On the way to the dining room, Tarlac had his first experience with the casual nudity Hovan had told him was an option in-clan. Except for ceremonies and parties, quite a few members did without clothes.
Tarlac, warned, managed to feel only mildly embarrassed when a female wearing nothing but a carrying pouch slung over one shoulder stepped out of a side corridor ahead of them. She saw them and smiled at Tarlac, then hurried to embrace Hovan. He returned the hug before introducing her to Steve as Channath, the clan's chief physician. "She for you last night cared, when you sick were, and this morning's medicine prescribed."
Tarlac gave her a rueful grin, trying not to stare. "Tell her thanks, would you?"
"That not necessary is, but I will her tell." Hovan did so, and translated the reply. "She suggests, you little liquor drink from now on. And if you bad reactions to anything else find, her tell at once."
"Don't worry," Tarlac said emphatically, "I will!" Then he was in the air as Channath hugged him. Back on his feet, surprised but too flattered to mind, he looked bemusedly after Channath's retreating back. "What was that all about?"
"I told you, there much touching is, in-clan." Hovan put an arm around the man's shoulders. "The closeness good is, not so?"
"Yes…" Tarlac said slowly. "Yes, it is. It's strange—I shouldn't like it. A Ranger has to be self-sufficient, has to stay apart—has to be objective and impartial. I'm not, any longer."
"What will that mean, when you to your Empire return?"
Hovan had zeroed in on Tarlac's thought, though the Ranger didn't believe what he described would ever have a chance to happen. "I'll have to retake the psych tests, then it depends. Maybe I'll be disqualified from anything that involves Ch'kara or the Traiti, maybe I'll have to resign. The decision will be up to His Majesty."
"He would you demote?"
"Only if he doesn't have a choice; the Empire needs Rangers. And even if he does have to demote me, I won't be dishonored or anything. Something like this happened once before, about four hundred years ago, to a Ranger named Jeff Shining Arrow. He lost his detachment, too—got married, had kids—so Empress Lindner made him a Duke. Emperor Davis would probably commission me into the Fleet."
"That no dishonor is, true. Do you think it will to you happen?"
"Yes, if I've changed that much. It could be a lot worse, of course . . . but falling in love's no crime, it's just something the Empire can't afford in a Ranger."
"That the real reason is, then, why you no family have."
"Yeah. I didn't mean to evade the question then, I just wasn't sure I could explain it. I didn't know you very well."
"I understand. You never anyone met, who more to you than the Empire meant." Hovan shook his head. "That a thing of much sadness is."
Tarlac didn't answer. They were at the dining room by then, and food, not conversation, was in order.
Not long after their meal, the two were being escorted through the halls of the single building atop a low hill called Godhome, located in the center of the Traiti capital. Tarlac, not wanting his skepticism to be too obvious, had cautiously asked why the gods needed a material home.
They didn't now, Hovan had told him, and they hadn't since the Supreme Lord of the Circle, Kranath of St'nar, became the first of the new gods. The old gods, he explained, the ones the Traiti called "those who went before," had left Godhome as … something. Nobody except the Speakers had any real idea about its purpose, and they were saying nothing until the twelfth Lord completed the Circle. At any rate, it had seemed appropriate to join the centers of spiritual and temporal power.
Their escort ushered them into the large open double office shared by the Supreme and the First Speaker; both rulers were waiting for them. They greeted Hovan first, his due as a Cor'naya, and Tarlac used that brief time to study them. The Supreme, like all male Traiti leaders, had Honor scars, but didn't appear distinctive otherwise; he seemed to be middle-aged. The First Speaker, on the other hand, looked young—was certainly no older than Hovan, to outward appearance. But she radiated an aura that awed Tarlac, of immense and serene wisdom that seemed tremendously old, or perhaps ageless.
When the two turned their attention to him, Tarlac didn't respond to their greetings in the Traiti fashion Hovan had taught him. Instead he saluted and introduced himself, as he had when he'd met the Emperor for the first time. "Ranger Esteban Tarlac, of the Terran Empire. It's an honor to meet you."
Hovan translated that, and then the Supreme's reply. "I sorry am, that my invitation more a compulsion was."
"From what Hovan's told me about the way the war's going for you, you didn't have any more choice putting it that way than I did accepting. I just hope it does some good, for both sides. May I contact Emperor Davis, to tell him what I'm doing?"
He knew from the Supreme's tone, even before Hovan translated the words, that the answer was negative. "Fleet-Captain Arjen said, when I him interviewed, that your Ship-Captain would to the Emperor report that you the Ordeal taking are. That all that necessary is." Then he smiled slightly and added, "But I no reason see, you cannot transcripts of intercepted Imperial newscasts receive. I will orders give, that the daily summary to you delivered be."
"Thank you." That was actually more than Tarlac had expected; he'd only asked because it couldn't hurt to try.
"Ranger Esteban Tarlac," the First Speaker said, her English pronunciation careful.
Tarlac turned to her. "Yes, my Lady?"
She went on in Language, with Hovan translating. "Your Ordeal will to human tolerances scaled be. As Fleet-Captain Arjen you told, we ask not certain death, and the Scarring at least would surely fatal be if we did not such allowance make. The Lords stern are, but fair, and you a good sponsor have. There danger is—it must there be—yet no more for you than for any other."
"That's good to hear." It didn't alter his certainty, but it did make Tarlac feel good to know the Traiti leaders were taking such care. "I was wondering, when the Fleet-Captain told me about it. Have you asked any other humans to try the Ordeal?"
"We have no others asked," the Supreme replied through Hovan. "Another has it tried, however. You the second human ruhar are; the first his own mind under questioning destroyed, and was by his interrogator's clan—N'chark—accepted, as clan-born. He the Ordeal tried and failed, without dishonor."
"Will you his name—" Tarlac broke off, shaking his head. "Did it again, Hovan. Sorry. Just ask him the man's name, will you?"
"All that know, ruhar. Horst Marguerre, once a major in the Imperial Marines. One of those he commanded still a prisoner is."
"I've heard of him." So Marguerre'd had the A-I conditioning, had he? Well, that wasn't too surprising; he'd been in Special Forces, most of whom did have it, and he'd been reported missing and presumed dead early in the war. "How did he do?"
"No worse than many." Hovan translated that part of the Supreme's reply, hesitated and spoke to his ruler, then went on to Steve. "He the part failed that I may not to you describe, ruhar. I can only say, he no harm suffered, and seems to be in N'chark happy."
That was better than anyone who used A-I conditioning had been told to expect; Tarlac felt some satisfaction for him. "If he ever gets back to Terra, he can have his memories reimprinted, if he wants; all he'll lose is whatever happened between his last mindscan and the time he used the conditioning." He returned to present duties. "I'd like to see the prisoners, if I may."
After a brief discussion with both rulers, Hovan turned back to Steve. "The Supreme your reason asks."
Tarlac shrugged. "Partly curiosity, I admit, but I'm also the senior Imperial officer here, which makes me responsible for their welfare."
"I will have you to them taken," the Supreme agreed, "since it your duty is, but there no real need is. They well treated are, and as much freedom as possible have. Those who it wish, have even been private quarters given."
The Supreme's expression as he made that last statement would have convinced Tarlac, even if he hadn't already learned that a Cor'naya's word was as binding as a Sandeman warrior's. Traiti didn't like privacy, and tolerated it only when necessary. Rather like him with newsies, he thought with amusement. "If you say so, I don't see any need to check. I'll take your word."
When Hovan translated, the Supreme smiled. "You do me honor."
Tarlac understood that phrase without translation, and bowed slightly. "May I ask a favor, Supreme?"
"Ask."
"Hovan told me you have record tapes of the first encounter between our scout and your guardship. May I see them?"
It wasn't the Supreme who answered. "You may them see," the First Speaker told him through Hovan, "though for now they would almost nothing to you mean. It would best be if you a little time wait, until you Language know."
"A little time?" Tarlac wasn't sure whether to smile or frown, and did neither. "All right, but at the rate I'm going, it'll be six months before I'll be able to understand them."
The First Speaker's reply was gentle. "Do not on that wager. You might yourself surprise."
There didn't seem any good way to answer that, so Tarlac simply nodded. "Is there anything else?"
"Not of business," she replied, "though you welcome are here to stay, if you wish to with us talk."
"I'd like that very much," Tarlac said, "except that my sponsor tells me I have a lot to learn, and any time I waste costs lives on both sides. So if you'll excuse me, I'd rather get to work."
"We all wish lives to save, Ranger, if it can with honor done be. Go, then, with your sponsor."
At the Ch'kara clanhome, a youngling met them and took them to one of the smaller living rooms, with the information that Ka'ruchaya Yarra had set it aside for them so ruchaya Steve could study undisturbed.
Only it didn't quite work out that way. Tarlac did learn a considerable amount that afternoon, but it was as much about his clanmates as it was about how to survive in Homeworld's wilderness. It seemed that everyone in Ch'kara who knew anything at all about the outdoors was anxious to pass the knowledge along to Steve. Tarlac suspected they were motivated as much by curiosity about him as by anything else. If so, he didn't mind; he found himself savoring his n'ruhar's presence and their frequent touches, and the "team teaching" seemed to be very effective.
What he learned about Homeworld's vegetation and wildlife fascinated him—especially, under the circumstances, the practical details. He found out which plant parts were edible and which to avoid, and that he could eat practically everything that moved. Unfortunately, quite a few of the moving things would consider him equally edible. Without a Traiti's natural armor, he'd have to depend on luck and brains to avoid that fate.
He couldn't help wishing he could turn a shipload of biologists loose on this planet. Irschcha and Ondrian were the homeworlds of the other two intelligent Imperial races, yet a Terran without specialized medical preparation beforehand would die within a few days, trying to survive in either's wilderness. It wasn't so much nutritional deficiencies as protein incompatibility and allergic reactions. With the exception of the Traiti wine, that didn't apply on Homeworld, as two weeks' experience proved, and Tarlac was extremely curious about the reason. Well, if he ever got back to the Empire, he'd recommend that such a study be made.
For now, though, there was nothing he could do, and his first full day here had been busy; he was tired. He'd get a good night's sleep, then start fresh in the morning.
When Tarlac woke, though, it wasn't morning and he wasn't on his sleeping mat. It felt like the middle of the night, and he was standing as he had stood once before at the altar in the clanhome's gathering hall, with his palms laid flat on the bare lower platform.
He didn't know why or how he came to be here looking up at the images of those who formed the Circle of Lords, but it seemed right to him that he stood so, at peace as his hands rested on the alien altar.
Or was it alien? He didn't want it to be, and it certainly didn't seem alien. He knew, now, what he had only felt during the drive to the clanhome. He belonged here, to the Traiti, as surely as he belonged to the Empire, and he had to bring the two together. It was a need he didn't question, any more than he questioned the approval he sensed from somewhere. Stepping back from the altar, he bowed formally.
Conscious of the chilly night air on his bare skin, he descended the steps, intending to return to the sleeproom he shared with Hovan and several other fighters.
There was someone at the far end of the gathering hall, approaching him. He recognized the green-robed figure as the Speaker, Daria, and wondered briefly if being here in his condition was considered disrespectful, or worse.
Apparently it wasn't; she smiled at him. "The Lords saw fit to summon you quickly. Was the communion pleasant?"
"I don't know," Tarlac said. "I don't remember—"
He broke off in shock. She had spoken Language, and he'd answered in it. Not in the halting fragments he'd learned from Hovan, but as easily and fluently as if he'd been speaking Imperial English! "What— How—"
"The Lords taught you, of course." She showed no surprise at that. "But here, I brought a cloak when I sensed them calling you; I thought you would need it. And come, I will get you some hot chovas. It will warm you."
"Thanks." Tarlac took the cloak gratefully and wrapped it around his body, feeling a sense of relief. He'd adapted well enough to the in-clan nudity that under most circumstances being nude himself might not bother him too badly—but this woman was the clan's religious leader, and he was still uncertain enough not to want to commit any Terran improprieties around her. "The chovas sounds good, too."
By the time they were in the dining room and Daria had brought mugs of aromatic chovas from the always-ready pot in the kitchen, he'd stopped shivering and managed to accept the fact of his new command of Language. He'd also discovered it did him no good to think about how he'd gotten it. When he tried, his thoughts simply shied away from the subject.
"Do the Lords do that sort of thing often?" he asked as they took seats. They weren't the only ones in the dining room, even at this hour, but nobody paid any noticeable attention to them.
"No, they very seldom intervene," she said calmly. "Why? Do your gods speak often?"
"It hasn't been proven that any ever have. I've never really believed in any of Terra's gods." The hot mug between his hands gave off cinnamon-flavored steam. "I'm not very good at taking things on faith."
"On faith? Your gods provide no evidence?" Daria's voice held faint disapproval. "They must be inferior gods, then."
Tarlac had to agree. "Yeah. The Circle of Lords doesn't leave much room for doubt, does it? No wonder Hovan thought I was naive."
He took a drink of his chovas, enjoying the warmth amid his troubled thoughts. He didn't see any alternative to accepting the Lords' reality, like it or not. And he didn't particularly like it. Gods who took an active part in mundane affairs introduced an uncertainty factor that he found unsettling at best. "Why haven't they helped you win the war, though?" he asked.
Daria smiled sadly. Apparently Language hadn't been the only thing the Lords taught him; he was reading her expression easily. "Who can say what motivates a god? We can only hope that their intervention now, through you, will save some of us."
"Yeah." Tarlac sipped again at his chovas. "Look, will you explain something for me?"
"If I can. What is it?"
"What in—" Tarlac hesitated, modified what he was going to say. "What does a Ranger taking the Ordeal have to do with ending the war?"
Daria was silent for a moment, then she smiled again, easily, at the Ranger's almost aggrieved tone. "Ruhar, you must have noticed that all officers and high-status males are n'Cor'naya. There is a reason for that; we have so many that there must be a way to select the most capable, courageous, and honorable. The Ordeal has done that for many millennia, though it changed when Lord Sepol was called to the Circle.
"If the war is to be ended with honor, it must be done by someone who has high status on both sides. As a Ranger, you already have that in the Empire; once you pass the Ordeal, you will also be able to negotiate a peace agreement as a Cor'naya."
Tarlac frowned. "Any agreement that will work can't involve you … surrendering"—he had to use the English word—"since that's something you can't do. With the way your people fight, and with us winning as decisively as we are, that is not going to be easy. Will the Lords help me there?"
"I cannot tell you," Daria said, frowning in her turn, perhaps at the unfamiliar word. "They have remained unresponsive; I can only pray that they will. But you must not count on it, for they give no more help than they consider essential. If they think there is any possibility you can do it without them, success or failure is up to you. We must learn, they say, by our mistakes."
"It wasn't your mistake that started this war," Tarlac said. "It was the Empire's, but you're the ones paying for it." He had a sudden thought, frowned again. "Fleet-Captain Arjen said the Supreme and First Speaker invited me here. That 'invitation' really came from the Lords, didn't it?"
Daria nodded. "Yes; all the Speakers know. But do not let that make you over-confident of their help. It is quite likely that having you brought here and teaching you Language is all they intend to do."
She sensed a question he hesitated to ask, and smiled. "No, Steve, your adoption was not dictated by the Lords. The Speakers were informed of your need to take the Ordeal, and we in turn informed our respective Clan Mothers—but the choice of offering adoption or not was theirs. Ka'ruchaya Yarra, in her wisdom, chose to offer it, and I am glad."
"So'm I. And it may mean I do have a chance of finishing." Tarlac grinned, unable to suppress a short-lived surge of hope. He'd been prepared to die to bring peace; just the thought of living to enjoy it, as Hovan was confident he would, was enough to make him reach out and take Daria's hand even as it faded. "Thanks, ruhar. I was—"
"I know," Daria interrupted, putting her other hand over his. "That you continue when you feel certain of death does you honor. You are so intense, Steve. Relax, let the chovas soothe you."
"I can now, I guess. But I'm still worried. From what Hovan's told me, the Ordeal's no picnic, even if I do get help from the Lords."
"That is true, es'ruhar, but be easy. Worrying will only make it worse."
Tarlac was touched by her concern, and even more by what she called him—though her intonation, combined with her use of the male signifier, made that term … intimate. It was almost embarrassing, and he didn't know how to respond. "Speaker…"
"I am Daria, es'ruhar."
"Daria, then." Tarlac was acutely aware of her tone and her touch. The gray skin, despite its dense toughness, was soft and supple around his hands. This was a little too much closeness. "Uh, I think the Traiti and Empire have a lot to offer each other. For instance, you—"
"Steve, es'ruhar…" Daria interrupted again, smiling gently as she ran the backs of her claws up and down his forearm.
Tarlac shivered, not from cold, and a gulp of hot chovas didn't help. He wanted to run from what he was suddenly sure she meant. He couldn't, not yet, not so soon—maybe never! He was afraid as he'd never been in combat, and shamed by the fear, but he was unable to deny it.
Daria paused, sensing the man's reaction. She had expected some unease; the Lords said that he had never shared bodies, since he had never gone through the ceremony humans needed to make it honorable, as some of the prisoners had. But simple inexperience didn't explain his near-panic response. There was a First Sharing for everyone, an occasion for joy in the clan almost as important as a birth.
Then she remembered stories she had heard about the prisoners, stories she recalled only with pity. "Married" Terrans shared bodies, yes, but only in private, as if doing so brought shame even then. And they never spoke of it, never otherwise slept unclothed, and certainly never allowed their bodies that freedom while awake. That had to mean, she realized with sudden horror, that Steve was disturbed by just the thought of such sharing. He must be fighting not to think of it at this moment.
Touching hadn't upset him before, but now his arm muscles were taut under her fingers, and she could tell it cost him effort to remain motionless and silent. She didn't remove her hand, letting it lie as before over his forearm, but when she spoke her intonation was concerned instead of intimate. "Ruhar, let me help you."
". . . What? Help? I … don't need any help. It's just … I'm not judging you, but you can't ask me to…"
Tarlac's voice trailed off. He couldn't look up and meet her eyes, could only stare at the gray, gracefully-clawed hand on his arm. At the altar he had felt he belonged to these people, and it had made him happy. Now he was a confused alien again, belonging nowhere and to no one.
The sudden violent changes of emotion he'd begun experiencing lately weren't usual for him at all, and he didn't know how to handle them. It was like some of the Academy entrance examinations, when he'd been tested for his reactions to mood-altering drugs—and, at the same time, for his ability to function under wildly varying conditions. He'd been trying to adapt to too many things at once, he thought desperately. Maybe he did need to slow the pace, maybe he should … but he didn't have time…
He couldn't … couldn't do what he thought she wanted. He hesitated, tried to explain. "Speaker, I can't make love to you," he said desperately, forcing himself to speak quietly though his words came out in short, harsh phrases. "It just isn't done. Even if you weren't a priestess. We aren't married. I gave up wanting a family … I just can't!"
When he became silent, Daria said softly, "You joined Ch'kara."
"I had to. To take the Ordeal." Tarlac was still staring at her hand, and sat frozen where he was as she moved to a place beside him.
Ah, the Ordeal, she thought compassionately. Perhaps if he knew this was part of the Ordeal, showing he was able to share in the creation of a new life? Then she decided against telling him. It would be better if he did not know just yet, if he did this freely rather than from a sense of obligation. "Ruhar, please. Let me help. I can ease the ill that has been done you, perhaps cure it. You need not suffer as you do."
"Ill?" After a few moments, the Ranger was able to look up into sympathetic amber eyes. "I'm not suffering, I like what I do. You just, well, surprised me. I didn't mean to offend you. If I did, I'm sorry."
She'd shocked the hell out of him, would be more accurate, but he had regained some control and did regret any distress he might have caused her. More, he was angry at himself for losing control in the first place. It was about time he started thinking with something more than his cultural prejudices. Dammit, he was supposed to be able to adapt to just about any circumstances. So why shouldn't he accept this?
Unless she was right, and something in Terran culture had warped him.
Or—maybe not warped him, but been mistaken about him. He'd lost his reserve far too easily in the short time he'd spent aboard the Hermnaen, and here in-clan, for real detachment to have been an integral part of him. He'd enjoyed—until now—the Traiti closeness that was unacceptable in Terran society at present.
That had to be it. The tests, reliable as they were, weren't infallible; they'd missed Shining Arrow's need for closeness. Given his own isolated childhood, it wasn't surprising they'd missed the same need in him—a need he hadn't even known, in Terran society, that he had.
And that was his key. This wasn't Terra. This was the Traiti Homeworld, and physical expression of affection was the norm here. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, deliberately relaxing.
Daria felt his body's tension ease, and put an arm around his shoulders. "That is better, ruhar. I have heard of marriage, though it is not a Traiti custom. Adopted or not, you are part of the clan, and you are adult. Any ruhar can share bodies with you, in full honor."
Any—? the Ranger thought blankly, then he realized it made sense. With their sex ratio and limited fertility, the Traiti couldn't pair up as Terrans did. Hovan and the five he shared young with should have made that obvious. But she was still a priestess…
Daria answered that unspoken thought, startling him. "The Lords do not forbid their Speakers sharing of bodies or young—if they did, none would serve them. There are no barriers, es'ruhar, except those in your mind."
She was silent then, letting the man absorb her words and her unspoken caring, as some people drifted out of the room and others drifted in, to sit near them. The emotional storm Steve was generating, and its texture, let the clan know his First Sharing was near, and that he needed support to make it what it should be.
Daria remembered her own First Sharing, a good eighty years ago, and recalled that she had been a little apprehensive herself, even though she had grown up seeing the adults sharing bodies. She had only relaxed when her best-loved es'ruhar, he who had given her life, came to give her this gift as well. And those who were with them included her other closest n'ruhar.
Now the ones Steve knew best were here to show their approval and joy. Daria regretted that he had no one really close to him for this, but with Hovan and the others around them, she was sure he would take some pleasure in it, and he would be unaware of how much he was missing.
Tarlac felt the presence of his n'ruhar, male and female alike, in a perception that was a glow of warmth. They were his clan, his family. And yes, he was es'ruhar to Daria. He looked up at her, reached to run his fingers softly along the side of her face. "Ka'ruhar," he said, almost whispering, "I will … I will be proud to share bodies with you this night."
When Tarlac woke the next morning he felt good, almost euphoric, eased of a tension he'd lived with for so long he'd forgotten he had it. Daria was also awake, he realized, and those who had been with them the night before were now gone. He put his arms around her.
"Ka'ruhar … it was unbelievable." He remembered the night with delight, and appreciation for something he'd never expected to experience—the unity with another person, someone who treated him as a person instead of a symbol.
"Such sharing is always good," she said serenely, running gentle claws down his back. "And we share more, my Steve. I bear our ka'esten."
"Our daughter." Tarlac, beyond surprise, couldn't question her knowledge of pregnancy or of the baby's sex. He took a moment to sort out his reactions. He knew Daria was pleased—he couldn't deny that in a way he was pleased himself!—but this made it certain. One way or another, this was his last mission as a Ranger. He'd told Hovan what might happen if he returned to the Empire with a clan and family, but he hadn't really expected to have to leave the only group of friends he'd known. That would be a wrench.
Still … he remembered the feeling of belonging he'd had at the altar, and Daria's undeniable concern for him. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad a deal, at that, if he somehow survived. He might be gaining more than he lost … a badge for a daughter. Jim and Linda for Hovan and Daria. Yeah, that seemed fair enough.
Tarlac smiled, already a bit nostalgic. Guess you'll have to find yourself another Ranger, Jean, he thought. Looks like if I ever ride the Lindner again, it'll be as a passenger. Then his attention turned fully to Daria, and the idea of being a father.
It turned out to be a surprisingly pleasant idea. He felt brief concern about how their daughter would be accepted, but decided that shouldn't be a problem, since he'd been accepted. Something else was more important. "Daria, ka'ruhar—what happens to her, and to you, if I fail? Not if I die trying this; I know Ch'kara will take care of you both. But if I can't end the war, and the Empire invades Homeworld?"
Her serenity was unimpaired. "I believe you will not fail, that you will watch her grow. To ease your mind, though, as long as I am carrying and nursing her, it would be dishonorable for me to fight—and the need to care for her will keep me alive, even as a captive, until she no longer needs me."
"That helps, some." It wasn't perfect; Tarlac didn't want anyone to have to die, and he hoped the invasion never happened … but what she said did help. Then another thought occurred to him. "What'll we name her?"
"We have time to give that much thought," Daria said with amusement. "But not now. I have duties, and we both must eat."
"I suppose so." He hated to do it, but he released her and they both rose.
Going to the door, Daria retrieved a bundle and handed it to him. Clothes, in Imperial green and silver—with his badge. He took them, pleasantly surprised; he'd expected to have to go back to his quarters to dress. Somebody was being thoughtful.
Nobody seemed to pay any particular attention to them when they went in to breakfast, though Tarlac was reasonably sure that what had happened was common knowledge. He became positive when, shortly after they found seats, Hovan and Yarra joined them.
Yarra smiled at them "Well, Steve, have you lost all your doubts of truly belonging?"
"There's no need for the English now, Ka'ruchaya—the Lords are good teachers." Tarlac was still baffled by their gift of Language, but he'd come to accept it. "I've lost all my doubts."
"That is good," Yarra said. "I like my n'ruesten at ease."
Then Daria touched Steve's hand. "You tell them, es'ruhar. I will tell the rest at morning service."
"Tell us what?" Hovan asked, but his face told Steve that he'd guessed the news.
"Daria and I share a daughter."
Hovan looked at the two of them, then at Yarra. "It seems our newest one serves Ch'kara well. And himself—I have never heard of anyone passing the first part of the Ordeal so quickly."
"The Ordeal!" Tarlac exclaimed—but shock almost instantly turned to understanding. "Daria, you should have told me!"
"And make your First Sharing a thing of duty instead of joy? No, es'ruhar. That would have been wrong for you, and for our ka'esten. You deserve better of the clan."
Yarra smiled at them, and spoke to Steve. "Ruesten, the Lords must truly favor you, to teach you Language, then grant a girl child to the clan on your first sharing of bodies. That is a thing of joy, for all of us."
"Yes, but—"
"No buts, ruhar," Hovan said. "Are you concerned that she is half human? That does not matter." He turned to Yarra and Daria. "Ka'ruchaya, may I show him?"
Yarra nodded. "If Daria permits."
"Go ahead," Daria said. "I am content to make the formal announcement at service."
Hovan stood and raised his arms, claws fully extended in a stance that demanded the room's full attention. Silence fell, and he waited until every face in the dining room was turned toward him.
"In seven tenth-years, n'ruhar," he began, "we will have—"
Some breakfasters were quick to make the connection between the timespan and the previous night's First Sharing, no doubt aided by the little group's satisfied expressions.
"Female or male?" someone called.
"Female!" Hovan called back, too proud for Steve to be dismayed by the interruption.
Within seconds Tarlac and Daria were surrounded by well-wishers, being congratulated with obvious sincerity. There was no doubt in the Ranger's mind of that, as he found himself grinning like an idiot, accepting the compliments and feeling as pleased with himself as any Traiti male.
A clan-sized family had built-in safeguards against his swelling head, though. A youngling Steve couldn't remember meeting tugged at his shirt, and when he looked around, said, "Hey, ruchaya Steve, you don't talk funny any more."
Tarlac laughed. "Thanks! Think you could do any better, in English?"
The youngling grinned engagingly at him. "Sure I could, if you teach me."
"We'll see. If I have time, it's a deal."
Over the next several days, however, Tarlac was too busy to teach; he was studying instead, fourteen hours a day, which left him time for little except food and sleep. He didn't mind the hard work; it was interesting, and it would very probably keep him alive—if anything would.
Hovan did leave him time to study the first-contact tape and read the daily news summaries the Supreme had delivered as promised. Neither brought any surprises, though he paid close attention to the tape, trying to find some way the war could have been avoided. Doing so wouldn't solve this situation, but it might help prevent another first-contact disaster.
He didn't find anything. The tape simply confirmed Hovan's account of the first human/Traiti meeting, adding little to Tarlac's knowledge except a sight of the guardship crew's intense horror when they saw women aboard an armed scout, being taken into danger only males should face. The human scouts had followed first-contact procedure, Tarlac found; the problem was the mixed crew, and there was no point in changing that. Anything the Empire did there—except perhaps for crewing all scouts with Irschchans, whose sex was difficult for non-felinoids to distinguish—could be just as bad, depending on the culture being contacted. And that had other practical difficulties. No, the Ranger decided, it was what he'd originally called it: a mutual misunderstanding. What he'd called the Empire's fault, to Daria, had been unavoidable. Neither side could be blamed.
The news summaries reported that the Empire was winning as steadily as ever. It was the casualty reports that bothered Tarlac. The Imperial losses were lighter than predicted, and he knew few individuals in the Empire well enough to feel more than mild regret at their deaths; but the increasingly heavy Traiti casualties upset him with their sheer numbers.
More, some of them hit him very personally. The loss of people from Ch'kara, even people he'd never met, left a void. They were a loss to the entire clan, and it wasn't balanced by the birth of a son to one of the n'ka'ruhar on Norvis—though Tarlac did share the clan's joy at that event.
The losses couldn't intensify his need to end the war, though. Nothing could; it was already the central fact of his existence. So, aside from paying attention to the news summaries and the necessities of life, Tarlac spent all his time on the concentrated study that might keep him alive through the Ordeal.
All the same, it was a welcome break when, just before dinner the evening of his tenth day on Homeworld, Hovan informed him that school was over and invited him to join one of the fighters' discussion groups after eating.
Tarlac pushed himself away from the study unit and stood, stretching luxuriously. "That sounds good, and I could sure use the change. Have you decided when I'm supposed to go out?"
"Tomorrow, or if you prefer, the next day."
"Okay. Tomorrow, then. I still don't care to waste time."
"I thought you would not. I arranged for a null-grav car for midmorning; I will take you to the test area myself." He smiled a little. "Before we leave, you will have to make a decision. Now that you know all the dangers, you must choose whether to remain in the test area for the full two ten-days, or attempt to walk out. The Ordeal requires that you survive, nothing more."
"Mmm." Tarlac frowned. "Staying put's safer, but if I'm lucky, walking out should only take five or ten days. That's ten, maybe fifteen days saved—I'll take the chance. And I'll bet you expected that, too."
Hovan's smile widened. "I did. It means you will carry a locator beacon as well as your knife, timed to go off in twenty days. If you are not back here by then, we will come for you."
"Yeah, okay. You know me pretty well, don't you? Let's eat."
He slept that night as if he had nothing hanging over him, and when he went to first-meal, barefoot and wearing only shorts and a knife, he was greeted with enthusiasm and urged, almost forced, to eat heartily. It was the last meal in quite a few days, he was concernedly told, that he could be sure of.
"Hey, don't worry about that!" he reassured them, chuckling. "Being small does give me some advantages—I can go for two or three days without eating and without getting really hungry."
That drew some exclamations of disbelief. A Traiti who fasted for even a single day would feel severe hunger pains, and three days would leave one seriously weakened.
"An advantage that may balance his lack of claws and his thin skin," Hovan pointed out. "It seems a fair exchange; otherwise he faces the same hazards we do."
"Yeah," Tarlac said. "It's a little hard to convince an overgrown bobcat to pull its punches."
"N'derybach are not known for their peaceful dispositions," Hovan agreed. "But if you are done eating, we should leave. You will want as much daylight as you can get."
"Okay, let's go. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
Moments later, Tarlac and Hovan were climbing into one of the clan's null-grav cars. Hovan was confident that Steve was, as he'd said, truly as ready as possible; there was no point in a last-minute briefing, so they made the trip to the test area in companionable silence.
Twenty n'liu from the clanhome, slightly over fifty kilometers, Hovan set the null-grav car down in a clearing, reached into a storage compartment in the control panel, and handed Steve the locator beacon.
Tarlac clipped it to the waistband of his shorts. "Twenty days, right?" he said as he climbed out of the car.
"Five or ten," Hovan said with a smile. "May Lord Sepol guard and guide you, ruhar." Then he lifted the car and pointed it toward the clanhome. Steve was on his own now, totally out of contact, and Hovan found himself suddenly apprehensive. N'derybach weren't the only dangers in Homeworld's wilderness.
So this was Homeworld's wilderness. Tarlac watched Hovan's car disappear, then checked out his surroundings to see what he'd have to work with. It was almost uncomfortably warm now, at nearly mid-morning, but that wouldn't last. The weather was clear; come nightfall, he'd need a way to keep warm.
The clearing was about six meters across and roughly circular, with traces of another camp near the northern edge, shaded by the broad silvery-green leaves of a soh tree. Tarlac grinned at that, remembering his lessons. A soh tree, with its palm-like leaves and sticky sap, was pretty good material for a shelter—which was considerably simpler than trying to improvise clothing.
He'd be spending the night here, so he'd better get started. Taking advantage of all the shade he could, since Homeworld's sun put out more ultraviolet than Terra's, he cut sticks for a leanto framework, then climbed up the soh tree and began one-handedly hacking off the tough-stemmed leaves. It was hard work, but it shouldn't take more than a couple dozen of the big leaves to make a decent shelter.
The resultant structure of leaves laid over notched, sap-smeared sticks, he judged, might possibly last, if it didn't have to stand up to more than a gentle breeze. It would have to do; he didn't have any other fastening material, and it only had to survive for one night anyway.
His next priority was water, which was no problem. This part of Homeworld's main continent had abundant drainage, and from the air he had already spotted one of the streams that fed the capital's reservoir. It was less than a hundred meters away, and it would be his guide out of the forest, as well as his water supply.
Tarlac had no desire to disable his only means of transportation, so when he went for a drink, he watched where he put his feet. The water was good, clear and cold, and Hovan had assured him of its purity. None of the Traiti worlds had any pollution worth mentioning; Traiti technology was roughly equivalent to the Empire's, but had been achieved far more slowly, and the by-products had never been allowed to get out of control.
Refreshed, Tarlac surveyed his problems. He had water and shelter; he still needed food, fire, and foot protection, not necessarily in that order. Food, now at mid-autumn, was as plentiful as water, and there was nothing he could do about foot protection at the moment, so that made fire his next priority. There were plenty of likely-looking rocks on the streambed; some, he remembered from a survival course he'd taken years ago, might work nearly as well as flint. He waded into the stream and selected a handful, putting them on the bank to dry while he planned.
It was just past midday, so he had plenty of time to equip himself, even with nothing but a knife to work with. He wouldn't need much gear; it wasn't as if he was Robinson Crusoe, having to live off the land indefinitely. He'd be out twenty days, at the most. He would have to have some kind of shoes, though; his feet were simply too tender for him to walk fifty kilometers barefoot, even through this open, leaf-carpeted forest. Some kind of long-distance weapon, say a spear or a crude bow, would be useful, too, and effective enough at the relatively short ranges a forest allowed. Anything else would be strictly a convenience. It would be nice if he could rig some way to carry coals so he wouldn't have to start a fire from scratch every night… He shrugged. That wasn't very likely, and speed was his main consideration, so it might be just as well for him to travel light.
By the time he came to that conclusion, the stones were dry enough to strike sparks if they were going to. He went through them methodically, hitting each one against the flat of his knife. Two of the first six did spark, weakly; he set them aside and kept going. The next five did nothing at all, and he was beginning to think he'd have to make do with one of the weak ones. Then the twelfth, a small rock that looked like pinkish quartz, gave a big bright spark that made him whistle in relief and admiration. Tossing the other stones back in the stream, he put the quartz in the pocket of his shorts and headed back for the clearing, picking up dry wood on the way.
He found a gratifying number of animal traces as well, both trails and pawprints, and he hoped few of them were predators. He might not be Robinson Crusoe, but he wasn't Tarzan either, and the idea of tackling a big cat with nothing more than a knife held absolutely no appeal. Predators, he reminded himself, didn't normally attack unless provoked. At least the trails meant he had a chance of trapping something, and it was a sure bet that animal skins would make better moccasins than soh leaves would!
His leanto was still standing in the clearing, though it looked ludicrously flimsy. He stacked the wood next to it, then began scraping leaves and other debris to make a safe spot for a fire in front of it. He hadn't needed Hovan to tell him that; this part was no different from his childhood camping trips. He could almost hear his father's voice, its calm but firm emphasis: "Always be super-cautious with fire in the woods, son. You don't have any margin for error, no slack at all."
His father would have liked Homeworld, Tarlac thought; he'd been as much at home in the woods as he had at the gunnery controls of the destroyer Victrix, where he'd been killed in the bloody running battle between Tanin and Cosmogard five years ago.
"Don't worry, Dad," Tarlac said softly. "I'll be careful." He'd been aboard the Lindner at the time, as he had almost since the war's beginning. He'd had a Ranger's reserve then, and the detachment he'd thought was real had shielded him from the full hurt of his father's death.
His mother had understood, too, when he called her instead of returning to Terra even for the memorial service. "He wouldn't have expected it, Steve," she'd said. "He was like you that way—duty first, always."
"If you need anything…"
"No, I'll be fine. You've both seen to it that I don't have any financial worries, and your Aunt Betty will be staying with me for awhile. But … I do miss you, son."
"I know, Mother. I'll come home next time I make it to Terra."
And he had. Tarlac was suddenly very glad of that. He'd been uncomfortable, vaguely guilty that he hadn't been able to feel more sorrow, but his mother had been happy to see him and made no effort to hide it. She'd let him leave without objecting, too, and he could guess, now, how much that had cost her. If he made it back, he'd have to let her know he did understand, and show her some of the open love he'd been unable to express before.
To make it back, though, he'd better stop reminiscing and get some work done. The fire area was down to clear soil, so he stood and brushed off his hands on the only cloth available, his shorts. Time to scout around for food, and the means to trap some animals.
The inner bark of the torva bush—actually a low-growing tree—made a substitute for rope or twine, according to Hovan. But it was tough by Traiti standards, and damn near impenetrable for a human, even with a knife. By the time he'd peeled off a half-dozen strips, one hand was blistered and the sun was getting low.
He settled on salvis root for dinner, apprehensive about handling a plant that bore a strong outward resemblance to poison oak, but he was hungry. The small patch of salvis yielded plenty for him, though it would have barely whetted a Traiti's appetite. Dessert came from a toli vine that was strangling a nearby soh tree—orange berries that looked something like jelly beans and smelled like dirty socks. Despite Hovan's assurances, he bit into the first one cautiously. Nothing that smelled that bad had a right to taste even halfway decent . . . Well, it might not have the right, he discovered, but it certainly had the taste. He should have remembered Limburger cheese. These—he grinned and ate another—"Limburger berries" were sweet, just tart enough to bring out their flavor. They could easily become a trade item, a gourmet delicacy, if he managed to achieve a peace.
Back at his camp, Tarlac dug a shallow hole for the salvis roots off-center of his cleared fire area, and covered them with a thin layer of dirt. He wished he could bake them coated with mud instead, but he had nothing to carry water in. He swore briefly at the tradition that demanded a candidate spend the first night where he was dropped off, but it was a minor inconvenience, and he'd be travelling the next day anyway.
Scrapings of dry bark smoldered in the sparks made by his knifeblade and the fragment of quartz, grew into tiny flames, and, with the addition of large twigs and then branches, became a small fire that would burn down into coals to cook his dinner. While he waited, he could set his traps. Snare loops for small game would have to be sturdier than on Terra, since like most things on Homeworld, the rabbit-equivalents tended toward the large economy size.
It was dark when he reached camp again after setting the snares and pausing to dig a small latrine pit. He pushed the coals of his fire aside with a green stick and built them back into a blaze, which gave him enough light to unearth his dinner—and he burned his fingers, incautiously trying to pick up the roots by hand. He called himself several varieties of stupid while he sucked his fingers and speared the salvis roots with his knife, setting them on soh leaves to cool. By the time they got down to eating temperature, his fingers had stopped hurting, but he still wasn't too happy with himself. All right, it had been quite a few years since he'd done any cooking, but that was no excuse—he'd simply been careless. He'd also been lucky that there was no real damage done.
What was done was done. Forget it.
He wiped his knife semi-clean on his shorts, scraped dirt and rind off the roots, and ate. They might not be his favorite food, but they were good enough, and filling. After a handful of Limburger berries, he sat comfortably near the crackling fire, his thoughts wandering as he watched the dancing flames.
Hovan. His sponsor. He still didn't know exactly what that relationship meant, but the Traiti commando had come to mean a great deal to the human Ranger. More, perhaps, than anyone else he'd met. He visualized Hovan in forest green, then smiled at himself. Hovan would never make a Ranger—he was too old, too molded by Fleet discipline, and far too clan-oriented—but there would be non-human Rangers someday, and eventually a non-human Sovereign. He liked that idea. Intelligence was what counted, and the Traiti certainly had as much of that as any of the Imperial races.
There was no doubt in Tarlac's mind that if he made it through the Ordeal to end the war, it would be Hovan's doing as much as his own. Hovan's teaching, his quiet support, and most of all his caring, were what would bring the Ranger through his Ordeal if it were humanly possible. He'd have to see that Hovan got the credit he deserved.
It was time to feed the fire and get some rest, if he wanted to make an early start in the morning. His bed was leaves that rustled under his weight as he settled down, then lay watching firelight reflect off the inside of his shelter. It was odd … he'd slept alone from the time he was six until he boarded the Hermnaen, and he'd thought he would enjoy his privacy here—but he didn't. He missed the sleeproom, the comfortable presence of his n'ruhar and the sounds of their quiet breathing as they slept. He smiled drowsily, thinking that he'd shared sleeprooms with a lot of Traiti, and he'd never heard one snore…
As always outdoors, he slept lightly, waking from time to time to feed the fire until dawn finally roused him for the day. Leftover roots made an adequate breakfast, and when he checked his snares he decided that either he was extremely lucky or noxi were even stupider than Hovan had told him. Three of his snares held prey, the beagle-eared Homeworld version of rabbits, and one was still reasonably intact. The two carcasses a derybach had reached before he did meant that at least one well-fed derybach should have no interest in human prey today, and one noxi was enough to supply him with moccasins and meat.
Satisfied, Tarlac salvaged his bark strips and returned to camp. He improvised a spit—a straight limb that would make a good spear, shaped to a point and fire-hardened—and put a haunch on to roast for lunch. Thanking whatever Traiti metallurgist had developed a knife alloy that held an edge under steady abuse, he set about making moccasins from the tough noxi skin, using his own foot as the pattern, gut for thread, and his knife as an awl.
The crude lopsided moccasins felt good on his feet; he had soh-leaf pouches to hold coals and the jerky he'd let the sun dry; and the spit did indeed make a workable spear. Looking around his camp before he left, Tarlac couldn't help feeling a sense of accomplishment. His shelter and equipment might not look like much, but they were his, in the most personal way possible. It had been a long time since he'd concerned himself with such basic essentials of survival, and somewhat to his surprise, he found the past day as satisfying as anything he'd done for the Empire. He almost hated to leave the shaky leanto.
He set off toward the stream that would serve as his guide and water supply. He wouldn't get far today, probably only three or four kilometers, but it was a start, and his need to finish the Ordeal wouldn't let him delay.
His leanto that night was considerably sturdier, thanks to the bark strips, and he made camp closer to water, which let him wash his knife and himself and provided cooking mud. Tarlac couldn't help laughing at that incongruous idea, even as he slathered a thick layer onto the day's find of salvis roots. There were more than enough for a human, though again, not for a Traiti. It might be logical after all to insist that candidates spend at least their first night in the richly productive test area near the clearing, and it was an equally good reason, given Traiti food requirements, for most candidates to choose to remain there.
The next five days settled into a routine of hiking and foraging, living on produce and his stored jerky. Other than a brief but heavy shower the third afternoon, the weather remained good; food was abundant, if monotonous, and the only hostile wildlife he ran into was a variety of insect something like an Alaskan mosquito with a decided taste for human flesh. Except for an occasional feeling of being watched, and his urgent reasons for being here at all, Tarlac was enjoying himself. It was hard work, yes, and he looked forward to the comfort of a sleeping mat and his n'ruhar's presence—but as he built his shelter for the seventh and probably last night in the wilderness, he couldn't help feeling some regret that the closest thing he'd had to a vacation in ten years was coming to an end.