It should make no sense at all.
Survival is optimal. Survival of the pride is all-important. A Nietzschian must add his enhanced genetic traits to the next generation.
Traits for which Nietzschians select include strength, courage, intelligence, and the practical skills of warfare, technology and multilevel logical analysis. One must be able to strip down a laser cannon, pilot a warship through a battle in six dimensions or more (with or without slipstream), and work the necessary quadratic equations in one's mind, often at the same time, or within a reasonable facsimile thereof. One should be able not only to provide the raw ingredients for dinner but also to cook an elegant meal, give pleasure to a mate, entertain a diplomat, raise a child, discuss philosophy and literature and outwit an assassin.
And one must survive.
In an unstable cosmos, genetic inheritance is all. It is control over the fickle whimsy of fate. A man who has not passed on his genes to the next generation is considered, by some, to be a man only in potential: that is, he is male, and nothing more. A true man has a family, a wife, children, grandchildren, a pride.
And yet I still live, the last survivor of Kodiak Pride, without a wife, without children, without a home, without any of what most Nietzschians would consider the necessities of life.
I live, and I watch, and I wait.
And I am, still, a man.
***
Harper felt better today. His visible wounds healed nicely, with few if any scars thanks to the powers of this ship's med deck. His invisible wounds, however, were festering.
I had chosen to keep one of the scars of the battle as a badge of honor; it is decorative, nothing more, and in a location obscure enough that it will neither draw attention to itself nor inconvenience me. I could feel it under my clothing as I sat in the galley and watched Trance Gemini fuss over Harper's food, making sure the machines add the right amount of some obscure spice to his hot drink. They teased each other as if they were brother and sister instead of ... whatever. Friends, most likely. Allies.
They are not lovers; I doubt that she has ever taken a lover, while his flirtation with her is too obvious to be serious.
She worries about him. Apparently, she always has, even more than Beka has. Perhaps she knows something the rest of us do not. Perhaps she is only one of those women who will worry, regardless of the situation, though her usual reaction is a fanatical sort of optimism.
Optimism is a survival tactic. In her abilities at this, she could be a Nietzschian clan matriarch.
Harper drank his beverage to the bottom, and smiled at her, flirting again.
It's a surface occupation for him, this flirtation. Behind it, he is always thinking.
These are only a few of the things I've noticed.
***
If one were to hazard a prediction about whom I should choose, in the current circumstances, the most logical guess would be Beka Valentine, and the second most logical would be Dylan Hunt.
Both would be wrong.
Most Nietzschians would understand why Beka would certainly be worth the play, but not consider her worthy as a mate. She's intelligent, strong, a survivor of many battles, and, whether she chooses to be or not, beautiful. She understands our way of thinking, though she seldom chooses to employ it. However, she is genetically damaged, as a result of a lifetime spent living aboard the Maru, with its far-from-adequate shielding against radiation, and therefore not a good mother to a Nietzschian's potential offspring.
Centuries ago there were, in Nietzschian society, places for women like her, women of strength and beauty and ability who were not born to our prides. She could have been a concubine, a lesser wife, not allowed legally to choose her man but allowed to be the choice of a man who had first been chosen by a woman of the pride. Her place would have been that of a plaything, a recreation, something less than fully human but still, in its own way, treasured. Alternatively, she could have been a scout, or a warrior guarding our women and children, trusted though not fully accepted as one of us for childbearing.
In my wildest fantasies, I could not imagine Beka Valentine allowing herself to be any man's toy. A shieldpartner, yes; a berserker, certainly; a worthy opponent or ally, without doubt -- but those were roles for non-enhanced females. There would be no room for her as she is in the world that my kind created, and this is unfortunate, for she knows far more about survival than many Nietzschians I have met.
***
Harper has been brooding again. He has taken to working late at night in his shop, tinkering, talking to himself. I have stood outside the door, listening, and he has not even noticed my presence.
No, not talking to himself, but to the Magog larvae within him.
He is braver than he knows.
Were I still to be infected with Magog, however dormant, I would find the simplest and easiest method of death available to me and arrange to have myself placed back within a Magog hive, so that I could take them out at the same time. I do not believe in acquiescing to death; I will not go gentle into that night. I have always fought it whenever it approached, and I am still here.
It is not in the nature of a Nietzschian to allow defeat.
It appears, also, not to be in the nature of this particular Earthling to give up, not now.
It was the small hours, or it would be if we were planetside. While others on board slept, he was still tinkering, still thinking, still talking.
He's named the creatures.
Rev Bem would say that he has given them shelter. Were it up to me, I would put Rev Bem through the same ordeal that Harper endures, to relieve him of the annoying habit of always supplying the unanswerable comment, regardless of the situation.
"You can quit lurking out there, Tyr."
I pushed off from the wall and walked quietly into the room. "You noticed."
"I noticed when the exercise equipment stopped making my ceiling creak." He pointed at a spot in the corner of the large room; I calculated distance and realize that I had indeed been lifting weights directly over that area.
"If it annoys you that much -- "
"Nah, don't bother. I like to think that you might come crashing through if I need the help."
I cast a glance at the ceiling. "I'm flattered, but I must reluctantly admit that my crashing through six-centimeter corrugated metal flooring supports is unlikely."
Harper snorted. "Right. Aren't you supposed to be the Superman side of 'Man and Superman'?" I raised an eyebrow, and he saluted me with the hand holding the screwdriver. "All these sarcastic literary comments from me, all this time, and only now you think I read the right books?"
"Not at all. I've been favorably impressed by your literary taste more than once."
"Danke, takk and -- " He made a throaty gurgle that indicated thanks in Ganlioni. "So, why the surveillance?"
"I was concerned."
"You don't think I've already got enough eyes on me? And in me?"
I moved closer to him, within the zone of friendship but outside the zone of personal safety so he would not feel threatened. "If there's anything you need from me, you have but to ask."
"Anything." He appeared to mull the thought, considering possibilities, while twirling the screwdriver between his fingers. "That's 'anything short of getting rid of my passengers', right? Or 'anything that won't upset Dylan.'" His eyes searched my face.
"I won't allow you to kill yourself until there's no other choice, and if that comes I'll help you die bravely, and without pain." My voice dropped into a whisper, in the futile attempt to dissuade the Andromeda computer surveillance from notice. "I will do all I can to help you rid yourself of your ... passengers."
He shook his head. "Not going to happen, dude, but I appreciate the offer. And, by the way, Rommie doesn't scan in here; I told her I needed some privacy, and she agreed as long as I promised not to off myself with the tools." He glared playfully at the screwdriver. "Like I'm really going to go samurai with this thing. Not a chance."
The screwdriver, one of the cross-head varieties, had seen hard use. "I suspect she was more concerned about the arc welder."
"Ooooh. That's just plain messy, and who'd have to clean it up? Me, myself and I. No way, no how." But his face straightened, all the humor gone. "Anything?"
It took effort to remain still, but I have been well trained in effort and in stillness. "Dylan's opinions do not move me."
"I'll keep that in mind." The rest of his body stilled, a concentration of energy that impressed me. In my childhood Nietzschian children were taught patience and stillness as battle tactics and as meditation, to prepare them for whatever they must face. Harper never attended one of our schools, yet stood as still as a monk or a mountain cat on the hunt. "Why?"
I shrugged, hoping that it would be enough. "No reason."
"You always have a reason."
"None that you might understand, beyond concern."
"You sure about that?"
A pause. He came closer, within reach, but I held my ground and stayed still. "No. Not entirely sure."
"Good." He spun away from me toward whatever he was doing. "Well, if you really meant anything, hand me that lug wrench when I get back under this thing. I could use an assistant."
I waited until he was in position, handed him whatever tools he requested, and stayed until the next shift, making small talk as I watched him work.
***
If physical perfection, an intelligent mind and intellectual brilliance -- not to mention the political craft of a Machiavelli -- were all that might be needed to qualify for genetic enhancement, Dylan Hunt would be at the head of the list. Although old to be chosen -- and I do not mean his inadvertent three-century time shift -- he has the qualifications to become Nietzschian, were he to request it.
This is not something done lightly these days, when we have spent centuries perfecting our race. Many Nietzschians would say that modification of those born lesser was a relic of the past, to be discarded as unnecessary now that we have our prides and clans, but we have always retained that option, that ability, lest we lose too many of our own in a disaster.
The last time modification was used at large was after the Battle of Witchhead, when the Angel of Death destroyed two-thirds of my people's fleet, a hundred thousand Nietzschians aboard a thousand ships. I know that angel's identity now, the fine bones of that face, the fierce pale eyes and the voice ordering their death -- all of which were Dylan's. Knowing this of Dylan does not diminish my regard for him. He acted as a Nietzschian in what he did, weighing the cost, knowing that cost to himself and to the Commonwealth he once served, and I believe he could have acted in no other way -- regardless of how that decision affected my people. It saved my own life; I cannot therefore oppose it.
However, Dylan's current quest and his methods of achieving it would bar him from consideration indefinitely. Even after Witchhead, we did not provide enhancement to those who were (however temporarily) insane, regardless of their brilliance or ability to use logic as a precision tool or a fine weapon.
Dylan is the highest-ranked alpha male aboard Andromeda, though not the only one. I know. As the only remaining Kodiak alive, I know what an alpha looks like whenever I glance into a mirror. An alpha is the ultimate survivor. An alpha will survive anything that can be thrown at him, because he cannot respond to a threat with less than his ultimate effort regardless of the circumstances. An alpha female will always choose an alpha male as her mate; were Dylan already a Nietzschian, he would be held in high regard by our matriarchs. His genes already offer the advantage of an ancestress from a heavy world, which gives him greater strength and stability in uncertain footing than might be expected from a mere human.
All things considered, Dylan might make a logical choice if one were to consider only temporary pleasure. However, it's likely that he would consider any approach by me to be an attempt to seduce him from his purpose, and his trust does not extend that far when it comes to me. If it did, however, the ability to be so seduced would reduce his desirability as it would indicate his preference for pleasure over survival. We are at war, whether the enemy realizes it or not; survival is the first priority, not dallying in the shade with a lover -- pleasurable as that would be, I'm sure.
So I watch him move in his uniform, or out of it on the basketball court or elsewhere, and keep my thoughts and consideration and conclusions to myself ... and there they remain.
***
Rev Bem? Faugh. Don't even.
***
I thought I had already dispensed with our little purple friend some time back. Let me be frank: even if she were a hypothetical deity, with corresponding powers and abilities, I seriously doubt that adding a tail to a Nietzschian child would be an admirable survival adaptation for all situations. We are, at heart, generalists; we adapt our skills to our situations. Forearm spikes -- bone spurs taken to lethal length -- are a reasonable defensive tool; however, a prehensile tail would probably be more of a liability than a benefit. Never give the enemy something that can be grabbed.
(Yes, I know that Alexander of Macedon wore his long hair tied up in a knot under a helmet. I have done that at times as well; a pad of hair can ease the fit of the most uncomfortable headgear. However, a strong head of hair -- and a comely one -- is an advantage I would not wish to surrender when dealing with women, or with men who insist on underestimating me based on my looks. I'm well aware that I seem younger and possibly more inexperienced than some; it's wise, when negotiating, not to show one's strengths or hand entirely.)
On the other hand, it's possible that I may be underestimating the little purple one; she has never, yet, shown her hand completely to anyone on the Maru, nor to Dylan, as far as I can tell. And her ability to think logically has surprised me more than once. She might bear watching, but not for any closer purpose.
***
Originally, Nietzschians were developed from the superior genetic stock of all human races, selected for their talents and strengths, their ability to endure, to plan and execute plans, to triumph over the odds that condemned lesser mortals to death. It is not within me to choose anyone who cannot meet these standards for ability.
Yet, upon Andromeda, I have been surprised more than once, and not by the obvious.
The obvious surprise would be Dylan himself, of course. I have learned to play that game he enjoys so much, basketball, and have found ways to win without breaking the game's ridiculous rules. It's a matter of speed, which, again, is a matter of strength and agility. I do not train my body only for its appearance.
The first time I won, Dylan laughed and challenged me to another game. The second time, he raised an eyebrow.
"What?" I asked in response. "Did I violate some obscure rule?"
"Not at all. That's what surprised me."
"You think only High Guard officers can learn this ridiculous pastime?" I sent the ball through the basket from center court, or what would be center court if we were playing in the kind of place the historical videos show as center court.
"No." A shadow crossed his face, and I knew without asking that his mind was showing him scenes of centuries ago, when his crew of hundreds would hold basketball tournaments and playoffs for the sheer enjoyment of the game. He caught the ball on the bounce and threw it back to me, hard. "Bet you can't do that again, five times running."
"What are the stakes?"
"Hmm." He considered. "I don't suppose you have any preference?"
"If I make all five baskets, you owe me a favor." I dribbled the ball from one hand to the other.
"Oh, a serious bet. I thought you were just playing."
"Am I ever other than serious?"
"Occasionally." Dylan stepped aside, out of the free-throw zone. "You've been known to exhibit sarcasm, irony, even humor."
"Don't let it out; it'll ruin my reputation." I made the first basket perfectly.
"Your secret is safe with me." He returned the ball. "If you lose, do you owe me a favor?"
"That depends on what you might be likely to ask of me."
"Aha. A double standard."
The ball flew into the basket again. "It's simple prudence. Self-preservation. Or, perhaps, the influence of a philosopher who said, 'Beware of entangling alliances.'"
"George Washington. Now, I would have thought you were already as entangled with the good fortunes of the Andromeda as possible," Dylan said lightly, returning the ball again.
I shrugged. "If I lose, you may ask me any one question you wish and I will answer it honestly and without prevarication." I sent the ball on its way for the third time, faultlessly.
"That's quite a bet. Of course, you don't expect to lose."
The ball came back to me. I sent it flying through the basket again. "Of course."
"Good to know. So," Dylan leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching me line up the last half- court shot, "how do you think we're doing?"
"We?" I let an eyebrow rise interrogatively, and dribbled the ball slowly for a moment or two. It is always wisest to know to what one is responding before opening one's mouth.
"Andromeda. The ship. Is there anything else we should do to combat the Magog?"
"Other than ridding our company of them?" I thought I'd hidden the flare of anger within me well enough until I saw the ball hover on the edge of the basket before falling in.
"Ah. Yes. I don't suppose you mean Rev."
"No."
"If I told you that we're doing the best we can to find a cure, would that appease you?"
"Considering the current state of affairs, I'd say you hadn't a hope of appeasing me." I threw the ball at him, hard, and he caught it between his palms, in front of his chest.
"Rommie is scanning the data of the All Systems University Library, as well as searching the information available on every planet we come near. Trance is doing research every day and running experiments every night."
I noticed that he had not reported on his own progress toward a cure, if he had made any.
"And the little professor is still waiting."
"Is this the favor you want to ask of me?"
"No." I let the glare show. "This is what you owe to your crew for being your crew, for abandoning their previous lives and agreeing to come with you on your quest. I haven't asked for the favor yet."
"I'll keep that in mind." He looked thoughtful as he turned away toward the shower.
***
One learns, in Nietzschian society, to take one's pleasures lightly but seriously, just as one takes pain or discomfort.
I let myself relax as the hot water rolled over me. Some days it took very little to bring me to the spending point, such as now, when I watched the water on the tiles wash away what might, in different circumstances, become my passport to the status of husband and father. Other days required not only touch but imagination, and, on occasion, the need to resort to meditation on the Sylphidian mysteries, the tales told by our women of the prowess of their husbands. As soon as we are old enough to understand their meaning, we are encouraged to learn from them, so that no Nietzschian male will ever be unaware of or unskilled at the arts of pleasure.
It is not a coincidence that the men of my race are well-shaped and well-endowed. This was a matter of conscious breeding, of care and thought, many generations ago, for which I am grateful to my ancestors.
(My people learn as small children that religion is the opiate of the masses. In practice, however, we spend far more time acknowledging our debt to our ancestors than might be expected of any Confucian monk. Since no actual deities are involved, this does not count as 'religious observance,' but merely as practical genetics.)
And we know, as boys, that the touch that pleases a woman may also please a man. We do not speak of it, but we know. We are expected to give up the pleasure we find with each other when we come of age, so that we will be chosen by the women of the pride and attain the status of husband and father.
Not all do. Not all prides are understanding of this choice, but many allow it among those who have chosen only to be warriors or explorers, who will not often live in pride. Conventionally, most often no one speaks of this, but it is known and never forgotten.
***
We were reclining in the ship's video viewing room when Harper mentioned it again.
Simultaneously off shift, I had suggested dinner and a movie from the ship's historical library; he had blinked but agreed. It was not as elaborate as the meal I had once prepared for Beka, but substantial and filling, much of it genuine with the help of the hydroponics garden -- filet of salmon with fresh dill, new potatoes, bequat temsih (a vegetable dish I'd picked up on Surinali), and ginger ice for dessert. Afterward, we watched his choice, a light comedy that emphasized beautiful women and sleight-of-hand, and then mine, a historical drama disguised as a martial- arts entertainment.
"You consider that historical?" Harper shook his head. His hair, grown longer since our captivity, flicked off his forehead and back down again. "Jackie Chan didn't even film most of that in New York."
"I have it on good authority that certain scenes portray the world of that time accurately. More to drink?" I waved a hand toward the bottles I'd brought.
"No, thanks. This is fine." He sighed. "Y'know what, Tyr? I'm still waiting for either of our esteemed captains to say one word to me about my ... passengers."
"Really?" My surprise must have shown in my face, for he nodded solemnly. "That's odd."
"You're telling me. I mean, I sort of expected it from Dylan, since he takes this captain shit so seriously. Beka, well, she and I don't talk about the serious stuff much, but we do talk." He shifted uncomfortably on his couch. "It worries me." As I watched, he gave me a sickly grin. "No, I'm fine. It's the feelings that bother me, not the critters."
"Dylan knows. I'd assume Beka does, too, though I could be mistaken. Our honored captain does tend to keep secrets."
"It's not as if this is a secret." He leaned up on one elbow to scowl at me. "I mean, it's not like they didn't know what happened on the Magog world, especially when I was screaming about it in every direction. Dylan's the one who found us, f'crying out loud. Maybe they think whatever Trance did to you worked on me, too."
"Dylan told me he and Rommie were searching the information banks on every planet and station we contact." I watched him think about it. "Perhaps Beka is uncomfortable with discussing it."
"Beka's good at talking about things you can survive ..." His voice trailed off.
"You will survive this, Harper."
"You can't be sure about that."
He was factual, not hostile, but I felt his words reverberate within me.
"I can't be sure the sun will rise tomorrow, and I can't be sure the next band of Drago-Kazov won't impale me on their ship's bowsprit, either." I smiled at that, so he would realize I considered the Drago-Kazov a joke rather than a threat. "I know you, and you're a warrior, a fighter. You don't give up." I rolled over to face him fully; we were within touching distance, if either of us wished it. "I'm not a doctor or a scientist, it's true; I can't help you in those ways. But I will do anything else I can to keep you alive."
"You said that before. Anything." He watched me steadily, his head leaning against the back of the lounge chair. "I'm not sure how much I trust you about that."
"Because I'm a Nietzschian?"
"I don't know what you get out of it, Tyr."
I closed my eyes briefly; when I opened them, he was still watching me. "What I get out of it is the satisfaction of continuing to have a shieldbrother and a friend in my life. We have risked our lives together. That's not a small thing to me."
"Shieldbrother?"
I nodded.
"You don't have anyone you care about outside this ship, do you?"
"I could say that it's to my advantage to care about the people here because it keeps me alive."
"That's right, you could say that." He toyed with the video controller. "And it might even be true."
"It is true. Whether it's the whole truth is something you'll have to decide for yourself." I would not burden him with the history of my dead, unless he specifically requested it.
Harper nodded slowly. "And if I decided that there was more to the truth, and I wanted to find out what it was ..."
"You need only ask."
He held silence for a long time, watching me, thinking, as he always has. Sometimes I could follow his thoughts, but this time they were shuttered behind his eyes. "And if I do ask, what do I have to trade you or pay you for the answer?"
My breath rattled in my throat. Could he hear it? "Honesty."
I started to reach across the space between us, slowly, gently, giving him time to draw back or signal displeasure -- but Dylan's voice came over the loudspeaker, asking Harper for help with a section of the new bridge installation that kept shorting out, and the moment was gone.
***
Beka fell into step with me the next day as I came out of the ship's weight room. "I hear you're spending time with my engineer."
"He's more than just your engineer." I wasn't in a mood to chat. Dylan had started to plan the next phase of his grand scheme, which would involve enlisting the aid of the same Sabra-Jaguar Pride that he'd nearly been killed assisting in the past. Keeping him alive was promising to be a challenge.
"Yes, he is. He's my friend." Stubborn, that woman.
I rounded on her. "If he's your friend, why don't you talk to him about what he's carrying around inside his belly?"
"There's no need to discuss that."
"There's every need." I held back the words I wanted to say -- it would do me no good to point out to her that if she and Dylan had been there for Harper, he probably would not desire my company so much. "He's confused and upset by you and by Dylan."
"Why, Tyr, I'm surprised. I didn't think you cared that much about the emotional state of the crew." She still sounded as cool as ever. I wanted to smash that icy facade, but I knew violence would not work. I settled for brooding.
"When that emotional state is likely to affect his work to program the Andromeda, and keep this ship and the Maru in working order around the enemy?" I leaned over her. "Oh, I'm very interested indeed."
"You appear to be becoming a bit emotional yourself." Beka didn't intimidate easily, one reason that I respected her as a captain.
"Don't be ridiculous. My survival is concerned, and so is yours if he's upset enough to try to kill himself again."
"Again?" The word jolted her.
"Again."
"Rev Bem tried to starve himself, and now this."
"Harper should never have been left to clear dead Magog from the ship. Never. That's what those 'bots are for, and the A.I.s."
"I know." She was nodding. "I was furious when I found that out. I gave Rommie a piece of my mind."
"I'd have given her the boot in her cybernetic ass if I'd known. Trance Gemini would not have come up with that idea for herself."
"You're right." Beka looked rueful. "It seems I have some talking to do, and I owe it to you."
"You're welcome," I growled, "as long as you do it."
"You know," she said in leaving, "I like you like this. Fierce. Protective. It's a nice change from your permanent coolth."
I snorted but let her past me without further comment. If she didn't talk to Harper, my next conversation with her would be considerably less polite. However, I did trust that she'd have a long and loud conversation with Andromeda herself, which would be all to the good.
Of course I was concerned about the wellbeing and safety of everyone on the ship, which depended greatly upon the peace of mind and continuing health of the ship's one and only engineer.
Of course.
***
Another movie night seemed redundant, perhaps too predictable. I continued to keep an eye on Harper, as much as possible, without letting my surveillance be known to the rest of the crew. This should not have been so difficult, were it not for the android Rommie, who walked up silently behind me as I drank coffee in the passageway one night and asked, "Why?"
"Because we need him alive," I said, "and sane, no thanks to you."
I hadn't thought an android could change color like that. She paled, temporarily, and looked away from me. "You're right. It was stupid." Her voice stayed soft, as mine had been.
"I'd use stronger words than that."
"I was thinking in terms of expedience. You should understand that."
"And you should understand that I don't care about your terms."
"Children, please," Harper broke in. He stood in the door of his shop, bouncing on his heels. "Would you mind arguing about me out of my hearing? It's distracting."
"Of course." Rommie turned away.
"Tyr, you got a second? I could use some muscle in here."
I put the mug down on a side brace. "I'm not busy right now." I waited until the android was well away before moving into the room.
"Here." He pointed to a long strut on the end of ... something. It wasn't one of his usual bits and pieces of machinery or computer technology. "Would you get under that and lift it while I slide these things underneath?" When I had grabbed it and had lifted myself, with the strut on my shoulder, he continued, "You know, I really appreciate the defense, but it's not necessary."
"Yes, it was." The strut was so deceptively light that Trance could have moved it easily. I stayed put, since he obviously wanted me there. "You should not have had to move Magog corpses, not in the condition you were in."
"Physical or mental?" His glance cut like a razor.
"Either. Both." I let my guard down a little. "I would not have wanted to do it, either. I have disposed of the bodies of my enemies for nearly two decades; it's seldom an amusing experience. But requiring you to move Magog when -- " I needed to back off, to cool down, but I could not. "It was unconscionable to make you do that, in your mental state. We need you to be able to think and work."
"Aha. You only want me for my electronics, and for my nimble fingers on the computer controls. I should have known."
I ignored that. "Is this enough lifting for now?"
"Actually, no. If you'd put that down, I need you to move something else."
"What?" I let the strut rest on the things he'd moved under it.
"Yourself. Over here."
This was unprecedented. As I walked toward him, he flicked the control near the door and it slid closed. I paused, one heel off the ground, and waited.
"I'm not going to bite, unless it's called for." Harper leaned his hips back against a counter. "I wanted to thank you, for ... for ... for being so nice to me. I know that sounds stupid, but I mean it." He was only a foot away; I could feel his body heat, and the extra heat from his core where the odious grubs were sleeping. "I don't have many friends, and it means a lot that you want to spend time with me."
It was as formal a statement as I'd ever heard him make, and as serious. "You're welcome. I would not make the offer if I didn't enjoy it also."
"That's what I thought. See, that right there makes me feel good, because I know what Nietzschians think of Earthlings like me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Am I the same as all Nietzschians, then?"
"No, you're not," he said slowly. "And that makes me think I've misunderstood other things as well."
How had I lost control of this situation? Perhaps neutrality would return it to me. "It's always possible to misunderstand something if you don't reach your conclusion by logical means."
"See, that's where you're wrong. I've been doing the math. Actually, I'm rather good at math. I can do summations, permutations and integrals in my head without counting on my toes, and what I'm seeing doesn't quite add up with the data I've been given."
"And that is?"
"I can see it more than one way." He ticked off the sentences on his fingers. "You and I fought together for survival. We both had Magog larvae. Therefore, we're both warriors and you respect me because of it."
"That's not incorrect," I murmured.
"Sssh. I'm not done. Second version: You don't have larvae any more. I do have them. You feel sorry for me. Problem is, that's a logical fallacy because Nietzschians don't ever feel sorry for anyone."
I remained silent.
"Most Nietzschians, in fact, would probably be glad that there was one fewer Earthling kludge around. But you are not most Nietzschians, as we've established. Therefore, I can't use what I know of most Nietzschians to calculate what you would do." He cocked his head a little, staring me down with the sort of gaze I'd expect to see through an electron microscope. "Tyr does what's best for Tyr, always. Tyr also does what's best for us on Andromeda because it's also what's best for Tyr, most of the time. What I'm wondering is how my health intersects with what's best for Tyr, and saying we're shieldbrothers doesn't quite cover it. And don't tell me it's because I'm the engineer. Beka's almost as good as I am at some of it, and so is Trance if she's given half a chance. They just don't have the same touch, and they're better at other things. So, why do you care?"
I looked away, at the contraption beside us, at the door. When I looked back, he was still watching me. "Not everything in life obeys perfect logic."
"Are you sure you're a Nietzschian?" It wasn't quite a smile.
"All things should, undoubtedly. And there is an order in the universe, whether we acknowledge it or not."
"I'm not keeping you here to discuss the music of the spheres." Unaccountably, he was starting to move again, to bounce a little on the balls of his feet as he slid his thumbs into his pockets and started to smile.
"I have no complaints. Music can be a fascinating topic."
"See, that's what I mean. I'd expect you to want to hang out with Dylan more than me. I mean, at least he's had pretty good experiences with you guys in the past, whereas I haven't done so well that way until now." His voice softened. "I didn't think you believed in friends."
"It's not the same for us as it is for other races," I admitted. "I don't know if I can explain it to you."
He shook his head. "That's not important. What I want to know is this: if Tyr always does what's best for Tyr -- which I know to be true -- and if Tyr has offered to do 'anything' to help me in my current, um, situation -- which I also know to be true -- are there any limits to what that 'anything' covers?"
His gaze locked me in. It felt as if the whole spinning universe had managed to implode within my brain. My muscles tensed, then eased almost imperceptibly; the fight-or-flight response was inappropriate. "No." I swallowed hard. "No limits."
"So." His voice dropped until it was softer than mine. "If I should happen to have trouble sleeping, which I do sometimes now and then, and I should come to your room in search of, say, company for a while, you wouldn't throw me out?"
"You would be welcome," I said, formally. Such matters as this always required the formal tone of voice.
"Even if it was more than just company I wanted...."
The formal tone of voice deserted me, though I struggled to retain it. "Yes, even so."
"Thanks." He looked relieved, his muscles looser. "I mean it. I might take you up on that one of these days."
I nodded. "I'd be honored." I started to turn toward the door. By now Dylan would have been informed that I was in a scan-blocked room with his chief engineer; he would probably want to threaten to shoot me out an airlock if I harmed Harper. I would have to be elsewhere and quickly in order to throw him off the scent.
"You say that like you mean it." Harper's voice was quizzical.
"I do mean it."
"Good. I mean, that's really good. I appreciate it. And just for that," he swaggered a bit, "I promise not to ask you too much about that nice long container you've got in storage in the third auxiliary cargo bay."
I swerved so quickly that, were I a lesser man, I would have fallen over my own feet. "How did you -- "
"Had to clear a couple of corpses off it," he said, as if it didn't matter at all.
He would have said 'bodies' if they had been human.
"Then I am doubly in your debt, Seamus Zelazny Harper." I bowed to him, formally, and left before I could betray myself with any more words.
***
By the time Dylan found me, I was in my second set of reps, sweating well and considering the beneficial effects of a tourniquet for my mouth, should another such encounter occur. "Tyr. Just the man I was looking for. I'd like to get your opinion of Sabra-Jaguar Pride, if I may." He sat on a neighboring weight bench, and I felt his eyes calculate the load I was pressing.
"They're enemies of the Drago-Kazov, if that's what you're asking."
"I knew that. What do you think of them as individuals, any that you've met?"
I considered the question. "Well armed, well trained. Good fighters. They tend to be less than straightforward in their dealings with other prides, but that's not a mark against them."
"I can see that." He rose again. "I wasn't sure, from that other trip I made into their territory, what their capabilities might be."
"Significant, I'd think, although I believe they'd be impressed by Andromeda."
"Let's hope so. I'm planning to invite Arch-Duke Charlemagne Bolivar to join the fight against the Magog."
I set the long bar with its iron weights down on the stand. "Are you sure you don't have a death wish?"
"Would I be working against the Magog if I did?" He picked up a twenty-pound dumbbell and did slow arm curls, reflectively.
"Certainly. It's a man's privilege to choose the type of death he'd prefer."
He nodded to himself and set the dumbbell back in its place. "How do you feel these days?"
"Well enough for whatever occurs."
"Good." He rose to leave. "By the way, thank you for keeping an eye on Harper."
I tried to keep my tone civil, without straying into the formal mode that would indicate a threat. "He fought beside me bravely and well; he is not a child to be 'kept an eye on'."
"Nevertheless." Dylan stopped in the doorway. "Is it because you're free of what happened and he isn't?"
"No one of us is free of it, you most of all," I countered.
"True." Dylan nodded. "If there is anything I need to know, for the good of the ship, I'd expect you to tell me before I have to ask you."
I used the formal tone this time. "Of course, Captain."
He turned and left. I showered and went to the observation
deck to stare at the stars until my shift.