Finally some benefit to being the lesser in Power, Barac smiled to himself, since the Drapsk treated him with the same casual courtesy as they did each other. He carefully kept the amused thought private. Rael wasn’t one of those Clan who relished any opportunity to flaunt her superior strength, but old habits died hard.
Old habits. Barac took a steadying breath. Arguing with Rael was about as productive as arguing with Drapsk. Their species’ approach to just about everything might be diametrically opposed, but as individuals? Both were as stubborn and set in their orbits as this planet’s moons. Still, he had to try. “We’ve been here almost three months, Rael,” Barac reminded her, keeping his voice calm and persuasive. “Three months without a hint of success. And you know why as well as I do. They won’t let us do anything without their failsafes and gadgets in our faces. They’re obsessed with keeping us safe. We have to do this our way, or we’ll be here the rest of our lives.”
“You unChosen are too quick to dismiss the value of safety. I, for one, approve the Drapsk’s caution—”
“And you Chosen are famous for avoiding risk of any kind!”
His outburst, a surprise to them both, drew the hint of a smile. “Are we, now?” Rael murmured, but not as though offended. “Perhaps that’s because we have much to protect, Cousin. Our Joined partner, our potential as child bearers, our links of Power to our offspring—”
Barac had never met Rael’s Chosen, though he could sense, if he strained, the Power laced around their Joining through the M’hir. Janac di Paniccia lived on Omacron III, the only non-Human world inhabited by Clan; a verdant planet made irresistibly attractive by its inhabitants’ high proportion of weak telepaths, individuals easy to manipulate, if inconveniently short-lived and fragile. Janac was a dabbler in the culturing of rare orchids, if Barac remembered correctly. Not a Clansman known for controversial views or even personal Power, though he must have enough to match his Chosen. Barely enough, as Rael had elected to retain her House name and her father, Jarad di Sarc, had refused Janac his. Mind you, Jarad was consistent. He’d refused the same honor to Pella’s Chosen, Dasimar, ending the hopes of that Joining reflecting status on the House of sud Annk. Barac supposed the quietly xenophobic Council was grateful Sira’s Human hadn’t been interested in assuming his rightful designation of di Sarc.
Irrelevant details. To be so Joined was the heart’s goal of every Clan. To never feel that completion of self, know that living bond through the void? Barac had almost convinced himself the aching hunger within his soul was fading with time; suddenly, all his desire surged forth, as eager and hopeless as always.
His cousin felt it; she had the grace to gesture appeasement with one long white hand. Courtesy or pity? Barac controlled his resentment and continued, willing to trade on her sympathy. “The Drapsk idea of risk has nothing in common with ours, Rael,” he said firmly. “They admit they don’t know how we interact with the M’hir or how Sira was able to begin the reconnection of Drapskii within it. How can they know what’s dangerous to us or not? Their caution smothers our ability to find these or any answers for ourselves.”
“And how do you plan to convince them otherwise?” the Clanswoman asked, arching a well-shaped brow.
“Come back. Help me talk to Skeptic Levertup. He’s the worst of them.”
He saw her shudder delicately, black hair lifting from her shoulders in echo. “He’s your Skeptic,” Rael reminded Barac. “You deal with him.”
Barac allowed a little of his frustration to leak into the M’hir and touch his cousin’s outer thoughts. She scowled, slamming down her shields until almost invisible to his other sense.
“They can’t detect your image ‘port, Rael,” he assured her. “And they can’t eavesdrop.”
“I’m aware of their limitations, Cousin.” Rael looked up and met his eyes. Hers, dark and expressive, were unexpectedly troubled. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? The Clan Watchers are bad enough. To have Levertup and his kind recording each and every time I use the M’hir? Making lists—having meetings about this level or that power flux? There’s no privacy anymore, Barac. I can’t be what I was. Not here.”
Barac made a throwaway gesture. “You can’t be what never existed, Rael,” he said very gently. “It was all a lie. The Clan were never alone in the M’hir. We never owned or created it. As for the Watchers?” He hesitated. It was unseemly and potentially dangerous to talk about Them. They tended to notice. Barac went on recklessly: “Maybe they approve—”
“Or don’t care,” Rael almost whispered, her voice trailing away. They were both less relieved than unnerved by the continued silence from Those Who Watched.
There were two, distinct and opposite, kinds of Clan Watchers: those who guarded the unborn and those who guarded the M’hir itself. The first were known, being posts of honor within a House: individual Clan assigned to act if a Joining between a Chosen pair was severed during pregnancy, to attempt to save the mind of the infant despite the loss of the mother’s into the M’hir.
The other type of Watcher, the feared and disembodied voices of the M’hir, seemed not to know themselves. Oh, there were plenty of theories, none provable. Scholars hypothesized that, in some individuals, a portion of the mind lingered within the M’hir waking or sleeping, forming a complex awareness completely separate from the individual’s consciousness, possessing the knowledge of that individual but none of the personality. Some went so far as to speculate the Watchers were the next step in the evolution of the Clan, the M’hiray, beings closer to a true and continuous existence in that other space.
Most Clan, though they wouldn’t admit it, believed the Watchers were their dead, whose minds, once dissolved into the M’hir, were locked in an endless vigil guarding that space.
No matter if ghost or unconscious state, the numberless Watchers were lightning-quick to sound the alarm to Council if Clan or alien transgressed borders or behaviors they themselves established—a territorial instinct ruling Clan Councils had found very useful indeed.
As part of his final testing to become a Scout, Barac had touched the thoughts of a Watcher, a process, he’d been told, of assessment and identification. Its strange, almost hollow questioning had left an intangible echo within his mind, as if dreamed rather than experienced.
He shook off the memory. “Sira believes Copelup. He claims the Watchers don’t touch the M’hir in a way that lets them encounter the Drapsk or their machines.” Barac himself doubted anything could miss the metallic stench of Drapsk technology, including that surrounding the mind-deadeners they supplied the Enforcers.
“Proving only that all we know, Cousin,” Rael said sharply, “is what the Skeptics choose to tell us. Which is either insufficient, confusing, or completely incredible. And, don’t forget, your Levertup is one of those who doesn’t believe the Watchers exist.” Rael pursed her full lips in an impression of the little Drapsk, lacking the characteristic ring of fleshy tentacles but otherwise matching his scornful expression perfectly. “‘Figments of untrained imaginations. Proof, Mystic One. Show me proof!’”
Barac chuckled. “Visit me, Rael,” he coaxed. “I promise not to inflict Levertup on you. It’s almost time for supper here. You must be as tired as I am of eating alone.”
That confession drew a smile from her. “Alone? Surely our kind hosts never leave you bereft of companionship.”
“You know what I mean.”
Rael’s smile widened, and Barac felt a teasing sting of Power against his. “A First Scout, weary of the alien? Who’d have thought?”
“Then you’ll come?”
He watched Rael’s image stand, her feet on a floor he couldn’t see.
“I’ll be there. For supper only. Arrange it for two hours from now.” He tasted suspicion suddenly. “You promise—no Drapsk?”
Barac gave her his most sincere smile as he watched the Clanswoman vanish.
Almost immediately, a stem, high-pitched voice rang out from under the bed platform. “I
am not pleased you are using falsehood to lure her here, Mystic One. Not pleased at all! What will her reaction be? Have you thought of that? She tends to highly emotional responses, you know.”
“My dear Copelup,” Barac said soothingly, hurrying to help the small being extricate himself. It had been a tight fit. “We agreed it was time to bring Rael back. Trust me. I know my cousin. She’ll understand.”
Three of the Drapsk’s distractingly red and mobile tentacles disappeared into his mouth, the rest forming what could be described as a stylized mustache over his upper lip. There were no other features on the round white globe that served the Drapsk for a face. Copelup’s antennae, bright yellow and plumed, rose to a quivering height Barac thought might express determination. Or the Drapsk could be reading an olfactory message wafting through the room on one of the omnipresent drafts.
He could also, Barac decided glumly, simply be stretching, after being folded so long under the bed. After three months living with the species, the Clansman was only sure that Drapsk were never obvious.
The tentacles popped out again, a cue sometimes signifying the Skeptic had reached some decision, or had given up the effort. “I most certainly hope so, Mystic One,” the Drapsk stated primly. “And may I remind you, in any discord between our Mystic Ones, my esteemed colleagues—including Levertup—will have no hesitation in supporting the other Mystic One’s position over yours. No matter who is right. I trust you will not be offended.”
Barac, unChosen and sud, lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Why would I be, Copelup?” he said, tasting the bitter, accustomed truth. “Among my kind, who is right always depends on Power.”
Chapter 2
“WE can always depend on Huido—and his need for truffles,” I offered, trying to hide a smile. One of the unexpected results of our time in the jungles of Pocular had been the introduction of the rare Merle truffle, a native edible fungus I found less appealing than C-rations, to the Claws & Jaws. Huido had somehow turned the black lumps into a must-have delicacy for several species on Plexis. Or so I was told. The Carasian certainly imported enough of them to keep Withren’s people, the Fak-ad-sa’it, busy digging in their meadows, at a price that made it worth their time.
Morgan grunted something incomprehensible, keeping his attention firmly—or at least ostensibly so—on the display in front of us both. As this was an alarmingly symmetrical comparison between operating costs (rising) and our credit (dwindling), I found myself in the novel position of feeling I might know better than my Chosen, Master Trader or not. Ferrying dried fungi to Plexis wasn’t glamorous, but if Morgan hadn’t canceled that lucrative contract, we wouldn’t be sitting here worrying about the critical refit suddenly needed by the Fox’s aging translight drive—as if her ailing starboard thrusters hadn’t been enough.
My amusement at this turn of events was likely rippling along our link despite my best efforts, but I couldn’t help it. A routine cargo run was as new and exciting to me as everything else Morgan and I did together, with the bonus of being safe and profitable at the same time. What more could one want? Apparently, Morgan saw a lack in that life I could not. Or Humans were simply every bit as restless a species as I’d been told.
It’s not... “that, Sira.” Morgan’s mind voice slipped into speech—a habit of which he was largely unconscious. It was a sign he was absorbing some of my Clan ways, even as I took on more of his Human ones. A fair trade, I thought, smiling to myself. Of course, among Clan, such slips were a sign of deliberate secrecy—it being supposedly easier to hide the truth out loud—or a disrespectful reversion to childhood ways. Being quite foolishly fond of the sound of my Human’s voice, I chose not to correct him.
“It’s not? Were you not the one who said you’d had enough of the—monotony—of running between Pocular and Plexis?”
Morgan turned to look up at me, an impish grin lighting his eyes. Endlessly fascinating, how their remarkable blue varied with his mood. “I believe I used somewhat stronger language.”
“So did Huido,” I remembered.
A raised brow. “Who had no problem finding another carrier the next day. Probably an entire fleet, by now, seeing how enthusiastically the Fak-ad-sa’it have embraced the concept of hunting prey that doesn’t hunt back. We spent more than our share of time plying back and forth to fill Huido’s menu, my Lady Witch.” Morgan’s eyes grew solemn. “And more than enough findown on Pocular, don’t you think?”
“Oh,” was all I managed, surprised again by his empathy. Nightmares visited me on that world, nightmares I couldn’t stop. We’d never discussed it—I now understood there hadn’t been any need. I drew my hand in the air to gently trace the lines of unseen tension around his head, neck, and shoulders, drawing them down and away with a touch of Power. “So, Master Trader,” I asked him, mouth close to his ear, “where do we find our next vastly profitable cargo?”
Morgan’s hand slipped warm and strong behind my neck, his head turning so my last words brushed against his smiling lips.
My hair enclosed us both.
“So?”
“So ...?”
“So—what next?”
At Morgan’s sudden smile, I took a firm step backward and finished fastening my coveralls. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Human. If we aren’t reconsidering Huido’s contract, what are we going to do?” I didn’t bother saying what we both knew: that only Huido would chance a cargo with us, given the present state of the Fox.
Other opportunities had been as far apart as their star systems. We’d made some successful trades on our own, keeping afloat, but Morgan’s former clients seemed to have vanished in the last couple of months. Certainly none appeared to have shipments needing the famed luck of the Silver Fox and her Captain.
Was it my presence? Gossip spread translight, especially among Traders. We hadn’t bothered fabricating a life history for me, which meant that, so far as Morgan’s business associates knew, the Human might have grown me in a tank. Morgan had shrugged when I’d voiced this suspicion. The Silver Fox would find new clients, if that was the case.
I walked over to the table, tracing its edge with my fingers as I let myself be frustrated. I might be the acknowledged leader of my entire race, but, to date, that lofty accomplishment had produced only visitors with complaints, most arriving when and where we least wanted them. Payment? The Clan, with the exception of the self-styled and unstable society on Acranam, existed as independent families; no one “paid” another of our kind for service. That was what Humans were for.
My House, di Sarc? It was wealthy, but its more portable riches had left with my father, the exiled Jarad di Sarc; no one on Council, including its newest Speaker, was inclined to invite him back for an accounting. I’d last seen his Chosen, my mother, Mirim sud Teerac, at the Clan gathering on Camos. She’d been compelled there, like all our kind, by the Watchers, but hadn’t spoken to anyone, including her daughters, disappearing at the end to wherever she now chose to live. I presumed she had the where-withal to keep herself however she wished. If her lifestyle didn’t involve replacement parts for starships, it didn’t interest me.
There had been other assets, legitimately mine and so Morgan’s as my Chosen. Property. Business interests. The sort of thing less than easily pilfered by someone disgraced and perhaps fearing reprisal, but now all gone, sold to pay a debt. My Human hadn’t commented when I’d entrusted the substantial sum to Sector Chief Bowman. He knew how I felt about those twenty-two shattered lives. The Human telepaths had suffered because of an experiment I’d started without compassion or compunction—that they’d been victimized by others of my kind made no difference to my guilt. I’d been the one to put them on a list, ready for use; it was only just I help their families with the cost of caring for their mindless husks.
In that, the Clan way was cleaner. When the mind was lost in the M’hir, the body was sent to follow. But the Human med-techs refused to believe the Clan Healer, Cenebar di Teerac, that these individuals
would never recover, that their personalities had been erased forever.
Courtesy of my father, who saw any mingling of Clan and Human as obscene. Especially mine with Morgan. My fingers became a fist.
Mind-speech, soft and familiar, wove peace into my troubled thoughts: What’s done’s done, chit. Enough dark memories for one morning.
I focused on the here and now, smiling up into Morgan’s perceptive eyes. The Human hardly needed the invisible link binding us to read my mind. “My apologies, Captain. Where were we?”
He beckoned me to follow him out of our cabin. “I’ve had an idea. What do you think of setting course for—” The beginning of his announcement took us into the corridor; its abrupt end was ample forewarning all wasn’t as it should be.
Although no warning could have prepared me to face what filled most of the right-hand corridor. Or, rather, who. A pulsating mass pressed against floor, wall, and ceiling, as though the being had forced itself to fit within our parameters. Five long, fibrous-appearing arms lay in parallel along the near wall, as if we’d surprised them reaching toward our cabin door. There were no other obvious features or body structures. With the exception of the arms, the whole seemed insubstantial, as if darkness had been poured into this shape and left without form, only a glistening, as if wet or coated in the finest possible scales.
Morgan’s arm lifted into a valiant, if improbable, barrier between me and our latest uninvited guest. I put my hand on his wrist and gently brought it down. Rugheran, I sent to him, as tightly as my mind could focus.
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