To Trade the Stars (30 page)

Ruti covered her mouth with both hands and reeled back against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut and reached for her mother.
Nothing!
She reached again and again.
Nothing!
Desperately, she poured her Power into their link. Finally, a whisper of recognition and warmth.

It didn't help. Ruti ran back to her room and threw herself on the cot.

Jake—no, this Symon—had killed fussy, harmless Ansel? To find
her?
She couldn't doubt the voice; there had been too much pain in it. Ruti sobbed into the dusty robe that had been her blanket last night, her hand gripping tiny Lara until the precious doll bent in half. Poor, poor Huido. There wasn't a sound from the kitchen: no roar of anger, no ringing snap of a claw that could cut through a Clansman's waist. The silence was infinitely more sorrowful.

“You must be Ruti,” said a quiet voice. “I'm sorry you had to find out about Ansel that way.”

She turned her face to stare up at the silhouette of a Human in the doorway, shorter and less broad than Symon. Seeing her look, he took a step so his face caught some of the poor light thrown by the lantern. She stared into impossibly blue eyes, eyes that seemed to contain all the sadness and kindness in the universe at once. “You're Morgan,” Ruti said with wonder, her voice breaking in a hiccup. She remembered this face —who of the Clan could forget what Sira had shared about Her Chosen?

Without thinking, she did as she would when meeting any Clan and opened herself to the M'hir, testing his Power with hers.

So much the same, yet so different. Morgan shone in the M'hir, the link to his Chosen burning to infinity through that other space, like a beacon in the night. But—Her eyes widened, and the sob trying to climb her throat stopped in amazement. Where a Clan would hide behind shields, using those to proclaim his or her Power, where Symon had done the same, claiming the need to protect her, this Human left his thoughts and emotions exposed—an offering, she realized.

Go ahead, child
, he sent, his mind voice inexpressibly gentle.
I know you're one of Acranam's fosterlings and belong in a Clan House with your kind, not hiding here with Huido. I swear we'll keep you safe and get you home. Ren Symon betrayed you, and I understand how that feels, better than you can know. But I need your trust in order to help you, Ruti. You don't know if I deserve it. So scan me and make your own decision. Please.

Ruti hesitated. Offers of such intimacy were rare among Clan; the only other mind she'd explored had been her mother's. Morgan waited, unmoving, his face tired and grave. His shoulders seemed bowed under the weight of his coat, or his grief. At last, Ruti swallowed her fear and let her awareness move into his mind, at first tentatively, then more confidently.

Clear thoughts, like crystals she could pick up and examine one at a time, the emotions coloring each dimmed for her protection. Ruti followed the trail they led through Morgan's mind, seeing his starship; his learning about the ships launched from Acranam; talking to bizarre aliens; his trip to Plexis; the terrible discovery—

Ruti flung herself away from his memory of Ansel's crumpled form and found herself led to Morgan's concern for her, for Huido, a place where she rested a moment, safe and protected. Reassured, she reached deeper, to find herself confronting a barrier. Was this where he hid thoughts of his Chosen? It wasn't completely solid. Curious, she tried to slip through, only to be struck by wave after wave of incredible desperation, a sense of loss and dread to intense she couldn't believe she hadn't detected it before. She tried to flee but found herself caught instead by rage, black and deadly, a rage focused on a face she'd thought she'd known, changing it into something horrific. It was too much. Ruti began to gasp for breath.

Morgan blocked her from his mind, gently but firmly. “I'm sorry,” he said so calmly Ruti might have imagined the storm inside him. “I didn't mean you to feel that.”

Ruti sat up and rubbed one sleeve over her face, then gestured appeasement. “I intruded,” she confessed. “But I don't understand, Hom Morgan. Any of this. Oh, I believe you—” when he began to look worried. “How could I not? But Jake—Symon—said he was my friend. He treated me as if I was important to him. Why would he do that? Why would he—harm Ansel? What does he want from me?”

Morgan knelt by the side of her cot, a spare, graceful movement that reminded Ruti of the professional fighters she'd seen on Plexis, demonstrating their art. “Nothing good, Ruti, for you or any of us,” he said, the hint of emotion underlying the words dark and utterly convincing. “I know Ren Symon better than anyone should. He thirsts for Power,” he paused to study her face before adding, “and he enjoys causing pain. Ansel isn't the only one he's killed.”

“Who else?” she asked reluctantly.

“A Human telepath named Naes Fodera, on Plexis. The one who ended up in Huido's kitchen. Symon put him there and tipped Plexis security, knowing I'd come.”

Ruti put out her hand and traced the air in front of his face. One of her Talents was the assessment of strength and she frowned at what she felt. “Yours is by far the greater Power, Hom Morgan,” she assured him. “Why would Symon risk angering you?”

His lips twisted. “Because he knew I wouldn't come alone. He's after Sira. He tried before and failed.”

Ruti shook her head in disbelief. “No Human would dare—” Then she froze, staring at Morgan, a terrible surmise filling her thoughts. She raised her hand again, this time pressing two fingers to Morgan's forehead. Without hesitation, she lowered her own shields and found a memory, sending it into his mind: that face, stunningly beautiful . . . red-gold hair hanging in great, heavy waves . . . huge, unfocused gray eyes . . . that body, cradled in Symon's arms . . .

Sira!
The impact of Morgan's recognition and horror threw Ruti from his mind, a reaction he dampened immediately, sending a flicker of power to soothe away the sting.

“I didn't know,” Ruti breathed, trembling. “When the Watchers summoned me to Camos, I was too small, too far back in the crowd to see her—I didn't know it was her—”

Morgan was already on his feet, standing in the doorway with his back to her and one hand on the frame as though needing the support—or something to hold him in place, Ruti decided, seeing how the knuckles of that hand whitened as he gripped the edge, the only part of Morgan within reach of her pitiful light.

“I'm so sorry,” Ruti whispered.

With dreadful compassion.
It's not your fault, child. None of it.

Somehow, through her own anguish, Ruti understood what trapped Morgan in her doorway, when the M'hir wailed with his urgency to leave, to hunt for Sira. It was his concern for Huido—and for her. She'd never met anyone who could do this, who was capable of restraining his most primal instincts to think of others first. She couldn't imagine the willpower it took him to stay.

No wonder Sira had Chosen as she had.

Ruti stood, her hands shaking until she clenched them together. She'd watched Symon mistreat the most powerful Clan of them all, and thought only of her jealousy. He'd killed Huido's friend. Her friend. She felt sick and worthless, but there was one thing she could still do. “Go. Find her,” she ordered Morgan. His head moved from side to side.
No
. “I'll look after Huido,” Ruti persisted. “We'll head for your place in the dunes, as he planned, and wait for you there. We'll be safe. Find her, please.” Ruti couldn't help adding: “And kill Symon.”

Morgan's head tilted as if he listened to more than her words. Then, like some force unleashed, he was gone, his footsteps thudding down the hall. She waited, but heard nothing from the kitchen. An instant later, the exterior door opened and closed.

Ruti took a deep breath. Easy words: look after Huido. Resolutely, she grabbed her lantern and walked down the hallway.

The Carasian had never looked so inorganic. A discarded servo might have crumbled in a heap like this, its power source removed, parts scavenged over the years. The various armaments festooning his shoulder and chest plates increased the illusion that this was a pile of leftover, unwanted machinery—not a living being. Ruti hadn't known a Carasian could close the two halves of its head carapace, but now, not one eyestalk showed.

There was a Clan-sized—Human-sized, Ruti corrected—chair by the table. Morgan must have sat there, to tell Huido about their friend's fate. Still hungry, no matter the situation, she grabbed the riperlooking of two nicnics from a bowl on the tiny counter, then sat in the chair to contemplate the immense mass of misery filling the rest of the room.

Her mother always seemed to know what to say when there was loss or sorrow, but Ruti suspected even Quel would be at a loss facing a grief-stricken Carasian. She sighed and peeled the fruit, deciding on the truth. “Ansel asked a favor of me, before we left,” Ruti began, keeping her eyes on her hands. “I didn't understand then—but I do now. He told me that he always looked after . . .” Her voice threatened to crack, and she paused to swallow, ”.. looked after you. He wanted me to do that, while we were away from Plexis. I couldn't imagine anyone as big and smart as you could need looking after, but Ansel insisted. He told me he kept watch, all the time, so no one would take advantage of you. That's how he found out—found out I'd been seeing someone secretly. I'd been seeing a Human named Jake Caruthers—but that wasn't his real name. I saw his face through Morgan's memory. It was Ren Symon.”

When there was no sound, Ruti risked a glance. As far as she could tell, Huido hadn't moved. She could see the hearing organs on his massive arms, so he should hear her; that was no guarantee he was listening to a single word she said.

“I believed Symon was my friend. My only friend.” This time her voice did crack, shamefully. Ruti bit some of the nicnic, glad it was too tart and stung the roof of her mouth. “He met me when I ‘ported on the station—he found me right away; he never said how. Symon told me how dangerous Plexis was, how I'd need a safe place to stay. He took me to you, but said it should be our secret, that you'd accept me only if you thought I was alone. I believed that, too.”

Still no reaction.

Ruti plunged onward, oddly relieved to be confessing at last, even if it was to a grieving alien—who might be unconscious, for all signs to the contrary. “Symon taught me things, gave me presents. Hom Morgan showed me what Symon's really like—I understand now he was trying to manipulate and control me. And it worked,” she said bitterly. “Symon flattered me; told me lies to make me believe I was special. He suggested I take over as chef—that he'd make sure Neltare lost his job. I scanned the Neblokan to learn what to do—he had a weak, susceptible mind. But I swear, Hom Huido, I didn't know Symon planned to influence Neltare, to make him take a dead body and—and cook it!”

Still no reaction. A pair of flying insects landed on Huido's bulbous back, ambling across its shiny surface to investigate the various scratches and dents in his plating.

She couldn't stop now. “Chee told me Neltare died in an accident.” Ruti shuddered. “If it was an accident and not Symon covering his own tracks. But the worst thing I did, Hom Huido, the very worst—” She fought back tears. “Please don't hate me. Morgan doesn't. I felt he doesn't. I don't know why not. Because I watched Symon take Sira away. I was there. I didn't know what she looked like. I swear I didn't. But it shouldn't have mattered. I knew there was something wrong, and I kept quiet because I was angry. I was jealous! Symon was supposed to be my friend, and now he's not . . . he never was . . . and Ansel's dead because of me ... Sira's lost . . . and, and you must think I'm as brainless as your wives!” she sobbed, close to hysteria.

There was a sickening crash as a mountain of plated flesh blurred into motion, motion that ended with Huido staring down at her with every eyestalk. His claw encircled her waist, but didn't close. Then, as Ruti held her breath, the eyestalks parted to let two needle-sharp fangs protrude. They stopped short of her face. Fascinated and appalled, she watched a drop of something shiny and green glisten as it slid down one fang, then pause at the tip before falling free.

“Your
grist
has changed,” the Carasian announced quite calmly.

Ruti blinked. “My what?”

“Never mind. It smells much better.” With that mystifying compliment, Huido retracted his fangs and claws, settling down on his haunches at a more polite distance. His eyestalks whirled a moment, then he informed Ruti, as if this was the single most important thing to tell her: “My wives are not brainless. Did they not pick me and my pool?”

Perhaps, Ruti decided, inane conversation was how Carasians dealt with death. “They picked you?” she echoed in a weak voice, deciding to cooperate. “But the kitchen staff said you have new ones shipped to Plexis as often as you can afford it. You keep them locked in your apartment. I was told they can't even talk.”

“Of course they can talk. But why would they?” Huido's eyes danced in every direction, as if looking for anyone else in the room. “They're too busy,” he said obscurely, most of those eyes back on Ruti. “You should know, being female.”

“I'm not a female Carasian,” Ruti pointed out. She wasn't sure she wanted too many details about Carasians and their pools of wives, but Huido being coy was a vast improvement over being a miserable heap—or attacking her. “But if I were,” she asserted, “I wouldn't let you lock me away and keep me ‘too busy' to talk.”

Something she said surprised a laugh from the barrel-shaped chest. “Ah, you'd make a fine and exhausting wife,” he claimed, shocking her speechless—probably his intention, since Ruti knew Huido found the humanoid ability to blush vastly entertaining. “I must explain myself, or you will take my compliment as insult. It's not something we spread around to other species, you understand. They might get the wrong ideas. Even my blood brother does not know the truth.” Another rather unnerving scan of the room.