This Gulf of Time and Stars Page 2

  The destroyer.

  Three Human scientists had succumbed before anyone made the connection. They’d been in different systems; their projects, classified at the highest levels, in different fields. None knew the other, yet all three had been found curled in a fetal position, their once-brilliant minds ripped apart and barely functional.

  One of them, Sarran Coffler. His Sarran.

  They’d studied together as young men, Sarran’s intellect like radiance itself. Fallen in love as fiercely as only first love could and might have been lifemates—should have been, Cartnell thought with that old and ugly pain—but for work they loved more. Oh, they’d kept in touch over the years. Always, they’d kept in touch. By vid, lately, being busy. Lazy. He should have visited. Made the time.

  Too late. Seeing the name in the newsfeed, he’d cleared his schedule in frantic haste, tracked Sarran not to a hospital, but a hospice. There’d been a window. Flowers. Air rank with piss. He’d stood, looking down. At a body still fit and cared for. At a face, slack and drooling. Into brown eyes, terrible, empty brown eyes . . .

  Cartnell swallowed bile.

  He’d walked away, each step burning aside grief to leave one goal: to find who’d destroyed Sarran and how. Locking himself in his office, he’d sat at his desk and, for the first time in his career, used his executive codes to override protocol and privilege. Anything about Sarran’s case—cases—came to him. Nothing led back. No one would be allowed to stop him.

  Reports flooded in, of no use. Cartnell’d widened his search and there it was: a neglected, overlooked message from a lowly Port Authority constable, suggesting a link: all three scientists had been sensitives—their minds not telepathic but receptive, making them vulnerable to those with full abilities. The usual precaution, keeping away Human telepaths, hadn’t been enough, the message went on to claim, because the culprit might have been Clan.

  Who?

  Cartnell’d followed any and every rumor, building a startling profile of an alien race living among Humans, as Humans. A race defined by wealth and power—being telepaths of unknown ability—without a single official document to confirm their existence, nor a single complaint registered against them, anywhere, ever, until this one Port Jelly sent her message.

  Impossible.

  His searches had an echo. The Port Jelly was slipping through channels, way outside her pay grade or clearance, hunting news of the Clan. Cartnell made a decision. Working from the dark, he arranged for the curious constable to be offered a post as a Trade Pact Enforcer, entitled to work offworld, then made sure she was assigned Sarran’s case and any like it. Any request she made was granted, including the implantation of experimental mind-shields in her and those working with her.

  Soon he had a report on his desk detailing rumors of a Clan renegade—or group—who’d flouted the laws of their kind and sold their Power. Nothing proven.

  Nothing ever was, but whatever else had been suspicion about the Clan became fact, insofar as he was concerned. They existed. He had them under scrutiny. As for Sarran’s destroyer? He’d taken comfort there’d been no more minds lost.

  Freed from a meaningless career digging through musty cargo holds, the former Port Jelly—with Cartnell’s now-public endorsement—advanced to Sector Chief, with a ship of her own and a reputation for results.

  A shame he hadn’t realized what else she was. “Are you still in contact with him?” Cartnell asked quietly. “Yihtor di Caraat?”

  Gayle stiffened. “No. And I don’t plan to be.”

  “Caraat’s dropped from sight.” Fry stared at the map. “He wouldn’t like this. He wouldn’t like this at all.”

  “I don’t.” Manouya’s wide shoulders hunched. “So many Clan. Too many!”

  “Too few,” corrected Cartnell. He fought a wave of familiar dizziness. It would pass. He’d time. “Don’t let this fool you. The Clan are scattered. Each of these—” he pointed at a red world “—has but one. At most, a small family.”

  “Fool us? I think you’ve been fooled, Cartnell.” Gayle nodded at the map. “Caraat paid for ships to deliver luxury items, nothing but the best. Furnishings. Food. You name it. For more than a family, believe me. Where’s his world on your map, Cartnell? What about Acranam?”

  The name of the Clan’s remote and solitary colony, a colony for which they’d offered no explanation. So much becoming clear at once—calm, he told himself. Calm and control. “Acranam’s different, yes. There are twenty-nine families living there.” He paused for effect. “Less than two hundred Clan.”

  She stared at him. “That’s—that’s not possible.”

  “Might be.” Fry stuck his thumb in his mouth, then pressed it to his disk. A vid appeared, showing a wide street ending in dense jungle. The image moved from side to side, picking out buildings with windows but no doors. The viewpoint soared up, and foliage met over rooftops, hiding them; beyond, foliage stretched unbroken to the horizon. “Scans are useless—traded top of the line blockers to him myself—so I had my people drop a ’bot—what?” at Gayle’s shake of her head. “Caraat disappeared mid-contract. For all I knew, the whole place had been wiped out. Besides, I wanted some leverage. In case it wasn’t.”

  “It’s always tech with you.” Gayle spat tidily, catching the moisture midair with a finger’s tip, touching that to her disk. “Now this is leverage.” Numbers stacked themselves in tidy rows, then clustered. Lines drew between certain groups, names appearing in color along them. “While you took pretty pictures, my people uncovered those managing Caraat’s offworld finances, as well as those of other known Clan. More than a few remain—how shall I put it?—free agents. Accessible.” Spiders danced to her smile. “I’ve left them be, for now.”

  “I’d say that beats you, Blue.” Manouya chuckled at Fry’s dour look, then wiped sweat from his cheek, dripping the result on his disk. Green ripples appeared in Cartnell’s chart, seemingly random until they converged around three points. “The Clan can’t be tracked,” the Brill said, “but lately they’ve drawn attention.” An ivory nail went to the first point. “Plexis? Fair enough. Who doesn’t shop there?” It moved to the next. “Ret 7. Some nasty business there, I’m told, but all’s been quiet since.” The final point. “Camos, however, remains active. Why?”

  “Their ruling Council met there,” Cartnell supplied. “Probably still does.”

  Predators in the wild gained that intent focus.

  When Cartnell didn’t elaborate, Manouya shrugged. “The Clan might be tricky to spot; not so a heavy cruiser. I found it fascinating, Board Member, how often Sector Chief Lydis Bowman, one of your Trade Pact Enforcers, has taken her ship to a world with a confirmed Clan presence.”

  Fascinating wasn’t the word he’d use. Cartnell held his tongue.

  Fry’s eyes sharpened. “I know that name.”

  “Who doesn’t? Someone rises that far and fast, people like us better notice.” Gayle gestured magnanimously. “In the interests of ‘full disclosure.’ I was made aware that certain Human telepaths were abducted by the Clan. Bowman’s constables recovered what was left.”

  “As if she knew where to look. Yes, ours, too,” Fry added at Gayle’s raised eyebrow. “Why’d a Sector Chief get involved in the first place?” He hesitated, then went on grimly. “What are we saying here—Bowman’s one of them? Clan?”

  “She’s Human.” Whatever that heritage meant to her. Cartnell chose his words with care. “There is something between them. Bowman’s not controlled—” as he’d first suspected, “—but the Clan have tolerated her snooping around them for years.” Bowman’s own reports spoke of how the Clan defended their privacy by selectively erasing memories, a process so subtle it escaped notice.

  Unlike what had been done to Sarran’s wonderful mind. Cartnell pushed that aside. “I believe they can’t touch her. I don’t know why. Not yet.”

  “That could be
of use.” Fry’s eyes narrowed. “On our side, then? Is it possible?”

  He’d thought so. Hoped so, until— “She’s on theirs,” flat and sure. “Lydis Bowman made the arrangements to formally invite the Clan into the Trade Pact.”

  The ensuing silence was more stunned than predatory.

  “I was there for the signing.” Hadn’t that been the greatest challenge of his long career, to smile and seem proud? “They came. The Clan. Every single one.”

  Gayle spoke first. “You’re saying you knew them for what they were.”

  “There was no doubt.” Cartnell repressed a shudder, remembering. Humans didn’t appear out of thin air, to stand voiceless and stare . . .

  . . . stare at him. They still did, when he could sleep. Nightmares shaped like people, staring . . .

  Cartnell collected himself. Why shouldn’t Clan pass a visual inspection? They lived on Human-dominant planets for a reason. He’d been overjoyed to finally obtain internal data on them, until he’d seen for himself what they could do.

  Of what use was a physiological scan on beings who never passed through shipcities or customs ports?

  Who simply wished themselves where they wanted to be, like something out of a story.

  Cartnell tapped a finger on the table, feeling their attention. Now, he thought. “Nine hundred and thirty-three.”

  “Which is?”

  “The number of Clan in Trade Pact space, including children. The sum of their species. Nine hundred and thirty-three.”

  The three exchanged incredulous looks. “Less than—” Fry stopped and swallowed, hard. “My son’s last music recital had more in the audience.”

  Gayle shook her head. “This treaty you say they signed—we would have heard.”

  He’d anticipated disbelief. “Board exec-level only, immediate staff excluded.” Sensible, there being more species in the Trade Pact—each with its Board member—than there were Clan. Pragmatic, most of those species disinterested in Human-centric problems.

  He’d known he was alone from the start.

  “As it stands, few know the Clan exist, even less their—situation. The Board wants it kept that way. They think signing the treaty means the last of Clan meddling. Like that—” Cartnell snapped his fingers “—they’ve become model citizens.”

  “‘Meddling’?” Fry echoed, eyes narrowed. “Ripping minds apart for their secrets? Rewriting memories so anyone you trust becomes your worst enemy? You can’t be—”

  Gayle silenced her colleague with a lift of her hand. “We’re here for the same reason,” she said almost gently. With a sharp look at Cartnell. “What ‘situation,’ Board Member? Why would the Clan reveal themselves?”

  The right question. “They’ve run out of time.” Cartnell clenched his hand within the stars, the fist spotted with red. “The Clan are desperate. There’s some reproductive issue. If it can’t be resolved?” The fist opened and withdrew. “They go extinct.”

  The Board’s reaction? Powerful, secret telepaths asking for help, each able to move between worlds without technology or trace? Like spilling syrup near a sippek nest.

  The greater fools among his colleagues expected gratitude: Clan to serve in their offices, perhaps, or assist in negotiations.

  Run errands. Fetch.

  Steal. Assassinate.

  Destroy the precarious balance between species who scarcely tolerated one another enough to trade, let alone sit in debate.

  This was about more than his lost love. This was chaos. Intersystem war. He saw it so clearly.

  While Cartnell had been frozen with horror, the rest of the executives had almost wet themselves, or whatever their species did, in their eagerness to come to the Clan’s aid.

  “The Trade Pact has offered every resource,” he finished, pleased to sound normal.

  “Have they . . .” murmured Gayle, a perilous smile elongating the legs tattooed beneath her lips.

  These three understood; had hidden themselves almost as successfully as the Clan, acting from the shadows with an effective reach the Board should envy. Everything he had had gone into this toss: to find them, to reach out to arrange this meeting. He’d have their help.

  After that? He’d have justice.

  “Their desperation’s our chance.” Cartnell gestured to the map. “We know where they are—who they are. We can move against them—”

  “‘We’?” Fry slammed his hands flat on the table and drove his face through the display, red dots careening into pockmarks and scars. “You mean us, Board Member, that’s who you plan to do your dirty work. Take all the risk and blame. For what?”

  “To put an end to the Clan.” Spiders collided as Gayle scowled at her counterpart. “I didn’t think you a coward.”

  Straightening, Fry yanked down his collar and turned, pointing to the gleam of dull metal where his skull met his neck, flesh ridged in callus along the edge. “We’ve all had these damned things installed just to keep our thoughts to ourselves. Knowing who the Clan are isn’t enough. How can we know whose minds they control?” He took a ragged breath. “I want them gone, but nothing’s worth the risk. If they’re going extinct, I say let them!”

  “Agreed.” The Brill’s voice rattled the glasses on the tray. “Grasis-sucking amount of gall, Cartnell, thinking to take on the Clan. Why can’t we wait?”

  He’d prepared for resistance, to bargain, but even as Cartnell readied his arguments, the leader of the Deneb Grays spoke.

  “Because they’re an imminent threat.” Gayle faced the Brill and her counterpart. “Don’t you see? The Clan tolerated us while we had use. Well, now they’ve the Trade Pact. Authority! They’ll want to be seen as law-abiding. How better than to turn on us? How can we know,” her voice lowered, “they haven’t?”

  Cartnell held his breath.

  “Less than a thousand,” Fry said after a fraught moment, staring past her into the map. “If we could get them in one place again . . .”

  “That won’t happen,” replied Cartnell. The Clan had been summoned by their own leadership; they hadn’t enjoyed being together. He’d seen it on their faces, in how they’d moved uneasily to keep apart.

  “Then it’s impossible.” Fry rubbed a hand over his face, then shook his head. “They’re spread across what, two hundred plus worlds? We don’t have the numbers to hit them simultaneously and that’s the only way, quick and clean.”

  The Brill grunted thoughtfully. “If we did—”

  “Even if, forget it. Having Sector Chief Bowman on their side? The instant we struck she’d know exactly who made it possible. Our friend here might consider himself expendable. I don’t.”

  “Leave Bowman and the Enforcers to me,” Cartnell said firmly. “It’s the Clan we must be rid of—only then will we be free and safe.” He sat, fighting another gentle wave of dizziness. Expendable, was he? Fry wasn’t wrong. The syndicate leaders were among the lucky ones. Mind-shield implants were risky by nature, being alien tech wired to Human flesh. When that flesh objected—

  He’d time.

  Just not much.

  “Gayle. Say they give us up. We go low. Wait it out.” Fry spat over one shoulder. “But if the Clan see us coming, we’ll be done, forever. All of us. I say protect what we have. Look to our own.”

  She looked halfway convinced.

  What was that? Cartnell went still, waited.

  “They won’t see us.”

  The Brill’s great head spun around to aim at the form stepping from the shadows. Outlawed weapons appeared in every hand but Cartnell’s, coming alive with snaps and whines.

  “Our final guest,” the Board Member announced, dizzy now with fierce hope.

  Seams stitched themselves as the Assembler walked forward, the clothing a match in style and size, if not in color. It—she wore a hat set at a jaunty angle, and appeared weaponless. />
  Not that anyone with sense trusted what they saw, when it came to beings composed of sentient parts who didn’t always agree. Weapons had lowered, not vanished.

  “My name-for-one-minds is Magpie Louli,” the Assembler told them, her voice strengthening as her upper torso began to inflate and deflate. “I bring information to destroy the Clan.”

  While Cartnell cleared the reader displays, readying the device for a new disk, Louli sat, more or less erect, on the facing stool. Her left fingers drummed on her hat as her right dug into a deep bag at her waist. With a sweeping gesture, she drew forth an object and laid it proudly beside the reader.

  Not a disk. A mummified hand. The withered fingers curled as though they’d died cupping something while around the wrist glowed a band inset with symbols and controls.

  “If this is some joke—”

  Louli stared up at Fry, her eyes cold beneath long lashes. “The Clan robbed us first. We don’t forget. We want what’s rightly ours.” She transferred her gaze to Cartnell. “It’s true? You have their faces?”

  He nodded. “More. I’ve personal idents and locations. If you have what you promised . . .” The final piece. The key . . .

  Bowman.

  Her shoulders began to quiver, as if dancing. A foot joined in; the other stepped firmly on its toes. “I do.” Louli gestured at the withered hand. “I have their past.”

  No one moved or spoke.

  “Their past,” the Assembler insisted, her voice rising with an odd echo behind it. “Meet the Witness.” She shook her right arm vigorously. The seam parted and what had been her wrist and hand dropped on the table, scurrying to their counterparts. Plump living fingers wrapped around the desiccated thumb, tugging it to where Louli could reach it with her left. She did something to the band on the wrist and deftly brought the wrist to meet the end of her arm.

  Her face contorted as the two joined with a meaty click. The withered fingers trembled and moved, ever-so-slightly. “Nasty,” she muttered, adding a string of syllables that needed no translation.