From what he’d learned from the Om’ray, these housed the Adepts of a Clan, their knowledge preserved as well as the individual. Or they could be empty orbs, waiting for use.
Or were, as Terk succinctly put it, junk. Morgan closed the lid and prepared to ’port the things into the M’hir and be rid of them.
Only to pause, fingers curling together in midair. He didn’t know; that was the problem. Acting out of ignorance was a guarantee of trouble.
He put the box into his carryroll with the rest of his belongings. He’d never unpacked, not here, and it was time, now, to go.
First—
Morgan grabbed the top corner of the mattress and pulled it from the wall, easing it to the floor. The portlight came to hover, as it had many times before, at his shoulder, illuminating the wall beyond.
A figure in spacer coveralls floated there, as though suspended among stars. Her hair was adrift, eyes closed; sleeping, it seemed. If not for the way she’d been drawn with charcoal rubbed almost faint, if her arms hadn’t been left trailing, limp . . .
She might be about to roll over and smile at him, again.
Morgan traced the sweet face he knew best of all, the rough stone dragging at his fingertips. “Good-bye.”
Then took out his force blade, to erase every line.
There was no going back.
Aside: The Thremm
“IT IS OF CONCERN, I agree, but—”
Not that words were spoken. Among Thremm, communication involved directed pulses of electromagnetic force, their innate understanding of such fields making them sought-after mechanics as well as stage magicians. The emotional content of their eloquent language resided, however, in another sense entirely.
For the Thremm were empaths, requiring no more than proximity to share the emotions of like beings. Thus, the speaker of “It is of concern, I agree, but—” also and accurately conveyed: anxiety/concurrence/doubt
“Others within the Consortium report similar findings.” concurrence/support/purpose “For our part, we’ve long observed the lesions within the span of the Emotive Deep corresponding to the Human inner systems of the Trade Pact. This is new, my worthy partner-third, and I cannot overstress the significance of such concentrated disruption if it continues.” intenseworry “We will be silenced. And worse.”
Sparks danced along exposed skin. terror/terror/terror “You view this as an extinction level event.”
concurrence/support “As does the Consortium.”
terror/determination “Then we must act.”
agreement/agreement
Chapter 10
THIS WAS, in every way, a problem. Morgan leaned against the wall, his arms folded, and half closed his eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Look who’s asking.” Thel grunted, fingers flying over controls. “Of course, I’m sure. Scats put their cargo through the warehouses same as everyone else. Who do you think checks manifests on this rock, anyway?” She continued to mutter.
Confirming that in the days before their hurried departure, the Scat ship had taken on sixty cages of the squeaky pink fluff that was their version of spacer rations, three tons of raw nicnics—there was something for the books, a legit cargo—and a registered stasis box, by the size and weight Trade Pact standard, classified benignly as “Transplant Materials.”
Or not so benign. Trade in body parts was taxed on Auord, not regulated. The only barrier to a full-fledged business in bits? Auordian cells were incompatible with Human, the largest close market. They remained touchy on the subject.
They should consider themselves lucky, Morgan knew. There’d been others who’d found their parts worth more to strangers than their lives.
A medical seal would speed a solitary stasis box through customs, fewer questions asked. Obtaining that seal? Beyond the Scats. “The Worraud?”
“Still parked in high orbit,” she assured him. “As long as they pay the fee and stay clear of traffic, no one down here cares. Mind, I’ve a complaint from a Whirtle freighter, but they’re such easy targets I dunno why they leave their home system. Told them the Scats claim to be waiting for passengers and a final bit of cargo to be shuttled up. Don’t imagine the Whirtle believed it.” Thel chuckled.
If that final cargo was the Brexk box, Manouya hadn’t wasted any time making sure it resumed its journey. Morgan had left the delivery to the newly minted captain of the Heerala, Henerop; Terk promised not to follow it, which had more to do with his belief in Bowman than in the Drapsk.
A shuttle, though? Before what Bowman grimly referred to as the “purge,” he’d have been surprised if any Clan knew what a shuttle was for, let alone bothered with one. Now? Keeping their survival secret could be worth the loss of speed.
Whatever the reason, the delay worked in his favor. “I’ll need a ship.”
“To go up there? I thought you weren’t crazy.” Thel paused. “What about the enforcers? Their big brute’s insystem. It’d make filets out of that Scat.”
“They’d need a reason,” he reminded her. More than his instincts drawing a pattern from a second stasis box and the ravings of a Clansman back from the dead. After all, unimpeded, the Worraud was Bowman’s best lead on the Clan and the Facilitator.
“Shame.”
The shame would be in failure, Morgan thought darkly. Failure to help Sira’s sister. “A ship, Thel.” Whatever it took, he’d cut Rael’s final tie to this part of space and set her free. “Nothing flashy. Reliable and no questions asked.”
“You? Afford a ship? I fired your skinny self.”
“I quit, remember?”
Thel grumbled, but busied herself on the com. Morgan closed his eyes, snatching what rest he could.
“Got one.”
Too fast. Morgan cracked an eyelid. “What’s wrong with it?”
“As if you can be picky,” she sniffed. “The owner’s good people. Been having a run of bad luck, that’s all. Can use the work and won’t ask your business. Cousin of mine.” As if that were all there was to say about it.
His lips quirked. “A cousin.” Thel Masim had a plethora of them, each owing her for something or other. In a way, wasn’t he one, too? “Fair enough. Here.” He tossed her the voucher stick.
Thel turned it over to check the chip, then whistled. “You nick this from the pretty lad?”
“Just take off the fee. Keep it reasonable.” Morgan tilted his head back, closing his eyes again. An owner, out of luck? He knew that drill. “Add a twice again contingency for parts. I don’t want to be stranded up there because your cousin couldn’t stock spares.”
“She does her own work—takes pride in it.”
He’d done the same, once. “A lift to orbit, Thel, and back in one piece. All I ask is it holds together for that.”
“Wayfarer. That’s her name.” Sharp with disappointment. “Not that you asked, I notice.”
She’d loved the Silver Fox. Loved the free traders with their quirky, cobbled-together ships full of family.
Morgan pulled away from the wall and gestured apology before remembering Thel was the wrong species—and so was he. “Good name,” he said instead.
Now to see if the Wayfarer could get him up to the Scat ship.
He’d worry about the rest on the way.
“Thel’s cousin, huh.” Terk shaded his eyes to study the waiting starship. “Looks like high-fashion scrap.”
“It was designed by Zetter Byi, the vid producer.” Huido rumbled. “Sles’ private yacht. Before our time.”
Morgan had expected an inner system trawler, not a ship with these sleek, fluid lines. Five times the size of the Fox, the Wayfarer retained a certain shabby glory, though what she was now was debatable. Her once-elegant fins had been thickened and modified to handle less accommodating landscapes. Not the best choice; he’d have gone with adjustable gear, rather than risk the ch
eaper one-size-fits approach. Terrain could be a trap. Ivali of Ryan’s Venture had a Thremm who was a—
Not his ship. Not his problem.
A cargo port had been cut into her curved belly beside the main air lock. The air lock retained most of its ornate original frame, a tiled mosaic gleaming blue and gold in the midday sun. Dull black marred it: lost tiles replaced with patches. The skyward thrust of her nose offered a glimpse of the ship’s former beauty, but a hasty network of cables had been attached to hold it straight.
Terk pointed wordlessly.
Huido, who’d gone ahead to check out the ship, dipped carapace to shoulder in a shrug. “I’m told it’s been windy.”
Rivets marked the outline of what would have been an observation deck, its transparent panels swapped out for a ring of pitted gray metal. A mistake, that. Passengers would pay more if they could see outside the ship—
—and Sira would have loved it.
Morgan gave himself a shake. “Let’s not keep the captain waiting.”
“The captain’s busy, Gentle Homs. Occupied. In the midst.” The Whirtle blinked its oval eyes as it spoke. A sign it wasn’t comfortable giving such news to three, admittedly, intimidating beings. Impatient ones.
Though Morgan was doing his utmost not to glower, Terk’s glower being far nastier, while Huido? Didn’t appear perturbed in the slightest. Seeing that, the Human modified his tone. “Do you expect the captain to be long?”
“It could be long or not. Longer, maybe.” The indecisive Whirtle shrank into itself, increasing its resemblance to an upright sausage. The being had squeezed its soft torso into spacer coveralls meant for a humanoid, a trio of tentacles writhing inside each sleeve with only the tips showing. “Would you like a refreshment?” it asked hopefully. Dropping to the floor, it humped quickly to what had been, once, a bar.
They were standing in what had been, in the Wayfarer’s prime, a reception area. The carpets were gone, but the bar—real or replica marble, though he’d bet real—stretched the length of one wall, complete with the original vidscreen that had filled the space behind, now dark and cracked. Loose boxes filled most of the bar’s countertop, but a space had been cleared for a tray with three bottles of water.
The Whirtle rocked up on its toes and stretched out a flare of tentacles, but couldn’t reach the tray. “A moment, Gentle Homs.”
It tried hopping.
Terk growled under his breath and snatched a bottle for himself.
Nowhere near ready to lift, not with all this loose. Morgan frowned. “I’m certain Thel Masim conveyed the urgency of our need to her cousin. I ask again. Will she be long?”
Eyes regarded him, then the Whirtle uttered a truly sorrowful sigh. “I can never say, Gentle Homs. Never at all. It’s the engines, you see. The captain takes such a personal interest. Sometimes I don’t see her for days and days.” Realizing this may have sounded negative, it hastened to add: “The captain works very hard.”
Morgan lifted a finger, stopping Terk’s outburst. He should have guessed. “You’ve no ship’s engineer.”
“Oh, but we do.” Eyes blinked. “We do! Our engineer is, ah, the captain. She’s very good. And works very hard.”
Support from one’s crew was a positive. The rest? “I’m sure,” Morgan soothed, then asked innocently, “The engine room’s on the fourth deck?”
Eyes blinked. “Goodness, no! The fourth is for passengers. Paying passengers,” wistfully, as if those had been in short supply. “The engines are on the eleventh, well away.”
Morgan smiled. “Thank you.”
Leaving Terk and Huido to keep the Whirtle occupied, Morgan strode down the gloomy corridor to the lifts. He counted steps as he went, checking the distance between operational lights. A deliberate shutdown, he concluded, relieved. This captain, like others facing Auord’s shipcity’s costs for downworld services, conserved power.
The lifts? Two had little warning ribbons affixed to their old-fashioned panels at Whirtle-height. The third looked functional. Morgan stepped inside. Another panel waited, this one gleaming with polish—or use, and he sent the lift down. Smooth and fast.
Without thinking, the Human reached out to pat the wall. “Not bad.”
Old habits, he chided himself, and hoped the lift com wasn’t live. Though it was true. Outdated as the Wayfarer was, her original construction had been no-expense-spared. He’d a sense of her owner/captain/engineer now. Someone who’d seen past the years and quaint details to what this ship could be.
Not that she was close to there yet. When the lift came to a not-so-smooth halt, Morgan stepped through the opened doors. He sniffed and had to smile. Oil. That way.
On this floor, the layout was more direct: a corridor went around the ship’s heart, accessing all sides. The doors he passed were vacuum-capable, ovals set inside heavy frames, with manual as well as servo locks. He looked into the viewport of one, nodding unconscious approval when it proved to be an internal air lock. No freighters were built like this, however much those who called them home might wish for the protection. It wasn’t economical. Engines failed and vented their poison; people died and it was the risk you took, being a spacer.
The door ahead was larger than the rest—and ajar. A steady beat came through it, as well as the scent of oil and, yes, sweaty Human.
What did it say about his life, that this combination made him homesick? With a wry grimace, Morgan stepped into the Wayfarer’s heart.
Captain Usuki Erin wasn’t in sight, unless he counted the bottom of a boot presently wagging in midair, the person presumably attached to it swallowed deep inside an open pipe. Morgan took advantage of her preoccupation to wander around the engine room.
Engines. To his surprise, the Wayfarer boasted two, one with a translight drive and the other without. The latter was a third smaller and had been, from the look of it, scavenged for parts. Smaller and—he went closer, absently grabbing a rag to protect his hand as he took hold of a flange and leaned in—odd. Some sort of coil was connected where he’d expect a—
“A prototype SDIW49 power converter.” The figure in filthy coveralls leaned in beside him. “See there?” A wrench aimed at the coil. “The notion was to capture the dump velocity and use it for a boost insystem. Fast as a greased—fast.”
“Captain,” he acknowledged, dipping his head in salute. “Was it ever activated?”
The wrench flipped in the air, caught as the other backed out. “Sure. Byi ran it during a race. If it hadn’t been completely illegal—” with admiration, “—the record would still stand. You’re Morgan.” She wiped a hand on a marginally cleaner bit of clothing and thrust it out. “Usuki Erin. Call me Erin—on Wayfarer we don’t do formal.”
He took it, feeling calluses matched to his own. “Erin.”
“You captained the refurbished patroller, didn’t you? The Silver Fox. I saw her once—how did you—” Her round cheeks flamed red. “I’m sorry. Word went out. She was a good ship.”
“As is this,” he replied, somewhat bemused. How young was she? His height, with the strong build that came with doing her own work, black hair cut to her ears, a short, upturned nose—and those cheeks; all within Human norm. He could make a reasonable stab at her heritage and be wrong; traits in humanity tended to resurface.
Maybe not so young, by the experience etched into the skin around her sparkling brown eyes and at the corners of a generous mouth. She’d lost an eyebrow—recently, from the gleam of medplas—
The other eyebrow rose. “Know me later, will you?”
“Stitts VII.”
Now a frown. “What else Thel tell you?”
“Don’t worry,” he almost smiled. “I like to guess. I crossed paths a few times with some traders from there.” A pleasant-enough world. “I saw a resemblance.”
“The Casini? Or the Triverse?”
Hung around th
e shipcity, had she? It had been the Triverse, all hands lost a few years ago in a tragic accident. “I don’t remember,” he lied. “How soon can you lift?”
Another, fainter blush. “As to that—glad you thought of parts.” Gesturing him to come along, Erin led Morgan to where she’d been working. “I’m half through replacing the compression coils, but there’s the rest. Be faster if you help.”
“Often ask your passengers to work for you?” he asked, but was already pushing up his sleeves, fastening them above the elbow. Whatever got it done, and he’d not mind this. Her eyes caught on the bracelet. Morgan pulled it off and tucked it safely in a pocket. “What else?”
Erin’ eyes lifted. “There’s some stowage to be dealt with,” she admitted. “Noska’s a diligent little chit, but not the fastest. He has some trouble with shelves.” A shrug. “I tell him to carry around a stool, but he won’t. Says it’s demeaning for a real spacer.”
“I’ve seen what’s lying loose.” Morgan frowned. “Crew safety’s the captain’s responsibility. You should have taken care of it before playing in here.”
“‘Playing?’ I’ll have you know—”
“I do know,” he interrupted, his voice low and harsh. “Better than you think. You work on the engines because it feels like progress every time you put something back together, because machines don’t argue. They don’t dictate terms you can’t meet. And they don’t try to take your ship from you. You’ve been hiding down here, Captain Erin, letting debts pile up around your fins, when you should be out there—” his arm swung wide, “—making the trades that will save you, your crew, and the Wayfarer.”
He ducked the wrench she threw at his head, but didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Here was such opportunity—wasted. “Tell me you’re worth my time,” he dared her. “Tell me there’s the faintest hope this ship gets off the dirt.”
To Guard Against the Dark Page 13
