Barac wasn’t interested either but tagged along, as he put it, to keep his brother out of trouble.
This constable was trouble. “I admit, I gave an archaeologist and his assistant a ride here off the books. They’d been robbed on Auord—” Plausible; who hadn’t? “—and I felt sorry for them. I don’t know anything about any ‘Clan.’”
“Ah.” She wrote quickly, then looked up with the smallest of smiles. “So you did have passengers this trip.”
He wasn’t caught often. “Who are you?” with real curiosity.
“Bowman. Lydis Kari Bowman.” She snapped off a page and closed her noteplas, tucking it in a pocket. “Here’s my private code. Don’t leaving it lying around.”
Morgan, bemused, took the page. “And why do I need this?”
“You work for me now.”
“Really.” Bowman wasn’t like any Port Jelly he’d met, he’d grant her that. He lifted an eyebrow, willing to spin the wheel a while longer. “Why would I do that?”
Bowman’s smile vanished. “To keep this ship of yours. Seems there’s a good number of eggs hidden in this cabin. I assure you I can find them all for my superiors before you locate the first.”
Morgan stilled.
“You could use your Talent to stop me,” she acknowledged dryly, shocking him to the core. “It’s a family flaw, I’m afraid. Not enough power to be anything but weak.”
“Which you aren’t,” he replied, sure of that much.
A chuckle; it wasn’t humor. “No,” she agreed and tapped a button on her shabby jacket. “A record’s being sent to a remote and secure location. Meddle in my head, mindcrawler, and it won’t be Port Authority after Jason Morgan, smuggler. It’ll be the Clan after Jason Morgan, telepath. I trust you appreciate the difference.”
Kurr had told him, one night over a bottle of wine, what the rest of their kind would do to him if they knew what he was. Mind-wiping was the least of it. Things suddenly made sense. “You work for them.”
Then didn’t, when Bowman shook her head. “The Clan watch me. Aren’t shy about it. If they think to use me, my position, they’re mistaken.” Her face hardened. “Now I watch them. Seems only fair.”
Fair wasn’t the word he’d have used. Was she mad? “What do you want from me?” he heard himself ask in a stranger’s voice.
She stood, straightening her uniform with a tug. “You’re not their puppet, not yet; I’ve seen those.” They were close enough he had to bend to face her. She tapped his chest with one finger. “I want eyes on the Clan. Eyes they trust—or at least tolerate.” Tap. “I’ll pay, don’t worry.” Tap. “As for the Clan, I strongly suggest you keep our arrangement secret.” Then her palm landed over his heart. “Who knows, Morgan? This could be the start of a wonderful relationship.”
A darker brown, Morgan decided grimly, if he was to work with shadows. Bowman never told him what she did with the information he’d provided; he’d never asked. That she mattered to the very aliens she spied upon was obvious, if only from their careful lack of interest in her activities.
Which wasn’t true, he thought suddenly. Not all Clan. It had been Jarad di Sarc who’d known Bowman, maybe from the beginning. Who else? Sira hadn’t, nor Barac. Not until their paths had tangled after Kurr’s murder.
Or because of it. Jarad’s doing, that death, and pointless.
Sira had defeated her father before all the Clan. Morgan didn’t doubt she could manage him now. Nor that she’d learn what she wished.
Thinking of his Chosen, who’d managed to bring even Bowman around to her side, he reached for gold instead.
For light.
Chapter 6
...I found myself darkness within shadow, defined by Power and will amid nothing real or seen. The M’hir. The Drapsk called it the Scented Way; the Rugherans, home.
The Clan? Our proper name was M’hiray and part of us was here, in this otherworld, even when we were not. When we pushed ourselves fully into the M’hir, our passing etched bright pathways that could be followed by others.
Or we died. “Lost in the M’hir,” we’d say of those who overstayed what wasn’t in any sense welcome and dissolved. The M’hir was a whirlpool, to resist and escape, or be consumed. Distance here meant nothing; subjective time, everything. Misjudge your strength and what you’d been stayed in that darkness, consciousness swept apart and away.
The Watchers in the M’hir would inform Council of the loss.
Every so often, a remnant lingered, locked in place, its melancholy echo a warning to those who passed by.
A ghost.
Garatis 17, site of my father’s exile, was a long ’port; coming from the Fox, I’d no previous passage of significance to ease the way, but my strength wasn’t tested. I kept my sense of self as small as possible, as if that would hide me if the Watchers took an interest, and focused on my memory of a craggy, disapproving face . . .
. . . and became solid again, standing before my father.
Jarad di Sarc’s hawklike nose and straight bearing hadn’t changed. His eyes remained darkly beautiful, glistening beneath now-thunderous brows. If age or exile had touched him, it wasn’t outwardly.
What surprised me was seeing him in dusty pants and shirt, as if fresh from labor. The pants had pockets on the outside of each leg, filled with small tools, and knees with pouches for cushioning. I glanced around to find out why.
We were outside on a loading dock, a pile of transport crates stacked nearby. A low brick wall separated the dock, with its aircar landing platform, from an ornamental garden. Beyond the flowers and trim shrubs was another wall, this of metalwork. Through its ornate openings, a city of red, yellow, and brown tile roofs sloped gracefully down to the sea, aglint under the morning sun. A warm breeze stirred fluffy clouds and carried the scent of flowers.
Jarad wasn’t alone. Two Humans, both male and in similar clothing, had been unpacking the crates; after looking to Jarad to be sure I was welcome, they went back to work as if someone appearing from thin air was normal.
I reached, recoiling in disgust. Their minds held nothing but the task at hand and the need to serve. Only First Scouts were supposed to use their Talent to manipulate vulnerable Humans, and only by Council order and solely to defend us. This was the reality. Many Clan houses still had such unwitting servants. How long would the treaty hold if Humans knew we’d enslaved them?
The guilt wore on me; I was alone in it. Other Clan struggled to think of Humans as other than occasionally convenient. To all, they were disturbing. Too like us, too many, too unpredictable. Morgan’s Power, proved to the Clan by our Joining, had more influence on the newfound good manners of my kind than fear of extinction or the treaty, not that I’d tell the Board Members.
The bitter truth was that we were too few to afford to admit our guilt, let alone make amends. I hoped for a better future, when we could.
Jarad knew my opinion; it mattered to him not at all. “What, no courtesy, Daughter?”
I gave a proper short bow, making the requisite gesture to recognize his lesser strength. “I’d have used the com, but I know when such tech can’t be trusted.”
His hands remained still, not that I’d expected him to acknowledge me. “Well, you’re here now.”
As if I’d come at his behest. Temper wouldn’t help, I told myself reasonably, my hair twitching in disagreement. To calm myself, I looked toward the crates just as the front of one was opened, revealing an old and familiar trunk.
So much for calm. “That’s mine!” Hair lashed my shoulders. To be honest, the trunk—and the rest I didn’t doubt were in the remaining crates—belonged to the Clan Council and so all of us, but I’d been the only one in recent times to study their contents. I’d believed them safely with Enora. I tried not to shout. “What are they doing here?”
Jarad smiled. “I’ve an interest.”
The trunks contained parches, brown rolls of some forgotten material inscribed with names. Those names held our history, going back pre-Stratification, recorded as every successful Joining and result. Jarad hadn’t been interested until I’d used them to prove our kind was about to doom itself.
His smile dropped away and he gave my robes a dismissive look. “If you’d been to Council meetings, Speaker, you’d know I petitioned through third parties for access to these and other irreplaceable items. My request was granted. Our past must be protected.”
Our past had led us here; I found myself heartily sick of it. “Fine. I’ve other matters to discuss with you, Father. If you’ve a moment?” Underneath I sent NOW.
And was pleased to see him wince.
Jarad led the way indoors, leaving his servants to bring in the trunks. I sensed no other presence. I’d known my father retreated here when frustrated with Council or family—or both—but hadn’t pictured such a sparse and simple dwelling, nestled in greenery. Did he consider his exile punishment or convenient?
It could be both, I admitted to myself.
We went down a narrow hall into a room that stretched the width of the building, its screenless windows open to the air. My spacer instincts cringed. A bare worktable stood in the middle and there was space along the back wall where I presumed my trunks would reside. Above were cupboards fronted with transparent doors, the shelves within crowded with a multitude of smallish old things. I frowned at Jarad. “How much did you get from Council?”
“These I inherited.” He walked to the nearest and opened the door, taking out what proved to be a wizened gourd. From the reverent way he held it up for me to see, it might have been his firstborn.
That being me, I was less than impressed. “Pre-Stratification.” Our ancestors had brought with them what could be carried in hands and packs, most of it disturbingly primitive, none of it useful.
Replacing the gourd, he nodded. “The M’hiray began when the best of our ancestors left our Homeworld. We mustn’t forget how far we’ve come, in every way.” A sidelong look. “Your mother wants us returned to that life. Before the M’hir. Drinking from such husks.”
“Mother isn’t why I’m—” About to say “here,” I stopped, turning back to the cupboards. Jarad hadn’t these things on Camos. What inheritance?
No, I told myself, growing numb. He wouldn’t have—
Of course he would. Power shaped into rage rose within me, clamoring to be released. Pushing it down, I made myself speak instead. “These were Kurr’s. How dare you!”
Jarad raised an eyebrow. “You sound so Human.”
Because Clan didn’t mourn. We pushed our dead into the M’hir and did our best to forget all but the lineage of their power.
That my father—this monster—had arranged for Barac’s elder brother to be murdered by Yihtor di Caraat?
That, I would never forget.
Jarad went to sit in one of three chairs by the window, waiting for me. The chairs were wood and painted, a crudity well-suited to the past he hoarded. I’d been wrong to come here. Wrong to think shields sufficient when dealing with him.
Having no choice, I picked the red chair and sat. Whatever else I might think, no doubt Kurr’s beloved bits and pieces would be kept better here than anywhere else. I folded my hands neatly in my lap, relieved my hair had gone sullen and limp. “Why did you call the ship?”
He leaned back, palms together, long fingers meeting under his chin. “That’s not what you want to know.”
Fair enough. “Why did you ask about Sector Chief Bowman?”
“Something that—” Jarad stopped and aimed his fingertips at me. “Before I tell you, explain why you haven’t opened to Those Who Watch.”
I smiled without humor. “Because I choose not to.” Di Sawnda’at, senior on Council, had broached the subject once, calling it a formality so the Watchers could identify those presently in authority. I’d informed him that—as the mysterious entities had no trouble contacting me at their whim, and I’d no intention of being in authority again—I would do no such thing. He’d not pressed the point.
Death namers. Spies. Emotionless, bodiless, impossible to reason with or comprehend. Since our Joining the Watchers had become interested in Morgan. He couldn’t sense their strange attention; I could. Not a threat. Not yet.
I’d let them no closer to us, to our link, than necessary.
“It’s your Council duty—they have knowledge—”
And there it was, what he really wanted from me.
I lost my smile. Our history, as records, as remembered and shared, began on Stonerim III. We might have sprung to life there, if it weren’t for the genealogy and relics now in my father’s possession. Clan were taught that during Stratification, the M’hiray were freed from the memories of their before-lives to ease the transition to a new and better home.
Most of us, more cynically, believed those memories had been stripped to prevent any of us from returning to the old one.
Clan were also taught that the Watchers held those memories in trust, for the day—not that when, or how, or why was given—we’d rejoin our former kin and live happily together. Reunification, scholars called it, when the Watchers would share their knowledge with the Clan Council, presumably including a locate for the Clan Homeworld so we could find it again.
“It’s a myth,” I told Jarad. “No one—Councilor or not—believes the Watchers capable of anything more than reacting to events in the M’hir.”
I could show you.
“I can leave, and will.” My turn to raise an eyebrow. “Unless you explain about Bowman and why—”
Tap. Taptap. Tap.
Distracted, I turned to the window, expecting a bird.
It was a hand, reaching from the shrubbery.
Interlude
PETALS CURLED LIKE FINGERS, their purple splashed with yellow, pink, and white at their feathered tips, encompassing a center ablaze with vermilion. The solitary flower sat on an arching green stem, other buds pregnant and waiting their turn.
The Clansman deftly collected pollen on the end of a brush, moving along to another orchid, this kept virgin within its glass dome. The art he practiced was older than civilization on Omacron, the world on which he’d decided to live. The species who’d evolved here might have had an interest in the beautiful alien flora within these greenhouses, but he’d discouraged it.
The majority of Omacron being mildly telepathic and so easy to influence.
Janac di Paniccia preferred his own company.
Is that so?
He smiled as he removed the glass dome. I did, once. He straightened from his crouch, looking around.
The image of a Clanswoman reclined atop trays of young plants as if lying on a couch. Thick black hair framed her lovely face and sent locks to stray across her breasts. A sheet of golden issa-silk trailed over her body; the sheet’s end disappeared in midair.
For Rael di Sarc was on another world.
Janac held up his little brush, the glass dome within the curve of his free arm. I need another few moments.
I do not, my Chosen. In that other world, Rael smiled, then arched her neck, letting the sheet slip away. Revealed, her long legs were tattooed so that slender vines lipped the skin from inner thigh to toe and tattooed orchids embraced each proud nipple.
The orchids were a surprise.
Don’t move, the Clansman sent, relishing the still-new, still-exciting heat flowing between them. He tossed the brush with its red dust aside and put the dome on the nearest surface, uncaring he’d just ruined the consummation of a years-long project.
Hadn’t they waited longer?
Waited for the Clan Council to decide if their potential offspring would be of sufficient Power? Hadn’t he—
Forget them. Rael licked the tip of her finger, stroking it across a nipple.
You know where I am. Come.
Janac formed the locate in his mind and began to concentrate, something more difficult than usual as Rael began to—
The roof and walls imploded, knocking him to the floor. Shards of glass sliced cloth and flesh even as Janac pushed himself into the M’hir . . .
Chapter 7
I LEAPED TO MY FEET, Jarad doing the same. As his chair tipped onto the floor, there came a sound like drumming rain from behind. We whirled around to see—
My trunks. Marching into the room by themselves, their tops splattered with blood. Something was underneath, something running—
What is it? Morgan, worried by what he sensed along our link.
I shared what I saw.
Interlude
WHAT THE . . . ? Worry became horror as he recognized—Assemblers?!
Morgan leaped to his feet and sent with the strength of fear. Get out, Sira! COME!
Then reeled with the sickening pound of CHANGE through his mind, the worst such premonition he’d ever experienced.
He shuddered free. “Sira, why would . . .”
The control room was empty.
Sira wasn’t here.
“I am,” he said aloud, seizing on that proof as though drowning. If he lived, she did.
But where was she?
Chapter 8
THE TRUNKS TOPPLED OVER, exposing a crazed mass of hands and feet and other parts—even heads—moving, glinting with metal, some coming together, all aimed at us.
Morgan’s warning beating through me, I grabbed my father’s arm and concentrated, forming the locate for the Fox . . .
. . . not there! HERE! HERE!
. . . I fought him in the M’hir, our Power streaming away like blood . . .
. . . A Watcher stirred. More than one. Their combined voices cut through what I was and wanted . . . WE FORBID . . .
. . . so I fought them, too. Let us pass! KNOW ME!
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