To Trade the Stars (5 page)

“I'm no threat—” She half stood, as if to run away or, more likely, disappear into thin air. “All I know of Sira or her Chosen is from her sharing. I was too far back in the crowd to even see her for myself. Why would I mean harm to them?”

“Then stay.”

Ruti blinked at that, tossing her head as if confused. “But I thought you said ...”

“The
Claws &
Jaws
is a fine restaurant, without servos or automated pap. My table settings are works of art, not that recycled junk, which means dishes that need washing. If you aren't above such a task, Ruti of Acranam?”

Confusion turned into something else. Huido had fully expected offense and outrage—this looked more like the dawning of hope. “And stay—here?” she repeated, as if uncertain. “I don't understand.”

“If you are no threat, I gain a dishwasher. If you are?” Huido tilted his head from shoulder to shoulder in a shrug. “You stay where I can watch you.”

Perhaps to a Clan, such frankness was reassuring. Regardless of why, Ruti had smiled and nodded.

 

Since that day, Huido had almost forgotten Ruti's existence. She'd moved in with the other permanent staff, in return for cleanup in the kitchen and running errands for the rest. He'd expected protest over the work—at minimum, some signs of Clan xenophobia—but in all this time, she'd seemed content, setting to work with a will. No one had complained of her. Indeed, no one mentioned her at all.

Huido, unfamiliar with younger humanoids, had wondered if this was normal.

Still, he himself was guilty of ignoring the Clan child, so smoothly had she blended into the daily routine of the kitchen. Had he also neglected a potential threat? Of all the days for more trouble to arise—he drew air to bellow, then stopped.

A few more eyes followed the first, studying what Ruti was patiently holding up for his inspection. “That's a soufflé,” he said slowly.

Her face was usually pale. Now, twin spots of red highlighted her cheeks, either heat from the nearby overworked stove or embarrassment. “Yes, Hom Huido. With trumquins. There was an order for one. You were—busy...”

Huido turned down the stove so he could give this amazing development his complete attention. “You can make a soufflé—with trumquins. Do you also know which customers can eat one of those without melting their digestive tracts and leaving me at the mercy of their surviving kin?”

The dish was heavy, despite the apparent fluffiness of its contents, but her grip didn't let it waver. “Scats and Whirtles, Hom Huido. I have been paying attention.”

“While mopping the floors.”

“Yes. I've—”

He lowered his voice to barely audible and interrupted: “Paying attention, is it? You little Clan sneak. You've been prying inside the head of the Neblokan chef all this time, haven't you?”

Dark brows creased together, but she didn't deny it. “Noisy creature,” Ruti told him, her voice pitched as low and aimed at his elbow. “It would have been more work to keep out his thoughts. But he knew the craft. Almost as well as I do. I cooked at home.”

“You're telling me a Clan does manual labor.”

“Cooking isn't manual labor,” Ruti said firmly and with every indication of sincerity. “It's an art form. My—House—is renowned for our ability.”

“Would this have anything to do with why you chose my door to haunt of all Plexis?”

Definitely a glowing pink blush this time. “It might.”

Huido snapped his claw to bring the nearest server rushing over. “Take this trumquin soufflé over to the table—?” he paused.

“Twenty-five”, Rubi supplied without hesitation and with the beginnings of a smile.

“Twenty-five. And keep an eye on the Whirtles to make sure they don't die before paying their bill.”

The server looked askance at Ruti, but hurried off with the dish.

“Maybe this isn't going to be a total disaster of a day after all, little Fem,” Huido pronounced. “What other useful tidbits did you steal from that excrement's excuse for a brain? Everything you'd need for a promotion from washing dishes, I assume?”

Ruti really did have the kind of smile Humans called mischievous.

For her sake, Huido hoped she'd learned very well indeed, given the Carasian now understood why the last available Master Chef on Plexis had so abruptly lost his good sense and decided to serve his fellow beings a little too literally.

Clan were infamous for manipulating others to get what they wanted.

Huido's eyes focused on Ruti, delivering multiple images of her confident expression.

Did she know Carasians never forgave being used?

T
HE Fox was free of visitors, if not their consequence. The Rugheran had stayed only a handful of seconds longer, the reason for its departure as much a mystery as the reason it arrived in the first place. Let alone how.

Which hardly mattered to me. Morgan was not happy. His displeasure sent a discordance through our Joining, like a sound that, however faint, clenched one's teeth. Perhaps this explained why most Clan pairs lived as far apart from one another as possible, something I didn't want for us. But how would it be to have this intimate connection to the feelings of another, if that other had no warmer feelings than this to share?

There could be nothing worse, I thought, then looked at Morgan's grim face and knew I was wrong. It was infinitely worse to be connected, with love at its core, and have wounded one another.

“A new sentient species,” he was saying, in a clipped, angry voice. “A chance to be the first to trade with them. Explain to me again why you decided not to mention knowing their location?”

“Why?” I countered, rising to stand. We'd taken our argument into the control room, sitting like civilized beings, he on the pilot's couch and I on what had been the copilot's when the
Fox
operated with a full crew, but was now mine. I wasn't feeling particularly civilized after half an hour of debate. “I've told you why and you aren't hearing me. The Rugheran homeworld is not just close to Ettler's Planet. It's close to Acranam. Too close! It's within their range. Many of them wouldn't need a pathway to reach it.”

“Since when do Clan care about aliens—”

“The Clan care about you!” I protested, cutting him off in midsentence. “And where do you think most of our enemies are now? Acranam!”

“Sira ...” He somehow put a world of frustration into my name, then leaned forward, fixing me with those penetrating blue eyes. “Why are you so worried? You're their leader—”

“No, I'm Speaker for the Clan Council. The same Council Acranam rejects. Jason, don't you see it? There's no way I can guarantee my safety from them, let alone yours. We can't trust them.”

“Then we'll be careful,” Morgan countered impatiently, throwing up his hands. “Traders always are—or they don't last long. Thanks to you, we know what, or rather who, to avoid: the Clan. Nothing new in that, my Lady Witch. I don't see the problem.”

“I do.” I sank back down. “I see so many, Jason, and so much to fear. I'm not like you, not anymore,” I said, knowing he felt the despair suddenly filling me, but unable to hide it. “I can't take risks. Not with so much to lose.”

Sira.
Just my name, but with it an upwelling of joy to catch my breath in my throat. Aloud, though his eyes gleamed, “I would never put you—or us—in jeopardy. But there's a difference between a foolish risk and a calculated one. The Fox is a trader. We're traders, Sira. The Rugheran homeworld is the chance of a lifetime—do yo know how long it's been since a new system was added to the trade routes? New materials, new forms of art, information, culture—it's the reason I chose this life in the first place. To roam the stars and discover what's out here! What could be better?”

“We don't know if we can talk to them,” I protested, even as part of me responded to his enthusiasm—shared it. Perhaps I was, slightly, curious myself.

A flaw to be resisted, like a fascination with cliffs.

“Trust me,” Morgan urged. “Trust yourself. Don't you see it? No one but you and I together could do this! Why else did the Rugheran come to us?”

“Good question,” I muttered darkly.

Morgan leaned back, his couch curling to accommodate him. “Did you sense any harm from it?” he insisted, a rather premature note of triumph in his voice.

Mine was decidedly surly, but I didn't care. “How should I know? Maybe the happiest Rugherans are the hungry ones.”

“We can take the
Fox
to Drapskii,” my Chosen continued, warming to his theme. “Get her refitted there—I assume our credit's still good with the Makii—while we talk to your friends about the Rugherans.”

I saw another possibility and brightened. “We could leave the Fox and take the
Makmora!
”

My Human's lips pressed together in a straight, thin line, then pushed out again. He seemed to be waiting, his lips repeating their interesting new movement, nostrils flaring slightly each time.

He didn't need to speak, and I didn't need to dip into his thoughts. Ossirus give me patience.

“Of course, who needs a mammoth freighter with four hundred beings on board dedicated to preserving our lives at any cost when we could go by ourselves in the
Fox
. Alone.” I'd meant it to sound light and humorous; my voice broke shamefully at the end, making it anything but.

I stared at my hands involuntarily gripping one another, holding in my presence within our connection just as tightly. “What has happened to me?”

“What's wrong?” he demanded, sitting up straight.

“I've—I've become a coward,” I said it with a kind of sick wonder, the way one might confess an addiction, as if it must belong to some other, weaker self. “I'm terrified of everything outside this ship, Jason. Is this being Chosen? I knew I'd become more cautious—it's only reasonable—but this ... ?”

Hands wrapped around mine—warm, strong hands. I raised my eyes to meet Morgan's. He crouched on his heels before me, eyes full of compassion. I felt his Power trying to offer comfort as well, but kept myself and my misery impervious. He nodded, as if acknowledging my need for my own pain, then spoke in a quiet, steady voice, words that didn't make sense at first. “I can't know what you should feel as a Chosen Clan, Sira. But fear? It comes with the territory. You aren't alone in it.”

Locks of my hair slipped over my arms to stroke his cheeks, then rested on his shoulders in quiet curls of red-gold. “I don't understand,” I answered numbly, ready to admit when I was lost.

Morgan's thumbs rubbed gently over my clenched fingers. “Perhaps, in this, a Human has the advantage, my Lady Witch,” he mused slowly. “Humans are brought up with the literature and legends of love. We hope it lives up to its promise; we dream all our lives of finding that one great love. And we're warned of its cost if we do.”

I mouthed the word. “Cost?”

“To risk love is to risk loss. The greater the love ... ?” He brought my hands to his lips.

“The greater the loss,” I finished reluctantly. No wonder Humans seemed to live under a shadow at times. “You aren't reassuring, Jason.”

“I can't be. If I measured my love for you in terms of that fear,” the Human said so quietly I had to strain to catch the words, “I wouldn't be able to take another breath, dooming us both.” His eyes devoured mine. Louder, firmer: “Sira. Accept, as I do, that what is
now
—” his fingers tightened on mine, “—is what matters. It's all we can control. It's all we should try to control. Do you understand that?”

In words? Slippery, misleading things. But there was more. Morgan's thoughts abruptly whirled around and through mine, providing a maelstrom of concepts. I gasped under the impact, fighting not to keep them out, which I could have done with ease, but to sort them into coherence. The harder task. The worthwhile one.

I fixed my eyes on his, turning my hands so our fingers intertwined, willing to also grasp what he offered—no matter how alien—if I was able. “You'd prefer I'd be as willing to spend my life now, as I was before our Joining—despite knowing you'd die as well.” I shook my head in disbelief. “How can you feel that way?”

“Because otherwise, you turn us into different people.” Morgan's hands loosened and withdrew. “And risk losing more than our lives.” His eyes were somber now, as though my reaction pained him in some way I couldn't feel.

What I did feel was the cold emptiness of my hands and frustration with his Human mysticism. “Only death loses this,” I said roughly, then widened my awareness of our link through the M'hir until close to drowning myself in Morgan's thoughts and feelings, involuntarily matching the rhythm of my heart to the slower, stronger beats of his. It caused him discomfort—the Human mind had never adapted to such a link with another's, let alone the M'hir itself.

At the same time, it exposed me to depths I would never reveal to anyone else.

Explaining, I supposed, why he smiled. “This is what makes us the same as other Joined pairs,” my Human said, with a nod. Then he raised one hand, and lightly ran his fingertips down the side of my face, as if needing the touch to know its shape. With the touch came an inner warmth, a caring so deep tears welled up in my eyes and tumbled over my cheeks before his fingertips rested on my lips. “This,” Morgan went on, more or less steadily, “is what makes us different. Love came first. Now, do you understand?”