A delicate paw reached entreatingly; I hesitated an instant too long.
“Ready to eat or ready to ship, captain-good-captain.” The goggles over the dealer’s eyes magnified them into giant marbles. “Order now for delivery soon.” The humanoid—possibly a Nertek, though no expanse of mottled skin showed for me to be sure—plunged his hands into a nearby bucket. “Free samples, captain-good-captain! Yummy-Yums!”
I backed hurriedly, trying not to bump any cages. The dealer pursued, holding out four hands loaded with slimy, unhappy purple things, as far from “Yummy-Yums” as I could imagine. I dodged around a final crate, free at last.
I heard a wail of offended dismay and hesitated, struck by guilt. This could be someone Morgan would want told about our truffles.
Or not. I glimpsed a cart tucked neatly into one of the station’s irregular cavities, a holdover of its original design, and hurried closer. In hindsight, closer might not have been wise; those who plied their wares in obscure places tended to be dealers in what wasn’t lawful—even here.
My determination to avoid the “Yummy-Yums” might have been an influence.
It was a curious little cart, on wheels, unusual in this place where anti-grav sleds were everywhere, its top loaded with parts I abruptly recognized.
The workings of a keffleflute.
A very old one, by the patina. I leaned over the display, unable to resist touching one of the loose keys.
“Stop that!”
I curled my fingers to stop the Clan gesture of apology—one never knew how another species would interpret unexpected motions—and quickly stepped back. “I’m—”
“Not for sale.” The words sounded almost mechanical.
Which should have prepared me for who—what—stepped from the shadows.
Was it alive—or machine?
Or both?
The Locksmith’s Dilemma
by Rhondi Salsitz
“AN ASSIGNMENT, PAIGEN.”
She stood at attention, proud but a little curious. Since promotion, she hadn’t yet secured a permanent partner and since she stood alone in front of Inspector Wallace, she didn’t think she’d been paired off yet. She could be wrong in her assessment, of course, or the prospective partner could simply be late. She wouldn’t be late, but she didn’t like to judge others.
Paigen nibbled a bit on the bottom of her lip, schooling her cheek flaps to stay yellow in courtesy and alert neutrality, but—an assignment! Anything to avoid coding and transmit duties. She wanted to be out in Plexis, feeling the energy, deftly handling the rule of law that kept the market civilized. Her face cooled subtly. On the side of her leg, away from the inspector’s keen sight and attention, she plucked at the outside seam of her uniform. Her fingers could feel impatience, but her inner core could not. She was Eima, and even though others might think her face, with its drooping cheeks, was always morose, she was not. Maybe a little today while she figured out her place in the scheme of Plexis Security, but generally not. She waited to serve.
The inspector tapped a hard copy tablet. Difficult to read from her perspective, Paigen cleared her throat in apology. “Could you shift that a bit, sir?”
The projection wavered as he did and then came back in view, much clearer, as did the entire office panel. Easier to see but not to understand.
“I’m not certain—”
“A welfare check. I’m sending you to track down this Skoranth, a runaway, and get him to phone his mother.”
“Mmmm.” She looked at the panel where his image reigned. “A minor, sir?”
“No. But it is worth noting that the Bhests are considered an endangered sentient species; they rarely ask for contact, and any aid we can give them will reflect credit upon us. They are a species valued for piloting and engineering. Or someone thinks they’re valued. This one’s been spotted on the wholesaler’s level, keeps quiet, and keeps out of surveillance patterns, which is why I’m sending you in person.”
“Yes, sir.” She wondered what administration had leaned on Inspector Wallace to follow-through or how it had gotten down to her, but it had, and she’d carry it out. The panel went dark. Paigen thought of something and reconnected. “Oh, sir—”
The connection glitched. She knew immediately on her side of the screen that her superior had no idea she’d come back. His voice complained in mid-sentence to a second party she couldn’t view at all.
“Of all the marketplaces in all the universes, he has to ship into mine.”
“With respect, we don’t know that the Facilitator is here. We simply have an alert that he has put out a reward for information and a second, lucrative bounty if a certain artifact is found.”
“He’s specifically concentrating on Plexis. I have better things to do with my time than join a legion of tale-chasers looking for anything connected with the Hoveny Concentrix. If I found anything, I’d retire promptly and move as far from Plexis as I could get.”
The unseen second person laughed a bit. “At any rate, we’re agreed that this will stir the locals up.”
“And to that end, I want the patrols reorganized. Put ’em in threes rather than twos. If you had any odd constables out, schedule them as you see fit, as harmlessly as you can. This is temporary but necessary.”
“Will do, sir. And as for the juniors?”
“I’ve already given them their patrols, such as they are.”
“As ordered.”
The panel fluttered and went dark again, Paigen’s hand still over the screen, her fingers tingling. Out of the way? She had been put aside?
She didn’t know how she felt, exactly, and no mirrored surface to look upon her cheek flaps to see what color she emoted. It wouldn’t matter. She had her assignment.
* * *
• • •
Sko scuttled, as was his way, from the far boundary of the infamous night zone of this level toward its more favorable market district, dragging his mobile kiosk behind. The concourse teemed with life, lanes opening around him and spilling about impatiently as he toiled with his imperfect machinery. Its lift had burned out, but the wheels worked as well as most primitive structures of their ilk were wont to do, and Sko held a faint hope that if he made enough credit in the next few days, the mechanism would be replaced. He did not allow himself to think could instead of would. Of course it was replaceable. Of course.
Of far more worry to him was his contract. “Rent,” he mumbled to himself every few scampered steps. “Rent is due.”
Ant’h rolled up behind, indeed, almost over Sko, intoning softly, “What rent? I do not detect any contracts due.” Her wheels, as the rest of her, gleamed impeccable and incorruptible in mechanical perfection. He saw to that. “And our airtags are current,” she added.
His, anyway. She did not need one. As for the rent . . . Ant’h must not be told. Never, never. She could not be considered property. Sko dusted himself off and touched Ant’h softly. “Right you are. Never owing such. We are lucky. No, I am determining what sort of market faces us. Who might be open to spending and who not.”
“We will be fine.”
“Always fine. Always. We are together, are we not?”
In answer, Ant’h halted and put out the mounting platform for Sko to scale and then held fairly still as the two melded into one. He felt a shimmering throughout his body form, and the world about him bloomed with color and scent and noise . . . although he could do without the noise, honestly, but Ant’h delighted in enhancing the senses of the norm. He was not in the normal scale, his people never were, they had not evolved to be, their perceptions interstitial with regards to space and its universes rather than planet grounded. Still, he appreciated his partner’s sensibilities. She sought only to round out his life, and she did. As Skoranth, the two fused, he returned to hauling the kiosk down the back pathway, avoiding the patrols and troublemakers until reaching
the market’s byway. He needed a busy day.
They steered up to where he’d marked an arc before, and settled into place, anchoring his kiosk and running a quick inventory of tools and instruments while Ant’h strobed advertising that barely sank into the conscious mind of their audience, because the last thing they wanted to attract was notice of the authorities. Though he hid skillfully enough within the Trade Pact, he found vigilance annoying. Skoranth kicked the kiosk into place and took his position, intoning, “Appraisals! Relic appraisals! Sales and repairs, if necessary.” He would take a fair number of caustic remarks regarding the mechanical deficits of his own stall, but he could handle that. He was not an antiquities dealer, however. He was a locksmith, and a very fine one. Most of his business came from reputation, not advertising. He could take criticism.
What he could not handle, in any way, would be a default on his rental contract. His losses would be incalculable. Never. Unthinkable.
Or being picked up by the local Jellies. That, too, would be an unqualified disaster. He touched Ant’h. “Any sign of a patrol?”
“Not yet.”
They would be by inevitably, and watching, inexorably. Plexis, as a system, worked only if kept within certain parameters, for air, water, and other resources. He leaned off his platform, past Ant’h who put out an appendage to hold him back.
“There was a transmission received.”
“Oh?” He faked disinterest. He could not ask himself how she knew; she would have gathered up the transmit info and contents automatically.
“You did not respond. It came from home. They asked if you still lived. And they asked for you to return.”
Sko made a dismissive movement. “One negates the others, does it not? If I do not live, I cannot return. Question asked and answered.”
“But you do live.”
“We live.”
“You will not reply.”
“I never do.”
“The transmission exhibited concern. It also held a warning. Someone called the Facilitator.”
Alarm poked at his sensibilities, but he shuffled it aside. “It’s entrapment. Nothing more.”
He was, however, disconcerted that such a message would even get through, to find him, to bother him. Sko craned his neck back as if he could scan the skies and know exactly where he was—and he could, more or less. But not by looking. No. That kind of knowledge came from deeper within him, eked out of his DNA, and he realized he would have to reset his blocks and security because Plexis had moved and the message had leaked through to find him. He wanted no more wayward transmissions to unsettle Ant’h.
On the other hand, that movement meant new opportunities. New quadrants. Good news tempering ill. He’d make adjustments, as he always did, but he would have to be cautious and temperate. Always.
As for the Facilitator. . . Unsettling, that warning. Sko handled items that, from time to time, had questionable or even unknown origin, but he had never handled anything so controversial that the famed and ill-intentioned smuggler would be interested. He wished to keep it that way. He needed business, but he would have to be discerning.
Merchants such as Skoranth drew attention from time to time from the other side of the law. He had no illusions that Plexis Security would do anything but hinder him. He wiggled his front plates nervously even as Ant’h intoned softly, “Customers.”
He didn’t ID them himself immediately, but Ant’h supplied that information before they’d moved even two steps closer. He knew the crew, though only by reputation, and sorted through his memory to wonder if he should even deal with them. But his curiosity held him in place as he saw the net sack one had hoisted over what passed for a shoulder, containing several objects. Sko could feel his throat quiver at the possibilities. Mysteries to be unlocked. Hidden things brought to light. His very lifeblood coursed strong at the thought and he braced himself in his shopkeeper stance to welcome the customers. His people knew, through genetic memory, where things ought to be, their spatial placement . . . but not what they were, their purpose, their cultural value, their shining mysteries. Every object he unlocked was like revealing a new star, a new sun that shone into the darkest recesses of his very being. Sko took a deep breath of desire and delight.
They emptied their bag on the kiosk table. Before even one could utter a sound, Sko put up his hand. They, like him, were vaguely what might be classified as humanoid, though Sko less when united with Ant’h, but armed and bipedal ordinarily, yes, and his hands manipulated seven quite useful digits on his greater arms, five on his two lesser. And then Ant’h had her mechanical appendages, which she normally kept relatively quiet, some customers taken aback by the abundance of arms and fingers the locksmith could bring forth. He didn’t like dealing with alarmed customers.
“Provenance?”
“Unknown. All pieces are legitimate salvage.” Ant’h provided the translation for the one speaking, and Sko did not frown at the fact that only one of his clients bothered to wear a com and it wasn’t the one taking the lead. That might be because the com could betray inflections it didn’t want revealed or because it simply didn’t like the implanted unit.
There was a piece he ached to pick up first, but he ignored it. It wouldn’t do to reveal his yearning, so he picked up a rather dull looking object first, a standard storage unit though he doubted that anyone had the vaguest idea on how to open it. It filled his palms, and he could detect a very minor hum within it. He hummed back, varying his pitch slightly, to see how it reacted. His audience shuffled impatiently in front of the kiosk.
“It’s a tonal device,” he said to quiet them, not looking up from what he held. “You know my terms? I get first look at whatever is revealed, although all the contents belong to you, and I charge by time debits. You will deposit for each item before I move onto the next.”
One of them grumbled, but the one with the com unit spoke up. “Acceptable.”
Sko nodded, and let Ant’h work on synthesizing the sound scales that provoked reaction from the object, its skin vibrating more and less as she worked. The lock proved to be quite simple, but they lingered over it, padding their bill, until he opened it with a triumphant twist and the shriek of a musical tone nearly out of all their hearing ranges. He spread the shell open, revealing a small crystal storage drive which Ant’h scanned and recorded immediately, and a few pieces of jewelry. He put the locker to one side and waited for his deposit. Helpfully, Sko added, “A century old, give or take a decade. That could make the jewelry of interest to collectors.”
Ant’h informed him of payment and he went on to the next locked item, a helmet if he wasn’t mistaken, an odd item to be locked Sko thought, which meant it was probably filled with mementos from some misjudgment or other. He needed utensils for this one, and Ant’h quickly loaded his tray with appropriate instruments with one of his lesser hands while he fiddled creatively with his greater hands. He opened it too quickly, for billing purposes, but there it was. His skill too great and the lock too simple.
Sko lowered the helmet to the table and opened it smoothly. Tools, shaped for smaller hands such as his own, nested inside and what was unmistakably a weapon. He tapped it. “You must get this registered.”
He shouldn’t release it to them, but then, he wasn’t supposed to be unlocking sealed valuables, either. Privacy laws protected shielded items. He gave a shrug. “See that you do so. It’s old enough that it is probably inoperable—”
“Definitely inoperable,” Ant’h diagnosed for him, and he relaxed a bit. Sko didn’t like unleashing mayhem on Plexis. Trouble in the marketplace had a habit of reverberating back to where it began. And bringing those in uniform with it. He brushed aside the helmet. “Next.”
They fidgeted a bit, looking among themselves. His deposit registered, so he tilted his head a bit, looking from one to the other. As Skoranth, he straightened, to a more imposing height. “The third
item.”
“There’s a fourth as well,” the client with the com told him. “We have to go get it.”
He waved a hand. “Whatever you wish. Now or later. If my kiosk is here, I am open for business.” The back of his neck tickled a bit and he swiveled an eyestalk about, wondering if they were under surveillance. His kiosk routinely inhabited an area that would be a blind spot, but even so, he would move about. He told Ant’h to make a note to scout about a new location, and she acquiesced without dissension. That oddity brought him pause. Theirs was a partnership, but one with a certain amount of bickering and opinion exchanges, so she must have noted what he did. His location no longer felt stable. Sko added, in case they were being recorded, “Do not bring me airtags. I will not counterfeit or alter.”
He reached for the third object, a drive case if he had any skill at all in his vocation, which of course he did. Navigation drives were priceless to him and even though the core would be crystal and encrypted when he exposed it, Ant’h could read and scan it before his clients even knew their information was being duplicated. He would examine it more fully later. He was Bhest, after all—-they were Bhest, his family—-and navigation rested in their blood, made up their DNA. If these fellows had come to him without booty, he could have sold them maps for contraband, jettisoned because the law was onto smuggling routes or warring domains which had blasted supply lines out of existence save for a drifting cargo net or two—he could have, if they needed, supplied them with navigational maps to the forbidden star ways, the forgotten, the abandoned.
If he wished.
He did not.
It was too great a burden to carry the secrets of a vast frontier.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 32