The author Marion Zimmer Bradley (MZB)
wrote a series of science fiction/fantasy novels telling the tales of the
inhabitants of the world of Darkover. These novels
cover millennia of history: from the crash landing of a Terran
colony ship; the rise of the ruling feudal, telepathic class known as ‘The Comyn’; the rediscovery of the planet by the Terran and beyond. To give you a breakdown of the stories
of Darkover would be doing the author, MZB, a
disservice. I heartily recommend her stories to all those who enjoy fan
fiction. This story is intended as a tribute, and not in anyway disrespectful,
to MZB who wrote of class inadequacies, feminism, homophobia, bigotry and
intolerance before P.C. and zero tolerance legislation. I learned so much from
her stories.
I have deliberately not included any of MZB’s characters other than in passing reference.
The Sentinel, as we know, is a fun series,
a concept in which I have been playing happily for a few years. It tells of
watchmen who use their preternatural enhanced senses of sight, smell, hearing,
touch and taste, and, perhaps, senses beyond those five to protect and guard
their chosen clans.
Wendy was kind enough to beta this story
Comments/feedback would be really nice.
Email: sealie@trickster.org
or sealie1@hotmail.com
The Sentinel of Darkover
By Sealie
The day that James Ellison arrived on the
Protected Planet of Cottman IV, the Terran Federation ended. The massive bureaucracy that ruled
hundreds of thousands of planets collapsed as he stepped onto the tarmac of the
spaceport. The space cruiser that had carried him from a space station that
hung on the edge of the Orion Nebula to the planet of Cottman
IV took off seconds after the last passenger disembarked. Blasting away to life
– Captain Ellison suspected – as a pirate ship on the outer rim.
In another lifetime he would have taken out
the captain of the vessel and then continued on his mission, yet his
instructions were clear: head to Cottman IV with all
alacrity and allow for no distractions.
A pale, pale worm of a man ran up to the
ranger and gibbered aimlessly, pointing at the red sky above and then the exhaust
fumes spiralling around their feet.
“They left. They left. I spoke to the
captain. He said I could travel with him.”
“He lied.” Captain Ellison dismissed the
man, leaving him kneeling on the tarmac. He strode across the spaceport field.
The area was barren, devoid of the normal engineers and storage transportation
teams that should be scurrying around suites of vessels cycling through the
busy spaceport. Ahead the spaceport was dark. The installation was empty.
Scowling, Ellison passed through the building.
The security teams were absent and customs were non-existent at the
abandoned colony – or so he thought.
As he stepped from Federation, white, clean
territory and into the red-tinged, organic world of Cottman
IV, a curiously accented voice demanded, “Your blaster,”
Ellison looked at the man from tip to toe.
He was a strange figure, but Jim was well travelled and had seen stranger
species in his time. It was the human’s clothes that drew his eye. Quaint was
perhaps the nicest way to put it. Rather than the utilitarian synthetic tunic
and form fitting trousers of the Federation, the man wore rich, jewel-tones:
blue jacket, sapphire vest and a silken shirt. Layers to
protect against the biting cold.
He even wore a cape with a fur lining, for Gods’ sake. The embroidery at
its neck and cuffs was intricate. The blue of his clothes and the deep dark red
of his hair against the glowering burgundy backdrop of the evening sky made
Jim’s eyes water. He blinked and concentrated
on the man’s aquiline features.
“What?”
“No distant weapons.”
“You want me to hand over my blaster?”
The red head sighed tiredly. “Here on Darkover,” he said as if talking to a child, “we have
something called the Compact which forbids the use of weapons which reach
farther than the length of your arm.”
Ellison scowled at the man, somehow blaming
him for the inadequacy of his superior’s coded message. It wasn’t like Simon
Banks to leave out something so fundamental.
“No.” His weapon was his best friend.
“Return to the compound.” The man gestured
with a long hand back to the echoingly empty building from which Jim had just
emerged.
“There’s nothing there.”
“No distant… distance,” he corrected,
“weapons are allowed on Darkover.”
Jim had barely been on the planet half an
hour and he was already at a disadvantage. He ground his teeth together.
Belatedly, he registered that a cohort of men all dressed alike in dark blue
tunics and trousers stood behind the long-limbed red head. Some sort of police
force?
There was little choice. He either handed over his weapon of choice and continued his
mission or he returned to the Federation. Reluctantly, Jim unholstered
his bulky, high energy, armour piercing blaster and set it on the rickety
wooden table before the standing man.
“And the other one,” the officer demanded,
his slate grey eyes were piercing and Jim had the strangest sensation that the
man was laughing at him. Jim squatted down and withdrew his snapper from its
ankle holster.
The man sighed tiredly. “And
the third one.”
Jim shook his energy wand out of his sleeve
and set it next to the other weapons. “That’s all.”
The officer nodded, “Are you claiming
asylum?”
“I have no need for asylum.”
“Why then have you come to Darkover… Cottman
IV?” the man seemed interested in his answer.
“I wish to speak to someone in authority.”
Once again, Jim knew that the man was
laughing at him. “I am ‘someone in authority’.”
“Not the gatekeeper,” Jim said
disparagingly, “the head security.”
The red head did not react but the cadre of
guards, in their blue and silver tunics and capes, glared as one.
“I am Alaric Lanart-Alar, I am the head of
security.”
“Really? And you’re watching the door? Haven’t you
got anything better to do?”
This time the man smiled. “Where better to
watch to ensure that Federation undesirables do not come to our planet?”
“Well, I’m here ‘cause
you’ve got one already, and he probably came through this spaceport.”
“Not on my watch, Ranger Ellison.”
Jim sighed inwardly. “Is there somewhere
more private where we can discuss it rather than out in the open?”
“This way.” Alaric gestured expansively. Jim moved to
fall in behind the man, but was promptly displaced by two of the guards and the
other four moved to bracket him in between them. Jim might not have his weapons
but that did not mean that he was defenceless. Alaric looked back over his
shoulder and smiled. “We’re just going to my offices where we can talk in
relative security, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not concerned.”
He had had little time to read up on the
history of Cottman IV, known to the inhabitants as Darkover, preferring to study the language tapes that Simon
had seen fit to include in his briefing package. The capital city was called Thendara, but that was the limit of his knowledge. The
buildings were constructed of stone, bricks and mortar rather than plast-steel and extruded plastics. It was like moving back
in time. He had only seen cities like this in medieval vid
dramas. But vids had not illustrated the wind
chilling cold that chapped his skin and invigorated his senses. The streets
twisted around, heading upwards to the immense, white citadel that dominated
the horizon. The buildings were changing as they walked. The windows were
bigger with more clear planes, instead of small, murky sugar glass panes. The buildings’
stone work was well tended and painted. There was a clear class divide in the
city.
Alaric led him to a large mansion outside
the wall of the citadel. Jim paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering
citadel above.
“That is
“The Comyn are
the rulers of this world.”
“Yes, the Terranan
call us a,” Alaric hunted for the word, “theocracy?”
“Monarchy. Monarch as in King,” Jim supplied.
“Theocracy is something different, has to do with churches.”
“We have a council of representatives of
the Seven Domains.”
“They are formed entirely of the Comyn aristocrats.”
Alaric’s brow furrowed as he translated the
Terran Standard words. “Yes,” he said slowly, “they
rule. It is complicated, but it works for Darkover.”
Jim shrugged phlegmatically. The Federation
government was falling to pieces around its proverbial ears. Maybe the Darkovian aristocracy would be better? He doubted it,
preferring democracy. But this wasn’t his world. Their government
organisational structure was not his concern. Prior to the debacle which was
currently engulfing the Federation democracy, the planet of Darkover
had been given Protected Status, and had been classified as vulnerable to
cultural exposure. For all intents and purposes the Darkovian
government and its people had been allowed to progress without the overt
exposure to the influence of the Terran way of life.
Eventually the benefits of Terran medicine, culture,
arts, democracy would have overrun the existing government -- Jim had seen it
happen too often not to know that -- and Darkover
would have joined the Federation. But the very democracy of the Federation had
defeated itself. The government had been overrun and was collapsing.
Alaric directed him in to a small office. A
warm brazier sat in the corner and Jim welcomed the heat.
“So what brings you here?” Alaric asked
without any preamble. “You wear the black garb of a Terranan
Ranger. What brings a ranger to Darkover? You have
no--” he paused searching for the word, “--legislation?”
“Jurisdiction.”
“You have no jurisdiction, Ranger Ellison.”
“Obviously my superior Colonel Banks
contacted you, otherwise you wouldn’t know my name.
Why don’t you cut to the chase?”
Alaric smiled secretively. “I have only the
barest details. You play your ‘cards close to your chest’, you are very closed.”
Jim’s brow furrowed trying to understand
the words; Alaric’s standard was very good, but his words had been a little
convoluted. “I am in pursuit of a fugitive.”
Alaric settled behind his desk and planted
his feet on the wooden table. “And?”
“He has a number of pseudonyms: Adam Trilys, Karad inal
--he’s a psychopath, thief, slaver and murderer. His last co-ordinates set him
in the vicinity of this planet two standard months ago. His vessel was in
distress, and a mayday was picked up.”
“The Terrans left
at the spaceport have reported no emergency landings.”
Jim scratched his jaw line. “He could have
used an escape pod and landed anywhere. This is the only viable planet in the
system.”
“So this psychopath may not even be on Darkover?”
“My superior believes that he is.”
Alaric shifted, his feet dropped with a
thud to the floor, he leaned over the desk and his grey eyes were piercing.
“Why come here?
“My boss sent me to find this murderer.”
“Ah, so duty drives you?” Alaric said.
“Your Federation is dying; you might never be able to leave our planet. To what
authority will you give this psychopath?”
“I’ll hand Adam Trilys
over to you if I can’t return him to Ranger Central. You don’t want this guy on
your soil.”
“Tell me of your Banks -- why didn’t he
release you from service to an authority that no longer exists and send you
home?”
“Adam Trilys is a
criminal and a murderer,” Jim repeated.
Alaric smiled wolfishly. Jim found himself
stepping backwards and folding his arms over his chest defensively.
“Where will you find this man?” Alaric
asked.
Jim had read Adam’s file backwards and
forwards. The reasons for the man’s presence on Darkover
made little or no sense. He was a technology-thief selling to the highest
bidder when he was not selling his skills as an assassin. Adam Trilys did not fit on the world of Darkover.
If the Federation was truly going to fall into the Dark Ages he should have
fled to criminal underworld of Kurltwurld or Chril not the medieval
backwater of Cottman IV.
“This is the capital, he’ll gravitate
here.”
“Hmmm, you need a guide.”
“A guide?” Jim snarled, off kilter and mystified.
Alaric had added an inflection to the word, giving it a lilt which made it more
than the Terran Standard word for a tour guide
through Thendara. Jim could almost suspect that the
red head was talking of a sentinel’s guide.
“Yes, but one that knows
both the Terranan ways and the criminal side of Thendara.
None of my subordinates have good command of your tongue.”
“Banks gave me language tapes. I have a
rudimentary grasp of your Casta.”
“Casta? Curious. I would
have given you tapes of the Common Trade tongue.”
Jim shrugged. Alaric seemed to be looking
for angles where there were none. Banks had probably given him access to the
only tapes that he could find.
“I think that you should go to your home
and leave this Adam Trilys to me. Go home before the
infrastructure of your Terranan Federation collapses
and there are no more spaceships for two-three or more generations coming to my
planet.”
Jim laughed hollowly. The ultimatum was
plainly placed: why are you here when the Federation is going to Hell in a Handbasket? “I don’t
have a home planet - I am a Ranger.”
“You are either a man of great integrity, a
man who has no home or a man with a vendetta. Or perhaps a man who believes
that he has nothing to lose?”
Jim did not comment.
“Perhaps,” Alaric continued, “You are all
four. No, perhaps three.”
Jim ignored the strange meanderings. “Do I
have your permission to pursue this criminal?”
The man just sat,
his grey eyes opaque. Jim bristled. He didn’t need the man’s permission. What
were they going to do, lock him up in a practically abandoned spaceport? He
would be over the wall and in the city of
“Yes,” Alaric enunciated sharply. “Go find
your Adam. Perhaps you will find him before your spaceport is abandoned in a tenday.”
“You have a date?” Jim was surprised -
under the current chaos of the collapsing Federation he was suspicious of any schedule.
“I have some of the donas of the Aldaran.
One of your Big Ships will arrive on the morning of the ninth day of your
arrival and all Terranan who wish to, will leave on
the morning of the tenth day since your arrival.”
“Fine,” Jim said shortly, ignoring that
which he did not understand. “So I’m on a tight schedule. Give me your guide
and I’ll get on with it. How much to hire one?”
Alaric rubbed his chin is such a blatantly
false manner that Jim was immediately suspicious. “Maybe there’s another way?”
“What?” This was getting boring. The
officer was playing stupid games. Simon Banks had obviously been in touch with
the Thendaran head of security otherwise they
wouldn’t be pussyfooting about and Alaric would be interrogating him.
“I have seen your ‘deputies’ in your
western vids in the
“And what does that entail?”
“You make an oath to the Hastur to uphold the law and obey the Comyn.”
“I can’t do that,” Jim said simply. “I
don’t know what the Hastur is and I don’t know the Comyn yet.”
Alaric laughed showing a crooked set of
teeth. “Ah, if you had said yes, I would
have been suspicious. I will give you, Ranger James Ellison, a provisional
status and assign you a guide. When you find your
criminal, and your way, bring him to me and we will talk again.”
“What’s the catch?”
Alaric continued laughing. “There is ‘no
catch’. This is in my best interests. Discover my planet and let my planet
discover you.” Still laughing, Alaric patted a tiny bell on his table. It rang
sharp and piercingly. Jim winced.
The door opened. “Yes, vai dom?”
“Send in Rafe, I
have a job for him.”
~Cottman IV~
~Cottman IV~
The boarding house was clean and well
furnished in wood which would have bought an entire city block on Terra. Rafe, a quiet young man, had led him to the three storey
house and introduced him to the landlady, a short, swarthy woman with a shock
of black hair and a ready laugh and not a single word of Terran
Standard. Rafe had jabbered quickly at the woman. Jim
only following one word in ten had realised that this was going to his home for
the next nine days.
Rafe had bowed, made a faltering apology and
then left. Jim was left standing with the landlady as his so-called guide
escaped.
“Where did he go?” Jim said in Terran Standard and received a blank look from his new
landlady. Jim thought hard of his language tapes and tried again.
She smiled. “My sister, his mother, needs
him. His little sister, my niece, has arrived.”
“Ah, family run
business?” Jim said
sarcastically, the sarcasm was lost on the older woman. It had been
significantly easier to talk to the Head of the City Guard, in a melange of Terran Standard and Casta, than Rafe’s aunt.
“My room?” He could dump his bags and get into the
city. Without Rafe helping him it would be a little
difficult, but he would find his way.
He only devoted on small part of his
attention on the woman as she showed him a well appointed room dominated by a
bed big enough for a family of four. Jim dumped his single carry-on on the
floor and made an about face. There were valuable items in the bag, but nothing
of real significance. The woman was welcome to search his clean underwear,
reader and information cubes -- he doubted that she would get anything out of
the experience.
“What’s the rate?” His question was met by
blank incomprehension. “Money for the room?” Jim
tried.
“City guard pay one tenday.”
She smiled. “After that you pay me.”
“Whatever.” He would need his credits to
book passage on the ship that Alaric was convinced would arrive.
“If Rafe comes
back, tell him I’ve gone in to the city.”
“Like that.” She gestured at his clothes.
“They are perfectly functional.”
Auntie Rafe
shrugged dramatically and said something that Jim did not catch. Ignoring the
woman, he pulled out his data pad and called up the Terran
local guide to the city of
He had credits, but given the current state
of the Federation, he wanted to keep all his money plus he doubted that the
inhabitants would put much store on credits. One piece of valuable information
that Simon Banks had deemed to tell him was that the people of Darkover were metal poor and valued copper over gold. He
had had crafted a small horde of tiny ingots of copper with a selection of
other metals including silver and platinum. He just needed to find the criminal
sector -- funnily enough it wasn’t painted in bright colours on his map.
“Dom Ellison?”
Jim stopped and looked at the woman. She
pointed to his data pad and shook her head.
“Feck.” Remembering some fairly stringent in the
local laws about the importation of restricted technology he looked at a
valuable piece of equipment. “Citizen Alaric, the vai
dom, didn’t take it off
me. It’s allowed.” He still placed the equipment in its assigned pocket in his
vest.
The wind bit his skin and it seemed as if
his uniform offered no protection from the elements. The Bloody Sun was setting
and the temperature seemed to be dropping exponentially. His last post had been
the desert world of Kaakis.
This was going to be a long search.
~Cottman IV~
Jim cradled a ceramic mug between his
chilled hands trying to will some feeling back into his fingertips. The hot
chocolate-like drink had a serious caffeine kick and it was welcome. Hard ice
shimmered on the cobbles, threatening to catch the unwary. Hoarfrost
crystallised on his breath. The market place which he was observing was
bustling with activity despite the late hour and the iciness. Jim got the
impression that there was some kind of local festival going on, relating to the
conjunction of four moons in the sky. Banks’ language tapes were proving to be
a pile of excrement.
A young woman, practically bare chested despite the temperature, oozed up to him and he didn’t
need any phrase book to understand the message in her eyes. Jim shook his head.
His old partner Buck would have been after her like a tick on a warm body.
Sighing, she moved on. Jim grimaced, he didn’t have
time to set up contacts if he was going to get that last ship. He shook his
head. Like it really mattered, where was he going to go?
Whatever. Get Trilys.
Banks had painted a picture of a man who
was beyond dangerous -- a man without ethics and without morals. A man who got off on pain. But a man who
had no reason to be on Darkover. Jim moved
back into the shadows of the booth. Still sipping the drink, he surreptitiously
pulled out his data pad and called up his orders again, looking for any other
clues. The instructions were clear: find and detain Adam Trilys.
After that the orders were vague: return
to Central if possible, otherwise deal with Trilys
and assess options at that point. He pulled up Trilys’
mortality specs. The bastard had a strange penchant for accepting contracts on
young people and the younger the better. Kid killer.
That was reason enough to take him down.
The market square sat on the border of the
trade city that was frequented by Terrans and the
slum city which housed many of the people who serviced the spaceport. Slum was
something of a misnomer. Jim had seen much more dilapidated shanty towns, which
typically grew up around Federation installations, on other planets. But
compared to the other districts he had seen in the city it contained a
dissolute set of buildings with peeling paint alongside narrow alleys. Jim
pushed away from the wall and slipped between the people wending and weaving
their way towards putting away a serious amount of the locally brewed alcohol.
It seemed even colder in the narrow alleys.
Jim kept alert as he passed raggedly dressed people making their way to the
market square. He spotted a few likely pickpockets in the steady stream of
people walking in the opposite direction. The skin on the back of his neck
crawled and Jim knew that he was being watched. He would have been surprised if
he hadn’t been under surveillance. Jim was looking for someone in particular --
someone would be observing and assessing the crowd. Someone
who would likely have a minion at his side. A
controller or boss type character.
Stopping, he turned on his heel hoping to
catch his watcher, but it was like spotting a grain of rice in a bowl of chung yong
fat. Soon some vagrant would offer his services. Jim continued prowling. The
watcher was good, almost ephemeral. Jim mentally noted that two youngish,
scraggly boys were dogging him, waiting for him to beckon them over.
The screech took him by surprise, despite
the fact that he had taken his sense-depressing hypnodryol
before starting his search. The yell pieced his bones. Jim reached for his
blaster, forgetting for a moment that it had been confiscated. He came up with
his foot long k-bar knife. He fixed in on the yell. His irises dilated, turning
night into day, as sight ranged forth guided by hearing. The warren of alleys
and narrow streets seemed to engulf him. The buildings threatened to reach down
and gobble him up. Noises ricocheted around. The sensory confusion was familiar
and unwelcome. Jim slammed his fist against the corner of a low brick wall,
breaking skin. Pain honed his senses.
A small figure was back up against a wall,
his hands outstretched. Jim smelled blood. Three behemoths ringed him. One
laughed.
Jim moved.
“Give me some, you little catamite.” The
hand that reached out to entangle the kid’s clothes was dirty and grimy. There
was an acrid, loathsome scent of arousal on the air. Jim’s senses were suddenly
honed as thought he had never taken a single dose of hypnodryol
in his life.
“You’re mistaken.” The voice was deeper,
not high like a child.
Jim hit the first rapist with the pommel of
his knife, cracking his temple and sending him into unconsciousness. The second
man’s eyes widened with surprise. Jim didn’t give him time to take a breath,
smacking him into next week. The third man, the man holding the boy, had the
most warning. Jim saw him yank the boy against his chest, holding his head as
if he was going to break his neck. Jim punched him straight in his nose,
shattering the man’s nasal septum and driving it up into his brain. Hideously
wounded, the attacker’s eyes rolled back in his head as his higher brain
functions ceased. He collapsed releasing the boy. Jim yanked the kid out of
harm’s reach, setting him behind him as the rapist died on the gritty
street.
“Zandru’s Forge,”
the kid swore and Jim heard and smelled vomit splattering.
“What’s going on here?” Jim spun to face a
short, swarthy man picking his way up the alley. The man saw the bodies,
blanched and turned and ran.
A small crowd had collected at the end of
the alley, watching silently.
“Get the City Guard,” Jim ordered, but they
all simply scattered.
The kid retched again and Jim smelled blood
anew.
“Come on, Kid -- let’s get out of here.” He
caught the figure by the arm and pulled him along. “I need to find the guard.”
“You got a whistle?” the kid asked in that
surprisingly deep voice.
“Yeah.” He had stuff in his copious vest pockets
that he had forgotten ever existed.
“Three blows and pause and then three
blows. The guard will come.”
Jim got them out of the noisome alley. He
propped the kid against a wall and found his plastic whistle. Dialling down his
hearing, he blew three sharp notes and then three more.
“You hurt bad,
Kid?” He kept a hold of the victim, but continued to scan the street warily.
“No. It’s just bleeding a bit.”
The kid didn’t seem too distressed. Heavy
boots clattered somewhere ahead of them. Jim blew three more notes and waited
for the City Guard. Three blue clad guards, short swords drawn, jogged
forwards.
“What’s happening here?” the oldest
demanded.
“Muggers,” Jim said in pure Terran Standard. “Maybe more.” His
fingers released their death grip on the kid’s bicep, but they didn’t let go.
He felt warm sticky blood trickling over his fingers. Jim focused on the kid,
taking in the big green-blue eyes peeking out from under a large wool cap.
Neo-sentinel senses raked over the scrawny body. The fabric over his left
breast over to his shoulder was rent, and through the gape Jim could see parted
flesh and welling blood. His sleeve was saturated.
“Sit,” Jim directed, and pulled the kid
down to sit on the grimy cobbles. He plucked off the wool hat, freeing a
cascade of coppery red curls and pressed it against to wound. “What kind of
medical facilities do you have on this planet?”
“Vai dom, what happened here?”
Jim turned to answer and felt the sharp
edge of a blade against the delicate skin of his throat. The stocky, barrel chested guard was speaking to the kid.
“MacClean
thinking that I was someone else dragged me into the alley.” The kid jerked a
thumb shakily over his uninjured shoulder.
“Who hurt you, via dom?”
The k-bar knife was plucked from Jim’s fingers.
“MacClean was
intent on taking everything including my clothes.” The kid shuddered, his skin
waxen in the dark red light of late evening.
With a jerk of his head, the guard directed
his two compatriots up the alley. “Who are you?” he asked Ellison.
“Captain James Ellison, your superior
Alaric Lanart-Alar knows who I am: Federation Ranger
in pursuit of a criminal.”
“I will confirm that, of course.” The
officer spoke to the curly headed kid, “Vai
dom, I will call a
carriage to convey you to the castle.”
“Isn’t there anywhere closer?” Jim asked.
He didn’t like the grey sheen to the kid’s skin and the beads of perspiration
on his top lip. The kid was going into shock.
“The leroni will
help him there.”
“It will take too long.” Jim weighed his
options. Hauling the kid over his shoulder would put undue pressure on the
wound.
“The City Guards have a doctor,” the kid
whispered.
The kid was a light weight. Jim scooped him
up, arms under his knees and shoulders. “There has to be a closer medic.”
“My name’s not ‘kid’ it’s Blair.”
~Cottman IV~
~Cottman IV~
Jim stood behind the kid as a harridan
carefully peeled back Blair’s leather jerkin and split the shirt beneath rather
than manipulate the shoulder. The knife cut spanned from a thumb width below
the join of his collar bones, across the top of his left breast and bit deeply
into the ball of his shoulder joint. Jim could see fine golden hair, epidermis,
a mere millimetre of fat then muscle and severed blood vessels.
“Vai dom, it will be easier to heal
if the flesh is joined.”
The kid nodded and bit his full bottom lip
as the woman rifled in a knapsack for a needle and thread.
“Use this.” Jim offered his sterile medical
kit.
“I have some,” the woman snapped, and
pulled out a waxed envelope and a curved needle.
“This is sterile.”
“This is clean.”
“It’s not sterile, though. Clean doesn’t
cut it.”
“This is as clean as clean can be.” She
held the needle before his eyes and it began to glow a dull red. Jim could feel
the heat emanating and then like a switch being thrown it cooled.
“How?” There were no wires, no heating unit --
how had that happened?
“Laran,” the kid
supplied.
“Laran?” Jim asked, but the woman was wiping the
wound with a sopping rag. Blair hissed, going rigid.
“Relax, chiyu,
you know how.”
Laran? He slipped back, turning away slightly he
pulled out his data pad accessed the dictionary. Laran,
it supplied was psychic phenomenon: telepathy, telekinesis, psychokinesis,
pyrokinesis and their ilk. Jim stared at the woman. His senses were more
apt to go pear shaped since Buck had died but he had taken his hypnodryol today so his senses were under control. He
hadn’t hallucinated -- that needle had radiated heat. A hiss broke his
meandering. The kid sagged on the chair as the needle bit. Jim watched the deft
operation. He could appreciate excellent work since he wasn’t as skilled. He
lost himself in the dip and pull, learning a new way to tie off the ends of a
stitch without pinching the skin. His focus was disturbed when she covered the
wound with a bandage.
“There you are, chiyu,
you can heal now.” She gently patted his shoulder.
“Thank you, little
mother.”
Alaric stepped out of the shadows of the
infirmary. “Can you talk now, Blair? What were you doing in the quarter?”
“Kinsman.” He started to shrug and stopped. “I was
fulfilling my duties. I was cold, I wore a hat -- I forgot to take it off. It
happened too fast.”
“You should have spent time in the cadets;
then you would have been able to defend yourself.”
“I… maybe. I didn’t want to kill them.” He hung his
head. Alaric carefully rested a hand on the top of Blair’s copper curls.
“Next time, do not wear your hat and take a
guard!”
Blair’s head shot up. “That defeats the objective.
How can I get people to trust me if I have a guard with me? If I wear no hat
the donas of the Comyn
will protect me.”
“You were very lucky tonight.”
“I know--” Blair craned his head over his
shoulder, “--without the help of this Terranan, I
might be dead or worse.”
Jim nodded once. “Yup.”
“I am in your debt…”
“Ellison, Jim Ellison.”
“Ellison, Jim Ellison, I am in your….”
“No, just Jim Ellison,” Jim said and then
saw the impish grin. The kid was teasing him. He must have seen the old vid dramas. “And you are?”
“Blair Ridenow.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“And I am very pleased to meet you. You did
not have to help me.”
Jim Ellison did not let little kids be
raped and murdered. He shrugged.
“I
am a man, I am over fifteen. I have trained at Arilinn
since I was eleven. I am an accomplished Laranzu,” Blair said indignantly. “Terranan,” it
was almost an insult.
Jim resisted the temptation to ruffle his
corkscrew curls. He was almost thirty; he was twice the age of this brat.
The kid’s eyes widened. “Well, Grandfather
Ellison, I am in your debt. If you have any problems, you may call on the House
of Ridenow or myself while I
fulfil my term as assistant to the city’s leroni within Thendara.”
Cheeky little snip. But it occurred to him
that the brat spoke almost perfect standard and he was living in the city.
“Hey, you want a job as a guide?” Jim
laughed inwardly at his wording. “I can pay.”
Alaric bristled, literally bristled. Jim
saw his follicles quiver. His body temperature rose incrementally with anger.
The kid shot a dark look at his fellow red
head. Belatedly, Jim realised that they were probably related. Alaric coughed.
“A ‘job’?” Blair said.
“Yeah, I’m new. You seem familiar with the
darker side of the city. I need someone to show me around.”
“I have my duties, but not all the day. I
can help you if that will assuage my debt.”
“Assuage away, Kid.”
“My name is Blair.”
“I just want someone to show me around.
Tomorrow,” Jim clarified, not forgetting that the kid had a nasty slash across
his chest. “During the day, not at night. Just for a couple of hours.” He just wanted to get a feel
for the city. If the kid was working in the dark quarter, he could help him
find a sneak to field him information.
“I assigned Rafe
to you,” Alaric interrupted.
“Yeah, his sister arrived.”
“The babe wasn’t due until the equinox.”
“Where are you staying?” Blair interrupted
the side track.
“Rafe’s Aunt’s
boarding house.”
“I know it,” Blair said shortly. “I will
find you after you have had your Terranan breakfast. Mestra Mackenzie is a good cook.”
~Cottman IV~
Jim was enjoying a sense enticing
breakfast. After the Big Ship’s nutrient broth and ranger MREs
a true cooked breakfast was a thing of beauty.
If he was capable he would have cried.
The butter melted into the warm homemade
bread and it was divine.
“I’ve never known of anyone who could
worship at the altar of bread.” Blair slipped on the seat beside him and
snagged a roll.
“The poorest Darkovan
is a wealthy as a prince in the eyes of an average Terran.”
“Really?” Blair smeared a thick glob of creamy
butter on his bread. “But you seem so proud of the Terranan
ways.”
Jim chewed on a piece of crispy bacon
before answering. Lovely salty happiness.
“Terra is only one planet in the
Federation,” he corrected. “There is a Federation of thousands of planets. The
tendency to standardise is driven by political correctness, to not to offend,
to find a common denominator in food and clothing and other things.”
“I don’t understand.”