Table of Contents

AMBUSH

HOSTAGE

NEW YEAR’S WAKE

TEAMS

THAKUR-NA

YOUNGLING

ZETA EXCHANGE

AMBUSH

A TERRAN EMPIRE VIGNETTE

Palace Complex, 2578 CE

It wouldn’t be easy ferreting out the identity of the field agent who’d saved his bio-father’s life twelve years ago. It wasn’t supposed to be easy—ideally, it would be impossible—and Nevan was sure he owed his own life, perhaps several times over, to the Imperial safeguards he was trying to break. More, he understood why those safeguards wouldn’t be relaxed even to allow an ex-agent to search out a still-active one—but he had what he considered two excellent reasons to do exactly that.

The first was that his bio-father had died, and had wanted Nevan to give the anonymous agent his personal weapons: two forearm throwing knives, a belt knife, and a needler. The one he had sworn fealty to had agreed that his father’s wish made it a matter of honor that he try, and had given him permission—but on condition that he use only his own training and skills, taking no advantage of the fact that he was sworn to one of the most powerful people in the Empire. Nevan was certain in his own mind that if he failed, she would see that the agent got the weapons intended for him, but his thakur’s overt reason for agreeing was that it would make a good test of IntelDiv’s security. If he were arrested, she would have him released and commend the people who had done it; if he got through, she would have security procedures tightened. Neither paid serious attention to the fact that if he were caught under certain circumstances she would have no chance to protect him; he would be shot on sight.

Nevan thought that perfectly reasonable. He was a Sandeman warrior, after all, and his thakur was an Irschchan; risks were a normal part of life for both of them, to be accepted and even savored for the spice they added.

He had done all he could here, in the Records Section; he lowered his mind-shield and reached out. Thakur?

Her answer was prompt, and he smiled to himself, enjoying the cool clarity of her mind-touch. What results, thakur-na? she asked.

About what we expected. Kelly told me the agent was Logistics Officer at a base on Piper’s World during the Traiti counter-attacks there, but he never told me which base, and the description he gave fits five of them. I was able to eliminate two of those because the Logistics Officers were female—but that still leaves three. I’m going to have to go under cover to find the right one.

He “heard” the amused purr that was the Irschchan version of a laugh. A return to the field work you enjoy so must be a terrible sacrifice, my Nevan.

Nevan let his thoughts lapse into High War Speech, chuckling. Nay, Thakur, as thou knowest well—save that it does mean I must conceal thy mark, lest it identify me and make thy object in this attempt no true test.

Aye, but it should not be for long.

And I knew when I swore that I might have to do it, Nevan agreed. Until my success or failure, then.

Three days later he was far from Terra, the violet-flower tattoo on his cheek concealed by synthiskin, in a small Kanchatka-class courier ship. That was a definite luxury for a private individual, though not unreasonable for a Sandeman warrior who’d done well securing private employment and wanted more—who was, in short, a very good, very expensive hired killer. There weren’t many, granted; killing for its own sake wasn’t highly regarded on Sandeman, especially if anything more honorable was available, but there were enough to make his cover plausible.

This, he had decided, was going to be fun.

A couple of days later, he was less sure. He’d come away from the Palace Complex with as much solid data as he’d ever had starting a mission, and with as much enthusiasm, but he’d begun feeling less than comfortable about this one. Part of it was because he was pursuing someone he would probably like to have as a friend; the unknown agent didn’t deserve to be hunted, though Nevan had to reluctantly concede that it was probably the best way to accomplish his thakur’s mission. The other part was that he couldn’t seem to decide whether or not he really wanted to catch his target. He wanted to make sure the weapons were delivered, yes, and since his chosen lady wanted a good test of IntelDiv’s security, he had to want it too—but he wasn’t happy about what those desires implied: It was almost inevitable that he’d have to use some of a field agent’s less savory skills. He’d used them before, often enough, and without qualms—against the Empire’s enemies. He had never used them against people who had done nothing to deserve such treatment, and he didn’t really want to.

He didn’t have any choice, though. He would do whatever proved to be necessary to accomplish his objectives.

Three weeks, five planetfalls, and almost 1500 light-years of routine checking later, Nevan discovered his quarry’s name: Kiyoshi Owajima. So far he’d had to resort to nothing more drastic than reading and casual conversation, but learning he was after Owajima left him both disgusted at the gods’ whimsical ordering of things and positive that things would be getting unpleasant rather shortly. He’d never met Owajima, though he’d wanted to, and when Nevan had left IntelDiv on swearing fealty to Ranger Losinj, Owajima had taken over the top field agent rating. Owajima was no Sandeman, but IntelDiv rumor had him close; he was supposed to have been a Kai-school ninja before joining the Corps, and his exploits since hadn’t done anything to contradict the rumor. Nevan scowled at that; he hated having to depend on rumor. Doing that tended to get agents killed—but unless you worked in the classified section of Personnel Records or knew the agent personally, rumor was all you’d have on one. And in Owajima’s case, as in Nevan’s own, there wasn’t even much rumor.

Kiyoshi Owajima concealed a scowl when he finished decoding his informant’s message and read it. He had a pursuer, it seemed—a Sandeman warrior named Vance DarLowrie, and the informant was convinced DarLowrie was one of the rare, expensive, and fearsome Sandeman free-lance assassins. That conviction was strengthened by the fact that DarLowrie had his own ship, the Last Resort, and it was registered to him personally rather than to Clan Lowrie. The Sandeman would neither confirm nor deny that occupation, of course, but the simple fact that he was attempting to trace an IntelDiv field agent lent still further credence to the informant’s conclusion.

Owajima would have liked more information, but it seemed prudent to act on the informant’s suspicions. The Sandeman had filed a flight plan for Olathe, where Owajima had spent some time and built up a respectable net; that seemed most promising. It was unfortunate, Owajima thought, that he was unable to investigate DarLowrie himself; that would have to wait until he was finished with the final touches on his present case, a matter of a day or two.

Still, he could begin making preparations. He would be entitled to a leave after this mission, and he had planned to take it at home on Nippon-Ni; that was now an even better idea. His contacts on his home world made his networks elsewhere, good as they were, seem like children’s clubs—and it should not be difficult at all to permit DarLowrie to “discover” those intentions. It would undoubtedly be unpleasant for the one he discovered them from, since it was unlikely DarLowrie would believe information he obtained too easily.

That, however, was not a serious problem; a number of his Olathe network owed him enough that he could call on them even for such a service. It would take DarLowrie perhaps a week to reach Olathe, another week and a half to get to Nippon-Ni; that would give Owajima time to make adequate preparations, then visit with his family for several days. He smiled to himself, transmitted the necessary messages, and returned his attention to his immediate mission.

Nevan entered the Lucky Bull, a medium-priced bar near the Olathe City spaceport, and ordered a glass of chocolate milk before finding a table near the rear of the main room. In the early days after Annexation, he’d heard, bars had carried alcoholic beverages almost exclusively, and Sandemans were made fun of for drinking only the non-alcoholic variety, but by the time he’d started frequenting bars as an excellent source of information, the sweet high-energy beverages Sandemans preferred were as normal as alcohol.

If he had Owajima figured correctly, someone at one of his last two or three stops should have been in his target’s network, and contacted him. Even if, as Nevan thought probable, Owajima was working on the Bracei case, he’d make time to have a presumed assassin investigated. That was why Nevan had made no secret of his last destinations, following his flight plans precisely as he’d filed them. That, and the fact that a Sandeman hired killer shouldn’t display the subtleties and precautions that would mark him as having had Imperial training of any sort, particularly a field agent’s training; the two simply didn’t go together.

A tall man in Marine service dress with captain’s bars approached Nevan’s table, carrying a drink. “Mind if I join you, warrior?” he asked.

“If you wish, Captain.”

The other sat, looking him over; Nevan returned the scrutiny, waiting.

“I’m Kim Johansen, of SecuDiv,” the Marine said at last. “You’re Vance DarLowrie, just in on the Last Resort?”

Nevan nodded. “I am, Captain Johansen. What of it?”

“If you’re what rumor calls you and your ship’s name implies, I’d advise you to lay low. The Baron here takes a dim view of assassins.”

“Most people do, except those who have need of one. I thank you for your concern, though; I will be careful.”

“Good.” Johansen sipped at his drink, frowned. “A warrior of your clan saved my life during the war. I feel a certain obligation to repay that debt, even if I don’t particularly approve of your occupation myself.”

“There’s no proof I’m what you guess.”

“The fact you don’t deny it will be enough for most.” Johansen showed brief distaste, swallowed the rest of his drink, and rose. “I can’t wish you luck, since that’d mean wishing someone else dead. But I can wish it for your clan, and I do.”

Nevan rose to bow. “I will pass your wishes, and word of your repayment, to the Lowrie. Go in peace, Captain Johansen—and please accept my wishes for your well-being. Whatever you think of me or my profession—” most Imperials were as dubious of field agents as they were of assassins—“I want only the best for the Empire and its officers.”

“Sandemans don’t lie, so I accept that,” Johansen said. Then, grudgingly, “Thank you, warrior.” With that he left, abruptly.

Nevan allowed himself a small smile, then went to get more chocolate milk. Not too promising so far, but he hadn’t been here long, either.

Perhaps half an hour after he returned to his table, another man approached, this one in an expensive suit. “Vance DarLowrie?”

“Yes.” Nevan recognized the type; a businesser who’d made enemies and wanted either protection or one of them eliminated. “I am not available at the moment.”

“You have other employment?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

The businesser sat. “It is if your target is Kiyoshi Owajima, as I’ve heard. I have reason to want him . . . out of the picture.”

“Oh?” Nevan remained noncommittal, but allowed himself to show a trace of interest. “I understand he’s an Imperial officer—a dangerous target. Killing him would earn the death penalty or life imprisonment—death, if done simply for pay. That’s a foolish risk, when there are any number of almost riskless targets around.”

“I can tell you where he’s going when he finishes his current mission.”

“Interesting, if true,” Nevan acknowledged.

“It’s true,” the businesser said.

Reading his face and body language, Nevan agreed. The man knew, was eager to say—and would report to Owajima as soon as he could. Nevan made himself look skeptical, which wasn’t hard; this was obviously a setup. “Even if he were my target, which I do not say, I would want more than your unsupported word. Will you submit to truth drugs, or shall I use Sandeman methods?”

“Torture, you mean.” The businesser grimaced. “In my position, I don’t dare submit to truth drugs. And I’ve no desire to use my pain to convince you I’m telling the truth.”

Nevan shrugged. “Those are the alternatives.” He didn’t particularly like torture himself, and especially disliked using it on one of a field agent’s network. But an enemy would have no hesitation, and until he caught up with Owajima—or was caught himself—he was acting in that capacity. “If you are convinced Owajima is my target, and you wish to assist me in finding him, you will choose one. Otherwise, you will depart.”

The businesser looked angry, but Nevan could see he’d expected something of the sort. “The torture, then. When and where?”

“My ship, now.” Nevan stood. “Come along.”

Nevan scowled down at the unconscious businesser. He’d restricted his open questioning to Owajima’s plans and next location—his homeworld, not surprisingly—but he’d done some questioning covertly as well, making comments about Owajima and reading the answers from his subject’s face and body language. The man had confirmed an opinion Nevan had formed early: given the opportunity, he and Owajima could easily become friends.

This man, for instance. He’d owed Owajima a debt, true, but it had been loyalty rather than obligation that had led him to help the way he had. Assuming he was successful in this mission, Nevan thought, he’d have to see the businesser got some sort of compensation. Though the man had definitely been in serious pain, Nevan had inflicted no real damage beyond bruises; when the man woke, he’d be able to function normally.

Nevan was tempted to clean the man up, put him to bed, and dose him with rapid-heal—but that wasn’t how one with his cover occupation would act. Instead, he got an injector of energine and triggered it into the businesser’s carotid artery. Seconds later, the man’s eyes opened and he groaned. “Are you done yet?”

“Yes. You may get dressed and leave. I would advise you to waste no time; liftoff is in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be gone.” The man struggled to his feet and into the small ’fresher, where Nevan had had him leave his clothing; less than two minutes later he was leaving the ship.

Nevan had his flight plan ready by then. He transmitted it to the spaceport controller, got clearance, and was lifting off at the specified time. Not long afterward, he was far enough from the planet to make the transition to hyperspace, and did so.

Owajima smiled as he read his agent’s decoded message. DarLowrie had acted precisely as could be expected from a Sandeman assassin, it seemed, though Owajima was pleased his agent reported nothing more serious than bruises. He frowned, though, when he reached the last paragraph.

“Personal impressions: I can’t pinpoint it, but something about him reminds me of you. The feeling you give me of being looked into more than at, maybe. It’s not the typical Sandeman arrogance that makes you feel like you’re not worth the bother of looking at—it’s more like being under a microscope. I’m sorry to be so vague, but as I said, there wasn’t anything definite I can point to.”

A feeling of being looked into rather than at. Owajima frowned more deeply. That bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a particularly observant person’s reaction to someone who was reading @’s face and body language. That was not a common skill, particularly among Sandemans—though he had to admit it would be as useful a skill for an assassin as it was for a field agent.

In which case, it was possible DarLowrie had obtained more information than Owajima had intended—including that the information had been set up for him to find. And where had DarLowrie learned such a skill? Not on any of the Sandeman worlds, which weren’t given to such subtleties. The only places Owajima knew, in fact, that taught more than the most basic such reading were the Kai school here, and the Imperial field agent school on Terra. No Sandeman had ever studied here, and he was aware of only one who had successfully completed field agent training—his predecessor as top agent, Nevan DarLeras, now sworn to the Crown Princess by the totally-binding Sandeman personal-fealty oath.

That left a graduate of one of those two schools as DarLowrie’s teacher. An ex-field agent was by far the more likely, if only because there were many more of them, and few Kai-school ninjas left Nippon-Ni. Take that as a working hypothesis, then. In that case, was it likely the agent had taught DarLowrie only face and body reading?

It would be safest, Owajima thought, to operate on the worst-case assumption that DarLowrie had learned most, if not all, of an agent’s skills. He would need them, if he had any intention of assassinating Owajima on his home territory and then escaping.

Should he simply eliminate DarLowrie, or would it be better to capture and question him? The second, Owajima decided almost immediately. That would be more difficult, but it might be a good idea to discover the agent reckless enough to teach such skills to anyone able to pay—and discourage . . .

He was going to do it himself. He could and would ask for help from his former colleagues, the Shogun’s secret police—but attempted murder of an Imperial officer was an Imperial crime; they didn’t have jurisdiction. He could call in assistance, but that was something field agents were, as an occupational characteristic, disinclined to do unless there was no other way to get the job done—which, at this point, was not the case.

Nevan spent the first two days of his flight to Nippon-Ni studying everything the Last Resort’s ship-comp had available about that planet. It sounded interesting, and he decided he’d like to visit sometime when he could do so openly; it had been settled by Japanese who wanted to return to the days of the Samurai, without giving up modern conveniences or an industrial base. They even called their Baron the “Shogun”, on-planet.

But it also looked like a dangerous place to operate. The Shogun’s secret police force was made up of the Kai-school ninjas Owajima was rumored to have been, and it seemed possible he’d been one of them before joining the Corps. If so, he’d undoubtedly use them for backup—which meant going in, Nevan thought, would be like sticking his head in a balik’s den. A female balik’s, with newborn cubs. One alerted field agent would be bad enough; a police force of agent-equivalents . . . the smart thing would be to call it off, go back to Terra, set up a new identity, and start over. He did know who his quarry was, now; he wouldn’t be starting from scratch.

He was reluctant to do that, though. He’d done nothing even the most fanatical secret police could legally arrest him for; it seemed a shame to abandon his mission when he was so close to accomplishing it. Being arrested without cause would be justification for mind-calling his thakur, and he was sure she’d intervene; Owajima had to be the only agent with an entire planetary police force to call on for backup, which made him an unrepresentative opponent. Besides, Nevan admitted, he relished the challenge. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really use his abilities in longer than he cared to think about.

Owajima answered his phone, to see the chief of spaceport security. “Yes, Captain?”

“The Last Resort just called for landing, Colonel. Do you want us to detain DarLewies?”

“No, thank you. Permit him to land and do as he wishes, but keep him under close surveillance. Discreetly, of course.”

The security chief smiled. “Of course, Colonel. We will keep you informed at all times. Will you need any further assistance?”

“I do not believe so, but if I should, I will ask.”

Nevan had to land at the New Tokyo civilian spaceport, but he was likeliest to be able to get current information about Owajima at the nearby Imperial Navy base, so he rented a car and drove the twenty kilometers north. He’d been on so many worlds that he didn’t find Nippon-Ni particularly remarkable, though he was pleased that the temperature was high enough he didn’t need a jacket. And the smell of chocolate chip cookies or a close local equivalent coming from a shop he passed was tempting enough to make his mouth water, but he kept going; Nevan DarLeras’ fondness for those was well enough known in the wrong circles that he didn’t dare indulge it when he was under cover.

Things were definitely not going his way, he decided as he neared the base. Traffic was too heavy for a normal workday, and he found out why when he got close to the main gate: a banner over the road welcomed visitors to the annual Base Open House. Nevan addressed a caustic, “Why me?” to the gods he only half-believed in, but it might look suspicious if he turned and left; instead, he kept going with traffic, which took him to a parking area that would need major help to look like a lawn again after being used this way.

There wasn’t anything useful he could accomplish during an open house, with all the base offices closed, so he decided he might as well bow to the inevitable and try to enjoy himself. Such events did have their good points; the various units’ hospitality stands tried to outdo each other, so the quality and variety of food and drink available was truly impressive. He should be able to find treats he liked almost as well as chocolate chip cookies, but ones that wouldn’t blow his cover. He walked toward the exhibit-covered landing field, glad that he’d kept his identity as a Sandeman warrior; as crowded as the area was, he was given plenty of room to move. He was impressed despite himself by the exhibits, too. Whoever was in charge of this open house had managed to get a heavy destroyer for a static display—and while those were nowhere near as big as the kilometer-diameter battle cruisers, which were far too big to land, they were quite big enough to have the visitors making awed comments.

Curious, Nevan walked around the ship until he found its id—and then he sent another caustic comment to one of the newest gods. Dammit, Kelly, if you want me to deliver your blades to Owajima, how about some cooperation instead of all these problems?

The destroyer was the IHD Warleader Riordan, a ship from the Fiftieth Fleet, which meant it was crewed primarily by Sandemans. That was bad enough, but a good percentage on this particular ship were from Clan Leras, so even the ones not directly related to him would know him on sight. And they weren’t IntelDiv; they wouldn’t know not to recognize him. He turned and began walking away, hoping against hope that the crew was still all aboard ship. He’d been lucky enough not to get caught in such a situation during his active career; maybe that luck would hold long enough for him to get out of this one.

“Nevan!”

The happy voice from behind him made it all too clear his luck had changed. He turned and bowed respectfully to the approaching warriors’-woman in Imperial Marine service black. “Good day, Lady Morna. You’re looking well.”

She looked at him with affectionate appraisal, and shook her head ruefully. “I can’t say the same for you, I’m afraid. How long have you been on the meds?”

“Almost a month,” Nevan admitted. He might have been able to get away with lying to another w’woman, but the lady Morna could tell—whether by looking or by some form of Talent—almost to the day how long a warrior had been using anti-need medications. And she didn’t approve of them being used any longer than was absolutely necessary.

“I thought so. Are you going to be around long enough for me to give you a natural release?”

Nevan was tempted, but he shook his head. He’d have to leave as soon as he could; now that his cover was blown, he had no choice but to give up this try and start over. “I’m afraid I have to get back to Terra.”

Morna nodded, glancing at the synthiskin-covered cheek. “Of course; I didn’t realize. But when you do, promise me that you’ll find a w’woman or warrior and get a decent natural release.”

“I will, lady,” Nevan replied, grateful for her understanding. “Or a Traiti; some of the Palace Guard have given me good combat releases.”

“That will do.” Morna smiled at him. “At least you haven’t gone six months on the meds, the way you had when I first met you! But can you stay a little while? Our autochef bakes good cookies. Including chocolate chip.”

Nevan chuckled, deciding that an hour or so shouldn’t really make any difference. “I’d like that; thanks.”

The receiver in Owajima’s ear chimed softly; he turned on his throat mike—not the surgically implanted comm unit many ranking Imperials were given, but the external type used as far back as pre-atomic times—and answered. “Owajima here.”

“DarLowrie went to the open house, Colonel—and one of those on the destroyer static display recognized him. His name is Nevan, and he has accepted an invitation to visit the ship.”

“Nevan!” Owajima exclaimed. “What clan, do you know?”

“It was not said, but the largest clan group aboard is from Leras.”

“Ah.” Owajima was silent for several seconds, absorbing that. “Is there a tattoo on his right cheek?”

“There is not.”

“Interesting—thank you. I will need some assistance after all, it appears; I would like to get into his ship with as few traces as possible.”

“An entry specialist will be with you in ten minutes. Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. Owajima out.” So his pursuer’s true name was Nevan, Owajima thought, troubled. And the ship’s largest contingent was from Leras. Knowing both Sandemans and the unconditional nature of the personal fealty oath, he found it hard to believe his pursuer’s identity. What had gone wrong, to turn a Sandeman warrior from thakur-na to renegade assassin?

Or . . . had anything? If Nevan had either deserted or harmed his chosen lady, it would have been all over the news channels, and there had been nothing. The likelihood, then, was that he was on a mission for her—a mission that somehow concerned him.

Owajima smiled slowly at that. Very well, he would take all possible precautions, though he no longer believed they would be necessary. Nevan DarLeras had a powerful and trained Talent, something “Vance DarLowrie” had shown no traces of—so he was not using either that or Ranger Losinj’s position to simplify his mission. An exercise of some sort, then—security, in all probability. If true, it could be proven easily, Owajima thought, and he would have the pleasure of meeting his predecessor.

Nevan enjoyed both the cookies and the talk, though he kept an eye on the time and didn’t let himself relax too much. Owajima was alerted now, and field agents tended to have a rather violent reaction to someone stalking them for unknown purposes. Nevan couldn’t blame them; he’d reacted the same way when one of his net had warned him someone was on his trail. About the best such a pursuer could expect, unless @ was able to ambush the agent first, was that the agent wanted information enough to use a non-lethal form of attack or defense—until @ learned enough to satisfy @’s curiosity, at least.

But Nevan was able to put the hazards of his mission in the back of his mind while he caught up on news from home. His first son, with the lady Dallas, was doing well in his warrior training, though both he and his half-brother—Nevan’s with the lady Morna, who looked more than a little smug, telling him—were giving Sean and Ellen fits trying to keep up. Nevan couldn’t help laughing; Sean and Ellen had fostered him, too, and he remembered how good they were—and how frustrated Sean got—with a child-warrior’s hyperactivity. Other news was almost as interesting to him, if less personal: the warrior Leslie had broken his leg in war games with the Combat Division Marines stationed at Shangri-La Base, and the clan had been asked to train more assault-lander pilots.

The hour was all too short, but Nevan didn’t let himself stretch his visit beyond that point. He left the destroyer after a final promise to Morna that he would get off the meds as soon as he could, then made his way through even thicker crowds to his rented car.

He spent the drive back to his ship going over his options. Things didn’t look quite as unpromising as they had earlier, even though it still seemed that he would have to go back to Terra for a fresh start. This time, he reminded himself, at least the start wouldn’t be from zero; he had a name and a reputation to work with, and a few days to dig out some background would give him more data.

He had resigned himself to starting over by the time he got back to the spaceport. Not even the sight of half a decade secret police making no secret of their surveillance of his ship disturbed him; he grinned at them as he palmed open the outer hatch of his ship, giving Owajima points for letting the locals handle the presumed assassin. He’d just have to take more precautions the next time around— Oh, gods, the inner hatch was ajar, and he hadn’t left it that way!

He barely had time to spot a stunner muzzle in the opening and start reaching for his needler before his ambusher fired and he slumped to the airlock deck.

Owajima was a little surprised at the ease of his success, though there was no way even one as skilled as DarLeras was reputed to be could have detected any sign of his entry. He went to the outer lock and signaled his success to the watchers, then carried the Sandeman to his cabin and secured him to the bunk. Then he went into the ’fresher, found synthiskin release in the medikit, and used it on the Sandeman’s face, smiling as it peeled free to reveal the tattoo so familiar from news shows. That was conclusive enough for Owajima; if, contrary to all other evidence, DarLeras had gone renegade, he would have removed the tattoo rather than simply covering it.

When Nevan woke, he was spread-eagled, tied to his bunk with a grim-faced Oriental man holding a gun on him. That should have been frightening, but Nevan couldn’t help grinning; the feel of air on his cheek instead of synthiskin agreed with the tiny indications he could read from his captor. Owajima was disciplined, beautifully so, but not well enough to hide everything. “I’m honored to meet you, Colonel Owajima. Either I’m losing my edge, or you’re about to take over the top-ever rating; I should’ve seen some sign of your entry on the outer lock.”

“If you had, it would be I who was losing my edge. However, I will take that as a compliment from one who still holds that ranking. Drop your mind-shield.”

“What? Ohhh.” Nevan did so, surprised for an instant though he knew he shouldn’t be. Since his chosen lady had discovered psionic Talent in humans nine years ago, it had been found that strong Talent was generally linked to strong abilities in one or more other fields. That wasn’t a direct correlation, since there were multi-field geniuses with none at all, and people with no conventional talents and powerful Talent—but well over ninety percent of the time, conventional and psionic abilities went together. Owajima wouldn’t be the top-rated field agent without exceptional ability—of both types.

Also, unlike most Sandemans, came Owajima’s amused thought, I was eager for Talent training. We both know it is impossible to lie, mind-to-mind, so: you are still thakur-na to Ranger Losinj and on a mission for her?

I am, though the mission is partly for her, partly for myself, Nevan confirmed. Stay linked while I report; she’ll want to commend you personally. He sensed Owajima’s agreement, and reached for his chosen lady. Thakur?

Here, thakur-na, was the immediate response—then Nevan shared her amusement as she ‘felt’ his bonds. You are satisfied with security, then.

It’s tight, Nevan confirmed. And I’m really impressed by Major Owajima’s skill. He got past my ship defenses without leaving a trace. It was a beautiful ambush.

It is he I sense linked with you?

Yes, Thakur.

Nevan felt her attention center on the other. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Major, she sent. I apologize for any difficulties you experienced as a result of Nevan’s pursuit; his purpose, at my request, was to test the security protecting field agents, including his target’s self-protection. As you heard, he is satisfied. So am I, and since you proved able to stop him, I will place a commendation in your records.

Thank you, sir. Owajima smiled. It is good to know our protections are adequate against one of the warrior Nevan’s ability; any other, then, could penetrate them only by chance.

True. Corina projected amusement. Are you on assignment?

No, sir. I have just finished a post-mission leave, and have been ordered to Terra for a tour with OSI.

You won’t like it, Nevan predicted. Assignments think they’re doing us a favor when they give us a planetside tour—a rest break, I heard one call it—but those always bored me.

If it gets too bad, Major, the Ranger sent sympathetically, see me, and I will have you given a field assignment. It is the least I can do after setting Nevan on your trail.

I will, sir, and thank you.

Before I break contact, thakur-na, is there anything further you need?

Not really, Thakur—if you don’t have anything else for me, I’ll offer Major Owajima a ride back to Terra.

That will be fine. Enjoy the trip—I must endure this reception for Duke Shirley. Until your return, thakur-na.

Until then, Thakur. The contact ended, and Nevan grinned up at his captor. “Satisfied, Major?”

“Perfectly, warrior. And I will accept your offer of a ride.” Owajima holstered his gun, then undid Nevan’s bonds. “I have wished to meet you for some time; I regret only the circumstances.”

Nevan sat up, rubbing his wrists. “Same here, maybe more so. I was after you in particular because my bio-father left you his personal weapons when he died last month.”

“Oh? Knowing Sandemans, I assume there was a reason.”

“Uh-huh. He was the one you gave need-release to on Piper’s World.”

“Ah.” Owajima smiled. “I should not have broken cover to do so, but I had seen one warrior die that way when we were prisoners of the Traiti, and I could not let another go through such agony unaided.”

“That’s what he told me, not long after I finished my agent’s training. Do you need to get anything before we go?”

“No. Had you been the enemy I originally thought, by now you would have been dead and your ship confiscated for my trip, to be turned in to the Navy at the Antarctica base. My things are already aboard.”

Nevan chuckled. “Good thinking. Unnecessary, since this baby already belongs to the Navy, but I like the plan.” He led the way to his ship’s control room, got clearance for takeoff, and set course for Terra. Then he escorted his guest to the ship’s small lounge. “I’ve followed your career for a long time, Major,” he said, getting coffee for each of them. “It’s been brilliant—at times incredible. Like getting into this ship without leaving traces.”

Owajima smiled. “I left traces, warrior. Not many, and not significant to one without the training we share, but enough that you would have observed them. My particular Talent specialty, however, is singularly appropriate for one in this field.” His smile grew. “I can, when I desire, make myself and my handiwork unnoticeable. It takes a particularly strong mind-shield to block that ability even partially; you saw nothing because I wished you not to.”

Nevan nodded, returning the smile. “That makes me feel better. I got blown when I visited the base—didn’t know about the open house, and ran into some clan-mates. I was afraid I’d let that distract me—but if you were using Talent, that wasn’t my problem. Mind showing me how it works?”

“Not at all, though since you are already aware of me, the effect will not be complete.”

If that was incomplete, Nevan thought seconds later, Kiyoshi Owajima must be capable of practically turning invisible. He knew the other was there, could see him perfectly well—but it was almost impossible to pay any attention to him. “Nice! I could’ve used that quite a few times.”

Owajima became noticeable again. “It is less effective against a number of people, particularly when—as you did—they know I am present. But against few, or those who have not already seen me when I begin using it, you are quite correct; it is most effective.”

“Too bad you can’t teach it to all the agents.” But that, Nevan knew, wasn’t possible; while mind-screen, or the stronger mind-shield, and telepathy were common to everyone with Talent, the specialized aspects varied widely from person to person. “Would you like to see your inheritance?”

“Very much. The needler and blades in the clothing storage?”

Nevan chuckled. “That’s them. Do you want to get them, or shall I?”

“There is no further need to invade your privacy, warrior.”

“Nevan is fine—I’ll go get them, then.” He did so, grinning to himself. He’d been favorably impressed by the reports of Owajima’s accomplishments; he was even more favorably impressed by the man himself. Not too many standard humans could take out a Sandeman warrior, even using Talent!

Returning to the lounge, he gave Owajima the box holding the weapons. “Here you are, Major. Use them in good health.”

“I shall, whenever my cover does not prohibit the use of Sandeman weapons. And call me Kiyoshi, please.” Owajima smiled. “I think this will be an enjoyable trip, and that by its end we will be friends.”

“I think so, too. Do you have a family?”

“I am married, but we do not yet have children. You?”

“Two sons, both warriors—one with the lady Dallas, one with the lady Morna. My foster-parents are fostering both of them, as well. I’ve got a holo, if you’d like to see.”

“Very much.” Owajima accepted the small folder, settling in for an enjoyable discussion.

END

HOSTAGE

A Terran Empire story

Nemra, 2555 CE

The crash must’ve been more realistic than he’d planned, Ranger Esteban Tarlac thought groggily as he regained consciousness. His head hurt where something had hit it, and his body ached in a pattern that matched the crash webbing’s. But at least one thing was going according to plan: he’d obviously been captured by the rebels, since he was hanging by his wrists with his arms stretched painfully apart—and only the rebels, on this world, would be willing to risk treating a Ranger with such hostility.

He blinked a couple of times, then got his feet under him and straightened, taking the weight off his arms. A look around satisfied him that he was indeed a prisoner of the rebels—and on display in the middle of their base. That detail hadn’t been part of his plan, but shouldn’t affect it adversely. Even from here, the base looked like the large recreation area it supposedly was; if Tarlac hadn’t been familiar with sensor data that showed it was actually close to the equivalent of a planetary defense base, as far as equipment went—personnel were a different matter—he would have thought himself at the main campfire site of a particularly prosperous commercial camping area.

“So Your Highness finally decided to honor us by waking up.”

Tarlac winced inwardly at the sarcasm in the man’s voice. It was the first time since he’d become a Ranger that he’d experienced open hostility, though he’d known from the beginning that sooner or later he would. He looked toward the voice, immediately recognizing the older man as Lord Robert Kaplan, second child of Count Jonathan Kaplan and the reported leader of this rebellion. “Your hospitality leaves something to be desired, my Lord. I hope you’re giving my pilot and bodyguards better treatment than you’re giving me.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lord Robert said. “They, at least, are in no discomfort.”

“They’re dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” Lord Robert said. “Not that you would really care.”

The rebel leader was mistaken there, Tarlac thought grimly. He did care, very much, about the Navy pilot and the four Security Division Marines who had volunteered for the mission that had cost them their lives—but he couldn’t let those feelings show. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“Trade you for rule, I think, rather than fight for it,” Lord Robert said consideringly. “That way, none of my people suffer. And I think I should be able to get . . . oh, a Subsector at least for you.”

In spite of his position, Tarlac had to laugh. Lord Robert was deluding himself if he honestly thought the Emperor would make that sort of trade! “You must know better than that, my Lord. The Empire doesn’t make deals with criminals.”

“I think His Majesty will make this one, Highness. You are, after all, his newest Ranger, and he is bound to want to keep you; Rangers, for whatever reason, are scarce enough to be worth trading for an entire Sector.” Lord Robert looked thoughtful. “Yes, a Sector would be even better. Myself as Duke, my lieutenants as Earls and Counts, other officers as Barons—that would be just enough.” He scowled. “There may even be places for my beloved parents and sister, once they acknowledge that I am truly the best of them, cheated out of what is due me by the accident of being born second.”

“You’re welcome to try, but you’ll be disappointed.” Tarlac remained outwardly impassive, though he was becoming convinced that Lord Robert was, to use the Marine expression, firing from a dead powerpack. Well, he could manage to tolerate a couple of days like this while Lord Robert called the Palace and tried to negotiate; then the time limit he’d given the colonel in charge of his ship’s Marine forces would expire, a company or more of power-armored Marines would land to pull him out and take prisoners, then—if necessary, which he hoped it wouldn’t be—his ship would destroy the base and any of its personnel who chose not to surrender.

“We’ll see,” Lord Robert said, smiling. “In the meantime, I think your capture is cause for celebration.”

His people evidently agreed; not long after he left, they began party preparations, bringing out folding tables and loading them with food and drink—mostly drink. Their festive mood didn’t extend to the young Ranger, though; Tarlac found himself the object of curses, gloating, and comments about what most would like to do with the ranking Imperial officer who was so totally in their power.

Tarlac ignored curses and threats alike, since there was nothing he could do for the moment, and since he was convinced that nothing serious would be done to him, whatever was threatened. He’d never heard of anyone deliberately injuring or killing a Ranger, which wasn’t surprising; the punishment was death, with no reduction of sentence or mitigating circumstances allowed. He didn’t notice—and wouldn’t have cared—that his disregard of their threats made the rebels more determined to break through the reserve that was so much a part of him that he never noticed it.

As dusk turned into night and the campfire was lit, the party got both loud and violent enough that he couldn’t disregard it any longer. Eventually, one of the rebels brought out an animal whip, suggesting it might be fun to see if they could get some amusement out of the damned Imperial.

Somehow, Dave Scanlon thought, being held prisoner by a bunch of rebels just wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. He wasn’t even locked up, and his guard had won every one of their chess games so far! Oh, the rebels themselves seemed to be having a good enough time—it sounded like a fun party—but he was bored. Then he heard something odd, and looked around. “Hey, Theo, what was that?”

His guard moved a knight before replying. “Check. What was what?”

Dave scowled at him, waiting for the sound to come again. “That,” he said when it did. “It sounded like a scream.”

The guard listened for a moment, then frowned as the sound came yet again. “Bad news, if it’s what I think.” Dave shivered at his expression as he went on. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m checking, kid. This could be serious.”

“I won’t,” Dave promised, impressed into obedience despite himself. He’d tried escaping a couple of times since he’d been foolish enough to try replenishing his supplies at what had seemed to be a commercial camp, but he’d been recaptured quickly; now he endured his captivity stolidly.

“Good enough. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Theo left the tent they shared, with Dave following him as far as the entrance. It was dark, so he saw only fire-glow from the central area—but from here, he could hear a slapping noise like something hitting flesh before another scream broke through the party sounds. It made him wish again that he was back in his own tent, maybe five kilometers away. His parents had let him go camping alone to celebrate his fourteenth birthday, and that had been a lot more fun than this . . .

Moments later Theo returned, looking grim. “It’s time for you to get out of here, kid. Lord Robert’s gone beyond trying to kick out his big sister; this ain’t just a family fight any more, it’s treason against the Empire.” He paused. “I’d get out myself, but maybe I can help the Ranger by sticking around. Think you can slug me convincingly with that lamp, then get the hell back home? There’re grav-hoppers in the parking area just south of the camp, and it’s drunk enough out that you should be able to duck what guards’re left.”

“Ranger!” Dave exclaimed, horrified. “That’s a Ranger—” He broke off at Theo’s expression. “Yeah . . . I think I can.” Then he’d see what he could do!

“Okay. Do a good job; I’ll need a fair-sized lump to convince his Lordship.” Theo turned his back to his prisoner.

Dave picked up the lamp and hefted it, thinking. He and Theo both wanted to help the Ranger, so he’d have to make his escape look real—but he didn’t want to hurt Theo, who’d been as good to him as possible under the circumstances. He took a deep breath, gave the lamp a couple of practice swings, and then brought it down with what he hoped would be the right amount of force.

Without a sound, Theo collapsed.

“Hey, it worked!” Dave exclaimed, a little surprised.

Then he frowned as a sudden thought struck him, and he knelt beside Theo’s limp form. A blow like that, he’d read, could sometimes kill! But thankfully this time it hadn’t; he was relieved to find his guard still breathing. Theo might play a mean game of chess, but for a rebel he was okay. Dave started to leave the tent, but it occurred to him that it would look better if he took Theo’s gun.

He did so, slipping the heavy disruptor pistol into his belt. He knew how to use it; his mother had been an Imperial Marine, and had made sure her husband and children knew how to handle all the weapons she’d been trained on. He checked to be sure the area was clear, then left the tent. Everyone seemed to be near the main fire at the center of camp, but he kept to cover anyway. He knew he should leave without stopping for anything, but he couldn’t. Not with a Ranger being hurt . . .

The cries of pain were weaker, and as Dave made his way toward the fire, he found himself hoping the Ranger would pass out. He was getting too close to stay on the ground, though; he climbed one of the trees that ringed the campfire and made his way along a limb until he could see what was going on through the leaves.

Almost immediately he ducked back, half-sick and not wanting to believe what he’d seen. He’d known it would be bad, the sounds hadn’t left any doubt of that—but knowing didn’t make it any easier to watch an Imperial Ranger being beaten, maybe to death. Dave’s first impulse was to start shooting, but even as he reached for the disruptor in his belt he realized that would do more harm than good. Firing into the rebels would just get him recaptured, maybe killed, and that wouldn’t do either him or the Ranger any good. There were too many rebels, and it looked like they were all mean-drunk.

Where in Chaos were the Marines? Dave thought desperately. They should be here, stopping this! In the holos, they always came to the rescue—but in his mother’s stories, they were sometimes too late. He inched forward again, horrified fascination making it impossible for him to look away. The Ranger’s cries had subsided to moans, his body jerking at every impact of the whip the rebels were taking turns using on him. After what seemed like hours, even the moans ceased, and he hung limp in his bonds.

With the entertainment over, the rebels lost interest in their prisoner, and the ones who hadn’t already been overcome by the refreshments wandered away, too drunk—or, Dave thought bitterly, too confident of the Ranger’s helplessness—to bother posting guards. He descended from his perch, careful not to lose the disruptor. He didn’t dare use it now, it was too noisy, but it could come in handy later. Right now what he needed was a quiet way to cut the Ranger’s bonds. Maybe one of the passed-out rebels carried a knife he could use—most people did, in the wilderness.

The dying firelight provided just enough illumination for him to find what he needed on the second rebel he checked. It was an expensive hunting knife, and he hesitated for a moment, feeling a twinge of guilt at taking it even from a rebel.

But the twinge didn’t stop him; he had to help the Ranger! He stared for a moment at the limp figure in the torn and bloody forest-green uniform, then moved toward the south. He had to get transportation first; he was strong for his age, but he didn’t think he could carry or drag that much dead weight—he shuddered at that thought—very far.

The parking area was guarded, though it was obvious that the two on duty had been doing their share of drinking. Dave thanked any gods who might be listening that the rebels didn’t come at all close to Marine standards; if they had, a fourteen-year-old civilian wouldn’t have had a chance. Even as it was, he’d be lucky to get out.

Not that he didn’t have some things going for him, he thought as he studied the layout of the parking area and the way the guards were negotiating their patrol routes. First was surprise, since they wouldn’t know he was free and wouldn’t consider him much of a threat if they did see him. Add that he was armed, something else they wouldn’t expect—and, he thought grimly, that he had paid a lot of attention to his mother’s stories and teaching. He might be young, but he had as much theoretical combat knowledge as anyone who hadn’t been through the Academy, and he was willing to use gun and knowledge both to help the Ranger. But right now, stealth was better than a confrontation.

He made his way cautiously to an aidvan, finding as he’d half-expected that it wasn’t secured; aid vehicles had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. He would have liked to take the van, considering the Ranger’s injuries, but he didn’t dare; he needed something that was both more maneuverable and less noticeable. He also didn’t have the training to make use of its resources, at least not enough to make it worth the tradeoff. But he could take things he knew how to use, like bandages, emergency blankets, a survival kit, and rations; he stuffed those into a carrying sack, then went forward to check the controls. This was a rebel camp, after all, so the vehicles shouldn’t require personal id to operate; if it was like most large fleets a single code should be able to activate anywhere from five to a couple of decade vehicles. And the aidvan ought to have one of the code cards in the slot, ready to go . . .

Dave grinned in satisfaction when he got to the driver’s position. Convenience, as he’d hoped, had overcome security, something his mother said disapprovingly even happened sometimes with Marine units; the card was in the slot. He took it, then grabbed his supplies and hurried into the next vehicle in line.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the card proved to activate this vehicle as well; he might have had to go through a decade or so. Now to see if it had . . . yeah, good. Lord Robert might be a rebel, with creeps—well, mostly creeps, Theo was okay—for followers, but he had good equipment. This had variable coloration, which Dave promptly set for camouflage, as well as convertible capability, a light-enhancing windscreen, and a low-power setting that made the whine of null-grav engines almost inaudible. Making use of the last two, Dave took the vehicle carefully out of the parking area. Really good equipment had its disadvantages, too, he knew,; he’d have to get the Ranger, get out of camp, and find a hiding place fast, before the rebels realized what was happening and used the override the car almost had to have. He wouldn’t dare take enough time to get home, or to a town, and his camp was out of the question.

Dave lowered the car’s top as he guided it into the campfire area and nudged the passenger side against the Ranger’s legs, then he clambered into the back and stood on the seat to reach the man’s bonds. They were rope, so he wouldn’t have to risk even low-power disruptor fire; he sawed through them, then laid the Ranger as gently as he could on the back seat. The fabric he touched was sticky-wet; he wiped his hands on his pants legs before he got back in the driver’s seat and began edging the car away from the camp.

He kept the car on low power, traveling slowly, until he was almost a kilometer away, then went to normal power and sped up. This part of the mountains was honeycombed with caves, so he decided their best bet would probably be to find a nice one and hole up until the Marines finally landed. Dave was confident they would; whatever had kept them from showing up right away surely couldn’t keep them from starting to search when the Ranger didn’t return when he should!

It took him almost an hour, but he found a cave that would serve them as a decent shelter. It had a fairly level floor, as far as he dared take time to explore, with enough turns and side passages to keep the wind out and maybe provide them with emergency hiding places or a stronghold—if he could get the Ranger to them. And, best of all, one of the side passages had a small spring overflowing into a stream that led deeper into the cave. Yes, he decided, it would do nicely.

He brought the car to the entrance and turned on the visible-light headlights long enough to unload his gear, arrange a makeshift bed for the Ranger, and finally half-carry and half-drag the man inside and settle him. Then he started to program the car to take it away from them, but hesitated, thinking. He’d gotten what he could carry from the aidvan, but there was a better than even chance the car itself held something useful, this far from any settlements. He checked, finding more blankets and rations, a military-issue medikit—and the jackpot, a fusion lamp/stove combination. He grinned, lighting the lamp and stacking his fresh loot inside the cave entrance, then finished programming the car and sent it on its way.

It lifted off, climbing to well above treetop height, then oriented itself to a heading that would take it—if it didn’t blow itself up or get shot down first—to the Planetary Palace an hour or so after dawn. Dave listened until it was out of hearing range, then carried his finds further into the cave and braced himself to check the Ranger’s condition. First he cleaned his patient’s face, recognizing him as soon as he’d washed the blood off: Esteban Tarlac, newest and youngest of the Emperor’s personal representatives and troubleshooters. Then he started pulling Tarlac’s uniform shirt off, trying not to get sick as the wounds were exposed. When he had it about halfway off, the Ranger stirred.

Tarlac woke slowly, aware at first only that he was laying on something hard and that he hurt all over. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him. He opened his eyes, to see a young man—not much more than a boy, really—bending over him. “What—”

“We’re in a cave in the Webster Mountains, sir,” Dave told him. “I’m Dave Scanlon. I was a prisoner too, but when they brought you in, my guard let me go so I wouldn’t be involved.” He went on to describe their escape and present circumstances. “I’m afraid it was the best I could think of,” he finished apologetically.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Tarlac assured him. The youngster had probably saved his life; he wasn’t in any mood to quibble about details. “You might not believe how much I hate to ask this—but just how bad is it?”

“Uh . . .” Dave hesitated.

“That bad?”

“Well—not good, so far, and I’ve only checked your front. I haven’t even cleaned that yet, since the water’s still cold.” Dave swallowed. “I’m no corpsman, obviously, and you need qualified medical attention, but I’ll do the best I can for you.”

“I’m sure you will.” Tarlac tried to sit up, unsuccessfully; Dave caught him as he fell back, groaning. “Is there any painkiller in what you brought along?”

“I think so.” Dave rummaged through the medical supplies, brought out an injector of quidine. “Uh, what’s your mass?”

“Call it seventy kilos, that’s close enough.”

“Yes, sir.” Dave read the instructions, set the injector for the weight he’d been told, and triggered it into the side of the Ranger’s neck. “I hope that’s right—there’s only enough here for another couple of doses.”

After a few minutes, Tarlac sighed in relief. “That’s fine, Dave—a lot better. Would you help me sit up?”

“Of course, sir.” Dave piled up some of the blankets he’d collected, helped the Ranger to sit up, and shoved the blankets into position to serve as a backrest. “I’m not really sure you should be putting weight on your back—but I don’t really think you should be putting it on your front, either, and you have to rest somehow.” He hesitated, then went on. “I ought to check your back now, if you don’t mind.”

“Whether I mind or not doesn’t matter very much,” Tarlac said. “It needs to be done, and at the moment you’re the closest to a doctor I’ve got. Plus if I’m in as bad shape as it feels like I am, there’s a good chance that I’ll be unconscious a lot of the time—and when I am awake, I won’t know what’s been going on, and I could very well not be in any shape to make good decisions. Which puts you in charge, until we’re rescued. What do you want me to do?”

Dave stared at the Ranger in bewilderment. “But—I can’t give a Ranger orders!” he finally managed to get out. Granted that almost everything he knew about Rangers came from the holo, news and dramas, he was positive that they gave orders, they didn’t take them . . . well, except from the Sovereign, of course.

Tarlac grinned, reasonably sure what the youngster was thinking. “We do take advice, suggestions, and sometimes orders, from anyone who knows more about a given situation than we do, or who’s in a position to handle it better. Right now, that’s you—and you had the initiative and resourcefulness to pull me out of the middle of a rebel camp; I’m satisfied to have you go on with the job.”

“The kids at school will never believe this,” Dave said, as much to himself as to the Ranger. “But okay, if that’s what you want. Uh . . . I can ask you for advice, can’t I?”

“Sure, but you’ll have to decide if it’s worth taking or not.”

“I promise.” Dave shook his head, still not quite believing what he’d gotten himself into. He knelt beside his patient, spreading out more blankets and grateful that he’d been able to find so many. “If you’ll roll over, then, I should check your back.”

“Okay.” It took effort—he was weak from the combination of pain, shock, and loss of blood—but he made it.

Dave cut away the rest of the Ranger’s uniform shirt, then checked the water he’d put on the lamp. It was warm enough now, so he used it to clean the caked blood away from the whip-inflicted wounds. He didn’t want to believe what he saw as he worked—you didn’t use stingweed for any reason!—but the yellowish edges of the wounds were proof that couldn’t be denied, and he used a swear-word he’d seen embarrass his mother once.

Tarlac wasn’t sure whether he should get worried or laugh at the boy’s virulent language, but on the whole it didn’t sound promising. “What’s wrong, Dave?”

“The blankers soaked the whip in stingweed sap,” Dave told him, trying to control his anger. “It can’t have taken full effect yet, or not even quidine could kill the pain—and it carries something like a cross between a fungus and a bacterium that nothing in a standard medikit will touch. How long till your rescue party arrives?”

Tarlac frowned; this sounded serious. “Is this Tuesday, or was I unconscious longer than I think?”

Dave checked his chrono, then nodded. “2243, Tuesday night.”

“They should be landing in about two and a half days, then; Colonel Korda had orders to give me three days, then come looking for me.”

“But we’re not at the camp any more, and I don’t dare use anything much more obvious than the fusion lamp, or the rebels will find us first.” Dave brightened. “Unless they blew up the car I used, when they found out it was missing; then they’d think we were dead.”

“True, but we can’t count on that; it’d be best to assume they landed it, and are looking for us.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Dave hid his disappointment; the Ranger was counting on him! “We’ve got to be awfully careful, then. They were holding you hostage, weren’t they?”

“Yes—to get His Majesty to give Lord Robert a Sector” Tarlac chuckled. “The last I heard, anyway; by now, his Lordship may have decided he wants to be Sovereign.”

“He won’t be,” Dave said positively. “No one who’d take a Ranger prisoner could possibly be qualified as Sovereign—even if Prince Forrest hadn’t been elected Successor.”

“True, but that doesn’t keep some people from trying.” Tarlac shifted, bit back a groan. “I think the quidine’s wearing off, Dave. Do you have anything stronger?”

“No—and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.” Dave braced himself against the objection he anticipated from the Ranger. “Quidine’s almost too much of a risk itself, for someone who’s been hit with stingweed.”

Tarlac sighed. “You know more about it than I do; I won’t ask again.”

“Yes, sir.” Dave echoed his patient’s sigh. Tarlac’s acquiescence helped—but this was not going to be fun!

And the next couple of hours were hard, for both of them. As the quidine wore off and the stingweed poison grew stronger, Dave wished his patient would pass out—for both their sakes. Eventually, Tarlac did; Dave made sure he was covered snugly, then turned down the lamp and arranged the remaining blankets into a nestlike bed for himself.

He didn’t really think he could rest, with all the excitement and problems going on, so he decided he might as well make what plans he could. They had two days before they could expect rescue, and the Ranger thought the rebels would know they’d escaped, rather than being blown up. That meant he should try to make their cave defensible—he snorted at the implausibility of one boy with a disruptor holding off well-armed rebels, but he’d have to do his best—plus play doctor and nurse to a man who had about as much chance of living through his wounds and poisoning as the two of them did of holding off the rebels.

He opened his eyes to more light in the cave than the lamp had been giving off. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed the disruptor and moved cautiously toward the entrance—then dropped it to his side as he realized the light was morning sun, not rebel field-illuminants. Good, that would give them a break!

He took advantage of the safety to relieve himself, then he went back into the cave to check on his patient. Tarlac didn’t seem to have moved, which Dave thought was probably just as well; at least that way he wouldn’t irritate his injuries. But he swallowed hard when he pulled the blanket away from Tarlac’s back, then had to run outside before he threw up all over their refuge. He’d read about stingweed poisoning in his first aid and survival courses, even seen holos in his father’s medical texts—but they hadn’t prepared him for the sight and smell of it in someone’s living flesh.

He wiped his mouth when he finished, the bitter taste in his mouth an echo of his bitter thoughts as he re-entered the cave. He’d have to do better than this, if he wanted to keep the two of them alive! He went to the spring for water, put some on the lamp to heat, then braced himself and knelt beside his patient. Tarlac’s wounds were oozing thick greenish-yellow fluid that would have to be cleaned off, as often as Dave could force himself to endure the sight and rotten-cabbage stench. At least the medikit had surgical gloves, he thought as he put a pair on, so he wouldn’t have to touch the stuff or risk getting the poison into his own system through a cut or hangnail.

Tarlac woke to a smell so bad it made him gag, and eyes that felt glued shut, so he couldn’t see whatever seemed to be scrubbing his chest with a metal brush dipped in acid. He started to protest, trying to sit up, but the only result was a wave of dizziness and nausea. When he gave up on that and tried to rub his eyes, the scrubbing stopped and hands grabbed his wrists.

“Don’t—you’ll just make it worse.” Dave was unpleasantly surprised at how easy it was to restrain his patient. “Your eyes are all crusted over—I’ll need to soak them to soften the crusts.” He put a warm, wet cloth over the Ranger’s eyes, then went on. “I’ll finish cleaning you up while those soften. I did your back while you were asleep.”

The scrubbing started again, and Tarlac let out a yell.

Dave stopped. “I’m being as careful and gentle as I can, sir. I don’t want to hurt you, but I do have to get you clean.” He frowned. “It won’t make you better, though. All it’ll do is keep you from getting worse as fast—but there’s nothing else I can do.”

Tarlac sighed, managing not to groan. “Your best is all I can expect, Dave. I’ll try to be quiet about it.”

“Yes, sir.” Dave went back to work, grateful that the injuries, bad as they were, were limited to the Ranger’s upper body. If Tarlac had been beaten all over with the poisoned whip, he probably wouldn’t have survived the night. This way, he had a chance of lasting until he could get real medical help. Not much of a chance, Dave thought grimly as he began cleaning his patient’s eyes, but a chance. “There,” he said at last. “You should be able to open them now.”

Tarlac did manage, though it took most of his strength. His vision was blurred at first, but blinking soon cleared it enough for him to see the strain in his rescuer’s face. Well, he probably wasn’t looking too good himself, he thought—and that stink! “What’s the smell?”

Dave grimaced, pulling a clean blanket up over Tarlac’s shoulders. “Stingweed poison, sort of. You don’t want to see what it looks like.” He shrugged. “It does have one advantage, though. It’ll heep animals away, so that’s one thing we won’t have to worry about.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Tarlac said dryly. “I’d certainly keep my distance from a prospective dinner that smelled this bad.”

Dave managed a slight smile. “So would I, actually. Especially since it’s probably the only thing that’ll keep away any owner of a cave this nice.” He hesitated, then decided he might as well go on; they were in no position to worry about luxuries like privacy. “The medikit instructions say the poison may not let you go to the bathroom—but you should try, if it feels like you have to.”

“I don’t.” Tarlac thanked the impulse that had led him to go on a low-residue diet over the last week, though he was less grateful for the rebels’ refusal to give him a drink of water.

“It says you should try to drink, at least, and eat if you can—do you want to try sitting up?”

“Yeah.” Tarlac made the effort, groaning, but he needed Dave’s help, and was gasping by the time he was propped semi-erect. He was too weak and dizzy to hold the cup Dave offered him, and had trouble forcing a couple of swallows down a throat that felt raw and swollen. He winced at the pain, but made himself drink more. Whether his kidneys had quit functioning or not, he knew he’d lost blood and was feverish; he couldn’t afford to let himself get dehydrated, too.

Food was out of the question, though, he discovered when Dave tried to feed him some stew made out of survival rations. It wasn’t bad stew, and he knew he’d need whatever strength it could give him, but he simply couldn’t get it down. He shook his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t when the dizziness got worse. “Dave—what can I expect?”

Dave put the stew down. He didn’t want to answer, but a person had a right to know the truth. “I’ve never seen a case before, so I can only tell you what the book says.” He took a deep breath. “Massive stingweed poisoning—and you’ve been given as bad a case as I’ve ever heard of—starts off by making you sick and feverish.”

“That fits the way I feel,” Tarlac said dryly. “Go on.”

“The fever’ll get worse,” Dave said reluctantly. “Bad enough to make you delirious. They you’ll go into a coma, and if you don’t get first-class medical attention, you’ll die.”

“I’ve heard better news,” Tarlac admitted. “Just what can you do about it?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Dave said. “I don’t dare give you any drugs, even ones as simple as a fungicide or antibiotic, because they’re like painkillers—too unpredictable on stingweed cases. I don’t have either the equipment or the skill to monitor you, or take corrective action if you should have a bad reaction, and I sure don’t want to make things worse. I can keep the wounds clean and use cold water to help keep the fever down, and . . . well, I’ll do anything else I can think of to slow the poison down. But it won’t be a whole lot.”

“I appreciate the honesty.” And, Tarlac thought, the fact that he’d been lucky enough to be rescued by someone who could appreciate the fact of his own limitations! Not too many people of any age, in his experience, had that much judgement. Too bad Dave’s assessment was so negative—but from what he’d said, Tarlac was able to take grim amusement in the fact that he wouldn’t be worrying about it much longer. This mess would be a lot harder on the youngster than it would on the one who should be in charge— He broke off that pointless line of thought. “Just keep me breathing till Friday morning, if you can— the Marines will be landing as soon as it’s full light, and there’ll be Navy mediteams with them. If they can get me into a lifepod, I’ll have a pretty good chance.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course.” Dave frowned. “That’s less than forty-eight hours . . . the rebels’ll be looking for us too, but I don’t think they’ll get to us very fast.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Tarlac cautioned. “Lord Robert is a fanatic, and he thinks I’m his key to ruling at least a Subsector. He’ll be after me, and I’m willing to bet his people have the equipment they need to find us.”

Dave shook his head. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound, sir. People who’ve wanted to be found have been lost in these mountains for weeks. We don’t want to be—and we’re in a cave, which’ll make it that much harder for them.” He hesitated, a thought surfacing. “Unless they search on foot, and happen across us. If they do, I guess it’ll be up to me to decoy them away.”

Tarlac didn’t like that idea, but he also didn’t have Lord Robert’s convenient ability to ignore unpleasant reality. A Ranger was, to put it bluntly, far more valuable to the Empire than any youngster. It was a hell of a note, he thought sourly, that he had to look at it that way; Dave had saved his life once already, and it would be his doing if Tarlac lived through the next couple of days. The fact that Dave would get a substantial reward if they made it out wasn’t a lot of help; dammit, part of his job was protecting Imperial citizens! Still . . . “I’m afraid it will.”

To his surprise, Dave grinned. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Those rebels’re city people; they don’t know what real mountains’re like. Chaos, I don’t think they’d even know to avoid something as simple as a trapper vine!”

“This is no holo show,” Tarlac cautioned him. “If they do find us, we’ve bought it.”

“I know—but Mom was a Marine for thirty years and never even saw a live Ranger. I go on a camping trip, and end up helping one, against a bunch of rebels!”

Looked at that way, Tarlac conceded with some amusement, it did have something in common with a holoshow. And maybe having Dave treat this as an adventure wouldn’t hurt—might even help, by keeping his morale up. It was a good bet the youngster would need all the pluses he could find . . . he damnsure wouldn’t be one! The way he felt, he wouldn’t even be conscious much longer. Which would be a definite improvement . . .

Dave spent the rest of that day alternating between caring for the unconscious Ranger and watching rebel aircars crisscross the sky in what seemed, from the little he could see through trees, to be ever-widening search patterns. The rebels did think they were alive, then, but didn’t have enough of an idea of where they might be to mount a concentrated search. So far, so good—though if things stayed this way, it would work against them later, when the Marines landed and they wanted to be found.

That was more than a day away, though, he thought as the sun began to set. He rigged a door out of blankets, to block any lamplight that might get past the turns in the cave. He should have done that the night before, he told himself, but it simply hadn’t occurred to him; it was just luck that they’d gotten away with his lack of foresight.

The night passed, but more slowly than he’d realized would be possible. Tarlac was delirious for several hours, and Dave spent most of that time wrapping him in cold-water-soaked blankets, wiping his face, and trickling water into his mouth. Shortly before dawn, to Dave’s combined relief and worry, delirium deepened into coma and Dave’s fatigue forced him to take advantage of the silence for a nap.

When he woke, he heard aircars again. They sounded closer than they had the day before, and worry turned into fear. The rebels might not be wilderness experts, the way Nemra’s Rescue Service people were, but it didn’t take that kind of expert to tell the difference between a mountain-prowler’s yowling and a sick man’s fever-induced cries. He’d been concerned about that all night, but hadn’t been able to do anything about them—and now it looked like the rebels knew at least their general location. Only the general location, he hoped, since they were still searching from cars. That was standard procedure for the Rescue Service, at least, so he tried to ignore them while he cared for his patient.

He’d gotten used to the smell, for which he was grateful. That and the fact that Tarlac was beyond the reach of pain were the only good parts he could see. The poison was spreading steadily, but—as long as he kept the oozing fluid cleaned off, and kept Tarlac’s temperature as low as he could—slowly. Maybe slowly enough that he’d live through the next twenty-four hours, if Dave could keep going that long. And if he didn’t have to leave the Ranger alone to play decoy.

He frowned, thinking as he worked. Playing decoy if the rebels got close had been his idea, and he was still pleased that Tarlac had thought it a good enough one to agree with. It still would be, and it would work, Dave thought, if Tarlac were strong enough to be left alone—and preferably were able to defend himself, just in case. But he’d put Dave in charge precisely because he wasn’t able to do for himself!

It was scary being responsible for someone else’s safety, Dave was realizing. Especially when you were a commoner, the someone else was royalty, and a powerful noble—a crazy, traitorous noble—would stop at nothing to recapture him. Dave glanced across the cave to the small ledge where he’d put the disruptor—out of the way, but easy to get to—and shivered. The only alternative he could see to playing decoy was using the cave as a fort if the rebels found them, and that didn’t sound much better now than it had the first time he’d thought of it. One disruptor without even a single spare powerpack wasn’t much to build hopes on. He’d do what he could, of course, but he still couldn’t help wishing he hadn’t ventured into Lord Robert’s camp and gotten himself into all this!

He sighed. He had gotten himself into it; now, if he could, he’d get both of them out. The first step was to get the Ranger to as much safety as the cave held—which meant the spring. Good thing it wasn’t far!

Half an hour later he’d filled his emergency containers with a day’s worth of drinking water and settled Tarlac as comfortably as possible into the runoff stream. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it would keep the fever down and the injuries mostly clean while he did what he could to make the cave defensible.

He discovered quickly that he could do very little. Wood from fallen limbs and whatever brush he could cut with the stolen hunting knife would provide little protection from stunner fire, and none at all from the blasters or disruptors he thought the rebels were likelier to use. And there wasn’t enough loose rock—in sizes he could move, anyway—to block the cave entrance. He supposed he could use his disruptor to enlarge that crack in the wall just inside the cave mouth, but that would be asking for trouble; the rebels couldn’t possibly miss that kind of energy release. And he didn’t dare waste his firepower on that; he didn’t have much to begin with. He’d just have to hope the rebels didn’t find them, and retreat to one of the side passages for shelter if they did.

He spent the next few anxious hours alternating between Tarlac and the cave entrance. The Ranger was doing as well as Dave had dared let himself hope, but rebel cars were moving by more often, and seemed to be centered closer to the cave. Once, he could have sworn he glimpsed an Imperial Marine troop lander, but decided that had to be wishful thinking; if the Marines were getting ready to land, the rebels should be running for cover, not continuing to search for escaped prisoners.

A little after noon, what he’d been dreading happened. Half a decade rebel aircars descended, and moments later he heard shouts and the sound of people forcing their way through brush. He checked the disruptor one last time, then moved back to the side passage he’d chosen. He wasn’t as frightened as he’d thought he would be in such a situation, even though he was certain he’d be dead soon. He was more angry at the unfairness of the whole situation than anything else, and he intended to make the rebels pay as heavily as he could for their two lives.

Waiting for the rebels to get to the cave entrance, Dave had a vivid memory of his mother’s amused disgust at war holos. “In combat, the idea isn’t to play fair,” she’d said more than once. “The idea is to stay alive while killing your enemy. You don’t let yourself be seen if you can avoid it, and you certainly don’t warn your enemy that you’re going to shoot!” Well, he had the best cover he could get, and he didn’t plan to issue any warnings. All he needed now was a target . . .

Light flooded the cave, and someone called out. “They’re here! I see bloodstains—”

That was as far as he got; Dave fired toward the light. It went out, and there was a sharp “crack” as air imploded where the rebel had been.

There was a brief silence, then someone cursed, and half a decade blaster-bolts seared past Dave’s hiding place, about chest-high. He dropped to the cave floor and fired back without looking.

The exchange of fire continued for several minutes, with the only result Dave could notice being that the cave was getting uncomfortably hot. Then he heard yelling, and the incoming fire stopped abruptly. Moments later, an amplified voice called out. “You in the cave—this is Captain Heidi Chiun, Imperial Marines. Come out with your hands up.”

Dave started to obey, then hesitated. He thought he’d seen a troop lander, yes—but he wouldn’t put it past the rebels to try tricking him, since they hadn’t yet managed to kill him. “Send one of your people in here,” he called back. “If you’re really Marines, you’ll be safe in power armor, and I wouldn’t shoot anyway.”

“Hold your fire, then.” Dave heard crunching steps, like something massive moving, then the light from the cave entrance dimmed. “I’m inside,” another voice said.

Dave risked a look around the corner, then stood with a sigh of relief. The person at the entrance was wearing power armor, which satisfied him that she was what she was supposed to be. “I’m tossing the gun out,” he said, doing so. Then, raising his hands, he stepped out of cover. “Boy, am I glad to see you! Ranger Tarlac needs a medalert team, with a lifepod.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes, sir—I’ll show you.”

“Wait one.” Dave couldn’t hear what she said next, but what his mother’s stories had led him to expect was confirmed when she said, “They’re on the way. Let’s go.”

Dave led her to his patient, not at all surprised when she swore bitterly before picking up the unconscious man. “The team’ll meet us outside—they’d never get a pod in here.”

“Yes, sir.” Dave led the way again, blinking as he emerged from the dimness into bright afternoon sun. A couple of decade Marines in power armor were guarding the perimeter of a new clearing, while several more in camouflage battledress held a number of rebel prisoners at gunpoint near one edge. The medalert team had obviously been in readiness nearby, because a lander with medical markings was already settling toward the clearing’s center.

An armored Marine with captain’s bars and “Chiun” stencilled on her helmet gestured the one carrying Tarlac toward the medical lander, then turned her attention to Dave and stood silently looking at him for several moments before she removed her helmet and smiled. “You’d be David Scanlon, then?”

When he nodded, surprised, she gave him a half-bow—people in power armor didn’t offer to shake hands—and said, “Captain Heidi Chiun. Pleased to meet you. Now that we have Ranger Tarlac safe, an assault group will be hitting the main rebel camp. The Empire owes you some powerful thanks, young man.”

“My pleasure,” Dave replied, wanting to be polite though he wasn’t quite sure which statement he was responding to. Then curiosity took over. “How did you know me? And why’re you here now instead of tomorrow?”

“Two questions, one answer.” Chiun frowned. “One of the rebels reported the torture and rescue to us, through the local IntelDiv office. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get him out; he was killed while he was still on the screen. That’s something we don’t intend to have happen to you; His Majesty invites you to stay on the Empress Lindner until it’s safe for you to go home, probably sometime after Ranger Tarlac recovers and holds a Tribunal on this mess.”

The rebel who’d been killed had to be Theo, Dave thought. That was too bad—but right now, at least, he couldn’t seem to feel much except mild regret. His own problems were more immediately interesting. He hadn’t expected protective custody, although when Chiun mentioned it he realized he should have; it was common enough on the news as well as in holoshows. He’d never heard of it being phrased as an invitation from the Emperor before, though! The effect was the same, but it was nicer than being put under arrest. Even if he’d rather be going home . . . “I accept the invitation, of course. Can I call my folks and let them know?”

“As soon as we get to the ship,” Chiun promised. “Ranger Tarlac will be taken up first, then we’ll ride up with the prisoners.”

“Okay.” Not that he had any choice, Dave thought. And he admitted to himself that he didn’t mind all that much; it would be pretty exciting, being His Majesty’s guest aboard one of the tremendous Imperial Battle Cruisers. He’d have to get something to prove it, though, or the kids at school would be certain he was making it up. “Uh . . . he will be all right, won’t he?”

Chiun gestured toward the lifepod, now being loaded aboard the lander. “He was alive when they got him in the pod, and an IBC has damn good medical facilities. I think it’s safe to say he’ll be fine, yes.”

Her prediction was accurate, though Tarlac would carry scars from the beating for the rest of his life, and they were still an angry red when he held the Tribunal. Tarlac didn’t mind; at least he was alive to have scars, thanks to Dave Scanlon. And it had been no problem deciding on a reward for the youngster; as Emperor Davis had pointed out, Imperial law made provision even for something so unusual.

Tarlac found himself looking forward to that part of this Tribunal. Punishing the guilty was necessary, but he didn’t enjoy it; he much preferred to reward the outstanding, something he had less occasion to do than he liked. Especially to this degree, or with a subject whose fondness for holodramas would make it just plain fun—and even more especially with Dave’s parents and the local newsies in attendance.

The expression of satisfaction on Dave’s face as the convicted rebels were led away made Tarlac want to grin, though he managed to keep his own expression carefully solemn. “That concludes the unpleasantness, gentles. But don’t leave; I have a far more enjoyable conclusion for this Tribunal.” He rose, going to stand in the area before the judges’ bench, which had been cleared except for a small covered table. It would probably be best for Dave if this could be postponed for a few years—it involved responsibilities, as well as privilege—but justice delayed, whether punishment or reward, was damn near as bad as justice denied, and the Empire would help Dave cope with his new status. “While I could do this on my own,” he went on, “my personal involvement led me to seek His Majesty’s confirmation, and I am pleased to say he gave it. To use his words, ’Saving a Ranger’s life is certainly a critical service to the Empire, and Mr. Scanlon certainly put himself at extreme personal risk to do so. The fact that you’re that Ranger should only make giving him his reward more enjoyable.’ And it will.”

Tarlac found it even harder to keep a straight face as he watched Dave begin to understand the personal implications of the legal phrasing, “critical service to the Empire at extreme personal risk.” The only reward Dave had mentioned wanting, when asked, was an appointment to the Imperial Military Academy—which was a part, though a small one, of what he had earned. Tarlac removed the cover from the items on the table beside him, and now he allowed himself to smile. “David Mark Scanlon, stand forth to receive your Sovereign’s accolade.”

Dave obeyed, feeling a little dazed. Forget what the kids at school would think; he wasn’t sure he believed this! He’d seen the ceremony in enough holos that he was able to get through the noble’s fealty oath without stumbling, but it still seemed unreal to have a Ranger putting a surcoat on him, embroidered with arms that were his from now on, then buckling a gunbelt around his waist. He checked the gun almost automatically, not too surprised to find it was the disruptor he’d used in the cave, fully charged, then he re-holstered it.

“Good,” Tarlac said with a quiet chuckle. “You’ll do fine, Dave.” He settled the starstone-gemmed coronet on the newest Imperial noble’s head. “Though from now on, you know, it’s ’Your Grace’.”

“I’m really a Life Duke?” Dave asked. Hereditary Dukes ruled Imperial Sectors, and Life nobles outranked their hereditary counterparts—which meant he ranked just below the Rangers themselves, now!

“You really are, Your Grace,” Tarlac assured him. “You earned it; now enjoy it.”

END

NEW YEAR’S WAKE

A Terran Empire Story

Isle of Skye, 1 Jan 2149 CE

It was just past midnight when the woman in wet, torn forest green saw what had to be the light from windows of a small house. She stumbled toward it gratefully, hoping for warmth and some sort of communications. Dammit, equipment failure and a plane crash were no way to start New Year’s Day!

As she neared the house, she heard party sounds, and grinned. It seemed that someone, at least, was having fun here on—if she remembered her charts right—the Isle of Skye. The North Sea in winter . . . yes, she was lucky to be alive.

When she knocked on the door, the party sounds got louder—until the door opened, and someone saw her.

“Och, we have a soaked lass out here!” the young man exclaimed. He turned back into the house, called for blankets and a hot drink, then put his arm around the woman, led her inside, and saw her settled into a comfortable seat beside the fireplace.

“Our first visitor, with no coal or whiskey,” an old man said ruefully. “No good omen for the New Year, no warmth for heart or hearth.”

“Och, uncle, ’tis no fault of hers,” the young man said. “It’s cold and wet she is, in need of help.” He held a glass of whiskey to the woman’s lips, nodded as she sipped. “That’s a good lass,” he said approvingly. “I’m Geordie MacGregor, and who may you be?”

The woman hesitated, hiding it with another sip of whiskey. They hadn’t identified her from her uniform; should she . . . no. See what they were really like, first. “Lindner . . . Sue Lindner. My plane went down, and when I made it ashore, I saw your lights.” She turned to the old man Geordie had called Uncle. “I’m sorry to be a bad omen, sir, but it may be I won’t be that bad.”

“Ach, lass, I’m the one to be sorry,” Geordie’s uncle replied. “’Tis superstition, I know, but ’tis tradition as well. It’s rest you should be getting.”

“I would like to warm up a bit, then if you have a phone, I should call and let the people expecting me know where I am. I’ll pay for the call, of course; it’s long distance.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the old man retorted. “I’ll not have it bruited about that Donal MacGregor’s lacking in proper hospitality. A plane crash, you say, and your clothes half gone . . . are you hurt? Will the Rescue Service not be looking for you?”

“I doubt it; my flight wasn’t scheduled. And I’m not hurt, except for a few scratches and bruises. There’s no need to disturb your party.” She’d discarded her boots and equipment belt for the swim ashore, and sometime during that swim or her wandering—probably coming ashore over those rocks—she’d lost her badge and pretty well shredded her uniform. It was no wonder they didn’t recognize her; she doubted she’d be able to recognize herself, huddled under a blanket with her hair plastered down by salt water.

Another knock on the door brought laughter, especially from the woman who opened it to admit a kilt-clad man bearing a piece of coal and a bottle of whiskey.

“’Tis a few minutes late you are, Angus,” Donal MacGregor called. “Our first guest of the year is this poor cold lass here.”

“And half drowned, by the look of her,” Angus replied. He scowled ferociously—a half-grin betraying his apparent ferocity—at the woman tending Sue. “Tara, you know she needs something hot, not whiskey.”

“Bridget’s making cocoa, as you should be able to smell,” Tara retorted.

“It’s made,” the young woman entering the room said, going straight to Sue and handing her the steaming mug.

Sue traded her whiskey glass for it, wrapping her hands around the mug to warm them and taking a deep breath of the chocolatey steam, while her hosts gave Angus the story.

When they were done, he looked at her curiously, with a half-grin. “Your name’s a familiar one, lass.”

Sue returned his smile. He knew who she was, but he didn’t seem inclined to spread his knowledge, if she chose not to reveal herself; he got points for discretion. “It’s a common enough name, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“No; I’d remember if we had. It’s an honor now, though, and I’d be pleased if you’d call me Angus.”

“The honor is mine, Angus.” Sue smiled at him again, briefly. “Perhaps, under more formal circumstances, things would be different. At the moment, though, I’m just an unlucky pilot.”

“And so you are, lass.” Angus nodded once, then turned to their hosts. “Well, now, this is supposed to be a party. Tara, may I have the next dance?”

“Indeed you may!” Tara—Sue guessed her to be Donal’s wife—called across the room. “Geordie, some music!”

Sue felt herself relaxing as warmth crept back into her, and she automatically evaluated her surroundings. They were nothing like what she was used to: a small living room, festively decorated but obviously not rich—more homey, she thought, than anything else. Bookshelves lined one wall almost completely, their ranks broken only by two small windows and a holoset—on, but being ignored; she couldn’t tell what the program was. A five- or six-person table held food and drinks; it looked too heavy to move easily, so this was probably the dining room, as well. Wall decorations were mostly stitchery, though a crucifix held a place of honor above the mantel.

Not a rich place, no. And the party talk around her, gathered in fragments from the twenty or so who crowded the room, didn’t contradict that impression. This seemed to be a subsistence-farming culture . . . here on Terra? Well, it was possible; talk of farm animals, equipment, and markets, and canning, yes. Nothing of politics, or the Empire, or the nobility, as was so common in the circles she was used to, but the warmth and friendship here had value of their own. These people might not have much money, but they couldn’t be called poor.

Sue found herself pleased by that. It was people like these, after all, who were the Empire’s substance, its reason for being. It was good to be reminded of that, from time to time. Imperial nobles and officers had the trappings of rank, yes, but the underlying purpose of that rank was to insure that Imperial citizens like these could live freely and without fear. And she was one of those officers . . . Sue smiled to herself, and kept listening as carefully as Bridget kept her chocolate cup full and hot.

The MacGregor farm, she found, wasn’t a particularly prosperous one even by this island’s standards. Donal’s tractor was unreliable at best, Geordie couldn’t seem to find a sponsor who’d get him even as far as being tested for the Military Academy—well. It had been a long time since she’d had an opportunity to indulge herself.

About an hour after she’d been helped inside, Sue stood and attracted Tara’s attention. “Mrs. MacGregor, may I use your phone now?”

“Of course, lass. Back this way.”

“Thank you.” Sue looked around, gestured to Geordie and Donal. “Would you come, too?”

The two men exchanged glances, then Donal shrugged and smiled. “If you wish, lass.”

The MacGregors did have a phone in the kitchen, Sue found, but it was clear that they seldom used it; Tara had to move half a dozen jars of canned tomatoes before she could take the phone out of the cabinet. And it was basic: small 20-cm screen, push buttons instead of voice activation—probably black and white, too, Sue thought as she activated it.

No, it was color. The screen lit up in pale green, reading ‘Dial.’ As Sue entered the various access codes, the readout changed. Intercontinental . . . Antarctica . . . Imperial Palace. That got murmurs of surprise, which grew louder as she punched in the last numbers and the Imperial Seal appeared on the screen.

“Voiceprint id required,” a flat voice said. “Speak.”

“Ranger Susan M. Lindner, ident code RSR-0651-0173.”

“Ident confirmed. To whom do you wish to speak?”

“Castellan Gordon, please.”

“One moment, sir.”

Within seconds, the Seal disappeared, to be replaced by the face of a gray-haired, tired-looking man. “What can I do for you . . . ah . . .” He hesitated, frowning. “You haven’t heard— No, Comm Central said you weren’t answering—”

“Heard what, Robert? My plane went down three or four hours ago, and these people have spent the last hour drying me off and warming me with hot cocoa.” But from the Castellan’s expression, she was afraid she knew. The Emperor’s health hadn’t been good of late, and she really shouldn’t have been half a world away . . . “When did it happen?”

“Apparently about the time you crashed,” Gordon said. “I believe he heard the New Year in. I hope he did . . .” The Castellan was silent for a moment, then he went on. “He didn’t seem to be in any pain, and Doctor Warren says it was simple heart failure. I’ve delayed making the public announcement until I could speak to you, get authorization to call a Conclave at the same time.” He bowed as deeply as he could and still remain on-screen. “By Your Majesty’s leave?”

“You have authorization,” Ranger—now Empress—Susan Lindner said. She had known this was inevitable since her own election as Crown Princess at the first Conclave; establishing a precedent of peaceful, orderly transfer of Imperial power was absolutely vital. “I’ll need transport, and from the terrain I crossed, it’d better be something on the order of a lander. I’m at the MacGregor farmstead, Isle of Skye; you should be able to pinpoint me from this call.”

“Done, Majesty,” Gordon said after a couple of seconds. “A lander will be on its way as soon as I’m dismissed, with Ranger Grissom and a squad of Palace Guards. Naturally, I’ll give them a head start before I inform the news media. Is there anything else?”

The Empress glanced around at the people near her, the ones who’d shared her surprise—and, in varying degrees, shock—at the news of Emperor Chang’s death. “I think so. A squad—no, better make it a platoon—of Security Division Marines. The MacGregors can’t be used to publicity, especially the kind my accession is going to bring.”

“Of course, Majesty.”

“Thank you, Castellan. Dismissed.”

Gordon bowed again. His image disappeared, was replaced momentarily by the Imperial Seal before Susan hung up and turned to the three with her. They looked as stunned as she felt, and uncertain as well. She could understand that; it would be unsettling enough to have an Imperial Ranger turn up on your doorstep, without having her turn into the Empress on you. At least they knew enough about Imperial protocol not to kneel to her, though Donal looked tempted.

“This wasn’t what I’d planned, you know,” Susan said. “I was only calling to arrange a pickup, then later I’d have seen that you got the reward you’re entitled to for aiding a Ranger.”

Donal shook his head. “Nay, lass—I mean, Majesty. A man needs no reward for helping as the Good Book says.”

“No,” Susan said, smiling slightly. “I know you’re taught that your reward comes later. But the Empire tries for justice in this life, as much as we can; we punish actions that hurt it, and reward ones that help.” She held out her hands to the old man. “Will you help me again, Donal, you and your family? Join me in mourning a dear friend before I have to officially take up a job no sane person would want? And keep calling me Sue, or lass, please? At least until Robert makes the announcement?”

Donal saw the entreaty in her eyes, and nodded. Empress or no, she was a woman, a crashed pilot, who had just lost a friend. “As you wish, lass. We’ve enough good whiskey for a proper wake, and a hangover cure for the morrow.”

Susan smiled in real gratitude. “Thank you, Donal. Now I think we’d best rejoin the others.”

“Aye, lass.”

When they went back to the party and Donal explained that their guest had just been told about the death of a close friend, Susan was surrounded by suddenly-commiserating people, one of whom pressed a drink into her hand. She took a swallow, appreciating the gesture and unquestioning sympathy, so unlike the official condolences she’d be receiving soon.

A gentle, grandmotherly woman urged her to a seat. “Tell us about your friend, lass. What kind of man was he?”

Susan gave that a moment’s thought, then smiled. She couldn’t reveal his identity without ruining the party, which she didn’t want to do, but that shouldn’t be necessary. “He was a good man, Miz. One of the most intelligent, caring people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing—and I liked him, even if he did make those of us who worked most closely with him knock ourselves out trying to keep up.”

She chuckled. “I think one of the reasons we did work so hard for him was that he demanded even more of himself than he asked of us. I can’t imagine taking on some of the assignments I did for anyone else.”

“He sounds like a leader anyone could respect,” Angus said. “But have you nothing more . . . ah . . . human to share?”

“Well, yes,” Susan said, and knew her voice showed amusement. “He had a weakness for twentieth-century space opera. It showed up in some places you wouldn’t expect unless you shared his fondness for it, and for awhile we made a game out of tracing down anything that seemed to have any sort of connection.”

She glanced at Angus, saw his matching amusement, and was certain he’d made at least some of the same connections. There was no denying that His Majesty had had excellent reasons for his actions, from establishing the Empire on; even the Solar Federation Congress had been able to understand that a democracy that was struggling to hold a single system together couldn’t possibly cope with what promised to rapidly become thousands of systems. Aristocracy had worked, more or less, in one form or another, for thousands of years, so an Empire was a natural solution—but it was also a classic idea in space opera. And one of her own favorite touches was the Anthem; every government seemed to need one, so why not do as Emperor Chang had, and take an instrumental piece already titled “Imperial Anthem” from a classic late-twentieth-century entertainment tape? “Oh,” she went on, “he never let it interfere with serious business—but why not take what enjoyment you can, after all?”

“No reason,” Angus said with a grin. “And did your friend also like American cowboy stories?”

“When he was a boy, yes. Until he got interested in space opera, anyway.” Susan returned his grin. “I’ve always thought he should have been born a Texan.”

The reminiscences continued as she was kept supplied with smoothly-potent whiskey, and she was fully aware that she was well on the way to being thoroughly drunk. That was all right; the Palace Guards, who would be the first to arrive, knew their Sovereign was quite human. And, being Marines, their medikits held sober pills she could use if she had to.

Roughly two hours after her phone call, Susan and the rest of the partiers were startled by the sound of a lander’s null-grav engines, then by the first notes of the Imperial Anthem sounding from the almost-forgotten holoset. As Gordon announced Chang’s death and her accession, Susan found Angus looking at her understandingly. She nodded to him, smiling, then concealed a sigh. Her brief crash-caused leave was over; it was time to take on her new duties.

Isle of Skye, 3 Jan 2149

The scream of null-grav engines interrupted Tara MacGregor’s housework. She ran outside, to see a brilliant scarlet lander settling to earth barely ten meters from the front door. When its hatch opened and a scarlet-tunicked man emerged, she caught her breath. This was an Imperial Messenger!

“Tara MacGregor?” the man asked.

She nodded silently, and the Messenger bowed to her, extending a large green envelope. “I am instructed to deliver this with Her Majesty’s compliments, Mrs. MacGregor. She asks that you contact Castellan Gordon with your reply.” He bowed again, and left as swiftly as he’d arrived.

Tara watched him go before she opened the envelope with hands that were shaking slightly. It held three items: a bill of sale for a new tractor, an authorization form for Geordie to take the Academy entrance examinations, and a smaller envelope with a handwritten note: “You gave a crashed pilot hospitality, and a grieving woman sympathy. I would like to return at least the hospitality; will you all be my guests for Coronation Week?” It was initialed S.M.L.

As Tara started to go back into the house, she heard shouted questions, and stopped to wait for Donal and Geordie, who were approaching at a run. She didn’t bother saying anything; the papers she held out spoke for themselves.

Both men looked them over with the same mixture of amazement and pleasure Tara was sure she’d had. It was Donal who finally spoke, looking south toward the Antarctic palace none of them had ever thought to see. “Aye, lass,” he said softly. “Aye, we’ll accept your hospitality.”

END

TEAMS

A Terran Empire story

Narvon III, 2277 CE

Marine Captain Jase Thompson enjoyed Evaluation Team duty, and this particular assignment appealed to what his team members called his warped sense of humor. This had started out as an odd one; it was the Archbishop of Narvon III, rather than its Baron or the System Count, who had pushed the panic button. He’d appealed to the Emperor for a battle fleet, with a full complement of Security and Combat Division Marines, claiming civil war was breaking out because of something that was turning Narvon System’s “best people” into “bloodsucking servants of the Devil.”

Captain Thompson had no idea what His Majesty thought about the situation, but he was skeptical, himself. Still, no one asked for that sort of intervention without some reason; it was up to the E-Team to find out whether the reason was valid, and if so what degree of intervention was really justified. He certainly didn’t want to call in a fleet—no E-Team leader did—but he would if he had to. Then he’d hope that the Ranger or Fleet Admiral in charge overruled him; he didn’t like thinking what military occupation could do to the occupied system. Not that the situation was likely to be that bad.

Thompson sighed, checking the clock and deciding he’d better get back to the bridge; the Koslov’s Captain—Navy Lieutenant Inga Sanchez— should have the pre-landing surveillance reports for him by now.

She gave him a rueful shake of the head as he entered her small bridge. “It’s peaceful as Terra down there, Jase. No trace of active weaponry, no civil disturbances our sensors can detect, no fires involving artificial substances—no nothing.”

Thompson grinned. “Sounds good to me, Inga. What about news reports, entertainment broadcasts, that sort of thing?”

Sanchez grinned back. “Just as normal, except for a couple of oddities. The holos aren’t carrying any ’casts of contact sports, and on a talk show, one of the guests had fangs; the others were acting a little nervous, but she was telling them how harmless she and the other `Kins of the Dragon’ really were.” Sanchez touched a control on the arm of her command chair. “Watch.”

The Captain’s monitor screen lit up to show several people seated in a group of comfortable-looking chairs around a low table, and Thompson repressed a chuckle. Talk shows seemed to be the same everywhere, he thought—then one of the guests caught his attention. She was attractive, wearing the uniform of a System Security officer—Chief of Detectives, from her badge—except that she was more than slim, she looked damned near starved.

“How do you feel about the Kins who were killed, Chief Kaufman, and what do you plan to do with the ones who killed them?” a man—Thompson guessed him to be the show’s host—asked.

The woman shrugged slightly. “My personal feelings have no bearing; I plan to deal with them as I would with any other murderers, how else? I am an officer of the law.”

“You don’t have any desire for revenge? After all, the killings were rather . . . unpleasant.”

The detective chief grimaced. “Yes, they were. But I can’t take revenge, any more than I can feed on someone who doesn’t want me to—it should be common knowledge by now that Kins feel any pain we deliberately inflict.”

“But you can feed on someone who’s not willing, or kill; Kins have done it.”

“We can, yes; I’ve killed in the line of duty since I became a Kin, which was bearable because I knew that not killing would cause more harm later. And I did try to feed on someone who didn’t want me, once—I suppose most Kins have—but I’d rather starve into coma than try that again. Thank the Prince I didn’t really hurt him, but I did feel every bit of his terror.”

“Looks like she’s doing just that, too,” Thompson commented. It didn’t look like much intervention, if any at all, would be needed—not with the `servants of the Devil’ appearing on talk shows trying to reassure people and looking like death warmed over. “What the hell do they do for food, then?”

Sanchez advanced the recording, then started playing it again. “—willing Donors,” the detective chief was saying. “We feel pain we inflict deliberately, yes—but we can also project feelings. If somebody’s willing to feed me, I can let . . . feel the satisfaction—even, if @’s willing enough, the ecstasy—I do when I feed. And I certainly wouldn’t take enough to hurt, or even to weaken, . . .!”

Sanchez shut off the recording. “You know, I believe her.”

“So do I,” Thompson said thoughtfully. “I do still have to investigate, of course, but I’d say from this that there’s no crisis big enough to call in even a squadron for.”

The E-Team’s landing wasn’t the covert operation Thompson had originally planned; instead, the Koslov called for clearance, and they landed at the main spaceport, where Thompson and his team disembarked in full uniform, complete with sidearms. He didn’t particularly like weapons, but procedure called for E-Teams to carry them unless doing so would be more dangerous than not, which didn’t seem to be the case here.

Landing openly, even an E-Team had to go through Customs and Health, which was routine enough until a tech told Thompson that he needed blood samples to test for susceptibility to the nosferatu pseudo-virus.

“What’s that?” Thompson asked.

“What makes humans into Kins,” the tech said, sounding as if he were telling them something they should already know. “If you’re susceptible, and if the virus gets into your bloodstream, and if something seriously weakens your system more than twenty-four standard hours later, you turn into a Kin. The Count’s orders are that anyone from out-system be tested and warned, so if they are susceptible, they can leave before exposure is possible.” The tech shrugged. “Odds are none of you will be, though; no one I’ve tested has been, and so far it looks like only one percent—maybe less—are.”

“We all have full-spectrum immunizations,” Thompson pointed out.

“I know. But the pseudo-virus isn’t one of the things full-spectrum works against.”

“Okay.” Thompson extended his arm and let the tech take his sample. When the rest of his team had followed suit, the tech sent them to a waiting room until the results were back, probably in less than an hour. Thompson posted the newest team member with their luggage, sent his second-in-command to a phone to make arrangements for them to be quartered in the System Palace, then told the rest to spread out and start up conversations with the others in the room, all of whom looked like locals.

Not that he really had to give them orders any more, he thought. All except Corporal Nkomo—who’d replaced Corporal van Breda, killed on an earlier mission—had been with him for at least four years; they were more of a family than a military unit, although they were careful to maintain protocol with anyone else around. Thompson knew he had a reputation for being overly concerned with his people’s welfare, especially since he’d turned down promotion to stay with his team, but he preferred being called a mother hen to taking command of a larger unit that would give him less personal satisfaction.

While his people circulated, Thompson leafed through several of the newsjournals that seemed to be an inevitable part of every waiting room. He started with the oldest, published about six weeks ago, discovering that the Archbishop’s basic facts were accurate. There had been riots, all right, when some kind of laboratory accident and explosion had released the pseudo-virus and created the first Kins of the Dragon. They’d called themselves that from the very beginning, it seemed, which Thompson found intriguing—and it was discovered almost immediately that they had to drink blood to survive. Preferably human blood, taken directly from a donor’s carotid, though they could manage for short times on packaged or even animal blood. Normal food made them violently ill, and strong spices caused anaphylactic shock, usually fatal. To balance those limitations, they developed great physical strength and endurance, as well as the responsive and projective forms of empathy the detective chief had mentioned.

Unfortunately, the first reaction to the Kins had been horror. Thompson could understand that, though he didn’t share it; psych tests kept people who couldn’t overcome such feelings out of Imperial service. He was more intrigued than frightened by the idea of a Kin drinking some of his blood, and according to the journals, most Narvonese had felt the same way after the initial shock had worn off—especially those who’d had friends or relatives affected.

But there had been enough whose horror had persisted to cause the trouble that had inspired the Archbishop’s appeal. Riots had broken out in all but the smallest towns, Kins had been brutally murdered by impalement, decapitation, poisoning, incineration—but that trouble had tapered off dramatically, starting about a week after the Archbishop’s call, when all three Planetary Barons and the System Count announced that they had been infected and become Kins themselves. Thompson found that amusing, if almost inevitable; once Imperial nobility embraced something new, most of the people in their fiefs followed suit. By now, attacks on Kins were down to scattered incidents, and it looked like they’d taper off to almost nothing soon.

In fact, public opinion had made almost a complete reversal from the initial near-universal horror. In spite of some lingering apprehension, Kins were rapidly becoming respected and even envied—a process speeded by the fact that many of them had been that way to begin with. The Archbishop had been right in his report that it was the “best people” who were becoming Kins. Not “best” in the sense of richest or most powerful, although some were, but in the sense of contributing most to society. Kins overwhelmingly came from groups like doctors, police officers, religious, and others who were devoted to some form of service; none came from criminal or other anti-social elements, and only a few from generally-neutral groups. The approximately one-percent figure the tech had mentioned seemed accurate, so not all members of even the highest-incidence groups were Kins—but it was enough to convince Thompson that such an oddly selective disease called for scientific investigation, rather than military intervention. It wouldn’t surprise him to see the Kins become Narvon System’s local nobility, either.

“Captain Thompson?”

He looked up from the journal to see the tech approaching, and his people breaking off their conversations to join them. Waiting until his team had gathered around, he asked the tech, “What results?”

“One susceptible, Captain,” the tech said, his expression unreadable. “You.”

Thompson was silent for a moment, then said, “Oh, Chaos.” He wouldn’t mind letting a Kin drink from him, but he had no desire to become one, even with the social status they seemed to be gaining. He didn’t know just how much blood a Kin needed, but he was positive it was more than his team could supply, and probably more than anything short of a base or mid-sized ship could handle; if he became one, he’d lose his team, maybe even have to be discharged. “You said the virus has to get into my bloodstream to infect me?”

“Yes, sir—well, or into your digestive tract. But it’s hard to get infected accidentally, except in a lab explosion like the original ones; most Kins got that way feeding a friend or family member. And then you have to be seriously weakened for it to change you. So if you don’t feed any Kins, or if you do and then don’t get badly hurt or sick, you’ll stay just the way you are.”

“Thank you.” That was better; he could still lead this mission safely. He turned to his second-in-command. “Report.”

“We have quarters at the System Palace,” Gunnery Sergeant Audra King said. “Count Nilssun was expecting us, and wants to see you at your earliest convenience. She’s sent transportation and an escort.”

“She expected an E-Team?” No one was supposed to know about an E-Team, not even the person who’d called for help; teams that came in openly, like his, had covers that would allow them to go around asking questions about anything and everything.

“Yes, sir.” King gave her team leader a wry grin. “I’m afraid she was in IntelDiv herself, on an E-Team, before her brother died and she was named to succeed. I’d guess one of her former teammates let her know we were assigned here.”

That sounded likely; it was just a good thing the problem had solved itself before his team had to file its evaluation. “Was she upset?”

“No, sir. Pleased.”

“That’s good, I suppose.” Thompson kept from scowling by an effort of will. “When’s the transport supposed to get here?”

“Should be already, sir.”

“It figures.” If the Count had expected them, she’d probably given orders that she be notified when ten Marines arrived; being former E-Team herself, she’d be able to guess that with the primary danger past, they’d be likely to come in openly. “Main entrance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

They were taken to the System Palace in a luxury limousine, with a dozen System Security troops riding escort on gravcycles, then settled into a decade apartments in the Palace’s guest wing. Thompson changed into dress blues, and wasn’t surprised, moments after he was finished, to hear a knock on his door. “Enter,” he called.

The door opened, and a man in black and silver livery bowed to him. “My Lady Count’s compliments, Captain Thompson. She invites you to her office to discuss your mission; if you will come with me?”

Thompson nodded shortly, and followed the man to an office whose open door was flanked by a pair of System Security officers. He entered, and the door closed behind him as he came to attention facing the woman standing behind the desk. “Captain Jase Thompson, my Lady Count.”

“You may be seated, Captain.” The Count gestured to a comfortable-looking leather armchair, and took her own seat as Thompson sat. “Now—you came here to investigate a report of rioting, did you not?”

“You know I did, my Lady.”

“And what will your report to His Majesty say?”

“That no intervention is required, of course.”

“No, Captain, it will not.” Count Nilssun smiled, and Thompson found himself admiring her fangs, with an uncomfortable certainty that she knew what he was thinking. “Since you are head of an E-Team, I’m sure you saw at least part of yesterday’s `Narvon Tonight,’ and read the spaceport newsjournals while you were waiting for your test results. I hope you weren’t too distressed at finding yourself susceptible.”

“Not overly, my Lady.” She’d been IntelDiv, all right, Thompson thought. E-Team, yes, but he’d be willing to bet she’d been a field agent before that—and that she’d set up the interview with her Chief of Detectives and had a complete set of journals waiting for him. She’d know better than to try misleading him, with her background, but Thompson could understand her setting things up to let him get information without too much effort. And something in the information she’d arranged for him would tell him why she said his report would ask for some kind of intervention.

He was starting to enjoy himself. This was the sort of puzzle IntelDiv people liked to set up for each other, and it let him be sure there was nothing seriously wrong. “Let me see. You couldn’t have known I’m susceptible to the pseudo-virus, since this is the only system that tests for that, which means it has no bearing.”

“Correct.”

“Okay.” Thompson thought back. “The journals were a pretty straight-forward account, so you probably set them up just to give me background. The key has to be the interview, then.” He saw her nod slightly, and concentrated. “The Empire can’t do much about your feeding problem, if you need mostly fresh blood, so that’s not it either. Oh!” He nodded, realizing. “You can’t deliberately hurt anyone, which means you’d have a hard time defending yourselves from anything, criminals to a full-scale invasion. You need an Imperial military presence, probably a Sub-Sector or Sector-level base. Maybe police, too, though Narvonese who aren’t Kins may be able to handle that.”

The Count looked pleased. “Exactly, Captain. I do need a full-scale base, and the Empire has none in this Sector as yet. Debate on where to place one is evenly balanced between this system and Argyros; your report on our limitation will swing that debate in our favor.”

It sure would, Thompson thought. Given equal merit, the Empire preferred to site bases and jobs where the need was greatest, and a completely vulnerable system needed a base far more than one like Argyros, which could defend itself at least until reinforcements could arrive.

“As for police,” the Count went on, “yes, non-Kins can handle most of what Kins cannot—but I have already begun trying to recruit Security Division veterans. Non-susceptible ones, of course.”

Thompson grinned appreciation. Former SecuDiv Marines made the best police available, if you were willing to let them do the job you paid them for; if you didn’t, they’d probably consider it a breach of contract and leave. Not too many people were willing to deal with someone who’d alienated such police, so that was a definite point in the Count’s favor. “I’ll be glad to recommend construction of a base, then, my Lady.”

“Excellent.” The Count leaned forward, her expression serious. “As you have deduced, Captain, I was once a field agent, and I had this set up to give you the maximum amount of information in the minimum amount of time. I can see from your reactions that you also know I want more from you than a base, now that I have learned of your susceptibility.” She smiled, showing those tempting fangs again. “And that you are trying to avoid thinking about it, because you want it as well.”

Thompson tried to keep his face impassive, even though he knew perfectly well that it was useless, with a field agent reading him. Dammit, a man was entitled to his privacy! “By my Lady Count’s leave, I must remind her that my responsibilities to my team outweigh my personal desires.”

Count Nilssun leaned back with a sigh. “Formality doesn’t change things, Captain. You want to feed a Kin, and I have to send a Liaison Officer to the Imperial Palace to represent Narvon System; a Kin who was head of the team sent here to investigate us would be ideal, from a public relations viewpoint. I can’t force you, as you are well aware—but I needn’t be the one who introduces the virus, or who weakens you so you will Change. I am perfectly capable of requesting that you and your team be stationed here indefinitely, then surrounding you with Kins until you can no longer resist your own desires.”

Thompson’s jaw tightened. “My Lady Count may of course do as she thinks best—but I will, equally of course, protest any such orders.”

The Count stood, and Thompson had to follow suit. “So be it, then, Captain, although I had hoped you would be more reasonable. You have leave to use the Palace ultrawave for your protest—after I have made the initial request.” She smiled, this time almost sadly and without revealing her fangs. “I can sense hidden depths within you, Captain, and I would like to be the one to bring them to the surface. Should you ever decide you want to see me, I will grant you an audience as soon as I can.”

Thompson was unwillingly impressed; an Imperial Count’s time was worth considerably more than a Marine Captain’s. That didn’t make enough difference to change his mind, though. “By the Count’s leave, I would like to return to my people.”

“Permission granted, Captain. But please remember, I am not doing this out of hostility; I do what I do only because I think it best for my own people.”

Returning to his assigned apartment, Thompson changed back into service black. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or flattered at the Count’s intentions for him; at the moment, he felt a bit of both. She was trying to take him away from his team, but on the other hand, she wanted him to become Liaison Officer for an entire system—which, being primarily ceremonial in nature, was a less responsible, but far more prestigious, position. And, though he was reluctant to admit it even to himself, he was more than a little tempted by the prospect of—

Resolutely, he blanked out the inviting image of Kin fangs, and went to knock on King’s door. She had evidently been going through the library; when she let him in he saw tapes on the coffee table, and more in the delivery tray. “Research again, Audra?”

“Uh-huh. What’s up, Cap?”

He described his conversation with the Count, then scowled, knowing Audra wouldn’t take it as aimed at her. “I’d try to get back to the ship, but she’d anticipate that. I’m afraid we’re stuck here until either she decides on someone else as liaison, or I let myself be turned into a Kin.”

King looked thoughtful, hesitating before she spoke. “Cap . . . we could all use a leave, and this isn’t half bad.”

Thompson chuckled, startled into real humor. “True, Audra. And we won’t get too many chances at living in a System Palace; pass the word to take full advantage of it.”

“Will do, Cap. Anything we should do when her Ladyship starts setting Kins on you?”

“I don’t think so,” Thompson said, “unless you can arrange for someone to be on hand to interrupt if things get touchy. They won’t hurt me, or even try to; from what I’ve read and been told, they can’t. But . . . Audra, I may need—well, protection from myself. I . . . it’s hard for me not to—”

King nodded understandingly. “They are tempting, aren’t they? Cap, in your position I wouldn’t hesitate; I’d donate, and enjoy the hell out of myself, even if it meant I’d have to stay here.” She gestured to the tapes she’d been studying. “This system is in the beginning of a major social change, one that ought to be absolutely fascinating.”

“I’m sure it would, if I shared your interest in sociology,” Thompson said drily. Audra was the team’s socio spec, and kept trying to get the rest as interested as she was. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll voluntarily do anything to take myself off this team, or out of the service.”

“If you’re given the choice, no. But—” King raised a cautionary hand—“if the Count’s as determined as you say, it may not be your choice. They have something called projective empathy, according to these tapes, and they can use it to make you feel anything they want you to feel. Especially if it reinforces something you already feel a little.”

“And I already want to donate. Yeah, I see what you mean. Her Ladyship could have taken me already—and made me like it. I wonder why she didn’t.” Another thought struck him, and he looked sharply at his second-in-command. “Our hostess was a field agent, Audra. Were any of these tapes waiting for you?”

King looked startled, then nodded. “Two of them, yes. And one answers your question—they don’t know how long the effects of the projective empathy last. Which may mean they won’t use it to infect or change you for fear it’ll backfire on them.”

That made sense, Thompson thought. Her Ladyship had to know that a Marine who realized @’d been coerced into a decision, even gently, would rebel against both the decision and the coercer. “Then I’d say they won’t go beyond persuasion and the temptation her Ladyship promised—or threatened me with.”

King nodded, her expression troubled. “There’s another aspect, Cap, one you may not be thinking about. At least it’s something I’ve never known you to be concerned with—but these tapes make it pretty clear that feeding is . . . well—”

“That’s enough,” Thompson interrupted shortly. He’d been trying to avoid thinking about that aspect; what had made Audra bring it up? It was a personal problem, a reason as important as what he’d spoken openly about for his reluctance to donate—the reason he had opted out of his original assignment selection when he’d found out what it involved. The idea of casual liaisons left him cold; the only people he felt close enough to want intimacy with were the members of his team—and regulations forbade that. So although he certainly didn’t lack it, he’d never shown any outward interest in sex.

“No offense intended, Cap. Sorry.”

“None taken, Audra; you just pushed the wrong button.” Thompson took a deep breath. “And you haven’t mentioned one factor that’s damned hard for me to resist.” He couldn’t help thinking about the detective chief he’d seen on holo. “Some of these Kins, at least, aren’t much more than skin and bones. I could provide a meal for one of them, yes—and I would, gladly, if it wouldn’t change me into one of them. Hell, if I could, I’d feed ’em as often as my body would tolerate the blood loss!”

The Count didn’t waste any time acting on her intention; she had Thompson summoned to the Palace communications section, where she called HQMC and requested the E-Team’s indefinite assignment to Narvon System. Thompson filed his protest immediately, but it had no more effect than he’d expected; he and his team were assigned to the Count’s command.

She turned to him when the tech broke contact. “I don’t think you will find my first commands too unpleasant, Captain. I would like you and your people to consider yourselves my guests; you are welcome to full use of all Palace facilities. I would also like you to attend a get-acquainted party tomorrow night.”

Thompson had resigned himself to spending at least several weeks in this system; he found himself grateful that the Count was making it as pleasant as possible for them. “Thank you, my Lady. We’ll be there; should we wear blues or civvies?”

“Whichever you choose, Captain. It will be semi-formal.”

Thompson wore blues, more for the illusory protection of the dress uniform’s high collar than for any other reason; the rest of his team opted for civilian wear. He thought King looked particularly sharp in the shimmer-cloth culotte outfit she’d had the fabricator make, and almost as soon as their group entered the Grand Ballroom he saw that he wasn’t the only one. Several Kins, ranging from almost normal physique to near-starvation gauntness, surrounded her and began an animated conversation. Others started discussions with the rest of his team, leaving Thompson himself momentarily alone.

That didn’t last long, however. The Count joined him, accompanied by half a dozen other Kins who she introduced as her Planetary Barons, her Chief of System Security, and the Head Nurse of the Palace medcenter. “And you’ve already seen Detective Chief Enna Kaufman,” the Count finished.

Thompson acknowledged the introductions with a certain amount of discomfort. He wasn’t used to associating with the nobility, and it was unsettling for him to feel the restrained hunger they all radiated. The two Security people were in the worst shape, and a moment’s thought told Thompson it made sense; their jobs were unlikely to bring them into much contact with people willing to let them feed.

As they chatted about inconsequentials, Thompson had to keep himself from staring at the Kins’ mouths, or getting within touching range. The Count had read him all too accurately; while one Kin was relatively easy to resist, seven—two of whom were near starvation—made it an entirely different case, even though they weren’t doing anything but stand there and converse. He was far too aware not only of their hunger, but of his urge to satisfy it. How the hell was he going to resist this kind of pressure even for however long the party lasted, much less for weeks or maybe months? He sipped at a drink he’d taken from a passing waiter’s tray, wishing for some excuse to leave, but he couldn’t think of any. He couldn’t even fall back on the Corps’ informal motto, because there was no dishonor involved.

“At least your teammates aren’t refusing to enjoy what we can do for them,” Kaufman said, gesturing as she chuckled.

Thompson turned, to see Sergeant Gottfried—his communications expert—in the arms of a tall, equally Nordic-looking man, her expression almost ecstatic as the Kin’s mouth worked at her throat. Nearby he saw Audra, pale but looking pleased, with a petite Polynesian-looking Kin being obviously solicitous of her. Thompson shook his head ruefully, then turned back to his group. “It looks like you have a few more donors, at least as long as we’re assigned here.” He hesitated, trying to decide whether he should go on, but the Count made that decision for him.

“Go on, Captain. I can see you have more to say.”

“Yes, sir.” Thompson took a breath, then did so. “As I told Sergeant King, I’d donate myself, as often as I could, except that I’m told that if I do it even once, I’ll become a Kin. And that would cost me my career, something I’m not willing to give up.”

“More to the point,” the Count said, “you think it would cost you your team.”

Dammit, Thompson thought, couldn’t she give him any slack? “The only way it wouldn’t, my Lady, is if you got the Emperor to assign them here permanently—which would ruin their careers. I say again, my responsibilities to my team outweigh my personal desires.”

He hadn’t kept his distance carefully enough; Kaufman touched his shoulder, then his throat, and he shivered with the promise of it. “Captain,” she said softly, “would it really be that bad, staying in this system? The human race, after all, was restricted to one planet for millions of years, and most people still remain planetbound for their entire lives. Believe me, Narvon System can provide enough challenge for you and your team. Have you asked them whether they would consider staying here with you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Thompson admitted. But he had to add, “I wouldn’t, either, because I’m afraid they’d think I was pressuring them.”

Kaufman eased her hand to the other side of his neck, and Thompson moved closer without quite realizing it. “Look at them, my friend. They’re feeling good, and I can assure you that anyone who’s donated to one of us once wants to do it again.” She chuckled. “The kind of pleasure we can give is unique, and you want the best possible for your people; wouldn’t you like to give them feeding-pleasure yourself, as often as you could do it without endangering their health?”

That gave Thompson an entirely different point of view, and he moved still closer to the Kin, again without realizing it. “Yes . . . yes, I would.” He did want the best for his people, and if he could get that in a way that also let him be even closer to them—

He felt lips at his throat, hard sharpness under their warmth, and knew he’d surrendered.

Then a large hand closed on his shoulder and he was pulled away, to stumble back against Corporal Nkomo’s chest. “What—”

“No marks, sir; you’re safe.”

Thompson took a deep breath, coming back to reality as his team surrounded him. It seemed he’d been right when he told Audra he might need protection from himself. “Thanks, Corporal. And the rest of you.”

“No problem, sir. Sergeant King said this might happen.”

The Count smiled ruefully. “You have a very well trained team, Captain Thompson—but they cannot be around you all the time. Sooner or later, you will give in to your own desire.”

He’d already come too close for comfort, Thompson thought bitterly. The worst part of it was that it was himself he was fighting, not the Count—and whichever way the fight went, he lost. “That may be, my Lady, but they’re here now. And they’ll keep me from doing anything I’d regret later.”

“Indeed,” the Count said politely. “Then you will stay and enjoy the rest of the party.”

That was an order, Thompson knew, not a request. “As my Lady Count wishes,” he said, trying to conceal resentment from the others, if not from the Count herself.

“Good.” The Count signalled a waiter, who approached carrying a tray loaded with foam-topped mugs. “Your records say you have a fondness for New Bavarian beer, something I doubt you can find very often. I can recommend this; it is their Oktoberfest Doppelbock, a brew I enjoyed myself before becoming a Kin.”

Thompson didn’t doubt that; it was a brew he’d heard quite a lot about, though he’d never been able to afford any. He reached for a mug, shaking his head when Nkomo tried to restrain him. “It’s okay, Corporal. I’m in danger of becoming a Kin, not being poisoned. But if it’d make you feel better, you can taste it before I have any.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” Nkomo took a deep drink, then handed the mug to Thompson, shaking his head. “Whoo! That’s beer?”

“It certainly is,” the Count said with obvious amusement. “Rather potent beer, I might add, though it is also quite smooth. Feel free to drink all you wish; my medcenter has considerable experience treating hangovers.”

With that, the group of Kins broke up and began circulating. Thompson took a hearty drink from the mug he held, while the rest of the team took advantage of the Count’s offer, accepting mugs of their own from the waiter. Not at all to his surprise, he saw that all of them had fang marks on their throats; when Nkomo lowered his mug, Thompson indicated the marks. “How was it?”

Nkomo rubbed the marks, grinning. “It was great, sir—like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I’m going to do it again, as often as they’ll let me.” He gestured resignation. “Not as often as I’d like, but the one who fed on me says they don’t take chances on their donors’ health; even if I dose with rapid-heal, which I intend to, I’m not allowed to donate more than once every four tendays. What they call a Class Four Donor.”

That seemed to be about average, Thompson found. Gottfried was a Class Three, King a Class One, and all the rest were Fours like Nkomo. Also like Nkomo, all of them intended to repeat the experience as often as they were allowed to. “And if you do become a Kin,” King told him, “we want you to be the one who feeds from us. Mine said that it’s good with any Kin, but best with someone you know and like or respect. And that a custom is developing for a Kin who leads a regular group of Donors to be responsible for taking care of them that way.”

Thompson raised an eyebrow. “The Kin is responsible for feeding on @’s people?”

“Yes, sir. If you’d Donated, you wouldn’t be questioning it, either.”

“Maybe not,” Thompson conceded. It did seem to make an odd sort of sense . . . but he didn’t care to find out. “That’s academic for the moment, though, so let’s do what her Ladyship said, and enjoy the party.”

The next morning, Thompson woke feeling hungry. That was something that almost never happened, especially when he’d been drinking the night before; breakfast, for him, was seldom more than a cup of coffee and maybe an English muffin. Well, he knew where the guest dining room was, he told himself, and it was likely that Audra would be eating there; the rest were more likely to eat with the System Security troops in their chow hall.

She wasn’t there, so Thompson took a small table and began scanning the menu as soon as he’d punched for coffee. That was delivered by a human waiter, not too surprising in a System Palace dining room, and Thompson was giving his order when King walked in. She looked surprised, but joined him at his gesture and ordered her usual Spanish omelet, toast, and coffee. It wouldn’t be quite like the same items on any other world, but it was always how she started the day.

When their food came and Thompson cleaned his plate, then signalled for a second helping while she was barely halfway through, King gave her commanding officer a quizzical look. “Is everything all right, Cap?”

“Fine, as far as I know,” Thompson said. “I’m just hungry.”

“Hungry enough to eat two breakfasts when you normally don’t eat any.” King frowned. “Cap—did Carlo pull you away before that detective chief got her fangs into you?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because some of the tapes I dug out—not the ones her Ladyship left for me—say that some susceptibles get hungrier than usual after they’ve become infected. But if she didn’t bite you, you can’t be infected.”

Thompson set down the coffee cup he’d just picked up, an unpleasant thought forming. “I . . . don’t know about that,” he said slowly. “I may have a nasty mind, but I can’t forget that our gracious hostess used to be a field agent.”

“And field agents don’t exactly have the same standards as the rest of the Imperial services.” King hesitated. “Cap, you don’t think she’d—”

“That’s exactly what I do think.” The Count couldn’t force him, no, but a field agent would feel perfectly justified in tricking him, if the stakes were high enough. “I’m not sure whether it was her primary plan or a backup, but thinking back, she could very well have laced that beer with virus. With you not susceptible and the rest of her guests being Kins already, I’m the only one it would have any effect on.”

King chuckled. “That makes sense, Cap—but if so, it backfired on her. According to the tapes, the ones who get the hungries may become high-class Donors when they’re weakened for the Change, but they don’t become Kins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Thompson grinned in relief. “I can handle that easily enough, especially since it means the team doesn’t have to break up. I think I’ll ask to see her as soon as we finish eating.”

The Count sent word that she’d see him as soon as her morning formal audience was over, so Thompson was waiting in her working office when she came in just before noon. He rose and, since he was in civilian clothes this time, bowed slightly. “Good morning, my Lady.”

“Good morning, Captain. You look pleased with yourself.” The Count motioned him back to his seat, while she leaned against her desk. “What is it?”

Thompson outlined what he and King had discussed, feeling more relaxed in her presence than he’d have thought possible the previous night. “So if what Sergeant King read is accurate,” he finished, “I can let one of you feed, enjoy it, and still stay with my team.”

“It is accurate enough,” the Count said, her expression unreadable to anyone without a field agent’s training. “Perhaps a tenth of those who are susceptible do not Change into Kins. They do become the best Donors available, though no Kin will risk feeding even from them more than once per tenday.” She sighed. “I cannot share your relief, Captain, though I can understand it. I am fully aware of the way most people out-system will react to us, and being from out-system yourself, you would have gotten a far more sympathetic reaction than a Narvonese-born Kin. Your being a Donor will help, even so. Do you have any preference as to the Kin?”

“One of the really hungry ones,” Thompson said. “Otherwise, not particularly.”

“Very well. You seemed quite taken with Chief Kaufman yesterday; she is Night Duty Officer now, so she is sleeping, but will be in her office about twenty-two-thirty tonight. Shall I leave word that you are coming?”

“I felt sorry for her, was all,” Thompson said. “The poor kid—Yes, please let her know.”

“All you felt consciously, perhaps,” the Count said drily. “I read it as potentially far more—but that no longer matters. I will rescind my request for your indefinite assignment here.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Thompson rose, and this time his bow was everything her rank entitled her to.

Thompson entered the System Security office complex and approached the desk sergeant, ready to introduce himself, but she stood. “Captain Thompson?”

“Yes.”

“Chief Kaufman is waiting for you, sir. To your right, third door on the left.” She smiled. “You made a good choice, Captain. She’s the best I’ve ever Donated to.”

“How did you know I chose her, rather than the other way around?”

“It’s always the Donor’s choice, sir. The Kin can ask someone, or pass on a volunteer, but one will never feed on an unwilling Donor.” The desk sergeant grinned. “Besides, her Ladyship said you had.”

Thompson chuckled. “Thanks, Sergeant. Third on my left, you said.” He went to the door she’d described, still amused. Now that the danger of becoming one himself was past, he discovered he was beginning to like these blood-drinkers, and to hope the Count would find a good, sympathetic Liaison Officer.

He didn’t have to knock; the door opened as he neared it, and Kaufman invited him in with a flourish. “Nice to see you again, Captain,” she said, smiling—and this time Thompson let himself respond to her hunger and her gleaming fangs. He went into her open arms, leaning his head to one side.

She brushed his throat with her lips, and he felt amusement mixed with her hunger. “May I assume that your Corporal Nkomo won’t pull you away from me this time, my dear Captain?” she murmured.

“You may, my dear Chief.” Thompson relaxed completely, feeling the assurance she projected. “This may be my only chance, so drink as much as you want.”

“As much as I’d take for a Change, yes. You’ll go into a deep sleep, and wake up hungry enough to eat a hellbeast.”

“That’s what my socio spec told me.” Thompson’s earlier desire was back in full force, stronger than ever; he licked his lips, wishing she’d get on with it.

Warmth on his throat, the sensation of hunger, hard sharpness— He cried out at the sudden intense pleasure of fangs in his throat, his blood filling the Kin’s eager mouth, satisfying her driving hunger . . .

He woke with that memory, his hand going to his throat and caressing the wounds there. It was comfortable lying in bed—he knew, somehow, that he was back in the apartment he’d been assigned—and he’d like to stay there, holding on to the memory of Kaufman’s feeding, but he was much too hungry. He got up and used the ’fresher, then dressed, intending to go to the dining room.

It wasn’t necessary; a covered serving tray sat on the coffee table in his apartment’s living room, with a note beside it. He uncovered the tray and began eating, curious about the note but not willing to interrupt until he’d taken the edge off his appetite. Whoever had prepared the tray, he thought gratefully, had a pretty good idea what one of the “near-misses” like himself needed; by the time he emptied it, he was satisfied.

He picked up the note and leaned back, chuckling as he read it.

“Dear Jase,

“By the time you get to this, you’ll have eaten and I’ll be asleep. I want you to know: you were delicious, and I have never had a better meal. I hope I was able to give you as much pleasure as you gave me, and if you are going to be here long enough, I’d appreciate the opportunity to feed from you again.

“Affectionately,

“Enna”

It was odd thinking of himself as a delicious meal, but Thompson found it tickled him; sure, he’d feed her again if he and his team were here long enough. In the meantime, until he got orders, he and his team were on leave, and as he’d told Audra, they might as well take advantage of their stay in a System Palace.

For the rest of the day, they did just that. Their status as the Count’s guests let them enjoy the prerogatives only local nobility or above usually got, and they took advantage of it in the ways their various interests dictated. For Thompson, that meant a run through the Count’s target range, a hearty lunch, a trip through the planetary zoo—he’d need a week to do justice to the whole thing, but this was a good start—a four-course supper, and an evening at the local classics theater to see Last Starfighter for perhaps the twentieth time.

He went to bed feeling comfortably tired, and for several hours slept well, if with increasing unease, but about 0200 he woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. His throat itched, and he felt restless, bloated, so irritable he had to get up and move around. For awhile he prowled around his apartment, but that didn’t help for long; eventually, he put on a robe and went out.

He prowled the Palace corridors, rubbing the fang marks on his throat from time to time, his unease and restless irritability growing. He didn’t like being this way—it was nothing like his usual self—but he couldn’t seem to do fight his way out of it.

After what felt like decades, he found himself at the System Security office complex. Something inside him seemed to say “That’s it,” so he went inside.

The desk sergeant—the same one who had been there the day before—looked at him in surprise. “Is there something I can do for you, Captain?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Thompson rubbed at the fang marks, frustrated that it didn’t seem to help, then began scratching at them. “Is Chief Kaufman here?”

“No, sir, she’s patrolling. You can wait here till she gets back, if you want to. Uh . . . you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Doing what?” Thompson snapped.

“Scratching yourself like that. You could . . . well, hurt yourself.”

“Dammit, they itch!” The reminder made it worse; Thompson’s scratching went deeper, beginning to draw blood. That helped a little, so he dug in more.

“Sir, don’t!”

Thompson paid no attention, needing that bit of relief, small as it was, even when the desk sergeant hit the station alarm. Half a decade troopers seemed to materialize around him, and he heard the sergeant order him restrained.

When they grabbed him and tried to force his arms down behind his back, though, he started fighting. IntelDiv had some nasty moves picked up from combat techniques developed by a couple of decade cultures; he’d decked three of his assailants before reinforcements arrived and took him down, handcuffing him and confining him to a padded holding cell.

An indeterminate, almost painfully frustrating amount of time later, he felt some relief and slumped to the padded floor; a Kin was approaching. Whoever it was stopped, perhaps at the desk, then he sensed anxiety, and the Kin started moving again. Not long after, Enna Kaufman was at the door of his cell, opening it and entering. She knelt beside him.

“Jase, what’s wrong?”

Her nearness calmed him; Thompson breathed deeply, his tension easing. “I wish to Chaos I knew! I damnsure didn’t bargain for anything like this when I wanted you to feed on me.”

“Neither did I, or I wouldn’t have.” She removed the handcuffs, then stroked the wounds on his throat; he relaxed. “I can feel what you want, Jase, but I can’t do anything about it; I fed off you last night, so you have another nine days before any Kin will touch you again.”

“I . . . don’t think I’ll last another nine hours, much less nine days. Chaos, Enna, what do I have to do?”

“I don’t know. Prince knows, I’d help you if I could!”

The Count was having a night as restless as Thompson’s. Finally, not long after he’d been put in the holding cell, she got out of bed— carefully, so she wouldn’t disturb the Donor she’d mated with—and went into her living area to call Security. “Is anything wrong?” she demanded as soon as the desk sergeant appeared on her screen.

“Not really, my Lady,” the desk sergeant replied. “Captain Thompson came in a few minutes ago looking for Chief Kaufman, but she’s out on patrol, so I told him he could wait. But he was scratching his throat, drawing blood, and he wouldn’t stop—I had to order him restrained. He’s handcuffed and in the holding cell till she gets back. He’s trying to climb the walls, but at least he can’t hurt himself.”

The Count frowned. That was a peculiar reaction to an attempted Change, even to one she and Kaufman had known would be unsuccessful— but it did explain the feeling of strain she sensed. Perhaps the attempt had had some effect after all; though it certainly hadn’t made him into a Kin, he was reacting as strongly as if it had. “Call me when Chief Kaufman arrives. I want to see for myself exactly what is happening.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

The Count switched off and dressed, thinking. It had never seemed reasonable to her that ten percent of susceptibles didn’t react except to become Donors of a class that was unusual, but didn’t require most to be susceptible or go through Change. There had never been evidence of more than a difference in degree, however—or not until now, perhaps. Thompson’s reaction might indicate a difference in kind, a Change to . . . what? Something that would complement the Kin Change?

It was half an hour before the desk sergeant called to report that Kaufman had come in, but when she did, the Count lost no time getting to Security and the holding cell. She arrived as Kaufman was using a damp cloth to gently wipe blood from scratches on Thompson’s neck.

She felt immediate sympathy for the Marine; reading him told her that he was in pain, as well as under the terrible strain she’d felt in him earlier. She had sensed that strain before, she realized now, though far less intensely: in some of the others who hadn’t—or apparently hadn’t—Changed, near the end of the ten days that separated their allowable Donations. That irritability and anxiety had been attributed to a natural desire to Donate as often as they could, but now the Count was beginning to think it might be a physiological need as real as a Kin’s need for blood. Thompson certainly hadn’t had time to miss Donating to that degree, not with Kaufman having taken him the day before. “Captain,” she said gently.

The face that turned to her held desperation and sudden hope. “Y . . . yes, my Lady?”

“Did you dream tonight?”

“Huh?” Thompson was startled at the question, but he nodded. “Yes—a dragon wearing a crown. An Oriental dragon. He . . . approves of me.”

“The Dragon Prince,” Kaufman said softly. “The one who used the virus to make us what we are. He always appears to a new Kin.”

“But never, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, to anyone else.” The Count swore briefly, though only to herself. They had never thought to ask the supposedly-unChanged ones about their dreams, and they—or at least she!—should have. It was stupid to think Change had to bring about a visible change; she could only excuse herself by pleading the press of other problems that had claimed her attention since Kins began appearing. “Your desire to feed Kins is more than simple desire now, Captain; I can tell that. It is a physical requirement.” She turned to her Chief of Detectives. “He needs you.”

“But it’s only been a day,” Kaufman said.

The detective chief’s heart wasn’t in her objection; the Count nodded. “The law will have to be changed to accommodate Captain Thompson and the other . . .” What was a good word for them? They weren’t Kins, though they were of the—the Kindred, yes.

Thompson chuckled harshly. “Call me a Bloodmate, my Lady. I give blood, and I damnsure feel like Enna’s mate.”

The Count nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Appropriate; very well. Care for your Bloodmate, Enna.”

Kaufman didn’t have to be told twice; she took Thompson into her arms and nuzzled his throat, breaking the skin to sip but not piercing his carotid. Thompson relaxed, his irritable frustration easing, and he felt his consort’s satisfaction at that. There was far more to his need than her gentle sipping; he was responding to her physically as well, knew she felt it, and luxuriated in her answering caress. There was no such thing, he realized dreamily, as a casual liaison between Kin and Bloodmate; he was free to accept her love-making, as well as her feeding.

“But not in a detention cell,” Kaufman murmured against her Bloodmate’s throat. He might be too far gone to care, but she had no intention of taking him on the floor, no matter how well padded it might be. She picked him up, sensing the Count’s approval, and carried him to the duty officer’s apartment.

Thompson was content to wait; for now, the promise of her delicate fangs, the strength of the body he would nourish, were enough. She would make love to him, and when he peaked, she would sate her fierce hunger in their shared ecstasy. She would care for him, yes . . .

The Count watched them leave, pleased. She had hoped for an ex-E-Team leader turned Kin as Liaison Officer, though she would have settled for whatever benefit a team-full of Donors might bring; now she had something beyond her most optimistic hopes. She would give Kaufman and Thompson time for—she grinned to herself—a honeymoon. While they were indulging in each other, she would name the Kindred—Kins and Bloodmates alike—as the System’s local nobility. And then she would designate the pair of them as Liaison. Thompson had lost his team, yes, but he had gained at least as much in the way of companionship and more in physical satisfaction; he would be fine. And what a team those two would make!

END

THAKUR-NA

A Terran Empire story

Sandeman, 2624 CE

It was midafternoon before Dana’s hunger overcame her excitement at being on Sandeman, hiking with her chosen lord—her thakur, in the Sandeman term she preferred—and trying to track a balik. She hadn’t gotten within two hundred meters of the wolflike predator, and had finally realized she wasn’t going to, so the two found a small clearing with bare rocks which made decent seating. Jason dug hot-cans of trail food out of his hiking pack, Dana did the same with cold-cans of fortified milk, and they sat eating and drinking in silence. They were putting the empty cans back in their packs when Dana began looking around, frowning.

“What is it?” Jason asked.

“I thought I heard something . . . brushing against branches, snow falling . . . but no other predators would invade a balik’s territory, and it’s probably kilometers away by now.”

“Other tourists, maybe. Clan Torrance is supposed to have a hunting party in the area, but they aren’t due till tomorrow noon.”

Dana made a face. “I was hoping we wouldn’t see anyone else till we got to the pickup point.”

“So was I—but not even I can have everything my own way all the time.”

“No,” Dana agreed with a chuckle, “you just come close. Maybe if we leave now?”

“I think it’s too late.” Jason stood as half a dozen men entered the clearing. “Good afternoon, gentles.”

“Not for you it isn’t,” the obvious leader said. “You don’t go anywhere without a couple thousand credits petty cash, Mister Jason—hand it over.”

“In the mountains?” Jason laughed. “Not even I carry cash where there’s nothing to buy and no bodyguards.”

“Like hell,” the leader said pleasantly. “Hand it over, Jason, or we take it out of your hide.”

“I told you, I don’t have anything to hand over.”

“Then we’ll take what you don’t have.” The leader gave a hand signal, and his men surrounded Jason. He grunted and swore at them, his voice holding a mixture of disgusted anger and pain.

“No!” Dana shouted, jumping on the back of one man and wrapping her left arm around his throat, her right hand against the back of his head, her left reaching for her right elbow for a neck-breaking hold.

She was pulled off before she could complete it, held securely despite her struggles while the attackers gave her thakur a fast frisking.

“Hell, he was telling the truth,” the leader finally said in disgust. “No trace of a wallet or anything that’d hold that kind of cash.” He backhanded Jason, almost casually. “You’ve been one hell of a lot of trouble, Jason, for no return. Want to try convincing us we shouldn’t kill you for it?”

“You can’t kill him!” Dana exclaimed, horrified. “He’s— You just can’t!” She took a deep breath; these men would need more than her emotions to discourage them. “Jason Interstellar’s Security people wouldn’t quit till they found you, and they’d make sure you were punished.”

One of the two holding her fondled her roughly. “Maybe have some fun with the fem before we kill both of ’em, Ca—Boss?”

Dana was too angry to be frightened; she twisted to give him a scornful look, then glared at the leader, who gave her a frightening smile before he pointed to two of his men. “You, you—knock him out, then tie him to a tree; he’ll be found before he starves.”

Dana took comfort in the knowledge that he would be; the Torrance hunting party should find him the next day, before he even got really hungry. Then the designated ones did as they were told; Jason slumped under an expertly-applied baton to the base of his skull, then was secured to a small tree.

Dana had time to wonder at the use of a baton—criminals didn’t normally use that sort of weapon—before the leader approached her, holding another one. He looked at her consideringly, then nodded. “I’ve seen better, but you’re not too bad. I like redheads, they tend to be spunky.” He grabbed her jaw, forced her mouth up for a rough kiss.

She took advantage of that; as soon as he was within reach, she bit him.

He swore, backhanding her, then signaled the two holding her to let go. “Spunk’s one thing, lady, but you’ve just bought yourself more hurt than you’ve ever had. Fight if you want to; that’ll just make it more fun.”

Dana moved back, licking blood from a split lip as she dropped into an awkward protective crouch. She really should have paid more attention to the unarmed-combat lessons Chief Hanson had insisted she at least watch . . . but it was too late now, facing the leader’s feral grin and twirling baton. Fear was a coppery taste in her mouth, and sweat trickled down her back under the enviro-suit.

The leader could obviously tell he had an inexperienced opponent, because his grin became a laugh. Then he moved with smooth, deceptive swiftness, and before Dana could back away or defend herself, his baton lashed out, seeming to do no more than tap her forearms—until she tried to move them.

She gasped with the pain, somehow managing not to cry out, trying to focus on the use of batons by thieves. The pain did have an advantage, though; it helped her distract herself from what took place next. She kept fighting, but it was by pure reflex, and she couldn’t keep herself from being stripped, or ignore the sudden cold air against skin no longer protected by an enviro-suit, or the other pain and humiliation as six men took turns using her body. Neither the pain nor the odd weapons were enough, though. She couldn’t concentrate on them single-mindedly enough to block out everything the attackers were doing to her, and before they were done, she heard herself whimpering. By the time they finished the rapes and began a general beating, she could no longer control her reactions; she fought and screamed and wept, to no effect, until she felt consciousness starting to depart, and welcomed it.

Shouts and weapon-fire interrupted her descent into peace, something she resented even as she knew it meant safety for her thakur and perhaps for herself. Then someone knelt beside her, and even with pain blurring her vision, she could tell it was a Sandeman; that dark skin and blond hair didn’t belong to any of their attackers. “Warrior . . .” she managed to whisper.

“Yes, Garvey DarTorrance. And you?”

“Dana Manfredi, thakur-na to Richard Jason. He’s all right?”

“Unconscious, but not hurt.”

“Good.” Dana sighed, relief letting her outraged body take over; she passed out.

The time Dana spent unconscious was less peaceful than it should have been. She dreamed, bits and pieces of her relationship with Richard Jason, from meeting him shortly after her college graduation, to swearing fealty, to the mountain hike that had ended so disastrously.

She woke slowly, realizing as she did that she had been reliving a dream become nightmare, that she was actually in a hospital; the smell was unmistakable. Her next awareness was that she was blissfully free of pain, and she spent several minutes enjoying something she had taken for granted before.

Then she heard the room’s door open and stirred herself to look toward it. The one who came in was a Sandeman, a warriors’-woman from the gold-gemmed ring she wore; Dana inclined her head in the closest she could come to a bow.

“Good afternoon, Dana,” the w’woman said. “I am Mona, a warriors’-woman of Clan Lewies and your doctor. How do you feel?”

“Better than I would’ve thought possible when the warrior Garvey found me,” Dana said. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

“My pleasure,” the w’woman said. “Fortunately you were found before your attackers did anything life-threatening to you, though some of your injuries could be classified as moderately serious for a Terran. I do have you on rapid-heal, since there was no infection. Except for your broken bones, you should be recovered in two weeks; those will take three to four.”

Dana nodded, the reference to her broken bones bringing the casts on her arms to her attention, and she wondered again about their attackers. “How’s my thakur? And what about the ones who attacked us?”

The doctor frowned. “Your thakur is fine, and wants to see you. I will permit that tomorrow morning; right now you still need to rest. As for your assailants, they are dead. Clan Torrance is particular about the safety of its guests, and the warrior Garvey caught them in the act. Two were kept alive long enough to question, and—” She broke off. “Garvey is an honorable man and would report what he was told accurately, but his prisoners might easily have lied to stop the interrogation.”

Dana felt a sinking sensation. “What . . . what did they say?”

The doctor hesitated, clearly unwilling to tell her, but honesty was too deeply ingrained in Sandemans for her to avoid it. “They said your thakur’s chief representative here had hired them to ambush you, do ... what they did, and worse, then leave you to die of your injuries and exposure.”

Dana swallowed past the lump that had appeared in her throat. That fit in all too well with her earlier feeling that they hadn’t just been criminals. One starting to call his leader what sounded like “Cap,” their avoidance of names, the leader’s expertise with the baton . . . “Were they carrying any id?”

“No.”

And that fit the theory she was starting to evolve, too. They sounded like a mercenary commando team—but her thakur wouldn’t do such a thing! He wouldn’t set her up for a particularly unpleasant death . . . would he? Suddenly she wasn’t sure. One of the less pleasant things she had done for him was to set up a—well, not a frame, the man had been guilty—but a trap for someone who had gotten in Jason’s way. It had, indirectly, led to the man’s death . . .

“I’m disturbing you,” the doctor said. “And that is something you do not need. A tranquilizer, if you permit, would help.”

Dana felt a brief flash of amusement at a doctor asking permission for a treatment—but this was Sandeman, where medical treatment was kept as unintrusive and respectful as possible even with an unconscious patient, and never went beyond that permitted by a conscious one. She nodded. “I think I’d like that, Doctor. Thank you.”

“None needed.” The doctor went to a wall cabinet, prepared an injector, and used it, then left as her patient fell asleep again.

Dana didn’t recognize the w’woman who was in her room the next time she woke, but she didn’t have time to ask for an introduction; she saw her thakur sitting beside her bed, scanning a tape.

Monitors apparently alerted the w’woman; she turned to Jason. “Your ’na is waking, Mr. Jason. If you wish to speak to her alone, I can monitor from outside.”

“You needn’t bother, Nurse,” Jason said, putting down the tape-viewer and standing to look down at Dana, his expression mildly regretful. “It’s too bad we had to be rescued early, thakur-na. I did try to give you a heroic death; sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Thakur?” Dana didn’t want to believe what she was hearing, even though she’d half-suspected it. “I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”

“No, at least nothing you could help,” Jason said calmly. “You’ve simply outlived your usefulness. I thought I owed you the satisfaction of a trip here, then the belief that you were dying to save me; you were worth that much effort. Still, the fact remains: I wish you to leave me. I no longer need you.”

Dana was stunned by the cold finality in his voice. He knew what he was saying, too, what he was doing—he was condemning her with an Imperial English paraphrase of the High War words that were a thakur’s way of telling his ’na, “Thou hast dishonored me.”

But maybe he didn’t know exactly what that meant. “Thakur—what am I supposed to do?”

Jason shrugged. “That’s up to you. Whatever a Sandeman ’na does when @’s no use any more, I suppose. Mentally you’ve always been more Sandeman than Terran anyway . . . yes, that would be best. Imitate your Sandeman idols again.” He started to turn away.

“Yes, Thakur.” Dana went as cold as his voice had been, wishing she had died back in the mountains, never had to hear this.

“Mister Jason!” the w’woman snapped.

He turned back. “Yes? You don’t approve?”

“I do not, but I cannot interfere between thakur and ’na. So long as you both live and she wears your mark, however, she is yours; no one else may be involved in what you order for her.”

“Oh? All right.” Jason took a folding knife from his pocket, opened it, and bent over his ’na.

Dana felt cold sharpness against her cheek, and she gasped. Then the knife bit, four quick shallow slashes, followed by a tugging, and she cried out more in loss than in pain. By the time the tugging stopped, she was sobbing quietly, the salt of her tears accenting the pain of her missing tattoo. When she was able to see again, Jason was gone and the w’woman was standing over her, cleaning her cheek.

Dana raised the head of her bed, trying to think. Her thakur—her former thakur—had admitted seeking her death, but he had that right; a ’na’s gift of @self was absolute. She had even imagined circumstances where she would welcome death at his hands, or give him his own—but those had been honorable circumstances, where death was preferable to the alternative. This was . . . She shied away from the thought momentarily, then forced herself back.

Her thakur had ordered her to die, in humiliation and agony, even as he had said she had done nothing to deserve such a death. Then he had told her to do whatever a Sandeman ’na would do under the same circumstances. And she had absorbed enough of their ways to think that a proper response—except that, as far as she knew, similar circumstances had never arisen.

For the moment, at least, she was too stunned to be really afraid. She turned to the w’woman. “Lady—can you help me?”

“Help you how?” the w’woman asked.

“To do what’s needed—except that I don’t know what is needed!” She hesitated. “I mean . . . I’ve been dismissed, but he said I haven’t done anything wrong!”

The w’woman shook her head slowly. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. All I can tell you is that custom says a ’na who has been dismissed must make atonement for allowing @’s thakur to accept one who proved unworthy.”

Dana was silent for a moment, absorbing that, then she nodded. In her misery, it didn’t seem too unreasonable that she should have to die just for being of no further use. She had tried to live by Sandeman custom; she couldn’t change that now, simply because it became . . . inconvenient. “You’re right, of course. But I can’t do it myself right now, and I don’t have a clan-chief to help me.”

The w’woman looked at her with what seemed to Dana like approval. “Perhaps a clan-chief can be found for you.”

“I’d . . . appreciate that.” Dana licked her lips, fear beginning to emerge from her stunned misery, but her mouth was so dry it was little help. “I should talk to them myself, I suppose—at least if they’ll talk to me—but I can’t dial the phone. Would you, please?”

The w’woman nodded. “What clan?”

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Dana said. “Alanna first, if I have to pick one. If their chief won’t help, just keep going until we find one who will.”

“A good choice.” The w’woman dialed the bedside phone, obviously a familiar combination, then spoke to the warrior who answered in High War Speech. Dana could understand only an occasional word of that variant of Classical Russian, though she could read and write it fluently; all she could gather was that the w’woman was asking for the Alanna.

A few moments later, a man wearing the arms of Alanna’s chief appeared on the screen, introducing himself as Killian. The w’woman started to speak, but before she’d said more than a few words, Killian frowned and interrupted with a question. She answered with a “Da, Glavniy,” then there was a brief conversation Killian closed with a decisive statement. The w’woman stepped aside, and Dana found herself confronting the image of a stern-faced clan-chief.

He let her wait a few seconds, then spoke in Imperial English. “The lady Arden tells me that your thakur has dismissed you and that you require a clan-chief’s aid to atone.”

“Yes, Chief, to both.” Dana turned her face so he could see the raw spot on her cheek, and raised her cast-enclosed arms. “As you can see.”

“The lady Arden mentioned extenuating circumstances.”

Dana hesitated, but she had spent so long trying to be Sandeman in all but body that her response was more by reflex than by thought. “I claim none, Alanna,” she said formally. “Custom says none exist.”

“True.” Killian’s expression became remote, almost frightening. “Very well, I accept the responsibility of acting for the clan-chief you do not have. Alanna warriors will be there as soon as I can contact ones nearby, and they will bring you to our clanhome. You will be treated as befits the oathbreaker your thakur’s actions proclaim you; if you do not understand what that means, ask the lady Arden. I will see you in approximately six hours.”

Six hours, Dana thought as Killian’s image disappeared. That meant she might live seven or eight, depending on how badly the beating had weakened her.

“Do you understand?” Arden asked.

Dana turned to the w’woman, fear growing as her shock faded. “What’s in the text-tapes, yes. Not the details of the . . . execution.”

“Those can vary; they depend on the clan-chief.” Arden looked almost sympathetic, Dana thought. “You know, then, that you will receive no more pain medication, that no one will speak to you unnecessarily, and that when your escort arrives you will be placed under restraint.”

“Yes.” The restraints were a formality, especially in her case—a sign of condemnation, like the silent treatment—but the lack of medication would have her uncomfortable, at least, even before the execution began.

“Chief Killian has granted one concession, since you were hurt before your thakur dismissed you. If you wish, I can give you a stimulant to compensate for your injuries.”

Dana thought about that offer briefly before she spoke. “Let me try to stand and walk. I’ll take the stimulant if I can’t.”

“Reasonable.” Arden moved to help as Dana sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. That brought on a wave of dizziness, and when she cautiously slid off the bed, her knees gave way. Arden caught her and helped her back onto the bed.

“It looks like I’d better take it,” Dana said shakily. She hadn’t realized she was so weak—it wouldn’t do at all for her escort to have to carry her! “A strong dose, please.”

“A twelve-hour dose, as strong as you can tolerate,” Arden agreed. “Are you allergic to energine?”

“No, that’ll be fine.” Dana would have refused such a dose if she’d expected to have to go through the aftereffects; energine would keep you going through almost anything, but you paid the price later—and she was also on rapid-heal, which made demands of its own. But both would be academic in a few hours. She watched Arden prepare an injector, her thoughts going to what would be happening to her shortly. She didn’t know the details, no, but she was fully aware that it would be at least as painful as the attack—and more humiliating, because she cared about the Sandemans’ opinions as she hadn’t about the attackers’.

Arden gave her the injection, then said, “It will take effect in a few minutes, and once it does, I will also have to start treating you as an oathbreaker. However, I told the Alanna that there was more to this than appears on the surface, and he has agreed to contact Torrance for the interrogation reports, then watch a copy of the monitor tapes from here that I will send with his warriors. That will probably have no effect, but this is an unprecedented situation; it could make a difference.” She hesitated, then went on in a low voice. “I break custom by saying this, but I don’t think you dishonored. I pray the gods will grant you a swift death, then rebirth as a warrior-caste Sandeman to you can earn a place in their ranks.” Then she turned away, leaving the room before Dana could frame a reply.

As the energine took effect and her strength returned, Dana clung to Arden’s words. They meant there was still a trace of hope for her . . . if Clan-chief Killian agreed with the lady Arden.

But that trace of hope wasn’t all good; it was easier to hold fear at bay if you had no alternative to what you were afraid of. That trace of hope, tiny as it was, let the fear start to grow again. She began practicing one of the pre-combat calming exercises she’d come across in her studies of Sandeman, pleased to find that even with her lack of experience it helped.

The next time she tried to stand, she felt almost normal. She had no idea how long it would take the Alanna warriors to get to her—she had no idea where she was, other than in a hospital—so she decided she had better get dressed.

Doing so replaced what fear her exercises had left with sheer frustration. To begin with, bandages made clothes that had fit comfortably before so snug they would have been hard to get into even if she’d had her hands free instead of in casts. As it was, the effort of just getting them on, not to mention closing the buttons and zippers she preferred to magseals, was more of a challenge than she appreciated right then.

Not too long after she managed to make herself presentable, four warriors wearing Alanna arms on their drab coveralls—and more heavily armed than usual for peacetime—entered her room. She bowed to them, acutely conscious of the scab forming on her cheek. They didn’t return the courtesy, of course; instead, two of them secured her arms behind her back. They weren’t especially gentle, but she was obscurely pleased that they also weren’t as rough as she’d expected them to be with an oathbreaker.

And during the flight to the Alanna clanhome, she was both pleased and a little puzzled by the warriors’ continuing lack of overt hostility. Even given the ingrained politeness of a Sandeman, she would have expected some jostling, or unpleasant comments.

The flight also gave her time, and energine gave her strength, to think back on the attack and Jason’s dismissal of her. She still didn’t want to believe that the man she’d chosen to devote her life to had set her up for such a painful, degrading death, even to give her the illusion of dying for the best reason a thakur-na could have. But she couldn’t avoid the truth: from all the evidence she had, that was precisely what he had done. And then when that had failed, he had deliberately sentenced her to the death of an oathbreaker.

She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position with her arms fastened behind her. She failed, and that discomfort combined with the wearing off of the painkiller to make her begin to resent her former thakur. Maybe she did deserve to die, she thought bitterly. Not for the dishonor he admitted she wasn’t guilty of, but for her misjudgment of him—when it came down to first causes, that was why she was being flown to her death. While Jason would live, as wealthy, comfortable, and influential as ever . . .

Dana wasn’t able to appreciate either the crisp autumn weather or the functional beauty of Alanna’s clanhome when the plane landed and her guards, their weapons drawn, escorted her into the warriors’ hall. The mixture of fear about what was to come, anger at Jason, and the ache of her injuries had her irritable, wanting to get the whole mess over with so she wouldn’t have to think about it any more.

Killian was waiting for her, sitting at the judicial-looking Chief’s Bench at the far end of the hall. Some clans had theirs ornamented, to varying degrees, but Alanna’s was plain: glossy jet-wood, the only color on it the arms of Alanna’s chief.

Dana’s heart sank as she realized that Killian was clad in leather as black as his Bench, again relieved only by his arms, rather than the usual warrior-drab. She hadn’t known he’d earned that—been acclaimed by his peers as having honor so uncompromising it couldn’t be questioned. So much for the lady Arden’s—and her own—hope of some clemency, Dana thought. Yet Arden must have known the Alanna was entitled to honor-black . . .

Urged forward by one of her guards, Dana approached the Bench and, before she could be prompted, knelt. A Sandeman knelt only to the gods and to @’s thakur, if @ had one, but this was a special case; Killian was acting on Jason’s behalf, so she had to show him the same degree of respect. She heard a quiet sound of what seemed like approval from the warriors and w’women beginning to gather in the hall, but didn’t dare let it reawaken her hopes.

She returned Killian’s silent gaze. She would continue to abide by the customs she had tried so long to observe—she still didn’t see how she could change that now, whatever the circumstances—but she had decided during the flight that she had done nothing to be ashamed of, and wouldn’t act as if she had.

Killian nodded once, then accepted the tape her senior guard handed him and slipped it into a viewer in the Bench. Dana could hear only a murmur from the speaker as he played the tape, but she could see Killian’s face clearly, and she had seldom seen such an expression of revulsion. Surely she hadn’t done anything disgraceful enough to merit that!

When Killian looked up from the Bench screen, his face was set and grim enough to make Dana shiver. He looked at her steadily for several seconds, then rose and came around the Bench to stand in front of her, gesturing to one of the bystanders.

“Da, Glavniy?” the w’woman who approached said.

“Speak English,” Killian said. “Contact the Miklos for me, please, and tell him that a serious question of custom has arisen that must be dealt with immediately. I would like him to call a conference of all available on-planet clan-chiefs as soon as possible, for that purpose.”

“May I give him details?”

“Show him the tape I just watched; that will be more than enough.”

“Yes, Chief.” The w’woman went to the Bench and took the tape, then left.

“Please stand, Ms. Manfredi,” Killian said, startling Dana—and startling her even more when he took her shoulders and steadied her as she obeyed. “I regret that I must continue to observe the formalities of treating you as an oathbreaker for the moment; custom, as you have shown you understand, should not be broken easily. But I want you to know that I believe you acted honorably and should not have the kind of death he sentenced you to. I do not feel that honor would permit me to carry out that sentence.”

Dana was as stunned as she had been when Jason spoke the formula of dismissal. “Chief—”

He raised a hand to silence her. “What to do about your situation cannot be decided by a single clan-chief, even the chief of the First Clan. But I doubt that you—or I—will be left in suspense long, once the Miklos sees that tape and has called the conference I requested. It should be an hour, perhaps a little less, and in the meantime I will have you made as comfortable as your status permits.” He nodded to the senior of her guards. “See to it, Bowie, and bring her to the com room as soon as the conference convenes.”

Dana spent most of the next hour wondering what in Chaos was going on, even as she appreciated Killian’s actions on her behalf and the way her guards managed to observe the letter of treating her as an oathbreaker while at the same time wordlessly letting her know they didn’t think she could be, after Killian’s endorsement.

Eventually they got word the conference was convening, and took her to Alanna’s com room, where she recognized Miklos’ arms on the screen. As far as she knew, the last time that communications-specialist clan had agreed to call an all-planet conference was just before Sandeman was brought into the Empire; it was difficult to believe she was the reason for calling another. But it was impossible to disbelieve, especially when the Miklos arms on the comscreen were replaced by Clan-chief Hurley’s face.

“Thank you all for your time,” the Miklos clan-chief said. “This conference was called at Alanna’s request, concerning a situation for which no custom exists, and for which Miklos agrees that one must be established quickly.”

He paused, then gave the background: Jason and Dana’s vacation and the Torrance interrogation reports, then he said, “The next part consists of monitor tapes from the Shangri-La Continental Medcenter. At this point, it still seemed that Jason’s actions, peculiar as they were, might have had some justification.”

With that, the picture changed to show a hospital room, its only patient a red-haired Terran woman. Dana recognized herself, wincing at what the Sandemans must think, but she remained silent.

The hospital room was replaced by Hurley’s face again. “That took place this morning, medcenter time. Dana’s situation has no precedent; only clan-chiefs can decide the proper way to deal with it, with her, and with Jason. Chiefs, Miklos awaits your responses.”

As chief of the First Clan, Killian was entitled to speak this morning, medcenter time. “Dana’s situation has no precedent; only clan-chiefs can decide the proper way to deal with it, with her, and with Jason. Chiefs, Miklos awaits your responses.”

As chief of the First Clan, Killian was entitled to speak first; he used the coder combination that opened the conference for discussion.

“Killian of Alanna,” Hurley recognized him.

“Is this ’cast going to the screen in Jason’s suite?”

Hurley looked off-screen for a moment, then nodded. “It is. What is Alanna’s word?”

“None, yet; first, Alanna wishes Vader’s opinion of what we have all seen.”

“As Alanna wishes. Donovan of Vader.” Hurley recognized the chief of the first clan founded after Sandeman overthrew the Shapers, named for the figure in the Saga who had regained his and his family’s honor by overthrowing his oppressor. The most delicate questions of honor were referred to Clan Vader, and their decisions were considered final. “What is Vader’s word?”

“Vader says this.” Donovan’s face held grim determination. “Dana Manfredi has acted in full honor at all times. Although it has never happened, Vader says the proper procedure for a thakur to release a ’na without dishonor to either would be for the ’na’s tattoo to be barred, exactly as if honorable service had been ended by the thakur’s death. In attempting to have her killed, especially in the way he did, and then by dismissing her to seek the death of one who has hurt or dishonored his thakur, Jason has forfeited all claim to honor.”

The two men in Jason’s hotel suite looked at each other, and the head of Jason Interstellar’s Sandeman operation said feelingly, “Oh, shit. That tears it, boss. We won’t do a centi’s worth of business here for a year.”

“They’ll get over it, Gunter. We’ll make up the loss elsewhere, and you can keep things going until business picks up again here. I’ll see to it that your pay doesn’t suffer—though you’ll probably have to cut staffing for a while.”

“I can live with that, I guess. Not that I’ll have any choice.”

Killian spoke again. “Alanna thanks Vader, and Alanna says this.” He hoped Jason could read Sandeman expressions better than he could their way of thinking. Obviously he didn’t realize that Miklos controlled two-way access to any set tuned in to a conference call, and that his conversation had been heard in all the clans. “There is precedent for a clan to give countenance to an off-worlder, and others have adopted our customs; our Earl Klaes and his family even use the clan-prefixes offered them by Shona.”

He paused, turning to Dana and smiling. “Dana Manfredi.”

Dana was startled to hear herself addressed, but she responded quickly. “Yes, Chief Killian?”

“Will you accept Alanna’s countenance?”

Would she accept the First Clan’s countenance? Dana could feel tears welling up, though she managed to keep her voice under control. She had been rejected by her thakur, had a planet-wide conference called to discuss her fate, been commended by the arbiters of honor, and now offered membership in the First Clan! Thank the gods they didn’t consider tears a sign of weakness . . . “I would be honored, Alanna.”

“Good.” Killian smiled at her, then sobered. “The Terran woman known as Dana Manfredi has accepted Alanna’s countenance. Be it known that she is henceforth Dana, a clanswoman of Alanna. As chief of her clan I say her actions deserve not punishment but praise; the honorable service she gave was to one unworthy of it, and he had no right to order her death. It is my personal belief that Dana merits the black and a place in the warrior caste, but that decision is not mine alone.

“It is my decision, however, that Clan Alanna take appropriate action against Richard Jason and every thing or person associated with him. To that end, I claim Chief’s Right on behalf of my clanswoman Dana.” He paused, and when he spoke again, it was to one man.

“Jason. That means that anything of yours on Alanna property will be destroyed, anyone who serves you will be killed unless they renounce that service, and your life is forfeit if you enter Alanna territory. I find myself hoping you do; I would enjoy making you suffer the fate you ordered her to seek.”

After a brief interval, Hurley began recognizing other clan-chiefs. “Odell of Leras.”

“Leras agrees that Alanna’s clanswoman Dana should wear black. Leras also concurs and will cooperate with Alanna in other respects; Jason is currently in Leras territory, and as an off-worlder, we must give him time to leave. But his property will be destroyed, and should he remain here after one standard day, he will be delivered to Alanna for Chief’s Right.”

“Shona concurs and will cooperate.”

“Lewies concurs and will cooperate.”

“Vader concurs and will cooperate.”

“Miklos concurs and will cooperate.”

As the litany came to an end, Dana realized Killian—her clan-chief!—was behind her, releasing the restraints and easing her arms into a more comfortable position. “Welcome to Alanna, lady,” he said gently, removing the heavy woolen cloak that was part of his ceremonial black garb and draping it around her shoulders. “The true oathbreaker will do no more business in this sector, or in any where honor is more valuable than greed, even if he manages to get offworld. You should be starting to feel the aftereffects of the energine, so Meara, our senior w’woman, will care for you until you wake—and when you are recovered enough, we will have a party to welcome you into Alanna, the warrior caste, and the ranks of those who wear honor-black.” He smiled, and Dana could almost feel the lightening of the clan’s mood. “You have done something as unprecedented as what was done to you, did you know that?”

Dana’s strength was ebbing as the energine wore off, and she wasn’t quite sure what her clan-chief meant. “I’m sorry?”

Killian laughed aloud. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Dana, you do need rest now—but try to remember you were able to force a change in one of our most sacred customs by strict adherence to that same custom!”

END

YOUNGLING

A Terran Empire Story

Unnamed world, 2559 CE

Joste was waiting in front of his desk when two guards brought the just-captured human into his office. He found it hard to look at the man without becoming physically ill, and wondered briefly how the guards could tolerate touching him. Well, that was their job; his was to question the man, and he found himself hoping the foul thing would resist, give him an excuse to use force.

It wasn’t because the other was human, or because he was an enemy—Joste had questioned prisoners before without having had the slightest desire to use physical persuasion—and the man looked no more repulsive than any other human. Granted, he was dirty and his battledress was torn, but that was to be expected from someone who had been in combat. And, though he was bound, the man held himself proudly.

No, the revulsion wasn’t caused by anything so straightforward. It was what the man had done— Joste’s thoughts shied away from consideration of such obscenity, and he had to force them back. Simply endangering females without dire need was enough to earn a dishonorable death; they were so terribly few, less than a fourth of the Traiti race, cherished for themselves and honored for the young only they could bear—a thing that happened less often than any could wish.

And this monster had actually led females into combat!

He brought himself under control; the grammar and harsh sounds of Imperial English were difficult enough without having to fight emotion at the same time. “Yourself identify,” he growled.

“Major Horst Marguerre, Imperial Terran Marine Corps.” It didn’t look at all good for him, Marguerre thought grimly. These huge gray-skinned humanoids were aggressive as hell—they were nicknamed Sharks as much for that as for the facial resemblance—and this one looked even less well-intentioned toward him than his guards did. “My ident code’s TERHE6-2063-4121. What’re you doing with my wounded?”

“They are medical treatment receiving,” Joste said. “Though there little chance for their recovery is, the physicians their best doing are.” At least, he thought, the man had the decency to show concern— even if it had to be false concern—for the two survivors of his raiding party, both of whom were female. “What your purpose was, here coming?”

Marguerre didn’t know what caused the loathing he could sense from the three massive Traiti, but it was intense enough to frighten him in spite of almost a year’s active combat. Still, fear or no fear, he wasn’t about to tell them what they wanted to know. He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s all I’m allowed to say.”

Then he winced as the one holding his shoulder and neck tightened that grip, and the one doing the questioning started to smile. This, to put it mildly, looked less and less like it was going to be a friendly party, and he was suddenly very thankful he’d been given the anti-interrogation conditioning before this mission. Not that he intended to use it unless he had no other choice.

Good, Joste thought. The man was going to be stubborn. “You mine now are, Major, and you will much more say. When you have enough pain had, you will to me gladly speak.” Slowly, almost luxuriously, he reached for the man, extending his claws.

Marguerre tasted fear, his mouth bitter-dry as he watched the clawed gray hand approach. He remained still, though he could feel himself going pale. He’d expected death if the mission failed, but not like this—not being tortured for information while two of his people lay badly wounded in a Traiti military hospital. He knew his interrogator was right; everyone had a breaking point. He could only hope they’d kill him before he came so close to his own that he’d have to activate the conditioning. He preferred to meet death knowing who he was.

A sudden flashing movement of Joste’s claws ripped the tough material of the human’s shirt to ribbons, exposing the soft undershirt. A single claw took care of that, still without breaking thin human skin. “Why did you here come?” Joste asked softly. “Now say, and yourself much pain save. You no honor have to lose.”

Now what the hell did he mean by that, Marguerre wondered. Not that it really mattered, under the circumstances. “Forget it. I’m a Marine, not a traitor.” His muscles were tensed in anticipation, but it didn’t help much. He gasped and flinched anyway when the claws touched his flesh, digging in and across, drawing blood.

Joste was fully aware of human frailty, and was being far gentler than he cared to, but he was still startled at the amount of blood welling from such shallow wounds. He would have to be even more careful; if he weren’t, this Marguerre might bleed to death before giving him the information he needed. It might be best to use fists or slaps instead of claws or teeth, at least for the most part, until the time came to execute the man.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Go to hell,” Marguerre snarled.

“We do not that belief hold,” Joste said calmly. “And if either of us to such a place going is, it will you be. I have never a female to her death sent.”

“And I have. So? Nobody forced them to join the Marines, or apply for Special Forces. They knew what they were getting into. Every last one of them’s a volunteer.”

Joste growled in disgust. The human must think him a fool, to expect him to believe such nonsense! The only time a female fought was in last-ditch defense of the clan, something that hadn’t happened since the clan wars almost four thousand years ago. “You lie, human.”

Marguerre shrugged, awkwardly because of his bound hands, but said no more. He’d already said more than he should have; he knew the best way to avoid giving anything away by accident was to remain silent except for the required identification information.

“Enough of that,” Joste said. He’d not discuss females more with this perverted filth. “Now you will me truth give. Why came you here?”

It was almost dark, and Joste was becoming discouraged. The man, except for sounds of pain, had remained silent. He was sprawled on the floor now, naked except for his own blood, his hands no longer bound because he no longer had hands to bind.

Yet he was trying to rise, had actually made it to his knees with his wrists pressed against his chest and his head bowed to hide empty eye sockets, in a sickening parody of one paying homage to the Lords.

Marguerre knew he was done. The pain, the maiming, were too much . . . and his tormentor wasn’t going to allow him to die by accident. He had to activate the conditioning or buy his death with the information the Traiti wanted. For a Marine, that was no real choice—but there was one thing he wanted to make absolutely clear before he went out. “Joste . . .”

“Speak, human.”

“You said . . . I’ve got no honor.” Marguerre raised his head, faced the sound of Joste’s voice. “Maybe not . . . your kind, I don’t know. I’d . . . hoped you’d miscalculate . . . kill me clean . . . ’fore it came to this. Now I just want you . . . t’be certain . . . I do know what I’m doing.” He straightened as much as he was able, drew in breath, and forced himself to speak the single short phrase he’d chosen. Hearing himself say it, deliberately, would wipe out Major Horst Marguerre.

Nonsense syllables, Joste thought. “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves”?

For a space of seconds, there was no sound—then Marguerre collapsed with the heart-rending wail of a hurt, terrified youngling, to lie sobbing brokenly at Joste’s feet.

Stunned, the interrogator could only stare, then he dropped to one knee beside the bloody form. “Human . . . what wrong is?”

The face that turned toward him had nothing of the proud Marine in it, only pain and fear. The man had said he knew what he was doing—what had he done? Whatever it was, there was clearly no point in questioning him further. With a sigh, Joste picked up his prisoner and stood.

Unbelievably, that seemed to comfort the man. He nestled closer to Joste’s chest, and the sobs slowed to whimpers, then ceased. His breathing showed he had gone to sleep.

Joste and the guards exchanged amazed glances. “What did you do to him, Group-Leader?” the younger one asked.

“I did nothing, Sedni. What has happened to him was his own choice, he said. He had hoped to die before this became necessary.” Joste looked down at his burden, troubled by the man’s sudden change. “He resisted me with all his will, yet now he clings to me for comfort, as a newborn clings to its mother. He seems not to know me any longer, perhaps not to know himself.”

“As one who has lost all memory?” the older guard asked.

“I think . . . not lost,” Joste said slowly. “He told me he knew what he was doing, and I believe him.”

“What, then?”

“I cannot be sure yet . . . but he fought me as well as he was able, though he must have known he had no way to win, and I denied him the escape of death. Had he lacked honor as I thought, he would have spoken in an effort to live—but he did not.” Joste hesitated. He had underestimated the man; perhaps Marguerre had spoken the truth earlier. Perhaps he had truly felt no dishonor in leading females into combat—a thing that was difficult to believe, but so was his sudden change from a defiant Marine to a sobbing . . . what? “Not lost,” Joste repeated thoughtfully. “Far worse, if what I begin to suspect is true. It would appear that he destroyed his mind rather than betray his people.”

“Not even a human would go that far!” Sedni exclaimed, his voice shaken.

“I would prefer a more acceptable idea myself,” Joste said. Death came to everyone, soon or late; in the long run, it was unavoidable, and at times a self-inflicted death was the only way to preserve honor—far preferable to the alternative of living dishonored. The idea of someone destroying his own mind, though—even for the same purpose—was one that made the Traiti interrogator recoil. Still, at this point it was only a possibility, not a certainty. Joste glanced at the human again, then began giving orders. “Chorvak, call the hospital and tell them I’m bringing in an emergency patient. And find out if either of the females survived and is able to talk. Sedni, go to Communications and have them stand by for a possible priority call to N’chark clanhome on Norvis. I may need to talk to Ka’ruchaya Jarna.”

Both saluted, and Sedni left while Chorvak went to Joste’s desk to make the call. The interrogator left as well, carrying the sleeping human.

Within minutes he had covered the short distance to the hospital and was putting the mangled man on an emergency surgical table. Marguerre seemed to partially awaken when Joste put him down, whimpering softly until the duty surgeon gave him a sedative.

“What’s wrong with him?” the surgeon asked. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

“I am not certain,” Joste told him. “I am not even sure I really want to know, but I must check. Give him support treatment until I can, please.”

Chorvak was waiting when Joste left the surgery. “The tiny dark-skinned female is dead, Group-Leader,” he reported, “but the bigger pale one’s injuries were less serious than the physicians originally thought; she is alive and regaining consciousness. They will allow you to speak to her as long as you keep it brief and do not excite her.”

“Thank you, Chorvak. I will be careful.”

The hospital was small, so it didn’t take long for the two to get to the room assigned to the human woman. Joste went in alone, took a seat by her bed. “Ka’naya Marine, may I with you speak?”

“Uh?” She looked at him, clearly still groggy and trying to focus. “Wha’ ’bout?”

Joste puzzled over that momentarily, then he figured out the slurred words. “About Major Horst Marguerre, ka’naya. When I was him questioning, he something said that did not English seem, a code of some sort, I think. Then he cried out, and like a youngling wept. Can you me tell, what to him happened?”

She seemed to rouse at Marguerre’s name. “Something not English? But he doesn’t know any other language—” Then her eyes widened, and she looked sick. “Blood . . . is it his?”

Joste’s silence answered her. Tears leaked out of her eyes and she swore tiredly. “Damn you, you bastard Shark. What’d you do to break him?”

“Ask me that not, ka’naya. The answer would only you distress, and he is help now getting. But I must know, when he those strange words said, what he by them meant. What they to him did.”

“Maybe I’d rather not know, at that.” She scowled. “What’ll you do to him if I tell you?”

“If it what I fear is, I will my Ka’ruchaya—you have not the term, female parent to the clan—ask, him to adopt. N’chark will for him care.”

“Clan mother. But he’s human—why would you do that?”

“He something to himself did, that him into the likeness of a youngling turned. If that likeness a true one is, then he must a youngling’s safety and guidance given be.” He paused for a moment. “And it my opinion is, that what he did was from honor done.”

“It was. I’m not sure I believe you, but telling you what happened can’t make it any worse for him. Okay, you’re right. The words themselves’re meaningless, they were only triggers for anti-interrogation conditioning, a total mind-wipe. Didn’t bother anything else, like intelligence, just memory. It’s a new technique, but a lot of us already have it . . .” She turned her head away briefly, then went on. “You could say he has the mind of a newborn child in an adult body. Who was the first person he saw after he . . . blanked out?”

“He has no one seen.”

“I can guess why.” She grimaced. “Damn. Okay, who was the first one he heard? If he can still hear.”

“He can, ka’naya. And I the first was.”

She gave him a mocking grin. “Hi, Daddy. If the psychs were right, he’s fixated on you, now. How do you feel about taking care of babies?”

In spite of the dismay he felt at her confirmation of his worst suspicion, Joste couldn’t help a smile. “Ka’naya Marine, I have only once the joy had, of sharing young. Say you he will truly me as es’chaya see? Male parent?”

“Father?” The Marine’s grin softened into an answering smile at his obvious sincerity. “Not exactly. That, yes, but more. He’s your child—yours alone—unless he heard someone else about the same time he heard you.”

“There no one was, ka’naya. He in my arms asleep was, before another spoke. I your leave to go must ask; I should Ka’ruchaya Jarna call.”

She looked worried. “Okay, I guess you will take care of Major Marguerre. But what’ll happen to me? So far I’ve been treated all right, but I’m afraid that won’t—”

“Ka’naya!” Joste interrupted, horrified by what she was implying. “You need nothing fear. You will guarded be, of course, but no harm will to you come! We not like humans twisted are, a female to hurt without great need.”

As her expression began to show relief, Joste gave her a courteous salute and left for the Communications section. Sedni wasn’t the only one waiting there for him; so was his commander, Senior Group-Leader Kunnos.

“Sedni briefed me,” Kunnos said. “May I listen to your call?”

“Of course, Group-Leader.” It wasn’t usually ‘of course,’ but Joste had served under Kunnos for a long time, long enough to trust his discretion even in N’chark’s clan matters.

Clan priority traffic got the same treatment as military communications, so it didn’t take long for the operator to make ultrawave contact with N’chark clanhome, then leave to join Sedni. Nor did it take long, once contact was made, for Ka’ruchaya Jarna to appear on the comscreen. Joste greeted her formally, crossing arms over his chest and inclining his head. Kunnos followed suit, bowing more deeply as befit an out-clan male.

Jarna acknowledged the greeting, then looked curiously at Joste. “Ruesten, you have won the Honor scars; what problem can you have so serious that it requires my intervention?”

“Ka’ruchaya, it is a matter of adoption.”

“Ah, I see. Go on.”

Joste did as he was told, describing the human’s torment, memory loss, and what the female Marine had told him. “Maybe he was being honest when he said the females volunteered for combat. Certainly the one I spoke to showed pain at his hurt. And he did prove himself honorable, sacrificing his mind—himself—as he did. Ka’ruchaya, he needs help, and I think that once he learns our ways, he will be a credit to N’chark.”

“He lost only his memory?”

“Yes, Ka’ruchaya, according to the female Marine.”

“And she called him your ‘child,’ your estén.” Jarna paused, thinking. “No, Cor’naya Joste. Under the circumstances, I do not think adoption either possible or necessary; he cannot take the blood-oath if he cannot understand it. He is a Terran, and apparently newborn by their ways, regarding you as chaya. I accept him as es’ruesten, a clan-son of N’chark by birth. Care for him, see that he gets the medical help he needs—including regrowth treatments if they are available there— and bring him home as soon as he is able to travel. If you wish, I will arrange for his naming ceremony.”

“Thank you, Ka’ruchaya. Let him be named Horst, of Clan N’chark.”

“So be it, Cor’naya Joste.” Jarna turned to Kunnos. “I will send a ship for them, Group-Leader. Will you need a linguist to replace Joste?”

“If you please, Ka’ruchaya. Stanek, if he has recovered.”

“He will be on the ship.” Jarna’s expression became grim. “But hear my words, Group-Leader: none of my n’ruesten will force another to this living self-destruction again. I will not have them dishonor themselves so.”

“I would not ask it, Ka’ruchaya,” Kunnos said. “I will report this to the Supreme, with the recommendation that he order any found to have similar conditioning questioned no further.” He extended claws to emphasize his determination. “I have no wish to be part of such dishonor, either.”

“Well said, Group-Leader.” Jarna inclined her head. “Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties.”

The two males bowed, then when the screen cleared, left the Communications section. Joste made his way back to the hospital to check on his child, wondering at the Lords’ ordering of things. The human and he had met as enemies, and Joste had taken angry pleasure in his torment. But now Horst was of N’chark, he would be raised as such . . . and this time, Joste vowed, Horst would be raised with a proper respect for females and younglings.

END

ZETA EXCHANGE

A Terran Empire Story

Deep Space, 2669 CE

Ranger James Medart was standing beside Captain Jean Willis’ control chair aboard the Empress Lindner, enjoying the peaceful trip back to Terra after a surprisingly uneventful cruise. He’d kept busy enough to avoid boredom, but there’d been no emergency calls, which made the cruise almost a vacation. Pleasant as it had been, he found himself almost wishing for the challenge of an emergency. Not quite, since an emergency serious enough to require a Ranger’s attention meant the Empire was in trouble, and that part he didn’t like—but the challenge he did. Maybe he’d ask for a tour in one of the alternate universes with an Empire just getting started, one that didn’t have a full quota of home-grown Rangers to cope with the many problems of a brand-new Empire. He wouldn’t mind visiting Sierra again; he’d had a hand in selecting both its Sovereign and her Successor, so he had a personal interest in its well-being.

He’d barely completed that thought when his surroundings disappeared. He was nowhere, in some sort of timeless sensory deprivation—

—then he was standing in the middle of a pentagram surrounded by other symbols he didn’t recognize, facing a woman in a uniform identical to his own. Since he didn’t know the woman herself, it seemed pretty clear he’d been brought to an alternate-universe Empire—and that had to mean it needed help, badly. It looked like he was getting the challenge he wanted, though not in any way he could’ve expected.

He grinned at his other-universe colleague. “I’m James Medart, of Alternate Alpha Prime. What’s your problem?”

“Ariel of Rolian, Zeta Prime.” The woman smiled, looking relieved. “You’re all right?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Inter-universe summoning spells are sometimes as rough on the subject as they are on the magician; I’m glad you were spared that. But I wasn’t, so I need to rest before I brief you. I’ll take you to the bridge and introduce you, then let you get acquainted while I recuperate for three or four hours.”

“You’re the expert here,” Medart agreed. “It’s safe to leave the pentagram?”

“Yes, of course.” She frowned. “You’re not familiar with magic?”

“Only what I’ve picked up from fantasy stories and games of Treasure Tunnels. It doesn’t work in Alpha Prime—or in any of the other universes I’ve visited till now, either. But when I show up in the middle of a pentacle with a Ranger who obviously takes magic for granted, it seems pretty clear this is one where it does.”

The other Ranger frowned again. “That’s strange. You’re from a high-probability alternate, then—sophisticated technology, no magic—but my spell was designed to summon a high-powered sorcerer.”

Medart chuckled. “Either it glitched, or I am one and don’t know it. I’ve played Tunnels characters who used magic, but I don’t know a thing about the way it really works.”

“In that case, I’d say you are and don’t know it. I haven’t had a spell miss its mark that far since I was in middle school. We’ll find out for sure when you meet Captain Chavvorth, though. He’s what we call a Reader, he can sense things about you just being in your presence.” Ariel sighed, showing fatigue she’d concealed before. “And he tends to worry about me, since an inter-universe summoning can be tricky. Not to mention dangerous, if you tap into the wrong alternate. Would you mind if we go there now?”

“Sorry—of course not.” Medart followed her out of the symbol-decorated room and through corridors that looked like a standard Imperial Navy ship’s, though something he couldn’t pinpoint right away seemed odd—something missing, maybe. “I can accept, though I don’t understand, that you brought me here by magic. But this feels like the hyperdrive ships I know, and your sidearm looks like an issue blaster. I was under the impression magic and science didn’t mix.”

“They usually don’t,” Ariel replied. “Magic-using universes are much lower probability than technological ones, and the magic/technology mix is far lower even than that—but there are a few, and this is one.” She smiled back at him. “Other than that, this universe should be almost a duplicate of yours, in everything important. I’d be willing to bet you’d even recognize this ship’s designation, maybe name—IBC Emperor Barton.”

“I do,” Medart said. An Imperial Battle Cruiser, named after the twelfth Sovereign. “Then from what you’ve said about Captain Chavvorth, I’d expect him to be a Traiti.”

“He is.” They were at the Bridge by then; the door slid open to admit them, and the Traiti in the command chair stood, showing open relief as he scrutinized Ariel.

“You are well, ka’naya Ranger!” he said.

“Fine, Captain. This is my colleague from Alpha Prime, James Medart.”

The Traiti bowed, crossing arms over his chest in that race’s formal gesture. “I am honored, Ranger Medart.”

Medart returned the gesture. “Likewise, Captain Chavvorth. I’m pleased to see that humans and Traiti share the Empire even in a universe so distant from mine.”

“As am I—though I sense that until recently we were at war in yours, and you were nearly killed by one of our fighters.”

“Right.” Medart tried to hide his astonishment, and reply as though it were normal for someone in such a remote universe to know that kind of personal detail. “I wouldn’t call a hundred years ago recent, but I suppose to a Traiti it would be . . . I was almost torn in half, and your people survived only because my colleague Steve Tarlac took your Ordeal of Honor and then died, becoming one of your gods. Peacelord Esteban.”

“The one who kept that war from happening by doing the same here,” the Traiti said. “He was able to determine the reason for the first incident, and then the way to prevent escalation. His courage in coming to us alone, we believe, saved millions of lives.”

“Try billions,” Medart said. “We were never able to determine accurate casualty figures, but the best estimate for both sides, military and civilian, is between eight and ten billion, mostly Traiti. And we came entirely too damn close to genocide before Steve was able to end the war.”

“But he did,” Chavvorth said calmly, “and we took our proper place in your Empire as we did here.” His expression became taut. “Have you encountered the Sandemans?”

“Yes, sixteen years before the Traiti War. A century and a quarter ago.” Medart frowned, scanned the Bridge crew. That was what he’d thought strange earlier—there were none of the small, dark-skinned blonds who were such a significant part of Alpha Prime’s military. That, the phrasing of Chavvorth’s question, and a major threat to this Empire came together in a conclusion as frightening as it was suddenly obvious. Medart allowed himself a quiet, intense, and uncharacteristic oath. “Holy Creator and all the gods! You just met them!”

“Yes,” Ariel said, her fatigue seeming to vanish in eagerness. “You were able to defeat them?”

“We could’ve, but it wasn’t necessary,” Medart said. “I was able to use persuasion instead—along with five battle fleets to show them the alternative to peace. They’d managed to take over almost half of Sector Five by then, but they accepted annexation as a Subsector, and they’ve been loyal citizens ever since.”

“You missed a Sandeman war,” Ariel said thoughtfully, “and we missed a Traiti war. Steve Tarlac avoided or ended the Traiti war in both, and my spell summons the one who avoided the Sandeman war in his. I think that for the first time in three years, I can dare to hope.”

Captain Chavvorth turned to her. “I also, Ranger. But with respect, I suggest you go rest. While you are doing that, I can begin teaching Ranger Medart to use his mage-power.”

“He is a magician, then!” Ariel exclaimed in relief. “My spell said he should be, but when he denied it— How powerful?”

“The strongest I have ever felt, sir.” The Traiti smiled at Medart, gestured as he murmured something, and was holding a candle. “You have had no instruction, but your raw power should be adequate to light this if you concentrate.”

The equivalent, Medart thought, of someone with PK Talent exciting the molecules of the wick to ignition temperature. He’d never shown any trace of that aspect—his only Talents, besides the basic mind-screen and telepathy, were healing and darlas—but this was supposed to be magic, not psionics; he had no reason not to try. He focused his attention on the candle, following an impulse to point at it as he willed it to light.

He felt a sensation of warmth flow into him and channel along his arm—then flame erupted from his fingers, enveloping both the candle and the hand that held it.

Instantly, Medart broke his concentration. The candle was burning, but it was sagging, and the Traiti’s hand was reddened.

Chavvorth blew out the candle, his expression bemused, and put it down. “That was more . . . dramatic than I had expected, Ranger.”

“A hell of a lot more than I expected,” Medart said. “Let me see your hand.”

The Traiti obeyed. Medart took it, concentrating again—but this time it was a familiar, trained ability he called on. Redness faded, vanished; he released the hand. “There. You should be okay now.”

Chavvorth flexed his fingers, extending and retracting his claws. “It is fine—but that was not a spell.”

“Nope. That was psionic Talent, a rare but perfectly normal ability.”

“So is mage-power, here,” Ariel put in. “I’d like to stay and talk, but the spell-reaction’s getting me to the point I can’t function much longer. Why don’t you two go someplace comfortable and keep getting acquainted while I recuperate? Chavvorth can brief you on the Sandemans as well as I could, James.”

“Jim’s fine—sounds good to me. Captain?”

“I am agreeable.” Chavvorth turned to one of his officers. “Lieutenant Dawson, you have the con.”

Ten minutes later Medart and Chavvorth were sitting in the senior officers’ lounge, drinking coffee and chovas. Medart had adjusted to the idea of magic far more easily than to the idea of Sandemans as enemies; magic was, for all practical purposes, something new, which made it easy to accept. Sandemans as enemies, though, was a total reversal of something that had been a given for over a century and a quarter. And Sandemans who’d had that extra time to grow and advance technologically—and magically, he was sure—would be an awesome enemy.

“From what Ranger Ariel said,” Medart started, “I gather you ran into the Sandemans about three years ago. The Shapers must’ve gone a lot further out in this universe than they did in Alpha Prime.”

“Who or what are the Shapers?”

Medart sighed. “You don’t have much intelligence about the Sandemans?”

“Almost none,” Chavvorth said. “Few have been captured, none successfully interrogated—few successfully held, in fact. Most are able to conjure their way out of custody, even denied the materials an Imperial magician would find necessary.”

Medart chuckled. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Do you have anything like a mindprobe, so I can give you everything I know in a hurry?”

“Not yet,” Chavvorth said regretfully. “One is in the development stage, but it will be several months at least before it is far enough along to experiment with humans on.”

“We do it the hard way, then. Emperor Barton?”

“Yes, Ranger Medart,” the ship replied.

“What access level do I have in this universe?”

“Full access, Ranger.”

“Good.” That was standard in every Empire he’d visited or heard of, but since neither had applied to this one, it’d seemed best to ask rather than assume. “Record everything I say about Sandemans, then, and pass it along to IntelDiv for summary and conversion to a teaching tape. They should include a caveat that this information comes from Alpha Prime and may or may not apply to the Zeta Prime Sandemans.”

“It will be done, Ranger.”

“Thank you.” Medart turned his attention back to Captain Chavvorth. “The Shapers were genetic engineers who left Terra in 2130 and deliberately lost themselves. Not long after that, they began using their own germ plasm to create the Sandeman race as improvements on humanity. The idiots didn’t stop with that, though. They designed a complex of physical and psychological traits that made a percentage of the males into genetically-determined warriors who not only like to fight—it’s one of their favorite occupations—they have to either fight or make love at regular intervals just to stay healthy.”

Chavvorth stared at him. “Genetically determined warriors? That would explain much about them—but how could anyone be so stupid?”

Medart shrugged. “We don’t know. When our Sandemans overthrew their Shapers, almost all the Shaper records were destroyed. My personal opinion is that it was sheer arrogance.”

“Which they passed along to their creations,” Chavvorth said.

Medart chuckled. “They have some justification, you must admit—they’re stronger, faster, and more intelligent than the standard human norm.”

“True,” Chavvorth said grudgingly. “They also have greater mage-power, as you must have deduced from what I told you about their ability to escape.”

“Uh-huh. In my universe, they’ve got greater than usual Talent, especially the warriors. So it seems reasonable that here they’d have more than the normal amount of magical ability.” He took a swallow of coffee, grimacing when he found it was cold. “Just how bad is the situation?”

“We have lost about a quarter of the Empire, and are rapidly losing more. Terra itself will be in danger within six months.”

Medart winced. “That much that quickly? They must have one hell of a big civilization!”

“We believe so, but we have no way of being sure.”

“Mmpf.” Medart was silent for a moment, then he said, “Damned if I know what you expect one person to be able to do about something that’s already taken out a quarter of your Empire, but I’ve got to try. First thing, I think, is to get in touch with His Majesty—or Her Majesty, here—let @ know I’m available, and find out what resources I can use. Emperor Barton?”

“His Majesty,” the ship said, “is Emperor Ray Kennard, and he has been informed of your arrival. On Ranger Ariel’s orders, I beamed an account to his personal comset, complete as of your departure from the Bridge.”

“Good—thank you. In my universe under these circumstances, he’d be the one to call as soon as I made it to the top of his priority list; would that be safe to assume here?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“Okay.” Medart’s attention went back to Chavvorth. They’d been expecting a visitor, so there’d be quarters ready for him—and since he usually worked in his living area rather than his office, that seemed a reasonable place to wait for His Majesty’s call. “Shall we continue this discussion in my quarters, Captain?”

“As you wish, sir.” The two rose, and Medart followed the Traiti again, thinking.

The Emperor Ray Kennard in his universe had limited precognition as part of his Talent; if parallels between the two universes held as well as they seemed to, the one here should have some equivalent means of foreseeing parts of the future. Which might mean he’d foreseen a solution.

Or might mean he’d foreseen the visitor would either be or bring a solution. In that case, Medart thought, he was likely to be disappointed—though Medart intended to do his best. He snorted to himself. He’d gotten the challenge he wanted, all right—gotten it in spades, and very possibly more of one than he could handle.

As he’d told Captain Chavvorth, though, he’d have to try to meet even such an impossible-seeming challenge. He had no idea at the moment how he’d meet it, but he was sure it’d have to be something unconventional. He was positive that this universe’s people were every bit as competent as the ones at home; they’d have done all the conventional things as well as he could. Probably better, since this was their universe and they knew how it worked.

Chavvorth interrupted his train of thought. “If you will key the lock, sir?”

“Right.” Medart placed his hand against the door’s lock-plate, keying it to his palm-print. The two entered when the door slid open; Medart immediately went to the service panel for a fresh cup of coffee. “Want some more chovas?”

“No, thank you. A cup of Blue Ginger, perhaps?”

“You got it.” Medart entered the appropriate order, took the steaming cup when it appeared, and handed it to the Traiti, then took his own seat. “You said you’d start teaching me magic. I know better than to tell a teacher how to teach, but I have a feeling I’m going to need something I wasn’t wearing when Ranger Ariel summoned me. So I think I’d better learn that summoning spell first.”

Chavvorth looked uncomfortable, but shook his head. “Such a summoning is dangerous even for an experienced magician—far too dangerous for a novice, particularly one who is also a Ranger. No, I will not teach you that spell. But I will attempt to summon this object myself, if you will describe it.”

Medart frowned. He wasn’t used to having his requests refused, even for his own safety—a Ranger was presumed to be able to evaluate risks and take only necessary ones. On the other hand, he didn’t know enough about magic to make such an evaluation accurately, and his first attempt at using it had injured an Imperial officer . . . so maybe he’d better accept the refusal gracefully. “All right, Captain. But if it’s that dangerous, I’d hesitate to risk an IBC’s captain, either. Don’t you have any magical specialists?”

“Yes, of course. Next to Ranger Ariel, Major Treschler is our most accomplished magician, and he has been successful with summonings.”

“Get him to do it, then. I may be able to do better than a description of what I need, though—I’d better be, or there won’t be any point in getting it. Emperor Barton, do your records include twentieth-century entertainment tapes?”

“Yes, Ranger. I have a complete selection.”

“Then if they exist here, you’ve got the Star Wars movies.”

“Yes, sir. They do, and I have.”

“Good! I’d like close-ups of Lord Vader’s lightsaber, please, from as many angles as possible.”

“It will be about ten seconds.” The ship paused for that time, then said, “Completed; they are in your fabricator.”

“Thank you.” Medart went into the sleeping area to get the stills, then returned to the living area and handed them to Chavvorth. “Mine looks like this. It’s in my quarters aboard the Empress Lindner.”

Chavvorth took the pictures, clearly puzzled. “An object from an old entertainment tape?”

“Right, and I’d recommend close study of the movies, too—Lord Vader in particular. The Sandemans at home regard those movies as classics, and based several aspects of their culture on them. The first clan formed after Overthrow is named for Lord Vader, for instance, and the clothing they call honor-black is based on his armor and robes. They put a lot of effort into developing real lightsabers, too—I got mine as a death-gift from the warrior Leigh DarVader, and I wear it on ceremonial occasions or when I’m in Sandeman territory.”

Chavvorth came as close to frowning as most Traiti could manage. “I hope you do not intend to confront them personally.”

“I think I’m going to have to. There isn’t anything I can do long-range that your own Rangers can’t; what I can do is talk to them on their own terms.”

“I understand.” Chavvorth rose. “I will give these to Major Treschler and ask him to start preparations immediately.”

“Thanks.” Medart watched him leave, then asked the ship for a basic magic text. If he was going to have to confront hostile Sandemans again, he wanted every bit of knowledge and skill he could manage.

He was perhaps a third of the way through the tape when the ship informed him the Emperor was calling. He went to the screen, pleased to see that this universe’s Sovereign looked like he was standing up well to the strains of war. “Ranger James Medart of Alpha Prime, Your Majesty. I’m at your Empire’s service.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Ranger Medart, though I must apologize for having you taken away from your own Empire.”

“No apologies needed, sir. Things were quiet at home, and I was planning to ask for temporary out-universe duty. It seems I’ve made friends out of your current enemies once before, so I get the challenge of trying to do it again.”

The Emperor smiled. “I’m glad to hear you feel that way, Ranger. I’m not sure it’ll be possible to make friends out of the Sandemans, but I’m not asking for a miracle; it’ll be enough if you can just stop them from destroying the Empire.”

“I’ll do my best, sir. What resources can I call on?”

“Anything that’s not actually engaged in combat. Or anything that is, if you consider it essential, including myself and the Rangers.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. In that case, I’d like to borrow the best magic teacher available; I won’t be much real good until I can control the power I accidentally burned Captain Chavvorth with.”

The Emperor frowned. “I saw the record tape of that, Jim. We don’t have any teachers who can give you control of that much power without limiting it—the only ones who might even come close are the Sandemans, and they’re not likely to want to help an Imperial.”

“In that case, I’d like the fastest small ship available—something on the order of a courier—with a volunteer crew, to take me to Sandeman territory. I’ll tape everything I know about them on the way, so you’ll have that information whatever happens to me.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Medart admitted. “That depends a lot on exactly how closely these Sandemans parallel the ones in Alpha Prime—and on how they feel about some incidents that took place there. But I do know, as I told Captain Chavvorth, that I can’t do anything at long range that your people can’t do at least as well. The only thing I have that they don’t is over a hundred and a quarter years of friendship with Sandemans.”

“That long?” The Emperor looked concerned. “Just how old are you, Ranger Medart?”

“A hundred and seventy-five, Your Majesty—but the anti-agathics are still working fine; I have the same physical abilities I did when I started them at eighteen.”

“Understood. All right, Ranger; you were on full duty, and you obviously know more about them than we do, so I can’t reasonably order you to stay away, however dangerous a situation I believe you’re going into.”

“It is dangerous, Your Majesty—I don’t have any illusions about that. I fought them before I brought them into our Empire, and they scared the stuffing out of me then. These have an extra century and a quarter of development, a hell of a lot bigger civilization, and magic, so they scare me even worse. But the only chance I see for your Empire is going in, so I have to do it.” He paused. “I was brought here with no chance to inform Alpha Prime’s Emperor Kennard. If I’m able to return, I can explain things myself; if I can’t, for whatever reason, I’d appreciate it if you’d notify my Sovereign of the circumstances.”

“I’ll see to it, Ranger. Is there anything else?”

“Just one thing, if I can indulge my curiosity.”

The Emperor chuckled. “A weakness you know I share. Go ahead.”

“In my universe, you have limited precognition. Do you foresee the kind of solution we’d both like as a result of bringing me here?”

“I foresee a chance of it,” the Emperor said slowly. “Not a good chance, but without the summoning, there would be no chance.”

Medart nodded. “You had to do it, then. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Ranger Medart. The ship and crew you want will meet you as soon as possible—and in the meantime, I’d recommend you not study magic. You don’t want our version limiting you if you are able to get any help from the Sandemans.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll concentrate on recording everything I can remember about them, then.”

Medart watched the lifecraft heading back for Imperial space. His volunteer crew had given him a good ride to near-Sandeman space, and had been reluctant to leave him to face them alone, but they’d finally obeyed his orders and left.

Once the lifecraft was out of sensor range, Medart switched on all the courier ship’s external lights, activated the locator beacon, and set course for the center of the Sandeman sphere. The Sandemans at home had become familiar with Rangers, but the ones here still weren’t, so he’d done as he had for the Mjolnir Conference: traded his military title and uniform for his civilian title and appropriate clothes, which meant a lot more to them.

The Sandemans here were as alert, quick to respond, and curious as the ones at home; less than an hour later, he was challenged. A dark-skinned face with light blond hair and pale grey eyes appeared on his comscreen. “You are intruding, Imperial. Identify yourself and give us a reason not to blast you out of existence.”

“James Medart, Prince of the Terran Empire—but an Empire in a different universe. At home, we’re friends, and I’d like the same to be true here.” He unhooked the lightsaber from his belt, held it where the Sandeman could see. “I was bequeathed this by the warrior Leigh of Clan Vader, for giving him Last Gift. Both he and the warrior Keith, of Clan Lewies, named me as battle-companion for that service, and I have never claimed the life-debt owed by either clan.”

“You know things you should not, Prince James,” the Sandeman said. “Do you claim life-debt now?”

“No.” Medart grinned. “I would if I thought it were necessary, but the Sandemans I know would be curious enough to invite me to their ships, or to Sandeman itself, to talk about it.”

“You wish to surrender?”

“Not hardly—but I will, if that’s what it takes to get a chance to talk to you.”

“I will have to consult the Warleader on that, Prince. In the meantime, I will have your ship brought aboard our cruiser—release your controls to our operators.”

Medart did so, nodded. “You have control.”

The Sandeman disappeared, his place taken by a view of space. A ship-image was growing, and Medart’s sensors told him it was a big one—not quite as large as an IBC, but close. Shortly afterward, he felt the surge of tractor beam lock-on and the ship grew more quickly—fast enough he would have worried, if anyone but a Sandeman had been at the controls. With their reflex speed double that of the human standard norm, though, the speed of his approach was perfectly safe; as his ship was brought into the docking bay and landed, he double-checked his appearance.

He wasn’t used to seeing himself in anything but uniform, since he spent so much time aboard Imperial Navy ships. But he’d worn similar clothing during the Mjolnir Conference, with the Sandemans there thinking it appropriate for his rank: silvery shirt, emerald-green pants, black uniform boots and equipment/weapons belt, topped by his green, silver-fringed arms baldric with his arms pin on the left shoulder. He’d worn his coronet as well, there, but that had been to distinguish him from the other Rangers he’d called in; he saw no reason to go to that extreme here.

Satisfied, he went to the airlock. As soon as the pressure equalized, he opened it and left the little ship, leaning against its hull with his arms crossed to wait for his hosts—or his captors.

Moments later the bay’s inner lock cycled open and a small group of warriors approached him, the central one wearing honor-black. Medart straightened, then bowed and addressed that one. “I am Prince James Medart of the Empire in Alternate Alpha Prime. You do me honor, Warleader, wearing cérémonials. Am I prisoner, or guest?”

The Sandeman returned the bow. “I am Ryan, a warrior of Clan Vader and Warleader of this fleet. You place me in a difficult position, bearing a lightsaber you claim was a death-gift, and claiming further that Clan Vader still owes you life-debt. If either is true, I cannot honorably hold you prisoner—but I have only your word and a lightsaber that could have been taken from a dead or captured warrior in this universe.”

“I’d be skeptical too, in your position,” Medart said. “Even the fact I came here alone, deliberately, could be a trick. It isn’t, but it could be. There’s a way to convince you, though; I’m sure you have some way of questioning people and being certain you get truthful answers.”

The Warleader frowned. “We do, Prince. I could question you under a compulsion spell, but your magical defenses are strong enough that doing so would be the equivalent of torture—which I may not honorably have you subjected to if you did indeed give one of my clansmen Last Gift.”

Medart winced at that. Sandeman customs allowed enemy warriors to be tortured for information, and having warriors as battle-companions made him the closest possible non-Sandeman equivalent of a warrior. As Ryan said, giving Last Gift had made him immune from that particular unpleasantness, at least as far as Clan Vader was concerned—but it also looked like telling his story under that compulsion spell was the only way he’d be believed. And for his already-uncertain plan to have any chance of success, he’d have to have more than belief; he’d need active cooperation from at least one of the two clan-chiefs who owed him life-debt. Which in turn depended, of course, on whether they’d consider that debt binding in a universe other than the one where it was incurred.

“Since you’re not certain I did,” Medart said at last, “and since that’s the only way I can prove I’m telling the truth, does the prohibition have to apply?”

“That question has never come up.” The Warleader frowned again. “Your claims cannot be disproven if they took place in another universe, so you must be given the protection they grant you, though not payment of a debt that may not exist. But I would also judge it dishonorable to deny you the opportunity to prove those claims, if you choose to waive that protection.”

“Consider it waived.” Medart managed a partial grin. “But don’t bother asking any tactical or strategic questions; once I realized I’d have to put myself in your hands, I was careful to avoid any such information.”

The Warleader stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “Were our circumstances reversed, Prince, I would have done the same. I will ask only what is necessary to establish the truth of your claims. And you may consider yourself a guest of Clan Vader.”

Medart bowed. “Thank you for your courtesy, Warleader. How soon can we take care of the interrogation?”

“As soon as you wish, Highness. That particular chamber is always kept ready.”

“Let’s get it over with, then. Putting it off isn’t going to make it any easier, and I’d like to end this war as soon as I can—if that’s possible at all.”

“It will end, unfortunately,” the Warleader said. “Not for some time, I hope—the Empire is the most competent enemy we have yet encountered—but it will end.”

“With the Empire destroyed, the way you’re going,” Medart said. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. At home, you’re a vital part of the Empire—a crucial part of our military, and contract police on any world that really values law and order. To me, that’s the ideal—but I’ll settle for having you as friends to this one, allies against the worst enemy any civilization in any universe has ever faced.”

Ryan looked suddenly interested. “Oh? An even better enemy?”

“I thought that would intrigue you, if you hadn’t already heard about them. Ask me about the Ravagers while you have me under—they’re something nobody would believe on simple hearsay. If you’re lucky, you’ll never run into them—but if you’re not, and they show up here, you’ll be glad of any allies you can get.”

Clan-chief Ryan watched as his people fastened Prince James into the interrogation chair. He’d had a primarily-Vader fleet in the area because of an information-gathering spell that had told him his clan would benefit by an intercept here, with a “side note” that it would be best if he seem to be less than his true rank. Deception was difficult for Sandemans, but introducing himself as Warleader rather than clan-chief was failure to reveal he was both rather than an active lie, so he’d been able to manage it. Lying was for Shapers and their kin.

This Prince James was obviously related to the Shapers, from his size and coloring, but Ryan found himself wanting to believe what James had told him. Not that he’d given Last Gift to a Vader warrior, or that Sandemans were actually part of the Empire he came from—even though that was something chiefs couldn’t either deny fully or reveal—but that he had gotten the saber honestly, and his motives for claiming what he did were equally honest. It was impossible to believe that one who risked himself as James was could do so without some overwhelming motivation beyond the self-advancement of Shaperkin!

When the restraints were all in place, Ryan moved to stand directly in front of the chair. “I regret the necessity of binding you, Highness, but it is for your protection; as I told you, this spell can be extremely painful to one with your automatic magical defenses, possibly causing convulsions and self-injury.”

“I appreciate the consideration, especially toward one you must regard as little if any better than the Shapers.” Medart shifted in the chair, then made himself as comfortable as possible. “Okay, I’m as ready as I can be; go ahead.”

Ryan nodded. “As you wish, Highness.” He began the words and gestures of the truth-compulsion spell, watching its effect on the human. Medart tensed and started to sweat, his expression becoming strained. The spell was working, but Ryan was impressed by the resistance it was encountering. Not conscious resistance; if anything, the Prince was trying to cooperate, which was less of a surprise than Ryan would have expected before meeting him.

But the resistance did make it necessary to strengthen his spell. As he did so, the Prince’s discomfort turned into pain, his muscles spasming and his breath coming in gasps.

It wasn’t enough, and Ryan frowned. The next level of this spell was likely to send the Prince into convulsions, and though he’d mentioned the possibility, he hadn’t really expected the man’s defenses to be that strong. Such extreme measures were normally used only to extract the most critical information; he was reluctant to use them for less.

“Why the hesitation, Ryan?” a woman’s voice asked, curiously. “You’ve questioned Terrans before.”

Ryan looked around. “I’m glad you’re here, Kelly. He doesn’t have any information, he just wants us to believe he’s from a universe where we’re part of the Empire—and where he was bequeathed a saber for giving one of our warriors Last Gift. He waived immunity from compulsion to obtain that belief, and he’s trying to cooperate, but his auto-defenses are stronger than I’d have credited to a Terran; if I keep going I’ll send him into convulsions, maybe kill him if his defenses collapse too quickly for me to pull back.”

“And simple verification is nothing to die for, even verification of such revolting statements.” The warriors’-woman nodded once, sharply. “Still, if he wants it, he is entitled to prove his honesty. I’ll support his defenses if necessary, and have a healing spell ready if his condition gets critical.”

“Good. As soon as you’re ready, then, I’ll boost the power.”

Kelly took position behind the man, resting her hands on his shoulders. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them. “All right, I’m ready.”

Ryan nodded, then concentrated on Medart again, increasing his spell’s pressure against those defenses. As he’d predicted, the Prince convulsed almost immediately, the restraints the only things that kept him from breaking bones. At last, though, his defenses collapsed and Ryan released the pressure, maintaining only the truth-compulsion. A few questions verified his identity and universe of origin, then Ryan got to the key points. “You say you gave Last Gift to warriors of Clans Vader and Lewies. Describe the circumstances.”

“They were prisoners aboard my ship, in sickbay because they were dying of something we didn’t understand and couldn’t cure. I was able to work it out and save most of the rest, but those two were beyond help, and I wasn’t about to make them suffer if I could help it. I guessed you had some form of euthanasia or aided suicide the other Sandemans couldn’t provide in enemy hands, so I told them I’d handle it if that was what they wanted. It was, so I did. They died quickly, and as painlessly as I could manage. Then we gave them star-burial, the best we could do in space.”

“And how did you get the saber?”

“That was later, on Mjolnir, for the conference that brought the Sandeman worlds into the Empire. I got into a TreasureTunnels game that included Clan-chief Wylie of Vader, along with a few others, Sandeman and Imperial. But I didn’t have an appropriate character, so Wylie loaned me one of his, the Black Jedi Kynan Ardais. He explained the game saber, then handed me a real one and let me try it out. When I went to return it, he told me it was mine, a thanks-gift from the warrior Leigh.”

Ryan wanted to continue that line, but he’d promised to restrict his questioning to what was required to prove James’ claims—and the subject James had told him he should ask about. “Tell me of the Ravagers.”

“They’re inter-universal raiders. They aren’t life as we usually understand the term; some scientists believe they aren’t really life at all. From time to time, at unpredictable intervals, they erupt into a random universe and—if that universe doesn’t have a technological and population level near the Empire’s—devastate it and proceed to another. But no Empire-level civilization is attacked more than once, because a civilization at that stage can defeat them, and so far always has. After such a defeat, the Ravagers retreat, and it’s several years before they attack again anywhere. That’s why Empires in various alternate universes cooperate to develop Empires or the equivalent in still other alternates.”

“And you do not think we could defeat these Ravagers, though we are defeating this Empire?”

“You probably could. In fact, I’m sure you could. But it’s never an easy fight; there are times we have to go in and rebuild, even after they’re thrown out. The stronger a universe is, the better for everyone—and this one would be strongest with you and the Empire as allies. United would be best, but that wasn’t easy at home; it may be impossible, here.”

“And just how was such a union managed in your universe?”

Medart managed a grin. “Sweet reason, backed by five battle fleets. The fleets turned out to be a temptation rather than the threat I’d expected, but either way they worked.”

“To your pleasure.” Ryan scowled, then shook his head. “I have asked what I agreed to restrict myself to; I will not go beyond that. Is there anything else you would like to tell me while under the spell?”

“Just that I won’t lie to you. Rangers don’t, unless it’s essential to the Empire’s survival—and the survival of this one depends on me gaining your trust, which means I don’t dare lie. I may not tell you everything, but what I do tell you will be the truth.”

“Said under truth-compulsion, I must believe you—though I find it almost impossible to credit the idea of a Terran who does not lie. Still, this interrogation is over.” Ryan released the spell, and Medart collapsed, unconscious. Looking at Kelly, Ryan said, “Will you care for him, lady? I named him clan-guest when he waived immunity to convince us of his honesty.”

“Yes, Chief.” Kelly looked down at her patient with a bemused expression. “His ideas are revolting . . . but there’s a certain fascination to them at the same time, and the man himself is intriguing.”

“Yes, he is. I think I’m going to leave Trevor in charge of the fleet and take Prince James back to Sandeman—you can come along, if you’d like.”

“Thank you—I would.”

Medart knew as soon as he woke that he was on a smaller ship. There was no single specific item, but a lifetime aboard numerous classes of ship had given him a feel for the differences between them; this was about courier size. Wondering what was going on, he got dressed—someone had cleaned his clothes and hung them up, with his boots and weapon belt nearby, his saber clipped to the belt.

That was a good sign, he thought as he fastened the belt. Weapons were customary for the warrior caste, but a warrior or equivalent being unarmed around others wasn’t considered an insult, the way it was in the Traiti Sector; they could have disarmed him without dishonoring him.

Something to eat seemed like a good idea, so he left his cabin and started exploring. Almost immediately, he ran into the w’woman who’d taken part in the interrogation. He’d been aware of what was going on, though he hadn’t been able to react without prompting, so he knew she’d been ready to help him—and he was willing to bet it was she who’d cared for him when he’d passed out once he was free to.

He bowed to her. “I thank you for your aid, lady. Without it I would probably be in considerable discomfort today.”

She returned the bow. “I was pleased to be able to help, Prince. Fortunately, your pulled muscles responded well to a simple healing spell, which also insured a good rest. Would you care to join me and Warleader Ryan for breakfast?”

“I would be delighted. That’s what I was looking for, as a matter of fact.” Medart grinned at her as they started walking. “We’ve changed ships; are we bound for Sandeman?”

“Yes. Have you been there?”

“To Alpha Prime’s, yes—but that’s a different world, in a different part of the galaxy. I’m looking forward to seeing yours.”

“It is a beautiful one, particularly near the Vader clanhome,” Kelly said. “As the first clan formed after Overthrow, we took the Shapers’ area—and they, of course, had chosen one of the best and most attractive parts of the planet.”

“The same was true at home,” Medart said. “I visited there a couple of years after Annexation, not long after they were granted the patent I suggested they try for, on the saber’s controlled-length blade.”

“What is a patent?”

“The exclusive right to market something you’ve invented. On something as useful as a controlled-length laser beam, that’s quite an advantage—last I heard, Clan Vader was one of the richest groups in the Empire. And probably the only one that amount of money didn’t change much.”

“Why should it change?”

Medart laughed. “No reason, really, but most people who suddenly get a lot of money do change.”

“In here—most people aren’t Sandemans.”

Medart followed her into the dining area and to Ryan’s table; when the Warleader gestured them to sit, they did so. “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast for both of you,” he told them. “It should be here very shortly.”

“Thanks,” Medart said. “And thanks for letting me keep my saber and gun, too. The gun I could replace if I ever get back; the saber’s special.” He paused, grinned. “Not that I’m any physical threat to a Sandeman, whether I’m armed or not. If I went for my gun, I’d be dead before I could get it halfway out of the holster.”

“True,” Ryan agreed. “That sounds like you’ve seen it tried.”

“Close; I’ve demonstrated it. But I made sure the Sandeman was using a stun setting on his needler.”

Ryan chuckled. “I’m not sure I’d care to let myself be used as a target that way. You must have trusted that warrior implicitly.”

“No more or less than I trust any Sandeman,” Medart said. “I’ve only known one who was capable of deliberate deception, and that was because his Intelligence field work for the Empire required it. Naturally, he was the best field agent we’ve had, though his successor as top agent came close.”

“Naturally,” Kelly said. Whatever she was going to say next, though, was interrupted by the arrival of their breakfast; all three concentrated on eating.

When they were done, they moved to a small lounge, and Ryan addressed Medart with an expression the Ranger couldn’t quite identify. “I did not reveal my full rank yesterday, Highness; a foretelling spell said it would be in the clan’s interest to use only my lesser one. Besides Warleader, I am the chief of Clan Vader.”

Medart nodded, grinning. “I know. I can read clan arms, and you either forgot or didn’t bother to change yours. But if you wanted to claim a lesser rank, I couldn’t see any harm in playing along.”

“My arms?” Ryan looked chagrined. “I never even thought of them—I did a lot at first, when I added the chief, but I’ve gotten so used to them since that I no longer really notice the difference.”

“And you’re not used to deception, so it’s easy to understand how you’d miss that.” Medart sobered. “But since you are clan-chief, I need to know whether the life-debt your clan owes me at home is valid here.”

It couldn’t be, was Ryan’s automatic reaction. The debt had been incurred in a distant alternate, involving an enemy and a warrior who had, in this one, lived a long and adventurous life.

On the other hand, a life-debt was sacrosanct, and the one owed it was entitled to repayment whenever and wherever that repayment was asked. The crucial question, then, was whether a change in universes by the one owed it voided that obligation.

Ryan studied the Prince’s carefully-impassive expression. The personalities involved should have no bearing on his judgement as the Vader in a matter of honor, but the human’s courage and integrity had earned his respect; it would be difficult to ignore those, though he would have to try.

Restrict himself to the basic facts, then. James had done a warrior of Clan Vader the ultimate service, sparing him the horrors of death in need. That meant the clan owed him a comparable service. James was the person owed, no question about that. Was this universe’s Clan Vader close enough to his universe’s to be considered obligated, then?

The warrior Leigh had lived at the proper time, and Wylie had been clan-chief then. Those were indicators that it was, but he’d like more. “May I see your saber?” he asked, using High War Speech.

“Yes,” Medart said in the same language, handing it over. “I’ve added the improved power pack, but otherwise it’s the same one I was given.”

So he did know the warrior caste’s language, another point of similarity in his favor. Ryan examined the saber, checking for the small traces of workmanship that distinguished Vader-made lightsabers from those of other clans. They were there, including Leigh’s engraved signature inside the powerpack cover. That made four points—five, if he counted the signature as extra verification of the saber’s provenance.

Since the Prince had no other physical evidence, and couldn’t be expected to know the clan as well as one of its members—wait, there was one more detail. “Did you recognize the complete arms, or just the chief?”

“The complete arms. They were a main clue to me, at home, of that part of your culture. The clan name, combined with arms of a scarlet-bladed light-saber, led me to study the Black Lord’s part of the Saga. I’d seen it as a child, of course, but as entertainment, not cultural study.”

“That’s enough, then,” Ryan decided. “As clan-chief of Vader, I judge the similarity between the Clans Vader in the two universes to be sufficient that we are liable for the life-debt. What repayment do you require, James?”

Medart sighed, letting his relief show. “I want you or someone you choose to teach me Sandeman magic, clan-chief. The only way I can see for an outsider like myself to end this war is to challenge whoever the clans designate to single combat, and I’d have no chance in a conventional battle. I was told shortly after I arrived that I have strong magical powers, though, and that you were the only ones who could train me to use them at their maximum. I have had no training whatsoever, so I have no bad habits to unlearn.”

Ryan frowned. “I can testify to your power, Prince; that was obvious in the strength of your automatic defense against my compulsion spell. But magic training is started young, as soon as the . . . I suppose you could call them magical-energy channels . . . begin to develop. With respect, you are no longer young; such training would be both painful and dangerous. And fighting a magical duel would be even more so. I would prefer not to pay our debt in such a negative way.”

“I was under the impression the choice was mine,” Medart said quietly.

“It is, Highness, and if you insist I will begin your training myself as soon as proper preparations can be made. But honor also requires that I point out the drawbacks and possibility of injury.”

Medart frowned. “The Imperials didn’t want to teach me because their training would limit my powers, not because the training itself was dangerous.”

“They also told you, I’m sure, that there are great differences in methodology. Terran magic operates primarily through symbols, tools, and ceremony; ours operates through personal mana. There’s very little danger in their method, but as they admit, it costs them power. We accept the risks in return for that extra edge.”

Medart chuckled. “Exactly the reaction I’d expect. Since I need that edge too, I have to accept the dangers as well. How long will it take for me to learn enough to fight a duel?”

Ryan shrugged. “We have very little information on training adults, none on training Terrans, so I have no way to give you an estimate. Why?”

“I want to end this war, and end it as soon as possible. It’s as simple as that.”

“In that case, I’d suggest you issue challenge right away. That will bring an immediate truce, which will last until after the duel. And the duel cannot be fought until Clan Vader has finished discharging its life-debt, now that we’ve begun.”

“How do I do that?”

“Since you’re leaving the choice of opponent to us, you inform a Warleader or clan-chief. You’ve already told me, and I’m willing to pass it along as a formal challenge if you want me to.”

“I’d appreciate that. You do realize the Empire’ll use the truce to regroup and rebuild?”

“I certainly hope so; they haven’t been doing too well the last several weeks.”

As he had for the last month, Medart woke feeling like he hadn’t slept for a year. If anything, Ryan had understated what he’d be going through, starting Sandeman-style magical training so late. He hurt all the time, and was usually on the edge of nausea, making it difficult to eat. That, in turn, meant he’d lost weight he could ill afford.

On the whole, he knew, he was in lousy shape—probably his worst since the early part of his recuperation from that Traiti almost tearing him in half. He’d been having doubts, the last couple of days, whether or not he’d be able to make it through the training, much less be able to fight and win a duel with someone who’d been using magic all his life. He couldn’t quit now, though; at the very worst, he was buying the Empire some time. And there was always a chance he’d win the duel; pure dumb luck had been known to come to the rescue before.

He sighed, then forced himself to get out of bed, bathe, and dress. He’d been supplied with warrior-drab coveralls, complete with his arms on the breast—not too different from his uniform, and more practical than the civvies he’d worn at first.

And after the first couple of days, Ryan had ordered him exempted from the chores the entire warrior caste shared—cooking, clean-up, laundry and the like—because of the toll his training exacted even that early. Medart was grateful, though he’d felt guilty about it at first; by now, guilt had been swallowed by the chronic pain.

It amused him that he’d been more or less adopted by the lady Kelly and her son Haley, one of the young warriors in training. Like the rest of the clan, Haley had been aloofly superior at first—the typical Sandeman reaction Medart expected from those who hadn’t been around Imperials much—but his stubborn determination to learn in spite of what the lessons did to him had broken down that reserve. The clan accepted him, and those two had practically become mother hens. As usual one—Kelly, this time—met him at the dining hall door, then brought him a tray and joined him.

“Thanks, Kelly.” Medart picked up his fork and stared at the food for several seconds, trying to ignore his stomach. That didn’t work any better than usual; at last he gave up the effort and started eating in spite of the queasiness.

“No improvement?” Kelly asked, after a few minutes’ silence.

“No. I’ve given up expecting any, but I can’t help hoping.” Medart took a few more bites, then shook his head and put the fork down. “Who’m I going up against today?” He’d learned the necessary spells for a duel the first week, both offensive and defensive; he’d been practicing them ever since, trying to learn control, but that was frustratingly elusive. One day he’d barely be able to make his opponent feel his efforts or protect himself, the next it would take the monitors to erect fast barriers to keep him from injuring the other, while his own defenses were at peak.

“The warrior Loren of Clan Raynor,” Kelly told him. “I think Chief Ryan is trying to force a breakthrough, finding you strong opponents who won’t pull their punches the way we’ve started doing because we don’t want to add to your problems.”

“Um.” Medart frowned at that. “I hadn’t noticed—but then my control’s so erratic I probably couldn’t. Whoever I fight the duel with damnsure won’t pull his punches, though, so I have to go along with Ryan—best I train with someone who’s going all-out, too.”

“That part no one can argue,” Kelly said. “But . . . James, can you tolerate the added stress? Watching you is like watching a warrior in constant need, with no hope of being able to give you release.”

Medart winced, aware of how much that would distress any warriors’-woman. “I’m not in that bad a shape—I’ve seen some who were, remember? What I’m going through is no fun, but I think I can hold out long enough.”

“I pray to all the gods you’re right.”

By the end of the next week, Medart was praying too, to all the gods he could recall from his childhood. He’d been brought up Omnist, so there were quite a number of them, and he added a pair the Sandemans in Alpha Prime said should be favorably inclined to him: the two warriors he’d given Last Gift to, Leigh DarVader and Keith DarLewies.

It didn’t seem to help. Despite Ryan’s instructions, his opponents’ best efforts, and his own increasingly urgent attempts over the next month, his control remained erratic. Unfortunately his physical condition didn’t remain as stable; it worsened steadily. By the end of that time, Medart had lost close to twenty kilos, and the constant pain allowed him only the sleep his body absolutely had to have.

He’d given up even trying to eat breakfast, beyond the hot chocolate that contained the caffeine he needed as a stimulant; he ate only after his afternoon practice sessions, when he was too tired to gag.

And he’d wondered how long Ryan would keep supporting him, so he wasn’t surprised when the clan-chief joined him, Kelly, and Haley—both of whom had taken to remaining close except when Haley was at his own training sessions—at the evening meal.

Medart endured the clan-chief’s scrutiny, certain he knew what was coming, so he wasn’t surprised when Ryan spoke. “Prince James, will you admit I have done my best to teach you as you asked?”

“You have, Clan-chief,” Medart replied. “My inability to benefit by more than the most basic instruction cannot be laid to your lack of effort.” He took a deep breath, rubbed his aching eyes. “You’ve done your best; I can’t hold you to a repayment I’m incapable of absorbing. As far as I’m concerned, that part of Clan Vader’s life-debt has been discharged.”

“I thank you for your generosity, James. I will have you returned to the Empire; perhaps they can heal you where we cannot.”

“No. My job’s not done, and you still owe me one thing—I have a duel to fight, as soon as you can arrange a meeting.”

“In your condition, I cannot permit that.”

“You don’t have any choice, Clan-chief.” Medart pulled himself together as well as he could, reminding himself that these peoples’ origin made them Imperial citizens whether they knew—or liked—it or not. He didn’t have any enforceable authority over them, true, but sometimes that wasn’t essential. “You issued the challenge on my behalf and implicitly agreed to arrange the duel, without specifying my physical condition. The only criterion was that I be trained to use Sandeman magic as well as I could, which has been done.”

“It has, and I did issue challenge for you—but I did not agree to send you to certain death.”

“It isn’t—I’m running about fifty-fifty minimum power and maximum. That gives me a reasonable chance, better than the Empire’d have if I don’t even try.” Medart felt himself weakening, summoned his remaining resources. “You’d do the same if it were the Sandeman race at risk; I know that from personal experience. Even if you knew it’d cost you your life.”

“That is true,” Ryan replied slowly. “Very well, Highness, I will make the arrangements. But you should rest until then, doing no magic—and you must try to eat. In your present condition, even winning a duel would be fatal; to have a chance of surviving, you need to build yourself back up.”

“I will,” Medart promised. “I don’t want to die; I’ve got too many interesting things to do first. And—” he looked from Kelly to her son—“I have a couple of guardians who wouldn’t let me overdo even if I wanted to.”

Medart kept his promise. It took Ryan six days to finalize arrangements for the duel, including what Clan Miklos needed to broadcast it to Sandemans and Empire alike; Medart spent the time resting as well as he could, nibbling on the food either Kelly or Haley kept him supplied with, and talking to the two of them.

He regained some strength, but the pain didn’t ease in spite of Kelly’s healing spells, so finally, the evening before the duel, he decided to ask her for a prognosis.

When he did, she frowned. “There’s been no relief at all?”

“None that I’ve been able to notice.”

“That is bad.” Kelly paused. “As Ryan told you, we’ve had little experience with training adults to use magic, and you are our only experience teaching our system to a Terran. This makes it difficult for me to give you an accurate evaluation; I have almost nothing to base it on.”

“I understand that.”

“With that caution, then,” Kelly said slowly, “I’m afraid our efforts to teach you have caused permanent damage. Either your age or your Terran physical characteristics—or possibly your extra-universe origin—have made it impossible to clear what Ryan called your magical-energy channels. Since my healing spells have no effect, I would say the attempts to train you have been . . . the best analogy I can think of is burning . . . them out.”

Medart leaned back, sighing. “That’s what I was afraid of. Is my opponent going to be battleprepped?”

“Of course.”

“Will I be allowed a similar form of preparation?”

“Of course, if you have it.”

“I do. Not built in, the way yours is, but I had a special medikit set up just in case; I have drugs that’ll boost my strength and speed. And to block the pain, now that the duel’s close—unless you think the painkiller’d interfere with what little control I do have.”

“I can see no reason it should,” Kelly said. “It should help, in fact, by allowing you to concentrate better. Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“Because I don’t have much, and wanted to save it for when I’d need it most.” Medart opened one of the pouches on his belt and took out a small injector. “As you can see, my medikit’s not that big, and I damnsure didn’t think I’d need enough quidine for two months plus. I’ve got four doses, which is enough for about thirty hours.” He felt for his carotid, triggered the painkiller into the artery, and seconds later sighed in relief. “Whew—that’s a lot better.”

“You look better, even so soon,” Kelly agreed. “That quidine appears to be extremely strong—is it dangerous?”

“No.” Medart shook his head, smiling as much at the relief from pain as at the question. “It is strong, but it’s the safest analgesic ever discovered. It doesn’t affect your reflexes or thinking, and it’s not addictive—all it does is kill pain for about eight hours. The worst it does is numb you if you take an overdose.”

“Doing that tonight might be wise. You haven’t slept properly in that same two months plus, and you will need to be rested tomorrow.”

“Recommendation accepted,” Medart said promptly.

“Good.” Kelly smiled. “I believe it would also help if you think of something besides the duel, so may I take advantage of your respite to ask you some things?”

“Be my guest.”

“I found it revolting at first to think of being friends with a Terran, but after being around you for a brief time, that became a more attractive idea than otherwise. We seem to have more in common than I would have believed possible—do you have any idea why?”

“I know exactly why, and I think you could figure it out for yourselves—but you’re like the ones at home. You don’t want to think about it.”

Kelly frowned. “I must lack information, because I’ve been trying to figure it out since you began training.”

Medart grinned. “You have the necessary information. Want me to prove it, or just tell you outright?”

“Prove it,” Kelly challenged.

“Remember you asked for it, and try not to attack me. I trust you both, but I also remember how strongly the ones at home reacted to the same information.”

“I will control myself. Haley?”

“The same.”

“Okay. You remember I told Ryan I recognized the design of Clan Vader’s arms from seeing the Saga as a child?”

“I remember,” Kelly said.

“And your Standard is almost the same as Imperial English, right?”

“Right.”

“And you know the Shapers began creating the Sandeman race from their own genetic material in 2130, according to the calendar you and the Empire share.”

“Every child knows that.”

“Uh-huh. Given all that, tell me where the Shaqers originated.”

Kelly thought about his statements, her expression going from intent to disbelief to revulsion. “They came from Terra!”

“They sure did,” Medart said. “Which makes you Terrans, too. An improved version, so changed my Empire classes you as human variant rather than standard human—but Terrans. And that makes you Imperial citizens by right of birth.”

“That’s obscene!” Haley burst out.

“Matter of opinion,” Medart said calmly. “Both personally and as a Prince of the Empire, I think it’s great—as long as you’re not fighting the Empire you’re rightfully part of.”

“Ryan has to know about this,” Kelly said. “Haley, would you please inform him and ask him to join us?”

“Yes, lady.” Haley stood and bowed to her, then left.

“Is it really that bad?” Medart asked the w’woman as soon as the young warrior was out of hearing. “It doesn’t change what you are, how you live, or have any other bad effects; what it does is give you new opportunities.” He grinned. “I’m biased, of course—have been since I first met Sandemans. I’ve liked you even when I couldn’t identify the reasons, and that grew when I could. Your absolute integrity is one, and it’s also one of the most valuable things you’ve brought to our Empire.”

“Put that way,” Kelly said slowly, “it sounds almost reasonable. But you didn’t grow up hating the Shapers and everything about them.”

“You can’t hate everything about them,” Medart pointed out. “They did manage to engineer your race, after all. I personally think they were absolute, unmitigated idiots for thinking they could create and then control a race of the most deadly warriors in the known universes—but from my own experiences with Sandemans, I can’t help but be grateful to them at the same time.”

“Grateful to whom?” Ryan asked as he entered the room. “The Shapers, if I interpret what I heard correctly.”

“You did,” Medart told him. “They committed one of the worst crimes in Imperial history, meddling with human genetics just for the fun of it—but the results were so good I can’t fault them totally for their arrogance.”

Ryan smiled, taking the seat Haley had vacated. “It’s good to see you feeling well again, Prince, and able to converse. So we are Terrans, are we?”

Medart nodded, pleased by the clan-chief’s calm reaction. “Yes.” Then he raised an eyebrow, grinning, and said, “You knew, didn’t you? That emphasis on the first ‘are’ was a giveaway.”

“We—the clan-chiefs—have known for centuries.” Ryan sobered. “Or strongly suspected, at least; all the evidence pointed in that direction.”

“So why in Chaos haven’t you done anything about it?” Medart demanded.

Ryan shrugged. “You know we aren’t as powerful as your nobles, Prince. We can only lead our people where they want to go—and that hasn’t been into the Empire.”

“But you could have told them, at least!”

“Not and lived,” Ryan retorted. “You, of all people, must know how deeply unacceptable that particular truth is to most of us. Coming from you it’s bad enough; coming from us, it would trigger a reaction I prefer not to think about.”

Medart nodded, reluctantly. “I think I can understand that. What’s going to happen now that I’ve spilled the beans?”

“The warriors’ hall was full when Haley gave me the news; I’d imagine it’s spreading as quickly as people can get to commsets or cast the necessary spells.” Ryan looked serious. “I should contact the clan-chiefs as well. Prince James, would it upset you to speak to all the chiefs through me?”

“Not a bit—I’d jump at the opportunity.”

“A moment, then, while I cast the spell. And some will need a few more moments to wake up.”

“Go ahead.” This wasn’t anything he could have expected, Medart thought, and he had no idea what effect it would have. A drastic one, he was sure; Sandemans weren’t known for moderation in their reactions, especially to strong stimuli, and this was one of the strongest possible. If he lost the duel, it could easily send them back into combat with the determination to eliminate every trace of the Shapers and their kin. If he won, their reaction was less predictable. They wouldn’t continue the war; honor wouldn’t permit that. But that still left two possibilities. They might pull back and refuse all further contact, or—Medart’s earnest hope—they might decide to give the Empire the benefit of their improvements, and join it. Here, they’d be a full Sector—probably the biggest one, Medart thought, and certainly the strongest.

“Ready,” Ryan said. “I’m linked to all the clan-chiefs and Warleaders available, Prince James. They see and hear what I do, and can speak through me if I permit. Would you summarize what you told the lady Kelly and the student warrior Haley?”

“Gladly.” Medart did so, thinking that he preferred something like the Mjolnir Conference, where he could see that he was talking to a group. This was like talking to a camera, he supposed—but it felt decidedly peculiar, speaking to one person and knowing hundreds of others were watching and listening through that person’s eyes and ears.

“That’s it,” he said at last. “Now what?”

“Now what, indeed,” Ryan said. “I think that determination will be primarily up to you, Highness. Bryan of Alanna wishes to speak to you.” His eyes lost focus for a second; when they regained it, Medart knew it was the Alanna addressing him.

“I am Bryan of Alanna,” Ryan said, confirming that. “Are you aware that we have been following your training, Highness, as one of the most important events in this sphere?”

“I’ve been too preoccupied to give any consideration to my news value,” Medart said. He didn’t particularly enjoy being on public display, even after a lifetime of it—especially when he was at his worst. But he’d been there before, and if he survived he’d be there again; he could handle it. “I suppose it does make sense, though. What about it?”

“Your efforts have done you great honor, and earned you more regard than I can recall being given any other Terran. We understand your motive is to win our friendship or alliance as well as peace—but do you really believe one person can achieve that after three years of war?”

“I don’t know,” Medart admitted. “All I can do is try my best and hope. I know you from my universe, remember, and I achieved it once, even though the circumstances were drastically different.”

“Dell, of Raynor,” Ryan said, his voice changing as another chief spoke. “Why did none of this universe’s Terrans make such an effort?”

“You didn’t give them a chance. They know you the way we knew the Traiti—as ferocious, bloodthirsty killers. It took the Traiti asking one of my colleagues to take their Ordeal of Honor for him—and later the rest of us—to learn about them as they really are. I know that about you from home, so naturally I’m willing to take the same sort of chance to give you and this Empire the opportunity to become friends.”

“Gareth, of Levva,” was the next introduction. “I believe your acceptance of such a risk, and your willingness to endure such painful training, have earned that opportunity; win your duel, and Clan Levva will send a delegation to investigate the desirability of acknowledging the citizenship you say is ours by right.”

Medart let his relief show. “That’s all I ask, Clan-chief.” Sandemans thought a lot more alike than their standard-human cousins; if one was willing to make such a concession, most others would too. And the few that wouldn’t immediately would probably change their minds as soon as they saw the benefits of Imperial citizenship. Of course, that still left him with the problem of winning the duel . . .

If he had to fight a duel, Medart thought, at least he had a good day for it. The weather at Vader clanhome was clear and sunny, the temperature a comfortable twenty degrees as he stood waiting for his opponent in the outdoor practice arena. And he was in uniform; Ryan had brought one from his courier ship—even had it tailored for his weight loss—in case he needed it as his cérémonials.

He’d taken the drugs that would bring him as close as possible for a standard human to the Sandeman battleprepped state. He was keyed up, unnaturally alert, sensitive to every movement around him, and eager to get on with the duel. It was mildly amusing to see that the Sandemans gave him the same cautious respect he’d give a battleprepped warrior; maybe the drugs brought him closer to that state than he’d thought.

It seemed like hours before he heard, then saw, the boxy transport null-grav craft bringing his opponent. That, in his edgy condition, was more of a relief than the threat he’d expected to feel. The transport landed outside the arena, too far away for him to recognize the clan-arms, and he briefly regretted not asking who he was going to be fighting. Not that the information would have been much help, he thought; he’d prepared as much as he could, whoever it was.

The group of warriors escorting his opponent entered the arena through the gate at the far end from where Medart stood with a group from Vader, and stopped. “Now,” Medart heard Ryan say.

He stepped forward, accompanied by Ryan and Kelly, at the same time a trio of the newcomers did the same. They were to meet in the center of the arena for formal introductions, then separate to about three meters for the duel itself—but Medart came to a shocked halt as soon as he was close enough to recognize the central member of the other party. The Sandeman’s familiar tattoo of a black-barred violet flower was missing from his cheek, but Medart knew him well enough to recognize him easily without it. “Oh, shit,” he said, involuntarily. “Nevan!”

“Keep going,” Ryan urged. As the three began moving again, he asked quietly, “What’s wrong? You know him?”

“Too damn well,” Medart said. “Nevan-Corina DarLeras and I have been battle-companions for the last century, since we fought together defending the Palace in the last battle of the White Order revolt. I know intellectually that this isn’t the same person, but dammit, it’s going to feel like I’m trying to hurt a friend.” Thank all the gods, Sandeman duels were to disablement or conclusive advantage; he didn’t think he’d be capable of killing—or trying to kill—a man he knew as one of the Empire’s best defenders.

“This one is Nevan only,” Ryan agreed. “His face shows he has never sworn personal fealty or won the right to use his thakur’s name. While it would be dishonorable for you to fight a battle-companion, he is not truly such—though I agree the resemblance will make this duel more difficult.”

“Yeah. Don’t say anything, though, okay? At least till it’s over.”

“As you wish, James.”

The last few steps to introduction distance were silent. Medart used them to study his opponent, apprehension growing. He knew precisely how good Nevan was at both conventional and psionic combat; since he’d been chosen as the Sandeman champion for this duel, there was every reason to believe he was just as good at magical combat. And Medart could remember thinking, the first time he saw Nevan battleprepped, how much he’d hate to be on the receiving end of the younger man’s skills. Now that he was about to be, that opinion was even stronger.

But Medart had motivation of his own, and his pain and weakness were masked by the medications he’d taken. He exchanged bows and introductions with his opponent, then stepped back and began working the spells he’d been taught.

He could feel immediately that this was one of his strong days. The power flowed into and through him, part surrounding him in a silvery glow, part erupting from his hands like emerald blaster bolts.

The bolts flared off Nevan’s shield, blending in with his counterattack. Medart’s shield blazed scarlet, held—but he gasped as all-too-familiar pain shot through him. The quidine couldn’t withstand active magic, it seemed; he could only hope the rest of his meds would.

So far they were, and he’d had two months’ practice working in spite of pain; he could keep going. He couldn’t do it for long, though. He felt all right thanks to the meds, but he knew his stamina was only a fraction of what it should be; a few more exchanges, and he’d lose by simple attrition.

He struck again, glad that Sandeman magic was simpler than in the books and TreasureTunnel game; he’d never have been able to remember, much less use, the complicated spells in those. Hit and defend was about all he could manage through the growing agony. He lost awareness of his surroundings, even of his opponent, in the effort to channel all his power into defense and, more importantly, attack.

What broke his concentration was the insistent repetition of his name. “James! James! It’s over—stop! James, Jim—no more! You’ve won!”

“Huh?” It was Ryan’s voice, Medart realized as the power ebbed from him and he slumped to his knees with his head drooped, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. “Won—I didn’t kill him, did I?”

“No.” The voice this time was unfamiliar; one of Nevan’s seconds, Medart thought. “He is injured and unconscious, but he will recover.”

“With your permission, James?” That was Kelly, kneeling in front of him and extending her hands.

“Yeah, whatever.” She touched him, murmured briefly with no effect he could notice. Moisture trickled down his face and he felt tightness in his throat; he coughed, then vomited, seeing and tasting blood. Major internal damage, obviously, and Sandeman medicine here not much better than Imperial first aid . . . He fought to raise his head. “Any chance?” he asked.

Kelly shook her head. “I’m sorry, James. The damage is too extensive. I cannot even ease what few hours you may have left.”

Medart coughed again, then sighed. “In that case . . . I ask Last Gift.”

“Granted,” Ryan said. “And may the gods accept you as one of themselves.” Almost immediately Medart felt the tip of a blade at the angle of his jaw behind his ear. There was an instant of pressure, and the pain was over.

Ryan accepted a cloth from one of his warriors to wipe his blade, then re-sheathed the knife and dropped the cloth without looking away from the Prince’s body. He’d thought it would be easy to kill any Terran, but he’d been wrong; giving this one Last Gift had been as painful as giving it to one of his own. At last he rose, still looking down. “His body should be returned to his Empire, but we haven’t the facilities. Kelly, would you see to preparing him for burial?”

“Of course, Chief. In our memorial garden?”

“He deserves it, yes—with the warrior caste. But keep out his saber and badge; I’m going to take them to this Empire and ask that the one who brought him here return them, along with a copy of the tape of this duel. His people should know how and why he died.”

“Yes, they should.”

Ryan turned at the unfamiliar voice, to see the warrior Nevan. He’d been healed, though his clothing still showed the effects of battle. “I’m pleased you agree, warrior. Now that the combat is over, I’m free to tell you he knew your avatar in his home universe, and claimed him as battle-companion of a century’s standing.”

Nevan smiled. “From what I learned of him during our duel, I would willingly acknowledge such a bond. I ask permission to accompany you on the mission to return his belongings to his people.”

“Granted, warrior. Will you be Vader’s guest until we leave?”

“I would be honored, Chief.”

Ryan’s battle cruiser entered Imperial space as Medart’s little courier had entered Sandeman: all lights on, and broadcasting its identity. They were expected; after the second broadcast of the duel, Bryan of Alanna had declared peace and announced both Clan Levva’s investigation of their Imperial heritage and Clan Vader’s intention of returning Medart’s effects. The reply had been a cautious welcome, along with the information that unless and until they did accept Imperial citizenship they would be met and escorted. That seemed reasonable, so the Sandemans had agreed; Ryan wasn’t at all surprised that his ship was met by the IBC Emperor Barton, or that Ranger Ariel invited him and Nevan aboard.

The two went alone, without the escort that normally accompanied a clan-chief anywhere outside his clan’s territory. Ryan had decided to use his cruiser because it seemed proper to return James’ little courier ship as well as his personal belongings; when they landed the tiny Imperial vessel aboard its huge sister ship, they were met by an honor guard of Marines in what Medart had described as their “cérémonials,” what they called dress blues. The Marines escorted them directly from the lander bay to a room with a semi-circular table facing a large viewscreen, where Ariel was waiting.

She rose to greet them. “Welcome to the Empire, gentles. I understand you came to return Ranger Medart’s effects in person; that was considerate of you.”

“We do so to honor Prince James,” Ryan said. “And it would seem we grant him greater honor than you do. He owed this universe nothing, since he was pulled without consent from his own; he had every right to refuse you any service. Yet he endured much pain and finally lost his life in the effort to preserve you and give us new opportunities.”

Ariel nodded, and Ryan was pleased to see she had the grace to look regretful. “We didn’t want to draft anyone, but you were pushing us so hard we didn’t see any alternative—you’d already cost us half our Rangers and best magicians.”

“That’s no excuse,” Nevan said. “What if his own universe needed him, perhaps to fight the Ravagers he told us about? What if it needs him in the future, after you brought him here to his death?”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty,” Ariel said, “you’re too late. As soon as I saw your broadcast of his duel and the mercy Clan-chief Ryan gave him, I contacted His Majesty; I’ll be delivering Ranger Medart’s belongings and your tape personally to his Emperor—and I will remain in Alpha Prime to take his place. It will be difficult functioning without magic, but most universes manage; I’ll learn to cope.”

Nevan bowed, his expression chagrined. “In that case I spoke too hastily, Highness. Will you accept my apology?”

“Of course, warrior.” Ariel paused, then looked wistful. “Once I get there, I doubt very much I’ll be able to find out what’s going on back here—can you give me any idea whether or not the Sandemans here will accept citizenship?”

Nevan glanced at Ryan, then turned back to the Ranger. “I can’t speak for anyone else, Highness, but James’ actions in bringing peace, and now your willingness to take his place, have made my own decision easy. I wish to accept citizenship and apply for a position in whatever segment of your military is most likely to see combat.”

Ryan nodded agreement. “My responsibilities as clan-chief prevent me from joining the military, but I concur with the warrior Nevan: I also wish to accept citizenship, and I will recommend to my clan and the other chiefs that they do so as well.”

“Thank you both. That’s a considerable relief.” Ariel smiled at them. “I’m looking forward, now, to working with your counterparts in my new home. I have the transfer spells ready, and I’d prefer to get started without delay, so if you’ll give me James’ effects, I’ll be on my way.”

END