“Gropers,” I said to myself, admiring what was a healthy and vigorous body for a Ket. My skin was like the palest of leathers, its fine-grained texture a trait considered quite attractive within the species. I met my new eyes in my reflection, their warm yellow almost glowing in the stall lights. All the while, my hands restlessly explored the quite remarkable smoothness of the sink, then the soothing ridges of the woven skirt. Born with a hand in someone else’s pocket was the expression used by other species to refer to Ket. True, it was almost impossible for a Ket to keep its beautiful hands to itself. But that was simply because touch was their favored sense, texture their greatest pleasure.
I fastened my curious fingers on the reassuring curve of the hoobit in the proper dignified manner. Humans were particularly offended by the Ket propensity to fondle whatever was of interest. Of course, this didn’t stop them from also being the Kets’ best customers. Ket masseuses were in demand everywhere, traveling so frequently in Human space and worlds that one more should scarcely be noticed. A disguise and profession in one.
Now I was ready to leave Hixtar Station and attempt the first task Ersh had set me. To find out what happened after my disappearance from Rigel II.
Hixtar’s orbiting station had a reputation as a place where you can eventually buy anything, legal or otherwise. That reputation had suggested, rightly, that I could find what I needed to carry off my form. It also explained why such an inconsequential world was a popular stopover for various ships both from the Commonwealth and the uncommitted systems of the Fringe. I should have had little difficulty finding a ship outbound for Rigel II, or at least that sector of space.
But the glittering script of the posting board was unusually brief. Few ships were due to leave Hixtar in the next couple of days. There were no listings at all destined for the Fringe.
How odd.
Trade usually poured in both directions from the outposts. The miners of the Fringe frequently outnumbered the resident station population.
They were outnumbered at the moment. I’d taken one walk in the noisy expanse of Hixtar’s loading arena, bundled against the bitter cold, and been amazed by the activity there. Even more remarkable, those crowding on-station were not the usual Human mining crews and Denebian prospectors. As many beings used the green tubes reserved for non-oxy breathers as rode the climbers to the various entry levels. There were family groups, too many of them for coincidence. And the expressions of those around me had ranged from annoyance to outright fear.
What were they all afraid of?
I wondered again as I stared at the unhelpful board.
New taxes?
“Are you available, Groper?”
I gripped my hoobit and turned to see who the low voice belonged to.
Ah.
An old spacer stood just out of reach, holding a worn-looking credit chip in my direction. His rheumy eyes were wistful as he looked up at me.
Of course I was available,
I reminded myself sharply. Kets never refused a chance to touch another species. And, in this form, I was Ket enough to feel a pleased anticipation. Time to find a ship out later.
By the evening meal, I’d soothed enough backs, shoulders, and other body parts to cover half the cost of the hoobit; I’d probably scared the life out of the Queeb by spreading the news that a Ket was on-station—though it was quite incorrect in assuming any Ket would use violence against a grave robber, the species preferring litigation; and I’d missed the only outbound ship traveling remotely in my direction that afternoon.
But my fingers tingled with pleasure. And—given the rumors my clients had shared with me—I was grateful Ersh hadn’t sent me any closer to the Fringe.
“War is breaking out,” said the Human officer from a survey ship, whose uniform made me remember old friends. “Casualties are mounting. Tensions are rising even faster, fueled by talk of some secret weapon. Things are going to get worse.”
“Something’s out there,” whispered the old spacer, peering around at me through his bushy gray eyebrows. “Something that appears and disappears. Something that consumes whatever lives. First ships, then Fringe mining domes, who knows what might be next? Fools won’t listen, but spacers know. Smart captains are keeping their ships bellied-up to Hixtar Station.”
There were other versions of both tales. Combined, they added up to a crisis building in an area of space where species were already close to blaster point over ephemeral issues: ownership, rights, access to supposed wealth.
Which, while fascinating, wasn’t helping me find out more about Rigel II. Rumors from that direction hadn’t a chance in this place, where ships were being found empty and adrift.
I folded myself to fit into a chair meant for beings with shorter legs and larger hips, quite ready to rest my poor feet. Ket had evolved within a lesser gravity than that operating within the station—doubtless an average suited to no one in particular but bearable by most. It didn’t take much exertion to make me grateful to wriggle my long toes in the air and let another part of my anatomy take the strain. Ket rarely used such furnishings, preferring to crouch comfortably with knees and shoulders touching. Under these circumstances, I was content with the chair.
Its other advantage was location. Once I managed to somehow wedge my knees properly under the table, I glanced up to confirm this portion of the food court lay within sight of the main posting board. All I needed now was patience. Eventually, someone would decide even Hixtar was too close to the Fringe and choose to head in the direction I needed.
Three bottles of dle tea later, I was halfway through a Braille book (such a sensuous pleasure, reading), when the public address system announced a ship arrival with a suspiciously relieved tone. Shortly afterward, the posting board flashed on a green-backed and quite lengthy supply request, sending some merchants scurrying from tables to see who could reach their consoles first—not a trading ship then, more likely a transport or government vessel. I moved to another table, more in the shadow of an entrancingly rough-barked tree, and watched the debarkation gate.
What were the odds?
I should have taken my own bet. Acting Captain Kearn was the third figure through the gate, a handful of forms in one hand, and a definitely anxious look on his face.
21:
Station Night
PREVCRACKERS had wonderful crusty bits along their edges. I fondled mine surreptitiously, conscious that most non-Ket considered food-fondling impolite, but I remembered other manners. Quite frankly, the bite, chew, and swallow part of a meal was simple mechanics to me at the moment, especially in a food-service area designated safe for most humanoids and other theta-class beings.
No sign of Ragem, yet. I had checked, and the
Rigus
was loose-docked, ready to move on within hours though its supply list suggested at least one day-cycle at the station. Rumor had the Commonwealth ship here to make long overdue inquiries into the problems along the Fringe.
Maybe,
I thought, caressing a fruit peel. But I’d asked Ragem to take me to Hixtar and Kearn would have overheard through the telltale belt.
“Madame Ket?”
I’d been waiting for a
Rigus
crewmember to approach me and was hardly surprised to receive a properly courteous greeting from a member of a first contact ship.
Still,
I sighed to myself,
did it have to be Willify Guire?
I carefully curled my fingers around the hoobit and nodded a greeting to the woman.
She took the seat across the table, promptly holding out a credit chip. More good manners with a Ket. “How may I serve you?” I asked calmly, confident Willify would not connect this form with the Ycl or Lanivarian she’d met on the
Rigus.
Which was just as well, since she’d never warmed to me in either form. Being suspicious of a Ycl was a reasonable survival instinct; her polite dislike of my Lanivarian-self seemed to have started with my quite necessary alteration of what had turned out to be her only spare uniform.
Nobody’d told me,
I thought with a twinge of remembered guilt.
Her nostrils flared delicately, in what I took as pleased anticipation rather than a comment on the remains of my lunch. “Not only myself, madame. There are several on my ship who would appreciate your service. We’ve had a—difficult—mission recently. Word that a Ket was on-station and practicing her profession caused quite a stir, especially among those like myself who’ve experienced the wonderful work of your people.”
Too perfect?
I dismissed my doubts, having deliberately chosen this form to attract Human contact. “This Ket is yours,” I replied, after touching my credit chip to hers to verify it. We Gropers were always careful about new clients.
The
Rigus
was subtly different to my Ket senses, textured, curved, altogether more sensuous. The ceiling was definitely lower. I remembered scents, machine and living, but they were irrelevant to this form, as were certain colors. Willify left me alone in the lounge to wait, giving me time to stroke the cool metal walls, and investigate the upholstery of the couches and seats. There was already a pad with a sheet covering it on the floor. I settled myself in a glorious chair of flecked mock-velvet and reluctantly settled my hands around the hoobit.
My first client was the Modoren. If the security officer was checking my credentials on behalf of the crew, he left convinced. Having been a Modoren myself recently, I soon had him relaxed into a limp pile of fur, utterly a throaty, almost soundless purr. I needed time to suck my poor fingers before my next client—that lovely fur was as coarse as wire.
Two female Humans came in next, together. I waited more or less patiently for them to sort out who would be first, using that uniquely Human affectation of each insisting on the other.
When they left, smiling contentedly, I rearranged the sheet then stretched, arching until the back of my head lightly touched my heels. Bidirectional hip joints were not a bonus in this gravity—much more standing around and I’d trade this form’s lovely flexibility for a locking pelvis in an instant. I rolled myself upright, then turned my neck gently around from side to side, hearing little clicks of strain as my overtaxed spine moved through its full range to allow me to gaze pensively over each shoulder.
No luck with conversation yet.
The Modoren had puffed and purred, while the Humans had talked to each other.
“Are you still taking clients, Madame Ket?” said a soft voice from behind me.
I was barely able to keep from whirling around, which would not have been a Ketlike response. Instead, I grasped my hoobit, very tightly, and turned with dignified grace. “This Ket is available,” I replied.
Ragem could use a good massage,
was my first reaction to his hunched, raised shoulders and strained-looking face. Here was one of the costs of my visit with humanity: Ragem wore the plain blue coveralls of an ensign, without specialty bars or rank to be seen.
“Madame?”
I released my death grip on the hoobit and waved at the pad by my feet. “Please make yourself ready, sir.”
He unfastened the upper half of his uniform and shrugged it off his shoulders, before stretching out on the pad with a sigh. Most Humans preferred a full body massage, but it wasn’t my place to argue.
I stood over Ragem before relaxing into the balanced crouch that brought my knees up to my shoulders and my hands to the floor, feeling oddly like a spectator until my long supple fingers began lightly testing the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders. Then pleasure that was more than my Ket nature surged up my arms. I pressed my fingers deep into the warm skin of my friend, content to have this uncomplicated moment to free him from pain, if only temporarily.
I worked down the sides of his spine, knowing exactly where to find the pressure points to relax and soothe his tension. He groaned with astonished relief, his eyes closed as my Ket hands worked their magic.
A shame Ragem hadn’t opted for full body.
I pushed suggestively downward on the fabric of his uniform, then froze as my fingers touched the hard slickness of the belt locked against his skin.
Ragem rolled like a fish, and I had to hop to avoid being knocked over. He lay on his back and looked up at me. “Just the waist up, please, Madame Ket.”
They’d put a telltale on him. This man who had tried to save all their lives was being treated like some criminal.
Did this mean all his friendships were lost? Had I ripped him from his Human web in my flawed efforts to be his friend, too?
The Human misunderstood my hesitation. His cheeks reddened and he began to rise.
I placed my hand, fingers spread, on the warm hardness where bone protected his heart. “Wait,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool and professional. “This Ket is not finished.”
Ragem settled again as I stroked the tightness from his chest and shoulders, but I no longer took any pleasure in my task. His ribs were too close to the skin. His unhappy state, though my fault, was beyond my ability to repair.
“What is your use-name, madame?”
I kept my hands moving over his arm; there was nothing significant in his low voice—this was typically when clients began conversations, sensing their time was almost up and hoping to prolong the pleasure of a Ket massage.
Still, only Ragem would ask something inconvenient.
I glanced down at the hoobit to check my name, knowing it would be foolhardy to assume he couldn’t read the Ket script. “Nimal-Ket, sir.”
“Any news from the Fringe, Nimal-Ket?”
Gossip was another Ket stock-in-trade. “There is fear, sir,” I replied, moving to his other arm. “Talk of danger to those in ships and even to those planetborn.”
Ragem’s muscles tensed, and I pursed my lips in a Ket frown. “This Ket suggests another topic if this news will undo the good I have done, sir.”