Melinda Snodgrass - Double solitaire

Jay stared down at the backs of his hands. Turned them palms up, either startled to find they moved, or searching for meaning in the creases and lines. Mark tried and failed to resolve the very ordinary man he saw with the individual living inside that skin.

“And what about you?”

Jay’s question pulled him back. Mark fitted the broken tile together. Pressed hard. Laid the pad of one finger against it and pulled. It was still broken.

“I read them all… Clarke, Asimov, ‘Doc’ Smith. My dad flew state-of-the-art test planes. He was too old for astronaut training. I was all… wrong. No stomach for regimentation, the wrong attitude for the academy. They would have eaten me. He founded Space Command. His son couldn’t pass the evaluation for the airforce academy. Maybe it broke his heart… I don’t know. We don’t talk much… never have.”

Mark paused, remembering the last time he’d seen that erect, iron-haired figure, his hands resting on the shoulders of his granddaughter, sending his son out on the run from the government the general had sworn to defend. No, they hadn’t talked, but somehow Marcus had understood.

Softly Mark resumed. “Now I’m going. Now I finally have something I can share with him.”

“So you’re into this for everyone but you.”

“No,” Mark shook his head. “I’m looking…”

“For what?” Irritation sharpened Ackroyd’s tone. It seemed Ackroyd wasn’t a man with a lot of patience for soul searching.

“I don’t know.”

She knew she was driving them slowly mad. Even Mark was showing rebellion in the tight line of his lips, or the annoyed inhalations each time she refused to acknowledge their remarks. Unless they were couched in Takisian, of course. Then she listened and responded, but in the careful, simple phrases of a parent to a precocious five-year-old.

She joined them at the table carrying several articles of clothing. Jay sighed. “Benaji, sala’um, wai’r’sum -”

“No,” Tach interrupted in English. “Today we move on. You’ve learned Sham’al – loosely translated, industry speak. Now you have to get a taste of Ilkazal in the public mode.”

“Time out.” Jay gave the sign.

Before the detective could get wound up, Mark intervened. “We don’t have time to learn every language spoken on Takis, Doc.”

“I’m not expecting you to, but all you’ve learned is the lingua franca, if you will. The language of commerce, and communication to the lower classes. There is a diplomatic tongue, Amlas, used only between Houses. Then there is the language of each House, private and public. You don’t need the private – you haven’t wives or children to address. I doubt you’ll need Amlas – why should you be negotiating with the rival Houses on behalf of the House Ilkazam? But if you don’t have at least a nodding acquaintance with Ilkazal, you’ll be dismissed as mere servants or aliens.”

“We are aliens,” pointed out Mark.

“There are aliens and then there are aliens. I want you in the ship category. Able to speak Sham’al and know a bit of Ilkazal.”

“So we can’t parlay vous in English at all?” Jay asked, totally confusing the issue.

“Not at all. Like the ships, you have your own private language -”

“We’re not going to have to learn ship talk too, are we?” asked Mark hastily.

She said reassuringly, “No, it’s far beyond humanoid understanding. It’s telepathy based on complex mathematics. When broken down and made audible, it resembles music more than anything else.”

Mark’s homely face became almost handsome as he smiled in delight. “Awesome, man, the music of the spheres. Maybe old Sir Thomas wasn’t so far off.”

Tachyon chuckled, the first laugh she’d enjoyed in weeks. The image of one of Baby’s relatives hanging in the sky and singing softly to a British poet was irresistible.

Jay pulled her back. “So let me get this straight. As allies you’ve got your ships and that’s it?”

“And the Network has one hundred and thirty-seven member races.” Jay shook his head. “I think we’re playing in the wrong league.”

“You’re not playing in any league at all,” said Tachyon. “You’re still a farm team.”

“And who calls us up is still in doubt?” asked Mark.

Tach just nodded. She never did get to return to her dissertation on Takisian linguistics. The door to the cabin opened, and Zabb entered. Her reaction startled and dismayed her. The Tachyon mind cried out for her to assume a fighter’s stance, prepare for attack. The body responded by placing a hand protectively over her belly. Fortunately, Mark and Jay were more practical. They shifted quickly, Mark shielding her with his body, Jay hanging by her left shoulder.

“Sit, hounds.” Zabb patted soothingly at the air with his palms. “I’ve not come to harm my cousin, merely invite” He broke off abruptly, his mouth twisting in a crooked half smile that fifty years ago Tachyon had learned to resent and distrust. “Dear me, sweet Tisianne, what do I call you? English is such a primitive and cumbersome language. Are you a he, a she, or an it? Pronouns, I believe they’re called… slippery things.”

“Not half so slippery as you,” said Tachyon bitterly.

Overall she’d made peace with her temporary gender change, and the sidelong looks from her friends and her enemies affected her very little. Until Zabb. Before him she knew humiliation, and the corrosive anger at her ludicrous situation became an actual pain in the center of her chest. Illyana, rightly perceiving the anger as being directed at her small baby self, shifted nervously and sent out a telepathic begging cry to her mother.

Reminded of her duty and obligation, Tachyon made a conscious effort to bury the anger, sent waves of comfort and love washing across the baby’s unhappy little mind until she was rocked back into the peaceful dream state of the womb.

Wonderful, I’m turning my child into a codependent even before birth.

It raised an interesting question she had never before considered. Telepathic mothers could in fact begin imprinting, affecting their children long before their physical appearance in the world. But Tachyon’s mind was male. So what behavior and thought patterns was Illyana absorbing?

“Hello, Tis? Are you with us?” Tach’s head jerked back up, and she stared consideringly up at Zabb. “Will you come walking or no? And without them. I must speak with you privately.”

A chorus of nos met his statement. Zabb’s lips narrowed almost to invisibility beneath the sharp, elegant line of his mustache.

“Don’t be such an idiot, Zabb. We’ve both spent our lives surrounded by guards. Why should it bother you? Unless you’re afraid of my particular guards?”

“Burning Sky! You think you could present me with anything I would fear? Bring them if you think my word is not enough.”

Tachyon stared at him. Heard the bravado echoing in the first sentence. Sensed the pain in the second. What a strange relationship we have, she thought. You taught me to ride and let me take the reins of the sleigh on Crystal Night. I’ve eluded your assassins, felt the cut of your blade as we dueled to the death. And each time I’ve cheated you. You are my adored enemy.

“Stay here,” she heard herself saying. “I will walk out with my cousin.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” said Jay.

“Perhaps… but I don’t think I’ll lose my life.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the two humans. Smiled. “And if my judgment is poor, and his words dishonored, I’ll trust you to kill him for me.”

“I don’t know about you, but I really hate that guy,” Jay said conversationally as the door closed. “And I’m not going to let him waltz off with Tachy. Time for a little snoop-and-poop action.”