It was six days to the new Blackwell forward operating base. Fog Rolled In spent a great deal of it sleeping in the pilot's seat, some practicing with the Paragon in the off hand, some frowning over possible speeches and scenarios on their typing pad. By the time they arrived they were well enough rested to be impatient to complete their errand.
On the sixth day their radio received a hail from Blackwell flight control, barely audible at the edge of Fog Rolled In's personal atmo: "Two ninety-four, we heard you were captured. Please give your confirmation code."
Rather than answering they pushed out of the pilot's seat, maneuvered to the hole in the side, and leapt out. There was the FOB, lumped with grey mobile domes and swarmed by cargo ships, patrolling cavalrymen, and a few courier hopships; none of them much concerned with the half-destroyed ship drifting past. Fog Rolled In was too small to appear on RaDAR scan, so their approach was uninterrupted. Although it was theoretically true that without their counterpart's intervention Draper's Hand could destroy the whole place with little difficulty, it was not the way war was made.
"Where is the Sword of Blackwell?"
The small dome to the right side.
They landed and walked around the dome, inspecting it. There, the emergency airlock. It was simple to get the airlock open by vibrating certain parts in certain ways—the Paragon's remit. The hatch, however, did not open.
Black Water is holding it shut.
Fog Rolled In frowned. Of course the Sword of Blackwell would sense the Paragon's approach. Of course it would deny entry to a threat to its wielder. Was there any way to use the Paragon's voice to get in? To stun the Sword of Blackwell, perhaps? Cutting a hole in the side would suffer much the same problem as the airlock...
The airlock's external hatch opened.
Hmm.
If the Sword of Blackwell was prepared to let them in, it must be confident that it could subdue them. Or perhaps it was obvious that if they wanted to kill Blackwell's Hand they could have done it easily from outside. Fog Rolled In stepped forward warily, keeping the Paragon drawn. The airlock whirred, hissed, and opened onto the inside of the dome.
It was a single large room, one other exit, the floor heaped with clothing and other detritus—a tripping hazard. No-one was inside except the Hand of Blackwell. And though it was clear that they had had plenty of warning, they weren't waiting ready. They lay in a large bed, made small by masses of pillows. Their eyes tracked Fog Rolled In half-heartedly, but they said nothing as Fog Rolled In came closer, still not sheathing the Paragon. Instead they sighed through their nose and let their head loll back, exposing their neck. Fog Rolled In stopped, disconcerted.
After a long moment the Hand of Blackwell's brow creased slightly and they said to the ceiling, "Rise Through said you weren't going to hurt me. But that was a lie. Get on with it."
Their voice was hoarse and flat. Fog Rolled In had imagined... something else. Not this ragdoll soldier, this lifeless mockery of the foe who had nearly killed them more times than they could easily count. "I'm not going to kill you," said Fog Rolled In quietly.
Blackwell's Hand sighed again.
What would convince them, here and now, to cooperate? If they didn't care for their own life... "Draper is going to win the war. You and I both know this. There is no time for House Blackwell to train another Hand. By default, this—"
"What do you want from me?"
Fog Rolled In, irritated, took a breath to collect themself. "Marry me."
The Hand of Blackwell's chest rose convulsively, as if in silent almost-laughter. Then they closed their eyes and sank deeper into their pillows, and in that same flat voice, devoid of caring or any other emotion, they said, "Fine."
Fog Rolled In scrutinized them. Even considering the way they'd fought two days ago, this easy agreement was difficult to accept. Allowing an enemy to kill them was one thing; wedding that enemy was quite another.
"If they're not going to kill me, it's the only way I'm getting out," the Hand of Blackwell mumbled at the ceiling.
"...Right. Get up, then."
When Blackwell’s Hand didn't move, they strode to the bed and made to pull away the blanket. Only then did Blackwell’s Hand roll over and drop their feet to the ground. At the least they still had the instinct to pick up their sword before anything else, before even putting on a shirt.
Their chest and shoulder were wrapped in bandages that hadn't been changed recently. Dried blood could still be seen soaking through. That wouldn't do where they were going. Fog Rolled In searched the room and found a wardrobe, from which they took a shirt at random. When they looked back Blackwell’s Hand was still standing, having failed to put on their sword belt.
"You'll need shoes," Fog Rolled In snapped. "And unless you plan on carrying Sword of Blackwell in hand until further notice, I suggest you put on a belt." Blackwell’s Hand stared at the ground. Fog Rolled In, already out of patience, grabbed a pair of boots and the belt, and said, "Do I need to carry you?"
Blackwell's Hand lurched forward toward the hatch to the rest of the base.
Having finally gotten them out the door, Fog Rolled In drew the Paragon and touched it to the ground. "Everyone in the FOB asleep, please," they said under their breath.
The Hand of Blackwell must not have heard this, because the first time they came across a group of unconscious bodies collapsed in the hallway they stopped dead, staring.
"They'll wake up when we're gone," said Fog Rolled In impatiently. Blackwell's Hand stumbled into motion again.
It was rather a chore getting them to the dock, but with no flight control officers to demand approval codes it was easy to take off. It would be quite some time before anyone in orbit realized what was wrong.
Fog Rolled In left Blackwell's Hand standing uncertainly in the rest area of the ship and went to the cockpit. The closest station, at Kaabet, was some distance down and orbitwise. They set the navigational computer to calculate the route. It was a pity that they'd had to take a hopship rather than something more conspicuous that could carry more fuel; it would be nine days to Kaabet, a further nine days out of contact, with only military rations and a near-catatonic Hand of Blackwell for company. Fog Rolled In wasn't sure how they were going to sleep with them on the ship.
When they returned to the rest area, however, Blackwell's Hand was gone.
"Where are they."
On hull. Not leaving.
Fog Rolled In took a breath. "Tell me if they do leave." Not that it would be possible to do anything about it, but at the least Fog Rolled In would know that all this was for nothing, and have a little time to make a new plan.
They returned to the cockpit to watch the RaDAR screen.
Ten hours in, they were beginning to realize that waiting with Blackwell's Hand on their ship was far less tolerable than waiting by themself. Twelve hours, and they began to become concerned that Blackwell's Hand had failed to come inside at all.
At hour thirteen they went outside with a flask of water and a heated pouch of food. "You need to eat," they said. Blackwell's Hand, who lay flat on their back, staring upward toward the glimmer of Rethe, managed a shrug as if it were a titanic effort. Fog Rolled In stood for a moment longer, uncertain how to insist that their enemy of years eat something, but they didn't have to. Blackwell's Hand made a faintly annoyed face and sat up, holding out a hand. Fog Rolled In gave them the food and water and retreated inside.
It was more unpleasant than they could have imagined, travelling with the silent Hand of Blackwell on hull, obliged to bring food to them regularly, although it seemed they were able to come inside to use the facilities. It made Fog Rolled In feel trapped inside the tiny ship, where they might otherwise have enjoyed sitting on hull themself to meditate in the star-spattered blackness of Heaven. They could hardly sit down to work on their typing pad without wondering whether the Hand of Blackwell was on the hull behind them, unsheathing a sword that could cut through anything...
It was a relief to dock at Kaabet, and a greater relief that Blackwell's Hand seemed more willing to move when being observed. Sullen and unfocused, they managed to look almost unobtrusive, although they still drew stares; neither had anything to wear other than uniform, and it was very seldom that Kaabet saw members of any military. Consequently Fog Rolled In's first goal was to purchase some inconspicuous clothing. Ill-fitting, yes, and it would have thrown Fischer into a fit, but it would serve.
Second was a visit to an infothèque to send a letter to Cross assuring them that Fog Rolled In had left the contested zone and inquiring where they would be meeting their contact once they reached the Confederated Moons. This was rather delicate. Not only did the letter need to be more or less in code, sent as it was from a public console, but Fog Rolled In did not want to allow Blackwell's Hand to contact anyone. They had agreed to come, but... it was difficult to believe that they were willing to be here.
Blackwell's Hand did not try to contact anyone. They stood near the entrance of the infothèque, Sword of Blackwell invisible against the wall, vaguely watching people pass by. It was rather disconcerting how agreeable they had been.
Fog Rolled In stayed longer than they'd initially intended, since Blackwell's Hand didn't seem likely to make trouble. Likewise in code, Cross began to update them on developments in Draper that they'd missed in the last month: the internal taxation ruling had finally gone through, and Cross' people were collecting data on the effects. Good. It was always satisfying to update economic simulations with new data from their experiments. Cross also reported that Fischer was 'holed up in her workshop with ten pounds of tea' and May was working overtime to prepare publicity.
By that time the train was expected, so Fog Rolled In instructed Cross to wipe all evidence of their communication, stood up, and collected Blackwell's Hand to leave.
Fog Rolled In had never visited a kobold settlement due to the Ag-Ha Treaty, which banned mining on populated asteroids, but they had read about kobolds: their unfamiliar diets and customs, their ability to derive hidden information from almost any utterance. As a concession to the humans who used Kaabet as a rail transfer station there was gravity, air, and the tunnels were large enough to walk comfortably. On the other side of the citymoon there would be places occupied only by kobolds, but here they could see the intricate geometric reliefs on every surface, space-filling patterns and fractals. The kobolds they passed wore similar patterns bossed on their leather clothing, and stared openly at the Hands while humans more or less ignored them. There was no time to ask why they were so interested, but Fog Rolled In noted it.
At the train platform they bought tickets and boarded. Fortunately Kaabet was aligned with Rethe at the moment, which meant there was no need to transfer via the Upper Ring Line. It was a much shorter trip than the twenty or so days it would have taken in the hopship they'd sold for scrap, but fifteen hours in a compartment with the Hand of Blackwell still felt far too long. They stared out the window into the starless nothingness through which the train passed between stations while Fog Rolled In edited their speeches and finally pretended to sleep, silently reciting liturgy. It was very unpleasant to be reminded that they would be forced to sleep within reach of Blackwell's Hand for a long time, perhaps the rest of their life. And yet they couldn't bring themself to do so now. Not yet.
And so they were exhausted when the train stopped at Iona, not inclined toward patience with the Hand of Blackwell as they mustered to go out and get a shuttle to Shattersea.
Three more hours. Then they could rent a suite and have at the least a locked door between them and the Hand of Blackwell, little as that protection was. Just three more hours.