He reached for the controls.
Interlude
HOW RIGHT IT FELT, to watch the Wayfarer’s controls lift to meet Morgan’s capable hands. I settled back in my seat, which wasn’t the copilot’s couch of the Fox, nor was I in the body I’d worn then, but the feeling hadn’t changed, nor the reason. My Human belonged at the helm of a starship. I’d give anything to make it happen—
But his future wasn’t in my hands. That he had one, would be.
The ship’s engine concerned me far less than Yihtor’s state of mind. Morgan’s urging for us to protect these bodies was well-founded. After all, I’d been willing to chance a ’port between a detached engine compartment and the ship. Children played ’port and seek across such minuscule distances, winking in and out so quickly, they barely skimmed the M’hir.
A ’port through it to Plexis wasn’t a child’s game. We’d leave a wound. Better we return to AllThereIs than further weaken Between.
Yihtor agreed, but I could sense his unease growing. He hadn’t my experience with space travel. Instinct stirred within his physical self, telling him to ’port from danger. If the Wayfarer so much as shuddered, he could panic and he’d the Power to move to any remembered location, be it Plexis or worse, Acranam.
The Watchers sensed it, too. They were circling. Came so close, it was hard to remember to breathe—
Not helping, I scolded, as if they’d listen, turning my head. Yihtor’s eyes met mine in a desperate plea. His fingers clenched the arms of his seat as though they could hold him in place.
I unbuckled my restraints and hurried across the bridge to take the seat beside him. Putting a gentle hand over his, I summoned Power. Sorry about this.
And pinned him.
His eyes shot open, but that was all Yihtor could do, constrained by my will. I’d held him like this before, when we’d been enemies, and the battle had taxed us both. This time, I felt him test the bounds I’d placed on his mind and then relax.
Problem, Witchling?
Not anymore, I replied, feeling the Watchers’ withdrawal with profound relief. I let Morgan feel my smile. Take us to Plexis.
Chapter 28
THEY’D A COURSE set for Plexis—for where the Wayfarer had been told the station should be. Automatic, that inner “should.” Like starships, information traveled subspace in bursts, and priority went to the needs of navigation; in Morgan’s estimation, no starship captain worth the name believed the data stream infallible.
It having been touched, at some point or other, by living beings.
One of the less publicized but arguably most vital functions of the Trade Pact’s Enforcers was to ensure that touch was in everybeing’s interest. Mistakes shouldn’t happen. Willful tampering? The penalty, if caught, was to be denied further access. Exile, in other words, for who’d risk entering a busy system without data on what was there?
Mistakes were a fact of life, and no threat could guarantee good behavior—or even reasonable self-interest. Like all free traders, Morgan preferred to be in control when his ship broke from its subspace bubble, in case of one—or the other.
“Here we go,” he announced, and pressed the waiting switch. His other hand was poised over the jettison button, but he hadn’t decided what to do—
—when with a confident, throaty purr, the Wayfarer slid into normal space, answering any doubt.
“Scans live, Captain,” Noska said at the same instant, throwing the result on the wall-sized screen. “Plexis Port Authority sends—EEK!!!”
Morgan didn’t think; he acted, dropping the Wayfarer as proximity alarms shrieked their dismay.
The Silver Fox had been fast and nimble. Though much larger, the ship in his hands had been built to race by system rules, where speed wasn’t the deciding factor, but maneuvering around obstacles was. The Wayfarer responded like something alive, diving along the z-axis, taking them below—what?
He silenced the alarms with the punch of a finger, rolling the ship to keep her “eyes” in line with that stunning shape. “Scan!”
“Reading now,” Terk answered, the poor Whirtle likely under its console. “Bloody big, whatever it is,” a grumble then, more useful, “Broadcasting a Trade Pact ident. Friendly, I repeat, friendly.”
“Idents can be faked.” Morgan sensed Sira’s approach, felt her hand on his shoulder as he stared at the screen.
The starship was of no design he knew, of itself startling. What was caught in their lights resembled a ripple in water. Morgan flashed a look over the readouts: they weren’t seeing all—or most of its mass. What they could see had no visible ports, no running lights of its own, nothing standard.
As if they’d startled it, the ship suddenly vanished.
Into subspace? If so, it should have dragged them with it, the Wayfarer too close to evade. “Report.”
“It was there,” Terk growled. “Just—not.”
“There were minds aboard,” Sira whispered. “None I could touch. They were—almost familiar.”
Did it ’port?
I don’t know—I don’t think so.
“Plexis-com wants us in.” The enforcer sounded incredulous. “We’ve been assigned a parking spot, priority one. They think we’re a damn liner.”
Morgan blew out a breath. “Then we park.”
As he reoriented the Wayfarer, the great station came into view. An oblong cylinder, thicker aft than stern, her sides held ports and handles and scars aplenty, lit by an oversufficiency of lights. The screen went white, then reset. The “parking lot,” in Plexis-com’s quaint parlance, consumed the aft arc of what had been her material intakes, had she still been a refinery and in the business of swallowing asteroids whole. In recent years, more spots had been added, sprawled around her sides. The whole was a thoroughly messy, cobbled-together mass—
—that worked.
“I’ve never seen the outside,” Sira said, then frowned. “Shouldn’t there be ships?”
“Yes.” Dozens in view. Hundreds. She knew it as well as he: an intricate, complex—occasionally jammed and disrupted—dance should cluster around the station, ships waiting to dock, ships departing, all needing to be done while Plexis was in real space.
The only thing moving was Wayfarer. And whatever had vanished, Morgan thought, unsettled. “Something’s wrong. What’s Plexis-com advising.”
“Just the come-ahead, and be quick about it.” Terk’s grunt wasn’t happy. “No other chatter. No complaints. Nothing.”
“All good up there?” Erin’s voice, on com.
“Priority parking, Captain,” Morgan responded, unsurprised when the response was colorful. Station’s prerogative, to choose their spot; the selection offered depended on how much the incoming ship was willing to pay, as well as species’ concerns. Lemmicks away from Whirtles. Away from most, in fact. Scats near those able to defend themselves.
Free traders like the Wayfarer? You’d have to walk the length of Plexis before finding an airtag counter. To be swished into the zone used by goldtags, Plexis execs, and visiting heads-of-systems?
Either someone wanted a target on their backs, Morgan thought, or whatever kept ships nose into Plexis was ongoing.
And they’d arrived in the midst of it.
“—the air you share on Plexis.”
The waxy stamp connected with his cheek and Morgan stepped ahead to let the others get theirs. Blue, of course. Under ordinary circumstances, the color would stir swift and unwelcome attention from everyone from security to wait staff, for this wide welcoming space was more entry lounge than tag point, complete with a three-piece band playing live music. The concourse beyond, the top level of Plexis, beckoned through archways—no congested ramps here—its tastefully muted lights and towering trees suggesting a retreat from the hardships of space travel.
Only the obscenely rich entered here.
The
concourse was empty. The instruments hung on their stands, abandoned, and the only other person in sight was this airtag operator who’d come to greet them, an attractive is-male Skenkran young enough to be pre-flight. Its face-covering chitinous nose, a source of pride to the species, sparkled with inset gems, but Morgan was more interested in the ooze of yellow mucus. Tension could do that.
Or fear. “What’s going on here?” Morgan asked.
“I have not been informed,” the being said, its throat implant set to a melodic tenor. “Next?”
Waving aside the tag, Terk stepped close, chest out as if his uniform wasn’t clue enough. “Contact your superiors. On my authority.”
A sigh quivered along those not-yet-full shoulder casings, shimmering the hint of silk membrane beneath. “I would, Constable, but I’ve no way to do so. The internal coms went off before you arrived.” Earnestly, “I’d hoped you could.”
“On it.” Making sure Yihtor, still uncertain on his casts, was leaning on the counter and Terk watched him, Finelle stepped away, raising her com.
Worse and worse, Morgan thought, glad he’d been able to persuade Erin and Noska to stay on the Wayfarer. “Where did everyone go?”
The Skenkran flipped a shoulder casing over its nose. Overtop, eyes peered down, blinking as though, having thoroughly hidden itself, they’d go away, too.
“It’s all right,” Sira told it. “You’re not in trouble. Please. Tell us anything you know.”
The casing lowered. “I was in the accommodation,” it admitted. “When I came out, I was alone.”
There must have been a mirror in it, Morgan sent. Is-males were desperately insecure about their appearance, fluctuating between obsessive vanity and anxiety. In the latter state, they’d rub their noses raw against hard objects to make them swell. He suspected the gem inlay wasn’t so much ostentation but foresight on the part of the Skenkran’s employer to prevent such behavior.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Jason Morgan.”
Terk grunted. Morgan ignored him. Courtesy wasn’t a waste of time. “You were intrepid to remain on duty,” he praised warmly, pleased to see the casing lower further.
“My name is Pysyk Oes, Hom Morgan. I did not see what else I could do. This is my station.”
“It’s closed,” Terk snapped.
The casing went up.
There were times— Rather than be frustrated with the enforcer, Morgan clapped his hands lightly twice, imitating the Skenkran encouragement. “Hom Oes, please come with us. We will see you to safety.”
The casing came down. The youngster began to put down the tag hammer it had clutched fervently, only to stop midmotion, staring over their heads. Yellow mucus gushed forth. “No time!” Membranes spread for balance, the terrified Skenkran bolted into the concourse.
Morgan whirled, the others turning, too.
To see Carasians filling another, wider door.
Female Carasians.
They came through as a tight black mass, some turning to move sideways over the soft red carpet, all claws out in warning. The only sound they made was a soft clickityclickityclickity, as though fingers stroked a muted keyboard.
Larger by half again than any male, the chitin of their shells thicker and callused, their paired claws wider and serrated. No handling claws; females didn’t need them. No dainty little mouths, able only to consume liquids. In the depths of those gnarled headplates was a set of criss-crossing jaws, able to macerate bone. Preferably while part of its screaming owner, females being obligate predators.
Their eyestalks were erect, gleaming black orbs aimed solely at the small group by the airtag station.
A year ago, Morgan thought, dry-mouthed, he’d have been right behind the Skenkran, though they likely wouldn’t have made it. When motivated, Carasians moved with blinding speed. Back then, he’d believed females were mindless, confined to a pool by their male for the safety of others. A rumor his blood brother had cheerfully encouraged.
At his wives’ insistence. Mindless? Carasian females were that species’ thinkers, artists, and adventurers. At the pinnacles of their respective careers, each carefully selected the pool—and male—best suited to house what seemed a combination of shared meditation and violent debate. With sex, as Huido boasted, an essential and delightful inspiration to the females’ intellectual communion.
Were these Huido’s wives? If so, why enter Plexis here, and not through the docking bay he’d had built into the Claws & Jaws?
Though it did explain the empty lounge.
But where was Huido?
Sira stepped forward, and Morgan followed at once. The wives, towering like some nightmare cloud, clicked to a stop.
“You were right,” Sira said to them, her voice clear and firm. “The Clan don’t belong here. Yihtor and I have returned to remove the last of us.”
As one, the giant creatures crouched, then rose.
Her cheeks the slightest bit pink, Sira bowed back. “We haven’t done it yet,” she warned. “There’s still risk.”
“YES!” Thunder, that disquieting reply.
The Human felt the word reverberate through his lungs.
Worse.
He tasted CHANGE.
Interlude
Plexis
FOR ONCE, a surprise filled Tayno with relief. Huido Maarmatoo’kk was back. In charge, loudly. Rushing around. Knowing things. Capable. Staff jumped, happily.
There really was, Tayno decided, no need to bring up anything new. Huido’s call to “battle” had gone mercifully unexplained, beyond the word; Huido himself continued to be in an unusually fine and forgiving mood.
A mood not to disrupt with unimportant items. The huge pending bill for Morgan’s apartment could wait as long as possible, ideally until after he’d left to start his own establishment.
The arrival of a Rugheran in the kitchen, with Tarerea Vyna, presented a more pressing dilemma. Lones had introduced her to Huido as a “guest of Tayno’s.” Between the gold airtag, the glamorous clothing, and now-pleasant nature of her grist, Huido had accepted her presence graciously. Indeed, he’d complimented Tayno on his good sense, keeping the Vyna close.
Which, to be honest, had been a little confusing.
Having seen Tarerea to her room, Lones had hurried back, whispering to Tayno that her origin and the Rugheran were topics he, Tayno, must present to Huido as soon as the moment was right.
Maybe that could be after he’d—
“—leaving you in charge.”
Tayno’s eyes snapped to attention. He’d missed something, surely. “But you’re back.”
Workers carrying out those horrid—and heavy—Yabok bones eased around the two Carasians who, admittedly, consumed a significant amount of floor despite the generous proportions of the main dining hall. “Yes, Tayno,” still with unusual patience, “however, I’ve other concerns. This business you’ve told me about, of Splits, Omacrons, and Brill together, must be dealt with—plus we’re expecting company.”
Three of Tayno’s eyestalks swiveled to watch a tight group of Oduyae make their way into the restaurant through the workers and bones. Each towed a small sled. “Them?”
Huido bent an eye, then chuckled. “No, no. The Zibanejad Cluster are our new Master chefs. Excellent reputation. We’re lucky to have them. Welcome,” he bellowed.
The largest Oduya nodded gravely. “We arrive to serve.” Or something like that. They were still too far to hear properly over the workers’ din.
“They’re serious folks,” Huido confided. “You’ll like them. I want you to give them a tour of the kitchen, make note of any changes they require. Anything,” much louder, though the Oduyae were now beside them, “you need. Inform my esteemed nephew.”
A nod to Tayno. “We will be reasonable.”
Having known a chef or three in his life, Tayno doubted that. Tour
ing the kitchen was easy, if the sleds could be parked outside, but a list of sure-to-be-costly changes? Now? He braced himself. “Perhaps, Uncle, you and I should go over the budget—”
“Nonsense!” A tender smack of the hammer replacing Huido’s claw. “Anything these fine and creative chefs need, the Claws & Jaws will provide!”
He’d been afraid of that. “This way, please.”
“When you’re done, Tayno,” Huido boomed, “oversee our new entranceway. I rely utterly on your good taste.”
He couldn’t mean— “The Yabok bones?” Tayno’d assumed they were being removed by the workers, not— “You want me to decorate with them?” Huido snapped a lower claw in warning. Tayno altered his tone to a weak but enthused, “A privilege, Uncle.”
“We arrive to serve,” the Oduyae intoned, as if growing impatient. In fact, the entire mass of them were starting to edge, if slowly, toward the kitchen.
The tour. Tayno collected himself. “Wait for me. I’m coming.” He hurried to get ahead of them and make sure the way was clear.
“Oh, and Tayno?”
He stopped and swung around. There couldn’t be anything else. “Uncle?”
Huido waved at the sleds. “I recommend you escort the families to their accommodations before the tour. Carefully.”
The boxes on the sleds weren’t luggage, then. Tayno crouched by the nearest, eyestalks craned over. Little holes made decorative patterns on the sides and top. Through those holes emanated a buzz. A frustrated, angry buzz. And as he stared, the box seemed to grow, the buzz become louder, and there were seven of them, he realized, straightening in horror, all full of whatever buzzed and wasn’t happy about being in boxes.
There was, Tayno thought numbly, a certain inevitability to disaster.
“I’ll see to it, Uncle.”
Staff had prepared a suite for the Oduyae, the best other than Huido’s own, it being the hope a well-rested and comfortable chef—or in this case, cluster of chefs—would shout and break things less often.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 29