The Artifact of Foex

by James L. Wolf

  They’d almost made it to the garage when Chet’s second-youngest sister, Silvie, popped out of a side corridor, cutting them off. “Hi, Chet. I didn’t know you were coming home. My, this is different company for you, isn’t it. Who are these strange Nuns?”

  Chet gulped. His favorite sibling wasn’t a dummy. “Um, Silvie, could you let mother and father know I’ve gone?”

  Silvie squinted at the two Flame, frowning. “This doesn’t seem right, Chet. Excuse me, but what convent do you two come from?”

  Journey smiled, watery and vague to the extreme. “It’s a tiny one west of the Monastery Mountains, a little south of Highway 1. I doubt you’ve heard of it...”

  “Oh, the Arch Convent? The thing is I’ve visited that convent a number of times. I’ve never seen either of you there. Could you describe your mother superior, please?”

  Knife sighed and stepped back from the group while Journey extrapolated wildly. “I hate to do this," Knife murmured, drawing up her habit.

  Chet’s eyes widened as Knife withdrew a tiny, snub-nosed pistol out of her boot. Is that where Knife had been keeping her gun all this time? No wonder she rarely took those boots off. Did she have a blade in her other boot? Tibbets had been stabbed, after all.

  “You’re not going to shoot my sister," Chet said, almost hyperventilating. Thankfully, Silvie hadn’t noticed the pistol yet, still arguing in a loud voice with Journey.

  “Your family is big enough to be a mob, and to judge by your father, a dangerous mob for us to be caught by. Best nip this in the bud now. We’ll have to bring her with us. We don’t have much choice.”

  Fenimore touched the duffle bag on Journey’s back. “No need," he murmured, somewhat smugly. Chet stared at him—what was he going to do?

  Silvie was yelling, “It’s a felony to imitate a god affiliate! My sisters and I are going to tie you up and call the pol—”

  She stopped abruptly. Silvie had the same bewildered look on her face as the officer back at the roadblock. As before, Chet felt an odd vibration in the region of his navel. He touched his belly, uncertain, and gazed at Fenimore with awe. Though Chet had been around the Raptus as long as Fenimore, he hadn’t even tried to make it work. It was a hesitation Fenimore didn’t share, apparently. Knife, he noticed, didn't seem surprised that Fenimore had a degree of control over the Raptus. She was expressionless though she watched him closely, the gun held loosely at her side.

  Fenimore smiled. “You are going to eat breakfast with the others and forget all about us.”

  “Yes, I’m going to eat breakfast with the others and forget all...” Silvie wandered off mid-sentence.

  Chet gazed after his sister, worried. Would this brush with the Raptus hurt her? Would she even remember? He didn’t know the answers. Pantheon, did anyone? He wished he could go after her and make sure she was okay, except he was already committed to their escape—not to mention the rest. At least Knife holstered her gun.

  Chet led them to the garage where several assorted vehicles awaited. Knife already had a familiar, abstract look on her face, appraising. Chet touched her shoulder and shook his head.

  “I already got it.” He tossed his brother’s keys in the air and caught them.

  “Hah. You learn quick.”

  It felt weird to steal Brae’s car, but Chet could still feel the spot on his head where Brae had cuffed him. Chet had stood for up himself—sort of—but some things were more personal than that. His anger, repressed when his sisters had walked in, bloomed within him like a spring bulb. It just wasn’t fair. Father gave everything to Brae because Brae had followed him into business and had done everything Father had ever asked of him. Chet did not. And Chet got nothing for his troubles... well, almost nothing. He supposed a high-priced education wasn’t small change, but still. He sure wasn’t going to have an education now, was he?

  Everyone followed Chet to Brae’s family station wagon, complete with crumbs and sticky seats. Chet backed it out of the garage without further incident. “Where are we going?”

  “Door International Airport. Should be about an hour and thirty minutes away, right?” Knife said.

  “But I didn’t get the money! I suppose we could sell Brae’s car.” Chet frowned at the thought. A brotherly prank was one thing, but selling Brae’s car was something else. Bad crowd or not, he didn’t really want to cross that line, much as his family pained him.

  “Fen?” Knife murmured, glancing at the backseat.

  Fenimore extracted a wad of cash, a checkbook, his father’s watch, some jewelry and several papers from his shirt pockets.“I found a copy of his signature, sure enough, Knife.”

  Chet opened his mouth and left it open. Fenimore must have gone through his father’s study while Chet had been in the shower. “But how did you know to look for a checkbook, Fenimore?” Had they even had checkbooks in the 73rd century? Chet didn’t think so.

  “Knife told me what to look for.”

  “We had long hours in the truck cargo hold to plan,” Knife said smugly. “Get us to the airport, Chet. We’re going to Plainsdaugheau.”

  It was only later—as they were crossing the tarmac to board the airplane—that Chet remembered Fenimore’s odd behavior in his bedroom. Fenimore had never told him what he wanted. Chet stared at Fenimore’s back and frowned.

  Chapter 17

  Flaming Dance

  Chet approached yet another bald-headed Flame on the muddy street. “Excuse me, good Flame, do you know someone named Aureate?”

  The Flame paused and eyed him curiously. Chet noticed that though she wore bright, colorful clothing, she had also taken the precaution of wearing knee-high rubber boots to protect herself from the pervasive mud.

  “I know of her. Why, what do you want to know?”

  “My friends and I are wondering where she’s performing tonight with the Intako Dance Company. We’d like to see them in action,” Chet said. Over the past hour he’d repeated the same question many times. Lacking a phone number and address, they had to find Aureate the hard way.

  Fortunately, Plainsdaugheau was an easy city-state to search for a Flame. Chet had seen more Flame in the last hour than in his entire life. At first, he’d found it rather alarming to see Flame openly walking down the street, ducking out of doorways, kissing, talking and riding bicycles like normal people. The Silk District was brimming with them. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—finding one Flame among many had turned out to be its own challenge.

  Indeed, the Flame he was questioning shook her head with a shrug. “Sorry,” she said, moving on. Chet sighed, watching her go.

  Fenimore whistled at him from the street corner, and Chet slopped over in his muddy shoes. “Come on, Journey found our answer. The Intako Dance Company is apparently performing aboard a luxury passenger ship tonight. They’re launching off Syn Port’s Pier 24 at sunset.”

  “Flame at open sea? That doesn’t seem right," Chet said. Fenimore shrugged and Chet could only agree. If this Aureate didn’t care about such things, who was he to judge?

  Chet glanced around him as they moved off down the street, admiring the city-state. Now that he was here, Plainsdaugheau was breathtaking in an eclectic, handmade way. Houses stacked up like shipping containers, trimmed with decorative gingerbreading and stained-glass windows. People walked about in similar, gaudy styles. Chet had yet to see a man wearing a suit—instead, they wore bright colored pants or gradient sarongs. Everything seemed home dyed or otherwise modified. And the women! Toplessness seemed normal among women of all ages, even among mothers with half-grown children traipsing behind them.

  They met Journey and Knife on the next street corner. “Now that we know where we’re headed, let’s go shopping before we find somewhere to eat,” Journey said with enthusiasm. “We can’t possibly attend a party in these awful clothes.” She’d changed back into Saemion’s clothes and Knife had his outfit from Wetshul, but they both looked rather wilted. Not to mention the smell.

  “If it’s a
private party, will we be allowed on board?” Chet said.

  Knife shrugged. “Aureate’ll get us in.”

  Chet thought the Flame would shop for themselves but found himself roped in, too. Journey held up clothing and regarded Chet narrowly. “I think we’ll go with warm colors for you. Oranges and reds with black for contrast. How do you feel about prints, Chet?”

  “Uh, what?” Chet slouched, feeling trapped and panicked by the many choices available in the boutique.

  “Just let Journey dress you. It’s easier," Knife advised him cheerfully. Knife was naked to the waist with black dress pants and his ever-present boots on. He was back in his favorite bistre-skinned, tall-and-skinny male form. By his relaxed stance, Knife must feel relieved about this.

  Journey hit Knife playfully on the shoulder, and they engaged in a brief tussle. Then Journey deliberately turned her back on Knife and pressed a pile of folded clothes into Chet’s hand. “Go try these on, Chet, and see what you think.” As he left for the dressing room, Chet heard her turn to Fenimore and say, “Now for you, how about white and black...”

  An hour later, Chet had to admit that Journey knew what she was doing. He’d never been dressed by someone head to toe. He felt stylish. When two young women—with perky, exposed breasts bouncing above their crocheted skirts—stopped to giggle and stare at him behind their hands, his back automatically straightened.

  “Miss, miss," he said, nodding his head in their direction. More giggling before they moved off.

  “You should have asked them to step around the corner into the alleyway,” Fenimore said from where he leaned against a wall. “I’ll bet they would have let you under those skirts.”

  Chet blushed. “You’d do that kind of thing. Not me.”

  “Why not? You should take initiative, Chet, and stop being such a pansy.”

  Chet brushed imaginary dust off his new jacket. “I will when I’m ready. Don’t push me.”

  Syn Port’s Pier 24 was crowded as the sun sank in the poppy-orange sky, spectacular with reflective blues and greens of sunset. It was pretty, but Chet felt his heart sink at the crowd wandering around the wooden pier, though they quickly spotted the luxury passenger ship in question. Chet eyed it curiously. Older members his family had been passengers on such ships and had hosted many a dull slideshow based on their travels. This one seemed compact. It was more like a private yacht than a luxury liner. It was only four decks and two-hundred feet long. At least it was still at port, though the gangplank not out yet. Closed for now.

  After employing the same tactic of spreading out and questioning the crowd, someone pointed them to a hand-painted van at the end of the pier. The van was rocking. Maybe the troop was practicing dance moves in there.

  Yeah, right, Chet thought, feeling a new kind of cynicism. Different kind of dance.

  Knife knocked. A middle-aged man, his thinning hair dyed in orange and green streaks, slid open the door. He was naked to the waist and wearing a long grass skirt, two smaller grass skirts tied around both knees—obviously a costume.

  “Yes, good Flame? May I help you?”

  “Is Aureate around?”

  “Knife!” a voice squealed from inside the van. “‘Scuse me, people, I gotta say hello!”

  Chet’s first impression of Aureate was a moving streak in a grass skirt. She was wearing a similar costume as the man and others in the van, some of whom were still entangled together in a half-dressed state. She was bald, of course. Her tits were enormous and bouncy, Chet noticed instantly. Unfortunately, they were covered by another part of the costume: a halter top with woven rhamph fur-feathers.

  Aureate ran between Knife and Journey, kissing and hugged them with enthusiasm, chattering away the whole time in some other language that Chet didn’t understand. It was different from the tongue Knife and Journey had spoken before, full of clicks and glottal stops. Knife grinned at her fondly, and Journey replied in a rapid patter of the same tongue.

  Aureate turned to Chet and Fenimore and asked a question in the unknown language, gesturing at them. Chet felt his heart stop. All of him just—stopped. Aureate had honey-colored eyes. Yellow eyes like a Magician. But... there are no more Magicians, he thought. What had Othnielia said about Aureate being the oldest living thing on Uos that wasn’t a god? Fenimore, he realized, was standing very still at his side.

  Journey held out her hand to Chet and switched languages without missing a beat. “This is Chet Baikson, who’s a student at Semaphore. I met him on the lucid mud dig site. And this is Fenimore LaDaven, who was in the dig site.”

  “Got it," Aureate said with a grin.

  They switched back to the unknown language, Journey waving her arms in illustration. At one point, she shot Chet a sly look and made big-breast motions with her hands. Aureate smirked and gave him a fleeting, assessing kind of look.

  Chet blushed furiously. He could only hope Journey was relaying his enjoyment of her breasts and not his cross-dressing, which she hadn’t been witness to, anyway. Were they deliberately being rude? Chet stepped away from the group and kicked a bottle cap in the gutter.

  Why hadn’t anyone told him there was a Flame with yellow eyes? He would have wanted to know! It seemed a terribly important fact. Apart from Othnielia, who else had been talking about Aureate? Oh yes, Journey had wanted to consult with her about the Raptus and why it was acting so strangely. Aureate was an expert—why? Who was she really? No one these days had those classic honey eyes, no one. Something stirred in the back of Chet’s head; some poem or passage wriggled in his mind, half forgotten...

  “Oh, Journey, we have an opening in the troop tonight! Venitte broke an ankle," Aureate cried out. Chet found her language switch almost dizzying this time. “Can you fill in?”

  “Yes!” Journey clapped her hands together, her whole face radiating delight.

  The other members of the Intako Dance Company—now outside the van, watching the Flame with much the same expressions as Chet and Fenimore—seemed less enthusiastic at the prospect of dancing with a stranger without an audition or even a rehearsal. “So you’re Journey, eh? How much do you know about the goncang? How about the tersenyum dan menipu?” said the man with the orange-green hair, arms crossed.

  Journey immediately dropped the duffle bag, loosened her fancy new clothing and demonstrated. Even knowing nothing about dance, Chet was impressed. Her body—her whole self—was involved in the movements. She reached out a hand to the man and swung him into action. That’s when the dance became truly intense, both athletic and blatantly sexual. Passersby began gathering around, curious and alive to the possibility of a free show. They actually applauded when Journey and the man finished, arms outstretched dramatically. Even members of the Intako Dance Company applauded. Aureate shamelessly grabbed Knife’s hat—he yelped—and passed it around the audience for change. Meanwhile, Journey conferred with the dancers, speaking the same technical language. Though Chet understood their words, he didn’t really understand what they were saying.

  Aureate flipped a coin into the air and put in, “We all do a solo to start the second act. You can skip that part if you like.”

  “You kidding? I don’t have anything prepared, but I can do flick-flacks!”

  Journey kicked off her shoes and demonstrated. She could even touch her feet to the top of her head. Chet didn’t know how she could pretend like gravity didn’t exist, but it clearly worked. Again, a crowd gathered, and again, Aureate passed around Knife’s hat. By this point the dancers were grinning. Journey was clearly good—or at least good enough—in their eyes, too.

  Chet, Fenimore and Knife retreated to the main lounge while Journey went to prep with the rest. The passenger-ship lounge was almost full: about a hundred well-dressed people of every race, size and shape were nattering away, drinking and snacking.

  Getting into the spirit of things, Chet volunteered to fetch the first round of drinks. On the way back to the table, all three drinks balanced in his hands, he noticed Fenimore was c
hatting up a young man sitting at the table behind them. Seeking fresh blood, was he? Chet was so distracted that he didn’t watch where he was going. He tripped over their duffle bag and fell directly onto Knife.

  “Abyss!” Knife cried out as the drinks splashed. His whole front was wet. He jumped out of the seat, staring in horror at his soaked shirt, and by proxy, his chest beneath. The crowd around them grew silent and whispered to one another, watching.

  “Knife, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Chet cried, upset. He tried to wipe Knife off, but Knife swore and batted his hand away.

  “You’ll only make it worse," he said, almost hyperventilating. “I have to get out of this shirt.”

  It was the only clean shirt Knife had, Chet realized.“Let’s go out to the deck and I’ll switch shirts with you.”

  Without a word, Knife stumbled toward the door. Chet followed, wringing his hands. He glanced back; Fenimore had resumed his conversation—or his softening up—of the young man. Chet frowned, wishing Fenimore would care more. Might as well wish the sun rose at night, Chet thought with a snort. Fenimore didn’t care about anyone, save himself.

  There was only one other person on deck. She was smoking a short distance away, a long, fluttery silk scarf around her neck. Knife stripped off the wet shirt and rubbed himself dry with the expensive dinner jacket Journey had insisted upon purchasing. His chest was blistered, Chet was alarmed to see. If Knife weren’t bistre colored, his skin would probably be very red. Chet felt worse by the second. Knife fished a lighter out of his pocket, began running the open flame against his chest, and sank to the deck with a sigh. Chet followed him down, hands outstretched helplessly.

  Bereft of direction, Chet glanced around and abruptly realized they were at sea. The ship had set sail already, the sea calm under a clear, windless sky. Other boats, large and small, were sailing on the nearly still waters. Chet understood with a start that the Flame were surrounded—completely and totally surrounded—by a deadly substance. It was as if they had set sail in the center of a bubbling volcano. One little slip over the deck rail and they would—what?