This Gulf of Time and Stars (11 page)

W
HAT
THE . . . ?
Worry became horror as he recognized—
Assemblers
?!

Morgan leaped to his feet and sent with the strength of fear.
Get out, Sira! COME!

Then reeled with the sickening pound of
CHANGE
through his mind, the worst such premonition he'd ever experienced.

He shuddered free. “Sira, why would . . .”

The control room was empty.

Sira wasn't here.

“I am,” he said aloud, seizing on that proof as though drowning. If he lived, she did.

But where was she?

T
HE
TRUNKS TOPPLED OVER
, exposing a crazed mass of hands and feet and other parts—even heads—moving, glinting with metal, some coming together, all aimed at us.

Morgan's warning beating through me, I grabbed my father's arm and concentrated, forming the locate for the
Fox
 . . .

. . .
not there! HERE! HERE!

. . .
I fought him in the M'hir, our Power streaming away like blood . . .

. . . A Watcher stirred. More than one. Their combined voices cut through what I was and wanted . . . WE FORBID . . .

. . . so I fought them, too. Let us pass! KNOW ME!

And
 . . .

P
INCH
ME.

Barac looked at Ruti, suspecting a joke. Sure enough, her eyes shone and she was smiling.
Why?

Humans do it when something's too good to be true. To be sure they're not dreaming.

Ah. Barac gestured apology to their tolerant tablemate, Quessa di Teerac. “My Chosen thinks you're a dream.”

Ruti turned crimson. Quessa smiled and took her hand. “I'm quite real.”

The Clanswoman exuded calm the way another might excitement or tension. Even her white hair held itself in serene loops, emphasizing her long slender neck and dainty head, and her hands, when they moved, caressed the air. Most Clan of Quessa's rank and reputation dressed the part, but she wore a plain and practical travel cloak over a shirt and pants suitable for gardening, its hood draped over her shoulders, and a blue, not gold, air tag rested on her cheekbone, matching theirs.

Appearances could lie; not so Power. After theirs had
explored
one another's in mutual introduction, Barac continued to feel at ease. More than that, he realized. He felt cherished as an integral part of the small life they'd started. A life now protected.

So this was what a Birth Watcher did.

And more. Something
flowed
between Quessa and Ruti. Barac watched his Chosen's embarrassment disappear, her expression soften. “We're very glad you're here. Barac is, too,” she added, smiling at him.

Wasn't it a bit early for their daughter to have an opinion, let alone express it? This, Barac decided, was the sort of question to ask their new Birth Watcher when his beloved was fast asleep.

There was one, however, he must—however awkward. If they were to lose her help, best it be before they'd grown to depend on it. “Do you have accommodations on Plexis, Quessa?”

“She'll stay with us,” Ruti said hastily. “That's right, isn't it?” Her eyes fixed on the older Clanswoman, pleading in their depths.

Barac doubted Bowman had considered a houseguest when programming their voucher stick. “Ruti—”

“What's right is what's best for your baby,” Quessa replied tactfully. “As it happens, I do have a place to stay, a small household my Chosen established in case his services were ever needed on the station. Level 5, as I recall. I've not visited Plexis before, but Cenebar assures me there would be room for you as well.”

“Barac?” Oh, and if he'd thought Ruti's eyes shone before, now they glowed.

Level 5? No night life, no loud music. The stores were filled with unremarkable goods, of better quality than lower levels but of no interest to the wealthy. A blue air tag wouldn't rate a second glance.

He'd be suspicious of such good fortune, if it hadn't come through Sira. Barac began to gesture profound gratitude, only to find himself with a warm lapful of Ruti, her
joy
impossible to resist. “We accept and gladly,” he told Quessa, holding his Chosen tight.

The Birth Watcher smiled. “Wonderful. We can 'port there whenever you're ready.”

“But then you'd miss the
Yipping Prawlies
.” Ruti twisted around, keeping an arm around Barac's neck. “We should stay for those. They're delicious!”

“Then we shall!” By the twinkle in Quessa's eyes, she was pleased to indulge the young mother-to-be.

Winning Barac's heart. Ignoring their audience, for the
Claws & Jaws
was packed as usual, he kissed his Chosen soundly,
happiness
soaring through their link.

“That's what I like to see,” bellowed a familiar voice. Ruti scrambled back to her feet as, with a clatter, the giant Carasian arrived at their table, flower clutched in one great claw. A waiter followed, tray laden with three servings plus a pitcher of beer with what Barac recognized as Huido's favorite glass. Once the table was filled, and Ruti given her flower, the alien settled himself at the end.

Rows of shiny black eyes converging on Quessa. “You have the most magnificent
grist,
Fem—?”

“Quessa di Teerac.” She nodded graciously. “You must be Huido Maarmatoo'kk. I've heard wonderful things about your restaurant.”

A small claw waved airily. “I try not to poison any being.”

“Quessa is our Birth Watcher,” Barac said with pride, looking to Ruti.

A crease had appeared between her lovely brows. “I don't care how magnificent her
grist
is,” she scolded, lowering her voice. “You can't just sit here, Huido, when the restaurant's this busy. The kitchen needs you.”

“That's where you're wrong, little Ruti.” Huido leisurely poured himself a beer. “The kitchen needs you.”

“Don't tell me you fired the Zingy?” her eyes went round. “Why?”

“He/she walked out.” The Carasian tipped his bi-saucered head to each shoulder. A shrug. “Apparently he/she couldn't tolerate the working conditions. Some nonsense about improper balloon storage. It's so difficult,” to Quessa, “to find the right staff. That's why I'm grateful for my Ruti.”

Who was ignoring her prawlies, eyes wide. “You're offering me a job?”

“Master chef of the
Claws & Jaws
is not a ‘job.' It's a vocation.” Huido's clawful of beer disappeared with a smug slurp. “You can start in the morning.” Eyes clustered to aim at Barac. “You, too. Hom M'Tisri wants an assistant with shiny teeth. To smile at humanoids and the like. And you're pretty.”

Why the old—Barac closed his mouth, aware the wily Carasian had backed him into a corner.

Fingers brushed his.
I do love cooking.
Ruti's sending was wistful.
And you are pretty.

That did it. Barac burst out laughing. Who was he to argue with a conspiracy of such kindness? “Tomorrow it is.”

“Excellent.” Several eyes shifted to aim at the restaurant entrance. “I expect you to stop that sort of nuisance.”

Hom M'Tisri, at his podium by the door, was surrounded by a sizable group of Humans with the gold air tags and innersystem clothing that meant privilege and promised attitude.

“Grandies.” Ruti made a face. “They try to bully their way in without a reservation. Happens all the time,” she assured Quessa, who looked uneasy.

Huido rose, snapping an irritated claw. “The curse of being the best restaurant in two quadrants. I'll handle this.”

Change!
Impossible to ignore that
taste—
or the urgent dread that came with it. Cursing inwardly, Barac slipped a hand inside his coat and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his force blade. “Careful,” he warned the Carasian, rising to his feet. “Something's wrong—”

The Humans shoved by the protesting Vilix, entering the restaurant.

At their next step, fracturing into moving, scurrying parts!

Terrified patrons screamed or bellowed or vented gas, knocking over tables in their haste to be somewhere else.

They'd the right idea. “Ruti,” Barac ordered. “Take Quessa.”

Huido spared an eye. “Go to my pool. Use your Power!” Without looking to see if they complied, he charged forward, great handling claws snapping in fury. More screams filled the air as the patrons saw him coming.

Barac drew his blade, prepared to follow the valiant alien.

“No!” Ruti grabbed his hand and he felt the surge of her greater Power . . .

The restaurant
disappeared
 . . .

...I
became solid again, breathing in shuddering gasps, and looked around for Morgan.

Who wasn't here.

Of course he wasn't. How could he be? This wasn't home. Not my home.

Jarad had brought us to his instead.

Camos.

Snarling a curse, I dropped my father's arm.

Sira?

In answer, I sent Morgan reassurance as well as the image of where I stood.

I knew this place all too well. We were in Jarad's favorite room, deep belowground. The floor was rough stone, stepped in layers; the ceiling, shadow. Wooden pedestals stood everywhere, the items they displayed illuminated by portlights, each tethered in its place with rope. For this was the Hall of Ancestors, containing my father's most treasured scraps.

Are you safe?
From the tone of Morgan's sending, he didn't believe it.

Inside a windowless room, built to be a vault, I supposed I was, but that wasn't the point. “This was your doing,” I accused Jarad, letting him feel my growing
rage
. Needless to berate him for the
deaths of his servants. He wouldn't care. “You used me to break your exile—”

Instead of gloating, my father staggered to the single stone bench and dropped more than sat, his face ashen. “We're safe here. We should be. What were those things?” His shields were whisper-thin. Through them, I felt something I'd never felt from my father before.

Fear.

“But if you didn't arrange this—”

T
HE
SOFT
, steady drumming sent those with legs scurrying up tree trunks or diving into holes. They thought they knew what came their way. There were heavy-jawed biters who ran in ground-darkening swarms, eating anything alive in their path. That this wasn't the biters' season gave no creature pause; better to hide than be wrong.

But what ran along the forest floor this night was deadlier still, if not to wildlife. Bodies shaped as hands or feet or grinning heads or thickened limbs or quarters of torso drove forward on thickened cilia. Whatever the shape, each managed to clutch a bit of metal or bead or tube. To those looking down, it might seem a machine had been their prey, its pieces being carried to some den.

But this was nothing so benign.

The Assemblers had dropped from space in a rain of boxes, too small to trip any sensors. When they succeeded, their ship would land and recover them.

They considered no other option.

Flowers, or their like, shone overhead, their pale light luring winged things and glinting on hard cold eyes. The horde ran and ran until the flowers were outshone by moons' glow.

The first halted before running into the clearing ahead. Those
behind scampered overtop, a mix of disembodied parts heaving and pushing. From this apparent confusion soon appeared a growing structure as metal and beads and tubes came together.

A bead tumbled loose and the mass froze as one.

A finger and thumb stretched out at the last possible moment to snatch the bead, carefully, before it could strike the ground.

Movement again. They'd no time to waste.

Done. The mass of flesh spread apart to expose what was now a sinister device, with tube-mouths aimed toward the clearing.

To where a short road, striped in moonglow and shadow, passed between and around dark, quiescent buildings. There were no doors.

Those who slept within had no need.

Seemingly at random, feet found legs found torso parts found shoulders and arms and hands, hands plunging to acquire heads and snick them into place. Then two Assemblers stepped forward to take hold of what were now controls.

Their hands did what hands do.

Beads shot into the air like a tight flock of birds, their flight directed and sure. They sped low over the road between buildings, then rose sharply.

The Assemblers pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder. Fingers twitched out of synchrony and mouths gaped in breathless excitement.

The flock split apart, beads hovering over rooftops.

Then, all dropped.

What had scurried up trees lost their holds and fell as the forest shook; those in holes struggled for air as their homes filled with earth.

The Assemblers, knocked back and apart, didn't bother to link together again.

But every head wore a smile.

S
ENSING
ANOTHER PRESENCE, I looked over my shoulder. “Lord Jarad?” The young Chooser came out from behind a pedestal, dust cloth in hand. She grew still, eyes on me as if startled by more than our arrival, then swept a full and respectful greeting before I could be certain. “Lady Sira.”

Camosians, being Human, used such titles; I'd noticed my father enjoyed them. “Sira,” I corrected gently, bowing in return as I tried to think of her name. She looked Parth, with her straight black hair and almond eyes, wide-set and bright; something in the high cheekbones said Teerac to me.

“Assistant curator, Jacqui di Mendolar. Speaker,” with a second and unnecessary bow.

With that, I knew her: a Chooser older than she appeared, her body holding its physiological age for the last nine years, awaiting a Choice that might never come. Another as I'd been. Our one meeting had been at the gathering on Camos during the treaty signing, when I'd been more concerned with keeping Morgan safe than my kind.

All at once, we were in the midst of another gathering. Seven more Clan appeared, their formal white robes a match to mine.

The rest of the Clan Council, the most powerful Talents of their families: Inva di Lorimar and Prega di Su'dlaat, First
Chosen; Clansmen Degal di Sawnda'at, Kyr di Mendolar, Crisac di Friesnen, and Cela di Teerac; and the lone Chooser, Tle di Parth.

No need to ask how or why, I thought, if anything surprised it had taken them this long to respond to the Watchers' protest. Their focus was Jarad, who remained seated, until heads snapped around to me.

Acknowledgments followed, deferential and profound; by their expressions, I judged all were more confused than pleased.

Not that they'd lower shields to me to share those feelings.

Sawnda'at took a deep breath, then asked very politely, as befitted someone of inferior Power. “May we ask why you've brought Jarad here, Speaker? The Watchers are unsettled.”

“This
crasnig
can't be trusted,” Tle di Parth said furiously, sending a sharp and insolent
disapproval
. “You shouldn't have—”

I silenced the rest of her outburst with an irritated
flick
of power. She lifted her head, green eyes narrowed, but remained silent. The young di Mendolar regarded us with growing concern. Those who found themselves trapped between more powerful kin didn't always survive.

Clan games. The attack must have rattled me more than I'd thought. I gestured appeasement to her and the rest, quickly
sharing
my memories. “There wasn't time to consult,” I finished, then looked to my father. “What did you do to provoke them?”

“They attacked when you arrived!” He surged to his feet. “You're the one dealing with aliens instead of your own kind. This was your fault! I saved us.” Oh, and wasn't that stern arrogance a return to the father I knew well?

Had it been me? Assemblers made even seasoned traders like Morgan queasy. He'd told me humanoids didn't visit Assembler planets. For their part, Assemblers away from home remained—I'd believed till today—in their linked form, meaning we could have mistaken them for Human. Unless the parts argued among themselves, how would we know?

I shook my head. No trade of the
Silver Fox
had gone so badly as to warrant violence. “It wasn't—what's wrong?”

In strange unison, the faces of the Councilors altered. Eyes
went wide and staring. Mouths worked without sound. Inva staggered into Crisac.

I opened my mind to the M'hir, flinching at the chaotic howls filling it. Had the Watchers gone mad? About to retreat for my own sanity, the howls formed into words.

Names.

Names the Watchers were screaming, no two the same, names I knew, names pulling me deeper and deeper trying to comprehend a darkness seething with pain and shock
—

“Daughter!” Distant, that voice, for all its attempt at command. Weak. Powerless.

Then, like a lifeline, strong and sure,
SIRA!

I followed my name, the
caring
of my Chosen, back into myself.

In time to watch five of my kind crumple to the floor.