by Diane Carey
T’Cael moved slowly away from her, sitting once again on the edge of the big stone pot, dissipating her intensity with a smile. Idrys realized that he really did smile often for so mysterious a man, even though his smiles retained a touch of the cryptic.
He shook his head in amusement. “It isn’t that far from here to ch’Havran,” he said wryly.
[37] He looked down now at his hands, which were dirtied with yellow-brown soil, and thought of how to put reality into words for her. “When we were attacked in the Wide, I was quite willing to fight. I rose to command my own fighter. My crew was loyal. Then our people reverted to what we had been when we transgressed into the humans’ space all those years ago. We became the aggressors again. We used our victories to gain huge tracts of space from our enemies. Soon our enemies became our victims. Now I think we hunger for more reasons to get more victims. So we cross our space from the Wide back to the Outmarches, and we start watching the Federation, looking for reasons to bite into their space again. And we call it honor. Commander, believe me,” he finished, his gaze sincere and penetrating, “if I truly thought the Federation was a threat to us, I would disobey orders to get there and fight them. That I promise you.”
Idrys licked her lips thoughtfully. “Then what are these things we hear?”
“Rumors, partially, I imagine. Swelled by the wishful thoughts of our own leaders.”
“Partially?”
“Oh, I have no doubt the Federation has made advancements. So have we. That’s to be expected. And in a generation, we’ll be more advanced, and another generation after that, and so on forever. If we attack each other every time we fear advancements, we’ll be at war until we’re all dead. Not much glory there,” he added with a little chuckle. “Advancement is natural to civilization. Attacking a society because it advances is akin to killing a person because he breathes.”
Idrys felt her face grow warm with confusion. He sounded right, but ... “What if you’re mistaken? It took us a half generation to rebuild after the Federation War. This time they will give us no second chance.”
T’Cael stood straight once more, raising the crescent end of one black eyebrow. “That,” he said, “is why I still do my duty.”
The commander inhaled deeply. Once again, she was telling him nothing new. The Primus had long ago decided to stand by his principles. There was nowhere for him to go and no way for him to escape when enemies loomed on all sides. Things would probably be all right for him if it weren’t for this noise about tension hatching once again between the Supreme Praetor’s burgeoning control and the Federation, tensions the Federation didn’t even know about yet. The Praetor liked it that way; it gave him advantage.
[38] Idrys tried to move backward, only to find herself held fast by the plaits in her hair. She tried to look around, but couldn’t turn her head. Something was crawling around her ear. She clamped her mouth shut to avoid yelping, and saw in her periphery that something with little suckers was moving up her cheek toward her eye.
A moment later t’Cael sensed it, looked up, and came to her rescue with his blade. He took hold of a great handful of her hair and held her head steady, then one by one pried the suckers from her face. “This one,” he explained as he sliced a tentacle from her hair, where it had quietly entwined itself, “has to be watched constantly. If I don’t keep it trimmed back, it encroaches upon the nearest living thing and crushes the life from it. Other plants ... sleeping animals ... I even have to cut it before I rest. There you are. Free again.” He made a small ritual of smoothing down the plaits in her hair that had been tugged out of place, then brushed off the soil left there by his fingers. Unable to keep traces of himself from staining her, he turned away and was silent.
Idrys watched his back for a long moment, then tried to shield herself in formality—to shield both of them, really.
“I only came to inform you about the attitude of the Swarm crews. If this is no help to you, then forgive me. I can only suggest that you express your feelings with more subtlety as long as the Praetor’s eye remains among us.”
T’Cael smiled his impenetrable smile again. “Idrys, these expressions that are bringing me trouble,” he said, “are my most subtle ones.”
She sighed. “Ry’iak will come. I only thought you should know.”
Feeling as though she was leaving a funeral pyre after having been the only mourner, Idrys began to pick her way through the hanging foliage only to be stopped by his voice again.
“Among the crew,” he began, “where do you stand?”
Her bronze face puckered with hurt, which she controlled before turning.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was back to his trimming, handling the clusters of leaves with the same boldness and familiarity he had used to handle her braids.
“I stand with you,” she said. “It is not as though I was just assigned, Primus.”
From her tone, t’Cael could tell instantly that he had wounded her. [39] He gave her what he hoped was a comforting glance. “Forgive the question.”
Idrys faced him again. “You know I covet your position,” she admitted, “but I wish to get it through your advancement, not through your deposement. Be careful of yourself, sir. You may be your own greatest danger.”
He nodded, for that was completely true. “I’m nowhere near the border, yet I feel surrounded by enemies.”
The announcer bleeped then, saving Idrys from replying. The words that followed, however, made her long for silence.
“Primus Kilyle, Antecenturion Ry’iak desires an audience.”
T’Cael looked at Idrys, and his smile returned, devilish this time. “Let’s make him wait, shall we?”
Idrys bit her lip, but her own cheeks tightened with amusement. “You make a child of me, sir,” she complained.
As he stepped past her he noted, “You’re welcome.” He tapped the nearest communications panel and spoke into it. “Request that the antecenturion stand by.”
“Yes, Primus.”
When t’Cael turned back to Idrys, his expression teemed with mischief. “How long do you suppose he’ll stand out there letting the guards stare past him?”
“He dares not leave, having announced himself,” she said, but he knew that already.
“Protocol can be a wonderful thing.” T’Cael reached high over their heads and pulled several plants along a metal rod, then moved others on other rods, taking his time to arrange them until the path to the doorway had vanished entirely. “Do you suppose Ry’iak is an explorer as well as a hunter?”
Idrys folded her arms and put her fingers to her lips to keep herself from answering. All she could think of was Ry’iak standing in the corridor, unable to leave, unable to buzz a second time, with the two guards stoically ignoring him. Seldom was danger so entertaining.
When the plants had been arranged to his satisfaction, t’Cael gave one long look at the carnivorous plant with the suckered tentacles, but evidently dismissed a tempting idea. He tapped the wall panel once again. “Admit the antecenturion.”
From their places in the chamber, neither Idrys nor t’Cael could see the door opening. They heard it, though, through the layers of plants, [40] and exchanged a glance before burying their amusement in proper military expressions.
They heard the door shutting, then a few measured footsteps, followed by the rustle of tangled leaves. Idrys pressed her fingers tighter against her lips. Evidently Ry’iak wasn’t about to call out for rescue. Even when they heard him bump into a wall strut, neither said a thing.
The plants nearer by began to shiver, and they knew he was getting closer. T’Cael had arranged the plants to be sure Ry’iak couldn’t take a step without getting a faceful of pots and leaves, and it was working. Only after several false starts did the senate proctor finally emerge into their company.
Idrys bit her finger hard. Ry’iak’s plaster-pale hair was spiked up after being disordered by the plants, and there were tiny ferns stuck in it. He looked disoriented, and wa
s blinking frantically, trying to recover.
“Ah, Antecenturion,” t’Cael acknowledged, careful of his tone of voice.
“The ... the Supreme Praetor’s greetings, Field-Primus,” Ry’iak managed, “and those of the Tricameron.”
“Accepted.”
“The air is thick here.”
“Thick air is strong air, Antecenturion.”
“Yes ... of course.” Ry’iak freed himself from the nearest cluster of leaves, which still had a grip on his shoulder, and positioned himself in a place where t’Cael and Idrys couldn’t possibly communicate silently without his seeing them do it. “With my respects, Field-Primus, I have a list of suggestions to present.”
“Yes.”
“There seems to be some dissent among your crews,” Ry’iak said, forcing himself to overcome the mockery of what he had thought would be a grand entrance. His face worked stiffly to assume a look of control. “This duty space is inglorious, and they seem ... to blame you.”
T’Cael acknowledged only with a nod this time.
“My suggestions include that you put me in charge of personnel assignments within the Swarm. I shall thereby do my best to ward off any disaffection.”
This time t’Cael reacted only by sitting once again on the big pot. He dropped his eyes and folded his arms complacently.
“Second,” Ry’iak continued. “I don’t trust standard ship’s security. [41] Allow me to put my own chosen guards around you. These guards of mine will have no loyalty to anyone but me, and therefore will not be swayed by any ripples among your crews.”
On the outskirts of this, Idrys stiffened, knowing she had no authority to speak. T’Cael seemed oblivious to the veiled threats, which Ry’iak was delivering with thievish care. Each threat was poised on the brink of suggestion. She suddenly regretted advising the Primus to avoid irritating the situation. She quaked with desire to shriek at the Praetor’s eye and order him to never again dirty Primus Kilyle’s quarters with his presence. She found herself glaring at t’Cael, wishing he would speak out against these shrouded insults.
“Last of all,” Ry’iak continued, “I will rotate among the crews of your Swarm and remind them that any service to the Praetor is glorious. I’ll be arranging removal of any slackers or dissidents. I’m sure that will please you. Crews must be kept pure, of course.”
T’Cael continued gazing at nothing. “Of course.”
Idrys clenched her hands, galled at Ry’iak’s smugness. The self-important senate proctor believed t’Cael dared not deny him these “suggestions.”
“Any dissidents,” Ry’iak said, “will be temporarily assigned to Raze, so they may be watched until the mothership returns to pick up the patrol string.”
T’Cael nodded, once again in silence.
Idrys felt her fury boil. Translation: bring the most radical dissenting elements under one roof, better to effect a swift mutiny. Even if a mutiny flared and could be put down, it would be interpreted as the failure of the chief commander of that unit. Either way, the Field-Primus would be removed, the Praetor’s wishes served. Message received.
“Is there anything else?” t’Cael asked emotionlessly.
Ry’iak took the opportunity to puff himself up again. “You will grant me the privilege of private communication to the nearest Praetor’s coach, that I might more efficiently keep him apprised of our progress. I’m sure you’ll want His Excellency to know you’re encouraging proper behavior.”
T’Cael nodded again. Not a ripple of change came into his expression. He seemed thoroughly shamed, and Idrys felt a keen responsibility for that. Better he should die than submit, she realized. She wished she had never come to his quarters.
Ry’iak waited several seconds, glaring at the Field-Primus with [42] youth’s own invulnerability. The ferns in his disarrayed hair made him look like a fighting cock strutting over a victim.
After another moment, Ry’iak couldn’t contain himself. “When will you implement these changes?”
T’Cael licked his lips and stood up slowly, his arms folded in a contrite manner. He took a long, deep breath, and raised his head. “When you eat leeches.”
Ry’iak’s smugness dropped away. His eyes widened.
The explosion was instantaneous. T’Cael didn’t even take another breath before backhanding Ry’iak across the chamber and into a wall. Leaves rippled. A splatter of blood left a dark jade trail on part of the wall. T’Cael stepped through the ravaged plants and grasped Ry’iak’s collar until the Senate’s puppet was nearly choked. When t’Cael spoke, even Idrys shivered.
“Remember who you vex,” whispered the Field-Primus. “If you imagine I’m going to allow you to shuttle between the ships and cram praetorial vigilance down the throats of honorable men, you’ve been mistaught. You’re a parasite. I don’t like parasites. You won’t think again of carrying your blight through my crews before I charge you with gross disloyalty and have you disemboweled.” On the echo of the word, he pulled Ry’iak even closer, making himself clearly understood. “You may report my disposition to the Senate,” he said, then slowly added, “if you survive.”
Another horrid moment passed before t’Cael hauled Ry’iak to his feet, tore the permission chip from his sleeve, and gently invited him to exit the chamber by slamming him into the opposite wall of the corridor.
The guards made no effort to help him up.
When the door had once again closed, t’Cael straightened the strip of fur over his shoulder and turned to Idrys.
“Was that subtle?” he asked.
Chapter Four
PERHAPS IT WAS the way he said it. With all the awe and respect a human being could utter. Staaarship.
Her hull, every inch of it, was opaque ivory. There were no signs of call letters or decorative painting, and she stood out like a pearl against black velvet as she hovered in spacedock. The absence of decals, numbers, and letters made her all the more startling.
George had no idea how long it was before he took a breath. Robert April’s quiet enunciation of that word made him quiver with empathy. Together they stared out the portal.
Shaped to awe and to threaten, a careful amalgam of size and line, the ship implied speed even though speed in space had nothing to do with shape. From the primary saucer to the sleek cigar-shaped power cells in back, her beauty had a harshness about it—almost a hauteur. The design, though not altogether unfamiliar, had been severely streamlined and made new. Her gleaming cream-white hull said she wasn’t meant to melt in with the curtain of space; rather, she was meant to stand out against it. Her most impressive single feature, though, was her size. For a streamlined ship, she was thunderous. Yet there was no sense of bulk at all. She was like a gigantic swan, a bird grown a thousand times normal, yet somehow retaining its grace. George had seen big ships before—transports, space stations, [44] freighters, starliners, carriers, frigates—but this ... this ship sang a song of her own potential.
“Starship,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing until the ship was hardly more than a blur. They were approaching from underneath; the starship loomed over them.
From his side, a voice came.
“She hasn’t been named, hasn’t been catalogued, announced, commissioned, or kissed goodbye. In fact, she doesn’t even exist yet. And neither will we while we’re aboard her.”
George cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice still sounded raspy. “That’s reassuring ...”
April leaned farther toward his dream. “Superb, isn’t she?” And he wasn’t looking for an answer.
The bridge access panel hissed, and George instinctively pulled his eyes away from the starship to look. Two crewmen strode to their positions, the smaller of the two taking the helm from Drake, which was lucky; Drake could no more maneuver an approach to that starship than get out and walk there. The second man, a massive Indian type whose shoulders almost broke through his uniform shirt, went immediately to the upper deck and tapped out an approach request.
“Hello, boys,” April chimed. “Let me introduce all of you. Face me, everybody. Fellows, this is Commander George Kirk and Lieutenant Reed. At the helm is Carlos Florida.” He gave the starship a little nod and added, “He’s going to drive that—and updeck is our astrotelemetrist, Spirit Claw Sanawey. Watch out for him. Mescalero Apache. A wholly dangerous man.”
Holding a communications link to his ear, Sanawey nodded and lifted dark eyebrows. “Right,” he said in a voice very deep but shockingly mild, “I may trip over you.” He listened for a moment, then nodded to April. “Permission to approach the dock is granted, sir. Spacedock commander acknowledges responsibility for the runabout, and we’re cleared to board the starship.”
“That’s delightful,” April said. “Respond accordingly.”
“Where do we dock?” George asked, peering up once again at the starship, now hardly more than a stunning field of alabaster taking up most of their viewport.
“We’re not going to dock.”
George looked up. “What?”
April eyed him. “We’re going to beam in.”
George felt his mouth go dry. “Transporters?”
[45] “Yes, and greatly improved from those aboard the Baton Rouge class of ships. There’s much less power consumption, and they’re much faster than before. A matter of seconds instead of minutes.”
“I don’t understand,” George protested. “How can that be? I heard transporting takes too long to be practical. What changed?”
“Do you know anything about duotronics?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, about ten years ago, a young fellow named Daystrom developed a new computer concept. It was akin to the breakthrough when early man learned to write. It’s taken a few years to wiggle the bugs out, but it seems to be working beautifully now, and this starship is fully mounted with it. With the transporter tied in to the computer bank, the process is advanced to mere seconds. The computer can assimilate the molecular pattern of the bodies it scrambles, and reassemble them virtually instantly. You’re going to love it, George.”
