To Trade the Stars (45 page)

“Make him stop!” I shouted.

From not understanding one another, it seemed we'd leaped to a little too much comprehension. “Stop,” I begged, part of me beginning to echo the song, straining to enter the M'hir, to answer the seduction. “It will kill me!”

My tree shuddered. I grabbed hold and looked down, horrified to see arms, trailing drips of fluorescence, wrapping around its base. As I stared, they began to pull.

“Pull or push?”

Morgan, wedged half inside the Fox's translight drive, grunted something rude. He'd had other words when the Fox had plunged into normal space, malfunction alarms screaming and every console flaring red. “Pass me that spanner,” he called out, stretching his hand out for the tool. Symon supplied it. “Thanks. I'd prefer a push from this engine,” he replied grimly.

“How's it looking?”

“I won't know until... Wait. I don't believe this.” Morgan fell silent, staring at what used to be the sequencer—the critical unit responsible for keeping all of the
Fox
within the null-zone during translight, not just the engine. The remnants of wire and plas showed how something else had been wrapped around it, something that had effectively chewed its way through an irreplaceable part.

The perfect way to stop the
Fox
without harming her crew. Morgan shoved his way back out, tossing the useless spanner into the box, and got to his feet.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“The Drapsk.” Morgan kept his face expressionless, but his voice shook with fury. “The Fox was in for repairs at Kimmcle when the Heerii showed up and oh-so-helpfully took over the drydock. Now I know why. Sequencer's fried.” He made a quick gesture of negation with one hand. “All I can do is get on the com and see who can meet us here fastest. Bowman might be ready to lift.”

“Bowman.” Ren Symon's jaw worked, tightened. “I imagine the Enforcers will be interested to find me here.” He spoke mildly enough.

“There's no need for them to know,” Morgan replied. Blue eyes met brown, the blue determined. “It would just complicate things. I have to get to Sira.”

Symon looked as though he wanted to argue, but settled for waving Morgan ahead. “Then go.

 

“The
Conciliator'
s on her way.” Morgan announced, joining Symon in the galley. “Now we wait.” He sat, trying to look at ease, but his every muscle was as taut as a bowstring.

The older Human raised one scarred brow: “Bowman launched just like that?”

“She was already enroute,” Morgan said, taking the cup Symon offered and staring into it. “The Captain of the
Makmora
—that's Makii Drapsk—told her where we were going. A planet called White. The Rugheran homeworld.” As he spoke, Morgan remembered that black glistening shape filling the corridor, his apprehension, and Sira's fear.

“How? We didn't even know and we've been following a tracker.”

“The Heerii knew. They've been happily sending the information to every Drapsk, along with instructions to head for home. Something monumental is to happen on their planet—soon. And Sira is at the heart of it. The Heerii claim she'll be unharmed, but they've left her there—on that planet—with the Rugherans.” Morgan couldn't stop his hand from crushing the cup, spilling hot liquid over the table. He
pushed
the mess into the recycler.

“How did you—” Symon stared at the space where the cup had been, looking amazed then thoughtful. “Jason—you have their ability to move through space?”

“No,” Morgan said with deceptive calm. “I can do tricks.” He looked at the half-filled cup in front of Symon, then
pushed
it into the M'hir.

Before Symon could do more than gasp, the cup reappeared, exactly where it had been. The other Human touched it with one finger, then picked it up and drank.

“See?” Morgan sneered. “Useless.” He slammed his fist down on the table.

His companion frowned. “It seems useful to me.”

“Does it? It can't take me to Sira. It can't bring her to me. It can't even fix the damn ship—” Morgan stopped midsentence, the strangest look on his face. “Pull or push.”

“Pardon?”

“You said it. We need a way to move the Fox.” Morgan made himself examine the idea from all sides, carefully but quickly. Time was not on their side—not with the Drapsk fleeing for Drapskii and whatever they intended for Sira. He made up his mind. “I want you to get off the ship. Take one of the life pods, Ren.” he stated, getting to his feet, already gathering his Power.

Symon stood as well, close enough Morgan had to look up to meet his eyes. They were both still covered in medplas and bruises—their faces mirror images of yesterday's battle. “And I want you to tell me what's going on in that head of yours. Or should I look for myself?” only half-joking.

Morgan took a deep breath. “Size isn't what matters, not to ‘porting something through the M'hir. The cup, the Fox. It's all the same. As long as I can know an object, keep my mind focused on it, I can move it.”

“You aren't seriously—”

“Yes. You saw for yourself—the tracker signal has settled into an orbit. Sira must be on the Rugheran planet. It isn't far—not through the M'hir, not by what I've seen Sira accomplish. Distance there is all about subjective time. It takes Power to hold your mind together for long—that's the risk. But I have my Power—I have hers, too.” Morgan seemed to be talking to himself as much as to Symon. “If I know where I'm going—if I have the strength? It's possible, Ren. I feel it.”

“Why the hurry, Jason?” Symon objected. His big hands took Morgan's shoulders. “From what you've told me—from what I know—the Drapsk would never harm Sira. Why not wait for Bowman?”

Morgan hesitated, unsure how much the other Human would understand. “I can't wait. I know Sira's in danger. It isn't something I'm sensing through our link—what's left of it. It isn't a premonition or anything I've been told. But I know it, Ren, as surely as I know I can't abandon her.” His eyes darkened. “I will get to Sira or die trying.”

Symon gazed down at him for a moment, then said simply: “Then we'd better not stand here talking about it. And don't ask me to leave, Jason. Because I won't abandon you, either.”

 

Morgan knew there was nothing in Sira's teaching or shared memories to help him. The Clan had apparently never considered moving their surroundings as well as themselves—perhaps another aspect of their disdain for technology. For all his confident words to Symon, he'd never moved anything larger than a pallet in the hold. He did have what Sira called a Talent for discrimination—an ability to
know
an object once seen, to identify it with his inner sense. It had been of great service in removing certain items, such as boots from slender feet.

Morgan
knew
his ship; that wasn't a problem. But he didn't know how much Power he had on his own in the M'hir, without his full link to Sira. And he didn't
know
where she was yet.

“A heart-search?” Symon repeated curiously. They'd gone to the bridge for no other reason than Morgan felt more confident there. Now, they each sat in an upcurled couch—Morgan in Sira's, Ren Symon in his—and prepared to do what had never been done before. It was, Morgan decided, either a stroke of genius or something neither he, Symon, nor Sira would survive. But he hadn't exaggerated. His fear for her was turning his blood cold, as if he shared something with her on another level than thought or Joining.

“I need to know where to ‘port the ship,” Morgan explained. “I can't visualize where Sira is—I've never been to White, and there's nothing in the ship's database. So I have to try and use Sira herself as the locate.” He paused. “You're sure you don't want to take your chances in the pod?”

“And explain my reformation from evil to Bowman by myself? I'd rather have you scatter my molecules.”

The tone was light, the meaning anything but. Morgan looked at Symon. “You could insist on a deep scan... truth drugs, if necessary. Bowman's hard but she's fair, Ren—”

“Don't, Jason,” Symon said gently, his face weary yet peaceful. “I was a Healer before I was a psychopath. I know exactly what's on the plate for me. I deserve all of it and more. I'm grateful,” he said, reaching across the distance between them to grip Morgan's arm, hard, then release it. “You made it possible for me to come out the other side, my friend, which includes facing what I've done. Let me worry about how I atone for it.”

“Ren—” the words Morgan wanted to say seemed to bottle up inside him.

The older Human smiled. “Find your Sira. We'll talk later.”

Morgan nodded, once. Heart-search. The technique to identify and locate another mind that could only be performed by those who knew each other emotionally as well as mentally. Soul-deep, Sira had called it. Morgan closed his eyes; forming the image of Sira was as easy as that. He poured Power into the memory of her smile, the feel of her hair against his throat, her scent, the sound of her voice, and felt the heart-search snap away from him to splash against a prickly, unyielding surface.

But she was inside. Good enough. Before he could lose it, he focused on that surface.
Here!

Holding that place in his mind, uncaring if this feeling was enough of a locate for a ‘port or if he was sending them all to die in the M'hir, Morgan concentrated on the
Silver Fox
and
pushed
...

This wasn't like walking on a beach. Surf crashed over his head, as though a tidal wave roared through the M'hir and tried to crush him. Morgan held his breath, fearing to drown. His image of Sira, his hold on the
Fox
were like strokes pulling him through the flood, powerful at first.

Yet each came harder than the one before, as if each stroke weakened him. Before he could falter, Morgan sought outward, tapping into the warm strangeness that marked the Power he now owned in this place. It responded, exploding through him, lifting him through the wave. Almost . . . almost...

The infusion of strength was gone. Morgan refused to give up, even as he felt his lungs screaming for air, felt his own life ebbing away . . . just a bit more . . . despair, as he knew he was sinking, his holds slipping away . . . Sira ...

A second flare of energy struck him, painful and raw, as if he burned inside. Morgan didn't question its source. He added it to his own and
pushed
harder . . .

... opening his eyes to find himself in the copilot's seat, the lights on the consoles blinking with the most peculiar normality, as though the
Silver Fox
journeyed through the M'hir every day. He rolled his head to one side. Symon was gone.

Morgan tried to get up, and found his hand trapped in a tight grip. Shocked, he looked down even as the other's fingers loosened and fell away. “Ren?”

Symon was lying on the floor, head thrown back, eyes half-closed and leaking tears of blood. His breathing was ragged and caught as Morgan dropped to his knees beside him. Then another breath and, “Are we there yet?”

Mogan glanced up at the panel. The tracker signal was steady and green. He sagged with relief. “We made it,” he said unsteadily. “What were you thinking, Ren?”

“So that was the M'hir, huh?” Symon's eyes opened a little more, red and swollen as if burst from inside. Sightless. “Can't say I was impressed—ʺ he coughed.

“What did you do?” Morgan demanded, his voice hoarse. “Why?”

“Why? Owed you. Owed Sira. And you know what I did, Jason, better than anyone else. It's what I did—to others. Seemed only fair to try it on myself, don't you think?”

With a sick certainty, Morgan did know. Symon had enjoyed killing this way, draining every particle of mental energy from a being, stealing what sustained life itself. The final energy that had brought them through the M'hir had been the theft of his own.

This was the price.

He held his hands above Symon, trying to summon some remnant of his Power, then clenched his fingers into fists when nothing happened. “Hang on, Ren—ʺ Morgan pleaded desperately. ”Hang on, Ren. I'll get my strength back. I can help you—ʺ

“You've already done everything I needed. Jason. Jason.” Ren's voice faded. His head turned from side to side as though searching for Morgan's face.

Morgan rested his fingers on Symon's forehead, doing his utmost to will away the pain, unable to do anything about his own grief. “I'm here.”

Stronger. “We did it, didn't we? Showed those Clan.”

ʺYes. But . . .ʺ

“We showed them—but that has to be the end of it, Jason. You can't do it again. You can't tell anyone. Promise me. Any—” Symon coughed and spat blood, clearing his voice. “We both know what people will do to get what they want, Jason. This? Gods, if this gets out?” Another cough, the voice quieter, more strained. Morgan leaned closer. ”Are you willing to trade the stars—your freedom and hers—for some hole in the ground? Because that's what it will take to hide from them. You promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Go. Save your Sira. Make this worthwhile.”

“I will—”

“Go.” Symon went so still Morgan reached for a pulse. He found it, then lost it just as words formed in Morgan's mind, ghostly faint, the voice as familiar as his own: