* * *
• • •
The largest music venue on Plexis, the Downie Grand, had seen its share of bands from the galaxy-renowned Pink Riders whose logo was a huge cocktail, to the experimental Fly-the-Pies, a sixteen-strong troupe of Whirtle musician-acrobats. As a Soft Blast band, AfterBRNR generally drew its fan base from a somewhat older crowd, but there were still plenty of youths milling about so that Daniel, Jack, and Warren did not look out of place in the crowd that surged toward the main doors on concert night.
“This thing’s way too tight,” Warren groused, pulling at the neck of his borrowed T-shirt. He’d already cut the sleeves off, but it still stretched alarmingly across the chest. “Did you have to buy it in size scrawny?”
Daniel scowled at him. “Don’t worry. They’re heading for the waste stream first thing tomorrow.”
“I’m keeping mine, and heads up,” Jack warned, “Constable Hutton’s in view.”
As they came abreast of the security officer, her expression one of professional courtesy, her eyes sweeping the crowd, alert for signs of scalpers, pickpockets, or drunks, he punched Daniel in the arm.
Daniel glared at him in genuine annoyance. “Cut it out, jerk!”
“Think we should ask Tal Miccandrian to sign your ticket?”
“She’s gonna sign your cast in a minute.”
“Ooooo, I think I just discovered your little secret. Daniel Kekoa, AfterBRNR fan.”
“Jotherion Russell, corpse.”
“Keep it level, Homs.”
Constable Hutton’s even tone drew their heads around. Jack flashed his mood gems at her, Warren allowed himself a single nod, but Daniel just shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked past.
Jack’s tickets were for Standing Left, a section of the wide, roped-off semicircle in front of the stage, just below AfterBRNR’s vid crew who were busily recording the crowd for the official tour tape. It was already more than half-filled with beings when they arrived and, waving his rolled-up plas program at a few acquaintances, Warren leaned down. “Mingle, get noticed,” he whispered. “When the lights drop, we meet at the back door.”
Jack gave him a clear flying sign, slid between two laughing Norsenturtles in tent-sized concert T-shirts, and vanished into the crowds. After a moment, Daniel did the same.
He wandered about the lower lobby, checking out merchandise and saying hello to the stall and booth workers, most of whom he knew. He made a show of deciding between a self-warming cup with Tal Miccandrian’s face on it, or a chrono pendant that played the band’s latest song, then chose a simple black plas wrist guard on clearance for thirty percent off. As the lights dimmed and the loudspeaker announced the opening act, one of Rose’s favorites, another Soft Blast group named Constellation, rumored to be patronized by the infamous Grays of Deneb, he headed for the back door.
The other two boys were already there, chatting quietly with a blue-haired fem, her skin as dark as Warren’s and her eyes as green as Daniel’s, wearing a Downie Grand staff T-shirt. She winked at him, then swiped her pass-card at the lock. The door clicked open and, one by one, they slipped out into the service corridor beyond.
“Thanks, Kibibi. We’ll be back before the encores,” Warren told her.
“I’ll be here.”
She blew Jack a sarcastic kiss, then shut the door behind them.
Warren immediately pulled a bag from behind a waste digester, and all three donned old maintenance coveralls and caps to cover their somewhat unique hair styles. Then, after slinging the bag over his shoulder, Warren checked the first of Daniel’s signs before heading for a ladder.
They climbed for two levels, caught a service ramp up for another, wove through a series of increasingly tight service corridors, then up another ladder, and another two ramps before reaching a door marked: Upper Level 231, spinward ¾.
Warren opened it a crack, peered out, then gestured the other two through.
They came out in a dimly lit, faux marble hallway, with heavy, real wooden doors inset in their own soberly carved alcoves in the far wall, each one with a small bronze plate beside it, and each one closed. They passed three doors—an accounting firm, an insurance firm, and a mass market media conglomerate—before finally fetching up against the door to Cardale, Morlon, and Pix Funerary Services.
Warren plucked a card from his pocket and swiped it in front of the pass-lock. There was a faint click, a tiny light flashed green, and the door opened with a soft shushhh. They slipped inside, and Warren used another card to bypass the security alarm.
“The cleaning staff are gone,” Daniel whispered as they made their way through the darkened showrooms. “This way.”
The cooler door proved no more difficult than the front door had; a moment later, they stood before a medium-sized tripbox.
Warren vaulted to the top, reached up, and jerked the cover from a small vent in the cooler ceiling, then jumped down again before turning to Jack. “Okay. Get it open, then set to revive.”
The other’s mood gems flashed a savage yellow. “With pleasure.”
Five minutes later, they stood staring down at five hundred dormant Anisoptera.
“They’ll be awake soon,” Jack said quietly. “You sure this’ll work?”
Warren nodded.
“And they won’t get hurt?”
“Not if everything goes to plan, and everything should.”
With a proud smile, he opened his bag and withdrew an elongated drone, built to resemble a green-and-gold Anisoptera. He set it gently on the open lid of the tripbox, then activated a recessed button behind its wide compound eyes. Its pale yellow translucent wings flexed, then began to vibrate rapidly, carrying the drone straight up to alight on the edge of the vent.
“The Ladin V females have developed a unique pheromone system,” he explained. “With a sexual receptivity signal for the males, and a food discovery signal for other females. Once I set her in motion . . . well, you’ll see; it’s gonna be super sonic real soon.” He tapped a few buttons on his wrist chrono, then turned. “Okay, let’s get back.”
AfterBRNR was just finishing its first encore when they returned to the standing area. Jack immediately took up an impromptu dance with the two Norsenturtles, coming very close to getting stepped on several times. Warren hummed tunelessly along with the second, third, and fourth encores; by the time the lights came up and the crowds began to make their way to the exits, Daniel’s opinion of Soft Blast music was, if possible, even lower. They strode past Constable Hutton at the front doors, jostling each other so that she had to give them another admonishment, then headed for the nearest ramp.
* * *
• • •
An hour later they stood with Kibibi and the rest of the Downie Grand backstage staff in the Upper Retail Level 104 spinward ¾’s main assembly hall where Rose and her Business Co-op were hosting an after-concert reception catered by Claws & Jaws. Rose herself was standing with the lead singers of both bands, wearing a thirty-year-old Constellation tour T-shirt in a soft dove gray, one plump arm about each musician while the vid crew recorded their conversation. Huido was drinking beer with the two Norsenturtles who turned out to be ambassadors, while keeping three or four eyes on Ansel commanding an army of wait staff handing out wine, canapes, and sweetmeats. As honored guests, the Lithe-Lime visitors could be seen striking artfully crafted athletic poses under the most flattering portlights surrounded by even more flattering Upper Level merchants. A disproportionately large contingent of Turrned Missionaries wove their way through the room, quietly preaching their mandate of respect and understanding, while station security ringed the walls and ramp entrances, maintaining a silent but effective mandate of their own.
Daniel nudged Warren in the ribs. “Looks like C. M. P.’s accepted Rose’s invitation,” he said, jerking his chin at the three funeral directors standing with two others, obviousl
y lawyers.
Warren nodded. “Good, ’cause it’s gonna be any second now.”
He pressed a button on the side of his wrist chrono and, as a vent cover high above slid quietly open, carefully slipped the device into his pocket.
Jack was the first to hear the sound of two thousand and four pairs of wings in the upper ductwork. Seconds later, five hundred and one Anisoptera spewed through the vent.
The sheer size of the cluster nearly blotted out the portlights, causing a shimmering array of reds and greens and blues to cascade over the gathered who gasped in delight, believing this to be part of the festivities. One half of the creatures began a complex aerial battle, swooping, gliding, and diving at each other, while the other half spread out and landed, not on the delicacy-laden tables, but on every bit of plas in the room, most of which was on the gathered. The sound of several hundred labra shooting forward to catch hold of plas jewelry, chronos, hair-extensions, clothing-fasteners, coms, and—in some cases—entire wardrobes, then several hundred toothed jaws biting down, was satisfyingly loud. A few of the guests, like Rose, who’d donned a pair of bright orange plas hair ribbons for the occasion, welcomed the attention with rapt smiles. Most, however, greeted the assault on their personal property with hysterics, but found themselves unable to even swat at the creatures as each guest and each security constable was suddenly surrounded by Turrneds.
“Apparently, the Ladin V females have also developed a unique response to dwindling habitat,” Warren noted. “Using chewed-up bits of plas foraged from nearby sapient settlements to create viable substrate on which to lay their eggs. Who’da thought it.”
“And who’da thought a few missionaries could keep an entire room from hurting them,” Jack added happily.
“Rose.”
“I love our Rose.”
Two of the Lithe-Lime underexecutives hiding beneath the main banquet table, however, refused to be pacified, squawking in panic and screaming for security. When they caught sight of Inspector Wallace, the epaulettes on his dress uniform already minus their plas fringes, they swarmed out at him.
“Do something!” one of them shrieked, grabbing him by the arm and causing the two Anisoptera on his collar buttons to rise up and go for her earrings.
“Do what,” he demanded, trying without success to extricate himself from her grip.
“Kill them! Kill them before they strip us all naked!”
Inspector Wallace struggled to reach his sidearm, only to have Tal Miccandrian’s hand land heavily on his shoulder.
“Do you really want to open fire on a room full of the galaxy elite?” the Neblokan asked sweetly.
“Because you might miss them and hit one of these charming flying creatures,” the lead singer for Constellation added, the multicolored tattoos on his cheeks crinkling as he gave an evil chuckle.
“Then what do you expect me to do about them?” the inspector demanded.
“Well, you could begin by asking Cardale, Morlon, and Pix in what manner they were acquired before they were transported here, Gregor Christopher.” Rose gestured at the three funeral directors who were trying to hide behind their lawyers. “And then reacquire them, unharmed, so that they might be returned to their homeworld. I think that should just about do it.”
Clearly relieved to have an official course of action, Inspector Wallace headed C. M. P.’s way, his expression thunderous.
“I see Aleksander’s here. I’ll speak with him,” Tal Miccandrian told Rose, her amber eyes beneath sequined brow ridges sparkling with merriment. “The Gamer’s Gold is certainly big enough to carry the tripbox. And I’m sure we can find room on our vistape for a short piece about a valiant and environmentally conscientious captain. Our viewers will want a happy ending to this story.”
Across the room, Jack was dancing with glee, two crimson Anisoptera happily nibbling at each wrist plas, their long, delicate legs wrapped about his forearms.
“IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!” he shouted in sarcastic triumph.
“Many regs for the transport of a destructive species, are there?” Daniel asked, as a large emerald Anisoptera pulled his own wrist plas free and carried it off.
“Oh, yeah! And the reg for the importation of a destructive species onto a public space facility are sonically strict, and the fines are super sonically harsh! C. M. P.’ll be lucky to get away with their underwear!”
“Once this lot’s finished with their lists of damages and grievances, they won’t even have those.”
“Yup,” Warren agreed. “There’s your stop ’em, crush ’em, and drive ’em off.” He glanced across the hall where the vid crew were still happily recording. “C. M. P. brought lawyers, but AfterBRNR brought media. And the P.R. folk at Lithe-Lime know it.” He gestured at a Human in a business-style track suit now whispering urgently in the ears of several executive types whose faces were already registering alarm. “I’m guessing they’re about to put so much distance between themselves and C. M. P. there’ll be a backdraft.”
“Won’t help ’em,” Jack retorted. “Their name’s all over the contract, and I’ll bet C. M. P.’ll make sure everyone knows it. That’s my punch in the nose. Hang on; Rose wants us.”
They made their way through the gathered, trailed by half a dozen Anisoptera each.
“I think it may be time to usher our guests into the ballroom,” Rose said when they reached her side. “Paige, Myrtle, if you would begin. Daniel and Jotherion will help you, won’t you, boys? Have Ansel send the waiters ahead with the food and the wine; that should get everyone moving in the right direction. And I’m sure that if Warren were to station himself at the other end of the assembly hall, the Anisoptera will allow us to take our leave. Hmm?”
Warren nodded. “On it.”
Jack tucked his arms into those of the two Norsenturtles who seemed to have taken a liking to him, and headed for the large double doors at the back of the room. “Still hate AfterBRNR, Dazer?” he asked with a laugh.
Twisting his neck around to see Tal Miccandrian, one hand absently stroking a green-and-gold Anisoptera, deep in conversation with Captain Aleksander, Daniel shrugged.
“I guess they’re okay,” he allowed. “As people. I still don’t like their music.”
“Close enough.”
Gently removing a small sapphire creature from his ear, Jack held her briefly on the tip of his finger until she finished removing the plas from the metal stud of his earring, then buzzed off to join the rest of the cluster swirling about the green-and-gold creature perched on Warren’s head.
“What a stellar night,” he breathed, his mood gems flashing a deep, contented purple.
. . . Truffles continues
Interlude
“SO THIS HUMAN owns a high-level store, with top-end products, catering to grandies,” Sira puzzled through what he’d told her. Her shapely brows knit. “All to take in strays?”
Close enough. “I daresay making a living comes into it, but that’s the sum.” Morgan chuckled. Sira wasn’t the only one on Plexis confounded by Rose and her ever-changing cadre of young Humans. Rose Red’s Tree of Life Emporium’s non-Human clientele persisted in a belief Rose somehow budded half-grown offspring, to the extent that naïve Whirtles, new to the station, refused to enter the store in case such fertility was contagious. “She’s been on the other side,” he finished soberly.
Of hope. Of the chasm between those who had and those who didn’t. Plexis had them all. The station preferred the wealthy but—as any self-contained community—found use for its poor. Unless the poor found use for it first. Depended on perspective.
His had blossomed to include another’s. Sira’s smaller hand remained in his; her thoughts, close and warm, were barely distinct from his own. Morgan would have distrusted feeling so ridiculously content except that the emotion flowed between them, as real as breath. As essential.
“There’s
kindness here,” she said aloud, glancing at him as if in question.
He couldn’t blame her for being skeptical. Sira’d seen scant evidence of it so far—something he hoped to change. What he’d set in motion, starting with the sombay seller, now Rose, might help. “Plexis is more than storefronts. It’s regular people, doing their best—”
“SCEEEK! MY BAG!! THIEVES!!!” While the Skenkran continued to screech loudly, three scruffy youngsters—humanoid, perhaps Human—darted through the crowd, laughing and shouting taunts at their victim. As they passed, Morgan neatly freed the beaded sack from the shoulder of one. A set of yellowed non-Human teeth bared at him, then the would-be thieves vanished into the oblivious sea of beings around them.
He returned the bag, waved away the gratitude of the Skenkran and her companion, then came back to Sira. “Where were we?”
“You were telling me about regular people and their kindness. What about those?” with clear doubt.
“You’d be surprised,” he told her, remembering an old friend. The next time they were on Auord, he’d intro—
Morgan stopped himself, hoping she hadn’t caught the thought. Pocular was bad enough. Auord had been the start of Sira’s trial by fire.
He couldn’t take her back.
Jilly
by Paul Baughman
THE PACK MOVED with the crowd. Drifting, accelerating, weaving in and out. Embedded in the tapestry of a hundred species browsing the first, and still most famous, mobile shopping center—Plexis Supermarket. Embedded, but not part of it.
We were almost as high up as we could go without attracting the wrong attention. The overhead simulated open skies, and puffs of crisp or scented breezes teased our hair. No matter that they all originated in some ventilator outlet or other, the effect was strikingly like walking the surface of a kind and smiling planet.
Freed was running the net. The Pack kept in contact using hand talk and the occasional soft word spoken in passing. We were sweeping for information this time, so we were under orders of no lifting. Someone had paid high to find their target.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 10
