“That wouldn’t be a bad idea, sir.” She laughed. “But it is rather amazing, how much he seems to know about your race,” she commented.
He didn’t answer. It was just as well that it didn’t occur to her to wonder why Taylor had such intimate knowledge of a race he purported to hate, which was the Cehn-Tahr. Although it was the Rojok dynasty into which Taylor had been initiated, for some years now. Rojoks, both allies and enemies to the Cehn-Tahr in times past, knew a great deal about their culture, and would share that knowledge with even a human who was working for them. Madeline didn’t know, and he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to admit how correct Taylor’s remarks had been.
He was brooding. She could sense it; and not about the ambassador’s behavior. He wasn’t heading toward the skimmer. He seemed to have forgotten it was waiting for them.
“Sir, there’s something more,” she began hesitantly, wary of his hot temper. “It wasn’t just having to sub for your ambassador at the Altairian embassy.”
He turned and glared at her.
“Oh, right, it’s okay for you to wear ruts in my mind, but I can’t discuss what’s going through yours. Sir,” she added. She cocked her head and looked up at him quietly. “Something is really disturbing you. I’m not prying. But if there was any way I could help, I would,” she added very gently.
He hesitated. For once, his expression was almost vulnerable. His eyes narrowed, deep blue with solemn thought. “You are remarkably perceptive, Ruszel.” He drew in a long breath and when he spoke, it was only in her mind.
“We have, in my culture, a day of remembrance when we honor the dead. It takes place in the Hall of Memories on Memcache. But if we are too far away, we observe the ceremonies here, on Trimerius.” His tone in her mind was somber. “I place a glow stone, a virtual collection of music, verses, poetry, for each of my two brothers.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”
“This happens in war. The youngest was close to me. It is...difficult.” He straightened. “I would be glad of the company.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You mean, I could go with you?” He nodded. “But, sir, isn’t it against the law?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
She caught his mood and smiled back.
“Come.” He led the way to the skimmer. A few minutes later, they landed at the Cehn-Tahr embassy. He led her down a long hall. All along the way, Cehn-Tahr soldiers bowed respectfully and saluted.
He glanced at her confusion. “They bow to me,” he said. “However—” and he sounded amused, in her mind “—they salute you.”
“Me?” she faltered.
“The Holconcom’s human warwoman,” he explained. “They find you fascinating. In fact, a group of our elite troops on Memcache refer to you almost in reverent tones. Considering their prejudice against humans, the behavior is remarkable.”
She was left speechless. He noticed that, and smiled.
But when the guards opened the door into a huge indoor conservatory, with trees and plants which were, presumably, native to Memcache, she found her voice. “It’s incredible,” she whispered as the doors closed behind them. The species of plants and trees were unfamiliar, but gloriously beautiful.
“A taste of home,” he remarked.
They approached a huge statue of a galot. This one was jet black with glowing green eyes. “Magnificent,” she thought, fascinated.
“Cashto, from whom we obtained some of our genetic material many ages ago.” He looked down at her. “You will not speak of this.”
“No, sir,” she promised. Later, she would recall these confidences with curiosity. He had said it was taboo to speak of culture with outworlders.
He turned back to the statue. He pulled three softly glowing pastel stones from a platform on one side of the statue, placed them on the other side and spoke words of remembrance in the Holy Tongue, which was spoken only by Cehn-Tahr elite—and which Ruszel would not understand. If he had been alone, he would have pulled up the images of his brothers. But that would be unwise. Ruszel had an excellent memory. He stepped back from the altar and stood quietly for several minutes. Ruszel, beside him, didn’t make a sound. While she’d lost comrades—in fact, her whole Amazon unit from the Bellatrix during the Rojok attack three years earlier—she’d never lost a family member. Well, except for Hahnson, on Ahkmau. She had his clone now, and he had Hahnson’s memories. It was infinitely sad to remember the original Hahnson’s death. She could only imagine how hard it was for the commander, to lose two brothers. The pain must be terrible.
“Quite,” he remarked. He was staring at Cashto’s statue, which towered over both of them under a spread of leafy trees. “Are you religious, Ruszel?”
She smiled faintly. “Well, I am, although not in any conventional sense,” she replied. “I’ve seen enough unexplained recoveries in my career not to discount miracles. There has to be something far more powerful than we are. Even science has its limits.”
He only nodded, as if her answer satisfied the question.
He led the way back out, lost in his own memories, his own pain. He had placed a stone as well for a woman he lost on Dacerius, decades ago. That was a memory he would not share with his companion.
She noticed that he placed three glowing stones at the altar, but she put the thought away. It wasn’t her business. However, she was very curious about the purpose of Dtimun’s visit to the embassy, when he hated Altairians.
He glanced down at her. “You wonder why we went to the reception.”
She nodded.
“The Altairians have a treaty with the Nagaashe, a race who live on a world near our borders. They have great stores of Helium 3, which we employ in reactors to provide heat and cooling for our cities. Our resources of this element are diminishing, but the Nagaashe will not trade with us. After many decades of diplomatic persistence, the Altair ambassador has agreed to present our case to the Nagaashe,” he added. “But considering the usual speed of their negotiations, I fear the treaty will not be created in my lifetime.”
“Who are the Nagaashe?” she wondered.
He smiled. “So many questions whirling in your mind, Ruszel. But answers must wait. Thank you for accompanying me.”
“It wasn’t as if I had a real choice, sir,” she pointed out, and he chuckled. She made a face. “And their idea of synthale is an abomination.”
“They do not consume alcoholic beverages in their culture,” he reminded her.
“No wonder!”
He laughed. He motioned for one of the young officers. “Show Dr. Ruszel to the room where she left her uniform, and then accompany her back to the medical center.”
“Sir,” she protested. “I can hardly be in danger during that short hop...”
He held up a hand. “I do not
