This Gulf of Time and Stars (14 page)

S
IRA!

I grabbed for Morgan, feeling him take hold of me, both of us fighting to stay where we were, to resist that appalling summons.

. . . Sira . . .

It wasn't from a living mind. Not anymore.

. . . . . s.i.r.a. . . .

Already fading,
dissolving
. Soon there'd be nothing left. Of what?

Of who.

“Jason. I have to know.”

Morgan tightened his hold. “I'll be here.”

With him as my anchor, I opened myself to the M'hir and
listened
 . . .

SIRA! . . . Sira. . . .s.i.r.a. . . .

Here, there was no mistaking the voice.

Rael.

Here, there was only the truth.

Ghosts, we called them. The brief flicker left within the M'hir by those lost in it. That she'd thought of me as she died, as her Chosen died, as . . .

DON'T TRUST THEM!

I fled the M'hir as the Watchers howled her name and her Chosen's, desperate for the gold and constant presence of my own, and buried my face in Morgan's chest.

Then warned my kind.

Muscle knotted along his jaw, Morgan's eyes were bleak. “Terk sent someone to the office. The place was stripped, but they'd left a body. I'm sorry.”

I glanced at the image on the viewer and away again, uninterested in the flesh that had been my sister's Chosen. If Janac was gone, Rael was, too. That she'd managed a warning as she'd
dissolved
horrified me as much as its meaning. “Now we know,” I said heavily.

Rael's wealth had been on Deneb, handled by one firm, run by Humans. Of course they'd gone there.

To die there.

I'd passed along her warning.
Stay away from existing contacts. Avoid anyone who knows you.
Been unsurprised to
hear
the Watchers echo what mattered in their hollow, unnerving way.
DON'T TRUST.

The Clan, already on the run, were being hunted. Not only by Assemblers.

And not only Clan were targets. Morgan had told me about the
Claws & Jaws.

“You're sure Huido's all right?” I asked, hunting what comfort remained. “That no one else died?” Tayno, Hom M'Tisri. Huido's wives. There'd been casualties among staff and customers, but fewer than might have been. The Assemblers had cared only to reach the Clan, attacking doors and walls built to withstand a love-struck Carasian. Some had gone mad with frustration before being killed.

Hopefully killed. The pieces had been collected in bins by Port Authority, then put in custody in case the species had regenerative abilities they hadn't declared on their forms.

Morgan hesitated.

“What?” I didn't need protecting.

“Huido can't find Barac and Ruti. My guess? They're hiding out on Plexis. It's a big station, Sira.”

Full of beings I'd warned them not to trust. “Family,” I said wryly.

His face lightened. “You can find them?”

I'd do better than that.

Once more I prepared a
heart-search,
this time of a mind I knew very well. My cousin had forgiven me for violently scanning him; since Ruti and their Joining, he'd might even have forgotten.

I'd do neither. I poured Power into my quest.

Sira?

There. A living voice, barely discernible amidst the roiling M'hir.

Heart-kin
. I poured Power into our link to hold it, Barac's not equal to the task.

We felt your warnings. What's happening? Why is it happening?
The M'hir was already unsettled, the Watchers on edge. His desperate questions drew them closer.

Instead of answering, I followed the bright path linking him to another, gathered all of my strength, and
PULLED
 . . .

. . . Ruti gasped. Barac swore. Both stared at me in amazement. They were filthy, exhausted, and now—

Safe.

I closed my eyes and sagged. Arms slipped around me, plucked me from my seat with their own irresistible strength. “To bed, chit,” Morgan said, his voice oddly hoarse.

I'd have protested—we'd no time for rest—but a feather's touch on my forehead sent me tumbling into a deep sleep.

To dream of names.

And a voice in the dark . . .

T
HE
OUTER ROOM
of the Human Trade Pact Board Member was deceptively plain. Constable Russell Terk eyed the ceiling fixtures, furniture, and window coverings, making his own assessment.

Tech and plenty of it. Sneeze and your snot would be analyzed before it hit the carpet.

Ordinarily, he'd have approved. Protecting bureaucrats was best left to servos and gadgets, especially if those gadgets recorded what they shouldn't. He'd love to get his hands on records from this place—

A disembodied voice: “The Board Member will see you now.”

Of course he would, given what he carried. Very few had the clearance; fewer now, with Bowman gone and her people under scrutiny. Terk rose, straightening his supposedly tailored-to-fit uniform. His featherheaded partner had assured him this one struck the right balance between seasoned and innocuous public servant.

If left up to him, Terk would have happily picked “don't mess with me” battle armor, but tact had never been his strong suit.

He'd need some, if the suspicion niggling at him since talking to Morgan was remotely on target.

Hells, what had Bowman set in motion?

One of three doors swung open on the far wall and Terk accepted the invitation, stepping into an office no fancier than a middling banker's, void of personality.

The suspicion went from niggle to itch. Yes, people did keep their private and public lives separate. He was one of them.

People who weren't politicians. They knew to at least plop a baby on their office vis-screen, even if it wasn't theirs. This office had been scoured of any connection.

The man seated behind the emptied desk believed himself alone.

“Constable. Please, sit.”

Pleasant voice. Terk didn't have that version and didn't care. “Board Member.” He handed Cartnell a plas sheet, standing at attention.

The man glanced over it, then looked up. “This Assembler business. You think you know what they're up to.” He frowned. “Take a seat, please.”

He could stand at attention for days. Had before now. “Sir. They're murdering the Clan. Sir.” Bowman having advised him long ago to salute twice, given how hard it was to believe the sincerity of the first one.

“So your mysterious informant claims.” Cartnell's eyes narrowed. “Sit, Constable. You're making me crane my neck.”

Terk perched on the seat's edge, his back straight. “A reliable source, sir. I followed up on several reports.”

“Did you.” Neutral tone. Possibly a hint of impatience.

The itch grew. “Yes, sir.” Terk let his satisfaction show. “The majority of the confirmed dead were previously identified as Clan. There's no doubt they were the intended targets.”

“I know you.” Cartnell leaned back in his chair. “You were at the signing. With Bowman.”

Recognition—or something else? “Yes, sir.” The constable nodded. “As were you, sir.”

“A momentous day, to be sure.” The politician came forward, flattening his hand over the plas sheet. “Good work, Constable Terk. I'll look into this. Thank you.”

Dismissed, Terk stood but didn't leave. “Your pardon, sir. Until
this is resolved, I'd like to reassign my people to protect the remaining Clan. With your permission.” And didn't he already know the answer to that?

Cartnell frowned and shook his head. “Under ordinary circumstances, I'd agree, but Bowman must be found first. Too much is at stake. We can't risk destabilizing the Trade Pact. She remains your top priority.” The frown was replaced by a sympathetic look. “If you're uncomfortable chasing down your former chief, I can make arrangements for your replacement.”

“I'm uncomfortable seeing children murdered, sir. Are you?”

He'd hoped for a telling flinch or protest. Instead, Cartnell's lips twisted in a sneer and he shoved the plas sheet from his desk to land at Terk's boot tip. “Not if they're parasites. Not if they're guilty!”

“Is this a confession, Board Member Cartnell?” He'd have it on record twice over, both on his implant and uniform device.

“Constable Terk, really. This is my office. What's said here, stays here. You Enforcers made sure of that.” All at once, Cartnell looked weary. “You'll find your weapons are useless too, not that you've need of them. Sit.”

“Make me,” Terk growled, curling his fists. Without weapons, was he?

“You are a tiresome person, aren't you. Oh, well.” Opening a drawer, Cartnell pulled out a disk. He stretched to put it in Terk's reach. “You're what I've got. Here. Let's finish it.”

He had the villain. Even without a recording for verification, his word would start suspicion flowing where it should.

It didn't feel like victory. Terk scowled at the disk. “What's that?”

“Surely you don't believe I did all this alone, Constable.” A grim smile. “That's the evidence you'll need to convict the leaders of the Deneb Blues and Grays of collusion to commit species-cide.”

“Real evidence? Or fabricated, like you did to the chief.”

An eyebrow lifted. “This is real, I assure you. I'd act quickly. Once the Clan were dealt with, the syndicates planned to move against their puppets, those poor innocents.” Cartnell rubbed a
hand over his face. “Fry and Gayle will give up their accomplices. By then my work will be done. Humanity will be safe.” He looked at Terk. “I suppose you want to know why I—”

“I'll go with crazy.” Terk snatched the disk, his balance restored. A strike against the syndicates was long overdue and welcome. “You're finished, Cartnell.”

A gentle smile. “I have been for some time, Constable.” Cartnell seemed, if anything, relieved. “Bowman will pay, one way or another, for aiding those who preyed on us. As for my role? I suggest you consider the ramifications before doing anything rash.”

Now the squirming. Predictable. Terk shrugged. “I don't do ‘ramifications.' My job's to put you in a cell.”

“An executive member eliminating a treaty species—do you think Humans will be allowed to stay in the Trade Pact if you reveal the truth?”

“Not my problem, Board Member.” Putting away the disk, Terk took a set of restraints from his belt and rattled them at Cartnell. “Consider the ramifications of resisting arrest.”

Cartnell rose to his feet, his face pale. “I've given you those with bloody hands and motive. That's enough! You've sworn to uphold the Trade Pact, not destroy it.”

“Come as you are, or come in cuffs.”

“The Clan deserve to die, all of them!”

Cuffs it was.

“I may not like the Clan much,” Terk said as he secured his prisoner, “but an easy arrest is fine by me.”

“You can't save them.” Low and vile and triumphant. “The word's spread, about what they are, what they can do, have done. Some might be captured, used. The rest will run till they die.”

“Save it for someone who cares,” the constable rumbled, his big hand closing on Cartnell's shoulder to move the man to the door.

Fearing he'd heard nothing but the truth.

“W
E
CAN'T STOP NOW
. We can't—”

Gently, I pried the list from Jacqui di Mendolar's trembling fingers. “We are.” Through the fleeting contact with her skin, I sent a pulse of
strength.
Little enough, but it eased some of the exhaustion on her face.

I'd slept, as I had many times before, on the copilot's couch in the control room. Morgan had sent Barac and Ruti to our cabin to use the fresher, then our bed. If he'd rested or not, I couldn't tell.

Jacqui hadn't. I'd found the Chooser at the galley table, stylo in hand, so focused she'd barely acknowledged my arrival, doing what had to be done. She'd let me take over, but refused to leave, writing down the names I gave her.

“It's been over an hour since the last new contact,” I reminded her. Whomever wanted to be found, had been.

The list was handwritten, each letter flawless, each line numbered with a scholar's care. I looked to its end, finding the last name, the final number.

“Two hundred and seventy.”

A number better than I'd feared. Far worse than I'd hoped.

Morgan, leaning against the kitchen's counter, spoke first, his eyes hooded. “How many are in immediate danger?”

Those who'd escaped were scattered, their shields as tight as
their individual Talent permitted. Extending myself, I
saw
them as sparks and flickers within the M'hir's seething dark, some brighter than others, but nothing of identity or location. Those were hidden from me.

But I wasn't what hunted. “I can't tell. They've been warned, at least. They know to stay away from any—associates.” A word encompassing any non-Clan help they might have had. “We could be more. There are those able to hide from me.”

“Speaker, won't the Watchers know?”

I blinked at her. “The Watchers?”

“You can talk to them. Isn't that what the Speaker does?” Jacqui looked at Morgan as if summoning support. “Don't the Watchers know who's still alive?”

She was counted in that total, as were Barac, Ruti, and her unborn.

Not Rael or her Chosen, Janac.

Not . . . so very many.

“The Watchers pay attention to death,” I explained, memory filling with the maddening echo of their ugly howls, my voice harsh even to myself. “Oh they told me who died. Every name. All at once. Every name since.”

Sira.
Like a hand, holding mine.

“I don't talk to the Watchers,” I finished with a shudder, “I try to survive them.” Giving myself an inner shake, I looked at the anxious Chooser sitting across from me and gestured apology. “None of which is your fault or knowing, Jacqui. You should get some sleep.” I put my hand on the list. “Thank you for this.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she replied with a wan smile, then yawned. “We all could use rest. You mustn't wear yourself out, Sira.”

“I'll see to it,” Morgan promised. I gave him a wary look, not the least interested in being put to sleep again.

Jacqui wouldn't need help. She had to steady herself after standing, and wove more than walked the handful of steps to the galley's storeroom, now her haven. She closed the door behind her.

Morgan lowered himself into the seat Jacqui'd left, turning the list around with one finger. The first thing he'd done when I'd
arrived was drop the
Fox
into normal space. Drifting between systems was akin to a burrowing animal ducking into a hole, but we couldn't linger. The nearest sun was a red giant, spewing forth radiation already eating away the ship's outer protections.

Two hundred and seventy. Entire families from my great-grandmother's time lost, yet weren't, I supposed numbly. We'd mingled since. Crossed and recrossed until names might vanish.

But not the shape of an ear or—

“Two hundred and seventy,” he said, echoing my thought. He gazed at me. Waited.

For me to snap out of it, because that wasn't a number, it was people, running out of time. My first deep breath had a ragged edge. My second was steadier. “They need help. Our help. But how?”

“The Enforcers who were chasing Bowman are now after the syndicates and stretched to the limit.” His lips twisted and I felt the
anger
behind his shields. “It's not coincidence.”

Terk had given us a name. I remembered Board Member Cartnell only vaguely and knew of no reason for his hate for us or Bowman.

“We're on our own, then.” I reclaimed the list. No coincidence there either. Those who'd trusted the accord I'd made with the Trade Pact—with Cartnell—had stayed in their homes and died. Those who'd feared coming so close to Humans had quietly abandoned theirs and survived.

Clan like my mother. Her name was here, Mirim sud Teerac. She'd been granted the di Sarc upon Joining with Jarad. She'd refused it, along with anything to do with him beyond their scheduled couplings. She'd renounced the M'hir and our ways as well. What did she think of all this, I wondered suddenly. Would she feel we'd deserved it? That what we'd done to Humans had been our crime and this our just punishment?

Was it?

“Rael said there'd be a price to pay for joining the Trade Pact.”

Sira.
His hand covered mine.
Don't fly that course.
Aloud, “Bowman will be back. She's too slippery to be caught and too stubborn to stay away.”

I looked at his dear Human face and did my best to smile. “You're right.”

While between us, shared without words, a terrible understanding.

That even with Bowman back and all the help of the Trade Pact—even with the Assemblers stopped and those behind the attacks brought to justice—nothing would ever be the same.

Barac held his hand out for the list. I passed it to him, watching as the two huddled together, reading it in silence.

“There are none from Acranam,” I said, unable to bear the wait. “I'm sorry.”

“I know.” Ruti sat back. She accepted a hot drink from Morgan with a grateful look, then sighed into it. “I didn't—I wasn't—” She composed herself. “I felt a great loss. I thought at first it was Quessa—our Birth Watcher—but it was more. My family. My friends. Everyone I'd known. They were part of me, unnoticed, until they weren't.” Her round chin shook, but she steadied herself, taking a sip. “If we'd been there, we'd be dead, too.”

She'll be all right,
Morgan sent. “I let Huido know you're safe,” he said aloud to the pair.

Who exchanged looks and more, from Ruti's stricken face. “What do you mean, they might be involved?” she exclaimed. “What haven't you told me?”

“Ruti—you were—” Barac gave a helpless shrug.

She half-rose to her feet. “Tell Morgan. If you're going to accuse Huido of something so horrible, his brother should know.”

Morgan went very still. “Why did you leave the restaurant? Huido said you were safe with his wives.”

“Here.” Barac, white lines by nose and mouth, thrust his hand at Morgan. “Take it.”

My Human's hand rose, clasping firmly. The two remained like that for an instant and it was all I could do to keep my
distance.

Their hands pulled apart. The Clansman put his knuckle down
on the table, head hanging. “They said it was inevitable. That the Clan shouldn't be here—don't belong.” He looked up, black hair tumbled over anguished eyes. “That the Clan must go.”

“You have to be wrong,” Ruti said fiercely. “Sira?”

I turned to the one who knew Huido best.

Morgan's face had developed a thoughtful look. “Interesting.”

Interesting?

He lifted a placating hand. “The wives have been studying
grist.
Meaning the Clan.”

“You knew?” I blinked. “For how long?”

“Impossible to say. The wives gather in a pool of their choosing. Their debates on a given topic can last standard years. I do know Huido's are considered exceptionally bright.”

I did my best to merge “exceptionally bright” with the dangerous, sullen creatures I'd been shown. Or had I been shown to them? There was a thought.

“The Carasians,” Morgan continued, looking at Barac, “are honorable beings. I promise you they're as horrified by what's happened to the Clan as the rest of us. After finishing off the Assemblers, Huido and Tayno scoured Plexis for you. Because they're family. Because they were worried.”

Barac's mouth worked. He gave a slow nod. “I wanted to think that.”

“Believe it. What Huido's wives told you are what they consider facts.” Blue eyes shifted to me. “Can we really say, as things are, they're wrong? The Clan can't stay where they are.”

Ruti di Bowart put her arms around her Chosen, her hair flowing over Barac's shoulders. “Then we go,” she decided firmly. “Someplace safe.”

We gave Barac and Ruti our cabin; it wouldn't be the first time we'd camped in the control room. I pulled my knees up under the blanket, unwilling to close my eyes. Morgan, no more eager to rest than I was, stood by the panels. He'd been studying a series of displays since we'd retreated here.

“We could warm the hold,” I said suddenly. “Squeeze in another fifty.”

“The math, chit.”

I'd been in space long enough to know better, that meant. I fell silent, abashed. The
Silver Fox
had been built for a crew of five to six. Refitting as a freighter hadn't added air to her systems or capacity to her scrubbers.

To distract myself, I pulled out the crystal, trying to find an opening with my fingernail.

A flash of blue eyes. “What's that?”

“This?” I lifted the crystal so it caught flecks of light from the console. “A relic of my great-grandmother. We're taught she brought us here, to Trade Pact space. Jarad treasured it.”

Morgan came over and I passed the thing to him. “From the Clan Homeworld.” He looked at me, lifting a brow. “A planet none of you know how to find.”

I nodded. A waste of a market, to a trader; to my beleaguered, now-homeless people, an irony too painful to contemplate. I took back the crystal, staring at the scrap of fabric within. “My ancestors 'ported here. That's real enough.” I'd glimpsed the scar etched into the M'hir by the passage of so many at once. “The rest—why? From where? I don't believe we were meant to know.” I put the crystal back in my pocket. “Or go back.

“Besides,” I said more lightly, “this is home.” I rubbed my thumb over a mended patch on the armrest, refusing to look at him. I had so much, when the rest had—

Breath warmed my cheek, followed by a swift, brief kiss. “A home that needs a shipcity and supplies, ideally soon. I'll get back to it.” He stepped away before my hair could entangle him.

“Jason. There's no place safe, is there.”

“No. Not yet,” he qualified gently. “The syndicates have eyes on every Human world and likely beyond. The Assemblers? No telling how far they intend to take this.”

“Or if they can be stopped.”

“Oh, it'll happen. It's the beforehand we need to watch. Try to sleep, Witchling.”

Dimming the lights, my Human went back to work. I watched
his silhouette pass back and forth, my mind busy with possibilities. Non-Human worlds—where we'd be all too obvious. Starships—they needed crews, crews that could be infiltrated. The Drapsk—

Inflict hundreds of “Mystic Ones” on the dear little aliens? Their social structure would fracture, maybe even collapse. I shuddered. Our list of allies was woefully short.

One bright spot lay on the horizon. When Jacqui di Mendolar woke from her well-deserved rest, Ruti and Barac would have a Birth Watcher again.