To Trade the Stars (27 page)

Not since that utterly loathsome night on Ret 7—when she'd had to deal not only with a city's worth of Retians copulating in the streets but that Carasian—had Rael felt so near to being overcome by the alienness of other beings. She stood to gain height, backing hurriedly around the benchlike seat they'd made for her to find some shelter. She took shallow breaths to help control the instinct to ‘port. Her hair, so well-behaved since her Choice, squirmed on her shoulders and threatened to lash into her face. “Stop this,” Rael ground out. “Stop this now!”

If the Drapsk were capable of anything, it was of acting together in a way that defied reason in any more independent organisms. The words hardly left Rael's lips before every Drapsk in the room assumed an identical posture: antennae drooping behind their backs, hands held together, and tentacles within their mouths—which began chewing rapidly, producing a peculiarly soothing sound.

Except Copelup, who uttered a satisfied: “At last,” and turned to Rael. “My colleagues' enthusiasm cannot excuse their behavior, Mystic One, but does explain it,” he said reasonably. “We have been so very encouraged by what you and Hom Barac accomplished. Frankly, looking at the data, I concur with my fellow Skeptics: we've never been closer to success. You must understand that's most exciting. Most exciting.”

Funny how a Drapsk being reasonable was always more confusing, particularly this Drapsk. Rael had no doubt Copelup knew exactly what he was—and wasn't—telling her. Something had changed—she grasped that much—something that warranted the passionate interest of so many Drapsk. But it wasn't Sira's plight, as she'd thought at first. Rael didn't doubt they cared about Sira, particularly the Makii, but right now? Her sister was incidental.

If they'd been Clan or even Human, Rael would have been furious. As it was, she lifted one brow and said quite calmly: “Make sense or I'm leaving.” Copelup opened his tiny mouth immediately, but Rael interrupted him before he could utter a sound. “Five, Skeptic. Five words to convince me any of this is worth time I could use to help my heart-kin.”

“Drapskii could lead you to Sira,” Copelup pronounced confidently. “Oh. Was that six? My apologies, Mystic One.”

She ignored the sarcasm, knowing this Drapsk, and sat on the bench seat. “Go on.”

Copelup beckoned one of the other Skeptics to approach, a gesture that raised hopeful antennae in a wave starting at Rael and moving outward to the far walls. Where, Rael was disturbed to note, several additional pairs of Drapsk immediately leaped into
gripstsa
with one another. At this rate, she'd be dealing with a group of scientists who'd all been assistants moments ago. Hardly reassuring, no matter what Sira claimed about the interchangeability of Drapsk. “Netanup will explain,” Copelup stated, then added rather firmly, “with haste.”

“During your last glorious efforts on our behalf, Mystic One,” the new Skeptic began quickly, rocking back and forth,
“su-gripstsa
occurred between Drapskii and the Mystic One who left us, Hom Barac. We measured it—quite remarkable. Would the Mystic One care to see the data?” Copelup's antennae shuddered warningly. “Of course not,” the Skeptic hurried, the words now tumbling out so fast that the tentacles around his mouth jiggled. “How foolish of me. What matters in this instance, the instance of the Mystic One who also left us—much earlier than Hom Barac left us—that would be Fem Sira . . .” The Drapsk threw up his hands as if in self-defense. “We weren't expecting to ever have more than one Mystic One, Skeptic Copelup. It is leading to a great deal of confusion and could cause inaccuracies. But we don't want to debate semantics now. Of course not.” He paused for breath. “Where was I?”

“Sira?” Rael reminded Netanup gently. So poor Barac's embarrassing moment of unreal bliss had not only been recorded by their devices, but had a name in their language?
Su-gripstsa.
She wouldn't tell him; an unChosen's ego was fragile enough.

“Part of that junction—for lack of precisely translatable terminology in Comspeak—remains intact, Mystic One,” Netanup proceeded, a proud lift to his antennae. “We have been able to use it to follow Hom Barac's movements—insofar as those correspond his presence in the Scented Way.” His voice rose in triumph as he reached the conclusion: “I see no reason why we can't—”

“—use the same technique to help find your magnificent sister, Mystic One,” Copelup broke in heartlessly. The other Skeptic didn't appear offended by this interruption, bobbing his head in agreement. “After all, Fem Sira was the first Mystic One to touch Drapskii. There could still be a similar junction between them. Netanup,” the Drapsk conceded generously, if late, “is to be commended for his efforts.”

Netanup's tentacles spread in a ring of happiness, then one snuck into his mouth. “There's no guarantee,” he admitted. “Hom Barac's
su-gripstsa
was intense and recent. And we don't know if Fem Sira engaged in such a junction with Drapskii. Did she mention this to you, Mystic One?”

Rael searched the memories Sira had shared of her encounter with the Drapsk's planet in the M'hir. Sira had been a Chooser at the time, subject to the same cravings as any unChosen. She hadn't, Rael was somewhat relieved to remember, been able to satisfy those cravings with a rock. “No,” the Clanswoman concluded aloud. “But we can still try, can't we?”

“Of course,” Copelup and Netanup said at once. Nods of agreement were followed by a drift of color throughout the room as groups of Drapsk headed to the machines lining the walls. The rest turned from her, their attention now on their devices and those using them.

“So will I,” Rael said under her breath. She swung her legs around, and laid back on the bench.

Copelup hadn't left her. He patted her arm. “Be careful, Mystic One,” he advised, adding, before she had to ask: “I promise. No pinching.”

Rael closed her eyes, finding it oddly reassuring to know the little being watched over her, though he couldn't follow. She opened her awareness to the M'hir, ready for the strange feel of Drapskii . . .

... and was shocked to find it changed. The bundle of tangled energy that had meant Drapskii to her before was gone. In its place was a tight coil, some areas so dark as to seem outside the M'hir, others too bright for her to examine directly. Size had no meaning; Drapskii might have been the largest object in the M'hir or the smallest. Regardless, it impacted that space more intensely than anything Rael had ever experienced. She could feel how the M'hir itself was distorted around the coil, forbidding passage closer. Even as Rael absorbed this, the whole seemed to turn, presenting a new curled edge.

Along that edge, the coil extended arms of lightning, jagged eruptions of outward-flowing energy that licked at the M'hir, as if tasting it. She couldn't tell how far they stretched—the existence of any one was too fleeting, seen more as a burn left along her other sense than substance. They were unpredictable and breathtakingly beautiful, as if Power had danced to unheard music.

Rael held herself together and, curious,
reached
for one of the bolts. Seeming to sense her intention, the nearest turned aside and sped toward her, glowing brighter and brighter until she tried to flee instead. But it caught her, held her fast, began to drain Power from her, began to feed ... while another bolt strengthened, using her energy, sought outward again . . . She struggled, trying to free herself . . .

“Enough,” Rael whispered, pulling her hand out of what felt like Copelup's mouth. Good thing he had flat teeth. The Drapsk had an interesting way of keeping promises. She kept her eyes closed a moment longer, not so much to avoid telling him what had happened, but because lightning still flashed behind her eyelids—too glorious to abandon, no matter how deadly.

 

Barac had noticed that Drapsk with bad news tended to arrive in large groups; perhaps they felt safer. Judging by the number assembled outside his cabin—which didn't have a door—the Clansman was reasonably sure they brought very bad news indeed. The way they were all sucking tentacles didn't help. “What's wrong?” he said, leaning back in the bowlike chair they'd provided. It leaned back with him, which would have been more alarming had it not grown out of the floor and remained firmly attached. Quite comfortable, in fact, he thought. A lot more comfortable than these Drapsk looked, especially Captain Makoori, who stood in the midst of the others as if seeking shelter. “woe did land properly. This is Ettler's Planet.”

“Of course, Mystic One,” Makoori spat out a tentacle to deliver a shocked protest. “Any vibration you may have felt was due to the poorly maintained docking tug Port Authority sent to bring the
Makmora
to the Rosietown shipcity. We ve lodged a complaint.”

“So—?”

“We can't stay, Mystic One. The inferior docking tug is coming to reattach within the hour. Our profound, humblest, most abject apologies—but if you wish to stay on Ettler's Planet and help Hom Huido, you will have to leave the
Makmora
—now.”

The Drapsk's distress was obvious. Barac shared it. Having a shipload of Drapsk watching his back was one thing, being marooned on this marginal Fringe world—a Human colony too poor for any Clan to consider for a home and too far for him to 'port anywhere? “Why?” he demanded. “I was counting on your support.”

Makoori wrung his hands. “Mystic One, I can't tell you how sorry we are. The Makii are shamed. We will leave you one of our atmosphere vehicles. A substantial deposit has been made for your convenience at the Rosietown credit bureau. You can—”

“Why?” Barac repeated.

Another Drapsk, Maku by his tag and the
Makmora's
tactical officer, took a step forward. “It is my fault, Mystic One,” he said miserably. “I checked existing tribal trade agreements with respect to this system and its worlds before we left Drapskii. There were none, I promise you. This is too small a system to interest any Tribe. But in the time it took us to travel here, it seems the Heerii have claimed ascendance.”

“Worse,” Makoori snapped, “there is a Heerii ship already docked: the
Heerama.
Her Captain does not welcome our presence, even though I stressed we were not looking to trade. It is his prerogative to insist we leave immediately—and he does. We must obey.”

Another Drapsk ship? Barac let out a long breath, relieved to know he wouldn't be without allies after all. He knew more individuals from the Makii than the Heerii Tribe, but they were all dependable, polite beings. Who carried weapons, large ones, if need be. Their internal politics wasn't his concern. “Who is the
Heerama's
Captain?” he asked. “Should I introduce myself or is he expecting me?”

Before Barac's horrified eyes, all thirteen Drapsk in his door performed
eopari
and curled into balls, a few gently bumping into one another, then rolling away.

“What did I say” he asked the quiet, pink-walled corridor.

W
HAT did I do to deserve this
? demanded the parts of me. Surely this was too severe a punishment for any crime: to be split into a growing number of fragments, each suffering its own torment, each unable to comprehend a purpose, let alone see an end.

As if the longing to understand had been a summons, the Singer reappeared. Those selves which were me were thrust farther apart, as some responded with dread and others eagerly echoed desire . . . an urgent, restless heat . . .

Closer. Closer. Suddenly, I was one again and the barrier between us seemed to disappear—or had the Singer become more powerful than ever? Its music entered me. I shuddered under its sweet, unfelt touch, fought to deny its Power even as I opened myself more and more, ready to ... ready to ...

No
. Something of who I had been pushed through, forcing me away, back into the relative safety of memory . . .

“Excuse me, Sira, for this intrusion. The First Chosen asked me to remind you about tonight,” young Enora said very properly, then added in a passionate rush: “It's my fostering party. You have to come!”

I'd restyled my rooms several times over the past years; the present look was dark, with heavy draperies and shadowed corners. One such corner held my favorite chair; tonight, it held me as well. “I don't have to come if I don't wish to, youngling,” I said less than gently.

Enora had come lately into my life, born several years after Council had realized there were no candidates for my Choice. While I waited for the next generation, my body's aging and maturation halted by the Power-of-Choice, I was permitted to live in peace, as long as I kept away from any unChosen. I had asked to remain here, with Adia, in her mountain fortress.