The Summer Thieves

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Yes, just like a musk vole in a dirty ditch.”

  Minka and the rest of the gang laughed. Johrun found himself standing, fists balled. But Lutramella’s calm poise deterred him.

  “Vir Braulio, would you care for a contest between us?”

  “Why not? What did you have in mind?”

  “Another game of tag. I’ll be it, and you may have as long as you like to position yourself before the chase begins.”

  “Are there terms to victory?”

  “Yes. If you elude me and get back to this chair, I will be your personal servant so long as you are on Verano. And if I tag you, you must surrender this chair and fetch me one drink.”

  “The wager is taken!”

  Anders heaved himself to his feet, flexed his muscles in deliberately hyperbolic fashion, then trotted to the fifth-force ascenseur. In just a bit over half a minute, he stood atop the highest diving platform.

  Sensing some interesting contest underway, the other users of the pool had mostly halted their own activities to watch.

  “Ready!” he shouted down.

  The man’s obvious strategy, thought Johrun, was to place as much distance between himself and Lutramella as possible. Then, before she could ever reach him, he would be back on the ground, one way or another. So he imagined. But Johrun knew better. He smiled now at Lutramella, who held up one paw as if in salute and flexed her fingers to reveal the dark skin webs between.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Vir Corvivios.”

  She sauntered over to the edge of the deep end, with Anders from high above keeping a keen eye on her the whole while. He certainly must have expected her to use the aerial discs to reach him, allowing him to dive away from her. But much to everyone’s surprise, she plunged into the ground-level pool.

  No sign of the splice for an interminable ten seconds . . .

  And then a furred missile rocketed out of the pool, cleared the four meters interval of open air as if winged, and pierced the first floating layer, safe in the suspended water.

  Now the spectators could see Lutramella’s preparations for her next launch, as she built up speed by swimming underwater in a tight circle like some kind of madly animated flywheel.

  Anders Braulio could see too. He moved as if to dive into the uppermost level. Then, thinking better of such a strategy, he stopped and stepped onto a descending disc. It was not as easy a shortcut maneuver to hop to a lower disc as it had been to jump to a higher one, and in his haste, the man almost missed his landing. He wisely ceased trying to outpace the mechanism.

  Another explosive arrowing, and Lutramella was in the second floating pool. Anders had stepped off onto the platform at the third height. Lutramella surfaced her head and shoulders, treading in place effortlessly. The competitors contemplated each other. Anders obviously knew that if he entered the water he was doomed. But Lutramella could also just wait to tag him at the second level platform if he continued down on the discs. And to return to the fourth level would be mere prolongment.

  “Why not join me, Vir Braulio! The water is splendid!”

  Anders let out a muttered curse not totally comprehensible to those on the ground. Johrun was grinning so wide it almost hurt.

  Finally deciding that he might stand some slim chance in the water, Anders plunged into the pool above Lutramella’s. There he swam about in taunting fashion. “Come and get me!”

  Lutramella began her circling. Anders waited for the best moment to exit his pool and pass her by in mid-flight.

  Spray fountained upward as Lutramella blew through the top of her pool.

  Anders pushed through the bottom of his level and began to fall past the splice.

  Lutramella entered the upper body of water, turned on the head of a pin, and accelerated back out into the air before Anders had fallen more than halfway.

  She caught him just before he hit the water, grabbing him in a bear hug. They struck the pool together, and she released him.

  The two rivals descended separately the rest of the way via the water ladder.

  A concussive round of applause greeted Lutramella when she emerged from the bottom pool. She smiled broadly. In a moment she had returned to reclaim her chair. Anders Braulio trailed glumly behind.

  “Vir Braulio, if you still wish a bloodmelon shandy, you might get one for me while you’re up.”

  Anders grumped off to carry out his penalty. His four friends had the good manners to congratulate Lutramella with what seemed like genuine admiration. Only Minka refrained from offering a kind word.

  When Lutramella had her drink in hand and the others had wandered off to folic in the water, she beckoned Johrun to bend down for a whispered word.

  “Please get me the strongest analgesics and myosinic tropes you can find, Joh. I’ve torn every muscle in my old body!”

  The theme of the formal wedding ball for that evening had been conceived by Grandma Chirelle, always something of fanciful dreamer. Seeking to imply the possession of a superior history and lineage not actually enjoyed by the Corvivios and Soldevere clans—for, after all, they had been impecunious upstarts just two generations ago, not the rich and respectable planet-owners of today—she had chosen the theme of “Our Illustrious Pre-Quinary Ancestors.”

  The millennia before the establishment of the Quinary in its present form had been garish, rude, and outrageous centuries. Many new technologies had blossomed without any restrictions or oversight, and been employed in misbegotten ways. Devastating inter- and intrasystem wars had been waged. Outlaws and eccentrics, nonpareils and criminals of a thousand, thousand types had flourished, establishing colonies and secret redoubts across the galaxy, some of which had subsequently become lost and passed into extravagant legend. Belief systems and ideologies in mind-numbing profusion had been drafted, implemented, and forgotten. Myriad splices without the least utility had been sartorized into melancholy or extravagant existences.

  And the baseline human form had been tinkered with to nearly unimaginable degrees. Almost as if humanity were unconsciously trying to fill all the old physiological niches of all the extinct sentient species that the Harvesters had reaped, the basic human template was warped across every possible parameter—limbs, brains, senses, desires, sizes, and functionalities— producing gods and demons, monsters and angels, improbable shapes and talents never before conceptualized. Many worlds at the present time still harbored remnants or even sizable populations of these outré creations, all breeding true of course, barring subsequent genomic interventions. But after these excesses, contemporary tastes, ethics, and fashions had dictated a return to the ancient bodily templates, leaving the majority of Quinary citizens looking—at least on the surface—just like their long-vanished Gaian ancestors. A figure like Ox was an anomaly.

  But it was still amusing to masquerade now and then as some of the less horrifying individuals from this frontier era, reclaiming these figures as inspirations and sources of primitive courage, boldness, and fey whimsies. Such temporary impersonations of misguided and deluded ancestors also conferred the twin illusions of progress and superiority on the masquerader.

  Thus the Danger Acres fabricators had been put to maximal usage all day, spinning out gaudy costumes whose historical patterns were drawn from the Indranet. But more vitally, the several beauty parlors on the premises had run chockablock and at full gallop, modifying the appearances of the guests as they dictated. Much of each makeover was the product of conventional non-invasive technics—smart paints and intelligent prosthetics. But a certain portion of the crowd indulged in temporary bodily modifications—organic barbels, tails, even extra arms or novel sensory organs. The Polly-trained staff were completely competent to fashion and embed such add-ons, all of which could be just as easily removed the next day. Unless, of course, the owner found that they enjoyed, say, having a pair of small wings at each heel, or a beard of living rasper beetles.

  Johrun, after consulting and coordinating with Minka, in order to ach
ieve some unity of appearance desirable for the bride and groom whom this whole affair was honoring, had settled on appearing as two members of the Logothetes. This philosopher clade from Bogoslof had been known for their out-sized craniums and long, five-knuckled fingers with which they could form an intricate set of semiotic mudras. The look could be achieved with simple inorganic prosthetics, and the outfits associated with the Logothetes were plain floor-length gowns in muted pastels.

  At first, Minka had objected to the choice. “Must we really pretend to be dusty, bloodless savants, especially on this festive occasion? I fear a presage of our life together! Why can’t we go as the Fiendish Corsair of Maybeck and his child bride? I’d look adorable in torn bloomers and chemise.”

  “Totally inappropriate! My idea is a dignified and honorable impersonation.”

  Minka caved in with surprising alacrity. “Very well. Consider me a thing of chalk and equations from now on.”

  Arriving at Minka’s room that evening, Johrun anticipated some hidden rebellion. But she presented herself with the requisite lack of adornments and oversized head and digits.

  “I would kiss you,” she said, “but the Fifth Postulate of Wetnoodle mandates otherwise.”

  “I’m glad to see you showing a sense of humor about this. Let’s go down now and try to enjoy ourselves.”

  The Red Claw Room of last night’s gathering had been deemed too small and unimpressive for tonight’s celebration, and so the Behemoth Ballroom had been prepped. Likewise, the little assemblage of Loftin’s Invigorators had been replaced by a full orchestra, the People’s Harmonious Assemblage, under the famous direction of Maestro Chen Shortsleeves.

  The orchestra was playing to a nearly full room as Johrun and Minka entered. Johrun felt the massed attention of the revelers like a physical blow. He saw his smiling parents and grandparents across the room, standing next to Minka’s family. All eight of them were costumed like the famed platoon of Garibaldian Mazoi who had held out for days against incredible odds at the Battle of Blasted Heath. Johrun took comfort in their obvious approbation.

  As he stepped arm-in-arm with Minka into the room, a small wave of murmurs and laughter began to build, until it reached a swift crescendo. Johrun saw no cause till he looked at his fiancée.

  At some unseen signal, her gown had gone utterly transparent. And beneath it Minka was not only nude, but her pubic bush had been prinked out with flickering cold blue flames, and her breasts had been plumped up to unnatural size and equipped with prehensile nipples.

  With a quick movement Minka shed her prosthetics—obviously gimmicked for quick release—and her useless gown as well. Her modified hair sprang out in abundant thick tendrils possessed of their own volition.

  “Behold! The Sheelanagig of Far Embrazza!”

  The laughter turned to wild hoots and applause. Minka pirouetted, accepting the crowd’s salacious adoration.

  In the front row of the ranks nearest Johrun, High Serendip Eustace Tybalt, he who was to officiate at their marriage, staggered visibly and had to be supported by his companions.

  Without a word, Johrun stalked off, hardly cognizant of where he was going, heedless of entreaties from his family.

  When he had calmed down, he found himself outside, some meters away from the lodge, at a small pavilion in the barely lanterned darkness. Overhead the uncountable polychrome tangles of stars regarded human follies unblinkingly and without sympathy. Floral scents drifted past on a mild current of ever-warm air.

  Johrun took a seat and held his oversized head in his hands, unable even to form a coherent train of thought.

  After some time came a dulcet cooing and a whispering from either side of him.

  “Sister, what’s this I see?”

  “It’s a bereaved young lad, susceptible to our tender wiles, Sister.”

  “Shall we comfort and beguile him in the manner of our sly kind?”

  “Why not? It’s the sad and natural way of all those with broken hearts, or with none.”

  Out of the thick shadows stepped two fabulous apparitions: female sprites, one lush, one svelte. Each wore enormous insect wings, and sported twitching fronded antennae blooming from their foreheads. Their human eyes were encircled by colorful paint, right out to cheeks and brow. Their clothing consisted of tiny stiff waxed-linen skirts and vinyl corsets and high-laced sandals.

  For a moment Johrun felt truly transported back to some antique fairyland. And then he recognized Trina Mirid and Viana Salp.

  “You two!”

  The women sat down on either side of him. The bench was small and they had to press close.

  “Yes,” said plump Trina, “it is we, the Moon Moths of Selva Immortalis, here to reap your dying breath with our tender lips!”

  Johrun replied wearily. “You’re welcome to it.”

  Slim Viana laid a warm hand on his. “That girl of yours, she’s such an attention hog. You should have seen her at campus parties. Never happy without being the center of all eyes.”

  “I begin to comprehend that the Minka I once knew is radically changed. But I am still hers, if she’ll have me. It’s our destiny.”

  “All well and good for the future,” said Trina. “But what of this evening, while she flaunts herself?”

  Viana’s hand shifted to Johrun’s crotch. “All may be allowed and forgiven on a night of disguises.”

  Johrun felt himself responding, willy nilly, to this unsolicited caress. He reached out tentatively to cup Trina’s generous breast, and she pressed it into his palm. She did so resemble Pinki Luxmeade, the dream girl of his adolescence. He sighed and abandoned all scruples.

  “I am not sure,” he said, “how an actual Logothete would respond to your wantonness, but I can research the topic in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The day of the wedding party’s exclusive hunt did not fail to recapitulate an eternity of other perfect Verano mornings. Subtle lilac light like a downfall of candied flower petals accompanied the balmy breezes. The ambiance of the favored planet was a tonic in itself. People awoke from their indulgences at the Grand Ball of the night before with clear heads, easeful limbs and hearty appetites.

  At least, most of the guests enjoyed that pleasant condition, especially if they had availed themselves of various unfailing Polly remedies and counteragents before falling asleep. However, Johrun had not been in any condition to do so. Back in his room with Trina and Viana and four snagged bottles of piquant nebbiolo champagne from the vineyards of far Durango, he had, like the scholarly Logothete whose rapidly shed costume he had flaunted, become too busy investigating all the topological combinatorics inherent in their three bodies. When he and the women had exhausted themselves in proving a large number of theorems, he had fallen into a coma-like sleep.

  Some five hours later, around nine AM, a call on his vambrace shattered his deep and dreamless somnolence. Arising from subterranean caverns of unconsciousness, Johrun took a dull-brained moment to realize what he was hearing. When he registered that he was receiving a call, he knew that the caller had to be on his priority whitelist to get past his silencing of strangers and the trivial botherations of the rancher’s life. And indeed, when he accepted the call, the shaped-light display revealed the image of that all-important figure in his world, Lutramella.

  Her furry face turned partially away from the lens and evincing a small candid snarl, the splice was making a low growling noise that resolved into words. “Hate, hate, hate these dryboned menus! Rowr! I’d like to get the programmer’s guts in my paws— Oh, Jo, you’re there!”

  Johrun levered himself around and scooted his butt back towards the bed’s headboard and pillows, so he could sit upright. He was vastly relieved to discover that neither one of his fellow naked topologists was still present, although the musk of their exertions remained, as did a pair of crumpled Moon Moth wings, the glimmering disguise drab by daylight.

  “Yes, Lu, I’m here—barely. What is it?”

  “Many of th
e safari members are at the breakfast buffet already, and you are scheduled to leave in only ninety minutes.”

  “Thank you for the timely reminder. I had expected perhaps that Minka would call for me with time to spare.”

  Lutramella sniffed disapprovingly. “She’s busy showing her friends how to mix a ‘Danger Acres Powderkeg Shandy,’ and shows no signs of missing you.”

  Johrun sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lu. Are you still set on retirement to that backwater planet?”

  “It seems best for everyone.”

  “Will you come on the safari today?”

  “No. I don’t like witnessing all the killing.”

  “I understand. Very well, then, I’ll see you later at some point, I hope.” Johrun made to end the call, then halted. “How are your aches and pains from yesterday?”

  “All better, thanks to the nostrums you fetched me.”

  “Well, I just wanted to say thank you for showing up that lout Braulio. It did my heart good.”

  “Any time, Jo. But with luck, he’ll soon be gone, and we need never think of him again.”

  Once in the shower, letting the pulsed microjets of smart water pummel his abused flesh at their highest setting, and having downed some Polly restoratives provided by room service, Johrun felt himself almost fully rehabilitated. He assumed a look which he hoped conveyed dispassionate, generalized hospitality and vivaciousness with which to meet all the guests and his relatives and especially, in a public setting, the two sharers of his bed. He could only pray that the women had not already disclosed everything that had transpired last night.

  His guilty conscience twinged. Really, how could he have been so self-pitying and self-indulgent? These past few days, from the incursion of the herple raiders through Minka’s obstreperous arrival and the forced socialization with her undesirable pals, had rendered his behaviors abnormal. Johrun looked forward to an end to all this ceremony and a return to routine. The new routines of married life.

  By the time Johrun reached the buffet, there was no sign of Minka and her squad. But Johrun did encounter his father, Landon. The man looked worried.