To Trade the Stars (13 page)

Morgan's fingers wrapped around mine, but his attention was on our hostess. “How much will the mechs want?”

She seemed to assess his seriousness before nodding. “I can ask. You Love Buds relax a bit while I do. Not a pro-Mise, Jas-On—”

“We appreciate any help, Rees, to get us on our way as soon as possible,” I told her with complete sincerity, having managed to finally pry the skin of my left palm from the noxious puddle that had glued it to the countertop during most of our conversation.

 

I'd learned, when sitting alone in Big Bob's Recreation Complex, to keep my eyes fixed on my beer and ignore the occasional slobbering sounds from underneath the table. Looking around inevitably provided a view of distended abdomens, Human and Festorian, while taking notice of the exuberant antics of the imported Retian ort-fungi would only brand me as a tourist. Knowing the mobile scavengers as I did, which was too well, I settled for keeping my feet curled up beneath me on the chair.

I wasn't really alone, of course. Under the sights, sounds, and smells of hundreds of strangers lay the presence of my Chosen, a mutual awareness more real than having his physical self within my sight.

It hadn't taken as long as I'd feared for Rees to be back in touch—she'd sent a Festor with a message for Morgan to meet someone within the hour. Alone. Which he wasn't either, I thought smugly, briefly extending my other sense to include Morgan's heartbeat, strong and steady, and the cautious attention he was paying to that someone. His shields were in place, effective against any other being. I backed away, lest I disturb his concentration. He'd let me know if he needed me.

We'd practiced this through trading sessions on—I stopped, amazed to realize the total was now nine different worlds and one way station. We'd found ways to use our inner connection to advantage, or, more precisely, to counter the advantages others had over us. When we ended our contract with Huido—Morgan's other regular clients not having any work available—my Human had done his utmost to select worlds where the
Fox
had a chance to bid for small, profitable cargoes—those unlikely to interest the larger Traders with their generation ships. With the universe's fine irony, on our very first stop we'd docked beside three. Each Trader had sent a representative and runner, coms being forbidden during negotiation, to every table—including those where the deals were for crumbs. To have a chance ourselves, we'd split up, with Morgan offering me advice on my first negotiation through our link.

It wasn't so much that I'd been brilliant, as it was that Morgan was able to share his success with me the moment it happened, letting me confidently outbid a very surprised chit from
Ryan's Venture
based on expectation of profit from Morgan's deal—this well before any
‘Venture
runner started moving with the information.

Morgan and I were too careful to let this become a pattern, but we found other ways. Sometimes I would stay at the
Fox'
s console, keying up information on prices and quantities to slip into Morgan's mind as needed. When we sat together at bidding tables, I'd watch one dealer while Morgan checked on another—information we could share without speech.

Making two more effective than one. I smiled at my beer. It was still a game to me, one which I could play, watch, or dismiss depending on my mood—though I gauged the importance of each trading session by Morgan's intensity. Some mattered more to him than others; those I made sure to take seriously as well. The others? Suffice it to say, Morgan suspected I knew more than I'd ever admit about how we'd lost the contract to transport those sacks of valuable beetle dung for that Whirtle.

Beetle dung, indeed. In my ship?

A hint of something not-right. I sat up straighter, putting down my feet without thinking, only to step on a heaving disk of fungi. I kicked the thing aside and concentrated.

From Morgan.
Not trouble. Something . . . unexpected.
I calmed myself, wary of acting on impulse again, and prepared to wait.

Being sure to first lift my feet from the floor and keep my eyes on my beer, as one should on Saturday night.

Kimmcle miners of any species were easy to spot—especially on Saturday night, when the garb of choice was whatever came in the brightest colors. Festors, like the one who'd delivered Rees' message and now guided Morgan through the crowd, preferred flamboyant calico bibs which turned a truly disgusting shade of brown with the addition of green ooze. As oozing followed every belch, and Festors belched between every swallow of beer past their limit, the hue was a reliable indicator of how sober a Festor was at a given moment.

Implying this one had either changed bibs recently, Morgan observed, or was atypically pure for a Saturday night. Perhaps a professional messenger, not someone doing Rees a favor.

“Not far,” his guide said, as if worrying the Human might decide they'd walked too far already. “Near wall—by Bar # 105—Rees said to take you there, Hom Morgan.”

“Thanks.” Morgan walked lightly, an eye to the Skenkran divers as well as to those they passed. All seemed harmlessly preoccupied. He'd known to wear something bright himself—a sure way to blend with locals—and had switched from his faded spacer coveralls to a jerkin and pants of vivid red, a fanciful design picked out in gold-and-blue thread. Sira had refused to change, but then she couldn't blend in anywhere in the Trade Pact, the Human thought, smiling to himself.

Sira had only grown more lovely these past months, a beauty as hard to define as it was to ignore. Perhaps it was how she carried herself like a queen, he decided, which to the Clan she essentially was, yet it was an unconscious pride, as though her Power somehow manifested itself in posture and grace. Her face, in turns framed or veiled by that amazing hair, was exquisitely expressive: dark gray eyes dancing or serious, generous lips as quick to smile as purse in thought.

Or to offer a kiss. Morgan drew his thoughts firmly back from that highly distracting direction. He did, however, promise himself to collect such a kiss when this meeting was over.

“Here we are, Hom Morgan.”

The Festor had stopped at a more elaborate establishment than most, one that offered booths—improving the odds of holding a conversation without shouting. Morgan flashed a look at the booths to either side of the one the Festor indicated. Their privacy fields were engaged but not opaqued, so one could see quite clearly what was going on inside, but mercifully be spared sound effects. As usual, there was a cluster of spectators and bets being placed—an indication a significant number of Kimmcle were at last drunk enough to enjoy watching anything that moved. However slowly.

Morgan took his seat within the booth, joining the shadowed figure waiting there. The Festor bowed, switching on full privacy as he left them. The rest of Big Bob's Recreational Complex faded from view, leaving several disappointed Kimmcle to use their imaginations.

A small port light brightened above the center of the table, revealing a tray of mournful-looking cooked prawlies imprisoned in jelly, a decanter filled with an amber liquid, and the ubiquitous pitchers of beer.

“Brandy, Captain Morgan?”

“Beer's fine.” Morgan studied his host as frankly as he was being examined in turn, seeing a small man in a flowered shirt, his black hair thoroughly peppered with white, with a nose that looked to have been broken several times—assuming his parentage was pure Human. “Hawthorn, isn't it?” he said. “Head of the Miners' Association?” When Hawthorn's eyes widened in surprise, the Trader grinned. “One of your election posters is still inside the main air lock. A little dated, I'd say. Congratulations on your win.” Morgan stretched his hand over the table to meet the other's grip. Hawthorn's hand was strong and callused along the base of the palm—sign of a driller.

“You pegged it. Giles Hawthorn,” the Kimmcle admitted, grinning back. He poured a glass of beer and pushed it to Morgan, splashing brandy into another for himself. “Rees was right—you're an interesting man, Captain Jason Morgan of the
Silver Fox,
Karolus Registry. You see, I read the fine print, too. Seems you have a problem with your fine ship.”

Morgan took a sip of his beer, savoring the cool rich taste on the back of his throat. Another satisfying brew. They really knew their hops in Big Bob; the only drawback was the difficulty in finding the same brewery in operation two trips in a row. “A problem you can help me with?” he asked.

“Possibly. I do have a—job to be done. From what Rees and others tell me, looks like you might be exactly the being I need.”

“Depends on what they said about me. Hope it's good,” Morgan replied with a easy smile, on impulse checking the force blade up his left sleeve. He let out a tendril of thought, carefully aimed at the mind nearest him.

The unexpectedness of it skimmed across his link to Sira, who responded with a questioning thought. Morgan reassured her, then focused on his companion.

So, Hawthorn had a mind-shield. Its slightly metallic feel within the M'hir meant it wasn't natural, but rather one of the implanted devices used by Bowman and her elite group of Enforcers. Morgan considered, and dismissed, the possibility that he faced another of Bowman's operatives. Politicians, business tycoons, and crime lords were just as prone to fearing mind invasion—the elected Head of the Kimmcle Miners' Association would be all three.

Hawthorn had continued, oblivious to Morgan's moment of preoccupation: “One of the first duties of my new administration is to host the Ore Meetings. They begin tomorrow morning and we've got delegations from over fifteen systems and organizations. These meetings are critically important—do you know why?”

Morgan leaned back, a posture not inconsequentially giving him a wider throwing range in case new targets happened to arrive, and nodded. “They're where you find out how high you can jack ore prices before the refineries start going elsewhere.”

Hawthorn slapped both palms down on the table and gave a startlingly deep laugh for someone of his body mass. “If everyone at the meetings would admit that, we'd save about thirty standard hours of pointless rhetoric. ‘Course there is value to following protocol—”

“You can hope someone falls asleep before noticing what you've slipped in?” Morgan suggested.

Another belly laugh. “Rees was right. You're no one's fool, Captain Morgan. Now, all I'll need is for you to attend the meetings—and stay awake. You just let us know if anyone tries anything—peculiar. We'll deal with them.”

“Peculiar?” Morgan frowned. “I'm no expert on ore pricing, Hom Hawthorn.”

“Ah, but you are a telepath—of considerable ability—are you not?”

Morgan schooled his face into polite astonishment and nothing more. “I don't know what you've heard, but I'm no—”

Hawthorn picked up his brandy glass and took a deep swallow. “Don't bother,” he advised, his tone level, almost somber. “It's not a secret, Captain. Not any longer. Why do you think you've found contracts drying up, old customers becoming hard to reach?”

“My contracts are my own business, Hawthorn,” Morgan snapped.

“Seems you don't have much left, then. Word's out on you. Mindcrawler. Telepath. No one's going to trust you again, you know. I'm sure you have your own way to—sense—why I might be the exception.”

Morgan took a deep breath, controlling his expression, thinking hard. Unlikely any of the Clan had exposed him—giving secrets to Humans wasn't their style. Besides, they seemed to have, however grudgingly, accepted his status as Sira's Choice. Bowman had known for years, but had sworn she'd told only Terk and ‘Whix. Why would she damage his credibility, when she so often wanted him as her spy? The Drapsk? Huido? Neither would betray him. The Retian, Baltir, would have done so with glee—but he was rumored to be a rug in a Makii tavern.

Leaving one possibility. Ren Symon.

Morgan smiled pleasantly. “Let's say, for the sake of discussion, that I have some small—Talent. What would it have to do with your Ore Meetings and getting the
Fox
back in space?”

He drew a spiral on the table with one finger as Hawthorn eagerly explained, wondering not so much about Symon's motives—those were never obvious and any guess likely wrong—as how to avoid sharing this particular detail with his Chosen.

After all, she was expecting him to return with good news, not proof that their trade had been deliberately sabotaged.

B
EFORE I felt Morgan's return, I had had time to finish my now-warm beer and refuse three separate offers by strangers anxious to remove their clothes while dancing on my table. Since neither table nor would-be dancers looked capable of such a performance—the former being uneven and rickety, and the latter equally unsteady on their varied limbs—I followed Morgan's advice for such situations. I shook my head firmly, then said in a melodramatic tone he'd made me practice: “Go away or I'll take out your knees with this blaster.”

It worked whether the species in question had knees or not—even proving effective when both my hands were on the table, making it transparently obvious I had no such weapon or intention. A puzzle Morgan tried to explain by saying it wasn't what I said, but how I said it. I'd argued it would be much more effective to ‘port such annoying beings into the nearest sludge pond, but had to admit, the bizarre Human tactic was more discreet.

“All quiet?” Morgan asked, sliding into the other seat. As he had to lean forward and shout this at me, I had to smile, a smile the Human took as invitation for a brief, surprisingly passionate kiss. Not that I complained. A lock of my hair squirmed free of the netting to reach for him as he moved away again. I tucked it back, regaining my composure with the gesture. Another hopeful dancer stopped his approach and wandered away.