“No,” Morgan denied my accusations passionately. “I was trying to help you! The Clan knows you’re on Plexis—you saw how well I can hold just one of them off. The only defense we have is to find out why they’re after you.”
I shivered and drew my legs up, hugging them to my chest with both arms. “Did you?”
Morgan lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “No.” “Someone erased my memories, didn’t they,” I said with I thought commendable self-possession under the circumstances. “Someone used a machine or drugs—”
“No. Your memories aren’t gone. They’re smothered.” His voice quickened, grew harsh. “Whoever did it didn’t have the time or maybe the skill to be very subtle. Massive areas are blocked; parts of your active mind are disconnected. I couldn’t begin to assess the extent of the interference.” Morgan stood up with a curse and jerked the chair away from the door. His back was to me. “As I said, I’m not the first to assault you. Just the latest.”
Beyond any doubt, I believed him. A whisper of knowledge, partial, clouded, spoke to me of such obscene skill, just as I knew there were those who practiced it at whim. Morgan wasn’t one of them. I walked up to him and felt his shudder at the touch of my hand on his shoulder. “Is there anything you can do?” I asked him.
“Haven’t I done enough!” Morgan exclaimed, head turning so his eyes could blaze down at me. He subsided. “I’m out of my orbit here, Sira,” he said in a more normal voice. “I’ve some talent as a telepath, but no real training. I’ve scrounged bits and pieces from anyone who’d talk to me without asking questions. What’s been done to you—I’m not sure I can touch it, let alone clear any of the blockage.”
I kept my voice level but firm. “You owe it to me to try.” This time, I took Morgan’s arm and pulled him around to face me. “You must try,” I repeated. “I’m not afraid.”
Morgan shook his head, but cupped my face in his warm hands. His thumbs stroked my cheeks once, soft as air. “Then why these tears, Sira?”
“Sira . . .”
“Sira . . .” I twisted about at the absurd echo, dimly conscious of Morgan’s gasp. What I saw evoked an uncomfortably dualized reaction—part of me accepted quite calmly the barely visible female figure hovering just above the carpet. Another, probably saner, part was aware of the clamminess of my palms.
“Sira . . .” Again that ghostly naming, the voice even fainter than the just discernible figure.
Another very quiet voice, but this breathed into my ear. “Don’t answer,” Morgan whispered. His tanned hands moved in an odd throwaway gesture toward the figure. As suddenly as it had appeared, the apparition vanished.
The bedroom was implausibly normal again, as if nothing untoward had occurred. I could almost believe that myself, if it weren’t for the pounding of my heart.
“The Clan,” I whispered. “They’ve found us.”
Morgan walked over to where she had been, the vision definitely female if hard to see otherwise. He scuffed the carpet with his foot. “They’re close,” he half-agreed. He looked at me, blue eyes glowing. “If you’re sure . . . we have to hurry.”
Without a word, I went to the bed, lay down, and closed my eyes, waiting for Morgan to impose unconsciousness upon my mind once again. But he didn’t.
How can I describe what followed? There was no sensation beyond the by now familiar light touch of his warm hands; no sight, no sound. I could have been dreaming save that I was definitely awake. Yet something was happening as I lay under Morgan’s power, something gathering slowly at first, then more rapidly—gaining momentum every second.
Images began to swim up behind my closed eyelids. I saw the interior of the
Fox.
Flashes of malignant yellow and threatening heavy-browed scowls were all that I glimpsed of Roraqk and the Recruiter—their memory whisked past.
There was a sudden swelling, a pressure that grew until it burst within my mind. From it floated a face, a stern face, lined but vital, with fierce eyes overlooking a hawk’s beak of a nose.
My father,
I acknowledged with a casual certainty which astonished the pastless part of me. I scrutinized this face, searching for any hint or expression, watching his lips mouth soundless words.
That image was abruptly gone, replaced by a view of a luxurious cabin. On a private yacht: I knew without being told that here was one clue—how I had come to Auord. But from where? I strove to direct this search for the first time, no longer content to view at random.
I saw it—or was in it, for the sensation of being in this place was so strong and immediate I expected to be able to reach out and feel the objects around me. A room— no, a series of rooms. No particular luxury here, as on the yacht, but, rather, comfort and what I recognized as the oddments and personal effects of a lifetime. I seemed to drift to a window only to find it barred as I had somehow known it would be. Just as I knew there were other barriers, some unseen and some obvious; all serving the same purpose. To keep me there? Or was it to keep out—to keep out—
Something shoved back at me, a muscular push against my will, like the compulsions that had ridden me before but this time incredibly stronger, concentrated into pain. It was a trap, I knew it, set for anyone who touched my deeper thoughts. It licked like flame along the link to Morgan, burning as it went.
I called on a part of me I hadn’t known existed, seizing the pain, holding it. I felt as though I was being consumed, then made myself refuse the image. I somehow pushed the pain farther and farther away. After an eternity, the burning stopped.
I fought my way to the here and now, struggling, frantic with fear that I hadn’t been quick enough.
Morgan lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed, his head between his arms as though he’d tried to save himself. Trembling, I touched his face, his hands, trying to use the sense I had of him to make sure he lived. I could feel his heart, laboring but strong.
“Sira . . .”
She was back. Enraged, I
pushed
the vision away with my mind, just as I’d pushed the pain away from Morgan. Her form became wind-torn at the edges, then was gone.
Working in frantic haste, I put a pillow under Morgan’s head and a blanket over his body. My mind felt fuzzy, unfamiliar, a bit like wearing new shoes. What had Morgan done to me? I touched his hand, once ever so gently. Then I grabbed my small carryroll and ran.
Knowing the vision would follow.
INTERLUDE
“Damn the excuses, Barac! I was close, I know it!” Rael’s rage flared against his shields. He could see the strain the past hours had etched onto her face. “How dare they interrupt me!”
Barac noticed the discomfort of the Humans present but had little time to spare for them. Unless calmed, Rael was more than capable of refusing to help him any further. “The Enforcer thought—”
“I doubt there was any thought involved.” Rael threw up her arms in a gesture of disgust. “Explain to them again, Barac. I am not to be disturbed while I scan the M’hir—I don’t care if there’s a sun going nova in our path! Now I’ve lost it. Argh . . .” The cabin door refused to slam, but no other element of Rael’s ire was missed by the three in the corridor.
“Who was it Fem di Sarc lost? Did she sense your Sira?” Bowman asked, eyes bright.
“She didn’t say. Stay on your current heading,” Barac added, relaying the message Rael had scorched into his mind during her dramatic exit. “We’re very close. One more contact, and Rael will have a precise location for you.”
Bowman smiled. “In this case, close is good enough, Hom sud Sarc. Plexis. I knew—”
Barac heard a sudden scream, more mental than sound and left Bowman standing openmouthed outside the locked door.
Rael was hunched over, tears filling her eyes. She looked up at him. “The M’hir,” Rael managed to gasp. “She threw me out of it.”
“Who?” Barac demanded, going down on his knees in front of his suffering cousin, careful not to crowd her. “Who did this?”
“It was Sira,” Rael answered, her voice a whisper.
“That’s impossible. Sira—she’s in stasis, Rael!”
Rael looked sick. “Not any more, Barac. I don’t know how it’s possible.” She hesitated. “Your Human, Morgan. He’s a telepath.”
Barac found himself standing and stumbling backward before he thought. “No!” Yet how many things that detail explained, he realized, his doubt already dissolving.
“Yes! The stink of him contaminated her power in the M’hir.” Rael wiped her eyes, impatient with her weakness. “What has he done?”
“We’ll find out,” Barac vowed. “And Morgan will pay.”
Chapter 13
RAW nicnic was incredibly awkward to peel, but a handful of the fruit was all I’d been able to grab during my discreet exit through the kitchen of the
Claw and Jaw.
Huido’s cook had ignored me, busy with a masterpiece insistent on crawling out of the pot, and I tried not to examine his work too closely. I’d found the inconspicuous back door I’d expected. After all, no one really wants to see where the scraps go after dinner.
I found myself in a service corridor. It snaked off into station distance, a machine world lined with waste canisters chewing their contents and servo-controlled delivery carts muttering past on business of their own. The occasional courier drone screeched by overhead.
I trotted behind one of the carts, having picked it at random after tossing my handful of nicnic peels into a happily belching canister. I’d made a good choice; the delivery cart soon paused before a wide door, moving inside as the door folded itself into the ceiling.
I followed the cart into a receiving area of some kind, alert for any signs of a guard or security. A metallic clang gave me just enough warning to avoid the set of handling arms that swung into place beside the cart and started offloading its cargo. The plas eyes on the arm nearest me swiveled my way, gleamed orange as if assessingmy stature as a package, then swiveled back to focus on its task.
By turning sideways, and leaving some skin behind, I was able to squeeze past the other side of the cart. A door meant for someone considerably shorter than I beckoned, and I tried the handle impatiently. It opened with a smooth click, letting me through.
I blinked. The twenty or so beings in the room blinked at the same time—and much more effectively, since each was a Turrned with eyes the size of my hand. I was standing on what was definitely an altar, complete with fragrant smoking candles and dishes of what might have been wine.
“Servo’s working fine,” I said, somewhat breathless, waving vaguely behind me as I negotiated the tiny stairs leading down from the altar with some difficulty. “Don’t need to thank me. Always glad to help.”
The Turrned purred to each other with rather alarming loudness. I kept smiling and nodding, moving firmly toward the exit. The Turrned tilted their heads to watch me, limpid brown eyes brimming with sincerity. One spoke to me, I couldn’t tell which. The voice was high-pitched with an underlying vibration as though the speaker purred at the same time. “You are troubled. Stay. We will pray for you.”
Such kind beings, I thought with a rush of warmth, stopping in the doorway to the concourse.
A burly Human entered through the door as I hesitated, shoving me out of his way with one sweep of his thick arm. “This the Mission?” he demanded, scowling down at the tiny Turrneds, who all blinked up at him. “Heard you gave out food.” He looked to be a spacer, but his overalls were shabby and without any rank insignia.
This time I spotted the one who spoke. Its throat swelled with each word, even though the pursed lips stayed closed. “You are troubled,” went the purr. “Stay. We will pray for you.”
“I want something to eat,” the man said, but less roughly, already under the spell of those beautiful brown eyes.
“You are troubled. Stay. We will—”
I smiled to myself, bowed to the missionaries, and went out into the concourse.
The crowds were as I remembered, location not seeming to make a difference. Everyone was in a hurry, making me wonder what merchants had to do to get anyone to stop and buy. I inserted myself into a lane of foot traffic moving at a comfortable pace and immediately felt much less conspicuous.
I put my hand in my left pocket, checking on my ident card. Morgan had given it to me before we left the
Fox,
in case the station authorities demanded some proof that I was registered crew. Now, I hoped it could be my ticket off Plexis.
I hadn’t counted on Plexis itself being a problem. Hours later, with sore feet and an empty stomach, I entered the lineup for yet another automated ramp and wondered, not for the first time, just how big this place was. At least I’d managed not to circle back into the area where Morgan might be. But I was no closer to finding a ship of my own.
Being sandwiched between a pair of servos gave me a chance to lean on something as the ramp pulled its mostly living cargo to the next level. So far, all I’d found was more wholesalers, the seven levels I’d tried so far identical, if progressively richer in their offerings, to the one where I’d first entered the station. My spacer garb was becoming more conspicuous. I resisted the impulse to check over my shoulder.
The servo in front of me disembarked and I hurried to follow before the one behind rumbled its impatience. The machines wouldn’t trample anyone, but they would summon their operators if kept from their work long enough.
Something was different here. I drew out of the crowd— that moving, aimless mass of machines and shoppers hadn’t changed—and found a quiet spot from which to survey my surroundings.
The air had a fragrance suggesting growing things nearby. The walls were lined with storefronts, but no goods spilled out into the main passageway. Instead, broad doors stood invitingly ajar, each one that I could see from this vantage point manned by a servo that greeted any who entered.
Wait. The crowd here was different. Everyone I could see sported a gold shopper’s tag on a cheek, or the appropriately corresponding body part. My blue tag was going to stand out for sure. There were spacers here, but the ones passing by had an air of prosperity that signaled credits to burn.