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Updated: June 14, 2025
Apparently it was good style in Ch'kara, though, since Hovan's fit the same way. Tarlac's gun wasn't there, probably in storage with his uniform; instead, he'd been given a knife very similar to the one he'd used in the challenge match aboard the Hermnaen. "I gather you borrowed these from a youngling?" "Yes. And Sandre them tailored, you to fit. Now come.
Arjen closed his eyes with a smile, anticipating the reunion with his clanmates, especially his two sons. Lazno, the elder, was due a leave, and Reja said Mahas was starting to talk. It would be good to see them all again, and Homeworld's still-peaceful countryside. There was the bed of star-shaped hermnaen flowers that gave his ship its name, in the clanhome's garden...
Still reluctant to begin the trickery that was part of this operation, Arjen spoke anyway. "Release signal transmitter." "Aye, Fleet-Captain." Battle discipline was strict, if fair; not even an action as apparently senseless as releasing a beacon in the center of a combat-ready fleet was questioned. Then the Hermnaen took its own position in the sphere and Arjen ordered the beacon activated.
The remains of those who'd run into Traiti suicide commandos were even more eloquent. But these adolescent females offering glasses to the five from the Hermnaen weren't fighters. They were no taller than Tarlac, and he had adapted enough, thanks to the shipboard artwork, to think of them as attractive young ladies.
Gardens and parkland surrounded it for ten kilometers, with administrative and residential areas beyond that, also carefully landscaped. Once those details became visible, it was only moments until the Hermnaen set down on the Palace's landing field, which was big enough to serve a system capital and as well fortified as a planetary defense base.
The man was a guest on this ship, and he was now of Ch'kara but he was still human, and Hovan was well aware that there were those aboard the Hermnaen who thought honor was no more binding toward humans that it was toward vermin. Steve had the freedom of the ship, and while Hovan was sure nobody would take any overt action, he was equally sure "accidents" could be easily arranged.
Even the Emperor's private landing pad near the Palace wall could be covered by a heavy disruptor cannon. The Hermnaen, here, was as vulnerable as the Lindner had been when she was englobed by Arjen's fleet. As he had arranged, Tarlac met the other three at the main entry ramp. The coming encounters wouldn't be easy for them; they simply had no experience in coping with other cultures.
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. The Hermnaen was alone when it neared Homeworld's defense perimeter.
By extension, ships delivering wounded or picking up dead were also immune, a principle that neither side had violated . . . yet. Arjen and his reinforced fleet were about to violate that unwritten taboo. The Fleet-Captain looked around his flagship's control central, conscious that nobody else aboard the Hermnaen knew of the planned deceit.
Dammit, he was supposed to be able to adapt to just about any circumstances. So why shouldn't he accept this? Unless she was right, and something in Terran culture had warped him. Or maybe not warped him, but been mistaken about him. He'd lost his reserve far too easily in the short time he'd spent aboard the Hermnaen, and here in-clan, for real detachment to have been an integral part of him.
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