by Mike Resnick
He set the sack down on the floor. “They’re never going to strap onto your heads or fit comfortably, but you can hold them in place with one hand until we’re past the worst of the smell.” He grinned. “I also found out what they look like, close up. And he found what a Man looks like, close up. Only one of us was going to survive that meeting.” He reached into the sack and tossed a small device to Pandora. “Here,” he said, “see what you can make of this.”
“What’s it supposed to be?”
“A t-pack.”
She began studying it. “A translating mechanism?”
He nodded. “And I guarantee it works. He growled something, the t-pack translated it into Terran, I cursed at him, and I could tell he understood what I was saying. Don’t put it too close to your nose or mouth for more than, oh, I dunno, maybe half a minute. At least, not until some of the smell has dissipated.”
Suddenly Pandora set the device down as if it was about to bite her. “Thanks,” she said. “I was so fascinated that I forgot about the odor.” She blinked her eyes. “I smell it now.”
“So how many breathing devices did you bring back, and what do they look like?” asked Pretorius.
“Five, though I’ll be damned if I know how the hell Proto can wear one when he’s pretending to be a Man or a Kabori.”
“Five?” said Pandora. “What about Irish?”
“I assume we’re picking her up on the way, assuming we live that long,” answered Apollo. “And under those circumstances she’ll never need it.”
“It’s no problem,” said Proto. “You’re quite right. I can’t wear or even hold anything that’s more than eighteen inches above the ground, so save it for her, just in case.”
Apollo reached into the sack, withdrew four strangely shaped facemasks, and passed them out.
“Where’s the oxygen or whatever they’re attached to?” asked Pretorius.
“You’re gonna have a hard time believing this, but there isn’t any,” answered Apollo.
“Well, they’re no good without an air source,” said Pretorius. “You’re gonna have to go back and—”
He was interrupted by Apollo’s raucous laughter.
“Okay,” he said. “What am I missing?”
“The Kaboris have a hell of a scientist working for them,” said Apollo. “At least one.” He held up the facemask. “You see a little thing, the size of a fingernail, over the left cheek?”
“Yes,” said Snake. “What about it?”
“That keeps the odor out.”
“But if you’re wearing it, and you’re blocking the odor, what the hell do you breathe?” continued Snake.
“It lets the air in, and we breathe pretty much the same stuff as the Kaboris do. It just keeps the sick-making aerosols away.” He reached into the bag, held up a handful of small tubes, then tossed them back in. “And that’s what you spray on yourself, your clothes, your boots, anything the odor might have clung to, once you’re back in breathable territory.”
“The dead alien,” said Pretorius. “What’s his race like?”
“A little bigger than Snake. Two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, two noses, only one mouth. No hair at all. I suppose it has something to do with that stink; can’t spread it to your friends if half of it gets caught in your hair.”
“And it spoke?”
“Well, kind of guttural, but yes, it spoke, and yes, it was translated into Terran, which makes that a damned fine t-pack since I don’t recall ever seeing or hearing about a race like this.”
“Weapons?”
Apollo shrugged. “They’re not natives, and they’re in Michkag’s headquarters. They couldn’t have come this far without weapons and space flight and a lot of other things, but the one that attacked me—well, let’s say the one that found me; we attacked each other—wasn’t carrying any weapons: no guns, no blades, nothing, though his harness was built to accommodate them.”
“Doesn’t tell us much,” said Proto.
“It tells us everything we need to know,” replied Pretorius.
“It does?” said Snake.
“Yeah,” said Pretorius. “Consider what Apollo just told you. The Kaboris need breathing devices around these aliens. There’s a sack of them on the floor. And of course the aliens are almost certainly here to sell their military services to Michkag.”
Snake frowned. “How do you figure that?”
“Because their odor makes the Kaboris as sick as it makes us, or they wouldn’t have the masks. Now, if they were a permanent part of Michkag’s empire, they’d be living elsewhere, where his own warriors wouldn’t have to worry about getting sick walking through their own headquarters. And they have no fear of the Kaboris, who massively outnumber them in the castle, or they’d be armed at all times.”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” admitted Apollo, “but that makes sense.”
“So we don’t have to go to war with them,” continued Pretorius. “We enlist them or we ignore them—and by ignore I mean we avoid them as opposed to fighting with them.”
“Hell, if you’re right, they should be out of here any day now,” said Apollo. “Either he hires them and sends them off to the front, wherever the hell that is, or he doesn’t hire them and they all go home. Or to Deluros VIII, to sell their services to the Democracy.”
“Okay,” said Pretorius, “that pretty much sums up the situation. Time to proceed to the next step.”
“And what is that?” asked Pandora.
“We either make friends with one of the foul-smelling aliens, or possibly even hire him, and find out exactly where in this enclosed city Michkag is . . . or else we capture one and use whatever means we can to find out where Michkag is and what his plans are.”
“Can we do it?” asked Proto.
“If Apollo could kill one, don’t you think four of us can subdue one?” asked Pretorius.
Which ended the discussion.
“And you,” he said, turning to Proto, “any time you appear as a Man, create the illusion that you’re wearing one of these masks unless we’ve reached the point where we no longer need them.”
“Yes, Nate,” said Proto.
“Okay,” said Pretorius, turning to Apollo, “let’s you and me go out and find us a Stinker.”
21
“I dunno,” said Apollo, when they’d proceeded some fifty feet from the room. “If I hold it to my face I’ll be fine as far as the odor goes, but I’ll only have one hand to fight with.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Pretorius, removing his belt and wrapping it around that section of the makeshift mask that covered his mouth and nose. “Now the worst that’ll happen is that my pants will fall down in the middle of the fight.”
“Not to worry,” said Apollo. “Once he sees us without our pants, he’ll probably faint from envy.” He paused. “Did Snake give us any description of these things?”
Pretorius shrugged. “Bipedal. Humanoid. Two eyes, two arms. Not much more.”
“Sounds like four-fifths of the Democracy,” said Apollo with a chuckle. “What the hell is it about being humanoid and bipedal that makes ’em want to go to war with us?”
“Probably the same thing that made us conquer space in the first place.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Apollo. “Put two kids together, or two teens, or two of damned near any humanoid, and sooner or later they fight.”
Pretorius held up his left hand and stopped walking, and Apollo instantly followed suit. They could hear footsteps approaching, a little louder every few seconds, but they couldn’t tell how many feet were making them.
Then, suddenly, a strange-looking alien came around a corner. It was bipedal, but nowhere near as humanoid as Snake had led them to believe. Its legs were unencumbered by boots, shoes, or pants, and resembled nothing more than a pair of double-jointed tree trunks, complete with bark. Its torso was rectangular, with a pair of arms, also heavily barked, coming out of its shoulders. It had an extra set of hands at the end of each arm.
&nbs
p; Its head was oblong, narrowing at the chin, quite broad across the forehead, with ears sticking out a few inches on each side like miniature trumpets. The eyes were large but seemed normal until Pretorius saw that they had haws—inner lids—just like a dog’s, to protect them.
“We mean you no harm,” said Pretorius, moving toward where the corridor turned so the alien couldn’t make a quick retreat. The t-pack garbled his voice beyond recognition.
“Do these damned things still work?” asked Apollo, indicating the t-packs.
The alien growled something unintelligible back at them. “Yes,” said the t-pack in Terran, “they work. Who are you and what do you want of me?”
“We mean you no harm,” said Pretorius.
“Then stop pointing your weapons at me,” said the alien.
“We will shortly,” said Pretorius.
“Probably,” added Apollo.
“What do you call yourself?” asked Pretorius.
“I am Xhankor,” was the answer.
“And your race?”
“I am Xhankor of the Jebarnogusti.”
Apollo and Pretorius exchanged looks which seemed to say, Hell of a name for a race.
“I am Pretorius, and this is Apollo,” he said. “We are of the race of Man.”
“Ah!” said Xhankor. “So you are the enemy!”
“Why are we the enemy? We have never seen you before this instant.”
“Oh, you are not my enemy, or the enemy of the Jebarnogusti,” replied Xhankor. “Yet.”
“We’re both pleased and willing to be Michkag’s enemy,” said Pretorius. “What is the Jebarnogustis relationship to him?”
Xhankor offered its version of smile, which would probably have sent small children screaming in the opposite direction. “Let us say that it is indefinite at this moment.”
“I knew it!” said Pretorius. “You’re mercenaries, offering to hire out to Michkag and his Coalition.”
“That pretty much sums it up,” said Xhankor. “That is why I have not resisted you, or tried to kill you. It has not yet been determined whose side we are on. Would Man and his Democracy like to make an offer? I would be happy to take you to my leaders.”
“We are merely an advance guard, hoping to peel off some of Michkag’s mercenaries and bring them over to our side,” said Pretorius. “I am afraid I do not have the authority, or access to the money you will doubtless require, to fight for the Democracy. The best I can do is offer a peace while we’re in the Cassiopeia Sector, and guarantee you safe passage to some higher-ups who can hire and pay you.”
Xhankor was silent for a moment, and his face was so alien that neither Pretorius nor Apollo could tell what he was thinking.
Finally he spoke. “We have come all this way. I suppose we at least have to hear Michkag’s offer.”
“Is there any way, short of violence, that we can dissuade you?” asked Pretorius.
“Me, perhaps,” replied Xhankor. “But I am not our leader, and I have no authority to agree to your terms.”
“So we seem to have two options,” said Pretorius. “Kill you now, or hope that your leader will agree to our offer.”
Xhankor’s expression changed again, into almost a smile. “There are more options than that,” he answered. “First, I may not be as easy to kill as you seem to think. Second, it is entirely possible that my leader will be impressed by your boldness—just two humans invading Michkag’s castle—and decide to accept your offer. But there are other options as well. For example, we may offer to hire you to fight for us.”
Apollo chuckled.
“Your partner is choking,” said Xhankor.
“He’s laughing,” replied Pretorius. “There’s not all that much difference. It’s painless and harmless.”
“Well?” said Xhankor. “I await your decision.”
“We’ll have to discuss it.”
“Go right ahead,” said Xhankor. “Turn off your translating devices, and I won’t be able to overhear you.”
“There are more of us to discuss it.”
“Oh?” said Xhankor. “How many more?”
“A few,” said Pretorius. “Let us make a temporary peace treaty right now.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“No Man will attack any Jebarnogusti within the palace until your leader and I meet in person, and no Jebarnogusti will attack or expose the presence of any Man.”
“So they don’t know you’re here!” said Xhankor with another alien smile. “I thought as much!”
“One more thing,” said Pretorius. “We’re still on the move, but clearly you have permanent quarters here, at least until you make a deal with Michkag or fail to. Where can I find your leader?”
“I hope your translating device can work it out, since we possess different words for all directions and distances,” said Xhankor. He proceeded to rattle off a long set of alien words. The t-pack captured it, announced that it would be working on it for the next half-minute, and then, after thirty seconds, offered an incredibly complex list of directions.
“What the hell is that all about?” asked Apollo.
“Three back, five forward, one left, two back, one right, one forward,” said Pretorius, reading a transcription on the t-pack’s screen. “We’ll simplify it later.”
“But why do it this way at all?”
“To confuse the hell out of any enemy who picks this up off a computer. We read it far enough, I’ll bet it’ll have three leaps to the left, and slither forward one body length, enough shit like that to confuse any machine or anyone who gets his hands on it and doesn’t know what to chop out.”
“Is there a problem?” asked Xhankor.
“No, everything’s fine. What’s your leader’s name?”
“She is Graalzhan.”
“She?” said Apollo. “That’s a step in the right direction.”
“Do you know if or when she is scheduled to meet with Michkag?” asked Pretorius.
“She has already met with him once, or we would not have access to the castle.” Suddenly his alien eyes narrowed, and he stared at the two Men. “You have not met him. Therefore, he has no idea you are here.”
“That’s correct,” said Pretorius as the tension returned to his body.
“That, too, is a step in the right direction,” said Xhankor.
“Let us share that little secret with no one,” said Pretorius.
“I will tell no one but Graalzhan.”
“Fair enough.”
“Is there anything else we need say to each other before going our separate ways.”
“Yeah, there is,” said Pretorius. Xhankor looked at him questioningly. “Are you aware of the effect your physical presence has on Kaboris?”
“Yes,” said Xhankor. “That is why we are restricted to this wing of the fourth level of the castle. It is why we do not interact with the Kaboris. And,” he added, pointing to Pretorius and Apollo’s masks, “why we will stay away from you unless you are prepared—and equipped—to meet in person with us.”
“Okay,” said Pretorius. “I would shake your hand, but . . .”
“Why?” asked Xhankor. “It does not come off—and I thought we were going to be friends, or at least hoping to be.”
“Shaking hands is a sign of friendship among Men,” explained Pretorius.
“Ah!” said Xhankor. “Barbaric and cruel among some races, like the Tharr and the Beondothi, but friendship among Men.” He offered his equivalent of a smile. “Interesting galaxy, isn’t it?”
Then he turned and went back around the corner and down the corridor from which he had come.
“What did you think of him?” asked Pretorius.
“Ugly as hell,” answered Apollo, “but he seemed a nice enough guy. You did forget to ask him one important question, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” said Apollo. “How many of them are in the building?”
“Too many for us to beat, and not enough to kill Michkag,” rep
lied Pretorius.
“What the hell kind of answer is that?”
“The only one that matters. We’re going to stay on good terms with them, because we know from Snake and him that they’ve got at least a couple of dozen armed men—well, armed Things—in the castle, and there’s only five of us.”
“Six,” said Apollo.
Pretorius shook his head. “Proto can scare the hell out of them, but he can’t hold a weapon or deliver a punch.” He paused. “And since they don’t have enough to kill Michkag, they’re going to look at us and count up to five—well, six—and decide they don’t like the odds. So we’ll stay friendly if we can, remote if we have to, but we won’t fight them and we won’t try to enlist their aid. I just hope they stay up here so that odor doesn’t sicken us at a critical moment.”
“Okay,” said Apollo. “So now what?”
Pretorius shrugged. “Now we go back to the room, get the garbage out of the translation, tell them we have met the semi-enemy and that he is semi-ours.”
“And then?”
“Same as usual. We keep honing plans to kill or kidnap Michkag.”
“If he’s that much of a monster, why kidnap him at all?” asked Apollo. “The Democracy will never put a price on his head.”
“No, of course not,” said Pretorius. “But,” he added with a small smile, “I’ll bet they’d love to have a shot at finding out what’s inside that head.”
22
“Well?” said Snake, as the two men entered the room.
“We made contact,” said Pretorius.
“Kill anyone?” asked Snake.
“I hate to disappoint you, but no,” said Pretorius.
“Did you make contact with the Kaboris or the Stinkers?”
“The Stinkers,” answered Pretorius, “and from this day forward, they are known as the Jebarnogusti.”
“So are they allies, or Michkag’s mercenaries, or what?” asked Pandora.
“That has yet to be determined,” replied Pretorius. “They are mercenaries, but they haven’t finalized anything with Michkag yet.”
“Do they view us as rivals, or intruders, or . . . ?” said Pandora.
“That’s yet to be determined. They evinced no hostility toward Apollo and me—or, rather, he evinced none.”