I see it. Another sort of weapon, those waves of shared foul pleasure, and I pulled myself free, feeling in desperate need of a bath.
The Omacron stood, twisted at both waists, and smiled, as though sept had won.
I ignored it, my attention for those waiting and likely wondering what, if anything, had happened. “The Omacron cannot be trusted,” I said, hearing my voice amplified. “They’ve used their abilities to create flaws in the minds of other species, flaws they exploit at will.”
“We are misunderstood!” The Galactic Mysterioso bowed. “Telepaths come to us for aid. We do what we can—”
“You are the Poison Makers!” The Assembler named Dewley edged around the Omacron to get to me, words tumbling out. “Liars! Wanted Clan gone. Fine, who likes them. Carasians? Bad idea. Bad.” At their rumble of agreement, he ducked behind me, peering around. “Humans, maybe bad, maybe—” Morgan raised an eyebrow “—bad. Very Bad idea. Who’d be next? What the end? Bad one-minds. All want everything but them dead.”
“Testimony is complete,” Board Member Sta’gli said.
A species’ doom in her voice.
The defeated were taken away; the Brill, wrapped in nets and on grav carts. The Trade Pact Board continued their deliberations over our heads, mercifully muted. Some beings on the concourse were using goggles to watch. Lip-reading or to find their own member.
The Clan had no representation up there, for the very sound reason we were soon to be extinct. To leave, I reminded myself.
Leaving had fresh appeal, given I stood not surrounded by the Trade Pact, but in the midst of the Consortium, a group none of us—with the exception of Bowman—had known existed until moments ago. The shadows cast by the Carasians formed a dark ring, like a warning against trespass. I’d no desire to go closer, thank you, and stayed in the only spot of light. If I’d ever imagined warmth in Huido’s shiny black eyes, I couldn’t now. Calculating, these many eyes. Assessing. I’d have been daunted by that regard—let alone the size of the claws, politely tip down, around me—if not for what was worse.
The tree-form Assemblers leaned into the circle. To keep their balance, more vermin had attached themselves to make braces. Braces attached to the shoulders of the Carasians.
It was disturbingly like being inside a mouth, granted a final look through teeth before the swallowing started.
Before that image went any further, I said, “Hello.” Morgan would be proud. Was proud, I sensed, as well as worried. “You wanted to talk to me.”
“SYNERGYREQUIRED”
I covered my ears and glared. “Stop that!” Which wasn’t terribly diplomatic, but at this distance their bellow drove the air from my lungs and I’d trouble enough standing here.
“Our apologies,” a single Carasian said in a decently quiet voice. She gave a delicate ching with her upper claw. “We’d hoped to commune within the Expanse. What you call the M’hir.”
I blinked. “Between.”
A low rumble. “A useful description.” Another ching. “We agree to use speech.”
“Wait, please.” Cautiously, I opened my inner sense. Watchers. I felt their presence, but distant. Felt the Singers, holding tight, my anchor to AllThereIs. I avoided the glow that was Tarerea Vyna, the warmth of Morgan, and looked for anything remotely like the twist of Carasians.
But the rest was the Dark, a storm building within as I paid too much attention. Before I fled, I cried out, Where are you?
The Dark flowed, pushed aside by what couldn’t be here.
A ship.
Sira? Morgan, feeling my shock.
It’s—all right, I sent, staring with what weren’t eyes at a shape I’d seen before.
The starship Wayfarer had almost rammed on Plexis approach. Massive, though size was a slippery concept here, with those strange lines, and somehow it hung in place, stationary despite the wild churning of Between.
Colors without name danced across its hull—skin?—then it became a mirror, awash in burning light. Mine, I realized. What must be me here. The mirror became night; the ship flexed and dove away.
I pulled free, staring up at the Consortium, reassured to be dealing with what I could see and touch. With what breathed and lived in this universe.
Yet did more. “That—that’s yours?”
“We are the Consortium.”
Not an answer, unless—I was thinking too small. “It’s M’hir-life. Alive.” One of them. “And your ship.”
“We each contribute as we can. The—” that soft ching again, “—hosts synergy. Within him, and his kin, we share our deepest, most meaningful communion. And, yes,” the Carasian sounded amused, “he’s willing to carry those of us who lack mobility. We try not to impose.”
Manners, with M’hir life. The Carasians simplified concepts for me, for which I was grateful, but they’d a reason for being here, for talking to me, and I didn’t flatter myself it was my grist.
I sat, cross-legged, on the floor. Step one with aliens, according to my Human?
Establish mutual understandings.
“So,” I began. “I’m a noncorporeal entity from another universe, temporarily in a Hoveny body to do what I can to prevent possibly catastrophic damage to existence. You?”
Flesh and shell, Carasians were wholly of this space. That said, grist was, so they told me, more than a sense. When their females molted into their mature and glorious reproductive form, their ability to detect grist became a means of direct communication between them, allowing synergy through the Expanse.
Coming from a species with the Power-of-Choice and Commencement, I took this in stride.
It was the part where they could communicate—commune—with what lived in the Expanse I found startling. To their amusement. Had not the Drapsk shown me the variety of life there?
Some of that life, like the ching, existed across universes. At my stunned look, they’d begun talking over one another, earnestly describing life that could spontaneously duplicate. Be in several folds of space at the same time. Create folds in space. Or—
I threw up my hands. “Enough!”
In the pause that followed, whirling eyes converged on me. “We are corrected,” the Carasian said, sounding almost abashed. “It is our common purpose that matters now.”
For the Consortium had revealed themselves not only because the Clan had weakened what kept our universes safely apart—a more than sufficient problem, in my opinion—but to stop those who would tear it open.
The Rugherans.
Morgan would not, I decided, be pleased.
Chapter 34
BY SPECIES, waiting could put you in a pleasing semi-dormant state, such as the group of Oduyae snoring in front of the pet dealer, or have you literally climbing walls. There were, Morgan squinted, several Skenkrans presently climbing, despite the attempts of homeowners with balconies to shoo them away. The beings would glide down if anything interesting happened.
Several Human adults looked at both species wistfully, as if they’d love to have their offspring either nap or be someone else’s problem. Meanwhile, because this was Plexis, a flurry of carts selling refreshments and newly minted commemorative coins had appeared, doing a brisk business in the crowd.
Morgan leaned a hip on the security grav sled, content to watch Sira. Not that he could see her, surrounded as she was at the moment by the Consortium—Carasians closest, then the still-disturbing tree-form Assemblers in an outer attentively-bent ring.
“Gonna take weeks,” Terk grumbled.
Two-Lily Finelle laughed. “Partner Russ-Ell, there has yet to be a Trade Pact decision that took so long to reach.” If cart owners were happy at the business they were getting, the Lemmick was ecstatic. She’d been handing out cards for her relative’s now-publicly tested balloon-skin to any and all. By the level of interest, she could retire tomorrow.
Be a shame, the Hum
an thought. The pair were shaping into an excellent team.
Terk scowled. “Could be the first time.”
He stirred himself to answer. “The Consortium isn’t here about the First or the Omacron.” After that initial shock, Sira had locked herself away. Whatever she was learning could well explain why the taste of change hadn’t left him. Why he felt on the verge of something—
“Yeah, that.” Terk’s eyes were hard. “I don’t like waiting for the other boot. It’s always bigger.”
Finelle laughed. “How can that—Sector Chief!” She came to attention, her partner startled into doing the same.
Morgan raised an eyebrow as Bowman came to stand in front of him, dismissing her constables with a sideways tip of her head.
“Quite the show,” he commented.
The meeting rooms were still being projected. By the vehement appendage waving and plumes of expressive gas, a decision remained elusive; several food vendors were taking bets on the side.
She didn’t bother to look. “Not my problem. This?” A lift of fingers toward the Consortium. “Out of our league. It’s what comes after. Your future—”
Instinct made him thrust out a hand to stop whatever she’d say. Terk came to alert, settling when Bowman merely nodded. “Not a topic you want. I get that.” She leaned on the sled beside him. “I don’t trust many beings.”
“You trust anyone?” Morgan countered.
Gods, a chuckle. “There’s that. Let’s say there are individuals—very few—I find set a compatible course. I might disagree with the direction, and I don’t enjoy surprises,” grim, that, “but the result’s worth my wait.”
It was the most convoluted compliment he’d ever received, from the most dangerous person he knew. Morgan gazed down at her impassive face, torn between curiosity and suspicion. “Is this a job offer?”
“If it was, you’d say no.” Her eyes were serious. “It’s a reminder you aren’t alone, Jason.”
As if summoned, a slender figure in spacer coveralls came in their direction, dwarfed by the giant shapes behind her, yet, to him, greater than any. Sira.
“I’m not alone,” Morgan said softly, eyes drinking in the sight.
Shaking her head, Bowman left it at that.
Sira pulled him from the others with a glance. Where they met became a small eddy of peace, those nearby taking one look at Morgan—and wisely moving on.
He didn’t notice, too busy trying to grasp what she told him. “They plan to protect the universe with a supermarket?”
Almost a dimple. “When you put it that way—” Sira brushed hair from her face and sighed. “The Consortium has identified the point in this space corresponding to where the M’hir is weakest. That’s where the Rugherans intend to break through to AllThereIs. Why, they don’t know and the Rugherans aren’t saying, but they’ve been scratching at the door as long as the Consortium has existed.”
“Now they’ve a chance to succeed.”
She nodded. “I showed you the damage we did—” The corners of her mouth turned down, though it wasn’t her fault, none of it. “Combine that with what the Great Ones caused when they retrieved the Hoveny artifacts, and we’re running out of time.” Her eyes lifted to survey the concourse. “There’s a power here,” slowly. “Not like ours. The species who sense grist, who naturally touch both here and there—their very existence is like glue. The Consortium has calculated how many would be needed to create what they call a countering inertia. They’re convinced that would heal the weakness, thus stopping the Rugherans. They’ve sent out invitations.”
There were no words. Morgan sent an incredulous look toward the Consortium. Lines of calm, shiny eyes gazed back.
A Rugheran had haunted him. Followed Sira. Crawled on the outside of Plexis—still did, for all they knew. They’d need to run scans—if the creatures could be scanned.
“Who’s coming?” he finally said.
A dimple appeared. “Everyone.”
Before saving the universe—with a supermarket—the Consortium insisted the Trade Pact deal with the Omacron and their anti-social behavior. It came down, in the end, to what could be done. The Trade Pact Board Members were, after all, a conglomeration of species with wildly differing systems of justice and government, with even the concept of antisocial behavior, for that matter, a stretch for many. In the end, and to avoid unfortunate precedent, the Board decided to leave the Omacron alone.
“Alone” being defined as banned from Trade Pact space, while encouraged to remain within those star systems the Omacron could legitimately claim as theirs. Any non-Omacron in those systems would be informed, in full, of the reasons for the ban and offered relocation should they choose to run, and quickly.
As the decision was read aloud, nav-systems were being updated. “Here Be Monsters” Morgan thought, would be an adequate label for what would become blanks on the maps. Perhaps isolation would open minds so far willfully deaf to diplomacy and cooperation.
He wouldn’t bet on it. At best, they’d bought time; to learn how to guard against the Omacrons’ propensity for toxics, to find ways to repair the flaws they’d placed in so many minds.
He’d paid to let them into his—had thought himself improved. Morgan shuddered.
I should have killed the foul thing, Sira sent, her mindvoice like ice.
“Chalk it up to another life lesson, chit,” he told her, unable to trust his own.
“Huh.” Unconvinced, that was. She’d been around Terk too long.
No time was long, not now. Morgan handed her a cup of sombay, obtained from a cart dispensing the beverage—with just the right sweetness. “While you were communing, Tayno found an easi-rest for his friend,” he told her. The Consortium having insisted Tarerea Vyna remain, to the young Carasian’s visible distress, he’d done what he could for her comfort.
Sira took a sip, then passed it back for him. “What the wives—what they all do—they called it synergy.” Her brows met. “Some takes place within the M’hir—the Expanse. They’ve a place, or members, there.” Her frown deepened, then relaxed. “They politely gave up trying to explain. How Carasians communicate is beyond me.”
“Because they are brilliant as well as beautiful!” Huido swaggered—deservedly so—though he bore his latest scars and dents, and hammer, with such pride, Morgan fully expected his friend to be depressed post-molt. “Are my wives and the others not magnificent?” A pause, eyes going to Sira. “As are you, dear friend.”
Sira smiled. “Is it polite to ask how many are, ah, your shell-mates?”
Eyes whirled. The Carasian tipped toward them, his big voice as close to conspiratorial as possible, given the size of his chest. “Eighteen of these lovelies already grace my pool. Another four may join them. I was impressive, you know. There’s a vid.”
“You were,” Morgan agreed, quickly doing the math. One female left, of the group here. Did that mean?
From the sparkle in Sira’s eyes as she looked toward Tayno, busy with the Vyna, he thought it might.
“After the announcement,” Huido continued, “there must be a feast. I will arrange everything.”
Is the restaurant open? Sira sent.
Morgan shook his head. If his friend was involved, there’d be a feast—
“ATTEND.”
Skenkrans who hadn’t plunged for the Trade Pact announcement whooshed down now, causing those below to duck. Carts stopped where they were, anti-theft covers whipped into place, and the crowd closed in once more.
Fingers laced with his.
A single female Carasian had moved into the open, standing where she—or another—had stood before. To identify individuals, he’d have to memorize the pattern of nicks and marks in their carapace and head disks; three had stubs in place of claws, but they kept their claws tucked tightly to their bodies. Once they molted, those clues would vanish.
“We are ready to receive the message.”
A pinprick of night blossomed before their eyes into a star-filled oval with outflung fibrous arms.
Having burst into view, the Rugheran unceremoniously plopped onto the deck, defeated by station gravity and looking anything but a threat to reality.
/identity/~triumph~!~/identity/
/identity/~SIRA~/identity/
Interlude
/IDENTITY/~SIRA~/IDENTITY/
The tip of an arm gave me a limp but decidedly jolly wave. That, with my name, made this the same Rugheran who’d found me on the Wayfarer. Now here. Had it been outside the hull, waiting?
A message, the Consortium called it. Was it that, or an ultimatum?
“Let me through,” a voice insisted. Deputy Inspector Jynet came forward, shaking off the tentacle of one of her own staff. “This fine being arrived in my office. Plexis claims it as a customer, under our protection.”
/query/~?~/query/
While I admired her courage, the nature of this species outside the norm even for this hub of the Trade Pact, the Eima was—
“It came to our kitchen first!” Huido—goodness, that bellow came from Tayno? Who promptly crouched and hurried back, having surprised himself, too.
Meanwhile, the Carasians were—crooning. The one elected to speak went so far as to lean over the Rugheran, eyes whirling with pleasure.
Not the reaction I’d expected. “What’s happening?”
“Remarkable grist,” Huido said happily. “Simply—”
Morgan grabbed my hand, tight. “Sira . . .”
We were engulfed in purple feathers.
No, antennae. Antennae, I thought, holding my mouth closed despite having to smile, and tentacles. The Drapsk, dear little beings, patted every part of me they could reach, which tickled, and I patted round rumps and chubby arms. All the while they exclaimed their joy: “It’s true!” “You’re here, Mystic One!” “We’ve found you!” “Would you care for a beverage?” “Not now, she’s busy!” “You’re here!”
To Guard Against the Dark Page 35