The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1

by Arlene F. Marks

  So it would be a nonviolent tekl’hananni after all. Holchuk blew out a sigh of sheer relief.

  “The Human will step forward,” said the Kalufah.

  He obeyed, just as another door slid open to admit four more huge Nandrians, leading a prisoner this time, hooded and in chains. The Human watched, fascinated, as the captive was dragged before the Kalufah and pushed to his knees.

  “Human, you wish to defend the honor of the House of Trokerk?” demanded the Kalufah.

  “I would die in the cause of honor,” Holchuk replied, still following the script.

  “This lorssh has betrayed our House and brought dishonor to the Fifth and Seventh Shields. You will avenge them.”

  There was no time even to utter a squeak of protest or confusion. Suddenly a sharp, bladed weapon was thrust into his hand; his fingers closed automatically around the leather-wrapped hilt. Clearly, some planning had gone into this test. The sword was light and perfectly balanced for a Human. In the next second, the hood was yanked off the prisoner’s head, and Holchuk found himself staring into a familiar pair of malevolent green eyes.

  It was Rostol.

  Several seconds later, Holchuk remembered to breathe. Somehow, he had managed to hold onto the sword; but he was pointing it downward, leaving himself open to attack. This was not a wise thing to do when facing a desperate criminal twice his size.

  Consciously filling his lungs, Holchuk raised the tip of his sword and held it centimeters away from Rostol’s neck. The Nandrian should already be dead. He had confessed to committing a capital crime, and Nandrian justice was swift and unrelenting. Many criminals were summarily executed on the way to their trial. And yet, here was Rostol, kneeling before Holchuk, very much alive. Clearly, a great deal of thought and planning had gone into this moment of vengeance.

  Perfect vengeance for a hartoon. The Relocation Authority had murdered his wife and stolen his child. Rostol had tried to kill a Human child. The Relocation Authority was beyond Holchuk’s reach. But Rostol was close by, an easy and deserving target for his wrath.

  Cling to your rage, little warrior.

  Holchuk could feel the Nandrians’ eyes on him. This was tekl’hananni, he reminded himself, a test of strength. They were watching him, judging his worthiness to join the Fifth Shield. And if he failed, millions of his people might die.

  No, not might die. Would die. Suddenly he knew, with gut-twisting certainty, where all the Nandrian fighter craft had gone.

  “Go ahead, kill me, Human,” snarled Rostol, rattling his chains. “Are you afraid? Look! I cannot harm you.”

  Holchuk’s blood was roaring in his ears. He forced himself to breathe steadily, to focus on the moment. He willed his sword hand not to waver. There was no room for error here. He would have to reason this through as if he were a Nandrian, behave as a Nandrian would. Remember, as a Nandrian would, that strength was nothing without honor.

  Remember that the cold-blooded killing of a helpless captive was still considered a crime on Nandor.

  “What is wrong with you, Human? Are you a coward?” Rostol taunted, his green eyes flashing.

  “I would be, if I killed you,” Holchuk replied softly.

  He dropped his sword arm to his side and turned toward the Kalufah. “I wish justice for the House of Trokerk, and for the Human female this lorssh tried to kill,” he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster. “But I also wish honor. Where is the honor for me in slaughtering a helpless prisoner? And where is the honor for Trokerk in allowing an off-worlder to take its vengeance?”

  For an endless moment, there was silence in the room as the Kalufah considered his words. Holchuk waited tautly, not even daring to breathe. At last, the Nandrian official drew himself up and declared, “The Human understands.”

  At that, a storm of wheezing and snorting broke out. Lower fangs were bared in approval. Rostol was hustled out of the room. Holchuk had survived tekl’hananni. Overwhelmed with relief, he would probably have collapsed to the floor if Nagor hadn’t reached out just then to give his shoulders a congratulatory squeeze.

  Then, abruptly, the assembly went quiet again. Another honor guard had entered, escorting a very old Nandrian, his proud posture belying the sagging skin on his face and neck. His facial armor was more ornament than protection, a band of gemstone-encrusted leather that covered his brow and hung down both cheeks. He was wrapped in a floor-length brown leather cape and carrying the living staff, and he gave off an aura of irresistible power. The Hak’kor of Trokerk. In the same instant, everyone in the room, including the Kalufah, fell to their knees.

  “The Houses will be joined,” decreed the Hak’kor.

  “They will be joined,” chorused all the Nandrians present.

  “Nagor ban Nagoram, you ask to be partnered with this Human?”

  Nagor rose, stepped forward and replied, “I wish it, Hak’kor.”

  “Gavin ban Samuel, come before me,” said the Hak’kor.

  Holchuk hurried to his feet and obeyed, wondering at the Hak’kor’s choice of words. According to Nagor, there had never before been an interspecies adoption by a Nandrian Shield. Perhaps neither Nandrian nor Gally had a word to describe accurately the relationship that would result. But — partnered?

  The Hak’kor looked him over carefully. “You have a mate,” the Hak’kor observed.

  For a second, Holchuk blanked. A mate? No. Risa was dead and he’d never— Suddenly his heart dropped, as he recalled: he’d told Nagor that Teri was his mate to give her Fifth Shield status and ensure she wouldn’t be bothered by drunken crewmembers. A harmless lie, but a lie nonetheless. He didn’t dare confess it now. If the Hak’kor had any reason to doubt his honor, he was a dead man.

  Swallowing hard, Holchuk stammered, “I— Yes, Hak’kor.”

  The Hak’kor looked displeased. He tilted his head and spat and snarled something at Nagor, who spat and snarled something back. This went on for a couple of minutes, as a tide of dread rose in Holchuk’s chest.

  Finally, Nagor stepped back, and the conversation resumed in Gally.

  “The Houses of Trokerk and Daisy Hub have enemies in common and therefore must ssalssin,” declared the Hak’kor. “Gavin ban Samuel, you wish to be partnered with this Nandrian?”

  Holchuk had no choice but to reply, “I wish it, Hak’kor.”

  “Then it will be. Nagor ban Nagoram of Trokerk, and Gavin ban Samuel of Daisy Hub, you will ssalssit essendi at the next full cycle.”

  Then the Hak’kor pounded the daylights out of the living staff on the floor, and it was done. Or begun. Holchuk had no idea what ssalssit essendi meant, or how long a full cycle was supposed to be. Clearly, however, his adoption wouldn’t be finalized until he and Nagor had performed this ritual activity.

  “Nagor ban Nagoram, I have many questions,” said Holchuk.

  “And I have many answers, Gavin ban Samuel. Unfortunately, there is no lemonade on the Hak’kor’s ship, so this will have to do.” His lower fangs bared, Nagor handed him a large mug filled to the brim with an amber-colored liquid that smelled strongly of vanilla.

  Holchuk took an experimental swallow and felt a river of fire flow down his throat and into his stomach. It was all he could do not to choke.

  “What is this called?” he asked Nagor as soon as he could speak again.

  “Whisky,” the Nandrian replied, tilting his head in puzzlement. “It is the Hak’kor’s favorite Human beverage. We trade for it on Carvellis 7.”

  Holchuk nearly laughed out loud. Vanilla-flavored whisky. Would wonders never cease?

  “Drink, my brother,” Nagor urged. “The feast begins when these are empty.”

  Holchuk glanced around the room and realized with dismay that he and Nagor were the only ones holding mugs. There looked to be nearly half a bottle of liquor in each one. On the other hand, he thought, this was a Nandrian feast; cons
idering what and how he was liable to be served, it would probably be better for everyone if he were toxed to the rafters before sitting down at the table.

  Chapter 25

  For hours after regaining consciousness on the Pet’silliar, Holchuk was sure he was dead and on his way to Hades. Once Nagor had managed to convince him that he was only on his way back to Daisy Hub, a single thought seized Holchuk’s mind and wouldn’t let go: Teri was going to kill him.

  Teri was going to kill him and the Doc was going to help her. Unless this hangover beat them both to it. Or something he’d eaten at the feast. He’d impressed the Hak’kor, Nagor told him, by fearlessly consuming whatever was put in front of him, including a couple of delicacies from the home world that were an acquired taste even for Nandrians. The whisky had apparently done its job — Holchuk’s memories of the evening were spotty at best, although he did have a vague recollection of something trying to escape from his plate. From the volcanic roiling in his stomach, he guessed that it was still trying to escape. And each time he burped, an unspeakable taste lingered in his mouth.

  Nagor accompanied him part of the way, to a moon where the Krronn was waiting to rendezvous. That left Holchuk alone for the remaining few hours of the journey, with sandpaper eyelids and a desert in his mouth and a stomach that hated his guts, running scenarios through his mind. Every last one of them ended with Teri cussing him out and then stomping out of the room.

  Not since Risa’s death had he met a woman who affected him the way Teri Mintz did. She was strong and smart and vulnerable, all at once. And she cared, about things and about people. Specifically, she seemed to care about him. Just knowing that gave him hope for the future. Perhaps, eventually, they could have had a relationship together — if Nagor hadn’t made him an offer he didn’t dare refuse, dragging him and Teri into ssalssit essendi. He hated the thought of even having to tell her about it. He wouldn’t blame her a bit if she refused to cooperate. She would probably turn her back on him because of it. And then, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Go hartoon, most likely.

  By the time the Pet’silliar had docked at Daisy Hub, Holchuk was perspiring all over and had a head that pounded like the bass drum in a marching band. He had hoped he might sneak aboard unnoticed, but it was not to be.

  Townsend and Ruby and the Doc all stood waiting for him as he stepped through the archway of docking module 2.

  Townsend was the first to speak. “Welcome back, Mr. Holchuk. You look—”

  “—terrible!” Ruby cut in. “What did those Nandrians do to you?”

  Her voice went like an electrical jolt directly to the pain centers of his brain. “Please, don’t shout,” he moaned. “I’m all right, really. It’s only a hangover. And something I ate.”

  “Uh-huh. Death by partying,” Ruby commented, exchanging an amused look with Townsend.

  “He needs to go directly to Med Services so I can check him out,” said the Doc briskly. “Come on, Gavin. You’ll feel a lot better with an antacid in your stomach.”

  With Ruby hanging onto one arm and the Doc gripping the other, Holchuk managed to get his legs moving again. “If you decide to pump my stomach, be careful,” he warned. “I think there’s something still alive down there.”

  “If they fed you, they must consider you family,” observed Ruby. “So, did they give you a new name?”

  He shook his head. “I need to talk to Townsend.”

  “I’m right here, Mr. Holchuk.” The station manager stepped into the tube car behind them and pressed H on the keypad.

  “And Teri. And you, Doc,” he continued miserably. “You’re all involved in this.”

  “Involved in what?” Ktumba demanded.

  “Did something go wrong out there?” asked Ruby.

  He drew in a long, shuddering breath. “It’s not finished. We have to talk.”

  Now Townsend was standing face to face, scowling fiercely at him. “Were you adopted? Yes or no.”

  “It’s a long story, boss man.”

  “Then cut to the bottom line, Mr. Holchuk. Are the Nandrians still our friends?”

  “Not exactly,” he sighed unhappily. “They’re our in-laws.”

  Beside him, Ruby stifled a laugh.

  After a moment of shocked silence, the Doc said wonderingly, “You got married? To a Nandrian?”

  “Actually, we both did. Nagor told the Hak’kor that Teri was my Human mate.”

  “And now you’re a threesome,” remarked the Doc drily. “Lovely.”

  “Gavin, I’m surprised at you,” Ruby scolded, still suppressing laughter. “You should at least have brought the bride back some wedding cake.”

  ***

  “Let me understand this,” said Townsend, frowning. “When a Nandrian says ‘brother’, he really means ‘spouse’?”

  Holchuk sighed wearily and lay back on the pillow Ruby had kindly plumped for him. It was the only sympathy he would get for the next while, at least. He knew he looked awful; he felt even worse. Having determined that the alien food hadn’t poisoned him, Doc Ktumba had given him something for the headache and an antacid for his stomach. She had no magical cures, she told him reprovingly, for people who abused their bodies with alcohol.

  Teri had arrived in Med Services moments earlier and taken up a position near the foot of his medbed. Now that they were all assembled, he could begin the explanation.

  “It’s a translation glitch. Nandrians aren’t a gendered species. But we can’t call them ‘it’ because that would be an insult of the worst kind. So, Gally has made them all masculine. When two males create a family-type bond between them, in Ameranglo as well as in Gally, they become brothers. That was what I thought Nagor wanted to do — adopt me into his Shield as his brother.”

  “But you were mistaken,” Townsend summed up. “So what have we got here? Define the problem for me.”

  Holchuk nearly laughed. Define the problem? This Townsend fellow was no spy — he was a bloody bureaucrat.

  “It doesn’t fit into a box, boss man,” he growled. “We have a joining of two Houses, in accordance with Nandrian tradition. An alliance between the House of Trokerk and the House of Daisy Hub, which will be officially sealed by the brotherhood between Nagor and myself, as soon as we have completed the final ritual, ssalssit essendi.”

  Townsend’s eyebrows rose in disbelief before dropping into a scowl. “The House of Daisy Hub?” he repeated. “Can they do that? Simply declare that we’re a House and form an alliance with us?”

  “Apparently they can, since they just did. The Hak’kor seemed reluctant, but he said it was necessary because we share common enemies.”

  “Aww! And here I thought we didn’t have an enemy in the galaxy,” declared Ruby with a mocking grin.

  “There are some aboard this Hub who would call Earth an enemy,” the Doc added quietly.

  “Enemies, plural,” Holchuk pointed out.

  Townsend had begun to pace. “Earth will be our enemy if the Council ever learns that we’ve made an independent alliance with the Nandrians,” he pointed out.

  “Earth wouldn’t waste any ammunition on an outpost like this,” countered Ruby.

  Townsend shook his head. “They wouldn’t have to — all they’d have to do is cut off our supply of lemon juice. Face it, people, what else do we have that the Nandrians might want? I mean, yes, it clearly benefits us to be allied with a much stronger power — but how can it possibly benefit the Nandrians to join with us?”

  Holchuk bit back the first answer that came into his mouth and said instead, “The Nandrians see an advantage in it, boss man, besides the lemonade, and that’s all that matters.”

  Teri had been standing quietly at the foot of Holchuk’s medbed, listening to the discussion with visibly growing impatience. Finally, she blurted out, “I think we should complete the ritual and cement the alliance. Earth Counci
l has left us hanging out here like laundry on the line. If the Nandrians are looking for allies, that probably means there’s going to be a war, and if there’s going to be a war, we’ll need all the friends we can get.”

  “Even if it means making ourselves a target for the other side?” Ruby challenged.

  Holchuk opened his mouth to point out that Daisy Hub had always been a target, and an easy one at that; but the woman he’d nicknamed ‘Tiger’ leaped in ahead of him, claws unsheathed.

  “Would you rather just waste away out here, doing routine maintenance and playing I Dare You with the Rangers?” she retorted. “The Nandrians are giving us the opportunity to stand for something, to make a difference. I say, let’s take it, and damn the consequences.”

  Townsend stopped pacing and exchanged a look with the Doc. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “So, what exactly does this ritual involve, Holchuk?”

  This was the part he’d dreaded telling them. He’d spent much of the voyage home trying out and rejecting introductory lines. Hey, Teri, remember how you said you’d always wanted to be a mother?

  Holchuk took a deep breath and dived in: “Traditionally, when there is an alliance between two Nandrian Houses, a member of each one’s First or Second Shield is chosen, and they partner up and exchange eggs. All Nandrians have ovulation cycles. Once every ten standard years or so, a Nandrian produces an egg, which must then be fertilized by another Nandrian. The cycles are staggered, so that some of the adults in each House get to reproduce every year. The next egg that Nagor produces will be presented to me for fertilization, and he will expect me to have an egg ready for him to fertilize as well. Once they’ve both hatched, the alliance will be sealed, and the living young will symbolize its fruitfulness.”

  The Doc was frowning now, and shaking her head. “Gavin, they must know that this is impossible. They’re oviparous. Humans are viviparous. Besides, and most importantly, you can’t ovulate.”

  “They know that. But they also know that we’re a gendered species, and they believe that I’m mated with a female, who does ovulate.”