Space Magic (18 page)

Su sagged to her knees, and the broken bracelet dropped to the snow beside her. It was only inert metal now.

“How far from here to the temple?” Zhang said to her.

“Half a day’s walk.”

“Then let us begin,” he said, and extended his hand.

General Zhang Hua returned to Li from Xian the next spring. With the support of the priestesses of Miao Feng Shan, the advantage of surprise, and the loyalty of the people of Li, he was able to not only re-take the Li territory lost to Wu, but overcome the conscript forces of Yao and capture the Wu capital. He went on to found a great dynasty, ruling for many years with the help of his chief adviser Yüen Su.

He is known to this day as the Compassionate Emperor.

Walker’s voice recorder was a beautiful thing of aluminum and plastic, hard and crisp and rectangular. It sat on the waxy countertop, surrounded by the lumpy excreted-looking products of the local technology.
Unique selling proposition
, he thought, and clutched the leather handle of his grandfather’s briefcase as though it were a talisman.

Shkthh pth kstphst
, the shopkeeper said, and Walker’s hypno-implanted vocabulary provided a translation: “What a delightful object.” Chitinous fingers picked up the recorder, scrabbling against the aluminum case with a sound that Walker found deeply disturbing. “What does it do?”

It took him a moment to formulate a reply. Even with hypno,
Thfshpfth
was a formidably complex language. “It listens and repeats,” he said. “You talk all day, it remembers all. Earth technology. Nothing like it for light-years.” The word for “light-year” was
hkshkhthskht
, difficult to pronounce. He hoped he’d gotten it right.

“Indeed yes, most unusual.” The pink frills, or gills, at the sides of the alien’s head throbbed. It did not look down—its faceted eyes and neckless head made that impossible—but Walker judged its attention was on the recorder and not on himself. Still, he kept smiling and kept looking the alien in the eyes with what he hoped would be interpreted as a sincere expression.

“Such a unique object must surely be beyond the means of such a humble one as myself,” the proprietor said at last.
Sthshsk
, such-a-humble-one-as-myself—Walker could die a happy man if he never heard those syllables again.

Focus on value, not price
. “Think how useful,” he hissed in reply. “Never forget things again.” He wasn’t sure you could use
htpthtk
, “things,” in that way, but he hoped it got the point across.

“Perhaps the honored visitor might wish to partake of a cup of
thshsh
?”

Walker’s smile became rigid.
Thshsh
was a beverage nearly indistinguishable from warm piss. But he’d learned that to turn down an offer of food or drink would bring negotiations to an abrupt close. “This-humble-one-accepts-your-most-generous-offer,” he said, letting the memorized syllables flow over his tongue.

He examined the shopkeeper’s stock as it prepared the drink. It all looked like the products of a sixth-grade pottery class, irregular clots of brown and gray. But the aliens’ biotech was far beyond Earth’s—some of these lumps would be worth thousands back home. Too bad he had no idea which ones. His expertise lay elsewhere, and he was here to sell, not buy.

The shopkeeper itself was a little smaller than most of its kind, about a hundred forty centimeters tall, mostly black, with yellow spine-tips and green eyes. Despite its insectile appearance, it was warm-blooded—under its chitin it had bones and muscle and organs not unlike Walker’s own. But its mind and culture were even stranger than its disturbing mouth-parts.

“The cup of friendship,” the alien said, offering a steaming cup of
thshsh
. Walker suppressed a shudder as his fingers touched the alien’s—warm, covered with fine hairs, and slightly sticky—but he nodded politely and raised the cup to his lips.

He sipped as little as he felt he could politely get away with. It was still vile.

“Very good,” he said.

Forty-five minutes later the conversation finally returned to the voice recorder. “Ownership of this most wondrous object is surely beyond price. Perhaps the honored guest would be willing to lend it for a short period?”

“No trial period necessary. Satisfaction is guaranteed.” He was taking a risk with that, he knew, but the recorder had never failed him in all the years he’d owned it.

Tk’tk’tk
, the alien said, tapping its mouthparts together. There was no translation for that in Walker’s vocabulary. He wanted to throttle the thing—couldn’t it even stick to its own language?—but he struggled not to show his impatience.

After a pause, the alien spread a hand—a gesture that meant nothing to Walker. “Perhaps the honored owner could be compensated for the temporary use of the property.”

“Humbly requesting more details.”

“A loan of this type is generally for an indefinite period. The compensation is, of course, subject to negotiation...”

“You make offer?” he interrupted. He realized that he was not being as polite as he could be. But it was already late afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast—and if he didn’t conclude this deal successfully he might not have enough money for lunch.

Tk’tk’tk
again. “Forty-three,” it said at last.

Walker seethed at the offer. He had hoped to sell the recorder for enough to live on for at least a week, and his hotel alone—barely worthy of the name—cost twenty-seven a night. But he had already spent most of a day trying to raise some cash, and this was the only concrete offer he’d gotten.

“Seventy?”

The alien’s gills, normally in constant slight motion, stopped. Walker knew he had offended it somehow, and his heart sank. But his smile never wavered.

“Seventy is a very inopportune number. To offer seventy to one of your exalted status would be a great insult.”

Damn these aliens and their obscure numerology! Walker began to sputter an apology.

“Seventy-three, on the other hand,” the shopkeeper continued, “is a number with an impeccable lineage. Would the honored guest accept compensation in this amount?”

He was so busy trying to apologize that he almost didn’t recognize the counter-offer for what it was. But some salesman’s instinct, some fragment of his father’s and his grandfather’s DNA, noticed it, and managed to hiss out “This-humble-one-accepts-your-most-generous-offer” before he got in any more trouble.

It took another hour before the shopkeeper actually counted the money—soft brown lumps like rabbit droppings, each looking exactly like the others—into Walker’s hand. He passed his reader over them; it smelled the lumps and told him they were three seventeens, two nines, and a four, totaling seventy-three as promised. He sorted them into different pockets so he wouldn’t accidentally give the luggage-carrier a week’s salary as a tip again. It angered him to be dependent on the Chokasti-made reader, but he would rather use alien technology than try to read the aliens’ acrid pheromonal “writing” with his own nose.

Walker pressed through the labia of the shop entrance into the heat and noise and stink of the street. Hard orange shafts of dusty late-afternoon sun glinted dully on the scuttling carapaces of the populace: little merchants and bureaucrats, big laborers and warriors, hulking mindless transporters. No cars, no autoplanes... just a rustling mass of aliens, chuttering endlessly in their harsh sibilant language, scraping their hard spiny limbs and bodies against each other and the rounded, gourd-like walls. Here and there a knot of two or three in conversation blocked traffic, which simply clambered over them. The aliens had no concept of personal space.

Once a swarm of juveniles had crawled right over
him
—a nightmare of jointed legs and chitinous bodies, and a bitter smell like rusty swamp water. They had knocked his briefcase from his hand, and he had scrambled after it under the scrabbling press of their bodies. He shuddered at the memory—not only did the briefcase contain his most important papers, it had belonged to his grandfather. His father had given it to him when he graduated from college.

He clutched his jacket tight at his throat, gripped his briefcase firmly under his arm, and shouldered through the crowd.

-o0o-

Walker sat in the waiting room of his most promising prospect—to be blunt, his
only
prospect—a manufacturer of building supplies whose name translated as Amber Stone. Five days in transit, eight weeks in this bug-infested hellhole of a city, a fifteen-megabyte database of contacts from five different species, and all he had to show for it was one lousy stinking customer.
Potential
customer at that... it hadn’t signed anything yet. But Walker had been meeting with it every couple of days for two weeks, and he was sure he was right on the edge of a very substantial sale. All he had to do was keep himself on site and on message.

The light in the palm-sized windows shaded from orange to red before Amber Stone finally appeared from its inner office. “Ah, human! So very pleased that you honor such a humble one as myself with your delightful presence.” The aliens couldn’t manage the name “Walker,” and even “human” came out more like
hsshp’k
.

“Honor is mine, Amber Stone. You read information I give you, three days?”

“Most intriguing, yes. Surely no finer literature has ever been produced.”

“You have questions?”

Questions it did have, yes indeed, no end of questions—who performed the translation, where did you have it reproduced, is it really as cold there as they say, did you come through Pthshksthpt or by way of Sthktpth... but no questions about the product.
I’m building rapport with the customer
, Walker thought grimly, and kept up his end of the conversation as best he could.

Finally Walker tried to regain control. “Your business, it goes well?”

Tk’tk’tk
, the customer said, and placed its hands on its shoulders. “As the most excellent guest must surely have noticed, the days are growing longer.”

Walker had no idea what that might mean. “Good business or bad, always need for greater efficiency.”

“The honored visitor graces this humble one with the benefits of a unique perspective.”

Though the sweat ran down behind his tie, Walker felt as though he were sliding on ice—his words refusing to gain traction. “My company’s software will improve inventory management efficiency and throughput by three hundred percent or more,” he said, pulling out one of his best memorized phrases.

“Alas, your most marvelous software is surely so far superior to our humble computers that no accommodation could be made.”

“We offer complete solution. Hardware, software, support. Fully compatible. Satisfaction guaranteed.” Walker smiled, trying to project confidence—no, not just confidence,
love
, for the product.

Tk’tk’tk
. Was that an expression of interest? “Most intriguing, yes. Most unique. Alas, sun is setting.” It gestured to the windows, which had faded from red to nearly black. “This most humble one must beg the honored visitor’s forgiveness for consuming so much valuable time.”

“Is no problem...”

“This one would not dream of insulting an honored guest in such a way. Please take your rest now, and honor this unworthy establishment with your esteemed presence again tomorrow.” The alien turned and vanished into the inner office.

Walker sat and seethed.
Dismissed by a bug
, he thought,
how much lower can you sink?
He stared into the scuffed leather surface of his briefcase as though he’d find the answer there. But it just sat on his lap, pressing down with the hard-edged weight of two generations of successful salesmen.

-o0o-

Though the sun had set, the street was still oppressively hot and still teemed with aliens. The yellow-green bioluminescent lighting made them look even stranger, more unnatural. Walker clutched his grandfather’s briefcase to his chest as the malodorous crowd bumped and jostled him, spines catching on his clothing and hair.

It didn’t help his attitude that he was starving. He’d left most of his lunch on the plate, unable to stomach more than a few wriggling bites, and that had been hours ago. He hoped he’d be able to find something more palatable for dinner, but he wasn’t very optimistic. It seemed so cruel of the universe to make travelers find food when they were hungry.

But then, drifting between the sour and acrid smells of the bustling street, Walker’s nose detected a warm, comforting smell, something like baked potatoes. He wandered up and down the street, passing his reader over pheromone-lines on the walls advertising SUPERLATIVE CHITIN-WAX and BLUE RIVER MOLT-FEVER INSURANCE. Finally, just as he was coming to the conclusion the smell was a trick of his homesick mind, the reader’s tiny screen told him he had arrived at the SPIRIT OF LIFE VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.

He hadn’t even known the
Thfshpfth
language had the concept “vegetarian.” But whatever it was, it certainly smelled good. He pushed through the restaurant’s labia.

The place was tiny and low-ceilinged, with a single low, curving counter and five squatting-posts. Only one of the posts was occupied, by a small brown alien with white spine-tips and red eyes. It sat quietly, hands folded on the counter, in an attitude that struck Walker as contemplative. No staff was in evidence.

Walker chose a post, placed his folded jacket on it as a cushion, and seated himself as comfortably as possible. His space at the counter had the usual indentation, into which his order would be ladled, and was equipped with a double-ended spoon, an ice-pick, a twisty implement whose use he had yet to decipher, and a small bowl of water (which, he had learned to his great embarrassment, was for washing the fingertips, not drinking). But there was no menu.

Menus were one of the most frustrating things about this planet. Most of the items listed on the pheromone-tracked planks were not in his reader’s vocabulary, and for the rest the translations were inadequate—how was he supposed to know whether or not “land-crab in the northern style” was something he would find edible? Time and again he had gone hungry, offended the server, or both. Even so, menus were something he understood. He had no idea what to order, or even how, without a menu to point at.