Part 8 (1/2)

His breath rasping audibly, Tarlac watched legs and feet approach.

When they were about a meter away, he surged into a forward lunge under the Traiti's blade, bringing his own weapon flas.h.i.+ng up to rest with the tip just under Valkan's ribs, angled to stab unopposed into his heart.

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

Breathing easily, since he no longer needed that deception, Tarlac listened to a growing murmur he wasn't quite sure was approval. He was rea.s.sured by Hovan's smile as he returned the dagger to his sponsor, then resumed his s.h.i.+rt and belt. He turned apprehensively to Valkan.

How would this Traiti react? If he was one of those who opposed the adoption . . . He almost flinched when a clawed hand touched his shoulder, and the other clasped his right wrist. But there was no hostility in the soft, lilting voice that addressed him, and Valkan was smiling.

”He says that you more dangerous are than you seem,” Hovan translated.

”And he says that if you not Ch'kara were already, his Ka'ruchaya might have wished, you into K'horan invite.”

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

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

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

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

Those who'd bet on him had very good reason to be appreciative; they'd gotten excellent odds, and some would gain clan status for their daring in backing such an underdog. The losers were even more impressed by the human's victory. Even those spectators who still thought most humans incapable of honor were making an exception for Steve Tarlac.

In a sense, after all, he couldn't really be called human any more.

He'd been adopted by Clan Ch'kara and had proven himself in the matches, which was evidence enough that he was Traiti in spirit, if not in body.

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

Hovan studied his human ruhar for several minutes without saying anything. He had mingled blood with this man, and though the exchange had been more symbolic that substantial, he felt oddly close to him, closer than to any but the n'ka'ruhar he had shared young with.

Steve's sudden self-doubt disturbed him, given what he'd learned about the man. And an att.i.tude of expected defeat was nothing to take into a trial as strenuous and demanding as the Ordeal. But what could he say to help? There was no denying the danger Steve faced, and trying to minimize it would be doing the man a disservice.

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

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

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

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

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 s.h.i.+ps 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 flags.h.i.+p let down toward a city-sized s.p.a.ceport. The guide beam brought them to a precision landing near the central control building.

Leave for combat crews was automatic any time a wars.h.i.+p 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. s.h.i.+p-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 s.h.i.+p 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.