by Ann Maxwell
A second whistle joined his. Beneath Rheba’s seething hair, Fssa was singing.
Slowly the song shifted, still melodic, still in harmony, but the words were different. The crowd did not notice, for only a handful of living beings understood Bre’n. Kirtn, however, realized that Fssa was trying to communicate without disrupting the act. The Bre’n glanced over and spotted Fssa’s opalescent sensors beneath the shifting veil of Rheba’s hair.
“I’sNara is in place and f’lTiri is working the crowd. Daemen is out at the fringe,” continued the snake, whistling in sweet counterpoint to Kirtn’s song.
Kirtn looked over the crowd, but saw no one familiar. He did not have the Fssireeme’s ability to make minute discriminations among solid shapes. The snake “saw” with everything but the wavelengths of energy that comprised visible light for nearly all the races of the Fourth People. The Fssireeme was a product of genetic engineering performed many Cycles ago, before the people known as Bre’n and Senyas had even been born. He was a perfect translator and predator, although the latter had not been planned by the men who had reshuffled the genes of Fssa’s species.
“Daemen just brushed past i’sNara. I think he gave her something. Yes! Oh, it’s lovely, a great long necklace that’s cut into a thousand surfaces!”
Kirtn sang and peered at the spot where the snake’s sensors were directed. All the Bre’n saw was the outline of a very rich woman watching the act. A second look assured him that the woman was indeed i’sNara, changed by f’lTiri’s illusion. Nothing in her jewelry matched Fssa’s description of what Daemen had handed over. Then Kirtn remembered that Yhelle illusions were limited to visible wavelengths of energy. The Fssireeme’s methods of “seeing” were not affected by such illusions.
The song ended. Kirtn and Rheba bowed while she drew the outlines of a crowd throwing money to the two performers. Laughter rippled and coins from various planets rang against the stones at their feet. As Kirtn gathered the money, Fssa resumed his monologue in Bre’n. The lyric whistle helped to stem the flow of departing people.
“From what I can overhear, the act is nice but not really exciting,” whistled the snake. “Even f’lTiri is having problems getting away unnoticed, and he’s in his invisible mode. You need something that will make the crowd overlook a hand in their pants.”
Kirtn laughed shortly. “About the only thing that would be that interesting would be—how did our dead stage manager put it?—‘a single dance of kaza-flatch.’”
Fssa made a flatulent sound. Dapsl’s death on Loo had not been mourned by the Fssireeme. Yet— “He was right,” whistled the snake on a series of descending, sour notes. “It worked.”
Rheba’s hand moved protectively on Kirtn’s arm. The Loos’ casual assumption that all furries were animals had infuriated her. Neither Fssa nor Kirtn needed Rheba’s indignant whistle to explain her feelings.
“Dapsl was right,” whistled Kirtn softly, resonances of laughter and regret in each note. “Appealing to Loo prejudices saved our lives.”
“Public mating?” demanded Rheba incredulously. She whistled a Bre’n phrase describing intricate sex among thirteen cherfs.
Kirtn laughed. “I didn’t have anything that complicated in mind. A simple love song . . . the Autumn Song?”
“I hate to soil its beauty for these swine,” she muttered in Senyas.
“What they feel is their problem,” he responded in the same language. “Ours is getting enough money to buy a navtrix.”
“But they’ll think it’s sodomy!”
Kirtn tilted her head up until he could see into her eyes. At their cinnamon depths, gold sparked and turned restlessly. “Is it sodomy to you, little dancer?”
The question, asked in controlled Senyas, sliced into Rheba like a knife. Anger and orange fire swept through her simultaneously. Streamers of flame rushed out from her body, causing the crowd to gasp and step back. She was too furious to speak, able only to burst into flame as she had not done since she was an undisciplined child.
Suddenly her arms wrapped around Kirtn’s neck in a hold that even Bre’n strength could not shift. He had an instant to regret goading her, then her mouth was over his in a kiss that made him forget the crowd, the navtrix, and—almost—his Bre’n discipline.
The fire that had leaped out from her changed into a lacework of gold surrounding her and her Bre’n. Like the lines on her body, the lines surrounding the two of them pulsed with energy. She did not know that she was building a cage of energy around the man who held her; it was a fire-dancer reflex as basic as breathing.
Kirtn knew what was happening, however. In a mature dancer the filigree of energy would thicken as dancer passion rose until finally the two lovers would be enclosed in a supple, incandescent world that was deadly to any but the Bre’n and Senyas inside. That much Kirtn knew from his past on Deva. What he did not know was what it felt like to be inside the cage, inside his dancer and the world around him hot and gold. Nor did Rheba know. Only a Bre’n could survive the full passion of a Senyas dancer; only a Bre’n could fully arouse it.
But Rheba had not been told that. It was something she must discover on her own. To tell her would negate the Dancer’s Choice, the moment when Senyas dancer chose a Bre’n—just as once, in the dancer’s infancy, a Bre’n had chosen a dancer. Without that second choosing, the relationship of Bre’n and Senyas was incomplete, and very dangerous to both partners.
As from a distance, Kirtn heard the bittersweet fall of notes that was the Autumn Song. Melancholy and harvest, chill winds and a lover’s warmth, fruition and death sung by the inhumanly perfect voice of an immortal Fssireeme.
Kirtn knew he should take Rheba’s arms from his neck, lift his mouth from hers, set her warmth at arm’s length. No dancer could make an honest choice while held against a sensual Bre’n body, his hands shifting her until she fit perfectly against him, his arms holding her in a grip both gentle and unbreakable. He knew he should release her . . . but he did not, not until the fact that she was trembling uncontrollably registered on him.
His body moved subtly, changing the embrace to one of affection rather than passion. He was shocked to see how thick the lacework of energy around them had become. Silently he cursed the Bre’n sensuality that had betrayed her trust, forcing a choice on her that she was not old enough to make.
Rheba trembled between his hands, looking at him with eyes that were half aware, half knowing . . . and half frightened. She had neither Senyas mother nor sisters to prepare her for full dancer passion. All she had was brief memories of half-grown Senyas boys, giggling pleasure under triple moons, simple release. It did not prepare her for the feelings that heated her now.
She tilted her head, sending her hair across his face and shoulder in electric caress. Her smile made him ache.
“That’s how much I care what anyone thinks,” she whistled softly. Then, wickedly, “You know, I rather like sharing enzymes with you.”
Kirtn grimaced at her reminder of their slavery on Loo. When the Loos would have separated Bre’n and Senyas, he had lied, telling the Loos that he and Rheba were symbionts who would die unless they could share enzymes by kissing. “Do you?” he murmured. “Some day I’m going to remind you of that,” he added, brushing her lips with his.
“It—it isn’t wrong, is it?” she said in a rush, glancing away from him, embarrassed to ask him. But she had no one else to ask, no one else to tell her what was proper and safe behavior between Senyas and Bre’n.
Kirtn’s hands slid into her seething hair, holding her so that she could not evade his eyes. “Nothing you could ever do with your Bre’n is wrong. Nothing.”
He felt the tension leave her body. Suddenly, mischief crackled in her eyes. She stood on tiptoe and ran her fingers around the rim of his ear, tickling him unmercifully. It was the only way she had had as a young child to get even with her huge Bre’n mentor. Much to Kirtn’s despair, it seemed to be something she would not outgrow.
“Nothing?”
she asked sweetly.
He caught her tormenting hands and said hastily, “Almost nothing. Tickling my ears is definitely a badnaughtywrong.”
The childhood word made Rheba laugh. She leaned against Kirtn, smiling. “I’m glad you Chose me, Bre’n mentor.”
Someday, maybe you’ll Choose me, thought Kirtn, then realized by her sudden movement that she had caught his thought. He cursed the inconvenience of being so close to each other that minor mind dancing was possible—and so far apart that he could not tell her about her Dancer’s Choice.
The lacework of fire dimmed to invisibility. Money rained down on them, startling them into an awareness of their surroundings. Fssa’s clear whistle faded into silence.
“That was wonnnnderful!” whistled Fssa, bright with enthusiasm and the energy he had absorbed from Rheba’s hair. “You should do it more often. Such energy.” He expanded to twice his former length and size, luxuriating in the instant of not having to fold in upon himself to conserve warmth and energy. Then, as though noticing the charged silence, he subsided. “Well, I enjoyed it, even if you two didn’t. Humanoids,” he whistled sourly, “may have legs but they don’t have much sense.”
“Shut up, snake,” said Kirtn.
Fssa darkened precipitously, quailing before Kirtn’s anger.
“By the Inmost Fire,” swore the Bre’n, seeing his friend go from bright to dark. “You’re beautiful, snake,” he whistled coaxingly. “You just have too many mouths for your brain to keep up with.”
Rheba snickered and began collecting the money around their feet. It was soon apparent that she would need more than her two hands to hold the coins. Kirtn bent to help her, but even his hands were not large enough. With a gleam in his yellow eyes, he snatched Fssa from Rheba’s hair.
“I just thought of a use for one of your big mouths. Open up.”
Fssa squawked indignantly, but complied. He rearranged his dense molecules until there was an opening beneath the sensors on top of his head. His head was a matter of convenience, a conceit to make him more like the Fourth People he was among, for Fssireemes were almost infinitely plastic.
A stream of money poured into Fssa. He sorted the coins according to size and made suitable pockets inside himself. He made an odd, musical sound when he moved. Rheba snickered again. Fssa ignored her.
By the time they were through picking up money, Fssa was quite heavy. Kirtn saw a few of the less well-dressed city dwellers watching the snake with open greed. The amount of money inside Fssa was not great—probably no more than a few thousand credits—but to some of Nontondondo’s inhabitants, a few thousand credits were worth killing for.
Kirtn smiled at the men staring at Fssa. The smile revealed slightly serrated teeth and frankly predatory intent. The men looked away quickly and faded back into the crowd.
Fssa made another mouth and hissed contempt. “You should have let them touch me.”
“You aren’t licensed to kill.”
“I’m not a Fourth People, either. Onan’s rules don’t apply to me.”
Kirtn looked toward Rheba in silent question. Her understanding of Onan’s licensing system exceeded his.
“True,” conceded Rheba, “but I’d hate to try to explain your exemption to the Equality Rangers. I don’t think it would work. Onan’s licensing system is efficient and profitable. When you’ve got a good game going, you don’t let a wise-mouth stranger break the bank.”
Fssa made a flatulent noise. Coins quivered in an unexpected musical echo. Then his head turned suddenly and his sensors brightened as he shifted energy into their use. From the rim of the crowd came an ugly shout. Rheba caught only the word “furry” and some random unpleasantries.
“Trouble,” whistled Fssa.
The crowd dissolved away, warned by the uncanny sense of danger that was part of all Fourth People’s survival equipment. Where the audience had been stood twelve hooded men. Nine of them were licensed to kill. Three wore circles broken in three places; they were licensed to do everything but kill.
In a blur of speed, M/dur and three snarling clepts came to stand between the hooded men and Rheba. The J/taal’s license to kill shone clearly on his forehead. The hooded men paused, seeing first the full silver circle and second the nature of the man who wore it. They murmured among themselves, then began fanning out to surround Rheba and Kirtn.
“Snake,” whistled Rheba urgently, “tell M/dur I take it all back. He can do whatever he has to however he can—just get us out of here!”
Fssa relayed the J/taaleri’s revised instructions in a guttural burst of sound. M/dur heard, but the only sign of that was the clepts padding lithely toward the men who wore closed silver circles. Narrow-eyed, lethal, the war dogs glided closer to their prey.
On the fringes, the Equality Rangers closed in. Rheba looked up in momentary hope, then realized that the Rangers were not there to prevent mayhem, but to regulate it. She would not be able to use her dancer skills or Kirtn’s deadly strength to help M/dur. They were licensed only to entertain, not to fight.
One of the hooded men spotted the Rangers. He called out a question. Fssa’s translation of Nontondondo’s gutter language hissed in Rheba’s ear.
“Ranger! Have these animals been licensed?” called the hooded man, his hand sweeping around to point at the clepts.
Before the Ranger could answer, Fssa called out, “The man is J/taal. He is licensed to kill. Those animals are his weapons.”
“Clever snake,” murmured Rheba as his translation whispered to her from a separate orifice he had just created. “Will it work?”
The Rangers muttered among themselves, then shrugged. One of them answered, “He is J/taal. The clepts are weapons. His license to kill is valid and plainly displayed.” The Ranger’s voice was bored.
The hooded men hesitated, then pulled weapons out of their clothes.
Rheba’s nails dug into Kirtn’s arm. She began to gather energy despite her lack of license to do anything but entertain. She knew that if she broke Onan law there was nowhere else to go. Her navtrix could only take her back to the slave planet Loo, or to Deva, a dead world orbiting an unstable sun. She could not afford to break the law and help M/dur—but neither could she stand by and watch him killed because his J/taaleri had been too poor to buy weapons for him.
Her hair stirred in sibilant echo of the clepts’ graceful stride. Beneath her skin, akhenet lines smoldered, waiting only her release to leap into deadly, illicit fire.
IV
Suddenly, another J/taal appeared in the center of the hooded men. It was M/dere. On her forehead a full circle shone with diamond brilliance. Shocked by the appearance of an enemy in their midst, the hooded men fired without thought. Beams of razor light slashed through the J/taal—but she did not go down. The men surrounding her screamed, caught in the fire from weapons across the circle of hooded attackers.
Instantly the J/taal vanished, leaving behind two dead men, two more wounded, and chaos.
Clepts and J/taal attacked the instant the hooded men looked away from M/dur. When M/dur was finished, there were no screams, no wounded men. Simply death, silent and incredibly fast, too fast for any eyes to distinguish details.
In seconds it was over. M/dur stood, swaying, deep burns down the left side of his body.
Kirtn swore in the rhythmic phrases of a Bre’n poet, then leaped forward to catch the wounded J/taal. Rheba, remembering the J/taal tradition of committing suicide when badly wounded rather than living as a burden on their J/taaleri, shouted at Fssa, “Tell him to live! If he dies on me I swear I won’t allow anyone to burn his corpse!”
There was no worse threat for a J/taal than being held in this life endlessly by an uncremated body. M/dur looked over at her with pain-narrowed eyes and made a weak gesture of agreement.
Rheba spun and watched the street, wondering if there would be trouble from the Equality Rangers. They were staring toward M/dur, still stunned by M/dur’s speed and deadliness. It was one thing to know J/ta
als by reputation. It was quite another to see one of the mercenaries in action.
“Are you satisfied, Ranger?” called Rheba. “Or should I have my J/taal fight again?”
“Animal,” said one Ranger loudly.
Though M/dur was smooth-skinned, everyone knew that the females of his race were furred. Onan permitted mating between furry and smoothie, but taxed it heavily. Only a license to murder cost more.
Rheba waited, hoping that the Rangers were honest enough to obey their own laws.
To her surprise, they were. Without another word they withdrew, checking doorways and alleys for the female J/taal who had come and gone so mysteriously. Rheba found herself doing the same, although she knew that M/dere would not have left the ship against the express orders of her J/taaleri.
Daemen sauntered out of a doorway. His coat was lumpy around his slender frame. She half expected to see M/dere following him, but it was only the Yhelle illusionists, appearing as themselves. She waited until they were close enough that no random pedestrian could overhear.
“Was that you?” she asked, gesturing toward the place where M/dere had appeared—or had seemed to appear.
F’lTiri smiled wanly, obviously exhausted. “A real person would have been killed in the center of all that fire. I merely projected M/dere’s illusion, hoping to distract the hooded men long enough for M/dur to get out from under their guns. We were lucky, fire dancer. They weren’t used to illusionists. They shot without suspecting that nothing was there, and killed their companions instead of their enemy.”
“Lucky,” repeated Rheba, her eyes wandering over to Daemen, whose smile was like sunrise. She shivered. “There are two kinds of luck. I hope we’re off Onan before the other kind finds us.”
Daemen walked forward, no longer smiling. “Don’t think about that.” His hands moved in an odd, sinuous gesture of warding off. “If you name the other kind of luck, you’ll regret it.”
