Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (27 page)

I’d had no reason to wonder until now. No other M’hiray had joined us since that day. None, save a fanatical few obsessed with reclaiming some mystic heritage, even paid attention to the half-forgotten and neglected stories of our home.

Until I stood on this planet of aliens, and wondered if I was about to come face-to-face with my own kind’s past.

And what I would do, if I did.

“Hello, again, Hom sud Sarc,” said the voice from his past, piercing through the fog starting to lift from his brain, leaving behind it a vast throbbing pain that bode to make waking up no bargain at all. “Why is it I always seem to find you like this—”

“Chief Bowman,” Barac gritted through his teeth, eyes still closed. He suspected opening them to the light would only make matters worse.

“Med.”

A searing, pungent aroma filled the Clansman’s nostrils, making him jerk upward in offense. As he glared at his surroundings, which included a familiar pair of Humans and an unfamiliar Ordnex, Barac realized his head was no longer trying to separate from his neck and relaxed back into the pillows. “Thanks, I think.”

“That’ll be all, Med Talruo.” The Ordnex left.

The Human female who had spoken regarded Barac with keen interest. She was wider than some, shorter than many, and wore her uniform carelessly, sleeves pushed up her thick arms and the neck open as if she hated anything tight. A worm’s trail of a scar wound around the back of her right hand, a disfigurement Barac always found disturbing, given it could be so easily removed. Sector Chief Lydis Bowman, virtual head of the Trade Pact Enforcers stationed here and throughout this part of space, an intelligent being who had made the Clan her personal project, despite the lack of interest from other members of the Pact. Always dangerous, Barac remembered glumly.

And with her, Terk. That worthy stood staring at Barac as though deciding how best to take the Clansman apart for investigation. No need to tap the M’hir. Both of these Humans had risked the mind-deadening implants. They might have been servos or ghosts for all the taste Barac could have of their thoughts.

Barac shrugged, cautiously, and when his head didn’t implode immediately, sat up again and swung his long legs over the side of the examining table. “I owe you my thanks, Terk,” he admitted, making the effort not to sound grudging. But he’d learned from experience these two were the most likely to interfere with what he, Barac, considered private Clan business.

“Something more substantial would be nice,” Bowman suggested. “Along the lines of some information.”

Barac took a sip from a cup of—yes, it was plain water, he shuddered—before looking up to meet Bowman’s curious and determined look. “I’d like to know why I’m here—and why he,” a nod to Terk, “made such a timely entrance at my kidnapping.”

“Sounds as though we have a bargain,” Bowman announced cheerfully. “Information for information. And over lunch, if you feel up to it, Hom sud Sarc. I’m sure my galley is ready.”

“Fair enough,” Barac said, standing cautiously and surprised when he felt quite normal doing so. As far as information went, he added to himself, he’d like to know about the drug used to subdue him and this miraculous cure in Bowman’s possession.

He was, after all, suspicious of Humans by both nature and training.

Chapter 25

I’D tried to convince Copelup to take me closer to the stage, using every argument I could come up with: the ache behind my eyes from staring at the tiny screen, which was true; my desire to spy out the tricks of my erstwhile opponent, which was, I thought, at least plausible. None of this swayed the Skeptic, who must have had his own reasons for keeping me as far away as possible without tossing me back over the wall.

At least the sun had set, making my portable window on the world a bit easier to see. The Drapsk seem to need light, if not much; the amphitheater glowed from its floor, rather than from any source on the walls. The soft illumination emphasized the roundness of the Drapsk bodies, turning my neighbors into rows of white repeating curves, so much like their architecture I might have sat within a miniature of their city, the arching plumes an echo of the purple dusk overhead.

A city pulsing with excitement. The failure of the Niakii’s Contestant and the rumored quality of the Heerii’s seemed to ignite endless speculation—some of it vocal and politely in Comspeak. I grew increasingly uneasy. The Drapsk, my Drapsk, were totally convinced I’d win. Since I still had no idea what they expected me to win with, I thought this unreasonably confident of them.

Servers moved through the crowd during the delay of about a standard hour between the removal of the Great Bendini and his treasures—and the dismal exit of the Niakii Drapsk—and the arrival of the next Contestant. The servers were of the orange-plumed variety. I didn’t catch the Tribe name, but they certainly were a fine choice from my point of view, their lurid plumes standing out like tiny sails as they passed among the ranks of seated Drapsk. I found enough appetite for a roll of some type and a hot drink, Copelup checking both for me with quite alarming haste. When I’d asked, jokingly, if he suspected the Heerii of trying to poison me, he hadn’t been amused.

Which had given me yet another reason to wonder what the Drapsk hoped to gain from this whole exercise, if it was worth this much to them.

“The Heerii Contestant,” Copelup whispered in my ear, pointing to the vid screen. His antennae and its plumes, along with those of every Drapsk I could see, were fully spread and erect: a closeness of attention I hadn’t observed for the Great Bendini. They did know the difference, I thought, feeling just a little sorry for the triumphant magician.

The oval space at the center of the amphitheater was empty at first; the only new feature I could see being a long rectangular dais affair, put together from separate box-like pieces and draped with what appeared to be issa-silks, white of course. Then I saw what had already captured Copelup’s attention.

A small procession of several blue-green Heerii Drapsk, their yellow-plumed Skeptic in the lead, was entering the opening from the side nearest to us and opposite their own section of the amphitheater. Two of the Drapsk towed a floating litter on which rested a large irregular lump of something, covered in more of the white silk. A long flaccid arm, more like a fibrous tentacle than a limb, hung over the side of the litter to almost touch the floor.

Not Clan. I wiped my hands surreptitiously on my Contestant’s gown—sparing an instant to remember to ask the Drapsk why they’d insisted on making me wear the hideous thing when the other Contestants seemed to dress as they pleased—and refused to think about whether I was disappointed or relieved by what I was seeing. I hadn’t realized how much I’d expected the new Contestant to be one of my fabled cousins. Or had I feared it? I shook my head. It was irrelevant.

There was little else to see of the being the Heerii escorted so tenderly to the center and eased onto the dais. I assumed it was either infirm or fragile, perhaps suffering from an unfamiliar gravity. The draperies slid this way and that over its surface, as though beneath them was a form less solid than most. The limp arm had been withdrawn, as though its owner was dismayed by having revealed even this much of itself.

A stronger contrast to the flamboyant showmanship of the Great Bendini wasn’t possible, I thought, approving. This mystery being was far more intriguing. Of course, I wasn’t sure I’d notice whatever magic he/she/it was doing, the Drapsk not using any verbal broadcast to enlighten those of us olfactorily deprived.

Luckily, Copelup was feeling poetic. “Behold, O Mystic One. The first brave Rugheran to leave its homeworld.”

“The only Rugheran to leave its homeworld,” corrected Captain Makairi. I’d noticed the former med had lost nothing of his blunt bedside manner in his promotion.

“And where’s that?” I asked, eyes on the screen but my attention on whatever information I could squeeze out of these two. Morgan would love to be the first Human to know about a new intelligent species. I had visions of exclusive trade in whatever Rugherans did and new fittings for the Fox’s starboard thrusters.

“The Heerii will, of course, reveal such valuable information only to their own Tribe—or to the Tribe which reaches ascen dance today. A role the Makii confidently believe you will gain us, O Mystic One.”

Great, I said to myself, glaring at the smug creatures. Toss another piece on the growing pile of bets on this table.

“What do you—” I was about to say “expect” when something happened.

I sensed it at the same moment the Drapsk reacted, the entire multitude surging to its collective feet, plumes of all three Tribes rising to point at the motionless lump on the stage. It was as though a wave passed through the M’hir, sliding against my awareness of that dimension before fading away again without a trace.

Not quite without a trace. I felt dampness on my cheeks and wiped away tears. The wave tasted of sorrow, of longing. It carried more: now I knew—and suspected all the Drapsk knew as well—the creature below was dying. This demonstration for their Contest had been its last testament.

I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I was just suddenly, gloriously, angry. Without hesitation I drove myself through the M’hir . . . . . . Though I was surprised when it actually worked and I found myself on the oval space, a step away from the failing Rugheran.

I went to it, not letting its huge size and odd shape beneath the silk interfere with what I knew was right. The Drapsk had gone too far this time, trapping this poor creature here. The Drapsk in question were maintaining a comically frozen posture, none appearing to even breathe. Just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to be coaxed or forced.

Gently, I lifted one corner of the silk. All I could see underneath was a pulsating mass, so dark its color was impossible to determine, here and there glittering with perhaps moisture or perhaps scales. It was hard to tell. I considered where best to touch it, but the question was answered for me as the tentacle-arm reappeared, waved at my eye level for a moment, then dropped to rest with truly staggering weight on my shoulder. I had to brace myself to stay upright, needing both hands to keep my abruptly enthusiastic hair from lashing me in the face.

But the contact was all I needed. I opened my sense to the M’hir, finding the flickering light within it that was all that remained of the Rugheran. It was ready to give up its existence, traumatized almost to insanity by the probably well-intentioned ministrations of the Drapsk. But it needed others of its kind to touch and support it. This close to its musical thought patterns, that need was enough to make me sob with my own emptiness.

There was only one cure. It suggested what to do, pleaded really, and I agreed.

I collected every bit of power I possessed, and pushed the dying being into the M’hir, extending my senses with it as it sought the way home. Silk sighed down around me and I felt myself drop to my knees as I lost the burden on my shoulder.

This was not how the Clan or I traveled, I thought, keeping my other sense with the Rugheran. Rather than dissolving or struggling, the being seemed to me to gather strength from the power around us both, to prepare itself, then, suddenly, I lost all sense of it as it plunged into the blank darkness like a fish into an ocean.

I pulled myself free, returning my consciousness to the amphitheater, my palms flat on the floor as I panted with the aftermath of my effort.

I could hear my breathing and nothing else.

I looked up through the cover of my still-twitching hair at several hundred thousand colorful, motionless, and likely quite shocked Drapsk.

Somehow, I didn’t think Copelup was going to be impressed with his Mystic One.

“I’m impressed. You came all the way to Plexis just to talk to me.” Morgan was sure his voice was smooth and expressionless, but Huido swiveled two more eyestalks toward him, as if reading more into the sound than the polite disbelief the Human intended. He raised a brow at the Carasian—an “I know what I’m doing” gesture—confident their guest would miss the exchange.

“That’s right, Captain Morgan.” Their guest, when accosted, had willingly identified himself as one Larimar di Sawnda’at of the Clan. He’d agreed to join them in Huido’s private and eavesdropper-proof apartment—appearing relaxed and confident. If true, Morgan was equally willing to have him continue with this error in judgment.

Morgan smiled thinly, attracting yet another pair of eyestalks. “And you were following me—?”

“As I told you. I wished to be sure of your identity before speaking to you. And you were buying such—interesting—things. Have a customer planning a private war?” Solidly built, Larimar had coarser, more blunt features than most Clan Morgan had met, though well within the standard considered handsome by most Humans. His eyes were the flaw: cold, pale green, and brimming with the superiority all Clan but one in Morgan’s experience appeared to feel in the presence of Humans. Morgan was willing to let the Clansman cling to that error in judgment as well.

The Human ignored the question. “Well, now you’re sure. Why so careful?”

Larimar shrugged, adding a charming, not quite Human smile. “We all know the attention of the Council hasn’t left you, Captain Morgan. I don’t wish it drawn to me as well.”

“I see,” Morgan said noncommittally, walking to the sideboard. His back safely to the Clansman and the overly observant Carasian, he watched his hands shake as they reached for the bottle of Huido’s private stock of Brillian Brandy. He stopped the movement, staring at his palms, forcing calmness through every part of him until his fingers were rock-steady once more.

Morgan’s smile as he turned with a tray was a shade too friendly, but he knew Huido wouldn’t comment—yet, anyway. “So what did you want to ask me, Clansman di Sawnda’at?” He knew the House name well enough. There had been a Sawn da’at at the head of the Clan Council on Camos; for all Morgan or any of his contacts knew, there still was. No news where they’d moved their meeting place after being ousted from the Human world of Camos; nothing about their activities at all.