Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  I made sure I had another jar in my hand, ready to toss. Next stop, the shipcity.

  What I’d do if and when I reached it, I had no idea at all.

  INTERLUDE

  “He might have been a spacer. Legit.”

  “And I might be a Human with an odd taste in accessories,” Huido rumbled. “I don’t like this, Brother.”

  Morgan’s lips twitched, though his blue eyes remained glacial. “I do. If someone’s set a tail on me, at least I’m bothering them. Which is the least I plan to do.”

  The Carasian clicked reluctant agreement. “Are you going to talk to this lurker in the shadows?”

  “Not yet,” Morgan decided, stretching his arms over his head and sliding farther into the soft depths of the chair. The pace of the last two days was taking its toll, but he begrudged even this much rest. “Did you find anything?”

  Huido poured them both a beer, maneuvering his bulk into a seat designed for him, the claw tips of his lower, and larger, two arms resting comfortably on the floor. “Yes and no. The name you gave me, Baltir, is an ingredient in my father’s unlamented meatcakes and part of a few thousand place names. One thing it didn’t do was generate a match in any Trade Pact records for Retians. You’re sure about the species?”

  “He’s Retian. Barac saw him on Camos; he was brought there, as I told you, by one of their Council,” Morgan said slowly. “A Retian with an unknown name. That’s very odd.”

  “I agree. The toads are fanatical about records and genealo gies. An alias suggests a strongly asocial being indeed,” Huido clicked triumphantly. “I did turn up something else. A newly arrived Denebian crew was doing the bars last night. They were tossed out of a couple, then ended up in Keevor’s—you know the place.”

  Morgan did, quite well. Keevor’s was about as low as you could get on Plexis, a place where you went knowing or oblivious to the high cost of watered-down drinks and risk of creatively spiked drugs. Keevor itself, an alien of truly obnoxious personal habits, was also somewhat of an epicure. It considered Huido’s kitchen to be the only one worthy of its business. Fortunately for the other clients of the Claws & Jaws, Keevor preferred takeout.

  “Keevor picked up on this crew. They were half-gone, grumbling about Pact regulations, the usual. With a couple of Keevor’s ‘Specials’ under their belts, poor beings, the Denebians complained about an Enforcer shakedown right after lift. From Pocular. Keevor knew to contact me.”

  “When.”

  “Time’s right.” Huido’s slurp of beer was altogether smug. “Interestingly, despite the free drinks and their condition, the crew was not forthcoming about any passengers or cargo. Keevor said they were thoroughly spooked.”

  Feeling himself tense, Morgan took a slow, relaxing breath. It wouldn’t be this easy. “Where were they going after Pocular?”

  “Ret 7.”

  He was on his feet before he was aware of the movement. Huido’s eyes focused on the Human, expression impossible to decipher. “Shall I take care of your follower?” the Carasian asked mildly enough. “Before I leave for my penance on Ettler’s?”

  Morgan knew he had to plan, to do the right things in their proper order or fail. But he trembled, speechless with a resurgence of rage. Rage that suddenly seemed to have an accessible target.

  “I will,” he answered, when his lips would move again.

  Chapter 21

  I’D made it to the shipcity, skipping around the driverless bowlcars, avoiding—or temporarily fumigating—any Drapsk foot traffic that came too close. I actually moved as quickly as the cars, an exhilarating, nerve-racking progress as the walkway itself determined our speed. No organized pursuit showed itself, not that I was sure I’d recognize the Drapskii version. Perhaps it involved Tribe politics of some sort—whatever delayed them was fine by me.

  The most difficult and dangerous part of my travels had been leaving the walkway to reach the ground itself. I’d discovered the Drapsk didn’t see any need for permanent access; ships must request connecting walkways when ready to move passengers or crew up or down to the main system. I’d looked in vain for such a connection until literally stumbling into a cargo loading area. Here the walkway was supplemented with anti-grav lifts, launched from a central point. After watching for a while to be sure there were no automated, or fanged, guards, I’d boldly hopped on the next set of crates heading downward, jumping off again short of the cargo bay doors.

  I’d known better than to try and enter any ship that way. There were reasons few ships bothered posting guards. If one could pass the servos watching for vermin traveling in either direction, there’d be an inventory screen just inside. Passing that was conceivably possible, but surviving a trip in the hold was not. Having handled cargo myself, I knew such a move was a fast way to suck vacuum, not a cozy home for a stowaway—unless one had a spacesuit and a gambler’s approach to life, neither of which happened to be mine.

  Instead, I ducked behind a handy docking tug, considering myself incredibly lucky to have made it this far and feeling a likely unwarranted optimism in my ability to get even farther. I looked up at what little showed of the sky past the ships and walkways. I couldn’t see the stars, but they were there. My destination.

  Given I could get inside one of these ships. Memories swirled around, placing another sky overhead, the taste of a different atmosphere, rain-washed and cold, on my lips. I’d done this before, been hunted, sought escape from a world.

  And had found Morgan.

  I shook away the past, grimly aware that finding Morgan would not be as straightforward this time.

  There were few Drapsk in this section of the shipcity. I walked, or rather slunk, around the ramps and fins of predominantly Human vessels; yet another piece of unexpected luck. These would be outbound ships; more traders’ lore I owed to Morgan.

  Drapskii exported various agriculturals and cultural artifacts. I thought ruefully I could add mind-shields and other devices sure to panic the Clan to that list. In turn, the Drapsk imported a wide range of items, from certain rare metals to Human literature. However these they usually obtained themselves at the source, preferring to send out their own ships. So most of the non-Drapsk starships around me here would be on-loading cargo.

  The problem was, traders hoping for cargo were at the low end of their profit cycle. Taking on potential Drapsk-trouble such as an illegal passenger could mean a minimum of losing their cargo and deposit here, as well as failing to meet the expectations of waiting customers. Few traders of my acquaintance could afford either consequence, let alone both.

  Could I bribe one? I doubted it. I had no proof of credit with me. Tapping into the Drapskii planetary system to verify my funds would have meant immediate exposure—however minimal those funds were beyond the former ownership of a shabby bar on a fringe world.

  Which left, I realized, two options: someone dishonest enough to tap into the system for me, or someone powerful enough to take my side against the Drapsk. This realization came without much thought, since once I reached the end of the next row of docked starships, I found myself staring up at two very different vessels indeed.

  The Nokraud herself was one, her bulk looking slow and unwieldy squatted on pavement, as though protesting innocence of any predatory abilities in space.

  And the pirate happened to be docked uncomfortably close—and likely by no accident—to another, smaller ship, one that made no attempt to look other than it was.

  A Trade Pact Enforcer, patrol class.

  There hadn’t been much of a choice. While the Enforcers might have been sympathetic and interceded with the Drapsk—I thought they’d at least listen: despite the Clan not being a signatory of the Pact, Morgan and I knew some names and were owed some favors—they might equally have believed the Drapsk claims of the innocence of their Festival, considering me a nervous Contestant who got cold feet and wanted a free ride home. To explain my need to find Morgan would involve a great number of revelations about the Clan and my own abilities
, something I wasn’t prepared to do. About the only thing I held in common with my kind was the need to preserve the secrecy of the M’hir.

  The pirates were a known and possibly lesser risk, Scats being dangerous but predictable. If I could offer them something they wanted, I was sure they wouldn’t hesitate to fracture any number of regulations on my behalf. I thought I could play on their curiosity about the Drapsk and why they’d brought me to their world.

  As plans went, it was as reasonable as anything else I’d accomplished today.

  “Ss-so, you wisssssh to leave Drapsssskii,” Grackik said, her thin black tongue whipping out to capture a bit of foam from the corner of a long front fang. “Without quesstions-ss.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” I repeated. Getting on board the Nokraud had been the easy part. I’d simply snuck around the side of the ship away from the Enforcer and waited for someone from the pirate’s crew to notice me waving insanely at the remote vids.

  Dealing with my own reactions had been somewhat more difficult. I’d been imprisoned and almost been killed on such a ship. This one was larger, newer, with different species making up the crew. But there was an aura about a pirate I’d learned to identify: equal parts dread and the satisfaction of causing it—something I’d forgotten in my urgency to leave the Drapsk. It had been a mistake to come on board, I knew now, but too late for the knowledge to do me any good.

  Outwardly, all was civilized. We sat in a proper Captain’s lounge, sipping iced drinks—those of the Scats being a black foam they thankfully didn’t offer to share—and served finger foods by a silent Human. I hadn’t known their species liked anything that didn’t squeal as it met their teeth, but these two were patently enjoying the Drapskii delicacy of fried cheese and grains. I didn’t assume this meant anything tamer about their natures.

  Rek, again I thought with deliberate malice, held her drink in one hand and her choice of treat in the other, waving both to collect the attention of her one-armed comrade as she spoke to me. “It would add confidence-ss to this-ss dis-sscusssion if you could be more—s-sspecific—about our rewards-sss, Fem Morgan.”

  “Do you prefer to carry party favors?” I asked, putting an edge to my voice. These were not beings from whom it was safe to retreat. “And have Drapsk ships clamp explosive grapples to your hull in thanks?”

  “Profits-ss come in different s-shapes-ss.” I saw Grackik pick up the witchstone I’d left on the black polished table between us. She held it between two claws, raising it to her large yellow-black eye and turning the stone from side to side to catch the light. “More of thes-sse would be of interes-sst to our buyers-ss, Rek.”

  “One gem hardly pays-ss for the trouble this-ss will s-sstir among the Drapsssssk.”

  “What they don’t know . . . ?” I suggested.

  “True,” a deprecating wave of a drink-encumbered hand. “But willing dec-ss-eption adds-ss to the cos-sst.”

  Since I couldn’t pay what they’d already mentioned as a starting point, adding to the cost wasn’t an issue. So I was able to shrug carelessly. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Why do you want to leave this-ss world with us-ss?” Grackik demanded with a snap of her heavy jaws. “There are liners-ss, regular flights-ss, even a trader will take on a pass-ssenger. No, Fem Morgan. I think you wis-ssh to leave because you have offended our hos-ssts-ss in s-ssome way. Perhaps-ss murder?” The last word was drawn out as if it left a special taste within the Scat’s mouth.

  “Or theft?” added the second Scat, her snout turning to face me, eyes taking an identical predatory fix.

  Theft? I thought guiltily of the bottles and containers in my bag. “I hardly expected a trifling brush with the authorities to bother you two,” I said with all the confidence I could manage. “Or did I judge you on reputation and not on fact?”

  “You mis-ssunders-sstand, Fem Morgan,” Rek said calmly, still with that unnerving focus on my face. “We merely s-sseek to be clear with one another.”

  “Then be clear. Whatever is between the Drapsk and me is private. Will you take me offworld or not?”

  “Most assuredly not, Contestant Morgan,” the Drapsk said primly, entering with the servant. “You must stay until after the Festival.”

  This wasn’t any Drapsk I’d seen before. It was rounder, slightly wrinkled around the mouth as though from too much tentacle sucking during its growth. The plumes of its antennae were a mottled green and gray. I leaned back, still eyeing the Drapsk, and crossed my legs. “Was I mistaken in who Captains the Nokraud?” I asked the room in general.

  The Scats hissed to one another, their sibilant language splattering the furnishings as well as the Drapsk and myself. The Drapsk, I was gratified to note, sucked in all six tentacles and was rocking back and forth. I could wait.

  The pirates didn’t want me. That was plain. But by shaming them in front of their guest, the Drapsk—with my help—had neatly boxed them in a corner. To accept the Drapsk’s authority over their property, as I was sure they thought of me or whatever profit I could bring them, was an admission they were subservient to the clawless little alien. Not an admirable image for a species that advertised itself as the scourge of the galaxy. However, to take me in defiance of the Drapsk would put them at odds with a species who, while known as polite and civilized, also tended to react to insults in groups, the smallest unit of which was the considerably formidable Tribe.

  It would have been quite amusing watching the two Scats squirm, if the outcome hadn’t mattered so much to me.

  INTERLUDE

  “Saving the Clan? You didn’t really believe I’d be interested, did you?”

  Rael took a sip of her wine before answering: “Of course not.”

  Pella sud Sarc, youngest of the daughters of the Joining between Jarad di Sarc and Mirim sud Teerac, raised one lovely eyebrow. “I detect disapproval, Sister.”

  Rael measured the voice against the deeper presence of the other Clanswoman in the M’hir touching both their minds. There was a resonance under the words, a flow of some unidentified yet uneasy emotion. She politely didn’t probe deeper, though it would have been an acceptable use of her greater power—Pella barely a Third Level Adept in spite of her di heritage. Ability, Rael thought to herself, did matter. “How can I disapprove?” she said aloud instead. “As you said, I didn’t think you’d join us. It wasn’t my idea to come.”

  By custom, the outermost layer of their thoughts lay open to one another. It allowed the gentle testing to reaffirm relative strength. It supposedly reduced falsehood. Supposedly—Rael thought wearily and didn’t bother to conceal it—because the first thing one learned was how to lie mind to mind.

  Pella had been easy to find. She kept to her summer house in the mountains at this time of year, disliking the noise and excitement of the Humans in their cities as the winter relaxed its grip and spring roared through the hemisphere in a vast unstoppable wave of change. The Clanswoman would return for the theater season, quick to tire of her isolation. But for now, it was her preference.

  There was nothing of Sira in her, Rael observed. It wasn’t only the power she lacked. There was a petulance to the full lips, perhaps a narrowness to the dark eyes. The hair matched her own, dark, heavy, and glossy. Only Sira had the red-gold of their father’s youth, its thick fall another mark of her body’s unusually-timed Commencement: their sister having matured in response to the Human’s power instead of following the Joining between two Clan. Now Sira was some half-thing, Clan in power but not Clan in form, not truly. Ica had been right to warn her.

  “Why are you thinking of her?” Pella asked out loud, her mind closing rudely. “What has this group of yours to do with Sira?”

  Few Clan outside the Council knew exactly what had happened. Rael had told Pella most, but not all. Now she looked at her sister appraisingly, then asked: “Do you remember learning to play?” As she spoke, she stood as if restless, moving over to the elaborate music stand before the windows.

  Pella
followed her as she expected, pointedly pushing shut the lid of her keffle-flute as though afraid Rael meant to touch her beloved instrument. “Of course I remember. Sira taught me. Make your point, Rael.”

  “She doesn’t play anymore. She’s forgotten how.”

  “Oh,” Pella whispered, her face averted to look out the window. She ran her fingers protectively over the case. “I didn’t know.”

  “It was the stasis. When her own memories were blocked on top of it—well, it’s more surprising she recovered as much of herself as she did. Though by her actions since, one could doubt . . .” Rael let her voice trail away.

  Pella turned to stare at Rael. “What are you saying? What’s happened to Sira? Where is she?”

  No, she hadn’t told her all. “I thought you would have heard by now, Pella,” Rael said, eyes wide. “Sira went into exile—to be with that Human.”

  The case and its precious contents dropped to the floor. Rael didn’t enjoy the shock on her younger sister’s face, but she was relieved to see this much reaction. She had been the one close to Sira, heart-kin with the glorious older sister living out her years isolated from any unChosen in the Cloisters. After fostering, Pella had come to join them until her own moment of Choice, a time of music, peace, and a rare sense of family. In the following years, they’d grown apart, as was proper for the Clan, but something special had existed between them.

  It was all gone now. In her deepest thoughts, Rael believed the new Sira had lost her memory of their bond along with her music, replacing everything that had mattered to her before with the Human, Jason Morgan.

  “Let me tell you about Ica’s plans one more time, Pella,” she coaxed.

  Chapter 22

  It had been worth a try, I decided the next morning, stretching within the warm comfort of my Drapsk-made bed, proportioned to humanoid norm but oddly softer at the edges than the middle.