Fearful Symmetry Part 22

"Later, Steve." Hovan smiled too, pus.h.i.+ng sweat-damp hair away from the man's face. "Rest now, I said. It is over."

"Yeah . . . guess so. Worth it, though . . . worth it all. 'M tired . . . so tired . . . gotta sleep . . ." Tarlac's eyes closed and he sighed, going utterly limp.

"Steve?"

There was no answer; Hovan had known there wouldn't be. He had seen too many people die to hold false hopes, and only concern for his ruhar's honor kept him from voicing his outrage to the Lords, his brief but bitter anger at the injustice of their letting Steve complete the Ordeal only to die in his arms.

The human doctor had no such qualms. He turned on Hovan, furious.

"Satisfied, you d.a.m.n Shark? In a hospital I could maybe still save him--not here! No human could survive that kind of pain, system shock, bleeding--not without help! He's dead, and you killed him!"

"Steve wished to bring peace," Hovan interrupted, in English suddenly as fluent as his Language. He noticed it, briefly, but in his anger and sorrow it didn't seem to matter. "The Ordeal was his only chance, and he took that chance knowing this was possible--thinking it was inevitable. Do not dishonor his memory--instead, represent his Empire at his leavetaking."

"What the h.e.l.l-- You mean that, don't you?" Dr. Jason didn't want to believe it, but the Traiti's soft voice, the way he still cradled the Ranger's head, wouldn't allow disbelief. "You're sorry he died!"

"I cared for him, yes," Hovan said. "His death is a thing of much sadness, yet he went to it in full honor, and in his clan. None can expect more from the Lords." He stood, picking up Steve's slight body.

"Will you honor him with us?"

"I . . . yes. You're right. Someone from the Empire should be there."

"Good." Hovan turned and left the gathering hall, taking Steve's body to a small room nearby to carry out a sponsor's most distasteful duty-- of preparing the one he sponsored, when that one succ.u.mbed, for Presentation and Transformation. The preparations he had been so sure would not be needed had of course been made; the room held what was required. A large table held a container of water with cloths beside it, and the Ranger's uniform was hanging up.

Hovan stripped the body and began to wash it, working as gently as if the man could still feel. Then he dressed Steve Tarlac in the forest green of his Imperial rank, leaving the s.h.i.+rt open to show the man's wounds.

Finished, he inspected the body carefully. Yes, everything was proper.

The uniform was spotless, the badge and leather items polished to a high gloss, the gun fully charged. His ruhar would go before the Lords as a Cor'naya of Ch'kara should. He picked up the body again and returned to the foot of the altar dais.

The Supreme, the First Speaker, and Dr. Jason were no longer on the newly-cleaned dais. Transformation was a clan matter; they could observe, but not partic.i.p.ate. Instead, Ka'ruchaya Yarra and Speaker Daria were there. Hovan bowed his head to them, then looked up and spoke the ritual words. "I bring Esteban Tarlac of Clan Ch'kara to the Circle of Lords. He has given honor to the clan."

"We sorrow at his loss," Yarra said, "yet we glory in that honor." She turned to the Speaker. "As Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara, I ask the Lords to receive this man, my ruesten."

Daria inclined her head. "The Lords welcome those who die in honor.

Who, Ka'ruchaya, do you choose to present him?"

"He who is closest to him, who shares his blood and bears him now."

Hovan thanked her silently for that. While it was the Ka'ruchaya's choice, tradition suggested that the oldest male present perform that final service for the dead.

The Speaker and Ka'ruchaya drew back to allow him to pa.s.s with his burden. He climbed the steps and crossed the dais slowly, to lay his ruhar's body on the lower level of the altar. Then he made his farewells, touching Steve's wounded chest and his forehead. Finally he stepped back and made obeisance to the figures on the upper level, a formal bow.

A s.h.i.+mmering appeared around the body, hazing its outlines but not obscuring it, as Hovan moved to stand at the end of the altar near Steve's head. He would hold vigil there until, at this time the next day, the Lords would take the man to themselves in a flare of blue.

Chapter IX

Was he dead?

Since every definition Tarlac had ever heard referred to the physical body, and since his was undoubtedly a corpse, he supposed the answer would have to be yes.

But he didn't feel dead. He wasn't in that body any longer; he was a good two meters above it, held there by an immensely powerful, immensely benevolent presence. In the normal course of events, he somehow knew, he'd go elsewhere--to wherever his self found most comfortable or fitting--but for some reason he was supposed to remain here.

Traiti took leave of a clanmate as they greeted a new one, by touching--in his case, touching forehead and wounds as Hovan had, to show respect for one who had died in the Ordeal. Tarlac wanted to tell them that no farewell was necessary, that he was still there and he'd help them survive the coming defeat.

The presence wouldn't let him; the time was not yet right. Instead, he was drawn away, out of Ch'kara's gathering hall and through some kind of interface, to what looked almost like a grove of oak trees on Terra.

It wasn't; the light was wrong. No, he corrected himself, that wasn't it. Everything was too right. What he could see wasn't brighter as much as clearer, and his surroundings--the trees, the gra.s.s, even the sky--seemed to have a vibrant internal luminance. This was beauty of a kind no planet could hold, pure and utterly serene.

He might not know what was going on, Tarlac decided, but if this was death, there was a lot to be said for it. He'd have liked to have a body, though, to let him feel and smell as he could somehow see.

There was a feeling of amused agreement, and he did have a body. So did the eleven Traiti now in the grove with him, three females and seven n'Cor'naya, all of whom shared the luminance of the grove. He knew without looking that he did too, and that he was dressed as his original body was, in open-s.h.i.+rted uniform. He also knew by now who these people were; their images stood on the upper tier of every Traiti altar.

"Welcome, Ruhar," said the one Tarlac recognized as the presence which had brought him here. The voice was as clear and pure as the light.

"And welcome to your place in the Circle of Lords."

Tarlac recognized him from the statuettes and from his Vision. He took a deep breath of the sweet, vital air before he spoke. "My place, Lord Kranath? I'm human, not Traiti."

"In body," Kranath agreed, smiling. "In mind you are both, and have been since your conception. We insured that. The human body on Ch'kara's altar means nothing. Here you--and we--can be either. Think of yourself as Traiti, Ruhar."

Remembering his Vision of being Kranath, and before that the time at the altar when he'd felt as much Traiti as human, Tarlac did as he was told. There was a brief indescribable sensation, and when he ran his tongue over sharp triangular teeth, he realized that his experience as Kranath, impressive as it had been, was only a shadow of this-- seeming?--reality. He touched his face, ran fingertips along the scars on his chest, extended and retracted powerful claws . . . yes, this body felt as appropriate as his own. And the grove's other occupants were now in human bodies.

His place, Tarlac thought bemusedly. He didn't think he quite liked that idea, and for a moment he let himself indulge in a fantasy that he hadn't died but was in the middle of a hypoxia-induced hallucination.

It didn't last; he knew that what he was experiencing was quite real.

He was in a Traiti body that fit him perfectly well, though he'd prefer the familiarity of his human form.

He felt the sensation of change again, and the glade's Traiti and human Lords returned to the bodies they'd first had. "One's original form is usually best," Kranath agreed calmly.

"You have accepted that we exist," Sepol--Lord of the Ordeal--put in.

"And you have accepted the abilities of those who went before. Why, then, are you so reluctant to accept the fact that we have called you to join us?"

Tarlac shrugged. "The same reason, I guess, that I don't like the idea of G.o.ds who interfere in mortal affairs. It goes against my grain."

"Relax, Steve," Lord Carle--Tarlac would have said Lady, in English--advised him. "What we do is less different from your earlier work than you can yet realize. And you have time to ease your mind before you absorb the knowledge and powers you are heir to. Sit and drink, Ruhar."

When a tall, cold gla.s.s of green liquid appeared in his hand, Tarlac accepted it and sipped. The taste of authentic mint julep recalled the only Kentucky Derby he'd seen in person, shortly before the war; a magnificent chestnut filly named Lady Jess had won.

He let himself enjoy the drink in peace, relaxing his mind as Carle had suggested. If she was right, and he had no reason to think otherwise, he'd know everything soon. He sat crosslegged on the gra.s.s, thinking.

Now he knew what the First Speaker had meant when she called him "child of two worlds"--and he remembered that before his adoption, Arjen had accepted that Daria's telling Yarra about him had been no breach of security. The Lords, as Traiti clearly knew, told their Speakers far more than the Speakers pa.s.sed on. But it seemed odd--

"No," Kranath interrupted the forming thought, "neither bodies nor refreshment are truly necessary. They are pleasant, though, and we often create them." He smiled again, and Tarlac could feel his amus.e.m.e.nt. "Those who went before left us G.o.dhome, which gave us awesome power, but we remain, if you will excuse the expression, human.

We see no reason to deny ourselves such things. Since mind is the architect of reality, we construct what pleases us."

"Mind is the architect of reality." Tarlac took another sip of his julep, then thought about it becoming a mug of coffee. It responded to his will, and he drank; it was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.

"You see?" Sepol said gently. "You are one of us, Lord Esteban, and that fact no longer disturbs you."

Tarlac started to contradict him, then he realized Sepol was right. He did accept what he was--and what he was to become. He still wished they'd explain a few things, though. Why they'd taught him Language, why he'd really had to take the Ordeal, why he'd been rushed through it, and most importantly, why he had been called to the Circle.