23: Platform Dusk; Lobby Evening
PAUL’S aircar was missing, a tempting explanation for the absence of Victory Johnsson, Jumpy Lyn, and the two thugs who’d pretended to change alliance while Skalet pretended to believe them. Given Johnsson’s gift for misdirection, I’d cycled into my Lanivarian-self and sniffed the patio stones for myself. Finding all four familiar scents, I’d answered an instinct as old as Ersh and erased them with my own.
Lishcyn once more, I walked my web-kin through the Library. Those waiting in the lobby let us pass without interruption; I couldn’t tell if the courtesy was because of Lambo, looming this time in front of the main doors, or because word had spread about Paul.
Then again, it could be Skalet.
Skalet, as S’kal-ru the Courier, was in full uniform, complete with weapons in plain sight. To increase the intimidation factor, she’d donned her distort-hood; the device made looking directly at her almost painful. She wore it when she felt inclined, or a threat. The hood also prevented the capture of a clear image, especially of the affiliations inked into her skin, those uniquely Kraal conceits that, admittedly, conveyed detailed information on status and the ever-changing connections between the Great Houses.
Unfortunately, the hood did nothing at close range to obscure her small, satisfied smile. “Look at all these clients. You have vital tasks to do here, Youngest.”
Unfortunately, I’d remained what couldn’t snarl. My Lishcyn-self also had trouble keeping up with her long, too-eager strides, having generous feet, but I did my best, skipping with a thump every few steps. We were heading to the main entrance, where a Commonwealth aircar waited.
Not for me.
“We’ve staff,” I countered, in no mood to be appeased. I didn’t like any of it, starting with being left behind, but I’d added her almost jolly attitude to the mix. Never a good sign. I lowered my voice as we passed Henri, who waved distractedly on her way elsewhere. “You escalated all this with your little stunt.”
She stopped and turned to face me. “Stunt, you call it? I saved this Nonsense of yours. You should be happy, Youngest.” A pale eyebrow lifted. “After all, I didn’t use his mass.”
After deliberately putting herself in a position to need it?
If it hadn’t been Evan, if it had been Johnsson or her crew or perhaps Duggs Pouncey—would Skalet have chosen differently?
Small steps, as Paul would say. Thinking of him, I curled my lip in a peace offering. “I appreciate both.” Somehow, I kept it polite. Maturity, that was. “I’ll be happy when we find Paul and Lionel.”
Her lips curved. “Lionel’s no longer lost.” She started walking again.
I hurried behind. “If this is something you should have told me—” I gave up. As well ask a Carasian not to strut. “What do you mean?”
“I’d slipped a tracer on him, of course, but the signal had been screened.”
I tamped down my relief. “You have it now.”
“We do.”
“We” meaning her Kraal. However much Skalet decried my relationship with a Human, she was incapable of seeing anything reprehensible or dangerous in her intimate attachment to entire shiploads of the species. Warlike, armed individuals at that.
Under the circumstances, a flaw I chose to overlook. “And?”
“I’ve informed the Commonwealth ship that Lionel—and presumably Paul—are being held in the Parts and Repair Warehouse, east of the landing field. And offered our assistance.”
I hoped Evan knew better than to take it.
Filling most of the train platform, the aircar was shiny clean and three times as large as any such craft on Botharis that didn’t haul ore. There’d be smaller ones on the ship, so either the Mistral’s captain had seen an opportunity to display the advantages of the Commonwealth to the uncommitted, or to emphasize the importance of Acting Senior Polit Evan Gooseberry’s mission.
Both, I decided.
Evan and his friend were climbing inside by the time we arrived, a timing that let Skalet gracefully add herself—staring down the startled crew. She didn’t look back, but Evan did, gesturing me to come closer.
He looked gratifyingly in charge, from his bearing to the well-fitted jacket that was likely a little warm for this climate but, given it was probably lined with blaster-resist fibers, the most appropriate wear for the Diplomat-on-a-Mission. As a bonus, the pale yellow accentuated his dark skin and the cut was wonderfully modern.
My Lishcyn-self earnestly wished Paul owned such a jacket, as that was better than worrying about how dusk’s growing shadows were clawing toward me. I’d forgotten my lantern in the rush, and this form’s eyes were useless in dim light.
Beset by biology as well as rational concern, I struggled to curl a cheery lip at Evan and failed. “Good luck.” Botharans were among the many Human groups encouraged by the thought chance could turn in their favor. Ephemerals.
“I wanted—” he looked over my head at the Library doors. “Where’s Esen? I’d like to say good-bye.”
“The curator has other responsibilities,” I said, unhappy at the disappointment in his face, but unable to help it. “There are a number of upset clients,” I added, because he’d care.
Evan nodded at once. “Please tell her I asked. And that I’ll be putting in an urgent request for her time and expertise on Dokeci-Na. And Paul’s.” He mouthed the word Elves.
Because as Esen, I’d proposed a field trip.
My stomach lurched. I’d done so as the wrong me.
Hindsight frequently resulted in such revelations in my life, a fact of no use now. I stared at Evan’s hopeful face, lost for what to say. The day might come when I could explain to him; at this moment, all I could think? Was that I couldn’t.
Lish Na was a Dokeci protectorate, the Lishcyn in space—rarely—in the ships and by the tolerance of the Dokeci, who’d admired Lishcyn pottery almost as much as their new allies’ prime location on the zenith of Dokeci space, long a source of concern. It had been quite a rude awakening to discover “stiff arms” did not, to Lishcyn, mean courage and fortitude against all odds but rather a state of abject defensive terror, especially in the dark.
On such points did alliances swing. The pottery fad faded and the Dokeci resigned themselves to maintaining part of their fleet in the Lishcyn system, no better off than before.
The Lishcyn, having gained access to space, powerful protectors, and offworld appreciation for their pots, embraced all things Dokeci. Hence the popular suffix “Ki” attached to Lishcyn names, and the extra sleeves on winterwear, which made excellent food storage pockets for excursions.
Esen the spacesick Lanivarian—a species never seen in Dokeci space and bearing a slight, but unmistakable resemblance to a common scavenger—was not the form to take. I had to go as Esolesy Ki, the patently harmless, well-thought-of poor relation in the Dokeci hierarchy.
“Esen may prattle about spaceflight,” Skalet explained, appearing behind Evan’s shoulder. “She can’t handle it. Invite Esolesy Ki instead,” she told him, looking straight at me. “She’s every bit as useful as Esen and less prone to vomiting on your ship.” My devious web-kin gave me her most charming smile. “Don’t worry, Assistant Curator. I’ll come as your security. I’ve been waiting to make a return visit.”
No, she’d been waiting for an excuse to come along and make sure I took care of what mattered to our Web: Lesy’s artwork.
“Regretfully, S’kal-ru, Survey ships aren’t permitted to convey Kraal personnel. I can—” Evan blanched at her look, “—I will try to make an exception.” He turned gratefully to me, the unarmed option. “Would you come then, Fem Ki? Between us, I’m sure we’ll resolve this crisis.”
While watching Skalet’s head spin around as she registered she’d missed an entire “crisis” had its amusing side—my web-kin spending intense amounts of energy and time to not only know everything worth knowing first, but preferably to be the only one to know it—laughing would only elicit a deep cold rage. Especially as her attempt to gain access to the Mistral had failed. She didn’t make good choices then, in any sense.
I settled for privately enjoying the moment, my face composed. “I’d be honored, Evan,” I replied, clutching my lantern, then couldn’t resist. I showed both tusks. “I trust you agree we should refrain from any exchanges of information until Paul and Lionel are secured.”
“You’re quite right,” he replied. “Yes, of course.”
Skalet’s look to me then?
Sometimes, it was worth it.
I didn’t wait to watch the Mistral’s aircar lift. We’d the day’s final trainload of clients milling around in the lobby under the scowling gaze of our newly enlarged Carasian, minus the few locked in their habitat zones. The former would not be happy, the latter might not even have noticed, but the posted rules—and my weary preference—were strict: no overnight guests.
Celivliet Del being the exception, but I planned to make sure the Anata boarded the train with the rest, despite Lambo’s attempt to hoard her dish handler.
There being nothing I could do for Paul and Lionel—
The Cosmic Gods must have been laughing, because that was the moment Lambo bellowed, loud and clear, “CELI! DON’T LEAVE ME!”
I spotted the Anata trying to hide in the midst of a group of Queeb scholars who stared up at the Carasian in horror, then started to abandon poor Celi. I made my way toward the group, only to see Carwyn Sellkirk, our greeter and invaluable coordinator of intersystem passage—otherwise known as the transport wrangler—arrive first. He put an arm around the Anata and hustled him away.
In a fit of pique, Lambo slammed both great claws into the side of the walkway, chipping both. “Stop that!” I bellowed back. “We’ll find someone else for the Chow.”
The sly Carasian settled back with a pleased clatter—to the relief of all in the lobby.
“Esolesy! Over here.” As Ally was running toward me, I elected to wait for her. She plunged to a halt, holding out a box, her face flushed with triumph. “What do you think?”
Unaware of any clients small enough to fit, nonetheless I looked in the box. It was full of brightly colored slips of Botharan paper—itself a novelty item we could have sold in a gift shop, but this was a place of knowledge, not commerce.
I was wearing Paul down on that one.
“Take a close look.”
I obeyed, picking a slip up and holding it where my left eye, the best for reading, could focus. The font was attractive, something of interest to this me; the words were alarming. I looked up at the Human. “We’re giving away questions?”
“Shh,” she said, then grinned at me. “One each. So many lost their place in the queue or chance to input, Henri and I decided it was fair. Do you agree?”
It had the ring of those questions staff asked my Lishcyn-self in order to truthfully tell Paul later I’d been consulted, the answer to any and all being— “Yes,” I said, forcing some enthusiasm. “This is fair. And quite clever. Well done, Ally.”
I helped distribute the slips, along with Henri’s two-for-one supper coupons at the Hamlet Haven, which confused more than a few but were graciously accepted nonetheless.
To be honest, those who’d been through today’s false alarm and lockdown—not to mention Lambo’s grimly enthused looming—were more grateful to be able to return to their ships. Their train would load shortly. If the situation at the landing field turned hot, as Rudy would say, the train would be ordered to stop on its track and wait for an all clear. In no way would these innocent scholars be put at risk.
So far, no one but staff knew there was a potential problem at the landing field, because when Lambo informed Rhonda Bozak, the operator, her train had to wait, she’d left to milk her herd of dairy elk because they most certainly could not.
As excuses for a delay went, this one was so normal, some of our repeat clients had reportedly laughed.
We’d other excuses, and perfect recall or not, I was growing confused which to use. I overheard Henri assuring a Grigari that we’d had a small fire in the basement. Ally and Quin, one of our greeters, told the Rands the food dispenser had acted up—at which everyone in hearing, who could hear, had given Lambo meaningful glares. I decided to stick with the tried and tested “maintenance issue” with a hint of blocked plumbing until Duggs—who’d arrived in the midst of all this—complained I was maligning her plumbing staff and where were the coveralls for the night shift?
Since I couldn’t very well admit we’d given them away, I promised to look into it.
“And the lad?” Duggs asked, having cornered me. “How’s he?”
“Evan? Thanks to you, very well.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with gratitude at the best of times, then gave me a searching look. “How’re you?”
Afraid, tired, alone. I flashed a tusk. “Ready to call it a day,” I admitted.
“Look, once the train loads, me and most of the staff are going to stick around—for news,” she clarified. “We can handle what’s left. Go home before it gets dark.”
I’d hung my lantern from its belt. Thinking of the walk to the farmhouse, my fingers sought its comfort. “Are you sure?”
“Stick to the main floor,” she advised. “Rest. We’ll send someone to fetch you the moment we hear.” A rare gentle smile. “Go, Esolesy. Paul would want you to look after yourself, too. You know that.”
I gave a long, blubbery sigh.
And did.