To Trade the Stars (33 page)

But the only thing that would save my mind from being erased by the Council was to produce a Commenced and Chosen Sira di Sarc—to prove there was an alternative to what they planned.

“Just hurry and pick one, Sira,” my father urged. “Council could summon you at any minute.”

“Has Cenebar agreed?”

“After all that arguing? He'd better. I'll bring him. If you're ready.”

I ran my fingers over the name, Jason Morgan, and nodded once. As my father concentrated to summon Cenebar, I tried to convince myself what I was feeling was hope and not dread.

“I'm a healer of minds, not a butcher.” Cenebar di Teerac might have agreed to help me, but he wasn't about to do it without a final protest. “We can't take so much—you'll be damaged.”

Trust me,
I sent to him, with overtones of affections for a true heart-kin. A Clansman who would never willingly cause harm to another, as well as a trusted friend. I wondered if Cenebar remembered being among those male children paraded for my favor, so many years ago.

“There's no time to debate further. She must be in stasis, to protect any unChosen she meets.”

“Stasis isn't the problem, Jarad. It's this blockage she plans to impose on her own mind, the extent of it—are you sure it's necessary, Sira?”

I examined my hands, studying their calluses. “I know myself, Healer. It's well and good for me to propose attempting Choice with a Human, here, in this room. Out there? Will I be able to offer this—” I held out my right hand as if for Choice, “—to an alien? There's too much training, too much prejudice—too much Clan in me—to guarantee I won't run the other way. And I will not fail. Besides,” I added almost lightly, “you'll implant the trigger mechanism to restore my full memory once Choice has been consummated and I have—Joined.”

“With this Human. If you both aren't hauled into the M'hir first. Or—I can think of a dozen ways this could go wrong.”

“I've thought of a thousand,” I said flatly. “None of which matters. The Council will murder me if I don't try this. At least this way, I'll prove something—either that this will work, or that it won't.”

I felt him acquiesce, however reluctantly. Before he could change his mind, I lay down on my bed, miraculously clear of debris. I'd asked Enora to pack away all of my things while I was gone. She didn't know where, only that there was a mysterious candidate and I was hopeful, at last, of completing my Choice. She'd been so happy for me, I'd felt a pang of guilt. But she couldn't know the truth, not until I'd succeeded or died.

Cenebar and Jarad came to stand to either side of me. The healer would impose mental stasis, the binding to help restrain my Power-of-Choice until, hopefully, it was freed by the presence of Morgan's power. Jarad would layer my mind with guides, compulsions that would pull me to Morgan and his ship, make me avoid Trade Pact authority. There were those among Humans with an interest in the Clan, despite all our care to remain aloof and uninteresting. Such mustn't interfere with my purpose.

I would need these compulsions because, when we were done, they would be all I knew until Choice freed my mind again.

My role? I began to ruthlessly block my own memories. Cenebar had shown me the forbidden technique—another Prime Law I would flaunt today, after a lifetime of obedience. He and Jarad would complete the process, once so much was blocked that I no longer knew what to do or why I was doing it.

I worked methodically, having planned exactly what I wanted buried. Cenebar worried that I'd be damaged. To his knowledge, no one had ever blocked so much of their conscious mind without permanently losing portions of their memory.

I hoped so.

I began to seal away what I must forget in order to look a Human in the eyes without revulsion.

And, memory by memory, I sealed away what I wanted to forget forever.

At this, I flinched and hesitated. The Singer was my private nightmare: something I'd tried to believe couldn't exist, though part of me knew it did, aware it waited in the M'hir for its next opportunity to tempt me. But nightmare or real, I wouldn't keep anything in my memory that might interfere with my attempt to Join with the Human.

Which meant I couldn't keep anything that might leave me vulnerable to the Singer.

My music.

So be it. I sought out every memory that held my keffle-flute, blocking each away as deeply as I could, no matter where I found it. I tore apart my past, fragmenting what I'd been into jagged shards.

Still I continued, until I began to lose track of where I was, who I was, why I was. I felt my father's mind, soothing away the beginnings of fear, of not right!

Then I ended, so another might begin.

 

My mouth tasted like something had died, then rotted in it. I sputtered and spat, desperately wiping at my lips. They felt wet. So did my face, as my fingers rediscovered it in the absolute dark. Nothing mattered but finding Morgan. I sent Power flying along our link, seeking my love's mind.

I reeled under the impact of Power rebounding from that too-familiar wall, wide-awake and furious at the misbegotten Drapsk who'd invented this technology in the first place. There would be a need for some intense
gripstsa
once I was free.

Symon had had a reason for putting me into this stasis unit. I sat up, slowly, exploring by hand what I couldn't see. My hair shivered itself dry, but my sodden coveralls didn't have that ability, the fabric clinging and cold. The floor was slick with moisture as well, implying the entire box had been filled with preserving fluid. I lay where I'd first fallen, but wasn't stiff. Drugs in the fluid or gas must have kept my body pliable, or I'd only been unconscious for a moment—something I didn't believe.

I crawled, or rather slithered, along the floor, hunting the bottle of water I remembered had been put in here with me; my first priority was to stop the torment in my mouth. I found the globe, but its light no longer functioned. I tossed it aside and reached again. There. I fumbled it open and rinsed, then spat. The effort became a retch as I heaved up what felt like most of my insides.

Somehow I moved myself away from the mess until my outstretched fingers encountered something hard and smooth. My keffle-flute case. I picked it up and hugged it close.

I knew how to play it.

I forgot the taste in my mouth. I forgot the ache where Morgan belonged. Astonishment filled me as I
remembered
.

The life of Sira di Sarc was once more full and complete within my mind, as my past self had hoped it would never be.

I wasn't at all surprised to begin to heave again.

The warning struck again. Morgan shook his head to clear it, grimly hopeful this latest premonition meant he was on the right track. Of course, any All Sapient's District had its share of risks, and Rosietown's was no exception—from recruiters hunting unwilling skilled labor to a Scat on the prowl for a meal that would fight back. Unlikely such would be up so early in the day, he knew, or would bother him if they were. In Morgan's experience, predators avoided prey that looked as if it was on the hunt itself.

Not that he'd been obvious in his preparations. A blaster rode his hip, but hidden under the flap of his dune-skimmer. The heavy, dull-yellow coat was common in Rosietown, at least among those who appreciated the triple threat of sand, sun, and wind. Morgan's was no tourist's fancy, fresh from a store. The shoulders and back showed darker, shinier patches where storm-driven sand had polished away the soft roughness of the rowlahide; there were very useful hidden pockets in several locations; and the inner lining had been replaced—at a cost—with flexible strips of body armor.

Morgan hadn't taken chances before going to Huido's hideaway either, using a roundabout route from the shipcity and leaving the
Fox
rigged to send an alert if certain individuals left com messages—or if an uninvited guest attempted to enter. He'd deliberately docked her in the Trader's Enclave, the constantly-changing community of owner-captained starships, traders and short-haul freighters that formed in every shipcity. Togetherness for mutual self-protection, on worlds where Port Authority existed to gouge Traders for more than docking fees. In more civilized surroundings, such as Ettler's Planet, the enclave served as a convenient gathering point to scout the competition, exchange crew and gossip, or find life-partners. Most were family-run; the children running free around ramps and fins knew who belonged near their ships. They'd play under the Fox today for a few credits, a common service if not the most reliable.

When he'd bought the
Silver Fox
and started this life, Morgan had kept his distance from other Traders—dealing fairly and politely with those he met, but resisting any temptation to form closer ties. He'd told himself it was more comfortable to stay away from the disturbing awareness of other minds on his, but Huido had known better. Over a few beers, and with typical bluntness, the Carasian had told Morgan it was high time the Human climbed out of the battle-scarred valleys of Karolus and joined the rest of the universe, which included trusting other beings besides his handsome self. Not blindly, of course—Huido digressing into a few entertainingly incredible tales about males who trusted others with the location of their tidal pools—but without fearing that everyone Morgan trusted would die, leave, or worse, betray him as had Symon.

Huido might not have remembered that conversation the next morning, or tactfully pretended not to, but Morgan had never forgotten it. The Carasian had been right. More, his words echoed those of Morgan's uncles and parents, buried so long ago under the grief of their loss. Hadn't they raised him to think of others first, to honor their trust by never failing his responsibility to the whole? How had he let Symon taint their memory?

Morgan would never trust easily or shed the inner wariness forged by his past. Still, over the years, he built friendships, as well as friendly rivalries, among his fellow Traders, Humans and aliens alike. These days, a quick walk down any Trader Enclave shipway, a glance over the starships docked there, told Morgan exactly who he could call upon for help. For a price. Traders stuck together against a threat to all, but getting such free spirits interested in a more personal entanglement usually involved a debt owed or about to be incurred. Even among friends.

Two such friends of his and Huido's were insystem on Ettler's Planet:
Ryan's Venture
and
Gamer's Gold
. Both were larger and newer than the Fox, but not as fast, putting Morgan's relationship with their respective captains more in the friendly rival category. Regardless, he started his inquiries there, striking it lucky with the second ship. In fact, Captain Aleksander of
Gamer's Gold
had not only transported the Carasian to Ettler's, he had a terse and biologically impractical message for Morgan to convey to his former passenger.

It turned out Aleksander had agreed to take Huido's friends as well, which, Morgan was amused to learn, included not just Ruti but a group of Turrned Missionaries. This in itself wasn't a problem. It was a short haul, given Plexis' current location, and the '
Gold
had been enroute anyway. Payment was in advance, and the Turrneds had, in Aleksander's words, kept their eyes away from his business.

What had Aleksander considering steamed Carasian as his dish of choice was the steaming mess around his beautiful ship. Morgan had been grateful not to have a vid on his com as the '
Gold's
captain explained, in great detail, that while he understood Huido had only been trying to leave his ship without being noticed, he didn't appreciate the end result. It seemed Huido's new companions, the Turrneds, operated their Mission from a rowla ranch on the outskirts of the shipcity. Rowlas were an indigenous domesticated beast easily half again the size of any Carasian. Drovers found the larger shipways convenient shortcuts to the wells on the other side of Rosietown, so they regularly incensed Port Authority by driving their herds between the starships—halting docking tugs and leaving reeking towers of rowla droppings behind. The Turrneds had simply arranged for their herd to arrive at the base of the '
Gold's
ramp, so Huido and Ruti could walk away from the ship, hidden from sight among the larger animals.

Which had, naturally, left unfortunately large some-things for Captain Aleksander.

Good to know Huido was safe. Morgan hadn't expected a com signal—Huido wouldn't risk it, not with Plexis security likely sending hysterical warnings to the nearest systems about murderous Carasians. They were probably trying to blame Huido for poor Ansel's death, too. At least Terk knew the truth of that, Morgan thought, although the Enforcers were a potential complication he'd face sooner or later. Hopefully later, because Bowman wouldn't hesitate if she thought Symon was within her reach; she knew too well the potential danger of allowing telepaths to use their abilities for interspecies crime.