"I'm flattered, but no, thanks, Tyr."

"Not that." I waved a hand. "You are going to use the antibody as a bargaining chip, aren't you?"

He dribbled and shot, and retrieved the ball. "Promise it to groups that fight with us and deny it to others?"

"That's one method. There are others." I took the ball from him and completed what he called a lay-up shot, neatly getting the ball through the basket, and returned it to him. "Some worlds aren't able to field an army, but they can provide supplies."

"Of course. Were you expecting me to hoard it here?"

"Not exactly, but you're aware that the Andromeda has better laboratory facilities than many worlds. It would be difficult for some to synthesize the antibody." Civil mode, to be practical. This was not a matter for emotional expression.

"And?" His face grew harsh. "Were you thinking that we should deny it to the Drago-Kazov? To bring them into line?"

"That was in my mind, yes."

"It's a tempting thought, especially since I'm fairly certain you would not go to them to offer your own private supply." He smiled at me, like a shark.

I relaxed and returned to casual mode. "You're thinking like a Nietzschian again. May I say how attractive I find that in a man?"

"No, you may not." Dylan flashed me a non-piscine grin and threw a perfect basket. "May I say how attractive a sense of humor looks on you? Harper is having a good effect."

"But you still won't take me up on my offer," I said, as if mourning lost opportunity.

"There's no need." He whistled a cheerful melody that might have been in tune in some scale I had never heard before. "Trance gave me the first dose of the vaccine after she finished testing it."

"And?"

"And there's no sense in making Beka jealous."

I blinked. This was unexpected. "You favor Beka."

"I would, if she favored me. However, it's up to her to decide." His smile turned wry. "I may be the only High Guard officer remaining, but I can't shake off the ethical basis of my life. As captain, I can't be the one to ask a fellow officer into a relationship, even a light one. There are considerations of maintaining professional distance, sexual harassment, favoritism ..."

"None of which should apply with a crew this small." I snatched the ball from him and made a basket.

"Actually, they might even be more important, but I see your point." He tried to retrieve the ball from me, but I dodged him and put it in the hoop again, then sent it back.

"Does she know that? Any of it?"

"I hope so."

"Does Rommie know it? Or Trance?"

"That's a good question. A very good question." This shot bounced off the rim and the wall, and he had to chase it. "And the answer is, I don't know."

"Then you'd better find out before she asks. Otherwise, you just might be safer sharing a bed with me. Trance is unpredictable, and Rommie is armed."

He hesitated, blinked, and paused. If I were keeping score, which I seldom did aboard ship as there was no point to it other than my own amusement on a dull day, I would have said I'd won completely. "And what would you say if I told you that I'd accept your offer?"

"I'd ask you to bring your own pillow. Harper keeps stealing mine."

"Ah. Yes. Well. I'll keep that in mind, Tyr, and I do appreciate your offer of ... hospitality."

"You're most welcome, though I'd ask you to knock first."

Dylan let out a short, sharp laugh. "You know very well that I'm not about to come knocking."

"Yes, I did. Now Rommie does, too."

He whirled. Rommie stood in the hall, observing the basket with the same speculative attention she had given the plant on the observation deck. "I'm sorry, was I interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," Dylan managed to say without even a glance at me. I shrugged, as seemed to be expected, and waited.

"The Hyrcanian Ambassador wishes to speak to you about information he's received." Her voice was as crisp and cool as ever. "Something about Drago-Kazov ships interfering with his interplanetary mail and shipping service, and he'd like your assistance."

"I'm sure Grand-Duke Bolivar would be interested to learn of this as well," I said quietly. "Would you like me to inform him?"

"No, I'd prefer to do that myself. Thanks, Tyr. Rommie, I'll be right there."

She left and he started to follow her. I stopped him with a word: his name.

"Dylan."

He turned back.

"I would remind you that, as I told you not long ago, I need you, sir, as captain, and you do need me as well." My voice remained steady. "Not all of us subscribe to the recorded ethics of Charlemagne Bolivar, or the historical behavior of Pride Jaguar."

"I hadn't forgotten that. However, as I have said in the past, also, I trust Tyr to be Tyr." He nodded dismissal toward me and left, running to catch Rommie.

I had only thought to allay his concern lest he suppose my invitation to boost his immunity would be interpreted as an opportunity for his accidental murder. With any luck, however, he would not consider my comments to eliminate the possibility of a future alliance between myself and the head of Sabra-Jaguar Pride, who had offered to introduce me to his undoubtedly beautiful and accomplished sisters.

On the other hand, as I thought it over, there was every chance that my life -- or my living body, whether under my control or not -- would become far more of a pawn on the chessboard than I would find comfortable.

I hoped, with all my strength, that Trance's antibody, created and distilled from my fluids, would be distinct enough from my person in the eyes of those who negotiated with Dylan that none of them would be foolish enough to consider obtaining the original source for private use.

Still, if Dylan could trust me to always act according to my own interests, I could trust him to act according to the obsolete code of the High Guard, which did not preclude the use of prevarication, devious behavior, outright lying or thievery as long as he personally would not be the only one to profit from the situation. He called it diplomacy; I called it practical, except when I called it foolish and ridiculous.

The end creates the means, which do not require justification.

"So, what are your other names?" Harper lay with his head on my thigh, playing a game on the pad he carried, while I toyed with his hair and reread Plato's account of his teacher's death.

It took a moment to register. "Excuse me?"'

"Okay. Maybe I'm not supposed to ask." Harper shrugged. "Call me curious. I asked you what your other names are."

"Ah. Yes, you did."

"And?"

"It's an interesting question."

"One that you're not going to answer."

"Did I say that?"

"You're not answering it."

"Yet. I'm not answering it yet."

"So I'm supposed to conclude that, at some future time, you'll find it within yourself to finish telling me who you are?"

I gazed down at his face, at his rebellious hair and impudent dimples. "If you do not know me without those names, Seamus Zelazny Harper, learning them would not advance your knowledge."

"Okay, I get it. I stepped on your Nietzschian toes. I apologize." He rolled away from my hand.

"My toes are unharmed." I sighed. How could I explain this? "The other names are private. They are used only ceremonially. I would only say them during one of the ceremonies in which they are appropriate, such as a coming-of-age ritual. Since you are already an adult, and not a Nietzschian, you don't need to hear them."

He was silent for a moment. "What's involved in a coming-of-age ceremony?"

Now I was startled. "Your people don't have them?"

Harper snorted. "Most of my people, what was left of them, were dead from Nietzschian raids and Magog attacks before I was twelve. Nobody left knew the old ways, whatever they were." He picked up a cracker and ate it. "The gangs I ran with had their own ways, but they were sort of neotribal; that's how I got the nice metal decoration on my neck, to help them get past security stations. Nobody asked how old I was, just whether I could do what I said I could. And it was all academic by the time I hooked up with Beka."

At some level I must have known this, but I had not realized truly what that meant before. No wonder he sometimes appeared to be younger than his years, sometimes older. He had never experienced anything similar to what I had had, four months before the Dragans destroyed my home. Now that he was an adult, and beyond the years when such rituals were done within most humanoid societies, he would never have the chance to know it.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.

He turned away. "It's okay. I know I've got a lot of blank spots where other people have nice memories."

"I don't have a great many 'nice memories' of my own," I said slowly, "and I can't do the ritual for you, but if you wish I will tell you what was involved."

Harper looked up at me, hope in his face. "I'd like that. Thanks."

So I told him how it was, among my people, when a boy became a man. I told him about the calling, when one is brought from the city into the wilderness, and one's childhood name is taken away so that one is nameless, without family or pride, and how, after a time of trials and endurance one is given a new name, an adult name that includes the names of parents and ancestors for as many generations as possible. In my case, that meant twelve names to learn. Both Victoria and Barbarossa were of high lineage, which meant that their ancestors had lived very long lives and they had met all but the last two when they were children.

One had to learn not only one's own twelve names but the lineage names of both sides of the family. Unlike inheritance names, the names of one's parents, these were not commonly mentioned unless one was a participant in certain kinds of legal cases or in a registered duel, which was no longer as common as it had been a few generations earlier.

"Wow," Harper said when I finished. "It doesn't sound like a lot of fun."

"Some of it was," I said, smiling at the memory. "Part of the ritual of manhood includes one of the women of the tribe choosing you as your first lover."

"I'll bet you enjoyed that. I certainly would have." He poured more of the spicy drink he liked and passed it to me; I was developing a taste for it. "Can you tell me about her, or is that one of those things that isn't done?"

"I can't tell you her name." I closed my eyes, remembering how her warm amber scent clung to the sweep of her hair as she showed me how a woman was to be pleased. "She was not much older than I was, and she had gray eyes and long brown hair that curled a little at the ends. She could have chosen a husband, in fact her family was pressuring her to consider my cousin, I think, but she had decided to remain independent a while longer."

"I think she taught you well, or else you were a really great student." Harper reached across the space between us and twined his fingers in mine.

"I learned more later, of course; every lover has lessons to teach." I raised his hand to my lips and kissed its palm. "Including you, Seamus."

Perhaps I had learned more of the nuances of the intimate mode of discourse than I realized; what we did together that night will stay with me the rest of my life, regardless of my fate.

I did not have long to wait.

Grand Duke Charlemagne Bolivar, the alpha of Sabra-Jaguar Pride, insisted on meeting with me alone, aboard Andromeda. Dylan was understandably reluctant to allow me to meet with any Nietzschian leaders alone since our encounter with the Orca Pride remnant that had tried, with my supposed help, to take over his ship. However, he agreed to the meeting as long as Bolivar's honor guard remained elsewhere and under guard by Rommie. With the civilities thus attended to, I walked to the observation deck to meet with the single most powerful man in the known worlds.

We touched arm spikes in the traditional greeting. Charlemagne studied me. "You look none the worse for your escapade."

I nodded thanks. "How are your wife and child? In good health, I hope?"

Charlemagne Bolivar smiled like a tiger over his breakfast. "That's why I'm here. I want them to stay that way."

"I assure you, I have no designs on them," I said in the civil mode. I would not take that statement into the formal mode, as it might not always be true.

"I wasn't worried. I have a proposition for you, Kodiak." Bolivar gazed out the window toward his own flagship, which rested quietly off the port bow. "Your captain has offered me the antibody serum, which I've accepted, not being a fool, but you and I both know that anyone can put anything into a bottle and say it's medicine. I want a sample of the real thing to test as well -- simply for verification."

This was not entirely unexpected. "And how do you expect to obtain that sample?"

"Oh, in the usual way. I could ask the guard to send up Paris Ramses; I'm sure you'd find him adequate to the purpose."

"And which was he?"

"The tall redhead. I wouldn't insult you by offering you someone less than perfect."

"Of course not." I let no fragment of my thoughts show in my face. I'd seen Paris Ramses when the escort had boarded the Andromeda; he was as tall and broad as Dylan and, in fact, resembled him enough that, had I not known Dylan's exact location in the cosmos about twenty-five standard years earlier, I would have suspected he'd dallied with a red-haired Jaguar queen. Had Dylan noticed that someone who resembled him so greatly was guarding Charlemagne? Or was it one of those things he would notice but never mention?

"I'd watch, of course, to make sure there was no mistake. We'd return immediately to our own ship and obtain the sample from him, of course, and test it."

I leaned a hip casually against the railing. "What's in it for me?"

"Aside from the obvious pleasure? He's not bad looking, and he's well trained."

"I'm gratified that you've taken so much care to please my sense of aesthetics. And?"

"Boudicca has expressed a strong desire to meet you. She's interested in taking a husband."

"Would you allow her to live with me here, aboard Andromeda?"

He shrugged. "Anything is possible. We are allies, are we not?"

"What is your alternative suggestion, since I'm sure there is one?"

Charlemagne's eyes sparkled as his lips curved slowly into a smile. "Myself."

"Of course. You could certainly certify the source of the sample. I would take great care not to injure you, since neither of us wants that particular war at the moment."

"And I would take the greatest care with your own health, since you are ... priceless, for the time being."

I laughed; I couldn't help it, and he joined me. "This is absurd, sir. Completely absurd."

"I know." He shook his head in amusement. "Well? Shall we?" He waved a hand toward the low, broad couch that stretched along one wall.

"I think we can do better." I thumbed the communicator. "Dylan, our guest is somewhat fatigued and would like to take some time to relax. Are the guest rooms available?"

"Of course. I'll send Rommie to escort him there." Did Dylan sound a trifle anxious?

"Don't bother. I'll see him there myself. We are continuing our discussion."

"Ah ... right. Dylan out."

Charlemagne's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "That should give your worthy captain something to think about."

I raised an eyebrow. "Did you really think we'd do it in here? Bend you over the conference table?"

"The thought had its attractions, but I have always preferred comfort, whenever it's available. Life is difficult enough without us making it more so."

I could not help the thought that this probably was a first for the Andromeda. Dylan had undoubtedly slept with Bolivar's bride while they were en route to the wedding; I was now trumping his duchess with the grand duke, and aboard Dylan's own ship, too.

I had no complaints about this mating. Charlemagne was as skilled in the fine arts as I, though our methods differed slightly. I could tell I was far from the first to part those fine-muscled ivory loins, and I took my pleasure of him while he had his fill of me. After three rounds -- he said he wanted a generous sample -- he prepared to return to his ship.

"And what will you tell Boudicca about me?" I inquired.

"Oh, nothing uncomplimentary at all." He leaned toward me and kissed me, hard and long, the kiss not of shieldbrothers but of allies. "Your technique is as excellent as your physique. And your hospitality is generous."

"I'm gratified." My eyes roamed up and down him once more, noticing the small bruises on his hips, the place on his neck, just below the collar, where my teeth had grazed him once. I carried their counterparts, for he had taken me in his mouth as he grasped my thighs, "for quality assurance purposes," he'd said then, but his eyes had glowed. The bruises would fade before he reached his ship, quickened healing another byproduct of an enhanced genetic inheritance.

"Have you any messages you'd care to send to Boudicca?" he inquired, as if this had been a normal pre-marriage negotiation.

I realized, not for the first time, that he would have his genetic sample of me for testing, as his matriarch would require. If he truly wished me to marry his sister, he was certainly covering all the bases. "Only that I send my greetings to her, and to your matriarch."

"Very wise. She would have your guts for her knitting if you did not. That's my great-aunt Messallina, by the way." Charlemagne shuddered delicately. "All I can say is that I'm glad she's in my family and not someone else's."

I smiled. "Have a pleasant trip."

"So?" Dylan all but pounced on me as soon as the Sabra-Jaguar delegation had left. He had, at least, waited until the rest of the crew was elsewhere.

"We negotiated." I shrugged. "He wanted an original sample to take with him for comparison, to make sure Trance wasn't slipping in poison. I gave him one."

Dylan blinked. "You ... gave him one."

"More than one, actually." I gave up all pretense of a straight face. "Several. It was quite ... enjoyable. Perhaps I have more of a turn for diplomacy than I used to."

"Perhaps." Dylan shook his hair out of his eyes again, not that it needed it. "This is ... fascinating, Tyr, but I have to ask: do you expect you'll have to do this for everyone we'll encounter?"

"I certainly hope not. Only the Nietzschians would quibble in this way, and what they have now should silence them -- particularly since it should be simple to isolate both my DNA and Charlemagne's from the sample. That alone should keep the rumors down."

"You do like to take chances, don't you? I'd greatly prefer it if you'd let me know beforehand on this kind of thing."

"Why? Did you want to watch? I don't suppose I'd mind, but I'm certain Charlemagne wouldn't have wanted such a one-sided viewing gallery. He would have insisted on his own witnesses, and it would have become much too formal a situation." I switched from the civil to the formal tone, to emphasize this. "I think, sir, that you would not want to set that kind of precedent, would you?"

"Probably not." His lips twitched, though whether from annoyance or amusement was uncertain. "Anything else?"

"I have a standing invitation to meet his sister, Boudicca, and his verbal assent to her living aboard the Andromeda, should she decide to marry me."

This made his jaw drop. "Would you do that? To Harper?"

I immersed myself in the exigencies of the formal mode for a full minute before answering. "As with every Nietzschian male, I must desire the status of husband and father. I also have responsibilities to a shieldbrother, sir. The two ... situations need neither coincide nor disturb you." I shrugged. "Rest assured, captain, you're in no danger of having to accommodate Boudicca Bolivar for the long term at any time in the near future. That would only happen if I were to meet her, or agree to the marriage, and I have no intention of journeying in that direction."

"It's good of you to tell me this, Tyr." Dylan gestured in the general direction of the bridge, and we started to walk. "Might I hope that I'd be invited to the wedding?"

"Oh, without a doubt. You would definitely have a role."

"As something other than the dinner, I hope."

"Now, Dylan, you know your Nietzschian history better than that. We haven't employed cannibalism except in the most dire situations for centuries, and a wedding would hardly qualify."

I devoutly hoped that Dylan had never truly studied Nietzschian social history, as opposed to the histories of conquest and battle. Had he done so, he would have discovered the concept of shikastrin.

Shikastrin were political alliances of the body, not unlike those made by shieldbrothers; however, shikastrin were made before the battle, not during or after it, and could concern whole armies, not only individuals. If a leader wished to form shikastri, he would contact a potential ally and suggest the ritual; the suggestion could be accepted or rejected with no loss of honor. If it were rejected, nothing had changed. If one accepted, and performed shikastri, both shikastrin were required by honor to support each other's interests a step or two beyond what might be within their individual interests.

Charlemagne Bolivar could easily have handed me a vial and stood back to watch; instead he had, through the medium of obtaining the anti-Magog serum, proposed shikastri; I had accepted. We had completed the contract with our bodies, to our mutual satisfaction. Neither of us were fools; both of us knew this made us closer than the alliance that Charlemagne had forged with Dylan. Should he wish to pursue an alternate course, I would be torn between what Dylan might require of me and what Charlemagne would demand.

But I accepted. Undoubtedly, I would require a favor of him, somewhere down the road, as well.

How might this affect Harper? I had no clue. I was not naive enough to think that Harper's cure, and my part in it, was not already on the lips of any number of interested parties. He was feeling better by the day; it would not be long before his body would have acquired sufficient antibodies to make him as much of a target for kidnapping as I might be.

If all went well, Dylan would spread the serum as widely as was prudent and as quickly as possible -- and I would have to deal with no more politics than necessary.

"So?" Harper's tone in my quarters that night echoed Dylan's voice earlier. "Did you have fun today?"

I raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Fun? Actually, yes, I did."

"Good." He leaned in to kiss me and snaked his arm around my waist. "C'mon. I made dinner tonight."

"Oh?" I could smell something a little spicy. "How many ancho peppers did you put in that?"

"One, but Trance also gave me a Scotch bonnet and a habanero. Relax, they're just in it for flavor; you don't have to eat them."

"I'm relieved."

"You mean Nietzschians don't really breathe fire?"

"Not unless we're in battle."

I had expected to face a variety of difficulties resulting from my liaison with Charlemagne Bolivar, most of them from Harper, but he surprised me. He did not seem to share the tendency toward jealousy that I had always associated with humans. Certainly, I had seen it in both Beka and Dylan at times, though over matters other than mating. He also seemed more concerned about how I felt about the situation than was necessary.

One fact I had learned long ago, even before the Dragan attack: whatever happened in my life was never about my feelings. Emotions had to take a secondary or tertiary role in the life of a Nietzschian. They could be allowed to serve the need of the moment, be it for food and shelter or life itself, or simply to be the best at the contest we made of everyday life.

They were never the goal, and they could not be allowed to be the cause of any act but one. The only exception to the rule concerned one's attaining and keeping a wife, a situation in which emotion was not only allowed but required. One should feel so strongly about one's wife that one's life would be incomplete without her presence. That was why, when Dylan attempted his rendezvous with the past to bring his lover forward, I was entirely in favor of the venture and could understand his grief when it could not be completed.

If that is what love is, I understand it.

But it seemed to me that humans believed that love included more than simple mating or the urge to protect one's family. Perhaps this was something I might have learned if my family had lived longer; perhaps it was something I might never learn to understand.

Passion, I understood. Yearning, I understood -- for what man never yearned for someone to share his bed and his dreams? Protectiveness, concern for a fellow traveler, tenderness toward bedmates -- all these I comprehended without difficulty. It had been a long time since I'd felt jealousy, but I could discern it in others and play upon it to achieve what end I wished, if I wished.

But love, as humans understood it, was a mystery.

"Have I told you that you're remarkable?" I said quietly in bed, much later that night.

"The Harper is good," he said sleepily.

"I wasn't thinking of that alone."

"Then maybe I didn't do it right. You shouldn't be able to think at all." He yawned against my shoulder and buried his face in the crook of my neck so that he could nuzzle under my hair. "Should I ask what's so 'remarkable'?"

"From what I'd seen of humans, I would have thought you more prone to ..."

"Jealousy?"

"Yes."

"No. Nah. Nyet. Negatory. Nicht, mein herr. Not The Harper." He shifted a little, moving his weight off my leg so that I could roll toward him more easily. "Some guys, yeah. Lots of hassles. I decided that wasn't great a while back, so I don't get jealous any more."

"That's good."

"Yeah. It avoids a lot of interstellar incidents." His voice sounded casual in the dark, but all voices sound casual at such times, or intimate. "I really don't think my killing Blondie Slickhair is going to do a thing for our relationship, do you?"

"You'd do that?"

I didn't even consider saying 'you'd try to do that'; the answer was self-evident. Of course his attempt would probably fail, and he would outlive it only by seconds, but that would not stop him from planning such action.

"Yeah. I would." Not casual. "If he hurt you. But he didn't. And you're still here, which means it was just business, whatever you and he did, so nothing I have to worry about, right?"

"Right." My hand strayed along his ribs and across his belly, where only one dried husk remained inside him to recall the threat that could have killed him a few weeks earlier. "How does that feel?"

"Wonderful. A little lower. Oh, yeah, right there." He sighed luxuriously, and I gave myself over to touching and stroking him anywhere I wanted for a few minutes. "So, things went well for you?"

"We have a satisfied Jaguar archduke who has just received the only cure in the known galaxies for Magog infestation -- and the proof that it works."

"Well, I hope it was worth it. Dylan was fussing worse than Beka when you were in there. I don't know what he expected to happen; maybe he thought you guys were going to have a duel of some kind."

"No, only swordplay." I smiled in the darkness, remembering exactly what moves we had used on each other. "He would say he won, of course."

"What would you say?"

"That I won."

"Uh-huh. Not gonna ask that one."

"Some business is more ... pleasurable than others."

"Is this kind of business arrangement, um, usual with your people?"

"Not common, no," I admitted, "but it's been known to happen."

"Okay. So, how was he?"

"What, you want a review?"

Harper shrugged. "Sure. Did you learn anything you can teach me? Or did you teach him anything new?"

"Trust me, Seamus," I kissed him slowly as I teased my fingers down his back to where I wanted them most, "there's nothing you need to learn from him."

"Flattery will get you laid, Tyr."

"Oh, I hope so." He rolled over and I moved into place behind him, and he rubbed against me so that I nearly spent myself before I could complete our connection. But once sheathed in his body, I slid slowly, carefully, as if that too could be a caress beyond price. His heartbeat thundered around me, and after an eon we crested the waves together.

Dylan being Dylan, he watched me in much the same way that I watched him. If I thought he might have forgotten my pre-empting of his alliance, his attention alone would have proven me wrong.

But he said nothing to me of it, or almost nothing.

"You all right, Tyr?"

This came from him on the bridge the next day, as I performed routine weapons checks at the place I had begun to think of as mine.

"Certainly. Why do you ask?"

"Shouldn't a captain be concerned about the welfare of his crew members?"

One point to the High Guard.

"Of course." I inclined my head toward him. "And I appreciate your concern, sir."

"Oh, Tyr can deal with anything," Beka said airily, "or so I've heard."

This was not the time I would have chosen for her to flirt. I sent her a blank gaze, meant to dampen her comments; she reflected it back to me. Had she also been fussing on my behalf during my negotiations with the Jaguar? Or had she simply been reflecting Dylan's fussing back to him so that he would not feel that he was the only one upset? I had noticed her taking that tack more than once.

"That's good to know." Dylan stood at the helm as if he were facing into a stiff breeze. "Did Charlemagne say anything about other prides that might want to join the fight?"

"Actually, he did. He offered to speak to Sirrush Pride on our behalf, and I told him we would appreciate that." This was true, although he'd phrased his comment somewhat less precisely, considering that I was into him to the hilt at the time.

"That's very good of him. Is there anything else we should know?"

I paused a moment, considering whether to throw this bomb or save it for another time. I decided to drop it gently and see whether it was live. "Well, I did observe one interesting thing about his honor guard. Did you meet them?"

A slight crease appeared between Dylan's brows. "Yes. I didn't notice anything."

"Ah. Perhaps you weren't introduced to them properly. Paris Ramses, the tall redhead? He bears a striking resemblance to you. Now, I realize you were otherwise occupied, but by any chance did you have any brothers who survived anywhere in the known worlds after the Battle of Witchhead?"

Beka raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Rommie maintained her no-expression expression.

"Now, how would I know that, Tyr? I was, as you said, otherwise occupied." He shrugged it off. "Besides, we were fighting the Nietzschians. It's not that likely."

I ignored the implied insult, which was not one in fact. "I'm sure Rommie could find out, if you were interested. It might be useful to you in later negotiations to know if you have kin among my people."

Harper, who had just walked onto the bridge with a handful of tools to fine-tune the slipstream hyperdrive for the fourth time in three days, said, "Oh, yeah. You two look so much alike."

"Actually, he has a point, Dylan," Beka put in. "I thought there was something familiar about that kid. Rommie, can you check on it?"

"Certainly. And if what Tyr thinks is so, it wouldn't be the first time a High Guard officer had had a liaison with a Nietzschian woman, I'm sure."

I mentally awarded Rommie a point, and added another when I observed the rapid flush that washed over Dylan's face.

"Ahem. If we could all get back to work and leave the analysis of my genealogy --"

"Accessing." Rommie's eyes widened. "Tyr appears to be correct. You might well be a ten- times-great uncle to Paris Ramses through your youngest brother, David ..." She frowned slightly. "Apparently he became Nietzschian? I wasn't aware that was done at that time."

"I wasn't aware that *could* be done, at any time," Harper commented.

I nodded once. "It's possible. It was more common then, after Witchhead, when our forces were so depleted. Genetic adaptation and engineering were employed."

"David survived Witchhead?" Dylan sat in the pilot's seat suddenly, as if his knees had buckled. "I didn't realize he was there."

"He was a lieutenant, third mate aboard the Altair, which was late arriving at Witchhead; when his superiors were killed, as the Altair was being destroyed, he ordered his crew to abandon ship to save themselves. According to the All Systems University Library records," Rommie nodded toward Harper, who looked abashed, "he was captured after the battle and, with the few remaining human High Guard officers, given the choice of conversion or death. He chose conversion, with the stipulation that he not be required to fight against the Commonwealth, and apparently that was accepted." Rommie blinked. "The record states that he took a Nietzschian name, but there is no further information."

New name. The thought rang a bell somewhere, but I knew I could not check it until later. I spent the rest of the shift devising alternate battle strategies, sketching out the basics of a program to give Harper later for testing and implementation, and watching the side of Dylan's face as he stared out at the stars.

Every suite of officers' quarters aboard the Andromeda provided an old-fashioned computer terminal that could operate both with the main ship's computer and independently. When I first came aboard, I thought the dual system wasteful, but I had had occasion since then to revise my opinion, as it allowed me to search files I had borrowed from elsewhere without letting the main computer know what I was doing. All Andromeda knew was that I was using the computer for something, by the fact that the current was on; for all anyone could tell, I might have been writing my memoirs -- as if I would.

For some time I had been transcribing to disk all I recalled of the genealogy of every Nietzschian I had ever met, from every pride, as well as what I recalled from the now-destroyed records kept by Kodiak Pride in my youth. Doing this allowed me to put my thoughts into order as well as to track the relationships and alliances among the different prides over time -- always a useful endeavor. I knew my own ancestry in direct line back to Witchhead; I knew about three quarters of the collateral lines of Kodiak Pride as well as a quarter of those of other prides, all from memory.

I typed "Paris Ramses" into the database and set it to search. Within a second I had a partial list of his ancestors through the female line. As I might have expected, they went back to a younger sister of the pride's third-in-command at the time of Witchhead; most of that family had been aboard the Prometheus, one of the thousand ships that had been wiped out by the Angel of Death. Although politically influential, Jaguar Pride had not been a large clan then; the losses from that battle would have destroyed it utterly if it had not chosen to accept "converts".

And so, to continue the name and heritage of Jaguar Pride, Grania out of Cassiopeia by Brutus had taken to husband a convert who had chosen the name of David Geronimo.

All Nietzschian names are taken from those of great warriors, fighters, rulers and philosophers. All have meaning; as Tyr, I claim similarity to an ancient war deity, and Anasazi simply means "those who aren't there any more" -- a suitable name for one whose pride was exterminated. There are several Davids among Nietzschians, generally named for the ancient war king rather than for the philosopher Hume, but the name is little used. Geronimo, as a name, is nearly unknown among us; I found only three other references to it, all those of Jaguars later in the same line. It seemed extremely unlikely to me that a convert would have taken those names unless they meant something particular to him.

I turned on my terminal's connection to Andromeda's computer and accessed historical records for information on Geronimo. It made sense to me, then. The historical Geronimo, who lived near the time of Nietzsche himself, had fought long and bravely, though he finally had had to surrender to his enemy. He had retained his name and his pride even when paraded before a foreign queen, although he knew he might be the last of his generation to have lived in true freedom as his people understood it.

That set me to thinking about my own people's history, and I looked for David Geronimo, who had no matronymic or patronymic affiliations that he could claim. Little was written of him, but what was there was written by Shakakhan Ptolemy, whose histories I had studied in the past. Shakakhan wrote that although David Geronimo had come late to the status of Nietzschian husband and father, his courage in defense of his family was unquestioned. He had died at an advanced age, fighting a delaying battle to keep Magog from his three remaining wives, twelve children and fifty grandchildren.

High praise, indeed, especially coming from the conservative Shakakhan. I could respect a man who had earned those words.

I disconnected from Andromeda and sent the terminal on one more search, seeking links with my own ancestry. The closest connection I could locate was a fourth cousin twice removed; this was certainly far enough away that it would put me under no familial obligation where Dylan was concerned. I could serve him, work with him, or kill him (if need be) without any thought of pride protocol; the only honor at stake that might need be considered would be mine.

Ah. I shut the machine down and leaned back in the chair, relieved. I had not wanted to believe that the overly idealistic and occasionally insane Dylan Hunt might be a direct relative of mine, if only for reassurance that his form of insanity did not run in my family. He tended to take unnecessary chances and win by a hair's breadth when he could more easily have sat back and won by a light year.

Knowledge is always its own reward, aside from everything else. It is also always the most useful tool for unlocking the minds of others as well as their pocketbooks, safes, and treasure houses. The idea that knowledge of any kind might be "useless" is alien and a falsehood; no form of knowledge lacks a use. The question always at hand is, rather, to which use it should be put in order to achieve one's goals.

I found Dylan on the observation deck, still watching the stars.

"I apologize if I upset you, earlier. I did not mean to cause you unnecessary distress."

He turned toward me. "No? Only necessary distress, then?"

"No." I said quietly. "I am sorry, sir."

He had been breathing heavily, and the tear tracks on his face, while smudged, told their own story. "I ... didn't think he'd even survived. And since I wasn't able to go back in time, I didn't want to let myself think of him, or anyone else, or what might have happened to them."

I sat on the bench where I had once mourned the loss of my Orca wife Freya and our child, and the deaths at Witchhead, and watched him. He looked, at that time, as alone as I had ever felt when faced by a sky full of stars and no other living family.

"He has a good name in our history." I took a data disk from my pocket and handed it to him; he let it lie on his open palm and gazed at it. "David Geronimo was honored in his lifetime for his courage, and is remembered even now for his wisdom as well. I thought you might like to see what our historians said of him."

"Thank you, Tyr. I appreciate it." His fingers closed over the disk and gripped it tightly before he stowed it in his own pocket.

Together we watched a comet in the distance for a while, its white-gold tail as brilliant in the light of the nearest star we were passing as that of a Sirian fox. "I don't suppose you noticed whether we're related, you and I?" he said at length.

"As far as I can tell, we are not. I haven't traced all the cadet branches or the intermarriages of two centuries ago, but none have occurred more recently than that." I let my voice soften. "You need not find me a particular present on your next major holiday, if that was the question."

"Ah. Of course, I would want to know if I should expand my shopping list. I have so many people to shop for these days."

"Dylan." He turned his face toward me as I continued. "You are not the only person who is alone on this ship. Look at us. The only one among us who has any birth family left is Beka, if she even considers her brother still to be family."

"It's not that. Well, it is somewhat. I ... hadn't thought of David in so long. Now I'm remembering what he was like as a child."

"From what I read of him, I think I would have liked to meet him." I watched his face. "You should know, it was extremely rare to allow someone who was converting to retain any part of his old life, yet your brother was permitted to keep his name. He must have been an extraordinary man, to have earned that honor."

"You said his new name was David Geronimo?" Dylan smiled suddenly, and I knew he was seeing a time and place I could not even imagine. "When we were children on Tarn Vedra, we used to yell 'Geronimo!' when we did something dangerous, like jumping off the high rock into the quarry to go swimming. I'd forgotten that until now."

"So he managed to keep that much of his past." I nodded. "A very clever man."

"Yes, he was. I don't have any pictures of him any more; at least, I don't think so. It's possible that Andromeda has a few." He leaned on the railing, as if talking had restored his usual demeanor. "I'd prefer it if you did not mention this to the Sabra-Jaguars; I'd like to keep this information to myself for now."

"I understand. However, should you be inclined to keep it to yourself permanently, you should be aware that David Geronimo was a hero to Jaguar Pride, and pointing out your relationship to him cannot harm you."

"I'll keep that in mind." His face softened slightly as he tapped his fingers against the pocket that held the disk. "Thank you, Tyr."

The ship's avatar materialized and walked next to me on the way back to my quarters. "That was a very kind gesture."

"Do you even comprehend the concept of privacy?" I asked her.

"About as well as you do, I think." She shrugged. "I'm just doing my job."

"As am I."

"I see. Now your job includes buttering up Dylan."

"I need not flatter Dylan in order to get my work done. It was my duty and privilege, once I determined that he had kin among my people, to provide him with his genealogy."

"I would be the last to say you should not do your duty, Tyr."

"How are Harper's life signs, then, since a good portion of my duty lies in improving his health?" I refrained from telling her what a privilege I felt that to be as well.

She tilted her head toward me. "He's sleeping in your bed, and his life signs are excellent. I suspect that the last husk should be destroyed within a few hours. You should send him to Trance for a check-up tomorrow."

"I'll do that."

She shimmered and disappeared, and I shook my head. I had never met a Nietzschian matriarch who did not want to run the universe -- as well as any males within immediate range -- or who did not have the wit and ability to do so if given the chance. Andromeda was no different, though her appearance belied her age and experience. As long as her 'concern' for Harper and Dylan did not interfere with my plans, I appreciated it. However, I always had to consider her a tool of Dylan and his Commonwealth, a virtual servant rather than a free agent who could choose whether or not to work toward his ends.

Harper woke when I moved the covers enough to get into bed next to him. "Hey. How's it going?"

"How do you feel?" I noticed he was wearing an old sleep shirt; I hadn't noticed the temperature in my quarters growing cooler so he must have felt cold.

"Fine, fine. After I retooled the hyperdrive twice to get it up to what Dylan and Rommie wanted, I had a headache the size of a Udari melon, but it went away." He snuggled closer and reached out to hold me. "Mmm. You're so warm."

"Were you chilled?" Trance had warned me that one sign of his being healed would be a change in his perception of heat and cold. As long as he was infested, his body would not feel the cold because the larvae would generate their own warmth, despite their dormant state. Once he was free of them, though, his body would revert to its natural adjustments toward heat and cold, which might be a shock.

"A little. You weren't here. You always keep me warm. Come up." He pulled at my arm until I rolled on top of him, bracing my weight on my thighs and arms. "Mmmm. A Tyr-comforter. The height of luxury."

I felt amusement bubbling up from inside me. "You're a rare creature."

"The Harper is rare. That's sweet." His eyes, slightly unfocused in the dark, sought mine. "Why?"

"You think that having a Nietzschian lying on you is comforting. Most of the last three galaxies we've visited would consider you insane."

"Well, that's their problem."

I nuzzled his ear and whispered, "Go see Trance tomorrow. She thinks you're almost free of passengers."

"Really?" His arms tightened around me. "Oh, man. It's a good thing you stand when you're working on the bridge."

"I shall keep that in mind when I'm on shift." I rolled off him. "You should go back to sleep."

"In a minute. Are you really Dylan's great-great-nephew or something?"

I shook my head. "The family lines don't run in that direction. He is, however, related distantly to Charlemagne Bolivar, through four separate lines of descent, which may be more of an advantage to us than to Bolivar if it becomes known."

"Oh, yeah. Won't the Dragans and the other prides lose respect for Nietzschians who are that close to the rest of us lesser beings?" His sarcasm was palpable. "Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course. That's part of it. All of us, though, are descended from humans many generations back; some just wish it were further back than it is." I was starting to fall asleep myself. "I am content with my heritage."

"Tyr," Harper said hesitantly, "what about the effect on Dylan? How was he when you went to talk with him?"

"How did you know about that?"

"I asked Rommie where you were."

"The lack of privacy aboard this ship is shocking," I murmured sleepily. "He was glad to know that his brother survived Witchhead; he felt nostalgic for his lost youth, something like that."

"Well, that's good. I mean, I think that's good. It might keep him from thinking of what's in the cargo bay."

I awoke slightly, but I had already weighed the possibilities before I mentioned Paris Ramses on the bridge.

"I doubt he'd try to sell my property to the highest bidder; he couldn't accurately claim it was his as well." I ticked them off on Harper's ribs. "However, he might well use it as a bargaining chip with the Jaguars and the Sirrush. He's not likely to let the Dragans get their hands on it; he would forfeit respect from all the other prides and would also lose his biggest bargaining chip. If he lived that long."

"You'd take on Dylan for it?" A whisper.

"I would."

Silence.

"I hope it doesn't come to that, Tyr."

"Much as I hate to admit it, I have acquired a certain amount of respect and liking for Captain Dylan Hunt. The galaxy is a much more unpredictable place with him in it."

"So you gave him knowledge he didn't have to put him off balance? Sneaky."

"A precaution. Do you think Charlemagne Bolivar was unaware of the connection when he brought Paris to this ship? He knew it beforehand, or we would never have seen the boy." I closed my eyes. "Better he should hear it from me than be blindsided by a Jaguar."

I had known something was in the air from the way in which Charlemagne made his offer. Why offer a lesser bargain at all, unless it held hidden advantages? One advantage, in that case, would have been the sidereal insult to Dylan, at least in a Jaguar's mind. By turning aside that choice and opting for Charlemagne himself, I had shown a modicum of respect for Dylan as well as affirming for Charlemagne that I was still a man of tradition who did not shirk from making my own bargain with a convenient devil. The devil, of course, was one of those mythical concepts we had discarded along with gods, but the concept remained.
 

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