Morgan’s eyes flickered to where the yellow edge of the current trip tape protruded from the control panel. It would be easy to flip it out, insert another. Easy and pointless. They were deep in Trade Pact space; Bowman would find him. Besides, profit was what he was after, wasn’t it? “Ret 7,” Morgan said. “This shipday.”
“Good.” A cat’s purr. “You can drop her at Malacan’s—”
“Sira’s not some cargo to be dumped—” The moment the words left his lips, Morgan wished he could grab them back.
“Sira?” Bowman’s voice became guarded, suspicious. “Are you sure you can trust yourself, Morgan? What exactly is your situation?”
Morgan swore silently. “I’m the closest thing you have to an expert on the Clan, Bowman. I haven’t been influenced, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He hesitated, then went on, knowing it was useless. “She’s not what I expected—”
“I’ll find out for myself. Thank you, Captain. You know what to do. Bowman out.”
Morgan tilted his head back, examining the ceiling. “I promised her freedom,” he finished to himself a long moment later, aware of a pain whose power quite astonished him. His only defense was to refuse to name it.
Chapter 8
I STOOD on the Fox’s ramp, shivering in the moldy dampness, peering curiously up at the faint disk which was all the clouds revealed of Ret 7’s feeble sun. The morning’s rush of cargo handlers was already underway. From where I stood, I could see spacers pounding down the ramps of neighboring ships, joining a growing crowd aimed at the shipcity gates, all out to commandeer local transports so they could get to the native city before the rain started again.
Self-conscious, I tugged to straighten my coveralls, glancing over my shoulder to check if Morgan had reopened the portal for any last minute instruction. He hadn’t; the door remained sealed against the ever-present dampness. “Miserable little hole,” Morgan had said, dismissing Ret 7; I had to agree.
It didn’t help that there wasn’t a proper shipcity. The docking tugs plunked starships anywhere along this stretch of the road leading into Jershi, the native capital. At least the Retians had the sense to make some pavement— otherwise the starships would be ramp deep in the ooze the natives loved so much.
Had I ever been on this world before, tasted its rain on my lips, pulled its heavy air into my lungs? Had I . . . I gave myself a stern mental shake, dismayed to be daydreamingwhen Morgan needed my help; I couldn’t afford to miss this chance to prove myself, not if I wanted to become crew on the Fox.
I dodged among larger beings, all jostling for a better position in line. The others seemed to take my darting around them good-naturedly enough; perhaps I looked the part of a spacer well enough to pass. Morgan had advised me to be early—he wanted me to rent one of the few manual craft available. The Fox’s cargo profit was not sufficient to be squandered on servocraft.
Lucky again. A stubborn wisp of fog parted on the same cumbersome-looking groundcar we’d rented yesterday, parked close to the ramshackle gate marking the edge of the shipcity. Its owner, a lackluster native of few words and potent odor, grunted with annoyance as I approached.
“Not you again,” she complained in excellent Comspeak, eyeing the tokens in my hand but not reaching for them. “What your captain paid barely covered fuel. What about the wear and abuse you put my poor vehicle through, what about—”
“What about its faulty air-treatment system?” I countered very loudly. “Yesterday we had to drive through the Rissh Marshes with the top open!” The town of Jershi and its surrounding wetland smelled high to humanoid noses at the best of times. The sudden lack of interest from the spacers standing behind me brought a scowl to her wizened features. There had, of course, been no such problem. Two protruding brown eyes blinked.
“The system’s been repaired, Spacer,” she lied equally loudly.
“ ’Bout time,” I said, straight-faced, but triumphant. “Here’s our rental, in advance. The captain will have it back by sixth bell.”
“Fourth bell, and without a scratch!” She snatched my currency and waddled away, bare feet slapping the mud, toadlike and gray among the taller, predominantly Human spacers.
“More spare parts for His Lordship’s toy, Morgan?” The jeering voice was clear over the sounds of bargaining and motor starts.
“Fox’s business, not yours, chit,” I said righteously over my shoulder, unsure of who had spoken at first. Then I spotted the somewhat brighter blue of a crewman from Ryan’s Venture standing by the vehicle lined up next to mine.
Morgan had told me something of the Venture, and her captain, Ariva Ivali, after our landing. It pleased him immensely to be docked fin-to-fin with the larger and much newer ship. As Morgan put it, he and Ivali were competitors—a rivalry that was familiar, if not overly friendly.
I didn’t expect their encounter on Ret 7 to improve the relationship. Apparently, Venture had preceded us here by several weeks, and was struggling to unload enough cargo to pay her costs, let alone make some profit. Morgan, on the other hand, had no sooner settled the Fox after docking than a buyer named Malacan Ser called. Hom Ser was the agent for the local ruler, Lord Lispetc. And his Lordship was desperate for Morgan’s posted cargo—repair components. Damp rot was not kind to the delicate innards of expensive offworld com systems. That the new components would ultimately fail, and for the same reason, didn’t seem to matter at all.
Morgan told me all this with a surprising lack of enthusiasm. He was so glum, in fact, that I hesitated to congratulate him. I put it down to frustration that he hadn’t stuffed every hold of the Fox with com components.
Putting all this to the back of my mind, I slipped into the groundcar, happy to be outside despite a tendency to distrust anything not of the Fox. As I drove back to the ship, contentedly whistling a light little tune whose words I couldn’t remember, it was easy to imagine I was already part of her crew, not just an inconvenient passenger lending a hand. The thought had considerable charm; it would be wonderful to stay Sira Morgan, spacer, a real person with a place of her own.
I guided the groundcar to a spot alongside the ramp, slightly surprised to see the larger hemicircle of the hold door was still sealed. The afternoon rain clouds were piling up in the sky, but probably wouldn’t spill anything for an hour or so. As a precaution, I left the roof up on the car before calling to the Fox to open the inset crew door.
Morgan was waiting for me inside the air lock; he was holding a thin plas pack in one hand. I halted, eyeing it and him suspiciously, before asking: “Do you want me to help you load the cargo?”
“No. Something’s come up, and I have to stay on board. But you can do something for me. There’s an important package I need delivered.” He paused. “It’s not far, on the near edge of town. I’ve drawn you a map.”
I considered several less-than-tactful remarks and regretfully shelved them, in light of the unusual tightness around Morgan’s mouth. Quietly, I took the plas sheet he handed me and glanced over it. “Malacan’s Fine Exports,” I read out loud. “Fourth block, Trade Quarter.”
“Give this package to Malacan Ser himself, and no one else. Wait for him to open it,” Morgan said, then stopped, looking at me. “He’ll have some further instructions for you, Sira. I want you to do whatever he says.”
My stomach lurched under my heart and I tasted bile at the back of my throat. “What?” I whispered, swallowing hard.
Morgan’s voice sharpened. “Wasn’t I clear, chit? Now hurry. Hom Ser is waiting.”
I found my voice again. “Let him wait! I don’t take orders.”
Morgan’s eyes were as remote as distant stars, his lips a thin, forbidding line. We stared at each other for a long moment. He broke the silence first. “I thought you said you wanted to learn how to be crew. Changed your mind already?”
“No!” I protested quickly. “No. Of course not. I just don’t understand,” I finished lamely, wishing he wasn’t acting so odd.
Morgan
didn’t soften, as I thought he might. Instead, he handed me the small package for Malacan and an even smaller bag of local currency. “While you’re gone, I’ll be packing up His Lordship’s order,” he said, as I tucked these into a pocket and resealed the seam. Morgan paused. “You’re sure you can handle the groundcar on the in-town road?”
I nodded. Feeling strangely miserable, I turned to leave, refusing to acknowledge any misgivings by prolonging the conversation. I reached for the door control only to have Morgan’s tanned hand arrive first, holding it closed. I twisted to look up at him.
Morgan removed his hand, staring at it, disconcerted. “What is it, Captain?” I asked quietly, after a moment’s silence. “What haven’t you told me?”
His face was carefully controlled, unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. I gazed into their blue depths, searching for anything else there but pity. I blinked rapidly, wrenching my own eyes away to focus on the deck. This was it; I knew without words. Morgan was leaving me behind—here, now, with this Malacan Ser, on this repulsive, soggy planet. I should have expected it. I should have—
“Sira—”
“It’s all right,” I said too quickly, cutting off his now distress-filled voice, not wanting any more lies. “I can follow orders.”
Morgan tilted my chin so he could see my face. “I didn’t plan this, Sira,” he said. “I want you to know—”
I struck away his hand. “Didn’t plan what, Captain Morgan? For me to be valuable cargo? Aren’t you a trader? And how convenient—I can even deliver myself! That is why you tried to trick me into going, isn’t it?”
Morgan leaned one elbow on the bulkhead above his head and sighed. “Maybe I thought it’d be easier. Which doesn’t change a thing, Sira—you must go to Malacan. Now.”
“You said I should make my own choices.”
I might have struck him; his face paled, and red spots appeared on each cheek. “I know what I said.”
“Was that a lie?”
“No.” Morgan ran one hand through his hair. “No. It was just—optimistic.” He shook his head. “Sira, you have to go. If you stay, they’ll simply come to the Fox and collect you. At least, by going, you’ve made something of a choice. It might help.”
“I’ll go,” I said flatly, then challenged him. “If you sign me on as crew.”
Morgan stood up straight, eyes full of speculation. “Why?”
“Crew,” I insisted. “By your own rules, that makes you responsible for me, Captain Morgan, on ship or off.”
Morgan smiled very slowly, an unpleasant and humorless stretching of lips that I somehow knew was not aimed at me. “Why not?” he asked himself. “Why not. Ship’s recorder on,” he ordered more briskly. “Record Sira Morgan as current crew—assigned ashore, Ret 7, under Captain’s orders. Recorder pause.” He looked at me for a moment. “You have to accept the contract,” he said. “Recorder on—”
“Contract accepted by Sira Morgan,” I told the air firmly.
“Recorder off,” Morgan finished, holding out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Sira.”
“Profit and safe journey, Captain,” I said, gripping his hand as long as I dared, not saying what I wanted to say, but not having the words ready either. There was a blurriness to my vision which threatened to spill at any time. My anger was long since faded. It hadn’t been deep; under it I fought to contain a horrid dizziness—afraid I was losing myself again. I gripped reality desperately.
“Safe journey,” Morgan echoed. “I hope you find your answers, Sira.” He opened the door.
I blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the tears that made a prickly trail over each cheek, and stepped backward out onto the ramp. The air lock slid closed in my face, sealing Morgan within the Fox—excluding me. Answers? What an empty thing to want.
I drove the groundcar away from the Fox, threading it among the cluster of ships, bumping off the pavement that ended at the gates onto the mud slick the Retians optimistically called a road. It was a “convenience” for offworlders. Off the road, as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t far given the gloom, were innumerable bobbing shapes moving steadily and occasionally quite rapidly across the flat marshland. The native form of transportation, variously called a multi-terrain vehicle, mudcrawler, or can-of-toads depending on one’s preference and company, was a kind of floating tank having both treads and repellers. They worked best on the skin of water which coated the marsh mudflats. Mudcrawlers were not for everyone. The Retian vehicles lacked any shielding; they enjoyed interacting with their environment—whether rain, wave, or mud.
I gritted my teeth at the odd noises coming from my vehicle as I joined the city-bound congestion. The ancient groundcar didn’t care much for stop/start traffic, grumbling much like its owner. I fidgeted, tapping my fingers on the control stick, contemplating what lay ahead. I couldn’t see the city from here. No loss. Retian architecture ran to lumpy buildings squatting in stagnant water.
Morgan’s sheet of directions I had already crumpled and tossed in the back. Now that the Fox had me listed as crew, I thought smugly, all I had to do was to order the ship to let me back inside. It shouldn’t be too hard to keep out of Morgan’s way until lift. I’d worry about convincing him to let me stay later. I began to look for a chance to pull out of traffic and turn around.
A few moments later, my palm slipped on the control stick, suddenly damp with sweat. I stared at it, unsure what was happening. Compulsion? No, this wasn’t that familiar sense of someone else’s decision pushing on my will. What I felt now was more a vague apprehension, that turning my head fast enough would catch something lurking behind—something with teeth. The hair on the back of my neck rose with the gooseflesh on my skin.
So I didn’t like Ret 7. The Fox would be lifting off soon. And if Morgan gave me any trouble, there were other ships.
No. I shook my head, automatically slowing to a stop with the traffic, alert for my chance to pull out and turn around. Strange, I was certain this feeling came from outside myself.
It was a warning of some kind. A warning from . . .
Morgan! At the very instant I associated his name with the formless anxiety I was feeling, a sleek aircar roared past overhead. Had they traffic control on Ret 7, which I doubted, its pilot would have permanently lost his or her clearance immediately. What mattered more was my totally irrational conviction that Morgan was in the rapidly departing vehicle—and against his will.
I gunned the old groundcar to its maximum output, pulling out of line in front of a huge transport that careened off the road to avoid me. I slipped off the road myself for a moment, taking a mad swerving course through the mud with a skill that owed much to luck. I bumped back up on the pavement, ignoring the shouting behind me. My first duty was to see to the Fox.
Her ports were locked, but the smaller door answered to my hoarse command as I’d hoped. I secured it behind me, heading immediately for the control room. I could tell he was gone; the ship felt deserted.
The forbidden control room door obeyed my voice, too. Timidly, I stepped inside, looking around me at what was, after all, a simple and ordinary room, familiar from the vistapes I’d studied. Two worn-looking couches waited before duplicate control panels, the left couch with a tray from the galley still hovering alongside one arm. I could smell hot Jaffa and noticed steam curling from Morgan’s cup.
Shaking my head, I perched myself on the copilot’s couch. The seat startled me by curling up on itself to offer a firm support to my back. I pursued my lips, eyeing the complex panels in confusion. There were columns of buttons and toggles whose functions I could only guess. Ah. I recognized the com control with some satisfaction.
But there was nothing to give me a clue about Morgan. I forced myself to think. I didn’t know Morgan’s business.But I’d paid close attention to what he’d told me about Ret 7 during our approach. I knew, for instance, that Morgan had visited this world before, and that he had shipped the com parts because of the interest shown by the Retian priesthoo
d during that earlier visit.
I frowned, remembering. Yesterday, Morgan had taken me along when he’d met with the priests, trying to explain why the cargo they’d thought was theirs had already been sold and taking orders for his next passage through their system. At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it, beyond deciding Morgan must have a trading strategy I couldn’t yet fathom.
The priests had stood watching us leave, their wide lips pressed into wavy blue lines that conveyed frustrated anger by any being’s standards.
I suspected there was more to the deal with Malacan Ser and His Lordship than Morgan had told me. I was uncomfortable at the thought that logically followed. Was it me?
A question to ask Morgan—when and if I found him.
The ship was in order, ports locked, security set. Morgan must have gone voluntarily, if quickly. Therefore he had been led to the aircar by someone he knew and at least partially trusted. It was a guess, but a reasonable one, I hoped, that Morgan had been taken from the Fox by the priests, who probably had some justification in believing that precious cargo of com parts belonged to them.
Trust. I smiled grimly to myself. I’d learned that lesson. Trust was something I’d grant no one, especially anyone here—including Morgan’s Malacan Ser. There was only myself, the Fox, and, to some uncertain extent, Morgan.
As plans go, mine possessed the virtues of simplicity and boldness, if little else. Once prepared, I locked the Fox and loaded the groundcar, aware of a chill inside which had nothing to do with the damp air of the surrounding marshland.
I set the vehicle’s controls to maintain course and sat, chin on fist, staring at the faintly glowing comlink as if to will Morgan to action. If he somehow eluded his captors, he might try to leave a message with the ship. By linking the Fox’s main com to this transport’s frequency, I hoped to receive any such attempt as well. I tapped the silent com once, for luck, having to trust I’d done it right. It was definitely unsettling to always feel I was doing things for the first time.
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