To Trade the Stars (37 page)

Barac sud Sarc. Ruti wasn't sure what to think of him. No Clansman on Acranam would be foolhardy enough to take on five Humans armed only with a force blade—for a Carasian and a stranger, no less. But he'd not only done it—he'd succeeded. Ruti was also sure no one she knew would have thought of a way to escape that scene without having to ‘port, let alone find the resources they needed.

He'd held her in his arms.

She shivered under the spray. He had held her, she reminded herself firmly, so she wouldn't fall on her own face.

Barac's sending hadn't felt like that of a sud. It had felt different. Ruti had wanted to test his Power with hers—but there hadn't been a safe moment for that Clan courtesy. Now, she assumed it would be a foolish exposure of her Power to Symon—if Huido was to be believed.

“Are you done?”

His voice shocked herself back to herself. “Almost!” she called, hurriedly turning the spray to dry, then stepping out with her hair still damp. It was so thin it dried by itself anyway. Ruti went through the pile of clothing Barac had found for her—just as glad she hadn't been the one to go through the personal effects of whomever lived here. They weren't Clan, of course, but this was their home, not hers.

Pants, a shirt that pulled over her head. A short coat of the same yellow hide as Morgan's, too short in the arms, though not, she hoped, noticeably. Coarser fabrics than she was used to, but warm and clean. She'd have to keep her sandals. Ruti had done her best to wipe as much blood from them as she could, hoping the sand outside would do the rest. They weren't too—

Ruti paused, a sandal in one hand, horrified to suddenly realize she'd lost Lara—her mother's gift. The tiny doll must have dropped from her pocket in the alley. It might even have been destroyed in the blast.

It was only a doll, she told herself fiercely. Only a doll.

An impatient knock. “I'm finished,” she said, gathering up what she hadn't worn to take with her out of the small room and turning to leave.

Barac had taken this as invitation to enter. It was her first look at her rescuer in good light, without the adrenaline of danger pounding in her head, or tears in her eyes. He was startlingly handsome, after weeks of seeing only aliens, with that Clan grace of feature few Humans seemed to achieve. Thick black hair above a broad forehead. High cheekbones under dark, sparkling eyes; the aura of Power trained and tightly controlled. He was carrying a handful of stolen clothing, too, and must have already recycled his shirt, which had been bloodstained and scorched.

Ruti found herself blushing at the sight of more male flesh than Clan convention permitted, at least on Acranam. Still, she didn't quite mind what she saw, until she noticed the angry bruising along his ribs. “You're hurt,” she exclaimed.

Barac seemed to find something about this amusing, or it might have been her blush. She couldn't tell without reaching through the M'hir. “I'll live,” he assured her, smiling. “I won't be long. Stay where you can keep watch on the door. If anyone comes, call me. And Ruti?”

She'd headed for the door, stepping past him carefully. “Yes?”

His eyes were suddenly serious. “At the first sign of trouble, I don't care what Huido told you. ‘Port out of here. Don't wait for me, just do it.”

“No!”

Barac looked surprised by her immediate protest. “Be sensible,” he ordered. “Even if Symon can somehow track our Power, it's better than being trapped. Do you understand?”

Ruti scowled up at him and decided not to argue the point. She wasn't helpless and she wasn't going to run away. Hadn't she proved that? Besides, she thought, this Barac didn't know everything. “Huido told me you and I were to go to Morgan's house, in the desert. I have—” she dug in a pocket and pulled out the very crumpled piece of plas she'd retrieved from her original clothes, “—the coordinates. But I don't have a locate to 'port there. Do you?”

“No.” Barac dropped his bundle of clothes on the countertop, then touched her forehead lightly with one finger. “What more should I know, Ruti di Bowart?” Between two Clan, his was a courteous request for a lowering of her shields and a sharing of vital information in the fastest way possible.

“That we shouldn't waste time here. Hurry and get clean,” Ruti said, keeping her shields firmly in place as she backed away then stepped out the door, pulling it closed behind her.

She leaned against the wall outside, her head back and eyes closed, knowing she hadn't refused to open to Barac because she feared Symon. She'd refused so he wouldn't learn about her and what she'd done. Not yet.

 

“Not much farther,” Barac told his companion, pleased to recognize the Whirtle's used clothing store. Not that he'd expected to get lost twice in the same day—but one never knew.

Ruti di Bowart. He knew the House, or of it. Barac glanced down. She was keeping up, without complaint, despite his longer strides. He slowed a bit, making sure it wasn't obvious. Proud little thing. And brave. He was impressed, despite his abiding distrust for anything and anyone associated with Acranam. Their former leader and founder, Yihtor di Caraat, had murdered his brother, Kurr. Even now, Barac knew the Acranam Clan resisted the Council and Sira at every turn, insisting they could survive alone. They continued to risk their unChosen, he thought, feeling that familiar mix of horror and reckless longing.

As they moved through the now-busy streets, packed with locals in the omnipresent yellow coats and spacers in blue, the Clansman deliberately kept any conversation to the inane sorts of things a tourist might say, indicating the occasional noteworthy site or talking about the weather. Morgan had taught Barac a healthy respect for the power of Human technology, especially as it concerned the invasion of privacy. Barac saw no reason to believe this Symon wouldn't be just as aware as Morgan of that potential, meaning any of the buildings they passed could have listening devices. One could become quite thoroughly paranoid around Humans.

Although, as a Scout, he usually laughed away the most preposterous of those ideas. Today? Barac looked down at Ruti again. He wasn't taking any chances. It had been a close thing, in that alley. Too close.

Who was she? He opened his awareness to the M'hir the tiniest possible amount, less worried about Huido's caution than his own ignorance.

Good strong shields. Quite an imposing presence for such a tiny thing. Ahh. Barac saw what he'd half-expected and withdrew.

Fosterling.

“Did you come with Huido from Plexis?” Barac asked Ruti casually.

A sidelong look. “Yes. I was working in his restaurant.”

Barac put that unlikely information aside to examine later, along with the disturbing confirmation that Acranam had dispersed one of her priceless offspring where no Clan should. “Did you like the station?”

“No.” Quick and emphatic. A taste of distress in the M'hir. Barac decided to leave further questions for later.

It seemed to take too long to reach the edge of the shipcity and the parking area where he'd left the Makii's gift. Barac found himself listening for sirens or running feet as he led Ruti down the line of waiting aircars. The Makii's was twice the size of any others in the lot, and gaudy. He'd liked it before he knew he'd be on the run. The Clansman frowned, wondering about a quick trade for something less conspicuous. But Ruti ran to it, running her hands over the glossy sides with delight. So much for pretending it wasn't his.

Speed was the alternative to being inconspicuous. “Get in,” he ordered, and followed suit, noting Ruti fit into the Drapsk-sized seat better than he did. The aircar, suited to transporting royalty, could well have some armaments and a force shield, as well as the requisite exterior armor. Barac stared at the curved and elaborate Drapsk control panel, regretting, too late, he hadn't asked the little beings about more than the most basic operation of their machine. Now seemed a poor time to experiment.

“Where to?” he asked his companion.

“I have the coordinates,” she said with a doubtful look at the panels. “Do you know how to work this?”

No gain in spreading his own anxieties on that subject to the child, Barak decided, “Of course,” he said confidently. “I was a First Scout. Alien technology is my specialty.”

“What's a scout?”

Her immediate puzzlement surprised Barac into a self-depreciating laugh. So much for his one claim to fame. “My pardon, young Ruti. Let's say I've more experience with aliens than most Clan. Read me the coordinates, please.”

Whatever else you could say about the Drapsk, Barak decided a short while later as he lifted his hands from the controls, they designed admirable machines. The aircar had digested the coordinates, and now smoothly assumed their flight, Barac having flown manually from the shipcity. He'd done a lazy circuit or two before engaging the autopilot, hoping to see if any other aircars lifted in pursuit.

What traffic joined them in the sky appeared more interested in heading into the town—Traders, more than likely. Huido's coordinates had taken them in the opposite direction, into a cloudless sky and over the beginnings of a march of horizon-spanning dunes. Barac shuddered to himself. There was a lot to be said for skulking in alleyways.

“Are we safe now?”

He turned to look at Ruti. She was pale, with eyes huge in her small face, but her expression was stern rather than frightened. “We should be,” he judged. “Who'd look for us in this forsaken place?”

That made her eyes slide to the viewports, then back. Her lips twitched. “I see what you mean. No wonder Huido didn't come with us. He hates sand, you know.”

Time for overdue answers, Barac thought. Before he could open his mouth, Ruti continued: “You asked about Hom Morgan. Are you—his friend?”

A very unusual question from one Clan to another, especially concerning a Human—unless Ruti had met the potent Morgan, with his unsettling ability to inspire loyalty from the most unexpected beings. Barac kept his understanding to himself. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “We're friends. Why?”

Her face darkened. A rush of emotion-charged words tumbled out: “Morgan's in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's my fault. Now Huido's gone to help him—”

Barac stopped her with a raised hand and a frown. “There's no more time for words,” he told her grimly.

“Open to me, now.” He lowered his own shields,
reaching
outward to find Ruti's gone, but an involuntary barrier of intense guilt and grief in his way. She wasn't used to sharing, he realized, and eased back a bit, letting her control herself. After an instant, her emotions subsided. Relieved, Barac sent his mind into her surface thoughts and memories.

But his relief lasted no longer than the heartbeat it took for him to reach Ruti's memory of Sira.

With Symon.

R
EN Symon. Jason Morgan. I sat in my Drapsk prison, finding those two faces intruding on my thoughts like flashes of night and day, dark and light, hate and love. An odd species, Human, to produce two beings who were mirror images of one another, down to their Power. The hate had been love, once. I'd shared Morgan's memories of Symon, perhaps more fully than he'd realized, and knew how Symon had treated him as a son, how Morgan had worshiped the other Human, granting him full access to his mind and heart.

A dangerous vulnerability even now. I understood—as I feared Morgan did not—how difficult it was to defend against anyone, or anything, who'd been given, or taken, that intimacy. Symon had a key to Morgan's innermost self. I had no doubt he planned to use it. Another reason I'd taken it as my personal quest to remove Symon as a threat to us. If I'd known how right I was, I wouldn't have left it to others.

If I'd known more about the Drapsk, I wouldn't be sitting here, helpless, with this ridiculous collar around my neck. I'd passed from fury to panic to a familiar sense of resigned frustration. I could be misjudging the Heerii, as I had the Makii at first; there might be a comprehensible reason for my confinement.

Or they were in league with my seducer, whatever it was, and planned a consummation which would destroy me and my Chosen—to a gain I certainly wouldn't be around to appreciate.

I shied from that thought, and the mouth-drying fear threatening to return with it. No, I couldn't believe the Drapsk expected me to be harmed. They'd offered me
ipstsa.
By making me a member of their Tribe, they'd all assume responsibility for my safety. One thing was sure about Drapsk: any member of a Tribe was defended by the entire Tribe—it was why the helpless-looking beings wandered with impunity through the most deadly spacer dives and hellholes.

The Heerii had known that, better than I, and offered me
ipstsa
anyway. Even if their motive had been to simply remove the scent of an opposing Tribe, they'd been willing to enter into that level of mutual self-interest. So they thought whatever I was to do would be safe.

They were wrong. I sighed at the unlikelihood of conveying that novel concept to the Drapsk. It might have helped if Captain Heeru had seen fit to put a com panel on this side of that locked door. No need to wonder why they'd set up my “guest quarters” in the
Heerama's
hold. It was the only door they could lock, unless they modified their ship.

I didn't want to talk to Heeru anyway. I wanted to talk to Morgan. Wanted. The laugh that broke out of me was so hurtful I closed my lips over it. If I'd ever thought the need of a Chooser was powerful and all-consuming, I'd been a fool. Had any other Joined pair been severed apart like this and lived to tell of it?