by Sharon Lee
Nelirikk grabbed after his wavering attention. “Yes, Captain.”
“Yes, Captain,” she repeated and sighed. “You ask him what that means? You ask him if he’s got triplets, or an aged father?”
Liaden clan structure was a complex social architecture. Nelirikk had studied it, as one studies everything available regarding an enemy, but had no confidence that his understanding approached actuality. He tried to keep the dismay he felt from reaching his face.
“No, Captain.”
She sighed again. “Gonna learn the hard way, ain’t you? Anything short of a direct order, if a Liaden asks you to do something, get details, accazi?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Fine. Now, the details you didn’t get in this case include the fact that the scout and me are lifemates.” She came a step forward, peering up into his face. “You savvy lifemates, Beautiful?”
“I—am not certain, Captain.”
“Get certain. The broad outline is that him and me are one person. If I go down, the scout speaks with my voice. If the scout goes down—”
Something of his dawning distress must have shown after all, because she grinned and nodded her head.
“Tricky, right? Gotta watch him every minute.” She glanced at the doorway, which was cycling open to admit a team of two, pulling a gurney, which supported a whole-body med-box, or autodoc, according to Terran. Nelirikk looked at the captain doubtfully: such things were reserved for generals. . .
“That’s Chen,” the captain said. “Gonna get cracking on those cuts and erase the tattoos, all according to orders.” She paused, tapped her cheek where his carried the nchaka.
“You don’t worry about this one—man’s scars are his own—but the tattoos make you look like an Yxtrang, when what you are is an Irregular. Can’t have you gettin’ shot by our side when Commander Carmody thinks you’re so valuable, right, Jase?”
“Right you are, Captain Redhead! I think he’ll look charming in a mustache, Chen.”
“Do our best,” the tech said easily as he approached Nelirikk with a hand-reader. “All right, son, roll up the sleeve, and let’s see what you’re made of.”
Sighing, Nelirikk obeyed, and when he looked around again, he was alone with the techs.
LUFKIT:
Epling Street
The day was fine, the sun high, the air bright and bracing. Sheather filled his lungs appreciatively as he moved down the soft strip of concrete toward the living-place of Angela Lizardi, Senior Commander Retired, Lunatic Unit Inactive.
The T’carais, his brother Edger, did not accompany him on this mission. They had reasoned that two of the Clutch, walking together in an area where non-humans were not often found, would excite comment among the local population. Worse, the novelty of the sighting would doubtless sharpen memories. Dull remembrance was in the best interest of Clutch and human-kin, should one such as Herbert Alan Costello, the Juntavas buyer of secrets, find this place and begin his askings.
So did Sheather come alone to Angela Lizardi’s home-place, bearing a message from T’carais to Elder and another, which was to be said to Miri Robertson and Val Con yos’Phelium, should the Elder deem it fitting that Sheather see and speak with those valued persons.
The numbers on the door-fronts counted this way: 352, 354, 356. The door that adorned the number named 358 was heavier than those other doors adorning other digits. This door was hewn of wood, not formed of plastic. This door was scarred and gnarled, beaten by weather. It stood before him with the aloof impartiality of an Elder, minding such duty as was its own, and which was far beyond the ken of a mere Seventh Shell.
Halted by the door, Sheather stood, great eyes dreaming on the scarred wood, accepting the awful dignity of the barrier. After a time, when it seemed right to do so, he lifted his hand and pressed a finger very gently against the glowing white button set in the portal’s frame.
Beyond the scarred elder wood, music chimed, high and brief. Sheather waited.
After a while, it seemed right to press the button once more. Again, the music sounded.
The day was noticeably less bright when Sheather assayed the button for the third time. Music sounded, distant behind the door. Closer to hand, another music spoke.
“The lady gone away.”
Carefully, for he was well aware of the fragility of even full-grown humans, Sheather turned. Carefully, he looked down.
A human eggling stood by his knee, face uptilted like a flower, brown eyes opened wide.
Humans thought Clutch big-voiced. Sheather made what effort he could, to shape his voice smaller.
“I am looking for Angela Lizardi, pretty eggling. Do you say she has left her home-place?”
The petal-pink skin rumpled as feathery brown eyebrows contracted.
“Lizzie-lady gone,” she stated emphatically. “Momma say. I like Lizzie-lady.”
“Your regard does you honor,” Sheather said solemnly. “Do you know when Lizzie-lady left this place?”
The face puckered again, eyes misting in thought. Sheather stood respectfully, awaiting the outcome of thought.
“Dilly!” That voice was older, sharper. Sheather took his attention from the eggling and discovered a woman bearing down upon him, the child, and the door.
Straight to the eggling rushed the woman, bending to snatch her hand, then snapping upright with such force the child was jerked an inch or two off the soft concrete.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to strangers?” the woman asked the child, her irritation and anger plain to Sheather’s ears.
“The eggling did me a service,” he said. The woman’s eyes flicked to him and she went back a step, taking the child with her. “I am in possession of a message for Angela Lizardi and the eggling tells me she is away from home. Might you know the day upon which she is expected to return?”
The woman blinked, jerking the child close to her side. “Liz left sudden a couple days ago. Sent me a note to keep an eye on the place. We used to watch each other’s places, back when I first come onto this street. Liz traveled more back then. Where she went this time or when she’s coming back . . .” The woman shook her head, backing away another step. “She didn’t say. None of my business. All she asked was to keep an eye on the place.”
“I understand,” Sheather stated, remembering to moderate his voice. “It is not my intention to call you from your duty. I am . . . sorry . . . not to have met Angela Lizardi at home. Perhaps I shall find her at home another day.”
The woman frowned, thrusting the eggling as far behind her as possible while still maintaining a firm grip on her hand. “If I was you and I wanted to get a message to Liz, I’d go to Soldier’s Hall and leave word there. Chances are she’ll have given them someplace to find her.”
“Thank you,” said Sheather, inclining his head. “Your suggestion has merit.”
“Glad I could help,” the woman said and abruptly spun, snatched the eggling into her arms and dashed hastily down the walk.
Sheather paused to review his actions, but could identify nothing in his conversation or stance that might have suggested danger to the woman. Still, he conceded, where the safety of an eggling was the stake, it behooved an adult to be seven-times prudent.
Soldier’s Hall, now. He felt he understood the location of that building, on the other side of the city. He would first go to his brother Edger and report these happenings outside the home-place of Angela Lizardi. Most especially would he report the Elder Door and the wise eggling. And then the two of them might walk out into the coolth of Lufkit’s evening and seek Soldier’s Hall together.
EROB’S HOLD:
Practice Grounds
Nelirikk emerged from the luxury of the autodoc healed, well-feeling and clean-faced, but for the nchaka and a startling bristle of silky brown hair sprouting between nose and mouth. The hair of his head had likewise sprouted from the soldier’s crop he had worked so hard to maintain to a softly curling mop fully four fingers
long.
As he scraped the stubble from his chin with the razor General Stores had provided, along with leather clothing such as he had seen others wearing, he studied this new face in the mirror.
The eyes—dark blue, surrounded by short, thick lashes—were as always, startling in the naked expanse of his face. The nchaka—that was comfort, though it was barely more than a beige thread in the unrelieved brown of exposed flesh. The beard, the self-same beard that had plagued his face for all of twenty-five Cycles, was a comfort. By the time he finished shaving, he thought he might recognize himself, were he to come upon a reflection unaware.
One Winston—a soldier old in war, as Nelirikk read him—arrived as he was finishing the breakfast that had been brought to him and for an hour it was drill—signals, emblems, insignia and call signs—until the old soldier announced himself satisfied.
“That’s fine. You keep that hard to mind, now, hear me? Hate to have to shoot you ’cause you missed a call.”
Mindful of his status as recruit, Nelirikk saluted as he had been shown. “Sir. I will not shame your teaching.”
Winston laughed and waved a hand, already moving toward the door. “Hell, I ain’t no ‘sir,’ boy. Just stay alive and keep Cap’n Redhead the same, and you done me all the honor I could want.”
The door opened and Winston was gone; it stayed open to admit a technician and the scout. The technician pushed a gurney bearing a computer. The scout had a loop of cable over one shoulder.
“Explorer, I find you well?”
Nelirikk bowed, hand over heart, as he had seen the scout give to their captain, and answered in Terran, as he had been addressed.
“Scout, I am more well than I have been in many Cycles.”
The little man nodded as the tech pushed the gurney against the wall, locked the wheels down and pulled out the keyboard.
“The med tech tells us that you were sadly undernourished. He took the liberty of injecting vitamins and supplemental nutrients.” He smiled. “We are charged with ‘feeding you up,’ which directive I hope you see fit to take as an order.”
He moved to the gurney. The tech took the cable, deftly made her connections and left with a nod to them both, uncoiling the cable as she went.
The door stayed open after she exited.
Nelirikk looked to the scout, but the scout was at the computer, touching the on-switch, nodding as the screen came live.
“I have constructed a program,” he murmured, “as the captain directed. Attend me, if you please.”
Nelirikk came forward and stood at the scout’s right hand, marveling again at the other’s seeming frailty. Yet he had fought like a soldier, winning through to his goal despite the logic that said he was too small to prevail.
One thin hand moved on the keypad. The screen flashed and Terran words formed.
“You will be given a question. Two consecutive returns signals an end to your answer. Should a point require clarification, you will be prompted. When all is made clear, you will be given another question.” He looked up, green eyes bright.
“Questions and prompts are in Terran, to aid you in perfecting your grasp of that tongue. Should it be required, a touch of the query key, here, will bring up a rendering of the same question in Trade.”
“I understand,” Nelirikk said, around the chill in his belly. The man beside him tipped his head.
“Shall you honor your oath, Nelirikk Explorer?” he asked, of a sudden in the Liaden High Tongue. “Or is it that you believe I shall not honor mine?”
Nelirikk took a breath. “Scout, it will take many days to empty me entirely, no matter how clever your program.”
“So it would,” the scout said in brisk Terran. “However, the captain cannot spare you from your duty for many days. You are required to report to her at evening arms practice. In the meantime, this is your duty and I will leave you to it. After you have given me your recall code.”
Nelirikk stood for a moment, then forced himself to move over to the place where his pack lay beside the shameful rifle. He had sworn, he reminded himself, as he reached inside and removed the recall beacon. He had sworn, and the Troop had sent him to die, which was the least of the Troop’s sins against him.
Yet, it was as hard as anything he had done in his life, to pull the beacon out and lay it in the fragile hand of a man of the race of the enemy.
The scout received the beacon with a bow, green eyes solemn.
“Battle-duty, Explorer. I do not ask you to forgive it. I only say that I would not require it of you, for less than the lives which must be preserved.”
The understanding of an arms-mate, from one who was no soldier? Nelirikk felt something in him ease, and he nodded in the Terran manner.
“I hear you. It is no shame, that a soldier fight as a soldier must.” He drew a breath. “You will wish to know the place,” he said, and rummaged in the pack once more for the captured map.
“Here,” he said, unfolding it on the floor between them. The scout knelt down to see where his finger pointed, studied the area and nodded—nodded again as Nelirikk recited the procedure for sounding the recall.
“I shall contrive,” he said, rising lightly to his meager height. “And now I shall leave you to your duty, and attend mine. I advise you—as a comrade—be on time to the captain.”
A bow without flourish and he vanished through the open doorway. Nelirikk cinched the pack, picked up the useless rifle and walked over to that tempting portal. The small stone room beyond was empty, though there was doubtless a sentry outside the door in the right-hand wall. Still, a blow from the rifle would settle a sentry and gain him a working firearm.
The rifle was heavy in his hand. He had sworn, by Jela. And the Troop had sent him uselessly to die.
Nelirikk walked back inside the larger room, lay the rifle next to the pack and carried a packing crate over to the computer. He sat down, adjusted the height of keyboard and screen, read the first question, and began to type.
***
“OK,” Miri told her troops. “Dismissed. Arms drill in an hour.”
The vets she’d inherited—a couple ’falks, like Winston, who’d asked for the patrol, and a handful of others who had been separated from their units by the invasion—swung on out toward the mess tent like they’d just had a nap instead of a twenty mile hike. The greenies mooched out considerably slower, a couple walking like their feet hurt. Which, Miri conceded, they probably did.
In point of fact, her own back hurt from the unaccustomed weight of a full equipment pack, rifle and comm. But she stood tall until the last of the Irregulars was out of sight before sighing and reaching for the straps.
“Tired, cha’trez?” His voice was in her ear, his hands taking the weight of the pack as she eased it down.
“Tell you what it is,” she said, as his hands settled on her shoulders, “I got soft.”
“Ah,” Val Con replied, comprehensively. His fingers were kneading gently, finding and smoothing the knots in her muscles, apparently by instinct. Miri sighed and bent her head forward. He rubbed the back of her neck.
“Gods, that’s good. Don’t get carried away, though. I wanna be alert when I introduce your pet Yxtrang to his unit.”
“Our pet Yxtrang,” he corrected, softly. She felt him shift balance, and then shivered with pleasure as he ran his tongue around the edge of her ear.
“Watch that stuff. I’m an officer.”
“So am I.” He nipped her earlobe lightly, hands pressing her waist.
Miri sighed, savoring the sensation a second longer, then slowly straightened. Val Con released her immediately, though she seemed to feel a moment of wistful lust, echoing and enforcing her own feelings, just before she turned to face him.
“Got more ways than a kitten, don’cha?” She smiled, reached out to touch his cheek, tracing the line of the scar.
“If the captain pleases.”
“Big joke,” she said mournfully, shaking her head. “Now, I think the new a
ddition to the family is just as respectful as he oughta be. Do you good to watch how he carries on.”
“I assure you, I intend to watch how he carries on very carefully, indeed.”
She cocked her head. “Hey, you were the guy took his oath and sponsored him into the Irregulars. Now you got second thoughts?”
“Say rather that I do not dice with my lady’s life. Nelirikk undertakes no easy thing here. To completely cut himself off from his people, his culture, his language? Worse, to give an oath of service and go to live among the enemy, the most of whom see him as an object to be vilified, hated, and feared?” He shook his head.
“Wishing only to honor his oath, yet he may fail of it.”
Miri stared at him. “So you figure he’ll crack quick?”
“I figure,” Val Con said, taking her hand and beginning to walk slowly in the direction of the mess tent, “that the luck has favored us, in that Nelirikk has been so badly used by his people. I take him for a man who possesses a strong and innate sense of Balance, else he would never have allowed himself to be persuaded to that oath. If we are clever, and give him what he starves for—work, discipline, and respect—we may yet preserve him.”
Miri chewed on that awhile as they continued their meander across the grass. “How come you’re so interested in this guy? I know you said you owe him, but there’s something more than that, ain’t there?”
There was a small silence. “This Jela whom Nelirikk swears by—he of the neck-jewel?”
She nodded.
“One of the founders of Clan Korval was Cantra yos’Phelium’s partner, a man named Jela, who had been a soldier. It is Jela’s Tree that our clan watches over, in fulfillment of an oath he had from Cantra to keep it safe, should he fall. My study of Korval’s Diaries inclines me to believe that Nelirikk’s Jela is that identical soldier.”
“Oh.”
Diaries from a time before Terra had space. A soldier in the family who happened to have the same name as some Yxtrang war-leader. A tree which was paid the courtesy of a bow and a promise to recall it to its parent. Miri sighed to herself.
