Ansel shook his head sadly. “‘Any Sentient’s Loss Diminishes Us.’”
Huido rumbled something but didn’t bother countering the Human’s belief—little as he shared it concerning the Neblokan. Like many of his staff, Ansel had begun attending services at the Turrned Mission on this sublevel, predominantly a wholesalers’ district, but one-third spinward being restaurants and other, less enlightened entertainments. The Turrned faith offered the freedom to worship the deity of your choice complete with lunch, as long as you accepted their remarkably expanded definition of intelligent life. Huido had had to insist his staff stop apologizing to the fresh prawlies before tossing them into the pot, as it not only disturbed any customer who happened by, but slowed the cooking process considerably. Otherwise he had no problem with the Turrned religion, even quietly arranging the delivery of excess food and the occasional bottle of wine to the delighted missionaries.
But the Carasian refused to lament the death of his former chef, killed the previous night by a malfunctioning transport. Loss of sentience? Poetic justice, more likely. A boon to the galaxy, even more so.
Ansel wisely changed the subject: “Ruti seems a most satisfactory replacement, Hom Huido. I must confess, her abilities came as quite a surprise. Ah . . .” His voice, faint at the best of times, faded away completely.
Three more eyes joined the two already watching the Human’s face. The rest remained fixed on a heaping bowl of cooked grain, half afloat in Feenstra’s Patented Hot Sauce—Huido preferring to start his day with something robust. With beer. “Ah?” he prompted, knowing this sudden quiet was Ansel’s way of introducing a topic likely to promote considerable noise from his employer.
“The inspectors, Hom Huido.”
“What about them?” this around a clawful of soaked grain.
“Plexis will eventually ask to see Ruti’s Trade Pact Certification. The rules are quite strict these days about who can prepare food for a mixed clientele—that unfortunate incident in the Exalted Goddess Tea-room with those poor Skenkrans always comes up. She does have certification, does she not?”
“Not.”
“Ah.”
A huge handling claw raised and snapped in the air, a challenge as well as a summons for more beer. “I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of that—minor—detail before the next inspection, Ansel.” Four more eyes swiveled to study the Human’s rather ashen face. “As always, I have every faith in your abilities. The certificate’s just a piece of plas.”
“Just a piece of—”
A pitcher of beer smashing on the floor stopped Ansel’s weak protest and caused a horrified realignment of all of Huido’s eyestalks. “What do you think you’re doing?” the Carasian roared.
“But—but—Horn Huido! How did you get here?” The server, a usually docile Vilix, seemed oblivious to the mess at her feet, almost babbling through the flailing cilia that bearded her lower face. “I left you in the kitchen!” she exclaimed, then collapsed on the floor, wagging her fingers in disbelief.
Huido flicked his upper handling claw once, deliberately, sending bits of grain flying like the first warning flakes of snow from an avalanche. Then he rose slowly, plate sliding over plate with a warning hiss.
The doorway to the kitchen suddenly filled with Huido’s mirror image: a huge, gleaming black shape, massive claws held up and out, eyestalks erect, rapier-thin fangs protruding in clear threat.
Ansel grabbed the Vilix’s arm and yanked her to safety as the two Carasians exploded into motion, splintering the table between them as they collided. A deep bell-like sound rang from their armor on impact, its echoes lost in the deafening clatter as claws fought for a killing hold.
“It’s better if family calls first,” Ansel half-shouted to the now-cowering Vilix, her eyes hidden behind a wall of cilia. “These surprise visits never turn out well.”
Chapter 6
MORGAN’S final visit to the Conciliator was every bit as profitable as we’d hoped, at least in terms of his private conversation with Terk. I reserved my opinion concerning my Human’s blithe reassurance that Bowman was done with us. “The Arakuad, Dashing Boy, Maren’s Melody, Silcil 48, Steve’s First Pick, Trouder 3, and Uriel’s Enchantment,” Morgan recited from memory. “Don’t let the names fool you, Sira. These ships belong to the scum of the quadrant—known pirates or pirate wannabes. If it wasn’t the Clan dealing with them, I’d say they’d just asked for mass kidnappings.”
I snorted. “All they needed were captains who’d dealt with Yihtor in the past.” The founder and former ruler of Acranam had had his own ways of ensuring compliance, a seemingly quite effective combination of profit and punishment. “Do the Enforcers know where each ship went?”
Morgan shook his head. “Not all. The Arakuad and ‘Boy slipped Bowman’s net. The Scat won’t be hard to pick up again, but Bennefeld captains the ‘Boy—she’s smart and tough. If she wants to keep out of sight, she will.”
“Then the Council will have to find those fosterlings. The others?”
“The ‘Melody went to Veres Prime—presumably to deliver the child Tie claimed was found there. The rest? You aren’t going to like this.” My Human obviously didn’t, given the sound of his voice. “The Silicil 48 and Troudor 3 stuck together—as you’d expect; Ordnexian ships travel in pairs—and went straight to Ettler’s Planet.” He hesitated. “Do you think it was because of the Rugherans?”
I shook my head at his worried expression. “You’re interested in the Rugherans, because you are so Humanly curious,” I reminded him. Other words came to mind, but I kept them private. “The Acranam Clan wouldn’t be interested in aliens, especially any they can’t manipulate.” Not to mention how they’d react to a Rugheran in the flesh, I sent, feeling Morgan’s relieved amusement. “Ettler’s is no more or less than the closest Human system,” I continued aloud. “A practical choice—those fosterlings are likely suds. Where did the others go?”
“‘Enchantment stopped at Omacron, then headed for Auord. The ‘Pick—” Morgan paused and frowned. Busy estimating the nearest M’hir pathway to either system, I almost missed his low-voiced: “Why would Brukman—? Odd.”
The fosterling carried by Uriel’s Enchantment had too many choices for comfort; depending on his or her strength, possibly even one of the wealthy Human Inner Worlds so favored by the Clan in the past. Acranam was nothing if not ambitious. Then I noticed Morgan’s sudden preoccupation. He’d keyed up our course and was studying it intently.
“What is it?”
“The ‘Pick headed through empty space, toward the outer systems. No Human settlements along her path—not so much as a mining colony.”
“Where is she now?”
“Impounded on Tact 105 for smuggling oxygen—methane breathers take a dim view of it. But that’s hardly a planet the Clan would want linked to Acranam. Too far as well, based on what you’ve told me.”
I began to frown, too. “So where is the fosterling? Stuck on this methane world?”
“I doubt it.” Morgan’s eyes met mine, his grown ice-cold. “The ‘Pick crossed the path of Plexis Supermarket three and a half weeks ago.”
Again.
The black, seething void of the M’hir stretched in all directions but one, where an infusion of warm, golden light marked Morgan’s presence. His gold was Joined to my sense of self by glittering threads of power: permanent and deep, yet constantly changing. At this instant, they were thinned, as close to nonexistence as either of us could manage—or bear.
This was Morgan’s trial, not mine. I stayed aside as he practiced, striving to relocate his physical self through that other space. The locate was, of course, firmly in his thoughts: the galley of the Fox. Steps from the control room, none at all through the M’hir.
For me. Not for the Human. As he threw more and more of his strength into the effort, I kept track of time. Enough, I sent. Though he resisted, I pulled us both back to the control room.
Subjective time was the danger in the M
’hir. The longer one stayed within it, kept aware of it, the more power it took to remain whole and remember how to return. I drew up one knee, outwardly at ease on the copilot’s couch, and watched Morgan wipe sweat from his face and neck. He grinned at me, eyes sparkling. “Better?”
Since he hadn’t accomplished anything, I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. “Do you think so?” I asked cautiously. Our powers differed, that much I knew.
He tossed the sweat-soaked rag at me, but it disappeared before it reached the hands I automatically put out to protect myself. “I’m willing to be an optimist,” the Human said lightly. “After all. A month ago, you would have caught that.”
“Where is it now?” I started to ask, only to have the rag rematerialize and continue its trajectory to my face, managing to utter a meaningful: “Phwsuhmpf!” as it hit.
Morgan’s laughter flooded my mind as well as the control room. I pushed the rag into a stowage cupboard, resisting the urge to return it to sender. One thing I’d learned about living with a Human—practical jokes stopped only if one didn’t retaliate. And, I thought to myself smugly, there was always later. It would take another two days to intercept Plexis, with constant nursing of the Fox’s ailing translight engine.
“It’s as though I’m too real,” Morgan said abruptly. “I follow your directions: picture the locate—form a mental image of a place I know—then pour Power into it. That works for things. But not for me.”
“It’s true your mind has an—” I hunted for a word to describe how tightly Morgan’s natural shielding wrapped his sense of self, “—an independence from the M’hir that differs from Clan.” I considered this. “Part of my thoughts or those of any Clan are always in that place. They mingle with each others’ at a level we know exists but can’t consciously tap into.”
“Just as well,” he chuckled.
I grinned. “True. But you’ve never shown that level of connection to it, only what you’ve developed since our Joining. It may not be a Human ability,” I said, preferring to be honest. “Even among Clan, there are those who must rely on others to ‘port any distance.”
“But they can all still do it.”
Stubborn determination was a Human ability I knew all too well. I shrugged. “That ability defines the M’hiray. We believe none of our ancestors could’port—likely why those who could left our Homeworld.” I sometimes dreamed of that exodus, of how the Power of so many moving through the M’hir in unison must have burned a path in that space.
Morgan snapped his fingers, jarring me from the image. “But don’t you see? You’re assuming this process is uniquely Clan. What if it’s only the way you achieve the result that’s unique to your species?”
“I don’t follow—”
“You form a locate,” he interrupted excitedly. “That might be what works for the Clan—but, as you say, I’m different. I don’t see the M’hir as you do. Perhaps I shouldn’t try so hard to be Clan in this. Maybe I need to go at this another way, a Human way.”
I didn’t like the direction this was taking, but kept my disquiet to myself, saying only: “I thought the point was that there might not be a Human way to ‘port at all.”
Morgan waved dismissively, leaping up to pace around the control room, his growing enthusiasm sizzling along my nerve endings until I had to dampen my sense of him. “I think I’m onto something key here, Sira. Why don’t I get into the M’hir, then fix on a location to emerge—” I felt his power building as he concentrated and pushed ...
NO!
My instant, utter denial was a blow that not only stopped Morgan’s ill-advised attempt to enter the M’hir, but dropped him to his knees, hands pressed to his head. “Gods, Sira—” he growled as he staggered back to his feet, using the nearest console for support. His eyes blazed at me. “It was just an idea—”
I didn’t remember standing, but I was, my arms outstretched to their fullest—not to guard Morgan from danger, but to keep myself back. Hair lashed my cheeks, hard enough to leave welts, whipping against my shoulders and back as if frantic to cause more harm. I knew myself out of control, driven by instinct to protect our link, our lives. But how could my Chosen be the threat? The unimaginable, impossible conflict raged within me, a drive confused and misdirected, yet too powerful to ignore.
My Lady Witch, softly, carefully. Morgan, somehow, was calling me back to sanity. Sira. Chit.
“Don’t . . . try . . . that . . . again . . .” I managed to gasp, afraid of what might happen if I tried to contact him mind-to-mind. Our link, such a precious thing on every level to me, seemed on fire. “It’s not . . . safe . . . Dissolve . . . you’ll dissolve . . .”
“Not a good plan,” I heard him say. “I won’t, Sira. I swear. I’m sorry.”
My hair responded first, falling flat as if it had never come to life and attacked me. Morgan hurried to my side, cursing under his breath as he examined my face, easing me back to the couch. I wasn’t sure if my cheeks were damp with tears or blood. “If you’d succeeded, you’d have killed us,” I whispered, in case Morgan made the terrible mistake of believing I’d overreacted and tried again. “Entering the M’hir without a way to leave it—where there are not pathways in place to guide you to safety—it’s death, Jason. Traveling there isn’t something you learn by trial and error. You won’t survive a mistake. We won’t—”
He sat beside me, gathering me in his arms, holding me painfully tight. I closed my eyes, listening and feeling his heartbeat, concentrating on the caring flowing between us. Then, ice entered my veins as Morgan spoke, his lips in my hair. “I have to keep trying, Sira. I’ll be more careful—I promise you—but I’m so close. Too close. I can’t give up now. Can you understand?”
Reluctantly, I nodded, against his chest, muttering under my breath: “. . . cliff dancing . . . cliff dancing . . . cliff dancing . . .”
There was a dubious benefit to listening to Morgan’s passionate resolve to master the ability to ‘port immediately after having hauled him back from the brink of dissolving in the M’hir. I could no longer feel quite the same level of apprehension for minor matters such as rebellious Acranam, mysterious Rugherans, Symon, or Huido’s unfortunate menu.
Which only proved how little I understood of each.
INTERLUDE
“Do they understand?” Rael nodded at the row of silent, watching Drapsk, from both the Makii and Heerii Tribes. They stood in front of a formidable and completely mystifying machine, the sort designed by beings who firmly believed there was no such thing as too many warning lights. The Clanswoman didn’t know or care what the machine was; her question addressed something more fundamental. “They aren’t to touch me. They are especially not to pinch me. No matter what.”
Barac hoped she didn’t hear the faint hoot from Copelup. He and the Skeptic waited to one side of the long, low bench the Drapsk had coaxed from the floor for Rael. There were no other Skeptics present—a feat accomplished by the unoriginal ploy of waiting until the middle of the night, when any Drapsk not assigned to a specific task tended to be at home.
If they slept in those homes, Barac had yet to find proof of it. His mildly curious questions in his early weeks on Drapskii only confirmed what Sira had told him: Drapsk answered what they chose to answer, and charmingly deflected what they did not, which included questions about their physiology. The yellow-plumed Skeptics were particularly adept at confusion, a peculiar trait in individuals supposedly beyond tribal affiliations and dedicated to uncovering the truth.
“What if Levertup finds out?” he hissed to his companion, as Rael laid herself down, two Drapsk bustling up to cover her legs and torso with sheets of issa-silk.
Copelup’s antenna bent toward the Clanswoman, fluttering ever so slightly as if reading something in the air above her. “He will enjoy himself,” the small being said confidently. “If we succeed, he will be gratified, and find some way to make it the glory of the Heerii, whom he favors for some inexplicable reason. If we fail miserably, he’ll
take immense satisfaction in berating the Makii and yourself.”
Barac raised an eyebrow. “But not you?”
Copelup hooted. “Of course not.”
“Why—” When you’re ready, Cousin? Barac winced at Rael’s impatient thought, while all the Drapsk raised their antennae with delight. Before Rael noticed, and was more unnerved, Barac sat down on the stool beside Rael’s head and placed the fingers of his left hand on her forehead.
“Ready,” he lied.
They’d discussed what to do; Rael had decided, over his protest. She’d passed to him Sira’s less-than-comforting memories of her own efforts to reconnect Drapskii to the M’hir. His cousin had been trying to repeat Sira’s procedure on her own—twice in the last hour—but without success. As Rael described it, the planet had no presence she could detect, while the M’hir stayed its usual, tormented darkness. Yet Drapskii had been manifest to Sira.
Perhaps the M’hir around Drapskii needed, in Rael’s terms, a nudge. Sira had been unChosen, a Chooser whose Power was out of balance with the M’hir. She’d been a lodestone for its creatures. Perhaps she’d also attracted the planet itself.
A feather’s touch, so light as to be imagined, against one cheek. Barac didn’t look at Copelup, but knew the being tried to encourage him. Was he ready? Barac kept his fingers pressed against Rael’s cool skin—not the least impressed to be bait simply because he was the only unChosen available—and opened his awareness of the M’hir.
Power. It was everywhere. Dizzying, seductive.
Focused by an Other, as if her greater strength dimpled some unknowable surface into a lens.
Nothing new in that. Hers was the greater Power everywhere, especially here.
To Trade the Stars Page 8
