Why had he raised her, trained her, created her to be his small, Human-shaped shadow? She’d called herself the proof of his revenge, the whole of his mercy—and he had not denied it. Yet now, she realized, there had to be something more, something deeper. Not love, as she’d once believed; nothing like a Human heart beat within the Brill’s chest. Not kindness. But something.
She knew so many of his secrets—and he had let her walk away.
It was then that she realized: she was the only Human that Manouya had ever trusted. His right hand, they had called her; his daughter, his heir. Did it matter that none of those titles had been true? She alone had the power to speak in his name.
She breathed deep, smelling blood and dust, as something within her woke. The part of herself that she had kept separate, secret even from herself through all her years as Maja. The part of herself that had watched.
Since she was a child at Manny’s knee, she’d tracked the movements of the Trade Pact—the legal and illegal alike. Pirates and governments, stock markets and insurgencies, traders and royalty and refugees. All the crisscrossing webs of hope and greed, love and revenge, that reached across the known worlds.
Patterns, that watcher within her whispered. Patterns within patterns—just as Manouya had taught her.
What had he wanted her to see? What was it that Manouya feared?
Betrayal, that voice said. But no, it was deeper than that: a traitor in his midst. A threat in Human form that for all his cleverness, all his threats, all his power and cruelty, Manouya could not uncover or burn away.
Or was it bigger than just his smuggling empire? She let her mind range farther, wider, thinking about traitors in the Triads, the fears of the First; thinking about the chatter on the coms that she’d listened to long into the night. There was, she thought, something there—a pattern she could only begin to glimpse, unfurling in her head petal by slow petal.
One that spoke of a great power moving in secret within the Trade Pact.
Manouya had been waiting for her to see it, she realized. He had been testing her, the way he’d tested her with their game of Surveillance; the way he’d tested her with the burden of her name. It was a test she’d spent years failing. But not now. Not anymore.
Manouya had made Dalton because he needed her, one Human he could trust among the untold billions. One Human who would never betray him; a Human who, because of her own foolish heart, never could.
For one long moment, she stared at ’Flix’s cooling body, the patterns of his blood. Then Dalton stood, met the eyes of the one who had destroyed her life three times over, and smiled.
“I think it’s time we came to an agreement, you and I.”
Captain Bennefeld inclined her head. Dalton knew that Bennefeld’s ever-present bodyguards had their weapons trained on her, waiting for a false move—or a nod from their captain. They didn’t matter. There was only Bennefeld, and the path Dalton could already see waiting before her.
“The recordings, I presume?”
Dalton waved a bloody hand. “Irrelevant. Consider them destroyed. No, I’m carrying information of great value to the Facilitator. In return for your cooperation, he will reward you handsomely. In his name, I promise you that.”
Bennefeld raised a slow eyebrow, considering. At last she asked, “In exchange for what?”
Dalton smiled; it was a sad smile, one that spoke of loss and regret and all the possible lives she would not live. Then she said, “I need you to take me home.”
In the end, she was her father’s daughter.
. . . Truffles continues
Interlude
KEEVOR’S HAD THE traditional back corner booth with a privacy shield and a hidden but effective exit in case of trouble. The righthand bench was presently occupied by a solitary figure, appropriately cloaked and hooded. Morgan approached, aware of the subtle stir from those seated at the booths nearest, the shift to move hands or whatever toward hidden weapons. Aware, but unconcerned.
If they’d orders to stop him, it would have happened already. A needle in the crowd. A puff of gas. The guards made themselves known, that was all.
He paused outside the light spilling over the table. “I’d like a word, Dalton.”
“Captain Morgan.” The hood tilted back, revealing the face of a Human female, his age or thereabouts, with features unforthcoming on useful details such as world of origin or past. No one asked. A pleasant face, until you noticed the chill analysis of those brown eyes. She nodded at the opposing bench. “I didn’t think you’d reconsider our offer.”
Morgan took the step to enter the light. “I haven’t.” Until today, he’d stayed as far as possible from the shadowy ring of smugglers Dalton represented, well aware they crossed boundaries he’d set himself long ago.
Knowing once you were in—there was no coming out.
The hint of a smile. “Sit anyway, Captain. That answer just won me a good number of credits. Least I can do is buy you a drink.”
He didn’t move. “I won’t waste your time. I’m here as a professional courtesy. Many of your clients import consumables—”
An eyebrow lifted. “Duties and Tariffs?” Dalton’s fingers made a throwaway motion. “They can tie up your little Fox. They don’t concern us.”
Having, no doubt, ample bribes—or threats—in place. “I assumed as much,” he countered smoothly.
“Then what?” Almost lazy, if you didn’t know her. “If you want us to intercede, well—the offer still stands. Work for us. Everyone knows you’ve a—let’s call it, a nose for trouble, Morgan. Now that’s currency in any market. Deal’s good for you both.”
She knew he’d taken a partner. A mate. He should have expected it; Dalton collected information the way others hoarded gems and would automatically add anyone so close to him into the bargain. To be used—
NEVER. Somehow Morgan kept the violence of his reaction from Sira. Easier on the outside; no expression beyond courteous attention touched his face or voice, “I’m getting my ship back.” And more, but he’d keep it to what she’d understand. “All I want is your word you’ll stay clear of my play.”
A startled pause, then Dalton laughed. “You’ve backbone, Morgan. Shame you aren’t ours.” Amusement wiped from her face, she leaned forward to stare at him. “Tell me. Why should I do that?”
So he did.
* * *
• • •
Leaving Keevor’s tended to make a fresher—and on one occasion burning his clothes—a matter of some urgency.
The encounter with Dalton left him feeling filthier on the inside, but what choice had he? Through her, he’d keep at bay—hopefully long enough—those who influenced what happened at the docks. Reduce the situation to the Department of Duties and Tariffs versus those they proposed to gouge. Officer Esaliz E’Teiso versus a hold full of truffles.
In return? He’d given her a suggestion, nothing more. That it was time she sought employment elsewhere. If Dalton assumed it was his famed “nose for trouble,” if she’d gone still and cold, her eyes anything but?
If even as he’d walked away, she’d slipped through the back exit?
It wasn’t a lie: Bowman was coming for the Facilitator. Anyone close would go down, too.
Dalton should be one of them. If she wasn’t, it was on him. So much for keeping his distance. So much for steering wide of their business. He’d invited them into his, now. Into Butter’s and Rose’s and Sedley’s and—into Huido’s—Morgan winced. There’d be shouting. Probably breakage.
The huge Carasian did his share of rule bending. Morgan’s lips quirked. Maybe he’d bring up the small matter of the stew and the priests first.
He lowered his inner barriers, sharing warmth, his resolve.
There was no stopping now.
Sira. Meet me at the tearoom.
The Restaurant Trade
&n
bsp; by Chris Butler
THE HUMAN HAD eaten his meal alone, with a minimum of fuss and mostly unnoticed by the other patrons of Claws & Jaws. Which was remarkable given his huge frame was only partially concealed by an oversized, slightly shabby business suit. He made his table look small. His ragged hair had been dyed, but not recently, because it was showing gray at the roots.
He called his waiter over and, with a sly voice, said, “Might I speak with the chef? I would like to thank him personally for such a fine meal.”
Huido had kept a watchful eye on the being as the night waned and his restaurant emptied. He’d had more than a few run-ins with a similarly large Human called Terk, a Trade Pact Enforcer. The resemblance, however slight, did not sit well with Huido. Now there were only a couple of Retian priests remaining in the far corner of the restaurant, and this formerly quiet diner was suddenly asking to speak to his chef.
“I’d be happy to convey your message,” the waiter was saying, “but our proprietor does not allow the kitchen staff into the dining area.”
“Then might I . . .”
“Nor can I allow you into the kitchen.”
Huido had been resisting the urge to come out of the semi-shadow toward the back of the room. He’d been wallowing in a somber mood, thinking of absent friends and an absent brother. And of too many bills to pay. At last he shifted his bulk into motion and padded toward the Human’s table.
“I’m pleased you enjoyed your meal,” Huido boomed. “It is the best in the quadrant, is it not?”
The Human looked up at Huido’s imposing figure. “A bold claim, but I won’t disagree. If I’m not mistaken, am I addressing Huido himself, the owner of this establishment?”
“You are.”
“Well, this is quite perfect because, in all honesty, it is to you I wished to speak.”
“Not the chef?”
The Human made a small throaty sound, which Huido could not readily interpret. It could have been amusement, but it could have been anything.
“I had thought of approaching the chef as an . . . intermediary, but in truth it is you I wish to negotiate with.”
Huido trained each of his eyestalks upon the Human, affording him his undivided attention and causing the seated diner to shrink back slightly under the intense scrutiny.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said, finding his voice again. “I am Theodore G. Brody. I recently read an article in which you, Huido Maarmatoo’kk, said that you would, and I quote, ‘give your right claw for the recipe for Pashwali’s Ocean Stinger stew.’”
Huido roared with laughter, rattling the presently empty rings affixed to his carapace. “The finest stew I ever tasted, and no mistake.”
Brody removed a small data card from an inner pocket and wafted it left, then right. “This is the recipe,” he said. “The data is heavily encrypted, of course. I can give you the card or the encryption key for free, but if you want both, we will have to negotiate. I am wondering, How much is your right claw worth?”
“I’ll take the encryption key,” Huido said. “If it’s free.”
Brody made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeal, definitely amusement this time. “Very good, Maarmatoo’kk, very good. Plexis being known for its pickpockets and the like, for how long would I retain possession of the card if you had the key?”
Huido was thinking that it was the Human, not he, who had spoken carelessly, but he supposed it was never going to be that simple.
“I’ll leave you my contact details,” Brody said. He pocketed the data card and withdrew an ident decorated with extravagant font and logo. “You have a day to consider. Make me an offer.”
Huido reached out with his lower right handling claw to take the ident. “Are you planning to leave Plexis, or do you intend to stay?”
Brody pulled on a thick overcoat and pressed a wide hat into place. “It would be nice to have enough money to consider either.”
“Passage out is more affordable,” Huido advised him.
Brody paused on his way to the door. “I was thinking more of . . . buying my own ship,” he said. “If I was leaving.”
Huido snapped a claw in irritation as the Human went out into the night, and the door swung shut behind him. He recalled the exquisite flavor of Ocean Stinger stew, Pashwali’s heavenly dish. He could almost taste it. Was it really as divine as he remembered, or had the intervening years played tricks with him and enhanced the flavor in his memory?
He allowed himself one more shake and rattle, and then tried to push the entire notion from his mind. He already had bills to pay. He definitely could not afford to buy Theodore G. Brody a ship.
* * *
• • •
A loud banging brought Huido to the restaurant main entrance early the next station day.
“All right, all right,” Huido muttered as he unlocked the door.
Two from Plexis Security stared up at him, both Human males. One constable looked quite senior, the other young and muscular. Huido peered at the idents they were holding up and concluded they were genuine. “You’d better come in,” he said, and he led them toward the bar.
“An accusation has been made against you,” the elder Human said. He had introduced himself as Officer O’Connell.
“Oh?” Huido’s mind raced over recent events, but a likely cause for complaint did not immediately occur to him.
“Do you know a Human named Theodore G. Brody?”
Huido shifted his eyes. All of them. He had a feeling resembling the moment when you’ve found a musty old jar at the back of the cupboard, and you’ve unwisely taken the lid off.
“Hom Brody dined here last night,” the Carasian admitted. “He was very complimentary about the meal.”
“It wasn’t a business meeting, then?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, Hom Huido, Brody claims he offered you some data—a valuable recipe, he said—but you refused to pay him. Subsequently, not far from here, he was attacked and a set of data cards was stolen. He claims you are responsible.”
It had been said that Huido’s head resembled two shiny black saucepans mounted one above the other. If so, they might well have been clattering together in that moment, so affronted by this accusation was the Carasian. “I did no such thing!”
The officers cast nervous glances at each other while Huido went on, at great length, to deny any involvement, most vociferously.
“Brody admits he didn’t actually see you,” O’Connell said when the Carasian paused.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Huido said, calming a little.
“And yet he is adamant you were the assailant,” said the younger constable.
His elder glared at him, then returned his focus to Huido. “Was there anyone else in the restaurant while Brody was here?”
“Hardly anyone. Brody came in late, and it was a quiet night. My waiting staff were here, of course, the chef, and a couple of Retian priests—I’m afraid I can’t identify them for you. They don’t give names.”
“Well, then it seems we’re done here for the moment. Let us handle this, Hom Huido. We’ll look into who else could have been responsible.”
They thanked Huido for talking to them and retreated toward the door. For the moment, at least, they seemed satisfied with Huido’s denials. But the younger one said, “We might need to speak to you again,” before Huido closed the door.
The Carasian paced back to the bar area, poured a beer into his claw, and lifted the claw to his mouth. Beer was Human food. He pondered why he’d chosen it at that particular moment. Partly it was because he liked it, and partly because this was exactly the kind of muddle Humans were forever getting themselves into.
He knew he should leave the whole thing alone. The accusation made by Brody had no grounds whatsoever, but it grated on Huido that his good Carasian name shou
ld be impugned in this manner. He considered the Retians, the only other customers in the restaurant while Brody was waving the data card around, quietly eating their meal, drawing no attention to themselves. Had they concealed their ident because they were up to no good?
Perhaps he might make a few inquiries.
* * *
• • •
It would not be inaccurate to say there was a great deal of corruption in the grunt-level workings of Plexis. Small payments eased one’s way through any number of onstation processes, from climate controls to vermin inspections.
Karen Tanaka was an inconsequential Human in the lowest levels of air administration. All air usage while on the legendary Plexis Supermarket had to be bought and paid for, which meant Tanaka knew more about arrivals and departures on Plexis than anyone. Or at least had access to the data.
She smiled broadly as Huido approached. “My friend—what brings you to my lowly station?”
“I was just passing,” he said loudly, and more quietly added, “I’m looking for some Retian priests.”
She raised an eyebrow, settled down at her station, and keyed in his request. “Hmm, that’s odd. We get a few Retians on Plexis now and then, but there are dozens of them here right now.”
“Why would that be?”
She regarded him shrewdly. “To answer that would mean accessing data that is not strictly within my remit.”
“I tell you what, my lovely Tanaka. Do this for me, and I will send you a large selection of Huido’s finest dishes, sufficient to restock your freezer. How’s that?”
She nodded. Her eyes shone, lit by hidden depths and distant stars. “Okay, but none of that Ormagal chowder, it’s disgusting.”
“Understood,” he said, but he understood only that she did not have the palate to appreciate it.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 37