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, Beautiful?" 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?"
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.
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.