To Guard Against the Dark

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Claws scraped but didn’t penetrate thick blubbery skin; fists dented but didn’t crack shell. Yet.

  “Where’d he get the hammer?” Terk shouted in Morgan’s ear.

  He gave a noncommittal shrug, though it wasn’t hard to figure out. Huido had traveled to Plexis on the Heerala. Present the adoring, inventive Drapsk a problem to solve? They should all be grateful it was a hammer and not a missile launcher.

  Morgan was more interested in where Sira had gone, but she’d contact him if she needed him. And his friend just might.

  “I see security’s being useful.” Security presently making themselves scarce, other than a tight group of five going the long way ’round toward them, or rather Bowman, the Sector Chief standing beside Terk.

  “Jellies,” Terk grunted, as if that said it all.

  Bowman turned to Morgan, a rare look of frustration on her face. “How long’s this going to take?”

  Morgan studied the combatants, none of whom seemed to be flagging, then looked toward the Carasian females. By the intensity of their many-eyed regard, they were enjoying the spectacle. “Your guess is—”

  “Sector Chief Bowman!” The group of security personnel had arrived. Three constables, a comtech, and, by the bars on her uniform, the Eima who dropped Bowman’s name like a gauntlet was the acting head of Plexis security.

  “Deputy Inspector.” Bowman had no problem being heard without shouting. “Why aren’t you in your office?”

  Morgan, with Terk, began to ease out of the line of verbal fire.

  “Stay.” The deputy inspector pointed at Morgan. “You, I need. I’m here because there’s a threat!”

  “Jynet, I’ve told you. This is outside—”

  “Don’t you cite jurisdiction at me when my customers are at risk!” The Eima’s cheek flaps were swollen black with restrained fury. “I’m placing those two—” Her finger aimed at the seething mass of combatants, “—under arrest!”

  Her constables looked ready to faint.

  “I am,” Bowman snapped.

  Morgan, eyes on the fight, started to smile. “Watch this.”

  The four had moved apart, as they had several times already, but he’d spotted the difference. Tayno had shifted to challenge Choiola, but this time, Huido took a few steps back, carapace rocking side-to-side as though working off a blow.

  Manouya moved first, rushing Huido—

  Tayno crouched to the floor, claws in—

  Then Huido showed the difference between Carasian and Brill biology. The latter had heavy gravity, true.

  But Carasians were adapted to a rocky coastline, where the higher you could reach, the safer your offspring.

  Huido’s thick legs contracted, then thrust up, driving his huge bulk into the air. He landed on Tayno’s back as Tayno lunged upward, leaping again. Both Carasians hit their target, Tayno plastered against Choiola’s chest, her arms in his claws—

  Huido, like a bolt of lightning, coming down, hammer-first, on her thick skull.

  The Brill dropped, only her fingers twitching.

  Morgan quickly looked for Manouya—

  The male Brill stood where he’d been, without a twitch at all, Bowman’s needler nestled deep in his ear.

  Silence fell again as the two Carasian males squared off, each at his full height, ready for battle. Before Morgan had to go over and name Huido to settle things, that worthy roared with laughter and smacked Tayno cheerfully with his hammer.

  Suddenly, Sira and—Morgan wanted to rub his eyes, because with her was a Vyna and not any Vyna but one he’d met, clothed as a wealthy Human customer—this person came running from the side of the ramp.

  Followed by a seething blanket of red-eyed vermin!

  Interlude

  Plexis

  THINGS RAN AROUND and under him. One clawed up sept’s leg. Cursing, Gryba kicked it away. The thing chittered back before scampering to join the rest.

  Pest control must be at work in the accesses. The things continued to pour from this one, from all the others in view, a mass of moving filth. A distraction, the Omacron thought, as useful as the one provided by his thick-headed allies.

  Former allies. The Brill were never in charge, never important. A means to the end sept and all sept’s kind desired, that was all. To take the blame for the deaths to come, this needful test of delivery and toxicity. If the authorities accused sept, Omacron III remained untainted by suspicion, free to continue the great work. Destabilize the Trade Pact from within. Kill and terrorize the Human pestilence, so they fled as this vermin did.

  Sept adjusted the cloak. Why then, slip back into influence. Slowly, with care. Never be noticed—never discovered—always in control.

  The Consortium thought they understood secrecy.

  Amateurs.

  The Brill were in custody. The Assembler gone and good riddance. Gryba’s attention was on the results of sept’s tests. That and a reward. The Clan on Snosbor IV were for others to relish. The females here? He’d no way to enjoy them.

  Fingers locked around a pipe, sept crept to where light spilled into the access, vermin running below. Yellow bloomed, anticipation. Sept could see the one waiting, the one who’d give the pleasure sept deserved.

  Jason Morgan.

  Plexis

  Huido’s hammer blow was tender. “Well done. And look, they’re sizing you up, Nephew.”

  Tayno peered between almost closed head disks at the glorious array of females; it was peer or risk being blinded, for he’d never seen anything so beautiful since his last sunset over Mother Ocean—no, he decided, never.

  “Timid won’t catch their eyes. Don’t worry, there’re enough for both of us!”

  He didn’t have a pool. Didn’t, Tayno thought wistfully, have a budget for a pool and might not have a job once Huido’s good mood met the debts he’d incurred. Still, he gave a stalwart rattle and straightened, for he had, had he not? Done battle!

  And hadn’t died, that was key. Everything hurt and his right handling claw had lost a tip, but—he dared another couple of eyes.

  Finding eyes looking back, his whirled in confusion.

  “My brother!” Huido bellowed in greeting, heading away. “Great fight. Did anyone get a vid?”

  Tarerea. Thoughts of females and missing tips vanished as Tayno looked anxiously for her. They’d left her out of sight, but close. To wait in safety while—he felt a bit of mean returning—they dealt with those despicable Brill. And dealt they had, an experience that while exhilarating now was likely to give him nightmares in future.

  Where was she?

  And why, Tayno thought with growing alarm, were there vermin out in the open?

  Chapter 33

  MORGAN RAN TO MEET SIRA, vermin parting to let him through as though he ran through a field of flowers, if flowers had red eyes, wicked bared teeth, and wiry black hair where there weren’t scales. They weren’t rabid.

  He hoped.

  “Jason!” By the look on her face, Sira was wondering the same thing. “Where did they all come from?”

  “The accesses.” Every one was open, each releasing its horde. “Could be from the entire station.” He turned to the Vyna and gave a short bow. “Tarerea Vyna.”

  She inclined her head. “Morgan, Chosen of Sira.”

  Her resemblance to the Hoveny he’d known, Lemuel Dis, Pauvan Di and his family, was striking. It had to be, the Human knew. The Vyna had been Cersi’s control population, the Primes who weren’t to change, while the remaining subjects were given urgent reason to evolve. How much worse for them it had been, he thought with pity.

  Questions of how and why could wait. Already pale and thin, Tarerea looked close to collapse, not something he’d advise, given the vermin. “Let’s find you a place to rest—”

  “No. I must be sure Tayno is all right.”

 
“My brother!” Huido rushed toward them faster than vermin could evade, several being crushed beneath his foot pads. “Great fight. Did anyone get a vid?”

  “Tarerea!” Tayno, right behind.

  Sira got out of the way as Morgan took a quick couple of steps away from the Vyna in time for Huido to sweep him up in his claw. “Your grist is better!”

  “Put me down, you big oaf.” He rapped knuckles on a shell rumpled and scratched, but thankfully whole.

  Fortunately for the Vyna, Tayno’s idea of a greeting was to crouch before her, tenderly offering a handling claw for her touch. “We vanquished your enemy,” he said in a small voice. “I don’t think I like vanquishing.”

  “That makes you braver,” she told him.

  There’s a story here, Sira sent.

  Tarerea turned her head, for the sending hadn’t been private. “This is you? Ah. A rebirth.”

  “In a way,” Sira said. “We’ll trade tales later.”

  Huido set Morgan on his feet, offering a handling claw to Sira. “Welcome home. Tales, yes. Over beer. Much beer. But first, it is time.”

  Tayno’s eyes whirled. “Time, Uncle? Haven’t we saved everyone? Aren’t we done?”

  “We may have. Or not.” A claw snapped, producing a somber bell tone. “We may be. Or not. But first,” he repeated, “it is time.” With that, Huido turned to face the expanse of the concourse.

  Morgan and Sira moved to stand beside him, Tarerea using Tayno’s arm for support.

  Past time, the Human thought grimly. The messengers hovered overhead. On this level, they were surrounded by homes and stores filled with those waiting to be released; on every level, the same situation as well as on starships. Every being would be growing understandably anxious.

  Soon, if not already, they’d be more than anxious and Plexis would have to consider the use of broad-species tranquilizers—not a safe option, by any means.

  Bowman stepped into the space where titans had battled moments ago. She kicked aside a scrap of silk.

  Vermin seized it, rolled over, played. The things were everywhere.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Including on the Carasian females, placidly allowing the filthy things to perch on their heads and shoulders. “I’m missing something,” he whispered to Sira.

  “We all are,” she agreed.

  Sta’gli and Trilip joined Bowman. Then one of the female Carasians lumbered forward as well.

  “Glorious,” Tayno said, heartfelt and a little too loud.

  The female’s eyes converged on him. To his credit—or because of Tarerea—he didn’t cower, though from this vantage point, Morgan could see the claw he held behind him tremble.

  After a long moment, her eyes spread to consider them all. When the Carasian spoke, it was in one sure voice, loud enough to carry, deep enough to be felt inside bone.

  “We are the Consortium.”

  Sta’gli and Trilip spoke, one after the other, “I call the Trade Pact Board to order.” “I second.”

  Images appeared over the messengers, projected upward. The interior of meeting rooms, atmospheres suited to those within, each room filled to capacity. Impossible, without time to count, to tell if every species’ representative was present, but he’d bet on it.

  Bowman, Morgan noticed, didn’t look surprised. Then again, when did she?

  “WELCOME!”

  “We reveal ourselves to all beings,” the single Carasian explained, “because the time has come to put aside petty matters—”

  “You’re dead!” Choiola shouted. The two Brill were in metal nets, surrounded by Plexis security and guarded by Terk and Finelle, but she struggled and pulled forward. “All of you! The First has triumphed!”

  “You failed before you began. We—” the Carasian swept out a claw with ponderous grace, “—are the Consortium.”

  Vermin leaped upon one another, sorted themselves with a meaty snick of part to part, until tall, treelike beings—still scaled and covered in wiry black hair—towered above them.

  “Assemblers,” Sira whispered.

  These weren’t remotely Human-like. If anything, they resembled plants—or some deep-sea life able to move on land—little leaflike claws arranged in graceful lines, a glitter of red within deep vertical furrows, as though the eyes remained as they’d been and watched.

  Not all had unified. More solitary vermin appeared, heading for the center. These carried objects in their claws, moving with care.

  “No!” from Manouya. Choiola’s mouth worked without sound, no longer straining against the net.

  “These would be your traps,” Bowman said calmly, though Morgan noticed she remained very still as the vermin—he’d need a better name now—deposited object after object near her feet. Heaps rose; there had to be hundreds. “Each contains a Human-specific toxin to be released into every shop and home of Plexis. The one left at the Claws & Jaws?” Her hand rose and tipped, palm down. “Dealt with at once.”

  “INTENDED FOR OUR KIND!”

  The treelike Assemblers swayed with the angry shout.

  When the echoes faded away, Bowman raised her voice. “Plexis-com, you’re authorized to drop forcefields. The station is secure.”

  It hadn’t been. The plot could have worked, Morgan thought, and there’d be changes in future, starting with the accesses, to prevent another try. Pest control could suffer some pangs—then again, why? The Vermin Assemblers thrived despite them—or was it because?

  What else was there? wondered Morgan. Overlooked, yet anything but ordinary?

  “We have this,” the Carasian continued, “willing to testify.” Vermin ran up, less carefully, dropping hands and feet, other parts.

  Parts that crept with visible reluctance to one another, the head last, until the more familiar sort of Assembler stood, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  “That’s Mathis Dewley,” Tayno said quietly. “He’s a bad person.”

  “It’s all about the group,” Sira observed, and Morgan would have loved to ask her more, but more was happening.

  The remaining females stepped forward, carapace to carapace. The first spoke for all. “We, the Consortium, do not intervene in the affairs of others. The species of the Trade Pact agreed to be governed by mutual respect, with any lapses the rightful business of authorities they have set in place.” Mighty heads dipped in acknowledgment to Bowman, who actually looked shy. “We, the Consortium, think. We identify patterns. We watch.”

  This last with an ominous undertone.

  “Those who possess grist are troubled. We, the Consortium, know why. We see the danger facing all life.”

  Jason. We aren’t alone! NothingReal—the Trade Pact—acts, too.

  Every eye converged on Sira. The tree-form Assemblers leaned forward as though pulled. Standing beside her, despite an impression of great good will, Morgan couldn’t help but be intimidated. He held his ground. The Vyna hid behind Tayno, whose eyes disappeared within his head disks.

  “Oh, my,” his Witchling said faintly.

  Their regard changed again. A crowd was gathering—at a distance—as those released from lockdown came forth. “WELCOME.”

  That distance increased sharply.

  As is the way of crowds, when nothing else happened, curiosity took over, those who couldn’t see from the back pushing the front ranks forward until a cross-section of Plexis, from gold tags to none, spacers to staff, formed a ring around them.

  When the movement settled to an uneasy shifting of appendages, the Carasian resumed. “We, the Consortium, reveal ourselves at this time of mutual peril. To succeed, we must work as one. Before we proceed, it is for the Trade Pact to deal with a threat from within.”

  More vermin, many more, this time dragging between them what looked like a corpse on a red cloak.

  But still lived.


  A threat! Beware! The Vyna’s sending thrilled with fear. It possesses power over us.

  Interlude

  THE OMACRON DIDN’T LOOK like a threat, but here appearance lied. Sept used weakness as camouflage and, seeing sept like this, prone and disheveled, a shiver of dread ran through me.

  Then anger. Then—understanding. This evil being wasn’t mine to combat.

  Sept was theirs.

  “I bear witness,” I said, walking toward the Omacron.

  “SIRA!”

  The identification, with the subtlety I’d expect from Carasians, came with approval. I had to smile.

  You aren’t alone, Witchling. Morgan walked with me, as it should be.

  The Galactic Mysterioso rose to face us, sept’s sinuous body coiling this way and that as though torn between targets, skin a putrid yellow-green. “Sira, is it? Whatever you think you know, Fem, whatever you do, he dies.” Sept stared at Morgan with a terrible hunger.

  “I wouldn’t say that to her,” my Human responded, tone amused, shields tight.

  “Oh?” I heard the oddest sound. It came from the creature. A hum.

  A hum that reached into the M’hir as well as here, that filled my senses until I could barely breathe, couldn’t move. I heard shouts. Bellows!

  They were nothing to the hum. I felt it press and slither, like something alive, seeking an opening into my mind—no, expecting one. In how many had the Omacron left their doors?

  One too many. So even as I felt Morgan scream—

  —cold, sure, I carved my own.

  The hum faltered and fled. The Omacron’s skin flared red, blue, grew transparent as though my intrusion drained sept’s color.

  I chased the hum to its source, destroying that part of the Omacron’s mind with a flick of Power. Considered what worse I could do, sept’s every thought and memory spread before me, the creature helpless in my coils—ready—I’d only to enjoy—

  Witchling. Morgan, like a dose of clean fresh air.