by Brian Daley
Just then Alacrity, unable to fight off nausea any longer, crouched on all fours and vomited off the sea side of the rock after the High Meddler's plummeting form, thankful that the prevailing wind was behind him.
A great sound, like a universal grating of metal files, went up from the Croi.
Oh, Sweet Spirit of Terra! Floyt groaned to himself, dread stealing the breath from him and stopping his pulse for an instant.
"Imbecile! We've had it!" Amarok snarled at the pathetic, heaving Alacrity and began looking around for a way to save himself.
"You, you—" strained Caut'Karr as Floyt tried hysterically to come up with some viable excuse.
"You gave the High Meddler the Grand Encomium!" Caut'Karr went on. "Eversion of the epigastrian breadbasket, in the Return of Gifts! The Foregoing of the Eatable Gift-Victual Presents! Zut!"
He and a bunch of other Croi helped Alacrity up, patting and stroking his arms, making sounds of acclaim. The remains of the High Meddler, and Alacrity's lunch, were gone beneath the waves.
"That was rather actually above the limits," Caut'Karr remarked. "We were ignorant of any idea that you were thinking about planning such an intention. Er, I suppose internal damage will suffer your innards to expire to death, as is usually the case of things?"
"Um, no." Alacrity grinned feebly. "I'm just as surprised about this as you are, you understand, but it looks like I'm gonna pull through."
"What a wonderfully pleasing, out of the ordinary rarity! How unflinchingly plucky! Ah, I trust you'll forgive our confused misunderstanding … "
"Oh, please, forget to remember it."
Amarok was next to Alacrity now, helping him soothe Caut'Karr's distress. Other Croi had helped Floyt down off the great stone; he rejoined his companions.
Caut'Karr paused to chastise several rash young Croi who were apparently considering imitating Alacrity in rendering the Grand Encomium.
"Their tender young internal stomachs would never put up with enduring it, of naturally," Caut'Karr explained to the humans. "Even we adults seldomly live through survival of it. Ah, but you humanity folks are creatures of ferrous iron, eh? No self-effacing modesty, now! Here; you have earned your payment sums!"
With that the three were given not one but two amber Perfect novaseeds each; not four azure Primes, but eight.
"Thanks!" Alacrity beamed. "Now we can get our mother that much-needed operation!"
"Never has there been so joyously sad of a funereal bash!" trumpeted Caut'Karr. "May I please have leave to declare the announcement that you Homo sapiens species types are hereby declared winning champions of the bereaved mourning!"
The three were borne aloft by deliriously happy mourners. They were carried back down the hill in triumph, through the slanting rays of the sunset, thinking how good it would feel to be back inside the Pihoquiaq once more.
Chapter 7
The Grapple
They fell back into a shipboard routine quickly and comfortably, on friendlier terms after the debacle on Way 'Long.
Floyt had come to understand how Alacrity, who claimed to have been raised in spacecraft for much of his life, could've received a comprehensive education: there was plenty of time for it. Floyt learned to cook a bit, and Alacrity taught him some tradeslang without benefit of teaching tapes or mnemonic devices, Amarok came up with a new and better length of line to replace the jumprope, which the trio had managed to wear out. They bided their way across the gulf.
This time, when Amarok appeared to let them know they were nearing their destination, he had a holster on his hip. It was a splitfront, forward-throw model, and his sidearm a bulky hammergun with a stirrup grip. He was dressed in shiny indigo tights and a high-collared top that left his midriff bare, displaying the physique of a Hellenic wrestler.
The trader made no comment when, shortly thereafter, the two companions armed themselves as well. Floyt removed his Inheritor's belt and Amarok stashed it in the Pihoquiaq's safe. The Terran substituted a webbed belt for it, tucking the Webley therein.
"Will everybody be carrying guns?" Floyt asked Alacrity. "Even with vacuum all around?"
"Guess so. It's a little risky, but most of the types who come to a Grapple wouldn't, if it meant going unarmed."
When the Pihoquiaq's Breakers cut out and she resumed residence in normal space, the only celestial body nearby was an archetypical orange-red gas giant known only by an obscure catalog reference. The spot was of little interest to anyone, perfect for a Grapple and the cagey sorts who would gravitate to it: outlaws and contrabandists, underground leaders and condottieres, along with organized crime figures and fences, and all those who trafficked with them.
Floyt stared at the bizarre patchwork of the Grapple, which floated in space like a maze of mismatched plumbing. Vessels of all sorts were mated lock to lock or joined by tubes or other connectors, branching in all directions, moored by seals and tractor beams, cables, and magnetic anchors. At the approximate center was a titanic, much-repaired old attack transport.
Pihoquiaq's instruments registered commo signals—voice only, no visual—and weapons guidance systems coming to bear on her. Amarok was quick to transmit recognition codes. He was granted permission to approach.
Alacrity had explained that Turnouts, Rendezvous, and most other law-abiding versions of this sort of thing were usually open to all, or at least not overtly hostile, but the people involved in a Grapple were more particular about whom they admitted, and ill-disposed to interlopers.
Alacrity was crammed in the back of the bridge, yielding the copilot's seat to Floyt. Floyt used Amarok's electroimager to study the improvised labyrinth that was the Grapple. The aggregation included old and new craft, from disparate and divergent technologies. One ship reminded him of a pinecone, another a beautiful old samovar. He could see a ship—at least he assumed it was a ship—that looked as if someone had halved a geode, faced it with some transparent substance, and set up the interior as a terrarium. The craft next to it could have passed for a Franklin stove. Most of the ships were ablaze with flashing signal lights and holos.
"Where do we plug in?" Alacrity asked Amarok.
"That remains to be seen. There are protocols about these things; it can be a bit tricky. After all, One will be using someone else's ship as a passageway."
Floyt handed the electroimager back to Amarok. "Do the authorities ever raid the Grapples?"
"Very seldom," Alacrity answered. "First, they're fairly tough to find. Second, there's a lot of firepower when this many rugged individualists get together, more than some governments could match. Besides, whose jurisdiction are we in right now? Nobody's, really."
"Granted, but surely there are fugitives here."
"At a Grapple you cannot take a deep breath without bumping one," Amarok agreed. "But then, you cannot really rely on a particular person or group to show up, so attacking a get-together like this to nail a certain target can be very counterproductive. Then too"—he lowered the images with a fey smile—"there are usually some semihonest folks attending. Killing them could raise repercussions and bad blood."
"They've sure got the party beacons lit," Alacrity enthused.
Floyt said, "I see just about every visual signal except for distress, right?"
"Very good, Hobart," Amarok answered. "Even here, nobody shows a distress signal unless they mean it."
He got back on the transmitter. "Caveat Emptor, this is Pihoquiaq. This One seeks docking arrangements. Is the Rolling Bones there, by chance, or the Wotan?"
"Bones is expected, Pihoquiaq" a voice responded. "Nobody here ever heard of the Wotan. There's still one lock available here in Caveat Emptor."
"There's always one left," Amarok muttered. "And they always want your dangles for a docking fee."
To the transmitter he replied, "Thank you anyway, Caveat, but This One was looking forward to seeing old friends. Have you had word of the Magus?"
Floyt was pointing out a large, openwork ship with other, smaller vesse
ls fastened within her, inquiring what she was.
"That's a ferry," Alacrity answered. "Sublight tubs sometimes go from one system to another in 'em, and they transport damaged starships too, but it's chancy. The rates are stiff, and if you miss a connection, you're probably stranded. Then, sometimes you can go broke and starve, even if you have your own ship."
"Attention, Pihoquiaq," the commo was saying. "Magus is grappled to us, aftmost boatlock, portside. She has granted permission for you to make fast."
Amarok beamed, thanking Caveat Emptor and signing off. Easing his ship around the haphazard protrusions of the Grapple, he said, "Captain Merrywell of the Magus is a close friend to Someone's family; This One can simply chip in on his docking fee."
They closed slowly on a vessel several times the size of the old monitor. Magus appeared to be a frigate refitted as a swift, formidable merchantman, which was also a good configuration for a blockade runner, smuggler, or pirate.
Amarok deftly matched his ship to the Magus's portside lock. As the three were making fast and shutting down, though, a polished, languid voice hailed the Pihoquaiq.
"Captain Sile, here, of the Lamia. How pleasant to hear your voice once more, Amarok my young entrepreneur!"
Amarok was scowling as he replied. "Pihoquiaq here. What is your message, Lamia?"
The reply was mellifluous. "I notice you're sealed to the Magus, so if you don' t mind, I'll just make fast to your portside. It's very nearly the only spot left. I was just telling my associates how fortunate it is that we're old acquaintances, you and I."
Amarok thumbed the sender angrily. "Negative, Sile. Docking permission refused. I say again, docking permission refused! Stand away!"
There was a brief silence at the other end. Tension in the bridge made the air fairly crackle.
"Someone would rather not have offended him," Amarok admitted quietly, "but One will not give Sile and his pack of cutthroats access to this ship."
"There're other docking spots anyway, Rok," Alacrity said quietly.
They were all watching Lamia, a heavily armed carbon dagger of a vessel. Amarok's hand hovered near the firing grip of the monitor's single cannon. Knowing how outgunned they were, Alacrity and Floyt had begun to perspire, even though starting trouble at a Grapple could earn Sile stern retribution.
After time had stood still for a while, Sile replied, "Oh, dear; how disappointing! Well; do enjoy your stay, my boy! Lamia, out!"
The deadly lean shape drifted away. Amarok let his breath out. "This One bets that Sile has to take that last open lock on Caveat Emptor. Few people trust him."
"But does he hold grudges?" Floyt wanted to know.
Amarok's expression was uncertain. "If it doesn't place him in danger, he'll attempt to get even for a perceived wrong, but he won't risk being turned out of the Grapple and being barred from others. I think. Are you both ready?"
They passed through into the warmer air of the Magus and were there greeted by her skipper, Captain Juxtar Merrywell.
Merrywell might've been nearly Alacrity's height when standing upright, but he was in a perpetual slouch. That and a sad, bassethound face combined to make him seem one step away from terminal melancholy. He wore a formal blouse, cravat in need of adjustment, and voluminous green pantaloons with metallic brocade. In his cummerbund were tucked two long, slender, gold-plated Monzini stunguns, heavily chased. They were short-range, but powerful; Just the thing, Alacrity thought, for a visit to a Grapple. Merrywell's crew, mixed males and females with a sprinkling of nonhumans, seemed to dress pretty much as suited them.
Merrywell greeted Amarok with a flattening of his downcast look that wasn't quite a smile and a pat on the shoulder that seemed to take all his strength.
"Good to see you again, sonny. How's business?" He favored Alacrity and Floyt with a long-suffering look. "Amarok's a hotshot trader and captain now, but when he was cabinboy-apprentice with me, we had to teach him what went where in the head."
Amarok colored a bit and hastened to make introductions.
"Glad you had the sense to turn away that treacherous little degenerate Sile," Merrywell said when that was over. "You saved me the trouble. I never could stomach him or that wacko chippy he married."
"Married?" Amarok registered with surprise.
"You didn't hear? Yep, he and Constance are now joined in connubial bliss. Who else'd have either one of 'em?"
"What I'd like to know is where he got himself a ship like that," Amarok said.
Merrywell waved his hand and blew a curt raspberry. "Our little Sile is all jumped up in this life. He's got himself a rich patron is the word. Whoever it is must be either crazy or desperate; he's liable to wake up dead one of these watches. You and your friends be careful of Sile. And Constance."
Amarok said they would; Floyt and Alacrity both nodded.
"Well, come on; we'll go have a drink," Merrywell proposed. "You fellas got here late, you know. The Grapple's almost over."
He took Amarok's elbow. Floyt and Alacrity fell in behind as Merrywell led the way through the Magus. She was a fairly well-run ship, Alacrity saw, and while the atmosphere was somewhat casual, the crew was trained and disciplined. And just then they were all carrying weapons, and most of the interior hatches were secured.
"Got most of my business done already, actually." Merrywell wheezed. "Unloaded a lot of gemstones, small arms, and assorted, uh, medicines. Picked up some manufacturing equipment, AI matrixes, and detector gear." He coughed rather distressingly into a scandalously expensive kerchief of burrownymph silk from Masada; Amarok took no notice.
They cycled through the Magus's well-guarded main airlock. A trio of Merrywell's crew fell in with them as escort as the outer hatch swung open. Two were tough-looking men with flaring mustachios, their long brown hair woven and intertwined in triangular wooden frames they wore atop their heads; the other a short, slender, auburn-haired woman who looked to be about Floyt's age or so and had a rather elfin air to her. All three carried short-barrelled shockguns with folding stocks, supported by shoulder slings.
The Magus was grappled directly to the central portion of the Caveat Emptor. Merrywell led the party into a much larger lock, which wasn't in nearly as good shape as his own ship's. As they entered, brothel steerers, pushers, vendors, all manner of commission men and women and several beggars began yelling and importuning. Apparently they knew enough about Merrywell and his crew to keep their distance, though.
A wizened little man with multicolored braids that reached past his knees offered Floyt a transparent sphere containing a tiny gossamer-winged spider with eyes like red coals. According to the hawker's spiel, the spider spun golden webs and laid clusters of golden eggs. Then two big huskies squatting by a sedan chair wanted to bear him around the Grapple in style.
Alacrity pointed out the commission men and women. "Percentage reps. They'll bring just about anything you want to you in your ship—food, drugs, dealers from the casinos, sex servants, whatever—at a ridiculous markup, of course."
They made their way through the Caveat's lock, out into pandemonium.
They were in one of the attack transport's gargantuan holds, which had been converted into a thieves' market of booths and stalls, marquees and kiosks. A thick pall clogged the air, compounded of every sort of smoke, aroma, and stench. Humans and other beings were puffing without restriction on a wide variety of materials, unusual inboard a sealed spacecraft.
Light came from harsh overhead spots and beautiful biolume lamps, strings of elaborate lanterns and glowing deckplates. Condensation from pipes and. conduits high above fell in erratic droplets. A variety of midges and other flying things circled and buzzed; Floyt was unnerved to think how easily these indifferent underworlders could infect new worlds with vermin, pests, and diseases.
"Oh; meant to ask." Merrywell frowned, fumbling in his cummerbund. "Do any of you boys want nose filters?"
All three declined. Merrywell shifted his search to his blouse and drew out a lon
g gold cigarette holder, fitting a thin crimson cigarette into it and lighting up with a tiny heat-node. Puffing contentedly, he said, "Well; shall we go?"
Floyt was trying to look everywhere at once as they sallied out into the bedlam of the Grapple. He nearly collided with a flirtatious androgyne in a very revealing costume who gave him a brazen wink before continuing along.
The next thing he noticed was two men in intense, very animated conversation. One, in robes of iridescent fabric, put him in mind of an ancient Berber. The man was chewing rapidly on something or other, pausing occasionally to spit into a small chalice of what looked like black iron. From the chalice came brief flashes and puffs of smoke, as the spittal was incinerated. The man kept his eyes to the deck, speaking angrily, with broad gesticulations.
The one he was talking to was unclothed but not naked. His pale skin was nubbled with fantastic ritual markings and scars, in swirling patterns resembling a Maori's. The end of his prepuce was pierced by an elaborate sexual fetish of feathers, excrescenses, wattles, and stimulators.
"The one on the left's from Desolation," Alacrity told Floyt. "He destroys his spit, nail parings, hair trimmings, feces—all that kind of stuff, so nobody can use it against him in clone voodoo. He's not allowed to look unbelievers in the eye."
"What about the other?"
"From Rock of Ages. The body markings tell everything he's done—right and wrong, brave or cowardly. Men who don't have a sexual fetish like that—well, they're just not considered very desirable husbands."
Floyt caught a snippet of their conversation.
"—nuance of carn in the hundredth part, feoke lacking; ilm recondite-suggestive … "
"They're dealing in perfumes and essences," Amarok told them. "That's scent-talk; notational-olfactory language. It takes forever to master."
Floyt's head was swimming already and he'd barely stepped out of the airlock. "There's a tolerable little cafe down this way," Merrywell announced, slouching off through the tumultuous bazaar with the rest trailing.
