Return to Valjiir Stories
There was no doubt about it. He was trapped.
He'd taken his attention away from the navicom for barely a quarter of a second, having caught a fluctuation in the fuel consumption. It turned out to be just a jump in the gauge, but it had come at the instant he should have been most closely watching his course. Now, instead of crossing Sol's gravity well at escape angle, he was caught in it.
Karma, neh?
Karma, hell!
As the Katana sped into the sun, Terille James Takeda made a split-second decision. At the speed he'd obtained in the needle, there was no hope of pulling out in time. No one had ever attempted a slingshot in a needle, but it was the only hope he had to save his ship and himself from the ignominious spectacle of falling into a star.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled all the stops of Katana's accelerators, gripped the controls of the navicom and whispered a fervent prayer to Aema. Still, he was unable to stifle an ironic pleasure that even if he didn't make it, the annals of racing would record that he'd out-attempted the great Kamikaze.
He only knew he'd passed out when he woke up to find himself hurtling past Mars. He couldn't've been out for more than a few seconds: he was moving faster than any speed ever recorded for the sleek, one-man crafts - or even ever claimed.
I've done it! he thought exultantly, and quickly applied the braking thrusters. He was to the Belt before he began slowing, and the navigational hazards took all of his attention for several seconds. He was back to easily manageable speeds by the time he started breathing again, and he swung his ship in an easy arc and headed back to the Clave and the undeniably deserved accolades of his peers.
There were several ships coming to meet him, and he wondered what kind of tracking they'd had on him, and what the Katana looked like whipping around Sol. As they drew closer, he realized from the sensor readings that they were all old-style in design, like his own. That struck him as odd, but he quickly surmised that those Racers that had old-styles were probably lording it over the newer designs like crazy now that he'd proved the Katana a ship above ships - not to mention proving himself a Racer above Racers.
That is, unless no one else mentions it, he grinned to himself. He laughed out loud and the other ships came alongside him in a tight formation. He immediately opened his comlink - and got nothing but static. That was curious, but it was possible the slingshot had damaged his communications relay. His fingers flew over his sensors, sending the burst of energy that would register as a flare on the scanners of the other needles. He couldn't recognize any of their coded ident signals, nothing that would identify his escort. But he didn't really care too much about that. He was being consumed by his triumph, swelling pride combating older, bitter pains.
Take that, Kamikaze!
He accelerated, preparing one hell of a spectacular entrance to the Clave.
Terry couldn't believe the needle that flew with him into the Clave's hangar. The ship followed his turns and twists almost effortlessly, not even pulling out of the screaming dive until he did. The Racer had an incredibly beautiful touch - and a lot of guts. He found himself hoping s/he was as beautiful and as gutsy, because after a ride like that, he would certainly need a ride of another kind. The set-down was perfect and he powered the Katana down, waiting for the repressurization of the bay. Then he climbed out of his needle -
- and froze.
He recognized no one, no ship - even the Clave itself seemed altered. He saw how close he'd come to crashing and went pale. The Clave had moved, he was sure of it.
What the hell...?!
His confusion abruptly ceased to matter as he saw the pilot of the other needle racing toward him. Torrents of gold, an exquisite, oval face, fine, sensual features, huge, gleaming purple eyes...
No.
Impossible.
Yeah? I'd know that body anywhere, even under a flight suit.
But...
Is she younger?
That's impossible, too.
Her tia feels younger, but....
His thoughts stopped as she threw herself into his arms, her lips meeting his, an incredibly sweet tongue parting them, whipping inside his mouth like a golden snake. His already growing erection raged in throbbing salute and he returned the kiss ardently.
Ruth - Aema, gods, it is Ruth! - pulled away breathlessly. She blinked, her eager, seductive smile fading. "You're Indiian!" she gasped
He grinned, sure she was teasing him. "Yeah, well, just short of half, you know."
She looked dubious - and something else, something nearly as disturbing as the last time he'd seen her. "Not Kamikaze?" she questioned.
Alarm bells went off in his head. "Not exactly," he tried, trying to gauge her reaction. Zilama, don't you know who I am?
"Well, who are you then?" she demanded.
He blinked. It was the same flash of temper he'd been used to all his life, sometimes aimed at him, like when he'd pulled a practical joke on his younger sister, Samara; sometimes protection for him, every time his father cuffed his ear and she was anywhere around. He glanced around helplessly, and two men, both handsome, came rushing up through the crowd toward him. Both stopped short on seeing him, and he got another shock. They, too, were - impossibly - younger, but he recognized his Uncle Jeremy and his Zilama's cousin, David. His mind started racing - and he snorted inwardly at the joke - over his flight past Sol. He had blacked out. Why? He couldn't've gone warp... could he? And lived? He knew Kichae had ramped up Katana's shielding at his mother's request, but could even a galaxy-class Maker like his brother have managed shielding that could protect a needle from the stresses of warp speed? But what other effect could getting caught in a stellar gravity well have....
Timeshot.
A needle in a timeshot? Could he have really gone back in time, back to when his father was racing?
That's forty years... But Zilama never did look over twenty-five. And she looks about eighteen now. It is possible?
He stared at her, realizing she was waiting for an answer to her question: who was he? He swallowed. No problem, for now, this was the Clave.
And later?
He'd think of something.
"Katana," he replied.
Her eyes sparkled.
"Katana," she repeated, and he shivered at the way her lips caressed the sounds. "You're one hell of a racer."
"Then you must be, too..." He let the sentence drop questioningly.
"Mensch," she said.
That's right, she had another needle before Spike, he reminded himself. There could no longer be any doubt. This was his Zilama.
"Mensch," he repeated. Her heady fascination pulled at him, all his life-long fantasies crowding into his brain, each wanting a piece of this impossible reality. He felt her empathy responding to his desire, and it, of course, redoubled it. His body took over from his shell-shocked mind, and he found himself sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her hips against his in blatant invitation. "Any place we can go in a hurry?" he whispered.
Fire scintillated in her velvet eyes. "You don't waste any time, do you?"
"Should I?"
She quickly glanced over his body, then shook her head. "Come on," she said, and took his hand, leading him from his needle and the crowd. His heart was thundering in anticipation, even as part of him balked. This was Ruth, his Zilos' salish, it shouldn't even be possible...
But she hasn't even met him yet, much less married him.
What about the time continuum, what about...
And how do you know this isn't supposed to happen?
His thoughts were interrupted as Jeremy Paget and David Maxwell stepped in front of him. They were both breathing rapidly, their eyes shining, and he found himself understanding without any question at all how his father could have been attracted to them both - not that I've ever had any confusion about Uncle Jer.
"Racer, where'd you learn to fly like that?" his much-younger Uncle Jer enthused.
"Who are you?" Maxwell added. "Where'd you get a machine like that?"
"And why haven't we seen you here before?" Jeremy rejoined. "You're sure as shit no novice!"
Ruth sighed in impatient annoyance. "Cobra, Barak, get yourselves lost, okay? I got him first."
She pulled at him unrelentingly, and, since he had no idea how to answer their questions, he let her.
Ruth led him through the walkways and corridors of the Clave to a series of small cabins. They were kept as crash places and temporary homes for Clavists too strung out to function, or who had no where else to go, but were more often than not used for quick - or lengthy - sexual release after a good race. Terry got hungry just thinking about it.
He realized he hadn't believed it would really happen when the door to one of the cabins closed behind him and Ruth swiftly tore out of her flight suit. She was beautiful, too beautiful for words, as golden, as sensual, as breathtaking as he'd always dreamed. He found himself staring at her legs, the long, tanned exquisite flesh that he'd hugged a million times when he was a child. He even remembered a time, when he'd been almost twelve, that he'd tried running his fingers up her thighs. She'd slapped his hand, smiling to soften the blow, and he'd taken the smile as some kind of permission, for he'd pulled himself up onto his tiptoes and reached for a kiss. She hadn't been offended, and she'd been gentle but firm in telling him that what he was feeling wasn't permitted. He'd pouted - rather charmingly, he'd thought at the time - and she'd laughed and told him to get his violin and show her how well he'd been practicing since she'd last seen him.
Seeing her now, gorgeously naked, shaking out her hair around her, her hands on her curving, inviting hips, all those forbidden feelings came rushing back. He stared at her for so long that she finally cocked her head to one side and demanded, with a teasing smile, "Well?"
The emotion flowed over him like liquid honey. It made his breath catch and his head reel. He had to swallow before he could get any answer out at all.
"If there were words, I'd tell you," he murmured.
Her smile widened and he took off his own suit, moving both toward her and the small bed.
She tasted as sweet as that honey, as rich as cream. Her body was soft, responsive, welcoming; she melted into his embrace and he found himself melting into hers. The power and urgency of the race had given way to playful, almost lazy delight, and he lay, holding her close to him, gently stroking her back and shoulders. Her lips moved over his chest, and she murmured, "I never liked the taste of cucumbers when I was a kid. Isn't that odd?" then giggled, and added, "Maybe I didn't use enough salt."
Terry chuckled. Terrans always said Indiians tasted like fresh cucumber, and as Terran skin was salty... He smiled, kissing her temple.
"I'm glad you like it, Zilama."
"Zilama?" she said, glancing up at him with incredibly lovely wonder. It shocked him out of his quiet contentment. Goddess, did I really say 'zilama'? SHIT!
His heart pounding, he tried to keep himself calm.
"Indiian," he returned quickly. "A term of affection."
He felt a tremor go through her, one she shrugged off just as quickly as he had his own. "Zilama," she repeated in a slow, maddeningly sexy drawl. "I think I like it."
He thanked Aema for the dodged phaser blast. "Good," he said, and prayed that she wouldn't ask what it meant.
"I didn't know they had racers on Indi," she said.
He couldn't help but smile at that. "Not many," he admitted, thinking and I'm related to all of them, but what he said aloud was, "and I'm the best."
"No complaints so far," she agreed seductively. He could sense a touch of uneasiness behind the sensuality, but couldn't bring himself to spoil the mood. Still he was glad of it, for it made his words cautious.
He kissed her, remembering not to use her name. "Or from me, Mensch," he returned.
Her next words brought him completely back to reality.
"How long can you stay?"
He took a slow breath before deciding to answer with utter honesty. "I don't know." He felt the panic slamming into her and it tore at him. Why was she so defensive? He found himself repeating the question he'd asked himself when he'd seen her at SanFran: What had he done?
"I want to study the Katana," she was abruptly saying. Too abruptly, and he clearly felt the lie. "She's beautiful." He decided to test it.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, very quietly and very sincerely.
Her rejoinder was a blithe, "I know that," and again he recognized the defensive reaction. But why? She had it every time her mouth gave voice to her emotional needs or desires - except for sex. Yet even that was almost a defensive reaction, a 'see-I-can-sleep-with-anyone-I-want-and-not-get-involved' routine. Each time he sensed her true feelings, he ran into fear and an almost child-like uncertainty that came out as reckless abandon. It was so unlike the warm, confident woman he'd known all his life...
And all he could do was hold her and pretend not to notice.
Zilama, what was so threatening when you were seventeen? he wondered. What happened to change you into the peaceful, self-assured woman who's my godmother? Why do you feel so lost, so afraid - so alone?
"You want to get a suite somewhere?" he asked. The idea of staying at the Clave was suddenly too threatening - though he couldn't've said why. "I've got to have a place to stay while I'm here." He felt her longing increase and couldn't stop the teasing, "Unless you're planning on inviting me home." He thought of her house in Berkeley and grinned.
Her hesitation was so severe he almost backed off, wanting to apologize for - whatever it was he'd done. Ruth stared into his chest, swallowing, then said in what he knew was meant to be an off-handed tone, "I don't think my grandmother would approve."
The words came out of his mouth before he knew he'd thought them - soft, understanding, caring. "It's okay, Mensch. I do."
Her reaction was alarmingly intense. She charged off the bed like it was on fire, her emotions beating at him: Bitter anger, raging affront - and fear. It hit him in waves of terror, flooding his mind with a torrent of pictures he couldn't see. He didn't even hear her answer to his earlier question, though there was a sudden chill that let him guess what she'd said. He'd heard about Ruis Calvario from his Uncle Jer. It was the way his father's best friend had tried to explain the fierce double standard Sulu had for his second son, hoping that understanding where Sulu's desperate fear came from would comfort the boy who simply couldn't seem to please his exacting father. But he pushed it away, knowing this was not the time to address his own inner demons. All he wanted to do was soothe her pain, help her confront her demons.
He got up, moving to her, taking her in his arms.
"Calm down, it's all right," he told her gently. "My mistake." Then he realized that that was only making it worse. She didn't want - or at least, couldn't accept his comfort. He let out a long breath. "Come back to bed," he whispered instead.
Her response was so flippant - a falsely casual "Sure," - and so at odds with her emotions, he couldn't ignore it.
"Zilama, please try and remember I'm Indiian," he said. "I don't lie. It is all right." He paused, trying and failing to bite back the words. "Whether you think so or not."
She spun on him in renewed defensiveness and he held her gaze, just... waiting. He saw her suspicion wavering. "Katana, I..."
"Terry," he broke in. "My name's Terry." He knew he shouldn't've said it, but her tia was begging for his honesty to be true, and it was all he had to give her. He watched as her shock of the breach of Clave security registered, along with what he was offering. And he felt, for the first time outside their tumultuous sexual joining, the first touch of her empathy. It was a tenuous thing, hesitant and almost blushing. A shy smile touched her lips.
"Ruth," she answered.
As they fell back into bed, even knowing it was, for her, a retreat to the safety of a game she knew how to play, he reflected that at least now he wouldn't have to worry about slipping up with her name.
When he woke, Ruth was gone. He bolted upright, then swore inventively in the three languages in which he was fluent. What did you expect? he berated himself. You only scared the shit out of her. And it's for the best. Who knows how much history you've changed already? He took deep breaths against the sudden sting of loss, and started to try to convince himself that he should just go back to the Katana and try to get back to his own time. After all, it had been a memorable night, one that could explain Ruth's reaction when she'd seen him that morning - forty years from now.
You think you made that big an impression, huh? he asked himself wryly. The answer, Well, yeah, came with no undue modesty, but no real sense of narcissism either. He was Indiian. He didn't lie, even to himself.
Then he saw the note on the nightstand next to the bed.
"Terry," it read, "I've gone to get something to eat. You can wait for me, or ask someone where the galley is. I haven't deserted you." And it was signed, "Zilama."
He laughed out loud with sheer relief, completely disregarding that the feeling neatly contradicted what he'd just been thinking. I haven't deserted you. He wondered how she'd known he would think she had.
The answer came without too much difficulty. She knew, because that's what she would've thought. Her empathy might be locked up tighter than a Herbert's ass, but some part of what he was was leaking through. She was giving him exactly what he tried to give to her: someone to need, someone who needed. A kinship of isolation.
Terry had never been a loner. He was outgoing and gregarious, but he'd kept himself isolated nonetheless. He'd never formed the kind of relationship his mother and father had. He'd refused to follow in his father's 'love everyone you sleep with' attitude because he knew how badly he could hurt someone if the feelings were unequal. He kept his relationships casual, always stating up front what he could and couldn't give. Then, if a partner did get hurt, he could try to ease his or her pain with a clear conscience - and, if truth be told - walk away with one, too. He understood that Ruth, with her brash charade, was trying to do the same thing - but he also understood that it wasn't exactly her partner getting hurt that she was worried about.
The truth flowed into him with sad but certain clarity. Ruth was alone. She'd been alone since the death of her parents. And she stayed alone because she was different, and no one understood that - not even her. He got that. He, too, stayed alone, but he did it because he knew how different his emotional reality was from that of Terrans. He had learned that at his mother's breast, drinking in the truth of Indiian existence as he drank in her rich, life-giving milk. When one can accept that one is different, when one can come to terms with it, then everything falls into place.
And that's what has to happen to make her Zilama.
Aema, I have to make her see it, I have to break her emotional shield, I have to get her to let me in...
...which meant taking what she could give, accepting her fears, her sorrow, her loss. He had to know and not push, take but not demand, want but not expect. He had to belong and give her belonging, understand and give her understanding, accept and give her acceptance...
Belonging. Understanding. Acceptance.
Aema help me, I'm falling in love.
Terry was glad he'd stuffed his clothing into the cockpit of the Katana when he'd changed into his environ suit. He retrieved his pants and shirt and changed before going to find her.
She was sitting alone at a table, rapidly gulping down a plate of barely-cooked meat. He stopped to watch her, memories of a hundred meals spent with her family and his crowding his thoughts. He felt her emotions shift as she realized he was there. Fascination, fear, uncertainty, need and challenge. She didn't look at him - wouldn't. She was trying to deny that she felt him, or that she felt anything for him. He sighed. His adult zilama had never lied to him, nor tried to hide her feelings from her favorite godson. The word brought back pangs of regret. Zilama. Stupid, stupid, stupid to have said it. Still, she hadn't seemed to put it together when he was growing up. Maybe Ama had confirmed that it was a term of affection, rather than detailing the specific meaning of the word: Mother of acceptance, one who swore to raise a child as her own should anything happen to that child's parents.
He sighed again, then assumed a casual attitude and approached her.
"Anything left in the galley?" he teased when he reached the table, and immediately damned his mouth. How would he explain how he knew her eating habits?
"Not much protein," she answered, the question thankfully not occurring to her - though she didn't look at him. "I do tend to clean out the stores."
"Guess I'll just have some coffee then."
"Yuck."
Yuck?!? He couldn't keep from laughing at the incongruity of Ruth Valley, the galaxy's most famous coffee addict apart from his father, having said such a thing about her beloved, sacred liquid.
Puzzled, she finally looked at him. "Something I said?"
"No," he managed, filing away the startling information that a seventeen-year-old Ruth didn't drink coffee. "It's just that sensible beings exist mostly on good, black coffee. 'Yuck' isn't in the vocabulary."
She made a face. He smiled and automatically brushed his fingers across her temple, the gesture of warm affection that was habitually his Zilos'. She jerked violently away, her eyes and her tia flooding with grief.
"My father used to - " she began, but changed her mind about what she was going to say and told him brusquely, "Go get your coffee."
With great difficulty, he kept his attitude and voice relaxed, saying as he walked to the replicator, "Your father used to what?" His heart was thundering, her reaction already having given him the answer. Her father used to touch her like that, her father, who she adored and who had been taken from her a scant three years earlier.
"Make similar noises about coffee," she lied.
He let it go, knowing it was not the time nor the place to push her on it. Not my job, either, he reminded himself sternly. Know and not push.
He got his coffee and took a seat next to her. "That's funny, so does mine," he quipped. "Maybe it's hereditary."
"I don't..."
Change the subject, Terry.
He interrupted her, telling her that he really did need to find a place to stay.
And why's that? Planning on sticking around for a while?
Didn't we just go over that? I have to help her, or she'll never be Zilama.
She shrugged at him, but her eyes were wary. "I don't know," she said, then took an almost unnoticeable breath. "I hang out at Berkeley a lot. That's in California," she added, "North America, West Coast. On Terra," as if he wouldn't know.
That tickled him. "I know," he told her. "My father's family is from California."
And why the hell did you say that?
She looked at him strangely. "Then why don't you just go home?"
He swallowed, at a loss for anything to say for several seconds. Uh - because my grandparents might die of shock, since Dad hasn't even met Ama yet? And how to explain that a twenty-year old has a twenty-year-old son? He damned his oh-so-careless tongue and decided to tell her a measure of the truth. It wasn't that his grandparents didn't love him, but... "I'm not the most popular guest there," he said. "Too much ninja in me."
Gods, can you put a break on your mouth!
Ruth blinked. "Huh? What's ninja?"
He swallowed. "A very bad word to call anyone Japanese." What the hell, she can tell, can't she? "I'm half Japanese," he added.
Her eyes lit with a teasing light. "Not barracuda?" she asked lightly.
He had no idea what she was talking about, but he got the feeling it was a compliment when she laughed warmly.
"Never mind," she went on, and his mind automatically added, I never do. "I think I can find you something. Finish that awful liquid and let's go."
There had been an uncomfortable moment when they'd rented an air car. She didn't want to, he couldn't. He knew he'd given her the impression he was an outlaw, but how could he tell her the real reason he couldn't have his forty-years-in-the future ID scanned? Or why he wouldn't give his name, a prerequisite for any rental - or even that the credit chip he had wouldn't link to any account in existence? He was a little concerned about the small deception - but actually, how far from the truth was it? He might not have done anything illegal - or, in fact anything - twenty-some years before he was born - but wouldn't performing an illegal timeshot have made him an outlaw if it had been known?
It was hard pretending he didn't recognize the house he'd been to several times as a kid. He'd stayed there whenever Ruth and Ama had been stationed at San Fran, and, in fact, for nearly a full year after The War had begun, when he was ten. That was when he and Danny had first become real friends; with the D'Artagnan scrapped after the damage she sustained in The War's first battle, and Valjiir assigned to design and build dreadnoughts - on the double - he and his brothers and sisters had often stayed in the house with Danny and then-eleven year old Deila. And he'd spent a night here a couple of years ago - that is, when he was 18 - at one of the Deila the Butterfly's parties. Deilarrei Valley, who looked so much like her mother that she could've easily passed for the young woman who stood next to him now.
Not that Deila's personality is particularly like Ruth's, he pondered, then realized that, given the way Ruth acted now, that wasn't necessarily accurate.
He forced the memory of Ruth's daughter's blase, flighty, promiscuous - and Aema, is she as wounded as her mother? - away and forced his attention back to the room he was standing in.
The place wasn't at all like he remembered it. There was no thick Vulcan rug on the floor, with its deep reds and bright oranges and muted browns, shot through with striking threads of green. The painting his father had done of an Orion dancer didn't grace one wall. There was no holo of a Nest ship under construction. No small, priceless Waren light sculpture of a double-starred solar system flickered against the bay window.
He missed the pair of beautifully carved chairs from Altair, and their matching headboard on the now very simple, very small bed. He missed the bedspread, dark blue silk embroidered in silver spider-webbed stars. There weren't even the rows of flowering plants he'd been used to, nor the half-dozen shelves of book tapes. When he glanced into the kitchen, it was even more sparse than he recalled: Ruth had never really had more than a coffee maker and a half-dozen mismatched cups - and a sake set. Whenever his mother had been here, she'd always brought her own cooking utensils: one thing his zilama had never been was a decent cook.
This house belonged to a stranger.
It was the same building, he knew that, but it held only that small bed, a dresser, a plain table and couch, an old chair, a chess set, a computer and a com unit.
"This place is a dump," he observed, not at all objectively.
"Yeah, but the rent's free," she retorted with a nasty show of teeth.
That made him laugh, because the expression was so like the woman he'd known all his life.
"It needs some fixing up," he told her and took her hand, pulling her out the door. "We'd better do some shopping."
He ignored her "What do you mean, 'we'?"
They had the same tussle over groceries regarding who was paying for it. He gave her no more explanation than he had regarding the air car, and she'd grumbled, but put everything on her account. She'd almost balked at the coffee machine, but he'd smiled his most charming and explained he couldn't survive without it. The fact that her objections really had nothing to do with not wanting him to stay at the house warmed him right down to his bones.
He'd started coffee brewing before putting away the rest of the groceries. The sun was setting, and he stood at the window of the house, watching the golden light fade to dusk. Sunset. He'd been in the past over twenty-four hours.
You should go back up to the Clave, he told himself. You should just get in Katana and try to get out of here.
And what if you can't? Come back, play house with Ruth until you've screwed up the timeline beyond all recognition? Or go somewhere else, find someplace far off the beaten track and live out your life as some kind of hermit? Just another Racer who got himself lost, no remains, no wreckage, nothing to let Ama know what happened to you?
The thought of his mother's grief tore at him. Then he wondered if she could feel him now, if she somehow knew he was far, far away from her. The ties between Indiian mothers and their children were strong, almost as strong as those between Antari mothers and their children. Hell, is she on Vulcan somewhere, sleeping with Selar and wondering why she feels a sudden pull to Terra? Does the tie work backwards like that? If I were to meet her now, would she know who I was instinctively? For that matter, would Dad? His father was at the Academy now, he knew, maybe even viewing the same sunset from high above the Earth...
He was suddenly aware of Ruth's eyes watching him. He took a slow breath.
"Golden," he said. Then, "The light," he explained, although she hadn't asked. "I'm used to artificial - or Indiian. That's sort of pink," he went on wistfully. "Rose, I guess." He turned, needing to hear her voice. "What's Antari light like?" It was a safe enough question. There was no getting around the fact she was Antari, even if she was clearly pretending to be Terran.
She closed her eyes, and he could feel the memory forming within her. "Kind of pale green, I guess," she said at last. "More blue at dawn and sunset. It's a very green world." She opened her eyes. "I'm used to artificial too," she added.
Then there was something in her gaze, something that was close to panic. He could almost hear her chastising herself for answering him, for getting involved, for letting any part of what she really was slip. He took a gulp of his coffee, letting her get herself back under her brash façade. Then he abruptly changed the subject.
"The bed's too small," he said then gave her his most wicked grin. "We'll have to stay very close."
Loving her was so completing that he didn't want it to stop. Nor did he want to stop talking to her. It took him half the night to realize that she did, and he was about to chastise himself for his inconsiderateness, when she suddenly blurted out, "Okay, you win, I'm tired."
That 'you win' said it all, though he couldn't quite understand what the battle had been about - until she still wouldn't lay down with him and go to sleep. He knew that even now - his 'now' as opposed to her 'now' - she had occasional nightmares. Was that the problem? She didn't want him to know?
She stared at him, her jaw set. "So go to sleep," she said.
He'd been wrong, the battle wasn't over yet. "You first."
She shook her head. "No, I..."
"Together, then," he suggested conciliatorily.
"Terry..."
Her exasperated tone covered a well of fear and, as was becoming usual, panic. Okay, she can't face it yet. I've pulled weekenders before. He sat up. "Okay, let me get some more coffee."
She grasped his wrist. "Will you just stop it?" she snapped.
"Me?!?" he stated incredulously, unable to hide the flare of indignation.
She closed her eyes, sighing. "Listen, I asleep alone."
The tight words cut into him like knives. I sleep alone. I face my fears alone. I live my life alone. He ached to comfort her, to tell her the dreams of fire and death and sharp-clawed beasts weren't real - but how could he comfort something he wasn't supposed to know? And wouldn't it only injure her more if he tried?
All right, you're gonna have to completely exhaust her, he told himself, and to do that, you're gonna have to distract her from the fact that you're trying to exhaust her.
"You got some cards?" he asked.
She was clearly taken aback, but she glanced around the room. "Uh, yeah... somewhere...I think..." She paused, her forehead creasing in confusion. "Um, Terry..."
"Do you play poker?" he interrupted.
"Yes, but... Terry..."
"We can play for - " He looked at her through seductively lowered lashes. "- intimate services."
"Terry!" she shouted.
"Yes?" he replied calmly. He watched the emotions in her eyes, frustration that he was ignoring her attempts at serious conversation, annoyance that she was trying to have a serious conversation, determination that he wasn't going to win again, and the decision that she could stay up all night to prevent it
"You wanted more coffee," she said with a hint of smug challenge, and pointed to the kitchen. He rose to refill his cup and she got out of bed, rummaging through the dresser. It was a clear admission: only someone who owned the property would be so certain there were playing cards "somewhere."
"Nice place you have," he said, both to let her know he'd caught it, and to let her know he was being honest about having caught it. He didn't expect her to show any appreciation, and he wasn't disappointed.
The sun rose on a sleepy but determined coupling. He hadn't intended to make it another battle - I won't sleep until you do - but of course, that's how she'd interpreted his desire to wear her out so that she'd fall asleep naturally. It surprised him a little that he could still keep going: every time he thought he was thoroughly spent, her emotions would touch his and his body was raring to go. But with the morning light, he realized that feeling that way was only bound to hurt her more the longer he stayed. After all, he had no right to be here, no right to alter history this way... yet she has to change, she has to start trusting, to accept herself, or she'll never be my zilama.
And you're so sure only you can accomplish that?
No. It has to have happened because it did happen. Just leave, Terille. Leave now before you do any more damage.
Then she stretched, a great, sinuous cat-stretch, and he knew he'd stay. One more day.
One more day.
She ran her fingers lightly over his skin. "You're filthy," she murmured.
"It's your filth," he returned with a mock scowl.
Her tongue followed her fingers. "And the cucumber's way too salty now."
He shivered erotically. "And?"
She gazed up at him, her eyes sultry. "So go take a shower."
He grabbed her, kissing her. "Take one with me," he murmured.
She chuckled. "I don't think so," she said, adding, "I take cold showers." She smiled as he, too, gave a soft laugh. "Besides, I'm not filthy."
"Oh really?" he snorted.
She batted her eyelashes with an endearing pout. "You're saying I am? That's not very nice."
He laughed again, hugging her. "No, Zilama, of course not, I'd never imply such a thing about sweet, pure, next to godliness you."
"Then go." Her smile blinded him, then it faded and her voice got very soft. "Then I'll give up and go to sleep."
She was lying, and he knew it, but he wanted so desperately to believe her that he did as she asked.
He got out of the shower, hoping he was wrong. But his luck was holding: Ruth was gone. He slumped to the floor, running his hand through his wet hair, trying in vain to stop the tears of grief.
Idiot, this is perfect! he screamed at himself. She's left, she doesn't want this to go on. Get out. While you can, get out!
But how can I leave her like this?
Her insecurities aren't your responsibility.
This time they are. I wasn't up-front with her, I didn't warn her...
So live with the guilt, little monster.
He cringed as his own mind used his sister's favorite childhood taunt against him. But it hardened him, as it had done all his life, as had every slap his father had ever given to his sensitive ears.
No. I owe her. I wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for her.
And Zilos. Or have you forgotten him? And the little matter of changing history?
She's so afraid of commitment, she'll never go into Fleet!
And how are you gonna help that?
He took a deep breath, blinking back his tears.
Show her commitment doesn't have to hurt.
Really? You're gonna pledge eternity?
That brought him up short. He was wrong, commitments could and did hurt, even eternal ones. But one lived through it. One could take what was good in any relationship and use it to soften the blow of an ending or the trials in continuing. One could keep the good memories and forge them into something that would sustain you until the next relationship or the next resolution came along. He had learned that from her, from his Uncle Jer, from his Uncle Del - even from his father.
Broken relationships don't have to destroy, either, he told himself. I can teach her that. I can give her that strength - like she gave it to me.
He got up, got dressed, and started out of the house. He wouldn't go too far, just far enough so that when - if - she came back, she wouldn't be aware of him. He didn't want to scare her away.
He waited for two hours, then laid down in a secluded, grassy embankment overlooking the bay. He was asleep almost before his eyes closed.
He was only three months old. His world was color and light, sounds, smells, tastes - and emotion. There was little understanding - he knew when Rosh or Ama were upset, he could distinguish it from his own feelings - hunger, sleepy, the need to be held and touched and loved - most of the time, though he was still often overwhelmed by their emotions. But it happened less and less frequently. He was beginning to be separate from them.
Then, quite suddenly, all that was ripped from him in ever-increasing pain and fear. He began to burn, and his need for the comfort of being a part of Rosh and Ama screamed from him. Yet when they came to him, his sense of self was seared by an agony he couldn't deal with. His tia rejected them fiercely in an effort to save itself - but without them, self wasn't strong enough to exist. His cries grew weaker as the fire consumed more and more of his fragile being.
Then a coolness came, a strong touch, a sure tia. Zilama: Terry, you're real, you're loved. Zilos: The fire is not within you.
We love you, it will be all right. We'll protect you. You exist, you are loved.
Over and over the words came, on waves and waves of emotion. They formed around him, they flowed into him. His existence was wrapped in gentle shades of gold and green, nurtured with milk rich and sweet from a breast that was cool and salty. Zilama became life, Zilos, strength, and when Rosh and Ama could once again touch him, life and strength stayed within him.
Terry woke with tears in his eyes and whispered Ruth's name. It was dawn again. He'd slept all day and all night.
Get up, get out! his mind shrieked at him. It's over, you've done enough! If you leave now, maybe you won't have changed anything!
How can I leave her? She never left me!
How can you stay? Do you want to destroy your strength for the sake of your life? What would happen if they weren't there, together, when...
He stayed, trembling, until the internal argument reached its inevitable conclusion.
I have to leave.
He only went back to the house for a cup of coffee before heading back up to the Clave.
She was standing in the kitchen, a cup of dark, brown hot liquid in her hand. Her nose was wrinkled and one word came from her lips.
"Yuck!"
He was so happy to see her that he forgot time and history and leaving. The dream-memory had left him raw and aching, and just her presence called to the soothing peace she had given him so long ago.
"You have to get used to it," he murmured. She spun, dropping the cup, and for a moment - just a moment - her emotions came racing to him, clear, unfettered by confusion or panic or fear.
"You came back!" she exclaimed, joyous relief and overwhelming need.
"So did you," he said, and they fell into each other's arms. The feel of her erased his decision, replacing it with one vibrant, eternal truth.
Ruth, Zilama, I love you!