Harper came in quietly and stood by the door. "I'm not intruding, am I?"

"If you were I wouldn't set the door to open." I put the book aside. He looked tired, his forehead furrowed as if his eyes hurt him. "Would you like something to eat or drink? I think you could use it." I filled a glass with water at the sink in the corner and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He gulped it down. "I've been too busy down in the lab. Things got away from me."

"How so?"

"Forgot what time it was, forgot to take my meds until the kids reminded me." He winced. "Then I made sure to take a double dose, and they got quiet again, but -- " his voice broke.

"Here, sit down." I pulled out the comfortably padded chair by the desk for him and he slumped into it gratefully.

"I'm not sure how much more of this I can take, Tyr."

I nodded, as much to keep him talking as any other reason.

"It's not the pain -- I'm good with pain, you know that -- it's the not-knowing that kills me." He gazed up at me, his eyes red and damp. "You know about that, too."

"Yes. I do." I moved behind him. "I can't do anything about the not-knowing, but I know something about dealing with pain. Lean forward a little." I rested my hands on his shoulders and started to rub, carefully, letting my fingertips seek out the knots and stresses. "I know that when one is in pain, any muscle tension anywhere in the body will add to the discomfort. However, relaxing the muscles with any pleasant experience will cause the release of endorphins within the body, which will relieve pain."

"Yeah. I've read about that. There's a whole study in the ship's library on humor and pain relief, and even a discussion of which societies have a sense of humor that's more suited to different kinds of funny stuff." He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the desk and laid his head on them.

"Humor is one route." I rubbed more deeply into the muscle and he groaned. "If you'll take your shirt off this will be easier for me and feel better for you."

"That's the best offer I've had all day. All week. Maybe even all year. Who knows how long a year is in space? Years are calculated on planets." He unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off over his head to drop on the floor. I calculated the tension in his spine and the angle of his head as I rubbed down the spinal column and out along the curving shape of ribs. He must have been in considerable pain, well beyond what conventional pain relief would cover, unless he'd elected not to take any.

"Have you eaten this evening?"

Harper moved his head from side to side. "Forgot."

"Pain pills?"

"You got me there. I did take 'em, but not early enough."

"I can tell. Your back muscles are tied up like a nest of Hyrconian rats."

"And you know how much we all love Hyrconian rats." He groaned; I'd hit a sore spot.

I tested it and teased it out slowly, hampered by the angle at which I was working. "It would be easier for us both if you would lie on the bed."

He sat back up in the chair, stretching a little. "Yeah. I can do that. I'm not even going to make a crack about whether your intentions are honorable."

"Go ahead." He had to feel more at ease with me or this would never help him.

"Well, then." He flopped back on the bed, leaned up on his elbows with surprise. "Oooh. Soft. And here I thought you were all Spartan or something."

"Comfort is a fine thing; it need not lead to decadence."

"Not unless it's done right." He snickered. "So, how honorable are your intentions toward me, Tyr Anasazi out of Victoria by Barbarossa?"

I drew a breath. By invoking my parents' names, he'd made this a formal question, whether he realized it or not. I would have to make him a formal reply. The Nietzschian laws of formal exchange are strict on this matter: a formal question requires an answer that is truthful, whose words cannot on their face be lies, though there is room for prevarication if that is called for. It does not matter whether the answer is made to another of my race or to anyone else; failure to reply to a formal question truthfully is a violation of honor -- and a Nietzschian respects his own honor as he respects his will to survive.

Did he know what he was asking of me? I thought not.

"My intentions, sir, are most honorable. I would like to relieve your pain, and I will do nothing that you do not request or approve. Will that suffice?"

"Oh, yeah. And what's this calling me 'sir' business? This is me, Tyr, not Bolivar Rastaman or whatever he calls himself." He lay back and rolled over, stretching on the dark red blanket and crimson sheets and wincing at the cramped muscles.

"Are you speaking of Charlemagne Bolivar, or Napoleon Rastafarian?" I sat on the bed next to him and began to stroke his back slowly, using the palm of my hand to warm his stiff muscles. Nietzschians have a slightly higher average body temperature than non-enhanced humans; I've been told in the past that the touch of my hand pleased because it was always warm.

"Probably the first guy. Who's Napoleon Rastafarian?"

"I have no idea," I said, chuckling a little. "I made him up. There's nobody by that name in my people's histories."

"Cool. Hey, let's just create the guy for the hell of it. Invent his history, what he looks like. Oooh. More there."

"You have but to ask," I said, rubbing lower on his back until I reached the bony plate of his pelvis. Without my asking, he loosened the top of the trousers and pushed them aside so that I could reach the tensed muscles more easily.

Such lovely muscles. His body was compact but deceptively strong from wrestling with machinery. I had seen how strong he was when I had fallen in battle, stunned by a blow to the head, and watched him knock aside two Magog so that I could get back on my feet. He had never let his terror get the best of him then. His skin looked pale against my bed, but healthy. I slid my hands up his back to work on his shoulders and shoulder blades again, and heard a soft sigh of relaxation.

"I don't want to be, um, inappropriate, but my legs are cramping too."

"It's a side effect of the double dose you took; it affects all major muscle groups. Go ahead, take them off if you want." I sat up out of his way, and he rolled over to slide out of the clothes completely and push them over the side of the bed.

"Not trying to come on to you, Tyr, though ..." His glance slid over me like water. I spent a brief millisecond in thanksgiving to my ancestors and their ability at genetic modification.

"I know. Lie down again." I refrained from touching him until he lay prone, his tortured legs within reach. I started at the buttocks, rubbing out the stiffness and soreness, working my way down the tensing muscles.

"You're a godsend. Where'd you learn to do this?"

"I worked on Kotyra for a while."

His brows knitted as he thought. "Kotyra." The reference registered. "You were a --"

"The accepted term is courtier, the masculine variant of courtesan. Yes. It was a long time ago." His calf knotted under my hand and I warmed it for a moment before continuing.

"I thought you said you were in the mines."

"This was after that." I was working my way down to his feet now; I pulled a fold of the blanket across his back so that he would not chill. "About a year after I escaped from the mine, I was captured by a slave trader at the Daligon Pass, and he sold me to a ... trainer, who sold me to a noble house on Kotyra."

"Does the house still exist?" His voice held a hint of humor. "Or did you take it apart beam from splinter when you left?"

"How well you know me." I felt, rather than heard, him snicker. "It exists. The family was kind to me, comparatively." I smiled, remembering. "I seduced the daughter, who helped me escape. That might have caused problems, but I also had taken the time to seduce the mother as well, so she took care to hide any evidence of my leaving." I shook my head to move my dangling hair from my face; it had come untied somewhere along the way. "There was a war a few years later; I don't know if they survived. I was in another galaxy by then."

"So, what did you learn from the Kotyrans?"

"A few things," I admitted. "I learned to distinguish different races by their musculature; many may appear human, but there are ways to tell the difference if one can see part of a body. Changes in the direction of joints, for instance, or the alignment of muscles along the spine." I was moving back up his legs again, paying more attention to his inner thighs, sliding my hands up slowly to his almost-parted buttocks, letting them move ever so slightly apart as I passed them. Yes, there was a shift, a small moan from him, barely louder than a breath. He would be pleased, then, perhaps ...

I put the thought aside. This was for him, not me.

"If you want to roll over, I'll work on the front as well."

"Ohh. This feels so good. If you ever need to go back to being a mercenary, you might set up as a masseur as a sideline." He rolled slowly, luxuriating, and flopped loosely onto his back, his face blissful.

"What, you don't think I could make it as a masseur, with mercenary jobs as a sideline?" I shuttered my eyes, grateful that I had retained my trousers. Form-fitting though they might be, they would hide my state for some time, at least.

"You, Tyr, could make it as anything you wanted." His eyes were closed but his mouth curved deliciously. I ran my hands across his chest and ribs, checking for tension. "Would you be a little careful there? Don't want to wake them."

"Show me where they are, so I don't disturb them."

He pointed them out: there and there, a cluster a little further over, another one down and a couple of separate ones, all wrapped around organs between his breastbone and his pelvic bone.

Thirteen little biological time charges, thirteen harbingers of death and destruction. If thought could have slain them, they would already have been dead weeks before from my concentrated ill will alone.

I ran my hands down his flanks and he relaxed again. "That's fine," he murmured. "Anything."

"Your legs are still tight. I'll work on them." And I did, kneading the quadriceps on each side and loosening it so that it no longer tried to bend the femur in uncomfortable ways. I slid my hands up again, dodging the areas he'd indicated, to run my palms across the front of his shoulders, down his arms one by one, to pull gently on his fingers until he was limp in my bed. The one area I had ignored, his cock, lay half-aroused against his thigh.

I rested my hands gently against his face, warming it, feeling the prickle of unshaven skin against me. His eyes fluttered open.

"That's so good, Tyr."

"Do you want more from me?" I could not, would not go into the formal mode again if I could help it. "I don't know how risky it might be, but I am willing to try." I slid one hand downward, stopping before it reached his groin.

He studied me a moment. "Is this part of being a shieldbrother that they left out of the manual?"

"You could say that." I waited, the other hand still cupping his face.

"It wasn't something I thought I could ask," he said, as if that explained everything. "I mean, you being who you are. I didn't think I'd have a chance if I did ask."

"You underestimate yourself, as usual." But I had to be certain, beyond doubt, that he understood and agreed. "What would please you?"

"Just about anything. I, um, don't know if active sex is going to wake them, though it shouldn't. I mean, more than what I could do with Rosie, here." He waved a hand. "If you need it to be official, okay. Yes. Da. Ja wohl. Si. Domo arigato."

I smiled at him, solemnly, my own fears subsiding. "It would be a honor. No," I rested a finger lightly on his lips, "don't object to my words. It is an honor to be here with you, and it pleases me to do what will relieve your pain." I dared not say any more. Let him read between the words and the touches and conclude what he might.

"Only if I get to reciprocate." Harper's voice went lower, sweeter.

"Later." I stretched out near him on the big bed -- and sent thoughts of gratitude toward the genius who had equipped the Andromeda's crew quarters with oversized beds as a general practice -- and slid my hand down to cup him, to roll his scrotum in my palm tenderly, as his cock began to perk up. I leaned in to sniff and lick and lap, to caress his thighs and the soft space behind his balls, to listen for his sighs and his moans and learn, from them, what would most please him. I licked a finger and slid it between, to stroke across that tight round muscle and tease it gently, and felt him shiver and sigh, and with that I bent my head to him and began to lick the shaft and up around and across the glans, loving the feel of him in my hands, loving the taste of him on my tongue and in my throat.

I went slowly, for he was already relaxed and I did not want to negate the effect of an hour's massage, but I did not let up. I used every trick I'd ever learned in the schools of pleasure, both in my pride and on Kotyra, and from every bed I'd ever shared, to give him as much joy and sweetness as I knew how to do. I slid one slicked finger into him, slowly, carefully, while I took him with my mouth and my other hand, stopping only occasionally to lean across to bestow a stray caress or lick where he would least expect it, always avoiding the places where the hidden dangers slumbered. When I finally let him come, he came powerfully, tensing around my finger, flooding down my throat, and I closed my eyes and let him fill me with himself.

I came back to myself to find his hand in my hair, playing with a long strand. "How are you feeling?" I asked him softly, my cheek pillowed on his hip. His muscle had released my finger, but my hand still rested between his legs.

"Better than in a long time. I ... don't have words."

"None are necessary." He was shivering, a faint tremor marring the effects of afterglow. If he grew chilled, his muscles would tense again. "If you'll move over a little and get under the covers, you can stay."

"Thanks." He moved languidly, as if he'd turned to melted butter, and I smiled, pleased with my work. "Don't think I could walk anywhere right now."

"There's no need." I settled in beside him, a hand on myself. I could take care of my own tension quietly, without awakening him; this, too, was something I'd learned on Kotyra.

"Mmmmm not fair to you, man. You didn't get anything." He sounded so sleepy I half fantasized that his words were slipping out and sliding onto the bed. "Sor-ry."

His hand reached for me and landed on the part of me he'd been most concerned about, below my own hand. His touch was cool to me, sweet, and I yearned for it even as I told him, "Later."

"No. Now." His eyes stayed shut, but he frowned. "Later, too, but right now I can do this. Hell, I usually do myself in my sleep these days, why not you?" His grip tightened on me, sliding, and I sighed and let him slide over to run a hand over me. His touch made me shiver, made me want to come so soon, just from the pleasure of his cool, strong hand on me. The muscles he strengthened as an engineer were different from the ones I used in fighting; his grip felt unlike mine, stronger in the palm, careful in the fingers. The glide of his hand up and down my crest delighted me.

I never expected him to slide down under the covers, to take me in his mouth as I had done for him. I grabbed the head of the bed, afraid that I would hurt him if I reached for him while he aroused me so, and he took me over and had his will of me, taking me into his mouth, into himself, his wet fingers finding my secret places, the sizzling touches that made my back arch against the sheets as I spent myself in him, throbbing, burning, glowing. He licked me clean afterward like a cat, slithered back up on the bed and opened one eye toward me as I waited for my heartbeat to subside so it no longer thundered in my ears.

"Do you kiss? I mean, do shieldbrothers kiss?" he asked. His hand slid up my abdomen to rest loosely against my breast.

"Yes," I told him, but I let him make the first move, coming up so that I could bring my arm down under his head and gather him in close. He kissed not like a woman or a warrior but inquisitively, tenderly, ending with a small lick of the tip of his tongue between my lips after his had just pulled away. "Go to sleep," I whispered to him as I felt myself drift off. My last thought was that I was glad beyond all reckoning that Dylan adhered to the ancient practice of suspending two days of work and calling it a weekend, regardless of the calendar, as tomorrow would be the beginning of mine, and Harper's.

I dreamed seldom since I came on board the Andromeda. Lately, when I did dream it was only rehashed images of the day's work, or nightmares of the Magog, which were more common that I wanted to admit. I had had too many of them to ignore before and during the time when Trance operated on me, and she had had to give me a drug to block them so that I could rest enough to heal.

"It's ridiculous," I growled at her. "I should not be unable to face my fears."

"No one is questioning your courage, Tyr," Trance said. "It's a matter of caring for your body. If you don't heal, you won't be able to get your revenge, and that's what you want, isn't it?"

Sometimes Trance could see entirely too much. I nodded, reluctantly.

"Will your drug impair my mind, remove my memories?" I had to ask her.

"Oh, no," she said, distress on her face. "It will only block the dreams. It's all right, Tyr, really. You're not losing a thing. They're not your dreams, they're theirs."

"Theirs." It took a moment for me to realize who she meant. "Theirs? They dream?"

She nodded. "I can't explain it, but that seems to be what's happening. I can sense it a little -- not as much as you can, but the scans show that when you're asleep and having a nightmare they're particularly ... active."

"Give me the drug." I held out a hand and she waved it aside and spray-injected it into my neck. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me until we're done." She bit her lip. "You'll need all your strength to get through this, every bit of it, and you'll have to help me with Harper because you -- you -- "

"I know." I patted her shoulder. "You get me through this. I'll do the rest, whatever I can."

She did. It seemed as if it took years, though it was only days. I did not allow myself to sleep unless she drugged me, to keep the larvae's dreams from violating my mind the way their existence violated my body. And she was right. It required all my strength to survive, and the aid of two A.I.s to get around and regain my strength when I started to recover.

And then she'd had to wake Harper from stasis to tell him that, with what she'd learned from freeing me, she could not free him without killing him.

I could not sleep at all after that, seeing the look on his face when he understood what had happened, what would happen. I told myself that lying awake would not aid Harper in the slightest, but it took several days for me to be able to rest without thinking of it.

And I had not dreamed, or remembered that I dreamed, since then.

But as I lay in my own bed with Harper's head resting against my shoulder, I dreamed of my parents, Victoria and Barbarossa, at home when I was a child. They had not known I was there, reading by the window, as they sat in the garden behind our home, enjoying the evening's cool air and talking. I heard their voices, as if I were still a child, but this time I understood the words.

"What in the universe is Ariadne Tecumseh thinking, to allow Aelfric to bond with Suleimon Lionheart?" My father's voice rumbled in his chest, as it did when he was particularly annoyed though not angry. "It's a ridiculous maneuver. Kliopatra does not favor Aelfric at all. Does Ariadne think this will change her mind?"

"I doubt it," my mother said. "Ariadne's thinking of Aelfric's happiness. He would be miserable if he were to marry Kliopatra, and she would divorce him, and then he would have no status at all. With Suleimon, at least he has the status of shieldbrother."

"It's not enough for him. He's better than
that. He deserves to be a husband and father, to know the joys that I know with you." He kissed her, his long light hair drifting across her black braids.

"Baro, listen. You, of all people, should know that it's wrong to force a marriage without affection, and Aelfric feels nothing for Kliopatra. I chose you for love; would you rather have had me choose Juarez Gautama, as my mother wished, for status?" Her voice was quiet. "Let him bond with the one he has chosen, who has chosen him. His unhappiness will not advance the fortunes of Kodiak Pride, while his work with Suleimon may well bring us wealth and glory. He has a host of new inventions to show you, when you have the time, new thoughts on weaponry and battle tactics."

"Aelfric's quite the scholar. Very well, if this is what Ariadne wants I won't speak against it in council."

"But will you speak for it?" My mother, pushing again. Perhaps that is where I acquired the tendency to press my advantage.

"If you wish it, I'll speak for him. I can't begrudge the man his happiness when I have mine."

The dream faded, and I drifted, half asleep, remembering. Aelfric and Suleimon had been on an expedition, cruising the four moons of the next planet in search of rare minerals for their projects, when the Drago-Kazov stormed the Kodiak lands. They returned, in their light craft with its experimental weapons, and blew up half a dozen Drago-Kazov ships before their own ship was blown out of the sky. At the last moment they'd jettisoned to temporary safety on the far side of the planet, where they evaded capture by the Dragans long enough to harry the invaders with guerilla attacks from more experimental weaponry for four weeks. When they were captured, and paraded through the town in chains, I saw them from my own imprisonment in the van, and when Aelfric caught my eye he nodded, as if acknowledging the payment of a debt. They were executed the next day, and I'd wept for them, silently, thinking at sixteen that they were the last men of my pride who would ever look on me with kindness and friendship. The next day I had been sent to the mines ...

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, not even feeling the tears on my cheeks until they rolled down my face.

The warmth in my arms stirred, whimpered, and I held on and whispered soft words of comfort in the language of my childhood, foolish words, the words I'd missed hearing when my world was blown apart, the words I imagined Aelfric and Suleimon had whispered to one another as they hid from the Dragans in the hill caves where we'd played.

"Are you all right?" Harper's whisper brought me to consciousness, away from cold hill caves and lost hopes.

"Are you? I thought you were having nightmares."

"I was, but they went away because you were here." He touched my face and his hand came away wet. "What were you dreaming?"

"I saw my home again, while my family lived."

He nodded. "Good enough. Go back to sleep; you need the rest."

"So do you."

"Yeah, and your arm's got to be stiff, and I'm not as good at massage as you are. So you roll over and let me hold you for a while, and go back to sleep, all right?"

"All right." I rolled over, away from him, and rested my head on his outstretched arm, and he brushed my hair up onto the pillow out of the way and slid his other arm around me loosely, and we fell asleep again, as simply as that.

Harper was gone when I awoke, which didn't surprise me, though I should have felt him leave if he were still serving as my pillow. I listened and looked around, and found that he was not in my quarters, that the shower was dripping and that his clothes were gone. And that a cup of coffee and a note sat on my desk, waiting for me.

The coffee sat on a hotpad, a small device to keep it at its original temperature, in this case the precise one necessary for it to be perfectly drinkable without scorching. The note, in a precise engineer's lettering, said, "I owe you." and was unsigned.

I drank the coffee and didn't let myself think at all for a while. After, I showered and dressed, devoted myself to an hour's labor in the weight room and another hour of listening to an Akkhadian Opera Company version of the principal arias from Wagner's "Ring" cycle. I had been amazed that Andromeda carried it; it was one more treasure of the past that I had thought lost in the past three centuries of war.

The Andromeda may not always seem like a large ship, but she is relatively easy to be lost in if one wishes to be. I tired of the sounds of vibrato, and turned off the music. Restless, at last I slid my feet into shoes suited for running, and set off on a circuit of the ship at its widest point. By using certain passageways and floors, I could run ten kilometers without passing the same rooms twice. The path had the added benefit of keeping me out of the more used areas of the ship, but away from the cargo bay where my treasure was stored. It was safe there; that was all I needed to know at the moment. When I was ready, I would make my move, and not even Andromeda herself would be able to stop me.

But that was for another day. For now, I ran past the passageway leading to the cargo bay, rounded the corner and kept going, out of the way, letting my muscles tell me whether they were still in the shape I preferred.

When I finished my run, panting a little, I stopped beside the basketball court Dylan had set up, where he and Beka were playing an impromptu game. Dylan was fast, I knew, but Beka was faster, though her reach was less than his. He won by only two baskets, one of which he snatched away from her for himself.

"Stupid game," she said with a smile, wiping her forehead. "Ridiculous. Now, if you challenged me to steal the ball, or substitute a fake ball for the real one, that I could do."

"No, you couldn't," I said from the sidelines. "You'll never find a replica as beat-up and scratched as the one Dylan has."

"This is true." Beka raised the ball to eye level and began to count the number of scratches on its surface.

"You two are too much." Dylan drained a water bottle and wiped his mouth on his wrist. "It's probably a good thing you weren't here at the start, Tyr, because I wasn't in a mood to lose today."

"Oh, is that why I lost? Because you 'weren't in a mood to lose'?"

"No, you lost because I'm taller."

"This, I must reluctantly admit, is true," I put in.

"You stay out of it," both of them chorused at me.

I raised a hand. "I'm gone." But I smiled as I left. All might not be well in the world, but it was certainly better if Dylan and Beka were on good terms. What could I say? Our improbable crew had far too many alphas for easy comfort.

After showering and changing into work clothes, I wandered toward the galley to see what Trance had brought out of the hydroponic garden for the day. She had begun to harvest the fruit and vegetables there on a schedule she couldn't explain, except to say that the food wanted to be picked then and would be unhappy if it were left to grow. I didn't care if she sang it to sleep; the little purple girl grew the best vegetables I'd had in years, and I was willing to cook whatever she sent, whether I'd seen it before or not. Today it was beets, parsnips, carrots, four kinds of greens that would have to be used within a day, and ripe pears from the absurd tree in the corner that she insisted on naming Eden in honor of what she said was its original home. I found the ship's equivalent of sirloin tips in the cooler, and decided on a meat and vegetable stew, a green salad, and pears poached in wine.

I was part way through preparation when Harper wandered in. "Hey, you're cooking. Can I watch? I might learn to do something besides grilling burgers."

I raised an eyebrow as I scrubbed the parsnips and carrots, which were too tender to peel. "You only grill burgers? I suppose there are worse things. You could be frying them."

"Frying? Is that like cooking? Oh, no, no, the Harper does not wander into the realms of cuisine without a guide, or at least an armed guard. Which, of course, I've got at the moment, since you're always armed."

I snorted. "If you wanted to make yourself useful, you'd cut the meat for me."

"Sorry, no can do. It's the weekend, so I'm supposed to be decorative instead of useful. Besides, I've already been useful enough; I'll show you later on." I raised an eyebrow, but I let him sit and watch, and after a while he said, "You know, we never did finish talking about Napoleon Rastafarian."

"We didn't, did we? I'm sorry. If I'd realized you were that interested in him I wouldn't have done anything to distract you from the subject."

"You're a jerk. You know that, don't you?"

"Didn't they ever tell the reason why you don't call a Nietzschian names?"

"Um. No. Is this something I should worry about?" He rested a hip against the opposite side of the counter, watching me slice the meat neatly into identical chunks, a little larger than bite- sized. "Okay, I'll bite. Why don't you call a Nietzschian names?"

"Because he already has enough without them." I let myself smile at him, and watched him beam in return. "Each of us has at least three and usually five or six more family names besides the ones we are known by, to help us remember our ancestry. Those of highest caste and longest lineage, not to mention greatest wealth, have more, of course."

"How many do you think Charlemagne Bolivar has? A dozen?"

"Probably. One's name is one's fortune and treasure."

"Ah. Gotcha. So, let me see. Napoleon Rastafarian was born to the Clan of the Rugrat, in the Year of the Lily-Bellied Porpoise, and his parents were ..." He watched me expectantly. "Lucy and Ricky. No, don't ask -- it's an obscure historical reference. Trust me on it. He grew up in Rugrat-Chihuahua Pride and when he was old enough he -- what did he do next?"

By now I was laughing, not just at the ridiculous names he was coming up with, but at the look on Beka's face as she came into the galley and heard Harper ridiculing Nietzschian culture. I sobered at once, glared at Harper, who had the sense to shut his mouth, and asked her, "Would you care to stay for dinner? I can make enough for three."

"Um, no thanks. I'm just getting a quick snack before I go on shift." She opened a bottled drink for herself. "Did I just hear you laughing, Tyr?"

"You think I'm incapable of humor?"

"I would never say that." A quick swallow from the bottle and she put it down on the counter while she reached for a prepackaged meal, the sort of thing I would consider good-quality battle rations but that she evidently liked. "Your sense of humor is just a bit ... different than ours. It's a cultural thing."

"Speak for yourself, babe," Harper informed her.

"Some things are innately humorous," I said serenely, dumping the meat into a cooking pot with the hard vegetables and a cup of red wine. "I happen to think that Napoleon Rastafarian of the Rugrat-Chihuahua Pride is one of them."

"Napoleon Rastafarian? This isn't a real person, is it?" Beka threw me an amazed glance as she retrieved her dinner from the microwave. "You're putting me on."

"Well, actually, I invented him. I figure it never hurts to have a spare Nietzschian around when you need one." Harper buffed his nails on his shirt and smiled sweetly.

"Ah. An alias. Well, I'm all in favor of keeping a few around for the fun of it. Go to it, guys!" She picked up her food and left.

"See? That didn't go badly." Harper leaned on the counter. "You could even say she gave us her blessing."

"Don't exaggerate," I told him, but under it all I was pleased. "She gave her blessing to Napoleon Rastafarian, that's all."

"It's something. We can put him together and then, if we ever need him, we've got him."

"And what would you do with him?" I looked up from where I was drying lettuce and tearing it for the bowl. The glee on his face made me pause. "Oh, no. I am not going to impersonate a hypothetical Nietzschian from a nonexistent pseudopride."

"C'mon. Just think about it. We could have a whole lot of fun with it at the gambling tables at Denali Station. You, me, Trance for luck ... we could clean them out."

"And we wouldn't be alive for an hour to enjoy our winnings." I sighed. "Once, long ago, I won a fortune at those tables."

"And then what happened?"

"My father told me I had to invest it wisely, so I did. I spent a little on myself, bought presents for my family, and then I gave the rest to some friends who were making experimental weapons."

"And?"

"Six months later, the Dragans attacked."

"Oh, that sucks meteorites." Harper perched on a stool, across from me, watching me compose a salad dressing from whatever dried herbs I could find. When we reached the next trading post, I would have to see if I could find any herb seeds for Trance to grow in the hydroponics garden.

He folded his hands on the counter like a good child, but his face was sympathetic. "And your friends didn't make it?"

"On the contrary. Their 'experimental' craft disposed of six Dragan warships before it was eliminated. They survived and waged guerilla warfare for a month, causing untold damage to the Dragan occupation force, before they were captured and executed."

"Still. Sheesh. No fun. Hey, what's that?" He examined a small, unmarked jar.

"Mustard seed."

"You mean, the stuff they grind up and you get mustard? Oooh. Can we grow it on the ship?"

"Perhaps, though this seed is too old for that. Should I add it to the list of herbs and spices I'm thinking of getting at the next station?"

"Definitely. I'd love to see what it looks like, growing."

"What what looks like, growing?" Trance asked as she wandered in.

It was dinnertime, obviously. Good thing I hadn't planned a tete-a-tete.

"Mustard seed. See?" Harper held the bottle out to her. "You can make mustard from it."

"I see. And you'd like me to grow some for you?" She held the bottle up to the light, considering it. "This is too old; it won't grow at all. I can look for some fresher seed when we get to Wenzed; it's on our route and it's much better than Denali Station for living things. And if you've got other things you'd like me to grow, just let me know and get me the money and I'll see what I can do." She handed the bottle back, holding onto it a moment after Harper reached out his hand. "As long as they're not illegal."

"Trance. Would I do that?" Harper grabbed the jar and she let go, grinning at him. "I promise that whatever I ask you to grow will be legal in ... some domain, all right."

"All right, but if there's trouble, you're the one who will have to deal with Dylan. I'm just the gardener."

"Are you staying for dinner?" I asked her. There was still time to add another few chunks of meat to the stew.

"No, but thanks for asking. I just wanted something to drink." Trance took a bottle from the pantry, and followed that with a handful of crnaps, a type of Oligarian pastry. "And something to nibble on."

"You sure you don't want me to check that over first, make sure it doesn't nibble back?" Harper asked.

"Oh, I think I can handle it. Bye." And she wandered back out again.

Harper turned back to me. "Sometimes she can be so ..."

"Purple."

"Yes. If we were on a planet, I'd swear she'd be about to go and tell someone that we were seen together."

"Who could she tell?" I contemplated the pears, and compromised by peeling them in stripes, to retain at least some of the surface color. "Here." I handed him some strips to nibble while I finished cooking.

"Oooh. Thanks. Good stuff. Yeah, I know. Who could she tell? Beka was already in here, Rev wouldn't care, Dylan ... well, it's none of his business. And I doubt that Rommie cares, either."

"Oh, I've already been warned about you," I told him, hiding my smile.

"Warned?" His eyebrows rose.

"Warned to behave myself where The Harper is concerned."

He smirked. "The Harper thanks you, but The Harper is perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

"I'm well aware of it," I assured him. "You don't think they could keep me from anything I really wanted to do, do you?"

Harper shook his head, blond hair flying. "No way. I'm kind of glad of that, myself."

We ate at one of the tables near the window, watching the ever-changing starscape, and talked idly of the work Harper was doing on his latest project, and of a movie he'd tried to persuade Beka to let him borrow to show me.

"It's about two guys escaping from a frozen prison on an old-fashioned train. You'd love it!"

"This sounds intriguing. Tell me more."

"Oh, it's very Nietzschian, trust me. But Beka wants the moon for it, or at least an asteroid or two."

I handed him his share of the poached pears. "How large an asteroid?"

"She wants me to do extra mineral scans on the next three we come to, probably tomorrow, so she can see if there is any extra bergyllim on them."

"Interesting. You should, of course, do the scans. Bergyllim is a useful substance. How do you like the pears?"

"Mmmmm. Wonderful. My mouth is having orgasms right now." He caught my eye and blushed. I ignored it but let myself smile just a little.

After supper, as we cleared the dishes, he said, "Think you could stop by the shop later on? I've got something to show you."

"In an hour or so?"

"Fine. Great. Stupendous. See you then. And thanks very much for dinner."

"It was my pleasure."

Nietzschian culture recognizes several distinct modes of discourse, forms of speech for which certain vocal tones and manners are required: formal, philosophical, civil and casual. Only the intimate tone is not taught in school; one is expected to learn that one at home, the rhythm of speech among family and lovers. The casual is, of course, for trusted friends, but could be stretched to include trusted business partners, if such existed at the moment.

The formal mode is employed only for matters concerning one's honor, such as contract negotiations, challenges of war, declarations of personal intent. If the formal were used within a discussion in another mode, it signified that the user was speaking absolute truth as far as he knew it, with no attempt to lie, and if another Nietzschian were present, he would be required to acknowledge this. We were trained to remember with eidetic precision any encounter that included the formal mode, and I retained that training as it stood me in good stead when dealing with Andromeda's captain. Dylan might not have understood much about my people, but he did understand the implications of formal speech.

One would use the civil mode for ordinary business, whether with our own kind or with outsiders. It was polite and courteous but presented a blank wall to any attempting to read expressions or vocal tone. It was also excellent for use in threats, though we were generally taught to warn once and then act rather than threaten; however, threats were much preferred to assassinations on the schoolground. Much time was devoted to it and to the philosophical; an educated adult should be familiar with all philosophical concepts throughout history and be able to debate in at least three of the schools of philosophy at the graduate level.

All this was in addition to the necessary skills of life: self-defense, battle, warfare, history, survival skills (including cooking) and pleasure, which also included the arts and literature. What humans would call science was included in general living skills taught at home, unless it was part of one of the other areas. Every child was taught to navigate, to understand the mechanics of a ship and to be able to adjust them, to be able to find his way in the territory of familiar space with or without a map.

At least, that is how it was with Kodiak Pride. I have no knowledge of how other prides brought up their children. From what I saw upon the Orca Pride asteroid, during my brief marriage, our way was far superior.

Aboard Andromeda, I found that I used the formal most often with Dylan and on occasion with Rev, and the civil and casual with the others. I have attempted to engage the philosophical mode with Rev, but his insistence upon seeing all things as aspects of the Way hindered our discussion. I missed the philosophical mode, but I was not fool enough to want to find other Nietzschians simply to discuss the thoughts of Hume, Kant, Nietzsche and Peravir of Thrasis.

I have not, yet, used the intimate mode at all, though I came closer to it while Harper lay on my bed under my hands than at any other time in my life.

Harper had left the door open for me, and I walked in without announcement. He turned, grinned at me, a little anxiously, I thought, and pressed a button to close the door behind me.

"Privacy. Right."

I nodded, hoping to reassure him. "Privacy is good."

"Yeah. Well, um." He handed me something small and metallic, and stepped back to watch my reaction. "This is for you."

It was tiny, jeweled, exquisite, and looked like the sort of ornament one would wear on a ceremonial uniform, but I was uncertain of its function. Many of Harper's inventions appeared simpler than they were. "I'm honored. Hmm. It's a -- "

He had been bouncing in an agony of suspense, his brow furrowed. "It's to unlock the cargo bay where your box is, so you can get it whenever you want. And it doesn't look like a lock release, so Dylan shouldn't be suspicious if he sees it in your hand by accident."

My head snapped up and I stared at him. "Do you know what's in that box?"

"No. No. I didn't look. It was heavy and it got scarred up a bit by the Magog but it never opened, I'd swear it never was opened." He was backing away from me as if he expected me to hit him for presumption, when, instead, I felt so grateful I could have danced. "I checked. The locks and seals are still there. I made sure it was tight, and I covered it back up, the way you left it."

"I believe you." I took the two steps to reach him and grasped his shoulders to still him. "Thank you. Thank you."

He gazed up at me as he had the night before, and I threw aside any common sense I retained and leaned to kiss him. He opened, returning the kiss, his arms coming up to hold me too, briefly, before the kiss ended and we backed a step away from each other to return to a casual distance.

"I cannot tell you what this means to me." My voice had dropped half an octave, and my eyes felt damp. I tucked the precious bit of mechanism into a secure pocket, my hands almost shaking.

"I think I can guess." Harper put a hand on my arm. "I knew it was important, I didn't know it was this important."

"I don't know how to thank you for this." All the modes of discourse were deserting me when I needed them most. If I were to lapse into the formal, he would misunderstand, yet it was the only appropriate mode I could think of. Perhaps if I made my stance less formal he would understand. All this went through my mind in far less time than it takes to think of it logically; on such occasions logic deserts one, and one must rely upon instinct.

I sank to my knees before him -- I, who have knelt of my own will to no one, including the Kotyrans or the Dragans who slaughtered Kodiak Pride. "I told you before that I was in your debt because we are shieldbrothers and you saved me in battle --"

"No ..." he murmured. I reached up to touch my fingers to his lips and he was silent.

"-- I tell you now, Seamus Zelazny Harper, that I, my entire future and the future of Kodiak Pride are in your debt, for keeping what is most precious to the Nietzschian people from desecration by the Magog and for finding the means to restore it to me unharmed."

His eyes shifted; the thoughts must have come to him within an instant. "Omigod. That's the body, isn't it?"

I acknowledged his guess. "Drago Museveni, the founder of my people. The Progenitor."

"Get up, man. Really. You don't have to do this." His hand was on my shoulder, and when I looked up at his face he was almost crying. "Please. I did it because it was right, that's all. I couldn't stand to see dead Magog on anything that was yours."

I came to my feet. "You know something of our history, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. "I know that Museveni's the closest thing you have to a god. He's going to come again, right?"

"So we hope. When that happens, whoever holds the body of Drago Museveni will rule the Nietzschians."

"Because that's the only way to compare the genes accurately." Harper blinked. "Look, I shouldn't have to tell you this. You're a Nietzschian. You shouldn't be kneeling to me. You shouldn't be kneeling to anyone. I mean, I didn't do that much."

"Yes, you did." A thought passed my mind. "Would you wish to take it back?"

He shook his head. "No. Dylan's wrong to keep you from what's yours. I know why he's doing it; he thinks that's the only thing that'll keep you on his side now that you've got it on the ship. But if that were all that was keeping you, you wouldn't still be here, would you?"

"You know me very well, I think."

"Yeah, well, that's how it goes..." He shifted from one foot to the other.

"How are you feeling today? Are you all right?"

"Are you kidding? Better than all right. I feel like I could fight old Fire-eyes with one hand behind my back." He smiled at me, that sunny smile that says all's right in the world, though the smile leaked away at the edges. "Well, actually I'm a little tired, but I haven't had any more leg cramps, and that's good, right?"

"That's certainly good. But you needn't be in pain to visit me." I glanced away, so that he would not feel that I was pressing him for an answer. "If you wish, that is."

"Oh, I wish, all right. If you do, that is."

I felt a cold lump in my chest start to melt and dissipate. "Do you need any more proof of my intentions?"

"No, but you might want some proof of mine. I'm told I can be fairly dangerous in a tight corner." He slid into his cocky everyday stance, the light in his eyes the only thing that told me he meant more than the words would say.

"Oh, I'm sure you can. Perhaps you'd agree to show me some of your better maneuvers at some time in the near future? I'm always willing to acquire new techniques for close-order combat."

"Or non-combat?"

Why did my voice deepen so suddenly around him, so often? "Especially non-combat."

"Hey, you want me to spar with, I'm your man."

His words took my breath away. I managed the only word in return that could begin to express the feelings within. "Why?" It wasn't even in the casual mode any more.

"Why? Because you're not just another pretty boy with muscles. Or am I going to get whomped for even calling you that?"

I shook my head, laughter arising within me. "What you'll get is something for another place, one with more ... cushioning. Why would you think you'd be 'whomped' for saying that? It's no more than the truth."

"Well, because it is the truth."

"Don't you know by now that Nietzschians hold the truth in high regard? So high, in fact, that we're extremely cautious about how it's employed."

"I believe I've noticed that." He glanced around the shop. "I've got a bit more to do here, but I'd look forward to, um, sparring with you later on."

"I'll be waiting." I bowed to him in the grand manner, with a smile on my face that anyone else on the ship would have been amazed to witness, and he returned the bow with a matching smile as I left.
 

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