by Sharon Lee
“Scout,” he said, very carefully, “you are aware that I can smash you to jelly with this rifle, whether it is in condition to fire or not?”
“Certainly. But, before you do, there is another defect I would like to point out.” The scout came to his feet upon the packing crate, and there was a sudden crystal gleam in his left hand, a flash and a pressure on the rifle—which had abruptly lost four inches of barrel.
Nelirikk looked at the severed segment, and then at the crystal knife in the scout’s hand.
“I note this further defect,” he said. “It is one I might not have discovered until it could not be remedied.”
The scout nodded, crystal blade vanishing as he resumed his seat. “Precisely. Like the canteen, if you had come across bad water.”
He snorted. “I am not going to drink bad water, Scout.”
“No. You’ll not die of bad water.”
“What will I die of?” Nelirikk looked directly at his tiny enemy. “Answer me, Scout Commander—will you give me the honor of a firing squad? It is more than a no-troop deserves.”
“Yes,” said the scout softly. “I know.”
There was another silence, then the scout spoke again. “But what befell you? Explorer to no-troop . . .”
“What befell me? You befell me! What else should happen to a soldier who survived the dishonor of capture?” Nelirikk rubbed the back of his neck, trying to finger away the worst of the headache.
“Security recommended execution. But the Command supposed I might yet have knowledge useful to the Troop, coward though I am.” He looked back at the scout, sitting so attentive atop his crate.
“Ten dutiless Cycles, of eating after the soldiers had their fill, of speaking when spoken to, of being the loser’s prize in games of skill between the captains! Ten cycles of scut-work and kicks and being banned from the piloting chambers—because you befell me! You should have cut my throat ten Cycles ago, Liaden. Be a soldier and do it now.”
The scout was staring at him, wonder on his smooth-skinned face. “You reported,” he breathed, so softly he might have been speaking to himself, except the words were Yxtrang, as was the shout that followed: “Gods damn you for a fool, man! Whatever prompted you to report it?”
Nelirikk stiffened. “What else should a soldier do?”
“Who am I to know what a soldier will do? But an explorer will use his brain and look first to his duty.”
“You,” Nelirikk suggested, with wide irony, “did not report.”
“And be planet-bound for years, while my head was drained of every nuance of our encounter, and my abilities languished? I was trained as an explorer and discoverer of worlds—to do less than that work was to fail in my duty to my teachers.”
The anger hit all at once—he saw it reflected in a sudden widening of the scout’s bright eyes. The waste of it! The years of shame might never have been! He might have advanced the Troop to a dozen new worlds. He might have—
He took a breath and brought the scout back into focus, noting with something akin to approval the soldierly way in which the Liaden sat his post, eyes wary and hands ready—much good it might do him against Nelirikk’s bulk and strength.
“You have endangered your teachers and your people,” he said, “by failing to report. How if they settle that world we found together, while some of the Troop do the same?”
“My report indicated that I had identified at least one example of a potentially sapient race,” the scout said; “and recommended the planet be studied again in a generation.”
“You know that planet, Scout! There were no more sapient . . .” Nelirikk choked suddenly as the phrasing overtook him; gasped, “Me?”
“You,” said the scout calmly. “I never considered but that you would do the same.”
“Then that is the difference between us,” Nelirikk said heavily. “For I only thought to do my duty, and report everything to the Troop.” He looked up. “Kill me, Scout Commander.”
The scout shook his head and the wild brown hair fell into his eyes. “As to that,” he said. “I must speak with my captain and receive further orders.” He unfolded his legs and dropped to the floor, soundless and graceful as a squirrel, passing just beyond Nelirikk’s reach on his way to the door.
“Care for your blade, do,” he said as he touched the button set into the door. “I will speak with my captain and return.”
The door opened and the scout slipped through, leaving Nelirikk alone with his weapons.
***
The door rolled closed behind him, amber overhead glowing bright.
“Sealed,” said the guard, and voices broke all around him, sudden and bewildering as a hailstorm.
In Liaden: Erob and tel’Vosti.
In Terran: Jason.
Variously:
“Well, what’d he say?”
“Is the information useful?”
“Are they going to attack through the park?”
“Well done, well done, excellent!”
“Shall we dispose of it now?”
Val Con gulped air, got his mental feet under him with wrenching effort and ran the Rainbow. He sorted the crowd and found Miri, silent and serious by the monitor, touched the song of her within his head and smiled into her eyes before glaring at the noisy rest and waving a hand for silence.
It came instantly, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“The project requires time,” he said in Trade, to avoid having to say it again. “Circumstances exist.” He glanced over Erob’s head to the towering Aus.
“Commander Carmody, have you plans regarding the upkeep of your prisoner?”
Jason laughed. “Upkeep? That’s two steps ahead of me, son—I just thought you might get something useful out of him!”
“So I may,” Val Con said. “However, he has not been well-cared-for by his troop of late. If I might—”
“Hell, bet he’s hungry as a freeze-toad at ice-out! Boy that size’s gotta eat as much as I do. Here . . .” He slapped a leg pocket; pulled out four ration-packs and tossed them over. After a moment, he unsnapped his canteen and held it out. “Best believe these filters are good.”
Val Con bowed and heard Erob catch her breath, no doubt scandalized that one of Korval should acknowledge so deep a debt to a mere Terran. “My thanks, Commander. Shall I need to obtain your permission regarding any steps I might find it necessary—”
Jase waved a hand. “Do what needs done. You’re a scout, ain’t you?”
“Indeed,” said Val Con softly; “I am a scout.” He turned to Erob, amused to find tel’Vosti’s arm firmly through his delm’s, fingers curled unobtrusively around her wrist.
“Erob.” He gave her full measure in the bow, made the sign of an equal requesting favor with his unladen hand.
“I see you, Korval.”
“This prisoner was taken upon your lands. He is housed within your prison and lives at your pleasure. In recognition of these things, I request that I be allowed to deal with him—with this person Nelirikk—as my melant’i and the necessities of Korval dictate.” He straightened and looked her full in the face. “On Jelaza Kazone.”
Breath hissed out of her and tel’Vosti’s fingers tightened about her wrist. “I require a fuller accounting of Korval’s necessities,” she said, as was her right in this.
Val Con bowed again. “I have former acquaintance with this Nelirikk. We met many years ago, when he was explorer and I scout captain. At that time, I dealt—inadequately—with him, and now wish to honorably correct an error in judgment.”
“Honor? With that?” She flicked a glance at the monitor, which showed Nelirikk seated upon his makeshift cot, stoically sharpening the larger knife. “It is an animal, Korval.”
Val Con sighed. “Erob, he is a man.”
“And you would attempt Balance with it.” She stared at him, at Jason, back at the Yxtrang. “So you feed it and allow it to sharpen its weapon. You think yourself able to take it, I assume. Mad your line and h
ouse may be, but I never heard that you were suicides.”
He bowed ironically. “I am to take this as your agreement to uphold my necessities regarding this man?”
She was quiet a time longer, staring at the monitor until tel’Vosti shifted at her side. Her permission, when it came, was resigned. “Deal as you must, Korval. You will, in any case.”
“My thanks, Erob. Korval is in your debt.”
He turned back toward the door, rations and canteen in hand; saw Miri lounging by the monitor. “Hey, Cory,” she said in Benish, which only they two among those assembled spoke. “You have a minute to talk?”
“Certainly.” He grinned at her. “As many as you like.”
“Good.” She nodded, keeping to Benish. “Your intentions with this soldier are? I see no worry, here.” She touched a finger to her temple. “Tell me the plan.”
“Yes. This man is a treasure, cha’trez. It is imperative that we do not waste him.”
“Hmm. But he talks like he thinks he’s got no worth—talks like maybe he’ll cut his own throat.”
Val Con stiffened. “Miri. How do you know what he said?”
She jabbed a finger at the monitor. “Heard him.”
“Yes,” he said carefully. “But when he said those things, he was speaking Yxtrang.”
“Yx—” Her eyes widened, finger rising once more to touch her temple. “You speak Yxtrang,” she said, very carefully. “I don’t speak Yxtrang.”
“Not,” he agreed with matching care, “so far as I know.”
“Shit.” She lapsed back into Terran. “Tell you what, boss: we gotta figure this thing out before somebody gets killed.”
He flicked a glance at the monitor.
“Yeah, yeah. Necessity and all that. What’s the backup? You want me in there, too?”
He heard the flat note of fear in her voice and in the internal song and reached to touch her cheek, scandalized old women be damned. “I may need to call upon you, cha’trez, my Captain. But at this moment, if you permit, Nelirikk and I have certain philosophies to discuss.” He smiled and lay his finger lightly on her lips. “It will be well, Miri.”
“You keep saying that,” she complained, around the concern he felt almost as his own. “Just don’t get yourself killed, OK?”
“OK,” he said. The door cycled open and he stepped back into prison.
***
Putting the knife right soothed—and gave him time to think, to measure his weaknesses and his strengths.
The rifle . . . Nelirikk nearly spat.
Given a decent kit it could be restored; but he lacked the kit. He might also construct a small bomb from the components that still functioned, if he had time. He doubted the scout would be gone for more time than was required for the knife, and there was certainly someone monitoring the small scanner in the ceiling-corner.
A bomb, therefore, would be useless both as a surprise and as a vehicle for escape, given the solid masonry all about.
The knife-edge was superb now, for the stone was of excellent quality. These were the sorts of things one looted for on a Liaden world: the little things that worked better or were more elegant.
It was odd that beings which the Command taught were merely vermin should have the way of making such fine things, Nelirikk thought suddenly. Similar objects, made by Yxtrang hands, tended to be serviceable, but uninspired.
And an enemy had freely given this stone, that he might bring his blade to an honorable edge!
An edge that could now easily pass entirely through something as thin and fragile as the scout.
Alas, throwing such a bulky blade would be inexact at best, and it was folly to suppose the scout could thus be taken by surprise. Worse, the scout carried a personal weapon that sliced gun-steel like cheese. What it might do to flesh and bone—
He thought about that.
It might be possible to goad the Scout Commander into using the crystal blade. It might be possible, after all, to die a hero’s death, with no Yxtrang ever knowing that Nelirikk No-Troop had failed yet again, that—
There was anger.
Nelirikk explored it, for anger sullies thinking.
When he thought of the scout, there was anger, distant and indistinct, as if a cloudy remnant of those years of intensely focused pain hung between them, obscuring what might be truth.
When he thought of the rifle—
His heartbeat spiked, and he very nearly brought the blade to his own throat as the shame of being given a useless weapon broke across him.
Stupid. As always. With an effort, he calmed his thoughts and considered the blade and the scout anew.
What did he know of Liadens, in truth? That they were people—sentient and self-aware—must be clear to the dullest of the Troop, no matter the Command’s teachings. As people, then, following custom and system of their own devising . . . Was it conceivable that Liadens practiced some alien honor? Was it possible that this one left his enemy specifically alone, granting him honorable opportunity? The knife was very sharp: three rapid motions would solve many problems.
Nelirikk hefted the blade; sheathed it with a sigh. After a moment, he drew his grace blade from its snug boot top and used the whetstone on it.
Tending the blade was soothing. Perhaps the scout found it so, as well.
***
“I see you, Explorer.”
Nelirikk looked up from his task, eyes narrow on the bag the little man carried.
“I see you, Scout.”
Val Con nodded and resumed his former perch, settling the bag firmly in his lap. The Loop was disturbingly before his mind’s eye, elucidating a 27 percent likelihood of an immediate attack, and an even more disturbing refusal to project an ultimate Chance of Mission Success or Chance of Personal Survival.
Light glinted from the blade Nelirikk was sharpening—a fine thing, as like the larger blade as a screwdriver was to the Clutch knife he wore in his sleeve.
He rummaged in the bag and tossed a food pack lightly toward the Yxtrang, who snatched it and the next comfortably out of the air, and sat holding them in his hand.
“Food?”
“Food,” Val Con agreed. “Commander Carmody believes a soldier should be permitted to eat.”
Cautiously, Nelirikk bent and returned his knife to its boot-sheath, expression unreadable behind the tattoos.
“Do eat,” urged Val Con. “I suspect they may be better than the rations you were issued.”
Nelirikk frowned at the Terran-lettered labels.
“You would eat this?”
Val Con laughed.
“It is not nearly as delicious as the rabbit one snares oneself, I admit. But the mercenaries buy their own food—surely they would not poison themselves. Most certainly not Commander Carmody, who gives this from his own day-kit.”
He used his duty blade to open a ration pack while the Yxtrang sat watching.
“Shall we trade?” Val Con murmured, triggering the tiny heating element. “Are you concerned for the quality?”
Almost, it seemed that Nelirikk might laugh. He pointed toward Val Con’s food.
“The explorer,” he said, hesitantly, “is unfamiliar with local custom.”
“Local custom is that hungry persons may eat. If you dislike what you have, you may have some of mine. There is water here, too, if you’ll share the canteen. Or use your own, if you trust the filters.”
“Eat,” the Yxtrang repeated quietly. He opened the silver packet, discovered the tray and tray mechanism quickly, triggered it, stared again at the label.
“What food is this?”
Val Con glanced at the bright lettering. “Prime salmon. Excellent—though I hope you will not find it necessary for me to share it.”
Nelirikk looked up sharply, wariness clearly visible through the facial decorations.
“No?”
Val Con laughed. “The food is good. But on my last mission the God of Quartermasters saw fit to supply my captain and myself with a year’s
rations of salmon and crackers—and nothing else!”
The Yxtrang sampled the fish carefully. In a moment he was eating with gusto.
***
“Tell me my death, Scout Commander.”
They had finished eating and the small man had passed over the canteen. Together, they had gathered the remains of the food and put them in a recycle box, and now they looked at each other.
“How shall I die?” Nelirikk repeated, the Yxtrang words bittersweet in his mouth.
“I do not know,” said the scout quietly, also in Yxtrang. “The orders I have are simply to do what must, of necessity and honor, be done.”
“Honor?” The word seemed to hang overlong between them—he had not meant it as a challenge, in truth, but what could a captive-holding troop know of honor?
The Liaden shook his head; shifted on his seat.
“My curiosity and arrogance seem to have caused you much pain. I had never meant for a fellow seeker-of-worlds to suffer—certainly never as you have suffered. So, I seek to balance the evil I brought upon you.”
Nelirikk stared, trying to grapple this concept into sense. The scout spoke of personal responsibility—personal retribution, personal action. The oddness of it made his abused head throb.
“Balance.” He tasted the word for connotation—for implication.
He looked at the Liaden, sitting so solemn atop his crate, seeing no trace of humor, or malice, or deceit, or any attitude of attack. No attitude of defense.
Yet—questions of honor with Liadens? Those worthless enemies who had no respect, who—treated a man like a soldier, when the Troop had thrown him away.
“Balance,” he said once more, and contrived a stiff, seated bow.
“Your ship, Scout Commander.”
The green eyes were cutting sharp upon him. “Yes.”
“The reason I am here,” said Nelirikk, slowly, “is that during the strike on the landing field I showed your ship to the forward controller. A no-troop may not speak unless spoken to—” Nelirikk thought a moment of anger and glanced at the blade, which sat idle as he spoke equitably to an enemy.
