When we were alone, I turned to Morgan. “What are you up to?” I hissed.
Morgan reached out and grasped my hand. I allowed it, looking at him with concern as I sensed the laboring of his body through the touch. His skin was tinged with gray. “You’re not safe, Sira. I doubt anyone on Ret 7 will forget you. And now you’ve been spotted here by the Clan. Let me help,” Morgan paused, tired eyes fixed on mine, an almost pleading note to his voice. “Believe in me a while longer. Stay. Once you’re safe, I promise to help you leave when and how you choose.”
Without thought, my hand turned until my fingers could wrap around his. There was a warmth inside me able to move of itself, without conscious effort, down my arm, across that physical link. I felt it reach Morgan, sensed him grow stronger. His face lost some of its pallor. At first wide with surprise, Morgan’s eyes softened until I thought I could drown in them.
“I can take you there now,” Huido announced, snapping the binding between Morgan and me. I took a deep, shuddering breath, as if shaking free of a spell, releasing the grip of my own fingers and pulling free of the gentle resistance his offered.
Huido’s promised refuge turned out to be a suite of rooms behind his restaurant, reached by a passage through the kitchens. At the door, Morgan hesitated, then stretched his hand toward the shadow beneath the edge of Huido’s hood carapace. The sparkling eyes parted and long, deadly-looking jaws sprang from the darkness, their twin needle-like tips closing to lightly indent the skin of Morgan’s hand, then disappearing. “Guard our backs,” Morgan said so quietly I almost didn’t hear the words.
Fuel lamps, not antiques but looking newly-made and functional—a costly luxury on a station—hung from metal hooks at intervals around the walls of the room we entered. After locking the door, Morgan chose to light three of these instead of ordering on the interior portlights, thus bathing the center of the room and the entrance to an adjacent hallway in a warm, yellow glow. Shadows pooling in the corners added to the effect, offering rest for the eyes. The furnishings were colorful, with rounded corners that encouraged curling up with a good vistape and reader.
“Let me take your cloak, Fem Morgan,” my companion offered with a sweeping bow.
Frowning, I pulled the evac-suit from my shoulders and arms, letting it fall to my ankles so I could step free of it. Underneath I wore my faded blue spacer coveralls. “What are we doing here, Morgan?”
He grew still, as if put on guard by my question—or by my refusal of his aid. “Getting some well-earned rest.”
“Are there viewports?” I asked, ignoring this last as I searched the walls with my eyes. They were covered with thick, multitextured hangings of cloth—hand-made blankets, I decided.
“No,” Morgan said, heading toward the hallway with his belongings. “Plexis doesn’t encourage visitors to see who’s coming and going from her docks.” He left me standing there.
I examined some curios on a shelf, not sure what to do with myself, not sure whether I was trapped or safe. A sudden heavy thud made me jump. I ran toward the sound, fearing anything and everything.
Down the hall, the light was brighter, revealing a central kitchen area with doors on two walls. Morgan lay crumpled on the floor in the center of the kitchen, one hand clutching the side of a counter, the other pressed to his ribs.
I dropped to my knees beside him. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing labored. “You fool,” I scolded angrily, helping him up to a kitchen chair. “You should be back in med-gel. I’ll take you back to the
Fox
—we can leave—”
His hand fastened on my arm, its grip stronger than it should have been. “No!” Morgan’s voice was a whisper, but his tone was fierce. “Stay away from the
Fox!
”
I sank into the other chair, staring at him. “Why?” When his lips stayed closed in a stubborn line, I leaned forward and kept his eyes on mine. “Malacan Ser,” I said, abruptly certain of several things, including Morgan.
There was no outward sign of reaction, even weak from his convalescence Morgan had more self-control than that, but through his hand on my arm I felt the effort that control required. “So,” I said quietly. “There was a price for me, after all.”
Morgan’s eyes flickered, then held steady. He shook his head very slowly. “Some things are not for sale. Not by me.”
“Can you ever go back to the
Fox?
”
His fingers relaxed, releasing their tight grip on my arm. Perhaps he realized how the contact had betrayed him. “The
Silver Fox
will shortly disappear,” Morgan said lightly, as if it didn’t matter. “I expect Morgan of Karolus will also fade from the lanes for a while. Such things are easy enough to arrange in the belly of Plexis.”
I rubbed my thumb in little circles over the smooth cool surface of the tabletop, concentrating on the simple motion in order to gather my thoughts. So much he was leaving unsaid. So much I didn’t understand. Morgan heaved a sigh and gently brushed the back of my hand with the tips of his fingers. I looked up at him.
“Sira,” he said soberly, eyes unnaturally bright in his wan face. “I made some bad deals; promised things I shouldn’t have. It happens. I didn’t know you—couldn’t have known—” he stopped, drawing a breath. “Well, let’s just say a lot of things about you are different than I expected. All I can say is, we’re together in this.” His lips quirked upward as if he sought to lighten the moment. “Until, of course, such time as you decide you’ve had enough of this excuse for a trader.”
“You’re babbling,” I said, but as gently as I could. “We’re both tired and overfed, Captain. I, for one, could use a night’s sleep.” Without asking his permission, I caught his arm as he rose unsteadily, sliding my shoulder underneath. “We can talk in the morning.”
Morgan accepted my help, nodding in the direction of his room. Once there, I eased him down onto the bed and stood back. He sank down with a sigh of relief, eyes closing. “Will you be all right?” I asked, hesitating. What words could I use to offer help, when I didn’t know what I could do?
Morgan understood, however. “A blanket, Sira, and a night’s rest. Save your gift,” he paused and opened one eye. “We might need it.”
Chapter 12
MORGAN may have been exhausted, but I found myself more inclined to twitch than to relax. Perhaps it was the change from the
Fox.
The station’s sounds and vibrations were similar to the ship’s, but lower-pitched and distant. They made me uneasy, as if something was wrong. The air tasted peculiar, too, which could have been the thought of sharing it with thousands of strangers.
So, instead of trying to sleep, I tucked myself under a blanket and listened to music. The tape I’d found was unmarked—a personal recording perhaps, made by the person whose apartment Huido had casually loaned us. The music’s soft sound matched the desert colors decorating this bedroom, an eerie crooning reminiscent of wind as it curled sand and carved rock.
I let my mind drift with the melody, and found myself pondering the disappearing stranger, the Clansman. Was he buried in some reluctant memory? Why had he ignored Morgan until forced to use some kind of power to push Morgan out of his way? The Clansman had known me the instant he’d seen my face. Yet the obviously powerful being’s reaction had been fear. Of me? I shook my head. That hardly seemed likely. But then, what did I know of my former self?
Now, I had a name, Sira Morgan. And a friend— perhaps two, if I counted the gallant Huido. I smiled to myself. I’d come a long way from the emptiness of that first night, when my mind was hollow and ridden by compulsions.
I’d accepted their guidance, I realized abruptly, accepted it the way I would a hand offered to help me stand after a fall. Yet now I was almost certain that whoever stole my memories was responsible for the controls planted in my mind. The hand offered to help was the same one that had pushed me down.
Why hadn’t I wondered before about the compulsions and their source? I’d probably given more thought to the pattern of freckles on the backs of my hands. That lack of curiosity was suspicious in itself.
What else was in my head waiting to take charge, to twist me its way without explanation? The uncomfortable thought tried to sneak away, to lose itself somewhere. I held the slippery thing fiercely, determined not to forget. Sira Morgan would be in charge of her own thoughts from now on, I swore to myself, knowing that promise was the most important of my short life.
The music began scaling up into an anguished crescendo too close to my own feelings for comfort. I hit the button to turn it off.
I stretched and had to yawn. My eyes were gritty when I blinked. Time to splash some water on my face.
As I dried my hands, still undecided whether to sleep or find breakfast, my reflection in the mirror caught my eye. I leaned forward, pressing my hands flat on either side of that face to hold it still. Gray eyes with a hint of black stared back just as intently. “I know you,” I said. “You’re Sira Morgan, crew on the
Silver Fox.
Didn’t we meet on Auord?”
I tilted my head and the image tilted in mocking synchrony. “Do you know who I am?” I asked Sira Morgan, watching her lips shape the question but not the answer.
“Sira?”
I knocked over a bottle of soap as I whirled around, half expecting to see the Clansman forming from air behind me. “Don’t do that!” I scolded Morgan.
He smiled apologetically. “Thought you heard me knock.”
Morgan had changed clothes and looked to have used the fresher in his room. His blue eyes were bright again. Too bright. They held the same odd glow I’d last seen on the bridge of the
Fox,
when Morgan had used his own unusual power to lock me in place.
“I’m getting ready to sleep,” I said warily.
He backed out of my way, but didn’t leave. “We don’t have much time, Sira,” Morgan said, watching me closely. “I need to talk to you.”
“Fine,” I said with another yawn. I guessed his appearance meant morning had arrived. So much for sleep. “Let’s go in the kitchen and have some—”
“Here is better.”
The bedroom? I raised my eyebrow at him. Morgan looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I don’t recall repeating my offer, Captain,” I said.
And I won’t,
I thought to myself, all too aware of the link between us, holding together the rags of my dignity like a defense against the ache in my right hand, the emptiness he alone could fill. “I choose for myself.”
“I’m sorry, Sira,” Morgan said in a tight, strange voice. “This time, I don’t see any choice for either of us. The Clan are on Plexis. I have to find out why you can’t remember your past.”
I was startled by his quick move to take hold of my arm. Before the protest left my lips, his other hand pressed hard on my forehead. His impossible eyes reached deep into mine. I felt dizzy, disconnected, drowned in blue.
Then I blinked. I was lying on the bed. Immediately, I tried to get up; my right arm was asleep and my fingers prickled as I flexed them. “Morgan!” I shouted, then wasn’t sure why.
“I’m here.” A soft voice from the dark. He must have dimmed the lights.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, but didn’t get to my feet. My thoughts churned in slow motion. “Is it morning?” I ventured, rubbing my eyes with my left hand.
“Have a drink. There’s sombay on the table.” His voice was still soft.
There was just enough light to find the carafe and cups. All I could see of Morgan were two glints that marked his eyes in the shadows. I cradled the warm cup in my hand, took a sip of the spiced liquid. Then I remembered.
I lunged to my feet, the cup and contents flying from my hand in his general direction. “What have you done to me?” I demanded, ordering up the lights with a snarl.
Morgan squinted at me. He was slouched deep in a bowl-shaped chair, a chair he’d moved beside the closed bedroom door. My cup had missed, but dark brown sombay trailed like bloodstains between us on the creamy carpet. “I’ve done nothing.”
I hesitated at the tone of his voice. It was angry, a deep hurt kind of anger such as I’d never heard from Morgan before. I sank back down on the bed. “What did you do?” I asked again, this time very quietly.
“What I vowed I’d never do—to anyone,” Morgan said, his lips twisted and sour. “And I did it to you. My trusting friend.” He took a deep drink from the glass in his hand. It didn’t look like sombay. “And the real joke of it all, Sira,” Morgan continued, his voice dripping with bitterness, “is that I’m not the first to rip my way through your thoughts without asking. Oh, no. And that person did a much more thorough rape than I.”
My legs and arms hung limp. They belonged to someone else; by some unfathomable coincidence, they remained attached to me. “I don’t understand—”
“I know.” Morgan drank again, deeply. “I know how you feel. I know what you hope for. Damn it, Sira, I saw myself through your eyes!”
“Why did you do it?” I asked, as icily calm as he was distraught, refusing to admit to myself how it felt to be so utterly exposed.
“Your thoughts were clear, you know, like crystal,” Morgan said, all at once meeting my glare, his blue eyes dull. “Beautiful, clear thoughts. Gods, that you trusted me so much. Cared for me. And I was so sure I knew what was best. Now—”
“What are you drinking?” I asked when he stopped.
“Water.”
“Then, tell me what you did before I throw something else,” I said firmly.
He sighed, a deep shuddering breath more like a sob. His feet thumped to the floor as Morgan straightened. He put his drink down. “I invaded your mind,” he said very slowly, as if determined to spare himself nothing. “I couldn’t warn you—or ask.”
“Why?”
“You might have fought. I don’t have the skill to overcome resistance without hurting you.”
Which made his actions more reasonable, if not exactly pleasant to contemplate. I held my head stiffly, imprisoning his gaze with mine. My hands were fists, but I tucked them behind my back. “Did you discover any worthwhile secrets to sell to Malacan Ser? Or are you trading with the pirate now?”