From Afar - Chapter 7

From Afar VII

Tag turned over in his bunk, his back muscles rippling when they touched the sheets like a horse trying to rid itself of a fly. He’d never thought of the sheets as rough or the mattress as being stiffer than usual until tonight. His back itched and burned at the same time. He’d managed to catch a look at it in the mirror. It didn’t look spectacular, six faint red lines that spidered across his shoulders and upper torso, but it hurt. 

Bist didn’t seem bothered. He, like the other Saptans, was curled up in an ungainly pile on the floor. They didn’t use bunks, but slept in a heap like puppies. Usually Bist was asleep intertwined  with Brin and Tisp, but in the dim night time glow of the overhead lights, Tag could make out Bist’s head on Rast’s shoulder, and Rast’s long arms and fingers draped over Bist’s hip.

Tag turned over again, hissing as his muscles protested. The wall was less interesting than studying the interior of their makeshift prison, but, Tag told himself, better for sleep. He shut his eyes, trying to force himself into a state of rest; there would be questions tomorrow--or was it today at this point?--if his eyes were red with dark circles under them. Tag kicked off the light synthetic blanket and punched his pillow into a better shape. He still couldn’t sleep.

“Get up.” 

Tag didn’t need to turn over to recognize the voice or the hand that had been placed so firmly on his neck. It was Bist, with his thick fingers and calloused palm.

“Get up,” Bist repeated and jerked the remaining cover of thin blanket off Tag.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“This is not a debate. Did you learn nothing today?” Bist pulled Tag from the bunk; the hand wasn’t unkind, but escape was impossible.

“I’m tired.” Tag could hear the whine in his own voice, embarrassingly childish. Being pushed into the center of the room bare-chested in only a thin pair of shorts was bad enough, but complaining like an overtired child was worse.

“And you’re not sleeping.”

“I’m sore.”

“Then wake Kip. We don’t do things alone.”

Tag wanted to protest, but he remained quiet. He didn’t want to wake Kip; he wanted to stay under his blanket, invisible.

Rast rolled over and studied Tag. Tag couldn’t see him clearly in the artificial night, but Rast looked tired, his eyes heavy, his expression masked.

“Lie down,” Bist prodded. 

Tag turned and started to mouth, “no,” when Bist flicked him hard with the flat of his hand across the side of his hip.

“You need to obey,” Bist said. “You are part of our seven; accept the responsibility.”

Tag knelt on the floor and dropped to his side, trying to not touch Rast and silently praying that the rest of the Saptans wouldn’t wake. Rast made a buzzing sound in his throat and snaked an arm around Tag, pulling him close.

“Relax,” Rast said softly, his warm breath tickling Tag’s cheek. 

Tag stiffened more, almost holding his breath.

“Would it help if you considered it an order?” Rast asked, his hand stroking down Tag’s arm.

Tag snuffed a choked laugh that tried to escape his throat. 

“What?” Rast asked.

“You can’t order me to relax; it’s like ordering me not to be hungry. I don’t have control over it.”

Bist dropped down behind Tag, his hand resting heavily on Tag’s shoulders. He made a buzzing sound in his throat before he spoke. “You are relaxing. Are you sure you didn’t obey Rast’s orders?”

This was the second time Bist had joked in less than 24 hours. He did have a sense of humor. Maybe he just had to be beaten for it to show. Rast pulled Tag closer, his arm draped over Tag’s hip. Tag dropped his head against the smooth chest; there was nowhere else to put it, and holding it up was already straining his neck muscles. Tag shut his eyes and slowed his breathing to what he thought was a good copy of a sleeping respiratory pattern. At least if he were asleep, they couldn’t ask him questions or order him to be calmer.

Rast’s or maybe Bist’s fingers were in his hair; he couldn’t really tell, and if he were absolutely honest with himself, he didn’t care. He wanted to be able to enjoy it, but he was resting on the shoulder of the man who had hurt him. Physical violence was wrong, even if it was part of some elaborate ritual, even if they treated him kindly afterward. They had been kind: Bist had spoken to him, included him in the twins’ game; Rast had lost his perfunctory professionalism. Now if only Tag could sleep. He wanted to squirm, untangle Rast’s legs from his, but he didn’t want to alert them to the continued spinning in his mind.

“Is he asleep?” Bist asked in a quiet voice.

“I think so, he’s still, and his breathing is quiet. Are you all right?”

They’d switched to the Saptan language. Tag could now understand the simple sentences, and he picked up the easy affection in Rast’s choice of the familiar you.

“I won’t tell you it didn’t hurt, but you didn’t harm me. K’Rast I trust you.” The conversation continued in the high lilting language of the Saptans. Tag tried to understand the words, but he could only catch pieces. There was something about Bist before he’d been in Rast’s seven. Kip had said something similar. Tag squirmed, forgetting that he was supposed to be asleep.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Rast said, his hand spread across Tag’s ribs. “Did you understand what we were saying?”

“Not really,” Tag said honestly. 

“Haven’t you been studying?” Rast asked with clear warmth in his voice.

“Yes,” Tag said. He tried to roll to a sitting position, but Rast’s strong arm held him in place.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, not having a chat with us or eavesdropping.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“Really. Don’t try that response in daylight.”

Tag fell silent. Was he being warned about lying, or was Rast teasing? Tag dropped his head against Rast’s chest. He didn’t want to think about anything.

“That’s right, Taga. Try to trust us a little.”

How can I trust you? Tag wanted to shout. They never told him anything. He had to figure out the rules by walking into traps and getting his fingers scorched. It was like teaching a child to fear fire by having him play with hot coals. Maybe that had been the idea all along--complete immersion. He knew it was a successful strategy for language instruction. Could it work to assimilate a whole culture?

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Bist said, moving closer. “Taga, we are trying. This is new for us also.”

Tag could hear what he thought was either sympathy or regret in Bist’s voice or maybe a little of both. This was a Saptan who had taken a beating for him. A man, an alien who Tag had thought was completely unfriendly, now offered to share something of his past.

“Sleep, Taga,” Bist said.

Tag closed his eyes; he didn’t want to make more trouble.

“Taga.” Kip was shaking his shoulders. 

Bist and Rast had somehow slipped out earlier in the morning without waking him. With a quick glance around the room, Tag spotted the other Saptans. Rast was sitting in the corner, his back against the wall with a computer pad on his lap. He appeared to be reading the screen, but Tag had a distinct feeling that he was surveying his domain. He didn’t look at Tag or acknowledge him, but Tag sensed that Rast was watching him. He couldn’t decide if it made him feel protected or repressed. Bist and the twins were doing something. From the little knowledge that Tag had gained of the Saptans’ space travels prior to their encounter with the New Terrans, Bist and the twins had been the Saptans most directly responsible for flying the spaceship, and Tag wondered how they occupied themselves confined to the cargo bay.  

“Taga,” Kip repeated, “let me have a look at you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stand up and let me have a look.”

Tag shook his head. He was wrapped in the light quilt; he didn’t want to expose himself again. Kip unceremoniously reached under the quilt and hauled him to his feet.

“Rast touched you with the whip yesterday; I would think about obeying.”

This was the second person in less than a day to warm him about acquiescing to the rules. “I thought this was supposed to be a happy collective,” Tag said sarcastically.

“You’ve been with us for many of your weeks. What do you know about our culture? I know I’ve seen you make notes.” Kip ran her fingers down his back as she spoke. “Still slightly red, but it shouldn’t hurt much.”

Tag twitched his shoulders experimentally. “It’s itchy.”

“That’s normal. I’ll put an anti-inflammatory on it.” Kip applied a thin layer of cool cream. “Better?”

Tag nodded. “What about Bist?”

“He’s sore, but he’ll never tell anyone. He’s too damn proud.”

“Rast was talking with Bist last night.”

Kip made a noncommittal humming sound and passed Tag his shirt. 

“I don’t understand the dynamics between them. You told me Rast rescued Bist, but yet they don’t get along.”

“What have you learned about our culture?” Kip prodded.

“That you never answer my questions,” Tag shot back.

“We believe that learning involves trial and error, not merely the dispensing of information. You have to become a member of our seven, not write academic papers on the dynamics of the seven in Saptan culture.”

“That’s not what I do,” Tag said, stung by the words.

Kip cocked her head and gave Tag one of those fleeting Saptan smiles. “Isn’t that what you do? You left your own people; you remained apart during your time at university and in the space service, and you watch us like interesting specimens, never getting emotionally involved.”

Tag swallowed hard. The criticism was shockingly and bluntly true. He’d been told the same thing by others, both superior officers and colleagues, never quite so directly but with the same ends in mind. He needed to be a better team player. “I’m sorry,” Tag muttered.

Kip stroked down Tag’s cheek. “Don’t apologize; remember you are part of the seven. You belong to all of us.”

Tag nodded and turned his head slightly away. It wasn’t rude in Saptan society to look away, and it allowed him to collect his thoughts and to hide the emotions that were threatening to explode his cool professional calm. He’d liked it last night when he’d been forced to sleep between Bist and Rast. They’d stroked his hair like a frightened puppy. He shouldn’t want this. Bist didn’t like him, and Rast was a dictator. Rast might soften his stance with gentleness, but there had been nothing gentle about the whipping. Tag had seen Bist’s back.

“Taga.” Kip hooked her arm around Tag’s neck. “Saptans don’t make direct eye contact, but we also don’t evade the discussion by looking away. What are you thinking?” Kip paused and ruffled her fingers through Tag’s hair. “We misread you as easily as you misread us.”

“I don’t get the rules,” Tag said, wishing he had pockets in which to shove his hands. Humans slouched when they were under stress, faded into the walls. He couldn’t slouch with Kip’s arm wrapped around his neck, and the shorts lacked pockets. He didn’t even have a high collar in which he could hide himself. The Saptans’ shirts were loose fitting with a scooped neck.

“Can you break your culture into nice, tidy rules? We are a swirl of contradictions just like your people. You are Pastoon with strict pacific beliefs and well defined gender roles. Men of your age are married.”

“With several children,” Tag added.

“You are not a pacifist; you are not married, and you have no children. If you gave us a blueprint for your culture, wouldn’t you have to be all three?”

“I am no longer Pastoon. I haven’t been since I left at eighteen.”

“Are you New Terran?”

“No.”

“I know you’re not Orosian,” Kip said with a hint of a smile.

“They are an insular people. It is speculated that their dramatically shorter lifespan makes interaction with the other planetary inhabitants difficult.”

“I think a less academic view is they’re unfriendly and hostile.”

“They have volunteered for this mission with no return.”

“So have you, and you actually talk, well, at least some of the time.”

“I’ve seen them talk to Rast.”

“He’s a diplomat and a consensus builder.”

Tag watched Rast. He was stretched out on the floor, looking totally relaxed, almost as if he were lost in meditation. Lak was next to him, her body a near mirror reflection of Rast’s. Tag hadn’t been processing it, but most days Rast circled among the Saptans, spending time with each one of them. He’d done the same thing with Tag until he’d stood with Bist.

“Tag, do you see it now?”

Tag nodded. He’d seen Rast casually chatting with Brin or Tisp, grabbing Tag for a meal, or studying the medical supplies with Kip. “He spends less time with Bist?” Tag asked, his voice hovering between a question and a statement.

“Their relationship is difficult.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Kip spoke in the Saptans’ usual riddles.

“Bist did not start in our seven, and some traditionalists would question his loyalty.”

“I thought Rast was a traditionalist. You keep saying he’s from the north.”

“Rast respects the time-honored traditions, but his interpretation does not fit with the interpretation of the current traditionalists. Rast believes the laws were truly designed to protect all three segments of our population, not to maintain the status quo. He interprets them with the aid of the most ancient and most liberal commentaries. He believes the role of the kwi is as the peacemaker.”

Tag shrugged and pulled away from Kip. He didn’t understand her, and her continued spouting on about the ways of the Saptans was infuriating him. He used to think he liked puzzles. During his university years, Wade, his tutor, would make up imaginary civilizations, leaving clues for Tag to decipher the social structure. That had been fun. It had been why he’d become an anthropologist. They had never been this crazy; only a few things differed. Of course, they were both human; they couldn’t imagine this in their most fanciful moments.

“Go be with Bist. He should be able to sort you out.” Kip touched his right shoulder in a gesture of dismissal and turned her back on him.

Tag moved not toward Bist, but toward his small collection of plants. He watered them carefully. The lettuce peeked out of their long boxes, the pale green a vivid reminder of life outside this spaceship. Tag stroked the slim fronds of the dill plant. Rast had managed to acquire a good mixture of seeds from the Orosians. The dark leaves of the pepper plants were a long way from bearing fruit as were the scrawny stalks of tomatoes, but Tag would have real food enough for everybody.

“Tag, you need to do your lesson. You have not been excused from work.”

Tag spun around and stared at Bist. He didn’t care that he was staring. Bist stood, his eyes hidden behind the dark, thick brows, his fingers open in the usual stance of a relaxed Saptan.

“I don’t want to,” Tag spat, shocked by his own hostility.

“It was not a choice. You need to submit to the will of the seven.” Bist grabbed Tag’s arm.

Tag should have nodded and followed him passively, instead he swung at Bist’s face with his other fist. Bist feinted right and with the skill of a trained fighter, swept Tag’s legs out from under him, and had him on the ground, both arms pinned, in less than ten seconds.

“Did it not hurt enough yesterday? Did you like it? Because if Rast saw this, you’re going to have a replay.”

Tag’s nose was pressed into the carpet. He couldn’t lift his head; he couldn’t respond with his mouth full of carpet fibers. Bist was on top of him, berating him with chilling efficiency. Tag had never been violent, and he’d attacked Bist twice in less than 24 hours.

“I’m going to get off you now. You’re going to kneel and touch me in the same ritual as yesterday, forehead and both shoulders. I will then decide what I am going to do with you.”

Bist’s hands loosened on Tag’s wrist, and his weight slid from his back. The orders had been very clear, no room for variation or interpretation. Tag stayed down on the floor. Bist had been kind last night; Tag couldn’t look at him now. He always made people hate him.

“You want it this way.” The words were soft; maybe it was a question, or maybe it was a statement of dismay. Bist’s fingers wrapped in Tag’s hair and pulled him up to his knees and then to his feet. He wasn’t speaking now. A firm hand was pressed against the small of Tag’s back, and he was pushed toward the back corner into the relative privacy of the showers. Sound would carry, but neither of them would be visible. “I’ve been broken. It’s a painful and humiliating process. Do I have to do it to you?”

Tag could feel his bare feet against the poured ceramic floor, his toes curling to gain a purchase on the slippery surface. Bist’s large hand was around Tag’s neck, not in a comforting manner, but more like he might shake Tag like an errant puppy.

“Do I have to do it?” Bist repeated.

“Do what?” Tag asked, his voice high with strain.

“Hurt you to make you obey. Do I have to make you submit?” Bist’s voice softened and in a surprising gesture of comfort he stroked the hair off Tag’s forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tag swiped at his eyes. He didn’t want to cry; he didn’t even know why his eyes were filling with tears. 

“Taga,” Bist said with sudden warmth, pulling Tag close and wrapping his arms around the human. “I don’t want to force you.”

Tag couldn’t stop the tears. Weeks of frustration, fear, and aggravation overwhelmed him. Bist’s hand stroked down Tag’s back. He didn’t say anything, and for once Tag was relieved that the Saptans tended to use few words. Finally Tag’s tears slowed.

“Will you obey?” 

Tag gulped back his final tears and nodded.

“Back out to the others with me. You will walk on my left, your eyes down and to the left. When I stop, you will kneel and keep your eyes down and to the left. I will touch your forehead and both shoulders; you will rise and do the same. I will run my hand through your hair, and then you will stay with me and be compliant and quiet the rest of the day. I will whip you if you cause me any more problems.”

“Yes, sir,” Tag said, reverting to his military training. He could follow orders; this he could understand. He badly wanted to wash his face, embarrassed by the tear tracks and his swollen eyes, but Bist had already moved him to his left side. The cargo bay seemed to have doubled in size as they made the long trek across its floor. Tag was glad he’d been ordered to look at the floor. At least with his eyes cast down, he couldn’t see the faces of the other Saptans. Bist stopped, and Tag momentarily forgot to drop to his knees.

“Down,” Bist hissed, pressing against the junction of Tag’s neck and shoulder.

Tag dropped to his knees. He hadn’t meant to disobey. Bist stood over him, almost straddling him with his thick legs. The Saptan touched Tag’s forehead and two shoulders. Tag shut his eyes as he felt the hot fingers press against his skin. Tag rose and touched Bist in the ritual spots.

“Good, Taga,” Bist said only loud enough for Tag to hear. His thick fingers wrapped in Tag’s hair and gave a gentle tug. “Come.”

Tag walked with Bist to a quiet corner where he squatted and pulled Tag down with him. Silently Bist passed Tag a computer pad and tapped on the screen, flipping through the screens until he found the language lessons. Tag studied the screen. It was more lists of endless prefixes and suffixes. Tag didn’t want to incur Bist’s wrath, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing around at the other Saptans. Kip and Rast were deep in conversation, Rast’s long arm wrapped around Kip’s waist. The other ki were all together, huddled around a game board. Lak was fingering a thin string with several beads hanging around his neck. Tag had never payed attention to the thin necklaces all the ki wore except Bist. Bist’s throat was bare, as were Rast and Kip’s.

“Do ki wear a collar around their necks?” Tag asked, unsure if he should speak.

“It is customary.”

“Why don’t you have one?”

“I had one from Taz. Rast cut it off.”

“But he didn’t give you one of his?” Taz looked at the necklaces again. Why hadn’t he noticed them? Jewelry indicating the wearer’s status was common in civilizations. In his family it had been the wedding band and engagement ring. His father wore a plain gold band and his mother a wedding band with tiny stones of lapis lazuli to match her eyes. Her engagement ring had been a traditional small diamond.

“He would if I insisted.” Bist’s hand stroked his bare neck as if he still looked for the slim necklace.

“You don’t want one?”

“It is not my choice. He believes I am not ready.”

“He’s not required to give you one?” Tag struggled to find the question that would give him the most information. The Saptans answered his questions, but they never offered extra information.

“We have not been back to the home world since I became part of the seven.”

“You were discussing that last night?”

“Yes, you must have understood more than you let on. If you studied more instead of chatting, you might have understood it all.”

“Please,” Tag said, lowering his eyes to the left. He’d been told to keep his eyes to the left during the ceremony. It must be a sign of respect.

“Tag, my personal history is not fascinating.”

“Is it off limits?”

“No, you are my responsibility, and I have a duty to share information with you.” Bist rubbed his neck again in an unconscious gesture of nervousness, Tag thought. “I am ki. My status determines how I must interact with Rast and Kip.”

“The kwi,” Tag said, thinking aloud. “By law or by custom?”

“Both.”

“Do you have to submit to Rast?” It was a strange choice of words. Bist had used it, and Tag copied it unconsciously instead of choosing obey, a neutral word used in a military or training environment. He’d used submit; a word that even in his limited experience had a sexual connotation among humans.

“Rast is leader of this pod, and he is kwi.”

“What does that mean?” Tag asked after a few minutes when it became obvious that Bist wasn’t going to elaborate. “I have no context in which to understand such statements.”

“You are frustrated by that, and you behave in irresponsible ways.”

“I am not irresponsible!” Since Tag had been a small child, his teachers had always praised his responsibility; his work was never late. His parents would leave him alone to tend the farm with never a worry.

“You tried to provoke a fight earlier. A fight you knew would result in unfortunate consequences.”

“I was angry.”

“You are angry. You’re angry all the time. I should know,” Bist said with an obvious weariness. “I think Rast was right to force the two of us together. He is more observant than I give him credit for. He is a good kwi.”

Something about the way Bist said the last words was almost an admission of guilt on his part and a near patter of prayer. He’d placed Rast in some Pantheon of gods. “I’m not angry,” Tag said, remembering Bist’s earlier comment about Tag’s continual anger.

Bist’s hand came down and stroked the sinews of Tag’s neck. “You are. We can call it frustration if that would be easier for you?”

“Stop stroking me. I’m not your fucking pet dog.” Tag slammed his mouth shut. He didn’t talk that way; he held himself above swearing.

Bist wrapped his fingers around Tag’s hair and jerked hard once. Tag’s head snapped back and whacked against Bist’s knee. It had been deliberate and controlled and very definitely punitive. “You do not speak to me in that tone. Rast may tolerate it to some degree; that is his prerogative. I do not. It poisons the environment with anger. We have to live with you. You belong to us as we belong to you.”

Tag rubbed the back of his head. That had hurt.

“You like to be stroked,” Bist said softly, his fingers playing down Tag’s neck. “You actually relax and stop forcing us all away from you. Remember I was with you yesterday. You clung to me. I don’t know what kind of crazy society you lived in and were raised in that conditioned you not to touch.”

“You are obsessive about touching.” Tag tried to slide away from Bist, but was stopped by a wide forearm around his neck.

“Stay.”

“I’m not a dog.” Tag’s body quivered with outrage, but he didn’t have the leverage to get up.

“Did you have a dog?”

“What?” Tag asked, surprised by the change of subject.

“You compared my treatment of you to humans’ treatment of pets. Dogs are pets?”

“A dog can be a pet, a companion, or a worker. My father had stock dogs.”

“They were workers?” Bist hesitated over the choice of words.

“Working dogs, yes.”

“You’re father treated them harshly?”

“No,” Tag said too quickly. “They weren’t pets. What does this have to do with anything? Stop stoking me.”

“Would you rather I whip you?”

It wasn’t a threat, or at least Tag didn’t think it was. Bist’s voice was hard to read, and at Tag’s current angle he couldn’t see Bist’s face even if he cranked his neck to its farthest point. It was asked in the manner Tag might ask someone if he wanted a sandwich or to borrow the book he had just finished.

“Tag, I asked you a question.” Bist’s fingers were wrapped around Tag’s hair again.

“Don’t.” Tag tried to block Bist with his hands.

“I know you don’t like it, but right now the only way we can get you to talk is to hurt you. Do you have any better options?”

“Intentionally creating pain isn’t right. Violence is never right.”

“Your slogans are pretty, but they are not helping you. You are slowly torturing yourself and taking us with you. It will stop, and I can be harsher than Rast.”

“You expect me to adhere to some kind of code that I don’t understand. I violate some custom that I didn’t even knew existed, and then I’m beaten for my error, and I’m supposed to be happy about it.” Tag could feel tears in his eyes. Men didn’t cry. Pastoon men didn’t cry.

“Good,” Bist said, stroking down Tag’s cheek.

“Good,” Tag said with disbelief. “I just screamed at you, and you said good.”

“It’s the first time you started to tell me your problems. It wasn’t polite, not in your culture and not in ours, but it’s far better than going off alone and sulking. I can tell you the rules. You are part of this seven; you are part of the one. You do not go off alone. You do not sleep alone. You do not go out of touching distance unless you have been sent on a specific errand. You will do what is asked of you without complaint or resistance. If you need something, you will share your needs, so we may solve the problem. If you don’t, I, as the senior ki, will punish you, and if it is beyond my scope, I will turn you over to Rast. Do you understand?”

Tag nodded. He was their slave, and worse, he was supposed to like it and be happy. 

“You do not understand.” Bist hand was firm against Tag’s neck, not painful, but a heavy reminder. “You have not only been studying us; I’ve been studying you. Your jaw is clenched, and your eyes are tracking together almost as if you’re trying to see your own chin. You do that when you are angry or resentful. Why is this offensive? It’s the same rules that Brin, Tisp, and Lak live under, and they are happy.”

“I am not your slave,” Tag spat, wondering if he was going to get slapped. “I have feelings; I can’t always be obedient.”

“You are never obedient,” Bist said, his voice higher, on the edge of Saptan laughter. “You are ki. You need someone to take charge. It is in your nature.”

“I am not ki; you said so yourself.”

“I was mistaken. I have joined the consensus.”

“I am a sexually normal male.”

“Who’s never had any interest. You left a culture that arranges marriages.”

“I didn’t want someone choosing for me.”

“No, you want someone making choices for you, but you couldn’t imagine intimate life with a woman, or with a man, for that matter.”

“You know nothing of my world. You’ve met me out of context. I am different when I’m surrounded by people who aren’t crazy.”

“It’s easier to hide when you know the rules, and you had run out of places to hide. You left your family and planet. You left your university. You left the space services to join us. You are out of places to hide.”

“I didn’t consent to be psychoanalyzed by an alien.”

“Is that the worst you can call me? An alien? I’ve read some of your literature; it was one of the few distractions offered to us by the New Terrans. Your language is replete with interesting adjectives and expletives.”

Tag was shocked by the words that came out of his mouth. He didn’t know he knew such filth. Of course, sailors throughout the ages had been infamous for their language, and the space service was nothing different than sailing through the vacuum between the stars instead of across an ocean.

“Better?” Bist asked.

Tag nodded; he could feel the redness in his face. During his diatribe, Rast had come over and was now stroking his forehead in an oddly possessive gesture. “Are you all right?”

Tag nodded. He was too embarrassed to speak.

“It will be a long process,” Bist said calmly.

“As it is with you.” Rast kissed Bist’s forehead in the way a father might kiss a young and tired child. He repeated the kiss on Tag’s forehead. “My disruptive ki. It’s a good thing we are still innumerable light years from home.”

“You are kind, K’Rast.”

“You are mine, Bist San K’Rast.” Rast kissed Bist forehead again. Bist leaned into the kiss, and Rast’s fingers ghosted though Bist’s black hair. “What have you been discussing?”

“Our shared history.”

“Good. Tag needs to know of our history. It will make it easier.”

“Our personal history, or our people’s history?”

“Both. He lacks the knowledge to make good judgments. Start with the general history.”

“Should you not tell it?”

“You are ki. It is from the ki perspective that he needs to learn. I trust you understand it well.”

Bist lowered his chin a fraction and cast his eyes to the left.

Tag grabbed the computer pad from his lap and started to furiously type on the screen. The pads took voice input, but he didn’t want to voice his thoughts in front of the Saptans. He’d missed so much. He hadn’t noticed that the eyes to the left was a gesture of acquiescence or what Bist would call submission. The ki  were submissive to the kwi. It explained why Bist rarely interacted with Rast and Kip. He was expected to obey, not be their best friend. Rast’s role was as paternal leader. Tag could understand that. It was a normal family unit twisted to fit onto the shell of nonsexual beings. This worked like a father with his children. His father had been in the role of Rast, doling out affection but also punishing for violations of the social code. Tag’s fingers paused on the screen. It had ended badly with his father. He couldn’t submit. There was Bist’s word again. Tag had fled across the galaxy, as Bist had so brutally put it.

“Did you have a breakthrough?” Bist asked.

“What?”

“You were typing madly.”

Tag smiled, embarrassed that Bist noticed every action. “Yours and Rast’s relationship suddenly made sense.”

Bist smiled. Tag didn’t think he’d ever seen him smile. “Good, when we’re mad with boredom you can explain it to me. It should take several days. For now, I will give you a brief history lesson.”