Seeing the food-laden tables of another, more familiar setting form around me. I moved immediately to one side, disappearing within the crowd of beings of every shape and type. I knew my way around the Claws & Jaws, better than around the Makmora at any rate. With this many customers, Huido should be splitting his time between the lobby and the kitchen. I’d bet on the kitchen.
“Where’s Huido?” I asked, pushing through the doorway. Several kitchen assistants pointed at the same time to an Ordnex, perhaps the head cook, none of them bothering to look up from their tasks to see who was asking.
The Ordnex’s nasal opening flared, giving me too clear a view into its rosy-veined sinuses. Politeness came in numerous shapes, I reminded myself, attempting without much success to flare my own. “Huidopackedandleft,” the being droned helpfully. “InchargeamIhelpyou?”
“Where did he go?” I asked, disappointed—it would have been nice to have things work out neatly—but not surprised. If Morgan needed him, Huido would go. It wasn’t comforting, I realized, to think Morgan had.
“WiththeClansman.”
I took a second to be sure I’d heard that correctly, feeling as though I’d been hit in the stomach. “What Clansman?” I demanded, stepping closer and lowering my voice, although it wasn’t necessary. The pots on the huge stove beside me were bubbling and seething like a miniature orchestra. At least the contents of the largest had stopped whining. The heat brought beads of sweat to my face, the heat and formless apprehension. “Was Captain Morgan with them?”
“NoTheCaptainleftbeforeExcusemeFem.” The cook flipped up a lid and added spices to a simmering mass, his other hand busy on the heat controls: a feat of coordination commonplace in a being with significantly more joints in each arm and hand than humanoid-norm.
“Without Huido?” I muttered. Louder, “I need to talk to you. Can someone take over here for a moment?”
You’d have thought I’d asked him to give me the heart of his fifthborn offspring. The nasal opening closed to an insulted slit below its broad compound eyemass. “Cannotleavemymaster piecesnow.Ruined!”
“Fine,” I said, grabbing a metal stool from under the counter, and placed myself where the being could work on his master-pieces, but not leave without climbing over me. “Then I’ll talk to you here.” He still looked offended. “Look, I have a right to know what’s been happening. I’m Sira Morgan. Jason Morgan is—” I hesitated, not sure what word to use, then settled for the simple truth. “The other half of me.”
INTERLUDE
Morgan used two fingers to make a tiny opening in the window slats, peering cautiously at the building across the lane. Malacan had been helpful, if at first reluctant to cooperate. But, the Human thought, there were definite advantages to knowing your opponent’s habits. Morgan had not been surprised by either Malacan’s attempt to cash in on the offer for his, Morgan’s, preferably living hide, nor Malacan’s quick decision to accept a better offer.
Mind you, using a flick of power to freeze Malacan’s trigger finger hadn’t hurt negotiations a bit.
Unfortunately, Malacan insisted he didn’t know who was offering such a handsome number of credits for Morgan. The bounty was simply something being spread around. There was a contact number and an amount. That was all.
It wasn’t important, beyond being an explanation of sorts for the attack in the Rissh Marsh. Morgan had sufficient enemies of his own, a few sharing this atmosphere with him at the moment, to account for any number of attempts on his life or credit chip. Though the amount Malacan mentioned had given him pause. He really didn’t think he had enemies that desperate or that wealthy. Implying the Clan.
He stepped back from the window, lips stretched in a humorless grin. Fine. If they were resorting to posting a bounty for him among the scum of any port, they must be worried. It was a peculiarly satisfying notion.
As was his proximity to his target. Morgan took his bag to the soggy mat passing for a bed in this Retian version of a hotel room, dumping out its contents. He’d laid the waterproof sheet over the surface first, keeping at bay the vermin doubtless swimming inside. No offworlder comforts here, the landlord had warned, and no refunds.
Morgan didn’t intend to stay long anyway. It had taken the better part of a sleepless night and day to follow the leads Malacan had given him, three turning out to be worthless before the last had brought Morgan here. Baltir hadn’t turned up as a personal name because it wasn’t. It was written in Retian business script beside the doorway Morgan had been watching these past hours.
“A research facility devoted to humanoid biology,” he repeated to himself. “Now won’t Bowman be interested in that.” Convincing Malacan to make a properly full report to his contact in the Enforcers had taken a bit more of Morgan’s nonexistent credit. He’d worry about the forged ratings and other book-keeping details later.
He picked up an innocuous-looking plas ball from among the devices spread before him, twisting it until it opened into two. Sira had taught him how to open his inner sense, to carefully explore nearby minds in order to identify those which might be touched. She’d also taught him a very healthy respect for the trigger-sharp response of a Clan adept of any strength to such a touch. He didn’t plan to try it.
This little beauty, he thought, checking a sequence of fine adjustments before twisting the halves back together, would have to do.
Then he sat, his hands and the device in his lap, ignoring the foul smell coming from the mat as his weight pressed air through the moisture, remembering. He’d shown one of these to her once. Sira.
The rage was there, in front of her memory, a prism of darkness bending her image in his mind into something tormented and confused: sweet longing coupled with anger; the feel of warm, willing lips tasting of his own blood; despair.
Morgan rubbed his free hand over his face, pressing the fingers into his eyelids as though that might clear his inner vision. This wasn’t right. He should be worried about her. He should be frantic to know where Sira was, how she was. Did she need him? Was she safe? Did she think of him?
He dropped the ball on the floor and buried his face in both hands. A broken sound tried to force its way up his throat, but couldn’t.
Sira had made him into the weapon of her vengeance.
At what cost to them both?
Chapter 36
THERE were few things in my life I was absolutely sure of, so few I could tick them off on my fingers.
First on the list? Morgan could never be a murderer.
It was, however, the consensus among Huido’s too-talkative staff, starting with the cook’s confession to me and seeming to have moved translight through everyone else at the Claws & Jaws. I wondered if either Huido or Barac had paid any attention to the number of ears and other listening organs in attendance at their conferences. Probably not. Barac had not yet overcome his Clan arrogance around lesser species, and Huido likely didn’t care.
I could ruthlessly remove the memory from three of the thirty-or-so beings involved. Perhaps I could talk, bribe, or threaten the notion from another twenty. That still left more than enough potential witnesses to embroil Morgan in an investigation if and when the Law discovered the crime. It wasn’t particularly relevant to me whether that Law was Clan, Enforcer, or Station security.
Mind you, they had disposed of the body. The new dish had been such a hit on the Rillian menu the cook waxed positively poetic about the possibility of more. I assured him I thought it quite likely there’d be another Clan corpse available, an assurance easy to give whenever I thought of my sister.
I’d scanned Barac. His motivations were understandable and plain: justice for his brother’s death, a chance for a future. I wasn’t pleased to learn he’d chased after Morgan, but didn’t suspect any darker motive than a charming tendency to interfere.
Rael? I wanted to believe we were truly heart-kin, and that here was a Clan who cared about me. I’d been wrong. And if it was a mistake that harmed Morgan, I promised myself, she would be the first to pay.
“Have you decided on a course of action, Mystic One?” As he waited for an answer, Copelup lifted his container of nicnic juice to his mouth, all six tentacles whipping around to hold it in place. His plumes angled slightly toward me.
I’d told the Skeptic everything. If the Drapsk were to continue helping me, they had to know the risks they might share. Not much had surprised him, or else I wasn’t as good at reading Drapsk expressions as I thought.
It had been the right decision. Copelup had listened, asked only a few questions, then hurried away to give several rapid orders to the Makii, in Comspeak for my benefit. So as we sat in the Makmora’s main galley, a chorus of Drapsk moved through the Station ostensibly looking for trade goods, but actually hunting for answers. They were, I’d noticed, remarkably adept at subterfuge for such a conspicuous bunch.
Other Drapsk were set searching computer records, Captain Makairi suggesting I wouldn’t want the details of how they proposed to find out the departure logs from Plexis’ notoriously tight-lipped, or whatever, Port Authority. I was happy to agree.
“A course of action, Copelup?” I repeated, sipping my own beverage without tasting it. “Find Morgan. Undo what I’ve done to him.”
The cup was pried free. “And then?”
I narrowed my eyes at the Drapsk. He used that innocent tone, the one meaning he was driving at some point, though what I couldn’t guess. “I hadn’t thought that far,” I confessed. “It seems enough to accomplish, don’t you think? Go somewhere safe from the Clan. Morgan—Morgan will know what we should do.”
“Morgan is not Clan, Mystic One. He is not of your Tribe,” Copelup stated, affixing the refilled cup to his mouth with a smug slurp.
I controlled a flash of temper. Copelup simply stated facts as he, a Drapsk, viewed them. “This does not affect my commitment to him, Skeptic.”
I waited while Copelup finished his drink. “I do not suggest that it should, Mystic One,” the Drapsk said. “My meaning is that he does not share your species’ peril. Only you perceive that. So only you can help them.”
“The Clan?” If two baby-blue eyes had appeared somewhere on his smooth head and winked, I’d have been less surprised. “Why should I care about them?”
“How can you not, Mystic One?”
So straightforward for the Drapsk, I thought, bonded with their Tribes and now, through their world’s reconnection, bonded among their Tribes into one focused unit. They were individuals comfortably nestled in a framework of unity and purpose. I found myself gripping my cup more tightly than necessary. The Clan was a bickering, dangerous collective, driven by ambition and governed by fear.
“It is not the same for us, Copelup,” I found myself explaining, to myself as well as the Drapsk. “We don’t have a home like Drapskii to link us. We don’t even enjoy each other’s company. I think,” I hesitated, then knew with a shiver of cold certainty I was right, “we are a dead end. A mutation about to fade from the universe.”
Copelup inhaled a tentacle, as if mulling over what I said, then spoke around it. “Life survives. Your people want to survive. How can you deny this?”
I stood, pacing away from the table, basically a long, low version of the stools produced by the floor. As temporary as the Clan in the larger scheme of things. “Survive? We’re a disease within the Trade Pact, Copelup. Powerful, deadly. Unrestrained. A bacterium attempts to survive, to reproduce, but at what cost to its host? We’ve interfered with others—kept the Humans from learning about the M’hir. I hate to think what the Council will conclude about you and your Scented Way. There is,” I concluded heavily, “nothing good about us.”
Copelup hooted softly. “There is you, Mystic One.”
“Is there?” I said, thinking of Morgan, thinking of Yihtor and all the unChosen I’d threatened by my mere existence.
“Yes,” he replied sternly. “And I don’t think you can be the only one.”
I shook my head. “The price of our survival is too high. I’m not willing to pay it. As far as I’m concerned, the M’hiray strand of the Clan can end with this generation.”
“So, Mystic One, while avowing you care nothing for your kind, you make this decision for all?”
I stopped pacing and looked at the wise little being. “I can only make decisions for myself, Skeptic.”
“Ah, but if you refuse to help them, are you not imposing this choice?”
The word—Choice—resonated through my thoughts, disturbing what I’d been about to reply in rebuttal, shaking free memories of those decades spent in study, desperate years looking for a solution to the Power-of-Choice. In one sense, it had been a typically selfish, Clannish search, since I looked for a means to end my personal dilemma, but had it not also been a striving to find a solution for every Chooser, to prevent what had appeared with me from being the end of us?
“No,” I denied furiously. “I owe them nothing. I gave them everything I could and they tried to betray me, to kill Morgan, to use me. When I fought them and won, they stole what they wanted. How dare you even think I should help them! Let them help themselves!”
The Skeptic pursed his round, small mouth, tentacles a brilliant red ring like petals on some flower. “Because, Mystic One, it is what you want to do. It is what you’ve always wanted to do. They just haven’t let you.”
I couldn’t see him very clearly; my eyes had filled with burning tears. Something tumbled away inside, some unknown wall between the Sira-I-had-been and the Sira-I’d-become. I’d believed in my kind once. Like the Drapsk, my place and my role within the Clan had sustained me. The actions of a few—not all—had destroyed that belief, setting me adrift and alone, my love for Morgan a saving anchor. He had taught me how to care for another individual, to accept that a stranger might one day be more.
The Drapsk, it seemed, had another lesson for me. I was part of a larger whole, willingly or not. And that whole was my responsibility.