To Trade the Stars (31 page)

“But you? I will tell you, young Ruti. It will be our secret, but you mustn't ever tell anyone—especiallly my wives.” He waited for her puzzled nod. “You see, our females prefer aliens think of them as, shall we say, less than intelligent. That way, no non-Carasian disturbs the sanctity of their pools and it makes their occasional dietary—adventures—more easily forgiven.”

“They do it so they can get away with eating other sapients?” Ruti demanded in horror. She'd heard all about the dangers of wandering in Huido's apartment.

“Only if those sapients invade their pool,” Huido said defensively. “And, of course, are safely edible in the first place.”

Ruti suddenly wondered if the Carasian was teasing her. “That doesn't prove they're smart,” she accused. “Why would they stay locked up in your apartment by choice? Especially on Plexis!”

“They are not locked—” Huido stopped and calmed his voice. “Our females, in your terms, are not smart. They are more than smart. They are our species' scholars and scientists, our inventors and artists. We males run businesses and compete to be worthy of providing the luxury these glorious creatures deserve once they retire.”

“Retire?” Ruti was reasonably sure the word in Comspeak couldn't possibly mean the same thing to Huido as it did to her.

“Yes. Once any Carasian female feels she has reached the pinnacle of her field of study, achieved everything she can, she retires. She removes herself from the distractions of the outside world, and moves to a pool where she can synergize with other retired females. They exchange information, debate, and philosophize until satisfied they have added their accomplishments to our culture. I don't claim to understand all they do—if I did, I'd be female!” Another laugh. “Synergy can take years, especially for a female with strong or unusual ideas, so she picks the pool of the male she judges will be the best and most stimulating provider. And the largest. Size always matters to those delightful creatures. After all, so much concentrated thinking makes them, well,” his eyestalks began spinning about “completely insatiable. They seek pleasure and procreation constantly during this important and admirable stage of their lives.”

“They think in the pool,” Ruti repeated, to be sure she grasped the concept. “And this makes them—”

“Hungry!” Huido made a happy bell-like sound with his smaller handling claw. “For everything. You can see why Carasian males place such a high value on thinking in their females.” The Carasian rose to his feet, weapons swinging from their clips. “And you, young Ruti. I want you to practice a great deal of thinking while I'm gone.”

“Gone?” Ruti didn't like the sound of this. “Gone? Where? I thought we were going together. I promised Morgan—”

“And Morgan is what matters, now. We can only hope his poor grist recovers. He needs me to protect his back while he hunts for Sira. I will not fail him!”

Ruti stood as well, feeling insignificant next to the massive being. She gathered her determination. Ansel had believed she could do this. “Not alone, Hom Huido. I promised Morgan—and Ansel—I'd take care of you. I'm going with you.”

All of his eyestalks formed an intimidating stare. “You will wait here. Barac is coming, and the two of you will go to Morgan's secure house—out on those revolting dunes.”

“Barac?” Ruti waved her arms in the air, suddenly furious. “Who's this Barac? Some dreg from the shipcity you've hired to watch me? I will not wait here, in this, this powerless hovel, while you wander around looking for a fight!”

“And I will lose no one else from my heart!” Huido's bellow was far more effective than hers, its volume bringing dust from the ceiling. Ruti sank back into her chair, realizing the banter of a moment ago had been Huido's attempt to ease her feelings, not his own. “I have lost Ansel, my first alien friend,” the Carasian said, his voice dropping to a desperate, unhappy rumble. “Morgan and Sira are at terrible risk. Know that my heart and soul are yours as well, Ruti from Acranam. You must take care.”

“After all I've done?” she whispered. “Trusting Symon? Lying to you?”

“You're young,” Huido reminded her. “Spawn are supposed to make mistakes. It's up to you to survive them—or not. Keep yourself safe and wait for Barac. Promise me.”

Ruti walked up to the Carasian and pressed herself against his hard, chill exterior, carefully avoiding a biodisrupter and a netful of blast globes. Her arms couldn't stretch around enough of him to call it a hug, but she did her best. She wanted to admit her fear, to keep her last protector with her. Even arriving on Plexis, she hadn't felt as alone as this. Ruti doubted she could reach her mother or any other Clan with a sending, should anything happen to Huido or Morgan. And only those two—and Symon—knew where she was.

But Ruti discovered herself less a child this morning than she'd been yesterday, able to push back from Huido and safety to say: “I promise. Look after Morgan.”

“I always do,” the Carasian boasted, then unhooked one of the smaller weapons from his chest to offer her. “Take this. You must avoid using your Power, Ruti, even to contact Morgan. Symon may be able to detect it—either with some device or his own abilities. Did he not find you when you arrived on Plexis? Did he not find Sira?”

She stared at the ugly thing, then took it in her hand: some type of projectile weapon, with a handle that molded itself to a perfect fit within her palm before surprise could make her drop it. “How do I—?”

The delicate tip of a handling claw indicated an area on the handle. “Point it at someone you don't like, then press here.” Huido paused thoughtfully. “Make sure there isn't anyone you do like nearby. You have the coordinates for Morgan's house in the dunes?”

Ruti nodded, patting the pocket that held the slip of plas Huido had insisted she keep with her at all times.

“Good.” The Carasian headed for the door. Three eyestalks rose over his back to look at her. “Don't forget to do the dishes. There's no recycler, and you don't want to attract any more wildlife.”

Involuntarily, Ruti shuddered and glanced around before recognizing the Carasian was trying to deflect her thoughts again. “Ansel didn't deserve what happened, Hom Huido,” she said solemnly, because it had to be said. “He was a good person.”

“And a pest. And overcautious. And inclined to treat the universe as a giant accounting problem instead of a joy to be experienced.” Huido snapped his lower right claw against his body in a way she'd never seen before, creating a low, heavy tone that Ruti could feel in her jaw as well as hear. “But Ansel always understood the great truth, young Ruti: that our worth is measured by what we are willing to give of ourselves.”

Huido opened the door and bent a few eyestalks forward to inspect the alleyway. Grunting with satisfaction, he clanked around to focus on Ruti. “Lock the door behind me,” was the last thing he said before leaving.

Ruti obediently locked the door, then leaned her back against it and surveyed her surroundings. She deliberately turned her mind to what needed to be done. After all, the powerless hovel was hers now, complete with lanterns in three of four rooms and a very nice portable cook stove with a stasis unit underneath. There was plumbing, if no built-in power features. If she was to meet this mysterious Barac—hopefully soon—she'd better wash off yesterday's dust and today's tears.

She scrubbed her face and hands with what little cold water dribbled into the sink and ran her fingers through her hair in a hopeless attempt to bring some order to chaos. Her clothes somehow smelled of sand and salt, in spite of a vigorous shaking. She put them back on anyway, tucking Lara in a pocket, and found her sandals, or what was left of them. Her wardrobe was suited to Plexis, not marching through a miniature sandstorm. Had these people no control over their climate?

Acranam didn't, but it wasn't necessary, Ruti remembered with longing. The air around Caraat Town was moist and fragrant, carrying the light sweetness of elosia blossoms in spring and the rich spice of ripening sarlas in early fall. No need to argue with rainfall. Showers fell with convenient predictability, washing heat from the air twice a day, and creating interesting new ponds for tiny fleets of sarlas shells for those young enough to have time for such things. Mind you, she, Olea, and Nylis could usually draw the others into mock naval battles between chores.

Ruti shook off the memory. She was as clean as she could manage. Time to eat. Huido's weapon slipped into the inner pocket of her cloak. There was nothing else to pack or carry; Huido had ordered everything left behind on the starship that had brought them, to be returned to Plexis. He would, he informed her, take no chances that their things had been bugged by security. Ruti had no idea why security would contaminate her belongings or Huido's, but he'd been implacable.

Perhaps there would be spare clothing at this place of Morgan's, this house hidden in the desert. Ruti read over the coordinates and directions for the fifth time. The numbers made no sense to her, but she supposed they would to this Barac.

Breakfast. She rummaged in the stasis unit and found eggs her stolen knowledge told her would make a fine, if rich, omelette. Ruti pulled out what she needed, then doubled it, in case this Barac would be hungry as well. The familiar motions of cooking soothed her, even under these circumstances, and she was aghast to catch herself humming as she broke eggs.

What kind of person was she to hum when Ansel had been killed, when others were at risk?

Ruti poured sombay into a self-warming cup. She was, she told herself firmly, a person who wouldn't make any more mistakes. She hurried to turn the omelette before it browned too much on one side.

An hour later, stuffed with Barac's breakfast as well as her own, Ruti sat in the kitchen and studied the door. She knew perfectly well what lay outside: a messy, vermin-infested alleyway. Whatever lay beyond that wasn't her concern. She wasn't about to commit the mistake of leaving. Huido had told her to wait and she would. It was a simple, clear task. Wait.

She wasn't good at waiting.

The dishes and cookware were clean, as best she could with the pathetic dribble of water offered by the kitchen sink. Perhaps water on this world was in such short supply the pipes were smaller than normal. She'd moved the table to several locations within the room, each offering Ruti a slightly different view of the door. Which led to a messy, vermin-infested alleyway. And an entire world she'd never seen.

She'd promised. But it was hard. Especially when she didn't dare play with her Talents. Her mother had always praised Ruti's ability to ‘port, her sure knowledge of the strength of others, but Ruti's favorite Talent was unusual among Clan. She could move things with a nudge of Power—not through the M'hir but through ordinary space. Not far, but far enough to be fun. Like the lantern—Ruti stopped herself just in time. No more mistakes. Huido had sounded certain Symon could somehow know, a possibility Ruti now found terrifying.

A window might have helped, or would one simply allow danger easier access?

Why had she thought about danger?

There was a strange taste in her mouth. Ruti swallowed, but it didn't change. Not the eggs. Not in her mouth at all. The taste was of something dangerous. Something . . .
coming
.

Ruti stood, pushing the chair back, and lunged for her cloak where it lay draped over Huido's low seat. Her hands shook as she fumbled for the pocket and the weapon hidden there.

She'd never tasted a warning through the M'hir before.

That didn't mean she doubted it was real.

W
ARNINGS. Hull breach alarms. The too-short shriek in the night as one of the herd is taken. I heard them all and knew they weren't real.

My mind, what remained of Sira Morgan, played games to keep itself alert and alive, pretending emergencies and imagining rescue. Rescue from what? The question splintered away another part of me, spinning into the abyss until something swooped upward to meet and consume it . . .

The Singer. Waiting, ready, hungry.

 

“These—numbers.” Distaste twisted Jarad's lips, but I gave him credit. He'd listened. “You claim they prove this assertion of yours?”

“That we're doomed?” I drawled, putting my feet up on the table and grinning at my father. “Oh, there's no doubt at all.”

He sank into a chair. We were in my bedroom, which was more a library and office these days. My computing needs had dictated the elaborate interface discreetly built into an otherwise unremarkable table, but there was no hiding stacks of plas sheets or the pre-Stratification era chests bursting with the rolled, permanent parches used by the M'hiray before they'd met Humans and taken to newer technology. Even my bed was piled high with research notes. Enora, bless her, had brought in a cot. She knew me too well to suppose it worthwhile clearing the bed itself.