by Mitch Benn
‘Why stop now?’ Terra smiled.
‘Why me?’
Terra frowned and wrinkled her nose.
‘Why are you bringing me with you? I’m not going to be any use to you. I’m just going to slow you down, maybe even mess up and get us into trouble.’ Billy crumpled a little at the thought of this, then recoiled when Terra stood up and loomed over him, as best a shortish girl in baggy clothes could.
‘Now listen to me, Billy Dolphin. Ever since we met I’ve had to put up with you whining and moaning about how I ruined your life without you even knowing it was me you were moaning at. But,’ she went on, sitting back down, ‘you’ve been a good friend. Possibly the first human friend I’ve ever had. And tonight, being my friend nearly got you disintegrated. So I think I owe you.’
Billy had no idea how to respond. Fortunately Terra wasn’t finished. ‘Remember I said I thought you were just jealous? Jealous of me, ’cos I’d actually been to space and you hadn’t?’
‘Yes?’
Terra pointed out of the porthole. ‘Well, there you go, then,’ she said. ‘No reason to feel jealous any more.’
Billy went to the porthole. Space. Your actual deep proper real genuine final frontier these are the voyages space. He beamed.
‘Besides,’ said Terra, putting her trainered feet up on the console, ‘I’m starting to figure out that plan, and you’re a big part of it. Now get some sleep, I’m going to.’ She pulled her woolly hat down over her eyes.
1.9
Throx checked his reflection in the mirror of a parked car. Tracey looked as immaculate as ever. He adjusted his virtual hair and walked up to the front door of the house. He didn’t need to check the address. He’d memorised it.
He’d used a depressingly simple Ymn communication device (‘phones’, they called them) to contact the girl’s parents and get himself invited to their home. All too easy. He rang the doorbell.
An adult Ymn female opened the door. She held one of those rudimentary opaque metal slate-like devices that Ymns were all so impressed with.
‘Yes?’ asked the woman Throx recognised as Mrs Bradbury, although none of her current neighbours would be familiar with that name.
‘Hello, I’m Tracey,’ said Throx. ‘I called earlier, remember? I’m a friend of Lydia’s. I lent her some study notes, and I’m afraid I need them back. You said this would be a good time to come round.’
‘Oh that’s right, come in,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll see if I can find them for you.’ The Ymm seemed distracted but not particularly anxious; was it possible she didn’t even know her child was gone?
Throx smiled gratefully – or at least his digitally generated Ymn face did – and stepped into the house.
‘Can I get you something? Tea?’ asked the woman. Throx replied that that would be lovely, and looked around at the house’s furnishings. Soft. These Ymns needed a lot of comfort. Weak.
Once he had the Terra girl’s family hostage, he would send a signal to his ship. Terra would be given the choice; return to Rrth, or he would employ all the many pain-giving techniques he had learned during his Guild training on first one, then the other of her parents. Throx didn’t know how long a Ymn could survive his attentions. He was eager to find out.
He followed the woman into what appeared to be the food preparation chamber. She had picked up a sort of water jug from which a cable dangled, and was staring at it, seeming puzzled.
‘Now,’ said the woman, ‘how do you suppose this thing works?’ She smiled and put the jug-thing down on the counter. ‘I really should have figured that out, shouldn’t I?’
Throx stood in perplexed silence.
‘So, I’m guessing . . . Morbis Guild?’ asked the woman cheerfully.
‘W-what?’ stammered Tracey/Throx.
‘It’s the optical camouflage. It’s quite convincing if you don’t know what to look for. I do, of course. The hair pixellates when you turn quickly. Now, look at this—’
The Ymn female seemed to warp and shimmer. Suddenly Throx found himself addressing an adult female, but not a Ymn. The grey-blue skin, the black oval eyes, the smug presumption of intellectual superiority . . . He had always hated Fnrrns on sight; he saw one now, and hated it accordingly.
‘THAT’s optical camouflage,’ said the Fnrrn female cheerfully. ‘Completely undetectable, either organically or mechanically. You won’t have seen anything like it, of course. I’ve been monitoring the calls made to this house. I intercepted yours, and made sure you’d get here when these nice people were elsewhere. They’ve had a trying day and need some time to themselves.’
Throx had no idea what was going on and he didn’t care. He just knew he’d had enough of this planet. He deactivated his own camouflage system and stood, glistening and black, in the suburban kitchen.
‘There, that’s much comfier isn’t it.’ The Fnrrn smiled. ‘Now, you are NOT supposed to be on this planet, and neither am I, so why don’t we try to sort this out in a civilised fashion? Of course, I’m not even supposed to be in this—’
Throx decided he’d also had enough of this prattling Fnrrn. She fell satisfyingly silent at the sight of the blast-tube he now brandished at her.
The silence didn’t last.
‘Is that a Frastik-Jalga blast-tube? I haven’t seen one of those for AGES. I take it you’ve never seen this kind of body armour before, then?’ She indicated the shiny metal plates dotted about her clothing. ‘It’s the latest thing and, I’m afraid, very effective against blast weapons. You see it doesn’t just deflect blast energy, it actually refocuses it—’
Throx could stand it no longer. He set the blast-tube to ‘obliterate’ and fired.
‘—back towards its point of origin. Oh dear,’ continued the Fnrrn female, addressing the cloud of smoke which a second earlier had been Throx of the Morbis Guild.
She checked her chronoscope. The real Bradburys would be back in exactly six blips. A shame about the Tastak, but the galaxy still had plenty of thieves and assassins.
She heard the key in the door. Time to go. Lots to do, lots to do. With a faintly audible pop, the Fnrrn female vanished.
Mr and Mrs Bradbury helped each other in with the shopping. Mrs Bradbury dumped the bulging plastic bags on the kitchen table and sighed heavily.
‘Are you okay?’ asked her husband, placing an arm around her shoulder.
She sniffed. ‘I will be.’
‘I guess we always knew this would happen,’ said Mr Bradbury, taking his coat off.
‘I know, I know. I just hoped she’d be a bit more . . . grown up.’
Mr Bradbury smiled. ‘She’d changed the course of history on two planets by the age of twelve. Grown up is a relative concept. She belongs out there as much as she belongs down here.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Mrs Bradbury, her voice cracking, ‘I’m not sure she belongs anywhere.’
A heavy silence; the kind that is best broken by putting the kettle on.
Mrs Bradbury picked up the kettle to fill it. She noticed it was unplugged for some reason. She was about to ask her husband if he had unplugged it, but he spoke first.
‘You smell something?’
1.10
Strannit Zek checked the clock. Thirteen gafgafs past shoob. The Tastak was late.
He heaved his bulk – considerable even by Kotari standards – off the couch and lumbered towards the communications console of his ship.
The ship was expensively furnished; finely upholstered couches, thick carpeting and art treasures from many worlds proudly displayed. It was Strannit’s only home, and he liked his comforts.
The Kotari lived almost exclusively in space. There had been a Kotari homeworld once; no one even knew where it was now. Some said it had been polluted into uninhabitability; some said it had been devastated by an asteroid; others said (but never in the presence o
f a Kotari) that the race had been wandering the stars for so long that they had simply got hopelessly lost.
Some of Strannit Zek’s people had settled on habitable worlds, but this was frowned upon by conventional Kotari. Most of them adhered to the nomadic tradition, speaking disapprovingly of the ‘dirtfoots’ as they called their planet-bound relatives.
The Kotari were traders. Whatever you might want, they would have it – or could get it for you. They would deal in any and all commodities, big and small, legal and illegal, live and inanimate.
At war with a neighbour who has you outgunned? The Kotari will ensure your enemies are stricken by a mysterious plague. For a price.
Planet stricken by a mysterious plague? The Kotari will get you the medicines you need. For a price.
Need to extract a lone female adolescent from her off-limits world? The Kotari will hire someone who will bring her to you alive. For a price.
Strannit had put a lot of work the way of the Morbis Guild over the course of his career. They’d never let him down before. He’d been somewhat taken aback when the operative they had assigned had turned out to be a Tastak – he didn’t know that the Guild even admitted insectoids – but the Tastak had seemed extremely professional and focused. Strannit had gone ahead with the deal, in spite of his misgivings.
Now the Tastak was late and Strannit was reminding himself always to pay attention to his misgivings. He prodded at the communications console with a fat blue finger and spoke.
- Throx! Throx, are you in range? You’re late, Throx! Another nine gafgafs and we’ll be looking at deductions!
To his relief, the console lit up and a gravelly voice was heard.
- I’m inbound. Just come out of infra-light and with you shortly. I’ve got the item; it’s intact as promised.
Item? Throx hadn’t called the Ymn an ‘item’ when they’d discussed the job. He’d been content to call her a Ymn.
- ‘Item’, Throx? What’s with the hard-being talk? If you’ve got the girl, just say so.
- I’ve got the girl. She’s alive. Get ready to receive her.
The ship’s proximity alert started beeping. Strannit checked the exterior visualiser; Throx’s bug-eyed little ship was pulling alongside and extending a docking umbilical to connect with his own ship’s cargo hatch. He dropped the ship’s energy shields (an essential feature on any ship so laden with riches), deactivated the security protocols and opened the hatch. He hefted himself into a grav-chute and slid down to meet his visitors.
He emerged into the cargo hold just as the hatch swished shut. He was confused; standing before him was not a Tastak, but a Ymn. A youngish-looking male (Strannit wasn’t too familiar with the Ymn ageing process, but this one certainly didn’t look very old). He was pushing a hovering stretcher, on which lay another Ymn, young again, possibly female, and unconscious.
- Who the chak are you? grunted Strannit.
- It’s me, you fool, said the male Ymn. Optical camouflage. I’m disguised as one of her little friends. That’s how I bagged her. The system’s on a timer, so I’m not exposed if I’m rendered unconscious. Stuck looking like this for a bit longer. Think you can handle it?
Strannit made a gesture of benign disinterest, then waddled over to study the inert figure on the gurney. - Is that it? He frowned, his long snout quivering with distaste.
- That’s it. And it gave me a lot of trouble. A LOT of trouble. A note of accusation in this last statement. Strannit felt the need to defend his professionalism.
- I’m sorry if I gave you the impression this job would be easier than it was, but you must understand, I only have the information my clients supply me with. If they told me that the Ymn would be an easy mark I had no business telling you otherwise.
The young Ymn’s eyes narrowed. - Perhaps I should take it up with them, he hissed.
- Out of the question, I’m afraid, stated Strannit flatly. I couldn’t possibly divulge their identity. Confidentiality lies at the very heart of all Kotari transactions. As a member of the Morbis Guild, I’m sure you appreciate the importance of adhering to codes of professional conduct. Besides, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity, should my clients and my contractors ever get talking to each other, they could decide to cut out the middle-being. As a highly paid middle-being, Strannit wasn’t about to let that happen.
- In that case, the young Ymn replied, I might have to take my complaint back to the Morbis Guild. They may be able to think of some way of getting hold of that information. Bear in mind that when MY people decide to cut out the middle-being, they do it one piece at a time.
Strannit paled from deep to royal blue. - Oh come now, he said. It would never come to that. If the Morbis Guild found itself in dispute with the Walkers of the True Path, he pronounced this with a knowing smile, I’m sure it could be resolved entirely amicably.
Naughty Strannit, he thought, giving away the name of your client. Still, it didn’t sound like the Guild and the Walkers were likely to go into business together in the immediate future, quite the reverse in fact. A showdown between those two gangs of maniacs . . . Conflict always brought all sorts of lucrative opportunities for someone with contacts on both sides. Strannit silently congratulated himself on his own craftiness.
The young Ymn smiled coldly. - That just leaves the matter of payment.
Strannit got to his feet. - Of course. He waddled across to a decorated metal chest on the floor of the cabin. He flipped it open. It was full of silvery metallic strips.
- Dolfric ingots, as agreed. Untraceable and good for trade in any system. He shut the lid and went over to inspect the sleeping girl. Quite pretty in an alien way. Not for much longer, he suspected.
The Ymn bent to pick up the chest with one hand; he winced and dropped it the floor. The clang caused Strannit to wheel round in alarm.
The Ymn looked up at him. - Could you help me get this to my ship? She managed to get a good wound in before I put her down. He indicated one of his arms. Like I said, trouble.
- Of course, said Strannit, grunting with effort as he picked up the chest. Not the sort of work he relished, and he was glad that none of his fellow traders were there to see it (he’d never have heard the end of it at the next Traders’ Association Hapto-Shan party), but the sooner he got this surly wokker off his ship, the better.
Strannit struggled through the umbilical, his feet sticking to the attraction strip running along its floor; at least the chest’s weight was annulled in the umbilical, along with his own. Another being of Strannit’s size might have relished a brief burst of weightlessness, but Strannit had worked hard to attain his bulk and was proud of it. He had to bend low to pass through the bug-eyed ship’s hatch. He gasped as he entered the little ship’s internal gravity field, and sighed gratefully as he lowered the chest to the floor of the poky flight cabin.
A sound came from behind him. A familiar sound. The sound of his own ship’s hatch sliding shut. He spun around in alarm.
Strannit struggled out into the umbilical and looked at the closed hatch. There was a small triangular window set into it. Looking through this window was the smiling face of the perfectly conscious Ymn girl.
- The Walkers of the True Path, is it? Be sure to give them my regards and tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, said Terra.
- Open that door! shouted Strannit.
- Now why would I want to do that? Terra replied.
Strannit’s mind raced. His powers of persuasion were legendary, if he did say so himself. He had urgent need of them now.
- I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. He smiled.
- We have come to an arrangement. I’m in here and you’re out there, said Terra. I like this arrangement.
- Now be reasonable, young Ymn, said Strannit with his most ingratiating simper. What have I done to you?
Terra’s nose wrinkled and her eyebrow
s became horizontal. - You mean other than hire a giant insect to abduct me so you can sell me to a bunch of savages? she asked. Is that a trick question?
- It was business! squeaked Strannit. A simple transaction! Nothing personal!
- I’m a person. Everything you do to a person is personal. Terra frowned.
While Strannit struggled to think of a smooth rejoinder (and found none) he noticed that Terra’s attention had moved from him to something on the other side of the hatch.
- What are you doing? gibbered Strannit, his face now sky-blue.
- I’m trying to figure out these door controls. Is it the big orange pad that releases the umbilical?
- Y-yes, stammered Strannit. It’s on a twelve-blip delay.
- Oh. Well, I’d get back into that little ship and shut the hatch if I were you, ’cos I pressed it about four blips ago. Terra smiled.
- No! No, look . . . Strannit pointed to the chest of ingots on the floor behind him. I’ve got money!
- I don’t want your money, I’ve got your ship. Bye now. And Terra turned away.
Strannit scrambled into the Tastak ship and fumbled with the hatch controls. The umbilical started to make a high-pitched pinging sound. At the exact moment the little ship’s hatch clicked shut, the umbilical disengaged. The whoosh of escaping gas sent the Tastak craft drifting away from his trading vessel; Strannit toppled over with the sudden movement.
Billy looked through the hatch window at the wasp-like Tastak ship as it drifted away. ‘So that’s what it looks like,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and switching off the translation cube. Billy became aware that Terra was gazing at him in admiration.
‘What?’
‘That was . . . AMAZING,’ said Terra.
Billy shrugged. ‘Did the trick.’
‘What was that voice supposed to be? Clint Eastwood?’
‘Bit of Clint, bit of Jason Statham, bit of all-purpose tough guy.’ Billy grinned, then coughed and rubbed his neck. ‘Glad we got rid of the fat blue bloke when we did, my throat’s killing me.’
