To Trade the Stars (43 page)

I lifted my flute case in mock salute to the Heerii, then turned and began jogging away.

So this was White. I hadn't known what to expect from the Rugheran homeworld, so I wasn't surprised to find it an ordinary-enough place. Breathable air, which I'd assumed given the beings had been on Drapskii and in both the
Fox
and
Heerama.

And on Plexis, I thought, remembering that weight on my back. It could have been a Rugheran's arm.

No buildings or any structures in sight, which wasn't far—the horizon was obscured and everything closer was gray or black. Twilight, though the clouds overhead might be cutting the sunlight or White could orbit a dimmer sun than I'd ever experienced.

The Drapsk could have left me a light, I grumbled to myself. I added shoes to my list of Drapsk-neglect, finding the ground slippery-soft and chill. The air supported a rising mist, fingers of it stroking what might be trees, if I took the lack of leaves as temporary. Otherwise, the landscape was flat and featureless—presumably why the Drapsk chose this otherwise desolate and empty place for their landing.

As if the thought had triggered their launch, there was a shock of sound as the
Heerama
took off behind me. I dropped to the ground, instinctively digging my fingers into what felt like slick mud laced with tough fibrous roots.

Or, I thought, keeping very, very still, what felt like a Rugheran.

At that moment, when I was reasonably convinced things couldn't get worse, an appallingly strong something
pulled
my mind into the M'hir before I could resist...

... The Singer. More powerful, more potent than ever before. Chords vibrated through me... silent trills raced up and down my spine, seeking places where my body answered to such music even as my mind struggled to break free... I imagined a discordance,
played
it in my thoughts with all the power in me and...

... found myself panting and cold, my face pressed against something that glistened like tiny scales in the retreating light of the
Heerama's
engines. I lifted my head up, slowly, and looked around—taking advantage of that brightness. Nothing but glistening dark mounds surrounded by fibrous roots, as far as I could see—even where the Drapsks' starship had landed and launched.

This was not going well at all.

Things had gone well. Precisely for that reason, Barac was up at the crack of dawn—an hour his body normally found obscene, but it hadn't yet adjusted to local time—so he could survey their surroundings through a pair of mags.

The mags were just a sample of what was in the cupboards and bins below. Morgan had equipped his hole in the ground for a full siege, the Clansman thought, gazing at the magnified image of sand, more sand, and more sand after that. There was food and water—and beer—for months. Not to mention a selection of weaponry that had Huido's stamp all over it. Barac had had no idea Sira's Human possessed such thorough paranoia. It was quite refreshing.

It wasn't quite a hole. There were several of these black, has-been mountains, a chain that forced the dunes to curve around them—for now. Barac stood with one foot propped against an upcropping like a shattered tooth; below, huge, steplike terraces led down to the yellow sand. Behind him was another upcropping. Behind that? Well, Barac thought cheerfully, that was where someone had shown pure ingenuity. Or insanity. Whatever it took to tunnel out a good-sized home in this wilderness, complete with indoor shelter for two aircars.

Or one oversized Drapsk aircar, Barac chuckled to himself, able to laugh about it now. Yesterday, he thought he was going to have to bury the brute in the sand. But somehow, he and Ruti had squeezed it through the doors.

Ruti. Barac let out the finest of seeking thoughts—she objected fearfully to any use of their Power—and withdrew it once he touched her sleeping mind. Good. She needed the rest. He'd seen what she'd been through—far more than anyone so young and inexperienced should have to face alone. How could Acranam have possibly imagined its children could survive, tossed into the galaxy like that? Clan arrogance.

Amazing, really, how well Ruti had coped around aliens without training. Probably would make a fine First Scout, if Acranam was ever willing to look beyond its own orbit. Of course, the continued existence of scouts was something of a touchy issue, now that the Clan was a full-fledged member of the Trade Pact and was thus expected to stop influencing those weaker-minded for their own gain. Ah, the good old days.

Barac looked at the rising sun, noticing an odd line of yellow blurring the horizon. Clouds perhaps. If it was a storm, he'd rather not try his minimal flying skills in it. The two of them were here for a while longer, anyway. He pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck. There'd been clothing, Morgan's size and Sira's, to which he and Ruti had gratefully helped themselves. Now to wait for Morgan, who would be coming for them once Symon was no longer a nuisance. Hopefully soon. That was the plan.

Barac found himself uneasy. Everything was going unusually well. In his experience, that wasn't a good sign.

 

Ruti buried her head under the sheets, unwilling to admit to being awake. The kitchen smells hadn't penetrated her room yet anyway. Kitchen? The events of the past days came back in a rush. She opened her eyes to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling, carved from black stone, a tiny portlight still obediently glowing in the upper corner where Barac had set it. In case, he'd said, she awoke in the night.

People who had been awake yesterday morning were dead today.

Barac had talked to her last night about those who'd died: the Humans he'd killed, as well as the life she'd ended. Not too much, but enough to reassure Ruti that what she felt was normal and right. Death wasn't to be taken lightly, even that of enemies. But she ached inside about Ansel. Automatically, Ruti reached for the comfort of her mother.

She stifled a yawn and tried to relax. This had happened before. She reached again, really trying this time, confident of success.

It had to be all this rock overhead. Ruti shrugged away her concern and climbed out of the bed, giving a little gasp of surprise as her toes found the cold stone floor instead of the rug nearby.

She liked knowing this was Morgan's house. His strength was here, in the stone and design; something of his kindness, too, in the soft blankets and well-stocked kitchen. There were vids and readers. Barac had told her there were other supplies—this was a fortress as well as a retreat—but Ruti did her best to forget all that.

It was easy here. Outside, the desert was quiet, except for a faint, steady susurration as the ever-present breeze rolled sand grains up the dunes to tumble down the leading edges. And she'd never seen a sky stretched overhead like a bowl in three directions, so full of stars you could almost see the yellow of the sand by their light. Inside? There were the paintings, above all else.

Ruti had never seen a home like this, where every surface had been used for art. Barac had said Morgan painted his ship as well, the
Silver Fox.
Some rooms were landscapes; others like being inside a burrow; most glowed with plant life. This was, Ruti decided, like being on a well-deserved holiday.

She couldn't fault her companion either, with the exception of his presumption in so abruptly scanning her thoughts in the aircar. They hadn't compared their Powers yet, and she hadn't any time to prepare herself. Her mind must have seemed disorganized and foolish. Still, Barac had apologized. If she were honest, Ruti knew it had been easier than trying to find words.

Otherwise, Barac sud Sarc had proven to be resourceful, understanding, and entertaining. It had been too long since she'd been around other Clan—not that Acranam had many with Barac's practiced charm. Ruti brushed her hair, feeling herself blush. He wouldn't be paying her so much attention if they were on Acranam, where there were older, more worldly Clan to talk to, individuals of Power and poise. Not to mention the Choosers, who always claimed center stage from everyone else.

Unless Council had moved them offworld already, she thought suddenly, trying to calculate the date. It had been the talk of Caraat Town, the new Council dictate to protect the unChosen. As if any of Acranam's Choosers would harm those they'd grown up with—no wonder, Ruti thought, pressing the brush in firmly enough to hurt, First Chosen di Caraat had insisted the fosterlings be sent in secret. How dare the Clan Council send Acranam an ultimatum! Even if Ruti's mother had told her Acranam would obey it, that it meant a wider range of Candidates for their Choosers. For Choice.

Ruti put down the brush, surprised to be a little breathless. She reached for her mother again, but was distracted by the sound of: “Breakfast!”

 

The rest had done her good, Barac thought, studying Ruti's face where it showed beneath the mags. There was some color to her cheeks, a rose-pink under that fine skin. It suited her.

“What do you see?” he asked.

She put down the mags and grinned up at him. “Sand. Huido would hate this place.”

“And would make life miserable for anyone who had to be here with him,” Barac agreed wholeheartedly. “What about that bank of cloud?” He pointed to the eastern horizon. The sun was well up, and blazing hot, but didn't seem to penetrate the ominous line of yellow-gray.

“I think you're right. It's moving toward us. It must be a storm.” She sounded excited. “Will it rain?”

“Here? I doubt it. Probably a sandstorm.” Barac, who preferred weather that behaved, felt a momentary alarm. Then he thought of the shelter behind them and relaxed. “I'm sure Morgan's house can withstand whatever it is.”

Ruti fell silent, staring outward. Barac leaned on the outcropping, wondering what she was thinking. A dark curl of hair blew into her eyes, and he reached absently to brush it behind her tiny ear, his fingers lingering. She didn't move, but glanced sideways through her long lashes, a startled look.

Barac drew his hand away, startled himself. “Maybe we should head inside,” he said quickly. “The wind is picking up already.”

“I'll be right there,” Ruti said. “I want to—I'll be just a minute more.”

The Clansman nodded and left her. He'd walked around the concealing rock and was approaching the door when a surge of Power through the M'hir stopped him in his tracks. As he hesitated, unsure if Ruti meant him to detect it, he felt her sudden despair. Something wasn't right. Barac hurried back.

Ruti was leaning on the rock. Her eyes were troubled as she looked up at him. “Nothing,” she gasped. “I can't reach her.”

Things had indeed gone too well, Barac realized, his mouth drier than the desert air alone explained. “You can't reach your mother,” he said, without any doubt at all, bitterly aware of the irony of his being here, now, instead of anyone else.

“No—I—” her eyes widened until he could drown in them. “What does it mean?”

Barac took a step back and swept her a low, graceful bow. “Congratulations, Ruti di Bowart,” he said bitterly. “You are now a Chooser.”

 

She'd ‘ported to her room in the house. The threat of Symon and more violence was nothing compared to the look on Barac's face when he'd bowed. He hadn't been happy for her. He'd been sad and angry, as if this was all her fault, as if she'd done it on purpose, as if she'd wanted to lose her link to her mother and... and...

And want something to replace it. Must have something to replace it. Ruti stood in the middle of the room and lifted her right hand, suddenly understanding the only reason Barac would have reacted as he had.

He was unChosen.

She threw herself from her room and down the hall that stretched from the living area to the artificial cavern holding the aircar. “Barac!”

Where was he? Not in the kitchen or his room. She ran outside, growing more and more anxious. He wasn't there. But the sandstorm was. Ruti stopped, horrified by the oncoming wall of yellow. Already, the ledge where she stood was being scoured by the sand-heavy wind.

She rushed into the house and down the hall to the cavern. He was there, leaning into the Drapsk aircar, but straightened and turned to face her as she burst through the doorway. Ruti made herself stand still. “You aren't leaving—” she protested.

“How can I stay?” Barac said harshly. The M'hir heaved between them and Ruti winced. He saw and tightened his shields, tried to soften his voice. “Ruti. It won't be long now—you must know that. You must already feel it. I—” his voice lowered, and his eyes seemed burn into hers. “I do.”

“The sandstorm's about to hit—and you don't know how to fly this thing. Not well enough for the wind,” she added, in case the truth offended his pride.

“Ruti—” Her name sounded different from his mouth, as if it had another meaning now.

“Stay, Barac. Please. I won't hurt you. I promise.”

“It's not something you can promise—”

Ruti fought back tears. She wasn't a child anymore; Barac had said so. That didn't make it easier. “You don't need to leave,” she told him. “Don't leave me alone here. Everyone's left me—” she gulped. “I've lost the link before and got it back. How can you be sure I'm a Chooser already? And—even if I am, it might take a few more days. My friend Olea said—” She heard herself babbling and closed her mouth on the words.

Barac sighed and leaned back against the aircar, arms folded, eyes now hooded and inscrutable. “Ruti, do you now know what I am?”

“You're—you're unChosen.” The word left a taste in her mouth, sweet and rich.