“Fem ’Sme? Is here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Huido said as he took a step closer. “Morgan mentioned you had some,” he paused, “questionable guests. Are you in any trouble, old friend?” All his eyestalks bore down on Ansel. “Something to do with this Fem?”
With a deliberate effort, Ansel stood, trying to exude calm. He should have realized Morgan would tell his “brother.” “Everything is fine, Hom Huido.” He truly hoped that was the truth.
The numerous eyes did not waver. Then, after a moment’s consideration, “Well, then, don’t keep your Fem waiting!” the Carasian ordered. He agilely moved his hard-shelled bulk behind Ansel, forcing the much smaller Human to move toward the door. A gentle prodding with a smaller claw sent him out into the hall. To Ansel’s discomfort, the Carasian followed right behind.
Huido’s intimidating size opened a clear path through the crowded dining room and to Ansel’s surprise, to Hom Huido’s own private table. Fem ’Sme was sitting at the table while her tattooed female companion stood next it. The Carasian placed himself between the Human he had described as a cirrip and Ansel.
“Fem ’Sme,” Ansel said with a nod. “I am very happy to see you again. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes!” bellowed Huido. “You can sit!” Huido waited for him to do as directed before shifting several eyestalks to the tattooed Human.
“I wouldn’t get too close, unless you want something important removed.” Huido turned back to Ansel and said, “I’m sure you will be wanting your privacy,” emphasis on the last word. He gave one last warning look to the tattooed female before leaving.
“Your employer is quite direct,” Fem ’Sme said, one emerald eye on Ansel. The other followed the Carasian as he moved through the dining room.
Ansel sighed in agreement. “Yes, he has a way of getting his point across.” Reaching under the table, he pressed a discreet button, activating the privacy screen. That particular piece of tech had always made him nervous. “I certainly hope I didn’t cause you any problems, Fem. I fear I may have said some things.”
The Tolian dipped her beak to each shoulder in turn, approximating a “no.” “You did make Pezet quite irritated. He isn’t used to anyone standing up to him, except me,” she added with that wiggle of fingers. “He decidedly did not appreciate it.”
“I am truly sorry—” Ansel began, terrified he had caused the Tolian problems.
“But I very much appreciated it,” she finished, her crest extended. “Gallant, as I said before. And please do not concern yourself with Pezet. Our—” she paused, “—relationship goes both ways. He needs me as well. I have warned him what will happen if I hear of any hardships befalling you.”
Ansel sat silent at that declaration for a moment, then said, “If you say you are well, then I accept that.” He glanced at the female guard who seemed to be watching the rest of the room. With the privacy screen activated, she couldn’t overhear.
Fem ’Sme touched his hand gently, returning his attention to her. “I did want to see you again before we leave tonight.”
“You’re leaving? So soon?”
“I am sorry you did not get to use the second ticket. My decision to play tourist did not sit well with Pezet. He closed the contract with the theater.” A click of her beak. “We are booked on the Dashing Boy. We leave in a few hours.”
“Back to Deneb?”
“Yes. It has been a long and tiring tour, but I do wish I could have stayed longer. Thank you again for our little outing. I enjoyed myself very much.”
“As did I, Fem,” he smiled. “I do hope you are able to return to Plexis again.”
Both emerald eyes were downcast. It was the first time she had not looked at him when she spoke. “I want to say that is a possibility, Hom.” Her crest flattened and she rocked her head back and forth slightly as if considering her next words. “But I cannot.” Only then did she look up with both eyes directed at him. “Thank you for everything. I will not forget your kindness and friendship.”
* * *
• • •
Ansel turned the small package over in his hands. The origin stamp said Deneb. It was from Fem ’Sme. Carefully he peeled back the plas closure and tipped the contents out onto his desk. There were two items. The first was a note. The second was an image disk. He unfolded the note. It was written in a fine hand he recognized.
Hom Ansel,
I wanted to send you something in appreciation of your indulgence. And, perhaps, so that you will think of me. Pezet confiscated this unauthorized recording. He is good at some things. I confiscated it from him. Thank you for being my dear friend.
S’ur pri ’Sme
Ansel’s hands shook as he placed the disk into the player. The image was of an empty stage with the garish green curtains he’d seen at the theater where Fem ’Sme had performed. A moment later the image showed her walking out onto the stage. It was the theater’s house recording of one of her shows. His work forgotten, he sat back in his chair as she began to sing.
The soft, low trilling coming from the other side of the apartment door stopped the large black bulk in his sponge-footed tracks. The Carasian listened, no few of his eyestalks riveted on the closed door in concentration. After a moment he let out a soft chuckle resembling the gentle clatter of saucepans.
“Smitten.”
. . . Truffles continues
10
THE SINGER HAD what looked like the remnants of lunch hanging from two of her three mouths, the ceiling was coated in twists of dusty plas, supposedly to resemble the flowers of some world, and my toes throbbed.
Yet her song seemed the best I’d ever heard, this place a palace, and if it was all because I held Morgan in my arms, my hair doing its best to hold him also, I wasn’t about to argue. Love flowed between us as if we breathed it into one another and we might have danced forever—
Witchling. With charming regret.
—but we hadn’t, after all, come here for this. You’re forgiven, I sent, tightening my hold before letting go. And he was. So long as we dance the rest of our lives.
Smiling lips brushed mine. Deal.
A few moments dancing, if that, and Morgan had acquired the skill to not only stay away from my feet, but to whirl us with respectable flair in the direction of the large squat being whom I presumed was our business here. As we moved, my Human whispered a quick briefing in my ear.
Butter was a broker, serselves—for what I took for an individual was a permanent fusion of several entities, seniority for an Atatatay—arranging the import of beverages destined for consumption here and in many other establishments on the station. While I grasped how Butter might want to know of E’Teiso and the “new” fee, what I didn’t? What my Human hoped to gain by sharing our quandary with sers.
Which wasn’t new, I thought, amused. I regularly failed to predict such gains during our trading sessions. When we left the dancers, I stood by in quiet anticipation.
Just not too close. Butter resembled a rotting melon about to explode. Warty plates bulged outward over sers wide rounded form, their edges held together by what resembled protruding internal organs. They could have been, for all I could tell. There were lower thickened limbs, presently askew in all directions, and a pair of long spindly arms with extra joints sprouting from beneath what was more stalk than neck. On the neck was—
—wasn’t a head. More internal-ish tubes poked upward, pink and shiny. Two ended in disturbingly humanoid mouths, complete with rouged lips. Three ended in eyes, each uniquely sized. Impolite as it was to speculate about another species’ inner workings, I caught myself wondering what would happen if Butter fell down a flight of stairs. Were sers bits independent, able to sprout limbs and dash away like a fragmenting Assembler, or would a fall simply crack the being apart?
Morgan coughed, and I snapped to attention. The Atatatay was spe
aking, sers voice rising and falling as words alternated from the two mouths. “—you wish us to spread the word of a predicament not our own, Captain, nor of our making. For our clients to become anxious. This is bad business.”
“I am sincere, Hom Butter.” My Human went on a knee and put his hand over the closest wart. To my alarm, the squishy pink surrounding tissue expanded, enfolding his flesh. Almost at once, it shrank back. Morgan stood, pale pink fluid dripping from his fingers. A hovering staff member slipped him an absorbent towel, implying this was normal.
I was glad I hadn’t eaten recently.
“Am I not?” Morgan asked the creature, his voice now stern.
“I believe you are,” said one mouth. The other’s lips remained pinched shut.
I hoped this didn’t mean Morgan would have to touch more of Butter.
Apparently not, for serselves gave a disgruntled heave and shake, then settled. “We will share this news, Captain Morgan,” from both mouths. From one, a qualification. “With those we find agreeable.”
Morgan glared. Three eyes glared back. Both sets of lips smacked. The singer sang on, oblivious, while dancers swayed across the floor. I tried not to sneeze.
Finally, my Human shrugged and gestured enough. “I’ll talk to him.”
Business apparently done, we walked away, our steps timed to the music as we negotiated the shifting space between those dancing. I sensed an unexpected satisfaction from my Chosen. “Just who are we to talk to?” I demanded in a low voice, immediately suspicious. Someone an Atatatay considered not agreeable? It couldn’t be—“Not—”
“Who else?” A chuckle. “If sers will contact everyone else, it’ll be worth it.”
By reputation? Nothing, I decided, could be.
Our trip through Plexis was about to take a turn for the worse.
Cinnamon Sticks
by B. Morris Allen
THE SLIME HAD been a problem.
“It’s not slime. It’s a podal lubricant and message deposition vehicle.” With some saliva mixed in. When you ate with your feet, it was hard not to leave a bit of drool around. Even in these sterile metal corridors. Even when your heart was broken. Irredeemably broken.
The intake specialist had been unconvinced. “Looks like slime to me.” She (it? Who could tell with Humans?) eyed the trail of glistening ijva Keevor had left behind. “Stands to reason,” she said, “because—no offense—you look a lot like a slug.” It gestured in apparent reference to Keevor’s proudly turgid body, one foot segment high off the ground, all six tentacles bowed forward in deference to the specialist’s authority. “With parasites?” It seemed to mean the takis, which were not parasites at all, but commensal plaquelike creatures that warned of toxic gas concentrations in the deep swamp. Would it want an explanation? “I’m not sure that’s something Plexis needs. Customers slipping and falling all over the place . . .” Perhaps not.
“Not at all,” he had assured it. “The ijva–the slime–dries to a thin, hard coat very quickly.” Not technically true, but he could make it so. What was the point of being a top-class microbiologist if you couldn’t alter your own biochemistry? “Think of it as art.” The art of heartbreak. Though, in fact, his trail did make a very pleasing pattern, a silvery shimmer against the dull steel of the station, like the reflection of midnight clouds on a lake.
“It does have a certain quality,” the specialist mused. “Reminds me of spray paint on brick.”
“Your planet must be a very sad place indeed,” he muttered, keeping his reverberation orifice nearly closed.
“Nonetheless,” it went on as if it hadn’t heard, “I can’t let you in. No skills we need. This is a supermarket, not a research facility. Back you go.”
Back where? For the first time, Keevor felt the beginnings of panic setting in, his mucal glands releasing even more ijva, preparing for a quick escape. The specialist had made it clear that if not admitted, he’d have to go right back out the air lock he’d come in. The fact that the ship which had brought him was no longer waiting didn’t seem to trouble it at all, nor the fact that neither he nor his microbiome was spaceworthy.
“No, wait—” There must be something he could offer, some intersection of his skills and their needs. “I can. . . . I’m a cook! I can cook!” Cooking was a lot like chemistry, wasn’t it? Mix the right ingredients in the right way, and you could synthesize what you liked.
“Sorry. Got cooks up the wazoo here, and who wants that? Can’t let you in. Air supply is limited, see, and we’ve got none for visitors who don’t shop. You have a skill, you shop, or you’re out.”
“Drinks! Drugs! I can make them.” These aliens with their thick, impervious integuments—unable to relish the rich taste of the world through their feet, they looked for stimulants elsewhere. Or forgetfulness. Everyone had something to forget, some past they would rather not confront. Some dismal, failed romance.
The specialist arched the caterpillars on its head, which seemed to indicate thinking, but in the end it said no. “Tempting; we’re always looking for something new, but everyone promises drugs, and they never are. Tempting. Sorry.” It turned away, two big reptilian guards closing in to push him back to the air lock.
“Wait! Wait. I can—” What had she said? “The air situation! I can help. To . . . to keep track of visitors!” How, though? Some kind of marker in the lungs that gradually deteriorated? A simple breath test would indicate the time since application. But complex to administer. And that gray cube over there didn’t seem to have lungs at all.
The specialist had turned back, waving off the reptiles. “I’m listening. What’ve you got?”
Think! A dye, applied to the skin, that changed color with age or exposure. That could work. But how to make it indelible? And how to renew it?
The specialist had started tapping one of two feet, which couldn’t be good; its balance looked precarious to begin with. There must be something. Something simple, yet unique. Something that was easy to apply, hard to fake.
“Take him away,” the specialist said.
“Takis!” Keevor sputtered. “Takis.” They would work. Or could be made to work. “These little flat creatures you see on me. They’re unique. Can’t be faked. You could use them to tag visitors.” It was a good solution. He could see that the specialist was interested. One more thing, then, some little twist to catalyze the decision. “Colors! They could be different colors, for visitors and residents.” Probably he could make them different colors. The larval stage was already a slight blue. In the right light.
“Hmm.” It was interested, all right. “Not sure I’d want one of those on me. What did you call them? Taxis? Do they hurt?”
“Takis. Not at all. It’s quite pleasant. Barely noticeable.” The specialist would hear what it wanted. People were like that. Certainly he had been. “And it will . . . ah . . . clean your skin.” That was true enough. The specialist, with little brown spots all over its face, looked like it could use a cleaning.
* * *
• • •
They’d overlooked the ijva, in the end. And he had done some judicious localized gene-modding to his mucal glands. The ijva did dry to a hard coat now, and he made it a point not to travel in straight lines. If visitors thought the silvery tracks were art, good for them. They couldn’t taste the despair and depression in the messages he’d secreted, willy-nilly, all over the station.
The takis had been a bigger success than he’d hoped for. With just a few modifications, he’d been able to preserve his life and theirs. He still looked in on the tag farm every now and then, but the Plexis administration had managed takis breeding and care better than he’d imagined. The takis were doing well; he need feel no guilt for manipulating their genetics.
He’d had to find additional work, of course. The takis-airtags had bought his entry into Plexis, but not his sustenance. The intake specialist had helped hi
m out there. Her name was Mae, she’d told him, “You make some good drugs, and I’ll find a home for them.” She’d found enough homes that he’d been able to rent a little lab and retail outlet on a disregarded level. He even had his eye on permanent quarters—a long-term lease on a bar with a suitable “kitchen” area and a little living space above. He’d need to convert the stairs to a ramp, but it would work.
It had worked, so far, to keep him busy, to keep him from thinking. From remembering. But now the business largely ran itself. He had an assistant to run the easy syntheses—a lumbering, hard-shelled amphibian with clumsy grippers, but unfailing reliability and an uncanny sense of timing. And Mae to run the retail—a task she did so well that she’d given up her day job as intake specialist entirely, even preferring it to the takis-care position he could have gotten her.
“No offense, Keev, but I need excitement, you know? And feeding little slimebots just doesn’t do it for me.” He’d tried explaining that takis were neither slime nor bots, but Mae was impatient with science. Or maybe with facts. “Besides,” she’d said with a wink, “you smell good.”
“It’s the ijva,” he told her one day when the shop was quiet, and she’d fallen back to her favorite game of trying to describe his odor.
“It’s cinnamon,” she said, nose wrinkled up and sniffing. “With a touch of licorice.”
It was neither; he’d tried both, and they were repulsively crude, joltingly harsh. “It’s the pheromones. Not the licorice, that’s just the mucus.”
“And you use that to communicate, do you? Draw the little slug ladies along?”
“That’s what pheromones are,” he said for the tenth time. “Communication. Each Mocsla has a unique blend of ijva, and then, of course, we add pheromones, both voluntary and involuntary.”
“Like leaving a little trail of love notes behind you everywhere you go, hmm?”
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 30
