The Finest in DAW Science Fiction and Fantasy by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:
THE CLAN CHRONICLES:
Stratification:
REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)
RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)
RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)
The Trade Pact:
A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)
TIES OF POWER (#2)
TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)
Reunification:
THIS GULF OF TIME AND STARS (#1)
THE GATE TO FUTURES PAST (#2)*
NIGHT’S EDGE:
A TURN OF LIGHT (#1)
A PLAY OF SHADOW (#2)
SPECIES IMPERATIVE:
SURVIVAL (#1)
MIGRATION (#2)
REGENERATION (#3)
WEB SHIFTERS:
BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)
CHANGING VISION (#2)
HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)
IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2015 by Julie E. Czerneda.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket art by Matt Stawicki.
Jacket designed by G-Force Design.
Jacket photograph by Roger Czerneda.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1671.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
ISBN: 978-0-698-19003-0
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
First Printing, November 2015
Version_1
Contents
Also by Julie E. Czerneda
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Trade Pact Space
Prelude
Chapter 1
Interlude
Chapter 2
Interlude
Chapter 3
Interlude
Chapter 4
Interlude
Chapter 5
Interlude
Chapter 6
Interlude
Chapter 7
Interlude
Chapter 8
Interlude
Chapter 9
Interlude
Chapter 10
Interlude
Chapter 11
Interlude
Chapter 12
Interlude
Chapter 13
Interlude
Chapter 14
Interlude
Chapter 15
Interlude
Chapter 16
Interlude
Chapter 17
Interlude
Chapter 18
Interlude
Chapter 19
Interlude
Chapter 20
Interlude
Chapter 21
Interlude
Chapter 22
Interlude
Chapter 23
Interlude
Chapter 24
Interlude
Chapter 25
Interlude
Chapter 26
Interlude
Chapter 27
Interlude
Chapter 28
Interlude
Chapter 29
Interlude
Chapter 30
Interlude
Chapter 31
Interlude
Chapter 32
Interlude
M’hiray and Their Associates, in Trade Pact Space
Cersi
Prelude
Chapter 33
Interlude
Chapter 34
Interlude
Chapter 35
Interlude
Chapter 36
Interlude
Chapter 37
Interlude
Chapter 38
Interlude
Chapter 39
Interlude
Chapter 40
Interlude
Chapter 41
Interlude
Chapter 42
Interlude
Chapter 43
Interlude
Chapter 44
Interlude
Chapter 45
Interlude
Chapter 46
Interlude
Chapter 47
Interlude
Chapter 48
Interlude
Chapter 49
Interlude
Chapter 50
Interlude
Chapter 51
Interlude
Chapter 52
Interlude
Chapter 53
Interlude
Chapter 54
Interlude
Chapter 55
Interlude
Chapter 56
Interlude
Chapter 57
Interlude
Chapter 58
Interlude
Chapter 59
Interlude
Epilogue
M’hiray and Their Associates, on Cersi
To Dr. R. J. F. (Jan) Smith, who left us too soon.
Dr. Smith was my grad studies supervisor, a dear man with a neat dark beard and twinkly eyes. He introduced me to fish pheromones, as well as – 40C winters, gumbo (the mud), and gliding over the prairies, and it was in Jan’s basement lab at the University of Saskatchewan that the question of the Clan came to me.
I was examining the cost of growing features of use solely for reproductive success. Deer annually regrow antlers to fight for and attract mates, consuming nutrients and energy. Similarly, my study subjects, male fathead minnows, grow mucous disks on their heads to prepare nests and change their behavior in ways that make them more vulnerable to predators. Evolution drives such adaptations, but not beyond those costs. Selection pressure swings back to sensible.
When wouldn’t it? I wondered, late one night.
What if an intelligent species realized a trait—of use originally for reproductive success—offered future generations a different advantage? What cost would they be willing to endure as a society, as individuals, to enhance that trait?
And when they went too far, when selection pressure swung back as it inevitably would—what then?
I remember staring at my busy minnows, thinking surely we’d know better.
There began the story of the Clan and Sira di Sarc.
Thank you, Jan, for this and so very much more.
Acknowledgments
I will always be grateful Sheila Gilbert of DAW, my editor-dear, believed in my first novel, A Thousand Words for Stranger. Even more, I’m grateful for her continued belief in me. What you hold in your hands is the result of her support, trust, and enthusiasm for my wor
k, not to mention her vast skill as an editor to make that work worthy of you. Sheila’s been nominated twice for the Hugo for good reason and I sincerely hope, by the time this is published, she’ll have won.
DAW Books is more than my insanely talented (and adorable) editor, of course. Please, every one, take a very well-earned bow. Betsy Wollheim (Hugo-winning editor!), Peter Stampfel, Joshua Starr, Katie Hoffman, Briar Herrera-Ludewig, Marsha Jones, Paula Greenberg, Sarah Guan, and George! My thanks also to Jessica Cooney of Penguin Canada. An author couldn’t ask for a better publisher-family, or friends.
My previous science fiction titles from DAW, including my first novel, have covers by the famed Luis Royo. How could we possibly match that? Well, we did. Thank you, Matt Stawicki, for the stunning, passionate, and accurate cover you created for this book. It not only stands proudly with the rest of the series, but you’ve captured Sira as she is now perfectly. (The Hair!)
Speaking of series. Gulf is book seven, after all, and I’d taken a long break from writing in this universe. (There were toads.) Coming back, I knew I needed help. I ran a competition to find betareaders for the series. A wonderful number entered, studying the books with glee. Thank you very much!
The following individuals read my first draft manuscript with an eye to any errors of content: my official Betareaders Carla Mamone and Lyndsay Stuart. They provided me with thorough (blush) lists of my mistakes and I thank you both from the bottom of my heart. Any goofs left in the book are my fault. (Thank you Timothy (Sir Tim) Bowie who stayed at the ready.)
Thank you, Jennifer, my first reader, for your always valuable thoughts on the book. (And for the photos of reading it in exotic Bali. Wow!) I couldn’t let it out the door without you. My good friend Janet E. Chase jumped in to read when I had a shaky moment. Thanks, BF! Whew.
You’ll find some familiar names in these pages, characters won at charity auctions over the past few years. Thank you all for your support of such excellent causes and for letting me do my worst to your namesakes. In alphabetical order: Andrea Knight (Andi sud Prendolat), Carla Mamone (Arla di Licor), Dennis Csurgai (Deni and Cha sud Annk), Destiny Nelson (Destin di Anel), Holly Hina (Holl di Licor), Jacqueline Lam (Jacqui di Mendolar), Jana Paniccia (Janac di Paniccia), Karina Sumner-Smyth (Kari Bowman), Kim Nakano (Janina Michi), Lawren Louli (Magpie Louli, Witness), Lee Sessoms (Leesems di Licor), Lyndsay Stuart (Asdny di Licor), Ruth Stuart (Ruti di Bowart), Timothy Bowie (Ruti di Bowart and Hom M’Tisri, the Vilix), and Victoria (Nik di Prendolat).
The past year was full of memorable events. I’d like to thank all of my gracious hosts and friends: Chattacon 40 (Chattanooga TN), Perfect Books and Can-Con (site of the Aurora-Anticipation Party) (Ottawa ON), Bakka-Phoenix Books, INSPIRE!, and Ad Astra (Toronto ON), #RRSciFiMonth, the fabulous Mindy and Mark Maddrey (Washington/World Fantasy), Manticore Books (Orillia ON), and Oasis 27 (Orlando FL). It was wonderful to finally meet my online friends, Susie and Lee, Cyn and Gabie, in person. Thanks for coming the distance! You made us smile then and still do! My thanks to Boko Bakery for inventing the perfect Nyim Cookies. I gratefully acknowledge the hard work and enthusiasm of Catherine McLaughlin, Kristy Maddock, and Sandra Kennedy, (and friends), who made my events at their Chapters extraordinary. My thanks to Dr. Rick Wilber and his students for inviting me into their classroom. Thank you, 2nd Avenue, for Sparklers, Signs, and Celebrations!
To Scott Czerneda and Erin Stirling. May your road be ever filled with light.
My dear readers. Here you go. Reunification.
Buckle up!
Trade Pact Space
Prelude
FINGERS, four and a thumb, tapped the metal edge of the vent. The fingers were dark blue from tip to second joint, as if dipped in paint.
Or pox blood.
The fingers gripped and pulled. The covering grate came free without sound or resistance, revealing an opening twice the span of those fingers spread wide.
Wide enough.
The right hand led the way, scrabbling into the pipe. Body parts, riding on tough fleshy limbs and careful of clothing, followed in turn. The head produced eyes to survey the shadowed rooftop, but didn’t tarry. It ducked through the opening, canting forward so its well-secured hat went first.
The left hand did what it could to pull the grate into place behind it, breaking a nail. Regardless, it subvocalized a chuckle.
At last, their time had come.
Barrels waited on their racks, the more costly brews festooned with cobwebs and dust. A pair of aged portlights hovered near the rafters, their fitful glow doing little to dispel the gloom. The cellar’s chill suited only one of those gathered around a table made from two empty barrels and a sheet of real wood, and only one felt sufficiently at ease to sit on a stool.
Board Member Theo Schrivens Cartnell, representative for the Human species in the conglomeration of mutual interests known as the Trade Pact, trusted he appeared at ease and not exhausted. To reach Stonerim III unremarked, he’d traveled in a succession of starships, each more decrepit than the one before. In the last, he’d had the choice of being crammed together in a cabin with itinerant Lemmicks or Turrned Missionaries. He should have gone with the missionaries. After vomiting most of his insides at the stench, the rest of the journey had passed in a haze. He’d staggered into the first portcity hotel for a bath and change of clothing.
And the last of his stims.
What mattered was this gathering; typically, an important member wasn’t here. Late, he hoped, or waiting to make an entrance.
Risky, with such as these. Cartnell lifted his glass in a gloved hand and pretended to admire the bubbles rising through the tawny liquid as his stomach roiled in protest. “Rare, this,” he said. “Sure you won’t join me?”
The other Humans in the room, a slim woman with her face hazed behind a vis-shield and an even slimmer man, his face pocked and scarred, didn’t move. “Time’s wasting,” she said, her voice distorted. “You called us. Get to the point.”
“I accept and gladly.” A callused palm engulfed a glass, ivory-tipped fingers clicking together like castanets. The contents were drained in a single swallow. As Brill went, the male was almost dainty, no bulkier than a very large Human. Still, he’d opened his coat with an exclamation of relief. Warmth was a trial, given those layers of blubber and thick leathery skin, and the land above the cellar was in the midst of a tropical summer.
It couldn’t be helped. This was their first—the only—chance to meet. They couldn’t do so for long.
Not with the aliens known as Clan on all their worlds.
Not with what the Clan could do.
Cartnell put down his glass and stood. No more codenames. “Cartnell, Board Member.” He pulled a datadisk from his pocket and set it on the table.
“We know who you are.” The other Human male touched finger to forehead and smiled without humor. “Sansom Fry, Deneb Blues.” Fry put a second disk by the first. “My contribution.”
The woman passed her hand in front of her vis-shield, shutting it off. Tiny black spiders spilled across her forehead and along her right cheek to her chin, tattoos that shifted and seemed to crawl with each movement of her lips. “Ambridge Gayle. Grays.” Without hesitation, she tossed her disk on the table; it tumbled to meet the rest.
“I never thought to see Deneb’s syndicate heads in the flesh, let alone in the same room. If you can do this, friend Cartnell, I am confident of wonders!” The Brill smacked his thick lips, then struck his chest with a curled fist. “Manouya!”
Fry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Who?”
“You know him as the Facilitator.” Gayle raised a brow, spiders scurrying in accent. “Whom I never thought to meet. Greetings.” A gracious nod, during which her eyes didn’t leave the others.
“You?” With deliberate disbelief. “Behind every major smuggling ring within Human space?”
“Why not
me?” The Brill hit his chest again. “We’re smarter than any of you. Who do you think got you here, safe and secret? Who’ll get you back?”
“Is that a threat?” Gayle said, her voice like the flow of silk over steel.
He’d be lucky if they didn’t kill one another first. Cartnell coughed. “If we could move along, please?”
Manouya chuckled. “Here’s my share.” A fourth disk landed on the table.
He’d planned for five. There should be—
So be it. Cartnell pushed aside the tray with its offerings and replaced it with a reader, outwardly typical of its kind. “This will copy across, once each disk is activated. As agreed, what we’ve brought will be shared with all.”
“And better be worth this nonsense,” Fry said, gesturing to their surroundings. He smiled unpleasantly. “Or someone dies.”
If not “worth this,” nothing was. Cartnell loaded the disks into the reader, their stubby ends protruding. “Then I’ll go first. As you know, the Clan’s advantage is that they can pass as Human.”
“And there are more of you than anything else,” grumbled Manouya. “There are,” he stated as the others glared at him. “You’re everywhere.”
“It’s not coincidence.” Cartnell licked a finger, touching its damp tip to the disk end. An image glowed above the table, brighter than the portlights. It was a chart of the richest, oldest Human-settled span of the Trade Pact, the so-called Inner Systems.
What drew those viewing it an involuntary step closer, staring, was the red staining most of those worlds. “I give you the Clan.”
The Brill rumbled in dismay.
Fry’s fist rose, then fell to his side.
“Caraat claimed his kind were everywhere. Inescapable. That foul—” Gayle cursed, tattooed spiders writhing along her lips. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she finished harshly, but made no move to leave.
“‘Caraat’?” A Clan name. Cartnell frowned, withdrawing his hand from the map. “Our arrangement’s full disclosure. Who is he?”
“Yihtor di Caraat,” Fry said heavily. Gayle shot him a dire look; he spread empty hands. “You didn’t think the crasnig was exclusive, did you? He dealt with anyone who could afford him.”
An unfamiliar name, itself a shock, but what twisted inside Cartnell’s gut like fire was the realization of who this Yihtor must be. Had to be.
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