My music.
So be it. I sought out every memory that held my keffle-flute, blocking each away as deeply as I could, no matter where I found it. I tore apart my past, fragmenting what I’d been into jagged shards.
Still I continued, until I began to lose track of where I was, who I was, why I was. I felt my father’s mind, soothing away the beginnings of fear, of not right!
Then I ended, so another might begin.
... fragments drew closer, touched, knit one to the other as though the compulsion to be complete was all-powerful . . . the Singer surged forward, grasping, reaching, but too late, too late . . . blood began to warm . . . consciousness reassembled itself from nightmare and pulled free of the past . . .
My mouth tasted like something had died, then rotted in it. I sputtered and spat, desperately wiping at my lips. They felt wet. So did my face, as my fingers rediscovered it in the absolute dark. Nothing mattered but finding Morgan. I sent Power flying along our link, seeking my love’s mind.
I reeled under the impact of Power rebounding from that too-familiar wall, wide-awake and furious at the misbegotten Drapsk who’d invented this technology in the first place. There would be a need for some intense gripstsa once I was free.
Symon had had a reason for putting me into this stasis unit. I sat up, slowly, exploring by hand what I couldn’t see. My hair shivered itself dry, but my sodden coveralls didn’t have that ability, the fabric clinging and cold. The floor was slick with moisture as well, implying the entire box had been filled with preserving fluid. I lay where I’d first fallen, but wasn’t stiff. Drugs in the fluid or gas must have kept my body pliable, or I’d only been unconscious for a moment—something I didn’t believe.
I crawled, or rather slithered, along the floor, hunting the bottle of water I remembered had been put in here with me; my first priority was to stop the torment in my mouth. I found the globe, but its light no longer functioned. I tossed it aside and reached again. There. I fumbled it open and rinsed, then spat. The effort became a retch as I heaved up what felt like most of my insides.
Somehow I moved myself away from the mess until my outstretched fingers encountered something hard and smooth. My keffle-flute case. I picked it up and hugged it close.
I knew how to play it.
I forgot the taste in my mouth. I forgot the ache where Morgan belonged. Astonishment filled me as I remembered.
The life of Sira di Sarc was once more full and complete within my mind, as my past self had hoped it would never be.
I wasn’t at all surprised to begin to heave again.
INTERLUDE
The warning struck again. Morgan shook his head to clear it, grimly hopeful this latest premonition meant he was on the right track. Of course, any All Sapient’s District had its share of risks, and Rosietown’s was no exception—from recruiters hunting unwilling skilled labor to a Scat on the prowl for a meal that would fight back. Unlikely such would be up so early in the day, he knew, or would bother him if they were. In Morgan’s experience, predators avoided prey that looked as if it was on the hunt itself.
Not that he’d been obvious in his preparations. A blaster rode his hip, but hidden under the flap of his dune-skimmer. The heavy, dull-yellow coat was common in Rosietown, at least among those who appreciated the triple threat of sand, sun, and wind. Morgan’s was no tourist’s fancy, fresh from a store. The shoulders and back showed darker, shinier patches where storm-driven sand had polished away the soft roughness of the rowlahide; there were very useful hidden pockets in several locations; and the inner lining had been replaced—at a cost—with flexible strips of body armor.
Morgan hadn’t taken chances before going to Huido’s hideaway either, using a roundabout route from the shipcity and leaving the Fox rigged to send an alert if certain individuals left com messages—or if an uninvited guest attempted to enter. He’d deliberately docked her in the Trader’s Enclave, the constantly-changing community of owner-captained starships, traders and short-haul freighters that formed in every shipcity. Togetherness for mutual self-protection, on worlds where Port Authority existed to gouge Traders for more than docking fees. In more civilized surroundings, such as Ettler’s Planet, the enclave served as a convenient gathering point to scout the competition, exchange crew and gossip, or find life-partners. Most were family-run; the children running free around ramps and fins knew who belonged near their ships. They’d play under the Fox today for a few credits, a common service if not the most reliable.
When he’d bought the Silver Fox and started this life, Morgan had kept his distance from other Traders—dealing fairly and politely with those he met, but resisting any temptation to form closer ties. He’d told himself it was more comfortable to stay away from the disturbing awareness of other minds on his, but Huido had known better. Over a few beers, and with typical bluntness, the Carasian had told Morgan it was high time the Human climbed out of the battle-scarred valleys of Karolus and joined the rest of the universe, which included trusting other beings besides his handsome self. Not blindly, of course—Huido digressing into a few entertainingly incredible tales about males who trusted others with the location of their tidal pools—but without fearing that everyone Morgan trusted would die, leave, or worse, betray him as had Symon.
Huido might not have remembered that conversation the next morning, or tactfully pretended not to, but Morgan had never forgotten it. The Carasian had been right. More, his words echoed those of Morgan’s uncles and parents, buried so long ago under the grief of their loss. Hadn’t they raised him to think of others first, to honor their trust by never failing his responsibility to the whole? How had he let Symon taint their memory?
Morgan would never trust easily or shed the inner wariness forged by his past. Still, over the years, he built friendships, as well as friendly rivalries, among his fellow Traders, Humans and aliens alike. These days, a quick walk down any Trader Enclave shipway, a glance over the starships docked there, told Morgan exactly who he could call upon for help. For a price. Traders stuck together against a threat to all, but getting such free spirits interested in a more personal entanglement usually involved a debt owed or about to be incurred. Even among friends.
Two such friends of his and Huido’s were insystem on Ettler’s Planet: Ryan’s Venture and Gamer’s Gold. Both were larger and newer than the Fox, but not as fast, putting Morgan’s relationship with their respective captains more in the friendly rival category. Regardless, he started his inquiries there, striking it lucky with the second ship. In fact, Captain Aleksander of Gamer’s Gold had not only transported the Carasian to Ettler’s, he had a terse and biologically impractical message for Morgan to convey to his former passenger.
It turned out Aleksander had agreed to take Huido’s friends as well, which, Morgan was amused to learn, included not just Ruti but a group of Turrned Missionaries. This in itself wasn’t a problem. It was a short haul, given Plexis’ current location, and the ’Gold had been enroute anyway. Payment was in advance, and the Turrneds had, in Aleksander’s words, kept their eyes away from his business.
What had Aleksander considering steamed Carasian as his dish of choice was the steaming mess around his beautiful ship. Morgan had been grateful not to have a vid on his com as the ’Gold’s captain explained, in great detail, that while he understood Huido had only been trying to leave his ship without being noticed, he didn’t appreciate the end result. It seemed Huido’s new companions, the Turrneds, operated their Mission from a rowla ranch on the outskirts of the shipcity. Rowlas were an indigenous domesticated beast easily half again the size of any Carasian. Drovers found the larger shipways convenient shortcuts to the wells on the other side of Rosietown, so they regularly incensed Port Authority by driving their herds between the starships—halting docking tugs and leaving reeking towers of rowla droppings behind. The Turrneds had simply arranged for their herd to arrive at the base of the ’Gold’s ramp, so Huido and Ruti could walk away from the ship, hidden from sight among the larger anima
ls.
Which had, naturally, left unfortunately large some-things for Captain Aleksander.
Good to know Huido was safe. Morgan hadn’t expected a com signal—Huido wouldn’t risk it, not with Plexis security likely sending hysterical warnings to the nearest systems about murderous Carasians. They were probably trying to blame Huido for poor Ansel’s death, too. At least Terk knew the truth of that, Morgan thought, although the Enforcers were a potential complication he’d face sooner or later. Hopefully later, because Bowman wouldn’t hesitate if she thought Symon was within her reach; she knew too well the potential danger of allowing telepaths to use their abilities for interspecies crime.
There was also the specter of not knowing who Symon might have bribed or influenced. He’d never worked alone in the past, Morgan recalled. Just thinking about Symon brought back that appalling image from Ruti’s memory: Symon’s big, scarred hands gripping Sira, his ams around her. Morgan groaned to himself, forced to see Symon pressing Sira’s helpless body against his. The look on Symon’s face . . .
Enough! Morgan stopped dead in the street, fortunately still empty of witnesses, and rubbed one hand violently over his face. His heart was hammering in his chest; there was the taste of bile in the back of his throat. Not jealousy—fear. How could Sira be helpless? Had she been drugged? What was happening to her?
And if Symon touched her—harmed her—Morgan vowed to prove to his former mentor he was more than an apt pupil. Ansel had suffered. Symon would scream.
Huido hadn’t known Symon was behind his troubles until Morgan’s arrival; Plexis security had driven him here, a haven despite the Carasian’s utter loathing of sand. Which was why Morgan had known to look in his old apartment first—trusting Huido to find any excuse to delay actually traveling over the free-moving sand of the Singing Dunes north of Rosietown.
Now it was up to Ruti to get him moving. Morgan shook his head as he walked, unsure he’d done the right thing listening to her. She’d only urged him to do what every fiber of his being demanded—find Sira. But he’d learned from bitter experience to mistrust such impulses. Should he have waited? Made sure Huido unfolded from his prayers for Ansel before the poor child assumed the alien was in a coma? He should have at least confirmed their arrangements. She was so young.
Or was she? Morgan wondered. Sira had looked similar to Ruti’s age when they met—in Human terms, a girl barely old enough for puberty, only her eyes hinting at the years she’d lived before his birth. No, Ruti was younger. Morgan had felt some kind of link, silk-thin, between Ruti and someone else. Nothing like the one binding him to Sira, yet steady and undeniable, clear proof Ruti was a fosterling, connected to her distant mother. And he’d seen the doll she’d held in her hand. A child.
Of all things alien about the Clan and their ways, this remained the hardest for Morgan to accept. He understood, intellectually, it was because the Clan seemed so outwardly Human. It was too easy to fall into the trap of judging them by his standards. A Master Trader should know better. Ruti might be a child, but she wasn’t a Human one.
Kill Symon. Certainly that cold, vengeful exhortation hadn’t been from a child of any species. She’d known exactly what she’d asked.
He had to trust them both, Huido and Ruti, to look after themselves. There was only one way to make them all safe—and that was to find Symon. And Sira. Morgan kept walking. He was going back to the shipcity, intending to speak to Captain Ivali of the Venture. Ivali had heard rumors of telepaths offering their services to the highest bidder; she’d sent a runner to find more information.
Danger! The warning was annoyingly persistent, if nonspecific. There were safer routes than this labyrinth of narrow streets, connected by even narrower alleyways. Every intersection was licked at the corners by tongues of yellow sand from the last storm, and the rising sun created dark shadows. Fine. He wasn’t interested in avoiding trouble. In fact, Morgan decided grimly, stepping over another tongue of sand, he was looking for it.
He wasn’t looking for Drapsk. So when a group of small beings suddenly rounded the next corner in front of him, Morgan ducked into the nearest alley’s mouth to watch them from hiding. These were Heerii, not surprising of itself. Several systems within this loop of the Fringe were apparently claimed by that Tribe, who seemed to enjoy trading at the edges of known space. There was no reason, the Human told himself thoughtfully, to believe these beings were from the Heerama. Why would that ship have detoured here, when Captain Heeru had been so set on joining Morgan on Plexis, to help search for Sira?
This group consisted of twenty-one individuals, three across, seven deep, moving quickly and in Drapsk-like unison. They might have looked like servo dusters in search of a street to clean, if it hadn’t been for the crossed bandoliers supporting a pair of biodisruptors at each waistless middle. Armed and intent Drapsk. They escorted a servo transport, low-slung and open to the air, its cargo a nondescript pallet of the type used to convey large, bulky cargo from the warehouse to a waiting ship.
Morgan held in his breath, knowing the sensitivity of those restless blue-green plumes and hoping to hide his presence. There was nothing he could do about any scent trail he’d left. He didn’t try to fathom his instinctive caution, even though until now he’d considered the Drapsk inconveniently helpful at worse. There was no doubt they adored Sira and seemed to extend that admiration to him as well—now that his grist had improved, according to Huido.
Morgan slipped back into the street, content to be careful. He stepped up his pace and, when the chance came, doubled back along a series of parallel streets. The advantage of knowing his way around, he smiled without humor. He’d lived here—in that hideaway where Huido and Ruti had waited—most of a planet year, earning credits to get the Silver Fox her first major refit.
He knew the surrounding desert, too, with its shifting dunes and endless starry sky. He’d planned to bring Sira to the secret home he’d made there, imagining how her hair would lift into the wind as her arms reached for him. Morgan lost himself in a bittersweet daydream.
Danger! Attackers boiled out of a doorway—closed, like all the others lining the street, until Morgan walked by it. His inner warning had the Human already in a crouching spin, one hand reaching for his blaster, the other blocking a blow from the first of the three. He abandoned the attempt to draw his weapon; they were too close. Instead, Morgan continued his spin, moving up under the arms of the second assailant to drive his force blade into an exposed torso. The blade slid through clothing and bone as if through air. Two to one.
A sharp blow over his kidneys sent Morgan to his knees. A stab, foiled by his body armor. He rolled away, feeling hands grab and miss the shoulders of his coat. He kicked without looking and heard a satisfying grunt.
The Human changed his attack. Closing his eyes, he reached outward with his power. Two minds left. One shielded—a telepath. One vulnerable. He concentrated on the weaker, shutting down the centers of motor control, withdrawing as he felt that mind lose consciousness. Now. One to one. The other.
Morgan’s eyes snapped open, and he stared into the thin, bearded face of the Human standing over him. “Put that down,” he said, backing the order with a warning flare of Power, seeing the other’s eyes widen as he realized his shields were intact only because Morgan hadn’t bothered to breach them. There was a thud as the blaster dropped from a limp hand. “Move.” The telepath stepped back, holding his hands away from his sides. His eyes roved the deserted street as though looking for help.
Morgan stood and dusted off his coat. “Who sent you?” he asked.
“Is Agger dead, too?” the other Human glanced nervously at the tidier of the two bodies.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Morgan countered. “Who sent you?”
“He’ll kill me.”
Morgan’s eyes were like ice. “I’ll do worse.”
The telepath looked as though he’d argue the point, then something in Morgan’s expression changed his mind. “He said you’d kno
w.”
“Ah.” Morgan shrugged, outwardly casual. “Games. Symon always liked them. You do realize he expected me to kill all three of you—that he’d waste your lives to slow me down. A few minutes. That’s all you’re worth to him.”
“Mebbeso,” the telepath agreed shakily. “But I’m not going to spill either. Symon’s no enemy I want.”
“Do you prefer having me for one?” With that, Morgan stripped the shielding from the other’s mind and waited, doing no more than show some of his Power. He estimated they had no more than a quarter of an hour before shops started to open and this would no longer be a private street.
“What are you?” Honest naked fear. “You aren’t Human!”
Morgan’s lips twitched. “Twenty generations pure stock,” he stated, letting his Power swell until he saw the other wince. “Now. I’m willing to let you go, you and Agger here, if you let me scan your memories of Symon. It won’t hurt a bit. But if you resist? I’ll still find what I want, but you won’t enjoy the process. Your choice.”
Choice. Morgan ran, his heart pounding, hoping he was making the right one. The telepath, Serge Tosnulla, had cooperated—though the filth in his mind had made Morgan almost wish he’d been given an excuse to rip out what he wanted instead. He’d knocked Tosnulla unconscious, leaving the two to explain the gutted corpse of their companion when the local authorities checked the streets, leaving himself the task of deciding between the impossible.
Symon had brought all his lackeys with him from Plexis. He’d never had trouble attracting followers, Morgan remembered bitterly, though the technique varied. Symon could be warm and charismatic, as he had with Ruti, until you believed every word he uttered. Where or when he’d learned that skill, Morgan couldn’t begin to guess; certainly before coming to Karolus. More commonly, though, Symon relied on sheer intimidation—sometimes physical, as if to prove he didn’t need his mental abilities to control others.
To Trade the Stars Page 25