by Pati Nagle
Trouble was, the sedonai were small, about the size of a terran robin. One would fit easily into a decent-sized pocket. I watched for people with loose clothing—unusual on an interstellar flight because of its awkwardness in zero gee—and people with packages that they were handling as if the contents were fragile.
A father in a business-casual nullsuit walked up to one inspector, leading his little girl by the hand. The father’s briefcase interested me less than the girl’s doll—one of those pucker-faced things that didn’t move or do anything interesting. It was wearing a dress that was even frillier than the girl’s.
I prowled through the legs of the crowd to get closer to her. The doll was just barely big enough to hide a bird inside. If it was there, though, where was the other? On the father? With another passenger?
Just as I was getting near enough to try to sniff out the evidence, the girl got impatient waiting for Dad’s briefcase to be searched. She took her dolly by the legs and slammed its head against the floor three times.
“Dad! Dad! Dad!”
So much for that. Any bird inside that dolly was now dead, dead, dead.
I dodged away, my pulse jumping at how close I had come to being in range of that weapon. I continued to meander through the crowd, trying to look nonchalant while I settled my ruffled fur.
Would the thief care if the bird was dead? I had been assuming the sedonai would be more valuable if they were still alive, but it depended on their ultimate destination. I’d have to think about that.
My eye was caught by a solitary female carrying a bright red leather case. She had the fluid swagger of someone who’s spent a lot of time driving heavy waldos, but it looked okay on her. So did her nice silver-blue clingsuit, presently set on medium. She’d probably relaxed it after getting off the flight, and it had probably looked damn stunning set on tight.
I glanced in Devin’s direction, wondering if he’d spotted her and come to the same conclusion. Couldn’t see him for the crowd, so I wove my way in close to try to get a sniff at her bag.
Boy, was that a mistake. I nearly choked on the perfume. Three or four different kinds, from the smell of it. I fell in behind her and let my mouth hang open despite the caustic fumes, hoping for a whiff of the sedonai scent.
Nothing. She walked into a customs line and cheerfully opened her case for the inspector, who flinched despite his dull bipedal sense of smell.
I turned back to the crowd, scanning for the unusual or the slightly out of place, counting on my eyes and ears until my olfactory recovered from the perfume. The mass of passengers was beginning to thin out a bit, and I started to think this batch might be a wash.
I noticed Ling-Ling in Huey’s line, waiting behind a tall, orange-skinned biped that wore what looked like a portable oxygen tent on its head. Ling-Ling was dressed in close-fitting black flowered silk, and carried a small cooler in one hand and Hosehead in the other.
Surprised to see her, I started edging her way. I glanced at the counter where the fem in the blue clingsuit had just passed inspection. She dashed out to the station and into Elsa Grippe’s arms, making delighted squealy noises.
I should have known.
Dismissing her, I made my way to Huey’s counter and watched Ling-Ling. I couldn’t figure out why she would be coming in from off-station, until she put her cooler on the counter for Huey to inspect. Then I remembered she was throwing a big do for the clone-doc. She must have gone to the intersystem market at Eps Indi to pick up something exotic to dish up.
A slug of fear hit me. What if she was cooking up Cygnius sedonai?
But, no—she opened the cooler and stood calmly petting Hosehead while Huey took out every item—including some gigantic green eggs with purplish spots—and even turned the thing upside down to look for hidden compartments.
I kept watching, troubled by my suspicions. Ling-Ling didn’t notice me. Neither did Hosehead, but that was not surprising. He wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier to begin with, and with his hair down in his eyes it was no wonder his gaze slid right over me.
Devin sidled up behind me. “How’re you doin’, buddy?” He squatted down and scratched my ears. “Anything?” he said softly.
I shook my head like a wet dog, my signal for “no” when we were out in public.
“Well, keep looking. I’m heading back to the rotunda.”
I gave him a yowl intended to express my hope that he wasn’t going to waste any more time at Molly’s, then pretended to chase an invisible rat over to the wall of the corridor. When I looked up again, Devin was gone and Ling-Ling was closing her re-packed cooler. Huey grinned at her and patted Hosehead, who continued to pant like an idiot as Ling-Ling stepped past Huey into the station.
I resurrected the invisible rat and used it to get close to the remaining passengers, chasing it all around their legs and sniffing like mad for the birds. My nose was still a bit numb from Elsa’s friend’s perfume, but I was pretty sure the sedonai weren’t on any of the last dozen or so to go through customs.
When they were all through the gate and into the station I went back to the rotunda and resumed prowling my beat, sniffing everywhere and everyone. I was frustrated. Of course, it was possible that the birds hadn’t come to Gamma. Something told me they had, though, and we had missed them.
I passed Tammy’s, where Elsa and her friend were guzzling tea while Leila sat at their feet in the jeweled carry-bag, looking bored. Butch was up on the cat stand, watching Leila and thumping his tail against the red cushions. I gave them both a nod but continued on my way.
What if the birds were dead? I mused as I passed the leather kiosk. I gave the nearest rack of sheepskin coats a half-hearted rub, then moved on past the ice-rocks and the taco place, the duty-free pharmacopeia and the instant credit booth. I paused to spray on the latter. Just a personal statement.
Dead birds would be easier to hide, I thought as I moved on, and still valuable for some things, if not for breeding. Could use the feathers for drugs, though you’d get a finite yield.
A collector might want the birds, but they’d bring a lot more alive than stuffed. A really sick collector might even want to eat them.
An image flashed through my mind, of Ling-Ling serving up a dish of sedonai in plum sauce to her doctor client.
Her clone doctor client.
Holy crap.
I cut off my beat, making a beeline across the rotunda for Ling-Ling’s.
Dead Cygnius sedonai would be just as useful as live birds to a clone artist. If it weren’t for the purists’ disdain for clones, those damn birds could be as common as puke in Molly’s restrooms on a Saturday night.
And cloned sedonai feathers would presumably be as valuable as original feathers to the drug industry.
I dashed into Ling-Ling’s kiosk and jumped up on the counter, ignoring the dirty look I got from a gate guard having lunch in the nearest seat. Ling2 was still playing hostess. No sign of Ling-Ling.
I sniffed open-mouthed at the smells wafting out of the kitchen, but they were only ginger and peanut oil, soy-beef and shrimp that made my mouth water. I was willing to bet that the birds were not back there.
That was something of a relief, but where had she taken them? And how had she got them past us? And was this really a lead, or was I full of it?
Ling2 turned around with a tea carafe in her hand and saw me. “Oh, no Tux! Get down!”
Not wanting to get her in trouble, I hopped down. I had seen what I could from there, anyway.
She refilled the gate guard’s teacup and then brought me a couple of fried shrimp tails. I sat crunching one, debating whether to try to sneak into the kitchen while Ling2 stroked my back a couple of times before going back to work. Felt good.
Hosehead wandered out of the back, saw me and came over. I hastily snapped up the second shrimp tail.
“You here mooching again?” he said, and sat down to scratch his head with his hind foot. When he straightened up, the stupid blue bow was da
ngling to the left.
The stupid blue bow. He had not been wearing it at the customs gate. Holy, holy crap!
I swallowed the half-chewed shrimp tail, which went down rough and scratched my throat. “Hosehead, where’s Ling-Ling?”
“I dunno. Probably over at the big kitchen.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“Why?” he asked, blinking his watery eyes at me, but I was already on the move.
He was even more clueless than I’d thought. That’s why he hadn’t noticed me at the customs gate. Whatever dog that was—if it was a dog at all—wasn’t Hosehead.
I dashed across the rotunda toward Molly’s, looking for Devin. No sign of him, and I didn’t want to waste time running him down. I ducked down an access corridor and pulled out my com, but the battery was dead. Cussing, I headed back out for the main lifts. On the way I passed Tammy’s, where I saw Butch still up on the stand. I paused and thought, what the hell.
“Butch!” I called, trotting into the tea shoppe.
A familiar gagging blend of perfume assailed my nostrils. Elsa and her pal were standing at the front desk, paying for their tea and chatting with Tammy, who frowned at me over her filigreed glasses. I ignored her, circling back toward the rotunda and calling over my shoulder.
“Come on, Butch! Got a hot lead, and I want your help.”
He needed no further encouragement. He took off from the stand and landed with a meaty thump on the carpet not a meter from where I stood.
“Cuddles! Come back here,” cried Tammy, but we were already out the door.
By silent agreement, we both broke into a run. I ducked into the corridor and Butch took the corner right behind me, paws scrambling for traction on the slick surface. I slowed to a trot again, trying to plan the next move.
“I think I’ve sussed out the birds, but I’ve got to prove it,” I told him.
Butch panted a little as he kept up with my longer stride. “Where are they?”
“Not sure, but I think I know who’s got them. I only hope we’re not too late.”
“May I be of help, cher?” purred a voice to my right.
I glanced down at Leila, serenely trotting beside me. She had her eyes partly lidded and was looking smug.
“Sweetheart! How’d you get loose?”
“Mamzelle was distracted by some shouting. Very wrong for a tea shoppe. The proprietress was in great distress over something, I can’t imagine what.”
Butch laughed. “She’ll live.”
“OK, hang on,” I said, stopping just around the corner from Ling-Ling’s main kitchen.
I had a half-baked plan for catching Ling-Ling red-handed. It sucked, pretty much, but it was better than no plan.
“Leila. You move pretty smoothly. Slide in there and help me find Hosehead. I mean—not Hosehead, but something that looks like Hosehead. Might be another dog, but I’m thinking it’s an animatron. I think Ling-Ling used it to sneak the birds past Huey.”
Leila gave one forepaw a dainty lick. “Cherchez le chien. I understand.” She stood up, walked to the corner, then with a coy over-the-shoulder look at me and Butch she sidled around the wall out of sight.
“Butch.” I dug one of the mocked-up feathers out of my shoulder pouch. “Find Devin and show him this. He should get the message and follow you back here.”
“Got it.” Butch took the feather in his mouth. “God, it tasses tewwible!”
“I know. Go.”
I watched him head back toward the rotunda, then took a deep breath. Hoping that Devin would come soon, I went around the corner at a casual prowl.
The kitchen was huge, all shiny white and steel. It was full of exotic and enticing smells, heaps of colorful vegetables and fruits and containers of god knows what waiting to be made edible. Full of cooks, too—all chopping and stirring away—and a lot of them looked related.
I wondered how many clones Ling-Ling had commissioned. The thought sent a shiver along my spine.
I saw the tip of a dark tail curving out of sight beneath a work table. I was too big to go under there, and I didn’t want to blow Leila’s cover, so I slunk around the edge of the kitchen, sticking close to the wall and hoping no one would notice me. All the while I was smelling every cupboard and shelf I passed, looking for the birds. I came across a basket of the gigantic purple-spotted eggs Ling-Ling had brought through customs, but no sign of the sedonai.
Leila emerged again at the far end of the work table. She glanced over her shoulder and caught my eye, then gave a little shrug and moved on to the next table. I had to admire the way she slunk between the legs of the cooks. A little sable Burmese shadow.
I heard a brisk, high-heel-clicking footstep behind me. A glance told me it was Ling-Ling, coming to check on her crew. I grabbed a cupboard handle, yanked it open, and dove inside, hoping she hadn’t seen me.
I pulled the door almost closed and peered out through the crack. Ling-Ling started giving her crew rapid-fire orders in Chinese. Leila emerged again, and I felt my neck fur start to stand up as I watched Leila hop from floor to counter right behind Ling-Ling.
She leapt from counter to shelf, then shelf to top of the upper cupboards without a sound. None of the cooks saw her, or if they did they ignored her. I held my breath as she began slinking around up there, sniffing at boxes and crates. She stopped at a huge, blue and white ginger jar, the lid of which was ajar.
I nearly yowled as Leila put her forepaws on the neck of the jar and sniffed intently at whatever was inside it. She nudged the lid, and it slid off.
It missed landing on the cupboard top, falling all the way to the floor where it shattered with an ear-splitting crash.
Ling-Ling stopped talking and whirled, staring up at Leila who sat frozen, wide-eyed, with her paws still on the edge of the jar. Ling-Ling’s eyes went wide, too.
“Get that cat!” she shouted.
Leila dropped to all fours, started to jump down, then thought better of it and ran along the cupboard top, dodging between boxes and baskets. Ling-Ling and all the cooks went after her—you never saw so many cooks scrambling up onto a counter. Food went flying, pushed aside as they tried to grab Leila.
I knew they had her trapped, and I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled the fake sedonai feathers out of my shoulder pouch and stuffed their ends in my mouth.
Never have I had such a wretched taste in my mouth, and I have eaten some pretty weird things. Those feathers might smell like horse glue, but they tasted more like horse piss.
God, I hope Devin shows up soon, I thought as I shouldered open the door of my sanctuary.
Ling-Ling was standing on a box, on her way to climbing onto the counter. I trotted up and planted myself in front of her, feathers dangling artfully from my jaws, and said, “Mrow?”
She stared down at me for a full second, then let out a shriek worthy of your worst nightmare. She made a grab for me but I managed to evade her and ran down the far side of the kitchen away from Leila. The cooks were still doing their circus act on the counter. Ling-Ling shouted at them to catch me, and the place turned chaotic as pots and pans and bowls of stuff I don’t want to mention hit the floor.
A foot-long butcher knife buried itself in a cupboard door a split second after I’d passed it. Ling-Ling was right behind me with murder in her eyes. I put on speed.
I risked a glance up at the cupboard top, but Leila was nowhere in sight. Everyone who’d been chasing her was now after me, and I decided to lead them away from the hot spot.
I dashed out into the corridor and put on full speed for the rotunda. Where the hell was Devin? If he didn’t show soon I’d wind up on the menu at Ling-Ling’s fancy do.
I could hear her behind me, cussing in Chinese, or so I assumed. From the excited jabbering beyond her it sounded like we had the cooks with us as well. I dodged a clot of cits coming home with full shopping bags, and prayed that they would slow Ling-Ling down. Beyond them, a familiar orange shape was speeding toward me.
Bu
tch! I could have cried with relief, except my mouth was full of feathers.
“Whewe’s Devin?” I yowled.
“Right behind me,” Butch called back, panting.
So he was, stretching out those lanky legs in a run. He saw me and started to slow down. I howled at him, not wanting to risk speech but trying to communicate that I would like him to please rescue me from the homicidal restaurateur behind me.
His gaze rose. “Ling-Ling,” he said, sounding surprised. “What’s the problem?”
“That cat! Get that cat!” she screeched.
Devin swiveled his head to look at me. “That cat?”
I paused, wishing I could get Devin alone for just ten seconds to explain what was going on. He raised an eyebrow at me, then said, “C’mere, kitty.”
I growled, which between him and me means Hell, no.”
Ling-Ling lunged for me and I ducked. Her fingertips caught at my fur.
“Hang on, take it easy,” Devin said. “What did the cat do?”
Ling-Ling crossed her arms, looking pissed as hell. “He ate…”
Devin looked at her. “Yes?”
“Something extremely valuable.”
“Ah—looks to me like he ate a bird.”
“Never mind, I just … never mind!”
She turned abruptly and stalked back toward her kitchen, heels clicking sharply on the floor. The cooks looked confused, but they turned and trooped after her.
I caught Devin’s eye, then dashed around the cooks, past Ling-Ling, and back toward the kitchen. I had to get back there before Ling-Ling did. If we were very, very lucky, the birds were in that ginger jar and still alive.
“There he goes!” yelled Devin. “I’ll get him for you!”
On this clever excuse he ran after me, and Butch came along. When we got to the kitchen I turned and spat out the disgusting feathers.
“Close the door and seal it, Devin!”
He punched the control. I glanced around belatedly to see if any other humans were in there. Fortunately not.
