Fearful Symmetry: A Terran Empire novel

by Ann Wilson

Chapter III

The Hermnaen was alone when it neared Homeworld's defense perimeter. Arjen's fleet, under Acting Fleet-Captain Jannor, had returned to the combat zone, and the extra ships had been ordered back to their regular duties.

Tarlac and Hovan were seated at two of the control central supervisor consoles, watching the repeater screen. The Ranger never grew tired of watching planetary approaches, even on a screen instead of through a lander's windows. There was something awe-inspiring about watching a world grow from a featureless point to a globe boasting continents and seas—though cloud cover obscured most details on Terra-type worlds.

The Hermnaen descended slowly, gently, on null-grav, and the globe grew until it was beneath them, rather than ahead. Clouds like snow-softened mountains showed rifts, then gave way to clear skies as the flagship let down toward a city-sized spaceport. The guide beam brought them to a precision landing near the central control building.

Leave for combat crews was automatic any time a warship made friendly planetfall, and Homeworld was the only place where that meant everyone could go to his own clanhome. That it was a branch home, in most cases, didn't matter; being in-clan was what counted. Ship-Captain Exvani, as anxious as anyone to rejoin his family, had called ahead so that every clan with a member aboard the Hermnaen could send transportation, and the ship emptied without delay.

Less than ten minutes after landing, Hovan and Tarlac and the other three members of Ch'kara who'd been at the adoption were being greeted by the driver of a large cream-and-green null-grav car. She was the first Traiti female that Tarlac, and as far as he knew, any human, had ever seen.

She was only slightly less massive than the males, yet she was undeniably attractive by Traiti standards, as he knew from the art he'd studied, and she had an air of lithe grace. Tarlac, though he knew it was inappropriate, found she made him think of a Valkyrie. She was no fighter, couldn't possibly be if all he'd learned about the Traiti was correct, but she gave the impression of a warrior maiden.

Seated between the driver and Hovan, Tarlac had a sudden feeling of belonging here; despite his misgivings, he liked it. He'd already decided, since there was no way to ignore his apprehension, to refuse to let himself be distracted by his fear. He couldn't afford it. While he still knew almost nothing about the Ordeal he'd agreed to take, he had no doubt that it would call on every resource he had.

In the meantime, he'd learned enough to know that his original idea about the status of females was not just mistaken but laughable. Yes, they were only a fourth of the Traiti population, cherished and protected from any possible harm, and even a discussion of endangering one unnecessarily bordered on obscenity. But they weren't considered, as he'd wrongly speculated, either inferior in any way, or as breeding stock or valuable property. Far from it. If anything, they had more status than any males except the n'Cor'naya, the Honored Ones who'd passed the Ordeal. They were responsible for both religion and clan life, things which were far more important to the Traiti than humans had guessed.

The clans, not warfare, were the center of Traiti culture. And yet, even with females running those two vital areas, it wasn't a matriarchy. Males ran commerce and, obviously, the military; in other fields such as science or the arts, gender had no bearing. The combination made for a "government," if you felt generous about the definition, that couldn't possibly work for humans. Not even if it had been imposed by a god, as Hovan assured Tarlac it had. There were two rulers, the male Supreme who was exactly that in secular affairs, and the female First Speaker for the Circle of Lords, equally powerful in religious matters.

But those two acted only when something concerned the entire race. Everything else was handled on a clan level, from education to deep-space colonization. Despite Hovan's attempts to explain, Tarlac didn't quite understand how some of what the Traiti had accomplished could be done on such a seemingly casual basis, and he could only suppose they would find the human bureaucracy equally puzzling.

The two civilizations were most similar, ironically enough, in the structure of their military forces. Even that was largely on the surface; any military required a clear chain of command. Otherwise . . . the clans cooperated to produce both commercial ships and warcraft, and in crewing them, with the crew members supported by their individual clans. Then, under the Supreme's command, the war fleets defended the race.

Tarlac shrugged and turned his attention to his surroundings. The spaceport, so much like its Imperial counterparts, was behind them and they were approaching the capital city. Hovan had described it, so Tarlac knew what to expect: large, relatively low buildings, none over three stories high, set apart from each other in almost parklike surroundings. In several of the larger buildings they passed, females stood at the central doors; they were the clan's sub-Mothers, though rarely—when this was the clan's main home—it might be the Ka'ruchaya herself waiting to formally welcome her clan-children.

Tarlac enjoyed the drive and the scenery. It reminded him of a Terran college campus or an Irschchan town, though with a greater similarity to Terra since Homeworld's sky was blue, not green. The air smelled good, clean and alive after the flatness of recycled ship's air, and he could tell the Traiti liked it as much as he did.

They passed a shopping area, where the buildings were more brightly colored and closer together, yet still not crowded, and the Terran got his first look at groups of Traiti civilians. Most were closed-shirt males who hadn't earned Honor scars, but he saw some females, one with an infant, and a few n'Cor'naya. All wore loose-fitting, brightly colored clothing, though there was no other uniformity of dress. Styles varied by clan and by individual taste, from what most Imperials would consider barely decent to full-coverage robes.

They did have one other thing in common. Much to Tarlac's amazement, all seemed genuinely cheerful. He turned to his sponsor. "Don't they know how the war's going?"

"Of course." Hovan was surprised by the question. "Such things must in honor known be. Why? Do yours not know?"

"Sure they do," Tarlac replied. "But we're winning—we don't have any reason to be depressed."

"Sadness would no good do," Hovan said calmly. "What the Lords decree, is." He looked around. "This area familiar seems … we should the clanhome nearing be. I have only once to Homeworld been, though, so I cannot sure be."

His memory was accurate; less than a minute later, the car came to a halt in front of one of the branch clanhome buildings. It was of average size, perhaps a quarter-kilometer on a side—plenty of room for the five hundred or so who represented Ch'kara on Homeworld. It would be good, Hovan thought, simply to be back in-clan, back in the closeness and peace he valued so highly—and there was Ka'ruchaya Yarra's promise. He looked at Steve, pleased to see the man's expression was calm and interested.

Tarlac indicated the female standing motionless in front of the open door and asked quietly, "Ka'chaya Yvian?"

"Yes, of—" Hovan broke off as he glanced upward, inhaling with a hiss through surprise-thinned nostrils. "Yarra! She here came?"

Tarlac recalled one of the fine points of custom he'd learned, that the Clan Mother very rarely left the main clanhome, and then only if it was important to the clan's survival or honor. That Yarra was here, now, could only be because of him, to show she regarded her alien es'ruesten, her new clan-child, as fully one of Ch'kara.

It was something he hadn't expected; it was an honor, and it added to his determination to succeed in the Ordeal, to bring credit to his adopted clan. He climbed out of the car with the others and followed them up the steps to accept her formal welcome. The Ranger, ranking almost at the top in the Terran Empire, was the only one in the group without Honor scars, so he ranked lowest here. When the others bowed, holding out dagger hilts so the Ka'ruchaya could touch those and then her n'ruesten, Tarlac knelt as was proper for an unscarred male, drawing his blaster and extending its grip. He was pleased when she welcomed him as she had them, touching the blaster's grip and then his forehead.

Still kneeling, he looked up. "Ka'ruchaya, Hovan says you speak English, so I want you to know firsthand that I had to qualify my oath to the clan. I don't want to be accepted under the wrong assumptions. I took my oath as a Ranger of the Empire first, and that obligation will always be first for me."

"Yes, I English speak," Yarra replied, "and I your reservation understand. I that expected, in one Hovan would worthy of adoption find. You must, of course, that first oath first honor." She smiled, and raised him to his feet. "I will to you later speak, ruesten. Now come. You n'ruhar have to meet, after you are to the Lords introduced."

Tarlac holstered his blaster, following his Clan Mother and clanmates into the building. The entranceway was about ten meters square, with halls to either side and double doors straight ahead leading to the clanhome's heart, the gathering hall. When the double doors slid open, Tarlac couldn't see much except Traiti. The hall was filled with them, leaving only one open lane down the center of the room. He knew what the hall looked like, from Hovan's descriptions: a hundred meters wide by a hundred and fifty deep, and unlike the rest of the clanhome, undecorated. Its only furnishing, except for special occasions, was the silvery two-tiered altar opposite the entrance. The clan's Speaker for the Circle of Lords, Daria, waited there to introduce Tarlac to the Traiti gods.

He smiled at that. He and Hovan had, inevitably, touched on religion in their discussions, and Hovan had found his agnosticism at first baffling, then amusing. It seemed the Traiti took their gods pretty much for granted, absolutely certain of their reality but expecting nothing from them other than acceptance at death. Hovan had finally given up on that debate with the extended-claw gesture that was roughly equivalent to a shrug, saying that Steve would learn.

Well, there was always a chance that Hovan was right. Tarlac was well aware the universe held a lot more things than he knew, but this was one he had no intention of bothering about. If the gods were interested in him, they'd shown no signs of it, and he saw no reason to change his stand on the matter unless they did.

The procession including Tarlac, Hovan and Yarra was at the altar by then, and this time the new clanmember was the only one who didn't kneel. He bowed to the green-robed Speaker standing on the dais, then, at her gesture, ascended the three steps to stand facing her. She grasped his wrist, led him to the altar, and indicated that he should place his hands on it, palms down.

Tarlac cooperated willingly, but his attention was less on what he was doing or the chant Daria had begun than the statuettes on the altar's upper tier. There were eleven of them, images of the Traiti gods— three of whom were actually, by his definition, goddesses—as exquisitely crafted as a cloudcat-made tapestry. They were about thirty centimeters high, sculpted and colored with such artistry that they might have been miniature Traiti, perfect but unmoving.

Then Daria's chant ended. Tarlac stepped back from the altar, crossed hands over his chest, and bowed. That ended the ceremony, and started the party.

As Tarlac rejoined Hovan, he discovered there weren't as many Traiti in the gathering hall as he'd thought. The lane of bodies which was all he'd been able to see had concealed tables laden with food and drink, as well as other members of the clan.

Several females and younglings came forward carrying drinks—and something the Ranger had known only intellectually suddenly became an emotional reality to him. This was a family, as close and loving as any human family, and he was a part of it. Until now, no living human could testify to anything but Traiti enthusiasm and skill in battle. The remains of those who'd run into Traiti suicide commandos were even more eloquent. But these adolescent females offering glasses to the five from the Hermnaen weren't fighters. They were no taller than Tarlac, and he had adapted enough, thanks to the shipboard artwork, to think of them as attractive young ladies.

The girl who approached him said something, smiling, took a sip from one of the two glasses she held and handed it to him, then touched his forehead. Hovan had told him about this; it was part of the adoption. It wasn't essential, but it was a good way to let him meet his new relatives and vice versa—as well as being a good excuse for a party. Tarlac took a small drink, returned the touch, and traded glasses to drink again.

Then Hovan tapped him on the shoulder, and after they traded drinks and touches—just once, this time—he introduced the girls who had served the two of them, smiling widely. "Sharya and Casti my n'ka'esten are, from one birth."

Tarlac greeted Casti as he had Sharya, impressed. Twin daughters! No wonder Hovan wanted to play the proud parent, with multiple births in any given clan averaging about a century apart. "I see why you asked me to restrain my curiosity, ruhar. It was worth the wait."

Others, three boys and five women, one carrying an infant, joined them as he was attempting a polite comment to the girls in what little Language he knew. The first one Hovan introduced was Sandre, mother of the twins and the only open-shirted female Tarlac had seen. She had Honor scars identical to Hovan's, which surprised Tarlac for a moment since he knew she couldn't have taken the Ordeal. He decided—and later learned he was correct—that they must be because she'd borne the twins. He didn't know whether it was proper or not, but it shouldn't hurt to be polite; he gave her the respectful crossed-arm bow.

It didn't. He heard approving comments, then she said one of the few things he understood: "You do me honor, ruhar," and traded drinks and touches.

Tarlac had no time to reply before he had to greet the rest of what he could only think of as Hovan's immediate family. The last he met was the youngest, and when Tarlac reached to touch the baby girl, he found out the truth of something he'd heard about babies.

They liked to taste things.

Tarlac yelped, more in surprise than pain, pulled his finger out of her grasp, and ruefully inspected the small wounds. "Hey, youngster, I thought there was only supposed to be one exchange of blood."

She gurgled happily at him while her mother spoke.

"She teething is," Hovan translated, then examined the bite himself. "Want you medical help?"

Tarlac shook his head, grinning. "I'm not that fragile—she just startled me."

"Good. She really too young is, here to be, but I wanted you all to meet."

"I'm glad you did," Tarlac said, as the mother and baby left for the nursery. "She's a pretty little one." He meant it. She was prettier than a human at the same age, he found himself thinking. The infant Traiti seemed somehow more … finished, maybe because Traiti never grew noticeable hair, or maybe because he had adapted more thoroughly than he knew. Whatever the reason, the fact was undeniable. So was the fact, he thought grimly, that if he died in the Ordeal she would very probably die too, under Imperial weapons.

"You only that say, because she the first you met have who smaller than you is," Hovan said, wondering at Steve's brief frown. This was supposed to be a glad celebration—and it was all right; the man's expression was clearing.

"Well, maybe a little," Tarlac conceded. "When a teenage kid's as tall as I am and masses at least twice as much, it's nice to see someone smaller. And speaking of size—" He held up his drink, about the tenth or twelfth glass he'd traded. "This wine doesn't have much of a kick, but even if I only take a sip every time I meet someone, it won't be long before I'm wiped out. You might stay fairly sober, but I won't be able to, even if I were used to drinking. I'll probably make an ungodly fool of myself."

Hovan grinned. "Probably, and it expected is. The wine mild is because you small are. If you Traiti were, we would something stronger drinking be. No adoption party successful is, unless the new ruhar must in bed poured be."

Tarlac had to laugh. "By that standard, ruhar, this'll likely be the most successful adoption party in Traiti history! But let's not make it a success too early, okay? I'm hungry."

"Food good sounds," Hovan agreed. "And I will with you stay, in case anything must translated be. Ka'ruchaya Yarra and I the only two are, who much English speak."

Several more drink-trades later, Tarlac made it to one of the well-stocked tables and built himself a thick sandwich. That process got quite a few interested comments, but by Traiti custom none were addressed to him until he'd finished eating. When he was done, the interest in getting him drunk was replaced, at least temporarily, by inquiries about the new way of fixing something to eat. It was hard for the Ranger to believe that people as enthusiastic about food as the Traiti hadn't either stumbled across something as simple as a sandwich, or purposely developed it, but their keen attention and the eager experimentation that followed made it clear they hadn't.

Unfortunately for Tarlac's sobriety, that respite didn't last long. Within half an hour, his n'ruhar were again introducing themselves. Hovan wasn't needed often as a translator; with so many anxious to meet their new relative, Tarlac had very limited opportunities for conversation.

He soon lost any trace of doubt that he would live up to custom, too, whether he wanted to or not. By the time about a third of those in the gathering hall had introduced themselves, he had a distinct buzz on. He had also come to the firm, if rather woozy, conclusion that these people, his new family, were the finest in the galaxy. Especially the big gray-skinned guy beside him, the brother he'd never had. Before.

He was never sure, later, how many more of Ch'kara he did meet. Things were getting blurry and disconnected, and never improved. He did remember singing, probably off-key, and later hanging onto Hovan's arm for support.

Hovan felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see a silly grin on Steve's upturned face. The man mumbled something, so slurred Hovan couldn't make it out, then released Hovan's arm and closed unfocussed eyes to slump bonelessly to the floor, still smiling.

Looking around at the n'ruhar who had seen Steve's collapse, Hovan translated the Ranger's earlier prediction aloud into Language, then smiled indulgently down at him. "And it seems he was right. He has had a very successful party. Time to pour him, as I promised, into bed." He stooped, picked up the slightly-built man with no difficulty, and turned to Yarra. "I think he'd better sleep in the infirmary tonight, Ka'ruchaya."

"I agree. And tell the nurse to let him sleep until he wakes by himself. The Supreme has said he and the First Speaker will wait until Steve is ready to see them."

"They do him much honor."

Tarlac woke up once during the night, and was vaguely aware of being helped to someplace where he vomited and afterwards collapsed. Then he was carried back to bed, where dim light showed him a reassuring shark-toothed smile before a cool cloth covered his forehead and eyes and he went out again.

The next time he woke it was to lights that were too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, wishing he were still unconscious.

There was a light touch on his arm, and a musical voice said something he couldn't understand but thought was sympathetic. He didn't want sympathy, he wanted to die. Well, maybe he just wanted anything that would end the misery. He recognized a hangover, though he'd never had one this bad before; while it would end in time, he wouldn't enjoy the next few hours.

Then an arm under his head and shoulders raised him and a different voice, Hovan's, said, "Drink." There was a glass at his lips; he obeyed without thought.

What he drank was almost too sour to swallow, but within a few minutes he was feeling better. A little bit. "What time is it?"

"Midday, twelve and a half hours by your timepiece."

Tarlac groaned again, forcing his eyes open. "You do this to everybody you adopt?"

"No, ruhar. You a bad reaction had, an allergy, Doctor Channath says. You should soon better feel."

"Uhh. That'll teach me to drink Traiti liquor." Tarlac tried to sit up, refusing Hovan's assistance, noticing only then that he'd been undressed and was on a sleeping mat laid atop a platform instead of on the floor. He made it upright, but the effort brought on a wave of dizzy sickness, and standing up didn't work. His knees buckled, forcing Hovan to catch him and sit him back on the bed.

"You should in bed remain," Hovan told him, concerned. "The medicine more time than that needs."

"I have to get to the 'fresher." Tarlac tried again to stand, somewhat more successfully, and managed a couple of wobbly steps. Then Hovan's arm went around his shoulders, steadying and turning him.

"This way, ruhar. That door to the hallway leads."

"Okay." Tarlac was gratefuy for the guidance, but appreciated Hovan's simple presence and his uncritical support even more.

By the time Tarlac finished cleaning up, the dose of whatever-it-was had taken full effect and he felt considerably more able to take in his surroundings. One of the first things he noticed was that Hovan was no longer in uniform; instead, he wore civilian clothes, a silvery open shirt with bright blue trousers and quilted mid-calf boots. A chain fastened his knife to the sash that belted his trousers. He'd brought similar clothing for the Ranger, in red and gold.

Tarlac put it on, seeing immediately that his badge was already pinned to the shirt. Wearing something other than a uniform felt strange—he hadn't worn anything else in public since the war started—but one uniform certainly wouldn't last forever, and he still didn't know how long the Ordeal would take. Or what it consisted of.

The clothes fit well, though sleeves and trouser legs were a good ten centimeters too short by Terran standards. Apparently it was good style in Ch'kara, though, since Hovan's fit the same way. Tarlac's gun wasn't there, probably in storage with his uniform; instead, he'd been given a knife very similar to the one he'd used in the challenge match aboard the Hermnaen. "I gather you borrowed these from a youngling?"

"Yes. And Sandre them tailored, you to fit. Now come. Food ready for you is, then I must your education begin. Much there is you have to learn, before you the Ordeal begin."

"Such as?" Tarlac asked. Maybe he'd finally find out what he'd gotten himself into.

"Forestcraft, of course, and—" Hovan broke off. "By the Lords! I never did you tell, even of the parts I now can. I must your pardon ask."

They were out of the infirmary, walking down a wide tapestry-hung corridor. "You've got it, if you'll tell me whatever you can. Wilderness survival is part of it?"

"Yes, and you know not this world's life. Then there the Vision is, if you one granted are, and you of the Scarring know."

"Yeah, I hurt just thinking about that part. It's in that order?"

"It may be, yes. The first it not my place to discuss is, and the Scarring always last is. The other three parts may in any order be. I cannot you of one of them tell, because it would by foreknowledge influenced be."

Tarlac could understand that, though it didn't quiet his curiosity. "At least I know more about it now than I did when I agreed to take it."

"The Fleet-Captain you nothing told?"

"Oh, sure. He told me that according to the First Speaker, if I did take it and live, I'd be able to bring an honorable peace for both sides. That didn't leave me much choice."

"The Lords this of you asked?" Hovan said, impressed. "I knew that not."

"If that's what he meant, yes." Tarlac didn't believe in the Lords, but Hovan did; it wouldn't hurt to agree.

Hovan smiled widely. "So you us life in honor bring. That good is."

"If I live." Tarlac frowned. "Hovan … I don't think I will live. I haven't thought so since I boarded your ship, and since the fight, I've been certain of it. This Ordeal's going to kill me." He paused and shrugged, wondering at his own calm. "Oh, that won't keep me from trying. Maybe just trying will be enough to do what the First Speaker said, I don't know. Hell, I don't even know how I'm supposed to bring peace if I do live!"

"Since the Lords this asked," Hovan said calmly, "you should not so many doubts have. They nothing ask unless it possible is. And after you the fight won, I certain am that they intend not for you to fail."

"I won the fight by a trick," Tarlac said bleakly. "I won't live through the Ordeal by a trick."

Hovan stopped and took Steve by the shoulders. "Why did you not all this say when it first you troubled? I your sponsor am."

"I couldn't. It was something I had to come to terms with by myself." Tarlac found himself suddenly wishing he had mentioned it that night, had given in to his urge to seek comfort. "I … I've been a Ranger for fifteen years, Hovan. Almost half my life. I just … I couldn't—"

Hovan shook him with controlled ease, just enough to silence him. "You of Ch'kara now are, Steve, and in-clan. Yourself be, not another's image. That not a weakness is."

"What? I—"

"To me listen, ruhar. Everyone help needs, sometimes. That does not weakness show, or shame bring." Hovan released Steve's shoulders, and put his arms around the man instead, giving Tarlac the feeling of being held by something with the weight and patient strength of an oak tree. "Let me your troubles ease, as my sponsor mine eased."

Feeling himself part of a family for the first time since adolescence, Steve Tarlac gave in, letting loneliness and detachment melt out of him in long-delayed tears. When he couldn't push the fear aside any longer and it took over, he shook in Hovan's embrace with terror of a failure that would cost more than any mortal should be asked to bear.

He couldn't avoid the risk, or the fear; all he could do was rage at the sheer injustice of it. Part of him knew that wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't help himself. He clung to his sponsor for what felt like an eternity, buffeted by the terror and impossible conflict.

Hovan supported him, sharing what he could of the man's turbulence and offering strength to help him accept the rest. The Lords never asked the impossible—but they never asked anything easy, either, and this was only the first part of what Steve would have to endure. Still, Steve had already managed to endure loneliness a Traiti would have found unbearable, and had concealed his terror until he was urged to accept help; he would work his way through this.

Gradually, the Ranger's emotional stability returned, and he knew that was due in no little part to Hovan's support. When the worst of his internal storm had passed, he felt purged—still certain he would die, but now accepting the fear instead of ignoring it so that it ate blindly at his confidence. He rested for a moment more, then looked up at his sponsor. "It's okay now."

"You no longer alone are," Hovan said, releasing him. "As I you told when you adopted were, all Ch'kara you supports. Come now; you should something eat."

The brisk return to a favorite, and practical, Traiti subject brought Tarlac all the way back to his current surroundings. "Food?" He thought of the earlier nausea, and shook his head. "I don't know about that, just yet."

"It best for you is, after the medicine you took. Then, if you ready are, the Supreme and First Speaker will you receive."

"Okay, I'll give it a try. That's one meeting I'm really looking forward to."

On the way to the dining room, Tarlac had his first experience with the casual nudity Hovan had told him was an option in-clan. Except for ceremonies and parties, quite a few members did without clothes.

Tarlac, warned, managed to feel only mildly embarrassed when a female wearing nothing but a carrying pouch slung over one shoulder stepped out of a side corridor ahead of them. She saw them and smiled at Tarlac, then hurried to embrace Hovan. He returned the hug before introducing her to Steve as Channath, the clan's chief physician. "She for you last night cared, when you sick were, and this morning's medicine prescribed."

Tarlac gave her a rueful grin, trying not to stare. "Tell her thanks, would you?"

"That not necessary is, but I will her tell." Hovan did so, and translated the reply. "She suggests, you little liquor drink from now on. And if you bad reactions to anything else find, her tell at once."

"Don't worry," Tarlac said emphatically, "I will!" Then he was in the air as Channath hugged him. Back on his feet, surprised but too flattered to mind, he looked bemusedly after Channath's retreating back. "What was that all about?"

"I told you, there much touching is, in-clan." Hovan put an arm around the man's shoulders. "The closeness good is, not so?"

"Yes…" Tarlac said slowly. "Yes, it is. It's strange—I shouldn't like it. A Ranger has to be self-sufficient, has to stay apart—has to be objective and impartial. I'm not, any longer."

"What will that mean, when you to your Empire return?"

Hovan had zeroed in on Tarlac's thought, though the Ranger didn't believe what he described would ever have a chance to happen. "I'll have to retake the psych tests, then it depends. Maybe I'll be disqualified from anything that involves Ch'kara or the Traiti, maybe I'll have to resign. The decision will be up to His Majesty."

"He would you demote?"

"Only if he doesn't have a choice; the Empire needs Rangers. And even if he does have to demote me, I won't be dishonored or anything. Something like this happened once before, about four hundred years ago, to a Ranger named Jeff Shining Arrow. He lost his detachment, too—got married, had kids—so Empress Lindner made him a Duke. Emperor Davis would probably commission me into the Fleet."

"That no dishonor is, true. Do you think it will to you happen?"

"Yes, if I've changed that much. It could be a lot worse, of course . . . but falling in love's no crime, it's just something the Empire can't afford in a Ranger."

"That the real reason is, then, why you no family have."

"Yeah. I didn't mean to evade the question then, I just wasn't sure I could explain it. I didn't know you very well."

"I understand. You never anyone met, who more to you than the Empire meant." Hovan shook his head. "That a thing of much sadness is."

Tarlac didn't answer. They were at the dining room by then, and food, not conversation, was in order.

Not long after their meal, the two were being escorted through the halls of the single building atop a low hill called Godhome, located in the center of the Traiti capital. Tarlac, not wanting his skepticism to be too obvious, had cautiously asked why the gods needed a material home.

They didn't now, Hovan had told him, and they hadn't since the Supreme Lord of the Circle, Kranath of St'nar, became the first of the new gods. The old gods, he explained, the ones the Traiti called "those who went before," had left Godhome as … something. Nobody except the Speakers had any real idea about its purpose, and they were saying nothing until the twelfth Lord completed the Circle. At any rate, it had seemed appropriate to join the centers of spiritual and temporal power.

Their escort ushered them into the large open double office shared by the Supreme and the First Speaker; both rulers were waiting for them. They greeted Hovan first, his due as a Cor'naya, and Tarlac used that brief time to study them. The Supreme, like all male Traiti leaders, had Honor scars, but didn't appear distinctive otherwise; he seemed to be middle-aged. The First Speaker, on the other hand, looked young—was certainly no older than Hovan, to outward appearance. But she radiated an aura that awed Tarlac, of immense and serene wisdom that seemed tremendously old, or perhaps ageless.

When the two turned their attention to him, Tarlac didn't respond to their greetings in the Traiti fashion Hovan had taught him. Instead he saluted and introduced himself, as he had when he'd met the Emperor for the first time. "Ranger Esteban Tarlac, of the Terran Empire. It's an honor to meet you."

Hovan translated that, and then the Supreme's reply. "I sorry am, that my invitation more a compulsion was."

"From what Hovan's told me about the way the war's going for you, you didn't have any more choice putting it that way than I did accepting. I just hope it does some good, for both sides. May I contact Emperor Davis, to tell him what I'm doing?"

He knew from the Supreme's tone, even before Hovan translated the words, that the answer was negative. "Fleet-Captain Arjen said, when I him interviewed, that your Ship-Captain would to the Emperor report that you the Ordeal taking are. That all that necessary is." Then he smiled slightly and added, "But I no reason see, you cannot transcripts of intercepted Imperial newscasts receive. I will orders give, that the daily summary to you delivered be."

"Thank you." That was actually more than Tarlac had expected; he'd only asked because it couldn't hurt to try.

"Ranger Esteban Tarlac," the First Speaker said, her English pronunciation careful.

Tarlac turned to her. "Yes, my Lady?"

She went on in Language, with Hovan translating. "Your Ordeal will to human tolerances scaled be. As Fleet-Captain Arjen you told, we ask not certain death, and the Scarring at least would surely fatal be if we did not such allowance make. The Lords stern are, but fair, and you a good sponsor have. There danger is—it must there be—yet no more for you than for any other."

"That's good to hear." It didn't alter his certainty, but it did make Tarlac feel good to know the Traiti leaders were taking such care. "I was wondering, when the Fleet-Captain told me about it. Have you asked any other humans to try the Ordeal?"

"We have no others asked," the Supreme replied through Hovan. "Another has it tried, however. You the second human ruhar are; the first his own mind under questioning destroyed, and was by his interrogator's clan—N'chark—accepted, as clan-born. He the Ordeal tried and failed, without dishonor."

"Will you his name—" Tarlac broke off, shaking his head. "Did it again, Hovan. Sorry. Just ask him the man's name, will you?"

"All that know, ruhar. Horst Marguerre, once a major in the Imperial Marines. One of those he commanded still a prisoner is."

"I've heard of him." So Marguerre'd had the A-I conditioning, had he? Well, that wasn't too surprising; he'd been in Special Forces, most of whom did have it, and he'd been reported missing and presumed dead early in the war. "How did he do?"

"No worse than many." Hovan translated that part of the Supreme's reply, hesitated and spoke to his ruler, then went on to Steve. "He the part failed that I may not to you describe, ruhar. I can only say, he no harm suffered, and seems to be in N'chark happy."

That was better than anyone who used A-I conditioning had been told to expect; Tarlac felt some satisfaction for him. "If he ever gets back to Terra, he can have his memories reimprinted, if he wants; all he'll lose is whatever happened between his last mindscan and the time he used the conditioning." He returned to present duties. "I'd like to see the prisoners, if I may."

After a brief discussion with both rulers, Hovan turned back to Steve. "The Supreme your reason asks."

Tarlac shrugged. "Partly curiosity, I admit, but I'm also the senior Imperial officer here, which makes me responsible for their welfare."

"I will have you to them taken," the Supreme agreed, "since it your duty is, but there no real need is. They well treated are, and as much freedom as possible have. Those who it wish, have even been private quarters given."

The Supreme's expression as he made that last statement would have convinced Tarlac, even if he hadn't already learned that a Cor'naya's word was as binding as a Sandeman warrior's. Traiti didn't like privacy, and tolerated it only when necessary. Rather like him with newsies, he thought with amusement. "If you say so, I don't see any need to check. I'll take your word."

When Hovan translated, the Supreme smiled. "You do me honor."

Tarlac understood that phrase without translation, and bowed slightly. "May I ask a favor, Supreme?"

"Ask."

"Hovan told me you have record tapes of the first encounter between our scout and your guardship. May I see them?"

It wasn't the Supreme who answered. "You may them see," the First Speaker told him through Hovan, "though for now they would almost nothing to you mean. It would best be if you a little time wait, until you Language know."

"A little time?" Tarlac wasn't sure whether to smile or frown, and did neither. "All right, but at the rate I'm going, it'll be six months before I'll be able to understand them."

The First Speaker's reply was gentle. "Do not on that wager. You might yourself surprise."

There didn't seem any good way to answer that, so Tarlac simply nodded. "Is there anything else?"

"Not of business," she replied, "though you welcome are here to stay, if you wish to with us talk."

"I'd like that very much," Tarlac said, "except that my sponsor tells me I have a lot to learn, and any time I waste costs lives on both sides. So if you'll excuse me, I'd rather get to work."

"We all wish lives to save, Ranger, if it can with honor done be. Go, then, with your sponsor."

At the Ch'kara clanhome, a youngling met them and took them to one of the smaller living rooms, with the information that Ka'ruchaya Yarra had set it aside for them so ruchaya Steve could study undisturbed.

Only it didn't quite work out that way. Tarlac did learn a considerable amount that afternoon, but it was as much about his clanmates as it was about how to survive in Homeworld's wilderness. It seemed that everyone in Ch'kara who knew anything at all about the outdoors was anxious to pass the knowledge along to Steve. Tarlac suspected they were motivated as much by curiosity about him as by anything else. If so, he didn't mind; he found himself savoring his n'ruhar's presence and their frequent touches, and the "team teaching" seemed to be very effective.

What he learned about Homeworld's vegetation and wildlife fascinated him—especially, under the circumstances, the practical details. He found out which plant parts were edible and which to avoid, and that he could eat practically everything that moved. Unfortunately, quite a few of the moving things would consider him equally edible. Without a Traiti's natural armor, he'd have to depend on luck and brains to avoid that fate.

He couldn't help wishing he could turn a shipload of biologists loose on this planet. Irschcha and Ondrian were the homeworlds of the other two intelligent Imperial races, yet a Terran without specialized medical preparation beforehand would die within a few days, trying to survive in either's wilderness. It wasn't so much nutritional deficiencies as protein incompatibility and allergic reactions. With the exception of the Traiti wine, that didn't apply on Homeworld, as two weeks' experience proved, and Tarlac was extremely curious about the reason. Well, if he ever got back to the Empire, he'd recommend that such a study be made.

For now, though, there was nothing he could do, and his first full day here had been busy; he was tired. He'd get a good night's sleep, then start fresh in the morning.