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Erob's Hold: Freeze-Dry Prison

"This guy is a soldier?" Miri's voice held palpable unbelief.

Val Con looked up from his frowning inspection of the captive's pack.

"All Yxtrang are soldiers," he said, only half-attending what he said. "This one had been something more, once." He gestured with a mouse-nibbled ration bar. "He seems to have fallen on evil times."

Abruptly, he pitched the bar back into the pack and stood frowning into its depths. "Something's amiss."

Miri laughed. "Screwier than a hive of hurricanes," she agreed. "Take a look at this rifle."

He laid the pack down and went to where she had the bulky long-arm arranged across two packing crates. He knelt opposite and looked at her quizzically, but she only grinned and waved a hand. "All yours."

The rifle was clean and well oiled; to first and second glances a proper, soldierly weapon, though something about that nagged Val Con as he bent closer to inspect the firing mechanism and auto-circuitry. He checked, glanced up at Miri.

She nodded. "Looks like maybe him and the weapons-master wasn't on terms."

"So it does." He rocked back on his heels, brows pulled sharply together. "And no need for him to be carrying such a thing at all."

"Why not? Makes sense to take a rifle with you, if you're going for a stroll in enemy territory."

"It does indeed, for a soldier," Val Con said softly. "But not for a scout."

Miri blinked. "Scout?"

"Explorer, it would be rendered from Yxtrang. But—scout, yes."

She shifted carefully, drawing his eyes. "You said you know this guy?"

"Ah, no." His smile flickered, banishing all but a shadow of the frown. "Merely, we had spoken once, many years ago. I held captain's rank then—very young and very certain of immortality." He grinned. "Shan all but ordered me out of the scouts, when I told him the tale. I've rarely seen him so angry."

Miri looked at him carefully. "Which tale was that?"

"The one in which I caught an Yxtrang scout studying the same world I was conducting studies upon, snared him, spoke with him, and then let him go."

"Thought you should've cut his throat for him, is that it?"

"Thought I should have rather cut and run at the first indication that there were Yxtrang of any sort on-world." He smiled again. "Shan has a great desire for those of us under his care to behave with what he considers to be proper caution. But he sets so bad an example, cha'trez. . ."

She laughed and shook her head, pointing at the rifle, the pack with its load of defective gear. "Hell of a way to outfit a scout."

"I agree." The frown was back. "Even if he were sent as a decoy—an explorer might conceive of such a plan. . ."

"Let himself be captured?" Miri stared. "Yxtrang don't let themselves get captured, boss. You know that."

"Yes, but this one has had experience of being captured," Val Con said, "and is a scout besides. Though it would be rational to equip a decoy well, to bolster the fiction that here was a soldier upon some other mission."

"Think he's an escapee—a deserter?"

Val Con shook his head. "In that case, one would be certain to appropriate working weapons, good food—the edge on that survival knife is so dull he could only use it as a crowbar or an ice-chop!"

Miri sighed and came to her feet. "Puzzle, ain't it?" She glanced at her watch. "We're at twenty-five minutes."

"So." Val Con rose. "I'd best have these things with me."

"I don't like you going in there by yourself to talk to him," Miri said, suddenly not his partner, but his lover and his lifemate. "Take a guard."

He smiled and came close, touching her cheek with gentle fingers. "It will be well, Miri." He bent and kissed her forehead. "Besides, he's tied up."

 

Dream and memory danced for the pleasure of the Gods of Irony.

In the dream, he was caught, trussed like a rabbit and swinging from a tree, blade and pistol riding, remote as the Home Troop, in his belt.

In the dream, he roared abuse at his captor, who sat cross-legged on the moss below, absorbed in sharpening his knife. Memory provided an odor beside alien air, which was the scent of the oil the other applied now and then to the surface of the whetstone. The slide of blade along stone was comforting, a commonplace in a situation for which there was no analog.

The smell and the sound persisted, though the dream began to fray. The smell and the sound and the ropes, crossing snug over his chest, pinning his arms to his side, binding his ankles tight.

He opened his eyes.

Light stabbed, igniting a rocketing pain in his head, throwing reality momentarily awry, so that he snarled out of memory:

"Isn't that knife sharp yet?"

"The knife," answered the soft voice that had haunted his sleep these long, weary Cycles, "is sharp again, Ckrakec Yxtrang."

The sharpener lifted his head then, wild brown hair tumbling half into eyes like sharp green stones, and his face—the face—the face of his ruin, smooth and unchanged through the Cycles—though not quite. The right cheek now carried a mark very like a nchaka, or maturity scar.

"You!" He had meant to roar; instead a harsh whisper emerged as he tensed against the ropes.

The Liaden scout bowed from his cross-legged perch atop what seemed to be a packing crate. "I am honored that you recall me."

"Recall you!" The trade language failed him in that instant. Almost, breath failed him. Abruptly, he relaxed against the bonds and lay his head back, exposing his throat.

"If the knife is sharp," he growled in the Troop's own tongue, "use it."

The scout selected a strand of rope and tested the quality of the edge. Shaking his head, he took up the whetstone once more and resumed his sharpening.

"It would be more pleasant," he said, so softly it was a strain to hear him above the burr of stone stroking steel, "were we to talk."

"Talk." He twisted his head to stare, mouth curling into a sneer. "Still no taste for a soldier's work, Liaden?"

The unkempt head rose, bright eyes gleaming. "I see I have not made myself plain." He lay the whetstone by, and held the knife carelessly in one hand.

"The last time we spoke I was graceless," he said eventually in High Liaden. "I neglected to give you my name and rank. Nor did I request yours." He slid from the crate to the floor, blade still negligent in a frail hand.

"Shall we play the game out?" the Yxtrang demanded in Trade. "Though if you imagine that puny knife is enough to—" He hesitated because the little Liaden had moved silently out of his line of sight.

"Play the game out?" That soft, womanish voice, so compelling, unforgettable, once heard . . . The scout came back into sight. He brought the knife up, as if considering its ultimate merit, and brought it flashing down, suddenly held very business-like, indeed.

The Yxtrang stiffened, anticipating the pain as the blade sliced between his left arm and side, neatly parting the ropes.

"I am currently attached to the local defense force," the scout said in conversational Trade, as he moved south relative to the position of the Yxtrang's head. "A military necessity, as I am sure you understand. My name is Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval, and I hold the rank of Scout Commander."

The knife flashed again, parting the ankle ropes. The scout nodded and jumped back to the top of his crate, folding his legs neatly under him.

"You are?" he asked in quiet Terran.

The Yxtrang lay unmoving, considering the knife, the scout's smallness, his own reach and the distance that lay between them.

"Your name and rank, sir?" The Liaden persisted, this time in Trade.

Cautiously he moved his legs, flexed arm and chest muscles against the loose bindings.

The scout sighed. "Conversation consists of dialog," he remarked in High Liaden and tipped his head to the left. "The request in your own language seems unnecessarily abrupt, though perhaps I judge it wrongly." He straightened.

"Name, rank, and troop!"

The Yxtrang snorted and sat up, putting his eyes on a level with the Liaden's. "Your accent stinks like a charnel-house."

"As well it might," the scout said calmly. "I meet very few people native to the tongue who are willing to converse with me. Your name and rank? No?" He reached behind and hauled a battered pack onto his lap.

"I find here that you are attached to the 14th Conquest Corps."

He said nothing and after a moment the scout worked the pack's fastening and rooted about inside, head and shoulders all but vanishing. He emerged eventually, held out the bulky Security-issue blade, and cocked an eyebrow.

"The 14th Conquest Corps equips troops shabbily, don't you think?" He waved it away, thinking of his own knife, that rode in his boot-top, that they had never taken from him, that had an edge to cut hullplate and—

"A knife is a knife, after all," the scout insisted. "I admit this one has seen ill days, but a few minutes' work will put it right. And it is surely of a size more fitting to yourself, Explorer, than to me." A moment passed . . . two.

"Take the damn thing!" the Liaden shouted in Troop tongue and thrust the knife forward.

Hounded, he took it, stared at it, and lay it down beside him. He should unsheathe it, he knew, and use the dull blade to skewer or to bludgeon the scout. It was his duty to report back to the Troop, to—

The scout was offering the whetstone.

"Your blade," he said, "needs care, Explorer."

"I am not an explorer!" That came out a proper roar, lancing his head with pain.

The little scout didn't flinch. "No? And yet I first found you behaving in a very scout-like manner, piloting a single-ship and making very curious studies. Surely you were an explorer then, at least?"

"No longer." The snarl startled stars across his back-eyes, and he winced, unsoldierly.

"You have been given medical attention," the scout murmured, "though it was predicted that your head would ache for a time after you woke."

"Medical attention? Why?" He leaned forward, shouting into the small, bland face. "Scout, are you mad? I am Yxtrang! You are Liaden! We are enemies, do you recall it? We are made to hunt and kill you!" He sat back, away from the face that neither flinched nor crumbled in terror.

"Occasionally," he continued, more quietly, "you kill us. But it is not done that you hit your enemy over the head with a rock and then call the medic to repair his wound."

"I did not hit you over the head with a rock, Explorer—"

"I am not an explorer! Look at me! Captured! Captured like a cow for slaughter! Twice to fall alive into Liaden hands! I am a failure, a weakness, and a shame! Rightly I am Nelirikk No-Troop!"

"Catch!" The command was Troop tongue. His hand flashed out—and he discovered he held the whetstone.

"What shall I do, Scout Commander?" he inquired with heavy sarcasm, "sharpen this blade so you may cut my throat? Or should I cut my own? That—"

"Would be a waste of talent," interrupted the scout. "I have contempt for the 14th Conquest Corps, who put their insignia on such equipment as they give you—explorer, no-troop or common soldier!" He hurled the pack off his lap. Nelirikk caught it as it struck his chest.

"A canteen with worn filters, a knife so dull it's more bludgeon than blade—yes, you still have the one in your boot, and I see you cared for it—out-of-date ration packs, half-nibbled by mice; a fire-starter in danger of burning out on next use—"

"Surely, Commander," Nelirikk said with sudden weariness, "you know how it is to equip the expendables?"

There was a small silence. "Are explorers expendable, then?" the scout asked softly. "Are they so little valued that they might be sent out all but weaponless to chase bears in our park, with never a thought to the waste, should the bear prove superior today?"

"Explorers are not. No-Troops are."

"Ah." The scout sat quiet for a moment, as did Nelirikk, who wished he might lay back down and go to sleep against the pounding misery in his head.

"Here," the scout said abruptly; "this is also yours."

He opened his eyes and stared at the rifle in dawning horror.

"You're not going to let me go!"

"Take the rifle," the scout commanded. "It's heavy!"

He grabbed and sat holding the thing in one hand while he stared at the Liaden.

"I would not advise attempting to fire it," the little man said conversationally. "I am not certain if the firing mechanism or the chamber will go first. If the pin goes, of course, you are simply disappointed when you pull the trigger. But if the chamber blows, Explorer, I suspect you will be either blind or dead."

"Scout," he said, very carefully, "you are aware that I can smash you to jelly with this rifle, whether it is in condition to fire or not?"

"Certainly. But, before you do, there is another defect I would like to point out." The scout came to his feet upon the packing crate, and there was a sudden crystal gleam in his left hand, a flash and a pressure on the rifle—which had abruptly lost four inches of barrel.

Nelirikk looked at the severed segment, and then at the crystal knife in the scout's hand.

"I note this further defect," he said. "It is one I might not have discovered until it could not be remedied."

The scout nodded, crystal blade vanishing as he resumed his seat. "Precisely. Like the canteen, if you had come across bad water."

He snorted. "I am not going to drink bad water, Scout."

"No. You'll not die of bad water."

"What will I die of?" Nelirikk looked directly at his tiny enemy. "Answer me, Scout Commander—will you give me the honor of a firing squad? It is more than a no-troop deserves."

"Yes," said the scout softly. "I know."

There was another silence, then the scout spoke again. "But what befell you? Explorer to no-troop. . ."

"What befell me? You befell me! What else should happen to a soldier who survived the dishonor of capture?" Nelirikk rubbed the back of his neck, trying to finger away the worst of the headache.

"Security recommended execution. But the Command supposed I might yet have knowledge useful to the Troop, coward though I am." He looked back at the scout, sitting so attentive atop his crate.

"Ten dutiless Cycles, of eating after the soldiers had their fill, of speaking when spoken to, of being the loser's prize in games of skill between the captains! Ten cycles of scut-work and kicks and being banned from the piloting chambers—because you befell me! You should have cut my throat ten Cycles ago, Liaden. Be a soldier and do it now."

The scout was staring at him, wonder on his smooth-skinned face. "You reported," he breathed, so softly he might have been speaking to himself, except the words were Yxtrang, as was the shout that followed: "Gods damn you for a fool, man! Whatever prompted you to report it?"

Nelirikk stiffened. "What else should a soldier do?"

"Who am I to know what a soldier will do? But an explorer will use his brain and look first to his duty."

"You," Nelirikk suggested, with wide irony, "did not report."

"And be planet-bound for years, while my head was drained of every nuance of our encounter, and my abilities languished? I was trained as an explorer and discoverer of worlds—to do less than that work was to fail in my duty to my teachers."

The anger hit all at once—he saw it reflected in a sudden widening of the scout's bright eyes. The waste of it! The years of shame might never have been! He might have advanced the Troop to a dozen new worlds. He might have—

He took a breath and brought the scout back into focus, noting with something akin to approval the soldierly way in which the Liaden sat his post, eyes wary and hands ready—much good it might do him against Nelirikk's bulk and strength.

"You have endangered your teachers and your people," he said, "by failing to report. How if they settle that world we found together, while some of the Troop do the same?"

"My report indicated that I had identified at least one example of a potentially sapient race," the scout said; "and recommended the planet be studied again in a generation."

"You know that planet, Scout! There were no more sapient. . ." Nelirikk choked suddenly as the phrasing overtook him; gasped, "Me?"

"You," said the scout calmly. "I never considered but that you would do the same."

"Then that is the difference between us," Nelirikk said heavily. "For I only thought to do my duty, and report everything to the Troop." He looked up. "Kill me, Scout Commander."

The scout shook his head and the wild brown hair fell into his eyes. "As to that," he said. "I must speak with my captain and receive further orders." He unfolded his legs and dropped to the floor, soundless and graceful as a squirrel, passing just beyond Nelirikk's reach on his way to the door.

"Care for your blade, do," he said as he touched the button set into the door. "I will speak with my captain and return."

The door opened and the scout slipped through, leaving Nelirikk alone with his weapons.

 

The door rolled closed behind him, amber overhead glowing bright.

"Sealed," said the guard, and voices broke all around him, sudden and bewildering as a hailstorm.

In Liaden: Erob and tel'Vosti.

In Terran: Jason.

Variously:

"Well, what'd he say?"

"Is the information useful?"

"Are they going to attack through the park?"

"Well done, well done, excellent!"

"Shall we dispose of it now?"

Val Con gulped air, got his mental feet under him with wrenching effort and ran the Rainbow. He sorted the crowd and found Miri, silent and serious by the monitor, touched the song of her within his head and smiled into her eyes before glaring at the noisy rest and waving a hand for silence.

It came instantly, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"The project requires time," he said in Trade, to avoid having to say it again. "Circumstances exist." He glanced over Erob's head to the towering Aus.

"Commander Carmody, have you plans regarding the upkeep of your prisoner?"

Jason laughed. "Upkeep? That's two steps ahead of me, son—I just thought you might get something useful out of him!"

"So I may," Val Con said. "However, he has not been well-cared-for by his troop of late. If I might—"

"Hell, bet he's hungry as a freeze-toad at ice-out! Boy that size's gotta eat as much as I do. Here. . ." He slapped a leg pocket; pulled out four ration-packs and tossed them over. After a moment, he unsnapped his canteen and held it out. "Best believe these filters are good."

Val Con bowed and heard Erob catch her breath, no doubt scandalized that one of Korval should acknowledge so deep a debt to a mere Terran. "My thanks, Commander. Shall I need to obtain your permission regarding any steps I might find it necessary—"

Jase waved a hand. "Do what needs done. You're a scout, ain't you?"

"Indeed," said Val Con softly; "I am a scout." He turned to Erob, amused to find tel'Vosti's arm firmly through his delm's, fingers curled unobtrusively around her wrist.

"Erob." He gave her full measure in the bow, made the sign of an equal requesting favor with his unladen hand.

"I see you, Korval."

"This prisoner was taken upon your lands. He is housed within your prison and lives at your pleasure. In recognition of these things, I request that I be allowed to deal with him—with this person Nelirikk—as my melant'i and the necessities of Korval dictate." He straightened and looked her full in the face. "On Jelaza Kazone."

Breath hissed out of her and tel'Vosti's fingers tightened about her wrist. "I require a fuller accounting of Korval's necessities," she said, as was her right in this.

Val Con bowed again. "I have former acquaintance with this Nelirikk. We met many years ago, when he was explorer and I scout captain. At that time, I dealt—inadequately—with him, and now wish to honorably correct an error in judgment."

"Honor? With that?" She flicked a glance at the monitor, which showed Nelirikk seated upon his makeshift cot, stoically sharpening the larger knife. "It is an animal, Korval."

Val Con sighed. "Erob, he is a man."

"And you would attempt Balance with it." She stared at him, at Jason, back at the Yxtrang. "So you feed it and allow it to sharpen its weapon. You think yourself able to take it, I assume. Mad your line and house may be, but I never heard that you were suicides."

He bowed ironically. "I am to take this as your agreement to uphold my necessities regarding this man?"

She was quiet a time longer, staring at the monitor until tel'Vosti shifted at her side. Her permission, when it came, was resigned. "Deal as you must, Korval. You will, in any case."

"My thanks, Erob. Korval is in your debt."

He turned back toward the door, rations and canteen in hand; saw Miri lounging by the monitor. "Hey, Cory," she said in Benish, which only they two among those assembled spoke. "You have a minute to talk?"

"Certainly." He grinned at her. "As many as you like."

"Good." She nodded, keeping to Benish. "Your intentions with this soldier are? I see no worry, here." She touched a finger to her temple. "Tell me the plan."

"Yes. This man is a treasure, cha'trez. It is imperative that we do not waste him."

"Hmm. But he talks like he thinks he's got no worth—talks like maybe he'll cut his own throat."

Val Con stiffened. "Miri. How do you know what he said?"

She jabbed a finger at the monitor. "Heard him."

"Yes," he said carefully. "But when he said those things, he was speaking Yxtrang."

"Yx—" Her eyes widened, finger rising once more to touch her temple. "You speak Yxtrang," she said, very carefully. "I don't speak Yxtrang."

"Not," he agreed with matching care, "so far as I know."

"Shit." She lapsed back into Terran. "Tell you what, boss: we gotta figure this thing out before somebody gets killed."

He flicked a glance at the monitor.

"Yeah, yeah. Necessity and all that. What's the back up? You want me in there, too?"

He heard the flat note of fear in her voice and in the internal song and reached to touch her cheek, scandalized old women be damned. "I may need to call upon you, cha'trez, my Captain. But at this moment, if you permit, Nelirikk and I have certain philosophies to discuss." He smiled and lay his finger lightly on her lips. "It will be well, Miri."

"You keep saying that," she complained, around the concern he felt almost as his own. "Just don't get yourself killed, OK?"

"OK," he said. The door cycled open and he stepped back into prison.

 

Putting the knife right soothed—and gave him time to think, to measure his weaknesses and his strengths.

The rifle . . . Nelirikk nearly spat.

Given a decent kit it could be restored; but he lacked the kit. He might also construct a small bomb from the components that still functioned, if he had time. He doubted the scout would be gone for more time than was required for the knife, and there was certainly someone monitoring the small scanner in the ceiling-corner.

A bomb, therefore, would be useless both as a surprise and as a vehicle for escape, given the solid masonry all about.

The knife-edge was superb now, for the stone was of excellent quality. These were the sorts of things one looted for on a Liaden world: the little things that worked better or were more elegant.

It was odd that beings which the Command taught were merely vermin should have the way of making such fine things, Nelirikk thought suddenly. Similar objects, made by Yxtrang hands, tended to be serviceable, but uninspired.

And an enemy had freely given this stone, that he might bring his blade to an honorable edge!

An edge that could now easily pass entirely through something as thin and fragile as the scout.

Alas, throwing such a bulky blade would be inexact at best, and it was folly to suppose the scout could thus be taken by surprise. Worse, the scout carried a personal weapon that sliced gun-steel like cheese. What it might do to flesh and bone—

He thought about that.

It might be possible to goad the Scout Commander into using the crystal blade. It might be possible, after all, to die a hero's death, with no Yxtrang ever knowing that Nelirikk No-Troop had failed yet again, that—

There was anger.

Nelirikk explored it, for anger sullies thinking.

When he thought of the scout, there was anger, distant and indistinct, as if a cloudy remnant of those years of intensely focused pain hung between them, obscuring what might be truth.

When he thought of the rifle—

His heartbeat spiked, and he very nearly brought the blade to his own throat as the shame of being given a useless weapon broke across him.

Stupid. As always. With an effort, he calmed his thoughts and considered the blade and the scout anew.

What did he know of Liadens, in truth? That they were people—sentient and self-aware—must be clear to the dullest of the Troop, no matter the Command's teachings. As people, then, following custom and system of their own devising . . . Was it conceivable that Liadens practiced some alien honor? Was it possible that this one left his enemy specifically alone, granting him honorable opportunity? The knife was very sharp: three rapid motions would solve many problems.

Nelirikk hefted the blade; sheathed it with a sigh. After a moment, he drew his grace blade from its snug boot top and used the whetstone on it.

Tending the blade was soothing. Perhaps the scout found it so, as well.

 

"I see you, Explorer."

Nelirikk looked up from his task, eyes narrow on the bag the little man carried.

"I see you, Scout."

Val Con nodded and resumed his former perch, settling the bag firmly in his lap. The Loop was disturbingly before his mind's eye, elucidating a 27 percent likelihood of an immediate attack, and an even more disturbing refusal to project an ultimate Chance of Mission Success or Chance of Personal Survival.

Light glinted from the blade Nelirikk was sharpening—a fine thing, as like the larger blade as a screwdriver was to the Clutch knife he wore in his sleeve.

He rummaged in the bag and tossed a food pack lightly toward the Yxtrang, who snatched it and the next comfortably out of the air, and sat holding them in his hand.

"Food?"

"Food," Val Con agreed. "Commander Carmody believes a soldier should be permitted to eat."

Cautiously, Nelirikk bent and returned his knife to its boot-sheath, expression unreadable behind the tattoos.

"Do eat," urged Val Con. "I suspect they may be better than the rations you were issued."

Nelirikk frowned at the Terran-lettered labels.

"You would eat this?"

Val Con laughed.

"It is not nearly as delicious as the rabbit one snares oneself, I admit. But the mercenaries buy their own food—surely they would not poison themselves. Most certainly not Commander Carmody, who gives this from his own day-kit."

He used his duty blade to open a ration pack while the Yxtrang sat watching.

"Shall we trade?" Val Con murmured, triggering the tiny heating element. "Are you concerned for the quality?"

Almost, it seemed that Nelirikk might laugh. He pointed toward Val Con's food.

"The explorer," he said, hesitantly, "is unfamiliar with local custom."

"Local custom is that hungry persons may eat. If you dislike what you have, you may have some of mine. There is water here, too, if you'll share the canteen. Or use your own, if you trust the filters."

"Eat," the Yxtrang repeated quietly. He opened the silver packet, discovered the tray and tray mechanism quickly, triggered it, stared again at the label.

"What food is this?"

Val Con glanced at the bright lettering. "Prime salmon. Excellent—though I hope you will not find it necessary for me to share it."

Nelirikk looked up sharply, wariness clearly visible through the facial decorations.

"No?"

Val Con laughed. "The food is good. But on my last mission the God of Quartermasters saw fit to supply my captain and myself with a year's rations of salmon and crackers—and nothing else!"

The Yxtrang sampled the fish carefully. In a moment he was eating with gusto.

 

"Tell me my death, Scout Commander."

They had finished eating and the small man had passed over the canteen. Together, they had gathered the remains of the food and put them in a recycle box, and now they looked at each other.

"How shall I die?" Nelirikk repeated, the Yxtrang words bittersweet in his mouth.

"I do not know," said the scout quietly, also in Yxtrang. "The orders I have are simply to do what must, of necessity and honor, be done."

"Honor?" The word seemed to hang overlong between them—he had not meant it as a challenge, in truth, but what could a captive-holding troop know of honor?

The Liaden shook his head; shifted on his seat.

"My curiosity and arrogance seem to have caused you much pain. I had never meant for a fellow seeker-of-worlds to suffer—certainly never as you have suffered. So, I seek to balance the evil I brought upon you."

Nelirikk stared, trying to grapple this concept into sense. The scout spoke of personal responsibility—personal retribution, personal action. The oddness of it made his abused head throb.

"Balance." He tasted the word for connotation—for implication.

He looked at the Liaden, sitting so solemn atop his crate, seeing no trace of humor, or malice, or deceit, or any attitude of attack. No attitude of defense.

Yet—questions of honor with Liadens? Those worthless enemies who had no respect, who—treated a man like a soldier, when the Troop had thrown him away.

"Balance," he said once more, and contrived a stiff, seated bow.

"Your ship, Scout Commander."

The green eyes were cutting sharp upon him. "Yes."

"The reason I am here," said Nelirikk, slowly, "is that during the strike on the landing field I showed your ship to the forward controller. A no-troop may not speak unless spoken to—" Nelirikk thought a moment of anger and glanced at the blade, which sat idle as he spoke equitably to an enemy.

"Despite the regulation, I gave warning that your ship was dangerous—that I had seen its like before. I told them to take it out—"

The Liaden had stiffened, face intent.

Nelirikk leaned an elbow on a knee, meeting those sharp eyes with puzzlement and some sadness.

"There is your balance, Scout. Freedom for freedom. For overstepping—for causing a general to seem a fool—I was sent to explore boundaries and map the importance of your ship's defense."

"It seems a balance for generals and units," the scout commented.

"Yes," agreed the Yxtrang. Then, thoughtfully: "Was there a junior officer onboard? Did you lose troops from this?"

"No, thank you. The ship—I could not return in the ferocity of the attack. The ship defended by—reaction."

"I saw it return fire to orbit," Nelirikk said, "but was told that it did not."

The Liaden nodded.

"Fired upon from orbit, it would return fire to orbit. The beam would be weaker, but enough to singe, I warrant."

"So." The Yxtrang's grin was savage. "Seven drop-jets and a strike on the battleship, at least. Your ship did you well, Scout Commander." He paused. "It was a ship to behold."

The Liaden acknowledged this with a sketched salute, smiling wanly.

"Did proper duty," agreed Val Con. "As you did. As I've done." He looked up sharply, waving a thin hand for emphasis.

"Does it strike you as a wasteful—even artificial—equation, Nelirikk Explorer, that doing proper duty tends to result in destruction?"

The question jolted—the more so because he had asked it of himself, as a thinking person must, while he had been explorer, and while he had been no-troop. His answer came a heartbeat later than it should have.

"The Troop survives! The Command survives!"

The Liaden moved his shoulders, expressive of some emotion Nelirikk could not name.

"Very true. Faceless and interchangeable, Command survives. I tell you that I, Val Con yos'Phelium, know about duty. Duty says you and I must fight, eh?" He brushed hair out of his face. "Duty demands that I attempt to kill the closest peer I've met in several Standards. Duty demands blood all too often—in this time, what does it demand of you, Nelirikk?"

It was hard, that answer, but it was in him, blood and bone. Any soldier would have answered the same.

"Duty demands that I call fire on your brave ship, Scout. It demands that I kill you, given the opportunity."

"And then?" the Liaden insisted, pushing with mere words! "What demands, after I die?"

"That I escape, back to my unit to—"

"To report and be shot!" shouted the scout.

Nelirikk bent his head in the Liaden way. "I might instead be used as a target for knife practice."

The Liaden looked a bit wild-eyed.

"Do you wish to fight?" he demanded.

"Scout, I must!" Nelirikk looked to the blade.

"Is it true," asked the scout, very calmly, "that two men of equal rank might fight for the higher position?"

"Yes," Nelirikk agreed, wondering at this change in topic.

"And that then, the winner commands the loser?"

"With the concurrence of the next above in the troopline, yes."

"Ah." The Liaden slid abruptly down from his perch, head tipped up to stare into Nelirikk's face.

"I propose," he said, "a contest." He turned his back, walked to one end of the room and back, eyes brilliant. "I propose that we fight—for duty's sake. We will fight as equals—scout to explorer. If you should win, I will take your orders. If I win, I will sponsor you to my captain for admittance to the troop—pledged to me and my line."

Nelirikk sat speechless, staring at the manic little man, who grinned at his stupefaction. Fight a Liaden for troop position? Treat scout equal to explorer? Who would enforce a win? The difficulties. . .

"Are you mad?" he asked slowly. "How could you hope to win such a contest? I'm strong, fast, and weapon-wise—"

"Mad?" The scout's grin grew wider. "It is madness to waste resources. It is madness to give in to the faceless. I will represent you—Nelirikk Explorer—to my captain—should I win. I swear it by Tree and Dragon! If you win—"

"If I win, Scout, you will likely be dead!"

The little man came forward, stopping just within Nelirikk's reach, face and eyes gone child-solemn. "Would you really waste so valuable a resource?"

Nelirikk stared, put his hand on the troop blade—and took it away again.

"I hope I do not waste resources," he said. "But where will you find a neutral here to serve as referee? How could we break?"

The scout waved a hand airily. "Technicality," he said. "Mere technicality. Do you agree in principle? If so, we will be able to devise details."

Nelirikk sighed, then slowly stood.

"It is better to do something than nothing. I know that you won't feed an enemy forever." He bowed, stiffly, but with good intent. "For duty and for balance. May you be strong for the Troop."

The Liaden returned the bow with fluid grace, then brought his fist to his shoulder in a proper salute.

"As you say," he agreed, and climbed back atop his crate. "Let us now consider technicalities."

 

Together, they pushed the storage crates in front of the door. On them went: a rifle, a pack, a long-knife, boots, another pair of boots, several more knives—including one sheathed in fine black suede, the handle of which gleamed like polished obsidian.

They stood, toe-to-toe and barefoot, scout and explorer.

The Yxtrang looked down on his toy-like opponent, a line from a camp-song echoing briefly in his head:

A soldier's opponent is more than might—

Little Jela was a demon to fight. . .

For clarity they went over the agreement, first the Liaden and then the Yxtrang, each speaking in the other's language to be sure there was no difficulty in translation.

"Thus shall it be," came the Liaden words from the Yxtrang: "should I prevail in this contest, I shall pursue my duty as I see it, you subordinate. Should the win be yours, I shall pledge myself and my services to you and your line until released."

"The win," said the Liaden in Troop tongue, "goes to the first able to count three on a vulnerable opponent; the loser yielding at once."

They backed away, then, each looking the room over, perhaps measuring the luck of this or that corner, or seeking an advantage of light, or filling their mind with a last living vision, each already distant from the world.

 

The timer on Val Con's watch beeped.

He moved forward slowly, accepting both the necessity for motion—from the L'apeleka stance, Desiring Difficult Desires—and the need for caution.

From the other side of the large room came the Yxtrang. The face behind the tattoos had gone distant: intention hidden deep within the eyes while the huge body came forward gently, gracefully, inevitably. Val Con noticed that the Yxtrang's feet, like his hands, seemed disproportionately delicate.

L'apeleka demanded the right elbow forward now; the Yxtrang answered by crouching a shade lower. Val Con pulled the arm in, saw his opponent's shoulder rise in proper reaction.

They were beginning the dance with caution: both testing responses or lack of, until at once they were in and close, arms in motion, knives the honest threat. Could-be threats were of this, that, or the other throw or kick, a punch hidden behind the placement of elbow or flick of wrist.

Nelirikk feinted, saw the feint ignored, the threat parried before execution.

Val Con's Loop evaluated the situation: a clear 43 percent Chance of Mission Success.

The Loop flicked away, lost in the sudden hugeness of the explorer, looming above, knife held so—

Val Con ducked, twisted—heard the hum of blade passing over—close to his ear, saw the big man recover a trifle slowly, used the heartbeat to barely touch an ankle with the blade—

And was past and behind, where he needed to be, but the foot placement warned him and he whirled away just ahead of the kick, Nelirikk grimacing with the effort it cost him to keep balanced.

The wall was barely an arm's length from Val Con, forcing him to dart in close again. He found the move in L'apeleka: The Blizzard Swirls.

Hands, arms, legs, knees, feet blurred with the sequence—he got a kick in on a solid thigh, a knifeless punch high on a shoulder—and tried to dance away—too late!

The answering blow caught his shoulder, he spun with it, tumbled, whipped around to find the Yxtrang in full charge, leapt, kicked solidly at the face—and caught the ear as the other's knife slashed his tough combat leather leggings.

Disengage.

The room was silent but for their breathing, and they backed away, each searching for signs of damage. The Yxtrang's ankle had a small spot of blood; his ear was dark red. Val Con felt a slight sting; shrugged it out of consciousness—damage to his right leg was minor—no more than a scratch.

Nelirikk adjusted his belt with a quick hand.

Val Con tried to move in; was held off by the other's long reach. He moved left; found himself faced. Right—and again the move was there, checking him, boxing him, trying—

Nelirikk was trying to get him into a corner, arms low and spread.

Val Con feinted right, feinted left, went straight in for half-a-step, then dove for the right arm, blade nipping out as he tucked—rolled—and felt the force of the blow on the floor behind him, gained his feet and whirled in time to see the Yxtrang's blade bounce, once.

He was too slow: the knife was recovered.

Both were sweating now; the floor was slick with it and with dripped blood, making a slip or misstep all too likely.

As if by common consent they moved downroom to a drier patch of floor. It seemed neither wished to be on the right side of uncertain footing.

CMS flashed behind Val Con's eyes: 41 percent.

He grimaced, and the Yxtrang started moving in, perhaps taking it as a sign of despair.

Val Con drew back as if to throw the blade; Nelirikk glided casually away, adjusting his belt as he came back again, hands protecting face but leaving shoulders and thighs vulnerable. Val Con glanced at the unbladed hand—empty.

Three seconds! How many times had they already threatened each other with—

Val Con tried again to close; was fended away. Nelirikk lunged, Val Con twisted, avoided, skidded on dampness—snatched a moment to recover his balance.

A moment was too long—a heavy arm swung out, slamming him off his feet and into the wall. He bounced, rolled and came up, knife in hand, shoulder aching, but unbroken. There was blood on the floor from his leg.

This time he feinted a slip as the Yxtrang closed; wrapped himself around that massive knife arm and punched his blade into the upper shoulder.

Nelirikk grunted, shook—and Val Con was airborne again, flung loose like a hound from a bear. He came up and around as his opponent tossed his knife to the undamaged left hand and charged.

Val Con gave ground, saw the trap—

Nelirikk slipped on a smear of blood—and Val Con raced by, elbow lifting to fend off the descending blade—which was sharp, gods; a proper soldier's knife, fit for slashing leather, flesh, bone . . . The blood was quick. Hot.

CMS flashed; he ignored it. What did the Loop know about necessity?

He slipped.

The Yxtrang nearly fell on top of him: he scrambled away in time to avoid the lunge, jumped to his feet, wiped the blood off his arm, saw the depth of the cut, shuddered—and moved in.

Move in. Move in. Move in. He needed to be inside that long reach if he had to kill the Yxtrang, if neither would yield—

He ducked back, avoiding a fist. Saw the curiously graceful hand move toward belt and check as he feinted in.

So he charged. Straight at the huge man, blade ready to slice or cut and—

He skidded, lost his knife, slid behind the Yxtrang, who snatched—and Val Con's good hand flashed out, snagged the ring of metal on his opponent's belt, and yanked.

Nelirikk saw the scout's knife on the floor, bent, grabbed—

But Val Con had it now: a thin strand of cutting wire as long as his arm. He hugged the giant's leg, pulled the wire loop hard—twisted, half-avoiding the hammer-blow of a huge fist—and hung on, hung on to the wire cord while oceans roared inside his ears and his vision went gray, ebbing toward black and Miri was there, terror sheeting her face, her hands overlaying his own on the wire. . .

The explorer went down. Val Con hung on grimly; clawed back to sense, pulled his knife to him with his bloody leg.

"One, two, three. . ." he gasped—let go the wire and came to his feet, as he must, knife in hand.

The Yxtrang lay half-sprawled on his side, knife held at throat-level, eyes distant. He sat up slowly, knife still high, eyes on Val Con's face. With his free hand he fingered the bloody loop around his legs, mouth tight.

Val Con stood back warily, wondering if he could dodge a thrown knife, or avoid a sudden desperate lunge.

Nelirikk explored the place where the wire lodged in his right leg. A spasm of pain crossed his face, eloquent despite the tattoos. Carefully, he turned the knife in his hand, holding it by the blade as if to throw, weighing its balance—

Then held it farther out, toward Val Con.

"I neglected to ask," he said in neutral Trade, "what language I should use when speaking to your captain."

Val Con sighed, slid his knife away, and accepted the offering. He cleaned it carefully against the sleeve of his fighting leathers, inspected it, and found its edge undamaged. He extended a hand to the Yxtrang, who hesitated before using the assistance to stand.

"You have accepted a brave challenge, Explorer," Val Con said in Yxtrang. "I must have the rest of the pledge before I may present you to my captain."

The big man half-lifted a fist to salute, caught the gesture, and made a ragged bow. "As you say." He paused a moment, either to recruit his resources or to puzzle out the most proper phrasing.

"I, Nelirikk . . . I, Nelirikk Explorer, pledge myself on Jela's honor to the person and line of Val Con yos'Phelium. My blood is yours, now and until my death. May your orders bring glory to us all."

Val Con bowed and held the heavy knife out across both palms.

"Your blade, Nelirikk Explorer. Wear it and use it as required, by my consent. The Tree and Dragon is now your shield also: I trust you will bring honor to us all."

Nelirikk took the blade in wonder.

"Can you walk?" Val Con asked him.

"If required, my leader."

Val Con shook his head. "Scout is sufficient for now, I believe. Do you rest while I go to bring my captain."

 

Miri whirled from the monitor as he came through the hatch, slamming her gun home with one hand and unclipping her belt-kit with the other. Behind her was Jason—and behind him were tel'Vosti and Erob.

"It is done." Val Con said. "Miri, you will need to—"

"Hold him, Jase."

Val Con stiffened; heard as if it had only now begun the song that was Miri within him—heard the terror and the beginning of the metamorphosis into anger. He sighed and leaned back into Jason's bulk, muscles shivering with reaction.

Miri slashed the ruined sleeve to expose the knife wound, sprayed it with antiseptic; reached for a pain bulb—

"No! Miri, you must talk to—"

She looked at him straight, gray eyes wild, and wiped the sweat from his face with an antiseptic cloth.

"You're mostly OK." Half question, half accusation.

"Yes. Some pain, some wounds that will heal, but—"

"What in hell were you trying to pull?" she yelled, terror abruptly sublimated into rage. "Next time you want yourself dead, try a step off a hundred meter cliff! Whatever gave you—"

She bent over the arm, still yelling, slipped for a moment into an argot that made even Jason cringe and slammed back into Terran for, "Jase—gimme a double staple patch outta your kit."

"Miri," Val Con said.

She swabbed his face again—hard; leaving the bitter taste of antiseptic in his mouth.

"Miri?"

"You ain't answered me, soldier! I wanna know where you got permission to pull such a damn fool stunt!"

"Necessity. Miri, please. It is done."

"Done is it?" she snorted, and knelt to get at his leg. "You look it."

"Attend me!" Val Con insisted, voice rising. He heard a faint pop as a sweat bubble broke in his ear.

She came up fast, eyes blazing. "Don't you lose your temper at me, you scruffy midget!"

For one searing moment, Val Con thought she might actually strike him, so exalted was her fury. Apparently Jason thought so, too, for he dropped his grip and stepped back.

Miri took a deep breath, hurled her free hand into the air and leaned close.

"So tell me, partner," she said, so sarcastically Jason retreated another step; "what's the plan? Huh? What'm I supposed to do now? What's the new gag? Yours all the way—so tell me about it."

The sarcasm hurt; his arm hurt and every other bit of him, too. Ridiculously, he regretted the warm solidity of Jason to lean against, and took a breath, pitching his voice for neutrality.

"Miri, my Captain, I request that you also give aid to the man inside this room, who is waiting to see if you will accept him as a recruit."

Her fear flared and his own anger melted. He reached to touch her cheek, which caress she allowed, shoulders losing some of the tension fury had lent.

"I said that I would sponsor him to you," he murmured. "Do me the honor of at least speaking with him before he bleeds to death."

She stared at him, anger and terror evaporating into wonder. "You want me to accept an Yxtrang as a recruit in a Terran-Liaden unit?"

"If the captain judges it wise," he said carefully.

She considered him out of wary gray eyes. "And if the captain thinks it's the worst idea she's heard since she left Surebleak?"

"That is the captain's right," he acknowledged. "But you will still wish to speak to this Nelirikk and show him some care, cha'trez."

"Why should I care a plugged bit what happens to him?"

"He is pledged to serve us, Line yos'Phelium," he explained. "There are—obligations. Such as seeing that one's servant has proper medical attention and does not needlessly suffer."

She flung hand out toward the sealed hatch. "We own that?"

"Certainly not," said Val Con. "One cannot own a sentient being."

"Right." She closed her eyes. "Other people," she said, apparently to the room at large, "give their wives flowers."

She spun on her heel, eyes snapping open. "Open the door," she told the door-corporal and glanced back at Val Con and Jason. "The two of you got me into this; the two of you can tag along."

 

Nelirikk stood, awaiting the return of the scout. He dared not sit on one of the crates, for fear his wounded legs would fail when it came time to rise to the captain's honor. He had made scant effort to clean himself, for it was no disgrace, that a captain might see a soldier fresh from soldier's duty.

There had been a voice raised in the outerways; a murmured answer that must be the scout—and the raised voice once more, swearing, as he'd monitored from time to time from Terran ships.

If the raised voice were the captain, it would seem to register displeasure with the performance. It suddenly occurred to Nelirikk to wonder just how persuasive was the scout, and he worried somewhat, and shifted on his aching legs—

The door cycled open, admitting a procession.

The scout led, limping, with field dressings on arm and leg. Immediately behind was a Terran male who filled the doorway with his bulk—a full-sized soldier, dressed for war, yet looking like some scraggly farm-peasant, long-haired and bearded, without tattoos of rank or maturity-mark. Still, he moved with assurance; with command: A proper captain!

Behind came a tiny red-haired figment—an apprentice soldier, doubtless brought early from the creche in the emergency of the invasion—carrying what appeared to be a medical kit.

The scout paused, swept a bow and nearly slipped on the slick floor. The larger man turned his head to snap a command at the soldier in the doorway: "Get a mop and cleaners!"

"My Captain," the scout began, and Nelirikk turned his face more fully to the bearded man, thinking that it would not be so bad, to serve a captain at least of proper size. . .

"My Captain," the scout repeated, and bowed profoundly, head near touching his knees, as the figment continued forward, thumping the equipment she carried onto a nearby crate, striding past the big man and the small one, to stand wide legged directly before Nelirikk, matchstick arms folded across scant chest.

"Well?" she snapped, and Nelirikk's mouth opened in response to the command-voice before his mind recalled that it was not yet his place to speak. The scout it was that answered, properly—and most gently.

"Captain, this is the man I propose to add to the unit. Nelirikk Explorer, he is called; a thoughtful fighter and—"

The captain shifted; frowned. "Introduce me."

"Yes, Captain." The scout bowed obedience; Nelirikk brought himself to stiff attention, striving to ignore his injuries and the persistent buzzing in his ears, the while his mind raced to encompass a captain who was smaller even than the scout and—

"Explorer, attend! Here is Captain Miri Robertson, commanding Action Unit 1, Lytaxin Combined Forces! Captain, I bring you Recruit Candidate Nelirikk Explorer."

Nelirikk stared straight ahead, as proper, while the tiny creature unfolded her arms and walked almost casually around him, inspecting. From the corner of an eye, Nelirikk saw the large man grin, then go soldier-faced as the captain completed her circuit.

"Is this the man who was carrying that stupid rifle?" she demanded of the scout.

Nelirikk kept his countenance. The question was reasonable, after all; and the part of his sponsor to explain.

"Yes, Captain."

"Hmmmph." She walked behind him once more. "What in the hell is this?"

"I took it from his—"

"Can he talk?" snapped the captain.

"Yes, Captain." The scout effaced himself and the large man grinned into his beard.

"Explorer," the captain demanded his attention. "This thing you're tangled in. What is it?"

Nelirikk stared straight ahead, concentrating on the proper formation of the Terran words. "Captain. A Shibjela. If the captain pleases."

The scout stirred within Nelirikk's vision, eyes gone intent.

"Translate that," ordered the command-voice and the scout bit his lip.

"I . . . In Trade: Jela's Neck-jewel. Jela's Necklace, in High Liaden. . ." He paused, thumb rubbing over fingertips, as if he felt the texture of nuance and sense. "In Terran . . . perhaps Jela's Noose. Or—"

"Got it," the captain interrupted. She resumed her cross-armed stance directly in Nelirikk's line of sight. "Explorer. Do all Yxtrang carry one of these?"

Excellent! The captain thought quickly and to the point!

"No, Captain. My—the unit where I take my training pays homage to one of the original members. All who train there carry Shibjela. Other units have—"

"Other toys," she finished for him and barely turned her head.

"Jase."

"Captain Redhead?" The bearded man did not bow, though his expression showed clear respect.

"Got one of your toys?"

The big man grinned, stepped forward and produced an oddly shaped piece of wood. It was perhaps a club, though it looked frail for such work; slightly edged, highly polished. Nelirikk's hand itched for it, to test balance and theory.

"Ever seen one of these?" The captain asked, walking to his left.

"No, Captain," he said, noting that the captain appeared to possess several names.

"Good. So we have some secret weapons, too." She was behind him again.

"This hurt?" she asked, and he felt a sear of pain where she touched him above the bleeding leg wound.

"Yes, Captain," he said, neutrally.

"Ought to. Looks pretty ugly. Can you fight?"

"Yes, Captain." He hesitated. "Now?"

"No!" She was before him again, head tipped back so he could see a grim face no larger than the palm of his hand, dominated by a pair of fierce gray eyes. "I mean—can you fight well? Ain't no slackers in my unit, you understand? My soldiers fight!"

"I can fight, Captain. I have many years of training. I use the autorifle, the—"

"Skip the sales pitch. How many languages you speak?"

"Yes, Captain," said Nelirikk, wondering—and then recalling that this was the captain who attached a scout to her command. "Languages: Yxtrang, Liaden, Trade, Terran, and Rishkak."

"Fine. You know how to take orders?"

"Yes, Captain."

"If I tell you to charge head on against armor and all you got is a rifle, will you?"

"Yes. Captain."

The gray eyes considered him blandly. "You really think you can take orders from somebody like me?"

He hesitated fractionally, began the proper answer—was cut off by a sharp wave of a child-like hand.

"You tell me what you think, Explorer. The truth, accazi?"

"Yes, Captain. It—occurs to the explorer that the captain is—very small."

Incredibly, she laughed. "Yeah? Well, it occurs to the captain that you're out of reason tall. If you can't take orders from me, I'll just hand you over to Commander Carmody and let him sort you out. I didn't go asking for another scout in this unit. Seems to me one's all the trouble I need." She blinked thoughtfully. "Might be easiest just to let you loose."

Nelirikk gulped. "Captain—"

"Dammit, Redhead!" Commander Carmody yelled, drowning every other sound in the room. "You can't do that! The stuff he knows? Why, darlin', the man's beautiful! We can't just be throwing him back in with some bunch o'rowdies who don't even keep the mice from the larder!"

"Great," she said expressionlessly. "You want him?"

"Now, now, my small, you know he's best off with you. Seems him and the scout there understand each other fine."

"That's what scares me," said the captain, with a noticeable lack of fear in either posture or face. She sighed and turned back to Nelirikk.

"All right, Beautiful, you had time to think it over. Which is it, me or Commander Carmody?"

He looked at the scout, who returned his gaze blandly; at Commander Carmody, who shrugged and put his hands behind his back; at the captain herself.

"The scout sponsors me to his captain, who has the wisdom to value the—resource of an explorer. I pledge to obey the captain's orders, if she will accept me into her troop."

"Hmmph. You know anything about first aid?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. Help Commander Carmody patch you up."

"Yes, Captain."

The bearded man came forward, med-box tucked under one arm. The captain went to the crate that had been the scout's seat and hoisted herself up.

"Explorer, you're gonna cause me lots of problems, you know that?"

"I had not considered, Captain. I—"

"Consider it! You got 'til this first aid stuff is done and then I want you to tell me what problems I might have with you and because of you—and how to fix them. Think hard, accazi?"

"Yes, Captain." Commander Carmody had set the box aside and was on one knee behind him. Nelirikk felt him touch the Shibjela and pick up the ring-end.

"All right, now, boyo. I expect this'll sting a mite." His understanding of Terran was perhaps flawed, for the quick jerk that pulled the cord from its nesting-place excited an agony as exquisite as it was, mercifully, brief. He bit his lip, soundless, and concentrated on remaining upright.

There was a slight hiss, a coldness, and then a numbness on the wound, followed by the sound of his uniform leg parting. Resolutely, Nelirikk turned his thoughts to the problem his captain had assigned.

 

"Captain. Study indicates that each small problem generated by recruiting an explorer to your troop comes from a single, large problem."

The captain turned her attention from the Scout, with whom she had been conversing in a language Nelirikk didn't know, and frowned.

"That so?" she asked, but the question was apparently rhetorical, as she commanded immediately: "Elucidate this larger problem—and its solution."

"Captain." He brought fist to newly bandaged shoulder in salute before he recollected such a gesture might well give insult.

"The large problem is that the explorer is Yxtrang and the troop you command is not. The solution. . ." Embarrassing it was to have to give such an answer. Embarrassing and hardly indicative of any value he might bring to her troop. Nelirikk kept his face soldierly. "Captain, I conclude that there is no solution. Biology is fact."

"Biology," she corrected, "is a fact." She came to her feet, there on the packing crate, and crooked a finger. "Come here."

He moved forward two steps and stopped as he sensed the scout's increased tension.

"I said," the captain snapped, "come here."

"Yes, Captain." One eye wary on the scout, he came forward until his toes touched the crate she stood on. Even with that added height, he looked down on her and had a moment to consider the thick coil of hair wrapped tight 'round her head before she tipped her face up to him.

"What's all this stuff?" she demanded, tracing lines across her cheeks with a forefinger.

"Captain. Vingtai—marks of rank and . . . accomplishment. Done with a needle, to be permanent."

"Right. What's yours say?"

Nelirikk blinked, dared to flick a look at the scout and was answered by the quirk of a mobile eyebrow.

"Captain," he said respectfully, returning his gaze to her. "On the right—insignia of born-to Troop. The name is perhaps Jela's Guard Corps. In Terran I do not—"

She waved a hand. "Close enough. What about the left?"

"Captain. The left cheek marks me explorer. The double lines there show me—show me no-troop. These others . . . creche mark, apprentice troop, honors of marksmanship and piloting. This. . ." His hand rose and he ran his fingers lightly down the right cheek, feeling the old scar, nearly hidden by the layers of tattoo.

"This is nchaka," he said slowly. "When a soldier is done training and has his own weapons given, Sergeant of Arsenal bloods the grace-blade, to show the edge is sharp." He hesitated; glanced at the scout. "Point of information. If the captain pleases."

She waved a hand. "Go."

The word seemed to connote permission, rather than an order to leave, though literal translation—Nelirikk sighed. "Yes, Captain. History tells that vingtai were used by the first soldiers because it gave fear to Liadens."

"Gave fear-?" The frown cleared. "Right. If it stops 'em for a second and lets you get the first strike in, it's worth the effort. I guess."

She glanced over to Commander Carmody.

"Need us a medtech, on the bounce."

"All yours, darlin'," the big man said cheerfully and strode over to the door, shouting orders into the room beyond for someone or something called "Chen,"

"Tech'll be able to hack an erase program for the tattoos," the captain was telling the scout; "probably do a skin-tone, too. What about the hair? And—" She turned. "Can you grow a beard, Beautiful?"

Nelirikk stiffened. A beard? Did she think him a farmer? A merchant? A—Terran commander? Very nearly he let go another sigh. "Captain, it is that a soldier does not have a beard. It is part of discipline."

"Hmph. So, if you just ignored discipline for a couple days, would you start to grow a beard? Or are you like this one here?" She pointed at the scout, who lifted a brow, but remained silent.

"If discipline were ignored," Nelirikk said stiffly, "the explorer would begin to sprout hair on his face. With the captain's permission, it would then be very hard to read the vingtai."

"Not a worry," she assured him; "we're gonna get rid of all that facial decoration first off." She turned back to the scout, leaving Nelirikk gasping mentally. "How 'bout hair and beard? Anything we can do there?"

"Perhaps hormones and a shot of accelerant," the scout said softly. "He should spend the night in the 'doc in any case." He made a slight bow, slanting his eyes upward. "If the captain pleases."

"Big joke, huh? Just wait 'til—"

"Captain." Nelirikk had found his voice at last. She turned toward him.

"Yes."

"Captain, will you remove—" his hand went to his cheek, traced the familiar swirl of his Home Troop, touched the nchaka.

She frowned. "You said you wanted to soldier in my unit, didn't you?"

Nelirikk gulped. "Yes, Captain."

"And you said you wear those things to give fear to Liadens, right?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Well, my troop ain't giving fear to Liadens. My troop is aiming to give fear to Yxtrang, you got that?"

He stared, wrenched his mind toward thinking about Yxtrang as the enemy—and touched his maturity-mark once more.

"I understand, Captain."

She shifted on the crate and caught his eyes in a glance so fey he found he could not break it.

"You gonna be able to run this gag, Beautiful?" Her voice was comradely, though the Terran words confused.

As if she sensed his confusion, she asked again, in High Liaden: "Are you able to nurture the children of your actions, Nelirikk Explorer?"

He bowed. "I am held by my word to an—honorable opponent. It is understood that the troop failed in honor and sent me to find my death. I strive to do better for the children of my actions."

"Right." She was back in Terran. "When were you supposed to be picked up?"

"In six days, local midnight."

"OK, give the scout your ID, we'll take care of that detail. In the meantime, your orders are to cooperate with Chen, heal up, eat and rest. Have to spend a day or two in here, I think—" she glanced at the scout, who nodded thoughtfully.

"We'll get you a computer and a tech to show you the basics. The scout'll work up an outline for you to follow. Information, OK? And in your spare time, you can brush up on your Terran. Can't have you mistaking an order in the heat of things." She jumped down from the crate and stared up at him, a long way. "Questions?"

His head spun; he was suddenly as weary as if he had been fighting for days and sleep seemed very sweet. "No, Cap—" he began, then: "Yes, Captain. What will be my position in the troop?" Did they mean to keep him here in this cage, inputting data until he ran dry? Something in him refused to believe it of the scout, while all his life's accumulated experience clamored that it was the only rational use they might put him to.

"Position in the troop, is it?" She frowned. "You will be the captain's personal aide. You will report directly to the captain." Her eyes gleamed. "That OK by you?"

The captain's personal aide? Nelirikk blinked and looked to the scout, but was unable to read anything in that smooth face but a weariness as profound as his own.

"That is OK by me," he said, and tried not to see Commander Carmody's grin. "Thank you, Captain."

"Don't thank me yet," she said grimly and Commander Carmody laughed.

She turned away, the scout attentive at her elbow, then checked and turned back.

"'Nother thing." She pointed at the Liaden. "You gave him an oath, swearing to protect him and his line, right?"

Nelirikk grabbed after his wavering attention. "Yes, Captain."

"Yes, Captain," she repeated and sighed. "You ask him what that means? You ask him if he's got triplets, or an aged father?"

Liaden clan structure was a complex social architecture. Nelirikk had studied it, as one studies everything available regarding an enemy, but had no confidence that his understanding approached actuality. He tried to keep the dismay he felt from reaching his face.

"No, Captain."

She sighed again. "Gonna learn the hard way, ain't you? Anything short of a direct order, if a Liaden asks you to do something, get details, accazi?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Fine. Now, the details you didn't get in this case include the fact that the scout and me are lifemates." She came a step forward, peering up into his face. "You savvy lifemates, Beautiful?"

"I—am not certain, Captain."

"Get certain. The broad outline is that him and me are one person. If I go down, the scout speaks with my voice. If the scout goes down—"

Something of his dawning distress must have shown after all, because she grinned and nodded her head.

"Tricky, right? Gotta watch him every minute." She glanced at the doorway, which was cycling open to admit a team of two, pulling a gurney, which supported a whole-body med-box, or autodoc, according to Terran. Nelirikk looked at the captain doubtfully: such things were reserved for generals. . .

"That's Chen," the captain said. "Gonna get cracking on those cuts and erase the tattoos, all according to orders." She paused, tapped her cheek where his carried the nchaka.

"You don't worry about this one—man's scars are his own—but the tattoos make you look like an Yxtrang, when what you are is an Irregular. Can't have you gettin' shot by our side when Commander Carmody thinks you're so valuable, right, Jase?"

"Right you are, Captain Redhead! I think he'll look charming in a mustache, Chen."

"Do our best," the tech said easily as he approached Nelirikk with a hand-reader. "All right, son, roll up the sleeve, and let's see what you're made of."

Sighing, Nelirikk obeyed, and when he looked around again, he was alone with the techs.

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Framed