Fearful Symmetry: A Terran Empire novel

by Ann Wilson

Chapter II

Hovan touched the light control, then rolled over on his mat and looked at the human in the growing wake-light. Steve was still asleep, curled on his side, half in and half out of the blanket, and he looked incredibly vulnerable. There were scars on the man's back, Hovan noted; studying them, he decided they had been deliberately inflicted, probably by some sort of lash. Perhaps that meant the Ranger was tougher than he looked, and had a better chance in the Ordeal than was generally believed. Hovan hoped so, since he found himself beginning to like the frail-seeming human who would soon be his ruhar.

He was glad, now, that he had never voiced his private doubts about Ka'ruchaya Yarra's decision to offer adoption to an alien and enemy. He did wonder again why she had thought a human would be suitable, but she had left him no choice if he found the man worthy; to disobey her was unthinkable.

Apparently either his scrutiny or the wake-light had become too intense. Steve was beginning to stir, his eyes opening as he rolled over.

It was the light that had awakened Tarlac, to see Hovan smiling at him. He smiled back. Thin as his mat was, it was as comfortable as the bed in his apartment at the Imperial Palace in Antarctica; he'd slept well. "Morning, Hovan."

The Traiti was puzzled. "Yes, for this part of the crew."

"It's a greeting," Tarlac explained as he rose. "It doesn't mean too much any more; it's just a habit."

"I understand." Hovan was smiling again, also up now. So were the rest of the room's occupants, busy taking uniforms and gear from their lockers. Tarlac retrieved his own uniform from the cleaner in the bathing room and dressed, then returned to the sleeping room to put on his gun-and-equipment belt.

Rather to his surprise, he found the room empty except for Hovan, whose uniform shirt was folded open to expose his Honor scars. That, the Ranger already knew, wasn't standard. Gesturing, he asked, "What's up?"

Hovan motioned him to follow and led the way silently until they were on their way to the meal hall. At last, he decided how to phrase what he had to say. "After first-meal, I clan business have." He indicated the open shirt. "This shows that I with my clan status act, not with this rank." He tapped the white tabs on his collar. "This you concerns, Steve. Some clan must you adopt, and I Ch'kara offer. It not the biggest clan is, or richest, but never has it dishonored been. You will as one of us treated be, if you Ch'kara choose, and I will as your Ordeal sponsor stand."

Tarlac stopped, looking up at the serious gray face. He had the same feeling of sudden unreality he'd had when Linda extended His Majesty's invitation to join the Rangers. Adoption was a necessary prelude to the Ordeal, he knew that, but he hadn't expected it until they reached Homeworld. Yet he had no doubt that Hovan's offer was serious, and that it was as deeply significant to Hovan as it was to himself.

Looking directly into the Traiti's clear green eyes, Tarlac said, "If it won't require me to violate my oath to the Empire, I'll join Ch'kara gladly. And I'd be proud to have you as my sponsor."

"The adoption you to the clan binds, not to the military. None would you ask, your oath to break." Hovan touched the man's shoulder. "But now come. It not good is, first-meal to miss." They moved on toward the meal hall.

As before, Tarlac didn't recognize any of the plentiful food. There were different kinds of meat and two kinds of fruit, one pink and one a brilliant scarlet, all of it good. When they finished, Hovan guided Tarlac to the bridge.

One of the deck officers noticed them as they entered, and called Arjen's and Exvani's attention to the human and the open-shirted Traiti. Both Captains stood, bowing.

Tarlac was astonished at the sudden apparent reversal of rank. Granted, the Imperial military had officers whose civil rank was far higher than their military one—Life Duke/Marine Captain David Scanlon, for example—but in the Empire, it wasn't possible to go from one system to the other at will. Things had to be different here, if clan business and clan status took priority over defense and on-duty military rank. Watch and learn…

Hovan returned the two officers' bows, speaking English for Steve's benefit. "I word from Ch'kara's Mother bear, Honored Ones."

"Your Mother's words we hear, Honored One," Arjen replied formally.

"Ka'ruchaya Yarra's words to me: That I this man should judge. If he in honor came, and I him worthy found, Ch'kara's shelter was I to offer. He armed and freely came, as fighter, not captive, and I have him observed. I say she will him as clan-son accept, and I may for her his blood-oath take."

There were a few exclamations of disbelief from those of the bridge crew who understood enough English to know what had been said, but they were quickly silenced by Arjen's glare.

"Ch'kara's Ka'ruchaya generous is," the Fleet-Captain said. "But this assignment secret was. How knew she?"

"Our Speaker her informed. No breach there was."

When Arjen nodded as though that explained everything, Tarlac had to resist an impulse to shake his head violently. It felt as if it were full of cobwebs. Hovan needing his Clan Mother's permission to perform an adoption wasn't too hard to accept; at least nominally, women ran families in quite a few cultures. But a "Speaker" being able to give out classified information was damn near incredible—and having it accepted so matter-of-factly made it even worse. Still, he couldn't object; he was a guest here, and Hovan was going on. "He should a proper ceremony have, or as close as may under war conditions done be. Will you have any n'Cor'naya who free are, in the exercise hall assemble?"

"Of course, Cor'naya. In half a tenth-day?"

"Fine," Hovan said. "Afterwards, I must a message to Ch'kara's clanhome on Norvis send, clan priority."

"You will it have," Arjen replied.

"My thanks."

With that, Hovan and Tarlac left the bridge, going to the meal hall to wait the hour or so that was "half a tenth-day." Once they were settled with mugs of hot chovas, Tarlac said, "You must have one hell of a lot of clan status."

"Enough," Hovan said with a smile. "I have six younglings shared, and I have an officer been for almost a year. That does status bring, near what Ch'kara's oldest male enjoys, close to Ka'ruchaya Yarra and she who for the Lords speaks, Daria."

Well, Tarlac thought with amused chagrin, there went his last night's speculation about females being property. He must have been tireder than he'd thought—he should never have gotten that idea after Hovan had referred to a Clan Mother administering the death penalty! Oh, well. "If it's not prying, how old are you?"

"You will soon of Ch'kara be; no prying is. I thirty-five Homeworld years have, almost forty-six Imperial Standard. You?"

"Thirty-five too, but Standard."

Hovan made a quick calculation. "Twenty-seven, Homeworld. And you already a Ranger are? That hard to believe is. How?"

"It's not really a matter of age," Tarlac said. "They grab all of us young, on purpose. They got me when I applied for the Naval Academy and took that ungodly battery of tests. Those ran for a solid week, and by the time they were over I was beat—so tired it didn't even register when, late afternoon of the last day, someone knocked on the door of my room. But when the door opened anyway and I rolled over to see who the intruder was, I damn near fainted. Linda Ellman was standing in the doorway grinning at me, and I thought for a while I was dreaming. Rangers do have better things to do than show up in cadet-candidates' rooms, after all. It just doesn't happen.

"But she was there, and she invited me into the group. I'm not too sure what I said, because the next day I'd decided all over again that it was a dream. It wasn't until later in the morning, when she showed up again as we were getting ready for the swearing-in ceremony, that I started believing. Until then, I'd had every intention of staying in the Navy. When she asked if I'd reconsidered, though, I realized I couldn't pass up the chance, and I said yes.

"When I did, she smiled and said, 'We thought you would,' then pinned a badge on my cadet tunic and took me to the Palace to meet Emperor Yasunon. We were together for most of the next two years, with her giving me on-the-job training." Tarlac smiled, reminiscent. "That was a good time. But I gather things were different for you?"

"Different, yes," Hovan said. "My life for a fighter routine has been. I this life early chose, and at fourteen I was to fighter school sent. At eighteen I the final tests passed, then the Ordeal took and the ground combat service joined. From there I rank made, and last year won I these." He indicated his collar tabs again.

"Um. You all come up through the ranks, then? No direct commissions?"

"That right is. And all officers must n'Cor'naya be."

"So what's the average age for someone to make Team-Leader?"

"Between sixty and sixty-five Homeworld years."

Tarlac whistled admiringly. "And you're half that. Damn good! I can see why that'd gain you status." He hesitated, then decided to ask; Hovan had said there was no prying involved. "What about the young you shared? They gave you status too,"—Hovan had mentioned them even before his rank—"okay. But what're they like? How—"

Hovan cut the man off with a gesture, noted the expression of distaste at his extended claws, and carefully didn't smile. "The younglings you should for yourself see. They will us on Homeworld meet. Can you until then your curiosity restrain?"

"If you want me to," Tarlac said. He'd had little experience with proud parents, but was quite familiar with people wanting to show off; it was one aspect of a Ranger's job, usually boring, occasionally pleasant.

"I think you will not disappointed be." Hovan knew he was smiling. It would be good to introduce Steve to the clan, especially to Sharya and Casti. He was sure the man would find acceptance and, Lords willing, the closeness he had sacrificed for his Empire. The man could not truly miss what he had never known, growing up with only his two parents, but it was something he should have. Now, though, he had to explain what Steve was to do at the ceremony.

When they arrived at the exercise hall, half a tenth-day almost to the second after they'd left the bridge, the hall was crowded with open-shirted officers and men from the entire combined Fleet, waiting silent and expectant. Tarlac was aware of what this ceremony meant, and was determined to carry out the role Hovan had explained to him in a way that would do credit to his new family.

As soon as they had taken their places in the open area in the center of the floor, Hovan raised his arms and began a songlike chanting similar to the previous night's. This time, Tarlac knew that it was a prayer asking the Lords' blessing on his adoption. Unable to join in, knowing neither words nor music, the Ranger stood at parade rest, his head bowed. As a relaxed agnostic, he was quite willing to honor others' beliefs as far as he could.

The adoption ceremony itself was simple, an exchange of blood and oaths. When Hovan had explained it, Tarlac had wondered briefly, surprised that it was so close a parallel to some of Terra's ceremonies. He'd finally decided it was almost inevitable; an exchange of vital fluid was an obvious symbol of kinship, and the wrist was an equally obvious place to draw blood, on a humanoid.

So, when Hovan extended a claw and dug into his left arm, Tarlac used the dagger he'd borrowed from his sponsor to follow suit. They took token sips of each other's blood, and then Hovan held the cuts together while the Ranger gave his oath, including his own modification of it.

"I pledge to Clan Ch'kara that I will bring no dishonor to its name, and will defend that name and the clan's property and people to the best of my ability, so long as that involves no harm or dishonor to the Terran Empire I have also sworn to protect."

The qualification drew an unspoken sense of approval from the gathered n'Cor'naya, perhaps not surprisingly among these people. Hovan replied, "For Mother Yarra and Clan Ch'kara, I your pledge accept. Ch'kara you claims, as kin in blood and honor. The clan you guards, as you it defend."

The brief ceremony over, Hovan released his new ruhar's wrist. Tarlac grabbed it and applied pressure to stop the bleeding, noting that Hovan's wound was already closing, as he considered his new and unique position. He was a Ranger of the Empire, yet at the same time he was a member of a Traiti—until now, an enemy—clan. He had carefully qualified his oath, and he'd done everything he could for the Empire before boarding the Hermnaen. Still, the idea of owing allegiance to both sides in a war was … disquieting. He had to resolve the war now. He didn't expect to have to decide between the sides in battle; he was out of the war as an active agent. But he was going to be damned active at peacemaking!

In the meantime, most of the n'Cor'naya had closed their shirts, signifying a return to Fleet duty, and were quietly leaving the exercise hall. Only four remained, Arjen and three that Hovan introduced as members of Ch'kara; they greeted Tarlac as well as their scanty English and his non-existent Language would allow.

It was proper now for them to show concern over their ruhar's still-bleeding wrist, and they did. Tarlac understood, without quite knowing how, and appreciated it. Once the greetings were over, Hovan led Steve out of the exercise hall and deeper into the ship. "Come, ruhar. You should medical help have."

Tarlac didn't need any more than his nose, a few minutes later, to know they were nearing a medical facility. The smell of antiseptic had to be universal, at least for warm-blooded oxygen breathers like Terrans and Irschchans—and Traiti. The Ranger was willing to bet cloudcats' antiseptics would have smelled the same, if they'd had any.

The cleanliness was as characteristic as the odor, and when a Traiti in pale blue came up to Tarlac and took his arm, he didn't resist. The bleeding still hadn't stopped completely, and the medic turned to Hovan with what sounded, to the Ranger's limited experience, like an angry question. Hovan's reply changed the medic's expression. He checked the wound, cleaned it, then held the edges together and sprayed it with something cool and gray. The Traiti version of synthiskin, probably, Tarlac thought.

Afterwards the medic checked and cleaned Hovan's cut, but didn't bother with any further treatment. It looked half-healed, whether or not it was.

When the medic was done with Hovan, Tarlac spoke to him. "It feels better already. Thanks."

"He your speech knows not," Hovan told Steve, then said something to the medic in their liquid tongue. When he turned back to the Ranger, he was smiling. "He says you him too much honor give. He has never before a human treated; that you well responded only fortunate was."

"I meant what I said," Tarlac replied. "It may be a minor wound, but I know skill when I see it." He was sincere. The medic had been assured and gentle, clearly a trauma expert, and Tarlac had to assume the easing of pain in his arm could be credited to the synthiskin. That was a technique the humans had so far not developed.

"He you thanks," Hovan said after a further exchange. "But he says you should not so deep have cut. The mixing of blood now only a symbol is."

"I didn't go deep," Tarlac said. "Just enough to nick the vein. You can tell him I'll keep it in mind, though." He smiled at the medic, the only direct communication he could manage, while Hovan translated.

When they left the medical center, Hovan looked thoughtfully at Steve. The man was a guest on this ship, and he was now of Ch'kara—but he was still human, and Hovan was well aware that there were those aboard the Hermnaen who thought honor was no more binding toward humans that it was toward vermin. Steve had the freedom of the ship, and while Hovan was sure nobody would take any overt action, he was equally sure "accidents" could be easily arranged. With a human's delicate build, even a minor accident could prove fatal.

"Steve, ruhar," he said at last, "I must you caution. Not all crewmembers of this adoption approve, even though it was by the Lords decreed, and some may you ill wish. You may choose, but it would best be if you with me stay, or with my men."

Tarlac was sure he detected real concern in the deep soft voice. This time yesterday, if they'd met in battle, Hovan would have killed him without hesitation, and vice versa. Now, he realized with surprise, he was convinced the Traiti would protect him as swiftly from his own people, if necessary.

He wondered if joining Clan Ch'kara had made him closer "kin" to Hovan than non-Ch'kara Traiti were. That, he was to learn, was exactly the case, and was also the reason the military seldom allowed n'ruhar to serve closely together. Clan ties were so strong that not even the strictest military discipline could overcome them.

All the Ranger had to go on now, however, was his own judgement, and that told him to trust Hovan. "Ruhar, I don't know enough about Traiti ways to make an intelligent choice. I'll do whatever you recommend."

Hovan stopped and turned toward the green-uniformed human. "Ruhar, you do me honor. Stay, then, with me." And, gently, he touched one hand, claws fully extended, to the side of Steve's throat. His claws were to protect, not to harm, his clanmate.

Tarlac saw the gesture as it began and waited for it, unflinching. He didn't move, even at Hovan's slow smile; he sensed reassurance, not threat. Why was he adapting so quickly—so easily!—to Traiti patterns? How could he adapt so easily? Especially since he was almost totally ignorant about them? Dammit, humans and Traiti had been at war for years, and he was human in everything but the past day's experiences!

Well, he was adapting; that was another fact he had to accept. He returned Hovan's smile and touched one of the deadly claws. "I'm in your hands."

Morning at Ch'kara's main clanhome on Norvis came in the middle of Hovan's sleep period. Preferring to disturb his own rest rather than his Clan Mother's, Hovan had the duty Communications operator place his call then. Contact was almost immediate on the clan-priority call, and Ka'ruchaya Yarra must have been waiting; she was on the screen before she could have been summoned. Hovan greeted her respectfully, sure that his expression gave away his news before he could speak it.

It did. Yarra returned his greeting, then said, "We have a new ruesten, Cor'naya?"

"Yes, Ka'ruchaya. Esteban Tarlac, called Steve." Hovan gave her a brief yet complete account of everything that had happened since Steve had come aboard, finishing, "He has much to learn, Ka'ruchaya, and he may make mistakes, but he is true Ch'kara. He will not dishonor the clan."

"We can expect no more," Yarra said, smiling. "You carried out your trust as well as I was sure you would, Hovan. You have my thanks."

Hovan accepted the compliment with pleasure, then asked anxiously, "Have my n'ka'ruhar and our n'esten left yet?"

Yarra nodded reassuringly. "Do not concern yourself, ruesten. The younglings you share, and those you share them with, will be leaving for Homeworld tomorrow. I held the ship until I heard from you, to give them the news myself. They will still get to Homeworld before you do."

"I was not truly worried, Ka'ruchaya … but my thanks. It has been a long time."

"I know. And I am sure this is your sleep time. I will not keep you from your mat any longer. Dream well, ruesten."

"I will, Ka'ruchaya. Farewell."

With that, the contact ended, and Hovan went to dreams of the coming reunion that were as pleasant as anyone could wish. Most of the next week and a half saw Hovan and Tarlac together continuously, the Ranger getting a crash course in all the basics of a Traiti clan, from Language to customs and courtesies. The Ordeal was neither short nor continuous, so he would be part of Traiti society for some time, both aboard the Hermnaen and on Homeworld. The more he knew about his adopted clan and culture, the better.

Even without that consideration, Tarlac was delighted at the opportunity for such studies. An acute case of curiosity was another part of being a Ranger, and the few fragments he'd picked up at first only increased his interest. He wondered for a while at their lack of teaching tapes, which meant he had to memorize everything the hard way, but that was fairly minor. His only problem with it was that he didn't expect to have everything perfect by the time they landed. Hovan agreed, but assured him nobody would expect perfection, only that he learn enough to avoid giving serious offense.

The first lesson, reasonably enough, dealt with military customs, and Tarlac found out that wearing his gun had meant respect to the Traiti, not a threat. They had classed Rangers with the military, as fighters—and for one fighter to voluntarily meet others unarmed was a deadly insult. The Traiti were aware that there was no way Tarlac could have known that custom, but even so, the fact that he had come to them armed was seen as a good omen.

Language took more time, but was essential since not many Traiti spoke Imperial English at all, and even fewer spoke it as well as Arjen and Hovan. Tarlac found Language a challenge. English had become universal on Terra and its colonies, even where other languages were spoken; he'd never had to speak anything else, though he'd learned to read the cloudcats' tongue-talk.

And what the Traiti called simply Language had little in common with English. The most obvious difference was its tonality, much to Tarlac's frustration and Hovan's amusement. While the Ranger enjoyed and could appreciate music, he'd never done any serious singing; it took days for him to learn to make his voice do what he wanted it to.

But they didn't spend all their time working. Hovan was proud of his ship, and spent much of their leisure showing Steve the Hermnaen and its crew. Even though the flagship was considerably smaller than a Sovereign-class cruiser, there was a lot to show; it was still a full-scale battlewagon. Tarlac was particularly interested in the small, one-man harassment craft it carried, and since Hovan had flown one of them in combat several times, his interest was just as intense and far more personal. It took only one close-up look, though, for Tarlac to understand why such tiny craft were so surprisingly effective.

Barely twelve meters long, the ships humans had labelled "hornets" were nothing more than a beam weapon and its power pack, with a propulsor and basic life-support system wrapped around it and given some armor and ablative shielding. It couldn't stand up to a hit from even a secondary disruptor, so a single hornet posed only a minimal threat to any Imperial ship larger than a courier—but they were normally launched in groups, used to saturate their opponent's defenses, letting the main battlecraft use its heavier weaponry in an all-out attack.

It was an effective tactic, one which had cost the Empire far too many lives and ships. The Empire didn't know it also cost Traiti lives. Imperial experts believed the little harassment craft were computer-controlled, because of their precise maneuvering and persistent attacks. It didn't really matter; the results were all that counted. Unless, of course, the Ranger added grimly to himself, you happened to be one of the pilots.

Tarlac also found out how the fighters maintained their individual combat proficency at maximum. There was a constant series of one-on-one challenge matches that were as much entertainment as training for the crew. Every fighter on active duty, from Fleet-Captain Arjen to the lowest-ranking commando, was expected to take part, and did so with considerable enthusiasm and usually-friendly rivalry. Standings were hotly contested, and were seldom related to the participant's rank or clan status—though Hovan was rated third in the Fleet.

The matches awed Tarlac, despite what he knew of Traiti endurance and strength. They might be fought with shortswords, or knives, or teeth and claws, at the match judge's option, but rules were minimal and it was perfectly acceptable for a fighter who lost a weapon to continue the match unarmed, no holds barred, until a clear winner emerged. That seldom happened without one or both contestants being wounded, though the judge would stop a match before anyone was maimed or killed.

While he was a very interested spectator, Tarlac didn't participate in either the betting or the matches, which meant that few of the Traiti considered him a real fighter. He was regarded, he thought, as they would regard a youngling who called himself a fighter to impress his elders: with amused tolerance.

And that, Tarlac admitted to Hovan later, was very probably why he accepted when, three days out of Homeworld, a Fire Control operator named Valkan challenged him. It was the only reason he could think of for his impulsive acceptance, that he resented being treated like a child. He certainly hadn't done it because he thought he would be able to defeat his massive opponent.

By the time the match in progress was over, word of the challenge and acceptance had spread throughout the ship. The grapevine, Tarlac reflected, must be the universe's most effective communications net for Traiti as well as humans. Almost all the off-duty crew gathered in the exercise hall to watch the uneven contest. Most were silent, though a few called encouragement to one combatant or the other, and there was the usual murmur of bets being placed as Tarlac and Valkan removed their shirts and weapons belts.

Tarlac accepted the dagger Hovan offered, getting the feel of it while his sponsor and Valkan spoke to the match judge. There was no question in his mind that what he held was intended as a weapon. Its slim double-edged blade was a quarter meter long, and the hilt, despite being a bit large for his hand, settled easily into the diagonal grip that allowed maximum effectiveness. All in all, the well-balanced blade had a deadly, efficient beauty.

When the brief discussion with the judge was over, Hovan gave Tarlac his ruling. "He as I hoped decided, Steve. This will a knife fight be, since that more skill than strength requires. And for your safety, the judge has two conditions made. If you disarmed are, or if Valkan a good grip on you gets, he an automatic win earns. Otherwise you will both tournament points score, and the first to one hundred reach, wins."

The Ranger nodded. "That sounds reasonable. I'm ready." He'd noticed Hovan's failure to mention any automatic win for him, and grinned briefly at the omission. He might not be likely to win, but he was determined to give it a good try. He faced Valkan and dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch as Hovan stepped back into the audience and the match judge took his place, giving the signal to begin.

Human and Traiti circled cautiously, evaluating each other. Hovan watched, hoping the judge's precautions would be adequate, though he didn't suspect Valkan of any true hostility toward Steve—not after seeing the K'horan fighter's reaction when Steve accepted challenge. Valkan had been disconcerted, had seemed to want to call off a joke that had backfired, but he couldn't do so without loss of honor. Hovan did have some sympathy for him; he could imagine very clearly how he would be feeling in Valkan's place. He'd want to win, but without doing the human any real harm; it wouldn't be right to send anyone into the Ordeal injured. And he'd be having qualms about fighting the man at all. Steve was an adult fighter, a legal opponent—but Valkan would have to feel as if he were facing an underdeveloped youngling.

Tarlac neither knew about nor shared the Traiti's misgivings. He watched Valkan's moves closely, trying to spot a weakness. He could see none, and decided that if Valkan did have an Achilles' heel, it was psychological. The Traiti's bearing and moves were graceful—and confident.

The Ranger suppressed an urge to smile slightly at that. Of course Valkan was confident! He was taller, had a longer reach, and was accustomed to such matches. But if Tarlac could feed his opponent's confidence until it overwhelmed his caution … he'd only get one opening, at that…

He got the chance to begin putting his plan into effect almost immediately. The Traiti made the first move, lunging for Tarlac's chest. The Ranger dodged, Valkan's blade cutting air less than a centimeter from his skin. His counterattack was a split second too slow to give a disabling slash to Valkan's other arm.

It went on like that for the better part of ten minutes: the human escaping serious injury by what seemed pure luck, his attacks at most nicking his opponent. He was being steadily outpointed, and seemed to be tiring fast.

Hovan watched Steve's losing battle with concern that rapidly became dismay. If this was the Ranger's best, he would have little chance to survive his Ordeal. Granted, he was overmatched, but he shouldn't be moving so clumsily, gasping for breath, so soon!

And then Hovan saw Valkan decide to end it quickly. Steve was obviously near the end of his strength, but he continued to fight even when he had no chance of victory; that did him honor. Then the exhausted human stumbled to one knee with his head and shoulders slumped. Valkan moved in.

His breath rasping audibly, Tarlac watched legs and feet approach. When they were about a meter away, he surged into a forward lunge under the Traiti's blade, bringing his own weapon flashing up to rest with the tip just under Valkan's ribs, angled to stab unopposed into his heart.

The exercise hall was silent, the unexpected move catching even the match judge by surprise; it was a few immobile seconds before he could declare Tarlac the winner.

Breathing easily, since he no longer needed that deception, Tarlac listened to a growing murmur he wasn't quite sure was approval. He was reassured by Hovan's smile as he returned the dagger to his sponsor, then resumed his shirt and belt. He turned apprehensively to Valkan. How would this Traiti react? If he was one of those who opposed the adoption… He almost flinched when a clawed hand touched his shoulder, and the other clasped his right wrist. But there was no hostility in the soft, lilting voice that addressed him, and Valkan was smiling.

"He says that you more dangerous are than you seem," Hovan translated. "And he says that if you not Ch'kara were already, his Ka'ruchaya might have wished, you into K'horan invite."

Hovan was impressed himself. He had expected Steve to lose, if only after giving a creditable account of himself. That he had managed a win at all was barely believable; that it had happened so decisively would make this match well-remembered. And Hovan was less worried about Steve's chances in the Ordeal. Steve must truly be guided by the Lords.

Tarlac returned Valkan's wrist-clasp and replied in one of the Language phrases he'd learned. "You do me honor," he said, and Valkan had: adoptions were unusual, perhaps five to eight in a year for an average-sized clan like the fifteen-thousand-member one he now belonged to.

"But tell them all," Tarlac went on to Hovan in English, "I don't think I'd care to try it again. It's a stunt that worked once. I'm sure it'd never work a second time, and I'm not crazy enough to try it when they know what to expect."

That, when Hovan translated, drew a roar of approval. These were fighters, stark realists all, who could understand and appreciate an honest evaluation of chances. Tarlac's statement, after he'd just finished a knife match unscathed and victorious, was taken as just such an evaluation.

Those who'd bet on him had very good reason to be appreciative; they'd gotten excellent odds, and some would gain clan status for their daring in backing such an underdog. The losers were even more impressed by the human's victory. Even those spectators who still thought most humans incapable of honor were making an exception for Steve Tarlac. In a sense, after all, he couldn't really be called human any more. He'd been adopted by Clan Ch'kara and had proven himself in the matches, which was evidence enough that he was Traiti in spirit, if not in body.

Once he understood it, Tarlac appreciated the sentiment, but he didn't share it. That evening, when he and Hovan were temporarily alone in the sleep-room, he admitted as much. "Hovan, I'm doing the best I can, but I'm not a Traiti. I'm human, and after that fight, I don't know if my best is going to be good enough."

Hovan studied his human ruhar for several minutes without saying anything. He had mingled blood with this man, and though the exchange had been more symbolic that substantial, he felt oddly close to him, closer than to any but the n'ka'ruhar he had shared young with. Steve's sudden self-doubt disturbed him, given what he'd learned about the man. And an attitude of expected defeat was nothing to take into a trial as strenuous and demanding as the Ordeal. But what could he say to help? There was no denying the danger Steve faced, and trying to minimize it would be doing the man a disservice.

There was little he could say, and less he could do, to raise the man's spirits. He would be lending Steve the same kind of emotional support he had received from his own Ordeal sponsor, whenever and wherever tradition allowed it. For now, that was terribly limited, yet he would do what he could. He moved to sit close to the human, not touching him in this out-clan place, and spoke softly. "Ruhar"—the intonation meant "brother/friend"—"there no dishonor in fear, or in failure of the Ordeal, is. And I certain am that you will not fail. You Ch'kara have, whatever in this happens."

Tarlac felt his tension ease momentarily at that assurance, borrowing comfort from Hovan's nearness. It wasn't fear for himself, as much as fear for the Empire and Traiti alike, that held him. Only stubbornnness kept him from succumbing to the awful vision of a dead Homeworld, of Imperial genocide. It made him want to retreat to childhood, to find solace in his sponsor's strength as he had once found it in his father's.

He couldn't. He couldn't share what he knew, that if he died in failure the Traiti race would not long survive him.

And he was certain, without reason, that he would die.