by Sharon Lee
She considered him out of wary gray eyes. “And if the captain thinks it’s the worst idea she’s heard since she left Surebleak?”
“That is the captain’s right,” he acknowledged. “But you will still wish to speak to this Nelirikk and show him some care, cha’trez.”
“Why should I care a plugged bit what happens to him?”
“He is pledged to serve us, Line yos’Phelium,” he explained. “There are—obligations. Such as seeing that one’s servant has proper medical attention and does not needlessly suffer.”
She flung hand out toward the sealed hatch. “We own that?”
“Certainly not,” said Val Con. “One cannot own a sentient being.”
“Right.” She closed her eyes. “Other people,” she said, apparently to the room at large, “give their wives flowers.”
She spun on her heel, eyes snapping open. “Open the door,” she told the door-corporal and glanced back at Val Con and Jason. “The two of you got me into this; the two of you can tag along.”
Nelirikk stood, awaiting the return of the scout. He dared not sit on one of the crates, for fear his wounded legs would fail when it came time to rise to the captain’s honor. He had made scant effort to clean himself, for it was no disgrace, that a captain might see a soldier fresh from soldier’s duty.
There had been a voice raised in the outerways; a murmured answer that must be the scout—and the raised voice once more, swearing, as he’d monitored from time to time from Terran ships.
If the raised voice were the captain, it would seem to register displeasure with the performance. It suddenly occurred to Nelirikk to wonder just how persuasive was the scout, and he worried somewhat, and shifted on his aching legs—
The door cycled open, admitting a procession.
The scout led, limping, with field dressings on arm and leg. Immediately behind was a Terran male who filled the doorway with his bulk—a full-sized soldier, dressed for war, yet looking like some scraggly farm-peasant, long-haired and bearded, without tattoos of rank or maturity-mark. Still, he moved with assurance; with command: A proper captain!
Behind came a tiny red-haired figment—an apprentice soldier, doubtless brought early from the creche in the emergency of the invasion—carrying what appeared to be a medical kit.
The scout paused, swept a bow and nearly slipped on the slick floor. The larger man turned his head to snap a command at the soldier in the doorway: “Get a mop and cleaners!”
“My Captain,” the scout began, and Nelirikk turned his face more fully to the bearded man, thinking that it would not be so bad, to serve a captain at least of proper size . . .
“My Captain,” the scout repeated, and bowed profoundly, head near touching his knees, as the figment continued forward, thumping the equipment she carried onto a nearby crate, striding past the big man and the small one, to stand wide legged directly before Nelirikk, matchstick arms folded across scant chest.
“Well?” she snapped, and Nelirikk’s mouth opened in response to the command-voice before his mind recalled that it was not yet his place to speak. The scout it was that answered, properly—and most gently.
“Captain, this is the man I propose to add to the unit. Nelirikk Explorer, he is called; a thoughtful fighter and—”
The captain shifted; frowned. “Introduce me.”
“Yes, Captain.” The scout bowed obedience; Nelirikk brought himself to stiff attention, striving to ignore his injuries and the persistent buzzing in his ears, the while his mind raced to encompass a captain who was smaller even than the scout and—
“Explorer, attend! Here is Captain Miri Robertson, commanding Action Unit 1, Lytaxin Combined Forces! Captain, I bring you Recruit Candidate Nelirikk Explorer.”
Nelirikk stared straight ahead, as proper, while the tiny creature unfolded her arms and walked almost casually around him, inspecting. From the corner of an eye, Nelirikk saw the large man grin, then go soldier-faced as the captain completed her circuit.
“Is this the man who was carrying that stupid rifle?” she demanded of the scout.
Nelirikk kept his countenance. The question was reasonable, after all; and the part of his sponsor to explain.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Hmmmph.” She walked behind him once more. “What in the hell is this?”
“I took it from his—”
“Can he talk?” snapped the captain.
“Yes, Captain.” The scout effaced himself and the large man grinned into his beard.
“Explorer,” the captain demanded his attention. “This thing you’re tangled in. What is it?”
Nelirikk stared straight ahead, concentrating on the proper formation of the Terran words. “Captain. A Shibjela. If the captain pleases.”
The scout stirred within Nelirikk’s vision, eyes gone intent.
“Translate that,” ordered the command-voice and the scout bit his lip.
“I . . . In Trade: Jela’s Neck-jewel. Jela’s Necklace, in High Liaden . . .” He paused, thumb rubbing over fingertips, as if he felt the texture of nuance and sense. “In Terran . . . perhaps Jela’s Noose. Or—”
“Got it,” the captain interrupted. She resumed her cross-armed stance directly in Nelirikk’s line of sight. “Explorer. Do all Yxtrang carry one of these?”
Excellent! The captain thought quickly and to the point!
“No, Captain. My—the unit where I take my training pays homage to one of the original members. All who train there carry Shibjela. Other units have—”
“Other toys,” she finished for him and barely turned her head.
“Jase.”
“Captain Redhead?” The bearded man did not bow, though his expression showed clear respect.
“Got one of your toys?”
The big man grinned, stepped forward and produced an oddly shaped piece of wood. It was perhaps a club, though it looked frail for such work; slightly edged, highly polished. Nelirikk’s hand itched for it, to test balance and theory.
“Ever seen one of these?” the captain asked, walking to his left.
“No, Captain,” he said, noting that the captain appeared to possess several names.
“Good. So we have some secret weapons, too.” She was behind him again.
“This hurt?” she asked, and he felt a sear of pain where she touched him above the bleeding leg wound.
“Yes, Captain,” he said, neutrally.
“Ought to. Looks pretty ugly. Can you fight?”
“Yes, Captain.” He hesitated. “Now?”
“No!” She was before him again, head tipped back so he could see a grim face no larger than the palm of his hand, dominated by a pair of fierce gray eyes. “I mean—can you fight well? Ain’t no slackers in my unit, you understand? My soldiers fight!”
“I can fight, Captain. I have many years of training. I use the autorifle, the—”
“Skip the sales pitch. How many languages you speak?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Nelirikk, wondering—and then recalling that this was the captain who attached a scout to her command. “Languages: Yxtrang, Liaden, Trade, Terran, and Rishkak.”
“Fine. You know how to take orders?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“If I tell you to charge head on against armor and all you got is a rifle, will you?”
“Yes. Captain.”
The gray eyes considered him blandly. “You really think you can take orders from somebody like me?”
He hesitated fractionally, began the proper answer—was cut off by a sharp wave of a child-like hand.
“You tell me what you think, Explorer. The truth, accazi?”
“Yes, Captain. It—occurs to the explorer that the captain is—very small.”
Incredibly, she laughed. “Yeah? Well, it occurs to the captain that you’re out of reason tall. If you can’t take orders from me, I’ll just hand you over to Commander Carmody and let him sort you out. I didn’t go asking for another scout in this unit. Seems to me one�
�s all the trouble I need.” She blinked thoughtfully. “Might be easiest just to let you loose.”
Nelirikk gulped. “Captain—”
“Dammit, Redhead!” Commander Carmody yelled, drowning every other sound in the room. “You can’t do that! The stuff he knows? Why, darlin’, the man’s beautiful! We can’t just be throwing him back in with some bunch o’rowdies who don’t even keep the mice from the larder!”
“Great,” she said expressionlessly. “You want him?”
“Now, now, my small, you know he’s best off with you. Seems him and the scout there understand each other fine.”
“That’s what scares me,” said the captain, with a noticeable lack of fear in either posture or face. She sighed and turned back to Nelirikk.
“All right, Beautiful, you had time to think it over. Which is it, me or Commander Carmody?”
He looked at the scout, who returned his gaze blandly; at Commander Carmody, who shrugged and put his hands behind his back; at the captain herself.
“The scout sponsors me to his captain, who has the wisdom to value the—resource of an explorer. I pledge to obey the captain’s orders, if she will accept me into her troop.”
“Hmmph. You know anything about first aid?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good. Help Commander Carmody patch you up.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The bearded man came forward, med-box tucked under one arm. The captain went to the crate that had been the scout’s seat and hoisted herself up.
“Explorer, you’re gonna cause me lots of problems, you know that?”
“I had not considered, Captain. I—”
“Consider it! You got ’til this first aid stuff is done and then I want you to tell me what problems I might have with you and because of you—and how to fix them. Think hard, accazi?”
“Yes, Captain.” Commander Carmody had set the box aside and was on one knee behind him. Nelirikk felt him touch the Shibjela and pick up the ring-end.
“All right, now, boyo. I expect this’ll sting a mite.” His understanding of Terran was perhaps flawed, for the quick jerk that pulled the cord from its nesting-place excited an agony as exquisite as it was, mercifully, brief. He bit his lip, soundless, and concentrated on remaining upright.
There was a slight hiss, a coldness, and then a numbness on the wound, followed by the sound of his uniform leg parting. Resolutely, Nelirikk turned his thoughts to the problem his captain had assigned.
***
“Captain. Study indicates that each small problem generated by recruiting an explorer to your troop comes from a single, large problem.”
The captain turned her attention from the Scout, with whom she had been conversing in a language Nelirikk didn’t know, and frowned.
“That so?” she asked, but the question was apparently rhetorical, as she commanded immediately: “Elucidate this larger problem—and its solution.”
“Captain.” He brought fist to newly bandaged shoulder in salute before he recollected such a gesture might well give insult.
“The large problem is that the explorer is Yxtrang and the troop you command is not. The solution . . .” Embarrassing it was to have to give such an answer. Embarrassing and hardly indicative of any value he might bring to her troop. Nelirikk kept his face soldierly. “Captain, I conclude that there is no solution. Biology is fact.”
“Biology,” she corrected, “is a fact.” She came to her feet, there on the packing crate, and crooked a finger. “Come here.”
He moved forward two steps and stopped as he sensed the scout’s increased tension.
“I said,” the captain snapped, “come here.”
“Yes, Captain.” One eye wary on the scout, he came forward until his toes touched the crate she stood on. Even with that added height, he looked down on her and had a moment to consider the thick coil of hair wrapped tight ’round her head before she tipped her face up to him.
“What’s all this stuff?” she demanded, tracing lines across her cheeks with a forefinger.
“Captain. Vingtai—marks of rank and . . . accomplishment. Done with a needle, to be permanent.”
“Right. What’s yours say?”
Nelirikk blinked, dared to flick a look at the scout and was answered by the quirk of a mobile eyebrow.
“Captain,” he said respectfully, returning his gaze to her. “On the right—insignia of born-to Troop. The name is perhaps Jela’s Guard Corps. In Terran I do not—”
She waved a hand. “Close enough. What about the left?”
“Captain. The left cheek marks me explorer. The double lines there show me—show me no-troop. These others . . . creche mark, apprentice troop, honors of marksmanship and piloting. This . . .” His hand rose and he ran his fingers lightly down the right cheek, feeling the old scar, nearly hidden by the layers of tattoo.
“This is nchaka,” he said slowly. “When a soldier is done training and has his own weapons given, Sergeant of Arsenal bloods the grace-blade, to show the edge is sharp.” He hesitated; glanced at the scout. “Point of information. If the captain pleases.”
She waved a hand. “Go.”
The word seemed to connote permission, rather than an order to leave, though literal translation—Nelirikk sighed. “Yes, Captain. History tells that vingtai were used by the first soldiers because it gave fear to Liadens.”
“Gave fear?” The frown cleared. “Right. If it stops ’em for a second and lets you get the first strike in, it’s worth the effort. I guess.”
She glanced over to Commander Carmody.
“Need us a medtech, on the bounce.”
“All yours, darlin’,” the big man said cheerfully and strode over to the door, shouting orders into the room beyond for someone or something called “Chen.”
“Tech’ll be able to hack an erase program for the tattoos,” the captain was telling the scout; “probably do a skin-tone, too. What about the hair? And—” She turned. “Can you grow a beard, Beautiful?”
Nelirikk stiffened. A beard? Did she think him a farmer? A merchant? A—Terran commander? Very nearly he let go another sigh. “Captain, it is that a soldier does not have a beard. It is part of discipline.”
“Hmph. So, if you just ignored discipline for a couple days, would you start to grow a beard? Or are you like this one here?” She pointed at the scout, who lifted a brow, but remained silent.
“If discipline were ignored,” Nelirikk said stiffly, “the explorer would begin to sprout hair on his face. With the captain’s permission, it would then be very hard to read the vingtai.”
“Not a worry,” she assured him; “we’re gonna get rid of all that facial decoration first off.” She turned back to the scout, leaving Nelirikk gasping mentally. “How ’bout hair and beard? Anything we can do there?”
“Perhaps hormones and a shot of accelerant,” the scout said softly. “He should spend the night in the ’doc in any case.” He made a slight bow, slanting his eyes upward. “If the captain pleases.”
“Big joke, huh? Just wait ’til—”
“Captain.” Nelirikk had found his voice at last. She turned toward him.
“Yes.”
“Captain, will you remove—” his hand went to his cheek, traced the familiar swirl of his Home Troop, touched the nchaka.
She frowned. “You said you wanted to soldier in my unit, didn’t you?”
Nelirikk gulped. “Yes, Captain.”
“And you said you wear those things to give fear to Liadens, right?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Well, my troop ain’t giving fear to Liadens. My troop is aiming to give fear to Yxtrang, you got that?”
He stared, wrenched his mind toward thinking about Yxtrang as the enemy—and touched his maturity-mark once more.
“I understand, Captain.”
She shifted on the crate and caught his eyes in a glance so fey he found he could not break it.
“You gonna be able to run this gag, Beautif
ul?” Her voice was comradely, though the Terran words confused.
As if she sensed his confusion, she asked again, in High Liaden: “Are you able to nurture the children of your actions, Nelirikk Explorer?”
He bowed. “I am held by my word to an—honorable opponent. It is understood that the troop failed in honor and sent me to find my death. I strive to do better for the children of my actions.”
“Right.” She was back in Terran. “When were you supposed to be picked up?”
“In six days, local midnight.”
“OK, give the scout your ID, we’ll take care of that detail. In the meantime, your orders are to cooperate with Chen, heal up, eat and rest. Have to spend a day or two in here, I think—” she glanced at the scout, who nodded thoughtfully.
“We’ll get you a computer and a tech to show you the basics. The scout’ll work up an outline for you to follow. Information, OK? And in your spare time, you can brush up on your Terran. Can’t have you mistaking an order in the heat of things.” She jumped down from the crate and stared up at him, a long way. “Questions?”
His head spun; he was suddenly as weary as if he had been fighting for days and sleep seemed very sweet. “No, Cap—” he began, then: “Yes, Captain. What will be my position in the troop?” Did they mean to keep him here in this cage, inputting data until he ran dry? Something in him refused to believe it of the scout, while all his life’s accumulated experience clamored that it was the only rational use they might put him to.
“Position in the troop, is it?” She frowned. “You will be the captain’s personal aide. You will report directly to the captain.” Her eyes gleamed. “That OK by you?”
The captain’s personal aide? Nelirikk blinked and looked to the scout, but was unable to read anything in that smooth face but a weariness as profound as his own.
“That is OK by me,” he said, and tried not to see Commander Carmody’s grin. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said grimly and Commander Carmody laughed.
She turned away, the scout attentive at her elbow, then checked and turned back.
“’Nother thing.” She pointed at the Liaden. “You gave him an oath, swearing to protect him and his line, right?”
