.
He choked, sputtered, then remembered how to swallow. When he couldn't swallow more, someone wiped his lips and then his chin.
"Good, good boy," he heard. Then he slept a sleep in which his side burned and flamed and he kept trying to put the fire out, but it kept starting up from ashes, and his body walked away from him, leaving him invisible and lonely on a deserted Downwind street.
When he woke again, he smelled something: chicken.
He opened his eyes, and the room didn't spin. He tried to sit up, and then it did.
Voices mumbled just beyond earshot, and then a form bent over him. Long black hair brushed his cheek.
"That's a good one; here you go, drink this," said a blurry face. He did, and well-being surged through him. Then his vision cleared, and he saw whose face it was: the lady fighter, Kama of the 3rd Commando, was tending him. Behind her, the soldier-mage Randal craned his swanlike neck and rubbed his hands.
"Better, you're right, Kama," said the mage judiciously, and then: "I'll leave you. If you need me, I'll be right outside."
As the door closed and he was alone with his enemy, Zip tried to push himself up on his arms. He didn't have the strength. He wanted to run, but he couldn't even raise his head. He'd heard all about Straton's skill at interrogation. He'd have been better off dead in the street than being alive and at the mercy of such as these.
She sat on the bed next to him and took his hand.
He tensed, thinking: Now it will begin. Torture. Drugs. They've saved me one death to offer me another.
She said, "I've wanted to do this ever since I first saw you." Leaning close, she kissed him on the lips.
When she sat up straight, she smiled.
He didn't have the energy to ask her what she had in mind for him, or what the kiss was meant to mean; he couldn't find his voice.
But she said: "It was a mistake. Gayle didn't understand what you were trying to do. We're all sorry. You just relax and get better. We'll take care of you. I'll take care of you. If you can hear me, blink."
He blinked. If Kama of the 3rd Commando wanted to take care of him, he wasn't in any condition to argue.
DAUGHTER OF THE SUN
Robin W. Bailey
"Did you miss me?"
Kadakithis whirled away from his window at the sound of that voice and stared in mute disbelief at the young woman in his doorway. She moved through his apartment toward him, aswirl in a summer cloud of dazzling white silks and
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