She typed some more. “So it seems there is a wealthy artisan on Plexis, recently arrived, who has promised a substantial reward to anyone of any species who can cure him of his illness.”
“And this relates to the Retians how?”
“They’re here to . . . pray for him.”
Huido knew a scam when he heard one. And an opportunity. “This ‘artisan.’ I need his name, species, symptoms, and where I can find him.”
* * *
• • •
Before following up on the artisan and the Retians, Huido attended to another matter. He returned to the restaurant and called the chef into his office. The diminutive Whirtle had only worked at Claws & Jaws for a few station stops. It slumped down, blinking its three eyes repeatedly. Which could have meant any one of a number of things, but distressed agitation was a distinct possibility.
“A Human was here last night,” Huido said. “He asked to speak to you.”
One of the chef’s tentacles floated up, and it scratched behind an ear opening. “He asked for me by name?”
“No, he just asked to speak to the chef. When I intervened, he claimed it was me he came to see. Hard to be sure with Humans, but I think he was improvising, and not very convincingly.”
The chef continued scratching.
“So my question is, was the Human really looking for you? And I suggest you tell me the truth without any of the tiresome resistance I occasionally encounter from people sitting where you’re sitting now.”
“Was the Human’s name Theo Brody?”
“Indeed, it was.”
“Well, see, the thing is, Hom Huido, well, at one time I worked for him. But I came here to start over, to turn my life around. And I’m very grateful for your—”
“What was it you did for him, in your previous . . . situation?”
“Honestly?”
“Please.”
“I stole things for him. But I don’t do that now, nothing like that now, those days are behind me.”
Huido considered for a moment, giving thought to all he knew of the chef, and all he might not. “Are you good at stealing things?”
“In those days?”
“We can start with that.”
“Yeah, I was good at it, but I don’t—”
“Oh, I’m sure you still could. To, just as an example, keep working in my kitchen.”
The Whirtle’s nostrils flared dramatically. “What is it you want from me, Hom Huido?”
The Carasian tipped forward. “First, I want someone less conspicuous than myself to follow some Retian priests.”
* * *
• • •
With the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind, Huido made his way through Plexis’ massive structure of concourses and levels to arrive at the pay-as-you-go on Level Five that currently served as accommodation for wealthy artisan Hypol Parr.
Parr’s personal assistant, a demure humanoid female dressed in a white full-length hooded garment, greeted him, making only brief eye contact and saying no more than was necessary. “Do you have something to offer, Hom?” she inquired.
“I believe I might be able to help, Fem, if I could examine Hom Parr,” Huido announced.
She gave a small nod and consulted an appointment diary, which shimmered in midair beside her. “There is a slot available shortly, if you are prepared to wait.”
“Your client has other appointments?”
“Indeed, so. Hom Parr is currently being visited by a Tuli spiritual healer, and later there’s a prayer session scheduled with Retian priests.”
Huido spread his great claws. “With so many cures being offered, how will you know which succeeds and who should receive the reward?”
“We will make a determination based on the evidence,” she replied firmly. “Our judgment will be final and binding.”
Huido agreed to the terms. While he waited, he sent a message to his Whirtle chef advising him of the Retians’ schedule, and after a short wait was brought into the presence of Hom Parr. The artisan turned out to be an Atatatay, a species that matured by fusing individuals. By Parr’s small, uncomplicated stature, sers had a long way to grow.
Beyond that observation, Huido had little understanding of sers or any alien’s physiology, but made a good show of pressing down on things, listening to other things, and inspecting various lumps.
In truth, Huido had no idea how to help. Parr’s symptoms amounted to severe unending fatigue. He suspected the Retians believed a placebo cure was as likely to work as any more tangible remedy, and were opportunistically attempting to take credit for any recovery sers might happen to enjoy. Well, it was worth a shot.
After the examination, he spoke again to the assistant. “I’m convinced an ingested remedy is required. Strevet. It is generally administered as a broth or chowder but is very rare.” He paused meaningfully. “I happen to have a supply. I will have some sent over later today.”
“Very well. Good day to you, Hom Huido.”
* * *
• • •
“You’ve got some kind of nerve inviting me back here,” Brody said. Nevertheless, he was sitting opposite Huido in the Claws & Jaws.
A waiter delivered a small dish of Stonerim olives to the table, and withdrew from earshot.
“The thing is, Hom Brody, I believe I know where your stolen data is. For a price, I can recover it.”
“What kind of swindle is this? You’re telling me you didn’t steal my data, but miraculously you know where it is? I’ve heard it all now!”
“Regardless of the likelihood, it is the truth. And I’m guessing you had more than the recipe for stew for sale. In fact, the officers who came here said something about ‘a set’ of data cards that were stolen. Plural. So I’m thinking an entrepreneur such as yourself doubtless had numerous offers to make to various individuals.”
Huido sat patiently while the Human appeared flustered. Eventually he calmed, giving the Carasian a sour look. “How much?”
Huido pushed a slip of plas across the table. “My price is not negotiable.”
Brody turned the plas over, made a choking sound, but then nodded his agreement. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Brody stabbed an olive with a pick but didn’t eat it.
“I’ll contact you when I’ve recovered the data,” Huido said.
Brody stood up abruptly, scowled at a table of shocked diners as he passed them, and careered toward the exit doors.
* * *
• • •
“You were right to leave Brody out of this part, Hom Huido. He’s no good in a fight.”
“I thought as much,” Huido said, looking down at the Whirtle who, despite its compactness—and the retiring nature of its kind, “run first” being a Whirtle axiom—looked like it might stand up for itself if necessary. It’d already proven surprisingly adept at following Retians. Right back here, to their base of operations, a storefront with an “opening soon” sign tilted forlornly beside the door. The windows were covered in opaque plas. Someone hadn’t paid their taxes.
The chef stowed a small set of trinoculars back in a satchel slung around its wide neck. “As far as I can tell, they only use the main entrance. If we go via the service access, we might not encounter any resistance, at least to begin with. I don’t think they’re armed, but couldn’t we bring more with us?” Caution was a Whirtle virtue.
“I’m not a team player,” Huido said, giving a little shake to rattle the weaponry now attached by hooks to his carapace. He added thoughtfully, “Unless it’s a team of one.”
“So where do I fit in, Hom Huido? If the Retians do put up a fight . . .”
“They won’t, and you’ve already been helpful. Finding this place was our first step. I know Retians. A group of unarmed priests won’t give me any trouble. Just follow me and don’t
get in my way.” Eyestalks bent. “I might need you to open a safe or something.”
The Whirtle flexed its tentacles in anticipation. “Ready, Hom.”
* * *
• • •
This wasn’t a high-end level; the service corridor behind the storefronts was narrow. The Carasian had to go sideways in order not to cause weaponsfire he’d have to explain later. Servos clicked and clanked, as usual, but the corridor itself seemed to twist and turn in unnatural ways, and soon they were disoriented.
“What is this?” Huido complained, unsure where they were. How far had they gone?
“Old trick,” his chef said. “Maze-ware. There’s tech here, messing with our perceptions. It’s a cheap way to secure a perimeter if you don’t have enough guards.” The Whirtle regarded Huido. “Or the right kind of guards.”
“Can you turn it off?”
The chef was already reaching into its satchel. It took out something resembling a mechanical spider and set the device loose. It scuttled off. “Give it a few minutes, Hom.”
“How did you even get that onto Plexis?” Huido asked, feeling a mix of admiration and disquiet.
“I never expected to use it,” the Whirtle said, not really answering the question.
After a few minutes, whatever had been scrambling their sense of direction was disabled and the spider came scurrying back. The chef gathered it up, and they continued to the access door.
It wasn’t locked. Huido opened the door a fraction and saw a single Retian, in priest robes, pacing forward and back through the open space he needed to cross. He waited until the being had his back to him, then burst through the door. The priest turned and, almost in slow motion, the loose skin of his Retian face twisted into an expression of terror, a reasonable response to seeing an oncoming Carasian, claws snapping in the air.
Huido grabbed him by the collar, while the Retian’s webbed hands flailed uselessly. “Don’t make a sound,” he commanded. “We’re going after the rest. Nod your head if you understand me.”
The Retian nodded silently.
The priests barely knew what hit them as Huido stormed into the empty store. The few who tried to confront him were easily cowed by his thunderous presence, and soon they all had their hands raised in surrender. They stood helplessly as he circled the room, observing countertops covered in the stolen loot.
“Looks like they’ve been very busy collecting this lot,” Huido said.
He stood over one of the priests and demanded, “Is this everything?” The Retian looked anxiously over his shoulder and pointed to a backroom. The chef soon had that door unlocked, revealing hundreds more data cards and circuit boards in their possession.
Huido instructed the Whirtle to collect any data cards that looked like the one Brody had shown him. The rest he left with the Retians. The Carasian then melted the lock on the entrance, trapping them all inside.
Once safely away from the scene, an anonymous call to Plexis Security led—in a while, it being breaktime—to the priests’ mass arrest.
* * *
• • •
The same two officers from Plexis Security arrived at Huido’s door the next morning.
“This is purely a courtesy call, Hom Huido,” Officer O’Connell said, “to inform you that we no longer consider you a suspect in the matter of Theodore Brody’s stolen data cards. Arrests have been made.”
“Oh? Can I offer you a drink, officers? And might I ask who was responsible?”
They declined the drinks. The younger one looked regretful in doing so.
“Retian priests,” O’Connell said. “They came to Plexis on the pretense of helping an artisan by the name of Hypol Parr. Once onstation, they appear to have embarked on an extensive crime spree. We’ve recovered a great many stolen data cards and other tech.”
“What did they want the data for?”
“Oh, they weren’t after the data; they just wanted the tech.”
Ret 7 being, at best, soggy, and no fit place for technology or Carasians. Huido shuddered noisily. “Ah, I see. Well, I am glad Hom Brody got his data back.”
O’Connell grinned, but without any warmth. “Not the case, I’m afraid. If Brody’s data is in among the haul somewhere, I doubt it’ll be found before the tech is resold to cover costs. The Retians neglected to pay rent.” Plexis had priorities.
The Carasian snapped a claw in summons. His assistant, Ansel, came hurrying forward, a bottle of Brillian brandy in his hands. Huido gestured for him to give it to O’Connell. “A parting gift, Constable. To show there are no hard feelings.”
O’Connell hesitated, then took the bottle. “I’ll enjoy it when I’m off-duty.”
Huido showed them to the door. “You must dine here sometime,” he called after them. “And tell your friends about us.”
* * *
• • •
Huido rumbled into the kitchen to visit with his chef later that day. “A fine outcome,” he announced cheerfully.
The Whirtle blinked. “If I may ask, Hom Huido? What did Brody have to pay for his data?”
Huido recalled, with a great deal of satisfaction, handing the bag of data cards to Brody and telling him that his key would undoubtedly decrypt one of them. It had taken the Human several hours to find it, all spent under the Carasian’s staring eyestalks. Amazing how much a Human could sweat.
“It was a fair trade,” Huido said. “I asked for three things. A significant sum of money, the recipe for Pashwali’s Ocean Stinger stew, and a promise that he would never again try to contact my chef.”
The Whirtle’s trio of eyes widened in surprise. “You’d do that for me?”
“It seems I have.”
The chef stood quietly for a long moment. Then at last he said, “Thank you, Hom Huido.”
Huido passed a large sheet of plas to his chef. “Let’s see if this recipe is worth all the trouble.”
“Coming right up, boss . . .” The Whirtle studied the recipe. “In a few days.”
* * *
• • •
The Retians were in a great hurry to leave Plexis, and permitted to do so. Naturally, without the recovered tech, which had been confiscated by station authority. Plexis would deal with the haul as it saw fit, and no one could or would dispute it.
According to Karen Tanaka, just before leaving, the Retians incurred a further penalty. Their bill for air shared while onstation had mysteriously tripled. They were advised that while their representatives were welcome to challenge this, it would require someone to remain on Plexis, which would inevitably increase their total consumption, with the certain outcome that their bill would increase further.
They were wailing with anguish as they departed. Huido occasionally thought of this, and invariably startled those around him with a booming laugh.
The Atatatay artisan, Hypol Parr, enjoyed a remarkable recovery, fleeting fame, then relocated to Ormagal 17. Huido speculated that he might have been in league with the Retians all along. But this was never proved.
The substantial payment from Theodore G. Brody cleared Huido’s debts at a stroke, though Ansel took great care to ensure the transaction was untraceable. Better safe than sorry.
As for Pashwali’s Ocean Stinger stew, it was as delicious as Huido remembered, and became a permanent fixture on the à la carte menu. And for many years to come, a great many patrons who stumbled across his restaurant on Plexis were heard to agree with its proprietor, that Claws & Jaws served the finest food in the quadrant.
. . . Truffles continues
12
THE EXALTED GODDESS Tearoom was, despite its name, a claustrophobic shop snugged close to the side of the Claws & Jaws. Bins of dried wisps of plant material lined the walls, each labeled not in Comspeak, but a script I didn’t recognize. The lettering was exotic, not least because it appeared hand done, and I wondered
if customers bought what was in the bins more for the art than the contents.
Not a question to ask at the moment. I did my best not to elbow the shelves, squeezed beside Morgan in front of the counter. Behind it, an aged humanoid of indeterminate species—alien wrinkles continued to baffle me—waved hands in dismissal. “Bu-sy time. No soc-ials.”
I resisted the temptation to look over my shoulder at the empty space behind us.
My Human bent his fingers, using them to hook his hands together as he bowed. “We need to speak, Ruggio.”
“If not buy-ing tea, Ja-son, don’t clog my floor.” A dry spit to the side.
Rather than be offended, Morgan chuckled and bowed again, lower. “A joy to see you, too, old friend.”
“Bah.” The wrinkles reformed into what I took for a smile. “This the Si-ra?”
“Hello.” Copying Morgan’s gesture, I bowed.
Wrinkles collided. “You stu-pid? He bow. You too old. You jig-gy.” The little being vigorously bobbed its head up and down, then moved its shoulders, revealing extra joints beneath the frilly shawl. “Jig-gy!”
“I couldn’t possibly,” I said truthfully.
Ruggio stopped its performance to give me a long suspicious look. Suddenly, another wrinkly smile. “Smart Si-ra! So what’s this need to speak, Ja-son?”
Morgan leaned on the counter and told our tale of truffles.
* * *
• • •
It was after we were once more outside, a package of overpriced tea now tucked under my arm, that I stood firm and looked at my Chosen with my own suspicion. “What’s the point of all this?”
“Folks need to know.”
“Then why not use coms? Why—” I held out the package, with its lettering that looked disturbingly like the “Yummy-Yums” of my previous encounter.
Morgan’s lips quirked. “Coms don’t get it done, Witchling.”
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 38
