To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  A bustling, noisy world that ignored me—the non-functional intruder—completely. I took my bearings and headed left, avoiding the row of waste canisters busy chewing their contents. Each let out the occasional belch of methane, immediately sucked into tiny hovering air sweepers that expanded, balloonlike, with every capture.

  The rear door to the kitchen of Huido’s restaurant was just ahead, but I discovered I wasn’t the only intruder in the corridor today. I dodged behind the last canister, hoping I’d moved quickly enough to avoid being seen. Keeping my head close to the floor, I peeked around the hard-working device.

  The door was as I’d remembered it, except now it was being studied by four Plexis security personnel, one of whom was running some type of sensor over the doorframe while another made a vid of the entire procedure. They weren’t the sort Plexis employed on the shopping concourse—those helpful, approachable beings who offered friendly advice to stray customers while checking for air tags. No, these four had more in common with Enforcers like Terk—armed, serious, and probably annoyingly suspicious, especially of someone on the wrong side of that door.

  So much for Bowman’s taking over the investigation. Inspector Wallace, a Human I remembered Morgan describing as stubborn and shrewd—as well as always on the lookout for his own best advantage—must have reacted to the Enforcer’s interest by an increase in his own. This wasn’t good. I considered ‘porting right into Huido’s kitchen, but there could be more security inside. The safest approach would be to blend into a crowd and walk in the front entrance like every other being.

  For that—I rubbed one hand pensively over the smooth skin of my cheek—I’d need an air tag.

  Faking an air tag wasn’t within my capabilities. I could offer the illusion of one or, more accurately, temporarily confuse someone looking at me into wondering exactly what was on my cheek—but only if that someone’s mind was susceptible. It helped if the beings I tried to confuse were already under the influence of some intoxicant, or at least uninterested in my face to begin with—both highly unlikely in those selected to staff Plexis security checkpoints.

  The little blue or gold patches—for low budget or noncustomers and high-credit customers respectively—were living things, affixed to one’s skin or comparable external covering by Plexis personnel at a tag point. As those were only at normal accesses, I’d have to find a way to appear at one of those. When and where no one would notice.

  If I’d been able to make the unobtrusive entrance to Huido’s I’d planned, the Carasian would have lent me one of his business patches. Those were blue air tags like the rest, but removable. Every permanent station resident or business owner had one or more of the tags, usually stuck to a wall somewhere for convenience. Employees would peel one off to wear conspicuously on cheek, or appropriate body part, in order to move around on the main concourses. It was simpler than showing residence chits to security every few steps. Plexis took “the air we share” concept very seriously.

  Instead of recording the exchange of gases occurring within their wearer, business patches died after a set time. The withered blue corpse was returned to an air tag point where it was recorded, the owner’s account charged, and a new patch issued. Replacing a “lost” tag typically required bribes in order to avoid criminal charges.

  A tag of my own was definitely my first priority. I might have asked Morgan for advice, but my tentative reach across our link encountered a wall of preoccupation. I could intrude, but at the risk of pulling his mind from whatever had its attention. As this could be anything from daydreaming about his next painting to dodging a Skenkran, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Besides, I admitted guiltily to myself, part of me had been eager to ‘port here alone instead of waiting for the repairs. It wasn’t only to help Huido. While a murder was nothing to ignore, and I took Bowman’s suspicions about Ren Symon’s involvement very seriously, this was my first chance to actually have a good long look around Plexis. Considering this was the most famous supermarket in the Fringe, I owed myself at least that. How was I supposed to be a Trader, I reasoned as I walked, unless I took time to learn what there was to trade? But I’d need that air tag first.

  Between the thought and my next step, a heavy weight suddenly rammed against my right shoulder and back, shoving me to the floor. I landed painfully on both knees and an elbow, my carryroll flying off to one side. I tried frantically to see my attacker, presumably a servo with malfunctioning avoidance reflexes, but was crushed flat as the weight distributed itself more evenly across my back. I couldn’t breathe . . .

  Instinctively, I threw my awareness into the M’hir, preparing to ‘port myself away . . .

  ... instead, it was as though a song plunged through me. If music could be swallowed, it would resonate through the body like this, tasting of longing—of needs, dark and primal; of promises, sweet and breathless...

  Somehow, I remembered myself and the feel of the floor, the weight on my back, and the importance of air reaching my burning lungs . . .

  ... Then I was back, sitting up and breathing in great tearing gasps. Belatedly, it occurred to me being able to sit up meant I was free of whatever had pushed me to the floor. I paid more attention to my surroundings, expecting to see a servo transport of some other device blinking at me in dismayed apology.

  The floor stretched away to the walls on either side, those walls curved and distorted until I blinked to clear my watering eyes. The nearest servo was a tanker parked by a closed door, presumably waiting for a delivery. There was nothing within reach, nothing that could have attacked me.

  Attack? I rubbed my sore elbow thoughtfully, checking my link to Morgan. It was calm—undisturbed even though my entire body continued to tingle as if shot through by some current—or as if still resonating a need.

  An attack? Or, I suddenly wondered, had it been something else?

  INTERLUDE

  “We can try something else.”

  “We tried everything else. This worked. You are being ridiculous.”

  Barac covered his eyes with a forearm. His cousin might have ‘ported into his bedroom and torn open the curtains, spilling revoltingly bright sunshine over his bed, but he didn’t have to acknowledge the morning. “Ridiculous or not,” he insisted, voice thick from the sleep she’d interrupted. “I won’t toss myself back into the M’hir as bait for that—that—”

  “It’s a planet. A planet with some weird connection to the M’hir. An inanimate rock with some type of Power associated with it. Your dead aunt’s ghost! I don’t care what it is, Barac, and neither should you.” Rael paused for breath, her hair lashing about her face as though continuing her tirade. “We made progress, Cousin. You weren’t damaged. In fact,” she traced his outline in the air between them as she spoke, “you seem in remarkably fine shape. You know what Copelup and the others said—”

  “Their machines showed a ‘spike,’” the Clansman mumbled through his arm. “What’s a spike? What does that mean? They don’t even know.”

  “It means they are happier today than yesterday. With any luck, we’ll make them happy enough they’ll declare our mission here a resounding success and let us go home. You do want to go home, don’t you?”

  What he wanted was to ‘port his cousin away, preferably far away, and resume ignoring the universe. This not being remotely within his power, Barac sighed and pulled down his arm to glare at Rael. “Since I don’t have a home at the present time,” he told her bluntly, “I’m understandably more concerned about remaining safe than hurrying to what doesn’t exist.”

  Rael frowned. “I thought you owned that repulsive bar on Pocular.”

  “It’s now a warehouse,” he corrected, “used to store truffles before they are shipped offworld.”

  “But still yours.”

  “Technically.” Barac pushed himself up, having to flail his arms to clear a passage through the pillows that seemed to have multiplied overnight. Finally, he tucked a couple behind his back and tossed the r
est to join the lopsided piles on the floor. The Drapsk occasionally erred in favor of excess when trying to provide luxury for their guests. The Clansman settled, contemplated Pocular, and shuddered deliberately. “I might own the building, but do I want to live in a fortress, guarding bags of drying fungi, and surrounded by beings convinced I’m one of their witches in disguise? Let’s not forget this is a population whose idea of culture is to drink, gamble, or dance naked around fires—preferably at the same time. My future home? I don’t think so.”

  “Then where will you go, once we’re done here?” Rael sounded honestly curious. Barac peered through the strong sunlight at the Clanswoman.

  She’d climbed into the window seat. The Drapsk had designed everything here to Clan proportions, so there was ample room for Rael to stretch out her long legs. She was studying the view rather than him and the sun’s rays played through her hair, teasing fire from its silken, living darkness.

  “Janac’s a fool,” Barac said without thinking.

  She faced him, clearly startled. “Why? What’s he done?” A brief pause in which Barac could feel her reaching through the M’hir. “He’s working on his plants again,” she said finally. “What made you think of him?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Which?” Her lips curved in a mocking smile. “Think he’s a fool, or think of him at all?”

  “Think of him. Think of going to him, instead of back home to Deneb.” Barac couldn’t explain to himself why he dared to be so curious. He and Rael might have become unusually close for Clan, but she was what she was: di. It wasn’t merely impolite to question a Chosen about his or her Joined partner—the offense could prompt a quite-justified challenge, one a sud couldn’t hope to survive. Instinctively, he tightened his mental barriers.

  Rael didn’t look angry, only weary. “No. Council has never ordered it, if that was your next question. The old Council judged our potential offspring as too likely to be sud or worse. Perhaps now, with what’s changed on the Council, what we know about our kind—that will change. Why ask me this?”

  Barac slid his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes with more force than necessary before looking at her again. It seems a waste, he sent, offering his view of her in the sunlight.

  “While I thank you, Cousin, for so flattering an image,” Rael said, the comers of her mouth turned up in a half smile, “I suspect you’ve been around Sira and her Human too long. To Join is to be made complete, but not all Joinings are joyous. And,” she licked her lips, “not all Joinings become more—intimate—than mind-to-mind, through the M’hir.”

  He dared more: “Did it ever occur to you to try? To spend time with your Chosen? Don’t you feel a need—” Barac shut his mouth, gesturing appeasement with both hands.

  The Clanswoman shifted position on the window seat, her face becoming a silhouette, the feel of her Power against his an enigma. “The Joined, my unChosen and oh-so-lonely cousin, dream as one. Our needs, as you indelicately put it, are met.” Not offended, yet, by her tone. Not pleased either. “I’m only telling you this because of Drapskii and what happened to you yesterday.”

  His turn to be startled. “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t alone, you know.” Rael paused, as if reluctant to continue, but did. She spoke slowly, cautiously, as if feeling her way. “What you experienced, what you felt . . . I can’t deny there was a similarity to what exists between the Joined. I don’t know how that’s possible, or what it means—”

  “It wasn’t real!” Barac leaped up, striding away from her in long, angry steps until he reached the door to his apartment. He stopped, facing the door and its false promise of escape. “It wasn’t real,” he repeated, hearing defeat in his own voice, feeling it ricochet through the M’hir between them.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” he heard her say, the sound closer. She’d followed him. “But your need for it to be—that’s real enough.”

  Is there nothing more for me? Barac couldn’t stop the thought or the flood of despair that rose with it. Is there nothing more for you than dreams—for any of us? Is Sira right? Are we the last of the M’hiray?

  A sigh he felt on the back of his neck. We may be, Rael sent, holding in her emotion so the words came as sharp pieces of truth. Sira’s Trade Pact vows to help us—if they fail, with all their technology and science, where else can we turn? And if they succeed? Do you believe we’d pay their price?

  Barac understood Rael’s bitterness all too well. No Clan but Sira—tainted by Human thinking—expected altruism from aliens. No Clan—after generations living in secret on Human worlds, influencing Humans and other species as needed for safety, for gain, for entertainment—would willingly offer their Talent to serve aliens. If the Trade Pact demanded that service in return for the key to Clan survival?

  Exodus. The Watchers were prepared. They would gather the Clan, guard and guide the journey from Trade Pact space as they had from the Clan Homeworld. Perhaps, Barac thought wistfully, they’d become a fantastic tale Humans would put on their vids and tell their children: ethereal beings who chose to disappear rather than tempt others with their Power.

  A legend? Rael’s thoughts wandered with his, Barac having let down his barriers. I’d prefer a living legacy.

  As would I, he replied, involuntarily reliving that moment when the dream had seemed real, the memory only making the emptiness worse.

  Chapter 10

  HALLUCINATION—some sort of dream, I decided as I searched for my belongings on my hands and knees, peering under canisters. The carryroll, so long proof against psychotic baggage handlers of several species, had split open when I’d fallen.

  Been pushed.

  Fallen, I told myself firmly, ignoring the persistent irrationality rattling around in my thoughts. I shook my head, aggravating the ache centered somewhere in the middle of my skull. My probing fingers had found no sore spots, so I hadn’t been stuck by some flying servo. The likeliest possibility, a nearby refuse canister, gave an obliging belch—attracting a horde of air cleaners to intercept the gaseous prey. I’d probably been overcome by such fumes and fainted, dreaming I’d been violently pushed to the floor.

  And violated.

  That certainly hadn’t happened. Delusion. Another side effect of the fumes.

  I had to get out of here as soon as possible. I stretched my arm to its fullest, rewarded by the feel of something solid yet easily moved, and grabbed it with my fingers to pull it out.

  The keffle-flute case. It would have been safer on the Fox after all.

  I used a belt to tie my ruined carryroll into something approximating a bag, putting the narrow case in first, then surrounding it with the sort of things one didn’t want protruding in public. My other pair of coveralls made an excellent outer layer, filling the split area of my new “bag” with only a slight bulge of blue fabric.

  Wonderful. I was conspicuous enough already. My hair, as if in complete agreement, chose that moment to wake from its lethargy to whirl in a blinding mass.

  Plexis welcomed starships. After all, the station relied on them to transport everything from goods to customers who’d pay extravagant prices for those goods. Liners and private yachts received preferred parking, their air locks opening into well-appointed lounges where uniformed staff discreetly offered air tags and free drinks before politely shooing shoppers directly on to the upper concourses.

  Scheduled deliveries had their own access points, efficient and thorough, though lacking free drinks. Traders, tourists, and other visitors who forgot—or couldn’t—post a substantial credit rating, competed for the remaining parking spots along Plexis’ belly. No free drinks here either. In fact, the station’s first act of greeting for such ships was to secure them with grapples, and woe betide any Captain who didn’t save enough credits to cover the parking fee.

  Fortunately, however, the lack of courtesy granted such ships included forcing their crew and any passengers to navigate a labyrinthlike co
rridor system to reach the tag points. I possessed a locate, a visual memory, for the portion of this system where the Fox had docked in the past. It would mean gambling no one else would be there when I “arrived.”

  A station night would have helped, but Plexis didn’t keep a day/night cycle—claiming, truthfully, that its customers were of such varied species it would be impossible to establish a cycle well-suited to most, let alone all. Instead, Plexis featured night-zones, packed with suitable entertainment. If you wanted dark, you went there. Sleeping wasn’t a particularly sought-after option. Stores could keep their own hours, and did, resulting in a lively and frequently exhausting competition to see which could stay open longest. Restaurants, like Huido’s, tended to cluster in areas with designated mornings, afternoons, and evenings, making it possible to actually plan a daily menu.

  So it wouldn’t be dark, or necessarily quiet where I was going. I remembered Morgan’s gesture for luck and crossed the first two fingers of my right hand before I pushed . . .

  ... and quickly sidestepped into the partial concealment offered by a stack of plas crates on a waiting grav cart. My heart was pounding as I listened for a shout or any other sign my arrival had been noticed. After a couple of deep, steadying breaths, I began to relax, considering how best to join the crowd.

  For a crowd it was. I assumed the only way my entrance could have been missed by the seething boil of beings filling the middle of this corridor was their need to concentrate on their footing or be trampled, the mass apparently hurrying toward the tag point. Maybe I’d been wrong about the free drinks. I spotted Humans in bewildering variety, a Whirtle or two, then a straggling group of Turrned Missionaries passed me, each with a small shoulder sack. Without thinking, I moved to join them.