by Ann Maxwell
Fssa keened softly. It was hard for Rheba to think with the Fssireeme mourning beautifully against her neck. There were no words for his sadness, simply emotion transformed into music. She had not heard anything so sorrowful since Loo, where First People sang of eternal slavery.
Kirtn whistled gently, telling Fssa to be quiet. It was Rheba’s decision. With a tiny wail the Fssireeme obeyed. She looked at Kirtn, wanting to ask his advice; but it was like looking at the face of a stranger. She saw as though for the first time his inhuman beauty, a perfection attained only by Bre’ns, strength and invulnerability. There was no help there, only a mentor waiting to see how well his protégé had learned. She looked toward Daemen, slim and vulnerable, needing her as her mentor did not.
And she could not decide.
Her akhenet lines surged raggedly. She closed her eyes and spoke a dancer litany in her mind. The currents of energy flickering through her steadied, then faded into normal modes, invisible beneath her skin. She looked at Rainbow, caught in a cargo net, swinging beneath Daemen’s fingers. What had made her think she was choosing between two men? The only choice was whether Rainbow was machine or bizarre sentience, dead or living. That had nothing to do with Kirtn or Daemen.
The ship chimed once and said, “Downside connections are in place. The downside com channel is hot.”
Rheba turned back to the hologram. The group outside had gathered around a slender, slanting pole. She assumed it was a communication device, and that it was now connected to the ship. Otherwise the Devalon would have referred to the com channel as cold, not hot. She hesitated, then faced Daemen and held out her hand. “I’m not sure Rainbow is mine to give away. Until I’m sure . . .”
With a wry, understanding smile, Daemen gave the cargo net and its enigmatic burden to Rheba. “I’m still The Daemen. Empty hands or not, I’m home. Thank you.”
His words only made Rheba feel worse. She looked at the desolate spaceport and the grubby, painfully thin people waiting there, their jewels incongruous against their awful clothes.
“I don’t know much about machines,” she said suddenly, “but I’m from a culture your people have never heard of. If they’re historians, that will be worth something to them, won’t it? I’ll go with you.”
Daemen’s delight was as obvious as Kirtn’s displeasure. The young man grabbed her in a hug that was not brotherly. “I’d like that!”
“How long are you staying?” asked the Bre’n, his face a mask that should have warned her.
But she was too distracted by Daemen’s hug to notice Kirtn. “We can’t stay too long. The ship’s overtaxed as it is with all the people aboard. A day, maybe two?” she asked, searching Daemen’s gray eyes. “Will that be enough?”
Kirtn looked at Daemen’s face and wondered how he had ever thought of him as anything but a man—a man who was as aroused by Rheba as the Bre’n was himself. Daemen might be as smooth and slender as a Senyas child, but any resemblance ended there. Unfortunately, that was more than enough to engage the akhenet protective instinct.
The drive to have and nurture children had been artificially enhanced in both Bre’n and Senyas akhenets until it was an obsession. It had been a necessary, if drastic, solution to the problem of producing more akhenets. Only very rarely did a Bre’n-Senyas couple produce offspring, yet the pairing of most Bre’n-Senyas akhenets was so complete, so exclusive, that the birth rate had fallen off to almost nothing. The artificial, obsessive focus on children was all that had saved the akhenet gifts in both races from extinction.
As Kirtn watched Rheba in Daemen’s arms, he sourly concluded that akhenet exclusivity would not have been a problem with him and his fire dancer. Unless he was the one excluded. His eyes narrowed and anger uncurled along the same channels he used to reinforce Rheba’s akhenet talents.
He felt the heat, knew the danger, and invoked Bre’n discipline to keep himself from sliding closer to the deadly berserker state known as rez. The transition of Senyas akhenet from child to adult was the most difficult—and dangerous—of times for a Bre’n-Senyas pair. The Senyas could not help sending out conflicting sexual signals; and every Bre’n was more passionate than patient. It was not uncommon for akhenet pairs to die, killed by a jealous Bre’n in rez. Such tragedies were a theme in many Bre’n poems and resonated in Bre’n songs.
But Rheba did not know those songs, for Deva had died before she could learn. Nor could Kirtn tell her, not now. It was her choice, Dancer’s Choice. She must make it without coercion from him.
Grimly, he instructed the ship to activate the downside com channel. His amplified voice cut across the mutters of the group outside. Although Fssa could have acted as translator, Kirtn preferred to act as though he had no access to the native language.
“Hello, downsiders,” he said in Universal. “We’ve got a present for you. Do we have your permission to leave ship?”
There was an excited outburst of sound, then the group subsided. A man stepped forward. His clothes were dreadful but he wore more jewels than anyone else. As he bent over the com pole, his necklace turned and flashed in the sun.
“Greetings,” said the man. “I’m Seur Tric, and you are most welcome on our planet. Are you traders?”
The eagerness in Tric’s voice made Kirtn smile thinly. “We’re not traders, but we have something for you.”
Tric’s puzzlement showed clearly on the hologram. “A gift? That’s not necessary. We have no port fees. We’re scholars, not profiteers. Everyone is welcome here.”
Kirtn stared at the hologram and wondered if Tric was as innocent as he sounded. Somehow, he doubted it. Power and innocence did not go together. “I’m glad everyone is welcome,” said Kirtn dryly. He leaned over, grabbed Daemen, and put him in front of the ship’s pickup. At a whistled command, the ship took Daemen’s image and projected it outside. The result was lifelike—and startling. “Recognize him?”
Only Tric stood his ground without flinching. He squinted, peering myopically at the hologram of Daemen. “Jycc? Is it you?”
“Not Jycc. Not anymore. I’m The Daemen now.”
A sound rose from the group. As one they stared at the image of the boy who was Jycc no longer. Tric raised trembling hands toward the hologram, then bowed his head. His breath came in a deep sob.
“Oh my Seurs,” he said, hiding his face, “The Luck is with us again.”
Kirtn looked between the group outside the ship and The Daemen within. The Bre’n would have felt a lot better if he knew whether the emotion shaking the Seurs was pleasure—or fear.
IX
Rheba pulled heavy clothes out of a concealed cupboard. She began to dress for the cold outside. Kirtn read the downside statistics on the computer outputs and reached for his own clothes cupboard. Even for a Bre’n, it was a bit chilly on Daemen. Rheba looked out from the hooded green wraparound she had chosen and saw that Kirtn also was dressed for downside weather.
“You don’t have to go,” she said.
“I’m going whether you like it or not.”
She flinched as though he had slapped her. She had never heard such coldness in his voice before. She started to ask what was wrong, then decided not to. She knew better than to interrogate an angry Bre’n.
“Fssa.” Kirtn’s tone was such that even Daemen turned to stare. The Fssireeme quickly showed his head, sensors wheeling with color. “Tell M/dere to guard the ship. No one is to board or leave without my direct permission.”
Rapid, guttural sounds issued from the snake. M/dere looked from Kirtn to Rheba, but did not protest receiving orders from the Bre’n—particularly when the orders were eminently sensible tactics. She grunted assent and went to stand where the downside portal would open in the wall of the ship.
“Tell Rainbow to make himself into a necklace,” said Kirtn, his tone still abrupt. “And be quick about it, Fssireeme.”
Fssa assumed a bizarre shape. Rheba closed her mouth into a thin line, anticipating pain. She did not protest. Even though
he was angry, she knew her Bre’n would not let her be hurt unless it was necessary.
The pain was very quick, gone almost before she had time to flinch. Fssa whistled soft apologies. She stroked his body reassuringly. With a last trill he disappeared into her long gold hair.
Kirtn reached into the cargo mesh and pulled out Rainbow. Instead of its usual sunburst shape, it had shifted to become a long necklace of stones held together by force fields only it understood. Kirtn examined the necklace, tugged gently, then with more force. The necklace remained intact. He slipped it over his head. If a gaudy string of jewels constituted status on this planet, he would go suitably attired.
“Snake.” His voice was curt.
Fssa’s head poked out of Rheba’s hair over her ear. His sensors were iridescent as he sought out the Bre’n. “Yes?”
“Translate, but don’t let anyone except me hear you unless I tell you otherwise.”
He used the precise Senyas speech. There could be no way for the Fssireeme to misunderstand: It was Kirtn, not Rheba, who would give orders for this expedition.
Rheba glanced quickly at her mentor but did not object. Not yet. He had done nothing unreasonable. She did not know why he distrusted Daemen and his people, but she did know that her Bre’n was balanced on the thin edge of rage. She would do nothing to push him over and everything she could to draw him back.
“Open,” snapped Kirtn.
His flat command did not need to be repeated. The ship opened promptly, allowing the thin, cold air of Daemen to sweep through the control room. Kirtn went first, an impressive figure of strength moving easily down the steep ramp, jewels winking in the attenuated sunlight. Behind him came Rheba, her akhenet lines pulsing uneasily, lighting her face until it echoed the metallic gold of Kirtn’s eyes. Last came Daemen, no taller than Rheba, both of them diminished by Kirtn’s bulk.
Daemen’s gray eyes lit with delight as he saw Seur Tric waiting at the bottom of the ramp. Daemen ran past Rheba and Kirtn and threw his arms around the older man.
The variety in appearance among Seurs was astonishing. One was quite tall, another had fur as long as Rheba’s hair, a third had tricolored strips running diagonally across his body. Seur Tric, by comparison, was modestly endowed. His skin was pink and he had tufts of hair at cheek, chin and first knuckles.
“Uncle Tric,” laughed Daemen, stepping back to look at his mother’s younger brother. If she had died without bearing children, Tric would have been The Luck. But she had had many children, one of whom had survived to become The Daemen. “You’re so thin! And your clothes! Who dropped a shoe in the synthesizer this time?”
Tric’s face struggled between emotions that Kirtn could not name. Obviously Tric was happy to see the boy he had once known as Jycc. It was also obvious that being in the presence of The Daemen was not a happy thing. It could simply have been that Daemen’s presence meant that Tric’s sister was dead . . . or it could have meant something less comforting, something that echoed the fear in Satin’s voice when she had said, Space him!
Kirtn looked away from the uneasy welcome. The other members of the group were murmuring among themselves and staring at Rainbow hanging across Kirtn’s muscular chest. He had worn his cape open, the better to display the multicolored crystals.
The long-furred man leaned closer, staring at a peculiarly carved crystal. His hand moved as though to grab the necklace but stopped well short of actually touching Rainbow or the Bre’n.
Tric turned away from his nephew. “Are you the ones responsible for bringing The Luck back to Daemen?” asked the Seur in accented but understandable Universal.
Kirtn was not sure he liked the way the question was phrased, but answered anyway. “Daemen was a slave on Loo. So were we. There was a rebellion.” His torso moved in a Bre’n shrug. “The Loo-chim died. We didn’t. My dancer”—he indicated Rheba—“promised all slaves a ride home. Her promise is kept.”
Before Kirtn could turn and stride back up the Devalon’s ramp, the group of Seurs fragmented into a babble of sound. Fssa’s artful translations could not be kept secret if Kirtn made the Fssireeme shout up the ramp to him.
With obvious reluctance, the Bre’n turned and faced the Seurs again. When he saw that Rheba was still at the bottom of the ramp, her hand on Daemen’s arm, the Bre’n gestured curtly for her to return to the ship.
“There’s no purpose in being rude,” whistled Rheba softly, resonances of confusion and regret woven through the complex Bre’n words. “If nothing else, we need clothes for the slaves.”
“The ship will manufacture clothes,” he answered in curt Senyas.
“Only if we let it renew itself from downside converters,” answered Rheba in Senyas. “It ate a lot of power getting here so quickly.” She did not add that it had been Kirtn’s idea to tear across the galaxy. Had she been the pilot, there would have been a slower, more energy-sane passage.
She saw rage like a darker shade of gold pooling in his eyes. Instinctively she ran up the ramp, touched him, telling him of her concern—and drawing energy out of him with a skill that shocked Kirtn. It was not a cure for his turmoil. It was simply a temporary means of keeping him from sliding any closer to rez.
He should have thanked her. He should have hugged her and held her, reassuring her. He had always done so in the past when the complexities of his Bre’n nature frightened her.
But it was not the past. She was older now, a woman in everything but understanding of her Bre’n . . . and Daemen stood at the bottom of the ramp, slender and beguiling, making Kirtn feel as clumsy as a stone. He did not blame Rheba for being more attracted to Daemen’s smooth-skinned grace than she was to her mentor’s uncompromising strength. He did not blame her—but he did not like it, either.
He looked at her eyes. It was like looking into fire, searing him with possibilities. He looked at Daemen. And then he looked at neither of them.
“You must come to the installation,” said Seur Tric, climbing partway up the ramp. It was not so much an invitation as a command.
“Yes,” said Daemen enthusiastically, following Rheba’s steps back up the ramp. He took her hand and smiled. “Please. I want to show you my world.”
Even Kirtn felt the enchantment of Daemen’s smile. And then the Bre’n felt cold. He wanted to grab Rheba, run inside and throw the Devalon into space. Yet it was her choice, always. Dancer’s Choice.
Rheba looked up at Kirtn, silently asking if it would be all right to stay on the planet, but it was like looking at a stranger, a face made out of wood and hammered gold. Sudden anger flickered in her, echoed by akhenet lines. Anger, and something close to fear. It was cold on the ramp, and lonely. She turned back to Daemen, to the warmth promised in his smile. Without a word she let him lead her onto the spaceport’s cracked and pitted surface.
Kirtn did not move.
In spite of herself, Rheba listened for his footsteps. She told herself that she was so angry she did not care whether he came or went back to the ship. But she felt worse with every step. She did not know what was wrong with her Bre’n; Fssa’s melancholy mewing in her ear did nothing to make her feel better.
Just as she was about to turn around and run back to Kirtn, she heard the snap of his cape in the wind. He was following, but very silently, more like a predator than a friend.
She shivered and regretted the impulse that had led her down the ramp. Discreetly, she slowed her walk until Kirtn had to come alongside her or step on her heels. As he moved to go around her she put her hand on his arm. So great was her emotion that the touch joined them in minor mind dance. For a devastating instant she knew his consuming anger/hurt/fear—and he knew hers.
Kirtn jerked away, afraid that she would discover the jealousy that was driving him. But he could not bear the flash of her pain at his rejection. He called what shreds of discipline remained to him and stroked her seething hair, hoping that nothing more than a Bre’n's deep love for a Senyas dancer would be transmitted to her.
Relief and pleasure surged through her, setting fire to her hair and akhenet lines.
Daemen flinched as a strand of Rheba’s hair crossed his face like molten wire. His startled cry told her what she had accidentally done. Across his pale cheek was a thin scarlet line.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice contrite, her eyes warm with concern and the fire that coursed through her. “I didn’t realize . . . I’m not used to being around people who burn easily.”
It was to Daemen’s credit that he did not draw back when she lifted her hand to trace beneath the scorch mark on his cheek. He turned his head until his lips brushed her palm. “That’s all right,” he said, his eyes dancing with light and laughter. “I’ll just have to learn when to duck,”
Rheba giggled and touched Daemen’s lips with hair that no longer burned but sent sweet currents of energy surging through him. “I only burn when I’m not paying attention. Is that better?”
Daemen’s smile was as incandescent as her eyes.
Kirtn grimly hoped that she would forget herself and burn the young charmer to ash and gone—but he was careful not to touch her as he thought it. Then he saw Seur Tric looking speculatively from Rheba. to Daemen. The Daemenite frowned and looked away.
Yet Kirtn was sure that he had seen fear naked on the older man’s face in the instant before his wan face turned toward the buildings that ringed the spaceport. Why would the thought of The Daemen paired with Rheba bring fear to Tric? Or was it simple xenophobia that moved the Seur?
As he passed the sagging fence that divided spaceport from city, Kirtn whistled softly to himself. The transceiver that doubled as a cape fastener carried his whistle back to the Devalon. “Any interference, Ilfn?”
“None,” whispered his fastener in soft Senyas.
“Are the passengers restless?”
“Yes, but not to the point that they’ll take on J/taal mercenaries. Besides, no one wants to chance being enslaved on another grubby planet.”
