Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “You might be right, Fem Morgan,” Bowman said silkily. “It’s just a habit of mine. I like tying up loose ends. For example, did you know we can’t locate Ren Symon? He seems to have vanished as easily as one of your people. Even those in his group we caught and scanned don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “That’s a specialty of his,” Morgan said, his offhand tone possibly fooling the others, but I shared his frustrated and now targetless anger. Then, remarkably, the emotion fell away as if dismissed from his mind, replaced by a swell of acceptance. “Let him chase his own demons. I wouldn’t waste your time. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t—”

  “Chief Bowman!” an Enforcer called from the portal to the bridge, entering as though being chased. “We have the Nokraud on approach. Her weapons are live.”

  INTERLUDE

  “I have been sent by the First Chosen.”

  Pella looked at her suspiciously. Rael found it difficult to keep a straight face and knew her shields were barely holding back her glee at what she was about to reveal to her doubting sister.

  “The First Chosen. Ica? I thought the Council—”

  “The First Chosen of our House, Pella.”

  “Nersal?” Pella looked as surprised as though Rael had sprouted Drapsk antennae. Their elderly aunt, though powerful, was hardly an active part of the Sarc household any longer.

  “There is a new First Chosen. Sira!”

  Pella’s face shone. “This is wonderful news! Why haven’t I heard until now? We must plan a celebration! Everyone will want to know . . .” Her voice trailed away as suspicion wiped the delighted anticipation from her face and turned it into something closer to nausea. “It’s him.”

  Rael knew her smile was cruel, but she enjoyed it regardless. Pella deserved everything she was going to learn. “Sira wants us to prepare Camos to welcome her Chosen home, Sister. And that’s exactly what you and I are going to do. Isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Now, where’s the case for your keffle-flute?” Rael looked around Pella’s home appraisingly. “And where’s that pre-Stratification relic Kurr gave you at your Commencement? It still works, doesn’t it?”

  Pella blinked slowly. “The pistol with the jeweled grip? Whatever do you want that for?”

  Rael’s smile broadened as she whirled her arms exuberantly. “Changes in the wind, dear Sister. Changes in the wind.”

  Chapter 57

  “THAT’S the Makmora.” The scan-tech’s features, showing deep concentration, were highlighted by the greenish glow from the image suspended before his face. “There’s Nokraud. The Drapsk—sir, it looks like they’re chasing the pirate. The Fox is ahead of us. Fast little thing.” This last an envious mutter.

  I had to take his word for it. The symbolism used in the multidimensional display—from my viewpoint a jumble of digits embedded in what appeared to be a ball of rotating gelatin—must take years to learn and a particular bent of mind to enjoy.

  We’d been allowed on the Conciliator’s bridge. Morgan wandered away on a self-directed tour, not obviously paying attention to the focus of interest, but I knew he was fully aware. Barac looked as confused as I felt.

  “Hom Copelup?” Bowman was saying. “Care to explain what your ship is doing here? I thought she was fin-down on Ret 7, waiting for the results of the investigation for Fem Morgan.”

  His tentacles disappeared inside his mouth; one chubby hand wormed its way into mine. Profound distress? No, I thought, this was embarrassment. “The Makii chose to defer that duty for another,” Copelup mumbled. “The Mystic One—one of the Makii—was betrayed by the Captain of the Nokraud. The Makii seek resolution for the Tribe in this matter.” Four tentacles popped out, producing a spray of saliva but a clearing of the voice: “There’s no arguing with them in this state.”

  “Fine,” Bowman said in a voice that implied it was anything but. “So what’s the Nokraud doing on an intercept course with us if she’s trying to shake off the Makmora? She’d better not be trying to involve me.” She turned to address the Conciliator’s Captain. “Captain Arvy, be ready to sent a blast across the Nokraud’s course if this gets too close to us. A message to the Makmora to back off until we are clear. I want to be through translight and fin-down on Camos by tomorrow morning. Without complications, if you please.” She turned to leave the bridge, motioning us to join her.

  “Wait, Chief Bowman,” I heard myself saying, then stopped.

  Her keen eyes fastened on me. “Make it quick, Fem Morgan.” “I don’t think the Nokraud is running from the Drapsk. I think she’s trying to rescue me—from you.” At her expression of polite disbelief, I hurried on to add: “Let me talk to her Captain. I’ll know soon enough.”

  Bowman looked at the display again. “Status, Scan-tech?”

  “The Makmora’s weapons are powered up. She could fire on the Nokraud at any moment.”

  “Go,” she told me.

  Morgan came to stand with me at the com station, saying for my ears alone, “Even if Rek defeated her sister, Sira, you may be still be wrong now. Why didn’t she come back for you?”

  “I’ll ask her,” I said stubbornly.

  “This is a Scat, you realize,” he added a bit louder, as though I hadn’t been paying attention.

  “I’ve learned to overlook your species’ shortcomings,” I said wickedly. “Why not theirs?”

  He shook his head, smiling nonetheless. “I see we have a lot to discuss.”

  “Nokraud com on, sir.”

  Bowman nodded to me.

  “This is Sira Morgan to the Nokraud,” I said, feeling everyone’s eyes and antennae on me. “I want to speak to your Captain.”

  “Fem Morgan. This-sss is-ss a pleassant s-ssurprissse.”

  I couldn’t tell by that voice; it always sent shivers of dread down my spine. “Who is this?”

  Scorn even through the com system: “Assst. Captain Rek. Tell your Drapsssssk to power down their weapons-ss. We are not here for battle.”

  “Power down yours,” Bowman snapped, leaning past me. “A gesture of your good intentions.”

  “Not a good idea, Chief,” Copelup broke in urgently. “The Makii will fire the moment there is an advantage.”

  I raised my eyebrows. I’d attracted formidable, if not quite fair, friends. “Captain Rek,” I said, “My colleagues wonder why you didn’t return for me—and why you’re here now. I assume you succeeded in your challenge.”

  A clattering of jaws let me picture her triumphant laugh all too well. “Grackik’s-ss heart pounded its-ss final beat within my throat. A most s-sssatis-sssfactory moment.”

  Not the most amenable of beings, I thought to myself, but somehow I didn’t doubt this one. “What happened on Ret 7?”

  “S-sshe tried to avoid my challenge by fleeing offworld. My ss-supporters-ss gave me the opportunity to enter the s-sship before lift, s-sstaying behind to retrieve you while I tore the remaining limbs-ss from her body.” The mudcrawler in the night, I thought, somehow without surprise that I’d hidden from my own rescue. “They failed but watched for any s-ssigns, fearing my dis-sspleas-ssure. When they reported your return and the attack on the Baltir, I s-stayed inss-syssstem. There was-ss the chanc-sse the Enforcers-ss would mis-sstake me for Grackik.” An irritated snap. “It s-sseems-ss not only Humans-ssss do this-sss.”

  “Then why are you here, Captain Rek?” this sharp question from Bowman.

  “Fem Morgan owes-ss me payment,” the answer came so matter-of-factly I covered my mouth to keep in a laugh of my own; I didn’t think the Scat would appreciate it. On the other hand, I’d been proved right in my judgment of her and grinned at Morgan, who shook his head in rueful acknowledgment. It was a nice change to best the experienced trader at his own game.

  “She’s quite right, Chief,” I confirmed. “Let me speak to the Makmora.”

  Hours left until we reached Camos. I’d taken the capsules provided by Med Ginazhi and put them away in a drawer. There was no more time to waste
on sleep.

  Again, I sent warning.

  I could just see the glint of Morgan’s eyes in the dim night lighting. He sat, long legs outstretched, in a chair he’d leaned back against one wall of the small cabin Bowman had given me. Although I lay in a comfortable curl on the bed, my skin was wet with sweat. The exercises we were doing were hard on both of us.

  Ready when you are, my love, he sent back. There was no strain to his thoughts, no fear. Only a distracting contentment, as though he saw the lances of power I drove against his shields, the tricks I played to bypass his defenses, as expressions of my love.

  He was right, which made me even more grimly determined in my testing. It was the Council itself we faced tomorrow: the strongest from each House—most, if not all, my declared or secret enemies.

  They would try to defeat me through Morgan, sensing our Joining as obscenity and opportunity. Once I would have quailed at the thought, fearing any risk to him. Now, testing the rugged, trained power of my Chosen, sharing his inner strength and determination, I was beginning to look forward to their reaction.

  Clansmen, I thought, meet Jason Morgan, Human, Captain of the Silver Fox, First Level Adept of the House of di Sarc.

  It had a nice ring to it.

  INTERLUDE

  The Watcher stirred. Felt the stirrings of the others holding vigil. No need to pass along the alarm: all shared it.

  Something was gathering. There was the scent of change in the M’hir, a sense of potentials rising, of movements toward a core.

  Threads of energy left trails, all converging on Camos. The Council had assembled. Others were coming.

  The daughter of di Sarc remained outside the M’hir, but her essence shone within it like some jewel of power, her Joining to a stranger’s glow plain to all who touched this place.

  The Watcher consulted with the others, felt the concept she proposed fly from mind-to-mind as quickly as her first thought.

  With her second, the Great Summoning went forth.

  Chapter 58

  CAMOS. I drew the pine-scented mountain air into my nostrils, feeling an odd sense of homecoming.

  “Your memories didn’t do it justice,” Morgan said into my hair. “It’s spectacular. Nothing like the restricted view of this world I had before.”

  The playful breeze did nothing to stop the heavy locks from preferring the Human’s shoulders to mine, an intimacy of contact I savored almost as much as sharing my home with him.

  This visit to the Cloisters, the ancient stone retreat where I’d lived, hadn’t been part of the plan; Bowman was unlikely to be at all pleased at our disappearance from her ship just as it landed at the Gornwich shipcity. But these minutes before the conflict were best spent here, together, rather than bothering with the details of docking and Human means of travel.

  The balcony jutted out into the air over the valley, making it appear we rode among the clouds. Behind us, the walls of the building, more than half consisting of the mountain itself, rustled as the wind toyed with the winter remains of the climbing vines coating their surface. It was, I supposed, bitterly cold. Tucked with my back against Morgan’s chest, his arms around me, I couldn’t say I noticed any chill.

  The tip of my nose, maybe. As I thought it, Morgan covered it with the warm palm of his hand, chuckling: “I hope it isn’t always this nippy up here.”

  I kissed his hand, then reluctantly disengaged from his embrace, shivering as I left its protection from the wind. “We don’t have much time left, Jason,” I said.

  “I know.” His blue eyes—fascinating how so cold a color could be so warm—regarded me steadily. “Can we be sure the Council will even show up? They aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “They’ll be at the meeting place,” I answered without doubt. “They have other things on their minds than preserving an outlived secrecy on this world. And who would want to miss the opportunity to meet my Chosen?”

  His tanned cheeks reddened. I cocked my head, amused by his reaction. “It is my kind who should be embarrassed in front of you, Human. That part of it, at least, should be entertaining.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said under his breath as we went back inside. The table which doubled as my computer interface continued to make its whir of protest, but the machine had no defense, Morgan assured me, against the tunneling data de stroyer he’d provided. The information of value I’d already sent to the Fox; any which could harm others was rapidly disappearing. Given the duplication of my list, this was too little and too late, but I wouldn’t leave the temptation here again.

  Morgan’s com whistled for attention. He brought it to his ear, gave a brief affirmative, before saying to me: “The Makmora has docked. Copelup says all is ready for transport to the meeting. O Mystic One.” His lips curled up at one corner. “Which should I start using, chit: ‘Mystic One’ or ‘First Chosen’?”

  I pretended to scowl. “Anything but ‘chit,’ Captain Morgan, if you don’t mind.” Then I grew thoughtful. “You have a point, though. Drapskii is not wholly reconnected with the M’hir. Perhaps after we settle things here.” I sighed, finding it hard to think so far ahead.

  There was nothing content or happy in the look this gained me. “At the risk of attack by those creatures you described? Why?”

  “As I told you, they only appeared because my power in the M’hir was unbalanced. Now that we are Joined—” it was my turn to feel my cheeks burning, “—they have lost interest. I haven’t seen any sign of them since. And the Drapsk . . . they matter to me, Jason. They need me.”

  His eyes softened until I could have drowned in them. “Befriending a Scat. Adopting the Drapsk. And coming here to knock some sense into your own kind with the help of some Humans. You’ve come a long way from life in this fortress, Sira di Sarc.”

  I looked around. The room was comfortable, full of things I used to value, the favorite furniture shabby enough to welcome. The bars were still on the windows, placed there as reminders of the less visible barriers used to keep others safe from the dangerous lure of my power. “It wasn’t life, Jason,” I said, dismissing my past as he had dismissed his.

  I reached for his hand. “Let’s go.”

  INTERLUDE

  The Watcher winced.

  It was becoming painful to look in the M’hir toward Camos—painful and, at the same time, impossible to avoid. With each arrival, the M’hir flared with traces of more power until all pathways converged into one massive artery, pulsing to Camos, carrying the Clan to their Council.

  There hadn’t been a gathering like this since the day the M’hiray left the Clan Homeworld, power banded into one to forge the great path to carry them all outward, leaving the rest of their species behind—the day the first Watchers had stirred to awareness among the new breed of Choosers and their Chosen. Then, they had been shepherds to guide that journey. Today, they were guardians of the M’hir itself.

  This inflowing was greater and less. The M’hiray had grown in individual power, if not in numbers. But they no longer blended their power into one purpose, not even for the good of their own kind.

  This was opinion, and the Watcher removed the thought before it trickled to the others. Her duty was to monitor, to see if any faltered in the journey between worlds; if this occurred, she would notify their House of the loss. She expected none. The pathway was now so prominent in the M’hir, so well-formed, a child could follow it.

  In fact, the Watcher doubted any Clan had sufficient power to resist it.

  Chapter 59

  TOTALLY without meaning to be, Sector Chief Lydis Bowman of the Trade Pact was the host for the first complete gathering of Clan in living memory.

  As one would expect, she took it in stride, only saying to me, when the scale of things became apparent: “Thank goodness the Council was as paranoid as I was about privacy. Otherwise, wherever would I have put them all?”

  The paranoia she meant was an insistence by the Council to meet where there were no eavesdroppers or hid
den troops—there having been some uncomfortable experiences with such things in the past. So Bowman had cleverly arranged for the use of the Morris & Flag Tug Co. assembly plant, presently vacant as the company prepared for renovations.

  It was, besides the largest freestanding building on the surface of Camos, well-lit, drafty, and as welcoming as you might imagine a vacant warehouse large enough to permit the construction of the mammoth docking tugs so essential to spaceports would be.

  I’d read about the devices, in the ceiling, several stories above us, to prevent the formation of clouds. They didn’t always work; there were puddles on the floor. Since Camos had very civilized weather control, I found this lack indoors remarkably appealing.

  It was a distraction I needed, given what I was facing.

  A carpet had been found and placed in the exact center of the vast expanse. Somewhat like a target on a range, I thought and felt Morgan’s amused agreement. At the moment, the carpet housed Bowman, Constables ’Whix and Terk, two quietly dressed Pact officials she introduced only as “interested,” Morgan, and me. Enough, I thought, for now. We’d been the first to arrive—some minutes before the appointed time—and now stood waiting.

  A Clanswoman materialized on the cracked pavement to one side of Bowman. Terk twitched, but held himself steady—perhaps realizing her confused expression didn’t quite match the profile of an assassin. Shortly afterward, he had three more to watch, then fifteen, then two hundred.

  Now, as Bowman said, it was just as well she’d provided the space, because the Morris & Flag Tug Co. building soon housed what I guessed to be every living member of my kind.