Having a clock didn't improve Mads' mood or put her at ease, in the end. The minutes crawled by, filled with alternating panic and boredom. And now that she was sitting still, her stomach was raging over two days spent with no food. She had been wrong before, this was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. At least the hostage road trip had involved regular rations.
Mads groaned and looked at the com again. Still five hours to eleven. How long had Luc been gone? Would he actually be alive if they returned him? And if he were alive, would she have enough time to get both solutions into him?
Well, if he's dead, that's one way to solve Graynard's problem. Mads was appalled with herself the moment she thought it. She had to be the better person here, keep the moral high ground and all that. She couldn't let them affect her.
That was when the door banged open.
Mads' jumped, almost upsetting the cot. She dropped the com into her dress, but the guards weren't looking at her. One set a wooden tray on the ground, and the other two shoved what appeared to be a bloody corpse into the room.
"Compliments of the Goddess," said one man, before he slammed the door shut again.
Mads smelled rich spices from the tray's direction, and her stomach responded with a growl. But there was a trail of blood beside the tray, and the motionless body. Oh stars. She held her breath, waiting, watching the body, which was presumably Luc's. Had she somehow brought this scenario on by thinking about how much more convenient it would be if he was dead? Was this her punishment? And also, did they really expect her to eat with a dead body flung out beside her?
She was light headed from hunger, fear, pain, and completely confused by an onslaught of tangled impulses and emotions. Her stomach gurgled angrily, not affected by more delicate sensibilities.
Mads stood, torn by indecision, and then the body twitched, and Mads realized it wasn't a corpse. That changed everything.
Mads staggered to his side and dropped down, her vision going wobbly. She really needed to eat. But if he was alive . . .
Mads took a few deep breaths, waiting for her heartbeat to steady, and then she leaned in closer to peer at the lumpy, human-shaped mess. It was hard to see through all the mud and blood, and weeping wounds, but then he blinked, and opened two impossibly green eyes.
Relief flooded Mads and gave her new energy. "Luc! What the hell?" She was truly relieved he was alive, much to her surprise, and she felt like crying and strangling him at the same time, but neither response seemed appropriate, so she just stared at him.
Luc managed a bloody, lopsided grin. He was missing his lower right canine, and his lower lip was splitting below it. "In case you're worried, it's not as bad as it looks." He coughed out the words, and his voice was hoarse. "Had to let them think . . . I was two steps from death."
"What did you do to them to make them so angry?" No matter what he said, there was enough blood to make Mads nervous. "I mean, other than break the High Priestess' heart?"
Luc groaned and closed his eyes. "She said that? I don't think her heart had anything, to—" he trailed into another coughing fit, spraying blood and spit on the floor. Thankfully, it was in the opposite direction from the food.
Mads frowned. "Stop talking. I'll warn you, I don't know anything about serious injuries, so I can't tell if you're dying or not. But I might as well look at the damage."
Luc winced. "No need. I'm fine. They're only going to kill me later. Besides . . .," he trailed off into another groan, his eyes still closed. "They took my med kits."
"Okay." Mads looked from him to the food, and her stomach growled again.
He didn't open his eyes, but his lips twitched into a bloody smirk. "Eat first. Worry about me later. I just need to . . . sleep."
A minute later his head sagged, and Mads had to lean close to make sure he was still breathing. She poked him, gently, and got no response. "Luc?" She poked him again.
He was asleep or unconscious, or hurt worse than he said and dying. Not great options, all around.
Mads looked around, helpless.
No, she wasn't helpless, that was just an attitude. She took a steadying breath and slowly staggered to her feet. There were ratty blankets on the cot, and it was possible to get water from the bathroom. She might as well see what she had to work with. It wouldn't be worth knocking him out if he died. Besides, she thought, grudgingly, as she stripped the cot, I should at least try.
The blankets were thin and threadbare, so Mads had no trouble tearing them into uneven strips. They didn't look quite like the ones she'd seen in the net dramas, but they'd do. Next, she set a larger piece of blanket under the stingy faucet and turned it on. That dripping water was probably going to take hours to do much. Stupid. Mads didn't watch many net dramas, but the heroines had all seemed to be far better supplied in these situations. Guess I'm not a hero, she thought, resenting Luc, the dramas, and basically everyone who had never had to deal with a half-dead enemy they felt morally obligated to keep alive.
While she was waiting, Mads finally investigated the tray of still steaming food. Mads looked away from Luc's bloody body and devoured the savory stew. It had root vegetables and some tendon-y protein she couldn't (and didn't want to) identify. There was also a rock-hard attempt at some sort of bread. It was dry as sand and felt like lead in Mads' stomach, and she had sudden visions of Krill's perfect buttery scones.
Stars, what would she do for one of those scones now? Many things Mads had thought she was too nice or too good for. This line of thinking was increasingly uncomfortable, so Mads looked back at Luc instead. The sheer amount of blood and dirt stole thoughts of scones and made her regret eating so quickly. While the stew seemed like it would have been delicious if she'd really tasted it, the combination of hastily eaten stew and bread were churning miserably in her previously empty stomach.
Mads looked away from Luc again and investigated the final item on the tray: a small bowl of cold, clear water. Mads cupped the bowl in her hands and enjoyed the cool feel of it against her dry lips.
Behind her, Luc groaned softly, but he didn't seem to be conscious.
Mads felt a pang of guilt, and only allowed herself a few sips of the water. She set it aside and retrieved the stew bowl. Back in the bathroom, she wiped the bowl with a scrap of blanket before exchanging it for the soggy blanket scrap. At least the bowl could collect more water. Was it safe to drink? Did it even matter at this point? If she got out of here, the Peace Keepers would be able to treat a little sickness from bad water, right?
Mads grit her teeth and knelt beside Luc. She quickly realized that net dramas made everything look easier. She wasn't shy of blood or bruising, but the general grossness of mangled, exposed tissue and bloody mud were something else entirely. Mads felt the stew burbling more uneasily in the pit of her gut as she attempted to clean off enough skin to see the real damage.
It was a long while before she could actually make out the wounds, as there was more blood than seemed probable. The mud complicated things, and had an annoying habit of hardening, and strips of Luc's ribboned shirt were crusted into both the mud and the cuts. Adding this to the painfully slow drip of water from the faucet; Mads feared it was truly useless to try to clean anything.
He'd obviously been whipped and beaten, judging by the mottled bruising and deep lacerations visible on his arms and sides, and probably his back. Other than that, a lot of the blood seemed to have come from his nose and his mouth, sans tooth. Mads suspected the cut in his lip needed tape or stitches. It was most definitely going to scar. There was also a troubling, mottled bruise at his hairline, which probably explained his unconsciousness. That was more dangerous than all the cuts, Mads would guess.
Her boxing coach had warned her extensively about head injuries. If it was as bad as it could be, he wouldn't live too long. If it wasn't serious, then she'd have to knock him back out eventually for Graynard. It would be perfect if it was serious enough to keep him unconscious for Graynard, but not serious enough to kill him. Best of both worlds, and all she would have to do was wait.
Mads sighed and settled back down by Luc's inert form. "How in the galaxy did I get into this mess?" she asked aloud. Of course, there was no response, though the answer was lying in front of her. "Why am I even helping you?" She was so tired, but she worried that if she fell asleep, he'd die, or more troubling, she'd oversleep and Graynard would show up with the fury of the hellscapes behind him.
Mads sighed and began picking more shreds of cloth out of raw cuts. It was as tediously disgusting as it sounded, and Mads found herself thinking in curses she would never have breathed aloud. She managed to sponge most of the blood off his face, at least. That seemed to be the least damaged spot, despite the blood and troubling bruise.
Eventually, she was able to rip away the tattered remnants of Luc's left sleeve and wipe away enough blood to reveal a large, faded black tattoo (no wonder he always wore long sleeves). Mads extracted more sleeve fragments, her curiosity outweighing her disgust. The artwork was faded, yes, but beautiful.
It was a strange design, old-fashioned and surprisingly detailed. A skeletal soul-harvester, sickle raised, standing on thorns, wrapped around most of Luc's left arm. The thorns curled and snaked down from his shoulder and ended on the upper third of his forearm. It was intricate work, done by a truly talented artist. The feathers on the creature's wings were shredded and torn, and ominously, stained with real blood from a gash bisecting the design.
Though Mads had never seen the image before, it seemed strangely familiar. But she rarely thought about tattoos. And soul-harvesters, that was an ancient Ithir thing, completely out of fashion. Reapers. That's what they used to be called, if she recalled correctly.
Mads rolled her eyes and continued picking shirt bits off of Luc. "What did you say, about death and you being friends?" she muttered. "I think you need to reconsider your relationship status."
Actually, he really needed to rethink all of his relationships, if they were as sour and deadly as the ones Mads had witnessed. Clubs, the High Priestess, Graynard . . . Graynard, wait a minute? Something in her exhausted brain was trying to get her attention, and make her recall something Graynard had said. Something that suddenly seemed important to remember.
Mads blinked the grit from her eyes. She needed a cup of coffee so bad. How was she supposed to think clearly when she hadn't had a bath, a good night's sleep, or a decent cup of coffee?
Tattoo . . . Where had she heard something about tattoos recently? And a reaper tattoo specifically? Where . . . Mads closed her eyes for a moment, she could sleep a little, right? It's not like she could stop Luc from dying—
Dying.
Reapers.
Tattoos.
A memory in Graynard's voice shot through her thoughts like a bullet.
"Jupiter Jive . . . distinct tattoos . . . I patched up a young man who turned out to be Jive . . . A reaper – a winged skeleton with a scythe. That's what soul-harvesters were called by ancient humans."
Mads gasped and sat up, gaping at the limp young man beside her. Stars and hellfires, I am the galaxies' biggest idiot . . .
Like a recording she couldn't shut off, Graynard's voice continued to play in her mind:
". . . ancient song up his side. Morbid, moody, adolescent crap, about death and seasons and that sort of thing . . . as covered with nicks and scars as you could imagine. I'm not the best doctor, but he looked more accustomed to a butcher."
Mads scrambled round to Luc's other side. She pushed him a little, trying to prop him more on his side so she could get a better look at his skin. She ripped away the rest of his tattered shirt, not even trying to be careful anymore.
His back was pretty torn up, but none of the cuts seemed to go down to the bone. Mads sponged away more fresh blood and caked mud, revealing scars everywhere. Knotted ropes of silvery tissue winding over lean muscle, countless little pink-white marks scattered like stars across his back, sloppy sutures curling in clumsy scrolls, it was endless. If the marks had made any sort of pattern, Mads might have guessed they were ritual or even intentional, but they were undoubtedly the traces of a violent life.
Mads inhaled, and then attacked the last patch of mud and blood obscuring the side of his ribcage, finally revealing a second tattoo: a knife-edged, sinister looking script that flowed all the way down to his hip bone, just disappearing under a bloodstained trouser band.
There you are, she dropped her cloth and slumped, staring blankly at the jagged lines of text, uncomprehending. Mads stared at it until the letters formed words, and then she read it aloud in a whisper, not sure if she should laugh, or cry.
"All our times have come, here but now they're gone, seasons don't fear the Reaper, nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain, we can be like they are . . . come on baby . . . don't fear the Reaper . . . we'll be able to fly . . ." (45)
Graynard was right. It was morbid, moody, adolescent crap, and Mads didn't understand what in the known and unknown galaxies it was supposed to be talking about. Nothing was making sense. This couldn't be happening.
Mads closed and then opened her eyes, blinking rapidly to clear her sight and trying to make sense of what she was seeing and feeling and thinking.
He can't be.
Jupiter Jive.
Luc . . .
Is Jupiter Jive.
And I'm the total idiot who finally figured it out.
She didn't dare say it aloud, lest he somehow hear her. She was in a tiny room with the galaxy's most wanted criminal, and she'd been in his company for days, supposedly hunting him. How could she, she of all people, how could she not have seen?
You've been so played, there's no coming back from this one.
This couldn't be happening.
She looked down at Luc's pitiful, battered body, and almost laughed. So he had the tattoos Graynard had mentioned? Did that really prove anything? Most likely there was no Jupiter Jive, and it was a mantle shared between hundreds, or just a gang.
Still . . . Mads stared at his blood pooling on the dirt floor and wondered what two billion Galactics looked like in cash.
Luc, no, Jupiter Jive (?) didn't look worth a free meal right now.
And what had the famous criminal stolen on Ga'naa? An, icon? She should have paid more attention, burning starscapes I'm so stupid . . .
Mads rubbed her eyes. She had tried so hard to forget the bloody amulet, the Andhera statue with living eyes, the priestess' laughter, the monstrous creature that had torn full-grown men apart like they were dolls. What does it mean? She had told herself it was all hallucinations, fever dreams brought on by pain, lack of food, and fear. There was no rational explanation for what had happened at the sacrifice, so she had neatly hidden it in the dregs of her mind, with every other memory and idea that ever threatened to destroy the world she'd chosen to live in.
The world Luc, Jive, no Luc, whatever his name was, had been tearing down since she met him.
Mads thought back (and it seemed very far back) to her first meeting with Luc, and recast every memory with him as Jupiter Jive. The great irony was that Luc had told her more truth than Mads had even realized.
The big, obvious, embarrassing difference? He wasn't hunting Jupiter Jive, he was Jupiter Jive.
Every little inconsistency fit now, even the High Priestess' passionate, vengeful hatred of Luc (Mads couldn't think of him as Jive). But no matter how much sense it made, Mads still had trouble believing it. Nothing about the glamorous, incandescent, glittering Jupiter Jive was visible in the man lying prone in front of her, or the somewhat grumpy, lethal bounty-hunter she'd traveled with for days. There had to be more to the story, that was all. Maybe Luc was just the thief, and he had partners who did the showstopping stuff?
But more importantly, how was she supposed to act when he woke up? Should she confront him? Wouldn't he just figure it out anyway? She'd seen his tattoos, after all. But he didn't know that she knew about those, so . . . Mads head was spinning so badly she had to sit on the cot.
They were probably both going to die. But what if they didn't? Mads gulped, and tried not to think about endless lines of Galactics. Instead, she fingered the flasks in her bodice, and focused on the problem at hand. Graynard would be ready to help them sometime before midnight. He had a plan to get them out, but his only priority was Luc—Mads' spinning thoughts slowed, as she remembered something else Graynard had said—
"Luc is priceless to me and my future."
How many times had he whined to her about Jive and his tiresome shenanigans? Why was he so fired up about this particular plan? Mads ground her fists into her forehead and tried to recall exactly what he'd said about the tranquilizers.
"I was prepared to tranquilize Jive, not Luc . . . settle for minor revenge . . . No, I don't want to hurt Luc. Just get him out of here alive . . . Don't make me regret this."
It hit her like a slap in the face. Graynard was using her so he could betray Luc/Jive. That had to be it. It explained Graynard's unsettling shift in personality, his tinges of paranoia and his insistence on following Luc into Ga'naa. Luc was a wild card, and possibly insane, but Graynard had been pulling Mads' strings so she'd get Luc, Jupiter Jive, millions of Galactics, exactly where Graynard wanted them. Neutralized, helpless, and with a full detail of Peace Keepers closing in who would be more than happy to pick him up.
But if that was true, why had Graynard told her about the tattoos? Was it a test? Was he careless? Did he just think she was so dense that she wouldn't have put two and two together? Or was he the cocky, talkative Atelian he'd always seemed to be, underestimating her like everyone else did? Granted, he'd told her about the tattoos in a moment of weakness, a time when he was fighting vestiges of very real panic and claustrophobia, and Atelians were infamous for talking too much.
And, if she were honest, she'd made her disdain for Luc pretty clear. It wasn't likely that she'd ever see him with his shirt off. And while he didn't seem particularly worried about modesty, he'd always kept his tattoos out of sight.
Or were they both playing her, layering plots and deceptions? Maybe Luc wasn't really Jive, and Jive didn't have those tattoos, but Graynard had hoped she would see them and turn him in, helping Graynard get a reward and revenge on Luc.
Mads felt like pulling her hair out from the confusion, but if she was honest, it didn't matter who was playing whom or how many layers of plots she'd stepped into. Luc was Jive, as far as she knew, and Graynard planned on having her do his dirty work so that he could get Jive where he wanted. He'd threatened Mads multiple times, let her know exactly what to expect if she failed.
But Luc had never hurt her. On the contrary, he'd been serious about keeping her unharmed (regardless of his reasons). For Mads, Graynard was the dangerous one, and she had to be very careful.
Does Luc really not know about Graynard's plan? Mads was startled at the sudden pang of regret, wondering why she cared. Luc had seemed oblivious to any negative feelings the Atelian might harbor toward him, writing them off as harmless.
So what could Mads do with this information, while she had the upper hand? The first step was obvious – ensure that Luc didn't find out what she knew. Mads glanced at her filthy rags and heaved a sigh. It would be safer to cover up the tattoos again, just in case. Mads scooped up some loose dirt from the floor and mixed it with the bit of sink water she had left, and then smeared it over Luc's tattoos, dragging any errant blood with it and obscuring the design a bit. She tried to keep the mixture away from the open cuts, as much as was possible. The risk of infection was already too high.
Her mind was as busy as her hands, flitting from problem to problem to problem as she worked. How was she going to get out without Graynard's help? That was the key issue now. She didn't want to be anywhere near this cell when he came back, but she didn't see a way to escape presenting itself.
But then, if Luc really was Jupiter Jive, could this cell hold him when conscious? Mads chewed her lip and frowned at Luc's still form. Should she tell him Graynard had visited, try to work them against each other? That was assuming Luc woke up at all, which probably depended on the severity of his head injury, and Mads couldn't diagnose that.
Mads covered Luc with the larger scraps of blanket, the ones she hadn't torn up. She had to stay calm and be ready to act in an instant. She had the com, so she could contact Alan if she had to. She needed Luc to wake up, so she could ask him about getting out.
Luc had been able to read her from the beginning. If he woke up and was able to move, she just had to be as impossible to read as he was. No big deal at all . . .
*************AUTHOR'S NOTE**************
So, our secrets are out - Jupiter Jive was with us all along. Also, why the heck does Luc have a Blue Oyster Cult tattoo? If you haven't already guessed, "Ithir" was my imagining of an alternate future Earth (see the above footnote). I like to think some classic songs survived in changed and strange forms. Also, despite Mads and Graynard's dissing of the lyrics, my love for "Don't Fear the Reaper" will never die ;P But as to Luc's tattoo . . . he just popped into my head that way ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.