Prime- The Summons

  Xai looked at her shoes because that was the only place left to look and not be seen blushing.

  “Speaking of which,” Joaquim said, striding down the hall, “we’re going to have to get you tattooed.”

  Xai looked up abruptly, all thoughts of embarrassment, shame and the heady, enticing idea of belonging disappearing at the thought of having someone inject ink into her face. “What do you mean,” she said, hurrying after him, “tattooed?”

  “You are one of the People now,” Joaquim said. “You must have the markings of the People.”

  “But I thought I had to be officially adopted first.”

  Joaquim shrugged elegantly. “Well, technically, yes. And naturally, we’ll need to wait until I’ve discovered the truth behind why I was left in space. But the Council always takes longer to get things done than they should, so we’ll probably have to speed things up a little.”

  Xai glanced at his set expression. “Were you a bit of a rebel in your day?” she asked cautiously.

  Joaquim laughed again, his expression changing from set determination to humor with its usual, unnerving speed. “More or less,” he said, coming to a stop before the final portal.

  On the other side of the force field were hundreds of people walking along a causeway filled with all kinds of shops, stores, cafés, and theaters. The people themselves seemed to take no notice of Joaquim and Xai standing on the other side of the force field. Instead they meandered at a hundred different speeds up and down the causeway, speaking, laughing, pointing. She could hear the hum of them through the field like the distant rumble of a huge machine.

  “Entrance into the Salak is predicated upon a pledge to abide by the reigning regulations,” a neutral female voice told them.

  “I pledge to do so,” Joaquim said loudly, “and request admittance to the Salak as Julian Te, trader in good faith, with his assistant, Xai.” He winked at Xai. They waited for the computer to draw its conclusions.

  “Welcome, Trader,” said the computer, “to this place of commerce.”

  “Here we shall never forget,” Joaquim murmured, almost as if it were a ritualized response. The force field disappeared, and the noise of the curving causeway hit Xai like a physical blow.

  “Come,” Joaquim said. Taking her hand, he drew her through the doorway and into the Salak.

  The place was teeming. People walked past alone or in clusters. Some followed guides, human or android. Others shot by on small motorized carts. One went by on a small motorized bicycle. Some wore PES, others space suits, others odd suits of clothing native to planets Xai had probably never heard of. Up, on the ceiling, connected to a guide rail, ran small cargo carts, ferrying goods from one store to another. Loud, sibilant music blasted out of nearby shops. Through and around the people walking down the hall were projected advertisements—holograms, scrolls, words in all sorts of languages. Looking up through the transparent ceiling, she could see the stores in the rings above, spinning past, shimmering on the other side of open space through which flew buses, transports, and joyriding teenagers.

  A small globe of an android detached itself from the ceiling and came to hover over them. “Welcome, Julian Te,” it said cheerily. “Welcome, Xai. Where would you like to go today?”

  Joaquim stood in the middle of the hallway, a tall, gaunt man in a silver Primer PES, without helmet or gloves. He looked surprisingly dangerous, and most of the tourists gave him a wide berth. “I need a second-hand clothes store,” he said.

  “Specify,” the droid replied happily.

  “Good quality, fifth ring.”

  “Very well!” the droid said cheerily.

  “Take us there.”

  The droid beeped happily and began to meander along above the crowd. Joaquim stalked after the droid. Xai followed him nervously, wishing for a knife. She’d never seen so many people in her life. She felt as if they were all staring at her. A holographic advertiser latched onto her biosignal and followed her for fifteen meters down the hall, promising her eternal happiness if she bought a Terria IV, before giving up finally and moving on to someone else. Two men hissed angrily at her when she walked through the middle of a show they were watching. Three teenagers in a go-cart almost ran her over. The noise was thunderous and there were too many people. Xai was on the verge of running back to the Tellorian when the android stopped before a small, rather dingy storefront and cried enthusiastically, “Welcome to Jawaharlal’s!”

  Joaquim stood there for a moment, examining the store-front and the crowded hallway around them. “Thank you,” he told the droid. With a nod to Xai, he strode into the shop. Xai followed him hurriedly into the blessed silence of the small, cramped store.

  It was a small, dark, dank place stuffed with goods—shirts, trousers, tunics and boots, all thrown indiscriminately into large vats. On the wall were racks of knives, sticks, communicators and encyclopedias. None of them seemed particularly clean. A large, fat T’lasian with a neat turban was sitting in a chair watching races by vid. He wore a brilliant turquoise robe over a beaten black Rydian space suit. The robe had the same markings as his cheeks.

  “Greetings,” Joaquim said.

  The fat man grunted something in reply and focused on his race. Joaquim strode over to the space suit section. “Most people choose to wear Rydian-made space suits,” he told Xai, rummaging through the bin filled with suits, checking their cuffs for sizes, his fingers moving deftly through the different fabrics. “They’re perhaps not as sophisticated as Primer ones, but they’re much less flashy, and they work just as well.”

  “Flashy?” Xai said, somewhat affronted.

  Joaquim grinned up at her. “All right,” he said. “Less shiny and silver. Better?”

  Xai scowled.

  Joaquim pulled a small, black suit with green shoulder fletchings out of the bin. “Green shoulders means merchant marine,” he explained, his voice lowering slightly. “There are a lot of Rydians in the merchant marine with a genetic makeup similar to yours.” He began checking the seams quite thoroughly.

  “Since you’re my apprentice,” he said, his voice returning to its normal volume, “I’d better tell you a little about these T’lasians. There are ten main Clans—ten for the fingers of both hands. Most of the clans have other clans in vassalage. You can tell the clan by the color of the robes they wear—see?” he continued, gesturing in the direction of the shop-owner. “He’s in turquoise. That means he belongs to the Henriques. You can usually tell who they are,” he added, sotto voce, “as they tend to run fat.”

  The fat man darted them an evil glance and looked back at his vid. Xai realized suddenly that he was listening to every word Joaquim was saying. Joaquim nodded to himself, handed the suit to Xai, and began rummaging through the bin once more.

  “Each clan has a voice on the council,” he explained. “Every three years there’s an election, and the council elects a new leader.” He stopped and looked at the suit in his hands, like Xai’s, but with yellow and blue stripes on the shoulders. “Not bad, eh?” he asked. He held the suit up to his shoulders and examined himself into a nearby mirror. “Navy, with officer’s fletchings. Good with women, those are.”

  Joaquim took the suit out of Xai’s hands and threw it and his suit into a nearby decontaminant chamber. He pulled the great lever down and pressed the start button. The machine began to churn noisily. Jawaharlal began shouting at the vid. Joaquim watched interestedly as the race ended. Jawaharlal fell back in his seat, muttering sullenly under his breath. The decontaminant chamber stopped. Joaquim flipped open the lever and took the suits out, clean now, warm to the touch.

  “Boots we have,” he said contemplatively. “Although yours,” he added with a cocked eyebrow, “are rather on the new side.” Xai blushed, and started trying to scuff one shoe against the other. “What we need now,” he continued thoughtfully, “are weapons. Only true type allowed on the Salak,” he added. He looked over a Xai, suddenly serious. “What sort would you like?”

  �
�Knife,” Xai said quickly.

  Joaquim cocked his head slightly to the side. “Knife?” he asked. “Are you certain?”

  Xai nodded. “That one,” she added, pointing at the long, straight blade she had been eyeing since they had entered the store.

  Joaquim examined her for a moment, his expression very blank. “Very well,” he said finally, taking it off the wall and handing it to Xai. Its balance was not perfect, but it would do. Reaching up, Joaquim pulled down a long, slender staff. It was about a meter and a half long, ending in a whip. Nodding at Xai, he led her back to the shop-owner and placed their purchases on the table before him. “Here,” he said. “We would like to purchase these, please.”

  The shop owner scowled at the vid, got to his feet, and waddled over to the table. His fingers flicked through the goods, stopping, surprised, when he came across the staff. He looked up at Joaquim, his eyes keen. “You know how to use a bando?”

  Joaquim shrugged. “A T’lasian I knew taught me once.”

  Jawaharlal nodded, almost to himself, and began calculating the amount due on a small handheld data pad. “You know,” he said calmly, “you look a lot like a T’lasian, without the tattoos.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Joaquim replied. “Tell me, who’s ruling council these days?”

  “Syng,” Jawaharlal told him, his fingers moving swiftly over the pad. “His third election. Ever since he got in with the Tata—”

  “The Tata?” Joaquim blurted.

  Jawaharlal looked up at him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You know the Tata?”.

  Joaquim nodded, his mouth a hard line. “Let’s just say I’ve had dealings with them.”

  Jawaharlal looked back down at his pad. “Well, there were always rumors. There was trouble in the succession about thirty years ago. That would be well before your time, but memories linger. It was contested. Ricardo put it down, but after that…” He finished his calculations and nodded to himself. “Three hundred and forty credits,” he said, looking up at Joaquim.

  “What?” Joaquim cried, appalled. “Come, Xai, we’re leaving,” he said, affronted.

  “Three hundred,” Jawaharlal amended hastily.

  Joaquim turned back, cocked his head to the side and examined the goods on the table between them. “Two,” he said.

  Jawaharlal shook his head sadly. Joaquim fingered the battered space suit with officer’s markings.

  “Two thirty,” Joaquim said finally.

  “Done,” Jawaharlal replied.

  Joaquim looked around the room. “Where do I look?” he prompted. Jawaharlal showed him the face of the data pad. Joaquim looked at it, his expression calm. “By the way,” he asked nonchalantly, “do you know of anywhere around here with good gambling?” Jawaharlal looked up from his calculations, his eyes gleaming.

  Chapter Thirty

  “WHAT do you mean, gambling?” Xai cried, appalled. “I thought we didn’t have any money. Why are we going to gamble? What are we going to gamble?” she added as she hurried after him out of the store.

  The walkway teemed with people. A group of Rydian tourists meandered past, small sigils attached to their collars, their eyes wide. Two T’lasian young men were busy haggling with an elderly woman from Marr. Enticing scents emanated from a pushcart vendor further up the promenade. A pack of six girls from a culture Xai could not identify were busy doing gymnastic wonders to the applause of the crowd.

  The droid had latched back onto Joaquim’s biosignal. “Julian Te,” it inquired solicitously, “how may I be of assistance?”

  Joaquim strode along the promenade, their purchases tucked beneath his arm. The bando protruded from either side, giving him a rather debonair air. “We need a hotel,” he said as he strode past the gymnasts. “On the Fifth Circle. Small, cheap, discreet, and near the pods.”

  “Three hotels fall into that category,” the droid replied, floating along at Joaquim’s eye level. “The Spinning Wheels, Prama’s Hostel, and Pedro’s.”

  “The Spinning Wheels,” Joaquim said firmly, ducking past three laughing teenagers.

  “This way please,” the droid said. It led them along the wide passageway, through the milling crowds. Xai struggled to keep up with Joaquim’s long, swift strides.

  “Why aren’t we staying on the Tellorian?” she asked. Joaquim’s nonchalance was a poor mask for tension, and Xai was rather unnerved by it.

  “Space Code,” Joaquim replied tersely. He looked down at her and his face softened slightly. “Always have options,” he explained. Xai nodded, not certain what else to do. “Don’t worry,” Joaquim told her. He smiled—not a wide smile, but a true smile nonetheless—and strode forward. Xai took a deep breath and followed him, ducking through the laughing, drunken crowd before a vid of hand-to-hand combat.

  Xai and Joaquim followed the android along the esplanade toward a quieter part of the circle. Here, in the relative calm, Xai was finally able to get a good look at the marvel which was the Salak.

  The ring had been grown as one piece, so there were no joins between panels, merely the great, clear expanse of the stars and, before them, the other rings, the darting ships, the pods, the distant hotels. The floor was set perhaps a third of the way up from the base of the ring, so that the walls curved out before moving back in toward the ceiling, creating a sense of spaciousness. The buildings were three stories high, in brilliant, strong colors—bright, ornate facades made of plastics, with all sorts of markings on the walls.

  What struck Xai most was the profusion of plant life. Almost all of the roofs seemed to have gardens, lit with planting lights, and there were small trees and shrubs along the streetside and beside most of the doors. Potted plants with bright flowers hung beside open windows, through which Xai could glimpse not merely stores and vendors but small restaurants and living rooms. And yet, for all the greenery, the Salak had none of the quiet, lazy calm of Starbase 42319. Rather, it was a thriving city, filled with people, ideas and life. As Xai became used to it, she found it rather exciting.

  The droid led them into an area with fewer shops and more residences. Here there were few tourists and almost no streetside entertainment. Groups of T’lasians sat beside the walkway on small benches, drinking redolent, spicy beverages and chatting among themselves. Their collective gaze was daunting. Joaquim sauntered along, seemingly oblivious to their examination. Xai moved along beside him in an ineffectual attempt to mimic his cool.

  Several small T’lasian children ran past them, tattoos on their cheeks, grey and black robes billowing behind them. “What’s the Syng robe color?” Xai asked.

  Joaquim pulled himself out of his reverie. “Red,” he told her. “A deep burgundy. It was Prama’s favorite color.”

  “Are you related to her?” Xai asked.

  Joaquim nodded. “A direct descendant.”

  It was then that Xai saw him—a small, stocky man wearing a dark black robe with red arms. He was sitting next to two T’lasians, apparently deep in conversation.

  What Xai noted first was his robe, which looked surprisingly like the teso, the long, flowing robes of the Xiang scholar. Then he glanced up at her and their eyes met.

  His face was pure Messinian—flat, hard, oriental. He looked like a Xiang, with a very round face and muscular body. Xai felt a flush of pure fear. The man rose to his feet, his face ashen, his eyes locked with hers.

  The man’s eyes were a most peculiar, metallic color. There were flushing ports on his temples. Xai realized suddenly that he must be blind and stopped in her tracks, uncertain. The Xiang—what few of them that remained—would never have allowed an augmentation. To augment a member of a Noble House was to do insult to the House’s te-idze and through that to Kesta herself.

  “Come, Xai,” Joaquim called. “We haven’t got all day.” He stood with his hands on his hips, and an annoyed expression, waiting for her perhaps ten paces away. He clearly had no idea why she was lagging behind, nor, from his expression, any real interest in it. Something was bot
hering him, and bothering him deeply.

  Xai jogged to catch up with Joaquim, relieved to have an excuse to get away. Joaquim turned and strode on, clearly preoccupied. Xai followed him quickly, hoping they would arrive at the hotel soon, wanting to get away from the man’s prying eyes. When Xai glanced back before fading into the curve of the space station, she could see that the Messinian had sunk back into his seat but was still watching her, his eyes fixed on her disappearing into the distance.

  “The Spinning Wheels!” the droid cried happily. Xai looked up with some relief at a small, painted sign of the five spinning wheels of the Salak hanging before the door.

  It was a very quiet part of the circle, on a small square, with pods to either side. “Thank you,” Joaquim told the droid. “Your services will no longer be needed.”

  “Welcome to the Salak,” the droid replied, “and may all your trades be profitable!” It shot away down the circle, back in the direction from which they had come.

  Joaquim walked through the curved door and into the hotel lobby. It was a small, dark place with a wide com panel along the wall. To the right was a hallway. To the left was a door leading onto what seemed to be to a cafeteria. Large carved benches lined several long tables. The room was empty but it smelled delicious, hot and spicy. Xai took a deep breath.

  Joaquim walked to the panel. “A suite,” he said tersely. “Two doors.”

  “Ten credits a night,” the panel replied.

  “Done.”

  “Look here, please,” the panel said. Joaquim looked at the pulsing blue light.

  “Credit confirmed,” the panel told them. “Room 8. Along the hallway, last room.”

  The suite was of two rooms and a bath, all extremely small. The entire suite was in dark blue. The bed was blue, the slick sheets were blue, the couch Joaquim planned to sleep in and the small table with chairs were blue. In contrast, the courtyard the room faced was a splash of brilliant color, three stories of a high wall off which hung great vines, entwined with leaves.