"Mason, then."
"Okay, now that we got that out of the way. What can I do for you, Tebrey?"
"I thought I might take you up on your offer to teach me the local language. I'd like to assist in your research. If I may."
"What about your mission?"
He shrugged. "I've fulfilled my original orders. I've tagged the artifacts of interest, noted possible avenues for further research. My current orders are to sit tight and observe. I may as well make myself useful in the process."
Mason sat back in her chair and studied him for a moment. "You're serious," she said.
"Quite," he replied. "To be honest, I need something to help distract me from my thoughts, and I do have a real love for languages."
"Ah, well, okay. Do you know any French or Hindi-derived languages?"
"I assume you mean besides Normarish, which I understand to be related to French. No. I'm only fluent in eight languages, although I have the vocabulary for two more."
"Only, he says," Mason said with an eye roll. "I wish I had some grad students like you. What other languages do you know?"
"I speak, read and write Nordic, Neo-Gaelic, Swedislavic, Modern Portuguese, Spanish, English, and Low Rhyrhan," Tebrey said. "I also know some Homndruu and Modern Chinese, though I wouldn't say I was proficient in either of the last." He shrugged.
Mason was stunned. He'd said he liked languages, but she hadn't thought he was being honest, just polite. Even with induction learning, he spoke an impressive range of languages, although she didn't understand why he'd chosen to learn some of them, like English. Something to do with his missions, she assumed.
"Well, I suppose we should begin with French and basic Hindi, and then we can try Lyonan. I've got an induction program for each of those. I assume you've used induction learning devices before?"
"Of course; most of commando school was taught that way. They shoehorned four thousand years' worth of fighting tactics into my head, Doctor. I'm sure I still have room for a few more words, though. Why learn French and Hindi? Why not just learn Lyonan? Since I assume that's the primary language down there."
"Because our understanding of Lyonan is incomplete," Mason replied. "There are going to be words that you don't know and may not be able to reason out purely by context. Lyonan is a pidgin language derived from French and Hindi. You need to understand the roots to fully understand the language."
Tebrey sighed. "All right, Mason. I guess I'll allow you to load me up with the extra languages, then."
"Okay, come with me, and we'll put your brain to the test." She laughed. "See if you can handle it."
"Lead the way."
Mason led Tebrey from her office into the anthropology lab, which he hadn't visited before. The walls held lots of holographic pictures of the people from the village as well as the landscape in the vicinity, and an array of cultural artifacts lay out on the tables.
"The induction booth is back here."
"You only have the one?"
"We only need the one in here. There are more in other departments."
"Hmm. I'm just used to the military labs, I suppose."
She unlocked the door and started prepping the machine. "Just have a seat, Tebrey."
Induction learning devices used sophisticated computer software to imprint information into the neural pathways of the brain. A person had to be unconscious and restrained to use the devices because of the millions of nanomolecular wires the device inserted through the skull and into the brain.
The devices were able to write electronic information directly to the long-term memory centers. The memory was stored chemically and would always be there, barring brain injury. The only significant drawback was that the recipient had to work to remember the information the first time. That wasn't really a problem for Tebrey, since he had a neural computer to help with that sort of thing, though most people – Tebrey included – had extremely severe headaches after the actual induction procedure.
Which, Tebrey thought to himself, is exactly why I vowed never to use the damn things again.
"Mason?"
"Yes, Tebrey?"
"It may be a good idea for you to sedate me before locking down the restraints. Also make sure they're removed before I awaken."
"Are you afraid? I assure you that it's safe. I've used this machine myself."
"There are superficial similarities between this device and interrogation chairs. Enough to trigger my fight-or-flight response – neither of which would be healthy for you."
"Okay." She sounded concerned. "Are you sure you want to do this? No one is forcing you."
"I'm sure, Mason. Just do as I ask. I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Okay, then. The sedative should wear off in an hour. The induction process should only take a few minutes. I'll make sure that the restraints are removed immediately afterward."
"Thank you."
Tebrey closed his eyes as the cool hypo spray injected the sedative into his system. He overrode his detox implant and allowed the sedative to take effect, although he shortened the metabolic time to thirty minutes. He didn't like to be under longer than necessary.
As usual, the process itself left no memory, but the pain in his head was overwhelming. The light in the booth was dimmed, but it was still too bright. He groaned.
"Tebrey?"
Mason stood over him with a small penlight. It hurt, but he kept himself from flinching as she checked his eyes.
"You seem okay. How do you feel?"
"Like my skull has been punctured and stuffed full of itchy weeds. Did it work?"
"You tell me."
He sighed and searched through his memories. It was there. He now knew that Mason's translation of barhista as barbarian had been kind to him. The cultural connotations in the Lyonan Empire were much worse.
"I think I speak Lyonan," he said in that language.
"Not bad," Mason replied. "We'll need to work on your pronunciation, but it's very passable. We're going back down to the village tomorrow. Would you like to come along?'
"Sure," Tebrey said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
Mason helped him sit up. He waited for his head to stop spinning and then stumbled to his quarters. He sorted through the information that had been deposited in his memory, but his head hurt so badly that he found it almost impossible to think. This time was much worse than he remembered from the last time he'd used such equipment. He used his medsuite to check for injury, but everything registered as normal. After that, he decided that thinking was overrated, and drifted off to sleep.
Sergeant Liam McGee was uneasy, and he didn't like it.
It was his duty to write up weekly fitness reports on his people. Private Johnson was becoming a problem. He'd always been withdrawn, but now he was getting downright cold. He never joked or laughed anymore. Something was bothering him, but he wouldn't talk about it. In fact, he got quite violently angry if the subject was brought up. McGee had had to break up a fight between Johnson and Fitch that morning, and Fitch wasn't prone to such behavior. He'd written them both up, but it was Johnson that McGee had his eye on.
To make matters worse, Johnson was getting very sloppy with his work, and sloppiness in space could get a man killed. McGee had reported his concerns to Lieutenant Christopher, but she wasn't on the Loridell to see how much Johnson had changed. She'd said she would note it and let Medical know. If there was one thing that McGee was sure of, he was sure that Johnson would never talk to Medical.
He just wished he knew how to help, but if things continued, he'd have to have Johnson thrown into the brig for insubordination.
Some people just aren't meant for the military, he thought tiredly. The recruiter that accepted him should be court-martialed. He filed the report and went off to find a drink.
Lieutenant Amelia Christopher was supervising the transfer of the remainder of her unit over to the Loridell. Fleet Command had finally responded to their requests for aid. They were sending replacement ships f
or the defense of Cedeforthy, and the Descubierta's taskforce was headed to the Fleet repair base in orbit around Sabine at Sigma Draconis. The crews were going over the ships, making sure that the temporary hull plates would hold up to the stresses of hyperspace transit. Christopher's team was staying to guard the scientists. The recent animal attack on the surface had been the final bit of motivation needed to get Command to take their requests seriously.
"How are we doing, Sergeant?"
Master Sergeant Sigurd Black Eagle looked up from his data screen. "We have about half of the gear transferred over now, sir. I wish we could take the whole armory, but..." He shrugged. "I suppose we should be grateful for the equipment we are getting."
"I know what you mean, but the captain was crystal clear about our orders. Nothing that we don't absolutely need gets transferred. He didn't seem too sad to be losing us, either. The environmental situation on the Descubierta has been a bit strained."
"As you say, sir." He looked unhappy.
"Okay, Sig, what's bothering you?"
He smiled with embarrassment. "Well, sir, it's our orders, actually. It just doesn't seem right to have you reporting to that military advisor. He's not in the chain of command."
"Hmm. Maybe not, Sergeant, but he is the ranking marine officer."
He snorted.
"You disagree? He is a lieutenant commander."
"But he's Special Operations, sir. It just doesn't seem right. It should be your command."
"Oh, I'm not too worried about that. We talked yesterday, when our orders came through. He seems quite reasonable and competent. He has requested that we increase our guard duties at the dig sites, but he made it clear that he isn't going to interfere with my command. All requests will go through me. Sergeant McGee likes him well enough."
"Sergeant McGee likes everyone, sir." He waved a hand at her reproachful look. "I know what you mean, though. At least he isn't going to try to pretend to be a field commander."
"We don't have to worry about that. Now, how long is it going to take to finish this up? The XO wants to know so they can put the ship through some acceleration tests."
Chapter Twelve
Tebrey's second visit to the village of Renivee started much smoother than the last one had. The medicine that Mason distributed on her previous visit had worked miracles, and the illness that had been sweeping through the village was eliminated. The village magistrate was pleased with them. Some of the villagers, however, were wary of witchcraft and made warding gestures at Mason as she walked across the square.
"You'd think they would have a little respect," Tebrey said quietly. The mood in the village was subdued, and he didn't want his voice to carry.
Mason shrugged. "I'm not worried about it. Witchcraft isn't as persecuted here as it was in many cultures on old Earth. They'll make warding gestures and mutter, but they'll still talk to me and accept medical treatment. I can't complain. Also, you have to realize that many of these people have never seen strangers, much less ones who look like you."
"I don't think they like me very much," said Tebrey. "They don't even make warding gestures at me. They just turn away in disgust."
"Now, Tebrey, don't assume they dislike you just because of differences in culture."
"I can feel their dislike, Mason."
"What do you mean?'
"Special Operations, remember? I'm a psion; empathy is the least of my talents."
"Hmm. That's really interesting. I'd love to ask you more questions about it, but we're on a schedule, and you may have a point about them not liking you. I'm not going to get anything done you with hanging around. Do you mind wandering off on your own for a while? Or would you prefer that I assign one of my students to you?"
"I think I can manage," Tebrey replied, managing a smile. "You work. Me wander."
Mason laughed and slapped his shoulder affectionately as she turned away.
It wasn't a market day, so the village wasn't quite so overwhelming, but it still held a riot of sounds, smells, and colors. A couple of guards were watching Tebrey from a discreet distance; they both carried crossbows. He waved and moved around the square, saying hello to people and getting a feel for what life was like in the village.
He needed more practice with his new language skills. The induction learning process made the information available, but until it was actually used, it had an odd, artificial feel to it, like a dream. The mud-streaked men watching over the cattle didn't seem to mind talking to him. They were happy to talk about the shaggy beasts they tended day and night. There were many words that had not been a part of induction process, but the root languages Tebrey had learned helped him to reason them out.
"Barbarian!" a voice shouted.
Tebrey turned and greeted the man who came up behind him. "Good morning, Lord Jeroen. Thank you for allowing me to explore your village."
The young man seemed taken aback. "I didn't realize you spoke our language. I may have spoken out of turn."
Tebrey assumed he was talking about calling him a barbarian. "I took no offense, my lord." He hoped that was the correct form of address.
"You have a name?"
"More than one," Tebrey replied. "You may call me Tebrey, if you please."
"Tebrey," Jeroen said, rolling the vowels around on his tongue. "A strange name. I understand that you are a soldier."
"That's right," Tebrey replied warily.
"You don't carry a weapon, unless that box on your hip is a weapon of some sort."
"It is a long walk from our settlement, my lord. I mean no insult by carrying it."
Jeroen looked at him speculatively. "What manner of weapon is it?"
"One that I would hesitate to use unless it was truly necessary."
"Good advice for any weapon."
Tebrey nodded. He wasn't sure he liked where the conversation was going, but he couldn't break it off without giving insult. He really didn't want to be pressed about the pistol.
"I would see this weapon," Jeroen said.
Tebrey hesitated, then shrugged and handed him the pistol.
"Heavy," Jeroen said as he took it. "I assume the hand goes like this." He gripped it and pointed it at a cow down the road. He then pulled the trigger, which surprised Tebrey somewhat.
Nothing happened.
Jeroen sighed. "They never work. Why do you carry it?"
Tebrey took the pistol back and holstered it, filing away the comment about the weapons never working, to ask Mason about later. He wondered where Jeroen could ever have encountered a pistol before. "Badge of office," he replied. "Also, it is useful because it is heavy."
There had been no chance of the weapon going off – it was keyed to Tebrey's identity chip – but it had bothered him to see it the hands of a man who could quickly become his enemy. Tebrey was certain that Jeroen didn't believe him. Something about the way he hesitated before handing the pistol back suggested that Jeroen thought it would work just fine for Tebrey. Interesting.
"Come with me," Jeroen said. He led Tebrey around behind the magistrate's home to what was obviously a training area for the village's soldiers. There was a stable that held a dozen horses, and a small barracks building. A few of the guards were training in the yard with swords; they seemed to be doing basic drills for strikes and defense.
"You should carry a sword," Jeroen said. "No one can take you seriously as a soldier without a sword, badge of office or not."
"I've never had much use for one."
"Time for you to learn," Jeroen said. "Fowler, loan the man your sword."
The soldier in question scowled at Tebrey, but handed over his weapon. Tebrey had never held a real sword before, but his training had included virtual simulations on the use of all known weapons, swords included. The sword was heavier than Tebrey expected, but well balanced.
"How about you give us a demonstration of how you fight up north," Jeroen said.
A burly soldier with greying hair drew his sword and gestured to Tebrey come a
t him. Tebrey sighed. It was inevitable that the men in the village would want to see what they could get away with. They'll probably want to have a pissing contest next, he thought. Well, if I have to do this, I may as well give them a good show.
"What is the purpose of this combat?" Tebrey asked. "Just training? Fight to first blood?"
"First blood will do," Jeroen said hurriedly. "You are our guest here."
"Worried, barbarian?" the armsmaster said, laughing. "I promise not to blemish your pretty white skin too much."
Tebrey knew enough about the culture to know when he'd been insulted by his opponent. Pale white skin was symbolic of slavery here. He activated his neural computer and accessed the memories of swordsmanship. Given the weight and length of the weapon, he chose Roman gladiatorial combat as the most appropriate style. It was showy enough to be impressive, but controlled enough that Tebrey wouldn't hurt the man unless he intended to. Gladiators had rarely fought to the death.
Victory goes to him that strikes first, the grizzled Roman armsmaster had said in the simulation. You wait for your opponent to kill you, and he will. That fact had been drilled into Tebrey painfully, time and again. If you died in the simulation, it just reset. You had to survive to the end for it to be over. Tebrey had learned the lesson well. He'd enjoyed the feel of the sand under his feet and the iron sword in his hand.
Tebrey shifted into stance and then attacked.
He began his attack by testing the speed of his opponent with a flurry of blows that the man was barely able to parry, pushing him around and around the small yard. Then his sword flashed past the other man's guard and slashed his cheek. He lowered his sword and stepped back, saluting, thinking the fight was over, but the man charged forward swinging. His blow struck Tebrey's unreadied sword, and it flew from his grasp. He could hear Jeroen yelling for the other man to stop.
Then Tebrey's reflexes took over, and he paid no attention to anything except his opponent. Don't watch the sword, watch the shoulders, he remembered. The torso moves to shift power to the sword. Don't block the power, move around it. Let the opponent's momentum work against them.
The Remnant Page 9
