Then, answering involuntarily to the expectant thing inside me, I grew impervious to it all. My world narrowed to the circle of red light, to Morgan’s amused eyes as he raised his cup with a salute and drained its contents. Pricked by his unspoken challenge, I lifted my own and drank.
Odd. I’d prepared myself for a bitter taste and the onslaught of the somgelt. Instead, I licked a last trace of fruity sweetness from my lips. I raised my eyes back to Morgan’s and froze. His face was now made of flowing color and line—only dark blue pits marking where there should be eyes. It was as if I saw power rather than physical form. I realized we had passed into the M’hir together, linked hand to hand as well as mind to mind.
I tried to focus on the witnesses outside the circle, but the red light was a totally opaque dome. We were alone in the emptiness. I made an effort and the confusing color faded, allowing me to see a ghost of purple-white that was Morgan’s face.
His lips moved, but there was no sound. Morgan tilted his head as if considering that failure, a thoughtful look but unworried. Then a soft whisper in my mind: So far so good, witchling. It’s up to you now. Let’s finish with this and get back to the Fox.
The trouble was, it was up to me. I knew the location of the Power-of-Choice—felt its heaving and straining. Yet at the same time I knew I had control, despite the drug and all the dire predictions. I looked over our clasped hands to Morgan’s calm face and shuddered at the change I would witness there if I allowed that mindlessness to devour him, to drag him deeper into the M’hir, to lose him in its darkness. Jason, I whispered. I can’t—
Wonder of wonders, his smile grew tender. We’re playing this table together, Sira. Trust me, not them.
Something in me responded to his confidence, relaxing taut bonds. Instantly, raw power coursed through my arm to my hand. I looked down in amazement, almost expecting to see movement, so vivid was the sensation. The spurt of power was gone.
No. Not gone, but accepted, unresisted, welcomed. Morgan’s eyes had taken on a luminescence. I relaxed even further, feeling the sensation begin again. When Morgan showed no pain, and I felt no conflict, I let the draining continue. The force within me fought to reach him all at once. After a moment, I wasn’t sure which of us truly controlled the Power-of-Choice, checking its passage to a safe, slow pace.
Time had no meaning in this place. A point came when I felt strangely light, utterly free of the dark undercurrent and the strain of harnessing it. Morgan glowed and crackled with power before my amazed eyes. It was done. And not by contest, but as a gift.
I led Morgan from the M’hir to reality, watching the colors of power settle into the more familiar tan of his skin, the vivid blue of his eyes. It was right for him to release my hand and place his fingers feather-soft on my forehead. I whispered good-bye to Sira Morgan, refusing to admit my fear.
I was slowly being smothered. I smiled encouragingly at Morgan as he carefully restored the original blocks in my mind. Perception diminished as I lost my power. I began to feel confused and alarmed. Had it been a mistake to let Captain Morgan into my mind, to try to assess the damage to my memory? I blinked. Now I was sure something was terribly wrong. I lunged to my feet and backed away.
Lights brightened around me. I squinted, close to panic. This wasn’t Plexis. “Captain—” I began.
“Sira?” A tall figure moved forward, not a spacer, a man wearing a robe that brushed the floor. I stared at his face; a memory flickered and I rushed forward to bury myself against my father’s chest. Jarad’s hands pushed me back so he could look at me. “It hasn’t worked, Cenebar,” he said with disappointment. “Not as we hoped.”
Another figure spoke from among what I abruptly realized was a considerable number of people, several dressed in the same strangely formal clothes as my father, even, and I cringed, some Enforcers. Where was I? I listened more closely, trying to discover who was speaking. “—scan no strength. No matter. We shall care for her, di Sarc.”
“What of the Human?” Another voice. Human? I pulled out of my father’s loose grip.
Here, Sira. Words in my head. Why wasn’t I surprised? Why was I sure it was—Morgan! I turned and stared at him, feeling my eyes widen.
“It’s time for you to leave, all of you, if you recall our agreement.” No trouble locating this speaker; he stood tall and solemn at the center of the dais. A sturdily-built Enforcer—surely I was losing my mind—stepped forward determinedly.
“Are you all right?” Why was she asking Morgan and not me? I thought, annoyed—something was definitely wrong with me.
Captain Morgan’s eyes had a luster I didn’t remember, but there was no mistaking the mischief in his grin. “I’m far more than all right, Commander Bowman,” he said. “But first, to finish—come here, Sira.” He held out one hand to me confidently. I looked from it to my silent father.
“What’s going on here?” I demanded, intending this as a calm question; the result was regrettably close to a shout. I paused, embarrassed but resolute. “Where am I? What have you been doing?” This last with pure annoyance directed at Morgan, who regarded me with a strange soft smile before coming to stand before me. “Morgan?” I asked again, looking up at him, somehow knowing that he was the key—my link to what had happened.
“Stop, Human! Leave well enough alone and we shall allow you to go—”
Morgan’s eyes dimmed as he lowered his head slightly. I shivered, wondering how I knew whoever had spoken had come very close to death.
No matter. Morgan raised now-smiling eyes to meet mine once more, reaching out with his tanned fingers to take my right hand in a light hold. “I think this is what you’ve been waiting for, Sira,” he said softly. There was a sensation of something bursting in my head. I closed my eyes—losing all sense of where and what I was.
INTERLUDE
“Stop him!” Faitlen shouted. “Enough! There must be no Joining with an alien!”
“You wanted me to restore the block so Sira can trigger the release, Clansman. And I have,” Morgan answered for himself, his obvious confidence in dealing with the Council reassuring a rather gray Bowman. “Ask Sira—when she’s ready.” Morgan leaned comfortably against the Council table, his eyes never leaving the Clanswoman he’d christened Sira Morgan.
She stood statue-still, totally absorbed, her face changing expression in flashes, no single change long enough to identify, the effect as if she was being rebuilt from within.
Who would she become? he wondered.
Chapter 40
AN awakening of a kind. But now I opened my eyes without fear, sure of my place and of the way things would be. I welcomed Sira Morgan; she had much to teach me.
“Council,” I bowed politely, performing the requisite power gesture in recognition of equals. “Father,” a deeper bow. “Cenebar, Barac—” For these last two, the configuration of heart-kin. They returned it immediately, but I saw and understood Barac’s quick look to the Human.
“We see you and know your power, Sira di Sarc,” Sawnda’at said graciously, adding power overtones of relief and pleasure to the bare words. I was touched by his sincerity, touched but not fooled into lowering any barriers in this place. “If all is well with you, we must also offer our thanks to this Human.”
Morgan was leaning irreverently against one corner of the Council table. Others of the M’hiray could not read his waiting tautness, the tension in his deliberate smile; how blind they were, I thought with real pity. “My thanks also, Human,” I said formally, hands sweeping the complete gesture of beholdenness. “I’m whole as I’ve never been—as I might never have been.”
And it was true. My memory stretched clear and completebehind me; some memories less pleasant to recall than others, but that was the way of anyone’s past. The future was the only place where one had choice.
“You have our leave to go, Morgan, you and the rest of your kind,” Jarad said with a rude suddenness. “We will honor our promise to withdraw from Camos. We have what we want.”
I gazed at my father’s craggy, cold features, aware of more than enough memories there. Jarad’s eyes took on a hooded look as he tried to scan me, a gleam appearing when he could not. “Welcome back, Daughter. We’ve much to discuss.”
“Indeed?” I raised one brow. “It can wait, Jarad. I’ve more urgent business to take care of first.”
An uneasy stirring from the Council behind us. Things were not as they seemed. How much, they couldn’t begin to guess. “Are you leaving then, Chosen?” Sawnda’at asked ever so politely, very careful of my lawful status now, as befitted one whose individual power was inferior to my own.
“I’m not Chosen,” I said to them, full of scorn. “How can I be, when there’s been no Joining formed through the M’hir? The Power-of-Choice within me hasn’t been matched in contest—I’m rid of it! Haven’t you scanned him yet, in your arrogance?” I found it comical to watch the slow turn of heads, to feel delicate sensing beams reach to Morgan—reach and be drawn back in disbelief as they sensed the power hovering around him in the M’hir, like a static charge. Morgan ignored them, glowing eyes fixed on me in the same quiet waiting.
“I won’t say I understand what’s happened, but my congratulations, Fem di Sarc,” Bowman said courteously. The creature to her left, a Tolian, was trying to stop panting; Terk dug his elbow into its ribs.
“Thank you,” I smiled at the commander, extending the configuration of respect for the benefit of Clan senses. What an exceptional Human, I decided, though perhaps for different reasons than the Council. The stakes had been terribly high. Facing them to save Morgan, her own kind, was admirable but no more than her duty; trying to save me had taken a rare amount of sheer gall. I liked her.
“What will you do now?” Bowman asked, eyes full of bold curiosity.
“Do?” I echoed thoughtfully. “I intend to expand my horizons, Commander. Do you know, I’ve never played Stars and Comets?”
“Sas’qaat’s tables are the best,” Morgan asserted as one who should know, coming to my side.
“Wait!” Barac said roughly, almost leaping toward me, his face drawn white around nostrils and mouth. I noticed the lines on his once-young features and grieved for him. But I also stopped his speech with a flick of power.
“Cousin, we’re done here,” I stressed the last word as a warning. There was little more I could safely say in this company. What mattered now was leaving the Council Chamber with all of us intact. Morgan brushed my fingers with his own, once, gently. I didn’t need the reminder that he and Barac were of one mind in this. “It’s time to go,” I said, at risk with even so much.
“What of Kurr? Don’t you care what happened to him?” Barac’s pain-filled demand was like a stone dropped into a still pond. I could feel the waves of recently eased tension begin again, a deadly stirring.
I dared a rapid mind send. Stop, Barac. Stop now while you have a mind to control. You can’t reach past Yihtor, but they can reach you. Don’t allow your grief to waste Kurr’s death.
He flinched as if I had struck him with a whip, eyes terrible. You know . . . a dark whisper in my mind.
And you may not, not and survive, I gave him. It ends here. It was the truth, and cruel. Barac accepted it with a shudder. Then he disappeared. I was relieved, yet faintly surprised his escape had been so easy.
Your wisdom has returned with your strength, my daughter, Jarad’s mind voice was complimentary. I took a breath, close to losing my own control as I looked at him and knew the cost of saving Barac’s life had been this—that this monster believed I was his again.
Barac’s under my protection, I sent very softly, just to Jarad. He doesn’t know, as I now do, how you helped Yihtor and other discontents escape the Council. He doesn’t know, as I do, how you helped the renegade set up a little kingdom—awaiting only its queen. Barac doesn’t even know what I’ve just figured out: how the Council’s decision about me rushed you into using any means to get me to Yihtor, including using Kurr to unwittingly carry a message about my coming and my plans for Morgan, a service Yihtor repaid with murder. Barac doesn’t know, Father, but I do.
Jarad might have been made of stone. We watched each other, and the Council watched us, none willing to challenge, none willing to admit that lines had been drawn and accepted. There was a moment of suspended motion.
Then a touch, ghostly light and familiar, brushed my forehead and the locate of a camouflaged aircar slipped into my thoughts. Willingly, I left both memories and the present behind, reaching for the future. I pushed . . .
Think you could teach me that, chit? I shared Morgan’s smile deep in my thoughts as we winked out of reality together.
. . . and then was lifted joyously into the warm spring air.
BROTHERS BOUND
by Julie E. Czerneda
Author’s Note: I wrote this story in 2002, shortly after finishing the third Trade Pact title, To Trade the Stars. I knew I’d be putting the Trade Pact and the Clan aside for the next few years, though I’d be back. In the meantime, I wanted to lay the foundation for what was to come. How? By exploring a time not just before the Clan, but before Humans were particularly important, before the Trade Pact itself. Thus, in “Brothers Bound” you will encounter the Hoveny Concentrix for the first time, but not, dare I say, the last.
At the same time, I was interested in showing how the role of Humans within the Trade Pact might have evolved, why we could be so very good at being in the middle of alien squabbles. I’m rather proud of us, as you’ll discover.
BROTHERS BOUND
Operating manuals called it the Biointerface, shortened in use to bio’face. Those enamored of the tech called it words like loyalty, devotion, and love.
The matter of names was of some importance to those who wrote grant proposals and promoted the spread of Humans through the ranks of the First.
What anyone else called this inconvenience didn’t matter at all to First Triad newcomer, Sai Vasilo Aris.
The damned dog was just another reason he didn’t fit in.
“Hey, Vasi! You can’t bring it with you,” Baoltor yelled again, too loudly. Interested heads turned. There wasn’t much to do at the staging area, and any disturbance had its merit as entertainment. Baoltor seemed oblivious to Vasi’s embarrassment or, more likely, failed to read the emotion. Dains weren’t the most empathic of species. Instead, he continued: “I’m not sitting in the same transport with that stinking thing all the way to Crilliton—”
“Shut up, Baoltor, and make room,” Vasi ordered calmly, though he agreed heartily and would have left the beast in the field barracks had it been within his power. His hand signal, no more than a lift of two fingertips, sent the canid leaping from the muddy street into the side door of the transport, filthy paws scrambling for purchase.
The curses that followed were varied and creative, but brief. Their Triad—Vasi, Ebbet, and Medya, now splashing up to join him—outranked any of the others already crammed inside. Professor Emeritus Y Ebbet, of the 114th Siring by Raken, was on sabbatical from his duties as Chair of Concentrix Studies at the University of South Amilt, on the Queeb world for “Useful Non-breeding Citizens.” His work on Aeande XII had gained widespread recognition in its first field season, so much so that any Triad he formed led all subsequent research here. And no right-minded Queeb in a position of power, even an academic like Ebbet, would tolerate public disrespect of his allies— by anyone else. Vasi was sadly familiar with the quick scorn able to drip from that forked tongue, given how he seemed to fail almost every one of Ebbet’s high expectations.
When Ebbet’s Triad had lost its Finder in an early spring flood, the being fatally stubborn about retrieving artifacts from a supposedly dry streambed, Vasi had been pulled from his training to replace her. He’d have refused, if he’d thought it would do any good. To be un-proved in the field, then dropped in as Senior Finder over all the teams on a project? Of course, Triads were professionals. His skills were undeniable, if untested. These and other pl
atitudes from his instructors failed to console him. Vasi knew too well what they wouldn’t say. Those professionals would pounce on any weakness as an excuse to send him packing.
It only got worse. On arrival, Vasi found he was the only Tidik insystem. From the moment the tug parked his transport in Aeande’s Shipcity, he’d been surrounded by beings incapable of understanding the most basic signals of courtesy, let alone any higher level concepts. Every interaction was confined to the shallow meanings of Comspeak, that bastard tongue of traders and merchants.
Why him at all? Vasi could still taste the bitterness of that ultimate insult, delivered within the first hour of his landing on this world. His skills hadn’t mattered. Ebbet’s Finder had been a Human, bio’faced with one of their beasts. The beast had survived its partner’s misjudgment, and Ebbet valued the animal’s abilities so highly he’d insisted he must have another such pairing. No Human was available fast enough to suit him—but a Tidik Finder-in-training, with sufficiently similar neural physiology, was.
As easily fly without wings as refuse. It was accept the implant and be bound to the creature, or be sent from Aeande XII in disgrace. Vasi had had no choice. Not if he wanted to ever be part of a Triad. Not if he ever wanted his chance to solve the puzzle of the Hoveny Concentrix—the single greatest mystery in explored space.
The Triads were First research teams, made up of individuals possessing the necessary skills of Analyst, Recorder, and Finder, drawn from three presumably complementary species. The diversity was deliberate. There had been too many paths taken by the myriad cultures that had formed the Hoveny Concentrix—let alone the unknown biological constraints of its mysterious members—to make any one present-day species the optimum researcher. The greater the diversity in a research team, the First administrators reasoned, the more likely it would contain some being capable of understanding whatever they found.
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