As the plastiglass was shattered into tiny shards by the force of the pulse rifle, Tashto glimpsed a male and female human crouched, their hands raised above their heads, as the wall shattered in front of them. He suddenly felt a sharp thud in the shoulder, and his left arm felt numb as he dropped the pulse rifle. He could see his bright red Garanian blood spurting from his shoulder, and he crouched into the left side of the doorway once more as he searched for the one weapon he had left; a tiny ceremonial dagger that Rack must have not perceived as a threat. As he fumbled in his pocket for the knife with the two-centimeter long blade, he heard Ayan’we give an anguished yelp and drop to the floor. Her right leg was bleeding severely, and her eyes were wide with pain. He heard one of the humans yell out, “Kill the goddamn bitch!” and heard the thud of heavy footsteps advancing on their position. Tashto felt light-headed as his shoulder bled out onto the floor, but was able to muster the last of his strength and fling the ceremonial knife at the advancing gunman. He aimed for the man’s neck, but the gunman raised his arm to block and the blade went into the man’s forearm instead.
The guard grunted at Tashto and yelled, “You’re gonna be the first to die, you goddamn lizard!” Ayan’we flung herself into the massive brute from behind, knocking him onto the ground and sending his rifle sliding away across the floor. He quickly seized her by the throat in with his left hand and threw her next to Tashto. Forlani and Garanian blood mingled on the floor as he drew a massive knife from his shoulder pocket. Ayan’we frantically tried to ready her stun gun as Tashto felt himself drifting out of consciousness. The gunman’s knife was raised in the air above her, prepared to plunge down and sever the arteries of her neck…
His vision fading, Tashto heard a loud, “ON THE FLOOR AND DROP THE KNIFE!” echo behind him. In his blurry vision, he could still make out Ayan’we smiling, assuring him that someone had come to their rescue. The seconds seemed like minutes as the massive gunman flung himself onto the floor. The last thing Tashto’s numbing body felt was Ayan’we touching him lightly on the chest, as if to check his pulse. As he drifted into the black void, he somehow felt a sense of relief, a feeling that a great burden had been lifted from him.
Ayan’we limped along a corridor approaching the Forlani section. A med tech robot, one of Rack’s crew, had repaired her wound and a Phiddian doctor who rushed to the scene persuaded her to let him stitch it. It turned out to be true that the Phiddians did good things with skin, for the hermaphrodite mended the gash in her leg seamlessly. The only way Ayan’we could know that she had endured a combat at all was the deep, dull pain when she leaned on it. That ache was not what was really bothering her – it was her chaotic state of mind. The fire fight had been bad enough. She had never imagined the reality of combat was so nerve-wrenching. Training had given no idea of that feeling of utter exposure and helplessness. And there were other things that troubled her even more.
She should have been able to discuss this with her sisters in the security cluster, but for some unknown reason, she seemed unable. As receptive as they were, she could not find the words to express herself and was left tongue-tied and ashamed. Now she was headed for the only person she imagined could help. A person, she fully realized, that she should not even be talking with. She pressed the button to Isshel’s door.
He looked at her with wide-eyed astonishment. She must have looked even more ragged than she felt. “I know it’s inconvenient, but could I just have a few moments of your time for some advice?”
“Of course, come in Ayan’we. Watch out!” She felt dizzy and leaned against the wall. He took her arm and led her inside to a chair where she slumped sideways.
“What’s wrong? Are you injured?”
“Just a little cut. It’s fixed now, you can’t even see it.”
“You must have lost some blood. Don’t try to be brave for my sake. Look, you need something to give you some strength. Try some of this tallita.” He held out a massive fruit that required both hands to hold it. As she bit through its orange skin, she felt a surge of relief as its juice burst into her mouth and trickled down her throat. The flesh was crisp, but it yielded a flood of juice as soon as the teeth bit into it. Ayan’we greedily sucked at the tallita as she bit all the way to its woody core. Heedless of any social propriety, she munched away until she had devoured over half of it, enough for three or four people at a regular meal. Then she set it down on a plate with a sign and leaned back contentedly.
“Thank you so much, Isshel. That was wonderful. You’re right, I was feeling very woozy before you came to my rescue.” She grew more serious. “I had to come to you to get my head back together. I don’t want to impose, but I didn’t think you’d mind.
“I don’t. Not in the least. Tell me, though, how did you get into this state?”
Ayan’we succinctly described the expedition to find Torghh and the confusion of the brawl that ensued. “Well, we’ve recovered Doctor Torghh at last,” she summed up.
“What about the reptile?”
“He was bleeding all over the place. Rack cauterized the wound and put him right into a coma, because he was in a hurry to see to Torghh.”
“And the enemy? Were they all humans?”
“It was a little hard to tell. It all happened so fast. All the ones the guards rounded up were human, but I had a distinct impression there were at least a couple of people who got away. I never got a clear look at them, but one seemed to be female and one male. Of course, if they were Phiddian, it might be I was just seeing them from the wrong angle.”
“Surely the prisoners were able to provide more information.”
“Unfortunately not. Two were killed in the fight, either by Tashto or the guards who saved us, but the two who were stunned committed suicide right away when they regained consciousness. They must have had some kind of poisonous pill or capsule.”
“Couldn’t you trace them through the delegation?’
“It appears they were not part of the delegation. Some kind of mercenaries smuggled in among the freighter crews. There’s always a certain amount of rabble hanging around a transfer station before they ship out again.”
“Well, it’s over now. You have no more reason to worry. In fact, you acquitted yourself with great honor. Two against a half dozen or more armed opponents? I imagine the robot was not much help, given his profession. And you with nothing but a stun weapon? You’ll get a commendation. You’re in the clear.”
“Nobody’s in the clear! Some of the kidnappers are still at large. They’re not about to stop. I have a terrible premonition they’re going to turn to something even more violent. In fact, I have an awful notion they might aim at my mother as their next target. Don’t you see? It’s my responsibility to protect them. Even though the enemy has had me totally fooled and confused from the beginning. If it wasn’t for some unidentified spy, Quatilla would probably be dead already. Who knows if they will be able to restore Torghh to any kind of consciousness. You should have seen him, he was half taken apart, almost nothing but spare parts. Next time it could be my own flesh and blood.”
Isshel reached out to touch her fingers. “You are being too hard on yourself. You’ve always had the courage when you needed it.”
“Huh!” snorted the young woman, “You know where that came from? From beyond the grave! I had a dream where Klein appeared. His support was all that’s been keeping me going. I felt like I had his strength behind me even though I was so wretched. Now all of that seems to have evaporated. I feel so alone.” She put her face in her hands and would have cried if she were human, but instead began to tremble as the Forlani did in their moments of weakness.
Isshel gently drew her hands away from her face so that she had to look at him. “You’ve never been wretched. You are admirable. I would be proud if… if you were mine.”
Her eyes widened. “Isshel. This is… You have been a wonderful friend to listen to me, but I won’t mislead you. I couldn’t become your wife. I… You…”
“
I know, I know, I already have two wives. And even if they felt honored to have you join them, you are far too worthy to be anyone’s third wife. You deserve better.” He lowered his eyes. “I don’t deserve as much. Yet I have feelings.” He threw up his arms. “What are we supposed to do with that? I have fathered fine children with two wives that I have ignored, under-appreciated, even scorned. Here I am aroused by the daughter of a para-para. I can feel my blood surging and I, who boast of controlling everything, can’t control myself.”
Ayan’we stood and came next to him. “Isshel, you are not unworthy. I have feelings, too. I’m guiltier than you are. If I died in your bed, it would be my best destiny.” She brushed her lips against his eyelids and he grasped her hips to hold her close.
Ayan’we was shocked at her own behavior. She couldn’t comprehend what was happening. For the first time she was attracted to a male by something more than sympathy. It was visceral. She could feel his body becoming aroused and at the same time a strange numbness was sweeping over her. She realized with a start that this was the mating trance. A Forlani female’s hormonal surges literally began to anesthetize her body in anticipation of the piercing and the bloody mayhem it would unleash in her organs. Turning her head away, she whispered, “I can’t believe this!” However, she could not pull herself away and Isshel seemed not to notice. He drew her even closer and suddenly set her down on a couch.
Ayan’we’s head was swimming and she could no longer feel any sensation in her feet, then her legs. “Oh, no!” she mouthed. She was about to be brutally thrust into the world of motherhood that she had always held at arm’s length. Again and again she had rejected the fate of her happily wed sisters. This is not me. Or is it?
Isshel, she noticed, had clenched his jaws and drawn up to his full height, seeming to hesitate to take her. Perhaps he was undergoing his own kind of inner battle. With her last energy, she managed to say “Isshel, help me. This is wrong. Don’t ruin us. Think of yourself.” As soon as she’d said it, she understood how stupid it was.
Isshel took a half step back, gave a howl, looked around wildly, grabbed a sculptor’s trowel on the table next to him, and stabbed it with both hands into his thigh. He didn’t pull it out but kept on shoving it with all his might. He collapsed to his knees, shrieking with pain. Numbed, astonished, Ayan’we felt something on her hand and glanced down to see that it was covered with Isshel’s blood that was spurting onto her.
She would have risen to help him, but her legs were still like marble. She tried to breathe slowly and regularly and wondered how long it would take her nervous system to shake off the influence of the hormones. Brides-to-be normally took weeks of preliminary treatment with an herbal potion to ready their system for mating, so it was almost unheard of that Ayan’we could instantly change without drugs in a matter of minutes. At last she could feel tingling in her waist, her thighs, her knees, and finally her feet. She had no idea how much time had gone by. Isshel was still panting and pressing a cloth onto his wound. It had stopped gushing into the air, but was still soaking into the reddening compress.
Ayan’we got up gingerly, sat behind him, wrapped her arms around his body and hugged him, her chin on his shoulder. “Thank you, brother. Thank you, thank you. I couldn’t have stopped. It had to be you. You did, thank the heavens. You are a good, good man. “
Isshel had been shaking but calmed as she spoke. After a few seconds, he even gave a little chuckle. “Well, look at us idiots. Now we have matching wounds. “
“I’ll bind it for you.”
“No need, generous Ayan’we. I don’t work much in textiles these days, but I can assure you I am an excellent master of sewing. Nothing but excellent in Brotherhood training.
“I owe you so much.”
“Let’s call it a draw. You reminded me in just the right way.”
“Are you joking? I said completely the wrong thing.”
“No, I hate to admit to being egotistical, but you said the right thing. I had to think of myself and my pride instead of what was going on in my body. That was the only thing that could have stopped me. And even then, if that trowel had not been handy to give me something else to think about, I can’t swear that you would still be intact.”
“A draw then.”
“A draw, a truce, and a gag order.”
“True, we’ve both still got jobs to do.”
“Would you mind cleaning up first and slipping out before I play surgeon?”
“Just so.”
Ayan'we composed herself enough to go and speak with Entara about the struggle with the kidnappers. Naturally, she was completely mum about what had gone on in Isshel's quarters. She was so glad when Entara insisted she get some rest to recuperate from her aching leg that she gladly cuddled up with a few members of the off shift and shut her eyes. She was off to sleep before she knew it, warmed by her sisters' bodies. She didn't think at all about the pending negotiations the next day and did not dream of Klein and his riddles, but only about playing hide and seek in the mahäme gardens with her favorite friends when she was very young. Things were not so quiet in other parts of Transfer Varess.
As a supply freighter from Phiddi stopped moving and opened its door to one of the docking portals of the never-sleeping station, a laborer crew sprang into action with unaccustomed zeal as they began moving cargo to unload. They knew they would be paid according to their promptness. Time at the portal of a transfer station was money, especially when three quarters of the portals were clogged up with vessels serving to house delegations attending the Interzonal Peace Conference. As it was, most of the supplies were destined for those delegations: foods from many diverse worlds, atmospheric gasses for some, liquids for others. The water for the Song Pai alone took up a good part of the freighter. At least it was a living for the rag-tag members of the laborer crew. There were Kholods and Powls as usual all over the Phiddian territories, some criminal exiles from Blastöo, a couple of Prel for the really heavy lifting, and over a dozen humans who had mostly been left without a ship when the plague had struck Earth and abruptly dispersed most of its interstellar commercial and military fleets.
One human did not fit this last category. He looked as unkempt as the rest, ungroomed and unshaven, wrapped in tatters that bore the stains of untold taverns, flop chambers and storage bins from the Perseus Arm to the Sagittarian. It was what was inside that was different, as well as the motives that drove him from planet to planet, cadging rides in exchange for manual service along the way. This one was not thinking of the bonus chit that all the others would immediately squander for drinks or sex in the lowest dive of the transfer open to their kind. He had been planning to slip away for the last several parsecs of travel. There was a particular purpose to his stopping at Varess and he didn't plan to re-embark with the outbound freighter.
The human had rigged one of the load carriers so that it would break down after the first shuttle into the station. He would volunteer to make the repair while the small group that unloaded the carrier hurried back to the ship to join other details and log more active-time. They were perfectly willing to let that fool take the blame when the broken carrier was reported under-quota. Meanwhile, he would take his bearings, scope out the situation, and wait for the best moment to slip away. His absence would not be noticed right away. Even when unloading was completed, there would be little fuss. Laborers went missing all the time. Sometimes they would run off to be the first at the bar or the whorehouse. Other times they would feel the call of nature and look for facilities on the station that were luxuriously clean compared to the filthy ones on the ship. Disgusted with the freighter's meager rations, they might feel a sudden hunger for a snack of real food. If they scored some drugs, they might never make it back at all before undocking. It was part of the scummy profession, just like the occasional shanghaiing that took place when a departing crew was short.
He pitched in loading a carrier, taking his time so that it would not be among the first off the ship. When
he and his detail reached the designated storage area, he discreetly made sure the breakdown was discovered by someone else. He let a good round of cursing in several interstellar idioms go by before he accepted the repair job that had already been rejected by the others. As he swiftly repaired his earlier sabotage, he scouted around for a good escape route and found a time when several carriers were heading back together. Grabbing a Blastöo from another crew, he gave over control of his restored machine. As that lucky fellow was congratulating himself for the extra pittance he would pocket from returning an out-of-service carrier, the human stepped back into the shadows and made his way out of the storage area amid the general hubbub. He slouched down a corridor on the pretext of finding a different storage area. No Phiddian or RG guard stopped him to inquire. They were too used to seeing all kinds of rabble in this part of the station. It would be harder to find a change of clothes and a new cover before he carried out the rest of his plan, but he had a few good ideas. It was worth planning carefully and taking his time, because the rest of what he had to do was immensely important, however expendable he individually might be.
Early the next station morning, Ayan’we awoke with a burst of energy and only the slightest twinge in her leg to remind her of the previous day's violence. She hurried to call on the Phiddian security chief, Ramatoulaye, to discuss the case of the Gropers Four and get an update on Torghh's improvement. Her favorite automaton was doing very well under Rack's care and had already taken up some of his old duties. On the other hand, the investigation into both abductions had hit a solid wall, since it was still impossible to determine the true identities of the perpetrators. Her Phiddian counterpart was particularly perplexed by the Gropers. They had assembled such a baffling array of covers to throw pursuers off the track, it pointed to professional spies with extensive experience in covert operations.
Spy Station Page 19
