By the time Tal left the State House, the sun was halfway to the horizon and she could not believe she’d spent an entire day immersed in meetings. There was a Fahla-damned alien ship sitting in a field to the northwest and twelve live aliens plus three dead ones in Blacksun Healing Center, and it was just the height of irony that those two items would not be the most important ones on her list. Though of course they were; everything she’d done today was in the service of Alsea’s future with these Gaians and what their knowledge could bring. But right now, as she flew her personal transport to the healing center, she felt a bit like a pre-Rite child just released from a day of boring classes.
She settled on the dark bricks of the landing pad, powered down the engines, and rested her head on the back of the seat, soaking up the silence. The ten ticks she’d spent flying here were the only moments of solitude she’d had all day, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to end them. The privacy shield kept her windows opaque from the outside, so she knew her Guards couldn’t see her moment of weakness. But just knowing they were out there waiting made it impossible for her to relax.
With a sigh, she popped the latch and stepped out, acknowledging the salutes Gehrain and the others crisply offered. Micah was there as well, having arrived half a hantick earlier to assess the health status of the aliens and act as liaison.
“Give me some good news, Micah, I need it,” she said as they began walking.
“Then Fahla is smiling on you, because it’s all good. The two critical cases, Lieutenant Hmongyon and Trooper Mauji Mauji, have been upgraded to stable and recovering. Everyone else, including the weapons officer who had to be carried out, now wants to know how much longer they have to stay and when they can either get back to their ship, or get out to explore Alsea. I’ll leave it to you to guess who asked for the latter.”
Tal cracked the first smile she’d managed since midmeal. “Our knowledge-hungry Principal Anthropologist, Lhyn Rivers.”
“Well guessed.”
“That must be difficult for Captain Serrado.”
“Because she wants to keep her people together?”
She looked over at him in surprise. “That’s right, I didn’t have time to tell you. They’re bondmates. But I get the feeling they don’t want anyone else in their crew to know.”
“I…see,” he said, and she knew his brain had just accelerated to the speed of light. “Well. That does put a different spin on things.”
“It’s why the captain sent her commander to Blacksun in the first transport. Whether her bondmate was found alive or dead, she didn’t want him there to witness her reaction. She knew she would come apart either way.”
He shook his head. “What a strange culture. I cannot imagine living among a race who can keep their bondings secret.”
“There’s more.”
He looked down at her expectantly, and she stopped, sending her Guards out of hearing range with a wave of her hand.
“Micah, they’re tyrees.”
His eyebrows nearly crawled off his forehead. “What? You said their entire race is sonsales!”
“That’s what they tell me. But there’s no denying it, not when those two relax around each other. The odd thing is that I don’t believe they know it. Perhaps there’s no recognition in their culture for a tyree bond, but I’m certain they have one.”
“Sonsales aliens capable of a tyree bond,” he murmured. “This is certainly a day of wonders.”
“True words. But I’m not confident that the Alsean public is ready for that concept.”
“That a gift straight from the hand of Fahla has been given to aliens as well? Yes, I can see why you might be concerned. Have you told anyone else?”
“No one. This is in the strictest confidence.”
“Understood.”
She waved her Guards in and resumed walking.
“Lieutenant Candini knows of their bonded status,” she added as an afterthought. “Commander Baldassar does not.”
“Imagine your second-in-command being unaware of such a critical fact,” he said.
“Perhaps the Gaians don’t see bond status as being a critical fact.” She’d wondered about that.
“If that’s the case, then they’re a stranger species than I thought.”
Healer Wellernal was waiting for them just inside the entry arch, reader card in hand, and insisted on describing the medical procedures for all twelve Gaians while Tal listened with half an ear. She wasn’t overly concerned how the Gaians had been restored to health, only that they were. However, his mention of their anatomical differences earned her full attention.
“Do you mean to say they’re gender-locked?”
Micah and the Guards in range looked as stunned as she felt, but Healer Wellernal nodded calmly. “Yes. And they have gender-specific reproductive organs.”
Micah leaned in and whispered, “What Fahla gives with one hand, she takes away with the other.”
He was right. The ability to temporarily alter gender for reproductive purposes, to choose which one of a pair bond would carry, bear, and nurse a child, was the great gift of Fahla that separated Alseans from the lower animals.
The Gaians had not been blessed. And Lhyn had said that no Gaian race yet discovered bore empathic ability.
A chill ran down Tal’s spine. Like every Alsean, she had grown up believing that Fahla had elevated them above all other life-forms, but here was actual proof, offered on the very same day they’d discovered they were not alone in the universe.
And yet—the Gaians were capable of tyree bonds.
“It seems we have even more to learn from them than we’d believed,” she said. “Being gender-locked must have enormous ramifications on their culture.”
“That’s what Lhyn Rivers said about our ability to shift gender. She already knew about it, but had a great number of questions and seemed eager to discuss it.”
“I’m sure she was. Did you answer her questions?”
Wellernal looked uncomfortable. “I was uncertain how much you wished us to share. Your instructions referred only to information on the medical condition of the aliens, and in the absence of specific guidelines, I chose to err on the side of discretion.”
Which meant that the moment she walked into Lhyn’s room, she was going to be buried under a blizzard of questions. Well, at least these questions would be coming from a burning desire to learn, unlike those she’d been answering in her meetings for the last several hanticks.
“You chose correctly,” she said, “but in the future, don’t worry about a cultural sharing. We want to know about them just as much as they do about us. Information must go both ways.”
She went to Captain Serrado’s room first, smiling to herself when she felt two empathic signatures inside. Of course Lhyn wouldn’t be in her own room.
While Micah and the Guards took up positions in the corridor, she tapped on the door and opened it to find Lhyn sitting beside the captain’s bed. They appeared clean and rested, and in Captain Serrado’s case, far less stressed. Knowing that all of her remaining crew would recover had done wonders for her, brightening her expression and relaxing the tightness around her eyes. She looked a little less alien in her white Alsean healing robe, which contrasted sharply with the glossy black hair that now hung freely around her shoulders.
Despite her matching robe, Lhyn looked a little more alien. Her hair had been pulled back in a braid, and the exposure of her face emphasized her lack of ridges. With her green eyes appearing even larger, she wouldn’t have been out of place in an illustration for a children’s story: Alsean enough to not be frightening, but alien enough to be clearly other.
“Well met,” Tal said, offering them each a palm in turn. “I see you managed more sleep than I did. I’m envious.”
For a moment she’d forgotten about the translator, and started when the mechanical voice began speaking shortly after she did. Captain Serrado tilted her head slightly, listening to it, then smiled when she understood.
“If this were a hotel, I’d give it a high rating,” she said. “I’ve never been in a healing center with luxuries like this one. Soft beds, fluffy pillows, glorious showers with floor pads that warm and dry your feet…if it weren’t for the fact that they won’t let me get out of this bed, I’d be happy to stay here indefinitely.”
“You heard what the healer said.” Lhyn tapped the hard casing around the captain’s leg, which was resting atop the bed’s covering. “If you want to walk tonight, you’ve got three more hanticks in this. And if you try to move now, you delay your recovery.”
“It’s easy for you to be cheery about it. You’re already mobile.”
Lhyn’s arm was in a similar hard case, but since it was strapped to her torso, she could still walk around without disturbing it. Tal sympathized with the captain.
“I nearly lost my leg once when I didn’t jump a sword stroke fast enough. They had me in one of those cases for two days, and the worst part of it was the itching. May I?” She indicated the chair next to Lhyn.
“Please do,” Captain Serrado said. “And Shippers, yes, the itching!” She vigorously rubbed her hand on the case as if that would calm the skin beneath. “Did you say a sword stroke?”
“Sword fighting is a living tradition for the warrior caste. It hasn’t been part of modern warfare for many generations, but the discipline, agility, and strength needed to learn proper sword fighting is excellent training for everything else we do. We learn it from the day we formally accept our caste. In some cases even earlier.”
Lhyn’s curiosity burst from her in an almost visible wave. “Can you tell me about that? I’ve worked out your six castes, and I know that if a child has parents of different castes, she or he can choose which of the two to enter. But what if the child wants to enter a different caste altogether? And when is it formally accepted? Can you change it once you accept?”
Tal chuckled, partly because Lhyn had taken so little time to live up to expectations, and partly because these questions weren’t the flavor she was expecting. “Yes, I can tell you about it. If a child wants to enter a different caste, there’s an aptitude test for it. Usually the castes that are challenged are scholar or warrior, since they’re seen as the two ascendant castes of our system.”
Lhyn turned to the captain. “In theory, the castes are equal. In practice, not so much.”
It did not reflect well on her culture, Tal thought, that caste inequality was so obvious as to be detectable by aliens from merely watching their broadcasts.
“It’s true, though I wish it were not. Only the scholar and warrior castes can put up a candidate for Lancer, because the high empaths are always directed into those two castes. Children are tested from an early age to determine their empathic rating, and if they pass a certain level, they’re sent away for training. At that point, they can only choose to be scholar or warrior.”
“So if a child has an enormous talent for art, but a high empathic rating, she can’t be in the crafter caste?”
Tal shook her head. “She can be a scholar of her craft, but not part of the caste.”
It was unfair, a wrong so ancient that it had been built into the bedrock of their culture and could not be eradicated. Tal fully expected Lhyn’s judgment, but felt nothing from her besides intellectual curiosity.
“What about the age of formal acceptance? And changing it after?”
“Formal acceptance varies. It can be as early as fourteen cycles or as late as twenty. Twenty cycles is when a child undergoes the Rite of Ascension and is considered an adult. After that, the caste choice cannot be altered.”
“What about you?” the captain asked. “Did you have a choice?”
“I did. My mother was scholar caste. But I always knew I wanted to follow my father into the warrior caste and take his name.”
“Take his name?” Lhyn’s excitement was in her voice. “Do you mean that family names are dependent on caste?”
“Of course.” How else would it be done?
Lhyn pumped her good arm into the air. “Yes! Check that one off.”
“If I didn’t know better,” said Captain Serrado, “I’d think you were actually happy about me crashing my ship.”
Tal was fascinated by the emotional currents in the room. The captain’s tone was teasing, yet there was a darkness of grief wrapped around her. And Lhyn’s immediate reaction was guilt, but when she looked at her bondmate and read her expression, the guilt morphed into relief. It was like watching two warriors on parade walk past each other without touching. How could these two be tyrees and still misunderstand each other’s true feelings?
“You know I’m not,” Lhyn said. “And I would give anything to see the Caphenon back in orbit with her full crew. But this is the greatest learning opportunity of a lifetime, and I can’t not get excited about it. Besides, you knew that telling me you were rescinding the Non-Interference Act would be like dangling a string in front of a cat.”
Tal took the opportunity for a question of her own. “You said that to Commander Baldassar as well, that the Non-Interference Act no longer applied. What does that mean?”
“It means I can ask you any question I want and tell you anything you want to know,” Lhyn said. “Which makes actual research one Hades of a lot easier. And I—” She stopped when Captain Serrado laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s the most important of our Rules of First Contact, which directs all of our interactions with newly discovered Gaian worlds. When a world has FTL technology, we can make contact, share technology, and if appropriate, initiate treaty negotiations. But pre-FTL worlds are to be left strictly alone to develop at their own pace. We study them, but the studies must be passive—observation only.” She directed a slight smile toward Lhyn. “However, the law is not universally accepted.”
“Because it’s wrong,” Lhyn said. “It handicaps science, but that’s not even close to the worst part. It sets up a two-speed galaxy, where some worlds get left to their own devices, while others are allowed to share technology and leap further and further ahead as a result. The pre-FTL worlds are never going to catch up. We’re creating a future where some of us become virtual gods, while others are stuck in the mud. It’s taking what the Shippers did and making it worse, instead of repairing the damage and working together.”
“Giving technology to a race that isn’t culturally or intellectually prepared for it is a disaster in the making. There’s a reason—”
“Oh, don’t spout the Fleet line to me. Of course it’s a disaster to fling technology around the galaxy without doing the research first. But a careful study can establish whether a race is ready. The Non-Interference Act is an all-or-nothing answer to a question that requires far more nuance.”
“Nuance isn’t something our politicians are particularly good at,” Captain Serrado told Tal.
Lhyn snorted. “You can say that again. They see two colors: black and white. And the whole shekking universe is shades of gray.”
“I see you two have discussed this before.” Tal was holding back her amusement with difficulty, but when they nodded their heads in unison, she gave up.
“A few times, yes.” The captain’s tone of voice implied that “few” was synonymous with “hundreds.”
“Fleeters are known for their blind obedience to law,” Lhyn said, with enough of a smile to take the barb out of her statement. “Scientists are more open to questioning the morality of it.”
“Fleeters know they can’t expect their crews to obey if they themselves don’t. It’s about leading by example.”
“Then who actually makes any decisions? The politicians?”
“Speaking as a politician,” said Tal, “I must point out that not all of us deserve such distaste.”
“You are an exception,” Lhyn announced. “Why do you think I’ve been so excited about meeting you?”
“I thought you were more of a warrior than a politician,” Captain Serrado said. “Not many politicians would suit up in combat gear to meet a potentially hostile situation.”
“I’m a warrior by caste and by preference. Unfortunately, for the last several hanticks I’ve been a politician.”
The captain nodded. “Once a warrior attains a certain rank and level of power, we’re all politicians, aren’t we? Nobody warned me about that until it was too late.”
“I can’t say no one warned me, but it’s true that certain other aspects of the title were emphasized to a far greater extent.”
“Ah, yes. The power, the prestige, the material benefits, the glory…and the fact that you make your own choices, instead of always abiding by the choices of others. But somehow they forget to mention that when you make the choices, you also bear the responsibility for the consequences.”
There were three dead aliens in the healing center’s cold room, and Tal could recite the names of the Alseans who had died under her direct command. She wondered if Captain Serrado could say the same, or if the number had grown too large.
“Because there can be only one leader,” she said.
“And the one is alone,” Captain Serrado answered. “But she wasn’t alone last night. And perhaps she is not alone today.”
The understanding that welled from her was so deep that if she had chosen this moment to say she was empathic after all, Tal would almost have believed her.
She remembered her father’s first rule, repeated over and over again: Watch. Listen. Never assume, and knew she’d made a mistake. In her confidence that she could see through this sonsales alien all the way to her innermost motivations, it had never occurred to her that the captain might be able to see through her. But they were both warriors, both leaders, both carrying the weight of their decisions. And didn’t it make sense that a non-empathic alien culture would have developed other methods of discerning emotional truth? After all, Micah made up for his own empathic weakness by being better at reading facial and body language than anyone she knew.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that in this room, no one is alone today.”
Lhyn looked back and forth between them. “The weird thing about this is that I’m the living translator, yet I get the feeling you two just had a whole conversation without me. In about six words.”
Tal shared a smile with the captain. “Then let us bring you back in, because I’d like to learn more about the Fleet system of command. Captain Serrado, you said you must obey in order to set an example. But what are the terms of your obedience? What happens if you’re asked to uphold an immoral order?”
“I’ve never been asked to. But if I were, I have the right of refusal.”
“Sure, at the cost of your career and everything you’ve ever worked for,” Lhyn said.
“You would be punished? For making a moral decision?”
“How else do you maintain order in a system based on obedience?” Serrado asked. “There has to be a cost. What happens if you disobey?”
“I’m not the best example, since my oath of service is to Alsea, not to any individual. But if we use Colonel Micah as an example, his oath of service is to me. If I give him an order he feels he cannot obey, he has the right to withdraw the gift of his service. Service is always a gift, to be given and to be received. It cannot be forced, only earned.”
“Now that’s a system,” said Lhyn. “Imagine our politicians having to earn our trust.”
Captain Serrado pulled herself into a more upright position. “What happens when you have to order someone to do something that might endanger their life? How can you depend on obedience in crisis situations where everything depends on instant action, without question?”
“Ah. You believe obedience is easy when it’s safe, and harder when there’s danger.”
“That seems self-evident to me.”
“Perhaps it does in your culture. It does not to an Alsean warrior. For a warrior to break an oath of service due to cowardice would be…unthinkable, and the repercussions are devastating. It does occasionally happen, but it’s extremely rare, because none of us would be in the caste if cowardice were part of our makeup. We’re warriors because we wish to serve. A warrior who swears an oath and then runs from it is no warrior at all, and is stripped of caste. There is no greater punishment. Death would be preferable. In fact, death usually follows, because few Alseans could live as an outcaste.”
Once again, she was fascinated by their disparate emotions. Lhyn was leaning forward, her gaze intent as she soaked up everything she was hearing. For her, intellectual excitement crowded out any judgment.
But the captain was horrified. “You said the gift of service could be withdrawn at will. Forgive me, but how can you call it a choice when the consequence is a punishment worse than death? That seems no choice at all. At least I would only lose my rank and career.”
“There’s a world of difference between breaking an oath and merely withdrawing the gift of service. If you had sworn an oath to me, but later felt that you had become incapable of fulfilling your duties—perhaps because of age, illness, or unforeseen life circumstances—you could withdraw your service and I would have no choice but to accept your decision. The same would apply if you withdrew your service because I gave you an order that you felt was immoral. There would be no repercussions. The caste would protect you, and you’d have little difficulty finding another oath holder—that is, unless you made a habit of such withdrawals and developed a reputation for it. But for a well-considered act in a career of otherwise excellent service? In that situation, not only would you keep your rank, but I would be the one whose reputation suffered, because others would question why you, a warrior of good reputation, had felt forced to withdraw.”
“I love this system,” said Lhyn.
Captain Serrado patted her hand. “Of course you do. You’re all about questioning orders.” Turning to Tal, she added, “In theory, it does sound like an equitable system. We also have the right to withdraw, which we call a resignation. But if I resigned from my position, it would automatically equate a resignation from the Protectorate Fleet, which is similar to you withdrawing from your caste.”
Tal could not imagine. “Perhaps I’m not fully understanding. It sounds as if the consequences for withdrawing from your oath of service remain the same regardless of your reasons. All of them mean the loss of your caste.”
“We don’t have castes, so it’s not perfectly equivalent. Depending on my reasons, I could resign with or without my honor intact. The options open to me with my honor intact are very different from what would be available otherwise.”
“Of course.” At least that much made sense, but now Tal was reeling from her casual comment about not having castes. How did their culture function without them?
“Speaking of which,” Serrado continued, “I notice you place a great deal of importance on reputation. It’s all based on honor, isn’t it?”
“Yes. For a warrior, honor is everything. Always sought, always earned, right up until our Return.”
She saw the captain frown at the end of the translator’s words, but Lhyn explained.
“That’s their word for death.”
Tal shook her head. “No, not quite. It’s our word for what happens after death.”
“It is? How did I get that wrong?”
“Well…now that I think about it, we do tend to use the words somewhat interchangeably. But they don’t have the same meaning.” She felt the swelling tide of questions and held up a hand. “If you want to talk about the caste system, the warrior’s code, our political system, or any number of other topics, I’m more than happy to oblige. But if you wish to discuss theology, you should speak with a religious scholar. I’m certain the Lead Templar at Blacksun Temple would be thrilled to meet you.”
Lhyn gaped. “You would do that? Allow me to meet with one of your top religious scholars?”
“Why not?”
“Alone? Without a handler?”
“Why would you require a handler? Are you planning to attack her?”
Captain Serrado snickered, and Lhyn looked back and forth between them.
“Are you joking with me?”
In that moment, Tal pitied her and all of her kind. How utterly distressing to be forced to ask that question; to not simply know that she was teasing even though she wasn’t fronting. “Yes, of course I’m joking with you. But I do have to wonder why you’re so surprised at my offer.”
“Because…well, your healer wasn’t very forthcoming when I started asking him questions, and most of the staff in here seem afraid to speak with us, so we started to think that—”
Once again, the captain’s hand on her arm stopped her. “We weren’t certain which protocols were appropriate—how much you’ve authorized your people to share with us, and how much we should share with your people. The only information we’ve received has been of a medical nature.”
“I apologize for the misunderstanding. The healers didn’t have specific permission for information exchange other than medical data, so they chose to be discreet. I’ve already rectified that. And I’m happy to put you in contact with anyone else who can assist you.”
Lhyn stared in disbelieving joy. “Thank you,” she said.
Tal imagined living in a world where those two words could only be taken at face value, without the confirming depth of the emotions behind them. It would be half a life.
“You’re welcome. Please understand, both of you, that this…exploration of culture and technology and anything else we can share is just as important for us as it is for you. I have no interest in limiting your access to knowledge of us, because I’m hoping you’ll be equally open. I’m not offering access to Blacksun’s Lead Templar just for your benefit, Lhyn Rivers. It’s also for the benefit of our Lead Templar and anyone else who benefits from your knowledge through her.”
“Please, call me Lhyn. And I do understand. I just didn’t expect that you would actually be everything I hoped.”
“Given the fact that your view of me came from our broadcasts, I shudder to think what shape your expectations took.”
Lhyn flashed a grin that transformed her face. “You’re right. You probably don’t want to know.”
“Speaking of discretion,” Tal asked, “why don’t you want your crew to know about your bond?”
She wasn’t sure if they were surprised at her knowledge or the fact that she’d asked a personal question.
Serrado was the one to answer. “Because we haven’t decided where we’re going with this yet, so we haven’t made it public. It’s not that we’re hiding; we just didn’t want to tell people before we had something to say.”
“You wanted your privacy.” She certainly understood that, if not the part about not knowing where their bond would lead. Where else could it lead?
Serrado nodded. “But now it’s a problem, because I have a professional conflict of interest. I serve the Protectorate Fleet, but if Lhyn is in danger, I’ll be there for her regardless of my oath. I just never thought being with a scholar would test that.” With a glance at Lhyn, she added, “They’re not supposed to get themselves in trouble.”
“You said your ship was sent here in response to her request for aid.”
“It was. But I didn’t disclose my relationship with Lhyn when the orders came in, which breaks at least three regulations. I was afraid that if I did, they’d rescind the orders and send someone else, but there wasn’t anyone else close enough. And then I stretched my orders a bit when I attacked the Voloth.”
Lhyn sat bolt upright. “That wasn’t Fleet approved?”
“I’m sure by now it is. My orders were to protect your ship and make a show of force when the Voloth sent a scout ship. No one expected them to send an invasion group this quickly. When they came into the system, there wasn’t time to wait for official orders of engagement, but I have no doubt they were authorized. Alsea is much too valuable to lose to the Voloth. The real issue is that I crashed my ship onto a pre-FTL planet and shattered half the Rules of First Contact in the process.”
“And when you answer to your superiors for stretching your orders, losing your ship, and breaking those rules, you need a perfect reputation and service history to back up your decisions.”
Captain Serrado looked at her in approval. “Yes, exactly.”
“Then I understand your secrecy. Your crew will not hear of your bond from us.”
“Us?” Lhyn repeated. “Is it already common knowledge?”
It was rather endearing that they were so unaware. “Any empath with a mid-level or higher rating would know the moment they felt you together. This is not a secret you would ever have kept from us, but we’re happy to keep it for you.”
“Thank you, Lancer Tal. Unfortunately, I have to answer to my superiors as soon as possible, and that means getting back to my ship with Commander Kameha and Lhyn. The commander might be the only person who can restore our communications, and Lhyn needs to speak with her ship as well. I’m very concerned about the status of the escape pods and my crew, not to mention the arrival time of our reinforcements.”
Tal appreciated the strategy; it wasn’t a coincidence that the captain had made her request at this point in the conversation. Apparently, they had both approached this meeting with a specific goal in mind. “And you believe that you might cash in our debt to get your crew aboard and retain control over your ship.”
She felt the surprise, followed swiftly by resignation.
“I could learn to dislike negotiating with an empath,” Serrado said.
“I hope not; I’m enjoying negotiating with you. But there was no need for subterfuge. Part of my politician’s work over the last hanticks involved establishing your rights to your ship. The High Council must still be convinced, but I have the legal scholars behind me. It’s still your ship, Captain. You can go back as soon as you’re mobile.”
She had surprised the captain for the second time in as many ticks.
“All right, since you already know what I’m feeling and apparently most of what I’m thinking, I’m just going to ask. Why aren’t your forces already all over the Caphenon? Why would you just let us go back?”
“Because we’re not fools.” Well, some of the High Council could be, but the captain didn’t need to know that. “Anything we could learn from your ship would come in bits and pieces, probably dribbled out over cycles or even tens of cycles, because we would be so handicapped in our ability to decipher anything. We could learn so much more if you helped us—if it was an exchange of knowledge rather than a theft. Based on your astonishment at the idea of healing bones in one day, our medical knowledge is ahead of yours. Who knows what other Alsean knowledge or technology could benefit you? You’ve already shattered your law of non-interference, so why not start treaty negotiations and an exchange of technology? It is the next step, is it not?”
Captain Serrado was smiling at her. “Yes, it is the next step. And it would be my pleasure to initiate that process, but I’m not the final authority on this.”
“I understand that you’ll need to consult with your superiors. I also suspect that how you frame that consultation would have considerable influence on the result, would it not?”
“That depends on how Fleet and the Assembly view my actions. If they agree with me that the destruction of my ship was an acceptable loss to save Alsea, then I’m a hero whose word will have weight. But if they choose to focus on the fact that I shredded the Non-Interference Act, my word may mean less than nothing.”
“Then we shall hope you are a hero.” For more reasons than one, Tal thought. She had an alternative plan, but did not want to put it into motion if it could be avoided. There was time to see how the situation would unfold.
“Of course she’s a hero,” Lhyn said. “That’s not a subjective judgment. It’s objective.”
“I suspect the Voloth would disagree with you,” Serrado said, but her pride was palpable.
“The Voloth are atoms and debris now; their opinion doesn’t count.”
Serrado turned toward Tal. “That’s another reason I have to get back in contact. I need to call a cleaner crew out here.”
“A what?”
“A crew to clean up the battle debris. The orbital invader exploded in your atmosphere, so most of it burned up and the rest is on Alsea’s surface. But the two destroyers were still in orbit, and when I put them out of commission, I made a mess of your orbital space. If we don’t clean up the debris field, it will eventually drop down to your satellite orbits and start causing havoc.”
“Not to mention that unless you develop shield technology, it could prevent you from even leaving your own planet,” Lhyn added. “You’ll end up with a debris ring that could destroy anything trying to pass through it.”
Tal absorbed that in silence. Such a consequence hadn’t occurred to her, nor to any of her advisors. Of course, she hadn’t yet spoken with any physical science scholars. Still, it was another excellent reason to stay on the good side of the Gaians.
She glanced at her wristcom and said, “Evenmeal is in a hantick. You cannot move your leg for three. Perhaps you, Lhyn, and Commander Baldassar might join me for evenmeal at the State House, after which we would return here to have your case removed, pick up any crew who are fully recovered, and go to your ship. I am of course inviting myself along.”
“With how many of your Guards?” Serrado asked shrewdly.
“I would need three. Not enough to take over your ship. But you are uncomfortable at the thought of dining at the State House?”
They looked at each other. “You’re right, it’s tough negotiating with an empath,” Lhyn said.
The captain shook her head ruefully. “It’s not the thought of dining at the State House that makes us uncomfortable. It’s that Commander Baldassar would not expect to see Lhyn there.” She hesitated, then added, “The only member of my staff who knows that she’s my girlfriend is Lieutenant Candini.”
“Girlfriend?” Tal repeated the odd word. “A female friend? That is not what Lhyn is to you.”
“Incomplete translation,” said Lhyn. “How about lover?”
“But that is not what you are to each other either.” The confusion emanating from both of them reflected her own, so Tal was forced to ask. “Are you not bonded?”
Serrado looked at Lhyn, who said, “It’s their equivalent to marriage. And no, Lancer Tal, we’re not.”
“But you are in a pre-bond, yes?”
“Engaged,” Lhyn explained in a low tone, before both of them shook their heads.
“But you’re ty—” Tal stopped herself. “My apologies. This must be a difference in culture. On Alsea, when two people have the sort of connection that you do, they’re either bonded or in a pre-bond. Perhaps your relationship is too new for that.”
They moved from uncomfortable to embarrassed, and Tal began to feel as if she were walking on shifting sands. Clearly, the Gaians had different attitudes toward personal relationships.
“We’ve known each other for two stellar years,” Serrado said.
“A little less than one and a half of your cycles,” Lhyn clarified, shocking Tal. One and a half cycles? No tyrees ever went that long without entering at least a pre-bond. It simply didn’t happen.
“But we’re both bonded to our careers,” Serrado added. “And they’re not compatible.”
Lhyn nodded. “My work often involves being entirely out of communication for several moons at a time. And Ekatya gets sent all over the quadrant. When she answered my call for help, it was the first time I’d seen her in more than seven of your moons.”
Tal didn’t know what to say. Not only were they not bonded, they were physically separated for long spans of time? She would have doubted their tyree status had she not repeatedly sensed the strength of their bond. The Gaians had the gift of Fahla, but either they didn’t know it, or didn’t know what to do with it.
Her wristcom chose that moment to vibrate, an almost welcome intrusion given the sand trap she’d just stumbled into. But then she saw the message and was on her feet so quickly that both the captain and Lhyn were startled.
“My apologies; I must take my leave now. I’ll return as soon as I can,” she said, and bolted out the door without waiting for a response.