“Yeah, well, I think that’s Serafino’s doing. Probably his idea of a joke.”
Eden grinned wryly. “Captain Serafino certainly has an interesting sense of humor.”
“Around the admiral, that could be fatal,” Tasha warned. “You’d better get the message to him to behave himself, or that implant will be the least of his troubles.”
Behave? Eden had no idea how she could get Captain Serafino to behave. His inner self didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of it, if their recent encounter was any proof.
“I don’t think Kel-Paten appreciates being called the Tin Soldier,” Tasha was saying, referring to Serafino’s brief but notable comments when he was first transported to sick bay.
“I’m sure Serafino knows that. I’m equally sure that’s why he uses the term. Whatever’s happening in the Alliance is why he’s here. But as long as Kel-Paten is too, he’s going to use every chance to insult him. Because of Bianca.”
Tasha studied her thoughtfully. “I thought ’cybes couldn’t experience emotions. I mean, I’ve seen Kel-Paten act as if he’s angry. But our research on him during the war tagged it as a response-simulation program.”
“I don’t think it’s a simulation,” Eden said carefully.
“It has to be. He’s a ’cybe.”
“I’m an empath,” Eden countered. “And he’s not just a ’cybe. There’s still a lot of human biology there.”
“You’re telling me you sensed genuine anger from him?”
“We need to talk about that.” She glanced over her shoulder. The two officers were intent on the vidclips of fumbled plays flashing on the screen. She turned back. “He called me into his office to put pressure on me to release Serafino’s crew for interrogations. But he also made this cryptic remark about what you might know about Serafino. Personally.”
Tasha’s mouth tightened. “I should never have mentioned Sookie’s.”
“He didn’t mention it either. But he was fishing. I read distrust, very strongly.”
“Distrust isn’t technically an emotion—”
“I’ve sensed others from him that appear to be, but then, I’ll admit, I’m looking now. Trying to read him because…” Eden closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t know how to explain this, but there’s an emotional resonance that shouldn’t be there.”
“Are you sure? The U-Cees built their strategies around the fact that between the cybernetics and PsyServ’s emo-inhibitor programs, Kel-Paten is one six-foot-three deadly emotionless son of a bitch. That was the whole point. No emotions to sway decision-making. Only cold, hard clinical facts.”
“You’ve seen him lose his temper,” Eden countered.
“And I’ve heard your medical diag comps use a compassionate tone of voice when interviewing patients and a firmer tone if a patient starts to babble too much. I even know of bar ’droids in the high-priced Glitterkiln casinos that laugh when customers tell jokes. Those are response simulations. Mimicry, not feelings.”
“I know.”
Tasha looked quizzically at her. “What are you telling me? Does Kel-Paten need a tune-up, or do we have a Section Forty-Six situation?”
Section 46. Eden had read the regulation so many times the key phrase stuck in her mind: behavior, attitude, and/or reactions clearly in contradiction to the accepted norm. And while emotions were fully acceptable in humans, in biocybes they were not.
“I don’t have access to his full medical profile,” Eden told her. “All I know is what I sense as an empath. A telepath could tell more.”
“You mean Serafino? But you said his telepathy doesn’t work as long as that thing’s in his head.”
“Not consciously. But subconsciously he’s very aware. And he is Nasyry. If we put them together…he might later be able to tell me what’s going on.”
“Let me get this straight.” Tasha spread her hands on the tabletop. “You want me to put together two longtime enemies: a lethal ’cybe who just might have a screw loose and a rogue Nasyry telepath who has the ability to pick up and use that very flaw to torment him.”
“I can try to delay Serafino’s interrogation until I have a little more time to check for any changes in Kel-Paten’s emo-programming. If the Triad will even let me access that data.”
“Try to delay it until we can double the size of your medical staff. And my security staff. And while we’re at it, increase the size of the morgue. Because if either one of them loses control,” Tasha added, pushing herself to her feet, “we’re going to need them all.”
ADMIRAL’S OFFICE
The three-way vidconference on the Serafino situation was going as well as could be expected—given Admiral Roderick Kel-Tyra’s penchant for perfection. Had it been only Captain Ralland Kel-Tyra, framed by his habitually disheveled office on the deep-space link, Kel-Paten would have freely expressed his frustration over Serafino’s appearance and his annoyance over his U-Cee-issue CMO’s protectiveness toward the bastard. But the fact that Tasha had, while working for UCID, known that same bastard was something he’d not tell even Ralland. He was still digging into her past. It probably was just a chance meeting and best left unsaid, for now.
But it was imperative that Kel-Paten not let any hint of things being less than perfect in the Serafino matter come to Roderick’s attention. He was Kel-Paten, and it was his job to do the impossible.
So he relayed his report, considered hypotheses, outlined strategies—and kept tabs on Tasha while he did so.
She was in engineering, he noted, logging in and out of his ’cybe links while listening to Roderick’s laundry list of information the Tri—that is, the Alliance—wanted out of Serafino before the Vax made Panperra Station. A few minutes later, he picked up Tasha in Deck 10’s main corridor. Waiting for…? He quickly checked nearby comm-link signatures. Ah. Eden Fynn. That could mean nothing or it could mean trouble. He hoped like hell they were talking about Serafino, about their furzels, about anything but him.
“Within thirty-six hours.” He answered Roderick’s question about his upcoming interrogation of TeKrain Namar. He outlined what he thought the Tsariian might be able to divulge and agreed that—sadly—there were insufficient grounds to hold either crewmember. He confirmed they’d be released to Panperra Medical and noted that Tasha and Fynn were now in the wardroom, Deck 8 Forward. Fynn was probably telling her about his less-than-perfect attempt to gain the CMO’s cooperation in his office earlier. Divide and conquer didn’t work this time. It reminded him how little he understood about the dynamics of human friendship, especially between women.
Ralland’s comment drew him back to the vidconference, and by the time he responded to and settled that, Tasha was moving again. Heading for the bridge. Alone.
Good. He needed to see her. He wrapped up the meeting without further problems, logged off with Roderick, and was nodding good-bye when Ralland’s raised hand stopped his move to disconnect the link.
“Something else, Captain?” he asked.
Ralland relaxed back into his chair. “Made any progress with her yet?”
The subject of Ralland’s question didn’t need identification. Ralland Kel-Tyra was one of the few people Kel-Paten considered a friend. And the only one who knew what Tasha meant to him. Kel-Paten checked to make sure the connection with the elder Kel-Tyra was indeed severed. Then he exhaled, noisily, to let Ralland know this was not something he wanted to discuss.
But knowing Ralland—and he knew him very well—that didn’t make any difference.
“No,” he said finally, and when the quirking of the younger man’s eyebrow let him know that his answer did not suffice, he sighed. “These things take time.” I’m not full human. I don’t have your expertise with women, he could have added but didn’t. Ralland had heard those arguments many times. And just as many times he’d heard Ralland’s advice—advice he fully expected would be repeated now.
It wasn’t.
“You might not have much more time,” Ralland said instead. “Now that Ta
sha has the captaincy, the old man’s talking of having you run First from Prime.”
Kel-Paten’s gut tensed as Ralland’s words unfolded in stark images in his mind. He’d be on Prime. Tasha would be on the Vax. They’d be separated. “He can’t do that.”
But even as he said it, he knew the old man could.
“It’s your own fault, Branden,” Ralland replied easily. “You’ve done a good job of convincing the High Command she can handle a Triad huntership without a hitch.”
She could, but that wasn’t the point. “Roderick knows damned well I’m not interested in flying a desk,” Kel-Paten countered, anger mounting. Anger was preferable to fear. It was the only emotion that came easily to him, because PsyServ didn’t bother with any serious inhibitors there. They wanted him angry and they wanted people afraid of his anger. “And what about APIP? It’s supposed to reflect a joint Triad–U-Cee command staff.”
“Which the Vax has with her as captain,” Ralland said.
“The Vaxxar is my flagship!” And Tasha was his dream for so many years. He couldn’t lose this chance with her. Not now.
Ralland held up both hands in mock surrender. “I’m only telling you what I heard. The U-Cees are considering putting one of our people in command. The old man feels we need to make a gesture in kind.”
Kel-Paten shot Ralland a narrow-eyed look that relayed exactly what kind of gesture he’d like to offer Roderick Kel-Tyra.
“Unless Tasha formally opposes the change,” Ralland said. “As the senior U-Cee officer in the APIP program, she has that authority. It’s outlined in the Alliance Personnel Integration Program manual. Chapter twenty-three, section ten. But I think you might need more than rules and regs here.” He paused. “It’s not Tygaris, but Panperra does have a few nice quiet pubs. I’ve told you before: sit her down, buy her a few drinks, talk to her. And not about military theory.”
Kel-Paten sat for a few minutes, gloved hands steepled before his mouth, after he signed off.
He was going to lose Tasha. After years of having to be satisfied with glimpses of her as they played furzel-and-mizzet during the war, he finally had her on board his ship and in his life. And now in an absurd twist of fate, he was going to be sent away from her. Unless he could convince her that she needed him—wanted him—on board.
How in hell was he going to do that before the old man made his move? He was trying; Ralland knew he was trying; the godsdamned gods knew he was trying to make Tasha see him as something—someone—other than a biocybe construct. But he wasn’t even to the point where he felt she considered him a friend.
So many things had gone wrong, including an empathic CMO who could read his emotions like a free-running download and who could file a Section 46. Or maybe Tasha would file if he didn’t take the time to convince her that underneath the hard cybershell that was Admiral Kel-Paten, there was a man named Branden who was still very much human. Or part human. And who had the same emotions, fears, desires, and joys as any other human male on board this ship.
Ralland was right. He had to stop trying and start doing. He powered down, shunting PsyServ’s supposedly unmovable emo-filters to the back of his mind. He pushed himself out of his chair with a determination he usually reserved for attacking the enemy and headed for the bridge.
He found her at the bridge’s apex, her attention on the starfield flowing by the large forward viewport as the Vaxxar traveled at sublight speed toward the nearest Fleet base on Panperra Station. Mouth dry but mind—and heart—refocused, Kel-Paten stepped up beside her. Best to start with something innocuous, something she’d expect him to say.
“What’s the latest on Serafino?”
Her face was in profile to him. “Doctors Fynn and Monterro still have tests to perform. It sounds like his condition is still uncertain.”
He angled slightly to his right. He needed to see her eyes to read the nuances between her words and thoughts. True, he was trained—he liked that word better than programmed—to correctly interpret over one hundred forty human facial expressions and another sixty-seven nonhuman ones. But these classifications were often useless when it came to Tasha Sebastian, and he couldn’t risk any margin of error now.
“They don’t want him to relapse,” she added, tilting her face just slightly as if she was aware of his new, more intense scrutiny.
He looked past her. Casually, he hoped. Bridge officers were bent over their screens or moving with crisp efficiency between stations. Any one of them would know how to turn this conversation into a friendly one. He only prayed he didn’t fumble it too badly. “I assure you, Sebastian, I have a great respect for Doctor Fynn’s assessment. However, her focus is different from ours.” He liked that as soon as he said it. It aligned Tasha with him under the heading of command, breaking her usual allegiance with the CMO.
“As I understand it, we’ll have nothing to focus on if Serafino is comatose again. Or dead.”
Maybe this was not the topic he should have chosen. Her tone—and her shoulders—were stiff. His attempt at creating a mutual allegiance had failed. He could almost hear Ralland’s voice in his mind: Loosen up! He glanced down at her again, grasping for some Ralland-like quip. “You have my permission to shoot me should I misbehave during the interrogation.”
Her eyes widened—just slightly. The corners of her mouth quirked upward—just a bit. “But we’re headed for Panperra. That would leave me alone to deal with Adjutant Kel-Farquin. Cruel and unusual punishment, Admiral.”
It was working. He turned the discussion from a professional one to something that bordered on friendly. But he’d been at this juncture many times before. And the rejoinders, the quips, that came so easily to her escaped him.
One-point-four-million credits they’d spent perfecting his flawlessly synchronized cybertronic brain interface, and he came up with nothing.
Tasha cocked her head slightly to one side, as if studying him. Perhaps she knew of the amount and just now realized what a tremendous waste of funds it represented.
“We’ll handle Serafino, his crew, and Kel-Farquin without incident,” he said finally, because the silence had dragged on too long. And because the lights dancing in her eyes had dimmed. “Doctor Fynn will permit us to talk to TeKrain tomorrow.”
Disappointment. He read that in her features. But he didn’t know if she was disappointed that they’d handle Serafino together or because she’d lost a chance to shoot him.
“Admiral, sir. Excuse me.” Timmar Kel-Faray was on his right. “Captain Sebastian, I have that report, if you have time.” He held up a datapad.
“Admiral, if there’s nothing else?” Tasha asked.
Yes! He wanted to shout. Yes, there is definitely something else. My entire life lies at your feet. But if he said that, she’d Section 46 him for sure.
“Nothing. Carry on.” He nodded, then forced his attention away from her to the large viewscreen on the far wall.
Her footsteps and Kel-Faray’s moved away from him. He waited until they were almost to the bridge doors before casting his glance their way. Kel-Faray, taller than Tasha, bent his head as they talked animatedly about something. Easily. Naturally.
Why, why, why? The cybernetic enhancements in his body gave him a physical strength three times that of a normal human male. The interfaces and programs in his brain gave him analytical capabilities that matched—and at times exceeded—the computer systems of the best hunterships.
Yet conducting a simple, friendly conversation was beyond his grasp. His face even had trouble smiling.
Why was he so incapable of being human around her? Was he fighting his own fear of rejection…or something else, something he didn’t want to think about?
What if—in spite of all the counterfilters and sub-routing he’d implemented—everything that had once made him human was finally programmed out of him?
EDEN FYNN’S QUARTERS
Eden woke to her usual prealarm alarm: luminous yellow eyes inches from her nose, relaying one message: F
eed Me. It was exactly five minutes before her cabin lights would flicker on at 0600 hours. She yawned, stroked Reilly’s soft head, then swung her feet out of bed. She was opening the furzel’s favorite Seafood Platter Supreme when she realized that she’d slept through the night with no contact with Jace.
That information warranted a mental damn! There was so much she still needed to know about him, not the least of which was his physiology. The Vaxxar’s med-files contained little information on the Nasyry. And here it was, 0610 hours, and she had no answers.
It was one more thing she’d have to ask Tasha to look for. If anyone had information on the Nasyry, the Tin Soldier did.
The treadmill alcove of the ship’s gym was empty, as it usually was at this hour, the simdeck jogging path the preferable routine for most of the officers and crew. Eden arrived to find Tasha already at the barre, stretching.
“What’s our ETA at Panperra?” Eden asked, grabbing the barre and arching her back.
“Day after tomorrow, about twenty-thirty hours,” Tasha answered.
“I suppose any R and R is out of the question.” Panperra had a few good pubs that Eden wouldn’t mind spending time in.
“With Kel-Paten, I think that’s a given. At least for me. Plus I’ll have to meet with Homer Kel-Farquin.”
“Hazards of the occupation,” Eden quipped, knowing Kel-Farquin’s reputation as a pompous bore. “Maybe you can convince Kel-Paten that you need a couple of good rounds of iced gin after. Tell him it’s your doctor’s orders.”
“I doubt he’ll let me catch up with you, Cal, and Cisco if any shore leave is approved at all.”
“Bring him with you,” Eden told her.
Tasha shot her an incredulous look. “Surely you jest.”
“I jest not. Bring him with you.”
“Don’t you think I see enough of him as it is? Or are you looking to file me for a Section Forty-Six?”
“Hardly.” Eden grinned. “I have a couple of new theories on our Tin Soldier.”
“Like getting him drunk to see if human emotions surface?”
Games of Command Page 8
