“To evade you?”
“Terk thinks so.”
Barac didn’t bother turning to look at the taciturn Enforcer whose mental deadness was combined with an unblinking stare hard enough to bore holes. The commander was not quite trusting. Pleased to see him, definitely—for what she could gain. Barac clung to the hope that Rael was right—that they would gain more in return. Bowman was formidable for a Human. And all her people wore implants, making Barac feel alone on the ship, even when face-to-face with others. The conflict in sensation tended to make him queasy.
“When I first mentioned this other obligation, Commander Bowman,” Barac said, “I wasn’t free to explain it to you.”
“And now?”
He hated the clearness of her eyes. They missed nothing, tested everything, and veiled her thoughts as well as the implant did. “I was escorting Jarad di Sarc’s daughter, Sira di Sarc,” Barac began, finding it repugnant to name names, but knowing he had to offer Bowman something. “The attack on Auord might have been aimed at Sira. We have our internal rivalries, of course.” Barac spoke the lie with confidence; a Human should believe it. How could any of them imagine the simplicity of Clan politics, a system based solely on personal power, measurable instantly and without error?
“Fem di Sarc didn’t come to us or any agency on Auord.”
“She wouldn’t,” Barac said. “But I’ve reason to believe she’s left Auord.”
“Does Hom di Sarc know his daughter’s missing?”
Barac felt his control slipping and drew within himself to master it. Bowman covered his silence with a moment’s satisfied attention to her dessert.
“I appreciate that you find it distasteful to deal with me, Clansman,” Bowman said at last. “But you are here, so I assume you’ve decided you need me. Let’s try to put our mutual suspicions to one side for a moment. Now. Would you know if di Sarc’s daughter were dead?” Barac looked away.
“So,” Bowman said, obviously intrigued. “I can tell you this much—she was taken in a sweep by recruiters and either escaped or was taken offworld. We narrowed down the possibilities to a handful of ships.”
“Recruiters. Slavers, you mean!” Barac half-rose from his seat, bile rising into his throat, almost blinded by power which surged and seethed without target.
“My people are good, Barac sud Sarc,” Bowman went on, unaffected. “But the vermin had their bolt-hole ready. Personally, I think di Sarc’s daughter escaped in the confusion of the raid. Would you consider her capable of this?”
“No,” he said, without thinking, then flushed and sat back down. “I don’t know. Sira has led a very sheltered life, Commander. She’s not used to strangers.”
“Until now.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Bowman scowled at the remains of her supper. “I did. Now I’m not so sure.”
Barac put all the persuasiveness he knew into his voice. “Then we do need my cousin, Commander. Rael can help locate Sira for us.”
“How?”
Barac smiled to himself. Bowman hunted secrets. In this case, what good would a gift of the truth do her? “Rael is a M’hir taster,” he explained willingly. “She is able to sense changes in the M’hir due to individual power, much as you tell the difference between the foods on your plate by taste alone. She can also trace the path of the power through the M’hir to find a location in space. Rael can lead us to Sira, no matter where Sira is.”
Bowman rose slowly, trying in vain to recapture her contented feeling of moments before. It never paid to conduct business over a meal; already her stomach rumbled ominously. She gazed thoughtfully at Barac’s elegant, handsome face, assessing the odds. He smiled at her, a smile with a shade too much charm to be Human. Obviously, the Clansman was using her.
Bowman smiled back. She’d wanted to find Sira before the Clan did, but there was nothing wrong with being flexible. After all, what she really needed was proof of Clan trespassing in Trade Pact affairs. If she offered the Clansman a target, maybe he’d provide her with just that.
At any rate, it suited her aggravated stomach. “Terk. Adjust course for Deneb. Make sure you request priority clearance and dock. I don’t want any delays.” Terk left. “Now, Clansman,” Bowman said silkily. “Do you know a Human named Jason Morgan?”
Chapter 10
“APPROACH control for Plexis is on the com.” I stayed in the doorway, safely distant, my muscles so rigid I felt them tremble. But my voice sounded normal enough to me. “They’re asking for you.”
The figure on the hammock gave a small cough, dry and ragged. I winced with Morgan, then, despite my misgivings, I moved forward, passing the cup from the tray beside the hammock to Morgan’s outstretched hand.
Our eyes met and held. His face was paler than before his stay within the healing gel cocoon, pale and with bones closer to the skin. In this changed face, Morgan’s unusual eyes were like pools of some dangerous liquid. They were puzzling at me now; I could feel it.
I let go of the cup too soon. It dropped to the floor before either of us could catch it. Without speaking, my face hot, I poured another and gave it to Morgan more carefully, quickly wiping up the mess and stepping back as he drank. It seemed his eyes were trying to dig into my soul.
“You’re afraid of me,” he decided finally, as if amazed. “Why? What’s happened?” Then another thought flickered behind his eyes. “Is it because of Malacan?”
Maybe I should have gone. Certainly I needed more distance from Morgan—his mere presence disturbed me in a way that I couldn’t ignore. “Ret 7’s long gone.” I said. “And I’m not afraid of you.” It hung in the air like an ultimatum.
To whom, I wondered. I’d hoped everything would return to normal once Morgan woke up and was free of the cocoon. Normal? An ironic way to feel about the compulsions stuck in my head in place of memory. But what I’d experienced hadn’t been a dream, I realized, controlling a shudder; no one could wake me from it. No more fantasies.
“I have things to do—” I said, turning to leave. A hand, more bone than flesh, dropped lightly and warmly on my wrist.
“Sira, wait. Let me explain—”
I jerked free, the panic beginning again, the insidious sense of him magnified a thousandfold by his touch— that touch I’d dreamed of once. I fought to control my breathing; it helped control the fear. “Save your explanations for Plexis,” I said roughly. “I’ve stalled them long enough. The
Fox
needs you.” My hasty exit was more of a rout.
I’d found the control room fascinated me as much as it frustrated—it made an oddly comforting second home. Now, I curled up in the copilot’s couch, warily eyeing the machinery humming and winking to itself on all sides. A small, green light flashed wearily on the com panel. Plexis again, wanting details I couldn’t provide or invent.
I didn’t turn at the sound of Morgan’s slow but steady steps, preferring to watch him out of the corner of my eye. He checked the panels with a series of darting, intelligent looks, then settled into his own seat with a contented air. Controls raised themselves to his hands, a deepening burr and clatter marking the response of the ship to its captain. I sighed with relief, thinking the
Fox
would probably echo me if she could.
“There,” Morgan said after a moment. “Plexis has acceptedour ident and released a spot on the ring for us.” One hand stroked the panel idly. “I’ve put my life into the care of this ship before now.”
I shivered. “Is that the best choice? Learn to trust a machine?” I rose to my feet, feeling clumsy. Morgan was with his ship; I wasn’t necessary.
Morgan stopped me with his voice. “There’s nowhere to run on a starship.”
I didn’t move, keeping my back to him. “I know,” I said almost lightly.
“Please sit down, Sira.”
It was easier to obey than to resist. It was the same on every level of my thoughts: Parts of me were starting to slip away and it was simpler to watch them go than to fight for them.
But Morgan’s voice was like an anchor: “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“What I’m feeling?” I echoed. “I wish it were so simple, Captain.”
“I can’t help unless you let me!”
Undecided, I turned without grace and faced his searching blue eyes. How could I explain the connection continuing to forge itself between us, when it mystified me? “I’m changing,” I gave him my greatest fear, without any hope he’d understand it. I didn’t.
“How? Has more of your memory come back to you?” Did I imagine caution sliding behind his blue eyes? “Or is it something between us?” The color returned to his pale cheeks. “I haven’t explained, or thanked—”
“You won’t tell me the truth, anyway, Morgan,” I interrupted sharply and saw that bolt strike home in the tightening of his lips. “Nor am I sure I want to know. Anyway, keep your thanks until you find out what happened while you were unconscious. The
Fox
and I needed some help to leave Ret 7. I’m reasonably sure you’ll find a debt recorded by
Venture
—a substantial one.”
Instead of the dismay I had expected, Morgan actually grinned. “An account firmly in my favor, Sira, though I’m sure Ariva wouldn’t have bothered you with that small detail. Well done. And I do want to thank you.” Then his smile faded. “You look worse than I feel. I don’t think you’ve slept or eaten since lift. You’re no good to the
Fox
or yourself in such a state. What’s wrong?”
“I haven’t felt hungry, or tired,” I admitted, startled to realize his observation was the truth. I looked at my hands, only now seeing the bones prominent on my knuckles. How had I existed for the two days since Ret 7? I had been in a cocoon of my own, perhaps, until roused by the approach alarms. That wasn’t what mattered. “I’m changing, Captain Morgan,” I repeated. “Inside. In some ways, I feel as though I’m waking up. My mind is sharper, clearer—healing, perhaps.”
Morgan raised a brow. “That can’t be what’s burning your jets.”
I sighed again and shifted, dredging up a smile from somewhere. “To be honest, Captain, I don’t want to talk about it at all.” Yet his expectant look forced me to continue. “I feel myself changing in other ways, too; I don’t know how, or why, or where it will end.” I leaned forward, eyes intent on his, willing him to understand. “All this changing scares me. Whoever I was before is a stranger now. How can I miss what I don’t know? But what if I’m about to lose Sira Morgan, too? How can I accept that?
“This must all sound mad to you,” I finished. Or was I mad already? my thoughts churned.
“Come here,” Morgan ordered gently, patting the end of the pilot’s couch. “Come,” more firmly, when I didn’t move. “I’m doing well to sit here at all, chit,” this reminder delivered with a more familiar snap of exasperation. I obeyed, unhappy at his proximity but drawn from my own concerns by the grayness under Morgan’s skin.
“If the
Fox
is ready, you should—” I began.
Morgan shook his head emphatically. “Docking at a supermarket isn’t something you do on auto. You never know when some fool will try to cut ahead on your approach. I plan to stay right here.” He’d drawn his knees up to his chest so that we could share the pilot couch. Now he rested his chin on his arms where they crossed atop his knees and considered me thoughtfully. “You said you weren’t afraid of me, Sira,” Morgan said at last, eyes shadowed. “Why can’t I believe you?”
I flushed. But I remained as far away from him as physically possible—a defense that was also betrayal. “Is there a reason I have to sit here?” I asked tightly.
“Yes.” Morgan’s voice was stern and kept me still. Raising his head, he brought one hand to rest lightly upon my shoulder. I shuddered, instantly aware of a strange reverberation as my rapidly beating heart acquired an echo that was at once more powerful and distant. I tried to smother the sensation, to control the urge to gasp with panic.
I wasn’t the only one afflicted. With a curse, Morgan snatched back his hand. I dropped my head, suddenly weak. “When did this start?” he asked, his voice very odd.
I found strength somewhere and looked up at him. “So you felt it, too?”
“I don’t know what I felt.”
The shock on Morgan’s face was vastly reassuring. “When you were taken by the priests, I knew it,” I said flatly. “When you were in the cocoon, I felt your pain. My nightmares disturbed you across half the ship. I think you’d better explain what’s happening between us— explain it and make it stop.”
Morgan’s face took on a keenness, a sharpening, as though curiosity could burn the last weakness from his body and mind. “I confess to wondering how you were able to arrive in time to save my neck from the ceremonial claw. Hmmm.”
Before I could avoid it, Morgan’s hand pressed warm and firm against my forehead. A force, a
power,
flowed along that bridging, suspending me in an unnatural lassitude that permitted not the slightest movement or sound.
Release came when Morgan chose to remove his touch. I scrambled away, backing until I felt the copilot’s couch against my legs. “It’s been you!” I burst out furiously, accusingly, my breath coming in tearing gasps. “All this time, all the things I’ve been feeling were your meddling! What are you? What have you done to me?” The pirate’s term,
mindcrawler,
trembled on my lips.
Morgan looked drained, tired. I was reminded again of how recently the cocoon had released him. “I haven’t been meddling, as you call it,” he said heavily. “What I can do—well, I can’t do the kind of thing you’ve begun feeling. I don’t know anyone who can.” He hesitated a long moment. “Maybe I do. Sira,” Morgan continued in a oddly thickened voice, “I was paid to take you with me from Auord.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t have any currency,” I said impatiently. “That’s why I’ve been cleaning the holds.”
Morgan thumbed the latch from a cupboard under his seat. He reached down and pulled up a clear bag of currency gems. “I was paid by a Clansman named Barac.”
I’d have been less astonished had Morgan sprouted antennae from his forehead. “So I should thank this Barac person for rescuing me from Auord,” I said, not sure why I felt bitter. “Whoever he is.”