“Go ahead,” he invited, amused. “Ask.”
“Huh.” She swallowed, then squinted as if to see through him. “You could have found another ship. One ready to lift without all this—” a gesture to the tools and parts strewn around them. “Why stick with us?”
Because she referred, without thinking, to the engines and herself as “us.” Because he was as sentimental in his way as Huido and wanted to believe the Wayfarer and her captain had a future.
Neither being reasons the hard-eyed engineer would accept, Morgan swung his e-ration in an echoing sweep. “I’ve missed this.” Whether she believed him or not, it was true.
A second noncommittal “Huh.” Erin took another bite and chewed, her attention drifting to the exposed core of the engines. “Could raise the intermix a notch. What do you think?”
“You’re the expert.” He’d recognized at once how much her theoretical knowledge surpassed his—what he had to offer were cheap fixes, the creative workarounds that had kept the Fox moving longer than she should. One occurred to him now. As he described it to the Wayfarer’s captain, her eyes gleamed with interest.
No more new problems, they just might make it.
Morgan checked the time.
Where was Terk?
The answer arrived with the Whirtle. Noska burst into the engine room, tripping over a pipe, tentacles flailing. Morgan caught it short of a puddle of oil, steadying it on its feet.
Erin hurried over. “What’s wrong? Is it Russo? That—”
“No no no. We paid the bill and the interest and you have to listen! There’s a LEMMICK trying to get in!” The Whirtle’s eyes were rimmed in urgent red. Its voice gained a second component, a rapid ear-piercing tremolo. “A LEMMICK!!!” Warning the rest of its kind, that sound, Whirtles being painfully sensitive to airborne particulates—and odors.
“That’d be Finelle,” Morgan said with relief. At Erin’s incredulous look, he added, “Terk’s new partner, Two-Lily Finelle.”
“A LEMMICK!!!”
Erin tried to pat Noska on the head, doing her best to reproduce the species’ soothing hum. The being dodged back, stumbling again. “Seal the air locks!” Noska demanded. “Call the authorities!!”
“She is the authorities,” his captain shouted at it, losing patience. “Calm down!”
Noska’s nostrils, wide and lined with fine white hairs, snapped shut. “‘On’t cob down! DEBBICK!!”
“You’d better go,” Erin told Morgan, eyes glinting with determination. “The two of us will finish what’s left.”
“You’re sure?”
“DEBBICK!!!”
She mouthed “GO!”
Morgan eased by the pair and out the door.
Terk and his temporary new partner were standing on the ramp in front of the Wayfarer’s functioning air lock, the tow line to a loaded grav sled in the latter’s hand. The Human was making rude gestures at the vid lens.
The Lemmick? Seeing what she wore, Morgan swung the port wide, smiling in welcome. “You must be the new partner. I’m Jason Morgan.” Habit made him hold his breath; manners dictated otherwise.
This was no ordinary Lemmick. Finelle was encased, from boot tip to her elegant, rear-aimed pororus—the flexible organ extending the head other species were not invited to touch—in what looked to be a skin-tight pink balloon. Flat clear globes revealed her dark lidless eyes, while a grid covered her mouth, located beneath where a Human would have a chin.
Instead of her enforcer uniform, over the body balloon Finelle wore a version of Terk’s disguise—correction, Morgan thought, smile widening—she wore part of Terk’s disguise. The crustacean-covered shirt worked as dress, coming down to her knobby knees. It barely fit around her waist, Lemmicks being significantly wider there, and would have made wings at her narrow shoulders but she’d tied the excess into a pair of lumps framing her oval face.
Completing the look, her weapon belt wrapped the middle of her chest, the holster a thick strap secured by a band around her thigh. It put an unusually nasty-looking needler in easy reach of her three-fingered hand.
Terk’s lack of shirt exposed his neck and hairy chest, both improbably roped with muscle, both a network of scars.
Suffice it to say, no one would trouble the pair.
“How’s the ship?” Terk asked. He lingered to eye their surroundings as Finelle brought the cart through the air lock, stepping quickly through.
“Ask me in an hour.” Morgan leaned back, his hands out to the sides, their palms aimed at the Lemmick. “May your day be free of incident.”
Finelle passed her partner the cord in order to free her hands to echo the gesture. “And may your evening be memorable. You have fine manners, Captain Morgan.”
“Yeah, he’s a charmer.” Terk glowered. “And gonna cost us our commissions.”
Finelle tittered, the laugh of her kind almost soundless. “Surely just yours, Partner Russ-Ell.” She made his name into a little song. “It wasn’t my thumb on the release order.”
“Terk.” Low and clearly frustrated. “Call me Terk.”
“You know I will not, Partner Russ-Ell.” Another titter, to put the big Human in his place, then the Lemmick grew serious, putting her hand on the crate. “We must deal with these promptly, Captain Morgan.”
No use telling her he was one no longer; Lemmicks liked their aliens labeled by function. “This way.”
Morgan had set up a workspace near one of the emergency escape hatches. A line of dark red spacesuits, varied in size and body shape, hung on the bulkhead beside it. One hook was empty.
Terk pursed his lips in an appreciative whistle. “Pretty. Do they hold air?”
“This one does.” The suit fit well; he’d expected no less given the original cost of these. “I’ve stripped the beacons and alerts.” Along with anything else liable to ping on basic sensors, but he had to trust the Worraud boasted the usual Scat tendency to focus on what was big enough to shoot at—and might shoot back.
On another table, the antithesis of a spacesuit: the Yabok scapula, the pitted pale bone looking as out of place as the creature itself would have.
Finelle lowered the grav sled to the deck. The crate affixed to it was sealed with scraps of black tape. She set about removing those; under each was a sophisticated enforcer palm lock. “Tell him, Partner Russ-Ell, as I do this. My condition.” Finelle placed her palm on one after another, springing them open.
At Morgan’s sharp look, Terk ran a hand over his head then grimaced. “You have to ask their permission.”
“I don’t need it.” He pushed forward the pail of vacuum-stable glue with one foot.
The Lemmick stopped with two locks left, on opposing corners. “I do.”
Morgan gazed at her, reconsidering many things, including why Bowman had picked a Lemmick for her staff. This Lemmick. Finally, he gave a slow nod. “You’ve brought the means?”
“I have.” She slapped the remaining locks simultaneously. Terk helped her remove the lid, setting it on the deck.
Inside was a carnal house of disembodied parts, with a head squeezed on top. The eyes opened to give a baleful stare, the mouth moving without sound.
“You’re still in custody,” Two-Lily Finelle told it sternly. “Secure the doors, please, Captain Morgan.”
In case the Assemblers made a break for it.
The torso came first, four shapeless lumps seizing one another’s cilia and giving a pull. The head walked itself over what was now a chest, falling more than climbing into position. Another bout of writhing cilia, then a neck connected the two.
The chest heaved and the mouth opened to spit out a curse. “Not my group, Stupid One-Minds. Not my group. TASTE BAD!”
“Then let’s get this done,” Finelle told it. “We have a job for the rest of you. If it goes well, your conditions will be improved.”
The eyes acquired a sly cast. “All to be in their right groups. ALL!” When Terk growled, the eyes slid his way, then back, unimpressed. “Need us. Do.”
Smug, that was.
“Need them,” Morgan countered, waving toward the crateful of assorted hands. Some waved back. “I’ve glue.”
The hands cowered, fingers clenched. No problem with their hearing.
“Scary Human.” The eyes found him. They were bloodshot, but passably blue. Cold. “We know of you. Know of your group.”
“And you know Chief Bowman,” Finelle stated, stepping in front of Morgan, her pororus pulsing. “Who is scarier?”
The mouth worked a moment, then, very quietly, “What offer, one-mind?”
“You stay warm. You get to communicate with one another. Captain Morgan’s pleased with your work, you get a visit from—” a sac enlarged below Finelle’s lower jaw, then shrank.
Nothing audible to Human ears, but the hands wiggled fingers in response. Even the head looked impressed. “Bowman’s guarantee?”
“Do not question the chief’s integrity.” Two-Lily Finelle said, her tone as deadly as the needler on her thigh.
Catching Morgan’s eye, Terk actually winked. The prospects of this partnership were improving.
The torso flexed, sending a sigh out the head’s lips. “We accept. What are we to do?”
Morgan told them.
The Assemblers in agreement, and safely locked back in their prison until needed, Morgan took the two enforcers on a quick tour of the Wayfarer. Their plan didn’t include having to fight inside the ship.
Plans had been known to change.
So far, theirs was on track. He’d used the com to check in, shouting over Noska’s continued alarm call. Erin had assured him the ship would be ready in time. She’d take care of the engine room, and would he please keep his guests as far away as possible.
As they walked briskly over each deck, Terk and Finelle didn’t take notes, memorizing the ship’s layout in quick glances, assessing choke points and potential ambush. At least Terk would be, but Morgan took it on faith that Bowman’s Lemmick wouldn’t miss a thing. A third of the ship was inaccessible: to them or an enemy. With no foreseeable use for staterooms, recreation center, dance or dining hall—nor with the crew complement the Wayfarer would have required at her peak—Captain Erin had sealed the majority of those sections, shutting down life support and gravity to conserve resources for the rest.
“Last stop, crew deck,” he informed them as they rode the lift.
“What about command?”
Morgan eyed Terk. Not an idle question; the enforcer’s preferred strategy was to seize control if a situation went sour, and apologize—maybe—later. He spread his fingers in a sign the other knew. Someone listens. He’d leave the coms alive with strangers roaming his ship; he gave Erin credit for the same caution. “The captain’s secured the bridge while she works in the engine room.”
As she should, with her ship full of strangers.
Instead of signing back, Terk rested a forefinger on the blaster hanging from his belt: his favorite lock opener.
Morgan shook his head vehemently, but he needn’t have worried. Finelle snapped a finger, stinging Terk’s ear. The enforcer jumped and whirled to stare at her. “What the—”
She waved at the opening lift doors. “Let us see the crew deck, Partner Russ-Ell. If Captain Morgan will show us the ship’s galley, you can eat something. Food is calming.”
The Lemmick walked out first. Terk turned to Morgan with an aggrieved expression, rubbing his ear. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Morgan inquired, keeping a straight face.
“Very funny. She’s on trial with me, remember, not you.” With that, Terk shoved his way into the corridor after his erstwhile partner.
By the number of furnished but empty quarters along the outer curve, each larger than his and Sira’s cozy cabin on the Silver Fox, the Wayfarer could house a crew of nine, providing three shifts on the bridge.
No one passing out exhausted and alone, as he’d done more often than not, Morgan thought enviously, reliant on autopilot and luck to get to the next world.
It had been a decade, Erin had told him, since the Wayfarer’s corridors had echoed with the sounds of a full crew; today these rooms were advertised on Auord’s boards as passenger accommodations. No takers—yet.
Captain Usuki Erin’s quarters were located on the command deck, attached to the bridge, as were those of her second in command—and entire crew—Noska. For the Wayfarer? Autos helped, but two? Not enough. They’d have to stick to safe insystem routes or risk joining the Triverse.
Not his ship, not his problem.
But Morgan lagged behind Terk and Finelle to collect the wrapped candies delicately placed in welcome on each cot—a certain Whirtle had a future in the hospitality trade—tucking them safely into a zipped pocket pre-lift.
Finelle opened a door on the inner wall. Terk put his hand on the frame and leaned in. “Not the galley,” he dismissed, and pulled back out.
Making it the medbay, the enforcer notoriously unfond of such places, or what passed for emergency first aid given the Wayfarer’s state. Morgan wasn’t interested either. A lift to orbit, his excursion to the Worraud, and back down. If anyone needed care, it’d be him, and he’d no intention of getting it here.
Yihtor waited on the Conciliator, Bowman waiting with him. For their return, with her prisoners, yes, but most of all for answers: the course to set for the rest of the Clan high among them.
He growled under his breath, disgusted at himself. Bowman, wait on anyone else? Wasn’t happening in this universe or any other. “Terk—”
“Galley!” the enforcer announced gleefully, disappearing through the next door.
Morgan followed him inside, cursing inwardly. She’d sent these two as her proxies, that’s what she’d done, to report anything of value a former starship captain and telepath might uncover. He was slipping, not to have seen it coming.
Slipping, he thought abruptly, not to know Bowman would expect him to figure this out and use what she’d sent to the Wayfarer. Two of her best staff, that secure conduit for information, weren’t minor gifts. Meanwhile, she was—where?
Another element not his problem.
“You were saying?” Terk asked, busy programming the kitchen replicator.
Morgan nodded to himself, then pretended to sigh. “Just remember what you eat goes on my tab.”
“Oh, I will.” With a wicked grin.
It wasn’t only Lemmick exhalations that quickly filled the air around them, but the many and varied hard bumps on the skin were scent glands. The material containing the pungent result was, Two-Lily Finelle told them, called Allura Nine. “I can’t tell I’m wearing anything,” she said proudly. “Here, try to pull it off.” She offered each an arm.
The Humans declined. “You made this?” Terk asked. From his tone, he wasn’t happy to contemplate a partner capable of invention.
“No, Partner Russ-Ell. My fourth-over-sixth uncle is the genius of the family. With the chief’s permission, I’m testing this prototype on his behalf. My uncle owns a large and successful retail business,” she continued. “When I retire from being an enforcer—assuming I have not been killed in the line of duty—” with a disturbing titter of mirth, “—I have vowed to join him. We will sell very many of these and be rich. Our people long for a means to work with those who are—” a pause for thought, “—challenged.”
A balloonlike fabric; a Lemmick entrepreneur? “Is this uncle on Plexis?” Morgan asked, leaning back.
“Why, yes, Captain Morgan. He’s famous. Do you know him?”
Terk, back at the replicator, quickly put a finger over his lips and shook his head.
Making Finelle’s famous fourth-over-sixth uncle the balloon seller
whose “large and successful business” consisted of a collapsible table whisked away at the first sign of security. “I bought some of his product,” Morgan replied truthfully. Balloons inflated with Lemmick breath. If an accident with a larger-than-most balloon had led to this invention, Plexis would be the first to invest. “May you both be successful.”
“What I really need is a Whirtle. If one of them can remain in a room with me, with witnesses, it will be a true test of the Allura Nine.” Finelle tilted her hand, palm-down. Disappointment. “Partner Russ-Ell informed me there’s one on board. I’d hoped our paths might cross, Captain Morgan.”
“I made sure they didn’t,” he confessed. “With apologies, but Noska has work to do.” Work it had hopefully resumed, though from what he’d seen in the engine room, Erin might have tossed her Hindmost into a closet to calm down.
He’d opted for water, as had Finelle. Terk brought his second bowl of a hot spicy concoction to the table. The Wayfarer’s crew galley had space for several more. Stowed, or sold. The table and its surrounding stools were properly bolted to the floor. A floor, like the walls, stripped back to underlying gray metal, without a token coat of paint. Hardly welcoming, but they hadn’t much longer to wait. Dawn was here.
With it, tugs were on the move. Thel would send theirs ahead of the shuttle booked by the Worraud.
“Chief took a runner to Ikita Sert for a meeting,” Terk suddenly announced around a mouthful, eyes on Morgan. “Depending how things go, she’ll join us soon or not.”
A briefing, by the gods. “And my cargo?” Morgan asked, careful to keep it nonchalant.
“In the hold and secure.” A tip emptied the bowl. “Up to you to deal with all that.”
Bowman left him in charge? “Not—” he began, then stopped. Who else? Yihtor and any other Clan had to land in his lap. Hadn’t he been the one to tell her about the entities? While she . . . ?
Would do what she did better than anyone he knew: hunt. “Some things don’t change, do they?” Morgan said ruefully.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 16