A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) (15 page)

I knew why I was contented. It was my past, whether the image of Roraqk or the hazy blankness of before, that made me unhappy or uncomfortable. Morgan spoke to me only of the operation of the
Fox,
accepting my presence on his ship as my only claim to existence, which, in fact, it was. I was “chit” or “Hindmost,” or, rarely, some more emotional appellation. It raised a most comforting wall.

In return, I kept certain questions to myself. Morgan didn’t volunteer his past. Several areas of the ship were off-limits to me, including the control room—a wise decision, based on what I’d already accomplished in less critical areas.

I finished and gave my tray back to the servo unit, out of habit nodding politely when it thanked me. Viewed from this side of dinner, things had gone rather well this morning. In fact, I faced the first moment of leisure I’d had since coming on board the
Fox.
I should decide how to enjoy it. Leaning back, I lifted my feet to the tabletop and contemplated my surroundings. A mistake.

The galley was ten paces long and five paces wide, most of that table and seats. Morgan could touch the ceiling with his hand. Behind me, I knew those stars whirled through an empty blackness. Ahead, the oval door showed only the far wall of the corridor, brightly lit and stark. Only an outline beside the servo unit revealed the entrance to my corner of the
Fox,
the galley’s storage cubby.

I noticed the taste of the air for the first time: clean enough to smart, metallic on the back of my tongue. I shook my head to dismiss the notion, making an effort to see the walls as protective rather than enclosing, to feel the galley as cozy rather than close. It was so difficult to fight my growing claustrophobia I began to wonder about Morgan. How could anyone willingly live in such a box, especially alone? Yet I knew Morgan usually flew the
Fox
single-handed, and made no provision to carry passengers.

If this was part of a spacer’s life, I’d better learn to like it. Planetfall on Ret 7 was close and it, as every one I’d face in the future, would give Morgan an opportunity to leave me behind. And I had to stay here, I knew, alarmed at the mere thought of leaving the
Fox
or her captain. I was safe here; I had to stay with Morgan. But would Morgan let me?

Morgan drummed his fingers lightly on the panel. The com light winked from yellow to green as the connection was accepted.

“Morgan here,” he said.

“Bowman,” the voice introduced itself, a warning bite to the word even through the com. Morgan settled deeper in his chair, glancing around to be sure the control room door was locked behind him.

“And what can I do for you, Commander?” Morgan kept his voice casual, as between friends.

There was a delay before her answer, as though Bowman was taken aback. More likely, Morgan decided, she was clamping down on her temper. “It appears you left Auord with something I’ve been looking for, Morgan.”

So the helpful Enforcer at the shipcity had been a spy after all, Morgan thought to himself in disgust, or else there had been other eyes watching the Fox—and Sira’s arrival. “I have quite a wide selection of cargo, this trip, Commander,” he said, truthfully. “Anything in particular?”

“Don’t play games with me, Morgan,” her voice now coldly precise. “I know you have the woman on the Fox. You took her from Auord—right under my nose. Why?”

Morgan’s lip twisted in a sneer, and he was glad he’d never bothered to install a vis-com. “It wasn’t Pact business.”

“It damn well was and is my business! Now, Morgan.” He grinned at the reasoning tone which suddenly crept into Bowman’s voice; she must have remembered their comlink would last only as long as he wished. “You aren’t planning to up the tab on this one, are you? I’ve a budget—”

Morgan’s grin faded. He thought of Sira’s face when she’d first boarded, the shocking brightness of blood etched against the pale skin of her cheek, the desperate need to trust in her eyes. She worked hard, mistakes or not. He wasn’t a fool. He knew she was trying to prove herself to him, to win a place on the Fox.

His hand reached for the com panel before he stopped himself, shaking his head. What was he thinking? Instead, he made his fingers into a fist and brought it down by the com slowly enough to keep it soundless. “No,” he said, but to what, he wondered.

“Good,” Bowman answered with apparent relief. “You’ve matched orbits with me before, Morgan, and been quiet about it, too. I don’t mind telling you that this passenger of yours could be just what I need to open some eyes about Clan meddling. What’s your next planetfall?”

Morgan’s eyes flickered to where the yellow edge of the current trip tape protruded from the control panel. It would be easy to flip it out, insert another. Easy and pointless. They were deep in Trade Pact space; Bowman would find him. Besides, profit was what he was after, wasn’t it? “Ret 7,” Morgan said. “This shipday.”

“Good.” A cat’s purr. “You can drop her at Malacan’s—”

“Sira’s not some cargo to be dumped—” The moment the words left his lips, Morgan wished he could grab them back.

“Sira?” Bowman’s voice became guarded, suspicious. “Are you sure you can trust yourself, Morgan? What exactly is your situation?”

Morgan swore silently. “I’m the closest thing you have to an expert on the Clan, Bowman. I haven’t been influenced, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He hesitated, then went on, knowing it was useless. “She’s not what I expected—”

“I’ll find out for myself. Thank you, Captain. You know what to do. Bowman out.”

Morgan tilted his head back, examining the ceiling. “I promised her freedom,” he finished to himself a long moment later, aware of a pain whose power quite astonished him. His only defense was to refuse to name it.

Chapter 8

I STOOD on the
Fox
’s ramp, shivering in the moldy dampness, peering curiously up at the faint disk which was all the clouds revealed of Ret 7’s feeble sun. The morning’s rush of cargo handlers was already underway. From where I stood, I could see spacers pounding down the ramps of neighboring ships, joining a growing crowd aimed at the shipcity gates, all out to commandeer local transports so they could get to the native city before the rain started again.

Self-conscious, I tugged to straighten my coveralls, glancing over my shoulder to check if Morgan had reopened the portal for any last minute instruction. He hadn’t; the door remained sealed against the ever-present dampness. “Miserable little hole,” Morgan had said, dismissing Ret 7; I had to agree.

It didn’t help that there wasn’t a proper shipcity. The docking tugs plunked starships anywhere along this stretch of the road leading into Jershi, the native capital. At least the Retians had the sense to make some pavement— otherwise the starships would be ramp deep in the ooze the natives loved so much.

Had I ever been on this world before, tasted its rain on my lips, pulled its heavy air into my lungs? Had I . . . I gave myself a stern mental shake, dismayed to be daydreamingwhen Morgan needed my help; I couldn’t afford to miss this chance to prove myself, not if I wanted to become crew on the
Fox.

I dodged among larger beings, all jostling for a better position in line. The others seemed to take my darting around them good-naturedly enough; perhaps I looked the part of a spacer well enough to pass. Morgan had advised me to be early—he wanted me to rent one of the few manual craft available. The
Fox
’s cargo profit was not sufficient to be squandered on servocraft.

Lucky again. A stubborn wisp of fog parted on the same cumbersome-looking groundcar we’d rented yesterday, parked close to the ramshackle gate marking the edge of the shipcity. Its owner, a lackluster native of few words and potent odor, grunted with annoyance as I approached.

“Not you again,” she complained in excellent Comspeak, eyeing the tokens in my hand but not reaching for them. “What your captain paid barely covered fuel. What about the wear and abuse you put my poor vehicle through, what about—”

“What about its faulty air-treatment system?” I countered very loudly. “Yesterday we had to drive through the Rissh Marshes with the top open!” The town of Jershi and its surrounding wetland smelled high to humanoid noses at the best of times. The sudden lack of interest from the spacers standing behind me brought a scowl to her wizened features. There had, of course, been no such problem. Two protruding brown eyes blinked.

“The system’s been repaired, Spacer,” she lied equally loudly.

“ ’Bout time,” I said, straight-faced, but triumphant. “Here’s our rental, in advance. The captain will have it back by sixth bell.”

“Fourth bell, and without a scratch!” She snatched my currency and waddled away, bare feet slapping the mud, toadlike and gray among the taller, predominantly Human spacers.

“More spare parts for His Lordship’s toy, Morgan?” The jeering voice was clear over the sounds of bargaining and motor starts.

“
Fox
’s business, not yours, chit,” I said righteously over my shoulder, unsure of who had spoken at first. Then I spotted the somewhat brighter blue of a crewman from
Ryan’s Venture
standing by the vehicle lined up next to mine.

Morgan had told me something of the
Venture,
and her captain, Ariva Ivali, after our landing. It pleased him immensely to be docked fin-to-fin with the larger and much newer ship. As Morgan put it, he and Ivali were competitors—a rivalry that was familiar, if not overly friendly.

I didn’t expect their encounter on Ret 7 to improve the relationship. Apparently,
Venture
had preceded us here by several weeks, and was struggling to unload enough cargo to pay her costs, let alone make some profit. Morgan, on the other hand, had no sooner settled the
Fox
after docking than a buyer named Malacan Ser called. Hom Ser was the agent for the local ruler, Lord Lispetc. And his Lordship was desperate for Morgan’s posted cargo—repair components. Damp rot was not kind to the delicate innards of expensive offworld com systems. That the new components would ultimately fail, and for the same reason, didn’t seem to matter at all.

Morgan told me all this with a surprising lack of enthusiasm. He was so glum, in fact, that I hesitated to congratulate him. I put it down to frustration that he hadn’t stuffed every hold of the
Fox
with com components.

Putting all this to the back of my mind, I slipped into the groundcar, happy to be outside despite a tendency to distrust anything not of the
Fox.
As I drove back to the ship, contentedly whistling a light little tune whose words I couldn’t remember, it was easy to imagine I was already part of her crew, not just an inconvenient passenger lending a hand. The thought had considerable charm; it would be wonderful to stay Sira Morgan, spacer, a real person with a place of her own.

I guided the groundcar to a spot alongside the ramp, slightly surprised to see the larger hemicircle of the hold door was still sealed. The afternoon rain clouds were piling up in the sky, but probably wouldn’t spill anything for an hour or so. As a precaution, I left the roof up on the car before calling to the
Fox
to open the inset crew door.

Morgan was waiting for me inside the air lock; he was holding a thin plas pack in one hand. I halted, eyeing it and him suspiciously, before asking: “Do you want me to help you load the cargo?”

“No. Something’s come up, and I have to stay on board. But you can do something for me. There’s an important package I need delivered.” He paused. “It’s not far, on the near edge of town. I’ve drawn you a map.”

I considered several less-than-tactful remarks and regretfully shelved them, in light of the unusual tightness around Morgan’s mouth. Quietly, I took the plas sheet he handed me and glanced over it. “Malacan’s Fine Exports,” I read out loud. “Fourth block, Trade Quarter.”

“Give this package to Malacan Ser himself, and no one else. Wait for him to open it,” Morgan said, then stopped, looking at me. “He’ll have some further instructions for you, Sira. I want you to do whatever he says.”

My stomach lurched under my heart and I tasted bile at the back of my throat. “What?” I whispered, swallowing hard.

Morgan’s voice sharpened. “Wasn’t I clear, chit? Now hurry. Hom Ser is waiting.”

I found my voice again. “Let him wait! I don’t take orders.”

Morgan’s eyes were as remote as distant stars, his lips a thin, forbidding line. We stared at each other for a long moment. He broke the silence first. “I thought you said you wanted to learn how to be crew. Changed your mind already?”

“No!” I protested quickly. “No. Of course not. I just don’t understand,” I finished lamely, wishing he wasn’t acting so odd.

Morgan didn’t soften, as I thought he might. Instead, he handed me the small package for Malacan and an even smaller bag of local currency. “While you’re gone, I’ll be packing up His Lordship’s order,” he said, as I tucked these into a pocket and resealed the seam. Morgan paused. “You’re sure you can handle the groundcar on the in-town road?”

I nodded. Feeling strangely miserable, I turned to leave, refusing to acknowledge any misgivings by prolonging the conversation. I reached for the door control only to have Morgan’s tanned hand arrive first, holding it closed. I twisted to look up at him.

Morgan removed his hand, staring at it, disconcerted. “What is it, Captain?” I asked quietly, after a moment’s silence. “What haven’t you told me?”

His face was carefully controlled, unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him. I gazed into their blue depths, searching for anything else there but pity. I blinked rapidly, wrenching my own eyes away to focus on the deck. This was it; I knew without words. Morgan was leaving me behind—here, now, with this Malacan Ser, on this repulsive, soggy planet. I should have expected it. I should have—

“Sira—”

“It’s all right,” I said too quickly, cutting off his now distress-filled voice, not wanting any more lies. “I can follow orders.”