Hellspark (9 page)

the image of Flashfever swelled. “Now, I promised Kejesli mail and mail he shall have,” she grinned. “Go write a letter.—And just in case Kejesli tries to restrict us further, specify hand delivery to swift-Kalat.”

Alfvaen went to write a letter. Tocohl’s hands danced again on the console. (Now, Maggy,) she said, (in answer to your question: Alfvaen finds swift-Kalat sexually attractive—judging from the way Kejesli spoke, that’s no secret. She wants to learn his language in order to be more attractive to him. She’s now afraid that she’ll do it badly and ruin her chances of a relationship, or of learning that he doesn’t return her feeling.)

(Oh,) said Maggy. (—So Alfvaen will tell him she loves him and fight a duel with her closest friend and win and be cruelly wounded?)

(Wait, wait!—Veschke’s sparks, Maggy, what have you been reading?!) Maggy’s recital of what she had been displaying for Alfvaen lasted through planetfall. (Maggy,) said

Tocohl, firmly, (we’re going to have to have a long talk about fiction. I think you still misunderstand its purposes: fiction is a lie for entertainment, it’s a lie the listener willingly accepts for the sake of something else.

(Alfvaen reads formula fiction. Each book, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, follows a set pattern, and the delight of the reader is in the variations on the theme—while the theme fulfills certain basic emotional needs. Alfvaen’s a romantic: she wants to see duels fought and won at great cost for great passion.)

She broke off as Alfvaen returned, her letter prepared. Clipped to her belt was one of Maggy’s hand-helds, striped diagonally with gold and purple for easy identification. Alfvaen touched it lightly and explained, “Maggy s-said to ask you if I might carry this’s-so’s-she could talk to me.”

Tocohl gestured her permission. “That’s for voice transmission only—remember, Maggy does listen unless you tell her otherwise.” She looked slightly away from the Siveyn. “Maggy?

Why don’t you activate an arachne and poke around on your own as well?”

“You didn’t tell me to,” said Maggy.

“I’m telling you to, now. Check that construction in your Siveyn grammar: it indicates a nonobligatory suggestion or request.”

Planetfall accomplished, Tocohl gathered her cloak about her and led the way to the cargo hold to await local transport. Maggy pinged for attention almost immediately, and relayed a message:

“Move ass, Hellspark!” said a deep, cheerful voice. “This lull won’t last forever, and I’ve an allergy to lightning!” The words were GalLing’ but the delivery was pure Jannisetti.

Tocohl glanced quickly at Alfvaen’s feet. Yes, the Siveyn was wearing boots. That left only Tocohl indecent by Jannisetti standards. (Maggy, I need boots—red ones,) she added quickly, knowing that

Maggy would ask. From the soles of her feet to the top of her calves, her 2nd skin turned a dark red, with stitching in all the appropriate places and a darkening of shadows to suggest thickness.

(Thank you.

Now let’s “move ass” like the lady says.)

Maggy popped the hatch. Tocohl whistled her wonder and thrust her head through for a better view.

Truly, this world had been struck by the fist of Veschke!

The broad grassland below was alive with light. As the spray-laden wind rippled through it, it flickered and flashed in response. Beyond, some two kilometers, the grasslands gave way to woods—and the woods themselves winked jewel-bright lights. The air was so pungent with ozone it stung her nostrils; lightning flashed, brief and spectacular, into a far-off group of stiff black structures.

A daisy-clipper edged in, cutting off her view of the shimmering world and substituting that of a broad brandy-dark face. Still in wonder at Flashfever itself, Tocohl had enough to spare for the remarkable piloting that brought the pilot virtually nose-to-nose.

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The Jannisetti woman stared back at Tocohl and then, suddenly, grinned hugely. “Good,” she said,

her satisfaction plain, “you pass. Wait until you see it by night—it’s a Port of Delights and a firework display all rolled into one! Now, pull your eyes back in your head and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Tocohl stepped lightly from Maggy’s hatch into the daisy-clipper and held out a hand to assist

Alfvaen. Without taking her eyes from the landscape, Tocohl made a circle of her arms. The arachne squatted on its long, spindly legs and leapt. (Close the hatch, Maggy,) she said, settling the arachne’s fat round body on her lap and adjusting the legs so she could see past them.

“Buntecreih,” said the Jannisetti, turning the daisy-clipper around and settling into a low fast skim toward base camp, “but everybody calls me Buntec.—The arachne won’t last long here; you probably should have left it on board your ship.

“You’ve heard of electric eels? We have electric mice, tigers, buzzards, you name it. Corner any wildlife around here and you’re in for a shock, literally.” Buntec’s voice turned abruptly grim.

“We just lost a man that way.”—Tocohl touched her forehead in acknowledgment, and Buntec went on, forcing herself to a lighter tone, “Half the wildlife, plant or animal, on this flashy planet uses electricity for defense or offense—and one good zzzzzzaaap! from an Eilo’s-kiss will fuse your arachne solid. Either that, or a tape-belcher will get it.”

“Tape-belcher?” said Alfvaen, and Buntec laughed. “That’s right. The first time we saw one was when it swooped

”—she demonstrated expressively with the hovercraft, and Tocohl clutched at the arachne to keep it on her lap—“down and scarfed up a tape recorder. Thought about it a minute, gave a horrendous belch, and barfed it right back up again. And if you think this sounds disgusting, wait until you

see one!”

(Maggy, you’re not to wander around until we get you full descriptions of these things. Maybe losing a mobile doesn’t hurt you, but until somebody invents a cheap superconductor replacing it takes credit we could better spend other ways.)

(For more memory, you mean?)

(You’re getting greedy, aren’t you?) Tocohl grinned.

(Yes,) said Maggy. There was a pause, then she added, (Was that the right response?) (Very. On the nose. Now cut the chatter and let me find out what’s going on here.) Buntec was commiserating with Alfvaen in no uncertain terms. “Yeah, I heard they dropped you after

Inumaru. SOP for the s.o.b.s. Kejesli was on that one, too, wasn’t he? And he didn’t make any objections?”

Buntec set the craft down with an abruptness that Tocohl expected to be followed by a hard jolt—it wasn’t—and answered her own question. “Naw, he wouldn’t. Too worried about his own hide. I never saw such a rattlebrain!” She lifted her chunky hands from the controls, cracked her knuckles, and twisted around to face Alfvaen. “And I’ll bet you thought that noise was just the doohickeys in his hair! No, I tell you, it’s three loose thoughts in an otherwise empty container.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Alfvaen. “He didn’t want us to land, and I don’t think he’ll let us stay.”

“I fixed him.” Buntec tapped her nose with self-satisfaction. “I figured from the rattling he did when he told me to pick you up that you were the last person he wanted to see, ever.” Alfvaen flinched, but

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Buntec went on, “He may not want to see you but the rest of us do.” She emphasized her point with a finger-tap, this time to Alfvaen’s nose. “So I jogged his brain a bit on that count… and I made a few calls on my way out to get you. Half the survey team is waiting for you in the common room—let Old

Rattlebrain try to throw you off planet with us around!”

She turned to take in Tocohl as well and added, “And wait’ll the other half finds out about you, Hellspark! He’d better let you stay: we’re all sick of looking at each other. With what we’ve just been through, we need the diversion.” For a brief moment, her face darkened as she added,

“Another two weeks of nothing but sprookjes and I’ll tip darts and hunt Vyrnwy.”

Tocohl raised an eyebrow at this last, but Buntec only spread a flattened hand and said, “Better a little harmless excitement, I say.—And I say you’ll stay if I have to peel Kejesli and roll him through a field of zap-mes.”

A sudden gust of wind brought a torrent of rain. “Shit,” snapped Buntec, “me and my big mouth.

Now we’ll have to run for it. Follow me!” and she was off, with Alfvaen at her heels. Tocohl dropped to

the ground, the arachne under her arm, and stopped, transfixed. Water sheeted on her spectacles—and

Maggy compensated for the remaining distortion—as she stared up into the flash-filled sky, her ears filled with the roar of the rain.

“Hey! Hellspark!” Buntec roared over it. “I said move ass, I meant move ass. This is only the leading edge. From here on it gets worse!” A chunky hand grasped Tocohl’s, and together they raced through the field of flashgrass to the thick red mud of the compound.

WIFT-KALAT CLAMPED HIS jaw shut, unable to respond to Ruurd van Zoveel’s polite overtures in GalLing’—they served only to renew his memory of what van Zoveel had so misspoken.

Without a word, he took the towel van Zoveel proffered and focused his attention on drying himself from his dash through the storm. Again, he told himself that GalLing’, being an artificial language coined for trade, had none of the reliability of Jenji. Again, he found it difficult to believe.

It wasn’t until van Zoveel addressed him in Jenji that he was able to answer at all. Hearing the Jenji forms calmed him slowly. He chimed his bracelets in polite response, mildly surprised when van Zoveel did not follow suit. Of course, he thought, Zoveelians wear no status bracelets, but it disturbed him nonetheless. Even the youngest child makes the arm motion…

Their conversation continued in Jenji. The sound of it was enormously welcome but swift-Kalat found himself more and more discomforted. Something in Ruurd van Zoveel’s manner disturbed him enormously; it never bothered him when he spoke to van Zoveel over the comunit but, here, in his presence… If only the man would sit down! swift-Kalat thought. For all his courtesy, van Zoveel seemed always to back away, and swift-Kalat felt obliged to follow.

Instead of sitting, however, van Zoveel paced nervously, his beribboned tunic fluttering. He offered a glass of dOrnano wine, as if the occasion were one for celebration; and swift-Kalat accepted, knowing it was not, but grateful because the acceptance took van Zoveel to the far side of the room.

Van Zoveel’s furniture was plush and as gaudy as his clothing. Swift-Kalat chose a plump red and blue pillow near a low table and sat, piling smaller red and yellow pillows to support his
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elbow, as he’d seen van Zoveel do. It was far from comfortable, but it was better than following van Zoveel around the room.

Van Zoveel returned with the wine and handed him a sheaf of hard-copy as well. “That’s my report,”

he said. “That is what I will have to give the captain. I thought perhaps you should read it.”

“I need only read your conclusion.” Swift-Kalat sat up to take the report. He leafed through to the final page. It read as he’d expected: “

The sprookjes have no language as far as I am able to determine

.” He slapped the report closed and dropped it onto the table with more force than he’d intended.

Van Zoveel, pouring the wine, jumped; wine splashed. He finished the pouring carefully and wiped away the droplets. “I’m sorry, swift-Kalat,” he said, not looking up, “I am unable to say otherwise.”

This time the absence of van Zoveel’s status bracelets—or at least the movement that would have set them ringing—struck swift-Kalat more forcefully.

“Something on this world is sentient.” Swift-Kalat snapped his forearm sharply; his own bracelets rang emphasis of his words.

“Something has your reliability in its favor. I explained that to Captain Kejesli but the captain hasn’t the ear to hear the distinction.—And I am unable to match your certainty. am unable to say otherwise,”

I

he repeated.

“I made a formal application for a second polyglot, but Kejesli denied my request. My record is too good, he said—

too good

!—and he did not wish to go the additional expense of sending an automated message capsule.”

He spat, startling swift-Kalat (who had only read of and never seen the Zoveelian expression of utter disgust) with his vehemence, and finished. “There is nothing further I can do.”

A peal of thunder rattled the wine glasses. Swift-Kalat put out a hand to steady his but did not drink.

“I thank you for your trouble,” he said. “I did not know you had gone so far—”

“Ruurd?” From the comunit, Buntec’s deep voice broke in.

Van Zoveel excused himself and activated the screen. “Could this wait, Buntec?” he said. “I have company.”

“No, it can’t. You gotta come sweet-talk the captain in his native croak,” Buntec said.

“You remember Tinling Alfvaen? She’s here—”

Swift-Kalat came instantly to his feet. Unable to restrain himself, he clapped his hands sharply above his head, bracelets clashing triumph. He strode to join van Zoveel.

Buntec acknowledged him with a wave. “She’s here with a Hellspark,” she said, repeating the words that had been lost to swift-Kalat’s joy. Then she went on, her indignation rising in proportion to their enthusiasm, “Old Rattlebrain tried to keep ‘em from landing. Now he wants

‘em off planet just as soon as they’ve delivered their mail. But we need ‘em—we need something after the trouble we’ve been through!—and native croak always makes a difference, Ruurd.

You know that!”

Van Zoveel began a polite refusal, but swift-Kalat said, “We’ll come.” He turned to van Zoveel and said, in Jenji, “Would you accept the assistance of a Hellspark polyglot?”

“Yes, of course!—Of course, we’ll come!” There was no need to translate for Buntec. The screen was already dark.

Hellsparks made Rav Kejesli uncomfortable.