Produced by Al Haines
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FEARFUL SYMMETRY
A Terran Empire Novel
Copyright 1992 by Ann Wilson
Chapter I
Deep Space, 2568 CE
For the first time in his century-long career, Fleet-Captain Arjen ofClan D'gameh disapproved of a mission he had been given. That hisorders came straight from the Supreme made no difference to hisfeelings, nor did the First Speaker's assurance that the Circle ofLords deemed it vital to the survival of the Traiti race.
It wasn't the goal of the mission that disturbed him, as much as themeans. In the war between the Traiti and the Terran Empire, two thingswere, if not exactly sacred, proprieties that both sides respected.One was hospital ships, and the other was the return of bodies to theirkin. By extension, ships delivering wounded or picking up dead werealso immune, a principle that neither side had violated . . . yet.
Arjen and his reinforced fleet were about to violate that unwrittentaboo. The Fleet-Captain looked around his flagship's control central,conscious that nobody else aboard the Hermnaen knew of the planneddeceit. He traced the honor-scars on his upper body through the clothof his shirt, wishing he were elsewhere and free of the orders thatseemed so dishonorable--then he told himself sternly to get on with it.
His mission was to deliver one of the Terran Empire's elite, one of thegreen-uniformed Rangers, safely to the Supreme and First Speaker onHomeworld. Although that sounded simple enough, it would take bothfirepower and trickery. Arjen's fleet, now with sixty ships insteadof forty, had firepower enough to overwhelm even a Sovereign-classTerran battle cruiser, the type of ship a Ranger normally used.Fifty-nine of the Traiti warcraft were in positions that englobed apoint in space a quarter-million n'liu from a blue-and-white oxygenplanet--over forty diameters out, nearly in the orbit of the planet'smoon.
The Hermnaen was still at the center of the twenty-n'liu-diametersphere of ships, its Ship-Captain and crew waiting for Arjen's orders.Still reluctant to begin the trickery that was part of this operation,Arjen spoke anyway. "Release signal transmitter."
"Aye, Fleet-Captain." Battle discipline was strict, if fair; not evenan action as apparently senseless as releasing a beacon in the centerof a combat-ready fleet was questioned.
Then the Hermnaen took its own position in the sphere and Arjen orderedthe beacon activated. The moment the distinctive paired triple-pings,used only for body-return containers, sounded on the ship's receivers,Arjen found himself the focus of fourteen pairs of eyes, from theship's operators in their U of consoles facing him and the Master-Pilotand Ship-Captain Exvani, whose consoles flanked Arjen's at the openingof the U--but not even those senior officers spoke their questionsaloud.
It wasn't necessary; Arjen knew they shared the shock and dismay he'dfelt when he was given this mission, and he was sure similar feelingswere spread throughout the Fleet. He sighed and displayed resignationby extending the claws on one hand. "Give me Fleet Communications."
"Aye, Fleet-Captain." The Communications operator's attention returnedto his console, and within minutes Arjen was in communication with allhis Ship-Captains.
Without preamble and without expression, Arjen briefed them on themission and detailed his plans for its execution. "The IntelligenceService reports intercepting communications involving a Ranger namedEsteban Tarlac, which indicate that he is in this sector. Given whatwe know of Rangers, he will have his own ship respond, and given theskill of those who pilot Rangers' vessels, it will out-transition fromhyperspace within ten n'liu of the beacon."
"Ten n'liu!" a newly-assigned Ship-Captain exclaimed.
"They are quite competent," Arjen said drily, "and they will take timeto be accurate. I think that estimate, if anything, is conservative.You have seen little action against the Terrans?"
"None, Fleet-Captain." The officer sounded reluctant to admit that,but went on. "My ship and I are normally on colony patrol. This willbe our first battle."
Arjen hid his brief amusement at the young Ship-Captain's obviousanticipation; he had felt that way himself, early in the war. "Not ifthings go well. In this engagement, it is most desirable that RangerTarlac come willingly--or as willingly as possible under thecircumstances. To simplify the decision for him, we are insuring thathis ship will out-transition in the center of a battle-ready fleet.All ships will therefore go onto secondary alert status immediately,and will maintain that status until the Terrans appear. It willprobably be two or three tenth-days before that happens. When they do,you will go to primary alert status without waiting for my orders. Iwant all weapons ready to fire, but no one is to do so without myexpress orders. Are there any questions?"
There were none, so Arjen dismissed the captains and went to his cabin,regretting, not for the first time, that senior commanders had to haveprivate quarters--but too-close personal contact with his subordinateswould be bad for discipline.
Still, he thought as he unrolled his sleeping mat and settled down inan attempt to relax, at least he would get some personal benefit fromthis mission; whether it succeeded or failed, he was to deliver hisreport to the Supreme himself. That meant a short leave, which hecould and would spend at D'gameh clanhome. Arjen closed his eyes witha smile, anticipating the reunion with his clanmates, especially histwo sons. Lazno, the elder, was due a leave, and Reja said Mahas wasstarting to talk. It would be good to see them all again, andHomeworld's still-peaceful countryside. There was the bed of star-shapedhermnaen flowers that gave his ship its name, in the clanhome'sgarden...
Arjen rested, satisfied for the moment with his life.
Ranger Esteban Tarlac was on the bridge of the Imperial Battle CruiserEmpress Lindner when the ultrawave body-retrieval signal came in. Helooked up, abandoning his study of the Damage Control board, and wentto stand beside Captain Jean Willis. In the few seconds that took him,Navigation Officer Mueller had reported to his Captain.
"Not too far off our course," Willis commented. "What about it,Ranger? Should we make the pickup?"
"Why not?" Tarlac agreed. "A few hours' delay won't matter, and as Irecall, we're the closest ship."
"Right, sir." Willis turned her attention to her officers."Lieutenant Matthews, inform the Palace and Fleet HQ about the changein flight plan. Ask Fleet to have a morgue detail waiting when we getback to Luna Base. Ensign Olorun, bring us out of hyperspace for thecourse change."
Communications and Helm officers answered as one: "Yes, sir."Transitioning out of hyperspace was simple, even in the middle of aprogrammed course; Ensign Olorun flipped a switch on his Helm console,puncturing the hyperfield and bringing them to rest relative to whatlittle matter was present in interstellar normspace.
The Navigator didn't need orders; he began plotting a course to thesignal source as soon as the Lindner made her out-transition. With theship-comp's aid, the calculations took less than a minute."Coordinates ready, Captain," he reported.
Ensign Olorun was as efficient as his crewmate; as soon as Mueller gavehim the final coordinates, he entered them into his own console andprogrammed the course. "All green, sir," he said.
Willis smiled. She, like the others aboard, had had to earn theprivilege of serving on a Sovereign-class cruiser, and having a Rangeraboard brought the crew to its maximum efficiency. "Executetransition."
br />
"Aye, sir."
At Olorun's words, everyone aboard felt the oddly pleasant twistingsensation as the hyperfield built up. The stars flared, then thescreens went blank as the ship transitioned into hyperspace.
Tarlac still found it moderately amusing that hyperspace transition,once generally imagined to be at least uncomfortable and very possiblydisabling, had proven to be anything but--to be the exact opposite, infact. As a boy, he'd enjoyed daydreaming that he himself might make adiscovery as unsettling as that particular one of Nannstein's, but sofar he hadn't, and it didn't seem at all likely he would. On the otherhand, it was just the unlikeliness of such a discovery--one thatcompletely reversed a commonly-held idea--that made it so unsettling.
He grinned fleetingly to himself at the thought of how unlikelyhyperflight, or even the Empire itself, must have seemed to an ordinaryTerran back when Armstrong and Aldrin had made the first landing onLuna, but then he dismissed those unproductive if interestingramblings. He had work to finish before the ship got back to Luna Baseand he went on to Terra.
Five hours later, Tarlac was back on the bridge. He had no real reasonto be there, but he enjoyed watching the choreographic precision of aNaval bridge crew, especially this one. He called on the Lindner everytime he needed something with the power of a battle cruiser, and hepraised her highly in the mock-serious arguments Rangers had with eachother about the merits of their chosen ships--even over the performanceof such a simple maneuver as the retrieval of body-return containers.
Tarlac had often wondered about the puzzle those containers presented.The Traiti had initiated the body exchanges, and nobody could evenguess at the reason. There had been no communication, nothing exceptthe sudden signal that led to cautious recovery of the first container.It had been examined even more cautiously, but had proven as harmlessas had all of the later pickups. There weren't many; space battlesleft few recognizable bodies. Even ground battles left few, sincehand-held blasters at full power or molecular disruptors literallyvaporized unarmored targets, and if enough of them overloaded an armoredtarget's screen generator, the resulting explosion had the same practicaleffect. Most of the recovered bodies were victims of accident or ofthe rare hand-to-hand combat.
The Ranger brought his attention back to the bridge as Olorun reportedten seconds until out-transition. "Five credits says we're withinfifteen klicks," the young Helmsman added with a grin.
"You're on," Tarlac laughed. "Optimist!"
"We'll see, sir. Out-transitioning . . . now."
There was a moment of silence as the ship re-entered normspace andstars appeared on the viewscreen, followed by murmurs of dismay.Captain Willis slapped the General Quarters alarm, swearing briefly butbitterly. "Damn! It was a trap!" The Traiti violation of somethingwhich had been sacrosanct was almost as shocking as the overwhelmingnumber of the angular yet graceful Traiti ships.
"When they set up an ambush," Tarlac observed quietly, "it's a goodone. There's enough firepower out there to vaporize us three timesover."
"Yeah," Willis agreed, equally quiet. "Well, let's see how many ofthem we can take out with us." She raised her voice, addressing herWeapons Officer. "Lieutenant Dawes, concentrated primary fire on theirflagship--"
"Hold it," Tarlac interrupted. "There's something peculiar here. Ifthey'd wanted us dead, they could've opened fire as soon as weout-transitioned. Since they didn't, let's see if we can find out justwhat they do want."
"Yes, sir," Willis said. "Hold your fire, Lieutenant, but be ready."
"Aye, Captain." Dawes was poised, tense, his fingers hovering almostin contact with his firing studs.
"What the--!" came an exclamation from the Communications Officer."Sir, I'm getting a signal from them!"
"Put it on the screen," Willis ordered, inwardly amused. The idea of aTraiti who wanted to talk instead of fight ought to be astonishing--butnot much could astonish an IBC's crew. They were too used to theout-of-the-ordinary events a Ranger seemed to attract to be astonished bymuch less than a divine manifestation. Even a Traiti appearing on acommunicator screen didn't justify much more than Matthews'startlement.
While few humans could honestly claim to have seen a live Traiti in thenearly ten years the Terran Empire had been at war with them, everyoneknew what they looked like. They were big, the males at leastaveraging about 250 kilos, two meters tall--heavy, but not fat becauseof greater-than-human tissue density. They also had skin like soft butarmor-tough gray leather, an ovoid head with bulges at top and sidesset more horizontally on the short neck than a human's, with smalleyes, slit nostrils, lipless shark-toothed mouth, and no externalears--but except for those and semi-retractile claws on their hands, thebiologists insisted that Traiti were so much like humans it ought toindicate a common ancestor somewhere.
What did surprise the people on the Lindner's bridge was that theTraiti on the screen was smiling, exposing those shark-like teeth in anexpression that might or might not mean pleasure but that certainlylooked menacing.
When Arjen spoke, his voice provided another surprise. It was deep,not unexpectedly, but it was also soft, carrying an almost liltingintonation that made his Imperial English oddly attractive. "We noharm mean, Ship-Captain. I must to your superior speak."
He turned his attention to the green-clad Ranger, crossing his armsover his chest and inclining his head briefly in courtesy. "RangerEsteban Tarlac. I you greetings bring, from the Supreme and FirstSpeaker. I Fleet-Captain Arjen am."
Tarlac was surprised, but Rangers were adaptable; he returned theTraiti's salutation with a crossed-arm bow of his own and a quiet,"Fleet-Captain." Then he waited for Arjen's next move.
Arjen felt unwilling respect for the human who remained so calm andleft the initiative to him. "The Supreme and First Speaker ask, thatyou them on Homeworld join. I their invitation extend, andtransportation offer."
Tarlac appreciated the sharp irony of the so-courteous invitation,backed up by the outsized fleet. "They don't leave me much choice, dothey?"
"They truly none you leave, Ranger," Arjen said regretfully. "I do notthese tactics like, but I must my orders follow."
"Mmm. You have orders to destroy this ship if I refuse, don't you?"
Willis swung to face him. "Ranger, no! You can't, you're too--"
"Stop, you," Arjen interrupted. "This must his decision be. And heright is. If he does not with us come, my fleet will your shipdestroy."
"Why do you want me badly enough to violate that signal?" Tarlacasked.
Even to the humans, unaccustomed to Traiti expressions, Arjen lookeduncomfortable. "That had I hoped not to say, Ranger. The FirstSpeaker says it necessary is, a Ranger to Homeworld bring. If I moresay, it may your crew distress." He hesitated, then went on. "TheSupreme's word you have, such a thing will never again done be."
"Damned if I know why," Tarlac said slowly, "but I think you mean that.All of it. Okay, I won't ask. You'll release the ship if Isurrender?"
"We ask not that," Arjen replied, offended. "As our guest come, andyour ship may freely go."
Willis interrupted their dialogue. "Fleet-Captain."
Arjen turned to her, inclining his head, and despite the discomfortthat had led him to omit it before, addressed her with the formalhonorific proper to an out-clan female. "I you hear, ka'nayaShip-Captain."
"Ranger Tarlac believes you, so I'm forced to. But I'll also have toreport to the Emperor. Why do you want him?"
Arjen sighed deeply. Females in the human military disturbed himconsiderably, though he'd accustomed himself to the fact that they wereincluded there--even in active combat--with no objection from the maleswho should be protecting them. And this one sounded like his ClanMother. "Ka'naya Ship-Captain, please. Ask this of me not. It willyou only hurt cause."
"Don't worry about that," Willis snapped. "You have your duty, I havemine. Tell me."
"As you wish, ka'naya." Arjen sighed again, this time to himself. Shedid sound much like Ka'r
uchaya Noriy . . . He opened his shirt,exposing his massive chest. "See you these?" he asked, tracing thescars that ran from the base of his throat to just above his belt.
"I see them," Willis said grimly. Similar scars, found on maybe tenpercent of recovered Traiti bodies, had Imperial experts puzzled. Theyhad to be significant, and deliberately inflicted--they were far tooregular to be accidental--but no one had been able to venture areasonable guess at what they meant.
"I them in my Ordeal of Honor earned. Too much we have of Rangersheard; the truth we must know. That can best through the Ordeallearned be. When we on Homeworld are, and a clan have found that willhim adopt, the Supreme will ask that he it try. If Rangers truly asprisoners claim are, he will agree."
"That's not a condition of releasing the ship, then," Tarlac said.
"No, Ranger. The Ordeal must freely chosen be. Those who it tryunwilling, die. We ask not certain death of you, but if you the Ordealsurvive, the First Speaker says you will this war with honor end."
That possibility, Jean Willis knew, was something no Ranger couldignore. Unable to let him go without some objection, she spoke quietlyenough that the comm pickups wouldn't transmit her words. "Anythingthat would leave scars like that on one of them . . . Steve, it'ssuicide, even if he says it isn't--or a trick so they can take youalive for interrogation, then blow the Lindner out of space. You don'thave any reason to trust them."
"Trust doesn't have anything to do with it," Tarlac replied, just asquietly. "It's a case of trying to minimize the Empire's losses. Idon't think it's suicide, but if it is, so what? I won't be any deaderthan if I refuse and his fleet destroys the Lindner. If he's beinghonest, you can get word back to Terra. If he's not, and they do tryinterrogation, well," Tarlac smiled slightly and shrugged, "I'll makesure I'm no use to them except as a warm body."
"Yeah." Willis knew what he meant, and her voice was bitter. SeniorImperials, or those in sensitive positions, could be given protectionagainst questioning; she had it herself. If the Ranger chose, a codephrase in his own voice would turn him into a mental blank. It woulddo nothing to him physically, but it would wipe out, completely andpermanently, every memory he had. He would never remember so much ashis name unless he was returned to Terra to have the tapes of hislatest mindscan reimprinted.
"So it's not that much of a risk," Tarlac said. He raised his voice."Very well, Fleet-Captain. I accept your invitation, and your Ordeal.When and how do you want me to transfer to your ship?"
"No reason for delay there is. Now come. A spacesuit use, your shipto leave. When you far enough from it are, you will onto this shipbrought be. You need nothing extra bring; we will all your requirementssupply."
"It'll take me about twenty minutes to get to an airlock and suit up."
"Understood, Ranger. I your arrival await."
With that, Arjen's image disappeared from the Lindner's viewscreen,replaced by a view of his fleet. Willis stared angrily at theenglobing Traiti ships, running fingers through her short blonde hairin a gesture of frustration. "I still don't like this, Steve. I don'tlike it one little bit. Letting them get their hands on a Ranger . . ."
"I'm not too fond of it myself," Tarlac admitted, "but I can't see anyway out. This was a beautiful trap. They've made sure the Empireloses a Ranger, one way or another, but if Arjen's being honest, atleast it keeps a cruiser and crew. And you know as well as I do thatif there's any chance of ending this slaughter, I have to take it." Hegrinned fleetingly. "I guess this is one way to find out what they'rereally like. While I'm suiting up, squirt-transmit a copy of the logto Terra, would you? The socio specs may be able to dig somethinguseful out of what he said."
"Yes, sir." Willis stood, bleakly aware that the loss of an IBC wouldbe minor next to the loss of a Ranger. If she could have saved him bysacrificing the Lindner, she wouldn't have hesitated. But, as usual,the Ranger was right; in combat there were bound to be heavy lossesoccasionally, and in such cases the best that could be done was to savewhat little was possible. "Ah . . . will you be going armed?"
Tarlac grinned, almost grimly. "It probably won't mean much, but yes.He called me a guest, and I'm going to act as if I believe him. Thatmeans full uniform, including gun." He took a last slow look aroundthe bridge, then extended a hand to Willis. "Good luck, Jean. See youafter the war."
"You too, Steve. It's been an honor captaining your ship." Willis'grip was tighter than usual, echoing the tension on the bridge, and itgave the Ranger the distinct impression she didn't expect to see himagain. Honesty compelled him to admit to himself that he was lessoptimistic than he tried to appear.
"It won't be suicide, you know," he said, speaking now to the entirebridge crew. "As I said earlier, if they just wanted me dead, they'dhave vaporized the Lindner as soon as we out-transitioned." Hehesitated, remembering something. "Oh, yeah. Mister Olorun, how muchdid we miss their phony beacon by?"
"Twelve point nine kilometers, sir," the young officer replied,subdued.
Tarlac whistled softly in honest admiration, then dug into a beltpouchand flipped the Helmsman a five-credit piece. "Empress Lindner?"
"Yes, Ranger?" The ship's voice was feminine, slightly metallic.
"Log my commendation for Ensign Olorun's piloting, and have a shuttleready to take me to Personnel Lock Three."
There was a barely-noticeable pause, then the ship-comp said, "Done,Ranger," as one of the three bridge doors slid open. Tarlac left thesilent control room and entered the intraship shuttle that was waitingfor him.
With the ship at General Quarters, the Ranger found the personnel lockdeserted. That was fine with him. Suiting up was easier with help,but he didn't care for company just then; he began the ten-minuteprocess of donning and checking his suit alone.
That the Traiti spoke Imperial English, even ungrammatically and withan accent, didn't surprise him. It was fairly common knowledge thatthe so-called Sharks took prisoners--although those were even lesscommon than bodies--and nobody had doubted that the Traiti were smartenough to realize the value of learning their enemy's language.
That was an intelligence coup the Empire had been unable to match.Traiti too badly wounded to fight, or those hit by stun-beams and takenprisoner, never lived for long. Once they decided escape wasimpossible, those who were able to committed suicide, usually byclawing out their throats. Those who for one reason or anothercouldn't actively kill themselves simply lost the will to act and thento live, dying usually within a week of capture. The Empire hadlearned that they called themselves Traiti, little more.
Once he had his suit on, the Ranger fortunately didn't have to walkfar. A standard spacesuit was considerably less massive than a Marine'spower armor, but it wasn't light, and it was clumsy in anythingapproaching a full standard gee. Clumping over to the lock, Tarlaccycled through.
He stood for a moment on the Lindner's hull. He enjoyed being EVA,especially near a planet, and the blue-white world off to his right wasachingly reminiscent of Terra. Then he spotted a blinking white light"above" and to his left, on a Traiti ship. He released his boots'mag-field and pushed off toward the light, waiting until he was perhapsfive meters off the hull before activating his thrustpac.
When he'd gone roughly a kilometer--a diameter out from the Lindner--asoft Traiti voice told him to cut power. He did, and the pressure atthe small of his back died.
"You have control." He kept his voice impassive, as though he weregiving the most routine of responses.
With that, he felt the pull of a tractor beam. At least, he thought,he'd aimed for the right ship; he was being drawn toward and into anopen airlock. It was bigger than the lock he'd used on the Lindner, anddifferent in detail, but it served the same function and had beendesigned by humanoids, so it couldn't be too different. When thetractor beam released him and the lock's outer door closed, radiantheaters came on.
His suit indicators showed rapidly-increasing air pressure. Heremoved his helmet when it reached T
erra-normal, but it didn't stopuntil the indicators showed air pressure, like the gravity, about tenpercent greater than Terra's, with a fraction over a quarter oxygen.Like recycled air anywhere, it smelled flat.
Finally the inner door cycled open and Tarlac stepped through, toconfront what he thought of as a commando squad. There were seven ofthem, with insignia indicating what Intelligence evaluations saidshould be six troopers and a junior officer. They were unarmored butotherwise in full battle gear, all standing in what the Ranger guessedmight be the Traiti version of attention: relaxed yet alert, holdinggrounded blast rifles, right hands resting on dagger hilts. He hadtime to notice disruptors and shortswords on the commandos' belts inaddition to the daggers, before the officer snapped him a salute thatwould have done credit to an Imperial Marine.
He was motionless for an instant in surprise, then he returned thesalute as crisply as his spacesuit would allow. "Ranger Esteban Tarlacof the Terran Empire."
"Team-Leader Hovan of Clan Ch'kara. Need you help, that suit toremove?"
The squad remained alert, but gave no more hint of threat than before.Tarlac shrugged mentally. "I'd appreciate it, yes."
Hovan handed his blast-rifle to one of his squad members and approachedTarlac. He looked as massive as the Ranger expected, and was typicallythickset, but he was even heavier and stronger than he looked. Thestrength became evident as Hovan helped Tarlac out of the spacesuit,for with Traiti assistance, the Ranger discovered, the cumbersome suitwas almost easy to handle.
While he helped the human remove his spacesuit, Hovan did some studyingof his own, wondering what made a Ranger so formidable. This Tarlacwas even less impressive physically than the Terran combat troops he'dfaced. He was no more than shoulder-high to Hovan, and so slender heseemed almost frail. There was black hair on the man's head, andobvious facial differences, but the thin light-brown skin and totallack of claws or effective teeth were not impressive. What made thishuman so powerful?
There had to be something, he knew, some reason for the prisoners tohold Rangers in such high regard. Part of it had to be courage; he'dbeen told, while the man was en route, that he had already consented tothe Ordeal, a decision nobody had expected him to make so quickly.There had even been some betting that he would refuse.
The plain, forest-green uniform revealed when the man's spacesuit wasoff was functional, Hovan noticed with approval, its only decorationthe platinum star-in-circle badge on the man's left breast, the symbolof his rank. Best, though, was the fact that Tarlac was armed, showinghe regarded them as true fighters.
That eased Hovan's mind. Ka'ruchaya Yarra had told him to judge theTerran he would meet, and if he found the man worthy, to offer adoptioninto Ch'kara. It would be an unprecedented honor for Hovan, as well asthe Terran, if that happened; adoption was a Clan Mother's privilege,delegated sometimes to another female, never in Hovan's knowledge to amale.
He had told no one about his mission from Yarra. He still had troublebelieving that he might bring a new member into the clan . . .
He'd had no difficulty being assigned as the Ranger's escort andteacher. Since humans were considered poor fighters, at leastindividually--and with a few outstanding exceptions--the job carried nostatus, and when he had indicated willingness to do it, the task becamehis. He'd been teased about it, not seriously; he'd proven himselfoften enough that nobody grudged him what they thought would be easyduty.
Tarlac watched the Traiti stow the suit before turning to the commandosquad with a claw-extending gesture, to say something in a tonallanguage that told the Ranger where the lilting Traiti version ofImperial English came from. If these people were singers, he thought,they'd be good. Singing didn't seem to fit in with what the Empireknew of the Traiti as ruthless, bloodthirsty killers, and language washardly a reliable indicator of such things, of course--but still, itseemed incongruous. Tarlac hadn't thought about it much, but hesupposed he would have expected their language to be as sharp as theirteeth and claws.
The commandos fell in around the Ranger, and at another extended-clawgesture from Hovan, the whole group moved toward the Hermnaen's controlcentral. Tarlac rather wished the Team-Leader would leave his clawsretracted. He'd seen Traiti claws in action once, and didn't enjoybeing reminded of the incident.
That had been on Ra after a ferocious ground battle, when the searchteam he was with found a seriously wounded Traiti. He'd looked sobadly hurt that he couldn't move, so the team's medics didn't botherstunning him before beginning first aid. When the Ranger heard screamsit was already too late; both medics were dead, one's throat torn out,the other's belly opened, and three Marines were down. By that timethe Traiti was going for Tarlac, claws raking air toward the man'sface.
Trained reflexes had taken over then. Rangers might not be experts inone-on-one combat, but they could make a creditable showing; Tarlac haddone a tuck-and-roll, bringing his blaster out to save his own life bya fraction of a second as he fired pointblank, killing the Traiti.
Now here he was, aboard a Traiti warship, surrounded by a squad of thefearsome warriors and going voluntarily, if with no great enthusiasm,to an Ordeal that he suspected, despite Fleet-Captain Arjen'sassurances, would cost him his life. Brooding on it would do no good,though, so Tarlac turned his attention to his surroundings.
The ship was surprisingly unwarlike, by Terran standards. Sky blue, asfar as Tarlac was concerned, wasn't exactly a military color. And noteven Sovereign-class cruisers, used during peacetime for such things aslong-distance exploration and disaster aid, had passageways thatdoubled as art galleries. At the Traiti squad's pace, he didn't havetime to examine the pictures, but he observed that all of them seemedwell-done and the subject matter was varied: landscapes, battle andspace scenes, figures. The Ranger couldn't help thinking of thecommonest subjects as Madonnas, although they didn't seem religious.The ones with naked infants or nursing children made him uncomfortable;on Terra and even in most of the older colonies, such things weren'tshown in public.
Despite his unease, Tarlac studied the pictures as well as he couldduring the walk. Unlikely as it seemed, he might somehow return to theEmpire, and if that happened, any information he could bring back wouldbe valuable to the socio and anthro specialists. That includedinformation on Traiti art. He didn't have a specialist's traininghimself, but Ranger Linda Ellman, who'd taught him to appreciate art,had given him some understanding of how revealing artistic conventionscould be. He knew enough to wonder at the prevalence of Madonnas--andat the total lack of abstract, impressionist, and othernon-representational art forms.
By the time he got that far, they were at the bridge. So many controlconsoles grouped around what had to be a control central couldn't beanything else. Yet even here, the surroundings were totally unwarlike--byTerran standards, Tarlac reminded himself. The sunny yellow colorscheme was more noticeable now than it had been when he'd talked tothem from the Lindner. It made the Traiti uniforms, both the shipcrew's dark gray and the commandos' gray-green, seem even drabber bycomparison.
Tarlac and Hovan were the only two to enter the bridge itself; the restof the commandos, their guard duty done, left. Had it been an honorguard? Tarlac wondered. There had been nothing to indicate thecontrary.
Arjen rose as the Ranger approached, inclining his head but notrepeating the full formal salute. Then he gestured toward the largerepeater screen, which showed Jean Willis, still wearing her grimmestface. Tarlac had a good idea of what she was thinking. The Traiti hadthe Ranger they wanted, for whatever their real purpose might be. Itdidn't make sense for them to keep their word, release a fully-operationalenemy battle cruiser. But he couldn't have passed up even so remote achance . . .
Arjen turned, to face Willis' image directly. "The condition met hasbeen, Ship-Captain. You free to go now are."
Willis didn't look as if she believed it, but she gave orders to haveTerra's coordinates fed into the helm. Then she searched the repeaterscreen, still wearing a troubled expression. "R
anger--?"
Tarlac moved to stand beside Arjen, the beginnings of hope allowing himto smile. "I'm all right, Captain. Your log'll show everything,including this, but I'll make it an order anyway. Return to Terra."
That didn't seem to make Willis any happier, but she couldn't arguewith a Ranger's direct order. "Yes, sir." She turned to Olorun."Execute transition."
Arjen showed no reaction to the Lindner's departure before he gaveTarlac his full attention. "To this ship welcome be, Ranger. You haveTeam-Leader Hovan met; he has said, he will you escort and teach. Ifyou to him object, I will another assign."
Tarlac glanced up at the apparently impassive commando beside him, thenlooked back at Arjen. He could hardly dislike the Team-Leader he'dbarely met. "I don't object. I'd be honored." It wouldn't hurt to bepolite, especially since it was beginning to look as if he wereactually what Arjen had called him, a guest. For no reason he couldname, he inclined his head and touched fingertips to his brow.
Hovan suppressed a gasp of astonishment and heard some around thebridge that weren't suppressed. How could a Terran know to accepthospitality in the proper way? Unless the Lords . . . No, such athing was far too unimportant for the Lords to concern themselves with.Arjen's hands covered the Ranger's briefly in response to the gesture,and the moment was over.
It had to be a fortunate coincidence, not important but a demonstrationof the Terran's willingness to take his part in Traiti life. Hovanthought about the adoption, and quickly decided that he shouldn't offerit so soon. Two things, significant as they might be, weren't enoughto prove this human worthy of a clan as old and honored as Ch'kara. Heneeded more, especially if the Ranger was to join as a candidate forthe Ordeal of Honor. Hovan had been given a solemn responsibility forthe clan's choice; he had to be certain he was right when he made hisdecision. And he had the time for that; Homeworld was more than atenday away.
"If you will then me excuse," Arjen said formally, "I still much to dohave. I the freedom of the ship you give."
"Thank you." There was no more doubt in Tarlac's mind that he was aguest. He still had his gun and was, it seemed, to be allowed to roamfreely. He turned to his escort. "I'm at your disposal, Team-Leader.What do we do now?"
"It past my normal duty-time is, and I hungry am," was the reply. "Ifood need, and sleep. If you something else prefer, one of my men someEnglish speaks; he can as temporary escort for you act."
Tarlac's internal clock said it was mid-afternoon, but this was as gooda time as any to start changing his diurnal rhythms. "That's notnecessary, Team-Leader."
"Then come," Hovan said, and Traiti and human left the bridge.
Hovan's long strides didn't give Tarlac much time to study art on theway to the dining area, but he saw more than he had earlier, since hewas no longer surrounded by bodies. The new data didn't change hisinitial impression, but he had already started to adapt to the Madonnapictures that'd disturbed him. That was no real surprise; spacers ingeneral were more adaptable than ground-pounders--they had to be--andRangers excelled at that, as at almost everything. Given the need anda little time, he could adapt to any humanly-conceivable circumstances. . . though of course some things took longer than others.
So far, Tarlac was finding nothing too difficult in the Traiti pattern.He suspected that he might, when he got deeper into their culture.This business of adoption, for instance--why should he have to join aclan to take their Ordeal?
And why wait to find out, or anyway to learn whether he could find out?Hovan was supposed to be his teacher in such matters. As they passedpictures and corridor intersections and doors labeled in the angularTraiti script, Tarlac spoke. "The Fleet-Captain says I'll have to be amember of one of your clans to take the Ordeal. Can you tell me why?"
"Because parts of the Ordeal in-clan matters are, not with out-clan orclanless discussed. I can no more of that say."
"Okay. I suppose I'll find out when the time comes." That seemed todescribe a lot of today's experiences, Tarlac thought, then he decidednot to worry about it. It was easier to cope with situations as theyarose, in a case like this.
They arrived at a meal hall, and the smell was enough to make Tarlachungry. It operated cafeteria-style; Tarlac, unfamiliar with any ofthe food, copied Hovan's choices, and ended up with more than he couldpossibly eat. The portions, from salad to stew and a beverage thatlooked like milk, were sized to fuel a body mass more than three timeshis. Still, the food was good, if unfamiliar, and he surprised himselfby finishing almost half.
He leaned back with a sigh of repletion, returning Hovan's quick smileas the other continued eating. There was little conversation to hearover the sound of eating utensils, knives and short-tined spoons thatdoubled as forks. Clearly, eating was serious business for thesepeople. At least he didn't have to worry about the food; bio-studieshad shown that Traiti and humans had the same basic nutritionalrequirements and limitations. No Traiti food should poison him.
Finally Hovan pushed back his tray, his meal finished. "Ranger EstebanTarlac. We will much together be; object you if we not formal are?Out-clan it not usual is, names to use instead of titles, but I thinkit would fitting be."
Tarlac nodded; under the circumstances, it did seem appropriate. "I'mcalled Steve, then, Hovan. That's the short form of my given name."
"Steve. A name that much of strength bears, from the sound." Steve ofClan Ch'kara. Yes, Hovan thought, it did sound fitting, and it wasanother good sign that the man allowed him that liberty. There was nodenying a Ranger's status among humans. It might take the Ordeal tofind out whether an individual Ranger was worthy of honor from theTraiti, but prisoners had made it more than clear that Rangers weredirect representatives of the Terran Sovereign. They went anywherethey were needed, to tackle crises nobody else was capable of handling.Sometimes, it was said, the mere threat of a Ranger's intervention madeactual intervention unnecessary. And it was they, when the need arose,who selected the Sovereigns--so far, always another Ranger. There wasmore, stories that made Rangers seem like Lords. Hovan didn't believethose, for Steve had used a spacesuit to transfer to the Hermnaen; hehadn't breathed vacuum. But even so, to name-call such a one must beas great a privilege as the task Yarra had given him. "Do many you socall?"
"Hmm? Oh. No, not many." Tarlac seldom thought about it, and wassurprised at the brevity of the list. "The captain of my cruiser, theEmperor, other Rangers, my mother . . . that's about it." He frownedbriefly. "It'd be nice to have more, but the job doesn't allow it. ARanger's as much a symbol as a person. It's mostly a damn goodlife . . . but sometimes it gets lonely. I think I'm almost lookingforward to being adopted, odd as that may seem at my age." Then heshrugged. "Sorry, Hovan. I didn't mean to go crying on your shoulder.Don't know why I did."
Hovan rose, motioning Steve to follow. He had never heard of "cryingon your shoulder," but could guess from context what the man meant, andthought it best not to go into something so personal, at least whileSteve was out-clan. "Come. I will you our sleep-room show, while itstill early is."
Tarlac went along, surprised at his self-revelation. He'd seldommentioned the occasional loneliness before, even to the other Rangers,who shared it. It didn't fit the image. He grinned sardonically for asecond. Image. Hah. Thanks to the image, not even newsies pushed aRanger too hard, and nobody else pushed at all. Nobody with anybrains, at least.
Hovan interrupted his brooding. "What can you of the Empire andRangers say? I wish not to intrude or offend, but I curious am."
Tarlac gave that a moment's thought, and found the answer an easy one."Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. I'll tell you anything you want toknow, except classified military information. Your High Command mustknow as well as I do how this war's gone up to now."
"Telling us even that would little difference make," Hovan saidquietly. "You know not how close you to victory are. In less thananother year, there will no more Traiti be."
The Ranger stopped where he wa
s, deeply shocked. "Hovan, what are yousaying? The Empire isn't out to commit genocide! We don't killnon-combatants on purpose!"
"No such thing as noncombatants is. When we to Homeworld retreat, weno other place to go will have. All will fighters be, except the veryyoungest. It happened so, in the clan wars nearly four thousand yearsago."
Hovan's calm words meant the Empire was in the process of exterminatingan entire intelligent race, a crime more monstrous than any recorded inthe history of all three Imperial races combined. And the Empiredidn't even know it! The Ranger would have cursed, but not even aspace-scout's inventive vocabulary could express his feelings.
Not really expecting an affirmative answer, Tarlac asked, "Can they--thewomen and children, anyway--can any of them surrender?"
"No word for that in Language is," Hovan said. "We the concept fromhumans learned. They cannot."
And that was a certain indicator in any language. Lacking the word, itlacked the concept, and so did the people who spoke it. It was truethat no Traiti had surrendered during the entire course of the war, andthere had been speculation about the reason; the hypothesis that Traitiwere incapable of it had gained some favor over the years.
Tarlac wasn't glad to find it was right. That meant that even morethan the chance of peace rode on his survival of this Ordeal. Damn!Tarlac thought the word with vehement intensity, but didn't say italoud. It wasn't fair! A race's extinction should not depend on oneman, especially one who wasn't at all sure of his own ability tosurvive!
Clearly, he could no longer afford such doubts. So, think ofsomething else for now.
Okay. He'd already begun to see how complex the Traiti were, muchmore so than the Empire suspected. The Empire's knowledge was limitedto these people's savage ferocity--or what seemed like savage ferocity.The war had exploded suddenly and simply: a scoutship exploring about150 parsecs coreward from Irschcha had fallen silent. A rescue shipsent to check on the scout had had time to describe its attackersbefore it was destroyed as well. The third ship was the Emperor Chang,a battle cruiser which survived its Traiti attack and brought wordthat, like it or not, the Empire was at war with an unreasoning enemy.Traiti hostility was long proven, but Tarlac could no longer believe itwas unreasoning.
"Hovan--why did your people attack that first scout, ten years ago? Ifeel certain it didn't give any deliberate provocation."
"I cannot fully say, since I have not the tapes seen. We knew not thatits intention peaceful was. You should the Supreme ask, when you himsee. But this much all know: an alien ship suddenly over a new-landedhomeship was, a possible danger to females and younglings. Itresponded not to challenge, and visual contact obscene horror showed."Claws flickered briefly on one hand, then Hovan continued. "Ourguard-ship the only way it could reacted. That we since learned a mistakewas, but too late."
"Most of that I understand, I think, but I'll take your advice and askto see the tapes." No wonder the Traiti had acted as they had. Theirhyperdrive at the time had been slow to transition; when an Imperialship appeared within seconds, it was only natural that they'd interpretit as a threat. And scoutships were armed--had to be--so that even ifthe ship hadn't tried to attack, it was obviously not harmless. TheTraiti had challenged instead of firing instantly at the invader, andthe challenge, not understood, had been ignored. So the colony'sguard-ship acted. "Damn! What a waste! One misunderstanding ledto-- Oh, hell!" Tarlac stared at the deck, scarcely aware of hissurroundings.
When he looked up, Hovan's green eyes were appraising him. "If thatyou disturbs, let it not. They would have anyway fired, I think."
Tarlac recalled the unexplained factor. "The obscene horror. What wasthat? What could be so bad it'd cause that kind of a reaction?"
"Females on a ship that might have into battle gone. No race insaneenough to that allow . . ." Hovan shook his head. "We have sincelearned that you so many females have that it not insane for you is,but it still unacceptable to most of us is. For us, a female inunnecessary danger to place, the death penalty earns. One who actualharm on a female inflicts, unless in self-defense, his clan fulldishonor brings. That one also dies, in public at his Clan Mother'sclaws, the clan's honor to restore. Then he buried is, not to theLords presented. See you now?"
That was quite a taboo, Tarlac thought, taken aback, but why--? He wasbeginning to put things together: paintings of Madonnas, humans having"so many" females . . . "How much of your race is female?"
"One in four."
Oh. Dear. God.
The Imperial ship had been a threat to Traiti women and children. Ithad ignored a challenge, and the seeming invaders had shown a completedisregard for even their own females' safety. With that gender ratio,protection of females and young had to be the prime Traiti racialimperative. The crew of that Imperial scout might or might not haveviolated first-contact procedure--he'd find out when he saw the tapeHovan had mentioned--but it was certain they'd triggered aninstinct-level reaction.
They had come to the sleeproom by the time the Ranger reached thatpoint in his thoughts. The compartment was wider than it was deep,with lockers along the bulkheads to either side of the entry door.There were two other doors on the left, and the right wall held whatlooked like oversized square pigeon-holes--but it was the mural on thelong wall opposite the entrance that captured Tarlac's attention.
It was a mountain scene, one that might have been of a remote spot onTerra except for details of the foreground forest. And it wasbeautiful. Tarlac found himself relaxing, and smiled.
"You our Homeworld like?"
"It's . . . like my home, the way it was when I was a boy. We had ahouse near a lake like that. It could only be reached by grav-hopper.We didn't have much company, but I didn't miss it; I had the lake, thewoods, the animals . . ." For the first time since he'd left for theAcademy, Tarlac felt a twinge of homesickness. He wondered why,briefly, before dismissing it. It had to be the mural; Linda had saidthat art could evoke emotion even between cultures.
"You alone grew up? No kin had?" Hovan sounded faintly shocked.
"My parents, of course, and family get-togethers every couple of years.We weren't really close; the family was too big for that. Uncle Martinand Aunt Gisele alone had ten kids." Tarlac shook his head, grinning."What a mob!"
"Kids?"
It seemed Hovan's vocabulary had a blank spot; Tarlac tried again."Children. Younglings."
"Ten . . . younglings?" Hovan's voice was little more than a whisper,sounding awed. He turned away abruptly, toward the right-side-wallpigeon-holes. Tarlac followed, accepting the bundle he was handed,then he followed his guide back to unroll the bundle on the floor. Itproved to be a Traiti-sized bedroll with a pillow and a flocked-foamblanket.
Then Hovan showed him to a locker, and Tarlac found Arjen's commentthat his needs would be supplied was exactly accurate. The lockerheld Terran-style soap, comb, toothbrush, underwear--everything, itseemed, except uniforms.
"Thanks. You people are thorough."
"We try. I only glad am, that you have honor shown. I would not haveit pleasant found, an unworthy one to guide."
The Ranger didn't know what to say to what sounded like praise, or atleast like approval, from a Traiti. He settled for, "Thanks again. Itry, too." Then he quickly changed the subject. "Uh, Hovan, I don'twant to be offensive, but I think it might be a good idea if you showme where the sanitary facilities are."
"That next on the tour was," Hovan said, smiling.
After taking care of immediate necessities, the Ranger decided he coulduse a bath. He left his gun and equipment belt in the locker, pickedout clean underwear, and started toward the bathing room door in theleft wall.
Hovan, turning from a nearby locker, stopped him. "Why need youthose?"
"To sleep in," Tarlac said, surprised. The Traiti had forgotten onething; they hadn't thought to salvage pajamas from the Terran supplies.
"You need them not. The air warm is, and you a blanket
have."
Uh-oh, Tarlac thought. That must mean the Traiti slept nude, which wasdefinitely not a Terran custom. He was by no means certain he couldadjust that far that quickly.
Hovan sensed the man's unease, remembering stories of human prisoners'behavior. "If you more comfortable that way are, those wear." But hewas disappointed. Until now, Steve had been doing quite well.
Tarlac hesitated, thinking, then returned the small bundle of clothingto his locker. "I don't think so. Since it seems I'll be living withyou people for quite a while, I might as well get used to it as soon asI can."
He walked hurriedly through the bathing room door, feeling himselfblush. This wouldn't be quite so easy. He'd never been nude in public;it was indecent. Then he hesitated, realizing that he wasn't beingcompletely accurate: it was indecent only by current standards, andeven at that, not everywhere. Although he'd never visited any, he knewthe Empire held worlds where nudity was unremarkable. That wasobviously the case here, and he didn't have any choice, so he'd have tomake the best of it.
He located the cleaner and undressed, putting his uniform andunderclothes in, and turned the unit on. Then he picked one of thetranslucent shower stalls, experimented with the unfamiliar controls,and began soaping himself.
By the time he was clean and, he hoped, no longer blushing, there wereTraiti in the stalls to either side of him, gray bodies seen dimlythrough the shower walls and an occasional bit of melodic speechsounding over the noise of running water. Bracing himself, he left thescanty concealment of the stall and picked up a towel off the stackhe'd spotted earlier. Drying himself didn't take nearly long enough,but he forced himself to stop when he was done, and walked into thesleeproom.
To his relief, no one was there, though another dozen mats unrolled onthe floor were evidence there soon would be. Hovan joined him secondslater, still damp, and gave Tarlac a quick, searching glance. "Beeasy, Steve," he said. "You will none offend, you so little body hairhave. There nothing wrong with you seems."
Tarlac stared at him in disbeief, then couldn't keep from grinning."None offend . . . Body hair!" Embarrassment dissolved into helplesslaughter, subsiding only when the Ranger had collapsed onto hissleeping mat. "That did it, Hovan," he finally managed to say."Nudity's okay, but not body hair--Whew!"
He stood, shaking his head and smiling, no longer disturbed by his ownstate of undress or by the equally bare Traiti now moving about theroom. They seemed more impressive this way than when clothed, unlikemost humans--himself, Tarlac admitted wryly, included. He felt pale incontrast with their rich, even coloring. And while he was in goodshape, he was nowhere near as muscular as the beings around him. Theymade him feel out of place in a half-remembered way, almost like . . .what? Yes, that was it. Like a kid.
Well, that didn't really matter. Rangers weren't picked for theirbodies. The primary criteria were mental: among other things wereintelligence, imagination, an adaptable but stable mind, a generalist'svariety of knowledge, intense loyalty to the Empire . . . and no closepersonal ties.
Hovan returned the man's smile, pleased. From what he had heard ofhuman prisoners, he'd guessed that sidetracking Steve's train ofthought might help; it seemed to have worked. He waved a hand,indicating the others in the room. "You have part of my team seen.Now that you relaxed are, may I a favor ask?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"My men have humans fought and killed, but have never any truly met.If you willing are, they would like to you examine, and then questionsask. But you out-clan to all of us are; if you wish it not, none willoffended be."
"I don't see why I shouldn't do it, as long as it works both ways. I'dlike to examine a live Traiti as much as they'd like to examine a livehuman."
"That reasonable is. I willing am, to your subject be." Hovan calledhis men over, conveying Steve's assent, then stood relaxed. "I readyam."
Tarlac had seen Traiti corpses, and read medical and autopsy reports,so he was familiar with the sleek, almost hairless bodies. But therewas a tremendous difference between that rather abstract understandingand the immediacy of a living, vital warrior towering over him. It wasonly then that he realized Hovan was one of the scarred ones--hisembarrassment must have kept him from noticing earlier. Not surewhether it might give offense, he reached hesitantly to touch thescars. They were darker than the surrounding skin, but the texture wasonly a little bit rougher. He was surprised at the supple softness andwarmth of skin he knew to be tough as leather armor. Had he reallybeen expecting the human-dubbed "Sharks" to be literally cold-blooded?
That private fallacy laid to rest, he stepped back, wondering what toexpect. "Okay, your turn."
Hovan didn't have to translate that; his men got the idea and crowdedaround the Ranger. He didn't take part himself because he'd learnedwhat he needed to know while the man was examining him. Just thefingertips lightly touching his scars had been more than enough toconfirm his earlier impression. The man's every action, from comingaboard armed to allowing his alien hosts to satisfy their curiosity,showed the courage and self-assurance of one whose sense of honor wasso much a part of him that he felt no need to stand on ceremony. Thebrief physical touch had even given him the feeling of belonging sharedby n'ruhar--what English inadequately referred to as clanmates.
Steve was worthy of Ch'kara; Hovan was convinced of that. And thesense of belonging in Steve's touch made it almost certain he wouldaccept the offer. Hovan told himself ruefully that he shouldn't haveentertained even the small doubts he'd had of Ka'ruchaya Yarra'swisdom. It had seemed impossible that an alien could truly be a ruhar,and Steve was undoubtedly an alien, even though he wasn't frightened,as so many humans seemed to be, by the sheer size of beings so alien tothem. Yet the clan-feeling was definitely there--how had Yarraguessed?
Hovan dismissed that unseemly question. She was Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara,not he; such things were the concern of Clan Mothers and Speakers, notof fighters. He obeyed in this as they would obey him in his field--though he prayed the need would never arise for them to defend Ch'karaas fighters.
But he could still feel wonderment at being empowered to perform theadoption. Males shared in the creation of life, but it was females whoactually brought it forth into the clan, by birth or adoption. In thecase of adoption, the new ruhar should be brought into the gatheringhall, with as many of the clan as possible attending. Steve wouldn'thave that, or even a close approximation, until Homeworld; thereweren't enough of Ch'kara in the Fleet. But he would have the bestHovan could manage, next wake-time.
Tarlac was still being examined by curious but carefully gentlecommandos. It wasn't embarrassing; his own laughter had cured thatproblem, at least here. Being poked and prodded wasn't as bad as he'dthought it would be, even as closely as he was being checked out.Naturally enough, his examiners were paying closest attention to thepoints where the two races differed most: head, hands, and skin. Hewas willing to swear, for instance, that a dentist couldn't have goneinto more detail over his teeth.
But finally that was over and it was question time. Tarlac seatedhimself cross-legged on his sleeping mat, where Hovan promptly joinedhim to translate for the others. Then the questioning started,hesitantly at first, not touching on anything too significant untilTarlac's quiet manner and responsive answers put the commandos at ease.When that happened, the questions became more searching.
"Do humans honor have?" one asked.
"I'm not really sure just how you use the term," Tarlac said slowly,"so I'll have to go by the human ideal. We have a few cultures, mostlywarrior ones like the Sandeman and Tharn, that are honor-directed, butin the rest of the Empire I'd have to say most people don't. Not theway warrior races define it, anyway, and I've got a hunch you're morelike them, at least in that way, than you're like the rest of theEmpire. Outside of the warrior cultures, it's the military that thinksmost about honor, though not even all of them care; to a lot ofcivilians . . ." The Ranger hesitated, frowning. "Well, honor andprofit just don't se
em to mix."
"You different are," another said. "Why?"
Tarlac shrugged. "I don't quite know. Maybe because I've always beensomething of an idealist." He grinned. "Though I was called a lot ofother things before I was recruited."
"All Rangers like you are, in that?"
"Idealists? Yes, or they wouldn't be Rangers."
"Is it true there female Rangers are?"
"Sure. Right now, three of them. We can't afford to discriminate, notfor any job. Local affairs aren't an Imperial concern, so some dothings differently, but the Empire itself doesn't judge anything butwhat you can do. Especially if the comps and Sovereign agree thatyou've got what it takes to be a Ranger."
That got a murmur of some sort, and from the tone Tarlac guessed it wasdisapproval. Hovan didn't translate; instead, he said something thatsilenced them.
"It's okay, Hovan," Tarlac said, not offended but curious. "What isit?"
"They say that insane is. Not only that you females in such dangerplace, but that you machines use, your best to choose. I them told,there so many humans are, you no choice have."
Tarlac nodded, surprised. "Right! Well, mostly. The comps don'texactly choose; they just eliminate the ones who don't measure up tothe specs. Which, I admit, doesn't leave many. Then the Sovereignchecks the comp's choices, and sends a Ranger to invite the ones @chooses. After that, only about a quarter of those who're asked tojoin, refuse." His expression sobered. "I almost did refuse, almostdecided to go into the Navy instead of taking Linda's offer. I'm gladI didn't. I'd've had more security, but a lot less challenge."
"Or danger?" Hovan was smiling.
"Or danger," Tarlac agreed.
Hovan's translation of that got a discussion going. The Rangerremained silent, listening to the commandos and enjoying the musicalsounds of their speech. He felt oddly at ease, sitting open andrelaxed in the group of beings whose appearance was so sharklike; hewas well aware that in a similar situation with a human enemy, he wouldhave been anything but at ease. When Hovan turned back to him andstarted to speak, Tarlac held up his hand. "About time for one of myquestions, isn't it?"
"Ask."
"There's something I don't understand. Granted, I'm here asFleet-Captain Arjen's guest, and I've agreed to take the Ordeal. But I'mstill your enemy. If one of you had come to us, 'persuaded' the way Iwas, at the very least you'd have been disarmed and guarded, instead ofbeing given the freedom of the ship. For all you know, I could beplanning some kind of sabotage."
Hovan smiled. "That you such a possibility raise, shows you would notit do."
"That's not always a safe assumption to make," Tarlac said. "In thiscase it is, yes, and I'd like to think it always was--but I've alreadytold you most humans don't have a sense of honor like yours. A lot ofpeople would bring up that sort of objection just to lull suspicion."
"So much we have from prisoners learned," Hovan agreed. "But we havealso learned, from the tiny ferocious ones who themselves Sandemanscall, that Rangers only devious are when there no other choice is. Andyou no reason for deception have."
"More precisely, we'll be misleading when it's in the Empire'sinterest--which isn't often. And even then, we keep it to the absoluteminimum; people have to know that when one of us makes a definitestatement, it's binding." Interesting, Tarlac thought, that the beingshumans thought of as merciless killers considered the Sandemansferocious. On the other hand, there was no way he'd care to face abattleprepped Sandeman warrior himself, in anything less than shieldedpower armor . . . "Not to mention which, it's both easier and saferto be direct, especially with warriors. Like them, for instance."
"They much like us are," Hovan said, smiling again. "If you do peacebring, I think we and they will good friends become."
Tarlac had a sudden mental picture of a Traiti trading war stories andcombat techniques with one of the small dark-skinned blonds--and itseemed more an inevitable picture than an odd one. "I wouldn't be abit surprised if you did," he agreed. "But you still haven't told mewhy I'm being so well treated."
"That simple is. You to us armed came, and you have honor shown; wecould no less honor show."
There was no way Tarlac could reply to that. He had already begun tobelieve that he could trust these people's honor where he'd bereluctant to trust a human's obedience to law. Hovan's calm statementonly added to that conviction.
Another Traiti indicated that he had a question. Hovan listened,gestured sharply, and spoke, then turned to the Ranger. "This morepersonal is than the other questions. He asks if you have childrenfathered."
"I don't mind; no, I haven't." Of course, Tarlac thought. With thatsex ratio, parenthood could easily be a sensitive subject for males."I'm not married, and even if I were, I don't think I'd . . . Well,anyway, having children when I'm on Terra so little wouldn't be fair tothem. Being a Ranger's child wouldn't make up for having a father--ormother--who's gone all the time. That's partly why none of us has afamily."
There was a soft murmur, this time sounding sympathetic, and the nextquestion was on an entirely different subject. "The furred four-footerswith two tongues--what purpose serve they?"
"Cloudcats? You must have captured some, yeah." Ondrian hadn't beeninvolved in any of the fighting, but cloudcats roamed all through theEmpire. "They don't serve a purpose. Part of their bargain forcertain human rights on their planet, Ondrian, was their right totravel on Imperial Navy ships any time. I suppose you could call themobservers."
"They intelligent are?"
Tarlac could hear astonishment even in the original questioner's voice."Of course. Didn't anyone tell you?" Then he realized they probablyhadn't asked. The first Ondrian colonists had thought the cloudcatsunintelligent predators; why shouldn't the Traiti have assumed the samething, or maybe decided they were pets? "Yes, they're intelligent.They can't talk; they use their tongues for gestural communication, andto handle things. They're outstanding artists, too." If some of hisspeculations were correct, that might mean more to the Traiti than tomany humans.
Hovan translated, then turned to the human. "We some as captives tookand caged. We hurt them not, yet have them as animals treated. Wemust that change, or dishonor suffer. Can we with them communicate?"
"Most English understand--" Tarlac broke off. "Oh, hell, I'm startingto adapt to your speech patterns. I'm not trying to make fun of you.If I've offended, I'm sorry."
"There no offense is," Hovan said calmly. "Go on."
"Okay. Most of them understand English, and can indicate yes and no.That's about all you can expect unless one of your human or Irschchanprisoners is familiar with tongue-talk." Tarlac grinned. "We madethat mistake too. We lost some time by it, but it wasn't a disaster.They may even have picked up some of your language by now. They'refast learners."
After a few quick words from Hovan, one of his men rose, dressed, andleft. Tarlac gathered he was going to tell someone with more authorityabout the cloudcats immediately, and Hovan confirmed it.
There wasn't much talk after that, the serious questions seeming tohave run out, and in the shuffle that followed of Traiti settling intotheir bedrolls for the night, Tarlac spent a moment considering hissurprise at their action. The Traiti hadn't waited a night or even anhour to correct something which surely was not an urgent mistreatment.The cloudcats were comfortable, Hovan said, even if they were confined;the human prisoners were almost certainly confined somehow, too.Merely treating intelligent beings as nonsapient was a cause fordishonor, it seemed, which spoke well of Traiti honor. True, thedishonor might be in underestimating a possible enemy--but that didn'tquite seem to fit, somehow.
When the messenger returned and had taken his place in the sleepingroom, Hovan touched a control on the bulkhead to darken the room. Thenhe said a couple of words, and all but Tarlac joined him in what theRanger thought could be a prayer, a chant, or a song. Whatever it was,he liked it; the sounds in the musical Traiti language evoked peace.When it was over,
the room grew quiet.
By Tarlac's inner clock, though, it was still too early to sleep. Andso much had happened that he wasn't sure he could have slept if it werelate for him instead. So he lay there in the dark silence, handslinked behind his head, and let his thoughts wander.
He had plenty to think about, and not enough solid facts to make anyconclusions reliable. Most of what he'd learned only served to raisefurther questions. The Ordeal was the key to the whole thing;Fleet-Captain Arjen had said as much. And it was dangerous, Arjenmade no secret of that--but how dangerous? Aside from the fact that itleft scars and wasn't universal, he knew little about it. Had theytested any other humans before deciding to try a Ranger? If so, what hadhappened? He had no way of knowing.
Then there was the evident contrast between battle-readiness in men andship, and the obvious concern for mental comfort in the ship'sdecoration. Being a generalist, not a xenopsych, Tarlac could onlywonder about it. Still, morale was as vital as guns, and he had toadmit that the shipboard art gallery was no more unlikely than theforested recreation areas on the Sovereign-class cruisers. It was lessspace-consuming, as well, though to a ship the size of a battle cruiserthat wasn't really significant. On the other hand, despite theirdesignation, IBCs weren't purely battle craft, and were often sent onlong-haul non-combat missions. This ship and the others in the Traitifleet, from what he'd seen, were warships, pure and simple. If nothingelse, they just didn't have the size to be either multi-purpose orlong-duration.
That made him think. Unless the Traiti were a lot more fragilepsychologically than any human thought, such concern with amenities ona warship was out of character. They might be more alien than otherevidence indicated--or a lot more aesthetic. He couldn't believe theywere all that fragile psychologically, and his current close contactwas showing less, rather than more, underlying alienness. That leftthe last possibility, that these ferocious fighters were also artists.
If there were any parallels at all with Terra, that could be true.History showed plenty of military men, on any side in any war, who hadexpressed themselves through art. Tarlac could think of severaloffhand, just from the last World War: Hirohito, poet; Mauldin,cartoonist; Eisenhower and Churchill, both painters; and Hitler,architect. It seemed plausible that art was as important here ineveryday surroundings as it seemed; he would use that as a workinghypothesis unless he found evidence to the contrary.
Then there were the few hints he had about family life. It wasimportant, that was obvious, and he couldn't help speculating, despitealmost total lack of data, on what it was like. There was strong clanstructure, yes, but "clan" covered a lot of territory. With the lowproportion of women and the touchiness about parenthood, the setupmight be like the old Arabian sheikdoms, with women belonging to thedominant males and kept in a kind of protective custody, used asbreeding machines.
He didn't like that picture, though he knew a lot of human men wouldfind it an attractive fantasy. Still, under the circumstances, itseemed like a reasonable assumption.
Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, as histhoughts went back to his earlier misgivings. Dammit, he didn't wantto brood about that! Sure, bringing peace would be worth his life;plenty of others had paid that price, without the half-promise he had.He'd have to follow them into final nothingness eventually, and he'd gowithout protest if he knew it would mean the end of this ten-yearslaughter--but it wouldn't.
He couldn't die, not if he was to bring peace. He had to live, tosurvive an Ordeal that sometimes killed beings as tenacious of life asthe sharks they resembled. It helped, knowing that they wanted him tosucceed--and why shouldn't they? It was their race's survival that wasat stake, not humanity's.
If it was possible, he promised himself, he'd do it. He had a briefvision of himself at a Grand Audience afterward, approaching theEmperor accompanied by several shadowy Traiti. He was in full formaluniform, his dress cloak brushing the carpet--but his shirt was open,neatly arranged to show the four scars down his chest, and he lethimself smile at the image. Wouldn't the newsies and protocolperfectionists be upset!
But that was enough of that; he really should try to rest. It had beena rough day, a strain on even a Ranger's ability to adapt. Stretchedout in the dark, surrounded by the soft rhythms of breathing and thesomehow reassuring smell of clean bodies, Tarlac felt his tension ease.Only then did he realize just how much the strain had fatigued him, andit wasn't long before his own breathing joined the comfortable patternof his sleeping companions'.