To Trade the Stars (42 page)

“I'm making perfect sense,” the Drapsk exclaimed. “What happens will be within the Scented Way, not aboard a starship. The Enemy is the same that I told you about—the species that has stopped Drapskii from being reconnected to her rightful place within the Scented Way. The Dark One—the terms are not so melodramatic in our language, you realize, it's this Comspeak muddle—”

“Go on.”

“The Dark One is—there's actually no suitable word for him in any of our languages. He exists in the Scented Way. Is he controlled by our Enemy or do they worship him? Do they even know he exists? We don't know those answers. He is like a consequence of their actions in the Scented Way. Or its cause. I'm not sure which—but they occur together. And he's very powerful. Am I clear?”

Rael relaxed her hands. They'd gripped one another until the knuckles were white. “No. I understand, with my head, that there is M'hir-life. I understand—with my head—that this life might somehow affect those of us who live here.” She tapped the floor with her toe. “What are you talking about—do you mean there is intelligent life in the M'hir?” Rael shuddered. It would have to be insane, or so alien they could never hope to understand one another.

Copelup shook his head violently. “As far as we've ever found, what life is able to think is like your species, able to exist there and here. But some exist more in the Scented Way. Those are—strange. One is our Enemy, responsible for the exile of Drapskii all those years ago. Others might be allies. The Heerii think they have found such a species—the Rugherans. But the Rugherans are aware of the Enemy's Dark One. They approached the Heerii, found means to communicate. They convinced the Heerii that our approach to reconnecting Drapskii—what Sira, you, and Barac have done—is not enough.” He came closer to Rael and patted her knee. “They are wrong. You've begun to succeed beyond our greatest hopes. But the Heerii believe the Dark One requires a more, a more—” He paused and sucked a tentacle. Rael held her breath, hoping Copelup would keep talking long enough for her to grab something reasonable out of it all.

“You realize this is all conjecture,” Copelup went on. “We have no physical proof, as Levertup would say. Regardless, the Heerii had wanted our Mystic One—Sira—to be delivered to the Rugherans. They insisted this would be the means to reattach Drapskii to the Scented Way, through some ‘union' the Rugherans would arrange between our Mystic One and the Dark One, and its result. The Heerii are not in ascendance on Drapskii, however, and their idea was dismissed. Really, it was the most utter nonsense, without any scientific backing whatsoever.”

“Why did they kidnap Sira, then?”

The knee patting increased in frequency, as if the Skeptic sought to reassure himself as well. “You and Barac were very successful. The
su-gripstsa
in particular was most promising. Many of us feel one or two more efforts could finish what you've begun and Drapskii will be whole again. Perhaps the Heerii's alternative requires Drapskii to remain disconnected until they have tried their approach.”

“So they don't want us to succeed?”

His answer confounded her perceptions. “Of course they want us to succeed. We all want Drapskii reconnected to the Scented Way. But it is not uncommon for competing Tribes to try differing methods to resolve a common problem. The Tribe which is successful becomes in ascendance over all others.”

“So the Heerii stand to gain if their method works.”

“If it works before any other Tribe's.” Copelup's antennae drooped. “But they won't. It won't work. And enlisting aid from something we can't understand, like the Dark One? From the Rugherans? I fear the Enemy might be the only one to win if the Heerii go ahead.”

Rael trapped Copelup's hands in hers. “You told Morgan this Dark One will consume Sira—what does that mean?”

“We can't be sure—I can't be sure. But my research was one of the reasons we rejected the Heerii's idea. I have found a balance to the energies that move within the Scented Way. There are connections along which this energy flows, nodes where it collects, voids where it is altered into other forms—consumed, if you will. The Heerii's Dark One is said to act like such a void. They proposed a connection to our Mystic One, whose energy spans both this space and the Scented Way—surely such a connection would suck the energy, and probably life, from the Mystic One! As for Drapskii? How could it do other than harm to our world as well? No, the Heerii must be stopped.”

“Which means I must help Drapskii. It's becoming dangerous there, Copelup. Things are changing.”

His antennae fluttered in alarm. “I would never ask you to risk yourself—”

Glad to finally have a goal, Rael smiled as she stood. “As long as you stand by me, dear Skeptic, I will feel safe. Let's go.”

 

They took the moving walkway to reach the Skeptics' Hall, rather than use any of Rael's strength. Still unsure of the technology, the Clanswoman held Copelup's hand, feeling the breeze of their deceptively slow passage lift her hair. The surface of the walkway was too much like her impression of the M'hir to feel solid, yet too solid to reconcile with her inner knowledge of that other space. The contradiction made her queasy.

But it was fast. In short order, they entered the Hall and made their way up to the chamber where the Drapsk scientists waited with their instruments, bowing as one at her arrival. Rael nodded acknowledgment, then headed straight to the bench to lie down.

“Remember, Mystic One. Use caution. A second effort may be safer than spending too much—”

“I know, Copelup,” she said, closing her eyes as she laid down, fired with impatience.

And anticipation. What Rael had seen and experienced last time had been frightening, to be sure, but exhilarating at the same time. Now that she knew to avoid the bolts shooting out from Drapskii, Rael was confident she could protect herself. And Sira.

She was wrong. She knew it the moment she opened her other sense and saw Drapskii waiting for her, its lightning arms grabbing her even as she tried to flee.

The M'hir itself became quicksand, trapping her perceptions of time and space, slowing her reactions. Rael felt the draining as Drapskii stole from her, hardly able to understand what was happening.

The draining extended through her, following a scent, clawing along a link.

Suddenly her Chosen was
here,
confused but determined, answering instinct as well as her panicked summons. In turn, Rael fought to reach him, to protect him. They merged. Rael smelled fresh soil and flowers, knew the sun was warm, even as she accepted the power Janac gave her without question and used it to pull free of Drapskii's arms and...

... for an endless moment she hung suspended in the M'hir, one with her Chosen, feeling his wanting, knowing her own...

Rael nodded thanks in one space, eyes closed, mute. Her lips formed a name as her mind lingered in that other space, reluctant to leave their Joining.

Words formed in her thoughts, warm with concern:
Are you all right? What was that?

Janac.
More than identification. Rael couldn't help but send her need along their link, sharing her emptiness and feeling his in return. They'd met once, in the Joining Chamber, yet he lived in her dreams. Was it love? She found she didn't care, knowing only that what they had was no longer enough. Barac, unChosen and
sud,
had been right.

Janac's sending became urgent, hopeful, almost desperate:
Has the Council finally given their consent?

Do you want me to come to you?
she asked her Chosen.

Always.
Incoherence. Then, with a cold dash of rational thought:
The Council, Rael. Unless we have their permission, we can't
—

Life-changing moments have their clarity, Rael discovered, seeing everything she'd done, everything she believed, coming into focus.
We are Joined, Janac di Paniccia. We are meant to fulfill that destiny, to be one, not be bred at the whim of others. I've no longer patience for the Clan or the Council. This is our life, not theirs.

Rael
... a surge of wonder, of sudden determination that matched her own.
I'll be waiting, my Chosen.

She hadn't expected the extent of his joy. It curved her lips and she sent, softly:
Soon
.

“Mystic One! Mystic One!”

Rael opened her eyes and peered at the ring of Skeptics, wondering which was Copelup. “I couldn't do anything—” she began.

“You must have,” one said. “The readings are incredible. Drapskii is rousing—we can all feel it. You've beaten the Heerii!”

A little too late, Rael realized she'd never asked what would happen once Drapskii was reconnected to the M'hir.

It seemed she was in the right place to find out.

I
T seemed the Rugherans, strange and otherworldly though they might be, still required a place of their own. And I was invited.

The Heerii had finished
gripstsa.
It had taken a full hour—an observation I might have found interesting, under other circumstances. During that time, I'd wandered around the ship, seeing if I could find any way to help myself, signal Morgan, or cause trouble. Everywhere I went, I found pairs of
gripstsa-
enraptured Drapsk. I was tempted to play a practical joke or two—Morgan had taught me a few—but it seemed too important an occasion.

I'd become thoroughly lost, of course. Drapsk design tended to organic curves, including their ceilings, which bulged downward, and their rooms, which bulged outward from the corridors. There weren't features to be counted or used as a guide—that I could detect, that is. For all I knew, there were signs and scent trails throughout the place. I'd hoped, after this hour of walking, to at least find myself back at the bridge or in the cargo hold, being tired enough to look forward to lying down.

Instead, when the Drapsk remembered they were crew on a starship, I was somewhere down in the crew's quarters, investigating what I thought might be the Drapsk version of hammocks—little bags with holes that might fit antennae, suspended in rows from the ceiling. I'd have been more certain had there been any little bodies in the bags. There were hundreds—

“Mystic One?”

I jumped, having grown accustomed to ignoring any Drapsk in my vicinity. “Hello,” I said inanely, looking down at the now-attentive creature. “Is this the crew's quarters?”

A politely subdued hoot. “No, Mystic One. This is the escape craft.”

I looked back down the long hall, reinterpreting the little bags as crash protection, the curved walls as the inner surface of a pod's hull. “Oh. Have you ever used it?”

“To my knowledge, Mystic One, there has never been a need for a Tribe to evacuate their ship. But it's important to be prepared for any eventuality.”

“True enough.” I tried to imagine what it would be like in here, with four hundred and fifty Drapsk hanging in their bags from the ceiling, and shook my head. Were they bagged because of that tendency of Drapsk to roll when stressed? Some things, I decided, were better left unknown by aliens.

“Would you show me back to the bridge, please?” I asked.

“Are you sure? We are about to land. You would be more comfortable in your own quarters.”

“Land—where?”

A tentacle popped in, and the Drapsk chewed vigorously. Perhaps, so soon after
gripstsa,
they needed to ponder their new roles. It didn't bode well for the species in an emergency. Yet they obviously succeeded. “The Rugherans have a name for their planet,” the little being informed me at last. “But I can't imagine how to say it in Comspeak. You could call it—” he thought some more, “—‘White.'” He took my hand and tugged me in a direction I presumed led to the cargo hold.

I went along with this remarkably informative Drapsk. “Is it?” I asked.

“Is it what?”

“White?”

He gave another hoot, rather cheerful for a Drapsk whose new role apparently involved being stuck down in the escape craft. “It's much like Drapskii, Mystic One. The Rugherans use terms equivalent to ‘White,' or ‘Fixed,' when they refer to this—” he slapped his palm against one wall. “They call the Scented Way: ‘Normal.'” A series of hoots. “So we call their world ‘White.'”

“Makes sense,” I murmured.

“Maybe to them. We won't stay long—you'll see. It's not a good place for Drapsk.”

 

The crewmember had said no more than the truth. The
Heerama'
s landing on White signaled a flurry of activity, all intended to get me off their ship as quickly as possible and their ship off White. Within minutes of the ship's arrival—despite vigorous protests and heeldragging—I was hustled out the main port and down its ramp, clutching my keffle-flute and wearing my hated collar.

With nothing else besides the clothes on my back, not even shoes.

“Captain Heeroki!” I shouted, knowing he had to be among the many Drapsk who'd pushed me down the corridor to the airlock. “You can't leave me like this.”

One Drapsk shouted back: “I would move as far from the ship as you can, Mystic One. There will be danger from the
Heerama's
engines.”

I was tempted to stay right where I was, but there was something about their air of haste that convinced me the Drapsk wouldn't hesitate to take off even if they fried me. I didn't have to go far, at least. Their state-of-the-art freighter employed an antigrav thrust to push herself upward before ignition of the main engine—technology that allowed the Drapsk to come and go without damaging the landscape on worlds lacking docking tugs.