A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) Page 5

  I felt two of three claws penetrate my skin and flinched. “Do not annoy me, Kort,” Roraqk said. “s-Ssee what can be left. sSSurely there are better facilities-ss and attitudes-ss than on this-ss backworld.”

  A short bow. “Shall I dispose of this, Captain?” I was uncomfortably certain of what he meant.

  “s-Sseeing me was-ss a misstake,” Roraqk explained to me, as if instructing a wayward child. “It is-ss expenssive and difficult to remove memory from a s-ssapient—sso often the whole is-ss losst.”

  Was that what had happened to me? I wondered. Cold comfort that I had nothing worth remembering left to lose. “Why would I give your face to Port Authority, Captain?” I tried to be polite, my voice level and calm, despite the feel of my own blood dripping warmly over wrist and hand. “You just saved my life.”

  I swallowed, but before I could figure out what to say next, a compulsion pushed through my thoughts, bullying aside my fear for an instant along with my will. “Perhaps we can help each other,” I heard myself say boldly. “I need to find a spacer called Morgan. His ship is the Fox.”

  Roraqk made a hissing sound. “Morgan, is-ss it? You remember our good friend Morgan, don’t you, Kort?”

  The strange darkness in Kort’s pale eyes made me shiver slightly. Or was I mistaken? He smiled slowly. “Morgan of Karolus. The Silver Fox. The wheel makes an interesting turn today, Captain.”

  I knew they were playing with me, amused, but for how long? My eyes avoided the corpse. “Help me find Morgan,” I insisted. “He owes me. I could pay for transport offworld once I get back what’s mine.” I only hoped the reptile’s greed would make my bluff work.

  Roraqk lowered his snout, slit-pupiled eyes impossible to read and unsettling to meet. “What makes-ss you believe you could retrieve your property?”

  “Tell me where to find Morgan,” I repeated, voice trembling. Maybe they’d think it was righteous rage.

  “But Morgan and his-ss s-sspeedy s-sship are valuable to me, s-ssoft flesssh. I wouldn’t want you to hurt him.” Roraqk’s jaws began clattering, moving so rapidly that tiny froths of spittle appeared and trickled under his jutting chin. Kort’s laugh was even less human: a dry, silent shaking that didn’t touch his lifeless eyes.

  I drooped, at last admitting defeat. A black sliver of a tongue darted out from the random gaps between Roraqk’s teeth, collecting the froth as though it were precious. “You go offworld, primate,” he hissed at me. “And s-sspeedily. With me.”

  “Captain?” There was a frown on Kort’s thin face, drawing the skin into fine white lines.

  “What is-ss it?” Roraqk glared at his counterpart with a sideways twist of his heavily-jawed head.

  “Enex wasn’t a total fool. He would have added her to the transport’s records. If we remove her from the shipment, Smegard will notice—”

  The alien’s jaw hung half-open, a predator’s anticipation rather than a smile. “This-ss partnersship of s-Ssmegard’s-ss is-ss beginning to bore me, as-ss is-ss his-ss trafficking in live mammals-ss. Be careful I do not tire of a fangless-ss firsst mate.”

  Not one of the recruiters, I thought, and reclassified Roraqkas a pirate, then wondered how the difference could possibly matter at the moment.

  The pirate captain examined his claw tips. “Ah, Kort. You musst realiz-sse your value, or you would not always be s-sso difficult. Certainly in this-ss casse, you are better equipped to keep her alive than I.” He spared a moment to send me a malignant flash of yellow eyes. “There is-ss s-ssomething familiar about this-ss one. And of coursse, we mussst take proper care of all shipments-ss that involve our old acquaintancsse, Captain Morgan.”

  Kort nodded curtly, accepting this explanation, licking his lips in unconscious mimicry of his leader. With a practiced twist, Roraqk freed his claws from the fabric of my coveralls, as well as my skin, and shoved me toward his subordinate.

  “Take her to the Tulis-ss,” Roraqk said as he strode away, the last portlight following behind one shoulder.

  A lamp flashed to life in Kort’s hand, creating a false intimacy. “As you may have noticed, commodity,” Kort, a faceless shadow behind the lamp, informed me coldly, “the captain is not very fond of us warm-bloods—unless served on a tray. You’d best prove of value.” The man came to a decision, shrugging in a gesture which set his necklaces of light-touched silver jingling softly. “Put this under the greedy fool.” Kort held out a green-marbled sphere, indicating the corpse with a casual flicker from his light.

  The pirate was tall but bone-thin, a fragile-looking thug. I considered my chances against him: none. About all I could accomplish at the moment was to maybe keep what was in my stomach in its proper place. I took the small sphere and pushed it beneath Enex’s still-warm body. When I stood, I found myself rubbing at the hand that had touched the dead being.

  “Back,” Kort ordered. An instant later, there was a blinding flash and I flung my arm up to protect my eyes from the brightness. When I dropped my arm again and looked, Enex’s body was sagging into itself, a clear liquid starting to ooze from underneath. A sweet, corrupt smell filled the air. “Come.” I obeyed that order readily enough, having no wish to linger and see what would be left.

  Kort led the way down a maze of echoing corridors. There was an endless sameness to the place. I didn’t know how Kort chose our path, unless he used the cargo codes stamped on the crates. I lost my sense of direction almost immediately. My guiding compulsions were silent for once; I wondered sourly if that meant my current predicament satisfied the noises in my head.

  I almost collided with Kort when he stopped. We were at the end of one of the narrow intersecting aisles that subdivided the immense warehouse, standing in the gap between the building’s wall and the ranks of waiting cargo crates. I glanced from Kort to the blank wall in front of us. A small portlight floated from its resting shelf to shed a courteous spot of brightness. Kort turned off his lamp.

  As if that had been a signal, a portion of the otherwise unremarkable wall split open soundlessly, revealing two stocky humanoids waiting in what was now a wide, low doorway. The beings were furred: a soft gray pelt that was short and lay flat to the skin. Long, white tufts of hair made striking flashes above each of three large pale eyes. Broader than tall, they wore only wide belts from which hung various small instruments and tools. These had to be Roraqk’s Tulis. Odd-looking things.

  “Captain Roraqk wants the usual tests on this one,” Kort ordered, without any preamble. I scowled at him, then at the Tulis. The Tuli on the right made an intricate gesture with stubby fingers. If it was a protest, I heartily agreed. Kort snorted, pushing me forward with a rough hand. “It’s the captain that orders it,” he said firmly. “And we’re booked for lift, so none of your delays.”

  “Tests?” I said, balking.

  “Tests,” Kort confirmed, one side of his mouth sliding upward in an unpleasant smile. “And their results better be interesting, or we won’t see each other again. Now go with the Tulis. They won’t harm you,” a raised brow, “unless you provoke them.”

  I reluctantly began walking through the doorway. One Tuli waited until I passed then took my elbow. I felt a sharp prick in my upper arm and twisted around, struggling against its hold. “What was that?” I shouted. “What did it do to me?” I couldn’t take my eyes from the now-empty syringe in the Tuli’s hand, my erratic memory supplying me with an appalling list of exotic drugs.

  Kort’s head came forward, a clinical interest giving a false sparkle to his lackluster eyes. “Captain’s standing orders,” he said with distinct relish. “Roraqk hates mindcrawlers. He has all our guests given a little something that numbs that particular gift. Ask me, waste of good money, especially for port trash. But I don’t argue the point, you understand.” A Tuli put its dry furred hand into mine, urging me farther into the room with an impatient, though gentle, tug. “Don’t worry,” Kort added as the door began to slide closed. “Hasn’t killed any being—yet.”

  The door shut b
etween us with a whisper, becoming a wall again in a room barely large enough to accommodate the Tulis and myself. Fortunately, we didn’t have to share it with any furniture. As I looked around, the floor beneath my feet began to sink, and I yelped with surprise.

  My silent escorts paid no attention to me, standing motionless, one on either side. Well, not quite motionless; their broad noses twitched furiously. I’d forgotten the smell of my clothing long ago.

  The lift opened into a long hall, its walls pierced by openings aglow with the bronze transparency of force fields. I could hear sobbing, quickly muffled. My mouth went dry and the steadying breath I drew caught in my throat. A hand pressed my back. I stepped out.

  I walked ahead of the Tulis, leading our small procession the length of that dreadful corridor, trying not to wince as we passed each cell. Each held its captive; few were young, and more than half nonhumanoid. I didn’t see the Neblokan and wasn’t sure what that meant about his fate. Some of the prisoners looked up with dulled incuriousstares as we passed; none spoke beyond the occasional hushed complaint.

  I wasn’t given time to ponder their future or my own. The corridor widened into a bulb of a room, lined with sophisticated equipment, the walls broken at regular intervals by closed doors. A Tuli opened one of these and handed me the same white robe worn by the wretches in the cells. Eyeing the muscular shoulders and impassive faces of my captors, I entered meekly enough, to re-emerge stripped save for the loose garment. My treasured coveralls were tossed into a disposal chute, and I thought the Tuli who did it looked relieved. I nursed what small strength of rebellion I had as gooseflesh rose on my arms, even though the room was too warm.

  One of the Tulis pointed to a bench positioned under a complex machine. It was the bravest thing I remembered doing—to climb up and lie there, waiting.

  INTERLUDE

  The feel of a warm sharpness along one’s throat was a decidedly unpleasant way to end a deserved moment of peace, Barac decided, holding his mind and body motionless. He opened his eyes with a careful lack of haste. Now what?

  “An unexpected pleasure, Clansman.” Jason Morgan’s piercing eyes met Barac’s—their expression scarcely less icy than that low voice. “I trust you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

  “I’ve slept better,” Barac countered, shoving away the Human’s unresisting knife hand. The Clansman sat upright and glared. “Hell of a way to wake a guest.”

  The knife caught a gleam of light before Morgan turned off the blade and made the handle disappear up the right sleeve of his faded blue coveralls. “Considering I locked the Fox up tight, you can’t blame me for being a bit surprised myself, old friend.” He moved past the Clansman to enter his choice at the galley’s servo panel. The Human didn’t bother to ask how Barac had bested Port Authority to enter his ship; he knew well enough.

  Barac resisted the urge to feel the still-tender skin of his throat. Instead he stretched, the movement drawing an involuntary hiss of pain from his lips.

  Cup in hand, Morgan put a foot up onto a stool and leaned his arms on his knee. His expression was openly suspicious. “Hurt,” he observed. “And probably in hiding, too. You’ve got a bad habit of making yourself at home whenever you’re in trouble, Barac.”

  “I could use a favor,” Barac admitted.

  Morgan snorted with disgust and took a sip of his drink before answering. “Who’ve you stirred up now—Clan or the Trade Pact?”

  Barac couldn’t quite smile. “Both. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  Morgan scowled but only said: “Hungry? I’d be a poor host to throw you out before feeding you.” He tossed a nutritious but decidedly tasteless package of c-cubes on the table.

  “Your galley can do better than that,” Barac commented less than tactfully.

  “I’m sure you know,” the Human said dryly. “But I’m booked to lift and eating slowly is a luxury I can’t afford. Neither is your roundabout approach to things, Barac. What do you want?”

  As usual, Barac found himself wishing Morgan didn’t possess such strong natural shielding. The Human’s thoughts were simply impossible to touch. Like Bowman’s, Barac thought with sudden suspicion. He opened his mind to the M’hir, focusing on Morgan, searching for the telltale disturbance. Nothing. No device, but no exposed thoughts.

  What had he expected? Barac asked himself with scorn. No Human mind had ever penetrated the M’hir, at least not since the Clan had first begun monitoring the layer for intrusion. It was believed Humans were incapable of the power needed to push thought into the layer or to hold against its remorseless currents. That belief might change, Barac thought grimly, once he reported how the Humans had built a device that could disturb the M’hir.

  But here and now, the M’hir’s turbulence was soothingly familiar. There was no detectable alteration in it within Barac’s range. Barac pulled free, relieved. Perhaps Morgan was what he seemed, a curiosity, an unreadable Human.

  Or perhaps he was more. Morgan had always amused Kurr, as had Barac’s insistence on shielding their thoughts from the Human. But First Scouts survived by trusting no preconceptions.

  And Kurr was dead.

  “I sometimes wonder why I don’t report you to the Council and have you erased,” Barac said with some exasperation. “I should, you know.”

  Morgan looked unconcerned, having heard this before; the Sarcs had been steady customers over the years. “You enjoy defying them, Barac,” the Human said. “And, as long as you don’t owe me credits, I see no reason to twitch the curiosity of any Pact Enforcers.”

  Barac grimaced. “I’ve already accomplished that. Another day, Jason,” he added, seeing the curiosity that sharpened Morgan’s gaze. “As you’ve said, your time is short. Mine is also. I have to leave Auord immediately.”

  Morgan sighed. “If a lift’s what you’re after, why didn’t you say so? Stow your gear—but be quick.”

  “No. Not that I don’t enjoy your unique way of waking guests. I need you to do something for me in the Port City.”

  Morgan stood, gathering up his unfinished cubes and tucking them into a pocket with a spacer’s absentminded tidiness. “Then you need someone else. I’ve a schedule to keep.”

  Barac lunged across the narrow table, wincing as his torn rib muscles protested, but managing to grasp Morgan’s arm. “There’s no one else I can reach in time.”

  With an easy movement, the Human shrugged free of Barac’s grip. But he stood still. “I’m listening.”

  “That’s all I ask.” Barac sat down again, his hands wrapped tightly around his middle to hide their trembling. It also helped hold together the ribs which were again grating each time he drew a breath. “I need you to find someone. I had a companion when I arrived on Auord. We were attacked last night.” The Clansman gritted his teeth, remembering. “During the struggle, we were separated.”

  “Attacked? How?” Morgan sat back down. He supported his chin on steepled fingers, watching Barac intently.

  “They hit during the storm.” Barac considered Morgan for a moment, then added: “They had mind-deadening devices. Conveniently stolen, I am to believe. Maybe I do.”

  The Human digested this in silence, then raised one brow. “Your companion?”

  “Her name is Sira. I know she escaped in the confusion.” Barac hesitated, unsure of how much to say, how much to leave out. “I can’t detect her. She could be anywhere—alone, possibly injured. You know people in the city. You could find her, get her offworld without alerting the authorities—”

  Morgan’s blue eyes flashed. “While you abandon her? I thought the Clan looked after their own.”

  “I can’t stay on Auord a moment longer.” Barac tightened his lips, studying the human’s face, frustrated he couldn’t reach into the mind behind those scornful eyes and make Morgan do what was necessary, know only what was necessary. He hated having to stoop to reason.

  Still, there didn’t appear to be any alternative. “Whoever ordered the attack last night was after me,�
�� Barac began reluctantly.

  Morgan held up his hand. “I want nothing to do with Clan squabbles,” he said emphatically. “My time is tight—”

  “Kurr and I were checking on a Council matter in this quadrant,” Barac went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Kurr’s been killed. Last night’s attack was aimed at me. The best thing I can do for Sira is to lead whoever’s after me away from her until I can deal with them.”

  The impatience drained from Morgan’s features, replaced by a shock which darkened the blue of his eyes. “Kurr’s dead? But how—his power . . .”

  Barac held out one slim hand and gazed at the fist he formed. “Power . . .” he repeated, his voice trailing away to silence. He paused so long Morgan shifted in his seat. Then, slowly: “We of the Clan aren’t so different from you, Human. We measure our strength by comparison, one against the other. It tells us who is in control—and who is vulnerable. Or does it? Kurr was killed by power, but by whose? Even as Kurr died, he burned my name into the metal of his ship’s floor plate. I,” Barac opened his fist, holding the empty hand palm upward. “I can’t do such a thing whole and well. But Kurr’s the one gone.”

  “Kurr was a brother to be proud of,” Morgan offered gently. “I will honor the debt between us,” he said more formally, as someone making a vow.

  Barac made no effort to hide his pain, letting it add a cold edge to his voice. “Any debts to be settled are mine, Human.” Barac forced himself back to the topic at hand with an effort, trying to make his tone persuasive. At least the being was listening. “If you want to help, find Sira and get her safely off Auord. I’ll meet you on Camos as soon as possible.” Barac drew a small plate from his pocket. “I had this made in the market—it’s the best I can do.”

  Morgan took the plate, sparing only a quick glance at its imprisoned memory of a woman or girl, dressed in the latest insystem fashion, hair elaborately dyed and styled, eyes too large for the face. Barac tensed. Would he refuse?