Morgan felt Terk’s doubt as a tangible weight. Doubt of him—perhaps. Or of where they were going, for he’d been the one to arrange a face-to-no-face with the Drapsk. That it would take place in arguably the lowest of the dives that preyed on spacers? Couldn’t be it. The enforcer relished any place where fights promised smashed furniture and beer.
No, he decided. Terk had sent a squeal to Bowman, and she’d replied.
Now the enforcer fretted about the Clan.
Well he might. A Master Trader had to remember faces and Morgan had recognized both, however distorted by panic they’d been. He’d last seen them on Acranam, in the grand hall of Yihtor di Caraat, along with over a hundred of the faithful.
Gathered to watch their leader attempt to force Choice on Sira di Sarc.
The attempt had failed, in part because Morgan had arrived in time with Rael and Barac, but mostly because Yihtor hadn’t come close to being a match for Sira’s Power.
Morgan knew who the Clan were. As for how they’d escaped the Assembler attack? From what he’d seen—possibly by aiding it.
Implying these two were among the Clan who’d followed the di Caraats willingly. Lawless. Dangerous.
He’d kill them and send them where they belonged without a qualm, but if there were two—
“Can’t just be two,” Terk said abruptly.
Morgan snorted. “Sure you’re not a telepath?”
“Bad enough you are,” the other retorted. “So if there’s more, where’ve they been hiding?”
“These were taking a Scat ship. Maybe they’ve an arrangement.” Though it was difficult to imagine a species who loathed “mindcrawlers” more than the reptilian bipeds. Still. “There’s history. Roraqk worked with Yihtor.”
To kidnap Sira. He’d perished for that, as well as for those he’d killed on Plexis. A death Morgan did not regret.
Terk nodded. “’Nuff creds buys allies. Not that you’d trust the sort you can buy. Sira, now—” with a sideways glance, “—she did all right with Scats. Rek, wasn’t it? Might be worth making contact.”
While Sira’s bold ploy to pit one captor against another had gained Rek a ship of her own and earned the Scat’s respect, from what he knew of the species? “Rek has no reason to trust me or anyone else.” He fell silent as they passed a line of spacers waiting to enter a garishly painted door. Once clear, he continued, “Bowman’s got the ident for the Scat ship. Whatever else they’ve loaded, or if there are more Clan on board, that’s her call. We’ve our own job. The Drapsk have our box.”
“Dear Drapsk. Please give us what you stole from pirates. Yeah,” Terk spat into the gutter. “That’s going to work.”
“You could go back to your ship.”
The other feigned shock. “And let you go to the—where’re we going again?”
“The Raunchy Retian.”
“Great. A toad bar.” Terk rolled his eyes. “That settles it. Can’t let you go alone.”
They turned the corner and entered the entertainment district. Buildings leaned overhead, top floors wider than lower ones. There’d been a shower earlier in the night, sufficient to fill the gutters on every roof, but the resulting musical tinkle as drops hit the chimes suspended below hadn’t a chance against the bass thumping from the bars to either side.
Their destination wasn’t one of them.
Morgan led the way down an alley; the All Sapients’ District of Auord’s portcity was riddled with them, all, as far as he’d been able to tell, used for waste disposal. Piles of refuse crisscrossed their path. He smiled to himself when Terk swore and danced, his sandal having landed in some of it.
What lighting there was came from dim fixtures over widely spaced—and closed—doors, leaving pools of darkness between. Morgan twitched his wrist to drop a knife into his palm. Terk had something larger in his hand. They should be taken for recruiters, too dangerous to be targets.
But the desperate lived here. Morgan could hear them, moving among the bags and cans. If he lowered his mental shields, he could scan for any threatening intention, but that came with its own risk. There were species sensitive to the merest touch.
He might taste change before an attack.
Might not, just as easily. Useful as the Talent was, he didn’t trust his life to it. Instead, Morgan kept his head up and gaze ahead, aware Terk did the same. Beings of purpose, that broadcast, uninterested in whomever—whatever—lurked in the shadows.
That, combined with Terk’s distinctly intimidating self, got them to the stairs leading up to the bar without incident.
The Raunchy Retian did have a sign on the leftmost of its paired doors, of a sort. The name “Retian” had been scratched thin, with “Toad” scrawled overtop, but none of that species would care, being disinclined to venture from their mudball of a world and even less to participate in the sort of activities that had Terk eagerly reaching for the door handle.
The Humans paused inside to adjust their eyes. Far from dim, the interior of the bar blazed with an unfortunate number of portlights, making it easy to see clusters of wizened grapes were the main decor element. Retian eggs or close enough. Again, not a concern to their parents, who produced such offspring in massive streetside orgies once a year, leaving them to squirm their way into the swamps and grow. That Ret 7 had yet to suffer a population explosion spoke volumes about the challenges that growth posed.
It worked for them.
As the lights worked now. “No Drapsk yet,” Morgan shouted over the flutes.
Flutes in a spacer dive. Mind you, they were Ordnex flutes, resembling engine parts and requiring multi-jointed arms and fingers—which Ordnex had—to play. The sound produced was, Morgan had to admit, loud and rhythmic.
If you liked feeling trapped inside a water pump. A very large water pump. A pump having, he listened a moment then nodded, a vane about to fail.
To his ears, but The Raunchy Retian didn’t cater to humanoids. The only Human Morgan could see from this vantage, ten stairs up, midway between ceiling and floor, was Terk. The enforcer plunged joyfully through the multi-species’ crowd, using his shoulders to make a path to the bar—charmingly willing to offend any and all beings in the name of a good time.
Which they weren’t here to have, but as a cover for a clandestine meeting? Terk did have the locals fooled. Shaking his head, Morgan stepped down, then followed the walls around, slipping quietly between tables and booths. By the time he reached the bar, Terk had claimed an inordinate share of it, big elbows spread wide. “Waited for you,” he greeted, making room before raising a mug of beer to his lips.
Morgan leaned on the bar—some type of plas, pressed and colored to resemble, vaguely, wood—and kept his eyes on the entrance, the door in plain view over the various heads and body parts. No need to guess why the Drapsk had chosen this spot in the All Sapients’ District: it might not be clean or quiet, but the air was clear, free of the usual ysa-smoke and other overly shared contaminants.
Perfect for a species reliant on airborne chemical signals.
“What can I get you, Gentle Hom?” Deep that voice, with an underlying rumble.
Morgan turned to face the bartender, unsurprised to find a Brill. Male. Almost dainty, for his kind, being hardly bigger than Terk; a yellow apron printed with more purple egg clusters strained to cover his leathery bulk.
“This enough for a beer?” the Human asked, dropping a few coins of local currency on the bar.
The Brill swept them up with a click of ivory-tipped fingers. “Anywhere else, it gets you the door,” with a booming chuckle. “Lucky for you, tonight I have the soft spot for spacers.” Filling a mug to overflowing at the tap, the bartender held it just out of Morgan’s reach. “One,” he warned, then put it down in front of him.
“My thanks.” The Human inclined his head, a gesture their species shared. “I beg the honor of your true nam
e, good Brill, that I may record your kindness for my many progeny.” Terk’s eyebrow twitched upward.
“Grasis’ Glory!” the bartender boomed, appearing sincerely touched. “To find such manners in a Human!”
“I’ve manners, too, you know.” Terk raised his mug. “Cheers!”
“Ignorant pisspot, you are.” The Brill regarded Morgan, then smacked his thick lips, striking his chest with a curled fist. “Manouya am I!”
Had Terk’s mug paused midair? He must have imagined it, for the enforcer buried his face in the froth, slurping loudly in a demonstration of Human manners.
“Morgan.”
“‘Morgan.’” The bartender bent forward, rolls of blubber settling on the bar, small eyes oddly intent. “This is not a common name, on Auord. Should I know this name?”
The question set off alarm bells. Or was it the look? “I don’t think so,” Morgan said easily. “I only go to places like this when my little brother visits.”
Terk wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulders. “Mother worries he doesn’t socialize. All those children.”
The Brill reared back. “Humans,” it rumbled, going to serve another customer.
The arm tightened, drawing Morgan close. “That’s no bartender,” Terk whispered, low and urgent. “I’ve heard that name—”
Before Morgan could do more than tense, the music stopped.
The Humans, like everyone else, turned around to see why.
Drapsk.
The little beings poured down the stairs like a waterfall. At first glance, they resembled toys, the sort preferred by Human children, with round bodies of soft white, covered in what wasn’t quite bare skin, but not quite fur, and paired stubby arms and legs. But instead of a Human face, or a doll’s, a Drapsk had only a small round mouth, ringed in short, bright red tentacles. No nose. No ears. No eyes.
No need, Drapsk ably sensing their surroundings. Trade Pact xenospecialists longed to analyze the capabilities of those expressive, feathery antennae, a pair of which sprouted from each Drapsk head.
Plume color varied with tribal allegiance. The blue-green of these meant Heerii, but that was to be expected. When Morgan had last been on Drapskii, the Heerii had risen to “ascendance” over all others, including the Makii, who’d willingly taken on their coloration. It worked for Drapsk.
Antennae erect, the Heerii came down the stairs two by two, leaving room for the predictable stampede of customers vacating The Raunchy Retian. It wasn’t that Drapsk were known for violence, though each of these wore a belt with a blaster, holstered, to their left side.
It was how they filled a room to capacity.
Within minutes, the bar contained dozens of Drapsk, a solitary Ordnex snoring in a corner booth, and two Humans.
The Brill hurried around the bar, lifting the bottom of his apron in a shooing gesture. “Time to be gone,” he said briskly. “Closing up, Gentle Homs.”
“’M not done.” The enforcer added an eloquent belch as he leaned back and made himself comfortable.
“Why close?” Morgan picked up his mug. “Drapsk are excellent customers.”
Manouya’s cheeks puffed, squeezing his eyes into unreadable slits, but he didn’t press the matter.
As the rest of the Drapsk settled at tables and booths, easing the comatose Ordnex to the floor to make room, two of their number stepped to the bar, antennae aimed at those waiting. To Human eyes—most ocular types, for that matter—the beings were identical, but something familiar in the bearing of the rightmost caught Morgan’s attention.
Could it be? If so, the last time he’d encountered this particular Drapsk, its name had been Levertup, and those plumes the bright yellow of a Skeptic. Skeptics were Drapsk scientists and researchers; more importantly, they were an impartial judiciary, being—apparently—tribeless.
The opposite was true, as he and Sira had learned. A Skeptic underwent gripstsa, the switching of roles between pairs of Drapsk, until he had experienced every task important to a tribe. Following that, he would commit lar-gripstsa, to become a member of each tribe and learn their uniqueness. Only then was a Drapsk ready to reproduce, a process requiring the Scented Way, their planet Drapskii, and all other Skeptics: su-gripstsa.
A life cycle surely unique to Drapsk, though few sapient species willingly shared the details of theirs. Had the Drapsk not needed Sira’s help to reconnect Drapskii to the Scented Way—which had, coincidentally, made the Rugherans and their world, White, equally happy—theirs would still be a mystery. And remain unsuccessful.
Morgan, now overly versed in the intimate ways of Drapsk, had to admit their offspring—tiny balls with transparent antennae and those stubby limbs—were adorable to Human eyes, too.
If this individual was the Drapsk he’d known, however briefly, the being was learned, stubborn beyond his species’ norm, and they’d a shared history. Levertup had been Rael di Sarc’s Skeptic, assigned to watch over her as she’d tried to heal Drapskii.
One didn’t acknowledge a previous life role, but he’d been curious—long ago—and researched all he could about Drapsk, including their naming conventions. Taking the chance, Morgan bowed. “Captain Heevertup. Thank you for coming.”
All five tentacles popped into the Drapsk mouth, then out again, glistening with moisture. “I would not refuse your invitation.”
So he was—had been—Levertup. The tacit confirmation should have been gratifying; instead, it robbed Morgan of speech. This Drapsk had known Sira—worshipped her. Would expect her here, or involved.
How did he begin to—
“I arranged this meeting.” The Brill struck his chest. “Me!”
Not a bartender, Terk mouthed triumphantly.
The Drapsk on the left sucked a single tentacle into its mouth and chewed—reviewing facts, possibly. Or distracted. Heevertup oriented on the Brill. “You provided the location. By your clothing, you are its keeper. Please provide refreshments.”
Manouya tore off the apron, throwing it aside. “Help yourselves,” he boomed. “On the house.”
“This oughta be fun,” Terk commented under his breath.
No doubt having witnessed or contributed to his share of bar raids, Morgan thought, amused, but Drapsk weren’t typical spacers.
Hooting happily, the roomful of Drapsk organized themselves in a smooth flowing stream to go behind the bar. On passing the beverage shelves, each chose a container. Taller shelves were accessed by Drapsk lifting one another. Nothing was broken or disturbed. As they came away, their choice affixed to their mouths by their tentacles, the hooting changed to a satisfied gurgle.
The captain and the other who, at a guess, should be the Heerala’s first officer, waited in polite silence for the others to return to their seats.
Morgan collected himself. They’d a job to do. He exchanged looks with Terk, the sort of nonverbal intraspecies’ exchange unlikely to be interpreted by other sorts of being. Not that there were guarantees between any two of the same species, but they knew each other by now.
Well enough for Morgan to see Terk’s outward calm covered a rising excitement, one he guessed had nothing to do with an absent box of Clan crystals and everything to do with a new hunt: this Manouya.
The Brill, whomever he was, had to wait. Must wait. Morgan risked a quelling frown.
Terk grinned, all innocence.
Meaning they were no longer here for the same reason.
“Please begin, Gentle Homs.”
Captain Heevertup had commandeered a table, inviting the Humans and Brill to sit with him. The Brill had done so with the care of someone who’d learned not to trust the furnishings made by the less dense. The first officer stood beside his captain, still sucking that tentacle, as yet unintroduced. Heerii manners, Morgan reminded himself. The tribe tended to secrets.
“If you would,” the Drapsk captain indicated
Terk.
The big Human spread empty hands. “Ask him.” With a nod at Morgan.
Morgan assumed a confident air, smiling at the Drapsk. The smile was for those with eyes; the little beings would detect whatever chemical signaling accompanied it. “My colleague and I—” he wasn’t letting Terk off that easily, “—are here in search of a particular item, honored Captain. One we believe you may be able to acquire for me. I’ve brought a sample.” He brought forth the crystal and put it on the table, holding it in place with a finger.
The upper third of Heevertup’s antennae bent toward the crystal, blue-green plumes drooping down. They fluttered, sending a tiny breeze to raise the hairs on the back of Morgan’s hand. On impulse, he rocked the crystal back and forth, fascinated as the antennae of both Drapsk waved in gentle synchrony.
The beings were sensitive to the Scented Way, or rather to any change in it. They’d reacted involuntarily to what the Clan, or he, did there. Could they confirm what, or who the crystals held? “I’ve heard there are more, on Auord.”
The tentacle, now pale, popped out of the first officer’s mouth with a spray of saliva. “Such items are unavailable. They were acquired for another client.”
“Who?” Terk demanded.
Subtle he wasn’t. Before the assembled Drapsk did more than stiffen with offense, Morgan intervened. “My colleague and I know the Heerii would never reveal such confidential information. We are curious why you’d come to this meeting, if your goods are spoken for.”
“To gauge the market,” the first officer said at once. “One must set a price reflective of demand.”
And, no doubt, to identify who was in the market. Traders, indeed. About to continue, Morgan paused. Heevertup’s antennae struggled to stay erect. He didn’t agree, that suggested, but wouldn’t overrule the other. About the pricing—or why they were here?
“I can’t imagine you would waste our time. Surely there’s room to negotiate,” Morgan suggested, looking at the captain. “It’s possible, is it not, your clients would be amenable to selling a portion, for the right price. You’d be acting, as Drapsk are famed to do, in their best interests.” Drapsk prided themselves on knowing what customers wanted before they did—and obtaining it. Until today, he’d assumed legally, though the Drapsk he’d known would consider liberating cargo from Scats a public service.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 8
