This Gulf of Time and Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Sira walked back, red-gold hair twitching at the ends. She shrugged as if to say “Humans,” and smiled. “Is it time for the gifts?” she asked, detouring to relieve Tayno of the cup.

  Huido snapped his claw. “It is! Bring our guests.”

  Tensions eased as Ruti and Barac were herded, the pair adorably embarrassed, to the gift table and Morgan dared a quick sending of his own. What’s your read on this?

  That we’ll be seeing Bowman again and soon. Her gray eyes crinkled at the corners. Are family occasions always complicated?

  He had to laugh.

  Chairs were brought for Ruti and Barac, the others standing to watch. The Clan appeared mystified, even Sira. Morgan paused, the first gift in his hands, wondering why. “Is this so different from how you give gifts?”

  Rael lifted a shapely brow. “We don’t.”

  “Not like this,” Enora corrected, smiling. “For us, gift-giving is private, arising from impulse more than occasion.”

  “It’s not as if we can’t buy what we want,” Rael stated. It was no idle boast.

  Barac’s flinch was almost imperceptible, but Sira noticed, too. She must have sent to her sister, for Rael looked at her. Her beginning frown turned to something appalled.

  She hadn’t known. “A baby shower’s special,” Morgan explained quickly. “These gifts are for your daughter as much as for you,” he told Ruti. “Tayno?”

  He was amused to see Tayno stay out of his uncle’s reach as he came forward, though he knew full well the youngster was in no danger. Huido was blissfully content. The younger Carasian approached Ruti, his package pinched between both claws, stopping before risking her feet to lower the box into her hands with commendable care. “Happy Shower Anniversary,” he boomed, the wrapping adding a cheerful “Have a Great Trip!” “You open it,” he said helpfully, claws at the ready, every eye on the box.

  “Thank you.” Ruti waited.

  Huido snapped a claw and Tayno scrambled backward.

  Ruti undid the paper, which promptly refreshed its offerings to a repeated: “On Sale Now, Best Ever Party Favors, Level 3, Spinward ¼,” and opened the lid of the box inside. Her face worked for an instant, settling into a bright smile. “How—useful. Thank you, Tayno.”

  She passed the box to Barac, who reached in and pulled out a tangled mass of string and, yes, spoons of various sizes.

  “You hang it in a breeze,” Tayno said eagerly. “It sounds like home. I made it myself.”

  Barac gave the contraption a dutiful shake, producing a clinking susurration that might, Morgan thought charitably, sound like waves on rock to a homesick Carasian.

  “A treasure,” Ruti said firmly.

  Tayno stood a bit taller, self-esteem restored.

  “Ours is next,” Agem indicated the dotted crate with a proud smile.

  “It’s not new,” Enora forewarned. She gave a small sniff, her smile tremulous.

  With a curious look at his mother and father, Barac unlatched the lid. He gasped. “This was my cradle. And Kurr’s.”

  “That’s—” Ruti ran straight into Enora’s arms, sobbing.

  No one spoke. By their stricken faces, the Clan felt as he did. Morgan hoped so. This glorious ache, this belonging. How long had it been? Best not, he decided wryly, count the years.

  A small hand slipped into his. Good custom, this baby-rainshower.

  Good family.

  “There’s something else in there.” Rael’s voice was less than steady. “From me. Well, not in there, but there’s a card—”

  The card, it turned out, was promise of delivery for an anti-grav stroller, a Denebian model so new and eagerly anticipated the waiting list, Rael explained, could fill a city. She’d obtained the prototype for them, an extravagant gift.

  One she now regretted. “If there’s anything you need more, cousin,” she began.

  Barac gestured his gratitude, echoed by Ruti. “This is perfect. We won’t need it for a while.”

  “I’ll ’port it to you when you do,” she promised, her smile like sunshine.

  Huido’s pile of presents took the pair over an hour to open and exclaim over. None, to Morgan’s relief, contained Retian eggs, preserved or otherwise, but rather what appeared a complete wardrobe, in several sizes, as well as bedding and other necessities.

  Every item was practical and well-made. He’d bet Hom M’Tisri had done the shopping.

  Though likely not the bibs adorned with tiny smiling crustaceans.

  Bowman’s gift sat alone on the table. Sira brought it to Barac, who opened it as though afraid it might explode. Inside was a new rattle, shaped like a starship. And—“Morgan?” He held out a small cylinder.

  The Human took it, letting out a low whistle. “This is a voucher stick.” A Trade Pact Enforcer Travel Voucher, to be precise, with an authentication chip on the base. The indicator read full. By treaty, such a voucher must be accepted, regardless of species.

  So he wasn’t the only one to suspect Barac and Ruti were homeless. His guess? The former First Scout was identifying vacant hotel rooms, taking that first look they’d need for a locate. Simple, then, to ’port in and out. “It entitles the bearer to accommodation and food, no questions, no record.”

  Barac took the stick back, turning it over in his hands. He looked at Morgan, eyes full of doubt.

  “It’s for the baby,” the Human told him and risked sending, No strings attached. Ruthless as Bowman could be, this gift he trusted.

  Whatever Barac read in his face reassured him. He nodded. “For the baby.”

  “Your turn,” Sira said, smiling.

  Huido’d talked him into going last. Morgan retrieved his pack from under the table. His fingers fumbled at the fastenings. A little late for self-doubt, he told himself, taking a deep breath. The second attempt succeeded and he pulled out the roll.

  “I didn’t wrap it—” he began, offering it to Ruti, who spread the canvas over her lap and stared.

  Morgan surveyed the painting, critical of his own work. If he’d had time, he’d have gone back and done more sketches, tested color against light, refined a line—

  Ruti’s fingertips brushed glowing white petals, stroked a deep green leaf, followed the curl of a vine. She breathed out a word. “Nightsfire.”

  He hadn’t known the name. Apt. The flowers unfurled after sunset, trapping hapless flying things. He’d—

  “I thought I was willing. To pay the price. Leave it all behind. My home, its beaut—” Ruti choked and Barac moved behind her chair, resting his hands on her shoulders. Her hair coiled up his arms, the image of misery.

  He’d never meant to—Morgan sank to a knee in front of her. “Ruti, forgive me—”

  She frowned. “For what, Captain? You’ve given me what I needed.” She took his hand, lowered shields to share with him a fierce determination. “I let fear guide me. Rob me. No more, I say!” She twisted to look up at Barac. “We answer to Sira and the Clan Council, not my parents. Acranam is my home as much as theirs. I will claim it for our daughter.”

  Barac gave a grim smile and nodded. Morgan squeezed her hand. He rose to his feet and bowed. “I’ve no doubt you will.”

  Not alone. He wasn’t the only one to hear Sira’s promise.

  “After she’s born,” Ruti added practically.

  “Time for more babyful punch,” Huido exclaimed, rattling his carapace. “Who’ll be first?”

  There was punch for those who wished it, sombay for the rest, and by the time Rael ’ported away with Enora and Agem, after fond farewells and vows for more visits, Ruti was half-nodding in her chair. Barac regarded her fondly, then turned to Morgan, shaking his head. “You might have warned us.”

  Tayno hiccupped, which in a Carasian produced a prolonged metal chain-through-ring sound. “Surprise was ess—seeential!” Another hiccup.

/>   Morgan wasn’t sure if it was the punch or the fact that the eggs on the walls had mysteriously vanished during the gift-giving.

  “Have to agree, cousin.” Sira sat cross-legged on the table—elbows on her knees, chin in her palms—and grinned. Her hair shimmered in contented waves down her back. “Human custom.”

  Barac gestured profound gratitude. “Thank you. Thank all of you.” He hesitated, looking at the gifts.

  Before he could confess—to not having a home, or anywhere to store them—Huido put down his beer glass. “Leave your gifts here for now. I insist. And,” more slowly, as if thoughts took their time moving through that immense head, “the balloons. Tayno will put everything away with the greatest care.”

  The nephew hiccupped again, eyestalks drooping. Morgan raised a meaningful eyebrow.

  Huido shrugged, tipping his carapace from shoulder to shoulder. “Tomorrow. He’ll put everything away tomorrow.” He swept a great handling claw through the air as though removing any possibility of worry. “Tomorrow, Yipping Prawlies shall once more grace the menu, and you and Ruti will return. I insist.” Eyes milled furiously, then settled all at once on Ruti. “Tomorrow,” very quietly, “everything will be as it should be.”

  What does he mean? Sira asked.

  Morgan let her feel his smile. The old softie. He’s going to take in our homeless parents-to-be. They just don’t know it yet.

  Her gray eyes surveyed him. And Bowman?

  His smile faded. The less we cross paths, the better. Something was up, something more than some new relationship between the Enforcer and the Clan. The last thing they needed was to be drawn into one of the sector chief’s convoluted investigations.

  The best way to avoid that?

  “Party’s over. Time we lifted fins, chit,” Captain Morgan announced cheerfully.

  The sooner the Silver Fox hit open space, the safer they’d be.

  Chapter 5

  THE M’HIR AND SPACE had something in common: you didn’t linger in either. Subjective time in the M’hir could be measured in the effort made to stay whole. Dissolving was the euphemism Clan used to describe the pulling apart of will and identity, memory spilling like blood, a mind to be lost, forever.

  Space was no safer, in my newly informed opinion. The Silver Fox, retired from patrol duty and destined to be scrap, had been given a second life as a freighter. Keeping the venerable starship whole took effort, all right, including walking outside on her hull when necessary. Easy to imagine drifting away to be lost forever in that endless dark.

  Harder to do. Our suits had redundant safety features, as Morgan was fond of reminding me, and even if somehow I was plucked bodily from the hull, there were beacons and tags to keep me close to the ship. Worst case scenario, the suit came complete with a stasis unit, so if I were to drift away and be lost forever, I’d do it in my sleep.

  That wasn’t the comfort he thought.

  Of course, in the event of real trouble I’d ’port my Chosen and self, suits and all, back inside the Fox. Or to the nearest civilized planet, nearest being defined, as always, by subjective time in the M’hir. By how my strength and will endured—

  If I failed—

  “Stop that.” I shoved the drawer closed and glared at it, that being easier than glaring at myself. I was fretting. The ship was fine, we were fine, our family was fine—I’d no conceivable reason, I told myself, to doubt the fineness of everything.

  Except I’d so much to lose.

  The link between my mind and Morgan, our Joining through the M’hir, still felt new, still felt incredible. I expanded my awareness of it below conscious thought and my heart acquired a twin, beating in harmony. He was well, I could feel it. Preoccupied, but happily so. In the engine room, I guessed. I could know for sure, could find him anywhere along our link or with a heart-search, but we were, after all, on a starship. Where else would he be? Morgan had wanted to recheck a faulty indicator once we’d gone translight from Plexis.

  If satisfied, he’d run a strong callused hand along a bulkhead before leaving the room. If not, he’d curse the ship, with invention and considerable affection, and stay as long as it took to fix the problem. I’d be jealous if I hadn’t come to think of the Fox as alive myself. Morgan’s doing, that.

  Almost done, Witchling.

  I smiled. The Clan Chosen I knew maintained shields, keeping their thoughts private. Shipboard and alone, my Human left his mind exposed to mine, trusting me to respect his depths as he respected mine. I pulled the bed from the wall, waiting for pillows to fluff and blankets to soften.

  Waiting for my love.

  One day, I’d viewed the first teach-tape on alien sex. There were crates of the things and, after all, sex was an area of interspecies relations where any confusion in signals could lead to, well, unfortunate results. Or fortunate, depending on your interests.

  Admittedly, I’d been bored. There were only so many hours one could spend reviewing ship procedure in the event of whatever-could-never-happen-because-we’d-be-dead-first. Or whatever-Morgan-wouldn’t-have-let-happen-in-the-first-place.

  In had gone the tape. I’d watched, tilting my head every so often and squinting, struck anew with wonder at the lengths species went to procreate.

  Morgan had, upon walking in on this activity, proceeded to turn an interesting color. Had I, he’d asked, been looking for something in particular? After all. Aliens. Sex.

  Was there—with apparent concern—a problem he didn’t know about? Our external anatomies were compatible, weren’t they?

  Nothing would do but we make sure, then and there.

  Remembering, I licked my lips, savoring the flush of heat igniting my body. Hair, heavy and warm, stroked my skin in anticipation of Morgan’s, and deep within my mind our link tightened, for whatever our flesh experienced would burn between us until we were one—

  Not so done as I thought. Give me a minute. He became aware. Or not.

  Laughing, I grabbed the blanket from the bed and concentrated . . .

  From Plexis, we were on course for Snosbor IV, the Fox taking care of navigating at translight. After a full and highly satisfying, if sleepless, night, it was my turn to take first shift in the control room. I brought a book.

  I hadn’t read more than a page before a voice came through the comlink. “Sira Morgan.”

  I dropped my book.

  I knew that voice.

  “Sira Morgan.”

  I froze, not reaching to answer, unsure what startled me more, that my father was trying to reach me, that he used the com—

  Or that my Human name had crossed his lips at last.

  No, it was Jarad di Sarc, Clansman, using the com. He loathed technology more than most of my kin.

  Is that your father on the com? Morgan’s mind voice filled my thoughts with the same incredulity I felt. We shared an appreciation of my father as the ultimate example of Clan callousness and lust for power. I locked my shields in place, as Morgan’s were. Jarad had been exiled for excellent reason.

  If not for his Joining to my mother, Mirim, I thought coldly, he’d be dead; my well-known feelings on the subject likely why he’d not contacted me mind-to-mind.

  “Sira Morgan. If you’re there, answer me. Is Bowman with you?”

  Footsteps from behind, then a light touch on my shoulder as Morgan joined me. A lock of my hair slid to rest over his hand, and I turned to look a question. He shook his head, no more able to guess than I.

  I touched the control. “I’m here. She’s not.” About to end the connection, I paused as Morgan’s grip tightened slightly. Curious to a fault, my Human. Fine. “Why would Sector Chief Bowman be with us?”

  “You’d know if you’d accepted your obligation, Daughter, when you took the leadership from me. You’re a dis—”

  I may have hit the com with more force than necessary.

/>   “You could have let him finish,” commented Morgan. He went to lean against the com panel, hands in the pockets of his faded spacer coveralls. His remarkable blue eyes studied me. “Bowman implied she’d something to tell you.”

  “Jarad’s in exile.” Even to me, it sounded more excuse than reason. I fought the urge to twitch. “I know what he has to say. Jarad’s disappointed I haven’t donned the white robe and attended every Council meeting.”

  “Would he know?”

  About to reply, I stopped, closing my mouth. Morgan had a point. Our race was nothing if not self-protective; of all the Clan, those who sat on Council knew the danger of exposing their minds to their disgraced former Speaker. Jarad’s power was second only to mine.

  “It’s a mistake to engage with him,” I said at last, sure of that much.

  “Agreed, but to ask about Bowman, the day after she tries to talk to you?”

  Morgan wasn’t calm, I realized. Nor was this simple curiosity. “What’s wrong?” I asked, abruptly certain something was.

  “I’m not sure.” He ran one hand through his thick brown hair, giving me a rueful look. “Maybe nothing. Just, when I heard Jarad say Bowman’s name, I thought I tasted change. It’s gone now.” As if that would reassure me.

  As if his gift, which wasn’t mine, had ever been wrong. “What should we do?”

  “Check on a friend.” He tapped the com panel.

  “What happened to keeping our distance, Captain?” I inquired. We’d discussed the ramifications of the sector chief inviting herself to the baby shower. The gift had been welcome.

  But whatever she wanted from me? Not so much.

  “That was before.”

  Real concern. For a Human who, last I checked, had her own full cruiser and troops. I drew up my knees in the copilot’s couch, the back curling to support me in comfort, and regarded my Chosen. “Go ahead. You’ve her private code.”

  Another look, this sharp, but it was the truth and I saw no reason to deny it. There’d been a time when Morgan had reported to Bowman, for she’d been “sniffing around the Clan,” as he’d put it, long before we’d met. My arrival hadn’t diminished her interest.