House of Reeds ittotss-2 Read online

  "Felix, this is Kosho. Where are you?"

  Twenty meters ahead, Sho-sa. An alley on your left, behind the cart selling sweetened ices.

  Susan pushed against the crowd of natives flowing the other way, making slow going. The Jehanan came in different shapes and sizes, but they all took up a lot of sidewalk. Eventually she passed the cart – bright yellow, festooned with colorful paper banners and enameled masks – and turned into a shadowy opening.

  Felix appeared out of the murk, a long field coat doing a poor job of covering her muzzle-down Macana assault rifle. Combat armor bulked beneath a civilian-style mantle. "This way, kyo."

  "Put that away," Kosho hissed, shaking off her funk. The brisk walk was clearing her head. "Legation security will void themselves to see you waving a cannon around – not to mention the Imperial bodyguards!"

  The sight of her security detail shouldn't have changed her mood, but it did. By the time Susan ducked into the back seat and Felix slammed the door closed she was feeling almost normal.

  Without instructions, the Marine in the front seat fired up the engine, and immediately they were accelerating down the alley, driving lights illuminating refuse bins and indefinable structures protruding from the buildings looming on either side. Kosho leaned back wearily against the plush leather seats. "Heicho, status of security arrangements groundside?"

  "Good, kyo." Felix turned, peering back over the seat. "Smith-tzin's lined up four or five hotels. We scouted out some bars selling liquor humans can drink. Seems the slicks like their methanol straight, with local alkaloids for flavor. Pure poison for us, of course."

  "Slicks?" Susan stared out the window. Buildings dashed past, most of them wooden, with a few crumbling brick edifices thrown in. She'd seen skyscrapers from the window of the shuttle, but out here in the suburbs everything was low and squat and packed closely together.

  "The Jehanan, kyo. Have you touched one? Their skin is smooth…almost like glass."

  "Fine." Kosho craned her neck over a little, staring up at the sky. The clouds were low and glowing with the light of the city. "What kind of extraction points do you have on tap? Rooftops? Public parks? Streets?"

  "Rooftops are poor, kyo. Every single one hosts a laundry, a hostel or some kind of aviary. The locals eat a lot of skomsh…it's just like chicken." Felix swallowed a laugh, catching the tense expression on her commander's face. "The streets are worse – they use electric trolleys with overhead power lines on all the avenues wide enough for one of our shuttles to touch down. Parks look like our best bet. Smith made sure the hotels he picked are across the street from a nice one. Not too many trees, mostly ornamental shrubs and fountains."

  Susan felt combat tires rattle across recessed tracks as they bounced through an intersection. Neon lights over the storefronts reflected from the bracelets on her wrist. "Local situation? How do they feel about the Empire?"

  "Hard to tell." Felix shrugged. "Smith-tzin says the local holovee is filled with all kinds of the-Empire-is-our-friend propaganda. But on the street, you can tell they don't like us much. They do like our quills, though. All the merchants I've dealt with were pretty friendly. It's hard to read their faces. But no one's taken a shot at us yet."

  Kosho nodded absently. The sitrep reports forwarded from battle group command related much the same thing. "An undercurrent of resentment exists in the population," they said. "But no open violence." I think…the Chu-sa is a little jumpy about Villeneuve's extravagance. He is French. The real issues here are more immediate – and far more routine than an officers' plot.

  "Everyone needs to take care, Heicho. Pass the word around to the squad leaders and petty officers to go ones-and-fours when ship's personnel are groundside. And armed." She turned her attention on the Marine, eyes sharp with an orange glow from the sodium lights passing overhead. "But if anyone goes rabbit on me and shoots someone – even a local! – then I will put them out the lock myself."

  "Aye, aye!" Felix shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The Sho-sa seemed worked up tonight and nervous officers made her uneasy. "Something specific security detail should watch out for?"

  "No." Kosho stared out the window again. The crowds on the sidewalks ignored the rain, letting the steady downpour sluice the day's dust from their scales. In the misty night, with the glare of neon in her eyes, they could have been any Saturday-night crowd along the Ginza or around the Tlatelolco. "I suspect I'm worrying for no reason, but everyone's to be on best behavior. No exceptions!"

  "Oooh, native tribesmen!" Tezozуmoc laughed gaily, barely able to stand. His cloak covered with jadeite lozenges was disconcertingly heavy. He kept listing to one side and having to right himself. His blood buzzed with a delicious tide of oliohuiqui and 'little guardian of dreams.'"Legate, which province do these fellows come from?"

  Petrel, his hand raised in preparation for formally introducing the prince to the commander of the 416th Imperial Arrow Knight regiment (motorized), halted abruptly, and then turned towards Tezozуmoc with a perfectly still face. "Your pardon, mi'lord?"

  The prince could see the older man was nonplussed. Tezozуmoc could see furtive, hasty thoughts flitting behind the cultured face. Doesn't the Prince Imperial recognize fellow Imperial officers? Even his putative commander in the 416th? Even though – the prince felt cold anger welling in his churning stomach – this same officer has refused this same prince an actual command? Who has slighted this same prince by shunting him into a useless assignment?

  "These black fellows." The prince cheerily waved a mostly full bottle of Char-odei vodka at the middle officer, a full colonel, who was indeed of Mixtec extraction and therefore possessed of dark, almost chocolatl-colored skin. "Him! Are these some of the…the Misa-whatever-dai…the barbarians you've been bending my ear about?"

  "Tlacateccatl Yacatolli is an Imperial Arrow Knight, mi'lord." Petrel's white eyebrows stiffened and Tezozуmoc fought to keep a huge bellyful of laughter from bursting out. The old man looked like an owl! The Legate's perfectly groomed face was growing pink around the edges. Oh oh. The prince felt even giddier. He's getting angry! Soon some of those gelled hairs will be out of place!

  The colonel, for his part, had grown dangerously still. Tezozуmoc peered at him, a little nauseous at the chance to twit the stone-faced Arrow Knight. Oh oh, he can't say anything to me! Not the Son of the Light of Heaven, the Prince Imperial! No no. Not in front of so many barbarians and civilians and other witnesses. But I can say whatever I want!

  "Yack-a-toll-ee. Doesn't that mean snot in our language? What does it mean in his?"

  The colonel twitched, fists clenching. The prince stared at the man's shoulders in delight. The carefully tailored fabric was stretching as every muscle in the man's upper body stiffened in rage. Will he burst right out of his uniform? Is he wearing underwear? Did he bring any spare? I think he only has one dress uniform, poor bean eater.

  Legate Petrel stepped between the two men, looking down at Tezozуmoc with narrowed eyes. The older man had recovered his composure, though the prince could see tiny lines of strain around his eyes. "Mi'lord, perhaps you would care to sit and eat? There is a salon where you and your companions can take your ease, out of the press of the crowd?"

  "Of course! My feet hurt – your floor is too hard." Tezozуmoc stamped his sandals, making the golden scales covering them clatter on the hardwood parquet. The hall would serve for dancing, eventually, when the buffet tables were cleared away. "Good night, chief of the snots!"

  The prince waved at the colonel, who was watching him with slitted, furious eyes from behind a wall of his subordinates. The other Mixtec officers were trying to calm Yacatolli down.

  Stupid name for a military officer, Tezozуmoc thought, swinging the weighted cape carelessly over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, the prince caught a glimpse of the shorter of his bodyguards ducking aside. Hand-sized jade lozenges whipped past the Skawtsman's face. He should change it to something that doesn't make everyone snicker. Perhaps I should su
bmit an official memo of recommendation.

  "Are there buttered shrimps dusted with chili powder?" Tezozуmoc asked the Legate, following the older man towards a doorway opening off the crowded, sweltering hall. The prince's voice was entirely amiable. "I like those very much."

  Petrel nodded, but did not look back, pushing open the doors to an well-furnished room with a bar, overstuffed chairs and a permanent aroma of burned broadleaf tabac and fine liquor. "Of course, mi'lord. I will let the cook know."

  Tezozуmoc threw himself down in the largest chair, heaved a sigh of relief and then stared quizzically up at his host. "You don't look like a bird. You should change your name too."

  The rest of his new friends piled into the room, making the two bodyguards wince with their usual ruckus of noise, banging about, shrieking and general merriment. The Army officers began looting the liquor cabinet.

  The prince, seeing no one was paying attention to him for the moment, let out a long, shuddering sigh. His stomach burned, molten stones churning against his intestines. So many officials and lords and officers. Tezozуmoc closed his eyes tight, feigning weariness, squeezing back tears of frustration. By Christ Sacrifice, I hate this. I hate them – all of them – and I hate having to wear this stupid costume.

  The hatred he'd seen flashing in Yacatolli's face, at least, had been a welcome change from the usual pity, or curiosity, or contempt. The prince raised his head, wondering if there was any liquor to be had. "Geema, be a dear heart and share some of that wicked-looking red liquid with your poor old prince, will you?"

  Parker drained his glass. "Boss…are you sure you need to talk to this guy?"

  "Yes." Gretchen tried not to sigh and loosened the shawl around her shoulders. The great hall was just getting hotter and closer as more people crowded in. The Jehanan musicians were still playing, but their beautiful efforts were drowned out by drunken voices. "Look, Parker, I know we're supposed to be here on 'vacation' and technically I don't have to report to anyone. Not the attachй, not Professor SГє. But we're going to be traipsing all over the north-country, trying to find this…place. I would rather play by the rules, if we can. Mrs. Petrel said…don't make a face like that!"

  The pilot removed the tabac from his mouth and flicked the butt into a nearby planter. After entering the hall they'd tried to reach the banquet tables, but a near-solid wall of Imperial military uniforms blocked any access. The infantry officers were making a serious dent in the Legation catering budget. Then Gretchen had tried to find the hostess, but moving in the crowd was nearly impossible, so the press of humanity had thrown them up in a little alcove where a bastion of potted plants protected a side door.

  "Sorry, boss. But look at this place – we're so far down the totem pole we can't even get something to eat. Drink, sure…the Embassy lays on some nice locally produced vodka but we'll have to wait hours just to say hello to the hostess." He took a long drag from a fresh tabac and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "You saw the prince and his posse. He's going to suck up every featherhead within ten klicks to kiss his radiant ass. Doc SГє, the Legate's wife, everyone."

  "Parker!" Gretchen made a shushing motion. It is crowded, she silently acknowledged. He's probably right. And finding Professor SГє in this madhouse isn't terribly likely. I don't even know what he looks like.

  Then she grew still, realizing she could probably tell what the senior xenoarchaeologist from the University of Tetzcoco felt like. And if I can feel him, then I could probably find him…if I wanted.

  Gretchen looked sidelong at Parker, who was staring moodily at two attractive young women passing by. The pilot looked entirely out of place amid all the finery on display. His going-out shirt, pants and shoes were only the best a junior Company employee could afford. She could see him comparing his appearance to the young bravos circulating in the crowd, and falling short. We're out of place here. As usual.

  Anderssen looked down at herself. The kimono-style dress was the best the Shimanjin colony had to offer – impeccably tailored, luscious native silk, dark radiant colors – and in comparison to the extravagance of feathers, gold and jade adorning the Prince's companions, about four years out of style. Field crews rarely spent any time far enough in-Empire to be fashionable. Dust and sweat and the minute personal cargo allowances provided by economy spaceliner tickets precluded anything but the necessities. She spread a scarred, muscular hand, frowning. Not very elegant.

  Gretchen breathed in slowly. If you find Professor Sege, what then? Will you ask him for permission to root about in the ruins of the ancient Jehanan cities, unsupervised? Looking for something the Company can't even describe or identify? Being polite, she realized, hating the nagging, pragmatic voice in her head, would only make her job more difficult. I am supposed to follow the rules, she thought, but knew the Company really didn't care at all. They just want me to steal something. Again. Rules are something I'm supposed to follow, she thought sourly, when I'm filling out expense reports.

  "You're right, Parker. There's no point to finding him. Let's see if we can swing by the dessert table on our way out…"

  Standing quietly in the corner of the huge, busy room, a thing in the shape of a man was watching the flood of eddy past, stinking of toxin-saturated cooling fluid. It stood quietly in dark, carefully tailored human clothing, presenting a tray of inefficiently constituted raw protein to anyone who passed by. A group of Imperial military officers paused, snatched up handfuls of baked crackers coated with imported soft cheese and caviar, and then moved on.

  The Lengian expressed no overt interest in them, and following the strict social conventions of this primitive society, they ignored it in turn. The sower of was not surprised. It had watched and waited among the humans for many cycles. They were random and filled with the heedless, careless energy of a young, immature species – one which had not yet been culled and set on the straight path – and as such they believed themselves to be favored by the hand of the . But they will be tested in the fullness, it thought coldly, without either remorse or antipathy. Then they will likely perish, for they are a weak, ill-fitting species.

  Another human moved into its field of perception – a tall man with slick blond hair, dressed in the costume of a broker associated with one of the Imperial merchant houses active on Jagan – and the Lengian's attention sharpened. The man – a sub-brain identified him as being Finnish in origin, which meant he was from one of the outworld colonies like Vainamoinen – nodded in passing to some other human merchants and struck up a conversation with a cluster of lesser Jehanan nobility who were nervously eyeing the asuchau offworlders swarming around them.

  Inside the Lengian's human-shaped ears, a cluster of leaf-shaped fronds oriented themselves, swelling the primitive organ's capacity to capture sound, and two of the fingernail-sized sub-brains strung along the creature's spine asserted themselves, capturing the resulting flow of aural data and sorting out dialect, language, intent and meaning.

  This one is an Imperial Flower Priest in disguise, the sub-brains submitted to the decision-making cortices. He is presenting himself as an agent of the exiled Swedish government, probing for possible allies among the native princes. But in truth he serves the Mirror Which Reveals.

  As a whole, the Lengian was aware of the myriad Imperial security organizations, but it was also quite confident in its ability to continue avoiding their notice. Sixty human years had already passed without even the faintest evidence of suspicion on the part of its unknowing hosts. It had been in close proximity to more than one Mirror agent dozens of times without drawing the least attention. Three hundred human years remain in life-cycle, one of the sub-brains handling motile-form biological functions reported, eager to show its worth to the whole, before this form degrades beyond usefulness.

  The Lengian did not think it would need to remain among the humans for so long. They will be culled soon, even as they measure time. The rs> will be affronted by their unregulated breeding.

  The blond human passed close by, eyeing the canapйs, but shook its head, smiling, when the Lengian lifted the tray. A faint cloud of pheromones, skin-flakes and exhaled breath washed over the creature and – unseen by human eyes – thousands of pores opened on its simulated human skin and captured the wealth of information so haphazardly scattered to the winds. Dozens of sub-brains immediately set to work dissecting the breakdown of the human's DNA and metabolism.

  This shape will be useful, the decision cortices had already resolved. We will add it to our collection.

  "Timonen!" Another human male approached the blond man, skin oozing poorly metabolized alcohol. "How's the medband business?"

  The Lengian remained impassive, watching and waiting. In a day or two, when this shape's normal duties allowed it to leave the Legation, it would find the Finn and make the human useful, for a change, and in an orderly and efficient way.

  The two human males were now joined by two females and they all moved away together, chattering mindlessly, looking for more protein and alcohol to metabolize. The Lengian's watery blue eyes followed them for a time, nostrils flared to let threadlike filaments hiding in the dark recesses of the nose practice separating Timonen's smell from that of the herd.

  "What a delightful surprise!" A bronzed face appeared between the potted plants. Gretchen felt mildly alarmed to see a group of young Mйxica men emerge from the crowd. "Our freshly arrived colleagues! Of whom we've heard so many exciting rumors."

  "Hello." Gretchen took them in with a glance and there was a sour taste in her mouth. They were well dressed, for graduate students, and all of them were sporting the University of Tetzcoco mon. Despite being freshly shaved, showered and perfumed, she was sure their fingernails were as dirty as hers. Honorable Doctor SГє's post-docs. Drunk as rabbits under a full moon. "How do you do?"