“No,” Morgan said with deceptive calm. “I can do tricks.” He looked at the half-filled cup in front of Symon, then pushed it into the M’hir.
Before Symon could do more than gasp, the cup reappeared, exactly where it had been. The other Human touched it with one finger, then picked it up and drank.
“See?” Morgan sneered. “Useless.” He slammed his fist down on the table.
His companion frowned. “It seems useful to me.”
“Does it? It can’t take me to Sira. It can’t bring her to me. It can’t even fix the damn ship—” Morgan stopped midsentence, the strangest look on his face. “Pull or push.”
“Pardon?”
“You said it. We need a way to move the Fox.” Morgan made himself examine the idea from all sides, carefully but quickly. Time was not on their side—not with the Drapsk fleeing for Drapskii and whatever they intended for Sira. He made up his mind. “I want you to get off the ship. Take one of the life pods, Ren.” he stated, getting to his feet, already gathering his Power.
Symon stood as well, close enough Morgan had to look up to meet his eyes. They were both still covered in medplas and bruises—their faces mirror images of yesterday’s battle. “And I want you to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. Or should I look for myself?” only half-joking.
Morgan took a deep breath. “Size isn’t what matters, not to ‘porting something through the M’hir. The cup, the Fox. It’s all the same. As long as I can know an object, keep my mind focused on it, I can move it.”
“You aren’t seriously—”
“Yes. You saw for yourself—the tracker signal has settled into an orbit. Sira must be on the Rugheran planet. It isn’t far—not through the M’hir, not by what I’ve seen Sira accomplish. Distance there is all about subjective time. It takes Power to hold your mind together for long—that’s the risk. But I have my Power—I have hers, too.” Morgan seemed to be talking to himself as much as to Symon. “If I know where I’m going—if I have the strength? It’s possible, Ren. I feel it.”
“Why the hurry, Jason?” Symon objected. His big hands took Morgan’s shoulders. “From what you’ve told me—from what I know—the Drapsk would never harm Sira. Why not wait for Bowman?”
Morgan hesitated, unsure how much the other Human would understand. “I can’t wait. I know Sira’s in danger. It isn’t something I’m sensing through our link—what’s left of it. It isn’t a premonition or anything I’ve been told. But I know it, Ren, as surely as I know I can’t abandon her.” His eyes darkened. “I will get to Sira or die trying.”
Symon gazed down at him for a moment, then said simply: “Then we’d better not stand here talking about it. And don’t ask me to leave, Jason. Because I won’t abandon you, either.”
Morgan knew there was nothing in Sira’s teaching or shared memories to help him. The Clan had apparently never considered moving their surroundings as well as themselves—perhaps another aspect of their disdain for technology. For all his confident words to Symon, he’d never moved anything larger than a pallet in the hold. He did have what Sira called a Talent for discrimination—an ability to know an object once seen, to identify it with his inner sense. It had been of great service in removing certain items, such as boots from slender feet.
Morgan knew his ship; that wasn’t a problem. But he didn’t know how much Power he had on his own in the M’hir, without his full link to Sira. And he didn’t know where she was yet.
“A heart-search?” Symon repeated curiously. They’d gone to the bridge for no other reason than Morgan felt more confident there. Now, they each sat in an upcurled couch—Morgan in Sira’s, Ren Symon in his—and prepared to do what had never been done before. It was, Morgan decided, either a stroke of genius or something neither he, Symon, nor Sira would survive. But he hadn’t exaggerated. His fear for her was turning his blood cold, as if he shared something with her on another level than thought or Joining.
“I need to know where to ‘port the ship,” Morgan explained. “I can’t visualize where Sira is—I’ve never been to White, and there’s nothing in the ship’s database. So I have to try and use Sira herself as the locate.” He paused. “You’re sure you don’t want to take your chances in the pod?”
“And explain my reformation from evil to Bowman by myself? I’d rather have you scatter my molecules.”
The tone was light, the meaning anything but. Morgan looked at Symon. “You could insist on a deep scan... truth drugs, if necessary. Bowman’s hard but she’s fair, Ren—”
“Don’t, Jason,” Symon said gently, his face weary yet peaceful. “I was a Healer before I was a psychopath. I know exactly what’s on the plate for me. I deserve all of it and more. I’m grateful,” he said, reaching across the distance between them to grip Morgan’s arm, hard, then release it. “You made it possible for me to come out the other side, my friend, which includes facing what I’ve done. Let me worry about how I atone for it.”
“Ren—” the words Morgan wanted to say seemed to bottle up inside him.
The older Human smiled. “Find your Sira. We’ll talk later.”
Morgan nodded, once. Heart-search. The technique to identify and locate another mind that could only be performed by those who knew each other emotionally as well as mentally. Soul-deep, Sira had called it. Morgan closed his eyes; forming the image of Sira was as easy as that. He poured Power into the memory of her smile, the feel of her hair against his throat, her scent, the sound of her voice, and felt the heart-search snap away from him to splash against a prickly, unyielding surface.
But she was inside. Good enough. Before he could lose it, he focused on that surface. Here!
Holding that place in his mind, uncaring if this feeling was enough of a locate for a ‘port or if he was sending them all to die in the M’hir, Morgan concentrated on the Silver Fox and pushed ...
This wasn’t like walking on a beach. Surf crashed over his head, as though a tidal wave roared through the M’hir and tried to crush him. Morgan held his breath, fearing to drown. His image of Sira, his hold on the Fox were like strokes pulling him through the flood, powerful at first.
Yet each came harder than the one before, as if each stroke weakened him. Before he could falter, Morgan sought outward, tapping into the warm strangeness that marked the Power he now owned in this place. It responded, exploding through him, lifting him through the wave. Almost . . . almost...
The infusion of strength was gone. Morgan refused to give up, even as he felt his lungs screaming for air, felt his own life ebbing away . . . just a bit more . . . despair, as he knew he was sinking, his holds slipping away . . . Sira ...
A second flare of energy struck him, painful and raw, as if he burned inside. Morgan didn’t question its source. He added it to his own and pushed harder . . .
... opening his eyes to find himself in the copilot’s seat, the lights on the consoles blinking with the most peculiar normality, as though the Silver Fox journeyed through the M’hir every day. He rolled his head to one side. Symon was gone.
Morgan tried to get up, and found his hand trapped in a tight grip. Shocked, he looked down even as the other’s fingers loosened and fell away. “Ren?”
Symon was lying on the floor, head thrown back, eyes half-closed and leaking tears of blood. His breathing was ragged and caught as Morgan dropped to his knees beside him. Then another breath and, “Are we there yet?”
Mogan glanced up at the panel. The tracker signal was steady and green. He sagged with relief. “We made it,” he said unsteadily. “What were you thinking, Ren?”
“So that was the M’hir, huh?” Symon’s eyes opened a little more, red and swollen as if burst from inside. Sightless. “Can’t say I was impressed—ʺ he coughed.
“What did you do?” Morgan demanded, his voice hoarse. “Why?”
“Why? Owed you. Owed Sira. And you know what I did, Jason, better than anyone else. It’s what I did—to others. Seemed only fair to try it on myself, don’t yo
u think?”
With a sick certainty, Morgan did know. Symon had enjoyed killing this way, draining every particle of mental energy from a being, stealing what sustained life itself. The final energy that had brought them through the M’hir had been the theft of his own.
This was the price.
He held his hands above Symon, trying to summon some remnant of his Power, then clenched his fingers into fists when nothing happened. “Hang on, Ren—ʺ Morgan pleaded desperately. ”Hang on, Ren. I’ll get my strength back. I can help you—ʺ
“You’ve already done everything I needed. Jason. Jason.” Ren’s voice faded. His head turned from side to side as though searching for Morgan’s face.
Morgan rested his fingers on Symon’s forehead, doing his utmost to will away the pain, unable to do anything about his own grief. “I’m here.”
Stronger. “We did it, didn’t we? Showed those Clan.”
ʺYes. But . . .ʺ
“We showed them—but that has to be the end of it, Jason. You can’t do it again. You can’t tell anyone. Promise me. Any—” Symon coughed and spat blood, clearing his voice. “We both know what people will do to get what they want, Jason. This? Gods, if this gets out?” Another cough, the voice quieter, more strained. Morgan leaned closer. ”Are you willing to trade the stars—your freedom and hers—for some hole in the ground? Because that’s what it will take to hide from them. You promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Go. Save your Sira. Make this worthwhile.”
“I will—”
“Go.” Symon went so still Morgan reached for a pulse. He found it, then lost it just as words formed in Morgan’s mind, ghostly faint, the voice as familiar as his own:
Stay as Human as you can, Jason, for everyoneʹs sake.
And forgive me.
Chapter 24
I could forgive the Heerii. They’d only wanted to help their own kind. I could even forgive the Rugherans, since I had no real idea what they wanted.
But my imagination had definitely gone well beyond forgiveness. I stared at the side of the Silver Fox, close enough to touch, and knew I’d gone mad at last. It had just popped into existence, crushing a line of small trees, and stood there as impossible as ...
As impossible as hope. My body swarmed with song, pounding, irresistible. The Rugherans pulled at my tree, swinging me back and forth. Perhaps I’d conjured up the Fox to as the ultimate distraction, so I could end this existence with thoughts of my ...
The base of my tree disappeared in a gout of blaster fire, with the immediate consequence of my dropping to the ground through a spray of rapidly cooling ash. Rugherans collected their arms—seemingly none the worse for the blast—and moved back, leaving me lying sore and breathless on what I felt like a pile of rock. The Singer withdrew as well.
It had the feel of a very temporary reprieve.
Not that I cared at the moment, being too busy fending off an assault of another sort. Something or someone with hands was running them over my arms and legs as if I was unconscious, aggravating every tree-cramped muscle and new bruise I owned. “Stop that!” I snapped, wondering why this invisible someone hadn’t thought to bring a light. My eyes burned with the aftermath of the blast.
As if I’d said something completely different, the invisible someone made an incoherent noise before pulling me into an embrace so tight I could hardly breathe.
This was too much. I’d had more than enough of strange beings trying to intrude where only my Chosen was permitted. I squirmed and shoved my way free, hauling the keffle-flute case out of my shirt and doing my utmost to hit whomever this was somewhere painful.
Strong hands caught and held my flailing arms. The case dropped and I heard a rather desperate voice say: “Gods, Sira! It’s me!”
Morgan? I went still, unsure. The voice was familiar. But I couldn’t imagine having him touch me and not knowing it inside, where it mattered.
He must have felt something of my distress. His grip eased, but didn’t fall away. “I’ll get a light. ʺPlease, Sira. It’s me. Jason.”
My hair believed what I couldn’t. It flowed over my shoulders and down my arms to reach his hands, seeming to paralyze us both with the possibility of truth. My eyes began to adapt to the Rugherans’ glow and I puzzled out his silhouette against it. “I don’t sense you,” I whispered numbly.
The collar.
“Get the light,” I urged him, already hearing the Singer returning. “The Heerii put something around my neck to lock me from the Mʹhir—from you. You have to get it off before the Singer comes back.”
It must be my Human, for he didn’t ask or delay, simply rose and fired his blaster along the side of the Fox. The resulting glow of heated metal reflected from the Rugherans surrounding us. I saw what should be Morgan look around, the realization of our situation dawning on his face. It wasnʹt him and it was. My Power strained to know the truth; I feared it would find the Singer first. “Hurry!” I cried, putting my hands under the collar to lift it toward him
He went to his knees in front of me, the light from the Fox catching the impossible blue of his eyes as they met mine, then dropped to the collar. “Hold still,” he said. I felt the metal moving around my neck as he sought the opening.
“It takes a code to open it,” I said, trying to be helpful.
What should be Morgan nodded grimly at our surroundings—and company. “No time,” he replied. He altered a setting on his blaster, then picked up a piece of broken twig—hooking that under the necklace to pull it away from my skin.
Before I could do more than shout, ʺWhat do you—ʺ he fired the weapon.
I found out later the heat had scorched my neck and cheek, though my hair pulled itself out of danger. Later . . . because in that instant all I truly knew or cared was that Morgan, my Chosen, had reappeared in my mind as well as my arms.
There was no time for celebration either, after that one soul-deep embrace. I opened my thoughts to show Morgan what had happened with the Heerii and the Rugherans, what I knew of Drapskii. But when it came to sharing the Singer, I didn’t so much falter as I felt shame.
Don’t, he sent, with an undercurrent of understanding—and a hint of wicked amusement. I might have been starving, so rich was the feel of Morgan’s sending in my mind. His amusement I would deal with later. Know this, he sent in return, wisely avoiding any further comment on my own experiences, and passing along what he knew about the Drapsk.
First things first. I gathered my Power, relishing the freedom to do so, and restored what I could of Morgan’s. His Human strength was resilient, but even it had been tasked too severely to recover quickly enough. For once, he didn’t argue about the gift, probably sensing I was in no mood to be refused.
Guard me, my Chosen. Without further delay, I drove my thoughts outward, reaching and finding Rael.
Heart-kin!
What’s happening? I replied after the briefest possible reassurance.
Here! Her thoughts opened, clear and triumphant.
“Morgan!” I took his hand as I cut my connection to Rael, promising to come to her as soon as possible. “It’s Drapskii. Rael and Barac finished reconnecting it to the M’hir.” I smiled with relief. “It’s over.”
/attention/impatience/~disagreement~/determination/
I glared at the Rugherans.
“They don’t agree,” Morgan said unnecessarily. “And I thought you told me the Singer was still here.”
“This is their business, not ours.” I tried to pull him toward the Fox. He wouldn’t budge. I didn’t need the faint glow of the waiting aliens to know that stubborn look was on my Human’s face. “I can keep the Singer away,” I assured him. “I have always.”
“Have you?” No amusement this time.
/attention/curiosity/~!~/impatience/
“Of course I have. And as long as I don’t play—ʺ The words died in my throat as Morgan bent to retrieve my keffle-flute case. He opened it and took out the instrument. Its
high polish picked up the Rugherans’ fluorescence, producing tiny sparks. “What are you doing, Morgan?” I demanded.
/attention/satisfaction/~urgentcomplysubmit~/responsibility /
“What happens if she does?” Morgan asked almost idly.
Morgan! I sent, furious.
He winced, but shrugged. “It’s worth asking.”
/attention/joy/~survivalsuccesshomecoming~/joy/~!~/ gratitude/
“Who comes home?”
/attention/anger/~trappedprisonersconfined~/determination /
Unlike me, Morgan seemed to have no trouble following the Rugherans’ bursts of thought and emotion, turning this into some bizarre conversation. “Where are they now?”
/attention/anger/~trappedprisonersconfined~/determination /
ʺWhy?ʺ
The glow brightened, moved, as if the Rugherans heaved and pulsed like the M’hir when disturbed. The patterns on their bodies, I suddenly realized, reminded me of how I saw that other space.
/attention/sorrow/~invaders~/determination/
“The Drapsk?” I asked involuntarily, unsure who’d answer. “They weren’t native to Drapskii. Did they move into Rugheran territory without realizing it? Was Drapskii yours before?”
/attention/acquiescence/~urgentcomplysubmit~/ impatience/
Morgan ran his fingers along my unburned cheek. “I think I understand, Lady Witch.”
“I’m glad someone does,” I said ominously, sensing Morgan in full plotting mode.
“These fine beings want their colony—for lack of a better word—returned. Drapskii. Maybe it has resources they need, or stranded Rugherans living there. Or it’s what you’d call property in the M’hir. The Drapsk want their access to the Scented Way through Drapskii restored—access, I believe, the Rugherans have tried to block in an attempt to get back what they consider theirs.”
I’d have questioned his fast and furious interpretation if it hadn’t been for the immediate burst of /attention /gratification/~!~/determination/ that followed it.
To Trade the Stars Page 34
