A Thousand Words For Stranger (10th Anniversary Edition) (21 page)

I couldn’t make out much directly across the expanse from us. The side closest to me was a solid wall of storefronts, goods spilling out of each so that as we walked, we were weaving our way in and out of furniture to suit any body form, used engines, clothing (I think), old books in good shape, new books in terrible shape, painted vases, and stuffed women.

I stopped suddenly, my helmet almost buried in a truly awe-inspiring pair of artificial mammary organs. Morgan grabbed my arm and pulled me into the main flow of pedestrians. A hopeful salesbeing halted his charge in our direction with a look of disgust.

“This is the wholesalers’ floor, chit,” Morgan yelled in my ear. “Don’t look interested in anything, or the access to the
Fox
will be jammed full of junk before we get back.”

“Well, so much for sightseeing,” I growled, but to myself.

I followed Morgan’s lead for what seemed a very long while—considering we were in a station—and soon had had enough of the press of bodies on every side. Not only did they block my view of anything more interesting than elbows bending in assorted angles, but the warm air inside my helmet was inclined to treasure the less pleasant living aromas of which sweat was the mildest. For all I knew, some of the odder-shaped beings I rubbed shoulders with could well be using the air we shared on Plexis for more than respiration.

My nose itched. The reflex to scratch came about a millisecond before my self-control. I quickly switched the movement of my hand into a wipe over the visplate of my helmet, hoping none of the spacers around me noticed. Behind that cover, I stuck my tongue out at Morgan.

At last, the crowd began thinning. I could tell because I could see floor again. Maybe it was time to make my move. Habits, all that remained of the powerful compulsions that guided me before, tugged at my decision to leave Morgan with alarmed little jerks and twists. I had grown quite good at ignoring them.

Morgan glanced at me, mistaking my expression, which was likely bleak, for something else. “Plexis isn’t what you expected, is it?” There might have been a twinkle in his eye. “Wait till you see the upper levels. They’re all the vistapes say and more.”

We entered an area where the current of the crowd was broken into eddies and streams that had to pass around clusters of tables. The lighting here was set for shipnight. Overhead, hundreds of tiny portlights hovered, obedient stars against a distant metal sky. Along the walls, broad beams of garish light cut clean-edged slices across the shadowed floor, as various entertainment facilities enticed their space-weary guests. An appalling noise throbbed in my ears and rumbled under the foot plates of my suit. Music—lots of it, played loudly and badly.

I slipped my bag from the grav cart, watching Morgan take a couple of steps into the night zone before missing my echo. He halted in mid-stride, turning. My hand was tight upon the handle of the little knife in my belt, for what reason or purpose I couldn’t have said. I felt the tension flaring between us as something physical as his piercing blue eyes narrowed in comprehension.

“If you’re opting off the
Fox,
Sira,” Morgan said, ignoring my defensiveness, striding back to stand before me, “I won’t try to stop you. Just listen to me first.”

“I’m listening,” I responded tightly, my eyes fixed on his face though movement and sound from passersby made me shiver. Or was it something I sensed from Morgan this close which raised gooseflesh on my arms, something less easily deciphered than the rhythm of his heart?

“Plexis runs an open port, Sira,” Morgan’s low-pitched voice was rough. “Anyone can dock; all they have to do is pay for air. The next ship in could be Roraqk’s—or the Clan.”

“I’m not planning to stay here,” I said.

“What do you plan to do?” Morgan asked more quietly, reassured, I supposed, that he had my attention and I wasn’t about to bolt.

“There are lots of ships here,” I said, trying not to be obvious as I backed a bit away from him. “Ships need crew.”

“And you think a week Hindmost on the
Fox
makes you qualified?”

I felt myself redden and welcomed the anger. “I’ll find a ship. You don’t need to worry about me,” I said.
And if I stayed on the
Fox,
maybe you would,
I added to myself, feeling a return of that foreboding.

Morgan nodded slowly. “All right. But let me ask around,” he said reasonably. “I could find you a good berth, a chance at an apprenticeship. There’ll be captains I know here; they say everyone shows up at Plexis eventually.” He paused, waiting as a group of Human spacers, definitely the worse for wear, sang their unsteady way by us. When Morgan spoke again, his voice was low-pitched and urgent, his blue eyes burning with intensity. “Sira, you saved my life on Ret 7. That’s a debt I intend to repay. This isn’t the time to leave me. Not here. Not on your own.”

I scuffed my feet, sorely tempted. After all, what Morgan was saying made sense, more sense than an odd warning rattling around in my admittedly busy head. But being near him made me nervous. The link I felt between us made me very nervous. And what was to come might be worse.

Before I could decide, a man in the crowd hesitated as he was about to pass us, then stopped, turning to face me.

Human,
I thought,
and rich.
He was well-dressed in what looked to be organic fur and silk. Instead of a blue cheek patch, he wore the gold patch of a customer. Morgan’s face smoothed into a polite smile, but I could see his eyes appraising the stranger warily.

“Anything we can do for you, Hom?” Morgan asked.

The man’s face swung to Morgan, his expression one of confused impatience. “No.” He turned once more to me, his dark eyes squinting as though that would help him see through the anti-glare coating on my helmet. I was grateful for its protection when he whispered: “Who
are
you?”

“No one you’d know, Hom,” Morgan said firmly. He stepped in front of me, this motion ominously smooth.

The stranger frowned at Morgan. Morgan’s body immediately lifted into the air and flew into a table, scattering both chairs and their occupants.

Nifty trick,
I thought, not sure whether to worry about Morgan or myself.

“Who are you?” the magical stranger whispered again. He stretched out his hand as though to touch me. I blinked as the helmet disappeared and I could see him clearly.

Two things happened in rapid succession. The man’s face drained completely of color. Then he vanished.

A tiny whoosh of air filled the space where the man had once stood. I staggered, felt someone’s grip steady me. I met Morgan’s eyes.

“Was that Barac?” I asked incredulously.

“Clan,” he said, his face grim. “But no one I know. Let’s go,” he urged, pulling both the cart and me into a pool of shadow between two doorways. Then he quickly slapped my cheek, once, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“Before you complain,” Morgan suggested, holding up his blue-stained fingers to silence me, “remember who took the helmet.” I reached up to my stinging cheek and explored the waxy patch now immovably fixed to my skin.

Our leisurely pace now changed into something closer to a run. Morgan dodged through any gap in the surrounding mass of people and tables, once electing to push through a decorative clump of bushes rather than slow down. I pulled at a leaf as I followed him, but it was firmly glued to its stem.

At this pace, we soon reached our destination, which turned out to be a restaurant with a lurid sign over its double doors proclaiming:
Claws and Jaws—Complete Interspecies Cuisine.

I didn’t bother to argue, being too busy watching for people able to appear and disappear at will, not to mention fling bodies into furniture with a frown. I breathed easier when Morgan closed the restaurant doors behind us.

The exterior of the restaurant had been misleading. Inside, there was a subdued hum of voices, barely louder than the soft chimes that rang as we passed them. A bowing attendant appeared out of nowhere. Morgan handed her the lead to the grav cart. We were waved ahead of others waiting to be seated—or whatever eating position suited their body forms. As we entered the dining area proper, I tilted my head, entranced by a delicious, seductive aroma.

Morgan smiled at my reaction. “Welcome to Huido’s, Sira, the best eating on Plexis.”

“Liar! The best eating in the quadrant!” This bellow was from an approaching mass I’d assumed was a servo, given its metallic luster and two pairs of assymetrical arms. The being, moving on pillarlike legs that ending in preposterously balloon-like pads rather than feet, used its larger, lower pair of arms to sweep Morgan off the floor in an embrace I devoutly hoped wouldn’t aggravate the man’s recently healed injury. Morgan hammered his fists on the shining armor plates that served the ungainly creature for shoulders. Fortunately for my peace of mind, he was also laughing.

“Put me down, Huido, you big oaf. You make me forget what manners I’ve got.” The being gave him one last bruising squeeze before setting Morgan back on his feet with a tenderness totally belied by his appearance. “Huido Maarmatoo’kk, I’d like you to meet Sira Morgan.”

It took all of my courage to accept the claw, the tip of one of the smaller more flexible-looking arms, that was gently offered for my touch. I restrained a shudder at its chill hardness; Huido’s ancestry was certainly other than mammal. Black and glistening, the creature stood as tall as Morgan, yet its shoulders and bulbous back blocked most of the space in the lobby entrance. Its head looked as though a pair of saucepans decided to take up life as the top and bottom of a helmet. As they pulsed vertically, ever-so-slightly, the black shadow between them danced with the gleam of dozens of independently mobile eyes, each on its own short stalk. I tried to imagine a reassuring softness to the set of four, no, six, clustered at the moment to examine me.

“So, Brother, you finally bring a shell-mate to my home. You honor us with your presence, Fem Morgan.” His voice originated from somewhere within that hood, and, though perfectly understandable, was deep, rasping, and regrettably loud. I opened my mouth to correct his interpretation of my name only to meet Morgan’s blue eyes. He shook his head, once, very slightly. I closed my lips into a firm line and glared at him.

Supper, served after a tantalizing delay that made me wonder if any servos were involved in its preparation, was all the aroma had promised and more. Huido kept us company by drinking warm beer, the only Human food—as he put it—worthy of his refined palate. I had a feeling it was more likely the only Human food his nonhumanoid system could tolerate, but was too polite to ask. Drinking was how I thought of it, not having the word to describe a process consisting of pouring large amounts of liquid into the orifice at the tip of his top right-hand claw, then tucking the claw tip into that dark boundary that served for a face. The following satisfied slurp crossed any species’ boundary.

Eventually I burrowed deeper within the friendly arms of my chair, reveling in the drowsy pleasure of pleasing my own palate and appetite. I listened to Morgan’s and Huido’s ongoing conversation about people and places with only half an ear, just as happy to not have to take part.

We were sharing Huido’s private table, perched to overlook the packed restaurant. Privacy from the common area was provided by a shimmering webbing which looked like the work of a deranged and overlarge spider, but, judging by the crisped brown leaves of a plant which had dared grow close to the strands, was likely a force field of some kind. I wondered if it could keep out Clan as well.

A living waiter, not a servo, collected my plate and offered me a delicate glass filled with pale gold liquid. I thanked him, accepting the drink. My thoughtful silence spread to my companions and they both looked at me.

“Was it not the best food you have ever consumed?” Huido boomed at me.

Morgan leaned back, admiring the prisms of light within his own glass. “Best agree with him, Sira. He’s likely to serve the poor chef as the next course if you don’t.”

“Bah,” the alien dismissed Morgan’s advice with a click of his upper two handling claws. “There’s no market for Human flesh on Plexis. On Ormagal 17, though—”

Although expression was impossible to read from a face consisting of shell shadow and glistening, stalked eyes—his mouth being nestled somewhere deep within their cluster—I decided I was being teased. “Your food is superb, Hom—” I hesitated over the pronunciation of his name.

“Huido. To the mate of my blood brother, I give my name, tanks, and yes, my soul!” I blushed at this, then was mortified to be embarrassed. Huido, obviously well-acquainted with Humans, roared his approval. “You see, Brother? For how many years have I told you to begin a Hatch of your own?”

“Since you learned what one was,” Morgan answered readily.

“Well, it’s taken you long enough,” Huido retorted, not the least deterred. “While I have twenty mates in my home to cheer me—” He sounded smug. “And two more arrive within this planet year. The delights of the pool—” he stopped and several eyes swiveled to look at me. “Do you swim, Sira?”

I choked on my wine. Morgan took a look at my face and said quickly: “What we need, Huido, is a quiet, restful place. A place where we won’t be disturbed for a couple of days.”

Huido didn’t answer immediately. Instead his eyes, usually divided in their attention between the restaurant, ourselves, and his enormous mug of beer, riveted together on Morgan’s face. It was an unnerving focus, as was the now-brooding silence from the huge, glistening creature.

Morgan merely raised a brow, and his glass. He smiled, I thought a shade too deliberately. “Docked after a long run—Sira and I have been working very hard, old friend. Is a bit of peace and solitude too much to ask?”

Huido lifted one arm and snapped his claw, making a cymbal-like sound that brought the waiter scurrying to our table to gather the last dishes and bowls. Huido rose ponderously. “From the look of you both,” he said stiffly, “you’d best refrain from the pool and sleep for a month. I will make the arrangements.”