To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  /joy/satisfaction/~!~/impatience/

  It could be a response. Or I could be imagining all of this—something entirely likely. Still. “Can you help me leave this place?”

  /impatience/

  My emotion or the Rugheran’s? I brought the memory of my first encounter with one of these beings—or this one—to the surface of my thoughts, concentrating on the moment when I’d felt its need to be with others of its kind. “I want to leave,” I said.

  Nothing. It was like talking to a mass of uncooked protoplasm. I walked around the being. It didn’t move. It simply sat there... or laid... or perched. I wasn’t sure what to call it. Part of the being seemed to penetrate the deck, as though it wasn’t wholly in this space.

  I put my hand on the collar around my neck, as I sat back down on the bed. “I really don’t want to risk this,” I told my silent guest. “But if you can help me—” I reached into the M’hir, hoping to touch Rugheran’s mind, or equivalent.

  The prickly sensation I’d expected was there, but not everywhere. True to their word, the Heerii had left me a way into M’hir, if only part. I opened my awareness of it the tiniest bit more.

  A song thrust into me, hot and imperative, dark and impatient. The Singer, too-long denied.

  I recoiled from that instant of contact, finding myself safely back inside the Heerama.

  And alone.

  INTERLUDE

  Alone. Morgan took a long, shuddering breath. He’d been alone before; it hadn’t felt like this. Suddenly, coming back to the Fox, it hit him harder than ever: the possibility that Sira might be gone. They’d only had months of what should have been a lifetime. Better that much, he knew, than nothing at all.

  Which didn’t help ease the emptiness; only finding Sira could accomplish that. Morgan checked the com panel again. He’d left on the automessage to screen out chatter—there was enough of that at any port—but set it to alert him to incoming messages from specific sources. None. Too soon, perhaps. Huido wouldn’t be calling until the fosterlings were safely in his care. If anyone could be trusted to take care of a group of telepathic malcontents, it was the Carasian with his total contempt for personal risk and his practical “Why knock? It gives them time to load” approach. Morgan had no worries there.

  The Drapsk com-tech of the unnamed ship, reached through Port Authority, had been predictably polite; the Drapsk captain had been predictably unavailable for his call. Could the Captain call him back shortly? Morgan had no choice but to agree, although he doubted the Drapsk would be prompt if he suspected a confrontation. It was a species characteristic to delay unpleasantness, as if complaints would fade away if ignored long enough.

  Morgan hoped for something quicker from Ivali or Aleksander, both hunting information about incoming shipments containing a sapient-type stasis chamber. Impatience wasn’t likely to help—there were fifty-three ships listed as incoming to Ettler’s Planet within the last four days, twenty-seven of those from Plexis—taking advantage of the closeness of their approach. Of that number, several were the sort of trader who offered highly personal service to those moving cargo and passengers they didn’t want noticed. Getting details from them would be near to impossible. He’d left a timed message for Bowman, so she could act if all else failed. Her ability to track the finest details never ceased to amaze him.

  Having set in motion so many others, Morgan felt useless. There had to be more he could do besides waiting here. Sira was lying in a stasis chamber somewhere in Rosietown. Yet, short of knocking on every door, he knew there was nothing to be done but to try and trace that shipment.

  Or was there? Morgan rested his head on the back of the copilot’s couch and opened his mind to the M’hir, taking a moment to reframe his thoughts in the terms of how he interpreted that space. The great, unseen but heard ocean, the impression of warm sand beneath his feet, the feel of what was colder or warmer air against his face and hands. Only analogies, he realized, his Human mind rationalizing the utterly strange into something it could interpret. Sira had been surprised by his descriptions, so different from hers. But it was how he interpreted the sensations, however presented, that mattered.

  She was the Sun, here. That much Morgan knew. Now, her light and warmth was so dim, it was as if clouds blocked her radiance. The connection between them was still so tenuous he had to remember its direction to be sure it existed. So much for trying to find Sira through the M’hir.

  He’d seen M’hir-life on the screens of the Drapsk. Never here, for himself, not that he could believe—unless the distant cries over the surf marked their passage through the M’hir. The surf itself expressed any disturbances—now, it pounded with almost deafening force at Morgan’s perceptions, making it a challenge to concentrate. The energy contained in those waves was what he could touch and use—as long as he remembered to keep his feet on the sand.

  Morgan withdrew, opening eyes he’d closed for no particular reason but habit. He could, he thought without false modesty, stretch across that surf to reach Barac’s mind—or even Rael’s, so much farther. An unknowable risk. Symon or his followers might have the technology to detect any use of Power in the M’hir, follow it, and find Barac. Logically, if they had traded with the Drapsk for that technology, the Drapsk had it as well—making it unlikely he could communicate mentally with Rael without letting them know.

  There was the com system. Ironic how quickly he’d come to consider that a secondary option. Another move closer to Clan and further from Human, Morgan thought, a grim smile twisting his lips. He didn’t regret anything that helped him better understand Sira, though he remained aware, as always, of the peril of widening the gap between himself and others of his own kind. Humans accepted the alien when it wore a different face—not if it wore a familiar one.

  Should he send a message to Rael? Morgan shook his head. There was nothing to gain and perhaps everything to lose if the Drapsk eavesdropped. He stood, planning to head to the galley and grab some C-cubes. He had no appetite, but didn’t dare neglect his body when he might need all his strength.

  A flash on the console. Incoming call. He was across the small bridge in two strides, punching the button to accept. “Morgan.”

  “Greetings, Captain Morgan. This is the Heerama. The Captain wishes to know if you are well.”

  The Heerama. Morgan’s eyes narrowed. He queried the Fox. The call was originating locally, within the shipcity. His Drapsk friends were supposed to be on Plexis. They might, he thought, have simply followed him here. He’d filed a destination with Plexis authorities—the sort of bureaucratic information Drapsk were exceptionally good at obtaining. “I am very well, thank you,” he said pleasantly. “May I ask what brings you here?”

  “Your business, of course, Captain Morgan. The Heerii have made every effort possible to locate the Mystic One and her abductor. We are delighted to say we have met with success. We have obtained the stasis chamber purchased by Hom Symon—”

  He gripped the side of the console. “Where is it?” Morgan demanded. “Is Sira inside?”

  “The chamber is intact and we have arranged its delivery to your ship. It should have arrived by now—”

  Morgan ignored whatever else the Drapsk was saying, running for the lift.

  The Drapsk hadn’t lied. There was a pallet sitting outside the Fox’s hold door, sitting on a servo delivery transport. A too-familiar pallet. His warning hadn’t lied, Morgan realized with a groan. He’d walked away from Sira in the street, unaware she was inside—this box!

  He couldn’t open it out here. Burning with impatience, Morgan keyed his ship’s code into the servo, accepting delivery. Then he opened the hold doors and brought out the handling arms to gently lift the pallet into the hold itself.

  Only after the hold was sealed shut and Morgan was sure it was safe, did he rush to the pallet and open it.

  The pallet—a typical cargo crate shaped to fit the racks of most holds—was dented and scraped along one side, as though dropped a few times.
The opening mechanism showed some of the same ill use, but worked smoothly enough. The walls and roof folded back and down with a slight protest, revealing the smooth metal exterior of a stasis chamber. An unusually large one.

  Morgan might be in a hurry, but he was also wary. This had all the signs of being too easy. Feeding his natural caution was a simple question: why had the Drapsk delivered this to him? It would have been safer for all concerned, including Sira, to call him over to their ship. The Heerama had meds, equipment, expertise. Not to mention it was completely atypical for any Drapsk to give up something they already had, especially the Mystic One. So Morgan unlocked a cabinet in the forward section of the hold and came back to the stasis chamber with two things: a sensor and a force drill.

  The sensor was an antique but reliable. It was designed to detect biological pests in the cargo, including those hidden inside sealed containers. Morgan ran it over the sides of the stasis chamber.

  One biological entity. Large enough to be Sira. Alive—although the sensor wasn’t overly dependable at making that determination. There’d been the case of the mole flies Sira had detected in a shipment of Ummit porcelains. Very dead and odorous mole flies, as she’d discovered upon opening the case.

  Sira. Morgan swallowed his excitement and walked around to the back of the stasis chamber, hunting the control mechanism. Ah. Sealed, but that wasn’t a problem. He crouched down and began drilling at the lower right corner of the panel. If this was a trap, Morgan reasoned grimly, those setting it would logically expect him to open the chamber from the front, using the keypad beside the door.

  Ten minutes later, Morgan had drilled through all four corners, allowing him to pry free the access panel and reach the hardware within the stasis chamber wall.

  It wasn’t operating. The system was cold and quiet.

  Did that make this a trap for him—or for whomever was inside? Morgan knew there couldn’t be enough air in the chamber to sustain an adult humanoid for more than an hour at best. Would the Drapsk make that mistake? Or had Symon planned this, to deliver Sira to Morgan, but dead? He was capable of it.

  Even as the terrible thought raced through his mind, Morgan was running to the front of the chamber to key the door open, one hand on the blaster still holstered to his thigh. It seemed to take forever to cycle through. Then a whiff of stale, too-warm air marked the door unsealing itself. No stasis fluid poured out. Whoever was inside had to be conscious. Had to be! Morgan forced his fingers into the opening as soon as they’d fit, pulling frantically “Sira! Sira!”

  The door swung wide and the Fox’s hold light splashed over a figure lying hunched in the middle of the chamber floor, a figure who looked up at Morgan and laughed. “Jase, my boy. I thought you’d never get me out of here.”

  “Symon!” Like a being possessed, Morgan was inside the chamber before the word left his lips, his hands clenched around the other Human’s throat.

  A knee thudded into his stomach as two powerful arms easily broke his grip. Jase. Jase. Morgan rolled, then gathered himself before launching himself at his enemy again, forgetting his weapon, forgetting everything but the need to inflict as much damage as possible. Jase. His fists pounded Symon’s face and body, even as he took blows from the larger Human that threatened to crack ribs. They clenched again, rolling over and over one another until they struck the chamber wall.

  Jase. Symon’s despised—familiar—mind voice kept slithering into Morgan’s thoughts, passing his shields with just the word. He grabbed something that felt like an ear, using it to guide his next punch, hearing the pained grunt as it connected.

  It didn’t silence the voice. Jase, we were friends; we were a pair, you and I. Remember?

  A flood of memories, paralyzing, confusing. A sunny day, free for once of fighting. Time to learn more, to investigate the Power of their minds to reach one another, to share the beauty around them. A windswept night, filled with death and despair. The comfort of the one mind able to reach into his, the complete joy of belonging, of being understood.

  Jase. I’ve missed you.

  Morgan hammered at the body under him—anything to be rid of that voice in his head—only to be heaved upward and back, landing out in the hold. Before he could stand up, the heavier Human was on him, driving his fists and his thoughts into Morgan until Morgan got one hand under his chin and pressed upward.

  They broke free of each other for an instant. Both were on hands and knees, blood dripping from cuts on their faces and spraying out with each gasping breath. Symon spat out a tooth and smiled. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked. Just like I taught you, Jase, echoed in Morgan’s mind.

  Morgan sat up on his haunches, drawing his blaster with one smooth motion when Symon tensed to attack again. “No,” he said. “And I can keep you out of my head, mindcrawler.” With that, Morgan stiffened his shields, adding the layers Sira had taught him, amazed he’d so let himself slip that this—thing had crawled around his thoughts again.

  Symon eased back, carefully, but kept smiling that sickening smile. Jase, you can’t keep me out. It doesn’t work that way between old friends. Remember?

  Morgan flinched, then, without thinking, he sent wave after wave of searing pain into that evil mind, remembering the way through Symon’s shields as if it had been yesterday—or did Symon let him through? No matter. The pain was as real as any physical assault. Morgan could see the impact in Symon’s eyes, feel the agony rebounding like surge of pure energy.

  And there need be no end to it. He could destroy Symon’s mind, but why bother? He would keep him intact, enjoy this satisfaction, this ecstasy of retribution over and over and over... You’re right, Jase, a dark whisper that almost sounded like his own voice. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

  Morgan stopped. Symon fell to the floor, as if the pain had held him upright. His mind voice was almost shrill: Why? Why?

  “I won’t become you,” he told Symon calmly, triumphantly.

  I need—you must—I—

  “No. It’s over, Symon.”

  “Never! By now my followers have killed your friend Huido,” Symon said in a thick voice, his eyes filled with hate. “What do you think of that?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Your followers are dead or captured.”

  “I traded your Sira to the Drapsk for their technology—”

  “The Drapsk betrayed us both,” Morgan replied, wiping the blood from one eyebrow that was blurring his vision. “You’ve lost, Symon. I’ll turn you over to the Enforcers, then I’ll find out what the Heerii are up to—”

  Symon lurched to his feet like some dying warrior rising for one last charge, swaying back and forth. “I had her to myself, you know. All this time. I touched her. I—” He stopped, not because he didn’t have more to say, but because Morgan had pinned him, freezing every voluntary muscle in his body.

  Morgan sheathed his blaster and walked up to his old foe, feeling nothing but pity. This rambling, blustering shell couldn’t be the Symon of his nightmares. “You did nothing to Sira,” he hissed into the other Human’s ear, his voice soft and cold. “It doesn’t matter that you wanted to ... that you dreamed of it. You wouldn’t have dared.” Symon’s near eye rolled wildly. “I know you. Too well. It’s the helpless and the innocent you pick for your prey, old friend.” He made the last word sound like a curse. “And that has to stop.”

  Morgan summoned his remaining Power even as his hand lifted to Symon’s forehead, fingers smearing blood and sweat alike as he sought the point of contact he needed. There! His fingers pressed in, even as his Power entered Symon’s mind.

  Deep. Deeper. Deeper still. Morgan didn’t question the impulse. It felt right to be doing this, as if he finally took fate into his own hands. He explored every thought, every memory—searching. Deeper, into thoughts so twisted they threatened him with contamination, like some disease. Morgan fought to keep his own separate, then realized he couldn’t. Not now. Not if this was to work.

  Their bodies became unimportant as
both minds ebbed and flowed around each other. Morgan was aware they’d dropped to their knees, facing one another, that his right hand remained on Symon’s forehead, his left now on the bigger Human’s shoulder. He wasn’t holding Symon pinned, not anymore, and his blaster was a finger’s reach from his deadliest enemy. It didn’t matter.

  This battle could only be won here, within their minds. Everything from the moment they’d met on Karolus had been leading to this, Morgan understood at last, even if Symon didn’t. There’d been a reason the other telepath had continued to seek him out, to risk Morgan’s rage; a reason Symon had been compelled to chase the one being able to destroy him.

  It was hope.

  Morgan found what he was looking for: a chasm of darkness within Symon’s mind, a source of poison, fed by poison. He studied the malignance for a timeless moment, feeling something of Symon’s personality studying it with him. They might have stood, side-by-side, along a cliff to admire the view. Two old friends, two old enemies, in conversation.

  You can’t stay here, Jase.

  I must. This isn’t right.

  I will drag you into it with me. It will become you. You can’t stay here. You are better than I ever was, Jase. Go.

  Not alone.

  With that, Morgan shut out the voice, focusing on the chasm. Where Ansel’s torn mind had needed to be reknit, this needed to be destroyed. No. Filled, he thought, sensing an almost familiar void.

  He drew Power from other parts of Symon’s mind, pouring it into the chasm. In his imagining, that Power became a raging river, washing away the darkness, smoothing the jagged edges, but the chasm seemed bottomless, taking all and demanding more.

  Then more it would have. Morgan gathered his own Power then threw himself into the dark pit.

  The absence of sound, of any sensation. Even the M’hir was beyond reach here, had he wanted to use it. Morgan waited, somehow sure this wasn’t oblivion.