I took the lift to the main floor with an eerie sense of retracing my steps. The open area, with its bulblike eating rooms, was as deserted as the hall upstairs. From all evidence, I was alone in the building. I found myself half-running to the doorway leading out, beginning to suspect I’d done something truly dreadful to the Drapsk.
After one step out the door, I was convinced I had. The dark sky above was ablaze, as if set on fire, while the platform and walkways were literally stuffed with Drapsk of every possible color, all dashing to and fro as though they’d lost their senses. Fortunately, the walkway wasn’t flowing and the bowlcars sat abandoned, or there would have been some tragedies in front of my eyes. Had they gone mad?
“The Mystic One!” The cry sprang from a thousand tentacle-ringed mouths at once. The sky went black at the same time, throwing off my vision just when my horrified eyes saw most of the Drapsk turn to start coming my way.
I stumbled back through the hotel doorway by feel. As I started to close it, panic-stricken at the thought of the mob, the sky lit again. Immediately, the Drapsk stopped and fluttered their plumes.
“Fireworks?” I said in disbelief, staring upward as I stepped back outside for a better view. “They’re sending up the fireworks.”
“There you are!” Captain Makairi and four other Makii detached themselves from the near edge of the crowd and hurried toward me. When they were close enough, all five of them reached out to pat me gently, as if checking I was real. “We’ve been worried, Mystic One. Copelup said you would wake in your own time. Are you recovered?”
“Tired,” I said, hearing the truth of that in my own voice. I found myself patting them lightly in return, a gesture they didn’t seem to mind. “And concerned, Makii. What happened? Do you know if I succeeded at all?”
The five began to hoot uncontrollably. It wasn’t quite the reaction I expected, though it was, I thought, reassuring in a way. Captain Makairi recovered his equilibrium first, saying: “Come with us, Mystic One. We’re on our way to one of the Makii Houses—just behind this building. We will tell you how very, very well you did for all of Drapskii.”
As I should have guessed, the Makii House turned out to be the Drapsk version of a tavern. I let them herd me inside to where I stood waist-deep in purple and pink Makii. I looked in vain for a seat of any kind, noticing that most of those who’d been here a while had containers of various shapes and sizes firmly affixed to their mouths, their tentacles making this a very reasonable way to carry a drink. One result was a most unfamiliar absence of sounds, despite more of the bitonal music and the irregular thudding of feet as individuals milled around one another.
“Make way for the Mystic One!”
This shout from Captain Makairi—in Comspeak for my benefit and backed by the no-nonsense hand fan he produced and aimed around the room—had the effect of opening a wide expanse of floor in front of me and totally disrupting the party atmosphere. I felt as conspicuous as a disbeliever among Turrned Missionaries.
It didn’t help when the Drapsk began bowing in great waves, drinks still clamped to their mouths.
All I could do was to hurry to where Captain Makairi had found an actual table and chairs along one back wall—perhaps ready for aliens such as myself. Each Drapsk I passed brushed me lightly with their fingers, as if I were irresistible yet fragile. Since I felt the latter at least, I sank gratefully into the nearest seat, trying to ignore the scrutiny of every being in the room.
“Sombay, hot, with those spices she likes,” another Drapsk barked an order into the air. “Biscuits, Mystic One?”
Already drooling at the thought of the sombay, I nodded mutely, only now spotting the name inscribed in Comspeak on this one’s tool belt. “Maka. I’m happy to see you,” I said, delighted my own Drapsk were keeping track of me.
The Drapsk indicated gratitude with a quick touch from his antennae. “This pleases me also, Mystic One. We of the Makmora hold you in our souls. We never doubted you.”
“Where’s Copelup?” I asked, craning around in hopes of spotting those yellow plumes. None were in sight.
“The Skeptics . . . study . . . argue . . . Niakii . . . their numbers . . . results . . . speculate,” two other Drapsk answered in a confusing overlap of voices. “No fun,” they synched at last.
“Maybe I should go and talk to them,” I offered, weakening as the sombay was delivered steaming hot and with a fragrance promising it was exactly the way I’d come to love it. The Drapsk always did their homework. To complete their effort to pin me in place, a plate of fresh biscuits arrived, already split and filled with my favorite sweet spread.
“Then again,” I decided around a mouthful, “I could stay here a while.” I sank deeper into my chair. “Especially if you can tell me what is going on.”
INTERLUDE
Barac shook his head, convinced he’d lost his appetite forever. “You go ahead, Chief Bowman,” he said graciously. “I’ve already eaten.”
Bowman raised one eyebrow. “Must have been early,” she commented, helping herself to another spoonful of some green cereal. “Thought I was an early riser. Didn’t sleep well? Or don’t Clan sleep?”
The Clansman had to smile. Was there ever a moment this Human didn’t pry for information? Even now, when Plexis and the ships tucked in her sides were still an hour from stationday, the Enforcer’s eyes were bright and interested. “We sleep,” he gave her. “From the look of it, more than you do.”
“Hmmph,” was all she answered, busy eating. Barac looked over at the third member of this breakfast group.
Terk, leaning up against the galley wall, didn’t seem to have an appetite either or else, as Barac sometimes suspected, the Human was actually a servo and needed neither food nor rest. His appearance did nothing to belie the impression, Terk’s uniform having to cope with a barrel chest and unusually wide shoulders. His hair was pale and limp above features that, to be generous, looked like a sculptor had forgotten to finish them properly. His eyes, currently fixed on Barac and apparently not needing to blink, were like chips of stone.
All in all, Barac decided, not the look of a diplomat.
Nor the manners. Terk, seeing his commander occupied, asked abruptly: “So where did Morgan light off to? Didn’t Huido know? Or wouldn’t he tell you?”
“Didn’t the Fox file a destination?” Barac shot back.
Bowman patted her lips with a napkin. “There is an interesting tendency on Plexis to withhold information on departures, Hom sud Sarc,” she answered with a glint of real annoyance in her eyes. “They don’t consider themselves to be a spaceport, you see, and feel this should grant them unusual latitude in how they deal with us.”
“We don’t pay bribes,” Terk clarified, his normally deep voice a growl.
Barac knew better than to grin. “In answer to your question, Constable, no, I don’t know where Jason Morgan went. His friend, the Carasian, may know, but you’d have better luck with Plexis.” He tilted his head, considering the two Humans. They couldn’t know about Larimar. Why the sudden interest in Morgan?
“You told me you were investigating the telepaths who attacked me yesterday. What does Morgan have to do with them? Besides being one himself,” he added, quite sure these Enforcers knew this much and more about Sira’s Chosen.
Bowman pushed aside her plate, though it remained half full. She nodded once at Terk, who went to the door and locked it. Barac merely raised a curious brow. The Humans knew he could leave any time he chose, so this precaution wasn’t against him. “I don’t want interruptions,” Bowman answered, her perception, as always, uncomfortably close to that of a true mind reader.
“I’m becoming convinced we have a problem, a serious problem, Clansman Barac sud Sarc,” she continued, steepling her fingertips together on the table and regarding him with those keen, miss-nothing eyes. “But first, are you able to—what’s the word?—block any telepathic eavesdroppers?”
Barac started, automatically checking his shields. In plac
e and properly so, despite there being no conceivable threat to his thoughts here. “Human eavesdroppers?” he guessed and was rewarded by her nod. “Yes. Of course.”
Her lips twitched, amused perhaps by the involuntary superiority in his voice. “Forgive the question, but it’s become an issue lately. Terk? Why don’t you give our guest some of the background to our—investigation?”
Terk tossed a sheet of plas covered with notations to land on the table in front of Barac. “Human telepaths have been disappearing,” the Human said bluntly, pointing at the sheet. “We’ve lost seven from our force in as many weeks. There are rumors, hard to confirm or deny, of civilian disappearances as well. The most solid are there.”
Barac pulled the sheet around so he could read the precise script. It was a list of two dozen names and systems, one link immediately obvious. “All male. I thought your females were as likely to have some Talent.” The Clansman was proud of the way he said that, as though Humans could have anything like the abilities meant by Talent among his kind; Morgan, he hoped, being the exception.
“We’ve noticed.”
The Clansman frowned. “So what are you implying? That this is why I was attacked? Someone is kidnapping male telepaths—Human and now, with the attempt on me, non-Human? I don’t recommend the practice.”
Bowman shook her head. “No, I doubt Sorl and his group had the same reasons for their attempt to carry you off with them, Hom sud Sarc.”
“You know them?” Try as he might, Barac couldn’t keep the outrage from his voice. “Then have they been arrested?”
“Not unless you filed charges with Plexis,” Terk said with a straight face. “We only deal with Trade Pact species, remember?”
“You persist in reminding me.”
“Homs,” Bowman interjected smoothly, as Barac and Terk kept glaring at each other. “We do have crimes enough to work with, if you don’t mind.”
Barac gestured appeasement and Terk pulled back a chair to finally sit. The atmosphere eased slightly. “Better,” Bowman approved. Her voice hardened. “Now, we have missing Human telepaths. We have a really quite desperate attempt to kidnap you, Hom sud Sarc, by the few Human telepaths left in this quadrant. To me, this suggests a possible cause and effect.”
“You think your telepaths are blaming the Clan,” Barac stated, turning the idea over in his own mind. “Do that many of them know we exist?” he wondered out loud.
“You know what they say. What you tell one telepath, you tell them all,” Terk said with a crooked grin. Bowman glowered at him and he subsided.
“As far as I know, telepaths don’t share information,” she explained. “They don’t share much of anything, except a tendency to mental illness if untrained. But this threat has united those who know one another. Do they know about the Clan?” Bowman repeated. “There have always been rumors, hints circulating here and there. If they wanted to learn about you, it wouldn’t have been difficult.”
“If you are going to ask me next, is their suspicion the truth?” Barac said calmly, “I can’t tell you.”
Terk’s big hands flattened on the table. “Can’t or won’t?” “Can’t,” Barac said, stressing the word. “I’ve told you. I’m exile. Even if I weren’t, you of all Humans know the Council doesn’t reveal its planning to others—especially sud.” He met Bowman’s eyes, wishing he knew how to convince her he was telling the truth, for once. Among Clan, it was so much easier to communicate. “For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine why the Council would become involved with your telepaths at all. They have less strength than the least of us. They are not a threat, nor an asset.” Beyond, Barac added honestly to himself, being the easiest of minds to control if need be.
“Well, it may take more than your opinion to convince those on Plexis. You’d better be more careful, Hom sud Sarc.”
“I intend to be,” Barac said fervently. “Is this all you wanted me for?”
Bowman hesitated a moment. When Terk would have spoken, she held up a finger to keep him silent.
“Well?” Barac prompted. “You said an exchange of information. I regret I have so little to share, but then you don’t seem to have a lot to offer in return. I repeat: I was too late to catch Morgan before he left Plexis, and I know nothing about your problem of vanishing telepaths. My thanks again for your rescue, Constable. So. Are we done, Chief Bowman?”
“Not quite.” Bowman’s eyes sparkled. Barac knew that look: half pleasure and half predator’s fix. “Tell me. What do you know about a species called the Drapsk, Hom sud Sarc?”
Chapter 32
LOOKING back, I’d probably let the happiness of the quasi-intoxicated Drapsk blind me to certain—potential consequences—I might have paid close attention to otherwise. But by the time I’d been in the Makii House for several hours, receiving delegations of the small beings who only wished to touch their Mystic One in adoration, it was difficult to keep in mind these were the same creatures who’d kept me prisoner until I’d agreed to help them.
It was much the same social climate that has led otherwise sane beings to have the names of transient loved ones carved in their skin.
It had led me to this moment. Rings of silent, expectant Makii Drapsk surrounded me, plumes waving in encouragement. Little hands patted me constantly, urging me onward. I stared down at the plate in front of me and wondered if I were insane.
“Hurry, Mystic One,” someone said. “They don’t stay fresh for long.”
Well, nothing ventured, I thought queasily. I picked up the first of two bright red tentacles, kindly shed on my behalf by Captain Makairi—a temporary sacrifice: nubby replacements had already sprouted since he handed me the plate. After being shed, each tentacle had shrunk to about the size and shape of my thumb, but remained, I found, disconcertingly warm. I closed my eyes and popped it into my mouth, the room instantly roaring with chants of “Makii! Makii!”
No worse than unripe nicnic, I decided, though the taste could be improved. The texture was rubbery enough to challenge my teeth, but I was only to chew several times, then spit it out anyway. Trying to ignore where the object I gnawed so dutifully had originated, I opened my eyes and nodded reassuringly at my companions.
“Next!”
I removed the morsel as daintily as possible, putting it on the plate without looking too closely. I did notice the red color was gone. Knowing what to expect, the second tentacle was easier.
When I was done, the plate was mercifully removed, and I gazed at my cheering hosts with a triumphant sense of really breaking through the interspecies barrier. “Is that the end of the ceremony?” I asked innocently.
Maka produced a pair of what appeared to be Drapsk scissors from his tool belt, while Captain Makairi coaxed a stool from the floor on the other side of the table from me, a new and empty plate brought and placed before him. I tucked my hands in my lap, rolling my fingers into protective fists. “You aren’t proposing to cut off part of me, are you?” I asked with what I thought commendable composure. “I can tell you now, it doesn’t work that way.” It was all very well for the Drapsk to want me to take part in this somewhat modified version of their celebration, a way of symbolically welcoming me into their Tribe, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice anything irreplaceable.
“A piece of hair will be quite sufficient.”
“Oh,” I said wisely, as if I knew this all along. From the subdued hoots in the background, the Drapsk were perfectly aware what I’d worried about. I found myself grinning. It took two of us to hold a lock of the indignant stuff in place—the hair of a Chosen Clanswoman tended to have a significant amount of motility, particularly, I found, when scissors were in the offing.
Captain Makairi’s plumes dropped perceptibly as he contemplated the small mass of fine red-gold tendrils on his plate. I was sympathetic, having likely looked similarly thrilled by his offering on mine. This didn’t stop me chanting with the rest: “Makii! Makii!” until the poor being had to shove the hair into his mouth and chew. From
the speed with which he did so, and spat the little wad back out, I assumed he found my taste as foul as I’d feared his would be. There was, I thought smugly, some justice in the universe.
Copelup’s antennae came to attention, then folded to point straight at me. “What have you done?” he shouted, mouth tentacles splayed out in an equally rigid ring.
I’d been hoping for an explanation of exactly that, having found the Makii more interesting in celebrating than making sense, but it seemed something else had upset the Skeptic the moment I’d been ushered into the indoor amphitheater. The other Drapsk, all Skeptics, Niakii, or Heerii, turned from their various machines and devices to orient in our direction. One by one, their antennae snapped into the same posture as Copelup’s.
I had a sudden bad feeling about all this and turned to look at Captain Makairi. His tentacles, including the two still shorter ones, were tightly clamped in his mouth. Oh dear, I thought. “What have I done?” I asked reasonably.
The Skeptic pushed Makairi to one side, an atypical use of physical force among the Drapsk, with the exception of the hockey game. Then he patted me gently, while his plumes touched my face and shoulders. “Well, it’s done, isn’t it?” he announced in a decidedly grumpy tone, moving away from me and returning to the console he’d left in order to greet me. The other Drapsk remained at attention.
“What’s done?” I demanded, my voice regrettably loud, suspecting anything and everything at this point.
“You’re Makii,” one of the Heerii explained in a matter-of-fact way. “You did perform the ipstsa. We can all tell.”
I felt myself blush. “Well,” I confessed, feeling as though I’d committed some as yet unknown crime or lewd act, “there was a celebration and a ceremony of sorts—no one told me the name.” I looked down at my hands, expecting to see a hint of tentacle red or Makii purple-pink. “How can you tell?” I asked suspiciously.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 25