This Gulf of Time and Stars (8 page)

T
HE
M'HIR AND SPACE
had something in common: you didn't linger in either. Subjective time in the M'hir could be measured in the effort made to stay whole.
Dissolving
was the euphemism Clan used to describe the pulling apart of will and identity, memory spilling like blood, a mind to be lost, forever.

Space was no safer, in my newly informed opinion. The
Silver Fox
, retired from patrol duty and destined to be scrap, had been given a second life as a freighter. Keeping the venerable starship whole took effort, all right, including walking outside on her hull when necessary. Easy to imagine drifting away to be lost forever in that endless dark.

Harder to do. Our suits had redundant safety features, as Morgan was fond of reminding me, and even if somehow I was plucked bodily from the hull, there were beacons and tags to keep me close to the ship. Worst case scenario, the suit came complete with a stasis unit, so if I were to drift away and be lost forever, I'd do it in my sleep.

That wasn't the comfort he thought.

Of course, in the event of real trouble I'd 'port my Chosen and self, suits and all, back inside the
Fox.
Or to the nearest civilized planet, nearest being defined, as always, by subjective time in the M'hir. By how my strength and will endured—

If I failed—

“Stop that.” I shoved the drawer closed and glared at it, that being easier than glaring at myself. I was fretting. The ship was fine, we were fine, our family was fine—I'd no conceivable reason, I told myself, to doubt the fineness of everything.

Except I'd so much to lose.

The link between my mind and Morgan, our Joining through the M'hir, still felt new, still felt incredible. I expanded my awareness of it below conscious thought and my heart acquired a twin, beating in harmony. He was well, I could feel it. Preoccupied, but happily so. In the engine room, I guessed. I could know for sure, could find him anywhere along our link or with a
heart-search,
but we were, after all, on a starship. Where else would he be? Morgan had wanted to recheck a faulty indicator once we'd gone translight from Plexis.

If satisfied, he'd run a strong callused hand along a bulkhead before leaving the room. If not, he'd curse the ship, with invention and considerable affection, and stay as long as it took to fix the problem. I'd be jealous if I hadn't come to think of the
Fox
as alive myself. Morgan's doing, that.

Almost done, Witchling.

I smiled. The Clan Chosen I knew maintained shields, keeping their thoughts private. Shipboard and alone, my Human left his mind exposed to mine, trusting me to respect his depths as he respected mine. I pulled the bed from the wall, waiting for pillows to fluff and blankets to soften.

Waiting for my love.

One day, I'd viewed the first teach-tape on alien sex. There were crates of the things and, after all, sex was an area of interspecies relations where any confusion in signals could lead to, well, unfortunate results. Or fortunate, depending on your interests.

Admittedly, I'd been bored. There were only so many hours one could spend reviewing ship procedure in the event of whatever-could-never-happen-because-we'd-be-dead-first. Or whatever-Morgan-wouldn't-have-let-happen-in-the-first-place.

In had gone the tape. I'd watched, tilting my head every so
often and squinting, struck anew with wonder at the lengths species went to procreate.

Morgan had, upon walking in on this activity, proceeded to turn an interesting color. Had I, he'd asked, been looking for something in particular? After all. Aliens. Sex.

Was there—with apparent concern—a problem he didn't know about? Our external anatomies were compatible, weren't they?

Nothing would do but we make sure, then and there.

Remembering, I licked my lips, savoring the flush of
heat
igniting my body. Hair, heavy and warm, stroked my skin in anticipation of Morgan's, and deep within my mind our link tightened, for whatever our flesh experienced would
burn
between us until we were one—

Not so done as I thought. Give me a minute.
He became aware.
Or not.

Laughing, I grabbed the blanket from the bed and concentrated . . .

From Plexis, we were on course for Snosbor IV, the
Fox
taking care of navigating at translight. After a full and highly satisfying, if sleepless, night, it was my turn to take first shift in the control room. I brought a book.

I hadn't read more than a page before a voice came through the comlink. “Sira Morgan.”

I dropped my book.

I knew that voice.

“Sira Morgan.”

I froze, not reaching to answer, unsure what startled me more, that my father was trying to reach me, that he used the com—

Or that my Human name had crossed his lips at last.

No, it was Jarad di Sarc, Clansman, using the com. He loathed technology more than most of my kin.

Is that your
father
on the com
? Morgan's mind voice filled my thoughts with the same incredulity I felt. We shared an appreciation of my father as the ultimate example of Clan callousness and
lust for power. I locked my shields in place, as Morgan's were. Jarad had been exiled for excellent reason.

If not for his Joining to my mother, Mirim, I thought coldly, he'd be dead; my well-known feelings on the subject likely why he'd not contacted me mind-to-mind.

“Sira Morgan. If you're there, answer me. Is Bowman with you?”

Footsteps from behind, then a light touch on my shoulder as Morgan joined me. A lock of my hair slid to rest over his hand, and I turned to look a question. He shook his head, no more able to guess than I.

I touched the control. “I'm here. She's not.” About to end the connection, I paused as Morgan's grip tightened slightly. Curious to a fault, my Human. Fine. “Why would Sector Chief Bowman be with us?”

“You'd know if you'd accepted your obligation, Daughter, when you took the leadership from me. You're a dis—”

I may have hit the com with more force than necessary.

“You could have let him finish,” commented Morgan. He went to lean against the com panel, hands in the pockets of his faded spacer coveralls. His remarkable blue eyes studied me. “Bowman implied she'd something to tell you.”

“Jarad's in exile.” Even to me, it sounded more excuse than reason. I fought the urge to twitch. “I know what he has to say. Jarad's disappointed I haven't donned the white robe and attended every Council meeting.”

“Would he know?”

About to reply, I stopped, closing my mouth. Morgan had a point. Our race was nothing if not self-protective; of all the Clan, those who sat on Council knew the danger of exposing their minds to their disgraced former Speaker. Jarad's power was second only to mine.

“It's a mistake to engage with him,” I said at last, sure of that much.

“Agreed, but to ask about Bowman, the day after she tries to talk to you?”

Morgan wasn't calm, I realized. Nor was this simple curiosity. “What's wrong?” I asked, abruptly certain something was.

“I'm not sure.” He ran one hand through his thick brown hair, giving me a rueful look. “Maybe nothing. Just, when I heard Jarad say Bowman's name, I thought I
tasted
change. It's gone now.” As if that would reassure me.

As if his gift, which wasn't mine, had ever been wrong. “What should we do?”

“Check on a friend.” He tapped the com panel.

“What happened to keeping our distance, Captain?” I inquired. We'd discussed the ramifications of the sector chief inviting herself to the baby shower. The gift had been welcome.

But whatever she wanted from me? Not so much.

“That was before.”

Real concern. For a Human who, last I checked, had her own full cruiser and troops. I drew up my knees in the copilot's couch, the back curling to support me in comfort, and regarded my Chosen. “Go ahead. You've her private code.”

Another look, this sharp, but it was the truth and I saw no reason to deny it. There'd been a time when Morgan had reported to Bowman, for she'd been “sniffing around the Clan,” as he'd put it, long before we'd met. My arrival hadn't diminished her interest.

For the second time in as many days, I wondered why other Clan had tolerated it.

“Feel free to tell her my father's been asking,” I suggested, starting to enjoy myself. Not that I expected the information to rattle Lydis Bowman, who'd faced down Jarad at his most powerful; I doubted anything could.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Let me find her first.” Morgan turned to the com.

It should have been easy. It wasn't.

I'd lived on a starship long enough to value the small sounds the
Fox
made: the whoosh of air through vents, the bone-deep growl of lift engines, and the reassuring almost-whine that meant not only gravity, but that we were moving through subspace under power. Sound meant we were safe and all was well.

Silence meant the opposite.

Bowman wasn't answering. A troubling silence from someone who lived by communication, who was never without a scary abundance of personal tech to be sure she could always be reached—and reach out—let alone that possessed by the
Conciliator,
the massive ship she rarely left.

She'd received a message at the baby shower. Why couldn't we reach her?

I went to the galley for sombay while Morgan continued to try her code. He nodded his thanks on my return, but didn't touch his cup, eyes intent on dials I'd yet to learn. He'd flipped the main console, bringing up that legacy of the
Fox's
early days as a patrol ship: tech an expert could use to search and find. I sat, sipping, watching Morgan come to a decision and begin to key in other codes. I could guess whose. Terk, first. Failing him, his partner, the feathered Tolian, P'tr wit 'Whix.

I'd no doubt Morgan could reach further. He'd contacts among the traders who plied the starlanes with us, as individuals or on family ships. I'd seen for myself how they'd put aside competition—temporarily—to act together at need. Morgan could well have others even I didn't know. How far he went, I thought, would tell me how serious this was.

I started as the com crackled at last. “Constable Russell Terk. Who's this? How'd you get this code?—”

Setting my cup on the side tray, I grinned with relief.

“—Hiding your ident's a Pact offense—”

“Shut up, Russ,” Morgan broke in pleasantly. “Listen—”

“Why should I? Signing off in one—tw—”

“Kareen said to check in.”

“—o.” A longer pause than seemed necessary, then a bland, “Understood. She's with you?”

Even I, who still often missed Human subtleties, grasped that Terk didn't mean Kareen, his sometime lover.

Morgan's voice was a match. “No, not this trip. All's good, then?”

“Where have you been?” Nothing calm in that. Then, “News travels subspace. Keep up. Terk out.”