To Trade the Stars (18 page)

Not that he denied he'd been changed by their Joining. Morgan judged himself, in an interesting irony, perhaps the only non-Clan who could actually do what Hawthorn feared—enter a susceptible nontelepathic mind, rip loose its secrets, and, in the process, destroy it.

As for other Human telepaths?

Morgan shied from the thought, standing straight and paying attention to the meeting now breaking for supper. He gave Hawthorn the single nod they'd agreed on as a signal that all was well. A glance at the wall chrono showed he'd have time to check on the Fox before rejoining the Kimmcles' guests for tonight's banquet.

As Morgan left the room behind Hawthorn, the thought circled back on itself like a snake—the truth, he knew, no matter how much he'd rather not admit it even to himself.

Human telepaths? As Morgan was now, with the Power and abilities Sira had granted him, it would be all too easy. He hadn't met one who could hide from his seeking thought. Not one who could protect themselves from his assault.

Not even Symon.

 

“Tomorrow's when . . . it gets down to the tough . . . the tough
and
dirty, my friend,” Hawthorn asserted, eyes owl-wide, pupils dilated. The Head of the Miners' Association, Morgan decided, was well past hammered and not the least concerned about it. Since the other delegates appeared in a similar state—having imbibed the stimulant of their species preference “on the house”—Morgan presumed this was an expected consequence of the Ore Meetings.

The other security on hand hovered about, expressions ranging from noncommittal to bored, obviously more interested in how soon their clients would need help to return to their suites than protecting them from harm. However, Morgan felt a twinge of responsibility for the Human now sprawled on the table across from him. The repairs on the
Fox
were going well, due to Hawthorn's faith in what he couldn't see.

What he couldn't see. Morgan smiled to himself and
reached
into the M'hir for Sira, still amazed the binding between them could disregard space and distance.

She was there. He could feel her presence, but nothing more. It was as if her mind was locked away.
Why?
Morgan refused to let his imagination run wild. Sira kept her shields tight around everyone but him, and now she was on Plexis, a popular stop for the Clan. She was being careful; it didn't mean she was at risk.

He could
reach
deeper—deep enough to regain her attention and have the warm feel of her thoughts slipping through his. And disturb her concentration, Morgan chided himself.

Hawthorn gave a happy little mutter, pushing his arms outward to knock over his almost empty glass. Morgan intercepted it as it rolled to the table edge, then froze, glass in hand.

There was something wrong.

Not with Sira.
Here
. He put down the glass and loosened his force blades, holding them hidden in both hands, ready to throw.

“There he is!”

Morgan casually looked for the source of that shout. The private room used for the Ore Meetings presently contained over thirty individuals who might qualify as the “he” being found, if one included the quartet of androgynous security personnel lurking by the bar and the multisexed Nrophrae. But the Human believed his own warning.

Trouble, indeed. The dozen—no, make that two dozen—squat, round beings now bursting through the doors might look harmless, their white eyeless faces surmounted by blue-green frondlike antennae seem inoffensive and mild, but hardened security guards and their drunken charges scrambled out of their way as quickly as they could.

Even on Big Bob, a motivated Tribe of Drapsk commanded respect.

Morgan replaced his force blades in their sheaths as the first Heerii Drapsk reached his table, talking too quickly to make any sense at all. The Human held up his hands to stop the excited being. “Just a minute,” he said. It was a reasonable guess that things were about to change. Morgan reached over to pat the comatose Hawthorn on one shoulder. “Thanks for the job.”

Then he looked at the Drapsk. Privacy wasn't an issue—the small beings had already supplanted any guest who'd remained conscious, those guests having vacated the room as rapidly as they could stagger out the door. The Drapsk formed a ring around his table, an anxious, very quiet ring with antennae pointed slightly in his direction. Several members of that ring were sucking their tentacles.

“So,” Morgan began, more curious than dismayed—he hadn't been too excited about another day of Ore Meetings, especially with all the delegates bound to be hungover. “What brings you to Kimmcle?”

W
HAT had brought Symon to Plexis? I asked myself as I continued to follow the pair. He had to know the Enforcers were hunting him, despite Bowman's discretion. And who was with him? Frustratingly, I hadn't caught more than a few glimpses of the young female, enough to guess she might be a child. Symon's?

Or his latest protégée, I thought grimly. I knew from Morgan's own past how Symon enjoyed finding young telepaths, how he'd steal their strength while he taught them, how that training twisted each young mind until they either learned to enjoy pain, as he did, or provided it for him.

I took advantage of a dawdling group of Humans, using their argument as cover to sneak closer. At last, a good look. The female was no one I'd met and not as young as I'd first thought. I frowned, tempted to use my Power to learn more about her, but reluctant to risk discovery. I didn't know Symon's full capabilities, except that he'd proved more than elusive. He'd successfully hidden not just from Bowman but from me.

Morgan didn't know I'd had Clan Scouts hunting for Symon, though it had been almost my first order as Speaker for the Council. My Human had thirsted for revenge against Symon too long. That desire had almost consumed him once already. I'd been proud when Morgan conquered his inner darkness and was able to put Symon out of his thoughts; I'd been grateful to know he'd found such peace.

Because it left me free, in the eloquence of the Scat, to eat our enemy's heart.

So who was Symon's female? They'd moved quickly through the night-zone, more quickly than I'd expected. It was as if she'd hurried to avoid it. I could understand why. The music from the various halls vibrated through the floor plates; the dimmer light turned every being into a silhouette who might or might not be drunk enough to grab at random; and even the beauty of the tiny port lights, floating high above to mimic a starry sky, couldn't disguise the fact that several beings had recently ejected the contents of their digestive tracts.

Add a few Skenkrans overhead, move some dubious entertainment into the main area, and a Plexis night-zone would be astonishingly like Big Bob's Recreation Complex, I concluded, unsure whether to attribute the similarity to the Human tendency to keep building what worked, or if this was some socio-economic trend that crossed species' barriers. Spacers, loud music, and bars.

The night-zone ended as abruptly as it had begun, delineated by bright full-spectrum lighting and businesses whose windows didn't contain flashing signs advertising: “No matter what your taste, we have the species for you!”

Perversely, now that it was easier to see and be seen, I lost sight of my quarry. I ran up one of the side ramps to a balcony overlooking the main concourse. Most levels were taller than a single floor—a result of retrofitting a refinery designed to munch asteroids—and Plexis took full advantage by hosting stores and other businesses up its walls as well as along the floor.

The concourse wasn't busy. From the finer clothing and lazy movements of the beings below me, I guessed it was late evening in this section. I put my bag on the floor and stepped closer to the rail, looking for Symon. He should be easy to spot—taller than most Humans, big through shoulders and chest, his coarse brown hair unfashionably short and sprinkled with gray.

There
. The two of them were almost out of sight, heading in the direction of the
Claws & Jaws.
Another threat to Morgan's giant blood brother, this time coming in the front door? I snatched up my bag and, taking the chance,
pushed
myself into the M'hir . . .

... to stand within the shelter of one of the arched entranceways to the vast Skenkran-operated cafeteria. The cafeteria might be Huido's neighbor, but it hardly afforded him competition as it was closed more often than it was open. I wasn't surprised to find the door behind me locked, its surface plastered with several lurid “unsafe for any species” signs. More likely, they hadn't paid their taxes. Huido had told me Plexis forgave poisoned patrons before bad credit.

The tall entranceway—one of five—was set deeply into the wall, with lumpy inlaid tile and plas plants competing for attention. Intended to make one feel as though entering a true Skenkran dome, it succeeded in being an ideal place for ambush.

Of course, I'd planned to be the one doing the am-bushing, my plan to crouch in wait until Symon and his companion walked by. What I'd expected to do next was unclear even to me, but I had no chance to try.

Within a heartbeat of my arrival, I knew I wasn't alone.

Before I could turn my head, everything went dark. I began to drown beneath a swell of unheard music, its wild notes flooding my bones, singing of need . . . desire . . . an urgent, restless heat . . .

“Fancy meeting you here.”

The shock of that intrusion was visceral. I gasped as if struck, fought to regain vision, any sense of what had happened, what was happening—losing that sense even as I was able, barely, to clamp down my connection to Morgan, to keep him safely unaware. Otherwise he'd hear that voice through my ears.
Symon
. My Chosen would try to come to me—to ‘port. I knew it—

“What's wrong with her, Jake?” I heard, higher-pitched, softer—no less cruel.
Jake?

“I don't know.”
Neither do I,
I thought, still blind, feeling rough hands grab my arms and pull me against a hard body, too numb to protest or act in my own defense. “Too much to drink, probably. You go home, Ruti, dear. I'll look after her.”

“Why don't you just leave her here?” Petulant, as though the child begrudged me Symon's care.

Care? I tried to struggle, but he'd wrapped his arm painfully tight around my shoulders, supporting me in a parody of kindness.

“I look after my friends, don't I?” Symon didn't wait for an answer. “Now go. Remember what I told you about the Carasians. And watch for my friend Jase Morgan at the restaurant. I want you to tell him how very much I need to see him.”

“I know, Jake. I keep watching for him, but are you sure he's coming?”

Morgan?
My attempted sending was too late; I was too close to losing consciousness. Desperately I set my inner defenses as Symon dipped to put his other arm behind my knees, then lifted me against his chest.

“I'm quite sure,” I heard the renegade telepath say, a sickening note of triumph in his voice.

Ruti scowled as she walked up to the
Claws & Jaws,
bypassing the main entrance in favor of a smaller door set inconspicuously at the juncture between the restaurant and the upscale hostel beside it. She keyed the code for the doorlock, tapping her foot as she waited for it to accept and admit her. Why the Carasian didn't use a more conventional palmlock was beyond her. . . .

As was the behavior of her friend. This was supposed to be their time together, she fumed, time hard enough to come by without his wasting it on some drunken spacer!

The door unlocked. Ruti pushed it aside rather than waiting for it open. She peeled the air tag from her cheek, slapping the cold, grotesque thing to join the line of its cousins on the wall, then hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. Since graduating to chef, she'd succeeded in avoiding cleanup—a situation that wouldn't last if Ansel or Chee, the head dishwasher, spotted her without something to do. She could ‘port to her room, but Huido seemed to know whenever she entered the M'hir. Tonight wasn't a time to make the Carasian irritable, not if she wanted to be able to leave early again tomorrow night.

Surely Jake would rid himself of that—that female by then. No matter that she'd been . . . Ruti swallowed, then admitted the truth to herself. Regardless of her shabby spacer clothing, Jake's “friend” had been stunningly beautiful, with red-gold hair hanging in great, heavy waves down her back and huge, unfocused gray eyes. And Ruti wasn't completely naïve—you couldn't be after working nights shoulder-to-hip in a kitchen with beings who chatted about every physical aspect of life in obscene detail. Ruti had seen Jake take pleasure in the feel of that body against his.

When Ruti Commenced, she would be more beautiful. Far more beautiful than any Human spacer dreg. Jake would see her and forget anyone else existed.

Ruti might forgive him by then.

A few more steps. Ruti took an involuntary glance into the kitchen, then stopped to stare. It was full of beings, but no one was cleaning. Staff, looking miserable, angry, and, in one case, sound asleep, stood or sat near the back. For the first time since she'd arrived, the mammoth stove was silent, grease congealing on its cold surface. The giant steam table no longer boiled. Cupboards hung open, drawers were pulled into the aisles—even the doors to the undercounter stasis units were ajar, vegetables sprouting as they made up for lost time.

And Plexis security was everywhere.

 

“There must be another way.”

Huido swiveled three eyes to examine Ansel's anxious face. “I'm all ears,” he said without humor, continuing to reach for various sidearms and other weapons, securing each to a clip embedded in his chitonous plating. The two of them were in the outer room of his apartment, the Carasian having reluctantly decided this wasn't an opportune moment to be distracted by his lovely wives—no matter how they savored stress and excitement. “Inspector Wallace has asked me to come quietly to the station brig in five minutes. You know how many beings don't leave there on their own limbs?”