Page 13 of Mongrels United
Nash held his teeth together. Bit hard. And counted silently.
* * * * *
It took five hours, not eight. And Nason may have lost the three hours he thought he had, because of the energy he wasted telling Nash what he really thought of him.
For the first hour, his father railed and complained. His slice apartment was falling apart. The rent was increasing. The toilet wouldn’t work and the landlord wasn’t interested in fixing it. The neighbors were too loud. Too young. Too energetic. Nash didn’t care. Never had. Never would. Not that his fancy money could change a damn thing, anyway.
Nothing Nason said was new. Nash had heard it many times before. But how much effort had it taken his father to hold up that shield, to hide how decrepit he’d grown?
Quickly, the old man grew exhausted. His unshaved, sunken cheeks turned grey, the edges of his lips became blue. The medical sentry clicked and whirred and administered drugs, each time his father’s condition shifted. The pain killers they were using had to be industrial strength, which might have been robbing Nason of energy, too.
He dozed, while Nash breathed deeply, dispersing all the acid and churning in his chest and guts. The thought crossed his mind that he should leave. Nason patently did not want him here. But he made no move to follow through on that. He wasn’t going anywhere, preciselybecausehis father expected him to.
When his father next woke, his grasp on reality had slipped. He spoke to people who had been dead for years. Nash’s other father, Hyram, was chief among them. Hyram had gone missing nearly thirty years ago.
His father rambled. His breath rattled. And the medical sentry kicked into gear more frequently, until the drugs overcame Nason’s awareness altogether. The man slipped into silence.
Nash blew out his breath in a steady stream and settled in for the last watch.
Just before the end, though, Nason stirred. His hand moved feebly on the cover. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re still here?” His voice was weak enough that Nash had to pull the chair close and lean over the edge of the bed to hear.
“I’m still here,” he said flatly.
Silence.
Nash thought they were the last words they would exchange. But a few minutes later, Nason spoke, his voice even weaker. “I was a shitty father.”
Nash held still. He couldn’t summon up a single response to that.
The old man fought for the strength to speak, while the medical sentry clicked and whirred busily in response. “Didn’t know how to do better,” he whispered. “I was faking it.”
Nash breathed deeply. His throat ached. Hell, his whole body ached.
“Faking everything,” Nason added. He sighed.
Thosewere his last words. Some time later—Nash didn’t know how long—the sentry stopped clicking. Nason’s chest stopped rising. There was no ringing of alarms, or rushing medical personal. Between one breath and the next, Nason Wheelock simply stopped being.
Which left Nash alone in the old, silent room.
Nothing had changed.
Everythinghad changed.
Chapter Six
It was one of the days when Grady had intentionally scheduled Siran to be out of the office for most of it. Meetings with business people, meet-and-greet in the Aventine markets, walking tours and inspections, and monthly institutional visits. They were all public relations exercises, which was why she didn’t go with him.
Instead, Carita Pemberton, the Bridge PR coordinator, acted as the Captain’s bodyman—holding his coat and pad, and telling him where he was next expected to appear, while keeping him to his schedule and not letting powerful people hog his time.
Siran and Carita returned to the bridge close to the end of the day. They both looked drained. Grady told Carita to go home, and took a cup of Siran’s disgustingly thick glop, which he dared to call coffee, into his office. She put the coffee on the desk and sat in one of the visitor chairs with her pad in hand.
Siran was rubbing his temples. His hair, there, was nearly white. So was his full beard. The rest of his hair was nearly completely black, and his face was unlined. He had been handsome when he was younger and he had improved with age, in Grady’s opinion—and also the opinion of a lot of anonymous comments on the Forum, whenever the captain was seen out in public.
Siran Carpenter wasn’t terribly old, not in human terms. He hadn’t yet passed his sixtieth year, but the responsibilities of being captain had prematurely aged him.
He dropped his fingers from his temple, looked up and gave her a strained smile. His blue eyes showed an oncoming exhaustion.
“How did it go?” she asked.
