“Umm.” I stepped forward, reluctant to point out the obvious. “Parsimony might suggest, in a calm city park, that your something just might have been… well… perhaps a local citizen?”
Lieutenant Morell gulped, looking at that moment just like a young human who had made the same nervous mistake.
“Of all the damn foolishness,” Guts grumbled, hastening through the undergrowth, drawing his medical kit while I hurried after. Behind me, I heard the lieutenant sob an apology.
“There now,” Captain Olm answered. “I’m sure he… she… or it is just stunned. You did use stun-setting, yes?”
“Sir!”
When I glanced back, he was leading her with one arm, his other one sliding around her shoulder. I should have known.
Guts shouted when he found our prowler. A humanoid, of course, like ninety percent of Class M sapients. The poor fellow had managed to crawl a few meters before the stun nanos got organized enough to bring him down. Now he lay sprawled on his back, spread-eagled, with his arms and legs pinned by half a million microscopic fibers to the leaf-strewn loam. He strained futilely till we emerged to surround him. Then he stared with large, dark eyes, gurgling slightly behind the nano-woven gag in his mouth.
Nanomachines are often too small to see, but those that are fired at high speed by a stun blaster can be larger than an Earthling ant. At medium range, only a dozen might hit a fleeing target, and they need several seconds to devour raw matter, duplicating into thousands, before getting to work immobilizing their quarry.
There are quicker ways of subduing someone, but none quite as safe or sure.
By now, a veritable army of little nanos swarmed over the captive, inspecting their handiwork, keeping the tiny ropes taut and jumping up and down in jubilation. Some, for lack of anything else to do, appeared to be hard at work sewing rips in the native’s dark, satin-lined cloak and black, pegged pants. Others re-coifed his mussed hair.
(Just because someone is a prisoner, that doesn’t mean he can’t look sharp.)
Guts pushed his bio-scanner toward the humanoid, having to fight through a tangle of tiny ropes while mutturing something about how "… nanos are the winchers of our discontent," in a Shakespearean accent.
Enough, I thought, drawing my blaster, flicking the setting, then sighting on the victim’s face. He cringed as I fired-
- a stream of tuned microwaves that turned all nano fibers into harmless gas. The gag in his mouth vanished and he gasped, then began jabbering frightfully in a tongue filled with moist sibilants.
I heard a hiss as Guts injected our captive with a hypo spray, using an orange vial marked ALIEN RELAXANT # 1. The native tensed for a moment, then sagged with a sigh.
It’s important for an Earthling Advisor to always inspect his ship’s supply of Alien Relaxant Number One! Make sure of its purity. Very few sentient life forms have fatal allergic reactions to 100 percent distilled water. Nevertheless, most will respond quickly to being injected, as if a potent, local narcotic were suddenly flowing through their veins. Bless the placebo effect. Its near universality is among the few reassuring constants in an uncertain cosmos.
Guts gave me a sly wink. He knows what’s going on, so I no longer have to mix batches of “ol’ Number One” all by myself. But you can’t assume a ship’s doctor will understand. Call it an “ancient human recipe” until you’re sure your medico can be trusted with the truth.
The native was now much calmer, prattling at a slower pace while I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Our captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when true First Contact could begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, all lights turned green. The translator swiveled and fired three more nanos at the native, one for each ear and another that streaked like a smart missile down his throat.
It isn’t painful, but startlement made him stop and swallow in surprise.
“On behalf of the Federated Alliance of-” Captain Olm began, expansively spreading his arms. Then he frowned as the impudent creature interrupted, this time speaking aristocratically-accented Demmish.
“- don’t know who you people are, or where you come from, but you must get out of the park, quickly! Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”
****
While I vaporized the rest of the stun-ropes holding him to the ground, Guts helped the poor fellow back to his feet.
I was about to resume questioning him when Nuts squeezed between us, giving me a sharp swipe of her elbow. I rubbed my ribs as she brushed leaves and sticks off the native gentleman’s clothing, getting his measure with a few demure, barely noticeable gropes.
That was when the security lieutenant came with bad news.
“Captain, I’m sorry to report that Crewman Wems has disappeared.”
Olm gave an exasperated sigh. “Wems, eh? Missing, you say? Well, hmm.”
He glanced at the other security men. “I guess we could send Jums and Smet to look for him.”
The two greenies paled, cringing backward two paces. I cleared my throat. The captain looked my way.
“No?”
“Not if you ever want to see them again, sir.”
The captain may be impulsive, but he’s not stupid.
“Hmm, yeah. Better save 'em for later.”
He shrugged. “Okay, we all go. Form up, everybody!”
Each of us was equipped with a locator, to find the spigot in case we got separated. I tried scanning for Wems, but could pick up no sign of his signal. Either something was jamming it or he was out of range. Or the transmitter had been vaporized-and Wems along with it.
We scoured the area for the better part of an hour, while our former captive grew increasingly nervous, sucking on his lower lip and peering toward the bushes. Finally, we decided to let him choose our direction of march, flanked on one side by the captain and the other by our chief artificer, Commander-Engineer Nomlin, who gripped his arm like a tourniquet, batting her eyes so fast the wind might have mussed his hair again, if it weren’t already greased back from a peaked forehead.
Aside from several teeth even more pointy than a Demmie’s, our guide had pale skin that he tried to keep shaded with his cloak. Taking readings, I found that the sun did emit high ultraviolet levels. Moreover, the air was laced with industrial pollutants and signs of a degraded ozone layer-fairly typical for a world passing through its Level Eighteen crisis point. If proper relations were established, we might help the natives with such problems. Perhaps enough to make up for contacting them in the first place.
The native informed Nuts that his name was “Earl Dragonlord”-at least th
at is how the nano in his throat forced his vocal apparatus to pronounce it, in accented Demmish. He seemed unaware of any change in speech patterns, since other nanos in his ears retranslated the sounds back into his native tongue. From his perspective, we were all miraculously speaking the local lingo.
The master translator unit followed our party, watching out for more aliens to convert in this way. A typically Demmie solution to the inconvenience of a polyglot cosmos.
Our chief artificer swooned all over Earl, asking him what the name of that tree was, and how did he ever get such dark eyes, and how long would it take to have a local tailor make another cape just like his. Fortunately, Nuts had to pause occasionally to breathe. During one of these intermissions, Captain Olm broke in to ask about the “danger” Earl spoke of earlier.
“It’s become a nightmare in our city!” he related in hushed tones, glistening eyes darting nervously. “The Licans are breaking their age-old vows. They no longer cull only the least-deserving Standards, but prey on anyone they wish! Why, they’ve even taken to pouncing on nomorts like you and me! Then there’s the ongoing strike by the corpambulists…”
It sounded awfully complicated already, and we’d only gone fifty meters from the spigot. I interrupted.
“I’m sorry. Did you say-‘like you and me?’ What do you mean by that?”
He glanced at me, noticing my human features. “I was referring to your companions and me, of course. No offense meant. Although you are clearly a Standard, I can tell that your lineage is strong, and your bile is un-ripe. Or else, why would you mingle with these nomorts in apparent friendship? True, your kind is used to being hunted. Nevertheless, you must realize the rules are drastically changed here. Traditional restraints no longer hold in our poor city!”
I shared a glance with the captain. Clearly, the native thought we were visitors from another town, and that the Demmies were fellow “nomorts”… his own kind of people. Perhaps because of the similarity in dentition. In his hurry, he seemed willing to overlook our uniforms and strange tools.
The afternoon waned as our path climbed a tree-crested hill. Suddenly, spread before us, there lay the city proper… one of the more intriguing urban landscapes I ever saw.
Some skyscrapers towered eighty or more stories, with cantilevered decks protruding into a gathering mist. Many spires were linked together by graceful sky-bridges, arching across open space at giddy heights. Yet none of these towers compared with a distant edifice that shone through the sunset haze. A gleaming pyramidal structure whose apex glittered with jeweled light.
“Cal'mari!” Earl announced, gesturing with obvious pride toward his city.
“What?” blurted Nuts, briefly taking her hand from his arm. “You mean squid?”
“Yes… Squid,” Earl said with sublime dignity, as the translator took its cue from Nuts, automatically replacing one word with another. Earl seemed blithely unaware that two entirely different sounds had emerged from his voicebox.
“Squid it is,” Olm nodded, regarding the skyscrapers. And that was that. From now on, any Demmie, and any speech-converted local, would use that word to signify this town.
I sighed. After all, it was only a city. But several civilizations have made the mistake of declaring war on Demmies, over the insult of changing their planet’s name without asking. Not that it ever did any good.
“Squid” was impressive for a pre-starflight city. At one time, it must have been even more grand. The metropolis clearly used to surround the park on all sides, though now many quarters seemed empty, devoid of life. Once-proud spires were abandoned to the ravages of time, with blank windows like blind eyes staring into space. But straight ahead, the burg still thrived-a noisy, vibrant forest of tall buildings draped in countless sheets of colored glass, resembling twentieth-century New York, dressed-up with ostentatious, spiral minarets.
Skeins of filmy material, like mosquito netting, spanned the spaces between most buildings. Many windows and balconies were also covered with a gauzy, sparkling sheen-screen coverings that I later learned held bits of sharp metal or broken glass. As the sun sank, Squid resembled a maze of glittering spiderwebs, festooned with drops of dew.
Broad roadways were congested with cyclopean motor cars and lorries, all jostling for space and revving their engines before racing at top speed for an open parking space. I saw that every fourth avenue was a canal carrying boats of all description. My sinuses stung at the smell of ozone and unburnt hydrocarbons.
“Well, will you looka that!”
Our doctor pointed beyond the downtown area, to where jagged terrain rose steeply toward a rocky hill, its summit topped by striking silhouettes, totally unlike the metropolitan center. Scores of midget castles stood on those heights, with dark battlements and towers jutting from every slope. Earl Dragonlord sighed with gladness to see them, and motioned for us to follow.
“Come along, Cousins. Sunshine is bad enough, but we definitely should not be out by moonlight! At home I’ll fit you with more appropriate clothes. Then we can go to the Crown.”
“Uh, is that where we’ll speak to your government leaders?” Captain Olm asked. “We do have work to do, y’know.”
The last part was directed at Nuts. Her resumed grip on our guide’s elbow might force a lesser fellow to cry uncle. Earl was clearly a man of stamina and patience, all the more alluring to a Demmie female.
“Government?” he answered. “Well, in a manner of speaking. I’ll introduce you to our local council of nomort elders. Unless… do you actually wish to meet the mayor of Squid? A standard?” He glanced at me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I assured. “Actually, I think our capt-our leader refers to government on a planetary scale. Or, in lieu of a world government, then some international mediation body.”
Earl’s look of puzzlement was followed by a dawning light of understanding. But before he could speak, a low groaning sound interrupted from the city, rising rapidly to become an ululating wail. Our greenies drew their weapons. Earl’s dusky eyes darted nervously.
“The sunset siren! A welcome sound to our kind, in most cities. But alas, not in poor Squid. We must go!”
“Well then, lead on MacDuff,” Olm said, nearly as eager to be moving along. Earl looked baffled for a moment. Then, with a swirl of his cape, he hurried east (with our ship’s engineer clinging like a happy lamprey), pushing on toward the pile of gingerbread palaces that now seemed aglow against a swollen reddish sun.
“It’s lay on, Captain,” I muttered to Olm as we hurried along. “If you fancy quoting Shakespeare
, you might try to get it right.”
Lieutenant Morell chirped a giggle from her guard position, covering our rear. Olm winced, then ruefully grinned.
“As you say, Advisor. As you say.”
From the park, we dropped toward a dim precinct of low dwellings that lurked between us and yonder hilltop castles. I glanced back at the downtown area, noting with surprise that the streets and canals no longer thronged with traffic. In a matter of moments they had become completely, eerily, deserted.
****
Dusk deepened and the largest of three moons rose in the east, about two thirds the size of Luna and almost as bright. Its phase was almost full.
In order to reach the elegant towers where Earl lived, we first had to cross a sprawling zone of dark roofs and small, overgrown lots, laid along an endless series of curvy lanes and cul-de-sacs.
"Urbs,” Earl Dragonlord commented with apparent distaste.
“Hold on a minute,” offered Guts, rummaging through his medical bag. “I think I’ve got some bicarbonate for that.”
“No, no.” The native grimaced. “Urbs. These are the surface dwellings where Licans make their homes for the greater part of each month, feigning to live as Standards used to, long ago, before the Great Change, in tacky private dwelling places, depressingly alike. All blissfully equipped with linoleum floors and formica countertops, with doilies on the armrests and bowling trophies on the mantelpiece. And never forget a lawn mower in the garage, along with hedge trimmer, weed-eater, automatic mulcher, leaf blower, snow blower, and razor edged pole-pruner…”
Of course these terms were produced in Demmish by the translator in his throat. They might only approximate the actual meanings in Earl’s mind.
Jim Baen’s Universe Page 50