Hellspark (3 page)

Tocohl drew her cloak tightly to her, not for warmth—that was amply provided by the 2nd skin—but for gesture, as a cat lays back its ears in preparation for a fight.

(Your adrenaline is up to—)

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

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

She was more puzzled than angry. A byworld judge dealt with cases where two cultures met and clashed—tourists who got themselves in trouble through ignorance of local customs, for example—or cases where no world claimed jurisdiction, in deep space or on worlds without a charter, Tocohl shifted to Jannisetti and said, (As far as I know, I haven’t stepped on any cultural toes lately,)

turning the Sheveschkem cliche into a Jannisetti obscenity.

(Is that funny?) Maggy asked.

(I thought so; how did you know?)

(You smiled.)

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

Tocohl’s ear and throat rather than feedback from the 2nd skin. Tocohl touched the spot just before her ear and smiled again, but she could feel neither the transceiver nor play of muscle.

She frowned slightly without meaning to.

Maggy said, (Then why are you worried?)

Tocohl grunted. (It could be about that “farm equipment” we sold on Solomon’s Seal; two of the people I dealt with were third-generation Siveyn, and Tinling Alfvaen is as Siveyn as names come.—To be honest, Maggy, it could be about a lot of things, but that would worry me.) (I don’t understand. The manifest said “farm equipment” and that’s what we delivered.) (Maggy, this is a little difficult to explain: they expected arms.) (Then why would they request farm equipment?)

(To make the shipment seem legal.) To forestall the inevitable question, Tocohl said firmly, (Yes, Maggy, the shipment we made was entirely legal, but we didn’t deliver what the customer wanted.)

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

(What kind of charge could they bring? Price-gouging, as much as I hate to say it. They paid a lot more for farm equipment than they intended to. And serves them right.) Maggy made no response. This was apparently beyond her and it was clear she felt it better for Tocohl’s adrenaline level that she not inquire further.

Probably just as well, thought Tocohl, though it led her to wonder just what files Maggy might be checking in that silence. To distract her was a hopeless task, Tocohl knew, so she merely said, (How do we find Nevelen Darragh? Skip the map.) The projection vanished as quickly as it had come. (Give me verbal directions for the quickest route to Veschke Plaza.) (That would take you through an area the Sheveschkemen consider highly dangerous after dark.) (Fine,) said Tocohl. (Perhaps I’ll have a chance to work off some of that extra adrenaline you’re
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so concerned about.)

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

Goblet.)

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

stride gave no evidence of her unsettled thoughts.

Here and there, she eased her way through crowds of merrymakers overspilling from waterfront taverns onto the wharf. Her captain’s baldric brought her a spate of invitations which she reluctantly turned down or set aside for another time. Twice, laughing, she pulled stray hands from the pouch slung at her hip. “Clumsy doesn’t honor Veschke,” she chided the would-be thieves.

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

Tocohl did not slow her pace. One of the minor pleasures of having first-class equipment, Tocohl thought, was that she needn’t worry about stubbing her toes on cobblestones. She might trip and crack her head, for her hood lay softly cowled about her neck, but if her toe struck stone the 2nd skin would spread the impact to absorb it and spare her the bruises.

She reached an unlit square, and Maggy said abruptly, (Trouble.) Tocohl stopped. In the starlight, she could see only the constricted alleyways and the cramped stone houses and shops typical of Sheveschke.

Across the square, a solitary figure—a fisher, to judge from his rough-woven clothing and the pronged knife thrust into his belt—lounged against a stone doorpost. He straightened and whistled shrilly but made no move toward her.

(What trouble, Maggy?) she asked.

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

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

Around the edges of the spectacles, Tocohl’s peripheral vision darkened in contrast. It was as if she looked down a tunnel of light, the end of which was whatever object she focused on.

Three dim figures clashed in the alleyway. Two were Sheveschkemen and, like the whistler, wore fishers’ garb. The third was undoubtably an off-worlder; over the sheen of her 2nd skin she was dressed in a combination of styles from several different planets—what Hellsparks called worlds’ motley. Not

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

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

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

She’s going to lose this fight.

Tocohl didn’t much like the odds. (I’m going to pull rank, Maggy: watch my back.) Unclasping her moss cloak, she let it drift gently to the ground.

Few people in the Extremities would argue with a Hellspark captain on whose good will their interstellar trade depended, but Tocohl took the elementary precaution nonetheless. The deceptively simple action exposed all of the sensors in her 2nd skin but those still covered by her captain’s baldric, and Maggy could work around those easily enough.

She started across the cobbled square heading for the alleyway.

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

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

Before he could recover sufficiently to thrust at her a second time, she slammed her edged hand
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into his wrist and the knife jarred away, clanging on the cobbles.

The Sheveschkemen called a warning to his companions and backed away from the mouth of the alley, scrambling after the knife. Tocohl had no intention of letting him rearm. She followed—with two long strides and a lightning kick that took him squarely in the chest just as he bent for the knife.

Her 2nd skin absorbed the impact. Tocohl felt only a mild twanging sensation from foot to thigh but the whistler slammed against the brick wall, cracked his head, and crumpled forward, unconscious.

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

Maggy’s warning, Tocohl would have been thrown off balance. Instead, she somersaulted and twisted, came up back to the wall to face a second assailant.

This one too held a knife, but he stared at his weapon dumbly. With Maggy to see it coming, the force that would have enabled the knife to pierce her had been transferred instead along the warp and

woof of the 2nd skin; and because she had rolled forward at the crucial moment, it was unlikely she’d even have a bruise from the attempted stabbing.

There was one further advantage: his disbelief gave Tocohl the few seconds necessary to regain her breath and charge. The Sheveschkemen’s nerve broke. He gave a sharp squeak of panic, dropped his knife, and fled.

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

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

(Overlay infrared,) Tocohl snapped, and a line of ghostly red footprints appeared, drag marks trailing them. The prints steamed away even as she watched, and she followed at a run.

Deep into the alleyway, the prints brightened and led to a narrow door. Even with her vision pushed for available light, Tocohl might have missed it—it was flush with the alley wall—but in infrared, the door’s outline was unmistakable and the misty heat patterns told the rest.

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

Once again sounding prim, Maggy began, (Breaking and entering—) Tocohl cut her warning short, (It’s festival. Read up on it.) (If you’re going in,) said Maggy, changing tactics, (put on your gloves so I can protect your hands.)

Tocohl gave each hand a sharp snap downward. Her neat cuffs unfolded and met just beyond the tips of her fingers. She gave Maggy a moment to individuate the 2nd skin between fingers, then reached for the latch and swung the door inward.

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

The fisher, a woman almost as tall as Tocohl and twice as massive, wrapped twine tightly, viciously, about the off-worlder. She looked up at the noise, grunted, and threw a shiny object—

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

Tocohl’s head had been the moment before, then crashed to the floor and rolled away. It was a heavy copper sap that fishers used to kill their netted catch.

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

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

The fisher’s knife lay beside a skein of netting twine. Tocohl swept it from the
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ironwood table seconds before the fisher’s full weight struck her. Tocohl staggered back, but stayed between the fisher and her knife, and blocked two punches in rapid succession.

Then she saw an opening, whipped the edge of her hand across the fisher’s temple. Maggy was good to her promise: the 2nd skin stiffened and Tocohl felt bone crunch beneath the blow.

The Sheveschkemen fell, first to her knees, then onto her face. Tocohl stepped aside and, without taking her eyes from the fisher, knelt for the knife.

Cautiously she rose and stood looking down at the fisher’s prone body. After a long moment, she let out a sharp breath. (How’s my adrenaline level now?) she asked.

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

Tocohl grinned in relief and turned her attention to the off-worlder. The small woman was still unconscious and breathing with difficulty. Tocohl first removed the crude gag and blindfold, then set to work on the rough twine with the fisher’s knife.

Over her 2nd skin, the off-worlder wore a kilt of charcoal gray, black boots, and a fringe bodice of blue and silver. Silver threads laced through her jet-black hair, which hung in double braids over either ear. Taken singly, the styles might have identified her world of origin, but together, they gave Tocohl no clue.

Nor did her face. Her features were angular but gentle, and her skin was shockingly pale in contrast to her hair, except for the burns on her cheeks caused by the force with which the fisher had gagged her.

Her breathing gradually became normal.

Tocohl sliced through the last of the twine, and the woman slumped forward. Tocohl caught and eased her gently to the floor. As she did so, the braids fell away from the off-worlder’s ear and exposed

two bright bits of cloisonne: earpips.

(Definitely a surveyor,) Tocohl said. (Surveyor-grade 2nd skins are fairly common but earpips aren’t.

On holiday, I suppose, though this is an odd place for it.) She bent for a closer look at the earpips.

The first identified the woman’s profession as serendipitist, which caused Tocohl to raise an eyebrow. To those who believed in espabilities, and Tocohl did, a serendipitist was one who brought luck to herself and those around her. This is serendipity? thought Tocohl; if so, it certainly takes a peculiar form.

The second pip was a medic alert. (Maggy, what does this mean?) She raised the emblem slightly to give Maggy a clear view.

(The wearer suffers from Cana’s disease—)

(In layman’s language, please,) said Tocohl, to forestall a spate of medical jargon that would be of no practical use.

(—A parasitical infestation that acts like a super-yeast,) Maggy continued. (It converts sugar into alcohol. Cana’s disease can be controlled in the human but not cured. Under stress, the victim appears to be—is—drunk.)

(Contagious?) said Tocohl.

(If it were, I would have said so. The parasite undergoes alternation of generation and is only transmissible through a blood-sucking mammal native to Inumaru, in the system of which it is a symbiont.)

(Sorry,) said Tocohl, reacting more to tone than content. (Is there anything I should do for her?) (She’ll have her own medication for that, and I’ve sent for a doctor.) The woman stirred and, without warning, struggled violently from Tocohl’s arms. “

Laiven

!” she gasped, “

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laiven la’ista

!

Siveyn, thought Tocohl, and responded in the same language. “Gently. The wild beasts”—she used the literal meaning of la’ista

—“have had their claws pulled.” Tocohl offered the fisher’s knife, hilt-first, as proof.

The Siveyn blinked pale green eyes at her, and touched the knife lightly but did not take it. Then she relaxed with a long shuddering intake of breath.

Torchlight flickered through the darkness beyond the splintered door. Tocohl came to her feet, stepped across the Siveyn, ready for more trouble.

(Police,) said Maggy. (When the lookout called for help, I did too.) Tocohl relaxed, made a reassuring motion to the Siveyn. (I didn’t ask for police,) she said, (or a doctor, come to think of it.)