Mij stared down at the bag in his hand, its red-and-white stripes now thoroughly mangled, and said, “I suppose it’s because I identify with him. He’s living my dream, bringing people happiness through the things that he sells.”
Without really meaning to, Mij’s entire story began to spill out of him, from his decision to leave the archipelago to his fruitless day on Plexis. Gardiner listened patiently, interrupting with only the occasional sympathetic murmur.
“I don’t know what else to do,” wailed Mij when he had finished his story. “Everything is falling apart. I still believe in the dream, but nobody’s going to show up just in time to help me make it the rest of the way like they did in the movie.”
Gardiner reached out with one hand to pat Mij on the arm. It seemed an odd gesture to Mij, but he appreciated it nonetheless. He belched to relieve his upset stomach. Gardiner wrinkled her nose, but didn’t move her hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you with that,” said Mij once he had calmed down.
“Don’t worry about it. I wish I knew how to help.”
“You could tell me where I could get a balloon,” Mij said. “It wouldn’t solve anything, but maybe it would put me in a better mood and help me to keep going.”
Gardiner shook her head and said ruefully, “I’m afraid nobody on Plexis sells them.”
Mij stiffened, a look of surprise on his face. A plan began to form.
“Perhaps,” he said, “there’s more than one way to travel the fringes of Trade Pact space, bringing trade goods and joy to everyone.”
* * *
• • •
Mij exhaled from his methane bladder, inflating the sac beneath his jaw. Lifting a pink-and-purple balloon to his lips, he breathed into it. As his vocal sac contracted, the balloon swelled with a hiss until it was larger than a Human’s head. A mass of purple dots skittered across its surface to form first one message, then another. Mij tied it off with his deft fingers and attached a small station-keeping device.
It had been a stroke of genius to keep the optex and sell his ship. Not easy at all—he had grown quite attached to the Flower during his short tenure as captain—but it had allowed him to rent a small manufactory and purchase the machinery he needed to turn the optex into balloons. He had even, of late, begun experimenting with his own, proprietary blend of materials.
Retail space, alas, was expensive on Plexis, and well beyond his means, but Fem Gardiner had made him an excellent deal on a slightly-used collapsible table. Most days he set up shop on Level 3, spinward ¼. It wasn’t precisely legal, but then on most days security was strangely reluctant to deal with a Lemmick. Mij tittered as he remembered a very mortified Gardiner explaining that to him. He had been at it for several years now and regretted nothing.
Mij released the balloon. It drifted slowly upward, guided by quiet puffs of air from the station-keeping device, until it joined the brightly-colored multitude of other balloons that formed a jostling, squeaking canopy over Mij’s table. The movement caught the attention of a squadron of young Regillians, whose guardians chivvied them onward, and a Human passing in the other direction.
The Human paused—a male, Mij noticed, being able to tell the difference now—and then approached the table. Aside from a set of remarkable blue eyes, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about him. He looked up at the balloons. That, Mij knew, was his cue.
“Greetings, Hom, and welcome to the Rainbow Collection,” he said, leaning back and holding his hands out to the sides. “Can I help you find anything?”
The Human favored him with a pleasant smile and said, “I need a balloon for an occasion.”
“I have balloons for every occasion of which I am aware,” said Mij.
“How about a baby shower?”
Mij frowned.
“I was not aware of that one,” he said.
“Oh,” said the Human. “Well, then, I suppose I should decide between the green one that says, ‘Felicitous Spawning,’ and the—does that one say ‘Condolences on your Parasite’ in Carasian?”
“It can say many things,” replied Mij. “Can I give you a word of advice?”
“What?” asked the Human.
Mij leaned down and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Why not take both?”
A broad grin broke across the Human’s face. “I’ve a better idea.”
When he left, he was accompanied by an entire raft of balloons.
. . . Truffles continues
Interlude
THE ELABORATE BEAUTY of Butter’s Dance Extravaganza wasn’t what it seemed, a lesson Morgan first learned while helping search for a pack of panic-stricken Ott. The younglings had scattered from their pouch when their parent collided with a servo barkeep, hiding being their innate response to attack and less than helpful in a room full of ornate sculptures, pillars, and annoyed dancers. When the lights went up, Butter serselves had fled and the extent of sers fraud was exposed. None of the beautiful “structures” could stand up to a firm push. None of it was real.
He’d come to realize Butter needed to believe sers own deception, the Atatatay refusing to relinquish it even when, as happened often, dancers stumbled through one of sers faux waterfalls and ripped the flimsy plas thing apart. Repairs were done in secret.
By this kinder, soft light, the Extravaganza was charming. Morgan led Sira through a maze of what appeared to be marble columns and twinkling tiled walls—most with waterfalls, sers species partially amphibious and serselves prone to longing—past enchantingly decorated ballrooms, each for a different style of dance, all crowded with happy beings gyrating in their way to excellent music.
Why point out to his Chosen that there were staff throughout whose sole job was, in Butter’s words, “to optimize the experience” by moving the flexible walls in or out of each room to make those dancing within feel they were lucky to have any floor space? Why mention if you stayed too long without buying an overpriced drink from one of the many servo dispensers, the music quality would drop abruptly?
Details. The illusion was—
Is anything real here, other than the dancers?
—not fooling Sira in the slightest. Grinning, Morgan shook his head. Not much.
Silence. Then, firmly, It’s very—artistic. Fingers squeezed his; with her free hand she pointed into the ballroom next in line. “You keep passing them all. How about that one?”
Stone spires depended from the ceiling, some meeting those rising from the floor. They glistened as if wet, and what floor he could see between the slow-moving couples, triples, and other groupings might have been water. Reflective threads with dewdrop tips dangled from hovering portlights, and all the place needed was a sharp plummet in temperature to match a cave he’d sheltered in once.
And almost lost his life, there being hungry things waiting inside.
“Not far now,” Morgan said, tucking away that particular memory. “There’s a special room. You’ll see.”
“Hmmm.” Been here before, then. A lock of hair slipped around the back of his neck, then flicked his ear. It wasn’t to dance. Is it now?
“We’re here,” he said hastily, ushering Sira into a longer room than those previous. There were dancers in the middle of its floor, but unlike the rest of the Extravaganza, these walls didn’t move. Tables set within curved easi-rests lined the outskirts, except for the space reserved at one end for a smallish stage and at the other for the largish owner. The stage was occupied by a trio of Thremms whose cheek pouches bulged: freshly fed. Ready for the main act, then.
About to go around the dancers and head to where Butter squatted in all sers splendor—to get his business over first—Morgan paused. He looked down at Sira.
She looked back. While he sensed nothing but her presence along their link, a warmth forever part of him, were her eyes wistful?
Business could wait. Morgan glanc
ed around the room, spotting a pair of Humans who moved well to the music. After an instant’s study, he drew Sira into his arms, rewarded by her dazzling smile.
So far so good. Dancing. How hard could it be?
He took a step, miming the actions of the taller of the couple, and stepped firmly on Sira’s toes.
They both lurched, laughed, and it wasn’t hard after that.
Especially when the singer took the stage.
A Song of Plexis
by Janet Elizabeth Chase
ANSEL NEARLY COLLIDED with the chef as he came around the corner to the kitchen. It was well that it had only been a near collision as the much larger Human held a cleaver in one hand while the other held a Fowean volvox, very obviously alive.
“Chef Grainger,” Ansel began, as he looked from the cleaver to the pathetic blue mass and then back to the large knife. “Is there,” he paused. “A problem?”
“Problem?!” Chef growled. “That fratling pox at table 3 accused me of serving spoiled volvox!” He shook the—ingredient in Ansel’s face. “You can’t get fresher than alive!” The soon-to-be main dish flailed its amorphous protrusions uselessly in the chef’s grip. Ansel only moved his head slightly back and out of reach. Physically, there was little Ansel could do to stop the cuisinier from charging toward the offending table if that was what he decided to do.
Ansel looked past the squirming blob to see one of the restaurant’s servers standing just inside the kitchen entrance. The young Ordnex’s nostril slits were opening and closing with a rapidity that was slightly troubling. She was probably the one who had delivered the unfortunate message.
Ansel’s attentions went back to the very unhappy Human in front of him. “Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” he offered calmly.
“I’ll not be insulted,” Chef declared, slamming the cleaver into the wall of the hallway for emphasis. Then with a wet slap, he transferred the still writhing volvox into Ansel’s smaller hand.
Ansel looked down at the struggling mass and did his best not to drop it immediately onto the floor. Hom Huido, his employer and the owner of The Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine, hated wasting food that, in all likelihood, could still be sold. And he, being in charge of accounts, hated waste of any kind. He sighed to himself, then motioned for the terrified server to come forward. He gently pried the pathetic organism from his hand and placed it into the Ordnex’s. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on Chef’s nearly clean kitchen coat. Instead, he pulled loose the crisp folded napkin hanging from the server’s apron tie.
“Is Hom M’Tisri available to attend table 3?” he asked as he wiped away the slimy residue. The Vilix host of The Claws & Jaws, with his species’ natural docility, usually handled such situations.
“IbelieveHomM’TisriissettlingapartyofSkenkransHomAnsel,” the Ordnex rolled out in a single breath. Then, “Anissuewiththeplacementofperches.”
Ansel let out a slow breath as he deposited the soiled towel over the squirming blob. “Take it back to the kitchen,” he ordered the Ordnex, then calmly turned his attention back to the still enraged chef. “I will take care of table 3, Chef Grainger. Please return to the kitchen. There are orders that no doubt require your expertise and talent.”
The chef looked as if he were about to say something but kept whatever it was to a low growl before turning to follow the server into the sanctity of the kitchen. Ansel glanced up at the large cleaver still stuck in the wall and cringed not so much for the plas, which was easily repairable, but for the incredibly expensive knife that protruded from it. Hom Huido had sent all the way to Garastis 17 for that set of cutlery. Fortunately, Hom Huido was currently dining with his Human blood brother, Jason Morgan, in his private rooms. It would be best if Hom Huido didn’t see the improper use of the knife.
Ansel caught the attention of another server and motioned toward the cleaver, then he headed out into the dining area. So far only Chef’s pride had been insulted. Hom Huido would take the accusation of less than quality ingredients as a declaration of war.
Table 3 was occupied by two beings. One was obviously Tolian. Female, if Ansel was any expert. The telltale dark eye rings stood out among the delicate lightly colored facial plumage. The other appeared to be a Human male. Intricate tattoos that covered his neck and ran up the left side of his face implied he was Denebian. Ansel also noticed that both wore gold airtags; the Human on his cheek, the Tolian on the side of her beak just below one nostril. You paid for the air that you used while on the station. And Plexis Supermarket, being all about commerce, made sure that those with the means to buy were made obvious to those with goods to sell by way of gold airtags, as opposed to the more ordinary blue.
“Fem. Hom,” Ansel said as he nodded his head toward each in turn. “I am Ansel, manager of the Claws & Jaws.” A useful title when dealing with goldtags. “I understand you had a question regarding one of the dishes.” He purposely left his inquiry nebulous.
The Human pushed his plate dismissively toward Ansel. “It’s poor quality,” he said bluntly in an accented Comspeak that declared quite clearly, Deneb. “Inedible,” added dismissively.
The dish was the familiar pale orange color that volvox became when cooked. It looked perfectly normal to Ansel’s eyes. “And yours, Fem?” he asked politely, noticing they had ordered the same dish.
The translator embedded at the base of the Tolian’s throat rendered the unusually low timbre of her trilling into Comspeak. “Delicious, Hom.” The words sounded thin and tinny in comparison to her natural voice.
In front of the female Ansel noticed the wide glass half full of clear liquid. With the possible dietary disasters that so many species posed, consistency was key when serving certain dishes and drinks. This style of glassware signified it held simple water. It also happened to be well-shaped to fit a Tolian beak. A thought occurred to Ansel, and he looked at the stemmed glass in front of the Denebian.
“You are drinking wine, Hom? A Denebian vintage perhaps?”
“Why would I drink anything else?” he scoffed snobbishly. “What difference does it make? There is nothing wrong with the drinks. I want something edible,” he added roughly, rapping knuckles on the tabletop as he did so.
The Tolian’s crest dipped slightly as she clicked her beak, a gesture showing disapproval. It was aimed, to Ansel’s relief, at her companion.
“In this case, Hom,” Ansel replied. “It makes a great deal of difference. Some Fowean dishes have an unfortunate reaction when mixed with certain Denebian alcohols. An error on our part.” Ansel bowed his head slightly while inwardly sighing at the neophyte mistake from an experienced server. “Please, allow me to bring you something that will compliment your meal. Free of charge.” He added the last in a quieter tone as though there were any possibility that his employer would overhear. Hom Huido considered gratis to be a foul word, at least when it came to the restaurant. Ansel personally believed a free drink was better than misunderstandings leading to bad publicity. The numbers added up, as the saying went.
Ansel motioned to a nearby server. “I assure you, Hom,” he continued, addressing the Denebian, “Paired with the correct beverage, I’m sure it will be to your liking.”
Ansel gave the order to the server who hurried toward the bar. Within a few moments the server returned with the replacement beverage and placed it in front of the Denebian. With a dubious look, the Denebian sipped the drink and tried another bite of the dish. A surprised look appeared on his face as he chewed, then pulled the plate back toward himself.
“Hom. Fem.” Ansel nodded to each before leaving. Disaster avoided, he headed for the kitchen. He would have Chef schedule another training session for the servers about pairing food and drink.
Back in his small office, Ansel looked over the books for the night’s receipts. It had been, by all accounts, a good one. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Com
e,” he said without looking up.
The door slid open and M’Tisri entered. “Hom Ansel. This was left for you,” he said with uplifted mouth cilia, the equivalent of a smile. Offering a small folded piece of blue plas, he continued, “It is from the Fem at table 3. The Tolian.”
Ansel stared at the offered item for a moment before accepting it. “Thank you.”
“Hom.” M’Tisri nodded and left.
Ansel unfolded the plas and found two smaller pieces of colorfully printed plas inside. On the folded piece there was a note written in Comscript in a fine hand.
Hom,
Thank you for your assistance this evening. I sincerely apologize for my manager’s lack of tact. I hope you will accept these tickets in appreciation for your help.
It was signed, S’ur pri ’Sme. Ansel set the plas sheet down and picked up the tickets.
“S’ur pri ’Sme,” he read aloud. “The Tolian Torch Singer.”
* * *
• • •
“What do you mean you won’t be working tonight?!” Huido bellowed, snapping his largest claw in the air. “What do I pay you for?!”
“Six days on, two days off,” Ansel answered.
“But we have a Whirtle party of twelve tonight!”
“I know. Please push the trumquin soufflé,” Ansel replied as he looked over the shipping order for the most recent delivery. “I honestly don’t know why we ordered so many when only two species can eat them without dissolving their digestive tracts. And of those two the Whirtles are the only ones we see here with any regularity. Thankfully,” he added.
“Where will you be?”
Ansel looked up only briefly from the plas in his hands. “Hmm? Oh, to a concert.”
* * *
• • •
The last notes of the song slowly faded and Ansel clapped enthusiastically, joining the other patrons and their various forms of applause. It made for a cacophony. The solo performance had been in the Tolian’s native language, her translator being disabled for the duration. She had a beautiful contralto voice; unusual for her species. And while he had not understood the words she had sung, he had been moved by them.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 28
