Neogenesis

by Sharon Lee

  Nelirikk saluted crisply. The captain returned it and waited for the civilian to come up to her side.

  “Uncle, this is my aide, Nelirikk nor’Phelium. Nelirikk, this is the Uncle, unless he’d like you to address him in some other way.”

  “Uncle is well enough,” the man said composedly. “Are we not all kin, at core?”

  Beside him, Chernak stiffened. It was noticeable to Stost only because their lifetime partnership had made them each preternaturally aware of the other’s reactions. Clearly, the civilian was familiar to Chernak, either as a type—most likely—or as an individual, which was staggeringly unlikely, given that the total of their acquaintance in this universe comprised eight persons, a Work, a norbear, and a cat.

  “Here,” the captain was saying as she and the man named Uncle approached them.

  “This is Chernak Strongline.”

  Chernak saluted.

  “And Stost Strongline.”

  Stost likewise saluted.

  The civilian turned to the captain.

  “I believe that I understand your dilemma. May one ask—where did you find them?”

  “Theo found them. She’s not exactly saying where.”

  “Prudent.”

  Uncle gave them another comprehensive stare before turning again to the captain.

  “If you wish advice on their proper disposal, I would suggest advancing them to Temp Headquarters.”

  “Now, that’s a problem. They don’t recognize our home-team Yxtrang as having anything to do with them, and—”

  “Captain,” the voice of Security Chief Jeeves interrupted. “Master Val Con is on his way to your location.”

  “Okay, good. Best he’s part of it.” She glanced at the Uncle.

  “The day’s been pretty hectic, what with one thing and something else,” she said. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up on everything the other half knows. I hope you can give us a moment.”

  “I am at your disposal,” the Uncle said gallantly, though not, in Stost’s expert opinion, truthfully.

  The door was opened briskly and a—not a soldier, Stost thought, but yet, not a civilian. In fact, the way he walked, the way he collected the details of the room without seeming to do more than glance casually about…

  “Pathfinder?” Stost heard his own whisper and winced internally as the captain looked directly at him.

  “Scout,” she said. “Pathfinders became Explorers among Yxtrang. Scout is the Liaden equivalent of Explorer.”

  She turned to the dark-haired man, who stood slightly taller than she, and nodded.

  “This is Chernak Strongline and Stost Strongline,” she said.

  Though the captain had seemed to say that they shared a rank with him, they saluted on the theory that a salute given offended less often than a salute withheld.

  “This is Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium.”

  It was well, thought Stost, that they had not withheld honor.

  The Scout commander returned their salutes before addressing the captain.

  “You have a solution, Captain?”

  “I do. Would you like to hear it before implementation?”

  “I see no need.”

  The captain grinned. “Think you’d learn better. All right, then.” She looked up at the Uncle.

  “These are, I assume, the third party for which you are soliciting a favor,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I am of course desolate to disappoint you, but—interesting as they are, I really have very little need for pathfinders. Perhaps the mercenary units…”

  “I’m thinking the mercs might be a good fit for them, too,” the captain interrupted, “but there’s a detail that needs to be taken care of before we can move in that direction, and I think you might find it’s something you’re interested in.”

  “And it is…?”

  The captain moved a hand as if bringing them once more to the Uncle’s attention.

  “Those cases contain viable samples, with documentation, of the K, M, X, and Y strains developed by the military in the previous universe. There are also samples and notes for various specialist strains. The cases are purposely built to keep the samples fresh until they can be moved to a more appropriate, long-term archive.

  “Pathfinders Chernak and Stost were charged in their last orders to surrender these cases to the high command of the troops, if any, who survived the Migration. If the Troop had not survived—and according to the pathfinders, they didn’t—then the cases were to be surrendered to the leaders of the central civilian authority.”

  “You wish me to relieve the pathfinders of their cases?”

  “Seems the best compromise,” the captain said. “I’m thinking the order to surrender ’em to a central authority was based on the belief that any such authority would have records, going back before the Exodus, and experience in ordering the Troop. Like we all know, nothing even close to that ideal survived.

  “Korval remembers…some…but we’re short on experience. You remember. You got records, resources—and time in grade for keeping secrets.”

  She gave him a small smile. “You already hold a big collection of similar material, all of which makes you the best choice to receive and care for these…rare and precious samples.”

  Uncle looked to the Scout standing silent at the captain’s side.

  “And you? What do you think of this favor?”

  “It is not a solving for a perfect universe, where the Troop survived the Migration with honor and purpose intact. It is, however, a solving for this universe, with its flaws and various odd alignments of purpose. We could discuss the problems for some number of hours. However, I think we would be wiser to consider the merits, of which there are many, and see the cases, with their contents, properly housed in your archives.”

  “Have you no fear that I will raise an army?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” said the captain. “I did some research while I was considering this situation, and I found out that, in all the years you’ve been running roughshod over the universe and pretty much getting your way on everything, you never once fielded an army. Hired a few mercs here and there, mostly as guards; and from time to time you seem to have your own guards handy, like your sister’s ’hand—but no armies. Even a couple of situations where it seemed that it would have been easier to raise an army and invade a planet, you went for the more difficult, less direct path.

  “So, I’m thinking that this material is safest with you. Now, there is one other archive like yours, but from what I’ve been able to gather about the Lyre Institute, they’d be manufacturing their own line of soldiers for profit before I’d fairly gotten out of orbit.”

  Uncle stared at her. “You didn’t seriously consider the Lyre Institute!”

  “I thought about them, like I said, but I came to you. So—what d’you think?”

  * * * * *

  “We having been certified as ourselves,” Aelliana said, “may we predict the delms’ decision with more accuracy?”

  Absent other instructions, they had returned to their rooms and were presently sitting on the rug, backs against the couch, wineglasses in hand.

  “I believe that they must send us away,” Daav said slowly. “Not because we endanger the clan, but because the clan endangers us.”

  Aelliana sipped her wine and shook her head.

  “It is a solution for a clan rich in resource,” she said. “Korval’s numbers are low. A clan in such condition must contrive to keep, and grow, resources. Unless the delm means to dissolve the clan.”

  “We had thought it must be done eventually, when we discussed this very issue some Standards ago. The new conditions in which Korval finds itself conspire to make dissolution more, rather than less, likely.”

  “Logic is on your side, van’chela,” she said, “but I cannot like it. Doubtless, I am too Liaden, but I cling to the belief that clan offers more benefit—of all kinds!—than a loose net of kin.”
>
  “I understand. And, yet, one must change, or one will die.”

  “Bah.” Aelliana said.

  For a time there was silence, as they sat shoulder to shoulder, sipping their wine.

  The glasses were empty before Aelliana spoke again.

  “Do you know, Daav, this brooding solves nothing. Whether the delm casts us away or keeps us close, we will require a ship. I suggest that we review those available, so we will be able to suggest something suitable when the moment arrives.”

  “An excellent idea, Pilot!”

  He rolled effortlessly to his feet and held a hand down to her.

  She handed him her wineglass before snapping erect and grinning up into his face.

  “That,” she said, “is very satisfying. Jeeves?”

  “Pilot?”

  “Is it possible for you to send the inventory of Korval ships in need of masters to our console?”

  “Entirely possible. Do I correctly infer that you seek a ship comparable to Ride the Luck?”

  “You read my mind, though I do not reject out of hand a larger ship. We will want courier-class—”

  She glanced at Daav.

  “Do you concur, Pilot?”

  “In every particular,” he told her gravely. “I will refill the glasses and bring them to the desk.”

  “An excellent thought. This may prove thirsty work.”

  VII

  Hands folded, Ren Zel waited while his lifemate examined the altered configuration of the link that bound them together.

  At last, she opened her eyes and regarded him seriously.

  “It is a conduit,” she said carefully. “It ought to enable us to share our gifts—our energy and strength.”

  Ren Zel tipped his head.

  “Ought? Does it not function as it should?”

  Anthora met his eyes.

  “It appears to be constructed in such a way that one of us may draw from the other.” She took a breath and continued, still in that careful voice which was so unlike her usual manner.

  “In plain fact, Beloved, this conduit allows you to draw from me, at will.”

  He stared at her, horrified.

  “This is the Tree’s work?”

  “It would appear so.”

  He rose and extended a hand to her.

  “Come. We will go at once and have it undone. That is—an abomination.”

  Anthora took his hand, but she did not rise. Instead, she pulled him down beside her.

  “Tell me, Beloved, has the Shadow grown?”

  He shivered, remembering the pall upon that other place, which had been so perfect and so clear.

  “It grows, yes. Worse, the song has become…subdued, and there is…dust—debris—scattering on the starwind.”

  “So.”

  She sighed, her fingers tight around his.

  “Let us think about this, before we confront the Tree. This alteration increases the resources that you bring to your appointed battle. Perhaps the Tree has given you a means by which you may survive.”

  “By draining you dry?” he demanded. “By providing the Shadow with access to your gifts, after it has done with me? No. These are not acceptable outcomes. I reject this solution.”

  “But I—do not,” Anthora said coolly. “I am at peace with the Tree.”

  He stared, then bowed his head, seeking a pilot’s exercise to calm himself.

  When he had done, he looked at her again, into cool silver eyes, and collected his face.

  “Forgive me, Beloved, but you cannot have thought,” he said moderately. “Our child—”

  “Precisely.”

  She leaned forward and cupped his cheek in her hand, her gaze hypnotic.

  “Our child,” she repeated. “You had been granted a Seeing, had you not? I will survive what comes, for our child. If the Tree has contrived something which may—may!—increase your odds of also surviving, for our child—and, I confess it, for me—then I am willing to allow the Tree to place my wager.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “The risk—”

  “Peace,” she interrupted. “We are all at risk in this, are we not? I demand the right to do what I may, in support of your successful campaign and joyous return.”

  There was, he thought, nothing to be gained by arguing further. Merely, he must resolve not to access the…conduit…

  And even as the determination formed, he understood precisely how to open the link and the manner of drawing her power.

  “Ren Zel?” she said softly.

  He blinked her face—her dear face—into focus.

  “Yes.”

  “Will it come soon?”

  He flicked the veriest glance into that other place, enough to glimpse rolling darkness and the trembling along the strands.

  “Yes,” he said quietly and took her hands in his.

  “It will be very soon now.”

  * * * * *

  “Well done, Korval,” Val Con said, raising a glass to her.

  They’d retired to their rooms, stopping only to raid the kitchen for a loaf of fresh bread, a block of yellow cheese, and a bottle of wine.

  Miri lifted her glass in reply, and they both drank. She sighed and sagged into the corner of the couch.

  “For a minute there, I was sure he was gonna walk,” she admitted.

  “No, you played your hand brilliantly. He was caught the instant you revealed what was in those cases. Only, for his pride, he could not seem to come to terms too easily.”

  “I’m just relieved he took ’em,” Miri said. “’Course, that still leaves us Chernak and Stost to place, but I’m thinking, with the cases gone, that’s a piece of cake.”

  She grinned at him. “More or less.”

  “You thought the mercs for them?”

  “Seemed the best match. You got something else?”

  “Only that it may not be amiss to show them to the Scouts—the new Scouts, you understand. They have a comparable skill set and may be glad of the opportunity to utilize what they know in a peaceful environment.”

  He inclined his head solemnly. “More or less.”

  “Smart ass.”

  She sipped her wine and put the glass aside in favor of bread and cheese.

  “I’ll make the contact with the mercs, if you’ll do the same with the Scouts.”

  “Yes,” he said. “In the meanwhile, the pathfinders may continue to guest with Nelirikk and Diglon, if that is not found to be an imposition.”

  “Nelirikk says not. Apparently Diglon wants to teach ’em poker. They did ask permission to speak with Captain Waitley and Hevelin. Stost particularly wanted to know how Grakow’s holding up.”

  “I see no problem with their requests. They were, after all, part of Theo’s crew for some period of time. And the norbear will of course want to add the record of their new acquaintance to his inventory. So far as I know, Grakow is exploring the grounds in perfect contentment. If the pathfinders wish, Jeeves will locate him for them.”

  “Everything’s coming up roses, then,” Miri said, with a sigh. “Just one more decision to make and we can call it a day.”

  “And such a day. It has been established that Father and Mother are themselves. Jeeves tells me that they have been reviewing Korval’s inventory of available courier-class ships, so it would seem that they anticipate our decision.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Miri said. “We gotta talk.”

  * * * * *

  The summons this time was to the Parsei Room, which was particularly reserved for the speaking of formal judgments.

  They went hand in hand, with jackets on, it being no disrespect to face Korval, even in judgment, wearing pilot’s leather.

  I believe we stand within an hour of being cast off, Daav said to Aelliana.

  It would seem so, she replied wistfully. It is very nice in them though, Daav, to do the thing by Code, rather than simply showing us the front door.

  The delm was before them—also in keeping with Code�
��and scarcely more formally dressed. They stood composed, if visibly weary, by the window giving onto the inner garden. Outside, it was dark, though it was not yet late; merely Surebleak’s short day had ended, and in another hour, did they keep Solcintra hours, the clan would sit to Prime.

  “Korval.”

  They bowed and received the delm’s nod in return.

  “Korval sees Daav yos’Phelium and Aelliana Caylon.”

  “This is a formal speaking of judgment; there is no appeal.”

  “At issue is the Balance between the best good of the clan and the best good of these two of the clan.”

  “It is the judgment of the delm that clan and kin are best served by the full and joyous return of Aelliana Caylon and Daav yos’Phelium to the clan.”

  “The delm has spoken.”

  Aelliana bowed, grabbing Daav’s arm and pulling him down with her.

  “Korval,” she said, and heard him murmur also.

  They straightened. Val Con nodded and moved to the wine table. Miri grinned at them both.

  “The delm has left the room,” she said in the mode between kin. “And not a moment too soon. Will you share a glass? We must discuss logistics.”

  I should think we do, Daav grumbled.

  “Has the delm run mad?” he asked conversationally.

  “Pay no attention to Daav,” Aelliana said. “He is surly because he lost his wager. One can only guess at his reaction had he actually placed a coin on the outcome.”

  “If it will relieve your feelings,” Val Con said from the wine table, “I will confess that I, too, lost to a cannier throw.”

  “Really?” Daav arrived at the table in two long strides and picked up a pair of glasses. “You must tell us everything.”

  Val Con produced a smile. “Indeed, we shall. The hearth chairs, I think?”

  Daav and Aelliana took the sofa facing away from the door, with the hearth and its firestone on their left. Val Con and Miri settled across from them.

  Aelliana raised her glass.

  “To plotting the bold course.”

  “The bold course,” Miri answered, raising her glass in return.

  They drank, and there was a sense of tension flowing away.

  “Now,” Daav said to Val Con, “this canny throw.”

  “As you will doubtless recall, Korval’s numbers are low. Though this has been a fact for many years, on Liad the…urgency of our situation was disguised by the web of allies which supported us. Here on Surebleak we have no such comfortable placement. Worse, certain of our allies have fallen away altogether at a time when we have acquired—overtly acquired, I should say—an unprincipled and deadly enemy. Though some of our allies have followed us, they are also cast adrift in a strange new sea and unable to accommodate a marriage which brings more risk than benefit to them.”