House of Reeds

'Parker…we're guests here.' Anderssen felt her heart start to race and her fingers found the comfortably smooth surface of her medband. Adrenaline churned through her bloodstream. She triggered a calmedown. 'I won't disappoint our hostess by starting a brawl. Good evening, gentlemen.'

The Mйxica spread his arms, blocking their path. He smiled, showing fine white teeth. 'We're curious, Doctor. I'm sure you've seen wonders on the Rim, while you were scurrying here and there, stealing crumbs to take back to Old Mars. Why don't you…'

Gretchen felt her breath slow and the room faded a little.

Crepuscular gray light vomited from an ancient doorway, hurling her backwards. She hit sand, tumbled and staggered up. The Sif shockgun was still smoking in her hand, making elaborate curlicues of smoke in the terribly thin air. Someone was shouting, but a howling roar of static filled her ears. Monstrous shapes boiled out of the tunnel, striding forward on countless joined legs, a forest of spike-like tendrils dancing above translucent, half-invisible bodies.

'…share them with us?' The post-doc jammed his elbow sharply into Parker's chest. Gretchen stepped aside, her face tight and composed, giving Parker room to catch his balance.

'I am here on vacation,' she snapped, voice very cold. 'A personal guest of Legate Petrel's wife, Greta. If you wish to discuss your work at Fehrupurй with a professional, I advise you to contact the local Company offices.' She stepped forward and the tall Mйxica, surprised, gave ground. Gretchen swept the rest of them with a scathing look. 'Tend to your trenches and alluvial assays, children. Drink less and think about your work more.'

Without waiting for them to react, she pushed between two of them on the left. Even as she started to move, Gretchen felt them give way. She'd known they would back down. Known just these two were too timid to seize her arm, too drunk throw a punch. Reaching behind her, she seized Parker's arm and dragged him through the opening.

She heard a confused shout from behind, but did not look back. An avenue opened in the crowd and she was striding effortlessly through a gyrating, constantly moving throng of brightly dressed people. A path opened before her with the movement of their bodies, a random, confused dance without pattern or form. Parker was trying to say something, but the words felt slow. They failed to reach her attention, which was focused on moving without thought, reacting without contemplation.

Gretchen was in the vestibule, feeling the rain-cooled night wind on their face, when the sharp feeling collapsed, some unimaginable equilibrium disturbed. She felt sweat spring out all over her body and nearly tripped on the step. Her fingers cramped painfully and she released Parker's arm. The pilot was staring at her, eyes wide.

'Mother of Christ…damn, boss, that hurts!' The pilot rubbed his arm, wincing. 'How…how did we get out of there?'

'Never mind. Let's go.' Anderssen ducked her head, embarrassed, and hurried out. Oh, Sister, where did that come from? Her stomach turned over, knowing too well what had happened. I thought I'd forgotten all about…those things. 'I'm very tired.'

'Sure…' Parker followed, looking over his shoulder. The gay, cheerful mob filling the hall seemed impenetrable from this vantage. Hundreds of people engaged in drinking furiously, talking nonstop, filling the entire chamber from wall to wall. 'How did we…?'

Standing near the buffet tables, Itzpalicue's head rose, eyes narrowed in sudden interest. The old woman stared around warily, ignoring a coterie of Imperial merchants babbling away about rates of exchange and tonnage loads of used groundcars. They were all very pleased with the appetite of the Jehanan for their wares.

What was that? Something in the charged, drunken atmosphere had changed. A ripple. A wave counter to the current swirling around the hall. That was not what I was looking for… something else. That felt familiar.

Excusing herself, Itzpalicue made her way stiffly up a staircase curving onto the mezzanine. One wrinkled old hand on the railing, she stopped at the first turn in the stairs. Below her, the crowd was a dizzying array of brilliant colors, flashing metal, somber uniforms. The old woman licked her lips, eyes almost closed, leaning on her cane, tasting the air, feeling sound rushing around her in a palpable, physical wave.

Gone. Whatever had disturbed the familiar pattern of avarice, fear, lust, hope and despair charging the air had vanished from her frame of perception. Did someone leave?

'Lachlan?' She turned her head, hiding her lips from anyone in line of sight. 'Ident trap everyone in the garden, minus five minutes. Someone leaving the party, perhaps in a hurry…felt human, but get me…'

Another change in the air – a spike of imminent violence shot with sharp, inhuman rage – snapped her head around. A ripple of reaction was spreading through the crowd, though the Mirror agent doubted most of the humans below were even aware of their instinctive movement away from unseen danger. The splashpoint was a salon on the far side of the hall and something there – an enraged Jehanan, she realized – was about to draw blood.

A sound like a steam pipe bursting caused Tezozуmoc to spring backwards, heart racing. The Jehanan female he'd been trying to converse with made an equally alarmed squeak in a fluting voice and scuttled sideways, pale rose skin turning a bruised orange color. As the prince whirled around, all he saw was a blur of black cotton as the taller of his two bodyguards hurled himself into harm's way. There was a clang! of steel on aluminum and the Skawtsman was driven back into Tezozуmoc's chest. The prince went down with an oof and his face flushed red as he gasped for breath. Then he started to wail in fear.

The bulky shape of a Jehanan loomed over the Skawtsman's shoulder, long triangular mouth agape, exposing multiple rows of triangular teeth. A cruel scar puckered under the creature's left eye-shield, twisting like an enraged snake. A fetid stench of rotten meat and spoiled grain alcohol rolled over the prince, making him gag. Colmuir struggled, shoulders grinding back into Tezozуmoc's breastbone and arm, to keep a stabbing sword locked against the hand-guard of his Nambu. The point of the gleaming blade jutted over his shoulder, aimed directly at the prince's forehead.

'Kkkkrrrr-ich! Khay-gu, izh-huma!' The Jehanan shook his massive head, ornamental eye-shields bouncing, a rippling shirt of copper rings stretched tight against scaled pectorals.

'What does he want?' Tezozуmoc squeaked in fear.

'Wants…to kill you…mi'lord,' the Skawtsman bit out, both hands locked tight on the grip of the Nambu. 'Shouldn't have touched the lass…urrgh!'

'I didn't do anything!' The prince's voice was squashed down to a frail whisper. 'She was… urk…just singing for…me!'

'Hhuh-hen yehr,' a careful voice intruded. Sergeant Dawd appeared behind the Jehanan, a short-barreled automatic rifle in his hands. The flash-suppressor of the weapon jammed into the side of the native's neck, just behind the jaw joint, where heavy plate-scales protecting the face, cranium and chest faded away into pebbly stretch-skin. 'Ghawww-yeh.'

'What is he saying?' Tezozуmoc wasn't trying to whisper, but his vision was blurring with black sparks as his lungs compressed under the weight of both the muscular Skawtsman and the bent knee of the Jehanan. 'Oh, mother…I'm dying…'

Shocked silence was broken by a babble of voices. Vaguely, the prince made out the smooth, controlled voice of the Resident speaking rapidly in the same barbarous, guttural tongue. The pressure on his chest eased fractionally. Dawd withdrew, the assault rifle disappearing under his black coat. The sergeant seemed very tense. He should lie down, Tezozуmoc thought, his head spinning. Like me. Very comfortable. Heavy, heavy blankets they have here.

Colmuir eased back his pistol, wincing to see the hand-guard had been nearly cloven through, and spread his hands, eyes locked on the black, glittering pits which served the Jehanan for optics. The stabbing sword remained exactly poised, needlelike tip aimed directly at the prince.

Resident Petrel, elegant face sheened with sweat, leaned in, talking quietly to the Jehanan. Colmuir, catching the gist of the conversation – his command of the Parusian dialect did not match Dawd's easy mastery, but it served – rolled carefully over, shielding the prince with his body. At the same time, he plucked an ampoule from a stickypatch inside his armored jacket and jammed the drug dispenser against the side of Tezozуmoc's neck.

'Oh now, not fair…' wheezed the prince, eyelids rolling up. His body shuddered and fell limp on the floor. Sweat slithered down Colmuir's nose and spattered across the boy's gilded shirt.

'Oh, Saint Mary of the Angels,' the Skawt muttered, waiting for the wickedly sharp sword blade to plunge in