To Trade the Stars (35 page)

Symon couldn't have known what would happen to me in this chamber, that I'd be assaulted and have to do battle, bursting through the final blocks in my memory to do so. I leaned my head back and smiled in the dark, doubting the rogue telepath would care that he'd done me a great service. Sira di Sarc had hated those moments of fear and failure enough to try and eradicate them forever. I didn't enjoy them, but how wonderful to recover what she'd sacrificed at the same time. My music. Joyous times with Enora, Rael, and even Pella. The love I'd shared with my mother, Mirim, as a child.

I couldn't wait to tell Morgan.

Although it appeared I'd have to—at least, and my smile turned wolfish, until someone made the mistake of opening this box.

If I'd hoped the thought would be a signal, I was wrong. It was another long weary time before light smacked into my eyes and I heard the sound of something mechanical sliding in its track. I covered my face and sent out an urgent seeking thought—but the Drapsk barrier was still in place.

When I was finally able to squint through my weeping eyes, I knew why.

I was surrounded by dear little Drapsk.

 

“Would the Mystic One care for sombay?”

“I'd care for an explanation,” I said without hope of an answer. If Makii were good at being evasive, the Heerii were masters. Despite what seemed hours spent yelling, coaxing, cajoling, and engaging in meaningless pleasantries, all I'd been able to get out of the six I'd met so far was hospitality.

Unusual hospitality. I'd been led from the stasis chamber—a torment for the olfactorily-inclined beings, from the way they'd kept their antennae folded and the haste with which it was removed through the freight door—into what appeared to be a converted cargo hold. My powers were confined here as well, implying the Drapsk had put another of their barriers in place before opening the box. Why? And why was I on a Drapsk ship? I had a list of questions, but no one interested in answering them. I had one need—to reach Morgan—and they were not in the least interested in helping me do that either. Why? I was back to questions.

They'd provided a fresher stall, as well as an assortment of clothing in my size. There was a table covered with an assortment of food and drink—all carefully selected to my preference. The Heerii, like all Drapsk, researched their customers thoroughly. And, it seemed, their prisoners.

Hard as it was to believe, that's what I appeared to be.

There were six identical Heerii in the room with me. They hadn't left, having all the supplies they'd offered me already here. I'd presumed, cleverly, they couldn't open the hold's door without releasing my Power. So when that door finally opened, I hurried to test that presumption. Beyond causing all of them to orient toward me, antennae aquiver with excitement, there was no result. I was still trapped.

And now a new Drapsk walked into the cargo hold. “I want to know what's going on!” I demanded of this one, rising to my feet but making the effort not to shout. I'd tried that. They'd sucked tentacles and waited for me to stop, then offered a tranquilizer.

The new, seventh Drapsk was obviously someone of authority. At last! He coaxed a stool from the floor and gestured to me to sit down. “Our apologies, Mystic One. I am Captain Heeru, of the
Heerama.”

I sat. “I've had enough apologies to last a lifetime, Captain,” I told him. “It's time for some answers, don't you think?”

They could have been my Drapsk, as I thought of the Makii, were it not for the blue-green shimmering up their antennae. That color could be changed, during
lar-gripstsa,
if another Tribe came into ascendance. Odd how the color was enough to make me uneasy, as if I was dealing with an unknown species again.

“You are most correct, Mysic One,” Heeru said amiably. As this was exactly the sort of courtesy a Drapsk used before disagreeing, I braced myself to argue, only to stop as one of the other attendant Drapsk stepped up with a plate in his hands. On it were two bright red tentacles, each the length of my thumb. Both, I assumed, those missing from the ring around his smiling mouth. He offered the plate, and its contents, to me.

I recognized the ceremony.
Ipstsa.
By taking those pieces of Drapsk-flesh into one's mouth and chewing them—then spitting them out—the taste of that Tribe was incorporated into one's body. I'd performed it with Makairi, of the Makii, and would bear their taste forever, according to Copelup. This “taste” wasn't anything a Clan or Human could detect, but the end result mattered to the Drapsk a great deal.

Too much to take
ipstsa
lightly, now that I understood more abut these beings. “I am Makii,” I said, pointing out what had to be obvious to them.

“The Makii are not in ascendance here, Mystic One. You must become Heerii.”

I blinked, wondering if I'd just been given the closest thing to an ultimatum I'd ever heard from a Drapsk. “I am Clan,” I reminded Heeru.

“You are Makii. There can be no Makii here. I do not permit it.”

As ultimatums went, Heeru's didn't impress me, having known a Scat or two. “Then I suggest you overlook whatever makes you consider me as Makii,” I informed him with an edge to my voice, “and get on with answering my questions—or let me leave, now.” When he began to sputter a protest, I snapped: “I've no interest in
ipstsa
with the Heerii—a Tribe keeping me prisoner and making me exceedingly angry. If you want me to taste that?” I pointed to the plate. “You'll have to force them down my throat.”

The Drapsk dropped the plate and its rejected tentacles as it performed
eopari
right in front of me. Captain Heeru kicked the ball of misery out of his way with unDrapsk-like roughness. “Prisoner?” he questioned in a suddenly calm voice. “We have rescued you, Mystic One. We are keeping you safe from harm. How can you be angry with us? How can you not be pleased to perform
ipstsa
and join your rescuers?”

I'd found the best approach to dealing with Drapsk—or the one that caused me the fewest moments of complete confusion—was to ignore anything they said that didn't make sense and focus on what might. “Safe from what?”

“That Human. Hom Symon. He was trying to—” a tentacle disappeared into Heeru's mouth, then popped out again, “—offer you in trade, Mystic One. We were able to intervene and bring you to the
Heerama.
Where you are being kept safe.” This with familiar Drapsk smugness.

It was possible. Ossirus knew, I'd had experience with the obsessive protectiveness of Drapsk before now. I narrowed my eyes and studied the captain as he waited for my response. Copelup had told me most Drapsk lied extremely well, something I believed; he'd also mentioned that some Drapsk moved their hands nervously while lying. Heeru's were rock-steady. “Then I must thank you, Captain, and your brave crew,” I made myself say. Morgan would have been proud of my self-control. “How long do you think I'll continue to need your protection?”

The six still-conscious Drapsk appeared to consult with one another, antennae fluttering in various directions. As a delaying tactic, I couldn't dispute its effectiveness. One wasn't inclined to interrupt.

Done, Heeru turned his body to face me, tentacles wide in an expression that usually, I'd found, meant an exceedingly happy Drapsk. “Not long at all, Mystic One. We have every reason to believe that Hom Symon will no longer be a threat to you very soon. If you will please indulge our wish for your absolute safety a little longer? A few days at most.”

There was, I decided, no such think as a Drapsk whose sense of time included the urgency mine did. “I must contact Captain Morgan,” I insisted, “before we discuss anything else. If you won't let me do it my way—give me have access to your com system. Now.”

“Of course. We'll send a message on your behalf immediately.”

My self-control was having to struggle. “That's not what I said.”

“Mystic One. Mystic One,” Heeru said soothingly, as if talking to a child. “First you refuse
ipstsa,
then you insist on putting yourself at risk. What if someone was eavesdropping and heard your lovely voice? They would know you are here. The Makii are known for such behavior. You do not seem to be making wise decisions. Perhaps you are not fully recovered from your ordeal.”

I wasn't sure what made the word “ordeal” echo in my thoughts, but it did—with a very uncomfortable resonance. “You knew,” I accused, feeling my mouth go dry. I stood and backed away, until I faced a semicircle of faceless Drapsk. “You knew what was happening to me while I was in stasis. You knew I was being attacked by something in the M'hir—the Scented Way.”

“Attacked?” There was another flutter of consultation. Then, shockingly: “Were you not experiencing pleasure, Mystic One?”

My hand crept to my throat and I felt my hair lifting from my neck. “What's going on?” I demanded in a whisper. “What are you doing to me?”

Another Drapsk spoke. “You have a destiny, Mystic One, tied to ours. It is our honor and duty to see you fulfill it. We regret you have been unwilling to cooperate—until now. We hope to change your mind.”

Another: “We have concluded that you require compensation. You are a Trader by profession. We have selected an item we believe you will find worthwhile: information.”

Master Traders, with an interest in the M'hir. These weren't the Makii, I realized, dropping my hand self-consciously, but feeling my hair stubbornly—and wisely—refusing to relax. “How can I talk about a trade when I don't know what you want in return?” I asked reasonably. I was willing to bet they couldn't know exactly what I'd experienced with the Singer. Gauges and monitors were their only way to observe the M'hir.

“You must accept your destiny,” Heeru said again, this time impatiently. Another Drapsk trait seemed a sincere belief that repeating something they understood would help an alien grasp the concept.

I went at it from the other direction. “What information are you offering me?”

This pleased them. One bustled over to the cart used to convey the meal—presently cooling on the table—rummaging in a cupboard before bringing out a small carved box. He handed it to the Captain, who opened the lid to show me the contents. An ordinary data cube. I tensed, aware it was unlikely to contain anything I'd want the Drapsk to have.

“In here, Mystic One,” Captain Heeru proclaimed proudly, “are the results from the Baltir—the results of their experiments with you.”

I was right. This was something I didn't want the Drapsk—or anyone—to have. My hands slipped protectively over my abdomen. The scars were gone, a medical erasing of my past I'd found disturbingly easy, given the cost. The Retian experiments? Simple enough. They'd planted alien tissue samples inside me, in an attempt to see which, if any, of certain “interested” species could hybridize with mine. I'd almost died.

The results had been conveniently destroyed, according to Bowman, furious to have been thwarted in her investigation. But I didn't doubt the Drapsk. “I'm not interested,” I told them.

“It states who supplied the Human tissue implanted in your body. I can tell you. A sample of the quality of the information.”

Another experiment—the first. “Why should I care?” I said roughly. “It died.”

“Not so,” another Heerii corrected. “It was killed. We have checked quite thoroughly, knowing your interest. The Makii med on the
Makmora
mistakenly healed you of the Human tissue within your body. It might have survived, otherwise. Did you know the Baltir repeated the experiment with more of the same tissue? Do you want the true result?”

Had it been Morgan's? The thought had haunted me, that the Retian had taken advantage of my Human's unconscious state to steal some of his flesh to implant in mine. If Morgan's, had it survived? These Drapsk dangled that knowledge in front of me. Master Traders, indeed.

“You are the ones who are mistaken,” I said flatly. “I'm not interested.” I tried not to look at the data cube, to feel this shock of hope. I didn't want offspring, not those cursed with my disastrous, deadly Power. But Morgan's? To give him that legacy, a new life from our union? The joy of that unlooked-for chance was more painful than hope alone.

And what if our two species could be fertile—was my original dream actually possible, of a new race free of the deadly Power-of-Choice?

I hadn't fooled them. “The Human tissue,” Captain Heeru announced as if I hadn't denied interest at all, “came from Hom Symon. He had paid to be included in any such experiment, had the opportunity presented itself. As it did.”

What had begun to seem almost worthwhile turned back into disgust. I gripped the fabric over my abdomen, as if to rip out even the memory of that invasion. “Keep your data,” I snarled. “Let me go, now. I've no intention of letting that—that ‘thing' in the M'hir near me ever again. I don't care about your Heerii destiny. Give it up, and I won't report this to the other Tribes.”

“I'm disappointed you feel this way, Mystic One. But not surprised.” Captain Heeru rose to his feet, putting the box with its cube of stolen data on the table. He gestured to the other Drapsk. Two of them approached me, halting just out of reach. As I eyed them warily, a third went to the cart and brought out what looked like a necklace of some dull, silvery metal. He passed it to Heeru, then reached back to the cart for something else—a stunner he then aimed at me.

Suffice it to say this was not behavior I associated with Drapsk.

The Captain walked up to stand before me, the necklace in both hands, then held it as high as he could reach—about my shoulder-height. “Put this on, Mystic One. Or we will regretfully use force to obtain your cooperation.”