To Trade the Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Rael ... a surge of wonder, of sudden determination that matched her own. I’ll be waiting, my Chosen.

  She hadn’t expected the extent of his joy. It curved her lips and she sent, softly: Soon.

  “Mystic One! Mystic One!”

  Rael opened her eyes and peered at the ring of Skeptics, wondering which was Copelup. “I couldn’t do anything—” she began.

  “You must have,” one said. “The readings are incredible. Drapskii is rousing—we can all feel it. You’ve beaten the Heerii!”

  A little too late, Rael realized she’d never asked what would happen once Drapskii was reconnected to the M’hir.

  It seemed she was in the right place to find out.

  Chapter 22

  IT seemed the Rugherans, strange and otherworldly though they might be, still required a place of their own. And I was invited.

  The Heerii had finished gripstsa. It had taken a full hour—an observation I might have found interesting, under other circumstances. During that time, I’d wandered around the ship, seeing if I could find any way to help myself, signal Morgan, or cause trouble. Everywhere I went, I found pairs of gripstsa-enraptured Drapsk. I was tempted to play a practical joke or two—Morgan had taught me a few—but it seemed too important an occasion.

  I’d become thoroughly lost, of course. Drapsk design tended to organic curves, including their ceilings, which bulged downward, and their rooms, which bulged outward from the corridors. There weren’t features to be counted or used as a guide—that I could detect, that is. For all I knew, there were signs and scent trails throughout the place. I’d hoped, after this hour of walking, to at least find myself back at the bridge or in the cargo hold, being tired enough to look forward to lying down.

  Instead, when the Drapsk remembered they were crew on a starship, I was somewhere down in the crew’s quarters, investigating what I thought might be the Drapsk version of hammocks—little bags with holes that might fit antennae, suspended in rows from the ceiling. I’d have been more certain had there been any little bodies in the bags. There were hundreds—

  “Mystic One?”

  I jumped, having grown accustomed to ignoring any Drapsk in my vicinity. “Hello,” I said inanely, looking down at the now-attentive creature. “Is this the crew’s quarters?”

  A politely subdued hoot. “No, Mystic One. This is the escape craft.”

  I looked back down the long hall, reinterpreting the little bags as crash protection, the curved walls as the inner surface of a pod’s hull. “Oh. Have you ever used it?”

  “To my knowledge, Mystic One, there has never been a need for a Tribe to evacuate their ship. But it’s important to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “True enough.” I tried to imagine what it would be like in here, with four hundred and fifty Drapsk hanging in their bags from the ceiling, and shook my head. Were they bagged because of that tendency of Drapsk to roll when stressed? Some things, I decided, were better left unknown by aliens.

  “Would you show me back to the bridge, please?” I asked.

  “Are you sure? We are about to land. You would be more comfortable in your own quarters.”

  “Land—where?”

  A tentacle popped in, and the Drapsk chewed vigorously. Perhaps, so soon after gripstsa, they needed to ponder their new roles. It didn’t bode well for the species in an emergency. Yet they obviously succeeded. “The Rugherans have a name for their planet,” the little being informed me at last. “But I can’t imagine how to say it in Comspeak. You could call it—” he thought some more, “—‘White.’” He took my hand and tugged me in a direction I presumed led to the cargo hold.

  I went along with this remarkably informative Drapsk. “Is it?” I asked.

  “Is it what?”

  “White?”

  He gave another hoot, rather cheerful for a Drapsk whose new role apparently involved being stuck down in the escape craft. “It’s much like Drapskii, Mystic One. The Rugherans use terms equivalent to ‘White,’ or ‘Fixed,’ when they refer to this—” he slapped his palm against one wall. “They call the Scented Way: ‘Normal.’” A series of hoots. “So we call their world ‘White.’”

  “Makes sense,” I murmured.

  “Maybe to them. We won’t stay long—you’ll see. It’s not a good place for Drapsk.”

  The crewmember had said no more than the truth. The Heerama’s landing on White signaled a flurry of activity, all intended to get me off their ship as quickly as possible and their ship off White. Within minutes of the ship’s arrival—despite vigorous protests and heeldragging—I was hustled out the main port and down its ramp, clutching my keffle-flute and wearing my hated collar.

  With nothing else besides the clothes on my back, not even shoes.

  “Captain Heeroki!” I shouted, knowing he had to be among the many Drapsk who’d pushed me down the corridor to the airlock. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  One Drapsk shouted back: “I would move as far from the ship as you can, Mystic One. There will be danger from the Heerama’s engines.”

  I was tempted to stay right where I was, but there was something about their air of haste that convinced me the Drapsk wouldn’t hesitate to take off even if they fried me. I didn’t have to go far, at least. Their state-of-the-art freighter employed an antigrav thrust to push herself upward before ignition of the main engine—technology that allowed the Drapsk to come and go without damaging the landscape on worlds lacking docking tugs.

  I lifted my flute case in mock salute to the Heerii, then turned and began jogging away.

  So this was White. I hadn’t known what to expect from the Rugheran homeworld, so I wasn’t surprised to find it an ordinary-enough place. Breathable air, which I’d assumed given the beings had been on Drapskii and in both the Fox and Heerama.

  And on Plexis, I thought, remembering that weight on my back. It could have been a Rugheran’s arm.

  No buildings or any structures in sight, which wasn’t far—the horizon was obscured and everything closer was gray or black. Twilight, though the clouds overhead might be cutting the sunlight or White could orbit a dimmer sun than I’d ever experienced.

  The Drapsk could have left me a light, I grumbled to myself. I added shoes to my list of Drapsk-neglect, finding the ground slippery-soft and chill. The air supported a rising mist, fingers of it stroking what might be trees, if I took the lack of leaves as temporary. Otherwise, the landscape was flat and featureless—presumably why the Drapsk chose this otherwise desolate and empty place for their landing.

  As if the thought had triggered their launch, there was a shock of sound as the Heerama took off behind me. I dropped to the ground, instinctively digging my fingers into what felt like slick mud laced with tough fibrous roots.

  Or, I thought, keeping very, very still, what felt like a Rugheran.

  At that moment, when I was reasonably convinced things couldn’t get worse, an appallingly strong something pulled my mind into the M’hir before I could resist...

  ... The Singer. More powerful, more potent than ever before. Chords vibrated through me... silent trills raced up and down my spine, seeking places where my body answered to such music even as my mind struggled to break free... I imagined a discordance, played it in my thoughts with all the power in me and...

  ... found myself panting and cold, my face pressed against something that glistened like tiny scales in the retreating light of the Heerama’s engines. I lifted my head up, slowly, and looked around—taking advantage of that brightness. Nothing but glistening dark mounds surrounded by fibrous roots, as far as I could see—even where the Drapsks’ starship had landed and launched.

  This was not going well at all.

  INTERLUDE

  Things had gone well. Precisely for that reason, Barac was up at the crack of dawn—an hour his body normally found obscene, but it hadn’t yet adjusted to local time—so he could survey their surroundings through a pair of mags.

  The mags were ju
st a sample of what was in the cupboards and bins below. Morgan had equipped his hole in the ground for a full siege, the Clansman thought, gazing at the magnified image of sand, more sand, and more sand after that. There was food and water—and beer—for months. Not to mention a selection of weaponry that had Huido’s stamp all over it. Barac had had no idea Sira’s Human possessed such thorough paranoia. It was quite refreshing.

  It wasn’t quite a hole. There were several of these black, has-been mountains, a chain that forced the dunes to curve around them—for now. Barac stood with one foot propped against an upcropping like a shattered tooth; below, huge, steplike terraces led down to the yellow sand. Behind him was another upcropping. Behind that? Well, Barac thought cheerfully, that was where someone had shown pure ingenuity. Or insanity. Whatever it took to tunnel out a good-sized home in this wilderness, complete with indoor shelter for two aircars.

  Or one oversized Drapsk aircar, Barac chuckled to himself, able to laugh about it now. Yesterday, he thought he was going to have to bury the brute in the sand. But somehow, he and Ruti had squeezed it through the doors.

  Ruti. Barac let out the finest of seeking thoughts—she objected fearfully to any use of their Power—and withdrew it once he touched her sleeping mind. Good. She needed the rest. He’d seen what she’d been through—far more than anyone so young and inexperienced should have to face alone. How could Acranam have possibly imagined its children could survive, tossed into the galaxy like that? Clan arrogance.

  Amazing, really, how well Ruti had coped around aliens without training. Probably would make a fine First Scout, if Acranam was ever willing to look beyond its own orbit. Of course, the continued existence of scouts was something of a touchy issue, now that the Clan was a full-fledged member of the Trade Pact and was thus expected to stop influencing those weaker-minded for their own gain. Ah, the good old days.

  Barac looked at the rising sun, noticing an odd line of yellow blurring the horizon. Clouds perhaps. If it was a storm, he’d rather not try his minimal flying skills in it. The two of them were here for a while longer, anyway. He pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck. There’d been clothing, Morgan’s size and Sira’s, to which he and Ruti had gratefully helped themselves. Now to wait for Morgan, who would be coming for them once Symon was no longer a nuisance. Hopefully soon. That was the plan.

  Barac found himself uneasy. Everything was going unusually well. In his experience, that wasn’t a good sign.

  Ruti buried her head under the sheets, unwilling to admit to being awake. The kitchen smells hadn’t penetrated her room yet anyway. Kitchen? The events of the past days came back in a rush. She opened her eyes to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, carved from black stone, a tiny portlight still obediently glowing in the upper corner where Barac had set it. In case, he’d said, she awoke in the night.

  People who had been awake yesterday morning were dead today.

  Barac had talked to her last night about those who’d died: the Humans he’d killed, as well as the life she’d ended. Not too much, but enough to reassure Ruti that what she felt was normal and right. Death wasn’t to be taken lightly, even that of enemies. But she ached inside about Ansel. Automatically, Ruti reached for the comfort of her mother.

  Nothing.

  She stifled a yawn and tried to relax. This had happened before. She reached again, really trying this time, confident of success.

  Nothing.

  It had to be all this rock overhead. Ruti shrugged away her concern and climbed out of the bed, giving a little gasp of surprise as her toes found the cold stone floor instead of the rug nearby.

  She liked knowing this was Morgan’s house. His strength was here, in the stone and design; something of his kindness, too, in the soft blankets and well-stocked kitchen. There were vids and readers. Barac had told her there were other supplies—this was a fortress as well as a retreat—but Ruti did her best to forget all that.

  It was easy here. Outside, the desert was quiet, except for a faint, steady susurration as the ever-present breeze rolled sand grains up the dunes to tumble down the leading edges. And she’d never seen a sky stretched overhead like a bowl in three directions, so full of stars you could almost see the yellow of the sand by their light. Inside? There were the paintings, above all else.

  Ruti had never seen a home like this, where every surface had been used for art. Barac had said Morgan painted his ship as well, the Silver Fox. Some rooms were landscapes; others like being inside a burrow; most glowed with plant life. This was, Ruti decided, like being on a well-deserved holiday.

  She couldn’t fault her companion either, with the exception of his presumption in so abruptly scanning her thoughts in the aircar. They hadn’t compared their Powers yet, and she hadn’t any time to prepare herself. Her mind must have seemed disorganized and foolish. Still, Barac had apologized. If she were honest, Ruti knew it had been easier than trying to find words.

  Otherwise, Barac sud Sarc had proven to be resourceful, understanding, and entertaining. It had been too long since she’d been around other Clan—not that Acranam had many with Barac’s practiced charm. Ruti brushed her hair, feeling herself blush. He wouldn’t be paying her so much attention if they were on Acranam, where there were older, more worldly Clan to talk to, individuals of Power and poise. Not to mention the Choosers, who always claimed center stage from everyone else.

  Unless Council had moved them offworld already, she thought suddenly, trying to calculate the date. It had been the talk of Caraat Town, the new Council dictate to protect the unChosen. As if any of Acranam’s Choosers would harm those they’d grown up with—no wonder, Ruti thought, pressing the brush in firmly enough to hurt, First Chosen di Caraat had insisted the fosterlings be sent in secret. How dare the Clan Council send Acranam an ultimatum! Even if Ruti’s mother had told her Acranam would obey it, that it meant a wider range of Candidates for their Choosers. For Choice.

  Ruti put down the brush, surprised to be a little breathless. She reached for her mother again, but was distracted by the sound of: “Breakfast!”

  The rest had done her good, Barac thought, studying Ruti’s face where it showed beneath the mags. There was some color to her cheeks, a rose-pink under that fine skin. It suited her.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  She put down the mags and grinned up at him. “Sand. Huido would hate this place.”

  “And would make life miserable for anyone who had to be here with him,” Barac agreed wholeheartedly. “What about that bank of cloud?” He pointed to the eastern horizon. The sun was well up, and blazing hot, but didn’t seem to penetrate the ominous line of yellow-gray.

  “I think you’re right. It’s moving toward us. It must be a storm.” She sounded excited. “Will it rain?”

  “Here? I doubt it. Probably a sandstorm.” Barac, who preferred weather that behaved, felt a momentary alarm. Then he thought of the shelter behind them and relaxed. “I’m sure Morgan’s house can withstand whatever it is.”

  Ruti fell silent, staring outward. Barac leaned on the outcropping, wondering what she was thinking. A dark curl of hair blew into her eyes, and he reached absently to brush it behind her tiny ear, his fingers lingering. She didn’t move, but glanced sideways through her long lashes, a startled look.

  Barac drew his hand away, startled himself. “Maybe we should head inside,” he said quickly. “The wind is picking up already.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Ruti said. “I want to—I’ll be just a minute more.”

  The Clansman nodded and left her. He’d walked around the concealing rock and was approaching the door when a surge of Power through the M’hir stopped him in his tracks. As he hesitated, unsure if Ruti meant him to detect it, he felt her sudden despair. Something wasn’t right. Barac hurried back.

  Ruti was leaning on the rock. Her eyes were troubled as she looked up at him. “Nothing,” she gasped. “I can’t reach her.”

  Things had indeed gone too well, Barac re
alized, his mouth drier than the desert air alone explained. “You can’t reach your mother,” he said, without any doubt at all, bitterly aware of the irony of his being here, now, instead of anyone else.

  “No—I—” her eyes widened until he could drown in them. “What does it mean?”

  Barac took a step back and swept her a low, graceful bow. “Congratulations, Ruti di Bowart,” he said bitterly. “You are now a Chooser.”

  She’d ‘ported to her room in the house. The threat of Symon and more violence was nothing compared to the look on Barac’s face when he’d bowed. He hadn’t been happy for her. He’d been sad and angry, as if this was all her fault, as if she’d done it on purpose, as if she’d wanted to lose her link to her mother and... and...

  And want something to replace it. Must have something to replace it. Ruti stood in the middle of the room and lifted her right hand, suddenly understanding the only reason Barac would have reacted as he had.

  He was unChosen.

  She threw herself from her room and down the hall that stretched from the living area to the artificial cavern holding the aircar. “Barac!”

  Where was he? Not in the kitchen or his room. She ran outside, growing more and more anxious. He wasn’t there. But the sandstorm was. Ruti stopped, horrified by the oncoming wall of yellow. Already, the ledge where she stood was being scoured by the sand-heavy wind.

  She rushed into the house and down the hall to the cavern. He was there, leaning into the Drapsk aircar, but straightened and turned to face her as she burst through the doorway. Ruti made herself stand still. “You aren’t leaving—” she protested.

  “How can I stay?” Barac said harshly. The M’hir heaved between them and Ruti winced. He saw and tightened his shields, tried to soften his voice. “Ruti. It won’t be long now—you must know that. You must already feel it. I—” his voice lowered, and his eyes seemed burn into hers. “I do.”