The Caphenon

  “Very well,” Lancer Tal said after a charged silence. She rose to her feet and held out a hand to Ekatya before shaking her head and letting her arm fall. “Get up. I’ll have you taken to your quarters.”

  Ekatya frowned up at her. “Just like that?”

  Lancer Tal crouched down, scooped up the aid supplies, and walked away.

  Scrambling to her feet, Ekatya set off after her, trailing behind as her thoughts churned. A Sharing, that’s what she was offering. Why? To control her mind?

  It didn’t make sense. If Lancer Tal had wanted to empathically force her into anything, she’d have done it long before this. Besides, they already had the Caphenon under their control, along with all of its weapons. They didn’t have her command code, but that was hardly important for their immediate needs. The captain’s command code wasn’t necessary to strip the ship of any portable weaponry or to fly the fighters, which weren’t going to fly for long anyway.

  No matter how she considered it, she couldn’t find a strategic angle. And Lancer Tal had been stung by her refusal. That wasn’t an act.

  The Alseans had an entire culture and legal system built around the importance of emotions. Lhyn had practically swooned after her experience with a Sharing. She’d said it was the most amazing thing she’d ever felt, like being inside someone else’s mind. An incredible intimacy.

  So Lancer Tal had offered her a highly valued act of intimacy, supposedly for the purpose of showing her how Lhyn felt, and had been hurt when Ekatya said no. Was it really that simple?

  The Lancer motioned for her to wait by the bench while she walked to a bin at the back of the room and threw the cloth in. Then she set the box down on the sideboard that took up half the wall, washed and dried her hands, and wrote a note on a pad. Straightening up, she winced and held a hand to her left side. But when she turned and strode back, there was no sign of pain.

  Ekatya narrowed her eyes. “You’re a master of lying through omission. ‘Really hurt,’ eh? Past tense? I cracked your rib and you’re hiding it. Why?”

  Lancer Tal sat down a bit too carefully. “Never show weakness to an enemy,” she said as she rolled on a sock. She looked unconcerned, but the small beads of sweat at her hairline gave her away.

  “Did you take one of those pills to keep the Guards from trooping through your head?”

  “Wouldn’t work on this.”

  “What would?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She reached for the first boot, took a shallow breath, and began pulling it on.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Ekatya brushed her hands away. “Let me.” She pushed the boot on, fastened the self-sealing straps, and did the same with the other. When she looked up, the Lancer was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. Ekatya sat down beside her and picked up her own socks. “I’m not your enemy,” she said, pulling on the first.

  “You’re certainly not my friend. Friends don’t call me a motherless outcaste with no honor. I had no idea just how little honor you gave me credit for.”

  Ekatya finished with her second sock and reached for a boot. “I was angry.”

  “No joke.”

  “You mind-fucked my crew.”

  “We didn’t mind-fuck them.” She said the word distastefully. “We used empathic force, and only to get information. The only person who was actually compelled to act was Commander Kameha. You were going to blow up the one thing that even gave me a chance against the Voloth. What would you have done in my place?”

  Ekatya pulled on the second boot and slapped down the tabs. “Any damned thing I could.” She met Lancer Tal’s eyes. “You said not even Colonel Micah could look the other way if you refused a challenge. What would have happened if you hadn’t fought me?”

  “Micah would have had to report it, and Shantu would have thanked you every day for the rest of his life. The warrior caste leader cannot refuse an honor challenge and expect to keep the leadership. My government would have fallen, there’d have been new elections, and I’d have lost every shred of honor you don’t think I have.”

  Maybe her brain hadn’t been rattled after all, because she was starting to see things more clearly. “And if I were an Alsean warrior, would this have been a fistfight?”

  “No. It would probably have been swords, knives, or staves, and a few skin sealers and tablets wouldn’t have been enough to fix the damage. An honor challenge wouldn’t end until a lot more blood had been shed, which is why they’re not made very often.” She paused and added, “Well, not once we’re past our Rite of Ascension. Young warriors tend to say stupid things.”

  “So I forced you into this, but you found a way to resolve it without really hurting me. Relatively speaking.”

  “I told you, Captain. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Ekatya studied her bruised face and remembered how the Lancer had helped her less than an hour after they’d met, when she couldn’t possibly have had an ulterior motive for making an alien captain feel less alone. She remembered her look of happy enthusiasm when they’d discussed the principles of FTL flight and how she’d understood then that Lancer Tal’s emotions were all in her eyes. She remembered standing next to her at the state funeral and hearing her say there were twenty-six transports performing that aerial ballet of loss.

  “The funeral,” she said. “You greeted me as a family member. Was that just for show?”

  There it was, in her eyes.

  “No,” said Lancer Tal, her voice rough. “It wasn’t. But I don’t expect you to believe me.”

  “I do believe you.”

  She was surprised enough to let it show. “I—why?”

  “Because I’m not as much of an idiot as Colonel Micah thinks. Although, given what you’ve just told me, I can understand why he said that. Is a Sharing something you offer very often? That’s what you were offering me just now, wasn’t it?”

  “It was, yes,” she said, still looking bewildered. “And no, I don’t make a habit of offering it to just anyone.”

  Ekatya nodded. Yes, it really was that simple. “All right. I want to know.”

  “Want to know what?”

  “How Lhyn feels about me. What does it involve? And should you even be doing this now, or should we get you to the healing center to see if I did more than crack your rib?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “How many fights have you been in that you’re so certain of that?”

  “More than I can remember.”

  “Then I guess Colonel Micah was right. I did do well.”

  That earned her a half-smile. “Yes, you did.”

  Ekatya waited a few seconds. “Well? How do we do this?”

  Lancer Tal tilted her head, obviously assessing her emotions. Then she scooted back on the bench and carefully pulled one leg across so that she was straddling it. “You need to face me.”

  Ekatya matched her position.

  “Close enough so that we can touch foreheads.”

  “Seriously?” One look at her face answered that question, and she closed the distance until they were uncomfortably close. “Good enough?”

  “Yes.” Lancer Tal slid one hand along the side of Ekatya’s jaw and wrapped the other around the back of her neck, pulling her head down so that their foreheads rested together. “Put your hand on the back of my neck.”

  It was outrageously past her personal boundaries, and intimate beyond reason considering that they’d just pounded the stuffing out of each other. She was vividly aware of the Lancer’s forehead ridges and the way her skin held a light piney scent; of the very alienness of this woman who was about to enter her mind. But when Lancer Tal whispered, “Close your eyes,” she gave up and went with it. Lhyn had done this. She wanted to know.

  At first she felt nothing. Then it began tickling at the edges of her consciousness, gradually growing until she had to concede that it wasn’t her imagination. She was really feeling it.

  And it was incredible. The warmth, the affection, and unde
rneath a rich love shining through, working its way into every cell in her body, suffusing her with a bone-deep certainty that she was treasured, cherished, loved above and beyond all others. She was unique. Chosen. The only one, and it filled her with a confidence she’d never had before. Lancer Tal was right; she couldn’t take Lhyn away. She simply had no power to compete with this brilliant light that seemed as if it should be shining out of her fingertips.

  Ekatya forgot she’d ever had any reservations as she sank deeper and deeper into the bliss of their connection. She never wanted it to end. Was this how the Alseans went through life, feeling this sort of thing on a regular basis? How did they get anything done? She felt as if she were on a drug high, stupefied with happiness. If an alert klaxon had sounded right now, she didn’t think she’d be able to respond.

  She had no idea how long she floated in this unimaginably sweet place, but it wasn’t long enough. When Lancer Tal whispered, “I’m pulling back,” her first reaction was to cling harder to her neck, trying to hold her there.

  “I can’t, Captain.”

  It was the use of her rank that broke the spell. Lhyn would never call her that, not in this kind of intimacy. She opened her eyes, looking into a pair that were the wrong color, and straightened up in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was your first time in a Sharing.”

  “Oh, stars.” She started to rub her face before remembering it was a bad idea. “That was…I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  “I think it’s a cruel joke of the universe that you haven’t. Because it’s right there. That’s what Lhyn feels for you, and your emotions are just the same. It’s the strength and power of a tyree bond. There’s nothing else like it.”

  Ekatya was still tingling with the aftermath, and knew she’d spend the rest of her life craving another hit like that. It was an instant addiction, and yes, a cruel joke that she’d never get to feel it again. But that she had even gotten to feel it once…what a gift.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how much that cost you, but it was priceless to me.”

  “I’m just glad you accepted the offer. And you understand now?”

  “Yes.” She reached out, gently touching a finger to the reddening marks along Lancer Tal’s cheekbone, and cringed at the memory of the violence that had put them there. She’d made a terrible assumption and acted like a jealous lover because she couldn’t credit the truth. “I’m sorry about this. If I’d known…”

  The Lancer shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. And I’m sorry, too. We’re fighting the same enemy; it’s ridiculous that we should ever be on opposite sides.” She scooted backwards, putting space between them, and winced as she pulled her leg across the bench. Then she leaned back against one of the observation deck’s support pillars and closed her eyes. Of course she wouldn’t admit it, but whatever she’d done to project those emotions had taken something out of her. Quite a lot, by the looks of it.

  “You need to get to the healing center,” Ekatya said. “Wellernal or Graystone could probably heal that rib just by resting their hands there for five ticks.”

  Lancer Tal shot her a smile. “You should take a look at your face in a mirror before telling me what I need to do.”

  “I’ve been treated. You haven’t.”

  “Careful, Captain. A person might think you cared about the motherless outcaste.”

  Maybe it was the aftermath of what they’d just done, or maybe her brain finally put it together, but in that moment Ekatya realized that Lancer Tal had always referred to her parents in the past tense.

  She’d thought the outcaste part was the insult, the word that would hurt and anger the most. The motherless part was just trash talk, a throwaway word that hadn’t even registered as she said it.

  “I was raised by my grandparents,” she said. “I never knew my parents. They were both career Fleet, and I wasn’t planned. My mother handed me to my grandmother the moment she’d weaned me, and she and my father went back to the front lines. The war with the Voloth was hot then, burning on several fronts, and there were ships getting blown out of space every few days. My father died less than a year after I was born. My mother lasted until I was four, and apparently she came to visit me on all of her leaves, but I don’t have any memory of it.” She looked up, meeting sympathetic eyes. “And now I’ve disobeyed an order and been relieved of duty. If I go back home, they’ll probably jail me. The truth is, I’m the motherless outcaste.”

  After a short silence, Lancer Tal rested her head against the pillar again and said, “I had my parents until well past my Rite of Ascension. But I lost them both at the same time, in a transport accident. I was an only child, so that was the end of my family. There’s one aunt, but…” She trailed off. “My real family is Micah. He was there when I lit my parents’ pyres.”

  Ekatya thought about how she’d feel if she lost both of her grandparents at the same time. Just imagining it hurt.

  “For the record,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind about your honor. You didn’t have to Share with me, and it wasn’t easy for you. But you did, just so I could understand. Right after I tried to kill you, too.”

  “You were never going to land that throat shot.” Lancer Tal’s eyes drifted closed. “As for my honor, you were closer to the truth than you think. I obeyed the letter of the law in everything I did, but it’s possible to do that and still break a moral code.”

  “Are you talking about the empathic force?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m not still angry about that, but I also have to admit that if I were in your situation, I’d use every tool at my disposal. Every single one.”

  And it was easier to forgive when she herself hadn’t been forced, and neither had Lhyn.

  Neither had Lhyn…

  “Oh, stars,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “She left of her own accord.” Everything Lancer Tal had Shared with her just now—it was what Lhyn had felt before. Not what she felt now. “You said a tyree bond can’t be broken from the outside, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But can it be broken from the inside?”

  “That’s the only way it can be broken. But it’s hard to do; one of the bondmates would have to do something unforgivable. And there’s not much a tyree cannot forgive.”

  What was the one thing Lhyn couldn’t forgive?

  She stood up so quickly that her head spun. “I need to talk to Lhyn. Right now.”

  “Yes, you do.” Lancer Tal rose more slowly, but once she was upright, her spine straightened and she looked as if she could run from here to Blacksun Base.

  Ekatya had to admire the façade. She handed over Lancer Tal’s jacket and pulled her own off the peg. As she slid her arm into the sleeve, the pad detected her body heat and vibrated, alerting her to a waiting message. She shrugged the jacket the rest of the way on and pulled out the pad, hoping and dreading that the message was from Lhyn.

  It was.

  This is what you tried to destroy the Alseans for, it said. Was it worth it?

  Attached was a file from Captain Habersaat, marked Urgent. One of Lhyn’s team had finally managed to track down the original orbital scans of the five planets the Protectorate was trading for Alsea. She ran her eyes down the list of attributes and resources, getting all the way to the bottom before she realized what was missing. Aghast, she read it again.

  People. There were no people. Abandoned cities, yes. Past civilizations, but no living ones.

  What they did have was a substantial supply of valuable mineral resources—none of which had been listed on the mining surveys the negotiation team had sent her.

  Her legs threatened to turn to rubber, and she sat with little grace.

  “What is it?” Lancer Tal asked.

  Ekatya couldn’t even speak. The idea that she could have been so angry at the Lancer’s betrayal now seemed laughable. She’d acted o
n behalf of her people, trying to save her world. The Assembly had acted for the benefit of whichever corporations wanted these resources. They must have bought the necessary votes in the Assembly while bamboozling everyone else with the doctored surveys. Her three crew, her parents, so many of her past crew members, friends, and peers—they’d all died in the war against the Voloth, and now some greedy torquats were privately negotiating with them, trading away an entire civilization for profit.

  And she’d nearly done their dirty work for them, blindly obeying orders she’d known in her heart were wrong. She hadn’t listened to her own instincts; she hadn’t listened to Lhyn. The only thing that had stopped her was Lancer Tal’s ruthless strategizing.

  “It’s that cruel joke of the universe you were talking about, times a factor of ten thousand,” she said. “And the fastest end to a tyree bond your culture has probably ever seen.”

  She looked at the message again, so short and angry. Was it worth it?

  She’d laugh if she weren’t so busy fighting back the tears. When Lancer Tal sat next to her, she blinked away the moisture and said, “You didn’t take everything from me. I did. But I have to tell you that your timing is atrocious. You showed me the truth of what I had after I threw it away. You couldn’t have done that a few days ago?”

  “I didn’t think I needed to,” Lancer Tal said, and dammit but that hurt.

  “Yes, well, never underestimate my ability to not see what I should be looking at,” she said bitterly.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Ekatya was still staring at her pad, so she saw the Lancer’s hand reach out, almost touch her leg, and then retreat. I’m afraid to let you touch me, she’d said, and it had clearly made an impact.

  She looked more closely at that hand. The knuckles were just as abraded as hers had been, but Lancer Tal hadn’t treated them. She’d taken care of her opponent but not herself.

  Warriors were idiots.

  “Where can I get another one of those cloths?” she asked.

  “What?”

  Pointing at the knuckles, she said, “The anti-inflammatory, super-healing accelerant whatever. You didn’t take care of yourself. Let me.”