KINSMAN’S OATH By Susan Krinard

“If there are no further reports at this time, I will be in the infirmary and my quarters for the next half-watch. Mes Montague,” she said, addressing the quiet young woman at the end of the table, “lay in a course for the nearest wormhole in the event that our shaauri friends attempt further pursuit. Scholar-Commander Adumbe has the bridge. Ser O’Deira, maintain alert status.”

She rose, and the rest followed. Only Kord remained seated. He waited until the others had left the briefing room and looked up at her with rebellion in his pale brown eyes.

“You’re going to see the Kinsman, Little Mother?”

She chuckled and shook her head. Kord was as comfortably predictable as the tides of Calada. “You assume the worst, my friend. We have seen nothing to indicate that he is other than he says, and no evidence of telepathic ability.”

“You underestimate the potential danger of this man.”

“I witnessed what passed between you, Kord. He has the training of a warrior, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” Kord touched the scar that ran from his cheekbone to chin. “He is a warrior.”

“You respect him.”

“As an enemy. Remember this: If he was raised by shaauri, he is one of them.”

“Have you forgotten Sirocco, Kord?” she asked softly. “You came to Dharma at first manhood, but you have never lost the ways you were born to. Our fugitive was born human.”

“The shaauri killed your cousin.”

I killed him. She crushed the thought. “They killed Tyr in what they regarded as an act of defending their territory in time of war.” She leaned on the table and met Kord’s gaze. “I don’t love the shaauri. They strangle the commerce we need to survive. But I will not judge this man according to his misfortune. And neither will you.”

Kord rose from his seat, clearly unconvinced. “At least let me accompany you.”

“I need you on the bridge. Toussaint may be competent, but he doesn’t have your instincts.” She smiled. “I’ll carry a stunner, and Zheng will be with me. Not even a shaauri can match her where sheer brute strength is concerned.”

“But a shaauri striker is more than a match for the Pegasus. If they do come through, we’ll be outgunned. I strongly advise that we modify torpedoes with proximity sensors and lay them at the mouth of the wormhole. At the very least they’ll slow the shaauri down. I can take the Pontos and have them in place within the next two hours.”

“No shaauri has entered human space for years. I prefer to throw all our resources into getting the Pegasus spaceworthy again.” She sighed at the look on his face. “I’ll be all right, Kord. Stop worrying.”

“As you say, Captain.”

She gripped his shoulder and turned for the lift, wondering at the uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension lodged like a fist in her chest. She ought to heed Kord’s advice and take at least one armed escort to the infirmary, but she felt no need of protection. She could defend herself very competently from most attacks, though Kord was her superior in that respect. He, like most Siroccan males, had been trained from birth to be a warrior. Her instruction had come late, but she’d pursued it with even greater determination because she was Dharman and female.

Whatever Ronan VelKalevi might be, he was unlikely to risk a blatantly stupid act. She well remembered his quiet dignity when she had questioned him on the bridge, the way he had faced Janek’s hostility without alarm, his sincere apology. He had moved with spare grace and perfect balance. His face was striking, his eyes brilliant with intelligence.

Such a man seemed an unlikely prisoner among the shaauri. He was neither bent nor broken, neither fully indoctrinated into the shaauri culture nor clinging pathetically to the scraps of human custom. In a few brief minutes of observation, she had judged him a man of courage and purpose, not easily shaken by his precarious circumstances.

That might make him, as Kord said, all the more dangerous. But that brief and unexpected mental touch had failed to trigger any sense of warning. To the contrary—she had been left with the overwhelming desire to know this strange fugitive to the very depth of his soul.

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