A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) (26 page)

Stunned, my face must have revealed everything I needed to hide for there was a menacing triumph in Roraqk’s eyes. Throwing caution aside, I said furiously: “Harm him and we’ll see how long you survive. Spacers stick by their own, Pirate. There’ll be a hundred ships after you.”

Roraqk laughed so hard I felt my heart grow still and cold within me. “But Morgan has-ss lossst the right to ss-such aid—and ss-so have you. Plexisss lissstss your
Fox
as-ss misss-sing. Do you think s-some nassty pirates-ss have attacked her? Delicious-ss!” he chattered, threads of hot, wet spittle lashing across my face. “I couldn’t have done better mysssssself!”

I hated the sound of his voice, hated it with an intensity I hadn’t dreamed I was capable of feeling. My hands shook, and I clenched them together.

“Captain.”

The interruption came from Roraqk’s henchman, Kort. “We have a problem,” he began, then stopped, looking at me.

“Don’t worry about my Kisssue, Kort,” Roraqk said. “We have no ss-secrets-s.”

Kort’s pale eyebrows met in a scowl, but he went on obediently. “I put out the call to get the crew back as you ordered, including the ones sent to look for her. They’ve been detained. Some frat about air tags.”

Beside me, Gistries cursed under her breath, but not quietly enough. Roraqk angled his head to stare at her. “What do you know of this-ss?”

“There were lineups at the tag point coming in just now,” she answered promptly, but cautiously. “Didn’t seem anything unusual.”

“Gsssst,” Roraqk hissed in fury. The pirate’s yellow eyes dilated, their center a dark, speckled orange. His twin frills rose, pulsing with purple and red. “Not as-ss uss-ssual, fool! We have Enforcers-ss on ss-station. One is-ss docked only four racks ss-spinward. Thiss-ss trouble is-ss meant to delay me.” He whipped around, grabbing Kort with one clawed hand as he moved. “Get me Plexis-ss on the com.”

Gistries put some of her tension into a push that sent me flying onto a bench. “Stay there.” She leaned against the bulkhead, dividing her attention between me and the backs of Roraqk and Kort as they worked over the com system.

I sat, outwardly calm, inwardly anything but. There had to be something I could do. Was there some way to make them understand that this wasn’t Sira di Sarc sitting here? That I was Sira Morgan, a person without a past, or enemies? Well, with the exception of a couple of toads on Ret 7.

I agreed with Gistries. I wasn’t worth all this. Unfortunately, Roraqk wasn’t about to let me walk off his ship based on that argument.

The bench was hard, and not quite proportioned to suit humanoids. I eased my hip and Gistries narrowed her eyes at me in warning.

I felt a sudden, desperate longing for the
Fox,
to go home. I wanted Morgan.

Morgan.
In a way, I became deaf, overcome by the power of the thought of him. Abruptly, something tore away from me. I was suddenly light-headed, freed of the litany by some means which part of me almost understood.

What had Morgan’s tampering done to me?

Into the exhausted quiet of my mind, a single word intruded, so gently that at first I didn’t recognize its foreign origin.
Here.
I choked down a startled cry, glancing at Gistries to be sure it hadn’t been noticed. She was looking over at Roraqk, who was hissing something furiously into the com, claws waving as if seeking a target.

Had I actually heard something in my thoughts?

Once more I thought of Morgan, of how I needed him, dropping my head down to better concentrate. Again his name seem to snap away from me.
Morgan.

Sira?
more than a name: an identification at once richer and more complete. My doubts vanished—if not my bewilderment. This time my
Morgan!
was a joyful peal of triumph.

Softly! My head’s sore enough . . . but how?
The slightly annoyed taste to Morgan’s puzzlement was so clear and familiar I sagged with relief. This wasn’t my imagination, then, though what it was would undoubtedly worry me when I’d time for such concerns.
Sira?
fainter—I had to strain to sift it from the background noise of my own thoughts. There was an undercurrent of pain.

Morgan!
In this strange medium, there was no masking my alarmed concern.

Here.
A pause.
Where are you? Hurry . . .

The first image that came into my mind was this bridge. Useless, useless. What else did I have? Yes. I had no difficulty visualizing the protruding jaw, the gray scales and colored frill, the malicious eyes set beneath a hairless knobby brow.

There was an answering surge of black rage—a hate so deep I winced to receive even a fraction of it. And under it all was dread that Morgan couldn’t keep from me. The name formed through the blackness:
Roraqk.
A pause in which I felt nothing and forced myself to wait. Then:
We’re coming. Be no more than they think.

And what am I, Morgan?
I asked silently, suddenly frightened by this incredible conversation.

A rush of warmth, like spring sun on bare skin. It faded, became a wisp, then was gone. Hugging the remnants of that strange comfort, I tried to relax. It was important to have reached Morgan—an admission I made freely to myself without attempting to probe any deeper. As to our nonverbal communication, Morgan would have to explain that one next time we met.

If we met, I forced myself to correct grimly. This was no story tape, with a timely rescue and justice for all.

Chapter 15

I SQUIRMED on the bench; it had been at least an hour since Roraqk had left the control room of the
Torquad,
and even Gistries’ sour stare had lost some of its ability to stop my fidgeting. Boredom could really take the edge off fear.

“I can be worse than him,” Gistries said with an almost conversational lightness. “Don’t think to give me trouble.” She hefted my bag with one hand, keeping the other on her weapon.

Trouble? I looked into her rock-hard eyes and forced a smile out of my dry lips, cracking the bottom one and tasting blood. “I’d rather have something to drink,” I said, careful to keep my voice polite. “And eat.”

Gistries turned and barked out a sentence in their mutual language to Kort. He grunted something over his shoulder, most of his attention on the control panels. Gistries shrugged, then nodded at the open door. “Let’s go.”

I led the way back down the oddly deserted corridor, the taste of ship air enough like the
Fox
to make me melancholy. The
Torquad
must have been considerably larger, however, since we took a center lift to another level. The silence was oppressive—all I could hear was the sound of steady breathing from behind my ear, and the rattle of small buckles being handled by an impatient hand.

Our destination was a door Gistries opened with a slap against the access pad, revealing a good-sized cabin. She entered with me, locking the door before taking a seat with the obvious intention of staying, one leg comfortably draped over an arm of her chair. Her cold, hard eyes remained fixed on me as I walked around.

It was nice enough, if you liked your luxury obvious. My feet sank into lush, deep red carpet, patterned with hints of gold. The walls were paneled in what looked like real wood—though I found that extravagance hard to believe even on a pirate ship. The furnishings, chairs, lounges, desk, and oversized bed, were lavish, too, with carving or inlays on every surface. One door led into a fresher stall the size of the
Fox
’s galley. The other door was beside Gistries, and locked. Since Roraqk was on the other side, that was fine with me.

As a prisoner, I was advancing. The only sour note sat in an overstuffed blue chair, watching every breath I took.

A knock on the door. Gistries snaked to her feet, her hand wrapped around the grip of her bolstered weapon in spite of being on her own ship. What was she expecting?

What arrived, guided by the same sullen Auordian that had admitted us to the air lock, was a servo cart covered with dishes which steamed and bubbled.

He left it in the middle of the room. Gistries waited until the door closed, the lock snicking in place, then went to the cart. She poked at the dishes, finally choosing a bread stick and a slice of some meat before returning to her seat.

I pulled a small chair up to the cart and sat, determined to ignore both my watcher and my fear. At least long enough to eat.

There was a stew in one of the small pots. I lifted the lid and sniffed at its spicy aroma. A memory curled around the edges of the steam. Enora had used this same spice in her tea, the one she brewed for sore throats which didn’t really work but tasted delicious.

Enora?
I sniffed again, wanting to remember anything more. There was a sense of protection, of wishing Enora were here with me now. Then the chill as I realized I had no idea if this Enora was a friend, servant, or mother.

Gistries shifted. I felt her eyes on me. “You’re an odd one,” she said at last, her voice slightly less harsh.

Memories faded. I began eating the stew, soaking bread sticks in the broth to make it a more substantial feast. I’d already learned not to count on my next meal arriving with any regularity. Gistries swung her legs around, sitting so we faced each other across the cart. I could hardly object, but my appetite faded significantly. I made myself eat anyway. She chose a piece of fruit.

“He won’t hurt you, you know,” Gistries said a moment later. I looked up and met her eyes, surprised.

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “Especially when Roraqk looks at me as though I’m next on the menu.”

Gistries’ tight face broke into a myriad of fine wrinkles that was almost a grin. “Just between us—he doesn’t like Human. Says it’s salty.”

I swallowed hard, having really lost my appetite now, trying not to think about how Roraqk might have made that particular culinary discovery.

“Besides,” she went on, mouth full of fruit, “you’re a guaranteed sale, Sira di Sarc.”

“Guaranteed sale to whom?” I asked, concentrating on pouring myself a cup of sombay without spilling the hot liquid.

She looked uneasy, then glanced at me assessingly and shrugged. “There’s this grandee on Acranam—” Gistries stopped at my blank look and said impatiently, “Even Roraqk jumps to someone’s call, you know.” A darkness came and went in her eyes. “Roraqk’s not the only one in the business who jumps to Yihtor’s. This Yihtor’s had a call out for you in particular for years now. You loose should’ve seen Ror—”

Yihtor. Whatever else she said was no more than mumblings. I almost shuddered under the impact of that name and the whirling, chaotic thoughts it triggered in my mind. I felt dread, instant and powerful, but totally unfocused.

Then, a tiny fragment of memory cracked open upon a face, a driven, desperate face.

I fought to hold that merest wisp of a thought. Others . . . I remembered others, faceless, standing with me. Enora had been there, had been angry. The memory whirled away. All that was left was that recollection of a man’s face, pale with fury.

And a name. “Yihtor di Caraat,” I said flatly.

Gistries hadn’t noticed my reaction, being well into the remains of a fluffy sweetpie. “Old stuff, huh,” she said around a mouthful, as if we talked about a mutual friend. “Kind of thing always circles back. I had a—”

A strident alarm shattered our strange truce. Gistries booted the cart away with one foot. It righted itself with a machine complaint, but not before several plates toppled to the carpet. She banged an urgent fist on the door. It opened. She turned to look at me over her shoulder, her weapon already out and ready.

“Be smart, Sira. Pleck will be on guard outside. And there’s vids inside. I’ll be back.”

There was an armed guard posted outside the air lock: a hard-eyed man who scrutinized every passerby in the corridor, living or machine. This was not unusual on Plexis, and none who passed appeared to notice.

Where the corridor ran spinward of the air lock, a set of portlights had failed, throwing a convenient pattern of shadows over the two figures waiting there.

“Well? Is Sira there?” Huido rumbled, having kept silent longer than usual.

Morgan was apparently resting, leaning comfortably against the corridor wall, eyes thoughtful. “I don’t know. And with the Clan around, it’s not worth the risk of using mental touch to find out. But Roraqk’s on board.”

“Bold as a sandbat.” Huido clicked his claws, a small and irritated sound. “You’d think he owned the station.”The alien’s sponge-toed feet tended to stick to the metal floor plates, making him shift to free them every few minutes. “If we’re going to stand out here the rest of the day, I’ll need a drink.”

“Here’s some water.” Morgan passed Huido a canteen. “I don’t plan to be out here much longer.”

 
“I want another ss-shift ss-started,” Roraqk hissed to his lieutenant. “I leave this-ss pessthole tonight! Bowman is-ss breathing down our necks-ss—”

Kort, the only indispensable member of Roraqk’s crew and so the only one impervious to his leader’s rages, looked up from under the panel he was repairing. “The Enforcers are making our contacts here very nervous.”

“Then go and reass-ssure them that angering me sssshould make them even more nervous-ssss.” The pirate ignored Kort’s departing salute, turning to pace the now-empty control room, claws making tiny pricks of sound as they pulled free of the deck mats. He paused to stare out at the darkness beyond the prow of his ship.

“Nothing like crew trouble,” commented a dry voice from behind. Roraqk’s whirl was inhumanly swift, but his drawn pistol remained pointed at the deck when he saw the twin weapons already aimed at his midsection.

Confidently. “How convenient, Morgan of Karolus-ss.”

Morgan’s face was expressionless, but the blue of his eyes shone cold and deadly. “You seem shorthanded, Pirate. And I assure you one of us will fry you before you touch any of those controls.” The almost imperceptible backward movement of Roraqk’s thin hand ceased.