Except now it appears business won’t be taken care of,he thought. Shoulder to shoulder, aliens blocked Vaughn from being able to see how much distance separated them from the Core’s Central Business District. He leaned off to the side only to have his view obstructed by clouds of chemical coolants bursting from cracked conduits.
Behind him, M’Yeoh muttered a question that Vaughn couldn’t hear over the racket. “Excuse me, Minister, but would you repeat that?”
“Runir,” M’Yeoh sniffed, “believes that depressed interstellar commerce has reduced the demand for the starcharts and navigational data, even though the information you offered is unparalleled in this sector. Our explorations simply haven’t taken us as far as yours have.”
“What I can trade, I’ve offered. I’ve nothing else,” Vaughn said firmly.
“There’s always something,” M’Yeoh said, “If the need is desperate enough.”
The slidewalk ended. They walked with the anonymous masses into the sweltering Core quad. Stalls sandwiched between kiosks and store fronts hawked spangled jewelry and object d’artinterspersed with much less innocent contraband. Vaughn suspected the services of prostitutes and slaves were as easy to purchase as gaudy earrings. M’Yeoh led them to a booth out of the traffic flow, presumably to regroup.
Once seated, M’Yeoh twisted the sleeves of his government robe, his expression puckered; the Yrythny appeared to be legitimately miserable. Runir’s failure cast aspersions on M’Yeoh’s competency. Explaining to his superiors back home why the mission to the Consortium failed would be unpleasant. But Vaughn didn’t give a damn whose fault it was—he just wanted it fixed.
The group scooted into the half-circle booth, the rubbery seat coverings sticking to their uniforms. A dingy globe rested in the table’s center, providing minimal muddy light to see by. Nog hastily lifted his tricorder after discovering gummy residue on the table’s surface. Prynn’s hands stayed safely in her lap.
Vaughn shooed away a drink server; the time to unwind would come later. Time to reassert his authority—he’d followed M’Yeoh’s lead long enough. “Prynn, Nog. Head back to the Avaril.Rerun those femtobot simulations and see if there’s something we’ve overlooked—maybe an alternative deployment method that won’t require the degree of structural integrity we’re looking for. We may have to take our chances with whatever we have on hand.”
Nog failed to veil a dubious expression, but accepted Vaughn’s order with a nod.
His beady eyes darting from side to side, M’Yeoh hunched closer to Vaughn. “There are still some who might help you. No legal protection. Very dangerous, but you could see—”
“Belay that,” Vaughn called to Nog and Prynn, then turned back to M’Yeoh. “Back up a step, Minister. Say that again.” Vaughn interrupted, knowing if he didn’t the minister might yammer on endlessly without reaching his intended point.
He gulped and whispered, “A shadow trader.”
“You mean a freelancer. An unauthorized broker,” Vaughn guessed.
Minister M’Yeoh nodded.
Now that’s interesting,Vaughn thought. “Tell me more.”
“It’s a dangerous undertaking,” the minister stressed. “We could be duped if we link up with the wrong one.” M’Yeoh nervously scanned the crowds, presumably for hostile elements. “But they don’t trade what they don’t have. Find the right one, you’ll have your load.” Sweat drizzled off his forehead; he dabbed at it with his sleeve, his gray-brown skin took on a decidedly paler hue.
Vaughn exchanged looks with his chief engineer. He was counting on Nog’s acute listening skills to pick up nuances in the business discussions that Vaughn might miss. Nog looked intrigued, but suspicious.
Turning back to M’Yeoh, Vaughn said, “If such an option ensures results, why didn’t we start with a shadow trader?” Why was it that at every turn in his dealings with the Yrythny, he found that they’d conveniently omitted information? Not enough to technically be considered a lie, but certainly less than all the facts.
“A shadow trader’s demands may be costly or risky,” M’Yeoh squeaked. “Outlawed technology. Slaves. Illegal goods. Weapons. You made it clear what you were willing to negotiate with. Your terms would be better accepted on the Exchange.”
Or you were too afraid to deal with anything but the known entities,Vaughn thought. He needed to remove M’Yeoh from the equation if he wanted to make a quick deal.
Loud, laughing revelers stumbling toward a casino careened toward their booth, drinks held high. They jumped out of their seats, missing a frothy soaking by seconds. Prynn and M’Yeoh stumbled into a cloth barrier that delineated the workspace of an odd-looking creature, sitting staring at the wall. Tools crashed; bins toppled, drizzling milky syrup on the floor gratings.
Startled by the invasion of his workspace, the creature glared glassy-eyed at Prynn, while one of his five hands scraped brownish wax off strands of hair with his fingernails. Once he’d collected a thumbnail full, he dropped it on his black tongue, smacked his lips and repeated the process. Prynn slowly backed away, but the creature hissed at her. She stopped.
Vaughn, no stranger to unusual life-forms, had never seen anything like it. A cross between a squid and a mantis might explain whatever it was. He looked to his Yrythny host for information, but M’Yeoh tiptoed around the basins and back toward the main walkway.
“Excuse me,” Prynn apologized, extracting her foot from a pan of goo. “I hope I didn’t ruin—”
The creature scrambled off his chair, thrusting his face as close to Prynn’s as he could without pressing their lips together. Vaughn’s hand inched toward his phaser…
“You,” the creature burbled rapturously.
“Huh?” Anxiously, Prynn’s eyes darted first to Vaughn, who shrugged, and then to flustered M’Yeoh whose lips flapped soundlessly.
“The one I search for. To finish my commission,” the creature clapped two of its hands together. “I sit day after day, hoping to find the one I need to finish my commission and I see nothing. I sense nothing. Until you.” Spittle flecked the matted hair around its mouth.
Taking a step away from him, Prynn smiled weakly. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. We’re not from around here.”
Vaughn assumed a position at Prynn’s side. “We apologize for intruding on your space. If there’s something—”
“No, no!” the creature protested. “I don’t want apologies. I want—that one,” it said, jabbing a finger at Prynn.
With surprising courage, Minister M’Yeoh lifted up the goo-pan and sniffed the contents before dabbing a finger inside and wiping the goo on an adjoining wall. Gradually, the goo turned blood red.
Recognition registered on his face; M’Yeoh’s breathing steadied. “Commander, I don’t think you have reason to worry. I believe this is a sense artist.”
“Yes! Yes! I have a commission,” he said, throwing a canvas drape aside to reveal a three meter by two meter collage of multihued textures. “For the Cheka Master General. He is unhappy that I haven’t finished, but you will make it complete.”
“Sense artist?” Vaughn asked.
“This substance,” M’Yeoh indicated the goo-bucket. “When it comes in contact with living tissue, it takes a sensory impression based on body temperature, metabolic rate, body chemistry…” He dipped in his hand until it was covered with goo and then removed it to dry in the air, fanning it carefully. The clear sticky substance slowly assumed a creamy lemon tone. “Once the polymer dries,” M’Yeoh peeled from the wrist, carefully easing up the now rubbery impression of his hand until it slid off readily, “this is what results. Sense artists collect a multitude of impressions and then arrange them in sculpture, hanging mobiles, wall mountings—”