From Afar - Chapter 4

From Afar IV

Tag opened his eyes slowly. He could hear the faint hiss of air being forced through ducts. It was the sound of a space vessel. He didn’t remember boarding a ship. In fact, he didn’t remember much of anything. 

Through slitted eyes,Tag could see a group of people sitting on the floor. Wait.These weren’t people. They were with Rast. Tag squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t ready to let them know he was awake. He wasn’t ready for any of this. They were in a spacecraft which meant they’d left New Terra. This was real. Tag took a quick inventory of himself and his surroundings. He was in a bunk with a light synthetic throw tossed over his body. Without moving, he could see six people--no Saptans--clustered on the floor. They were all dressed in those odd pastel clothes. Tag could feel his bare legs against the blanket. He was still dressed the same way. He could hear a murmur of voices, but he couldn’t understand the words. They must be talking in their native tongue.

Tag glanced over at them again. Two were facing him. They all resembled Rast in the way they folded comfortably onto the floor in a picture of ease and flexibility. At least from this distance, Tag couldn’t tell if there were men and woman in the group. They all had similar shoulder length hair and smooth faces, at least the faces he could see.

A brown haired man or maybe it was a woman, looked up and caught Tag’s open eyes. The Saptan’s features were finer than Rast’s, and Tag’s brain automatically tagged the Saptan as a she. She glanced away quickly, Saptan politeness not to stare, and tapped Rast on the shoulder. Rast rose with his usual grace and walked over to Tag.

“Come. Join us. We have breakfast.”

Tag sensed that it was more than an invitation. He suspected that Rast would toss off the blanket and pull him from the bed if he didn’t comply. Tag swung his legs over the bunk, feeling strange and vulnerable with his bare legs in this group of strangers.

“Is there a problem?”

“I’m cold.” It wasn’t actually true. The room was warmer than standard shipboard cabins, more like a warm summer’s day than the artificial climate of a space vessel. Tag grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around himself. He was Pastoon; it was in his psyche, in his very blood, to not walk around exposed to strangers.

“There are cloaks in the storage lockers.”

Rast didn’t gesture and didn’t request anyone move, but a tall willowy individual rose and pulled a thick cloak from the locker. Its primary color incongruously bright with the muted pastels they were all wearing.

“Thank you, Tisp.”

Tisp lowered his or her chin briefly as if acknowledging the words but didn’t speak. Tag was struck that he was unsure how to assign the pronoun; Tisp looked absolutely androgynous, almost a prepubescent teen in body shape, but Tisp’s face and neck were marred by faint lines in the skin, sure signs of aging. Tag looked at Rast, hoping for an explanation without having to bluntly ask.

“Come.” Rast draped the cloak over Tag, put the blanket back on the bunk, and grasped Tag’s good wrist and pulled him from the bed.

Tag’s bad hand was no longer throbbing. He looked down at it, truly noticing it for the first time. His hand had been encased in a transparent cast, and a bone stimulating chip was embedded on the back of it. This was standard Alliance medical technology.

Tag allowed Rast to draw him into the circle of bodies. There weren’t any chairs in the room, but the usual steel decks had been covered with a soft carpet. The brown haired Saptan, who had noticed Tag was awake, shifted to make room for him, and Tag sank to an uncomfortable sitting position, hugging his knees with his arms and keeping everything well covered with his cloak. It was too hot for a cloak, but despite Tag’s years away from Pastoral, he was ashamed of his nakedness.

“May I see your hand?” the brown haired Saptan asked. “I’m Kip, the medic.”

Tag didn’t untangle his arms from his legs. He stared at the six Saptans in the circle. They didn’t stare back; Tag suspected they were all too well versed in Saptan politeness. Tag felt a sharp tick on his arm, and he turned toward Rast.

“Kip asked to see your arm. She is the medic and in charge of your health. We expect you to obey.” The words were spoken softly in that high singsong intonation that Rast employed, but it must have been a sharp rebuke. Tag heard a caught breath, and the Saptans were studiously looking away.

“That was a rebuke?”

“If you need to see it that way.”

“Kip is a woman?”

“She is kwi like I am. Your hand, Taga.” Rast reached under the cloak and pulled Tag’s arm out.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Kip said, her fingers running along the light, clear cast checking for slippage and wear points. Tag jerked his hand away as soon as the medic seemed to have finished.

“No.” Rast grabbed Tag’s arm and secured it outside of the blanket and within easy reach of Kip. 

There was no pretending the remaining Saptans weren’t horrified by Tag’s behavior. A black haired Saptan made a signal with his hand, and they stood and moved to a far corner before settling back down in a tight huddle with their backs toward Rast.

“What happens now?” Tag said his voice tight with fear. He’d done something dreadful at least from the others’ reaction.

“You sit here and let Kip finish with your hand.”

“They expected something,” Tag said, jerking his chin toward the other Saptans.

“You defied me.” Rast set his chin on Tag’s shoulder.

Tag squirmed, longing to escape this contact. He didn’t touch this way. He was on an Alliance spaceship, but he was at their mercy. From his brief scanning of the room, Tag recognized it as a cargo bay, and without the door keypad, it was as secure as any jail. He doubted he could convince the Orosian crew to release him. They were fanatical about following orders.

“I’m done,” Kip said, running her knuckles gently down the Tag’s cheek the way Rast had done earlier. “I’ll join the others.”

“Wait. We must all know how to handle him. He belongs to all of us.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.” Tag tugged against Rast’s unmoving, restraining arm. Rast was strong, and he knew exactly how to leverage his strength for the greatest results. Tag felt Rast take a piece of skin and trap it between two fingers; Rast was pinching him, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make Tag wish it would stop.

“Be still, Taga.”

Tag stopped moving and the pressure immediately eased. Tag swallowed the sudden urge to cry. They were manipulating him using a primitive behavioral modification program. Be good and get stroked, be disobedient and they’d create pain. It hadn’t been real pain, but the threat was there.

“Taga.” The hand that had pinched was now stroking the area, and both Rast and Kip were making a strange humming noise, almost a purring.

“You never did that with D’John,” Kip said. There was something in her tone that Tag couldn’t recognize--a warning or a challenge.

Rast stopped humming, but he continued to trace his fingers up and down Tag’s arm. “Tag belongs; D’John never belonged.”

“Does Tag want to belong?”

“It is the only way.”

“It must be a choice.”

“He made the choice.”

Kip looked at Rast, her hazel eyes glittering. It was the first time Tag had seen two Saptans stare at each other; it was an open challenge. 

“He did not understand the choice,” Rast said. “I know that. He will be asked again when he understands.”

“You must be prepared to let him choose his path even if it is wrong. You were not responsible for D’John and D’Tan.”

Rast didn’t move. Tag could feel a tension in the Saptan’s body where he pressed against Tag.

“I yield, K’Rast” Kip looked away, dipping her chin toward her chest.

Rast reached forward and stroked her hair. “You honor me, K’Kip, and I hear your warning.”

Tag had been still during the exchange, but now he shifted his weight, and Rast absently stroked his arm. Tag wasn’t sure what he’d seen and heard. He had no frame of reference to interpret it. It looked like a struggle for power, more ritualistic than a human argument. 

“I don’t like being the focus of the conversation without being allowed input.” Tag almost winced at the sound of his voice. He sounded petulant like an overtired child. It was not what he intended. “I chose to come on this mission,” Tag continued, striving for a voice of calm authority and feeling like a total fraud. “I accept that I am a member of the seven.” Tag didn’t add that he still didn’t understand what it was. His best guess was it was something between a squad and a family. 

“My apologies, Taga,” Rast said. “I should have included you in the conversation. As a member of our seven, you have a right to speak. Let me introduce you to the others.”

Rast had raised his voice slightly, and it must have been a signal to the others because they came drifting back, again sitting in a tight circle.

They went around the circle introducing themselves, like a thousand other meetings where names were shared. In some ways it was all so ordinary, or would have been ordinary if they were humans. Tag glanced around the circle of newly introduced Saptans. Unlike with humans, he couldn’t tell their age. He expected Rast as their leader to be older, but Tag couldn’t tell. They all had the same shoulder length hair, different colors, but all the same style. They dressed in the same shorts and loose fitting tunics; there were no insignias nor evidence of rank. They all had single syllable names. Names, clothes, and hair styles: none gave any indication of their sex. Rast had said Saptans had four sexes, but how did you tell them apart? Was this a crew of a single sex? No, Rast told Tag that they were ki and kwi. Rast and Kip were kwi, but Kip was female, or at least Tag’s muddled brain thought she was female, and Rast had used a feminine pronoun. Rast could be using an incorrect pronoun; formal Alliance only had provisions  for three pronouns, masculine and feminine for people and gender neutral for objects.

Tag drew his cloak tighter around himself. He hadn’t realized how much the knowledge of gender colored the way he interacted with people from the most basic of choosing a pronoun to the more complex subtleties of behavior. He was an anthropologist; he should have never underplayed the role of gender. New Terra prided itself on its official policy of gender neutrality, but Tag had grown up on Pastoon, a traditional culture with an emphasis on family and duty and with clear gender roles. 

Tag tried to study the Saptans without staring. The black haired one who had stood up first and led the others away was Bist. At least in Tag’s mind, Bist was a male. Tag couldn’t articulate a reason for this choice. Bist was medium height with pale blue eyes and dark black hair. He was the engineer. Brin and Tisp were twins, both blond with green eyes and an obvious affection for each other that Tag could spot even with his limited knowledge of their culture. The final member was Lak, a tall and slim Saptan who specialized in planet side investigations. Tag guessed in his world she’d be called a mission specialist. Tag categorized Lak as a woman. Again he had no concrete reason. Lak didn’t dress differently, didn’t wear her hair differently, and like all the Saptans she had the same androgynous figure and a voice in the higher range of normal for a man but not clearly female.

Bist slipped out of the circle and brought a tray of food. Tag recognized the New Terra food, still fresh since they’d just left the planet. The Saptans reached for the tray, all easily jostling for the select pieces.

“Eat, Taga,” Rast said, handing him an apple and a piece of bread. “Fresh food will soon be rare.”

Everyone on board a space vessel usually stuffed themselves for the first several weeks until the fresh food from planet side was depleted. Tag took a tentative bite of the apple. He wasn’t hungry. He told himself it was the after effects of the drugs he’d been exposed to. He didn’t want to admit his sheer anxiety at sharing this small space with six complete strangers for the next year, six complete strangers who weren’t even human.

Tag looked around the space. It was small; his parents’ house had been far bigger. Planet side it might make a one bedroom apartment. Of course space side, Tag was used to cramped quarters. The cabins bunked two, and the shifts were staggered to keep them from falling over each other. Here there would be no getting away, no privacy. The room was open with standard bunks built into one wall and storage lockers on the opposite side. There were no tables and chairs. Tag remembered that Rast had said Saptans didn’t use furniture.

“Are you ill, Tag?” Kip ran a hand across Tag’s cheek. “Does your hand hurt?”

“No.”

Kip’s fingers played on Tag’s arm, and he took a determined bite of his apple. Stop touching me he wanted to scream. It was only the first day, and he already longed for privacy. Shipboard privacy had always been at a premium, but here it was going to be impossible. 

“Eat, Tag. Your metabolic needs are similar to ours,” Kip said.

Tag took another bite of apple. It tasted as dry and dusty as the emergency rations. Every minute he was flying farther from his home. He wasn’t going to be able to do this. Tag could feel his heart pounding in his chest; he panted, willing himself not to hyperventilate. Think of the great explorers, the first men to discover that ocean vessels didn’t fall off the side of a flat planet, the first men on Earth’s moon, the first men and women to leave the home solar system. They’d all faced the unknown and hadn’t succumb to fear. Tag had it easy compared to the ancient explorers. He had abundant food and friendly natives. They weren’t in danger of succumbing to scurvy, small pox, or a whole host of other disease caused by inadequate sanitation. In ancient times, his broken hand alone would have been enough to be a death sentence.    

“Eat, Taga.” Rast handed Tag a piece of cut apple.

Tag hadn’t noticed, lost in his morose fantasy, that Rast had transferred Tag’s food to his own lap and had cut it into small pieces. He kept handing Tag tiny morsels. The other Saptans didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Tag being fed like a child, or maybe it wasn’t abnormal in their culture. 

“I can feed myself,” Tag hissed, strongly tempted to toss the slice of bread onto the floor.

Rast hummed and continued to pass food to Tag, ignoring Tag’s fuming.

Tag suppressed a groan and swallowed another piece of apple. He’d get up and walk away, but he strongly suspected that Rast would follow him. Rast expected behavior and compliance that Tag didn’t understand. Rast claimed he wasn’t a commanding officer, but he demanded obedience, and his authority seemed to extend beyond a human commanding officer. It was some kind of perverted family structure. Tag needed to keep his head down and study it. He needed to discover the rules and nuances. He didn’t want to be the center of attention, the single Homo sapien among a pack of Saptans, the social structure of which he couldn’t begin to understand. He couldn’t even figure out their sexes.

Finally the apple and bread were gone, and Tag shifted to rise.

“Taga, wait.” Rast placed a restraining hand on Tag’s knee. “It’s our custom to remain in the circle until I rise.”

Tag suppressed a groan. He wanted to retreat to his bunk. There under his blankets, he would have privacy. He had a year of this to survive. He should be overjoyed, a unique opportunity to study an alien culture, and instead he longed for the familiarity of New Terra.

Rast made some almost imperceptible signal with his hand, and he and the remaining Saptans rose. They drifted off in groups while Tag remained sitting on the floor. If he were a good and able anthropologist, he’d follow them, making notes for later study. He had to survive a year in this space. It should be a dream come true, and he wanted to go home. 

Rast dropped back to a kneeling position; his hand rested on Tag’s shoulder. Tag turned away, a gesture that was rude in his own culture, but the Saptans with their strange no eye contact customs might find it welcoming.

“Taga, do you want to talk?”

Tag could think of any number of things he wanted to do, and none of them involved talking to this alien. He stared around his prison. It was comfortable enough in a spartan way and not all that more restrictive than regular shipboard life, and technically it wasn’t a prison, but Tag had no doubt that they were locked in this cargo hold. 

“Taga, do you want to talk?” Rast repeated.

“I want to be alone,” Tag muttered. He wanted to snarl or shout, but they would all be able to hear.

“You are not alone. You are part of our seven.”

Tag jerked away from Rast’s touch. “How can I be part of your seven? I don’t even know what it is. This is not ancient mythology where a  boy is adopted by a wolf pack. I’m human. I can’t be one of your whatever.”

Rast wrapped his hand around Tag’s wrist, his fingers flickering across the pulse points. “We chose you. You will be fine.”

“What?” Tag shouted.

The other Saptans looked quickly around, and then as if with a conscious effort to not embarrass or annoy the frantic human, they returned to their tasks. The twins stood together, their arms over each other’s shoulders, and Kip moved closer, whispering something to them. Rast started that annoying humming again.

“Leave me alone,” Tag spat.

“No.”

How could you fight with someone or something that seemed immovable. Rast didn’t fight like a human. Were they even fighting?

“Yield to me in this, Taga.” Rast was pushing and prodding until Tag was on the floor, his legs crossed. “Take your right wrist with your left hand and hold them over your head.” Rast mirrored the behavior, his own hands now immobilized over his head. “We do not fight.”

With no hands on him, Tag could flee. But to where? He was locked in a cage with insane aliens in a ship piloted by Orosians who had willingly agreed to go to their death. They wouldn’t help him. He had to survive on his own wits and cunning. He had food, shelter, and a population that wasn’t attacking him. It should be easy; these were ideal study conditions. He didn’t even have to forgo running water, and after the carefully but harshly enforced quarantine period, disease was unlikely. Slowly Tag grasped his right wrist and lifted his hands over his head. He dropped his eyes to his lap and waited. Rast hummed but said nothing.

Tag kept his eyes down, but he couldn’t prevent himself from darting glances around the room. Kip had left the twins and was now sprawled on the floor, flicking through computer screens. Bist had collected Lak and the two twins, and they were sorting through the food stuffs. Tag’s shoulders were starting to ache, and his broken hand throbbed. Rast seemed unbothered by the awkwardness of the position. He held his hands overhead, his breath coming in easy puffs. 

Tag wanted to scream or worse punch the alien. Tag wasn’t a violent man, or at least he hadn’t thought he was a violent man until the Saptans arrived. No wonder the government had sealed him and the aliens into a room. If Tag from a culture of non violence couldn’t control his visceral instinct to attack and challenge in face of the unknown, the rest of the Alliance residents had no hope.

Stop, Tag scolded himself. He wasn’t better than anyone else. Surely there would have been thousands of Alliance residents who could handle the situation better. Professional diplomats were trained in the art of negotiation. Why hadn’t they been sent? But of course, this was a suicide mission. Tag wasn’t coming back, and his loss wouldn’t be mourned, not even by his own family.

Tag shifted. He wanted to lower his hands, but something told him that he should continue to copy Rast. Maybe this was some strange form of meditation? Rast had shut his eyes and almost appeared to be sleeping.

“Does your hand hurt, Taga?” Rast said, opening his eyes.

Yes, damn you, Tag thought but said nothing. He wasn’t going to show weakness.

“This is not a contest. We must work together.” Rast dropped his hands and placed them palm up on either knee. “Lower your hands.”

Tag’s arms ached, and his hand throbbed, but for some perverse reason he kept them over his head. He felt hands on his wrist; Tag hadn’t noticed anyone move. His hands were forced down with gentle, silent pressure. Tag felt a hand move to his hair, picking its way through each strand. He shuddered, his head dropping against his chest.

“You like that.” From the voice, Tag realized it was Kip behind him. “No, don’t move. I’m as stubborn as Rast; I’m just more subtle about it.”

Tag thought that might be a joke, but he couldn’t tell. Rast was absolutely still, his eyes shut, and he’d started to hum.

“Lie down on the floor,” Kip whispered in Tag’s ear. Her voice seemed to float into Tag’s consciousness.

“What?” Tag’s protest was halfhearted.

“You’re an anthropologist. Think, Taga. You have fought with Rast all day. It is time to show you accept. Your actions are disturbing the seven. Saptans are a tactile people with physically expressed emotional displays, and you must fit in. Lie down. It will not hurt; I promise.

Tag was a researcher, a scientist. He could do this, no matter how strange or improper it felt. Rigidly he rolled to his side.

“On your stomach. Put your hands behind your neck.”

Tag took a deep breath and struggled into position. He felt more than saw Rast move. From this position, he couldn’t see much of anything. Rast’s hand touched his hair; Tag was starting to recognize the long fingers on his scalp. Rast’s other hand rubbed the small of Tag’s back just hard enough to push Tag against the carpet.

“You’re doing well. Don’t struggle,” Kip said. She was crouched by Tag’s ear. “This is ritual. Rast won’t hurt you.”

Tag jerked under Rast’s hand. Tag had studied rituals; he knew the rituals of his own people. They weren’t always pleasant. Rast’s weight had shifted; he must be kneeling over Tag. Rast’s hand moved to cover both of Tag’s, trapping Tag’s hands against his neck.

“Does that hurt?” Rast’s voice was directly behind Tag’s ear. Tag could feel the moisture from Rast’s throat as Rast breathed.

“No.” This didn’t hurt, but what was going to happen next? Tag was under another man’s body. Shouting wouldn’t bring any help. He couldn’t fight; there were six of them.

“I’m going to roll off you now. Stay still until I touch your shoulder to release you.”

Tag drew a deep breath. He was safe for now; his hands were free. A hand stroked his shoulder. Tag scrambled up, wrapping his arms around his body trying to hide the shaking.

“He’s terrified. What did he think was going to happen?” Tag heard the voices of Kip and Rast, but it was as if they were far away. He was in his bubble; he was safe. They couldn’t touch him.

“Taga.” The hand was firm on the back of his neck, almost painful. “Where are you? What is going on?”

“Leave me alone.” Tag jerked away.

“No. What did you think was going to happen to you?” Rast’s eyes flickered across Tag’s face before dripping to a spot on the ground. 

“I thought you were going to...” Tag hesitated. He felt tears on his cheeks and turned away.

“What, Taga?”

“I thought you were going to rape me.”  Tag couldn’t stop the tears that were running down his face. He’d been out with his shipmates; they’d been drinking. He’d thought they were his friends. Only the broken glass had let him get away. They didn’t even remember it the next day except for Remus with the long cut down his cheek. 

“I’m kwi.” Rast dropped to his knees; his hands were behind his back, and his forehead was on the floor.

“Run your fingers through his hair.” Kip had taken Tag’s hand and was leading him toward Rast. “It means you except his apology. K’Rast is a good man. He is the soul of our seven. Touch.”

Tag didn’t fight as his hand was held over Rast’s hair. He ran his fingers through the dark wiry strands. They felt coarser than his own. 

Rast rolled onto his back and spread his arms and legs into a cross.

“He submits and gives himself to you,” Kip narrated.

“I don’t want him.”

“Lay down. Put your head on his chest and let him stroke you. It will feel good. You liked it when I touched you.”

Tag found himself obeying; he didn’t really have any other options, and Kip’s voice was professional and calm. Rast was doing that humming thing again. Tag knelt and forced his body to unwind, dropping his head against Rast’s chest. The only motion was Rast’s chest moving up and down.

“Taga, I am sworn by law and custom to protect you. If I hurt you, I hurt us all. We must have a peaceful seven.” Rast’s hand moved into Tag’s hair. “We do not rape. We do not take by force. You don’t believe me, but you will.” Rast was quiet, his hand running up and down Tag’s body. “None of us here are physically capable of having sex, not even with other Saptans. Will that help?”

“Rape is a crime of power.”

“I have power over you, but you also have power over me.” Rast’s fingers played against Tag’s skin. “Power in our culture is symbolically given and taken. We express it through movement and touch. I’ve yielded to you, and they all know it.”

“The open arms on your back?”

“Yes. We will teach you.”

“You use force. You pinched me this morning.”

“We are tactile. Are you ready to sit up? They are waiting for us to return to normalcy.”

Tag jerked upright. Rast followed more slowly, draping an arm over Tag’s shoulder and running his finger down Tag’s cheek.

“Tears mean distress for you also?”

Tag nodded.

“Cry, Taga. You have a right to distress. You’ve left home forever.”

“I did that when I was eighteen.” Tag scrubbed at his face with his hand.

“I know. That is why we chose you. We thought the transition would be easier, but the Alliance was home. Your service to the Alliance was your anchor. The people you served faithfully tricked you, imprisoned you, and expelled you. Your home is now with us. We have a year of travel for you to adjust.”

“I am Pastoon.” My heart is with the rivers; my feet are with the ground. Tag hadn’t heard that song since childhood. Rast’s humming must have brought up musical memories from his childhood.

“You ceased to be Pastoon the day you turned eighteen and fled your home world, and you were never New Terran, no matter what your identification says. You were a stranger among your own kind. The Orosian captain didn’t even ask about you this morning when she checked to see if we had survived the first jump into hyperspace. You went berserk when they placed you in the isolation chamber. Did a New Terran go to offer you comfort? No, I had to beg to be allowed to come to you. You are Saptan now, as Saptan as if you were born on our world. You belong to us. We need you. Who are you?”

“I’m Tag. I’m a visitor from the Alliance.”

“No, you are Tag San K’Rast.” Rast pronounced the words slowly and clearly. “You are identified as being in our pod. Who are you?”

“I’m Tag.”

“You are more than Tag.”

“I am Lieutenant Tag.”

“I do not need your serial number,” Rast interrupted. He wrapped his hand around Tag’s good wrist and squeezed softly. “Do you feel that, Tag?”

“Yes.”

“I told you we were a tactile people. Think before you answer again. Yield to us.”

Tag studied the alien’s face. Rast had just apologized profusely for a misunderstanding; now he was implying he would use force if Tag didn’t submit. Rast didn’t look angry, but it was hard to tell without eye contact.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Tag.” The pressure around his wrist increased a fraction, and Rast pulled him closer, forcing their bodies to overlap in several places.

“You are Tag San K’Rast. Yield.”

All Tag had to do is say the words, and Rast would let go. Tag could retreat to his bunk. There would be some privacy under the covers.

“I am Kip San K’Rast. Kip’s voice was high and sweet, and she smiled. “Rast is stubborn, and he comes from the north where the traditions are strongest. You became Tag San K’Rast the first time he touched you. Embrace who you are. He wants to make it easier for you. D’John hurt us all.”

“What happened with D’John?” Tag asked, grabbing hold of a new topic as if it were a lifeline. 

“He doesn’t know?” Kip asked in the dropping intonation pattern that Tag was beginning to realize marked a question.

“Later.”

“I yield in this matter, K’Rast, but be careful.”

“The formality, K’Kip? You believe I am in error.”

“I lack the information to judge, and I have yielded.”

“You honor me.”

Kip nodded, crossed her wrists in front of her and withdrew.

“Who are you?” Rast asked again.

“What happened to D’John?” Tag wanted to pull away, but Rast had a firm hold, and he was doing something with his other hand against the junction of Tag’s neck and shoulder that was almost hypnotizing, fogging Tag’s instincts to run and fight.

“We mourn his loss.”

“They all died or went crazy. You know that, don’t you?” 

“No, Tag San K’Rast.”

“I like Taga better.”

“You are both. What happened to the Travelers?”

“They died.”

“Do you mean they were lost in space? Space travel is dangerous, and accidents are sometimes unavoidable.”

“Some were, or at least that is what is reported, but three teams returned home. They were unable to readjust.” Tag fell silent. He didn’t know if Rast’s culture has a taboo against suicide.

“Did they take their own life?”

Tag glanced at Rast’s face. It was impassive as always. “Are you familiar with these missions?”

“No, but we understand the dislocating effect of deep space travel. We have the seven. They were only in pairs. You will have all of us. You belong to all of us.”

Tag bristled but held his tongue. He wasn’t owned by anyone. Tag cherished his independence, and even with only brief glimpses of the interactions between the Saptans, it was clear that independence wasn’t highly valued. A brief glance around the cargo bay confirmed that not a single Saptan was alone. The twins had settled on the floor and looked like they were playing some kind of game with studious concentration. Kip was sorting through medical supplies. Lak and Bist might be helping; Tag couldn’t quite tell. They were all clumped together, but Bist drifted off to touch the twins’ heads or to toss the multi-sided die.

“Taga, did they commit suicide?”

“Yes, or suffered mental illness.”

“Are you afraid for yourself?”

“No.”

“It might be prudent to consider the possibility.”

“Do you think I’m suicidal?”

“I haven’t the expertise to fully evaluate your mental health. Who are you?”

“What?” Tag said, taken aback by the question. “Are we back on that jag again? I am Tag, and at least for now I’m Tag San K’Rast if that will get you off my back.”

“Jag?” Rast questioned.

“It’s slang for tangent. You have slang, don’t you?”

“Our adult language has not changed for centuries except for the addition of new words to cover new technologies. We do not have slang. D’John explained slang, but I assume with its rapid changes there will be many words that I do not know.”

“Was D’John John San K’Rast?”

“No.” Rast made a buzzing sound in his throat more a vibration than the earlier hum and shut his eyes.”

“You think that was a mistake?”

“The evidence is unequivocal.”

“Why am I part of the seven, and he wasn’t?”

“We had seven. We can’t have eight, and I didn’t know.”

“What happened to D’John?”

Rast shut his eyes and ran his hand down Tag’s neck. It was clear that it was more for Rast’s comfort than to reassure Tag. Tentatively Tag reached up and stroked down Rast’s cheek, copying the gesture.

“What happened to D’John? Did he commit suicide?”

Rast stayed silent, his swallows almost audible.

“Are you required to answer my questions?” Tag asked, remembering Rast’s expectations.

“I am, K’Tag.”

“What happened?” Tag asked again when Rast remained silent.

“He decompressed a cargo bay. D’Tan tried to stop him and died with him.”

“It wasn’t an accident? Your ship’s controls would have been unfamiliar to him.”

“No, it wasn’t an accident.”

“You think this was your fault? Others killed themselves, and they’d never met a Saptan. You’re not trained in psychoanalysis, and you’re not human.”

“I am trained in the arts of the psyche. It is required for a pod leader.”

“D’John was human.”

“I’d studied him for many months.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I cannot yield here.” Rast drew Tag’s head up and looked directly in his eyes. “Do you yield here?”

“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t know a crazy human was going to blast his lungs to smithereens in a cargo bay.”

“Your mental health is my responsibility. You belong to us.”

“D’John wasn’t in your seven.”

“He needed our seven.”

“This is circular reasoning. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I cannot yield.” Rast rose to his feet with easy elegance despite the short pants and bare feet. He clapped his hands once. The other Saptans gathered around and seated themselves facing Rast. “We have come to an impasse. I ask for your judgement.”

Kip reached out and grabbed Tag’s hand. She towed him to the other side of the circle. “Stand here. Both hands in front of you and clasped together. That represents your vow not to fight. Rast will advocate for his version of events, and then you will have a chance to refute it. We will decide.” Kip traced her fingers through Tag’s hair before sitting down with the others.

Rast gave a brief and factual account of D’John’s final day. Tag could detect no emotion in Rast’s voice, but Tag wasn’t sure he knew what to look for. The Saptans had a complicated vocabulary of body language, and Tag felt he knew only the fewest words. It was like trying to read and seeing only the first word of every paragraph. Rast finished his speech and dropped to one knee, his hands still clasped in front of him.

“K’Tag, you will not yield?” Kip asked.

“No.” Tag licked his lips. He hated public speaking. “D’John was known to my people as Commander John Barker. We mourn his loss as we mourn all the losses aboard the Traveler deep space vehicles. Humans have a history of stubborn independence and reckless exploration. Many have died in the quest. From my history, I know that early space vehicles exploded on the launch pad and disintegrated on reentry. Engineering and scientific errors contributed to many deaths. These were tragedies, but no one was individually responsible. My understanding is that D’John’s wife was lost on a spacewalk. I assume she was attempting to repair a malfunctioning solar panel, a common problem on that series of space vehicles. It was a terrible tragedy, and if one factor contributed to D’John’s later suicide, it was the loss of his wife.”

Tag pushed his hair back from his face and took a deep breath. “K’Rast had not even met D’John at this time. He could not anticipate the pressures that the death of a spouse would cause an alien species. It is beyond hubris to even think that he could. Suicides were common in the Traveler series. If anyone or anything must be found to be at fault, it is my government and my space service for failing to prepare their explorers properly.”

Tag looked at Rast and Kip. What was he supposed to do now? Rast was looking at the ground. Kip made a faint motion with her hand, and Tag raised his eyebrows, hoping to convey that he didn’t understand.

“You do not yield to K’Rast?” Kip asked.

“I do not.”

“Kneel like Rast, and we will make our decision.”

The Saptans shifted in the circle. Bist, Lak, and the twins faced Rast, and Kip faced Tag. They remained silent, staring at the ground. Tag wondered if there was some prescribed time for what they were doing. None of them seemed to be wearing any time pieces. Tag guessed maybe five minutes had elapsed before they turned and stood now facing each other.

“I stand with K’Tag.” Kip said, her eyes sweeping across the other Saptans and then resting on a point off to the side. “The debate will be continued at the next cycle.” 

The other Saptan’s drifted off. Rast came forward and ran his fingers once through Tag’s hair.

“Copy the gesture,” Kip said. “It means that you understand that you have differences but that you will put them aside until the next cycle.

Tag let his fingers touch Rast’s hair before dropping his hand to his side. 

A tiny smile flickered across Rast’s face. “You honor me, K’Tag. Kip will explain the ceremony, as I’m sure you have many questions.” Rast moved off to stand with Bist, studying an Alliance computer screen.

“Taga, you are brave, and you are right,” Kip said, wrapping her hand around Tag’s neck. “We touch.”

“I know. Don’t flinch,” Tag said with a smile. He liked Kip. She was less intimidating than Rast.

“Rast takes his responsibilities seriously, and he is a good pod leader, but he is from the north. We have allowed our formal customs to slip, but in the north, they are very formal. Do you understand what happened?”

Tag shook his head. 

“Our culture is built on consensus. You disagree with Rast over D’John’s death.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“The responsibility for the well-being of the seven rest with all of us.”

“He wasn’t in the seven.”

“No, and that is why you are. You are our responsibility. Do not fight it. We are a collective.”

Tag pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Why did you stand on my side if you think Rast is responsible?”

“He is responsible in terms of our culture but not in your terms. I will stand with you until you understand the difference. If I stand with him, you will be forced to yield. One member of the seven cannot stand alone.”

“But D’John was not in the seven? How can Rast be responsible for his death? Does the collective culture extend to strangers?”

Kip paused and stroked down Tag’s arm. “Our philosophers are not in agreement on this issue. Rast follows the writing of Kar who argued that consensus and collective responsibility extends beyond the seven. It is a difficult philosophy, and even I as a native Saptan do not fully understand it. Once you become more accustomed to our culture, ask Rast to introduce you to the writings of our great philosophers.

“What if your philosophers do not convince me to agree?”

“I will stand with you until you can, or until the others understand that our two meanings of responsibility are not mutually compatible.”

“But what if I still disagree?”

“Are you that stubborn?” Kip flickered her eyes up to Tag’s face. She was definitely teasing.

“I am stubborn. Some of you must disagree?”

“We come to a consensus as will you.”

“If I don’t?”

“We will talk about it if it ever happens.”

“I want to know.” 

“Tagat, have you been listening to what I’ve been saying? It is time for you to yield to me.” Kip cupped Tag’s chin and drew his eyes up to look at her. “Yield, Tagat”

Tag swallowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, falling back on the automatic answer of his military training.

“I yield is the correct response.”

“I yield.”

“You honor me.” Kip ran her knuckles softly down Tag’s cheek. “Taga, I’m more patient than Rast and Bist. Try not to cause trouble.”

“Sorry.”

“You yielded. An apology is not necessary.”

“Why did you call me Tagat?”

“We use that ending when someone is being intentionally difficult. You were being intentionally difficult?”

Tag shrugged. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

“I’m Kip or K’Kip if you want to show respect.”

“Yes, K’Kip.”

Kip ran her hand down Tag’s back. “Come help me with the medical supplies; some are unfamiliar.”

It was easy to lose himself in the medical equipment. Tag had only had minimal first aid training, and it was obvious that Kip had more training than her described role as a medic, but some of the medicine and equipment were unfamiliar to her. With the help of the computer, Tag was able to sort and organize most of the supplies. He enjoyed work and while working he could avoid thinking of all the complications of his new life with the Saptans.