"If there are no further reports at this time, I will be in the infirmary and my quarters for the next half-watch. Mes Montague," she said, addressing the quiet young woman at the end of the table, "lay in a course for the nearest wormhole in the event that our shaauri friends attempt further pursuit. Scholar-Commander Adumbe has the bridge. Ser O'Deira, maintain alert status."
She rose, and the rest followed. Only Kord remained seated. He waited until the others had left the briefing room and looked up at her with rebellion in his pale brown eyes.
"You're going to see the Kinsman, Little Mother?"
She chuckled and shook her head. Kord was as comfortably predictable as the tides of Calada. "You assume the worst, my friend. We have seen nothing to indicate that he is other than he says, and no evidence of telepathic ability."
"You underestimate the potential danger of this man."
"I witnessed what passed between you, Kord. He has the training of a warrior, doesn't he?"
"Yes." Kord touched the scar that ran from his cheekbone to chin. "He is a warrior."
"You respect him."
"As an enemy. Remember this: If he was raised by shaauri, he is one of them."
"Have you forgotten Sirocco, Kord?" she asked softly. "You came to Dharma at first manhood, but you have never lost the ways you were born to. Our fugitive was born human."
"The shaauri killed your cousin."
I killed him. She crushed the thought. "They killed Tyr in what they regarded as an act of defending their territory in time of war." She leaned on the table and met Kord's gaze. "I don't love the shaauri. They strangle the commerce we need to survive. But I will not judge this man according to his misfortune. And neither will you."
Kord rose from his seat, clearly unconvinced. "At least let me accompany you."
"I need you on the bridge. Toussaint may be competent, but he doesn't have your instincts." She smiled. "I'll carry a stunner, and Zheng will be with me. Not even a shaauri can match her where sheer brute strength is concerned."
"But a shaauri striker is more than a match for the Pegasus. If they do come through, we'll be outgunned. I strongly advise that we modify torpedoes with proximity sensors and lay them at the mouth of the wormhole. At the very least they'll slow the shaauri down. I can take the Pontos and have them in place within the next two hours."
"No shaauri has entered human space for years. I prefer to throw all our resources into getting the Pegasus spaceworthy again." She sighed at the look on his face. "I'll be all right, Kord. Stop worrying."
"As you say, Captain."
She gripped his shoulder and turned for the lift, wondering at the uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension lodged like a fist in her chest. She ought to heed Kord's advice and take at least one armed escort to the infirmary, but she felt no need of protection. She could defend herself very competently from most attacks, though Kord was her superior in that respect. He, like most Siroccan males, had been trained from birth to be a warrior. Her instruction had come late, but she'd pursued it with even greater determination because she was Dharman and female.
Whatever Ronan VelKalevi might be, he was unlikely to risk a blatantly stupid act. She well remembered his quiet dignity when she had questioned him on the bridge, the way he had faced Janek's hostility without alarm, his sincere apology. He had moved with spare grace and perfect balance. His face was striking, his eyes brilliant with intelligence.
Such a man seemed an unlikely prisoner among the shaauri. He was neither bent nor broken, neither fully indoctrinated into the shaauri culture nor clinging pathetically to the scraps of human custom. In a few brief minutes of observation, she had judged him a man of courage and purpose, not easily shaken by his precarious circumstances.
That might make him, as Kord said, all the more dangerous. But that brief and unexpected mental touch had failed to trigger any sense of warning. To the contrary—she had been left with the overwhelming desire to know this strange fugitive to the very depth of his soul.
Therein lay the truest hazard.
She reached third deck and entered the infirmary, greeting Zheng's assistant with a nod. Zheng stood just inside the door of the ward, studying the monitors suspended above the berth on which her patient lay. The screens indicated body functions within normal range: pulse, blood pressure, lung function, pupil response. Every attribute of an extremely fit and healthy young human male.
That made his appearance all the more shocking. Zheng had left VelKalevi unclothed save for a light blanket covering his lower body. He lay quietly with his back to the doctor, and as Cynara joined Zheng, she found herself gazing at a chronicle of horror.
On the bridge he had been wearing a shipsuit that covered him from neck to wrist and ankle. She hadn't seen the scars—layer upon layer over back and shoulders and hips, creating of his flesh a corrugated resume of punishment and countless skirmishes with teeth and claws.
Shaauri teeth. Shaauri claws. No, not claws, but curved nails their warriors kept sharpened to dagger points as deadly weapons of close combat, just as they filed their teeth to resemble those of primitive ancestors.
If Ronan VelKalevi turned to face her, she knew she would find similar records on his chest and arms. They continued the length of his legs and tattooed even his feet and hands.
Only his face was relatively clean, or so she remembered. Perhaps the shaauri had spared him obvious disfigurement. She knew nothing of shaauri notions of beauty. It might be that such scars were marks of honor.
Or perhaps he had merely suffered until he had learned to bear pain as other men bore the insignificant bites of sea-midges.
Barbarians, Janek called the shaauri. Natural killers who murdered any human caught intruding in the Shaauriat, who were raised communally and never knew their fathers, who chose their leaders and meted out justice through trials of physical violence.
But Kinsmen were allied to the shaauri. They were not treated so. The very truth of Ronan's story was imprinted on his flesh; he had been a prisoner, and he had known incalculable pain at the hands of humanity's greatest enemies.
"It isn't pretty, is it?" Zheng remarked. "I would have doubted that any unenhanced human could survive such an ordeal." She consulted the diagnostic screen and called up a holoscan of Ronan's body. All the organs were healthy, spine straight and muscles well developed, but nearly every major bone of his arms and legs had been broken in young adulthood. "Some shaauri physician did an excellent job of repairing the breaks so that no lasting deformation occurred."
Barbarians. Cynara fought the urge to stroke that ravaged back, as if she had the power to offer comfort with a gentle human touch. A typical, deeply conditioned Dharman female sentiment that she had never quite abandoned.
At least the shaauri regard males and females as equal in every facet of their society, unlike my own people. Who are the greater barbarians?
The answer eluded her, and even the question left her mind as Ronan VelKalevi groaned and rolled onto his back. The blanket slid across his waist and snagged under one knee. She had been right about the scars over the rest of his body, and about his face. His profile was unmarred save for a single line across his temple, ending at the dark edge of his hair.
Human. Utterly human. And most definitely male in a sense she could not ignore, no matter how much her family regarded her as tainted and forever ruined as a woman and childbearer.
"He's coming out of sedation," Zheng said. "He should be able to talk within a few minutes."
"There's no danger of relapse?"
"Not by my judgment, but I counsel restraint until we're sure." Zheng studied Cynara with narrowed eyes. "Are you all right?"
Trust Zheng to notice that her captain's skin had flushed and her pulse had jumped from walk to gallop. "A great deal rides on what we discover about our guest," Cynara said. "Leave me alone with him, Bolts. One way or another, he's lost in a strange land. He's going to need someone to trust, and I intend to be that person."
&n
bsp; "I don't have to warn you to be careful. He's stronger than his muscle mass indicates. See for yourself." She tapped the monitor and pulled up a recording of her initial treatment.
In the recording VelKalevi had regained consciousness, but something was clearly wrong; he shouted in an alien tongue and flailed his arms and legs as if he were fighting off enemies. Zheng had to call her assistant to restrain him before she could administer the sedative.
"Our patient was suffering a delusional state and was unable to communicate coherently," Zheng said, stopping the recording. "He was extremely fast, just as he was on the bridge."
Cynara patted the stunner at her waist. "I'm prepared, Bolts. You can watch, of course—just stay out of sight."
Zheng nodded and left the ward. She would remain right behind the observation window, where she could note everything that occurred in the ward without being seen by her patient.
Cynara pulled up a stool beside the bed and waited for VelKalevi to regain full consciousness. Inevitably her eyes were drawn to the lines and planes of his body, as if to something alien and exotic but enticingly familiar.
She had seen unclothed men many times since she'd left the protection of her family's palace. From her first day of command aboard the Pegasus, she had treated her crew with no regard to gender, a fact that frequently distressed her Dharman contingent. She had lived in close quarters with males of every description and several cultures, some of whom regarded sex as a casual diversion.
She'd felt no interest in any of them. That part of her had been shut down like an obsolete drive coil, and not entirely because of Tyr, as her parents believed. Tyr's gender had given him all the opportunities denied her—until he'd bestowed his final, devastating gift.
Gift, and curse. All his knowledge was hers, all the skills she had hardly begun to absorb before her father had betrothed her to Fico Nyle Beneviste. She, a woman, had become captain of the Pegasus.
The price had been virtual rejection from Dharman society, horrified looks from every burgher-lord who considered her neither man nor woman but a grotesque combination of both, unfit for marriage or the position she held by virtue of Tyr's extraordinary death.
Their judgment was no more than convention, a terror of breaching the high wall between male and female. Once she had known what it felt like to want a man. Sexual need—unspoken by Dharman women except in hushed whispers—had vanished since the blending as if it had never existed.
But as she looked at Ronan VelKalevi, she realized with faint shock that those obsolete biological functions had come back to life. She recognized them in her response to Ronan's strong, scarred body, the steadiness of his gaze, the courage he must possess to have borne such pain.
Poseidon. She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Tyr was no part of what she felt now. Once she unbarred the gates to desire, she might never close them again.
How much do you know of human women, Ronan VelKalevi? Have you even been with one?
Ronan's arm dropped over the edge of the bed. Cynara had one second to bring her thoughts under control before he turned and opened his eyes.
"Cynara," he croaked.
He obviously remembered her, though she'd mentioned her given name only once. His breathing remained steady, but his pupils had constricted to mere pinpoints. The monitors showed a slight spike in his pulse.
"Ser VelKalevi," she said, "how are you feeling?"
His gaze shifted from her face to the monitors and medical equipment suspended from the overhead. Cynara could see the memories playing behind his eyes, the rapid acknowledgment of his situation. He tried to swing his legs over the bed, but Cynara stopped him with a firm touch on his knee.
He tensed as if he might resist and then relaxed his muscles. The tight ridges of his stomach had their own share of scars, and he seemed not to notice that the blanket had fallen to the floor.
Furred sentients with little sexual dimorphism had no real need for modesty. Ronan had evidently not learned the concept from his human parents. He looked into Cynara's eyes with open interest.
"I am well," he said, his words a little slurred.
"Do you remember where you are?"
"You are Captain Cynara D'Accorso, and I am aboard the Alliance ship Pegasus."
"You blacked out on the bridge," Cynara said, watching his face. "Do you know what caused it?"
"No."
"His mental faculties read in the normal range, and he is obviously lucid," Zheng's voice spoke from the intercom. "Do you suffer from any medical conditions, Ser VelKalevi? Allergic reactions?"
Ronan looked toward the observation window. "Does the healer fear me?" he asked Cynara. "If I did harm, I regret."
Cynara bit back a laugh. She had never seen Zheng afraid of anyone, and her patient's face was so earnest and sincere that he might have been a child apologizing for stealing a sweetmeat. She found it oddly endearing.
But the body that moved under her hand was no child's. VelKalevi planted his feet firmly on the deck and stood, testing his balance. "Your scans must have confirmed my state of health, Healer Zheng," he said. "Where is my clothing?"
Cynara indicated a standard shipsuit folded on a nearby table. "Your own is being cleaned. Don't try to move too quickly, Ser VelKalevi."
He frowned, a faint crease between his brows. "This 'Ser'—it is a title of rank?"
"It's the usual Persephonean male form of address," she said, "common among the worlds of the Concordat."
"But you humans do not make distinctions of Path."
You humans. Cynara's skin prickled. "You refer to the shaauri caste system? My knowledge of shaauri society is incomplete. How do you prefer to be addressed?"
He was silent for some time, gazing at nothing, but Cynara sensed that he was deep in thought. Far from pleasant thought, at that. She was sorely tempted to touch his mind again. She might not pick up anything but emotion or surface static, but to know what this man really was…
Command of the Pegasus accorded almost every challenge she could wish, fulfilling her ambitions and satisfying her need for adventure. There was always something to strive for, new experiences, new people. But Ronan VelKalevi presented a puzzle unlike any other, and her frankly sexual response was an added provocation she couldn't ignore.
This was no game. The stakes were astronomically high. If she failed to unravel this mystery, she might not only lose command of the Pegasus, but put the ship's mission at risk as well. Janek wouldn't hesitate to hasten her downfall.
And swift currents to him. Let them carry him right onto the reef. She was anyone's equal when it came to protecting the Pegasus and the Nine Worlds. When she was finished with him, Ronan VelKalevi would yield up his secrets and be none the wiser about his rescuers.
"I presume," she said cautiously, "that since you were a prisoner, you received no… Path designation. Yet you use the 'Vel' prefix."
He stared into her eyes. "I require no special form of address. Ronan is sufficient."
She required no telepathy to feel the sensitivity of that topic. "Perhaps, when you are ready to begin answering questions, you can remedy my ignorance of shaauri custom."
He tilted his head to the side. "I understand that you do not trust me, and that you must ask questions. What do you wish to know?"
"I think you'd better dress first." She tossed him the ship-suit. "Doctor Zheng, is our guest fit to be released?"
"I see no reason to retain him, subject to review, of course."
Cynara nodded, half an eye on Ronan as he slipped into the shipsuit without a single awkward or wasted motion. Every one of his muscles was perfectly formed, balanced for supreme efficiency and strength. Only the most rigorous training could account for that body—training and the most brutal punishment for failure.
Zheng entered the ward, her heavy tread nearly shaking the deck. "I have prescribed a moderate bland diet for Ser Ronan until his nutritional needs have been evaluated. Shall I have his meal sent up to the guest cab
in?"
"Aho'Va D'Accorso, I do not wish to further disrupt the operation of your ship," Ronan said, fastening the suit to the top of his neck. By your leave, I will take nourishment with your crew."
Cooperative, courteous… and remarkably fluent for a man raised by aliens. Cynara made a personal note on her wristcom to download the latest Voishaaur-Standard dictionary from the ship's databanks.
"Your offer is noted, Ser… Ronan, but most of the crew is on watch. It is necessary for you to eat. If you have no objection, I'll join you in your quarters and ask a few more questions before leaving you to rest."
His unreadable eyes cut through her like a razorback in a fisherman's net. "It is my honor, Aho'Va."
But you haven't dropped your guard, my friend—not for a moment. "If you're ready," she said, "I'll escort you to your quarters. You and I have a great deal to learn about each other."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Ronan stepped forward, and Cynara half expected him to offer his arm in the manner of a Dharman gentleman. But he paused a meter away, obviously waiting for her to take the lead.
She did so, gesturing Zheng back to her work. Ronan fell in behind her, padding as silently as Archimedes when he was given free rein of the ship.
That should be an interesting introduction. Archimedes was something of a ship's mascot, but no one presumed to own him. Ronan was certainly as much a curiosity as a domestic cat on a blockade runner. A pet he would never be. His calm demeanor was a mask. Underneath it he walked on the edge of violence, as unpredictable as a feline… or shaaurin.
Ronan seemed quite content to hold his tongue as they followed the corridor into crew quarters, but his eyes were never at rest. When he and Cynara encountered other crew members, he stood aside and let them pass with obliging constraint.
Kinsman's Oath Page 4
