by Sharon Lee
Kara touched her shoulder.
“Captain, you have a crew to handle these details for you. In the meantime, the backup med tech suggests that you have pulled two doubleshifts and performed a rather tricky bit of piloting and are in need of downtime. The engineering department thinks you should rest. Hevelin thinks you should find a nice pile of grass to curl up in.”
She bent down and Hevelin jumped into her arms.
“When,” Kara asked, carefully to Theo’s ear, “did you learn to speak Old Yxtrang?”
Theo looked up, but Kara was helping Hevelin settle onto her shoulder.
“Bechimo dragged through his files and cobbled together a rough approximation,” she said, which was not…exactly the truth. “I reviewed the emergency linguistics course we had during third semester—you remember. How to talk to Yxtrang for an emergency docking? Remember?”
“I remember,” Kara said quietly.
“Bechimo will tell you what to say about the weapons, in case there’s an argument—” she began.
Joyita broke in: “If Kara and Hevelin are taking the watch, Theo, I will put the feed on low on Kara’s thumbnail monitor and assist in communications. Sleep well.”
Theo glanced at her screen; saw Stost cradling Grakow gently before the image re-formed to a view of local space, wyrd, dusty, and strange, but for all of that, with no threats to hand.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Seebrit Station
The Sweet Rest Hostel
Seebrit Station was…not in the higher ranks of space stations. It was, in fact, a hard-worked station located at a modest crossing of several, equally modest trade routes. The ships that stopped at Seebrit were generally well-known to the station administrators and arrived on a regular schedule. It was not at all the sort of port where Vepal most usually landed. Had it not been for the sudden distress of the distribution monitors, the mission would have had no reason to raise Seebrit Station.
They had, however, come to Seebrit Station, and he would be remiss in his duty, careless of his mission and the future of his race, if he did not call upon those persons of rank and importance as the station offered.
He had met with Admin as soon as they had docked, in order to obtain temporary IDs and seen their “guaranteed safe” status broadcast to all businesses and persons on Seebrit Station. Admin had not been interested in the core of the mission, though names were provided that might be more useful to him.
The first, Kachy Zunuit, the Pilots Guild circuit rider, was not on-station. Her schedule had her returning to Seebrit in eighteen Standard Days, by which time, Vepal very much hoped, they would be well away from the place.
The second name, however, had been that of one of the more prominent traders who routinely stopped at Seebrit, and Trader Menon had been willing to meet at the trade bar.
It had been a short meeting. The trader had wished to satisfy his curiosity regarding how “real” Yxtrang looked and comported themselves. Vepal kept an inquiry after possible “unreal” Yxtrang sternly behind his teeth and smiled the closed-mouth smile at his host.
Curiosity aside, Trader Menon could offer no names of likely persons to contact, nor suggest any other course that Vepal might try. As they parted, he offered the opinion that Vepal’s was a fool’s errand.
Which was, of course, so.
Vepal parted from the trader in no happy mood. Upon reaching their lodgings, he dismissed Ochin curtly before entering his sleeping room and changing into clothing loose and tough enough to wear while exercising. He went up the inner stairway to the gym, waved his key card at the reader, and pushed the door open.
He had utilized the gym once before and found it adequate for a moderate workout. This evening, his muscles aching with unexpended battle acids and his temper worn sadly thin, he hoped not to break anything. As an Explorer and a senior, he had control. He did have control. And, yet, biology would have its due.
It was late in the station day, and the gym was quiet. To the right, far down the room, someone was lifting weights, silently intent on their work. The various machines and dancing booths were dark, the gym itself dim, except for the spots illuminating the silent worker with weight.
There were punching bags along the back wall; in his present state of mind, they drew him like metal shred to a magnet. He grinned in anticipation, even as he realized that the back wall was softly aglow, and that he was hearing the sound of rhythmic blows, a scuff of shoes against floor, and deep, controlled breathing.
Almost, he turned to go; he was in no mood to coddle kojagun, to soften his blows, or pretend to be anything other than himself. He wanted to hit, as strongly as he was able—punch, and punch, and punch again until his muscles glowed and the euphoria lifted him above such minor concerns as the imminent collapse of Temp Headquarters, and the Troop.
The tempo of the punches being thrown by the unseen boxer increased, a grunt accompanying each impact, and the breath coming harsher, as if they, too, had some need to pummel petty problems into dust.
One who could deliver such continuous punishment, with vigor and discipline, was unlikely to be frightened by his own workout, he told himself. And besides, he was curious to see this bold spirit.
He stepped out into the avenue where the bags were hung. Under a spotlight in the farthest corner, a lean, brown figure, stripped to shorts and singlet, worked the bag, dancing before it, fists stern and unanswerable. Though the warrior’s back was to him, he had no difficulty recognizing JinJee Sanchez, commander of the Paladin Mercenary Corps.
Vepal smiled, not the closed mouth to soothe Terrans, nor the bared teeth to terrify kojagun, but the smile one shared with a comrade when the battle had gone well, and yourselves among the survivors.
Vepal took the bag at the opposite end of the row and, without a glance at the too-small gloves provided, set his feet and regarded the bag. The aching was acute; he should have taken care of this before his meeting with Trader Menon, but he had chosen to do research while Ochin and Erthax cared for themselves. If he waited much longer now, his muscles would cramp, and what a proud sight he would be, on the floor before the bag, practicing deep breathing until his body cleansed itself.
The bag before him developed a face. A face not seen in near seven cycles, and smiling then, as now—the smile of having vanquished a worthy enemy.
Vepal raised his fists and had at it.
* * * * *
“She speaks well,” Stost said, as he cradled Grakow. It was truth; the little captain had spoken well. Her accent had been…strange, but words and grammar had been recognizably the tongue of the Troop, rather than some degraded dialect learned from soldiers too long cut off from Command.
“A young captain,” Chernak countered. “Young. Perhaps the position is inherited.”
She considered the screen, where Comm Officer Joyita dealt with matters centered in some other part of his office. There was a screen visible, perhaps showing the main deck. The image might be the young captain, seen at an odd angle, and another of the crew, also young, perhaps holding a child. But that screen disappeared as Joyita turned toward them once more. He spoke in one language and, perhaps, in another. On the screen was displayed text in strange script.
Clarence gave what might be a laugh and shook his head from side to side. Win Ton stepped up to Stost and extended a hand, offering Grakow the tip of his finger.
Stost shrank, fearing a strike by the cat, but Grakow extended his neck, sniffed the offered finger, and sprightly pushed cheek against hand.
“Ah,” Chernak and Stost said together.
Win Ton looked at the words on the screen, frowning, and read off: “Captain and ship give and provide clothes soon. Captain and ship give and provide bag for edge storage, soonest.”
He looked at them both, raised his hands to waist level and said it again, this time the intent coming to, “Captain says store edges and weapons in bag coming, not needed ship.”
Clarence smiled, a happy man he was, and demonstrated, remo
ving a knife from a belt sheath and a pistol from his pocket, then wrapping them into one of the napkins.
They were not to carry weapons aboard the ship Bechimo, Stost understood.
Of course, they were not. This was a tradeship, not a warship, and the captain must be unsure of them. There had been reports of rogue soldiers; surely, she would have heard them, as they had. And recent evidence to the contrary aside, the captain must be prudent on behalf of her crew and her ship.
Which raised the interesting question of how the captain might wish to dispose of their cases, from which they must not be separated.
“We obey the captain’s order regarding weapons,” Chernak said. “How not? It is reasonable.”
“Yes,” Stost said and dropped to one knee, the better to bring Grakow and his pillow gently to the deck.
Chernak raised a hand in a half-salute and spoke to Win Ton in a dialect near to, if not precisely, the dialect he had been killing messily this while.
“Young captain would that we not carry weapons on her ship, and that she clothe us, so that secrets are hard to have. It is understood.”
“Fine,” Win Ton said, inclining his head.
“Fine,” she repeated. “Query: Young captain holds ship through…” she stumbled here, the phrase to describe such a position not being…complimentary.
Stost stood, watching Grakow come free of the pillow and look about himself.
“The captain,” he said to Win Ton, when Chernak had not managed to find a respectful conclusion to her question. “She holds command by…inheritance?”
Win Ton frowned. For a moment Stost thought he had not been circumspect enough, then the small civilian glanced to Joyita, busy in his screen.
Words appeared—very nearly proper Troop words on display—and more text which might, thought Stost, be a translation into a second language.
Win Ton sighed and spoke to Clarence, who shrugged and said something in perhaps a third language which amused Win Ton.
“Another moment,” he said to Stost. “Joyita will speak for me, in answer to your question.”
Stost looked to Joyita as Chernak did. The dark eyes were focused down, possibly on a low screen or desktop, then came up to regard them in turn. When he spoke, it was in the same strangely accented, but correct, Troop tongue that the captain herself had used, rather than the far rougher dialect he had used when they had first come aboard.
“Win Ton wishes to assure the pathfinders that the captain is captain, right and proper. The ship answers to her as to no another.”
* * * * *
The Explorers taught that the euphoria was a trap. The Explorers had techniques to release the acids before cramping became debilitating. The Explorers trained themselves to stand against design and nature. Vepal had long ago had the training, had more than once utilized the techniques, and was famous for his ability to think past the imperative for immediate action into a lasting solution.
Tonight, he welcomed the euphoria, even as he knew its dangers. He danced before the bag, his footwork precise, as he struck and struck, varying his blows and the rhythm, ducking as if he faced another as skilled as he was in this art. For a time, he was only fists and feet and sweat. It was the euphoria that brought him back to himself, though a self dangerously pleased with his own prowess.
He slowed his tempo, softened his blows, allowed his feet to dance into stillness and, at last, his fists to fall.
It came to him then that he was not alone.
He turned, sharp-edged with pleasure, and was pleased again, that JinJee Sanchez did not flinch.
Instead, she frowned slightly and sighed.
“Your pardon, sir. I did not intend to disturb you at your work.”
“My work is done,” he told her. “Were you here long? I was not aware.”
“I have been here for some minutes,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to watch a professional and I thought I might learn something.”
In his present state, that was annoying. An Yxtrang soldier did not stoop to teach kojagun! Then, he recalled that she was a warrior in her own right and one who had survived at least one close encounter with an Yxtrang soldier. A soldier should never stint another soldier—that was a lesson learned in creche, and to some extent, despite politics, rivalries, and corruption, that ideal was served more often than not.
“Did you?” he asked, honestly curious. “Learn something?”
“I think I might have,” she said. “You have an interesting approach to footwork. I will try, the next time I address the bag.” A smile glimmered, with a small show of teeth.
“Tonight, the bag and I have agreed to disagree, and I am bound for my quarters.”
That was strangely disappointing, though the glow of violent action made it difficult for him to think why that should be. Instead, he said. “You are not afraid.”
Black brows pulled together. “Afraid?”
“Of me. Of Yxtrang. But you have fought Yxtrang—” He touched his own cheek where the scar blossomed on hers.
“I’m a mercenary. We fight when we are paid. A few years ago, we were paid to fight Yxtrang. Our forces were well matched, but we prevailed. Are you angry?”
“Angry?” he repeated.
“I, and my unit, killed Yxtrang—quite a number of them, since none would surrender, even after their case was hopeless. Are you angry that we killed Yxtrang?”
“Yxtrang die in battle,” he said, still puzzled. “You were, I think, an honorable foe.”
Again, the smile, and the suggestion of tooth.
“In fact, we are both soldiers. And this is not a battlefield.” A pause while she scanned his face, her fierce eyes narrowed. “Mercenary units must also register with Seebrit Station Admin and guarantee to be not a danger.”
He blinked, unable to think as needed, and in that moment, she gave him that sharp nod of salute.
“Good night, Ambassador Vepal.”
“Good night,” he managed, but she was already gone, vanished down a shadowy avenue of silent equipment, leaving him alone.
* * * * *
“Captain.”
Bechimo spoke directly into her ear. Theo thought it was directly into her ear, but she more than half-thought it was because acknowledging that he was talking to her…directly…was too unnerving.
“Yes?” she asked quietly.
She was in her quarters, showered, and obediently lying in her bunk, though it could not be said that she was sleeping. There was too much to think about. There were strangers on her ship, and despite her own insistence that they were civilized and would behave according to the code of civilized persons…there was always room for error when cultures interfaced.
Or, in this instance, she’d thought wryly, collided.
“Captain, I regret disturbing you on your off-shift…”
Whatever it was, Theo thought, it must be bad. Bechimo tended toward formality when he was nervous.
“I wasn’t asleep,” she said.
She hitched her pillow up against the bulkhead and curled against it, blanket across her lap.
“But you knew that,” she added.
“Yes, I did,” her ship admitted. “However, asleep or awake, it is your off-shift, and I am…disturbing your privacy.”
Right. And given how conscientious he’d learned to be about respecting her privacy, the fact that he was disturbing her now was a second indicator that…something was bothering him bad.
“As it happens—and even though it’s my off-shift—I’m not being very restful. My brain’s whirling and I can’t shut it down. You’re providing a welcome diversion.”
There was a silence just long enough for Theo to reflect on how Bechimo might process the concept of shutting down a brain, and to wonder if she was going to have to rephrase…
“I see,” he said, his voice very polite, indeed. “As I am performing a useful service, I will proceed to divert you further. Captain, we must leave this place.”
Theo blinked.
This place—this piece of wyrd space—had been Bechimo’s ultimate safe hiding. He had considered it secure enough to bring his crew here, and given the list of places he considered unsafe, that said a lot, right there.
She had hesitated too long; Bechimo spoke again.
“It is becoming dangerous here,” he said, and there was that defensive tone, like he expected her to argue against moving elsewhere, which, everything considered, she wasn’t sure she wanted to do.
“Where do you suggest we go?” she asked mildly. “Surebleak?”
Much as she didn’t want to give Val Con the notion that he could tell her what to do, she’d been considering Surebleak seriously, before the excitement of the rescue had driven every other thought out of her head. Surebleak solved the problems of Spiral Dance and the small tree—Val Con could take custody of them, as heir or something.
And now that she thought of it, Val Con might be the best depository for their…guests, too. After all, he already had three Yxtrang—former Yxtrang—attached to his household. He’d hardly notice two more.
“Surebleak is not safe,” Bechimo said flatly, interrupting this train of thought.
“Well, no, it’s not; but most places aren’t safe,” Theo said.
“I grew up on a Safe World, and even it wasn’t safe,” she added. “Not for everybody, all the time.”
“It is,” Bechimo stated, “my duty to protect my crew.”
Well, there was no arguing with that, as Clarence would say. That aside, this conversation was becoming more worrisome as it went on.
“Where do you suggest we go, then?”
“Brulilt.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It is not well-known, Captain. Its location is infelicitous. While Brulilt itself is inhabitable and has been certified for colonization by the Scouts, it is the sole planet in its system. A wide band of rubble also orbits Brulilt’s star. It is thought that there had once been an active system there, the other planets having been destroyed during the war in which Jeeves tells me that he was an admiral.
“However it came to be as it is, I have previously rested there, and only twice encountered other ships, which were easily avoided.”
