guessed that sidetracking Steve's train of thought might help; it seemed to have worked. He waved a hand, indicating the others in the room. "You have part of my team seen. Now that you relaxed are, may I a favor ask?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"My men have humans fought and killed, but have never any truly met. If you willing are, they would like to you examine, and then questions ask. But you out-clan to all of us are; if you wish it not, none will offended be."

"I don't see why I shouldn't do it, as long as it works both ways. I'd like to examine a live Traiti as much as they'd like to examine a live human."

"That reasonable is. I willing am, to your subject be." Hovan called his men over, conveying Steve's assent, then stood relaxed. "I ready am."

Tarlac had seen Traiti corpses, and read medical and autopsy reports, so he was familiar with the sleek, almost hairless bodies. But there was a tremendous difference between that rather abstract understanding and the immediacy of a living, vital warrior towering over him. It was only then that he realized Hovan was one of the scarred ones—his embarrassment must have kept him from noticing earlier. Not sure whether it might give offense, he reached hesitantly to touch the scars. They were darker than the surrounding skin, but the texture was only a little bit rougher. He was surprised at the supple softness and warmth of skin he knew to be tough as leather armor. Had he really been expecting the human-dubbed "Sharks" to be literally cold-blooded?

That private fallacy laid to rest, he stepped back, wondering what to expect. "Okay, your turn."

Hovan didn't have to translate that; his men got the idea and crowded around the Ranger. He didn't take part himself because he'd learned what he needed to know while the man was examining him. Just the fingertips lightly touching his scars had been more than enough to confirm his earlier impression. The man's every action, from coming aboard armed to allowing his alien hosts to satisfy their curiosity, showed the courage and self-assurance of one whose sense of honor was so much a part of him that he felt no need to stand on ceremony. The brief physical touch had even given him the feeling of belonging shared by n'ruhar—what English inadequately referred to as clanmates.

Steve was worthy of Ch'kara; Hovan was convinced of that. And the sense of belonging in Steve's touch made it almost certain he would accept the offer. Hovan told himself ruefully that he shouldn't have entertained even the small doubts he'd had of Ka'ruchaya Yarra's wisdom. It had seemed impossible that an alien could truly be a ruhar, and Steve was undoubtedly an alien, even though he wasn't frightened, as so many humans seemed to be, by the sheer size of beings so alien to them. Yet the clan-feeling was definitely there—how had Yarra guessed?

Hovan dismissed that unseemly question. She was Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara, not he; such things were the concern of Clan Mothers and Speakers, not of fighters. He obeyed in this as they would obey him in his field— though he prayed the need would never arise for them to defend Ch'kara as fighters.

But he could still feel wonderment at being empowered to perform the adoption. Males shared in the creation of life, but it was females who actually brought it forth into the clan, by birth or adoption. In the case of adoption, the new ruhar should be brought into the gathering hall, with as many of the clan as possible attending. Steve wouldn't have that, or even a close approximation, until Homeworld; there weren't enough of Ch'kara in the Fleet. But he would have the best Hovan could manage, next wake-time.

Tarlac was still being examined by curious but carefully gentle commandos. It wasn't embarrassing; his own laughter had cured that problem, at least here. Being poked and prodded wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, even as closely as he was being checked out. Naturally enough, his examiners were paying closest attention to the points where the two races differed most: head, hands, and skin. He was willing to swear, for instance, that a dentist couldn't have gone into more detail over his teeth.

But finally that was over and it was question time. Tarlac seated himself cross-legged on his sleeping mat, where Hovan promptly joined him to translate for the others. Then the questioning started, hesitantly at first, not touching on anything too significant until Tarlac's quiet manner and responsive answers put the commandos at ease. When that happened, the questions became more searching.

"Do humans honor have?" one asked.

"I'm not really sure just how you use the term," Tarlac said slowly, "so I'll have to go by the human ideal. We have a few cultures, mostly warrior ones like the Sandeman and Tharn, that are honor-directed, but in the rest of the Empire I'd have to say most people don't. Not the way warrior races define it, anyway, and I've got a hunch you're more like them, at least in that way, than you're like the rest of the Empire. Outside of the warrior cultures, it's the military that thinks most about honor, though not even all of them care; to a lot of civilians…" The Ranger hesitated, frowning. "Well, honor and profit just don't seem to mix."

"You different are," another said. "Why?"

Tarlac shrugged. "I don't quite know. Maybe because I've always been something of an idealist." He grinned. "Though I was called a lot of other things before I was recruited."

"All Rangers like you are, in that?"

"Idealists? Yes, or they wouldn't be Rangers."

"Is it true there female Rangers are?"

"Sure. Right now, three of them. We can't afford to discriminate, not for any job. Local affairs aren't an Imperial concern, so some do things differently, but the Empire itself doesn't judge anything but what you can do. Especially if the comps and Sovereign agree that you've got what it takes to be a Ranger."

That got a murmur of some sort, and from the tone Tarlac guessed it was disapproval. Hovan didn't translate; instead, he said something that silenced them.

"It's okay, Hovan," Tarlac said, not offended but curious. "What is it?"

"They say that insane is. Not only that you females in such danger place, but that you machines use, your best to choose. I them told, there so many humans are, you no choice have."

Tarlac nodded, surprised. "Right! Well, mostly. The comps don't exactly choose; they just eliminate the ones who don't measure up to the specs. Which, I admit, doesn't leave many. Then the Sovereign checks the comp's choices, and sends a Ranger to invite the ones @ chooses. After that, only about a quarter of those who're asked to join, refuse." His expression sobered. "I almost did refuse, almost decided to go into the Navy instead of taking Linda's offer. I'm glad I didn't. I'd've had more security, but a lot less challenge."

"Or danger?" Hovan was smiling.

"Or danger," Tarlac agreed.

Hovan's translation of that got a discussion going. The Ranger remained silent, listening to the commandos and enjoying the musical sounds of their speech. He felt oddly at ease, sitting open and relaxed in the group of beings whose appearance was so sharklike; he was well aware that in a similar situation with a human enemy, he would have been anything but at ease. When Hovan turned back to him and started to speak, Tarlac held up his hand. "About time for one of my questions, isn't it?"

"Ask."

"There's something I don't understand. Granted, I'm here as Fleet-Captain Arjen's guest, and I've agreed to take the Ordeal. But I'm still your enemy. If one of you had come to us, 'persuaded' the way I was, at the very least you'd have been disarmed and guarded, instead of being given the freedom of the ship. For all you know, I could be planning some kind of sabotage."

Hovan smiled. "That you such a possibility raise, shows you would not it do."

"That's not always a safe assumption to make," Tarlac said. "In this case it is, yes, and I'd like to think it always