“I can’t forgive them,” I said bitterly, wiping away the tears with a rough hand. Then, with shattering clarity, I knew what I must do. “But—I’ll save them if I can.
“Once Morgan is safe.”
INTERLUDE
“They must have followed you. They certainly didn’t follow me.”
Huido snapped a claw in irritation, but quietly. He was the one on watch, it being simpler to look around corners if one owned eyes on stalks. A pair of those eyes angled back to see the Clansman where he sat on a plas crate. The alleyway offered several such seats, though none strong enough to support Huido’s bulk.
“It’s still your fault. You know those two. Bowman only uses them when she’s after the Clan.”
“True,” Barac admitted, keeping his voice down. He was sure they’d spotted the Enforcers before being seen themselves, but it still begged the question: what were Constables Russell Terk and his partner, the Tolian P’tr wit ’Whix, doing in this part of the All Sapients’ District of Jershi?
Not being inconspicuous, that’s for sure, he thought to himself, as if Terk could ever hide in a crowd. And Tolians, while common elsewhere, were disgusted with Ret 7’s almost perennial dampness, preferring to barter for their exports through hardier species. To see one of the lanky, feather-crested beings stalking along Jershi’s streets, three-clawed feet fastidiously avoiding puddles, was sufficient to stop traffic.
Barac had also heard that the Tolians distrusted the Retians’ ability to distinguish their sentient selves from the local farm stock, but like all such rumors, one had to judge the source.
So these two weren’t sneaking about. “The question remains, Huido, did they follow us or beat us here?”
“Irrelevant,” rumbled the Carasian. “We will find my brother first. We must tell him about the murders—warn him. The killer may be hunting him even now.” A muffled click as Huido expressed his feelings with a threatening wave of one huge claw.
Barac no longer bothered to argue. The Carasian’s belief in Morgan’s innocence was unassailable, although it was based on a conviction that if the Human wanted someone dead, he would do it with more discretion and finesse. This implied an expertise Barac found most unsettling in a being he’d thought he understood.
Unsettling? There was more to it than that. Barac glanced around, suddenly uneasy. They were alone in the short, dark space between the two warehouses. Alone except for some repulsively mobile native fungus, the Retian version of rats, busy adsorbing a pile of food waste. He shook his head, not dismissing the premonition, but uncertain what it meant.
“With Bowman advertising her presence, the port scum will head for their holes,” Huido said thoughtfully, swinging all his eyes to gaze out into the street. “I know a couple of likely spots. Are you ready? They’re out of sight.”
Barac understood the true threat the instant it was too late to fight it. He opened his mouth to cry a warning to his companion, the alleyway fading from sight around him as someone else’s power pulled him into the M’hir . . .
When there was no reply, Huido’s eyestalks swiveled around, one at a time, until all had followed the first to stare back at the alleyway.
An alleyway in which he was quite alone.
Chapter 37
MY legion of feather-headed spies reported in just before the celebratory feast which, Drapsklike, had to occur or the Mystic One would be offended. Since this was the feast I’d unwittingly abandoned by ‘porting to the restaurant and spending the rest of the day questioning Huido’s staff, and since I had no interest in more delays of any kind, the Mystic One tried several times to convince the Drapsk nothing was further from the truth. My protests had fallen on deaf hearing organs. No matter how I tried to convince them, over one hundred Makii happily devoted their time to preparing a second wonderful meal.
So I grimly prepared to enjoy it, intending to do so visibly, unmistakably, and in front of all the Makii and one amused Skeptic, in order to move the immovable and get the Makmora offstation.
But the reports came first. Most were supplied nonverbally and, I was intrigued to witness, simultaneously. The Drapsk stood in a circle around Captain Makairi, plumes shivering toward him. I could feel soft puffs of air where I stood watching from the doorway to the bridge.
Copelup, predictably, was eavesdropping. “There’s a rumor about some disappearing Humans, Mystic One,” he warned. “And a group of other Humans looking for them.”
“If you are going to scent,” Captain Makairi said dryly as he came over to us, the reporting process apparently over, “at least do it well, Skeptic. I have your information, Mystic One,” he added more formally. “It’s not as much or as specific as we hoped to give you. We sincerely apologize for our failure—”
I cut him off, sensing another round of mutual graciousness as lengthy as the pre-feast debate. “I’m sure the Makii have done all possible.”
Copelup had to jump in: “The Mystic One can’t tell you how good the information is, Captain, unless you give it to her. The feast awaits.”
“By all means, don’t delay the feast,” I hurried to assure the Drapsk. “What did they find out?”
“Not all of the reports were based on reliable sources, Mystic One. The Makii cannot vouch for their truthfulness or intent.”
A stool nudged the back of my legs suggestively, and I sat instead of bursting with impatience. I knew better by now. “Then let’s go through it all and decide for ourselves, Captain,” I suggested with what I considered remarkable self-control.
The Drapsk had learned several things of interest, some very odd and useless facts, and at least one item that made it next to impossible to enjoy my feast. I shoveled in bite after bite regardless, comforting myself with the idea that when I’d stuffed myself to the limit, the Drapsk would be satisfied and leave Plexis.
Sector Chief Bowman herself was on-station, an acquaintance I was tempted to renew, but on second thought I realized that could become a serious complication if she learned about the source of the Claws & Jaws’ latest entrée. Her own motives for being here were suspect: her people were asking questions around the Station about Humans, but not just any Humans. They were asking about Human telepaths.
In any Human city, I thought, rubbing an old, fading callus on my left hand, you could ask around and find a master-class keffle-flute player. They might be rare, but not impossible to find. You could round up a dozen or so very good ones. And doubtless locate hordes of beginners torturing the ears of their brave instructors.
Just so with Human telepaths, except, unlike professional performers, they tended to make every effort to avoid notice, this effort increasing with their Talent. Few could do more than feel an uneasiness around other minds, leading most to be solitary, reclusive individuals. Some, like Morgan, found space a kinder environment, away from the weariness of screening out millions of other minds. Many went mad to an extent, a sad waste of even minimal Talent.
Then, as Morgan had told me, there were those who were lucky—or unlucky—enough to have both Talent and a mentor to train them in its use. Of course, there were two kinds of mentors, split neatly by the ethics they applied to the use of mental abilities: those with some and those without.
Morgan hadn’t told me about the Human who had trained him, though it was obvious from his skill he’d had good instruction at an early age. I was not prone to asking him about his past, not being interested in remembering my own.
Bowman’s Enforcers weren’t hunting telepaths, though there were certainly enough on the other side of the Law to make such a hunt profitable; the Enforcers were collecting information about missing telepaths. Word was, they had lost several of their own recently.
From rumors the Drapsk heard, it wasn’t only law-abiding, well-protected telepaths disappearing. Crime syndicates, including the Grays and Blues of Deneb, and the local Plexis underground had lost telepaths as well, posting huge rewards for their return.
I wasn’t sure how all this fit into the timing of the attack on me, the dead Clansman in the freezer, or where Morgan, Barac, and Huido had gone. I was sure I didn’t like the sound of it. Premonition might be a skill I lacked, but it didn’t take the taste of trouble in the M’hir to know who might be interested in Human telepaths and why. I didn’t doubt the same thought had crossed Bowman’s mind: the Clan Council. They’d forbidden my Joining with Morgan on the grounds of species’ purity. Yet they’d been willing to use him if it brought my body into its reproductive state.
Who better to blame? The Council had motive, and they certainly had the ability to overpower a Human telepath. I thought only Morgan would be able to withstand them—and that only long enough to flee.
I reserved judgment. The Council made almost too easy a target. If they were responsible for the attack on me, which I didn’t doubt, why hadn’t they taken Morgan? I still believed it was because, to them, he didn’t matter.
No matter who was to blame, it concerned me. If someone was hunting Human telepaths, Morgan could be next on their list. I sent a few Drapsk back to their contacts; holding our lift from Plexis might be worth it if we could identify this threat.
My spies had ferreted out a plethora of other rumors and facts in the short time they’d been marching through the Station and examining its records. They’d procured an order of Tolian nut-based liqueurs, having coaxed the upcoming rise in price from a dealer. I had lists in my hands of probably every crime occurring over the last five days, as well as every posting of a grudge or bad debt.
One of those was informative. A trip box had been ordered, paid for, and delivered to one of the luxury hotel suites, Level 22 spinward 3/4. The owner hadn’t shown up to claim his bulky purchase, so the hotel manager had complained to Plexis security. They could find no trace of one Larimar di Sawnda’at, Clansman—hardly a surprise to those who knew about the memorable Rillian dish.
His was a name I knew. Larimar had been one of Yihtor’s followers on Acranam, freed from Council rule by the faking of his own death. Why would he want a trip box? Was he involved in kidnapping Human telepaths? The chambers were used legitimately to transport beings with certain medical conditions—including the not-uncommon fear of translight travel—and illegally to transport less willing passengers euphemistically called “recruits.” He’d been following Morgan, possibly with the intention of getting the Human into the trip box, but instead was confronted by Morgan, then questioned by Morgan and Huido.
Sometime after that, Larimar had been killed and left in Huido’s freezer. I waved the Drapsk with the dessert tray back to me again, having found a tiny spot in my stomach not ready to burst. They did remarkable things with sweets.
Huido and Barac had worked together to dispose of Larimar’s body. I examined this from every possible interpretation and could only conclude they, too, believed Morgan was guilty. So instead of having a body to help prove Morgan’s innocence, they’d cleverly removed any chance of it giving a clue to the real killer. I wished I’d arrived soon enough to stop the helpful pair.
What made it impossible to fully enjoy the delicacies the Drapsk lavished on me were the departure logs for Plexis. The Silver Fox, Karolus Registry, had lifted four days before the Makmora docked on Plexis. I’d missed Morgan by so little. Her flight plan—another item the Drapsk mysteriously obtained—listed Ret 7 to Ettler’s: destinations I hardly doubted.
Huido and Barac sud Sarc were listed as first class passengers on yesterday’s shuttle to Ret 7. They’d gained on Morgan—taking advantage of Plexis’ own stationday of translight travel, part of her scheduled movements to fresh markets.
And, to round out the cozy fleet, Bowman’s own cruiser had lifted shortly afterward, no destination filed. But I had no trouble guessing.
Time we joined the crowd.
“Well, Captain Makairi, my heartfelt thanks to you and all the Makii for my feast,” I said as jovially as I could manage, given the state of my mind and the swelling of my stomach.
Makii oriented toward me, a rather perplexing assortment of containers stuck to their faces. It had been a feast worth sharing. All of their plumes were upright and quivering. A happy bunch, I thought, hoping my digestive system could cope.
“We are pleased to have given you a satisfactory feast at last, Mystic One,” the Captain said gratefully. “Are you certain you don’t want anything more? Perhaps we can still obtain your truffles?”
I choked back a laugh that was close to something else. “No. No. I’m perfectly satisfied. Any more and I would lose—” my feast, I thought to myself “—my ability to stay awake and savor the moment!”
Copelup had stood up at the same time. “The feast is over,” he announced proudly. “The Mystic One is satisfied.”
There would have been a round of cheering as well as a joyful breeze in my direction had more Drapsk not had their faces full of feast. I went on before this occurred to them. “My dear Makii. While I hate to ask more of you after such a tribute, your Captain knows I must. I have learned our destination. As soon as those Drapsk on-station return, the Makmora must leave Plexis as soon as possible for Ret 7.”
There was, of course, no objection from the dear Drapsk.
There was, equally of course, a delay due to the dear Drapsk, as Maka informed me in my cabin later that shipday.
“What do you mean, a visitor?” I squeaked at him, still fuzzy-headed from the nap my overindulgence at the feast had demanded. Then I thought: Morgan! And without thinking how improbable this was, I sent out a blaze of questing thought.
A sense of pain, not mine, someone else’s. I pulled back instantly, realizing at the same moment the Drapsk had not brought me Morgan but another Human telepath.
And not just any telepath. The mind I’d slammed into like a rock against ice had reacted to my demand for Morgan with immediate and clear emotion.