Turning Point Read online

  “We have to make her look like a male Terran, Vanna. You can help me.”

  “A male! What for?”

  “Her father is one of the leaders of the Underground and he will have all their people watching for a female answering her description. They will not be looking for a male.”

  “But her color,” objected Vanna. “How can we change her color? And how will Mito’s robes help?”

  “Unlike us, the Terrans are all the same color. It is their shape that is different,” he explained, casting a cautious look in Carrie’s direction.

  “Her shape?” echoed Vanna, her professional interest aroused. “In what way?” She looked from Kusac to Carrie and back again.

  “Ask Carrie sometime,” he said evasively, his tail beginning to flick with embarrassment.

  “It seems I won’t need much disguising,” Carrie replied dryly.

  “You won’t, but not for the reasons you think. Remember, I’ve lived with you for several weeks. If we can make you a loose tunic and a cloak of some kind to conceal your face, with your hair bound back out of sight you should be unrecognizable.”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Carrie, “but I can only guarantee to lead you to Seaport. From then on we’ll need all the good luck we can muster.”

  “In that case, we can start now. I have the necessary sewing things in my medical kit,” said Vanna.

  “The rest are organizing a hunting party. Why don’t you go with them, Kusac? Guynor will be going, so Carrie will be safe with me.”

  Kusac hesitated.

  Go with them, Kusac. They are your people, you have to take your place among them again, Carrie advised mentally.

  “Very well,” he replied. “I’ll see if I can catch something more interesting than those rabbits we’ve been living on for the last couple of days.”

  Chapter 6

  The next few hours passed quietly for Carrie. While the two women sorted through the tabard style robes that Mito had donated, they chatted, each curious about the other’s culture.

  “What’s your home world like?” asked Carrie.

  “It’s just home,” Vanna said.

  “Yes, but what makes it home? Why did you leave it for space?”

  “Our Clan lives on the outskirts of ...”

  “Clans? You live in Clans?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “No. We live in smaller family units.”

  “Oh. Well, our Clan owns land on the outskirts of one of the major cities on Shola. It’s good crop growing land, with a small reservation of wooded roughland for hunting. You’d like it.”

  “Is the Clan large? How many of you live there?”

  “The Clan land is like a village with many small houses as well as communal ones and the main house of the Clan Lord. There’s always room for the main Clan members to live or stay there, and even enough to accommodate several of the wives and families who marry into the Clan should their husbands meet with some disaster.”

  “So who lives in the cities?” asked Carrie, taking up the scissors to snip the ends of the thread she was using.

  “As well as the Clans we have the Guilds. They are craft oriented . . . but you must know all this,” said Vanna.

  “Yes, it’s familiar when I hear it, but I don’t understand it,” Carrie said. “Go on, please.”

  “The Guilds are craft based, except for one which is also a Clan. That’s the Telepaths’ Guild. Telepathy is mainly hereditary, so the Guild and the Clan are virtually the same. Kusac, for instance, could have a position of importance in the Clan as well as at the Guild house.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m a member of the Guild of Medics. I showed a talent for biology at school and won a place for myself at the Guild, where I trained. The Guild is my second home, as are all the Guilds for their members.”

  “What do they provide apart from an education?”

  “Protection, legal advice, a roof over your head in every city you visit—everything you could ask for. We all pay Guild dues, of course, to fund this.”

  “Mm.” Carrie sewed in silence for a moment. “Is there a difference in the way the sexes are treated?” she asked at length.

  “Well, yes, of course there is,” she grinned. “Don’t you make sure your young men are kept out of trouble during adolescence?”

  “Pardon?” Carrie looked up at her, startled.

  “You mean you don’t?” Vanna looked intrigued. “How do you cope with their need to prove themselves physically, and their willingness to fight anyone—they aren’t fussy who—over anything?”

  “Ours don’t really do that. At least, only for a year or two,” she amended.

  “Until our youngsters are at least thirty, you can forget getting anything useful out of them unless they are in the military!” said Vanna, putting down her work and resting her chin on her palm. Her ears flicked forward as she fixed Carrie with her chartreuse eyes, the vertical slits narrowing slightly in concentration.

  “In the military, with the Challenge system, their aggression is channeled at an age when they cannot control it themselves. Once they have reached their thirties, most of them choose to return to Shola and take up the Guild training appropriate to their abilities.

  “Despite taking longer to mature, they do make as worthwhile contributions to society as we do.”

  “What about women, then?”

  “We mainly stay on Shola though those, like me, who want to go into space can do so. I wanted to study Alien species as well as practice medicine, and the best way for me to do that was through the military.

  “We form the basis of society and from there on it is skill and ability that decides how far you go in your chosen Guild.

  “What about you Terrans? What are the differences between your men and women?”

  “Men are mainly the doers, with women at home having the children and providing their backup. We can have careers, but not here on Keiss,” she said, a note of bitterness in her voice. “We lost one hundred and sixty-three people in the Crossing and they were mainly women. It diminished our gene pool, creating a need for children if the colony is to survive.”

  “So you ran away,” nodded Vanna, reaching out to clasp her arm in sympathy. “I can understand why. We have no such problem. When our young men have left the military, there is time enough to start a family. In that the Clan supports you with its crèche. You are free to pursue a career yet still have your children.

  “What is it you would like to do with your life?” she asked, taking up her work again.

  “Much the same as you,” said Carrie with a grin. “Study Aliens!”

  They laughed, each finding in the other something of herself and liking it.

  By the end of the afternoon, they had managed to construct a short tunic and an all encompassing hooded over-robe out of a darker color.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing much left of Mito’s clothing,” Carrie sighed as she folded up the remaining bits and pieces.

  “They serve a more useful purpose camouflaging you than decorating her,” said Vanna. She cocked her head to one side. “That sounds like one of the hunting parties returning. I had better start building up the fire. Those who don’t take part in the hunt are in charge of the cooking,” she explained. “I hope you know something about cooking because I could do with some new ideas.”

  “I know a little,” said Carrie, following her over to the fire. “It depends on what they bring back. Between us we should be able to concoct something edible.”

  Mito and Guynor entered the cavern as Vanna began feeding wood onto the fire.

  “We found nothing but small game,” Guynor said with disgust, throwing several furry creatures onto the ground by the fire. “Is there any c’shar? My mouth is as dry as the plains of Navaan.”

  “In a moment, Guynor,” Vanna answered, pulling a couple of mugs toward her. From a pot on the side at the fire, she lifted a ladle and spooned the steaming drink into mugs.
>
  “Would you take these over to Guynor and Mito?” she asked Carrie.

  “Of course.”

  “I refuse to allow that creature to touch our food or drink,” snarled Guynor.

  “Then you’re going to be very hungry and thirsty, aren’t you?” Carrie replied tartly, banging the mugs down on the table in front of the two Sholans, “because I’m helping Vanna with the cooking.”

  “Oh, leave her alone, Guynor,” sighed Mito. “Her touch won’t contaminate the food.”

  Guynor growled deep in his throat. “She is an abomination, a hairless abomination—a nonperson!”

  “Your insults mean nothing to her, Guynor,” said Vanna. “You won’t provoke her into Challenging you. Her people have no rite of Challenge.”

  “Then she is hardly worth my notice,” he said, turning his back on them.

  There was a slight commotion from the entrance as Kusac, followed by Garras, came in.

  “You got back before us, I see,” said Kusac, nodding to the other two as he made his way over to Carrie. “How did your hunt go? Only those? Ours was more profitable, then.” He threw the carcass of a large long-legged animal down beside her, thankfully taking the hot drink she offered him.

  “A good kill, Garras,” said Guynor, walking over to inspect the beast. “A fine rhakla. We’ll eat well for several days. But why do you let Kusac throw it at the feet of this creature?”

  “It was Kusac’s kill,” Garras replied, accepting the mug that Carrie held out to him. “He picked up the trail. When it scented us we gave chase, but it was Kusac who caught and felled it with one blow. A good, clean kill as you say. It’s been a long time since I enjoyed a hunt so much.”

  Guynor grunted. “Still, he should not have given it to the hairless one.”

  Garras’ ears twitched angrily. “The kill was his to award where he wished. Be thankful he gave it to the Terran and not to Mito!” The Captain stalked over to the other table, effectively ending the conversation. Guynor spun on his heel and rejoined Mito.

  “I hope one of you two knows how to skin this deer, because I haven’t the faintest idea where to even begin,” Carrie said, her voice sounding small in the sudden silence.

  “When I’ve finished my drink, I’ll show you,” said Kusac, mentally cursing himself for being a fool over the rhakla.

  It was dark by the time they had finished eating. The other Sholans were sitting in pairs around the fire—Mito with Guynor, and Vanna with Garras. Carrie lounged on the bench, while Kusac sat on the floor by her feet. They were listening to Vanna tell a story set in the dawn of Sholan history. As they listened, Guynor began to groom Mito. Without thinking, Carrie reached into her rucksack for her own brush and began to do the same for Kusac. She had groomed him every night at the Inn, long sweeps of the brush until all the loose hair was removed from his coat and it gleamed like polished ebony. Lost in the story and her task, she failed to notice the reactions of the other Sholans until Guynor’s hiss drowned out Vanna. The female Sholan’s voice faltered, then was silent.

  “Captain, he has let this . . . female go too far! First he encouraged her by giving her the kill, and now this! She treats him as if he were her mate, and he lets her. Even if she were not an Alien, she is not of our Grade. An ungraded kitten will fight, yet not her! At every moment in his dealings with her, he breaks tradition. It cannot be allowed to continue.”

  Carrie sat motionless as fear swamped her. Kusac had warned her they must be careful, and by her unthinking, foolish act she had placed them in danger.

  Kusac reached up to where Carrie’s hand still held the brush against his fur. He moved her hand and the brush forward, indicating that she should continue.

  “As you said, Guynor, she is an Alien, so she cannot be judged by our customs and traditions. If she was a Sholan, her Grade would be the same as mine because of her abilities among the Terrans—and the Sholans. As for fighting, Terrans fight, and so does Carrie, but her unwillingness to take you on when she—as you rightly point out—has no protective fur or claws, is caution not cowardice,” Kusac said mildly. “Concerning her grooming me, she did this for me when I was too ill to tend myself.”

  “Then why does she continue? You are no longer ill. I say that ...”

  “Enough, Guynor!” snapped Garras. “You have altogether too much to say! You see threats where none exist. It is as Kusac says. She is Terran and we should not judge her by Sholan standards. If you cannot listen to Vanna peacefully, then retire!”

  Guynor glowered at the Captain for several seconds, ears down and hands flexing at his sides, before he was forced to lower his gaze.

  “Mito, are you coming?” he demanded, pulling his protesting crew mate to her feet.

  “There’s no need for this, Guynor. I want to hear the story.”

  “You’ve heard it before. Come.”

  Vanna watched their retreating figures.

  “Shall I continue with the story?” she asked at length.

  Garras sighed. “No. Guynor has broken this evening up yet again.” He got to his feet, moving away from the fire. “Every day I expect him to issue a Challenge to me. He is a by-the-book man, with no flexibility. Everything must be black or white for him.

  “There is another chamber that one of you can use. I believe there’s enough spare bracken to make it reasonably comfortable.”

  When Garras and Vanna had gone, Kusac moved up to sit beside Carrie, taking the brush from her now limp grasp.

  “Don’t worry,” he said quietly, beginning to brush her hair. “Garras sees you as a non-Sholan and makes allowances. Guynor feels threatened by us and so hits out at you verbally when I am there. He won’t dare to actually harm you because he knows that without you, we face a long exile on Keiss. This is an old personal conflict between him and me.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am,” he said, handing the brush back to her and drawing her to her feet as he stood up. He hesitated, then making up his mind reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, gently drawing her closer—all the time watching for fear or resistance but there was none.

  Their disagreement over her link with her sister had gone unmentioned, but it still lay between them. He knew she cared about him, he could feel it through the link, but he needed to know if it went deeper than that for her. Dangerous though it undoubtably was, he had to know now while their link was still new. Nothing was being resolved between them at the moment, nor would it be unless he made the first move.

  He laid his cheek against hers, feeling her hands on his arms, her fingers pushing through his fur to the skin underneath.

  She could feel his tongue like rough velvet against her cheek then, as she relaxed into his embrace and tilted her face up to his, he moved to explore the space behind her ear. A small noise, almost like a purr escaped her and he laughed, his voice unsteady as he released her. This was real, this was no compulsion acting on either of them.

  “Go, or you’ll get no sleep tonight,” he said, capturing her hand briefly and touching it to his mouth. “You go into the chamber. I’ll stay here.”

  He let her hand go and gave her a little push when she demurred. “I’ll keep watch on the entrance from here. No one will bother you tonight.”

  Carrie hesitated. She could still feel the gentle pressure of his teeth against her fingertips, the texture of his fur.

  “I found out who it was that responded to my telepathic probe. It was Mito.”

  “Mito?” repeated Kusac, wrinkling his nose. “She’s no telepath. Still, I suppose it makes a kind of sense.”

  “Were you close before?” she asked hesitantly.

  Kusac’s eyes narrowed to pinpoints. “We had a brief ... relationship,” he said. “There was no more to it than that. She is too ambitious for anything more than personal advancement, with a little light entertainment thrown in now and then. For a few days I was that light entertainment.”

  His face relaxed, and when he looked down at her again, h
is eyes were heavy lidded with fatigue.

  “Go and sleep now. You will be safe, I give you my word,” he urged gently.

  Carrie nodded, feeling as if a weight she hadn’t known existed was suddenly lifted from her. Surprised, she felt it echoed in Kusac.

  “Till the morning,” she said, moving off toward the sleeping chamber.

  From the moment the forest had started to thin out, they had been able to see the remains of the Terran colony ship. Only a fraction of its former height, it still dwarfed every building in Seaport. Its main function was to house the computer library and the communications system that prior to the arrival of the Valtegans had linked all the townships and was the colony’s only source of contact with the second wave ship.

  It had been early morning when they arrived, sneaking through the fields to the dockside, searching for their present hiding place—an upturned boat, storm damaged beyond easy repair. They had watched the small fishing fleet return and unload its catch amid a flurry of noise; seen housewives and tavern keepers bargaining over the boxes of fish and crustaceans and heard the sullen, hate-laden silence as a detachment of Valtegans arrived for their daily quota of fish. Overhead, the seabirds wheeled and screeched their litany of complaint.

  The market session over, the fishermen and the settlers began to drift away. Before long, the dockside was virtually deserted.

  Carrie stretched her cramped muscles, sighing with relief.

  “Now we can do something, instead of skulking under this boat like a couple of rats! If there are any of the guerrillas in town, they’ll be in the tavern with the fishermen. You wait here for me.”

  “No,” said Kusac, uncurling his damp tail and pushing himself into a more upright position. “I’m coming with you. I want to be near in case of trouble. Don’t worry,” he added, forestalling her. “I’ll stay out of sight.”

  “I don’t see how you can,” Carrie objected, checking her surroundings mentally before scrambling out from under the boat. “A cat your size isn’t exactly an everyday sight here.”

  “I’ll manage,” he said with finality, joining her on the quayside.