To Trade the Stars (21 page)

I couldn't move, blink, or breathe on my own until I felt my mother still in my thoughts, despite distance and fear, our link steady, strong—and mine to keep.

...
Not right . . . another link . . .
I fought to leave the past.

“Welcome, Sira di Sarc. What do you think of your new home?”

...
What was happening to me?
...

Of the many things that had happened to him lately, Barac sud Sarc, former First Scout and Mystic One, thought with permissible self-pity, this was the first he could honestly say he'd done to himself.

And was proud of it. It took work for a Clansman of his experience to reach this stage of inebriation. He peered owlishly at the low table, whistling soundlessly to himself as he counted eleven empty bottles of Drapsk beer and noted he hadn't quite finished the glass of Denebian wine that promised to put him nicely over the edge of . . .

... of what? Unconsciousness? Nowhere near that point yet. Barac sighed, a deep, heaving breath that shuddered through his entire lean frame and sent him staggering back against the wall. He grinned. Clever shortcut, sitting on the floor.

“Mystic One?”

Barac's head lolled to one side as he attempted to see who'd said his name. Either his vision had finally blurred, or there were two identical Makii Drapsk standing beside him. An unfair advantage. Couldn't they see he was occupied? “Call me Barac,” he said very clearly and distinctly. “I resigned, you know. Didn't Cop-up tell you? So go away.”

“Don't worry, Mystic One,” one said. “We'll help you. Maka?”

Before Barac could point out that he'd done just fine without any help whatsoever, he felt a sharp pain in his side. “Ouch! What was that?”

Maka, finished stabbing him with a needle easily as long as Barac's hand, didn't back away as the Clansman tried, unsuccessfully, to stand. Instead, the Drapsk brushed his antennae very lightly over Barac's mouth. As the Clansman coughed and sputtered, the Drapsk announced proudly: “There. It's working already.”

“What's working?” Barac closed his moth, suddenly and drastically aware what the being meant. The Drapsk thoughtfully got out of his way as he lurched to his feet and ran for the fresher.

An appallingly uncomfortable few moments later, and totally sober, Barac returned. “That was—” Words failed him as he glared at the two obviously delighted Drapsk. “Effective,” he finished, giving up the struggle and sinking into the soft comfort of a chair. “May I ask why you felt it important to—interrupt—my evening?”

“You have a call.”

He rubbed his aching head, impressed despite himself how the pain was already fading. Resourceful, these friends of Sira's, if the word “friend” applied. The Makii had continued the practice of wearing their names on small ribbons attached to their work belts— the only adornment Barac had seen on a member of the species. By those ribbons, his “helpers” were Maka and Makoori, the former having been Captain of the
Makmora
and the latter, as far as he knew, presently holding that post. The Clansman had seen enough
gripstsa
around Rael to know the uniquely Drapsk means of switching roles under excitement, stress, or tedium included each participant somehow learning all he needed to know about the other's job.

Interesting, but hardly helpful in understanding what these two were doing off their ship and in his apartment, nor why they'd taken it on themselves to induce all the symptoms of a hangover before he'd finished enjoying being oblivious.

“A call.” The words finally penetrated, but made no sense. “You came because I've had a call. What are you talking about?”

“It came to the
Makmora
—in the shipcity. Addressed to you, Mystic One, and in strictest confidence,” Captain Makoori informed him. “We must hurry. Can you—take us there?”

“‘Port?” Barac blinked, now unsure their potion had sobered him up after all. While Drapsk seemed to relish being near the use of Power, most seemed vehemently opposed to becoming involved in that use. Almost as bad as that Carasian, forever moaning about his pool.

“It was an urgent message. Translight. From Plexis. We worry there has already been—a delay—in bringing this news to your attention.”

A typically-tactful Drapsk way to put it. Barac stood, offering a hand to each of his guests. “You've breathable air in your ship's lounge?” he said, gathering his Power with a certain sense of vengeance. They took his hands, in Maka's case with a momentary hesitation and an inhalation of the last of his six tentacles.

“There should be—” Makoori began. Barac half smiled and
pushed
...

... materializing, with the Drapsk, in a part of the
Makmora
he remembered very well. The air was acceptable, if you didn't mind the ever-present draft going by your ears. The long benchlike table was gone—replaced by a set of three chairs with humps where the seats should be. They must have been bargaining with something distinctly nonhumanoid recently.

Barac shrugged fatalistically. Furniture on a Drapsk ship was no more permanent than its Captain. Fortunately, a locate's specificity within the M'hir involved more than details of visual memory. For no particular reason, he remembered the Clan fable about two Choosers who had favored the same unChosen. Each gave him the locate of her Joining Chambers, waiting eagerly to see him appear. When he didn't do so immediately, they spied on one another and, unbeknownst to either, came up with the same plan. Each made an exact copy of the other's Joining Chamber, intending to trick the unChosen into 'porting to hers. But when he finally appeared in the Chamber of one, eager to offer himself for her Choice, she couldn't be sure if he'd meant to come to her or to her rival, and sent him away.

The fable taught the absolute uniqueness of a locate, since the story was always followed by the revelation that the Chooser had been wrong. The unChosen could only have ‘ported to
her
Joining Chamber, no matter how she'd tried to made it appear similar to her rival's. Just as well, Barac thought, or the Clan would never be able to ‘port to changeable locations, let alone to moving objects, such as starships and planets. An old and totally implausible tale for children, misleading and cruel.

For Choosers no longer courted the unChosen, having become too deadly for games.

Like many Clan, Barac never worried about how his Power worked—only how it compared to that of others. Given Rael was his superior on Drapskii, he hoped this so-urgent translight message came from someone superior to her. Sira, for starters. She'd understand better than anyone how he felt about getting too personal with that planet in the M'hir again.

While he'd been busy with his thoughts, the Drapsk continued to hurry him through their ship to the bridge, Makoori in front, Maka behind. They moved quickly, though every Drapsk they passed in the organically curved corridors immediately left what he was doing to join what soon became a procession. Barac did his best to ignore them, although it was difficult once it began to sound as though a hundred or more pairs of feet moved behind him.

The extra Drapsk didn't follow him on to the bridge, stopping short and dipping their antennae his way in farewell. Barac curbed the impulse to wave back. They might appreciate the gesture, but not the breeze it would produce. He had no idea how Drapsk “saw” without eyes, though he'd learned to take this ability—or result—for granted, but he did know causing an uncontrolled draft indoors was considered impolite.

There was no door. Drapsk appeared to tolerate them only where essential to separate atmosphere from vacuum, or to keep things from falling out of lifts on the wrong level. Barac followed Makoori to the com without bothering to glance at the confusion of other consoles tended by beings who hopefully knew what they were for—he valued such expertise, if didn't care to gain it himself.

The com was ringed by five more Drapsk all sucking their tentacles in confusion or consideration. They patted him in greeting, moving aside but not far enough.

“You said this was a confidential message, Captain?” Barac asked pointedly.

Makoori made little shooing motions with his hands, emphasized by flutters of his antennae. Or was it the other way around? The Clansman grinned to himself. The crew dispersed, all but one. Barac read the ribbon on his belt. “Makeest,” he greeted. “You're the com-tech?”

“What else would I be, Mystic One?” the being said, sounding slightly offended.

It probably wasn't done to refer to pre
-gripstsa
occupations, although Barac was reasonably sure this com-tech had been both a tailor and engineer's assistant within the last year. He only hoped to get off the ship without setting them off again—it had been a while for this crew. A good thing Rael wasn't here.

“Don't keep the Mystic One waiting!” ordered Makoori impatiently. “He brought us here using the Scented Way.” This announcement caused three nearby Drapsk to fold into balls of distress, rolling away gently until they wound up under a console.

Makeest, perhaps apprehensive he'd be dragged into the M'hir next, rushed to the console, waving for Barac to join him. His quick stubby fingers worked over the board for a moment, then he indicated one button, winking green. “It's audio only,” he told the Clansman, backing away with the Captain to a discreet distance.

It was an apology. Barac nodded politely, reaching for the button. While there wasn't a vid to allow visual messages, this system was able to transfer an incoming signal into appropriate chemical signals for true Drapsk communication. Makeest doubtless felt anything less was incomplete.

Barac listened, frowned, then asked without turning: “How do I replay this?”

“Press the button again. Is something wrong, Mystic One?”

Barac ignored the question as he replayed the message twice more. Finally, he straightened and turned to look around the bridge. All the Drapsk were silent, intently watching him for a cue.

“It's from Huido.” No need to ask if they knew the name. Every set of antennae stood at attention—except for the three still performing
eopari
under the console. “He needs my help—he asks me to meet him on Ettler's Planet—the coordinates are in the message.”

“Can you travel so far in the Scented Way, Mystic One?” This worried question from Makeest provoked a shiver up more than one pair of antennae.

“No. I'd need a ship—” Barac raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Do you have one to recommend?”

“The
Makmora,
of course, Mystic One,” Makoori said quickly. “We are yours to command. Anything to help Hom Huido and yourself.”

Maka, silent until now, other than the occasional slurp as he anxiously chewed a tentacle, spoke up. “We must find a Skeptic. We cannot transport a Mystic One without a Skeptic.”

“You did,” Makoori countered testily.

The Clansman held out his hands, dropping them again when he felt a current of air. “The Skeptics are working with my cousin, the other Mystic One,” he told them. “There's no need to take them away from their work.”

“And from your work?” Maka asked, obviously still unhappy about his trip through the Scented Way.

“I resigned, remember?”

“That's true. He did,” Makoori said firmly.

“So—when you're ready, Captain Makoori? Best speed to Ettler's Planet, please. And, Captain?” Barac added as the bridge crew exploded into action at some unseen command from the Drapsk, except for the three under the console. “Huido wanted us to keep this confidential. He's in a delicate situation—if you don't mind?”

Makoori understood immediately. “Makeest? Call up a docking tug. If anyone asks our course, tell them we have a private cargo run and aren't at liberty to say. Port Authority won't argue. They know those Heerii are forever trying to listen to our com signals.”

“I thought Drapsk didn't compete,” Barac ventured.

There were subdued hoots from the entire bridge.

“We don't compete within a Tribe, Mystic One,” Makoori said, after a few hoots of his own. “Between Tribes? We don't compete. The Makii win!”

P
AST and present continued to compete for my attention, both
wrong
in a way I couldn't endure. If I'd had any control over this journey, if that's what it was and not the comfort of insanity, I would have stopped it by any means possible.

...
Nothing and everything was possible here
...

 

“Must you practice all day, Sira?”

I licked my swollen, numb lips, resting the keffle-flute on my lap with a sigh of resignation, my palms vibrating with the memory of music. I'd had the piece close to perfection, before Crisac di Friesnen decided to interrupt. My voice was mild as I explained, again: “I enjoy practicing.” He was a child, the newest guest of the sud Friesnen House, and powerful enough to treat politely—however annoying he might be.

I knew why he was here, even if he likely didn't. Any Clan visiting this House brought their young unChosen to meet me. Adia was not a Clanswoman to keep secrets, not from those in her care and certainly not when she disapproved. She'd explained that other Houses hoped I would look with favor on their young males and now imposed—her word—on sud Friesnen's hospitality at every opportunity. I was too young to fully grasp what she meant—and too carefully watched to be able to slip out and join the illicit games in the gardens that might have taught me something more.

So I put up with a stream of fidgety visitors who would much rather be playing ‘port and seek than listening to my music, and couldn't understand why I would rather not play in that darkness.