Damia's Children

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Since it’s my last night aboard, I have to give a farewell speech. I’ll spring the trap then.”

  “When you stand, I’ll snap!” And she brought her teeth together with an audible click, then went off to finish her day report.

  THAT IS WELL DONE, THN, Fok said, appearing at his side from nowhere. TRP WILL WATCH AS WELL.

  * * *

  Several times during what seemed an inordinately long dinner, Thian had to rub his sweaty palms on his trouser legs. He hoped that he gave no other outward sign of tension. At one point, he asked his mother’s opinion but she assured him that he wasn’t laughing too loudly at Kiely’s jokes or looking bored by Eki Wasiq’s long-winded yarns.

  In fact, you look quite handsome and confident.

  Shakes don’t show?

  Only a mother would notice the shakes and tonight I’m playing belle of the ball.

  He grinned absently as someone on his left finished a joke but he knew she’d know it was for her.

  Dinner ended almost too abruptly and it was time for him to spring his trap. He rose, glass in hand, stepping slightly back from the table so that he had a good view of the faces on both sides, politely turned in his direction. Then, while everyone was gathering themselves to stand to join the coast, he said mentally as loud as he could: GOTCHA!

  Down the table—and it was only then that Thian realized the man had never sat close to him—Lieutenant Sedallia doubled up, slamming his face against the table edge, hands to his skull.

  “Oh, do something about the wretched man, Fok,” Damia said and, with the startling speed which ’Dinis could show on occasion, Fok and Tri moved to bracket the lieutenant. Smoothly, they lifted him from his seat and as smoothly, carried him from the wardroom. “I do believe he’s had a seizure,” she said to Commander Exeter, who excused himself immediately and followed.

  Captain Ashiant frowned, looking at her composed expression and then at Thian.

  I never once suspected Sedallia, Mother, Thian said, shaken by the surprise.

  He’s an inhibited Talent from what I could probe. Ugh! I didn’t care to go very deeply. Get the toast over with. Everyone’s waiting and it’s the best wine Afra could get for us on short notice.

  “I guess Lieutenant Sedallia will be sorry to see one go, gentlemen and ladies,” Thian began and saw expressions that suggested Sedallia’s departure had caused the mildest ripple of surprise and no curiosity.

  Thian. You’re as cool as your father! And no, no one thinks anything of it. The man was just taken ill and decorously removed. We can explain to the captain later. His mother’s comment almost rattled him but he went on.

  “For I must leave the Vadim tomorrow.” His announcement provoked murmurs of genuine regret, though some were tinged with envy. “. . . to serve on board the Mrdini vessel, the KLTL.” That produced more reactions and surprise exclamations. “I did, after all, sign on as a civilian . . .” and the reaction to that made him grin, “. . . Prime to assist a search for the Hive home system. My ’Dini colleagues say we have not ended that search . . .”

  “They’re nuts,” Kiely said stoutly, glowering at Thian.

  “A waste of time!” “Your Talents are needed elsewhere, Lyon!” “Stay with us! We need you, too.” “Captain Ashiant . . . I protest . . .”

  When Thian raised his hand for silence, it was politely restored.

  “You all must know by now that my family is deeply involved with our Mrdini allies. I know that those on board the KLTL would suffer considerable hardship and loss if an FT&T Prime does not accompany them. Look at it this way, mates, I finally learned Human naval customs: now I’ve got to learn ’Dini ones!” That brought a sprinkle of chuckles. “I shall miss you. I’ve learned more these last few months than stevedoring and I’m grateful to your patience and your understanding. Good luck and a safe journey back.” Then he raised his glass, surveyed the messroom and knocked back the last of his drink.

  He sat down to raucous cheers and banging of cutlery on glasses and the mess’s good porcelain.

  “Now hear this,” and the captain’s stentorian voice could have been heard from stem to stern with no amplification. “I think I speak for the entire crew, Mister Lyon, when I say that it has been a pleasure to have you on board and it is our right to wish you good luck and a safe, and speedy, journey home, lad!”

  “And so say all of us,” Kiely leaped to his feet, glass in hand and all in the messroom were not a second behind in joining him as Kiely led the traditional three cheers for Thian, a jolly good fellow!

  Your father and I are very proud of you, Thian! his mother said. Your grandfather and grandmother have decided that you are eminently worthy of being in the Clan Gwyn-Raven!

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  A year later

  “XEXO?” Afra called. XEXO? he added with more volume in the mental call. The Tower engineer had enough Talent to hear that. Rojer!

  Afra could now locate both minds in the machine shop where Xexo, in his capacity as chief mechanic, and lately his truant son were most often found. When Afra “felt” Rojer’s mind, it was bristling with such vivid calculations, theories, and excitement that small wonder the boy hadn’t answered his shouts or telepathic query. Rojer’s fascination with and attention to all things mechanical—preferably with moving parts—was absolute. Not a bad area of concentration, but only in the proper place and time.

  “Yeah, watcha want, Dad?” was the muffled but incurious-sounding acknowledgment.

  Rojer’s mental tone held neither apology nor anxiety: more an impatience at being interrupted just then for any reason.

  It seemed undignified to Afra to summarily ’port his son away as he had frequently had to do when the boy was younger. But fifteen-year-olds can be extremely concerned with dignity—even if they are concerned with little else except the project at hand.

  While Afra and Damia approved of the boy’s keenness—Xexo said he was a very good mechanical apprentice—a Prime had to be well rounded and versed in more than just the generators which augmented his mental abilities. Afra muttered to himself and proceeded to the oil-and-grease-redolent chamber that was his wayward son’s heaven. When he reached the doorway, he stood for a moment, surveying the scene.

  Xexo and Rojer were peering at a screen which showed an enlargement of many parts, some obviously twisted out of their original shape, others broken, with assortments of likely missing bits arranged like satellites about them, indicating possible appropriate matches. On the table were scale-accurate plastic facsimiles of all these pieces, arranged almost exactly as the screen display.

  Xexo was a master mechanic, often inspired considering how he managed to keep the elderly generators of the Iota Aurigaen Tower working. He adored machines, contraptions, gadgets, any device far more than he liked Humans. In that he had found a soulmate in Rojer Raven-Lyon—up to the point where said fifteen-year-old skived out of regular duties—and Rojer was definitely delinquent in these right now.

  Furthermore, his ’Dinis, as much satellites of Rojer as the boy was of Xexo, were also engaged in trying to assemble anomalous parts into a whole. Sprawled belly-down on the grease-stained floor, they were clicking and clacking as their clever finger digits patiently pushed bits around the periphery of larger pieces, trying to make a fit.

  “Rojer . . . oh, Rojer,” and Afra added a mental poke.

  “Huh?” His son looked over his shoulder, widened his eyes in semi-horror as he also saw the digital clock on the wall, clapped an oily hand to his mouth, leaving a black four-fingered imprint on an already grease-smeared skin, and broadcast apology, dismay, guilt, and self-reproach all at once. “Gee, Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was getting so late . . . Did anyone else go out hunting?”

  Hunting had been an immediate need and, his parents having dismissed Rojer from the Tower to handle it, they had gone on to other business. Afra tapped his foot and sighed heavily to indicate his displeasure. Lately, since the Joint High Counci
ls had released data on every bit of the salvage so far recovered, as well as schematics, drawings, approximations, deductions concerning the Hive wreck, there wasn’t an engineer anywhere that wasn’t trying his or her hand at putting just a tiny portion of the puzzle together.

  The ’Dini ship, the KLTL, which had continued its search for the Hive homeworld and/or the space debris thereof, had collected more bits and pieces which had been strewn by the injured Hive ship as its nova-driven path hurtled it outward. Afra thought that Thian’s affinity for the odd sting-pzzt of Hive artifacts must be on overdrive, considering how much he had located in the vastness of space. There was no telling how much more would be found but each discovery was carefully documented in the absurd (Afra felt) hope that perhaps enough of the enigmatic Hive engines could be reconstructed to give the Allies some clue as to how their space drive had operated, and what fuel it used.

  In the centuries of their lone battle against the Hivers, the ’Dinis had twice managed to pierce a Hive ship with projectiles and, they thought, punched through to the drive unit. But each time the torpedo had failed to explode and ’Dinis wished to know why. The firing mechanism on their projectiles was designed to explode. The fuel Hivers used would at least give the Allies an idea of how to explode it the next time. The monetary award offered to any one or any group who solved even part of the immense problem was secondary to the prestige such a feat would accrue.

  “You’re lucky tonight,” Afra said severely because Rojer’s mind exhibited his singular concentration. “Zara and Morag went out by themselves.” He noted that Rojer was chagrined by that. “Zara and the ’Dinis picked enough greens to last a week and Morag stumbled across a warren. But you were to have lead the hunt and preferably bring back enough to provide several days’ protein. You know that Zara and Morag are much too young to go far on their own.”

  “But they did it, didn’t they?”

  “That’s not the point, Rojer, and you should know and appreciate the difference by now.”

  Rojer sniffed and hung his head, mentally sorting which excuses might propitiate his parent. “I just didn’t happen to look toward the digital.” That was genuine enough.

  “Not with your nose pushing plastic about,” Afra said, trying to keep his tone severe.

  “It’s my fault as well, Afra,” Xexo said, wiping his hands. “He was helping me with the alternators, and then we both thought we recognized how these pieces,” and Xexo pointed with the fine-tip driver to what was strewn on the table, “might link up. I should have reminded him that he had chores.”

  “Xexo, every one of my children has a well developed and perfectly adequate time sense. You only needed to trigger an alert, Rojer. From now on, if you don’t do so, you will be sequestered. Do you understand that clearly?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rojer’s head was down and he tried to shield his thoughts but Afra wasn’t a T-2, as well as a practiced parent by now, to be diverted. In any event, he was faster at reading than Rojer was at shielding. “I’ll have none of that sass, either, young man.”

  Rojer shot his father a guilty but still slightly impenitent look and sniffed again. Clear blue eyes met yellow and began to glitter: the intent now carefully hidden from Afra’s sight.

  “If Xexo and me did get a piece together, you’d be awful proud of us, wouldn’t you, Dad,” Rojer said, smiling with the charismatic brilliance that this son had inherited in far too generous a measure from his mother and grandfather to suit Afra. Even so, the Raven charm melted his severity.

  “Your mother and I would be immensely proud, of course, but we’d be prouder if you could—at least once a week—remember you are needed for mundane duties.”

  “I do my Tower duty like everyone else.”

  “Few would consider those hours mundanely spent,” Afra said, gesturing for Rojer to clean up his work-space and himself and hurry back to the house.

  “Leave it, Roj,” Xexo said, rubbing greasy fingers along his jaw. “Not the pieces. I want to puzzle this a bit longer. It’ll be here for you tomorrow—if you’re free.” The engineer shot a quick glance at Afra and received a nod.

  “And do remember to feed yourself sometime today, Xexo,” Afra said, although he sent word to Damia at the house to see that some sort of hot meal appeared near enough to Xexo for him to see and eat it.

  “Sure, sure,” Xexo agreed, but he was already brooding over the artifacts.

  DINNER TIME IS NOW, GRL, KTG, Afra added to the ’Dinis who hadn’t looked up from their shoving and shifting.

  HUNGER NOT IMPORTANT. MUST FIT PIECES. GAIN MUCH RESPECT AND ENLARGE THIS PAIR, Gil said but it jumped upright in the sudden way of ’Dinis shifting position. Sometimes Afra thought they must have some latent kinetic Talent to execute such rapid displacements. And there was still the conundrum of how ’Dini dreams could penetrate Human subconsciousness.

  In deference to their ’Dini companions, for Afra’s friend, Tri, was waiting outside, enjoying the fresh air, the Primes walked up the slope to their home. Lights were coming up as dusk was well settled on Iota Aurigae. The ever-present dim noise from the mines and smelting works which were active on an uninterrupted schedule reached their ears, punctuated by occasional loud rattles, like distant avalanches.

  More big daddies to shift tomorrow then, Rojer thought with a resignation which he quickly repressed where his father couldn’t sense it. But involuntarily a sigh escaped his lips.

  It’s good practice for a developing Prime, his father said, permitting a little pride to read in the thought. Linking minds as well as ’porting masses.

  ’Porting all the time is booooooring. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Rojer regretted it.

  And spending hours contemplating bits and pieces is not? Afra gave a good-natured snort.

  Rojer answered that with a sniff. Not the same thing at all, Dad. Link, grip, lift, push! That’s boring. We’re never allowed to hang about and listen to what the other Primes tell you because, and here Rojer allowed his disgust to color his tone, we’re too young!

  The time of being too young is so short, my son.

  The wistful note in his father’s mind surprised Rojer and he glanced at Afra. Suddenly his father smiled and Rojer answered because they both realized that he didn’t have to look so far up any longer. They were nearly of a height.

  Yes, Rojer, the time of being young is very short. There are very few months left when you may indulge your enthusiasms.

  But, Dad, haven’t there been engineering Primes?

  The critical need for FT&T right now is for Talents able to handle the responsibilities of a Tower.

  Or a ship? Like Thian? That prospect did excite Rojer. Dad, couldn’t I at least ship out?

  Because Thian has? Afra smiled without rancor for Rojer adored his older brother and, most of the time, chose to emulate his example. That is not up to either your mother or me.

  Wouldn’t you at least ask Grandfather?

  Afra placed his arm gently across his son’s shoulders: broad enough already and certainly strongly muscled.

  Your grandfather is aware of every facet of your training, abilities, and yes, your wishes. I will not say we have to transcend personal preferences right now . . .

  You just said it anyway, but Rojer grinned at his father. And I know my duty!

  Afra heard the resignation in that and wished that Rojer were as pliant as his older sister and brother, as enthusiastic about the shape of his future as they had been. He also remembered how rebellious he had been at Rojer’s age but, he devoutly hoped, without the same cause. As much as they could within the framework of their contracts with Federal Teleport and Telepath, they tried to prevent their children from feeling trapped by their Talent. They’d sent their children to other planets—Deneb, Earth, Altair, and once even Capella though that was not a successful visit—to broaden their outlooks and perspectives. The service of FT&T was not without its prerogatives which—most of the time—made up for the responsibilities. He mus
t have a few words with Jeff, to be sure that the head of FT&T was fully aware of Rojer’s mechanical aptitude and interest. Or perhaps a word with Gollee Gren—who was head of Placement and Training—might be more fruitful.

  Aromatic odors wafted on the soft evening breeze and both men and ’Dini increased the speed of their strides.

  “I’ll tell you this but once, Rojer,” Afra said sternly as they hurried up the terrace steps to the house, “you hunt next, by yourself, on Thursday, and if you forget, you’ll not only get no supper of any kind, but you’re sequestered!”

  “Yes, Dad,” Rojer agreed meekly because that was fair. Zara hated to hunt—she was really so sensitive an empath that she could not accept the necessity of killing for food. Good thing she had gone with Morag who had no such compunctions and had developed into the best shot in the household. But she shouldn’t have to do all the hunting: that wasn’t fair either. But he had been so sure that he’d find the match the very next minute . . .

  WE ALL GO. WE FIND MUCH TO EAT, Gil said earnestly, tugging on Afra’s fingers.

  Afra squeezed once in acknowledgment and then pushed open the door into his home, always aware of his great satisfaction in being here!

  You’re in good time! “Wash!” Damia said, scowling at the state of her third child and his ’Dinis and pointing a slender but stern finger toward the washroom.

  Zara was coming down the back stairs as Rojer entered the washroom and she gave him a look of such deep reproach that he knew his hunch had been right. Morag, not at all sensitive when the quantity of food on her daily plate might be reduced, came clattering down and grinned when she saw him.

  You’re in deep kimchee. I called! I called good and loud!

  “From where? The hillside?” Rojer asked because he knew how fond Morag was of hunting. And to be out as hunt-leader would have pleased her no end.

  He ignored both sisters then and scrubbed diligently at his greasy hands and arms, right up to the elbow. No sense being sent back for another scrub like Ewain always was: not when dinner smelled as good as that. Then he helped Gil and Kat get their arm pelts dry. They didn’t like to have their fur back-rubbed but it was the only way to blot the moisture sufficiently to stop itch.