by Sharon Lee
* * *
The captain entered, walking more softly than previously, a pack balanced on one—no.
A small creature sat as tall as it could on her shoulder, one hand gripping her hair, while it looked about with bright, knowing eyes. It wore no uniform, but was furred, like Grakow. Unlike Grakow, the fur was ginger-colored, heavily striped with grey.
Chernak felt a thrill of dread. The Enemy had created creatures to carry out their work. Many of them had been designed a-purpose to look harmless, even ridiculous. Chernak herself had seen a being she had taken for a child bring down a battle wall with a wave of its tiny hand, and flip an armored personnel carrier onto its roof with a single, disdainful glance.
They had been fortunate, so they learned later, to have escaped that action with their lives. More children, so the scuttlebutt went, had appeared once the first had done its work. As many as six children, but no fewer than four, had walked over the fallen walls, into the center of the stronghold, buildings and walls and soldiers collapsing wherever they passed.
Chernak heard Stost, whose memory was every bit as good as hers, draw a careful breath as Captain Waitley dropped to one knee and helped the creature down to the floor.
“Ambassador Hevelin,” the captain said, rising lightly to her feet, “before you are Pathfinder Chernak and Pathfinder Stost.” She looked to them. “You may greet him in your own language, Pathfinders. He will understand your intent.”
Chernak stiffened her spine and brought her fist to her shoulder in salute.
“Ambassador Hevelin, Chernak Pathfinder greets you.”
Stost made a similar greeting, and then spoke to the captain.
“Grakow naps. Does the ambassador wish to go to him, or will I bring him to the ambassador?”
The captain tipped her head, as if listening in a range unavailable to sharp pathfinder ears.
“No,” she said. “Stost had sleep-learning this shift; he’s on anomaly watch.”
There was another space of silence, to which the captain listened intently before looking up and meeting Chernak’s gaze.
“He will speak with you, Pathfinder. If I understand correctly, he believes that Grakow will join us when communication is established.”
Chernak cleared her throat, staring at the furry biped.
“How,” she said hoarsely. “How is communication established?”
“Good question,” said Captain Waitley. “Hevelin communicates…directly, through emotions, and through…” She paused, frowning, as if searching for a word. Finally, she turned her hands palm up and said, “Illusion.”
Chernak stared, but the captain seemed to find nothing at all disturbing in what she had just said. Did the creature control them all, then? Would it fall to them to contain the crew, commandeer the ship, or…
“Norbears,” said Joyita, “are harmless, Pathfinders.”
Chernak flicked a glance toward him. He met her gaze, calm and untroubled. Joyita, whose comprehension and accent in a language strange to him grew nearly by the breath. Captain Waitley, who shared that rapid gain of knowledge…
…and the small furry creature, who communicated by means of emotion and illusion?
Had they escaped the Enemy after all?
Or had the Enemy set agents of itself into the fabric of the Exodus, to continue its war against life on a new front?
“Captain,” she said. “I—we have protections against such things as…direct communication and illusion. Resistance is automatic and may be…violent. I am unwilling to harm any of this ship’s company. Stost will bring Grakow for the ambassador…”
Was that wise, she asked herself, even as she made the offer? What would direct communication with an animal achieve?
While she was wondering if she wanted to know the answer to that question, a dark shadow moved at the edge of her vision, low.
She glanced down as Grakow strolled into the room—and stopped, ears pricked forward and whiskers quivering, his attention on Hevelin the norbear.
Hevelin the norbear uttered a low-pitched sound—“murble-murble-murble”—and dropped onto all fours. It—he—halved the distance to Grakow, then abruptly sat down on the rug.
Captain Waitley also sat, camp-fashion, feet tucked comfortably under knees. She looked up, first to Chernak, then to Stost, and patted the rug. The meaning was plain; they also sat on the floor.
Grakow did not close the gap entirely. Ears still sharp, he moved two careful steps toward the norbear, while sidling to the right, so that his side pressed lightly against Chernak’s thigh. There he stopped, sat, wrapped his tail neatly around his toes, and yawned.
Captain Waitley was heard to laugh.
“Grakow is not impressed,” she said, possibly to Hevelin.
His vocalizations, however, only became louder, and Chernak found herself soothed somewhat. In that, the sound was like Grakow’s purrs. Perhaps that was what interested the cat.
Hevelin again halved the gap. Grakow offered no complaint, nor any visible sign of welcome.
Again, the norbear came forward, and offered his paw—his hand.
Grakow bent his head and sniffed.
Rusty purring began. Grakow stretched out, belly to the floor, flank pressing into Chernak’s thigh. This put his head within easy reach of the norbear, who rubbed the cat’s head with soft, careful fingers.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were quiet breathing and the mingled pleasures of murble and purr.
Chernak allowed herself to relax minutely. Hevelin the norbear ambassador had specifically wanted to meet with Grakow. Now that this desire had been granted, might he forget about…communicating with Chernak? Possibly they could scrape through this without putting their mission in danger, or testing the efficacy of the mental shields that had been installed at such a cost.
Beside her, Grakow sighed and stretched, both longer and closer. The warmth and solidness of his body was comfortable, much the same as Stost’s hand in hers. It was good to have a comrade nearby, to guard her back and to take the mission forward, should she need to stay behind.
The memory of a face stirred; she recognized the build type and the gear of an M grade soldier—then recognized the soldier himself, though she had never known his name. He had formed part of the guard that had ensured their departure from Rijal, for their papers, their mission, had been more important than the doomed citadel.
He looked up and she had a clear view of his face—high cheeks, strong nose, grim mouth. The eyes were black and showed humor, even anticipation. An M going into battle…
The memory faded into another—another M, this one in light-duty leathers, with a civilian at his shoulder. Neither was immediately familiar; she must have seen them in passing, during a station sweep or port ramble…
A sneeze, or a sound very close to a sneeze, brought her eyes open. Across from her, Captain Waitley was grinning.
“That is my father,” she said. “Hevelin matches him with someone else. There’s a similarity but they are not, I think, the same person.” She paused, head to one side. “Who is the person you remember?”
Chernak looked to Stost, who returned her gaze without expression. Waiting, was Stost; she noted that he squatted, rather than sitting full camp-style. That was wise, he could be on his feet in an instant, at need.
“How do you know my memories?” she asked Captain Waitley, who raised a pale, slender hand.
“Hevelin communicates directly, by emotion and illusion. He heard you remember a person and attempted a match with another…record. Norbears collect networks; they try to connect people and objects and places with other people and objects and places. These two people resemble each other, as if they are from the same gene group—” she frowned, as if gene group did not completely describe her intention.
“If your friend is from the same gene group, I’d like to know who he is. There are others who would be interested.”
Chernak tried to stir up a sense of outrage, or danger
, but she felt as calm as if she were standing a dawn watch on a deserted world.
“Not a friend, but a comrade. An M soldier, part of a rear guard, which allowed Stost and I to make our ship and lift.” She paused, the word father echoing curiously in her head, and added, “Ms are by design infertile.”
Captain Waitley grinned.
“Obviously, then, not my father, but a chance resemblance. Sorry, Hevelin.”
The captain then tipped her head and smiled slightly. “That’s Coyster,” she said, though not, Chernak thought, to either her or Stost. “You know that.”
Chernak blinked—and blinked again as cats arose, seemingly from her memory. She knew better this time, for Grakow was the only cat she had known…and there was an image of Grakow, following a sense of warmth, and then a man’s face, spare and ruddy, with thatched grey brows and grey hair cut tight to the skull; there was a faint clank, as if of tools shifting on a belt, comfort suffused her and—
She recalled him—recalled him as last seen, injured and bloody, applying pain patches to ease wounds even a soldier might find enervating, and the fingers of his good hand, dripping gore, groping among the med kit, looking for the dose that would release him to duty’s reward.
She looked back as they rounded the kink in the hallway, saw the figure slumped and wracked—
A scream rent through her head, battle rage rose in her, and a berserker’s need to tear and rend.
She shouted and threw herself sideways, thinking that here it was, at last, the protections Command had put in place, endangering the civilian, endangering the mission, and there was grace, cold against her palm. Quick, she must be quick, before the rage separated her self from her sense—
A hard hand closed around her wrist.
“Chernak!” Stost snapped, and she froze where she was, relying on his judgment, as the rage…subsided, unspent, leaving her panting and exhausted, one side of her face burning, as if she had abraded it against the rug.
“What is our situation, my Stost?” she managed.
“Stable. The ambassador norbear soothes Grakow’s grief. Captain Waitley stands backup.”
He released her and she rolled into a sitting position.
There was Grakow, lying on his side, panting. There was the norbear, both small hands on the cat, murbling and murmuring, softly, softly—and there was Captain Waitley, daring, as they watched her, to stroke Grakow’s head.
The cat gave a long, shuddering sigh.
“I understood some of that,” she said, looking at them over her shoulder. “The wounded man was Grakow’s owner?”
“He who gave us the ship, what remained of it, and the keys to the repair bug, and called our duty upon Grakow, the only civilian survivor.” said Stost.
Chernak wondered if he had seen, or dreamed…remembered, too. That question was for later. For the present—there was Captain Waitley, speaking again, this time to the norbear.
“Is he well?”
There was a pause.
“Are you satisfied?”
Another silence. Captain Waitley stroked Grakow once more and rose to her feet.
They also rose, Stost first, reaching down to offer his hand, assistance that she did not need, but which she accepted gladly.
“Hevelin is happy to have met Grakow and to have shared memories with Chernak,” the captain said. “He hopes to continue these conversations soon.”
She paused.
“On a related matter, your schedules will be synchronized with first watch. You will join crew in the galley for the start-shift/end-shift meal. Win Ton will guide you. After the meal, assuming Stost has no ill effects from his learning, Chernak will learn while Stost continues his studies.
“Am I clear?”
“Captain,” said Stost, bringing his fist smartly to his shoulder. “You are clear.”
“Good,” she said. “Thank you for allowing Hevelin to visit Grakow. My apologies for any dismay that he caused to yourselves or to Grakow. Chernak, are you well?”
“Captain.” She saluted. “I am uninjured, Captain, and able to serve.”
“Good,” the captain said again. She bent down to pick up the norbear, carrying him cradled in her arms, as if he were a child.
Stost sprang forward to open the door for her. When she had gone and the door closed again, Chernak looked to Joyita’s screen, which showed only silver. They were to understand that they were alone.
She turned back. Stost was leaning against the door, worry plain on his face. She took a breath and he raised a hand, snapping off a terse sign.
We need to talk, it was.
“Yes,” said Chernak.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Arak ek zenorth
En route
Pilot Erthax had survived the process of removing the bombs, and returned to the safety of their ship having lost not so much as a finger. Were the universe Balanced, as Liadens insisted was true, he would at the least have left an arm behind.
Perhaps the disbalance in the universe was what broke his sleep. Or perhaps it was the lack of exercise. Or the lack of anyone to talk with.
Whatever the cause, Vepal thought, there would be no more sleep for him this off-shift. He ought to bring up his screen and research their next most likely port of call.
He did rise and dress, and sit down at his desk—but he stopped short of bringing the screen live.
Instead, he considered that last thought, that he had no one to talk with.
Erthax was an adequate pilot; before his so-called promotion to the mission, he had flown transport and supply. His off-duty interests tended toward beer and games of chance—though not, as Vepal understood it, such games as put his own skin at risk. Very likely, he also spied for Command, filing reports on the sly. Vepal had long thought so. That Erthax had not considered it his duty to bring suspicions of sabotage to his commander…that was only confirmation.
There was, in truth, little for him to discuss with Erthax beyond those ordinary matters of piloting and shift arrangements, which had for many cycles satisfied Vepal, who did not like his pilot.
Ochin was somewhat more to his liking, but Ochin was a simple creature: a Rifle, concerned mainly with his commander’s honor and dignity. Should Vepal attempt conversation, he was certain that Ochin would try. But he knew so little. So very little.
There was, after all, a reason that Explorers kept aloof from the common Troop and preferred comrades from their own ranks.
Vepal, an Explorer born and trained…Vepal had become accustomed to his own company. Or so he’d thought. His recent interactions with Commander Sanchez, short as they had been, had wakened in him the desire for…comradeship, a meeting of minds, and exchanges of views.
Commander Sanchez was by no means an Explorer, but she had been intelligent and surprising, and he wished that they had met each other at least once more before he had quit Seebrit Station to pursue the mission once more.
The mission.
Well, and there it was—the mission. His most glorious accomplishment, a find that ought to have earned him another starburst. Information that would have—that should have—started the Troop on a bold new adventure, with glory assured and purpose renewed.
A mission the goal of which was nothing less than the survival of the Troop.
He still recalled his excitement; how he had shivered with something very near the euphoria, as he gazed upon the file he had discovered and understood what it was.
The orders.
The orders.
The very orders from Headquarters—Headquarters!—which covered what the surviving elements of the armed forces ought to do after…
…after they had mounted rear guard for those fleeing the Great Enemy, covering the retreat, buying the lives of the vulnerable with their own—which had been their duty.
Protect the civilians; resist the Enemy. That had been the two-pronged duty which they had been created to meet—a history taught to Explorers and commanders, but no longer giv
en to the common Troop.
After—the war lost; the escape successful. Headquarters had assumed the survival of Troop, of some number of Troop—and Headquarters had cut orders.
He had assumed that present Command would be eager to embrace orders from legendary Headquarters. He had assumed…
Yes, he had assumed.
Worse, he had, in his capacity as Hero Explorer, researcher, and Troop historian, made a presentation to Command entire.
The summation of his presentation?
Why, that the Troop’s present existence was an accident of history. The orders—the precious orders he had uncovered—had been lost in the confusion of the crossing. The surviving Troop had regrouped—which was well. They had formed a command structure among themselves—which was necessary.
And they had established Temp Headquarters, to await High Command, bearing the direction of their future—which had been an error.
A fatal error.
It had taken years—hundreds of years—but the wait for the arrival of authority had eroded the Troop. They lacked the resources to do more than rebuild and overbuild the ships in their possession. They lacked goals, they lacked skills, they lacked a culture that would have allowed them to evolve.
Pressed for resources, their only skill war, they had turned to conquest and that solution had extended the life of the Troop.
But it could not save them. They could attack until the last Rifle fell, but they had no core to hold.
There was worse, which had long been known to Explorers and to the overseers of the creches.
The design was failing. There were fewer viable births every cycle, even with the relaxed standards.
He had told the highest Command this—and lived, but not because they were given new hope by what he had discovered.
No, he had lived because he was a Hero, a Senior Explorer who had claimed several resource-rich worlds for the Troop. A certain dwindling segment of Command was composed of former Explorers, and among that group, he was well-liked.
He could not, therefore, be killed outright or attached to an underprovisioned strike squad and so find his way to glory.