“An off-books stop,” he said, keeping it simple and safe. There were—should be—no records the Silver Fox had been to White. No records, for that matter, of White, except—no doubt—those of the Drapsk and so the Consortium.
And from them to all the species invited to this gathering of grist.
“Happens we’re stuck.” Hands on the arms of her chair, Bowman thrust herself to her feet and turned to the one person she knew had another means of travel. “Well?”
Sira stood, her face stern. “I know what you’re asking. No Clan could ’port an object this size. I wouldn’t dare if I could. It would cause the very harm we’re trying to prevent.”
Something tugged his pant leg. Expecting the Drapsk, Morgan froze when he saw his feet ringed with red-eyed vermin.
A claw snapped. Another made a ching.
They didn’t—
“We, the Consortium, concur,” the Carasian announced. “Sira is correct to fear further damage. It’s how we all knew the Clan did not belong here. Humans do. They cannot affect the Expanse. Jason Morgan. You know the way.”
“But—” from Sira, who subsided at his signal. He sensed her concern.
Shared it.
“Morgan,” Bowman echoed, returning to him, that brow up.
The screen showed Plexis, three-quarters smothered in writhing black. It wouldn’t be long before the reaching arms connected across the rest. The Wayfarer was already covered—
—and he’d do anything to save these beings, the ones in the station, the ones on worlds he’d yet to see. Morgan met Sira’s steady gaze, asked a question with his. What good was a secret, if no one survived?
Gods, the trust in her smile.
All in, then.
“There’s a thing I can do,” Morgan told them, feeling oddly light-headed. “I don’t know if—” How could he? Pushing a starship through the M’hir should have been impossible. A space station? “I’ll need—” to drain the inner strength of every telepath on Plexis, including Sira’s? “—help.”
Another, urgent, tap on his leg. Resisting the impulse to kick what he shouldn’t, the Human looked down.
The Drapsk’s mouth tentacles were spread in exultation. “She knows! She’s coming!”
Morgan’s mouth dried.
“Who now?” Bowman snapped.
“Drapskii!”
Interlude
DRAPSKII ANNOUNCED HERSELF to me as she had before, as a brilliance in the M’hir, an attraction like gravity. Her gravity I had felt, for she was a world, orbiting a star of pleasing warmth. I’d stood on her ground and tasted her rain—
As a world, she remained in her orbit, home to the dear little Drapsk.
As this presence, I felt her be HERE. Felt her grief at the loss of the Heerii, her determination.
“She’s arrived,” I confirmed rather breathlessly, looking at Morgan. “You’ve your help.”
I watched his throat move, a swallow, nothing more. Outwardly, my Human appeared almost relaxed, a camouflage earning him a suspicious eye from Terk.
“Then let’s do this.”
“Do what, exactly?” Bowman asked.
Morgan’s smile was a beautiful thing. “Move.”
I’d missed watching Morgan move the Fox, being preoccupied with staying alive. He’d shared some of the wonder and all of its cost, but little of the how. It was a Human Talent, and part of me looked forward to seeing him use it. The only part not terrified.
“I’ll need a seat,” Morgan said.
Bowman stepped aside and waved him, not without irony, into hers. “What will we see?”
“I’ve no idea.” He closed his eyes and—
Sira. Show me.
My task, to guide him through the M’hir to Drapskii, but she was already waiting. After all, they’d met. As the three of us remembered in detail, I felt myself blush.
Then felt a deep and painful sorrow and understood what should have been plain from the start.
I’d been right, to believe the Great Ones of AllThereIs had their equivalents, here, in NothingReal, but they weren’t the same. Drapskii. White? They were worlds, yes, but semi-sentient, aware, partly Between. Instead of Singers, they’d inhabitants: beings of flesh who also existed here and there. In a way, theirs was a more settled, peaceful universe.
But that assumption disregarded Between.
The Expanse.
The Scented Way.
The Dark.
Whatever the name, it also held life, life every bit as strange as a Watcher—capable of violence.
And hunger.
Drapskii’s sorrow wasn’t only for her Drapsk, but for her counterpart, White, caught in the schemes of those who craved a new and larger hunting ground. The Rugherans—enough, perhaps all but one—sought to move their world fully inside Between and, from there, reach more.
I’d have liked to introduce them to the Galactic Mysterioso.
READY, WITCHLING? SHOULD BE QUITE THE RIDE.
My love’s mindvoice, now the size of a world’s.
Chapter 38
HIS VOICE was the size of a world.
The rest of him minuscule. The rest focused on what he knew of Plexis. He’d a Talent for discrimination, to identify objects.
If nothing so large as this.
But he knew the station, the parking spots with better equipment, the corridors that missed checkpoints or the ones that led to safety. Knew the cargo warehouses and the posting boards, the ramps and glittering shops, the Claws & Jaws and the Whirtle who sold sheets and shoes. Holding all that in his mind, refusing to doubt it was enough, he summoned his memory of White, formed the locate, and pushed . . .
The M’hir was in trouble. That was his first thought, and though the Consortium believed a Human Talent unable to cause harm, who were they to know? His beach was gone. Sira, out of sight. His grasp of Plexis, of where he had to go, were the only realities in a universe gone mad.
That, and a refusal to fail. Another joined him, strange and too small.
Too BIG!
Power surged through him, lifted him, pushed ahead what he gripped with what remained of consciousness . . .
He opened his eyes to find himself sitting in the captain’s seat of a battle cruiser—enough to make him doubt his senses, but she was here.
Not a world. Nothing strange.
The other half of his heart. Sira.
Interlude
White
THEY’D COME FROM SYSTEMS so distant from one another this journey had taken weeks translight. Goth ships. Thremm. Papiekians and Scat. Drapsk, Carasian, and more.
Met over a planet none of them dared touch, sensing the grist of those swarming over its surface as poison. Space rippled as other ships, what weren’t just ships, flowed in and out of reality around them, chasing back the hunters. ching.
Waited.
Despaired as some were swarmed—
And disappeared.
When a space station pops out of nothing, especially one with a garish sign proclaiming “Plexis Supermarket: If You Want It, It’s Here,” prudence dictates a shift in orbit, preferably higher. Ships made their adjustments even as coms flared with messages. As hearts—or the appropriate organ—throbbed with hope, the answer came.
“We are the Consortium.”
Between
The Watchers gathered, being what Watchers do when noticing something new. Wary of threat, always. Ready to act.
One hesitated, holding place.
Others did the same.
New, they whispered among themselves.
While the Singers held on, circled by teeth.
In this place where size meant nothing more than will, a single, strange and small being swam and laughed to itself, growing larger with the pull of so many who belonged there and not here . . .<
br />
. . . reached with arms to find them. Connected. Pulling in turn.
Growing larger and larger.
The Dark swam and pulled, too, but those within it were growing smaller and smaller, their influence waning.
Until the being circled back where it belonged, growing—
LARGE.
And sorrow became recognition became joy as the solitary Rugheran who had been White and so very small and alone . . .
Became, once more, a world around a star.
Beloved.
While the hungry went without, except for those they’d already caught.
Snosbor IV
Wys di Caraat stood on her balcony, staring out at Caraaton—her city—through sheets of rain. Fire continued to rage on the horizon, north of the park. The Retian had proved braver or more obsessed than she’d expected. The Scats had, of course, lied. They’d no special cargo. Hadn’t landed. Extorted payment, that was all, while Talobar burned in his laboratory, with the future of the Clan.
The Omacron scum had stolen the present, one Chosen pair at a time.
Leaving her till last. A compliment of sorts.
“Mother.”
Wys closed her eyes, savoring that deep voice. If the Omacron sent illusion first, let it be this one: her son alive.
“Witch.”
Her eyes shot open, and she turned with a gasp.
Erad di Caraat stood in her quarters, freed. Beside him stood—
“Yihtor!” Without thinking, she loosed her Power in reacquaintance, eager to sense him again, feel him again.
To bounce painfully from shields every bit as strong as she’d once gloried in and Wys smiled, giving the gesture of recognition between equals. “My son.” She frowned. “What’s happened to your hair?”
“I’m here to send you home, Mother. Take my hand.”
The words from nightmares, where the dead swarmed behind her eyes and called, over and over. Home . . . home . . .
“No!” Wys backed until rain of this world blinded her, until she felt the rail behind. She put out her hands. She’d have her empire. “Never!”
Her Chosen looked to her son. Her Yihtor!
“I told you,” Erad said, then pushed her over the rail.
Stepping around the still-warm husk of his father, Yihtor di Caraat walked into the rain and tilted back his head, reveling in the sensation.
This, he’d remember.
Sira, it’s time to go home.
He pushed himself Between, to lead the way.
AllThereIs
Night’s Fire glowed overhead, a glory among dark dripping branches, luring hapless flying creatures to land on what was as much mouth as flower.
By that untrustworthy light, Wys di Caraat stepped with agonizing care. The narrow path—it would be a road, a wide road, one day—sent vines to snare her feet, vines with thorns to scratch her legs, scratches that not only itched but bled, attracting things.
They’d be gone, too, one day. A jungle was no proper place for a civilized being—let alone the progenitor of the new Clan. She’d have Acranam’s burned to the ground. Replaced with her empire—
Wys stumbled and went to her knees. Her outthrust hands sank into a filth of rotting vegetation and mud; beneath her fingers, things crawled.
Paved, her road would be. None of this. One day.
She’d only to endure. Find the way for the others. They’d come—
Snap.
Some things weren’t small nuisances. Rising to her feet, Wys staggered forward, reeling from tree to tree. They’d all be here, one day. She’d made a plan—it would be perfect—
SNAP.
AllThereIs
The Singers who remembered being father and Chosen and hated, son and never complete and used, burst free of their buds of Between, voices raised to greet their kind. Home, again.
Behind, they left one that shriveled.
The light within?
Gone out.
Chapter 39
“IT’S TIME—” Morgan folded over his knees, wondering where the words came from, wondering how he could fit inside a body this small.
And, urgently, if he was about to vomit on Bowman’s feet.
The universe having turned itself inside out with his stomach, for some reason he wasn’t shocked when Bowman herself took hold of him, firmly, and sat him back up, then kept her hand on his arm as if unsure if he’d stay there.
While around him came applause.
Applause?
Then he wondered the most important thing of all— “Where’s Sira?”
SIRA?
Interlude
SIRA!
Oh, good, I thought. Morgan was conscious. Mostly. What little I let through my shields appeared whole, if confused.
Channeling the life force of an entity the size of a planet could, I thought, almost amused, do that.
Here, I replied, adding a soothing calm that was more how I wanted to feel at the moment than did.
“We’re here,” Tarerea Vyna breathed. She looked up at Tayno. “Thank you.”
His eyes converged on her, every one unhappy. Then parted, to let those needle-sharp fangs protrude, and such was the trust between them that she smiled when those fangs gently touched her cheeks.
I looked away. When a subdued little rattle told me they were done, I turned and wrapped my fingers through hers. It’s time to go home.
We’d healed Between. I sensed the difference as soon as I opened my inner awareness. No cracks, no rot, only the usual mad turmoil of the Dark, trying to tear me from myself.
How odd, to find that a comfort.
Keeper! This way. Hurry!
We both moved in answer, having both been Keepers, though I held Tarerea close. She’d used the last of her strength to reach this far. Would gladly have let go and spun away with the nearest Watcher, but her sense of duty was a match to mine.
And she would not leave alone.
Hunters prowled. I hadn’t thought of the Rugherans as predators until I’d seen them as rumn, sliding through the depths of Vyna’s lake. Muscular, powerful, hungry. It was their nature, here, where they belonged.
Had the Stolen lured them too far? Had it been the Hoveny? The Om’ray? We’d unbalanced more than Cersi, without intention or plan, and I was fiercely glad, all at once, to be here, searching the Dark for the last of our strays.
There.
To my sight, the Vyna were a cluster of fading lights within a violent circle of appetite. A circle growing smaller.
Tarerea was daunted. Sira, how do we save them?
And I laughed, letting free the Power I’d held in and feared, snapping it out like a whip of joy—
Scattering the hunters.
Watchers came instead, howling the names of those waiting. I felt Tarerea leave me.
Felt attention.
<
From one voice, from every voice, warm and welcoming and glad.
Soon, I promised.
And found myself back in the Trade Pact.
Chapter 40
THE CLAWS & JAWS: COMPLETE INTERSPECIES CUISINE was famous throughout the Trade Pact. Or a good part of it. At least this quadrant, which was more than enough business for one restaurant, on one space station.
Though not yet open for business—a shame, given the number of potential new customers orbiting with Plexis—a dinner party was underway in the private lounge. The elegant decor was literally overshadowed by giant rib bones propped in each corner, vertebrae keeping them from slipping while offering alternative seating. The food, on the best porcelain, was takeout from the Skenkran next door; she’d have gloated for the next station year had not her favored eldest offspring known the guests of honor personally, having welcomed them to the highest level
of Plexis.
Menu and bones—or gloating Skenkrans—aside Huido was in fine form. The saving of multiple universes, including the Trade Pact and the station, was reason to celebrate, as if he needed more. After all, his pool was full of impatient wives who’d done, as the Carasian put it with a fond glisten to his whirling eyes, a great deal of thinking lately. He’d supplied them with vids of his epic battle, from several angles including above, to keep them aroused while he visited with guests.
Huido insisted on waiting on them all, leaving his staff free to entertain themselves, and the Wayfarer’s crew, by inventing names for the Skenkran takeout. “Glider Goobles” made Noska laugh so hard, Erin had to catch the Whirtle before it fell off its stool.
The Oduyae chefs were resting with their families, not being part of this one yet.
Two-Lily Finelle was, and present. Noska, now a firm believer, insisted she sit with him. The constable came bearing apologies from her partner and the sector chief. They’d business that couldn’t wait.
With the Facilitator sitting in the Conciliator’s brig, Morgan wouldn’t be surprised if Bowman was throwing her own party.
Morgan let the joy and anticipation of others wash by, having none of his own. He found a smile when it mattered, aware Sira did the same. Whether the feast took hours or ended soon, nothing changed. They’d run out of time.
As if Huido had reached the same conclusion—or was struggling with arousal of his own—he rose to deliver his infamous post-feast toast before most plates were empty.
“Friends and family. This will be a day to remember. We learned even vermin have their purpose! To the Vermin!” A noisy slurp invited all to join him, though two of the sous-chefs turned green and the Ordnex dishwasher disappeared under the table.
“Today, my nephew and I showed the Trade Pact the might of our claws! To our battle!”
Tayno’s claw shook on its way to his mouth, but he stood straight. “Uncle! A toast to Tarerea Vyna, who carried us to that battle and who was very brave.”
To Guard Against the Dark Page 37