He had told no one about his mission from Yarra. He still had trouble believing that he might bring a new member into the clan . . . He'd had no difficulty being assigned as the Ranger's escort and teacher. Since humans were considered poor fighters, at least individually--and with a few outstanding exceptions--the job carried no status, and when he had indicated willingness to do it, the task became his. He'd been teased about it, not seriously; he'd proven himself often enough that nobody grudged him what they thought would be easy duty. Tarlac watched the Traiti stow the suit before turning to the commando squad with a claw-extending gesture, to say something in a tonal language that told the Ranger where the lilting Traiti version of Imperial English came from. If these people were singers, he thought, they'd be good. Singing didn't seem to fit in with what the Empire knew of the Traiti as ruthless, bloodthirsty killers, and language was hardly a reliable indicator of such things, of course--but still, it seemed incongruous. Tarlac hadn't thought about it much, but he supposed he would have expected their language to be as sharp as their teeth and claws. The commandos fell in around the Ranger, and at another extended-claw gesture from Hovan, the whole group moved toward the Hermnaen's control central. Tarlac rather wished the Team-Leader would leave his claws retracted. He'd seen Traiti claws in action once, and didn't enjoy being reminded of the incident. That had been on Ra after a ferocious ground battle, when the search team he was with found a seriously wounded Traiti. He'd looked so badly hurt that he couldn't move, so the team's medics didn't bother stunning him before beginning first aid. When the Ranger heard screams it was already too late; both medics were dead, one's throat torn out, the other's belly opened, and three Marines were down. By that time the Traiti was going for Tarlac, claws raking air toward the man's face. Trained reflexes had taken over then. Rangers might not be experts in one-on-one combat, but they could make a creditable showing; Tarlac had done a tuck-and-roll, bringing his blaster out to save his own life by a fraction of a second as he fired pointblank, killing the Traiti. Now here he was, aboard a Traiti warship, surrounded by a squad of the fearsome warriors and going voluntarily, if with no great enthusiasm, to an Ordeal that he suspected, despite Fleet-Captain Arjen's assurances, would cost him his life. Brooding on it would do no good, though, so Tarlac turned his attention to his surroundings.