by S. L. Viehl
“I thought you only picked up thought fragments,” I said, and she gave into her laughter at last.
“My dear, an inorganic rock formation could have read what you were thinking while he was lecturing you.”
Our path intersected with one of the Terran engineers in my housing unit, Paul Dalton. By this time I had become acquainted with several of my neighbors, but conflicting work schedules kept me from forming genuine friendships. Paul, I noticed, was with someone I hadn’t seen before.
“Friends of yours?” Ana asked, following my gaze.
“The Terran lives down the corridor from me. I don’t recognize the tall blue one.”
The unfamiliar humanoid wore a pilot’s flight suit. He was a massive, well-muscled male with the most startling sapphire-colored flesh. Straight sable hair fell around strong features in lustrous wings. His eyes were completely white, no iris or pupil discernible beneath the pearly corneas. Yet from the way he was looking at me, I knew he wasn’t blind. I tried not to stare back.
Paul hailed me. “Hey, Doc!” With unremarkable coloring and an average build, the Terran engineer appeared ordinary at first glance. Until he opened his mouth. Paul had a great sense of humor, and was so popular with our neighbors I sometimes wondered if he really was Terran.
“I think you’re about to find out who he is.”
I glanced at Ana, who was beaming with evident satisfaction. She’d been nagging me lately to spend some off-duty time “enjoying myself.” Before I could stop her, she patted my shoulder and started off.
“Must go, have some work to catch up on back at the office.”
“Ana—”
She turned and made one of those graceful little waves of hers that I could never imitate, even if I practiced for years. “We can get together later this week.”
“Forget what you’re thinking,” I told her as I tugged the edge of my tunic straight. “Right this minute.”
“Who said I’m thinking anything at all?”
She didn’t fool me. “I’m too busy.”
“My dear, no one could ever be too busy for a male who looks like that!” She smiled at the approaching men before skipping off to her glidecar. Some friend she was, abandoning me like this.
I told myself I’d only stop long enough to exchange greetings, and satisfy my curiosity about the blue-skinned pilot’s identity.
“Long day patching up the sick?” Paul asked.
“Not today.” I grimaced, then teased him. “There was an interesting case I had a few days ago, though. A Terran with a strained larynx. Reminded me of you.”
“I love it when you talk anatomy to me,” Paul said with a mock leer. “You’ll have to teach me all the good words.”
“I’ve been too busy studying structural engineering,” I said, deadpan. “I want your job.”
That made Paul’s companion chuckle softly. I looked up at him, kinking several neck muscles in the process.
“Hello, I’m Cherijo Grey Veil,” I held out my hand, palm-up, as I’d learned was the least offensive gesture of friendship on K-2 to all species. It was swallowed in a large, six-fingered grasp. His handshake was firm but careful.
“Kao Torin,” he said, his voice deep and resonate. He made a formal gesture with the other hand that must have been some type of accompanying greeting. The big pilot had noticed my surreptitious curiosity, for he added, “From Joren, in the Varallan Quadrant.”
“Watch out for this one, Kao,” Paul said. “She’ll demand your medevals, if you let her.”
“I’m still reading up on the aberrations in yours, Paul,” I said, and smiled up at the big pilot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You’re off duty now?” Kao inquired, and I nodded. “Would you join us for a meal interval?”
Paul groaned, rolling his eyes to the upper atmosphere. “I can’t take him anywhere,” he said. At my arched brow he laughed, and Kao Torin assumed a long-suffering demeanor. “This fly boy,” my neighbor said, “is responsible for breaking more hearts in the Pmoc Quadrant than I am.”
“You’re in luck, then,” I said, giving Kao a grin. “I’m a surgeon, I can repair them.”
Both men laughed, and we agreed to continue on together to the Trading Center, and dine at Café Lisette. Over the past weeks I had made slow but steady progress with Lisette herself by my repeated patronage. When we arrived, she greeted me with a sort of distant benevolence.
Like Jenner, she wasn’t a pushover. You may not have liked it, but you had to respect it.
Over fragrant servers of real wine (produced from K- 2’s extensive vineyards) and deep bowls of Lisette’s delectable version of coq au vin, we chatted easily. The discussion revolved around a prevalent topic among colonists: What do you miss the most from the homeworld?
“A real beef steak,” Paul said. “With barbecue sauce and smoked legumes on the side.”
“I’d trade everything I own for a tub of vanilla ice cream, a barrel of hot fudge, and a spoon,” I said, and added a wistful sigh. “What about you, Kao Torin?”
“There is something I do yearn for,” he said as he contemplated his goblet of amber wine. “My ClanMother’s morning breads. I never properly appreciated her light touch with baking as a youth.”
After I prompted him, he went on to elaborate about his homeworld. Joren was situated thousands of light-years away, in the distant Varallan Quadrant. I’d never heard of the system or quadrant, much less his planet. Kao’s people had evolved from what he described as nomadic warrior clans into a technically advanced race of insatiable explorers.
“My race enjoys exploration. Jorenians are scattered throughout this sector and many others.” He made another of his curious hand gestures, and I wondered if his language was part corporeal. Not even Ana could do something that fluidly harmonious. “My HouseClan travels the fringe systems, where there is more unknown to us.”
“You must like the challenges,” I said. “Are most of your people explorers, or pilots?”
“Pilots, course plotters—any helm position is favored. We have a natural sense for navigation, which is useful when instrumentation fails.”
“Do Jorenians customarily contract their services?”
“No, we have our own vessels. We contract our services as part of—” He searched for a term, then asked, “Introduction to other species?” I smiled and nodded. “It can be as stimulating as exploration.” Kao looked thoughtfully at my tunic.
I glanced down, too. “Did I dribble something on myself?”
“The colors you wear are that of my HouseClan.” He briefly touched on the complex use of colors by Jorenians to differentiate kindred, rank, and occupation. “Your HouseClan—people—are born healers?”
I frowned for a moment as I thought of my father. “A few are, but it takes years of education before we qualify as physicians on Terra. The same way Paul studied to become an engineer.”
Kao shot a sardonic look at Paul. “Paul claims he never had to study.” He went on to describe some amusing anecdotes about Paul when he first transferred to K-2, then Paul retaliated with some rather outrageous accounts of Kao’s own reputation.
“Truce!” I threw up my hands, and laughed. “Are you sure you two are friends?”
Kao nodded solemnly, while Paul laughed.
“Doc, I wouldn’t think of getting on his bad side,” the engineer said. “Jorenian warriors are notorious for pursuing their enemies. To the end of the galaxy, if need be. I won’t tell you what they do when they catch them.”
I didn’t like hearing that. “Your people still practice offensive warfare, Pilot Torin?”
“No, Healer. Most of my people are trained as warriors, but only in defense of the HouseClan. We are a very peaceful species.”
“Don’t let him fool you, Doc,” Paul said. “The reason they’re so peaceful is no one in their right mind would ever cross a Jorenian.”
“That is the right of—” Kao began in serious tones, then realized he was bei
ng needled. “My friend reminds me I must improve my knowledge of verbal banter.”
“Stick around, fly boy,” Paul said. “I’m an authority.”
We finished our meal shortly after that, and it was with real regret that I said it was time for me to go. Again, I received the friendly clasp of that large blue hand on mine, while the dark head dipped down so that Kao’s words were for my ears alone.
“Thank you for saving me from hearing all of Paul’s EngTech tales for the fifteenth time,” the pilot said. His grasp subtly changed to a near-caress. “I would like to see you again, Healer Grey Veil.”
When you’ve spent most of your life with your nose buried in medical books, or involved with patients, you forget how other people see you. Apparently, he saw me as an attractive female.
“Perhaps we might share another meal—alone?” Kao asked. I could see how he got his reputation. By breathing.
“If you can find me off duty,” I said with a quick grin. I didn’t add “good luck” to that; it wouldn’t have been polite. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, either. “Until then, Kao Torin.”
The white eyes crinkled with his slow smile. “Walk within beauty,” he said.
I certainly walked within a daze as I headed for home.
Lor-Etselock was standing just outside my quarters as I strode down my corridor. He was perspiring despite the excellent climate control, and his chubby face appeared almost haggard with anxiety. The moment he saw me, he began trudging toward me.
“DoctorIregretIcouldnotrefusethementrance,” he said, and I frowned as I tried to follow his incomprehensible babbling.
“Regret you could not—what?” I held up one hand as he opened his mouth. “Slowly, please, Lor. My TI will blow out my eardrum.”
“Forgiveme.” He took a deep breath. “Bartermen arehere toappraise. In yourquarters.”
The infamous Bartermen? In my quarters? To appraise what?
The door to my quarters was partially ajar, and I walked past the fearful resource manager and nudged the panel aside. Within the room was a small group of aliens who were methodically searching through my personal belongings. I heard a muffled yowl of outrage and stepped inside.
“What the—”
My appearance made no effect on the culprits, who were all dressed in identical charcoal garments that cloaked their forms. Short abbreviated hoods covered what seemed to be square-shaped, elongated skulls. Jenner shot past me and scrambled under my sleeping platform.
“How did you get in here?”
One of the group turned at the sound of my voice.
“Appraisal is nearly completed.”
“Hey!” I followed him as he moved away, and prodded his shoulder. I was almost sorry when he turned around. From the shadows of the hood, gaunt features stretched under ashen skin into a parody of a smile. I’d seen more attractive cadavers. A musty, damp odor rose from the rustling robes. Smelled better corpses, too.
All he said was, “Ready yourself.”
“What are you people doing here? Why are you handling my belongings?” Once more I prodded the being, who was ignoring me. “You—explain this!”
“DoctorIcanexplaintoyou—” Lor had followed me in, and put a damp hand on my arm. I shook it off.
“No, Lor, this one is going to explain it to me, aren’t you?” I leaned forward, and snatched away the article of my clothing he was fingering. In shock, he recoiled away from me. Like I was the problem here.
The others—I counted five—assembled quickly around us in a circle.
“Appraisal has been completed.” The appointed spokesman sounded smug. “Barter?”
“Barter what?”
“They wantto tradewith youDoctor,” Lor said. “Forwhat youbrought tothecolony.”
“You want to barter with me?” I asked, incredulous. I scanned the six faces. “Don’t you wait until you’re invited?”
“Bartermen do not wait.”
“How about making an appointment?”
“Bartermen do not make appointment.”
It was time to see if Bartermen knew how to get out, I decided. I pointed to the door. “I don’t want to barter with you. Please leave.”
“Appraisal is minimal,” the Bartermen’s spokesman said. “Assortment of clothing, medical articles, live domesticated animal. Barter only for entirety.”
I think I was being insulted. “Leave, now.”
“Dr. Cherijo Grey Veil, minimal appraisal.”
Like I should care. “Okay, I want names. Right now!”
“Bartermen.”
“Your names are Bartermen?”
Lor decided to intervene again. His plump hand trembled against my arm. “Namesare notused Doctor. Against theirdoctrine.”
“Lor, stay out of this.” I surveyed the group once more, speaking slowly and clearly so they couldn’t claim later that there had been some terrible misunderstanding. “I’m telling you for the last time to exit these premises immediately.”
“Bartermen remain, complete barter.”
I didn’t have to surrender my privacy to a bunch of grubby little opportunists looking to turn a credit through intimidation. No, sir. I whirled around and went to my display panel. “HQ Administrative Office, Ana Hansen.”
Ana’s face appeared instantaneously.
“Cherijo? What—”
“Ana, there is a group of six individuals in my quarters calling themselves Bartermen. They have evidently entered illegally and sorted through my possessions. They now demand I barter or trade what I own.”
“Oh, no.”
I wasn’t through. “I’ve asked them repeatedly to leave. They refuse. Send some Militia over here, will you? File a Charter violation complaint against them for me while you’re at it.”
Lor nearly fainted.
The Bartermen conferred among themselves as Ana advised me to stay put and say as little as possible. Within minutes two of the Militia stood inside the doorway. The spokesman for the grey-cloaked aliens looked at me again.
“Barter is not violation of Charter,” he said.
“Violation of my personal space without my specific invitation or consent is. Try reading section seven, paragraph fourteen, lines three through eight.” I nodded to the Militia officers. “Remove them, please.”
The Bartermen stepped forward collectively as their speaker said, “Appraisal may have been underestimated.”
“Appraisal was not requested,” I said. The Militia looked at each other uneasily. “Do you officers have a problem with my grievance?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Then, clear them out of here. Now.”
The Bartermen speaker decided to try to persuade me one last time. “Considerable appraisal for one item, live animal domesticated. We will barter equal exchange.”
“Get out!” I shouted.
They filed out silently, while Lor gibbered something and scurried after them. The Militia officers gazed at me with something like horror mixed with admiration.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Well, Doctor,” one of them said. “They are Bartermen.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I threw up my hands. “They have free license to go through my personal possessions? They can just walk in here and—” Ana chose that moment to appear in the doorway.
“Oh, dear,” she said as she surveyed the mess. “There has been a huge misunderstanding.”
“You’ve got that right,” I said. “Who do these Bartermen think they are? They forced their way in—”
She shook her head. “Lor let them in.”
“What?”
“They were acting on a filed trade summons. I was notified almost immediately after your signal by the Association about the situation.”
“A trade what? What are you talking about?”
Ana’s shoulders shook suspiciously as she cleared her throat, then gave me a careful look. “A trade summons. Bartermen have an extensive and rather complicated communication system s
et up within the colony.”
“In words of two syllables or less, Ana.”
She pressed her lips together, then went on. “I believe you stated that you would trade everything you own for some ice cream, fudge sauce, and a spoon?”
I related the bizarre incident to K-Cipok, who was my charge nurse on duty the next day, and she substantiated what Ana Hansen had told me about the aggravating practices of the Bartermen.
“And they just barge in on people like that?” I asked.
“I’m surprised they didn’t file a complaint with the Council,” K-Cipok told me. “They don’t like to be turned down, especially on a first bid.”
“They’re definitely fanatics,” I said, recalling their single-minded behavior.
She made a noncommittal sound. “In your view. Some cultures consider procurement of trade items as important as, say, you Terrans view daily cleansing rituals.”
“But to base all that on what I said”—trying to explain my side of it had me frustrated. “It was just an expression. You know, wishful thinking.”
K-Cipok made a low thrumming sound so much like a bovine moo I had to swallow a giggle. “I wouldn’t think out loud anymore, Doctor.”
The next case was rushed in from Assessment, and my humor dissipated at once. “Chart?”
“Can’t account for it,” the harassed orderly manning the gurney said.
The patient displayed evidence of severe internal trauma. Her abdomen was taut and hot to the touch, her vital signs thready. Shock was going to kill her unless we moved quickly.
“Let’s shift her.”
K-Cipok’s spindly limbs, which appeared incapable of keeping her heavy torso erect, hefted the patient from the gurney to the exam pad without effort. The orderly made a hasty exit, and when I looked at the contorted face, I went still.
“It can’t be.”
She was the same Orgemich female Phorap Rogan had diagnosed with gastroenteritis during my first shift at the FreeClinic. I scanned her once. That was all it took.
She didn’t have an upset stomach anymore.
“Prep her for surgery, stat,” I said to the nurse, then signaled Dr. Dloh, who was working that shift with me. “I’ve got an emergency here; I have to operate.”