Rudy swept his hand across his now-sopping forehead and held out the result. “Fancy that?” His palm sparkled with, yes, pink glittersweat.
Lips snapped shut as the nearest mouths retracted with blinding speed.
“Thought not,” Paul commented smugly.
“Come back after you burn your clothes,” Diales demanded, ending in a discordant squeak. Emotional Hurns tended to sound like badly played reed instruments.
Paul leaned forward, eyebrows arched in blue-green, a sparkling drop bobbing at the end of his nose. “Yet the glitter will follow,” he intoned.
I giggled, pleased by my Human friends’ cleverness. Diales let out another unfortunate sound.
Rudy slammed his hand on the table, the resultant wet slap presumably meant to startle the Hurn into attention. Having startled himself, the Human lifted his hand to stare down at what was a delightful glittersweat print.
He shook his head as though moving on was the only option, then glared at Diales. “You brought us here. Let’s get to business.”
With a few wistful smacks at Paul, the mouths retracted into their collar and our expert pulled forth a portable comp node, unrolling it overtop of the palm print.
I drew up my delightfully agile limbs to sit cross-legged, half of my attention on the murmur of codes and vulnerabilities, the rest on those around us. With everyone but Diales coated in something bright and sparkling—much of it pink—spotting the Popeakan wasn’t going to be easy.
The approaching Human was impossible to miss, being the only one in sight. He maneuvered through the crowd, obviously heading to our table.
Paul and Rudy spotted him. I could tell by the flick of their eyes, though they continued to appear fully focused on Diales’ screen.
There ril was! I twisted around, sure I’d glimpsed a shiny pink raincoat.
Behind me, a sudden greedy smack—smack—smack.
And, all at once, I didn’t know why.
* * *
Glitter on duty would not impress Senior Political Officer Feen. When his quarry entered an application zone clouded with blue-green sparkles, Evan darted into the glitter-free corridor between wedges, only to find the floor awash in empty glitter containers, tabs from glow patches, and the other refuse of stage glamour. He was forced to step with care or risk a stumble that would, more likely than not, send him falling through the curtain walls.
Into the glitter, which under different circumstances—off duty being one; not being in pursuit of a felon another—he’d have embraced. No, better to be glitter-free and—
—stand out from all the rest?
He was terrible at subterfuge.
Rather than go back to be glittered, Evan stopped and dug feverishly through the refuse. He found a swath of material—possibly packaging, passably clean—and tested it across his shoulders. Capes were common. It would have to do. He spent precious moments rubbing the insides of discarded containers with his new garment, achieving a decent amount of sparkle and a few blots of glowing color.
Which also would have to do. Finally, with a grimace, he upended a couple of containers into his curly hair. Done.
Hoping there weren’t vids recording, Evan Gooseberry, caped in glitter and determination, exited out the back.
He found himself in a large room full of, yes, other glittering beings. Feeling much less conspicuous, for now at least, the junior political assistant joined those milling around. Along two walls were drop-by stalls, many familiar, and he was glad the operators had a place to do business while the streets were a stage. Oh, there was his favorite piemaker. If he’d time—
—which he didn’t. There they were, the three Humans, two adult males and their offspring, though the child resembled neither of them. They sat with a Hurn under what appeared to be heat lamps, as if Kateen weren’t warm enough.
Bribing the Hurn with sweat? In front of a child? Evan swallowed his outrage and eased closer.
The cape worked, that and the glitter stuck in his hair, for the larger, glitter-free and very familiar male Human strode right by Evan, heading for the table with the Hurn, a plaid satchel embroidered with “G” clutched in one big hand.
He’d found it!
Along with the thief’s accomplices, judging by the welcome received. The Hurn, busy smacking lips. The Humans, standing for introductions.
The thief casually tossed his satchel at the child, before going to sit closer than anyone should beside a lip-smacking Hurn.
Not good, Evan thought with dismay, slipping behind a trio of Skenkran. Not good at all.
* * *
The large Human’s name, we were told, was “Bob,” Diales introducing us as “clients.” Following that nicety, things went swiftly downhill, Bob sitting so his sweaty neck and face—glitter-free—were in reach of several eager mouths.
I did my best to ignore the one worming itself inside Bob’s clothes, presumably after the nearest juicy armpit.
As if to convince us, I decided, willing to assume all manner of duplicity when it came to Diales and his motivations. The Hurn had been looking where I’d seen the Popeakan. Had the lip smacking been for Bob—or something else?
Rudy had rolled up Diales’ comp node and tucked it under one big arm when it became clear a stranger was joining us. He gazed steadily at Bob, the look on his face the one I equated with “arresting you would make my day.” A shame Rudy wasn’t still a patroller.
If he was, I thought pragmatically, he’d have already arrested Diales and where would we be then?
Fortunately for all concerned, imbibing Human sweat had no physiological impact on a Hurn. Most simply enjoyed it, I supposed much like Paul and Rudy enjoyed the rare and expensive liquor the latter would bring on visits. Hurn addicts, like our loathsome expert, reached the point of being unable to concentrate on anything else if there was Aroma of Hot Human in the air.
Instead of living where he wouldn’t, Diales had hired his own Sweat. Why wasn’t I surprised?
The bag I’d been—given wasn’t the word for having something tossed at you—received was far more interesting. Handmade. And why “G”?
Being the more suspicious of us, Paul had it in his hands before I could do more than blink and gave it a thorough examination. Finding it empty, he looked at Bob.
Who shrugged with the shoulder not engaged with a mouth. “Matches her outfit.”
In full Bess persona, I nodded enthused agreement while inflicting Paul with my winsome look. I knew he’d get my meaning. If Bob had brought it here, the bag meant something.
“The squids won’t let us use this spot forever,” Diales snapped, his voice now smooth and squeak-free, if not his personality. He patted the tabletop.
Grim-faced, Rudy waited for Paul’s nod before spreading out the comp node.
“Here you go,” Paul said, passing me the bag.
Open, it smelled of meat sandwiches and love, the last what Ersh would call dangerous sentimentalizing, Skalet my foolishness. They were right, I admitted to myself, but it was a useful assessment nonetheless. In my experience, Humans used their dexterous hands and minds to make three kinds of things: those for themselves, those for anyone else . . .
. . . and things like this bag. I ran a small finger along the knots on the inside; the “G” had been stitched with skill and care. Someone made this for a person they cared about. Someone who hoped to be remembered each time the bag was used.
For what kind of sandwiches . . .
Distracted by such ponderings, I almost missed the moment Paul stretched across the table to touch a finger’s tip to a line amid all the others flickering across the screen. “Explain this.”
I didn’t miss how Rudy dropped his hand to a pocket.
The Hurn withdrew his mouths with a moist snap and a rip of Bob’s clothing. “It’s nothing—”
“It’s yours,
Diales,” Paul interrupted, his too-quiet tone a warning. “Now tell me. What did you steal from the Library and why?”
* * *
They’d given his satchel to the child. Who, Evan thought numbly, appeared to like it, so Great Gran would be pleased at least.
In every other way, his problems had just multiplied. He’d planned to get close enough to grab his satchel from the thief, then run for the nearest exit, between the orsel-sausage shop and the tea dealer. As plans went, it was more desperate than original, and he worried about embroiling innocent shop operators in embassy affairs—the forms alone—
It wouldn’t work. Obviously, the envelope he must deliver to the Popeakan Ambassador was no longer in the satchel. Either the thief, with his deplorable size and rough demeanor, still had it, or, Evan grimaced, had passed it to the Hurn during their—interaction.
As he stood, frozen by indecision, the matter of what to do next was decided for him.
The air filled with fanfare and blasts of fiery red glitter. Streamers flew, the wall on the far side opened like a curtain to the street, and the flowing stampede to be the first outside was on!
The festival had arrived.
* * *
The thing about Hurns? They’d enviable reflexes. The instant the Urgians blasted their joyful alert, Diales flipped the table at us and lunged away to escape in the crowd.
Proving how well Paul knew my reactions, he ignored me in favor of trying to redirect the motion of the table toward Bob’s knees, which would have been fine as I was already leaping clear, satchel in hand—
—until Rudy tried to pluck us both to safety, sending us to the floor while Bob scrambled over the bench to follow Diales.
We lay there for an instant, there being nothing better to do. The view was instructive, I decided, being the undersides of the glittery crowd as it split around us and the toppled table. Who knew Urgians put their emergency contact information on their rumps?
Such sensible beings.
As we rose, Rudy growled a frustrated apology and kicked the table. Paul shrugged, retrieving the comp node before it could be trampled, and leaned in to say something to his cousin.
I felt a sharp tug on the bag. Gripping it with all my might was, in hindsight, not the best idea I’d had.
I found myself going, too.
* * *
This was how a decent, ordinary person became a career criminal, Evan Gooseberry decided mournfully.
That the child didn’t appear upset to be dragged from her parents—if they were her parents—wasn’t the point. He hadn’t thought. Been impulsive. Used the scuffle at their table as his chance to regain his satchel and now look.
“I’m a kidnapper,” he despaired aloud, not that any in the excited crowd could hear him, the crowd sweeping them out onto the street. Was leaving the scene an additional crime?
If she’d just let go—!
But she’d wrapped her little arms through the strap and there was no way to free his satchel without risking harm to her, and if he were honest, Evan was becoming a bit confused who was kidnapping whom.
“It’s your bag, isn’t it?” the child declared brightly. “What’s your name?”
He regarded her with astonishment. “My name?”
“I’m Bess.” She’d a small round face, coated in blue-green sparkles that made it hard to tell the color of her eyes. “It begins with a G.” She pulled on the strap. “Your name?”
It wasn’t as if he’d a future. “It’s Gooseberry. Evan Gooseberry.”
Bess smiled and he’d the oddest feeling he’d passed some test. “Hello, Evan Gooseberry.” Then her gaze slid past him, eyes widening in delight. “Look!”
Evan couldn’t help but obey.
* * *
For a Human, Evan Gooseberry was as skittish as a newly molted Carasian, if a third the size. If I let go of his sandwich bag, he’d bolt and I’d lose my chance to learn why Bob, doubtless under orders from our duplicitous Hurn, had stolen it from him in the first place.
If I didn’t, I thought practically, the scolding I was to receive from Paul and likely multiple times from Rudy, would be more deserved than usual.
The subject of my curiosity was, at a guess, in his mid-forties. While subsets of Humans varied by their worlds and cultures, Evan appeared old enough to be well educated and to have obtained, as was the expression on Botharis, “a good position,” if too young for much responsibility.
Individual Humans came in an often—to those new to the species—confusing assortment of shapes and colors. As well, they were prone to self-modification in response to local trends or even mood. While I’d have to assimilate some of his living mass to be sure, nothing about Evan suggested other than species-norm, from his very dark skin—paler over the palms and dusted with cute pale freckles he’d probably loathed as a teen over a thin, slightly hooked nose—to his charmingly uptilted green eyes shaded by long pale lashes. His cushion of tightly massed hair was, at the moment, more glitter than light brown, matching the makeshift cape he’d tied under his chin.
He wasn’t here for the festival. Beneath this costume, his slender, not quite filled out body was dressed in the sort of inoffensive bland that was the Human bureaucratic version of camouflage: light yellow shirt with short sleeves and dark tan pants that ended at knee-high tan socks. Durable shoes completed the look.
Making the plaid “G” bag a welcome dash of personality.
Whatever Evan did for a living on Urgia Prime, and despite the fact that he’d technically stolen me, I already liked him a great deal better than Bob. While I might have been predisposed to approve of any being not sweating for Diales, there was no denying Evan’s excellent and well-informed manners, even while squeezed between glittery Urgians. He went to great lengths not to brush against triverts and let a large Donbynn step on his foot without complaint, aware she was the youngster of the family.
As Ersh would say, courtesy reduced the odds of conflict.
As Paul would say, pay attention to details.
Maybe it was being Human, too, but I caught—if didn’t understand—Evan’s tiny flinch whenever an Urgian wrapped an overt over his wrist, which happened more and more as those behind used whatever they could grab to pull themselves farther ahead.
As now. What I’d urged Evan to look at was the gigantic mechanical marvel crossing the street at the next intersection, arms spraying glitter that arched overhead into sparkling rainbows. My first live Actor!
Everyone else saw it, too.
Our motley group of beglittered and largely indecisive beings let out their species-appropriate cheers, squawks, and/or gaseous clouds of excitement before instantly solidifying into a purposeful mass to surge in pursuit.
Dragging us helplessly with them.
I lost my grip on the bag. Lost Evan. Began to seriously consider cycling into something less likely to be trampled, but the only forms available without consuming someone else were smaller still—
Then I found myself lifted to sit on Evan’s shoulders, astride his neck. He’d lost his cape, but the bag hung from its strap. One arm held my legs tight to his chest while the other made swimming motions as he fought for balance.
What an admirable Human! From this vantage point, I’d be able to watch the entire performance.
I resisted the urge to pat those springy curls.
* * *
He didn’t lose his footing on the cobblestones because how could you, packed so tightly together that taking a deep breath, if you could, tickled your neighbors? Just as well none of the festival routes led near open water or a cliff. They’d spill over like noodles poured from a pot, and only those falling would scream—
“Look, Evan!” A little hand pointed unnecessarily.
The Actor, responding to the arrival of a new crowd, had paused, waiting, Evan realized suddenly, to discern its next
move. The mechanical was one of the representations of Funchess, the deity possessed of two more arms than other Urgians and painted flat black, the better to add drama and show off the glows, flags, and so forth participants were encouraged to stick on if they could.
The participants already with the Actor spread out so those arriving—and not only their portion, but masses from the intersecting streets—could merge together. There being slightly more coming from their side—
Taking its cue, with a rattle and clank of levers, gears, and other parts, the Actor turned and began to move toward Evan, blotting out the sun.
Everyone now in its path, including Evan, turned as one, a tide now moving rapidly in the opposite direction. With a terrifying bellow, the Actor clattered behind.
Without doubt, the other participants were coming, too. A grand, glittering procession leading to—
A tug on his ear. “My uncle—”
The building they’d just left passed in a blur. “I’m sorry, Bess,” he gasped. At this rate they’d be swept all the way to the Human Embassy.
Good. The embassy took care of Human visitors on alien worlds, if on legitimate business and with idents—no matter what, they’d take in Bess, Evan told himself. Terry would and, yes, Polit Feen. They’d find her uncle and reunite the family. Save the day.
While he tendered his resignation and cleared his desk. Without the envelope, he was done, his dream over.
Bess first. With every step, Evan struggled to edge closer to the side of the street, but it was an agonizingly slow process. It didn’t help that every so often a well-meaning Urgian would notice the child on his shoulders and squeeze to make room for them, which had the effect of steering them back into the center where, surely, they’d want to be.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 6