Fearful Symmetry Part 2

That was an intelligence coup the Empire had been unable to match.

Traiti too badly wounded to fight, or those hit by stun-beams and taken prisoner, never lived for long. Once they decided escape was impossible, those who were able to committed suicide, usually by clawing out their throats. Those who for one reason or another couldn't actively kill themselves simply lost the will to act and then to live, dying usually within a week of capture. The Empire had learned that they called themselves Traiti, little more.

Once he had his suit on, the Ranger fortunately didn't have to walk far. A standard s.p.a.cesuit was considerably less ma.s.sive than a Marine's power armor, but it wasn't light, and it was clumsy in anything approaching a full standard gee. Clumping over to the lock, Tarlac cycled through.

He stood for a moment on the Lindner's hull. He enjoyed being EVA, especially near a planet, and the blue-white world off to his right was achingly reminiscent of Terra. Then he spotted a blinking white light "above" and to his left, on a Traiti s.h.i.+p. He released his boots'

mag-field and pushed off toward the light, waiting until he was perhaps five meters off the hull before activating his thrustpac.

When he'd gone roughly a kilometer--a diameter out from the Lindner--a soft Traiti voice told him to cut power. He did, and the pressure at the small of his back died.

"You have control." He kept his voice impa.s.sive, as though he were giving the most routine of responses.

With that, he felt the pull of a tractor beam. At least, he thought, he'd aimed for the right s.h.i.+p; he was being drawn toward and into an open airlock. It was bigger than the lock he'd used on the Lindner, and different in detail, but it served the same function and had been designed by humanoids, so it couldn't be too different. When the tractor beam released him and the lock's outer door closed, radiant heaters came on.

His suit indicators showed rapidly-increasing air pressure. He removed his helmet when it reached Terra-normal, but it didn't stop until the indicators showed air pressure, like the gravity, about ten percent greater than Terra's, with a fraction over a quarter oxygen.

Like recycled air anywhere, it smelled flat.

Finally the inner door cycled open and Tarlac stepped through, to confront what he thought of as a commando squad. There were seven of them, with insignia indicating what Intelligence evaluations said should be six troopers and a junior officer. They were unarmored but otherwise in full battle gear, all standing in what the Ranger guessed might be the Traiti version of attention: relaxed yet alert, holding grounded blast rifles, right hands resting on dagger hilts. He had time to notice disruptors and shortswords on the commandos' belts in addition to the daggers, before the officer snapped him a salute that would have done credit to an Imperial Marine.

He was motionless for an instant in surprise, then he returned the salute as crisply as his s.p.a.cesuit would allow. "Ranger Esteban Tarlac of the Terran Empire."

"Team-Leader Hovan of Clan Ch'kara. Need you help, that suit to remove?"

The squad remained alert, but gave no more hint of threat than before.

Tarlac shrugged mentally. "I'd appreciate it, yes."

Hovan handed his blast-rifle to one of his squad members and approached Tarlac. He looked as ma.s.sive as the Ranger expected, and was typically thickset, but he was even heavier and stronger than he looked. The strength became evident as Hovan helped Tarlac out of the s.p.a.cesuit, for with Traiti a.s.sistance, the Ranger discovered, the c.u.mbersome suit was almost easy to handle.

While he helped the human remove his s.p.a.cesuit, Hovan did some studying of his own, wondering what made a Ranger so formidable. This Tarlac was even less impressive physically than the Terran combat troops he'd faced. He was no more than shoulder-high to Hovan, and so slender he seemed almost frail. There was black hair on the man's head, and obvious facial differences, but the thin light-brown skin and total lack of claws or effective teeth were not impressive. What made this human so powerful?

There had to be something, he knew, some reason for the prisoners to hold Rangers in such high regard. Part of it had to be courage; he'd been told, while the man was en route, that he had already consented to the Ordeal, a decision n.o.body had expected him to make so quickly.

There had even been some betting that he would refuse.

The plain, forest-green uniform revealed when the man's s.p.a.cesuit was off was functional, Hovan noticed with approval, its only decoration the platinum star-in-circle badge on the man's left breast, the symbol of his rank. Best, though, was the fact that Tarlac was armed, showing he regarded them as true fighters.

That eased Hovan's mind. Ka'ruchaya Yarra had told him to judge the Terran he would meet, and if he found the man worthy, to offer adoption into Ch'kara. It would be an unprecedented honor for Hovan, as well as the Terran, if that happened; adoption was a Clan Mother's privilege, delegated sometimes to another female, never in Hovan's knowledge to a male.

He had told no one about his mission from Yarra. He still had trouble believing that he might bring a new member into the clan . . .

He'd had no difficulty being a.s.signed as the Ranger's escort and teacher. Since humans were considered poor fighters, at least individually--and with a few outstanding exceptions--the job carried no status, and when he had indicated willingness to do it, the task became his. He'd been teased about it, not seriously; he'd proven himself often enough that n.o.body grudged him what they thought would be easy duty.

Tarlac watched the Traiti stow the suit before turning to the commando squad with a claw-extending gesture, to say something in a tonal language that told the Ranger where the lilting Traiti version of Imperial English came from. If these people were singers, he thought, they'd be good. Singing didn't seem to fit in with what the Empire knew of the Traiti as ruthless, bloodthirsty killers, and language was hardly a reliable indicator of such things, of course--but still, it seemed incongruous. Tarlac hadn't thought about it much, but he supposed he would have expected their language to be as sharp as their teeth and claws.

The commandos fell in around the Ranger, and at another extended-claw gesture from Hovan, the whole group moved toward the Hermnaen's control central. Tarlac rather wished the Team-Leader would leave his claws retracted. He'd seen Traiti claws in action once, and didn't enjoy being reminded of the incident.

That had been on Ra after a ferocious ground battle, when the search team he was with found a seriously wounded Traiti. He'd looked so badly hurt that he couldn't move, so the team's medics didn't bother stunning him before beginning first aid. When the Ranger heard screams it was already too late; both medics were dead, one's throat torn out, the other's belly opened, and three Marines were down. By that time the Traiti was going for Tarlac, claws raking air toward the man's face.

Trained reflexes had taken over then. Rangers might not be experts in one-on-one combat, but they could make a creditable showing; Tarlac had done a tuck-and-roll, bringing his blaster out to save his own life by a fraction of a second as he fired pointblank, killing the Traiti.

Now here he was, aboard a Traiti wars.h.i.+p, surrounded by a squad of the fearsome warriors and going voluntarily, if with no great enthusiasm, to an Ordeal that he suspected, despite Fleet-Captain Arjen's a.s.surances, would cost him his life. Brooding on it would do no good, though, so Tarlac turned his attention to his surroundings.

The s.h.i.+p was surprisingly unwarlike, by Terran standards. Sky blue, as far as Tarlac was concerned, wasn't exactly a military color. And not even Sovereign-cla.s.s cruisers, used during peacetime for such things as long-distance exploration and disaster aid, had pa.s.sageways that doubled as art galleries. At the Traiti squad's pace, he didn't have time to examine the pictures, but he observed that all of them seemed well-done and the subject matter was varied: landscapes, battle and s.p.a.ce scenes, figures. The Ranger couldn't help thinking of the commonest subjects as Madonnas, although they didn't seem religious.

The ones with naked infants or nursing children made him uncomfortable; on Terra and even in most of the older colonies, such things weren't shown in public.

Despite his unease, Tarlac studied the pictures as well as he could during the walk. Unlikely as it seemed, he might somehow return to the Empire, and if that happened, any information he could bring back would be valuable to the socio and anthro specialists. That included information on Traiti art. He didn't have a specialist's training himself, but Ranger Linda Ellman, who'd taught him to appreciate art, had given him some understanding of how revealing artistic conventions could be. He knew enough to wonder at the prevalence of Madonnas--and at the total lack of abstract, impressionist, and other non-representational art forms.

By the time he got that far, they were at the bridge. So many control consoles grouped around what had to be a control central couldn't be anything else. Yet even here, the surroundings were totally unwarlike--by Terran standards, Tarlac reminded himself. The sunny yellow color scheme was more noticeable now than it had been when he'd talked to them from the Lindner. It made the Traiti uniforms, both the s.h.i.+p crew's dark gray and the commandos' gray-green, seem even drabber by comparison.

Tarlac and Hovan were the only two to enter the bridge itself; the rest of the commandos, their guard duty done, left. Had it been an honor guard? Tarlac wondered. There had been nothing to indicate the contrary.

Arjen rose as the Ranger approached, inclining his head but not repeating the full formal salute. Then he gestured toward the large repeater screen, which showed Jean Willis, still wearing her grimmest face. Tarlac had a good idea of what she was thinking. The Traiti had the Ranger they wanted, for whatever their real purpose might be. It didn't make sense for them to keep their word, release a fully-operational enemy battle cruiser. But he couldn't have pa.s.sed up even so remote a chance . . .

Arjen turned, to face Willis' image directly. "The condition met has been, s.h.i.+p-Captain. You free to go now are."

Willis didn't look as if she believed it, but she gave orders to have Terra's coordinates fed into the helm. Then she searched the repeater screen, still wearing a troubled expression. "Ranger--?"

Tarlac moved to stand beside Arjen, the beginnings of hope allowing him to smile. "I'm all right, Captain. Your log'll show everything, including this, but I'll make it an order anyway. Return to Terra."

That didn't seem to make Willis any happier, but she couldn't argue with a Ranger's direct order. "Yes, sir." She turned to Olorun.

"Execute transition."

Arjen showed no reaction to the Lindner's departure before he gave Tarlac his full attention. "To this s.h.i.+p welcome be, Ranger. You have Team-Leader Hovan met; he has said, he will you escort and teach. If you to him object, I will another a.s.sign."

Tarlac glanced up at the apparently impa.s.sive commando beside him, then looked back at Arjen. He could hardly dislike the Team-Leader he'd barely met. "I don't object. I'd be honored." It wouldn't hurt to be polite, especially since it was beginning to look as if he were actually what Arjen had called him, a guest. For no reason he could name, he inclined his head and touched fingertips to his brow.

Hovan suppressed a gasp of astonishment and heard some around the bridge that weren't suppressed. How could a Terran know to accept hospitality in the proper way? Unless the Lords . . . No, such a thing was far too unimportant for the Lords to concern themselves with.

Arjen's hands covered the Ranger's briefly in response to the gesture, and the moment was over.

It had to be a fortunate coincidence, not important but a demonstration of the Terran's willingness to take his part in Traiti life. Hovan thought about the adoption, and quickly decided that he shouldn't offer it so soon. Two things, significant as they might be, weren't enough to prove this human worthy of a clan as old and honored as Ch'kara. He needed more, especially if the Ranger was to join as a candidate for the Ordeal of Honor. Hovan had been given a solemn responsibility for the clan's choice; he had to be certain he was right when he made his decision. And he had the time for that; Homeworld was more than a tenday away.

"If you will then me excuse," Arjen said formally, "I still much to do have. I the freedom of the s.h.i.+p you give."

"Thank you." There was no more doubt in Tarlac's mind that he was a guest. He still had his gun and was, it seemed, to be allowed to roam freely. He turned to his escort. "I'm at your disposal, Team-Leader.

What do we do now?"

"It past my normal duty-time is, and I hungry am," was the reply. "I food need, and sleep. If you something else prefer, one of my men some English speaks; he can as temporary escort for you act."

Tarlac's internal clock said it was mid-afternoon, but this was as good a time as any to start changing his diurnal rhythms. "That's not necessary, Team-Leader."

"Then come," Hovan said, and Traiti and human left the bridge.

Hovan's long strides didn't give Tarlac much time to study art on the way to the dining area, but he saw more than he had earlier, since he was no longer surrounded by bodies. The new data didn't change his initial impression, but he had already started to adapt to the Madonna pictures that'd disturbed him. That was no real surprise; s.p.a.cers in general were more adaptable than ground-pounders--they had to be--and Rangers excelled at that, as at almost everything. Given the need and a little time, he could adapt to any humanly-conceivable circ.u.mstances . . . though of course some things took longer than others.

So far, Tarlac was finding nothing too difficult in the Traiti pattern.

He suspected that he might, when he got deeper into their culture.

This business of adoption, for instance--why should he have to join a clan to take their Ordeal?

And why wait to find out, or anyway to learn whether he could find out?

Hovan was supposed to be his teacher in such matters. As they pa.s.sed pictures and corridor intersections and doors labeled in the angular Traiti script, Tarlac spoke. "The Fleet-Captain says I'll have to be a member of one of your clans to take the Ordeal. Can you tell me why?"