From Afar - Chapter 9

Chapter IX

“The plants are ready?” Brin stood against Tag, uncomfortably close for two humans, but by now Tag hardly noticed the fingers on his hip and the skin of Brin’s arms brushing against his. It was normal for the Saptans.

“The lettuce could be harvested today.”

“Excellent.” Brin had become downright exuberant since Tag had been clearly placed under Bist’s supervision. The twins, especially her--or maybe it was him?-- Tag had given up trying to sort it out--had made it their mission to ensure that Tag never had a moment alone. They played Califf for hours; Tag had lost every time except when Rast or Bist made most of his moves, but it didn’t seem to matter. As far as Tag could tell, winning wasn’t important. They never kept score or bragged about their number of victories.

“Today is the cycle,” Brin continued. “By tradition, we have fresh food. It is spring in the north; the lettuce will work perfectly. We have no eggs. What a pity!”

He should be attentive and listen to her prattling on about foods and customs. That was his work after all, and more immediately Bist had taken to cuffing Tag across the back of his head every time he entered what Bist called Tag’s self-absorbed spells. Tag’s stomach lurched. He had the consensus about D’John with Rast. He still didn’t agree that D’John’s death was Rast’s fault. D’John was si. They said themselves a si couldn’t be a member of the seven. He was using the Saptan terms for humans. What was wrong with him? He was accepting their ways, customs that kept the Saptan population enslaved to ancient traditions. They were far more repressive than the life he had fled on Pastoral. He would have been a farmer with a barn full of livestock and a house full of children. How bad could it have been? He’d have had a wife. Tag suppressed a shiver. He could never imagine a wife, or more correctly he could never imagine a romantic or sexual relationship. Of course as a kid, he hadn’t recognized this. He’d realized something was different when his schoolmates started obsessing about the opposite sex and scheming to have their parents choose the most beautiful or the best endowed as their bride. Tag had been more interested in astronomy. He’d had some dates that his parents had probably arranged out of desperation, long evenings sitting uncomfortably on the porch swing and drinking tart lemonade with a sprig of mint swimming in the glass that tickled his lips as he captured an ice cube between his teeth. The girls, he couldn’t remember their names anymore, would put their hands on his knee or his chest. If a girl was especially daring, she would brush against his crotch. He would cringe against the hard slats of the swing, crush the ice in the lemonade, and hope his father would call him in soon for the night.

“Are you going to put ribbons in your hair?”

“What?” Tag asked, coming back to the present. “Ribbons?”

“The end of a cycle is a celebration. In the north, this one marks the early growth and in the south the late harvest. Your plants will be perfect for spring growth. Unfortunately we don’t have anything for the fall harvest.”

“A cycle is the equinoxes and the solstices?”

“Yes,” Brin said in a tone that made it clear that she thought it was silly to think anything else.

 Well, it did make sense. Without a moon, the seasons would be the next most important celestial events, and they would of course become date markers and days of celebration. Even modern, space flying humans still marked many of their most important holidays based on celestial events.

“This is my favorite cycle, the northern one.” Brin was an absolute chatterbox today. “It celebrates life and renewal. The seafaring areas, like Lak’s birthplace, bring in massive tanks of colorful fish, and the children fly kites shaped like fish. I’ve only seen it on vids, but you should have Lak tell you about it. She remembers a kite she had when she was eight or nine. I come from the city. My family never did much for the holidays, but at school we always had the basket of greens with the eggs nestled on tender, succulent shoots.”

Tag looked over at his small garden; peas and young beans were poking the surface in the long pots. “Do they look right?” he said, pointing at the trays of plants.

“They’re not ready for harvest. I heard you explaining they would get pods and that was the part we eat.”

“The shoots can be eaten, and they need to be thinned anyway. Will they work?”

Brin ran the slight plant stems through her fingers. “They’re perfect.” She was almost skipping around the plants in happiness.

“You like this holiday?”

“Oh, yes, and I’m bored.” Tag had never heard Brin sound this exuberant; she was downright bubbly. “Why do you think we play so much Califf?”

Tag shrugged. “I thought you liked it.”

Brin made a chortling noise in her throat. “If Rast sees us idling, he becomes concerned with the harmony of the seven. It’s the kwi’s duty, but he can be obsessed with it. He’ll drag you off for a chat.” A mischievous grin shot across Brin’s face. “My sibling and I sometimes time how long he’ll be in conference with one person. Bist is the winner, but you’re a close second. Don’t you find him dull?”

Controlled, erudite, thoughtful, but Tag didn’t find Rast dull. He could be stern, frightening at time, but also peculiarly calming. “I don’t know enough Saptans to make a comment on his dullness.” That was a safe, diplomatic answer.

A very brief smile flickered across Brin’s face. “Your diplomacy is improving. You’re not that cautious with your opinions when you talk to Bist.”

Tag shrugged. Bist was different, and no, he didn’t guard his opinions, but then Bist was more worldly, cynical, and far less naive. 

“Bist said no one was officially ki or kwi  on your home planet. Everyone was si or ti. He said you’d been forced to be si and to expect you to act strangely for a while. That it would take time for you to find your equilibrium. He’s as bad as Rast; Bist spends his spare time reading the Chronicles and the original philosophers’ works.”

Tag nodded. Was Brin asking about his world? They had never talked much, or at least not about anything serious. All the ki had become more welcoming with him since the quiet declaration by those in charge that he was officially ki. He’d played enough Califf that Tag thought he’d actually mastered about a tenth of the rules. He wasn’t sure though, because the rules changed depending on the context or maybe the whim of the players. It was similar to the rules of Saptan society. Ki were expected to obey, even be what Tag would label as subservient to the kwi, but yet they could voice their opinions and argue. Rast had collared Bist, but Bist heartily debated everything with their pod leader. Tag thought Bist was more outspoken since the collaring. 

“How many shoots will you need?” Tag needed to concentrate on the present. He couldn’t change Saptan society; he couldn’t even seem to understand it. He could cut pea shoots; he understood farming.

“We need to cut them right before the ceremony. They need to be fresh. Did you celebrate the cycles on New Terra?”

“New Terrans celebrate anything and everything,” Tag said with a laugh. “There is no holiday that is too small for a party. On Pastoral, we had a celebration in the fall for the harvest, but it was not on the vernal equinox.”

“How did you celebrate?”

“We ate and visited with the extended family. My mother always made a special nut cake; nuts are harvested in the fall.”

“Pastoons stay with their family their entire life?” 

Tag could tell from Brin’s expression that she was having trouble imagining the idea. She came from a culture that forced the separation of a significant percentage of its children at fifteen. From his understanding, Tag thought the si and ti remained in the family unit, but contact was limited between kwi and si and ti and nonexistent with ki. Adult ki’s knowledge of family came only from clouded memories, rumors, and academic treatises.

“On Pastoral, families stay together. Young people settle on adjacent farms or nearby villages as artisans and remain close to the extended family. I was expected to marry and start my own family.”

“You are ki. How can you have children?”

Tag felt a blush rise on his cheeks. “We don’t have ki or at least not in the way you understand it. I’m reproductively capable.”

“But you don’t have children. You are old enough?”

“Yes, but I was never interested.” Tag wished he had pockets where he could shove his hands and a high shirt to hide the redness of his neck. Brin was truly interested, and she’d been kind and patient about answering his questions; at least he could try to reciprocate.

“For your ki it’s mental instead of physical. This is what Bist meant when he said your world didn’t have ki.” Brin cast a sidelong glance at Tag; for a human, this would be the equivalent of a long, studious stare. “For us it’s both.”

“We don’t have ki,” Tag protested. It was natural for a society to want to put him in their boxes. He did the same, and he was a trained anthropologist. He was supposed to understand that not all civilizations followed the same patterns, yet he couldn’t wrap his mind around the four genders of the Saptans.

“You are ki,” Brin said with absolute self-assurance.

“Why?”

“Rast says you are.”

And his word is law. “Why does he think I’m ki?”

“Do you not think you are ki?” Brin turned her green eyes on Tag’s face, studying him for a moment before looking away.

“I don’t know. I thought the most important aspects of identifying as ki were sterility and an absence of sexual hormones. Under that definition, I am not ki.”

“I don’t know, but I trust Rast, and you have no children. Sterility must not be a requirement for human ki.” Brin said and ran her hand down Tag’s cheek. Tag realized it was as much to comfort her as it was to offer reassurance to him. 

“What else do you do for the cycle?” He needed to change the subject before they both became more uncomfortable.

“We dance and sing.”

Tag groaned. “I can’t dance. I have two left feet.”

Brin looked down at Tag’s feet. “It looks like you have a right foot.”

Tag smiled and then hooted with laughter. He couldn’t stop the laughter that was pouring from his throat and making his eyes drip. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Brin leaned her shoulder against Tag.

“No.” Tag wiped his eyes and ran the back of his hand down Brin’s face in an effort to reassure. He thought that was the correct gesture. “Two left feet is an expression. It doesn’t mean both my feet are actually left. I can’t dance. I’ll step on everyone or fall down. I’m not upset. It was just funny.”

“I see.” 

Tag was sure she didn’t see, but she was putting on a brave face. 

“I will teach you to dance,” Brin said. “You will not have two left feet.”

Tag smiled. He didn’t think God himself could teach him to dance, but Brin was serious, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “I will try.”

“Don’t look afraid.” Brin stroked a hand through Tag’s hair. “Dancing is not painful.”

You haven’t seen mine, Tag thought, but wisely didn’t voice his opinion. “I will try, but I’m afraid you will find the task daunting. Do you have any other special traditions?” As an anthropologist, this was the easy stuff, festivals and celebration. Four sexes was still beyond comprehension, especially with his own inclusion in a sex for which he didn’t seem to fit the most basic criteria. Why was he ki?

“At home, we would dress in special costumes and prepare a celebratory meal.”

“How do you dress?”

“I can show you.” Brin whirled away from Tag. She was overly excited, like a Pastoon child at her first fair. Tag remembered racing from vendor to vendor to sample the caramel apples and touch the giant weaving looms. Brin would need a leash at a fair.

“Here it is,” Brin said, shoving a tablet into Tag’s hand.

On the screen, was a picture of a Saptan, a ki Tag assumed, since the figure looked androgynous. Colored ribbons streamed from his hair as he whirled across what appeared to be a public square. Tag could just make out several low squat buildings in the background. The Saptan was bare chested, bright yellow and orange lines streaked across his abdomen. His feet were bare as seemed to be the custom, but he was wearing black knee length pants instead of the shorts the Saptan’s wore here.

“Are those tattoos?” Tag asked, pointing at the dancer’s abdomen.

“It’s paint. We accentuate the tattoo lines. Mine would be red and green for K’Rast, and I would wear red and green ribbons in my hair.”

Tag let Brin convince him to braid ribbons in his hair, which was still short enough to make tying the ribbons difficult. Brin finally did it for him. They weren’t actually ribbons, but torn strips of blankets. They tickled Tag’s neck as he shook his head. 

“Take off your shirt,” Brin said.

“Why?” It was bad enough to run about in the flimsy shorts and top, but shirtless? Brin had cocked her head, and Tag could swear he saw an amused glint in her eyes. “You’re having fun with this.”

“Are all humans this shy?” Brin asked in a voice that had to be false innocence. 

“I’m Pastoon. We don’t run around as naked as the day we were born.” Tag could feel the heat rising in his face, and he knew it had to be flaming red.

Brin stripped her shirt off. “You can do me while you gather your courage.” 

Brin’s chest was as hairless as all the other Saptans’. Her sex was no clearer stripped to the waist. Tag was going to have to stop thinking of these Saptans as male or female, but breaking a lifetime habit was for Tag as difficult as breaking a physical addiction. He was human; he couldn’t reprogram his brain to think of a third sex, let alone a fourth. 

Brin handed Tag a small paintbrush and two tins of a viscous paint: one red and the other green. “Paint the lines,” Brin said when Tag stood looking from the paint tins to Brin’s torso.

“Are those tattoos?”

“Yes, when we join a seven we are marked with its colors. We highlight these during the cycle. Do your families not have some means of identifying each other?”

“Not like this,” Tag said and tentatively painted the first stroke. “The idea is not unheard of, but it is not part of modern practice. Many cultures dress their religious in distinct garb. I suppose the uniforms in the military serve a similar purpose. The dress uniforms of the space service were embarrassingly colorful; they had violet cravats. Rank was displayed on the right shoulder with simple silver buttons, but service branch was displayed on the left with colorful icons. I was a mission specialist, and our icon was two interlocking green triangles.”

“Did they have any special  meaning?”

“Not that I know of. Bist has purple lines. Why are yours only red and green?”

“These are the colors of K’Rast. Bist still has Taz’s colors.”

Tag had noticed that the Saptans referred to Taz simply as Taz, not as K’Taz or D’Taz. Brin was standing relaxed, her hands clasped behind her head to prevent her from interfering with Tag’s paint job. He could ask her; hopefully she wouldn’t become distressed by Tag’s question.

“Why is it Taz and not D’Taz?”

“Taz’s treatment of Bist violated the code.” Brin looked away and to the right, a signal that the topic was closed. To the left obedience and submission, to the right discord and the edges of hostility.

“Your turn?” Brin closed her hand around Tag’s wrist, holding it longer than any human would as she took the brush. “Shirt off.”

Tag grasped the long hem and pulled it off over his shoulders. They’d seen his bare back when he was whipped; they’d seen him cringing against Bist. He could strip his shirt for minor decorations.

“Do all humans have hair on their chest?”

“No some humans have little or no body hair. Mine’s thin to medium, but my hair is light, so it’s not noticeable.” Tag tried to keep his voice detached as if he were giving a lecture to anthropology students on body art . Tag squirmed as Brin’s fingers traced over his chest hair. “I’m ticklish.”

Brin pulled her hands back, crossing them in front of her.

“No, I’m not offended. I can’t stand still when you touch there. It doesn’t mean it hurts.” How did he explain this to an alien who obviously didn’t have such a sensation?

“I didn’t mean to injure.”

“You didn’t. Please, can we get this done?” Tag interlaced his fingers behind his neck like he’d seen Brin do earlier. Hopefully this would get her started. Tag wiggled at the first stroke of the the bush. It was cool and wet which shouldn’t have been unexpected, but Tag wasn’t fully concentrating. He was blanking out that he was standing in the middle of a cargo bay half-naked. These people had seen him stripped to the waist, clinging desperately to Bist, tears running down his face. They could see him have his chest painted. This wasn’t taboo with them.

******

Rast’s hand fell on Tag’s shoulder as he sat down for dinner. Tag had been trying to avoid the Saptan all day. They had the consensus tonight, and Tag could feel his stomach churn every time he thought of it. Seeing Rast brought it to the forefront.  

“Were you coerced into this?” Rast’s finger traced the lines on Tag’s chest.

“Brin asked me to.” Tag blushed. It hadn’t been all that bad, No one had stared at him or commented about his bare chest. And somehow perversely Tag had wanted to be part of the group; he didn’t want to hang back only watching and participating at the required minimum. They were doing that to him. Tag had studied group dynamics. The Saptans were skillfully and subtly incorporating him into their group. Tag had been happy when Bist had walked over when Brin had peen painting Tag’s chest and touched Tag’s forehead and ran his hand down Tag’s cheek in a silent gesture of approval and reassurance.

“It looks good on you.” Rast’s knuckles brushed Tag’s forehead. “You are concerned about the consensus.” Rast’s hand was on the back of his neck, and he had pulled Tag against his body so they could speak in a tone inaudible to the other Saptans. 

Rast was good at this, better than any human commanding officer. He knew what Tag was thinking. It was almost eerie. At his worst moments, Tag had considered asking Kip if Saptans had some form of telepathy. That idea was too silly to contemplate. They were a species with expressive body language; they were far more skilled than humans at watching and interpreting.

Tag muttered something incomprehensible and relaxed against Rast’s chest.

“I don’t believe I was able to understand that grunt as more than a signal of agreement,” Rast whispered in Tag’s ear, his fingers playing through the human’s hair as he held Tag close. “After dinner, we’ll both state our position. If we don’t agree, we wait for the next cycle. This disagreement at the current level is not damaging to the cohesiveness of the seven; you will not be forced to yield.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Taga, not until the consensus.”

Tag felt a sharp flick on the side of his neck, a reminder not to violate the custom, or perhaps it was a law. In Saptan culture law and customs were tightly interwoven.

Silence was easier anyway. Isn’t that what Tag had always used? Go along with the crowd and hope no one noticed. He’d left home, that hadn’t been with the crowd, but he’d run away from his responsibilities. He was a coward; he wanted to fold and agree with Rast. He took a deep breath and gave Rast a shaky smile. “Another fine dinner of reconstituted waste.”

“Taga, I’m your kwi. You should try be honest with me.”

Tag shrugged and tried to pull away.

“No, you have dinner with me. It is traditional for the opposition in the consensus to eat together. It is to demonstrate that harmony can be found among disagreements.”

Instead of the loose circle in which the Saptans usually arranged themselves, Tag and Rast were in the center side by side with the remaining five arrayed equidistant around the outside of the circle, not in the usual clumps of two or three they preferred. Kip served them, the ribbons and a leaf from the lettuce woven into her hair. Each plate had the ready to eat ration but also a tiny pile of lettuce and tender sprouts. Atop those was a small brown capsule flecked with green and gold.

“It’s a sugar capsule. It was the closest we could find to eggs.”

Thankfully Rast didn’t insist on talking during dinner. He rested his hand on Tag’s thigh and nudged the human several times, encouraging him to eat. The lettuce should have been a succulent treat, but it tasted like paper in Tag’s dry mouth. He mechanically swallowed each bite; he was not going to allow Rast to feed him.

Dinner finished, Kip took Tag by the elbow and led him to one side of the circle, Rast moved to the other side. Rast sank to the floor in one easy motion that Tag would never be able to emulate. He sat with his legs crossed and his hand outstretched palm up, almost like the pictures Tag had seen of the ancient Buddha.

Bist stood and scattered four ribbons on the floor. No, they weren’t scattered; they were marking a barrier around Rast. “The advocates will not rise or leave the circle.” 

“Sit, Tag,” Kip said kindly. “You will go first. It will be easier for you.”

Tag tried to emulate Rast’s position; his legs didn’t naturally go into that position. Kip’s hand touched his head.

“State your views. We may question you when you finish, as may Rast.” Tag must have looked as pale as he felt because her hand stroked through his hair, flicking the ribbons in his braids. “The same rules apply to you. You may not leave the circle.” She paced around Tag and dropped four ribbons.

“Tag San K’Rast,” Bist said from one knee in the space between Rast and Tag, “this is the end of the cycle. Have you altered your opinion?”

Tag licked his lips. Suddenly his mind seemed blank. His opinion about what?

“Taga, if you say nothing it will be assumed you have yielded to Rast’s position. Is that correct?”

“No,” Tag choked out. “Rast is not responsible for D’John’s death.” 

“Go on,” Bist said after a moment when Tag didn't continue to speak. “This is your chance to advocate for your position.”

Tag swallowed, trying to stir up a modicum of saliva in his parched mouth. He could feel tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He wanted to rub his hands against his shorts or better yet tuck them into nonexistent pockets. 

“Rast is not responsible for D’John’s death.” Tag’s voice sounded high and unnatural to him. He’d done public speaking before, the educational lectures he had to give as part of the space service and the teaching required for his advanced degrees. He’d despised all of them. 

Tag had mentally rehearsed this for hours, and yet he couldn’t seem to get any sounds out. He cleared his throat. “The explorers in the Traveler series were poorly equipped for the hazards of space. We didn’t understand the dislocation of long distance travel. They died because of it.”

Tag took another breath. He’d already tried that argument before, and it hadn’t worked.  He couldn’t read the expressions of the Saptans around him, but they looked impassive. 

“I’m not Saptan, and I may be misinterpreting the information.” Tag shifted in discomfort. “Commander John Barker was human and at least to my understanding, he had to be in your terms si. He was married. If memory serves me, he was married twice. I think he had several children with his first wife.” That revelation should shake the Saptans. They confined their reproductively successful population to the home world.

Tag longed for a glass of water. At least when he’d done speaking engagements in front of human audiences, he could busy himself with the water glass. “Am I correct that this seven can only contain ki and kwi?” Tag looked at Rast and then at Bist when Rast remained absolutely still, his eyes shut.

“We can’t answer your questions until you have finished,” Bist said. “You have more to say?”

“Yes. Commander Barker was si. He didn’t belong to any one of you. Belonging would have been anathema for him. He was a commander in the military before entering the space services. The early pioneers of the search for life were chosen for their rugged individualism.” Tag was pulling this out of his ass, but it sounded plausible. At least in lay historiographies, they were always treated as great heroes in the same vein as the early settlers of his planet--rugged, strong men holding their families together while bushwhacking the wilderness.

“Commander Barker was at best a guest, a guest who you treated with far more care and sympathy than our own people treated you. You already had seven, and he was si. His death was a great tragedy, compounded by the loss of D’Tan and the previous loss during the explosion that brought D’Tan and Bist into your seven.” Tag hesitated. Should he have said our seven? They were pounding that into his head. He was ki. He was one of the seven. They were very good at brainwashing. “We all grieve when we lose a shipmate, and we all look back and ask what could we have done differently. Sometimes we make an error and procedures are changed. You learned from D’John. Maybe I’m his legacy or memory. You chose someone who could fit into the seven. You didn’t choose D’John; you rescued him. Without you, he would have died far earlier and alone. You remember him fondly, which means he had good times here. He taught Rast my language, made my survival here possible. He had nothing to return to on New Terra. It had been over a century since his small craft had been propelled into space on the back of the Jupiter rocket. He had nothing to return to except an existence of loneliness. New Terra changes quickly. One hundred years from now, two hundred years from now, New Terra will be as foreign as my ancestors’ world on ancient Earth. Your culture is different. You honor your traditions that are more than two millennia old. From what I understand, you will recognize your world when you return, and your people have adjusted to people returning from long space voyages. My culture has not. We may be sent out like heroes, but we are swept into the dustbin on our return. You should celebrate D’John’s life, not beat yourself with his death.”

Tag fell silent. He didn’t know the protocol for ending his part of the debate. Had he made any sense, or had he just rambled on aimlessly?

 “K’Tag, have you completed your argument?” Bist asked.

“Yes, sir.” Tag found it hard not to call Bist sir when he asked questions in a certain tone. Bist was ki. He wasn’t supposed to be authoritative, or at least that was not how Tag understood the relationship between ki and kwi. While they wouldn’t speak of it directly, Bist must have been abused for his strong personality by Taz. Rast tolerated it, sometimes even encouraged it. Was he the exception, or was Taz?

“I’m Bist, not sir.” For a fraction of a second Tag saw something flash across Bist’s face. He couldn’t read it, especially as Bist was studiously staring at the floor. Bist’s hand moved across his knee as if he wanted to touch something. “Rast, please speak.”

“D’John was our guest, and D’Tan was a member of my seven. It is my duty to provide care and assistance to all the members of my seven and to any guests in my care. I failed in that responsibility. They are dead. I have no further arguments.”

Bist rose and clasped his hands behind him. “This is the question period. Kip will lead off the question.”

“Tag, in your culture does responsibility imply guilt?”

“Yes, if something goes wrong,” Tag said after a short pause. “If a ship’s captain is responsible for a crew member’s death, he or she can be found guilty of a crime.”

“Your high command sent you on a journey of no return. Do they feel guilty that they knowingly sent you to what they expected was your death?” Kip asked.

“I...I don’t know. Suicide missions have always been an accepted tactic. Individuals may feel sympathy or sadness for the men and women sent on such missions, but I don’t think they feel guilty or at least not at the time. Now later if it is determined that the mission was unjustified they may feel guilty or even be prosecuted for a crime.”

“Even when it was initially undertaken in good faith?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Tag.” Kip dropped her eyes and head to the left, a sign that she was finished.

Tisp and Lak declined to ask questions or comment. Brin studied Tag for a moment, her eyes lowered as if to hide the fact she was staring. “If I understand you correctly, Tag, you believe D’John’s fate was predetermined when he left New Terra. At the first consensus, you argued your own people were at fault, not our seven. I am unfamiliar with your religious beliefs. Do you believe in predetermination?”

Tag blinked. He’d thought Brin was silly and not serious. After all the twins spent hours playing a board game that appeared to be designed to entertain restless adolescents with its long gameplay and complicated rules. If humans were playing it, once they became tired of the game, they could spend hours in long arguments over the rules. The starburst token is the only piece that can land on the island square. No, it’s the second day of week and the moon is full. The token with the horned animal can land on the island.

Tag jerked himself back to reality. He was supposed to answer. “I don’t understand the question. Can you rephrase it?”

“Do you believe in predestination?”

“As a religious belief, such as being born with the mark of the devil or possessed by evil spirits?”

Brin looked confused, her eyes darted to Bist and then to Rast. Bist shifted slightly, softening the line of his spine as if he were offering physical reassurance without touching. 

“I don’t understand your references,” Brin said.

“The devil or Satan was a prominent figure in an ancient collection of myths. He inhabited a realm known as hell where he tortured the souls who had not earned the right to enter heaven. According to legend, hell was full of roaring flames, and the screams of the victims reverberated through the underworld. Several forms of Christianity, an ancient religion, believed a person could be tempted or even possessed by the devil. In some faiths, failure to be marked as a member, typically be submersion in water, would consign a person automatically to hell no matter the quality of his deeds on earth.” Tag stopped. He had easily fallen into lecture mode. He had both given and heard this lecture several times.

“Saptan religions stress birthright and destiny. We are born ki, si, or ti, and are preordained to become kwi. At each rebirth, there is a chance at a different destiny. D’John’s destiny could have been to perish.”

Tag hadn’t noticed any religious beliefs, but it would make sense for a culture built on a war nearly three thousand years ago to embrace religions from the same period. Brin had been the most interested in preparing for the cycle; no doubt this had a religious significance. The young plants and the eggs were not unfamiliar religious symbolism.

“I don’t believe D’John would have agreed with that interpretation.” That was a safe answer. It avoided speculating further on the Saptan’s religious beliefs and was neutral, neither condoning nor condemning such a practice.

“Bist, I am satisfied,” Brin said and sent Tag a small smile. 

“I have questions for both our advocates.” Bist’s voice was the neutral high pitch that Tag associated with a Saptan being official or detached. “Tag, if I’m following you correctly, guilt and responsibility are inexorable tied together. Do you believe that K’Rast is guilty of causing D’John’s death?”

“Absolutely not. Rast didn’t decompress the cargo bay.”

“In the Alliance space service, would someone found guilty of such an act be punished?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Tag thought for a moment. He had no personal experience with this, but he believed it would lead to criminal charges. “A court martial. That is a military trial,” he quickly added for the Saptans who might be unfamiliar with the term.

“And the result of such a trial?”

“Demotion, expulsion from the space service, imprisonment.”

“That sounds draconian.”

Tag kept his eyes down. Saptans hit, and they found the Alliance punishments draconian. Throughout human history there had been significant movements for prison reform, and today, or at least when he’d left New Terra, a far smaller percentage of the population was incarcerated than ever before. Saptan prisons probably hadn’t change for a millennium. Tag imagined the dirt and straw floors and the rat infested cells he had read about in history.

“Imprisonment doesn’t mean being locked in a cell. A prisoner wears a tracking necklace, and is monitored by an off-site guard,” Tag added. “Only people who are a danger to society are locked in a physical structure.”

Bist turned his attention to Rast as if Tag’s explanation of the Alliance penal system was too barbaric to contemplate. “K’Rast, do you believe that D’John was si?”

“I do.”

“We are all in agreement that a si cannot be part of the seven?” Bist asked.

“I am a loyal citizen. As kwi I am the link between the ki and the si and ti. My responsibility does not end when someone is not in the seven. I was protecting you long before you were in the seven.”

“I am ki.”

“A si  in distress is just as much entitled to that protection. You have read the writings of Kar.”

“Yes, and like you I have read the commentaries. There is not a uniform consensus on the scope of the protection. I believe Tag’s point is that D’John acted individually and not collectively. If he were ki, we might have turned him from the path, but not as si. They do not yield in the same manner.”

“He died.”

“Do you yield from your position, K’Tag?” Bist asked formally.

“I do not.”

Bist turned to Rast. “Do you yield from your position K’Rast?”

“I do not.”

The Saptans shifted. Kip immediately came to stand with Tag. The remaining Saptans milled together; they didn’t speak, but Tag had the impression that they were silently consulting with each other. Their bodies swayed one way and then anther. Bist moved to stand with Tag, and the other three Saptans trailed behind them. They all turned to face Rast, fanning themselves out so they were on either side of Tag.

While it had been Bist who had taken charge earlier in the consensus, it was now Kip who spoke. “K’Rast do you yield?”

What happens now? Tag didn’t want to force Rast to change his opinion, and he most certainly didn’t want to challenge Rast’s role as leader of the pod. How could he even challenge him? He was by their standards ki. He was the submissive.

Rast rose, shaking out his long limbs. His hands remained crossed in front of him, palms up. Slowly he moved in front of Tag and knelt.

“Tag, stand,” Kip said.

“I yield to you,” Rast said. “Tag San K’Rast, you will teach me.

“Touch his forehead, Tag,” Kip said, “and then help him up. “It symbolizes the peaceful resolution.

Stiffly Tag touched Rast’s forehead, reached to grasp his hand, and pulled the Saptan to his feet. Tag stood holding Rast’s hand, frozen by his lack of knowledge of the protocol and mentally processing why and how Rast at the leader was forced to submit to Tag, a lowly newcomer, a lowly ki.

Rast’s arm dropped around Tag’s shoulder and pulled him close in the very human gesture of a hug. “I have read in your books that this is reassuring. Does it help?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why I yielded to you?” Rast’s fingers were playing with the ribbons in Tag’s hair.

“The seven determined you were right; now I must understand.”

“But...”

“What, Taga? You need to finish your sentence.”

“You are kwi. You are pod leader.”

“I am both, but it doesn’t mean I get to arbitrarily control you. The ki  have power. It is my duty to maintain harmony in the seven. I yielded. You are the expert on humans. I yield to that knowledge, as did the remainder of our seven.”

“But you don’t agree with me?”

“I am no longer in opposition,” Rast answered ambiguously. “I have yielded.”

“We cannot have differences of opinion?”

“A consensus is necessary for the harmony. Talk with the others. They may explain it better. Now go enjoy yourself. I know Brin wants to teach you to dance.”

“I cannot dance.”

“Go. Don’t argue with me.”

Tag moved away as Rast loosened his arms. He didn’t understand. Rast had yielded to him, but he ordered him to go find Brin and learn to dance. Rast could whip an errant ki in the name of Charter law, but he had to accept Tag’s version of D’John’s death. The ki were submissive, but the kwi  could and had to submit to them. The rules didn’t fit. Civilizations always had rules and hierarchies. He had trained to understand alien cultures. Why couldn’t he understand this one?