Trouble Magnet

by Alan Dean Foster

  “My younger brother, Vione. Thought he’d like to see your place.” Chaloni winked. “Thought it would be educational for him to sit on a transaction.”

  The proprietor nodded, smiling pleasantly. “Would you like some thirps to munch on while your big brother and I are attending to business? I have cinnamon and luret.”

  “Sure,” Subar responded with falsified eagerness. In reality, he hated thirps. For all their imbued flavor, they had the consistency of desiccated packing material. Going along with the suggestion, though, earned him an approving glance from Chaloni.

  Munch on the snack food he might, but that did not keep him from playing close attention to the business at hand. Settling herself in the chair behind the waist-high counter, the woman looked on expectantly as Chaloni set down the innocuous-seeming package he had carried in tucked under one arm. She might affect a motherly countenance, Subar decided, but the gleam in her eye was pure distilled avarice.

  Carefully, Chaloni unwrapped his precious payload. Revealed in the beam of the ceiling-mounted spotlight was a booklet of real paper. Beside it, he laid out a trio of short red stubs of similar material. Not having studied these particular items in any detail before, Subar leaned closer for a better look. The booklet advertised some kind of ancient sporting contest involving men in uniform. The accompanying triplet of smaller, darker material was devoid of imagery either flat, multidimensional, or projective. Antique indeed, he thought.

  The shop owner’s reaction was instructive. Normally steady as robotic digits, her fingers actually trembled as she picked up the booklet. Hesitating, she looked over at the grinning Chaloni. “May I?”

  “Buyer has the right to examine the goods,” he replied generously.

  Page by precious page, she leafed through the fragile booklet. Setting it down as reverently as if it were the original copy of the books of the United Church, she delicately fingered one of the three red bits of paperboard that accompanied it.

  “The dates all match,” she whispered, as if unable to believe her own words. “Same dates, and the location of the sporting contest is mentioned prominently on all four items.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” Chaloni agreed importantly. “I thought that might matter.”

  “You thought…?” She broke off and waved a hand over the counter. A cylindrical tridee unit sprang to life, its glow highlighting her weathered face in soft green. “I’ll make an offer.”

  Subar nearly choked on a half-chewed thirp when he saw the number that appeared in the relevant portion of the projection. Chaloni was game, but even he was clearly taken aback. He had arrived prepared to bargain. It was expected that he do so. A more experienced seller would have recovered in time to do so.

  “That’s okay. I mean, we accept.” Having failed to keep his expression neutral, he compensated somewhat by maintaining an even tone. But just barely.

  “Good. I don’t mind haggling, but unlike some shop folk I don’t particularly like it.” She extended a hand.

  Reaching into a jacket pocket, Chaloni pulled out his card and passed it over. As she ran it through the glow of the cylinder, it beeped twice, softly, before she returned it to him. A quick check showed that his pseudonymous account had been credited with a sum never encountered since he had originally stolen the device. He rose.

  “We ought to be getting home. Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Benawhoni.”

  “And you, Puol.” She smiled at Subar. “You too, Mr. Vione. If you don’t mind my inquiring,” she asked hurriedly as the two youths headed for the doorway, “where did you obtain these very special relics?”

  While not prepared for the size of the opening offer, this was a query Chaloni had anticipated, and he was ready with a response. “Third-party sources. Can’t say more than that,” he finished, having said nothing at all.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Unforgivable breach of etiquette.” The proprietor looked properly apologetic. “Can you—do you have access to more material like this?”

  Chaloni halted at the doorway. “I might be able to come up with a few pieces. You’re saying that you’re interested?”

  She nodded once, deliberately. “Yes. I am interested. How soon can you bring me more?”

  Chaloni shrugged, as if the matter was of no consequence. “Give me a couple of days to talk to my suppliers. Tueswen morning okay?” She indicated agreement. “Maybe something bigger next time?”

  “Whatever you can get your hands on, child.” Turning slightly, she gestured behind her. “Sometimes the smallest items are the most sought after. In this business it’s all a matter of matching merchandise to a market.”

  Chaloni nodded as he stepped out through the invisible, momentarily deactivated security barrier. It was not until he and Subar stepped off their second public transport of the morning that the two of them finally felt safe enough to free their feelings. Their shouts of ecstasy and excitement drew looks of disapproval from commuters chained to the joylessness of actual jobs. Neither youngster paid the least attention to the judgmental stares their youthful expressions of delight attracted.

  “Tvan,” Chaloni exclaimed, “did you see how much? Did you see, Subar?” The older boy was fondling his credcard with a caress hitherto reserved solely for Zezula.

  “I saw, I saw.” Unable to restrain himself, Subar was prancing all around the gang leader like a Quillp at the ritual nest pole. “What now, Chal? What do we do next?”

  “Do next?” Grinning hugely, Chaloni waved the credcard teasingly back and forth in front of the younger boy’s eyes. “We spend, friend. Spend like we’re briated, because there’s flare more where this came from!”

  Despite Chaloni’s exultant exclamation they did not spend quite like they were intoxicated. That they were clearly under the influence of something, however, was on display for all to see. Handed real cred for the first time in their young lives, all the members of the group felt free to indulge their own individual desires, sometimes in previously unsuspected ways. Who would have thought, for example, that that silent sentinel Sallow Behdul would have wanted to take out a subscription to Benews, buying the headset that allowed one to listen to direct-induction media twenty-six hours a day? Or that Missi, apparently forever content to hover in the shadow of the alluring Zezula, would spring for a phototropic hair weave that caused her coiffure to change color as well as pattern with every light shift?

  They spent and they played and they went their separate ways, keeping their newfound wealth secret from relatives of every stripe. Heeding Chaloni’s admonition, they were also careful not to overdo it. Able to purchase personal transportation up to and including a private, enclosed skimmer, the gang leader opted instead for an open street glider. He could customize it to fit his taste without drawing the attention of the authorities. Private skimmers could maybe come later, he explained to his exuberant acolytes, when they had sold more of the goods and accumulated greater cred.

  Ashile was stunned when they met on the rooftop of her building and Subar presented her with the necklace. He insisted on fastening it around her throat himself. Mouth open, she found herself breathing deeply as she held the bottom curve of the band up to the light. Befitting the bastard glow of evening, the absorptive faceted gems trapped the city smog and promptly twinkled orange.

  “Subar, I—I don’t know what to…” Her tone darkened and she turned to face him. “Where, how, did you get this?”

  He grinned broadly, enjoying himself. “Same way everybody gets things. By buying and selling.” He nodded in the direction of the ribbon of refracted light that encircled her neck. “The bigger stones are Burley firestorm. Like it?”

  “Like it? I never in my life, Subar…”

  She ought to have questioned him further, she knew. She ought to have challenged him straight up. But every time she started to do so, a shaft of orange flame distracted both her eye and her attention. So she was left with only one thing to do.

  She put her arms around him and kissed hi
m.

  His eyes got almost as big as the necklace’s central stone. Pulling back, he was still smiling, but wary now. Not only because of the abruptness of the embrace, but because it made him feel unexpectedly funny.

  “Tloat, Ashile. Take it easy. I’m going to assume that means that you do like it.”

  Having decided to keep it, she was examining the necklace more closely now. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It must have cost you—I can’t imagine how much it cost!”

  He feigned indifference. “It wasn’t so bad. Buying two of them, I got a great deal.”

  She looked up from the necklace and blinked. “Buying two…?”

  “Well, sure,” he told her innocently. “This one for you and the other for Zezula.”

  “Zez…” A wealth of emotion distorted her expression in a matter of seconds. “You gave one just like this to Zezula?”

  He nodded, in the manner of those males of the species who have paused to smell a flower unaware that the sheer cliff directly behind them has just been shivered by tectonic forces beyond their imagination and is about to collapse on top of them.

  “Uh-huh. She liked hers, too. Not as much as you, I think.”

  Reaching behind her neck, she touched a forefinger to the coded clasp. Reading its new owner’s body charge, the necklace released. She caught it as it fell from her throat and tossed it back to him. He caught it reflexively.

  “Ashile, what…?”

  Her tone had passed beyond frosty into the realm of the arctic. “I’ve just decided I don’t like Burley firestorm. But thank you for the thought.” Turning, she strode away from him and toward the building’s lift, walking fast but not hurriedly, the sinewy shape of her a sine curve counterpart to the stiff rooftop profusion of aerials and vents. Utterly bewildered, Subar stared down at the very expensive piece of rejected jewelry.

  He knew how to break into buildings, and how to fool respectable citizens, and how to simulate beggary when times grew truly difficult. He even knew how to deal with offworlders and one or two nonhuman Commonwealth races. But for the life of him, he was sure that he would never come to an understanding of the opposite gender of his own species.

  Reflecting his newly won wealth, Chaloni’s custom-cut outfit was flashy and fashionable enough to draw the looks of the ladies but sufficiently subdued so that he would not stand out aggressively in a crowd. He had chosen it to attract attention but not a mob. It gave a lift to his gait. Literally, if one factored in the handcrafted glide shoes that added centimeters to his height while simultaneously easing his stride.

  Parking his personal scoot several blocks away from his destination, he checked to make sure the autolarm was activated before turning and heading up the street. He was feeling very good about life, and about himself. As well he should, given the several days of splurge he and his friends had enjoyed. It was astonishing how fast, he reflected, a significant amount of cred could be spread once it was split six ways, even if he had kept the largest share for himself.

  Well, no matter. He would have preferred to wait awhile longer before making another sale, but he had agreed on a date and it was not wise to keep an important connection waiting. The old woman would be glad to see him, he knew. He still remembered the look in her eyes when he had laid the ancient paper sporting booklet and its accessories out on her counter. He shifted the weight of the pack against his back, anticipating her reaction when he unburdened himself of its contents. Given her response to his first tender, he could only hope she did not go into cardiac arrest when she saw what he had brought for her this time. He did not quite lick his lips in expectation. The cred from the initial sale of goods taken from the scrimmed storage facility was nothing compared with what he and his friends were going to obtain today.

  The shop was unchanged and exactly as he remembered it from the previous week. There was nothing to indicate the true nature of its core business: fencing stolen property.

  Its owner was also as he remembered her: pleasant, matronly, and welcoming. She was perusing a holovit when he entered. As soon as she recognized him, she smiled and waved the projection into oblivion.

  “Wellup and wellfound, young Mr. Puol.” Eyeing him up and down, she barely repressed a smile. “You did not have to dress so flare just to come and see me.”

  He sat down opposite the counter, this time without waiting to be asked. As soon as he removed the backpack, his chair morphed to conform to his back, buttocks, and thighs. “I picked up a few things since I saw you last week. Fine clothes unworn aren’t fine; they’re just rags.”

  “A philosoph as well as a sagacious seller.” Heavily made-up eyes glittered both literally and figuratively as they fixed on the backpack on his lap. “What nicey-niceties have you brought me this time?”

  He worked slowly to unfasten the pack, marking time with the special seals, taking pleasure in making her wait. Watching intently, she offered a casual query.

  “Where’s your little brother?”

  So intent was Chaloni on enjoying the moment that he was nearly caught off guard. “My bro…?” He recovered in time. “Oh, Vione couldn’t make it. Life studies class.”

  She nodded, apparently satisfied. And caught her breath as he removed several objects from the pack and set them on the counter.

  One related tangentially to what he had sold her the previous week. It was a small, white ball used in the precursor to a modern game. Though the sphere, fashioned of organic materials, was well-worn, several signatures were still visible on its curves. Alongside this Chaloni placed a couple of garishly decorated plastic cups that at first glance featured the unlikely commingling of heroic figures and cheap food, a ring made of silver and turquoise whose provenance as genuine Terran would have to be established by proper cesium dating, a handmade woman’s blouse featuring florid threadwork and sewn-in inserts of small mirrors, and to top it off half a dozen bottles of simple sand glass that not only remarkably still held a portion of flavored sugar syrup, but were contained in the original paperboard carrier.

  Chaloni relished the look on her face. An expression like that was not the best one to adopt when preparing to enter into bargaining. It made him feel like he could name his price.

  “Well?” he finally asked.

  It broke the spell. She looked up at him, back down at the goods arrayed on the counter, and then pushed back in her chair. “Wonderful. Marvelous. That such objects should turn up for sale on a newishly settled world like Visaria is something of an inspiration. It speaks well for what others think of our future prosperity.” She took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, childman, I cannot buy them from you.”

  Despite his preparations, Chaloni did no better at hiding his shock at this response than she had her desire when looking upon the merchandise. “You can’t…,” he sputtered, concluding with a helpless, “Why not?”

  “Because they aren’t yours to sell, poor, poor, laddieyouth.”

  Two figures emerged from the shadows behind her. One of them would have made two of Chaloni. Or maybe three. Aside from unmissable massiveness, the man was toothy and blond and unsmiling. His companion was—his companion was just plain scary.

  And alien. Very, very alien, representative of a species unknown to Chaloni. More than two meters tall and exceedingly slim, the creature’s short, dense fur was a dark gray streaked with several shades of brown. The eyes were small, dark, intense, and covered with at least one, maybe two, nictitating membranes. Flexible pointy ears thrust out to either side of the head before angling upward to terminate in small furry tufts. Decorative strips of inscribed and burnished metal dangled from both of the extended hearing organs. Not only did one expansive cheek sac bulge impressively, but a frightened Chaloni had the impression something snake-like was moving within it. As the being came nearer, he could see that it was chewing methodically on something unseen. He caught a faint whiff of something offworld and unfamiliar.

  Its garb was a clashing couture of multiple flexib
le bands and gear straps to which were attached hitech instruments that alternated with idiosyncratic primitive carvings and alien embroidery. It was as if the wearer, like his attire, was caught between the primitive world of his origin and the recklessly forward-thrusting society of Visaria and the greater Commonwealth.

  Backing toward the doorway, Chaloni struggled to divide his attention between the pair of menacing newcomers and the fence he had been assured was independent and clean.

  “What is this, Ms. Belawhoni? Who are these tskoms?” No matter how much he waved his hands over the activation panel, the door behind him remained resolutely shut.

  Coming around the counter, the man put a hand behind Chaloni’s lower back and urged him gently, but implacably, back into the room. Unable to flee the shop but with no weapon pointed in his direction, Chaloni let himself be guided. Not that he had much choice. The hand in the middle of his back that was compelling him forward was as relentless as a metal piston.

  “Watch your language, scrim. And take it easy. We just want to talk to you.” Once all three of them were behind the counter, the man removed his hand from Chaloni’s lumbar and stepped back. That was a good sign, Chaloni decided. The fact that Ms. Belawhoni had vanished into the depths of the shop was not. As he was contemplating the possible ramifications of her disappearance, the heavy hand returned to shove him down into her chair.

  “You can call me Corsk.” Removing his fingers, the man moved around in front of Chaloni and leaned back against the display counter. It creaked beneath his weight. “This is Aradamu-seh. Arad is a Sakuntala, from Fluva.”

  On his guard and trying to shrink back into the chair, Chaloni shook his head. “Never heard of it. No offense,” he added, with a hasty glance in the alien’s direction. Those tight, fiery eyes were focused unblinkingly on him.