To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Making two more effective than one. I smiled at my beer. It was still a game to me, one which I could play, watch, or dismiss depending on my mood—though I gauged the importance of each trading session by Morgan’s intensity. Some mattered more to him than others; those I made sure to take seriously as well. The others? Suffice it to say, Morgan suspected I knew more than I’d ever admit about how we’d lost the contract to transport those sacks of valuable beetle dung for that Whirtle.

  Beetle dung, indeed. In my ship?

  A hint of something not-right. I sat up straighter, putting down my feet without thinking, only to step on a heaving disk of fungi. I kicked the thing aside and concentrated.

  From Morgan. Not trouble. Something . . . unexpected. I calmed myself, wary of acting on impulse again, and prepared to wait.

  Being sure to first lift my feet from the floor and keep my eyes on my beer, as one should on Saturday night.

  INTERLUDE

  Kimmcle miners of any species were easy to spot—especially on Saturday night, when the garb of choice was whatever came in the brightest colors. Festors, like the one who’d delivered Rees’ message and now guided Morgan through the crowd, preferred flamboyant calico bibs which turned a truly disgusting shade of brown with the addition of green ooze. As oozing followed every belch, and Festors belched between every swallow of beer past their limit, the hue was a reliable indicator of how sober a Festor was at a given moment.

  Implying this one had either changed bibs recently, Morgan observed, or was atypically pure for a Saturday night. Perhaps a professional messenger, not someone doing Rees a favor.

  “Not far,” his guide said, as if worrying the Human might decide they’d walked too far already. “Near wall—by Bar # 105—Rees said to take you there, Hom Morgan.”

  “Thanks.” Morgan walked lightly, an eye to the Skenkran divers as well as to those they passed. All seemed harmlessly preoccupied. He’d known to wear something bright himself—a sure way to blend with locals—and had switched from his faded spacer coveralls to a jerkin and pants of vivid red, a fanciful design picked out in gold-and-blue thread. Sira had refused to change, but then she couldn’t blend in anywhere in the Trade Pact, the Human thought, smiling to himself.

  Sira had only grown more lovely these past months, a beauty as hard to define as it was to ignore. Perhaps it was how she carried herself like a queen, he decided, which to the Clan she essentially was, yet it was an unconscious pride, as though her Power somehow manifested itself in posture and grace. Her face, in turns framed or veiled by that amazing hair, was exquisitely expressive: dark gray eyes dancing or serious, generous lips as quick to smile as purse in thought.

  Or to offer a kiss. Morgan drew his thoughts firmly back from that highly distracting direction. He did, however, promise himself to collect such a kiss when this meeting was over.

  “Here we are, Hom Morgan.”

  The Festor had stopped at a more elaborate establishment than most, one that offered booths—improving the odds of holding a conversation without shouting. Morgan flashed a look at the booths to either side of the one the Festor indicated. Their privacy fields were engaged but not opaqued, so one could see quite clearly what was going on inside, but mercifully be spared sound effects. As usual, there was a cluster of spectators and bets being placed—an indication a significant number of Kimmcle were at last drunk enough to enjoy watching anything that moved. However slowly.

  Morgan took his seat within the booth, joining the shadowed figure waiting there. The Festor bowed, switching on full privacy as he left them. The rest of Big Bob’s Recreational Complex faded from view, leaving several disappointed Kimmcle to use their imaginations.

  A small port light brightened above the center of the table, revealing a tray of mournful-looking cooked prawlies imprisoned in jelly, a decanter filled with an amber liquid, and the ubiquitous pitchers of beer.

  “Brandy, Captain Morgan?”

  “Beer’s fine.” Morgan studied his host as frankly as he was being examined in turn, seeing a small man in a flowered shirt, his black hair thoroughly peppered with white, with a nose that looked to have been broken several times—assuming his parentage was pure Human. “Hawthorn, isn’t it?” he said. “Head of the Miners’ Association?” When Hawthorn’s eyes widened in surprise, the Trader grinned. “One of your election posters is still inside the main air lock. A little dated, I’d say. Congratulations on your win.” Morgan stretched his hand over the table to meet the other’s grip. Hawthorn’s hand was strong and callused along the base of the palm—sign of a driller.

  “You pegged it. Giles Hawthorn,” the Kimmcle admitted, grinning back. He poured a glass of beer and pushed it to Morgan, splashing brandy into another for himself. “Rees was right—you’re an interesting man, Captain Jason Morgan of the Silver Fox, Karolus Registry. You see, I read the fine print, too. Seems you have a problem with your fine ship.”

  Morgan took a sip of his beer, savoring the cool rich taste on the back of his throat. Another satisfying brew. They really knew their hops in Big Bob; the only drawback was the difficulty in finding the same brewery in operation two trips in a row. “A problem you can help me with?” he asked.

  “Possibly. I do have a—job to be done. From what Rees and others tell me, looks like you might be exactly the being I need.”

  “Depends on what they said about me. Hope it’s good,” Morgan replied with a easy smile, on impulse checking the force blade up his left sleeve. He let out a tendril of thought, carefully aimed at the mind nearest him.

  Nothing.

  The unexpectedness of it skimmed across his link to Sira, who responded with a questioning thought. Morgan reassured her, then focused on his companion.

  So, Hawthorn had a mind-shield. Its slightly metallic feel within the M’hir meant it wasn’t natural, but rather one of the implanted devices used by Bowman and her elite group of Enforcers. Morgan considered, and dismissed, the possibility that he faced another of Bowman’s operatives. Politicians, business tycoons, and crime lords were just as prone to fearing mind invasion—the elected Head of the Kimmcle Miners’ Association would be all three.

  Hawthorn had continued, oblivious to Morgan’s moment of preoccupation: “One of the first duties of my new administration is to host the Ore Meetings. They begin tomorrow morning and we’ve got delegations from over fifteen systems and organizations. These meetings are critically important—do you know why?”

  Morgan leaned back, a posture not inconsequentially giving him a wider throwing range in case new targets happened to arrive, and nodded. “They’re where you find out how high you can jack ore prices before the refineries start going elsewhere.”

  Hawthorn slapped both palms down on the table and gave a startlingly deep laugh for someone of his body mass. “If everyone at the meetings would admit that, we’d save about thirty standard hours of pointless rhetoric. ‘Course there is value to following protocol—”

  “You can hope someone falls asleep before noticing what you’ve slipped in?” Morgan suggested.

  Another belly laugh. “Rees was right. You’re no one’s fool, Captain Morgan. Now, all I’ll need is for you to attend the meetings—and stay awake. You just let us know if anyone tries anything—peculiar. We’ll deal with them.”

  “Peculiar?” Morgan frowned. “I’m no expert on ore pricing, Hom Hawthorn.”

  “Ah, but you are a telepath—of considerable ability—are you not?”

  Morgan schooled his face into polite astonishment and nothing more. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m no—”

  Hawthorn picked up his brandy glass and took a deep swallow. “Don’t bother,” he advised, his tone level, almost somber. “It’s not a secret, Captain. Not any longer. Why do you think you’ve found contracts drying up, old customers becoming hard to reach?”

  “My contracts are my own business, Hawthorn,” Morgan snapped.

  “Seems you don’t have much left, then. Word’s out on you.
Mindcrawler. Telepath. No one’s going to trust you again, you know. I’m sure you have your own way to—sense—why I might be the exception.”

  Morgan took a deep breath, controlling his expression, thinking hard. Unlikely any of the Clan had exposed him—giving secrets to Humans wasn’t their style. Besides, they seemed to have, however grudgingly, accepted his status as Sira’s Choice. Bowman had known for years, but had sworn she’d told only Terk and ‘Whix. Why would she damage his credibility, when she so often wanted him as her spy? The Drapsk? Huido? Neither would betray him. The Retian, Baltir, would have done so with glee—but he was rumored to be a rug in a Makii tavern.

  Leaving one possibility. Ren Symon.

  Morgan smiled pleasantly. “Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that I have some small—Talent. What would it have to do with your Ore Meetings and getting the Fox back in space?”

  He drew a spiral on the table with one finger as Hawthorn eagerly explained, wondering not so much about Symon’s motives—those were never obvious and any guess likely wrong—as how to avoid sharing this particular detail with his Chosen.

  After all, she was expecting him to return with good news, not proof that their trade had been deliberately sabotaged.

  Chapter 8

  BEFORE I felt Morgan’s return, I had had time to finish my now-warm beer and refuse three separate offers by strangers anxious to remove their clothes while dancing on my table. Since neither table nor would-be dancers looked capable of such a performance—the former being uneven and rickety, and the latter equally unsteady on their varied limbs—I followed Morgan’s advice for such situations. I shook my head firmly, then said in a melodramatic tone he’d made me practice: “Go away or I’ll take out your knees with this blaster.”

  It worked whether the species in question had knees or not—even proving effective when both my hands were on the table, making it transparently obvious I had no such weapon or intention. A puzzle Morgan tried to explain by saying it wasn’t what I said, but how I said it. I’d argued it would be much more effective to ‘port such annoying beings into the nearest sludge pond, but had to admit, the bizarre Human tactic was more discreet.

  “All quiet?” Morgan asked, sliding into the other seat. As he had to lean forward and shout this at me, I had to smile, a smile the Human took as invitation for a brief, surprisingly passionate kiss. Not that I complained. A lock of my hair squirmed free of the netting to reach for him as he moved away again. I tucked it back, regaining my composure with the gesture. Another hopeful dancer stopped his approach and wandered away.

  “You could say that,” I told him, also shouting. If ever there was an environment for mind-speech, this hall full of bedlam was it, but we both knew better than to fall into a habit of communing silently in public. There was an understandable alarm aroused by knowing a telepath was nearby—one of the few transcending species’ and cultural barriers—an alarm that could provoke a violent reaction from those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand the limitations of this particular “gift.” Another reason the Clan preferred to remain anonymous. “Is the Fox going to be repaired?”

  He nodded. “They’ll get on it tonight, but it’s going to take a couple of days.”

  “And how many credits?” I asked, studying his face. When Morgan wore that carefully sincere expression, he’d been devious lately.

  “The mechs have a scrap engine to rip up for parts—that’s a savings. Part of the delay, of course, but it turned out for the best because I can . . .”

  The latest shrieking dive of a Skenkran into the crowd made it impossible to hear him. You can what? I sent, mouthing the words and daring him with a look to argue anyone watching could tell the difference.

  We haven’t enough credits to cover used parts, let alone new, Morgan sent, saying it aloud at the same time—the feel of the sending remarkably sanguine considering its content. But credits aren’t an issue, he explained, likely sensing my confusion. The Kimmcle use a barter system—Rees found a way to let me work off the debt.

  Doing what? He was keeping something back. I didn’t need my other sense—I could see it in his eyes.

  The noise level diminished so I could hear Morgan’s answer. It didn’t mean I liked it any better.

  “Security. They have a series of meetings here over the next two days and want a bit of extra protection for the delegates.”

  “And that’s worth the price of repairing a translight engine?” Used parts or not, this didn’t make sense. I studied his too-controlled face. “Protection from what?”

  Morgan’s smile was angelic—on the surface. Something darker lay underneath. “That’s the beauty of it. Probably from nothing. The Kimmcle are panicked by a rumor that a competing mining operation has smuggled in a telepath to spy on their meetings. You and I both know how unlikely that is—”

  “Unlikely isn’t the same as impossible,” I countered without thinking, then stopped to stare at him. “They asked you? Why?”

  His shrug was a little too offhand. “I’ve a reputation. Rees knew it.”

  “As a lucky pilot,” I disagreed. “Not as a telepath.” Suddenly the crowd around us seemed threatening. I controlled the urge to ‘port. “How many of these Kimmcle know you are more than lucky?”

  “Rees and I go a long way,” my Human said almost too smoothly. “She knew we needed the favor—and that the Miners’ Association was willing to pay. My contact with them is Giles Hawthorn, the newly elected Association Head. He’s the only one who’ll know why I’m there. Trust me, Sira. It will be two days of standing around, looking attentive and suitably grim. Boring but profitable.”

  I sensed energy pouring into the M’hir, maintaining a barrier deep within Morgan’s mind. It could have been an unconscious secrecy. On one level, my Human believed I kept my distance from his private thoughts—he should, given how often his practical jokes took me by surprise. On another, the Human instinctively guarded parts of his mind and memory. This was as it should be. We were Joined and partners, not blended into a single being.

  I was also aware that his Human ideas of our relationship, both as lifemates and crewmates, sometimes differed from mine in ways I couldn’t predict—or understand, for that matter. Nothing about our pairing was uncomplicated.

  Everything about it was worthwhile. I smiled at Morgan, trusting him with his secrets, and said cheerfully: “Then tonight is ours, Husband.”

  He captured my right hand and brought it to his lips. “While I’m in complete agreement, Wife, we really must think about Huido.” I must have looked—and felt—shocked, because Morgan gave me that low laugh guaranteed to provoke delicious shivers down both sides of my spine. “Believe me, I’d let him stew in his own pot—but now that we know about Acranam? Neither of us likes that coincidence. And you know as well as I do that Inspector Wallace isn’t about to sit back and let the Enforcers take over any case he has his hooks into. Huido may need our help.”

  “Huido,” I echoed wanly. “You want to send him a com signal?” Such a civilized technology—and one we could possibly even afford, thanks to Rees’ help.

  Morgan shook his head and held my hand in both of his. As another Skenkran targeted the crowd with the requisite assault on everyone’s hearing, I felt: Not a message—you. You said Plexis is within your range. I want you to go and help Huido while I wait for the Fox.

  I’d already made the choice to trust him. He’d known. So I did the only thing I could do.

  Nodding, I tugged free a lock of hair. It immediately slid down my arm to wrap itself around our clasped hands. Morgan’s eyes turned that impossible blue. With the merest hint of the desire pounding in my blood, I sent: I’ll go. But not tonight.

  INTERLUDE

  “Hom—Huido?” Ruti looked from one statue-still Carasian to the other. “We were going to consult on tonight’s special?”

  The mammoth lower right claw of the being to her left rose slowly.

  The mammoth lower right claw of the being t
o her right rose just as slowly.

  Both stopped at precisely the same height.

  “This is a ridiculous way to run a restaurant,” the young Clanswoman said with disgust.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy.” Ansel shook his head. He stooped to add a spoon to the collection of utensils in his apron, its shining metal easy to spot amid the pieces of broken wood. Being from a planet overgrown with trees, Ruti wasn’t impressed by wooden furniture, intact or otherwise. She was impressed by the thoroughness with which Huido and his visitor had turned the special dining area of the Claws & Jaws into scrap.

  “Well, something has to be done, and it’s not up to me. I can make all the decisions I want, but you know as well as I do the staff isn’t going to listen to me. They barely let me cook as it is.”

  As Ansel sighed agreement, Ruti put her hands on her hips and surveyed the nearer of the two Carasians. There had to be a way to tell them apart.

  They might have been in stasis. Every eyestalk was rigid and erect—and focused on the other. Monstrous bookends, Ruti told herself. Before she lost her nerve, she walked up to the nearest of the two aliens, and stretched out her arm until her fingers brushed the cold hardness of his shoulder.

  When he didn’t react, she felt bold enough to repeat the process with the second, Ansel watching with a puzzled expression. “That one’s bigger,” she announced, stepping back from both and pointing.

  “Finally—someone with decent manners in this place!” The Carasian so indicated heaved upward, rattling like a entire cupboardful of pots that had come loose and fallen to the floor, his claws snapping in the air. At the same instant, the other compressed himself into an approximation of a lump—eyes peeking from behind the pulsing halves of his head carapace and clawtips tactfully tucked under his body—before saying in an almost falsetto voice: “Hello, Uncle Huido.”