To Trade the Stars (15 page)

Huido spared a moment to worry about his
grist
—after all, one's pond performance was a delicate matter, easily perturbed by things like this willy-nilly moving through other dimensions by the Clan—then cheered. He could have Ruti take his nephew for a few trips . . . of course, that meant trusting her. Unlikely.

“You wanted me, Hom Huido?” the polite question interrupted his thoughts.

“The lamb needs braising,” he rumbled, then waited until she moved out of his way before striding off.

He didn't get farther than the exit before a voice heralded a new problem. “Hom Huido! Wait!” The Carasian clattered to a halt, two eyes longingly on his apartment door, the rest scouring the hallway and kitchen anteroom for ambush. It might be easier for his nephew to hide his bulk among the slick tidal rocks preferred by females on their homeworld—that didn't mean he wouldn't try crouching behind furniture. Huido spared one eye to glare at Ansel.

“If it's not about my nephew, I'm too busy.”

“There's someone to see you, Hom Huido.”

A claw snapped in midair. “Not another relative!”

Ansel shook his head. “No, sir. It's Plexis security. Hom Huido—it's Inspector Wallace himself, with other officers. They want to talk to you about someone named Naes Fodera.”

Huido, in the midst of a shrug, stopped. Six more eyes clustered to look at the smaller Human. “You don't think . . .” he began, then stopped. They'd taken great care to dispose of Neltare's regrettable pate and ribs: packing them up as a catering special, then marking the container as spoiled by a failed stasis system. It should have been destroyed by the recycling plant immediately. The
Claws & Jaws
paid its taxes. “It can't have anything to do with . . .”

Over the years, he'd learned Ansel's expressions and thought he knew them all. This ferocious scowl was something new. “For all we know,” Ansel almost hissed, “that creteng chef ran straight to Wallace. A shame he wasn't run over sooner.”

“If he had,” Huido said sensibly, refusing to add more paranoia to his day, “they'd have been here within the hour, not days later. No, this is probably about our last inspection. I suspect Wallace is here to scam another case of my brandy.” He clicked clawtips together delicately. “Still, make sure Ruti keeps out of sight—send her shopping if you must. Put out some of the cheaper appetizers for our ‘guests.' Stall them while I change this lock code.”

After all, first things first, the Carasian thought smugly. “Then, Ansel, I'm putting you in charge of watching my nephew.”

“Your nephew? But—?” Ansel's face fell. “Yes, Hom Huido.”

“Keep him happy. Show him the business. It's important—” Huido stressed the word, “—to convince Tayno the restaurant is very successful. Sell him a franchise, if you can—preferably on the far side of Carasia. And—most of all—keep him away from this door!”

“But it's locked. Even if he got inside, wouldn't your wives—” the Human's voice trailed off suggestively. Ansel, like all the staff, knew about the less-than-delicate nature of Carasian females. The “let's eat what moves” aspect of this nature, combined with an armored and clawed body half again as large as any male's, had proved sufficient to quell even primate curiosity.

Huido raised all four claws, hissing in frustration. “I've no time to explain, Ansel. Just guard the door and don't let Tayno near it.” He tilted his head carapace at a bizarre new worry, all eyes riveted on the Human's face. “You can tell us apart, can't you?”

Ansel licked his thin lips. “I know you're bigger, Hom Huido,” he said quickly, then hesitated.

“Well?” the Carasian rumbled.

“A password might be wise,” the Human admitted weakly.

M
AYBE it was weak of me, but I waited until Morgan slept before starting to pack the few things I wanted to take with me to Plexis. I was finding items by feel in the darkness when suddenly his low voice ordered up the lights, adding: “Don't forget your flute.”

“I didn't mean to wake you.” I opened the next drawer and pulled out the battered case of my keffleflute—a Joining gift of sorts from my sister Pella, who'd insisted it not be sold. “I won't have time to practice,” I decided, putting it back.

“You might still want to take it.”

“Why?”

Morgan chuckled, sitting up so I could meet his eyes in the mirrored tiles. “While the Kimmcle will claim their mechs are beyond reproach, I wouldn't leave anything to tempt them. That—” with a nod to the drawer, “—comes under the heading of very tempting.” I scowled but lifted the case out again. He was right about its value. The case might be ordinary; the instrument inside was anything but—having more history in its precious inlays than the M'hiray, including having been played in concert by nineteen master musicians. It had been my most prized possession, once. I alternately cursed and blessed Pella for making me keep it.

“We could lock it in the hold.”

“The hold is sealed and under vacuum—we didn't want to pick up any stray fungus from Big Bob, remember?” He blinked sleepily, hair adorably ruffled. “Take it. I'll feel better knowing you have it with you.”

I shoved the case into my carryroll. “Fine. Maybe I'll be able to pawn it on Plexis.” He didn't rise to the bait, knowing I couldn't part with it.

It wasn't because I still loved the instrument; I hated it. Alone among the joys of the past three months, the keffle-flute was a thorn in my skin, a stubborn symbol of what I'd lost. Ever-helpful Pella had sent recordings with it: brilliant, complex renderings made with a stranger's skill. The fading calluses on my hands lied to me of that music; all I had left were a few halting notes from a tune that slipped into silence whenever I tried to play it.

Proof my mind hadn't recovered from the blockage. Proof I wasn't whole. What else had I lost of Sira di Sarc—of her life before meeting this Human, becoming this new person? My inability to ever truly know chilled me at times like this, certain at any moment I might see something or meet someone I should remember, but wouldn't. Worse, I imagined having lost some skill more crucial than music, a lack waiting to cripple me.

I kept packing, feeling Morgan's silent empathy as a gentle reminder that no matter what I'd lost of that old life, this and more I'd gained. My ‘port to Plexis without him would be our first real distance apart, but not a separation. I understood our Joining would only be strengthened by distance. Intellectually. Sira di Sarc understood.

Sira Morgan didn't.

Suddenly, illogically, any distance between us was too much. I dropped the bag and threw myself violently toward the bed, feeling Morgan's strong arms catch me before I bounced off to the floor. Without a word or sending, he settled me within the curve of his body and drew the blanket over us both, my tool belt with its assorted accoutrements disappearing from around my waist before I noticed the discomfort of lying on it.

Tomorrow wasn't, yet.

 

“Rise and shine!”

I cracked an eye, unsure why Morgan felt morning on a starship-especially one parked inside an asteroid's repair dome—required hammering as well as this bellow from the doorway. Then I realized the hammering was a vibration coming through the floor plates. “The mechs?” I grumbled.

“Already back to work in the engine room, sleepy-head. Good thing the com woke one of us.”

“At least they knocked,” I muttered, but the Human was gone again—presumably to hover over his beloved engines until it was time to go to the Ore Meetings.

Which would be my signal to leave as well. We'd worked out a plan to account for my absence over the next two days. After breakfast, I'd accompany Morgan to our temporary quarters on Big Bob—the mechs having considerately requested we clear the
Fox
before they started ripping out potentially explosive components—and stay there. Well, it would seem I stayed there. Morgan would order meals for two, vistapes, whatever seemed reasonable.

After the fiasco of our last visit, it shouldn't be hard to convince anyone who knew me I'd prefer to hide out while Morgan worked and the Fox was off-limits.

I made sure the cabin door was locked before stripping out of my coveralls and heading for the fresher stall—taking Morgan's advice about not trusting the Kimmcle to stay beyond reproach.

 

Foolish, to see this as anything more than a brief good-bye. No matter how sternly I told myself this, I hurried around the small apartment, moving in ridiculous circles as I found inconsequential things to do. Morgan stayed out of my way, leaning beside the door. His eyes were hooded and inscrutable, as though his thoughts were on what lay ahead.

As mine should be. I made myself stand in one place, carryroll in hand, and looked at him. “Everything in order, Captain?” I asked.

He came close, fingers brushing lightly at the red flash of fabric on my left shoulder—a relatively new Trader custom to distinguish a ship owner from mere crew. We'd adopted the practice after trading on Cura Primus, where Morgan noticed those ship owners with flashes received preferential seating at the bid tables. Again, by custom, ours bore the name
Silver Fox
as well as a summary of her cargo rating and engine stats to entice potential clients. “Isn't it straight?” I asked, craning my head to try and see for myself.

“It's straight. But do we want to advertise?” Morgan mused. “It might be better to keep a low profile, this trip.”

I glanced at him, surprised. “A low profile? All that'll get us is a shipload of debt when we leave Plexis. If you're worried about what deals I might make—” I endeavoured not to sound offended, but my hair began writhing at the ends. “You know I'd contact you before signing us up for anything.”

“No, no. You're right,” Morgan said almost too quickly. “We can use the business. Just don't be disappointed if no one makes an offer. Plexis is unpredictable—one trip you hardly dock before getting cargo, and the next? The ring will be overflowing with Traders who've off-loaded and are hungry for scraps. Now remember. The main thing is to keep Huido calmed down. He always thinks the louder he says something, the more likely people will agree. It won't work with Plexis security. Not if they have evidence.”

I suspected my Human's somewhat rambling speech of having the same cause as my erratic pacing of a moment before.
I'll be fine,
I sent, adding much more beneath the words: caring, assurance, a tinge of concern.
You look after yourself and our ship.

Morgan took my right hand, bringing it to his lips. I allowed myself to drown in his eyes for an instant, then stepped back, concentrating on the locate I'd selected. Before I could hesitate, I . . .
pushed
...

... finding myself darkness within darkness, power within power. It was a long ‘port, but well within my ability, if I were careful not to be tempted by this path or that, to lose my way following imagined symmetries. Though I didn't tap Morgan's considerable strength through our lengthening link, I drew focus from it and . . .

... became solid again, looking around quickly to be sure no one was nearby who might have witnessed my unusual arrival. I tested my link to Morgan. He was
there
—distant but real—a reassurance I'd badly needed. Here?

I was alone.

Unless you counted servos. I stepped to one side to let a lumbering transport by, resisting the temptation to duck as messengers zoomed past just overhead. I was inside one of the service corridors—tunnels really—that formed the veins and arteries of Plexis. A bewildering machine world, kept pressurized and heated to eliminate the need for air locks at each business entrance, kept well-lit for those servos who used visual sensors for navigation.

A bustling, noisy world that ignored me—the non-functional intruder—completely. I took my bearings and headed left, avoiding the row of waste canisters busy chewing their contents. Each let out the occasional belch of methane, immediately sucked into tiny hovering air sweepers that expanded, balloonlike, with every capture.

The rear door to the kitchen of Huido's restaurant was just ahead, but I discovered I wasn't the only intruder in the corridor today. I dodged behind the last canister, hoping I'd moved quickly enough to avoid being seen. Keeping my head close to the floor, I peeked around the hard-working device.

The door was as I'd remembered it, except now it was being studied by four Plexis security personnel, one of whom was running some type of sensor over the doorframe while another made a vid of the entire procedure. They weren't the sort Plexis employed on the shopping concourse—those helpful, approachable beings who offered friendly advice to stray customers while checking for air tags. No, these four had more in common with Enforcers like Terk—armed, serious, and probably annoyingly suspicious, especially of someone on the wrong side of that door.

So much for Bowman's taking over the investigation. Inspector Wallace, a Human I remembered Morgan describing as stubborn and shrewd—as well as always on the lookout for his own best advantage—must have reacted to the Enforcer's interest by an increase in his own. This wasn't good. I considered ‘porting right into Huido's kitchen, but there could be more security inside. The safest approach would be to blend into a crowd and walk in the front entrance like every other being.

For that—I rubbed one hand pensively over the smooth skin of my cheek—I'd need an air tag.

 

Faking an air tag wasn't within my capabilities. I could offer the illusion of one or, more accurately, temporarily confuse someone looking at me into wondering exactly what was on my cheek—but only if that someone's mind was susceptible. It helped if the beings I tried to confuse were already under the influence of some intoxicant, or at least uninterested in my face to begin with—both highly unlikely in those selected to staff Plexis security checkpoints.