Mark hadn't noticed when he'd picked up the Scrabble tile, but suddenly it was there, and he was twisting it through his fingers. "Blaise is crazy! Certifiably, clinically crazy. For years Doc tried to provide a stable and normal home environment. He tried with love to undo twelve years of sickness. And yeah, it's a bummer he failed, but at least he tried."
"He should have gotten some qualified help, but he's so damn arrogant ... I guess he thought he could be a kid shrink too."
"That's not fair!" Mark cried. "It's real easy for you to sit there and throw stones, but you were partly to blame." The flush appeared in Jay's cheeks so fast he might have been slapped. The tile between Mark's fingers snapped, and both men jumped. Suddenly horribly selfconscious, Mark tossed away the shards of the tile.
"How do you know about Atlanta?" Jay demanded. He was breathing hard.
Mark ducked his head. "The Doc told me. Not too bright, taking a thirteen-year-old off to play detective. Course you couldn't predict that Ti Malice creature would possess him, and then use Blaise's mind control to kill that poor joker, or that Blaise would enjoy it so much. Any more than Doc could predict how his spoiling would fuck with the kid. You guys were trying to care. It just all went funky and triggered the craziness."
Jay didn't say anything, just sat for a long moment with his head bowed. "Meadows," he said finally. "I apologize. I was royally out of line."
Mark cleared his throat selfconsciously. "Hey, I didn't mean to rant at you. He's just my closest friend... and personally, I think the Doc will make an awesome parent. She adores kids."
"He must, otherwise she wouldn't have let this one get her stretched out to here." Jay demonstrated, then shook his head. "How do you suppose she's handling it? If I suddenly got switched... had something growing inside me..."
"I don't think Takisians are as hung up about gender as we are. Kids are also, like, the wealth of the family. And there's the telepathy. If you had bonded mind to mind with your baby, could you kill her?"
"Probably not."
Mark swallowed hard, past the question that lay like a lump in the center of his throat. "Hey, man, I don't mean to be nosy, but I gotta ask it." Jay nodded assent, but warily. "Why are you along on this trio
"I need to have my head examined."
"No... seriously."
The detective sat silent, his face an unmoving, uncommunicative mask. It went on for so long that Mark was beginning to writhe with embarrassment. Finally Jay sighed, and Mark also exhaled in relief.
"I don't know," Jay said in so serious a tone that it hung oddly on his lips. "Not out of friendship, like you. Oh, don't get me wrong. I like Tachy well enough, but..." The shrug said it all. "Maybe it's a funny kind of chauvinism. For years they've been sneaking in on us, manipulating us, watching us. Now we're coming. Taking it home to them."
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."