Except that Barac had been desperate. He shuddered inwardly at the risk he had taken. Passage through the M’hir sidestepped normal space. But there were limits. It took power to keep the focus, to hold the visual image that was all that would pull one safely out of the M’hir again.
Though no one had ever measured real time elapsing in the M’hir, subjective time increased with the distance of real space traveled. And the longer one’s mind had to dwell in the M’hir, the more power it took to keep focused.
If the distance outmatched the power needed, well, the Clan called it dissolving, that instant when thought and form fragmented within the M’hir. What was left was a faint disturbance to haunt other Clan minds, a chill signal of the consequence of overreaching one’s ability. A ghost. Barac’s first teacher had ended that way, providing a far more effective warning to her class than she’d likely intended. Aspard di Sawnda’at, convinced that mental disciplines she’d learned from the Omacrons had enhanced her power, had tried to set a personal endurance record in the M’hir.
And, as anyone traveling through the M’hir near Omacron found out, quite a bit of Aspard was still there.
Yet Barac had taken his own version of that same risk, visualizing the familiar galley of the Fox and pushing himself through the M’hir at that vision without knowing for sure if the Fox was remotely within his range.
You could have luck like that once in a lifetime, Barac decided, determined never to take that chance again. The Clan expression for something irrevocably lost, dropped in the M’hir, was too close to reality.
The only flaw in Barac’s victory had been the almost immediate arrival, by quite ordinary means, of Constable Russell Terk.
“It’s an old trick,” Terk had explained brusquely, passing through the air lock with innocent presumption. “I checked station records for ships posting a bond against their docking fees.” Seeing their lack of understanding, Terk had grinned, an expression that did nothing to brighten his heavy features. “Plexis won’t unhook a bonded ship and send it spinning when a payment’s late. And what popped up but a bond supplied by Morgan’s friend, the Carasian.”
Now they sat together, in the galley of the Fox, outwardly civil, but Barac, for one, ready to strangle the smug Enforcer.
“All this doesn’t explain why you are here,” Rael asked. “To spy on us?”
Terk’s eyes simmered with some emotion Barac couldn’t read. “Hardly. How am I supposed to watch you when you pop in and out whenever you choose?”
“Why are you here?” Barac insisted.
Terk looked from Barac to Rael suspiciously. While he knew they couldn’t affect his thoughts through his mind-shield, his awareness of their capabilities put him on edge, made him unconsciously hunch his thick shoulders. Finding the Clan on the ship ahead of him had badly shaken him. He couldn’t understand why the Clan had so far tolerated his presence. Diplomacy. Well, it wasn’t one of his faults.
“I tried warning Commander Bowman about Morgan before, but she doesn’t believe me,” he replied. “She’s got some idea I have it in for him. But I know what I’m talking about. I convinced her to let me sniff after Morgan. I decided to check out the Fox—”
Rael glanced at Barac. She had rebuffed his thought that Terk could be useful, but this sounded unexpectedly promising. “Where do you think Morgan is now?”
“He’s not here.”
Rael scowled at this, suspecting humor, but Barac raised a brow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he wouldn’t have stayed on Plexis. People know him here. The Carasian’s vanished, too, and he’s as close to Morgan as skin. I say they’ve lifted.”
“No ship has been cleared by Plexis since the Torquad. Surely you’re not suggesting—”
Terk’s scowl looked permanent. “Bowman wouldn’t listen to me. Probably you won’t either. But I never trusted Morgan— not a bit. He’s too frat’n lucky. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve chased him down for a cargo check only to have him dump before I so much as order him to stop.”
“You think Morgan is working with the pirate.” Rael’s face had grown very pale. “You think he’s on the Torquad.”
“I can’t prove it,” Terk said, taken aback by the passion in her voice.
“No need,” Barac said bitterly. “It all fits. Morgan’s on the Torquad—he’s gotten away from us.”
“What about Sira?” Rael’s power throbbed forcefully beneath the distress in her voice. “Has he taken Sira with him?”
Wincing, Barac raised one hand. Rael damped her power, but he could still sense it, swelling like a wave in midocean, awaiting only a shoreline to crash against—or Morgan. “What if Morgan’s been working for Roraqk all along?” he said to them both. “The Human might have taken Sira from Auord to throw us off the track, planning to meet Roraqk here.” He paused.
“Roraqk’s fond of kidnapping,” Terk supplied.
“Yes,” Rael said quickly. “He and Morgan must be planning to ask a ransom from Jarad. It would be easy enough to learn he’s rich, influential.”
Barac looked as though he would disagree, then glanced at Terk and thought better of it. “Your father wouldn’t pay a ransom,” he said.
Terk shook his big head grimly. “Wouldn’t matter to your Sira if he did. Roraqk doesn’t return hostages in one piece.”
Rael shuddered. “If we convince your commander about this, Terk, would she take us back on her ship?”
He shrugged. “If Commander Bowman expects action, not a chance. Nothing personal, but she doesn’t trust you.”
“What kind of care would she take, even if she believed Sira was on the Torquad?” Barac started to pace. “This is impossible. We were so close. And now to be stuck here while you Enforcers bungle—”
Terk’s gaze was remarkably clear and guileless for a Human. He waved a hand at their surroundings. “Who says we have to stay on Plexis?”
Barac’s smile held a clear threat. “Are you suggesting we give up?”
Terk leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of some private hunting, Clansman. Seeing as how you have a nice fast little ship here, ready to go, and I’m not a bad pilot. My orders were to check out Morgan . . .” He let his voice trail away.
Barac and Rael traded glances. There was no need to merge thoughts. “We agree, Human,” Barac said, “but what do you get out of this?”
Terk actually smiled. “Me? I get a chance to practice my diplomacy.”
Chapter 17
ALL I needed to restore my outlook on life was an unbroken rest, a change into clean clothes, and a meal eaten with friends instead of enemies. I could even laugh at Huido’s urging that I tan a piece of Roraqk’s hide as, if I understood him, a form of counting coup.
For himself, the Carasian now sported an assortment of new weaponry, collected during his half of the fight on the
Torquad.
Only three crew members were left alive: two currently locked away in a very secure holding pen belowdecks, not the first so carried, judging by the names scratched on its walls. The third, Gistries, had come closest to stopping Huido’s sweep through her ship, and he was quite proud of the scar she’d carved into his chest armor. Unfortunately, her misplaced loyalty had landed her in a med-cocoon. At least her injuries were not life-threatening.
The
Torquad
herself, damaged in her escape from Plexis, was limping toward the nearest discreet insystem facility. Her initial burst of speed had put us well ahead of any pursuit.
I sat at one end of the galley’s main table, turning over and over in my hand a plate holding an image Morgan had found. He’d wasted no time checking the
Torquad
’s data storage for the name Roraqk used for me. There was nothing in the accessible records listed for Sira di Sarc, but there had been a file on a man named Jarad di Sarc, a wealthy politician native to the predominantly Human world of Camos. According to Roraqk’s cryptic notes, this Jarad was either someone to avoid or a potential, if dangerous, target.
I’d stared at Jarad’s image on the screen, recognizing it from visions yet unable to recall any feelings of connectedness to the stern, harsh face. My father. There had been no reference to a family at all within the records.
Then Morgan found a second image, the one I was currently holding in my hands, hidden beneath a simple security overlay. I looked at it again, still seeing nothing more in it than Jarad and a young girl standing in a line outside an ordinary enough restaurant, obviously unaware their image was being recorded. I requested the date for the tenth time. It still came up as 13,456.22 GS, 110 standard years ago.
It was quite reasonable that Jarad was a young man in the image. Humans, and indeed most humanoid races, usually lived into a second century. Morgan had sensibly concluded that the girl in the image was my mother.
I hadn’t argued. But the girl was me. I hardly needed the stray memory of that day, that place, the excitement of a rare excursion out, to tell me; I could look in a mirror and see the same face right now. So either the image was falsely dated or retouched for some reason, or I was at least seventy years older than I appeared today. This seemed a conclusion better not shared with my friends. I turned off the viewer as Huido snapped his lower handling claw for our attention.
Morgan looked up from his dessert, a gleam in his eyes, and pushed aside his plate. “Wondered how long you’d stay quiet.”
“Quiet? Who wants quiet? Nobody!” Huido announced noisily. “Everything is settled, until we get to Ormagal Prime, that is, and try to get this bucket repaired by those bandits, so all we need now is beer. And whatever intoxicants you two prefer, of course. A nice Chardonnay perhaps?”
Morgan raised a lazy brow at his friend. “On this ship?”
“There were Humans in his crew,” I pointed out.
“Don’t encourage him, Sira. We’ll all pay tomorrow.” Huido clicked something incomprehensible and left on his mission. “I hope you’re up to a Carasian’s idea of a celebration,” Morgan warned.
I stretched, free, at peace. “Let’s hope he’s up to mine!” I hesitated. There were things I wanted to say. I looked at Morgan, and realized there was no need.
A smile that warmed. One lean, brown hand reached over the table to hold mine, another heartbeat synchronized with my own.
I regarded him, thinking sadly of what he’d left behind. “You paid a stiff price, Morgan.”
He gave a wry grin and toasted me with his cup. “What’s gone, is gone.” Then quickly, as he saw the flinch I couldn’t help: “There’s time now, Sira. Time and a new ship. What more could we ask for—ah, here’s our scrounger with the answer!”
Huido maneuvered his way to the table, his claws and chest clips festooned with an incredible variety of bottles. I, for one, welcomed the interruption. Morgan had every right to be proud of his accomplishments and if he could bear to leave the
Fox,
so could I. I let the moment pass, resolutely plunging into our celebration. Sometime into the second bottle of wine, neither of us tapping into Huido’s precious beer, I succeeded in subduing the strange turmoil produced by Morgan’s gentle words and touch.
So I blamed the wine for my nightmare; coupled with the strain of the past few days, it was no wonder I tossed and moaned instead of sleeping.
In my dream, I sat in a thronelike chair, unable to move. Figures were clustered at my feet, empty-faced, blurring into one another; only their hands were distinct, hands that groped for me. I tried to avoid them, but couldn’t. Every soft touch shuddered through my thoughts, clamoring for attention. I closed my eyes and mind to them.
True silence. I opened my eyes. The figures were gone. I was alone in darkness, only a glow from my skin anchoring me to myself. This was hardly better than the hands. I tried to wake up.
As I struggled to free myself from dreaming, I felt a thought, not mine but a stranger’s, sticking to the dream like lint. I tried to brush off its whisper, only to feel it begin again somewhere else. I was afraid and helpless to name my fear. I was . . .
Awake. I relaxed my hands from their death’s grip on the blankets, blinking the sleep from my eyes, the details of my dream fading. I cared more about the throbbing headache centered over one eye. I fumbled for the lights, thinking glumly that I had no head for wine.
On the top of a pile of clothing compiled from the lockers of the crew’s quarters, again by the talented Huido, I found a robe and shrugged it on with a sigh that stretched into a yawn. Once I found something to ease my headache, I’d be able to go back to sleep.
The galley was the logical place to look. I started rummaging through the cabinets at the far end, the twin rows of tables and benches stretching empty behind me. Some of the people who sat here once, talking, passing dishes, had likely been among those who died at Plexis. I rubbed my eyes, wishing I could pick and choose which memories to keep.
“Can’t sleep?” Morgan asked softly. I turned, not surprised, and watched him pad gracefully toward me. He looked disgustingly cheerful.
“Let’s just say you warned me about trying to match Huido’s capacity,” I looked at him out the corner of my eye as I spotted the object of my search and brought the bottle down to the counter. “Why are you up, if not to nurse a well-deserved hangover?”
“I sensed something wrong,” Morgan answered with unexpected seriousness. I faced him, puzzled. “I thought you might need me,” he explained. “What woke you?”
I shrugged away his concern and swallowed the mild painkiller I found. “I had another nightmare.” I was mildly surprised Morgan hadn’t shared the dream. “I’ve already forgotten it. I’m not used to so much wine.”
Morgan frowned, eyes searching my face. “I felt more than that. I felt you call me.”
I grew uneasy, abruptly aware of where he was leading the conversation. “I didn’t—”
“And you haven’t tried,” a gentle accusation.
I didn’t need the warning upheaval in my confused thoughts to know I wanted to avoid this of all topics, especially now when I felt far from up to a contest of wits.