To Trade the Stars (2 page)

Chef Neltare looked shocked. “The certification cannot be counterfeited!”

“Then how did you miss learning that most non-Neblokans abhor cannibalism!” Huido restrained the urge to snap his lower pair of massive handling claws with considerable difficulty, and continued in what he hoped was a more reasoning tone. “Chef Neltare. It's not as though we're talking about beings eating one another for survival. Try to imagine how those beings would feel to discover they'd violated their principles for an overpriced appetizer.”

The salad bowl lifted threateningly. “Are you implying my appetizers aren't worth the price?”

Huido switched tactics. “I have enough trouble getting truffles—how can you possibly obtain the—” even the usually callous Carasian hesitated, “—raw ingredients?”

“Hardly a problem in so vibrant a community as Plexis,” Neltare boasted. “In fact, today alone I was paid quite handsomely to take the ingredients for my new pâté—as well as a rib dish I modestly believe will be a marvel.” The being's amber pupils glowed beneath their sequined eye ridges. “I hardly thought you of all beings would balk at this, Hom Huido. You've done it before, after all. Everyone says so.”

Wondering if he'd ever live down having served that Clansman's corpse to a delegation of vastly impressed Thremms—a secret spread so far around the station as to have become legend, thus resulting in shiploads of vastly disappointed Thremms and a welcome decrease in uninvited Clan—Huido's sigh shuddered through his body. The resulting vibration slithered free the topmost plates in the clean stack, most crashing to the floor. Huido calculated the cost of the nonrecyclable porcelains and winced. “All I know, Master Chef,” he said, almost to himself, “is my life is being ruined by success. I've hardly time for the pool anymore. And your novel approach to broadening the menu at the
Claws & Jaws
will be the ultimate straw, as the Humans express it.”

“Humans. Brain-dead pests with no taste buds,” the Neblokan muttered, the gleaming blue wattle beneath its chin swelling with displeasure. Then, perhaps realizing criticism of a species that included the giant Carasian's dearest friend was likely unwise, given the ringing snap of a great claw, the being added in haste: “Except Captain Morgan. An epicure, of his kind. Remarkably cultured—”

Forgetting he was trying to reconcile with the being, Huido lunged forward, claws snapping in unison, sending the chef dodging behind his side of the stove. “Don't talk to me about that unreliable excuse for brexks' fodder! Too busy for the Pocular run, is he? Too busy to help his brother keep up with business or to see what a disaster he's left behind! Too busy in his own pool to care about mine! Does he even call?”

As this last was delivered in a deafening bellow quite probably heard all the way into the dining hall, if not out into the Plexis concourse itself, the now-cowering chef didn't bother to answer.

“
D
ON'T they ever knock?”

We were alone.
Now
. The Council representative who'd mistakenly 'ported into our cabin, setting off Morgan's complaint and the
Fox
's alarms—including some which should give said representative a well-deserved headache—had left as quickly as he'd appeared. With a little help from me.

And after one look at me or, rather, where I was.

I gazed at my hand, fingers spread over the warmer skin of Morgan's stomach, fascinated anew by the firmness of muscle and curve of rib—both of which had moved quite abruptly in reaction to our visitor, as had his shoulder beneath my cheek. I shifted to nestle even closer.
I've tried to convey the concept, my love
, I sent into his thoughts, uninterested in speaking aloud in this moment before we had to stir, this moment before the universe demanded its share of us. How quickly I'd come to love waking together, lingering at the edge of peace.

Morgan chuckled into my hair, his arms gathering me in a brief, tight hold. No need of words, spoken or sent. My gentle, passionate lover, my Chosen, was also Captain of the
Silver Fox
, Karolus Registry. Lingering lasted only until he began to think of the day ahead and his starship.

Our
starship, I reminded myself proudly.

For among the fundamental changes in my life: from the protective seclusion of a Chooser, to Choice with this Human; from being little more than a rumor to my kind, the Human-seeming Clan, to Speaker for their Council; and from being alone and hunted, to companionship and happiness—I counted becoming a partner and crew on this small ship as wondrous a change as any.

I'd been right. Morgan rolled away with a practiced twist to slide his feet to the floor in the narrow space between our bed and the fresher stall, leaving me cold along one side until I snuggled under the portion of sheet warmed by his body.

Temporary refuge. The sheet disappeared as suddenly as the Clansman had. “Time to get up, Lady Witch,” Morgan informed me, a laugh beneath the words. “We have bills to pay.”

I didn't need to look to know the sheet was no longer in the cabin, though I hoped it was still on the ship. My Human's Power left a tingle in the M'hir between us, just as his triumph left a surge of joy for me to share. “Show-off,” I said, pretending to grumble.

“Practice, practice, practice,” he said, knowing full well I was proud of his growing ability to move objects through the M'hir. My kind, the M'hiray branch of the Clan, had believed this was solely their talent.

They'd been wrong
, I thought contentedly, following Morgan into the fresher.
About so many things
.

“You know they're wrong. This is impossible.” Barac sud Sarc, former Clan Scout and presently serving as Mystic One for the powerful Makii Tribe of the Drapsk, ran one hand through his thick black hair and glared at the image hovering a hands' breath above the carpet. “I tell you, Rael, it can't be done their way!”

“Tell them, Cousin, not me,” Rael di Sarc, also Mystic One for the Makii—though the Heerii claimed her, too, through some unfathomable confusion of Drapsk internal politics—appeared more interested in scrutinizing the delicate lacework tattooed from her thigh to ankle, revealed by the slide of blue issa-silk from her long legs. She was beautiful, of course, as all Chosen Clanswomen were; her green eyes and fair skin, her lustrous black and living hair a legacy of her Serona lineage. Beautiful and no fool—Barac knew Rael well enough to take her apparent inattention as its opposite. He also knew why she was reluctant to discuss their situation: she didn't like admitting failure. Proud to a fault, like all their kind.

“Come back to the capital,” he compromised. “Talk to me.”

“Where I'll trip over them at every turn?” Rael had recently moved from their luxurious apartments in the Drapskii capital to an equally luxurious, but isolated, suite in a small border town near the mountains. The reason given, and accepted by the Drapsk, was that the greater distance enabled the two Clan to further experiment with their Power. A lie. Rael was as fond of the beings as he was—hard not to be fond of creatures so devoted and earnest—which only made it harder for either of them to contemplate disappointing them.

Not to mention that Rael was perturbed by their hosts committing
grispsta
if, as she'd complained to Barac, she so much as winked. An exaggeration, but there was no denying the Drapsk fascination with the Clanswoman. The closer they could be to her, the happier they were. If she tried to walk anywhere, they crowded lifts and corridors until her steps took on the semblance of a dance in order to avoid contact. Whenever she grew frustrated enough to ‘port away, the little beings trembled in ecstasy and sent her extravagant gifts—which would have been more pleasing except for their tendency to deliver those gifts in person. At any time of day.

Finally some benefit to being the lesser in Power, Barac smiled to himself, since the Drapsk treated him with the same casual courtesy as they did each other. He carefully kept the amused thought private. Rael wasn't one of those Clan who relished any opportunity to flaunt her superior strength, but old habits died hard.

Old habits. Barac took a steadying breath. Arguing with Rael was about as productive as arguing with Drapsk. Their species' approach to just about everything might be diametrically opposed, but as individuals? Both were as stubborn and set in their orbits as this planet's moons. Still, he had to try. “We've been here almost three months, Rael,” Barac reminded her, keeping his voice calm and persuasive. “Three months without a hint of success. And you know why as well as I do. They won't let us do anything without their failsafes and gadgets in our faces. They're obsessed with keeping us safe. We have to do this our way, or we'll be here the rest of our lives.”

“You unChosen are too quick to dismiss the value of safety. I, for one, approve the Drapsk's caution—”

“And you Chosen are famous for avoiding risk of any kind!”

His outburst, a surprise to them both, drew the hint of a smile. “Are we, now?” Rael murmured, but not as though offended. “Perhaps that's because we have much to protect, Cousin. Our Joined partner, our potential as child bearers, our links of Power to our offspring—”

Barac had never met Rael's Chosen, though he could sense, if he strained, the Power laced around their Joining through the M'hir. Janac di Paniccia lived on Omacron III, the only non-Human world inhabited by Clan; a verdant planet made irresistibly attractive by its inhabitants' high proportion of weak telepaths, individuals easy to manipulate, if inconveniently short-lived and fragile. Janac was a dabbler in the culturing of rare orchids, if Barac remembered correctly. Not a Clansman known for controversial views or even personal Power, though he must have enough to match his Chosen. Barely enough, as Rael had elected to retain her House name and her father, Jarad di Sarc, had refused Janac his. Mind you, Jarad was consistent. He'd refused the same honor to Pella's Chosen, Dasimar, ending the hopes of that Joining reflecting status on the House of sud Annk. Barac supposed the quietly xenophobic Council was grateful Sira's Human hadn't been interested in assuming his rightful designation of di Sarc.

Irrelevant details. To be so Joined was the heart's goal of every Clan. To never feel that completion of self, know that living bond through the void? Barac had almost convinced himself the aching hunger within his soul was fading with time; suddenly, all his desire surged forth, as eager and hopeless as always.

His cousin felt it; she had the grace to gesture appeasement with one long white hand. Courtesy or pity? Barac controlled his resentment and continued, willing to trade on her sympathy. “The Drapsk idea of risk has nothing in common with ours, Rael,” he said firmly. “They admit they don't know how we interact with the M'hir or how Sira was able to begin the reconnection of Drapskii within it. How can they know what's dangerous to us or not? Their caution smothers our ability to find these or any answers for ourselves.”

“And how do you plan to convince them otherwise?” the Clanswoman asked, arching a well-shaped brow.

“Come back. Help me talk to Skeptic Levertup. He's the worst of them.”

He saw her shudder delicately, black hair lifting from her shoulders in echo. “He's your Skeptic,” Rael reminded Barac. “You deal with him.”

Barac allowed a little of his frustration to leak into the M'hir and touch his cousin's outer thoughts. She scowled, slamming down her shields until almost invisible to his other sense.

“They can't detect your image ‘port, Rael,” he assured her. “And they can't eavesdrop.”

“I'm aware of their limitations, Cousin.” Rael looked up and met his eyes. Hers, dark and expressive, were unexpectedly troubled. “It doesn't matter. Don't you see? The Clan Watchers are bad enough. To have Levertup and his kind recording each and every time I use the M'hir? Making lists—having meetings about this level or that power flux? There's no privacy anymore, Barac. I can't be what I was. Not here.”

Barac made a throwaway gesture. “You can't be what never existed, Rael,” he said very gently. “It was all a lie. The Clan were never alone in the M'hir. We never owned or created it. As for the Watchers?” He hesitated. It was unseemly and potentially dangerous to talk about Them. They tended to notice. Barac went on recklessly: “Maybe they approve—”

“Or don't care,” Rael almost whispered, her voice trailing away. They were both less relieved than unnerved by the continued silence from Those Who Watched.

There were two, distinct and opposite, kinds of Clan Watchers: those who guarded the unborn and those who guarded the M'hir itself. The first were known, being posts of honor within a House: individual Clan assigned to act if a Joining between a Chosen pair was severed during pregnancy, to attempt to save the mind of the infant despite the loss of the mother's into the M'hir.

The other type of Watcher, the feared and disembodied voices of the M'hir, seemed not to know themselves. Oh, there were plenty of theories, none provable. Scholars hypothesized that, in some individuals, a portion of the mind lingered within the M'hir waking or sleeping, forming a complex awareness completely separate from the individual's consciousness, possessing the knowledge of that individual but none of the personality. Some went so far as to speculate the Watchers were the next step in the evolution of the Clan, the M'hiray, beings closer to a true and continuous existence in that other space.

Most Clan, though they wouldn't admit it, believed the Watchers were their dead, whose minds, once dissolved into the M'hir, were locked in an endless vigil guarding that space.