To Trade the Stars (24 page)

Quickly and quietly, Morgan walked down the service corridor to the kitchen, noticing most of the air tags were missing from the wall—implying Huido had sent away even those members of staff with apartments attached to the restaurant.

Maybe Plexis had closed the
Claws & Jaws
on some trumped-up health violation. Inspector Wallace wasn't above that sort of not-so-petty revenge if his investigation into Fodera's murder had been stymied by the Enforcers.

Morgan turned the corner leading to Huido's private apartments, only to stop short.

There was an adult male Carasian collapsed outside the door—but he wasn't Huido. This sorry-looking individual looked exhausted, the black of his claws streaked with white plas, eyestalks hanging limply over the lower rim of his head shield. No wonder, Morgan thought, cautiously moving closer. From all appearances, the being had been trying to pound his way through the door, doorframe, and neighboring wall for hours. Unsuccessfully, which was understandable given the outrageous reinforcements Huido had insisted be built around his future pool. Morgan grinned to himself. Apparently his blood brother had had good reason.

“Excuse me,” the Human said. “I'm looking for Hom Huido.” His voice didn't seem to startle the huge, comatose being, but the name definitely gained a reaction.

The Carasian flung himself away from the door with an astonishing leap that sent him sliding into the far wall, impacting with a thud and vibration Morgan felt through the carpeted floor. Once against the wall, the being immediately crouched in as small and inoffensive a posture as was possible for an organism built like an antipersonnel servotank and uttered in a ridiculously high-pitched squeal: “I wasn't trying to get in! I found the door like that!” His eyestalks were swinging in every direction so wildly, Morgan was reasonably sure the distraught creature hadn't actually seen him yet.

“I'm Captain Morgan of the
Silver Fox,”
he introduced himself, keeping the nearer of the two exits from this antechamber in sight, somewhat unnerved by a whimpering Carasian. It could have been the combination of lethal claws, a body mass five times his own, and the distinct impression this being had misplaced an important part of his mental capacity. “Please calm yourself, Hom. You're in no danger.” Well, if Huido was on the other side of the apartment door, this smaller male was probably right to cower, but Morgan couldn't believe his friend would sit inside and listen to an attempted invasion, no matter how futile.

Eyestalks began clustering in Morgan's direction, two, a dozen, then all. “The door was like that,” the Carasian insisted rather weakly. “I was worried about my uncle. Hom Huido.”

Having heard innumerable stories of Carasian courtship, Morgan somehow kept a straight face at this. “When was the last time you saw Huido, Hom?”

A shifting of plates as the being raised itself into a more normal position. “My name is Tayno Boormataa'kk, Captain Morgan. Hom Huido's nephew. I am honored to meet you at last.” A dip of his head carapace to each shoulder in turn—a shrug. “As for the last time I was privileged to gaze upon the awe-inspiring massiveness of my uncle?” Tayno paused. “I was told not to answer questions.” This more firmly, as if the Carasian had finally found himself on some higher moral ground.

“From anyone? Or from someone in particular?”

“From Inspector Wallace and Plexis sec—” His eager answer trailed away. “You are trying to trick me, Captain Morgan. I must not answer questions. I promised.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes in consideration, then walked over to the abused door. He rested his fingers on the keypad. “A shame, Hom Tayno. Did you know I have the emergency override codes to this door?”

The Carasian lurched erect, eyestalks whirling in a frenzy, claws out and snicking together in anticipation, then quickly withdrawn as if he feared this display of enthusiasm could be misconstrued. “How—remarkable,” he ventured. “Obviously my uncle, the magnificent Hom Huido, places a vast amount of trust in you. How can I not do the same, Captain Morgan?”

“When did you last see him?”

“Seven hours ago, standard time. We met in the hallway that leads to the back—the one to the service corridor used by the machines. Do you know it? He went into it while I went to sit in a room with that impolite Human, Wallace. He mistook us, you know. We are very similar in size, my uncle and I. It's quite understandable—”

“Do you know why he was leaving?”

“Perhaps we should discuss such sensitive topics inside the apartment?” Tayno suggested coyly, taking a noisy step toward the door.

Morgan lifted his hand from the keypad. “Huido has over twenty wives, you know,” he drawled. “He tells me they are—incredible. I'd hate to see you distracted before you could tell me everything I need to know.”

One huge claw snapped in threat, plas dust falling from its interior. Over half of Tayno's eyestalks were now riveted on the door.

Morgan merely smiled and leaned against the wall.

Another snap, but Tayno didn't argue. “If you insist, Human,” he rumbled. “The accountant, Ansel, arranged for me to impersonate his master long enough for Huido and some female from the kitchen to evade security. She had the oddest
grist—
I'd heard about Clan before but—”

“What was her name? Was it Sira?” Morgan interrupted, coming alert.

“How should I know her name? All you humanoids look the same. It's very confusing,” the Carasian complained. More of his eyestalks slid to stare at the door.

Mogan controlled himself with an effort. “Where did they go?”

“You'll have to ask Ansel—they didn't tell me. Now, please hurry and let me inside.” Tayno was almost prancing on his spongy feet. “Hom Huido—my uncle—won't mind at all, Captain. He meant to give me the code; I'm to protect his wives from danger. He had to leave too quickly—a mistake I'm sure he'd want you to correct. Let me in.”

The Human's smile didn't reach his blue eyes. “And I think Huido would be overjoyed to know you are standing guard on this side of the door, Hom Tayno.”

“But—?” Tayno sagged, claws dropping to rest on the floor. “You were never going to open it, were you?” he concluded sorrowfully.

“I am Huido's blood brother,” Morgan reminded the miserable being. “But cheer up. You look after the place and Huido might not help you molt before your time. You are planning to stay, aren't you?”

All of Tayno's eyestalks pointed wistfully at the forbidden door. “How can I leave?” he confessed. “This is the closest I've come to a pool in my entire life.”

Morgan left the now-melancholy Carasian, heading quickly down the corridor in the direction of the staff apartments, choosing to take a shortcut through the too-quiet kitchen. He didn't slow down even when he saw the destruction inside, though he had to step more carefully to avoid the worst of the spilled and melted food on the floor. Plexis security had been somewhat obsessive in their search. Morgan shook his head in disgust at how they'd treated the chefs' knives. Dropping those treasured and very personal tools in the sink? Most would be ruined. Heads, or some appropriately essential body part, would roll once Huido was back.

Back in the hallway, Morgan moved quickly along, passing the doors to the staff apartments. Ansel's was the farthest—quieter and larger than the rest. Morgan's quick mental scan gave him nothing conclusive. The apartments were close together and shared walls with the hostel next door. Without probing deeper than was wise, he couldn't be sure who or what he felt.

Ansel's door wasn't closed. Suddenly uneasy, Morgan slowed to edge along the near wall, moving soundlessly. Ansel was a very private person—living in so public a place, his door was always closed. Morgan shifted one of the force blades into his right hand, triggering it on. He paused beside the door to listen.

Breathing. Broken, ragged. In another time, under an open sky, Morgan had learned to interpret such sounds: one person, in pain. A victim.

Morgan hurried inside, shutting off his knife and putting it away. He dropped to his knees beside the crumpled shape on the floor. “Ansel. What happened?”

The elderly Human, never sturdy, felt little more than bones and air in his hands. Morgan turned him over gently, supporting Ansel's head on one arm, his eyes and free hand searching for a wound, any clue. Ansel moaned, but remained unconscious, his face was soaked with sweat and twisted in remembered agony. Morgan carefully lifted the lid of one eye, only to drop it with a curse. The cornea was suffused with blood.

Morgan steadied himself. He placed his hand on Ansel's forehead—a light contact, no more, searching, searching.
There.
He pressed his fingers more firmly into the chilled skin. Through the touch, he sent his mind
reaching
into Ansel's, to find—nothing.

He jerked his hand away as if burned, staring down at the helpless Human, unable to stop shaking. The constable, Kareen, had suffered from a similar assault, but she'd been Terk's friend, not his. This was different. This was Ansel! Morgan had known Ansel as long as he'd known Huido. With his gentle, persistent efficiency and shy wit, the Human had been a point of stability for them both.
Who had dared
...

Morgan deliberately dampened his feelings, sought self-control. Sira had taught him that, to rule his Power, not be led by it. He could help Ansel.

He would.

He returned his fingers to that spot his other sense told him mattered. His initial impression had been of a void where Ansel's thoughts should have been. Morgan refused to accept that, sending his Power deeper.

Ansel wasn't a telepath, but his mind had some of those characteristics. He'd possessed enough ability to instinctively resist his attacker—ironically, it was likely that resistance had caused some of the damage Morgan found everywhere he looked. But not all. Someone had torn through Ansel's mind as Plexis security had torn through the kitchen, with as little care for the result. Thoughts were littered like broken dishes on a floor . . . incomplete images, nightmare shapes. Syllables of Comspeak that weren't words mingled with words that weren't Comspeak but the singsong language of Ansel's youth, on Imesh 27. Emotions like shards of glass, incomplete and irrational, painful and distracting . . .

Small steps, Morgan reminded himself, ignoring the drain on his strength as he sought whatever remained whole within Ansel's mind and drew that together, as a med might knit the ragged edges of a wound closed. He didn't worry about what made sense to him, only what seemed to belong, one to the other. Over and over again. Some areas were too damaged and he bypassed them. Others came together almost of their own accord.

Morgan was breathing in great, heaving gasps by the time he withdrew, slowly, carefully, continuing to heal Ansel even as he pulled free. Done at last, he hung his head, eyes closed, and strained to recover, knowing he had no time to waste on weakness. On that realization, Morgan dared remove his mind from the here-and-now, despite the danger of being surprised while so distracted. He
reached
into the M'hir, replenishing his strength from the Power Sira had given him in that place, feeling its strange, inhuman glow surging through him.

It seemed endless, that other source of Power, but wasn't—not really. Vast, but exhaustible, should he expend it too quickly. It burned too hot, like a barely-controlled explosion, Morgan judged, even as it restored him. His own Human Power obeyed him, reliable and steady, like a well-stoked furnace.

Drawing on what surrounded him in the M'hir cost more than lowering his guard for an instant in the real world. His Human mind didn't belong here; to remain open to the M'hir to access that Power meant a constant battle against disorientation and confusion, a fight against the illusion of being somewhere else.

Somewhere else. To Morgan's inner sense, the M'hir was gray on gray, as if he walked in dense fog beside an unseeable ocean, the crashing of nearby surf the only guide to avoiding a plunge into its deadly depths. Without Sira there, her presence like a sun whose rays pierced the mists around him, he was always that one step from losing his way. A risk Morgan took now, to regain his strength in time to help Ansel.

“Ja-son . . . ?” The voice was almost too quiet to hear, with a note of disbelief.

The faint voice drew Morgan back, his eyes flashing open. “Ansel! Yes, it's me. What do you remember?” he asked, hoping against hope there was sense behind the red-rimmed gaze meeting his. “Do you know who did this to you?”

There was too much sense. Ansel's face crumpled with shame. “I couldn't stop him, Jason. I couldn't stop him. He was in my mind . . . he took everything—”

“Easy. I know.” Morgan said, stopping the outburst. He found Ansel's hand and gripped it tightly. “You did your best. Tell me who it was, Ansel.”

“Ruti's friend . . . it was Ruti's friend.
Imde la zic v cronis
.
Imde la!”
this outburst in another language, then quieter: “Ruti's with Huido. Find them before he does, Jason. Find them.”

So it hadn't been Sira, Morgan thought. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not. “Who—” he began.

“He took his name. He took it back.” Ansel's other hand came up to grip Morgan's arm, fingers tight and desperate. “But I saw him in the freezer,” he wheezed, lips having trouble forming the words.
“Imde la! Cronis imla de!
Jason. Ruti's friend—in the freezer. Ruti said—Sira put him in the freezer.”

Morgan's muscles locked. He'd done his utmost to forget, but he'd known. The style of attack had been too familiar; the needless carnage within the centers of memory, the emotional rape, were markers he knew too well. “Symon,” he said in a voice that wasn't his own.