A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) (11 page)

I had no idea. My stomach growled impatiently before I could think of an answer.

Morgan grinned, an expression that made his face years younger. “Since you’re that hungry, let me suggest a specialty of the house.”

This day was not going well.

 
Some time later, I swallowed the last crispy bite of a fruit bread and grinned across the table at Morgan. “I feel like a new person,” I said truthfully.

“Ready for a tour of the
Fox?
” Morgan asked, picking up both our dishes and tossing them into the kitchen’s receiver.

Not if he planned to test my so-called spacer’s knowledge, I wasn’t. This being a concern I didn’t intend to share, I dredged up a smile and nodded.

I needn’t have worried. Morgan loved his ship; showing her to anyone was obviously something he deeply enjoyed. All I had to do was look attentive—and try to keep up with his energetic strides.

Morgan told me the
Fox
’s history as we went. She was an old, well-used ship, originally a planetary patrol cruiser, at one time carrying seven crew and able to outrun most ships her size. Her subsequent owners had gradually stripped the crew quarters and holds for cargo space. Years of plodding service as an ore carrier followed. Eventually, there was little left of value.

Morgan had recognized the worth of the old ship’s abused and neglected engines, and risked his savings to buy her. He spent whatever he earned to refurbish her, in time restoring most of her original speed and maneuverability. He installed bulkheads to divide the ship’s interior into a set of four holds. Now, the
Fox
made a tidy profit transporting small, urgent cargoes, often through hazardous space.

There was more; in fact, our tour took the rest of the morning. I think Morgan mistook my eager listening for the natural reaction of a fellow spacer. He went into technical specifications at the least encouragement, dwelling on the improvements he wanted to make, as well as those already accomplished.

Morgan couldn’t have known the improvement he was making in his passenger, and I wasn’t about to tell him. As he described every detail, part number, and code, each loving explanation rooted itself in my mind, crowding away the emptiness with his knowledge of the
Fox.
I hadn’t realized how starved I was for information until he provided it. This was a meal infinitely more satisfying than the one already in my stomach.

By the time we were heading back toward the galley, my intense interest had had an unforeseen consequence. I was making Morgan nervous. His descriptions began to include a rather repetitive, “Don’t go there without me.” I could understand Morgan not wanting a stranger—especially one who arrived uninvited—roaming through his precious ship.

What I couldn’t understand was Morgan’s behavior. There is no excess space inside any ship, which meant that I often had to squeeze close to him to see what he would show me. Each time, he separated from that contact very quickly, as though I disturbed him.

 
“It’s not often I get to show off the
Fox,
Kissue. I hope I didn’t bore you,” Morgan concluded as he waved me into the galley.

“No,” I said sincerely. “I enjoyed the tour, Captain.” I stood beside the table, trailing my fingers along its smoothness.

“You probably need to rest,” he said. “There are rectapes in the left-hand drawer, and the table has a viewslot.”

I did feel tired. But there were questions I needed answered. “Where are we going, Captain Morgan?”

Morgan raised one eyebrow. “I was wondering when you’d ask. Ret 7 is my first scheduled stop. We arrive in four days, noon shiptime.”

Too soon,
whimpered a thought that wasn’t wholly mine. I ignored it, taking a seat and motioning Morgan to join me. He sat slowly, taking a plas notebook and pen from a pocket.

“What happens to me at Ret 7?” I asked, careful with my voice and expression.

“That’s your choice, Kissue,” Morgan replied. “I have to warn you. It’s not a good place to make a connection, unless you plan to go farther out. Liners do arrive from time to time, but there’s not much routinely scheduled.”

“Where do you go next?”

His face became expressionless, his blue eyes slightly hooded. He made a show of consulting his notebook. “I have three more stops planned: the
Fox
has cargo for the orbital station at Theta B798, a pickup at Plexis Supermarket, then Ettler’s Planet.”

The names meant nothing. I looked around the soft gray walls of the galley, carefully avoiding the black one full of stars. “I’d like to book passage on the
Fox
to Ettler’s,” I said casually.

Morgan whistled thoughtfully through his teeth, rolling the pen in his strong-looking hands. “Expensive. You don’t look to be in a position to pay.”

“Then why did you take me from Auord?” I replied.

I surprised him into a short, humorless laugh. “A question I still can’t answer to myself, chit.” A flicker of something in his eyes. “Put it down to a desire to twist the reptile’s tail.”

I closed my lips over what I might have asked; there were more immediate matters to settle. “I can work for my passage,” I suggested. “I want to go to Ettler’s.”

“Why Ettler’s?”

“That’s my business, Captain. Do we have a deal?”

He seemed to find his pen and pad fascinating. “It’s a long passage. Do you have any ratings?”

If he meant experience, I didn’t dare lie. “No.”

“So I’ll have to train you before you could even do maintenance,” Morgan said, looking me in the eye and not seeming in the least surprised by my confession. “I’ll want you out of my way,” he warned. “The
Fox
has no room for passengers straying around. I fly her alone, and that’s the way I like it.”

“I can learn. And I’ll stay out of your way.”

“It’ll be two weeks at least—”

“I could use the peace and quiet, believe me, Captain,” I said, hopeful he wasn’t seriously objecting.

“To Ettler’s, then.” He stood, holding out his right hand. I made my hand reach out and accept the quick grasp of his, wondering why the simple gesture felt so full of meaning.

Morgan went to attend to his ship. I sat, busy with my own thoughts. Idly, I picked up the pen he’d left on the table. Its metal was still warm from Morgan’s hand.

My fingers wrapped tightly around it, without any orders from me.

Barac locked the door of his rented room behind him, wishing the effort could keep his problems outside as well. The tall, lean Clansman stretched and then winced as the movement pulled his aching ribs. Bureaucrats.

“You’re late.”

Training locked Barac’s muscles to immobility. He used his eyes and deeper sense to seek the source of the soft, low voice without success. “I think you have the wrong room—” he began to thin air, only to close his mouth as a figure slowly materialized before his eyes. The form of a woman grew distinct, then clear, her blue-black hair tumbling in heavy waves to frame a pale and dramatically beautiful face. Her eyes were light gray and stormy with emotion; her generous red lips were thin with anger. The only flaw to the effect was the way her feet floated a hand-breadth above the floor.

“Rael,” Barac said with disgust. “I hope you know you scared me out of what wits I’d left—” Keeping a wary eye on the ominously silent Clanswoman, Barac strode past her to the room’s servo-panel. He tapped a request for Denebian wine—an expensive Denebian wine. When the panel opened seconds later, Barac took out two glasses. He turned, holding one glass of wine out toward Rael. At her slight nod, he pushed the glass with his power out of normal space, into the M’hir.

The glass winked out of existence, reappearing the same instant in Rael’s hand. Barac hid a sigh of relief. It would have been most embarrassing if Rael hadn’t accepted his offering. Alone, he couldn’t pass an object through the M’hir from one hand to another. Barac raised his wine in an appreciative toast. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Rael.”

Rael lifted her glass, checking its color, frowning. “No thanks to you for wasting the effort.” The Clanswoman— or rather her image, for Rael’s physical form was on a planet a considerable distance from Camos by Human measurement—lowered into a chairlounge Barac couldn’t see. She adjusted the silken panels of her skirt so her long legs could stretch. Since Barac had last seen her, she’d had the skin of both arms and legs altered to the dappling of a Gentek—probably a current Denebian fad. When she kicked her feet free of her slippers, which promptly disappeared from view, Barac noticed the dappling extended to her toes as well. He was mildly curious as to whether the coloring went to other areas of her body as well. Rael finished settling herself and looked at him.

She smiled, a brilliant smile quite without warmth. “Let’s say the fee you proposed was interesting—as a starting point. I presume it’ll be for more than repairing your pretty face,” the Clanswoman added wickedly, surveying the livid bruises extending from Barac’s ear to chin. She cocked an exquisitely shaped eyebrow. “Actually, I was planning to get in touch with you myself, Cousin.”

Behind her light words, Barac sensed a disturbance, a troubling of the M’hir he registered as anger. He tilted his glass, watching how the wine effortlessly held its level, thinking how well it matched Rael’s usual approach to life. The storm cloud she carried with her today was unusual, but Barac had little doubt as to its source.

Or that he had better deal with it first. “What’s wrong with the family today?” he asked, casually sipping from his wine.

The M’hir, in which Clan power dipped and mingled, through which image and form could be sent at the speed of thought, quivered between them as if charged with static. Barac cursed silently, quickly tightening his shields far past the limits of politeness, withdrawing from the M’hir, limiting his awareness to this room. As a di Sarc, Rael’s power within the M’hir was several magnitudes greater than his. And suds learned early to protect themselves.

Rael graciously ignored his withdrawal—or didn’t care. She stretched, a deceptively easy movement of her long arms that rolled muscle under her dappled skin. Her eyes were shadows behind a drift of hair. “When is your Joining with Risa?” she asked, instead of answering.

Risa sud Annk. The sound of her name ignited a desperate longing; it coursed through Barac’s body like a disease, upsetting all reason. His Risa.

Only Rael di Sarc had the gall to form spoken words around the central hope of his life—of any unChosen one’s life. Barac stood, feeling too vulnerable sitting, then began to pace around the room.

“Have they told you when?” she prodded, aware of his reaction and not hiding her amusement. Those Chosen were often cruel to those still ruled by need. Barac hoped to be amused and cruel himself one day.

He balled his fists, kept desire from his voice. “The Council hasn’t decided—probably soon.” It couldn’t be soon enough. To meet Risa, his intended . . . Barac forced his mind back to Rael. She had fired that name at him for a reason. “Why?”

Rael brushed back her hair, her eyes leaping into the light, their expression of pity holding him still. “Refuse to be a candidate for her Choice, Barac. Otherwise, I promise you won’t survive.”

It was like a belly blow, driving out his breath and sending a wave of nausea up through his brain. “Council decides the matches. Risa—” he couldn’t help the naked need in his voice this time, “—will be right for me.”

“You unChosen think with your guts.” Rael’s eyes continued to pin him, her full lips curving into a shape of disgust. “Try to use your head instead, Barac, and be grateful you’ve me to fill it. I happened to meet your Risa ten days ago. Oh, she’s ready to Choose, all right—will you listen to me!” Rael’s power swelled and rammed against his shielding, quelling his eager questions before they were more than thought. “This Risa is no more sud than I am, Barac. Those on Council are mad to think you could Join with her.”

“But I must.” Barac tried not to tremble, hearing at first only what mattered. Kurr, Sira, all other thoughts melted under surges of passion. Choice. It was his turn. He’d waited so long for his Joining, to have a mate of his own, to be complete. And Risa was ready for him. Rael said so.

Then the rest of what Rael was saying sank in past his excitement. “Council selected me as her candidate,” he protested. “They don’t make mistakes. You’re wrong, Rael—”

The form of the Clanswoman shimmered as though he saw her through waves of heat, the image she was projecting through the M’hir affected by emotion if not by physical distance. Her rage pounded at his mind. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with any Sarc,” Rael said scornfully. Then her image firmed. She leaned forward, put her hands on her knees, and hissed, “Risa di Annk has already tried to Join!” The abrupt end to her rage in his mind should have warned him. “And the candidate failed.”

Of all his questions, Barac could only form one. “Who?” he demanded, tasting bile in his mouth.

“Faitlen’s second son. Osbar di Parth. You knew Osbar, didn’t you?”

Yes, he did. Barac closed his eyes, involuntarily remembering a summer night, a night warm with promise, a night full of the unheard voices of a rare Clan gathering. Even rarer, Clan children. He, Kurr, Osbar, and the other unChosen males sneaking away. Tag in the dew-wet grass. ’Port and seek among the dark hedges.

Then, safely out of range of adults, someone starting the game called Chooser-Loser, the child’s game that teased instincts deeper than survival. Barac could almost feel the hot sweat of the ritual grip, his right hand locked in another’s, his knees wet from the grass. He could almost sense the strain of channeling power into brute force, aiming that force through the M’hir, against another’s, struggling to conquer.

It was just a game, but it was for boys only. Without needing to be told, Clan children knew today’s girl would be tomorrow’s Chooser, driven when adult to test any unChosen male’s mastery of the M’hir, to challenge that mastery with her unique power, to kill the weak with a thought.