CMS flashed; he ignored it. What did the Loop know about necessity?
He slipped.
The Yxtrang nearly fell on top of him: he scrambled away in time to avoid the lunge, jumped to his feet, wiped the blood off his arm, saw the depth of the cut, shuddered—and moved in.
Move in. Move in. Move in. He needed to be inside that long reach if he had to kill the Yxtrang, if neither would yield—
He ducked back, avoiding a fist. Saw the curiously graceful hand move toward belt and check as he feinted in.
So he charged. Straight at the huge man, blade ready to slice or cut and—
He skidded, lost his knife, slid behind the Yxtrang, who snatched—and Val Con's good hand flashed out, snagged the ring of metal on his opponent's belt, and yanked.
Nelirikk saw the scout's knife on the floor, bent, grabbed—
But Val Con had it now: a thin strand of cutting wire as long as his arm. He hugged the giant's leg, pulled the wire loop hard—twisted, half-avoiding the hammer-blow of a huge fist—and hung on,
hung on
to the wire cord while oceans roared inside his ears and his vision went gray, ebbing toward black and Miri was there, terror sheeting her face, her hands overlaying his own on the wire. . .
The explorer went down. Val Con hung on grimly; clawed back to sense, pulled his knife to him with his bloody leg.
"One, two, three. . ." he gasped—let go the wire and came to his feet, as he must, knife in hand.
The Yxtrang lay half-sprawled on his side, knife held at throat-level, eyes distant. He sat up slowly, knife still high, eyes on Val Con's face. With his free hand he fingered the bloody loop around his legs, mouth tight.
Val Con stood back warily, wondering if he could dodge a thrown knife, or avoid a sudden desperate lunge.
Nelirikk explored the place where the wire lodged in his right leg. A spasm of pain crossed his face, eloquent despite the tattoos. Carefully, he turned the knife in his hand, holding it by the blade as if to throw, weighing its balance—
Then held it farther out, toward Val Con.
"I neglected to ask," he said in neutral Trade, "what language I should use when speaking to your captain."
Val Con sighed, slid his knife away, and accepted the offering. He cleaned it carefully against the sleeve of his fighting leathers, inspected it, and found its edge undamaged. He extended a hand to the Yxtrang, who hesitated before using the assistance to stand.
"You have accepted a brave challenge, Explorer," Val Con said in Yxtrang. "I must have the rest of the pledge before I may present you to my captain."
The big man half-lifted a fist to salute, caught the gesture, and made a ragged bow. "As you say." He paused a moment, either to recruit his resources or to puzzle out the most proper phrasing.
"I, Nelirikk . . .
I
, Nelirikk Explorer, pledge myself on Jela's honor to the person and line of Val Con yos'Phelium. My blood is yours, now and until my death. May your orders bring glory to us all."
Val Con bowed and held the heavy knife out across both palms.
"Your blade, Nelirikk Explorer. Wear it and use it as required, by my consent. The Tree and Dragon is now your shield also: I trust you will bring honor to us all."
Nelirikk took the blade in wonder.
"Can you walk?" Val Con asked him.
"If required, my leader."
Val Con shook his head. "Scout is sufficient for now, I believe. Do you rest while I go to bring my captain."
Miri whirled from the monitor as he came through the hatch, slamming her gun home with one hand and unclipping her belt-kit with the other. Behind her was Jason—and behind him were tel'Vosti and Erob.
"It is done." Val Con said. "Miri, you will need to—"
"Hold him, Jase."
Val Con stiffened; heard as if it had only now begun the song that was Miri within him—heard the terror and the beginning of the metamorphosis into anger. He sighed and leaned back into Jason's bulk, muscles shivering with reaction.
Miri slashed the ruined sleeve to expose the knife wound, sprayed it with antiseptic; reached for a pain bulb—
"No! Miri, you must talk to—"
She looked at him straight, gray eyes wild, and wiped the sweat from his face with an antiseptic cloth.
"You're mostly OK." Half question, half accusation.
"Yes. Some pain, some wounds that will heal, but—"
"What in hell were you trying to pull?" she yelled, terror abruptly sublimated into rage. "Next time you want yourself dead, try a step off a hundred meter cliff! Whatever gave you—"
She bent over the arm, still yelling, slipped for a moment into an argot that made even Jason cringe and slammed back into Terran for, "Jase—gimme a double staple patch outta your kit."
"Miri," Val Con said.
She swabbed his face again—hard; leaving the bitter taste of antiseptic in his mouth.
"Miri?"
"You ain't answered me, soldier! I wanna know where you got permission to pull such a damn fool stunt!"
"Necessity. Miri, please. It is done."
"Done is it?" she snorted, and knelt to get at his leg. "You look it."
"Attend me!" Val Con insisted, voice rising. He heard a faint pop as a sweat bubble broke in his ear.
She came up fast, eyes blazing. "Don't you lose your temper at me, you scruffy midget!"
For one searing moment, Val Con thought she might actually strike him, so exalted was her fury. Apparently Jason thought so, too, for he dropped his grip and stepped back.
Miri took a deep breath, hurled her free hand into the air and leaned close.
"So tell me,
partner
," she said, so sarcastically Jason retreated another step; "what's the plan? Huh? What'm I supposed to do now? What's the new gag? Yours all the way—so tell me about it."
The sarcasm hurt; his arm hurt and every other bit of him, too. Ridiculously, he regretted the warm solidity of Jason to lean against, and took a breath, pitching his voice for neutrality.
"Miri, my Captain, I request that you also give aid to the man inside this room, who is waiting to see if you will accept him as a recruit."
Her fear flared and his own anger melted. He reached to touch her cheek, which caress she allowed, shoulders losing some of the tension fury had lent.
"I said that I would sponsor him to you," he murmured. "Do me the honor of at least speaking with him before he bleeds to death."
She stared at him, anger and terror evaporating into wonder. "You want me to accept an
Yxtrang
as a recruit in a Terran-Liaden unit?"
"If the captain judges it wise," he said carefully.
She considered him out of wary gray eyes. "And if the captain thinks it's the worst idea she's heard since she left Surebleak?"
"That is the captain's right," he acknowledged. "But you will still wish to speak to this Nelirikk and show him some care, cha'trez."
"Why should I care a plugged bit what happens to him?"
"He is pledged to serve us, Line yos'Phelium," he explained. "There are—obligations. Such as seeing that one's servant has proper medical attention and does not needlessly suffer."
She flung hand out toward the sealed hatch. "We
own
that?"
"Certainly not," said Val Con. "One cannot own a sentient being."
"Right." She closed her eyes. "Other people," she said, apparently to the room at large, "give their wives flowers."
She spun on her heel, eyes snapping open. "Open the door," she told the door-corporal and glanced back at Val Con and Jason. "The two of you got me into this; the two of you can tag along."
Nelirikk stood, awaiting the return of the scout. He dared not sit on one of the crates, for fear his wounded legs would fail when it came time to rise to the captain's honor. He had made scant effort to clean himself, for it was no disgrace, that a captain might see a soldier fresh from soldier's duty.
There had been a voice raised in the outerways; a murmured answer that must be the scout—and the raised voice once more, swearing, as he'd monitored from time to time from Terran ships.
If the raised voice were the captain, it would seem to register displeasure with the performance. It suddenly occurred to Nelirikk to wonder just how persuasive was the scout, and he worried somewhat, and shifted on his aching legs—
The door cycled open, admitting a procession.
The scout led, limping, with field dressings on arm and leg. Immediately behind was a Terran male who filled the doorway with his bulk—a full-sized soldier, dressed for war, yet looking like some scraggly farm-peasant, long-haired and bearded, without tattoos of rank or maturity-mark. Still, he moved with assurance; with command: A proper captain!
Behind came a tiny red-haired figment—an apprentice soldier, doubtless brought early from the creche in the emergency of the invasion—carrying what appeared to be a medical kit.
The scout paused, swept a bow and nearly slipped on the slick floor. The larger man turned his head to snap a command at the soldier in the doorway: "Get a mop and cleaners!"
"My Captain," the scout began, and Nelirikk turned his face more fully to the bearded man, thinking that it would not be so bad, to serve a captain at least of proper size. . .
"My Captain," the scout repeated, and bowed profoundly, head near touching his knees, as the figment continued forward, thumping the equipment she carried onto a nearby crate, striding past the big man and the small one, to stand wide legged directly before Nelirikk, matchstick arms folded across scant chest.
"Well?" she snapped, and Nelirikk's mouth opened in response to the command-voice before his mind recalled that it was not yet his place to speak. The scout it was that answered, properly—and most gently.
"Captain, this is the man I propose to add to the unit. Nelirikk Explorer, he is called; a thoughtful fighter and—"
The captain shifted; frowned. "Introduce me."
"Yes, Captain." The scout bowed obedience; Nelirikk brought himself to stiff attention, striving to ignore his injuries and the persistent buzzing in his ears, the while his mind raced to encompass a captain who was smaller even than the scout and—
"Explorer, attend! Here is Captain Miri Robertson, commanding Action Unit 1, Lytaxin Combined Forces! Captain, I bring you Recruit Candidate Nelirikk Explorer."
Nelirikk stared straight ahead, as proper, while the tiny creature unfolded her arms and walked almost casually around him, inspecting. From the corner of an eye, Nelirikk saw the large man grin, then go soldier-faced as the captain completed her circuit.
"Is this the man who was carrying that stupid rifle?" she demanded of the scout.
Nelirikk kept his countenance. The question was reasonable, after all; and the part of his sponsor to explain.
"Yes, Captain."
"Hmmmph." She walked behind him once more. "What in the hell is this?"
"I took it from his—"
"Can he talk?" snapped the captain.
"Yes, Captain." The scout effaced himself and the large man grinned into his beard.
"Explorer," the captain demanded his attention. "This thing you're tangled in. What is it?"
Nelirikk stared straight ahead, concentrating on the proper formation of the Terran words. "Captain. A Shibjela. If the captain pleases."
The scout stirred within Nelirikk's vision, eyes gone intent.
"Translate that," ordered the command-voice and the scout bit his lip.
"I . . . In Trade: Jela's Neck-jewel. Jela's Necklace, in High Liaden. . ." He paused, thumb rubbing over fingertips, as if he felt the texture of nuance and sense. "In Terran . . . perhaps Jela's Noose. Or—"
"Got it," the captain interrupted. She resumed her cross-armed stance directly in Nelirikk's line of sight. "Explorer. Do all Yxtrang carry one of these?"
Excellent! The captain thought quickly and to the point!
"No, Captain. My—the unit where I take my training pays homage to one of the original members. All who train there carry Shibjela. Other units have—"
"Other toys," she finished for him and barely turned her head.
"Jase."
"Captain Redhead?" The bearded man did not bow, though his expression showed clear respect.
"Got one of your toys?"
The big man grinned, stepped forward and produced an oddly shaped piece of wood. It was perhaps a club, though it looked frail for such work; slightly edged, highly polished. Nelirikk's hand itched for it, to test balance and theory.
"Ever seen one of these?" The captain asked, walking to his left.
"No, Captain," he said, noting that the captain appeared to possess several names.
"Good. So we have some secret weapons, too." She was behind him again.
"This hurt?" she asked, and he felt a sear of pain where she touched him above the bleeding leg wound.
"Yes, Captain," he said, neutrally.
"Ought to. Looks pretty ugly. Can you fight?"
"Yes, Captain." He hesitated. "Now?"
"No!" She was before him again, head tipped back so he could see a grim face no larger than the palm of his hand, dominated by a pair of fierce gray eyes. "I mean—can you fight well? Ain't no slackers in my unit, you understand? My soldiers fight!"
"I can fight, Captain. I have many years of training. I use the autorifle, the—"
"Skip the sales pitch. How many languages you speak?"
"Yes, Captain," said Nelirikk, wondering—and then recalling that this was the captain who attached a scout to her command. "Languages: Yxtrang, Liaden, Trade, Terran, and Rishkak."
"Fine. You know how to take orders?"
"Yes, Captain."
"If I tell you to charge head on against armor and all you got is a rifle, will you?"
"Yes. Captain."
The gray eyes considered him blandly. "You really think you can take orders from somebody like me?"
He hesitated fractionally, began the proper answer—was cut off by a sharp wave of a child-like hand.
"You tell me what you think, Explorer. The truth, accazi?"
"Yes, Captain. It—occurs to the explorer that the captain is—very small."
Incredibly, she laughed. "Yeah? Well, it occurs to the captain that you're out of reason tall. If you can't take orders from me, I'll just hand you over to Commander Carmody and let him sort you out. I didn't go asking for another scout in this unit. Seems to me one's all the trouble I need." She blinked thoughtfully. "Might be easiest just to let you loose."