I had to smile. My so-clever Human. “Yes.” My voice wasn’t as hoarse as I’d expected, but Morgan’s eyes dropped to my neck and he went pale. “I’m all right.”
“You were nearly dead.”
And was—while technically true, clearly not the right thing to say at the moment. “Could we sit down?” I asked brightly.
In answer, he brought me to one of the galley chairs, his arm around me, and sat, gathering me in his lap with possessive care. Aware of my injuries, my Human. Newly outraged by them, at a guess.
Part of me was as well, the part desperate for the removal of clothing and a meeting of skin. Not, I scolded myself, helping. And—unexpected. “It was Rael’s idea,” I said aloud, only slightly breathless. It might have been the fingers learning the shape of my ear. “She helped me get here.”
Morgan’s hand found my hair. Slipped to cup the back of my head. “Am I dreaming?” he said very quietly, and bent to press his lips to mine.
To Rael’s. When I stiffened, he stopped, his mouth so close I inhaled the sweetness of his breath and felt the warmth of his skin on mine, and we stayed like that, as if in orbit around each other, suspended between hope—
And despair.
Until I could bear no more and turned away.
“Sira. Witchling.”
“You weren’t to know,” I said, locking my gaze on the cup Terk had left steaming on the table. “You were never to know. I was to come and go. Finish my last duty to the universes and—go.”
He captured my chin and turned me back to face him. “Go back to our cabin, chit?” Morgan shook his head. “You can do better than that,” low and sure. “You’ve family there. Rael. Barac. It’s your home.”
No, it wasn’t. This—I put my hand on his chest, the words trembling to be said. Words I mustn’t ever say again. “So they keep reminding me,” I told him instead, making a wry face. “What about a cup of sombay? We’ve some catching up to do.”
Chapter 25
THE CUPS WERE WISE. Putting the table and cups between them wiser still. Knowing—knowing—Sira—was within reach made every cell in Morgan’s body tingle with joy. With dread. The emotions confounded and confused to the point where, yes, sombay and conversation felt like a light in the darkness.
A conversation yet to begin. He’d no words; Sira seemed no more willing to speak. Maybe it was the need for words, between them, that held them in silence. They’d been Joined, their thoughts mingling without effort, emotions as intimate and real as physical sensation, memories exchanged when the moment called for it. Or held private, what should be.
To be together but separate wasn’t new, the Human thought all at once. When Sira arrived on the Silver Fox, for their first journeys as a couple, they’d kept distance between them. So she didn’t destroy him with her Clan Power-of-Choice, yes, but now?
Now it was to keep them safe from one another. He opened his mouth, hesitated.
“I should have practiced what to say,” Sira said suddenly and her lips curled in that rueful grin he knew. “I’ve missed this.” She lifted the cup and took a sip.
“I should have known it was you,” Morgan said, pushing his aside. “That’s not true. I did. I couldn’t let myself believe it.”
She didn’t have to ask why. He saw the awareness fill those expressive eyes, more and more her eyes to him. Form had never been as important to him as what he’d seen of her inner self. Not that Sira’s body hadn’t been mind-bendingly beautiful.
Not, he thought with a rush of heat, that the shape in front of him was any less so.
A blush stroked pink over high cheekbones and Sira quickly pretended to sniff her sombay.
Had she sensed the feeling through his shields or simply knew his every expression? “We need to talk,” Morgan said running a hand through his hair. His eyes found the com panel in the galley. The things were in the halls, in every room on the ship, including the freshers. If Erin wasn’t eavesdropping, Terk most certainly was—and recording, too.
His blurted “Sira” in the hall would have been heard, though who’d understand it?
“This is ridiculous.” Morgan held out his hand, palm up. An invitation.
She eyed it without moving. “The M’hir . . .”
“Human, remember?” They’d been able to communicate on his level before. Morgan touched thumb to forefinger twice. Listeners, that meant.
He saw the comprehension in her face, then Sira frowned. She signaled back: Friend or foe?
He traced a line across the back of his other hand, recalling a particular scar.
She nodded, mouthing a name. Bowman.
As to whether the sector chief was friend or foe? Sira would consider her friend, as he did; equally aware Bowman often had a different agenda—and would tell her friends last of all.
Morgan offered his hand once more.
With mesmerizing reluctance, her slender fingers came to rest on his palm. Words formed, her mindvoice as clear and right as it had ever been.
I’m not alone.
Listeners here, where he’d hoped for privacy? Morgan buried his disappointment. Rael?
Her lips smiled faintly. Rael and everyone else, it seems. They make it possible for me to remember AllThereIs and why I’m here. To remember myself, here, as well. Without them, I’d be a Stolen and empty. Her fingertips were cool, real, like anchors. They risk themselves, holding Yihtor and me here. With regret. The M’hir—Between—is more perilous than ever. Her eyes seemed to bore into his. We don’t have much time, Jason.
That they had this—he pushed down a quite ridiculous joy. What must I know?
Warmth, then. That whatever happens, I won’t regret this. Her fingers slid between his, gripped hard. Though I’ve a confession, my captain. I’ve fallen in love with this ship. Think the Fox would forgive me?
Morgan laughed, out loud and inside. You aren’t the only one, he admitted. The Wayfarer’s a beauty—could be a beauty.
Then let’s protect her, with determination. This ship. The lives on her. One another. Sira’s presence seemed to grow, as if he glimpsed her shining in the M’hir after all. The peril facing us is beyond belief or reason, but these things we can do. We will, Jason. Let the universes take care of themselves. They should anyway, with a hint of asperity.
Gods, he loved her. Morgan brought her hand to his lips. No regrets, Witchling.
He’d cherish what he could. This moment, the softness of her skin, the look in her eyes, the feel of her mindvoice.
But this time—conviction settled around his heart like peace—he’d make no promise of after.
Time flew and shipday arrived with a brightening in the corridor as well as a groggy captain. Erin grunted a greeting as she headed straight for the sombay.
Sira gave Morgan a lingering look, then gently tugged her fingers free. I’m still here, she sent, before he let go.
Here, but separate. They’d sat, thoughts flowing back and forth, for the past hours. He understood so much more; not all, and he wasn’t sure Sira could either, not until she returned to AllThereIs and became noncorporeal once more. There were concepts for which Comspeak had no words; some, he suspected, minds of flesh and blood hadn’t evolved to grasp.
Some he could. Sira had shared how the M’hir had become brittle, let him see the crack through which the stars of this universe shone through, precious, vulnerable. No wonder she was loath to risk the M’hir again.
With the exiles ’porting at will? No wonder they were short on time.
“Breakfast?” Erin was looking at Sira—at Rael, Morgan told himself. He had to think of her by that name.
“Right up, Captain. Hearty or quick?” came the smiling reply. “Morgan?”
“Quick for me,” he answered. “I’m off to the engine room. Anything I should know?”
“Hearty times two.” Erin sa
nk into a chair with a grateful groan. She grinned up at him. “Numnee’d cheat her own sibs for a cred, but damn, that Festor makes decent parts. For future reference.”
“Noted.” Morgan took the warmed tube from Rael. A thrill coursed through him when their fingers met, as if he were some brash youngling. “My thanks,” he said, astonished by the effort needed to keep his voice steady.
From the gleam in a pair of lovely green eyes, his response hadn’t gone unappreciated. Fortunately, the captain was more interested in her sombay than exchanges between her passengers.
“I’ll bring you something more later,” Rael promised, that look in her eyes, and Morgan wanted, urgently, to reach for her on the spot.
He would have, when the body Sira wore had been her own, when they’d been together on the Fox and had a future.
The thought was enough to quench what was, in the end, hopeless.
Morgan shook his head in wonder as he passed the sweeper. The device had shut itself off, having done its part, and of all the ways he might have discovered Sira inside Rael this one had a certain symmetry. Sira, in a sense, had discovered herself—her true, independent self—as Hindmost on the Fox, where she’d battled sweepers and plumbing and doorlocks with equal determination. Such tech wasn’t part of Clan upbringing, but she’d embraced it.
For her own sake, to make a new life, a new identity. For his, too. He’d have left his life as a spacer for her without a second thought, but Sira had fallen in love with the ship as well as her captain. Of course, she’d feel as he did about the Wayfarer. Was Sira not the other half of his heart?
The coming days, Morgan thought desperately, would be the best and worst of his life.
When he went around the bend in the corridor, Terk silently peeled his bulk from the wall to fall in step.
Been there since the galley, Morgan guessed. “I’ve nothing to say,” he asserted, hoping to forestall questions.
The enforcer chuckled. “Finally figured her out, huh?”
He stopped. “You knew?” Impossible.
“Wasn’t hard.” Smug, that. “Those weren’t sisterly looks, my friend. Finelle caught on, and she doesn’t even know you two.”
Morgan started walking again. “It doesn’t change anything.” He felt the other’s eyes on him. “When this is over, Sira goes back.” To her dream prison. To their life that wouldn’t be. The hopeless knowledge filled him, shrinking the corridor to footsteps and the future to the lift panel—
When a hand blocked his, he was honestly shocked. “What?”
“Detour,” Terk ordered, tipping his head down the curved corridor. “C’mon.”
“Why?” Morgan didn’t move. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
Of all the ways Sector Chief Lydis Bowman had appeared without warning in Morgan’s life, she’d not, till now, done so standing on a Lemmick’s outstretched hand. A gloved hand, filled with the latest comtech, but still. He’d have laughed.
Except you didn’t, at Bowman. Especially at a Bowman backed by the wall of an arms locker that belonged in only one place he knew. “You’re on the Conciliator.” He should have guessed. She had the skills to hide anywhere—why not on her own ship? “After Lucic.”
“Captain Lucic,” she corrected, “has my full confidence.”
Morgan couldn’t help but glance at Terk. The enforcer gave a half shrug. Don’t ask me, that said.
He looked back at Bowman with a frown. “Something’s changed.”
A tiny nod. “Manouya’s on Plexis.”
The Conciliator’s posted course. Lucic had known where to go—whatever that story, he’d no time for it. Morgan set his expression to neutral interest. “The Clan are on Snosbor IV.” Where they needed the Conciliator—and Bowman—to deal with the Omacron.
That predator’s smile. “Turns out—” deliberate repetition; reference to a network of informants not even her closest staff could tap, “—the Clan are why Manouya broke cover. A good number are on their way to Plexis to meet your ship. I need you there.”
Not as bait—for reinforcements, Morgan realized. Bowman knew who was on board the Wayfarer—would know Sira was here, by now, thanks to her constables—and included them all in that “you.” She had her prize in sight and what he’d told her of the entities would give anyone sane nightmares.
Given a chance to act on both problems at once? She wouldn’t delay to consult. Not Bowman.
“You’ve altered our course.” Morgan shot a look at Terk, who did his utmost to portray offended innocence, then glared at Bowman, who didn’t bother. “Without checking with me.”
“I wasn’t aware it was necessary. Finelle?”
“We’ll arrive at Plexis within one and a quarter standard days, Hom Morgan.”
“Not without the engine, we don’t!” Secrets and ploys. This one could kill them all if they ran out of time.
Incidentally ending the universe, which would serve Bowman right, he decided, beyond furious.
“What’s the matter—”
In answer, Morgan spun on a heel, heading for the door. In the corridor, he broke into a full-out run.
Plexis?
On the bright side, Sira’d have a chance to see Huido.
If they made it.
Interlude
Plexis
TAYNO CLOSED and locked the door behind them, then checked the lock twice to be sure. “I’ve never been so glad to be—”
“Tayno, what are these?”
He turned, but eyestalks moved before his body finished, focusing on what now filled the hallway leading to the private section of the Claws & Jaws.
“Bones.”
Very very large bones, not the sort used for soup at all, at least not in any pot he’d seen. They were stacked along one wall, leaving—thankfully—space for him, though he’d have to be very careful or he’d knock into them and then what?
“I know they’re bones,” Tarerea said in an urgent whisper. “Why are they here?”
“I don’t know. They do,” Tayno admitted, “arrange things without me.” “They” being any of the restaurant’s efficient staff, especially, he thought matter-of-factly, the ones who knew him best. “It must be for the opening.” He gave himself a little shake. “We have to find Lones.” And call the deputy inspector.
And tell her—what? Tayno’s eyes converged on the crumpled bit of plas in his claw, suddenly unsure. Had they uncovered a plot or would Jynet think him—Huido—a total fool?
“Tayno.”
“I’m thinking—”
“Tayno!”
He bent up an eyestalk.
And froze.
He had to, because there, in the hall, black and glistening beside the stack of bones was another he. A magnificent he.
Not so magnificent as he, of course. Tayno swelled to his full stature and posed, dismissing the bone that tumbled behind, dimly aware of someone small beside him, shouting. There was someone behind the other he as well, also shouting.
Nothing mattered but this moment. This—appraisal. Previous acquaintance simply meant they’d no need to collide. Yet.
He would not budge.
Could not, truth be told, because whoever moved first lost, and losing meant being torn into tiny bits of he.
The other he wasn’t whole. Where the right handling claw belonged was, to Tayno’s consternation, a metal tool, like the hammer in the kitchen used to tenderize meat. Much larger. A hammer like that could shatter his head disks.
Making losing less palatable than usual.
The other he made a sound. One he hadn’t heard since shelled. Tayno almost collapsed with astonishment, recovering to hold himself still.
The sound came again and continued. It came from the upper handling claws of the other, their tips vibrating together to produce that importan
t low buzz.
The Bundle Call?
How confusing. How strange. They weren’t in a pool and certainly weren’t a mass of unshelled and barely shelled juveniles. While the Call was made by an adult male, this one was not his father. Though fatherhood was more a matter of who ruled a particular pool—
The buzz grew louder. More urgent. Those clawtips were the only thing moving in the hall, with the exception of a second bone that happened to follow the first behind Tayno.
He was supposed to figure this out, Tayno thought suddenly. Not just stand here and pose, however magnificently. The Bundle Call meant gather, tightly, for protection. The Tide was going out, and those without shells would drown in air if exposed. Would be vulnerable to what hunted the shoreline. It was better, Tayno remembered clearly, to be in the middle of a bundle, which took a struggle, true, and some nipping.
That couldn’t be it.
The Call translated, roughly, as “we die alone; we live together.”
Well, then. Throwing caution and protocol to the winds, Tayno Boormataa’kk launched himself at the other he, clinging with all his might and claws.
“Too literal, Nephew,” Huido Maarmatoo’kk rumbled, but kindly, extricating himself with ponderous care. “I intended to convey we must set aside our important but inconvenient instincts. It’s time we battle, not each other, but side-by-side.”
Tayno backed hastily. “Battle?!”
The ensuing crash would have been worse had not most of the bones fallen on him.
Plexis
Fingers scrabbled, breaking a nail.
As the hand subvocalized a complaint, a foot and shoulder worked together to replace the piece of carpet over the conduit access, a task they accomplished just as a door opened, signaling the return of the room’s legal inhabitant.
Bits became statues, pinned by portlights. Oblivious, the Festor chewed and belched its way to a set of drawers. The one foot in its path eased quietly aside. The one-mind found whatever thing it wanted, popped that into its maw of a mouth, then toddled back out.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 27
