“You’ll be so relieved in just a few minutes.”
“I know.”
The probe was scrap, salvaged from an old interrogator droid. Lexo forced himself to watch, to not flinch away, as his tiny daughter leveled the probe’s tip at the base of his metacarpals, just above his wrist. Lula had to manually depress the injector button.
The initial puncture was never too bad, just a tiny pinch. But the liquid flowing into his blood burned like fire, and he half expected flames to start shooting from his fingertips. The injection cocktail—corticosteroids, enzyme blockers, numbing agent—made it hard to draw breath, made his scent glands fill with liquid. He was glad none of his clients could see him like this. Only Lula knew how hard it was.
The pain, though exquisite, only lasted a minute. It was always followed by delightful warmth, increased flexibility, even a little surge of energy.
There were better ways to get relief, of course. But a derelict injector probe was the best they could afford, and besides, he could handle it. He was tough, just like Lula said.
“Better?” Lula asked.
“Better,” he agreed, flexing his fingers.
They repeated the process with the other hand—stabbing pinch, incredible pain, slow but sure relief. Lexo rose from his chair.
“Papa,” Lula said, “I have a favor to ask.”
Lexo grabbed his robe from the peg by the door and started to swing it on. “Oh?”
“Would it be all right if I took some corwindyl to the stables today?”
He nearly dropped his robe. “My azure sea…”
“I know it’s expensive. I know how hard it is to acquire. It’s just…” Tears welled in her eyes, and she blurted, “Hard Luck got hurt!”
“Your favorite fathier.” The long-legged, wide-eared fathiers were built for speed, and their races drew thousands of guests to the track every night.
She explained, “Pinrado Jozo was riding Casual Retort last night—you know what a cheat that jockey is. He pushed Hard Luck into the rail so he could pull Retort ahead. Luck’s got a nasty rail burn now, but only because his hock joint is giving out. He was too weak to push back, see, and maybe the corwindyl will help? I mean, he’s gelded, so they won’t retire him if he’s lame. They’ll just take a blaster and…but he’s so sweet, Papa. The best fathier in the whole stable. He loves treats, and every time he sees me he dances in place, his ears flopping, and—”
“Yes, you can take some corwindyl.”
She wilted with relief. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to make a paste?”
“No. Too hard to smuggle into the stables. I’ll just rub the herbs directly onto his hock joint.”
Lexo watched silently as she stashed some of the herbs in her pocket, then grabbed her ruined gloves, her pitchfork, and her leather bag from their place by the door. Like all the indentured children at the stable, she was responsible for maintaining her own equipment. She worked hard, long hours in the hope that she’d pay off her indenture debt one day. If she never missed work, if her equipment didn’t break down too often, Lula could be a free woman by the time she was nineteen.
After that, her dream, the thing she wanted more than anything in the galaxy, was to ride in the fathier races. She yearned to be a jockey, to feel the wind in her hair, to hear the screams of the crowd, as she urged her mount toward the finish line. She felt connected to the fathiers. She insisted to Lexo all the time that they were more intelligent than people gave them credit for, that she understood them better than anyone. And she knew, she just knew, that if she got her chance to ride she’d be the greatest jockey Canto Bight had ever known.
Lexo was the only person she’d ever told about her dream, and Lexo couldn’t bear to give her the dose of reality she probably needed. A tiny human girl, an indenture and orphan besides, was about as likely to become a fathier jockey as a droid was to become a Jedi.
Lula was heading for the door when she whirled back around. “Papa, what’s wrong? If you’re mad about the corwindyl, I won’t—”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, my sea.”
“Then…?”
He decided to tell her some of what was bothering him. “I have Big Sturg Ganna on my schedule today.”
Her mouth formed a little o.
“I was hoping he’d given up on me,” Lexo admitted.
Lula frowned. “Don’t do it, Papa. One of the stable kids agreed to inform for that gangster. He was dead inside a month.”
“I have no intention of giving him what he wants. I left that life behind decades ago.”
“Good,” she said fiercely. “He’s horrible.”
“He’s also horrible to massage. So many hard-to-reach places.”
She swung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and hefted her pitchfork. “Good thing you’re the best in the galaxy,” she said. “Just…please be careful tonight.” They both worked a swing shift, which inevitably dragged into a night shift, and the sun would be rising before they would be reunited.
They stared at each other a moment. Maybe Lula had a bad feeling, same as him.
But as her papa, it was his job to be encouraging. “I hope Hard Luck feels better,” Lexo said.
Lula gave him a final wave as she exited their apartment. He watched the bag bounce against her back as she hurried down the corridor toward the long stairway that would take her up to the surface, to the shining, beautiful city of Canto Bight.
LEXO TOOK A CROWDED PUBLIC hovershuttle to Zord’s Spa and Bathhouse.
His place of employment was a wonder of false sandstone, false marble, and false terra-cotta. The bathhouse had to survive multiple environmental shifts throughout the day, so every wall and bed and floor tile was made of artificial material that not only was hypoallergenic to over two hundred sentient species, but could flex and breathe in any temperature and humidity.
Lexo ducked into the hot, tight servants’ closet to exchange his threadbare robe for a flowing white gown. It was sleeveless, with a high chest band and a long skirt whose elegant gathers drifted like feathers to the floor. He was not allowed to set foot inside the common areas of the spa without it. True relaxation starts with luxury and beauty, Zord always said.
Next, Lexo donned his translator necklace, then a series of golden bracelets, which the spa advertised as being magnetic and therefore “able to detect biorhythms.” The bracelets were useless, of course, but many of Zord’s clientele were soothed by having a technological explanation for how wonderful they felt after one of Lexo’s massages.
He disciplined his features and rolled his shoulders. Lexo was now “on,” and the next twelve hours would be a flawless performance. He exited the servants’ closet and descended the stair with quiet grace, gown flowing at his ankles. In anticipation of Big Sturg Ganna’s visit, the bathhouse was playing the councilor’s favorite music, which Lexo loathed. “Serenity Starscapes” was predictable and twee, composed for creatures with limited frequency range. But he would never say so aloud.
Lexo’s first client was already lying facedown on the table, waiting for him. Joris was a tall bipedal creature who always kept her beautiful silver hair in perfect order. Lexo always felt you could tell a lot about a personality by the hair.
Joris had no business being here. She couldn’t possibly afford Zord’s high-end services. She worked in currency exchange in the casino but fancied herself a player, betting the fathier races whenever she wasn’t working in the hopes that she could give up her day job. And maybe she would be able to; Lexo hoped so. But instead she seemed to spend whatever she won with him, a fate that seemed to satisfy her.
Lexo had a lot of clients like her.
“It’s nice to see you again, Joris,” Lexo said.
“My shoulders need extra attention today,” Joris said.
“Of course.”
“It’s going to be my big night, Sooger; some good prospects on the track. I want to be ready.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it at your next ap
pointment.”
Lexo let his hands drift up the being’s spine, toward the base of her head. Thanks to the corwindyl and the injections, his fingers were nimble, his chemical receptors as sensitive as ever. Sure enough, he detected a large knot of lactic acid buildup in the left trapezius and set to work coaxing it out. It was stubborn, but Lexo was an artist.
As he worked, Joris blathered freely about her recent decision to designate a new favorite viewing spot at the tracks and her picks for tonight’s fathier races. Lexo didn’t mind the talking. He just made affirming noises at appropriate intervals and occasionally said things like “Good point” or “You are very wise.”
Lexo always ignored what he heard, what he saw, and never got involved, not for any reason. He’d seen plenty of others get involved in order to improve their lot in life. And sure, they would make connections, earn some side money, maybe even maneuver themselves into better working conditions. But there was always a cost. Always. So Lexo had decided to remain neutral and nonthreatening in a city like Canto Bight. Ever since leaving the slave pits of Askkto-Fen IV, his personal motto had been Hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. It had kept him safe for decades. Now it kept his daughter safe, too.
The knot was proving unusually tenacious, and stress pheromones assaulted Lexo’s sensitive nose; Joris harbored more anxiety than she let on. Lexo began oscillating the floating distal bones of his long fingers, creating a soothing vibration that could penetrate the toughest muscle fibers. He would be too old for this soon; his tendons were giving out. But not today. Today’s knot would be soundly defeated.
“Oh…my,” Joris breathed. “That’s amazing. How did you do that?”
“My bracelets are able to detect biorhythms,” Lexo said.
“Oh, that makes sense,” Joris said.
“I’m just glad you feel better.”
“I do! I feel much better! Hey, Sooger, do you ever bet on the fathier races?”
“Never.”
“Well, you should. Tonight. I’m going to give you a tip, because I’m the type who always repays her favors. So listen close.”
“I’m listening,” Lexo said, immediately tuning her out.
He sensed tension in Joris’s lower back; instinct led his fingers toward the problem. Less lactic acid here, but still plenty of work to be done. Joris nattered about a great tip she’d gotten from a reliable source, mentioned the name DeFancio Storsilt, blah, blah, blah. Lexo didn’t care one whit but he said “Yes, certainly” and “Oh, I see.”
“—especially that gelding, Hard Luck,” Joris said.
Lexo drew in a breath, and his fingers paused over the lumbar vertebrae.
“An unfortunately named fathier, if you ask me,” Joris continued. “He’s had some hard luck lately, but tonight will be his hardest.”
Lula’s favorite fathier. The one she felt deserved their precious corwindyl herbs.
Lexo kept his voice even with some effort. “What, exactly, do you mean, Joris?”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
“Of course.”
Lexo decided to use a trick he saved for special occasions. Very few knew about this ability, and he wanted to keep it that way. First he glanced around the spa, looking for species with superior olfactory senses, but he didn’t see anyone who might figure out what he was up to.
Then he pressed firmly against Joris’s lower back, just above her hip joint, and excreted a pheromone that was absorbed quickly into the skin. It should warm the muscle, increase blood flow, produce a slight feeling of euphoria. On the right being, sometimes the calming effect reduced inhibitions enough to loosen tongues. Joris was exactly the right being.
Lexo waited a few seconds for it to take effect. Finally, as he felt the muscle relaxing beneath his fingertips, he gently asked, “But why Hard Luck in particular?”
“Hard Luck is…Oh, that’s nice, real nice. How did you…Er…Hard Luck is one of Storsilt’s best sprinters, right? Never wins, but often places second or third. He’s been underperforming lately though. Everyone’s noticed it.”
“I hear he got pushed into the rail last night,” Lexo said.
“He’ll do even worse tonight, along with Storsilt’s whole fathier fleet. So you’d better bet against them, Sooger. Trust me on this, all right? Pick one or two with long odds instead, like Shifting Sands, maybe. You’re bound to make a fortune. I’d do it myself, but between you and me, I can only afford to bet on the red-eye races at the end of the night.”
Lexo wasn’t sure how long he was frowning before he caught himself and fixed his features into what Lula called his “spa face.” Blandly pleasant, worry-free.
But he was deeply disturbed. Sure, race fixing happened all the time at the Canto Bight track. He suspected that Lula’s boss, Bargwill Tomder, would help or hurt any steed for the right price. But Lexo had never heard of anyone sabotaging a whole herd before.
He shouldn’t press the matter. Hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. But this was happening at Lula’s stable. What if she got dragged into a huge mess? He had to know more.
“You are even more well connected than I realized,” Lexo said, his voice carefully tinged with wonder and respect. “To be given such powerful information. Most impressive.”
The flattery worked. Joris’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She wouldn’t say how it was being done,” she admitted. “I suspect some kind of poison.”
Her source was a she. “It’s a reliable source?”
“The reliablest! A pity, though. Hard Luck’s a magnificent critter. Loves to run. Given the chance, he’d run right off that track, wild and free.”
Lula would agree with her on that count.
Lexo was about to press for more information on Joris’s mysterious source, but a slight hum reverberated through the spa’s artificial limestone walls. The air changed, becoming thicker, colder, wetter.
Only the wealthiest, most powerful clients could buy an environmental shift for the entire spa. It meant that Big Sturg Ganna was getting prepped for his massage.
Lexo’s shoulders began to ache. His large humpback was the center of his limbic and endocrine systems, and he felt everything there—tension, happiness, love, dread. As he finished Joris’s massage, he willed his shoulders to relax, breathing deeply of the spa’s humidified air.
He told himself to ignore the rumble of wheels as a giant stone plinth rolled in behind him, replacing the regular massage table. He closed his nose to the scent of rotting swamp that filled the air—a prized perfume, purportedly, from Ganna’s home planet. Instead, he made Joris his whole world, giving her a final lumbar stretch and covering her with a warm towel.
Joris tipped him with two casino chips, which Lexo stuffed down the chest band of his gown. He took his time thanking Joris and giving her up to the assistant masseurs, bathing his hands in ultraviolet light to disinfect them, because Lexo needed the extra seconds to make sure he was calm. Serene. Implacable.
He turned to greet his new client. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Councilor Ganna,” he lied. “How can I help you today?”
The councilor was a massive amphibious creature with a gray leathery hide stretched over a thick layer of blubber, all of which made it nearly impossible to massage the muscles beneath. His round, slitted eyes were the size of Lexo’s fists, and his wide salamander mouth did a poor job of hiding his prehensile tongue. He weighed eight hundred kilograms at least, and his body ended in a stubby, ticklish tail, which was totally off-limits.
Ganna’s body was made for swimming in cold water, and Lexo supposed that he was graceful in his element. But on land he was a lumbering beast who needed special accommodations to travel any great distance. Lexo had no idea why he’d chosen to settle on the desert planet of Cantonica. But settle here he had, and despite his physical limitations he was one of Canto Bight’s richest, most powerful citizens.
“Lexo, my friend!” Ganna said, in a deep voice that rumbled like rocks falling down a cliffside. “I ne
ed your very special attention today.”
“I will do all I can for you, of course.” Lexo said. But when someone like Ganna called a lowly servant “friend,” it meant trouble was ahead.
Ganna chuckled, and Lexo felt the sound in the deepest part of his shoulders. “Heard anything interesting today?” Ganna asked.
“No, Honorable Councilor. It’s been very quiet.” Lexo’s fingers traveled up Ganna’s massive neck to his head. The gangster had several jagged scars across his face, which he needed massaged to keep supple and pain-free. Lexo wasn’t the only one whose life before Canto Bight had been very, very different.
“What about yesterday? Or the day before?”
“Those days were quiet, too,” Lexo said.
“Oh, come on, Sooger. Surely you’ve heard something interesting? A juicy tidbit for your old pal Ganna?”
Lexo massaged circles at Ganna’s temples, and the gangster’s eyes grew heavy and lidded. “I’m just a lowly masseur,” Lexo said. “No one tells me anything interesting.”
Ganna’s eyes opened wide, and his slitted pupils flared. “I don’t believe that for one moment. All of Canto Bight’s wealthiest, most powerful citizens frequent this fine establishment, and they all come to see you. You, Lexo Sooger. You’ve attended DeFancio Storsilt, Baron Attsmun, Ubialla Gheal, even the countess herself.”
“I’m very fortunate to have so many wonderful clients,” Lexo said.
Ganna shifted on the stone plinth, a massive, heaving effort that tilted his whole body upward to the side—just so he could look Lexo in the eyes. “Give me something. Even something small. Show me you’re worth having around.”
Lexo’s fingers stilled. Was that a threat? It was oblique, as threats from Ganna went. The gangster wasn’t known for subtlety.
“Of course I’m worth having around,” Lexo said with the most relentlessly serene smile he’d ever mustered. “It is my honor and privilege to bring joy, pleasure, and relief to Canto Bight’s finest residents and visitors.”
Ganna frowned, allowing himself to flop back down onto the massage table.
A familiar scent tickled Lexo’s nose, seemingly from the air Ganna’s massive body had just displaced. Spicy sweet.
Canto Bight [Star Wars] Page 14