Those waiting to be seated had had enough. “We’ve reservations!” This from a Skenkran wearing an unusually shiny gold airtag. A chorus of similar protests followed, with a few suggesting on how to cook the Port Jellies, it being Plexis.
Ansel eased around his employer. “I’ll see to our customers.”
The inspector drew himself up. “Let’s go—”
“Where?” Huido asked with deceptive mildness.
“Warehousing. But only Morgan—”
“Bah!” The Carasian heaved forward, scattering constables and customers as he lumbered through his own door to the concourse beyond. Wallace turned an unfortunate color and muttered to himself, but was helpless to do other than follow behind.
This could be interesting, chit, Morgan sent, a promising gleam in his eye. Before the remaining constables could blink, he swept me with him in Huido’s wake.
For the wonderful thing about a giant, motivated Carasian?
No one got in our way.
15
THE WAREHOUSE LEVEL was novel territory for me and probably most on Plexis, being the zone between pending and paid in full. Neither the curious nor lost were welcome.
Spacers didn’t belong here either, yet my Human, it turned out, did. The occasional worker paused to raise a limb in greeting. When an aircar swooped overhead, it being large enough here for their use, and his name rang out, I echoed it. “Jason?”
“Didn’t start out in a ship, chit,” came the intriguing reply. Then, tell you later.
I did know something of this level, it being part of my education as Hindmost to learn where our cargoes went. A maze of service tunnels connected docked ships, including the Silver Fox, to the vastness of this receiving area, curving the length of the station; others, less obvious, connected individual warehouses to the wholesale level and above. The air over our heads buzzed with servos as well as aircars, some carrying small urgent packages, all equipped with vids and sensors.
Theft—from inside or out—was an ever-present concern.
As was tripping, I quickly discovered. Plexis had installed enormous sealable doors at intervals, their rims coming to the midpoint of my shins. While I applauded any precaution aimed at containing explosions, escaping whatevers, or leaks, the need to continually step over such barriers—or trip—was a nuisance. For the staff here as well, since makeshift ramps cluttered every possible path, the majority suited only to a specific species—not all humanoid—and, to make it worse, all were painted dirty gray to match the floor.
Morgan moved through the cluttered open space as easily as on the deck of the Fox. Huido, on the other hand, appeared to delight in crushing ramps under his ponderous spongy feet. Wallace and his constables negotiated their way with the same irregular steps that I used, though the unfortunate Whirtle, having to hump over the rims, had begun to wheeze.
Ahead and behind, to either side, the floor curled inward like a drying leaf—a leaf larger than some cities, perspective playing its tricks. Looking so far made me dizzy—and risked tripping—so after that first glance, I kept my eyes down.
Until I heard Morgan’s soft, “Ah.”
I slowed and lifted my head, understanding at once.
The rest of Plexis was already here.
Interlude
THERE’D BEEN HINTS. He’d summed them in quick glances. Closed doors. Lights off or dimmed. Signs in windows. Could have been ordinary—plumbing issues; a rumored food inspection—but Morgan dared hope. After all, when was the last time the night zone had gone silent, its benches full of bemused half-drunk spacers?
Now, he believed. They were a considerable distance from the physical office of Duties & Tariffs but, even with Huido, getting through the crowd blocking the rest of the way wouldn’t be easy.
They halted in unison. Inspector Wallace turned. “Captain Morgan, disperse these—these individuals! At once! Commerce is being obstructed!” He pointed to the growing lines of stopped freight cars beyond. Warehouse staff perched on the nearest. Some looked to be eating lunch.
Some, Morgan knew, were Dalton’s, in charge of particular cargoes. If they kept quiet, didn’t push back or take advantage of the commotion, she’d listened.
Wallace concluded with a desperate, “What are you waiting for—stop them!”
Sira carefully didn’t laugh; she did share her amusement.
“What makes you think I can?” Morgan asked, honestly curious.
“Don’t you hear what they’re chanting?!”
The Human politely cocked his head. True, there were raised voices ahead, but the result—given the diverse vocal organs in use—was more cacophony than chant.
“Do you, Inspector?” Sira asked, all innocence.
Wallace’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. He gestured impatiently at his constable. The sound levels rose and fell, echoing through the expanse of the receiving area, making the Whirtle raise its own voice to be heard: “A common phrase is ‘Eat Your Fee!’” It flipped a page on its noteplas. “With variations, some improbable. There’s been an abundance of ‘Free the Truffles’ and ‘First Truffles, Then Beer!’—a dozen or so explicit suggestions regarding F’Feego reproduction—”
“Yes, yes, but the most used word is ‘truffles.’ Your cargo, Captain Morgan. They’ve come for you. Stop them!”
They’d listened.
For the first time he could remember, Jason Morgan found himself speechless.
16
A CLUSTER OF Nrophrae pushed by. They wore aprons, stained with the same amber liquid as sloshed in the globes they carried.
Suddenly, there were more such, everywhere I looked. A grav sled passed us, loaded with—if that wasn’t Butter serselves, I didn’t know my Atatatay. I did recognize the begoggled “Yummy-Yum” dealer. If I’d thought Plexis drew customers from a wide variety of species, it was nothing compared to the vast—and occasionally unlikely—biological spectrum of those involved in station food services.
None paid attention to Plexis Security. I wasn’t sure Inspector Wallace noticed he’d moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his Human constable, or that the smaller Whirtle had managed to squeeze itself between them.
All acknowledged Morgan. My Human frozen in place, Huido returned waves and clicked his claws merrily. They were, after all, his truffles.
I joined in after a moment, and it all might have been some mad spontaneous celebration, except for the seriousness of expressions, color changes, and in several cases, odors. These weren’t happy beings.
They were determined.
To do what became clear as Morgan finally stirred, his hand finding mine. Witchling—his mindvoice full of emotion.
Items arched gracefully through the air, aimed at the personnel door fronted by the thickest part of the crowd. That most either missed or landed in the crowd didn’t seem to matter, which made more sense when a globe smashed on the floor near me, releasing a blue goo that smelled deliciously familiar. Nicnic jam.
They were throwing food. Consumables, I corrected, since beer was definitely soaring, too.
The dexterous caught and rethrew misdirected offerings. Others were quickly drenched by whatever struck. A few, this being Plexis, consumed what came their way—in the spirit of a common cause I sincerely hoped there weren’t any consuming one another. Tasty beings knew to keep a polite distance from their predators; not as easy in what was becoming a mob.
The door rapidly disappearing behind a spectrum of sticky goo and smashed containers remained closed. If there’d been security guarding it, I assumed they’d taken one look at the oncoming mass of irate cooks, wait staff, and bar owners, and realized they weren’t being paid nearly enough to stay.
More importantly, you did not want to anger those responsible for your food and drink. Something I hoped was sinking in to a certain F’Feego’s consciousness.
Interlude
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MORGAN SHOOK OFF the paralysis that had gripped him. He’d asked Sira to trust him. Claimed Plexis would answer—
No one could have seen this coming. He didn’t need the acrid taste of CHANGE to see how it could end. The station’s tolerance had limits, especially here at the beating heart of its economy. At any moment, the great section doors would close, trapping them all between. At any moment—suffice it to say accidents happened in space and all it would take would be some panicked fool in operations venting the “air they shared.”
Or under orders. This has to stop, he sent to his Chosen.
I’m open to suggestions, she replied.
We need a distraction—spotting a familiar slug, Morgan rapped on the nearest bit of black shell, gaining Huido’s attention. “Pick up Keevor.”
Eyestalks went rigid. “What?! Touch that—”
“Catch him!” For a slug, Keevor could move, leaving a glistening silver trail others were avoiding. “Hurry!”
With an aggrieved rattle, the Carasian obeyed, lunging forward to snatch the small alien in one great claw. “Now wh—”
The question vanished behind a loud keening WAIL louder than any previous shout. Keevor, rightly concerned about being squeezed in two, was squirting a thick brown mucus that hissed on contact with Huido’s carapace. In reaction, the Carasian flung his small purple attacker, still oozing mucus, as far away as possible.
As those beneath ducked and howled, Morgan turned to Sira, putting his palm against her forehead. Now!
17
ACCEPTING THE LOCATE from Morgan, I concentrated and pushed . . .
. . . to find myself, and my Chosen, standing in a service tunnel, one narrower than any I’d seen before but still lined with the ubiquitous waste canisters, chewing their contents. I blinked in the dimmer light.
“This way.” He was on the move, heading for a nearby door.
A figure formed from what I’d thought a shadow—was shadow itself, wreathed in black, the squat twisted shape confusing, if not the needler’s glint.
Morgan stopped, a finger’s flick keeping me still. “Morrab.” He stretched his hands out, open and empty. “Raj didn’t need to send you. We can resolve this.”
The needler’s tip drifted my way. “Dangerous.”
“Not to you,” my Chosen asserted, though well aware I was ready to drop this being into the M’hir. His voice turned grim, “Plexis will break unless we act, now. There’ll be no fixing it.”
“How can you know?” Morrab’s voice was raspy, as if hardly used.
“I taste it.” A pause during which I tried not to shiver—needlers were banned for good reason—then Morgan said, “So do you.”
After another too-long moment, the needler swung aside. “Go.” The other faded into the shadow of a canister.
Giving us a chance—before taking action of his own. Who’s this Morrab?
Also Plexis. Morgan busied himself with the palm lock on the door. It slid to the side, and we went through.
He didn’t close it behind us, a neglect I accepted, though it gave me another chill.
I refused to look over my shoulder to see who might follow.
* * *
• • •
I’d expected the station’s Department of Consumables Duties & Tariffs to be a typical busy office setting: comps lining the walls and an elaborate com system. Humans weren’t the only species prone to them.
Instead, we stepped gingerly between shoulder-high stacks of plas, most of it discarded food packaging, but I spotted noteplas tucked in here and there, as well as insulation panels. The air was bitingly dry, masking the smell that would otherwise permeate every corner. The ceiling was hidden behind swathes of purple cargo net, the net sagging alarmingly under the weight of black round bags. Bags I fervently hoped stayed where they were while we were underneath.
If there’d been portlights, they were buried in plas or lost inside the netting. Illumination came from utility glo-sticks shoved with no apparent order into the plas stacks.
After three turns, one dead-ending on a wall, we found ourselves at the official entrance, a door as plain as the one from the service tunnel. By the thuds and moist smacks coming from the other side, the crowd hadn’t run out of food to throw.
“Now what?” I asked my captain.
Morgan looked around, a speculative gleam in his eye. We aren’t alone, chit. “Officer Esaliz E’Teiso,” he said. “I’m Captain Jason Morgan of the Silver Fox. We spoke earlier on coms about our cargo. The truffles. The person with me is Sira Morgan. Please come out so we can continue our conversation and resolve this.”
“If you’ve come—-shurr—to pay the fee, you can’t do that in person.”
We looked up. All I could see were black bags.
“You must pay—shurr—Plexis com.”
“Please come down,” Morgan replied. Up and left, chit.
There. What I’d thought another bulge in the net was a being about my size wearing it—or tangled in it. Possibly both. Is it stuck?
I doubt it. “You’ve made a serious error, Officer E’Teiso, but it’s not irreversible. Credit may still be yours. Please come down.”
The bulge wiggled. “I’m not—shurr—finished my wrosk.” With a tinge of embarrassment.
Don’t ask, Morgan sent, before I could. “I suggest you do so promptly, Officer.” The door shuddered under a louder THUD than any before. “Those outside your door are not inclined to patience.”
A chubby arm appeared, the digits at the end holding a black bag in triumph. “I’m done.” The bag joined the others in the net.
Many biologies weren’t this tidy, I reminded myself.
The F’Feego detached and lowered itself by unrolling from a long strip of cargo net, the ends tied with little bows at intervals to prevent fraying. Impressive. I knew from experience the stuff wasn’t easy to handle.
Once on the floor, I could see the F’Feego was humanoid, if having paired limbs and a head over a torso qualified. Those limbs were fleshy and rounded, as though built from beads, and the head was similar, round and with features sunken within soft pits of pink freckled skin. There were two large red eyes, three narrow openings I assumed were nostrils but could, I suppose, have been ears, and a mouth presently pinched shut. The top of E’Teiso’s bald freckled head came up to my chin. Its torso was rounded, too, straining the fastenings of what was, indeed, a Plexis Port Authority uniform.
Part of one, none too clean, held together with string.
This humble being was the source of our troubles?
“I am down—shurr.” The sound explained by a flutter of the nostril openings. “What is your purpose—shurr—here, Captain? Payments go to Plexis com.” Said wearily, as if repeated to everyone.
I could see the change in Morgan’s face; felt it myself. “We’re here to help, Officer E’Teiso,” my Human said gently. “Are you aware what’s happening outside?”
“A practice mass evacuation—shurr—perhaps there has been false advertising of a sale—”
“They’ve come after you. You’ve made everyone angry by trying to tax incoming food.”
Shoulders like round balls hunched. “It is not I—shurr—shurrrrr—not I! I do what comes.” The F’Feego rushed away, nails on its long toes clicking, but it wasn’t flight. It stopped at a stack and fussed at the top, then moved to the next, digging with frantic haste through layers of packaging and insulation. “This!” it exclaimed in triumph, whirling to shove a scrap in Morgan’s direction.
The stacks were its filing system? I couldn’t argue—there were Clan who’d approve.
Morgan took the scrap, scanned its contents, then looked up, blue eyes ice-cold. “This isn’t an official policy change—this is an unexplained, unsigned directive to charge a new fee. Whomever sent it is a thief, using you and your office to skim honest
importers. Why didn’t you question it?”
“I—shurr—implement.” E’Teiso’s digit flicked a piece of plas sticking out from the multitude, then another and another. “I don’t—shurr—question.” A long—SHURRRRRRRR—then, in that weary tone, “I answer questions.”
Doubtless with “payment goes to Plexis com.” Having been on the asking side, I found myself less than sympathetic.
Morgan crumpled the directive in his fist. “A name, E’Teiso.”
The F’Feego, proving it had some understanding of Humans, backed away until it collided with a stack, then crouched, digits out in defense. “Not that—-shurrr—question! Not my job! Make payment, unload—shurr—your cargo, and go!”
Punctuated by another THUD on the door.
Jason, I sent quickly. The truffles.
A wave of approval answered. “Oh, we’re not unloading,” Morgan said casually. “We’ve another market.”
E’Teiso’s red eyes bulged until I feared they’d pop loose. “You can’t—”
A shrug. “Can’t afford to unload here, so it’s only good business. This is Plexis. You understand how it works.”
The F’Feego came closer, digits curled to its chest. “Captain—shurr—Hom Huido needs more truffles!”
“He says he’s done with them. This cargo’s for The Salty Appendage. That’s on Auord,” Morgan added helpfully.
“‘Auord?’” weak and followed by–SHURRRRRRRRR—“But I need—my wrosk—truffles—SHURRRRR—” With a pathetic flexing reach of its digits, “—keep me regular.”
I really hoped the cargo net overhead didn’t break.
Interlude
IN MANY WAYS, Morgan thought, E’Teiso was Plexis, too. A simple being, part of a system it didn’t control, doing its job and not a bit more.
From the sounds outside, the cost could be its life. Not something the F’Feego understood . . . yet.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 44
