Analog SFF, July-August 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Mister Parrish?"

  To his relief, there was another human, standing by one of the public sinks and holding a sign. Within two minutes they were aboard the fellow's flitter, lifting into the sky and turning southeast.

  The driver spent a moment making a call. “Bunwadde will meet us at the field,” he said with a quick look at the back seat.

  “Okay.” Marcus had expected to go straight to his home, but Bunwadde was, in all senses, the boss.

  They angled toward a landing field on the northern outskirts of Aghrelowa, not approaching the broad spread of the city or the river it abutted. Two buildings near the field had Bunwadde's company's name in story-tall ideograms. They drifted past those buildings, and settled onto a corner of the field.

  Marcus's door popped open. “There he is,” his driver said. “Good luck, sir."

  He took the dismissiveness in stride, grabbing his bags and getting out of the flitter. He soon spotted the teardrop-shaped land car, parked off the edge of the landing field, with a figure standing beside it. Marcus walked over, through a buffeting of wind as the flitter took off a bit too early for comfort.

  “Marcus Parrish!” the figure by the car said, easily audible over the flitter's departure.

  Now Marcus was sure it was Bunwadde. The entrepreneur was big even for Kevhtre Union males, and had the voice to match. His two-belted robe was solid red, bold against his powder-blue complexion, and he wore a broad, shady hat. Gray bristles ran down his cheeks and neck, well-groomed. His prominent nose and the natural hunching forward of his head added to his bulldog appearance, like some old-time British Lord.

  Marcus marched right up to him, getting an extra jolt of surprise at how tall two meters twenty really was close up. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Bunwadde Pesh Nuluk Mur-Aghrelowa. Thank you for inviting me to your home."

  It was a canned greeting in Vetra, checked ahead of time for grammatical felicity. Using Bunwadde's full name on first meeting was properly polite. Bunwadde had done the same calling to him: Marcus's middle name embarrassed him, and it wasn't in official records.

  “You compliment me by accepting my hospitality,” Bunwadde said. “I hope you're not too fatigued by traveling."

  “My trip here was comfortable,” Marcus replied, using another prepared statement.

  The driver had stepped out, and was putting Marcus's luggage into the car trunk. “Then let's not waste time with the last part of it,” Bunwadde said. He opened a car door for Marcus, who stepped inside. Bunwadde himself got into the seat ahead of Marcus, doffing his hat, while the driver slipped back into the small steering compartment at the nose of the car.

  Marcus nearly commented on the seating arrangement, but curbed his tongue. “I understand you're fluent in English,” he said in English. “That will make communication easier still, for both of us."

  Bunwadde tipped his head. “No doubt it will.” He slipped back into Vetra. “But we should stay with my language. I'm sure you need the practice more than I do with English."

  True as it was, it stung. “I understand,” he said in Vetra. “We do need to discuss what specifically my work with you will entail."

  “Naturally.” Bunwadde reeled off several of the tasks, with scatterings of details. Marcus needed some of those details filled in, which meant asking unplanned questions. He was torn between deliberate slowness that would sound mentally dense, and the quick fluency of Bunwadde that he could not pretend to have.

  He muddled on, doing his best. If Bunwadde found his syntax dim-witted or funny, he didn't make it obvious. If Marcus sensed certain hesitations before Bunwadde's answers, and a slower speech pattern to make himself clear to the human, maybe he was being paranoid.

  Soon they were at Bunwadde's house, not far from the river that ran through Aghrelowa. It looked modest for someone as rich as he, but Marcus knew the two floors above ground surely topped a full floor below, and maybe more. “Very pretty,” he said about what he could see.

  Everyone got out. “Make sure the girls are there, Tropid,” Bunwadde said, and the driver headed inside. Marcus retrieved his luggage, and started to follow. Bunwadde motioned him back with a huge, six-fingered hand. After a moment, he started ahead himself, with Marcus close behind.

  He found a mist falling in the foyer, his host stretching his neck about as it drizzled onto him. Spying Marcus, Bunwadde shut off the mister. “Not a human indulgence, I forget. Come, let's meet everyone."

  A Kevhtre woman stood waiting in the main hallway, with two children behind her. They inched toward Bunwadde as he came up, their eyes fixed on Marcus. “Here is our guest, Platp,” he told his mate, “Marcus Parrish."

  Marcus took this as his cue. “Greetings, Pesh Bunwadde Platp Mur-Kendi-Kelht. I am honored to join your household for this time.” Again, his words were scripted.

  Pesh—as with Bunwadde, Marcus would be using the more formal name—was closer to his height, but still nearly two meters. Her skin was more silvery than her mate's. Her robe was fuller, more like a dress, ample for the girls still hiding behind it.

  Marcus bent at the knees, bringing himself to the children's level. “Good day, Pesh Milinor Mur-Aghrelowa. Good day, Pesh Movedhor Mur-Aghrelowa."

  Milinor, the elder, finally looked him in the eye. “Good day,” she said, abrupt to rudeness. Movedhor stayed shyly quiet.

  “Forgive them,” Pesh said as Marcus stood. “They've never met a human before. It's a long way from Earth. I hope the voyage was pleasant for you."

  “My trip here was comfortable.” He was repeating the canned statement, and he felt Bunwadde had to notice. He forged onward. “Interstellar ships have little space, but they find ways to compensate. Unless you really detest—"

  Pesh's face went pinched for a brief moment. Milinor laughed, a stuttering, high-pitched bark. Movedhor began to imitate her sister.

  “Stop that, children,” Bunwadde said. They did, looking contrite.

  “Well,” Pesh said, covering her own lapse, “you won't lack for space or comfort here. In fact, you're welcome to join us in the conversation pool now. We'll get to know each other better."

  “A good idea,” Bunwadde said, “but Marcus needs to settle into his room first. Maybe he'll come down with us later."

  “Yes, I will,” Marcus said, daring no more.

  He followed Bunwadde to a bedroom at the back of the house. It had a human-style bed, made of local materials, next to a standard Kevhtre sink. The bedspread bore sharp patterns of bright yellow, sea green, and purple, against the silvery sheen of the headboard and bedposts. The desk was also made for humans, in a good imitation of colonial style, though with a few knickknacks scattered on its surface that had to be Kevhtre, because Marcus couldn't see what they were otherwise. The walls bore several small paintings, bucolic landscapes mixed with jagged abstracts that defied framing.

  Marcus took it in passively. “It's certainly roomier than I've had lately. Thank you very much.” He lifted his bags onto the bed to start unpacking.

  Bunwadde noticed the canvas bag immediately. “String of Pearls, I see. You play?” he asked with a skeptical tone.

  Marcus was hoping Bunwadde would bring it up first. “I've been teaching myself.” That made Bunwadde's bristles stand up. “It's a way to learn about part of your everyday culture, and to improve my language skills a bit. If you happen to play, I'll offer you a game any time.” He kept unpacking throughout, as though this were nothing very important.

  Bunwadde made a noise in his throat, then swallowed it. “I might enjoy that, Marcus. Thank you."

  “It's my pleasure.” He carried an armful of clothes to the dresser, this of Kevhtre design. It was made of native wood, suffused with blue stain, and its top reached his chin. He pulled out a drawer. “Might I ask a question? It's part professional, but part personal too."

  “Please do."

  Marcus cast his eyes around. “How well does this room mesh with Kevhtre Union aesthetic sensibilities?"

 
“It was furnished for your use,” Bunwadde said, “so it's more important to ask how well it suits your taste."

  “It ... it doesn't. It's much too disparate, almost deliberately so. It ... clashes,” he finished, the last word in English.

  “Exactly how I'd put it. I wondered how you would respond."

  If Marcus had had bristles, they would have stiffened. “I don't think this room would seem right for any human."

  “Some wouldn't care. Some wouldn't say anything about it. You aren't one of them. Marcus, I think we shall get along well."

  So he had passed the test. “I'm sure we will."

  Bunwadde walked toward the door. “I'll have Tropid help you rearrange the room right away—unless you'd like to join us in the conversation pool first."

  “Thank you. I'll be down in a moment.” He unzipped a pocket in one suitcase, and rummaged for his swimsuit.

  Marcus got his office in one of Bunwadde's buildings the next day. It was on the top floor, unprestigious for Kevhtre but perfect for a human ego. Awaiting him there was a large inventory of Kevhtre items, and a lone female Kevhtre assistant.

  One of his jobs for Bunwadde was to judge the likely profitability of Kevhtre arts and crafts on Earth, and the best markets for them. He found everything cataloged and cross-referenced. All he lacked was some obvious place to begin.

  He handed the manifest to his assistant, picked up the nearest lot, and had her read off the notes for it. She stammered over it more than once. Was she afraid of him? Marcus could understand that from the children, but not her. Maybe Bunwadde had cowed her into an exaggerated awe of the human coming to work for him.

  Handicrafts ran the gamut, but he saw the best prospects in the woodcarvings. The woods had colors and textures unknown on Earth, and carvings of Kevhtre and native animals added another layer of the exotic. They had serious broad-market appeal.

  The jewelry might be another matter. The stones and metals were mostly things known on Earth; the premium for Obrithi gold or diamond or sapphire would be limited. The artwork on the metals and settings would help, but the only breakthroughs would be the biological stones, the local analogs of pearl and amber. The rest would be a niche market, though a high-end one.

  Artworks were tricky. Stocks here were heavy on the jagged abstracts he remembered from the walls of his bedroom, though he found a set of electronic frames that produced kaleidoscopic fractal formations that mesmerized him. He assumed there'd be some sub-market on Earth for everything here.

  He took his observations home that evening, and gave Bunwadde an oral synopsis. His boss seemed pleased, if tight-lipped, about it. “Might you want me to discuss all this with Pesh?” Marcus asked. His briefing notes mentioned that she worked for his company in distribution and sales.

  “Of course not. This isn't her work."

  “But ... I had the impression—"

  “She handles domestic sales, not off-planet ones.” If he was going to say more, the sound of his daughters running downstairs from their tutoring session with Tropid stopped him. Business was over.

  Marcus got back to inventory the next day. His assistant, Eshlarh, was definitely less overawed, and even a bit testy at times. Marcus minded very little. Work was mostly the same, and he had only a few new angles to discuss with Bunwadde that evening.

  “No furniture?” Bunwadde asked. He was soaking in his private water room. Marcus had taken off his boots, rolled up his pants, and dipped his feet in the tub, to be polite.

  “Most of it's too large for us humans, or creates awkward postures. It would be impractical, meaning sales would be for novelty alone. That could support sending a few items to create a scarce market with premium prices, but even that is questionable because for the same mass and bulk, you could ship other items that would bring much higher profits."

  Bunwadde sat silently for a few moments, before giving an affirmative hum. “Very sensible, if I understand you correctly. Good work, Marcus."

  The compliment felt good, almost uncomfortably so. “Thank you,” he just said.

  “You've earned a bit of relaxation.” Bunwadde handed back the inventory list. “Would you like a game with me tonight?"

  In the first press of work, he had forgotten about String of Pearls. “Very much, Bunwadde."

  “Good. We'll make it right after dinner.” He slid deep into the tub, until just his upturned snout and half his head showed above water.

  Marcus wanted time to practice, but supper was imminent, and he ate with the family. Right afterward, Bunwadde asked him to bring his board upstairs. Odd that he didn't want to use his own board, but Marcus didn't mind.

  Bunwadde was in his home office, shifting items off a sturdy table, when Marcus came up. “Bring over those chairs.” Marcus got them, and met Bunwadde and the table in the middle of the room.

  The furniture, of course, was sized and shaped for Bunwadde. Marcus felt like a child sitting there, and an uncomfortable one. “A practical example,” he said, “regarding the furniture."

  Bunwadde laughed. “You've made your point. Ready?"

  He turned on the board. “Tazpet nulh chomaken,” it announced in a chipper voice already familiar to Marcus. “Uredha lustodon?"

  “Tra lustodon,” Bunwadde answered. Two players.

  “Kuss. Groa vat lusto tragi."

  The board had randomly chosen Bunwadde to play second. Smiling, Marcus reached into the bag, picking out tiles one by one. Soon he had eight arrayed in his dish, and he passed the bag to Bunwadde. As Bunwadde picked his tiles, Marcus hunched over the dish, and shuffled tiles around.

  A minute later, he picked up six tiles. The first went at the apex; the others ran down the right-hand side of the triangular grid. The first and last tiles went on their own colors, doubling their values.

  Marcus tapped the “Lustep” button. “Eighteen,” said the board. The score flashed on a display between the grid and the bottom of the turntable.

  “Good,” Bunwadde said. He turned the board his way, as Marcus drew, then suppressed a frown. Too much violet-black in his dish. He'd have a tough time playing all those nouns without a conjunction: he had played his only one between vowels on his first turn.

  Bunwadde put down five tiles, stringing up and right to the end of Marcus's first play, incorporating its last two tiles in the sentence. “Nineteen,” said the board.

  It continued this way for a couple turns: Marcus playing cautiously, but Bunwadde not pulling very far ahead. Bunwadde's third play gave Marcus an opening. Crossing it, he could get two high-value tiles on their colors. He laid it down, confident he was about to retake the lead, and hit “Lustep."

  And heard the rejection tune he had learned to hate all the way back on Naha Uchusen.

  “Invalid sentence,” the board said. “You lose your turn."

  “What? I thought ... What did I do wrong?"

  “Sorry, not in the middle of a game.” Bunwadde pointed at the board, and Marcus picked up his misplayed tiles. Bunwadde promptly laid down all of his.

  “Forty-one,” the board announced, “and a free turn."

  Marcus could only sigh. Bunwadde drew fresh tiles, and played five of them in a prepositional phrase extending from the end of his previous play, for another big score.

  That was a strategy Marcus hadn't thought of before. He tried it on a lateral play back up the board. It got rejected. Bunwadde then played his own prepositional phrase in front of that same sentence. It was good, naturally.

  Marcus was never in the game after that. Nearly half his plays got razzed off the board. Much of that was self-inflicted, as he made desperation plays trying to catch up. One of those did work, drawing a compliment from Bunwadde that stung as badly as a taunt.

  Bunwadde finished with a flourish, playing his last six tiles so a high-point adverb hit one of the four white spaces along the base of the board, tripling its value. “Thirty-one. Second player wins, 360 to 187."

  At least it was over. “Congratulations,” Marcu
s said.

  “Thank you. I'm glad you could play."

  Bunwadde started putting away the tiles, saying no more. No false or consoling compliments. No “Not bad for a beginner.” Or “for a human."

  Marcus resented not hearing something like that. He would have resented hearing it, too, but then he could have focused his resentment on Bunwadde, rather than himself.

  A few minutes later, he was down in his room. Making sure the door was shut, Marcus unpacked the game again. He dialed the volume low, and turned on the board. He needed practice.

  * * * *

  His ego healed, with the help of work. He finished off the inventory backlog at the office, and went downstairs to give Bunwadde the final report. Bunwadde promptly tasked him with drawing up a detailed sales strategy for the items the company would ship to Earth.

  That devoured the rest of Marcus's day, and the evening, and much of the next day. He returned to Bunwadde's office with the plan in hand. Bunwadde looked it over, and thanked him without comment.

  “That's all?” Marcus said. “I thought you'd want to review it with me."

  “I may, in a few days. First I have to see what my other specialists, my Kevhtre Union specialists, have recommended. Don't worry, you'll have work to fill the time."

  Bunwadde handed him a manifest. “We'll be getting this shipment from Earth five days from now. We have descriptive information on all the items, naturally, but I would like your own professional observations as well. Flesh out the descriptions wherever you have personal knowledge or interest. Tell me why particular items are worthwhile to own."

  Marcus glanced up. “For Kevhtre Union or for humans?"

  “For humans. Platp and I can handle the sales appeal to Kevhtre Union customers, but we want the added dimension of a human perspective."

  They could have gotten that just as easily, or more, on Earth, but Marcus didn't say so. He scrolled through the manifest, with a growing unrest. “I see you're bringing in a lot of ... intellectual property."

  “The best kind. Added transport costs are almost nothing, and acquisition is often very inexpensive."