Another amazing revelation Morgan would normally have found totally absorbing, had so much else not been at stake.
Barac was to his left, fully back in his charming, urbane role as former Clan Scout and spy, somehow able to make even a borrowed pair of spacer coveralls look tailored. His dark eyes roamed ceaselessly, but his expression was one of a partygoer ready to enjoy the revels. Morgan knew nothing was farther from the truth. Barac took the ambitions of Lacknee Sorl very personally indeed.
Huido amply filled out the list of those Morgan considered part of his contingent. The Carasian had finally worked out an arrangement with the Drapsk, who’d reacted to his arrival with distinctly counterproductive joy. Once convinced to stop climbing on his arms and back, they’d created a special seat for him from the cooperative flooring of the room, supplying a low stool for Lacknee Sorl next to it—Huido having assumed responsibility for guarding their reluctant guest, and neither Morgan nor Barac inclined to argue. It had apparently required twenty Drapsk to escort Huido and his responsibility to their seats, though by now Morgan suspected this was so more of the unusual beings could touch the Carasian before they left.
Even now, there were three of them draped over Huido’s back, having sneaked into the room as things settled, chubby little hands holding on to the ridges of his carapace for security. More information to file away until the business at hand was done.
The Drapsk response to Morgan had been odd as well. They’d rushed forward, exclaiming in delight when he’d first arrived, only to halt so suddenly several collided with one another. They had stood, just out of reach, antennae rigidly pointing at him and tentacles disappearing into their mouths. After a difficult moment of silence, during which Huido grumbled something about “ridiculous featherheads,” the Captain had reluctantly offered his hand in a politely Human greeting. Morgan’s initial reaction had been to wonder darkly if the Drapsk had truly wanted him found, or if they preferred to keep their Mystic One to themselves.
When he whispered this suspicion into Huido’s elbow on their way to the lift, the Carasian had said very seriously, if cryptically: “They are glad you are safe, Brother. It’s only that your grist has the smell of—well, something I wouldn’t serve in the restaurant. It will pass once you are yourself again.” Morgan had to settle for this somewhat insulting reassurance.
The rest of the seats to Morgan’s right were filled with Drapsk, starting with Captain Makairi and a very differently colored Drapsk referred to as the Skeptic Copelup. In some manner, this Drapsk belonged to Sira, or Sira was in his care. Comspeak, while a marvelous compromise language allowing commerce and communication among hundreds of species, entailed a certain creative flexibility of meaning when it came to details of relationships.
Which was why their frequent reference to Sira as the Mystic One, and to her as one of their Tribe—though not the Skeptic’s Tribe—made matters murkier instead of clearer.
What he could rely on, Morgan thought to himself, was that these beings cared about Sira and were more than ready to act on her behalf in famed Drapsk fashion—if they were given a target.
The two groups on the other side of the table, however, had different priorities altogether. First after Rael and her guards sat Sector Chief Lydis Bowman, representing the not-inconsiderable force of the Trade Pact Enforcers. Her interests were never totally revealed, Morgan knew, not even to the trusted constables at her side, Russell Terk and P’tr wit ’Whix. What brought her to this table was, on the surface, a regrettable suspicion about himself as a murderer—not normally part of an Enforcer’s role, but she was more than willing to bend rules when one of her own contacts was the victim. Morgan nodded a greeting and received a challenging raised eyebrow in return. Murder, he decided uneasily, was likely the least of her interests here.
Which left Retian Port Authority, the arm of the local law responsible for dealing with violations of Ret 7’s regulations by outworlders, represented here by three pink-lipped and noncommittal Retians: Lord Lispetc and two others, introduced as his aides, Keerick and Mesnbatc. The aides were dressed in the drab hooded robes used by Collectors, the Retian officials entitled to reclaim property or person in the event of crime or tax evasion; their faces were customarily kept in shadow so only their expressive lips showed. It was understood by those present that these individuals were not the servants they seemed to be but rather interested parties to whatever negotiations were planned—understood with the exception of the Retians themselves, who persisted in believing they fooled aliens with this strategy.
No doubt of the interest there, Morgan knew. Lispetc doubtless remembered Morgan’s Fox and her crew from the fiasco with sabotaged com parts a year ago. That Lispetc hadn’t been charged for payment may not have compensated for the loss of face among his peers.
Meeting the Retians and the others here, on the Makmora, had been a calculated risk. Barac had been dead set against it, thanks to Huido’s less-than-discreet and quite smug announcement that the Drapsk would be able to lock any Clan out of the M’hir, preventing convenient vanishing. But Morgan convinced the Clansman by his own willingness to go where there was no possibility of retreat. It was a desperate toss of the dice, with his own freedom on the line. He thought, with luck, the gamble would be worth it.
Morgan needed to learn all that these others knew, he needed to clear away the obstacles keeping him from dealing with Sira’s enemies, and, most of all, he needed all the help he could get to search for Sira without drawing the attention of her enemies to them both. This ship and Sira’s plumed allies were the glue bringing all of these disparate groups together.
First things first.
“Greetings,” Morgan said in a penetrating voice, shutting down the murmur of conversation in the room—mostly Drapsk complimenting Huido anyway. “I am Captain Jason Morgan of the Silver Fox, Karolus Registry. I am not a murderer.” He raised one hand in a gesture to Huido. The Carasian nudged a thoroughly disheveled Lacknee Sorl to his feet.
“Sliced them, I did,” Sorl blurted in a voice loud enough to carry throughout the room. “Had to slice them. Morgan talks to us, no one else. Symon told me so. Had to stay with Morgan. Had to follow. Sliced them all.”
Morgan’s eyes had been on those hearing this confession. He saw the flicker of recognition in Terk’s face the moment Sorl rose to his feet, the Enforcer leaning his bulk right over the lap of his partner ’Whix in order to whisper urgently in Bowman’s ear. She waved him back dismissively, ’Whix supplying a ruffle of irritated feathers. Morgan half-smiled.
“Who is ‘all’?” Bowman asked, directing her question at Morgan. “Have we been remiss in our body count?”
“There was a Clansman on Plexis: Larimar di Sawnda’at by name.” This from Barac. He and Morgan had agreed to give her the information; it was better than being accused later of withholding it. Morgan never underestimated Bowman’s ability to turn over the heaviest rocks in search of her answers. She didn’t bother writing down the name. Morgan suspected she’d had a recorder implanted—he remembered the days when she carried a worn noteplas with her everywhere, before becoming one of the brass. Maybe even a transmitter—his audience, Morgan suddenly realized, might be considerably larger than those in this room, unless the Makmora had some sophisticated jamming tech.
“Where’s the corpse?” This inconvenient question came from Terk, of course.
Barac looked over at Huido, whose eyes milled around as if the Carasian were busy memorizing the layout of the lounge from ceiling to floor. “Let’s say, it’s not available for autopsy. But he was killed by a force blade used with—” the Clansman paused as if considering present company, “—some creativity.”
Bowman tapped her finger on the tabletop. “A Clansman. Killed by this Human. With a force blade.”
“Did it,” Lacknee Sorl offered, nodding his head until his sparse hair flew back and forth. “Symon knows.”
The Enforcer’s eyebrow rose. “And who is this Symon?”
The question, Morgan noted without surprise, having seen the reaction for himself, sent Sorl into a state of almost convulsive muttering, hands on the top of his head as though in sudden agony. “Secret. Secret. Secret. Secret. . . .” Huido gave him a none-too-gentle rap on the shoulder, startling Sorl into silence.
“I may be able to answer this query, Sector Chief,” ’Whix suggested, then waited for Bowman’s brusque nod of permission before continuing: “He may be referring to a Renford T. Symon. This is a Human I have been tracking, the rumored leader of a growing faction of malcontents and, frankly, less reputable Human telepaths.”
Morgan had already braced himself. This was no time to show any reaction to Symon’s name—no matter how the mere thought of his betrayer made his blood burn inside and his rage batter at his control.
’Whix had gone on to say: “There have been reports of his spreading influence among other telepaths as well. My contacts believe Symon’s group is paying for any information about ways to increase their telepathic abilities. They obtain funding for this payment—” here the Tolian’s dry voice took on a decidedly disapproving tone, “—through illicit use of these abilities.”
“Indeed.”
“Chief Bowman,” Lord Lispetc spoke up, his Comspeak deliberately thick and accented, as befitted one of the aristocracy. “I see no point wasting my time on this diversion into your Human politics. If you are satisfied this Morgan entity is innocent of the shedding of blood on our world, I will—reluctantly—accept your judgment. It was, after all, not a Retian involved. But there remains the more serious charge of espionage.” He reached imperiously to one of his aides, Keerick, that worthy leaning forward to pass a plas sheet to his Lordship. A portion of Keerick’s face showed in the light.
“Espionage?” Bowman looked at Morgan. “Are you aware of this charge, Captain Morgan?”
“No,” Morgan started to say, then he hesitated as Barac’s sending blasted into his mind. That Retian is Baltir! Simultaneously, every Drapsk in the room became alert, plumes tilting toward the Clansman.
“That is to say,” Morgan continued smoothly, drawing on every bit of self-control he possessed to maintain that illusion of calm—to fight the burning desire to throw a force blade down a certain wide throat, “I wasn’t sure if you were taking Port Authority into your full confidence, Sector Chief. About the investigation into the allegations of illegal research into humanoid biology—” Once he started, Morgan found it easier. The terrified pallor of the Retian’s lips helped immensely. “—being carried out at the Baltir facility in Jershi.”
There was a singular beauty in the way Bowman could take a lead and run with it. “We hadn’t decided to release the details yet, Captain, as you so rightly caution,” she said without blinking an eye. ’Whix was breathing very slowly, countering his tendency to pant when events took unexpected turns. Terk merely looked at Morgan with an expression promising a few broken bones if this gambit caused his boss any trouble.
Morgan opened his mouth, then hesitated again. The Drapsk had all stood, antennae erect, and were fluttering—there was no other word for it—their plumes toward the Retians. Even the ones crooning over Huido had slid down to copy this stance.
Captain Makairi spoke, his voice measured and low: “One of you comes from this place. You. The one called Keerick. We smell Makii—our Mystic One—on your skin.” As one, the Drapsk turned to focus their attention on the Retian Barac had identified as Baltir. Morgan was impressed.
Baltir wasn’t. He stood, backing away from them all, his protruding eyes wide with alarm, his hands raised and flexed so the poison spurs showed white in threat. “Lord Lispetc. I insist we leave. These aliens, these others—they conspire against me, against my great work. You can see that.”
Lord Lispetc, who knew very well which side of this debate to take in a room containing the highest official of the Trade Pact within five days’ translight, kept his lips shut tight and his wrinkled body firmly on its stool. His eyes blinked, one at a time, then closed completely in a Retian statement of disin volvement. The other Retian immediately followed suit.
Baltir, perhaps knowing who was the true threat to his continued existence, launched himself not at Bowman or any of the Drapsk, but onto the table, in a lunge at Morgan.
The Drapsk acted immediately, hurrying toward Baltir with enthusiasm if little regard for personal safety. Terk was faster. As ’Whix knocked aside a protesting Bowman, the massive Human swept his longs arms around the Retian’s legs, bringing him down just short of where Morgan sat, statue-still.
Morgan’s perception of time became peculiarly stretched. He saw Baltir sliding toward him, mouth agape in surprised fury, clawed hands outstretched with their poison ready, before being dragged to a stop by Terk. He felt the vibration of the Makmora’s flooring as Huido thundered toward him. He saw Bowman shrug herself out of ’Whix’s protective hold, her weapon already in her hand.
Yet there was time to think, to snap his wrist and drop down the force blade, to plan. Which eye to carve out first? he wondered. Had the left one seen more of Sira’s pain or the right? Which hand had held the knife? Where in the mind should he cut out the memory of her agony?
Morgan blinked. The Retian’s broad, wrinkled face had become something else, someone else. The soft throat between his fingers lost its wattle, becoming firmer, bristled with a day’s growth of beard.
Ren Symon!
The force blade whined as if in hunger. Morgan bared his teeth, feeling an incredible rush of pleasure as he bent to take his own revenge in blood. He knew without doubt that none here would stop him. They couldn’t—all this was happening in the space of a breath.
He was only defending himself.
Then, like some cataclysm had whirled within his mind, peeling away layers of emotion, the darkness and rage were gone. In their place rested the memory of a face, inexpressibly dear to him, perfectly clear as though Sira stood between him and the cowering being at his mercy.