First Salik War 2: The V'Dan

by Jean Johnson

  He sat up a little in his seat. Not that he had slouched, exactly; princes did not slouch. But her offer was a good incentive. (You promise?)

  (I promise. Three times. Hand length. Go,) Jackie urged him. Then quickly caught the pen as he flicked it too hard. (Gently! The object is control, not distance.)

  (Yes, teacher.) He sighed, watching her bring the pen back to its starting place. Focusing more carefully, he very gently nudged the pen. It rolled about a fingerlength. So he patiently nudged it again. Another fingerlength, or about the length of his hand from wrist to longest fingertip. (Does that count?)

  (Yes, I’ll let it pass. But only this one time. Either lift it and move it, or roll it in one take.)

  Nodding, he tried a slightly harder nudge. The pen rolled . . . almost long enough. The table had a pattern embedded in its smooth-lacquered surface, and . . . he was off by half a finger. A tiny nudge, and he looked at her. ( . . . Yes?)

  (Try again. I know you’re frustrated, but control is important. Control may one day save your life, or the life of another. Lack of control will endanger everyone.) She brought the cylinder back to its starting point, a row of triangles. To prove her point, the pen stopped precisely on the points of those triangles. (Remember, this isn’t just about pushing the pen. It is about stopping it, too. And not just as a hard wall that would make it bounce back. Try to think about the problem, and how you would shape the forces you are wielding.)

  Sighing, he focused, and thought. Finally, instead of a solid bump . . . he cupped it in a curve, pushed to the edge of the rows of squares that marked the proper length on the table, then tilted the cupped shape of force downward, pressing the pen into place with just enough force to stop it. (Ha!)

  (Excellent—and a very clever way to shape the telekinetic forces. Now, bring it back to the starting position yourself,) she said. (And do it three times exactly like that.)

  (Yes, meioa.) Carefully, he rolled the metal pen back and forth three full times. Almost. It got away from him twice. Sighing, focusing, Li’eth stared at it and carefully shaped, and . . . managed two more good rolls. The trick of it required constant vigilance in his concentration.

  “Well done!” Jackie praised out loud when the pen reached the squares and stopped right on the line. “Time to let your mind rest, and for the two of us to ease the bond of our holy pairing through some physical contact. If you are willing, please move your chair back.”

  Nodding, he scooted it back . . . and quickly brought up an arm to support her back as she settled sideways on his lap. Today, she was in pants and shirt in that plebeian military gray, a few shades lighter than the walls around him. Not particularly flattering, but he didn’t care. She was warm, she smelled wonderful, and he cradled her close against his cream-and-scarlet frame.

  Jackie felt good, being held like this. But she needed more. Twisting a little, she wrapped her arms around his ribs and snuggled his head against the side of his neck. His hair was loose today, giving her a place to bury her face. Hers was up in a bun. Wanting to give him some privacy, too, she reached with her mind for the wooden pin skewering her curls in place. Setting it on the table with her telekinesis—neatly aligned next to the pen—she cuddled closer.

  (Yes. I need this,) she whispered mentally. Her lips grazed the side of his throat, and she inhaled his warmth, his unique male scent. A touch of soap, but no cologne, no perfume, just clean, warm male. It required filling her lungs a second time, and a third.

  (You smell even better,) he told her, nosing his way to her own neck for a slow, satiating sniff. (Whatever that Terran stuff is you use for cleansing yourself . . . mmmh. It has a delicious perfume.)

  The move scraped a faint hint of beard stubble against her skin. She tried to ignore the goose bumps that raised. (Shampoo. I don’t like soap on my body, so I’ve been using a no-scent shampoo. It doesn’t leave much of a residue, and almost no smell.)

  Li’eth breathed deep, nuzzling her a little. (Then all this delicious scent is pure you.) He nuzzled her again, then held himself still. A thought raced through his head. Hoping her hair concealed his intent, he parted his lips just a little bit against the side of her throat, and licked. ( . . . Delicious, indeed.)

  (Li’eth . . .) It came out more lieth than li’eth in her mind. Beloved instead of year of joy. She knew they had to remain circumspect. She knew it but couldn’t quite bring herself to stop him. It felt good. It felt like what she needed, like a cat that needed to purr. (You have . . . thirty seconds to enjoy all that . . . before it’s my turn.)

  (Give me a full mi-nah, not thirty se-nah,) he bartered, tasting her again.

  (I’d give you five full minutes, if I could,) she murmured. Contentment soaked through her skin, into her muscles. It didn’t have a chance to reach her bones, though. Someone activated the small conference room’s intercom system.

  “Grand High Ambassador Maq’en-zi, why are you sitting on His Imperial Highness? That is not acceptable behavior.” The voice was in that nebulous zone of either contralto or tenor and slightly distorted by the broadcasting unit, which was over by the doorframe.

  Hiding the urge to roll her eyes, Jackie shot back, “It is perfectly acceptable if both His Imperial Highness and I decide it is acceptable. Which we have, meioa. We are both mature adults, and we both clearly consent to this. Furthermore, whoever you are, I am certain you have zero authority over either of us. Should you go looking for that authority, all I can say is that such an act would be considered petty at best and an insult at worst. In the light of these facts, your inquiry under Terran rules of protocol is, in a word, rude.”

  “I must agree with the Grand High Ambassador,” Li’eth stated, removing his face from the side of her neck for a few moments so he could speak. “You are being rude. Keep your opinions behind your teeth and do not comment. If the sight of the two of us embracing offends you so deeply that you feel you must stop it because you cannot bear to see it . . . then I suggest you do not look. We are not hugging you, thus you have no right to try to stop it. That, meioa, is what makes your actions rude.”

  (Definitely rude,) Jackie agreed, irritated. She buried her face against his throat and licked him, then snuggled closer and tilted her head a little, giving him room to nuzzle her neck again. Nuzzle, and discreetly lap at her skin in tiny, slow strokes. (My people certainly wouldn’t have flapped their mouths as if they were God’s own arbiter of the social rules! I ought to lodge a complaint against a voyeur . . . if I could just . . . figure out . . . You know, those little licks are very soothing . . .)

  He nipped her with his teeth. Jackie sucked in a breath, startled. She struggled to keep her expression calm but sent him a subthought with a little sting of her own, to remind him he shouldn’t do that.

  (Nonsense. They’re supposed to be pleasurable, not soothing,) he chided, gently tonguing the spot his teeth had stung. (I was trying to turn your anger into arousal.)

  (They are doing that; trust me, they are. It’s just that your touch soothed me right out of my anger,) she pointed out. (And now you’re trying to make me squirm?)

  (Perhaps. But I have decided just now that I don’t give a Saint’s shakk. Yes, I know how crude that is,) Li’eth added. He nuzzled her throat again, nibbling with his lips. (This feels good. Soothing, as you say, but also in a stimulating way. You just . . . You smell so good, Jacaranda-Flower. I don’t feel quite so restless, cuddling with you like this. We haven’t done this since leaving your ship.)

  Squirming a little, she managed to tuck her face into his own neck and shoulder. (Exactly. This is exactly what we need.)

  A soft chuckle escaped him. (Not exactly what we need. To feel better, I’d rather do this without all these layers of clothing in the way—nothing indecent, just the outfits we wore on that beach. For now. Maybe later . . .)

  (Yes, for now . . . and yes, that would be great,) she agreed. (You and me in a warm spring win
d, the scent of sand and seaweed, the sun blanketing us with its heat, the ocean spray helping to keep us cool . . .) Part of her mind still wanted to race with other thoughts, as it always did. But for the first time in her life, the scent of the man she snuggled with was more important. Warnings, customs, lists . . . not nearly so important as this. Rather than being pushed away by each other’s subthoughts, like random ball bearings careening around and crashing into each other, it was more like their thoughts were attracting each other. Like magnetic ball bearings.

  (An amusing thought,) he agreed . . . and shivered a little when she licked along the flat neckline of his uniform. (Careful, I’ll need to be decent when I stand up at some point.)

  (I’ll be careful. Ish,) she teased. (Don’t worry. Five solid minutes of gentle cuddling and necking, and we’ll go back to practicing your gifts.)

  (At least I get this as an incentive. Also, “necking” . . . ?) he asked. There was a lot more behind her strange phrase than just discreetly nibbling on each other’s necks. (That’s an odd designation for something involving far more than necks.)

  (True. Unfortunately, we cannot involve more than lips and necks, and just plain hugging, until everyone understands what we are, and that it can be possible for me to do my job even while I’m involved with you.)

  (That is a disappointment,) he agreed. (But I won’t stop holding you, just yet. If I could . . . if we could get away with it . . . I’d sleep curled up together with you.)

  She nuzzled him, enjoying the faint rasp of the stubble beneath his ear as it rubbed against her own. (I’d do that, too. We may need to, at some point . . . may? No. Will. We will have to transition into living together at some point.)

  (If it helps, the diplomatic wings are actually fairly close to the imperial quarters. Your walk to work wouldn’t be too onerous,) he offered.

  Jackie grinned and quietly kissed his neck. (Or maybe I’d just have you move in with me.)

  (. . . That might not be a bad idea. Has it been five minutes yet?) he asked, thinking more of wanting to stay like this than of the need to continue practicing control with his gifts.

  (We have a little bit more time,) she reassured him, not wanting to think too much about anything else, herself.

  (Good.)

  CHAPTER 6

  MAY 6, 2287 C.E.

  JANVA 1, 9508 V.D.S.

  The V’Dan, the Terrans discovered, didn’t put as much emphasis on their version of New Year’s Eve, so much as how much they celebrated New Year’s Day. In fact, the handful of V’Dan among them kept themselves quite busy putting up makeshift decorations, folding almost origami-style paper hats, and wishing everyone a “Blessed New Year” and a “Happy Winter’s Day!” Plus, “Happy Saint Gedred’s Day,” whoever that was.

  The Terrans, game for any sort of party, got into the spirit of decorating and asked for stories about the holidays—plural—celebrated on “Janva First.” And, of course, they mulled over how similar Janva was to January, and Dember to December, debating just how many words between Terranglo and Imperial High V’Dan crossed over. They couldn’t partake of any of the traditional foods their hosts assembled—or even be in the kitchen at the same time as all that cooking, for safety’s sake—but most everyone was eager to explain in histaminically neutral spaces about their favorite holiday treats and memories from various celebrations from childhood on up.

  So it struck Jackie as a bit odd to see Dr. To-mi Kuna’mi rise and walk away from one of the crowded, heavily chatting tables in the dining hall with a very flat, very masklike expression. Rigid, or at least unmoving. Everyone’s face moved, normally. By a blink, by an eyebrow shift, a lip twitch. The way how one’s eyes shifted, what they focused on. But . . . in that one moment, not hers.

  Curious, Jackie drifted over to the table. Lars held the attention of everyone there; he had brought out a Terran datapad and used it to display something familiar. Childish sketches in washed-out, almost watercolor shades, paired with neatly penned discussions. She had to hear Lars saying the name of it to grasp what it was.

  The Voynich Manuscript. The moment she heard the geophysicist mention it, several things clicked into place in her mind. Moving away from the table without a word, she crossed to the other woman, the markless V’Dan jungen specialist. The youngish-looking woman stared blindly at the entertainment screen, but from the lack of movement in her eyes, she wasn’t seeing the live broadcast of New Year’s Day celebrations taking place down at the plazas in front of the Winter Palace.

  (You know that manuscript.) She shaped the sentence gently, like a tentative knocking on a door that had been slammed shut a few minutes before.

  (Her name was Mishka.)

  Jackie staggered under the weight of those four words. She clutched at the back of the V’Dan-style couch between her and the entertainment screen. A couple of her fellow Terrans glanced up at her in curiosity but returned their attention to the show. Two of the five crowded onto the couch were taking notes on what they were observing. Three were sharing snack packets brought all the way from Earth. None of them had any clue of the weight of grief and wistfulness inherent in the words of the other woman behind their cushioned perch.

  Standing there with such seeming calmness. Such casualness, save for the set mask of her blue-eyed, lightly tanned, dark-haired face.

  (Do you want to tell me about her?) Jackie asked tentatively.

  An image unfurled in her mind. Richer than words, more nuanced than a whole orchestra, a spool of memories uncoiled and scrolled past. A girl-child persecuted because of a combination of her bloodline and a lack of jungen marks. The prejudice that kept trying to have her killed. A family line that had been friends to the strange, markless lady who sometimes came to visit. Prejudice that boiled over into anger and action against both of them, when she had innocently come back to update . . . something . . . and had lingered for a visit to see how the family was faring.

  Prejudice that sprang from the hatred of outworlders, not just local V’Dan. Meddlers. Feyori, who thought the child’s existence was an abomination and that she should die rather than let . . . something called a Rite of Simmerings? Rather than let such a thing unfold, they wanted to slay the child. The pawn-thing, in their minds, that had been endowed with too much in the way of potential power.

  To-mi’s decision to flee that world, taking the girl-child with her, streamed through Jackie’s thoughts. At first, they lingered in a pleasant climate . . . somewhere in Europe. Mediterranean-ish, but with mountains. But then trouble reared its head, and To-mi and the girl fled, relocating to a much harsher, or at least colder, climate . . . Russia, Jackie realized. The moment she thought that, To-mi spoke again, mind-to-mind.

  (Yes, that Mishka. The Mishka bloodline. That’s where the name comes from. I called her Isa or Isabella for those few years in northern Italia. I created backgrounds for both of us, dug up some gold to pay for everything—child’s play, in those days; no bureaucracies keeping track of everything—and first sought refuge with a family near Verona. I hoped the Renaissance would make for a good place for her to be raised, something close to the sophistication of the V’Dan Empire in that era . . . It didn’t last.

  (After we had to flee, I carved out a little manor of sorts. Raised her with a good, solid education, and helped her pick out the right kind of man for a husband . . . You must understand, she had no gifts. No psychic abilities manifested during her lifetime, or her children’s lifetime, or theirs. That was in part the bargain I made with the Meddlers on Earth. No one could touch her family line for ten generations, in exchange for keeping her half-breed inheritance suppressed.)

  Jackie wanted to seize on that word, half-breed, and ask a thousand questions, but tightly quelled the urge. She had invited To-mi to share, not to be interrogated. To-mi noticed her courtesy.

  (Thank you . . . By that point, the bloodline had been thinned out that it only ever resur
faced as vague abilities—Rank 4 or 5 at the absolute strongest, but most were barely registerable by KI-machine standards,) To-mi explained. She shrugged subtly. (There was a certain Russian mystic who had flashes of insight, clairsentiency tied to biokinesis, forming biokinesience. That’s the very rare form of—)

  (—The very rare form of being able to sense biokinetic activity and even diagnose it instinctively, even in others, without directly healing, yes,) Jackie agreed. (It’s rare, but I’ve heard of it. But . . . Lars was saying just now that the manuscript was likely made in Italy, not Russia.)

  That shifted the other woman’s mask. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. (I found her writing in it after we’d been on Earth for about a year. I chided her, pointed out all the dangers—being accused of witchcraft was a serious thing, back then—and she agreed to let me take the book away. I didn’t want to destroy it, but I wasn’t quite ready to go to the Vault to store it yet; she was smart but too young to be left alone with strangers, you see. We were staying at a villa along the shores of the Lago di Garda—about halfway between Venezia and Milano, just west of Verona—when there was a fire in the middle of the night.

  (Ironically, even without having shown anyone the book—it was safely tucked into my baggage—I was accused of starting the fire with witchcraft, and Isa and I had to flee. Most of the northern cultures of Earth have been rather patriarchal and misogynistic for far too long, so any woman who was clearly well educated, who didn’t bow to male authority, who wasn’t a proper piece of chattel-property, was therefore looked upon with suspicion and accused of witchcraft for daring to have original thoughts and exercise free will. I thought . . . I thought the book had burned in the fire, and if it hadn’t, it would’ve surely been considered witchcraft and thus burned anyway if found . . .

  (. . . I guess whoever did find it decided to save it and hide it rather than destroy the thing. She did eventually get better at drawing and coloring . . . but confined herself to cataloging local herbs and legends and the like.)