The Drapsk leaned slightly forward, as if intent on more than Rael’s words. “You are not idols. Our reverence,” he paused, then went on almost reluctantly, “is not for you.”
Barac felt and shared Rael’s startlement. Getting real information out of a Drapsk was next to impossible. “If not for us, then for what?” he prompted, tempted to kick Copelup again in case it helped.
Copelup’s antennae dipped, then rose. “It is essential that Drapskii be reconnected. It is essential that our Mystic Ones complete their task—”
The same old litany, Barac thought, grinding his teeth. “Yes, yes. We know all that—”
Rael’s raised hand stopped Barac’s disappointed outburst, then lowered to reach across the table, coming to rest lightly on Copelup’s tiny fingers. “If not us, then what?” she echoed Barac’s own question, her voice low and intent. “If you want me to stay, speak of more than what we know, Copelup. Please.”
The Drapsk hesitated, sucked a tentacle for a moment, then sighed. “The Makii, all Drapsk, idolize not who you are, but what you might accomplish. You cannot comprehend how important it is to us that this world become part of the Scented Way once more.”
“Then help us understand. Why is it so important?”
They’d asked this question a thousand times, in as many ways as they could, Barac thought glumly. The only difference now was that Rael’s Power had a dangerous feel to his deeper sense. She was preparing to leave if Copelup failed her this time—not just this room, but this world.
Perhaps the Drapsk had his own way of gauging their kind. Copelup put his other hand over Rael’s. “We haven’t been completely open with you, my dear Rael. It grieves me to admit I was among those who felt no alien could be trusted with the truth. I’ve come to see otherwise. Your sister’s influence—” His antennae fluttered eloquently. “I still cannot tell you everything you’d like to know, or need to know, but I will tell you this.”
The Drapsk actually stopped and swung his antennae in a complete circle, as if scanning the room for eavesdroppers. Barac found he was still gripping his utensil with its pinioned vegetable and replaced both in the bowl.
Apparently satisfied, Copelup continued, patting Rael’s hand in emphasis with each word, a familiarity she endured with unusual restraint. As desperate for information as he was, Barac decided. “We didn’t lose the Scented Way, my friends,” the Drapsk told them solemnly. “We were driven from it—at terrible cost.”
“Driven?” Rael’s horrified expression likely mirrored Barac’s own. “By what? Those creatures Sira showed us?”
“I thought they only harmed Choosers,” Barac blurted, then subsided as both Rael and Copelup turned to him, the former with a scowl.
“The life you have seen so far is a mere shadow of what dwells within the Scented Way,” Copelup elaborated. “There are countless others who exist only there, as well as many who live there only in part, as do your own species, coming and going as they please. Some of those are—unpleasant.”
“Are you saying you have an enemy trying to stop you reconnecting to the M’hir?” Barac demanded. No wonder they’ve been cautious to the point of paranoia, he sent to Rael.
She didn’t reply, beyond a sense of impatient agreement. “You might have told us this at the beginning,” Rael said coldly, reclaiming her hands from the Drapsk.
Copelup sat up straight. “The other aliens we’ve engaged as Mystic Ones have been more happy in that role,” he protested. “You are the first to be uncomfortable with it—to ask all these question. Why?” He seemed sincerely puzzled.
Rael’s hair twitched at is ends. Barac could feel the effort she expended to keep her temper. “Besides the fact that we’re the first real ‘Mystic Ones’ you’ve had,” she said icily, “it’s probably because we don’t trust aliens either.”
The Drapsk hooted with laughter, covering his bud of a mouth with both hands as if this wasn’t appropriate at the dinner table. Rael’s generous lips began to twitch, then widened into a grin. Barac felt the easing of her tension as a lightening within the M’hir and slumped back in his own chair.
Personally, he didn’t see anything amusing in the idea of a war within the M’hir.
Chapter 4
“NOW, Chief. Why the urgency? A war broken out?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Bowman said calmly, offering me a tray of tiny pastries, each curled around a different sweet filling. She’d insisted on making our meeting a luncheon and refused to talk business until the meal was concluded, claiming it spoiled her digestion. We’d reached this tray, cups of spiced sombay, and the limit of my patience at the same time.
Not that Morgan and I were displeased to share the Sector Chief’s famed table—it was more that the quality of food always seemed related to the unpleasantness of her news, explaining why today’s superb meal wasn’t sitting particularly well in my stomach.
Bowman put down the tray and patted her lips dry, a signal to her two Constables, Terk and ‘Whix, to clear the table. Business at last. And serious business, given she relied on her most trusted underlings to do the service. Unlikely waiters. Russell Terk was Human, Morgan’s height but almost twice as wide through chest and shoulders—older than my Chosen, I thought, but I’d been wrong in such estimates of his variable species before. I couldn’t tell if Terk was annoyed to be taking my plate or pleased to obey his commander; his heavy-featured face, below limp pale hair, rarely showed more than a dour watchfulness, as if he expected the worst at any minute.
Terk’s partner, P’tr wit ‘Whix, couldn’t have been more different. ‘Whix was a Tolian, an attractive, graceful being with faceted emerald eyes to either side of beaked mouthparts. Tall, slim, feathered (which couldn’t have been comfortable under his uniform), he had an implant in his throat to allow him to utter the Trade Pact’s common language, Comspeak. He was unhappy about something. I couldn’t read his features or body posture, but Morgan had sent me the significance of that oh-so-flattened head crest.
I did know Tolians were a precise and methodical species as a whole, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that ‘Whix was once more disturbed by the haphazard Human approach to things. For his kind, he must be remarkably adaptable to still work with Terk.
Or Bowman. I surveyed the Human female without making it obvious. As usual, she wore her uniform with little care for its formality, pushing up the sleeves and leaving the collar open. Her short black hair wasn’t so much trimmed as it appeared to have been ordered to stay out of her way. Morgan had heard there were implants in both of her eyebrows: one a comlink and the other a recording device. Certainly Bowman had a habit of tapping her forehead at the oddest times, but then again, she also tapped the nearest surface when making a point in conversation. I refused to believe there were implants in the plates and tabletop as well.
A resourceful being, however. She’d been the first of her kind to learn of the Clan Council and be allowed to keep that knowledge. That leniency had been my father’s decision, part of his practice to collect Humans of influence, seeking to manipulate them with information carefully tailored and supplied. Bowman’s acquisition had proved to my advantage, however, not his. She was no one’s pawn and hadn’t taken well to Clan interference—my father’s interference—on Camos or in my life.
Bowman was also a policy maker within her beloved Trade Pact. Those policies had included, surprisingly enough, the survival of the Clan as well. I raised my cup to my lips and met Bowman’s fiercely intelligent eyes through the steam. So far, I thought.
“You want to know why we’ve matched course?” Bowman said bluntly. “I have some questions, Fem Morgan, questions not being answered by your representative to the Trade Pact, Councillor Crisac di Friesnen.”
Explaining a certain annoying visitor to our cabin, Morgan sent, raising one brow at me. He was right, of course. Crisac had been the only one of the original Council willing to deal with other species—that didn’t make him good at it. If Bowman’s questions
had disturbed him, it was entirely likely he’d stall in order to rush a message to me.
There was something to be said for only delegating to the competent.
I’d like to know who gave Crisac the locate, I sent back to Morgan. It had to be someone who’d been in the Fox—or could home in on the signature of my Power in the M’hir. A short and personal list.
“I trust you’ll answer my questions, Speaker?” Bowman said, interrupting several dark thoughts about my relatives and their lack of courtesy.
“Questions? After such a fine meal?” said Morgan, as he theatrically leaned back in Bowman’s well-designed dining chair. An illusion of ease. I laid my palms flat on the tabletop and studied them, feeling Morgan hovering closer than usual in my thoughts, a presence as real as if he’d physically moved to stand at my side.
With that security, I looked up at Bowman and replied calmly: “I’ll do my best, Chief, but I’ve hardly been keeping in close contact with the Clan. Morgan and I have been busy the past three months.”
Terk coughed suddenly. Morgan gave the other Human male an inscrutable look, then said: “Trading,” as if some explanation was required. “Access the Fox’s logs,” he told the Constable, a definite note of challenge in his voice, “if you want details.”
Before I blushed—judging by the warmth of my cheeks, that concern probably came too late—or Terk made a comment I imagined he’d regret, I jumped in: “You have questions about the Clan, Chief Bowman? What have they done now?” I’d known better than to expect bringing my kind into closer ties with other species, especially Humans, would go smoothly. Still, this was annoyingly early for trouble.
And trouble it was, judging by her frown and stem tone: “The Clan joined the Trade Pact. You yourself signed the treaty guaranteeing mutual noninterference in the politics and internal affairs of other species—”
“I’m fully aware what I signed,” I interrupted, then paused, noticing what I hadn’t until now, though Morgan undoubtedly had. Bowman’s constables wore their usual red-and-black uniforms, but the gray gleam of adaptive body armor showed at collar and wrists—the sort of armor, Morgan had told me, that repelled the force of a blast or projectile with messy results to those nearby. They were armed as well, and not as discreetly as Morgan. Very odd dress for a gathering of allies, let alone one taking place on the safety of Bowman’s own ship. I swallowed, well aware the rich lunch had indeed been a warning. “You feel you have to protect yourself from us—from me,” I said with disbelief. “What’s happened?”
“What’s happened?” Bowman’s eyes were suddenly as cold as I’d ever seen them. “We can no longer trust our mind-shields, Fem Morgan. Which puts us at a serious disadvantage dealing with any Clan—even you.”
“Yours is working fine,” Morgan drawled, a not-casual reminder of his own abilities. He nodded at Terk and ‘Whix. “And theirs.” I didn’t need to confirm my Human’s findings; the three were like dimensionless ghosts to my deeper sense, something I’d become used to—a protection they’d grown to take for granted, it seemed.
“I’ve a brain-wiped operative with my med-techs to prove otherwise, Captain Morgan,” Bowman countered harshly. “As I said. Someone’s found a way past that protection.”
“Why would you imagine that ‘someone’ is Clan?” I lifted one brow, feigning a composure I didn’t feel in the least. “I’m quite sure it’s not.”
“Why? Because we’re suddenly all friends?” This came from the always cynical Terk, of course. The Human, I’d concluded long ago, was sure of only one thing in life—no one but Bowman could be trusted.
“Because the Clan wouldn’t bother,” Morgan answered for me, a nice touch of exasperation in his voice.
“Let’s be frank with one another, Chief Bowman,” I offered, before Bowman could argue—or Terk, already drawing a deeper-than-normal breath. “You have very few of these artificial shields—and even fewer beings willing to risk the surgery to implant them. It’s easier, and far more prudent, for the Clan to simply avoid or ignore those wearing them. No offense.”
“None taken.” Bowman tapped her finger on the table, habit again, rather than emphasis. “But the fact remains, Fem Morgan, that I have a constable as good as dead, attacked in a way that suggests Clan involvement to me.”
“And I’m sorry. But—” I hesitated, seeking Morgan’s approval. He nodded, eyes somber, knowing what I planned to reveal. “‘These shields of yours hide your thoughts—your minds—from those with Talent. That’s all they accomplish, Chief. They aren’t the protection you believe.”
She leaned forward, her forearms on the table. I had her attention—hers and whomever was eavesdropping through her implants. Bowman was never really alone. It paid to remember that. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Even I—a Clan Adept—can’t simply invade and influence any mind I want. That’s a myth,” I told her, then licked my lips before adding honestly: “and a very convenient one for the Clan, who have felt it prudent to be feared rather than understood. In reality, just as only some have the ability to invade minds, only certain minds are susceptible to that invasion.”
Terk almost spat the word: “Telepaths.”
It seemed tactful to nod, although I could have corrected his assumption. Within those species who produced telepaths, there were other receptive minds—those without enough Power to be detected or used, but enough to be malleable by the skilled. That detail wasn’t likely to reassure them, something I considered highly important at a luncheon with body armor and disrupters on display. “The Talent is like a door that swings both ways,” I said instead. “It’s no different for the Clan than for Humans. As your own telepaths have surely told you.” She didn’t quite nod, but something in her eyes acknowledged I was right. “Frankly, Chief, instead of relying on these devices, you would be safer to simply ensure that any beings you put in critical posts aren’t Talented. That would make it highly unlikely either Clan or Human telepaths could influence their thoughts without being detected.”
“Unlikely.” Bowman didn’t like the word.
I smiled and shrugged. “I won’t lie to you, Chief.” Just won’t tell the whole truth, I added to myself. “We can’t replace a particular memory with another the individual will believe. However, with skill and power, perhaps drugs, it is possible to extract information from a—less receptive—mind and temporarily block the memory of the invasion. But it isn’t subtle. There’s always significant damage.” I was living proof. “Still, if done to someone who wasn’t with others familiar with that being’s normal behavior, others who could spot inconsistencies, it might succeed.”
As I’d hoped, Bowman understood the value of what I’d given her. She nodded slowly, then tipped her palm toward me as if offering something in return. “The shields were and are an experiment,” she said, frowning to quell Terk’s involuntary protest. “One which we are continuing to assess. I understand what you are telling me about the vulnerability of telepaths, Fem Morgan. We were aware of the—special—risk to them and initially tried the implants as a protection. Unfortunately, there were problems.”
“What sort of problems?” Morgan demanded, suddenly still. I knew he suspected worse than that, as did I.
“The shields work both ways, don’t they?” I guessed. “They crippled your telepaths.”
Bowman gave another brief nod, her eyes somber. “And it turns out to be impossible to remove the devices without causing permanent harm to the brain.”
Not only the telepaths, then. She, Terk, and ‘Whix would have to keep theirs until there was a new removal technique, or they died. Foolish, foolish beings. I controlled my revulsion with an effort. “What about your constable? The one who was harmed. A telepath?”
“Why? Could you help her, if she was?” Terk came close to the table as he spoke, the questions quick and furious—and unapproved, judging by the darkening of Bowman’s expression and ‘Whix’s sudden panting. The Human ignored them both, staring at me with
a wild look on his face. “Will you try?”
Morgan sat straighter. “I thought you said she was brain-wiped—”
“And so quite beyond help. Thank you,” Bowman said in a voice that snapped Terk and ‘Whix into parade stance, though the Human’s deepset eyes continued burning into mine. “Fem Morgan. I appreciate your candor on this matter. While I won’t say I’m convinced there has been no Clan involvement,” she nodded graciously, “I will pursue other—possibilities. However, we need to set aside, for the moment, the question of who might be able to attack a shielded individual. I’d like to move on to the business that brought me to you, Captain, Fem.”
“That wasn’t it?” I protested rather weakly. Morgan had the nerve to wink at me, finding, as always, something amusing in my being surprised.
Bowman, on the other hand, had assumed that predatory look I knew all too well. “There have been some disturbing reports from Acranam.”
Acranam? I tightened my defenses out of sheer reflex, then felt Morgan do the same. “May I ask how you could possibly be hearing reports from a Clan world?” I asked stiffly, quite aware Bowman knew Acranam had been a thorn in the Clan Council’s side since the hidden enclave had been revealed, and equally aware that any reports I had from that world ranged from unreliable to outright deception. And this—this Human?—had a source of information I did not?
Bowman’s lips quirked, as if my reaction wasn’t unexpected. We’d come to know one another well over the past year. “I’ve remained interested in Acranam, Fem Morgan, given its history of welcoming, shall we say, less savory sorts. Without going into technical details, my people keep an eye on shipping coming and going from that system. It’s been nothing more than regular freighter traffic, the occasional private yacht, until a month ago.” At Bowman’s signal, ‘Whix handed me a sheet of plas containing a list of ship names. “Within a day, seven ships landed and took off again: four Human-registered, two Ordnexian, and one Scat.”
To Trade the Stars Page 5
