To Guard Against the Dark Read online

  The Finest in DAW Science Fiction and Fantasy by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:

  THE CLAN CHRONICLES:

  Stratification:

  REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)

  RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)

  RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)

  The Trade Pact:

  A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)

  TIES OF POWER (#2)

  TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

  Reunification:

  THIS GULF OF TIME AND STARS (#1)

  THE GATE TO FUTURES PAST (#2)

  TO GUARD AGAINST THE DARK (#3)

  NIGHT’S EDGE:

  A TURN OF LIGHT (#1)

  A PLAY OF SHADOW (#2)

  SPECIES IMPERATIVE:

  Omnibus Edition

  SURVIVAL | MIGRATION | REGENERATION

  WEB SHIFTERS:

  BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)

  CHANGING VISION (#2)

  HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)

  SEARCH IMAGE (#4)*

  IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

  *Coming soon from DAW Books

  Copyright © 2017 by Julie E. Czerneda.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Jacket art by Matt Stawicki.

  Jacket designed by G-Force Design.

  Jacket photograph by Roger Czerneda.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1770.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698190054

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Julie E. Czerneda

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Previously, in the Clan Chronicles

  Prelude

  Trade Pact Space

  Chapter 1

  Interlude

  Chapter 2

  Aside: The Papiekians

  Chapter 3

  Interlude

  Chapter 4

  Interlude

  Chapter 5

  Interlude

  Chapter 6

  Interlude

  Chapter 7

  Interlude

  Chapter 8

  Interlude

  Chapter 9

  Aside: The Thremm

  Chapter 10

  Interlude

  Chapter 11

  Interlude

  Chapter 12

  Interlude

  Chapter 13

  Interlude

  Chapter 14

  Interlude

  Chapter 15

  Interlude

  Aside: The Goth

  Chapter 16

  Interlude

  Chapter 17

  Interlude

  Chapter 18

  Interlude

  Chapter 19

  Interlude

  Chapter 20

  Aside: The Tidik

  Chapter 21

  Interlude

  Interlude

  Chapter 22

  Interlude

  Chapter 23

  Interlude

  Chapter 24

  Interlude

  Chapter 25

  Interlude

  Chapter 26

  Interlude

  Chapter 27

  Interlude

  Chapter 28

  Interlude

  Chapter 29

  Interlude

  Chapter 30

  Interlude

  Chapter 31

  Interlude

  Aside: The Sakissishee

  Interlude

  Chapter 32

  Interlude

  Chapter 33

  Interlude

  Chapter 34

  Interlude

  Aside: The Drapsk

  Chapter 35

  Interlude

  Chapter 36

  Interlude

  Chapter 37

  Interlude

  Chapter 38

  Interlude

  Chapter 39

  Interlude

  Chapter 40

  Interlude

  Chapter 41

  Interlude

  Chapter 42

  Interlude

  Chapter 43

  Interlude

  Chapter 44

  Appendix

  Acknowledgments

  To Trudy Rising, My First Publisher and Dear Friend

  In the dedication for Gulf, I told you how the idea for the Clan came from my studies under Dr. Jan Smith. In Gate, you met Lili Pasternak, who reinforced my passion for biology and introduced me to writing nonfiction.

  It’s my pleasure, now, to introduce to you, the remarkable Trudy Rising. If you’ve used a textbook in Canada for science or math or other specialized topic that was exceptionally well-done? Most likely you’ll find Trudy’s name inside. Whatever’s acknowledged will be the tip of the iceberg of her contribution, for she takes her work to heart in the best way.

  I’ll back up a bit. My introduction to Trudy happened thus. I was in my third month of being a full-time mom when our friend Mike Lamarre, a science teacher, called. He’d given my name and number to a textbook sales rep, saying he knew someone with a biology background who—wrote.

  I add the em dash because what I wrote was my science fiction, for fun and for no one else. Yes, the stacks of paper in our house were hard to hide, but only one friend, Linda Heier, knew what I wrote and she wouldn’t tell on me. (Roger, on the other hand, was gleefully supportive of my then-hobby and did boast I was writing books.) Oh, dear.

  The call came, from an editor named Jonathan Bocknek (from John Wiley & Sons). He explained they were mid-project and needed someone who could express complex biology in an accessible manner. Would I give it a try? After my shock (I honestly didn’t think textbooks were written by anyone other than aged/dead academics), I agreed to his test: to write a one-page description of the human circulatory system.

  Okay. I treated it as though explaining the nuts and bolts to my father-in-love, using a tube of toothpaste as an analogy, as I recall. I had a blast writing it, but didn’t think it particularly special. Just biology.

  Jonathan called to request an urgent face-to-face meeting, with Trudy Rising, in the Wiley office.

  It is here I confess I was terrified. I brought Roger to the meeting. Because, you know, PUBLISHERS.

  I’d seen the movies.

  Trudy was a well-dressed, tiny person. Why all the truly powerful women in my career are shorter than I am, yet seem SO MUCH TALLER remains, to this day, a puzzle. She was a bit surprised I’d brought Roger, but didn’t do more than blink. I was glad, because Trudy went
on, with what I soon learned was her usual dynamic efficiency—something like a fighter jet at Mach 2—to invite me not only to rewrite a couple of chapters, but start a career.

  They’d really liked the toothpaste.

  My first nonfiction came out in 1985, and Trudy Rising wasn’t just my publisher/editor, she let me in. From her, I learned every step of the process, from concept to print, from curriculum development to sales. We shared the same drive for perfection, though I’ve never come close to Trudy’s ability to warp the hours of a day. (She and Sheila? Peas in a pod on that score.)

  At a time when working at home was a rarity, I’d a rewarding job to stretch every brain cell and use everything I could learn. Fabulous!

  Trudy Rising, with Grace Deutsch and Mary-Kay Winter, went on to form the acclaimed publishing house: Trifolium Books. If the name’s familiar? Trifolium published my No Limits: Developing Scientific Literacy Using Science Fiction, as well as the Tales from the Wonder Zone anthology series. Technically, they published my first work of SF, a story in that series, but I wouldn’t accept payment for it, being the editor.

  In a sense, Trudy ended my nonfiction career, too. She added her voice to Roger’s, firmly pushing me to send out my stories, and no one was happier when I succeeded. I must add it’s the fault of Jonathan, my first editor, too. He’s the one who sent me to my first convention, Ad Astra.

  Trudy, we are the sum of our experiences and passions. What we create comes from that well, and I’ve been fortunate indeed to have had such teachers, role models, and friends in my life. And yes, Trudy, to this day I’m careful about page count.

  Oh, and another confession: you were the model for Sector Chief Lydis Bowman, one of my favorite characters.

  You taught me well. You turned me into a professional author and editor. I will always be grateful for that, and your friendship.

  Thank you.

  Previously, in the Clan Chronicles

  Jason Morgan had a starship.

  The decommissioned patroller, then ore freighter, had been stripped and lifeless when Morgan first stepped inside her air lock. Her name then had been an ignominious fifteen-character code and her fate? To float in orbit, waiting her turn at a scrapstation.

  Instead, Morgan had her refitted, giving her a new name and purpose. The Silver Fox—with Morgan as captain and crew—plied the star lanes with cargos needing swift passage, soon gaining a reputation for reliability and discretion.

  And luck, for Morgan was that rarity, a Human telepath of significant ability, possessing an unusual gift: to taste change. Nothing specific, but warning enough to help him avoid trouble. Mostly. There’d been a brush or two with authority; the occasional close call with pirates. He cared for his ship, played it fair but smart, and relished the peace and privacy of the Fox. Other than a few friendships, longest and most importantly with the Carasian Huido Maarmatoo’kk, Morgan kept to himself. Other than the odd side job for a certain Trade Pact Enforcer, Lydis Bowman, who’d an interest in the mysterious Clan, Morgan considered himself free of any ties and glad of it.

  Until the morning on Auord, when he met Sira.

  Sira, who’d believed herself Human and known only that she had to flee that planet. Who’d had nothing, not even a name.

  He’d known who she was and what. Of the humanoid Clan, aliens living, scattered, on Human worlds. All Clan had an innate ability to move their thoughts—and bodies—through what they called the M’hir, an ability they used to manipulate Humans vulnerable to mental suggestion and to keep their true nature secret.

  Of interest to Bowman. Of—some—interest to Morgan, it being the Clan’s nature to use or dispense with Humans like him, who weren’t vulnerable but possessed some power.

  Sira wasn’t a threat, far from it. He let her board the Fox, having been ordered by Bowman to deliver her. A job, nothing more. Soon, though, Morgan knew it would be a terrible betrayal. Sira wasn’t a pawn, to be dispensed with or used. She was—

  —crew, in the beginning. Young, he’d thought. Curious and determined, yet with something about her.

  Then they shared a dream.

  It began there, the connection forged between them. Grew until they could feel one another’s pulse, as though their bodies tried to come close before their minds. Stunned, Morgan pushed away her advances and did what he could to teach Sira the difference between attraction and love, between a juvenile crush and true, lasting feelings.

  He did more than he knew, for Sira was fighting a compulsion that had nothing to do with any Human drive: the urge to Choose. She was the most powerful of her kind yet born, a female ready to Join for life and Commence, when her body would at last become reproductively mature. To the dismay of her kind, no unChosen matched her strength in the M’hir; those who tried, died. Deliberate breeding for power like Sira’s had brought the Clan to the brink of extinction; within a generation no Joinings would be possible.

  The more Sira, ignorant of all this, came to truly care for him, the harder it was for her to protect him from that terrible instinct. She only knew the longer they were together, the more dangerous it was for him. She decided to leave the Fox.

  It was then Morgan realized how empty his life would be if she did.

  Together, they restored her mind and memories. Within the M’hir, Morgan learned Sira’s true nature: a being of astonishing power, burning like a sun to dispel the Dark. In the solid world, older and wiser in some ways, charmingly naïve in others, but above all, fixed in purpose: to prevent harm and save her people.

  And to stay with him, always. As Morgan wanted nothing more than to be with her, for they’d completed each other even before they Joined in the way of the Clan, and once they’d resolved the threats against her, their future was together. Chosen. Lifemates. Crewmates.

  He should have tasted change along with the joy. Should have distrusted being so damn happy. Should have KNOWN.

  They’d no future at all.

  The attack had come without warning. The Clan had made enemies—too many—and when Sira brought the Clan into the open, into the Trade Pact, those enemies had struck.

  Assemblers had led the assault, killing most of the Clan in one dreadful sweep. Morgan willingly burned out the engines of the Silver Fox, to help Sira save the survivors, only to see his ship destroyed.

  It should have been a sign. They’d no future; no home, but Sira didn’t give up. She found a way, as she’d done before. Created hope from nothing. They’d taken flight through the M’hir, sought the birthplace of the Clan, sought the truth—

  If they hadn’t found it, would he be alone now?

  The truth. That the Clan hadn’t evolved, but been made through meddling and experimentation. That they’d been made for a single purpose: so that the Hoveny Concentrix, what remained of that galactic empire, could again connect their technology to the null-grid and draw from its limitless power, a power accessible only by beings who could enter the Dark of the M’hir.

  Which wasn’t, it turned out, the truth at all.

  The original Hoveny hadn’t discovered a new power source. They’d breached what separated two very different universes: Between. The M’hir. The Dark.

  Call it what you would. It kept his reality safe from hers.

  For Sira had never belonged in the Trade Pact. The Clan didn’t. They were noncorporeal beings, Singers, living in their universe. A universe protected by entities who’d taken offense at the Hoveny sucking its life to use in their machines.

  Who’d taken the Hoveny Concentrix, and destroyed it. To prevent it happening again, to save all she could, Sira returned the Clan where they belonged.

  Then spent her life to send him back to the Trade Pact.

  The truth?

  Their love—their life together—had been a dream.

  Nothing more.

  Prelude

  SEEKING THAT WHICH ST
OLE from AllThereIs, the Great Ones felt neither strain nor effort as they reached along the bridge, crossing Between into NothingReal, the space occupied by beings of flesh.

  Until they reached through the portion where Between had begun to rot.

  They faltered, impeded. Experienced dislocation. The universes had an order. They were part of that. Disrupting it had consequence—

  But their task was unfinished. They reached with FORCE.

  Uncounted Great Ones winked from existence, leaving gravity holes to warp AllThereIs, swallowing light.

  Others were created, cataclysms of wild, vibrant energy to fill and alter what had been.

  The Dance changed. The change took place before the Singers could perceive it. If they could. To them, AllThereIs was the fabric of the universe and eternal.

  But the Watchers saw. They learned a new and terrifying truth about the order of universes.

  All things begin.

  And all have an end.

  At the same instant, in the universe where the life cycle of stars and their planets were predictable and of note mainly to astrogaters:

  On Cersi, an Oud had died, having crawled to its final rest. Unlike other Oud, this one had stuffed its ventral pouches with objects that were not Oud, but when iglies swarmed to consume the corpse, as was their role, there was nothing left inside.

  On Deneb, a Human inner system, in the fortified hillside estate of the new leader of the Gray Syndicate, a gem-encrusted raygun disappeared from where it had been tossed in a drawer, its new owner frustrated the thing didn’t work.

  In the well-protected vaults of the First, the aging collective of species who’d begun the search for the Hoveny and remained transfixed by its mysterious sudden collapse, cases filled with artifacts emptied. Those thefts went unreported; the fortunes of the First were scant enough in this era of peace within the Human-inspired Trade Pact.

  Little did they realize the theft was happening on every world gifted by the Hoveny Concentrix with its technology, for everything once able to rob AllThereIs of its living energy had been, finally, removed from existence.

  A handful of archaeological sites emptied; most remained unaffected. Still, panic could have spread, for such happenings had no precedent—