Another Drapsk committed eopari.
“‘Where’ is impossible to determine,” the captain said, chewing a pensive tentacle. “The Hoveny materials were drawn into the Scented Way. The Scented Way has—” he added a little too helpfully, “—dimensions corresponding to this one, but none we can link to what’s within it.”
Manouya grunted twice, then leaned forward on his elbows. “Make sense.”
“Our best scientists give no clearer answer. The last remnants of the Hoveny were removed from this space at 15:14:34.345 standard.”
There was a disturbing gleam in the Brill’s eyes. “Confirming who did this. I know who has taken this revenge on me.”
Antennae shot erect. “You do?” Captain Heevertup’s voice quivered.
“Yes, and they want what’s in your cargo hold. I’ll be—Grasis’ sucking Hells!”
With a clatter of falling weaponry, every Drapsk, including the captain, curled into a tight ball. The ones who’d been seated bounced gently to the floor, several—including the captain—rolling under tables.
“Shame.” Terk lifted his sandaled feet to let that particular ball continue its motion. “Seen them do this for most of a day,” he commented, eyeing the Brill. He stood, mug in hand. “Guessing you don’t mind if I help myself?”
The Brill looked incredulous. “What?”
“Wait for me.” Morgan took his own mug, following Terk to the bar as if they were nothing more than spacers out for the night. Every step, the skin between his shoulders crawled, expecting attack, but the enforcer had the right of it. They’d one chance to convince Manouya they weren’t a threat.
They made it to the bar and walked around, Terk heading for the taps. He wrapped his hand around a pull, glanced down—
Then lunged for Morgan, dragging him to the floor.
Together, they stared into the bulging eyes of the real bartender. Her body had been jammed between the kegs, fitting only because her arms were cauterized stumps.
The stunner with the digester appeared in Terk’s hand. As he tensed to jump up and shoot, Morgan grabbed his arm. “The Drapsk.”
Realization darkened the other’s face. Working quickly, the enforcer began to assemble another weapon from parts from various pockets.
“Wait.” Manouya should have reacted by now. Morgan put his hands on the bartop, then rose to his feet. “He’s gone.”
Terk sat back, banging his head against the keg as he swore with vicious creativity.
Leaving the enforcer to vent his frustration, Morgan went around the bar to confirm they were alone—other than the balls of comatose Drapsk. Throwing knife in hand, he fell into that unconscious stealthy grace he’d learned long ago, on another battleground, checking booths and shadows.
Behind, Terk kicked in the storeroom door, still swearing.
They met at the table. “This mean anything to you?”
Manouya had written an address in the warehouse district. It was the word beside it, larger and underlined, Terk meant.
“‘Brexk,’” he read aloud.
“Still on that?” Terk shook his head. “All right, what’s it mean? Other than the obvious.”
“The meat is a popular export,” Morgan ventured, the corner of his mouth deepening. “Smugglers like the density.”
Terk gave that “thought you’d know” snort, then shook his head. “Could be code for something else entirely. Bet the Drapsk know.” He used his sandal to nudge the ball of first officer.
“I wouldn’t,” Morgan advised. “Any movement during eopari leaves them disoriented when they wake.”
The enforcer desisted. “Can’t have them make less sense than usual.” He looked up at the door. “You stay here. They like you. Find out what the Brill wants.”
“The Facilitator.”
“Yeah, him.” A flash of cold eyes. “Bowman caught a Split under Norval. Named Manouya as the Facilitator, but it was a dead end till now. Trader trick, huh, getting the Brill to admit his real name?”
Trick? Knowing how to show courtesy to customers of differing shapes and cultures was an essential tool, but— Morgan moved his hand in a throwaway gesture. “I doubt Manouya gave a thought to his true name having meaning to us. He doesn’t think much of Humans.”
“I got that.” Terk eyed the table, then rapped it with a decisive knuckle. “Can’t let the Port Jellies get their paws on this. Stand back.” Producing a vial the size of his thumbnail from inside his jacket, the enforcer carefully squeezed droplets over the tabletop, concentrating his efforts on the writing and the crack. It sizzled and popped in an unmistakable manner.
“Scat spit?”
Terk grinned. “Happens in all the best bars.”
He was Bowman’s second for good reason, despite the occasional lapse of caution. Morgan eyed him. “You’re cheerful for a being with a limited life expectancy.”
“Part of the job.” Terk’s unhandsome features clashed in grim angles. “If Manouya wanted us dead, Morgan, we’d be that way. Suits him to have us run around loose a while longer. You got his attention. My guess? He knows you’ve a connection to Clan. Me? I’m just the pisspot.” He stooped to collect the Drapsk contract pad. “The pisspot who’ll see if Bowman can pry an ident out of the Brill Board Member, while you get whatever Manouya wants from the Drapsk.”
Morgan frowned. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“Don’t spoil the moment.” That grin again. “We’re ahead.”
Morgan carried a chair up the stairs, using it to prop open one of the doors. Damp air pushed in, redolent of the alley beyond. If he was lucky, the stench would penetrate The Raunchy Retian and wake the Drapsk.
Until then, they were his responsibility. He sat in the chair, stretching out his legs, and crossed his arms over his chest, prepared to wait.
A Drapsk blaster in each hand.
Interlude
THEY WANTED ME TO RETURN. To search the Trade Pact for Acranam’s exiles and bring them home.
In Rael’s body.
“You need do nothing more, Sira. Your connection to that flesh will end,” the projection of my noncorporeal sister promised, as if making sense. “Remember, you mustn’t scan Between—the M’hir—for them.”
“They’ll be shielded anyway,” Yihtor added unhelpfully.
Not from my Power, not if I knew to look. I didn’t bother arguing with him. “Assuming this—” I waved my hand between Rael and my admittedly not-real body, “—is remotely possible, why can’t I?”
<
That hadn’t, as I recalled, stopped me before. But Rael’s face paled. “Sira, any use of your Power in the M’hir affects it. For all we know, a single heart-search could cause it to—to fail.” Her cupped hands flew apart.
As if that dreadful, life-filled Dark could crack like a Skenkran egg, an image I didn’t need right now. “Then it can’t be done.” In the Trade Pact, my kind had been notoriously unable to comprehend the distances involved in space travel. I saw no sign Singers were any better at it, but I tried. “No one person could travel the entire Trade Pact, let alone search for hidden Clan. I don’t even have a starship!”
“You have friends who do. Allies who can conduct such a search.” Yihtor’s mutilated face seemed to float. “As do I.”
“That’s why I can’t do it,” Rael insisted. “I would, Sira, but there’s no one left in the Trade Pact I trust.”
It wasn’t bitter. It was the truth. The Clan hadn’t those connections. Most of them. I stared at Yihtor, who’d dealt with any being willing to pay his price. Mind-wiping. Memory theft. Trust wouldn’t be a factor for him either, but he could rely on extortion.
“Yihtor will be himself,” I said. “I won’t, by any measure.”
Rael’s eyes glistened. “You’ll find a way to convince them, heart-kin.”
�
�There’s one who’ll know—” Yihtor began, but whatever he sensed from me stopped him. Wise.
“Will we?” I lifted my hands, turned them to study the calluses left by my keffleflute—what I remembered of those calluses and flute—looked up. “For this to work, Yihtor and I must keep our memories—” of what? being less dead? “—when we enter the Trade Pact. If we start fresh again, as Stolen do? We’d be useless.”
“Our bodies still hold ours,” Rael said. “I will guide you, Sira, along that binding. I’ll ensure yours are put in place.”
This kept getting better, I thought grimly. “Our previous lives are only half of it,” I reminded them. “You and I, Yihtor,” I directed my gaze at him, “aren’t enemies here. The problem we’re to solve comes from here. How do we remember AllThereIs there, when no Stolen ever has?”
<
I closed my eyes, briefly, then opened them. “Watchers are coming?”
An actual voice answered, as hollow as space, but oddly familiar. <
Taisal Sarc, Aryl’s mother. I’d met her, her Watcher-self, before. Powerful, yes, but Between wasn’t in any sense forgiving of intrusion. I doubted that had improved with this rot they feared. “How long can you hold?”
<
From every existence. As Watchers. As Singers. If I’d doubted the dire urgency to those here of what Rael had come to tell me, if I’d cared, selfishly, more for Morgan and the Trade Pact?
I couldn’t now.
Offering a hand to each projection, I bowed my head. “Take me back.”
Passage was akin to this—this velocity through the Dark. M’hir life startled and moved away. Others, hints, glimpses, swam close. Hungered.
Fell behind.
Never before had hands held mine. Hands that held other hands. I envisioned an infinite string of Singers and Watchers stretched across the universes and for an endless time that wasn’t at all—
I belonged.
Abruptly, the M’hir reacted, its smooth, almost peaceful depths becoming a tumultuous, raging ocean . . . no, not an ocean, for that I’d seen before. This was wind, howling and full of debris and grit . . . we were tossed up, let fall, helpless . . .
Only one thing offered safety . . . Vessels, those rare havens . . . but where?
I glimpsed a dire truth: a Singer could be lost here and never be found.
Watchers took hold, and we who were lost were guided, herded, RUSHED . . .
Not Stolen—
Saved.
I’d a pulse.
I’d forgotten the small steady beat. Hadn’t needed it. Hadn’t missed it. How easy, to forget flesh and be mind.
How numbingly strange, to be flesh again, and wonder why . . .
Chapter 8
MORGAN KNEW WHY he was sitting in a chair in the entrance to a seedier-than-most dive in Auord’s All Sapients’ District, his backside well past numb. He just wasn’t sure why he was still there, given the sun was climbing behind the spires of the shipcity, its rays making him squint, and he’d better things to do, surely.
He sighed and stretched. No help for it. He couldn’t leave the dear little balls of Drapsk, for balls they remained. The only disturbance had been a chittering from behind the bar late into the night that proved to be a pair of larger-than-usual vermin, quarreling over the unfortunate bartender’s corpse. They’d paused to stare up at him, teeth gleaming, eyes a wicked red, then gone back to their feast. The Human had made himself watch until he was confident the Drapsk were in no danger. Besides, he was sure they had some type of internal alarm; a nip or two might have roused them.
No such luck. No sign of Terk either. He pulled out his com, regarded it morosely, then tucked it away again.
Standing watch wasn’t new; sleep didn’t tempt him. The waking illusions had ended, not those disguised as dreams, and when he had the choice? He’d rather think of Sira as she’d been.
Not relive their final moment, over and over and over.
Morgan shifted position, changing his grip on the Drapsk blasters. They suited a smaller hand than his—a hand like hers. Not that Sira had willingly picked up a weapon. There’d been that time she’d rescued him brandishing the ship’s sealer—
Gods, it hurt, as though her loss scraped out his insides, leaving him empty. Leaving him hopeless.
Empty, he wasn’t. Sira was gone, but he’d fill the hollows with her memory no matter what the cost.
As for hopeless? Well, Morgan thought wearily, what use would hope be? She was gone. It was done. He’d a job. Live and do what he could for his friends.
What he was willing to do. There were minds around him, waking to the day, and some would be sensitive. Minds he could reach.
And would not. Bowman hadn’t tried to persuade him; she’d understood.
When he’d first felt his ability, Ren Symon had taught him not control, but how to give strength to serve another. He’d tried but failed to draw a young Morgan to darker places, to wield his mind as a weapon. From the Omacron, Morgan learned to keep out other minds and believed he was in control, using his ability to do useful tricks. Work locks that required the Talent. Spook those who feared telepaths by the merest hint of Power. Scan for ill intent.
Stay safe within his own mind.
Sira had taught him to move beyond it. Even as his shields became impenetrable, she’d uncovered his gift for repairing damaged minds. Even as he’d learned to push objects in the M’hir, she’d shown him the living links within it, Clan to Clan, mother to child. Between Chosen—
They’d dreamed in harmony—
A waste canister toppled in the alley.
The Human was on his feet before the last echo, easing into the shadowed doorway.
Another canister went down. All at once, a trio of shapes hopped past Morgan, skidding in refuse as they fled for the alley’s exit.
A massive shape followed, low and fast, claw snapping viciously in air. The clang and clatter of weapons against hard shell was sufficient to terrify any being not yet in full flight, ending only when the apparition came to a rattling halt at the bottom of the stairs.
Stepping into the sunlight, Morgan found himself reflected in a row of gleaming black eyes. “Huido.”
“A fine morning, brother,” the Carasian boomed in great high spirits. From the stains on that claw, not everything had eluded its grip. “Friend Terk said you had a problem.” A hopeful snap.
Morgan smiled slowly. “Don’t tell him I said so, but the man has moments of genius. Come in.”
There being nothing more likely to wake a roomful of Drapsk from eopari than Huido.
There was nothing more likely to delay and distract a roomful of Drapsk than Huido. The Carasian stood in the middle of The Raunchy Retian, holding perfectly still while cooing, smitten Heerii climbed all over him. A few were cuddled—there was no other word for it—against his balloonlike feet. Including the first officer.
He’d either forgotten the depths of their infatuation, Morgan thought, grinning, or Huido’s chase through the alley had added something spectacular to his natural body odor.
Though it wasn’t Huido’s odor, exactly, charming the Drapsk. They possessed a sense similar to that of Carasians, able to detect what the latter called grist. Grist could be pleasant or not, according to Huido, depending on factors ranging from mental health to emotional stability. Grist could be highly admirable or not, and that was trickier to explain. Good versus evil was too simplistic, but part of it.
The M’hir was part of it, too. Drapsk claimed there were elements in this space that were simultaneously components of the other, some alive, some less so. These elements helped make the M’hir what it was: connected, dangerous. Beautiful, that as well. All meaning what, Morgan couldn�
��t begin to guess. When Drapsk tried their earnest best to explain such matters, the result was always confusing.
Not so the Drapsk presently fluttering their plumes over the scarred shell of a heavily armed and armored alien. They had, Morgan thought with a sudden rush of warmth, excellent taste in friends.
But time wasn’t one. “Huido, you big oaf,” he called fondly. “Stop fooling around. We’ve work to do.”
Starting with a visit to the Heerala and an order of Brexk.
There were strictures governing the design of starships. Physics led the way, of course, it being needful to separate radiation, vacuum, and random particles from atmosphere and flesh, not to mention build engines to burrow through subspace enclosed in shapes to escape gravity and friction. Right on the heels of incorruptible nature came the deep desire of all spacefaring species to limp into an alien port and be able to leave again, repaired. The success of the Trade Pact owed as much to the development of common standards for mundane machinery as it did to the unceasing diplomatic efforts of its members.
Or more. Then, Morgan thought, looking around with interest, there were species like the Drapsk, who found a way to bury any commonalities beneath the requirements of their biology.
The interior of the Heerala was a maze of doorless curves, with wider spaces budding left or right at seeming random. A drafty maze, whiffs of air conveying chemical information throughout the ship. The ceilings were higher than those in a Human design, presumably to allow more targeted communications to travel unimpeded.
Something not happening to them, unfortunately. Huido remained a living magnet; whenever they passed crewbeings hard at work, they’d stop with a twitch of their antennae, then join the throng behind.
Or in front. Each time they rounded a bend, a cluster would be waiting. There’d be a momentary pause to allow these new Drapsk to flutter at the Carasian, then they’d whirl and join those already out in front, as happy to lead the way as to follow.
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