The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Read online

  Because the Carasian tended to break things when upset, starting with his com unit. “I’ll ’port us to his apartment.”

  “We walk,” he ordered before I could form the locate, that memory of place my Clan Power could use to draw us through the M’hir. A half smile. “You told me you wanted to see more of the station.”

  It was a delaying tactic, I judged, to give Morgan time to plan how to break the news to our headstrong friend, but I made myself smile. “That I did.”

  Just not today.

  * * *

  • • •

  I stopped where the floor gave way to air, crossing my arms on the token rail to look down. Way down. Looking up was an option also, but I’d only see the underside of the next level and advertising. The odd misplaced cloud. Escaped pets—what I hoped were pets. A Skenkran sleeping off a hangover.

  Down, though, was a colorful seething carpet knit from heads, body parts, and packages unrolling as far as I could see; admittedly not far, given the night zone slicing across the promenade in the distance, but enough.

  We were seriously outnumbered.

  Another pair of crossed arms joined mine on the rail; a shoulder bumped companionably. “Second thoughts, Sira?”

  The Human expression for doubt. However many I had, how much I longed to turn around and return to the safety of the Silver Fox, shouldn’t matter. Memories weren’t to be feared. A place—wasn’t. I should be stronger than this.

  Before I could say so, a small lock of my hair wound itself around his thumb, then stilled.

  “That’d be yes.”

  Exasperated, I tugged the lock free and straightened. “And irrelevant. We might as well take our time. Until we settle this business, we’re stuck here.”

  Warmth. I’d pleased him, blending our fate with the ship’s. “We can’t leave yet,” he corrected, gazing down at the crowd, his regard casual to anyone else, but those blue eyes scanned the mass below, seeking potential trouble spots, ever aware of exits. If anyone knew Plexis, it was Morgan.

  If anyone knew me, it was my Human, who gave me a sideways glance. “We’ll fix this.”

  If anyone could—first, though, we had to plunge into the maelstrom of shoppers on the next level to reach the Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine. Which wasn’t a problem, I told myself, steadying nerves this place—and situation—persisted in rattling. We were safe. Our shields were in place—they had to be. Plexis Supermarket attracted Clan shoppers as well as occasional, if now rare, renegade Human telepaths. Security might stir at our worn spacer garb, but we bore the blue airtags of authorized visitors—

  Besides, I realized glumly, Officer Esaliz E’Teiso had probably put out our idents, so we wouldn’t be hindered in our search for funds.

  “We’ll fix this,” Morgan repeated firmly.

  “Soon, I hope.”

  I’d said it with too much feeling. He turned, a brow rising. “What happened to exploring Plexis?” A small frown. “Was I wrong?”

  “No. I did want—I do.” Caught, I made a face then gave in. “I don’t.” The whole truth with him, always. “It’s too much. Plexis— Them—” I gestured at the masses below. After just us. Days upon blissful days of the two of us—three if you counted the ship, as Morgan would—the sum the best part of my life. Especially in space. Especially after—

  Cold. It filled me, memories welling up like the bellies of dead fish. Auord. Scats. Acranam. Pocular. The Drapsk. Ret 7.

  Plexis, oh, I’d memories here, too, dark ones.

  My cheeks burned. What was wrong with me? With an effort he wouldn’t miss, I rallied. “I’ll be fine, Jason. I need—I need a moment to adjust.” And better memories, sure to come now that we were together.

  A wave of understanding, the better because it came without question. Morgan nodded toward a nearby sombay stand. “That’s Sedly’s. Care for a cup?”

  Surprised, I looked more closely at the Ordnex serving from the stand, trusting my Human’s identification. I couldn’t get past their lack of nose to recognize individuals. “Wasn’t he a chef at the Claws & Jaws?”

  “Cook. After Sedly almost poisoned some Humans, Huido broke down and hired a certified multi-species chef.”

  If memory served, our choosy friend was on his third, a Neblokan named Neltare. “I thought Sedly was let go because—you know.” Sedly—admittedly at Huido and my cousin Barac’s urging—had served Larimar di Sawnda’at to a table of delighted Thremms, the Clansman’s corpse having been left in the freezer of the Claws & Jaws in a failed attempt to frame Morgan for murder.

  While I didn’t mourn Larimar, a spy from Acranam, still—my nose wrinkled in disgust. “Sure you want to drink Sedly’s sombay?”

  “Don’t be squeamish, chit.” A grin. “We have before.”

  We hung back to let the cluster of Turrned Missionaries collect their steaming cups with the requisite vows to pray for the Ordnex, the being’s multi-jointed arms a blur as it tried to speed them along.

  As the missionaries left, the nearest gazed up at us with those limpid, so-feeling eyes, and I quickly focused on a nearby plant. Excellent beings, Turrned, but their unceasing desire to care for others involved a level of soul-searching I preferred to avoid. Not to mention the time it took to shake loose of them, once engaged.

  Sombay acquired, Morgan lingered to chat with Sedley. I found a seat and cautiously sipped my drink, which was made exactly how I liked it. My gaze followed the cluster of Turrneds. Their path appeared aimed to intercept whatever approaching spacer looked to need prayer, and I felt a sudden envy. “Plexis never flusters them,” I informed my Human when he joined me.

  “Generalizing about a species, chit?”

  Something no successful trader would do. I grinned at my teacher. “You can’t mean Turrneds. Look at them.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Every species. Not every Turrned is the same. Just ask Huido.”

  The Stars Do Not Dream

  by Amanda Sun

  SALT, HE DECIDED. It needed more salt.

  L’inarx Hoch rummaged through the cupboards in the galley. It was nearly lunchtime by deck hours, but the hall was surprisingly quiet, except for the repeating announcement on the voicecom. Most of the Turrneds were on the observation deck now, swarming against the large viewing windows. It wasn’t long until they would be within docking range, and except for the motley crew who were taller, multi-limbed, and better suited to navigation, it would be the first time most of them had laid eyes on it.

  L’inarx slid the vials aside, reaching his short arms as far into the shadows of the cabinets as he could. It needed salt, but which kind? He found a bottle of nyx tears, the pearly grains spilled and half-melted into the shelf. Beyond that, some ancient seasonings, likely too far gone to use. With the servos, there was little need for cooking on this shuttle. But, small as it was, the kitchen was better equipped than anything on the homeworld, and L’inarx wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

  The voicecom chirped as the same message repeated. “Destination approaching. Please proceed to the observation deck for viewing.” There was no one left to proceed except L’inarx—the others had eagerly rushed to glimpse the awaited port as it careened slowly through the darkness. It was finally at the extent of its trajectory, close to the Turrned homeworld.

  Plexis Supermarket. Their first missionary appointment.

  Not all Turrned were first deployed at Plexis, but it was a common and fairly risk-free position. When it was time, eligible missionaries applied to the various posts they hoped to attain. Some were only available to experienced evangelists—a novice was more likely to be consumed than to convert on Jhabin IV, for example. But Plexis was the safest post for those who weren’t inclined to missionary success—L’inarx included.

  As a Hoch, he should have been an adept missionary. But there was a key factor to the Turrned’s success acros
s the galaxies, and it was this: they were masters at being harmless, nonthreatening, and nearly invisible. While other species had evolved to use superior intellect, or aggression, or even rumored telepathic transference, the Turrned had survived by the blinking of their adorable disklike eyes, better suited to the dim conditions of their homeworld than the bright lights of Plexis. They were even cute, as Turrned reported from missionary assignments on humanoid worlds. The evolutionary traits that caused parents to care for their young worked to the Turrned’s advantage.

  Which was a problem for L’inarx Hoch. He had come into the world misshapen, his eyes half the size of the others, the color more gray than brown, one leg shorter, and his appearance more startling than cute. Other species noticed L’inarx. Even Turrned noticed him. He was a distraction to the uniformity of the sermons, even on his homeworld.

  L’inarx blinked into the cupboard, his paw closing around a reddish vial of salt from the dried-up sea on Garastis 17. A bit smoky in flavor, but he didn’t have much choice. He shook the crystals into the pot; they sank into the stew like droplets of rust.

  It had been no question that L’inarx would wind up on Plexis, where abnormality was expected. He could blend in amid the chaos of biodiversity. Mostly he was glad for a post where he was the least likely to be eaten, and where he might have access to more spices and seasonings than he’d ever seen in his quadrant of the galaxy.

  The voicecom went silent, the crew and passengers now gathered on the observation deck. L’inarx stirred the dense stew. The bubbles trapped under thick slices of fungi suddenly heaved toward the surface with loud, slapping pops.

  A gasp of air signaled the opening of the galley door. A towering frame of sapphire-and-crimson feathers bent down and through the metal doorway. The figure clicked his tongue against his beak, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

  “Smells intriguing,” First Mate W’harton squawked, his message translated by the com implant buried under the rows of feathers overlapping his neck.

  “Your deceitful kindness is a blessing,” L’inarx purred back, lowering a lid onto the pot. The glass clouded with ruby-colored droplets.

  W’harton snorted. “‘Deceitful’? What do you mean?”

  L’inarx blinked his gray eyes. “Tolians have a terrible sense of smell.”

  The first mate held a feathered fist to his beak and coughed. “Yes, well,” he said. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

  “As missionaries, we study all species,” L’inarx said. “But your charity is recognized. Please allow me to serve and pray for you.”

  W’harton reclined in a crimson chair next to the small row of windows that looked out over the stars. “So, it’s not true what they say.”

  “What do they say?” L’inarx removed the glass lid from the pot and dipped in a deep ladle.

  “That you feel a warmth when the Turrned talk,” W’harton said. “That they draw you in like the pull of gravity on a ship’s hull.” He sniffed as L’inarx hobbled over, bowl in hand. “I don’t feel any such draw.”

  Tolians could be terse, but it didn’t bother L’inarx. Turrned were trained for every manner of reaction from skepticism to enthusiasm. In truth, it mattered little what the Tolian thought of his missionary abilities. He was far more concerned with what he would think of the stew. “I’m . . . a bit different than the others.”

  “Hmph.” The first mate reached for the bowl, tipping the thick, steaming contents into his beak. The salt from Garastis 17 clung to his feathers like tiny gleaming embers. He tilted his head to the side, his crest flaring as he considered the taste.

  “I’ve had a great deal worse,” he said finally. “Turrned aren’t known for their cuisine, but . . .” He gave a tiny squawk. “Not bad at all.”

  A purr escaped L’inarx in response.

  “So,” W’harton said between sips, “why aren’t you on the observation deck with the rest of them?”

  L’inarx attempted a shrug, pinching his tiny shoulders together as though he were trying to squeeze through a servo vent. Every light-year closer to Plexis was a light-year closer to his mission. Most Turrneds looked forward to it, but L’inarx . . .

  The Tolian’s crest lifted. “I thought all Turrned were devoted missionaries.”

  “Every Turrned serves,” L’inarx answered, looking at the pot. A thick bubble popped in response.

  There was a saying on the homeworld. The stars do not dream; they shine. Turrned were born to serve, to shine the light of the Prelude on others. It was their role; no more, no less.

  W’harton paused. “I think I parse your meaning. My kin had plans for me, too. But Plexis is a mix of strange and familiar.” He tipped his head back, his rounded tongue licking the last droplets of stew from the bowl. “You might find a home there yet.”

  L’inarx took the bowl in his hands as W’harton stretched to his full height. “I’ll pray for you,” the Tolian said, ducking under the metal arch. The door slid shut.

  It took several moments before L’inarx realized he was supposed to have said that.

  Hesitantly, he padded toward the window, empty bowl clutched to his chest. Not bad at all. He peered into space, pinpricks of light swirling past as the ship hurtled toward the future.

  The voicecom crackled to life once again. “All passengers proceed to their quarters. Upon arrival at Plexis Supermarket, you will be escorted to a tag point.”

  L’inarx pressed his nose against the cold glass, his gray eyes blinking as he looked toward the prow.

  Plexis gleamed in the distance.

  His new home.

  * * *

  • • •

  L’inarx trudged along the length of the altar, igniter in hand. Every few feet he paused, lifting the digital torch to the tapers set in the niches of the wooden frame. He hesitated—these weren’t the usual black candles, inset with clipwing shells that caught the light and shimmered like stars. This one was red, the last one green and orange. Farther along was a transparent candle with obnoxious neon rainbows spiraling down the sides in alien script.

  A veteran Turrned slowed to blink his comforting eyes. “Not as easy to source candles here as the homeworld,” he offered. “Archaic devices, shopkeeper said. Don’t want to burn down Plexis.”

  “Archaic? Candles?” L’inarx let out a gurgling puff in his throat. You might as well call the stars archaic, the planets, the universe. Ancient, yes, but to label them archaic, as though their meaning were lost, irrelevant. There was nothing closer to the beginning of things than the combustion of elements. The universe ignited in a spark, and the Prelude before it collapsed into embers. When you thought about it, candles were more central to Turrned worship than feeding the hungry.

  Archaic. L’inarx sniffed as he lifted his igniter to the wick. The flame crackled to life, the darkness of the converted cargo room just a little brighter.

  Normally he disliked this sort of menial task, reserved for lower initiates. But after the overwhelming crowds, he didn’t mind as much. This tiny, Turrned-sized room was snug and familiar after the expanse of the supermarket. Stifling, a little. Claustrophobic, yes.

  But safe. Mundane.

  Even the docking bay had been shocking, with its soaring ceilings and floor-to-rafters windows. A giant posting board announced arrivals, departures, crew listings, cargo sought or found or loaded, scrolling in every color and curling script. Most were in Comspeak, but despite L’inarx’s vast training of other species, there were many he didn’t remotely recognize.

  The Turrneds had come to greet them with Prelude bells, intended to draw interest and curiosity. The veteran leader hesitated when he saw L’inarx but, of course, didn’t say anything. Turrned are nothing if not polite.

  They had proceeded in rows of four, waves of warmth radiating from the tiny missionaries. It was working, L’inarx had thought. He kept his head down, his eyes a
way from the crowd. Perhaps he could go mostly unnoticed after all.

  Now, in this stuffy cargo hold, he wasn’t so sure. It was dim, but he was at the front of the altar lighting candles. Not exactly invisible. He’d volunteered immediately for cooking duty, but had been told all positions were filled.

  He lit the last of the tapers as the first of the spacers arrived, guided to rows of chairs crammed tightly around long aluminum tables. It was nearly time. He tried to look pious as he waited.

  “You’re a Hoch, aren’t you?”

  L’inarx turned. The veteran missionary who had explained the candles stood beside him. “I’d heard one was among the newest arrivals.”

  “How did you know?”

  He leaned closer. “It has to be you. It couldn’t be any of the others.”

  L’inarx stifled the purr rolling into his throat. Hoch was a rare title, given only to the descendants of at least three generations of outstanding missionaries. The gifts were said to pass down genetically from one Hoch to the next. To outsiders, all Turrned appeared the same, but to the missionaries, it was easy to spot a Hoch. They walked with more grace; they blinked with more warmth. They gave more generously, an extra ladleful on every plate. They fit their missionary lives as smoothly as the grooves of the altar notched into each other.

  It was what made L’inarx as rough as raw lumber.

  “The rest of the new recruits lurch like orbiting planets,” the veteran said. “You’re the only one who doesn’t. So you must be the Star.”

  I was supposed to be, L’inarx thought. But then he was born like this, with his uneven legs and his cold, gray eyes. No one said anything cruel, ever. But they didn’t have to. L’inarx heard it all himself, the rush of cold water in the whispers of overwrought kindness poured upon him his entire life.

  “Don’t be nervous,” the veteran said. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “You’re very kind,” L’inarx answered.