To Trade the Stars (19 page)

Ansel wrung his hands together. “Then you must leave the restaurant now, tonight. Get off the station.”

“That's what I intend to do, old friend. Make sure you stay in here. With security at every door, it's not going to be a quiet exit.” Huido hummed contentedly as he dropped a set of blast globes in a mesh bag.

“You can't mean to fight your way out!” The Human looked appalled. “Maybe you should go with them after all, Hom Huido. It's only an inquest—” he pleaded.

More eyes swiveled to gaze at the Human. “Wallace has that misbegotten pate and ribs—which have to be pretty ripe by now—and claims I killed the Neblokan, too. A wonderful notion. I wish we'd thought of it.”

“You've done nothing wrong—the Enforcers will believe you! The Sector Chief knows you personally.” Ansel, who measured influence as carefully as he kept the restaurant accounts, had been overjoyed to find Bowman's name near the top of the restaurant's list for an annual truffle gift box.

“Plexis security doesn't like me much, Ansel, especially since they know I've kept track of ‘special fees' they've requested over the years for certain less-than-legal services,” Huido rumbled. “Plexis likes Bowman and her Enforcers even less. You think Wallace wants an inquest? Hah! He wants to toss me out an air lock before anyone else asks questions. So if you don't mind—” Huido pulled a particularly nasty and highly illegal biodisrupter from its hiding place, “—I like my plan. Blast my way out and take what opportunities arise.”

“Wait!” Ansel came to stand directly in front of the larger being. “The Inspector . . . his people . . . they haven't seen your nephew—he's been in his quarters the last couple of hours going over the accounts. We can use him as a diversion. He can pretend to be you—trust me, that would work.” At Huido's menacing claw snap, the Human added quickly: “As long as you aren't together. Then they'd notice immediately how much bigger you are.”

Appeased, the huge alien subsided, continuing to gently snick one claw together as if it helped him think. “I'm not saying I agree to this—but then what?”

“Then?” Ansel was breaking into a sweat. Huido suspected he was nervous around armaments that could take out the side of the station. A wise fear, though the Carasian had no intention of making such a mess—at least not in his own apartment. Suddenly, Ansel's face brightened. “Then—you go through the service corridor to the Mission. The Turrneds will help—I know they will. They can get you offstation until all this is resolved.”

“Which leaves my nephew here to either be dumped out an air lock or to try and explain to Inspector Wallace,” Huido's eyestalks began to dance. “I like your approach, Ansel. I definitely do.” He slipped his carefully padded vest over his weaponry, not so much to conceal anything as to prevent the metal-on-plate sound. The Carasian stood statute-still for a moment, then said: “Fine. Go tell Ruti to pack. She's coming with me.”

“Sir?” Ansel, who'd started for the door, looked around with a frown. “Why take the child?”

“She has no records,” Huido reminded him mildly enough. “Any digging by Plexis could reveal her origins—something I doubt Sira would want. I'll take care of her. Now hurry. Wallace must be finished ruining my kitchen by now. Which reminds me—don't forget to make a full accounting of spoilage—including whatever they slipped into their pockets. We'll send Wallace a bill. A big one.”

“Yes, sir.” Ansel seemed on the verge of saying something else, then stopped, nodding as if to himself. “And taking Ruti is a very good idea, Hom Huido. I'll make sure she's ready.”

Once Ansel was gone, Huido went to the amber-colored sideboard he used to store important items such as crystal decanters of Brillian brandy and the hideously expensive translight com system Morgan had insisted he install. Well, it would have been hideously expensive, but Sira hadn't been the only one to make friends on Drapskii. The Makii had given him a very generous discount.

Yes, Huido thought as he prepared his message. He'd take good care of Ruti. Especially since the child had set him up so perfectly.

Carasians didn't forget.

I
HADN'T been set up, as Morgan might put it. I couldn't remember everything leading to my present less-than-desirable situation, but I did recognize the hand of fate.

And the folly of overconfidence.

I ran one hand over the smoothness of a wall that was more than it seemed. Since awakening here, in this peculiar little room, I'd had plenty of time to puzzle over its unique properties.

No furniture. What was left of my carryroll and its contents lay piled in one corner, where they'd obviously been tossed without care. My keffle-flute was still in its case, none the worse for rough handling. I couldn't seem to get rid of the thing. Nearby, like an afterthought, was a belt of C-cubes and a container of water. What light there was came from a globe I'd found on the floor after fumbling in the absolute dark.

The memory of that darkness raised gooseflesh along my arms, and I wrapped them tightly around my waist. I'd mistaken it for the M'hir at first, believing utterly I'd become lost in that otherness. My desperate, futile efforts to
reach
for Morgan had seemed proof of death.

With the globe and its light had come reason. This was a prison, built specifically for me, or those like me. And there was something all too familiar about the prickly, unseen barrier keeping me here, locking me from the M'hir—and Morgan. The Drapsk had vowed to stop selling their devices when I'd become their Mystic One, admitting they'd less-than-openly made some of their technology available to “interested parties.” The Makii Tribe, I corrected to myself, had vowed to stop. They were my tribe, and in ascendance over the rest on Drapskii. But did they really speak for all? I'd avoided learning Drapsk politics—now I wondered if that had been wise. If they'd sell this technology to Symon, who else might have it?

Still, it wasn't a perfect prison. I could sense the M'hir's restless boil, but at an unreachable distance. My link to Morgan? It was there, however untouchable. It had to be. I couldn't send thoughts outward along our link, couldn't sense Morgan in return, but took cold comfort from my continued existence. If I lived, so did Morgan. That was likely all I'd have of our living bond so long as Symon kept me in his box.

The emptiness where Morgan belonged had a distinct structure within my mind, as if my thoughts were a weave and his had been the threads adding color and strength. Without his presence, I was no longer whole.

Symon would die for this, I decided, coldly and calmly.

Unless I died first, of course. I'd developed a spacers' sensitivity to air and what I was drawing into my lungs now was considerably less fresh than when I'd awakened. Perhaps that was his intent—there wasn't a door; the structure might have been built around me. If I didn't exert myself, I probably had another hour or so before I'd notice the first symptoms of asphyxiation.

Of course, that assumed I didn't freeze in the meantime. The temperature had been dropping steadily. I'd attributed my soon-continuous shivering to dread, until I went to take a drink and found ice floating in the container. My breath now left clouds in the air.

As a rule, the Clan weren't fond of technology. I'd learned most of what I knew as crew on the Fox, but the true nature of my prison remained a mystery until it was too late.

A Human might have noticed this room looked a great deal like the inside of a stasis box, only larger.

That resemblance only occurred to me when a sickly sweet smell heralded a rush of dark green gas, and my next involuntary, shivering breath was the last thing I remembered.

Morgan shivered involuntarily, unsure why he suddenly felt cold. The Drapsk ship, the
Heerama,
was pleasantly warm inside, his hosts adept at hospitality. This meeting lounge could be modified to suit a customer of any species, including—he'd heard—non-oxy breathers. “Forgive my inattention,” he said quickly. “You were saying, Captain Heeroki? Captain Heerouka? Captain Heeru?”

Not that any of three beings sitting with him was likely the captain, but Morgan preferred to be polite. Unlike the Makii, the Heerii didn't correct his assumption—implying they either all had that rank, or couldn't be bothered explaining who was who to a being unable to tell them apart without assistance. “I was saying, Oh, Mystic One,” this from the left-most, Heerouka, “that the Makii have been most unwise. We need your assistance.”

“I was under a contract—”

The Drapsk farthest to Morgan's right, Heeru, waved one stubby-fingered hand in the air. Dismissal. “We have dealt with Hom Hawthorn in the past. A being who tends to—obsess—on certain issues. I assure you, Mystic One, your contract will be resolved to his complete satisfaction and your benefit. We have already taken care of the remainder of the repairs to your fine ship. With excellent new parts. She'll be ready to lift this time tomorrow.”

“Really.” Morgan let the noncommittal word sit between them, watching as the Drapsk, one by one, sucked in a tentacle to chew. Before they became too distracted, he said: “If you don't mind, I'd like to contact Hawthorn myself—in the morning,” he added, thinking of the poor Human's likely condition at this hour. “You do realize I'm scheduled to head straight to Plexis—”

“With the Makii's Mystic One,” Heeroki interjected quickly, a note of reverence in his voice. “When may we meet her, Captain Morgan?”

“Sira took herself to Plexis already.” Morgan grinned and waited for a reaction.

It wasn't what he expected. Heerouka immediately curled into a tidy white ball of distress, while the other two stood up, antennae fully erect and tentacles fanned in a shocked circle around their tiny mouths.

While Drapsk were overly dramatic at the best of times, Morgan felt uneasy. Full
eopari
seemed a drastic response to missing the chance to meet Sira in person. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, Mystic One,” Heeroki blurted, hands working in the air as if to fan some urgent message toward him. “She shouldn't have traveled the Scented Way. Not now. She's in danger. Great, grave danger. It's all the fault of the Makii—and their ill-advised Mystic Ones—”

Morgan surged to his feet, ignoring whatever else the Drapsk said as he drove his thoughts outward,
reaching
with all his strength.

There
. She was there. But not. This wasn't the familiar sense of preoccupation—it was if he hammered against a transparent wall, seeing Sira from behind but unable to attract her attention and make her turn her head to see him. Morgan kept trying, expending power until it felt as if he left bloody handprints on that wall. Still he fought to
reach
her.

“Mystic One! Mystic One! Cease, before you call danger to her! Please!”

The frantic tone, more than the words, penetrated Morgan's consciousness. He drew back into himself, staggering once before standing firm, feet slightly apart. “What danger? Who did this?” he demanded in a voice that made both Drapsk start to back away.

“We don't know
who
. We only know something has her scent. Something in the Scented Way. Something is—interested. Our enemies. We came to warn you—”

“Something—?” Morgan stared at the small white beings, but saw another, darker shape, glistening as if wet, its fibrous arms stretched toward their cabin door.
Toward Sira?
“Who? What? Is it the Rugherans? Tell me!”

The Drapsk sucked their tentacles, then Heeroki suddenly rolled to join his shipmate in abstaining from further conversation.

Morgan took a deep breath, rearranging his features into a mask of polite attention. He, a Master Trader, surely knew better than to lose his self-control in front of another species; scaring the remaining Drapsk into an incommunicative ball wasn't going to help Sira. Mollifying his tone to something almost normal-sounding, the Human continued: “Your pardon. I experienced an—intense—emotional reaction to a threat to my mate.” Understatement wasn't a lie, he thought grimly.

The Drapsk's antennae stopped quivering. “Is the Mystic One all right?”

Drapsk, but not Makii, Morgan reminded himself, abruptly wary as he recalled that it had been the Heerii who had found the Rugheran homeworld and brought one of those beings to be their candidate for Mystic One. A candidate defeated by Sira, in Human terms, though not necessarily in Drapsk. The interface between any two thinking species was never a perfect match; even basic understandings could prove dangerously skewed the moment you relied on them.

Yet this warning had been brought by these Heerii, not the Makii. Trust had its place in negotiation, if only temporarily. “She's trapped, somehow,” Morgan admitted reluctantly. “I can't communicate with her. I'm not sure she's conscious—or even on Plexis. But she's alive.”

“Oh, my.” For an instant, Morgan worried this Drapsk would desert him as well, but Heeru was made of sterner stuff than his shipmates and merely trembled. “We had no idea the situation had deteriorated so quickly, Mystic One. Our ship was dispatched to find you when it became clear to our Skeptics that they'd lost control of the Clan Mystic Ones—”

“Rael and Barac? But they went to Drapskii to help you.”

“Their help,” Heeru said grimly, “may destroy us all. We hoped you and the Makii Mystic One could be persuaded to return to Drapskii with us, to stop them before they disturbed That Better Left Alone. Now—”

“Now,” Morgan interrupted brusquely, “I must find Sira.”