Chapter 4
Pain pulled Klausan from sleep, sharp and insistent along his side, but the nanites in the med kit had done their work, and the wound was healing. He catalogued the sensation, set it aside as irrelevant to his current situation, and opened his eyes.
A small male crouched beside the shelf, watching him with wide brown eyes.
Klausan remained motionless. The child appeared to be of the same species as his female—as the female who had assisted him—with the same color eyes and hair.
Hair that was currently sticking up in an extremely undisciplined way.
His clothes were equally haphazard, pants that exposed bony ankles and an oversized shirt that hung crookedly off one shoulder.
At his age, Klausan would never have been allowed to appear in such a state. The boy was also clutching a carved wooden animal that didn't appear to have any defensive purpose. Why was he carrying it?
The child hesitated, obviously nervous, then squared his thin shoulders and spoke. Good. The child had courage.
Klausan's translation implant had also undergone repairs and he managed to catch fragments of the sudden torrent of words.
"…real? Mama said… stories… North Pole…"
The words made little sense, and he tilted his head enquiringly. The boy drew a breath and tried again, slower this time. "Are you Klaus?"
"I am Commander Klausan D'Kringar," he said carefully. The implant should translate his words into something approximating the local language, though the accuracy remained questionable.
The boy's eyes widened. "You are Klaus. I knew it. And you grant wishes, right?"
Wishes? Had the implant translated that correctly?
"That's what the stories say," the boy continued, his words tumbling out faster again. "Klaus comes on the Longest Night and brings gifts to good children. I've been good. I helped Aunt Talia bring you home. That's good, right?"
If he understood correctly, the child thought he was there to reward him for good behavior. It was an odd concept. Good behavior was required, not rewarded, and certainly not by granting some abstract wish.
"I do not grant wishes."
The boy's face fell, but only for a moment. Hope was apparently a resilient thing.
"But you could. If you wanted to. You have magic. I mean technology."
The implant had picked up most of that, and he shook his head.
"Technology is not magic."
He wasn't entirely surprised when the boy ignored him. There was an air of desperation around him—desperation mixed with grief.
"Please. I only want one thing. Just one wish. I want my mama and papa back."
The words hung in the cold air between them.
He had witnessed death countless times. As a Tandroki warrior, he'd engaged in mortal combat.
He understood the biological reality of mortality.
What he did not understand was why this small male's obvious pain created an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
"That is not possible," he said as gently as possible. The Tandroki did not soften the truth to ease distress, but this was not a Tandroki child.
"But you're magic—"
"I am not magic. I cannot reverse death."
The boy's face crumpled, the desperate hope replaced by a raw grief that was painful to watch. He didn't burst into tears. Instead, he seemed to shrink, all of his earlier bravado collapsing inwards. He stood there, small and lost, clutching the wooden animal to his chest as if it were a shield.
Before he could think of a suitable response, the door to the root cellar swung open, and Talia appeared, a worried look on her face.
"Theo, what are you doing here?"
The boy's grief instantly turned to hostility, glaring at her.
"You said I could see him today."
"I said if he was healing properly and if we were sure he wasn't dangerous. You shouldn't have come in here on your own."
"You're not my mother. You can't tell me what to do."
She flinched as if struck, and he saw pain flash across her face before she composed herself. The boy saw it too, and for a moment, guilt replaced his anger.
"I'm sorry your mother isn't here," she said quietly. "But I am here, and I am responsible for keeping you safe. That means you follow the rules I set."
"Your rules are stupid."
"Perhaps. But they're still the rules."
The boy's hands clenched into fists. "I hate you."
He frowned. The child should not speak to her in such a manner.
Before he could reprimand him, the boy turned and ran for the door.
As he did, his foot caught on something and he stumbled forward.
Talia caught him before he could fall but the carved animal went flying.
The crack of breaking wood filled the small room and the delicately carved horns separated from the body, along with one of the legs.
The boy's face went white. He dropped to his knees, gathering the pieces with shaking hands.
"Papa made this for me." His voice was barely audible.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I think we can fix it," she said, but he could hear the doubt in her voice. "Maybe I can find some glue—"
"You broke it!" the boy yelled. "You pushed me!"
"Theo, I didn't—"
"You hate me because you had to come here and take care of me."
Her face went pale, and he saw her fingers tremble before she clasped them together.
"That's not true," she said, her voice strained.
"It is true! You don't want to be here and you don't want me! You didn't love my mother and you don't love me! "
Tears gathered in her eyes even as she blinked them back.
"I loved your mother." Her voice shook. "And I love you."
"Liar!"
The child shoved past her and ran through the door. She stood frozen, staring after the boy. He watched a single tear escape and track down her cheek before she dashed it away with an angry hand. The sight bothered him in a way he could not explain.
The illogic of the situation also troubled him.
The child's foot had clearly caught on the uneven floor, not through any action of hers.
She had stopped him from falling. And yet the child had made the accusation and said things Klausan was quite sure were not true.
Worse, something about his words had affected her.
She remained staring through the doorway, her back to him, her shoulders rigid with tension for several moments. Then she took several slow breaths, clearly attempting to regain the composure she had lost, before turning to him.
"I'm sorry about that."
"You do not need to apologize."
She blinked at him. "You can communicate now?"
"My translation implant has been repaired. It is still somewhat damaged but the more you speak, the better it will become."
"Umm. That’s… impressive.”
“It is not magic,” he said firmly.
“I know that. Why… Oh, I see. Theo thought you were Klaus and wanted you to grant him a wish. A wish to bring his parents back.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway.
“What happened to them?”
“His father became ill, an illness that no one here knew how to cure. His mother—my sister—wore herself out caring for him and then she caught it too. She wrote to me for help once she realized but it took too long for the message to reach me and for me to make my way here. She died six weeks before I arrived.”
The grief on her face was quieter than the boy’s but just as raw, and he did not like it. Some impulse he could not explain wanted to offer her comfort, but it was not an action he had ever been taught. Tandroki did not offer comfort. They expected emotional control.
“Would you like some more broth?” she asked, her voice steady again despite the lingering sadness in her eyes. The way she buried her feelings was almost Tandroki-like, and he found himself admiring her fortitude.
"That would be acceptable. And perhaps some water. I can manage without assistance,” he added, remembering the dangerous pleasure of her assistance, and forced himself to sit up. The wound protested, but the nanites were already knitting it together and the pain was manageable.
To his surprise, she did not protest, simply retrieving the cup and pouring water into it from the jug she had left for him. He took it from her, careful to avoid touching her fingers. The brief contact they had shared before had been… disturbing.
“I need to go talk to Theo. I'll be back in a little while with some broth."
She started towards the door, and he gave in to an unprecedented impulse.
"Wait."
She paused, her hand on the rough wood, and turned back.
"The toy. Can it be repaired?"
"I'll try. I'm not much of a woodworker, but maybe I can glue it back together. If I can find some glue." She attempted a shaky smile, and once again he found himself wanting to comfort her.
It was illogical, and yet he found himself saying, "I believe I can repair it."
She gave him a startled look. "What?"
"The toy. I can repair it." He gestured to his utility belt, still lying beside him on the shelf. "My tools are designed for precision work on ship components, but the application is transferable."
"You don't have to—"
"The damage distresses the child. His distress causes you discomfort. Repairing the damage is logical."
She studied him for a long moment, and he found himself unable to interpret the expression on her face. Confusion? Gratitude? Suspicion? Or perhaps all of them.
"Why would you help me?"
An excellent question. One he did not have a satisfactory answer for, so he reframed it.
"You brought me to shelter when you could have left me to die. You have provided food and water. You have not attempted to harm me despite having the opportunity to do so while I was unconscious." He paused. "Reciprocity is logical."
"I see." She crossed her arms in a defensive posture. He had noticed that she did that when she felt uncertain. "And fixing Theo's toy is reciprocity?"
"Yes. It is also a logical solution. Repair the toy, reduce the child's distress, and restore equilibrium." He met her eyes. "Unless you prefer to deny the child comfort as punishment for his behavior?"
"No!" She gave him a horrified look. "No, I would never—" She stopped, took a breath. "I would never use his grief as a weapon against him."
"Then give me the toy."