To Trade the Stars (10 page)

 

“Aren't you going to ask?

I'd felt Morgan wake. He'd been uncharacteristically silent to my other sense, having breakfast alone, spending some time in the control room—presumably making a call to the pilot of the
Conciliator
to arrange our mutual uncoupling. I didn't eavesdrop. But I kept close enough to his glow in the M'hir to know when he approached the cargo hold, and to his emotions to be unsurprised by the gruffness of the question.

So I smiled as I looked up from the cargo inventory, marking my place on the list with one finger. “Good morning. Ask what?”

Morgan's blue eyes were bruised this morning, almost purple. I could have eased that lingering weariness with a touch of Power, but knew the Human preferred to recover in his own way and “not waste my strength.” Irrational, as I had plenty to spare, but I didn't argue. Besides, I grinned to myself, this time he deserved it. Sneaking away on me!

He felt my amusement and looked vaguely offended, then suspicious. I kept my inner and outer self as calm as possible. “Ask what?” I repeated. “It's not as if I haven't done this before.” “This,” being a search through our scant inventory to locate anything worth trading at Plexis. There hadn't been a formal announcement, captain to crew, that we would be heading for the station. There didn't need to be. I knew Morgan wouldn't forget the
Rugheran
homeworld—but it could wait. Huido could not. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or more unnerved, but settled for ignoring my inner voice.

“I left the
Fox
last night. You know that.” As this wasn't a question, I waited courteously for him to continue. Morgan frowned, then snapped: “Aren't you going to ask why?”

Again, I had to smile. I leaned back in my chair and looked up at him. “If you so desperately want to talk about your wanderings, my love, I'm happy to listen,” I assured him.

His frown faded, slowly replaced by a look of pure chagrin. “I do, don't I,” Morgan admitted, warmth suddenly running between us. He drew a finger along my cheek. “Terk walked me to the air lock after our little lunch with his boss,” he began more easily. “He called in a favor. It turns out Bowman's ‘operative' was a friend. Their med-techs couldn't help her. He thought we could—but had no luck talking Bowman into it. She didn't want anyone else learning what might be in the operative's memory.”

“Anyone else being me,” I suggested.

Morgan gave a tired smile and slouched against the nearest crate, testing the webbing with an idle hand as he spoke. “Wouldn't be surprised. Bowman would like to trust us both—as far as she trusts anyone—but it's not in her nature.” More seriously. “I didn't think you'd approve of my getting involved.”

I raised a brow. “You have Talent. It must be used to hone it to its utmost. Why wouldn't I approve?”

He looked adorably uncomfortable.
You were so afraid
,
yesterday
.

“Oh. That.” My turn to flush, remembering my flamboyant and totally unnecessary ‘port to his rescue. I turned my attention to the list, marking another possibility: a crate of Brillian brandy—an acceptable year, but not outstanding. It might cover our first day's docking fee. Plexis wasn't cheap. “So,” I asked the list, “you thought it would give me more courage to know you'd act on your own any time I might disagree about the risk. Is this Human logic?” With the question, I looked back up at him and added gently. “Because I don't understand.”

Morgan shook his head, not at me, I thought, but at himself. “Put that way, my dear Witchling, it doesn't appear to make any sense,” he admitted, a wry note to his voice, then gave a bow. “I stand corrected.”

I made a noncommittal noise in my throat, but accepted what was an apology and hoped it was a promise. “How is Terk's friend?”

His blue eyes gleamed. “Back to normal as far as I can tell. Whoever tampered with her—Kareen—performed a deep scan and then blocked her memory of it. If done properly, no one might have even known about it, but the block was too massive. She became comatose—which alerted Bowman to the unpleasant fact her expensive technology is no longer the protection it was. I pried off the block.” I smiled at this remarkably mundane description of a process that would have taken time, skill, and a substantial amount of strength. “Unfortunately, as far as Kareen is concerned, she lost consciousness eight standard days ago and doesn't remember her attacker at all.”

“Clan?” I asked. For all I'd said to Bowman, it was at least possible one of my more xenophobic cousins had taken it upon themselves to do some reciprocal spying.

“Too clumsy. And wrong—” He fumbled for a word, then shrugged. “Wrong grist, as Huido would say. I'd lay a bet on Human. Terk couldn't tell me who or what Kareen had been investigating for Bowman, but we both know she keeps tabs on quite a few who'd prefer not to be watched. It could have been Ren Symon. He knows a few—tricks. This is within his style.” Morgan's voice was too casual.

Symon. A name I'd naively hoped Morgan never would hear again. Our other enemy, my father, had faced me in Challenge and lost. As was his right, Jarad di Sarc had preferred exile to living among Clan with that shame. The Clan way. I'd known better than to expect Symon to behave as conveniently. Humans were less—predictable.

I didn't share Morgan's Talent to sense impending danger or change as a taste in the M'hir. That he didn't mention such a sensation wasn't completely reassuring, given such warnings usually arrived in time to dodge a blast, not prepare for one. “Know this,” I told him, and sent everything I'd learned from Tie, as well as my own guesses.

Morgan couldn't help his Human reaction, an instinctive mix of anger and repugnance at the idea of not only separating children from their mothers for profit, but using pirate ships to do so. To his credit as a Master Trader, well used to alien ways, he tried to keep that reaction to himself. “Are you going to tell Bowman?”

“This is Clan business,” I countered. “Not Trade Pact.”

My Human nodded slowly, but I could feel him thinking. “She'll know,” he decided, “or will find out, where those other six ships went. A trade for that information could be worthwhile.”

I tightened my shields to contain my instinctive disagreement. Every so often, my Clan heritage reared, throwing up its barrier of distrust for anyone or anything alien. I'd learned to be as wary of making decisions based on that part of me as I was of making them solely as Sira Morgan. “Risky—exposing so much of us,” I temporized. “You know perfectly well Humans would have—difficulty—with this aspect of the Clan. You do.”

“No need to reveal secrets, my Lady Witch.” Morgan's smile was pure mischief. “I believe we've already supplied our half of the trade. Shall I pay my good friend Russ another visit before we leave?”

A Master Trader indeed. I could almost feel sorry for the other Human.

“A terrible waste, Hom Huido. I feel sorry for him, you know. Such a terrible waste—”

The Carasian bent a second eye at Ansel. The two were sharing breakfast in the private dining area of the
Claws & Jaws
while going over accounts and orders, not because this was the most ornately—and expensively—decorated part of the restaurant, but because Huido liked the view. Through the shimmer of a one-way force shield, he could keep several eyes on the rest of the dining area, presently empty. “That fish-faced excretion?” he boomed incredulously. “He probably goaded the transport servo into running over him. I, for one, don't mourn him in the slightest.”

Ansel shook his head sadly. “‘Any Sentient's Loss Diminishes Us.'”

Huido rumbled something but didn't bother countering the Human's belief—little as he shared it concerning the Neblokan. Like many of his staff, Ansel had begun attending services at the Turrned Mission on this sublevel, predominantly a wholesalers' district, but one-third spinward being restaurants and other, less enlightened entertainments. The Turrned faith offered the freedom to worship the deity of your choice complete with lunch, as long as you accepted their remarkably expanded definition of intelligent life. Huido had had to insist his staff stop apologizing to the fresh prawlies before tossing them into the pot, as it not only disturbed any customer who happened by, but slowed the cooking process considerably. Otherwise he had no problem with the Turrned religion, even quietly arranging the delivery of excess food and the occasional bottle of wine to the delighted missionaries.

But the Carasian refused to lament the death of his former chef, killed the previous night by a malfunctioning transport. Loss of sentience? Poetic justice, more likely. A boon to the galaxy, even more so.

Ansel wisely changed the subject: “Ruti seems a most satisfactory replacement, Hom Huido. I must confess, her abilities came as quite a surprise. Ah . . .” His voice, faint at the best of times, faded away completely.

Three more eyes joined the two already watching the Human's face. The rest remained fixed on a heaping bowl of cooked grain, half afloat in Feenstra's Patented Hot Sauce—Huido preferring to start his day with something robust. With beer. “Ah?” he prompted, knowing this sudden quiet was Ansel's way of introducing a topic likely to promote considerable noise from his employer.

“The inspectors, Hom Huido.”

“What about them?” this around a clawful of soaked grain.

“Plexis will eventually ask to see Ruti's Trade Pact Certification. The rules are quite strict these days about who can prepare food for a mixed clientele—that unfortunate incident in the Exalted Goddess Tea-room with those poor Skenkrans always comes up. She does have certification, does she not?”

“Not.”

“Ah.”

A huge handling claw raised and snapped in the air, a challenge as well as a summons for more beer. “I'm sure you'll be able to take care of that—minor—detail before the next inspection, Ansel.” Four more eyes swiveled to study the Human's rather ashen face. “As always, I have every faith in your abilities. The certificate's just a piece of plas.”

“Just a piece of—”

A pitcher of beer smashing on the floor stopped Ansel's weak protest and caused a horrified realignment of all of Huido's eyestalks. “What do you think you're doing?” the Carasian roared.

“But—but—Horn Huido! How did you get here?” The server, a usually docile Vilix, seemed oblivious to the mess at her feet, almost babbling through the flailing cilia that bearded her lower face. “I left you in the kitchen!” she exclaimed, then collapsed on the floor, wagging her fingers in disbelief.

Huido flicked his upper handling claw once, deliberately, sending bits of grain flying like the first warning flakes of snow from an avalanche. Then he rose slowly, plate sliding over plate with a warning hiss.

The doorway to the kitchen suddenly filled with Huido's mirror image: a huge, gleaming black shape, massive claws held up and out, eyestalks erect, rapier-thin fangs protruding in clear threat.

Ansel grabbed the Vilix's arm and yanked her to safety as the two Carasians exploded into motion, splintering the table between them as they collided. A deep bell-like sound rang from their armor on impact, its echoes lost in the deafening clatter as claws fought for a killing hold.

“It's better if family calls first,” Ansel half-shouted to the now-cowering Vilix, her eyes hidden behind a wall of cilia. “These surprise visits never turn out well.”

M
ORGAN'S final visit to the
Conciliator
was every bit as profitable as we'd hoped, at least in terms of his private conversation with Terk. I reserved my opinion concerning my Human's blithe reassurance that Bowman was done with us.
“The Arakuad, Dashing Boy, Maren's Melody, Silcil 48, Steve's First Pick, Trouder 3, and Uriel's Enchantment,”
Morgan recited from memory. “Don't let the names fool you, Sira. These ships belong to the scum of the quadrant—known pirates or pirate wannabes. If it wasn't the Clan dealing with them, I'd say they'd just asked for mass kidnappings.”

I snorted. “All they needed were captains who'd dealt with Yihtor in the past.” The founder and former ruler of Acranam had had his own ways of ensuring compliance, a seemingly quite effective combination of profit and punishment. “Do the Enforcers know where each ship went?”

Morgan shook his head. “Not all. The
Arakuad
and ‘
Boy
slipped Bowman's net. The Scat won't be hard to pick up again, but Bennefeld captains the
‘Boy
—she's smart and tough. If she wants to keep out of sight, she will.”

“Then the Council will have to find those fosterlings. The others?”

“The
‘Melody
went to Veres Prime—presumably to deliver the child Tie claimed was found there. The rest? You aren't going to like this.” My Human obviously didn't, given the sound of his voice. “The
Silicil 48
and
Troudor
3 stuck together—as you'd expect; Ordnexian ships travel in pairs—and went straight to Ettler's Planet.” He hesitated. “Do you think it was because of the Rugherans?”

I shook my head at his worried expression. “You're interested in the Rugherans, because you are so Humanly curious,” I reminded him. Other words came to mind, but I kept them private. “The Acranam Clan wouldn't be interested in aliens, especially any they can't manipulate.”
Not to mention how they'd react to a Rugheran in the flesh,
I sent, feeling Morgan's relieved amusement. “Ettler's is no more or less than the closest Human system,” I continued aloud. “A practical choice—those fosterlings are likely suds. Where did the others go?”