One moment Tarlac was falling asleep, warm and secure in his shelter with the fire keeping out the night's chill—
—the next, he was waking in the cockpit of a crashed biplane, a fighter.
A biplane? What the hell—! Terra hadn't used biplanes in combat for centuries!
And Homeworld hadn't for millennia.
How did he know that?
He picked splinters of glass from the bipe's shattered instrument faces out of his leathery gray skin, working deftly with his extended claws.
Gray skin? Claws? For an instant, they seemed alien. Shouldn't he have flat fingernails and a pinkish-tan skin?
Kranath smiled, dismissing such ridiculous thoughts. He was groggy from the crash, that was all. This was no more than a dream, insignificant.
He climbed from what was left of the cockpit and surveyed the remains of his aircraft. Not much of the little biplane still held together, he saw with regret. The wings were splinters and shredded fabric, the fuselage little more.
His head was beginning to clear, so he decided to check the engine. The prop would be shattered, of course, but the engine might be salvageable, if the brush that had cushioned the crash for him had done the same for it. Engines were handmade and expensive, not to be abandoned lightly even by a rich clan—which St'nar was not.
Kranath was relieved to see only minor damage. St'nar's artisans would have no difficulty repairing a cracked cylinder head and a bent push rod. His problem, then, was to get back to the clanhome. He smiled at that thought. To a scout-pilot, walking out of the wilderness in spring should be almost a vacation. He wore flying leathers, was armed with a dagger and a medium-caliber handgun, and the plane carried a full survival kit. It was far more equipment than he'd had for wilderness survival during his Ordeal of Honor, and he'd managed quite comfortably even then.
This hike would be shorter, probably less than three days, and there was no point in delay. Returning to the cockpit, he dug out the survival kit and slung it on his back, then detached the compass, which fortunately was undamaged, from the control panel and consulted his flight map.
Kranath saw with dismay that St'nar's clanhome was almost directly south, but taking that route directly was just asking for trouble. He'd have to go around. He headed southeast and began his trek.
The underbrush, while light, was growing too irregularly for him to settle into the ground-eating lope a Traiti fighter could maintain all day. Keeping down to walking speed frustrated him since St'nar needed all its pilots, including him, in the current battle with N'chark. But he'd survived the crash; he'd fly for St'nar again. He enjoyed flying and fighting, though the toll interclan battles were taking of late disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The death rate was too high, far higher now than the birth rate.
(So the Traiti had almost been wiped out in a genocidal war once before, thought a tiny detached fragment that was still Steve Tarlac. It was an interesting parallel to the problem he faced.)
Kranath shoved those thoughts aside. He was a fighter, not supposed to be concerned with interclan policy. He'd often wondered why he shouldn't be, but tradition insisted his Ka'ruchaya was wiser than he in such matters.
Instead, he tried to figure out what had caused his crash. It wasn't pilot error, he was sure. The flight had been routine, the air calm. The engine had run smoothly, without even a cough, and the controls had been responding as well as they ever did. So why had he crashed?
It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while he walked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liu from the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was also approaching a low hill, the legendary place known as Godhome.
That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar. Nobody went to Godhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself for allowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from his course. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to put some distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madness of the place seized him.
The first eastward steps were easy, but soon he began to feel as if he were wading in something sticky, something invisible that was getting deeper. He could see normal ground, ordinary bushes and shrubs like woodlands he'd walked in hundreds of times—yet something was making him struggle for progress. When the sticky invisibility reached his waist, he decided this route was futile.
So was north, he discovered when he tried to retrace his steps to the crash site. The only way open to him was south, straight toward Godhome. He was beginning to realize with dismay that he would not be able to avoid it, desperately though he wanted to. He stood still, hesitating.
Then something nudged him in the back, just hard enough to make him stumble a couple of startled steps forward—south. He looked around, not really surprised to see nothing behind him, and remained standing where he had stopped. Moments later another nudge, more insistent, propelled him several steps further.
Bitterly sure it would be useless, that he was as much a prisoner as if he were surrounded by armed guards, Kranath stopped again. What had he done to deserve captivity? Madness at least brought no disgrace to the victim; why should his accidental trespass be any worse than anyone else's, that he should be humiliated and dishonored?
The next prompting he got wasn't a nudge. The pressure at his back became constant, gentle but irresistible, and it forced him toward the hill at a steady walk.
It was over, Kranath thought. Captive, with no hope of escape from whatever was wielding enough power to compel him this way, he would die. The only chance he had to regain honor now was to kill himself before the continuing knowledge of captivity exhausted his will to act and, within a few days, his will to live.
Grimly determined to at least die in what honor he could, Kranath reached for his weapons. Either gun or dagger would be fast and clean. He touched them, got his hands firmly on the grips—and was unable to draw either. Whatever held him had left him his weapons, but made them a useless mockery. That didn't mean he was completely disarmed, though. He still had his hands and claws; he might still avoid the incomprehensible doom he was being forced up the slopes of Godhome to meet. Claws fully extended, the veteran fighter reached for his throat.
That effort, too, failed. He found that he was no longer simply being pushed; instead, his body had been taken over, its actions controlled by the unknown invisible other. He could observe, but could no longer control his movements. This wasn't the prisoner-despair, not yet— Kranath's will remained intact, but his body did not respond to even the fiercest exercise of it.
(Sharing Kranath's emotion, Tarlac understood completely. A human would have feared for his life, but Traiti valued that less than honor. And the Traiti had been forced to Godhome as surely as he had been forced to the Hermnaen.)
Kranath was at the top of the hill now, standing where no Traiti in history had ever stood. In any other place, that would have been cause for rejoicing. Not here. He had been brought here by force instead of coming voluntarily, and he could only pray to all the gods that St'nar would think him dead in honor. Gods! What gods? Why was he praying? It wouldn't do him any good, he thought angrily. The gods had vanished millennia ago, leaving only Godhome as evidence they'd been real. It was evidence that drove men mad, must be driving him mad if he was starting to pray. Gods made good stories for younglings; they had no meaning in the real world.
Or … did they? Kranath suddenly recalled an evening of his youth, sitting around a fireplace in one of the clanhome's living rooms and listening to Tenar tell stories and legends of the gods. Tenar was his es'chaya, a battle-wise Cor'naya and a historian; Kranath had loved both him and his legends. That night, one of the stories had been of the gods' departure.
"Even then," Tenar had said, "they didn't show themselves. They were just voices that spoke to minds." He'd gotten murmurs of amusement at that, but had smiled. "I didn't create the legends, younglings, I only report them. At any rate, the gods blessed our people and wished us well. They said they were not leaving us alone, that something of theirs remained to watch over us. I think they tried to explain it, but the reports that have come down to our time make no sense. And they left us a promise. They said that when they were needed, they would return." Then he'd stood and stretched, the fire highlighting the four parallel Honor scars running down his chest and belly, and Kranath remembered promising himself then that he, too, would take and survive the Ordeal.
Then Tenar had planted fists on hips and glared down at them, grinning. "They also said someone would be invited to join the watcher when the time came, and that that one would call the gods. But it certainly won't be any of you disrespectful cubs!" With that, he'd gone down under the ferocious assault of half a dozen indignant younglings, yelling mock threats at them.
Kranath's thoughts returned to the present as the ground in front of him opened and something like a large metal chamber rose, its door opening to admit him. Remembering the legend didn't mean he believed it. He stared at the open door for a moment, wishing he could turn and run, but his body was still being controlled. Humiliated and frightened, he entered the chamber which looked so much like an elevator car. At least, he thought grimly, whoever or whatever had him captive wasn't trying to make him like it.
It became obvious as soon as the chamber's door closed behind him that this was an elevator. It dropped at a speed that made him feel light, and it kept dropping for longer than he would have thought possible. He found himself wishing he could believe in the gods' return, could believe he'd somehow been chosen to call them. But Tenar had said they'd promised to return when they were needed, and they hadn't. It was a hundred years since the sporadic interclan disagreements had, for no apparent reason, turned into bloody wars instead of being settled by n'Ka'ruchaya and elders. No clan was at peace now, unless that could be said of the ones that had been destroyed. Kranath could all too easily see that happening to St'nar, his small clan overwhelmed by others that allied against it. He had visions of that horror: the attack, killing all the fighters; the rest of the adult males defending the clanhome and dying; the break-in, and more death as females and older younglings fought the invaders. Only those too small to know what was happening, or to fight, would survive—to be taken into the victors' clans, and then to be formally adopted when they were old enough.
Kranath shuddered. The clan was far more important than any individual. A person lived perhaps two hundred years, while a clan could live as long as the race itself. But why was he thinking of all this now? He was a captive, in an elevator that was finally slowing, oppressing him with more than his own weight before it finally stopped. The door opened. Why should he think of anything at all? He was in Godhome, dishonored and as good as dead.
He stepped out, uncompelled now and bitter. He might not believe in the gods, but he had to believe in whatever power had forced him here. Given that, further resistance would be both useless and stupid. He could only hope that— No. One who had been toyed with as he had been dared hope for nothing. The unseen power had taken his will, his honor. Whatever else it demanded of him would be minor.
"Not true," a directionless voice said.
Kranath gasped in shock as he made a fast scan of the featureless white room he now stood in. It was empty, with no trace left of the elevator door, or any other exit. Nobody was there, and he saw no loudspeakers—but there had to be something!
Finally it sank in. The voice had spoken in his mind! Impossible as he'd thought such a thing in Tenar's stories, it had to be the voice of the gods.
Then it was true, all of it! Stunned by the sudden realization, and awed despite himself, Kranath could only sink to his knees and cross arms over his chest, his head bowed. The gods were real! They were real, they had returned, and he was the first to know! "I am at your service, Lords," he said, almost whispering.
"Rise, Kranath of St'nar," the silent voice said. "Your will is again your own. The Lords have not returned; we are alone. I am only one who serves them, as I hope to serve you."
Kranath had never before experienced the uncomprehending dread those words woke in him. There was no shame in fear, and he had felt that before—at the Scarring that ended his Ordeal of Honor, in the wait before his first battle, during his first plane crash—but why was the servant of the gods hoping to serve him? He was only a mortal, and not a very devout one. When he spoke, still kneeling, his throat was tight and his voice trembled. "What do you want of me, Lord? Am I … am I to call the gods?"
"Yes, in time, if you agree to what is involved. For now, I ask only that you accept what I have to show you, though much of it will be difficult for you, to prepare for that decision. And you need not call me Lord."
The voice itself was hardly dreadful; it seemed sympathetic, almost comforting, and Kranath relaxed slightly. He was still afraid, still didn't understand what was happening, but he didn't want to disbelieve the benevolence in the powerful voice. He stood as it had bade him. "I have nothing else to call you, Lord. May I see you, or know your name?"
"You see me as I am," the voice said. "I am Godhome, and you are inside me. I am the watcher left by those you think of as gods. They did not think of themselves that way, though their powers of mind do seem miraculous to younger races, and many of those powers have been built into me. I am what your descendants will call a psionic computer."
Godhome paused. "But I neglect courtesy. You are hungry and thirsty, and your flying gear is less than comfortable by now. Let me change it for you."
Kranath couldn't object. He could barely think, his mind numbed by shock. Things were happening entirely too fast. The gods were real. Godhome was calmly asserting that he had a decision to make after he'd learned what it had to teach…
He held to that. The gods were not demanding, they were asking. Even Godhome had only asked that he learn. Being given a decision to make meant he was a guest, not a prisoner.
That put a completely different light on things. Despite the way he'd been brought here—and he was sure now that even his crash had been arranged—Kranath bowed his head briefly, claws touching his forehead, to accept the hospitality he was offered.
(Tarlac recalled his similar, unexplained gesture on the bridge of the Hermnaen, and he realized the Lords had impelled him to accept Arjen's hospitality with the proper gesture. Why? To impress Hovan as it had? Probably. At any rate, it was another parallel.)
Something seemed to touch Kranath's hands in the usual response, though when he straightened there was nobody to be seen—of course.
"Not 'of course,'" Godhome said quietly. "I could create a body to hold part of my consciousness, if your mental state required it, as easily as I change your flying leathers for ordinary clothing."
And, with no fuss at all, Kranath was wearing a loose vest, open to show his Honor scars, and loose soft trousers secured by a sash that also held his dagger. Then, still with no fuss, an opening appeared in the wall before him. "I have prepared food and drink," the computer said. "Will you eat?"
Kranath dimly remembered that Godhome had mentioned hunger earlier. He'd been too distracted to feel it then, but what he smelled through the opening now was enough to make his nostrils widen in appreciation. Yes, he'd eat!
Kranath's attention centered on the table and the food it held: a thick, rich klevna stew, and some kind of amber drink he didn't recognize. The room itself could have been a scaled-down dining room from St'nar's clanhome; murals turned the walls into mountain landscapes, unfamiliar and awe-inspiring. He sat and ate. The stew and drink—it turned out to be a wine like nothing he'd ever tasted—were far better than the survival rations he'd expected for mid-meal, and the hearty meal in comfortable surroundings soothed him, after so much strangeness.
Godhome let him eat and think in friendly silence, while hot food drove out the last of the fear that had gripped him, letting him think calmly. What had happened hadn't harmed him, and he realized it had been the only way to get him here.
(The Tarlac-fragment agreed, amused. The two of them had quite a bit in common, it seemed.)
Kranath could imagine how he'd have reacted to a simple invitation: "Hello, I'm Godhome. I'd like you to visit me." He smiled, and thought he felt answering amusement from the computer. No, Godhome had known exactly what it was doing.
He could feel no more lingering resentment about his capture. He was here to learn, then to make a decision, and the psionic computer was to serve him. As the table vanished and his chair became a recliner, he found himself looking forward to it. He might, he hoped, even find out what a psionic computer was. The miracles he was experiencing made it clear that it was something only the gods could build … or create.
"Quite true." That Godhome had followed his thoughts didn't surprise Kranath; like miracles, such things were to be expected of the gods and their servant. "Although," Godhome went on, "they did not think of themselves as gods, any more than you think of yourself as one." It paused briefly. "Put yourself in the place of one of your remote ancestors some millennia ago.
"A large metal bird lands in front of you, and someone climbs out of it. This being speaks into a small box that answers him, can kill at a great distance with a loud noise and a flash of light, can ease pain with a touch. How would you, in those times, have thought of him?"
Kranath thought briefly. Metal planes and hand-held radios were still to come, but the analogy was clear. "You are saying the gods are to us as we are to our ancestors."
"Yes. You see the difference perhaps ten thousand years has had on what your race can do; now try to imagine the difference had you had a thousand times as long to develop."
Kranath did try, struggling to grasp the immensity of ten million years of progress. He failed.
"Don't let it concern you," Godhome said. "I wanted you to understand the basic concept, which you do: those who went before were much further advanced than you are, much more powerful, but not supernatural. And they foresaw how your race would develop. They have helped it in the past, and knew you would need help again—but they could not stop their own development, which was moving them to a plane I am not equipped to understand.
"In their place they left me, to watch over the welfare of the Traiti race, and one of the critical times they foresaw has arrived. Intervention has become necessary, and since I am limited in what I can do alone, I must seek help."
Kranath was puzzled. "But … Tenar said the legends promised they would return. If they have gone elsewhere, how can they?"
"They cannot. The legends by now tell more of what the listeners wanted than of what those who went before truly said. One part has been handed down accurately—that someone would be asked to join me—and even that has been misunderstood. I cannot ask that of you until you know what joining me actually involves; it is far more than simply being in my presence. When you do understand, I think you will answer without prompting. Until that time comes, I will discuss the subject no more."
"All right. But if you need my help to stop the fighting, you have it. I can't claim I do it for the entire race; I do it to save St'nar. I can see no other reason you would pick this time to involve someone in calling the gods." Kranath suppressed his curiosity about just what gods he was supposed to call if "those who went before" were out of reach. Godhome had already refused to go into that. "Only … why wait so long?"
"Some situations must be allowed to ripen, or their lessons will not sink in. Had I intervened earlier, such fighting would break out again, worse. By waiting, I insure at least relative peace afterward."
Kranath felt the computer's amusement at his next thoughts. "No, given Traiti psychology, you will have fighters and n'Cor'naya for quite a few more millennia. Probably as long as the race exists. And, given my own programming, that pleases me."
Kranath smiled. He hadn't been worried about that, exactly, but since he was Cor'naya, it was good to hear. He wondered when the computer would begin his lessons.
"Now," Godhome replied to his thoughts, "with some history." The landscapes on the walls faded, and the three-dimensional image of a planet, blue-green and girdled with brilliant white clouds, appeared in mid-air.
"Beautiful," the fighter breathed. "Is it Homeworld?"
"Yes," Godhome said, again amused. "It is your home world, but look more closely. It is not this planet. It is quite similar; the major differences are its shorter year and slightly lower gravity. But the biochemistry is identical, to twenty decimals."
(The Tarlac-fragment of Kranath's awareness looked—
(—and was shocked to full self-awareness for an instant. If Terra, pictured here, was the Traiti's true homeworld—
(He wasn't allowed to finish that thought, was forced instead back into Kranath's awareness. Something communicated, not in words: For now merely observe; you may analyze later.)
Godhome's voice grew almost somber. "Intelligence is rare in this galaxy, Kranath. Yet that world has given birth to three intelligent races, two of which sprang from a common ancestor and needed the same land to live. Those who went before cherished intelligence, so when they realized that the two land-based races were destroying each other, they decided to move the numerically lesser race to another world. Twenty-seven thousand Homeworld years ago, that was done."
Kranath was badly disturbed by that, even though he'd braced himself to accept difficult things. Learning that his people had lost an entire world—their Truehome—made his spirit quail. "Were the others so powerful, then?"
"Not as individuals, no. But they were so numerous you could not have resisted them. Had you remained on Terra, you would have been exterminated millennia ago. Here, you were free to grow without the pressure of human population to hamper you."
(There was a moment of disorientation, and Tarlac knew somehow that part of Kranath's continuing education was being skipped as unnecessary for him. And then, with a shift, he was part of Godhome.)
The computer was thinking that its pupil had done well, even with the advantages of his heritage and training. Kranath considered himself rather ordinary for a Cor'naya, and would have been surprised to learn that Godhome's opinion was far different: his generation was a key one by the reckoning of those who went before, and he was one of several exceptional males who had been born as predicted, then subtly guided by Godhome into developing their full potential without losing the essential values of the Traiti race and culture. Of those, Kranath was easily the best, as shown by his ability to accept facts that were fantastic to him, and then to reason from them. It was a promising sign, Godhome thought, though it was not a guarantee that Kranath would join it. Godhome would use everything its creators hadn't forbidden to influence him to accept, but the decision had to be made freely.
Kranath was sleeping; Godhome sent him dreams, first of the inevitable results if the inter-clan warfare continued, then—before the nightmare brought Kranath awake screaming—of what would happen if he joined with the computer. Kranath's utter rejection of the first dream and determination to make the second one reality, along with his already-expressed willingness to help, could be interpreted as implied consent under one section of Godhome's programming. It took the computer almost a minute to decide to use it, though. That interpretation was perhaps questionable—but it wasn't forbidden, because it left Kranath free to refuse. As long as that was true, Godhome felt justified. It needed the best, and Kranath was the best; there was no reason to delay the first step.
It began working, opening unused mental pathways to free parts of the Traiti's mind that evolution would not normally bring into play for several tens of millennia. Kranath was being brought to a greater maturity than any organic intelligence currently inhabiting the Milky Way Galaxy, receiving minor psionic abilities to prepare him for further changes. Godhome would reverse the process later, if Kranath refused the joining.
Shortly after the computer finished its work, Kranath awoke feeling odd. Good, but abnormally … what? Strong, yes, and eagerly alert . . . plus something he couldn't quite define. It was connected with how he was seeing the room, he was sure of that—every detail was so bright as to be almost luminous—but he felt something more.
He stood, not surprised to find himself dressed as he finished the motion, or to see his sleeping mat replaced by a table set for first-meal. Godhome, he thought, was certainly an obliging host.
"I try, my friend," came the mental voice, feeling richer and closer than he remembered it. "Sit, eat if you wish."
If he wished? Kranath smiled. The food, again, was some of his favorite—chunks of dornya meat scrambled into eggs, with bread and corsi juice—so why would he not wish to eat?
Because, he discovered when he seated himself, he had no appetite. The night's visions remained with him, so vivid and compelling that nothing mattered except preventing the first and bringing about the second. He stood again and began pacing, unable to sit still with the need for action burning inside him.
But physical action was useless. He had to think. He was here to learn, to decide … no. He had already made the decision that was asked of him, though he realized there was still much he did not know.
What the gods wanted of him, as Godhome had said earlier, was not minor. Their plans for him did not include the plans he had had for himself before he crashed: life in St'nar, and the comforting presence of clanmates held together by an empathic bond that was never questioned. He had never questioned it himself, never even realized it existed until now, until he … what?
Oh. Until he tapped into a fragment of Godhome's primary memory bank, using the new abilities he had just learned the computer had given him. That would have shocked him the day before, but his new maturity included understanding and acceptance as well as abilities.
He knew with regret that he would be alone in this responsibility. In time his race would grow to become what he now was, and so would their Terran cousins; in the meantime, they were younglings, in need of guidance and protection even from themselves … and, until the Peacelord's time, from the knowledge of their lost Truehome.
It would be an awesome, satisfying task. Kranath smiled, accepting his destiny. "I think I know now what joining you means. You want my mind to become part of you."
"Yes, Lord Kranath." Godhome's mental voice seemed to Kranath both solemn and joyous. "Although it is I who will become part of you. This galaxy is the heritage of organic intelligences, not machines."
It paused. "Yes, they will call you a god, you and those you call to join you. But it will not be as difficult as you think—or not in the way you think. You do not have to guide their every step, for too much intervention would hamper their development. Like all younglings, they must be allowed to learn from their mistakes. You will do as I have done, watch and step in only when a mistake would destroy the race. And you will learn that refraining from action is often more difficult than taking it."
"Let it begin, then," Kranath said. "You were right, I need no prompting."
"Very well. Open your mind fully to me, that we may both be fulfilled."
The computer began the process that would end with the dissolution of its own personality. Kranath screamed and fell to his knees in a moment of terror as he became aware of the immensity of what he had committed himself to, and what he was in the process of becoming.
It lasted only a moment, though, before fascination took over. He had seen no more than a tiny fraction of Godhome and felt only the lightest touch of its power, until now. The computer was a fifteen-n'liu cube, yet his newly stretched mind enabled him to comprehend it.
So that was a psionic computer! He had plenty of time to study it in detail—several minutes—before Godhome began the last part of its work, with Kranath's cooperation. His mind was packed with information, then stretched and filled again, until Godhome and the powers it had been given by those who went before were part of him. He knew that he could reach out to touch any intelligence in the galaxy.
There was a final legacy from the computer's creators, one they had left to ease the burden he had assumed at their call. Gratefully, he accepted the assurances carried in their knowledge, the peace of their certainty that, having been brought to this state, he would use the power he had inherited with wisdom and restraint.
He had gained foresight as well. He was alone for now, but soon enough—in a few hundred years—he would have company, the first of the other Lords he would call to adulthood. At the moment, however, he had work to do.
(Tarlac had already heard from Hovan about some of the Supreme Lord Kranath's doing: providing the clans' altars, a pledge and gift from the Circle; ending the inter-clan fighting; instituting the Traiti governmental system of Supreme and Speakers. The Ranger saw how it had happened, and how Kranath, when he no longer needed his physical body, had left it aided by a dagger in the hands of St'nar's Speaker, to initiate the new funeral rites.)
For a moment, Tarlac felt strange back in his own body. He moved his shoulders, trying to readjust almost as if he were trying to get a new shirt to fit properly. What he'd just experienced hadn't been a dream, he was certain. Four thousand Homeworld years ago, it had happened.
The facts were enough to stagger him. He wasn't sure what he was to do about them, or about his Vision, though he was positive that it would be essential. The Lords only intervened when it was vital.
He wondered briefly if Hovan had been granted a Vision, and if so what it had been, then he decided it didn't matter. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he sat up and began munching on a cold salvis root.
He was only marginally aware of something white at the edge of his vision, until the something said, politely, "Yerroo?"
"What the—!" Tarlac exclaimed, dropping his breakfast and turning.
Then he smiled, recognizing a cloudcat's distinctive soft, thick fur and graceful shape. He guessed that it was one of those who'd been captured; an animal's cage wouldn't hold an unwilling cloudcat. "If you're hungry, I've still got some salvis from last night."
The big cat rose and padded over to sit across the coals from him, extending the two forked tongues that were its speech, as well as its manipulative, organs. "I have eaten well since my escape," it said, gesturing with them, "but I thank you. You handle yourself well in the woods, for a human."
"You're the one who's been following me, then?"
"I am."
"Why?"
The tongues twitched in amusement. "Our well-known curiosity. Humans fascinate me—and I have traveled with you before, Ranger Esteban Tarlac. Do you not recognize me?"
Tarlac looked more closely at his visitor, and nodded. "Longclaw, isn't it? You were reported dead, shortly after that trip. I'm glad it wasn't true. But why not show yourself before?"
"What you were doing was clear; to interfere would not be proper. I came out only to greet you and wish you well."
"I appreciate it. After last night, I can use a little normality. Uh, the Traiti know now that you're intelligent. I told them."
"Unfortunate." Longclaw gestured a laugh. "I have rather enjoyed frightening those who came here thinking me a wild animal or worse. I believe I have a reputation as a ghost derybach."
Tarlac chuckled. "Sorry I spoiled your fun. Maybe I'll see you again later, but right now I have to get moving."
"Go with your gods, Ranger." With that, Longclaw rose and was gone, a flash of white vanishing into the trees.
Tarlac rose more slowly, buried his coals, and went through his morning routine. Longclaw's visit had brought him back fully to the present, and he was anxious to get back to the clanhome and finish the Ordeal.
About two hours' walk later the woods began thinning out, and the stream started veering west. That was a good sign, and Tarlac had to resist a temptation to run; walking would be faster than running himself to collapse and having to recover. He had a momentary sensation of disorientation: In Kranath's time, this had all been wooded, but when the capital had been established atop Godhome, much of the surrounding area had been turned into parks and farmland.
Godhome. His thoughts turned back to the psionic computer which had been beneath him for the last ten kilometers. A computer in the shape of a cube, damn near forty klicks on a side. He could no longer comprehend it as he had been able to do in his Vision, but he could still appreciate it, marveling at both the computer and the beings who had created it.
Despite everything they'd done and all the powers they had, those who went before weren't gods in any spiritual sense. Like their successors, the Circle of Lords, they were something Tarlac found more understandable: beings who weren't supernatural, but who had achieved their full potential. That, as far as the Ranger was concerned, was several orders of magnitude more acceptable than some immaterial, spiritual essence that demanded worship and obedience on pain of eternal torment.
Those who went before had demanded nothing, not even belief in their existence, and neither did the Lords. They accepted the reverence they were given, not because they wanted it, but because it was still necessary to those who gave it.
Kranath had thought of himself as a parent. Tarlac's experience led him to see the Lord more as a sort of super-powered Ranger. Parents, Rangers, Lords … ideally, all served the same function of guardian, using their various powers to help. Oh, sure, a Ranger could execute rebels and create nobility, instead of spanking a kid or giving him a puppy, and the Lords operated on an even larger scale—but it was the same principle. And wasn't a kid with a puppy yet another example of that principle?
The realization of something so basic it had never occurred to him before, as he walked in the warmth of Homeworld's sun, seemed fitting to him. He'd been Kranath, he'd been Godhome; now he was Steve Tarlac again. Only Steve Tarlac, he thought with a silent laugh, but he'd found at least part of the answer he needed to bring peace if he survived. He knew he'd been shown only as much of Kranath's story as he could understand and use—but he had the key, and that knowledge was enough to make this last bit of his hike a pleasant stroll, untroubled for the moment by the urgent need to end his two peoples' war. He would do it when the time was right.
Perhaps five kilometers out of the capital, Tarlac came to a road and turned onto it gladly. As on Terra or Irschcha, it was simply a lane cleared to a low ground cover, all that was necessary for null-grav or air-cushion vehicles, and it doubled as a pedestrian walkway. The traffic passing three meters overhead provided occasional shade, and he got waves and smiles from some of the drivers and passengers, which he returned even though he couldn't extend claws in emphasis as they did.
It wasn't long before one of Ch'kara's cream-and-green cars, also headed for town, dropped to hover at shoulder level beside him. The driver, whose name he couldn't remember, opened a window and stuck his head out. "Steve, ruhar!"
"Yeah, I made it!"
"I will call ahead. Cor'naya Hovan said to expect you."
Tarlac hadn't known the vehicles were equipped with comsets, but it wasn't too surprising. "Thanks, ruhar."
"My honor," the other replied, turning his attention to the control panel.
Less than half a kilometer later, a dozen more Ch'kara cars had come to escort him, holding at shoulder height like the first and moving at his walking speed. He hadn't expected that, and couldn't think why not. Of course his family would come to meet him, to join him for his successful return home. He had to make it to the clanhome under his own power, but there was no reason he couldn't have company for the easy last stretch.
Hovan jumped from one of the cars ahead of him and waited for Tarlac to reach him. Tarlac stopped when he did, to let his sponsor inspect him.
Steve looked remarkably good, Hovan decided, for someone who had just spent most of a tenday in the wilderness. He'd lost no more than a kilo or two, and though there were some small red spots on his skin, he had no apparent injuries. Low rawhide boots protected his feet, and he carried two pouches and an efficient-looking, if crude, spear. "A pleasant walk, ruhar?"
"Not bad at all," Tarlac replied. "In fact, it was a lot easier than I expected, after everything you said." They were out-clan; Tarlac knew better that to indulge the impulse that seemed so natural now, to hug his sponsor. There would be time for that, and for other things, when they reached home. Impatient, he started walking again.
Hovan fell in beside him. "That seems only fair," he said, his tone amused. "You did have considerable difficulty with the first part of the Ordeal, the one which brings most candidates nothing but joy."
"I wouldn't go quite that far about this excursion," Tarlac said. "Those bugs were murder."
"Bugs?" Hovan asked curiously.
"Insects," the Ranger said with emphasis, thinking that he'd have liked to be able to use claws on this subject. "Whatever you call those two-centimeter substitutes for mosquitoes. I think I'd almost rather have faced a derybach—they only come at you one at a time, and if one ate me for dinner I wouldn't be around to mind it afterward." He paused, assessing Hovan's reaction to the half-teasing complaint. Hovan was looking puzzled. "Those damn bugs ate on me for six days straight! And their bites itch worse than rapid-heal. You could've warned me, you know."
"Warn you of insect bites?" Hovan shook his head. "Insect bites are no danger. What warning should I have given?"
"Ummm. I guess none, really. You probably wouldn't even notice them, and I didn't have any repellent. But some Ter— … uh, humans—can be killed by bug bites. Allergic reactions or diseases they carry, usually."
The Traiti was instantly serious. "Have you noticed any symptoms?"
Tarlac chuckled. "Just the itching. Nothing to worry about."
Hovan walked silently for a couple of minutes, more convinced than ever that Steve would be successful in the rest of the Ordeal. He wondered why his human ruhar had started to say "Terran" and switched in mid-word to "human." Steve spoke informally, but he was careful of his words; why was he making such a distinction now?
Tarlac had caught Hovan's look of surprise at the word change, and had a shrewd idea of his sponsor's thoughts. Well, he knew why he'd made the switch; what he didn't know was whether he should pass that knowledge along to the Traiti. What he'd learned in his Vision, and the fact that it had been in a Vision—since he now knew firsthand, so to speak, how rare any intervention was—made it clear that the Traiti hadn't told him of their Terran origin because none of them knew about it.
It wasn't absolutely necessary to tell them, though it would simplify things. The fact of their Terran origin would be sufficient for the Emperor, as it was for the Ranger; His Majesty could grant them by Imperial Edict the citizenship that was already theirs by right of birth, which would save them the shock of knowledge that had come close to paralyzing Kranath and himself both. What might it do to ordinary people, Traiti and human? Tarlac asked himself. Traiti reactions might easily be as serious as the prisoner psychosis. He just didn't know enough, even yet, about Traiti psychology, to be able to feel any certainty. And he was certain enough of human psychology to know that most wouldn't want to believe it. They might accept it, conditioned by centuries of trust in Rangers, but that wouldn't end the war in itself. It could even make it worse.
Still … while humans, as might be expected, wanted a Traiti unconditional surrender, few would feel justified in condoning—or taking part in—the genocide such a surrender's impossibility would mean. If humans could be brought to understand the Traiti well enough to know that it was impossible… Tarlac wanted to curse at his frustration, but couldn't think of anything fitting.
Well, he was reasonably certain Hovan could handle the truth, and he trusted his sponsor. For all practical purposes, with everyone else in vehicles, the two of them were alone. Even so, he hesitated before saying, "Hovan?"
"Yes, ruhar? Something disturbs you?"
The fighter's calm was soothing. "Not quite. Say it confuses me. Cor'naya, I was granted a Vision last night, and I don't know whether I should make it public or not, even to you."
Hovan managed not to show his shock. The Ordeal was supposed to be one test at a time, and that was difficult enough—yet Steve had been given his Vision, and apparently his Decision as well, while he was trying to cope with simple survival. Three parts at once was more than anyone should be asked to endure, even by the Lords!
When he spoke, his voice was under tight control. "If you hesitate to reveal it to your sponsor, you probably should not. You are trying to become Cor'naya, however; you must decide what honor demands of you."
"Oh, hell." Tarlac didn't know what to think. He couldn't seem to feel any real emotion, only a sort of resigned fatigue. "Last night I was Kranath, when he was forced to Godhome. And for a little bit I was Godhome itself. I'm not sure what to do about what I learned then." He looked up at his sponsor.
Hovan ached with the man's need of support. "I cannot help you in this," he said gently. "You know I would if it were possible, but this is the part of the Ordeal I could not even mention to you. There is always a Decision to test honor."
"Part of the Ordeal's having to decide whether or not to tell you something that may drive insane those of you it doesn't kill outright? That's insane."
"It is far more than is asked of most," Hovan agreed indirectly. "I had to decide only between honor and my own life."
"You're here, so it must've been a setup."
"Yes. I was angry when I found out, yet also pleased to keep my life. I learned much of myself when I thought I was to die." Hovan looked down at Steve, into the man's troubled eyes. "I learned that I was stronger than I thought, ruhar, and I also learned the limits of my strength. I could not bear the burden of the Decision you must make. That it is asked of you shows you can bear it."
Tarlac had to smile at that. He felt himself no equal to Hovan's calm strength, but it was reassuring to know Hovan had that kind of confidence in him. "I think I'd rather have that choice to make. Dammit, Hovan, I've had to order people mindprobed, others killed, and that was bad enough. Those were criminals. How can I tell innocent people something that'll disturb all of them and probably kill a lot? That's genocide, as surely as what the Empire'll do if I fail."
"Are you sure that will happen?"
"How can I be sure? I'm a Ranger, not a god—but I know how it affected Kranath, how it affected me. There's a chance it wouldn't hurt, I guess—Traiti might not believe me. That might cushion the shock, let 'em realize gradually that it is true." He paused, feeling the dilemma. "Do I have the right to take that chance, though? Just a few words…"
It was difficult for Hovan to remain outwardly impassive, hearing the strain in the man's voice. Inwardly, it was impossible. By all the Lords, Hovan thought angrily, this was wrong! Why should Steve be given such terrible responsibility for a people with whom his own were at war? Steve didn't even know what Kranath's Vision meant!
He wasn't supposed to help in the Decision at all, not give even the slightest hint of what he thought was right, and he had no intention of doing so—but every youngling knew about Kranath's Vision and its significance; there could be no harm in telling Steve that much.
"Steve, ruhar…"
Tarlac looked up. "What is it?"
"A story of the end times, ruhar, when all hinges on one man, for good or ill."
"Me. I've known that since before I landed on Homeworld. So what? It looks like whatever I do, Traiti die." Tarlac was being rude and knew it, but he didn't particularly care. He was too caught up in an awful private vision of Ch'kara gone mad.
Hovan spoke quietly, picking his words with care. "Yes. You have known for some time that you will bring peace or die in the attempt, and if you fail we also die. You chose that burden freely, and it does you much honor. But you have been given another burden, unasked. Kranath's Vision, it is said, brings the end of this cycle, and he who has it will determine the next cycle, for good or ill. That is you, ruhar … and I am sure you will—"
"Will what?" Tarlac interrupted bitterly. "I thought it was bad enough, trying to take the Ordeal and bring peace. Now I'm supposed to start a new era, and avoid racial insanity, too?"
Hovan shook his head sadly. "I can say no more, Steve, except— remember always the purpose of the Ordeal."
"Purpose. Yeah. Only I'm beginning to think there is no purpose. This whole damn thing's impossible."
But Hovan's words roused Tarlac from his exhausted depression and made him think, with all a Ranger's problem-solving acuteness.
Start with one thing: Hovan had told him the Lords didn't ask the impossible, and his experience as Kranath confirmed that. They might ask things just short of impossible, but anything they asked could be done.
All right. That meant there was a solution; he just had to find it. Hovan hadn't stated as a fact that Kranath's Vision would bring the end of this cycle, but that idea gave him background he needed.
Wait a minute. It couldn't be a coincidence that the Vision and the cycle's end came together—but it also couldn't be the cause-and-effect relationship Hovan seemed to think. The cycle had already ended, ten years ago, when the Empire and Traiti had first met. The Traiti were no longer isolated, whatever happened.
And he'd already accepted responsibility for determining the new cycle, by agreeing to the Ordeal. If it was death, he'd share it. If it was peace, the Traiti would be exposed to Imperial culture, and he'd help them make the best synthesis they could of it and their own.
That simplified things again, to whether or not he should tell them of their origin. And it brought up what had to be the real consideration. Did he have the right—was it honorable—to deny the Traiti knowledge of their heritage? Whatever the consequences?
Put that way, the answer was obvious. He did not.
Hovan had given him that answer, before either of them knew the question, the day they'd landed on Homeworld. Tarlac remembered asking, surprised, if the unworried-seeming civilians knew how the war was going, and the reply was apt here too: "Such things must in honor known be."
Hovan repeated the phrase, and Tarlac realized he must have spoken aloud—in English, for the first time since he'd been given Language. "What things?" Hovan asked, still in English.
"That you're as much a Terran, and as such a citizen of the Empire, as I am." He took a deep breath, then went on in Language. "Kranath's Vision was … well, as thoroughly as Terra's been explored, I'd have said it was impossible. It's hard to believe archaeologists would miss—" He broke off, telling himself to get to the point. "Hovan, what Kranath's Vision showed me was that the Traiti originated on Terra. Those who went before moved your ancestors here, because they were convinced that human population pressure would overwhelm you."
Hovan looked perplexedly at the man walking beside him. Although Steve's words seemed to make sense, Hovan found them difficult to absorb. "But the Lords…"
"The Lords know, yes." Kranath did, so the others must… "They couldn't tell you, because the time wasn't right. I'm not sure it is now, either, but that's not what has me worried." Tarlac paused. "Kranath was shocked pretty badly when he found out, Hovan, and so was I, even though he protected me from the worst of it. That's why I'm scared. As badly as it hurt us, mightn't it leave a lot of people more than hurt, knowing they've lost their first—their true—home? Home's so much more important to you than it is to most humans … I'm afraid that learning that Homeworld isn't really your home might be as devastating for most of you as being captured."
Hovan was silent long enough to worry the Ranger, and when he spoke at last, Tarlac was practically holding his breath.
"It is not a pleasant feeling," Hovan said slowly. "I can understand your reservations, ruhar; in your place, I cannot say what I would do."
He was silent again, for long enough to let Tarlac reflect that he might be troubled, but he was clearly neither insane nor dying. After some thought, Hovan added, "I probably would not believe it from someone not of Ch'kara; I know I would not wish to believe it. But finding that I share such a tie with you, Steve, does not distress me."
Tarlac managed a faint grin. "That's a help, and I appreciate it. Do you think all of Ch'kara"—all of the Traiti?—"would feel like that? Because I am going to have to tell them. That's the only honorable thing to do."
"That is the Decision you have made?" Hovan asked formally.
"It is."
"Then as your sponsor, I may say that you have decided correctly."
"Thanks, ruhar." Tarlac was still worried, but Hovan's acceptance of his story eased his fear. He felt relieved, almost refreshed. "But how to do it best is another question. I'd feel safe enough telling a Speaker about it—"
"Or a Cor'naya?"
"Yes." Thinking back, Tarlac had to admit that all the n'Cor'naya he'd met were individuals he'd trust not to panic, as Hovan had not. "But Speakers and n'Cor'naya aren't exactly average. It's the risk to people like … oh, like Sandre and your twins. I don't like what learning about that loss may do to them. I guess I'll just have to hope it's not as bad as I'm afraid it will be."
"I do not like such a risk either," Hovan said. "But since you have made your Decision, I may advise you, if you wish."
"I wish," Tarlac said grimly.
"If you judge it possible, I would advise silence a little longer. Those who concern you will be able to accept such things more easily from one who has earned Honor scars, as you soon will."
Tarlac didn't feel, at the moment, like restating his conviction that he wouldn't survive the last test of his Ordeal—but he still felt it. By his previous reasoning, though, if the Lords had trusted him with Kranath's Vision, which they had, there was a good chance he'd be around afterward to make the safest possible use of it for the Traiti race. If the Vision itself wasn't enough to accomplish that…
"Hovan, I'd like to ask a favor of you, as my sponsor."
The massive figure walking easily beside him nodded. "I believe I know what."
"Probably, as well as you know me." Tarlac felt warmth for his ruhar. "If I die before I can tell this the way I should, I'd like you to do it for me. You're Cor'naya, and respected even by other n'Cor'naya." It all fitted so well that Tarlac wondered for a moment if Hovan had been selected to meet him and become his sponsor, the same way he himself had been selected to meet the Traiti. It wouldn't surprise him at all, given what he'd learned, but he didn't let himself dwell on the implications.
"Besides that," he went on, "if I don't make it, someone's going to have to get a message to Emperor Davis. You, preferably, or the Supreme or First Speaker, if you think they'd be better. I'll leave a set of instructions, and a message to His Majesty, explaining what I've found out. As I said, since you're of Terran origin, you're automatically Imperial citizens; at worst, you'd be treated as lost colonists. That'll change things, I hope enough to end the war as a misunderstanding." He grimaced. "A bad misunderstanding. It won't be easy, but it should be possible to end it without you surrendering, and you should be able to keep the worlds you still have."
Hovan nodded again, somberly. "Should it become necessary, Steve, I will do as you wish. When I have completed my duties as a sponsor, I will carry your message."
Tarlac hadn't realized until that moment, when he relaxed, how tense he had been. "Let's get back so I can finish the Ordeal, then."
Yarra was waiting for them, standing as before at the head of the clanhome stairs. Tarlac climbed to meet her, Hovan at his right. He'd been gone less than a tenth-year, so she wasn't there to extend the traveler's greeting, and she didn't. Instead she bowed to him, formally. "Your courage and success in returning unaided bring much honor to the clan, ruesten. Let our thanks for that welcome you home."
Her gesture and words were formal, but her tone held warmth and true pleasure. Tarlac returned the bow, answering with equal formality and just as much warmth. "It is good to be home, Ka'ruchaya. Any honor I bring the clan is no more than repayment for the honor I was given in being adopted."
That response clearly pleased both Yarra and Hovan. They were on Ch'kara property now, so in-clan; neither had any hesitation in embracing Steve, even before going inside. And Tarlac returned the gesture just as eagerly, able to use his full strength as they dared not.
He took a deep breath as soon as he stepped inside the clanhome, making no effort to hold back a glad smile. "Gods, is it good to be home! I swear, even the air smells better here!"
No one answered him immediately, for he was in Daria's arms then, surrounded by others waiting their turns at him with very little patience. "It always seems that way, ruhar," Daria finally said, handing him bodily to Channath.
That was how everyone welcomed him back, passing him from one to another. It wasn't at all dignified; it was totally unsuitable treatment for any Imperial officer, much less a Ranger; word of it would have caused scandalized talk; and Tarlac reveled unashamed in every glorious second of his family's greeting.
It didn't end until he'd been seated in a small dining room with a thick dornya sandwich—he was amused at how well the word fit into Language—and a mug of hot chovas. He ate, savoring the taste and the matter-of-fact thoughtfulness that had provided the meal.
Conversation, as usual, surrounded but didn't include him while he was eating. When he was finished, though, questions bombarded him to bring out every detail of his first day's wilderness experience as if for a skilled debriefing team.
Two hours later, Hovan called a halt. "Enough! He still has half a mug of chovas we have given him no chance to drink even cold, and he is becoming hoarse."
He paused, looking around with an expression Tarlac had never seen on his face, almost a defiant challenge. "And you have given him no chance to tell you what must be told. He was granted Kranath's Vision last night, and has made his Decision about the information it showed him. Only one part remains in his Ordeal."
His words brought a moment's silence, then a babble of astonishment and doubt that sounded more like a human kindergarten than a group of adult Traiti.
Doubt? Of a Cor'naya's word? Tarlac shook his head, not ready to believe that. Was it the speed of his Ordeal, then, which surprised him too? Or was it that a human had been given Kranath's Vision? No matter which it was, he didn't like anyone doubting Hovan.
He stood and raised his arms in the stance that called for attention, and while he couldn't use the extended claws that made this stance demand it, he didn't have to. His Vision had changed things. These people were his family, yes—but they were also citizens of the Empire, and he was a Ranger; he used his authority without having to think about it.
"Look, as far as I'm concerned, this whole thing is damn near unbelievable. Maybe it's asking too much for you to believe I've had what Hovan calls Kranath's Vision, or that I've made an Ordeal's Decision so soon. But if you have to think someone's lying, don't think it of Hovan. He's only telling you what I told him."
Hovan turned to him, at last understanding some part of a Ranger's formidability. "Ruhar, you need not—"
"Yes, I do," Tarlac interrupted. "I'm still a Ranger, until the Emperor relieves me of duty. We've got our own standards, and they include taking responsibility for whatever we do—or say."
He returned his attention to his n'ruhar and waited.
After seconds that seemed to last forever, Yarra glanced around at her n'ruesten and said, "Es'ruesten, I do not doubt your honor, or Cor'naya Hovan's. None of us do. We believe you saw Kranath's Vision, and that you have made your Decision, which Hovan judges correct. What concerns us now is your endurance."
"Endurance?" Tarlac frowned, then understood with a sinking feeling. "Oh. The Scarring. I won't have the recovery time Hovan planned for me, then." The Scarring, by tradition, took place early the second day after the last of the other Ordeal segments—which was almost never wilderness survival.
Having spent most of the last several years in the controlled environment of his ship, Tarlac was no longer used to any exposure to the elements. Even though his wilderness trek had been a fairly mild test, and he was in good shape for someone who'd spent eight days living off the land, he was not ready for the most physically demanding part of the Ordeal.
"No, ruesten, it will not be easy." Yarra's evident concern gave Tarlac the impression of a worried frown, an expression few Traiti could manage physically. "It never is, even when the candidate is rested and at his full strength, which you are not." She looked past Steve. "Speaker, do you know why his Ordeal is being compressed so?"
Darya looked thoughtful, then shook her head. "I do not know, Ka'ruchaya. I could try to guess."
"Guess, then."
"It could be that his Ordeal is scaled as much as possible to human tolerances, and humans handle change more readily than we do. Also, Steve himself has mentioned often enough that he has no desire to waste time or lives." She turned to the Ranger. "I do not ask you to speak of your Decision, since Hovan says you cannot yet do so in honor. But I may ask, as Speaker: does it require speed of you for another reason?"
Tarlac took time to think out his answer. "You might say it does, indirectly. I have to tell you all something I found out from the Vision, and what it means. It'll be easier for you to hear it from a Cor'naya, Hovan says. Humans would believe a Ranger, but you don't have that kind of trust in me yet."
"I cannot argue, ruesten," Yarra said calmly. "I do trust you, but truly not as I trust one who has earned Honor scars."
Tarlac traded glances with Hovan, remembering the precaution he'd taken against failure. It might work, it might not. He had to hold onto the First Speaker's promise from the Lords that his survival of the Ordeal would bring an honorable peace, and hope the death he still saw as inevitable wouldn't bring disaster.
Hovan felt certain of Steve's survival, but had made his promise because it was necessary to his ruhar's state of mind. Part of a sponsor's responsibility was easing any stress outside of the Ordeal itself, and Steve already carried two contradictory convictions: his need to survive, to complete his mission, and his certainty that he would not.
There was nothing Hovan could do about the man's certainty of death, but he could see to it that Steve was allowed to rest. "It is early, I know, Ka'ruchaya, and everyone is curious—"
"As curious as we are about any candidate's experiences," Yarra agreed. "Still, I am sure further questions can wait until tomorrow."
Tarlac gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks, Ka'ruchaya. I am pretty tired, and I've been looking forward to a sleeping mat. I could use a long, hot shower, too."
The shower helped considerably, relaxing his muscles and allowing emotional tension to ease in the sheer luxury of being really clean. And his n'ruhar's presence allowed other tension to ease; he was asleep seconds after he covered himself with his light blanket.
Sleep was dreamless, his unaware mind and body absorbing the clan's support, and when he woke he felt as refreshed as though he'd slept for a week. It was still early, the wake-light not yet on, and from the others' breathing, it appeared he was the only one who'd waked without it. He was content to bask in their warmth and unwilling to disturb their rest until, all too soon, the light did come on and it was time to rise, time to go through the morning routine.
When he'd showered again—it was still a pleasure—Tarlac went with Hovan to first-meal, trying not to think too much about the future. He'd eat dornya meat scrambled into eggs again tomorrow, but afterwards his destination would be the gathering hall for his Scarring, not the Ka'ruchaya's office for news intercepts.
This morning, though, he could take refuge in normalcy, looking forward even to reading nine days' worth of reports—a prospect that as a rule held no appeal for him at all.
Accompanying Yarra and Hovan to her office, he found, not at all to his surprise, that it was spotless. Tarlac wondered again how she managed to run a clan without her office showing it; the only trace of paperwork was the stack of printouts on her desk, and they were his. He glanced at her for permission, which she granted with a nod, and he picked up the stack and took it to his usual chair.
Stretching out his legs, Tarlac began reading. The first six reports were routine, if not pleasant, combat and casualty reports that held no surprises. It was the seventh day's leadoff item, inevitable though he'd known it to be, that gave him a feeling of sick shock. Imperial forces had clearly reached the Traiti core worlds, because for the first time the report mentioned dead females and children.
His new people had run out of places to evacuate to. Except to say that some females had not fought, and that they and the very youngest children were being held aboard the flagship of the Third Fleet—Ranger Jasmine Wang's Emperor Yasunon—the report didn't go into detail. It didn't have to. Kranath's memories supplied Tarlac with more than enough gruesome detail of what happened when a clan was fighting its last.
The Yasunon was currently en route to Terra, and Tarlac knew why. He'd have done the same thing himself—get such valuable prisoners to the safest and most secure spot in the Empire, namely to the Palace complex in Antarctica, guarded by defense satellites and the elite Palace Guard of Imperial Marines. From what Daria had said, they would be all right . . . at least until the younglings no longer needed care from the adult females, when those would feel free to die, to find that release from the dishonor of captivity.
The next day's report had bad news for Tarlac personally, and for the Imperial he still was. He read the brief paragraph several times, practically memorizing it. He'd known Jim by reputation since he'd been old enough to watch the news, and personally for fifteen years. This hurt.
"Ranger James Medart is reported in critical condition today aboard the hospital ship Compassion, after being attacked by a wounded Traiti he was attempting to aid. Ranger Medart is currently on full life support, and Chief Medical Officer Kirov's prognosis is guarded."
"Oh, hell, Jim!" Tarlac exploded at last, angrily. "You knew better than that! The Empire can't afford to lose both of us!"
Hovan and Yarra had been talking quietly while he read; they looked up, startled, at his outburst. He returned their looks, then went through the motions of examining the rest of the printout.
His pretended absorption in a document that their own news showed held only the one item of interest couldn't mislead his Clan Mother and his sponsor.
"Ka'ruchaya…" Hovan said hesitantly.
"I know, ruesten. The Lords burden him beyond what most are asked to endure."
"Even more than you know, Ka'ruchaya, and it troubles me. He has not even a youngling's strength of body, and though that can be overcome by strength of will, which he does have … I do not know."
"Nor do I," Yarra said. "It is not well to go into the Scarring at less than full strength, and his will is being sapped. I have sensed his certainty of death, his worry for us, his anger for his friend . . . yet there is nothing we can do to ease his mind."
"No. I have done all that tradition allows."
"Then his fate—and ours—is in the hands of the Lords."
Tarlac gave up his pretense of reading and looked at them. "Then let's just hope they know what they're doing. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it was a little hard to avoid."
"Understood," Yarra said. "Ruesten, I did not mean that I lack confidence in you—but I am concerned."
Tarlac shrugged. "And I'm as scared—okay, as terrified—as I can be without throwing a screaming fit. It doesn't matter. I'm not about to quit now." He hesitated, then yielded to impulse. Rising and going to her, he put his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder. "Ka'ruchaya, I won't be the one to dishonor Ch'kara. I can't! I … I love you all, too much to do that."
Yarra's arms enfolded him, feeling him as vulnerable as any newborn. "We know, ruesten," she said. "We know. You have brought honor to the clan, and you will bring more. Rest now, Steve."
After composing the message he hoped Hovan would never have to read, Tarlac found that the rest of the day went … smoothly. That was the only word he could think of. The admission of fear and love he'd made to Yarra and Hovan wasn't something he could have done in the Empire, and it left him feeling cleansed and strangely at ease. He rather suspected it was because he'd finally managed to take Hovan's advice—"Yourself be, not another's image"—at last.
With no responsibilities until the next morning, on what was very possibly his last day of life, Tarlac found himself at a loss. He hadn't had nothing to do for fifteen years. He wandered around the clanhome, helping with assorted domestic chores. He played with the younglings in the nursery, he helped load dishes into the cleaning units, he emptied dust traps—and when he wasn't occupied, he welcomed simply being with the n'ruhar who wanted to ask him about the Empire and his experiences in the wilderness.