No one, I thought, positively no one would recognize me through all this. There was the minor complication that anyone with partial vision would spot Huido. Escapes, I’d noticed, frequently had some such flaw.
We weren’t being followed, I realized a heartbeat or so later, gasping for breath. The channel had taken a quick turn left, then right again, meeting smaller channels only wide enough for a being my size, its flow deepening with each junction. We were constrained to it, at least for now.
“Slow down, Huido,” I shouted to make myself heard over the pounding rain, spitting out as much water as sound. “Stop!” I planted my feet in the ankle-deep stream as best I could and resisted his tug.
He stopped. Three eyestalks rolled over to look at me, the valves of his head almost closed to keep out the rain. I remembered Morgan saying Huido didn’t care much for fresh water.
“Where is he?” I shouted, putting my mouth closer to his arm so he could hear me. “Where’s Morgan?”
There was a settling clunk as he turned his massive body to face me, all eyestalks converging to watch my face, a glittering line in the shadows. “I was hoping,” Huido muttered in a deep, distressed bass, “you knew.”
For an endless time, I stared at him, my own hope washing away to leave me shivering and exhausted. Then I licked rain from my lips, not surprised to taste salt in it. “Well, then,” I said, wearily, “we’d better keep looking.”
I drew a small device from my pocket and activated it. I didn’t need the purring sound over our heads, Huido’s mutter of surprise, or the relieved greetings of the half-dozen soaking wet Drapsk leaning precariously out its open doors to know when the aircar I’d arranged to shadow us through the city had arrived.
I’d just hoped I’d have another destination for it than the Makmora, and better news than none at all.
As it turned out, we did have another destination. Huido told me about Morgan’s search for Baltir—a name I remembered all too well—and I’d immediately had the Drapsk use the aircar’s com to contact the Makmora. While they didn’t find the Retian in question in any records, they found enough to divert us to another ship altogether, a decision which just happened to bring us out of the rain without alerting any potentially interested parties.
“I’m fine now, thanks, Maka. I’ll call if we need anything else.” The Drapsk inclined his plumes, once to me and once, adding an odd flutter, to Huido. The Carasian responded with a subdued click of his handling claw. I didn’t ask.
Just as Huido had politely refrained from asking any of the thousand questions he must have at the moment, uttering only a brief, noncommittal: “Nice ship,” when we boarded the Nokraud under the cover of rain.
I hadn’t realized the Drapsk would continue in my absence with the tasks I’d assigned them on Plexis, namely searching for information on anything remotely connected to the Clan, telepaths, or, hopefully with more discretion, Morgan. I should have known, since they were prone to a certain level of inertia in all things. But in this case it had been far more than a waste of time. In addition to what I’d asked them to do, they’d been in contact with every source they could find, including, it seemed, the pirate vessel.
The Enforcers were definitely watching the Makmora. No question they were watching the Fox. But, the Drapsk reported cheerfully, the pirates had lodged a harassment complaint against Bowman and her crew upon their arrival, being quite convinced the Enforcers had followed them to Ret 7. The complaint was taken at face value, since no charges were up against the ship or her crew at the moment. Port Authority obligingly docked the Nokraud at the far end of the shipcity, well out of the Enforcer ship’s sensor range.
This, of itself, was no reason to knock on the ship’s port of such opportunists and expect anything more than a huge bill, if not worse. But something in the Drapsk’s information requests had apparently jogged Captain Rek’s memory. She’d heard, it seemed, rumors of clandestine research being done on Ret 7. Research of a type the Trade Pact would not approve. Would the Drapsk pay to learn more?
For the Mystic One? There was no price too high—as long as bargaining was allowed.
Fortunately the Drapsk in the aircar were so enamored of Huido they hardly fussed when I ordered them to take me directly to the Nokraud, so I could negotiate for this information in person. They merely insisted on making a precautionary call to the Makmora first.
The results, I thought, looking around the lounge, were impressive even for the Drapsk. Before our aircar had reached the shipcity and made its less-than-direct approach to the Nokraud’s dock, crew from the Makmora were already boarding the pirate. Whether by bribe (probable), threat (possible), or extortion (highly likely), they’d managed to place their own people throughout the Nokraud’s key stations without protest from the Scats.
It took a great deal of the disappointment from my day to see Grackik and Rek being oh-so-polite to the dozens of little Drapsk swarming on their decks.
So now, I pulled the cover closer around my thoroughly chilled but dry legs, regarding my surroundings with a sense of déja vu. It was in this lounge the Scats had been faced down by the Drapsk. It would not be wise, I was convinced despite all the Drapsk precautions and confidence, to gamble that humiliation would have been forgotten no matter how much profit was involved.
But as a temporary haven from the rain, Enforcers, and Ret 7 in general, it would definitely do.
“More beer, Huido?” I asked. The Drapsk had torn the back from one of the couches, making a padded bench affair Huido seemed to find quite comfortable. His massive claws rested on the floor, while the smaller ones moved restlessly about, making a soft, rain-on-leaves sound. I shared his impatience.
I’d asked the Drapsk and pirates to leave us alone for a while. The Carasian had been a silent hulk during my discussion with Rek, festooned with adoring Drapsk who apparently considered physical contact with him irresistible. In turn, having the smaller beings climbing over his claws, limbs, body, and head didn’t seem to bother Huido. He’d stirred only when the second Scat entered unannounced, then settled down.
The Scats had been remarkably, unsettlingly cooperative: handing record disks to Maka, describing to me what they knew—by rumor only, of course—of Retian experiments with alien biology, particularly Human biology. Since using intelligent beings for research was forbidden under the Trade Pact, the Retians relied on volunteers, willing to sacrifice themselves for the future good.
Grackik had chittered at this, the chilling laugh of her kind that produced a scalding foam from her saliva, a foam she collected carefully with her long, thin tongue.
They denied knowing any Retian named Baltir. There wasn’t much more, not that they’d admit anyway, although I didn’t doubt some of those “volunteers” arrived in trip boxes in the Nokraud’s dark hold. While their willingness to be gracious hosts lasted, I decided to impose on it, judging that with almost a hundred armed Drapsk throughout the ship, we should be able to keep them out of trouble for the present.
After our discussion, which concluded with a round of Drapsk bargaining that would have shamed a Denebian into honesty, the Makmora agreed to pay in cargo and future business for the information obtained, anything further learned, and the use of the ship as a temporary haven. The Scats appeared content, even sending a large number of their crew on shore leave—not an easy prospect on Ret 7 for any offworlder—in order to free up cabins. Their ship, it appeared, was temporarily ours.
I wondered when we’d find out what they were up to, but didn’t bother the Drapsk with suspicions I was quite sure they shared. I had someone else’s suspicions to counter as soon as we were left alone.
But first, there was a little matter to have explained. “Huido,” I began the moment we were alone. “The Drapsk seem unusually—fond—of you.”
An amused chuckle. “They have good taste.”
“I’m fond of you,” I countered. “So’s Morgan. We don’t climb all over you to show it.”
“Goo
d. You’re too heavy.”
“I’d like an explanation,” I said. “Our little friends are mysterious enough, thank you, without your adding to it.”
Huido shrugged, a rocking movement of his wide head resulting in a series of almost melodic clanks. “My grist is considered very attractive among my kind—a pity you are not equipped to appreciate it, Sira.” This with definite innuendo. “The Drapsk, on the other hand, are extraordinarily sensitive to such things.”
“Meaning?”
“They can’t help but love me. It is a harmless obsession. Don’t let it bother you.”
“Oh,” I said, then looked at my companion, a mass of shining, opinionated black armor more like a stripped-down groundcar than a living thing, and didn’t even try to imagine what the Drapsk felt. At least, I thought, they were happy.
“Huido,” I said evenly, waiting until the attention of more eyestalks meant he’d noticed my change of tone. “It’s time we talked about Plexis. I know what you and Barac did to hide Larimar’s body. And why.”
“You do?” A castanet sigh. “It was my staff, wasn’t it. They’re all fired.”
I put all the earnestness I could into my voice. “Huido. Morgan didn’t kill the Clansman.”
“Of course he didn’t.” All of Huido’s eyes converged on me. A massive handling claw half-rose from the floor, but then he thought better of snapping it.
I should have known. Which didn’t explain anything. “Then why dispose of—him? What were you and Barac thinking?”
A hiss as plates shuddered over one another. “That the murderer left the corpse to cause trouble in more than my kitchen. Perhaps to delay Morgan with an investigation. Perhaps to inflame the Clan against him.” He paused, eyes whirling. “Or perhaps the killer missed his true target. I do not like the pattern I see forming, Sira. First Larimar talks to Morgan and dies. Now Malacan Ser—”
“Mal—” I stopped, remembering the name from what seemed a lifetime ago. “That’s the Human on Ret 7, the exporter Bowman uses as her eyes and ears insystem. What about him?”
Huido’s voice became slow and grim. “Murdered by the same method as Larimar. And only three standard days ago. Morgan planned to see him.”
“You think the murderer is following Morgan,” I said numbly. “And Bowman’s here looking for Morgan. She must know about Malacan, if not Larimar. But she can’t suspect Morgan—”
“Why not? Your worthless cousin believes it,” he said with disgust. “He was so convinced of Morgan’s guilt, the creteng deserted me the first chance he got.”
“Barac doesn’t know Morgan’s nature as we do,” I said, better able to see Barac’s viewpoint, if not inclined to forgive it either. “Or he’d know Morgan couldn’t be a killer.”
The Carasian threw up both his massive handling claws, snapping them closed with an ominous cymbal-like sound. “Yet,” he rumbled darkly.
I sat up straight, feet together on the floor, blanket clutched between my hands as I stared at him. “What do you mean? Morgan will defend himself if he has to—”
“There’s a difference between reacting to violence and seeking it.” Huido’s head carapace tilted forward, eyestalks milling aimlessly back and forth. “With what you’ve done to him, my brother could cross that line at any time. If he hasn’t already.” His sudden air of dejection was all the more inexplicable, considering his passion of an instant before. My heart began to beat more heavily, as if preparing for flight. But Huido’s next words seemed harmless enough: “Has Morgan told you how we met? Has he told you of his youth?”
“No. What does this have to do with today, now?”
Two smaller arms swung up, as if gathering air, then came together. “We are today what was begun in the past, Sira Morgan. Sira di Sarc. You should know this if anyone does.”
I curbed my impatience to be looking for Morgan. If I’d learned anything from the Drapsk, it was to never underestimate what other beings viewed as important. And, perhaps because Barac had abandoned the Carasian without warning, I owed him a member of the Clan who would listen. “Tell me, then.”
Morgan, so Huido’s story went, had been the youngest in a family of farmers, living in the foothills near Karolus’ shining new shipcity, in sight of the bright lights marking the colony’s future. He’d had his Talent even when young, sufficient to encourage a boy to be a loner, to enjoy long walks deeper into the wilderness, away from the clustered busy minds of family and stranger alike.
Had been the youngest. Just before Morgan’s twelfth birthday, Karolus had been lapped up in a civil war between neighboring systems, its modern shipcity a prize tempting both sides to invade.
Morgan had run home one afternoon, pulled from his wanderings by a dreadful foreboding to find his home empty, his family dead or missing, their crops in flames. The shipcity itself was a fireworks display in reverse, streaks of eye-stabbing light raining down as both sides fought to keep it from one another.
Morgan’s Talent, though he didn’t know it then, drew him from the destruction to where his uncles had fled into the hills with what remained of the valley’s adult population. The sturdy colonists, well-accustomed to fighting nature and chance, took on the role of reclaiming their world with typical single-mindedness.
There were years of guerrilla warfare, made worse by having no clear enemy. A victory against one foe merely opened a doorway for the other to move in; caught in the middle, Karolus slowly choked to death, her population dying as often by mistaken fire as by planned attack. Young Morgan survived his uncles, gaining a reputation as being lucky as well as a skilled saboteur. He and those with him counted their successes in days survived.
The day came when one of the offworld forces claimed total victory, its foes turning over their bases on Karolus as part of the spoils. The planet’s original colonists had been almost forgotten, their ineffectual raids blamed on the defeated enemy. But now the attention of the victors turned to them alone.
Morgan and those with him were sick of a war they couldn’t win, that wasn’t theirs to begin or end. They were ready to surrender, and might have succeeded in doing so if there hadn’t been a change in the conflict. Colonists, fighters or not, were no longer being captured or killed. Instead, rumors spread like wildfire of atrocities, of the collection of the living for sale off world. There was a certain group of offworlders responsible, went the story, hunters with the task of cleaning up the Karolus problem once and for all.
It was at this time that a stranger walked into the caves where Morgan and his dwindling band of guerrillas were hiding, a charismatic Human brought to them by the representatives of two other families. A born leader, they called him. Able to spot enemy installations in the dark. Lucky as Morgan, boasted someone. At this, the new leader had reached out his thoughts, unerringly finding Morgan where he stood well back of the others, touching and soothing the chaos and confusion that was Morgan’s Talent fighting to be expressed, granting the comfort only another trained telepath could give.
I’d known the name before Huido’d said it, known it with a sick certainty. Ren Symon.
Symon was an inspiring leader, daring and smart, brave but interested more in results than glory. Many of the surviving colonists flocked to his side, as charmed as Morgan. It was the only place with hope, as daily more and more disappeared or died. Morgan became Symon’s protégé. The older telepath showed him how to keep out the thoughts of others or how to read them, how to interpret the sensations of warning, and how to lend his strength when needed.
It was impossible for Huido to imagine what that must have been like for Morgan, but I knew. To be able to control the voices in your mind, to realize it as a gift, not a madness—above all to communicate freely with another mind, giving and sharing. It was the best of what we could do.
It was also the worst.
There were times when Symon left them, to lead raids by other bands. Morgan was told to remain behind, his Talent serving as an early warning too important to the dwind
ling numbers of survivors to risk.
One night, Morgan didn’t stay. He was startled from a light doze at his guard post by a terrible premonition of disaster, catching himself stumbling through the dark after Symon before he’d realized his intention to follow. So be it, he’d thought. If Symon was in danger, this time he’d be there to help.
Morgan’s shields, as I could testify, were naturally strong. So he was able to follow Symon undetected, down to the valley floor, right up to the end of the battered shipcity where he ducked behind the wreckage of a starship. If he could have called a warning without being overheard, he would have. Some instinct kept him from calling mind-to-mind.
It was just as well. Moments later, he stared in disbelief as Symon reappeared walking with an officer of the enemy, taking a bag from him before giving a casual salute.
Morgan knew what loss was; he’d had practice. He closed down all emotion, any reaction except cold curiosity, and kept following, determined to find out the truth. It wasn’t a long journey. Symon led him farther through the field of wreckage to where a force field marked the edges of a camp. Morgan didn’t dare approach any closer. There would certainly be detectors set around the perimeter.
There was another way, a way Symon had taught him. Morgan found a place where he could hide, then tucked himself into a ball and closed his eyes. He sought outward, carefully, carefully, sending out a tendril of questing thought, avoiding the lodestone of a mind he knew as Symon’s, seeking someone else, anyone else.
There. A susceptible mind. Morgan’s eyes snapped open in shock. It was a girl, a prisoner. She wasn’t alone. Through her eyes he could see dozens of colonists, chained together, some injured, most unharmed. There were trip boxes stacked to one side, ready to receive their cargo. A Scat made its stalking rounds nearby, its heavy snout moving from side to side as though testing the air. Roraqk, whimpered the girl’s thoughts in Morgan’s. He has the ship.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 33