The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1 (17 page)

Chapter 23

Drew now
had his eyes and ears, and a voice. He had plenty of muscle, and a foreman to manage it for him. He had in-house technical and scientific expertise, a fully equipped medical and forensic laboratory, and the Fleet Academy training of Jason Smith. He even had a getaway shuttle, and a berserker pilot to fly it.

If he didn’t know better, he might be tempted to believe that someone had equipped the Hub specifically for his purposes.

Once Holchuk had been adopted into Nagor’s Shield, Drew would also have the most feared warriors in the galaxy as backup if he needed it. And sooner rather than later, he knew, the Hub would need defensive weapons as well. In the meanwhile, thanks to Gouryas and Singh, Drew finally had the mission that would pull all these mavericks and misfits together into a working team. The briefing meeting would be held once Holchuk was back on the Hub. Before then, Townsend had some groundwork to lay.

Teri Mintz was pivotal to his plan. He found her having lunch with O’Malley in the caf, exactly where Lydia had told him to look. Teri’s expression was sober, almost sad. Seeing the way she and O’Malley leaned toward each other across the table, so deep in discussion that there may as well have been a wall around them, Drew couldn’t help wondering what scheme the ratkeeper was hatching now.

O’Malley clearly had no idea who he was dealing with, and why should he? From the moment she’d arrived on Daisy Hub, Teri had been a perfect lady. Townsend had earlier seen her wildcat temper — and evidence of a strong right hook — but decided to wait for Holchuk’s first report on her before mentioning them to anyone. It was a good decision. Teri had obviously taken Drew’s advice to heart after all and made a fresh beginning, for, according to Holchuk, the newest cargo inspector was a model employee: careful, hard working, and eager to please. Of course, someone like O’Malley might look at that and see a potential mark. If so, and if Teri realized she was being conned, the wildcat inside her would probably reach out its claws and tear a strip off him.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Drew. He wasn’t. They had broken off their conversation as soon as Teri had noticed the station manager walking toward them.

What had been hopeful anticipation on her face morphed into an expression of dread. “It’s bad news about Gavin, isn’t it?”

“There’s no news yet,” he told her, pulling a third chair over to their table and sitting down. O’Malley’s expression flickered annoyance. Three was a crowd. Too bad. “I just wanted to run an idea past you that I thought you’d be interested in. You too, O’Malley.”

About to get up and leave, the ratkeeper sank back onto his chair with a sigh.

“I remembered how upset you were about not having a singing career anymore,” Drew continued, “and I was wondering — how would you feel about doing shows for your crewmates?”

She looked skeptical. “The Daisy Hub Lounge presents…?”

“A hub is a hub,” he pointed out, “and it has to be better than doing InfoCommAds. For one thing, you’d have creative control.”

“You’d let me produce?”

“Co-produce.” He was still the station manager, after all. “Or would you rather just leave all the decisions to me?”

“Absolutely not,” she declared. Then, tilting her head curiously, she added, “You’re really serious about this?”

“I am. It’ll be great for everyone’s morale. Will you do it?”

“Have you ever staged a show before, Mr. Townsend?” she asked, cheeks dimpling.

“No, but I suspect you can teach me all about it. As I recall, you’re pretty good at that. So, do we have a deal?”

She nodded happily. “Deal.”

“How much time do you need to get the first one ready?”

She leaned back thoughtfully in her chair. “The first one is always a lot of work,” she told him. “But since it’s going to be a one-woman show and I already have all my costumes and music with me, I won’t need much rehearsal to get back up to speed,” she decided. “Give me an interval.”

“Perfect. And I know exactly where to set up the stage — K Deck. It’s being used for storage right now. We can move all those containers to the secondary utilities deck, and that gives us plenty of room for you and your appreciative audience.”

“…and a glitzy backdrop, a backup band, and a ton or so of electronics,” she added, smiling. “What do you think, Rob?”

O’Malley frowned briefly. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then settled back in his chair with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “I think it’s a terrific idea,” he said. “Everyone loves a show.”

He caught up with Townsend in the corridor outside the caf. “It’s a con, isn’t it? Who’s the mark?”

Drew feigned indignation. “A con? How can you suggest such a thing, Mr. O’Malley?”

“Because you’re setting up this stage directly over an arsenal of jamming gear. Now, who’s the mark?”

Drew stopped walking and said with a sigh, “Not Teri, and that’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment. Coincidentally, I have another special job for you.”

“Part of the con? Name it.”

“When will you be requesting the next parcel of data from the InfoCommNet?”

“The next transmission goes out tomorrow at 1100 hours, the one after that in three days’ time. Is there something extra that you want me to get for you?”

“Not for me. For Teri.”

O’Malley’s eyes began to twinkle. “You sweet on her, boss?”

No,
Drew thought wearily,
I just don’t want her to kill me when
she finds out who I’m inviting to this concert.
But his only reply to O’Malley was a smile.

Chapter 24

Tekl’hananni
was
a
Nandrian word meaning, literally, ‘test of strength’. As a Human, Holchuk associated it with only one thing — open warfare in space, pretending to be a sport. The Nandrians, however, had other, older meanings for
tekl’hananni
, as Nagor finally explained to him en route to the
Hak’kor
’s flagship.

The Nandrians didn’t always speak in riddles, Holchuk discovered. This manner of speech stemmed from the Nandrian belief that the value of a conversation was measured by the extent to which it made one think. When pressed for time, however, and if the subject matter was important enough, they could communicate information quite clearly and succinctly.

In ancient times,
tekl’hananni
had been a rite of passage into adulthood, the nature of the test to be determined by the
Hak’kor
or his representative. Not every Shield bearer had to be a warrior, and not every
tekl’hananni
had to involve combat — there were healers and spiritual leaders on the home world as well, who had earned their place in their respective Shields without ever picking up a weapon. Feeling almost limp with relief at having passed the
Kalufah
’s first inspection, Holchuk devoutly hoped that his would be a nonviolent
tekl’hananni
. For an adoption, it was the only thing that made sense. Any being with eyes could see that the only possible outcome of a Human-Nandrian combat would be a bloodied Human corpse.

At last, the
Pet’silliar
came to rest on a landing deck that dwarfed anything Holchuk had ever seen, in person or on vids. It should have been filled with shuttles and fighting craft. Instead, it appeared gray, cavernous, and incongruously empty. Holchuk didn’t have much time to wonder about this, for an honor guard wearing the livery of Trokerk met him and Nagor as they stepped off the shuttle and escorted them directly to the
Hak’kor
’s reception room.

“Cling to your rage, little warrior,” advised Nagor quietly as they marched through a maze of gray metal corridors, flanked by a squadron of Nandrians even larger and more heavily armed than before. “Let it burn within you.”

Actually, Holchuk’s rage had had an attack of common sense and yielded to a much stronger emotion — fear. But he wasn’t about to tell that to a Nandrian. Being
hartoon
kept the fear at bay, but it also increased his chances of making a fatal mistake in the presence of the
Hak’kor
. Fear was controllable, Holchuk told himself. He just needed to distract his mind, keep it busy with details and observations and questions.

For example, the spacecraft they were now on was clearly a battleship. It was utilitarian, unadorned. Hard and flat as far as the eye could see. Nothing shone but the blades of the weapons all around him. It made excellent sense for the
Hak’kor
to travel this way. He was too important to his House to be running around the galaxy unprotected. But didn’t his presence make the ship he was on just as important and just as much in need of protection? And that brought Holchuk back to the question of the day: Why were there no fighter craft in the landing bay? Were they being kept on another deck? Was this ship so large that it could reserve an entire hangar for just one ship — the
Hak’kor
’s private launch?

Actually, that might be the answer, he soon realized, for the reception room he was now entering made the one on the launch look like a closet. Holchuk had never been especially religious; in fact, his stubborn agnosticism when he was younger had slowly estranged him from most of his family. Nonetheless, as he stood now in the middle of this immense vaulted space with its restlessly flowing terra-cotta-colored walls, richly grained wooden floor, and illuminated pillars, the very air around him glowing amber, Holchuk felt as though he were in a great cathedral, surrounded by unfathomable power. In a sense, he was. This huge spacegoing fortress was carrying the
Hak
’kor
, the most important person in the House of Trokerk, and a small army of handpicked palace guards.

A door slid open at the other end of the room and a phalanx of six Nandrians, metal-plated and heavily armed, marched in. In their midst walked the
Kalufah
. He wasn’t carrying the living staff this time. And, Holchuk couldn’t help noticing, nobody brought him a chair.

“There are many ways to fight for honor, and there are many kinds of courage. The
Hak’kor
has decided on a test,” he announced.

So it would be a nonviolent
tekl’hananni
after all. Holchuk blew out a sigh of sheer relief.

“The Human will step forward,” said the
Kalufah
.

He obeyed, just as another door slid open to admit four more huge Nandrians, leading a prisoner this time, hooded and in chains. The Human watched, fascinated, as the captive was dragged before the
Kalufah
and pushed to his knees.

“Human, you wish to defend the honor of the House of Trokerk?” demanded the
Kalufah
.

“I would die in the cause of honor,” Holchuk replied, still following the script.

“This
lorssh
has betrayed our House and brought dishonor to the Fifth and Seventh Shields. You will avenge them.”

There was no time even to utter a squeak of protest or confusion. Suddenly a sharp, bladed weapon was thrust into his hand; his fingers closed automatically around the leather-wrapped hilt. Clearly, some planning had gone into this test. The sword was light and perfectly balanced for a Human. In the next second, the hood was yanked off the prisoner’s head, and Holchuk found himself staring into a familiar pair of malevolent green eyes.

It was Rostol.

Several seconds later, Holchuk remembered to breathe. Somehow, he had managed to hold onto the sword; but he was pointing it downward, leaving himself open to attack. This was not a wise thing to do when facing a desperate criminal twice his size.

Consciously filling his lungs, Holchuk raised the tip of his sword and held it centimeters away from Rostol’s neck. The Nandrian should already be dead. He had confessed to committing a capital crime, and Nandrian justice was swift and unrelenting. Many criminals were summarily executed on the way to their trial. And yet, here was Rostol, kneeling before Holchuk, very much alive. Clearly, a great deal of thought and planning had gone into this moment of vengeance.

Perfect vengeance for a
hartoon
. The Relocation Authority had murdered his wife and stolen his child. Rostol had tried to kill a Human child. The Relocation Authority was beyond Holchuk’s reach. But Rostol was close by, an easy and deserving target for his wrath.

Cling to your rage, little warrior.

Holchuk could feel the Nandrians’ eyes on him. This was
tekl’
hananni
, he reminded himself, a test of strength. They were watching him, judging his worthiness to join the Fifth Shield. And if he failed, millions of his people might die.

No, not might die.
Would
die. Suddenly he knew, with gut-twisting certainty, where all the Nandrian fighter craft had gone.

“Go ahead, kill me, Human,” snarled Rostol, rattling his chains. “Are you afraid? Look! I cannot harm you.”

Holchuk’s blood was roaring in his ears. He forced himself to breathe steadily, to focus on the moment. He willed his sword hand not to waver. There was no room for error here. He would have to reason this through as if he were a Nandrian, behave as a Nandrian would. Remember, as a Nandrian would, that strength was nothing without honor.

Remember that the cold-blooded killing of a helpless captive was still considered a crime on Nandor.

“What is wrong with you, Human? Are you a coward?” Rostol taunted, his green eyes flashing.

“I would be, if I killed you,” Holchuk replied softly.

He dropped his sword arm to his side and turned toward the
Kalufah
. “I wish justice for the House of Trokerk, and for the Human female this
lorssh
tried to kill,” he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster. “But I also wish honor. Where is the honor for me in slaughtering a helpless prisoner? And where is the honor for Trokerk in allowing an off-worlder to take its vengeance?”

For an endless moment, there was silence in the room as the
Kalufah
considered his words. Holchuk waited tautly, not even daring to breathe. At last, the Nandrian official drew himself up and declared, “The Human understands.”

At that, a storm of wheezing and snorting broke out. Lower fangs were bared in approval. Rostol was hustled out of the room. Holchuk had survived
tekl’hananni
. Overwhelmed with relief, he would probably have collapsed to the floor if Nagor hadn’t reached out just then to give his shoulders a congratulatory squeeze.

Then, abruptly, the assembly went quiet again. Another honor guard had entered, escorting a very old Nandrian, his proud posture belying the sagging skin on his face and neck. His facial armor was more ornament than protection, a band of gemstone-encrusted leather that covered his brow and hung down both cheeks. He was wrapped in a floor-length brown leather cape and carrying the living staff, and he gave off an aura of irresistible power. The
Hak’kor
of Trokerk. In the same instant, everyone in the room, including the
Kalufah
, fell to their knees.

“The Houses will be joined,” decreed the
Hak’kor
.

“They will be joined,” chorused all the Nandrians present.

“Nagor ban Nagoram, you ask to be partnered with this Human?”

Nagor rose, stepped forward and replied, “I wish it,
Hak’kor
.”

“Gavin ban Samuel, come before me,” said the
Hak’kor
.

Holchuk hurried to his feet and obeyed, wondering at the
Hak’kor
’s choice of words. According to Nagor, there had never before been an interspecies adoption by a Nandrian Shield. Perhaps neither Nandrian nor Gally had a word to describe accurately the relationship that would result. But — partnered?

The
Hak’kor
looked him over carefully. “You have a mate,” the
Hak’kor
observed.

For a second, Holchuk blanked. A mate? No. Risa was dead and he’d never— Suddenly his heart dropped, as he recalled: he’d told Nagor that Teri was his mate to give her Fifth Shield status and ensure she wouldn’t be bothered by drunken crewmembers. A harmless lie, but a lie nonetheless. He didn’t dare confess it now. If the
Hak’kor
had any reason to doubt his honor, he was a dead man.

Swallowing hard, Holchuk stammered, “I— Yes,
Hak’kor
.”

The
Hak’kor
looked displeased. He tilted his head and spat and snarled something at Nagor, who spat and snarled something back. This went on for a couple of minutes, as a tide of dread rose in Holchuk’s chest.

Finally, Nagor stepped back, and the conversation resumed in Gally.

“The Houses of Trokerk and Daisy Hub have enemies in common and therefore must
ssalssin
,” declared the
Hak
’kor
. “Gavin ban Samuel, you wish to be partnered with this Nandrian?”

Holchuk had no choice but to reply, “I wish it,
Hak’kor
.”

“Then it will be. Nagor ban Nagoram of Trokerk, and Gavin ban Samuel of Daisy Hub, you will
ssalssit essendi
at the next full cycle.”

Then the
Hak’kor
pounded the daylights out of the living staff on the floor, and it was done. Or begun. Holchuk had no idea what
ssalssit essendi
meant, or how long a full cycle was supposed to be. Clearly, however, his adoption wouldn’t be finalized until he and Nagor had performed this ritual activity.

“Nagor ban Nagoram, I have many questions,” said Holchuk.

“And I have many answers, Gavin ban Samuel. Unfortunately, there is no lemonade on the
Hak
’kor
’s ship, so this will have to do.” His lower fangs bared, Nagor handed him a large mug filled to the brim with an amber-colored liquid that smelled strongly of vanilla.

Holchuk took an experimental swallow and felt a river of fire flow down his throat and into his stomach. It was all he could do not to choke.

“What is this called?” he asked Nagor as soon as he could speak again.

“Whisky,” the Nandrian replied, tilting his head in puzzlement. “It is the
Hak’kor
’s favorite Human beverage. We trade for it on Carvellis 7.”

Holchuk nearly laughed out loud. Vanilla-flavored whisky. Would wonders never cease?

“Drink, my brother,” Nagor urged. “The feast begins when these are empty.”

Holchuk glanced around the room and realized with dismay that he and Nagor were the only ones holding mugs. There looked to be nearly half a bottle of liquor in each one. On the other hand, he thought, this was a Nandrian feast; considering what and how he was liable to be served, it would probably be better for everyone if he were toxed to the rafters before sitting down at the table.