To Trade the Stars (38 page)

No wonder the mind of one would follow the other into madness and death. There was no other choice possible but to stay together. Forced into the impossible, I pulled at the collar again, having already cut my neck several places trying to tear it off.

It wasn't only my mind's need for that link through the M'hir. I loved Morgan, in all the ways I knew existed. I needed to know he was safe. Symon threatened him; I could trust my Human to be wary, if not invincible to that foe. But the Drapsk? How could he know to expect lies or worse from them?

I couldn't know how the Drapsk's device might affect Morgan. Did he feel the same anguish and emptiness? I hoped less, but for all I knew it could be worse for Morgan—so much of his new Power drew from mine in that other space. What if he grew desperate enough to—

No. I'd warned him against ‘porting. If it was Morgan's last resort, and there was any mercy in the universe, the act would pull us together for one final moment.

In the meantime, I was going to try my own version.

I closed my eyes, fighting an inner battle with a weapon relearned from my past. That other, older Sira had been more disciplined; she'd relied more on her Talents and the Power she could bring to each. She'd also been more afraid of the M'hir, for good reason. It had become a fear that slipped into the real world, making it harder for her to fall asleep in the dark.

That Sira had learned to quiet her fear, to call up sleep when she willed it. To her technique, I added my need for Morgan, my concern for him, and hoped to dream.

 

Slowly, as though related to how deeply I sank into dreams, my awareness of Morgan grew, saturating my dreaming mind until I almost woke myself with relief.

As before, it was as if I looked out Morgan's eyes. Disorienting, as he was looking rapidly from side-to-side, while what was around him passed so quickly I realized he must be running.

I felt what Morgan felt, saved from being buried beneath an avalanche of dark emotions—grief, fear, rage—only by the distancing of the dream. His feelings echoed mine, but with more urgency, as though his actions fed them. I saw the backs of various beings as he dodged artfully through those on the sidewalk, mostly humanoid—probably Human. Outside, a city, daytime...

I'd expected Plexis. Or Kimmcle. Not this dusty, too-bright world. Dull yellow coats, curved buildings, air so dry it stole the moisture from his mouth as he took deep rhythmic breaths... these were clues I grasped and tried frantically to combine into a sense of location, but failed. I'd never been here. Morgan either hadn't shared memories of this place with me, or it was new to him as well.

I could make an educated guess. If Morgan and I were ever separated and in danger, we'd planned to meet on a desert world called Ettler's Planet. Morgan had promised me a visit there soon, saying only it was better seen in person than shared memory. While what I saw didn't appear attractive in the slightest, I was willing to believe that impression had more to do with sharing Morgan's desperation than anything I was seeing through his eyes.

Minutes missed me. Morgan was now walking, no less upset, but quieter, more resolved. And he was no longer alone.

A voice like rocks rolling in a drum: “Well, at least we know Barac was there. He's the only being I know who'd use a toy like that in battle.”

Huido!
Morgan was looking ahead, not at his friend, but I could feel his relief. I shared it. “And we both know who'd use short-range artillery,” my Human said almost lightly, his voice echoing in my dream. “Someone fired a round in that alley.”

A proud-sounding rattle. “I left one of those miniature antitank guns with Ruti—for her protection—”

A feeling of incredulity accompanied Morgan's glance left. I could see Huido, ambling alongside the Human. Some of him, anyway. The Carasian was almost completely encased in fabric, looking more like a walking piece of upholstered furniture than a living thing. Furniture that clanked and muttered under its breath something that sounded like: “Did you try to find the route with the most sand?”

“Protection?” Morgan repeated dryly, ignoring what was probably a running complaint. “She might have killed herself and Barac with that thing.”

“Psssahht. I didn't smell arty Clan blood.” Two eyestalks stretched farther out and craned to stare at Morgan. “But you—” a pause, “you smell—suddenly different.”

Could the Carasian sense me? Filled with sudden hope, I stared out the windows of Morgan's eyes and tried to convey a message.
I'm here... See
me,
Sira! Tell Morgan!

“I'm not surprised.” There was a heaviness to Morgan's voice, reflected in his emotions. “I am different—without Sira—”

“Not that.” More eyestalks folded in Morgan's direction. “Someting ... else.”

I felt Morgan shrug impatiently and look ahead. I could see the tips of starships over the next buildings; they must be heading for the shipcity. “What matters, my brother, is looking after those who need us—and finding Sira. Barac appears to be with Ruti. Until they contact us, all we can do is trust him to look after her. You've got the address where Symon is holding the other fosterlings. Hire help from Ivali—not the Gamer's
Gold—call
in Port Authority. Do whatever it takes to get them out.”

“I shall be triumphant!”

A warmth from Morgan. “Just be careful, you lummox. They might not be able to penetrate that brain-case of yours, but they still have weapons.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Me?” Rage resurfaced until I thought I was looking through a haze. “Whatever it takes to find Sira— including finding out why our featherheaded friends have been trading with Symon.”

More minutes lost. Too many. Huido was abruptly distant; Morgan watched him walk away. Some children—Human-appearing-waved at Morgan before running off to another ship. He turned, and I was looking at an unusually slender starship, her surface dark with age. The
Silver
Fox. The sensation of home-coming was doubled, mine overlapping Morgan's, yet filled with loss. We both felt the emptiness of that home.

Morgan climbed the steep ramp, activating codes, stepping into the air lock and through. If I dreamed this, it was a welcome dream, to walk back inside this ship and breathe metal-flavored air; to brush my fingers along walls that held out vacuum and cradled our plans for the future, our laughter and love. I'd had a grander home; it had been cold and barren by comparison.

I knew exactly where Morgan was taking us—the control room. Once there, he sat on my couch, not his. He looked down, so I must, and began hunting for something along the armrest. I was mystified until I saw the red-gold hair he pulled free, a hair that curled itself around one of his fingers as if alive, forming a ring. I remembered how my hair had caught itself in that armrest, one memorable evening; this must have stayed behind.

My vision dimmed. Morgan blinked and cleared it. It dimmed again, and he stopped blinking, letting the tears fill his eyes and drop as they wished, unmoving.

I threw myself at the barrier between us, hammered at it with all my Power and will until I felt the threads of the dream begin to unravel.
Morgan.

 

I was awake, but I wasn't alone.

The glistening darkness of my new roommate had flattened the Drapsk's table—or the table had retreated into the floor rather than contest its space. I didn't blame it. The Rugheran's fibrous arms seemed more like exposed roots this time, stretching in lumpy irregular lines toward me. None, I was glad to see, were close enough to touch.

I sat up, making no sudden moves as I put my feet on the floor, then rose to stand. I didn't bother wiping the tears from my face, too busy speculating. Was this an ally, an enemy, or a curious visitor? I might have only a moment to find out before the Drapsk noticed they had a new passenger.

“Hello,” I said, feeling foolish but determined. I remembered Morgan's advice: establish the desire to communicate—without screaming. It would have helped if I'd understood how a Rugheran talked. Or heard. Or if one even knew how to communicate with words. I'd felt something like thought, musical and strange, when I'd met a Rugheran on Drapskii—but that individual had been near death. This being, and the one on the Fox, seemed more in control and hidden from me.

Then, I felt:
/curiosity/

Memory obediently rolled over, showing its belly. “You—” I breathed, staring at the being. “You were there, or something like you, when I was trapped in the M'hir—when I was trying to ... hold my mother. I've felt you before.”

It could be a response. Or I could be imagining all of this—something entirely likely. Still. “Can you help me leave this place?”

My emotion or the Rugheran's? I brought the memory of my first encounter with one of these beings—or this one—to the surface of my thoughts, concentrating on the moment when I'd felt its need to be with others of its kind. “I want to leave,” I said.

Nothing. It was like talking to a mass of uncooked protoplasm. I walked around the being. It didn't move. It simply sat there... or laid... or perched. I wasn't sure what to call it. Part of the being seemed to penetrate the deck, as though it wasn't wholly in this space.

I put my hand on the collar around my neck, as I sat back down on the bed. “I really don't want to risk this,” I told my silent guest. “But if you can help me—” I
reached
into the M'hir, hoping to touch Rugheran's mind, or equivalent.

The prickly sensation I'd expected was there, but not everywhere. True to their word, the Heerii had left me a way into M'hir, if only part. I opened my awareness of it the tiniest bit more.

A song thrust into me, hot and imperative, dark and impatient. The Singer, too-long denied.

I recoiled from that instant of contact, finding myself safely back inside the
Heerama.

And alone.

Alone. Morgan took a long, shuddering breath. He'd been alone before; it hadn't felt like this. Suddenly, coming back to the Fox, it hit him harder than ever: the possibility that Sira might be gone. They'd only had months of what should have been a lifetime. Better that much, he knew, than nothing at all.

Which didn't help ease the emptiness; only finding Sira could accomplish that. Morgan checked the com panel again. He'd left on the automessage to screen out chatter—there was enough of that at any port—but set it to alert him to incoming messages from specific sources. None. Too soon, perhaps. Huido wouldn't be calling until the fosterlings were safely in his care. If anyone could be trusted to take care of a group of telepathic malcontents, it was the Carasian with his total contempt for personal risk and his practical “Why knock? It gives them time to load” approach. Morgan had no worries there.

The Drapsk com-tech of the unnamed ship, reached through Port Authority, had been predictably polite; the Drapsk captain had been predictably unavailable for his call. Could the Captain call him back shortly? Morgan had no choice but to agree, although he doubted the Drapsk would be prompt if he suspected a confrontation. It was a species characteristic to delay unpleasantness, as if complaints would fade away if ignored long enough.

Morgan hoped for something quicker from Ivali or Aleksander, both hunting information about incoming shipments containing a sapient-type stasis chamber. Impatience wasn't likely to help—there were fifty-three ships listed as incoming to Ettler's Planet within the last four days, twenty-seven of those from Plexis—taking advantage of the closeness of their approach. Of that number, several were the sort of trader who offered highly personal service to those moving cargo and passengers they didn't want noticed. Getting details from them would be near to impossible. He'd left a timed message for Bowman, so she could act if all else failed. Her ability to track the finest details never ceased to amaze him.

Having set in motion so many others, Morgan felt useless. There had to be more he could do besides waiting here. Sira was lying in a stasis chamber somewhere in Rosietown. Yet, short of knocking on every door, he knew there was nothing to be done but to try and trace that shipment.

Or was there? Morgan rested his head on the back of the copilot's couch and opened his mind to the M'hir, taking a moment to reframe his thoughts in the terms of how he interpreted that space. The great, unseen but heard ocean, the impression of warm sand beneath his feet, the feel of what was colder or warmer air against his face and hands. Only analogies, he realized, his Human mind rationalizing the utterly strange into something it could interpret. Sira had been surprised by his descriptions, so different from hers. But it was how he interpreted the sensations, however presented, that mattered.

She was the Sun, here. That much Morgan knew. Now, her light and warmth was so dim, it was as if clouds blocked her radiance. The connection between them was still so tenuous he had to remember its direction to be sure it existed. So much for trying to find Sira through the M'hir.

He'd seen M'hir-life on the screens of the Drapsk. Never here, for himself, not that he could believe—unless the distant cries over the surf marked their passage through the M'hir. The surf itself expressed any disturbances—now, it pounded with almost deafening force at Morgan's perceptions, making it a challenge to concentrate. The energy contained in those waves was what he could touch and use—as long as he remembered to keep his feet on the sand.

Morgan withdrew, opening eyes he'd closed for no particular reason but habit. He could, he thought without false modesty, stretch across that surf to reach Barac's mind—or even Rael's, so much farther. An unknowable risk. Symon or his followers might have the technology to detect any use of Power in the M'hir, follow it, and find Barac. Logically, if they had traded with the Drapsk for that technology, the Drapsk had it as well—making it unlikely he could communicate mentally with Rael without letting them know.