This Gulf of Time and Stars (17 page)

I discovered her trick only after slipping to flop facedown in the unpleasant mass for the second time. Mirim didn't climb at random. There were steps, disguised as bits of wood or plas. Handholds of rope or wire. This was an entrance, carefully constructed and as carefully hidden.

Guarded, at a guess, by the alien with those weaponlike limbs, now well below.

This wasn't in response to the attacks. Where I now climbed was an older section, the garbage weathered into something almost natural. To either side were patches of flat spiral crusts and little rounds of red or green. Growths like those Morgan had shown me, taking years to grow.

What was my mother up to?

I reached the top, only to find myself standing at a blank wall. Alone.

Mirim was gone.

“Y
OU
COULD HELP
.” Freeing his arm, Morgan used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead.

Barac di Bowart crouched to peer into the mouth of the left air intake. He shuddered theatrically, moving back to let Morgan climb out. “Me, touch your ship?”

He'd thought he was too tired to laugh. Apparently not. “Good point.”

The elegant Clansman pointed to the intake. “Are we going to blow up? I'd prefer some notice, so we can leave.”

“Ship's fine.” Morgan stood, working his shoulders. Been a while since he'd had to crawl in there.

To be exact, since Sira had become hindmost on the
Fox.
She'd the makings of a reliable mechanic, not that he'd dare tell her. She took enough on herself as it was, including what had taken her from the ship.

Add traipsing, at night, where the local Port Jellies refused to go—

Barac was a welcome distraction. “You've never come down here before.” The Clansman had assured him, on several occasions, that he only felt safe traveling through space when he didn't have to believe in the machinery that drove them.

“You weren't coming out.” Barac considered the stack of cups
and e-rations, then nodded at the hammock slung between pipes. “Are you living here now?”

Morgan laid a hand on a curl of pipe, wincing inwardly. That vibration wasn't right. “I'm asking a lot of the old girl.” With a pat. “Only fair I do what I can.” And essential. The coolant system had been about to fail when he'd arrived; the quick patch looked ugly.

It would hold. It had to. “Why did you say you were here?”

“To keep you company.” Barac looked for a place to sit, then leaned against the closed door. “Feels familiar. You and me. This ship. Even our course.”

“Except for you being down here,” Morgan pointed out dryly. The last time Barac had been a passenger on the
Fox
he'd been hunting Sira di Sarc. Easy to guess the reason for this “visit” was the same. “There's nothing to report yet. Sira's still with her mother.” The good news that Mirim and her followers had knowledge about the baby was for Sira to share when she returned.

The rest? “What do you know about the Clan Homeworld?”

Barac's expression sobered. “Is that what's Sira's chasing? Call her back. Even if it could be found—we wouldn't be welcome there.”

Not what he'd expected. “Time's gone by,” Morgan said mildly. “Besides, I thought you didn't remember why the M'hiray left.”

“Because we are the M'hiray.” The Clansman turned the bracelet on his wrist, the etched design catching fire from the ship's lights. “Whether willingly or not, our kind split into those who use the M'hir and those who couldn't—or wouldn't. My unhappy aunt and her group have created their own version of our past. Don't expect reality from them.”

The bracelet was of that past, pre-Stratification, its unusual metal shaped into a pattern reminiscent of water and stone. It had been a gift from Kurr di Sarc. Morgan found himself staring at it. “Did your brother believe Mirim's version?”

“No.” Barac's shrug was bitter. “But he'd take her his latest box of discoveries. They'd spend hours poring over them, hours I'd be stuck with you and that deck of cards.” His ever-charming smile was false. “I still say you cheated.”

“I still say you're a poor loser.” Interesting. To hear Jacqui,
Jarad di Sarc was the Clan's foremost expert on their past, yet Kurr had sought out Mirim. “Sira wouldn't waste time on a fruitless hunt,” Morgan said more briskly. “You should trust her.”

Barac's smile turned real, yet unutterably sad. “I do. It's the rest of universe that worries me.”

“Don't flatter yourself.” Tools secured, at least for the moment, the Human sat on a crate and stretched. “Most of the universe could care less.”

“As most Clan are innocent,” Barac countered. “I'm not.”

So Sira wasn't the only one racked by guilt. The Human pushed a second crate away from the wall. “You didn't come to keep me company.”

“No.” The Clansman accepted the invitation and sat. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke to the floor. “Ruti isn't speaking to me.”

A crowded ship wasn't the ideal place for the young lovers to find themselves. Morgan hid a smile. “What is it this time?”

“When I tell her what I've done, she's happy. She refuses to listen when I try to explain my—my regrets. It upsets her.”

Being of lawless, independent Acranam, Morgan judged, wouldn't help Ruti's understanding. Nor would— “She's grieving and afraid, Barac. Right now, I think she needs to be proud of you.”

“Proud?” Startled, the Clansman's face showed all his pain. “You know what I was. What I did. Finding telepaths like you. Manipulating their minds—erasing them if necessary. If not for Sira and her treaty, I'd be doing it now.” A suddenly awkward
feel
between them. “And you'd be hunting us.”

The treaty stipulated no action committed by the Clan before its signing could be prosecuted. Had that necessity tipped Cartnell to seek his own vengeance?

Morgan half smiled. “You couldn't have been any good at it, or you'd have won more games.”

“I've never—you were our friend!” Realizing he was being teased, Barac shook his head but something eased. “I can't believe I said that.”

“I won't tell.” Morgan's smile faded. “None of us know what's ahead, Barac.” He held out his hand. When the Clansman took
it, he lowered his shields slightly, sharing his
compassion,
his
belief
in the other, before letting go
.
“Your regrets do you credit, but don't let them keep you from living.”

Barac gave a slow nod, then sent,
Heart-kin.

Still not letting you win.
But their eyes met and held in acknowledgment of the bond between them, one stronger in many ways than mere blood. If only others knew the Clan as he did—

Or rather knew the Clan he did, the Human thought, who'd made the leap beyond their xenophobia. Could the rest? He shook off the despondent feeling. “Sira's looking for an answer.”

“By chasing her mother's fantasy.” Barac actually laughed. “We're that desperate.”

“Finding options,” Morgan corrected. Something he'd be doing up in the control room right now, if not for the
Fox.
He cast an eye at the nearest gauge. Running hot. He managed not to run his grease-streaked fingers through his hair, though odds were excellent he'd done it already. Grabbing a rag, the captain of the
Silver Fox
rose to his feet.

The ship could be at Stonerim III already, if the Clan on board lent him their strength. If he dared reveal himself. If that were in any sense a good idea.

And not a recipe for disaster.

“You'll let us know before we blow up, won't you?”

Morgan grunted an absent affirmative. “You could help.”

The Clansman laughed again and headed for the door. “I'll bring you some real food. How's that?”

“Thanks.”

Keeping his hand on the door, Barac glanced over his shoulder. “I've met them, Morgan. Once.”

“Who?”

“Mirim's group. The M'hir Denouncers, or whatever they call themselves.” He made a face. “I couldn't take them seriously. I hope Sira doesn't.”

Alone again, Morgan patted the pipe. “If she does, old girl, I expect things to get very interesting around here.”

If Sira found a new world?

“Very interesting indeed.”

M
OTHER?

Two steps left.

My fist poised to hammer on the wall, for what good it would do, I stopped.
What do you mean?

Take two steps to your left.

Where there was still a wall. A wall I could ignore, if I used my mother as a locate.

Ending what cooperation I'd gained. I took the steps, garbage shifting underfoot, to discover what had seemed a solid wall was a clever illusion. Someone had built a section, matched right to the flaking paint and stains, and set it in front. Between the false wall and real one was just room to walk.

And an open door, waiting.

Morgan had built a shelter on Ettler's Planet, its bulk disguised as part of the landscape; why and how were questions I'd not asked. He'd appreciate caution of such a Human sort.

And had given me enough that I didn't immediately walk forward, but crouched to examine the inviting space. Flat, clear of debris, and—I nodded to myself—easily hinged to drop an unwanted guest into an abyss.

Or holding cell. I thought abyss more likely, knowing what lay below.

Coming?

Assuming the best, I stood, brushed off the worst of what clung to my legs and stepped between the walls and through the door.

To squint and stare.

Whatever I'd thought to find, it wasn't a busy laboratory.

Counters lined the walls, 'port lights hovering where required. Cupboards with clear doors held objects—old things—of such variety and number that the four nearest put my father's ill-gotten collection to shame.

A massive work surface dominated the center of the floor, crisscrossed by light and crowded by a series of objects in various stages of dismemberment—or assembly.

There was, to my further astonishment, tech everywhere. The counters had stations, each with an abundance of custom consoles and panels, cluttered with devices I couldn't name. I'd taught myself data analysis and had a system installed in my former home no other Clan—I'd thought—could understand, let alone use.

What was here was beyond me. Quite possibly it was beyond anyone not a Trade Pact scientist.

The only problem? Those standing or sitting at the lit and active stations weren't Human. They were Clan.

Every one of them looking at me.

“Welcome, Speaker.” Mirim managed to infuse her greeting gesture with irony, “to my vision.”

Mirim's vision was shared by eleven others. They'd escaped the Assemblers the same way they'd escaped notice all these years. Their Clan lives were pretense, their homes maintained by servants charged with keeping their secret.

Servants who likely died for that obedience. These Clan weren't so different from the rest, I thought, but kept it to myself.

They were an eclectic group. Three Chosen pairs: Deni and Cha sud Kessa'at, Josa and Nik sud Prendolat, their daughter the youngest child, and Holl and Leesems di Licor, parents of two
brothers. The brothers, Arla and Asdny, were on the cusp of becoming unChosen, voices about to change along with all else in their lives. The suds hadn't been authorized for children by Council, the same Council who'd labeled the Licor lineage highly suspect, it having proved impossible to breed out the faint dappling of their pale skin, like sunlight and shadow.

We had something in common. They'd broken the Prime Laws of our kind.

So had I.

The eight adults wore lab jackets over shirts and pants, Human garb on Clan; it made me oddly off balance.

Another surprise. My mother wasn't the only Chosen without her mate: Orry di Friesnen was here as well.

And, last and in no way least, a Chooser.

Tle di Parth. I'd respected her intelligence. I hadn't known she used it outside Council arguments. She wasn't glad to see me, but then, she never was.

The rest of my mother's group were. So glad, they rushed to make me welcome, the smallest child, Andi sud Prendolat, knocking over a stool in her haste to make the proper gestures and being quietly chastised. Mirim stood by, impatience in every line of her body, as a debate erupted over whether I should be shown this find or that first, and I honestly feared two of the older Chosen, Deni and Leesems, would come to blows.

They were impassioned, unworldly, and the most unlikely Clan I'd ever met. I found myself unexpected charmed.

My mother was not. “Friends.” She had their instant, silent attention. “The Speaker,” she continued, “has a question.”

That attention shifted to me.

She'd told them about the baby. Why this? Their intent, unnerving gaze reminded me of Turrned Missionaries. I fumbled for a different beginning than I'd planned, forced to accept, for now, that Mirim had her reasons.

“Clan have been attacked.” Obvious, but I felt oddly unsure of their understanding. Their faces didn't change. “We've suffered devastating loss. Barely a quarter of us survive.”

A gasp. Tle. Was she thinking of her own future now,
wondering how many were unChosen? Most, I could have told her. We'd lost more Chosen, bound to their partners, and all of the infirm and aged, bound to their homes by care. The youngest children, already few in number . . .

I sensed
shock
racing mind-to-mind and gestured a sincere apology. “Those who survive are in hiding and at risk, their resources contaminated.” It covered the point. “I've come to you, to my mother—” I'd no shame using our connection; the rest looked less upset. “—to ask your help.”

Another shock, their unease more subtle. They'd worked in secret; that I could guess. It made sense they'd come to believe themselves separate.

No longer.

Nik di Prendolat looked around at the rest, then to me. She was a tall Clanswoman, with an air of gentle dignity. “We've room for you, Speaker. You'll be safe with us.”

A round of now-cheerful nods. “And welcome. Most welcome. Please. Stay until everything's back to normal.”

“‘Back to—'” I swallowed the word, unable to credit what I'd heard. This was no fortress. Mirim bribed their gatekeeper with what—scraps of supper? It was only a matter of time until the Assemblers—or some other enemy—found this pocket of Clan. Clan who wouldn't 'port, perhaps couldn't.

Clan with children.

“We're safe here,” Tle insisted, giving me a defiant look.

She knew better. Knew better and hadn't told them. Why?
What's here that matters more than their lives?
I kept the sending tight and private.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed.
The truth.

The truth. Words that haunted; words that held out—was it hope? I couldn't feel it, consumed by anger.

Secrets. Tle loved them. These people, so dangerously naive, could well die for them. What was I to do? Squander what time I had trying to save them?

Delay to unravel yet another puzzle?

All that, from the closet?

Morgan was smiling. I could tell, even if he was careful to keep
amusement
from his sending.

It's not a closet.

I'd walked away before losing my temper in what I'd feared would be an unforgettable and unforgivable fashion, choosing the leftmost of the two doors at the end of the big room.
Look for yourself.
I sent him what I could see. It wasn't exactly a closet, being a crowded storeroom no larger than our cabin on the
Fox.
Closing the door behind myself without slamming had seemed, at the time, dignified.

Barac says they're harmless.

He didn't accuse me of running away, of being unwilling to confront Tle in front of what was, in a real sense, her family. Harmless or not.

They don't accept using the M'hir.
As we were doing now, our link through the darkness as sure and strong as sunshine.
Better in a closet
, I thought glumly,
than in front of them.

Your cousin doesn't accept engines move the ship.
His tone grew serious.
Talk to them, Witchling. You're their Speaker, too.

I want to be crew.

Our link strengthened until I might have been within his arms and he in mine. When Morgan withdrew, ever-so-gently, I resisted the urge to keep him with me.

It not being dignified to stay in a closet, however tempting.

No one commented when I came out, though they must have shared the
PUZZLEMENT
Andi broadcast. Nik put an arm around her daughter. There was the faintest trace of
embarrassment
, then polite silence. Josa drew close, both parents looking at me as though expecting criticism.

Meant to reassure, my smile froze on my face.

These children.

>Here<

At their age, they should have been fostered to other homes, each stretched and tenuous link to a mother used, while it lasted, to reinforce a desired passage through the M'hir. But these links were here and intact; I could
see
them, like tightly woven braids. These were families who'd stayed together, in certain defiance of Council, their units closer to a Human culture like that of Stonerim III. Like Morgan's.

I'd imagined a colony. I hadn't been wrong.

“While you were away, Josa brought out some wine. This is an occasion.” The way Mirim said the word wasn't like Morgan, yet was. These were her family, as I wasn't, but the realization held no sting. I'd my own, now.

What struck me more was how calmly they accepted the decimation of our kind, as if it were an interesting fact but little more. The Clan had rejected them and their ideas; I supposed it made sense for them to do the same. But it meant what I wanted and cared about wasn't going to be the same for them.

And that could be a problem.

I nodded graciously. “An occasion it is.” I gazed around at their faces. “Thank you.” With the words, I sent
gratitude
and
approval
and a smidge of
thirst.

Andi giggled.

With impressive speed, stools were arranged around the now-cleared end of the table, a cloth placed, and a selection of glasses unusual in no two being the same filled with wine. The cloth looked more like a tarp and, after a sip, I suspected the wine of having been made in someone's kitchen, but there was no doubting the warmth in this room.

Warmth Tle protected. I could feel her
bristle
of worry.

She wasn't alone. When I opened my senses, emotions roiled and snapped at me from an unexpected source. My mother. Having borne Jarad's disapproval her adult life, I would have thought it unlikely she'd cared about my opinion.

Then again, these two, of all the rest, understood what had happened to the Clan, what could happen here.

If they were afraid, so was I. I could feel the hours slipping by,
hours our enemies wouldn't waste, but instilling panic wouldn't help. There were times, Captain Morgan would tell me, when you went with the hand you were dealt.

“As my mother's said, I've a question for you. For all of you,” I expanded, seeing their eyes light up. “Where's the Clan Homeworld?”