We exchanged grins.
“Where to now?” Jilly said.
“The posting boards.”
She dragged back on my hand. “No one’s going to hire us,” she said. “We’ve no experience.”
“How do you think new spacers are made?” I said. “Everyone starts at the bottom.”
“But—”
“No buts,” I interrupted. “This is your best chance, but we have to go now.”
She followed as I took the most secluded concourses and slide ramps I knew.
* * *
• • •
I led the way into a café across the concourse and bought us some drinks. I picked a bench where we could watch the open space in front of the massive board. Data crawled over it. Postings for crew on outbound ships as well as cargo. Hiring tables were set up in front.
“What are we waiting for?” Jilly whispered.
“Just give me a minute. I want to make sure no one’s watching the place.”
“Oh. Makes sense. Guess I’m still not thinking straight.”
“Shock. You’ll be fine in a bit.”
We finished our drinks and headed across.
I’d been in here several times just from curiosity, so I had an idea of how to proceed. I pulled Jilly to the side and studied the board.
“There, that one,” I said after a few minutes. “The Wanderer.”
“Why that one?”
“It’s a trader, big enough they might need a couple of new hands, small enough to keep to no fixed schedule. Their next stop is Auord.”
I led the way to the listed table at the far end of the room.
A middle-aged Human in faded blue coveralls looked up when we stopped across from him.
“Fair skies,” I said. “We’re looking for working passage.”
The spacer looked us up and down and shrugged. “Either of you hold any ratings?”
“No, sir,” I said, “But we’ve both worked station hydroponics. We know what not to touch without explanation.”
“That’s something anyway.” He ticked something off on a noteplas. “Good enough. I’m the cargomaster of the Wanderer. We need someone to handle cargo stowage and general cleaning. You’ll also learn basic maintenance. I’ve only got one berth free. Your pick.”
Jilly looked startled and a little uneasy.
I spoke up before she could say anything. “She’ll take it.”
“But—”
I pulled her aside and whispered. “You have to get off the station, now. I’ll follow later. We’ll meet up on Auord. Get a job and wait for me.”
“All right. But you’d better come, or I’ll track you down.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’d never want you hunting me.”
She smiled weakly.
Jilly started to turn back to the cargomaster, but I grabbed her arm. “Use a different name,” I said. “No telling what those Scats will do to track you down.”
She nodded and thought for a moment. “I’ll get a job at the shipcity on Auord. Ask for Thel Masim.”
“‘Thel Masim,’” I repeated. “Got it. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Jilly—no, Thel—turned back to the cargomaster and put her hand on the accept scanner.
He nodded, then pushed back from the table. “Time to go.” He turned to the door leading to the ships beyond.
Jilly shifted back and forth, then grabbed my face, and gave me a long, hard kiss before she grabbed up her bag and followed him.
I stood frozen and watched her leave. She turned back once at the portal and waved, then she was gone.
I stood a long moment more before I faded into the crowd. Plexis—the Pack—was my home. I’d have to stay low for a while; Hutton had a long memory.
And it was time Thel left hers behind.
. . . Truffles continues
4
MORGAN GREW QUIET, not that we could have spoken aloud over the growing din of what I no longer could call music, but then I didn’t have the auditory nerves of a Blazod. Fortunately, our path wasn’t into the Blazoduncelin Thud Hut. I let my Chosen lead us farther into the night zone.
The beings around us ranged from those intoxicated—or seeking to be, in whatever form suited their biology—to those bewildered by their surroundings, to those seemingly lost but determined to be anywhere but here. And tourists. A servo-towed bubble cart passed by, purple eyes peering out with interest through a cloud of yellow: a non-oxy breather taking a stroll on the wild side.
None would’ve noticed an explosion, let alone the two of us disappearing; however, I’d no trouble resisting the urge to ’port us to Huido’s apartment, filled with a new curiosity.
Dancing. The Human sort.
Clan didn’t dance, but I’d watched vids of Humans with Rael, my sister being fond of ballet, an artistic form claimed to predate the species leaving their homeworld. It required both practice and costume, neither of which either of us had. Safe from ballet, then.
Hopefully, it’d be hopping to a beat. Morgan, however, had that worrisome grace. Doubtless, dancing would be something he did as well as everything else, and he’d expect me to learn some complicated series of steps; I just knew it. The sweeper was hard enough. This was hardly fair—
Sira, I don’t know how to dance, his mindvoice oddly uncertain. I haven’t wanted to before.
It didn’t matter if I’d leaked my insecurity on the issue or if, as usual, Morgan perceived what I’d rather hide. Relieved, I eased close and slipped my arm around his waist. My hair happily curled around his shoulder to caress his smooth cheek, and all was right with the universe. We’ll hop together, I sent smugly. Unless you’d prefer to practice back on the ship? With an undercurrent of heat.
Unfair, Witchling, with flattering HEAT of his own, and I was ready to forget the truffles and concentrate on our cabin on the Fox in that instant—
Except a bundle of shapes exploded through a doorway just ahead, followed by a chanting mob. I couldn’t tell what they were chanting, other than some exhorted one set of combatants against another.
Or rather a set against one, which might have brought up the notion of fairness except the one appeared to be winning.
Morgan muttered something rude under his breath. Louder, in my ear, “We have to help.”
Bodies flew in all directions then regrouped as the struggle tumbled back into what the sign proclaimed, unlikely as it seemed, to be McWhirtle’s Iconic Pub, onlookers pressing eagerly behind. “Why?” I asked sensibly, taking hold of his arm with both hands in case. I’d owned a tavern on Pocular. In my experience, such fights were short-lived and ultimately expensive for those involved—and outsiders were not welcome to participate.
Before he could answer, I spotted a uniformed figure pushing through the spectators toward the pub and relaxed. “There. Let Plexis Security—” my voice trailed away. The uniform wasn’t gray.
It was the red and black of a Trade Pact Enforcer, on a being we knew. Constable P’tr wit ’Whix, on the staff of Assistant Sector Chief Lydis Bowman. Making the individual in the fight most likely to be his Human partner—
“Terk,” Morgan grumbled, finishing my thought. “Brexk for brains.” He lifted his arm and waved.
The Tolian spotted us and hurried over. “Captain Morgan. Fem Morgan. Greetings. Have you seen—” He winced, crest feathers fluttering, at a crash from within McWhirtle’s. “Oh, dear.”
Not for the first time, I wondered how these two ever came to be partners.
Chicken
by Elizabeth A. Farley-Dawson
P’TR WIT ’WHIX entered the lounge and clacked his hooked bill in relief as the din of the Plexis concourse dropped away. All species shared air on Plexis Supermarket, but no species was completely comfortable here. Except maybe Humans. Invasive species that
they were, Humans seemed comfortable in any oxy environment. Over the years, enterprising souls of most other commonly spacefaring species had created species-specific establishments on the traveling station. This place had a name that few had the anatomy to properly pronounce. Those limited to Comspeak simply called it “The Tolian Sanctuary.”
’Whix’s clawed feet clicked on the cold plating of the short hall until they were muffled by thick-piled carpeting in the common area as he walked toward his private room. Overhead, holoscreens mimicked clouds passing through a deep blue-purple sky. ’Whix relaxed a bit more as some of his claustrophobia abated, and he gave himself a good shake to fluff his feathers. Which got stuck awkwardly under the stiff collar of his new uniform tunic. He felt a rachis break. Blasted clothing! Why did everyone have to conform to what the Humans considered appropriate professional wear?
’Whix glanced over at the concierge desk, envying the male attendant’s glittering metal chain-and-gemstone jewelry and diaphanous scarf tied to hide the Comspeak implant at his throat. The young male had adopted the recent fad of using ultraviolet pigment to paint “tattoos” of geometric patterns across his feathers, visible only in lighting such as this, which simulated that of their homeworld. ’Whix thought the paint an unnecessarily flamboyant touch. The desk attendant beckoned.
“Message for you, Hom. Looks important,” the attendant said, handing over a sealed, official-looking envelope. He craned his long neck, trying to see over ’Whix’s shoulder as ’Whix turned away, slipping a finger-claw under the plas flap. ’Whix closed the flap, stood taller, and glared down his bill. The ill-considered swirls of paint around the large golden eyes, flecked with remnants of juvenile brown, emphasized the younger male’s startled crest-raising at ’Whix’s response. ’Whix said nothing, walking toward his room as the other male retracted his head, slicking down all his feathers. Immatures, he thought, are never subtle, suddenly feeling absurdly smug about his bright emerald irises that until recently sported gold specks. Looks like my first assignment has come in, ’Whix thought, skimming the page. At least I’ll have some time to . . .
A blast of crowd noise and the clump of heavy, definitively non-Tolian boots in the vestibule startled an undignified squawk from the concierge. ’Whix’s head twisted backward over his shoulder before he finished his thought.
A Human male stood in the common room, the red-and-black Trade Pact uniform showing the insignia of an enforcer, those shoulders barely contained by the fabric. He glared around under heavy brows at the few curious Tolians relaxing in the common room. “Which one of you is . . .” he consulted a piece of paper, “Pit—teer . . . Peet–tir . . . grr . . . Whicks?”
“P’tr wit ’Whix, Biochemist, Trade Pact Science Division, at your service,”’Whix carefully enunciated his name, which wasn’t . . . quite . . . faithfully translated into Comspeak by his own throat implant. He stepped to turn his body around to align with his head, and strode forward. He lifted his crest slightly as he stood taller and spread his arms in formal greeting, though he knew the full effect of flashing his truly exquisite iridescent throat and crest feathers would be lost on the Human’s sadly inadequate vision.
“Constable Russell Terk. I need you to come with me.”
“That is illogical. I have just been granted leave before my first assignment,”’Whix replied, displaying the opened envelope he still clutched in his slim, four-fingered hand.
“This inquiry takes precedence. We can’t speak here,” Terk said brusquely.
’Whix whistled in dismay, inwardly bemoaning the heated sandbox and bertwee oil rub that he’d ordered waiting for him. Tugging the stiff collar of his own much plainer black-with-red uniform again, he strode toward the door. Grooming, he decided, would have to wait.
* * *
• • •
With his arms crossed, Constable Russell Terk stood next to the Tolian and looked down at the corpse. Nicely browned, the thought popped into his head before he could suppress it. He glanced sideways at the tall alien standing beside him but couldn’t read the horny-billed, feathered face. At least the giant, domed green eyes had stopped roving unnervingly in separate directions.
Terk cleared his throat. “So?”
“This is clearly a Tolian. I fail to understand why you needed me here to tell you that,” came the flat, robotic response of the translator that confusingly overlapped the whistles, chirps, trills, and clicks actually produced from the creature’s throat. The closest eye rotated to focus on the Human’s face while the other continued viewing the corpse.
“There are no others of your species currently onstation with the clearance to be involved in this investigation. We need this kept quiet to avoid tipping off whoever might be involved,” Terk explained. He continued, “Why do you think anyone would do . . . this . . . then go through all the trouble to bring the body to Plexis?”
“That also seems clear. To eat, of course.” Said with a cock of the head and lift of the crest, as he gestured toward his dead fellow. “My interspecies’ studies suggest this is a traditional preparation for one of your Human livestock animals. A chicken. Am I wrong?”
Cold-blooded featherhead, Terk thought, then cleared his throat again. “Yes, well . . . or um, no, you’re right, there is a superficial resemblance. . . .” He trailed off, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, sure he felt some stitches start to give way. “A newly off-planet Human looking for familiar meats tipped off Plexis Security when she noticed this,” he flapped a large square hand at the body, “was much larger than what’s possible for the advertised species.”
Terk continued brusquely, “Could a Tolian have committed this crime? If so, then we’ll part ways and your authorities can resolve the matter.” He faced ’Whix directly.
* * *
• • •
Though he saw the constable well enough already, ’Whix aimed his bill politely at Terk to indicate the direction of his attention. Then he eyed the corpse again, trying to ignore the scent rising from the plucked and tastefully garnished body. “Not possible,” he replied. We prefer it raw; we only eat cooked food around you. He clamped his bill and throat tight on those words he dared not utter to an alien. “My people would never do such a thing,” he offered instead.
“Of course not. It had to be too much to hope for a vacation,” muttered the pale-haired Human, running a hand through his limp hair in frustration and making it stick up wildly. “If a Tolian didn’t do it, then who did?” he challenged, taking a deep breath that puffed up his very broad chest.
’Whix forced himself to recall his training and not respond instinctually; this wasn’t another Tolian male. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot, thinking, looking around at the other precooked meats on offer in Bob’s Fine Provender. “Surely the proprietor has tracked this shipment? Isn’t ‘Bob’ a common Human male name?”
“Bob is Dibran, but it thinks Bob sounds friendlier than its own name.” Terk snorted rudely. “It did track the shipment, but the Dibran idea of record keeping involves licking everything in sight. There’s plenty of sticky slobber to go around.”
’Whix replied dryly, “I am aware the species keeps details of that sense to themselves, citing exemptions for reproductive processes. The Science Division is actively researching how Dibrans detect the relative strength of molecular signatures.”
“Anyway, we haven’t been able to crack its code, so that doesn’t help us,” Terk shrugged.
“‘Crack its code’? Was the Dibran encrypting information? That suggests criminal intent—”
“It was a figure of speech,” Terk interrupted.
“How can speech, being verbal, become a figure, which is visual?”
Terk opened his mouth, then closed it. “Never mind,” he muttered. More loudly, he said, “No transfers of ownership occurred since the cargo was stamped upon arrival onstation and then sold to this Dibran. We don’t think Bob
had any idea this was anything other than what the crate labels indicate. Plexis Security assured us of that—before happily handing over this little problem.”
’Whix trilled to himself as his eyes roamed the shop, continually shifting his weight, claws ticking softly on the unmodified metal station decking. He wished he could pace, but the small space was too crowded with refrigerated cases, displays of self-heating platters, foodstuffs, and the bulky Human. A tiny corner of noteplas peeking from under a shelving rack caught his eye as he twisted his head on his long neck. ’Whix stalked over and pulled it out along with a cloud of dust that set Terk to sneezing.
’Whix handed Terk the plas, largely clean except for one curled edge coated thickly with dust on one side. A sticky backing had dried out, causing the shipping label to fall off its crate and slip under the shelving, though only after the dust adhered to the edge.
’Whix squeezed past Terk to the storeroom, where the floor was also liberally dusty. He considered the haphazardly stacked boxes. “Constable, I require your assistance,” he called.
They started shifting crates made heavier by the tech necessary for keeping their contents preserved. A couple of hours later, Terk’s face was coated in a fine layer of dust cut through by drips of the salty water Humans produced so profusely and ’Whix was gaping and fluttering his throat to thermoregulate. Finally, the Tolian spied a crate with a shipping tag that sported a halo of darker color where another label had once covered it and prevented it from fading—matching the size of the label in Terk’s hand. ’Whix gave a kaw of triumph.
“Plexis was sloppy to have overlooked this. Or they were paid to,” Terk judged. He bent close to read off the original label. “‘Meragrik Transports.’ Gotcha, you crasnig,” he growled. He showed his teeth in a wide primate grin, looking up at the Tolian.
’Whix didn’t think it indicated pleasure.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 12