The Rainbow Collection
by Nathan Azinger
FLOWER OF PTUM was dead in space—drifting—its great, translight engines eerily quiet. Which, Shoenn Mij reflected, served one right for buying a sixth-hand freighter from a Scat.
Not that there had been a choice. The Doyenne had deemed Mij insufficiently fashionable to represent Coterie Shoenn among the Lemmick peoples, let alone offworld, and so he had been shuffled off to the cloistered village where he could work diligently for the good of the coterie and not tarnish its reputation with his appearance.
But Mij dreamed of being like the spacer legends from his books and vistapes—Rist Merrick of the Hindmost Hero, or the great Raj Plexis—bringing necessities and luxury goods to the fringes of Trade Pact space (for a reasonable fee). He would haul joy from shipcity to station, and bring all sapients the sort of happiness that Lemmicks found in a fine cut of cloth. To follow his dream, however, Shoenn Mij was forced to do something terribly, terribly unfashionable: run away.
Oh, he had planned it well enough, smuggling spacer study tapes into the village (an education in itself) and hoarding what he could of his allowance over the years. By the time he crept from the village and boarded the transport across the sea to Eiluj Lem, Mij knew as much about crewing a spaceship as anyone could without actually having done it. As well, he had a stockpile of credits that he thought quite sizable. Sizable it was, too, by the standards of the village and of the Ptumep archipelago; it didn’t go as far in the largest city on the continent.
Mij had stepped off the transport, his little valise clutched in his delicate hands, and made his way through the crowds. Lemmicks from every corner of the continent, the archipelago, and beyond thronged the streets; the long, supple poruri that projected upward from the back of their heads swayed and pulsed as they walked. Above their heads, aircars flitted from spire to spire.
The nearest information center was not far from the landing pad. Mij needed to arrange temporary lodgings, but lodgings, it turned out, were expensive in Eiluj Lem. Prohibitively so for a Lemmick of no declared coterie. He belched nervously and regurgitated some food to chew on as he made a series of quick calculations. Five days would burn through the credits he’d set aside for accommodations. Very well, then, five days would have to do.
Four days later, he had still not found a berth on an outbound freighter—twenty-three different ships had just filled their last posting, thank you very much—and he was beginning to wonder if he didn’t smell. A quick sniff at the scent glands that pebbled his skin assured Mij that they were in working order. Still, he needed a way offworld. That was how Shoenn Mij found himself standing in the muddy yard of Shako’s Ship Emporium, contemplating a big gamble.
“It is-ss a remarkable ss-ship,” said the eponymous Scat. “It came into my posssesssion when the previous-ss owner died unex-sspectedly.”
Mij stared up at the squat ship’s boxy hull. It was certainly remarkable, but for all the wrong reasons: of all the ships in the Emporium, it was the oldest and the smallest, and a pair of hastily-repaired scorch marks marred its skin. It was also, critically, the cheapest. He estimated that, if he could manage to talk the price down a little, he should have enough credits left over to purchase cargo and pay the requisite taxes and fees to get the little ship off the ground again. Barely.
“This ship has seen better days, Hom,” said Mij as he turned to face the Scat, “but it might serve my purpose for an agreeable price.”
Shako stared up at Mij, his slitted eyes framed by mottled yellow-and-purple crests, and said, “I’m ss-sure we can come to ss-some ss-ort of arrangement.”
Sometime later, the haggling completed, Shoenn Mij had found himself the proud owner of a somewhat used freighter. Thaksshouz, Shako had called it, which he said referred to a sort of flower that had no thorns and didn’t kill anything ever. The very concept seemed to disgust the Scat, but Mij found it charming. He rechristened it the Flower of Ptum, filled its hold with optex, and set a course for the Kimmcle System.
For three days—three glorious days—Mij had lived his dream. Then the translight engine failed, leaving him stranded in space.
Wiping greasy, three-fingered hands on his rough spacer coveralls, Mij made his way down the narrow corridor from engineering to the control room. It had quickly become apparent that the problem was beyond his limited ability to fix, his only option now to send out a distress call. Still, he hesitated. There were scavengers and pirates out in the deep who would feel no compunction about killing him—or worse—before taking his ship.
Mij crossed the tiny compartment and settled into his chair. He recorded a brief emergency message and set it to loop. Then he rested his elongated skull against the visplate and, pororus drooping in despair, fell asleep.
“Plexis Approach Control to Flower of Ptum,” said a tinny-sounding voice over the comlink. “Please respond, Flower.”
Mij snapped immediately awake. He reached for the com panel and keyed his acceptance. “Flower of Ptum here, this is Captain Mij. It’s good to hear you, Plexis Control.”
There was a short pause and then, “Your message said your translight engine malfunctioned. Do you have sublight propulsion?”
“I have maneuvering thrusters,” replied Mij. Given enough time to accelerate, he could generate a significant fraction of light speed with those. Not that it did him much good; at those speeds, he would be dead long before reaching the nearest settled system—even if food and life-support held out.
“Good enough, maybe,” said the controller. “You’re a long way from anywhere, but our planned route will pass near you in about seventy-two hours. I’m sending coordinates for a rendezvous now. If you can’t make it in time, we can commission a tow. Be aware, however, that the cheap ones aren’t reliable and the reliable ones aren’t cheap.”
Mij fed the coordinates into the ship’s comp and let it run the numbers. A moment later it spat out the results: he would make it with time to spare. Belching quietly, he confirmed the course and engaged his thrusters. Flower shuddered as they kicked on, and slowly began to pick up speed.
“I’ll be there,” said Mij. “Thank you, Plexis.”
“We’ll assign you a spot on the docking ring with access to the mechanics’ yard,” the controller responded. There was a longish pause, then, “When you get here, try not to look wounded. There are four or five ships offstation right now that have less than savory reputations. Safe journey, Flower.”
“Safer journey, anyway,” Mij said as he pushed his chair away from the console and climbed to his feet. There was much to do before he reached Plexis. He strode down the corridor, chewing cud, and began to plan.
“What do you mean my ship will have to be sterilized?!”
It was difficult for a Lemmick to look intimidating—their long, delicate limbs adapted more for flight than fight—but Mij was giving it his best shot. The passage to Plexis had been quite stressful enough, thank you. An Auordian ship had cut directly across his bow, nearly colliding with the already damaged Flower. To have survived that, to have made it at last to safety, and to be confronted with this . . . this officious Ordnex was really just too much.
“Priortoyourpurchase,” droned the Ordnex, its nostril slits sealed tight, “thisshiphadaSakissisheeregistry.” It made a great show of consulting its datapad. “Thereisnorecordofitbeingpurgedofarquae.”
Mij glowered.
“‘Arquae?’” he asked.
“Anuisancespecies,” the Ordnex explained, waggling its multi-jointed fingers. “BannedfromPlexis. Untilyourshipissterilizeditmustremaininquarantine.”
“How much,” Mij asked, “will it cost to have the ship sterilized?”
The Ordnex named a price that made Mij stiffen in shock. It was extortion, but no less effective for it, and would leave him without enough funds to repair the ship. He would have to sell his cargo here on Plexis.
“That,” he said, “is robbery.”
“Nevertheless,” droned the Ordnex agreeably.
Mij sighed.
“Call the exterminator.”
Hours later, a much poorer Mij found himself wandering Plexis’ corridors with a blue airtag on his cheek. He had expected the supermarket to be packed with sentients of every description, but everywhere he went the crowds were sparse and grew thinner as he watched. Perhaps, he thought, the air itself was to blame; it seemed cold and sterile to him. Mij couldn’t blame anyone for avoiding such an uninviting atmosphere, even if it was full of interesting shops and restaurants—all of which, he reminded himself, were out of his price range until he offloaded his cargo.
Optex was a programmable, color-changing rubber that had briefly been all the rage among the coteries of Eiluj Lem. Mij had found the sight of tall, willowy models striding down the runways in skin-tight clothing that changed color and pattern as they walked . . . stimulating. It was so last season, though, and Mij had gotten an especially good deal on the leftover stockpiles.
More practical uses included making and repairing visplates for industrial equipment. A mining system like Kimmcle would have paid well for Flower’s cargo; a commercial hub like Plexis had uses for it, too, but also a larger supply—and hence lower prices. Still, Mij stood to make a small profit.
The customs official had recommended a broker on Level 3, whom Mij assumed was another Ordnex. The exterminator had been, after all, as had the recommended mechanic. He was beginning to think they might all be related. Nevertheless, to Level 3 he went.
Up ahead, something caught Mij’s attention. It was a young Human—female perhaps, though Mij found it difficult to tell in the absence of ultraviolet cranial markings—standing in front of a table and accosting passers-by with plas leaflets. A banner that read, “TACO Tuesdays,” hung from the front of the table, and a tabletop display announced that TACO—the Terran Arts and Culture Outreach organization—was hosting weekly film viewings.
On a whim, Mij made his way along the concourse toward the table. What crowds there were melted out of his way. The young Human watched his approach with eyes as wide as a Turrned Missionary’s. Mij stopped in front of the Human and inclined his head to look down. The Human thrust a leaflet toward him, as if extending a shield. Mij took it in one delicate hand.
“Pardon me, hmm . . . Fem?” said Mij.
“Gardiner,” the Human said, “Rielly Gardiner. And yes, I’m female.”
Mij breathed a sigh of relief that made the Human blanch for some reason.
“I hope that wasn’t rude,” Mij said. “You’re the first Human I’ve ever met.”
“Not at all,” said Gardiner, shaking her head. “It happens pretty often here on Plexis. If you stay onstation long enough, you become something of an unofficial ambassador for your species. Besides,” she added, with a quirky grin, “I’ve been here for two years and I still can’t tell the gender of a Lemmick.”
“Really?” said Mij. “The cranial markings are quite distinct.”
Gardiner stared up at up at Mij’s own immaculate skull, mouth agape. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to say something. Instead, she closed her mouth with a snap and shook her head again, the ends of her straight, brown hair brushing against her shoulders.
“My name’s Mij,” Mij offered, “Captain of the Flower of Ptum. I was wondering, if you could tell me what a film is.”
“Certainly,” said Gardiner, obviously back in her element. “Film was an ancient form of Human entertainment from before our species achieved interstellar travel. It involved the projection onto a screen of a series of still images to produce the illusion of movement. Most films told a story of some kind: adventure, tragedy, romance, comedy, drama. Thanks to periodic revivals of interest, we have recreations of many of the most famous films, though many more have been lost. They’re tremendous fun.”
“And you’re showing some of these films here on Plexis?”
Gardiner nodded and said, “To foster an appreciation for Human cultures and expand the market for Human cultural artifacts. That’s TACO’s mandate.” She gestured at the plas leaflet in Mij’s hand. “We’re showing one of my favorites later today.”
Mij brought the leaflet up to his face and peered at it. Tapping the picture on the front with one, long finger, he asked, “What is this green-skinned creature? It’s not any species I recognize.”
“That,” said the Human female, “is a frog. Or rather, it’s a frog puppet. This film features quite a lot of puppets, actually.”
Mij had numerous questions after that, and Gardiner patiently answered as best she could. As the conversation wound down, Mij felt much more knowledgeable about puppetry and terrestrial fauna and anthropomorphism among other things.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “You’ve been extremely informative, and I’d like to watch your film. There’s only one more question I have to ask.”
“Go for it,” said Gardiner.
“What’s a Tuesday?”
When Mij met the broker, he was unsurprised to discover that his hunch had been right: it was another Ordnex. A suspiciously well-informed Ordnex, as it turned out. No sooner had the negotiations commenced, then he let slip what he knew about Mij’s ship and what he suspected about his finances. He then offered to find a buyer for Mij’s optex—for an exorbitant commission.
Mij walked out, of course, but not before the broker had intimated that if he didn’t engage his services, he would find every buyer on the station equally well informed. If Mij couldn’t turn a reasonable profit on his cargo, he couldn’t afford to repair the Flower, and if he couldn’t repair the Flower, he was stranded. Mij was desperate, but there’d be no hope of turning a reasonable profit if everyone on Plexis knew he was desperate.
He checked with two more brokers before making a meal of C-cubes, and another three afterward. The Ordnex had apparently made good on his threat. Mij spent the rest of the day in the main posting office, working the comlink with captains of ships bound for industrial ports. When that failed, he set up at a table with a blue placard that announced he would take on passengers. Several times it seemed as if someone was headed his way, but always they veered aside at the last moment.
By the time the lights dimmed for shipnight, Mij could not have been more discouraged. Once again, he was struck by the station’s curiously anodyne air. He wondered if it was the scent of dying dreams. It certainly felt that way.
Climbing to his feet, Mij prepared to make his way back to the Flower. Something crinkled in the pocket of his coveralls, and Mij suddenly remembered TACO Tuesdays. He pulled the leaflet out of his pocket and examined it, then he checked his chrono. If he hurried he could just make it.
It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do.
TACO had converted a vacant retail space not far from the posting office into a small, makeshift theater. An assortment of different chairs, suitable for a variety of body shapes, were arranged into rows facing a large viswall in the rear. By the time Mij slipped in, a dozen or so were already occupied, and Gardiner stood in front of them, giving a short lecture about Human art in general and today’s film in particular.
Mij recognized most of it from his earlier conversation, so he turned his attention instead to a glass box sitting on a table in the near corner. The lower third of the box was filled with some . . . stuff that looked like nothing so much as a sulfurous cloud, and smelled strongly of salt and something else Mij couldn’t name.
Three flat-bottomed bags of the stuff sat next to the box. A sign on the box informed Mij that this was a Human treat called popcorn which was often eaten while watching films, that it was safe for all species currently registered as being on Plexis, and that TACO took no responsibility for ingestion by nonregistered sapients. Mij grabbed one of the bags, then found a seat in the back of the hall.
As Gardiner was wrapping up her talk, Mij belched softly and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. It tasted like nothing Mij had ever eaten before, and its texture—a bizarre juxtaposition of sponginess and crunchiness—was an absolute delight. He couldn’t help grabbing another handful and munching on it. Several of the other film-goers began to sniff, and a few turned to glance at Mij. He cradled his bag of popcorn protectively. They would simply have to find their own.
“Before we begin the movie,” said Gardiner, “does anyone have any questions?”
One Human, seated in the middle, raised his hand. Mij guessed that it was male, being as it was larger, and significantly rounder than Fem Gardiner, but he couldn’t say for sure. When Gardiner acknowledged him, he said, “I, uh, just remembered that my captain needed me to do a thing somewhere else.”
Gardiner sighed, then said, “You’re missing a good one, Frank. Hope to see you back next time the Keeper of Secrets is onstation.”
Frank murmured something noncommittal and slipped out of the theater. As if his exit had given them permission, others began to make their excuses as well. Before long, Mij and Gardiner were nearly alone in the theater. Only a Tolian with russet-and-gold feathers, and a broad-shouldered Human—both wearing the uniforms of Trade Pact Enforcers—remained.
“Well,” said Gardiner, “I suppose I should get this thing started before anyone else decides to leave.”
“Don’t worry,” said the Human enforcer. “Everyone smart enough to leave has left already.”
Gardiner rolled her eyes, but didn’t otherwise respond.
“Lights!” she called, and on cue the lights in the makeshift theater winked out.
“Camera!” she shouted, and the viswall blinked to life.
And at the cry of, “Action!” the film began to play.
Mij watched in rapt attention and ate his popcorn.
When the lights came up again, Mij sat there, dumbfounded. Up front, the two enforcers climbed to their feet. The Human kept referring to his companion as “Sam,” which must have annoyed the Tolian because he trilled something that his voicebox wisely chose not to translate as the pair made for the door. That just made the Human laugh.
Gardiner came over to Mij and sat in the seat directly in front of him. She draped her arms over the back of the chair, looked up at Mij, and asked, “So what did you think?”
“It was beautiful,” said Mij.
“Beautiful?” asked Gardiner, raising her eyebrows. “That’s not the response I was expecting. Funny? Sure. Interesting? You bet. Why beautiful?”
“Because,” Mij said as he fidgeted with his empty popcorn bag, “they followed their dreams and, even though there were obstacles, they made it. They did what they set out to do. They made millions of people happy. Maybe more.”
Gardiner laughed and said, “I suppose you’re right at that.”
“Can you answer a question for me?” Mij asked.
“It’s what I’m here for,” said Gardiner.
“Is it true, what the Human in the fashionable hat said? That females go gaga for balloons?”
“I suppose so,” said Gardiner with a snort. “To be honest, I’ve never had one. That’s an odd thing to fixate on, though. What makes it so interesting?”
Mij stared down at the bag in his hand, its red-and-white stripes now thoroughly mangled, and said, “I suppose it’s because I identify with him. He’s living my dream, bringing people happiness through the things that he sells.”
Without really meaning to, Mij’s entire story began to spill out of him, from his decision to leave the archipelago to his fruitless day on Plexis. Gardiner listened patiently, interrupting with only the occasional sympathetic murmur.
“I don’t know what else to do,” wailed Mij when he had finished his story. “Everything is falling apart. I still believe in the dream, but nobody’s going to show up just in time to help me make it the rest of the way like they did in the movie.”
Gardiner reached out with one hand to pat Mij on the arm. It seemed an odd gesture to Mij, but he appreciated it nonetheless. He belched to relieve his upset stomach. Gardiner wrinkled her nose, but didn’t move her hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you with that,” said Mij once he had calmed down.
“Don’t worry about it. I wish I knew how to help.”
“You could tell me where I could get a balloon,” Mij said. “It wouldn’t solve anything, but maybe it would put me in a better mood and help me to keep going.”
Gardiner shook her head and said ruefully, “I’m afraid nobody on Plexis sells them.”
Mij stiffened, a look of surprise on his face. A plan began to form.
“Perhaps,” he said, “there’s more than one way to travel the fringes of Trade Pact space, bringing trade goods and joy to everyone.”
Mij exhaled from his methane bladder, inflating the sac beneath his jaw. Lifting a pink-and-purple balloon to his lips, he breathed into it. As his vocal sac contracted, the balloon swelled with a hiss until it was larger than a Human’s head. A mass of purple dots skittered across its surface to form first one message, then another. Mij tied it off with his deft fingers and attached a small station-keeping device.
It had been a stroke of genius to keep the optex and sell his ship. Not easy at all—he had grown quite attached to the Flower during his short tenure as captain—but it had allowed him to rent a small manufactory and purchase the machinery he needed to turn the optex into balloons. He had even, of late, begun experimenting with his own, proprietary blend of materials.
Retail space, alas, was expensive on Plexis, and well beyond his means, but Fem Gardiner had made him an excellent deal on a slightly-used collapsible table. Most days he set up shop on Level 3, spinward ¼. It wasn’t precisely legal, but then on most days security was strangely reluctant to deal with a Lemmick. Mij tittered as he remembered a very mortified Gardiner explaining that to him. He had been at it for several years now and regretted nothing.
Mij released the balloon. It drifted slowly upward, guided by quiet puffs of air from the station-keeping device, until it joined the brightly-colored multitude of other balloons that formed a jostling, squeaking canopy over Mij’s table. The movement caught the attention of a squadron of young Regillians, whose guardians chivvied them onward, and a Human passing in the other direction.
The Human paused—a male, Mij noticed, being able to tell the difference now—and then approached the table. Aside from a set of remarkable blue eyes, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about him. He looked up at the balloons. That, Mij knew, was his cue.
“Greetings, Hom, and welcome to the Rainbow Collection,” he said, leaning back and holding his hands out to the sides. “Can I help you find anything?”
The Human favored him with a pleasant smile and said, “I need a balloon for an occasion.”
“I have balloons for every occasion of which I am aware,” said Mij.
“How about a baby shower?”
Mij frowned.
“I was not aware of that one,” he said.
“Oh,” said the Human. “Well, then, I suppose I should decide between the green one that says, ‘Felicitous Spawning,’ and the—does that one say ‘Condolences on your Parasite’ in Carasian?”
“It can say many things,” replied Mij. “Can I give you a word of advice?”
“What?” asked the Human.
Mij leaned down and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Why not take both?”
A broad grin broke across the Human’s face. “I’ve a better idea.”
When he left, he was accompanied by an entire raft of balloons.