by Ivan Ertlov
The innkeeper swallowed, stood up and went back behind the counter without another word. At least until he had returned with two lavishly filled beer glasses and placed one of them in front of Frank.
"Let's have a drink to that."
They toasted each other, and Frank was surprised by the pleasant taste, the lightness, and the authentic hop aromas.
He clicked his tongue in acknowledgement, which elicited a grin from the host.
"Brewed by my cousin, according to Kozel's authentic recipe that has been passed down. Originally only meant for the marsupial arena, but he now brews enough of it to serve it here as well."
Frank raised his eyebrows.
"Marsupial arena?"
"Yes, it's popular family entertainment around here. American football, rugby and stuff like that are not welcome because of the risk of injury and the resulting burden on society. So we have arenas where trained marsupials fight each other. Well padded, additionally secured, nothing happens to the rascals. You can bet on the outcome of the fights and so on. It's all more of a show, but we still call it Mortal Wombat! Ingenious, isn't it?"
Frank nodded, impressed, and the host launched into his questions.
"So, if you're the commander - what the hell happened to the Protectorate? The last time I visited Durash was thirty years ago, and they're quite tolerant there, but still - we humans were always the last shit, you know, the youngest in the mines, the first when it came to dying under orders. Has that changed in the meantime?"
Frank took a deep breath, struggling with his innate, Plachtharr-cursed honesty as much as with the diplomatic component of his mission formulated between the lines. A compromise was forming.
"It's still largely like that, but some things are changing. A purebred human has a hand in the grey market and is - well, respected is the wrong word. But he's important; nobody messes with him. He even supplies the Council Speaker. She, in turn, is tough but fair; the administration in the Splinter City does its job strictly by the book - and that means, as far as it goes, unspecific. Everything remains within the framework of the Lex. You can work your way up or fight your way up. Or just rise by proxy of eaten relatives, the traditional way."
"Like you?"
"Just like me. My useless father apparently tasted good to some important Creesh, and bang, I was an apprentice on a Consortium freighter. Then ten years of hard work, a heroic deed, a survived suicidal war mission and a few good friends with NHS ..."
The innkeeper grimaced.
"Still doesn't sound fair."
Frank shrugged his shoulders.
"Neither does having to read a menu where most things are off. So, why is there no Klobása anymore?"
The grimace became a grin.
"Because of the pig revolt three years ago."
"The what?"
"The pig revolt, you heard right. The biogeneticists wanted to make the pigs a bit more intelligent than they already are. A few extra IQ points, just enough for them to build and maintain their own stables."
Frank almost choked on his beer.
"What a stupid idea! What happened? Did they run away?"
"Much better. They took the farmers hostage and then threatened to eat one every day until their political demands were met. After the second farmer went the way of all swine, Gonzales himself took over the negotiations with El Porco, their leader. They came to an agreement, and since then, there has been no pork on earth."
"And the pigs?"
"Continue to work in agriculture. Ploughing the beet and potato fields faster and better than any machine. In return for a juicy share of the harvest, of course."
That sounded reasonable - but Frank's stomach was still growling.
"So, what's the dish of the day?"
*
The Gröstl turned out to be a hearty mixture of onions, potatoes and brownish chunks that were supposed to be roasted beef - hence the name! - but were actually concocted from shiitake mushroom, tapioca flour and coconut oil. It was glorious! This dish could just as well have ended up on the plates of the finest restaurant in the Splinter City.
And yet, shortly before the end of the meal, Frank lost his appetite - because he was being watched. At first, it was just a vague feeling, a slight tingling at the back of his neck, still relatively easy to ignore. Then a queasy pulsation in the pit of his stomach, finally even cold sweat on his forehead.
He knew the signs all too well.
Since there was no soul in the pub except him and his host, the observer had to be outside. Frank didn't let on, continued to shovel fork after fork into his mouth - albeit much more listlessly - chewing half-heartedly to himself and trying to look as inconspicuously as possible through the window into the open air.
And indeed!
On the opposite side of the street, in the shadow of a market stall, but a good metre away from the vendor – it seemed that traders would take money, after all - stood a small figure. Only indistinctly visible through the dirty window and at this distance, but at least a head shorter than Dilara, two tentacles hanging down from the head on the left and right.
Tentacles?
This was strange on a world that was currently not actually home to any non-human being except Florbsh[8]. Frank's unease continued to grow as he tried to make out details.
In vain.
He thanked the landlord, stared with a hint of regret at the leftovers on the plate, and stepped outside.
The figure had disappeared.
He looked around, saw some people going about their day's work, a mother dragging her whining toddler by the hand into a clothing shop, some gliders hovering over the asphalt.
Nothing unusual.
Had his eyes played a trick on him and allied themselves with his intuition for this?
Hardly.
Millennia of humans being the bottom of the rational food chain (literally, and "rational" was debatable to boot) had brought ancient instincts back to life and sharpened them. Genetic memories of a time when the ancestors of Homo sapiens were small fluffy mammals whose life expectancy shortened dramatically when watched by large hungry lizards.
The sense of being watched was indelibly burnt into his DNA and extensively refined by his personal experience.
Shaking his head, he continued his walk through the city centre to the residential quarters, a colourful hodgepodge of human architecture. Meticulously painted, multi-storey corrugated iron huts nestled almost lasciviously against elaborate half-timbered buildings, longhouses built of wood coexisting peacefully with mud-brick huts.
For the particularly privileged, for the powerful and beautiful who probably spent their weekends in one of the beach villas, there was even a series of prefabricated housing estates built artfully upwards[9] from real concrete.
The moneyless society had also left a clear footprint on urban planning - one looked in vain for something like commercial centres, the distribution of crafts and warehouses gave the impression of following the principle of creative chaos.
Wait, no, a pattern was very much in evidence - where the small shopkeepers, tailors, barbers and other honest, hard but free-working people set up shop, there always seemed to be a narrow, dark alley nearby.
And in one of them, Frank finally saw his nemesis, his persecutor, the reason for his paranoia surge during a delicious meal.
And scolded himself for being a fool.
For it was not tentacles that bobbed up and down, eking out an existence to the left and right of the narrow but curious eyes - but pigtails.
And it wasn't a strange being with a clear NHS that was watching him with fascination - but a little girl.
Eight, maybe nine years old, slim and trim, like so many childish bodies were before discovering hormones, fast food, and holo-multiplayer games. Hers was in dark blue dungarees, and a "Neoterra needs Neotokyo! " T-shirt, which seemed much less ridiculous than it looked. It was probably because of the motif of a giant lizard trampling a skyscraper and shooting laser
beams out of its eyes.
On the thin neck (of the child, not the lizard) rested an oversized-looking head with a roundish face dominated by a snub nose, a doggedly pinched mouth and indeed narrow eyes.
Millennia ago, when humanity still felt the need to be divided based on geographical differences, skin colours and religions, she would probably have been called Asian.
Those days were over, and it remained with a little girl, actually far too young to be running around unsupervised in a big city. Strictly speaking, far too cute to be so mysterious and secretive.
She waved at him, furtively and conspiratorially, signalling him to follow her - before disappearing into the dark alley.
Frank took a deep breath and relief originating from the humanity - and physical inferiority! - of his pursuer gave way to new scepticism.
A little girl who stalked the uninvited and unexpected guest of her homeworld?
Trying to lure him into a dark alley?
There were a thousand good reasons not to follow her!
And Frank ignored every single one of them.
*
Carefully, he puts one step in front of the other, has squeezed his eyes shut before the transition from light to shadow and now opens them, first with a quick, frantic blink, then only fully.
An age-old trick, but it works.
His eyes become accustomed to the twilight much more quickly, grasping contours and details: of small balconies hovering above him, of the ground, which here is made of cobblestones, of walls on which posters advertise various educational institutes.
The girl has disappeared.
In front of him are thirty metres of an alley, narrow and without side doors leading out of one of the buildings. At its end, a double metal door, wide open.
An invitation?
A trap?
Probably both.
He puts the crown of stupidity on his recklessness, marches on, ignoring the twitch in his hand that unconsciously wants to reach for a non-existent weapon.
Ten metres to the passage.
Frank forces his breath to calm down, to adapt to the concentration he carefully nurtures and increases.
His senses sharpen.
Is there a murmur?
Voices, unusually high and excited?
If so, they come from the building in front of him, which looks like a warehouse, like an oversized storeroom.
A trap, of course.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, irritating electric tingles run up and down his spine as he steps into the room, and darkness welcomes him.
The door slams behind him, as expected.
His muscle tension increases to just before the limit of a first calf cramp, his body is ready to fight.
He expects the first hit, the first blow, probably struck from behind on his head.
But it does not come.
Glaring light bursts over him, from one millisecond to the next, robbing him of his vision, making him throw up his hands and raise them protectively in front of his eyes.
"Frank Gazer!"
A bell-bright voice rings out.
He blinks through between his fingers, which he slowly moves apart, recognises an outline in front of him.
"Frank Gazer!"
His hands slowly sink down, and he sees.
He sees three rows of bleachers growing up the walls to his left and right.
They are filled with children.
Human children - what else?
All between an estimated six and ten years old, taller and shorter, dark-skinned and pale, girls and boys and some he can't be sure. Quite a few whisper, others bob their legs excitedly, but most sit as quiet as mice, concentrating on Frank.
The latter stands on a bare concrete floor and now stares in turn at the black braids in front of him - and into the eyes between them.
A mocking smile plays around her lips.
"Frank Gazer! You have been summoned before this tribunal because you are accused of hoarding knowledge, not passing it on in full. Therefore, you deprive others of insights and wisdom, and I will restore the balance. For I am Jin Ling, the Extractor. Are you ready to face my questions?"
His body relaxes; the readiness to fight gives way to a curious fascination. A good two hundred of the little kidnappers are gathered here, and it is obvious what they want from him.
They are curious, as all children should be.
He tries to take them as seriously as possible because they deserve nothing less.
"I will answer your questions, Extractor Jin Ling."
The girl smiles triumphantly, an unspoken I knew it! reflected in her features.
"Then let the tribunal of knowledge begin!"
*
"Do the peoples in the Council hate us humans?"
The first question was a dangerous one, and Frank understood that he had to be on his guard. These children grew up in cultural isolation, had been humans among humans since birth. His answer was crucial to how they saw themselves in the grand cosmic scheme of things. A tremendous responsibility for a single prospector, and he swallowed.
"No, Extractor, they do not hate us. Of course, some representatives of these peoples hate humanity as an idea, as a concept or as a power in space, but not as individual humans, neither you nor me."
She took a step towards him, and he could see the curious sparkle in her eyes, that energy so abundant in children, far too often diminishing before its time in most adults.
"Then why do they hunt us? And treat those who live under their roofs, on their worlds, like slaves? With a law of their own that restricts humans - and only humans! – as inferior beings, second-class citizens?"
It was an incredibly eloquent choice of words for a little girl, and Frank realised that conversely, he did not have to adapt his vocabulary to the underage audience. Gentle truth, a lie-for-children, or even mere glossing over were out of place here.
"Because they are afraid. Humanity tried to win a lost war a long time ago with weapons that could have destroyed our entire galaxy. Even after so many generations, the memory is still there, that all existence, all life within thousands of light-years was almost destroyed. Yes, we are restricted, yes, we are viewed with suspicion - but we are not slaves."
He hesitated, reflected for a brief moment and decided to pay full respect to the truth.
"Whereas some of us live in circumstances that are not much better than slavery. Sometimes even worse."
Jin took another step forward, raised a hand and pointed his index finger at him.
"But not you! The adults whisper that you are the leader of the visitors, that you command a Creesh and a Borsht! How can that be?"
A murmur went through the ranks, and at the words, Creesh and Borsht, some of the little ones flinched, even began to tremble involuntarily. Apparently, the propaganda of their parents, or rather grandparents, had fallen on fertile ground. What could Frank do about it? Perhaps more than he thought, with the exotic bonus at his side.
"I don't really command them because we are friends. We live and work together, travel through space as a team. We eat and laugh, toil, and play together. But yes, according to the regulations, every ship must have a leader, a commander, and that is me."
Astonished exclamations rang out from the back rows, excited whispers arose somewhere to the left of him and died away again while Jin thought for a moment, preparing the next question. And it was a tricky one.
"But are you even a representative sample? Are your experiences statistically relevant? Do most people live like you? As the leader of a gang with their own ship?"
Frank shook his head.
"No, Extractor. Most of them toil in the mines or keep their heads above water with simple unskilled labour in the human quarter of the Splinter City."
Her gaze became lurking.
"Then why do you have a ship?"
"I found it with my friends, and because we did a heroic deed with it and because we are independent prospectors,
we got to keep it."
"And how did you become an independent prospector? I thought most humans toiled in the mines or kept their heads above water with simple unskilled labour in the human quarter of Splinter City?"
The ice over which he marched became thinner and thinner.
"I was a junior bridge officer on a Mining Consortium freighter, and after an incident in which my commander and first officer ..."
"No, that doesn't answer the question. How did you get on the bridge of the freighter in the first place? Why weren't you in a mine or doing your work in the human quarter?"
Frank swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. Did the children really deserve the truth? Could they even bear the truth? But, on the other hand, who, if not he, could instil in them an antidote to the poison of the True Humans, to the deluded stories of their grandparents?
He took a flight to the front.
"My father was eaten by an important Creesh, and my first job in space was to thank me for his excellent flavour."
The effect was fatal: a horrified cry here, a shrill squeal somewhere in the last row, children's mouths wide open.
And even Jin fell silent, shocked for a moment, and into this silence, Frank entered like the harvester into the seaweed field, like the ship's alcoholic into the harbour pub.
"And you know what? That was a good thing! My father was an asshole!"
More horror, more widened eyes, but somewhere to his right also a giggle, followed up with a whispered "Hehe, he said asshole".
"Yes, my father was an asshole! A cheat who took advantage of other people, financially and sexu-... in ways you can't even imagine! The universe is better off without him - and that shows me, that shows you, that it doesn't matter if someone is human or Toronk, a Tarjah, a Borsht, or a Creesh! It's the character that counts, kids."
Jin winced, obviously taking the word kids as a kind of reprimand, although it was meant quite differently.
She went on the offensive.
"Has the Creesh on your ship never tried to eat you?"
