Julia Ecklar: The Human Animal

“If you behave violently toward any other denizen of this station,” Mechanic said in a voice too artificially calm to ignore, “we will deport you and forbid your return for up to one hundred Standard years.”

Rahel wondered fleetingly if the Newborn meant her personally, or humans in general. She’d no doubt become very unpopular if she got her entire species banned from one of the Galaxy’s main mercantile stations. It wouldn’t do much toward helping her locate her poachers, either, since Noah’s Ark hadn’t been able to verify Terran animals being sold black-market anywhere but at the Newboms’s Interface. Curling the fingers of her right hand, she tried to hide the frustrated gesture by gathering up the rest of Toad’s leash in that fist.

“I’m sorry if I behaved violently.” Rahel aimed for that air of civility that made her teeth grate when she heard other people use it. Having to force the words out at all almost made her want to kick the cowering alien. “I was only trying to safeguard my property against what I thought was violence from…” she wasn’t sure if either “him” or “her” was applicable, so settled for, “…your companion. It hardly seemed reasonable to attack me that way, since I know for a fact that mine isn’t the only ship docked at the Interface with animals on board.”

The moaning hiss from the alien’s translator fell silent.

A link light flashed beneath Mechanic’s face-board, then went dark again. “That information is incorrect.”

“Like hell it is.” Or maybe that would be considered violent again. It was so hard to tell with inorganics. Rising up on tiptoe, Rahel scowled left and right across the river of Newborns and extraterrestrials pouring down the hallway to either side. She’d seen the string of elaborately decorated jumpships while she was parking her own ship, so knew a caravan was on station—it was just a matter of finding the scream of eye-aching color in the swarm of businessfolk around her.

As it was, Rahel heard the rhythmic jing-jing-jing-jing of a quadruped scratching a ring-spangled ear before she actually turned and caught sight of the alien felid. She aimed Mechanic’s attention at the bored duac who now sat pulling at the nails on its hind toes. “What do you call that?”

The alien lifted itself to full height again, and Mechanic’s primary optic extended to adjust its focus. “That is a duac,” the Newborn said.

As though recognizing the word, Toad squirmed in Rahel’s grip and sneaked a timid look. Just what Rahel needed—her puppy slobbering all over the mazhet’s dun cats, chewing on their tall, upswept ears and barking at their profusion of nose, toe, and ear rings. She tightened her elbow until the little dog grumbled with renewed disappointment. “That duac is here with the mazhet—not even on a leash, I might add, or at its mazhet’s side.” In fact, the mazhet in question was nearly out of sight beyond the door of some small, over-lit curio shop. Only the occasional flash of puce, violet and vermillion robes—overspread with meters and meters of gold chain—betrayed the mazhet’s position when it gestured. “How come the mazhet get to let their duacs wander free while you and your cringing arachnid give me grief about one domestic puppy on a leash?”

Mechanic turned its optics away from the duac in a dismissal that was clear even without expression or tone of voice. “The mazhet have a special arrangement with the Interface.”

Of course they did. The mazhet had a special arrangement with everybody.

Rahel rubbed at her eyes. “Then what about Comtes Nadder?”

“Interface registration lists Comtes Nadder’s ship Medve as a specialized class three transport.” Mechanic consulted the station’s database for another few blinks of its light. As though encouraged by Mechanic’s control of the situation, the alien behind the robots rose creakily to full height again. “Comtes Nadder is a licensed dealer in exotic goods.”

That much Rahel knew—she was supposed to have been at Nadder’s berth fifteen minutes ago to discuss a transfer of livestock.

“Exotic dealers are encouraged on the Interface, as they stimulate trade and interspecies goodwill.” Whatever moved Newborns to care about interspecies goodwill was a mystery to Rahel, not to mention half the rest of the Galaxy. Maybe the Newborns reacted to some sort of perceived social inequality that non-chip-driven sentients weren’t sensitive to. Or maybe goodwill just promoted good trade, thus guaranteeing the Newborns enough money to buy the parts, programs, and power they needed to stay running without selling themselves into slavery. Rahel didn’t care which.

“Nadder’s ‘exotic goods’ are animals,” Rahel pointed out to the Newborn and its alien eavesdropper. “She’s docked with this station in a ship twice as large as mine, and her whole cargo bay is stuffed full of live animals. Goodwill or not, you just told me that’s illegal.”

The alien rubbed at its eyes with all four arms, and its translator squealed. Mechanic was not so nonplussed. “ Medve’s cargo is not prohibited under Interface regulation 4731 Section 2 Paragraph 7. As specified in this free trade statute, Medve’s cargo qualifies as merchandise, not animals.”

Rahel stared at the Newborn for almost half a minute. Behind it, the alien bobbed twice, silently. “You mean if I was here to sell this dog, then it would be OK for me to have her onstation?”

“This animal would then be classified as legal merchandise under the Interface statute referenced above.”

“Well, what do you know?” Rahel snorted a laugh, then brought her face under control. “It just so happens that I came here planning to sell her.”

The alien shuddered as though struck with a cold breeze, and one of the drones rolled away. Mechanic asked, “Do you have papers attesting to these plans?”

Rahel scowled, squatting to let Toad wriggle loose and hop back to the floor. The puppy oozed behind her to get out of the alien’s sight. “Not everybody needs papers to prove they do fair trade.” Rahel bobbed up on tiptoe to search the crowd around the mazhet’s multi-hued skirts. “I can give you references better than any set of papers.” Assuming mazhet memory worked at all the way rumor suggested it did.

Rahel found the dhaktu right where she’d expected—stone-still to the mazhet’s left, hands laced passively behind his back while he waited to translate the mazhet’s alien clicks and rattles. The shaven head and simple rose-orange-lavender tunic marked him as a mazhet employee; the remnants of an ash-blond topknot marked him as human, and still young enough to not have grey in his hair. Whatever discussion the mazhet conducted inside the little shop, the human didn’t seem to be involved, or even very interested. When the duac threaded its lazy way between patrons to rejoin the mazhet, the human dhaktu didn’t so much as glance at the cat. Rahel wondered how long dhaktu had to practice before perfecting the details of their self-imposed invisibility.

“Hey!” She whistled shrilly. The duac turned to swivel ears in Rahel’s direction and Toad barked a greeting, but neither human nor mazhet moved. “Invisible Voice!” This time, the dhaktu’s spine jerked even more stiffly straight than before. “I need to talk to your boss. It’s kind of important.”

“Ms. Tovin—” Mechanic poked at her kneecap with the end of one retractor arm. “Such shouting is considered socially unacceptable in many sentient cultures, including your own.” Toad stretched up to lick the Newborn’s gripper.

“Well, if we re lucky, I won’t have to do it again.” Rahel gathered up the slack in Toad’s leash when she saw the dhaktu’s hand creep forward to pluck the webwork of chains depending from his mazhet’s sleeve. Although nothing physical seemed to change in the alien’s stance or attitude, Rahel felt the mazhet’s shift in attention almost as clearly as the dhaktu must have. Tipping forward as though pushed delicately from behind, the dhaktu whispered into the back of his mazhet’s shoulder—as close as he could come to the tall alien’s head. Then they both turned in a neatly executed whirl of ribbons, bells, and clashing fabric, and the mazhet glided out into full view for the first time.