To Trade the Stars Read online

  Despite this care, the flesh—if that’s what composed this being—quivered in response.

  And more. A blurred mix of /joy/satisfaction/~!~/ curiosity/ flooded my mind, effortlessly breaching any shielding or defense I might believe I possessed, reaching Morgan through our link in the M’hir. For that was the rightful place of the Rugheran, the species owning a physical connection to the M’hir greater than any my kind had imagined possible, traveling inside it like birds through air. I’d met one once, at the Drapsk Festival. My hair lifted from my back and shoulders, as if the Rugheran’s message instilled it with static. I grabbed it with both hands to keep it out of my eyes.

  “I think it likes us,” I ventured hopefully, unsure of Morgan’s reaction to this latest intrusion.

  “It could learn to knock, too,” Morgan muttered under his breath, but I heard the growing wonder in his voice as he surveyed the being stuffed into his ship. “Rugheran. Sira. Do you realize what this means? First contact ...”

  I opened my mouth to contradict his humanocentric view of things, given the Heerii Drapsk had found the Rugheran homeworld and I, another non-Human, had already had a more-or-less successful encounter with a member of the species. For all I knew, I thought with sudden suspicion, this one. Then I closed my mouth, alarmed to see Morgan on the move. He stopped closer to our latest guest, his hands low and held open in a gesture a smart primate might deduce was non-threatening, but of what use to greet an amorphous M’hir being I couldn’t begin to guess. But he was a Master Trader and had dealt with aliens long before I’d ever left the Cloisters. I trusted his instincts.

  And my own. “Keep out of reach of the arms, Jason,” I said, watching those appendages warily. They hadn’t moved, but I’d held one on my shoulder and knew their speed and strength—and substantial weight, for all they appeared flimsy.

  He nodded, standing still. “Can you communicate with it?”

  “Communicate?” I considered the mass of dark flesh doubtfully and raised one brow. “And say what, exactly?”

  “Hello.”

  I’d decided several weeks ago—following a memorable misunderstanding about Morgan’s attachment to some dusty antique entertainment vids which no longer fit our reader—that it could take lifetimes to fully understand Humans, if it were possible at all. Still, I kept trying. “Hello?” I echoed. “Why? It’s hardly necessary to exchange inanities with a creature that may not even have language.”

  Morgan didn’t bother to look at me, but I felt a touch of impatience. “‘Hello’ is necessary. It represents fundamental acknowledgments.” He lifted his right hand, raising a finger for each as he itemized: “One, both parties recognize the existence of the other; two, we’re both prepared to communicate; and three, there’s a mutual agreement not to run away screaming.”

  His last point cued me to something I’d missed until now: a sliver of fear coming from my Human, a perfectly natural anxiety about this huge “thing” on his ship and its intentions. He was trying to hide that fear from me, and perhaps from himself, but it was real.

  “A Rugheran can’t survive long away from its kind,” I said, keeping my voice as matter-of-fact as though I reported on some valve or part on the Fox. “I suggest we assume the ‘Hello’ part of this conversation had occurred and move on to the next.”

  “What does it want?”

  “The last one wanted me to send it home—” Before Morgan could begin to speak his instant concern, I continued, “—but that hardly seems likely this time. Maybe it wants to trade.”

  That straightened Morgan from what was beginning to look ominously like his defensive crouch. “Trade,” he repeated softly, as if the word had a flavor. “But for what? You said they live in the M’hir.”

  “Actually, they live on a planet not too far from ...” Ettler’s Planet, my mind voice continued after I shut my mouth on the words, betraying me completely. My hair fell limp and defeated around my shoulders, a stray lock landing across one eye. I shoved it aside.

  “And you were going to tell me—when?” This in full “Captain Morgan” voice, the one usually reserved for the first moments after I’d done something memorable, like dropping the old vids into the recycler. His blue eyes were glacial.

  The Rugheran obligingly sent another wave of /joy/satisfaction/~!~/curiosity/ sloshing through the now-strained link between us.

  As if it knew.

  INTERLUDE

  “We might as well close, Hom Huido. For tonight, at least. Don’t you think that’s best?”

  Over two dozen eyes stopped their restless examination of an equal number of simmering—and dented—pots to focus on the slight Human standing just out of reach, arms trembling beneath a tray crammed with cocktails. The somewhat random garnishing of each drink implied excessive speed in their manufacture. “The desertion of one fish-faced idiot will not shut down the Claws & Jaws, Ansel,” the Carasian rumbled irritably. “Keep the drinks flowing until I can get something on the tables. They’ll be happy enough.”

  “Until we run out of liquor,” Ansel muttered to himself. He seemed to hesitate, then ventured timidly: “Do I have permission to open the vault if we do?”

  The Carasian’s left and right upper handling claws almost dropped the spoons they held. “You do not! Get out there—and start putting extra ice in those drinks before you bankrupt me worse than that creteng excretion of a chef!”

  Ansel left, moving as quickly as possible through the bustling crowd of sous chefs, bakers, cleaners, and anxious servers, the latter lurking in any available space that kept them out of the dining room. Things were, to put it mildly, getting ugly out there. Chef Neltare couldn’t have found a busier night to abandon the restaurant, or a touchier crowd to leave foodless than this already dissatisfied group of theatergoers. Opening night for Hamlet the Scat had flopped like the spectacle it wasn’t.

  Unfortunately, a gold air tag guaranteed a paying customer, not one with patience.

  While things simmered, including a pot of prawlies that had finally given up trying to squirm to imagined freedom, Huido poured a beer into his upper left handling claw, transferring the soothing, cool liquid into his mouth with a practiced slurp. Single greatest invention of the Human species, he reminded himself. He’d managed without a Master Fool at the stovetop before now. Mind you, then most of his customers had worn spacer coveralls of the faded variety and tended to order any food that went well with beer. And rarely tipped.

  He sighed, a rain-on-plas sound. The staff could keep up using some prepared courses. He need only offer a couple of the favorites as specials to appease his fussier—and most prone to gossip—clients. Give them something memorable and expensive—the two-hour delay would soon be forgotten.

  With luck.

  Something he’d been running short of lately.

  “Excuse me. Hom Huido?”

  One eye swung back and down to target the source of the quiet voice: Ruti, one of the more recent additions to his kitchen staff. Small, yet sturdily-built, with bright dark eyes and short, even darker hair, she passed well enough for Human to those without his finer senses. He remembered vividly when she’d arrived—yet another of those days when the universe begrudged a simple restaurateur any peace....

  “Hom Huido. Come quickly. There’s someone to see you at the service entrance.”

  “Deal with it. I’m a little busy, Ansel,” the Carasian rumbled, one clawtip entering the code to his private apartment. His staff knew better than to interrupt him when the restaurant wasn’t open, especially since the installation of a proper pool—and the arrival of its delectably insatiable inhabitants.

  Ansel, normally the most easily intimidated being on Plexis, grabbed Huido’s nearest handling claw and began to pull. While the gesture had as much effect as if the Human tried to move a bulkhead, the Carasian was surprised enough to send a few eyes his way. “What’s the matter?”

  “You have to come yourself.”

  More eyes reluctantly left their lustfu
l fix on the code pad to join the cluster studying the Human. Definite agitation. “Has the accountant missed a payment to the station?” Huido asked reasonably enough. Plexis wasn’t patient when it came to fees or taxes. Her collectors tended to be opinionated and prone to blustering—until one of the staff brought Huido. Some weeks, he sighed to himself, it seemed he was constantly in demand to intimidate some biped or other—not that the activity lacked charm, but there was only so much time in a day. More eyes shifted back to the door.

  “No. No. You must come!” Ansel dashed away, as if certain this uncharacteristic secrecy would pique the Carasian’s curiosity.

  It did, although Huido rattled and clanked warningly behind the Human. The Carasian could move relatively quietly on his spongy feet, but preferred not to waste any opportunity for self-expression.

  When he reached the service entrance, however, the familiar and ominous tang of Clan grist stopped him in his tracks. The source was a small being, deceptively Human-looking, standing just inside the doors to the serviceway behind the restaurant.

  Ansel, the doddering old fool, had both hands on her shoulders, looking pleadingly his way. “This is Ruti,” the Human said quickly, in a low voice though it was too early for the kitchen staff to be at work. “She’s all alone.” Ansel paused, wrinkled eyelids blinking furiously as was his habit when troubled. “She doesn’t even have luggage, Hom Huido,” he concluded, as if this was the hallmark of imminent tragedy.

  The child, for it was apparently such, ignored Ansel, gazing up at Huido with no particular expression on her face beyond polite attention and a natural enough caution, considering she confronted a being who looked better suited to knocking down trees than slicing onions. “Carasain. You’re the friend of Sira di Sarc.” Statement, not question. “I claim refuge in her name.”

  Typical Clan arrogance. Huido was tempted to point out the absence of an air tag on her cheek to his servant, abundant proof this Ruti had found her way onto Plexis without passing through any air lock or alerting security. Only the Clan disregarded both physics and bureaucracy. Then again, poor Ansel probably wouldn’t care, obviously afflicted by his species’ excessive parental instincts. To his credit, the elderly Human knew the appetites of the underbelly of Plexis too well to believe it safe for anyone alone.

  Huido, on the other claw, knew the Clan well enough to dismiss that particular worry. Morgan had told him how the Clan maintained few family ties, deeming them unnecessary. More significantly, even young members of that species possessed mental abilities they willingly used to smooth their lives while disrupting others’.

  Huido did not fall into the trap of judging one species by another’s standards. On the other claw, he usually knew precisely what to do with the Clan—offer the high end of the menu or the exit—but this one?

  “Are you going to make me stand here all day, Hom Huido?”

  Ansel gave him that pleading look; the child, a challenging one. The Carasian’s first impulse, to send her back out the door, faded as he focused on her face and sampled her grist more carefully. Something was wrong with it. Ah. He’d smelled this particular under-scent before.

  Rage.

  It didn’t take much to guess she stood in the service entrance of the Claws & Jaws against her will, despite her Power.

  “Come with me,” Huido grumbled, turning to lead the pair to his apartment, cursing himself all the while for having hearts far too soft for his own good. He keyed in the code, careful neither could see it, then dismissed Ansel with a claw snap once the door opened. “In here,” he told the Clan child. “Mind where you step.”

  The doorway led to another, the space between the two merely a featureless box. A relatively new innovation, and one capable of charbroiling the uninvited, but Huido didn’t bother sharing that information. He hurried his unwelcome guest through the outer room he kept for entertaining, taking her through a second locked doorway to his inner sanctum.

  As they entered, Huido kept a pair of eyes on his guest, interested in her reaction, but most glanced wistfully at the waves tossing against the imported rocks which formed the division between the pool and the small irregular patch of dry floor.

  Rows of shiny black eyes began appearing in the froth, as his always-alert wives floated closer and closer. It wasn’t so much curiosity at the alien visitor in their haven as appetite.

  Something he’d willingly share with the Clan child, if she seemed any kind of threat.

  “Sit here.” As Ruti obediently found and sat on the only piece of Human-suitable furnishings, an easi-rest Huido kept for the only other being permitted into his sanctuary, the Carasian arranged himself comfortably on a rock carved specifically to his bulk, his claws resting on the pebbled floor. “You do realize I know what you are.”

  She nodded, slowly. They stared at one another for a moment, the Carasian being naturally well-suited to the task and the Clan child seemingly determined to keep her poise. Suddenly, she drew a sharp breath and her dark eyebrows met in the middle. “Your mind is utter chaos,” she stated with disgust.

  Huido rattled contentedly. “So I’m told. Now, why would Sira send you to me—”

  “I didn’t say she did.” Quick and angry. “I doubt the First Chosen of di Sarc knows I exist. But I’ve tasted her memories. We all did, that day on Camos when she forced her strange ideas into our minds: the Clan being doomed, needing aliens, joining the Trade Pact. I may never have met you before, Hom Huido, but I ‘remember’ you. A little. Enough to know where you are is—it’s somewhere safe.” Her voice turned almost sullen. “That’s why I came here.”

  No missing the rage, adult in size and almost painful in intensity. Huido felt echoing vibrations through the floor. His wives could detect the child’s grist as well as he; their reaction was to tap the rocks to summon their mate. At this truly glorious stage of their lives, any strong emotion aroused their passions. He shifted, his immediate and healthy response making the rock seat less than accommodating. An unexpected complication, if not entirely unpleasant.

  “So may I stay?”

  “This isn’t a hotel. Any why should I let you bring whatever trouble follows you to my pool?”

  Her eyes slid past him to examine the water, then back. “I know this isn’t a hotel,” she said, her voice almost firm enough to be convincing. “But I’m not being followed by any trouble, Hom Huido. The First Chosen of—of my House sent me to this station, expecting me to find a place to stay for the next few weeks. That’s all. But I didn’t know what Plexis was like, that there’d be questions and air tags. I tried to obtain one—I’m not a fool—but these beings began asking for information I’m not allowed to give. Then I remembered you.” The last word didn’t break, not quite, but the hint of imminent panic was there.

  A young Clan who didn’t know Plexis. “You’re from Acranam,” Huido said with no doubt whatsoever, using his greater claw to snap a signal to quiet his amorous wives.

  “Yes, but how—”

  “I know Acranam. Too well.” The Carasian heaved to his feet. “I will not tolerate a threat to my blood brother or his mate.”

  “I’m no threat—” She half stood, as if to run away or, more likely, disappear into thin air. “All I know of Sira or her Chosen is from her sharing. I was too far back in the crowd to even see her for myself. Why would I mean harm to them?”

  “Then stay.”

  Ruti blinked at that, tossing her head as if confused. “But I thought you said ...”

  “The Claws & Jaws is a fine restaurant, without servos or automated pap. My table settings are works of art, not that recycled junk, which means dishes that need washing. If you aren’t above such a task, Ruti of Acranam?”

  Confusion turned into something else. Huido had fully expected offense and outrage—this looked more like the dawning of hope. “And stay—here?” she repeated, as if uncertain. “I don’t understand.”

  “If you are no threat, I gain a dishwasher. If you are?” Huido tilted his head fr
om shoulder to shoulder in a shrug. “You stay where I can watch you.”

  Perhaps to a Clan, such frankness was reassuring. Regardless of why, Ruti had smiled and nodded.

  Since that day, Huido had almost forgotten Ruti’s existence. She’d moved in with the other permanent staff, in return for cleanup in the kitchen and running errands for the rest. He’d expected protest over the work—at minimum, some signs of Clan xenophobia—but in all this time, she’d seemed content, setting to work with a will. No one had complained of her. Indeed, no one mentioned her at all.

  Huido, unfamiliar with younger humanoids, had wondered if this was normal.

  Still, he himself was guilty of ignoring the Clan child, so smoothly had she blended into the daily routine of the kitchen. Had he also neglected a potential threat? Of all the days for more trouble to arise—he drew air to bellow, then stopped.

  A few more eyes followed the first, studying what Ruti was patiently holding up for his inspection. “That’s a soufflé,” he said slowly.

  Her face was usually pale. Now, twin spots of red highlighted her cheeks, either heat from the nearby overworked stove or embarrassment. “Yes, Hom Huido. With trumquins. There was an order for one. You were—busy...”

  Huido turned down the stove so he could give this amazing development his complete attention. “You can make a soufflé—with trumquins. Do you also know which customers can eat one of those without melting their digestive tracts and leaving me at the mercy of their surviving kin?”

  The dish was heavy, despite the apparent fluffiness of its contents, but her grip didn’t let it waver. “Scats and Whirtles, Hom Huido. I have been paying attention.”

  “While mopping the floors.”

  “Yes. I’ve—”

  He lowered his voice to barely audible and interrupted: “Paying attention, is it? You little Clan sneak. You’ve been prying inside the head of the Neblokan chef all this time, haven’t you?”