To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The Turrneds walked quickly for such tiny beings, easily keeping pace with those possessed of longer, or more numerous, legs. On my arrival, however, the nearest immediately turned their great, disklike brown eyes up at me instead of looking where we were going—causing a momentary confusion as they collided with one another and had to stop to hug one another in apology. Before this resulted in impatience or worse from those behind—a group of Denebian traders towing grav carts laden with coils of sparkling marel roots, presumably destined for those shops offering seasonal decoration—the Turrned sorted themselves out and we began marching along again.

  However, the beings somehow managed to keep their eyes fixed on me in a soulful gaze that made one either melt on the spot or start talking. “First trip to Plexis?” I asked involuntarily.

  “Yes. We go to the Mission.” “You are troubled.” “Come with us. We will pray for you.”

  I couldn’t tell who said what——the Turrned kept their mouths closed and vocalized with their throats. “Where is the Mission?”

  More Turrned began gazing up at me. Having seen some of Morgan’s vids of Human companion animals, I now better understood why he sometimes called the species “evangelical puppies.”

  I swallowed and shifted my bag under one arm. Ahead, the corridor opened up as we neared the tag point. The crowd was starting to split into faster-moving streams, like water being forced between the rocks of a rapids, as beings hurried to the line they thought would move a microsecond faster.

  “Sublevel 384, spinward third?” I persisted. “Is that the one?”

  “The Mission.” “The Mission.” I felt a warm, dry hand take mine, fingers not quite long enough to cross my palm. The skin was rough, but not unpleasantly so. “Come with us.” “Come with us.” “Come with us.”

  As that was exactly what I intended to do, I smiled quite happily at my new friends as they took me with them through the tag point—saving me the effort of explaining to anyone official how, despite my spacer coveralls and owner’s flash, my ship wouldn’t be docking at Plexis for another three standard days.

  It was, of course, not the same Mission. As far as I’d deciphered from the Turrneds during our trek to the nearest rampway from the tag point, there could be seven or a thousand Missions on Plexis; they weren’t overly clear on the distinction between an individual Mission and a leased room. Luckily, I did know the station well enough to appreciate the difference between a sublevel and one of the exclusive upper ones, so when my new friends wanted to herd me to a rampway populated by gold-patched customers, I politely— and with some guilt—disengaged. I watched them stare adoringly up at a pair of suddenly uncomfortable-looking Humans and grinned to myself before heading in the other direction.

  Plexis, I supposed, was ideal for the Turrneds’ purpose: an admirable, if at times overly-enthusiastic, attempt to spread their belief that all life should be treated with the same courtesy civilized beings paid one another. This seemed relatively harmless—involving a ritualistic apology before slicing into supper and a sensible discouragement of rude behavior in general—but I could only wonder what species like the Scat thought, whose intraspecies courtesy contained a basic “kill-you-first” aspect.

  Not that the Turrned would encounter any Scats on Plexis. The station discouraged their presence. Not overtly. Plexis was well aware any attempt to ban a particular species would bring down the wrath of the Trade Pact and an unwelcome, likely permanent, Enforcer presence. Instead, they’d simply and quite legally banned the Scat’s main food item as undesirable pests, requiring proof of ship sterilization from any Scat ship asking to park.

  The Scats hadn’t protested. Those interested in Plexis brought their ships near enough to do business but not so close as to alarm the station. As Morgan put it, they were like predators: homing in on the scent of prey, then waiting in the dark for the chance to ambush in safety. He shared, I’d noticed, Plexis’ low opinion of the species.

  I had mixed feelings. Compared to Humans, I’d found Scats predictable, reliable, and—though I hated to admit it—more like Clan. The days when I’d been more affected by a species’ appearance than its true nature were, thankfully, long gone.

  Smell, however, I still noticed. Sharing air on Plexis, particularly in the less-than-exclusive sublevels, meant doing everything possible to avoid sharing with one’s olfactory organ. I’d have worn a respirator, except it was considered snobbery unless mandated by biology. Even then, you’d get dirty looks.

  Sublevel 384 was, as I’d expected from the mass coming on-station where I’d met the Turrneds, packed with beings, all sporting blue patches like the one slapped on my left cheek, but there any similarities ended. I was surrounded by a blend of local residents, tourists, shoppers, and spacers—of every species imaginable, each with its unique way of mixing with others.

  The Humans weren’t bad. This time and place, few would be intoxicated—yet—and most had likely bathed within the week. We were similar enough in size and motion that I didn’t find them a navigation problem. Well, not the solitary ones slipping and dodging through traffic. I did know to avoid Humans in groups, such being prone to stopping for no apparent reason and without warning, oblivious to how this impacted on any other beings in their vicinity.

  Lemmicks, however, were much worse. I kept careful watch for their greatly elongated skulls, which towered over all but the tallest servos, and knew I wasn’t the only one on guard. Granted, they were inoffensive, pleasant beings—graceful, in a way, with their long faces and delicate limbs. Snappy dressers, too, always sporting the latest colors and fabrics and eager to see the newest styles Plexis could offer. Perfect customers—who, to put it tactfully, made sharing air a brutal challenge to any humanoid-type sinus.

  Stores who regularly catered to Lemmicks either invested in air scrubbers, potpourri, or incense. Or all three. It wasn’t that the beings smelled bad. It was more that the unseen component of a Lemmick could bring tears to the eyes and make one want to crawl away into a dark, quiet place—preferrably inside a well-used space suit. They could have felt the same about being near humanoids. On Plexis, one coped to shop.

  I held onto my bag, and my stomach, and mutely endured the barrage on my senses, ducking the odd elbow and other body part aimed—accidentally, of course—at me. My hair, for a change, hung as hair should. I finally passed into a portion of the crowd where those around me were relatively shorter, permitting me to get my bearings. From this perspective, the heads of shoppers and visitors might have floated on a restless ocean, their voices surf breaking in the distance. At least I could now see the walls, where the stores would be. Without my making a conscious decision to detour out of my way to Huido’s, I found myself taking advantage of an eddy within the foot traffic that promised to take me closer to the nearest wall. Wholesalers only, on this level, but still . . .

  My half-formed thoughts about fine gemstones and other profitable merchandise vanished as I found myself abruptly free of the press of beings. I was puzzled, until the reason burned my nostrils and I looked around rather frantically to see where the Lemmick might be.

  I couldn’t see any of the shapely beings, just others evacuating the vicinity. As I did the same, I noticed a pair of Humans—an older male who towered over his companion, a younger female—both looking more nauseated than I felt.

  I don’t know what made me suddenly careful, to give no more than a glance before slipping behind a foursome of Ordnexian spacers. My Talent didn’t include precognition. Instinct, perhaps, something more fundamental to survival.

  Because in that glance I saw enough. I knew one of those Humans. I kept walking, hoping I hadn’t been recognized in turn, my inner self so tightly controlled I should be all but invisible. Should be, but this was a being who’d surprised me before. I didn’t use my Power to confirm his identity; I’d never forget that face: older than Morgan’s, harsher, with cold, dead eyes and a passionate mouth.

  Ren Symon.

  Had he se
en me? Unlikely, but I paused to put more distance between us, tucking myself beside a convenient bit of greenery, one of the plant clumps Plexis was prone to put anywhere people might be tempted to walk in a straight line and I supposed forced the traffic to zigzag closer to the various stores. I wasn’t worried about losing my quarry. Symon was distinctive enough even in this crowd. I wouldn’t need my inner sense to track him.

  I was more concerned with my own growing visibility. The press of beings was thinning once more, split like an opening braid to file between the tables and fountains marking the entertainment and refreshment area of this level, as well as to avoid the less than steady clusters of celebrants returning to their ships. Typical of Plexis, the area ahead was a night-zone, the better to entice shop-weary travelers to the clubs and bars lining her walls. Once I was sure Symon was safely ahead, I would follow him through it, trusting the raucous and overlapping music, combined with the dimmer lighting, to keep him from spotting me in turn.

  The thought of hesitating to follow, even into this less than savory part of the station, didn’t occur to me. I wasn’t going to lose the Human—not until I knew exactly why he was here and what threat he might pose to Morgan.

  INTERLUDE

  By the halfway point of the second round of the Kimmcle System’s 72nd Annual Bonanza Belt Ore Meetings, Morgan had begun to hope the improbable threat Hawthorn feared would materialize. Or a pipe would burst. Anything would be an improvement over listening as nineteen supposedly mature individuals verbally disemboweled one another.

  He was quite sure that was what they were doing, despite the smiles, nods, and free-flowing beverages. Mutual destruction, all in the truly obscure dialects of ore refining and profit margins.

  The Human shifted his weight from his right to his left foot, keeping his shoulders pressed against the wall, and stifled a yawn. The Kimmcle weren’t big on formality, so there’d been no nonsense about a uniform. The Head of the Miners’ Association had greeted him with a short, sharp nod, without introducing him to the others filing into the room. It would have been a waste of time, given that every non-Kimmcle delegate had arrived with one or more security personnel who had immediately, and with professional grimness, stood at attention behind their client. Morgan had amused himself by guessing which of the stalwart figures would be first to join him in slouching against the wall. So far, no takers.

  As he’d done every few minutes, Morgan opened his awareness, that way of looking through another, nonphysical eye he’d had all his life, gingerly extending it to include those in the room. It was like opening a curtain to find the sun too close, providing so much light, so much information, it blinded rather than illuminated. With a practiced mental slip to one side, Morgan withdrew himself enough to begin sorting what he felt.

  There were two ways to pick out a telepathic mind from the confused mayhem of the nontelepathic. The untrained, or those with little Power, were pitifully transparent to his other sense, their deepest thoughts spilling into his unless he guarded himself. Those trained or powerful enough to possess natural shielding were as easily detected by what didn’t show. A shield mimicked emptiness, placing a void where there should be a mind. Among those in this room? It would be like a warning shout: Over here!

  Nothing. The only telepath at the Ore Meetings—and probably in this system—crossed his arms and stifled another yawn.

  Hawthorn had chosen better than he knew, Morgan thought, assessing himself with cold detachment. Symon, for all his betrayals and lies, had taught him the importance of knowing his own Power, of being able to clearly see his abilities and rank them against others’. Joining with Sira had enhanced many of those abilities a hundredfold or more; her training continued to add completely new capabilities to his mind. Despite this—or because of it—Morgan found it reassuring each time they encountered seemingly unsurmountable differences in their powers, to know himself still more Human than Clan. There were things Morgan drew upon his Human Power to do, such as detect and heal damage within a mind, things as mysterious to Sira as her ability to move herself through the M’hir remained to him.

  Not that he denied he’d been changed by their Joining. Morgan judged himself, in an interesting irony, perhaps the only non-Clan who could actually do what Hawthorn feared—enter a susceptible nontelepathic mind, rip loose its secrets, and, in the process, destroy it.

  As for other Human telepaths?

  Morgan shied from the thought, standing straight and paying attention to the meeting now breaking for supper. He gave Hawthorn the single nod they’d agreed on as a signal that all was well. A glance at the wall chrono showed he’d have time to check on the Fox before rejoining the Kimmcles’ guests for tonight’s banquet.

  As Morgan left the room behind Hawthorn, the thought circled back on itself like a snake—the truth, he knew, no matter how much he’d rather not admit it even to himself.

  Human telepaths? As Morgan was now, with the Power and abilities Sira had granted him, it would be all too easy. He hadn’t met one who could hide from his seeking thought. Not one who could protect themselves from his assault.

  Not even Symon.

  “Tomorrow’s when . . . it gets down to the tough . . . the tough and dirty, my friend,” Hawthorn asserted, eyes owl-wide, pupils dilated. The Head of the Miners’ Association, Morgan decided, was well past hammered and not the least concerned about it. Since the other delegates appeared in a similar state—having imbibed the stimulant of their species preference “on the house”—Morgan presumed this was an expected consequence of the Ore Meetings.

  The other security on hand hovered about, expressions ranging from noncommittal to bored, obviously more interested in how soon their clients would need help to return to their suites than protecting them from harm. However, Morgan felt a twinge of responsibility for the Human now sprawled on the table across from him. The repairs on the Fox were going well, due to Hawthorn’s faith in what he couldn’t see.

  What he couldn’t see. Morgan smiled to himself and reached into the M’hir for Sira, still amazed the binding between them could disregard space and distance.

  She was there. He could feel her presence, but nothing more. It was as if her mind was locked away. Why? Morgan refused to let his imagination run wild. Sira kept her shields tight around everyone but him, and now she was on Plexis, a popular stop for the Clan. She was being careful; it didn’t mean she was at risk.

  He could reach deeper—deep enough to regain her attention and have the warm feel of her thoughts slipping through his. And disturb her concentration, Morgan chided himself.

  Hawthorn gave a happy little mutter, pushing his arms outward to knock over his almost empty glass. Morgan intercepted it as it rolled to the table edge, then froze, glass in hand.

  There was something wrong.

  Not with Sira. Here. He put down the glass and loosened his force blades, holding them hidden in both hands, ready to throw.

  “There he is!”

  Morgan casually looked for the source of that shout. The private room used for the Ore Meetings presently contained over thirty individuals who might qualify as the “he” being found, if one included the quartet of androgynous security personnel lurking by the bar and the multisexed Nrophrae. But the Human believed his own warning.

  Trouble, indeed. The dozen—no, make that two dozen—squat, round beings now bursting through the doors might look harmless, their white eyeless faces surmounted by blue-green frondlike antennae seem inoffensive and mild, but hardened security guards and their drunken charges scrambled out of their way as quickly as they could.

  Even on Big Bob, a motivated Tribe of Drapsk commanded respect.

  Morgan replaced his force blades in their sheaths as the first Heerii Drapsk reached his table, talking too quickly to make any sense at all. The Human held up his hands to stop the excited being. “Just a minute,” he said. It was a reasonable guess that things were about to change. Morgan reached over to pat the comatose Hawthorn on one shou
lder. “Thanks for the job.”

  Then he looked at the Drapsk. Privacy wasn’t an issue—the small beings had already supplanted any guest who’d remained conscious, those guests having vacated the room as rapidly as they could stagger out the door. The Drapsk formed a ring around his table, an anxious, very quiet ring with antennae pointed slightly in his direction. Several members of that ring were sucking their tentacles.

  “So,” Morgan began, more curious than dismayed—he hadn’t been too excited about another day of Ore Meetings, especially with all the delegates bound to be hungover. “What brings you to Kimmcle?”

  Chapter 11

  WHAT had brought Symon to Plexis? I asked myself as I continued to follow the pair. He had to know the Enforcers were hunting him, despite Bowman’s discretion. And who was with him? Frustratingly, I hadn’t caught more than a few glimpses of the young female, enough to guess she might be a child. Symon’s?

  Or his latest protégée, I thought grimly. I knew from Morgan’s own past how Symon enjoyed finding young telepaths, how he’d steal their strength while he taught them, how that training twisted each young mind until they either learned to enjoy pain, as he did, or provided it for him.

  I took advantage of a dawdling group of Humans, using their argument as cover to sneak closer. At last, a good look. The female was no one I’d met and not as young as I’d first thought. I frowned, tempted to use my Power to learn more about her, but reluctant to risk discovery. I didn’t know Symon’s full capabilities, except that he’d proved more than elusive. He’d successfully hidden not just from Bowman but from me.

  Morgan didn’t know I’d had Clan Scouts hunting for Symon, though it had been almost my first order as Speaker for the Council. My Human had thirsted for revenge against Symon too long. That desire had almost consumed him once already. I’d been proud when Morgan conquered his inner darkness and was able to put Symon out of his thoughts; I’d been grateful to know he’d found such peace.