“YOU COULD HELP.” Freeing his arm, Morgan used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead.
Barac di Bowart crouched to peer into the mouth of the left air intake. He shuddered theatrically, moving back to let Morgan climb out. “Me, touch your ship?”
He’d thought he was too tired to laugh. Apparently not. “Good point.”
The elegant Clansman pointed to the intake. “Are we going to blow up? I’d prefer some notice, so we can leave.”
“Ship’s fine.” Morgan stood, working his shoulders. Been a while since he’d had to crawl in there.
To be exact, since Sira had become hindmost on the Fox. She’d the makings of a reliable mechanic, not that he’d dare tell her. She took enough on herself as it was, including what had taken her from the ship.
Add traipsing, at night, where the local Port Jellies refused to go—
Barac was a welcome distraction. “You’ve never come down here before.” The Clansman had assured him, on several occasions, that he only felt safe traveling through space when he didn’t have to believe in the machinery that drove them.
“You weren’t coming out.” Barac considered the stack of cups and e-rations, then nodded at the hammock slung between pipes. “Are you living here now?”
Morgan laid a hand on a curl of pipe, wincing inwardly. That vibration wasn’t right. “I’m asking a lot of the old girl.” With a pat. “Only fair I do what I can.” And essential. The coolant system had been about to fail when he’d arrived; the quick patch looked ugly.
It would hold. It had to. “Why did you say you were here?”
“To keep you company.” Barac looked for a place to sit, then leaned against the closed door. “Feels familiar. You and me. This ship. Even our course.”
“Except for you being down here,” Morgan pointed out dryly. The last time Barac had been a passenger on the Fox he’d been hunting Sira di Sarc. Easy to guess the reason for this “visit” was the same. “There’s nothing to report yet. Sira’s still with her mother.” The good news that Mirim and her followers had knowledge about the baby was for Sira to share when she returned.
The rest? “What do you know about the Clan Homeworld?”
Barac’s expression sobered. “Is that what’s Sira’s chasing? Call her back. Even if it could be found—we wouldn’t be welcome there.”
Not what he’d expected. “Time’s gone by,” Morgan said mildly. “Besides, I thought you didn’t remember why the M’hiray left.”
“Because we are the M’hiray.” The Clansman turned the bracelet on his wrist, the etched design catching fire from the ship’s lights. “Whether willingly or not, our kind split into those who use the M’hir and those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t. My unhappy aunt and her group have created their own version of our past. Don’t expect reality from them.”
The bracelet was of that past, pre-Stratification, its unusual metal shaped into a pattern reminiscent of water and stone. It had been a gift from Kurr di Sarc. Morgan found himself staring at it. “Did your brother believe Mirim’s version?”
“No.” Barac’s shrug was bitter. “But he’d take her his latest box of discoveries. They’d spend hours poring over them, hours I’d be stuck with you and that deck of cards.” His ever-charming smile was false. “I still say you cheated.”
“I still say you’re a poor loser.” Interesting. To hear Jacqui, Jarad di Sarc was the Clan’s foremost expert on their past, yet Kurr had sought out Mirim. “Sira wouldn’t waste time on a fruitless hunt,” Morgan said more briskly. “You should trust her.”
Barac’s smile turned real, yet unutterably sad. “I do. It’s the rest of universe that worries me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tools secured, at least for the moment, the Human sat on a crate and stretched. “Most of the universe could care less.”
“As most Clan are innocent,” Barac countered. “I’m not.”
So Sira wasn’t the only one racked by guilt. The Human pushed a second crate away from the wall. “You didn’t come to keep me company.”
“No.” The Clansman accepted the invitation and sat. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke to the floor. “Ruti isn’t speaking to me.”
A crowded ship wasn’t the ideal place for the young lovers to find themselves. Morgan hid a smile. “What is it this time?”
“When I tell her what I’ve done, she’s happy. She refuses to listen when I try to explain my—my regrets. It upsets her.”
Being of lawless, independent Acranam, Morgan judged, wouldn’t help Ruti’s understanding. Nor would— “She’s grieving and afraid, Barac. Right now, I think she needs to be proud of you.”
“Proud?” Startled, the Clansman’s face showed all his pain. “You know what I was. What I did. Finding telepaths like you. Manipulating their minds—erasing them if necessary. If not for Sira and her treaty, I’d be doing it now.” A suddenly awkward feel between them. “And you’d be hunting us.”
The treaty stipulated no action committed by the Clan before its signing could be prosecuted. Had that necessity tipped Cartnell to seek his own vengeance?
Morgan half smiled. “You couldn’t have been any good at it, or you’d have won more games.”
“I’ve never—you were our friend!” Realizing he was being teased, Barac shook his head but something eased. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“I won’t tell.” Morgan’s smile faded. “None of us know what’s ahead, Barac.” He held out his hand. When the Clansman took it, he lowered his shields slightly, sharing his compassion, his belief in the other, before letting go. “Your regrets do you credit, but don’t let them keep you from living.”
Barac gave a slow nod, then sent, Heart-kin.
Still not letting you win. But their eyes met and held in acknowledgment of the bond between them, one stronger in many ways than mere blood. If only others knew the Clan as he did—
Or rather knew the Clan he did, the Human thought, who’d made the leap beyond their xenophobia. Could the rest? He shook off the despondent feeling. “Sira’s looking for an answer.”
“By chasing her mother’s fantasy.” Barac actually laughed. “We’re that desperate.”
“Finding options,” Morgan corrected. Something he’d be doing up in the control room right now, if not for the Fox. He cast an eye at the nearest gauge. Running hot. He managed not to run his grease-streaked fingers through his hair, though odds were excellent he’d done it already. Grabbing a rag, the captain of the Silver Fox rose to his feet.
The ship could be at Stonerim III already, if the Clan on board lent him their strength. If he dared reveal himself. If that were in any sense a good idea.
And not a recipe for disaster.
“You’ll let us know before we blow up, won’t you?”
Morgan grunted an absent affirmative. “You could help.”
The Clansman laughed again and headed for the door. “I’ll bring you some real food. How’s that?”
“Thanks.”
Keeping his hand on the door, Barac glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve met them, Morgan. Once.”
“Who?”
“Mirim’s group. The M’hir Denouncers, or whatever they call themselves.” He made a face. “I couldn’t take them seriously. I hope Sira doesn’t.”
Alone again, Morgan patted the pipe. “If she does, old girl, I expect things to get very interesting around here.”
If Sira found a new world?
“Very interesting indeed.”