“I ordered Lieutenant Candini to use everything she had to put us down outside that city. And she did. There was no other choice, Lhyn. Not one that I could live with.”
Lhyn’s anger faded from her expression. “Of course it was the right choice. But now you have to live with something else, don’t you?”
Ekatya was too aware of the others in the room to answer that question, but Lhyn’s eyes went soft as she reached under the table to lay a gentle hand on her leg. The small, private gesture of understanding nearly breached her control, and she had to blink several times before she could look back at the Lancer—who apparently had not moved a micrometer and was still drilling a hole through her with those all-seeing eyes.
At last she nodded and stood up. The room was hushed with expectation as she walked around the table and stood beside Ekatya’s chair. Then she went down on one knee and held up both of her hands, palms outward.
“Captain Ekatya Serrado,” she said in formal tones, “Alsea owes you a debt we can never repay. But if there is anything in my power to give you in payment for what you have done, please name it now, and I will do my utmost to provide it.”
“Shippers,” Lhyn whispered. “Ekatya, touch her palms. Do it now.”
She did, settling their hands together and watching as Lancer Tal intertwined their fingers and closed hers down. It seemed oddly intimate, but she was enough of a diplomat to let herself relax into it. Still, she wasn’t sure if she should close her own fingers or not.
Lhyn murmured something in Alsean to the Lancer, who nodded and patiently waited, still in her kneeling position, while Lhyn explained in low tones.
“She has just given you a gesture reserved for family or the closest of friends. This is the highest honor you could possibly receive, Ekatya. I doubt she’s done this with more than a dozen people in her entire life, and that would include her parents. And she kneels before no one. Take this seriously.”
Startled, Ekatya reflexively closed her fingers, looking into the light blue eyes that no longer seemed icy. She felt suffused with a warmth, a pride in what she had done. There had never been a question that it was the right thing to do, but in this moment she felt at ease with it. Yes, there had been fatalities. Yes, they were entirely her responsibility. But three was a ridiculously small number compared to the million or more her skeleton crew had saved.
Three fatalities, she thought, and knew what her favor would be.
“I would ask one thing.”
“Name it,” the Lancer answered as soon as she understood.
“I ask for a memorial with full honors for Ensign O’Sullivan, Trooper Cuthbroad, and Trooper Shelley. When we take their bodies home, they’ll be buried with military honors, but it won’t be commensurate to their courage and sacrifice. They’ll just be three of many who have died in the line of duty. I want them to be recognized.”
Lancer Tal released her hands and stood. “We would be proud to provide a state funeral.”
“Not a funeral. A memorial. I can’t leave their bodies here.”
“Agreed, then. A memorial with full state honors.”
“Thank you.” She felt something ease inside, but that still left the biggest question of the day. As the Lancer walked back to her chair, Ekatya asked, “How did you know?”
Lancer Tal took her seat gracefully, crossed her hands in front of her again, and said, “Your emotions did not match your words.”
Lhyn gasped, her hands going to her face. “I knew it! You are empaths!” Her glee was entirely inappropriate to the moment, but there was no stopping her. “That was driving me crazy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back and forth, wondering if I was nuts for even thinking it. Holy Shippers, this is going to blow the whole damned roof off next year’s Anthropology Consortium meeting!”
The Lancer’s smile expanded into a full grin. “You, on the other hand, have no difference at all between your words and your emotions.”
Ekatya was reeling. Empaths? That was a myth, a relic of science fiction and overheated philosophy discussions. Modern science had conclusively established that such abilities were physically impossible. Empaths did not exist.
But she’d already known, hadn’t she? The way the Alseans had seemed to understand what she and her crew needed, even without a common language. Their instant acceptance, almost without question, that Ekatya was not dangerous to them. She remembered twenty weapons pointed at her and the Lancer shouting at them to stop, before she had managed a single word through the translator.
“You knew we meant no harm before I ever said it, didn’t you?”
Lancer Tal nodded. “All I sensed from any of you was fear. It took some time before I realized that it was fear for your injured shipmates. But you were never a threat.” She paused, then added, “Not to us, that is. Apparently you are a grave threat indeed to the Voloth.”
Ekatya barely registered the words, her mind too busy going over every interaction she’d had with Lancer Tal since the moment she’d seen the woman step into view. And then her face grew hot when she remembered the Lancer touching her hand as she lay on the cot, losing her mind worrying about Lhyn and the one fatality she knew of at that point.
Lancer Tal, damn her, saw everything. Even as Ekatya was thinking it, the woman spoke.
“Micah, please escort Lieutenant Candini and Lhyn Rivers to the main cabin. I wish to speak with Captain Serrado alone.”
“Oh, no,” Lhyn said as Colonel Micah rose from his chair. “You’re not going to talk about this without me here. You can’t. Ekatya, please!”
“She can stay,” Ekatya said. Her voice sounded thick to her ears.
“Very well.” Lancer Tal’s gaze never wavered as chairs moved and bodies followed each other into the hall. When the door slid shut, she stayed silent, waiting.
Even that was fuel to Ekatya’s ire. Was nothing in her mind private?
“What did you do to me in that field?” she said through gritted teeth. “I felt it. You changed something in my head.”
Whatever Lancer Tal had been expecting, it wasn’t that. For half a second she looked shocked before she could mask it. “I changed nothing. That’s not—Captain, I assure you that you haven’t been forced in any way.”
Ekatya shook her head. “I felt different after you touched me. Don’t tell me that was a coincidence.”
“No, it wasn’t, but I would never do what you’re thinking. Forced empathic control is a violation of our highest law, unless there’s consent or a warrant. Am I to understand that none of you can sense emotion?”
Lhyn, who had been watching with wide eyes, answered for her. “Not any Gaian race yet discovered. You’re the first.”
“Incredible,” the Lancer murmured. “An entire galaxy of sonsales.”
The word didn’t translate, and Lhyn looked confused. “What does sonsales mean?”
“It means a person who is blind, but not in the visual sense. Blind to emotions. Among my people it’s considered a terrible burden, very limiting. Even the most ungifted Alseans can still sense their blood kin, but sonsales can sense nothing.”
“Then yes, we’re all sonsales,” Lhyn said. “But we’ve never considered it a burden because we never knew any other way.”
“And we appreciate having privacy inside our heads.” Ekatya was not letting the Lancer off that easily. “I’m still waiting for an explanation.”
Judging by her expression, Lancer Tal wasn’t used to giving them. “If you felt your privacy was violated, I apologize. That was not my intent. I was…” She paused, for once seeming less than sure of herself. “Sharing my own emotions. To help you. It wasn’t meant as an intrusion.”
Sharing her emotions? What did that mean?
But Lancer Tal was looking at her as if she’d said more than was necessary, and Ekatya went over the memory again. Yes, she’d felt different. She’d been worrying herself into a black hole and then—
She blinked in sudden understanding and saw the
Lancer’s immediate relief. Apparently, her emotions were like big blazing lights to this woman.
“You calmed me down,” she said. “I was thinking you were the leader of an entire world and you were taking the time to hold my hand so I wouldn’t crack. I was sure you understood me, even though we couldn’t communicate.” Because she had understood. Great galaxies, this was going to take some getting used to.
Lancer Tal nodded. “Yes. That was my intent.”
And she had done that for someone she didn’t know? An alien she didn’t know? Ekatya was beginning to think that Alsean culture was like no other she had yet encountered. Empathic abilities must change the game considerably.
“Then I thank you for your kindness,” she said. “And I regret my accusation. It was based on ignorance, but that’s not a very good excuse.”
“I hope it is, because I claim it for myself as well. We all knew you couldn’t front, but it never occurred to me that you also had no experience with sharing emotion. Alseans experience that from infancy. Please understand, we have very strict laws governing emotional privacy. I would never invade yours without your consent. When I offered my hand, and you took it, I read that as consent. Any Alsean would.”
Lhyn blew out a breath. “Wow. Just…wow. Not only are you empathic, but you can project your emotions as well? And you learn this from infancy? To Hades with the AC meeting, I’m going to get a book out of this! What does it mean to front?”
Normally Ekatya enjoyed Lhyn’s enthusiasm for her research, but the anger she had only just managed to bank was still too close to the surface, and her lover had chosen the wrong moment to intrude.
“Do you know why she felt the need to calm me down?” she asked sharply. “Because I was lying there worrying myself sick about you. Because you were supposed to be safe in an escape pod, getting picked up by your own ship. Not on mine, getting your brains splattered across the nearest bulkhead.”
Lhyn at least had the grace to look abashed. “I know. You have the right to be angry, and I’m sorry I worried you, but—“
Holding up a hand, Ekatya said, “Don’t end an apology with ‘but.’ After that word it’s no longer an apology.”
“Can we talk about this somewhere else?” Lhyn asked in a lower tone, indicating the Lancer with a slight head movement.
“What’s the point? She knows everything we’re feeling anyway.”
It was strange how having her emotions practically printed on her forehead changed her attitude. Normally she’d rather do a hull walk without a space suit than let a stranger see into her private life. But knowing that Lancer Tal felt everything…why bother hiding what had already been seen?
Lancer Tal spoke into the charged silence. “Perhaps we should move to the window seats. They’re more comfortable, and you might enjoy seeing the view you missed on your way down.”
It was a blatant redirection, but Ekatya took it nonetheless. She began to push back her chair, pausing when Lhyn nearly leaped out of her own to help. Soon they were settled in the cushy window seats, and she had to admit it was a definite improvement. They were traveling over what appeared to be an endless expanse of cultivated fields, interspersed with threaded corridors of wild areas. Lhyn had said that the Alseans had a fascinating blend of agrarian and high-tech culture, and she could certainly see it now.
What a horror to imagine this bucolic landscape churned up by ground pounders, its people enslaved. What would slavery do to an empathic species?
She looked at the Lancer, sitting across from them with the translator at her side, and asked, “You shared your emotions with me twice, didn’t you?”
“Twice?” Lhyn perked up. “When was the second time?”
“Five minutes ago.” Ekatya held her hands palm outward to illustrate and only then made the connection. “This isn’t just consent, is it? It requires physical touch.”
“Not necessarily. A high empath can share emotions without touch, but it’s extraordinarily difficult, and there are limitations to what can be shared. A physical connection acts as a conduit.”
“You’re a high empath,” Ekatya guessed.
“Yes, I am. It’s something of a prerequisite for the title.” A small smile broke her serious demeanor as she added, “I cannot imagine navigating the tangled webs of self-interest and deceit in our Council Chamber without it.”
“There have certainly been times when I wished for something like that. Though my fantasies usually leaned toward telepathy.”
The Lancer chuckled. “There are no telepaths on Alsea, nor would I wish for that myself. Where would the challenge be in interpreting emotion if you could simply reach in and see where it came from?”
“You have to interpret?” Lhyn wanted to know. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Lancer Tal’s gaze grew intent, and Ekatya thought with some satisfaction that it was about time somebody else was on the other end of that look.
“You bear a heavy guilt, Lhyn Rivers. But why? Is it because you know you caused Captain Serrado emotional harm by not evacuating? Or because someone under your command, someone you were responsible for, sold us to the Voloth? Or is it for some reason I’m not aware of? I can feel your emotion, but that doesn’t mean I know the cause.”
Lhyn looked down at her lap. “Emotional harm?” she repeated, and turned to Ekatya. “It sounds so much more damaging when she puts it that way.”
“I spent the night in Tartarus,” Ekatya said bluntly. “The only good thing about it was that when I finally broke down, none of my staff were there to see it.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the Lancer nod, as if she had just confirmed a theory. But her attention was held by Lhyn, who was looking at her with a new awareness.
“I apologize,” Lhyn said. “I disobeyed your order and probably interfered with your focus in a battle situation. It was a split-second decision, I did it on instinct, and my instinct was to stay with you. I didn’t think beyond that.”
No excuses this time, no buts. Just an acknowledgment, and it wasn’t until now that Ekatya realized how much she’d needed it.
“Thank you,” she said. “I accept your apology. And for the record, while I hope to never go through another night like that one, I’m extremely glad you’re here now.”
As they smiled at each other, it occurred to her that she didn’t need empathic talent to know what Lhyn was feeling. Perhaps that was the true value of a relationship like theirs.
When they faced forward again, Lancer Tal was watching them with clear enjoyment. Ekatya had no idea why, and a moment later she wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all, so quickly did the Alsean turn serious.
“I hope you both understand that if it were in my power, I would be taking you to our healing center for surgery and a long, relaxing recovery. But the information you’ve shared has only proven that we need to learn a great deal more from you. As soon as you’re able, I’d like you to conduct a full debriefing with my High Council. The Voloth will return, and we need to prepare.”
As if there were anything the Alseans could do to prepare for that. The only preparation they could make was to hope the Protectorate forces arrived first; otherwise it would be a slaughter. But Ekatya was not about to say that out loud.
“I understand. We’re prepared to speak to your High Council as soon as your healers can get us into mobile stabilizers.”
That apparently didn’t translate, so she explained the concept of setting the bones and wrapping them to keep them from shifting during the long regeneration process. The Lancer looked surprised, then amused.
“I believe our healers can do better than that,” she said. “And after the night we’ve all had, we could benefit from a few hanticks of rest. There’s no need for a debriefing before this evening. It will take me that long to assemble the High Council anyway.”
“A hantick is slightly less than one and a half stellar hours,” Lhyn explained. “And that does sound rather nice. Though what I’ve really been dreaming about is
a hot shower.”
“Now that, I’m certain we can provide.” Lancer Tal shifted slightly, leaning forward. “What will happen to the person who sold us?”
Lhyn met Ekatya’s eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t answer.
“Ordinarily, I’d be taking him into custody and turning him over to the Protectorate Enforcement Agency,” Ekatya said. “What he did is an offense against the entire Protectorate, not just one planet, so the penalty would have been very high. But in this case…” She hesitated.
“You have no ship.”
“No, that’s not the issue. I have no prisoner.” Ekatya watched Lhyn’s eyes close. “He was spaced.”
“She won’t know what that means,” Lhyn murmured. “There’s no Alsean word for it.”
Of course there wouldn’t be.
“I mean,” Ekatya said, “someone, or more likely a group of people, took him from his quarters where he’d been secured, put him into an airlock, and opened it to space. And somehow none of the security cameras on the ship managed to record it.”
If she expected horror in this compassionate alien, she didn’t see it. Instead there was a barely-hidden glint as Lancer Tal said, “He was executed.”
“Yes. Without trial. Which means that legally, he was murdered. But there’s no evidence and no witnesses, so the captain of Lhyn’s ship can’t do a thing about it.”
“Which means some of my own team are murderers,” Lhyn said.
“You don’t know that. It could have been the crew.”
“So you keep saying. But I don’t think the crew would have been so righteous.”
“And this distresses you,” Lancer Tal said. “Your trust was betrayed not once, but twice.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. The first was shocking enough. Unthinkable, really. The second…” She trailed off.
Ekatya resisted the urge to offer physical comfort, but then remembered who was sitting across from them. The Lancer already knew how she felt about Lhyn; there was nothing to hide.
Lhyn’s astonishment when she openly caressed her hand was strong enough to chase away the shadows in her eyes, and Ekatya smiled, her mission accomplished. “I’m feeling a little envious of the Alseans right now,” she said, intertwining their fingers. “Imagine if I could just show you how I feel.”
The Caphenon Page 9
