Hope of discovering his whereabouts sank with every narrow aisle he traveled within the darkness. Then, while rounding yet another bend, he saw her standing in a small band of light near a conveyor belt. At least, one who looked like the brain-dead Human pest he’d encountered earlier. He couldn’t be sure. Not at this distance. Nor was she his problem. The same couldn’t be said of one of the others with her. A being known to him—if only by reputation—and one of his kind’s greatest enemies. Roraqk. A Scat pirate who chose that instant to end the pathetic existence of one of two Auordian males conversing with him.
If Roraqk saw Soh’im, or even suspected he was someone not belonging wandering around, he would no doubt meet the same fate as the one whose dead body now folded in upon itself. Finding a crevice among the otherwise tightly stacked plas crates, Soh’im wormed his way in. Not an easy accomplishment for most possessing a more than average girth, but a mite easier for a Neblokan capable of redistributing his bulk for just such an occasion.
Enough time passed without disturbance that Soh’im felt secure in leaving his hiding place. One problem—having remained wedged in place for so long, his swelling belly rejected the idea. In the midst of trying to coax the excess fluids rebuilding there to other parts, the platform beneath his oversized four-toed feet shuddered, shifting the crates enough for him to edge outward.
A move he wished he’d not taken, for once his wide brows cleared the crevice, he discovered himself now suspended far above the tallest stack of crates in what turned out to be an even larger warehouse than he’d first imagined. Moving back into the shadows, he waited.
The platform plummeted, unleashing a gut-wrenching knot into his nether region. An image of Nih’ma flashed before his eyes. Her wide mouth turned in a beguiling downward curve that set his pulse racing as she beckoned him to join her. No. Not “join.” Find. The moment his purpose reinstated itself in his mind, his descent came to a stop with a bounce that would have sent him sprawling if not for the confines of the crevice. More jarring bounces followed before a solid thud announced he’d connected with the ground once again.
A mechanical whine followed by a hiss of compressed air announced the closure of a hatch. Unfortunately, Soh’im found his escape route barred by more plas crates. With nowhere else to go, he settled in for what he hoped would be a short journey. If not—well, he could consume his own energy stores for many cycles.
Placing his faith in the Fates, he sank into a low hibernation until the Fates saw fit to release him from his traveling prison.
* * *
• • •
Startled awake, Soh’im slid his emaciated frame from the crevice as soon as the retreating servofreighter disappeared from sight. Where was he? Mindful of his sensitive wattle, he clutched the tarp tightly around the folds of his neck when a sharp pain coursed through his pouch. Crumpling against the crate, he took several long breaths as he waited for the contraction to ebb. It couldn’t possibly be the end of term already. Could it? Soh’im had lost so much time, he couldn’t even remember how long ago Nih’ma had implanted her egg in his pouch or when it had hatched into ’yo. He needed to find her. Quickly.
Too many crates blocked his view. He needed to find out where he was. Then—only then—could he plan his next move. Rubbing his distended belly in a continuous circular motion he hoped would calm the ’yo, he waddled off between the crates as fast as his depleted legs could carry him. Upon reaching the outer wall of the bay, he discovered exactly where the ship had brought him. Emblazoned on the wall, along with information scripted in various languages that held no interest to Soh’im, one word stood out: Plexis.
The Fates had looked upon him favorably. Why else would he end up where he must be without mindful plan? Now, if only they continued their favor.
A hissing whir began in the distance and slowly grew louder. Soh’im’s wattle ached with the movement of searching for a place to hide. Stumbling toward the labyrinth of crates, he stubbed his bone-thin toe and fell. His canvas, catching the air currents created by his retreat, puffed open and pulled free. As Soh’im lay there, waiting for the approaching servo to sound the alarm, it fluttered back down over his naked form. His pudgy digits stilling on the smooth surface as the hissing whir established a position directly overhead, he held his breath.
And waited . . . And waited . . .
The whirring receded. Had it decided the pile on the floor to be of no consequence? Or was it leaving to signal security? Either way, he needed to act now. In the midst of pushing himself up, he scraped his sensitive belly against a section of grated flooring. A vent, and where there were vents, there were ducts. Would they lead to the inner sections of the station, or just continue into the next storage section? As it appeared to be his only exit option, he would soon find out. Keeping the tarp over him, he worked the grate free at the painful expense of his fingers. Slipping his feet through the opening, he ran into some difficulty worming his belly beyond the unyielding metal.
A shrill beep sounded, bringing more whirring, but no running feet. It was enough to force a deep intake of breath and one final wiggle to free himself. Now squatting inside a long tunnel of duct, he maneuvered the grate back in place. A gust of cold air raced up his back and through the holes, puffing up his discarded cover. The gust subsided, but before the tarp resettled, he crawled away.
So many turns, and no way to mark his course, Soh’im began to doubt his ability to navigate the ducts. When another contraction surged through his pouch, he lay down, curled up on his side. With no point of interest within the duct to redirect the pain of the building contraction, his thoughts turned to the future of his ’yo who seemed to be in a great hurry to enter the world.
“Easy, young Tuh’yo,” he cooed, stroking his prominent belly, “time enough for you to join me once we find your matra.”
As he wondered whether his mate would approve of the name, for it had belonged to her twin who hadn’t survived the transferal from the male to female at spawning, the deep roots of buried panic pushed forth. Maybe he shouldn’t have chosen it. If he didn’t find Nih’ma, their ’yo would meet its namesake’s fate. No, best not to think that way. Focus on something else—maybe the choosing. Who would it follow? Born with no gender, all Neblokan ’yo made their choice upon maturation. Would his own ’yo choose to be an ’im like Soh’im, or a ’ma like Nih’ma?
Not that the choosing mattered, for the option to change one’s sex remained open for life. Why, his own matra, long before Soh’im’s spawning, had made the change. And she may have done so again before coming to the end of her corporeal existence, if undergoing the process weren’t so complicated and excruciating. Unlike his matra, Soh’im, his own choice occurring without conscious thought, had never felt compelled to even try.
A cold rush of air washed over him, taking the last of the contraction with it as it passed. Time to move. But which way? Soh’im had lost all compass. However, the draft continued, and logic dictated the air flowed from the center outward, so the moment he shifted back onto his knees, he crawled headlong into the air current.
His knees bruised and bleeding, Soh’im paused beside a grate to peer from the shadowed confines of the duct out into the expanse of Plexis Supermarket. Having been here as a ’yo, and then later in life, but before mating, he knew he’d overshot the Wholesalers’ Floor by the simple sight of a sign across the way. Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine. Not a place he’d be welcomed after his last visit, no matter how badly he relished the excellent food. The sky overhead remained set to day, while the number of bodies measured too low to risk exposure. He’d have to seek a night zone before slipping from his hiding place. There, even with the higher number of patrons, no one would think twice about a naked Neblokan wandering around the entertainment district.
Another contraction struck as he settled down, rendering him senseless. When he awoke, the duct vibrated around him. His first thought
: the evening “music” had begun. But no sounds, save a whooshing, reached his auditory receptors. As it drew closer, the whoosh emitted a thrum that undulated his lax flesh. Heavy brows lifted above widened eyes as realization dawned. Duct cleaning servo.
Soh’im couldn’t outrun the servo unit that would shred him to pieces if he didn’t vacate. Ignoring the searing pain in his skeletal shoulders, he slammed into the grate again and again. His final attack met open space, sending him sprawling onto the cold concourse floor, taking a patron’s chair with him as the cleaning servo whirred past his feet. Groaning, he rolled onto his back to stare up into the wrinkled eyes of a Human. Multi-jointed fingers probed Soh’im, poking at his bony frame until they reached his swollen abdomen.
“You are with ’yo?”
“Yes,” Soh’im groaned as another contraction took root. His eyes rolled up, but the Human ignored the rude gesture, possibly assuming its cause to be the pain, and nothing personal. “I’m Soh’im, and I must find my—find my mate, Nih’ma. She was taken from me, but I know she’s near.”
“Up with you.” Those multi-jointed fingers wrapped around Soh’im’s arm in an effort to arrange him into a sitting position. But fresh pain surged through him, curling him into the fetal position. “We shall wait for it to pass.”
Light fabric draped over Soh’im’s aching body. Something he wouldn’t have noticed if not for the soothing effect of the warmth it provided. His pudgy digits closed around the edge, drawing it up to his sagging wattle, now almost completely devoid of its natural blue color.
“Please,” he begged with a small measure of strength gained from the warmth, “help me find Nih’ma.”
“Fear not, Friend Soh’im, for I have already sent out word to search for her.” A thin metal sheet slid beneath him followed by a quick securing of bands around his chest and legs, setting Soh’im squirming in a bid to escape. Until a soft caress crossed his brow, stilling his frenzy. “Easy, Friend Soh’im, for I am a med-tech here on Plexis, and what I need from you now is trust. Your contraction has suspended, so relax while I transfer you.”
The grav stretcher left the ground behind, taking Soh’im’s withered body with it. Giving way to his weariness, he closed his eyes. Until the pain struck again much too close to the last. Time was running out. Unaccustomed to exhibiting any forms of emotion to those outside of his own species other than disdain or impatience, it took him by surprise when he muttered a term explicitly used with the Fates, “Thank you,” and genuinely meant it.
Doors opened to a darkened room, immediately flooded with lights when the grav stretcher crossed the threshold. The binding straps released as it settled and slid from beneath him, allowing him to sink into the softer cushion of a mattress. Hiding in the refuse, and then among the crates for so long, he’d almost forgotten the feel of a bed. Even the lesser comforts of a med unit.
The Human busied himself with the med unit’s equipment.
“My name is Dalso. Your time is near, Soh’im, and I have just—” Dalso’s hesitant pause set Soh’im on edge, “I am sorry, Friend Soh’im, the news is not pleasant.” His withered face turned away. “Your mate, Nih’ma, I have received word she does not survive.”
“How?” He dreaded the answer, but he just had to know. “What happened?”
“Her body,” the med unit shook with the strike of Dalso’s hip as he moved beyond sight, “was found in the lower levels during a raid. Past med data confirmed her identity.” A bony hand settled on Soh’im’s shoulder. “Friend Soh’im, I know you grieve, but this cannot wait. You must have a surrogate for your ’yo to survive. I have found a willing—”
“No!” Soh’im searched frantically for an alternative. When it came, he chided himself. Why hadn’t he considered it earlier with his thoughts focused on this very thing? “I can go through the change—I . . .”
“Easy, Friend Soh’im. Altering your state once set is risky at the healthiest of times, but in your condition—well. I am afraid you have no other recourse but to use a surrogate.” A sting pierced his neck, sending his thoughts into a foggy haze as a new set of bands encircled him. “I am sorry, Friend,” the word, said like that, held any meaning but its intended, “but I have need of your ’yo, for it will fetch a staggering amount on the black mark—”
A blast of energy struck the doors, melting the metal into a gaping hole Soh’im had trouble bringing into focus. Three weapon-bearing Neblokans charged into the room, the first, a ’ma, felled Dalso as he scrambled toward a com panel.
“Guard the door in case the Human is not the last.”
“Yes, Commodore.”
“Foolish Mate,” the ’ma scolded, loosening Soh’im’s bonds. “What were you thinking?”
“Nih’ma?” The name escaped his lips in nothing more than a whisper, but she heard, and smiled. “I thought—that is, Dalso said you died. How?”
“It would take more than Recruiters and a black market to keep me down.” Her stubby fingers stroked his leathery lips before sliding to his quivering pouch. “Later. It’s time.”
Extruding the sharp claw on her longer middle finger, Nih’ma sliced open the seal running across the top of her abdomen before doing the same to Soh’im’s pouch. Straddling her mate, so the two openings met, she cooed gentle words of encouragement, something uncommon at any other time in a Neblokan’s life, to coax the ’yo forth. As the ’yo passed between them, white-hot pain seared Soh’im’s innards. The world faded away.
* * *
• • •
When he came to, Nih’ma sat in a chair beside him, cradling their newborn, whose high-set eyes and nose peeked above the safety of his matra’s pouch to stare at his patra. It took a long time for Soh’im to tear his gaze away from those two wondrous blue orbs to meet his mate’s matching gaze.
“Here I came to rescue you, and, instead, you found me? Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story, and better saved for once we are away from this place and safely home.” Her hand settled over his, coaxing it toward her pouch and their newborn. “For now, thank the Fates we are together again.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me, Nih’ma,” he wiped away the moisture collecting on his sunken cheek as their ’yo took one of his fingers into its mouth, “I can’t seem to control my emotions.”
“Hormones,” her lips curled farther downward, sending his double heart racing. “They will pass, and you’ll be your proper self again.” The grin deepened, “At least, they’d better, or I’ll be finding myself a new mate.”
He refrained from any verbal response. There was no need, for as long as they both lived, they would remain bound together.
“I named our ’yo, Tuh’yo,” Soh’im whispered, already feeling the return of his normal temperament, “in honor of your twin. I hope you approve.”
“I do. And so must the Fates.”
. . . Truffles continues
9
PLEXIS SET THE standard for tasteless, impossible to evade advertising. An insistent banner for the upcoming show by the Great Bendini had followed me into a public accommodation, bursting out in sparkles when I smacked it.
This, I decided, was low even for the night zone.
Glowing shapes swayed with the music, each sufficiently vague to convince any of the myriad species entering Butter’s Dance Extravaganza that they’d find a suitable partner inside. I wasn’t convinced it was only for dancing. Unless, I thought, turning my head to study one as we passed, the creepy things were a warning you’d turn into something vague yourself.
The shape bent low as if studying me in return then resumed its sway, but not before tips like those of fingers pressed briefly outward in my direction. I realized belatedly we moved through a corridor lined with living dancers, any appendages or features disguised within bags of stretchy opalescent fabric.
Surely a fate worse than being st
uck with a Lemmick in a lift. I did my best to hurry Morgan along, hoping the maker of the bags would move on to something less disturbing in future.
The Rainbow Collection
by Nathan Azinger
FLOWER OF PTUM was dead in space—drifting—its great, translight engines eerily quiet. Which, Shoenn Mij reflected, served one right for buying a sixth-hand freighter from a Scat.
Not that there had been a choice. The Doyenne had deemed Mij insufficiently fashionable to represent Coterie Shoenn among the Lemmick peoples, let alone offworld, and so he had been shuffled off to the cloistered village where he could work diligently for the good of the coterie and not tarnish its reputation with his appearance.
But Mij dreamed of being like the spacer legends from his books and vistapes—Rist Merrick of the Hindmost Hero, or the great Raj Plexis—bringing necessities and luxury goods to the fringes of Trade Pact space (for a reasonable fee). He would haul joy from shipcity to station, and bring all sapients the sort of happiness that Lemmicks found in a fine cut of cloth. To follow his dream, however, Shoenn Mij was forced to do something terribly, terribly unfashionable: run away.
Oh, he had planned it well enough, smuggling spacer study tapes into the village (an education in itself) and hoarding what he could of his allowance over the years. By the time he crept from the village and boarded the transport across the sea to Eiluj Lem, Mij knew as much about crewing a spaceship as anyone could without actually having done it. As well, he had a stockpile of credits that he thought quite sizable. Sizable it was, too, by the standards of the village and of the Ptumep archipelago; it didn’t go as far in the largest city on the continent.
Mij had stepped off the transport, his little valise clutched in his delicate hands, and made his way through the crowds. Lemmicks from every corner of the continent, the archipelago, and beyond thronged the streets; the long, supple poruri that projected upward from the back of their heads swayed and pulsed as they walked. Above their heads, aircars flitted from spire to spire.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 26