“Well, don’t just cower, Small One,” Huido rumbled. “Tell me which misbegotten spawn of the family you are—then catch me up on the gossip. How’s old Noiko doing?” A cymbal sound. “Ansel, what are you waiting for? A new day? Hurry and get some of the best for my nephew here. Ruti?” Three eyestalks peered over the edge of his lower head carapace. “I had no idea you were so versed in Carasian etiquette. Thank you for your assistance. My little relation here and I might have had to stare at each other for another week—no hardship for him, of course—” This delivered with a laugh that seemed forced.
“My pleasure, Hom Huido,” Ruti said, not bothering to make any sense of it beyond being glad the stalemate had ended smoothly. “Do you think you might have some time—later—to discuss tonight’s menu? I was thinking perhaps the Denebian lamb?”
“Oh, I like lamb,” said Huido’s nephew, emerging from his crouch with movements so excruciatingly cautious they sounded like a chain being pulled through a massive eyelet, one rusty link at a time.
“Jake was right, Lara,” Ruti whispered. She threw herself backward on her bed, hugging the tiny doll to her chest. “He was right!” Her new friend had been an immense help to her already; even so, she’d been astonished to find he’d known how to free the giant aliens from their irrational standoff. Yet Hom Huido was in the kitchen now, berating those who’d tried to keep her, Ruti di Bowart, from her rightful place as Master Chef.
“Because of my friend.” Ruti lifted the doll in both hands, staring into its gleaming brown eyes. They didn’t move. Lara wasn’t a spooky high-tech toy, but a treasured heirloom who’d been passed at fostering time from mother to child through four generations of Clan, a companion who’d listened to innumerable private dreams and stories, keeping them safe forever.
The doll was no bigger than the palm of Ruti’s hand, easily slipped into a pocket or hidden in a sleeve. A little shabby, perhaps. A new dress and ribbons had been due, but Ruti’s mother hadn’t had much time to prepare for her fostering. Neither of them had, since one hadn’t seemed possible—first because Acranam’s Clan hid their children from the Council, then because the Council ignored them.
Ruti controlled the burning rage that surged up each time she thought of that day, when First Chosen Wys di Caraat had burst into their kitchen and dared stab her gnarled old finger at her, had dared insist she be one of the seven to be dispersed by Acranam immediately. Not to be fostered, not to be the honored guest of a worthy House—her mother had told Ruti how it used to be—but to be smuggled away on alien scows, dumped at a distance and told to remain hidden as long as their bonds lasted. Sacrificed for the greater glory of Acranam.
Ruti hugged Lara hard, closing her own eyes to better feel the tenuous binding between herself and her mother, Quel di Bowart, the power from both constantly and desperately feeding their only connection. More than love—other than love—it was a drive for survival that used up almost all the energy Ruti had to spare. She found herself constantly tired, constantly hungry . . .
And constantly angry.
At least, thanks to her friend, Jake Caruthers, she had this place. If he hadn’t found her, shown her the way to Huido’s, kept her safe from the patrols scouring Plexis for Clan? Ruti shuddered. Jake had hinted what happened to young females in the hands of unscrupulous Humans. She’d believed it, after they’d walked through that sublevel.
Ruti opened her eyes and glanced at the wall chrono. She should have time for one call before she was needed in the kitchen. Maybe Jake could meet her after tonight’s shift. She had so much to tell him.
“I don’t care how you keep him occupied, just keep him away from my apartment, Ansel. Is that clear?”
As the Human nodded vigorously, Huido gave a heavy sigh, echoes rattling from the nearby stove. “It’s the price of success, old friend. Scavengers sneak close, full of plots and schemes to take advantage—waiting only for the opportunity to lunge at your arux and rip it open.” Then dip in your pool to celebrate, he shuddered to himself. “I’d hoped,” with a melancholy click of claw to claw, “being so far from home, that those at home would forget about me.”
Ansel unwisely offered advice. “If this nephew, Tayno Boormataa’kk, is such a danger, Hom Huido, why not send him away?”
The Carasian surged up, claws snapping so close to Ansel’s face the resulting breeze lifted the few hairs left on the smaller being’s head. “And refuse this glorious honor! Humans.” This with complete disgust.
“Carasians,” Ansel muttered to himself as he turned, running a finger along his nose as if checking to make sure it remained intact.
Huido pretended not to hear. The old Human was more confidant than servant; the Carasian could, if he made the effort, twist his brain around to appreciate Ansel’s reaction as well-intentioned and protective. An instinct admirably suited to family groups and herd behavior, if not to a species where males competed from maturity till death for a chance to breed, with only a few judged worthy.
Though cheating was definitely encouraged and cuckolding a refined art.
His “nephew”—an otherwise meaningless word Carasians had found helped avoid tedious explanations of why their species didn’t bother specifying biological relatedness, only home surf—was presently occupied taste-testing various brews. But for how long? Huido decided to change the locks on his apartment at the first opportunity.
Which should come once Ruti arrived to take over. Where was she? His eyes searched the kitchen. No sign of her. The prawlies in the big stewpot took advantage of his momentary distraction to leap out, yipping with pain as their ventral paddles contacted the hot stove surface. Huido whirled and tried to grab them, but they danced about, continuing to yip and almost impossible to catch. Finally he resorted to batting them away with his upper handling claw, cooks to either side ducking as half-roasted, yipping prawlies shot past their heads.
“Where’s Ruti?” Huido roared.
“I’m here, Hom Huido.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered, signs of excitement and pleasure, he judged, not a reaction to his temper. She might not have even witnessed it, given she hadn’t been in the kitchen a second ago. Fortunately for her supposed Clan desire for secrecy, the rest of the staff had been avoiding flying fish and hadn’t noticed their new Master Chef wink into existence. In fact, several were still engaged in hunting prawlies who’d wriggled underneath various cupboards, retrieving indignant culinary delights now covered in dust.
Huido spared a moment to worry about his grist—after all, one’s pond performance was a delicate matter, easily perturbed by things like this willy-nilly moving through other dimensions by the Clan—then cheered. He could have Ruti take his nephew for a few trips . . . of course, that meant trusting her. Unlikely.
“You wanted me, Hom Huido?” the polite question interrupted his thoughts.
“The lamb needs braising,” he rumbled, then waited until she moved out of his way before striding off.
He didn’t get farther than the exit before a voice heralded a new problem. “Hom Huido! Wait!” The Carasian clattered to a halt, two eyes longingly on his apartment door, the rest scouring the hallway and kitchen anteroom for ambush. It might be easier for his nephew to hide his bulk among the slick tidal rocks preferred by females on their homeworld—that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try crouching behind furniture. Huido spared one eye to glare at Ansel.
“If it’s not about my nephew, I’m too busy.”
“There’s someone to see you, Hom Huido.”
A claw snapped in midair. “Not another relative!”
Ansel shook his head. “No, sir. It’s Plexis security. Hom Huido—it’s Inspector Wallace himself, with other officers. They want to talk to you about someone named Naes Fodera.”
Huido, in the midst of a shrug, stopped. Six more eyes clustered to look at the smaller Human. “You don’t think . . .” he began, then stopped. They’d taken great care to dispose of Neltare’s regrettable pate and ribs: packing them up
as a catering special, then marking the container as spoiled by a failed stasis system. It should have been destroyed by the recycling plant immediately. The Claws & Jaws paid its taxes. “It can’t have anything to do with . . .”
Over the years, he’d learned Ansel’s expressions and thought he knew them all. This ferocious scowl was something new. “For all we know,” Ansel almost hissed, “that creteng chef ran straight to Wallace. A shame he wasn’t run over sooner.”
“If he had,” Huido said sensibly, refusing to add more paranoia to his day, “they’d have been here within the hour, not days later. No, this is probably about our last inspection. I suspect Wallace is here to scam another case of my brandy.” He clicked clawtips together delicately. “Still, make sure Ruti keeps out of sight—send her shopping if you must. Put out some of the cheaper appetizers for our ‘guests.’ Stall them while I change this lock code.”
After all, first things first, the Carasian thought smugly. “Then, Ansel, I’m putting you in charge of watching my nephew.”
“Your nephew? But—?” Ansel’s face fell. “Yes, Hom Huido.”
“Keep him happy. Show him the business. It’s important—” Huido stressed the word, “—to convince Tayno the restaurant is very successful. Sell him a franchise, if you can—preferably on the far side of Carasia. And—most of all—keep him away from this door!”
“But it’s locked. Even if he got inside, wouldn’t your wives—” the Human’s voice trailed off suggestively. Ansel, like all the staff, knew about the less-than-delicate nature of Carasian females. The “let’s eat what moves” aspect of this nature, combined with an armored and clawed body half again as large as any male’s, had proved sufficient to quell even primate curiosity.
Huido raised all four claws, hissing in frustration. “I’ve no time to explain, Ansel. Just guard the door and don’t let Tayno near it.” He tilted his head carapace at a bizarre new worry, all eyes riveted on the Human’s face. “You can tell us apart, can’t you?”
Ansel licked his thin lips. “I know you’re bigger, Hom Huido,” he said quickly, then hesitated.
“Well?” the Carasian rumbled.
“A password might be wise,” the Human admitted weakly.
Chapter 9
MAYBE it was weak of me, but I waited until Morgan slept before starting to pack the few things I wanted to take with me to Plexis. I was finding items by feel in the darkness when suddenly his low voice ordered up the lights, adding: “Don’t forget your flute.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I opened the next drawer and pulled out the battered case of my keffleflute—a Joining gift of sorts from my sister Pella, who’d insisted it not be sold. “I won’t have time to practice,” I decided, putting it back.
“You might still want to take it.”
“Why?”
Morgan chuckled, sitting up so I could meet his eyes in the mirrored tiles. “While the Kimmcle will claim their mechs are beyond reproach, I wouldn’t leave anything to tempt them. That—” with a nod to the drawer, “—comes under the heading of very tempting.” I scowled but lifted the case out again. He was right about its value. The case might be ordinary; the instrument inside was anything but—having more history in its precious inlays than the M’hiray, including having been played in concert by nineteen master musicians. It had been my most prized possession, once. I alternately cursed and blessed Pella for making me keep it.
“We could lock it in the hold.”
“The hold is sealed and under vacuum—we didn’t want to pick up any stray fungus from Big Bob, remember?” He blinked sleepily, hair adorably ruffled. “Take it. I’ll feel better knowing you have it with you.”
I shoved the case into my carryroll. “Fine. Maybe I’ll be able to pawn it on Plexis.” He didn’t rise to the bait, knowing I couldn’t part with it.
It wasn’t because I still loved the instrument; I hated it. Alone among the joys of the past three months, the keffle-flute was a thorn in my skin, a stubborn symbol of what I’d lost. Ever-helpful Pella had sent recordings with it: brilliant, complex renderings made with a stranger’s skill. The fading calluses on my hands lied to me of that music; all I had left were a few halting notes from a tune that slipped into silence whenever I tried to play it.
Proof my mind hadn’t recovered from the blockage. Proof I wasn’t whole. What else had I lost of Sira di Sarc—of her life before meeting this Human, becoming this new person? My inability to ever truly know chilled me at times like this, certain at any moment I might see something or meet someone I should remember, but wouldn’t. Worse, I imagined having lost some skill more crucial than music, a lack waiting to cripple me.
I kept packing, feeling Morgan’s silent empathy as a gentle reminder that no matter what I’d lost of that old life, this and more I’d gained. My ‘port to Plexis without him would be our first real distance apart, but not a separation. I understood our Joining would only be strengthened by distance. Intellectually. Sira di Sarc understood.
Sira Morgan didn’t.
Suddenly, illogically, any distance between us was too much. I dropped the bag and threw myself violently toward the bed, feeling Morgan’s strong arms catch me before I bounced off to the floor. Without a word or sending, he settled me within the curve of his body and drew the blanket over us both, my tool belt with its assorted accoutrements disappearing from around my waist before I noticed the discomfort of lying on it.
Tomorrow wasn’t, yet.
“Rise and shine!”
I cracked an eye, unsure why Morgan felt morning on a starship-especially one parked inside an asteroid’s repair dome—required hammering as well as this bellow from the doorway. Then I realized the hammering was a vibration coming through the floor plates. “The mechs?” I grumbled.
“Already back to work in the engine room, sleepy-head. Good thing the com woke one of us.”
“At least they knocked,” I muttered, but the Human was gone again—presumably to hover over his beloved engines until it was time to go to the Ore Meetings.
Which would be my signal to leave as well. We’d worked out a plan to account for my absence over the next two days. After breakfast, I’d accompany Morgan to our temporary quarters on Big Bob—the mechs having considerately requested we clear the Fox before they started ripping out potentially explosive components—and stay there. Well, it would seem I stayed there. Morgan would order meals for two, vistapes, whatever seemed reasonable.
After the fiasco of our last visit, it shouldn’t be hard to convince anyone who knew me I’d prefer to hide out while Morgan worked and the Fox was off-limits.
I made sure the cabin door was locked before stripping out of my coveralls and heading for the fresher stall—taking Morgan’s advice about not trusting the Kimmcle to stay beyond reproach.
Foolish, to see this as anything more than a brief good-bye. No matter how sternly I told myself this, I hurried around the small apartment, moving in ridiculous circles as I found inconsequential things to do. Morgan stayed out of my way, leaning beside the door. His eyes were hooded and inscrutable, as though his thoughts were on what lay ahead.
As mine should be. I made myself stand in one place, carryroll in hand, and looked at him. “Everything in order, Captain?” I asked.
He came close, fingers brushing lightly at the red flash of fabric on my left shoulder—a relatively new Trader custom to distinguish a ship owner from mere crew. We’d adopted the practice after trading on Cura Primus, where Morgan noticed those ship owners with flashes received preferential seating at the bid tables. Again, by custom, ours bore the name Silver Fox as well as a summary of her cargo rating and engine stats to entice potential clients. “Isn’t it straight?” I asked, craning my head to try and see for myself.
“It’s straight. But do we want to advertise?” Morgan mused. “It might be better to keep a low profile, this trip.”
I glanced at him, surprised. “A low profile? All that’ll get us is a shipload of debt when
we leave Plexis. If you’re worried about what deals I might make—” I endeavoured not to sound offended, but my hair began writhing at the ends. “You know I’d contact you before signing us up for anything.”
“No, no. You’re right,” Morgan said almost too quickly. “We can use the business. Just don’t be disappointed if no one makes an offer. Plexis is unpredictable—one trip you hardly dock before getting cargo, and the next? The ring will be overflowing with Traders who’ve off-loaded and are hungry for scraps. Now remember. The main thing is to keep Huido calmed down. He always thinks the louder he says something, the more likely people will agree. It won’t work with Plexis security. Not if they have evidence.”
I suspected my Human’s somewhat rambling speech of having the same cause as my erratic pacing of a moment before. I’ll be fine, I sent, adding much more beneath the words: caring, assurance, a tinge of concern. You look after yourself and our ship.
Morgan took my right hand, bringing it to his lips. I allowed myself to drown in his eyes for an instant, then stepped back, concentrating on the locate I’d selected. Before I could hesitate, I . . . pushed ...
... finding myself darkness within darkness, power within power. It was a long ‘port, but well within my ability, if I were careful not to be tempted by this path or that, to lose my way following imagined symmetries. Though I didn’t tap Morgan’s considerable strength through our lengthening link, I drew focus from it and . . .
... became solid again, looking around quickly to be sure no one was nearby who might have witnessed my unusual arrival. I tested my link to Morgan. He was there—distant but real—a reassurance I’d badly needed. Here?
I was alone.
Unless you counted servos. I stepped to one side to let a lumbering transport by, resisting the temptation to duck as messengers zoomed past just overhead. I was inside one of the service corridors—tunnels really—that formed the veins and arteries of Plexis. A bewildering machine world, kept pressurized and heated to eliminate the need for air locks at each business entrance, kept well-lit for those servos who used visual sensors for navigation.
To Trade the Stars Page 11