“You know what part of the market he hangs out in,” Ara replied. “Like you said, Sejal knows you, and if he feels he owes you, you may have better luck.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have lunch with an old friend.”
The restaurant was cheap and low-key, with food Ara had learned to tolerate, if not enjoy. Ara would have preferred to meet somewhere more upscale, but she had been forced to admit that such would have drawn unwanted attention to herself and to Chin Fen.
The menu scrolled across the table and Ara tapped what she wanted-plankton stew, fishtail salad (“fishtail” being a variety of Rustic kelp), and algae bread. Then she checked the calendar. Rust kept a ten day week, and today was the third day. By now, Ara had shared enough lunches with Fen to know his food choices never varied from week to week. Ara tapped in his order-brown rice, peat shrimp, and a salad made of seapad pulp. According to Fen, the calm, tranquil seas of Rust gave rise to plants with huge red leaves that floated on the surface and covered several square kilometers. Seapads were sturdy enough to walk on, and the pulp from their leaves was a major food source for the Rustics. The leaves and the rich plankton filling the seas around them were red, giving Rust its name.
Fen had also hinted broadly that he might like to take a walk with her across a seapad some time. Ara had fallen back on playing stupid, pretending to miss the implied invitation.
“Glory,” Chin Fen said, cheerfully sliding into what he termed “their” booth. “Did you order yet?”
“For both of us,” Ara said. “Glory.”
“Thanks. Did you get your friend out of jail?”
Oops. Ara had forgotten to update Fen. “Yes. I’m sorry-in all the stress and excitement, I forgot to let you know.”
“I understand. No problem.”
It was a problem, Ara could see it in his dark brown eyes. “I really am sorry, Fen. It’s been so hectic. That’s a weak excuse, I know. We couldn’t have gotten him out without your help. I really owe you.”
“I’m not angry, Ara,” Fen said. “Really. How could I get angry at you?”
Ara suppressed the desire to compress her lips. Fen was nice, but for all his aged appearance, he still reminded her of a young puppy-eager to please, frightened of alienating anyone, unable to deliver even a justified rebuke. It was a personality that annoyed her. She was also growing more and more certain that Fen was entertaining romantic ideas, but Ara had never been attracted to the short, spineless type.
“Well, I’m still paying for lunch,” she said.
“You always pay for lunch,” Fen said. “I mean, I think that maybe I should-”
Ara waved a hand to cut him off. “I need every tax deduction I can get. Don’t worry about it.”
“Sure, fine.” Fen swirled his water glass, leaving a glistening trail of condensation on the tabletop. “So how did your friend do? In prison, I mean.”
“It wasn’t pleasant for him,” Ara said, “but he won’t talk about it.”
A server brought their order, temporarily halting their talk. Once the food was tasted and proclaimed acceptable, Ara managed to steer further conversation away from Kendi and keep it light and meaningless, laughing at any even vaguely witty remark Fen made. She drew the line, however, at batting her eyelashes. When the timing felt right, Ara dropped her little bombshell.
“I need another favor,” she said.
Fen cocked an eyebrow, and Ara supposed he meant to look archly seductive. She sighed internally and wished Pitr or Trish could slip into his mind from the Dream and dampen his attraction to her. Fen, however, was Silent, if only half-trained, and would notice even subtle tampering.
“I need information on a woman named Vidya Dasa,” she said. “I’ve looked in the nets and can’t find anything on her but an address and the name of her son. Can you dig deeper?”
“I suppose,” Fen said. He pulled a computer pad from his shirt pocket. “What’s the son’s name?”
Ara gave it, along with Vidya’s address. “Thanks, Fen. Anything you can get will be a big help. It’s worth a dozen lunches and a big box of chocolate.”
“I don’t do this for the paybacks, Ara.” His fingers edged toward her side of the table. Ara picked up her fork and took a salty bite of plankton so he wouldn’t try to take her hand. The motion seemed to effectively spoil the moment for Fen and he reached for his water glass instead.
“What do you need to know for?” he said.
Ara leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s a secret. I can’t tell you right now, but I promise I’ll explain later.”
Gretchen would have rolled her eyes at the melodrama. Kendi would have made a smart remark. But Fen merely nodded pliantly. Ara began to understand why he had never been promoted.
The rest of the lunch passed without incident. Pleading a business meeting, Ara paid the bill and left before Fen could ask her to dinner. Lunch was business-like. Dinner had romantic implications Ara would rather avoid.
“Mother Ara,” came Jack Jameson’s voice over her earpiece, “I need you back at the ship for a minute. The buyer I’ve been negotiating with has agreed to a price on the dark chocolate and we need you for the finalizations.”
“On my way,” she sub-vocalized, flagging down a cab. It seemed like she was always involved in commerce of some kind or other. If she wasn’t dealing in information or humans, it was chocolate.
Ara had to admit she preferred the chocolate.
Kendi sucked up the last sweet noodle and thrust the bowl back at the vendor. “Again.”
The food seller gave him a wary look. “That was your third one,” he said. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“I’ll decide when I’ve had enough. Just fill the bowl.”
“If you throw up, do it somewhere else,” the seller warned. But he filled the bowl.
Kendi slurped up the sweet, floppy confection. Still more sugar rushed into his system and he was starting to feel like a hummingbird on caffeine, but he didn’t care. He had started lunch with three sticks of beef shishkebob and followed them with grilled hot peppers, a plate of tangy red kelp, and two cups of plankton-in-broth. His stomach was aching and bloated, but he ignored it. He also ignored the little internal voices that told him he wasn’t acting a proper member of the Real People, who practiced balance and moderation in all things.
We knew of the Dream long before Irfan Qasad and her ilk, they said, and we knew of it because we lived in balance.
Kendi stared down at the bowl, then left it on the noodle seller’s counter and walked away. The sounds and smells of the market rushed around him like a dirty wind. Sejal was not his nephew. Utang was not on Rust, had never been on Rust. He had failed to find his family again, Ben remained distant, and Ara was still keeping him in the dark about something. Kendi wandered through the market, sugar singing through his veins, rebukes of his ancestors ringing through his head. What could happen next?
Naturally at that moment his implant flashed and outlined Sejal ahead of him in the crowd. Like Kendi, Sejal was wandering through the market, hands thrust into his ragged pockets. This time, however, no excitement thrilled through Kendi. Sejal was an intellectual exercise now, a puzzle to solve. Some instinct told Kendi to hang back and watch instead of approaching Sejal directly. Obeying it, Kendi faded back and followed.
“Post Script,” Kendi sub-vocalized. “Are you there?”
“Communications are currently unmonitored,” answered Peggy-Sue. “Do you wish to alert someone or leave a message?”
“No. End communication.”
Kendi continued shadowing Sejal. This time, however, he paid less attention to where Sejal was going and more attention to how Sejal interacted with his environment. The boy earned admiring glances from several people and a look of open greed as he passed the stall of Mr. M, the man who had the long row of slaves in his basement. There was no denying Sejal was handsome, with those blue eyes that contrasted so sharply with his black hair and brown skin. His clothes were a bit small for him, and they showed off a well-shaped body that would continue to develop as Sejal drew closer to adulthood. If Sejal was aware of his looks, however, his walk didn’t show it. He stayed hunched into himself, ignoring everything around him. Kendi slid through the crowd of shoppers. Sejal
