Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “We’ll land back at the wreckage,” Terk began, slowing the aircar even more and beginning a banking turn.

  Morgan didn’t listen. His every sense insisted Sira was below them—and there was no time left. His hand was already on the latch to the emergency door. He heaved it open with one quick jerk.

  Then threw himself out into the darkness.

  Chapter 54

  A LOUD splash brought me closer to consciousness again. I cracked open one eye, seeing light, and congratulated myself on lasting until dawn.

  The splash had an echo; several echoes. Weight shifted off my legs as the orts abandoned their perch; I’d felt no discomfort with them there, but now my skin itched fiercely, as though inflamed.

  What was coming? I fought waves of dizziness, quite sure I didn’t want to die in the jaws of something slimy and large. If I wanted that kind of ending and still had the strength, I could push myself into the M’hir. There was, naturally, nothing I could do about either.

  “Sira!”

  Much better, I thought, relaxing and letting the darkness creep over me again. To fade away dreaming of Morgan’s voice? My mind was kinder to me than I’d imagined.

  “Sira!? Answer me!”

  I smiled, sinking deeper. What a convincing dream.

  Sira, wait for me. I’m here! His sending flooded my thoughts, pulling me away from that brink like a spray of cold water wakes a sleeper.

  This, I told my subconscious, was going too far. How could I die peacefully with—

  With someone dripping all over me? With urgent hands lifting me up?

  I opened both eyes. The light was too harsh to be part of the afterlife I’d planned on and the face of my love, so close to mine, was too haggard, dirty, and scared to be anything but real.

  “They’ll be here in a few minutes with the med gear,” Morgan was saying, the words coming out hard and fast, as though he needed the reassurance more than I. I probably, I thought, looked alarmingly like a corpse—and a freshly buried one.

  “I’m sor—” My voice was another part of me in advanced shutdown, I discovered.

  My dear Human wasn’t really listening. I endured the discomfort of having the feeling restored to my arms and legs as he straightened them. I heard him curse under his breath as he eased open the blood- and mud-encrusted coat—suspecting the worst, I was sure, and finding it.

  With each second, I moved closer to wanting to live and farther from being sure I could. I managed to twitch the fingers of my right hand. He saw, taking it immediately in his own. The warmth of his hand, even wet, was almost more than I could bear. Jason, I sent through that touch, giving him again all that

  I was, all that I felt.

  He returned it, multiplied a thousand times by his own. Loving and loved, I drifted deeper into the darkness—knowing what was happening, I tried to push him back. This was not a journey he could follow.

  No! he sent, the denial seeming to come from his very core.

  Power . . . raw, unrestrained, forced into my mind as though I were drowning and Morgan tried to breathe his own life into my lungs. I grabbed at it, feeling the unbelievable as my body absorbed the energy and began to fight its way back.

  With it came the eager tide of blackness; I was helpless as the Power-of-Choice surged through the link to smash against Morgan’s outpouring of strength. We whirled into the M’hir together . . .

  I was the center of all things, the glow around which all else revolved. I would fight to keep out the Other. This was my domain.

  The Power-of-Choice, my deadly gift from the M’hir, lashed out. There was no memory here of who tried to save me—no cause except the Test.

  The blow was met by one with the will and power to match it.

  A struggle, endless, yet over in an instant. I resounded with desire, sensing completion at last . . .

  Too late. I was lost, dying. Power bled from me in countless streams, to feed countless mouths.

  I was empty, a husk, a need . . .

  A flicker of brightness. I reached, feeling power flowing toward me, replenishing with a shock tasting of joy.

  Another. I reached again. And again. It was as though there could never be enough of the flickers to satisfy me, yet there were always more to hold.

  In the distance, if there was distance in this place, the streams of my bleeding power began to merge, seeking a new destination. One by one, then by their thousands, the feeders lost interest and faded away. The last, largest and with a mouth seeming to hold all of the darkness of the M’hir, passed through me as it left, leaving behind the taste of fate.

  The M’hir was abruptly empty of all but pathways of power, crisscrossing its black eddies and depths in the closest this place could ever come to peace. Brightest of all were the ties of power newly forged between us, more real to my other sense than all the other pathways combined.

  I was whole. And I was more. As I reeled with the delirious wonder of it all, I knew what Morgan and I had achieved.

  I pushed . . .

  Beyond all of my fear and on the edge of death, we had Joined.

  . . . I opened my eyes to the solid, smelly world of Ret 7, and met the wondering eyes of my love, feeling the warm link between us in that other place as the way it should be and would be as long as we lived.

  “Is everyone all right?” a deep voice shouted, causing the ort-fungi hanging overhead to drop to the ground and hump away in disappointment. “Morgan, if you ever pull a stunt like that again when I’m flying—” The voice trailed away.

  “S’okay,” I croaked cheerfully, my right hand squeezing Morgan’s as tightly as I could. “Not dead yet.”

  “And that better be a promise,” my love whispered, chill wet lips brushing mine, before standing to take part in greeting an astonishing assortment of beings and equipment.

  I decided it was high time to faint and let Morgan take care of everything.

  So I did.

  INTERLUDE

  “Yes, yes. They’re both all right. Will you stop asking me?” Barac took longer strides to keep ahead of the anxious Carasian.

  The Drapsk were just as bad. Everyone here seemed to think he was some sort of animated com system. The aircar had a perfectly good one of its own, he was tempted to retort to the next anxious query.

  Except that the news from Rael was so much better than he’d hoped, it was worth retelling—at least a few more times.

  “Are you ready, Clansman?”

  “At your service, Chief,” he said, amazed, as always, by Bowman’s ability to move faster than anyone else when she chose, without seeming to hurry at all.

  They joined a growing bustle of activity around the Makmora’s fins, Bowman’s chosen staging ground. Three Port Authority aircars were already loading their share of battle-suited Enforcers, having sent armed Retians to provide a local presence in the massive troop transport. Lord Lispetc stood in the center of it all, snapping orders as though this virtual assault by offworlders on a facility within his capital city had his full support—surely an unusual attitude for a Retian of any caste.

  When Barac mentioned as much to Bowman, she smiled cryptically, her keen eyes darting over the organized confusion. “Lispetc’s only chance to come out of this whole is to seem to be in charge.” Her smile turned into something closer to real humor. “Besides. You move fast enough, the action sweeps up even those who’d protest otherwise. Speed and decision, Clansman. That’s the key.”

  Barac took one last look around before entering the lead aircar behind Bowman, her personal guards, and Lord Lispetc. Would all this be fast enough to catch Faitlen di Parth, Second Level Adept, member of the Clan Council?

  That remained to be seen.

  Chapter 55

  THE universe had shifted itself obligingly in my absence. I could tell by the way I woke up—dizzied by a familiar duality of sensation. There were two pulses in my wrists, two heartbeats almost in synch—a comforting perception of another I dimmed with the ease of long p
ractice before opening my eyes to what my body had already told me.

  “How do you feel?” Morgan asked, his blue eyes dark with emotion. He wasn’t smiling. I understood, knowing my Human would take longer to recover his inner balance. I smiled contentedly for us both.

  “Clean,” I said, surprised when my voice came out reed-thin. “Where are we?” A ship’s med station, I’d known from my only glance away from his dear face.

  “Bowman’s cruiser: Conciliator.”

  I suspected a joke, but his expression remained serious. There were ways to deal with that, I said to myself, sending a touch of warmth through the link between us, rewarded by the softening of his eyes. His hand cupped my cheek, and I turned my face to plant a kiss in its palm, blinking to keep from showing any tears.

  “Ah, the Mystic One wakes!” This was all the warning I had before I was buried in a blizzard of purple plumes; the Drapsk were delightedly fluttering over Morgan as well—I saw him look pleasantly surprised before he sneezed.

  I spotted a pair of yellow plumes and said, “Copelup?”

  They all pulled back immediately, letting me see the Skeptic. His bright red tentacles were in a happy ring around his mouth. Typically, he didn’t waste any time berating me: “You should have listened to the Makii. And to me. We warned you not to leave the safety of the Tribe. If it weren’t for Captain Morgan—”

  “I know,” I interrupted, rubbing my cheek into the hand still against my face.

  “Ignore him,” said a Makii wearing the ribbon denoting my old friend, Makoori. Though pleased to see any of them, I wondered what a tailor was doing as part of a delegation to Bowman’s ship. “We rejoice with you in your reconnection to the Scented Way and to one another, Mystic One,” Makoori continued. “The moment was one of great joy for all Makii.”

  I looked suspiciously at the group of ten or so Makii, checking the ribbons of the others. I didn’t see Makairi. Maka was there, but he had a shoulder bag bulging with instruments. “Where’s the Captain?” I asked, guessing the answer.

  “But I am the Captain, Mystic One,” Makoori said with chagrin. “Do you not know me?”

  Copelup hooted, and I glared at him. “Gripstsa,” I concluded. “When did the—happy event—take place?”

  Maka spoke up: “We were all suffering from the shame of your capture and imprisonment, O Mystic One. Then there was the overwhelming joy of your rescue! There was no other way to recover our efficiency.” Copelup hooted again, implying that at least one of the Drapsk had been able to keep his sense of proportion through it all. Or had he merely been without a partner?

  Gripstsa? the word echoed in my thoughts and the Drapsk reacted by flipping their antennae toward Morgan.

  So much for private conversation. “So you’re the new med, Maka?” I asked politely, now remembering where I’d seen that bag of equipment before. Under the words, I delighted the Drapsk by sending Morgan my knowledge of the ceremony and its purpose in a quick burst.

  For the first time, his expression lightened. “And you know everything about your new roles on the ship?” Morgan asked, eyes bright with curiosity. “Have there ever been cases of unsuccessful transfer? How do—”

  “Captain Morgan. What is going on here? My patient needs rest, not a party!” The voice was stern, but the broad and friendly smile on the face of the Human female entering with two assistants belied its tone. All three wore the tech version of the Enforcer uniform, more like Morgan’s spacer garb than the official-looking outfit Bowman and her constables showed off-ship. “How are you, Fem Morgan?”

  “We wish you to tell us, Med Ginazhi,” Captain Makoori insisted.

  “That’s what I’m here to determine. If you don’t mind waiting outside?”

  Morgan leaned his hip against my bed, definitely planning to stay, I realized with a sigh of relief. “I’ll be here,” he told the Drapsk, correctly assuming this would raise the drooping antennae.

  I drew in a slow, deep breath, stopping when the flash of pain across my middle announced there was no doubt I was in the right place, with the right beings.

  Which was why I wished Morgan and I could be anywhere else.

  “Do you think I like it?” Morgan’s voice approached a shout, startling us both. “Sira,” he went on, quieter, but no less determined, “we have the expertise here, willing to help.”

  “He’s done enough helping,” I snarled, unable to restrain the anger I felt before it ripped through the M’hir between us. Morgan bore it with a tightening of his lips that said he felt the same.

  Med Ginazhi had retired to wait in the next room, with the subject of this debate and the three grim-faced guards assigned to him. We didn’t, she had told us bluntly, have much time to waste.

  My feelings had been plain on the matter, given I’d screamed inside and out upon waking from a light dozing state to see Baltir looming over me.

  They’d taken him away immediately; a process made swifter by Morgan literally throwing the Retian out the door, but Ginazhi had been right back in to explain to me.

  The feeding burns of the ort-fungi, dehydration, and shock had been easily corrected. But the med was beyond her depth in repairing or even understanding what the Retian scientist had done to my insides. She wanted him to assist her.

  Keerick. I now knew the name Baltir scorned to use, as if it made any difference. He was more than willing to participate. I knew why, if the Enforcer didn’t; Baltir wanted to see the results of whatever experiment he’d conducted.

  I would, I’d told her, trust her best efforts. I would not tolerate the Retian’s touch on me again.

  Morgan wasn’t satisfied with that decision, which was why he’d asked the med to leave us for a moment. “Listen to me, Sira,” he said, pulling up a wheeled stool so he could sit beside me, his hand warm on mine. “Regardless of his motives and methods, this being possesses the knowledge to repair what he’s done to you.”

  “Jason,” I pleaded, “Don’t ask me this.”

  His face took on the implacable cast I knew so well. “The med can’t guarantee you’ll survive without his intervention. Are you willing to see us both die?”

  The thought made me hold tighter to our Joining, reassure myself it remained whole and his presence was with me. “You never fight fair, Captain Morgan,” I said, giving in, as he knew I would.

  He didn’t smile. “Consider it an order, chit.”

  Morgan called the rest of them back in immediately, perhaps fearing I’d change my mind if he delayed. The med had been sure enough of his ability to sway my decision that she and her assistants, as well as Baltir, were in their surgical gear, sterile fields glistening over their hands, arms, and faces. Two guards took up stations at the door, while the third hovered behind the Retian. Baltir ignored him, his wavy lips purple with anticipation.

  “That’s my spot,” Morgan said in a flat, dangerous voice. The guard backed away, letting Morgan take her place. There was a faint whine as a force blade energized. I saw Baltir’s lips pale to pink, his eyes protruding further, if that were possible. I could almost feel sorry for him.

  Rest, Sira, Morgan sent to me, the absolute assurance of my safety in his thoughts enough to let me close my eyes on my personal nightmare.

  INTERLUDE

  Morgan wasn’t sure which was worse, after a while: listening to the Retian’s paper-dry voice discussing what he’d done to Sira and the results, as though he were lecturing to some group of admiring students, or hearing the sounds of the surgery into Sira’s flesh. Both promised to become nightmares.

  It did help to focus on the fold of gray skin marking the part of the Retian’s knobby spine he planned to sever first if anything went remotely awry.

  Med Ginazhi, her face pale and set, asked the questions Morgan knew needed answers—both for Sira’s sake and that of the recording the Retian had been amply warned was being made. Baltir answered freely, as if the collecting of evidence against him and his work were some sort of validation of its worth.r />
  “During the first—operation—you removed the egg-producing organs themselves,” she confirmed again, seeming to have difficulty accepting what she was hearing.

  “Yes, yes. But not completely. These humanoids, they call themselves the M’hiray, are a theta-class species, but have unusual internal adaptations related to the delayed reproductive state of their immature females. As you can see here, and here—” Morgan’s hand shook and the Retian flinched. “Careful!”

  “You were saying,” Ginazhi urged him, her glance to Morgan full of complete understanding.

  “There are three masses in which fertile eggs are produced and stored in a dormant state. We found this state ideal for transport, if difficult at first to overcome in the lab. But,” he added with a note of satisfaction, “we were able to induce growth and chromosome doubling in ten percent of the tissue obtained.”

  “Stolen,” Morgan gritted out between his teeth. “Then what did you do to her?”

  “Really, Med—”

  “Answer the question, Baltir,” Ginazhi said in no kinder voice.

  “Well,” the Retian said, “my—patron—had no interest in seeing the subject survive, but I predicted she would live long enough to make it worthwhile trying another experiment. And I was right, you see. It was very worthwhile.”

  “What was?” Ginazhi gave Morgan a cautionary look. “We can get into the technical details later,” she added. “An overview, if you would.”

  “The M’hiray aren’t the only patrons of the Baltir,” the Retian told them cheerfully, continuing his surgery at the same time. “And there are several with an interest in similar areas. This mental power business. It isn’t something my species values, but there are those who seek it quite desperately. Compatible genetic material which could enhance these abilities is a much sought-after commodity. Really, they’d pay any price.”