by J. S. Fields
“How do we start this into motion?”
Pihn took the gun from the satchel and held it out to Corccinth. “It’s a stun gun, mostly. Works across species, but it blocks Ardulan Talents, too. Here. Take it.”
She took it, and Pihn led them, wordlessly, through another hall to a small storefront. Above the wide door, in neon letters, the sign read, SPACE STUFF!!
“Charming,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Contraband, I take it?”
Pihn reached into hir satchel and removed a gray tunic. Xe pulled Corccinth to the side into a small alcove where xe removed hir light-blue tunic, folded it neatly into a triangle, and placed it into the satchel. The gray tunic that went onto Pihn’s bony frame was much better fitting, although it was stained around the collar and had a frayed hem. Pihn unclasped hir black hair from the bun on hir head and raked fingers through the strands, mussing them into knots. Xe gestured to Corccinth to return the gun, opened hir eyes wide enough that xe looked like a comically frightened child, and then turned back towards the shop’s entrance.
“They shop here, I take it?”
Pihn nodded. “Not frequently, and maybe not this trip. Maybe not the next. But eventually, they’re going to come in here and see this gun. They’ll buy it because Neek—that Neek anyway—loves weapons, and Captain Kuebrich has a thing for history. It’ll come with information about a desperate Risalian, which will be something that will stew in Captain Kuebrich’s mind. They’ll get the gun analyzed. No one will have seen anything like it. They’ll follow the breadcrumbs.”
“You think they have the capacity to attack a Risalian frigate and rescue the mother and child?”
Pihn straightened hir tunic—even though there was no amount of straightening that would remove the wrinkles—and started into the shop. Over hir shoulder, xe called, “No, not them. That’s the part where I need your help. How well do you know the Mmnnuggls?”
The Gift of Friendship
FIRST MONTH OF SQUINTH, 1_16
“Corccinth said this shop would be fine. Would you just come on?” Nicholas gestured impatiently as he held open a thin wood door for Emn. Just beyond were tables heaped with clothes—because shelving in a storefront was a Terran thing, apparently. Knives, on the other hand, were universal, since on the wall behind the bored-looking proprietor hung three or four dozen of the things, many of which had a curve to the blade that made Nicholas’s hair stand on end. Maybe Emn wouldn’t notice?
“I think we should just keep walking. It’s hot, anyway. Maybe we should go back and get some water.” Emn tugged up the collar of her shirt and then pulled down the cuffs of the sleeves. Unnecessary, Nicholas thought, because she was wearing gloves, too. Only her face was uncovered by the thick, black cotton she wore, and so the two upside-down triangles under her eyes—thick, dark veins showing through her skin—were hard to miss. It was hotter than Minnesota in July, with just as many irritating insects, so while Nicholas didn’t envy the neck-to-ankle flight suit, he did covet the coverage. Someone needed to make a galactic law against bugs.
“It’ll be fine, Emn. Come on.”
He grabbed her hand, and she finally acquiesced. For someone who had begged for help in picking out a gift for Atalant, Emn was certainly hesitant to actually go into a shop. Nicholas understood, of course—native Ardulans were pretty much galactic jerks—but if Emn wanted to shop within a day of traveling by ground transport, they didn’t have many options. Most of the commerce on the small northwestern continent of Ardulum had been at the capital and, well, that was just construction now that Nicholas had somehow been put in charge of. Thannon, where they were currently residing, had a decent number of shops, but they were pretty touristy. Emn had walked right past the last six, but Corccinth had suggested this one by name. Besides, Nicholas was hot. They needed a chance to cool down.
Emn pulled the door firmly shut behind them, keeping out a hot breeze. The proprietor didn’t bother to greet them, nor did he look up from his biofilm, which was just par for the course.
Nicholas cleared his throat. The proprietor pushed his biofilm aside in exaggerated agitation and glared at Nicholas.
“What?”
“Guns?” Nicholas asked in halting High Uklam.
The proprietor continued to glare.
He was pretty certain he’d said the word right, but just in case, Nicholas tried Common. “Can you tell us about your, uh, guns? You know, pew pew?” He made an L shape with his thumb and forefinger and pointed to a cluster of small handguns tacked to the south wall. Emn groaned.
The proprietor’s eyes snapped to Emn. Her stance went rigid. Then, in another heartbeat, a smile broke across his face. The edge of the counter, which Nicholas suspected had started turning to cellulose dust, stabilized.
“Ah! Apologies! It’s been, well, weird, lately. As you know, I’m sure. But a flare is always welcome in my shop. What can I get you?”
“Thank god for Common,” Nicholas murmured before turning to Emn. Louder, he said, “So, uh, what were you thinking of, specifically?”
Emn studied the gun above Nicholas’s head, which looked a lot like a Risalian stun gun. Nicholas smiled at the memory of Atalant shooting him with one back at Chen’s shop in the Charted Systems. He remembered how angry he’d been, and how she always seemed so mad at him, and how he never seemed to know the right things to say. But, thinking about it now…it was pretty funny. He hadn’t known anything about anything, and now he was on a sentient planet, helping a god pick out a gift for another god—not that either would appreciate being called that.
“I was thinking something unique,” Emn drawled as she worked her way around the shop. She poked at small pistols, riot rifles, knives of every variety, and a surprising collection of handcuffs that didn’t look like they were for criminal restraint. “Maybe something that isn’t actually lethal.”
“From any system in particular? I have stock from fourteen systems, as well as historic pieces from Ardulum’s past.” The proprietor wove between two tables to stand in front of them. He smelled like spring andal sap, and Nicholas could see traces of his breakfast still dotting the corners of his mouth. Or, wait, no. Not sap, but something sticky and clumpy all the same. Makeup?
Nicholas tugged on Emn’s sleeve and pointed before he had the chance to consider whether he was being rude. “Hey, Emn?”
Emn turned, blinked, and then her mouth dropped open in understanding. “Oh. Corccinth—”
The proprietor snorted. “Recommended my shop? Not surprised. Still, makeup would be a lot more cooling than the getup you have, Emn. But I guess everyone knows you. There doesn’t seem to be much point in hiding.”
“You’re still hiding,” Nicholas countered.
The proprietor snorted. “Old habits are hard to break. I’m working on it.”
“Yeah,” Emn said with a sigh. “Me too.” She leaned heavily against the wall, the side of her head just brushing the handle of what was almost certainly a Dulan knife.
“Here, then. In the spirit of kinship.” The proprietor used his long sleeves to wipe off most of the makeup from his face. His skin was a tawny copper underneath, and the triangular markings on his face were impossible to ignore. “I’m Mithal.” He stuck his hand out, sideways. Emn raised her eyebrows.
“It’s how Terrans greet each other. I don’t know what Risalian Ardulans do. I didn’t want to offend.”
Mithal was definitely one of the friendliest Ardulans Nicholas had met—or else the quickest to warm up to them—but he hadn’t had a chance to hang out with many of Corccinth’s flares, either. In the spirit of not being mean to someone who’d been given the short end of the stick his whole life, Nicholas shook Mithal’s hand. “Pleasure. I’m Nicholas St. John. I’m from a part of Earth that only uses one last name, although I have two middle names. Well, I guess my last name is also two words. Uh. It’s a little superfluous.”
Emn let out a long breath and then shook Mithal’s hand as well. “And I’m Emn, as you no dou
bt know.”
“Yes, the only one of us with any clue of how to actually use all these Talents we’ve got.” Mithal let go of her hand and leaned back against the counter. “What a life you must have.”
“I guess. I haven’t had much time to really think about it.” Emn peeled the gloves from her hands and unzipped the front of her flight suit to her collarbones.
“Nice,” Nicholas said, tapping her bare hand. “This is good progress.”
Emn shrugged.
“So, is the gift for anyone in particular?” Mithal looked pointedly at Emn. “Perhaps an eld?”
Nicholas grinned at her.
Emn blushed. “Um. Yes.”
“Eld Atalant is it, then?”
Emn nodded, but still didn’t speak, so Nicholas chimed in. “Yes, Eld Atalant. We were thinking belated birthday gift, especially with the whole ascending business.” He leaned towards the proprietor. “What is an appropriate gift for that? What do you even call it? Not a birthday, I bet. Don-day? Happy-new-phase-of-life-and-oh-look-at-that-you’re-an-eld day?”
Mithal laughed. “So, we don’t celebrate birthdays, clearly, since we have dons. But I know the Neek do, so might I suggest two presents?”
Nicholas saw Emn cringe. She’d had a lot of concerns about finding just one gift, so Nicholas imagined that trying to pick out two gifts that were somehow better than having a whole planet thrust at your feet was pretty overwhelming.
Nicholas put his hand on her upper arm. “You okay?”
Emn nodded. “Just don’t want to screw this up,” she murmured back. “Can you help?”
“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.” Turning back to Mithal, Nicholas asked, “Are we supposed to buy gifts related to the Talent, or is that, like, in bad taste?”
“Well now, that depends on if you want to follow older traditions or modern ones. We’re a few millennia past literal sacrifices, but on one of the southern continents, one of the little ones, they still prepare a smoked illa, which is a genetic cousin of a titha, to present to the new eld. Each region has its own marinade, and the eld has to try each one and pronounce a ‘winner.’ In contrast, the capital city…”
Nicholas tried really hard to pay attention, but he was still exhausted. Ardulum had moved, what, four days ago? Atalant was an eld, she and Emn had almost figured themselves out, but no one had a moment of peace because there were angry, sentient fungi dangling from every surface and a million demands on their time. Heck, Atalant had put him in charge of palace reconstruction because she didn’t have time. Nicholas didn’t know how to build a palace! The closest he’d ever gotten was a sandcastle when he was ten for which he’d managed to build an underground moat.
“…regardless of region. On a personal level, a freshly minted second don would get gifts from their family that align with their Talent. We don’t normally gift anything for third don, but that isn’t to say it doesn’t happen. It’s just not as big a deal since there’s no big transformation.” He scratched his chin. “Most Ardulans just wake up feeling…different. Something resets or changes in our body. And for Eld…” He barked a laugh. “You got me there! There are usually ceremonies for an ascension, but they’re private, and common people would never just be invited.” He met Emn’s eyes. “Corccinth would have gone to plenty. She didn’t have any ideas?”
“She sent us here! So, I guess, here is where we shop.” Nicholas put his hands on his hips and nodded at Emn. “Pick something.” If he’d had telepathy, he’d have considered adding, Probably not a Dulan knife. That seems in bad taste.
“You’ve known her longer than I have, Nick,” Emn tried to argue. “I don’t know what kind of gun she likes.”
“Heeeeey.” Nicholas took a step back. “Don’t pin this on me. We’re here because you wanted to get her a gift. A gun seems like a good idea. That’s all I ever saw her shop for. She used to have quite a collection on the Pledge, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind restarting the hobby, even if she doesn’t have much free time.”
Emn hunched her shoulders. “I’d prefer we at least didn’t get her a weapon historically used to kill my side of the gene pool.”
Nicholas nodded. “Fair, fair.” He turned to Mithal. “What about, like, a really big gun?” He held his hands about a meter apart. “Substantial. But also, something historic because I really don’t see her needing to shoot the thing what with the controlling the andal and all. Or with the andal controlling you all—however it works.”
“You don’t sell alcohol by any chance, do you?” Emn asked abruptly. “Whiskey, right, Nicholas? Isn’t that what she and Yorden drink? It smells like window cleaner.”
Nicholas nodded. “Yes, but I don’t think ‘single malt Scotch whiskey’ is going to translate well. High Uklam is okay, but it’s not so…specific.”
“Liquor?” Mithal perked up. “I’ve got plenty of that. Come on back.”
Emn looked questioningly at Nicholas, but he just shrugged and followed the man back behind the counter and into a dimly lit room beyond. Liquor was a galactic currency, Yorden had always told him. Always good in a pinch when your rounds were low. He’d claimed that he’d never been to a spaceport or planet where some couldn’t be found within an hour, even if most of it was pretty low quality. Yorden had been big on training Nicholas’s palate before, well, everything.
Nicholas heard a snap before the small room flooded with light. Reality seemed to slip into the shadows. Covering the floor and dangling from the ceiling on twine were more bottles of alcohol than Nicholas had ever seen.
“You…collect a lot,” Nicholas said, drawing out each word as he stared, gaping, at the room. “Is that…is that from Earth?”
Nicholas pointed to an empty bottle the length of Emn’s arm. Squinting, he read, “Glenfiddich 21.”
“What does it mean?” Emn asked.
“It’s from Earth,” Nicholas said. “Scotland!”
“We travel,” Mithal said smugly. “I trade.”
“Jesus,” Nicholas muttered.
“Would she like it?” Emn asked. “Is it strong? The few times we’ve had alcohol, it’s always dulled her telepathy enough that she couldn’t hear as many andal trees. This might work well.”
Nicholas could almost taste the highland whiskey, could almost hear Captain Kuebrich pouring the amber liquid into a thick glass and demanding Nicholas tell him what he could smell. Nicholas hadn’t even been on the Pledge for a year when it was destroyed. What memories would Atalant have from one of Captain Kuebrich’s signature drinks? Forget drowning out the andal. Toasting to Yorden’s memory was an amazing idea.
“Atalant’ll drink basically anything, but Yorden loved that brand. I think it’s a really good choice.”
Emn straightened, but her face seemed to relax. “I like the idea of a Yorden tribute. We’ll take it.”
Mithal grunted good-naturedly and twisted his way back through shaking stacks. “Head back up front. Going to take me a minute. That’s just an empty show bottle. If you’re looking for a second gift, there’s plenty to dig through while I get the real one.”
Nicholas followed Emn to the door, scanning the rows and rows of bottles as they went. “They have at least four Mars whiskies here, too,” he whispered. “I think I saw something from Neek as well. Can you imagine? Once everything settles down, we could have, like, actual parties!”
“That sounds great, Nicholas.”
Nicholas pointed at a blue bottle on a shelf above the door as they exited. “I think that one is Oorin! Hey, Emn…”
Emn had gone ahead, back to the main room, and was now wedged between two tall stacks of clothing, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Melancholy seemed to have dropped over her like a wet blanket.
Nicholas slumped beside her. They were back here again, and Nicholas was never sure what to say. Ardulan racism he could give Emn pointers on all day—Earth had never managed to outgrow its biases, either—but the whole Atalant and Emn thing…that was outside his sphere.
/> “Emn, what’s wrong?”
Emn visibly swallowed and put her head on her knees.
Nicholas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rested his head against hers. She smelled like cinnamon and faintly of sweat, and it reminded him of the Mmnnuggl pod and how much they had talked right after her metamorphosis. They’d both grown a lot since then, but they were still far more alike than different.
“Sometimes, there are things we can’t talk about with the people we care the most about. That’s why friends exist.” Nicholas tangled his fingers into Emn’s and squeezed.
“She doesn’t need any of this stuff, Nick.”
Nicholas nodded. “Birthdays aren’t really about what you need.”
Emn sat up and turned so she could look directly at Nicholas. “But she has an entire planet. If she wanted a”—Emn pointed to the wall with the guns—“knife or an old-period rifle, she could ask one of her thousand attendants who will not leave her alone, and they’d get it to her within the hour.” Nicholas started to argue, but Emn cut him off. “I understand that us getting her a present has sentiment behind it, but how do you…how do you commemorate becoming an eld when you weren’t even Ardulan to start with? What says, ‘we were meant for each other, and fate has a weird sense of humor’?” Emn inclined her head towards the back room, where Nicholas could still hear Mithal moving bottles. “Whiskey? Does whiskey say all that? Or is it just a transparent attempt by me to get her drunk so I can kiss my girlfriend without andal chittering in the background?”
Kissing? That’s what this was about? For some reason, Nicholas had assumed they were still in the “I don’t know how to talk to you because you’re practically my god” phase. Kissing was much more basic. Kissing he could help with.
Nicholas smiled, and he must have looked particularly mischievous because Emn burst into laughter. “What?” she asked.
Nicholas started to point at Emn, but then dropped his hand back and bit his lower lip. He’d have to approach this delicately since Emn had even less experience than he did. “Have you two, uh—” He coughed. “You know. Sex?”
