A Traded Secret

by Donald R. Montgomery

YOU MAY CALL me Morrab the Vermincatcher.

Two other things you should know: I work on Plexis Supermarket, and I am not someone you want to meet. Luckily, you’re unlikely to, unless you’re prone to wandering where you don’t belong. My territory lies beneath the surface—not in Plexis’ inhabited levels or its veins and arteries, but the spaces between. I’ve no interest in the crowds of beings who come here to buy and sell wares that range from the cute and harmless to the utterly depraved and illegal. My world is dark and lonely: maintenance crawlways and tunnels where unwelcome creatures are likely to scurry.

As for why I prefer solitude to being in the company of others, I’d say the reaction my appearance elicits from them has a lot to do with it. I don’t look much like other members of my species, or any other for that matter. I am Human—genetically speaking—but my growth is stunted, my voice is a dry rasp, and my mouth splits my face in two. Taken with my protruding brow and deep-set eyes, a simple smile from me is toothy, predatory, and grim.

I owe my squashed, four-foot stature to heavy gravity—muscles and bones had to grow thick to support my weight. My warped skeleton bears witness to hundreds of fractures I suffered in infancy, while my blood assays reflect a long battle with mismatched drug treatments. One might say I suffered this mistreatment at the claws of an incompetent doctor. However, it was my parents who sold me to an experimental project—one designed to see if children could be made to survive harsher worlds without proper treatment. Given that Human medicine was not the Sakissishee’s strong point, I’m lucky to have lived at all.

As for the rest of my scars, I’d say they’re split about evenly between youthful stupidity and decades of violent work. The notch missing from my left ear, claw marks that rake across my skull, and the many puckered remnants of stabbings, burns, and ballistic wounds covering my body are only a few of the trophies I’ve collected guarding fools, hunting bounties, and fighting wars.

Many were near misses—more than a few should have been outright fatal. Luckily, I’m harder to kill than the average Human. One of the few good things about prolonged exposure to heavy gravity and building the strength necessary to survive it is that my tissues and organs are denser and tougher than they should be.

There are costs, of course.

I’m heavy for my size. And bald.

Worse, however, is my susceptibility to weather. Even slight atmospheric changes make me ache something awful. Five years ago I was ready to retire, but then I heard there might be work on Plexis Supermarket for a person of my skills. I’d never admit it, but the station’s regulated atmosphere, low humidity, and steady temperatures were the reasons I applied. The salary helps, but it’s more a means to an end.

So please remember that while you roam the shopping levels above, rubbing elbows with various alien joints, know that I plumb the depths beneath your feet, scurrying through dark crawlways and over massive tanks of growing prawlies, breathing air heady with a bouquet of rancid gases and keeping company with the ghosts of a mining complex that never was. All so you can revel in the sights and delights only money can buy without having to worry about pest infestations or toothy predators dropping out of the vents.

Because that’s what Raj Plexis wants you to do.

She owns Plexis—saved herself from bankruptcy and ridicule by transforming the bulbous husk of a failed mining venture into a bustling commerce ship almost overnight. She didn’t have a lot of time for the redesign, so the guts of her ship are a little more haphazard than most. She threw together all the systems needed to maintain a livable environment, not to mention process and purify the waste of dozens of species. She allocated storage space for supplies and inventory, housing complexes for residents and visitors, recyclers to process all our garbage, and servos to manufacture and deliver trinkets and souvenirs to her own stores.

In the years since her garish signs first went up, Plexis has enjoyed significant success. Between reducing her dependence on outside resources and producing most of her branded merchandise locally, she’s able to keep the station operational. Which means docking fees, shop leases, tariffs, gifts, bribes, and a host of miscellaneous taxes are almost entirely profit.

Those are just some of the reasons others have chosen to emulate her. As for why no one’s undermined what she’s built or, worse, staged a hostile takeover—you can thank people like me. We keep the riffraff out, or at least under control. As for the persistent rumor that she’s a crime lord—responsible for a variety of unexplained deaths, disappearances, and illegal operations—let’s just go with no comment.

I’m part of a defensive network; that’s why I spend a significant amount of my time running down pests imported onto the station, accidentally or otherwise. A significant percentage of which happen to be sentient. You might be surprised how often I have to rescue a lost child or pet, but smallish sacks of biology tend to climb into unsecured grates and fall down holes with alarming regularity. And while the dangers are many and the staff are few, I’ve never failed. Returning each one to the waiting appendages of its anxious breeder/owner is quite rewarding, if only because I charge a substantial fee for the service.

But that’s just a sideline.

I stalk more dangerous prey for Plexis: smugglers and thieves attempting to circumvent the station’s security cordon or avoid paying their fair share to do business here. I am also known to hunt pirates and murderers—targets too dangerous for normal security to handle. There are plenty of places on this station that don’t appear on any schematics, but I’ve spent years finding them. Some were accidents no one bothered to fix during the redesign, when Raj Plexis had to turn her failed refinery into a bustling marketplace in record time. Others were intentional—she herself marked them off and filled them in. I’ve seen vaults down there—foreboding places where she keeps her own secrets safe.

As for today, you might think it’s odd that the one who runs this roaming colony would meet with someone such as myself. However, the one thing everyone learns about Plexis sooner or later is that this place is anything but normal.

Besides, Plexis is a hands-on kind of boss.

She’s dealt with enough trouble over the years to know the value of a reliable throat cutter. Hired muscle is all well and good, but I’m more of a discreet agent—the kind that takes care of problems without attracting attention or asking needless questions.

Our bargain is simple: no intermediaries. She briefs and pays me herself, and she pays well. I am, in return, available whenever she needs me.

Plexis’ message is never more than a time and place. I recognize the address as a safe house I’ve visited before. I’m not the only undesirable she has to deal with, so having space prepared for discreet meetings makes sense.

It’s disguised as a secure warehouse on one of the mid-sublevels, deep enough that we won’t have to worry about gawking tourists. It’s also easy enough to reach by tunnel, so I don’t have to rub elbows with anyone along the way.

Unfortunately, my only way inside is through the front door. Plexis is smart enough to seal off all other access points, barring a personal lift for herself. Rumor is she’s got a network of them throughout the station, giving her access to any point onboard within a few moments.

I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be true.

Now, a being in full armor, even a short one, would command some level of attention on the upper decks. Down here I am afforded a small bubble of personal space and barely a glance. Not that I’m ignored; I can feel a variety of eyeballs and stalks tracking my movements as I push the street-level maintenance hatch closed with my foot and seal the lock, but I’m more oddity than threat.

At least no one seems eager to bother me.

It’s hard to see anything through the crowd, but traffic is polite enough to shift around me. I suspect that has more to do with my appearance than anything else. Providing I stay below the main concourses, I am permitted to wear protective clothing and carry my weapons openly.

Matte black plates slide over a flexible undercoat as I walk, safeguarding my vitals without restricting movement. I have a matched tactical helmet, but I left it below. As useful as its sensor feeds and automatic sights are, I’d rather not start a panic or bring station security down on me. Not when I’ve got two force blades on my belt and an energy pistol strapped to my thigh.

Street traffic parts around me, creating a small eddy. A security patrol spots me and runs my identity—keeps its distance once they verify my ident. I tongue the inside of my cheek reflexively, making sure the airtag on the outside is still there. I don’t like the thing, but sharing air is sharing air, and I’d like to keep my job if possible.

It’s been an easy few years.

I spend several long minutes out in the open, trudging my way toward the warehouse entrance. I’m not good with even semi-packed streets—too much stimulation. Hawkers yell from their stalls, selling anything and everything at steep discounts. Most of their inventory seems used or damaged—tired and old. Junk cast off from the upper levels.

Discount shoppers mill about, desperate for a deal.

The bazaar thins out toward my destination.

Which is when I sense a disconcerting change in the atmosphere around me.

I can’t say it’s a smell in the traditional sense—I’ve become accustomed to the stench of methane and sulfur and various other waste gases produced by the many species down here—but it’s no less real. Tension has a distinct taste. Violence, too.

These little whiffs have kept me alive many, many times. I’ve sidestepped ambushes, dodged snipers, and laid my own traps for both.

Here my options are limited, so I start cataloging escape routes in my head.

As unlikely as it is, Plexis might be dissatisfied with me, or worse, have figured out—no. I consciously shut down that thought before it can bloom. Maintaining control is essential when there could be mindcrawlers about; otherwise I might as well broadcast my secrets over a loudspeaker.

Better to keep my doubts quiet, my betrayals buried.

Even if this turns into a worst-case scenario, she isn’t likely to act publicly. Such displays are bad for business. Even down here she’ll carefully weigh consequences, potentials, and risks.

This foreboding is coming from somewhere else.

Experience is what saves me. Between my nose and my eyes, I’m able to isolate the source of my misgivings. I show no outward sign, but once I recognize what I’m dealing with, my body relaxes.

There are five studiously unremarkable beings among the regular foot traffic, all doing their best to blend in with the locals. Cheaply dressed and watchful, but not overly so. There are a handful of tells that give them away—tense body language, uniform height, and chiseled physiques; even their bleached, perfect teeth. A shave and a shower would make them all parade ready. Add in how each one has at least one hand buried in a pocket or tucked under a loose-fitting jacket, clutching hidden weapons, and my hunch turns into fact.

Plexis’ personal bodyguards.

More than usual, but they’re not here to bother me. They’re here to make sure no one bothers her. I do her team the courtesy of feigning ignorance while I stride purposefully up to the door and input my code.

The lights come up after I pass over the threshold, flickering awake. The smell of chemical cleaners burns my nostrils. It’s always bothered me that the walls and floor are so gray and featureless, coated with nonporous paint. Where there should be tools and machines, long shelves of neatly organized inventory, there’s just empty space and periodic drains.

That unnerving monotony is broken only by two features: a wide metal table in the center of the room and a pair of slippers placed neatly on top.

This is a dance I’ve done before, so I approach the table, unclip my weapons and arrange them carefully. Next come my holsters, armor plates, and spare ammunition—even my gloves and boots. Anything I could theoretically use as a weapon.

I take the slippers, wondering for the hundredth time why Plexis’ security thinks my bare hands wouldn’t be enough. My size and strength are deceptive given I’m the size of a child, if an extremely wide one, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know how to use them.

Ha.

I’ll be shot dead if I so much as blink at her wrong. We might meet alone, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t protected by personal shielding and a twitchy trigger finger or three.

There’s a door against the back wall. It clicks open once I’ve met the conditions for entry. I’d strip naked if I had to, but I’m glad to retain a semblance of dignity. Beyond the door is a short hallway, a scanning chamber loaded with sensors and samplers that check for less visible threats.

It makes sense. Raj’s wealth tends to grow at an exponential rate, as do her precautionary measures. Money can buy just about anything, but it comes with its own set of problems. Enemies, grifters and . . . relatives.

The office at the other end is empty, as always. The furnishings are basic—an executive desk flanked by several comfortable chairs and a sitting area off to the side. Couches and low table for less formal engagements. Several amenity stations are set into the wall, offering an assortment of drinks and simple foods. As for what’s hidden behind them, I have no idea. At a guess, I’d say it was something between nothing and a full-on administrative installation.

My thoughts on the subject are irrelevant, given my lack of information.

Call them symptoms of impatience—Plexis knows I hate waiting.

And she doesn’t care.

A little over half an hour passes before she appears.

I know because I count the seconds. I’m at 1,922 when a section of wall slides open and she steps through. The air shimmers around her, a privacy field obscuring any secrets I might see in the space behind it. I’ve chosen to stand in the corner to the left of the door. I’m not used to bright lights and open spaces, so I prefer to keep my back against something solid. That way I can keep an eye on all possible approaches.

She doesn’t seem surprised.

“Morrab.” Raj dispenses with pointless formalities and motions me over to the desk. “Delayed.” She shrugs. “Merchants.” Those clipped words are as close as I’ll get to an apology.

“I understand.” My voice is a rattle of broken glass. My vocal cords have never liked standard gravity, part of the reason I prefer not to speak whenever possible.

Plexis is not young, but I wouldn’t call her old. She’s certainly dealing with her years more gracefully than me. Her black hair is speckled with gray and tied back in a bun. There are hints of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. As for her suit, she’s chosen a conservative pale blue today—its one concession to color being a kaleidoscope of red, green, and yellow on its lapels.

She’s attractive. Not waif-thin or bony. She has pleasant curves with some meat on her bones.

I sit across from her. My feet dangle off the floor.

Plexis remains standing, her manicured hands resting on the back of her chair. Small hands, with delicate fingers and perfect nails. Word is they were once scarred and callused. She’s no stranger to physical work, but the decades she’s spent behind a desk have softened them up.

Wealth tends to do that.

“We have a problem.” She’s opened this way before, but this time my nose itches. Whatever she’s about to say isn’t good. “You’ve been digging where you don’t belong, selling information you shouldn’t have.”

My insides twist, flush with adrenaline, but I show no outward sign of it. I’ve spent years learning how to suppress my reactions. Plexis will have scanners pointed at me, measuring every meaningful physiological variable and weighing them against the profile created during my previous visits. Or she should have. It’s what I would do.

I expected this day to come if not nearly so soon.

I don’t deny the accusation. Instead, I nod slowly, buying precious seconds.

Behind that calm exterior, my mind races, the question of how to play this rampaging through my synapses. I can lie; I’m good at it. I might even fool her readouts. Even a telepath or two. Except I don’t know what evidence she has against me—how wide the gulf is between what she suspects and what she already knows.

Considering the work I’ve done for her, this conversation is not to be taken lightly.

I clear my throat and I meet her gaze. “I wondered when you’d find out.” My admission is straightforward.

Truthful.

She breaks that contact first. “Have I been unfair to you?” When she looks at me again, her face is calm. It’s her eyes that have hardened. “I pay you well.”

“You do.” A dozen plans flicker through my head. Attack or run. Bargain or beg. I toy with different combinations, but each one leads me to the same result.

Failure.

Death or disappearance.

I wouldn’t be the first to survive her anger and never be seen again. Dying is a relatively quick punishment compared to a lifetime of suffering. And who would miss me, if I never emerge from this room? Each time I ask myself that question, my answer is the same. And equally depressing.

“Have I ever cheated you?” she asks.

“No, Fem.”

“Is this a revenge thing?” I suspect she’s been stung before.

“No.” She’s never hurt me personally, and I don’t care enough about anyone else to carry a grudge.

“Then why do this?” She finally takes her seat, dropping heavily into the padded leather. Not a smart thing to do unless she is extremely confident I can’t hurt her. “Well?” Her voice rises when I don’t answer her immediately. She’s getting frustrated.

Might as well go for broke.

“How much do you know?” My question catches her off guard.

“You’re asking me— Do you even understand the position you’re in right now?” she fires back.

“I do.” I’ve done plenty of dirty work for her. “However, I have contractual obligations to consider.” I might not have the resources to invest in gathering a full psychological profile of her, but I’ve studied her as much as she’s studied me during our sporadic conversations. I didn’t just dig up and package her past. I’ve cataloged her tells, the cracks in her façade, and sold them as well. What matters now is whether she knows who I’ve sold them to.

Because trade and its inherent risks are as much about what you know as what you have. What an opponent has done or is doing is far less valuable than what they’re going to do. Markets—physical and metaphorical—are largely the same. Success depends on correctly judging the ebb and flow of supply versus demand. Which means having an edge on your competitors, no matter how slight, can be the difference between profit and ruin.

Plexis knows this better than anyone. She’d be ten times the information broker I am if she wanted to be. But she’s smart enough to recognize the size of the target on her back already.

Which is probably why we’re still talking—she’ll want to know who’s aiming at her.

“You work on my ship, Morrab. For me. I own everything you do.” Whatever she really thinks and feels, she’s got a good enough poker face to hide most of it. “You aren’t allowed to have other contracts.”

“I’m afraid that’s not entirely true. I was hired as an occasional contractor, a classification that frees you from traditional employer obligations. Taxes, benefits, and the like. It also permits you to charge me for the space I occupy, the food I eat, and the air I breathe.” I slowly raise my hand and brush my airtag. “There are certain advantages on my side, such as retaining my independence. Basically, whenever I work for you—from the moment I accept a task to the instant you pay me for it—I am everything you want me to be: loyal, discreet, thorough. At all other times, I owe you nothing.”

“Clareid?” Plexis asks the ceiling. “Tell him he’s wrong.”

We sit in momentary silence while her employment specialist digests my statement.

“I am unable to do so.” Clareid, I assume, answers. “He negotiated terms—significant cost savings in return for greater freedom. Further discussions should take place over private channel.”

“Who signed off on his contract?” Plexis’ tone has changed. Now she’s clearly angry—and dangerous.

“Your nephew.”

“Fire him.” Whatever her staff was about to say is lost under that command. “All right, Morrab, I knew you were clever when I hired you. Fair enough.” She swipes the space over the desk and taps a series of commands into the holographic pad that materializes there. “Why don’t we change the game.”

No armored thugs burst in.

No gas assaults my lungs and no needle injects venom.

Instead, several wall panels retract, revealing automated turrets. High energy emitters–the kind that vaporize flesh. She’s got at least three of them pointed at me. I don’t dare turn around to see if there are more at my back.

“We’re alone now,” she continues. “No cameras, no security. Just the two of us.”

“And the weapons.”

“I’ve seen you work. I know what you’re capable of.”

“Likewise.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” She doesn’t state the obvious: that she could kill me here and now, and no one would ever find my body. “You had my trust yesterday.” Plexis says plainly. “I thought I had your loyalty. Now what’s left? An old witch and a crusty goblin. You and I, we’ve seen enough problems to know how to deal with them. We should be able to figure this out.” She’s changed tack; the threat is still there, but she’s moved on to bartering. Hopefully, that’s a positive sign. “Good help is hard to find, and frankly you’ve been useful these past five years. Nevertheless, you know I can’t have an unknown element on my team. So, start talking.”

“You have more enemies than allies.” I shift uneasily in my seat, careful to keep my movements at a minimum. There’s no comfortable position with weapons pointed at you.

“I’m aware.” Plexis is an important person. She regularly receives trade envoys and diplomats from the various worlds and stations, each one hoping for a stop along her route, and each one as devious as they come. But those aren’t her only problems. Pirates and smugglers, tax cheats and rowdy passengers—her supermarket may be a bastion of commerce, but she’s assailed on all sides. Hells, my job is to deal with the least savory types—chasing off those who repeatedly break the rules and outright killing the ones who decide to use weapons instead of learning from their mistakes.

“You also know some are more powerful than others.” Has she felt that ebb and flow, the webs that touch and bind her business? “Some of those, nobody fights.”

“So you’re being blackmailed?”

“Hah.” My laugh is empty. “They don’t blackmail. They instruct. They command. And because I know what they are, I obey.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

She doesn’t know. I’m almost giddy with that realization.

“Good.” I mean it. “We should leave it at that. You can ban me from the station, and I’ll book passage on the next outward ship.” I know she won’t. That’s why I make the offer.

“You dangle a secret like that and expect me not to bite?” She laughs. “I could kill you now.”

“Fem Plexis, if I tell you what I know, there’s no going back. And you’ll need help. Mine, specifically. You’ll have to keep me around.” Time to make my play. Hopefully, it works.

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” While this might save my life, I’m still in dangerous territory.

There are stories about a cabal manipulating events from the shadows, but few would admit to believing them. I am one of those few. But I know they’re real. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting one, of seeing and speaking with a God. What else can I call a being who materialized out of thin air? Who damned near killed me for the transgression?

Only he didn’t. He—Yihtor di Caraat—let me live because I made myself useful. That’s how I learned they’re not omnipotent. Powerful enough to be feared, but not everywhere all the time.

Not Gods, but Plexis doesn’t need to know that.

“Fine.” I rasp. “Let me tell you about the Clan.”