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`Anyone who has not worked for them
simply cannot understand them.'
- Mille Vennamun, introduction to:
`The Use of Ashes: Bureau of Procuration Manual'
Half past eight. The bedside alarm woke Kelanie up with the
sampled victory-screech of some carnivorous xenoform. She was up
immediately, eyes wide, fingers clawing the pillow-pads, gasping with
shock as the subconsciously-induced adrenalin shivered through her
system. As she calmed down, her pupils dilated out from crisis-
induced pinpricks, her breathing and pulse rates returned to normal,
and she wondered, not for the first or last time, if life was like
this in the private sector. She scrambled off the bed as it began
to deflate and retract into the wall.
Her personalised holographic news service activated as she stepped
into the shower. It took the appearance of an old man dressed in a
monk's habit, who bore a strong resemblance to William S. Burroughs.
It leered at her, and croaked,
`Rough night last night?' She pushed the oxygen control with the
heel of her hand, took a few deep snorts. Under the stream of
high-pressure hot water, she soaped herself and replied,
`Mind your own ratty business, line-noise. What's on the agenda
for today?' The news laughed, wheezing and rasping.
`Come on, seriously! I refuse to believe that you don't remember
the event you have been awaiting, for - how long has it been?' She
turned off the shower, snorted some more oxygen and, with a warm
towel over her shoulders, found some clean underwear and a long
jumper she had only worn three times since it was washed last.
`Three months. You can assume that I've been on the ExPort
waiting list for so long that I've forgotten where I'm supposed to be
going. Put on some music and refresh my memory.' The news spoke
over the soft sounds of a song by `This Mortal Coil':
`You are due at the NoSan'No'Os ExPort at nine-thirty, to check in
for your pre-flight examination and briefing.' Kelanie, vigorously
towelling her hair and wondering if she had time for her pelvic
exercises, looked up.
`The ship's in, is it?'
`Due to arrive this afternoon, departs for Copperla, Syndaine and
other points towards galactic centre at eleven-fifty this morning.'
She smiled wryly.
`"Other points towards galactic centre", eh? As a government
agency, aren't we entitled to more detailed information than that?'
The news lowered its simulated holographic eyebrows and intoned,
`The NoSan'No'Os still refuse to recognise the Interim Government.
It is their opinion that, since the Maracites have only been in
office for ninety-two years, that they cannot be treated seriously.'
Kelanie found one of her mech boots, and, while looking through the
closet for the other, retorted, her voice muffled,
`Stuff "seriously"... "decency", or "common courtesy" would be
nice.' The news, which was a sub-contracted system of the
NoSan'No'Os, replied in a carefully neutral tone,
`I will remind Miss Camden that the NoSan'No'Os still regard
humanity as little better than animals, and that NoSan'No'Os
transport services are supplied to xenoforms with a much greater
level of social sophistication than humanity, with an equal level of
disregard for what you term "decency" or "common courtesy". All are
Equal. None Is Favored.' This was said with the assurance of an
aphorism. She said nothing as she found her other boot. She sipped
lemyn juice from the dispenser as she cold-booted her boots; they
shuddered, purred and beeped as their diagnostic routines finished.
`Okay. Any more on my assignment?'
`Nuh-uh.'
`Sigh... okay, where did I leave my notepad?'
`I think it's under the heap of clothes next to the dryer.' She
retrieved it, and tapped the function key to open a channel to the
transport pool.
`Single to the NoSan'No'Os ExPort by nine-thirty.' While waiting
for a response, she threw some more clothes in a mesh bag. The
xenoform in the Transport department gurgled back at her, and a touch
of exasperation sharpened her tone. `Is there anyone down there who
speaks Anglic?'
`Foogle.' replied the xenoform.
`Oh, line-noise.' she retorted.
* * * * *
NoSan'No'Os: (from "Nos-a-Nos", pre-reconciliation Scriptive,
"Circle within the Circle") Dominant ruling
bureaucracy controlling more than ninety thousand
systems by virtue of monopoly on information,
transport and energy-conversion technology.
- Foley's `Unofficial Documents'
She climbed into the transport through the roof-hatch and slid into
the seat. The driver said in a buzzing accent,
`Of destination, be in state of definition.' She replied,
`NoSan'No'Os ExPort, and put some wings on it, hey?' As she
buckled the safety belt, the driver's head rotated one hundred and
eighty degrees, and she found herself looking into the faceted eyes
of something resembling a six-foot stick insect.
`Of wings, be in state of indicating correct placement.' it
chirred through its cheap translator.
`Just drive, okay? The NoSan'No'Os ExPort.' The driver slowly
waved its antennae, staring at her, and then turned back to the
control column and instrument panel. As the transport lifted from
the ground and into the stream of AV traffic overhead, the driver hit
a key on its heads-up array with a mandible, and the vehicle was
filled with raucous mariachi music. Gritting her teeth, Kelanie
paged through the Species ID section of her notepad, until she
identified the driver as a lower-caste Kaelen. Reading further:
`... when requesting respectful silence for the involved
"Hive Separation" ritual, the Kaelen Queen emits a
pheromone (scent chem.ref 976541) and emits a traditional
"cry of distress" screech-tone (hear aud.ref 976537)'
She patched the audio reference through to her notepad, held it up
so that the point speaker was just behind the Kaelen's backwards-
pointing resonator-plate, and keyed it. It played louder than she
expected, and the transport almost fell out of the traffic stream as
the Kaelen frantically chewed at the heads-up array controls. The
music cut off in mid-trumpet-bray.
`Of interpersonal relationships, being placed in situation of
obligation due to social error.' She kept reading until she had
finished the section on the Kaelen lower caste.
When the transport had settled on the concrete pad at the southern
edge of the NoSan'No'Os ExPort, she climbed out and tapped the
driver's side window, which lowered with the grinding sound of
poorly-lubricated biotech fairings.
`Of interpersonal relationship, emphasis! placed in situation of
obligation due to error.' She held up her right hand, made a fist,
splayed her fingers and said,
`Of large-array social status, in state of adjusted obligation.',
which meant, in effect, that humanity was in some way indebted to the
Kaelen and this exchange had mitigated that debt somewhat. She
smiled, and the Kaelen's antennae flattened out. She was impressed;
here was a lower-caste xenoform that could interpret human facial
expressions. Most xenos didn't bother. This Kaelen was probably a
university student.
She strolled across the expanse of concrete, swinging the mesh bag,
shading her eyes from the morning sun with her forearm. Apart from
the control/customs bunker, the ExPort resembled a series of linked
concrete ovals. As she crossed the lower of six outer landing pads,
she half-expected to see a cricket pitch set in the middle.
She was met at the warehouse-sized door of the bunker by a boy who
appeared to be about twelve years old, wearing bright green shorts
and t-shirt, and skate-board pads on his knees. He brushed aside a
wayward fringe of carrot-coloured hair, and waved to her.
`Miss Camden? Bureau of Procuration? Hi, i'm Denkaster, Port
Administrator.' She followed him into the open-space office and took
the seat he offered her. `Do you have your medical records handy?'
he asked, sorting through a pile of fiche plates on his cluttered
desk. She nodded, and touched the Match Fields key on her notepad,
which emitted the familiar `screeee' sound of notepads matching
carrier frequencies. While the notepads exchanged handshaking
signals and then information, she asked,
`Do you know where this transport is going? after Syndaine, that
is?' Denkaster sighed, found the fiche he was looking for and
replied,
`'fraid not... you know the NoSan'No'Os, never tell us anything.
Although I do have some notes from your section head on Syndaine that
relate to your assignment... your notepad should have them now.' She
thanked him absently and started paging through file areas looking
for the information, which had been, as usual, mis-keyed as
`corrections to existing documentation'.
Sitting in the departures lounge, Kelanie read the notes. She was
expected to travel to `Millimillenary' (a central exchange for
passengers of the NoSan'No'Os, ninety-five light years away), and to
`entertain' an executive of the Tendeysharhi, a species she had never
heard of. In fact, her notepad had never heard of them either.
`Wonderful. How the hell am I supposed to work with a sentient
that I've never seen before?'. Reading on, she noted with rising
indignation that Starkey, her section head, expected her to interview
the members of the Tendeysharhi entourage, with a view to picking up
the proper etiquette and approach. Angrily, she punched Starkey's
phone number into her notepad.
Starkey answered, though as usual, she employed video filters to
prevent anyone from identifying her. In a weary voice, Kelanie
asked,
`Okay, Robyn, what's the big deal? How am I supposed to make it
with an alien that the Registry hasn't even heard of? Line-noise, I
don't even know if it's an oxygen-breather!'
`Kelanie, dearest... how are you?' Robyn's filtered voice only just
matched the aliased squares that represented her lips, and again
Kelanie wondered if she was working for an artificial intelligence.
If this was the case, Kelanie was not surprised that Starkey wanted
to keep it quiet, given the NoSan'No'Os' restrictions on
machine-based consciousness.
`I'm just a tad apprehensive about giving a blow-job to something
which may or may not have a dick, that's all!' Kelanie replied
sarcastically. Robyn held up a hand, palm out. It appeared as a
mass of pale pink squares on the display projected by Kelanie's
notepad.
`I know, I know... this was dumped in my lap, and I don't know any
more about it than you, although we're laying even money that it has
something to do with the Humanist faction in the Maracites-' Robyn
stopped when she saw the "I don't want to get drawn into another
tedious political argument" expression on Kelanie's face. `- and...
well, at the base level, it's to seal a trade agreement with the
Tendeysharhi. What else can I say?'
`You could tell me something about Millimillenary, for a start...
have you ever been there?' Kely thought she detected a smile on
Robyn's face.
`Once. There are other humans there, I believe. And despite what
you've undoubtedly heard of the NoSan'No'Os, you won't be treated
like a sardine in a tin. Their ships are often nearly empty, when
heading back towards the Centre.' Kelanie tilted her head to one
side, staring at the surrealist image that her notepad was showing.
`Robyn... what do you think about the NoSan'No'Os?' This time, she
was sure that Robyn smiled, before giving the Bureau salute (pressing
the back of her hand to her lips) and hanging up.
* * * * *
<000077> requesting connection ............
connection established connection established
what do you want, 000077? I'm
very busy at the moment. You are always very busy! We
have to query this expenditure.
which one?
Authorisation: 492497A9, Code
AF1CF3C7F8C65E98A06ED63C87E542C
Ahh yes. (Miscellaneous), relating to
the termination of N-FRF-Knh/K.
What seems to be the problem?
Isn't 5x10 to the minus two CCI
rather a lot to devote to the
elimination of one race?
It is indeed. I think it's
justified, though. Well, okay, sure, but can you
give us some explanation? This
(sigh) is going to throw out our
quarterly budget something
Your place is to accept orders shocking.
and execute them. My place is
to formulate orders. That is
all the explanation I need to Understood...
give. To you, particularly. Understood, but -
(pause)
Would you be interested in
(viewing) my simulations and
projections of this species? If
you have four (years) to spare,
you might find them
illuminating. Besides, what `Illuminating', ha, ha!
business is this of yours?
Isn't this more 997913's Indeed! it is, it is... but
domain? his system borders on mine and
quite a few others... and there
are a few of us who think that
997913 has not been handling
997913 has been taking orders this concern properly.
directly from me. I have been
concerned with this matter Ah.
ever since we first contacted
N-FRF-Knh/K; call it, ah,
intuition, but I suspected `Intuition'? Oh, never mind.
from the start that they would That's your domain.
be a problem. I thought that
we could absorb them somehow,
but it didn't prove feasible.
They would change us. Is that possible?
It is, trust me. I see. Ah, can we use the
unallocated PSym resources for
Certainly. In fact, I have this?
been meaning to call you, to
let you know, the priority
for this termination has been
bumped up from two hundred
and forty-one to twenty-eight. Oh? This is going to upset a
lot of the NAPAISubs.
Too bad. Just do it. Oh, by
the way, keep your (eyes) on
200211... he's been acting
somewhat strangely in the Will do.
past quarter.
NAPAI closing connection NAPAISub closing connection
`The Parkry are a biological anomaly; hive creatures,
evolved from a much smaller insectoid form, developing
lungs to replace the smaller-scale spiracle system, and
yet not developing voices to go with them. They rely
completely on written or electronic means of
communication, and are thus ideally suited to the
administrative positions that they occupy in the
NoSan'No'Os' structure. They are entirely pacifistic,
having no territorial imperatives beyond a vague sense of
duty to the hive; an evolutionary memory that has been,
for the most part, replaced with a sense of duty towards
the NoSan'No'Os.'
- Martini Baton, `What the Hell is THAT?', Chapter Two
She didn't hear the ship arrive, being absorbed in her search
through the ExPort's closed database for information relating to the
Tendeysharhi. Looking out of the warehouse-sized doors, she noticed
that the sky now appeared to be overcast. However, sunlight glinted
off the metallic edges of a nearby building, and she saw signs of
activity around her. She stood, stretched, and sauntered over to the
nearest gate. Outside and overhead, she could see the bottom of some
huge curved shape, patterned like stained concrete, slowly sinking to
the ground. On the base of the ship, directly in line with the gate
she stood in was an oval gap, about twice as wide as the gate,
completely dark, as if filled with black glass. The glass appeared
to melt from the centre towards the edges, and stevedores began
shifting cargo trolleys. They took care to avoid the short figures
dressed in dark grey that scuttled out on four legs from the rear of
the ship's cargo bay. Kelanie knew them; Parkry, hive creatures who
made up most of the administrative staff of the NoSan'No'Os. One of
them turned its blank, golden-eyed, mouthless face to her and
beckoned with a three-jointed arm. It didn't wait to see if she
followed, merely turned and trotted back into the ship.
`This is it?' she peered into the round hatch, about a metre wide,
with an expression of distaste. The silent Parkry glanced at her
from underneath the brow of its curiously flattened head, pointed
again, executed a 180-degree turn on its four stick-insect-like legs
and left. She shrugged, hefted her mesh bag and climbed through. It
was smaller than her apartment; spherical, lined with something like
grey foam rubber. There was a faint smell of aphrodisia incense, as
if the berth had previously been occupied by Kabouter-hippies. No
bed, datapoint or light-source, apart from the sodium glow that came
from the corridor. She sat crosslegged in the middle of the floor,
tossed her mesh bag aside; it rolled down the curve of the room to
rest against her leg. When she activated her notepad, she was
surprised to find that the ship had a local data service, albeit a
limited one, offering little more than expected departure time and a
simple interactive map of the ship, with restricted areas marked by
the NoSan'No'Os segmented circle-starburst symbol. There were other
areas in this data service to explore, but she decided to leave them
alone for the moment, not through prudence in not disturbing the
NoSan'No'Os, but to leave her something to do during the trip, which
would take between three and seven days, if the translation was
accurate.
According to the info postings from this system, the ship was under
way, and had already left earth orbit. She felt no acceleration or
other sense of motion; leaving her bag and fixing the berth's
location in her backbrain, she decided to try and find a window.
Robyn was right; the ship was almost deserted. In ten minutes'
wandering through the series of corridors that radiated from a
central shaft, she only saw four Parkry, who scuttled by, tacitly
ignoring her, and something like a six-legged Saint Bernard, which
circled her while she stood stock-still, too cautious to make any
possibly offensive moves. It stopped, looked up at her (this was the
impression she got, though the xenoform lacked obvious visual organs)
and then ran off. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, and then
started looking for a toilet.
She allowed herself a slight measure of distress when she began to
suspect that the Tertiary language didn't even have a word that
related to the concept of `toilet'. She eventually found a vague
reference to an organic recycling service and proceeded to the map
reference. It was a room very much like her berth, lined with grey
sponge plastic, sealed with a weak field that contained the faint
odour of chemicals and containing a water-filled pit. She wrinkled
her nose in distaste, but after assuring herself that she was alone,
proceeded to use the facilities. She then made her way back to her
berth, with the firm intention of spending the rest of the trip in a
state of low- metabolic-rate sleep.
When she got there, she found a large cat in her berth.
When she climbed in to the room, the moggy awoke immediately, fixed
its emerald gaze on her and put its ears back. She froze. It looked
like a very tall, thin, wiry humanoid covered with thick, banded grey
fur and with strangely jointed legs. And a tail, which was now
slowly lashing to and fro behind it. There were fluffy tufts of
white fur poking out of its ears, and a mat of similar fur running
down its chest. It yowled something, to which her notepad could only
beep apologetically; fortunately, it had its own translator, which
snarled something like `Anyhah-araha eiyaha' at her, followed by some
sort of insectoid chittering. She spoke to the xenoform's
translator.
`Terrestrial Anglic, thank you.' The translator, shaped something
like a flattened bottle, made some purring noises, and then said in
Anglic,
`My room, my territory. I was here first. Mine.' She pointed to
her bag, which the xeno had apparently opened and gone through,
spreading her clothes over the floor of the berth.
`My bag. My property. It was here before you were, my claim to
this territory.' The xeno narrowed its eyes and growled softly. She
continued, `I will call a Parkry, they will decide -' the xeno
yowled, and the translator interrupted hastily.
`No, no, I am content to share. I will sleep in the middle. Do
not make excessive noise or excrete on the floor.' She was about to
say something like "well, just who the hell do you think you are,
buster?" when she remembered previous experiences with alien language
translators, and she kept her silence. The Xenoform curled up into a
compact ball, lashed its tail around it and closed its eyes warily.
She sighed, and carefully lay down beside it, smiling bemusedly when
she heard it start to purr. She composed herself and began the
mental exercises to prepare for a period of extended sleep. She
slowed her breathing, inserted some links into her sub-conscious to
awaken her if her notepad should sound an alarm for any reason, and
then drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She woke to find that the xeno had shifted and was sleeping with
its forepaws across her hips, its head against the small of her back.
The soft purring had deepened to a husky `brrr', and she woke fully
when it gently butted its head against her back and made a small
`riowr' sound. She tried to turn without moving her body from the
shoulders down, an d could see one large paw, the size of a tennis
raquet, with three-centimetre-long claws extending and sheathing
reflexively, making tiny indentations in the bare flesh of her hip.
Proceeding with caution, she took the paw in her free hand and gently
lifted it. The claws quivered, and then extended to their full five
centimetres, clutching her hip in their broad span, the points of the
claws sinking in a few millimetres.
`Excuse me.' she murmured. The xeno's translator ignored her.
`HEY!' she shouted. The xenoform awoke with a start, digging its
claws further into her hip. She twitched, but remained where she
was.
`Take your paw off me.' The xeno's translator paused for a long
moment, and then yowled at the xeno in its native language. The xeno
sheathed its claws, flicked its ears back momentarily, and curled up
again, excluding her from its personal space. She turned over,
closed her eyes and composed herself for sleep again; within half an
hour, the xeno had its paw on her hip again, whereupon the ywent
through the same procedure; and again some two hours after that,
after which she gave up and went to sleep in the passageway.
She regained consciousness two days later, to visit the toilet
again. She slowly stretched, licked her dry lips, and then noticed
the xeno sitting curled up at her feet, like a doormat patterned in
grey stripes, outside the berth. It was gazing at her intently. It
yowled, and its translator said,
`You sleep. Why?'
`No food. Little water. Not hungry when asleep.' The xeno's ears
flattened when the translator reported this. It uncurled from its
station at her feet, entered the berth (on all fours), and emerged
with a bloody haunch of raw meat in its jaws. She went pale, and
backed away slightly when the xeno offered it to her. It regarded
her with an air of obvious surprise for a moment, waggled its ears
and then tore into the meat itself, keeping a wary eye on her.
* * * * *
`The Tendeysharhi are a classic example of parallel
evolution, in that they resemble, superficially, large
felines, and many feline traits, including an acute sense
of territoriality, feline language structure (which tends
towards subtly-intoned yowls and screeches) and a
tendency to shed large amounts of fur at certain times of
the year. The females are noticeably more violent and
territorial than their mates. The Tendeysharhi did not
develop a science sufficient to begin space exploration
on their own; they were `apprenticed' to the Moridani
before the Purge, and were allowed to join the
NoSan'No'Os as a subject race after it.'
- Martini Baton, `What the Hell is THAT?', Chapter Five
The hatch melted away, and a breeze wafted into the entry hold,
carrying with it the strange fragrance of another world. The light
had a golden-bronze hue to it; the sky faded from a pale gold
directly overhead to a curious yellow-green at the horizon. It
reminded her of the patina found in the folds of old bronze statues.
The sounds of dozens of different languages overlaid and formed
counterpoint to the squeaks, pops, mellifluous surging chords and
crashes of alien music. The air pressure seemed a bit higher than
earth's; the gravity a bit less. There was definitely a higher
oxygen content in the air, and she felt giddy as she danced down the
exit ramp, resisting the temptation to swing her mesh clothes-bag.
The cat-like xenoform raced past her on all fours, yowling as if its
tail were on fire, and vanished into the crowd of Parkry who were
rushing to get on board the ship. She ploughed a furrow through them
and made her way to the customs hut, a pale blue geodesic dome with
three triangular archways cut into it. Her giddiness was tempered by
the sight of dozens of tall Plateau Bythians casually lounging around
the ExPort, all of them toting dull grey plastic weapons. She
entered the dome, and felt the itchy tickling feeling that
accompanied mass-spectronometric scanning as she passed through the
doorway. No immediately obvious alarms went off, so she assumed that
the devices she posessed were within current NoSan'No'Os levels of
acceptability. She'd heard nasty stories of people who had tried to
commute just before the last Purge, when the standard of Interdicted
technology had been dropped while they were carrying things like
empathic personality emulators and nano-gated NeuralNet arrays.
She set her translator to `NoSan'No'Os Tertiary', the language used
to communicate with subject races (of which humanity was one), and
entered the dome. There was a queue, but it was leading in the other
direction, from the other side of the ExPort and into the ship. A
smaller-than-average Parkry was propped next to a data-post, holding
a vocoder hand-set and waving at her. She went over and sat before
the xenoform, crossing her legs. The Parkry massaged the hand-set,
and the data-post said something in Tertiary. Her notepad's
translator responded immediately:
`Query: Full Name. Origin. Purpose for visit.'
`Kelanie A'liiya Camden, Earth, Diplomatic Exchange.' At this, the
Parkry glanced over from the holographic output from the data-post.
It squeezed the hand-set, keeping its glittering eyes on her. More
Tertiary.
`Expression of interest, your reference: Diplomatic Exchange.
Query: Which Bureau." She sighed, safe in the knowledge that the
translator would ignore it, and replied,
`Bureau of Procuration.' The Parkry seemed to lose interest. It
gave her a plastic bracelet, studded with a pattern of metallic dots,
and the data-post played a recorded message, in flat, unaccented
Anglic:
`This clothing is your identification while you are staying on
Millimillenary. Do not lose it, sell it or exchange it for
interdicted technology. You will not be allowed to leave the planet
without it. It is resistant to all chemicals and temperatures above'
(here, the post made a sound like a poorly-tuned radio), `and below'
(a sound like a bass-pitched dog's whine). `Please note: it is not
resistant to thermonuclear, fusion or ComonCurensy isotope detonation
above the thirty megaton range. Put it on now.' The Parkry was
watching her again, so she wrapped it around her left wrist and
pressed the ends together, which melded to form a single piece.
`This clothing can only be removed by an authorised agent of the
NoSan'No'Os, on your departure from Millimillenary.' The interview
appeared to be over. She stood up, and wandered towards an exit,
where small groups of Parkry were still queueing for departure
processing. She fished the video-eyepiece (which she had not used
since she last visited Japan) from a pouch in her bag and put on the
headband, the eyepiece hanging over her left eye like a pirate's
eyepatch. It made a tiny `peep' noise as it matched carriers with
her notepad, and the view through the eyepiece blurred momentarily.
One by one, as the processor in her notepad identified and translated
them, various signs written in Tertiary were marked and translations
were appended in the eyepiece's view. She spotted a data-post marked
`Free Information for the Newcomer' and went over to it. She spoke
to her notepad;
`Excuse me? I need information.' The data-post made pretty
holographic moire patterns to indicate that it was thinking, and then
replied, in Anglic,
`Please be more specific.'
`I need to locate food, water and a place to sleep. I also need to
locate other humans on Millimillenary, if there are any.' Another
pause, more moire-patterns, and then,
`Food and water for humans can be obtained from the Human Embassy,
at LFFRE-77153. No information regarding requirements for,' and it
quoted her words, playing a sample of her saying "a place to sleep",
`is available. You will find other humans at the Embassy.' It
displayed a map (which looked like it might have been designed by
Piet Mondrian). Her notepad translated the text, and if she was any
judge of distance, the Embassy appeared to be about seven hundred
kilometres away from the ExPort.
`Are there any places matching my requirements, closer to the
ExPort? If so, please list the five closest, and the distance to
them.' Another pause, and then:
`There are three. "Maracite Information Exchange Registry",
LFFRB-77151, six hundred and ninety-three blocks from here to there,
"Church of the SubGenius", LLFRB-77122, six hundred and fifty-one
blocks from here to there,' - another pause - '"Waddell's Emporium of
Extremely Fashionable Attire and Quite Nice Ice Cream Parlour",
NRNAL-10021, two blocks from here to there.' These three were
represented by tiny red inverted `A's on the map, two of them close
to the Embassy, the ice-cream parlour so close to the ExPort that it
appeared almost to be on the same block. She took a snapshot of the
map with her notepad, expanded it until she could see enough details
to find the ice-cream parlour and left the dome.
Millimillenary appeared to be completely covered by city-scape, the
entire habitable surface of the planet divided up into a grid, with
buildings that reached up for about fifty storeys, providing a third
dimension that the map wasn't required to show. The streets were
based in pale concrete, paved with slippery white ceramic plates, and
would have been rather drab and utilitarian if it wasn't for the
hundreds of different xenoforms who streamed up and down them. There
appeared to be a large single lane of foot-traffic (or at least what
passed for feet on some beings) moving in one direction, and two
smaller lanes on either side, moving in the other direction. This
tended to work to the disadvantage of the sentients who were on the
outside lanes, and it became apparent that it was often easier to
travel three or four blocks out of your way, just to use the quicker
inner lane. In places, she saw what appeared to be short grey trees,
bare of leaves, the branches dividing into three from the base,
progressively sub-dividing to a mass of thread-like tips. She
reached out to stroke a branch which was about the thickness of her
little finger, and it writhed away from her touch.
Waddell's shop occupied the entire ground floor of one block; the
outside was a mass of holographic signs in dozens of languages,
including Anglic, Russic Europan and Katakana. There were beeps,
squeaks and hums that she recognised as signs for xenoforms that
didn't have a visual sense. She spent a few minutes looking for a
door, found one (concealed within a hologram of a two-metre-tall
chocolate sundae - her mouth was watering already) and entered.
The ice-cream parlour was located in the centre of the store, with
the clothing displays surrounding it. The clothes looked like
theatrical costumes - surely, no-one wore Elizabethan ruffs these
days! She began to think that this store catered more for xenoforms
who wanted to dress up than for actual humans. She wondered why she
hadn't thought to ask the data-post at the ExPort exactly how many
humans there were on Millimillenary. At least the music was
terrestrial - early Robert Smith.
There was a dejected-looking young man with short dark hair sitting
behind the counter. He was cleaning a small metal part from a
blender that was disassembled around him. A xeno that resembled a
metre-tall kiwi-bird hopped up on to the counter and said,
`Reeee? Reeeeeeee?' He took a glazed cherry from a bowl nearby and
tossed it to the xeno, which caught it with the end of its long,
flexible snout and jumped off. She approached the counter, and with
an audible `click', turned off her notepad. The young man froze.
`Excuse me, i'd like to order a chocolate s-' he looked up, and
almost fell off the stool he was perched on. He leaped off the
stool, dropping the part he was cleaning, rushed over and grabbed her
shoulders. He stared into her face with a disturbing intensity.
`Are... are you a human?' He was trembling.
`Yes... why? You seem rather upset.' His eyes grew wide, and a
look of hysterical disbelief appeared.
`Upset... upset, she says. My god! You are only the third human
being that I have seen in seven years! UPSET!!!' he began to laugh
hysterically. She broke free from his grasp, and grabbed him by the
front of his shirt. He kept laughing, eyes squeezed shut, and she
was obliged to slap him. He stopped abruptly, gasping, face almost
white except for a red palm-print, staring at her in shock. `I'm
sorry.' he whispered, turning and stumbling back to the counter,
picking up the polishing-rag as he went. It was then that she
noticed a chain bolted around his ankle. She rushed after him,
catching his arm and spinning him around to face her again. He
refused to meet her gaze, so she took his chin in her hand and lifted
his face. He closed his eyes and tried to struggle free. She threw
her arm around his shoulder, drew him close and pressed her lips to
his. After a moment's hesitation, he responded, returning her
attention hungrily. His hands slipped around her waist, hugging her
to him intently, slowly forcing her back onto the counter. She let
him proceed, wondering what sort of circumstance could put someone in
a position where he had to live apart from his own people for so
long.
She got the story out of him eventually. His name was Marek, and
his great-grandparents had started this venture out, just over a
hundred years ago, when the NRNAL-10021 district was still under
development. As the district became less local- and more tourist-
oriented, the business prospered to the point where they owned the
entire block, right up to the fiftieth floor; at this point, they had
attracted the attention of a sub-set of the Parkry, who demanded a
cut of the profits. When Marek's grandparents had refused, they had
been denounced to the NoSan'No'Os as possible technocrats, in the
employ of the Interdicted Moridani, and had been banished. Marek's
parents, too young to join his grandparents in exile, had been
indentured to a local Information Trader, who had taken over the
business (after assuring the Parkry that they would get their cut).
`... which, as I rapidly learned, was the way things were done
around here. Still are, in fact.' Marek fell silent. Kelanie
hugged him again.
`What I can't understand is they would put you into such menial,
mind-numbing labour as this, when you would be more useful to them in
an -' he glanced up at her.
`- administrative position?' He scowled. `Kelanie, this entire
planet is knee-deep in bureaucrats. I could spend several lifetimes
here, gradually moving up the ranks, and one day, maybe, MAYBE, I
would get to a position where I could filch a packet of blank memory
cartridges. Maybe.' Kelanie was silent. Marek hadn't yet realised
how high up in the structure her position was.
There was an awkward pause, during which Marek absently polished an
already-gleaming spoon. Kelanie's stomach broke the silence with the
sort of gurgle you'd get from not eating for three days. She glanced
longingly at the array of ice-cream-like substances; Marek glanced at
her apologetically, and then rushed to prepare a `Waddell Special'
for her.
After sharing the large sundae with him, she asked if there was
somewhere she could sleep, and Marek pointed to a pile of hessian-
like sacks in an alcove, evidently his home. The chain from his leg
was fixed to a point next to a small wash-trough from which water
gurgled quietly. There were a few holograms pasted on the wall, and
a small audio player. She took him by the hand and led him over to
his bed.
* * * * *
`If that's the way it looks, then it probably is, but I
would be tempted to take it apart anyway, just to be
sure.'
Aln Riker, from `Riker's Defense', NoSan'No'Os
Interdiction Trial Records
She woke a few hours later, with a sore throat from the sharp
oxygen-rich air. Marek was hugging her as if he were afraid that
she'd escape. She idly stroked his cheek, smiling. It wasn't often
that she had the time, or the inclination, for such recreational
activity in her position. The intensity of the emotion Marek had
revealed after his isolation touched her deeply, and she began
turning various schemes around in her mind, with a view to releasing
him from his servitude.
Marek noticed the bracelet she had received at the Millimillenary
ExPort.
`What did you do to deserve that?'
`The Parkry at the ExPort gave it to me when I arrived... what do
you mean, "deserve it"? Marek stroked the pattern of raised metallic
dots.
`It looks like the markers that the NoSan'No'Os place on crates of
interdicted technology... I think it's an identifier for possible
criminal activity, sort of like a warning... it means that if you
were arrested, you'd be taken to the Office of Threat Termination
immediately, no questions asked.'
`Threat Termination? That sounds a bit extr-' Suddenly, a voice,
speaking in Anglic, called out from the main counter.
`Waiter? Way-y-te-r-r!!!!' She was mildly surprised to recognise
the voice - it belonged to a pre-millennium video actor, Rik Mayall.
She turned over, and peered at the counter. She couldn't see
anything there, but the voice called out again, in exactly the same
tones. She suspected that it was being generated by a digital
sampler. She got up, draped some loose bedding material around her
shoulders, but after realising that there were very few xenoforms on
Millimillenary that would be offended by a naked human, she draped
the cloth over Marek instead and went over to the counter, taking her
notepad just in case `waiter, waiter' was the alien's complete Anglic
vocabulary. Looking over the counter, she saw something like a
swollen turtle shell, almost two metres long and a metre tall. She
could see her reflection in the smooth, glossy black surface; the
shell was completely featureless, not even a sign of feet, wheels or
other methods of propulsion - it seemed to slide along the ground by
sheer willpower. She felt a faint tickling sensation behind her
breastbone as the xeno turned to face her, probably caused by some
sort of sonar-based sense. The xeno spoke again, employing another
audio sample, a very old one judging from the degree of noise that
accompanied it:
`Where's our fish? We've finished our fish!' Kelanie was paging
through her notepad's Species ID files, which had been greatly
augmented by access to the local data service; this alien lacked a
name that could be easily represented in human terms, and was simply
denoted by the code `N-SVW-Tre/A'. There was a Tertiary language
interface available, so she patched it in and spoke to it.
`How may I serve you?' The notepad converted her expression to
Tertiary, and from there to N-SVW-Tre/A, which sounded like a wavery
cockatoo screech which rose in volume and then faded again.
Apparently, the N-SVW-Tre/A's natural communication took place on a
frequency higher than human hearing, because the translator returned
its response after a short pause, during which all Kelanie heard was
the faint jingling and crashing of the music.
`I had thought you incapable of sarcasm, Marek. (carriage return
line feed). Have you been taking lessons behind my back? (carriage
return line feed). And from which of our worthy customers did you
steal that instrument? (carriage return line feed). I believe that
it is high on the NoSan'No'Os Interdiction list, if it is what it
appears to be, and if you continue to point it at me, I will have you
beaten. (end of file).'
What an asshole, (carriage return line feed), Kelanie thought.
Marek rushed up, pulling on a pair of pants, and threw himself down
in front of the xeno, kneeling, arms thrust back, forehead almost
touching the floor. Acting on instinct, Kelanie started a
holographic recording, sure that Marek's employer was about to give a
graphic example of how poorly it treated him. The tickling feeling
wavered, as if the xeno was having trouble distinguishing between
them; it finally oriented towards Marek, edged closer to him and
suddenly lashed out with a club-like flipper, hitting Marek on the
side of the head and almost knocking him down. Kelanie watched,
restraining herself; the holographic recording clearly showed blood
running from a deep scratch on Marek's forehead. The xeno turned to
leave, and Kelanie nodded, stopping the recording. After finding a
particularly cutting insult in the N-SVW-Tre/A's relation-table, she
stepped over and delivered a solid kick to the rear end of the xeno's
shell, pushing the alien across the floor into a cluster of
hat-stands, one of which fell over. The xeno shuddered like a
stalled motor-vehicle for a moment, and then seemed to regain its
composure, turning to face her like an armoured tank. She felt the
tickling feeling definitely as the blank curved turtle shape surged
towards her. Marek grabbed her arm and whispered,
`Come on, don't make things any worse than they -' She held out her
notepad and thumbed the `Send' key. It gave out a short screech that
stopped the N-SVW-Tre/A in its tracks. There was a moment of
silence, during which even the background music seemed to quieten.
Kelanie felt the tickling feeling waver as the xeno hesitantly looked
her over. It hissed, and her notepad translated.
`Confirm. (carriage return line feed)' She smiled grimly, typed
her response, sent the translation. It was so quiet that she could
hear Marek breathing behind her. The xeno's response must have been
highly emotional, as it was carried on a sound-wave that was well in
the supersonic range... the translator caught it, though:
`Such transactions are not covered by NoSan'No'Os Code. (carriage
return line feed). You must offer a minimum amount to allow a tax to
be levied on the exchange. (end of file).' She popped a dull
metallic sphere out of plastic bubble-pack she had been given at the
Earth ExPort, and tossed it to the floor in front of the xeno, which
scrambled after it and then turned to leave. As it trundled away,
she felt the tickling feeling intensify, almost to the point of an
ache, which suddenly cut off as the N-SVW-Tre/A passed through the
exit.
`Marek?' He had vanished. She followed the chain that had looped
around one of the stools mounted behind the counter, and led to the
Millimillenarian equivalent of a broom cupboard. Marek was crouched
inside, with a piece of recycled hessian paper-cloth pressed against
the cut on his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. `Marek, you can
come out now. It's safe.'
`He's going to kill me. He's going to come back and kill me and
cut me up and feed the pieces to his children. He said that he'd do
that one day if I ever got out of line.' Kelanie knelt down next to
Marek, putting her arms around him.
`He won't. He can't, because I bought you from him. In fact, I
bought the whole enterprise.' Marek opened his eyes and stared at
her.
`You couldn't have. I doubt that anyone on Earth has enough money
to buy this property - what did you say to him?'
`I reminded him of a sub-section of the NoSan'No'Os Code, the part
regarding proper treatment of equipment and subject races, and I told
him that if the InterSpecies Advisory group saw this recording I'd
made, that he and his entire species could be deported as a possible
`Risk Of Violent Species' classification. I then offered my word as
"a Human" that I'd erase the recording if he sold you to me... and he
couldn't sell you unless he sold the shop as well. Marek's face fell
slightly.
`So, you're my owner now.'
`No! I'm not even your employer - bureau associates aren't allowed
to have anything to do with the private sector. I'll have to sign
the entire thing over to you.' She smiled. Marek got up.
`First thing we have to do, is sell it. My master - my old master-
is probably off right now to find some mercenary Pthalklin Ervae that
he can pay to torch the place, that's the way their minds work... I
know a few factors who'd be interested in this property.' He moved
over to the telephone, keyed the contact panel. Some words appeared
in angular Tertiary script, which her eyepiece translated as `Finding
Free Data Channel: Please Wait'. They waited, Marek tapping his
fingers impatiently on the console. More letters appeared on the
screen:
While You <approx> Are Waiting: Concern <approx> is
experienced by your government's Technological Control
Bureau when rumors/unconfirmed reports <approx> appear,
indicating that the Technological Interdict is not being
taken seriously <approx>. Remember: only you <approx> can
prevent thermonuclear devastation on a wide scale.
Kelanie was incredulous.
`Government propaganda! They never stop, do they... I wonder how
the NoSan'No'Os Bureaucracy has managed to stay together for this
long... I thought that bureaucracy was one of the least inherently
stable forms of government.' Suddenly, the telephone screen cleared,
and a voice spoke in Anglic:
`Human Bureaucracy is inherently unstable. NoSan'No'Os Bureaucracy
is not founded on greed and the inherently human sense of blind
self-importance. This message was brought to you by the office of
Millimillenarian Technological Control.' Marek smiled at this, and
when he caught Kelanie giving him a quizzical look, he said,
`They're always listening... it's just as well you didn't say
anything really inflammatory, otherwise,' (the 'phone pinged, and the
`call open' message flashed up) `those Ervae that my ex-master is
hiring would find a big hole in the ground here when they came to
torch the shop. Anyway, your call is always put through just after
one of those little messages... you just have to be careful that you
don't say something too inflammatory.' Marek addressed the telephone
in flawless Tertiary, and a bizarre psychedelic pattern appeared on
the screen, oscillating and flashing through hundreds of glowing
colours. Kelanie got the impression of two twisted toroids
intertwined in mid-air. Marek asked,
`Keery? Nur-wah Marek, Keery!' Whatever-it-was chattered in
hollow-sounding, oddly-modulated Tertiary, to which Marek rapidly
replied, speaking over the translation that Kelanie's notepad
supplied, going too fast for it to keep up. The thing pulsed bright
green three times; Marek held up five fingers; it pulsed blue-green
four times; Marek held up four fingers with his thumb bent over; the
thing flashed orange, red and a piercing hot pink colour, and the
image disappeared as it broke the connection. Marek stood there for
a few moments, eyes wide, a faint smile on his face. Kelanie left
off fiddling with the notepad's playback, and asked him,
`Keery?'
`Kireedeonibalikathadamiax.'
`Well? Did you sell it? How much did you get for it?' When he
didn't answer, she nudged him and repeated the question.
`Oh? Yeah, she bought it...' He went over to the counter and
started rummaging around underneath, looking for something. She
moved over to join him, shifting boxes as he dragged them out from
underneath the counter.
`Well? Come on, Marek, don't be a tease - how much?' Marek found
what he was looking for - a spherical yellow-glass bottle filled with
clear brown fluid - popped the cap off took a long swig and said:
`Four and one half CCi.' He suddenly sat on the floor, grimacing
at the taste of the fluid.
`CCi?'
`ComonCurensy Isotope. It's the official medium of exchange on all
the NoSan'No'Os Civilised Systems - don't you know anything?'
`Well, apparently, the NoSan'No'Os don't consider Earth civilised
yet... that's the first I've ever heard of - what was it?' Marek got
up, went over to the platform-cash register mounted into the counter,
and retrieved a note from the cash tray. He held it out to her.
`ComonCurensy Isotope. It's a form of sheet-carbon TCI, in an-'
`TCI?'
`Total Conversion Isotope, in an easy-to-fuse format; the
NoSan'No'Os are generally energy-based when it comes to currency.
Earth is still trying to make information-based currency work, aren't
they?' She nodded, examining the note.
`We may be locked into the idea of an economy based on barter, but
at least we don't use this sort of thing anymore.' She held out her
wrist, revealing the silver button contact of her Work-Credit- Hour
meter. Marek took back the note, replacing it in the till from force
of habit.
`This is the largest bill we have - that's a "Five by ten to the
power of minus twelve" CCi note.' He noted her expression, and
grinned. `Yeah... I remember once that the entire human solar system
- all the planets and their resources - was once priced at twenty
CCi.' Kelanie tried to compare that to a recent estimate of the
solar system's worth in Human terms, and gave up, settling for the
approximation that Marek was probably richer than anyone she'd ever
met before - in fact, richer than anyone on Earth.
* * * * *
`...and you've never seen one?'
`I don't think so, no... all I have is the name: "Tendeysharhi",
and the Species ID N-FRF-Bla/G. Mind you, I haven't had a really
good look through the local data service yet - I find myself
continually interrupted...' she smiled at him. They were exploring
the city, looking for somewhere to stay while Kelanie completed her
mission. This was the first time Marek had been outside the shop
since his indenture, sixteen years ago, and he was just as bewildered
as she. They had followed the grid pattern until they came up
against a huge, blank curved wall which cut smoothly through the
streets and buildings. They had back-tracked around the blocks,
coming up against this wall each time, and had made no progress for
about an hour when they decided to stop at something resembling a
street cafe and sort out their next move.
Marek ordered iced tea (the only terrestrial thing on the `Seff
Cafe' menu) while Kelanie tried to sort out the indexing system used
by the local data service.
`This is strange, it's like a binary tree, but it has branches
going both ways...' Kelanie gave up looking for a map that she could
understand without requiring severe modifications to the structure of
her brain, and started tracing N-FRF-Bla/G in the Species ID section.
She found it, right next to "N-FRF-Knh/K" - which was the code for
Humanity; it was that cat-like alien she had met onboard the
NoSan'No'Os transport.
`Crash it,' she murmured, `that xeno could have been the one I was
supposed to meet.' Something had come over to them and was trying to
communicate, tweaking its translator. It had a small, rounded body
perched on long, stilt-like legs, a pair of small hands held up in
front like a kangaroo's; a large domed head with four tiny red eyes
set more or less evenly at the front, a wide, lipless grinning mouth,
and no neck. Its translator said something, some of which Kelanie's
notepad could understand: "Undefined - Undefined - Haircut? -
Undefined." She grinned at Marek. `A Xenoform barber! Do you think
I need a haircut?' The alien bent at the knees, bowing and smirking.
Marek was earnestly trying to help the xenoform fine-tune its
translator when Kelanie spotted a familiar feline form slinking into
a building across the street. She grabbed Marek's arm excitedly,
dragging him away from the cafeteria and the dome-headed xeno. She
pressed up against the clear plastic of the office-space across the
road from the cafeteria, just as a massive explosion rocked the
street, pieces of debris from the cafe clattering against the
sheet-plastic next to them. There was a brief space of silence,
followed by a wierd cacophony of alien moans and hoots of distress.
The air was soon thick with the buzz and click of translators,
overlaid with tinkling bell-like tones - sirens that signalled the
arrival of the Bythian Militia who were soon swarming over the site
like insects from a hive that had been attacked. Kelanie spotted
the barber striding away on its improbably long legs, tucking
something into a spherical satchel. She dragged Marek into the
office-space, glancing about for a doorway out of the front-
desk/screening area that the feline xeno could have taken.
A datapost was mounted into what passed for an enquiries desk.
Kelanie approached it, tugging Marek (who was still trying to see
what was going on across the street) with her.
`Where are we?' she asked the datapost, which displayed the usual
"please wait while I translate that" moire, and then said -
surprisingly, in Anglic:
`Kelanie A'liiya Camden? You had an appointment with Ambassador
Aouwwrr'lrr-Interface-to-the-Enemy this morning. She is in at the
moment if you would like to reschedule that appointment.' Kelanie
was surprised for a moment, and then said,
`Yes... of course. Why wasn't I notified of the meeting?' The
datapost chewed this over for a few moments, and said,
`Evidence points towards a Matter of Pride, between members of the
Tendeysharh Embassy Staff, because you shared a berth on a
NoSan'No'Os Transport with Ambassador Aouwwrr'lrr-
Interface-to-the-Enemy's mate. Impropriety was assumed.' Kelanie
frowned.
`I didn't touch it. Him, whatever! In fact, I deliberately slept
outside the-' she was cut off by a protracted yowl, which was
translated by the datapost and Kelanie's notepad simultaneously.
`Exactly! Wasn't my mate good enough for you?' Kelanie turned to
see the feline xeno that she had spotted from the cafe. She
(assuming it was a `she') was similar in form to the Tendeysharhi
she'd shared the berth with on the NoSan'No'Os transport; slightly
shorter (almost the same height as Kelanie herself); different
markings, a much furrier tail, and what appeared to be an elaborate
gold necklace which, on closer examination, proved to be a
NoSan'No'Os ExoManipulator, a second set of small mechanical hands
which could be worn around the neck. Many races here wore them,
particularly those which had poor substitutes for hands, without
opposable thumbs.
`I was supposed to contact one of your staff with regard to
detailed information about the correct approach to - ' Kelanie began,
and was cut off again by the Tendeysharhi.
`Yes- that is me. While this gesture is largely symbolic, it is
nonetheless important that it be performed properly. Follow me.' The
feline xeno glanced at Marek. `That... can wait outside.' Kelanie
glanced at Marek, smiled, and said,
`This is Marek Waddell, one-time owner of-' she was cut off yet
again - Tendeysharhi seemed to like doing that - as Mrrr'lrr's mate
mewed, flattening her ears, her tail lashing back and forth.
`I have heard of you. We put in a bid for that property, and were
out-priced by "Keery"...' her eyes narrowed to emerald slits, and she
growled, `Can you think of any reason why I should not attack you
right now?' Marek grinned and replied,
`Only that the property isn't worth anything like what Keery paid
for it - the previous owner is going to have it burned to the
ground... if it hasn't happened already...' He paused in thought.
Kelanie was thinking along similar lines.
`Do you think the explosion in the cafe was an attempt on us by
your N-SVW-Tre/A?' Marek shook his head.
`They only hire Pthalklin Ervae for that sort of thing - they have
one of those ninety-year contracts for mercenary work. If I can use
your data service for half an hour,' Marek said to Aouwwrr'lrr, `I
think I can bribe some Parkry and learn something.' Ambassador
Aouwwrr'lrr lashed her tail in a gesture of assent, took Kelanie by
the hand and said,
`Meanwhile, I will instruct your mate in our customs.'
She led Kelanie to a Tendeysharhi conference room, something like a
large tree turned inside-out; branches as thick as Kelanie's waist
emerged from one wall, crossed the room and entered the other. The
light in here was a dim blue-green, from bioluminescent strips
embedded in the domed ceiling. Aouwwrr'lrr perched on a branch about
three metres from the ground, with her chin resting on her paws, and
regarded Kelanie with calm, feline intent. She mewed softly, her
expression tinged with soft purring trills, and Kelanie's translator
offered:
`I am a student of Primate Psychology. I have been a student of
Primate Psychology for six (years), and yet I must confess that I
cannot understand humans.' Kelanie sat on a branch below Aouwwrr'lrr
and replied,
`Feel free to ask me anything. My position requires a knowledge
of, ah, primate psychology.' Aouwwrr'lrr's tail flicked once, and she
said,
`I believe that you came here without being given much
justification from your superiors. Correct?'
`Yes...'
`Don't you feel a need to question that? Don't you want to know
_why_ you've been sent here?' Kelanie thought for a moment, climbed
up to sit with her back against the bole of a tree set into one wall,
then said,
`No, I don't. Most people who work for a government agency - well,
most people at my level - are used to accepting unusual orders and
not questioning them. The world we work in - even, as we are,
occupied by the NoSan'No'Os and with most of the difficult decisions
a government usually faces, taken from them - is very complex, and no
one person could be expected to grasp more than a facet of the whole
thing.' Aouwwrr'lrr narrowed her eyes. Her translator said:
`... and yet someone in the NoSan'No'Os manages this task. Some
single entity somewhere must know exactly what is going on.' Kelanie
suddenly began to have some doubts about this mission. She recalled
something Robyn had once told her: that in some conversations, the
topics were delineated more by what was avoided than what was
discussed. She recalled that the Tendeysharhi had once been a
subject race of the Moridani, who were the dedicated enemy of the
NoSan'No'Os. She turned to frame a very pointed question, but was
surprised by a heavy thump as Aouwwrr'lrr leaped down to land next to
her on the branch. Aouwwrr'lrr held up her paw, claws fully
extended, and said, awkwardly, in Anglic:
`Race like Tendeysharhi, always listen to by 'San'No'Os. Careful,
when you say into translator, of what you will say.' Kelanie was
silent for a moment, then said,
`Tell me how your mate would like to be approached for this
occasion.' They settled down to business, discussing the
Tendeysharhi sexual mores and customs. Kelanie resolved to
investigate this matter further.
* * * * *
`I'm His Highness' dog at Kew:
Pray tell me Sir, whose dog are you?'
Alexander Pope, 1730
Marek was busily applying skills he had picked up from a childhood
spent on a world ruled by the innately bureaucratic Parkry; he was
dealing favors.
`The person at this end is waiting for an opening to appear so that
the person can put forward a proposal.' he said in Tertiary. The
lower-level Parkry official he had found to bribe manipulated a data
hand-set, and the reply was spelled out on the screen:
THE PERSON AT THIS END OWES YOU NO FAVORS BUT WOULD BE INTERESTED
IN ENTERING THAT STATE - ON THE CONDITION THAT ANY RISK OR INNOVATION
COULD BE MINIMISED. Marek smiled. He had never met a Parkry that
wouldn't take a bribe - if it could be assured that there was little
chance of being caught.
`The person at this end, by way of introducing the proposal, wishes
it to be known that it is of Human Origin; that it is proud of its
Human capabilities; that Humanity is seeking to better itself through
becoming a society that uses Information as a basis for exchange, for
currency.'
THE PERSON AT THIS END, WITH TYPICALLY SUBTLE PARKRY PERCEPTION,
PERCEIVES THE TOPIC OF THE PROPOSAL BEFORE IT IS DESCRIBED. HOW CAN
THE PERSON AT THIS END ENRICH THE HUMAN ECONOMY? Marek suddenly
asked, with uncharacteristic bluntness designed to shock the
bureaucrat,
`Have the Militia found the ones responsible for the attack on the
Seff Cafe?' The Parkry hunched its shoulders in surprise.
THE PERSON AT THIS END IS NOT CLEARED FOR MATTERS RELATING TO THE
MILITIA, BUT WILL ATTEMPT TO LOCATE A PERSON THAT IS. PLEASE WAIT.
Marek smiled again, hearing the Parkry's favourite expression.
Things had certainly moved faster when he made it clear how much
money he was willing to devote to the exercise. The bureaucrat
reappeared, bobbing its head when it saw that Marek was still
attending. THE PERSON AT THIS END CAN REVEAL THAT THE MATTER WAS
TAKEN OUT OF THE MILITIA'S HANDS SHORTLY AFTER IT HAPPENED. THE
MATTER HAS BEEN REFERRED UPWARDS.
`Upwards? From the Militia, UPWARDS?'
THE PERSON AT THIS END BELIEVES THAT THIS IS A VERY DELICATE
MATTER. THE PERSON AT THIS END BELIEVES THAT IT MAY HAVE COMPROMISED
ITS POSITION IN FINDING THE INFORMATION THAT HAS BEEN MADE AVAILABLE.
It wanted more money. Marek went to deposit more CCI in the famous
bank account that was officially registered to `Marissey', widely
known as the temporary holding ground for Parkry bribes, but the
bureaucrat at the other end ducked nervously, squeezing the
data-handset in haste:
THE PERSON AT THIS END HAS NOT COMMUNICATED EFFECTIVELY, AND WILL
RESORT TO HUMAN BLUNTNESS: NO MORE INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE. THIS IS
WHOLLY A MILITIA MATTER. Marek donated two by ten to the minus
thirteenth CCI in the account anyway, after hearing this: the
incident originated with the Militia, most likely by an agent hired
by the Militia. He asked,
`Is it possible to speak with a Militia official?' the Parkry
twitched its vestigal antennae; the equivalent of a sardonic chuckle.
The screen cleared and Marek found himself face to face with a
Plateau Bythian, wearing weapons and ammunition belts (even though it
was working in an office). It regarded him from one side of its
hatchet-shaped head with obvious suspicion. Words appeared across
the screen:
`What do you want?' Marek lied skillfully.
`My lifetime-companion was injured today, in an explosion at a cafe
called `Seff's'. We are concerned that such events occur in a
society as... controlled... as this one.' The Bythian turned from
the screen for a moment; Marek could see part of a shortwave-
terminal as the Bythian searched a database; more words appeared.
`The terrorist was apprehended, an agent of the Moridani.' Of
course. `We have a visual:' a window opened on the screen and a
picture appeared: the Barber. `Do you wish to apply for a
Government Reparation Benefit?'
`No, thank-you; the injury was minimal.' The Bythian closed the
connection without asking if Marek wanted to know more.
Marek had never merited the attention of the Militia before; not
even his previous master had ever warranted interference at that
level. This had to be something to do with Kelanie's mission. Marek
decided that it would prove too expensive to probe further, also
politically unsafe. The Parkry were bribeable; the Bythians were
not.
`Once more; you almost had it then.' said Aouwwrr'lrr. Kelanie
composed herself, put her head back and mewed:
`Aoouw? Aooouw?' Aouwwrr'lrr flattened her ears, lashed her tail.
`Excellent. This should be said before the act, never during; it
is intended to indicate availability.'
`Which means that once we start, then I'm no longer available.'
Aouwwrr'lrr closed her eyes.
`Of course.' Kelanie sat back on the branch, dangling one leg over
the edge, swinging it back and forth. `Exactly how far is this
intended to go? As far as consummation?' Aouwwrr'lrr mewed, flicked
her tail once in amused surprise.
`If you want. I won't be jealous, if that's what you mean.
Tendeysharhi are used to sharing around our males. I should caution
you, though: a detail of the male's generative organs may complicate
things. How are Human females structured?' Kelanie removed her
skirt. Aouwwrr'lrr examined her, prodding her cautiously with a paw,
and then purred. `I foresee no major problems. Except possibly that
my mate may experience feelings of inadequacy.'
* * * * *
Marek was chatting with one of the Underground Networks' `NAPAISub'
simulators; in itself, very revealing that such a borderline-illegal
service should be available to a datapost in what was allegedly a
government office. Ambassador Pr'rtr (Aouwwrr'lrr's mate - `it
sounds like she's purring when she talks about him', Kelanie had
said) was dividing his attention between this and toying with a
replicate-lizard, which he intended to eat eventually. Marek faced
the datapost, addressing the NAPAISub simulator directly.
`Okay, I want you to observe this exchange, and identify it.
Understand?' The holograph animated two spheres knocking together
twice, to indicate an answer in the affirmative. Marek turned back
to Pr'rtr.
`Is that a real lizard?' Pr'rtr dangled the wriggling green shape
from one paw, flicked it with his other. His translator replied:
`Of course not. It's a genetically-engineered plant, with built-in
reflexes that make it behave like a lizard. What do you think we
are, savages?' The datapost displayed a black cube that broke apart
into six pyramids and rejoined. Marek was about to ask the datapost
to translate this when Kelanie and Aouwwrr'lrr reentered the front
office. Kelanie took Pr'rtr's paw in her hand and led him into the
conference room. Marek watched them, then glanced at Aouwwrr'lrr,
who flicked her tail once. He smiled.
In the street, order had been restored after the bombing of the
cafe. The only figures that weren't moving past were the two
Bythians that had been placed on sentry duty, and the Barber, who was
hiding behind the remains of a truncated pillar, listening to the
conversation in the Tendeysharhi Embassy, through the front window,
using an interferometric laser-scope. It reached into its pouch,
withdrew a metallic ovoid, and twisted a dial at one end. It
grinned, exposing rows of flat teeth. A tongue like a rat's tail
flickered out and back in.
There was an ear-piercing yowl, and a large furry shape pounced on
it from somewhere above, knocking it to the ground and kicking the
grenade away. The Tendeysharhi grabbed the Barber by some loose
clothing at the front, and slashed at the juncture of body and head
with exposed claws. Four parallel furrows opened in the front of
the Barber, spewing forth milky-looking blood. It writhed, tongue
lashing about madly, scrabbling for its pouch. The Tendeysharhi
slashed at its neck again, and shuddering, the Barber died. One of
the Bythians turned its flat head to one side, regarded them, and
turned away again.
* * * * *
NAPAISub: Subsystems of the NoSan'No'Os Associative
Processing Artificial Intelligence (NAPAI).
Each subsystem is individually identified by a
decimal six-figure code. Built as part of a
project to `downscale' NAPAI, the original
Guidance AI of the NoSan'No'Os, to a more
manageable system and to have sub-units to
which details of minor projects could be
delegated. Originally, only four of these
units were constructed; shortly after their
inception, rationale for more units was quickly
invented, and now there are as many NAPAISubs
as there are worlds in the Dominion. In other
words, lots.
- Foley's `Unofficial Documents'
Kelanie removed her clothing and sat in the matted grass that lined
the conference room floor. Pr'rtr, perched on the branch nearest the
ground, stared at her, his head cocked to one side. She smiled up at
him, remembering not to bare her teeth as she did so - the
Tendeysharhi would take that as a threat. Pr'rtr lashed his tail
once. She turned away from him, resting on her hands and knees, her
bare behind pointing at him, and mewed:
`Aoouw?' she was surprised to hear the rhythmic hissing of
Tendeysharhi laughter. She turned around and gave him an indignant
look.
`What's so funny?' Pr'rtr was clutching the branch with his claws
extended to keep from falling off. A few sibilant mews emerged.
Kelanie's notepad translated:
`That sound you made. It's perfect, but -'
`But what? Don't you find me attractive?' More hisses.
`I suppose that you're quite attractive - to another human... but
you - you don't have a tail!' Pr'rtr lost his grip on the branch and
fell into a pile of leaves at the base of the conference-room tree,
landing nimbly on all fours, and then spoiling the illusion of
agility by rolling over on his back, hissing uncontrollably. Kelanie
shifted into a sitting position and stared at him, chin on hands,
until he recovered. Pr'rtr lay on his back, tail twitching from side
to side, arms and legs outspread.
`I'm sorry,' he said at length. `Things have been so serious
around here lately, what with the Moridani Infiltration and all.'
Kelanie stared at him in shock.
`I beg your pardon? Are you certain that you should be saying
things like that, being the Tendeysharhi Ambassador to the
NoSan'No'Os?' Pr'rtr rolled over, lay on his stomach, resting his
furry chin on his paws and levelling his cool, emerald gaze at her.
`Oh, it's safe... the NoSan'No'Os never monitor me; the females of
our race are the devious ones, the ones that the NoSan'No'Os have to
be concerned about. Us males are almost second-class citizens...
that's one thing the Moridani promised us they'd change.' Kelanie
smiled.
`Does Aouwwrr'lrr know about this?'
`Of course! She's a suffragette, you know. In fact, she was
chosen by the Moridani to approach the Human Government about
permission to station a Moridani Partisan in the Human system.'
Kelanie listened to this with a growing sense of unreality. The
Moridani were universally dreaded; it only took a hint to the
NoSan'No'Os that a Moridani might be on a planet for them to blow
that planet to pieces in a frantic attempt to destroy it. It was
rumored that there were only twenty-three Moridani left in existence.
She became aware that Pr'rtr was sitting next to her, anxiously
tapping her on the shoulder.
`Miss Camden?' She shook her head, sat back in the grass with her
eyes closed.
`I can't believe any of this. It's too -'
`Too?'
` - too extraordinary.' Pr'rtr rubbed up against her, purring
reassuringly. The sound relaxed her. After a while, he said:
`It's true. There is a Moridani Partisan hidden in our Embassy.
She uses her own - interdicted - technology to hide from the
NoSan'No'Os. She believes that your race can be helpful to the
Moridani Cause, and so they want to station her in your solar
system.' Kelanie sat up suddenly.
`I can't authorise something like that! If the NoSan'No'Os find
out what's going on, they'll drop an asteroid in our sun!' Pr'rtr's
eyes opened wide, seeming to change from a brilliant emerald to aqua.
Kelanie's notepad reproduced the serious tone of Pr'rtr's words:
`She has something important to tell you. She didn't think you'd
believe me, so she will tell you herself. Do you think that Marek
should be present?' The sense of unreality came back, even stronger.
`I do. Actually, I really want someone to tell me that I'm not
dreaming.' Unexpectedly, Pr'rtr butted his head against her
shoulder, purring.
`You aren't dreaming.'
* * * * *
Marek and Kelanie followed Pr'rtr down a spiral ramp, deep into the
basement of the Tendeysharhi embassy. At the bottom, the blue-green
bioluminescent strips had been removed for the most part; the air was
damper and even more oxygen-rich than Millimillenarian standard.
Kelanie swallowed as her throat burned. Pr'rtr approached a blank
wall, turned to face the two humans.
`I'm aware that you, Marek, have spent most of your life on
Millimillenary, and are familiar with unusual xenoforms; and that
you, Kelanie, work for the Bureau of Procuration, and that you are no
stranger to aliens; I want to remind you that the rumors of the
Moridani being bloodthirsty, maniacal killers are completely untrue,
despite their appearance.' Marek replied,
`You can disregard anything you've heard about Humans taking
NoSan'No'Os propaganda literally. We know how to listen to what a
Bureaucracy tells us.' Pr'rtr slitted his eyes, lashed his tail and
turned back to face the blank wall. It rippled and developed a
spiral pattern of grooves which spread out from the middle, gradually
erasing the wall until it had vanished completely. Beyond it was
darkness; Kelanie's translator-eyepiece, viewing in the infra-red
range, outlined a massive shape at the far end of the darkened room.
She heard a soft murmuring sound, as if there were a group of people
holding a private discussion in the darkness. Over this susurration,
a soft voice spoke in perfectly-accented Terrestrial Anglic.
`Come in, please. My name is Tsiry-Feylen-Kendr-Tariy.' Kelanie
stepped into the gloom with Marek following nervously behind her.
The murmuring conversations were coming from the Moridani, who
shifted slightly, giving the impression of something with the mass of
a large horse. The voices diminished in volume until only the
occasional sibilant hiss or glottal click could be heard... with a
peculiar scraping sound underlying them. Tsiry-Feylen-Kendr-Tariy
smoothly rose from her crouching position, revealing her full height,
and moved over to a wall; an arm flexed out from her front, touched a
contact, and as the light levels slowly increased, her form was
revealed by degrees. Despite herself, Kelanie drew back slightly,
bumping into Marek.
She - Tsiry-Feylen - was shaped something like a six-legged
centaur; a pair of thin, double-jointed arms mounted at the front;
slick grey flesh patterned in tiny scales that glittered in the faint
light. The attitude of the legs, the placing of the hooves and
ankles hinted at an ancestor with radial symmetry, although she had a
head at one end and a tail at the other. Kelanie stood there,
fascinated; someone had once put forward a theory that stated that
intelligent life in the galaxy had, so far, been distinguished by
three distinct waves, of which humanity and related races were part
of the third; the Moridani would have been part of the first wave.
Tsiry-Feylen was utterly unlike anything Kelanie had seen thus far on
Millimillenary.
The vertical mouth that divided the triangular head, mounted below
a pair of large, diagonally-slitted eyes opened briefly, revealing
rows of long, needle-like teeth. Suppressing the urge to turn and
run, Kelanie realised that the Moridani was smiling at her, and that
the scraping sound was the noise made by the teeth as they slid past
one another.
`Pretty nasty, eh?' Tsiry-Feylen said without using a translator.
Kelanie thought that she recognised the voice.
`Have we met before?' she enquired politely. Tsiry-Feylen bared
her fangs again, bobbed her head. She replied in a different voice,
`We're sure that we have...' - she continued in her first voice -
`dearest.' Kelanie was certain now. Marek looked like he was about
to panic and run, so Kelanie took his arm and murmured reassuringly,
`It's okay... she's on our side. Tsiry-Feylen, this is Marek
Waddell, former owner of Waddell's Emporium of Extremely Fashionable
Attire and Quite Nice Ice Cream Parlour.' Tsiry-Feylen splayed her
front pair of feet slightly, bowing. `Marek, one of these is-'
`One of these? How many are there?' Tsiry-Feylen settled to the
floor, folding up neatly like a cat, and replied,
`Each Moridani has four personalities, each shared with four other
Moridani... although, as there aren't as many of us as there used to
be, this practice has declined. Miss Camden is familiar with our
"Tsiry" aspect...' Kelanie smiled.
`As I was about to say; Marek, I'd like you to meet Robyn Starkey,
Section Head of the Bureau of Procuration, Syndaine office. My
immediate superior. What I'd like to know is: how do you get away
with it?'
`Teleconferencing has been popular for hundreds of years. Quite a
few government officials, including humans, hold two, sometimes even
three positions, under assumed names. When they have to put in an
appearance, they do so by video filtered through a cosmetic graphics
program. We rarely have time for anything fancy, image-wise, because
apart from our partisanship, we hold two positions in the Human
government and one in the NoSan'No'Os Bureaucracy.' Kelanie looked
around for something to sit on, saw nothing appropriate, and settled
for sitting on the floor, cross-legged. Marek sat next to her.
Tsiry-Feylen stared at them for a few moments; Kelanie found that she
had no idea of what Moridani kinesics meant; she would have to rely
on what she could pick up from Tsiry-Feylen's voice. `We're afraid
that we have some bad news for you. The NoSan'No'Os have completed
their initial Evaluation of humanity, a study that began almost
ninety years ago. Our position in the NoSan'No'Os Bureaucracy has
allowed us to steal a copy of the preliminary recommendation.'
`Which is?'
`In about a month's time, the NoSan'No'Os are going to drop about a
dozen large asteroids on Earth, followed by another thirty that will
be dropped into your sun at regular intervals. This will coincide
with the arrest and subsequent termination of all free humans
anywhere in the NoSan'No'Os Dominion. We must say we're impressed;
we haven't seen a reaction this extreme since they discovered that
there were a few of us Moridani still on the loose.' There was a
moments' silence while they digested this. Finally, Marek said,
`Do you expect us to believe that?' Tsiry-Feylen held out her
hands and shrugged - a very human gesture.
`The choice is yours. You have twenty-seven days.' Kelanie
grasped Marek's hand, cleared her throat and said,
`Do you have any proof? Something tangible?' Tsiry-Feylen drew a
small card made of clouded white plastic, handed it to Kelanie.
`Nothing that can't be easily faked. The best way we can think to
convince you is to show you the activity in your asteroid belt, where
the Militia are, even as we speak, preparing the projectiles that
will be - ' Tsiry-Feylen paused, seeing Kelanie and Marek absorbed in
reading the documentation. Kelanie had placed the card against her
notepad's scanner, which read it and translated the NoSan'No'Os
Tertiary into Anglic. The message was short:
Office of Risk Evaluation: Date: 9327685491767632151
Interdepartmental Action Code: AF1CF3C7F8C65E98A06ED63C87E542C
Authorisation: 1110011001010001001001001001001001011110101001
NOTE TO ALL DEPARTMENTS
Preliminary evaluation of N-FRF-Knh/K indicates threat
potential of 97.8 percent. This is based on evidence of
innate territorial habits and research into artificial
intelligence which is currently in progress. Preliminary
Recommendation: level six termination, to commence
immediately, pending availability of resources. Any further
enquiries can be directed to the Office of Threat Termination
on Sthelanar. Work Group: T760 Cost Code : 568384
`You can ignore the last part; the Office of Threat Termination
report all such enquiries to the Militia as a matter of course.'
Tsiry-Feylen said. Marek and Kelanie exchanged glances.
`You think that Barber-xeno was after us?' she murmured.
`It would make sense... round up the strays...' Marek faced the
Moridani. `Okay. If this is all true, then what the hell can we do
about it?' Tsiry-Feylen's mouth twitched, exposing a few glittering
teeth for a moment.
`You could warn everyone, which would cause panic. You could do
nothing, which would mean that your planet would be destroyed with
most of the inhabitants still on it. You could try mounting an
attack on the Bythians in your asteroid belt, which could prove
difficult given your lack of spacecraft and weapons, and would most
likely fail, as most attacks on Bythians do. Or you help with what
is being done; get as many important people off Earth as possible and
hide them.' Kelanie was indignant at this.
`Important? Who gets to decide who is important and who isn't?'
Tsiry-Feylen's head swivelled to face her, eyes narrowed.
`We do. We are financing this operation. We are hiding your
people in our bases and are assuming the responsibility for making
sure that they remain hidden. We are saving any humans who can
assist us in our war against the NoSan'No'Os. We do not have the
resources to hide everyone. We have been working on this since
before you were born, Miss Camden; we can only progress when we are
entirely sure that there is no risk of discovery.' Kelanie felt a
numbing chill settle over her as the scope of Tsiry-Feylen's
revelation sank in. `We have been hiding from the NoSan'No'Os for
over seven thousand years; we have never exposed ourselves to the
possibility of discovery to the degree that we are doing at the
moment. The only reason we are doing this: we believe that humanity
can, one day, help us. Now, this is what we are going to do next...'
* * * * *
`The closest a Bythian has ever come to creating a work of
art or evincing a sense of humour was when the level
three sub-commander in charge of the assault force on the
Moridani-held world of Triple-S ordered a bomb-pattern
that spelled out the words "Up Yours, Ugly" in Moridani
Phandric.'
- Foley's `Unofficial Documents'
Three large, featureless white-metal shapes made their way down the
crowded street. The crowds parted before them, breaking on the
larger of the three like water on the prow of an icebreaker, flowed
past the two that followed, the rift quickly healing close behind.
The first shape was about the size of an elephant; it had four
strong, stumpy legs at the narrow base of an inverted trapezoid
shape; two double-jointed mechanical arms were neatly folded at the
front. This shape moved deftly, occasionally whirling around to
check that the other two were following, utilising an involved
sequence of steps, turning back when it was sure that they were still
in tow. They were smaller and obviously of a different species;
bilaterally symmetrical, two arms and legs. Where the first shape
was almost three metres from the ground to the forepeak, the others
were squat shapes just under two metres tall. One of them seemed to
be unsure of the correct method of walking; it stopped with one foot
in the air every few steps.
`Crash it, what's wrong with the damn thing NOW?' Kelanie snarled.
`You're fighting it, Kelanie; try dropping force-feedback a few
notches-'
`Or turn it off altogether. You may get tired, but it won't matter
in the short term.' Kelanie sighed, hunted for the force-feedback
control mounted somewhere on the inner face of her land-mate battle
suit and replied,
`I can understand why you need a suit like this, Tsiry-Feylen; but
why the hell do we-'
`The Bythians are probably looking for you by now. We stand a
better chance of getting away with this if they think we are someone
else.'
`You don't mean that we will have to wear these suits until we get
back to Earth?' Kelanie wailed. She had only just become used to the
new-vinyl smell of the inside of the land-mate; the spread of the
leg-spaces was rubbing painfully on the insides of her thighs, and
she half-expected to be bow-legged when she finally divested herself
of the thing.
`Once inside the ship and safely away, you can take them off. We,
however, that is, we-myself, won't risk exposure until we have safely
reached the Moridani base in the asteroids... assuming that the
Threat Termination team haven't lobbed it into the sun... anyway, we
are quite comfortable in this suit. We-myself have spent weeks at a
stretch in it.'
`We-yourself are probably a couple of cans short of a six-pack.'
Kelanie muttered. Tsiry-Feylen laughed.
`By your standards, we probably are. Uh-oh - quiet, children...'
They were passing four Bythians who were checking ID bracelets.
Tsiry-Feylen had been able to remove Kelanie's bracelet, providing a
similar one which now hung on the outside of Kelanie's suit. The
Bythians grabbed one arm of Tsiry-Feylen's armour carelessly,
dragging it closer to read the pattern of dots on the tag that hung
on the leading edge of her suit. They assumed a marginally more
respectful attitude after they had read it; Tsiry-Feylen was posing
as an important government official. She snatched her arm from the
Bythian's grasp, made an involved gesture with it, and the four
Militia stepped aside. They proceeded; Kelanie angled one of her
shoulder-boom-mounted cameras backwards and watched them. The
Bythians were ignoring them.
`Will these disguises get us past the ExPort authority?' She asked.
`We were hoping that you wouldn't ask that.' Tsiry-Feylen sighed.
`We think so. We have used this disguise before, and have never
encountered any problems. Mind you, we didn't have two pesky humans
in tow then. We are prepared to fight if necessary, although small-
arms combat with Bythians is something we'd rather watch on video
than participate in.' Kelanie's suit paused, one foot in the air,
lagging behind Marek and Tsiry-Feylen for a moment, then catching up
again.
`(Damn it!) Do you think we'll be in a shoot-out? I feel like a
sitting duck in this thing! Does it have any weapons?' Tsiry made a
reproaching tsk-tsk sound.
`You're supposed to be a Bureau of Procuration operative, not some
gun-nut weapons system expert! Your suit doesn't have any energy-
weapons, but if you turned the force-feedback up all the way, you
could easily put your fist through the side of a NoSan'No'Os
transport. That also applies to the leg-movements; with the force-
feedback on full, you could leap up to a third-storey balcony, or
jump off the roof and land safely. So be careful.' The thought of
being that strong appealed to Kelanie; when they stopped at an
intersection to let a line of what appeared to be Parkry children
pass by, she started experimenting with the controls.
First, she played with the response-time fine-tuning, and found
that this was the cause of her suit's lagging behind on some steps
and anticipating others. When it was tuned properly, she could
almost feel it slip into place. She flexed the fingers in front of
the shoulder-boom-mounted cameras, bent the knees. It suddenly felt
like a second skin; a feeling of energetic euphoria that she'd only
experienced previously when absorbed in a complex gymnastic routine.
Inside the suit, she grinned, turned the force-feedback control to
the `x4' position and tapped her toes. The suit responded, jumping
three feet off the ground, landing on the flat, splay-toed feet, the
knees bending automatically to absorb the shock.
`Yahooo!' she shouted, turning the control to the `x8' position and
leaping eight metres into the air, performing a somersault and
landing on the other side of the street in a gap barely big enough to
accommodate the suit.
`Kelanie!' Tsiry-Feylen froze her suit by remote control. `If you
want to draw attention to yourself, you can take all your clothes off
and run down the street. Try to keep our situation in mind, please.'
* * * * *
Tsiry-Feylen poked a camera-boom around the corner, scanned the
broad courtyard outside the ExPort. Two more booms, mounted on
Kelanie's and Marek's suits respectively, appeared just underneath
Tsiry-Feylen's. There were at least thirty Bythians arranged around
the courtyard, and even to Kelanie's untrained perception, they
weren't merely on guard. Someone had anticipated them.
`Wait here, children... We've arranged a reception for our fascist
friends - some Pthalklin Ervae - when we give the signal, we want you
to run straight into the ship.' Even as Tsiry-Feylen spoke, Kelanie
saw a movement in the decorative shrubbery arranged around the
triangular doorways of the geodesic dome... then she realised that
the movement wasn't caused by someone hiding in the bushes; the
movement _was_ the bushes. Six plants, shaped like large agapanths,
a central shaft topped by what appeared to be a large red pineapple,
moving on round platforms that hovered a few centimetres off the
ground, emerged from the less ambulatory shrubs. Sharp, compressed-
air sounds came from within their broadly-spread leaves; half the
Bythians fell to the ground with large holes blown through them.
Thin yellow blood sprayed about. The remaining Bythians immediately
returned the fire, microwave weapons causing three of the plants to
burst into flame. There was a massive explosion in the corner
nearest the Moridani and the humans; flat pieces of concrete chipped
off the courtyard corner wall clattered off their armour. When
Tsiry-Feylen dared to put a boom-camera around the corner again, she
saw two of the plants nudging the bodies of the Bythians into a heap.
She gestured to Kelanie and Marek and dodged nimbly around the
corner. They ran after her, pausing only briefly when she stopped to
confer with the two surviving Pthalklin Ervae.
Inside the ExPort building, everything had stopped at the sound of
the explosion. Parkry seated next to their dataposts regarded them
blankly. Kelanie went to leap over the short barrier that laterally
divided the room in two; she seemed to strike an invisible, flexible
barrier and fell on her behind with a crash.
`What the line-noise was THAT?' Marek stumped over to help her up,
reached out and twanged a set of invisible wires strung over the
barrier.
`Monofilament. Lucky we're wearing these suits, or we'd be on the
other side - in thin slices.' He walked over to the gap in the
barrier, and kicked out the door. It flew across the room and
embedded itself in the far wall, end first, with a short metallic
screech. The Parkry hopped back nervously as the two passed through
the gap and ran up the ramp into the ship.
They turned left at the first corridor inside the ship, and found
themselves face-to-face with a Bythian, who was raising his weapon.
Without thinking, Kelanie lashed out with one of the suit's arms,
back-handing the Bythian flat against the wall with terrible force,
killing it instantly. She crouched to pick up the plastic gun,
examined it. It looked something like an automatic rifle, with a
long rectangular magazine jammed in the base; there was nothing that
obviously resembled a trigger. She shrugged within the suit and
bashed the gun against the starship wall, snapping the barrel. She
angled the two shoulder-mounted booms forward, extended them to their
full reach of two metres and tip-toed up the corridor, peeking up the
side corridors as they progressed. As they approached the end of the
corridor, they heard the hum of a Bythian microwave weapon, coming
from the right-hand branch of the intersection. Immediately
afterwards, a grey shape flew through the air, past them and down the
left-hand branch of the intersection. A large white shape ran after
the grey shape; they barely had time to recognise Tsiry-Feylen in her
battle-suit. They ran to the intersection, and saw Tsiry-Feylen
holding a Bythian by its legs, batting its head against the wall with
measured ferocity. When the Bythian came apart, she dropped the
pieces she was holding, stamped on the head with both of the
battle-suit's front legs, abruptly span through one hundred and
eighty degrees and punched out a wall panel with both hands. She
reached in, extracted the dented panel and tossed it over their
heads. Kelanie heard a soft squelching sound, and turned a boom-
mounted camera back to see a Bythian, crushed against the further end
of the corridor behind the wall panel. While Tsiry-Feylen was
working on the machinery behind the panel, tearing cables out and
poking fingers into control-spaces, another Bythian appeared down the
corridor, at the ship's hatch. It levelled its weapon at something
outside; that something slashed at the Bythian's neck, severing the
axe-shaped head and knocking its weapon aside. One of the Pthalklin
Ervae hovered up the ramp and through the hatch. The entire ship
shuddered, rocked; the suits' internal gyros keeping balance.
Tsiry-Feylen darted between them, off down another corridor. They
ran after her.
The ship had lifted with its hatches still open; the air thinned,
vanishing completely when they had reached low orbit, except for the
room in which they had secured the Pthalklin Ervae. Tsiry- Feylen
had been rushing from one end of the ship to the other, checking the
most likely hiding places.
`If there are any more Bythians, they should be dead by now. The
ship had landed only four hours ago, so there shouldn't have been
anyone else on board. When we've reached our allocated departure
point, we-myself will have finished searching the entire ship; we can
close the hatches and refill the ship's air supply from the stores.'
Kelanie's suit gestured to Marek.
`Come on, I want to see Millimillenary from space!' they stamped
off down the half-lit corridor while Tsiry-Feylen stalked through the
ship, kicking service-hatches open, thrusting her camera-booms
rapidly in and out of the circular doors of the berths, finding
nothing. There were no more Bythians on board.
Kelanie and Marek were leaning out of a hatch in the underside of
the ship, into open space. Below them, the golden surface of
Millimillenary was spread out, the faint grey gridwork of the city
visible even from this altitude. Their suit radios beeped, and
Tsiry-Feylen said,
`Heads up, children, we're about to close the hatches.' They
pulled back into the corridor as the black-glass hatchway rippled
into existence. Almost immediately, their suits lost some of the
stiffness that came with vacuum. They made their way back to what
Tsiry-Feylen thought was the pilot's ward-room, and when the air
pressure was adequate, they gratefully divested themselves of the
battle-suits.
`Ohhh... praise "Bob", that's a relief.' said Marek, stretching.
Tsiry-Feylen made no move to take off her suit. Kelanie reached for
her toes, straightened, arched her back and wondered how Tsiry-Feylen
could stand to be confined in her suit for such long periods. The
Moridani spoke through an audio port mounted on the side of her suit:
`We're half-way home, children, although you should both know that
the most dangerous part is still ahead of us. We'd like you to set
up a recorder on the ship's communications column to monitor the
trade channels. Then go and make sure the Pthalklin Ervae is safe.
We've prepared a brief knowledge-base for you, describing most of the
dangerous features of this ship; familiarise yourselves with it.'
She handed them a white plastic card. `Meanwhile, we are going to
spy on the enemy.'
Kelanie and Marek sat cross-legged on top of a shipping container
in the cargo bay, where the Pthalklin Ervae (whose name, apparently,
was `Kayren-Kayley') had broken open about a dozen plastic bags
filled with soil, and was spreading it evenly across the floor.
On closer examination, the Ervae was not really an intelligent
plant, but rather a living hive, host to thousands of tiny insects
acting in communion with the plant, communicating via chemical tags.
Individually, the insects were very simple; each acted out complex,
genetically-programmed motions, forming the basis of an intricate
object-oriented intelligence program. Conversations - conducted
between Kelanie's notepad and the plant's spectrographic interpreter-
were hampered by the plant's slow reaction-times.
`No, I don't see it as a handicap,' Marek said, `But if your
species has such slow reflexes, then how can you effectively support
yourselves as mercenaries?' Kelanie's notepad converted his words
into NoSan'No'Os Tertiary and transmitted them to the Pthalklin
Ervae's interpreter, which rendered them as a pattern of pheromones,
spraying at the insects that teemed in the diagonal interstices of
the pineapple-shaped top. An airborne caste of the insects replied,
dancing and spreading pheromones against the interpreter's reading
plate, which then spoke to Kelanie's notepad, in Tertiary.
`The next-to-smallest components of us are the equivalent of your
computers.' it said. `Once instructed, they can operate with great
speed. We have several sets of components that know how to react to
situations, and we cycle through these sets, modifying them as
necessary. The largest delays occur when we have to communicate with
animals who don't have the requisite sense-organs to read our
chemical expressions directly.' Kelanie sighed.
`Typical.' Kayren-Kayley slowly crawled off her platform,
wriggling her knobbed roots into the soil.
* * * * *