by S. L. Viehl
Salo and Reever took positions on either side of me. Each grabbed an arm and made me get up. They walked me down the ramp the way they’d escort a prisoner.
“Where’s my guard?” I asked.
“Directly behind you, Senior Healer,” my guard said.
“Shoot these men.”
Salo chuckled. “It is not so bad, Senior Healer.”
“Oh, yeah? I happen to know a human’s sense of smell is more developed than a Jorenian’s is. So don’t try to tell me it’s not that bad.” I looked toward the perimeter of the Transport area, and saw at least a dozen bodies lying facedown in the shallow pools. “Oh, my God!”
I would have run toward them, but Reever grabbed me first.
“There is nothing wrong with them,” he said. “Observe.”
I watched as the facedown bodies twitched, then moved a few inches. One raised on elbow-shaped fins and awkwardly dragged itself from one pool to another.
“These people trade tech?” I glanced around. “They can’t even walk!”
“Native Ichthori do not manufacture or deal in tech.” Rogan gave me a lofty sneer. “Half our population is made up of offworlders who have mated with natives. They are the ones who produce and trade.”
That made more sense.
Rogan gestured at some of the partially submerged figures. “My family has gathered to greet us.”
I had to ask the obvious. “What are they doing?”
“Why, they’re feeding, Doctor.” Rogan looked at one of the empty pools with what could only be called greed. His case dropped to the ground. “Excuse me.”
A moment later he, too, had joined the Ichthori and was facedown in the mud.
I turned to Salo. “I am not sharing a meal with these people.”
That wasn’t the only strange revelation. Rogan’s physical appearance did little to prepare me for Ichthora and its bizarre inhabitants. Compared to his nonhuman relations, he was erudite. Gorgeous. Perfumed.
I endured the long, very uncomfortable hours of the sojourn. Barely. I played Senior Healer, perspired freely, swatted insects, and stepped over the most of the natives. I did not partake of their diet, which they dredged from the swamp mud at the bottom of the tidal pools that littered the surface of the planet.
There was no sign of the League, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
“Just where is all this highly developed tech?” I said to Reever. We had to pick our way through the pools of sludge and step over yet another filter-feeding Ichthori.
He pointed up, and I raised my eyes. The thickets of what I thought to be trees were actually organically formed structures, topped by a series of funnellike platforms that connected each group. Apparently the offworlder inhabitants lived in them. Their Ichthori mates used adapted hover lift technology to ascend, then slid from one “tree house” to another on their bellies.
The lethargic mud-dwellers made very little attempt to communicate with us. Reever attempted to translate some of the bubbling and snorting sounds we heard now and then. Apparently all they cared to talk about were the best spots to feed on the insect larvae and microorganisms that constituted the bulk of their diet. They must spend most of their lives on their bellies. Which explained Rogan’s intense dislike of remaining vertical and active.
After feeding with his family for an extended period, Rogan returned and agreed to gather some of the “leaders” of the Ichthori to meet with us.
While we waited, I idly gathered some round, speckled stones that were piled around the base of each tree. The prettiest specimens I slipped into a pocket for the ship’s geologist to examine later.
It took Rogan a long time. Very few of the non-Icthori inhabitants were willing to leave their climate-controlled tree houses to socialize with us. I couldn’t blame them.
One squat, block-shaped Ramotharran trader passing by us stopped to chat. I had to find out why any sane humanoid would want to stay on this godforsaken planet.
“What keeps you here?” I wiped the back of my hand over my brow. “It can’t be the heat, smell, or the bugs.”
He gave me a shrewd look. “Do you know how an offworlder usually ends up staying here? They impregnate one of the Icthori.”
“But how—never mind, I don’t want to know,” I said at first, then my curiosity got the better of me. “Of course . . . in the interests of science . . . okay, tell me.”
“Happened to me my first trip here,” the Ramotharran said. He pointed to one of the natives who had inexplicably turned over. From the diamond-shaped orifice on the thorax, I could tell this one was a female. Her face was, well, not as much face as it was mouth. Elongated versions of the polyps Rogan possessed heavily fringed a central aperture. A big, four-lipped, gaping aperture.
Too bad the Captain didn’t make the trip this time, I thought. I’d love to see Xonea give her the traditional kiss of peace. She’d probably suck his whole head in.
“Watch now.” The trader nudged me, his protruding black eyes grim. “Here comes a male.”
Another native crawled over to the female, slid over her, and remained still for a moment. Then the male slid off and crawled away.
“He just inseminated her,” the trader said.
“Did he?” That was it? Crawl on, wham, crawl off, we’re having a baby?
“Yes. She’ll flip back over now.” And she did.
“Do the Ichthori generally mate in public?”
“They’re not what you’d call a modest people. Nor do the females pass up any opportunity to get—”
“I see,” I said. “You say something like that happened to you? You—er—crawled on to one of the females?”
“Not likely.” He snorted. “I slipped in the mud, was all. Landed right on top of the wrong side of my mate. It was all over before I could say a word.”
“Your mate?”
The Ramotharran nodded and heaved a sigh. “Ichthori law requires an offworlder to mate with an Ichthori female if he impregnates her. I thought about denying the paternity charge, but as you can see . . .” he waved a hand behind him.
A young Ichthori crawled up to us. He raised his flattened skull, and between the polyps I saw two bulging black eyes staring at me. A rudimentary nose sniffed.
“The boy is undoubtably mine.”
“Hello.” I smiled at the child, who tried to imitate my facial expression. The Ramotharran sighed again. “He seems, um, very bright.”
“Oh, sure, he’s developing far ahead of the other full-blooded Ichthori young. It’s only . . . ” He spread his hands. “Can’t exactly toss a romlo ball back and forth with him.”
“I guess you get used to living here after a while?”
The trader’s one nostril flared. “I used to be a geologist, until that happened.” He nodded toward his son. “I went into trade just to have excuse to get off this miserable sludge ball occasionally.”
A bubbling sound interrupted our conversation. I looked down to see one of the adult Ichthori clinging to the trader’s leg, the notched fins clutching his boot. Her mouthace remained buried in the mud below our footgear.
“My mate,” he introduced me. My vocollar wouldn’t translate the sounds he made into anything but bubbles.
“Hello,” I greeted her. I noticed a swollen sac protruding from one of her legs and frowned. “That’s a bad tumor she’s got there.”
“It’s not a tumor,” the Ramotharran said, and gave his mate a glum look. “It’s our second child. At least, I think it’s mine.”
We took a lift to one of the larger tree-house structures, where six of the Ichthori leaders (all clearly half-strains) had assembled. In our honor, the half dozen males had propped themselves in a half-slouch on some benches and invited our party to be seated. All six wore standard wrist coms.
There was no table between us, nor did the Ichthori wear any manner of garments. I got an up-close view of the anatomical varieties that offworld gene strains had afforded. The mud stains on my tunic sleeve, I
quickly decided, were much more riveting.
One large, green-yellow Ichthori with less facial fringing than his colleagues stood for a moment. He had three pairs of visual organ stalks protruding above his feeding polyps. Unlike the others, he wore a sort of girdle that didn’t cover anything but sported a number of bladed weapons.
“Krugal,” he said, and pointed a flipper/hand toward the triple clusters of broad nipples on his chest. I darted a look down. Yep, three of everything else, too. “We hear you want to talk.”
Salo, as the appointed Jorenian representative, stood and made a brief bow. “We are honored you have taken time to speak with us.”
Krugal plopped back down and waved at Salo. “We have fed well today. There was nothing better to do. Tell us, have you come to trade, or simply marvel at life on our world?”
Marvel? My jaw sagged. Did this bottom feeder actually use the word marvel?
“Our interest lies largely in surveying and recording data about Ichthora,” Salo said, his expression diplomatic. “We will have to return to our ship very soon.”
Yesterday couldn’t be soon enough for me, I thought.
“Sit, sit. Our kinsman Phorap”—Krugal nodded toward Rogan—“tells us you travel to Varallan. That is quite a distance from our divine Ichthora. Why not stay, enjoy the pleasures of our world? Life is good here.” His eye stalks bobbed, their ends glowing bright red.
Salo sat down. Diplomacy was beginning to wear on him. The good life on Ichthora, I suspected, had very little in common with a Jorenian’s view of the same.
“We thank you for your gracious offer of hospitality. However, as our people have responsibilities, we must depart.” Salo made an eloquent gesture. “I am certain you understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Krugal said, and yawned. I wished he hadn’t. Who would have guessed teeth could sprout all the way back there? “That blue skin of yours is unusual. Can we buy you from your Captain?”
It took a lot to shock a Jorenian warrior, but that did the job. “Our crew is not for sale.”
Krugal didn’t stop there. His six red eyes inspected Reever, then me. The Ichthori leader grinned. If you could call what he did with that gaping hole a grin.
“Terrans don’t often visit Ichthora. We would welcome the opportunity to learn more about your species.”
Reever shook his head. “No, thank you.”
I was no diplomat. “Not even if you drugged me.”
“Dr. Torin bears the burden of being a true Terran,” Rogan said. “She is a hostile xenophobe.”
“You always say such nice things about me, Phorap.” I gave him a sweet smile.
Salo rose. “Our time, as I have indicated, is limited. If you will excuse us, we will complete our surveys and return to our vessel.”
“Sell her to me,” Krugal said.
Salo looked from me to the Ichthori. “What say you?”
“The Terran female—she is not one of your species. I’ll buy her from you. Name your price.”
“Salo, let’s go,” I said, rising to my feet. My guard and Reever flanked me.
“I must refuse your request,” Salo said through his teeth.
“Excuse us.” He looked at Dhreen, who had just entered the structure. “Pilot, prepare the launch for departure.”
“No,” Rogan said, and got up at once. He held a small weapon in his hand, and pointed it toward me. “None of you are leaving Ichthora just yet.” His four lips stretched. “Except the good Doctor.”
“I’m going to kill Xonea when we get back to the ship,” I said as Reever’s fingers plucked at the knotted vines around my wrists. “I knew Rogan had it in with the League. I knew it.”
Reever sighed. “I cannot do this if you keep twitching.”
“I’m not twitching, I’m agitated.”
“Stop being agitated. Krugal said he would return shortly.”
We stood tied together, back to back, locked in one of the small chambers away from the center of the colony. Salo, Dhreen, and the others had been hauled off to similar structures. They left me and Reever tied together on Rogan’s orders.
“Keep the humans together,” he told some alert-looking half-strain Ichthori. About a dozen of them had come in with weapons and taken all of us hostage. “Krugal wishes to interrogate them both.”
That had been two hours ago. Now Reever was patiently loosening the last of the intricate knots binding my wrists to his.
“Hurry.” My own patience was in short supply. “He’ll be back any minute.”
“It is almost done. There. Try to pull free.”
I strained, and my wrists slowly separated. Quickly I worked them from the vines until I was free. The return of unrestricted circulation made numbing pain shoot up both arms. I whirled around and began working at untying Reever’s hands. Too many knots, not enough time. I looked around the interior for anything I could use as a weapon.
“Krugal is coming,” Reever said.
I turned, put my arms behind my back, and pressed up against him. My fingers continued plucking at the knots.
“Whatever you do,” I murmured, “don’t let him know I’m loose.”
Krugal slid through the door and propped himself in front of us. His body left a trail of slick brown mud. The swamp smell rolled off him. He appeared highly pleased with himself.
“I’ve fed well tonight in celebration,” he said as he awkwardly rose to his vertical stance.
“How nice,” I said. “Celebrating what?”
He shuffled over until he was only a foot from me. His body wasn’t the only thing that was erect. “Our triumph over you, my kinsman’s enemies.”
“We saved your kinsman’s life, and brought him here to Ichthora,” Reever said. “Do you consider those the actions of an enemy?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and rubbed his handlippers together. “Phorap says the League will pay handsomely for this female.” He stepped closer to me, which made it necessary for me to breathe through my mouth.
“Leader Krugal, the beings you believe to be your friends are dangerous,” Reever said. “They will take Dr. Torin without paying the Ichthori.”
“Then we will tie some of them up until they do.” Krugal didn’t seem concerned. He studied the way my tunic fastened. “You know, I’ve never had a Terran before.”
“Don’t hold your breath, lover boy,” I said, and let go of Duncan’s hands.
He laughed. “She is eager to fight. Good. That adds zest to the play. Our females are too passive.” His flipper reached for my tunic.
Just before he touched me, I swung my fist out. I drove it low, hard, and directly into the three things Krugal seemed to treasure most.
“Aarrggghh!”
I followed through with my other fist. Air bellowed from his lungs. A strange, high-pitched whine emerged from his fringe.
“How’s that for zest?” I asked as he sank down to the flooring. I waited until I saw his eyes stalks wilt, then bent to retrieve one of the blades on his belt. “I’ll just borrow this for a moment.”
With a rapid series of slashes I cut Reever’s hands free. “You’re very capable with a blade,” he said, and rubbed his arms briskly.
“Trained to be.” I handed the knife to him. After I took the belt from Krugal’s unconscious body, I slung it over my shoulder. “You never know when you’re going to be somewhere without a lascalpel.”
After we tied up and gagged the Ichthori leader, we slipped from the small chamber. Confident, indolent, and negligent to the bone—if they had any—the Ichthori hadn’t even bothered to post guards. We went from tree to tree until we found and released every member of the sojourn team. I turned Krugal’s belt over to Salo.
“You left him unconscious?” he asked. He had pulled out one of the blades from the belt and was fingering it with a lover’s caress.
“Not now,” I said, and grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to get to the launch and get the hell off this planet. Rogan signaled the League mercen
aries and offered to sell me to them. They’re coming.”
It took nearly an hour before we located the launch in the darkness. No one attempted to stop us or even question why we were loose. What few Ichthori we stepped over simply kept on feeding or snoring or whatever it was they were doing. Perhaps Krugal hadn’t been missed. Maybe no one cared if their hostages escaped.
Or not.
“This is too easy,” I said to Reever.
My suspicions were confirmed when I saw the launch was waiting with the hull doors still open. I grabbed Salo’s arm and waved Dhreen over to us.
“Dhreen?” I whispered. “Did you secure the launch after we disembarked?”
“Of course I did, Doc,” he whispered back.
“It is a trap.” Salo said something else to the other Jorenians, too low for my vocollar to translate. He pulled all the blades from Krugal’s belt and distributed them, then turned to me, Dhreen and Reever. “We will board the launch. Stay here and keep watch. The natives move quickly, when they have reason to.”
Salo and the others melted into the shadows. Reever indicated a sheltered spot by a tree and we huddled there. Dhreen took position on the other side of the launch. A choked cry, cut off in the middle, floated from the launch cabin, and I winced.
“The Ichthori are coming,” Reever said, and pointed. A long line of prone bodies were crawling through the muck toward us. In the middle of them was one figure, walking upright.
“Rogan.” I started toward him. Reever jerked me back into the shadows.
“No, Cherijo. We must warn Salo.”
I nodded with regret. I had a knife, Rogan still breathed.
Life wasn’t fair. “I’ll go, Reever. I don’t think you want to see Salo’s handiwork.”
With as fast a sprint as I could manage, I avoided the tidal pools and crossed the distance to the launch. Cautiously I looked inside. And immediately regretted it. “Oh, my God.” Salo paused for a moment. Large pools of blood covered the deck around his feet. I swallowed hard. Remembered not to look at what the other Jorenians had done.
“Excuse me, Salo.” I averted my eyes from the grisly thing hanging limply from his big hands. “We’ve got company.”
