To Trade the Stars (12 page)

He'd be embarrassed later.

I
T seemed a firm tenet of Human belief concerning the workings of the universe that whatever could go wrong, would. And always at the worst possible moment. While I preferred a universe that ignored me, even I was tempted to question fate when, within a day of our planned rendezvous with Plexis, the
Silver Fox'
s engine failed and she plunged from translight—to leave us stranded here.

“It could be worse,” Morgan had said in that patented “Traders cope” voice of his.

Since “here” was within hobbling distance, in starship terms, of the Kimmcle System and nothing else—said system boasting a garish red sun orbited by three gas giants and a band of airless, icy rocks fondly called the Bonanza Belt by a deranged multispecies group of miners—I didn't share Morgan's view of our situation. Although, should we survive the trip, I knew Huido would appreciate another keg of the local brew. He'd waxed downright poetic over what we'd brought from our previous visit here.

A visit that hadn't, as far as I was concerned, gone well. “They are insane,” I'd reminded Morgan.

“Only on weekends,” he'd said back.

Which didn't improve my feelings about the entire issue—given we'd be arriving dead center of the Belt's Saturday night.

 

“Welcome! Time to say welcome! Who are they? Oh, yes. Traders! Morgans! Been before. Coming again. Welcome! Welcome!”

I did my best to look friendly rather than apprehensive. The Human trumpeting this running self-dialogue while approaching at a waddling run appeared happy enough. He also appeared capable of squashing us flat through sheer mass, so I was relieved when he began to slow his charge a few steps away. When I was convinced the Kimmcle had his inertia under control, I stepped out of the air lock to stand beside Morgan.

“Of course we came again,” Morgan said in a near shout. Kimmcle miners were typically almost deaf by their second season. There didn't seem to be effective ear protection in their line of work, at least for Humans; Morgan told me most hoped to buy replacement organs when they retired. I'd refrained from comment. “You have such wonderful hospitality, ‘Berto! How could we stay away?”

‘Berto? I looked closer, trying to find the slim youth who had greeted us seven weeks ago within this behemoth. It didn't seem possible, even if skin and eye color matched.

Morgan sensed my confusion and sent:
It's a tradition. Any one who greets guests is ‘Berto.

So what do they call their mechanics—when they are working?
I replied, thinking of the Fox in dry dock. A most deserted and unappealing dry dock.

I felt his laugh as we followed ‘Berto down the tunnel. My hair wanted to respond and pushed at the netting I'd wrapped over it, yanking at my scalp before settling in a sulky knot. Hopefully, ‘Berto hadn't noticed. My hair's self-expression had caused a near riot last time; I didn't intend to give it a second opportunity.

The place probably had its charm—one well hidden from the prying eyes of casual visitors like Traders. I remembered to watch where I put my feet. About a third of the miners were Festors, a species that shouldn't ever drink. The slimy green repercussions were everywhere.

And the night was young.

Just like old times,
I sent to Morgan, deep in a shouting match with our guide about repair schedules. It did sound reassuringly as though the Kimmcle actually did have beings who stayed sober and worked over the weekend. I presumed they partied the rest of the week to make up for this lack.

It wasn't that I objected to relaxation—from the way Morgan described the five-day work shift of the miners, locked in small, fragile ships with nothing but the dark of space and rock for company, relaxation was essential—it was just that sobriety didn't seem particularly valued within the hollowed guts of this asteroid the Kimmcle proudly and mysteriously referred to as “Big Bob.” Big Bob had made the fortunes of many who no longer had to live here, while luring their hapless replacements to try their own luck.

Most never left. As far as I could tell, from my necessarily brief and restricted view of their society, those Kimmcle who stayed had evolved a culture that worked for them. It successfully combined claim jumping and mine salting—terms Morgan had made sure I understood before we came—with a distinct camaraderie.

In other words, any Kimmcle would rush to another's rescue without hesitation, and, as a matter of course, pick each other's pockets in the process.

Our destination, sad to say, was the same cavernous expanse—euphemistaclly called Big Bob's Recreation Complex—that Morgan and I had been in before, hopefully this time to be sans argument, sans brawl, and sans time spent confined with three intoxicated Festors.

The Complex was impressive, if you liked overwhelming confusion. To start with, it had been created as drilling followed the veins of various ores. As a result, the walls bent inward and outward at completely unpredictable intervals—granting the dubious sensation of having already lost one's ability to focus, which I supposed could save a few credits when buying drinks. Buying drinks wasn't a problem, of course. Outward curves of any significance housed breweries of various size. Any prominent inward protrusion of the walls hosted a bar. Supply and demand, close enough that some breweries could forget the kegs and run tubing from the vats to the nearest barside spigot.

Between the walls, floor space was also subject to supply and demand—in this instance, the demand for entertainment. Various areas were cordoned off by thick rows of beer-waving spectators, busily cheering on whatever activity was happening within their circle. Morgan had assured me it wasn't worth the effort to push through the crowd just to find out what that might be. Since his sending had been tinged with an amusing mix of embarrassment and discomfort, I'd been reasonably sure he was right.

The Complex's ceiling was high enough to allow Skenkrans, a species not usually associated with enclosed spaces, to hang their teardrop apartments. Those near to a wall were typically clustered over the closest brewery, some hung so low that tubing ran upward to each. Convenient.

Don't forget to watch overhead,
Morgan sent, having noticed my attention. By the movement of his lips, he might have spoken aloud as well, but voices were pretty useless in the din. I nodded. While the Fox's tapes on other species claimed Skenkrans to be the most courteous and civilized of beings, those who lived in Big Bob had developed a nasty habit of seeing how many of the throng below they could knock over each time they dropped from their homes. The other Kimmcle species took this as yet another game within the Complex, painting targets on the floor and daring one another to stand in them.

I prided myself on being exceptionally open-minded about aliens and their ways—for a Clan, at least—but this sort of reckless behavior was enough to make me long for the civil hostility of my own kind. In Big Bob, I had to divide my time between obsessively checking the floor for Festor deposits—or freshly painted targets—and scanning the dark holes that served as Skenkran doorways. Morgan must be doing the same, but somehow managed to make his scrutiny so imperceptible he might have been taking a stroll down a corridor in the Fox.

Another of my Human's more arcane skills.

“If it isn't my Little Love Buds!” Another regrettably loud and personal shout, but this time I smiled.

“Hello, Rees!” I bellowed back. Ahead of us, the asteroid's rock wall fingered its way into the floor space, surrounded by the ubiquitous curved metal countertop. I went with Morgan as he and ‘Berto cleared standing room along the bar—designated Big Bob's Bar # 46 with Kimmcle efficiency—for us.

Morgan hadn't been sure about Rees' species, and it wasn't polite to ask. It wasn't important—all who called the Bonanza Belt home referred to themselves, sometimes with a profane adjective, as Kimmcles. She poured us beers, grabbed a bowl of the fried sweet I'd liked on our last visit for me, and sent ‘Berto off to greet someone else—after stamping the disk he waved at her. Morgan had explained this was to prove he'd done his job, namely ferrying another set of customers from the air lock to her particular establishment. The various bars paid a premium for the service, although I had to wonder how essential it was. How many unsuspecting tourists and traders could possibly be lured to Kimmcle? It wouldn't be my first choice. Or fifteenth.

Still, I thought, sipping a beer disappointingly like every other I'd had since meeting Morgan and Huido—they claimed I lacked taste buds—I did like Rees. She'd hurried off to other customers after serving us, but waved at me periodically. The friendly being had not only welcomed Morgan and I during our previous visit, making me feel every bit the blushing bride, but had also been responsible for freeing us from jail. Just in time, I remembered; my meager tolerance for alien byproducts having worn off hours before and only Morgan's good sense keeping me from ‘porting us both out, locked doors or no.

A gleeful, high-pitched shriek made me turn with everyone else, looking upward for the source. There. A Skenkran launched himself from his home, thankfully safely distant, and began plummeting to the floor. There was barely time for bets to be shouted before the being snapped open his shoulder casings, releasing the shimmering membrane silks that slowed his descent from suicidal to merely dangerous. With impeccable timing—or practice—he was able to suck in his silk before it became tangled in the mass of less-than-swift moving beings who'd unwittingly formed a landing pad.

“Good'un,” proclaimed the Human beside me, slapping his companion on the head—the only part of a Festor not likely to ooze on contact.

I could ‘port us to Plexis,
I reminded Morgan.
We're within range.

His eyebrows rose.
And leave the Fox here?

Before I could formulate a reply to that, Rees slid to a stop before us, wiping her hands on a cloth slung over one shoulder. Her smile stretched from ear to ear. Literally. Which wasn't the only remarkable thing about her mouth. It was abundantly populated with large, yellow teeth, each filed into a different shape, several with tiny inset jewels. As often as a Human might blink, the slender black tips of her tongue would run over her teeth, upper and lower, as if it was important to feel this unusual adornment during all conversations. While her loose-fitting dress, a strident orange that showed every stain, didn't reveal much about her body type beyond a couple of inexplicable bulges to the back, Rees did use two humanoid-like arms with five-fingered hands to serve drinks. Above her wide mouth and tiny, plug-shaped nose, her eyes were large, dark, and kind. She'd had price lists applied to her broad eyelids in some fashion since I'd last seen her. I found myself trying to read the items each time she closed her eyes.

Rees might be from any of a hundred systems, Morgan had told me. The root species of her kind, the Hoveny, had spread itself that far and possibly farther before its interstellar empire collapsed—around the same time Humans were four-footed shrews. Study of the Hoveny Concentrix was one of the most highly funded fields of research among Trade Pact cultures, given that newer species were determined not to repeat whatever mistakes the Hoveny had made in their empire building.

Humans were downright paranoid on the subject.

I could see their point. Rees might own distant Hoveny ancestors, but no one living could say if she resembled them or had evolved into something completely new and unique to her homeworld. The Hoveny hadn't left images of themselves, only records of trade and sophisticated, often baffling technology. It was somehow humbling to think how very different from us a future generation might be. Not that Humans were overly humble, I thought, listening to Morgan's impassioned conversation with the bartender.

“—deal of the decade. Have I ever steered you wrong, Rees? Only snag is the
Fox
—we need an emergency refit and only have a couple of days to make it happen. If we can't catch up to Plexis by then, the buyers will haul out of orbit. You do know everyone worth knowing in Big Bob. What do you say? Can you get us a priority one?”

Rees turned her scintillating smile on me. “Always charming, your Jas-On. Still Love Buds, Si-Ra? See you've tamed your hair. Good'un.”

One couldn't help but smile back. I drew my arm through Morgan's and snugged the offending lump of hair against his shoulder. “After last time,” I said fervently, “I've no intention of causing a disturbance.” I felt him chuckle.

“Dis-Turbance?” Rees laughed, leaning companionably on the bar despite the calls for service on either side. “Live-Liest night in for-Ever, Si-Ra. You had that Hu-Man yelling how your hair would turn ev‘ry-Being to rock, the Fes-Tors thinking you had a Min-Kly spider on your head and trying to steal it—as if they need more fer-Tility drugs—then your Jas-On here taking of-Fense at all the attention with ev'ry-One at once. That was a good'un!” she concluded, smacking her painted lips together. “Tho' sor-Ry you wound up in jail rest of the night. Love Buds like you should have pri-Vacy.”

“The
Fox?
” Morgan repeated.

Rees' smile became a little fixed. “Can't get priOrity on po-Tential deal alone, even for you, Jas-On. The mechs want something sub-Stantial for hurryup.” Then her small hand thumped the bar. “You think of selling any o' that hair, Si-Ra?”

“Frequently,” I muttered to myself, wincing as it squirmed in protest under the net, then said loudly: “No, Jason likes it, Rees.”

She laughed. “Thought so. Love Buds.”