Anisoptera With a Side Order of Soft Blast
by Fiona Patton
SUBLEVEL 84 SPINWARD ⅓ of Plexis Supermarket was crowded, noisy, dingy, and smelled of . . . fourteen-year-old Daniel Kekoa considered and discarded several profane descriptions before settling on . . . feet; alien feet. The fluorescent blue trim on his shaggy black hair flopping into his eyes, he glared at the Tolian spice merchant across from him, then slapped a plas sheet down on the counter beside a pile of packages, the holographic tattoo of a spaceship flying from a sun going supernova on the golden skin of his forearm winking in and out of the red-and-orange solar flares.
“Where’s the twenty percent merchant discount, Faz?” he demanded between gritted teeth.
One four-fingered hand waved dismissively at him. “No discount!” the Tolian retorted haughtily through his throat com. “You’re no merchant.”
Daniel kept a rein on his temper. “They’re for Rose. They’re always for Rose,” He leaned forward, his heavy boots giving him height on the other being. “They’ve always been for Rose every thruster-burned month for the last thruster-burned year. You. Know. That.”
“I don’t know that!” Faz shot back, his iridescent red-and -blue–feathered crest snapping back and forth. “You’re probably selling them! You probably don’t even know Rose! You take them at full price, or I’ll sell them elsewhere!”
“Space that! I take them with the twenty percent discount, or I take Rose’s business—all of her business—to Gerloff one level up! He doesn’t try and cheat other Plexis merchants which, trust me, everyone you and Rose deal with is gonna hear about!”
Faz opened his beak to give another stinging retort, before one large emerald eye turned to focus on a figure slouching in through the shop door.
“No, no, no, no! You not being coming in here!” he shrieked, his sudden outrage garbling his usually flawless Comspeak. “There being no living creatures in here! I’m being telling you before, I being selling no living creatures! Only spices! You go! Go now!”
Daniel glanced over his shoulder. The figure that had generated such anger was a kid about his own age, skin almost luminescently pale, green hair standing up in wild spikes save for a single lock that dropped down in front of a pair of narrowed blue eyes. He wore secondhand, cutoff spacer trousers two sizes two big for him, a retro gray T-shirt with the words “Eat the Rich” emblazoned across the front in lurid orange letters, and red plas wrist guards. He held a small device in his hand, which he waved menacingly at the shopkeeper.
Faz nearly choked on his fury. “No weapons in here! I being calling security!”
The young Human gave him a chilly smile, the line of temporary mood gem decals on his upper teeth flashing a dangerous yellow. “Coma-down, back-beak, it’s not a weapon,” he sneered. “it’s a scanner. Just making sure you’re complying with all the Plexis and Trade Pact regulations governing the trafficking of living creatures.”
“Not being your business, not being your business!” Faz screeched back. “I being calling security!”
The shouting was starting to attract a crowd, and Daniel shook his head in disgust. “Faz. Faz!” He banged his palm on the counter. “Rose’s discount!”
The Tolian snapped one eye around while keeping the other trained on the Human in the doorway as he sauntered a few steps into the shop, waving the scanner in the direction of the back room.
“Fine, fine!” Faz snarled, snatching up the plas sheet. “You being getting discount and going! You being telling Rose, I being having no more her hatchlings in here; no more!” He changed the amount and threw it back at him, panting in agitation.
The transaction complete, Daniel scooped up the parcels, depositing them into a bag on his shoulder before dropping a small cloth bundle on the counter. “From Rose. She heard your brood sibs were visiting and thought you might want something for your nerves.”
The Tolian snorted loudly, but the fluttering of his vestigial neck feathers noticeably calmed. “Sure, sure, nerves, frustration, temper, whatever,” he muttered. “They’ve gone home now.” But he scooped the bundle up anyway, breathing in the scent of bertwee oil with obvious pleasure. “Tell Rose there’s a big shipment coming in next week from Letis III. Good stuff. Many savings.”
“I’ll tell her. See you then.” Daniel left without bothering to acknowledge the person who was still waving his scanner about with an air of mock authority.
He merged effortlessly into the crowded concourse, avoiding half a dozen grav carts and as many bundle-laden servos weaving their way through the multitude of peoples before reaching a plain, gray pillar covered in plas flyers. As he leaned against it with a calculated air of bored indifference, the other joined him, the untied laces of his boots slapping against the floor announcing his approach before he appeared. He nodded amiably to a group of Turrned Missionaries handing out small plas tracts before vaulting over a line of scraggy bushes.
Daniel glanced over at him.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Hey, Dazer. S’all right?”
“S’all right as starlight.”
“You get it?”
“Oh, yeah. He was so novaed up by your little toy there that he totally miswrote it just like you figured.” He showed the plas sheet to his companion. “Twenty-five percent off. Rose’ll be happy.”
“Sonic.” Jack’s gaze suddenly focused on the concert imprint on Daniel’s T-shirt. His eyes widened.
“Thought you hated Soft Blast music?”
“Got four at seventy-five percent off at The Be There Shop. The band’s playing a one-day gig here next week, and the shop misprinted about fifty shirts.”
“I’ll say. They spelled After-BRNR wrong, and the Neblokan in the band doesn’t even play the keffleflute.”
“And the color’s putrid, too, but they were cheap, so . . .” Daniel shrugged. “What’s your excuse?” he asked, jerking his chin toward Jack’s shirt. “Thought you were a vegan?”
“Yeah, well. For them, I’d make an exception.”
“Any one in particular?”
“A few in particular, but I’ll let Wark explain it to you. He’s waiting for us back at Rose’s.”
Daniel glanced at the grim set of Jack’s jaw.
“Something’s happened.”
“Not happened and won’t happen.”
“Do we need to pick up supplies?”
“Later. Wark’ll have most of his shopping list ready by now, but like I said, I’ll let him explain it to you. I’ll just blow my jets again if I tried.”
“Fair enough.”
Daniel headed back into the crowded concourse, Jack falling into step beside him. Jack’s temper was legendary, especially if it involved what he’d called “the trafficking of living creatures,” but Daniel had seen the mood gems sparkling the pale blue of extreme distress and wondered if Jack knew how much they actually revealed about him. Probably not, and he probably wouldn’t care even if Daniel told him. Other people’s opinions about him meant nothing to Jack.
They ducked through a service door a few moments later; after ensuring that they were alone and that no vermin were lurking in dark corners, their glittering, red-eyed stare promising a nasty bite to anyone stupid enough to approach them, they followed a series of labyrinthine corridors swarming with servo transports, messengers, and tankers. Daniel paused now and then to check his tiny, hand-painted symbols on the walls and to ensure the security vids in the areas they were traveling were still in need of repairs before they swarmed up a ladder for three levels. Another maze of corridors, another ladder, and they emerged into an entirely new section. From there, they caught a ramp.
It took nearly half an hour to reach their destination; Upper Retail Level 104, spinward ¾. The concourse here was wider, the floors shinier, with delicate fountains and tall decorative shrubbery in heavy, silver-colored planters, and warm golden lighting creating areas of quiet privacy for shoppers who were, to Daniel’s eyes, also wider and shinier. The shops themselves were big and bright with invitingly open doors and neatly arranged racks of goods displayed on either side of genuine glass display windows.
Station security was also more pronounced here, but they purposely ignored them. Despite their appearance, Jack and Daniel traversed this level under the auspices of one of the richest merchants on Plexis, and security knew it. Weaving through the plants, they made for a large shop situated between an expensive wine seller and a high end art gallery. Above the opaque crimson glass doors, a beautifully hand-painted sign spelled out Rose Red’s Tree of Life Emporium.
Quiet music and the delicate odor of warmed spices wrapped about them as they reached the door. It opened soundlessly at their approach, causing an involuntary relaxation of Daniel’s muscles. He glanced over to see the perpetual scowl on Jack’s face smooth to one approximating relative peace. They were safe here. They were, as much as either of them could admit to it, home.
A trio of tiny bells sounded as they crossed the threshold, causing the soft portlights to brighten just enough for them to see inside. The front showroom was wide, taking up twice the floor space of most shops even on this level. Crystals, wind chimes, and small handwoven tapestries depicting trees and arcane symbols hung from the ceiling, while racks of caftans, scarves, wraparounds, and voluminous silk trousers took up the center. One wall held shelves of actual books and vids, while the other contained glass cases filled with all manner of candles, incense, incense burners, spices in colorful cloth bags, and ceramic bowls of potpourri. Tables scattered about displayed packs of cards, polished stones of various sizes and colors, and small animal statuary. Toward the back, several easi-rests were filled with customers of one species or another, all reading books and drinking steaming beverages from tiny porcelain cups. On the back wall, an alcove to the right contained various musical objects: flutes, finger chimes, shakers, and reed pipes on the upper shelves, with music stands, cases, and stacks of sheet music on the lower. The alcove to the left held old-fashioned art supplies ranging from real wooden brushes and pots of paint to hand-carved pens and tiny bottles of ink. Two central doorways covered in beaded curtains led to various back rooms, some open, some closed. Daniel glimpsed movement in the nearest and knew Terval’s Tee-Can-Do class was still in session. Near the front door, beside a basket of cloth bags decorated with the store’s tree symbol, stood a polished wooden counter; a state-of-the-art retail reader on one side, and a rack of candy sticks on the other. The Human female behind the counter, her thick, curly white hair liberally streaked with neon pink, wore a garish orange sweater covered in holographic sequins and a multicolored pleated silk skirt. She was short and plump; her deep, honey-golden skin, some four shades darker than Daniel’s, was lined with fine wrinkles and dappled with flower tattoos. Her dark eyes, sparkling with the memory of a mischievous and joyful childhood, lit up still further when she spied the pair.
They ambled over, Daniel slipping behind the counter to deposit the packages underneath along with the two Emporium business airtags he and Jack had been using.
“Hey, Rose.”
“Hey, yourself, sweet-pie. And how’s my darling Jotherion today?”
Jack rolled his eyes, both at the endearment and at his given name, but smiled despite himself. “All right as portlights, Rose. You?”
“Sunny and centered as always, dear one.” She paused to accept payment for a small carved pipe and a packet of herbs from a Vilix customer, wrapping it carefully in one of the Emporium tote bags for him before returning her attention to them. “Everything go smoothly with Faziquan?”
Daniel nodded. “He squawked a bit, but it’s all starlight.”
“Good. I hope the bertwee oil helps. He’s always so unsettled when his brood sibs visit.”
“He’s over it. He mentioned the shipment coming in from Letis III. Looks like we’ll have first pick.”
“That’s very kind of him. Are you two hungry?”
In the process of tearing open a ration tube with his teeth, Jack grinned widely, his mood gems flashing a greedy, bright green. “Always.”
“The Leaf Basket Cafe held a workshop last night and there’s plenty of veggie pies left, unless Warren’s finished them all . . .”
Rose chuckled as Jack headed for the back immediately, but held out one beringed hand to forestall Daniel from following just yet.
“Warren’s got my storeroom covered with plas sheets and blueprints,” she said quietly. “Will I be having security knocking at my door today?”
Daniel frowned, remembering Jack’s grim expression. “Probably not, but . . .”
“Say no more for now, just keep me informed, okay?”
“Will do.”
Rose turned as a waft of nostril-burning . . . the closest comparison Daniel had ever managed was rotten potatoes dipped in Retian pond scum . . . drifted over to them. “Berle, put that down please. I’ve told you three times, it’s a Barsium egg; it’s not for eating.”
She brushed past Daniel, making for a Lemmick customer holding the object in question in one delicate hand.
Checking to be sure the air filters were on—Rose was notorious for forgetting to activate them when she opened the shop—Daniel followed Jack, careful to keep upwind of Berle.
Unlike the front, the Emporium’s storeroom was modern and well protected by a heavy door that was pass-code and palm-lock protected. Daniel didn’t manage to catch up to Jack before it snicked closed behind him. By the time he got in and reached the table at the far side of the room, Jack had piled most of the veggie pies onto a plate and was pouring cold sombay into a self-warming cup. Daniel grabbed the last two pies and turned.
“Hey, Wark.”
The last of their group, Human, same age but larger, was seated at a table covered in plas sheets. He waved distractedly at him. Tall and muscular, he was dressed in cutoff spacer trousers similar to the others, but rather than Jack’s retro T-shirt and Daniel’s cast-off concert misprint, he wore a plain sleeveless purple tank top that Jack had once accused him of wearing just to show off the muscles of his arms and shoulders. Warren hadn’t bothered to deny it. His hair was much shorter than theirs at the sides, with a stiff strip of bone-white bristles stretching from forehead to the nape of his neck and ending in a thick long braid, that threw his dark brown skin and glittering black eyes into sharp relief.
“Did you tell him?”
His mouth filled with food, Jack shook his head.
“Right.” Warren caught up a remote, pointed it at the viswall behind the food table, then frowned.
“Pull that plas ad down, will you, Dazer?”
Once Daniel had tossed the offending flyer for Plexis’ latest anonymous clinic, Jack called down the portlights, and Warren pressed the start button.
“YOUR LOVED ONES ARE IMPORTANT TO YOU, ESPECIALLY IN DEATH. SEND THEM OFF WITH A MEMORABLE TRIBUTE, TAILORED TO YOUR INDIVIDUAL NEEDS, BY THE CARING PROFESSIONS AT CARDALE, MORLON, AND PIX FUNERARY SERVICES!”
The ad-vid continued in slightly less strident tones, showing scenes of weeping peoples comforted by three somberly clad beings amid a variety of sites from grassy hills and small lakes to factory-style crematoriums and vast banquet halls.
“AND NOW, OUR NEWEST SITE LOCATED IN A PRIME UPPER LEVEL OF THE LEGENDARY PLEXIS SUPERMARKET, IS ABLE TO OFFER AN EXCLUSIVE SYMBOLIC EVENT GUARANTEED TO BRING SOLACE TO EVEN THE MOST BEREAVED FAMILY MEMBER!”
The viswall filled with the image of a luxury yacht with a group of apparently grieving beings huddled together before a wide viewport. While appropriately serious music tinged with a note of anticipation played in the background, a dozen searchlights suddenly illuminated the blackness of space, an air lock opened, and the group of beings gasped as a vast swarm of iridescent insects shot out to cover the viewport in a shimmering curtain of living color, then, one by one, burst apart in a spray of brilliant crimson, emerald and sapphire. The group gasped again, and one of them, a Human female with dark makeup about her eyes realistically smudged from tears, threw her arms wide in an outpouring of emotion.
“IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!”
“CARDALE, MORLON, AND PIX; FULFILLING THE FUNERARY NEEDS OF THE GALAXY ELITE. CONTACT US TODAY!”
The vid froze on the faces of the three soberly clad beings, then shut off. The glow-in-the-dark tattoos on Warren’s face sparkled for an instant before he called up the portlights again.
“They’re Anisoptera,” Jack said, the flatness of his tone belied by the pale blue of his mood gems. “They’re native to every continent on Ladin V where they’re known as Rainbow-cloaks.”
“The funeral company called them Parvus-flies in their ad-vids,” Warren added quietly. “It means . . .”
“It means cheap, ignorable, unimportant!” Jack snarled. “The Ladin V Anisoptera can grow up to the length of my arm, with double wing pairs three times that length. They can live up to eighteen planetary years, camouflage their flight paths, migrate across entire oceans, and fly faster than an aircar with a nine G acceleration on sharp turns. They have incredibly complex life stages. They can eat half their weight in insects every day. They’re not unimportant! During mating flights, the clusters are so big they almost blot out the sun, covering the entire landscape in rainbows. They’re not ignorable either!”
He threw himself into a chair, panting with rage.
“And they’re being exploited and killed in the vacuum of space by three greedy waste-holes trying to suck as many creds as possible out of a bunch of elitist waste-holes,” Warren added.
Daniel glanced from one to the other.
“So when is this newest site opening, Wark?”
“In four station days.”
“Where?”
Warren caught up a plas sheet.
“Upper Level 231, spinward ¾,” he read. “They have four docks, one for deliveries, one for themselves, and two that link up to private corridors—one that brings clients to their facilities and one that takes them to that viewing yacht we saw in the ad-vid. It’s already here.” He tossed another plas sheet; a schematic of the level in question, across the table.
Daniel studied it. “Yeah, I know the site. It used to be an exotic catering company.”
“Chewy something.”
“Chew-able Luxuries. The CEO embezzled it into bankruptcy and flew off to some non-Trade Pact planet.”
Jack made a rude noise.
“Have they got a first . . . event booked?” Daniel asked.
“In six station days.”
“Who’s the client?”
Warren shuffled through the plas sheets. “Lithe-Lime Athletic Wear. You know them?” he asked when Daniel whistled.
“Yeah. They have three retail stores here on Plexis plus their own delivery dock, a satellite office, a restaurant, and a host of expensive hotel suites.”
“They the ones with that stupid ad slogan?” Jack asked suddenly.
“Yeah. ‘Lithe-Lime, Your Life-line to a Better Life,’” Daniel sneered. “Seems to me I heard that some vice president of theirs kicked it. So, what’s the plan?”
“Stop Cardale, Morlon, and Pix from operating on Plexis,” Warren answered.
Jack nodded his agreement. “Stop ’em, crush ’em, and drive ’em out. Plus punch Lithe-Lime in the nose for being a bunch of elitist waste-holes.”
“That’s a pretty tall order. How?”
“We break it down, one job at a time as always. First, recon.” Warren pointed at Daniel. “I need to know when the Anisoptera are coming in, how they’re being transported—it’ll probably be in a tripbox, but I need to know its dimensions and where—” He made a face at the thought of repeating the long list of names, “—where C. M. P. are storing it. I also need the itinerary of both companies around the event and any other programming; how many staff, how long their shifts are and where, and if they’re operating on a daytime/nighttime schedule. I have an idea how to get the Anisoptera back to Ladin V, but I’m gonna have to do some more thinking about that.”
He pointed at Jack. “I need security personnel schedules and security tech. That’s part one.”
As if on cue, the room’s com buzzed. Jack reached up and hit the receive button.
“Are you decent, sweeties? Can I interrupt?”
“Sure, Rose.”
She bustled in, catching up a bright green shawl from a hook by the viswall before waving at them. “I’m off. Can you lads look after the shop? Myrtle, Paige, and I are having a Business Co-op meeting at the Exalted Goddess Tea Room, and then we’re going clubbing. If you get hungry, there’s a pot of veggie stew in the back kitchen. The one on the right, not the one on the left. That’s patchouli oil for the candles. Share it with any customers hanging around at meal time. The stew, not the oil. Try not to stay open too late, but if you do, please don’t play any of Atomic Planet’s newer songs, okay? It sets off the crystals. Try their earlier, more conceptual work.” She gave them what amounted to a shrewd look for Rose, but it mostly came across as slightly worried. “If you use the comp for anything other than business, take the usual precautions, use the secondary password, that sort of thing. No one’s staying upstairs, so feel free to sleep there. I wish you lads would decide to live in. There’s plenty of room, and I’d feel better knowing you were all safe, but make up your own minds, of course.” She kissed each of them on the cheek. “Warren’s in charge. Ter-rah, lovies.”
She bustled out again.
“Add a bit of Rose to your day for health and happiness,” Jack murmured, his mood gems flashing a warm purple.
“Sonic.” Warren headed for the door. “I’ll take the counter; like I said, I’ve got some thinking to do. You two get busy with the recon. I’ll need it by tonight.”
Daniel and Jack nodded.
“There’s gonna be about forty of them, all mid-level execs, arriving the day after tomorrow,” Daniel reported. “They’ve booked a whole luxury package with the station: spas, shopping, banquets, workouts, and seminars, ending with the event. It’s all there.” He handed Warren a plas sheet. “A freighter called the Trident out of Ormagal Prime is bringing the Anisoptera by tripbox, like you figured; stasis to keep ’em dormant. Here’s the dimensions. They’re due to dock beside the yacht two days after Lithe-Lime comes in.”
“Regs, Jack?”
Daniel and Warren hushed expectantly as the other pulled an old, much battered book from his pocket. Jack’s father, a notoriously intractable Port Authority Inspector, had disappeared six years before while fighting the trafficking of sapients by Recruiters. His manual of Trade Pact regulations was all that Jack had of him, and the son knew each and every one of the father’s tenets of behavior, how they were enforced, and how their loopholes were exploited. And the best way to get a punch in the head was to even look like you were going to call his father a Port Jelly. Now he straightened, cupping the book in his hands the way a Turrned Missionary might clasp a theological relic.
“There’s no reg for the symbolic murder of a whole group of innocent creatures,” he said with some heat. “And the Anisoptera don’t fall under any endangered or destructive reg. Because a group on Ladin V still uses ’em in their Adult Initiation feasts, C. M. P.’s legal lackies classed them under the Interspecies Food Transport regs on their Plexis Entry Request docs rather than the Live Product or Live Promotional regs ’cause they’re a lot less strict. The specs on the tripbox they’re using fall within range. We can’t use regs. Even the latest updates won’t help.”
He put the book away and, as if released from a religious rite, Daniel shook himself.
“The tripbox’ll be unloaded first and transported to C. M. P.’s facility. The layout’s here.” He passed over another plas sheet. “It’s a retrofit from Chew-able Luxuries. They have four coolers and two freezers behind the showroom to the left of the offices and viewing rooms. C. M. P. are using the freezers for bodies and the coolers for food and things like keeping the Anisoptera dormant.”
“Security tech?”
“Nothing we can’t bypass with the right pass-cards,” Jack sniffed dismissively. “And they’re easy enough to get.”
Daniel passed over another plas sheet. “C. M. P.’s staff and itinerary. They’re having an open house and then a private party after the opening catered by Claws & Jaws. All in all, about twenty-four beings. They’re on a shifting day/night schedule; station norm for now, but that changes to suit their clientele. Lithe-Lime works on the Camos timeline since that’s where their headquarters are.”
He broke off to head into the back kitchen, reappearing with a huge plate of pastries. “There’s no more stew,” he announced mournfully. “I knew we shouldn’t have let the Random Rocks rep have seconds.”
“Security schedules.” Once Daniel’d taken a seat, Jack dumped an entire pile of plas sheets on the table. Warren glared at him, and he snickered. “Don’t have colon collapse, okay. They’re in order: docking, C. M. P.’s level, and any other security schedules that might be useful for the next week, especially on this level.”
Warren nodded. “Okay,” he said, catching up a pastry. “I’ll need to digest all this, but we can move on to the Supplies stage for now. First, since we can’t hijack the tripbox . . . What?” he asked when the other boys gave him an incredulous look. “How’d you figure we’d get away with that, never mind hide it and then get it on a transport outta here?”
“So how’re we gonna get the Anisoptera away?” Daniel asked.
“I told you; I have an idea about that. It’s not thrashed out fully yet, but trust me, it’ll work. But we need a way to get into the tripbox. Getting the pass-codes would be good, but a way to make it look like the security and temperature controls failed would be best, ’cause we’re probably gonna have to revive them first. If not, we’ll have to go in with a simple smash-grab-and-stash and wait till they wake. For that, we’ll need a specialty tool.”
“Like a biodisruptor, only for metal?” Jack asked, stuffing a pastry into his mouth and spewing crumbs across the table.
Warren brushed them off his plas sheets. “Yeah, like that.”
“Easy-peasy translight-squeezy. Let me know when you need it.”
Warren frowned at him. “Try for the codes first, then the big weapon, okay?” He sat back. “The next thing we need is an alibi, something public. We’re jumping the blast cube on this a bit ’cause I haven’t figured out the best time to liberate the Anisoptera yet, but I’m open to alibi ideas that’ll keep security off our backs, especially after.”
Jack grinned widely, the mood gems flashing a deep, mischievous orange. “I’ve got the perfect one.”
Daniel stared down at the three retro-style rectangular concert plas tickets in horror.
“No, no, no, NO!”
“You sound like Faz,” Jack snickered.
“Now I know how he feels. No!”
“It’s a great idea.”
“I hate AfterBRNR! You know I hate AfterBRNR!”
“The whole station knows you hate AfterBRNR,” Warren observed dryly.
“You already have the T-shirts,” Jack continued. “We each wear one. We go in the front, Kibibi sneaks us out the back—she’ll do it; she likes me.”
“You wish,” Warren snorted. “Kibibi likes Fems.”
“Not likes me like that, likes me like she likes me, like she thinks I’m a nice guy.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Daniel muttered.
“Because I am a nice guy, that’s why. Quit interrupting. We do the job, Kibibi sneaks us back in the back, and we waltz out the front when the concert’s over. And what’s even better . . .” He paused for dramatic emphasis. “Constable Hutton’s working the front door; before and after the concert. We make sure she sees us, and we’ve got the best witness we could ask for. Everyone on Plexis knows she can’t be bought. If she says she saw us going in and coming out, no one’ll question it. You could even complain about how much you hate AfterBRNR as we go past her to make sure she notices us. After that, we’ll have an entire theater’s worth of witnesses to draw on.”
“Why, are you planning to force us to rush the stage?”
“If that’s what it takes!”
“Forget it!”
“Stop being such a whiny baby!”
“You stop being such a sphincter!”
“Enough!” Warren’s shout spun them both around. “It’s perfect, we’re doing it, get over it.”
Daniel glared at him, then dropped into a chair with a disgusted expression. “I hate Soft Blast music,” he muttered. “It gives me ear hives.”
“So now we have the date for the job,” Warren said, pointedly ignoring him. “We still need to crack the tripbox, though.” He stood. “But tomorrow. It’s late. I’m gonna catch some zees.” He headed for the back door. “You two sleeping here?”
Daniel nodded, but Jack shook his head. “I got things to do.”
“Okay. Don’t forget to reset the pass-code for whatever door you go through, and try not to get arrested if you get into a fight. We don’t want your security contacts ticked off at you this week.”
“Yes, Rose. No, Rose. I’m a big boy, Rose, I know how to keep outta trouble, Rose.”
Warren rolled his eyes. “Dazer’s right,” he noted. “You are a sphincter.”
Jack just blew him a loud kiss before heading out the front.
The next day, Daniel was working the counter while Rose explained the use of essential oils to counteract deep space fur-frizz to a group of Turrneds, when Jack slouched in.
“Any luck on the codes?”
“Not yet.”
The afternoon was the same. Warren tidied all his plans away and took the counter while Jack assisted Rose with her ceramics class in the storeroom and Daniel manned the comp. When the shop closed, Warren took over the system, while Rose directed Daniel through a dizzying amount of inventory and Jack stocked shelves.
The second day went no better. Jack spent most of the day running errands for his security contacts and spying on the Lithe-Lime execs swarming the station like a crowd of tall, fit, Turrned Missionaries preaching the benefits of regular exercise. Daniel had to meet with three of Rose’s suppliers, leaving Warren to move between customers, counter, comp, and Rose. When they finally met in the backroom over flatbread and sarlas paste, Warren pushed back from the table with a weary sigh.
“Okay, that’s a crash landing. We go to Plan B.”
Jack grinned, mouth awash with orange and gleeful red flashes. “We bust in?”
“So that it looks like the controls failed,” Warren cautioned. “It can’t look like a bust in. And it’ll have to be done right under C. M. P.’s noses ’cause the tripbox’ll be in the cooler by the night of the concert. So we’ll need you to sign the fastest, safest, and farthest from the repair schedule route between the two sites, Dazer.”
“On it.”
“Do we need to bust into the cooler, too?” Jack’s mood gems flashed even brighter, if possible.
Daniel shook his head. “We’ve got those codes. They never changed ’em from when they were Chew-able Luxuries.”
“Okay. We’ll need something to break into the tripbox while messing up its locking and temperature controls so that it looks like that’s why it popped. I know just the guy to ask.” Jack texted furiously into his wrist com, then nodded in satisfaction at the reply before bounding for the door. “You coming, Dazer?”
Daniel blinked at him for a moment, then nodded his understanding. “We’re not meeting at the restaurant.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jack shook his head anyway.
“At a table on the concourse.”
“Yeah, I’m coming. He’ll bring food.”
“Wark?”
“No. I’ve got a few more details to work out, and I’ve gotta talk to Rose. Bring me some back.”
“No promises,” Jack warned.
Warren gave him a baleful look. “You’d better promise, little Hom, or you’ll find yourself bounced out an air lock.”
Jack just laughed.
The main doors of the Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine could be seen from the cluster of tables in the main concourse. Jack dropped bonelessly into a chair where he could watch for its proprietor while Daniel pressed his back against a nearby pillar. Swiping irritably at an ad that hovered just out of reach, its tinny voice replaying its message of the upcoming AfterBRNR concert over and over, he tried to keep his chest from tightening. Huido Maarmatoo’kk was big, even for a Carasian, but he was not the biggest Daniel’d ever seen.
His mother had died of a ysa-smoke overdose when he’d been nine. His father, a ysa-smoke addict himself, had somehow managed to stumble into a restricted docking area and pick a grief-induced fight with the first being he’d met. It turned out to be one of Huido’s newly arrived nonsentient wives, hungry and out-of-sorts from her journey. Sent to find him by the med unit, Daniel’d arrived just in time to see the towering Carasian female take his father’s head in one massive claw, squeeze, then start to eat.
He had no memory of running forward, of being snatched into the air by Constable Hutton in the nick of time, of being carried away, screaming and struggling, and of being sedated in the same med room where his mother’s body still lay. He had no idea if there’d been an investigation or even a funeral. His parents had been station dregs, barely able to pay their air tax. When he’d finally come to, it was as if they’d never existed. It was years before he learned that Huido had paid Plexis his med bills.
The Carasian himself had always been very kind to him, taking an interest in his welfare, finding him work among the restaurant owners and merchants of his acquaintance and ensuring he had food and shelter when needed. He’d introduced him to Jack who’d introduced him to Rose. He’d never made a threatening gesture in his direction, or even raised his voice, but the sight of his huge carapace and great, snapping claws still made Daniel’s breathing come in short, rasping gasps.
Now, he rejoined Jack as the crowds instinctively parted before the large, armor-plated Carasian striding through their midst, his ever-present Human servant, Ansel, carrying a large takeaway box, following behind.
The other rose at their approach, his expression and his posture formal. Jack both liked and respected Huido, but had never, and would never, set foot in the Claws & Jaws, even though Huido had explained to him, with a rare display of patience, that all species had to eat to survive, and many had to eat live food; it was nature’s way. Jack accepted this but remained adamant, and Huido, in another rare display of patience, had agreed to rendezvous outside his establishment whenever the two needed to meet.
Settling his great bulk so that his lower claws hit the floor with an audible click, Huido gestured at Ansel with one upper claw, a full third of his eyes watching with obvious amusement as Jack tried to ignore the box placed in front of him. Another third watched Daniel, while the remainder kept an eye on the concourse, the nearby rival restaurants, and his own front doors.
“Russell, Kekoa,” he said, his voice reverberating through the two plates that held his eyes and mouth. “I hope you’re both keeping out of trouble and this sudden gathering is not because you need my protection against the Hard Core Iglies.”
Jack raised his upper lip in a dignified sneer.
“That vermin knows better than to even look our way,” he replied. “Ever since we put their last leader in a med unit.”
“Glad to hear it. And where is Mwangi today?”
“Covering for Rose. She’s teaching a Meditation during Translight class.”
“Has he heard from his parents recently?”
“Yeah, they’ll be on that paleobotany assignment on Ettler’s Planet for another year.”
“Is his uncle still working on his dissertation?”
Jack shrugged. “Dunno. He hasn’t seen him for two years. They have a tactful agreement.”
Ansel frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they hate each other, but they both love his folks, so they tactfully pretend he’s still living with him. That for us?” Unable to wait any longer, Jack jerked his chin at the box.
Huido chuckled; a deep rumble that caused the tabletop to vibrate under his upper claws. “A little something my new chef Pearleau is working on: inner nekis bark garnished with elosia flowers. I thought you might give me an opinion.”
Daniel smiled despite his nervousness. Huido had been asking for Jack’s opinion since his mother, a waitress at Claws & Jaws, had run off to the Bonanza Belt with a Kimmcle mine foreman the year before his father had disappeared. It was Huido’s way of ensuring they all had enough to eat without actually offering them charity.
“Pearleau says it comes in a pya reduction,” Huido continued as Jack threw the lid open. “So you won’t need to add any Feenstra’s Patented Hot Sauce. And since Pearleau is probably watching us as we speak, and since she has a tendency to throw things when her cooking is insulted, I suggest you resist the urge to add it just to annoy her.”
Jack laughed, then dug in with gusto, gesturing for Daniel to do the same. The two boys gave the food the attention it deserved until, with obvious reluctance, Jack closed the lid again.
“Tell her it was nebular,” he said.
Three of Huido’s eyestalks stretched toward him in a parody of adult confusion. “I’m not sure she’ll have any idea if that’s a good review or a poor one,” he rumbled.
“A good one, a great one.”
“Well, then, she’ll be pleased. So now that we’ve finished with the culinary portion of your visit—I assume you’ve left enough for Mwangi to partake of later—what is it that you need from me?”
Daniel leaned back, keeping an eye out for approaching Jellies or shoppers who might stray too close to them, while Jack explained their request.
The largest music venue on Plexis, the Downie Grand, had seen its share of bands from the galaxy-renowned Pink Riders whose logo was a huge cocktail, to the experimental Fly-the-Pies, a sixteen-strong troupe of Whirtle musician-acrobats. As a Soft Blast band, AfterBRNR generally drew its fan base from a somewhat older crowd, but there were still plenty of youths milling about so that Daniel, Jack, and Warren did not look out of place in the crowd that surged toward the main doors on concert night.
“This thing’s way too tight,” Warren groused, pulling at the neck of his borrowed T-shirt. He’d already cut the sleeves off, but it still stretched alarmingly across the chest. “Did you have to buy it in size scrawny?”
Daniel scowled at him. “Don’t worry. They’re heading for the waste stream first thing tomorrow.”
“I’m keeping mine, and heads up,” Jack warned, “Constable Hutton’s in view.”
As they came abreast of the security officer, her expression one of professional courtesy, her eyes sweeping the crowd, alert for signs of scalpers, pickpockets, or drunks, he punched Daniel in the arm.
Daniel glared at him in genuine annoyance. “Cut it out, jerk!”
“Think we should ask Tal Miccandrian to sign your ticket?”
“She’s gonna sign your cast in a minute.”
“Ooooo, I think I just discovered your little secret. Daniel Kekoa, AfterBRNR fan.”
“Jotherion Russell, corpse.”
“Keep it level, Homs.”
Constable Hutton’s even tone drew their heads around. Jack flashed his mood gems at her, Warren allowed himself a single nod, but Daniel just shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked past.
Jack’s tickets were for Standing Left, a section of the wide, roped-off semicircle in front of the stage, just below AfterBRNR’s vid crew who were busily recording the crowd for the official tour tape. It was already more than half-filled with beings when they arrived and, waving his rolled-up plas program at a few acquaintances, Warren leaned down. “Mingle, get noticed,” he whispered. “When the lights drop, we meet at the back door.”
Jack gave him a clear flying sign, slid between two laughing Norsenturtles in tent-sized concert T-shirts, and vanished into the crowds. After a moment, Daniel did the same.
He wandered about the lower lobby, checking out merchandise and saying hello to the stall and booth workers, most of whom he knew. He made a show of deciding between a self-warming cup with Tal Miccandrian’s face on it, or a chrono pendant that played the band’s latest song, then chose a simple black plas wrist guard on clearance for thirty percent off. As the lights dimmed and the loudspeaker announced the opening act, one of Rose’s favorites, another Soft Blast group named Constellation, rumored to be patronized by the infamous Grays of Deneb, he headed for the back door.
The other two boys were already there, chatting quietly with a blue-haired fem, her skin as dark as Warren’s and her eyes as green as Daniel’s, wearing a Downie Grand staff T-shirt. She winked at him, then swiped her pass-card at the lock. The door clicked open and, one by one, they slipped out into the service corridor beyond.
“Thanks, Kibibi. We’ll be back before the encores,” Warren told her.
“I’ll be here.”
She blew Jack a sarcastic kiss, then shut the door behind them.
Warren immediately pulled a bag from behind a waste digester, and all three donned old maintenance coveralls and caps to cover their somewhat unique hair styles. Then, after slinging the bag over his shoulder, Warren checked the first of Daniel’s signs before heading for a ladder.
They climbed for two levels, caught a service ramp up for another, wove through a series of increasingly tight service corridors, then up another ladder, and another two ramps before reaching a door marked: Upper Level 231, spinward ¾.
Warren opened it a crack, peered out, then gestured the other two through.
They came out in a dimly lit, faux marble hallway, with heavy, real wooden doors inset in their own soberly carved alcoves in the far wall, each one with a small bronze plate beside it, and each one closed. They passed three doors—an accounting firm, an insurance firm, and a mass market media conglomerate—before finally fetching up against the door to Cardale, Morlon, and Pix Funerary Services.
Warren plucked a card from his pocket and swiped it in front of the pass-lock. There was a faint click, a tiny light flashed green, and the door opened with a soft shushhh. They slipped inside, and Warren used another card to bypass the security alarm.
“The cleaning staff are gone,” Daniel whispered as they made their way through the darkened showrooms. “This way.”
The cooler door proved no more difficult than the front door had; a moment later, they stood before a medium-sized tripbox.
Warren vaulted to the top, reached up, and jerked the cover from a small vent in the cooler ceiling, then jumped down again before turning to Jack. “Okay. Get it open, then set to revive.”
The other’s mood gems flashed a savage yellow. “With pleasure.”
Five minutes later, they stood staring down at five hundred dormant Anisoptera.
“They’ll be awake soon,” Jack said quietly. “You sure this’ll work?”
Warren nodded.
“And they won’t get hurt?”
“Not if everything goes to plan, and everything should.”
With a proud smile, he opened his bag and withdrew an elongated drone, built to resemble a green-and-gold Anisoptera. He set it gently on the open lid of the tripbox, then activated a recessed button behind its wide compound eyes. Its pale yellow translucent wings flexed, then began to vibrate rapidly, carrying the drone straight up to alight on the edge of the vent.
“The Ladin V females have developed a unique pheromone system,” he explained. “With a sexual receptivity signal for the males, and a food discovery signal for other females. Once I set her in motion . . . well, you’ll see; it’s gonna be super sonic real soon.” He tapped a few buttons on his wrist chrono, then turned. “Okay, let’s get back.”
AfterBRNR was just finishing its first encore when they returned to the standing area. Jack immediately took up an impromptu dance with the two Norsenturtles, coming very close to getting stepped on several times. Warren hummed tunelessly along with the second, third, and fourth encores; by the time the lights came up and the crowds began to make their way to the exits, Daniel’s opinion of Soft Blast music was, if possible, even lower. They strode past Constable Hutton at the front doors, jostling each other so that she had to give them another admonishment, then headed for the nearest ramp.
An hour later they stood with Kibibi and the rest of the Downie Grand backstage staff in the Upper Retail Level 104 spinward ¾’s main assembly hall where Rose and her Business Co-op were hosting an after-concert reception catered by Claws & Jaws. Rose herself was standing with the lead singers of both bands, wearing a thirty-year-old Constellation tour T-shirt in a soft dove gray, one plump arm about each musician while the vid crew recorded their conversation. Huido was drinking beer with the two Norsenturtles who turned out to be ambassadors, while keeping three or four eyes on Ansel commanding an army of wait staff handing out wine, canapes, and sweetmeats. As honored guests, the Lithe-Lime visitors could be seen striking artfully crafted athletic poses under the most flattering portlights surrounded by even more flattering Upper Level merchants. A disproportionately large contingent of Turrned Missionaries wove their way through the room, quietly preaching their mandate of respect and understanding, while station security ringed the walls and ramp entrances, maintaining a silent but effective mandate of their own.
Daniel nudged Warren in the ribs. “Looks like C. M. P.’s accepted Rose’s invitation,” he said, jerking his chin at the three funeral directors standing with two others, obviously lawyers.
Warren nodded. “Good, ’cause it’s gonna be any second now.”
He pressed a button on the side of his wrist chrono and, as a vent cover high above slid quietly open, carefully slipped the device into his pocket.
Jack was the first to hear the sound of two thousand and four pairs of wings in the upper ductwork. Seconds later, five hundred and one Anisoptera spewed through the vent.
The sheer size of the cluster nearly blotted out the portlights, causing a shimmering array of reds and greens and blues to cascade over the gathered who gasped in delight, believing this to be part of the festivities. One half of the creatures began a complex aerial battle, swooping, gliding, and diving at each other, while the other half spread out and landed, not on the delicacy-laden tables, but on every bit of plas in the room, most of which was on the gathered. The sound of several hundred labra shooting forward to catch hold of plas jewelry, chronos, hair-extensions, clothing-fasteners, coms, and—in some cases—entire wardrobes, then several hundred toothed jaws biting down, was satisfyingly loud. A few of the guests, like Rose, who’d donned a pair of bright orange plas hair ribbons for the occasion, welcomed the attention with rapt smiles. Most, however, greeted the assault on their personal property with hysterics, but found themselves unable to even swat at the creatures as each guest and each security constable was suddenly surrounded by Turrneds.
“Apparently, the Ladin V females have also developed a unique response to dwindling habitat,” Warren noted. “Using chewed-up bits of plas foraged from nearby sapient settlements to create viable substrate on which to lay their eggs. Who’da thought it.”
“And who’da thought a few missionaries could keep an entire room from hurting them,” Jack added happily.
“Rose.”
“I love our Rose.”
Two of the Lithe-Lime underexecutives hiding beneath the main banquet table, however, refused to be pacified, squawking in panic and screaming for security. When they caught sight of Inspector Wallace, the epaulettes on his dress uniform already minus their plas fringes, they swarmed out at him.
“Do something!” one of them shrieked, grabbing him by the arm and causing the two Anisoptera on his collar buttons to rise up and go for her earrings.
“Do what,” he demanded, trying without success to extricate himself from her grip.
“Kill them! Kill them before they strip us all naked!”
Inspector Wallace struggled to reach his sidearm, only to have Tal Miccandrian’s hand land heavily on his shoulder.
“Do you really want to open fire on a room full of the galaxy elite?” the Neblokan asked sweetly.
“Because you might miss them and hit one of these charming flying creatures,” the lead singer for Constellation added, the multicolored tattoos on his cheeks crinkling as he gave an evil chuckle.
“Then what do you expect me to do about them?” the inspector demanded.
“Well, you could begin by asking Cardale, Morlon, and Pix in what manner they were acquired before they were transported here, Gregor Christopher.” Rose gestured at the three funeral directors who were trying to hide behind their lawyers. “And then reacquire them, unharmed, so that they might be returned to their homeworld. I think that should just about do it.”
Clearly relieved to have an official course of action, Inspector Wallace headed C. M. P.’s way, his expression thunderous.
“I see Aleksander’s here. I’ll speak with him,” Tal Miccandrian told Rose, her amber eyes beneath sequined brow ridges sparkling with merriment. “The Gamer’s Gold is certainly big enough to carry the tripbox. And I’m sure we can find room on our vistape for a short piece about a valiant and environmentally conscientious captain. Our viewers will want a happy ending to this story.”
Across the room, Jack was dancing with glee, two crimson Anisoptera happily nibbling at each wrist plas, their long, delicate legs wrapped about his forearms.
“IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!” he shouted in sarcastic triumph.
“Many regs for the transport of a destructive species, are there?” Daniel asked, as a large emerald Anisoptera pulled his own wrist plas free and carried it off.
“Oh, yeah! And the reg for the importation of a destructive species onto a public space facility are sonically strict, and the fines are super sonically harsh! C. M. P.’ll be lucky to get away with their underwear!”
“Once this lot’s finished with their lists of damages and grievances, they won’t even have those.”
“Yup,” Warren agreed. “There’s your stop ’em, crush ’em, and drive ’em off.” He glanced across the hall where the vid crew were still happily recording. “C. M. P. brought lawyers, but AfterBRNR brought media. And the P.R. folk at Lithe-Lime know it.” He gestured at a Human in a business-style track suit now whispering urgently in the ears of several executive types whose faces were already registering alarm. “I’m guessing they’re about to put so much distance between themselves and C. M. P. there’ll be a backdraft.”
“Won’t help ’em,” Jack retorted. “Their name’s all over the contract, and I’ll bet C. M. P.’ll make sure everyone knows it. That’s my punch in the nose. Hang on; Rose wants us.”
They made their way through the gathered, trailed by half a dozen Anisoptera each.
“I think it may be time to usher our guests into the ballroom,” Rose said when they reached her side. “Paige, Myrtle, if you would begin. Daniel and Jotherion will help you, won’t you, boys? Have Ansel send the waiters ahead with the food and the wine; that should get everyone moving in the right direction. And I’m sure that if Warren were to station himself at the other end of the assembly hall, the Anisoptera will allow us to take our leave. Hmm?”
Warren nodded. “On it.”
Jack tucked his arms into those of the two Norsenturtles who seemed to have taken a liking to him, and headed for the large double doors at the back of the room. “Still hate AfterBRNR, Dazer?” he asked with a laugh.
Twisting his neck around to see Tal Miccandrian, one hand absently stroking a green-and-gold Anisoptera, deep in conversation with Captain Aleksander, Daniel shrugged.
“I guess they’re okay,” he allowed. “As people. I still don’t like their music.”
“Close enough.”
Gently removing a small sapphire creature from his ear, Jack held her briefly on the tip of his finger until she finished removing the plas from the metal stud of his earring, then buzzed off to join the rest of the cluster swirling about the green-and-gold creature perched on Warren’s head.
“What a stellar night,” he breathed, his mood gems flashing a deep, contented purple.