Well, that didn't really matter. Rangers weren't picked for their bodies. The primary criteria were mental: among other things were intelligence, imagination, an adaptable but stable mind, a generalist's variety of knowledge, intense loyalty to the Empire … and no close personal ties.
Hovan returned the man's smile, pleased. From what he had heard of
human prisoners, he'd guessed that sidetracking Steve's train of thought might help; it seemed to have worked. He waved a hand, indicating the others in the room. "You have part of my team seen. Now that you relaxed are, may I a favor ask?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"My men have humans fought and killed, but have never any truly met. If you willing are, they would like to you examine, and then questions ask. But you out-clan to all of us are; if you wish it not, none will offended be."
"I don't see why I shouldn't do it, as long as it works both ways. I'd like to examine a live Traiti as much as they'd like to examine a live human."
"That reasonable is. I willing am, to your subject be." Hovan called his men over, conveying Steve's assent, then stood relaxed. "I ready am."
Tarlac had seen Traiti corpses, and read medical and autopsy reports, so he was familiar with the sleek, almost hairless bodies. But there was a tremendous difference between that rather abstract understanding and the immediacy of a living, vital warrior towering over him. It was only then that he realized Hovan was one of the scarred ones—his embarrassment must have kept him from noticing earlier. Not sure whether it might give offense, he reached hesitantly to touch the scars. They were darker than the surrounding skin, but the texture was only a little bit rougher. He was surprised at the supple softness and warmth of skin he knew to be tough as leather armor. Had he really been expecting the human-dubbed "Sharks" to be literally cold-blooded?
That private fallacy laid to rest, he stepped back, wondering what to expect. "Okay, your turn."
Hovan didn't have to translate that; his men got the idea and crowded around the Ranger. He didn't take part himself because he'd learned what he needed to know while the man was examining him. Just the fingertips lightly touching his scars had been more than enough to confirm his earlier impression. The man's every action, from coming aboard armed to allowing his alien hosts to satisfy their curiosity, showed the courage and self-assurance of one whose sense of honor was so much a part of him that he felt no need to stand on ceremony. The brief physical touch had even given him the feeling of belonging shared by n'ruhar—what English inadequately referred to as clanmates.
Steve was worthy of Ch'kara; Hovan was convinced of that. And the sense of belonging in Steve's touch made it almost certain he would accept the offer. Hovan told himself ruefully that he shouldn't have entertained even the small doubts he'd had of Ka'ruchaya Yarra's wisdom. It had seemed impossible that an alien could truly be a ruhar, and Steve was undoubtedly an alien, even though he wasn't frightened, as so many humans seemed to be, by the sheer size of beings so alien to them. Yet the clan-feeling was definitely there—how had Yarra guessed?