by Ilsa J. Bick
Batra expelled her breath in a laugh. “Was that a test? I feel like I just passed a test.”
“Probably,” Halak said.
When she stepped out of the shower, Batra saw that Dalal had left her a pile of clothes: a V-necked copper-colored tunic, a pair of off-white pajama pants with button ankle cuffs, and black, thick-soled slippers. The shower made her feel almost human again, and the clothes gave her a lift. She dressed, knotted her long hair, still wet, into a thick, black braid, and followed her nose.
The meal was simple: fresh-baked khbouz markouk done in Dalal’s tandoor; whipped minted yogurt with chunks of crisp, fresh-cut Morellian cucumber; piping hot Kalo root stew; and cinnamon-spiced Yridian tea. She and Dalal sat cross-legged on a brightly colored linen cloth spread upon the floor before the divan, their backs propped by firm orange and rust-colored bolsters while Halak reclined on the divan, his back and left side supported by large, fluffy pillows. He ate from a smaller plate she’d prepared and placed upon the small round table, within easy reach.
A transport rumbled overhead. The building shook. They ate in silence for several minutes, using their fingers.
“Well,” said Halak. He tore off a bit of thin, brown-speckled khbouz markouk and used it to spoon up a mouthful of stew. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better meal, Dalal.”
Dalal grunted. She folded a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed. “Replicator food. It’s a wonder you have any meat left on you, boy. Anyway, I suspect that anything tastes good after being cooped up in a can, warping from planet to planet.”
“You’re a fine cook, and you know it.” Halak grinned over the old woman over the rim of a gray ceramic mug. He made a great show of inhaling his tea’s aroma before tipping the mug to his lips. He took in a mouthful, rolled the tea around his tongue, and then swallowed. “Now, speaking of being cooped up, Dalal, we were on our way for a week’s R and R: rest and relaxation. Actually, we should be on our way now,” he softened this with a smile, “but you called me, and I’ve come. Granted, I’ve gotten here more flamboyantly than I expected. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
Dalal’s face got a pinched, displeased look Batra was getting to know well. For an instant, Dalal’s eyes slid to Batra’s face then back to Halak’s, but Batra could almost see the wheels turning, the old woman debating just how much she should, or could, say.
“It’s about Arava,” said Dalal then. “She’s gotten herself in very deep, Samir.”
Batra saw Halak go rigid. He replaced his mug upon the small round table next to his plate then leaned upon his right elbow and laced his fingers. “I thought she agreed to go off-world.”
“She had. She did. Then she came back. She,” that quick glance at Batra again, “she changed her mind.”
“What changed it?” Halak’s voice was very low and steady, but Batra heard a trace of menace simmering just beneath. “Why didn’t she stay gone?”
“I don’t know.” Dalal’s eyes shut tight, as if closing off sights only she saw, then clicked open. “She’s taken over where Baatin left off. It’s the boy, I think. They’re controlling her through the boy.”
“You mean she’s working for Qadir?” Halak’s voice notched up. “She’s working for the Qatala?”
Dalal nodded. Halak was silent, and then cut the air with a sharp, violent curse.
Batra leaned forward. “Samir?”
Halak ignored her. “Dalal, I told her.”
“We all did,” Dalal quailed. She wrung her hands: the first time Batra had seen the woman cowed at all. “I’m sorry, Samir. Maybe I should have called you sooner.”
“How long?”
“I’m not ...”
“Dalal,” Halak’s eyes blazed, “how ... long?”
“Three years.” Dalal wouldn’t meet Halak’s gaze. “Two, that it’s been worse.”
Halak looked stunned. “Three years? Years? Dalal, I don’t understand. The last time we spoke, you said ...”
“I know,” said Dalal, in a miserable sort of way that made Batra feel sorry for her. “I hoped that she would ...” She broke off, threw up her hands in a hopeless gesture. “I lied.”
“As you lied about where you were living,” said Halak. “Why did you move here? Was it because of the Qatala?”
Dalal hesitated, nibbling her lower lip, then nodded. “I ... They forced me. At first, I think they wanted to make Arava behave, but now they don’t need me. They leave me alone. Still, after all that happened, Halak, I ... I couldn’t take blood money anymore, not theirs and not the Syndicate’s either. But I couldn’t leave, not with Arava working both ends against the middle and not showing any signs of wanting to leave. Now, I don’t know if it’s that she won’t leave, or can’t.”
Batra couldn’t take being in the dark another moment. “Hello,” she said, loudly. Dalal and Halak both looked at her as if they’d forgotten she was there. Figures. “What is going on, please? Who is Baatin? Who is Arava? And what the hell is the Qatala?”
Halak exhaled hugely. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, going to rake his right hand through his hair but wincing as the sudden movement pulled at his bandages.
“Oh, no,” said Batra. “We’re not going there again. Listen, Samir, I’m in this pretty deep, wouldn’t you say? Now I’m not asking you for a blow-by-blow, but I’ve been mugged, my boyfriend’s gotten himself knifed, my best clothes have been trashed, my mouth hurts, and I’m likely to miss my connection to Betazed. Now I think I’m entitled to some explanation, don’t you?”
Halak looked from Batra, to Dalal who moved her shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug, and then back again.
“All right,” he said. He sagged back against a pillow as if he were suddenly tired of everything, and talked to the ceiling. “Here’s the long and the short of it: Arava, Baatin, and I go way back. We lived together after Baatin’s mother died, and Arava’s mother left her. Dalal took care of us all, under one roof. My father did not object. He wasn’t around much to object.”
“And this was on Vendrak IV.”
“That’s right. They’re the closest things to a brother and sister I have ... had. Baatin’s dead. He died several years ago ... no,” he said as Batra opened her mouth, “I can’t tell you how he died, so don’t ask. Let’s just say, he fell in with the wrong crowd.”
“You don’t trust me.”
Halak made an impatient noise. “It’s not a question of trust. It’s that you don’t need to know. I said before, some things are private, Ani.”
“You mean secret.”
“Secret, private,” Halak rested his left wrist on his forehead and rolled his head aside until his face was in profile, “call it whatever you want. If that means I’m keeping secrets, then so be it.”
Batra’s gaze slid to Dalal. Dalal was staring at some spot on her lap. No help there.
Batra returned her attention to Halak. “All right,” she said. “I don’t like it, but all right. We’ll play it your way. So what about them? And what about this,” she frowned over the word, “this Qatala?”
“You have to understand how things work here on Farius Prime.” Halak spoke as if reciting from a well-memorized text. “You can look it up; Starfleet’s got records. But the gist is, Farius Prime is a good place for business—illegal business.”
“You mean drugs, like that red ice.”
“And more. Syndicate’s just a fancy word for crime families. One’s the Orion Syndicate. I don’t know much about it. Like I said, I’ve only visited Dalal here a few times since I left Vendrak IV.”
Actually, Batra wasn’t sure Halak had said that at all. Quickly, she cast her mind back over what Halak had told her, and she was pretty sure that he’d mentioned only that Dalal lived on the south side of town the last he’d heard. Had she caught Halak in another lie? And then, come to think of it, Halak had just said something about the last time he and Dalal had talked, and the way he’d said it made that sound like it had happened recently, not years ago.
What was going on here? Was it her time sense that was all jumbled? But before she could ask, Halak was talking again.
“The other crime syndicate is the Asfar Qatala. It’s big, really big. Lot of people, lots of money, and you can bet their tentacles reach into some pretty high places. Some Federation governments, for sure, though they’re careful, don’t get caught out. The cover is legit. Mahfouz Qadir deals in the acquisition and sale of archaeological artifacts, antiquities, art. All that lets Qadir use ships to run things covertly.”
“Things like red ice?”
“Whatever will bring Qadir the best price and more power. Anyway, somehow or other, Baatin got involved in their operations, in the Qatala’s. I don’t know how.”
“But what does this have to do with you? If this Baatin was involved, but he’s dead, and Arava ... even if she’s involved, why is this your problem?”
Dalal answered. “You heard him. Like brother and sister. Blood’s thick.”
“But Samir hasn’t been involved.” Batra turned to Halak. “You left. You got on with your life. Baatin and Arava, they went on with theirs. You all made choices. Sounds like they made some bad ones. Why is any of this your problem?”
Halak shook his head. “You don’t understand. When you’ve got nothing left, Ani, you help the people who stuck by you. I can’t explain it any better.”
Batra tried a different tack. “So what does Arava need?”
“To come to her senses, for one,” said Halak, but he looked at Dalal. “Dalal?”
“She might listen to you,” Dalal said, her gnarled fingers picking at her chabor. “She won’t listen to me, or maybe she can’t, I don’t know. But I don’t leave without her.”
“Why won’t Arava leave?” asked Batra. “Is she being held prisoner?”
“Only if you count living in the lap of luxury a prison. She’s making a lot of money, and she’s very rich, and I’m afraid ...” Dalal broke off, shook her head.
“Of what?” Batra asked. “What are you afraid of, Dalal?”
For the first time, Dalal looked Batra in the eye, and Batra saw pain, fear. And love.
“I’m afraid she’ll die,” Dalal said, simply. “I’m afraid they’ll kill her.”
Chapter 8
Jase’s shoes clapped against metal, a hollow sound. The ship was small, with only four decks and a large cargo bay. Their quarters were gray, and the recycling system couldn’t keep up, so the air got musty and left a taste like thick fur on Jase’s tongue. Since the ship didn’t have a name or a registry number, they called it just the ship. It couldn’t go very fast either, just warp three or something, and they’d already been in space ten days from the time they’d transferred at a rendezvous point from a transport vessel to the ship. (The transport was the second one they’d taken; the first one they’d caught on Betazed had dropped them after thirty light years on Beta Calara III, and then they’d met up with the others—Pahl and his uncle—and then they met up with another ship ... Jase couldn’t keep everything straight, and all this changing and switching was very odd, too, like maybe people were worried that someone might follow them, or something.)
There were five of them aboard: Jase and his father; the stocky, muscular man named Su Chen-Mai; and two Naxerans, the pilot Lam Leahru-Mar and his nephew, Pahl. Pahl was Jase’s age and it was good to have someone around to talk to, probably because Pahl didn’t really want to be there either.
The ship belonged to Chen-Mai. His dad said that Chen-Mai came from Guangzhou on Earth and was an old friend from his graduate school days at the Tarkava Institute on B’Utu Aura. Jase allowed that might be true (why would his father lie?), except Chen-Mai and his father didn’t act like two guys who liked each other very much. The air always got thick around Chen-Mai.
No, sticky. Standing by a viewing port, Jase looked at stars smeared to long rainbows by the ship’s warp bubble. Just like the air got heavy and angry, almost green-black, around his parents—it was the best description Jase had of their feelings crackling back and forth—the air got sticky around Chen-Mai. The air felt—no, was bad.
Jase rested his forehead against the portal. The tensor-treated glass was cool and that was good because his face was hot from crying. He didn’t like this ship. He didn’t like Chen-Mai, and his father was lying, and there was something very, very wrong.
He heard a small scuffling sound out of his right ear and in another moment, Pahl came alongside. Jase didn’t turn to look at his friend because he thought his eyes might be red, and he didn’t want Pahl to know he’d been crying. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Pahl being there at that precise moment, but Jase didn’t want to be rude. It wasn’t as if either of them had a lot of other friends to be around. So Jase didn’t do anything except make a sound in the back of his throat, a sort of grunt.
“That’s okay,” said Pahl. Pahl’s voice was soft and whispery, as if he always had laryngitis. “Not talking, I mean. Is it okay if I stand here?”
Jase made another sound that Pahl seemed to take as assent. At least, he didn’t leave. For a good long time—long enough for Jase’s forehead to cool and his eyes to stop burning—they stood together, in silence, staring out at streaky, smudgy stars. Crying always left Jase feeling wrung out, like an old used rag, and the stars whizzing by were hypnotic and made him sleepy. Jase had almost forgotten Pahl was there until Pahl said, “You think we’ll get there soon?”
Jase scrubbed his forehead against the portal in a weary shake of his head. “I don’t know. Dad hasn’t said.”
“Neither has Uncle Lam,” said Pahl. “I think it’s going to be soon, though. Today. Just a feeling.” He paused. “Talking to your mother is hard, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Jase, not really surprised that Pahl knew. (For not the first time, Jase wondered if maybe Pahl was a telepath, like his dad. Jase had asked Kaldarren about it once, and his dad had only said that he didn’t know and wouldn’t go prying into another person’s mind, not unless there was a very good reason, or he’d been invited. If Pahl was a telepath—though this was highly unlikely because there was no record of any Naxeran having telepathic capabilities—his skills would develop in their own good time. Anyway, his dad said, a good telepath never barged in when he hadn’t been invited.)
Jase looked at his friend. The Naxeran boy regarded him with a solemn, appraising look, and his face was very still except for his frills that quivered slightly as if Pahl were a type of cat who’d sniffed out trouble. All Naxerans had frills: pileated appendages that ran four to a side and were arranged horizontally on either side of their nose, just exactly like a cat’s whiskers. Except Jase had to be careful never to say whiskers. Naxerans were very sensitive about their looks, though Jase couldn’t understand why. After all, the galaxy was filled with all types, and it wasn’t as if Pahl had the antennae of an Andorian, or something. But the Naxerans were very particular about their frills and didn’t like it at all when anyone called their frills anything but.
Pahl asked, “Does your mom make you sad?”
“Sometimes. Angry, too. Like I want to break something.”
“You’re not angry now.”
“No.”
Pahl turned away to stare out the portal again. “I had a dream about my mother.”
“Again?”
Pahl nodded. Jase saw that he was paler than usual, which was saying something for a Naxeran. All Naxerans had skin that was very dark, like ebony. But Pahl’s coloring was closer to milk chocolate. Jase thought that was probably because Pahl’s mother had been a Weyrie. Weyries were a special kind of Naxeran. Jase didn’t really understand the particulars, but he knew that Weyries’ skin was snow-white and their eyes a deep blue, like ancient Antarctic ice, instead of gold like other Naxerans.
Pahl closed his eyes, ice-blue as a Weyrie’s, as if staring at some inner vision. “If I have to dream, why can’t they be good ones?”
Jase didn’t know what to say. (Naxerans didn’t dream. They weren’t supposed t
o sleep either. Except Pahl did both. He didn’t sleep long, only two or three hours at most. Long enough for him to dream, though.)
“You know what Uncle Lam says?” Pahl’s eyes were still shut tight. “He says I’m a freak. He says it’s because of my mother that I dream. Uncle Lam says all Weyries are crazy and that my mother was a Weyrie and that’s the reason I am the way I am and look the way I do. He says that no one on Naxera understands the Weyries at all. He says that the Weyries are all mistakes and throwbacks. So whenever I tell him I dream, he gives me this look, as if he’s worried that I’ll go crazy, like my mother.
“Do you know,” Pahl’s face swiveled toward Jase, and his blue eyes were wide and swam with a bright shine of pain, “he said that I was lucky not to know my mother. He said it was a good thing she jumped off that cliff and drowned when I was only three, so I wouldn’t have to know anything about her. I don’t understand that.” A solitary tear slid down Pahl’s cheek, and his frills shuddered.
Jase felt a lump at the back of his throat. Pahl’s distress was so obvious, Jase forgot his own and he desperately wanted to make his friend feel better. “Tell me your dream. Was it the cliff again?”
Pahl nodded. “Only this time, the water was different. Instead of it being green, the way it is on Naxera, the water was silver. Like it was night and there were two moons, only the moons were in the water, so the water was silver.”
“Two moons?” Jase frowned. “But Naxera’s only got one, and it never gets dark, anyway, not with two stars, and all.”
“Except at Braque-Efram when Pica eclipses both the Brother Stars. I know,” said Pahl. “That was what was so strange.”
The ship gave a little jolt, and the lights flickered then flared back to life. Dropped out of warp. Jase spared a glance out the portal and saw that the stars had returned to normal. Pahl was right. Must be nearly there. “Was the place somewhere on Naxera?”
