The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis

by The Clan Chronicles- Tales from Plexis (retail) (epub)

  There’s a door against the back wall. It clicks open once I’ve met the conditions for entry. I’d strip naked if I had to, but I’m glad to retain a semblance of dignity. Beyond the door is a short hallway, a scanning chamber loaded with sensors and samplers that check for less visible threats.

  It makes sense. Raj’s wealth tends to grow at an exponential rate, as do her precautionary measures. Money can buy just about anything, but it comes with its own set of problems. Enemies, grifters and . . . relatives.

  The office at the other end is empty, as always. The furnishings are basic—an executive desk flanked by several comfortable chairs and a sitting area off to the side. Couches and low table for less formal engagements. Several amenity stations are set into the wall, offering an assortment of drinks and simple foods. As for what’s hidden behind them, I have no idea. At a guess, I’d say it was something between nothing and a full-on administrative installation.

  My thoughts on the subject are irrelevant, given my lack of information.

  Call them symptoms of impatience—Plexis knows I hate waiting.

  And she doesn’t care.

  A little over half an hour passes before she appears.

  I know because I count the seconds. I’m at 1,922 when a section of wall slides open and she steps through. The air shimmers around her, a privacy field obscuring any secrets I might see in the space behind it. I’ve chosen to stand in the corner to the left of the door. I’m not used to bright lights and open spaces, so I prefer to keep my back against something solid. That way I can keep an eye on all possible approaches.

  She doesn’t seem surprised.

  “Morrab.” Raj dispenses with pointless formalities and motions me over to the desk. “Delayed.” She shrugs. “Merchants.” Those clipped words are as close as I’ll get to an apology.

  “I understand.” My voice is a rattle of broken glass. My vocal cords have never liked standard gravity, part of the reason I prefer not to speak whenever possible.

  Plexis is not young, but I wouldn’t call her old. She’s certainly dealing with her years more gracefully than me. Her black hair is speckled with gray and tied back in a bun. There are hints of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. As for her suit, she’s chosen a conservative pale blue today—its one concession to color being a kaleidoscope of red, green, and yellow on its lapels.

  She’s attractive. Not waif-thin or bony. She has pleasant curves with some meat on her bones.

  I sit across from her. My feet dangle off the floor.

  Plexis remains standing, her manicured hands resting on the back of her chair. Small hands, with delicate fingers and perfect nails. Word is they were once scarred and callused. She’s no stranger to physical work, but the decades she’s spent behind a desk have softened them up.

  Wealth tends to do that.

  “We have a problem.” She’s opened this way before, but this time my nose itches. Whatever she’s about to say isn’t good. “You’ve been digging where you don’t belong, selling information you shouldn’t have.”

  My insides twist, flush with adrenaline, but I show no outward sign of it. I’ve spent years learning how to suppress my reactions. Plexis will have scanners pointed at me, measuring every meaningful physiological variable and weighing them against the profile created during my previous visits. Or she should have. It’s what I would do.

  I expected this day to come if not nearly so soon.

  I don’t deny the accusation. Instead, I nod slowly, buying precious seconds.

  Behind that calm exterior, my mind races, the question of how to play this rampaging through my synapses. I can lie; I’m good at it. I might even fool her readouts. Even a telepath or two. Except I don’t know what evidence she has against me—how wide the gulf is between what she suspects and what she already knows.

  Considering the work I’ve done for her, this conversation is not to be taken lightly.

  I clear my throat and I meet her gaze. “I wondered when you’d find out.” My admission is straightforward.

  Truthful.

  She breaks that contact first. “Have I been unfair to you?” When she looks at me again, her face is calm. It’s her eyes that have hardened. “I pay you well.”

  “You do.” A dozen plans flicker through my head. Attack or run. Bargain or beg. I toy with different combinations, but each one leads me to the same result.

  Failure.

  Death or disappearance.

  I wouldn’t be the first to survive her anger and never be seen again. Dying is a relatively quick punishment compared to a lifetime of suffering. And who would miss me, if I never emerge from this room? Each time I ask myself that question, my answer is the same. And equally depressing.

  “Have I ever cheated you?” she asks.

  “No, Fem.”

  “Is this a revenge thing?” I suspect she’s been stung before.

  “No.” She’s never hurt me personally, and I don’t care enough about anyone else to carry a grudge.

  “Then why do this?” She finally takes her seat, dropping heavily into the padded leather. Not a smart thing to do unless she is extremely confident I can’t hurt her. “Well?” Her voice rises when I don’t answer her immediately. She’s getting frustrated.

  Might as well go for broke.

  “How much do you know?” My question catches her off guard.

  “You’re asking me— Do you even understand the position you’re in right now?” she fires back.

  “I do.” I’ve done plenty of dirty work for her. “However, I have contractual obligations to consider.” I might not have the resources to invest in gathering a full psychological profile of her, but I’ve studied her as much as she’s studied me during our sporadic conversations. I didn’t just dig up and package her past. I’ve cataloged her tells, the cracks in her façade, and sold them as well. What matters now is whether she knows who I’ve sold them to.

  Because trade and its inherent risks are as much about what you know as what you have. What an opponent has done or is doing is far less valuable than what they’re going to do. Markets—physical and metaphorical—are largely the same. Success depends on correctly judging the ebb and flow of supply versus demand. Which means having an edge on your competitors, no matter how slight, can be the difference between profit and ruin.

  Plexis knows this better than anyone. She’d be ten times the information broker I am if she wanted to be. But she’s smart enough to recognize the size of the target on her back already.

  Which is probably why we’re still talking—she’ll want to know who’s aiming at her.

  “You work on my ship, Morrab. For me. I own everything you do.” Whatever she really thinks and feels, she’s got a good enough poker face to hide most of it. “You aren’t allowed to have other contracts.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not entirely true. I was hired as an occasional contractor, a classification that frees you from traditional employer obligations. Taxes, benefits, and the like. It also permits you to charge me for the space I occupy, the food I eat, and the air I breathe.” I slowly raise my hand and brush my airtag. “There are certain advantages on my side, such as retaining my independence. Basically, whenever I work for you—from the moment I accept a task to the instant you pay me for it—I am everything you want me to be: loyal, discreet, thorough. At all other times, I owe you nothing.”

  “Clareid?” Plexis asks the ceiling. “Tell him he’s wrong.”

  We sit in momentary silence while her employment specialist digests my statement.

  “I am unable to do so.” Clareid, I assume, answers. “He negotiated terms—significant cost savings in return for greater freedom. Further discussions should take place over private channel.”

  “Who signed off on his contract?” Plexis’ tone has changed. Now she’s clearly angry—and dangerous.

  �
��Your nephew.”

  “Fire him.” Whatever her staff was about to say is lost under that command. “All right, Morrab, I knew you were clever when I hired you. Fair enough.” She swipes the space over the desk and taps a series of commands into the holographic pad that materializes there. “Why don’t we change the game.”

  No armored thugs burst in.

  No gas assaults my lungs and no needle injects venom.

  Instead, several wall panels retract, revealing automated turrets. High energy emitters–the kind that vaporize flesh. She’s got at least three of them pointed at me. I don’t dare turn around to see if there are more at my back.

  “We’re alone now,” she continues. “No cameras, no security. Just the two of us.”

  “And the weapons.”

  “I’ve seen you work. I know what you’re capable of.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Then let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” She doesn’t state the obvious: that she could kill me here and now, and no one would ever find my body. “You had my trust yesterday.” Plexis says plainly. “I thought I had your loyalty. Now what’s left? An old witch and a crusty goblin. You and I, we’ve seen enough problems to know how to deal with them. We should be able to figure this out.” She’s changed tack; the threat is still there, but she’s moved on to bartering. Hopefully, that’s a positive sign. “Good help is hard to find, and frankly you’ve been useful these past five years. Nevertheless, you know I can’t have an unknown element on my team. So, start talking.”

  “You have more enemies than allies.” I shift uneasily in my seat, careful to keep my movements at a minimum. There’s no comfortable position with weapons pointed at you.

  “I’m aware.” Plexis is an important person. She regularly receives trade envoys and diplomats from the various worlds and stations, each one hoping for a stop along her route, and each one as devious as they come. But those aren’t her only problems. Pirates and smugglers, tax cheats and rowdy passengers—her supermarket may be a bastion of commerce, but she’s assailed on all sides. Hells, my job is to deal with the least savory types—chasing off those who repeatedly break the rules and outright killing the ones who decide to use weapons instead of learning from their mistakes.

  “You also know some are more powerful than others.” Has she felt that ebb and flow, the webs that touch and bind her business? “Some of those, nobody fights.”

  “So you’re being blackmailed?”

  “Hah.” My laugh is empty. “They don’t blackmail. They instruct. They command. And because I know what they are, I obey.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  She doesn’t know. I’m almost giddy with that realization.

  “Good.” I mean it. “We should leave it at that. You can ban me from the station, and I’ll book passage on the next outward ship.” I know she won’t. That’s why I make the offer.

  “You dangle a secret like that and expect me not to bite?” She laughs. “I could kill you now.”

  “Fem Plexis, if I tell you what I know, there’s no going back. And you’ll need help. Mine, specifically. You’ll have to keep me around.” Time to make my play. Hopefully, it works.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” While this might save my life, I’m still in dangerous territory.

  There are stories about a cabal manipulating events from the shadows, but few would admit to believing them. I am one of those few. But I know they’re real. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting one, of seeing and speaking with a God. What else can I call a being who materialized out of thin air? Who damned near killed me for the transgression?

  Only he didn’t. He—Yihtor di Caraat—let me live because I made myself useful. That’s how I learned they’re not omnipotent. Powerful enough to be feared, but not everywhere all the time.

  Not Gods, but Plexis doesn’t need to know that.

  “Fine.” I rasp. “Let me tell you about the Clan.”

  . . . Truffles continues

  3

  I TOOK AN easier breath when Morgan stepped close. I’d no specific concern this instant, other than to avoid having my foot stepped on and likely crushed by a passing, preoccupied Norsenturtle—but this wasn’t my home.

  It was his. Plexis was the closest thing to a base the Fox had, Huido her captain’s only family. Morgan was known here, had connections throughout the station, most especially on levels like this where most tags were blue and spacers outnumbered customers. Little wonder he’d chatted with the sombay seller. There were many who acknowledged our—his—passing: be it a scowl from security or a cheery wave of a staffer’s tentacle. Morgan responded to each with a casual familiarity I envied.

  While I’d lived in deliberate isolation in the Cloisters, even from most of my kind, this solitary Human had accumulated a staggering array of friends—and their opposite. How could he not? My Chosen, I thought with a very unClan-like pride, wasn’t a person to overlook another’s need or ignore what harmed others.

  As for the predators here? And there were, of course. They knew better than to show him their faces. Except, I thought grimly, for a certain official, and took a moment to imagine its likely reaction had we ’ported right into the Duties & Tariffs office, except I’d no idea where or what that was—

  So serious. Fingers slipped between mine and gave a gentle tug. “Forget E’Teiso. Let’s go dancing.”

  I stared at him. “Pardon?”

  Morgan spun around to walk facing me, deftly leading us around the Norsenturtle who, fortunately, appeared paralyzed by such behavior in a Human. I empathized. “Dance, Witchling.” He took possession of my other hand.

  Music thumped, thudded, and wailed from all sides, luring—or driving—patrons from the assorted clubs, bars, and other establishments lining the night zone. None of it appealed, but when Morgan smiled at me, I couldn’t help smiling back. Playful wasn’t his public face—until now, apparently. “Huido will know we’ve docked,” I pointed out in a last effort to be sensible. “He’ll expect us.”

  “And we’ll get there when we’re ready.” His smile widened as he looked over my shoulder. “Perfect. There’s Daniel, one of Rose’s. He’ll run a message for us.” Morgan swung us around. “Dance with me, Witchling.”

  I planted my feet to forestall another spin, feeling a sudden chill. The last—and first—time I’d danced had been in the Poculan jungle, admittedly with more vigor and sweat than grace.

  Until the night shattered into tragedy. Jason, I can’t—

  His face altered, and I knew that mix of impatience and compassion: I’d missed some essential truth. We treasure our friends for how they lived, Witchling.

  He was my teacher in more than trader life. I nodded, swallowing grief, doing my best to remember laughter and the beat of drums. I managed a tremulous smile. “Dancing it is.”

  “Good. Daniel!”

  A tall Human seemed to materialize out of the surrounding crowd, though it hardly seemed possible I’d missed him earlier. A brilliantly colored lock of hair drooped over his forehead and the spacer coveralls he wore made mine look new. His age eluded me. Younger than my Human, but with the same too-controlled expression. Until he grinned. “Hey, Morgan. Whaz happening?”

  “Excuse us.” Taking Daniel aside, Morgan spoke to him quickly, then returned to me. “We’re set.”

  I glanced back to find our messenger had melted back into the crowd.

  Anisoptera With a Side Order of Soft Blast

  by Fiona Patton

  SUBLEVEL 84 SPINWARD ⅓ of Plexis Supermarket was crowded, noisy, dingy, and smelled of . . . fourteen-year-old Daniel Kekoa considered and discarded several profane descriptions before settling on . . . feet; alien feet. The fluorescent blue trim on his shaggy black hair flopping into his eyes, he glared at the Tolian spice merchant across from him, then slapped
a plas sheet down on the counter beside a pile of packages, the holographic tattoo of a spaceship flying from a sun going supernova on the golden skin of his forearm winking in and out of the red-and-orange solar flares.

  “Where’s the twenty percent merchant discount, Faz?” he demanded between gritted teeth.

  One four-fingered hand waved dismissively at him. “No discount!” the Tolian retorted haughtily through his throat com. “You’re no merchant.”

  Daniel kept a rein on his temper. “They’re for Rose. They’re always for Rose,” He leaned forward, his heavy boots giving him height on the other being. “They’ve always been for Rose every thruster-burned month for the last thruster-burned year. You. Know. That.”

  “I don’t know that!” Faz shot back, his iridescent red-and -blue–feathered crest snapping back and forth. “You’re probably selling them! You probably don’t even know Rose! You take them at full price, or I’ll sell them elsewhere!”

  “Space that! I take them with the twenty percent discount, or I take Rose’s business—all of her business—to Gerloff one level up! He doesn’t try and cheat other Plexis merchants which, trust me, everyone you and Rose deal with is gonna hear about!”

  Faz opened his beak to give another stinging retort, before one large emerald eye turned to focus on a figure slouching in through the shop door.

  “No, no, no, no! You not being coming in here!” he shrieked, his sudden outrage garbling his usually flawless Comspeak. “There being no living creatures in here! I’m being telling you before, I being selling no living creatures! Only spices! You go! Go now!”

  Daniel glanced over his shoulder. The figure that had generated such anger was a kid about his own age, skin almost luminescently pale, green hair standing up in wild spikes save for a single lock that dropped down in front of a pair of narrowed blue eyes. He wore secondhand, cutoff spacer trousers two sizes two big for him, a retro gray T-shirt with the words “Eat the Rich” emblazoned across the front in lurid orange letters, and red plas wrist guards. He held a small device in his hand, which he waved menacingly at the shopkeeper.