This Gulf of Time and Stars (15 page)

“P
ASSAGE?”

“That's your business, isn't it?” Ambridge Gayle had lost her tattoos, or disguised them. She'd thickened her torso and changed her voice, adding the nasal twang more often heard on the streets of Ettler's Planet than Deneb. Doubtless the spacer coveralls she wore came with an array of hidden weaponry.

Manouya regarded her calmly, his thick ivory nails deftly peeling a fresh nicnic. “Where do you think you can go?”

“Auord. I've people there.”

“With that much bounty on your head?” The Brill smacked his lips in appreciation, enjoying how the sound echoed. Stacks of white shipping crates made tunnels leading in every direction. At this hour, the servos were parked and staff gone home. He valued having time to himself.

And it could be a productive time indeed.

“Damn Cartnell. I've assets,” Gayle snapped. “Name your price and get me to Auord. You can do it, can't you?”

The ex-Board Member wouldn't betray him, Manouya thought comfortably, not while so much of his plan remained in motion. After that, well, every prisoner was moved somewhere.

As for Gayle? “Move you without anyone the wiser? Of course.” He'd dealt with Fry already, it being highly disagreeable to
contemplate his name and face squealed to the Enforcers. Threems had such useful appetites. Gayle, however. She had a different reputation. A useful one. Popping fruit into his mouth, Manouya swallowed it whole, then licked his fingers. “My price is not negotiable.”

“Name it.”

So he did.

Later that day, a crate was loaded onto a ship bound for Stonerim III.

Shortly after, passengers boarded.

One of them wore a hat.

R
EGARDLESS
OF WHO'D SLEPT OR WHERE
, Morgan declared the next meal to be breakfast, that being possible when time was set by chronos and had nothing to do with a sun. Ruti and Barac arrived as he began setting out plates, and were surprised to find another Clanswoman at the table.

“You two look like spacers,” my Human complimented.

Ruti looked down at her overalls, plucking at the excess bunched over her belt. “It's comfortable.”

“They never fit,” I assured her. “Jacqui di Mendolar, my cousin Barac di Bowart and his Chosen, Ruti di Bowart. Sit,” I added when all three prepared to bow and gesture in a proper Clan greeting. “Your food's ready. Nothing's formal on the
Fox.
”

Nothing, chit?

There was that. I coughed. “Except for Captain Morgan's orders. You must obey them without question. For your safety and the ship's.”

“Over yours, Speaker?” Jacqui said nervously. “Is yours not the greater Power? Meaning no offense, Captain.”

Barac chuckled and Ruti dimpled. If I'd thought to let Morgan answer, one glance told me he was already enjoying this too much and I'd regret it. “When it comes to the
Silver Fox,
” I said truthfully, “he's in charge.”

“My first order,” my Chosen said with a warm smile, “is enjoy your breakfast.”

The
Fox's
galley being compact at the best of times, I'd had no problem sitting Ruti beside Jacqui. Getting them to be comfortable that way?

I had my work cut out for me. While we ate, I studied the uneasy pair.

The Chooser's hair was thin and limp, her face and body still immature, in all ways opposite to Ruti's, but it wasn't that, I realized. In years, Jacqui could be Ruti's mother; in experience, the younger Chosen was by far the elder; and that didn't begin to address the edgy feelings between an Acranam Clan and one from Camos. One a disciple, no less, of my father.

They didn't need to be friends, I assured myself. Jacqui wasn't Quessa, but she had the Talent, respectable Power.

And was the only Birth Watcher we had.

Ruti quickly gave up, turning her attention to Morgan—or more exactly, to his painting. From her eager questions about the cabin and how to work on walls and furniture, I'd a feeling wherever she and Barac made their home, it would be similarly coated. As for the painting he'd given her, the “Night's Fire?” Barac produced the voucher. They'd left it in a room guaranteed with it. When next on Plexis—

Conversation faltered until Morgan began asking about the plant itself.

As for Jacqui, Barac did his charming best, but as the meal dragged on, the Chooser fell silent, eyes glued to her plate. I couldn't fault her shields; she might not have even been there.

I wanted to clear the table, it being one of my favorite tasks to throw dishes at the wall recycler, but Jacqui's tense silence spread to the rest. Worry creased Morgan's forehead.
She seemed better before. Is it all sinking in?

He thought she suffered from what had happened, but it wasn't the past. I was certain of it. “Jacqui—”

Low and pained. “I can't be her Birth Watcher.”

“You're a—” Barac's face lit until he saw Ruti's.

Hair lashed. Eyes glared. And if anyone in this room doubted
the Power of Ruti di Bowart, they couldn't now, with it
storming
against shields. “She doesn't want to touch our daughter. Because I'm from Acranam. Because I'm not from one of the important families!”

“No.” Jacqui's head rose, her expression full of dignity and regret. “Because I'm Sira's.”

Morgan's cup hit the floor.
You're having a baby?

My mouth having fallen open, I closed it with a snap of teeth.
You are mistaken, Jacqui di Mendolar.

And if there was
rage
in the sending, I had that right. There was history, bloody and dreadful and mine, behind it. “You're wrong.”

She shuddered but held herself straight, not dropping her gaze.
This is
my
Talent, Speaker
. Aloud, “I'm a Birth Watcher. There is no mistake.”

Barac warned Ruti with a touch; the rising joy in her face faded to confusion.

I didn't look at Morgan. Couldn't.

I'll show you.

Neither of us moved, but it was as if her hand took mine and drew it low, pressing the palm over my flesh. A hand that became a conduit through the M'hir.

Touching . . .
life
.

“What is it?” My lips felt numb.

I'd been ripped apart, stuffed with alien seed, re-opened, and emptied. The damage done—I'd been told it was repaired, but I'd hoped to be barren. There mustn't be another like me, another with my deadly Power.

“What do you mean?” Puzzlement. Confusion.

Oh, the things this innocent young Chooser didn't know—in a perfect universe, would never have to know. “What kind is it?” I said grimly. “The species.”

She swallowed, then gave a nod. “Clan. M'hiray. There can be no doubt, Speaker.”

As I sagged with relief, that first dread passing, Morgan came close and I slipped my fingers through his, gripping hard. The emotions flowing between us were a confused blur.
Horror
was one.
Shock
another.

A whisper of barely felt, impossible-to-resist,
hope
.

So even as we pulled apart, dropping barriers to calm the storm, it was he who spoke first. “How is this possible?” Morgan challenged. “I'm Human. A different species. Biology doesn't go away.”

“I don't care what you are,” Jacqui replied with true Clan arrogance. “I'm a Birth Watcher. I cannot be wrong. There is a baby.” She came around the table, offering us each a hand. “I can prove it. She'll have a bond to you both.”

She. And didn't that one word make it real?

I turned my head, meeting my love's remarkable eyes. They'd darkened, holding a message as clear as if sent mind-to-mind. A Clan might not read the caution there, the concern.

My kind were often blind.

The slightest nod. Courage, that was.

We clasped hands with Jacqui, who closed her eyes to concentrate.

It began as the same sensation, made vivid by the physical touch, this time shared with one more, Morgan.
LIFE
.

This exploration went deeper and, suddenly, there it was. A bond through the M'hir, Power-to-Power, like mine to Morgan, yet unlike, for this Joined me to something calm, wordless . . .

. . . and
empty
.

“NO!”

S
IRA'S
DENIAL ECHOING
through his mind as well as ears, Morgan didn't think. His Power surged,
tossing
the ashen-faced Birth Watcher away from them both. She slid over the table, taking the rest of breakfast with her, and missed the galley wall only because Barac was there first to catch her.

Ignoring the Clan, ignoring everything else, Morgan twisted to take Sira, gently, by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” He searched her face, dismayed when she stood passively in his hold, her eyes dazed, and he could
feel
only
pain
. Sira. He dared shake her, just once. “Sira.”

A sharp intake of breath. A slow blink. Finally, she focused on him and he could breathe. “What did she do?” he demanded, though he knew it hadn't been Jacqui. “What's wrong?” Though he knew it had to be the astonishing new life within her. The baby. The word stuck in his throat, for there was nothing of joy here.

“It's a Perversion.”

Sira's gaze hardened and went by him; Morgan turned, following its aim, his arm going around her as much for his support as hers. “Explain,” she demanded.

Jacqui wrenched herself from Barac's hold, staring at Sira. “The Joining's to you alone.” She seemed, all at once, more sorrowful than upset. “The baby is yours, alone.”

“I thought—” Ruti hesitated, then went on, “—I thought Perversion was a myth. Something old Chosen would say to scare us.”

“There hasn't been a case since the Stratification.” The Birth Watcher hugged herself. “Perversion is a consequence of a Choice and Commencement without a proper Joining. I don't understand why it would happen now, to you, Speaker. I'm sorry. I can't help you. I don't know how.”

Within his arm, Sira tensed. Morgan understood. Their Joining had been anything but “proper.” A Chooser Joined with her Choice, their bond through the M'hir the trigger for physiological maturity, Commencement.

But Sira's body had matured first, in response to his Human power. Their Joining had been forged afterward; her will, their love, giving her the control to protect him from her greater Power until, at last, they'd found their way.

To this? When Sira didn't speak, he did. “What does it mean?”

“I don't know. But it's—it's not a good thing.”

Morgan felt Sira stir. “How do we get rid of it?” she asked, calm only on the outside. “It” not “she.” His heart hurt.

Jacqui's eyes widened. Ruti sank in her chair with a gasp, her hands over her unborn daughter.

“It's a simple question, Birth Watcher,” Sira said. “Can it be done?”

The Clanswoman bit her lower lip. Finally, “Humans do that. We never have. I'm not sure we can. I don't know,” this third time fiercely, as if to stop such disturbing questions. “The Speaker should ask her mother.”

Sira made a sound like a choked laugh. “Pardon?”

“Mirim sud Teerac studies pre-Stratification Clan—”

“Because she wants us back there,” Barac interjected. “Sira should go to Cenebar—” He shut his mouth, running a hand through his hair. Ruti leaned close. “I forgot,” he said after a painful moment. “There's too many—”

Morgan's side chilled as Sira stepped away from him, shaking her head. “Even if Mirim had the knowledge,” she said, an odd note to her voice. “I'm not sure she'd talk to me. My mother and I parted ways before the rest of you were born.”

“At least you still have one,” Ruti blurted, then buried her face against her Chosen. Jacqui closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Sira looked stricken. “I didn't mean—”

They were falling apart, Morgan realized, and knew what he had to do. “Do you know where she is?”

Her hair twitched unhappily, but she nodded. “Jarad does.” Her eyes lost focus for an instant, and he sensed the
surge
of her Power.

Her gaze sharpened.
Here.
Something dark beneath it.
I should have known.

“I'll set course,” Morgan said briskly. A destination not his first choice—or fiftieth—but any decision was better, right now, than none.

Stonerim III. The southern hemisphere shipcity.

Norval.

W
E
WERE GOING SOMEWHERE
. The low rumble within the
Silver Fox
as her translight engines came to life proved it, if nothing else. Going somewhere meant vital tasks, age and an unending sequence of second-third-fourth-hand parts having made those engines as cranky, as Morgan would say, as a starving Scat. I did my jobs and took on some of Morgan's, relieved to be busy while he pored through newsfeeds and reports: Huido's, possibly others, doing what we could not. As for the other Clan, Barac and Ruti had traveled in a starship before; Jacqui hadn't. The former had each other to pass the time.

Jacqui? Having admitted she didn't know how to help me, the honest Birth Watcher had asked to serve Ruti and her baby, to the relief of all.

Not that I couldn't feel her
interest
every time we passed one another in the confines of the ship.

Not that I couldn't feel the
life
within me, every time I took a breath.

It was that life I'd finally found courage to discuss with Morgan and a precious moment alone in which to do it, our third day in transit.

Only to find him ahead of me.

“Parthenogenesis!” The word greeted me as I entered our
cabin. Morgan tossed the reader on the bed to rattle atop a pile of tapes. “Knew I'd heard of it before. Females who have offspring without need for a partner. The Turrned do it. Who knows who else? Most species don't share their reproductive details.”

For which I was, I decided, thankful. My hair twitched, unsettled. How much research had he done? “I'm not,” I reminded him, “a Turrned.”

“Well, no, but the same principles should apply. I've made notes—”

By the look of our table, masses of them. I thought he'd been compiling reports.

“I see.” Not that I did, but such diligence was owed recognition. “Morgan—about the baby—”

“I know you didn't want this.” He took my hands, sending
sincerity
and
love
. “Whatever you decide, I'll support you. But—” His eyes brightened and I realized with a sickening lurch of my heart that it was with hope. “—a baby, Sira. Something wonderful, out of all this. Our family.”

And what could I say to that?

At my hesitation, the expression on his dear face changed, flickering through distress and guilt to pity; I felt something break inside me. “I'm sorry,” Morgan said, who had no reason to, nor cause, and wasn't happiness better than grief—

Or fear?

“I shouldn't—”

“Yes, you should.” Always I learned from my Human, his optimism and bravery today's lesson. “‘Partheno-genesis.'” I had to admit it sounded better than Perversion and, after all, Turrned did it, who were pleasant, unremarkable beings, renowned only for their somewhat obsessive charity to others.

I bent to kiss my remarkable Chosen soundly, tendrils of hair tickling his neck. “Don't mind me,” I whispered in his ear, following that with a nibble. “It's still a bit—” what wouldn't upset him further? “—overwhelming.”

Pulling back, I unfastened my coveralls and let them fall, kicking off my boots. I tipped my head toward the fresher stall, hair
sweeping over my shoulders like a silken cloak. As a collaborator, it had its moments. Morgan smiled.

“It's my turn,” I reminded him. We'd a schedule for the use of the ship's limited resources. Sharing made sense.

And offered the illusion of privacy. I stepped inside, holding open the door.

Only to see Morgan shake his head and grimace. “I'd best tidy this and get back to the control room. The ship's not going to fly herself.”

Certain even the
Fox
could wait a while, I sent a wave of
heat
, pleased when he let out a flattering growled “Witchling,” less so when he chuckled and secured the door for me.

Swallowing disappointment, I keyed the timed spray.

Foam slid over my skin. My hands followed it, resting over my abdomen. Nothing had changed, not outwardly. Nothing would, according to Jacqui, for weeks yet. I dared follow that inner link.

Still nothing, beyond the strong, steady sense of
life
.

To Morgan, that was enough. But it wasn't. For all he'd filled me with hope, I knew better.

There should be more. A consciousness, however wordless at this nascent stage. Demands. Awareness. Words would follow. Some unborn were loud enough to be
heard
by those around the mother. I'd been one such, able to make the entire household feel my every twist and grumble.

Let alone what happened after birth.

Jacqui had said nothing; that didn't make her unaware. There was no hiding what was wrong from a Birth Watcher.

I took hold of as much hair as fit in two hands, pushing it into the foam. Engine grease was more than even a Chosen's hair could clean from itself, not that I could reason with the stuff.

More likely, I thought as locks squirmed, Jacqui was too kind to speak of what my baby lacked when she had no solution to offer.

Other than going to my mother.

I grabbed more hair, pulled, thought.

Morgan and I would deal with whatever grew in me, when the
time came. It—she—could wait. What couldn't? Safety for the Clan who remained. They were asking. What to do? What next? Some were quiet. Others demanding and querulous. The number grew with each hour.

Because all were afraid.

I didn't let them
touch
Morgan through our link; I didn't doubt he knew.

My mother hadn't been attacked. I went over my brief interaction with Jarad. He'd found her, decided she was safe, and left, speedily. If she'd found a haven, it would be temporary.

I'd
reached
to ask her. She'd rebuffed my contact, as I should have expected. Mirim and those with her distrusted the M'hir, relying instead on those Clan abilities free of it. It was rumored they refused to 'port, taking ships wherever they needed to go, as we did now.

Traveling at Human speed.

When I could be there in less than a heartbeat.

Couldn't I?

I stilled, letting my hair squeeze itself free of foam. I'd used the
Fox
as an excuse, hiding here with Morgan, pretending the ship's needs were greater than my kind's.

No longer, I thought, filled with
determination.

The door opened. “Ready to go, chit?” Morgan asked, leaning in with a slow smile.

Why that— “Not quite,” I assured him.

Taking hold of his coveralls, I pulled him the rest of the way, resetting the foam.

Without telling the others, after Morgan and I had made what plans we could, I left that shipnight . . .

. . . for Stonerim III.

Home, in a sense. I'd been born on this world, then taken from it as a child. I hadn't been back till now.

Feeling sentimental, I'd chosen a locate from my past, a favorite, private place overlooking the lake. Time hadn't been kind. I
walked down a cinder path, my spacer boots crunching dead leaves. At what had been the shore, I stopped. “I'm back.”

The words startled a few birds from a tangled scrub nearby.

So much for memory. I shouldn't have been surprised. The lake had been drained, the luxury towers taken down, all such materials of more use elsewhere, no one wishing to live close to calamity.

Stars crusted the night sky. Once, I could have looked from here and seen Norval rising on the horizon. A sparkling confection of a city, grown as a hill, I remembered it as bedecked with glass and light and gardens, surrounded at all hours by aircars, like flocks of birds, coming and going.

In reality, it had been a compost heap, rotting from within as the layers upon which each new version had been constructed began to fail. Its inevitable collapse had been both well documented and entertaining.

For those who hadn't lost home and livelihood.

Of course, the Clan had abandoned Norval before its ruin, choosing a province of wealth unconnected to events to the south. My mother had moved there, lived there.

>here<

And here, of course. My hair shifted uneasily. After our link, the binding of mother and child, had broken at last. After Rael and Pella . . .

Whatever grew within me, its future? Couldn't matter less at the moment. Morgan needed to know the whole truth; I wouldn't confide in anyone else until he did. He'd set course for my mother, as if there was hope here, and I'd seen how the others had reacted, gaining strength, gathering courage.

>here<

A direction did that. Movement did. I applauded my Chosen's wisdom and took it for my own.

Being here was a start.

>here<

I started, suddenly aware of the word I'd heard—felt—more than once. It wasn't a sending.

“Who's there?” Turning slowly, I scanned my surroundings.

Wind tousled leaves and pushed long waves through the grass. The sky was heavy with cloud and I could smell rain. Listening as hard as I could, I could hear my own heartbeat and nothing more.

>here . . . here . . . here<

Another ghost, I decided, firming my shields with a shiver, tied to this place. It felt like one: confused, demanding, no longer sane.

Impotent.

Even without the M'hir and the minds dissolving there, this world should be full of them.

No more, I promised myself. Time to talk to my mother. I formed the locate Jarad had sent, and
pushed
 . . .

. . . finding myself in an alley.

I sneezed.

A filthy, stinking alley. Why were there no clean ones? What was wrong with civilization?

Something grunted.

My hand sought the handle of Morgan's spare blaster. He was many things, my Chosen. Careless was none of them. Having seen my somewhat creative choice of weaponry in the past, he'd made sure I could threaten with something actually deadly.

Until the Assemblers, I hadn't thought I would.

The grunt was followed by a rhythmic whistling snore as whatever I'd disturbed settled again. I relaxed, as much as I dared.

Most of the lights had been removed or broken, possibly by the alley's inhabitant. My boots squished and slipped through what I was just as glad not to see, and I guided myself down the middle by looking ahead. There, the alley met a brightly lit roadway wide enough for docking tugs and the starships they cradled in their arms, marking the boundary between Norval's portcity, a district of warehouses and hostels, and its more ephemeral shipcity.

While such was now-familiar turf to me, it was hardly a place I'd associate with any others of my kind.

Light rimmed the outline of a door to my left even as words formed in my mind.

Welcome, Daughter
.

Times had changed.

Life clung to Norval only at its western edge, life that came and went in starships, life that scrabbled and dug like scavengers quarreling over a corpse. What any considered worth having was hauled offworld, legally or not; what wasn't, dumped. Decades of waste had begun to consume the portcity, filling its roads even as refuse piles swallowed row after row of abandoned warehouses. The few remaining buildings stood like a dam protecting the shipcity's landing pads. They'd be next. Ultimately, Norval would win.