Episode I
by John MarquisBut now what, thought Kidrin, still a little twitchy, but basically staring blankly at nothing. Mentally reaching for her next move, she was interrupted by the ship's computer, which had obviously developed a few ideas of its own on the subject.
"Course for the nearest interstellar port laid in and ready to be engaged. Our flight path will keep us behind the moon, relatively speaking, until we are out of the range of all but the most sensitive detectors," the computer offered, trying to sound helpful.
There was another long pause. Despite the fact that the computer had grown used to long pauses, it became a little apprehensive about this one.
"Shall I begin our departure?" the computer suggested.
Kidrin was still looking off into space, so to speak, and cocking her head this way and that, as if focusing on some invisible bug on the inner hull. Then, grimly, she replied, "Negative."
The computer made an impatient whirr as it worked on how to interpret this unexpected answer. But Kidrin made a hushing noise at the machinery, and said, "We've got two hours before we re-emerge from the other side of this moon, and longer if we use thrusters to raise the orbit. We have time to think this through, so let's not rush, OK?"
The computer computed for a few seconds. While it had not expected this reaction from Kidrin, it was forced to agree that, logically, it was a sensible reply she had made. It decided to simply remain silent until spoken to.
Kidrin needed to think. What would she do? Assuming she could get away unharmed, who would she tell about this? She needed more information to be sure of what the fleet represented, but she also knew that something this big could only mean a giant conspiracy was at work at some level of the interstellar government or economy. If she told the wrong people about her discovery, might that not be the end for her? She might never again see Mirraur....
She looked out at the stark white sheets of ice covering the moon below her, concealing a great churning ocean below them, and considered her lonely place in the galaxy, sealed in her tiny metal ship. This was no place to handle such a stressful decision, no matter how good the fishing might be. She wanted to be back on Mirraur, where the fish were truly fresh, right-handed (amino-acidically speaking) and never accompanied by stealthy, black, thousand-ship fleets of doom!
Thinking back to her birthworld made her recall her childhood. It was silly, she knew, but she had time, and pleasant thoughts relaxed her. Even a non-nenrau could tell she needed relaxing right now. Even a computer could tell (indeed, it did, but it wasn't about to say anything to that effect). If only she could just let go of reality long enough to be playful, like the nenraute [a very young nenrau] she once was.
She remembered, with a small laugh, one of her favorite ways of getting into trouble back then. She would roll herself up into a ball on her bed, gently clawing her cozy sheets so as to wrap herself up entirely (the tail was always tricky to conceal). She remembered how she felt, in her cozy little ball, imagining that no harm could befall her, somehow, when she'd sealed out the world of reality and pain that all young lifeforms must eventually accept. She'd fallen asleep like that once, and had awakened in the laundry room of her house, just before being placed into the washer by her own (suddenly startled) mother. To think, if she hadn't twitched upon first waking, she might have been thrown in with the wash, entirely undetect--
On Mirraur, they call a revelation a maurriiss, which means, in an ancient tongue, "cloud-parting". Modern Mirraurian cartoonists use this imagery -- clouds parting to reveal brilliant moonlight -- to depict a good idea (just as Earth cartoonists use a light bulb). Truly, this is what Kidrin experienced, and never, never in her whole life was she more pleased with an idea of hers than right at that moment of revelation.
"Computer, the clouds have parted, and the moon shines through!"
[That's a fairly literal translation of a Mirraurian idiom.]
The computer, not observant enough this time to understand the context, was about to protest that this moon had no clouds to part, but Kidrin followed her exclamation too quickly for it to matter.
"Scan the surface below, please, looking for active geysers!" she ordered optimistically. Her chances for success were good -- the typical ice-topped ocean would often exhibit cracks and some fountaining in regions of highest heat flow. With a little luck, there'd be a slushy ice geyser down there somewhere.
The computer completed its scan. "Affirmative," it answered. "The nearest of the geysers scanned -- actually a close pair -- is located at the center of the map on the main screen. Our location, projected down, is also shown."
"Give me power to the thrusters, and manual helm control. We're going in."
Kidrin sat upright in the pilot's chair (OK, it was also the only real chair on the ship) and took the controls firmly in hand. She liked actually be able to fly the ship for a change, and she was, in fact, a decent pilot. Following the computer's guide on the screen -- now split, half visual, half map -- she steered the ship toward the nearest geysers. The pair of slush fountains soon loomed directly ahead. Activating the ship's grappling arm, as well as a few other external gadgets, she stayed her course, diving toward the jets of ice and liquid. She ignored the sound of the computer trying to politely voice its disagreement with this procedure, and plunged into the freezing mix.
The icy slurry from the geysers came out at varying speeds, and in all different directions. The ocean must be practically boiling beneath the surface, she thought. Whatever the case, she was having a hard time controlling her ship under the onslaught of these two wild and crazy geysers.
The slushy mix spattered the outside of The Silver Claw. It stuck to the metallic surface, and began to accumulate. Slowly, the build-up of ice began to transform the silvery ship into a giant white snowball of sorts. The thruster ports stayed open, thanks to almost continual operation, and the grappling arm also retained free motion by thrashing around considerably. Several miniature periscope-like electric eyes poked through the icy layers, maintaining the visual perspective Kidrin needed to pilot the ship back and forth through the spouting ice storms.
Finally, judging from figures the computer gave her about the change in mass of the Claw, she had accumulated enough ice to fully cloak the ship. The craft labored to regain altitude, but it managed. Kidrin knew her ship well. It wasn't invincible, but it was a tough little spacecraft.
With the ice clinging to the hull, all she had left to do was to extrapolate positions, set her course, complete the "burn" necessary to engage her new course, and then cover the thruster ports with the excess ice, using the grappling arm. It would work, she thought.
It had to, she knew.
"Lieutenant Crantran reporting, sir!"
"At ease, Lieutenant," the captain sighed. "What could possibly require reporting, right now? Scanners indicate no unusual activity in the area, and the fleet is engaged only in waiting... and discussions."
"Correct, sir, but Ensign Barsholnikov--"
"He's the one with too much time on his hands, right?"
"Sir?"
"Never mind. Go on, Lieutenant..."
"Yes, well, Ensign Barsholnikov was comparing previous sensor logs to current readings, and he thinks he's found a discrepancy."
"Oh, really?! Another one?" Captain F'shalla sighed. "All right, what's he got now?"
"You can see for yourself, sir, if you bring up the viewscreen, at 246 by 22-down."
The main viewing screen on the bridge of the Desultory lit up (actually, since it was looking mostly at inky-black space, it darkened down) to show a tiny, fuzzy white ball, approaching.
"Oooh, a piece of cometary debris... very pretty, Lieutenant. You tell Ensign Barsho-whatever that he's brightened my day, but that our scanners have already noted this object approaching, and the three ships in its path have automatically moved in such a way as to avoid collision, already. This is not news, Lieutenant!"
"Yes, that's all true, sir, but Ensign Bar-- sir, this object wasn't there before."
Captain F'shalla turned back to face the young Lieutenant. "What do you mean?"
"Judging from its current trajectory, it should have been visible to us before it came out from behind that icy moon..." The lieutenant paused to press a few buttons on a nearby control, shifting the view, "...in the distance," he finished.
"You have no records from before it moved out of relative eclipse?"
The lieutenant's brow furrowed. "Well," he admitted, "we picked up a slight sensor blip, but it didn't look cometary, if it was even real. We are limited to passive scanning, only, since--"
"I know precisely why we are limited to that, lieutenant!"
"Of course, sir. I was merely offering--"
"An excuse!" the captain growled. A moment passed before, sighing again, the captain resumed a cooler tone. "What do you suggest we do about this... discrepancy?"
"Sir, my suspicions are that this object is some sort of--"
"Spy probe. Yes, yes, I'd already figured that out. I didn't get to be captain of this pathetic ship for nothing. Personally, I'm not convinced. How do you intend to prove this hypothesis? We can't fire upon it, or perform an active scan without potentially giving away our position, which we might already have done, had we not been equipped -- last-minute, I might add -- with those new magnetic- flux impulse units."
Magnetic-flux impulse generators (MFIGs) were a type of internal engine which basically used existing magnetic flux lines (generated by a star or planet, say) to pull or push a ship around without any obvious external output. They are perfect for maintaining stealth, but provide only limited power and speed, proportional to the strength of the magnetic field (the density of the field lines) around them.
"All true, sir. What I propose is that we move into the path of the oncoming object. If it is a probe, it will most likely move to avoid collision."
The captain frowned. "And if it doesn't?"
The lieutenant ignored this -- briefly -- continuing, "We should alert as many nearby ships as possible to the situation, so that should this prove to be a probe, we can destroy it immediately when it reveals itself." Sensing the captain's imminent protest, he added, "One of the nearest ships must be equipped with mass drivers. They would be the least obvious weapon. Anyone watching might think the `comet' had been struck by a stray meteorite." Finally answering the previous question, he appended, "Should it hold its course, we would withdraw from its path at the last possible instant." It was clear he felt this was unlikely to happen.
The captain of the Desultory thought that was pretty damned presumptuous of him, but F'shalla also had more important considerations on his mind. "Need I remind the lieutenant," he began, addressing most of the bridge crew, who were now listening in on the conversation, "that by some bizarre stroke of Fate, most of our closest neighbors -- namely, the Vengeance, the Fury, the Stratagem, and the Reaper -- are members of the High Command wing, and will NOT," the bridge rang on that word, "want to be interrupted in the middle of discussions?!"
The lieutenant paused to consider. The fleet was already somewhat flimsy in terms of cohesion, and more infighting and bickering were not high on the list of things Crantran wanted to take responsibility for. Captain F'shalla felt the same way, as evidenced by the way his pupils were dilating. The captain was blustering, but there was fear at the base of that blustering.
The lieutenant responded at last, "Sir, I believe the Perfunctory is equipped with mass drivers. She is a member of our wing, and probably only as busy...," he trailed off, looking around the bridge, then continued, "...as we are."
The captain found his captain's chair, and slouched in it. "Communications!" he ordered, "patch us in with the Perfunctory -- standard low-power, narrow-beam relay, of course." He shook his head, thinking back to the beginning of this mess. "`The one with too much time on his hands?'! I said that?"
Kidrin was in a spin, literally, but she had everything in order, regardless. The plan was proceeding perfectly, and all the computer preparations were completed. Now she simply had to wait.
She had forgotten to set her newly-cloaked snowball ship into a spin when she had completed the thruster firings for her new trajectory. Worried at first that this stability would give her away, she soon discovered that some of the more volatile ices on the hull were sublimating, occasionally with a sudden burst of trapped gas, as the ship cruised through the sunlight. This was providing the perfect chaotic spin without altering her trajectory noticably. She only hoped enough ice would remain by the time she reached her target.
The computer had long ago given up on its argument to forget this crazy plan and depart -- immediately -- with the limited information already obtained. Better information was worth nothing if it was on a shattered data crystal floating in orbit around a gas giant in the middle of nowhere, with the rest of what had once been a fine ship. But Kidrin refused to hear the arguments. Her desire for real data and her sheer curiosity ruled out over mechanical protests. So the computer relented at last, and was now performing commands dutifully and without question, for each program run might be its last.
As she approached the center of the vast fleet -- the computer was keeping a running tally of individual ships identified, which was now at 937 and counting -- she made sure that the main systems were in standby mode, ready to engage at a moment's notice to beat a hasty retreat. She checked to see that the recorders were on, with the hopes that she might pass through a few of the ship-to-ship relay beams, and record a few snippets of data, identification, plans, or the like. She had fitted her cybernetic translator over her right ear, and connected it the outlet there, in case she found herself hailed by the fleet, in a language for which she possessed a CTC (cybernetic translation card). Thank goodness for that device -- let's face it, she thought, if you're not cybernetic, you're behind the times. She might yet be able to talk her way out of this, in a best-case scenario.
But she was taking no chances. The Silver Claw was running as "silently" as possible.
The computer made a quiet alarm noise. The main screen, flipping between several spinning views, showed why. One of the ships, glowing faintly with low-energy X-rays, was moving to block the path of the Claw.
Kidrin hissed at the computer, quickly, "Stay this course! Do not move! They are trying to get us to give away our position! I think Tom mentioned," she'd been thinking about him, given the events unfolding, "yes, it was Tom who told me about this, last time I saw him. He called it...," she fished for the particular term, "...roasting fowl?"
Whether the computer understood what followed the command is unclear. But, true to its job as ship's computer, it followed Kidrin's order. The tumbling snowball engaged no thrusters.
At the last second, the black ship moved silently out of the way. Kidrin breathed a sigh of relief, then quieted down. The recorders were picking up considerable signals as they passed through the heart of the fleet, now tallied at 1089 ships. But the computer issued a new alert. They were being followed.
A ship near the blocking ship had moved to follow them. Intercepted communications were really picking up now. The computer voiced a new concern.
"I'm reading an energy build-up from the forward guns of our pursuit vessel!"
Kidrin tensed. The thruster controls were at the ready, but she refused to give away her position unless--
"It's going exponential!" the computer practically screamed.
Kidrin slammed the starboard thrusters, and The Silver Claw lurched violently. Something sounded like it scuffed the outer hull, and ice went flying forward in a narrow cone. The transmission recorders practically went off-scale.
"Mass drivers!" the computer confirmed, "Identification confidence level at 95%. They're powering up again! Other ships are breaking formation!"
This was not what Kidrin wanted, but she was hardly unprepared. "Execute Evasion Sequence Kentra, now!" she ordered. The computer complied, but continued blurting out updates as to the gravity of their position.
The main thrusters of the Claw burst into action. The tiny ship, trailing chunks of ice, wove its way through the fleet as per the algorithm Kidrin had specified, nearly colliding with many of the stealthy vessels, but always pulling out just shy of the inky black hulls. A small moonlet, a few hundred kilometers away, was her goal. If she could use that as a shield, she could engage her space-warp drive without danger -- warp fields are very susceptible to intereference when first forming, so most fighting ships were equipped with warp-destabilizing weapons to keep the enemy from fleeing too quickly, lest they be smeared thin by the edge of uncontrolled space warp. She did not intend to have herself or The Silver Claw meet such a fate.
Behind her, confusion reigned, and would not soon be reined in. Stray and misjudged shots smashed friendly vessels, several collisions occurred, and captains threatened dire consequences to admirals, who, unfamiliar with their new rank, momentarily cowered, then blustered back with talk of insubordination. All the while, the tiny, half-ice-covered, silvery vessel pulled farther away from the black ships. It slipped behind a ten-kilometer-long chunk of rock, initiated a warp field, and sped off through the jovian system, headed for sanctuary.
Onboard, a lithe feline figure was laughing the laugh of one who has just cheated death, and a computer was shutting down several systems which had overheated in the excitement.
"Computer," Kidrin asked, gasping, "do we have full sensory data of those last five minutes recorded?"
"Affirmative," the computer replied, sounding a little weak.
"Good. That will be worth just as much as the surveillance information, if I can ever get it turned into a virtual-reality vid."
The ship sailed on to the nearest interstellar spaceport. Kidrin couldn't wait to see Tom again. Could she trust him? She wasn't sure, but she at least had to thank him. Staring blankly at the main screen, her smile grew as she noticed that the final, flashing tally she'd been watching before.
"Ship Count: ," it flashed silently.
Episode II
by Rosalie EwaldHere it was, an earth-month after RC came for training. Amazing, Maurice reflected, what 30 days of training will do for either man or beast. Here came Festus, apparently not a thought in his head, but lots of good genes and raw talent. Raw talent (now, who would cook talent?) gave Festus a good jump on the rest of the trainees. But he must have led a very sheltered and isolated life, mused the wrangler. This guy didn't know anything about the drive, and had only the vaguest idea why it was even used. Raw - that seemed a good way to describe Festus. There was a feral, wild-animal quality about him. Nothing he, Maurice, could put his finger on, but he was happy about the way the training had progressed through the month. He was even happier about the fact that it was time for his R&R period - four weeks! One thing the new teamsters union was good for was getting good perks! Being in the transportation buisness, he wasn't too keen on travel. This R&R, he was staying local. He got a package deal to go to the Lunar Domes.
Meanwhile, Festus was preparing for his R&R. He thought it a mite wasteful to get trained and then have an entire week off, but he wasn't complaining. He was planning to go back to Earth (Earth-surface was how they refered to it up here) and visit family before he got his first assignment. He knew he would get to work with someone besides Maurice for a few weeks, and he was neither happy nor unhappy at the prospect.
The WORM drive stations were located at "L-5" nodes local to Earth. Hawkings' Point was named in honor of a distinguished 20th century physicist, and was the first WORM drive station. It had been very hi-tech in its day, but had now taken on the familar and slightly decrepit air of an ultra-reliable technology. Hawkings' Point was now the training station for all WORM Wranglers.
Festus was not a very sophisticated man. He had grown up and spent all of his 23 years on Earth-surface, and never thought about life off-surface. In just the last month, he learned why the WORM platforms were at L-5 nodes (they were very stable gravitationally, but off-planet in case of any accidents). He learned not only how to control the WORM, but what the heck the WORM was. The letters stood for "Wriggly Opening 'Round Me" - sounded corny now, but when the WORM was first discovered by some intrepid (probably on the run) explorer, those were the words used to describe it, and they stuck. The "wriggling" was actually not random, but ran in a very long and mathematically complex pattern. When scientists began to study the motion, looking for a pattern, they were stymied. They published their preliminary results on the planet-net, hoping someone might recognise a pattern - many forms of music, and abstract branches of mathematics had patterns that took their practitioners a lifetime to master. Wouldn't you know it, Festus thought, it was similar to part of a pattern for one of the movements of the bio-mechanical bulls. Who better to tame the WORM than a bull-rider? Or a balloon handler? Or, even, a Rodeo Clown? He knew what the nickname Maurice gave him meant. He knew that even Maruice didn't realise the compliment implicit in the name he'd coined. He smiled that slow smile of his, as he reviewed his training.
All you had to do to control the worm was to work the pattern. You could speed it up, slow it down, bend it in any number of dimensions and angles, and that's all there was to it. Sounded simple, except for all the numbers and locations to keep straight. That's where the "ropes" came in - someone had built an interface for the wranglers to use on the WORM. The interface was a way to visualize and materialize the manipulations performed on the pattern that governed the WORM. It looked and felt like pulling on ropes. The goods got where and when they were needed pretty quickly, and the wranger did the "steering" by ropes.
Festus closed the bag he had packed for his week's R&R, and headed to the shuttle station.
Episode III
by Steve PulleyIt was part of Old Quark, and regulations established a century ago by historical-minded zealots (who, it was noted, all lived in New Quark) had determined it a selected Monument to Mongo Heritage. This was a tourist trap for out-of-towners and even outworlders, and it paid the bills. Even P.K., as PekiSu's friends called her, received an annuity as a homeowner, but she deplored it. Often she had thought of moving somewhere out of Old Quark, to escape the ogling eyes of tourists fascinated by this fourth century Mongeez Frontierland, to escape the "antediluvian" atmosphere, but it was not possible yet. Just at the moment there were other greater priorities in her life. And if she examined herself a little more deeply, she might have found that it was rather affection than disgust for the peculiar quaintness of the neighborhood that made her grouse. All she really wanted, indeed, was that it be better kept up.
The eight-block walk from the MongiMover to PekiSu Boormahsheiv's apartment was more or less a self-imposed one, partially by reason of the hazardous narrowness and erratic layout of the streets in this sector, which precluded an efficient PeopleBelt, and partially because her driver's license had been revoked. Somehow, she had managed to become a reckless driver in a technological era where reckless driving was nigh impossible. So she walked. She was philosophical about it: at least it was good exercise, she had sighed, although traversing dark alleys was not exactly her idea of a good time.
A large, sharp-fanged, obviously well-fed snurfl slithered across her path and made her jump. Her wahchaut had already sensed it, so it had been no real surprise, but she still jumped. She hated the things, but a city edict prohibited their extermination. Local color, they explained. That's what the tourists wanted, local color. And snurfls, everyone was assured, were essentially harmless to anything larger than a newborn baby. Perhaps, but she had lost more than one pet that had strayed too far from her apartment.
She pulled her Quickfix Phrigofax Dollspatcher from her purse and switched off the safety. The Q.P.Doll wasn't really designed for snurfls, of course, but it did get the job done in any case. Dolls were practically the only danger in Old City for Mongeez, and "in season" year round, and that was the only reason she was allowed to pack the weapon at all. Snurfls, however, were quite another matter. They were protected (they also thrilled the tourists without threatening them). But city ordinance or no, P.K. took aim and smoked the beast in its tracks. It shivered explosively, green fur popping in all directions, lighting the alleyway briefly in a flash, and dropped over dead. The fines were stiff, and though there was no such thing as a jail term for snuffing snurfls, a write-up on Netnews as an animal-butcher was nothing to sniff at. P.K.'s disgust for the animal as a loathsome urban pest and pet-killer, however, had tipped the scales for her normally benevolent heart, and one more snurful now romped in that Great Vermin Nest in the Sky. She would put herself on report the next morning, she promised, though feeling only the barest token guilt.
She was almost home now, but the fog had grown so thick that she could not see very far ahead of her and so relied instead on her wahchaut to keep from knocking into things as she made her way along the narrow, convoluted route. As she trudged up the alley, she switched the safety of her Q.P.Doll back on and was about to bury the weapon once again in the depths of her purse, when she sensed another presence, even before she saw or heard anything. Something was behind her. She knew it instinctively. She felt rather than heard the soft padding of feet in back of her and turned around to look, but whatever it was, the zig and zag of probably two buildings back and an unfathomable layer of thick olive fog hid it from her view. She felt herself tense slightly. She wasn't certain yet if it was following her, but she stopped to listen. It was not a Mongooz; she knew that instantly. Perhaps a critter, not a scarfl, had invaded the area. Perhaps a Doll. Her scales tingled at the thought.
Dolls had not been sighted for years in this neighborhood. It was believed they'd all been exterminated. But they were clever creatures - that much was true, and they were amazingly capable of avoiding detection when it suited them. If indeed there were any left, they were the only entity in Old Quark that was truly dangerous and almost always lethal to Mongeez if not annihilated in time. They did not allow second chances.
Whatever it was, the sensation of its presence was extraordinary. PekiSu had never felt her wahchaut react this strongly before. It was not extrasensory perception, but the inborn Mongooz characteristic of the flesh that saw, smelled, heard, tasted, touched and felt, all in one. This was the result of millions of years of evolution on a hostile planet once teeming with such lethal hazards that without it the survival of her species would have been iffy at best.
The "flesh" sense, or "wahchaut" - literally "the sentinel" and figuratively "the awareness" - was not a specific organ in the sense of an eye or a nose or an ear, but a general organ of perception that covered the entire Mongooz body in the form of multicolored sensor scales. It did not replace sight, smell or hearing. It was even considered a vestigial function of the body among the majority of Mongeez - like an Earthling's appendix or the ability to wiggle the ears - because not all Mongeez possessed a consciously defined sense of wahchaut. It had been ages since a refined sense of wahchaut had really been the deciding factor between life and death on the planet. The big predators, not to mention the carnivorous flora, were all nearly extinct, and so wahchaut was for the vast majority a useless organ except for party entertainment, perhaps bedroom play among some married couples, and for police work. Most went through their entire lives without being attentive to their wahchaut unless they consciously thought about it.
But PekiSu had purposely sensitized herself to wahchaut. As a small girl, its inherent presence had always fascinated her. Her father, who at the time was a celebrated military officer, noticed this and encouraged her to enhance this ability through training. He had had hopes that his only child would one day follow his footsteps and enter Security Forces. He was to be disappointed. PekiSu joined Special Services as a nutritionist instead of a police officer, and trained her wahchaut more as a biomeditation than a means to protect herself from danger. She had marveled that flesh was capable of perceiving the subtle nuances in the air, the telltale molecules of another body, the slightest differences of temperature in an animal, all at a distance.
But now she became suddenly aware of the fact that wahchaut might also safeguard her. While dangerous criminals, with a few peculiar exceptions, were pretty much a thing of the past on Mongo, a few Dolls might still lurk about here and there, and now the more recent interaction with outworlders had produced a small number of serious conflicts, where the ancient scourge of armed confrontation had once again in some cases become an unfortunate necessity. Of course she had never been involved in such episodes, but her father certainly had, and his own highly refined wahchaut had saved his life on several occasions offworld.
The normally iridescent scales of P.K.'s flesh instinctively darkened and sought out the feel of their background, and then began to blend with it until she "disappeared," or more precisely, until she became so inconspicuous within her environment that only her movement could readily betray her presence. It was called prohteeyoos, another natural protective device of the Mongooz body (also rudimentary for most), the quality of becoming what Earthlings might call a human chameleon.
Prohteeyoos and wahchaut had now quite suddenly taken on an instinctive importance for PekiSu, and she felt strangely exhilarated. She didn't even know why, because never before in her life had she felt her body react quite this way. She was not at all a skittish or fearful person by nature. She had never really had any occasion to be. Perhaps it had been the snurfl that had sparked this peculiar reaction in her. Her wahchaut hadn't really detected a direct threat, so why was she so restive and alert to possible danger now? Perhaps because it told her that the presence hidden in the fog was not normal.
Because wahchaut did not replace sight or hearing, only complemented it, P.K. perked her ears and quietly surveyed her surroundings, her eyes searching through the fog for out-of-the-ordinary warm fields in the alley. She did not know the source of her discomfort, for her flesh told her that it was no ordinary fauna or another Mongeez wandering about in the fog. A Doll?, she wondered again. She wanted to reject that, however. For all her normal calm, the instinctive terror of being torn to shreds in the most brutal fashion possible was a bit much for her to handle, and, in any case, Dolls did not emit temperature. They were absolutely cold-blooded, the dark watery liquid coursing through their arteries matching perfectly the temperature of their environment. But whatever was out there seemed on fire; a full 10 degrees hotter than she, she guessed. It seemed to be something else, completely alien to her experience. Not that Dolls weren't incapable of ruses. Perhaps=85
The first light scrapings of feet touching ground caught her attention finally. Her delicate ears twitched, trying to focus. Two-legged. And barefooted! An animal? A two-legged animal? Impossible. An unshod Mongooz outside? Extraordinary! It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it was merely an after-hours offworlder tourist, drinking in the thrill of the night. Strange, though, because outworlders hardly ever wandered into this area in the evenings, and when they did they were usually accompanied. And she certainly had never seen any barefooted foreigners roaming about before.
Whatever was following her paused then, seemed somehow confused or doubtful. She felt its inner conflict. Her wahchaut fairly tingled with this odd sensation. Perhaps her own stealth had paid off and it had lost her scent. Perhaps it had sensed her Q.P.Doll, still gripped between her fingers, and was considering the alternatives. She waited motionless for several minutes, and although she felt its presence, she knew that it too had stopped, perhaps waiting for her to make some detectable move in order to home in on her. The fact that it seemed to have lost her made her breathe more easily. She felt confident then that her own wahchaut was superior and working to her advantage.
She decided to test it, and began to work her way slowly up the alley, away from the creature. It did not follow her, but instead haltingly began to move in a tangent up another alley, and she knew then for sure that she had evaded it. She wondered briefly if she should turn tables and follow it instead, but even though she was armed she did not feel any confidence that such a plan would be to her best interest. Besides, she might very well be paranoid, and it was simply some poor, lost stranger from another planet wandering about trying to find the MongiMover. She finally allowed herself to breathe normally, her heart slowing down to a methodical 53 beats a minute, and her scales returned to their customary opalescence. She allowed herself a sheepish grin (actually, a tlalfellian grin) and found the door to her apartment.
Once inside, PekiSu Boormahsheiv immediately tore off her Service uniform and slipped into something more comfortable - that something being her pajamas - and sighed a long Mongeez sigh of relief. She had already eaten in town, she was exhausted, and bed seemed the natural thing to do next. She despised her uniform, not because it didn't fit her, but because its design and color scheme offended every aesthetic sense in her mind, body and soul. It was the invention of some 90-day fashion wonder from New Quark and had been adopted by a cadre of senior officers at work who had no clue of what clothing was expected to do beyond wearing.
"Makes us look like glarfs wrapped in tcheerimoyah skins," she had protested in outrage to her direct superior, AlynkaKow Snuffski. Alynka had sighed, but also nodded her personal agreement.
P.K. had made a bit of a fuss over the uniform change, but not even being the daughter of General Boorei Grd Boormahsheiv, the much-decorated hero of the Plaqareid War and the founder and former Chief of Amalgamated Gunk Works and Mining, availed her. In any case, old Blood and Guts, as B.G. was more colloquially known, was long retired from military service as well as more recently released - some would say ignominiously fired - from AGWM, and so his rank and fame no longer cut much Mongeez mustard. More important, it never would have even occurred to P.K. to call upon her father's reputation to champion her opinions. She despised nepotism as much as she did the Service's almost infallible talent for bad taste. Her superiors knew that, knew that she was also a pussycat underneath her protests, thanked her for her feedback, and went ahead and confirmed the use of the official uniform, confident that all personnel would eventually learn to, if not love, at least appreciate the clothing's functionality. P.K. acquiesced, of course. The bad "cut of her jib" was hardly worth turning into a cause c=E9l=E8bre. But whenever Service regulations did not require it, she was out of uniform.
She padded about her apartment checking to see if it needed any major overhauling, which it usually did. She rarely had time to attend to the domesticities of home maintenance. Her job occupied nearly all of the daylight hours-another good reason why having to wear the tawdry uniform of the department one minute longer than necessary was almost too much for her to bear-and so house cleaning and any social life were no more than wishful thinking.
PekiSu arranged a few bric-a-bracs, tossed a couple of day-old dirty plates into one washer and a load of dirty uniforms and dainties into another washer, coughed to douse the lights as she passed from one room to another, and readied herself for bed. Having performed her ordinary bathroom rituals, she sat down before a large, brightly-lighted mirror in her bedroom and began to comb out her hair. She sang contentedly while she combed, her lilting voice rising and lowering in a peculiar cadence all her own. The words were almost nonsensical, and as she drew the comb through her tresses, she tried to make her voice sound the same as the comb pulling through the long, iridescent strands of hair.
As she combed, she marveled that her hair shimmered and her scales changed colors with moods and circumstances and that her vocal chords imitated the sounds of nature. These were the evolutionary results that had enabled her species to survive - to blend in with the rocks, to meld with the water, to match the wind in the trees and the barking of squirrels. Her world had once been a brutal, unforgiving one. Wild animals that showed no regard for intelligent beings, had long ago gobbled her kind up like popcorn with eager abandon.
She was good at imitating forests and deserts and dark alleys, but it was harder to blend in with the furniture, she thought, and laughed. The largest beasts were all long gone, and what was left normally showed a more befitting respect for their masters. Carnivores and vermin still abounded, but the larger ones shied from the cities they intuitively knew did not and would not welcome them, and the smaller critters concentrated on non-Mongeez prey closer to their own size.
PekiSu gazed at her mirror and willed herself to turn leaf green. The soft film of scales that enveloped her body, shimmered and turned olive drab instead. She laughed -. her father's favorite color, poor fellow. Her ability to consciously choose her colors was improving, but she still needed more practice. Strangely, unthinking instinct was far more accurate.
Eventually, she finished her grooming and prohteeyan exercises, chanted her prayers, crawled into bed, read for a few minutes, and then finally stretched out to sleep. She reviewed tomorrow's assignment in her mind and wondered how she would cope with such a variety of new arrivals. It had never happened before, at least not to her
As a Lieutenant O.W. Nutritionist for Mongo's Special Services, it was her job to keep outworld new arrivals, particularly prominent visitors from other planets, alive and healthy during their stay on Mongo, and not end up poisoning themselves on incompatible foodstuffs that for her species were the normal staple. It was tricky business, of course. More than one immigrant had died an agonizing death in the course of trying to adapt to Mongo without taking the proper precautions. Attempting to align an extraterrestrial's metabolism with local cuisine was a delicate, complex, often dangerous combination of science and culinary sorcery. And sometimes there simply was no way of properly feeding some new arrivals. Only expensive importation of goods from offworld was the final solution.
PekiSu loved her work almost fanatically. Besides the fascination of studying different humanoid life forms and meeting species of beings from dozens of planets, she was providing them with a valuable service. She was keeping them alive and sound.
As she settled her mind to sleep mode, she wondered about the Morja group. These new arrivals were not normally Special Services' responsibility, and her orders had been sketchy because there apparently had been some kind of hurried last-minute snafu. Bloogian Baedeker Interstellar Travel should have been taking care of them, but an emergency had prevailed and, nutritionally speaking, they would now be her charges. All she knew was that the group was not homogeneous at all, but a mixture of humanoids from several different worlds. Why they were coming to Mongo together puzzled her. But more worrisome was the big job ahead for her to see that they were nourished properly.
PekiSu Boormahsheiv curled up as sleep finally overtook her. Her lime-colored epidermis gently darkened to emerald and finally to French ultramarine blue as she slid into unconsciousness.
She was awakened much later by a sound, an electric feeling of presence. Makeesh, the blue moon, shown through her bedroom window, splashing its eerie light across her bed. She loved that moon, and sometimes would remain awake for hours staring at it and marveling at its beauty - heavenly beauty, she called it. Sometimes, when she was deep in prayer, her wahchaut senses seemed to heighten, and she could feel the moon caressing her, telling her that God was near, nearer than the golden life force pulsating through her Mongeez veins, and watching over her. She knew of course that her Makeeshian reveries were personal fancy, but she also knew that great natural beauty had wonderful effects upon her, sometimes overwhelming her. She would weep then, and an intense inner peace would settle over her and she would sleep and often she would dream.
Now, Makeesh peered brightly into her window. But there were no celestial caresses, there was no peace, and the dream that she had abruptly wakened from had been not of the soaring spirit, but of shimmering autumn leaves swirling violently in the eddies of a fiery dust devil, which flagellated like a runaway fire hose across an open field.
PekiSu was fully awake now, heart racing, her wahchaut seeking outward to touch the presence. She sensed that the dream had been significant, but she knew not why. Something was in her apartment, but at the same time not there. She did not understand this. Then she thought of Dolls, but her Q.P. was far away in the living room. There would be no way to outrace one, in any case.
P.K. felt her bedroom shudder slightly, and a noise, like a shutter slamming back and forth on a windy day, came from within her bedroom closet. She quickly got out of bed, her scales merging with the wall behind her, and circled slowly away and toward the door. Maybe, just maybe...
Suddenly there was a deafening clap of thunder, and the closet doors, which had been designed to slide in and out of the walls, blew outward and flew across the room, hitting her lovely mirror with such force that it was shattered. P.K. fell to the floor as a shrieking white light like the Sun streamed forth, nearly blinding her. The light then flashed out, pitching the room into semidarkness once again. But in its place still roared the tornado, growling and spitting, spewing the contents of her closet into the room.
P.K. tried to pick herself up, but the air blasting from the closet was overpowering, and she finally gave it up and instead began to crawl across the room toward the exit. As she reached the doorway, she felt the roaring begin to abate. It was then that she heard a voice from within, shouting words she could not understand. And then there was the distinct and universal sound of retching.
P.K. suddenly saw a strange and frightened-looking man catapulted from the closet and thrown violently upon the floor not three feet away from her. She did not know it then, but it was Arnold Schwarz, fresh from Earth, disheveled and reeking of thrown-up loquats. And Arnold was not alone.
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