But it was hard to only watch.
’Whix made out six assailants closing in on the two, now halted under one of the streetlamps. The attackers seemed unarmed, but he doubted it. At a minimum, each probably carried one or more impact clubs, the easily concealed but deadly device popular among hit-and-run criminals on Auord.
’Whix saw the Clansman step quickly in front of his companion, drawing a force blade from his belt. He waved its blazing tip slowly, expertly. For a moment, all was frozen and silent except for the rain drumming on the sidewalk and the drops hissing to steam on the white hot blade.
’Whix admired the Clansman’s choice of defense. Knowing the Clan’s avowed dislike of technology, the blade was a nice compromise. And most criminals of ’Whix’s experience vastly preferred a stunner headache to losing body parts. Still, force blades were uncommon— their use took skill, not to mention that they were illegal on most worlds. ’Whix found himself looking forward to the battle.
A cry from the darkness cracked the tableau and launched the attack. Four figures moved toward the Clansman while two others tried to dodge past to reach the Clanswoman he protected. Screams echoed amid the snap-crack of clubs.
A groundcar, sirens whining, wheeled around the corner. Port Authority, ’Whix knew immediately, not his backup. Commander Bowman would not be pleased if the locals interfered. ’Whix clicked his beak, thought longingly of hot oil, and broke into a run, spreading his arms for balance.
Meanwhile, the battle was hardly one-sided. Four bodies already sprawled amid the pools of light, blood spreading to mingle with the puddles and rain. The Clansman stood facing the remaining two, his blade lifted like a dare.
Something rose, hung for an instant in the air, then plunged toward the Clansman. ’Whix squawked a warning as he threw himself flat. A sear of heat, accompanied by a whomp of sound, signaled the explosion of the blast globe.
’Whix cautiously tried each of his joints. The Port Authority car slid to a stop beside him. He ignored the shouts from its occupants as they spotted him and ordered him to wait. Their waving lights made a distracting flicker along the dome of his eye lens.
’Whix tossed his head, feeling his blast-dried feathers lift and settle into their proper regal positioning. Shame it was still raining. He made sure his Pact insignia was in his hand as he trotted over to the heap of scorched and broken bodies. No ground authority would interfere with a Pact Enforcer—in theory, at least. The Trade Pact, and its Enforcers, protected the rights of all signatory sentient species. But Auord’s Port Authority was known to be touchy.
The blast had been confined, relatively minor, which made sense if capture, not murder, was the intent. It had, however, killed the two who had—to that point—survived the Clansman. The Clansman himself, remarkably intact, lay half under one of those bodies.
The attackers were all native Auordians, ’Whix noticed without surprise, Auord being a world where morals rarely put food on the table. He sniffed delicately. Tolians had lousy noses, if truth be told, except for a fine sensitivity to dead flesh, fresh or rotten—a talent the Tolians wisely chose to keep to themselves when off-planet.
He swung his head up, catching the sound of doubled footsteps echoing in the distance—the globe-tosser and accomplice making their escape.
’Whix immediately dismissed the notion of giving chase. He knew what Bowman would have to say if he left the Clansman for Port Authority.
’Whix eased back on his haunches to pick up a scrap of something that caught the light. It was the jeweled head-dress the Clanswoman had worn. But where was she? ’Whix straightened, looked around, but saw no body, or piece of a body, that belonged with the jewels in his hand.
Wait. His eyes swung forward, straining to see. There she was, down the street, a small figure just visible through the sheets of rain. Somehow she must have escaped the worst of the explosion, possibly thrown or pushed clear. ’Whix watched her until she stumbled into a side street and was gone. He activated his com again.
The two corpsmen bustled up, hoods pulled up against the rain. “We’ll take over, Enforcer.”
’Whix didn’t answer until he had finished transmitting his message. “Trade Pact jurisdiction,” he said then, his trill automatically translated into a tinny Comspeak that issued from a device embedded beneath the feathers of his throat.
The two from Port Authority exchanged glances before looking at ’Whix again. One, a stocky Auordian, actually put her hand on the stunner strapped to her leg. “This looks local to us,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “You know something we don’t, I suggest you share it. Otherwise, head back to the shipcity where you belong, flyboy.”
’Whix rocked back on his powerful haunches, ready for action, his long clawed feet on either side of the now-groaning Clansman, although this meant stepping in a spreading pool of warm red. “This is a Trade Pact matter,” he repeated.
“Prove it.”
“He doesn’t have to, Corpsman,” said a harsh voice from above their heads. ’Whix didn’t bother looking up, slightly exasperated, as usual, by his Human partner’s dramatics. No need to wonder about Terk’s timing; he loved a grand entrance. It was part of what Bowman referred to as Terk’s exceptional gift for annoying the local law. ’Whix was supposed to use his cool, methodical approach to balance his partner’s excitable nature. After five years, ’Whix hadn’t so much made progress as learned to cope.
The aircar, a sleeker and far more deadly vehicle than anything permitted Port Authority, touched the sidewalk in a master’s landing. Terk hit the floods before disembarking, driving back all the shadows and forcing the corpsmen to shade their eyes.
Their dismissal was complete when Terk waved a strip of plas under their noses. “Here’s our permit to take these beings into our custody,” the big man announced. “I’ll be sure to mention your helpfulness to our commander.”
Once the disgruntled pair drove away, Terk prowled over to his partner. His apparent size was deceiving. Shorter by a handspan than the slender Tolian, Terk’s mass was bundled up in a deep chest and shoulders wide enough to need a custom-fitted uniform. Even so, he always looked as though his clothes pinched. “A simple surveillance,” the Human said with disgust. “This is quite the foul-up, ’Whix. Any of them alive to take into custody?”
’Whix had already begun sorting the injured from the dead. He tagged the Clansman and one of the assailants with med signals and watched the stabilizing field encompass the injured beings within its purple glow. “These two. Forensics can have the others.”
Terk nodded, taking a moment to use his wrist com to summon the med transport and a forensic team. Then he considered his partner. “You’re a mess. Want to head in? I can take this from here.”
’Whix dipped his beak to each of his shoulders in turn, his approximation of a Human shaking his head. “No. I’ll dry out when I make my report.” He focused both eyes on the unconscious face of the Clansman. “I am concerned, Partner Terk. I think our commander may be wrong about this one.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Terk grunted. “They always look Human, but looks aren’t everything.”
“If he’s Clan, why didn’t he use his Talent to stop the attack or to escape?” ’Whix argued.
“Maybe he’d spotted you. They don’t like to be caught at work.” Terk grinned. “Anyway, we can’t take the chance. Just think what interesting changes of mind our Clansman might have given those Port Jellies when he woke up. Want to lay odds they wouldn’t even remember seeing him?”
’Whix tried to lower his crest in disapproval, but it was already flattened by the rain. “As always, you show a distressing lack of respect for other law keepers, partner Terk. You should not refer to them as Jellies.”
Terk grinned, rubbing a piece of plas between his thick fingers. “When I can chase them off with a road map, they deserve whatever name I call them.”
’Whix clicked his beak, far from amused. One day, Terk’s blatant actions were going to l
and them both in trouble—trouble he, for one, did not deserve. But he knew the futility of arguing with someone with a crest lifted in triumph (if Terk had one instead of a mass of pale-colored and always limp hair). “I was not observed by the Clansman,” ’Whix said instead. “Therefore, I see no reason for him not to use his Talent to save himself and his companion. Or hers, for that matter. Given this,” ’Whix continued with patience, despite the fact that Terk’s attention was obviously wandering, “I must conclude—”
Terk put a finger to his lips. ’Whix was uncertain whether this was because he wished to cut short their discussion—which happened regularly—or something else. Ah, something else, ’Whix heard the throb of more than one aircar heading their way.
Time to talk of less secret things.
“Do you know if there’s a dryer in the commander’s office?” he asked with a mournful chirp.
Chapter 1
I STARED at the hand pressed near my cheek. It had five fingers, tipped with small, blunt nails, one broken. There were smudges of dirt on the palm and back; the clean skin was paler, except where a spiderweb of red marked the edges of a cut. It was mine, I decided, confused by the delay in recognition.
I shuddered, stumbling away from the damp wall. A flicker of movement caught my eye. A nearby window had lost part of its covering shutter, exposing a dirty slice of glass and curtain to the street. Something looked out at me. Cautiously, I tilted my head to see, then lurched back as the pale something did the same.
My feet landed in the small river that currently passed for a gutter at the same instant I realized I’d been startled by my own reflection. Sheepishly, I stepped closer to the window again. Was I that wet or was it the water running down the glass itself that made me look like a swimmer underwater, blurring my hair and clothes into the same dark mass? My face appeared as little more than two eyes stuck on a disk of white. Old and puzzled eyes. Maybe it was another trick of the rain-smeared glass. I wasn’t old.
Then was I a child? I didn’t think so. But what? Lost and wet. Humanoid. Those were easy. Male or female? The reflection kept mute on that interesting detail. I was definitely unwilling to strip in the rain to satisfy my curiosity. I patted my hands over my body, discovering water, but little else in the pockets and creases of my clothing. I continued my self-exploration. Nothing of me felt male, but nothing felt particularly female either.
A shout. Only an echo of a voice, probably the next street away, but enough to startle me back into myself, to force my feet to move. The rain struck harder as I left the partial shelter of the overhanging eaves; I hesitated, distracted by the taste of it in my mouth.
My mind suddenly turned inside out, filling with thoughts I knew weren’t mine, compulsions rippling like muscle, gripping me with needs and purposes I didn’t understand.
Find the starships. One ship, a trailing wisp of thought corrected, “his” ship.
Numb under the impact of imposed ideas, all I could do was look along the narrow street, empty of all but two parked groundcars on the other side. What ship?
More thoughts pushed their way to the surface, each dragging fear like something hooked to a line. Danger. Leave this world. Stay hidden, stay safe. I whimpered to myself, then glanced about to be sure no one had heard.
The compulsions gradually faded, leaving echoes that burned into my mind: Find the ship, leave this world, stay hidden. As I came back to myself, I realized my feet were walking, already carrying me somewhere. I stopped, my mouth dry despite the rain.
For the first time, I really looked at my surroundings. Both sides of the street were lined with a chaotic assortment of buildings, most at least three stories high, their upper floors leaning together as if in conversation. Away from the streetlamps, the strident colors of the walls sank into a dull assortment of grays. Rain collecting on the roofs channeled down in noisy waterfalls to feed the gutters. As if this weren’t enough, metal chimes hung everywhere, transmuting the tinkling of raindrops into a full orchestra.
Great, I said to myself, glaring at the buildings, all peacefully asleep and probably dry inside. If I was supposedto find a ship, I was certainly in the wrong place. This had to be somewhere in the All Sapients’ District, the maze of haphazard streets and alleyways between the native portion of Auord’s Port City and the shipcity itself. At least keeping hidden wasn’t a problem. Finding my way out would be.
More vital information spun away from my thoughts, quicksilver and slippery as I tried to hold it. My wet clothes slapped heavily against my legs as I began to walk again. Walking was progress, even if I didn’t know which way to go.
The alleyway I turned into next twisted so I couldn’t see the end. The pavement was stained and littered with lumps the rain had tried to wash away but had only pounded flat around the edges. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of spoiled food. Maybe the servos had been kept away by the rainstorm; more likely someone hadn’t paid their taxes. This last thought surprised me. It was as if a resonance had briefly rippled through my mind, colliding to reveal a tidy node of knowledge.
Glimpsing the consequences of tax evasion wasn’t exactly helpful in my present situation. I picked my way through the debris until I reached an area where the bundles of trash were heaped shoulder-high on both sides, with gaps only at each barred and locked rear door. Waste disposal by the heave-ho method, I decided, imagining the nightly routine of opened doors, tossed bags, and slammed locks.
The foul smell began to settle at the back of my throat, as if the dampness of the air helped it stick. Cans tumbled loose in an odd counterpoint to the rain. I stopped and peered into the shadows. One of the piles moved again.
Another sound—this time a word. An impossibly filthy face glared up at me as its owner shoved away a covering of shredded plas and rotting fruit. More words, followed by a spit in my direction. The language was strange. No. It was tantalizingly familiar. Another resonance; the sentence re-formed. I understood.
“—this here’s my spot, scum. Get lost—”
“I am lost,” I said politely, pleasantly surprised by the fluency of my own Comspeak. I moved closer to better examine the being, feeling no threat despite its words. Stay hidden, be safe, whispered that something beneath my thoughts, but I found I could push it away. Ah. The blue wattle under its chin was crusted with unshed skin, but still distinctive. A Neblokan. How wonderful to have a name for something. I felt under my own chin. It was smooth. “I am not one of you,” I admitted, disappointed.
“Brain-dead Human pest. Go away and leave me in peace.” The creature rolled up his eyes, a very rude gesture for one of his kind, then turned his back on me and settled his bulk more comfortably amid the bags of garbage.
I blinked raindrops out of my eyes. The Neblokan had almost disappeared again under his trash cover. I couldn’t understand what he now muttered, but then, he seemed to be talking to himself, and in no pleasant tone either. I wrinkled up my nose again, trying to decide if the fishy being smelled worse than the garbage. Could I convince him to talk to me again? Might he know even more about me?
A new sound began, this time from the way I had just come, quickly growing to a shrill whine. I winced at the sudden pain in my ears. The Neblokan lunged up and past me, scattering soggy bits and pieces as he moved with unexpected speed. I turned toward the sound, judging it harmless enough. But the Neblokan was already scurrying in the opposite direction as fast as his stubby legs could take him, uttering more of those incomprehensible sounds as his feet slipped in the puddles.
Should I do the same?
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started, then began again, only this time ahead of where the creature was running. I crouched away from a light that appeared from nowhere to transfix the Neblokan. He stopped in mid-stride, shoulders folding back in a defeated shrug. The sound closed in, then stopped.
“Credit check,” said one of two figures who came striding up the alley. One carried the source of the light, the edge of its beam catching a small con
e the other held in his hands, likely the source of the sound. I put my hands on the slick pavement and carefully wiggled my way into the shadow of the Neblokan’s hole in the trash. I peered out.
“My credit’s good—” the Neblokan offered, but weakly. His wattle shook and his wide-mouthed face was wrinkled in distress. Raindrops collected on the ridges of his eyebrows, running off the ends like tears.
“Mind if we don’t take your word for it?” said one of the figures, I couldn’t tell which. His tone was bored. “You off-worlders think everything insystem is as free as the air.”
“You want to live here, you’ve got to pay. What’s it to be?” the second one demanded. I shivered and crouched lower. His voice had a pleased anticipation to it.
The Neblokan spread his empty hands. “I’ll get a ship today—”
“You certainly will.” The cone-sound keened again, this time in a brief burst, muffled because the tip had been pressed against the Neblokan’s head. The creature dropped to the ground in a heap, looking like little more than another of the piles of waste that a moment ago had been his refuge.
“Even with this fratling rain, it’s been a good night, Enex.” This from the light carrier as he set his lamp on a crate. I could see them both now, Auordian males, one with blue luck beads braided in his hair and the other, yellow. Otherwise, they were alike enough to be twins, with a well-fed smugness to their pudgy faces. They busied themselves for a moment around the fallen figure. When they stood, the Neblokan’s body rose with them, supported by a grav belt.
“It’s always good here,” replied Enex, the one with the blue beads. “Best place in the sector to get skilled labor. Downed spacers go broke—”
“And nobody cares but us.” This brought a laugh from both of them, laughter that faded away with their steps.
Recruiters. I watched them go, for the first time wishingnot to understand. It could have been me they took away, to be sent offworld, my life to be spent as bonded labor to some colony world or station that lacked the technical resources to support servos. Sold and forgotten.
A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) Page 2