Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“You can’t repay your giri this easily,” Hal gasped. “Until you can, your life is mine to take, not yours!” His hands had no strength; it took everything to stay upright. She looked at him with bottomless eyes, considering. Choosing.

“As you wish.”

Dayuki helped him to the couch. Blood trickled from the shallow wound in her throat, forming a stream between her breasts and over her belly. She slipped out of the kimono, using it to staunch the sanguine flow, then braced the blade of the dagger over the edge of the table and brought her elbow down, snapping it off at the shank. Once blooded it could never be allowed to serve any purpose less noble. Both parts went back into the box, wrapped in the polishing cloth along with the brush. She laid the container, tied with the sash, at the foot of the couch.

Dressed again in the pajamas, she helped him sit up. But for a lingering soreness, the pain was gone, and he took the opportunity to ask the obvious question: “Dayuki, what the hell is a Tiger Opal?”

The girl stared at him uncomprehendingly, answering only after he repeated the question. “I do not know,” she said at last. The confidence she’d exhibited only a few minutes before evaporated. “It—it was a secret that he stole from you!”

Hal shook his head slowly. “If it exists, I don’t know it by that term.”

The revelation cracked her composure and her face filled with incredulous horror. “But it—I—oh, what have I done?” she cried, burying her face in her sleeves.

Hal caught her by the chin and forced her to look at him. Her eyes welled with tears, but flashed angrily at his rough handling. “Listen, damnit! I don’t know what you’ve done, so answer my questions! You don’t know what it is, but you’re sure it belonged to us?”

“It is something difficult to make,” she elaborated, wiping her eyes. “Something powerful, which Den Tun believed would give the Minzoku leverage over Onjin and gaijin both. I thought destroying it would give me time to warn you!”

“Do you know where it was made?”

Dayuki shook her head miserably. “Only Den Tun knows that.”

Terson arrived at the flight training building early to check the roster for the Advanced Flight Skills Evaluation but his name was not listed. Dean Whitman, the chief flight instructor, motioned Terson into his office when he stopped by to inquire about it.

“A situation has come up,” Whitman explained, “and I moved you to the second round so we could discuss it before you went out.” He paused as if trying to decide how to continue. Terson began to worry about legal fall-out from Bragg’s discovery that he and Virene had knowingly violated the coastal boundaries, but Whitman’s next words took him completely by surprise:

“A number of your colleagues have expressed apprehensions about flying with you for the evaluation,” Whitman said. “You’ve been an exemplary student, and I’ve received no complaints until now, but is there something I’m missing?”

“I really can’t think of anything,” Terson shrugged.

“I’ll ask this straight out, then,” Whitman continued severely. “Did you force Max Brichen into the airlock and threaten to space him on your last flight?”

“Does he claim that I did?” Terson asked cautiously.

Whitman let his breath out. “No, but the source of the problem appears to be a rumor to that effect that’s been circulating for several days. Brichen denied knowing anything about it when I asked him, but I could tell he was hiding something. I think you’d better tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t touch him,” Terson said, “but I suggested the possibility of spacing when I caught him pencil-whipping the preflight.”

“I see. I’m curious why you didn’t report such a serious violation.”

“I wasn’t trying to sink his career,” Terson told him, “and I think I scared him enough that he’ll think twice about it next time—especially if he’s flying with me.”

“It isn’t all about you,” Whitman said emphatically. “What about the people he’s flown with since? Do you think they deserve protection from someone so irresponsible as to skip a preflight inspection?”

“I—” I’m not responsible for them, he was about to say, but choked back the words before they could escape and send Whitman into an apocalyptic fit. Anyone with a gram of instinct for self-preservation would take responsibility for themselves and double-check the inspection however surreptitiously, but that wasn’t what Whitman wanted to hear and Terson had learned that on Nivia self-preservation sometimes meant saying things he didn’t believe. “Yes. Yes, of course they do. That was a bad call, and I apologize.”

His response appeared to placate Whitman somewhat.

“It was noble of you to protect Brichen,” he said, “but the requirement to report the violation is just as important as that to follow proper procedure. I take it you’ve chastised other trainees for similar transgressions?”

“Probably.” He had, in fact, on numerous occasions, but he wasn’t prepared to apologize for chewing somebody’s ass when their poor performance ran the risk of getting him killed.

“You can see where it’s led,” Whitman nodded. “Alienating your crewmates just makes it harder on everyone. I don’t expect you to tolerate dangerous behavior in your peers, but don’t take it upon yourself to correct it. There is due process to handle that sort of thing and I expect you to use it.

“I trust that the point has been made. The pairing for your evaluation will be random, as always, but I will have this conversation with your partner if you anticipate any conflict.”

Terson kept his voice carefully neutral. “That won’t be necessary.”

He stalked out of the building in a dark, foul mood. It was bad enough that his whiney, weak-kneed classmates had the gall to complain about him because of a few justifiably harsh words, and then to take a scolding over it from the one person who should have backed him up, but to get bumped from the first rotation as well? Granted, a delay of two or three weeks didn’t amount to much in any tangible sense, but it was generally understood that the best performers tested out first and anyone who looked deeply enough into his transcripts to notice a bump would naturally wonder what caused it.

He relished the thought of tracking down a few of the offenders and giving them something worth complaining about, but doing so would only get him in trouble with Whitman. What he really needed was to get the hell off campus for a while.

Despite attending countless hours of instruction at Malone’s central campus, the two square kilometers of sprawling academic and administrative buildings connected by wide walkways and meticulous landscaping remained the place Terson felt the least comfortable. In view of his obvious off-world origins, the students and faculty considered his presence at Malone an admirable demonstration of commitment to adapting Nivian culture and they went to great lengths to help him fit in, most often by subjecting him to condescendingly simple (and inaccurate) lectures on minor facets of their society that any fool could ascertain by direct observation.

The institution dripped with naïve idealism, exhibited by cheerful students following established tracks of study leading to guaranteed careers and faculty who feared no criticism because conformity and trust in authority were encouraged, expected and visibly rewarded. Their world was certain, stable and uncomplicated, a condition that ran completely counter to the environment of rugged self-reliance that produced Terson’s pessimistic realism.