Chapter 2
He awakened on a small bed, stripped of his clothing, covered with a heavy quilt that smelled of a sweet, subtle vanilla musk. The room was circular with a dome-shaped ceiling, a small fire in the central stone hearth providing the only source of light. A few straight-backed chairs and dressers lined the walls. The man who called himself Ke'air Masahje and a young woman whispered across a table on the opposite side of the room. They hurried to his bedside the microt he stirred.
She placed her hands against his shoulders. "You rest now."
Crais brushed her aside with a sweep of his arm and sat upright. "Where are my clothes?"
Ke'air Masahje's hand came down in the middle of Crais' chest and shoved him back onto the bed. "If you touch my sister like that again, I will see to it that you take another little nap. Do you understand me, Bialar Crais?"
"Ke'air." her voice warned.
"You got no manners, my friend."
Crais remained on his back, his dark eyes challenging the man whose hand still pinned him firmly to the bed. "And I told you before, I am not your brother *nor* your friend. Now take your hand off me."
"Ke'air, let him up." She pulled his arm away and positioned herself between the two men. "Your clothes were wet and dirty when my brother brought you in. I laundered them, but they're not dry yet."
"I had to drag your sorry eema a long way through the mud," Ke'air spat from over her shoulder. "I should have left you to the Draeg, for all the thanks I get."
"I do not recall asking for your assistance."
"Maybe next time I don't give it. I'll take you back tomorrow just to be rid of you. Until then, you shut your trat hole and-"
"Ke'air, that is enough!" Despite his protests, she shoved him step at a time to the opposite side of the room. After a brief, one-sided conversation the brother threw up his arms and dropped into a chair. She warned him to stay put with a look that could melt metal and returned to Crais' bedside.
"I am Toma Masahje, Ke'air's sister."
"How very unfortunate for you," he grunted in response.
"Maybe Ke'air didn't have time to explain things so good, so you listen to me now."
"Have I a choice?" Crais snorted.
Without warning and with unexpected speed she grabbed a piece of loose flesh on the inside of his bicep and gave it a vicious twist. He let out a shout and jerked his arm away, tugging the quilt up across his chest.
"That hurts, don't it?" Ke'air called from across the room.
Toma did not appear intimidated by the harsh look he gave her; in fact, she returned it with equal aplomb. He noticed a strong resemblance between the two, the same high cheekbones with mahogany-colored, almond-shaped eyes that bordered on, yet were not truly exotic. A full head of sleek, black hair fell loosely around her waist. He guessed they were both no more than thirty cycles and close in age.
"Are you ready to listen now?" she asked.
"Get on with it," Crais grunted.
"The people of Tah have been under siege for over a cycle now. Each day more of us die, and each day we have less to fight back with. But we continue to live as we have always lived. We take care of our own and we help others when we can. The Draeg will never take that from us."
Crais settled back onto his elbows without comment.
Toma leaned a bit closer to speak, her eyes fixed on his. The light vanilla fragrance that permeated the quilt grew stronger with her presence. "Ke'air thought only to save you when it did not appear that you understood the danger of your situation. Yet, if it is your wish to die attempting to flee the Draeg, rather than wait for them to take your life here on the surface, that is your right. We will take you back to your ship and give whatever assistance we can."
While she spoke her brother approached quietly from across the room and settled cross-legged on the floor a few hentas from the bed.
"Why are these Draeg so intent on killing your people?" he asked.
"The Draeg are arthropod," Ke'air said. "They multiply like suitors for a rich trelk, but they are not of hardy stock like the Tah. Every fifty or sixty cycles a virus comes and kills most of them. Then they have to start all over again."
"Their rapid breeding was necessary to make sure their species survived," Toma explained.
Crais nodded as Ke'air slid closer. "But they finally figured out how to prevent these epidemics. It's been nearly a hundred cycles since the last big plague on Draegen and now they are practically crawling over each other there."
Crais rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "And you were worried that if you let them migrate to Tah they would eventually overrun this planet as well?"
Ke'air was crouched alongside the bed now, his face red and angry. Toma rested a hand on his shoulder, but let him speak. "They gave us an ultimatum. We were to remove all of our people from the green havens and not resist colonization, or they would wage war upon us."
"And naturally the Tah resisted," Crais replied with an understanding nod.
"No!" Toma cried out. "We did not."
"They attacked without waiting for our response," Ke'air snarled. "They killed our leaders, destroyed most of our factories and our cities in the first strike. They gave us no chance to offer our help."
"It was never the Draegs' intent to share this planet," Toma added coldly.
Crais tilted his head and gave Ke'air a questioning look. "The Draegen completely destroyed your industrial capabilities three cycles ago?"
"What you are really asking is, 'why aren't we already dead' . . . yes?"
"Even my limited experience with the Draegen compels me to believe that they could end this conflict at any time. It would appear they control the airspace."
Before Ke'air could answer, Toma patted her brother's shoulder. With only a determined look and a pointed finger, she directed him to take a seat. He frowned, but complied, which Crais found somewhat amusing, given he was a head taller and twice her weight.
"Our centers of learning, medicine and manufacture were all located in the stilted cities," she said. "Although their benefits were given freely to all, many of the Tah with fewer resources still lived in the green havens."
"Like this poor boy," Ke'air said, a grin splitting his face, arms extended wide.
"Why don't they finish you?" Crais asked.
"The green haven are the best habitat for the Draeg, which is why they don't want them destroyed," he answered. "There are tens of thousands of these places; we occupy a thousand or less now. Yet, the Draeg colonists refuse to come until the Tah are completely eliminated. They know we are here, but they do not know where." He motioned toward the fireplace with his arm. "We do not use artificial power sources that they can track. Because of the natural hot springs and gases in the havens, small fires don't give us away. Our flights are short and low during the daylight hours to avoid detection. We limit our transmissions."
"We are in one of these green havens now?" the Sebacean asked.
Brother and sister both nodded. "Their ground forces come out at night," Ke'air continued. "They overrun twenty or more havens every night. Sometimes the Tah escape to the swamps, if not, they are killed. It is only a matter of time. Judging by their present location, we have another two monens, maybe three."
Crais sat up and swung his feet to the floor, scowling as he tugged the heavy bedcover around his waist. Noticing his discomfort, Ke'air jumped up and retrieved a broadcloth sack from across the room. After returning to his position on the floor, he sat and rummaged through the contents until he selected a well-worn pair of loose fitting trousers, which he tossed to Crais.
"Here . . . don't bother being shy. My sister already checked you out."
At this point, modesty was the last thing on his mind. Crais tossed back the cover and stepped into the pants. He glanced around the room for the rest of his clothing. Not seeing them, he turned toward Toma, who was red- faced and angrily mouthing something to her brother.
"I will be returning to my ship now. Please accept my apologies for my earlier actions. I appreciate your and your brother's efforts on my behalf. Now, if you could retrieve my clothing."
Ke'air wagged his head in amusement, looking to Toma. "See? What did I tell you? It's like trying to tell a baby not to dirty its britches. You might as well save your breath."
Toma rolled her eyes, each man assuming it was at the other. She walked to the wall and slid back a door panel to reveal the pitch-black exterior. "It won't be daylight for another three arns, Bialar Crais. My brother is not leaving this hut until morning, and without him you will have difficulty in finding your ship. However, if it is your wish to leave, I will get your clothing."
He lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the bed and stared vacantly into the fire.
# # #
The green haven they called Anjeluh stretched roughly two metra in diameter, with a thick perimeter of evergreen trees surrounding the village of nearly five hundred people. Overhead, slender limbs grew crisscrossed into a symmetrical dome that sheltered the inhabitants from rain and wind, but allowed muted patches of sunlight to filter through. The wood and cloth structures inside varied in size, yet each mimicked the annular domed shape of the haven. Most were constructed of wood, although several of the largest had only wooden frames covered in bright, multi-colored cloth, reminiscent of the festival tents of Amma'noix.
Crais knew Ke'air Masahje was toying with him and enjoying every microt of it. He also knew he would have to play along if he wanted to learn the transport pod's location. Despite the seriousness of the Tah's situation, the atmosphere inside the haven was relaxed, the people curious, friendly. No whispers. No furtive glances. Along the way a group of children fell in step behind them, drawing even more attention to the tall, boisterous Tah and the dark stranger who accompanied him. As they neared the largest dome in the center of Anjeluh, Ke'air swung around, arms widespread and unleashed a ferocious roar. He dropped to his knees, swarmed by laughing, squealing youngsters. Crais had begun to back away when a hand reached out and seized his pant leg.
"Get down here," Ke'air said, motioning with his head. "They want to examine that growth on your face."
"I believe our time would be better spent-"
The next tug on his trousers nearly pulled the Sebacean over. "Your time will be spent searching for that piece of wreckage that you call a ship if you don't get down here."
He knocked Ke'air's hand aside and crouched amid the children. Cautiously, yet purposefully, small hands began to examine the goatee . . . touching, rubbing, and occasionally tugging, amid giggles and whispers. His clenched jaw eventually gave way to an unwilling smile that encouraged them further. He noticed what he thought might be several sets of twins in the young faces that surrounded him.
When every child had taken a turn Ke'air rose and waved his hand to shoo them away. Crais stood, adjusted his jacket and cleared his throat. "I trust with that out of the way, you can now direct me to my ship."
Masahje tweaked his brow and grinned.
A hand-lettered sign identified the largest tent as the Domicile. Inside, dozens of people crowded the length of a u-shaped wooden bar, surrounded by rows of long, narrow tables, most of them empty. Masahje stopped short of the doorway and waved at one of the patrons. A woman at the bar promptly signaled back and headed toward him, followed by a second woman and a boy. All three had their heads shaved identically to Masahje with a single hank of hair hanging long and loose in the back. The two women looked remarkably similar; pale complexions with wavy silver hair and ice-blue eyes. The boy was darker skinned with earthen-colored hair.
The woman greeted Masahje with a full, wet kiss on the lips, coiling one arm around his neck, the other slapping his belly with a loud smack. He curled his muscular arms around her waist and with an exaggerated grunt, lifted her feet off the ground.
"So where were you last night?" she asked, shifting her eyes to Crais. "Were you afraid to leave Toma alone with this one? Or worried for him?"
The boy, who was no more than fourteen or fifteen cycles, stepped forward and chucked Crais on the shoulder. "I saw you crash, my brother. I thought for sure when the power cut out that you'd dip the nose and roll it. Didn't figure there'd be enough left for parts. You must be one hez of a great pilot."
"My name is Bialar Crais," he replied evenly. "And if I was that great of a pilot I never would have been shot down in the first place."
They all laughed, except for Crais, who after taking another solid shot on the arm from the boy was growing noticeably perturbed. Ke'air buried a finger in the boy's chest and gave him a slight shove backward. "This is Nimm, also a great pilot. And this is my favorite bounce, Emone, and her birth partner, Vyett."
"Twins?" asked Crais. Their blank expression prompted him to explain. "A multiple birth by a Sebacean mother is referred to as twins."
Ke'air nodded. "We call that a birth partner, or birth pair, like Toma and me. Every other child born has a partner."
"I am a midborn," Nimm explained with a shrug. "No partner."
Vyett circled Crais with a coquettish grin, pausing to study him from the side, her tongue making a slow, suggestive pass along her full lower lip. "What do you call this, Bialar?" she asked, tracing the line of his goatee with the back of a finger.
Ke'air gripped the waistband of Vyett's trousers and pulled her off him. "Don't go getting your hopes up for a bounce with this one, girl. He's on his way back to his ship and will likely be shot down again before nightfall."
"I hope I do not miss that," Nimm said with complete sincerity.
Emone ran her hand up Ke'air's chest and then trailed in lightly down along his arm. "Will you be back to see me later, then?"
"I shouldn't be long. Bialar Crais here is in a hurry to get himself killed." He fished around in one of his pants pockets and then the other until he pulled out a triangular shaped coin, which he flipped to Nimm. "Here. Why don't you go buy our friend a bottle of slail for a send off. It's the least we can do."
Vyett continued to eye the Sebacean like a hungry Hynerian. "It's a shame you won't decide to stay."
The young man returned from the bar and handed Crais a large glass jug of frothy, blue liquid. "We would help you also," Nimm told him, "but reconnaissance from the Rikkeesee haven spotted a downed frigate within our sector. The front cabin is completely blown away and the fuselage on its side, but it's intact.
Ke'air appeared pleased by the news. "Maybe we get lucky. I wish I was going with you, my comrades."
"Please, do not let me-"
"But I've got to get our friend here on his way. Are you taking the Hawk?"
Emone nodded. "We make only one trip that way, in case the Draeg got it wired. If there's ammo, we grab it and go."
Crais accompanied them through the village toward an odd assortment of ships concealed along the haven's edge, most of which looked as though they had seen better days. By the gun mounts, he counted three military vessels; the remaining were civilian transports, ranging from single occupant to commercial capacity. The ship referred to as the Hawk was the largest of the military vessels, slightly smaller than a marauder with a three or four crew capacity. The two they referred to as Astras were similar to a Prowler in size and likely single pilot fighters. Crais gathered from their conversation that they had little ammunition and scavenged what they could from derelict craft that had been damaged and deserted in the Dragen's initial attack.
Leaving Emone, Vyett and Nimm behind at the Hawk, Ke'air proceeded to one of the several surface craft, choosing a small, flat-bottomed, open-air two- seater called an aquaflyer. Together, he and Crais pulled aside a false panel of brush and dragged the aquaflyer outside the haven and into the shallow surrounding water.
Masahje handed Crais a pair of goggles and donned a pair himself before he cracked the throttle open. The nose of the flyer shot up at a forty-five degree angle until the craft picked up speed and leveled out, skimming atop the water at a speed of 60 to 70 meters per arn. After so many monen of confinement and solitude in the transport, Crais savored the wind and spray across his face. He had forgotten the warmth of a natural sun and how quickly the black landscape of space could turn azure. A half an arn passed before he saw the transport pod ahead in the distance, fortunately still in one piece.
Masahje banked the flyer and slid sideways into a stand of tall grass. He stepped down into the water and pushed the flyer farther into thick, gnarled vegetation. "We'll walk the rest of the way."
Crais stood on the edge of the flyer, staring into the shallow water, hesitant.
"Afraid to get your feet wet? Grab your slail and let's go."
"What about the . . . kree-kree?" Crais asked.
Ke'air threw his head back and unleashed a hearty laugh. Planting both hands against the rear passenger panel of the flyer, he plunged the craft downward in a sudden sharp motion that sent the Sebacean flying off the running board and into the water with a tumultuous splash. Crais slowly made his way to his feet and turned, his arms bowed at his sides, dripping wet, his eyes, black and narrow.
"No such thing as kree-kree, my friend. Just something we tell children to keep them out of . . . "
Crais launched himself and caught the Tah squarely in the stomach with his right shoulder and sent them both reeling into the knee-deep water.
"Are you crazy? What the hez-"
Crais thrust the larger man's head beneath the water and held it there for a microt before he released him. He quickly retrieved his weapon from the flyer and as he backed away, Ke'air Masahje sat up, spitting, coughing and shaking his head. After they exchanged looks to affirm their mutual disgust, confidant that Masahje was not going to retaliate, Crais turned and waded toward the transport. This fool has wasted enough of his time. The moment repairs on the pod were completed he would lift off for Tarn. If the Draegens shot him down again, so be it; it was preferable over waiting with the Tah to die like bezore.
The transport hatch had been left open and the boarding ramp down, giving him further cause to curse Ke'air Masahje. He walked purposefully up the ramp, pulled his pulse pistol and made a sweep of the interior of the pod from the hatchway. Satisfied his ship had not been invaded by anything larger than several horned lizards attached to the hull at varying heights, he holstered the pistol and turned his attention to the damaged conduit.
He would be forced to repair and test the fuel line without bringing the power back online. If the Draegen's tracking systems were as sophisticated as Masahje indicated, and he believed they were, he could not risk revealing his position prior to take off. He would have one shot, and one shot only, at getting off this planet, a daunting task made more so without weapons, a defense shield, or reconnaissance.
In order to repair the main cesium feed, he would have to scavenge the auxiliary line. He could not risk bypassing the damaged link, or replacing it with other than the exact same part. At times like this, he sorely missed the assistance Talyn provided when diagnosing and effecting repairs.
"Yes . . . you and I would have made short work of these Draegen," Crais muttered from beneath the access panel.
"Who you talking to?"
Crais sprang to his feet at the sound of Ke'air Masahje's voice from the hatchway, pulse rifle slung over his shoulder, the bottle of slail in his hand. The Sebacean pointed an adamant finger out the hatch aimed toward the aqua flyer. "You are *not* welcome here. Now leave immediately."
Masahje dismissed Crais with a wave of his hand and walked past him to the flight control panel. He banged the bottle down and then eased into the pilot's seat with a contented groan. "Toma will have my hide if I don't help you."
"You may want to consider what *I* might do if you stay."
The other man shrugged. He swiveled round in the seat to face him and leaned back. "I don't know. Judging by what you showed me outside, I think I'm better off fighting against you than my sister."
The easiest solution would have been to shoot him. The idea had crossed his mind. Captain Bialar Crais, Peacekeeper, would have done so without a second thought, and that was perhaps what stopped him. He decided a change of tactics was called for. "There is nothing you can do in here. If you wish to be of assistance, you can stand guard outside and alert me if any Draegens approach."
Masahje squinted and puckered his lips, thinking. "Nah . . . by the time I see them, they see us, and by then we're already dead men. I can be of more help to you inside."
After a silence, Crais cleared his throat and with a quaint dip of his head stated evenly, "Yes, of course you can. However, the space in which I must affect the repairs is quite limited. I think it best that you remain seated here until I summon you for assistance."
Masahje cocked his thumb and aimed his index finger at Crais with a smirk. "You got it, my brother."
They exchanged smug, tight-lipped grins, both of which vanished the instant Crais turned his back and started toward the rear treblin access panel. He knelt and massaged his chin, studying the line he had clamped and started to remove following the crash. Although the crushed section measured only a few denches, to replace the line without seams meant removing the entire auxiliary line intact. There was always risk when dealing with cesium and patches, yet replacing the section from junction to junction would take time, possibly days instead of arns. He felt certain a patch would hold until he reached Tarn.
"You're not thinking to just scab a piece in there, are you?" Ke'air Masahje's chin jutted over Crais' right shoulder as the taller man crouched peering intently into the access panel. "Boy oh boy, the first time you give it the juice and that seam blows you'll be wishing you done it right. Draeg won't have to bother blasting your eema out of the sky. You'll go off like a boy on his first date with a trelk."
He closed his eyes for a microt and when he turned to reply, Masahje had wandered to the rear of the transport, where he was crouched to inspect the cesium pressure panel. "How much would you have to replace to avoid the seam?"
"From the hatch to where you're standing," Crais replied gruffly, "but that would entail a great deal more time."
"No problem. I'll help you."
That was exactly what he was afraid of.
# # #
With a second pair of hands at his disposal, Crais was able to thread the conduit through a narrow gap in the bulkhead, requiring that he make only a small breach in both the transport's underbelly and treblin side. It took longer than the patch, but now there was no question, it would not rupture.
Throughout the day, Masahje shared his knowledge of Draegen battle tactics, along with several hundred other subjects. It felt almost like having Talyn inside his head again, a constant, disjointed, forced sharing of information. As he had learned to do with the young Leviathan, Crais focused on the job at hand, allowing the Tah's words to drone on in the background, heard but not truly discerned.
The final task of reconnecting and recalibrating the cesium feed took them longer than expected. After what seemed like arns, Masahje stood and stretched while Crais tightened the last fitting. The Tah retrieved his jacket from the pilot console and strapped on his pulse pistol. The microt the hatch popped open he fell silent, staring outside.
"What's the matter," Crais grumbled as he got to his feet and straightened his clothing. "Finally run out of meaningless things to talk about?"
"Frell me dead!" he cursed under his breath.
Crais rushed to the hatchway, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Ke'air Masahje, who had still not drawn his weapon, began to shout obscenities and hold his head in his hands, unusual behavior even for him. "Toma will have my mivonks for this." He pushed Crais back out of the way and slammed the hatch shut. "I should have watched the time more closely. This is my fault."
"If there is anything wrong, it is most certainly your fault. Now get out of my way and open that hatch."
Masahje stuck a hand in Crais' chest, his expression determined. "It is too close to dusk, Draeg might get a lock on the aquaflyer. It looks like we *both* get to spend the night here."
"Nonsense, it is still daylight." Crais strode to the view screen, peered outside and spun back, finger pointed at the large orange globe still visible above the horizon. "If you leave immediately you will be home well before dark."
"But not before dusk. That's when they come out . . . swarms of Draeg fighters. We call them Firebugs. If they detect motion and get a read on that aquaflyer and where it goes, every man, woman and child in Anjeluh will be dead before morning. I can't even risk a comm to let Toma know that I'm okay, not stationary like this."
# # #
An arn later the two men sat, sullen faced, on opposite sides of the faint, yellow aura of a single emergency lamp set to its lowest setting. Masahje muttered occasionally about the fact that his sister would be worried, while Crais brooded in silence. He knew he could not take off until morning, yet still did not appreciate having to further tolerate the other man's company.
"You want something to eat?" he finally asked.
"Well of course I do. Took you a long time to ask."
Crais disappeared into the small storage bay and returned with a handful of food cubes, several of which he offered to Masahje who, after accepting them, held one between his thumb and index finger, examining it with a frown. He looked at Crais and then back to the cube, his forehead lined. "*This* is what you offer me to eat?"
"Protein cubes. They can be stored for cycles and are completely nutritious."
He dropped the cube into the palm of his other hand and brought it up under his nose, with a loud sniff.
"They are to be eaten, not inhaled," Crais said cheekily.
"Is that so?" he replied with equal sarcasm. "I though maybe you expected me to use it to start a fire." He dropped the cube onto the deck with the others. "You got nothing else to offer me?"
"That is what I have existed on for the past five monen. If you don't like it-."
He reached for the cubes, but Masahje quickly retrieved them and bit one in half, chewing it endlessly. "These are very dry," he mumbled, not swallowing.
Exhaling briskly, Crais went to draw two cups of water. Prior to turning the spigot he caught sight of the flagon of slail still sitting on the control panel. Thinking that it might appease Masahje, he opted for the Tah's native beverage. He filled both cups, replaced the cork and sat back down, offering one cup of slail to Masahje, who after a moment of indecision, refused, shaking his head.
"What? This isn't good enough for you either? Crais raised his cup and sipped the blue liquid, which he found to be quite pleasant, a hint of sweetness and slightly pulpy with a warm, mellow aftertaste. He drank deeply the second time, offering a deep, hummed approval.
Masahje sat staring at his hands in his lap, chewing absently on his bottom lip. He glanced up a couple of times, half opened his mouth to speak, only to hang his head in silence at the last moment. This went on for some time, until he finally wiped his forehead on his sleeve and shrugged. "I am not allowed the pleasure of your company."
"If only that were true," Crais grunted.
"When I was a young man I used to spend much time in the Dom . . . the Domicile. I liked to drink, talk, have good time with my friends."
Crais drained his cup and clanked it on the deck. "Yes, well, that is hard to imagine."
"There was this one fellow, big mouth, always bragging himself up. It's no secret we don't like each other. First it was just talk, then one night we're both drinking heavy and he starts talking me down, loud so I can hear." He wet his lips and shifted on the floor, eyes reflecting the lamp. "I call him on it and the stupid fapoota gets in my face, but I don't back down."
Crais reached back for the slail, filled his cup and then set the jug down beside him.
"The server tells us to take our disagreement outside, so we do. Everybody follows us out to watch. We beat the hezmana out of each other, til neither one of us can barely stand up." He stared at Crais for a microt, nodding. "Then I killed him."
The Sebacean's posture straightened a bit, his interest finally captured.
"They took into account that we were young and had both been drinking when it happened, so the citizens' council gives me a light sentence."
"You shot him?" Crais asked.
Masahje bristled at the question. "No, I didn't shoot him. I hit him with my fist, but too hard. An accident. For my punishment, I'm not ever allowed in the Dom, and I can't share a drink with any other person. I'm a constituent, yet during the meetings and elections I must stand outside to speak and vote."
Crais chuckled, softly at first, and then louder. "Your *crime* consisted of hitting another man in a fistfight? Here . . . " he shoved the cup closer to the other man, sloshing some of its contents onto the deck, "drink it. I am a Sebacean. Your law does not apply to me or to my ship. No matter, I will be gone tomorrow."
In the time it took for Crais to drink his second cup of slail, the battle played across the other man's face until the war within him ended. He wet his lips and lifted the cup, at first savoring a small sip. With the term of his sentence temporarily commuted, he drained the remainder in one large, easy swallow and then slapped the cup down alongside Crais' empty. Not normally a heavy drinker, Crais could already feel the alcohol warming him, weighting his arms and legs with welcome relaxation. He poured two more drinks and handed one to Masahje.
His cup raised, Masahje stopped and looked curiously over it at Crais. "So, now you know all about me. Tell me, what is it that makes you run so far?"
"I don't recall saying that I was running from anything," Crais replied with a glint in his eye.
Masahje nodded and wisely let it go. "What do you think of my sister? She's a good looking woman, yes?"
"She is . . . adequate."
"Adequate? I would like to see what *your* bounce looks like. That's probably your girlfriend right there at the end of your arm." He snorted the word a second time, "Adequate."
Crais ignored him, not fully comprehending the conversation, and finished his drink. The Tah quickly downed his and without hesitation, poured another round. He raised his cup to propose a toast and waited for the Sebacean to do the same, which he did, halfheartedly.
"May the Draeg be looking the wrong way tomorrow." He clinked their cups together and then tossed the drink back in one swift gulp.
Crais followed suit. The temperature inside the transport had become uncomfortably warm. He unbuttoned his jacket and removed it, next loosening the collar of his shirt. After refilling the cups, he ate several food cubes, wishing for once he had something other than the tasteless, dehydrated wafers. The weight of the long day began to tug at his eyelids. He imagined he would sleep well, despite his boisterous guest.
It was the last thing he remembered.
He awakened on a small bed, stripped of his clothing, covered with a heavy quilt that smelled of a sweet, subtle vanilla musk. The room was circular with a dome-shaped ceiling, a small fire in the central stone hearth providing the only source of light. A few straight-backed chairs and dressers lined the walls. The man who called himself Ke'air Masahje and a young woman whispered across a table on the opposite side of the room. They hurried to his bedside the microt he stirred.
She placed her hands against his shoulders. "You rest now."
Crais brushed her aside with a sweep of his arm and sat upright. "Where are my clothes?"
Ke'air Masahje's hand came down in the middle of Crais' chest and shoved him back onto the bed. "If you touch my sister like that again, I will see to it that you take another little nap. Do you understand me, Bialar Crais?"
"Ke'air." her voice warned.
"You got no manners, my friend."
Crais remained on his back, his dark eyes challenging the man whose hand still pinned him firmly to the bed. "And I told you before, I am not your brother *nor* your friend. Now take your hand off me."
"Ke'air, let him up." She pulled his arm away and positioned herself between the two men. "Your clothes were wet and dirty when my brother brought you in. I laundered them, but they're not dry yet."
"I had to drag your sorry eema a long way through the mud," Ke'air spat from over her shoulder. "I should have left you to the Draeg, for all the thanks I get."
"I do not recall asking for your assistance."
"Maybe next time I don't give it. I'll take you back tomorrow just to be rid of you. Until then, you shut your trat hole and-"
"Ke'air, that is enough!" Despite his protests, she shoved him step at a time to the opposite side of the room. After a brief, one-sided conversation the brother threw up his arms and dropped into a chair. She warned him to stay put with a look that could melt metal and returned to Crais' bedside.
"I am Toma Masahje, Ke'air's sister."
"How very unfortunate for you," he grunted in response.
"Maybe Ke'air didn't have time to explain things so good, so you listen to me now."
"Have I a choice?" Crais snorted.
Without warning and with unexpected speed she grabbed a piece of loose flesh on the inside of his bicep and gave it a vicious twist. He let out a shout and jerked his arm away, tugging the quilt up across his chest.
"That hurts, don't it?" Ke'air called from across the room.
Toma did not appear intimidated by the harsh look he gave her; in fact, she returned it with equal aplomb. He noticed a strong resemblance between the two, the same high cheekbones with mahogany-colored, almond-shaped eyes that bordered on, yet were not truly exotic. A full head of sleek, black hair fell loosely around her waist. He guessed they were both no more than thirty cycles and close in age.
"Are you ready to listen now?" she asked.
"Get on with it," Crais grunted.
"The people of Tah have been under siege for over a cycle now. Each day more of us die, and each day we have less to fight back with. But we continue to live as we have always lived. We take care of our own and we help others when we can. The Draeg will never take that from us."
Crais settled back onto his elbows without comment.
Toma leaned a bit closer to speak, her eyes fixed on his. The light vanilla fragrance that permeated the quilt grew stronger with her presence. "Ke'air thought only to save you when it did not appear that you understood the danger of your situation. Yet, if it is your wish to die attempting to flee the Draeg, rather than wait for them to take your life here on the surface, that is your right. We will take you back to your ship and give whatever assistance we can."
While she spoke her brother approached quietly from across the room and settled cross-legged on the floor a few hentas from the bed.
"Why are these Draeg so intent on killing your people?" he asked.
"The Draeg are arthropod," Ke'air said. "They multiply like suitors for a rich trelk, but they are not of hardy stock like the Tah. Every fifty or sixty cycles a virus comes and kills most of them. Then they have to start all over again."
"Their rapid breeding was necessary to make sure their species survived," Toma explained.
Crais nodded as Ke'air slid closer. "But they finally figured out how to prevent these epidemics. It's been nearly a hundred cycles since the last big plague on Draegen and now they are practically crawling over each other there."
Crais rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "And you were worried that if you let them migrate to Tah they would eventually overrun this planet as well?"
Ke'air was crouched alongside the bed now, his face red and angry. Toma rested a hand on his shoulder, but let him speak. "They gave us an ultimatum. We were to remove all of our people from the green havens and not resist colonization, or they would wage war upon us."
"And naturally the Tah resisted," Crais replied with an understanding nod.
"No!" Toma cried out. "We did not."
"They attacked without waiting for our response," Ke'air snarled. "They killed our leaders, destroyed most of our factories and our cities in the first strike. They gave us no chance to offer our help."
"It was never the Draegs' intent to share this planet," Toma added coldly.
Crais tilted his head and gave Ke'air a questioning look. "The Draegen completely destroyed your industrial capabilities three cycles ago?"
"What you are really asking is, 'why aren't we already dead' . . . yes?"
"Even my limited experience with the Draegen compels me to believe that they could end this conflict at any time. It would appear they control the airspace."
Before Ke'air could answer, Toma patted her brother's shoulder. With only a determined look and a pointed finger, she directed him to take a seat. He frowned, but complied, which Crais found somewhat amusing, given he was a head taller and twice her weight.
"Our centers of learning, medicine and manufacture were all located in the stilted cities," she said. "Although their benefits were given freely to all, many of the Tah with fewer resources still lived in the green havens."
"Like this poor boy," Ke'air said, a grin splitting his face, arms extended wide.
"Why don't they finish you?" Crais asked.
"The green haven are the best habitat for the Draeg, which is why they don't want them destroyed," he answered. "There are tens of thousands of these places; we occupy a thousand or less now. Yet, the Draeg colonists refuse to come until the Tah are completely eliminated. They know we are here, but they do not know where." He motioned toward the fireplace with his arm. "We do not use artificial power sources that they can track. Because of the natural hot springs and gases in the havens, small fires don't give us away. Our flights are short and low during the daylight hours to avoid detection. We limit our transmissions."
"We are in one of these green havens now?" the Sebacean asked.
Brother and sister both nodded. "Their ground forces come out at night," Ke'air continued. "They overrun twenty or more havens every night. Sometimes the Tah escape to the swamps, if not, they are killed. It is only a matter of time. Judging by their present location, we have another two monens, maybe three."
Crais sat up and swung his feet to the floor, scowling as he tugged the heavy bedcover around his waist. Noticing his discomfort, Ke'air jumped up and retrieved a broadcloth sack from across the room. After returning to his position on the floor, he sat and rummaged through the contents until he selected a well-worn pair of loose fitting trousers, which he tossed to Crais.
"Here . . . don't bother being shy. My sister already checked you out."
At this point, modesty was the last thing on his mind. Crais tossed back the cover and stepped into the pants. He glanced around the room for the rest of his clothing. Not seeing them, he turned toward Toma, who was red- faced and angrily mouthing something to her brother.
"I will be returning to my ship now. Please accept my apologies for my earlier actions. I appreciate your and your brother's efforts on my behalf. Now, if you could retrieve my clothing."
Ke'air wagged his head in amusement, looking to Toma. "See? What did I tell you? It's like trying to tell a baby not to dirty its britches. You might as well save your breath."
Toma rolled her eyes, each man assuming it was at the other. She walked to the wall and slid back a door panel to reveal the pitch-black exterior. "It won't be daylight for another three arns, Bialar Crais. My brother is not leaving this hut until morning, and without him you will have difficulty in finding your ship. However, if it is your wish to leave, I will get your clothing."
He lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the bed and stared vacantly into the fire.
# # #
The green haven they called Anjeluh stretched roughly two metra in diameter, with a thick perimeter of evergreen trees surrounding the village of nearly five hundred people. Overhead, slender limbs grew crisscrossed into a symmetrical dome that sheltered the inhabitants from rain and wind, but allowed muted patches of sunlight to filter through. The wood and cloth structures inside varied in size, yet each mimicked the annular domed shape of the haven. Most were constructed of wood, although several of the largest had only wooden frames covered in bright, multi-colored cloth, reminiscent of the festival tents of Amma'noix.
Crais knew Ke'air Masahje was toying with him and enjoying every microt of it. He also knew he would have to play along if he wanted to learn the transport pod's location. Despite the seriousness of the Tah's situation, the atmosphere inside the haven was relaxed, the people curious, friendly. No whispers. No furtive glances. Along the way a group of children fell in step behind them, drawing even more attention to the tall, boisterous Tah and the dark stranger who accompanied him. As they neared the largest dome in the center of Anjeluh, Ke'air swung around, arms widespread and unleashed a ferocious roar. He dropped to his knees, swarmed by laughing, squealing youngsters. Crais had begun to back away when a hand reached out and seized his pant leg.
"Get down here," Ke'air said, motioning with his head. "They want to examine that growth on your face."
"I believe our time would be better spent-"
The next tug on his trousers nearly pulled the Sebacean over. "Your time will be spent searching for that piece of wreckage that you call a ship if you don't get down here."
He knocked Ke'air's hand aside and crouched amid the children. Cautiously, yet purposefully, small hands began to examine the goatee . . . touching, rubbing, and occasionally tugging, amid giggles and whispers. His clenched jaw eventually gave way to an unwilling smile that encouraged them further. He noticed what he thought might be several sets of twins in the young faces that surrounded him.
When every child had taken a turn Ke'air rose and waved his hand to shoo them away. Crais stood, adjusted his jacket and cleared his throat. "I trust with that out of the way, you can now direct me to my ship."
Masahje tweaked his brow and grinned.
A hand-lettered sign identified the largest tent as the Domicile. Inside, dozens of people crowded the length of a u-shaped wooden bar, surrounded by rows of long, narrow tables, most of them empty. Masahje stopped short of the doorway and waved at one of the patrons. A woman at the bar promptly signaled back and headed toward him, followed by a second woman and a boy. All three had their heads shaved identically to Masahje with a single hank of hair hanging long and loose in the back. The two women looked remarkably similar; pale complexions with wavy silver hair and ice-blue eyes. The boy was darker skinned with earthen-colored hair.
The woman greeted Masahje with a full, wet kiss on the lips, coiling one arm around his neck, the other slapping his belly with a loud smack. He curled his muscular arms around her waist and with an exaggerated grunt, lifted her feet off the ground.
"So where were you last night?" she asked, shifting her eyes to Crais. "Were you afraid to leave Toma alone with this one? Or worried for him?"
The boy, who was no more than fourteen or fifteen cycles, stepped forward and chucked Crais on the shoulder. "I saw you crash, my brother. I thought for sure when the power cut out that you'd dip the nose and roll it. Didn't figure there'd be enough left for parts. You must be one hez of a great pilot."
"My name is Bialar Crais," he replied evenly. "And if I was that great of a pilot I never would have been shot down in the first place."
They all laughed, except for Crais, who after taking another solid shot on the arm from the boy was growing noticeably perturbed. Ke'air buried a finger in the boy's chest and gave him a slight shove backward. "This is Nimm, also a great pilot. And this is my favorite bounce, Emone, and her birth partner, Vyett."
"Twins?" asked Crais. Their blank expression prompted him to explain. "A multiple birth by a Sebacean mother is referred to as twins."
Ke'air nodded. "We call that a birth partner, or birth pair, like Toma and me. Every other child born has a partner."
"I am a midborn," Nimm explained with a shrug. "No partner."
Vyett circled Crais with a coquettish grin, pausing to study him from the side, her tongue making a slow, suggestive pass along her full lower lip. "What do you call this, Bialar?" she asked, tracing the line of his goatee with the back of a finger.
Ke'air gripped the waistband of Vyett's trousers and pulled her off him. "Don't go getting your hopes up for a bounce with this one, girl. He's on his way back to his ship and will likely be shot down again before nightfall."
"I hope I do not miss that," Nimm said with complete sincerity.
Emone ran her hand up Ke'air's chest and then trailed in lightly down along his arm. "Will you be back to see me later, then?"
"I shouldn't be long. Bialar Crais here is in a hurry to get himself killed." He fished around in one of his pants pockets and then the other until he pulled out a triangular shaped coin, which he flipped to Nimm. "Here. Why don't you go buy our friend a bottle of slail for a send off. It's the least we can do."
Vyett continued to eye the Sebacean like a hungry Hynerian. "It's a shame you won't decide to stay."
The young man returned from the bar and handed Crais a large glass jug of frothy, blue liquid. "We would help you also," Nimm told him, "but reconnaissance from the Rikkeesee haven spotted a downed frigate within our sector. The front cabin is completely blown away and the fuselage on its side, but it's intact.
Ke'air appeared pleased by the news. "Maybe we get lucky. I wish I was going with you, my comrades."
"Please, do not let me-"
"But I've got to get our friend here on his way. Are you taking the Hawk?"
Emone nodded. "We make only one trip that way, in case the Draeg got it wired. If there's ammo, we grab it and go."
Crais accompanied them through the village toward an odd assortment of ships concealed along the haven's edge, most of which looked as though they had seen better days. By the gun mounts, he counted three military vessels; the remaining were civilian transports, ranging from single occupant to commercial capacity. The ship referred to as the Hawk was the largest of the military vessels, slightly smaller than a marauder with a three or four crew capacity. The two they referred to as Astras were similar to a Prowler in size and likely single pilot fighters. Crais gathered from their conversation that they had little ammunition and scavenged what they could from derelict craft that had been damaged and deserted in the Dragen's initial attack.
Leaving Emone, Vyett and Nimm behind at the Hawk, Ke'air proceeded to one of the several surface craft, choosing a small, flat-bottomed, open-air two- seater called an aquaflyer. Together, he and Crais pulled aside a false panel of brush and dragged the aquaflyer outside the haven and into the shallow surrounding water.
Masahje handed Crais a pair of goggles and donned a pair himself before he cracked the throttle open. The nose of the flyer shot up at a forty-five degree angle until the craft picked up speed and leveled out, skimming atop the water at a speed of 60 to 70 meters per arn. After so many monen of confinement and solitude in the transport, Crais savored the wind and spray across his face. He had forgotten the warmth of a natural sun and how quickly the black landscape of space could turn azure. A half an arn passed before he saw the transport pod ahead in the distance, fortunately still in one piece.
Masahje banked the flyer and slid sideways into a stand of tall grass. He stepped down into the water and pushed the flyer farther into thick, gnarled vegetation. "We'll walk the rest of the way."
Crais stood on the edge of the flyer, staring into the shallow water, hesitant.
"Afraid to get your feet wet? Grab your slail and let's go."
"What about the . . . kree-kree?" Crais asked.
Ke'air threw his head back and unleashed a hearty laugh. Planting both hands against the rear passenger panel of the flyer, he plunged the craft downward in a sudden sharp motion that sent the Sebacean flying off the running board and into the water with a tumultuous splash. Crais slowly made his way to his feet and turned, his arms bowed at his sides, dripping wet, his eyes, black and narrow.
"No such thing as kree-kree, my friend. Just something we tell children to keep them out of . . . "
Crais launched himself and caught the Tah squarely in the stomach with his right shoulder and sent them both reeling into the knee-deep water.
"Are you crazy? What the hez-"
Crais thrust the larger man's head beneath the water and held it there for a microt before he released him. He quickly retrieved his weapon from the flyer and as he backed away, Ke'air Masahje sat up, spitting, coughing and shaking his head. After they exchanged looks to affirm their mutual disgust, confidant that Masahje was not going to retaliate, Crais turned and waded toward the transport. This fool has wasted enough of his time. The moment repairs on the pod were completed he would lift off for Tarn. If the Draegens shot him down again, so be it; it was preferable over waiting with the Tah to die like bezore.
The transport hatch had been left open and the boarding ramp down, giving him further cause to curse Ke'air Masahje. He walked purposefully up the ramp, pulled his pulse pistol and made a sweep of the interior of the pod from the hatchway. Satisfied his ship had not been invaded by anything larger than several horned lizards attached to the hull at varying heights, he holstered the pistol and turned his attention to the damaged conduit.
He would be forced to repair and test the fuel line without bringing the power back online. If the Draegen's tracking systems were as sophisticated as Masahje indicated, and he believed they were, he could not risk revealing his position prior to take off. He would have one shot, and one shot only, at getting off this planet, a daunting task made more so without weapons, a defense shield, or reconnaissance.
In order to repair the main cesium feed, he would have to scavenge the auxiliary line. He could not risk bypassing the damaged link, or replacing it with other than the exact same part. At times like this, he sorely missed the assistance Talyn provided when diagnosing and effecting repairs.
"Yes . . . you and I would have made short work of these Draegen," Crais muttered from beneath the access panel.
"Who you talking to?"
Crais sprang to his feet at the sound of Ke'air Masahje's voice from the hatchway, pulse rifle slung over his shoulder, the bottle of slail in his hand. The Sebacean pointed an adamant finger out the hatch aimed toward the aqua flyer. "You are *not* welcome here. Now leave immediately."
Masahje dismissed Crais with a wave of his hand and walked past him to the flight control panel. He banged the bottle down and then eased into the pilot's seat with a contented groan. "Toma will have my hide if I don't help you."
"You may want to consider what *I* might do if you stay."
The other man shrugged. He swiveled round in the seat to face him and leaned back. "I don't know. Judging by what you showed me outside, I think I'm better off fighting against you than my sister."
The easiest solution would have been to shoot him. The idea had crossed his mind. Captain Bialar Crais, Peacekeeper, would have done so without a second thought, and that was perhaps what stopped him. He decided a change of tactics was called for. "There is nothing you can do in here. If you wish to be of assistance, you can stand guard outside and alert me if any Draegens approach."
Masahje squinted and puckered his lips, thinking. "Nah . . . by the time I see them, they see us, and by then we're already dead men. I can be of more help to you inside."
After a silence, Crais cleared his throat and with a quaint dip of his head stated evenly, "Yes, of course you can. However, the space in which I must affect the repairs is quite limited. I think it best that you remain seated here until I summon you for assistance."
Masahje cocked his thumb and aimed his index finger at Crais with a smirk. "You got it, my brother."
They exchanged smug, tight-lipped grins, both of which vanished the instant Crais turned his back and started toward the rear treblin access panel. He knelt and massaged his chin, studying the line he had clamped and started to remove following the crash. Although the crushed section measured only a few denches, to replace the line without seams meant removing the entire auxiliary line intact. There was always risk when dealing with cesium and patches, yet replacing the section from junction to junction would take time, possibly days instead of arns. He felt certain a patch would hold until he reached Tarn.
"You're not thinking to just scab a piece in there, are you?" Ke'air Masahje's chin jutted over Crais' right shoulder as the taller man crouched peering intently into the access panel. "Boy oh boy, the first time you give it the juice and that seam blows you'll be wishing you done it right. Draeg won't have to bother blasting your eema out of the sky. You'll go off like a boy on his first date with a trelk."
He closed his eyes for a microt and when he turned to reply, Masahje had wandered to the rear of the transport, where he was crouched to inspect the cesium pressure panel. "How much would you have to replace to avoid the seam?"
"From the hatch to where you're standing," Crais replied gruffly, "but that would entail a great deal more time."
"No problem. I'll help you."
That was exactly what he was afraid of.
# # #
With a second pair of hands at his disposal, Crais was able to thread the conduit through a narrow gap in the bulkhead, requiring that he make only a small breach in both the transport's underbelly and treblin side. It took longer than the patch, but now there was no question, it would not rupture.
Throughout the day, Masahje shared his knowledge of Draegen battle tactics, along with several hundred other subjects. It felt almost like having Talyn inside his head again, a constant, disjointed, forced sharing of information. As he had learned to do with the young Leviathan, Crais focused on the job at hand, allowing the Tah's words to drone on in the background, heard but not truly discerned.
The final task of reconnecting and recalibrating the cesium feed took them longer than expected. After what seemed like arns, Masahje stood and stretched while Crais tightened the last fitting. The Tah retrieved his jacket from the pilot console and strapped on his pulse pistol. The microt the hatch popped open he fell silent, staring outside.
"What's the matter," Crais grumbled as he got to his feet and straightened his clothing. "Finally run out of meaningless things to talk about?"
"Frell me dead!" he cursed under his breath.
Crais rushed to the hatchway, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Ke'air Masahje, who had still not drawn his weapon, began to shout obscenities and hold his head in his hands, unusual behavior even for him. "Toma will have my mivonks for this." He pushed Crais back out of the way and slammed the hatch shut. "I should have watched the time more closely. This is my fault."
"If there is anything wrong, it is most certainly your fault. Now get out of my way and open that hatch."
Masahje stuck a hand in Crais' chest, his expression determined. "It is too close to dusk, Draeg might get a lock on the aquaflyer. It looks like we *both* get to spend the night here."
"Nonsense, it is still daylight." Crais strode to the view screen, peered outside and spun back, finger pointed at the large orange globe still visible above the horizon. "If you leave immediately you will be home well before dark."
"But not before dusk. That's when they come out . . . swarms of Draeg fighters. We call them Firebugs. If they detect motion and get a read on that aquaflyer and where it goes, every man, woman and child in Anjeluh will be dead before morning. I can't even risk a comm to let Toma know that I'm okay, not stationary like this."
# # #
An arn later the two men sat, sullen faced, on opposite sides of the faint, yellow aura of a single emergency lamp set to its lowest setting. Masahje muttered occasionally about the fact that his sister would be worried, while Crais brooded in silence. He knew he could not take off until morning, yet still did not appreciate having to further tolerate the other man's company.
"You want something to eat?" he finally asked.
"Well of course I do. Took you a long time to ask."
Crais disappeared into the small storage bay and returned with a handful of food cubes, several of which he offered to Masahje who, after accepting them, held one between his thumb and index finger, examining it with a frown. He looked at Crais and then back to the cube, his forehead lined. "*This* is what you offer me to eat?"
"Protein cubes. They can be stored for cycles and are completely nutritious."
He dropped the cube into the palm of his other hand and brought it up under his nose, with a loud sniff.
"They are to be eaten, not inhaled," Crais said cheekily.
"Is that so?" he replied with equal sarcasm. "I though maybe you expected me to use it to start a fire." He dropped the cube onto the deck with the others. "You got nothing else to offer me?"
"That is what I have existed on for the past five monen. If you don't like it-."
He reached for the cubes, but Masahje quickly retrieved them and bit one in half, chewing it endlessly. "These are very dry," he mumbled, not swallowing.
Exhaling briskly, Crais went to draw two cups of water. Prior to turning the spigot he caught sight of the flagon of slail still sitting on the control panel. Thinking that it might appease Masahje, he opted for the Tah's native beverage. He filled both cups, replaced the cork and sat back down, offering one cup of slail to Masahje, who after a moment of indecision, refused, shaking his head.
"What? This isn't good enough for you either? Crais raised his cup and sipped the blue liquid, which he found to be quite pleasant, a hint of sweetness and slightly pulpy with a warm, mellow aftertaste. He drank deeply the second time, offering a deep, hummed approval.
Masahje sat staring at his hands in his lap, chewing absently on his bottom lip. He glanced up a couple of times, half opened his mouth to speak, only to hang his head in silence at the last moment. This went on for some time, until he finally wiped his forehead on his sleeve and shrugged. "I am not allowed the pleasure of your company."
"If only that were true," Crais grunted.
"When I was a young man I used to spend much time in the Dom . . . the Domicile. I liked to drink, talk, have good time with my friends."
Crais drained his cup and clanked it on the deck. "Yes, well, that is hard to imagine."
"There was this one fellow, big mouth, always bragging himself up. It's no secret we don't like each other. First it was just talk, then one night we're both drinking heavy and he starts talking me down, loud so I can hear." He wet his lips and shifted on the floor, eyes reflecting the lamp. "I call him on it and the stupid fapoota gets in my face, but I don't back down."
Crais reached back for the slail, filled his cup and then set the jug down beside him.
"The server tells us to take our disagreement outside, so we do. Everybody follows us out to watch. We beat the hezmana out of each other, til neither one of us can barely stand up." He stared at Crais for a microt, nodding. "Then I killed him."
The Sebacean's posture straightened a bit, his interest finally captured.
"They took into account that we were young and had both been drinking when it happened, so the citizens' council gives me a light sentence."
"You shot him?" Crais asked.
Masahje bristled at the question. "No, I didn't shoot him. I hit him with my fist, but too hard. An accident. For my punishment, I'm not ever allowed in the Dom, and I can't share a drink with any other person. I'm a constituent, yet during the meetings and elections I must stand outside to speak and vote."
Crais chuckled, softly at first, and then louder. "Your *crime* consisted of hitting another man in a fistfight? Here . . . " he shoved the cup closer to the other man, sloshing some of its contents onto the deck, "drink it. I am a Sebacean. Your law does not apply to me or to my ship. No matter, I will be gone tomorrow."
In the time it took for Crais to drink his second cup of slail, the battle played across the other man's face until the war within him ended. He wet his lips and lifted the cup, at first savoring a small sip. With the term of his sentence temporarily commuted, he drained the remainder in one large, easy swallow and then slapped the cup down alongside Crais' empty. Not normally a heavy drinker, Crais could already feel the alcohol warming him, weighting his arms and legs with welcome relaxation. He poured two more drinks and handed one to Masahje.
His cup raised, Masahje stopped and looked curiously over it at Crais. "So, now you know all about me. Tell me, what is it that makes you run so far?"
"I don't recall saying that I was running from anything," Crais replied with a glint in his eye.
Masahje nodded and wisely let it go. "What do you think of my sister? She's a good looking woman, yes?"
"She is . . . adequate."
"Adequate? I would like to see what *your* bounce looks like. That's probably your girlfriend right there at the end of your arm." He snorted the word a second time, "Adequate."
Crais ignored him, not fully comprehending the conversation, and finished his drink. The Tah quickly downed his and without hesitation, poured another round. He raised his cup to propose a toast and waited for the Sebacean to do the same, which he did, halfheartedly.
"May the Draeg be looking the wrong way tomorrow." He clinked their cups together and then tossed the drink back in one swift gulp.
Crais followed suit. The temperature inside the transport had become uncomfortably warm. He unbuttoned his jacket and removed it, next loosening the collar of his shirt. After refilling the cups, he ate several food cubes, wishing for once he had something other than the tasteless, dehydrated wafers. The weight of the long day began to tug at his eyelids. He imagined he would sleep well, despite his boisterous guest.
It was the last thing he remembered.