—but they were over as soon as they’d begun. In the aftermath, few wanted to admit what they’d lost, fewer still what they hadn’t. Curators on several worlds retired their costly “Hoveny” displays and looked for new jobs.
What had happened? Speculation was rampant, whether secret or in public. The Hoveny built with materials no one in the First or the Trade Pact yet understood, but if they’d a finite lifespan, where were the products of that decay? If, as Turrned missionaries preached, the former Hoveny Concentrix was cursed, why this consequence? And why now?
Unknown to the rest, heedless to the order of universes and consequence, was another opinion entirely.
/~!~/anticipation/~!~/
Trade Pact Space
Chapter 1
STARS.
Fingers interlaced, her hair stroking his cheek, they’d walked the nights of ninety-nine worlds. Floated in space to watch planets spin. Lain naked on mossy ground, lost in one another, under so many stars—
Those had been real. These couldn’t be. The ceiling lay beneath a covering of formed concrete, plas, and a significant amount of natural stone, a roof he’d built to keep out more than the night sky. Could be a dune curling overtop as well, it being sandstorm season.
Yet, still, stars twinkled overhead, wheeling in formation as if he watched them through time.
A dream. That was it. He shut his eyes, fingers straying to the cool metal band around his wrist. Touch seemed odd, for a dream.
He opened his eyes. Looked up. Surely only in a dream could a segment of that starry scape flex . . .
Bend . . .
Lean down, closer and closer, those stars about to crush him—
/need/~location?~/urgency/
For the— “No more!” he shouted, furious. “Get out of here!”
A heavy arm—something arm-ish—plopped across his chest and slid away. Jason Morgan squirmed in the opposite direction. “On! On full!”
The portlights obeyed, blazing into every corner of the room.
He was alone.
“I heard you the first time.” Huido Maarmatoo’kk emphasized the “first.” “A Rugheran was on your ceiling. The starry kind, like the ones you saw on Cersi, not the dark greasy kind here. Your shout woke me from a most pleasant dream, you know.” A sigh like rain on plas.
His hands wanted to tremble. Morgan wrapped them around his warm cup, guiding it to his lips with care. The kitchen felt strange. Too bright. He hadn’t, he thought abruptly, sat at this table for—he hadn’t, since, that was it. Hadn’t left his quarters.
Hadn’t bothered to move, in case it hurt. Fine plan, that was. All of him hurt.
Most of him stank.
Not that it mattered.
“Yesterday, you saw a Rugheran in the accommodation. You shouted then, too. And threw a jar of something at it, making a mess, at which point it disappeared. Can’t say I blame it.”
Morgan glowered through the steam at his companion. Gleaming black eyeballs, each on their stalk, lined the opening between the gently pulsing disks that served as a head. Unblinking eyeballs. He should know better by now than try to stare down a Carasian. “It’s not my imagination. They travel through—” the M’hir, he almost said, and flinched. “They don’t use doors. You know that. They’re here and they’re real.”
Unlike what else he saw when alone: the curve of a smile, the luxurious flood of red-gold hair, somber gray eyes flashing with sudden heat—
Sira.
Always, always, no matter how he tried to stop there, stay, the ending followed. The furious boil of waves on an unreal beach—
Her fingers, letting go—
That hollow, inside, where she’d been.
He’d curl into a ball and shiver until he fell asleep or passed out, always cold. So very cold—
A soft chink as clawtips met under his nose. Morgan refocused. “What?” He tried not to snap, wearily grateful Huido bore with his tempers and accepted his silence. He wasn’t ready to talk.
They hadn’t spoken in what might be days, come to think of it.
Something was different. He blinked. His friend’s massive carapace was peppered with gleaming metal fragments, between the usual hooks for weaponry, the fragments from a groundcar that had exploded too close. Huido’d removed the largest to keep as souvenirs—but that wasn’t it.
The black shell was a maze of fresh scrapes and gouges, some deep. “What happened to—” Morgan’s voice broke. Gods. “What did I do?” a whisper.
“You weren’t yourself,” Huido informed him. The big alien eased back, wiggling the glistening pink stub of what had been his largest claw. “Nor am I. After molt, I will be magnificent once again! We need more beer.” In a confiding tone, “Beer speeds things up.”
He’d hit bottom, that’s when they’d last spoken. When he’d—Morgan’s face went stark with grief. “I cursed you. Ordered you to leave.”
“Bah. Why would I listen? Your grist wasn’t right.” The intact claw, capable of severing his torso in half, tugged gently at his hair. “Better. Still stinks.”
“I attacked you.” Morgan remembered it all now, too well. He’d been wild, raving. Huido had squeezed himself into the door opening to seal him in his quarters. Morgan had struck out with whatever was in the room—until he’d collapsed, sobbing, at Huido’s feet.
Eyestalks bent to survey the marks. “You tried,” the Carasian corrected smugly, then chuckled. “I’m glad you didn’t hurt yourself.”
Morgan reached up. After a second, the centermost cluster of eyes parted, and deadly needlelike jaws protruded, tips closing on his hand with tender precision. “Huido—”
The jaws retracted and Morgan found himself reflected in a dozen shiny black eyes. “The past.” The lower claw snapped. “The present! Why are the Rugherans here?”
The Human dropped his gaze, staring into the sombay. “They’re looking for—” His sigh rippled the liquid. “For her.”
“To the Eleventh Sandy Armpit of Urga Large with them!” Huido roared, shaking dishware and hurting Morgan’s head. “Tell them I said so!” After a short pause, he went on in his normal voice. “You can talk to them, can’t you?”
“I don’t want to.” It sounded sullen even to him, but Morgan couldn’t help that, any more than he couldn’t help but hear the Rugherans: their matrix-like speech, emotion blended with single words or the simplest of phrases, flooded his mind despite his tightest shields. Cruel, to come to him here—
—where he came for peace.
It hadn’t always been so. The first time Morgan set foot on Ettler’s Planet, he’d been dumped there. His own fault, having yet to gain the most rudimentary knowledge of what offended non-Humans. The Trants could have removed his limbs for suggesting—well, being dumped had been the best option, suffice it to say, and one reason he’d gone on to learn everything he could about the manners of others.
That sorry day, he’d prided himself on a close escape. Instead, he’d been left in the worst place for a telepath, even one of his latent ability, for this world’s Human population contained more than its share of the minimally Talented: those whose thoughts leaked constantly, without self-awareness or restraint. Morgan’s natural shields protected his mind from others.
He didn’t know how to keep their minds out of his.
Half-maddened by the bedlam, somehow Morgan had taken an aircar and flown out into the desert, unable to stop until he reached quiet.
There—here—he’d stayed to recover. Only Huido had been welcome, the painful maelstrom of Carasian thought patterns at a level easy to avoid.
Later, healed, and having traded with Omacrons, non-Human telepaths, for their mind-shielding technique, Morgan was able to protect himself. In space, in the Fox, he hadn’t needed shields at all.
With Sira, he’d wanted none. Her thoughts had been his
—her mindvoice the last he’d heard. The last he ever wanted to hear. He’d never open his mind to another’s again.
Till the Rugherans, who had no right—
The Human set down his cup. It tipped, spilling dark liquid. Unfair. Huido kept the kitchen spotless. “I’ll get that.” He rose and was forced to grip the table to steady himself. It took longer than he remembered, walking to the counter, and he had to concentrate: pick up the wipe, return, clean the mess.
Eyestalks twisted, following his slow progress. “You need a molt, too.”
“Wish I could.” Something about molting— “Order as much beer as you want.”
A chuckle. “Fear not, my brother, I’ve taken care of it—and a case of Brillian brandy, for variety.” A less happy, “If not the storms.” The Carasian loathed sand, claiming grains worked into the seams of his shell. He cheered. “While we wait, I could take care of your unwanted visitors.” With a disturbingly coy tilt of his carapace, Huido indicated the weapons, most illegal even here in the Fringe, housed on the pot rack.
Morgan shook his head. “Let them poke around till they’re satisfied.” No need to point out the unlikelihood of any weapon affecting beings of the M’hir.
As for the Rugherans’ reaction . . . should more than a jar be tossed at them?
He’d prefer not to—
The kitchen tilted. The Human lurched into his chair, sending the rest of his sombay, and cup, to the floor. He cursed under his breath. A newly hatched Skenkran was stronger. “What’s wrong with me?” under his breath.
Shiny black eyes converged on him, then aimed idly—and simultaneously—anywhere else: the weapon-containing pot rack, the ceiling, the floor, the walls.
Done it to himself, that meant.
Morgan let out a slow breath, tasting the stink on it, the truth. He’d ignored his body’s needs. Refused food. Drank himself to sleep. Refused to move. He’d a vague memory of feeling the pinch of shots. Stims, likely.
For how long?
Judging by the tremor in his hands, it could have been weeks.
Neglect? Cowardice. He winced. Hadn’t he told Sira: Let go and live?
Hadn’t she asked the same promise of him?
Shouldn’t have taught her to be a trader, he told himself, meaning not a word.
Morgan summoned his remaining strength and stood. “Tomorrow,” he announced.
One eyestalk swiveled back to him.
“Tonight, then.” Three more joined the first. Doubt, that was. “Some supper—just not—make anything,” he capitulated. “I’ll eat it.” No guarantees it would stay down.
The full force of the Carasian’s gaze returned. “At the table?”
“Don’t rush me.” The Human pretended to squint at the lights. “Too bright. And the Rugheran ruined my sleep.”
But his lips cracked, stretched by the ghost of a smile. The first—since.
Interlude
Plexis
PLEXIS SUPERMARKET sped through the fringes of Trade Pact space, its myriad stores and services offering far-flung customers whatever they could desire—and afford. The only resemblance the former asteroid refinery bore to its previous incarnation was a thick, scarred outer hull, festooned with starship docking ports.
That the largest scar had been made when a pirate ship had torn itself free of lawful connections, spilling atmosphere and hard-working staff into vacuum, merely meant Sakissishee—Scat—ships were requested to park at the aft end of the station, where the bulkhead was reinforced and security had extra bite.
Not that other options hadn’t been considered. The Trade Pact frowning on Sapient-specific bans, Plexis had designated the Scat preferred food item as a noxious pest—that hadn’t lasted either, since it was and no one cared. In the end, practicality ruled. Why? If Plexis banned every alien race who misbehaved, it’d be out of business in a standard day. No, better to absorb the bumps that came with being an open market.
Though it meant repairing the damage done to a famous restaurant for a second time.
Leaving the repair crew to their own devices—after all, they were probably the ones who’d been here the last time, Humans being impossible to tell apart, and likely knew better than he what needed to be done—the Carasian hurried down the just-opened corridor behind the Claws & Jaws’ kitchen.
At last.
An elbow scraped a line in the fresh paint along one wall. He paused to eye it worriedly. Should he fix it? Could he?
Later. He continued to the door, rocking a little on his spongy feet. If his handling claw trembled as it neared the shiny new keypad?
No shame there. He’d good reason. So many that he’d lost sleep these past weeks. Behind this door? Everything he’d ever wanted.
He’d only to key in the code.
His very own code, Tayno Boormataa’kk thought with delight, the silly Humans doing the renovations unable to tell one mighty Carasian male from another.
And it was his restaurant now, wasn’t it? Huido had left him in charge. Of all it contained.
Which included a pool. A pool filled with wives.
The keypad flashed a familiar orange. Refused.
No. It wasn’t possible. He’d been clumsy. Hasty.
Lonely, neglected wives, Huido having deserted them to aid his Human friend, not that Tayno found fault or would ever suggest or think to himself in any way whatsoever that the formidable Jason Morgan, with his uncanny ability to tell them apart, wasn’t worthy.
Opportunity being rare, it mustn’t, Tayno thought cheerfully, be missed.
With exaggerated care, he reentered the code. He rose to his full height, greater claws outstretched, but tactfully closed, eyestalks alert. All the practice before mirrors, the polish, had led to this splendid pose. He’d impress his new wives. They would accept him—
The code pad blinked. The door to his dreams opened.
Vacuum sucked him forward.
Tayno’s dismayed cry was lost as klaxons sounded the alarm. Just as he was about to be pulled through the doorway into the chasm beyond, his claws, still out in rigid display, caught the doorframe to either side and stopped his forward motion.
A disadvantage to the pose he hadn’t considered—
The door swooshed shut. Tayno staggered back, eyestalks spinning.
The alarm ceased.
“Tsk. We haven’t fixed that yet, Hom Huido,” the Human informed him, reaching past to slap a yellow sticker over the keypad. One of the workers from the kitchen. Or the construction foreman. Male. Maybe.
“There was a room—” the Carasian pleaded.
“There was a docking port,” the Human corrected, “with an autonomous lifepod.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “Must have evacuated during the, ah, incident.”
The attack by those small nasty things. Tayno sank down, claws sagging to the floor, his misery boundless. The wives were gone.
The Human waved a noteplas at the nearest of Tayno’s eyes.
“What is it?” he asked listlessly. Why wouldn’t the creature leave him alone? Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
“We’ve orders to restore everything. Means you get a new lifepod in there.” He closed the skin over one eye for no reason. “Plexis is paying.”
Restore meant make things the same as before—they’d said that repeatedly to him during the work on the kitchen. He’d have a pool?
Tayno surged erect, sending the Human back a few paces. With a pool, he could attract his own wives!
An outcome, he reflected in a burst of rare common sense, surely safer than his original plan, should Huido return for his own.
“Do that!” Tayno ordered. “Build it again, but make mine much bigger—no—wait.” Huido’s pool had successfully attracted wives; he wouldn’t take chances. “It must be exactly the same.”
“It would have to be,” t
he Human pointed out. “Plexis has the specs.”
“Wait. You must finish the restaurant first. What is your name? Can you make sure?”
“Mathis Dewley. I’ll do what I can for you, Hom. It’d be a pleasure.” With that startling facial grimace Huido insisted was friendly.
Why, he’d found a Human friend of his own! Tayno managed not to rock with delight. “Hom Dewley,” he repeated with care. He’d write that down. “The restaurant must open as soon as possible. And must be successful. I must be very successful!”
Carasian females being selective about their retirement prospects.
“I’ll inform the crew.”
Before his wonderful, helpful new Human friend could escape, Tayno blocked the way with a quick claw. “One more thing—
“I’ll need a cook.”
Noteplas tossed into the first dispenser, Mathis Dewley walked through the kitchen. He pushed through the group of Neblokan, costing them their combined grip on an awkward section of new countertop. It dropped, cracking in two.
The seniormost spit after him. The green blob struck the back door as it closed, sticking in a mass of odorous bubbles. Thwarted, the seniormost spun to turn its ire—and spit—on subordinates only to discover they’d beat a sensible retreat into the restaurant.
Dewley went down the short corridor, stepping without hesitation into a machine world.
The tunnel access, like others threaded throughout Plexis, connected every permanent rent-paid-in-full establishment with automated services, from servo-freight to disposal. “Better be on time,” Dewley muttered darkly. “Better be as promised.” He moved between waste canisters, busy chewing their contents, eyed a flying messenger, then chose a slow-moving servo-controlled cart. Taking hold of a handle, he let the cart lead him through similar traffic, reserving his full attention for the tracker cradled in his left palm.
At its flash, he laughed and jumped on top of the cart, crushing bags of spun Detin sugar as he turned to take position.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 2
