. . . until he spun away into a darkness unlike any he had known before.
Chapter 45
OUR plan, like several others I’d made recently, ran headlong into the Drapsk. The Makii, it seemed, had somehow adapted Copelup’s M’hir-blocking device to encompass the Nokraud. While it probably protected Rael and me from detection by others of the Clan, it also prevented us from using the M’hir to contact the Watchers—or any other Clan for that matter. And there was the parallel and not unrelated business of the locked ship ports. It all began to seem very familiar to me.
Captain Makairi had rushed over from the Makmora the moment I’d started seriously shouting. Now, we stood face to front on the bridge of the Nokraud, and I felt no closer to a solution than I’d been on Drapskii itself.
“There are other ways to send a message, Mystic One,” the Captain was insisting.
“Watchers don’t have addresses and comlinks,” Rael said impatiently. Not having my previous experience, she was finding it very difficult to accept that the small polite beings were literally holding us prisoner for our own good.
She had a point. There were two kinds of Watchers: those who guarded the unborn and those who guarded the M’hir. The first were posts of honor within a House: Clan assigned to act if a Joining were severed during pregnancy, to attempt to save the mind of the infant despite the loss of the mother’s into the M’hir.
The second, those we and other Clan rightly feared, did not know themselves. In some individuals, a portion of the mind lingered within the M’hir waking or sleeping, a portion that formed a complex awareness completely separate from the individual’s consciousness, possessing the knowledge of that individual but none of the personality. Some believed the Watchers were the next step in our evolution, beings closer to a true, continuous existence in that other space. Regardless, all Watchers shared a grim protectiveness about the M’hir, a territorial instinct which the Clan Council found very useful indeed. The Watchers never acted on their own, but were lightning-quick to sound the alarm to Council if Clan or alien transgressed borders or behaviors they themselves established. Their thoughts felt strange, almost hollow; their communication left a spectral echo in one’s mind, unforgettable and unnerving. I, for one, didn’t trust them.
I wondered, mind flitting off on a tangent again, if any Watchers had encountered the M’hir life, and if so, had they reported it?
Rael and the Drapsk were arguing; I put up my hand to stop it, not bothering to follow the details. “Captain Makairi, when will Copelup—reemerge?”
He sucked a tentacle pensively. “Who’s to say, Mystic One? Eopari can be a very personal matter. If Copelup is in deep mediation, it could be days as his mind explores connections and meanings, moving into a higher plane of reason. If he is sulking, we could wake him right now with a good kick in the—You get my meaning?”
I smiled. “I most certainly do, Captain.”
It had been, as Makairi hinted, a case of sulking. Copelup unrolled himself immediately, giving a shout of outrage that was the loudest sound I’d heard a Drapsk produce. I kept my feet carefully together, not wanting to provide him with any clues as to the culprit. “Welcome back, Skeptic,” I said warmly. Rael, watching from the safety of her chair, put her hand over her mouth. She never was good at keeping a straight face under any circumstances. “I have a challenge for you.”
Maka hurried to the now-speechless Skeptic with a container of some drink—a peace offering Copelup accepted at once and clamped to his face. “One is always dehydrated after eopari,” Maka explained to me, sotto voce.
“We are,” I said politely but firmly, “running out of time.” Copelup’s antennae twitched. They were still partially coiled around one another, I supposed in the Drapsk-equivalent of a humanoid struggling to wake up from a too-sound sleep. “My sister and I thank you for your assistance, my dear Skeptic. Now we need you again.” The antennae unwound with an alacrity suggesting alarm. I knew how to change that. “You see, Copelup, we’d like you to run some tests on Rael—find out more about how the Clan operates in the M’hir.”
His yellow plumes, so striking among the purple-pink Makii, shot upward in absolute delight.
I hadn’t been completely truthful with Rael, telling her only that I wanted to learn if Copelup’s devices really did hide us from the Watchers. In that, we were not successful. The devices at close range gave the M’hir an odd, not unpleasant, metallic feel, hardly detectable unless one was aware to look for it; certainly nothing that appeared to disguise any other sensations. This was Rael’s description, shared with me mind-to-mind.
Copelup’s other test, the one we kept from Rael, confirmed what I’d both hoped and feared: that my sister’s presence in the M’hir drew no unwanted attention from the M’hir life-forms. If it was my unbalanced power that attracted them, and worse, if my Power-of-Choice was rebuilding itself around me, I didn’t want her to know. Not yet. Morgan came first.
Once we were certain of the results, I broached the subject to the Drapsk. “Captain Makairi,” I began, keeping my voice calm and patient—no amount of belligerence or begging would sway a determined Drapsk, “the Skeptic feels Rael’s presence in the M’hir will not endanger either of us. I ask your permission to have her attempt to contact the Watchers.”
“You would not be at risk, Mystic One?” The Drapsk predictably focused on the member of his Tribe over a virtual outsider. “You would promise not to enter the Scented Way again yourself in this dangerous place?”
I thought of what waited for me there—waited with appetite—and had no problem saying with the utmost sincerity: “I promise. As I am of the Makii,” I added on impulse, feeling this should carry some weight with him. Rael was glancing back and forth between the Drapsk and I. I shook my head slightly when it was my turn again, hoping she’d appreciate that the Drapsk would detect any nonverbal communication and rightly mistrust my promise if it occurred.
The Captain inhaled all his tentacles—the new ones had grown to match the others, I was relieved to notice, giving me one less item to try to explain to Rael. Two tentacles popped back out with the words: “We will remove the field, Mystic One. The Makii are relieved you are being sensible.”
“Ah, about that,” I said, drawing a deep breath. This was the trickier part and I wasn’t prepared to take “no” for an answer. “Once Rael has sent her message, she can be traced here. We’d like to leave immediately and go into Jershi, to find Baltir.”
“Leave the ship!” I could tell Rael was amazed by the unison with which the Drapsk could inhale tentacles and rock in place.
Before I could start arguing, a deep voice rumbled from the far corner of the bridge: “I will be with her.” Huido, presently acting as a couch for three Drapsk crew, walked toward me, shaking off his passengers who bounced up from the floor and trotted away without complaint. “We must resume the search for my brother. This Baltir of the toads is the best lead we’ve had.”
The Drapsk weren’t pleased; the continuing sound of subdued tentacle sucking filled the bridge. I saw Rael preparing to add her comment and quelled her with a look. “Captain, we have come here with a purpose. You must accept that I know what I’m doing,” hopefully, I added to myself. “Holding us on this ship can protect us today. What about the future? We have a chance to confuse my enemies, to recover the—” I searched my knowledge of them for an equivalent to describe my attachment to Morgan, settling for: “To recover the missing member of my own Tribe.”
Tentacles popped out, forming the flowerlike ring that I thought signified if not agreement, then sudden comprehension.
I just hoped they were comprehending what I intended.
INTERLUDE
With a frustrated growl, Morgan threw aside his bag of equipment, trading it for a bit of extra mobility and a second free hand. He’d chased the Clansman into the next room, only to find it was the antechamber to another, much larger space. A nightmare.
A nightmare built from a maze of tubes, most wider around than his arms could span, writhing upward to a ceiling lofted through at least two more floors, like some bizarre forest canopy of medical gadgets and industrial pipes. Any open space was filled with tables and counters, most of these connected by thick cabling that made it impossible to find clear footing for more than a couple of steps at a time. The Retian alarm system was fully active—silent, but with orange-red strobe lights careening from every corner, bewildering the eye.
Faitlen either knew his way through the place blindfolded, or had an inner guide. He had almost immediately disappeared from sight, running frantically not as though he feared Morgan, but as though he had to prevent something from happening at any cost. What? Intuitively, Morgan stopped and closed his eyes. He ignored the pounding of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He shut out any concern about the Retians on their way down or how he was going to escape the Baltir. He became still, only then opening his thoughts to the M’hir.
An opening he immediately slammed closed, overwhelmed by what seemed to be blazing arcs of power, as if some deadly collision filled that void. But it was enough to give him directions in this madhouse. Morgan’s eyes snapped open, and he began to run.
A twist, turn to the left, a sprint straight ahead. Morgan glimpsed fabric, stained orange by the strobe lights. Faitlen! Careless of obstacles, Morgan accelerated, flinging himself over a table, rewarded by a second, closer glimpse.
This was it. Morgan grabbed a convenient pipe, hauling himself to a stop. Shields tight, Morgan crept closer, taking advantage of the abundant machinery to hide him, setting his feet with care. Ahead, Faitlen was motionless, as if staring. Realizing the Clansman was totally preoccupied, Morgan dared step out where he could see what was happening.
A figure lay crumpled on the floor a short distance away, a deathly-still figure the Clansman appeared to ignore, his attention on two of the vertical tubes. The tubes were opaque, as all the others, their surface marked with patterns of gauges and dials impossible to read in the flashing light. Morgan looked down at the figure. “Barac!” he cried involuntarily, hurrying forward.
Faitlen ignored him, too, seeming intent on the machines. Careful to keep the Clansman in sight, Morgan stepped over Barac’s body and crouched beside him. Still breathing, the Human noticed with relief, and no outward signs of injury. Then Barac’s breathing caught in his throat, his body arching as it fought for air. Morgan grabbed his shoulders, the contact enough to draw him into that other place . . .
. . . sharing utter anguish . . . utter loss . . . the bitter taste of failure . . . fading . . . fading . . .
Without knowing how he did it, Morgan reached for Barac, collecting the Clansman’s fragmenting personality in a net of his power, striving to bring them both back from that brink. . . .
Success! Morgan shook his head, clearing his vision in time to see Faitlen launch himself at Barac’s throat. The Human angled his shoulder to take the brunt of that assault, his own hands grasping the Clansman’s wrists. He surged to his feet, hauling Faitlen with him—shoving the Clansman against the nearer tube before glancing at Barac.
Breathing, or rather groaning, Barac had already rolled to his hands and knees, head hanging down.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Faitlen shouted at Barac, struggling against Morgan’s steel grip. When he realized he couldn’t break free, the Clansman looked up into Morgan’s eyes, and said in a strangely reasonable voice: “They wanted a body to examine. One of us. They told me he was already dead and I could release the restraint—but they lied. The ignorant fools brought an unChosen within reach,” a note of rising hysteria. “They weren’t supposed to die—understand me—he was!”
“Who has died?” Morgan said, remembering the anguish in Barac’s thoughts. Then he looked past Faitlen at the tube. “Who is in there?”
“No one, now. You. You’re Sira’s Human! You’ll both pay—” Morgan felt Faitlen gathering his power. Instead of gathering his own, Morgan released one hand, stood back a bit, and sent his fist into the Clansman’s jaw.
With distinct satisfaction.
Chapter 46
THE Drapsk had been right.
I hated that. I truly hated the thought of staring into their kind, smug facelessness and apologizing for my folly. Of course, I’d have to survive a while longer to make that happen. From where I lay, stomach-down in a pile of very ripe and soggy refuse, it wasn’t guaranteed I would.
My well-thought out plan had gone awry for one simple reason. I’d assumed I knew who my enemies were, putting them into neat piles of this group of Clan and that group of Clan.
Had it been a symptom of leftover Clan egotism that I’d forgotten the hundreds of other intelligent species in the galaxy?
At least three different ones pursued me now: Retian, Human, and Scat. I didn’t know if they were working together or apart. To some extent, it was a meaningless distinction, since they all seemed to want me in their hands or claws, preferably alive, I hoped, although their willingness to use significantly nasty weaponry to achieve this outcome left me wondering if I was being overly optimistic.
I had only to look down the alleyway to see the glow from the fires lit by that last burst of blasterfire.
The poor Drapsk on the Nokraud were probably frantic. I hoped nothing worse, but given the reptilian snout I’d spotted in the group giving chase, there was little doubt in my mind that the pirates were involved.
I settled myself more comfortably into my pile, thinking back and trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong first.
Rael, Huido, and I had left the Nokraud under cover of darkness and a downpour unusually violent even for this season. Since we could hardly see one another, I’d been confident we could make our way to the groundcar without being observed by anyone else. That may have been the case. Our troubles had started once inside Jershi’s mud walls, not before.