A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition)

by Julie E. Czerneda

  On Plexis, I decided, I would leave the Fox and Morgan.

  A shame Morgan hadn’t warned me that freedom could be so unpleasant. I looked around at the panels and lights, already homesick.

  Chapter 11

  “WELCOME to Plexis Supermarket, Sira.”

  I stepped out of the air lock behind Morgan, trying not to trip over the cables snaked across in front. I had no trouble remembering what a supermarket was, but the reality was daunting, especially here. After all, this was the one—the first of its kind.

  I’d read a vistape about Plexis. The story was popular, especially on fringe worlds where instant successes were as hoped for as they were rare. Decades ago, an enterprising industrialist named Raj Plexis had risked everything to build a refinery to process ores within asteroid belts. Her plan had been appealing in scale. Plexis designed a mobile station that would literally engulf a metal-rich asteroid, processing its ore on route to the nearest market. With a talent for fund-raising that would have shamed a loan shark, Plexis targeted wealthy backers interested in doing without the then-current system of orbital refineries and the independent fleets of ore carriers that supplied them.

  Unfortunately, Plexis couldn’t have anticipated the arrival of new technology to selectively harvest asteroid fragments and dust. Suddenly, anyone with a ship could scoop a profit out of the void. Mining claims quickly carved up every fringe asteroid belt with detectable metals.There was literally no room left for Plexis’ giant refinery to operate.

  Her backers abandoned the project with comic haste, leaving Plexis with a space-worthy and useless refinery of immense proportions, partially completed, and a reputation well on its way to becoming the joke of the known galaxy. For most, the combination of financial ruin and ridicule would have been enough for one lifetime. Plexis had other plans.

  Within a year, her refinery appeared in shipping lanes, sporting the glittering sign that would become commonplace along the entire outer system fringe: “Plexis Supermarket. If You Want It, It’s Here!” Plexis had stuffed the refinery’s cavernous interior with shops carrying luxury goods normally confined to long-settled inner systems. The outer hull had been studded with a maze of ship connections, a parking lot for traders and spacers, buyers and sellers. Plexis Supermarket was exactly what customers had been waiting for—a gigantic peddler’s wagon. Within ten years, every sector of the Trade Pact had its own supermarket cruising its sparsely settled fringe. And Plexis herself was an extremely wealthy legend.

  Here I was, setting foot in the most famous shopping concourse in explored space.

  “Are you planning to gawk all day, or can we get going?” Morgan adjusted my helmet as he spoke.

  “Do I have to wear this?” I mumbled, trying not to inhale the wet laundry tang of the suit too deeply. Morgan had rigged the hookups to allow me to breathe the station air and hear what went on around me without the comlink. But it was already hot and stuffy.

  “We don’t know who could recognize you,” Morgan repeated his earlier argument. He picked up the leash of the grav cart. “I’d rather not take chances on Plexis.”

  I tossed my small bag of belongings on top of his cases. “I might have friends here.”

  “And maybe enemies.” Morgan frowned at my bag. “You won’t need that. Leave it stowed.”

  I compressed my lips. “You said these were mine.”

  Morgan eyed me for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s risky carrying anything around below the upper concourse. Your things would be safer inside the ship.”

  Morgan worked the little cart past some low hanging wires. I followed, tilting my helmet-covered head so I could see as much as possible. But what I could see of the much-vaunted supermarket looked more like a dingy repair shop.

  “This is Plexis?” I blurted out, disappointed.

  I caught the corner of his lips twitching in a smile. “Just the backside, Sira,” he said. “Parking’s cheaper. And we’re less conspicuous.”

  Then, before I could ask another question, Morgan continued: “What matters is that Plexis should be safe.”

  His choice of words silenced me as I was sure Morgan had intended. Safe? Safe from what or who in particular, I wanted to ask, but Morgan seemed preoccupied and I decided to wait in case my questions jarred him from some full-scale plotting.

  I strode behind him down the narrow corridor, lifting my feet over bulkheads every so often. Our corridor opened at last into a much larger area. I could hear voices, but I couldn’t see past the shoulders of the group of spacers standing in front of us.

  “Damn. A tag point.”

  “What’s that?” I asked Morgan, trying to peer around him.

  “I forgot about the air tax. We didn’t post a shopper’s bond. If you’re not a customer, you have to pay for the air you breathe. Keep the helmet on; I’ll think of something.”

  Morgan went up and stood in line behind two other Humans. The bored-looking official, an Ordnex by his multijointed fingers and lack of nose, was reading out some monologue. I watched as we moved closer. He was using a tool shaped like a hammer to apply a waxy-looking patch to the right side of each being’s face.

  It was Morgan’s turn. “DoyouacceptresponsbilityfortheairyoushareonPlexis?”the Ordnex droned rapidly. Morgan nodded and bent his head so the tag could be applied. When it touched his skin, the patch glowed for an instant, then went a pale blue.

  Morgan pulled me in front of him, so I was helmet-to-nasal opening with the Ordnex. This unwelcome intimacy blocked the view of beings who had come up behind us in line so I saved my objections for later.

  “We have a bad case of ysa-smoke addiction here, sir,” Morgan said in a low-pitched voice, rapping my helmet with his knuckles. “Makes her useless for days. About all I can do is lock her in the suit; if I don’t, she’ll find a dealer and be puffed in minutes.”

  Where should I kick him? I noticed Morgan’s hand slipping past my arm to grip that of the Ordnex. A very familiar-looking bag of currency gems sparkled for a moment before disappearing somewhere in the official’s loose robes.

  “Igivehertagintoyourkeeping,Captain,” the Ordnex announced “Mysympathies.Isuggestyoutrythepostingboardforanewcrewmember.” Morgan gave a half bow and pushed me ahead.

  “Ysa-smoker?” I snarled, when we were out of range.

  Morgan chuckled, tucking my tag into his pocket. “Terrible habit, Sira.”

  After the tag point, we had to wait our turn to jump on the ramp to the first shopping level. I found it first alarming, and then exhilarating to be surrounded by beings of every size, smell, and shape. Morgan let a couple of openings go past, both near clusters of Humans. Then he spotted an opportunity to his liking, yanking the cart and me after him into the midst of a crowd of Turrned Missionaries.

  The Turrned gazed up at us with their great disk-shaped eyes. No wonder they were so good at converting the ungodly—those oversized brown eyes could melt stone. I was busy examining my own soul for flaws, when we reached the end of our trip and the crowd on the ramp surged out into the shopping concourse.

  It spread out as far as I could see. The heads of shoppersmade a seething knobby carpet, broken only by the occasional stilt-legged servo festooned with purchases. The thousands of voices blended together into an indecipherable roaring noise that quickly became a background.

  I couldn’t make out much directly across the expanse from us. The side closest to me was a solid wall of storefronts, goods spilling out of each so that as we walked, we were weaving our way in and out of furniture to suit any body form, used engines, clothing (I think), old books in good shape, new books in terrible shape, painted vases, and stuffed women.

  I stopped suddenly, my helmet almost buried in a truly awe-inspiring pair of artificial mammary organs. Morgan grabbed my arm and pulled me into the main flow of pedestrians. A hopeful salesbeing halted his charge in our direction with a look of disgust.

  “This is the wholesalers
’ floor, chit,” Morgan yelled in my ear. “Don’t look interested in anything, or the access to the Fox will be jammed full of junk before we get back.”

  “Well, so much for sightseeing,” I growled, but to myself.

  I followed Morgan’s lead for what seemed a very long while—considering we were in a station—and soon had had enough of the press of bodies on every side. Not only did they block my view of anything more interesting than elbows bending in assorted angles, but the warm air inside my helmet was inclined to treasure the less pleasant living aromas of which sweat was the mildest. For all I knew, some of the odder-shaped beings I rubbed shoulders with could well be using the air we shared on Plexis for more than respiration.

  My nose itched. The reflex to scratch came about a millisecond before my self-control. I quickly switched the movement of my hand into a wipe over the visplate of my helmet, hoping none of the spacers around me noticed. Behind that cover, I stuck my tongue out at Morgan.

  At last, the crowd began thinning. I could tell because I could see floor again. Maybe it was time to make my move. Habits, all that remained of the powerful compulsions that guided me before, tugged at my decision to leave Morgan with alarmed little jerks and twists. I had grown quite good at ignoring them.

  Morgan glanced at me, mistaking my expression, which was likely bleak, for something else. “Plexis isn’t what you expected, is it?” There might have been a twinkle in his eye. “Wait till you see the upper levels. They’re all the vistapes say and more.”

  We entered an area where the current of the crowd was broken into eddies and streams that had to pass around clusters of tables. The lighting here was set for shipnight. Overhead, hundreds of tiny portlights hovered, obedient stars against a distant metal sky. Along the walls, broad beams of garish light cut clean-edged slices across the shadowed floor, as various entertainment facilities enticed their space-weary guests. An appalling noise throbbed in my ears and rumbled under the foot plates of my suit. Music—lots of it, played loudly and badly.

  I slipped my bag from the grav cart, watching Morgan take a couple of steps into the night zone before missing my echo. He halted in mid-stride, turning. My hand was tight upon the handle of the little knife in my belt, for what reason or purpose I couldn’t have said. I felt the tension flaring between us as something physical as his piercing blue eyes narrowed in comprehension.

  “If you’re opting off the Fox, Sira,” Morgan said, ignoring my defensiveness, striding back to stand before me, “I won’t try to stop you. Just listen to me first.”

  “I’m listening,” I responded tightly, my eyes fixed on his face though movement and sound from passersby made me shiver. Or was it something I sensed from Morgan this close which raised gooseflesh on my arms, something less easily deciphered than the rhythm of his heart?

  “Plexis runs an open port, Sira,” Morgan’s low-pitched voice was rough. “Anyone can dock; all they have to do is pay for air. The next ship in could be Roraqk’s—or the Clan.”

  “I’m not planning to stay here,” I said.

  “What do you plan to do?” Morgan asked more quietly, reassured, I supposed, that he had my attention and I wasn’t about to bolt.

  “There are lots of ships here,” I said, trying not to be obvious as I backed a bit away from him. “Ships need crew.”

  “And you think a week Hindmost on the Fox makes you qualified?”

  I felt myself redden and welcomed the anger. “I’ll find a ship. You don’t need to worry about me,” I said. And if I stayed on the Fox, maybe you would, I added to myself, feeling a return of that foreboding.

  Morgan nodded slowly. “All right. But let me ask around,” he said reasonably. “I could find you a good berth, a chance at an apprenticeship. There’ll be captains I know here; they say everyone shows up at Plexis eventually.” He paused, waiting as a group of Human spacers, definitely the worse for wear, sang their unsteady way by us. When Morgan spoke again, his voice was low-pitched and urgent, his blue eyes burning with intensity. “Sira, you saved my life on Ret 7. That’s a debt I intend to repay. This isn’t the time to leave me. Not here. Not on your own.”

  I scuffed my feet, sorely tempted. After all, what Morgan was saying made sense, more sense than an odd warning rattling around in my admittedly busy head. But being near him made me nervous. The link I felt between us made me very nervous. And what was to come might be worse.

  Before I could decide, a man in the crowd hesitated as he was about to pass us, then stopped, turning to face me.

  Human, I thought, and rich. He was well-dressed in what looked to be organic fur and silk. Instead of a blue cheek patch, he wore the gold patch of a customer. Morgan’s face smoothed into a polite smile, but I could see his eyes appraising the stranger warily.

  “Anything we can do for you, Hom?” Morgan asked.

  The man’s face swung to Morgan, his expression one of confused impatience. “No.” He turned once more to me, his dark eyes squinting as though that would help him see through the anti-glare coating on my helmet. I was grateful for its protection when he whispered: “Who are you?”

  “No one you’d know, Hom,” Morgan said firmly. He stepped in front of me, this motion ominously smooth.

  The stranger frowned at Morgan. Morgan’s body immediately lifted into the air and flew into a table, scattering both chairs and their occupants.

  Nifty trick, I thought, not sure whether to worry about Morgan or myself.

  “Who are you?” the magical stranger whispered again. He stretched out his hand as though to touch me. I blinked as the helmet disappeared and I could see him clearly.

  Two things happened in rapid succession. The man’s face drained completely of color. Then he vanished.

  A tiny whoosh of air filled the space where the man had once stood. I staggered, felt someone’s grip steady me. I met Morgan’s eyes.

  “Was that Barac?” I asked incredulously.

  “Clan,” he said, his face grim. “But no one I know. Let’s go,” he urged, pulling both the cart and me into a pool of shadow between two doorways. Then he quickly slapped my cheek, once, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

  “Before you complain,” Morgan suggested, holding up his blue-stained fingers to silence me, “remember who took the helmet.” I reached up to my stinging cheek and explored the waxy patch now immovably fixed to my skin.

  Our leisurely pace now changed into something closer to a run. Morgan dodged through any gap in the surrounding mass of people and tables, once electing to push through a decorative clump of bushes rather than slow down. I pulled at a leaf as I followed him, but it was firmly glued to its stem.

  At this pace, we soon reached our destination, which turned out to be a restaurant with a lurid sign over its double doors proclaiming: Claws and Jaws—Complete Interspecies Cuisine.

  I didn’t bother to argue, being too busy watching for people able to appear and disappear at will, not to mention fling bodies into furniture with a frown. I breathed easier when Morgan closed the restaurant doors behind us.

  The exterior of the restaurant had been misleading. Inside, there was a subdued hum of voices, barely louder than the soft chimes that rang as we passed them. A bowing attendant appeared out of nowhere. Morgan handed her the lead to the grav cart. We were waved ahead of others waiting to be seated—or whatever eating position suited their body forms. As we entered the dining area proper, I tilted my head, entranced by a delicious, seductive aroma.

  Morgan smiled at my reaction. “Welcome to Huido’s, Sira, the best eating on Plexis.”

  “Liar! The best eating in the quadrant!” This bellow was from an approaching mass I’d assumed was a servo, given its metallic luster and two pairs of assymetrical arms. The being, moving on pillarlike legs that ending in preposterously balloon-like pads rather than feet, used its larger, lower pair of arms to sweep Morgan off the floor in an embrace I devoutly hoped wouldn’t aggravate the man’s recently healed injury. Morgan hammered his fists on
the shining armor plates that served the ungainly creature for shoulders. Fortunately for my peace of mind, he was also laughing.

  “Put me down, Huido, you big oaf. You make me forget what manners I’ve got.” The being gave him one last bruising squeeze before setting Morgan back on his feet with a tenderness totally belied by his appearance. “Huido Maarmatoo’kk, I’d like you to meet Sira Morgan.”

  It took all of my courage to accept the claw, the tip of one of the smaller more flexible-looking arms, that was gently offered for my touch. I restrained a shudder at its chill hardness; Huido’s ancestry was certainly other than mammal. Black and glistening, the creature stood as tall as Morgan, yet its shoulders and bulbous back blocked most of the space in the lobby entrance. Its head looked as though a pair of saucepans decided to take up life as the top and bottom of a helmet. As they pulsed vertically, ever-so-slightly, the black shadow between them danced with the gleam of dozens of independently mobile eyes, each on its own short stalk. I tried to imagine a reassuring softness to the set of four, no, six, clustered at the moment to examine me.

  “So, Brother, you finally bring a shell-mate to my home. You honor us with your presence, Fem Morgan.” His voice originated from somewhere within that hood, and, though perfectly understandable, was deep, rasping, and regrettably loud. I opened my mouth to correct his interpretation of my name only to meet Morgan’s blue eyes. He shook his head, once, very slightly. I closed my lips into a firm line and glared at him.

  Supper, served after a tantalizing delay that made me wonder if any servos were involved in its preparation, was all the aroma had promised and more. Huido kept us company by drinking warm beer, the only Human food—as he put it—worthy of his refined palate. I had a feeling it was more likely the only Human food his nonhumanoid system could tolerate, but was too polite to ask. Drinking was how I thought of it, not having the word to describe a process consisting of pouring large amounts of liquid into the orifice at the tip of his top right-hand claw, then tucking the claw tip into that dark boundary that served for a face. The following satisfied slurp crossed any species’ boundary.