Julia Ecklar: The Human Animal

Except for the colors and patterns in their obstreperous robing, mazhet seemed truly indistinguishable from each other as far as Rahel could tell. They stood a nearly uniform two-and-a-half meters in height, their huge eyes an identical, whiteless ebony, their skin always the same shade of luscious burnt mahogany. If their humanoid faces had been constructed with a breath more subtlety, they wouldn’t have had faces at all; if their skin had kissed their bones more closely, they’d be nothing but a collection of brittle sticks, artfully arranged to resemble a man. And if any mazhet anywhere had ever displayed something reminiscent of a human emotion, Rahel had yet to hear about it.

She tucked the puppy between her ankles, holding Toad with the gentle pressure of her legs as the mazhet approached.

“Ayr.” Mechanic spoke the single word as a name, pivoting on its treadmill to face the mazhet. The mazhet inclined its head toward one shoulder with a faint jingle of jewelry, but gave no other sign of greeting. It offered no acknowledgement at all to the shivering mantis-alien. “This woman wishes to bring an animal on board the Interface for purposes of barter. She claims you can serve as her reference.”

Rahel waited until Ayr turned its face toward her, then clenched her fist apprehensively in the tangle of leash. “Do you know who I am?”

Ayr blinked slowly, and the duac stretched itself into a C around Rahel’s legs to snuffle at Toad’s backside. If the mazhet even flicked a glance down at the felid, Rahel couldn’t tell—she hadn’t yet figured out how to judge when mazhet focus moved.

A short, startling burst of clicking prompted the dhaktu to take a step forward. “This human is known to the mazhet.” The dhaktu spoke as if the words were wholly his, but he never moved closer than his mazhet’s left elbow, and he never made eye contact with anyone. Even the mantis seemed to keep its attention locked frantically on the mazhet.

Rahel forced herself to stare directly at Ayr. The alien’s intricate bodice reflected like wine in its eyes. “Did I conduct barter with the mazhet on Reyson’s Planet for the exchange of exotic animals?”

Although she had never seen or heard of Ayr before a few moments ago, its barrage of hissing clicks passed on through the dhaktu ’s mouth as, “Such barter with this human did occur.”

Mechanic watched the duac circle Rahel slowly, stubby white tail flicking in time to its toe rings against the floor. “Do the mazhet accept this woman as competent and capable of managing the animal in her possession?”

The duac finally snorted with boredom and wandered away. The mantis-alien jittered out of its way before the cat came close enough to touch it.

Toad craned her neck to watch the duac leave, although neither Ayr nor the dhaktu seemed particularly concerned about the big cat’s departure. “This is accepted by the mazhet.”

“Very well.” Mechanic squawked a blat of machine language, and its bevy of drones rolled off in separate directions, mindlessly intent on new places and new things. The mantis turned in a circle, watching them go. “The Interface hereby issues this temporary livestock merchandise transporting permit, valid until eighty hours from moment of issue.” A scrap of flimsy curled out of a slot in its stomach. The Newborn rolled a halfmeter forward, apparently offering the printout to Rahel. She tightened her grip on Toad before bending to take it.

“You must carry this permit with you at all times while on board the Interface with this animal. If at any time you cannot produce this permit on demand, the animal in question will be confiscated. Say yes if you understand.”

Rahel nodded and tucked the flimsy into her trouser pocket. “Yes.” She flicked a look at the alien still twirling in distress behind the remaining Newborn. It muttered into its translator without looking at her.

Mechanic’s ’link indicator twinkled briefly. “So logged. Enjoy your stay at the Interface.” It rotated and trundled off around the comer before it had even finished speaking to her. Rahel couldn’t help wondering if Comtes Nadder and her shipload of illegal animals had gotten as much hassle the first time Medve tried to set up shop on the station.

“Proctor Tovin…”

Rahel nearly collided with Ayr when she turned, finding herself for the first time close enough to a mazhet to smell the dusty perfume of its robes. Ayr angled its head to blink down at her, and Rahel took two unconscious steps backward under the pressure of those pupilless black eyes.

“Always has your employer censured mazhet trade in obsolete genotypes.” Rahel wasn’t sure how much of the innocent curiosity in the words came directly from Ayr, and how much was supplied by its dhaktu. “Does Noah’s Ark seek now to busy itself in the barter of such exotic animals?”

Rahel slid Toad down to the floor. The puppy immediately busied herself snuffling the mazhet’s feet and ringing its adornments with her tail. “I’m not here in my capacity as a Noah’s Ark proctor. This is more like a private business matter that I’d rather not discuss.” She twisted to look over her shoulder, but the insectoid alien had already backed halfway down the long corridor, its hands back in its mouth. “Do the mazhet know what that is?”

“That is Larry.”

If the mazhet weren’t naturally constructed to be so deadpan, Rahel might have taken that as a joke. “Larry?”

“He is tlict, and deals not often with human beings.” Ayr raised its head to make contact with the departing creature, closing both fists in front of its mouth in some sort of gesture of greeting or farewell. “Tlict identifications cannot be rendered audibly. All male tlict, therefore, respond in the human language to the identification, ‘Larry.’ ”

Rahel watched the tlict pick its way gingerly through the deepening crowd. “Then what am I supposed to call the females?”

The dhaktu laughed. Or maybe it was the mazhet after all. Who knew what they used as a natural expression of humor? “You will not ever see a female tlict,” the mazhet told her with a graceful wave of its hands. “And if you do, Proctor Tovin, you will not see a human again to talk about it, so what you do or do not call her hardly matters.”

Comtes Nadder’s docking berth smelled of ammonia and gamey animal breathing. Rahel assumed this was on purpose. After all, Medve itself must be as airtight as any other ship in the void, and Nadder certainly hadn’t allowed her stock to wander out where prospective buyers might catch a premature glimpse of the offerings. The black-marketeer no doubt wanted customers to be confident that her livestock ate, breathed, and shat just as much as the most legal reproductions. Conversely, Nadder probably would have had the berth smelling as pure as a Newborn’s bottom if she’d known Rahel was a Noah’s Ark proctor. So maybe the godawful stench was in truth a good sign after all.

Rahel stopped outside Medve’s airlock and palmed the signal. Toad made bored circles around her ankles, sighing at her predicament when the leash finally cinched too tight for her to move. “It’s called aversion therapy,” Rahel commented aloud.

As if in response to her voice, Medve ’s hatch whisked open. “You’re late.”

Rahel had expected the accusation, but not the whippet-sparse figure who delivered it. Her hand braced impatiently against the airlock hatch, Comtes Nadder looked older and more sallow than Rahel had imagined in their comlink talks. The deep, rust-edged voice was the same, though, and the black leather jumpsuit and red headband seemed at least as carefully chosen as the smuggler’s waist-length black hair and garnet eyes. Not necessarily a flattering combination, but effective enough, considering Nadder’s occupation. Rahel suspected the other woman wasn’t much of a slave to current fashions.