To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “No.” Barac dropped his bundle of clothes on the countertop, then touched her forehead lightly with one finger. “What more should I know, Ruti di Bowart?” Between two Clan, his was a courteous request for a lowering of her shields and a sharing of vital information in the fastest way possible.

  “That we shouldn’t waste time here. Hurry and get clean,” Ruti said, keeping her shields firmly in place as she backed away then stepped out the door, pulling it closed behind her.

  She leaned against the wall outside, her head back and eyes closed, knowing she hadn’t refused to open to Barac because she feared Symon. She’d refused so he wouldn’t learn about her and what she’d done. Not yet.

  “Not much farther,” Barac told his companion, pleased to recognize the Whirtle’s used clothing store. Not that he’d expected to get lost twice in the same day—but one never knew.

  Ruti di Bowart. He knew the House, or of it. Barac glanced down. She was keeping up, without complaint, despite his longer strides. He slowed a bit, making sure it wasn’t obvious. Proud little thing. And brave. He was impressed, despite his abiding distrust for anything and anyone associated with Acranam. Their former leader and founder, Yihtor di Caraat, had murdered his brother, Kurr. Even now, Barac knew the Acranam Clan resisted the Council and Sira at every turn, insisting they could survive alone. They continued to risk their unChosen, he thought, feeling that familiar mix of horror and reckless longing.

  As they moved through the now-busy streets, packed with locals in the omnipresent yellow coats and spacers in blue, the Clansman deliberately kept any conversation to the inane sorts of things a tourist might say, indicating the occasional noteworthy site or talking about the weather. Morgan had taught Barac a healthy respect for the power of Human technology, especially as it concerned the invasion of privacy. Barac saw no reason to believe this Symon wouldn’t be just as aware as Morgan of that potential, meaning any of the buildings they passed could have listening devices. One could become quite thoroughly paranoid around Humans.

  Although, as a Scout, he usually laughed away the most preposterous of those ideas. Today? Barac looked down at Ruti again. He wasn’t taking any chances. It had been a close thing, in that alley. Too close.

  Who was she? He opened his awareness to the M’hir the tiniest possible amount, less worried about Huido’s caution than his own ignorance.

  Good strong shields. Quite an imposing presence for such a tiny thing. Ahh. Barac saw what he’d half-expected and withdrew.

  Fosterling.

  “Did you come with Huido from Plexis?” Barac asked Ruti casually.

  A sidelong look. “Yes. I was working in his restaurant.”

  Barac put that unlikely information aside to examine later, along with the disturbing confirmation that Acranam had dispersed one of her priceless offspring where no Clan should. “Did you like the station?”

  “No.” Quick and emphatic. A taste of distress in the M’hir. Barac decided to leave further questions for later.

  It seemed to take too long to reach the edge of the shipcity and the parking area where he’d left the Makii’s gift. Barac found himself listening for sirens or running feet as he led Ruti down the line of waiting aircars. The Makii’s was twice the size of any others in the lot, and gaudy. He’d liked it before he knew he’d be on the run. The Clansman frowned, wondering about a quick trade for something less conspicuous. But Ruti ran to it, running her hands over the glossy sides with delight. So much for pretending it wasn’t his.

  Speed was the alternative to being inconspicuous. “Get in,” he ordered, and followed suit, noting Ruti fit into the Drapsk-sized seat better than he did. The aircar, suited to transporting royalty, could well have some armaments and a force shield, as well as the requisite exterior armor. Barac stared at the curved and elaborate Drapsk control panel, regretting, too late, he hadn’t asked the little beings about more than the most basic operation of their machine. Now seemed a poor time to experiment.

  “Where to?” he asked his companion.

  “I have the coordinates,” she said with a doubtful look at the panels. “Do you know how to work this?”

  No gain in spreading his own anxieties on that subject to the child, Barak decided, “Of course,” he said confidently. “I was a First Scout. Alien technology is my specialty.”

  “What’s a scout?”

  Her immediate puzzlement surprised Barac into a self-depreciating laugh. So much for his one claim to fame. “My pardon, young Ruti. Let’s say I’ve more experience with aliens than most Clan. Read me the coordinates, please.”

  Whatever else you could say about the Drapsk, Barak decided a short while later as he lifted his hands from the controls, they designed admirable machines. The aircar had digested the coordinates, and now smoothly assumed their flight, Barac having flown manually from the shipcity. He’d done a lazy circuit or two before engaging the autopilot, hoping to see if any other aircars lifted in pursuit.

  What traffic joined them in the sky appeared more interested in heading into the town—Traders, more than likely. Huido’s coordinates had taken them in the opposite direction, into a cloudless sky and over the beginnings of a march of horizon-spanning dunes. Barac shuddered to himself. There was a lot to be said for skulking in alleyways.

  “Are we safe now?”

  He turned to look at Ruti. She was pale, with eyes huge in her small face, but her expression was stern rather than frightened. “We should be,” he judged. “Who’d look for us in this forsaken place?”

  That made her eyes slide to the viewports, then back. Her lips twitched. “I see what you mean. No wonder Huido didn’t come with us. He hates sand, you know.”

  Time for overdue answers, Barac thought. Before he could open his mouth, Ruti continued: “You asked about Hom Morgan. Are you—his friend?”

  A very unusual question from one Clan to another, especially concerning a Human—unless Ruti had met the potent Morgan, with his unsettling ability to inspire loyalty from the most unexpected beings. Barac kept his understanding to himself. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “We’re friends. Why?”

  Her face darkened. A rush of emotion-charged words tumbled out: “Morgan’s in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s my fault. Now Huido’s gone to help him—”

  Barac stopped her with a raised hand and a frown. “There’s no more time for words,” he told her grimly.

  “Open to me, now.” He lowered his own shields, reaching outward to find Ruti’s gone, but an involuntary barrier of intense guilt and grief in his way. She wasn’t used to sharing, he realized, and eased back a bit, letting her control herself. After an instant, her emotions subsided. Relieved, Barac sent his mind into her surface thoughts and memories.

  But his relief lasted no longer than the heartbeat it took for him to reach Ruti’s memory of Sira.

  With Symon.

  Chapter 20

  REN Symon. Jason Morgan. I sat in my Drapsk prison, finding those two faces intruding on my thoughts like flashes of night and day, dark and light, hate and love. An odd species, Human, to produce two beings who were mirror images of one another, down to their Power. The hate had been love, once. I’d shared Morgan’s memories of Symon, perhaps more fully than he’d realized, and knew how Symon had treated him as a son, how Morgan had worshiped the other Human, granting him full access to his mind and heart.

  A dangerous vulnerability even now. I understood—as I feared Morgan did not—how difficult it was to defend against anyone, or anything, who’d been given, or taken, that intimacy. Symon had a key to Morgan’s innermost self. I had no doubt he planned to use it. Another reason I’d taken it as my personal quest to remove Symon as a threat to us. If I’d known how right I was, I wouldn’t have left it to others.

  If I’d known more about the Drapsk, I wouldn’t be sitting here, helpless, with this ridiculous collar around my neck. I’d passed from fury to panic to a familiar sense of resigned frustration. I
could be misjudging the Heerii, as I had the Makii at first; there might be a comprehensible reason for my confinement.

  Or they were in league with my seducer, whatever it was, and planned a consummation which would destroy me and my Chosen—to a gain I certainly wouldn’t be around to appreciate.

  I shied from that thought, and the mouth-drying fear threatening to return with it. No, I couldn’t believe the Drapsk expected me to be harmed. They’d offered me ipstsa. By making me a member of their Tribe, they’d all assume responsibility for my safety. One thing was sure about Drapsk: any member of a Tribe was defended by the entire Tribe—it was why the helpless-looking beings wandered with impunity through the most deadly spacer dives and hellholes.

  The Heerii had known that, better than I, and offered me ipstsa anyway. Even if their motive had been to simply remove the scent of an opposing Tribe, they’d been willing to enter into that level of mutual self-interest. So they thought whatever I was to do would be safe.

  They were wrong. I sighed at the unlikelihood of conveying that novel concept to the Drapsk. It might have helped if Captain Heeru had seen fit to put a com panel on this side of that locked door. No need to wonder why they’d set up my “guest quarters” in the Heerama’s hold. It was the only door they could lock, unless they modified their ship.

  I didn’t want to talk to Heeru anyway. I wanted to talk to Morgan. Wanted. The laugh that broke out of me was so hurtful I closed my lips over it. If I’d ever thought the need of a Chooser was powerful and all-consuming, I’d been a fool. Had any other Joined pair been severed apart like this and lived to tell of it?

  No wonder the mind of one would follow the other into madness and death. There was no other choice possible but to stay together. Forced into the impossible, I pulled at the collar again, having already cut my neck several places trying to tear it off.

  It wasn’t only my mind’s need for that link through the M’hir. I loved Morgan, in all the ways I knew existed. I needed to know he was safe. Symon threatened him; I could trust my Human to be wary, if not invincible to that foe. But the Drapsk? How could he know to expect lies or worse from them?

  I couldn’t know how the Drapsk’s device might affect Morgan. Did he feel the same anguish and emptiness? I hoped less, but for all I knew it could be worse for Morgan—so much of his new Power drew from mine in that other space. What if he grew desperate enough to—

  No. I’d warned him against ‘porting. If it was Morgan’s last resort, and there was any mercy in the universe, the act would pull us together for one final moment.

  In the meantime, I was going to try my own version.

  I closed my eyes, fighting an inner battle with a weapon relearned from my past. That other, older Sira had been more disciplined; she’d relied more on her Talents and the Power she could bring to each. She’d also been more afraid of the M’hir, for good reason. It had become a fear that slipped into the real world, making it harder for her to fall asleep in the dark.

  That Sira had learned to quiet her fear, to call up sleep when she willed it. To her technique, I added my need for Morgan, my concern for him, and hoped to dream.

  Slowly, as though related to how deeply I sank into dreams, my awareness of Morgan grew, saturating my dreaming mind until I almost woke myself with relief.

  As before, it was as if I looked out Morgan’s eyes. Disorienting, as he was looking rapidly from side-to-side, while what was around him passed so quickly I realized he must be running.

  I felt what Morgan felt, saved from being buried beneath an avalanche of dark emotions—grief, fear, rage—only by the distancing of the dream. His feelings echoed mine, but with more urgency, as though his actions fed them. I saw the backs of various beings as he dodged artfully through those on the sidewalk, mostly humanoid—probably Human. Outside, a city, daytime...

  I’d expected Plexis. Or Kimmcle. Not this dusty, too-bright world. Dull yellow coats, curved buildings, air so dry it stole the moisture from his mouth as he took deep rhythmic breaths... these were clues I grasped and tried frantically to combine into a sense of location, but failed. I’d never been here. Morgan either hadn’t shared memories of this place with me, or it was new to him as well.

  I could make an educated guess. If Morgan and I were ever separated and in danger, we’d planned to meet on a desert world called Ettler’s Planet. Morgan had promised me a visit there soon, saying only it was better seen in person than shared memory. While what I saw didn’t appear attractive in the slightest, I was willing to believe that impression had more to do with sharing Morgan’s desperation than anything I was seeing through his eyes.

  Minutes missed me. Morgan was now walking, no less upset, but quieter, more resolved. And he was no longer alone.

  A voice like rocks rolling in a drum: “Well, at least we know Barac was there. He’s the only being I know who’d use a toy like that in battle.”

  Huido! Morgan was looking ahead, not at his friend, but I could feel his relief. I shared it. “And we both know who’d use short-range artillery,” my Human said almost lightly, his voice echoing in my dream. “Someone fired a round in that alley.”

  A proud-sounding rattle. “I left one of those miniature antitank guns with Ruti—for her protection—”

  A feeling of incredulity accompanied Morgan’s glance left. I could see Huido, ambling alongside the Human. Some of him, anyway. The Carasian was almost completely encased in fabric, looking more like a walking piece of upholstered furniture than a living thing. Furniture that clanked and muttered under its breath something that sounded like: “Did you try to find the route with the most sand?”

  “Protection?” Morgan repeated dryly, ignoring what was probably a running complaint. “She might have killed herself and Barac with that thing.”

  “Psssahht. I didn’t smell arty Clan blood.” Two eyestalks stretched farther out and craned to stare at Morgan. “But you—” a pause, “you smell—suddenly different.”

  Could the Carasian sense me? Filled with sudden hope, I stared out the windows of Morgan’s eyes and tried to convey a message. I’m here... See me, Sira! Tell Morgan!

  “I’m not surprised.” There was a heaviness to Morgan’s voice, reflected in his emotions. “I am different—without Sira—”

  “Not that.” More eyestalks folded in Morgan’s direction. “Someting ... else.”

  I’m here!!!

  I felt Morgan shrug impatiently and look ahead. I could see the tips of starships over the next buildings; they must be heading for the shipcity. “What matters, my brother, is looking after those who need us—and finding Sira. Barac appears to be with Ruti. Until they contact us, all we can do is trust him to look after her. You’ve got the address where Symon is holding the other fosterlings. Hire help from Ivali—not the Gamer’s Gold—call in Port Authority. Do whatever it takes to get them out.”

  “I shall be triumphant!”

  A warmth from Morgan. “Just be careful, you lummox. They might not be able to penetrate that brain-case of yours, but they still have weapons.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Me?” Rage resurfaced until I thought I was looking through a haze. “Whatever it takes to find Sira— including finding out why our featherheaded friends have been trading with Symon.”

  More minutes lost. Too many. Huido was abruptly distant; Morgan watched him walk away. Some children—Human-appearing-waved at Morgan before running off to another ship. He turned, and I was looking at an unusually slender starship, her surface dark with age. The Silver Fox. The sensation of home-coming was doubled, mine overlapping Morgan’s, yet filled with loss. We both felt the emptiness of that home.

  Morgan climbed the steep ramp, activating codes, stepping into the air lock and through. If I dreamed this, it was a welcome dream, to walk back inside this ship and breathe metal-flavored air; to brush my fingers along walls that held out vacuum and cradled our plans for the future, our laughter and love. I’d had a grander home; it had been
cold and barren by comparison.

  I knew exactly where Morgan was taking us—the control room. Once there, he sat on my couch, not his. He looked down, so I must, and began hunting for something along the armrest. I was mystified until I saw the red-gold hair he pulled free, a hair that curled itself around one of his fingers as if alive, forming a ring. I remembered how my hair had caught itself in that armrest, one memorable evening; this must have stayed behind.

  My vision dimmed. Morgan blinked and cleared it. It dimmed again, and he stopped blinking, letting the tears fill his eyes and drop as they wished, unmoving.

  I threw myself at the barrier between us, hammered at it with all my Power and will until I felt the threads of the dream begin to unravel. Morgan.

  I was awake, but I wasn’t alone.

  The glistening darkness of my new roommate had flattened the Drapsk’s table—or the table had retreated into the floor rather than contest its space. I didn’t blame it. The Rugheran’s fibrous arms seemed more like exposed roots this time, stretching in lumpy irregular lines toward me. None, I was glad to see, were close enough to touch.

  I sat up, making no sudden moves as I put my feet on the floor, then rose to stand. I didn’t bother wiping the tears from my face, too busy speculating. Was this an ally, an enemy, or a curious visitor? I might have only a moment to find out before the Drapsk noticed they had a new passenger.

  “Hello,” I said, feeling foolish but determined. I remembered Morgan’s advice: establish the desire to communicate—without screaming. It would have helped if I’d understood how a Rugheran talked. Or heard. Or if one even knew how to communicate with words. I’d felt something like thought, musical and strange, when I’d met a Rugheran on Drapskii—but that individual had been near death. This being, and the one on the Fox, seemed more in control and hidden from me.

  Then, I felt: /curiosity/

  Memory obediently rolled over, showing its belly. “You—” I breathed, staring at the being. “You were there, or something like you, when I was trapped in the M’hir—when I was trying to ... hold my mother. I’ve felt you before.”