Kinsman's Oath

by Susan Krinard

  Meals were delivered to Ronan's cabin, and he ate them to maintain his strength. He performed Sihvaaro's vek'riam exercises, designed to develop absolute command over muscle and movement, warrior's strikes slowed to a fraction of their usual speed.

  And he prepared himself for what must be done. When his fourth meal was delivered, he cautiously touched the crewman's mind, seeking a single piece of information. Unlike Cynara, this man had no shields and went on his way unsuspecting.

  Ronan pushed his meal aside untasted. What he planned was within his powers. He had used the technique all unknowing on a Pegasus guard before he regained his memory and sense of purpose. He had felt his mental strength building with each passing day. But to walk in another mind at a distance—a mind he had never touched, certainly shielded—and then to compel such a mind to do his will was a dangerous and terrible matter.

  The Kinsmen had claimed to despise mental intrusion, yet they used such methods on Ronan. They had sent him here expecting that he would not hesitate to do the same. At the very least, the process weakened the wielder and brought grave discomfort and illness.

  Ronan had not lied to Kord when he'd said he would not harm the crew. The one he sought to move to his will would have only vague memories of dreams, unable to explain if others questioned her later. No permanent damage would be done to her mind or her being.

  Lying back on the bunk, Ronan recited the Eightfold Way until his mind was calm and his heartbeat slow and steady. For a time he simply breathed. At last he began the seeking, stretching his mind beyond his cabin, into the corridor, past the crewmen and women in their quarters or at their posts, down and down into the heart of the ship.

  Seeking. He avoided the guarded mind of the single Persephonean marine who watched the door to engineering and envisioned another face he had seen only once: the close-cropped hair, the tall and sturdy body, the ease of manner he had observed in the mess.

  Charis. Charis Antoniou.

  She did not answer, for she did not truly hear. Yet he found her, caught a glimpse of her surroundings through eyes not his own. Numerous consoles, screens alight with complex graphics and scrolling numbers, were attended by crew in shipsuits marked with the designation of their post.

  In Charis's thoughts was the contentment of one engaged in a true Path: concentration, devotion to her work, and benevolent feelings toward her fellows. She had no telepathic abilities whatsoever, and did not sense Ronan's presence. So much was simple enough.

  But almost the moment Ronan touched Charis's mind, he felt the shield. This female who ruled engineering, who knew the ship's secrets as well as the captain herself, must also be protected from the very trespass Ronan attempted.

  That was why Cynara had considered it enough to confine Ronan to his cabin during the voyage to Persephone. Her own shield had given way only when she and Ronan had engaged in sex, but she did not realize how much. If Ronan could not reach Charis, the engineer must be safe.

  Ronan floated on the edge of Charis's mind, forcing nothing, allowing her to concentrate on her work without venturing to interpret it. Gradually he inserted a thought into the flow of ceaseless mental chatter, so delicately that her shield was not disturbed.

  Go see Ronan, the thought suggested. He did not try to produce a reason that might seem implausible to one he did not know, and who did not know him. He let it take gentle hold and work its way deeper until it became fully a part of her consciousness.

  Go see Ronan. He felt her mind trip on the notion, move away, and return to it until it became a nagging buzz she could no longer ignore. He saw through her eyes again as she left her console, exchanged a few words with one of her assistants, and walked toward the door.

  She did not speak to the guard as she entered the corridor. Ronan clung to the fringes of her consciousness, allowing the compulsion to carry her to him.

  Time was measured in heartbeats. Charis's presence grew nearer. He heard footsteps on the deck outside the cabin, and then a scrape on the door. It slid open.

  Ronan was already on his feet, light-headed with the effort of influencing Charis's mind and controlling his own. The engineer stood in the entrance, her passcard in one raised hand. Her eyes held the blankness of surprise.

  "An Charis," he said, bowing his head. "I am pleased to see you again."

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  Claris blinked. "Ser Ronan. I—" She glanced around the cabin. "I had to see you. But I seem… I seem to have forgotten—"

  "Will you sit?" he asked. "I have little to offer, but I have kept this cake from the morning meal. You have not eaten today."

  "As a matter of fact, I—" She sat down heavily, legs sprawled, and dropped the passcard onto the bunk. "Captain said the Dharmans tried to do something to your mind and we had to get you away. You all right?"

  "Very well, thank you." He unwrapped the cake in its napkin and presented it. "I wished to express my admiration for your extraordinary skill in maintaining such a vessel."

  "Thanks." She took a bite of the cake with obvious pleasure. "This isn't bad. They're always nagging me to eat down in engineering, but I forget—" Her brow wrinkled, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I had something important to tell you, but damned if it hasn't slipped my mind."

  "Perhaps when we reach Persephone," he said, "you can tell me more of your world."

  "Be glad to. Goddess knows I'm happy to help anyone who's been through what you have." She finished the cake and dusted her fingers on her shipsuit. "Well, I have to apologize. My memory just isn't what it used to be when I was younger—but it's enough to get this bucket of bolts around, I guess." She stood, and her hand felt for the passcard.

  You don't need it, Ronan suggested. It is necessary only for emergencies. This is not an emergency.

  Chads froze, staring at the bulkhead. Then she shook her head and blinked one of her eyes in a gesture humans used to indicate shared secrets.

  "Well," she said, "I hope it works out between you and the captain. I'd better get back to work." Leaving the passcard on the bunk, she strolled out of the cabin. Ronan quickly closed the door and dropped the passcard in his pocket. He did not entirely leave Chads's mind until she had reached engineering, spoken to the marine on duty, and returned to her console. It was, for her, as if nothing had happened.

  Sickness overwhelmed him. He fell to his knees on the deck and clutched his stomach, which threatened to spill its meager contents. A pounding darkness crouched behind his eyelids.

  He had succeeded. Charis wouldn't notice the absence of the card until she needed it again—unlikely, since retinal scans were usually sufficient for access to every restricted portion of the ship. She would simply assume she'd misplaced it.

  But it was Ronan's way in, once he got past the marine at the door. He must act quickly to gather information before the ship arrived at Persephone.

  Without a few hours of rest, he would be useless for such an operation. He crawled to his bunk and fell across it, summoning the Way to hold his unruly gut in check. He slept, and when he awoke again, it was to the wail of sirens.

  The clock by Ronan's bunk showed that several hours had passed. He remained where he was, fighting the blackness in his skull, and listened. The ship shuddered.

  "Repeat, all crew to stations, " the intercom spat from the overhead. "We are under attack by shaauri vessels. Brace for return fire and drive activation."

  Adumbe's voice. The ship shuddered again, hit by enemy fire.

  There would be no better opportunity than this. The crew must be aware of the circumstances of Ronan's rescue and the fact that he was confined to quarters. But few crewmen or women would be in the corridors during an attack, and Ronan counted on the probability that the current crisis would prevent any crew he met from pausing to question him.

  He was far from certain that his strength would sustain him long enough to complete his job and return to his cabin undetected. Should the shaauri succeed in
catching or destroying the Pegasus, that would hardly matter.

  He got up, tested his balance, and opened the door left unlocked by Charis's passcard. He paused there for several minutes, waiting for his vision to clear. Voices echoed at the far end of the corridor. The siren continued to wail.

  The way to engineering was still imprinted in memory from his first boarding of the Pegasus, though he had noted it without knowledge of what he would do with the information later. He crouched and ran near the wall to the lift that served crew quarters. No one saw him. The lift was empty.

  He took it down two decks and pressed to the bulkhead as the door opened. A technician waited outside. Ronan touched the man's mind, envisioning emptiness, and the crewman stepped into the lift without noticing him. Ronan slipped past him into the corridor.

  Immediately he relinquished control and staggered the next few meters, gathering strength. He evaded the next woman he encountered by dodging into an empty storeroom. Most of the corridors on this level were deserted, because the crew who maintained the Pegasus were all at their posts.

  That meant he would have many minds to cloud once he penetrated engineering. But first he had to pass the guard. The marine stood alert, rifle held across his chest as if he expected imminent attack.

  Ronan flattened to the bulkhead just out of the guard's view and probed the man's mind with a touch light as morning mist. The man had been trained to expect mental intrusion, and his shield held firm. Ronan could not compel the marine to perform even the simplest task, but he might create an image the man would believe for a few essential moments.

  One chance, and one only. The corridor is empty, he projected, wrapping the suggestion in a pleasant, innocuous fog. No one approaches from any direction. No movement, no threat.

  The marine looked through Ronan as he stalked to the doors. Silence. Emptiness. Ronan punched the passcard into the slot. The guard glanced toward him. Ronan went still. The man stared in the opposite direction.

  The door opened. Ronan made himself small and stole inside, and the door closed automatically. Space opened up before him, dominated by a massive central structure, ovoid in shape, a dragon's egg piercing the deck on which he stood. Its base rested on the deck below, visible from a railed landing circling the egg. Walkways provided access to the ovoid's surface, its multifaceted metallic skin made of no material Ronan had ever seen.

  Extending from the egg to the bulkheads were numerous frosted conduits and thick cables, haphazardly laid across the deck or suspended above it with no apparent thought to order or harmony. The entire assemblage was a kind of grotesque hybrid, very much like the Pegasus itself appeared from the outside.

  Ronan crept closer to the edge of the landing. Banks upon banks of electronics hugged the bulkhead from the lower deck to the overhead of the second deck. Nearly every centimeter of deckspace was filled with consoles. Crewmen and women hurried among them, consulting monitors filled with scrolling data, complex equations, and multicolored waveform displays—far too many screens for a single technician to remain at any one post. An Charts moved from station to station, giving orders or answering questions. Her aspect was both stern and apprehensive.

  Ronan kept to the deck and the shadows, relying on simple stealth. The very air hummed with the agitation of beings intent on survival, their minds focused entirely on the preservation of the ship and its precious drive.

  Such grim preoccupation made it easier for Ronan to cloud minds, for the crewfolk were already convinced that nothing existed outside of their vital duties. Even so, the strain was great. Any inattention on his part would expose him to discovery, yet he had to reserve some part of his mind for the work at hand.

  The datastream displays were in a technical language mostly beyond Ronan's experience, but he understood enough of it to know what he was looking for. At last he found it on a single monitor left unattended for a few crucial minutes.

  Ronan scanned the room for a data slide and found one at the adjoining console. Moving slowly to maintain the illusion of invisibility, he inserted the slide into the recess of his console.

  Only one step remained. He searched for the download icon on the screen.

  And stopped, as if someone had stayed his hand.

  "I know little of these powers of the mind, but this thing you share can either bind you or drive you apart. Do not waste this great gift."

  Ronan's concentration wavered. One of the crew turned toward him with a frown.

  You cannot.

  He withdrew into himself, becoming small and insignificant once more. The technician looked away. Sickness gathered in Ronan's throat, and tremors seized his legs. He could no longer feel his fingers. Abruptly the sirens ceased, fading into a whine that deafened Ronan to every sound but that of his own heartbeat.

  "Attention all sections," a distant voice announced. "We have cleared shaauri space. Status and damage reports to captain's console in ten minutes."

  Other voices, other thoughts crowded Ronan's mind. He was beginning to lose control of them. Now that the crisis was over, someone would seek him in his cabin and find him absent. Cynara would know him for what he was.

  He turned blindly toward the section door. It opened without warning and the marine stepped through.

  "Chief Antoniou," he called.

  The man's suspicion swept over Ronan like suffocating vapor, and he dropped into a crouch. Centimeter by centimeter he crawled along the deck. The guard walked past him. Ronan felt for the door panel and slotted the passcard. It jammed, and he wasted costly seconds prying it loose. With the last of his fading concentration he stumbled out the doors, maintaining the facade of invisibility until he had reached the nearest cross-corridor.

  Only his instinct for survival and Sihvaaro's training got him back to his cabin undetected. Sight and sound ran together in a nauseating miasma. His brain was a heavy, useless organ, incapable of the least or simplest exercise. He fell to his knees and reached the cabin's facilities in time to empty his stomach.

  Failure.

  Not strong enough. All the training, all the preparation was insufficient to make up for his weakness. But the greatest shame lay not in his lack of skill, but in his hesitation.

  The very moment he could have succeeded, he had thought of Cynara. And Kord, and Lizbet, and all the others he must betray. He had remembered, too well, that he was born human.

  If they came for him now, he would be glad.

  He crept to the foot of his bunk and lay on the cold deck as once he had lain on pebbles as a child, learning to bear discomfort and sleep under any conditions. But he did not sleep. A warm, fur-covered body grazed his cheek, and he remembered Li Hanno's gentleness when she had cleaned and bound his wounds.

  Archie settled at the hollow of Ronan's neck, feet neatly tucked under his body, and purred consolation. Ronan permitted himself to remember a time when he had dreamed of such unconditional acceptance.

  "And what do you see, Ronan, when you look in the mirror? A man who can never be one of the beings who despised and abused you all your life ? "

  Ronan rolled to face the bulkhead and drew his knees up to his chest. Dreamless sleep came at last. He woke again long enough to climb onto the bunk and pull Archie into the crook of his arm. He was functional again when Kord tapped on the door and let himself in.

  "You're awake," Kord observed. "The last time I came, you slept like the serpents of Iskar."

  Ronan sat up against the bulkhead and ran his hand through his hair. Kord's surface thoughts were empty of suspicion or memory of disturbance other than the shaauri attack, but he was puzzled and concerned. The cabin stank of sickness.

  Ronan set Archie aside and stretched his muscles one by one. He had no valid reason for asking about Cynara. "Is all well with the ship? There was no damage from the shaauri?"

  "None of importance. It was simple misfortune that we encountered the patrol." He cocked his head. "You were ill."

  "It was nothing. I must have eaten incompat
ible food."

  Kord was unsatisfied, but he let it pass. "We're only sixteen hours from the last wormhole to Persephone Station. The captain intends to take you down as soon as we make orbit." He wrinkled his nose. "You'd better change your clothes. Even a fool of a Dharman burgher could smell you ten kilometers away."

  "I will not disappoint those to whom I owe so much."

  Kord sat on his heels. "If I spoke too harshly before—"

  "That would not be possible." Ronan got up and unsealed the neck of his shipsuit. "I will be ready to meet the captain's allies."

  "Be wary of them, Ronan. Their world is named for a woman, but its ways are not those of the Mother."

  "I will remember." He tossed his soiled shipsuit into the laundry chute and stepped into the shower. When he emerged, Kord was gone.

  Ronan cleaned the cabin, dressed in a fresh shipsuit, and fed Archie his evening meal. He dropped Charis's passcard in the disposal, where it would instantly be reduced to its component atoms. Then he sat cross-legged on his bunk and waited for any indication that his activities had been discovered.

  No one came for him. No alarm was raised. He had ruined his greatest opportunity to acquire the drive's schematics, but his mind was calm. He understood the nature of his defeat. Cynara and the crew of the Pegasus had become important to him. They were not kin, nor even of his kind, yet he perceived his debt to them as if they were born of his House and Line.

  But Persephone meant nothing. It was undisputed enemy. Somewhere on the Concordat's central world, among the powerful rulers Cynara claimed to know, he would find what he had failed to obtain on the Pegasus.

  Adumbe's voice announced the approach to the final wormhole. Ronan brushed feline hair from his shipsuit and waited for Cynara to set him free.

  Cynara had been to Persephone station many times, but Persephone itself was still a marvel to her eyes. The capital city of its largest continent, seat of the Archon himself, had grown to become the center of the entire Concordat and its constituent worlds.