Fire Dancer Read online

  “Why?” said Kirtn lazily. “I can just wring the coordinates out of your greasy blue carcass.”

  “Ummm . . . yes,” said Jal. “But Loo is a big planet. Their customs are . . . different. Yes. Quite different. I know the planet. I’ll help you find the boychild.”

  “Boychild?” said Rheba sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  Jal looked smug. “You don’t think I believed that you’d go slapping about the galaxy looking for a common furry? I’m not stupid, smoothie. You’re really looking for the little boy with hands like yours.”

  She looked at her hands where lines of power curled thickly beneath the skin. Hands like hers—a child with hands like hers. A boy. A boy who would become a man. A mate. If she could find him, the people called Senyasi would not be utterly extinct.

  Carefully, she looked away from her burned, trembling fingers. If the boychild was very young, it would explain how the Face had left his possession short of his death. Theft. On Deva, such thievery would have been unthinkable.

  The Equality, however, was not Deva.

  “This boychild,” she said, her voice empty of emotion. “Where did you see him last? Was he healthy? Was there a Bre’n with him?”

  “Do we have a deal?” countered Jal. “My information about the boychild in return for your information about where this ship was built.”

  She turned toward Kirtn and spoke in rapid Senyas. “What do you think, Bre’n mentor? Do we trust him?”

  “No, akhenet. We use him—if we can.” He turned his slanted, yellow eyes on Jal. “Why did you come to the spaceport? You could have escaped paying the bet and no one would have known but us.”

  The trader smiled slightly. “I could give you some star gas about honor.”

  Kirtn laughed.

  “Yes,” said Jal, “I thought you would take it that way. Perhaps this will be more believable. If I’m found on Onan in the next three weeks, I’ll be liable for all crimes committed by my bondmaster. I’m a rich man, but I’ve no desire to rebuild the Black Whole. Besides,” he added, looking at his thick, blue-black fingernails, “there was always the chance that I’d learn something profitable from you.”

  “Like how to cheat at Chaos?” suggested Rheba.

  Jal licked his lips with a startlingly blue tongue. “Among other things, yes.” He looked around the ship with an avarice and curiosity he did not trouble to disguise. Obviously, he had not given up hope of striking a bargain. “Of the seventeen known Cycles,” he said absently, “only a few have left behind working machines. The Mordynr is one, and the Flenta and Sporeen are others.” He watched covertly, but the names elicited no visible reaction from Rheba or Kirtn. “And then there is the Zaarain Cycle. Ahhh, you know that name, at least.”

  “A myth,” said Rheba.

  “The Zaarain Cycle was real,” said the trader quickly. “It was the eleventh Cycle, the highest the Fourth People have ever known. The Yhelle Equality and its thirty one civilized planets are only a speck on the history of the smallest known Cycle. We aren’t even an atom against the might of the Zaarain.”

  Rheba did not bother to conceal her skepticism and impatience.

  Jal laughed at her. “Listen to me, you ignorant smoothie, the previous Cycle lasted two thousand years and held six hundred and seventy-three planets before it collapsed and the Seventeenth Darkness began. The Equality might or might not be the Eighteen Dawn. I’ll be dead long before the issue is decided, so I don’t care.”

  “Then, despite your knowledge, you aren’t a scholar,” said Kirtn dryly.

  The trader laughed again. “I’m a merchant, furry. History tells me likely places to look for pre-Equality artifacts. Most things that I find I sell to the big universities or wealthy collectors. But some”—his glance darted to the pilot web— “some things I keep. Pre-Equality technology can be very useful to a trading man.”

  “You can’t fly this ship,” said Rheba curtly, “so you might as well forget about stealing it.”

  “Just give me the coordinates of the planet it came from,” Jal said quickly.

  A vision of hell leaped into Rheba’s mind, Deva burning, streamers of fire wrapped around the planet in searing embrace. She looked at Kirtn and knew he was seeing the same thing, remembering the same glowing hell.

  When she spoke, it was in Senyas, a language Trader Jal would have no way of understanding. “Do we deal?”

  Kirtn’s body moved in a muscular ripple that jerked on Jal’s gold chain. “I’d sooner pat a hungry cherf.” His lips quivered in a suppressed snarl. “We could probably find Loo without his help, but we’d be a long time finding anything as small as a child. The boy probably wouldn’t survive until we found him. Loo doesn’t sound like another name for Paradise.”

  “Then we’ll give Jal Deva’s coordinates. Maybe he’ll burn his greedy hands on her ashes.” She flexed her own hands gingerly, remembering fire. “If there’s even the smallest chance that the boychild is still alive, we have to move quickly. Jal, damn his greasy blue tongue, is our best hope.”

  “Use him. Don’t trust him.”

  She laughed shortly. “Oh, but I do. I trust him to skewer us the first chance he gets. We just won’t give him that chance.”

  Kirtn’s lips lifted, revealing sharp teeth. It was not a beguiling gesture. Jal moved uncomfortably, tethered by the heavy gold necklace that Kirtn still held.

  “We have a bargain to offer,” said Rheba in Universal. “You’ll take us to Loo and act as our guide until we’ve found the Senyas boychild and the female Bre’n, and have taken them off planet. Then we’ll give you the coordinates of the planet where we got this ship. We aren’t,” she added deliberately, “ever planning to go back there again.”

  “Outlaws,” said Jal “I know it!”

  Rheba simply smiled. And waited.

  Jal made a distinctive clicking sound, tongue against teeth. “Agreed.” He looked at the hand still wrapped around the bone carving hanging from his necklace. “After you leash your furry, I’ll give you Loo’s coordinates.”

  “The Face isn’t yours, Trader Jal. It never was.”

  “But it’s my good-luck piece. I have to have it!”

  “No,” she said curtly. “That’s not negotiable. Either you agree or we take the Face off your dead body.”

  Jal sputtered, then agreed. The concession was graceless and after the fact; Kirtn had snapped the heavy chain quite casually as Rheba spoke. Gently, he freed the carving from the chain’s thick golden grip. He touched the Face’s curves with a caressing fingertip. The Face turned beneath his touch, revealing profiles both provocative and gentle, intelligent and demure, changing and changeless as the sea.

  Rheba looked away, feeling she was intruding on his inmost fire. He held in his hand hope for a new race of Bre’n, and his eyes were deep with longing. A tide of weariness washed over her, making the cabin waver like an image seen through moving water. She reached out to catch herself, only to find that she had not fallen. Instantly Kirtn was at her side, lifting her from the pilot web.

  “Into the womb with you,” he said in Senyas. “I’ll handle the first replacement.”

  She started to protest, then realized that he was right Her fingers were too blistered to program a replacement, and her mind was much too blurry to interface with the ship’s computer.

  Kirtn sensed her agreement in the sudden slackness of her body. He unsealed one of the ship’s three wombs, tucked her inside, and resealed it. Jal watched with interest, but could see no obvious means by which the Bre’n operated the ship’s mechanisms.

  “Is that a doctor machine?” asked Jal as the panels closed seamlessly over Rheba.

  It took Kirtn a moment to translate the concept of “doctor machine” into the reality of the Devalon’s womb. The Bre’n shrugged. “It’s a specialized bunk,” he said finally. “It helps the body to heal. Nothing miraculous,” he added as he saw Jal’s expression. “If you go in dead, you come out dead.”

 
Jal’s tongue flicked, touching the edges of his lips. “Where did you get it?”

  “It came with the ship.” Kirtn stared at the trader. “The coordinates,” he demanded, lowering himself into the pilot web. He sensed Jal looking longingly at his broad Bre’n back, particularly at the base of the neck where a sharp knife could sever the spinal cord. But as Kirtn had known, Jal was too shrewd to kill the only available pilot.

  “Quadrant thirty-one, sector six, twenty one degrees ESW of GA316’s prime meridian,” said Jal, sighing. He watched closely as Kirtn addressed the ship’s console, but could make no sense out of the changing displays. Kirtn whistled rapidly, intricately, as he worked. The combination of light and sound made Jal wince and rub his temples. “Loo is just over two replacements,” grated Jal “The coordinates for the first replacement are—”

  The words were forced back down Jal’s throat as the Devalon leaped from standby to maxnorm speed. When the pressure finally lifted, Jal yelled, “Listen, you furry whelp of a diseased slit, we’ll be lost in Keringa’s own black asshole if you don’t follow my instructions!”

  “Save your breath,” Kirtn said. “We tell the Devalon where, the ship decides how. Unless we use the override, of course.”

  Jal’s expression went from fury to disbelief. “That can’t be true! Only seven of the known Cycles had computers that could—” He stopped abruptly as the implication of his own words coalesced into a single name. “Zaarain! Is this ship Zaarain? Did the eleventh Cycle’s technology survive on your home planet?”

  Kirtn laughed. “There’s more to the galaxy than the Yhelle Equality. This ship was built by Devan . . . scientists/dancers . . .” He whistled an expletive and stopped trying to find a Universal word to describe akhenets. “We built this ship, Bre’ns and Senyasi dancing together.”

  “Dancing? A bizarre way to describe it.”

  “Universal is a bizarre language,” retorted Kirtn.

  Jal settled back, watching the pilot console with consuming eyes. “Valuable,” he muttered, “very valuable. But so ignorant.”

  “What?” said Kirtn, only half listening, watching the console.

  “You’re ignorant. On Loo, that could cost you your life and me my chance at a new technology. Unless you’d like to give me the coordinates to your planet now . . . ?”

  Kirtn made a sound of disgust. “Not likely, trader.”

  “Then listen to me, furry. Loo is a difficult place. Every life form known to the Equality is represented on Loo. Its people . . . collect . . . odd things. That makes Loo unique and very, very dangerous.”

  Kirtn concentrated for an instant, sending pulses through the pilot web. The outputs in front of him flashed and rippled and sang. He whistled a note of satisfaction that locked in the programming.

  “Are you listening, furry?”

  “Yes,” he said, swinging around to face the trader. “You’re saying that Loo is a dangerous place.” He shrugged. “So are most planets with intelligent life.”

  “It’s the animals, not the people, that are dangerous. Have you heard of a Mangarian slitwort?”

  Kirtn blinked with both sets of eyelids and settled more comfortably into the pilot web. “No, but you’re going to take care of that, aren’t you?” He yawned and stretched.

  Jal ignored Kirtn’s lack of attention. As the Devalon leaped toward the instant of replacement, the trader launched into descriptions of the most dangerous life forms of the thirty one planets of the Equality. Despite his initial reaction, Kirtn began to listen with real interest. The more he heard, the more interested he became. By the time Rheba emerged from the womb, Kirtn was wholly enthralled. After a few moments, she was too.

  Jal was hoarse by the time the ship emerged from replacement. After a three-note warning, the Devalon reversed thrust, pinning the occupants against couches or pilot web. Dumping velocity as quickly as possible, the ship cut an ellipse through Loo’s gravity well. Even before the ship achieved a far orbit, telltales began pulsing across the board The Devalon was under attack.

  “Keringa’s shortest hairs!” shrieked Jal. “Open the hydrogen wavelength for me!”

  “Open,” snapped Rheba instantly.

  Jal spewed out a series of foreign words, all liquid vowels and disturbing glottal stops. As his voice was transmitted beyond the ship’s hull, the telltales slowly subsided. Jal moaned in relief and mopped his chin with the edge of his robe. “Stupid,” he whispered. “Tell them about the wildlife and then forget the vorkers. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  Neither Kirtn nor Rheba disagreed.

  “What happened?” asked Kirtn, his voice controlled, his lips drawn thin.

  “The vorkers—the satellites. Loo has pre-Equality defense installations through the system. If incoming ships don’t have the code, they’re vaporized.”

  Another light appeared on the board as the ship inserted itself into median orbit. The light pulsed in subtle tones of lime and silver.

  “Do we want voice communications?” asked Rheba.

  “Yes,” said Jal quickly. “Let me handle it. The Loo are a bit . . . xenophobic. Yes. Xenophobic. They’ll respond better to me. They know me.”

  The light changed to emerald and white.

  “Talk,” said Rheba.

  Instantly, Jal began speaking the odd, gliding/lurching language he had used on the vorkers. There was a pause, laughter on both ends, and then a brief reply from downside. Still smiling, he turned to Rheba. “There’s a tight beam at fifteen degrees to the night side of the terminator, on the equator.”

  She frowned and drew her finger across one of the console screens. Her hair trembled. “Got it.”

  “Ride it down. My berth is waiting for us.”

  The ship rode the beam down, docked, and opened the ship’s doors. The instant the last door unlocked, Jal took a pressurized capsule from his robe and broke the seal. Immediately the cabin was filled with a potent soporific mist. As he never went without protective nasal filters, he would not be affected by the drug unless he was careless enough to breathe through his mouth.

  Rheba slumped in her mesh, totally unconscious. Kirtn caught a tinge of the sweet drug odor, held his breath and lunged. Jal pulled out a gambler’s stunner and held down the button. The gun was small, disguised as a calculator, and carried only a ten-second charge. It was enough. After nine seconds Kirtn collapsed in an ungainly pile of copper limbs.

  IV

  The Imperial Loo-chim’s receiving room was a white geodesic dome with billowing draperies that resembled thin waterfalls. A narrow stream ran the length of the huge room, curling around ruby boulders. Crystalline ferns shimmered along the banks of the stream. Immortal, sentient, the ferns were one of the many lithic races collectively known as the First People. They trembled in a remembered breeze, chiming plaintively of their long slavery on the planet Loo. The ruby boulders sighed in mournful harmonics.

  Rheba shivered. The First People’s melancholy was like a cold wind over her nakedness. She tugged discreetly, futilely, at the woven plastic binding her elbows behind her back. A similar plastic binding shortened her stride by half. The slip-chain around her neck glowed softly but had razor teeth. Blood trickled between her breasts, testifying to the chain’s sharpness.

  Behind Rheba walked Kirtn, as naked as she. His woven bindings were far harsher than hers. Each bit of outward pressure he exerted on them was answered by an equal and automatic tightening of his bonds. Struggle was not only futile, it was deadly; the edges of his bonds were tipped with the same razor teeth that lined Rheba’s neck chain. Kirtn’s arms and chest wore a thin cloak of blood.

  Jal looked around the room, saw that the glass-enclosed Imperial bubble was still unoccupied, and turned quickly to his captives. “The Imperial Loo-chim understands Universal, but it’s customary for it to ignore the yappings of unAdjusted slaves. I wouldn’t bet my life on its tolerance, though. Understand me?”

  She looked through Jal and said nothing. He deftly twitched her slip-chain.
A new trickle of blood joined the old on her neck.

  “Listen, smoothie bitch. I’m doing you a favor.”

  Rheba said something in her native tongue.

  “Same to you, no doubt,” Jal retorted. “But I could have taken you to the common slave pens—the Pit—where only one in ten survive Adjustment. But if you tickle the Loo-chim’s interest, you’ll be taken in to the Loo-chim Fold for your period of Adjustment. More than half survive there.”

  “What about Kirtn?”

  “He’s going to the Fold. The female polarity of the Imperial Loo-chim wants to breed new furries with gold masks. Yes, smoothie. There’s another furry here like yours. The female polarity will pay a high price for your beastie. People with obsessions always do.”

  The Loo-chim bubble seemed to quiver. It opaqued, then resolved again into transparency. The bubble was no longer empty. The ferns shook and began producing an eerie threnody that was echoed by the boulders in the stream.

  “The Imperial Loo-chim!” hissed Jal. “On your bellies, slaves!”

  When neither Rheba nor Kirtn responded, Jal kicked Kirtn’s feet out from under him. Rheba tried to evade the trader, but her razor leash could not be escaped. Bruised and bleeding, Kirtn and Rheba stretched out face down on the floor. Neither stayed down for more than a few seconds.

  Trader Jal hissed his anger in Universal, but did not require further obeisance of his captives. They were, after all, unAdjusted; the Loo-chim expected little more than bad manners from such slaves.

  Jal dropped both leashes and performed a brief, graceful obeisance to the Loo-chim. Neither Rheba nor Kirtn moved while Jal’s attention was off them. They had learned that when he was not holding the leashes, the least movement caused them to tighten, slicing into flesh.

  The Loo-chim gestured for Jal to speak. He picked up the training leashes and launched into a speech in Loo’s odd tongue. Rheba and Kirtn listened intently, understanding nothing except their bondage and what Jal had told them when they awakened in Imperiapolis, Loo’s capital city. The Imperial Loo-chim, although spoken of in the singular, was composed of a man and woman whose only genetic difference was the y chromosome of the male polarity. They were strikingly similar in appearance—curling indigo hair and pale skin only faintly blue—yet each twin was definitely sexed rather than androgynous. Each twin was also disturbingly attractive, as though the Loo-chim contained the essence of female and male, opposite and alluring sides of the same humanoid coin.