Fry snapped, “Well?”
Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, then dropped to stare at them. The pupils, once Human-norm, now had milky depths. When she spoke, her voice had changed, its Comspeak accented and so rapid it seemed she didn’t stop to breathe. “The Clan arrived in Trade Pact space here. Not here, this room. This world, Stonerim III, in Norval, when it was, in what was our place, a fine place, Doc’s Dive—”
Sarran, do you hear? I was right, Cartnell thought, flushed with triumph. I was right! He’d gambled on this world, guessed its significance based not on any facts—where would he find those—but on Bowman herself. Born here. A constable, here. Curious about the Clan, here.
“—Clan walked in, dressed like beggars, begging for help. Took a blood sample, always did, kept the data, want it? Would have tossed them but for the cases. Packed with artifacts—priceless, perfect, prime! No idea of their value till that fool told them—”
“What kind of artifacts?” Manouya interrupted.
“The kind worth coming back to life for, solo-brain.” Fingers and thumb clawed at the tabletop, dead skin cracking at the knuckles. Bone glinted. “Hoveny!”
Manouya hummed a hasty prayer, the low sound resonating through Cartnell’s bones and teeth. No one knew why the Hoveny Concentrix, that greatest of known civilizations, had fallen. Brill had been among the founding species of the next, the First, come together out of a shared curiosity. Or had it been dread?
To those not of the First, the word “Hoveny” meant one thing: treasure.
“Gods!” Fry grabbed one of the glasses of beer, the scars on his face whitened by a feral grin. “My grandmother’d talk my ear off about the Hoveny, how she’d send an acquisition team at the mere sniff of a find. Those were the days.” He took a quick swallow, giving the drink a surprised look before taking a second, longer one.
“With that kind of credit lining our pockets,” Gayle mused, “what couldn’t we do?”
Fry lifted the glass at her. “Exactly.”
“There’ve been no new Hoveny offering for years,” Manouya pointed out. “The Clan must have sold any artifacts they possessed long ago.”
He mustn’t allow distraction. “Wait.” Cartnell lifted his hand. “There’s more.” There had to be. “Witness?”
The Assembler’s nose melted into her face, a second gasping mouth taking its place as words rattled from the first. “Sold them? Kept some, maybe. Hidden if they did. Worth the look. Not important. Not what matters! Aggsht—” as it gagged, then spat a stream of yellow goo over the table.
“What does, then?” Fry snapped. “Get to the point.”
“I’m dead. Why should I?” Perhaps judging the mood in the cellar, the Assembler didn’t wait for an answer. “Yes, more. Much more. Don’t waste time. Cases had Triad seals. Authentication! Understand? Came from a Triad site, must have. But no world on record with finds like these. None. Ever.”
“An unknown Hoveny world?”
“Where!?”
“Secrets. Secrets. Never knew, but someone does.” A sly wink. “Someone with the Clan before. Someone on their world. That world. Someone helps them steal Hoveny artifacts and wipe the source. Triad someone. Who? Who?” Both mouths snapped shut.
One smiled.
“Helped—or was influenced,” Gayle ventured, breaking the hush.
Fry’s gaze didn’t leave the Assembler. “Wasn’t there a new Hoveny find? Thirty years or so back.”
“Fakes.” Manouya sounded certain. “The First spend more to discredit forgers than fund new digs. They let the site at Aeande XII be covered by a glacier, for Grasis’ sake; the finest Hoveny building ever found, not that anything inside worked or made sense.” He rolled his head from side to side, a crackle of extra joints accompanying the movement. “An accessible Hoveny site, unrecorded? Hard to credit.”
“This REAL!” Spittle flew from both mouths.
“What if it is?” Fry flung his drink against the barrel rack, shattered glass and beer spraying into the darkness. “That, for treasure we can’t find.”
“Not find for you! US! Belongs to us! Belongs to—”
Cartnell grabbed the withered hand and snapped it free at the band, grimacing as it collapsed into dust.
The rest of the Assembler fragmented, parts scampering in every direction. The Brill stomped at what had been a knee joint but wasn’t fast enough. Gayle gracefully dodged the feet.
Fry spoke. “Board Member.” Quiet threat.
Cartnell spread his arms. “It’s Bowman.” He’d had the pieces all along, just not how they fit. “Her great-grandfather was a Triad analyst. Here, on Stonerim III.”
“Ah!” Excitement puffed the Brill’s cheeks.
“Coincidence,” cautioned Gayle.
“Certainty,” Cartnell replied, ticking points on fingers that wanted to shake. “The timing. Marcus Bowman died or disappeared offworld while working in a Triad. The First seized any and all property owned by his family without explanation. We can guess why.”
He paused to settle himself. No showing weakness, not here, not to these. For Sarran’s sake. For every innocent’s. “Marcus Bowman was involved in how the Clan arrived—and succeeded—in Trade Pact space. That’s why the Clan won’t touch his great-granddaughter now.”
“You imply gratitude, from the Clan?” Gayle’s lips twisted, spiders pulled this way and that. “She’s never taken a bribe. I’ve inquired.”
“Maybe she’s a pet.” Manouya grinned. “Maybe the Clan’s been raising Bowmans. A hobby. It could happen,” as Gayle gave him a disgusted look. “There’s a market. Your species is adorable while nonverbal.”
Ignoring the interchange, Fry leaned forward, eyes glittering with renewed interest. “We’re all thinking it. Not gratitude. Extortion. What if Bowman has something to use against them?”
“Something Marcus left his family for protection.” Manouya’s grin widened improbably, splitting his face. “Grasis’ Glory! What if he left them the coordinates for the Hoveny world?!”
“No new artifacts means no one’s been back—bah!” Fry smacked his fist on the table. “We’re blowing smoke here.”
“Unless what Marcus left was hidden from his family, too,” Gayle said. They all looked at her; she nodded at Fry. “If I wanted to keep something safe from mindcrawlers, I’d go tech, not people.”
“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Simple. Meant to last. Sentimental value, to keep it passing down; no more, or it might be sold. But how would it activate?”
Cartnell rose to his feet. “Get rid of the Clan and I’ll give you Bowman. Ask her yourself.”
Gayle laughed. “Really, Board Member. That’s all you’ve got to offer? A chance for a hidden clue to a world that might not exist, for treasure we might never find—”
“Treasure exists! Wealth beyond measure! Share and we are prepared to cooperate despite your nasty manners.” The Assembler adjusted her hat as she came forward, pointedly flexing the fingers of her own right hand once it climbed up her leg to reattach. “Clan can’t see us. Think we’re you.” A nod. “Clan bleed like you.” A sly smile. “Clan won’t know we are many and more, till too late and dead! Give us good weapons. Take us all places!”
“Not adorable, ever.” Manouya made a rude noise. “And you sneak on ships like pox.”
“Saves fare,” the Assembler said smugly.
“Grasis’ Seventieth Hell.” The Brill shook himself, sweat drops flying. “Could we actually pull this off?”
“The Clan aren’t alone,” countered Gayle. “What of their puppets?”
“Kill them,” Louli said cheerfully. “Traitors!”
“Not by choice!” Cartnell objected, so sharply the Assembler scrambled away.
“Mind-wiped carrion,” a disagreeable mutter from the shadows. “Almost dead now.”
“A
bout that.” Fry licked his lips. “We do this, be a shame to see those Clan creds go to taxes. You said you found some who’d listen to reason.” He looked at Gayle, then Manouya, as if asking a question.
Gayle’s nod was almost imperceptible. “We’d need room to work. What about the rest of the enforcers?”
“Leave them to me,” Cartnell replied, cold and sure. He’d been forced to sign a treaty absolving the Clan of past crimes against Humans. Well, he’d have his justice. Sarran’s justice.
The Board Member representing Humans within the Trade Pact retrieved his disk from the reader and tucked it in a pocket. “Are we agreed?”
Gayle took hers. “We’ll need to go over arrangements with our eager new—allies.”
Cartnell assumed the malicious giggle from the dark was Louli’s reply.
“The Deneb Blues agree,” Sansom Fry said dryly. “And won’t kill you, Board Member Cartnell.” He smiled. “Today.”
Vis-shield restored, Ambridge Gayle nodded. “The Grays agree.”
“Manouya?”
Sweat beaded the Brill’s broad forehead, trickling down his cheek. He collected his disk, the now-emptied reader crumbling into itself, then looked up, eyes somber. “Yes, yes. I agree.”
“Hearing a ‘but’ in that,” Fry observed. A needler appeared in his hand, business end aimed at the floor. “Are you with us or not?”
“We need you, Facilitator,” added Gayle.
“Yes, you do.” The Brill sighed and nodded. “I have questions. The Clan arrived. They settled in Trade Pact space. Why? Who are they? We don’t know.”
Sarran’s sort of questions. For a fleeting instant, Cartnell felt the stir of doubt.
Fry took another beer. “Very soon, my friend, no one will care.”
Chapter 1
“BALLOONS.” I eyed the round objects orbiting Morgan’s head and kept my distance. “Why?”
“It’s an occasion, Sira. There should be balloons.” At the lift of his hand, the objects clustered in a brightly colored mass, except for one—pink with an array of purple dots—that dropped to hover in front of his nose. He batted it away.
The balloon came right back, the purple dots sliding over the shiny pink to create a florid script. I read aloud, “‘Happy 150th Anniversary.’”
“I got them from the Lemmick on Level 3, spinward ¼.” As if that explained everything. Morgan batted the balloon again. It spun back to offer alternative greetings, in rapid succession and not all in Comspeak; of those comprehensible—to me, at least—none were the occasion about to be celebrated and a few were anatomically unlikely for humanoids.
I couldn’t help laughing.
My Human grinned. His was a pleasant, forgettable face, one he’d learned to control with precision long before we’d met to the chagrin of those who thought to best him in trade. Except with me. The grin lit the remarkable blue of his eyes, warming me to my core.
Morgan slapped his palms together, popping the balloon. It released a receipt he ignored and a whiff of foul odor neither of us could. Lemmick indeed. “Who needs words,” he said cheerfully. “We know why we’re here.”
“Here” being a chilly service corridor curving into station distance, the pair of us huddled by a burping waste compactor to avoid machine traffic. Servos who didn’t expect flesh tended to run into it. There was, I thought wistfully, more to Plexis Supermarket than its unfortunately familiar underbelly.
We weren’t hiding, exactly. Certainly not from anyone with access to the vid feeds omnipresent on Plexis. We’d taken our assigned parking spot and obtained the living air tags “fortheairweshared” and were, in fact, legal this trip. I even had a plas ident with my name and rank in my pocket: Sira Morgan, co-owner and hindmost crew on the Silver Fox. Yet my Chosen, the usually pragmatic and practical Captain Jason Morgan, insisted we wait here—complete with balloons—until all was ready inside.
“We didn’t hide last time,” I pointed out.
“Because the reopening of the Claws & Jaws wasn’t a surprise.”
True. Plexis had promoted the event to every system in range, saying their willingness to rebuild the restaurant after “that incident” proved the station was a fine place to do business. Those onstation were fully aware “that incident” had been caused by Plexis’ heavy-handed security and that funds to rebuild had to be dragged from them screaming and kicking, but any publicity was good publicity.
The station had moved since, leaving the Fringe for the Inner Systems. I wasn’t sure how I felt being so close to where I’d been born. In the Clan way, I’d been taken from my mother as a child, to be fostered offworld. If I reached, I’d feel the passage our attenuated link had etched into the M’hir before breaking.
Family life among my kind wasn’t like that among Humans. This plan of Morgan’s? I tried again to warn him. “Ruti and Barac might not react as you expect.” That was putting it mildly. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
Morgan grinned, his head surrounded by balloons. “Who doesn’t like a baby shower?”
Those who weren’t to have children, I thought sadly.
For generations, Clan pregnancies had been planned by Council; their goal: to increase our ability to move through the M’hir. Only the most powerful were allowed to breed. It had seemed a good idea, till I’d been born.
A crossing of sud Sarc and di Bowart lines hadn’t been on any list I’d studied. Barac hadn’t the Power. Ruti’s parents had been listed as dead, lost with dozens of other Clan in a starship explosion.
A tragedy faked so those involved could escape Council dictates, for the rebels had settled on Acranam and built a secret thriving community. However much I empathized with their motives, they’d been led by Yihtor di Caraat and his mother. The di Caraats had used their Power against Humans and other Clan, allying themselves with criminals.
And my father, who’d thought to force me to Join with Yihtor.
Yihtor was dead; my father exiled. I was blissfully Joined to my one love. Acranam had been forgiven.
Nothing, I knew, had been forgotten. Though she didn’t deserve it, Ruti carried that taint and wasn’t welcomed by most Clan. As for my cousin Barac? I still wasn’t quite sure how he’d survived their Joining, though I was delighted for them both.
As Speaker and leader of the new Clan Council? I couldn’t approve the result. Council still dictated Clan reproduction, we had to, but no longer to increase individual Power. Now it was for our survival as a species. Trade Pact researchers were working as quickly as possible to offer us a plan, a way out of the trap we’d created for ourselves. I’d promised them time. I’d begged it from my kind.
Presumably some were listening.
Admittedly, Barac and Ruti would have waited had they known, but we weren’t like Humans, whose fertility could be managed. Clan Chosen were ripe from the onset, like flowers ready to be pollinated.
Pollinating, I thought with honest frustration, it seemed we couldn’t stop.
“It’s an occasion, Witchling,” Morgan insisted. “Aren’t you happy for them?”
He was. So happy, joy sizzled across our inner bond, pushing aside common sense and remorse. Deciding to be happy too, I leaned close, careful not to inhale any remaining Lemmick-breath, and kissed my beloved. My hair lifted to caress his cheek and Morgan responded with enthusiasm.
Time should have stopped right there.
Later, I would wish it had.
“Hom Morgan? Fem Morgan?”
We stepped apart, fingers last to untwine. A familiar oval face peered around the canister, gold faceted eyes catching the light. The upward tilt to the cilia framing Hom M’Tisri’s thin lips was, according to Morgan, the Vilix version of a friendly humanoid smile. I took him at his word, having never seen the affable host of the Claws & Jaws anything but smiling. Of course, I’d never seen him anywhere other than by
his podium at the restaurant entrance and suspected he slept inside it—one of those interspecies’ questions impossible to ask politely—yet here he was, immaculate in a purple-and-red floral print, standing in the service corridor. “If you’d follow me, please,” he announced calmly, “your table is ready.”
I half expected him to hand us menus.
“Excellent.” Morgan put his hand on the other’s upper shoulder, a signal sending half the balloons to hover around the Vilix. “’Ri, they don’t know we’re here, do they?”
“I have informed no one, Hom Morgan.” Leaving open any number of possibilities.
My Human didn’t appear worried. “Good! Lead the way. Watch out!”
We ducked in time for the delivery servo to whiz by safely. The balloons, having scattered, reformed their unnervingly brilliant cluster over Morgan’s head.
I could have sworn Hom M’Tisri looked relieved.
The Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine was packed to the gills—or whatever breathing apparatus applied—with patrons, this being the supper hour for an abundance of those on Plexis and the menu famed for its surprises. Since the restoration, reservations were required station-months in advance.
Unless you knew the owner, Huido Maarmatoo’kk.
Morgan and I were in our best spacer coveralls, the ones without obvious patches and less faded blue. It wasn’t as though there was a dress code; most of those on Plexis at any given moment were spacers or tourists, and restaurants used recyclable covers on their seating.
I expected to be taken to one of those seats. Instead, Hom M’Tisri led us, balloons soaring like our personal rainbow, through the antechamber into the organized chaos that was the kitchen. Steam clouded the air, filled with a confusion of delicious smells to make my stomach growl and some that made me queasy. Everyone was shouting to be heard over the sizzle of busy cooktops. We went between the main counters, careful of elbows and tentacles. For their part, the sous-chefs and assistants of varied species missed neither beat nor chop, acknowledging our intrusion by squeezing to let us by. We might have passed without causing the slightest disturbance.
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