To Guard Against the Dark

by Julie E. Czerneda

  If, as seemed probable, they acquired the entire ship’s complement, Morgan thought wryly, at least the Heerala couldn’t take off with them on board.

  Captain Heevertup walked beside him. When Morgan broached the subject of their “clients,” the Drapsk would interrupt to point out this feature or that. As suited a tribe in ascendance, it turned out, the Heerii had the latest and finest ship in the Drapsk fleet, incorporating a host of improvements. “We are much faster now,” the being said modestly. “It is a secret how much, you understand, Jason Morgan.”

  The Human raised an eyebrow. “Until you put into your next port.”

  A hoot of a laugh. “We are observed, that is true, and envied. But we would never use our full potential on ordinary passages.”

  Implying the Heerala was something other than a trade ship. All Drapsk ships were armed, something they freely admitted, it being impolite not to inform those who might otherwise contemplate a violent interception in a quiet corner of space. Morgan hadn’t heard they’d begun to actively pursue conflict. Making this a courier, perhaps.

  Making these “clients” more interesting than ever. The Human took a long step to put himself in front of the Drapsk and stopped. Huido did the same.

  That forty other Drapsk collided softly into the Carasian couldn’t have been an accident.

  “Captain Heevertup. Is there anything you can tell me about your clients—this Consortium you mentioned? It’s important.” Morgan lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  “I understand.” The Drapsk touched the bracelet on Morgan’s wrist. “All I can tell you, Jason Morgan, is that they trust you, and they trust very few.” His antennae fluttered. “As I hope you trust us.”

  So the mystery deepened. He hadn’t the remotest idea what trust meant to the Drapsk or their clients. Whether based on knowledge of his actions or his reputation, did their version of trust translate to confidence in him?

  Or in his predictability?

  In either case, this faceless Consortium had a use for him. The crystals. It would help if he’d a clue whether they knew the danger they posed, or didn’t and were content to dump that part of the cargo on a foolish Human willing to pay handsomely indeed for rocks.

  With Bowman’s voucher.

  Just once, Morgan thought, he’d like to go into these things with all the players labeled: good, bad, don’t bother us we’re busy.

  “I do,” he said with a small bow and waved the captain onward. “My thanks.”

  Shortly afterward, they arrived at a curved, featureless wall. The Drapsk spread out along it, leaving a section open. When the captain approached, the section folded itself into the floor and disappeared.

  A door unlike any Morgan had seen. Judging by the thickness of the wall now forming its frame, a blast-capable door.

  Sized for Huido.

  “Fancy,” the Carasian commented, eyestalks spinning as he lumbered through. “Why don’t we have these?”

  “Because we don’t have a ship,” Morgan reminded him.

  On the other side was a spacious, relatively standard cargo hold, with plas crates and bundles prepped for lift with ample tie-downs and nets. Oddly, those appeared to be of the same material—and pink—as the walls. Because they grew from them, he realized, impressed. No other doors, but having seen one appear, Morgan supposed the Drapsk could open their hold anywhere that worked for the task at hand.

  As opposed to shifting mountains of cargo in order to access the one crate you hadn’t expected to ever sell that suddenly became the deal maker—if you could get to it in time. ’Porting had, Morgan recalled, significant advantages in such situations.

  Drapsk spilled into the cargo hold after them, stopping before crossing a line the Human couldn’t see. The captain and another Drapsk, wearing a harness supporting a variety of tools and presumably the hold supervisor, continued on with Morgan and Huido, their goal a stack that looked familiar, indeed.

  “This is it,” the supervisor stated, tapping a bar against what was, this close, a Retian-made stasis box, the extra-large sort they used to export fresh Brexk, complete with a broker’s seal of inspection.

  “It’s not meat. Yet,” Huido observed pragmatically.

  Morgan crouched to study the control panel. Standard, as it had to be. “From this, the system’s up and running.” Straightening, he regarded the box thoughtfully. “Doesn’t make sense.” True, as he’d told Terk, smugglers liked using Brexk, but who’d use a living one? Revived, it would do its utmost to gore and trample whatever was in reach.

  “Tastes better fresh,” his friend offered. “If you like Brexk.” What Huido had been hoping for, reasonably given the decor of The Raunchy Retian, were Retian eggs. He’d been hinting about food ever since.

  “Brexk wasn’t on our clients’ list,” the captain volunteered. “They expressed no interest in it, making this item available for purchase.”

  Morgan nodded absently, his fingers trailing along the top of the box. The tech was no different from the tripboxes used to transport the ill or by recruiters to ship their unwilling cargo. The Clan were involved, with all that implied. If he used his other awareness, what—who would he find?

  He lifted his hand away. “We have to open it.”

  Tentacles popped into mouths. The cargo hold filled with the sound of sucking Drapsk.

  The Human looked down at the captain. “Trust me, Captain. This is no ordinary cargo. Whatever’s inside is wanted by very dangerous individuals.” Manouya. Acranam’s renegades. A toss-up who was worse. “We need to know what it is.”

  One set of tentacles popped out again. “It looks ordinary. If we don’t open it, it stays that way. We’ll keep it safe,” Captain Heevertup proposed. “Or you can buy it—” suggestively, “—and keep it safe yourself.”

  Drapsk logic, Morgan noticed, but to find the Clan, they needed to move ahead with Bowman’s plan: trace an item the Clan wanted.

  With a modification, he decided, glancing involuntarily at Huido. Several eyes swung his way. Suspicious, that was.

  Rightly so. The Carasian wasn’t going to like this, at all.

  “Manouya left an address. We’ll substitute something of our own for what’s inside, then reseal the box, well enough to pass a smuggler’s inspection—not a Port Jelly’s, mind you, but someone who knows the work. When you deliver it to Manouya, it mustn’t appear to have been tampered with.”

  For everyone’s sake.

  The captain turned to the tool carrier as if to ask a question.

  Instead, they stepped close, tentacles disappearing in one another’s mouths.

  Gripstsa. The change of place. Morgan glanced around quickly, relieved to see none of the other Drapsk had paired.

  When these two were done, however, the Heerala would have a new captain.

  “Couldn’t have waited,” Huido grumbled.

  “We can start without them. Keep watch.” They were, after all, surrounded by Drapsk who were alert and paying rapt attention.

  A claw rose. “For them or an angry Brexk?”

  “Anything.”

  Huido easily split his attention, but most of his eyes remained on Morgan. “What are you up to?”

  Before answering, Morgan keyed the box to revive its contents; otherwise fail-safes would prevent any attempt to open it. A display showed a sphere rapidly diminishing in size. “Manouya can detect Bowman’s toys. That leaves one way to follow this shipment to the Clan.”

  “No.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

  “You want to be put in there?! In stasis?”

  “‘Want,’ no.” The Human shrugged. “I don’t see another option.”

  “That isn’t an option. You can’t be serious. I am not—” Huido’s voice rose in a crescendo, sending several Drapsk into eopari. “—putting you in there
!”

  The Human rapped a gentle knuckle on his friend’s carapace. “I can climb in myself, thanks. You’ll set the auto-revive, so I’ll be awake and ready before the box is opened.”

  “Or awake too soon, and you’ll use up the air and die. This is—” with an offended rattle, “—the worst idea you’ve ever had. And what about the crystals?”

  “You know where I’ve been living,” Morgan grinned. “Take care of them for me.”

  Huido stared as if lost for words.

  The sphere flashed: the halfway point. Morgan used the tip of his force blade to slice the inspector’s seal, making as straight a cut as possible. Mist ghosted out along the incision, sliding cold down the sides of the box. He kept his hands clear of it; the chemical was potent until reacting with air.

  The sphere vanished, the screen going dark. Cycle complete, the lid cracked. With a sigh of mist, it rose, swinging up and away.

  “Stand clear!” Weapons hummed, Huido prepared for a charging Brexk.

  When nothing large and hairy heaved itself out, Morgan stepped forward, peering into the box. A form lay inside, humanoid. Tubes connected it to additional boxes within the cavity, explaining the need for so large a box.

  He’d fit. First, though, who was this? He waited impatiently for the last of the cloying mist to evaporate.

  Then the features became clear: eyelids and lips sewn shut. Hair shaved. None of it disguised a face he’d known both in nightmares and awake. The name escaped his lips before he could stop it.

  “Yihtor.”

  “He’s back?!” Huido pounced, claw raised.

  Morgan jumped in his path, holding up both hands. “Wait!”

  The serrated deadly claw snapped a hairbreadth from his nose as the Carasian shuddered to a stop. Eyes converged, perplexed. “Wait?! Why?” Deeper. “We hate him.”

  “This isn’t him.” Morgan waved behind at the box. “It’s what’s left: an empty husk.” The mind was gone, wiped by Jarad and the Clan Council. Sira’d believed Yihtor—what was left—had been dropped in the M’hir. They all had. “The Retians must have taken the body and kept it alive,” he said, gorge rising in his throat.

  The species had no pair bonds, reproducing in an instinct-driven mass event. Perhaps that was why the complex strategies of others held such fascination for them; for some Retians, verging on obsession. Baltir was the Retian who’d worked with Jarad di Sarc, their plan to use material from Yihtor to produce viable offspring from Sira. He hadn’t known—who could—that Clan reproduction required the M’hir as well.

  If the remaining Clan wanted Yihtor’s still-living flesh, odds were they hadn’t learned any better—

  “Jason.” Huido’s eyestalks shot erect, staring over his shoulders. “It’s no husk.”

  Morgan turned slowly.

  Despite the tubes, impossibly, the body was sitting up. Its blinded face moved as though sniffing the air. A frustrated groan erupted from the chest, then—

  —a scrabble at his mind!

  Jumping back, Morgan slammed down his shields to rebuff the attempted contact.

  No—it couldn’t be.

  But was. He knew the foul taste of Yihtor’s mind. The Clansman had attacked his in search of Sira, using pain and fear to rape his memories. To save them both, he’d retreated, hiding so deeply inside himself he’d needed Rael’s help to return.

  “What is it?” Huido boomed anxiously. Then, angrily, “Let me end this!”

  Breathing hard, Morgan shook his head and managed not to shudder. They needed answers—he did.

  He spoke to the box. “You were gone.”

  And oh, the horror of that blinded face nodding.

  Then the wreck uttered another groan. Softer. Despairing.

  A plea.

  Yihtor gone—and back again. From what little Sira had been able to tell him about the Clan and AllThereIs, this wasn’t how it worked. “Your body,” Morgan guessed, his heart pounding with dread. “It brought you back.”

  Another nod. With that effort, Yihtor slumped over the edge, blood from his abused arms drawing lines down the side of the box.

  They’d been enemies. But what had been done to him—Morgan went close.

  Huido’s protest was loud and nonverbal.

  “He’s no threat,” the Human said. “If I’m wrong, take care of it.”

  His fingers brushed skin, chill and clammy, then Morgan released a cautious tendril of thought.

  Only to be seized by uncountable hands!

  Interlude

  An Undisclosed Location

  A FOOT FIDGETED.

  It wasn’t alone.

  A hand twitched. Nearby, more amorphous shapes paced on their cilia bases, while what was—or appeared—a Human head moved its lips. “Not fair. Not right. Not fair. Not right.”

  Whomever thought a box was a good way to travel hadn’t been cooped up for days with the most disagreeable company.

  “Hate you, too,” a “knee” subvocalized, for not even the head could make sound alone. “Always uppity.”

  “I have to be up,” the head snapped back.

  Five other Assemblers subvocalized a chant of “Uppityuppity hadagreatfall.” It being an undisputed drawback of the topmost position.

  “Bah.” The head formed eyes just to close them. They’d arrive soon. Choiola wanted Mathis Dewley back on Plexis. To set the trap for the First. They would be he. He would succeed!

  Let others group with failures and lesser ambitions. They would learn the news and swarm to this nexus.

  The prospect was enough to make the head want to smile.

  “Uppityuppityhadagreatfall!”

  Almost.

  Chapter 9

  ...HANDS PULLING HIM into the M’hir!

  Somehow, he tore himself free. But this wasn’t where he belonged . . .

  . . . before, he’d seen the M’hir as though standing on a beach bordered by an unending ocean of black. An ocean at times wild and deadly; at other, rarer moments, smooth as obsidian.

  Always, before, an ocean touched by her light—for Sira had been that, here, so brilliant it was hard to look at what she was, keeping him safe with her presence.

  No longer. This version of the M’hir was a tidal bore, dragging him through the DARK, stealing what wasn’t breath but was life . . .

  Hands gripped him again, pushing him forward . . . and what was that?

  Did they sing?

  . . . Morgan gasped, feeling air fill his lungs again.

  “What happened? Did that crasnig hurt you again?”

  “No,” he whispered, holding out his hand to keep the frantic Carasian in place. “I don’t know what just happened, but it wasn’t Yihtor. Not—alone.”

  “Danger—”

  “No. I think—I think he’s a messenger,” he concluded softly. Morgan laid his palm flat along the other’s forehead. I’m listening.

  Morgan. The powerful, overbearing mindvoice he’d known was whisper-thin, almost desperate. Find Rael.

  Sira’s sister? She’s dead. Here. No telling what the Clansman understood in this state. You’re in the Trade Pact.

  Find Rael. Find HER—

  Morgan removed his hand. Yihtor was unconscious; he knew better than pry into such a well-schooled and protected mind. He roused himself. The Drapsk had moved closer, drawn by the use of Power. The last thing they needed was for them to take an interest in Yihtor’s future. “Contact Terk, Huido. Our friend here needs the medbay on the Conciliator.” A ship crewed by those with implants, not that Yihtor posed that type of threat.

  “Shouldn’t we let him—ah—go where he belongs?” the Carasian questioned, eyes aimed at the Drapsk, too.

  Without treatment, the Clansman would die. As Rael hadn’t, it seemed, not yet, despite Sira being touched by her sister’s mind fr
om AllThereIs.

  Not dead enough, then.

  “We need him,” Morgan stated, numb inside. To learn what else, if anything, he’d come to say. A guide, if they were lucky, to the Acranam Clan.

  Most of all, to help Rael, heart-kin to him as well as Sira. He made himself grin at the Carasian. “There’s good news. I won’t be going in the box.”

  Huido gave a suspicious rattle. “Where will you be going?”

  To do what Yihtor asked. “Hunting.” He’d find Rael di Sarc’s body.

  And end it, setting her free at last.

  Morgan pretended to stagger, using the motion to sweep the alley with keen eyes. Now, more than ever, caution mattered.

  Once certain he was alone, he shifted the boards covering the basement access he’d found and eased through the gap. The building above was a Turrned Missionary, busy only at mealtimes. Neither the Turrneds nor those they fed appeared to know there was a floor beneath.

  He replaced the boards and waited in the dark, listening. Once sure he hadn’t been followed, Morgan activated a small handlamp and made his way down. There weren’t stairs, not anymore. A previous tenant had left a rickety ladder propped in the stairwell, a ladder Morgan stowed away before daring to sleep.

  Uninvited guests were welcome to fall. Not that he’d had guests.

  Morgan took hold of the rusty door handle and lifted before pushing inward. The door moved without a sound. Someone who didn’t know the trick to it would find the door shrieked like a Skenkran launching from a height.

  Ladders. Hinges. Sometimes the lower the tech, the better.

  Door closed, he ordered up the portlight. The room was five paces wide and twelve long, walled in old stone and plaster, its low ceiling cluttered with abandoned plumbing and dusty webs. A threadbare mattress leaned against one wall.

  The only other furnishing was a crate he’d used as a table, presently home to a box that hadn’t been there when he left.

  The Drapsk, ever capable, had known where he lived after all.

  Costly work, the box; almost as long as his arm, made of real wood with inlays of semiprecious stones. He’d seen it before, in Sira’s memories, and expected what he found inside: cloth-lined compartments, sixteen of them. Nine housed crystals, similar but unique in color and wear. Reaching into his pocket, Morgan drew out the one Terk had liberated and dropped it into a slot.