Recognition.
INTERLUDE
“Keep interrupting me, Sister, and we’ll never find her,” Rael snapped, restraining an angry lock of her black hair.
Pella didn’t quite pout. “Ica wants to know if you’ve made any progress. It’s been hours.”
Feels like it, Rael said to herself, stretching some of the tightness from her shoulders. Aloud she said: “If any of them cares to augment a heart-search through the M’hir, let them. Otherwise, leave me to my work.”
Pella stepped completely into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. They each had rooms here in Ica’s house. It wasn’t said or thought, but Rael knew better than to try and leave her own without results.
“Ru doesn’t believe you are trying to find Sira at all. Why would she say such a thing?”
Because I’m not, fool, Rael wanted to shout. She wanted several other impossible things as well, including the chance to shake some sense into her younger sister. But Pella was convinced they had to save Sira from herself and had thrown herself completely into Ica’s scheming as the best way to do it. Rael couldn’t wait until Sira had a chance to discuss matters with Pella in person.
Of course, that opportunity would come only if Rael found Sira and could convince her to come, both events she was working diligently to avoid. How much longer she could delay success was anyone’s guess. The heart-search was tricky. She could hardly be blamed for failure. But there were others under Ica’s sway who could taste power in the M’hir. If Sira spent much time there, she could be traced.
There was, Rael thought to herself, with melancholy pride, no way to hide such brilliance in the darkness.
Chapter 38
I’D asked the Drapsk to raise the level of lighting. They’d happened to bring my so-called visitor in the midst of shipnight and I had no desire to meet anyone while fumbling around in near darkness. I did trust the Drapsk to take care of any hazard the stranger might pose. Any ship equipped with explosive grapples could manage one Human.
Even an older, but very fit-looking, Human, I thought as two Makii brought my guest to the Makmora’s trading lounge. The lounge, a luxury afforded by only the largest trading vessels, was a beautifully appointed and carefully species-neutral space reached easily from the air lock and much less easily from within the ship. It would require more explosive to break into the rest of the Makmora from here than to penetrate the outer hull. As I’d noticed about the Drapsk, they took care with their clients.
I didn’t know the face. Since meeting Morgan, I’d made an effort to learn Human expressions and features—a pastime considered meaningless among the Clan, who preferred to share emotion through the M’hir. My visitor’s face reminded me of a battered warrior, a fighter knocked down once too often before realizing his time was over—if he’d realized it even then. The features were too angular, too harsh for any beauty; even his short-cropped hair was retreating from his face. The lips came closest, full and sensual. A shame, I decided, the brown eyes within their frame of puckered scars held so much bitterness.
He was dressed in casual work clothes, Station issue. I dismissed them as camouflage. This Human did not work for anyone but himself. I had tested the edges of his shielding very lightly when he came into the room. There was considerable power here, well-honed and carefully protected.
“Who are you?” I asked, stifling a yawn. The Drapsk hurried to coax me a stool. I noticed they didn’t provide one for the Human and stifled a smile at the same time.
I felt a tendril of thought touching my own. I faded back, but instead of an impenetrable shield, hid myself behind a trace of seemingly open consciousness that would tell him nothing, lead him to suspect nothing of what I was.
His face revealed nothing in return, a control of expression that reminded me suddenly of the polite mask Morgan assumed so easily. “My name is Symon. Ren Symon,” the man introduced himself. His voice was low-timbered and smooth, his Comspeak accentless. No clues there. “These Drapsk asked me to come and tell you what I knew.” A pause to raise an eyebrow. “The information isn’t free.”
Captain Makairi spoke up, anger in every fierce twitch of plume. It was an effective display, especially as it was copied in matching rhythm by the other ten Drapsk in the room, including Copelup. “We warned you not to speak to the Mystic One of payment. That will be taken care of by the Makmora should your information please her.”
Ren Symon was a big Human, muscled but not heavy, his movements graceful despite his size. I estimated he would top Morgan by a head and he certainly towered over my Drapsk. But there was something about knowing the way Drapsk reacted as a Tribe that tended to keep a respectful expression on most sane beings. This Human was no exception. “My apologies, Mystic One.” His lips quirked over the title.
Let it amuse him. I had no intention of sharing my name with strangers. “What is this information, Hom Symon?”
“You’re looking for a trader, Jason Morgan of the Fox. I can take you to him.”
A dangerous Human, I told myself, forcing back every response but caution. He was fishing, I decided, having sensed my attempt to contact Morgan but probably unsure it had come from me. What story had he originally concocted to gain the interest of the Drapsk?
Or the Drapsk could well have mentioned Morgan’s name. I hadn’t forbidden it. Maybe I should have.
“Morgan? If he’s a practitioner of magic,” I replied in my smoothest voice, “then we would very much like to meet him. I’ve been commissioned by these fine Drapsk to find reputable magical beings for their next Festival. They did tell you our purpose, didn’t they?”
A few tentacles hit the mouth at this, but the Drapsk weren’t uncomfortable with a lie or two. Copelup gave a strangled hoot the Human could interpret how he chose.
He chose to ignore it, smiling a disturbing, assessing type of smile, as though he savored something about me. I knew some Humans, including Morgan, responded to the innate power of a Clanswoman the way an unChosen male of the Clan might do. Or perhaps he was one of those affected by a female’s appearance. It was, I thought coldly, only another reason to be cautious. “No, they didn’t mention it,” Symon answered at last.
“But I should have guessed on my own. The Drapsk are reputed to know their—magic.” Did I imagine the hesitation before the word, as though he really did understand what the Drapsk had sought to find?
“Where is this Morgan, Hom Symon?” Copelup asked for me, perhaps aware I was wary of asking more myself. “What is your relationship to him? Are you his agent on Plexis?”
“Jase and I go way back,” Symon claimed. “I’m not his agent. I just know what’s good for him, that’s all.”
I met his dark brown eyes with a jolt of understanding. He was the one—I was suddenly sure—the mentor Morgan had never told me about, the one who had taught him the rudiments of using his Talent. I didn’t need to be told that this was also the one who had driven Morgan to seek solitude in the Fox. What had Morgan said? That the telepaths he knew worked for or against the Trade Pact. I didn’t need to ask which type faced me now.
I stood slowly, reestablishing all of my shielding, pressing outward with an edge of power until I saw him stagger and wince, eyes wide in surprise. Good, I thought. Let him know who and what he deals with. “You didn’t come here to help us find Morgan,” I said scornfully. “You came here hoping we would help you find him.”
“Sira di Sarc,” he breathed, nostrils flared with triumph. “Yes, I’d hoped to find Morgan, but to find you? This is much better. Much.” It was as if he now talked to himself, face reddening with excitement, oblivious to what his rapid words revealed. “You know, I’d thought maybe removing those memory blocks from Jodrey’s empty head would be as big a waste of time as his life. But curiosity was always my greatest fault. And here you are. In the flesh. Tell me, is it true? Can your kind pass your power to us? Can you? I’d pay—”
It was as if I’d turned over a piece of crystal and found a dirty slug underneath. “I’ll show you what I can pass along,” I said. The Makii on either side of Symon drew away quickly, guessing what I was about. “Be careful you don’t cross my path again, Ren Symon.”
I formed the locate, pushed . . .
And air slithered into where he’d been.
I hoped they checked the freezer at the Claws & Jaws regularly, or there could be a very cold telepath in there by morning.
Not that I cared.
INTERLUDE
Delivering the stalker had been simplicity itself. Understanding what it showed him was not. Morgan toggled and spun various controls, coldly patient, trying to bring up a scan that made sense.
Just before dawn, Morgan had made his way to the roof of the hotel, careful to avoid the lumps of sleeping ort-fungus draped over most of the vents—no wonder the air inside was so stale. The orts were harmless pests, but their tendency to climb up pant legs in search of food left in a pocket was a nuisance at the best of times.
Standing several paces back from the edge, Morgan lobbed the sphere in his hand in an arc clearing the narrow street below to land on the opposite roof. Then he put a pair of nightviews to his eyes and watched; stalkers were hideously expensive on Plexis, restricted items everywhere else. If he missed with this one, he’d have to steal another or resort to a riskier tactic. Under the circumstances, theft from the Retians didn’t strike Morgan as particularly amoral, but there was no question he’d be better off avoiding complications with the local law.
Ah. The sphere rolled slowly until it came against an upright piece of ductwork, then stopped. Morgan stepped up the magnification on his lenses in time to see the sphere crack itself open in several places. Long, delicate-appearing legs protruded, lifting free the stalker itself: a dull brown mechanical body no larger than the tip of his finger, its core packed with sensors. Beneath it, meanwhile, the discarded outer case performed its final function, dissolving a tiny hole through the roofing material as it consumed itself. After a moment, the stalker lowered itself into the cavity and vanished from Morgan’s sight.
So it was back into the musty hotel room, to sit on the waterproof sheet and watch for results.
Morgan tried another adjustment. There. The viewpoint was upside-down, the stalker preferring the ceiling where it could avoid auto detectors as well as feet. It was scanning infrared to produce the image he was interpreting, at least when the stalker wasn’t crawling over lighting fixtures, a move which resulted in a shocking blaze of bright reds across the screen.
High tech, Morgan mused, gradually piecing together a sense of the building’s interior. None of the Retian proclivity for moisture or mud in here. These walls and floor were pristine, flawless.
A splash of light pinks, body-shaped, massed together along one section of wall. As programmed, the stalker paused to collect more information. Morgan tapped the order to continue. It must be a pod of junior Retians, packed shoulder-to-shoulder into a pocket or closet in the wall, dozing until needed for some menial task. While young, the beings were capable of a light state of hibernation—a convenient way for their elders to deal with a stage of Retian development in which brains were less than functional and behavior varied between meaningless repetition and absolute distraction. Given detailed direction, the juniors were useful workers. There were likely several such pods, none of concern in his present search.
Morgan had his sketch pad on his knee and jotted down a rough map as the device passed closed doors and side corridors, marking areas of potential interest with a quick circle of black. By the time the stalker’s power source failed, and he’d straightened up with a groan and stretch, he had covered ten sheets with detailed notes.
And, he thought with grim satisfaction, he’d found what he was looking for, circled twice on page six.
A room with a locked door but offering access to the stalker through a ventilation grille at the top. Within the room, boxes glowing with the infrared signature of incubators held at humanoid norm.
And, as a bonus, a sleeping form in a side chamber of the same room—a sleeper with a body temperature well above that for a Retian, but well inside the range for Clan.
Morgan began repacking his bag, pausing first to check the fit of his throwing knives in their sheaths on his wrists.
With any luck, he’d found the robber along with the spoils.
Chapter 39
“PORT Authority has given us clearance to land. We are thirteenth in the docking schedule, Mystic One. You have time to rest, if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed behind Maka. I drew up my knees, wrapping my arms around my legs to hold them tightly against my chest. There was only a slight initial discomfort in my abdomen, quickly fading to no more than a pulling sensation. Fit for duty, I told myself, shying from any thought of what might have been altered within.
I dropped my forehead to my knees, my hair sliding down to close me off from this cabin, its fresh-washed scent a touch of my own, non-Drapsk, reality. Things would happen in their order, I vowed to myself. I would no longer lose control. No matter how much I longed to send that sliver of thought along the path to Morgan’s mind, no matter how easy it would be to disappear from this place and find myself in the comforting familiarity of the Fox, I would do neither. The risk was too great.
There were Clan here. As on Plexis, I could open the tiniest slit in my awareness of the M’hir and sense the power crackling through its blackness. The pathways were not numerous, but they were burned into place from frequent use. I knew of no Clan who lived here. No offspring would have been fostered here to create a link to his or her absent parent. So what I tasted around me had been forged to a purpose. To come and go from Ret 7 without other species being aware.
Secrecy was a good sign, I assured myself, licking dry lips and straightening up. It meant this was the right place, something I’d taken for granted given Morgan had chosen to come here. I lowered my legs, rubbing my abdomen not so much to ease the memory of soreness as in promise. I may have forced my anger into Morgan’s mind; it didn’t mean I had none left of my own.