Ties of Power (Trade Pact Universe) (43 page)

I wondered when we’d find out what they were up to, but didn’t bother the Drapsk with suspicions I was quite sure they shared. I had someone else’s suspicions to counter as soon as we were left alone.

But first, there was a little matter to have explained. “Huido,” I began the moment we were alone. “The Drapsk seem unusually—fond—of you.”

An amused chuckle. “They have good taste.”

“I’m fond of you,” I countered. “So’s Morgan. We don’t climb all over you to show it.”

“Good. You’re too heavy.”

“I’d like an explanation,” I said. “Our little friends are mysterious enough, thank you, without your adding to it.”

Huido shrugged, a rocking movement of his wide head resulting in a series of almost melodic clanks. “My grist is considered very attractive among my kind—a pity you are not equipped to appreciate it, Sira.” This with definite innuendo. “The Drapsk, on the other hand, are extraordinarily sensitive to such things.”

“Meaning?”

“They can’t help but love me. It is a harmless obsession. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Oh,” I said, then looked at my companion, a mass of shining, opinionated black armor more like a stripped-down groundcar than a living thing, and didn’t even try to imagine what the Drapsk felt. At least, I thought, they were happy.

“Huido,” I said evenly, waiting until the attention of more eyestalks meant he’d noticed my change of tone. “It’s time we talked about Plexis. I know what you and Barac did to hide Larimar’s body. And why.”

“You do?” A castanet sigh. “It was my staff, wasn’t it. They’re all fired.”

I put all the earnestness I could into my voice. “Huido. Morgan didn’t kill the Clansman.”

“Of course he didn’t.” All of Huido’s eyes converged on me. A massive handling claw half-rose from the floor, but then he thought better of snapping it.

I should have known. Which didn’t explain anything. “Then why dispose of—him? What were you and Barac thinking?”

A hiss as plates shuddered over one another. “That the murderer left the corpse to cause trouble in more than my kitchen. Perhaps to delay Morgan with an investigation. Perhaps to inflame the Clan against him.” He paused, eyes whirling. “Or perhaps the killer missed his true target. I do not like the pattern I see forming, Sira. First Larimar talks to Morgan and dies. Now Malacan Ser—”

“Mal—” I stopped, remembering the name from what seemed a lifetime ago. “That’s the Human on Ret 7, the exporter Bowman uses as her eyes and ears insystem. What about him?”

Huido’s voice became slow and grim. “Murdered by the same method as Larimar. And only three standard days ago. Morgan planned to see him.”

“You think the murderer is following Morgan,” I said numbly. “And Bowman’s here looking for Morgan. She must know about Malacan, if not Larimar. But she can’t suspect Morgan—”

“Why not? Your worthless cousin believes it,” he said with disgust. “He was so convinced of Morgan’s guilt, the creteng deserted me the first chance he got.”

“Barac doesn’t know Morgan’s nature as we do,” I said, better able to see Barac’s viewpoint, if not inclined to forgive it either. “Or he’d know Morgan couldn’t be a killer.”

The Carasian threw up both his massive handling claws, snapping them closed with an ominous cymbal-like sound. “Yet,” he rumbled darkly.

I sat up straight, feet together on the floor, blanket clutched between my hands as I stared at him. “What do you mean? Morgan will defend himself if he has to—”

“There’s a difference between reacting to violence and seeking it.” Huido’s head carapace tilted forward, eyestalks milling aimlessly back and forth. “With what you’ve done to him, my brother could cross that line at any time. If he hasn’t already.” His sudden air of dejection was all the more inexplicable, considering his passion of an instant before. My heart began to beat more heavily, as if preparing for flight. But Huido’s next words seemed harmless enough: “Has Morgan told you how we met? Has he told you of his youth?”

“No. What does this have to do with today, now?”

Two smaller arms swung up, as if gathering air, then came together. “We are today what was begun in the past, Sira Morgan. Sira di Sarc. You should know this if anyone does.”

I curbed my impatience to be looking for Morgan. If I’d learned anything from the Drapsk, it was to never underestimate what other beings viewed as important. And, perhaps because Barac had abandoned the Carasian without warning, I owed him a member of the Clan who would listen. “Tell me, then.”

 

Morgan, so Huido’s story went, had been the youngest in a family of farmers, living in the foothills near Karolus’ shining new shipcity, in sight of the bright lights marking the colony’s future. He’d had his Talent even when young, sufficient to encourage a boy to be a loner, to enjoy long walks deeper into the wilderness, away from the clustered busy minds of family and stranger alike.

Had been the youngest. Just before Morgan’s twelfth birthday, Karolus had been lapped up in a civil war between neighboring systems, its modern shipcity a prize tempting both sides to invade.

Morgan had run home one afternoon, pulled from his wanderings by a dreadful foreboding to find his home empty, his family dead or missing, their crops in flames. The shipcity itself was a fireworks display in reverse, streaks of eye-stabbing light raining down as both sides fought to keep it from one another.

Morgan’s Talent, though he didn’t know it then, drew him from the destruction to where his uncles had fled into the hills with what remained of the valley’s adult population. The sturdy colonists, well-accustomed to fighting nature and chance, took on the role of reclaiming their world with typical single-mindedness.

There were years of guerrilla warfare, made worse by having no clear enemy. A victory against one foe merely opened a doorway for the other to move in; caught in the middle, Karolus slowly choked to death, her population dying as often by mistaken fire as by planned attack. Young Morgan survived his uncles, gaining a reputation as being lucky as well as a skilled saboteur. He and those with him counted their successes in days survived.

The day came when one of the offworld forces claimed total victory, its foes turning over their bases on Karolus as part of the spoils. The planet’s original colonists had been almost forgotten, their ineffectual raids blamed on the defeated enemy. But now the attention of the victors turned to them alone.

Morgan and those with him were sick of a war they couldn’t win, that wasn’t theirs to begin or end. They were ready to surrender, and might have succeeded in doing so if there hadn’t been a change in the conflict. Colonists, fighters or not, were no longer being captured or killed. Instead, rumors spread like wildfire of atrocities, of the collection of the living for sale off world. There was a certain group of offworlders responsible, went the story, hunters with the task of cleaning up the Karolus problem once and for all.

It was at this time that a stranger walked into the caves where Morgan and his dwindling band of guerrillas were hiding, a charismatic Human brought to them by the representatives of two other families. A born leader, they called him. Able to spot enemy installations in the dark. Lucky as Morgan, boasted someone. At this, the new leader had reached out his thoughts, unerringly finding Morgan where he stood well back of the others, touching and soothing the chaos and confusion that was Morgan’s Talent fighting to be expressed, granting the comfort only another trained telepath could give.

I’d known the name before Huido’d said it, known it with a sick certainty. Ren Symon.

Symon was an inspiring leader, daring and smart, brave but interested more in results than glory. Many of the surviving colonists flocked to his side, as charmed as Morgan. It was the only place with hope, as daily more and more disappeared or died. Morgan became Symon’s protégé. The older telepath showed him how to keep out the thoughts of others or how to read them, how to interpret the sensations of warning, and how to lend his strength when needed.

It was impossible for Huido to imagine what that must have been like for Morgan, but I knew. To be able to control the voices in your mind, to realize it as a gift, not a madness—above all to communicate freely with another mind, giving and sharing. It was the best of what we could do.

It was also the worst.

There were times when Symon left them, to lead raids by other bands. Morgan was told to remain behind, his Talent serving as an early warning too important to the dwindling numbers of survivors to risk.

One night, Morgan didn’t stay. He was startled from a light doze at his guard post by a terrible premonition of disaster, catching himself stumbling through the dark after Symon before he’d realized his intention to follow. So be it, he’d thought. If Symon was in danger, this time he’d be there to help.

Morgan’s shields, as I could testify, were naturally strong. So he was able to follow Symon undetected, down to the valley floor, right up to the end of the battered shipcity where he ducked behind the wreckage of a starship. If he could have called a warning without being overheard, he would have. Some instinct kept him from calling mind-to-mind.

It was just as well. Moments later, he stared in disbelief as Symon reappeared walking with an officer of the enemy, taking a bag from him before giving a casual salute.

Morgan knew what loss was; he’d had practice. He closed down all emotion, any reaction except cold curiosity, and kept following, determined to find out the truth. It wasn’t a long journey. Symon led him farther through the field of wreckage to where a force field marked the edges of a camp. Morgan didn’t dare approach any closer. There would certainly be detectors set around the perimeter.

There was another way, a way Symon had taught him. Morgan found a place where he could hide, then tucked himself into a ball and closed his eyes. He sought outward, carefully, carefully, sending out a tendril of questing thought, avoiding the lodestone of a mind he knew as Symon’s, seeking someone else, anyone else.

There. A susceptible mind. Morgan’s eyes snapped open in shock. It was a girl, a prisoner. She wasn’t alone. Through her eyes he could see dozens of colonists, chained together, some injured, most unharmed. There were trip boxes stacked to one side, ready to receive their cargo. A Scat made its stalking rounds nearby, its heavy snout moving from side to side as though testing the air. Roraqk, whimpered the girl’s thoughts in Morgan’s. He has the ship.

The rest of the camp was a jumble of shadowy moving figures, all armed, most Human. The enemy’s cleanup squad, Morgan guessed, not needing the fearful confirmation from her thoughts. He felt a surge of rage, a hate so deep it startled him. It wasn’t only his, it was hers as well. It was their world’s.

How had it been possible?

Through the prisoner’s ears, Morgan heard a familiar voice. “Well, are you ready or aren’t you? They aren’t going to sleep forever—not without our help, anyway!” Raucous laughter echoed through the camp.

It was Symon, armed to the teeth in the enemy’s camp, a terrible look of anticipation on his face as he urged the others to follow him. He was their leader, too, Morgan realized with a shock that echoed into the girl’s thoughts and made her gasp. He disengaged himself, leaving behind a promise of vengeance.

Somehow, Morgan had kept ahead of the swiftly marching troop, using every scrap of knowledge he possessed about his home to gain a step here, avoid a slower patch of treacherous rock there. He was pursued by more than the threat they posed. Symon was with them, his emotions leaking through his shielding just enough for Morgan to feel them like nightmares breathing down his neck: a dreadful anticipation, a lust for pain and power, a need like poison to drink from the suffering of others. This was the mind Morgan had let into his own, had allowed to shape and teach him.

Betrayer! Morgan barely held in his own thoughts. He retched as he ran, holding his hands across his mouth to muffle the sound.

Symon’s thoughts became more vivid as he neared his goal. Morgan felt his name in them, not in a calling but as an understanding of what Symon planned for them both. Morgan was to be spared from the recruiters, kept safe from any weapon fire. He would be with Symon always, a source of strength if he was willing—the most delightful of victims if he were not.

Fatally distracted, Morgan misjudged his leap across a stream-bed, landing awkwardly so that he hung unbalanced, grabbing at air, then dropped backward onto the rock. It was all he knew for a long time.

It was daylight, too late, when he opened his eyes. Everything Symon had wanted to happen, had craved to have happen, was done. The only victim he’d missed, Morgan, lay with his own blood drying on his face, and wondered why he should even try to live any longer.

Then, slowly at first, the reason came to him. It was rage: deep, utter, terrible, and dark. Symon would pay. They all would pay.

 

“I met him a few years later,” Huido finished. “He’d eventually escaped Karolus in a stolen scout ship—teaching himself to fly it on the way—then tried to smuggle himself onto Plexis in a shipment of pickled creteng. My pickled creteng. I’d never met a being so full of anger, like an explosive waiting for its fuse. Nor had I met one who smelled so much like dead fish. He—I will spare you the details, Sira. Morgan chose to remain with me.

“Years passed. He became a trader and bought the Fox. We traveled together at times. When we became blood brothers and shared our pasts, he told me what I’ve told you, Sira. I didn’t ask what happened after he uncovered Symon’s treachery, and he never told me. With luck, he killed the monster. But I think Morgan found even he couldn’t fight a guerilla war by himself. I think he recognized the risk of becoming what Symon was if he tried. I do know there are none of the original colonists left on Karolus.”

I let out a long shuddering breath. “I can tell you one thing. Morgan wasn’t a killer then, either, Huido. Ren Symon came to me on Plexis just after you and Barac left. He was looking for Morgan. And he was looking for me.”