I peered up through the tangle of dying roots over my head. The sky was darkening—not night, but the usual afternoon downpour gathering itself. No sign of our attacker or the other aircar. Yet.
Rek didn’t waste time looking around. She reached into what I could now see was the aircar’s emergency pack, pulling out a packet she shook into a large piece of fabric. This she laid right over the puddle of stagnant water at the very bottom of the hollow, before nudging me with a foot. “Down there.”
Rather than stand up, which I doubted I could manage anyway, I rolled myself down the little bit of slope onto the blanket. It was waterproof, I noticed with relief, though my landing had splashed some of the foul liquid over its edges. Rek followed me down, examining my position with a tilt of her heavy head, then she took the sides of the blanket and began wrapping me up like a body for burial—an image I thought unpleasantly apt.
“What are you doing?” I protested weakly, prepared to trust her judgment if only because I couldn’t possibly resist it at the moment.
“This-ss cover has-ss reflective properties-ss,” she answered calmly. “It will dis-ssrupt their s-sscans-ss for you.” She twisted free a piece of root, using it to disturb the sides of the hollow so they dropped on my legs and body.
Oddly enough, I found I was more comfortable with every passing moment. The water beneath me acted like a soft mattress, while the blanket held in my body’s heat. The extra layer Rek was busy applying added to the effect.
“What about you?” I mumbled, already half asleep from exhaustion and the druglike effects of being warm and motionless at last.
“I mus-sst res-sspond to this--ss challenge from my brood-kin,” Rek explained, twisting her snout to check the sky. “I will eat her heart.” She returned to her self-appointed task of enshrining me, a process I was relieved stopped below my neck, then showed me how to pull the last excess of blanket over my head while leaving a gap to breathe.
The light covering wasn’t a trap. Even though only one of my arms was easy to move, I tested it with my legs and knew I could wriggle myself free despite my weakness.
Rek rummaged in the pack, returning with a cylinder she pressed into the fingers of my free hand—I recognized it as a tube of emergency rations and felt my mouth water. “There is-ss only one, Fem Morgan,” she warned. “Us-se it s-ssparingly.”
“What do you want me to do, Captain?” I asked quietly.
“S-ssurvive until I return from victory, Fem Morgan. I will wis-ssh to collect my profit from our arrangement.” Her jaws clattered together in a laugh—Scat humor. Spittle landed in a hot streak on my forehead; she considerately removed it with a quick flash of her tongue.
“I wish you success,” I said, smiling myself at the irony. Of course, there really wasn’t anything amusing about it. I would die here, appropriately already half-buried, if Rek failed in her bid for power—a bid that appeared to me in my ignorance to be a hopeless example of biological hardwiring overcoming common sense.
Then there was always the outside chance of being found by the Retians—who, after all, knew their world—and returned to the Baltir. I didn’t count that as surviving.
A click and sullen hum brought my attention back to Rek, checking over her rifle; she used the tip of a claw to tease a length of reed grass from its entanglement in the mechanism, her frills pulsing with the colors of excitement. I envied her that attitude.
“There,” she said, swinging the weapon up in both hands. Her head tilted so those cold yellow eyes stared down at me. “If you have died before my return, Fem Morgan, I vow to eat the hearts-ss of your enemies-ss.”
“Thank you,” I said quite sincerely.
Before I could so much as blink, she was gone—moving with the intimidating speed of an unencumbered and motivated Scat. I opened the ration tube, allowing myself one blissful mouthful before closing it and tucking it inside the Retian coat. Then I pulled the blanket over my head, beyond worrying if Rek’s idea of camouflage would work and I wouldn’t be used for target practice as I slept.
As I drifted into the darkness of utter exhaustion, I couldn’t even bring myself to care if the island’s wildlife might consider my rolled-up body as delightful a source of nourishment as I viewed my ration tube.
INTERLUDE
Ru?
Rael’s eyes were open, but she couldn’t see in the darkness. The lighting in the brig was under Drapsk control, not hers, and they’d called this night. But she didn’t need light to sense the tentative touch on her shields, identifying its source with surprise.
And its existence. Had the Drapsk released her power? She attempted to port, stopped immediately by the feel of the unseen wall around her.
Where are you? There’s a strange feel to your thoughts. So Ru could detect it as well. Rael didn’t bother to explain, aware the Drapsk might detect and sever this link at any moment.
I found Sira, Rael sent back, knowing Ru would feel the worry and uncertainty under the thought. There was no hiding them had she wished to try. She’s in trouble. You must help us.
Ica’s been summoned to Council, Ru’s response was stronger, almost a shout to Rael’s inner sense, colored by outright fear. They could come for me next. She has supporters. I have none.
Pella?
Ran home at the first sign of trouble. What did you expect from her? They’ll find her if they wish. You know their strength. How did this happen? We have been betrayed!
One of the disadvantages of communicating mind-to-mind was the difficulty of controlling what was sent. Rael knew what she’d revealed even before Ru’s furious You? burned through her thoughts.
What you’re doing is wrong, she sent, forcing her conviction past the anger beating at her. You had to be stopped. Sira—
You told her, too?
She plans to help us, Ru. There has to be a better way. Sira can guide us.
A pause, but their link remained; Rael felt it carving deeper through the M’hir as they both supplied power to hold the opening between minds.
You made your decision. The words in her mind were ice-edged. Now the rest of us have to live with it—or die by it.
Die? What do you mean? Rael strengthened her shielding, though Ru was no threat to her.
We will listen to Sira. You haven’t left us any other options. But we can’t leave evidence for the Council. We can’t allow them to condemn us, to stop our work, Ru sent, her thought distant, as though her mind busied itself with other things. We can’t leave the Human telepaths alive.
Ru!
Rael knew her mental scream flung itself into the M’hir without a target; the link was already gone.
As were, she realized with a shudder, the lives of beings who had as much right to survival as the Clan. Ru would not hesitate to make good her threat.
Sira had finally taught her to care about Humans, Rael acknowledged to herself. She had even come to see something worth puzzling to understand in the far more alien Drapsk. She was no longer the xenophobic Clan she had been.
It was, she decided with a certain sense of self-pity, a lousy moment to become broad-minded.
Chapter 52
THE harsh voice sounded desperate, as if afraid I no longer listened: “You must Join.”
The darkness was the womb from which I refused to be born, knowing all without plotted against me. I would fool them. I would stay here until I died and was safe.
“Fool!” hissed a voice, a cough and spit breaking the sound with pain. “Death is-ss no bargain.”
The round globe of a Drapsk face floated past me, sprouting multiple eyes of shiny black that milled in disapproval. “See how you bleed? How you bleed? You bleed?”
A new voice, with the crackle and snap of a campfire behind it. “Will you abandon him? Do you think he will survive? Can either of you live alone?”
The darkness was a moist haven, a cradle gentled by music and touch. “Why do you care?” I shouted, fighting the growing urgency threatening its safety. “Why
won’t you leave me in peace?”
“Peace is a lie,” they shouted back, the words echoing through me until I couldn’t breathe, I was choking, I was . . .
I really was choking, I realized as I awoke to feel pressure against my face. I pushed at it frantically, fighting to free my mouth and nose. Something gave and I sucked in air with grateful heaves that sent reminders of pain through my body. Even as I took the saving breath, I was struggling to get out, thoroughly panicked by the thought of truly being buried here.
Somehow the blanket came away, freeing my head. I lifted my face to the pouring rain, opening my mouth to collect the drops, feeling the nightmare’s fear fade into something more tangible.
It was night. I was half-buried in the hollow. The music in my dream had been the rain pounding on the blanket; there’d been sufficient to start filling the hollow. As I moved, it felt as though I was semi-floating.
As for my lack of air, the culprit humped itself hopefully back toward me. An ort-fungus, smaller than its town brethren, probably attracted by the ration tube in my coat to crawl over my face looking for a way inside the blanket. I was very grateful I’d awakened first. The formless, fuzzy masses had their charm, I supposed—the Retians gave them free rein in their households, perhaps as living vacuums—but I wasn’t comfortable with the thought of close contact.
Larger organisms ate them, so in a way the presence of the pest was a sign that nothing more formidable had considered me as an appetizer while I slept.
Other imperatives of nature made me pull myself free of Rek’s nest-building, those and a sudden trapped feeling I couldn’t rationalize away. The night’s sleep—a full night, I saw from the brightening of the horizon—had been the best thing I could have done. While my wounds were quick to remind me which muscles I wasn’t allowed to use, the rest of me seemed ready to try.
Once I’d stood and limped around for a few minutes, I felt even better. At least I wasn’t going to topple to the ground immediately. I freed the blanket from the muddy hollow, knowing its value. There wasn’t any dry ground—prime real estate here—but I spread the lower half of the blanket over a platform formed by the fallen tree trunks and their branches. When I sat on it, carefully, and drew the remainder of the blanket over my head, I had a shelter from the worst of the rain.
My feet were bare, I noticed idly, stretching my legs out so the warm rain could work at the dirt, soot, and mud coating my skin, rolling my ankles so it struck between my toes as well.
Using one hand to hold the blanket under my chin, I pulled out the ration tube and allowed myself to savor two slow mouthfuls before placing it in one of the fastenable pockets of my blood-stained and filthy coat. At least it wasn’t my blood, I consoled myself, deliberately not looking too closely, afraid of what I might find.
By virtue of this being the highest point on the island, and most of the trees along the shoreline having fallen or about to drop, I had a reasonably good view in three directions. It was, I discovered, quite beautiful here.
The clouds were breaking apart, the rain falling in isolated showers. Over the expanse of freshwater sea in front of me, I could make out five separate patches of churning water—a sixth shower sat stubbornly over my head.
At the far horizon, the sun’s beams drove lances of pink and yellow up through the clouds, catching the outlines of upper layers as they sped by on a wind I couldn’t feel down here. Most of the water was so calm it took the clouds and replayed them in its depths, confusing the eye as to where sky ended and its surface began. Tendrils of mist wove patterns binding the island’s shoreline to those of more distant, smaller protrusions. I thought, gazing into the distance through my personal curtain of rain, I could make out the curve of the planet etched in water and the beginnings of light.
Closer at hand, the shoreline was a busier place. Fat raindrops cut their holes in the pondlike spaces left by the undermined trees. Insects of some type jigged and danced on the calm surface wherever an overhanging branch acted as an umbrella. As I watched, entranced by this view of Ret 7 that didn’t consist of mud or threat, a larger something, about the size of my thumb, drifted among the insects, snapping up a tasty jiggler with one gulp. It rose to the surface, allowing me to see its legs and arms hanging limply as it rested.
There was something very familiar about that pop-eyed stare and wide, rippled mouth. I bowed my head to it politely, positive I was looking at a very young Retian—a survivor of the first, most harrowing, stage of its life. It took sensible alarm at the motion, ducking back under the surface and propelling itself deep into the muddy bottom with kicks of its legs. I wished it luck.
Then I looked out at the vast inland lake with sudden comprehension. No wonder the Retians protected their land—or rather its watery coating—so fiercely against ownership by outworlders. It was as valid a form of parental care as the blatant offspring worship of Human parents.
My hand flattened over my abdomen, supplying a light soothing pressure. There was, I granted grudgingly, reason for the Clan to be so desperate, to act with such disregard for individuals. It was at the root of every being’s existence: to have a living future. That, as Morgan would say, did not make it right. There had to be other choices, better methods. Some costs were simply too high for an intelligent race to bear.
He had taught me that—while I had been teaching him warfare and defense. Morgan saw every being as an individual and, despite the differences which made him spend much of his life alone, he valued others. It no longer surprised me he’d risked his own life to save mine before we’d even known one another. Now, it would surprise me more, knowing the measure of the Human, to expect anything less.
He would, I thought, approve of my helping the Drapsk. He would approve of my decision to try and help the Clan.
I allowed myself another mouthful from the tube, refusing to think about how long Rek had been gone or the number of mouthfuls left before I was reduced to hunting with the locals for nourishment.
Morgan would approve, I told myself, then allowed myself to be honest.
I might never know.
INTERLUDE
The Makmora’s trader’s lounge was huge for a starship, suited to any gathering the Drapsk engineers could imagine. It had to be, to fit all those interested in this meeting.
Morgan sat at the head of the long bench-like table four Drapsk had magically produced from the deck. At any other time he would have lingered, fascinated by everything about the small, relatively unknown beings and their beautiful ship.
Today, he kept his hands in plain view, his weapon hol stered, and his knives loose in their concealed sheaths.
To his immediate left sat Rael, her lovely face set and drawn into an expression of despair so deep he had been afraid to ask her what had happened. There’d been no chance for private conversation; the Drapsk had marched her into the meeting without a word, and two stood in apparent guard behind her, antennae rigidly upright. He was tempted to reach into her thoughts, but Huido had warned both him and Barac of the devices of the Drapsk.
Another amazing revelation Morgan would normally have found totally absorbing, had so much else not been at stake.
Barac was to his left, fully back in his charming, urbane role as former Clan Scout and spy, somehow able to make even a borrowed pair of spacer coveralls look tailored. His dark eyes roamed ceaselessly, but his expression was one of a partygoer ready to enjoy the revels. Morgan knew nothing was farther from the truth. Barac took the ambitions of Lacknee Sorl very personally indeed.
Huido amply filled out the list of those Morgan considered part of his contingent. The Carasian had finally worked out an arrangement with the Drapsk, who’d reacted to his arrival with distinctly counterproductive joy. Once convinced to stop climbing on his arms and back, they’d created a special seat for him from the cooperative flooring of the room, supplying a low stool for Lacknee Sorl next to it—Huido having assumed responsibility for guarding their reluctant guest, and neither Morgan nor B
arac inclined to argue. It had apparently required twenty Drapsk to escort Huido and his responsibility to their seats, though by now Morgan suspected this was so more of the unusual beings could touch the Carasian before they left.
Even now, there were three of them draped over Huido’s back, having sneaked into the room as things settled, chubby little hands holding on to the ridges of his carapace for security. More information to file away until the business at hand was done.
The Drapsk response to Morgan had been odd as well. They’d rushed forward, exclaiming in delight when he’d first arrived, only to halt so suddenly several collided with one another. They had stood, just out of reach, antennae rigidly pointing at him and tentacles disappearing into their mouths. After a difficult moment of silence, during which Huido grumbled something about “ridiculous featherheads,” the Captain had reluctantly offered his hand in a politely Human greeting. Morgan’s initial reaction had been to wonder darkly if the Drapsk had truly wanted him found, or if they preferred to keep their Mystic One to themselves.
When he whispered this suspicion into Huido’s elbow on their way to the lift, the Carasian had said very seriously, if cryptically: “They are glad you are safe, Brother. It’s only that your grist has the smell of—well, something I wouldn’t serve in the restaurant. It will pass once you are yourself again.” Morgan had to settle for this somewhat insulting reassurance.
The rest of the seats to Morgan’s right were filled with Drapsk, starting with Captain Makairi and a very differently colored Drapsk referred to as the Skeptic Copelup. In some manner, this Drapsk belonged to Sira, or Sira was in his care. Comspeak, while a marvelous compromise language allowing commerce and communication among hundreds of species, entailed a certain creative flexibility of meaning when it came to details of relationships.
Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) Page 41