Linesman (40 page)

Katida cut in. “There's a degree of ecstasy in both. One can only surmise both touch the same centers of the brain. Probably the nucleus accumbens.”

Her voice was clinical. She sounded as if she had thought about it a lot. Or talked to some brain specialists about it.

The medic nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

“Wonderful,” said Rossi. “Now we have crazy Ean Lambert with direct access to our brain,” but he didn't deny it. Ean wished he had.

Abram nodded, as if what they were saying wasn't unexpected. “So does Ean sound or feel like line eleven?”

Tai shook his head doubtfully.

“No,” Katida said.

“No,” Rossi said, a lot more explosively, as if it was sacrilege to even suggest it.

“So a different line then,” Abram said. “Line twelve?”

That joke was beyond repeating. Abram should have known better.

“Or a ten so badly damaged it feels like a different line,” Rossi said.

Ean
wasn't
damaged. He was a certified ten, no matter what Rossi said, and he could mend the lines as well as Rossi did, even if he did it differently.

“Or the only ten who hasn't been damaged by current line training,” Katida countered.

Captain Helmo, who hadn't said a word until then, said, “I don't think there is any doubt. He communicates with line eleven rather than just reacting to it the way the others do. The ship treats him like a different line.” He paused, and Rossi opened his mouth to argue with him. “My linesmen treat him like a different line.”

Rossi closed his mouth.

•   •   •

MICHELLE
arrived back on ship at midnight.

Ean was in the central workroom, telling Abram about Fergus's training. It was going well.

“So, officially a twelve,” Michelle said.

She hadn't even been at the meeting. “Not you, too.”

Michelle looked exhausted. The skin under her eyes looked blue and bruised. She carried a black-and-gray uniform shirt over her arm. Ean stood up. Michelle and Abram
would want to talk. Abram left in three weeks. His replacement would be here in four days, and they hadn't seen much of each other since Abram had become an admiral.

“I'm going to bed.”

“Wait.” Michelle smiled, so that her dimples showed, and held up the shirt, then shook it out so that it was displayed for Abram and Ean. She'd added two extra bars on the pocket, below his name.

Ean buried his face in his hands.

“Try it on.” She tossed it over.

Ean caught the shirt automatically, then didn't know what to do with it. A dignified exit was the best he could think of. “Good night.”

He took the shirt with him, for what else could he do with it?

Through the lines, he saw Michelle settle back on the couch with a sigh while Abram got them both tea.

He looked at the shirt clutched in his hands. He belonged here. Whether they mistakenly believed he was a twelve or whether he really was one, surely this shirt meant he'd made a place for himself here. With the lines.

The two fleets made a chorus in his head. Of course he belonged. He was of their line. He belonged with them. Why would he think otherwise?

Yes. He belonged with them. He dropped the shirt on the end of his bed and settled back to talk with his fellow lines. It was time he found out more about them.

“So,” he sang to line seven. “What exactly is it that you
do?”

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