Julie E. Czerneda - Trade Pact 1 - A Thousand Words for Stranger

A THOUSAND WORDS

FOR STRANGER

Julie E. Czerneda

trade pact universe 01

Digital back-up edition 1.0 by the STM group

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Contents

|PRELUDE|

|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17|18|19|20|21|22|

|23|24|25|26|27|28|29|30|31|32|33|34|35|36|37|38|39|40|

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM. FOUNDER

375 Hudson Street New York. NY 10014

ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM, SHEILA F.GILBERT,

PUBLISHERS

Cover art by Luis Royo.

DAW Book Collectors No. 1070.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons

living or dead is strictly coincidental.

ISBN 0-88677-769-0

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES — MARCA

REGISTRADA

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

For Joy Starink

Well, Mom, this is what happens when you give a kid who

complains about the ending of a book a handful of blank paper and

that challenging raised eyebrow of yours. I only wish you and Stan

could have stayed around to read this one. Thanks again, with all my

love.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Can’t do it. I’ve been given so much support in birthing my first

book that there isn’t room to name you all. I humbly hope you’ll

know who you are and that you know I really do thank you for your

help, whether it came as critical comment or a bottle of dragon wine.

Here goes the list I can fit: Thank you Linda Heier, for being the first

to read and believe. Thank you Trudy Rising, for making me pull

this manuscript out of its home in my drawer. Thanks also to

Roxanne Hubbard and Jonathan Bocknek, for your support and

wonderful editing. Thank you Jan and Steve Stirling, for being both

mentors and incredible friends. And thank you, Josepha Sherman,

for taking me under your falcon’s wing every time it looked like

doomsday!

My thanks to the Ontario Arts Council for its kind support during

the early stages of this new venture.

Thank you, Sheila Gilbert, for your insightful comments that helped

me pull the last loose pieces together. (And for letting me have as

many pages as I wanted!)

Thank you, Jennifer and Scott, for your patience and

encouragement. Well, kids, now you can find out what Mom’s been

doing after supper! Hope you like it.

Last, but first as well, thank you, Roger. It just wouldn’t have

happened without you. Maybe that’s because I’ve never had to look

very far for a hero.

PRELUDE

^ »

THE sign was rain-smeared and had never been overly straight. P’tr wit ’Whix

spared one eye to read it as he passed, then chuckled to himself: “Fabulous

Embassy Row? Tours daily?” Then again, he thought, why not? After all, Embassy

Row was about the only thing worth touring on Auord.

The necessities of a shared government meant inter-species embassies on every

Trade Pact world, no matter how insignificant the world—or the species. And

convenience clustered the embassies together, hence Embassy Row, a street along

which building styles ranged from the unlikely fluted domes of the Skenkran, barely

anchored to the ground, to the lumps of plas-coated imported mud favored by

ambassadors from Ret 7.

Tonight, however, the tour cars sat as empty as the street itself. The first rains of

the season had arrived early, setting up a cheerful cacophony from the chimes

Auordians strung from every lamppost and door, whether allowed to or not. But a

chill wind had slipped in with the rain, and the benefits of seeing and being seen were

apparently not enough for most to brave the cold dampness.

Which was a shame, ’Whix thought. He himself was not fond of uncontrolled

water, yet he appreciated that other beings would find the effect quite attractive.

Reflected lights sparkled over the buildings and their grounds, lifting each from the

dark. Along the avenue itself, the lamps lining the walkways on either side cast

circles of brightness that danced across the wet pavement, transforming its surface

into a mosaic of gems.

’Whix’s momentary fancy quickly turned to a muted but shrill curse in his native

tongue, as his three-clawed foot landed with a splash in one of those light-begemmed

puddles.

It would have to rain on his shift, not his partner’s. It had to be ’Whix out in the

drizzle, feeling water flattening the feathers of his crest; ’Whix the one with icy drops

sliding under the upraised collar of his uniform, soaking the feathers of his back.

Muscles twitched maddeningly in a reflex, and ’Whix shuddered with the effort

not to shake out the moisture. He knew from experience his magnificent crest would

only stick out wildly in all directions, like a chick’s, until the rain matted it against his

head again.

Proper grooming was the only answer, combined with a good rub under a dryer

and probably some of his hoarded supply of bertwee oil. All things considered,

there was a lot to be said for a space assignment.

’Whix rolled down one eye to check his wrist chrono, keeping his other eye

faithfully fixed on the pair he followed. His vision, even under these conditions, was

keen enough to let him keep a block and a half behind the two—which was why

night surveillance fell to him and not his Human partner, Russell Terk.

The walkway lights were spaced to provide convenient pools of darkness

between them, room enough for packages to be exchanged unnoticed, or for a

walking couple to slip in and out of sight. ’Whix swung both his eyes forward, and

details of the two ahead jumped into clear focus.

Reflected light played over the female’s elaborately jeweled headpiece—an

alluring object of apparel, ’Whix decided, as well as practical. The headpiece

covered most of the female’s face as well as her hair. Her male companion was

bareheaded—caught, like ’Whix, without protection from the change in weather. His

hair was either black or darkened by the rain. The richly dressed pair could have

passed for Human, if ’Whix hadn’t known they were Clan.

Which was why he trailed them. And why he trailed them at a distance. The Clan

were not members of the Trade Pact, being uninterested in alliances of any kind. No

Clan Embassy sparkled here in the dark; not surprisingly, since there was no Clan

world to represent. The few Clan known to live within Trade Pact space kept to

themselves and by themselves, living alone on their isolated estates on Human

worlds, preferring the established inner systems where their wealth could be spent in

privacy. The latest estimate, doubtless as inaccurate as it was secret, placed their

number at a mere thousand.

So to see one of the Clan on a fringe world like Auord was unusual. To see two

together sent alarms ringing through any Trade Pact Enforcer who knew them.

’Whix clicked his beaked mouthparts together thoughtfully. His commander knew

the Clan better than most. Which was why applicants to her personal staff were

offered a choice: accept a still-experimental mind-shield implant or work elsewhere.

’Whix had to admit the surgeon had done an excellent job of preserving his feathers.

It remained to be proved whether the device could protect him from the Clan.

True telepaths were rare among Humans, scarce at best among the three other

Trade Pact species who claimed that power, and completely absent in most. The

Clan, rumor had it, were all telepaths of extraordinary ability. Rumor also said that

they disdained mental contact with any species other than their own. ’Whix hoped

that was true. But like any rumor, the source was suspect.

Trailing at a distance did have its disadvantages. When a tight group of figures

boiled from the darkness of a side street, ’Whix was too far away to do more than

bleat a bulletin into his throat com as he started running. Almost as suddenly, he

hesitated, slowed to a walk. His orders were specific: to observe the Clan, not

interfere.

But it was hard to only watch.

’Whix made out six assailants closing in on the two, now halted under one of the

streetlamps. The attackers seemed unarmed, but he doubted it. At a minimum, each

probably carried one or more impact clubs, the easily concealed but deadly device

popular among hit-and-run criminals on Auord.

’Whix saw the Clansman step quickly in front of his companion, drawing a force

blade from his belt. He waved its blazing tip slowly, expertly. For a moment, all was

frozen and silent except for the rain drumming on the sidewalk and the drops hissing

to steam on the white hot blade.

’Whix admired the Clansman’s choice of defense.

Knowing the Clan’s avowed dislike of technology, the blade was a nice

compromise. And most criminals of ’Whix’s experience vastly preferred a stunner

headache to losing body parts. Still, force blades were uncommon— their use took

skill, not to mention that they were illegal on most worlds. ’Whix found himself

looking forward to the battle.

A cry from the darkness cracked the tableau and launched the attack. Four figures

moved toward the Clansman while two others tried to dodge past to reach the

Clanswoman he protected. Screams echoed amid the snap-crack of clubs.

A groundcar, sirens whining, wheeled around the corner. Port Authority, ’Whix

knew immediately, not his backup. Commander Bowman would not be pleased if the

locals interfered. ’Whix clicked his beak, thought longingly of hot oil, and broke into

a run, spreading his arms for balance.

Meanwhile, the battle was hardly one-sided. Four bodies already sprawled amid

the pools of light, blood spreading to mingle with the puddles and rain. The

Clansman stood facing the remaining two, his blade lifted like a dare.

Something rose, hung for an instant in the air, then plunged toward the Clansman.

’Whix squawked a warning as he threw himself flat. A sear of heat, accompanied by

a whomp of sound, signaled the explosion of the blast globe.

’Whix cautiously tried each of his joints. The Port Authority car slid to a stop

beside him. He ignored the shouts from its occupants as they spotted him and

ordered him to wait. Their waving lights made a distracting flicker along the dome of

his eye lens.

’Whix tossed his head, feeling his blast-dried feathers lift and settle into their

proper regal positioning. Shame it was still raining. He made sure his Pact insignia

was in his hand as he trotted over to the heap of scorched and broken bodies. No

ground authority would interfere with a Pact Enforcer—in theory, at least. The Trade

Pact, and its Enforcers, protected the rights of all signatory sentient species. But

Auord’s Port Authority was known to be touchy.

The blast had been confined, relatively minor, which made sense if capture, not

murder, was the intent. It had, however, killed the two who had—to that point—

survived the Clansman. The Clansman himself, remarkably intact, lay half under one

of those bodies.

The attackers were all native Auordians, ’Whix noticed without surprise, Auord

being a world where morals rarely put food on the table. He sniffed delicately.

Tolians had lousy noses, if truth be told, except for a fine sensitivity to dead flesh,

fresh or rotten—a talent the Tolians wisely chose to keep to themselves when

offplanet.

He swung his head up, catching the sound of doubled footsteps echoing in the

distance—the globe-tosser and accomplice making their escape.

’Whix immediately dismissed the notion of giving chase. He knew what Bowman

would have to say if he left the Clansman for Port Authority.

’Whix eased back on his haunches to pick up a scrap of something that caught

the light. It was the jeweled headdress the Clanswoman had worn. But where was

she? ’Whix straightened, looked around, but saw no body, or piece of a body, that

belonged with the jewels in his hand.

Wait. His eyes swung forward, straining to see. There she was, down the street, a

small figure just visible through the sheets of rain. Somehow she must have escaped

the worst of the explosion, possibly thrown or pushed clear. ’Whix watched her

until she stumbled into a side street and was gone. He activated his com again.

The two corpsmen bustled up, hoods pulled up against the rain. “We’ll take over,

Enforcer.”

’Whix didn’t answer until he had finished transmitting his message. “Trade Pact

jurisdiction,” he said then, his trill automatically translated into a tinny Comspeak that

issued from a device embedded beneath the feathers of his throat.

The two from Port Authority exchanged glances before looking at ’Whix again.

One, a stocky Auordian, actually put her hand on the stunner strapped to her leg.

“This looks local to us,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “You know something we

don’t, I suggest you share it. Otherwise, head back to the shipcity where you

belong, flyboy.”

’Whix rocked back on his powerful haunches, ready for action, his long clawed

feet on either side of the now-groaning Clansman, although this meant stepping in a

spreading pool of warm red. “This is a Trade Pact matter,” he repeated.

“Prove it.”

“He doesn’t have to, Corpsman,” said a harsh voice from above their heads.

’Whix didn’t bother looking up, slightly exasperated, as usual, by his Human

partner’s dramatics. No need to wonder about Terk’s timing; he loved a grand

entrance. It was part of what Bowman referred to as Terk’s exceptional gift for

annoying the local law. ’Whix was supposed to use his cool, methodical approach

to balance his partner’s excitable nature. After five years, ’Whix hadn’t so much

made progress as learned to cope.

The aircar, a sleeker and far more deadly vehicle than anything permitted Port

Authority, touched the sidewalk in a master’s landing. Terk hit the floods before

disembarking, driving back all the shadows and forcing the corpsmen to shade their

eyes.

Their dismissal was complete when Terk waved a strip of plas under their noses.

“Here’s our permit to take these beings into our custody,” the big man announced.

“I’ll be sure to mention your helpfulness to our commander.”

Once the disgruntled pair drove away, Terk prowled over to his partner. His

apparent size was deceiving. Shorter by a handspan than the slender Tolian, Terk’s

mass was bundled up in a deep chest and shoulders wide enough to need a

custom-fitted uniform. Even so, he always looked as though his clothes pinched. “A

simple surveillance,” the Human said with disgust. “This is quite the foul-up, ’Whix.

Any of them alive to take into custody?”

’Whix had already begun sorting the injured from the dead. He tagged the

Clansman and one of the assailants with med signals and watched the stabilizing field

encompass the injured beings within its purple glow. “These two. Forensics can

have the others.”

Terk nodded, taking a moment to use his wrist com to summon the med transport

and a forensic team. Then he considered his partner. “You’re a mess. Want to head

in? I can take this from here.”

’Whix dipped his beak to each of his shoulders in turn, his approximation of a

Human shaking his head. “No. I’ll dry out when I make my report.” He focused

both eyes on the unconscious face of the Clansman. “I am concerned, Partner Terk.

I think our commander may be wrong about this one.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Terk grunted. “They always look Human, but looks aren’t

everything.”

“If he’s Clan, why didn’t he use his Talent to stop the attack or to escape?”

’Whix argued.

“Maybe he’d spotted you. They don’t like to be caught at work.” Terk grinned.

“Anyway, we can’t take the chance. Just think what interesting changes of mind our

Clansman might have given those Port Jellies when he woke up. Want to lay odds

they wouldn’t even remember seeing him?”

’Whix tried to lower his crest in disapproval, but it was already flattened by the

rain. “As always, you show a distressing lack of respect for other law keepers,

partner Terk. You should not refer to them as Jellies.”

Terk grinned, rubbing a piece of plas between his thick fingers. “When I can

chase them off with a road map, they deserve whatever name I call them.”

’Whix clicked his beak, far from amused. One day, Terk’s blatant actions were

going to land them both in trouble—trouble he, for one, did not deserve. But he

knew the futility of arguing with someone with a crest lifted in triumph (if Terk had

one instead of a mass of pale-colored and always limp hair). “I was not observed by

the Clansman.” ’Whix said instead. “Therefore, I see no reason for him not to use

his Talent to save himself and his companion. Or hers, for that matter. Given this,”

’Whix continued with patience, despite the fact that Terk’s attention was obviously

wandering, “I must conclude—”

Terk put a finger to his lips. ’Whix was uncertain whether this was because he

wished to cut short their discussion—which happened regularly—or something else.

Ah, something else, ’Whix heard the throb of more than one aircar heading their

way.

Time to talk of less secret things.

“Do you know if there’s a dryer in the commander’s office?” he asked with a

mournful chirp.

Chapter One

« ^ »

I STARED at the hand pressed near my cheek. It had five fingers, tipped with small,

blunt nails, one broken. There were smudges of dirt on the palm and back; the clean

skin was paler, except where a spiderweb of red marked the edges of a cut. It was

mine, I decided, confused by the delay in recognition.

I shuddered, stumbling away from the damp wall. A flicker of movement caught

my eye. A nearby window had lost part of its covering shutter, exposing a dirty slice

of glass and curtain to the street. Something looked out at me. Cautiously, I tilted my

head to see, then lurched back as the pale something did the same.

My feet landed in the small river that currently passed for a gutter at the same

instant I realized I’d been startled by my own reflection. Sheepishly, I stepped closer

to the window again. Was I that wet or was it the water running down the glass itself

that made me look like a swimmer underwater, blurring my hair and clothes into the

same dark mass? My face appeared as little more than two eyes stuck on a disk of

white. Old and puzzled eyes. Maybe it was another trick of the rain-smeared glass. I

wasn’t old.

Then was I a child? I didn’t think so. But what? Lost and wet. Humanoid. Those

were easy. Male or female? The reflection kept mute on that interesting detail. I was

definitely unwilling to strip in the rain to satisfy my curiosity. I patted my hands over

my body, discovering water, but little else in the pockets and creases of my clothing.

I continued my self-exploration. Nothing of me felt male, but’nothing felt particularly

female either.

A shout. Only an echo of a voice, probably the next street away, but enough to

startle me back into myself, to force my feet to move. The rain struck harder as I left

the partial shelter of the overhanging eaves; I hesitated, distracted by the taste of it in

my mouth.

My mind suddenly turned inside out, filling with thoughts I knew weren’t mine,

compulsions rippling like muscle, gripping me with needs and purposes I didn’t

understand.

Find the starships. One ship, a trailing wisp of thought corrected, “his” ship.

Numb under the impact of imposed ideas, all I could do was look along the

narrow street, empty of all but two parked groundcars on the other side. What ship?

More thoughts pushed their way to the surface, each dragging fear like something

hooked to a line. Danger. Leave this world. Stay hidden, stay safe. I whimpered to

myself, then glanced about to be sure no one had heard.

The compulsions gradually faded, leaving echoes that burned into my mind: Find

the ship, leave this world, stay hidden. As I came back to myself, I realized my feet

were walking, already carrying me somewhere. I stopped, my mouth dry despite the

rain.

For the first time, I really looked at my surroundings. Both sides of the street were

lined with a chaotic assortment of buildings, most at least three stories high, their

upper floors leaning together as if in conversation. Away from the streetlamps, the

strident colors of the walls sank into a dull assortment of grays. Rain collecting on

the roofs channeled down in noisy waterfalls to feed the gutters. As if this weren’t

enough, metal chimes hung everywhere, transmuting the tinkling of raindrops into a

full orchestra.

Great, I said to myself, glaring at the buildings, all peacefully asleep and probably

dry inside. If I was supposed to find a ship, I was certainly in the wrong place. This

had to be somewhere in the All Sapients’ District, the maze of haphazard streets and

alleyways between the native portion of Auord’s Port City and the shipcity itself. At

least keeping hidden wasn’t a problem. Finding my way out would be.

More vital information spun away from my thoughts, quicksilver and slippery as I

tried to hold it. My wet clothes slapped heavily against my legs as I began to walk

again. Walking was progress, even if I didn’t know which way to go.

The alleyway I turned into next twisted so I couldn’t see the end. The pavement

was stained and littered with lumps the rain had tried to wash away but had only

pounded flat around the edges. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of spoiled food.

Maybe the servos had been kept away by the rainstorm; more likely someone hadn’t

paid their taxes. This last thought surprised me. It was as if a resonance had briefly

rippled through my mind, colliding to reveal a tidy node of knowledge.

Glimpsing the consequences of tax evasion wasn’t exactly helpful in my present

situation. I picked my way through the debris until I reached an area where the

bundles of trash were heaped shoulder-high on both sides, with gaps only at each

barred and locked rear door. Waste disposal by the heave-ho method, I decided,

imagining the nightly routine of opened doors, tossed bags, and slammed locks.

The foul smell began to settle at the back of my throat, as if the dampness of the

air helped it stick. Cans tumbled loose in an odd counterpoint to the rain. I stopped

and peered into the shadows. One of the piles moved again.

Another sound—this time a word. An impossibly filthy face glared up at me as its

owner shoved away a covering of shredded plas and rotting fruit. More words,

followed by a spit in my direction. The language was strange. No. It was tantalizingly

familiar. Another resonance; the sentence re-formed. I understood.

—this here’s my spot, scum. Get lost—

“I am lost,” I said politely, pleasantly surprised by the fluency of my own

Comspeak. I moved closer to better examine the being, feeling no threat despite its

words. Stay hidden, be safe, whispered that something beneath my thoughts, but I

found I could push it away. Ah. The blue wattle under its chin was crusted with

unshed skin, but still distinctive. A Neblokan. How wonderful to have a name for

something. I felt under my own chin. It was smooth. “I am not one of you,” I

admitted, disappointed.

“Brain-dead Human pest. Go away and leave me in peace.” The creature rolled up

his eyes, a very rude gesture for one of his kind, then turned his back on me and

settled his bulk more comfortably amid the bags of garbage.

I blinked raindrops out of my eyes. The Neblokan had almost disappeared again

under his trash cover. I couldn’t understand what he now muttered, but then, he

seemed to be talking to himself, and in no pleasant tone either. I wrinkled up my

nose again, trying to decide if the fishy being smelled worse than the garbage. Could

I convince him to talk to me again? Might he know even more about me?

A new sound began, this time from the way I had just come, quickly growing to a

shrill whine. I winced at the sudden pain in my ears. The Neblokan lunged up and

past me, scattering soggy bits and pieces as he moved with unexpected speed. I

turned toward the sound, judging it harmless enough. But the Neblokan was already

scurrying in the opposite direction as fast as his stubby legs could take him, uttering

more of those incomprehensible sounds as his feet slipped in the puddles.

Should I do the same?

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started, then began again, only this time

ahead of where the creature was running. I crouched away from a light that appeared

from nowhere to transfix the Neblokan. He stopped in mid-stride, shoulders folding

back in a defeated shrug. The sound closed in, then stopped.

“Credit check,” said one of two figures who came striding up the alley. One

carried the source of the light, the edge of its beam catching a small cone the other

held in his hands, likely the source of the sound. I put my hands on the slick

pavement and carefully wiggled my way into the shadow of the Neblokan’s hole in

the trash. I peered out.

“My credit’s good—” the Neblokan offered, but weakly. His wattle shook and

his wide-mouthed face was wrinkled in distress. Raindrops collected on the ridges

of his eyebrows, running off the ends like tears.

“Mind if we don’t take your word for it?” said one of the figures, I couldn’t tell

which. His tone was bored. “You off-worlders think everything insystem is as free

as the air.”

“You want to live here, you’ve got to pay. What’s it to be?” the second one

demanded. I shivered and crouched lower. His voice had a pleased anticipation to it.

The Neblokan spread his empty hands. “I’ll get a ship today—”

“You certainly will.” The cone-sound keened again, this time in a brief burst,

muffled because the tip had been pressed against the Neblokan’s head. The creature

dropped to the ground in a heap, looking like little more than another of the piles of

waste that a moment ago had been his refuge.

“Even with this fratling rain, it’s been a good night, Enex.” This from the light

carrier as he set his lamp on a crate. I could see them both now, Auordian males,

one with blue luck beads braided in his hair and the other, yellow. Otherwise, they

were alike enough to be twins, with a well-fed smugness to their pudgy faces. They

busied themselves for a moment around the fallen figure. When they stood, the

Neblokan’s body rose with them, supported by a grav belt.

“It’s always good here,” replied Enex, the one with the blue beads. “Best place in

the sector to get skilled labor. Downed spacers go broke—

“And nobody cares but us.” This brought a laugh from both of them, laughter

that faded away with their steps.

Julie E. Czerneda - Trade Pact 1 - A Thousand Words for Stranger

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