BIRTHRIGHT
by Soledad
Author's note:
For disclaimer, rating, warnings, etc., see the Prologue.
This particularchapter takes place during the 1st Season episode The Pearls That Were His Eyes. Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode.
CHAPTER 8 – BLOODLINES
There was unusual tension on the command deck of the Andromeda Ascendant – mostly because of the bombastic military music that had been played for the last two days. Sitting in the slipstream chair, Beka Valentine tried to distract herself with reading one of her favourite gothic novels on a flimsy, but she found herself unable to concentrate. That goddamn… noise was driving her crazy.
What was it with military organizations and bad music anyway? She began to think that Harper had been right – having Tyr playing Wagner in the officers' mess was definitely better than this. She glanced over to Harper, who was armpits-deep in the electronic insides of some bridge system. The engineer had an annoyingly cheerful expression on his face, which surprised Beka, knowing that military marches weren't Harper's idea of a good time, either.
Of course, one could discover the source of the cheerfulness, as soon as one took a closer look and discovered that the small, round white things in Harper's ears were actually miniature earphones, providing him with the music of his choice. Beka made a mental note to ask him for a set as soon as they got a private moment.
The Than had fled the command deck after the first couple of hours, and Glittering Starlight steadfastedly refused to return until the 'hammering', as she called it, stopped. The vibrations caused a tingling pain in her antennae, she explained. But Beka suspected that the sneaky bugs simply disliked the music, like everyone else, with the possible exception of Trance, who simply didn't care, and was working on her console, seemingly unbothered. Plus, the Than had the advantage of not being officially part of the crew, so they could simply stay away from the command deck.
At the moment, Beka desperately wished a similar chance. Why Rommie insisted to inflict this horror upon them all, nobody could understand. But asking the avatar, who was standing next to the command chair in the rigid manner of a drill sergeant, somehow didn't seem a good idea. They had tried it a couple of times during the last two days, but the only answer they got was a flippant recitation of High Guard regulations.
Beka glanced over to Rev Bem at the science station, wondering how the sensitive hearing of the Magog endured the torture, and saw that Rev was calmly meditating, refusing to acknowledge the noise. Wayists were definitely peculiar people. So were Nietzscheans, obviously, as Tyr – absorbed in his workstation with a single-mindedness he usually only showed in battle – seemed completely absent, too. He didn't even twitch when Dylan sauntered onto the bridge, and Rommie whipped around in the best spit-polished manner and announced his arrival crisply.
"Captain on deck!"
Trance, snapping to attention, produced a perfect High Guard-style salute. The fact that she was grinning from ear to ear ruined the effect a little, though. Beka looked up from her reading, bored and annoyed.
"I'll alert the media. As soon as Rommie quits playing this godawful noise."
"It's protocol, you know," Trance explained, still saluting. "Like standing at pretension whenever the captain enters the command deck."
"If I cared for protocol, I'd be swimming with our resident fish-necks in their aquarium," Beka riposted. "When we signed up, we agreed that none of these ridiculous… gymnastics would be demanded from us. So what the heck is going on?"
"I'm sorry, Beka," the computer image of Rommie appeared on the screen. "Some of my systems have reverted to defaults. All my avatars are currently following basic High Guard protocols."
"Well, I'm sure our fix-it-all man is going to do something about it… and soon," Dylan said, giving Harper a pointed look.
"Excuse me," the engineer was clearly offended. "After the number of scrapes she's been through, it's a wonder she's a-workin' at all."
"I thought you were a genius," Beka teased.
Harper whirled around in annoyance. "I am! And after the hundreds of times in which I've patched the Maru together with the help of paper clips and glue, you of all people should know that. But not even I can produce a miracle without spare parts."
"Don't worry, Rommie," Dylan said, ignoring the engineer's tirade. "As soon as we dock at El Dorado Drift, we'll pick up parts and you'll be as good as new."
"What the man said," Harper commented, and his eyes started sparkling from the mere thought of the Drift. "El D. She's got everything we need. Wine, wiring, and women."
The others laughed, while watching the slow approach of the Drift on the main viewers. It was a fairly large construction that had been built of independent modules and extended on both ends during its existence, until it almost reached a length of five miles. A true city, floating in space. It was also one of the few outposts of civilization and high technology in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy, so it was highly sought after for its supply facilities. The fact that it was owned by the Free Trade Alliance explained how the inhabitants managed to offer about just everything a starship might need. It was considered a paradise by all space travellers, despite the often outrageous prices.
"All I care about is news, weather and sports," Beka declared and got up from her chair, relieved that Rommie had finally killed the 'music'. "And that should be comin' in right about... now."
Right on cue, dozens of news reports in Vedran text, pictures and voices flooded the various viewscreens of the command deck. Beka pumped a fist into the air triumphantly. "Yes! Civilization."
"And mail call!" Trance added, grinning like a fool. Harper rolled his eyes.
"It's already here, courtesy of your friendly neighbourhood space traveller's aid." He looked at Trance in mild exasperation. "I don't know why you're so excited, it's always just bills for Beka, or epistles from Rev Bem's spiritual pen pals. All you and I ever get is junk."
There was infinite sadness in his usually cheerful voice, but in the overall excitement about finally getting some news nobody noticed it. The merging of Trans-Galactic Shipping with Quantum Express – two of the largest private cargo carriers in the sector – upset Beka very much, and she did her best to explain their clueless captain the possible consequences.
"Their consolidation would force small operators out of business by red-lining business and undercutting costs," she scowled. "How is a little guy supposed to compete against someone like Sam Profit?"
"Who is…?" Dylan trailed off.
"Trans-Galactic's über big kahuna," Harper supplied helpfully. "Put him in a fish tank with piranhas... pray for the piranhas."
"I'm sure that's all very interesting," Tyr was still glaring at his screen, trying to remember who the man sending him a coded message could be. He was certain he'd heard that name before – he just couldn't remember where. "But may we discuss the weather?"
"I didn't know you liked the weather," Trance scurried over to Tyr's workstation and launched into a lengthy – and rather incoherent – explanation about cumulus clouds, until Tyr silenced her with an impatient gesture.
"The only time the weather concerns me is when it threatens my health and well-being," the Nietzschean growled. "Today, for instance."
He called up a news report on the main screen. It showed a storm in space – a rather nasty-looking one, with blue and white lightning.
"A class-seven solar storm," he explained. "And it's headed right for us. According to weather forecast, it'll hit in five days."
"Looks like we better make those repairs quick," Dylan said, giving Harper another pointed look. The little engineer made a long-suffering face – it looked positively adorable, like that of a kicked puppy.
"I know, I know! More work for me," he sighed. "You know, guys, I'm fortunate to have those worker bugs down in the machine shops. Even though they have ridiculous names no one could remember. It's not always fun, being the only engineer on a ship of this size. At least the Than are very proficient in doing basic repairs – and have more personal motivation than the droids."
"Speaking of which," Tyr stepped away from his workstation; "I have to discuss some security measures with the Emerald Than. I assume you won't need me here for the next hour or so."
Without waiting for Dylan's answer, he strode out. Nobody saw the data clip that he shoved in his bracers.
His tactical discussion with the Emerald Than didn't take more than ten minutes. Sword of Midnight was a very intelligent bug, with the same fondness for big, dangerous weapons as Tyr himself, and meanwhile practically functioned as the Nietzschean's aide, unlikely as it would have seemed a month or so earlier. That made working with the other bugs a lot easier – as soon as Tyr and Sword of Midnight worked out a solution, she would take over the task to make her fellow bugs follow the plan.
After their meeting, Tyr returned to his quarters to check on Freya, who had developed some unpleasant side effects of her pregnancy. Nietzschean women didn't suffer from morning sickness the same way mere humans did, but an upset stomach wasn't a rare thing among them while expecting. That, and irregular bouts of insomnia caused Freya to feel irritatingly weak, so she preferred to remain in their quarters most of the day.
This time, however, Tyr found her in a relatively good shape – in a better one, in fact, than he had left him when taking over bridge duty. Which was a relief, as Freya tended to become irritated very easily, and her temper could turn quite foul at times.
"Does the name Ezekial El-Hakim ring a bell?" he asked. "He sent me a coded message. I know I've heard that name before, but…"
Freya smiled. "Of course you have. He's the father of Deborah, Guderian's First Wife. He's also…"
"… the Pride Alpha of the Centauris A colony," Tyr finished. "What would he want from me?"
Freya shrugged. "You did him a great favour. You have an alliance with the husband of his daughter. Perhaps he wants an alliance with you as well."
"Why would he?" Tyr asked doubtfully. "He's the Alpha of the most numerous cadet branch of Sabra Pride. He has a whole planet under his rule!"
"And you have the Andromeda to your disposal," Freya pointed out, "even if it means to argue with Dylan before every action."
"Do you think he'd be willing to marry off a daughter to me?" Tyr asked in a calculating tone.
"That's not impossible," Freya replied. "He needs allies against his own Pride leader. Tamerlane Mossadim is a ruthless person, who wouldn't hesitate to turn against his own people if it served his interests. And Ezekial does have several unwed daughters. I think you should watch his message – that's the easiest way to learn what he wants."
That was certainly true, and Tyr fed the data clip into the computer. The message was coded, so all they saw first was an undefined blur of noises and colours. But it was a Sabran coding that Freya happened to know – Deborah used it occasionally – so it didn't take them long to clear the message.
The dark-skinned, middle-aged man of whom the message originated seemed huge, even on the computer screen. He had a board, handsome face and short-cropped, greying hair. His small, dark eyes were intense, their look piercing.
"Greetings, Tyr Anasazi, out of Victoria by Barbarossa," he said in a deep, slightly rough voice. "I'm Ezekial El-Hakim, out of Abigail by Leonidas. I'm in your debt for warning us from the homicidal kludge children, and I am a man who pays his debts," he flashed a quick, wolfish grin. "Especially when doing so serves my own interests."
Tyr grinned, too. The last remark, more than anything else, proved that the Sabran Alpha was honest… well, as Nietzscheans understood honesty, anyway. And he was using the formal mode, the one for contract negotiations, challenges of war or declarations of personal intent.
"So I offer you two things that might be useful for both of us," the older man continued; "an alliance and some information. One of my daughters, Mikaelan, expressed interest in you. You'll find a vid attached to the end of his message, together with a verification of her DNA and bloodline. As for the information… there are rumours that Mossadim seeks peace with Jaguar Pride. As much as such a peace treaty would serve Nietzschean interests, I seriously doubt that his intentions are honourable. Mossadim has no allies – just enemies and servants. But I assume you can take care of yourself."
El-Hakim paused again, his expression thoughtful.
"You do have a reputation, Anasazi, and so do I. An alliance between us would be mutually beneficial. But never think for a moment that you'd be able to use me – I'm not some dumb Drago-Kazov Beta. I await your answer at your convenience."
With that, the message abruptly ended. Tyr looked at his wife thoughtfully. "What do you think?"
"Do I have a say in this?" Freya asked.
"You are my Matriarch," Tyr said with a shrug. "Whatever concerns Kodiak Pride, concerns you. And I could use your insight; you know the El-Hakims, while I do not."
"Very well," Freya said. "I never met Mikaelan, but I do know that she and Deborah have the same mother. That's an excellent bloodline. And if she's anything like Deborah, she must be a formidable woman."
"And you won't mind competing with her?" Tyr asked. There was no hint of teasing in his voice. He meant the question seriously. As much as he'd have liked an alliance with the powerful Sabran branch, he wouldn't risk antagonizing Freya – his only true ally at the moment.
Freya raised an eyebrow. "I am the Matriarch, am I not?"
"Of course you are."
"Then as long as you remember that and make all your future wives understand, I don't have a problem with this alliance. Let's take a look at the potential bride, shall we?"
Tyr agreed with the suggestion and opened the attachment. The vid showed a younger, slightly softer version of Deborah, but Mikaelan was tall, strong and well-built nevertheless, her features hinting of intelligence and stubbornness. The bloodline and the fertility- and DNA-certificates looked promising, too. Of course, they'd need a fresh sample to verify the data – there was always a chance that they would be fooled – but the match seemed a good one indeed.
"Looks good," Freya commented. "You should accept the offer. An alliance with Centauris A would strengthen your position."
"I'm inclined to do so," Tyr said, "but first, I need to find the Völsung – if there indeed are any survivors. I'm still not entirely certain that we are looking for the right person."
"Well, we're docking at El Dorado Drift," Freya reminded him. "All you need is to go down and find this Dr. Hamayouni. Verifying his identity won't be that hard."
When a few minutes later Tyr returned to the command deck, to his surprise, both Beka and Trance were gone. So was Rev Bem, and Dylan looked positively... agitated.
"Beka got a three-year-old distress call from an old pal of her Daddy and is off to help him," Harper summarized the events that had happened during his brief absence. "And Trance has apparently gone AWOL to keep an eye on her."
Tyr shrugged. "So?"
"So now I'm worried," Dylan explained, a little irritated, waving vaguely with Trance's good-bye message.
"Why?" Harper asked, obviously not seeing the problem "They're both big girls. They can take care of themselves. Besides, we have plenty to worry about right here."
He was interrupted by Rev Bem, returning from wherever he'd been. The Magog bowed towards Dylan in his customary dignified manner. Harper cleared his throat impatiently, waving with a long list of sorely needed spare parts.
"I say we prioritize the picotransducers, nanothrusters, and uh an AP solenoid valve," he suggested.
Tyr frowned. "We can agree on the thrusters and the valve," he decided. "But by the rate we keep making new enemies, we'd also need photon bombs, and we need to refit our pulse plasma guns and point defence lasers."
"Isn't this a lot of wishful thinking?" Rev Bem asked soberly. "How are we going to pay for all of this?"
All eyes turned to Dylan expectantly. Even those of the Perseids, who'd just walked in, in the middle of an excited conversation of their own. The captain chose a… diplomatic evasion.
"Technically, that would be the quartermaster's job," he said.
"We don't have a quartermaster," Tyr pointed out bluntly, and Dylan suppressed a sigh. So much about a diplomatic approach.
"If I may," Höhne intervened smoothly, before a fight could have broken out between the two men. "Are you saying we don't have the money needed to pay for the necessary spare parts?"
"Oh we have plenty of currency," Dylan replied; then, with a self-mocking little laugh, he added, "it's just that none of it's... current, you know."
That caused a somewhat… baffled silence among the crew. As always, Harper was the first to recover and come up with a suggestion.
"Okay," he said brightly, "I can get most of this stuff, but we'll have to rig for a fast getaway."
That seemed to make Rev Bem more than a little uncomfortable. "Harper…"
"… we're not going to steal anything," Dylan finished for him sternly.
The Magog inclined his head. "Thank you."
Dylan returned the gesture. Tyr, however, had been watching their exchange of mutual admiration with disgust. This didn't lead anywhere, and the solar storm was dangerously close to hitting them. If they didn't get the spare parts, make the repairs and get the hell out of there, they'd risk serious radiation damage. He was not about to allow Dylan to endanger him, his wife and his unborn child for mere morale. And right now, Harper seemed to agree with him – no wonder, with that weak immune system of his.
"Well, what would you suggest?" he demanded. "Sitting here and being exposed to hard radiation, just to ensure your so-called moral superiority?" He seemed willing to shoot Dylan at that moment, and, to be honest, felt like it, too.
"I do have an… acquaintance on the Drift," Höhne offered carefully, easing away from the enraged Nietzschean. "A trader called Grask. He... might be willing to buy some… unnecessary equipment from you, in exchange of the spare parts you need."
"What's the catch?" Dylan asked, with suspicion in his voice.
"He, well…" Höhne shifted uncomfortably. "He's a… Chichin."
"Oh great," Harper rolled his eyes. "In case you don't know, they never buy what they can steal. How's that better than stealing the stuff ourselves and saving the extra costs?"
"They're scum," Tyr growled. "They eat their own young. I'll thank you to see that he comes nowhere near me."
"That's probably a good idea," Rev Bem commented gravely. Dylan nodded.
"Yeah, make a note of that," he said, and the Magog inclined his head again.
"No need for that, Tyr said. "I've some personal business on the Drift; I can take care of it, while you are dealing with the Chichin."
"What kind of business?" Dylan asked, his suspicions rising again.
Tyr flashed him a charming grin. "I'll make sure to be back on time. I don't want to experience the effects a class-seven solar storm on my DNA… or on that of my family."
This was not Tyr's first visit on El Dorado Drift. He had been there before, several times, doing business, as he preferred to call his mercenary assignments. That didn't mean, however, that he found it easy to find his way around the maze of modules, corridors, industrial and habitat areas, gardens, malls and whatnots. A quarter million people lived on this drift, and finding the one he was looking war was not easy. Not even with Höhne's contacts. After all, the Perseid had never met his Nietzschean informant face to face – they only had the occasional radio connection. All Tyr had was a name and a vague location.
But Nietzscheans are nothing if not persistent, and after an increasingly frustrating fifty minutes, he finally reached the sector where his fellow Nietzscheans lived. Mostly unimportant members of small, more or less extinct Prides or outcasts without a Pride, forced to live among strangers, who hated and avoided them like the plague. Unless thy needed an 'Über' for a job with which they didn't want to make their hands dirty.
"I'm looking for Dr. Hamayouni," Tyr said to the olive-skinned, dark-haired teenage boy who was repairing something that looked like an antiquated communications device in the anteroom of the supposed clinic.
"Kaveh only accepts Nietzschean patients," the youngling answered in a bored manner that didn't lack a certain air of haughtiness, though. He didn't even look up from his work; since Tyr had referred to the person he wanted to meet by his surname, the boy automatically assumed he was a kludge.
Of course, that didn't excuse the fact that he seemed not to recognize another Nietzschean by smell alone. Was the boy somehow damaged or had Völsung Pride really sunk so low? Tyr grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the bulkhead and flexed his bone blades before those shocked young eyes.
"And why would that be a problem for me?" he asked menacingly.
"Is this answer enough?" a third voice replied with a question of its own, and Tyr felt the muzzle of a gauss pistol pressed into his lower back, at the anatomically correct place where a shot would go directly through his heart. He still could have disarmed the other man, of course, there were techniques for that sort of emergency, but right now, that wasn't the point.
He let the boy drop to the floor like a wet rag and slowly turned around, showing that he had no intention to fight. His attacker was a middle-aged Nietzschean male, with the same olive skin and dark eyes as the boy, his springy black hair short-cropped and greying. He wore a simple grey coverall, the sleeves of which had been cut just above his elbows to make place for his bone blades and leather bracers.
"Are you Dr. Hamayouni?" Tyre asked.
"What if I am?" the man asked back again, instead of giving a straight answer. "Who wants to know it, and for what reason?"
"I've been looking for Kaveh Hamayouni, out of Parendi by Tahamtan, one of the last of Völsung Pride, for quite some time," Tyr answered formally, almost certain now that he'd actually found the man. Making him admit his identity was another matter entirely, of course. "As for my business with him – it's my concern and his only."
"I see," the man said with a wry expression on his handsome face. "Do you happen to have a name, stranger?"
"I'm Tyr Anasazi, out of Victoria by Barbarossa of Kodiak Pride," Tyr replied simply.
The man laughed. "That's rather unlikely, since the ruling family of Kodiak Pride had been erased by the Drago-Kazov, twenty-two years ago."
"They have," Tyr replied calmly, "all but me, that is. I was captured and sold as a slave to the Xochital mines." He nodded towards the frightened but still defiant boy. "I was about his age. I came out. What possible reason would you have to hide?"
The other man eyed him warily. "You're Alpha. He's barely Beta material. A nice enough kid, but inferior – like the rest of us."
"You have no Alphas left?" Tyr asked. The very un-Nietzschean resignation of the older man surprised him.
"Not a single one," the other replied grimly. "Or any fully adult, fertile men, for that matter. You've come too late. Völsung Pride doesn't exist anymore. It's just a name, an identification for a handful of failures." He sighed and raised his forearm to the traditional Nietzschean greeting. "I am Kaveh Hamayouni. How did you find me?"
"Through Höhne," Tyr crossed forearms with him. "I found your name in old Castalian records, and the Perseid mentioned having sporadic contact with you."
"Castalia," the older man nodded grimly. "I heard they've joined that so-called New Commonwealth. Weren't you part of freeing the Andromeda Ascendant from the Hephaistos black hole? I heard you are part of the crew now."
"So you know who I am?" Tyr frowned. "Why the games, then?"
Hamayouni shrugged. "I know who Tyr Anasazi is. I'm still not convinced it's you, though."
"Would a DNA-test convince you?" Tyr asked. He had to convince the doctor – Hamayouni was his only key to the reminder of Völsung Pride. His only hope to find his kindred and reunite with them.
The older man hesitated for a moment. "Well, I do have a conserved sample of Temujin Anasazi in my collection…"
Tyr pulled out one of his knives and cut his arm, just above one of his bracers. "In that case – help yourself."
"Hermes, bring me the portable analyzer," Dr. Hamayouni ordered, collecting a sample from Tyr's blood. Then he walked over to the safe, opened it by providing the scanner with his thumbprint and took out the conserved DNY-sample of Tyr's grandfather.
When the boy returned with the analyzer, he inserted both samples and watched the readings warily. With the old equipment, it took a few minutes to get the results – but they proved to be absolutely satisfying.
"Well, we do have a match," he declared in relief; he really weren't looking forward to a fight with the much younger and stronger man. "You are a descendant of Temujin indeed. Andraste will be surprised. She always assumed you were an impostor."
Tyr stared at him in utter disbelief. "Andraste? Andraste, out of Guinevere by Parsifal? Are you telling me that she'd survived the destruction of the Aerie Habitat? There was no hint in the Castalian records that she might still be alive."
"Of course not," Hamayouni snorted. "Firstly, she was burned beyond recognition – even I had difficulties finding her among the charred corpses. It's a miracle that she survived at all, but she took permanent damage, just like her son. Secondly, we took great care to cover our trail. We didn't want some overzealous Castalian to finish the job that they had begun, you know."
"How many of you are still there?" Tyr asked.
"Twenty two," the doctor sighed. "Some old men with crippling injuries, some of my generation, both male and female, who became infertile due to radiation, some younglings that, miraculously enough, made it out or were already born into exile… none of them is older than thirty, and none of them is Alpha material."
"No fertile women of mature age at all?" Tyr asked with a frown. If it was so, that could put a serious damper on his dynastic plans.
"We have three," Dr. Hamayouni shrugged, "but their bloodlines are inferior."
"Are they married off yet?" Tyr didn't let loose, despite the older man's apparent uneasiness about the topic. He needed to know if there still were Völsung females he could procreate with.
Dr. Hamayouni shook his head. "Who would accept the daughters of inferior Betas, from an extinct Pride?"
"I would," Tyr said calmly. "They might be the daughters of Betas, but they are my blood. Kodiak blood. Are their genes damaged in any way?"
"No, no, they are completely healthy," the doctor assured him hurriedly. "Their parents were working on different places outside the Castalian system during the destruction – that's how most of our younger ones survived in the first place. By their families not being important enough. Sadly, what we have is the weakest of our original gene pool."
"Right now, everyone with any Kodiak blood and healthy genes is of utmost importance," Tyr said. Hamayouni considered this for a moment – then he nodded.
"I understand. You are working on rebuilding Kodiak Pride, aren't you?" he asked.
"I'm trying," Tyr replied. "But for that, I need to find every single one who has Kodiak blood in his veins. There are almost none of us left, it seems, so we need to strengthen our bloodline."
"Our bloodline," Dr. Hamayouni echoed bitterly. "There used to be four major bloodlines in Völsung Pride alone – one of them, that of Hermes," he nodded towards his young assistant, "doesn't even have a fertile female left. Even with your finding us, inbreeding would weaken us too much for the Pride to survive."
"I can't be the only Kodiak left," Tyr said. "There must be a few others, scattered across the three galaxies. I intend to find them all – just as I've found you – and the Andromeda is a means to reach that goal. Nor am I planning to inbreed. I've already taken a First Wife, from the line of Saladin Cree, and a second one, a daughter of Ezekial El-Hakim, has just been offered to me a short time ago."
"El-Hakim?" Hamayouni seemed properly impressed. "That'd make a strong alliance. What do you need us for, when you can have a Sabra?"
"You are blood," Tyr emphasized. "The only blood I know to exist, right now. Stop with this defeatist attitude at once! You survived. Now it's time to care for your future."
Technically, he had no right to treat the older man like this – not yet, anyway, not before the Völsung survivors officially accepted his leadership. But the doctor's attitude had begun to irritate him. Hamayouni took no offence, however. As if he'd been used to being snapped at by strangers – it was an infuriating thought. Infertile male or not, he still had Kodiak blood in him!
"And the future – that would be you?" he asked with mild irony.
Tyr shrugged. "You are in need of leadership. I can provide it, if your people have the common sense to accept it."
"That would be Andraste's choice," Hamayouni said slowly.
"Then take me to her!" Tyr demanded. He was tired of dealing with this inferior, uncertain, defeated man. This sorry excuse of a Nietzschean.
"She's not here," Hamayouni answered, "nor are the others, save Hermes and Achilles. Our people don't like living on drifts or space stations anymore – too many bad memories. These boys only chose to stay here with me because they are from my bloodline. I was the one who saved and raised them, and they refused to leave me."
"So, where are the others, then?" Tyr asked impatiently. The doctor's story failed to impress him. Sentimentality was a weakness that a dying Pride couldn't afford, but these people apparently failed to understand that.
"On the planet Haukin Vora," Hamayouni replied with a thin smile. "And yes, I'm aware of the irony of the situation."
"That they were practically sitting under my nose for years?" Tyr asked acerbically. "Yeah, what a funny coincidence it is! Has it never occurred to your Matriarch to contact me?"
Hamayouni shrugged. "We had no proof that you really were whom you stated to be – until now. Everyone thought your family extinct – your family and Kodiak Pride. You were attacked by fellow Nietzscheans. Our people are a lot more thorough than the Castalians."
"Somehow I doubt that'd be the only reason," Tyr said grimly. "Can it be that your Matriarch was actually afraid to find out the truth about me? That she didn't want to share leadership?"
"I don't know," the doctor replied honestly. "The times when she'd trust me enough to speak of her intentions are long gone. She's become increasingly paranoid in the exile."
"I don't care about her paranoia," Tyr said. "She can stay alone and brood if she wants, but I won't allow her to destroy the future of her Pride. Of our Pride. I need to find your people. Are you willing to help me, or do I have to take your office apart to find the information I want?"
The dark eyes of the doctor glittered. "Don't threaten me, Anasazi; unlike human doctors, I didn't swore any Hippocratic Oath. And there are more ways to harm a Nietzschean than just a gauss pistol. Fortunately for you, though, I happen to agree with you about the future of our Pride. So, yes, I'll give you the instructions you'll need to find the others."
When Tyr returned to the Andromeda, the Chichin trader – a reptiloid bipedal creature with a face that looked like a cross between a cobra and a salamander, not to mention wearing a perpetual and annoyingly smug grin – was just about to leave. Tyr retreated to a side corridor to avoid meeting it. There was something profoundly unsettling in a creature that could change its colour at will… not to mention eat its own offspring in need.
"I'm glad to see its back," he said to Freya who had come to meet him at the airlock.
"So am I," she replied, laying a hand on her rounded belly with an instinctive gesture. "What about… have you found your people?"
"Some of them," Tyr answered. "Unfortunately, none that would count. I'll have to go to Haukin Vora to meet their Matriarch."
"She got out?" Freya was stunned. "Do you know her?"
"Only by reputation," Tyr shrugged. "She's a cousin second grades of my maternal grandsire, Boëthius. And she seems to be one stubborn woman. We'll see."
"Are you leaving at once?" Freya asked. Tyr shook his head.
"At first we need to get away from here. Did they got from the Chichin everything we wanted?"
"I have no idea," Freya said. "They won't speak to me, unless it's absolutely necessary, remember? You'll have to find out for yourself."
"I intend to," Tyr kissed her. "Go back to our quarters. That's in one of the best shielded areas of the ship; there you'll be safe for the time being… both of you."
"That won't help much, either of us, if we don't escape the solar storm," Freya reminded him soberly.
"I'm working on it," Tyr said, aiming for the bridge.
"Are we ready to leave?" he demanded, striding out onto the command deck.
Nobody paid his growl any attention. Beka was watching Harper working on Rommie, who was giving him feedback, and Rev Bem was watching the swirly blue storm on the main viewer with almost religious awe.
"A little to the left," Rommie instructed Harper. He worked on the conduit some more, and it sparkled. Rommie smiled at her engineer and a moved of her shoulders and her head a bit, apparently satisfied. "Perfect."
Harper flashed her a grin of his own, full of pride and self-satisfaction. "I aim to please."
"Mag... nificient," Rev Bem murmured. Unfortunately for Harper's ego, he was still watching the swirls of the storm that were shining like… like gaseous oil. Contradictory as it sounded, there was simply no better word for it.
Tyr shot the Magog an annoyed look "I wish you would stop looking for beauty in things that want to kill us."
"This storm has no intent," Rev Bem replied placidly. "It simply is."
Tyr rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to throttle the Magog, which was getting more difficult with each passing day. There were only so many platitudes he was able to endure at any given time, and Rev Bem tended to get dangerously close to the threshold of his endurance.
"Can we evade it?" he asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.
Rev Bem shrugged philosophically. "I... if the neutrino damper is working properly, we should have an excellent margin for safety."
Right on cue, there was a spectacular… firework in the conduit Harper was working on. Power levels fell on the command deck abruptly, and so did Rommie. Harper barely managed to catch her, with Rev Bem rushing to his aid.
"Circuit overload," Harper diagnosed grimly. "I think we can safely say, the, uh, damper's defective."
Why am I not surprised?" Tyr growled and switched on the comm system. "Dylan to command. That lizard stabbed us in the back."
The only answer he got was the hissing of static from the speakers.
TBC
