There was unspoken but very real tension in the clan the next morning, and to Tarlac, time seemed to creep and fly simultaneously. He was chilly, wearing only the traditional scarlet trousers and quilted house boots—and weaponless; this was the only time a fighter had to go unarmed—but he wasn't sure his chill was entirely due to the temperature. First-meal didn't help, either. Instead of the eggs and dornya meat he'd planned on, he couldn't face more than a mug of chovas. He was rediscovering, as he had several times during his career, that fear wasn't an appetite stimulant.
Even so, it wasn't until about an hour later, standing between Hovan and Yarra while they waited for the gathering hall doors to open, that he realized just how afraid he was. He wasn't ashamed of his fear—Hovan and other n'Cor'naya had told him that nobody went into the Scarring unafraid—but he did wish he'd been spared the physical symptoms. His mouth was dry, his palms were wet, and sweat was beginning to trickle down his ribs.
Finally, the doors opened to admit them.
His n'ruhar formed a silent aisle, as they had the first time Tarlac had seen the gathering hall. On the surface, everything appeared almost identical; it was the emotional climate that had changed. Then, he had been a stranger; now he shared the clan's spirit and love as well as its name. He was grateful for their presence and support, and he thought with a trace of amusement that it was too bad he didn't share their confidence in him as well.
Trying not to be obvious about it, Tarlac wiped his damp hands on the legs of his trousers. He wanted it to be over with, finished one way or the other. In half an hour he'd either be in the clan's infirmary or on its altar, and at the moment he was inclined to agree with the others: it did seem to be in the hands of the Lords.
He stepped forward, slightly ahead of his sponsor and Ka'ruchaya. This part of the Ordeal, unlike the rest, was steeped in ritual, and he didn't want to make any mistakes that would reflect badly on the clan—especially not in front of the First Speaker and Supreme, who were honoring Ch'kara by their presence at this ceremony. More, they were here to administer the Scarring themselves, a thing unprecedented.
Just as unprecedented, Tarlac thought wryly, as it had been for him to be kidnapped by arrangement of the Circle of Lords and coerced into taking the Ordeal. Since the orders for that had come through the two rulers, it seemed only fitting that they participate now, as well.
Climbing the three steps to stand before them at the altar, he formally identified himself—"Esteban Tarlac of Clan Ch'kara, Ranger of the Terran Empire"—and bowed, hands crossed over his bare chest. That was as much to the statuettes on the altar's upper tier as to the two rulers. "I ask the blessing of the Circle of Lords as I attempt this final part of the Ordeal they ask of me."
The green-robed First Speaker extended her hand to touch his forehead. "That they give you, child of two worlds. They will be with you in this." Her touch of blessing, her quiet words, carried more than reassurance and serenity, though he was unable to exactly define the feeling they brought him. When he turned to the Supreme, his hands were dry.
"Are you prepared?" the male ruler asked.
"I am prepared," Tarlac replied.
Hovan and Yarra moved to stand at either end of the altar while the First Speaker took a small gold cup from its center and extended it, in both hands, to the Ranger.
Tarlac accepted the cup, raised it in salute to the Lords, and drank, almost nauseated by the syrupy, too-sweet liquid. He returned the empty cup and turned again to face the Supreme, who reached out and rested extended claws just below the base of Tarlac's throat. "Tell me, Ranger, when the sweetness turns bitter," the Traiti said quietly.
"I will."
The liquid, Tarlac knew, was a highly specific drug called Ordeal poison, the dose measured carefully for his body mass and metabolism. It was primarily a nerve-impulse enhancer that affected pain responses most strongly during its short period of influence—but it had another, more dangerous property. Losing consciousness while the drug was working was fatal.
This part of the Ordeal tested willpower and endurance with direct, basic simplicity; while Traiti were harder to injure than humans, and healed more rapidly, they were as subject to pain as their smaller cousins. Even the drug's brief effect cost some candidates their lives as agony robbed them of consciousness.
But remaining conscious was all—all? Tarlac thought—that was required. If he made it that far, he'd be getting medical help within seconds, from the clan's chief physician herself and from a human doctor, one of the prisoners, whom Channath had asked to have present.
The Ordeal poison was working. Tarlac tasted bitterness from the foam forming in his mouth, and the Supreme's claws seemed to gouge his skin, though he knew they were touching him as lightly as before. "It's happening," he said steadily.
The Supreme inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, it seemed to Tarlac, of more than his words. Then the claws dug in, made a swift slash down the Ranger's chest and upper belly.
Tarlac screamed and fell to his knees, blood running over hands that instinctively clutched at the terrible wounds.
He'd been hurt before, sometimes badly. He'd been hit by shrapnel, burned, shot—everything that could happen to someone in combat, short of death—but none of it had prepared him for this drug-aided agony that left him unable to move, gasping for irregular breaths as blood soaked the front of his trousers and began pooling on the altar dais.
His world narrowed to himself, to the pain in his upper body and the need to remain conscious. Nothing else could be allowed to matter: not the blood he couldn't hold back, its loss draining his strength; not the bitter foam that choked him, obstructing his already-labored breathing. He had to concentrate his full attention on staying away from the darkness that offered to gather him into its eternal peace if he should relax for even an instant.
Hovan stood watching Steve's motionless struggle to remain conscious. He himself had been neither silent nor unmoving under the torment the man he sponsored was now enduring, and he felt deep pride in his clanmate. He'd seen nearly a hundred n'ruhar go through this, and Steve was doing very well. Yet … something was wrong.
Ordeal poison did make blood flow more freely, yes, and let wounds bleed more than was normal, yet even now, when its effects should be starting to wear off— Hovan felt a stab of dismay. Humans bled so much more easily than Traiti did to begin with, and Steve had needed medical help after the blood exchange—had Channath allowed enough for human differences in calculating Steve's dosage?
He glanced at the two physicians, and wasn't reassured by their evident concern. Not surprisingly, the human doctor looked angry as well as worried—but Channath was worried too, which wasn't normal for her. Hovan realized that she had allowed for human frailty … but not even she could allow for a possible over-reaction, as unpredictable as his earlier allergy to their liquor!
Tarlac tossed his head, muscles no longer locked by agony though he still fought the pain assaulting his weakened system. He coughed, spitting out a last mouthful of the bitter froth, and took a deep, gasping breath as he collapsed to the dais. The inviting dark beckoned more seductively, its promise of an end to pain harder and harder to fight… No! He had to resist that pull! But his eyes were closing, his breath taking more effort …
At least his mouth and throat were empty—no more foam—and the pain was subsiding to a more normal intensity. Yeah, sure, he thought in English, but the rest of the thought was in Language: the drug must be wearing off. He felt light, almost floating, as if he were in a low-grav field.
Channath's sharp "Now!" as she and the human doctor moved toward the Ranger freed Hovan to kneel beside Steve and raise the man's head.
"You made it, Cor'naya," he said quietly, with pride. "You succeeded, as I was sure you would."
Tarlac forced unwilling eyes open, looking up into the familiar gray face he'd learned to respect, then to love. "I really made it?" he asked in a whisper.
"You really made it," Hovan assured him. "Rest easy now. As soon as Channath and Dr. Jason stop the bleeding, they will give you something for your pain. And when you recover, what a party the clan will have!"
"Clan party…" Tarlac managed a faint smile, his thoughts starting to drift. "Tha'd be nice…"
"Later, Steve." Hovan smiled too, pushing sweat-damp hair away from the man's face. "Rest now, I said. It is over."
"Yeah … guess so. Worth it, though … worth it all. 'M tired … so tired… gotta sleep…" Tarlac's eyes closed and he sighed, going utterly limp.
"Steve?"
There was no answer; Hovan had known there wouldn't be. He had seen too many people die to hold false hopes, and only concern for his ruhar's honor kept him from voicing his outrage to the Lords, his brief but bitter anger at the injustice of their letting Steve complete the Ordeal only to die in his arms.
The human doctor had no such qualms. He turned on Hovan, furious. "Satisfied, you damn Shark? In a hospital I could maybe still save him—not here! No human could survive that kind of pain, system shock, bleeding—not without help! He's dead, and you killed him!"
"Steve wished to bring peace," Hovan interrupted, in English suddenly as fluent as his Language. He noticed it, briefly, but in his anger and sorrow it didn't seem to matter. "The Ordeal was his only chance, and he took that chance knowing this was possible—thinking it was inevitable. Do not dishonor his memory—instead, represent his Empire at his leavetaking."
"What the hell— You mean that, don't you?" Dr. Jason didn't want to believe it, but the Traiti's soft voice, the way he still cradled the Ranger's head, wouldn't allow disbelief. "You're sorry he died!"
"I cared for him, yes," Hovan said. "His death is a thing of much sadness, yet he went to it in full honor, and in his clan. None can expect more from the Lords." He stood, picking up Steve's slight body. "Will you honor him with us?"
"I … yes. You're right. Someone from the Empire should be there."
"Good." Hovan turned and left the gathering hall, taking Steve's body to a small room nearby to carry out a sponsor's most distasteful duty— of preparing the one he sponsored, when that one succumbed, for Presentation and Transformation. The preparations he had been so sure would not be needed had of course been made; the room held what was required. A large table held a container of water with cloths beside it, and the Ranger's uniform was hanging up.
Hovan stripped the body and began to wash it, working as gently as if the man could still feel. Then he dressed Steve Tarlac in the forest green of his Imperial rank, leaving the shirt open to show the man's wounds.
Finished, he inspected the body carefully. Yes, everything was proper. The uniform was spotless, the badge and leather items polished to a high gloss, the gun fully charged. His ruhar would go before the Lords as a Cor'naya of Ch'kara should. He picked up the body again and returned to the foot of the altar dais.
The Supreme, the First Speaker, and Dr. Jason were no longer on the newly-cleaned dais. Transformation was a clan matter; they could observe, but not participate. Instead, Ka'ruchaya Yarra and Speaker Daria were there. Hovan bowed his head to them, then looked up and spoke the ritual words. "I bring Esteban Tarlac of Clan Ch'kara to the Circle of Lords. He has given honor to the clan."
"We sorrow at his loss," Yarra said, "yet we glory in that honor." She turned to the Speaker. "As Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara, I ask the Lords to receive this man, my ruesten."
Daria inclined her head. "The Lords welcome those who die in honor. Who, Ka'ruchaya, do you choose to present him?"
"He who is closest to him, who shares his blood and bears him now."
Hovan thanked her silently for that. While it was the Ka'ruchaya's choice, tradition suggested that the oldest male present perform that final service for the dead.
The Speaker and Ka'ruchaya drew back to allow him to pass with his burden. He climbed the steps and crossed the dais slowly, to lay his ruhar's body on the lower level of the altar. Then he made his farewells, touching Steve's wounded chest and his forehead. Finally he stepped back and made obeisance to the figures on the upper level, a formal bow.
A shimmering appeared around the body, hazing its outlines but not obscuring it, as Hovan moved to stand at the end of the altar near Steve's head. He would hold vigil there until, at this time the next day, the Lords would take the man to themselves in a flare of blue.
Was he dead?
Since every definition Tarlac had ever heard referred to the physical body, and since his was undoubtedly a corpse, he supposed the answer would have to be yes.
But he didn't feel dead. He wasn't in that body any longer; he was a good two meters above it, held there by an immensely powerful, immensely benevolent presence. In the normal course of events, he somehow knew, he'd go elsewhere—to wherever his self found most comfortable or fitting—but for some reason he was supposed to remain here.
Traiti took leave of a clanmate as they greeted a new one, by touching—in his case, touching forehead and wounds as Hovan had, to show respect for one who had died in the Ordeal. Tarlac wanted to tell them that no farewell was necessary, that he was still there and he'd help them survive the coming defeat.
The presence wouldn't let him; the time was not yet right. Instead, he was drawn away, out of Ch'kara's gathering hall and through some kind of interface, to what looked almost like a grove of oak trees on Terra.
It wasn't; the light was wrong. No, he corrected himself, that wasn't it. Everything was too right. What he could see wasn't brighter as much as clearer, and his surroundings—the trees, the grass, even the sky—seemed to have a vibrant internal luminance. This was beauty of a kind no planet could hold, pure and utterly serene.
He might not know what was going on, Tarlac decided, but if this was death, there was a lot to be said for it. He'd have liked to have a body, though, to let him feel and smell as he could somehow see.
There was a feeling of amused agreement, and he did have a body. So did the eleven Traiti now in the grove with him, three females and seven n'Cor'naya, all of whom shared the luminance of the grove. He knew without looking that he did too, and that he was dressed as his original body was, in open-shirted uniform. He also knew by now who these people were; their images stood on the upper tier of every Traiti altar.
"Welcome, Ruhar," said the one Tarlac recognized as the presence which had brought him here. The voice was as clear and pure as the light. "And welcome to your place in the Circle of Lords."
Tarlac recognized him from the statuettes and from his Vision. He took a deep breath of the sweet, vital air before he spoke. "My place, Lord Kranath? I'm human, not Traiti."
"In body," Kranath agreed, smiling. "In mind you are both, and have been since your conception. We insured that. The human body on Ch'kara's altar means nothing. Here you—and we—can be either. Think of yourself as Traiti, Ruhar."
Remembering his Vision of being Kranath, and before that the time at the altar when he'd felt as much Traiti as human, Tarlac did as he was told. There was a brief indescribable sensation, and when he ran his tongue over sharp triangular teeth, he realized that his experience as Kranath, impressive as it had been, was only a shadow of this— seeming?—reality. He touched his face, ran fingertips along the scars on his chest, extended and retracted powerful claws … yes, this body felt as appropriate as his own. And the grove's other occupants were now in human bodies.
His place, Tarlac thought bemusedly. He didn't think he quite liked that idea, and for a moment he let himself indulge in a fantasy that he hadn't died but was in the middle of a hypoxia-induced hallucination. It didn't last; he knew that what he was experiencing was quite real. He was in a Traiti body that fit him perfectly well, though he'd prefer the familiarity of his human form.
He felt the sensation of change again, and the glade's Traiti and human Lords returned to the bodies they'd first had. "One's original form is usually best," Kranath agreed calmly.
"You have accepted that we exist," Sepol—Lord of the Ordeal—put in. "And you have accepted the abilities of those who went before. Why, then, are you so reluctant to accept the fact that we have called you to join us?"
Tarlac shrugged. "The same reason, I guess, that I don't like the idea of gods who interfere in mortal affairs. It goes against my grain."
"Relax, Steve," Lord Carle—Tarlac would have said Lady, in English—advised him. "What we do is less different from your earlier work than you can yet realize. And you have time to ease your mind before you absorb the knowledge and powers you are heir to. Sit and drink, Ruhar."
When a tall, cold glass of green liquid appeared in his hand, Tarlac accepted it and sipped. The taste of authentic mint julep recalled the only Kentucky Derby he'd seen in person, shortly before the war; a magnificent chestnut filly named Lady Jess had won.
He let himself enjoy the drink in peace, relaxing his mind as Carle had suggested. If she was right, and he had no reason to think otherwise, he'd know everything soon. He sat crosslegged on the grass, thinking. Now he knew what the First Speaker had meant when she called him "child of two worlds"—and he remembered that before his adoption, Arjen had accepted that Daria's telling Yarra about him had been no breach of security. The Lords, as Traiti clearly knew, told their Speakers far more than the Speakers passed on. But it seemed odd—
"No," Kranath interrupted the forming thought, "neither bodies nor refreshment are truly necessary. They are pleasant, though, and we often create them." He smiled again, and Tarlac could feel his amusement. "Those who went before left us Godhome, which gave us awesome power, but we remain, if you will excuse the expression, human. We see no reason to deny ourselves such things. Since mind is the architect of reality, we construct what pleases us."
"Mind is the architect of reality." Tarlac took another sip of his julep, then thought about it becoming a mug of coffee. It responded to his will, and he drank; it was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.
"You see?" Sepol said gently. "You are one of us, Lord Esteban, and that fact no longer disturbs you."
Tarlac started to contradict him, then he realized Sepol was right. He did accept what he was—and what he was to become. He still wished they'd explain a few things, though. Why they'd taught him Language, why he'd really had to take the Ordeal, why he'd been rushed through it, and most importantly, why he had been called to the Circle.
"To complete it," Kranath said, sitting beside him and materializing a mug of chovas. "I ended the clan wars, to begin the current cycle of history; a human must end this war, with our help, to begin the next."
The rest of the Lords, except for Sepol and Carle, vanished. "It all ties together, Steve," Carle said. "I taught you Language so you could complete the Ordeal quickly, and so you could communicate easily with your n'ruhar. We did not teach you forestcraft, because there was something you had to learn for yourself while Hovan taught you that."
Tarlac nodded almost immediately. "How to open up," he said. "Even . . . that I could open up, to love a whole clan and not be ashamed of it."
Kranath nodded. "Yes, and you learned it quickly, despite your human conditioning. I had to learn to be alone, you to be close—even the most minor of gods must know both.
"Someone subject to external limitations, as a Ranger or ruler is, should have no bias. We are limited only by our own feelings, though; everything we do must be tempered by love for our charges."
"External limitations?" Tarlac chuckled. "I'd say I didn't have many!"
"You had the ultimate limitation, Steve. Mortality."
"Huh?" Tarlac found that his coffee had remained at the perfect drinking temperature, and took another swallow.
"You could give almost any order and have it obeyed, granted. But if someone disliked what you did or commanded intensely enough— You have a saying that nobody is safe from a truly determined assassin, not true?"
"I hadn't thought of it like that, but you're right. And you—no, we—can't be killed." Then Tarlac frowned. "Godhome gave you a choice, Kranath. It said you had to be willing—why didn't I get that option?"
"Did you need it?"
"I don't understand."
"Did you need it?" Kranath repeated. "It seems to me that you had already made the choice."
"Ruhar," Carle said gently, "you have been both Ranger and Cor'naya, earning high status in both societies, and Daria was right when she told you that was vital to peace. Tell me, though: would that have been enough? Were you persuasive enough to convince two star-spanning civilizations to cease ten years of hostility just with words? Is any mortal?"
Tarlac shook his head. "I'm an operator, not much of a diplomat— Linda's the expert at that, and I don't think even she could bring that one off." He looked at them speculatively, then nodded. "I guess I do understand, at that. I did choose this, didn't I? Twice, and without realizing it."
The three other Lords smiled proudly at him. "Yes," Kranath said. "Once when you accepted Ranger Ellman's invitation, once when you accepted the Ordeal. That you were persuaded into both decisions is irrelevant; none of us chose this without persuasion, neither I nor any of the others."
"And I think I know why you need a human Lord, too. We're going to have to work on both sides to end the war. The Imperials would hardly listen to one of you—in your own form, anyway—where they will listen to a Ranger."
Kranath smiled. "Exactly. And as you have correctly surmised, we do not take on each other's forms. Not only would it be dishonorable, it would be unwise; those who hold great power, those to whom we usually need to appear when Speakers' words are insufficient, have enough psionic ability to tell us apart." Kranath projected mild amusement. "Humans included, though they have not as yet developed that ability consciously."
"Which means I'll have to go back to my body. That's the only way to keep intervention to a minimum." Tarlac thought for a moment. "With any luck at all, I won't have to do anything obvious enough for humans to notice. The Empire doesn't need a new human religion to cope with at the same time it acquires a new Sector—if things work out the way I'm hoping."
"You will allow the respective rulers to make the final choice, then."
"I'll give them the information they need to choose intelligently, but I won't tell them what to do." Tarlac sensed approval, and this time knew where it came from; he smiled. "Thanks."
"None necessary, Ruhar," Sepol said. "We are merely pleased that you grasp the necessities, even before your full maturity. Go on."
"Well, I won't be able to avoid open intervention with the Traiti; I'll have to tell all of them what I saw in Kranath's Vision. I don't like showing off like that, but at least they're accustomed to Lords manifesting from time to time."
"I did not like it either," Kranath agreed, "when I had to intervene so to end the clan wars. We all do what must be done, though." He put an arm around the man. "If you are ready, Brother, we should begin." Brother, not ruhar. Tarlac smiled at that human touch. "Yeah. Let's not waste time." Then he remembered. "Hey, what about Jim? The Empire can't afford to lose two Rangers at once—now less than ever."
"No," Kranath agreed. "He is still in critical condition, but Ranger Medart will recover fully."
"Thank God!" Tarlac exclaimed reflexively.
Then he realized what he'd said, and what he was; he laughed at the irony. "Thanks, Kranath. All right, I guess I'm ready. Go ahead."
With that, he felt the Supreme Lord's immense power enter his mind and begin work. What he'd experienced in the Vision was only a shadow of this reality, but it had prepared him as nothing had prepared Kranath. Despite what he could only think of as having his innermost mind forcibly stretched, then stuffed to near-capacity before being stretched again into what felt like hyperdimensions, he was in absolutely no pain. Instead, he felt…
Exaltation.
He'd been made into what a number of humans and Traiti would be in time. That he could know such glory while others were still so restricted was something that was, with his new knowledge, as inevitable as it was regrettable. Yet, since it was inevitable, his regret was of necessity dispassionate. Others would achieve this state, and he would greet them with joy. In the millennia before then, he had a job to do, helping to guide this galaxy's intelligences as those who went before had intended.
He felt an amusement like Kranath's, but this time it was his own. Humans had established the Empire and thought themselves and their vitality supreme; but the Traiti supplied the gods, the subtle guidance. And, he now realized, the Irschchans provided—or rather, would provide—ritual to bring those together. The cloudcats, the only race to remember the Others who went before as a vital part of their history, were the observers and reporters. None of them yet knew their parts of the whole, or could be allowed to know until they reached maturity.
For them it would be a natural process. He was the last to be forced to his full potential, to complete the Circle of Lords. He could see now how he'd been quite literally molded, as Kranath had said, from the moment of his conception—and he'd had a mostly-pleasant life. Since he could understand and appreciate the necessity, he could feel no resentment at the manipulation. It was as inevitable, historically, as the Traiti war itself.
Now he had almost total free will, but his mental patterns were long established. He would use his new powers as he had been intended to.
Hovan didn't feel much except fatigue and hunger as the time for Steve's Transformation neared. He'd held vigil for the full day, without sleep or food, and he felt the effects.
It would be over soon, he thought tiredly. The Lords had promised an honorable peace, so he believed it would come about, though he couldn't imagine how. But it still didn't seem right that Steve had succeeded so well in the Ordeal only to be denied knowing the peace he'd endured it to bring about.
He saw a preliminary flicker of blue and closed his eyes against the expected glare. When seconds passed without it he opened them again, and saw instead gentle blue radiance pulsing from Steve's body.
For a moment he was stunned, unable to believe what it meant. Such things belonged in Speakers' histories, not in life!
Then, slowly, he smiled and nodded to himself. Steve, the human Ranger who had become a Cor'naya in hopes of helping both races, fearing but accepting death for that goal—yes, Steve deserved to complete the Circle of Lords if anyone did.
Yarra and Daria had returned for the Transformation. Hovan exchanged glances with his Ka'ruchaya, but the Speaker stood motionless, her expression one of exaltation—until the radiance vanished and Steve sat up, his wounds healed, swinging his legs over the altar's edge and standing up. Then Daria bowed, hands formally crossed over her chest, and Hovan and the rest of the clan followed suit.
Tarlac watched, without pleasure, his n'ruhar's display of awed reverence—no, outright worship. It was the Traiti way, and necessary to them; his personal dislike of it was irrelevant. To the clan that had adopted him, the people he cherished, he was a god, one of the Circle of Lords—as the new, twelfth statuette which had materialized on every altar showed. He could only accept the homage.
But he was also still of Ch'kara. After a long moment, he said, "Okay, I've changed, but that's enough. We're still n'ruhar."
They straightened, still radiating awe. Tarlac could sense the clan both as an empathic entity and as the individuals composing it: Ka'ruchaya Yarra's joy that one of her n'ruesten had been chosen to complete the Circle, Daria's exultation and love for him and their daughter, Hovan's deep pride that it was he who had adopted and then sponsored the Ranger … even unformed pleasure from the youngling in Daria's body, already a part of the clan's emotional life. Finally he knew exactly what a Traiti clan really was, and how privileged he'd been to be adopted by this one.
It was time now to give them their full heritage, with safeguards he hadn't expected to have when he first made the Decision his Ordeal had demanded. He sensed the other Lords' invisible presence as they prepared to watch over the enormous number of individuals that, despite the war's heavy casualties, still made up the Traiti race. They'd help ease the shock of his revelation, and even though Tarlac would be spread thin imaging himself in so many places, he'd reinforce Ch'kara himself.
He let his love enfold them as theirs had him, before he began to speak to the Traiti race. "You all know of me, and you know I was a Ranger of the Terran Empire. Your Speakers and Ship-Captains have told you why I took the Ordeal and what I've become."
He paused, smiling. "What they didn't tell you, because they didn't know, is what you are. That's a duty I'm glad to perform. The Lords welcomed me to my heritage; let me welcome you to yours."
He paused again, extending his arms as if to embrace them all, and, as Kranath had shown it to him, showed them their true homeworld. He explained their origins and their rescue from Terra. "So," he finished, "you are our relatives, by ancestry as Terran as I am. The Empire has known as little of this as you have, but it will; and by its laws, you're already Imperial citizens."
He felt their consternation at that, their unwillingness to believe they could be part of what they'd fought for so long. Then some began to realize the changes this revelation should bring, and he sensed their first stirrings of real hope. Satisfied with that beginning, he let his image and presence fade from all but two gathering halls, his own and D'gameh's. At D'gameh, he addressed one of the males. "Arjen?"
The Fleet-Captain, wearing brilliant blue-and-gold robes in-clan, bowed deeply. To be name-called by such a one—! "Yes, Lord. How may I serve you?"
Lord. Tarlac shrugged inwardly; it was his title now. "You did a pretty nasty job for the Circle when you picked me up the way you did, and I know how badly it upset you. We appreciate it, and I'd like to ask something else of you that may make up for it, a little. May I?"
"Of course, Lord." This time it was Arjen who didn't know what was going on but couldn't refuse.
"It'll mean cutting your leave short, I'm afraid. I'd like you to have the Hermnaen ready for takeoff tomorrow morning, with just the ship crew, no combat troops. You'll be carrying the human prisoners instead, plus the Supreme, the First Speaker, my sponsor Hovan, and myself."
"You, Lord?" Arjen knew he shouldn't question a god, but why would one want to travel by ship?
Tarlac understood Arjen's question. "I could transfer myself—or all of us, for that matter—but humans aren't as ready for open divine intervention as Traiti. I'd rather let things seem as normal as possible. Can you arrange for the ship?"
"Of course, Lord. We will be ready at daybreak."
"Thanks." Tarlac returned fully to his mortal body at the Ch'kara clanhome. Arjen's pride in the assignment pleased him; it would ease the Fleet-Captain's lingering discomfort at having violated the body-return signal, even by the First Speaker's—the Lords'—orders. Many in D'gameh shared his uneasiness, and calling Arjen by name would repair the reserve Tarlac had sensed toward him there.
Ch'kara's gathering hall was beginning to empty, his n'ruhar responding to his desire for normality. Finally only a small group remained at the base of the dais: the First Speaker and Supreme; the two physicians, Channath and Jason; and Daria, Hovan, and Yarra.
Jason, the only human, was also the only one who couldn't quite seem to accept the human Ranger's new status. Tarlac appreciated the irony and was amused by it, but it didn't really matter. "Doctor," he said, "I need your professional opinion. Are the prisoners fit to travel?"
The doctor was a professional; his expression hardened. "No, sir, though I can only speak for those held in the same camp with me—"
"That is all of them," the Supreme broke in.
"Okay. Go on, Doctor."
"Yes, sir." Dr. Jason began ticking off objections on his fingers. "We've had marriages, so we've had pregnancies; one's near term, and transition might put her into premature labor. Then there are a couple of new ones, wounded, still on life support, and one the Sharks tortured for information. There are maybe half a dozen others with minor injuries or illness, nothing serious."
He shook his head. "Once the Sharks figure they've gotten all they can from someone, we get medical care the equal of anything the Empire could provide—especially the women." His admiration, however grudging, was obvious. "They're as good at trauma as I've ever seen, and a lot better at gynecology and obstetrics. My wife says she wants a Traiti doctor if she ever gets pregnant. Damned if I know why they're so good."
Tarlac seized that chance to find out how an ordinary Imperial citizen would react to the Traiti sexual imbalance. "I guess you've never seen a Traiti clan instead of their military, have you? Until now?"
"Sir?" Jason looked puzzled, then shook his head. "No, sir, I haven't. Why?"
"How many women would you say Ch'kara has? It's typical."
"I didn't see many, sir, maybe a quarter of the ones here. Guess not even Shark women like seeing someone get hurt."
"He was the Ordeal taking," Yarra said in English. "All who could here be, him to honor, were. You the right percentage saw."
Dr. Jason understood the implications at once. "Jesus H. Christ! They've got to be good with women, then—and childcare, too. But what about my patients?"
"Only four who aren't fit to travel," Tarlac said thoughtfully. "No real problem, then; I can give them support, though it won't be obvious. Take them along, in the Hermnaen's sickbay."
"If you can do that, sir, why can't you heal them?"
"I could, but I'm not going to. You heard what I said about keeping things as normal as possible. If I healed them, I'd be expected to heal others, and it would escalate from there. I'll give them the same chance they'd have if they weren't being moved, no more."
Tarlac didn't like that, but what he'd said was true. Godhome had been right when it told Kranath that refraining from action was often harder than taking it—and that too much intervention would harm, not help, even when it meant allowing suffering and death he could stop by an act of will. He sensed Dr. Jason's resentment at what seemed like callousness, and knew the man simply didn't have the scope to understand. "My word as a Ranger, Doctor. If I do more than the absolute minimum to help your patients, in the long run it could destroy the Empire. And that I will not risk."
"I can't argue, sir," Dr. Jason said grimly. "May I be dismissed to prepare them for the trip?"
"In a moment, Doctor. You're free to tell the prisoners anything you think appropriate about what you've seen here, though I doubt you'll find much belief if you mention my death and return."
Jason shook his head. "I'm not sure I believe that myself, sir, and I was here. I'll just say you passed the Ordeal and we're going to Terra."
Tarlac smiled. "Good. That should satisfy them." He turned to the Supreme. "If you'll provide escorts and transportation?"
"Done, Lord," the Supreme said promptly. "They will be at the Hermnaen by daybreak, as the First Speaker and I will. By your leave, then?" Both rulers bowed formally and held that attitude.
"Granted," Tarlac said. As they straightened, preparing to leave, he turned back to Jason. "Dismissed, Doctor."
When the out-clan visitors had left the gathering hall and Channath had excused herself, Tarlac very deliberately went to Hovan and put his arms around his sponsor, his head on the massive chest. Hovan tensed at the touch, and Tarlac realized the Traiti couldn't help himself.
Tarlac backed off, looking up. This time he had to relax Hovan. "Am I in-clan or not?" he demanded. "I still have today and tonight to be myself, here. If you can't accept me any longer, say so, and I'll meet you aboard ship."
"Lord—"
"Hovan, help me. I've been hurt—hell, I've died—and I'm still shaky. I'm not used to my powers yet, and it takes most of what I can do to reanimate this corpse." That was true enough; Tarlac simply didn't mention that the other Lords would add their power to his if he needed it.
He knew it was a shock for the clan to lose someone in the Ordeal, and only Ch'kara had ever lost a member to the Scarring and had him reappear as a Lord. And he was newly adopted and an alien; it was the clan that needed to be helped most, and calling on it for support would, paradoxically, let it recover most quickly. Yet he knew it was his plea for help, nothing more abstract, that moved Hovan. The Traiti finally embraced him. "You are in-clan, ruhar. Never doubt that. But may I ask why you want me to go?"
His cheek pressed against gray skin, smelling its tension-sharp odor, Tarlac said, "Yes. Partly because I need you, partly because you'll have to translate for the Supreme and First Speaker—Lord Carle gave you an advanced course in English, so your grammar wouldn't cause any misunderstandings—and partly because I plan to recommend that the Empire integrate your Fleet into the Navy and Marines. If you're willing, I'd like to start that by commissioning you myself, before I leave this body for good."
Hovan, absently stroking Steve's hair, looked at his Ka'ruchaya and the clan's Speaker. Yarra nodded approval; Daria, smiling, made a gesture of negation as if to say, "I am not needed to Speak here."
That was true enough, Hovan thought. Steve—Lord Esteban, to give him his proper title—was speaking for himself. "I am willing. Steve, ruhar, you do me great honor."
"No greater than you and Ch'kara did me," Tarlac said, realizing how solemn they all were. He'd prefer a lighter mood. "But hey, this is starting to sound like a mutual admiration society. Would anyone else like some chovas?"
The four adjourned to a small dining hall, to find themselves anticipated. Four mugs of the steaming beverage waited for them, and they drank silently.
For the rest of the day, Tarlac was given the unobtrusive but unmistakable support that his n'ruhar needed to give—and it helped them moderate awe to the acceptance, casual but touched with deep respect, they held for the other Lords. By evening, their emotions were subsiding to a certain permanent pride that Ch'kara had given a Lord to the Circle. It helped Tarlac, as well. He'd grown pleasantly accustomed to the clan's support and closeness—its love—and he'd regretted the loss of it that seemed inevitable. He came to realize, however, that as long as Ch'kara existed he would have its love, giving him a peace he could never have imagined before attaining his new maturity.
That night, while his body was surrounded by sleeping n'ruhar, Tarlac took advantage of his new powers to explore. Having the freedom of the galaxy was exhilarating, far better than the suit-enclosed EVA he'd enjoyed before. No helmet blocked his view, and if he wanted to, he could perceive the entirety of what surrounded him. He reveled in it, swooping from system to system, observing for himself what Kranath and the others had told him.
He understood the cloudcats and their psionic survival aids perfectly now; he repaired a minor fault in one, though it wasn't yet necessary, for the sheer pleasure of using his new skills.
He looked in on a young Irschchan student, graceful as her feline forebears, with no idea yet of the service she would soon do the Empire and her homeworld alike; he wished her well.
He checked the condition of his friend, James Medart; if Kranath hadn't assured him Jim would live, Tarlac would have been sorely tempted to intervene. Knowing the older Ranger was in critical condition hadn't prepared him for the sight of Jim hooked up to a roomful of life-support machinery, not in even a low-grav bed but submerged in a tank of rapid-heal solution. That was further evidence of how seriously he'd been wounded; Tarlac had only heard of the technique a couple of months before leaving Terra, as an experimental treatment for massive injuries.
It wasn't quite first-tenth at the clanhome, about 0730 Palace Standard Time, when Tarlac stopped amusing himself and went back to work. His new power made it simple for him to use his ID code alone to access the Imperial priority band, something he'd done before only with highly sophisticated equipment, and project an image of himself in open-shirted uniform to the Palace, to the Emperor's private comset.
He made the comscreen's viewpoint his own, to avoid mistakes, so when the screen activated he found himself looking at the Emperor's head, bent over the inevitable stack of printout paper, from the familiar low right three-quarter view. "Just a minute, please," Davis said tiredly, without looking up.
"Of course, sir." Tarlac sensed the Emperor was too fatigued, too distracted, to recognize his voice right away. His Majesty had changed in the three months since Tarlac had left Terra; his short-clipped hair was almost totally white, his shoulders were less erect, and his shirt more rumpled than he had tolerated then.
When the Emperor did look over at the screen, Tarlac was shocked to see the strain etched into his face. Davis looked ten years older, and utterly worn out. Then fatigue gave way to a startled grin. "Steve! You did it! Will you be back soon?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, to both. I'm on the Traiti Homeworld, and I'll be leaving, aboard one of their cruisers, in about five hours. Palace ETA is noon tomorrow, your time." He raised a hand to forestall the Emeror's beginning objection. "I know that's impossibly fast by Imperial technology, sir, but we'll be getting a one-time-only boost from a sort of super-computer the Others left here."
"The Others." Davis frowned, then shrugged. "I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. Captain Willis reported what Fleet-Captain Arjen told you. Steve, can you end this damn war?"
"I can't, sir, no. What I can do is arrange things so you and the Traiti rulers, their Supreme and First Speaker, can try to end it."
"Good enough. After those people we massacred on Khemsun, I'll take anything I can get." Davis looked bitter, angry. "Maybe you'd better give me the whole story; I can ask questions later. I don't want you missing your ship."
Tarlac grinned. "They'd wait for me, sir, but that is a good idea. And if you wouldn't mind taping it, I think it should be made public."
"You're the Ranger on-scene; recommendation accepted." Davis touched a control on his comset. "All right, Ranger Tarlac. This is for the record."
"Very well, Your Majesty. I assume the record already holds the Empress Lindner's log tapes."
"That is correct. Go on."
"Yes, sir." Tarlac began with his first meeting with Hovan and went on to the adoption, a description of Homeworld and the Traiti civilians which included their gender ratio, his greeting at the Ch'kara clanhome, his special Language lesson—"The Traiti attribute it to the Circle of Lords, their gods; whether to believe it was them or the Others' computer, which this report will describe later, will have to be an individual decision."
Then, in an outline that would be suitable for public release, he told of his seduction by Daria and her subsequent pregnancy.
Davis stopped the recording. "Are you sure you want that on record, Steve? If you pass the psych retests—" He broke off at the look on Tarlac's face. "You're that sure you'd fail, then."
"No doubt about it, sir. I shouldn't have passed them the first time, any more than Shining Arrow should have. Sharing young is an important part of the Ordeal because their best have to be fertile. Daria and our daughter are important to me, Ch'kara is important to me— personally. This is my last mission … but I can't regret even that, if it brings peace and keeps them alive."
The Emperor sighed heavily. "Another one down. You say you were allowed news intercepts—did they mention that Jim's been critically wounded?"
"Yes, sir, the day before my Scarring. Shall I continue?"
"Go ahead." Davis touched "Record" again, and nodded.
Tarlac described his schooling and wilderness experience with no particular emphasis, and then had the screen show Kranath's Vision, as he and Godhome remembered it, translating the Language. He waited, ready to give the Emperor the same emotional support he'd given Ch'kara if it were needed.
It wasn't, quite, though Davis was shaken enough to stop recording again when it ended. "Good God, Steve! You know what'll happen when the newsies get their hands on that!"
"Yes, sir, and there's worse to come. At our first meeting, the First Speaker promised me a tape of the initial contact. I gave you Kranath's Vision first, for background. Now here's the contact tape."
He showed it, feeling Davis' helpless rage, so like his own when he'd seen it, as it played and was recorded. The Emperor hit the "Stop" button with his clenched fist when it was over, cursing in a language Tarlac had never heard but which sounded remarkably well suited for that purpose. Davis spun the tape back and watched the first contact again. When it ended the second time, he looked haunted. "All right, Steve. Finish your report."
Tarlac did so, conscious that after the contact tape, the story he was telling sounded a bit anticlimactic. "I had to tell them about our common heritage, of course," he finished, "and to be believed, I had to finish the Ordeal. So here I am, with Honor scars. And that's it, sir."
Davis touched his controls again, and Tarlac was suddenly conscious of his intense scrutiny, his reputation for almost telepathic discernment. "Is it, Steve?" he asked quietly.
"He is close to the truth," Kranath's thought came. "Will you deny it to him?"
"No," Tarlac replied. "I told him it was up to the individual, and if he figures it out, okay. Working it like this, not many should, even though the Traiti won't keep it any secret."
"Will you then confirm it for him?"
"He won't need it."
The Emperor nodded slowly. "You never could play poker, Steve. You've been holding out on me, and just now you were thinking of… something. And maybe you've made a couple of mistakes. Your transmission—or should I say illusion?—doesn't have a background. That might have a lot of causes, but could Kranath's Vision have been a reenactment? There were no mindprobes around five thousand years ago to record it." He glanced again at the comscreen control panel, its master switch turned off. "You, or part of you, is right here, Lord Esteban Tarlac—isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Tarlac admitted, unable to repress a smile and a rueful headshake. "A moment ago Lord Kranath told me you were close to the truth and asked me what I intended to do about it. Absolutely nothing, except to ask you not to make it official. If I'm being so obvious, too many people may pick up on it anyway."
"It wasn't obvious, except to someone who knows you well. I don't think anyone but your… former… colleagues will catch it. And I won't make it official; you know the Empire doesn't promote any religion. But—will you give the Empire the same support your new colleagues give the Traiti?"
Tarlac laughed, relieved that the Emperor could see and grasp this opportunity as readily as ever, in spite of the circumstances. "Your Majesty, if this succeeds, all of us will be working for the interests of both races combined."
A driving surge of hope erased some of the Emperor's fatigue. "What do you want me to do?"
The next morning, as promised, the Supreme and First Speaker met Tarlac and Hovan at the Hermnaen's loading ramp. Fleet-Captain Arjen, in uniform again and obviously proud of this honor, was waiting to greet them. He bowed respectfully to the human in Ranger green. "Lord Esteban."
Tarlac touched his shoulder, to emphasize the fact that he was still using a physical body. "Not necessary for now, Fleet-Captain. Let's keep things looking as normal as possible."
Arjen straightened. "Yes, Lord."
Tarlac turned to the two rulers. "During the night I contacted the Emperor and asked him to order a cease-fire; it should be taking effect by now. Would you give the same order?"
"Of course, Lord," the Supreme replied. "But how can it reach all our ships in time?"
"The same way I contacted them yesterday," Tarlac told him. "Just talk at me as if you were giving the order over a transmitter."
Taking him at his word, the two rulers gave the orders and Tarlac relayed their images and words to the Traiti ships' communications equipment, as he had activated the Palace's comm channels the night before. There were no objections from the Fleet, though acknowledgments ranged from almost enthusiastic to openly skeptical. Tarlac passed them all along, thinking that it didn't matter. With racial survival at stake, the Lords would be monitoring both the human and the Traiti ships. There would be no accidental—or intentional—infractions of the cease-fire.
Once they boarded the Hermnaen, Tarlac accompanied Arjen to the control central and took a place standing behind Arjen and Ship-Captain Exvani. Liftoff was routine until the ship reached the safe transition distance of ten diameters out. Then Tarlac spoke up. "Master Pilot?"
"Yes, Lord?"
"Program out-transition for Terra's position exactly one day from now, please."
The Master Pilot, unlike the Emperor, showed no surprise at the speed that order implied, and moments later there was the twisting sensation of hyperspace entry. The sensation continued for almost a minute rather than brief seconds, however, and the viewscreens, when they cleared, showed swirls of shifting color instead of the featureless gray of hyperspace.
There were exclamations of surprise and awe. Nobody asked questions, but Tarlac could feel their intense curiosity, and decided it would do no harm to satisfy it. "This dimension is to hyperspace as that is to normspace; it allows speeds roughly two hundred times as fast as hyperflight."
"Leyar's Dimension?" Arjen asked.
"Yes. He has the beginnings of the theory worked out, but it'll be awhile yet before it'll be of any practical use." Tarlac did not say that it would be a long while. Unlike Nannstein's theory of gravitics, which had led directly to hyperdrive, ultraspace theory held no clues to its practical applications; it would be several centuries before those were worked out. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to brief the First Speaker and Supreme."
"Of course, Lord. They and Team-Leader Hovan are in Ship-Captain Exvani's quarters, and mine have been prepared for you."
And you don't regret the loss of privacy a bit, Tarlac thought, amused. "Thanks, Fleet-Captain. I'll be back here for out-transition; even with the cease-fire, I don't think the defense satellites would be willing to let you by without my authorization."
"As they should not," Arjen said approvingly. "Individually, Lord, human fighters leave much to be desired—but in groups they equal us, and they are far more numerous."
"That's why those who went before moved you instead of us, remember?" Tarlac was delighted to be able to speak so openly, even jokingly, of facts the Traiti race now accepted.
"Yes, Lord." Arjen couldn't help smiling. There was something about this Lord who had been a Ranger, something that put him at ease rather than keeping him at the distance the other Lords inspired. Perhaps it was the man's youth, or his small size, but whatever it was, Arjen liked Lord Esteban.
Tarlac sensed that and smiled as he left the control central. If the Traiti saw Kranath as a father figure, and the other ten Lords as n'ruchaya, sharing that parenthood with the Supreme Lord, but saw Tarlac as the "youngling" of the Circle, that was fine with him. He'd had all the isolation and deference his Imperial rank demanded for fifteen years, and he thought he'd prefer to spend the next few millennia with the easy warmth he sensed from Arjen, from Ch'kara—and in fact from all the Traiti.
When the Hermnaen out-transitioned, it was a cautious hundred and fifty thousand kilometers from Terra, and Tarlac was satisfied that he'd briefed the three who would accompany him to the Palace as well as he could without actually telling them what to do.
He was in the control central again, at the communications console. Activating the screen, he tuned to the Imperial guard channel. "Fleet Headquarters, this is Ranger Tarlac."
The reply was prompt. "This is Headquarters, Ranger. You are cleared to land at the Palace field at your convenience. All other traffic has been diverted, since your pilot can't be familiar with our landing conventions. The landing beacon is on, and please report passing Defsat Five. Do you copy?"
"Roger, I copy, and thank you. Tarlac out."
"Headquarters out."
Tarlac looked over at the Master Pilot. "It's all yours. Take us down."
"Aye, Lord."
Watching critically, Tarlac had to admit there was very little difference in efficiency between the crews at the Hermnaen's control central and on the Empress Lindner's bridge. If the Hermnaen's seemed to have a bit of an edge at present, it was understandable; the Lindner's would have made as good a showing, taking a Traiti VIP to Homeworld.
They passed Defsat Five half a dozen kilometers out, Tarlac making the necessary call to confirm their landing clearance. Then the pilot took them down, slowly and precisely, following the beacon.
Tarlac took nostalgic pleasure in what he knew would be his last ship-descent. This view had always been a favorite of his: the clear, windless sight of the sun reflecting off Antarctic snowfields. A dark speck appeared at the foot of the Sentinel Mountains, the modified defense screen that protected the Imperial Palace and a circle fifty kilometers around it from the harsh environment. The speck grew, beginning to show detail. The Palace itself was a good four kilometers square, the largest single building ever constructed by humans, combining elements from all of Terra's cultures in a feat of engineering made possible by Nannstein's genius. Tarlac thought it was magnificent, and it was virtually a self-contained city. Gardens and parkland surrounded it for ten kilometers, with administrative and residential areas beyond that, also carefully landscaped.
Once those details became visible, it was only moments until the Hermnaen set down on the Palace's landing field, which was big enough to serve a system capital and as well fortified as a planetary defense base. Even the Emperor's private landing pad near the Palace wall could be covered by a heavy disruptor cannon. The Hermnaen, here, was as vulnerable as the Lindner had been when she was englobed by Arjen's fleet.
As he had arranged, Tarlac met the other three at the main entry ramp. The coming encounters wouldn't be easy for them; they simply had no experience in coping with other cultures. He could sense their apprehension, their carefully-fostered self-confidence, as the hatch cycled open and the ramp extended. "Take it easy," he said softly. "You'll do fine."
The Supreme smiled at him. "We will do our best, Lord."
"I know." Tarlac, accustomed to the imposingly massive beings, still found them impressive. To anyone else on Terra, the effect would be even greater. And the Traiti were dressed for the occasion. Hovan was in uniform, armed with dagger, shortsword, and gun, everything but his blast-rifle; the First Speaker wore the bright green robe of her office; and the Supreme, in honor of the new Lord, wore Ch'kara-style blue trousers and silvery open shirt, with, naturally, his dagger. They were impressive, Tarlac thought.
The scene outside the ship was no more than he'd expected. There was a huge crowd, mostly news reporters with everything from tiny still cameras to holo gear which was barely portable. They were being held back by Palace Guards, Imperial Marines in traditional dress blues. Only the small honor guard Tarlac had recommended came forward to meet the four of them, ten Marines and a Ranger whose long black hair was held out of his face by a headband the same green as his uniform and dress cloak.
The two Rangers exchanged salutes before Tarlac accepted his own cloak from the Marine carrying it, swung it over his shoulders, and fastened the chain. It was a long time since he'd worn the heavy garment with its silver trim and embroidered Imperial Seal, and he took a moment to arrange it so it would hold his shirt open instead of closed over his scars.
Once he was satisfied, he made the introductions. "Crown Prince Rick Forrest, may I present the Traiti Supreme and First Speaker, and my sponsor, Team-Leader Hovan."
The three bowed; Forrest saluted again. "Welcome to Terra. I've been told that only Team-Leader Hovan speaks much English, but that you can all understand some."
"That is correct," Hovan said.
"Good enough. Now if you'll come with me, His Majesty is waiting to receive you."
"We you thank," the First Speaker said, using, Tarlac knew, most of her limited English.
Then, each flanked by two of the Marines, they moved toward the Palace's immense main entrance. As they neared it, the newsies crowded closer and began clamoring for information, shouting questions, brandishing cameras and microphones. The Rangers, long accustomed to network competition, paid little attention to the aggressive mob scene; this was a big story, one of the biggest, and the newsies' behavior was expectable. They didn't mean any harm, but Tarlac sensed a growing concern from the two Traiti males for the First Speaker's safety.
Tarlac kept walking, outwardly impassive, as he sent them reassurance. "I know the newsies are a bit overwhelming, but there's no danger. They're just doing their jobs, sending this story all over the Empire. Traiti monitoring stations will pass it on to your worlds, too." That helped; the three Traiti relaxed a little.
Arjen, on the Hermnaen, was too busy to relax. There were vehicles approaching, white ones marked with the scarlet cross and crescent that distinguished human medical equipment. He called sickbay and reached Dr. Jason. "Vehicles are for your people coming, Doctor. Your patients will first off-loaded be, if they ready are."
"They're ready," a tired-looking Jason said. "Can you send the medics here—and keep the newsies out?"
"Of course," Arjen replied. "The Marines will that insure, Lord Esteban says, and the patients will be to the Palace medical unit taken."
"The Palace medcenter?" Jason sighed, looking less tired. "That's a relief; it's probably the best hospital in the Empire. Did he say anything about the rest of us?"
"You will be to regional facilities for checks taken, Bethesda and one I find hard to say."
"Akademgorod?" Dr. Jason asked, his expression suddenly eager.
"Yes. Your families are being there taken, and after you fully checked are, you will be with them reunited." Arjen smiled himself at that thought. "I hope you all of yours well find."
"Thanks. But if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work."
"As do I." Arjen cut the circuit.
In the Palace, the Throne Room doors began to swing open and a fanfare sounded. "Okay, here we go," Tarlac said. "Remember, don't kneel when you're presented, even if some of the courtiers do. You're not part of the nobility."
"We will remember," the First Speaker said.
Tarlac didn't have time to say any more, as the fanfare was replaced by the first notes of Williams' Imperial Anthem, and they had to make their entrance.
It was a long, slow, ceremonious walk from the door to the Throne, since this was a full-scale Grand Audience. The courtiers, nobles and their guests—those who had managed to make it to the Palace on such short notice—all had a chance to study the open-shirted, scarred Ranger and the massive gray-skinned beings with him. They knew Traiti from pictures, but none of these had seen them in the flesh.
And more than their presence here drew comment. Two of the aliens were armed, in the Imperial Presence! Normally only Rangers and Life Nobles had that privilege, and seeing enemies so honored brought angry murmurs, even after the tapes all present had seen of Tarlac's account of the Ordeal, of Kranath's Vision.
Tarlac heard the murmurs and smiled. If they thought this was bad, just wait! His plans were going smoothly; if the emotional currents he sensed continued, it was likely that soon these courtiers would be glad for the Traiti's arms.
Hovan was beginning to feel uneasy as he followed Steve down the red carpet toward the Throne, and he wasn't quite able to place the reason. It wasn't the humans' anger; Steve had warned them to expect that at first. And it wasn't the strangeness of being on Terra, or even in the Palace's Throne Room. This, despite its size and splendor, bore a strong similarity to a gathering hall, even though its dais supported the Throne instead of an altar. This place felt out-clan, nothing more sinister. His unease was due to something else, something his combat-honed senses insisted was like walking into an ambush. He sighed inwardly. If there was going to be trouble, why hadn't Steve said anything?
But Steve was a Lord now, he reminded himself, and it was axiomatic that Lords did things their own ways for their own reasons. All he could do was remain alert, prepared to take any action that might seem necessary.
As they neared the Throne, Hovan found himself more impressed than he'd thought he would be. Twin columns of swirling silver flanked Emperor Charles Davis where he sat in the rather plain, high-backed wooden chair that was the Throne, on its meter-high marble dais. He wore green-and-silver robes and a silvery crown ornamented with winged stars; the scepter he held matched it. The regalia could not disguise the strain lines engraved in his face, but he was smiling slightly, and so was Crown Prince Forrest, from his place behind the Emperor's left side.
Davis gave the group a sober examination before he spoke. "Ranger Tarlac. We are pleased at your return, and at your successful completion of the Traiti Ordeal of Honor. According to Captain Willis, that means you are bringing Us the peace We wish."
"I bring a good chance for peace, Your Majesty, in the persons of the Traiti rulers and Team-Leader Hovan, who gave me the support and training I needed to survive the Ordeal." Tarlac repressed a smile at that misleading technicality. He'd survived, yes—for less than a minute.
"We welcome them to the Empire. You have learned their Language; will you act as translator for Us?"
"Of course, sir."
"Good. As you asked Us to, We have released the tapes you showed Us yesterday, so their contents are common knowledge; you need not go into those facts again."
"Thank you, sir." Tarlac turned to the Supreme and First Speaker, and translated the exchange.
"Now," Davis said, his tone even more serious, "We understand that it is a cultural problem which has brought about this civil war between the Empire and some of Our separated citizens."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Their culture and its imperatives are quite different from ours—but I'm proud to have been adopted by Clan Ch'kara and to call Hovan my brother."
Davis nodded, and focused his attention on the two rulers. "We hope to end this fratricidal conflict, which has recently, for the first time, cost you women and children We understand you can ill afford to lose. Have you any suggestions as to how We can do that?"
Imperial usage, Hovan thought as he watched, had sounded foolish when Steve described it aboard ship, but coming from the Emperor now, it sounded both solemn and appropriate.
It was the Supreme, since this was primarily a secular matter, who answered through Tarlac. "The Ranger has told us that our Terran origin entitles us to Imperial citizenship, and that any citizen has the right to petition the Throne."
Davis nodded. "It is a citizen's basic right, one which has prevented much injustice. We invite you to present yours."
The Supreme indicated the First Speaker. "Then, Your Majesty, we petition life for our people. Ranger Tarlac has told you that we cannot surrender; as your troops advance, we will all die as surely as those of Clan L'sor died. It is death with honor to die in defense of the clan, but it is death for all of our race, and I do not think Your Majesty wants that any more than we want it."
"We do not," Davis said firmly, "and there is a way to prevent it. Ranger Tarlac has told you of the Imperial policy regarding governments which already exist on inhabited planets, has he not?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The Irschchan system is still ruled by their White Order, and the cloudcats of Ondrian have kept their own ways. Those, however, are local governments. Our civilization, like yours, is interstellar in scope."
"We consider that the principle is the same for a Sector as for a planet or a system. Do you disagree?"
"We do not, Your Majesty. We agree fully."
"Then hear Our Edict." Davis stood, raising the scepter. "We rule that the war came about because of a mutual misunderstanding between two groups of Imperial citizens, one of which was unaware of that status, and that no blame may be attached to either group.
"Further, we invite the Supreme and First Speaker to swear fealty to the Empire, that the Traiti may take their rightful place in Our Realm. In exchange, We offer confirmation of their status as rulers of the new Traiti Sector, subject only to the restrictions that apply to all Sector Dukes."
It was the offer Lord Esteban had said would probably be made, and the Traiti had no hesitation, after his earlier briefing, about accepting it. They knelt and swore the oaths of fealty that made them Imperial nobles.
"We accept your fealty," the Emperor said, "and in return pledge Our support." He touched both rulers on the shoulders with his scepter. "Rise, my Lord Dukes."