Fearful Symmetry Part 5

"There's something I don't understand. Granted, I'm here as Fleet-Captain Arjen's guest, and I've agreed to take the Ordeal. But I'm still your enemy. If one of you had come to us, 'persuaded' the way I was, at the very least you'd have been disarmed and guarded, instead of being given the freedom of the s.h.i.+p. For all you know, I could be planning some kind of sabotage."

Hovan smiled. "That you such a possibility raise, shows you would not it do."

"That's not always a safe a.s.sumption to make," Tarlac said. "In this case it is, yes, and I'd like to think it always was--but I've already told you most humans don't have a sense of honor like yours. A lot of people would bring up that sort of objection just to lull suspicion."

"So much we have from prisoners learned," Hovan agreed. "But we have also learned, from the tiny ferocious ones who themselves Sandemans call, that Rangers only devious are when there no other choice is. And you no reason for deception have."

"More precisely, we'll be misleading when it's in the Empire's interest--which isn't often. And even then, we keep it to the absolute minimum; people have to know that when one of us makes a definite statement, it's binding." Interesting, Tarlac thought, that the beings humans thought of as merciless killers considered the Sandemans ferocious. On the other hand, there was no way he'd care to face a battleprepped Sandeman warrior himself, in anything less than s.h.i.+elded power armor . . . "Not to mention which, it's both easier and safer to be direct, especially with warriors. Like them, for instance."

"They much like us are," Hovan said, smiling again. "If you do peace bring, I think we and they will good friends become."

Tarlac had a sudden mental picture of a Traiti trading war stories and combat techniques with one of the small dark-skinned blonds--and it seemed more an inevitable picture than an odd one. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you did," he agreed. "But you still haven't told me why I'm being so well treated."

"That simple is. You to us armed came, and you have honor shown; we could no less honor show."

There was no way Tarlac could reply to that. He had already begun to believe that he could trust these people's honor where he'd be reluctant to trust a human's obedience to law. Hovan's calm statement only added to that conviction.

Another Traiti indicated that he had a question. Hovan listened, gestured sharply, and spoke, then turned to the Ranger. "This more personal is than the other questions. He asks if you have children fathered."

"I don't mind; no, I haven't." Of course, Tarlac thought. With that s.e.x ratio, parenthood could easily be a sensitive subject for males.

"I'm not married, and even if I were, I don't think I'd . . . Well, anyway, having children when I'm on Terra so little wouldn't be fair to them. Being a Ranger's child wouldn't make up for having a father--or mother--who's gone all the time. That's partly why none of us has a family."

There was a soft murmur, this time sounding sympathetic, and the next question was on an entirely different subject. "The furred four-footers with two tongues--what purpose serve they?"

"Cloudcats? You must have captured some, yeah." Ondrian hadn't been involved in any of the fighting, but cloudcats roamed all through the Empire. "They don't serve a purpose. Part of their bargain for certain human rights on their planet, Ondrian, was their right to travel on Imperial Navy s.h.i.+ps any time. I suppose you could call them observers."

"They intelligent are?"

Tarlac could hear astonishment even in the original questioner's voice.

"Of course. Didn't anyone tell you?" Then he realized they probably hadn't asked. The first Ondrian colonists had thought the cloudcats unintelligent predators; why shouldn't the Traiti have a.s.sumed the same thing, or maybe decided they were pets? "Yes, they're intelligent.

They can't talk; they use their tongues for gestural communication, and to handle things. They're outstanding artists, too." If some of his speculations were correct, that might mean more to the Traiti than to many humans.

Hovan translated, then turned to the human. "We some as captives took and caged. We hurt them not, yet have them as animals treated. We must that change, or dishonor suffer. Can we with them communicate?"

"Most English understand--" Tarlac broke off. "Oh, h.e.l.l, I'm starting to adapt to your speech patterns. I'm not trying to make fun of you.

If I've offended, I'm sorry."

"There no offense is," Hovan said calmly. "Go on."

"Okay. Most of them understand English, and can indicate yes and no.

That's about all you can expect unless one of your human or Irschchan prisoners is familiar with tongue-talk." Tarlac grinned. "We made that mistake too. We lost some time by it, but it wasn't a disaster.

They may even have picked up some of your language by now. They're fast learners."

After a few quick words from Hovan, one of his men rose, dressed, and left. Tarlac gathered he was going to tell someone with more authority about the cloudcats immediately, and Hovan confirmed it.

There wasn't much talk after that, the serious questions seeming to have run out, and in the shuffle that followed of Traiti settling into their bedrolls for the night, Tarlac spent a moment considering his surprise at their action. The Traiti hadn't waited a night or even an hour to correct something which surely was not an urgent mistreatment.

The cloudcats were comfortable, Hovan said, even if they were confined; the human prisoners were almost certainly confined somehow, too.

Merely treating intelligent beings as nonsapient was a cause for dishonor, it seemed, which spoke well of Traiti honor. True, the dishonor might be in underestimating a possible enemy--but that didn't quite seem to fit, somehow.

When the messenger returned and had taken his place in the sleeping room, Hovan touched a control on the bulkhead to darken the room. Then he said a couple of words, and all but Tarlac joined him in what the Ranger thought could be a prayer, a chant, or a song. Whatever it was, he liked it; the sounds in the musical Traiti language evoked peace.

When it was over, the room grew quiet.

By Tarlac's inner clock, though, it was still too early to sleep. And so much had happened that he wasn't sure he could have slept if it were late for him instead. So he lay there in the dark silence, hands linked behind his head, and let his thoughts wander.

He had plenty to think about, and not enough solid facts to make any conclusions reliable. Most of what he'd learned only served to raise further questions. The Ordeal was the key to the whole thing; Fleet-Captain Arjen had said as much. And it was dangerous, Arjen made no secret of that--but how dangerous? Aside from the fact that it left scars and wasn't universal, he knew little about it. Had they tested any other humans before deciding to try a Ranger? If so, what had happened? He had no way of knowing.

Then there was the evident contrast between battle-readiness in men and s.h.i.+p, and the obvious concern for mental comfort in the s.h.i.+p's decoration. Being a generalist, not a xenopsych, Tarlac could only wonder about it. Still, morale was as vital as guns, and he had to admit that the s.h.i.+pboard art gallery was no more unlikely than the forested recreation areas on the Sovereign-cla.s.s cruisers. It was less s.p.a.ce-consuming, as well, though to a s.h.i.+p the size of a battle cruiser that wasn't really significant. On the other hand, despite their designation, IBCs weren't purely battle craft, and were often sent on long-haul non-combat missions. This s.h.i.+p and the others in the Traiti fleet, from what he'd seen, were wars.h.i.+ps, pure and simple. If nothing else, they just didn't have the size to be either multi-purpose or long-duration.

That made him think. Unless the Traiti were a lot more fragile psychologically than any human thought, such concern with amenities on a wars.h.i.+p was out of character. They might be more alien than other evidence indicated--or a lot more aesthetic. He couldn't believe they were all that fragile psychologically, and his current close contact was showing less, rather than more, underlying alienness. That left the last possibility, that these ferocious fighters were also artists.

If there were any parallels at all with Terra, that could be true.

History showed plenty of military men, on any side in any war, who had expressed themselves through art. Tarlac could think of several offhand, just from the last World War: Hirohito, poet; Mauldin, cartoonist; Eisenhower and Churchill, both painters; and Hitler, architect. It seemed plausible that art was as important here in everyday surroundings as it seemed; he would use that as a working hypothesis unless he found evidence to the contrary.

Then there were the few hints he had about family life. It was important, that was obvious, and he couldn't help speculating, despite almost total lack of data, on what it was like. There was strong clan structure, yes, but "clan" covered a lot of territory. With the low proportion of women and the touchiness about parenthood, the setup might be like the old Arabian sheikdoms, with women belonging to the dominant males and kept in a kind of protective custody, used as breeding machines.

He didn't like that picture, though he knew a lot of human men would find it an attractive fantasy. Still, under the circ.u.mstances, it seemed like a reasonable a.s.sumption.

Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, as his thoughts went back to his earlier misgivings. Dammit, he didn't want to brood about that! Sure, bringing peace would be worth his life; plenty of others had paid that price, without the half-promise he had.

He'd have to follow them into final nothingness eventually, and he'd go without protest if he knew it would mean the end of this ten-year slaughter--but it wouldn't.

He couldn't die, not if he was to bring peace. He had to live, to survive an Ordeal that sometimes killed beings as tenacious of life as the sharks they resembled. It helped, knowing that they wanted him to succeed--and why shouldn't they? It was their race's survival that was at stake, not humanity's.

If it was possible, he promised himself, he'd do it. He had a brief vision of himself at a Grand Audience afterward, approaching the Emperor accompanied by several shadowy Traiti. He was in full formal uniform, his dress cloak brus.h.i.+ng the carpet--but his s.h.i.+rt was open, neatly arranged to show the four scars down his chest, and he let himself smile at the image. Wouldn't the newsies and protocol perfectionists be upset!

But that was enough of that; he really should try to rest. It had been a rough day, a strain on even a Ranger's ability to adapt. Stretched out in the dark, surrounded by the soft rhythms of breathing and the somehow rea.s.suring smell of clean bodies, Tarlac felt his tension ease.

Only then did he realize just how much the strain had fatigued him, and it wasn't long before his own breathing joined the comfortable pattern of his sleeping companions'.

Chapter II

Hovan touched the light control, then rolled over on his mat and looked at the human in the growing wake-light. Steve was still asleep, curled on his side, half in and half out of the blanket, and he looked incredibly vulnerable. There were scars on the man's back, Hovan noted; studying them, he decided they had been deliberately inflicted, probably by some sort of lash. Perhaps that meant the Ranger was tougher than he looked, and had a better chance in the Ordeal than was generally believed. Hovan hoped so, since he found himself beginning to like the frail-seeming human who would soon be his ruhar.

He was glad, now, that he had never voiced his private doubts about Ka'ruchaya Yarra's decision to offer adoption to an alien and enemy.

He did wonder again why she had thought a human would be suitable, but she had left him no choice if he found the man worthy; to disobey her was unthinkable.

Apparently either his scrutiny or the wake-light had become too intense. Steve was beginning to stir, his eyes opening as he rolled over.

It was the light that had awakened Tarlac, to see Hovan smiling at him.

He smiled back. Thin as his mat was, it was as comfortable as the bed in his apartment at the Imperial Palace in Antarctica; he'd slept well.

"Morning, Hovan."

The Traiti was puzzled. "Yes, for this part of the crew."

"It's a greeting," Tarlac explained as he rose. "It doesn't mean too much any more; it's just a habit."

"I understand." Hovan was smiling again, also up now. So were the rest of the room's occupants, busy taking uniforms and gear from their lockers. Tarlac retrieved his own uniform from the cleaner in the bathing room and dressed, then returned to the sleeping room to put on his gun-and-equipment belt.