CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FOR THE FOURTH time Miri sneaked back to the bookroom after having peeked in at her partner. She felt like a spy herself after having agreed that he should have his time to himself. But, despite her great joy at having all the marvels of Edger’s library at her command, she discovered in herself a need to be sure that Val Con was all right.
For the second time, she was confused by what she’d seen: Val Con standing in the center of the large room, moving slowly, eyes closed. He would stop for a minute, two minutes, three—and then she’d realize that he’d done a half-turn in that time. His movements had been sinuous and twisting, like a dance, but so slow, as if he were Edger imitating a flower growing.
In the midst of this, he would suddenly run or jump or sit to relax or concentrate, and then get up and try the same thing again. Or maybe not quite the same thing.
That there was method here, she was certain. She refused to think that it could be madness, as well.
To pass the time, she did more ordinary calisthenics, making sure her body was in shape to fight, to act, when this time of fairy-tale safety was over.
And the books! She worked her way through the High Liaden grammar, then devoured, in rapid succession, a small book of poems by someone named Joanna Wilcheket, a rather longer volume illuminating the intricacies of a team game called bokdingle—which she thought sounded more like pitched battle than a game—then learned the proper way to veri-date Qontikwian tree carvings. She finished up with a history of some place called Truanna, which had self-destructed back in Standard 250.
She spent an entire rest period wandering through a Terran dictionary, wondering at all the words she’d never heard of—and this was her milk tongue! An hour was given to an adventure novel by an ancient Terran writer; her sides hurt from laughing when she finished, but she searched the shelves for more.
Hiking through the ship, she noticed that the weird effects of the drive seemed much less distracting at the ship’s stern, where the cargo holds were. The bookroom wasn’t too bad, once she adjusted. The control room was worst.
She filed that away to mention to Val Con.
The ship’s labors ended and began again. At the end of three days, Miri was worried, visions of him lying rigid and trapped intruding between her and the words in the reader—but then she caught sight of him working very hard, doing exercises she was familiar with.
That’s okay, then, she thought in relief, and continued on her way to the pool.
THE SHIP WAS between labors, and Miri woke. Stretching, she realized that this wasn’t what had awakened her; it was the crisp smell of breakfast hanging in the air, odors tantalizingly close to coffee and—coffee?
She sat up on the shelf—sleeping in the library had become a habit; it was too depressing to sleep all alone in one of the Clutch’s big beds—and, weaving her hair into a single loose braid, she considered what her nose was telling her.
Coffee, she decided. She went to investigate.
Val Con was sitting crosslegged before a portable camp-stove in the center of the wide hallway, watching the entrance to the bookroom. A pan on the left burner held meat and pancakes; on the right steamed a ceramapot of dark, brown coffee.
“Good morning, cha’trez.”
“Morning,” she returned, staring at him from the doorway.
“You will join me for breakfast, I hope?” He waved a hand at the places set, camp fashion, with plates, cups, disposable napkins, and utensils.
“Is that real coffee?” she asked, coming closer.
“You tell me, my friend. The pack said something like ‘Certified Brazilian,’ I believe.”
She grinned and pushed a cup at him. “Pour, dammit.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” he murmured, nodding at the pad he’d laid out for her to sit on.
She folded her legs and sat, studying his face. He turned, offering her the full cup, and lifted an eyebrow.
“Have you a problem, Miri Robertson?”
She took the cup. Gods, but real coffee smelled so good!
“You look—different,” she told him.
“Ah.” His shoulders dipped in the gesture she never quite understood. “I am sorry.”
“I ain’t.” She sipped, closing her eyes to savor the taste and to buy herself time. Different, yes. Alive? His eyes were vividly green; his face in general was less haggard, less—prisoned.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her and smiled. Yes. It was as if his energy filled him joyfully now, rather than pushing him on past endurance.
“Where’d you get the goodies?” she asked, indicating the meal cooking on the small stove. “I thought we decided there wasn’t any coffee.”
“I was not—thinking properly,” he explained, “when we looked before. Edger is nothing if not thorough, and so I looked for camp sets. He’d seen me use them when I stayed with the Clan.” He grinned.
“There is approximately an eight years’ supply of camp sets in the second storage compartment. Terran sets, so it seemed safe to assume there would be coffee.”
She stared at him. “Not thinking properly? I’d like to know why not! You couldn’t have had anything else on your mind.”
He laughed as he turned the meat and the flapjacks.
She took another sip of coffee. “Val Con?”
“Yes.”
She frowned slightly, watching his face. “How are you, my friend?”
“I am—well. Not very well. Nor even completely well. There was much—damage done, with little care taken. It was not expected that I would live quite so long.” He shook his head. “I will have to work hard, to be certain that all heals rightly.”
She hesitated. “I—needed to make sure you were okay, so I—spied—on you. That slow stuff you were doing—is that to make sure that all—heals rightly?”
He nodded. “It is called L’apeleka—a Clutch thing. It is—” He paused, eyes half-closed, then laughed softly, spreading his hands, palms upward. “The best I can do in Terran is that it is a way of—reaffirming oneself. Of celebrating proper thought.”
“Oh.” She blinked at him.
He laughed fully. “Forgive me, cha’trez, but Terran will not bend so far. I do know what L’apeleka is and I am certain that I could explain it to you, but you must tell me which you desire to learn first—Low Liaden or Clutch?”
She laughed, then sobered. “The Loop?”
“Exists.” He looked at her closely. “The Loops are tools, Miri. They do not demand a course of action, only elucidate it.”
She drank coffee. “But you ain’t a tool.”
His face hardened momentarily. “I think not.” He turned his attention to the pan as she watched.
Funny, she thought, she felt warm, though she hadn’t felt cold before. And she felt comforted. She wondered if she’d been sad without realizing it.
He divided the contents of the pan evenly between the two plates.
He did look well, she decided. Sure of himself, not just sure of what he could do.
Offering her a plate, Val Con tipped an eyebrow at her cup. “More coffee, cha’trez? It would be a shame to waste what is in the pot.”
“Never happen.” Laughing, she held it out for a refill. “Thanks, partner.”
“So it runs that way?” He looked at her speculatively as he picked up his own plate. “I had thought the question not properly asked.” He paused, watching her as she began to eat.
“And the other?” he asked softly.
She frowned, puzzled. “What other?”
“Ah, that question was not asked so well,” he murmured, seemingly to himself. Picking up his fork, he began to eat.
Miri shook her head and returned to her breakfast, savoring tastes, smells, and silent comradeship.
Val Con ate his own meal with relish, his eyes on her. She had rested, he saw; the lines of strain that had been in her face since they’d met were gone, and she seemed easier within herself, as if she, too, had reaffirmed who she was. Her eyes, when they rested upon him, were unguarded. He hugged that small warmth to him and dared to hope.
In a short time, he set his plate aside and leaned back to watch her where she sat, her back against the wall and the cup cradled in her hands.
“Breakfast was fine.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Miri?”
“Yo.”
He shifted, and brought his gaze to meet hers. “Only if you wish it, Miri . . . .”
She set the cup down, giving him her whole attention. “Okay.”
“It would please me very much,” he said, choosing each word with care, “to allow the—fact—of our marriage to endure.”
She blinked. She blinked again and broke his gaze, looking down and groping for her cup.
Val Con held his breath.
“You got a family and stuff, doncha?” she asked, head bent. “They probably wouldn’t be . . . overjoyed . . . about you marrying somebody who—somebody like me. ‘Specially when you don’t—” She swallowed, hard. “Partners are lovers, sometimes.”
Slowly, he let his breath go. “There are,” he told her softly, “several answers to be made. The first is that whom I wed is my choice, not the choice of the Clan.” He paused, then dared to add, “I wish us to be wed.”
Her shoulders twitched, but she did not look at him. After a moment, he continued. “It is unlikely that I will return to Liad, cha’trez.”
Her eyes flicked to his, warm with pity. “You mind?”
“I mind,” he admitted. “But I feel certain I would mind being dead much more.” He smiled. “Understand that it is no great bargain I offer you: A short, skinny man with only the money in his pouch and a certain ability on the ‘chora to recommend him—”
“So much?” She grinned. “Short and skinny?”
“Thus was I described to your friend Liz—”
She laughed, tossing off the rest of her coffee as he grinned. “Is Edger an honest man?”
“None more honest.”
“And our—marriage—stands up to laws and stuff?”
He considered it. “I believe so. The post that Edger holds—T’carais—is somewhere between that of father, captain, priest, and mayor. If we are wed by custom—partnered as well, if you like—and it is certified and witnessed by the Clutch, there are few who would question it. The Clutch, like the mythical elephant, never forgets. Nor does it remember wrongly. If you will—if you truly desire it—then it is done.”
She took a breath. “It’s real?” she asked quietly. “Not something you’re doing ‘cause it’s—expedient?”
He looked at her sharply, then smiled ruefully. “To the Clan of Middle River, the Spearmaker’s Den, it is fact. It is something that I wish for completely: That you be my partner, that we be mated for life.”
Miri picked up her cup and found it empty. “Is there more coffee?”
“I can make more if you wish.”
“But?”
“But I would rather fill a cup with wine that we share.”
She slid across the rock floor until she was next to him. “You have wine?”
“It is here,” he said. “Though I should tell you that it is Green Nogalin. A large bottle of it.”
Her brows rose. “That’s the aphrodisiac? The one banned on about three-quarters of the Terran worlds?”
“So it is.”
She shook her head. “And I thought Edger was an innocent.” She paused. “Husband?”
Thank you, gods, he thought. “Yes, my wife?”
“Please open the wine.”
He smiled and leaned close. “In a moment—”
Miri was on her feet, gun in hand, with the first siren shriek. Val Con was already far down the hall, strobe beams throwing his shadow crazily over the rock walls.
“The control room—quickly!”
They ran.
“What is it?” she demanded, braking to a halt just inside the door.
“Distress beacon.” He was at the board, hands busy, head tipped up at the tank. “But I don’t see—ah.”
He upped the magnification and Miri saw it, too: a drifting bulk that could only be a ship. Keeping her eyes on it, she slid her gun back into its holster and went slowly toward the board.
Val Con moved his hand and began speaking in slow, distinct Trade. “This is Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium on Clutch vessel in tangential orbit. We hear your distress signal and will attempt a rescue. Reports required: damage and personnel.” He touched the pink disk, listening.
Miri came up behind him. “You can’t bring non-Clutch people onto this ship with its goofy drive! It’ll make ‘em crazy!”
He shook his head, frowning at the tank. “Isn’t that better than being dead?”
She put her hands on his shoulders, her eyes on the ship drifting in the tank. “How come I gotta answer all the hard questions?”
* * *
TWO THINGS HIT ship’s comm as they dropped into normal space: the keening wail of a distress beacon and a clear, measured voice announcing name, location, and intention to rescue.
Tanser leapt out of his chair, swearing at the pilot. “Get me some magnification! Where’re they coming from—there!”
A mid-sized asteroid floated to their starboard, oriented above them and the wreck. The pilot increased mag, as ordered, then did a doubletake and ran the screen as high as it would go.
Without a doubt, a smaller rock had separated from the larger, falling as if thrown toward the wreck.
Tanser grinned. “Hide us,” he snapped.
“Huh?”
“Hide us! Hurry up, asshole! You know what’s on that thing?”
The pilot was making rapid adjustments, nervously edging the ship into a flotilla of space junk. “No, what?”
“Them kids Hostro wants.”
“How you figure that?” the pilot muttered, sweat dripping like icicles down his face as he matched speed with the junk and eased into the center of the drift.
“That’s a Clutch ship, right?” Tanser asked, purely to draw out the revelation of his genius.
“Yeah,” the pilot allowed.
“Well, Scout Commander Val Con yos’Phelium don’t sound Clutch to me. Ten’ll get you one the only people on that rockship out there is one little girl and her boyfriend. Real nice folks, they are, coming down to help out somebody in trouble.” He settled back into his chair, sighing in self-satisfaction.
“So what’re we gonna do, Borg?” the pilot asked, since the question seemed to be expected.
“We wait till they’re on that wreck and then go get ‘em.” Tanser sighed again and permitted himself the luxury of a grin. “Caught like rats, Tommy. Gonna be so easy, it’s almost a shame.”
JEFFERSON SAT BY the bouncecomm, staring at it in frustration. It had stopped sending fifteen minutes before, and a cursory inspection of its innards had failed to provide him with a clue as to this malfunction. He slammed the lid down and went to the local unit to summon a comm-tech, on the bounce.
His fingers were shaking so badly, he had to punch the number twice.