“Mild guilt — this I experience, concerning the meager price that I paid for such marvelously genuine handcrafted items,” prated the husky creature in Galactic Six. “Of their authentic, aboriginal nature, I have no doubt. Evidence of this was overwhelming, from the moment I programmed my scanner with appropriate archaeological search profiles, checking for tool marks, use patterns, and body-oil imbuements. The result? Absolute absence of techno-traces, or other signs of forgery! A bona-fide aboriginal tool/weapon, weathered and worn from the primitive fight for survival under barbaric circumstances!
“What? What is that you say? You would view this marvelous acquisition? But of course! Here it is. Behold the elegant sweeps and curves, the clever blending of animal and vegetal materials, revealing non-Galactic sapiency in its full, unfettered glory!
“The shipwrecked human who formerly owned these artifacts — his reported brain damage must have undermined all sense of value! His recovery from space amnesia — it will not bring pleasant realizations for the poor young wolfling, when he realizes how much more he might have charged for his precious archery set, which will now garner me great profit on the aficionado circuit.
“Especially now that the chief source of all such relics — planet Earth — will surely vanish under cascades of fire, within a few jaduras.”
Harry was not present where these words were spoken. He was halfway across Kazzkark, searching for Rety and Dwer in a poor refugee encampment, when those snatches of dialogue were sent to his earpiece by a clever spy program.
Using his new rank-status, he had ordered a scan of all sonic pickups, scattered throughout the planetoid, sifting countless conversations for certain rare key words. Till now, the computer had just found trivial correlations. But this time, the Synthian went through half the list in a few duras, covering all but Dwer’s name!
Racing across town, Harry sent a priority call for backup units to join him. Perhaps it was the new golden comet on his collar, or just a sense of urgency, but Harry plunged through the crowd, ignoring shocked looks from senior patron-class beings.
He arrived to find several proctor robots already hovering menacingly near a bar advertising a range of intoxorelaxants. A throng gathered to watch.
“The rear exit is secured, Scout-Major Harms,” reported one of the bobbing drones. “The denizens within seem unsuspecting. Several fondle concealed weapons, of types we are equipped to counter, with moderate-to- good probability of success.”
Harry grunted.
“I’d prefer a guarantee, but that’ll do. Just stay close. Let everyone see you as we enter.”
He was tempted to draw his own sidearm, but Harry preferred to handle this courteously, if possible.
“All right. Let’s go.”
Half a dozen Synthian traders sat in a booth, looking alike in grayish brown fur with dark facial streaks. Thickset, their heavy shoulders and bellies draped with pouched bandoliers. Harry soon found the one he wanted. A sleek bow and quiver of arrows, made from finely carved wood and bone, lay on the table. When a merchant reached for these, Harry bore in, asking where she got them.
Kiwei Ha’aoulin reacted with combative relish, striking an indignant, lawyerly pose. After listening to the Synthian complain loudly for more than twenty duras — vociferously denouncing “illegal eavesdroppers and bureaucratic bullies”—Harry finally broke in to remind Kiwei that Kazzkark was sole property of the Great Institutes, and lately under martial law. Moreover, would the merchant like to unpack her ship’s hold, comparing each smig and dram meticulously to the official cargo manifest?
All bluster quickly faded from the raccoonlike countenance. Harry had never met a Synthian, but they were familiar figures on daytime holodramas back on Earth, where Synthian characters were stereotyped as jovial, enthusiastic — and relentlessly self-interested.
This one took a long pause to evaluate Harry’s proposition, then switched to rather good colloquial Anglic.
“Well well, Scout-Major. You had only to ask. Shall I lead you to where I last saw Dwer Koolhan. Yes! But be warned, he may not look the same! If you find him. For as we parted, he was making enquiries. Asking questions about cosmetic surgery. As if his intent was to go into hiding!”
• • •
While they hurried together along the main boulevard, Harry muttered into his cheek microphone, inquiring if any local body-repair shops had done custom work on humans during the day and a half since Kiwei Ha’aoulin last saw Dwer.
He also checked in with HQ. Wer’Q’quinn had scheduled yet another emergency meeting of the local NavInst planning staff in four miduras.
What was left of the staff, that is. Most scouts and senior aides had already departed, scurrying across the quadrant on urgent rescue missions, commandeering vessels of all sizes to evacuate isolated outposts, setting up buoys to divert traffic from destabilized transfer points, and tracking the advance of chaos across this portion of the Five Galaxies.
Especially troubling were reports of violent outbreaks among oxy-clans, or between various life orders. An uncommonly furious confrontation had flared in Corcuomin Sector between one of the more reclusive hydrogen- breathing cultures and a vast swarm of machine entities, whose normal home-domain in deep space had grown so ruptured that vast numbers of unregistered mechs began migrating into rich territory forbidden to them by ancient treaties. So frenzied and brutal was the resulting clash that weapons of unprecedented force had been unleashed, tearing through walls separating various levels of spacetime, causing vortices of A and B hyperlevels to come swirling into the “normal” continuum, wreaking havoc everywhere they touched. There were even reports that memetic life-forms seemed to be involved as allies of one side or another — or perhaps taking advantage of the confusion to spread their ideogrammatic matrices into new hosts — filling the battlefield with riotous sensory impressions, fostering ideas that were too complex and bizarre for any organic or electronic mind.
Amid all this, Wer’Q’quinn kept delaying Harry’s next assignment. Too inexperienced and undiplomatic to be entrusted with a big command, Harry was also apparently too valuable to waste on some futile errand.
“Keep in touch,” Wer’Q’quinn kept telling him. “I suspect we will need your expertise in E Space before we’re done.”
The Synthian merchant motioned toward one of the side streets selling clothing and personal accoutrements of all kinds.
“Here is where I last saw the human, bidding me farewell as he clutched a purse filled with GalCoins from our transaction, appearing eager to rush off and spend his new fortune as quickly as possible.”
“GalCoin?” Harry asked. Far better if Dwer had been paid in credits or marks, which could be traced across the Commercial Web. “How much did you pay?”
Kiwei Ha’aoulin tried to demur, claiming commercial privilege, but soon realized it would not avail.
“Seventy-five demi units.”
Harry’s fists clenched and he growled. “Seventy-five! For genuine Earth-autochthonous handicrafts from a preindustrial era? Why you unscrupulous—”
He went on cursing the Synthian roundly, since the merchant clearly expected it. Anything less would have insulted her pride. But in fact, Harry’s mind was already racing ahead. He had no intention of informing Kiwei Ha’aoulin that the precious bow and arrows were far more recently made than she thought. They were, in fact, contraband from an illegal sooner settlement, carved by qheuen teeth and burnished at an urrish forge.
He was interrupted by a computer message. Apparently one of the body shops had been visited lately by a young Terran, who paid cash for a quick cosmetic overhaul. Nothing fancy. Just a standard flesh-regrowth profile that the shop had in its panspecies file.
“Let’s go!” he told the Synthian. She resisted momentarily, then caught the fierce look in Harry’s eyes. Kiwei Ha’aoulin gave an expressively Earth-style shrug.
“Of course, Scout-Major Harms. Well, well I remain perpetually at your service.”
Unfortunately, the repair shop in question lay some distance beyond the Plaza of Faith. To reach the other
