Deceptively solitary, Trade Pact Sector Chief Lydis Bowman stood at the opening of the ramp from Level 6. Terk and Finelle flanked her at a distance that kept them close enough to intervene, their hands loose and near weapons. The Conciliator was attached to Plexis, with over a thousand armored and trained enforcers ready and waiting.
While Bowman rarely used force, there was no denying she liked others to know it was there.
Morgan and Sira stood between the Carasians and Terk; he preferred having the down ramp a step away, especially as Plexis had to release those forcefields, and the crowds within, sooner than later.
“Sight lines,” Sira said suddenly. “That’s why we’re here.” Her boot stamped.
Terk grunted as though surprised.
She was right, Morgan realized, grinning at her. She’d learned the notion as part of her training to be a trader; the importance of having a clear view of all interested parties in a room—as well as any exits.
Viewed that way, Level 5 became that rarity on Plexis: wide open space. You could see to the distance where the floor began its slow curve to meet the ceiling. With no foot- or servo traffic in the way, it was easy to see something else, too. “The accesses.” Morgan nodded ahead.
You forgot that, about Plexis: how it was more than ramps and concourses, glittering stores and those come to shop. Remove the people, and you saw the circulatory systems: grates over airducts, flaps over drains, doors disguised as walls or ornamentation meant for servos and those who repaired them. A second station, larger, busier, as close to autonomous as economics and prudence allowed.
Beyond that, connected more intimately to that station than the living part of Plexis, the ranks of starships that docked, latched in, hooked on, and depended on the station’s services.
Available at discount for shoppers.
Making here, where Sira’s small boot stamped, as close to the center of it all as you could get and still see around you.
Why?
“GREETINGS!” The roar from the Carasians startled Morgan. By the haphazard whine and clicks behind him, it had done the same to Plexis security.
Sounds that ceased when Bowman lifted her hand, then gave a short bow.
With the rest, Morgan and Sira turned to face the ramp.
Two figures, both humanoid, both tall. A Trant and— “Board Member Sta’gli,” Sira whispered to Morgan.
The Papiekian who’d stood with Bowman and the late Human Board Member to officially bring the Clan into the Trade Pact. Whatever had happened since, Sta’gli had done all she could to help Sira’s people. To help him, Morgan thought, bowing with the rest.
Bowman spent a moment, heads close, with the pair, before leading them to the focal point of their arc of living beings. With suspiciously precise timing, messengers arrived, the little servos high overhead, but completing the circle.
“It’s a show,” Morgan declared quietly, but with disgust. “Politics, when we’ve—” a murderous Omacron to catch, a helpless Chooser to rescue, a missing friend, and the universe to save, “—we’ve no time for this.” He took Sira’s hand. We’re leaving.
She resisted. Wait.
“I introduce myself. Sta’gli.” Board Member Sta’gli bowed to the Carasians, to security, and to Morgan and Sira. Vids in the messengers would broadcast those bows as directed to the audience.
She spoke in a soft, singsong voice, the fine scaling of her cheeks pearlescent in the light. “We are here to-o reveal ourselves, in this place, Plexis, that brings us to-ogether. I present Board Member fo-or the Trant, Trilip nes Fartho-o.”
The Papiekian could pass, at a distance, for Human. A Trant never could. So thin were the creatures they looked more like stick drawings than living things and, while sturdy in their way, they swayed as if to breezes no one else felt. Their faces were narrow, heads flattened so their large eyes bulged from the sides. A Human-similar mouth and lips were shadowed beneath a hook-shaped nose. Like Sta’gli, the Trant was well, if conservatively dressed, its long four-toed feet in tidy knit socks.
Like Sta’gli, Trilip bowed to those attending. “We are of the Trade Pact,” its voice a dry rustle. “We represent our home systems and species. We represent history as well, for our species were of the First, here before many others.”
“To us, the Trade Pact is a-iy wonder,” Sta’gli said next. “Busy. Inno-ovative. Full of movement and opportunity, yet species cooperate. There is order.” A bow to Bowman. “We owe much to the new. To Humans.”
The Trant made a wheezing noise: amusement, that was. “So many Humans,” Trilip continued. “You are everywhere. Into everything. Like the glue that holds my home in one piece. Irreplaceable. Essential—”
“I disagree.”
Change! At the taste more than the words, Morgan drew Sira to the side, closer to the Carasians.
Who gave a single thunderous heave, then settled.
Two Brill stepped from the ramp, a female the size of a Carasian and a male, the latter dainty for his kind and all too familiar.
The bartender from the Raunchy Retian.
Morgan tensed. He didn’t need to look to know Terk would be ready. He loosened the knife in the wrist sheath, but didn’t move.
Bowman’s play now, chit.
With them caught in it.
Interlude
Plexis
DEPUTY INSPECTOR JYNET wasn’t as surprised to have two Carasians—one collapsed—and a gold tag customer “appear” in front of her desk as Tayno’d expected.
Unfortunately, her lack of shock had more to do with what had recently done the same.
The Rugheran, for its part, seemed content to fill the back of the Eima’s office, draped languidly over her desk, two arms flowing along the carpet. It might have been asleep.
Did they sleep?
“This is most irregular.” For some reason, despite learning which Carasian paid taxes, Jynet kept directing her attention at Tayno who, for his part, maintained a several-eyes watch on what was irregular, indeed. “What am I to do with it?”
He was to know? “I don’t think it means any harm,” Tayno ventured hesitantly. Beyond cracking the furniture. The desk would never be the same. “Its grist is—” Charming, was the word he wanted, utterly so, but it didn’t feel like a word to use at the moment. “I think it’s the same one who visited the kitchen. It—” Oh, he shouldn’t mention that.
“It brought me to the station,” Tarerea stated for him. She’d found an unbroken chair and sat, beads of sweat on her forehead. The business of ’porting, however easy for participants, took its toll. He should find her some water—a cushion. “I’d thought it wanted to be rid of me,” softly, “but I’ve found help here. Friends.”
Tayno felt much bigger. Until he sent an eye rolling to check on Huido, who’d yet to stir. The culprit was the dent on the back of his top head plate, a dent the size and shape of the female Brill’s fist, the pair having combined against him. No permanent damage, from something so minor, but he’d be grumpy when he awoke.
At him, Tayno knew, feeling smaller again. Hadn’t he chased the wrong villain—to no avail—thus missing the battle they were to fight together? Huido would be right to separate his head disks from his shoulders and use them for trays. They’d make, he sighed to himself, very nice trays. Or tureens for soup.
“Fem Vyna, do you know how to talk to it?”
“They don’t listen to my kind.” Tarerea had yet to look directly at the Rugheran. “I knew of one who could. Sira. She’s the Chosen of the one Huido spoke of: the Human named Jason Morgan.”
Sira of the wondrous grist, lost forever. Tayno sighed, tipping his head from side to side, but he did have better news. “Morgan’s here, Deputy Inspector.”
“We’re aware. Outside my jurisdiction, I’ve been told. Repeatedly. Need to know and all that. But I think our guest changes the
game, don’t you?” Having made no sense, Jynet nodded cheerfully, her cheeks flaps a relieved yellow. “Let’s go find Captain Morgan.”
“Wait!” Tayno heard himself protest as the Eima strode to the com panel on the door—the one on her desk unavailable. The Rugheran was a surprise, granted, but for a Plexis official, Jynet’s priorities seemed—were, he told himself, certain of it—wrong. “We told you the Brills’ plan to kill Humans. What about that?”
“Outside my jurisdiction,” this time grimly. “I trust you can appreciate how I feel about having my station and my staff preemptively put under Sector Chief Bowman’s control. ‘Situation well in hand,’ I’m to believe.”
She should believe it. Bowman? Tayno’s eyes whirled. This was the best news he’d had in too long. Bowman was a friend—not of his exactly, though she’d complimented his serving skills on two occasions—but on their side, definitely. A personage, moreover, who could make good things happen and, most importantly, bad things go away.
“Coming?” Jynet asked.
“Of course. Could we have a grav sled for my uncle, please?” Tayno asked.
Go to Morgan and leave Huido behind?
Not even Bowman would risk that.
Snosbor IV
Not long now, witch.
Wys slammed down her shields and threw a vase across the room in Erad’s general direction. Six dead. Half of her followers. Her Chosen knew as well as she did they couldn’t afford to lose so many—not and survive.
Was it down to that? She buried her face in her hands. Survival?
“I can come back at a better time, Gracious Queen.”
Wys jerked her hands down, barely able to resist throwing the remaining vase at the obsequious Retian in the doorway. At least it wasn’t one of her people. She mustn’t show weakness or doubt, not now. “What is it?”
Talobar removed his mask. “I’ve good news.”
Moving deliberately, the Clanswoman took her time going to her seat behind the table, paused, then waved the other to plop itself in the facing chair. The creature’s energy was offensive. She’d become easily tired of late—
No. It wasn’t her age, it was the incompetence surrounding her.
Talobar balanced on the seat; chairs ill-suited his anatomy, but he knew better than to ask for anything else. “Very good news.”
“You’d be the first.” They’d all felt the deaths of those on Plexis—of Tren, here. Their Omacron servitors had been affected as well, how being a mystery, but they’d all abandoned their tasks. Fled into the surrounding city or hills. Fell into ponds. Wherever they’d gone, their absence was a nuisance about to be a problem, if they couldn’t be replaced, quickly.
She wasn’t about to exert herself to wipe fresh ones.
Wys steepled her gnarled fingers, glowering at the Retian over their tips. For once, the creature didn’t cower. Could it have made a breakthrough? “Tell me.”
“The Ikkraud has the key components on board. All three. They’ve left Plexis and are coming here with all speed.” A cautious pause.
“And?” she prompted without emotion.
A bulbous eye blinked. Then the other. “The captain wants to alter our arrangement.”
“Let me guess. They lure my people into a deadly ambush and then raise the price on what belongs to me.”
“You think they did that?” Shock did unpleasant things to a Retian’s skin texture.
It’s what she’d have done, Wys thought. Not that the Scats would escape her vengeance, but clearly they continued to be of use. More than use. The Retian was right; this was very good news. “You’re ready for the delivery?”
“Yes. I can start at once.”
To make the next generation, to sow the seeds of a future even she’d begun to doubt. Wys shared her pleasure with her Chosen, enjoying Erad’s answering dismay. “Go,” she told the waiting creature.
Her son was coming home.
Aside: The Sakissishee
IT WOULD COME on silent feet.
There would be no betraying scent, no warmth to detect, no thing to be seen.
There could be no protection, no safety alone or in number, no weapon or defense.
All knew this.
Mindcrawlers were its hands. To tear open—create weakness—to prepare the way.
The Sakissishee knew this, above all. Had they not been first to tell the Consortium? The Clan did not belong here.
For behind them would come the Dark.
Interlude
BOWMAN’S PLAY, indeed, I thought with some admiration, that admiration vanishing as I looked at the Brill. Rich silks. Swagger. Each twice or more the mass of the Human in front of them, confidence oozing from every pore.
Yet Bowman’s calm dignity held the eye.
Despite my trust in her, I shared Morgan’s tension. He’d tasted change. If it had arrived with this pair, things weren’t as they seemed.
They weren’t. The so-secretive Manouya, the Facilitator, out in the open? As for the female—
“Board Member Choiola,” Sta’gli identified. “You were expected.”
The female Brill’s smile split her face. “We’d hoped to flush you out. You and this one.” A hand that could snap the Trant like the twig it resembled reached out and closed into a fist. “Traitors.” She spat, missing Bowman. Had she not, I thought, glancing at Terk, this confrontation would be over. “The First rejects you.”
“You claim to speak for the First, then,” Trilip said calmly. “Note.”
Sta’gli nodded. “Noted.”
“I claim nothing!” Choiola’s fist struck her chest with a boom that echoed. “I state. Humans are a disease. They and you are no longer part of the future. The First shall arise!”
“FOOLISH.”
Even a Brill should be shaken by that floor-shaking condemnation by the gathered Carasians. Instead, Choiola chuckled. “Oh, I think not.” She pranced, I’d no other word for the disturbing way she moved, to stand before that wall of eyes and claws. “Dead. Dead Dead. You’re all dead. Your Consortium is finished.”
“NO!” A massive black form burst through the line of security.
Not how I’d expected to find Huido, though when had his claw been replaced with a shiny hammer?
A second massive form didn’t so much burst as dodge cautiously—claws held high—through the confusion of beings sensibly getting out of the way.
Both Carasians thundered toward the Brill. Bowman was shouting, Terk shaking his head, and Finelle urging the Board Members back—
—when my head snapped around, drawn by attention.
There, at the edge of the ramp.
Someone watched.
As distractions went, you couldn’t beat a battle between huge angry aliens. They made more noise than crashing a servo freight into a stack of pipes—a sound with which I was regrettably familiar. Not to mention the morbid fascination of claw versus nail, fist versus—hammer.
Suffice it to say, even my Human was too engrossed in the proceedings to notice I’d left his side.
I narrowed my awareness, slipping around a grav sled loaded with metal nets that might have been of some use in ending the fight had anyone thought of them sooner, intent on my quarry. There, just ahead. A head lifted, as though whomever this was had to see what was happening.
In hindsight, I might have been more inspired by the physical struggle than was wise, for I leaped, arms out, intending to grab the Omacron—
Instead, I knocked over the very last person I’d expected to see again.
“Tarerea Vyna?”
She was decidedly pregnant, hunched as though in pain. Well aware of her Power, I moved to keep distance between us, tightening my shields. Morgan had wanted answers. I’d one, at least. Here was the Chooser Yihtor had sensed.
Along with a host of new questions,
starting with what was a Vyna doing on Plexis?
A louder bellow raised her head. “Tayno! No—” She struggled to her feet again, ignoring me until I tried to help. She jerked aside, eyes wild. “He can’t fight those monsters. We have to stop this!”
“Trust me, nothing can.” Other than armaments normally employed against ground assault vehicles and then, Morgan had assured me, an enraged Carasian would only notice a direct hit. “What are you doing here?”
“We came with the deputy inspector to find Captain Morgan,” as matter-of-factly as though the gold tag on her cheek was real and I hadn’t last seen her on a dying planet beyond the Trade Pact.
“Why do you want Mor—” In the sudden hush, I realized I was shouting and closed my mouth.
The fight was over.
The Vyna started to move at the same time I did, then both of us stopped in horror.
The floor was moving!
Not the floor—
Things!
Chapter 32
THERE WASN’T A THING that could stop a fight like this, short of killing the participants before they could do it to one another.
Not with Carasians involved or, it turned out, Brill. Morgan had assumed anything capable of thought and independent movement would retreat as quickly as possible away from a charging Carasian.
The Brill had ripped off their clothing, boomed with joyful rage, and charged right back. The species’ fighting styles were remarkably similar: smash into one another, grab hold, wrestle till breaking apart again. Smash and repeat. Eyes squeezed shut or closed inside plates, of course.
To Guard Against the Dark Page 33