by Sharon Lee
“It is true,” Val Con allowed, feeling her heartbeat through the breast nestled in his palm, “that scout training may have identified those characteristics that are classified as ‘crazy’ and honed them to a fine degree. However, the hypothesis of the common root of the three human races is from my father’s studies.” He smiled. “So you see that insanity is hereditary.”
“Yeah, all you do is believe it.” She stretched suddenly and sat up, face abruptly serious. “Tell you what, boss: I think I’m cured.”
He rolled over onto his back, crossed his arms behind his head and considered the other thing inside his head—a precious gift, balancing the Loop’s distasteful, inevitable presence.
Legend said that lifemates had often been linked this way, soul to soul, not quite sharing thought, but rather sharing intent; joying in a knowledge of each other that went deeper than any kin-tie. That he and Miri should be so linked, now, when Liad’s wizards were on the wane and lifemates were merely in love, was wonderful past belief.
“Boss?”
“Eh?” He started and smiled at the ripples in the song that was Miri in his head; smiled at the frown of concern on her face. “Forgive me, cha’trez. I was thinking.” He stretched and sat up next to her. “I believe your estimation is correct, however: you certainly fight as if you are cured.”
“Huh.” She shook her head. “You need somebody around can really give you a workout.”
“So? You very nearly had me. Twice,” he added thoughtfully. “Miri.”
“Yo.”
“Where did you learn the response to that Clutch move?”
“The second one?” She shrugged. “Seemed the only logical way to go, given how you shifted . . .” Her shoulders dipped, upper body sketching the essence of the move. “Yeah . . .”
“Ah.”
She glanced at him suspiciously. “Ah, is it? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Miri,” he said meekly; and grinned in shared joy when she laughed.
“So, partner, seeing as we both agree I’m cured, how ‘bout you bust this tub outta orbit and we get a move on.”
“It must certainly be my first wish to please my lady and my lifemate,” Val Con said, coming to his feet and offering her a hand in graceful Liaden courtesy. “But I wonder if you can suggest where it is we should get a move on to?”
“Had to ask, didn’t you?” She rose lightly, gripping his fingers for the pleasure of contact rather than because she required assistance. “Let’s go up front and get some tea.” She led the way, hand stretched behind her to his as they moved through the narrow corridor to the control cabin.
“Family of yours is on the lam, right? When’s this Plan B thing go outta force?”
He hesitated. Miri considered herself Terran, though she carried a Liaden house-badge among her dearest treasures, and had agreed, perhaps too hastily, to share life with a Liaden. She had not been raised to the tradition of clan-and-kin, and the first eight months of their mating had been spent on an Interdicted World, learning to survive and prosper in a culture alien to them both.
“Plan B,” he began slowly, feeling his way along thoughts that seemed to shift nuance and urgency as he tried to convey them in Terran. “Plan B may be called into effect by delm or first speaker in the instance of—imminent catastrophic damage to the clan. It is thus not established lightly, nor do I think it—goes out of force—until the dangerous situation has been resolved. I believe this may be its first use.”
“Imminent catastrophic damage to the clan,” Miri repeated, gray eyes sharp on his face. “What’s that mean? Who’s the enemy? And how do we get past them and connect with your family?” She frowned, chewing her lower lip. “I take it you want to connect up?”
“I—yes.” Such clear knowledge of his own will was still unsettling to him, who had only shaken off the mind-twisting Agent training with the help of Miri and the luck. “It is possible that the danger is the Department of Interior,” he said. “After all—” He waved a slender hand at the neat little ship enclosing them, “the Department managed to locate us and send an agent after, and we were most wonderfully lost.”
“Much good it did them,” Miri commented, meaning the Agent, dead at the Winterfair on the far-below surface.
“Much good it very nearly did us,” Val Con retorted warmly, meaning the wound she’d taken and the Agent’s too-near success in completing his mission.
“Yeah, well . . .” she shifted, reached to take his hand again. “You talked to your brother Shan, you said . . .” and that made her uncomfortable, he could tell from the subtleties of her mind-heard song.
“I am not,” he said gently, “an expert at speaking mind-to-mind. In fact, the whole exchange must have been on Shan’s skill, without anything at all from me. I can’t even bespeak you, Miri, as closely as we are linked.”
“Tried it, have you?” She grinned briefly. “But didn’t your brother tell you what kind of danger?”
“Just that Plan B was in effect . . .”
“Moontopple,” Miri muttered and Val Con laughed even as he shook his head.
“Things were rather confused at the time, recall. The Agent was hunting me, you and I were separated, Shan was talking inside my head—and very annoyed he was, too! We hardly had time to set up a rendezvous before contact was cut.”
“So you did set up a meeting!” Approval lightened her face. “Where?”
He took a deep breath and looked her steadily in the eyes. “At the home of your family, Miri.”
“My fam—” She stared at him, dropped his hand and backed up, shock rattling the constancy of her song. The back of her knees hit the edge of the co-pilot’s chair and she sat with a slight bump, eyes still wide on his face.
“Look, boss,” she said finally, “I ain’t got a family. My mother’s dead—died my second year in the merc. And if Robertson ain’t dead he oughta be, an’ I don’t wanna be the one does the deed.”
“Ah.” Sorrow touched him: Clan-and-kin, indeed. He perched on the arm of her chair. “The family I meant was Clan Erob.”
Her hand dropped to the pouch built into her wide belt. “Clan Erob,” she said huskily, “don’t know me from Old Dan Tucker. I told you that.”
“Indeed you did. And I told you that Erob would not shun you. You have—what? Twenty-eight Standards?”
She nodded, wariness very apparent.
“So,” said Val Con briskly. “It is high time for you to be made known to your clan and to make your bow to your delm. Now that you are informed of your connection, you would be woefully rude to ignore these duties.”
“And besides, you told your brother to meet you there, so that ends that. Might just as well go there, first,” Miri glared at him. “I just hope you know where it is, ’cause I sure don’t.”
“I know exactly where it is,” Val Con said, taking her hand and smiling at her.
Miri sighed, though she did return the pressure of his fingers. “Why don’t that surprise me?” she asked.
“No,” Miri said flatly, teacup clenched tight in a hand gone suddenly cold.
“Cha’trez . . .”
“I said no!” She glared at him over the cup-rim. “This is your idea, Liaden, not mine. You wanna visit a buncha strangers and claim favors, you take sleep-learning to find out how!”
“I already know how,” Val Con snapped. “And the case is, my lady, that you will be claiming not favor, but rightful place, based on kinship. Proof will be properly offered, in the form of—”
Miri slammed the cup down. “A piece of enamel—work my grandma most likely swiped from some poor sot in an alleyway somewhere, along with everything else in his pockets!”
“. . . a gene test.” Val Con finished, as if she hadn’t spoken.
She took a hard breath against the upset in her stomach.
“Don’t need to talk to get a gene test done. Comes to that, I can talk, some. You taught me Low Liaden. No reason why you can’t teach me enough High
so I don’t embarrass you.”
“Miri—” He sighed, raising a hand to stroke the errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Miri bit her lip, knowing as plain as if he’d spoken that he’d noticed her upset inside his head, just like she could see his frustration inside hers. And he’d figured out she was far more upset than she should be, given the request, given the partnership, given the love.
“It is not a question,” he said now, “of shaming me. We are lifemates, Miri: I am honored to stand at your side. But there is this other thing, when one is lifemated—would you send me into battle without insuring that I knew the field as well as you?”
“Huh?” She shook her head. “Likely get you killed, holding back information. And I’d have to give you everything I had, ’cause you never know beforehand what’s gonna be important.”
“Exactly.” He leaned forward, holding her eyes with his. “We speak of the same situation, cha’trez. Liadens . . . Liadens are very formal. Very—structured. There are six ways to ask forgiveness—six different postures, six distinct phrases, and six separate bows—and none of the six is what a Terran would call an apology. Apologies are—very rare.” He pushed at his hair again, leaning back.
“You speak Low Liaden—adequately. You have some High Liaden from book-study—enough to get by, I think, if we merely work together on your accent. But language is such a small part of communication, Miri! It is as if I gave you pellets, but failed of giving you the gun.”
She closed her eyes; opened them. “You studied this Code-thing, right?”
“Right.” He was watching her, very wary. “I grew up in the culture; studied the Code through sleep-learning to correct my understanding of nuance; took what I had learned and shaped it in keeping with my own melant’i. Your melant’i is not mine, Miri. I cannot teach you how to present it. But your lifemate may counsel you on how best to guard it.”
“Is there a book?” She was conscious of her breath—shortened and half-desperate—of blood pounding in her ears and sweat on her palms. “Can I study it out of a book, and then you and me can work on the accent?” Does it have to, HAVE to be sleep-learning, gods?
“The—book—is actually several volumes,” Val Con said softly; “several large volumes. I used to stand on them to reach the top shelf in my uncle’s study, when I was a child.”
“Must’ve been an easier way up than that,” Miri said, half-grinning.
“There was,” he said repressively; “but I was forbidden to climb the bookshelves. My uncle was quite clear on the point.”
She laughed. “That uncle of yours had his share of trouble.”
“It is true that Shan and I tended to embrace—inappropriate—necessities,” he murmured; “but Nova was quite well-behaved as a child.” A ripple of the shoulders. “Mostly.”
Miri choked back another laugh. “What about the baby? Anthora? She as bad as the rest of you, or did your uncle get some sleep?”
“Ah, well, Anthora has always been Anthora, you see. Her necessities are often on another plane altogether.” He tipped his head, green eyes very bright. “What distresses you, Miri?”
“I—” Hell, hell, HELL and damnation! Memory triggered and for an instant she was in the stifling cubicle in Surebleak Port, fourteen, brain-burned and reeling; and the tech was telling Liz, “I’m sorry, Commander. Doesn’t look like she can take sleep-learning.”
“Miri?” The fingers brushing her cheek were warm; out of the present, not the past. “Cha’trez, please.”
“I can’t.” She swallowed; focused on his face. “Can’t, boss, get it? Liz took me to a Learning Shop in Surebleak Port to tack on Trade before we left planet. Damn near killed me. Tech said—said I couldn’t take it. Sleep-learning. Found out later that—defectives—can’t take the—strain on their brains.” She managed a wobbling grin. “I know I’m not supposed to tell you I’m stupid . . .”
“Nor are you defective.” He stroked her cheek, her forehead; lay his fingers lightly along her lips and then let them drop, eyes troubled. “Tell me, were you given a physical before you took the program?”
She shook her head. “Just plugged in and left alone. It started to hurt—I remember screaming, trying to rip the wires out—”
He frowned. “Why not use the dead-man switch?”
“What dead-man switch?”
Anger, jolting as an electric shock—his, not hers; then his voice, very calmly. “A dead-man switch is required in all sleep-learning modules. Lack of the switch would cost a Learning Shop its license to operate.”
Miri closed her eyes, suddenly very tired. “So, who checks licenses on Surebleak?”
Silence; then a sigh and the warmth of his fingers closing around hers. “Let us go to the ’doc, cha’trez.”
***
She stood quietly at his shoulder while he made the inquiry, in Trade, so she could read it: MIRI ROBERTSON: PROGNOSIS FOR SLEEP LEARNING.
The autodoc took its time answering, lights flickering while it consulted its data banks. MIRI ROBERTSON WILL INSERT HER HAND INTO THE UNIT, it directed, a small slot opening to the right of the keypad.
Miri stuck her left hand in as far as it would go, felt the tingle; heard the chime and saw the words. MIRI ROBERTSON WILL WITHDRAW HER HAND.
The slot closed and the screen cleared. More lights flickered. Then: RECUPERATION NEARING COMPLETION. SLEEP-LEARNING ALLOWED FOR MAXIMUM THREE-HOUR SHIFTS, NOT EXCEEDING THREE SHIFTS PER DAY; MINIMUM BREAK SHIFTS TWO HOURS. SUPPLEMENTS SUGGESTED AFTER EACH LEARNING SHIFT TO INSURE RECUPERATION AT CURRENT SATISFACTORY RATE. DISPENSED BELOW.
“I suggest,” said Val Con softly, “that you are better nourished than you were at fourteen. I also suggest that this module is properly tuned and equipped.” He slipped the supplement pack out of the dispensary and handed it to her. “An Agent is too valuable to lose to brain-burn; a failed mission far too high a price to pay for faulty machinery.”
She stared at him; turned to look at the module, complete with dead-man switch, open and ready to receive her.
“Three hours?” It seemed like three centuries.
“It is the most efficient block of time,” Val Con said gravely, and stroked her hair. “Miri, I swear that you are in no danger.”
She looked at him, remembering the pain and the burning and the terror. “It’s really that important?” But of course it was that important. He was her partner. It was his responsibility to see she had what she needed to survive; what she needed for them both to survive.
“OK,” she said, and suddenly, desperately, reached up to kiss him. He hugged her tight.
“I will be watching,” he murmured. “Malfunction triggers an alarm on the pilot’s board. Use the switch, if you feel any discomfort.”
“Right.” She stepped back, stuck the vitamin pack in her pouch and went over to the module. She lay down and took a grip on the switch. Val Con lowered the lid.
The connectors slid out of the mattress and out of the canopy, stinging a little as they pierced her. Miri closed her eyes against the starless black overhead, and let the program take her.
***
A two-toned chime was going off insistently in her left ear, gradually gaining volume. Miri opened her eyes and sat up, blinking in bleared confusion at the nest-like unit, its black dome lid raised.
Right. Learning module.
She struggled out of the nest and took a couple of deep breaths, head clearing rapidly. Behind her the chiming changed from a two-note chiding to a one-note demand. Frowning, she turned, saw the slip of paper sticking out of the slot near the timer and yanked it free.
The chiming stopped.
Miri frowned at the paper. The words blurred out of focus; steadied: Absorption rate 98% overall. Feedback accurate 99.8%. Self test consistent 98.4%.
Miri shook her head, remembered the packet of vitamins in her pouch and went to get something to wash them down with.
Val Con was coming toward her as she entered the bridge and she froze, mind presenting a
good dozen ways to address him; combinations of bows and salutations branching off into a veritable jungle of possibilities, none seeming more right than another. The combination for greeting a senior officer presented itself and she grabbed it, executing the bow in barely proper time.
“Sir,” she said, remembering to straighten before speaking, and to speak with the inflection of respectful attention, “I have completed my session with the Instructor.”
Both brows shot up before he returned her bow, briefly, and with subtle irony. Miri was dismayed; recalled that one might accept idiosyncrasies of style, so long as they did not cross the line of what one’s own melant’i would tolerate.
“Ma’am,” Val Con said, senior to junior, though with an undefinable under-inflection, which seemed to echo the irony of his bow, “I am delighted to find your time with the Instructor so fruitfully spent. However, I believe that the length and—intimacy—of our relationship might allow you use of my name.”
“Yes, certainly . . .” But that combination did not arise and the more she scrambled to find a mode that would allow it, the more confusion rose. She lost the timing of the conversation, shattered cadence and art, was adrift in an echoing sea of inflection.
“Miri.”
She looked up at him, helpless to choose from the endless and proliferating possibilities; unable to define herself, since she could find no way to define him.
His hand closed over hers. “Miri. Stop worrying at it, cha’trez. Let it find its level and settle.”
The Terran words wrenched her out of confusion; she sagged against him, suddenly aware that she had been holding herself at full attention.
“I don’t guess I learned how to just use somebody’s name,” she muttered.
He hugged her. “That’s Low Liaden. ‘Val Con-husband,’ remember? Eh? And ‘Val Con-love.’ Much nicer to hear from you than ‘sir.’ I thought I was in black disgrace.”
She snorted a laugh. “Worried you, too.”
“Certainly.”
