Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [112]
Stiles glanced around to make sure there was enough root canopy over them that a spotter couldn’t easily see them. He knew that if a plane got close enough the infrared scanners would pick up the heat off the tops of their heads. There was nothing to be done about that if it happened.
Zevon lay in a cradle of velvet-coated roots, the kind that were about to plunge into the nearest puddle and release their spores. Till then they were a bony cushion that offered a few minutes’ rest. Stiles sat with him, absorbing the leather threads in his head and the Pojjana cardigan, pleased that at least Zevon didn’t seem to be starving anymore. They were at least clothing and feeding him for all he’d done for them.
Still drowsy, Zevon gazed at him warmly, with shieldless affection and relief that they were both alive to have this reunion.
“Eric…” He smiled again.
Stiles smiled back, knowing the drug of phaser stun was giving them this uncrystallized and uncluttered moment. His hand closed on Zevon’s wrist as it had that last day so long ago. For a moment there was nothing around them, no planet, no problems, no past or future troubles to distract them. Certainly nothing to drive them apart anymore.
Gradually, though, inevitably, Zevon’s perceptions cleared and he shifted his shoulders. They held onto each other, absorbing the wondrous confirmation that neither was dead, as each certainly had entertained in the troubling hours before sleep.
“I didn’t think you’d even speak to me,” Stiles attempted. His voice cracked on the last couple of words.
Zevon rewarded him with a kind of glow in his eyes. “Why would I not?” “Well, I am a little late ….” “Yes, you are.” “I swear, I thought they got you out.” “I know you did. Why did you stun me?” “Oh, because you resisted my charms.”
Taking a better grip on Zevon’s arm, Stiles helped him sit up and lean against a particularly large and ancient root. Nauseated, Zevon closed his eyes briefly, fielding a wave of dizziness from the change of position. “Are you okay?” Stiles asked. Zevon leered at him with unfocused eyes and finally a clearing head. A perception of irony brought the faintest of smiles. “Yes, Eric, I’m okay?’
The buzz of distant aircraft funneled down to them from the foothills. Stiles didn’t look away as the awkward moment passed between them. “So,” he began, “how y’been?”
With a grimace of irony and another smile, Zevon sat up and shook pods from his hair. “I’ve been busy.” His face patterned by the shadows of roots overhead, he blinked into the sinking sun. “Where have you taken me?”
“We’re out on the swamp flats. Cuffo Lake’s a mile or so that way. I was hoping you’d come around so I didn’t have to carry you any more. We’re under cover, at least.”
Another shadow came over them, this one long, crisp, and near. Stiles didn’t look around. He knew. “This is Ambassador Spock,” he said to Zevon.
Zevon peered up at Spock, fitted the puzzle pieces into place, and accepted what he saw. He bowed his head courteously. “Your fame precedes you. I am honored.” Spock returned the gesture. “As am I, your Excellency.” “Centurion, please.” “As you wish.”
As Spock came to sit beside them on a fat root, Zevon said, “Royalty is the mantle I was born to. Centurion is the rank I earned.”
“Then Mr. Stiles’s report is correct? You are fourteenth in line for the throne?” “Thirteenth, now.”
Spock paused. “Yes, of course. Pardon my error. If you will indulge me for a few minutes, Centurion, I shall explain our problem.” Zevon glanced at Stiles, then back to Spock. “Explain.” “So they’re dying. So what?”
A shaft of guilt ran through Eric Stiles at hearing Zevon using affectations of language he had obviously learned during their incarceration. He felt as if he were looking into a curved mirror. Even after all these years, Zevon sounded like Stiles, and it was both nice and weird.
“I understand,” Stiles allowed. “They didn’t come for you. But it’s important, Zevon. And you’re the only one.” “I hardly believe that. I am the convenient one.”
Stiles winced inwardly. Better let that go