To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Who?”

  “Naes Fodera. You do remember it?”

  Morgan eased his weight more to his feet, careful not to make the instinctive move obvious enough to stir Terk’s interest. No gain pretending he didn’t know. “Fodera was on Sira’s list. A Human telepath.”

  “The only Human telepath from that list unaccounted for,” Bowman added, all trace of good humor vanishing from her face. “As you’ll recall, two refused the Clan’s offer to take part in certain—experiments. One of those, Matthew Jodrey, was subsequently kidnapped and tortured to death by your old friend Ren Symon. The other, Fodera? Like Symon, Fodera simply disappeared from sight, despite our best efforts to track him down. Until now.”

  Morgan concentrated on keeping his face expressionless, using even more effort to keep his reaction to that name, Ren Symon, from boiling across his link to Sira. He’d put his desire for vengeance, that rage, behind him. Or so he’d thought. “Where is he?”

  Bowman made her own decision as to which “he” Morgan meant. “Fodera, or what’s left of him, currently resides in a sample vial on Plexis. Oh, and I believe there’s a bit of him hanging in a freezer. Seems your friend Huido was trying to dispose of the body in the same memorable way he disposed of that Clansman.”

  Morgan didn’t bother to protest—if Bowman went after an answer, she’d dig for it until the answer gave up. Obviously, uncovering Huido’s and Barac’s earlier indiscretion hadn’t bothered the Sector Chief, her focus always on what disturbed the balance of the Trade Pact, not crime.

  Even if it were murder. “Does Plexis think Huido killed Fodera?”

  ‘Whix offered Morgan a data cube. “Here is what they know—and don’t know. Thus far, Captain Morgan, there is no motive, very little body, and nothing to prove this was more than a misguided attempt to recycle protein. If there hadn’t been an informant, a disgruntled former chef, there would likely be no case at all.”

  “All moot. The investigation has been declared within my official interest. Plexis will keep their hands off.” Bowman’s tone contained a confidence Morgan, knowing the station from a somewhat different viewpoint, didn’t share.

  “This is the real reason you chased us down, isn’t it?” he said more than asked. “And why you wanted to see me alone. You believe Ren Symon had something to do with Fodera’s death. You’re trying to drag me back into all this—to help you find him.” Morgan almost spat the last word.

  Bowman steepled her fingers and regarded him without flinching. “No denying you could be of use. But you’ve made it abundantly clear, Morgan, that you want nothing to do with our investigation into Symon’s band of disenchanted telepaths. Frankly, if they’d stuck to species-specific criminal acts, I wouldn’t care about them either. But I don’t believe Symon’s plans have ever been that small in scope. Do you?”

  “I don’t think about his plans or him,” Morgan ground out, sensing Terk coming to alert at the hostility in his voice. “Leave me out of this. Leave Huido out of this!” Heaven only knew what was leaking through his link to Sira.

  Too much, Morgan realized belatedly, as the lithe form of his mate rematerialized, her hair whipped into a frenzy as if she were some avenging goddess come to his rescue, her expression equally wild. The M’hir seethed and burned with power.

  He winced.

  Which might have been at the thought of explaining Huido’s current predicament to his beloved.

  Chapter 5

  THAT night, my dreams were crowded with evil Huidos and Human heads on platters. To make things worse, I awoke to find myself alone.

  I stroked the sheet beside me. Warm. Morgan hadn’t left long ago. My seeking thought ceased almost instantly. My Human was troubled and, if he sought time to himself, I would obey his wish.

  I’d been wrong to ‘port to Bowman’s ship—I knew better than to act by reflex rather than sense. Normally, I would have delayed at least an instant, knowing Morgan’s capabilities and awaiting a true summons. Glumly, I decided the combination of Enforcers in body armor, what Bowman and Tie had to say, and the Rugheran’s surprise visit had seriously shaken my confidence. In other words, more Chosen cowardice.

  One could hate biology.

  More important than my personal embarrassment was that I’d cost Morgan a chance to extract further information from Bowman. Of course, left alone, he might have agreed to something he shouldn’t. For a being without Talent, I thought, the Chief was exceptionally proficient at manipulating others.

  I carefully avoided thinking about the Carasian. Strong emotion was the most difficult to keep from my Chosen, and I experienced plenty whenever I considered Huido and his latest culinary masterpiece. It wasn’t, however, the outrage Morgan assumed.

  It was foreboding.

  Like Bowman, the murder of a strange Human—even if our friend was suspected of the crime—didn’t matter to me so much as its consequence. We were going to Plexis.

  Which meant someone had known exactly how to lure Morgan there.

  Just when the Acranam Clan had exerted themselves, in secret, to be able to travel from their system? Coincidence, I’d found in my lifetime, didn’t exist when it came to matters of power.

  I pulled the covers over my head, as if that would help.

  Troubled or not, I drifted back to sleep. Morgan didn’t return, but my awareness of him—perhaps heightened by my earlier, anxious thoughts—increased, saturating my dreaming mind until, abruptly, it was as if I looked out his eyes, felt what he felt. He seemed to sense me only as my sleeping presence; I remained unsure if I dreamed or floated closer to consciousness.

  It had to be a dream, I decided, moving with Morgan as he strode down the ship’s corridor to the air lock, lights night-dimmed. We’d connected the Fox to the Conciliator, a gesture of trust to Bowman and convenience for Morgan. That much of what I saw I believed. By why was Morgan here?

  ... Time dilated, or I lost the threads as my resting state deepened. Perhaps this was simply a stranger dream than most.

  “Are you sure you can help her?” Terk’s rough growl had no place in my sleep. I became almost too alert, losing my sense of Morgan. Deliberately now, I calmed myself, seeking the dreamscape.

  “No.” Morgan’s voice had an odd reverberation within my thoughts, as though heard and felt at the same time, but slightly out of synch. “I’ll do my best. And Bowman won’t hear about this from me, Russ. You know that.”

  “Bowman can have my badge, for all I care.”

  ... I’d lost minutes again. Morgan was now looking at a Human female seated in a chair, her body held in place by restraints. Her head had been shaved and metal disks were leeched to her scalp, trailing wires that disappeared into a massive console. The female’s face was strong-boned, likely attractive when full of life, but hanging slack and expressionless now. Drool formed a glistening runnel from the left side of her mouth.

  I’d seen faces like this before. Her mind had been damaged, possibly completely erased or at least blocked. This must be the operative Bowman spoke of, the one whose mind-deadener had failed.

  A broad expanse of black uniform made a backdrop behind her—Terk, who required special tailoring for his wide shoulders. “Shouldn’t your wife be here?” he said. “I thought she was the expert in this—this mental rape.” His harsh challenge startled both of us, though Morgan didn’t oblige me by looking up to glare. His gaze remained fixed on the female’s face.

  “I told you when you asked me to help Kareen—this isn’t something Sira can do,” Morgan replied calmly enough, though I shared his emotions: doubt, concern, a determination to succeed. A perplexing certainty I wouldn’t approve any more than Bowman, hence the attempt at secrecy.

  Why wouldn’t I approve? Bowman might not understand the horrors of being mind-wiped—or have her own reasons for keeping this Kareen from us—but I understood too well. Any hope this female had of regaining her personality rested with my Chosen, not with Human technology. I thought of letting Morgan know, b
ut this was a dream, after all; I didn’t control much more than paying attention or not.

  ... Not, it seemed, for I must have lost the moment when Morgan approached Kareen, startled to suddenly be leaning over her, watching his hands running lightly over her forehead.

  Could she feel their warmth? I despaired with him.

  Morgan made a sound of triumph, having found what he wanted, and pressed his fingers tightly to her skin. He’d tried to explain the process to me more than once, before taking my advice and giving up. Our Talents differed in ways that couldn’t be translated into Comspeak or into whatever language our minds shared. My Talent included moving whatever I chose through the M’hir; among his, this bizarre ability to discover some physical reference to a nonphysical attack and use it as a focal point for healing.

  He readied his Power. I’m not sure if this severed our dream connection or if I somehow managed to draw myself away, unwilling to risk any potential distraction.

  I opened my eyes to darkness, dry-mouthed and troubled. Asleep, Morgan had shown a disconcerting ability to share my dreams, especially—and unfortunately—any emotionally-charged nightmares. This involuntary sharing of his waking presence by my dreaming self was something entirely different, new to my experience. It could be my Joining with a Human telepath. Perhaps Morgan had a name for this, knew more than I.

  He might—however, I was reasonably sure the very private Human wouldn’t be happy about it. He’d be even less pleased to learn it seemed involuntary. I had a vision of Morgan waking me up every few minutes to be sure I wasn’t dreaming him. This seemed one of those memories not worth sharing.

  I flipped over my pillow—a childish habit to rid my sleep of dreams, whether of Morgan, lost children and scheming Clan, or evil Huidos and Human heads on platters—put down my head, then unexpectedly quickly found myself drifting back to sleep.

  A sleep I wasn’t surprised was again disrupted, given this particular night. Frustrated, I hoped it was morning, so I could stop trying to rest, then found Morgan had slipped in with me, a shivering cold lump already asleep, courteously as far as possible to one side of our bed. I sensed exhausted triumph and relaxed.

  Questions and worries could wait.

  I wrapped my Chosen in my arms and Power, and fell into a dream-free sleep at last.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?

  I’d felt Morgan wake. He’d been uncharacteristically silent to my other sense, having breakfast alone, spending some time in the control room—presumably making a call to the pilot of the Conciliator to arrange our mutual uncoupling. I didn’t eavesdrop. But I kept close enough to his glow in the M’hir to know when he approached the cargo hold, and to his emotions to be unsurprised by the gruffness of the question.

  So I smiled as I looked up from the cargo inventory, marking my place on the list with one finger. “Good morning. Ask what?”

  Morgan’s blue eyes were bruised this morning, almost purple. I could have eased that lingering weariness with a touch of Power, but knew the Human preferred to recover in his own way and “not waste my strength.” Irrational, as I had plenty to spare, but I didn’t argue. Besides, I grinned to myself, this time he deserved it. Sneaking away on me!

  He felt my amusement and looked vaguely offended, then suspicious. I kept my inner and outer self as calm as possible. “Ask what?” I repeated. “It’s not as if I haven’t done this before.” “This,” being a search through our scant inventory to locate anything worth trading at Plexis. There hadn’t been a formal announcement, captain to crew, that we would be heading for the station. There didn’t need to be. I knew Morgan wouldn’t forget the Rugheran homeworld—but it could wait. Huido could not. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or more unnerved, but settled for ignoring my inner voice.

  “I left the Fox last night. You know that.” As this wasn’t a question, I waited courteously for him to continue. Morgan frowned, then snapped: “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  Again, I had to smile. I leaned back in my chair and looked up at him. “If you so desperately want to talk about your wanderings, my love, I’m happy to listen,” I assured him.

  His frown faded, slowly replaced by a look of pure chagrin. “I do, don’t I,” Morgan admitted, warmth suddenly running between us. He drew a finger along my cheek. “Terk walked me to the air lock after our little lunch with his boss,” he began more easily. “He called in a favor. It turns out Bowman’s ‘operative’ was a friend. Their med-techs couldn’t help her. He thought we could—but had no luck talking Bowman into it. She didn’t want anyone else learning what might be in the operative’s memory.”

  “Anyone else being me,” I suggested.

  Morgan gave a tired smile and slouched against the nearest crate, testing the webbing with an idle hand as he spoke. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Bowman would like to trust us both—as far as she trusts anyone—but it’s not in her nature.” More seriously. “I didn’t think you’d approve of my getting involved.”

  I raised a brow. “You have Talent. It must be used to hone it to its utmost. Why wouldn’t I approve?”

  He looked adorably uncomfortable. You were so afraid, yesterday.

  “Oh. That.” My turn to flush, remembering my flamboyant and totally unnecessary ‘port to his rescue. I turned my attention to the list, marking another possibility: a crate of Brillian brandy—an acceptable year, but not outstanding. It might cover our first day’s docking fee. Plexis wasn’t cheap. “So,” I asked the list, “you thought it would give me more courage to know you’d act on your own any time I might disagree about the risk. Is this Human logic?” With the question, I looked back up at him and added gently. “Because I don’t understand.”

  Morgan shook his head, not at me, I thought, but at himself. “Put that way, my dear Witchling, it doesn’t appear to make any sense,” he admitted, a wry note to his voice, then gave a bow. “I stand corrected.”

  I made a noncommittal noise in my throat, but accepted what was an apology and hoped it was a promise. “How is Terk’s friend?”

  His blue eyes gleamed. “Back to normal as far as I can tell. Whoever tampered with her—Kareen—performed a deep scan and then blocked her memory of it. If done properly, no one might have even known about it, but the block was too massive. She became comatose—which alerted Bowman to the unpleasant fact her expensive technology is no longer the protection it was. I pried off the block.” I smiled at this remarkably mundane description of a process that would have taken time, skill, and a substantial amount of strength. “Unfortunately, as far as Kareen is concerned, she lost consciousness eight standard days ago and doesn’t remember her attacker at all.”

  “Clan?” I asked. For all I’d said to Bowman, it was at least possible one of my more xenophobic cousins had taken it upon themselves to do some reciprocal spying.

  “Too clumsy. And wrong—” He fumbled for a word, then shrugged. “Wrong grist, as Huido would say. I’d lay a bet on Human. Terk couldn’t tell me who or what Kareen had been investigating for Bowman, but we both know she keeps tabs on quite a few who’d prefer not to be watched. It could have been Ren Symon. He knows a few—tricks. This is within his style.” Morgan’s voice was too casual.

  Symon. A name I’d naively hoped Morgan never would hear again. Our other enemy, my father, had faced me in Challenge and lost. As was his right, Jarad di Sarc had preferred exile to living among Clan with that shame. The Clan way. I’d known better than to expect Symon to behave as conveniently. Humans were less—predictable.

  I didn’t share Morgan’s Talent to sense impending danger or change as a taste in the M’hir. That he didn’t mention such a sensation wasn’t completely reassuring, given such warnings usually arrived in time to dodge a blast, not prepare for one. “Know this,” I told him, and sent everything I’d learned from Tie, as well as my own guesses.

  Morgan couldn’t help his Human reaction, an instinctive mix of anger and repugnance at the idea of not only separating children from their mot
hers for profit, but using pirate ships to do so. To his credit as a Master Trader, well used to alien ways, he tried to keep that reaction to himself. “Are you going to tell Bowman?”

  “This is Clan business,” I countered. “Not Trade Pact.”

  My Human nodded slowly, but I could feel him thinking. “She’ll know,” he decided, “or will find out, where those other six ships went. A trade for that information could be worthwhile.”

  I tightened my shields to contain my instinctive disagreement. Every so often, my Clan heritage reared, throwing up its barrier of distrust for anyone or anything alien. I’d learned to be as wary of making decisions based on that part of me as I was of making them solely as Sira Morgan. “Risky—exposing so much of us,” I temporized. “You know perfectly well Humans would have—difficulty—with this aspect of the Clan. You do.”

  “No need to reveal secrets, my Lady Witch.” Morgan’s smile was pure mischief. “I believe we’ve already supplied our half of the trade. Shall I pay my good friend Russ another visit before we leave?”

  A Master Trader indeed. I could almost feel sorry for the other Human.

  INTERLUDE

  “A terrible waste, Hom Huido. I feel sorry for him, you know. Such a terrible waste—”

  The Carasian bent a second eye at Ansel. The two were sharing breakfast in the private dining area of the Claws & Jaws while going over accounts and orders, not because this was the most ornately—and expensively—decorated part of the restaurant, but because Huido liked the view. Through the shimmer of a one-way force shield, he could keep several eyes on the rest of the dining area, presently empty. “That fish-faced excretion?” he boomed incredulously. “He probably goaded the transport servo into running over him. I, for one, don’t mourn him in the slightest.”