Cory.
But not Cory alone.
Cory, attached to a plas rope and tied off to a ring in the black gleaming carapace of Huido Maarmatoo’kk, disruptor in hand. Cory, followed by a crowd of familiar faces—vendors and security and even a few well-dressed customers.
Cory, with friends.
All of whom were talking at once as the loop disappeared from Parker’s ankle and the Scat slipped hastily away. They babbled that Mellilou had seen the alert and seen Randall cancel it and so called the coordinates to Huido, who’d picked up a mishmash of posse members and then met Cory who insisted on coming back this way and here they were, even the two Cervidde gentles who insisted that this disappearance would not happen to someone else’s child, not while they were here.
Huido picked her up with two careful claw-arms and set her on her feet, upon which Parker burst into tears of relief and then had to pat his carapace and let him know she was fine, that this was a Human sort of thing and it would pass.
And then the little Cervidde child stood up and bleated a heartrending sound, and ran straight to the arms of the Cervidde couple who had thought they were, after all, rescuing someone else’s child.
* * *
• • •
“I don’t . . .” Parker said, looking at them all. Cory wiggled in her arms and pushed his nose against her face for a few quick licks. “I don’t really—”
“You’re welcome,” said Mellilou, knowing Humans best. “And don’t think that Randall won’t bear consequences for this.” A gleam came into her eye. “I believe I’m due a promotion.”
“But how—” And Parker looked at them all, filling the corridor with all their sizes and shapes and mobilities. “You all came . . . so quickly . . . and you had no idea . . .” She shook her head. “No one has ever . . .”
Ever.
Mellilou put a hand on her arm as the others crowded around. “But this time, Cory found us,” she said simply. “And, Eun Su, we found you.”
. . . Truffles continues
Interlude
ON THIS LEVEL, the night zone was dim, noisy, and their boots stuck to something regrettable on the floor every few steps.
Yet there were stars overhead, albeit the Plexis version, and their light rode the waves of Sira’s hair, embers of molten gold flowing with her every movement as she led the way between the seemingly random tables and planters the station used to slow traffic. Never inconspicuous, his Witchling, no matter how she tried. Knowing himself hopelessly smitten, glad of it to his core, Morgan smiled, fingers curled at the thought of the warm, silken stuff.
His smile faded, fingers forming fists he deliberately relaxed. Plexis was no place to be distracted. Those who lived and worked here weren’t a problem—not more than once, anyway. Morgan focused on the strangers to every side. That cheery in-their-cups band of spacers they were about to pass could turn to trouble with an instant’s perceived slight. The gold airtag on the haughty Skenkran beside him had the sheen of a fake, but being out in the open made its business none of his. On Plexis, pickpockets took lifting valuables to a fine art and those convenient planters offered blind spots for more serious threats.
Sira took care to avoid them.
She battled her own demons, Morgan knew, much as she tried to dismiss them. The First Chosen of the di Sarcs, Speaker for the Clan Council, and now his partner on the Silver Fox—her courage, innate Power, and single-minded determination to help her kind had earned those titles. What had happened to her along the way ached in his heart. That it had brought them together, to this, was their shared joy and yes, she was healing. The scars she bore with such courage had begun to fade.
If not those in her mind. Being back on Pocular brought her nothing but nightmares, dreams she tried to hide behind her formidable shields. They were Chosen; even before that bond, he’d experienced her dreams, and now? He’d wake in the jungle, sensing Sira’s pain—
Sharing it. He should have refused the job. Said no to Huido after the first trip, when he’d seen what returning to that world did to Sira. But she had her pride. Argued they needed the work, the ship needed the parts, Huido needed the truffles. It helped they’d both forget, during the trips to and from, consumed by the urgent joy of discovering one another.
But her nightmares each landing grew worse, not better, and he’d decided before leaving Pocular this load of truffles would be the last. Nothing was worth those painful shadows in her mind.
Shadows within shadows here, Morgan thought, catching the glint of other eyes in the nearest. Watching eyes. He tensed his wrists to drop his force blades into waiting palms, only to still as a face moved forward from the darkness. Enough to be seen.
Enough to be known—
He gave the smallest of nods.
—Gone again.
That he’d been shown the face at all was a warning—or threat. They were, the Human thought in some exasperation, one and the same when it came to Plexis. Odds were this—this attention had nothing to do with them or the officious F’Feego at Duties and Tariffs. Yet.
Nonetheless, he took a longer stride to catch up to Sira.
A Traded Secret
by Donald R. Montgomery
YOU MAY CALL me Morrab the Vermincatcher.
Two other things you should know: I work on Plexis Supermarket, and I am not someone you want to meet. Luckily, you’re unlikely to, unless you’re prone to wandering where you don’t belong. My territory lies beneath the surface—not in Plexis’ inhabited levels or its veins and arteries, but the spaces between. I’ve no interest in the crowds of beings who come here to buy and sell wares that range from the cute and harmless to the utterly depraved and illegal. My world is dark and lonely: maintenance crawlways and tunnels where unwelcome creatures are likely to scurry.
As for why I prefer solitude to being in the company of others, I’d say the reaction my appearance elicits from them has a lot to do with it. I don’t look much like other members of my species, or any other for that matter. I am Human—genetically speaking—but my growth is stunted, my voice is a dry rasp, and my mouth splits my face in two. Taken with my protruding brow and deep-set eyes, a simple smile from me is toothy, predatory, and grim.
I owe my squashed, four-foot stature to heavy gravity—muscles and bones had to grow thick to support my weight. My warped skeleton bears witness to hundreds of fractures I suffered in infancy, while my blood assays reflect a long battle with mismatched drug treatments. One might say I suffered this mistreatment at the claws of an incompetent doctor. However, it was my parents who sold me to an experimental project—one designed to see if children could be made to survive harsher worlds without proper treatment. Given that Human medicine was not the Sakissishee’s strong point, I’m lucky to have lived at all.
As for the rest of my scars, I’d say they’re split about evenly between youthful stupidity and decades of violent work. The notch missing from my left ear, claw marks that rake across my skull, and the many puckered remnants of stabbings, burns, and ballistic wounds covering my body are only a few of the trophies I’ve collected guarding fools, hunting bounties, and fighting wars.
Many were near misses—more than a few should have been outright fatal. Luckily, I’m harder to kill than the average Human. One of the few good things about prolonged exposure to heavy gravity and building the strength necessary to survive it is that my tissues and organs are denser and tougher than they should be.
There are costs, of course.
I’m heavy for my size. And bald.
Worse, however, is my susceptibility to weather. Even slight atmospheric changes make me ache something awful. Five years ago I was ready to retire, but then I heard there might be work on Plexis Supermarket for a person of my skills. I’d never admit it, but the station’s regulated atmosphere, low humidity, and steady temperatures were the reasons I applied. The salary helps, but it
’s more a means to an end.
So please remember that while you roam the shopping levels above, rubbing elbows with various alien joints, know that I plumb the depths beneath your feet, scurrying through dark crawlways and over massive tanks of growing prawlies, breathing air heady with a bouquet of rancid gases and keeping company with the ghosts of a mining complex that never was. All so you can revel in the sights and delights only money can buy without having to worry about pest infestations or toothy predators dropping out of the vents.
Because that’s what Raj Plexis wants you to do.
She owns Plexis—saved herself from bankruptcy and ridicule by transforming the bulbous husk of a failed mining venture into a bustling commerce ship almost overnight. She didn’t have a lot of time for the redesign, so the guts of her ship are a little more haphazard than most. She threw together all the systems needed to maintain a livable environment, not to mention process and purify the waste of dozens of species. She allocated storage space for supplies and inventory, housing complexes for residents and visitors, recyclers to process all our garbage, and servos to manufacture and deliver trinkets and souvenirs to her own stores.
In the years since her garish signs first went up, Plexis has enjoyed significant success. Between reducing her dependence on outside resources and producing most of her branded merchandise locally, she’s able to keep the station operational. Which means docking fees, shop leases, tariffs, gifts, bribes, and a host of miscellaneous taxes are almost entirely profit.
Those are just some of the reasons others have chosen to emulate her. As for why no one’s undermined what she’s built or, worse, staged a hostile takeover—you can thank people like me. We keep the riffraff out, or at least under control. As for the persistent rumor that she’s a crime lord—responsible for a variety of unexplained deaths, disappearances, and illegal operations—let’s just go with no comment.
I’m part of a defensive network; that’s why I spend a significant amount of my time running down pests imported onto the station, accidentally or otherwise. A significant percentage of which happen to be sentient. You might be surprised how often I have to rescue a lost child or pet, but smallish sacks of biology tend to climb into unsecured grates and fall down holes with alarming regularity. And while the dangers are many and the staff are few, I’ve never failed. Returning each one to the waiting appendages of its anxious breeder/owner is quite rewarding, if only because I charge a substantial fee for the service.
But that’s just a sideline.
I stalk more dangerous prey for Plexis: smugglers and thieves attempting to circumvent the station’s security cordon or avoid paying their fair share to do business here. I am also known to hunt pirates and murderers—targets too dangerous for normal security to handle. There are plenty of places on this station that don’t appear on any schematics, but I’ve spent years finding them. Some were accidents no one bothered to fix during the redesign, when Raj Plexis had to turn her failed refinery into a bustling marketplace in record time. Others were intentional—she herself marked them off and filled them in. I’ve seen vaults down there—foreboding places where she keeps her own secrets safe.
As for today, you might think it’s odd that the one who runs this roaming colony would meet with someone such as myself. However, the one thing everyone learns about Plexis sooner or later is that this place is anything but normal.
Besides, Plexis is a hands-on kind of boss.
She’s dealt with enough trouble over the years to know the value of a reliable throat cutter. Hired muscle is all well and good, but I’m more of a discreet agent—the kind that takes care of problems without attracting attention or asking needless questions.
Our bargain is simple: no intermediaries. She briefs and pays me herself, and she pays well. I am, in return, available whenever she needs me.
Plexis’ message is never more than a time and place. I recognize the address as a safe house I’ve visited before. I’m not the only undesirable she has to deal with, so having space prepared for discreet meetings makes sense.
It’s disguised as a secure warehouse on one of the mid-sublevels, deep enough that we won’t have to worry about gawking tourists. It’s also easy enough to reach by tunnel, so I don’t have to rub elbows with anyone along the way.
Unfortunately, my only way inside is through the front door. Plexis is smart enough to seal off all other access points, barring a personal lift for herself. Rumor is she’s got a network of them throughout the station, giving her access to any point onboard within a few moments.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be true.
Now, a being in full armor, even a short one, would command some level of attention on the upper decks. Down here I am afforded a small bubble of personal space and barely a glance. Not that I’m ignored; I can feel a variety of eyeballs and stalks tracking my movements as I push the street-level maintenance hatch closed with my foot and seal the lock, but I’m more oddity than threat.
At least no one seems eager to bother me.
It’s hard to see anything through the crowd, but traffic is polite enough to shift around me. I suspect that has more to do with my appearance than anything else. Providing I stay below the main concourses, I am permitted to wear protective clothing and carry my weapons openly.
Matte black plates slide over a flexible undercoat as I walk, safeguarding my vitals without restricting movement. I have a matched tactical helmet, but I left it below. As useful as its sensor feeds and automatic sights are, I’d rather not start a panic or bring station security down on me. Not when I’ve got two force blades on my belt and an energy pistol strapped to my thigh.
Street traffic parts around me, creating a small eddy. A security patrol spots me and runs my identity—keeps its distance once they verify my ident. I tongue the inside of my cheek reflexively, making sure the airtag on the outside is still there. I don’t like the thing, but sharing air is sharing air, and I’d like to keep my job if possible.
It’s been an easy few years.
I spend several long minutes out in the open, trudging my way toward the warehouse entrance. I’m not good with even semi-packed streets—too much stimulation. Hawkers yell from their stalls, selling anything and everything at steep discounts. Most of their inventory seems used or damaged—tired and old. Junk cast off from the upper levels.
Discount shoppers mill about, desperate for a deal.
The bazaar thins out toward my destination.
Which is when I sense a disconcerting change in the atmosphere around me.
I can’t say it’s a smell in the traditional sense—I’ve become accustomed to the stench of methane and sulfur and various other waste gases produced by the many species down here—but it’s no less real. Tension has a distinct taste. Violence, too.
These little whiffs have kept me alive many, many times. I’ve sidestepped ambushes, dodged snipers, and laid my own traps for both.
Here my options are limited, so I start cataloging escape routes in my head.
As unlikely as it is, Plexis might be dissatisfied with me, or worse, have figured out—no. I consciously shut down that thought before it can bloom. Maintaining control is essential when there could be mindcrawlers about; otherwise I might as well broadcast my secrets over a loudspeaker.
Better to keep my doubts quiet, my betrayals buried.
Even if this turns into a worst-case scenario, she isn’t likely to act publicly. Such displays are bad for business. Even down here she’ll carefully weigh consequences, potentials, and risks.
This foreboding is coming from somewhere else.
Experience is what saves me. Between my nose and my eyes, I’m able to isolate the source of my misgivings. I show no outward sign, but once I recognize what I’m dealing with, my body relaxes.
There are five studiously unremarkable beings among the regular foot traffic, all do
ing their best to blend in with the locals. Cheaply dressed and watchful, but not overly so. There are a handful of tells that give them away—tense body language, uniform height, and chiseled physiques; even their bleached, perfect teeth. A shave and a shower would make them all parade ready. Add in how each one has at least one hand buried in a pocket or tucked under a loose-fitting jacket, clutching hidden weapons, and my hunch turns into fact.
Plexis’ personal bodyguards.
More than usual, but they’re not here to bother me. They’re here to make sure no one bothers her. I do her team the courtesy of feigning ignorance while I stride purposefully up to the door and input my code.
The lights come up after I pass over the threshold, flickering awake. The smell of chemical cleaners burns my nostrils. It’s always bothered me that the walls and floor are so gray and featureless, coated with nonporous paint. Where there should be tools and machines, long shelves of neatly organized inventory, there’s just empty space and periodic drains.
That unnerving monotony is broken only by two features: a wide metal table in the center of the room and a pair of slippers placed neatly on top.
This is a dance I’ve done before, so I approach the table, unclip my weapons and arrange them carefully. Next come my holsters, armor plates, and spare ammunition—even my gloves and boots. Anything I could theoretically use as a weapon.
I take the slippers, wondering for the hundredth time why Plexis’ security thinks my bare hands wouldn’t be enough. My size and strength are deceptive given I’m the size of a child, if an extremely wide one, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know how to use them.
Ha.
I’ll be shot dead if I so much as blink at her wrong. We might meet alone, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t protected by personal shielding and a twitchy trigger finger or three.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 6
