“Not quite.” She eyed Huido. He eyed her back, dozens of times over. “Stubborn, aren’t you.” It wasn’t admiration. Sitting back down, she pointed to her glass. “A firmly worded memo went from our new Board Member to the Assembler homeworld condemning the attacks.”
“‘Memo?’” The Carasian shook himself, as if to remove the word, then stalked over to the keg muttering, “I’ll write them a memo. And deliver it.”
“Wouldn’t have that much if our late Board Member hadn’t conspired with them to commit species-cide.” Bowman caught Morgan’s eye. “Accident in transit. Shame. Cartnell had more to tell us.”
Her stubby forefinger circled in air. “As for any crime? Scale, my friends. The number of Clan reported dead? Less than a cruiser’s complement. Add to that, the incidents were on Humanocentric worlds. We’re one species among thousands, each with problems they’ve a right to consider first.” She snorted. “Doesn’t help the Assemblers—and the Clan—pretended to be Human. Most of the Board can’t tell us apart, including the ones who like us. No offense,” with a nod at Huido.
Not a surprise, but it left a foul taste. The Clan’s rebirth didn’t change the fact that the Assemblers had murdered them in their hundreds. Deaths of terror and pain.
Deaths Sira had felt.
For that alone, he thought grimly, the Assemblers should pay. But Bowman hadn’t come about the past. “Your hands are tied anyway,” he concluded aloud. “Assemblers aren’t in the Trade Pact.”
Her eyes went cold, but she didn’t argue. “They push another species who is, I get to push back. Till then?” Her hand tipped, palm down.
“I pay my taxes. There’s other Human authority,” Huido rumbled. “What about them?”
“Port Jellies claimed lack of jurisdiction, the Clan being non-Human—or requested formal complaints from next-of-kin. When I pointed out the next-of-kin were dead as well, I was invited to lift offworld and look after aliens.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow.
Her answering shrug was eloquent. Strictly speaking, Trade Pact Enforcers had no jurisdiction dirtside, but this was Bowman. Heads would have, figuratively, rolled.
“The Assemblers attacked the Clan with a species-specific toxin. You’d think that would matter to someone.”
“Oh, it matters.” With a nod, Bowman accepted a second beer. She drank deep before continuing. “What to do about it is the problem. We couldn’t get rid of Assemblers if we tried. The individual bits slip by Port Authority as easily as vermin. Unified? They’ve no traceable affiliations, no travel records, no idents. The perfect infiltrators. But—tell me something, Morgan.” That finger stabbed the air at him. “You’ve been in the Fringe; seen enough. Does it track Assemblers came up with this grand scheme to eradicate the Clan on their own?”
She’d a positive gift for turning things inside out. He wrenched his brain to follow the question. The Assemblers he’d traded with argued with their own parts. He’d watched a couple fragment trying to get through a door simultaneously. “Rumor was,” Morgan mused, “they couldn’t work together.”
“Like putting a Scat and Whirtle at the same table,” Huido contributed, the former species an obligate predator constrained to live food, the latter unfortunately of the hapless, tasty variety. “Or two pox in a hole. Or—”
Bowman coughed before the Carasian could expand on the mutually incompatible, as much a problem in the restaurant business as in gatherings of the Trade Pact Board. “Just so. It’s smelled like a setup to me from the start. My guess? The little monsters were aimed at the Clan by someone, multiple or solo.” A finger tapped. “Same someone,” another tap, “developed and gave them the toxin. Could do it again’s the rub.” A sober pause, during which her clear gaze found them both. “Can’t prove a thing. Assemblers fragment before giving up a secret. My usual sources are dry on the topic; my latest isn’t willing to talk about it. Rot them all,” she stated, her tone sending a shiver down Morgan’s spine. She leaned back, as abruptly composed. “So I’m coming at the business from another angle.”
“The Facilitator.”
“Who helped the Assemblers reach their targets.” Bowman nodded. “I’ve a lead. Could use help following it.”
Huido’s claw snapped in protest before the Human could respond. “You see how he is.”
“I do.” She gave Morgan a speculative look. “But I know what he is.”
His bones hurt. His stomach wanted to reject supper, let alone the beer. The lights were too bright.
And Lydis Bowman? Never told the whole truth.
“What I am is curious,” Morgan countered. “Why today, in a sandstorm?”
Gods, that earned him an honest, if predatory, grin. “That’s the thanks I get for keeping your hideout off scans.”
Everything was convoluted with her. He wasn’t sure if his head hurt or was waking up. “The storm’s convenient,” he dismissed. “You came today, and it’s not because of your ‘lead’ on the Facilitator. It’s something else. Something you believed involved the Clan till I told you they were gone. Tell me. Or we’re done here.” And he could go back to bed—
Instead of a direct answer, Bowman pursed her lips, then held up her glass. “You still do that trick? The one where you make things go poof?”
When had she—how—Morgan shook his head, well aware of the futility of such questions. “You mean this?” He concentrated on the glass . . .
. . . pushing it into the M’hir.
He’d have been gratified to see Bowman’s start when the glass vanished, but the effort drained what little he had left, and this wasn’t—in any sense—about tricks. “Why?”
“There’ve been thefts. Locked room stuff—situations where an ability like that might have explained things.”
Huido rose, offended. Morgan eased him back with a gesture. He had to see, or touch, an object to give it a push.
And it wasn’t an accusation, not yet. Besides, Terk was the one with a low opinion of his honesty. Bowman?
Knew him a little too well. “I’ve been here,” Morgan reminded her.
“These thefts occurred shortly before you showed up,” she confirmed comfortably. Her head tilted. “They landed on my desk because the Trade Pact takes a very dim view of coordinated crime across member systems. You see, the robberies weren’t simply close in time. They were simultaneous. That takes remarkable planning.”
No. It took unthinkable power.
His heart labored in his chest. It couldn’t be. “What was stolen?” But he knew. He knew. The M’hir touched everywhere.
Why had he thought AllThereIs wouldn’t?
Her gaze sharpened. “What is it, Morgan?”
“What was stolen?” He found himself leaning over the table at her, braced on shaking arms.
Bowman didn’t pull away. “Hoveny artifacts. Priceless, I’m told. Taken from several museums.”
Taken from the Trade Pact.
Taken from this space.
“They’ll all be gone,” he whispered, sagging back down. He missed the chair. Huido caught him in a grip like a metal vise. “From collections. Secret hordes. Packing crates. From anywhere. Everywhere.”
By rights, the darkness that was the M’hir should be awash in a civilization’s sad debris; the Hoveny’s doomed technology, the billions of their dead, bumping into harmless oddments like a beer glass and sheets—
—but hadn’t Sira told him? The entities from AllThereIs didn’t take, they destroyed.
“How can you know that? What’s this about? Make sense!”
“There’s life in the M’hir. You’ve seen it.” Trust the Drapsk to put it on a viewer. “This is more. This is instinct.” He found himself in the chair and tried to focus. “Self-defense. The Hoveny disturbed—couldn’t have known—we’re safe now. It’s over.” Morgan thought he spoke clearly, but there was somethi
ng wrong with Bowman. The look on her face—he’d never seen anything like it, not once in all the years. He tried to smile. “It’ll be all right. AllThereIs won’t pay attention to us anymore. It’s why the Clan had to go, you see. It’s why Sira left me. To guard against the dark—”
The table rose up and hit him in the face.
Interlude
An Undisclosed Location
“ ‘A COOK?’” Ivory-tipped fingers drummed thoughtfully, then were lifted for their fresh manicure with diamond insets to be admired. “The fool doesn’t know he needs a Trade Pact Certified Multi-Species Master Chef. I’ll arrange it. I believe that’s the final item. Questions?”
There were, at that instant, three beings in the spacious apartment; unified, the Assembler counted for less than the sum of its parts. The two summoned to this meeting, the Assembler and an elderly sept from Omacron, stayed well back from the wash of natural light pouring in from outside—
There being no window at present, and their host reputed to use the opening, and the sixty-story drop on the other side of it, as a convenient expression of her dissatisfaction—
Not that their host showed any such at the moment, but Brill were volatile—this one more than most—and these two hadn’t survived her company by taking risks.
Unless needful. Gryba’s hand raised, the Omacron’s long fingers trembling as though caught in a breeze. “This humble one inquires why we would aid one of the shelled ones.”
“You waste time.” Mathis Dewley’s left foot twitched. The right stepped on it. “You always do. WASTE TIME!”
Distressed by the vehemence—and spittle—sept curled back over the upper of its two supple waists.
“See? You’re doing it again!”
“Dewley, mind your betters.” The Brill rose to her feet, folds of smooth blubber revealed by the issa-silk of her raiment. Larger than most, this one, too. Choiola was her name, highest in the ranking of her kind among aliens, Board Member for the Brill in the Trade Pact.
Less high among her own kind, it patently beneath a founder of the First to consort with an array of unproven new species for the sake of, of all things, peace and commerce. The only unifying interest of the First had been to learn why the Hoveny Concentrix had failed so that they didn’t.
That, and the entertaining dance around mutual extermination. Theirs hadn’t been, she thought wistfully, a peaceful civilization at all.
Now? The First had been overrun by swarms of humanity, starting with the Commonwealth. Worse, than that. Diminished to history, its once-weak members falling over themselves to embrace the upstart Trade Pact, seeking safety within its cooperation, its inclusiveness. As if every species were equal.
As if none deserved to rule the rest.
Not for long. The new First would be stronger, better. They’d leave behind the weak and useless, and the Brill would lead the way!
Until then, each served, Choiola reminded herself, stopping where she could stare down at the fragile Omacron. Hard to credit Gryba’s ancestors were founders, too. Perhaps an unfortunate genetic drift had reduced them.
The creature uncurled, flashing wide the lids of sept’s oblong eyes to expose their outer ring of black. Words, unwelcome, unwanted, slammed into her mind: We ruled twenty systems more than the Brill. We will again!
She envisioned the “humble” Omacron being skinned alive and made, yes, into a carpet.
Choiola smiled as Gryba flinched and lowered sept’s lids. Teach sept to eavesdrop—for now. “Your inquiry is reasonable. We suspect Huido’s establishment on Plexis—this Claws & Jaws—is used by the Consortium.”
A hand dropped loose to run under a chair, but the rest of Dewley was made of sterner stuff—or noticed he was now between the Brill and the open sky, and nothing tempted a Brill more than a moving target. “The equipment was installed, Fem Choiola. Just as you wanted. Just where you said. I swear it.”
“I should hope so. We shall do all we can to ensure this restaurant opens and succeeds. With patience comes opportunity.” The Brill struck her chest with a fist. “We will snare those who’ve eluded us, and it will be your turn, Gryba, then.” She watched as the Omacron’s skin suffused a telling green and yellow, a display of no utility among aliens, bizarre in this dwelling of metal and glass, but nature wouldn’t be denied.
Unlike most Brill, she’d made a point of studying the species who were, for now at least, their allies. Such a display had but one meaning. The prospect of using sept’s mental powers against other sapients—especially against any of those who’d so successfully curtailed their previous attempts to destabilize the Trade Pact and restore the First to glory—aroused the disgusting creature.
“No need to thank me,” Choiola assured sept.
Gryba had better be far from her living space before doing whatever sept must to relieve septself, or she’d have one less ally.
Aboard the Ikkraud
Allies.
Eyes half-lidded, Wys di Caraat let her gaze follow the pacing Scat. Efficient things, Scats, with much to commend them. She’d no complaint so far. There was, however, always the worry someone would outbid her for their services. Scats being pirates by trade and inclination, trust wasn’t in their nature.
One of the few things they had in common. This Scat wasn’t the ship’s captain, but an ambitious second, bright enough to grasp the potential gains afforded by insinuating itself close to the Clan when most of its kind openly loathed “mindcrawlers.”
Enlightened self-interest, that loathing. The Clanswoman indulged herself in a sigh; she did prefer her allies mind-wiped and controlled, but finding susceptible individuals without attracting unwanted attention wasn’t easy. These days, it was nearly impossible.
She remembered when anything was, when the House of Caraat had been recognized for its potency among Clan and she’d controlled their rich holdings on Camos, itself the seat of the Clan Council. Not that di Caraats sought political power.
Why should they? It came to them, for among Clan, those of greater strength ruled, and her son, Yihtor, possessed Power unmatched save by one: Sira di Sarc.
Had her son Joined to Sira, as he should, they’d have witnessed the birth of a dynasty. Wys would have raised their offspring to be a true di Caraat and begun the rise of her House to rule all other Clan.
Except Sira refused his Candidacy, and the Council ruled in her favor.
Not to be denied, Wys had led those loyal to her and her son into a new life, free of rules, only to watch in horror as Sira Commenced for a Human’s bastard Power—allowed an alien to contaminate the M’hir—fought her son, and defeated him.
These days were different, yes. Wys allowed herself a tight little smile. The mighty Sira was dead, taking Jason Morgan with her, while she had those utterly loyal to her and to her House.
And to their shared future.
In the meantime, this Scat would have to do.
“Stop pacing,” she told it, tiring of the prick-prick of its clawed toes in her carpet. “Word will come.”
“Or not. Our intermediary was-ss unreliable.” Crests rose behind each of its slit-pupiled eyes. A black whiplike tongue daintily recovered a feather lodged between two fangs, the intermediary having paid for its failure. “We could have obtained the final item of the shipment directly.”
“A Scat ship on Camos?” A known pirate, landing on a wealthy inner system world? Lucky if they were only searched to the bulkheads. She didn’t hide her scorn. “This is why you’re not the captain.”
Though Camos itself . . . For an instant, Wys contemplated its unseeable wealth, the ease of passages burned through the M’hir to every other Clan holding, encompassing hundreds of Human worlds.
None to Acranam, the world she and her son had claimed for their own.
Acranam. Whose Clan sided with Sira di Sarc and her Chosen, the foul Human telepath Jason Mor
gan—the pair responsible for the capture and destruction of her son! Acranam. Who’d pleaded to be part of the Clan again, under Council’s thumbs, even to be part of the Trade Pact.
Spat her out, hadn’t they? With her Chosen and all those still loyal to the di Caraats. Forced them to live like this, hidden in space, running between worlds.
Another cruel smile flickered along her lips. Who’d the better of that bargain, now?
For Acranam had burned. She’d laughed as the Watchers wailed in the M’hir, for their howls were her triumph. Kept careful track, to be sure every Chosen, Chooser, unChosen, and child who’d opposed her was dead. The last had disappeared from Stonerim III, leaving nothing but ghosts.
Believe in destiny? She was destiny. All the Clan who continued to exist were hers, and she’d given them a new name, one to remind them forever of their first, great leap forward together. Taken that of the cruise ship and crew they’d destroyed in order to escape Council and be free.
Destarians.
“Word will come,” Wys repeated. In days, perhaps. More likely weeks.
Then, she would begin her dynasty.
Chapter 4
Three Standard Weeks Later
AUORD’S SHIPCITY played itself on flickering screens that covered the walls of the small room, the towering starships and gantries like toys sparkling with portlights, planetary freighters hovering overhead. While there was, by agreement, no official surveillance of the ships finsdown at port—many being homes as well as transport—nothing went unnoticed. Every entrance was monitored, along with the changing perspectives fed from vids attached to Auord’s fleet of docking tugs, here.
“Peaceful night. May it stay so.” With that, Thel Masim stretched and rose from her easi-rest in front of the large center screen, the paired luck beads in her gray hair tinkling. “You ready?”
The Human paused his sweeper. “You hired me to clean.” His voice, like his face, gave nothing away, shared nothing, but she’d never seen self-doubt in those remarkable blue eyes before.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 4