On Assignment to the Planet of the Exalted

by Helena Puumala

  The Vultairians were almost out of her sight by the time they reached the widening of the lane where it joined the main Boulevard. Thus she was somewhat surprised to see them again when she reached the crossing. They had stopped to buy sweet drinks at a stall selling sugary confections, and had settled at a Promenade-side table. As she walked past them she gazed curiously at their colourful tunics; the patterns were supposed to indicate the one of the Four Hundred Families to which the owner belonged. In this group there were three distinctly different patterns; ergo, members of three noble families. The three males belonged to different families, and two of them had their wives or sisters, or other female relatives, with them.

  As she scrutinized them while walking by, suddenly she realized that she herself had become an object of curiosity for the group. The men were openly staring at her, and the two women were whispering together, and casting covert looks in her direction. Xoraya felt uncomfortable under this examination; there was something unpleasant about their interest in her. She found herself wanting to slip out of their sight, like a lizard might scurry between rocks to avoid the gaze of a bird of prey. She recalled the images of the Morhinghy couple in the nodal record which she had seen the night before; yes, this bunch of five was suffused with the same uncompassionate condescension which the Morhinghys had displayed. She shuddered involuntarily, and hurried along, hoping that the Vultairians had not noticed the blue cast of her skin or its slightly scaly appearance. Thankfully she was wearing a Lamanian-type hooded tunic with the hood up and hiding her crest, and the lack of human hair. Mikal had suggested that morning that she wear it; she had agreed somewhat reluctantly. Now she was grateful that she had; possibly it would preserve a shred of anonymity!

  *****

  It was not until she stopped in a quiet cafe, away from the noon bustle of the Main Boulevard, that she started to suspect that she had picked up lice.

  She had wandered among the shops for what had seemed like hours, using her ID Chip to charge a few small purchases: an antique book in a Used Book Store, an original bracelet at an artistic Gift Shop, and a silk scarf in a store which sold only scarves. By this time she had wandered down many alleys, and had reached one devoted to small but friendly-looking eating establishments. Realizing that she was hungry, she had picked a cafe, largish for the area, and with a lovely terrace which bordered on the alley. The place was reasonably busy, but had a selection of unoccupied tables; pleased that there was room, she had swiped the smear on her wrist across the console screen at the entrance, and walked in, curious as to what kind of cuisine she was going to be introduced to. Cafe Paradiso, is what the sign on the outside said; Xoraya wondered whether the name had anything to do with the planet Paradiso, or if it was coincidental.

  She chose to sit at a table for two, near one of the alley-side corners of the terrace; a section filled with two person tables, while the larger ones were further back and on the other side of the terrace. A few moments after she had sat down, a trio of brightly-dressed male Vultairians also arrived at the cafe, and, on entering, seated themselves at two of the double-occupancy tables, only a table away from her. They were not any of the group of five that she had observed earlier, but, nevertheless, a cold chill passed through her. She noted that the three were conversing animatedly amongst themselves, not even glancing at her. Somehow that frightened her further, especially when, during the whole morning of wandering and shopping, this was only the second group of Vultairians she remembered seeing. Had the first bunch sent these to follow her, and to keep an eye on her? If that was so, someone must have figured out who and what she was; perhaps even sussed out her connection to Mikal and Maryse. Which likely was not a good thing!

  She was distractedly scrolling through the on-table menu when a young man in a black and white, two-piece uniform, and carrying a tray, stopped beside her table.

  “Can I help you?” he asked her, eyeing her with interest. “You can order using the tablet you’re handling, or you can just tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you. It looks to me like you’re not completely familiar with the on-table menu system?”

  Xoraya pushed the tablet away from her.

  “True,” she said softly. “I’m also not familiar with the dishes on it. Can you recommend something vegetable-based but tasty and nutritious?”

  The waiter leaned down to hear her words. His back was towards the Vultairians, and now his bulk was between them and her face.

  “The Vultairians,” she added in a voice lower yet. “Do you often get them coming here?”

  He had the presence of mind to not glance back, and to answer in a voice pitched as low as hers. She was very grateful for that.

  “Never.” His voice was certain, if very soft. “I’ve worked here for over a year now and this is the first time I’ve seen any of them here. This is too staid a place for their tastes.”

  “Then they must be following me.” She felt a slight surge of panic. “I’m not sure what they intend, but they frighten me.”

  Still protected by the young man’s bulk she pressed a finger on her ID Chip and whispered Mikal’s name. She waited a moment and then another. Nothing happened. Mikal had said that he would answer right away if she called him; he’d get the message via his node.

  “I’ll alert the City Peace Officers,” the waiter whispered. “I checked your entry code so I know who you are. Standard wait staff practice.”

  He straightened.

  “Yes, the carrot casserole is an excellent choice,” he said out loud, winking at her. “And a cup of Paradiso coffee to drink? Our beans are shipped directly from the world Paradiso, you know? No, you didn’t—well, now you do, and you are in for quite an experience!”

  He left her to stare at the ID Chip fearfully. Had someone managed to mess with its alarms? How?

  “Hey, Waiter,” one of the Vultairians yelled as the young man walked past their table. “We could use service here!”

  “Ah, I’m sure you shall have service good Gentlemen,” he responded in a hearty voice. “I’ll send one of the Waitresses to you. I do know that you Exalted Citizens of Vultaire like to admire comely lasses, and we at Cafe Paradiso aim to please!”

  The Vultairians burst into raucous laughter.

  “Hah,” one of them said. “Yes, we admire comely lasses, indeed! And you aim to please!”

  “And that’s one comely lass in the blue hood at the table over there,” another added, nodding in Xoraya’s direction. “She’s alone, too. Maybe one of us could join her, what do you think?”

  *****

  The Waiter, whose name was Malin, stopped by a tall, attractive, very dark-skinned, young, female staff member—she looked like a Torrones, but was not (a Torrones would never work as wait staff on a planet other than her own)—and asked her to serve the Vultairians.

  “And keep an eye on them, Canna. Don’t let them out of your sight. I think they mean harm to the Xeonsaur VIP,” he added. “I’m going to send for help.”

  Canna nodded sagely and Malin headed for the kitchen Communications Console which was more private than the one at the cafe entrance. He pressed his left thumb onto the receptor designed for it, using this form of instant contact even though, like many imports from the newer Federation planets and the Fringe Worlds, he was not particularly comfortable with it. But this way, it took only the thought of wanting to contact the Station Peace Officer Headquarters to do so, and the urgency in his mind was immediately discernible to the receiver of the message:

  “The Xeonsaur Xoraya Hsiss is in Cafe Paradiso, and she is being threatened by three male Vultairians. Her ID Chip tracer seems to be blocked somehow; she was unable to connect to the person whom she was trying to reach.”

  “Help is on the way,” came the answer. “We’ll contact Mikal r’ma Trodden. You’re right about her Chip being compromised; we do not have her location as Cafe Paradiso, and we cannot hail her. Can you stay with her? That way we can trace her through you?”

  “I or my
colleague, Canna, will try to stay with her. But I suspect that these Vultairian rogues are going to act fast; they must know that they have very little time.”

  He transmitted the necessary information to allow them to trace Canna, and then put in Xoraya’s order in before hurrying to pour some coffee in a mug and take it and the usual thick cream and honey, to the Xeonsaur woman.

  *****

  Meanwhile Canna hurried to the corner of the Terrace where the tables for two were situated. As she approached the Vultairians, she saw that one of them had stood up and was now approaching the blue-hooded woman’s table. She groaned mentally; only moments ago Malin had whispered to her with a grin, that according to the door data, the woman who had arrived alone, and sat down at one of the small tables, was the fabled Xeonsaur, named Xoraya Hsiss, who had been rumoured to have arrived on the Space Station. They were being treated to a once-in-a-lifetime sight he had told her, and to look but not to gawk.

  “I’m serving that area,” he had told her, “but if I have an excuse to call on another server, I’ll call on you.”

  She and Malin were friends and helped one another out whenever necessary. Of course, everyone at the Cafe had been really good to her, even though she was not from Paradiso. She was from one of the Fringe Worlds, and as such a bit of a novelty on the Space Station; most of the migrants from the Fringes ended up in The Second City on Lamania. Even the non-governmental jobs on the Federation Space Station usually went to folk from the various Federation worlds, since there were usually people on those planets who were curious about the universe outside their planets, and ready to jump at any opportunity to see some of it. However, the Betas of Paradiso were attached to their adopted home world, although they were not irretrievably tied to it the way the indigent Grenies were, so there were employment opportunities for non-nationals in their Cafe on the Space Station.

  Canna had been surprised when Malin had chosen to be her friend. She had lived rough for a lot of her life, a common experience to most migrants from the Fringe Worlds. Malin, on the other hand, had been brought up on an Estate on Paradiso, and, as he sometimes had said with a laugh, had got the opportunity to work on the Federation Space Station through family connections. Besides which, he was what was known as a K-man, a genetic improvement on the usual human male. On the account of that alone, he could have chosen to consort with just about any eligible woman on the Station; there were a number of well-placed government employees who came to eat at the Cafe more to flirt with Malin than to enjoy the good food and the excellent coffee. Malin, to his credit, found this amusing, and at times, if the women grew a little too pushy, he’d confide to them that he was madly in love with Canna, who, unfortunately, was spurning him. This had become something of a standing joke among the restaurant staff, partly because Canna had made it clear at the beginning of her employment that she was not prepared to get into any romantic relationship. She had issues, she had explained, relating to stuff that had happened to her on her home world, and which had chased her out into the universe. She needed time to live alone and be independent.

  Now it looked like she was going to have an incident on her hands.

  She did not much like Vultairians; the ones on the Space Station were arrogant trouble-makers. They were all, apparently, of the Exalted class; so-called Ordinary Vultairians never left their home planet for reasons unknown to Canna, and, for all she knew, they might have been decent folk. Invading the personal space of a Xeonsaur struck Canna as about the most arrogant act a human could perform, and from what little Malin had said to her, it sounded like the lizard-woman was, at the very least, disturbed by the presence of the Vultairians. Canna had wondered why they had come to the Cafe, since generally they were known to shun places like the Cafe Paradiso as quiet and boring. Now it seemed obvious that they had been tailing the Xeonsaur.

  “Do you mind if I join you, Madame?” the Vultairian asked the Xeonsaur as Canna approached.

  He pulled out the chair opposite the blue-scaled woman without waiting for her answer.

  “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t,” the Xeonsaur answered, coolly enough. “I did intend to enjoy a quick lunch by myself, while looking at the life around me.”

  “Oh, come on now, Madame,” the Vultairian countered, planting his bum firmly into the chair and stretching his long legs to trap the woman’s feet by the table. “Surely you don’t object to conversing with a member of the Vultairian Diplomatic Mission at the Federation Space Station.”

  “Surely you don’t object to allowing a stranger on the Space Station the peace and quiet that she desires?” returned the Xeonsaur, staring at the Vultairian’s face.

  What was he up to, Canna wondered. What were the three of them up to? The other two Vultairians had risen from their seats and were positioning themselves behind the lizard-woman’s chair.

  “Hey!” Canna was almost there.

  In her hurry she stumbled on an empty chair and nearly fell, attracting the attention of everyone on the Terrace, including the Vultairians and Xoraya. She straightened, and hurried on towards them, in time to see one of the Vultairians press something small against the Xeonsaur’s upper arm.

  “What are you creeps doing to her?” she screamed, propelling herself toward them, suddenly back, mentally, on her home world, in a slum where violence towards women was an everyday thing. How could this be happening in Cafe Paradiso on the Federation Space Station?

  She was so angry that she forgot all about herself, grabbing the nearest Vultairian by the throat. She had the pleasure of hearing him croak. Then:

  “Jayzees,” muttered the Exalted next to him, with a laugh. “We’ve got a madwoman on our hands.”

  The hand that had done something to the Xeonsaur’s arm reached for Canna’s; she felt a prick even as she saw the blue-scaled woman in the chair slump over and the third Vultairian, the one who had initiated the conversation, catch her, rather carelessly. Then the world swirled and went blank.

  “Okay, let’s move before someone tries to stop us,” said the Vultairian who had caught Xoraya and thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of tubers. “Better take the madwoman with us, too, Aris. They could get a sample of your pacifier from her blood.”

  The one called Aris pocketed the tiny object in his hand and heaved Canna over his shoulder. Apparently this was an easy task for him, even though Canna was a tall, if slender, woman. The Vultairian who had been choked, rasped and shook his head; then the three stepped over to the Terrace edge, easily vaulted the ornamental fence designed to create a demarcation for people much shorter than they were, and started running down the alley.

  It all happened so fast that everybody on the Terrace and in the alley were in stunned shock when Malin returned with a tray that had a cup of steaming coffee and pots of honey and cream on it. He set it on the nearest table, and began to shake when he saw the tables empty of the Xeonsaur and the three Vultairians. There was no Canna in sight either.

  A young boy at one of the larger tables, lunching with his mother and small sister was the first one to recover his wits.

  “They ran in that direction,” he shouted to Malin, running to the edge of the Terrace where the Vultairians had jumped over it, and pointing down the alley.

  “There’s a stairway down to a mag-car station down there,” a man at a nearby table for two added, the second person to come out of shock. “The Vultairian creeps took the Waitress who came to help the foreigner, too.”

  “One of them injected them with a drug of some kind,” his partner, a woman who had had a ringside view of the event while her companion had had to crane his neck to see, added. “The Waitress was being really protective of the guest woman. Was she someone important?”

  Malin turned to the Communications Console at the entrance before answering. For the second time within minutes he thrust his left thumb at a computer, and connected to the Station PO Headquarters, relaying the news. Not until that was done did he stop to answer the customer’s que
stion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mikal r’ma Trodden was deep into the boring task of vetting the guest list for the Reception, when the call from the Station PO Headquarters came.

  “Xoraya Hsiss is in trouble with the Vultairians at Cafe Paradiso and she cannot contact you directly because someone has interfered with the communications of her ID Chip. A staff member at the Cafe alerted us; we’re sending in a crew.”

  Mikal was up on his feet in an instant, swearing. He tried to reach Xoraya through her tracer, only to get “the individual is not available” signal. He requested his node to keep a channel open to the PO Headquarters until further notice, shouted to Maryse that he was leaving, and headed for the door.

  “Take a mag-car,” Maryse called after him, already having been informed of the situation. “There’s a station under these quarters, and another a half-a-block from the Cafe.”

  Mikal was already running down the stairs. He fervently hoped that the Station would not be full of the old and the infirm, or mothers with small children—all people who had priority on the use of the mag-cars. He was glad that he had worn his uniform this day; with that he could commandeer a car for emergency use. The Station Peace Officers should have a crew on the way, too, by now, but unless they happened to have had officers in the business district, they would be a while in getting there, even in mag-cars. The PO Headquarters was almost directly across the doughnut-shaped station from the Port side commercial district, and there were no short cuts. He was closer and sure to get to the Cafe before anyone from the Headquarters could.

  “Hey, Mikal r’ma Trodden! Over here!”

  There were two people in the white uniforms of the Station PO Corps waiting with a mag-car almost at the foot of the stairs. He hurried to it and entered the open door which slid shut behind him. The woman at the controls nodded at him and got the machine moving, circling expertly around the station where people were either picking up or returning the cars, or climbing out of or into them, slowly if they were old or infirm, or quickly, if they were children accompanying their care-givers.