Janat Kagan - Hellspark_玖贝云文库

Hellspark

Janet Kagan

1988

v1.1 September 2003

EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1, April 22, 2003

ISBN: 0-812-54275-4

Contents

Prologue: Lassti

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

This one’s for

Eileen Enquist,

Lincoln Park Volunteer Hose Company No. 2,

Bob Lippman, Warren LeMay, Tom Cleary, and

Danny ???,

David G. Hartwell, and Rick Sternbach

—all of whom came to the rescue—

THANK YOU ALL! and for

Susan and Gardner, fellow alumni of the hottest writers’ workshop in the history of sf;

Chris, who had the “unique perspective;”

and Ricky, as always—with love

Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for the words, Corporal,

I should be very given to talking. There’s things

To be said which would surprise us if we ever said them.

—Christopher Fry, A Sleep of Prisoners

A Note on Orthography:

I have chosen to follow GalLing’ usage: italicizing the term layli-layli calulan and capitalizing it only

when it begins a sentence. This should serve as a constant reminder that what appears to be a name is

rather a designation. Layli-layli calulan’s name is unknown to any but a very few of her most trusted

intimates. And her world of origin bears the designation (not the name) Y, meaning (very roughly) both

“sound of strength” and “source of strength.”

Again following GalLing’ usage, I do not capitalize the Jenji title “swift—” except where it begins a

sentence.

—MLL, ed.

Prologue: Lassti

SOUTH OF BASE camp, a daisy-clipper skimmed through the flashwood, buffeting the

undergrowth into a brilliant display of light. Its beauty was lost on swift-Kalat twis Jalakat. The dazzle

was merely one more distraction that might prevent him from finding some trace of Oloitokitok, the

survey team’s physicist—he had been missing for two days now.

Swift-Kalat, a small slender man with a ruddy complexion and, normally, an easygoing temperament,

punched the daisy-clipper’s comtab as if it were to blame for Oloitokitok’s disappearance. The weighty

silver bracelets that on his homeworld of Jenje would have chimed his status here clashed and jangled.

The sound only served to remind him that such expertise was useless in the situation he faced, and he

jammed the bracelets almost to his elbows to silence them. When he addressed himself to base camp, his

voice was clipped with exhaustion and anger.

“Swift-Kalat and Megeve,” he began, identifying himself and his companion, “we have completed the

search of sector four.” He paused to choose his words with care. In his own language, he would have

had no hesitation; his own language would have included in any statement the warning that he was neither

suited to this task nor physically reliable because of his weariness. In GalLing’, he was unable to speak

with such accuracy. He found himself limited to saying: “We’ve seen nothing we are able to interpret as

an indication of Oloitokitok’s presence.” His eyes flicked to the right, seeking a denial from Timosie

Megeve, the Maldeneantine who piloted, but it was as futile as asking the loan of a Bluesippan’s knife.

He received only a glare of anger and frustration.

“Nothing in sector four. Acknowledged.” The answering voice was low and weary, despite its careful

control: it was that of layli-layli calulan, the team’s physician—and Oloitokitok’s wife. She went on,

“Dyxte says there’s another storm, a bad one, coming up fast in your area. Return to base and get some

rest.”

The small screen on the pilot’s side lit to show the projected path of the storm. Frowning at it,

Timosie Megeve opened his mouth as if to voice an objection, but before he could even begin, layli-layli

added, “Doctor’s orders.”

“Acknowledged,” said swift-Kalat wearily. He thumbed the comtab off and closed his eyes.

“She’s right, I suppose,” said Megeve. “We’ve been searching for nearly twenty hours.” He ran a

cream-colored hand through a tangle of gray curls, dropped it to his thigh, and stared at it unseeing.

“We’re both so tired we’d likely miss a drab-death’s-eye if somebody dropped it into our laps.—And if

we miss something we should spot, we’re worse than useless.”

What Megeve spoke was true, swift-Kalat knew, but he also knew that rest would not come easily:

even Oloitokitok’s disappearance could not drive the sprookjes from his mind.

Megeve shifted forward, glared at the instrument panel, then thrust out a hand to tap a nail against an

indicator. He said something in his own language that was clearly a curse and tapped it again before

returning to GalLing’. “One equipment failure after another,” he said, still growling. “This wouldn’t have

happened if that transceiver hadn’t failed on us.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if Tinling Alfvaen had been here,” swift-Kalat countered, surprised to

find that the statement approached the proper degree of reliability even in GalLing’.

“Who?—Oh, your serendipitist friend.” With a second disgusted snort, Megeve gave up on the

indicator and guided the daisy-clipper forward, following the snaky curve of the river back to base camp.

“Maybe, maybe not. A serendipitist isn’t all-seeing, you know.”

Swift-Kalat made no response, but the thought worried him further.

Allowing three months for the letter he’d sent with the last supply ship to reach Alfvaen and another

for Alfvaen to act on it, the polyglot he’d requested was at least four months overdue. Perhaps he had

misjudged—not Alfvaen—but Alfvaen’s culture, which was so alien to him. Perhaps her custom

prevented her from assisting him. Swift-Kalat had worked with people of differing cultures long enough

to be aware that one culture’s truth was not necessarily another’s.

He called from his memory the image of her smiling face with its exotic pale skin, sharp features, eyes

a striking green. She was beautiful to him, but it was her eyes that held him always, even in memory: the

fierceness of her eyes when she believed in something or someone. She would have believed the message

he’d sent because he had sent it. Even custom could not have prevented her from acting on it, as custom

would not have prevented him from aiding her were their situations reversed.

If not custom, then what had delayed her?

He formed the truth for himself: his real fear was for Alfvaen’s safety. Perhaps the disease she had

contracted on Inumaru was more severe than she, or he, knew.

The shock of the discovery jerked him back to reality. To his added surprise, he found that Megeve

had turned the daisy-clipper to a new heading.

“What is it? Can you see something?” Swift-Kalat looked out, forcing himself to alertness.

He saw only a small stream, still swollen from the noon storm. A lush growth of drunken dabblers

bobbed and weaved in the rumbling water; at every surge their dead-black leaves came alight with veins

of eye-burning amber, the precise shade and glare of an antique sodium light. Beside them, smug erics

danced, churning and whirring—each pale white leaf edged, each silver stem spined, with a harsh glitter

of actinic blue. There was no sign of Oloitokitok. Blinking to clear his eyes, swift-Kalat turned to Megeve

for explanation.

Megeve listened to a faint roll of thunder and said, “I make it twenty minutes before that storm hits

here. That means we have enough time to reach your blind and change the tapes. There’s always a

chance they may show some act of the sprookjes that the captain can credit as intelligent.”

It was a faint hope and both of them knew it, but swift-Kalat accepted it gratefully, and Megeve went

on, “I know you’re concerned about the sprookjes. So was—is—Oloitokitok.”

Despite the immediate correction, Megeve’s use of the past tense chilled swift-Kalat. GalLing’ was

an artificial language and it did not have the same accountability as Jenji, but swift-Kalat still reacted

sharply when someone misspoke in such a matter.

It affected Megeve almost as strongly. He and Oloitokitok had been close companions since the

beginning of the survey. He took a deep breath and went on, “Oloitokitok wants to prove their sentience

as much as you—and he’s bought them a reprieve. Kejesli won’t send his status report while a member

of the team is missing. I only wish it hadn’t happened this way.”

Megeve turned the daisy-clipper across country, threading it through the flashwood, where the

turbulence of its wash whipped the Shante damasks from pure white to ripples of silver and stirred the

blue-monks mistily alight. To their right, a row of smoldering pines went from black to the dull red glow

of embers that had earned them their name. As the craft rose to avoid a deadly Eilo’s-kiss, swift-Kalat

pointed to a vast, gaunt stand of lightning rods, black and limbless spikes that rose to astonishing heights.

“About thirty meters to the right of that,” he said.

Megeve brought the daisy-clipper to a hovering stop in the small patch of flashgrass swift-Kalat

indicated and asked, “Shall I go in closer, or will that disturb your wildlife?”

“You wait here,” responded swift-Kalat, “I’ll be quick.” He folded back the transparent membrane,

but was stopped by Megeve, who said, “Remember? We’re back to Extraordinary Precautions.”

Swift-Kalat had indeed forgotten. To lose a team member this late in a preliminary survey implied a

danger that had not been catalogued. Until Oloitokitok was found, the team was to take the same

precautions they had their first few months on Lassti.

The first and foremost of those precautions was to seal his 2nd skin. He popped his epaulets to draw

out his hood and gloves, laying them across his knees. Once the epaulets were closed, he shook the

hood open and coiled his glossy black braid into it; pulling it tight over his head, he ran a finger about his

neck to seal it. Even where there was no need for life support canisters, the habit remained; gloves came

second because they were clumsy enough to make sealing the hood difficult.

As Megeve double-checked the seams for him, swift-Kalat found himself wondering how much good

Oloitokitok’s 2nd skin might be doing him. Even a carefully sealed 2nd skin was no proof against electric

shock—and shock was Lassti’s major hazard.

“Sealed,” Megeve pronounced.

Swift-Kalat thanked him and slid the few feet to the ground, buffeted at a slight slant by the

daisy-clipper’s ground effect. Around his ankles, flashgrass whipped violently to and fro. Like so many of

Lassti’s plants, it tapped energy from motion piezoelectrically, discharging any excess as alternating

flickers of vivid green and white light. Swift-Kalat paused a moment to tune his hood, shielding his eyes

from the ever-increasing dazzle the oncoming storm winds raised within the flashwood, and then plunged

into its riot of light.

He pushed through a stand of solemnly chiding tick-ticks, thinking as he did so that it was too bad the

2nd skins MGE supplied its employees weren’t sophisticated enough to damp his other senses to this

world as well. Squat hilarities cackled, competing noisily with the tick-ticks for the attention of a swarm

of vikries, Lassti’s version of the bumblebee.

Some hundred yards in, he reached the clearing where he had erected his blind. Here,

flames-of-Veschke and penny-Jannisett unfurled their deep red and copper leaves. Both species used the

more conventional method of photosynthesis, and against the storm-brought brilliance of the background,

they looked almost black—and deeply restful. He breathed a sigh of relief at the quiet.

And then stopped in his tracks. The clearing should not have been so still, even in the absence of

thunder or roar of rain.

The first time the survey team had stepped into this clearing, those small, golden-furred creatures had

shrieked out. Oloitokitok had shrieked back at them, startling everyone as much as the creatures

themselves had. Laughing, but defiant, Oloitokitok had explained that in his tongue they seemed to be

saying, “I don’t believe it! Not for a minute!”

“I couldn’t let it pass without comment,” he had added. “I had to tell them to believe it.”

On each subsequent visit swift-Kalat had paid to the blind, no matter what precautions he had taken,

the flock of golden scoffers—for so they’d become in the surveyors’ common tongue—had shrieked out

their incredulity at his presence.

Now, there was no flash and beat of wings, no scornful shrilling. The only sound was the distant

chiding and cackling of plants.

In the uncanny stillness, a sudden whiplike crack against his ankle made swift-Kalat start. He looked

down to find he had brushed against a small blue-striped zap-me. The zap-me fed on electricity and

obtained it by startling small animals that used a charge for defense. Swift-Kalat did not respond in the

desired manner: he gave no shocks. As he watched, the plant patiently reset its whip-tendril to await a

creature that would.

Something gold lay at the base of the zap-me; swift-Kalat knelt for a closer look.

It was a golden scoffer. Its bright fur was unmarked, but it was dead. Three more were scattered a

few feet beyond. All dead,

A flicker of motion partially hidden behind his blind caught his eye. For one brief moment, hope rose

to sting his eyes. Here? Oloitokitok here? But before he could shout a query, he saw a flash of scarlet,

and a different hope stifled any sound from his throat.

A sprookje!

Swift-Kalat forgot the golden scoffers, forgot the oncoming storm. A crested sprookje! Afraid to

disturb it by rising, he moved only his head, craning awkwardly for a better look.

It was humanoid, but neither parody nor deformation of human. It was instead exotically beautiful:

tall, slender, and deceptively fragile. Like its fellows at base camp, it was covered with short feathers,

subtly patterned in shades of brown. (After dark or in dim light of an overcast, swift-Kalat knew, the

feathers would emit a ghostly light.)

This sprookje, however, was a type that the survey team had not seen since their first contact with

the species nearly three years ago. It was superbly crested in scarlet, and its long, smooth neck rose from

a swirling yoke of red and blue feathers.

It knelt on both knees, over something shiny that was hidden from swift-Kalat’s view by the

art-nouveau tracings of an arabesque vine. Its head dipped rapidly—once, twice, three times—but

swift-Kalat was unable to see what it was doing.

At last the sprookje stood and turned to face him. Enormous golden eyes stared at swift-Kalat from

the sharp-featured, scarlet face. It opened its beaklike mouth as if to speak, but made no sound. Its

tongue glowed an ominous red. Then, feathers ruffling, it backed slowly away and vanished into the

flashwood.

Swift-Kalat realized that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled with a sigh and rose, just as a

rattle of thunder recalled the need for haste.

Cautiously, he pushed through the heavy underbrush to see what had so interested the sprookje. A

large object with the sheen of plastic lay beside his blind, reflecting bloody red the flames-of-Veschke it

lay among. Scattered around it were a dozen more dead golden scoffers. For a long moment, his mind

fought identification of the object.

He closed his eyes. The golden scoffers were scavengers. When swift-Kalat opened his eyes once

again, he saw that Oloitokitok was dead. In death, Oloitokitok had silenced the scoffers once and for all.

Megeve and swift-Kalat found Oloitokitok’s daisy-clipper on the far side of the stand of lightning

rods. They lifted the remains of his body into it and Megeve switched the hovercraft to follow mode.

This bitter parody of a funeral cortege—the only rites Oloitokitok would have until the cause of his death

had been ascertained—arrived at base camp on the edge of the breaking storm.

Torrents of rain dimmed even the field of flashgrass. It distorted into unrecognizability the tiny crowd

of surveyors who huddled grimly at the main gate. Only layli-layli calulan seemed sharp-edged, in

focus, as she came forward to take charge of the body.

No one could find the words to speak to her. A moment later, the crowd disbanded in total silence.

Swift-Kalat sat in the grounded daisy-clipper and watched them all go.

Wearily, he gathered up his specimen bag and fought through the thick red mud of the compound to

his cabin.

He taped a record of his sprookje-sighting while it was still fresh in his mind; then, unable to sleep, he

took the dead golden scoffers from his specimen bag and spent the next few hours dissecting one. His

exhaustion had at last caught up with him. He put the second small corpse to one side and played back

his report: the voice that issued from the recorder sounded chilled and shaky.

The thunderstorm passed and the rain settled down to a steady drizzle. He fastened the cabin door

open—he wanted company but he was too tired to seek it out—and his sprookje entered. (At least, he

assumed this one was “his”; like Gaian cats, each of the sprookjes in camp seemed to favor a particular

person.) It was not the company he had hoped for but, unlike most of the other surveyors, swift-Kalat

didn’t mind the sprookje. His inability to communicate with it was troublesome; its presence was not.

It shook rainwater from its feathers with a controlled shiver.

Swift-Kalat rubbed his eyes. “Don’t drip on the floor,” he said. As always, he spoke to the sprookje

as if it might understand.

The creature rubbed its own silver-blue eyes and blinked at him. “Don’t drip on the floor,” it said, its

Adam’s apple bobbing; and swift-Kalat was again disturbed to hear the shakiness in his own voice, this

time captured by the sprookje.

It parroted everything he said with the same accuracy and retention as his recorder, and only the

beaklike shape of its mouth made its mimicry imperfect.

Swift-Kalat sighed.

The sprookje did likewise. Then it looked down at the table and saw the golden scoffer. It leaned

over and opened its mouth.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” said swift-Kalat sharply.

The sprookje echoed both his words and his tone and went on as it had intended. Swift-Kalat caught

a quick glimpse of the sprookje’s “sample tooth”—the single retractable needlelike organ that was

ordinarily concealed within its beak—as the sprookje nipped the golden scoffer.

It was an irrational response, he knew, but the sharp thrust of the beak, the bite, always seemed

aggressive. The first time they had seen crested sprookjes, van Zoveel had stepped forward to attempt to

communicate with them. He had been examined and bitten. And everyone assumed he was being

attacked. The resultant commotion had driven the sprookjes away.

Now he reacted not only to that, but to the thought of the dead golden scoffers as well. Eating

Oloitokitok’s flesh had poisoned them, as eating from the humans’ garbage dump had poisoned the

scavengers near base camp. With considerable relief, swift-Kalat remembered that he’d been bitten by

the sprookje when it first arrived at base camp, with no ill effects to either of them.

The sprookje lifted its brown cheek-feathers slightly, as if in surprise; then it walked away, out the

door and out into Lassti’s brilliant dusk. Swift-Kalat was too tired to follow, too tired to wonder at the

sprookje’s behavior. He sank into his chair, closed his eyes, and lay his head on his arms just for a

moment…

When he awoke, it was to the sound of thunder and the spray of rain streaming through the open

door. Stiffly, he crossed the room and drew the opaque membrane closed. Reflected patterns of dull

yellow light made him turn to the computer in the corner—he donned his spectacles and reluctantly called

up the message the computer was holding for him.

The image of Ruurd van Zoveel, the survey team’s polyglot, sprang into view. Van Zoveel was a

large, solidly built man with a smokewood face, shaggy dark blond hair, and shaggier sideburns. Even

seated before his computer console to tape a message, he was in constant motion. His gaudily

beribboned tunic rippled with his agitation.

He spoke Jenji without a trace of accent, however, and he spoke it with a high degree of reliability.

Swift-Kalat closed his eyes and found comfort in the sounds of his native tongue that he did not find in

the content of the message.

“Layli-layli calulan has finished the autopsy: she concludes that Oloitokitok died of heart failure due

to severe electric shock. I saw what I took to be burns on his chest and shoulder. His locator had been

fused; Megeve says in that condition even Oloitokitok’s death wouldn’t have set it off. The captain

concludes that Oloitokitok startled a shocker—”

At that, swift-Kalat found himself frowning. Several of the indigenous predators used an electric

charge to stun or kill their prey but the idea that a live-wire or a blitzen would mistake Oloitokitok for

prey seemed out of keeping with what he knew of the habits of the creatures the team had dubbed

shockers. A charger, perhaps? Unlikely in that area of the flashwood…

“—or perhaps was simply struck by lightning. The captain has therefore lifted Extraordinary

Precautions.”

Something in van Zoveel’s voice made swift-Kalat open his eyes. Van Zoveel brushed his sideburns

anxiously, then he swallowed hard and finished, “There will be no final rites—at least, no public ones.

Layli-layli calulan’s culture restricts death rites to the surviving family, in private.”

Apparently, layli-layli had broken one of the taboos of van Zoveel’s culture. For the sake of

understanding, swift-Kalat would have to look into the matter.

With visible effort, van Zoveel composed himself. After a moment, he said, “That’s not what I called

about. I must speak to you, swift-Kalat, as soon as you’ve rested. Captain Kejesli wants my formal

decision on the sprookjes.”

To swift-Kalat’s surprise, van Zoveel abruptly switched to GalLing’ and went on, “I apologize for

switching languages on you, swift-Kalat, but I can’t say this in Jenji without creating an untruth: I believe

that Kejesli wants the sprookjes found nonsentient. No! No, it’s not even that—I think he wants this

survey over and done with, and it doesn’t matter to him how sloppily he goes about it. It doesn’t matter

to him what the sprookjes are as long as we decide now.”

Again, he made the effort to compose himself. Then he added, “Please understand that this statement

has no reliability whatsoever; it’s only the feeling I have. But I must discuss my report with you.”

The tape beeped end-of-message and then there was nothing to see but cabin wall. Swift-Kalat took

off his spectacles and continued to stare at it. Even in GalLing’, and even with van Zoveel’s careful

disclaimer, the words were chilling. They could do the sprookjes no good. He did not want to face van

Zoveel for fear of the further harm the man might do with his words.

To postpone the unpleasant duty as long as he could, he ate, telling himself throughout that van

Zoveel’s words in GalLing’ could have no adverse effect on the sprookjes’ situation. That, in fact, he

knew that reliability was an aid to understanding only; that it was only superstition that it had an effect on

reality. Having reassured himself somewhat, he showered as well, rebraiding his hair while it was still

damp. There was no point in waiting for it to dry: it would only get wet again as he crossed the

compound to van Zoveel’s cabin.

The thunderstorm had not let up. He stood on the sheltered step of his cabin for a long time, reluctant

to venture into the storm. Thunder rattled, numbing his ears; a sheet of lightning whited out even the red

mud of the compound.

For a long moment, he was deaf and blind. He blinked furiously to clear his eyes, shielding them with

a raised hand from ensuing flashes as the lightning repeatedly struck the stand of lightning rods that grew

only two kilometers from camp.

When at last he found his vision returning, swift-Kalat could no longer distinguish between the dazzle

of the Lassti flash wood and that in his own optic nerves. He drew an angry breath and plunged into the

pouring rain. All around him sparks flew.

Chapter One

Sheveschke, on the Rim of The Goblet.

WIND ROSE TO sweep the great bay known as The Goblet, where the Sheveschkem fleet

gathered to honor Veschke, patron saint of thieves and traders, and to be blessed by her priests. The

hissing light of torches along the wharf shaped and shadowed a hundred small craft, all alive with

whispered sounds as if they shared the festival excitement. Ironwood hulls groaned and ropes creaked to

the pulse of the waves; pennants and ribbons snapped counterpoint in the wind. They spoke of a

thousand more ships beyond the acrid blaze of torchlight.

The same wind brought the wood-smoke of the festival fires, the tang of keshri bark, and the warm,

rich smell of great cauldrons of stew.

It was the sailing wind of Sheveschke, and it whipped through Tocohl Susumo’s red-gold hair and

sent her moss cloak streaming about her. Her 2nd skin glistened over her tanned flesh like rubbed-in oil,

reflecting the sparks riding the wind.

She was tall and spare, and she acknowledged her kinship to the captains of these tiny craft with a

nod that, on another world, would have been a bow. Momentarily caught by torchlight, her eyes flared

gold.

Beyond the bay, a thousand extra stars bejeweled the clear, cold skies of Sheveschke, their light

splintered and spattered by the rowdy waves of Shatterglass Sea. A thousand extra stars—the Hellspark

traders come to pay their own respects to Veschke, to have their ships blessed, side by side with the tiny

skiffs and the sleek schooners of Sheveschke.

Tocohl Susumo looked up at the sky, into constellations old and new. (Where are you, Maggy?) she

subvocalized. (Here,) came the response, and a tiny arrow appeared against the night sky, projected on

Tocohl’s spectacles, to indicate a new star at the tail-tip of the smallest Lunatic Cat.

Tocohl smiled her satisfaction, then leaned against the ironwood railing and said, (Now play back the

message from Nevelen Darragh.)

(Your adrenaline level has dropped two points in the last five minutes. Playing Nevelen Darragh’s

message would only raise it again,) said Maggy; and Tocohl imagined a plump and prim Trethowan

attempting to speak Jannisetti without using any taboo words.

(Cheeky,) Tocohl said, (don’t argue with me.)

(I can’t argue.)

Not half, you can’t, thought Tocohl, amused; then she subvocalized again, (Play back the tape.)

This time Maggy made no objection.

There was no image, only the voice of a stranger. Her words were crisp, formal, and legally binding:

“Tocohl Susumo is hereby notified of case pending judgment and enjoined from her proposed run to

dOrnano to answer the charge of Tinling Alfvaen.” A single bell-like note sounded. The crisp voice said,

in signature, “Byworld Judge Nevelen Darragh,” and then there was silence, except for the night sounds

of the bay.

Tocohl drew her cloak tightly to her, not for warmth—that was amply provided by the 2nd skin—but

for gesture, as a cat lays back its ears in preparation for a fight.

(Your adrenaline is up to—)

(Shut up a minute and let me think.) Tocohl breathed deeply and, reminded of the Festival of Ste.

Veschke by spicy odors, decided that she did not need the Methven ritual for calm.

She was more puzzled than angry. A byworld judge dealt with cases where two cultures met and

clashed—tourists who got themselves in trouble through ignorance of local customs, for example—or

cases where no world claimed jurisdiction, in deep space or on worlds without a charter,

Tocohl shifted to Jannisetti and said, (As far as I know, I haven’t stepped on any cultural toes lately,)

turning the Sheveschkem cliche into a Jannisetti obscenity.

(Is that funny?) Maggy asked.

(I thought so; how did you know?)

(You smiled.)

In Jannisetti, a smile was limited to the face, so Maggy was apparently reading the implants at

Tocohl’s ear and throat rather than feedback from the 2nd skin. Tocohl touched the spot just before her

ear and smiled again, but she could feel neither the transceiver nor play of muscle. She frowned slightly

without meaning to.

Maggy said, (Then why are you worried?)

Tocohl grunted. (It could be about that “farm equipment” we sold on Solomon’s Seal; two of the

people I dealt with were third-generation Siveyn, and Tinling Alfvaen is as Siveyn as names come.—To

be honest, Maggy, it could be about a lot of things, but that would worry me.)

(I don’t understand. The manifest said “farm equipment” and that’s what we delivered.)

(Maggy, this is a little difficult to explain: they expected arms.)

(Then why would they request farm equipment?)

(To make the shipment seem legal.) To forestall the inevitable question, Tocohl said firmly, (Yes,

Maggy, the shipment we made was entirely legal, but we didn’t deliver what the customer wanted.)

(I don’t understand. If the shipment was legal—)

(What kind of charge could they bring? Price-gouging, as much as I hate to say it. They paid a lot

more for farm equipment than they intended to. And serves them right.)

Maggy made no response. This was apparently beyond her and it was clear she felt it better for

Tocohl’s adrenaline level that she not inquire further.

Probably just as well, thought Tocohl, though it led her to wonder just what files Maggy might be

checking in that silence. To distract her was a hopeless task, Tocohl knew, so she merely said, (How do

we find Nevelen Darragh? Skip the map.) The projection vanished as quickly as it had come. (Give me

verbal directions for the quickest route to Veschke Plaza.)

(That would take you through an area the Sheveschkemen consider highly dangerous after dark.)

(Fine,) said Tocohl. (Perhaps I’ll have a chance to work off some of that extra adrenaline you’re so

concerned about.)

There was a pause, almost of resignation, then Maggy said, (Turn right and follow the Rim of The

Goblet.)

Tocohl set off as directed. The silver filigree of her cloak streamed behind her and the lightness of her

stride gave no evidence of her unsettled thoughts.

Here and there, she eased her way through crowds of merrymakers overspilling from waterfront

taverns onto the wharf. Her captain’s baldric brought her a spate of invitations which she reluctantly

turned down or set aside for another time. Twice, laughing, she pulled stray hands from the pouch slung

at her hip. “Clumsy doesn’t honor Veschke,” she chided the would-be thieves.

Twenty minutes later, Maggy turned her away from the Rim and into the narrow, dimly lit streets of

the Old Quarter.

Tocohl did not slow her pace. One of the minor pleasures of having first-class equipment, Tocohl

thought, was that she needn’t worry about stubbing her toes on cobblestones. She might trip and crack

her head, for her hood lay softly cowled about her neck, but if her toe struck stone the 2nd skin would

spread the impact to absorb it and spare her the bruises.

She reached an unlit square, and Maggy said abruptly, (Trouble.)

Tocohl stopped. In the starlight, she could see only the constricted alleyways and the cramped stone

houses and shops typical of Sheveschke.

Across the square, a solitary figure—a fisher, to judge from his rough-woven clothing and the

pronged knife thrust into his belt—lounged against a stone doorpost. He straightened and whistled shrilly

but made no move toward her.

(What trouble, Maggy?) she asked.

(Three people fighting in the alley.) Maggy pointed to the pitch-black opening to the right of the

whistler.

(Push my vision two points,) said Tocohl, and the scene brightened and sharpened. Around the

edges of the spectacles, Tocohl’s peripheral vision darkened in contrast. It was as if she looked down a

tunnel of light, the end of which was whatever object she focused on.

Three dim figures clashed in the alleyway. Two were Sheveschkemen and, like the whistler, wore

fishers’ garb. The third was undoubtably an off-worlder; over the sheen of her 2nd skin she was dressed

in a combination of styles from several different planets—what Hellsparks called worlds’ motley. Not

Hellspark, for she wore no baldric. Tourist, then.

She fought well, outnumbered as she was, but her movements were slow and broad. Drunk, thought

Tocohl, her timing’s off—and that’s the standard surveyor’s 2nd skin, not much help in a brawl. She’s

going to lose this fight.

Tocohl didn’t much like the odds. (I’m going to pull rank, Maggy: watch my back.) Unclasping her

moss cloak, she let it drift gently to the ground.

Few people in the Extremities would argue with a Hellspark captain on whose good will their

interstellar trade depended, but Tocohl took the elementary precaution nonetheless. The deceptively

simple action exposed all of the sensors in her 2nd skin but those still covered by her captain’s baldric,

and Maggy could work around those easily enough.

She started across the cobbled square heading for the alleyway.

But the whistler stepped forward to meet her. His knife flashed upward in a swift, glittering arc.

Tocohl had no time to be surprised: she shrugged gracefully and the blade missed its mark. Before he

could recover sufficiently to thrust at her a second time, she slammed her edged hand into his wrist and

the knife jarred away, clanging on the cobbles.

The Sheveschkemen called a warning to his companions and backed away from the mouth of the

alley, scrambling after the knife. Tocohl had no intention of letting him rearm. She followed—with two

long strides and a lightning kick that took him squarely in the chest just as he bent for the knife.

Her 2nd skin absorbed the impact. Tocohl felt only a mild twanging sensation from foot to thigh but

the whistler slammed against the brick wall, cracked his head, and crumpled forward, unconscious.

Tocohl’s back tingled. (Roll!) said Maggy, and a sandbag blow struck across her shoulders. But for

Maggy’s warning, Tocohl would have been thrown off balance. Instead, she somersaulted and twisted,

came up back to the wall to face a second assailant.

This one too held a knife, but he stared at his weapon dumbly. With Maggy to see it coming, the

force that would have enabled the knife to pierce her had been transferred instead along the warp and

woof of the 2nd skin; and because she had rolled forward at the crucial moment, it was unlikely she’d

even have a bruise from the attempted stabbing.

There was one further advantage: his disbelief gave Tocohl the few seconds necessary to regain her

breath and charge. The Sheveschkemen’s nerve broke. He gave a sharp squeak of panic, dropped his

knife, and fled.

Tocohl wasted no time following him; she rounded the corner into the alleyway—and stopped short.

The third Sheveschkemen was gone, and so was the off-worlder.

(Overlay infrared,) Tocohl snapped, and a line of ghostly red footprints appeared, drag marks trailing

them. The prints steamed away even as she watched, and she followed at a run.

Deep into the alleyway, the prints brightened and led to a narrow door. Even with her vision pushed

for available light, Tocohl might have missed it—it was flush with the alley wall—but in infrared, the

door’s outline was unmistakable and the misty heat patterns told the rest. The Sheveschkemen had

dropped the off-worlder, fumbled for the latch, then dragged her inside…

Once again sounding prim, Maggy began, (Breaking and entering—)

Tocohl cut her warning short, (It’s festival. Read up on it.)

(If you’re going in,) said Maggy, changing tactics, (put on your gloves so I can protect your hands.)

Tocohl gave each hand a sharp snap downward. Her neat cuffs unfolded and met just beyond the

tips of her fingers. She gave Maggy a moment to individuate the 2nd skin between fingers, then reached

for the latch and swung the door inward.

Maggy adjusted the spectacles so smoothly that Tocohl was not blinded by the unexpected glare of

electric lights.

The fisher, a woman almost as tall as Tocohl and twice as massive, wrapped twine tightly, viciously,

about the off-worlder. She looked up at the noise, grunted, and threw a shiny object—

Tocohl swiftly drew the door to, and the object struck it with a thud, splintering wood where

Tocohl’s head had been the moment before, then crashed to the floor and rolled away. It was a heavy

copper sap that fishers used to kill their netted catch.

Still using the door for partial cover, Tocohl kept her eyes on the Sheveschkemen.

Then the fisher’s eyes flicked once to the left. Warned by the movement, Tocohl leapt left even

before the Sheveschkemen.

The fisher’s knife lay beside a skein of netting twine. Tocohl swept it from the ironwood table

seconds before the fisher’s full weight struck her. Tocohl staggered back, but stayed between the fisher

and her knife, and blocked two punches in rapid succession.

Then she saw an opening, whipped the edge of her hand across the fisher’s temple. Maggy was good

to her promise: the 2nd skin stiffened and Tocohl felt bone crunch beneath the blow.

The Sheveschkemen fell, first to her knees, then onto her face. Tocohl stepped aside and, without

taking her eyes from the fisher, knelt for the knife.

Cautiously she rose and stood looking down at the fisher’s prone body. After a long moment, she let

out a sharp breath. (How’s my adrenaline level now?) she asked.

(Still high, but dropping,) Maggy answered, impervious to sarcasm.

Tocohl grinned in relief and turned her attention to the off-worlder. The small woman was still

unconscious and breathing with difficulty. Tocohl first removed the crude gag and blindfold, then set to

work on the rough twine with the fisher’s knife.

Over her 2nd skin, the off-worlder wore a kilt of charcoal gray, black boots, and a fringe bodice of

blue and silver. Silver threads laced through her jet-black hair, which hung in double braids over either

ear. Taken singly, the styles might have identified her world of origin, but together, they gave Tocohl no

clue.

Nor did her face. Her features were angular but gentle, and her skin was shockingly pale in contrast

to her hair, except for the burns on her cheeks caused by the force with which the fisher had gagged her.

Her breathing gradually became normal.

Tocohl sliced through the last of the twine, and the woman slumped forward. Tocohl caught and

eased her gently to the floor. As she did so, the braids fell away from the off-worlder’s ear and exposed

Janat Kagan - Hellspark

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