The Morcai Battalion: The Pursuit. Diana Palmer
he promised. “Now. Tell me about this thing called opera.”
She enlightened him on the way to the event.
They were in line when he spoke again. “It will be a new experience for me.”
“Don’t you have opera?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Our music is mostly instrumental,” he replied. “We have artists who paint with sound, who—” he searched for the right word “—who make visual canvases which, when touched, produce music.”
“That sounds almost magical,” she said.
He nodded. “We have a sector called Kolmankash, where exotic tech is produced. We have many inventions that would seem like the arcane to other cultures.”
“I’ve heard of Kolmankash! I would love to see a canvas that sang.” She sighed.
“Soon,” he promised, and she beamed.
* * *
THEY WERE SEATED. The orchestra began tuning up. Mekashe wished he could cover his ears. If this was opera, he was already disenchanted and not looking forward to an evening of this assault on his hearing.
“They’re just tuning up,” Jasmine whispered, when she noted his almost-human expression of distaste. “It’s not opera. Not yet.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Very well.”
Her small hand slid over his big one on the seat beside her. He turned and looked down into her eyes as his own hand curled very gently around it and a jolt of feeling like an electric shock went through his body in a hot wave.
She felt it, too. He didn’t need to be telepathic to know that. Her eyes were full of her feelings. He could hear her heartbeat, quick and unsteady. He could hear her breathing stick in her chest. He could feel the ripple of sensation go through her at the contact. If he was entranced, she certainly was. His eyes met hers and neither looked away.
He was grateful for the dravelzium. Without it, he’d have carried her out of the theater to the nearest closed room. In his long life, he’d felt the sensation only a handful of times, mostly with totally inappropriate females. This one would be eminently acceptable to his culture and his Clan. He was certain of it. An ambassador’s daughter, especially the first Terravegan ambassador’s daughter, would be thought of as an aristocrat. And he was also certain that the racial element would not present a problem. Jasmine was so beautiful that no one would protest at the coupling.
The clapping of other concertgoers interrupted the eye contact. They both laughed self-consciously and turned their attention to the stage.
The orchestra began to play. Mekashe was fascinated by the arrangement of notes. He’d never been exposed to human music. The humans aboard the Morcai used earphones when they listened to virtual music, so he hadn’t heard any. But this was worthy of Kolmankash itself.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
She relaxed. She knew that he’d been reluctant. Probably he’d been told that opera was a form of torture, because some human men felt that way about it. She was glad that he could share this with her. It was another thing they’d have in common, a love of music. This, Madama Butterfly by Puccini, was her favorite opera.
She felt his fingers contract. Hers tensed, but he loosened his grip immediately and shot her a look of silent apology. She smiled. At least, this time it didn’t produce broken bones. He’d probably realized that he was much stronger than she was, and he was making allowances. It had to mean that he cared. She certainly did. He was the most wonderful thing in her life. The first man. The first humanoid, she corrected. She’d never even had a real date before. Her father had been very protective. But he trusted her with Mekashe, which meant a lot.
* * *
THEY LISTENED TO the opera quietly. When the female singer came to “Un Bel Di,” and hit the extremely high note that only a first soprano could hope to reach, she heard Mekashe’s faint intake of breath, even as tears rolled down her own cheeks. The song was so exquisite that it was almost painful to hear. Imagine, she thought, being able to produce so much emotion with nothing more than an arrangement of musical tones.
* * *
MEKASHE WAS SILENT when they filed out with the other patrons, after explosive applause and five curtain calls.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He looked down at her with a smile. “I think that I will enjoy opera very much. Is it possible to obtain a recording of this one?”
“Yes, it is. I’ll gladly lend you mine until Daddy can have one sent to you from Terravega. They aren’t available on the Nexus, I’m afraid.”
“I would be most grateful,” he replied.
She looked down at their linked hands. He was very strong. The grip didn’t hurt, but it was firmer than it should have been. She wondered if he’d been around humans much. He seemed surprised that she was so fragile, compared to him.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked at once, when he saw where her gaze had fallen.
“Not at all,” she said.
But he loosened his grip, just a little. He tugged her to one side of the crowd filing out of the auditorium, and his eyes were a solemn blue. “If I do, you must tell me. Don’t be afraid of offending me—you won’t. I would not hurt you for all the galaxy.”
Her heart soared. She smiled up at him with sparkling, soft blue eyes. “I know that. I’ll tell you,” she promised.
His eyes narrowed on her face. “I had no idea that humans were so fragile,” he said softly.
She smiled. “I’m afraid it’s probably just me. I’m sort of fragile. I bruise really easily.”
He let out a breath. “Still, I apologize for any discomfort I may have already caused.”
He didn’t know about the broken bones in her hand, and she wasn’t about to tell him. “You’re forgiven,” she replied. She searched his face. “Have you been around humans much?”
He started to tell her about the Morcai, about the Holconcom, and realized that it would be breaking many protocols. Later, perhaps. “I have some small acquaintance with mostly male humans,” he said after a minute.
“What do you do for a living? Or are you independently wealthy?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Among my own people, I’m an aristocrat. My Clan has wealth that we all share. But I do work, just the same. I’m a...” He searched for a word that would suffice. He couldn’t reveal his true duties where he might be overheard. The captain of the emperor’s Imperial Guard did not dare reveal himself to outworlders. “I’m a consultant,” he added, recalling his cousin Rhemun telling Kipling that, when he met his almost-adolescent son for the first time. “For the military,” he added.
“Oh. One of those brainy jobs,” she teased.
He cocked his head, curious.
“A job which requires intelligence,” she amended. “So sorry. I have to stop using idioms.”
“Alternatively, you can teach me to understand them,” he replied, smiling. “I’m a quick study. I speak many languages.”
“Really!” She grimaced. “I only speak English and French.”
He scowled. “What is French?”
“A dialect of old Earth, carried over to Terravega with the first colonists. My surname is French—Dupont.”
He smiled slowly. “Truly fascinating. Do you know much about your ancestry?”
“A little. I know that my distant ancestors were vintners.”
He scowled, not understanding the reference.
“They