by neetha Napew
“What is inside?”
“The Jorenian liver we’ve been working on. I want to show it to one of the native doctors.”
Qonja watched me from his position by the entrance ramp, his eyes intent. The entrance to the bay opened behind us, and I glanced back to see Garphawayn and Ilona Red Faun walk in together.
Great. All we need are the Hsktskt and we can have a party.
Garphawayn hopped over to stand beside Squilyp. “So this is the vessel you will jaunt in to the surface? It is too cramped. Tell the Captain to fly a larger shuttle.”
“Dhreen.” Ilona’s voice wasn’t as loud, but commanded as much attention. The Oenrallian watched her approaching him, and just as she reached him, turned his back on her. “Dhreen, please.”
“Leave me alone.”
I hissed my impatience. “Dhreen, don’t be an ass.”
“Attend to your own lookout, Doc.” Now he turned around to confront her. “I informed you, there is nothing further to converse about. I don’t remember you. I don’t know you.”
The Terran girl wrapped her arms around her torso. “I am pregnant with your children.”
“They aren’t mine!”
Garphawayn, who had been bickering with Squilyp over launch sizes and Captain’s prerogatives, snapped her head up. “You, orange-haired one. Do not speak to her like that. It is absolutely too indiscreet to make such statements in front of others.”
“They’re his,” Ilona told the female Omorr, her voice breaking into a sob on the last word. “His children.”
Garphawayn turned to me. “You. Bad-tempered Terran. A DNA test has been performed?”
“I have a name.” I gave her the eye “And it’s not ‘Bad-tempered Terran.’”
“I cannot remember it.” She went over and placed a comforting membrane on Ilona’s shoulder. “Well? Is he responsible for the female’s pregnancy, or not?”
“This is not the time or place to discuss this matter.”
Reever squeezed my arm when I would have aired my opinion. “Perhaps, Lady Cestes, you could escort Ilona Red Faun back to her quarters?”
“If I must.” Garphawayn sniffed. “Adoren, this subordinate of yours has failed to reconcile this distressful matter. You will personally attend to this situation when you return.”
“Yes, adorlee.” For once the Senior Healer sounded sick and tired of being told what to attend to. “Until we return.”
“Another thing-do not allow these Terrans to agitate the indigenous species on this world. I would dislike having to accompany a rescue mission to retrieve you.”
As the female Omorr led Ilona from the launch bay, I sighed. “You know, those two may actually be the only ones on this ship who get along without a problem.”
“Thank you for the prediction,” the Senior Healer said, obviously miffed.
We boarded the launch and departed from the Sunlace a few minutes later. In the passenger compartment, Reever and Squilyp got into an intense discussion about gathering specimens of indigenous botanicals. Qonja seemed preoccupied with staring out the viewport. That left me to sit and monitor Dhreen.
The Oenrallian had rallied a second time from his injuries, but he was still pale and thin. I told myself I wasn’t being overly cautious, even as I ran a scanner over him for the third time since leaving the ship.
His amber eyes narrowed with speculation. “Uneasy about me?”
“Since the day I walked into that New Angeles tavern and fell for your first scam,” I said, checking his heart/lung rate. “You still can’t remember Ilona or the time you spent together on Terra?”
“Those children are not mine.”
Okay, scratch talking about the kids. I expelled a breath as I studied his readings. “You’re not going to be able to run around down there. If I see you try, I’m going to sedate you and have you brought back to the ship. Got that?”
“Absolutely.”
I looked through the viewport at the planet we were rapidly approaching. It was a mottled swirl of blue oceans and green land masses, with a few dark ribbons indicating areas of high elevation. The capital, Valsegas City, was located in the center of the largest continent. “Can you remember anything about your homeworld?”
“I read what was on the database,” he admitted. “It’s comparable to your homeworld, negligible depreciated gravity, oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. The oceans aren’t as salty, and they don’t eject saliva on visitors or shape their botanicals into geometric structures.”
In spite of my disgruntled mood, my lips curved. “Sounds like you remember a little about Terra.”
“I have flashes, sometimes.” He sat back and closed his eyes.
Since he looked tired already, I left off grilling Dhreen and went up to the helm. Xonea was entering coordinates for final descent and nodded when I pointed to the copilot’s seat.
“Any problem with Valsegas?” I asked, watching the planet fill the front viewer.
“I do not understand what you mean,” the Captain said.
“Problems, you know-mandatory quarantines, triple decon scans, a mob gathering to chuck some stones at us?”
“None so far.” My ClanBrother shot me an amused glance. “You will not persuade me to believe you could have accomplished the sojourn successfully by yourself.”
“Give me time, and I will.”
Main Transport outside Valsegas City was a busy place, filled with trader ships landing and lifting off all around us. I got a chance to witness real pilot savvy as Xonea hovered until a gap on the docking pad opened up, then squeezed in under two other vessels vying for the space. The standard biodecon scans only took another minute.
“Valsegas Main Transport, Sunlace launch five pilot, all scans negative. Request permission to disembark.”
Someone laughing stopped, coughed, and barked over the audio, “Sure, come on down!” More laughter, this time from others in the background.
While the guys assembled the sojourn packs, I woke Dhreen up. “Rise and shine, pal. You’re home.”
Whatever subconscious fears I’d had about walking into another Taercal-style mess instantly evaporated as we left the launch. Beyond Main Transport, a busy metropolis sprawled out in all directions. There were Oenrallians rushing in and out of buildings, crowding around ships, dealing with traders, and constantly talking, gesturing, and laughing. Dhreen’s native language was being bantered around us nonstop, and had a staccato sound to it that reminded me of heels tapping with impatience.
“Productive place,” I said to Dhreen as we passed a group of squat, blocky Ramathorran traders hauling containers from an off-ramp into an open cargo hold. “Anything jogging your memory yet?”
He regarded the workers, then rubbed his horns/ears. “Not them.”
Valsegas reminded me a lot of Dhreen’s old trader vessel, the Bestshot, only on a city-size scale. Apparently the waste-not, want-not attitude was a cultural thing, as every structure appeared to be constructed of a conglomeration of materials, and every mode of transport that passed us displayed recycled and salvaged parts. As Oenrall’s red sun set, a bewildering amount of photo-sensor optics began lighting up. Some were in the oddest places, too: strung from wiring hung out of doors and windows, floating on autonomous hover units, and in transparent panels on the walkways under our feet.
I squinted up at a flashing red rectangle floating overhead. “Someone afraid of the dark?”
“Valsegas is the city that never takes a sleep interval,” a deep, pleasant voice said behind me.
We turned to see a group of Oenrallians following us, led by a towering Amazon with a shaggy mane of sun-bleached hair and brightly ornamented yellow garments.
Qonja stepped in front of me. “May I be of assistance?”
“If I wasn’t already mated, you could.” She gave him an admiring once-over. “You’re from the Jorenian ship, am I right?” Without waiting for an answer, she held out a hand that was bigger than my face. “I’m Mtulla, Rajanukal of Handler Row.
Welcome to Oenrall.”
“Qonja Torin.” He took her hand briefly, waited a moment, then stepped aside to let her do the same with me.
“Hi. Dr. Cherijo Torin.” I gingerly accepted the clasp, but all she did was squeeze my fingers gently before letting go. “What does ‘Rajanukal’ mean?”
“I run the row’s business.” She tapped her brow. “And get most of the head pains that go with that.”
I grinned, liking her already. “I know how that is. Let me introduce you to the rest of our sojourn team. Captain Xonea Torin, Senior Healer Squilyp of Maftuda, Ship’s Linguist Duncan Reever, and-“
“Dhreen! Son of an Abboreul dream snatcher, it’s good to lay eyes on you.” Mtulla went to seize him in a less cautious embrace, then stopped short when he drew back. “What’s the matter with you, boy? You look like a cabbuna chewed you up and regurgitated what it couldn’t belly!”
Reever stepped in and said something in low, fast Oenrallian, too low for our wristcoms to translate.
At once Mtulla’s happy expression faded. “Oh, child.” She tried to touch Dhreen’s face, but again he avoided her hand. “Well, at least you’re onplanet now.” She cocked her head, making the tiny bells woven in her bleached hair chime. “It’s been sixty years since I last routed you out of my dwelling.”
“We were friends?” he asked her, still looking suspicious.
She shook her head. “Worse. We were neighbors, before most of the domains changed hands.”
“We’d like to take Dhreen to a familiar place, maybe his home,” I said. “It might help trigger some memories. Could you direct us there?”
“Direct you?” She laughed. “I’ll transport you there myself.” As she saw Xonea take out some credit chips, she added, “No payment is necessary. Captain Torin. I’d be gratified to help the boy.”
Mtulla turned and snapped out some orders in rapid Oenrallian to the group, who abruptly took off in different directions.
“I’ll give you the tour of the city on the way, if you don’t mind a few stops,” she said. “Got to keep a grip on my crew, if I’m to handle the business and stay out of Debtor Row.”
I frowned. “What do you handle, exactly?”
“Goods, buying and selling.” She produced a thin card with a view square that displayed various tech, garments, and jewels. “We handle anything-fast and cheap, found and lost.”
“What are lost goods?” my husband asked.
“Whatever needs someone to find it.” She gave Reever a faint, lascivious wink. “Come on, friends, let’s cruise the rows.”
Valsegas’s domains were huge areas of the city devoted to a particular family, Mtulla explained as we followed her to her personal transport. Each family specialized in some industry, rather like a guild, only they referred to the family residence and business as one in the same-their “row.”
“We’ve got every kind of row an offworlder could want-tech, trade, data, raw and processed materials, transport, labor of any kind, you name it. Here’s my ride.” The Rajanukal went to a huge heap of modular hoverlifts fitted to at least three separate glidecar bodies that had been welded together, and yanked open a door panel. “Hop in, friends.”
“Wait.” Qonja stepped forward and had a long look inside. “Very well.”
“If I needed a security guard,” I told him as I climbed in, “I’d have brought one from the ship.”
The interior of the vehicle had a number of odd-looking interior seams, but plenty of seats, harnesses, and viewports to accommodate all of us comfortably. Mtulla eased her big frame in behind the modified driver’s console and hammered on the panel to initiate ignition.
“Now I see where you got your ship design from,” I muttered to Dhreen as I arranged my footgear around some wiring sprouting from the floor panel. I checked out the main viewpanel. “Mtulla, how long does it take to get to these rows?”
She pointed at the buildings surrounded the docking area outside. “You’re in the middle of one now- this is Transit Row.”
Xonea leaned to one side. “Those structures at the left appear to be residences.”
“They are.” Mtulla started the ignition sequence, and a powerful engine rumbled to life. “Transit Row workers and their families live where they do their business. All of my handlers, for example, live with me in Handler Row.”
Qonja leaned forward. “How many rows are there in your city?”
“A thousand, maybe more.” She shrugged. “No one really counts.”
The Captain and the psych resident exchanged a glance, but Qonja only sat back and subsided into silence.
We got the five-star tour as Mtulla drove us through the city, and pointed out the features and specific rows within each domain we passed through.
“East seventh domain, Artisan Row on your right, Quarry Row on your left.” She handled the vehicle as deftly as she pointed out the attractions. “Coming up on Textile Row, for anyone looking to invest in some new garments or bed coverings.”
Each row seemed to include a miniature open-air marketplace, displaying wares in front of each structure. Some of the buildings, our guide explained, served as businesses by day and residential housing for the row’s occupants by night.
“Are the workers governed by separate guilds?” Xonea asked.
“Nah. Everybody works for the Rajanukal of their row, but they’re expected to govern themselves.”
Everybody appeared to be actively employed, at least from the number of Oenrallians I saw walking around the streets. Something didn’t seem right, until I realized that everyone I saw working wasn’t Oenrallian, but members of offworld races. The natives themselves were everywhere-laughing, talking, gathering in groups-but doing nothing else. “Is today some kind of holiday?”
Mtulla glanced in the rear viewer. “Don’t know what you mean, Doctor.”
I decided to press the point. “There are Tingaleans selling paintings over there, and a pair of Aksellans hauling stone to that transport glidetruck. I don’t see any of your people actually doing the work themselves.”
The row leader’s smile faded a bit. “We delegate to subcontractors. You know how it is-why do the grunt work yourself when you can pay another to acquire the aching muscles?”
It sounded reasonable. So why did I get the feeling she was putting me on?
I thought I saw some familiar-looking shadows disappear into one of the building entrances and peered over my shoulder through the back viewpanel to see if they’d come out again. They didn’t.
What is it?
I felt Reever’s unease even before his thought be-came clear. He was more worried than I was. I don’t know. I could have sworn I just saw a couple of Bartermen.
Look to the right. Do you see the beings in the helmets and brown fitted garments?
I spotted them right away. Yeah. Who are they?
Akkabarrans. Now disgust blended with his unease.
Something about their appearance nagged at me, but I couldn’t identify precisely what is was. Never heard of them.
You might have seen a few of them on Catopsa, during the slave auctions.
Now I remembered. They’re slavers?
Living beings are only a side enterprise. Their main commerce is weaponry of any kind.
Noise and activity outside the transport seemed to elevate, the farther we got in to the city. By the time we reached what had to be the center, it appeared as if the entire population was having a wild party. Everywhere I looked, natives behaved with perpetual, almost manic hyperactivity. Singing. Dancing. Throwing colored strips of glowing paper up in the air.
“Not exactly shy, are they?” I said to Xonea, who like me was mesmerized by a group of Oenrallians tearing off their garments and jumping into a huge basin spraying water hundreds of feet into the air. They splashed each other like a group of mischievous kids.
“A pleasant contrast to Taercal,” my ClanBrother said.
Mtulla worked her vehicle through the crowded street and parked
beside a towering structure. “Excuse me for a moment, friends.” A light appeared on her console and she took out a strange-looking headset and fitted it over the two horns on the top of her head before moving a connected transmitter unit in front of her mouth.
“Rajanukal.” She listened, then sighed. “Expected as much. All right, see what you can do to locate it.” She took off the headset. “Sony about that. We’ve gotten as far as we’re going, friends. I’ve got some business to attend to on Traders Row, just ahead. Everybody out.”
Traders Row took up both sides of the wide street beyond the next intersection, and spilled out onto it from every direction. As soon as we stepped down from Mtulla’s vehicle, we were surrounded by a horde of excited Oenrallians.
“Terran, beautiful footgear from your homeworld!” one young Oenrallian male with soulful yellow eyes called to me. He held up a pair of skimpy, black-strapped sandals. “They’ll make your feet look smaller and yourself taller!”
Qonja stepped between us. “She is not interested, peddler.”
“Thanks,” I said over the resident’s shoulder, before poking him in the back. He turned around. “Do you mind? I can speak for myself.”
Another, older male grabbed Xonea, who shook him off like a troublesome flea. Jorenians dislike being mauled as much as Terrans. The native only grinned and gestured at him like an old friend. “Come and drink at my tavern with your friends, pilot.”
Even Squilyp wasn’t safe. A female flung a handful of squirming crimson bugs up under his gildrells. “Look, sir! Fresh cephalopods from Omorr!”
For people who liked to subcontract, the natives were awfully eager to sell things to us. I noticed no one approached Dhreen or Mtulla-apparently the peddlers preferred aliens-then saw a gorgeous female latch on to Reever.
She jumped on him, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. “Pleasure from my body, Terran. Any act you prefer.” She undulated against him.
“Hey.” On closer inspection, I saw she was hardly more than a kid. “Off my husband.”
Reever untangled himself and set her on her feet. “Thank you for the offer, but I am exclusive to my wife.”