The Octagonal Raven Read Online Free Page A

pass, especially since I was in no shape to contest him, and there was no sense in starting an argument, one way or another. And he was probably right, if only medically speaking, and in terms of direct causes. I was already thinking beyond that. Kharl was trying too hard to convince me it was an allergic reaction. While it could have been, it also could be the beginning of something else.
    I’d smelled something—like an unfamiliar flower—and then I’d gone into massive shock. The problem was—if Kharl were wrong about the medical side and it hadn’t been an allergy—I hadn’t the faintest idea why anyone would want to give me such a reaction.
    Even the possibility of something like that made me more than a trace nervous. I wasn’t sure I wanted someone that sophisticated out to neutralize or eliminate me, especially since I didn’t even know why.
    “How long will I be here in your private ward?”
    “You should be able to go home tomorrow. You probably could today, but I want to give you some more protection. There’s no sense in taking chances. I’ve boosted your augmentation, and tomorrow, we’ll be adding some special nanites.”
    “I appreciate the care.” I paused, then nodded. After a moment, I let my eyes close—almost.
    After a time, he left, and I did sleep, if uneasily.

Chapter 5
    Fledgling: Yunvil, 416 N.E.
    Supposedly, there was a cold August fog across the Bay. You sure couldn’t have felt it on the hilltop tennis court a hundred klicks to the north. My relatively new internal nanite sensors told me that the temperature around my knees was over thirty degrees, and the sweat oozed down the back of my neck.
    The court was old-style clay, except it was harder than those used by the ancients old Rosenn exalted and condemned. I waited while Gerrat went through his serve routine. He always showed off when he tossed up the ball. His serve was fast, maybe two hundred and fifty klicks per hour. He’d even told Ertis how fast it was, giving her his dung-eating smile the whole time.
    My racquet was moving before the ball even crossed the net.
    “Got that one!” I called as my return angled toward the tape on his backhand side, nearly as swiftly as the serve.
    Gerrat stopped dead, then reversed three steps. He even got set enough for a solid stroke.
    I saw it coming, but couldn’t quite reach it. It should have been out, but there was no flash from the line sensors. Somehow, he managed to nick the tape—a lucky shot if I’d ever seen one.
    I nodded and walked to a point behind the baseline on the left side of the court and waited for Gerrat’s next serve. It was another laser, but I got my racquet on the ball. Sweet drop shot, too, right on his backhand.
    He’d been charging the net. He was there before the ball dropped, and his return sliced along the tape on my backhand side again. I went after it, but skidded on the sand enough that I didn’t get there fast enough. He’d have been dead if I’d hit a lob, but he’d guessed lucky again.
    Most of the match went like that. If I hit a good shot, his return was better. Sometimes, it was skill, but he was lucky more than a few times, and I wasn’t sure that all the line sensors were working, either.
    Then…our matches usually were like that. At times, I wondered why I bothered, except that there was no point in playing someone who wouldn’t challenge me, and in all of Syerra Calfya the only one who could was my own older brother. He was pretty good, but not nearly as good as he thought.
    Then, while I didn’t like being beaten, I didn’t like to concede, and Gerrat would have to prove he could beat me—each and every time. And, once in a while, he couldn’t, even with all his luck, and when he wasn’t lucky…he usually lost.
    At the end, I smiled. “You played well.”
    “I had to.” He returned my smile with one that flashed both warmth and understanding. “I’m not sure you’ve ever played better.”
    “Not often, anyway.” I