Эрик Браун - Starship Winter

A surly-looking brute scanned our retinas with a handheld device, somehow elucidated we were on the guest list, and activated the swing gates. We drove into the grounds and left the car among a phalanx of other, grander vehicles.

Hannah took my hand and said suddenly, “I’m very happy, Mr Conway.”

I smiled. “Me too!”

We strolled along a winding path through a plantation of alien shrubs, artfully designed so that the last bend of the path brought the visitor into sudden view of the villa, blindingly white against sprays of azure herbage.

Guests milled, tended to by circulating waiters with trays. I guessed there were about fifty people on the lawn, the great and the good of the colony and a number of off-worlders, artists and art critics I recognised from Matt’s opening night.

Among the crowd were the Elan: Heanor the Ambassador and the older alien, Fhen. They mingled with the guests, bobbing oddly on the sprung suspension of their bi-jointed legs and making elaborate gestures with their long arms.

Of our host, Darius Dortmund, there was no sign.

The mylar marquee at the far end of the lawn was open on two sides, allowing a through breeze but affording shade from the afternoon sun. Tables had been set up inside, laden with plates and bowls of food; I saw Hawk and Kee standing in the shade, eating.

A passing waiter offered drinks so we took glasses of sparkling white wine and crossed to our friends.

“Any sign of Matt and Maddie?” I asked.

“We’ve just got here ourselves,” Hawk said.

Hannah asked, “Have you heard anything from Matt about the problem at the exhibition?”

“I called Maddie this morning,” Hawk said. “Matt spent the night at the exhibition centre, trying to iron things out. She didn’t say what was wrong, but she did say that she and Matt would be here.”

Kee clapped her hands, beaming at us. “Would you like a tour of the desert garden?” she asked. “Many years ago, when we were young, we’d sneak into the grounds and play among the dry flowers. Many of them are sacred to us. Come, I’ll show you.”

We left the shade of the marquee and crossed the lawn, walking around the villa to the stepped terraces beyond. We climbed a series of crazy, switchback steps and came at last to a small garden enclosed by a waist-high wall.

Bizarre, spiked vegetation proliferated within, vaguely cactus-like but sporting coloured leaves and flamboyant blooms. Not one of them was smaller than Hawk, who is tall, and as we strolled past I noticed that each had its own distinctive scent: not the sweet fragrances of terrestrial blooms, but wholly alien, scents that I found hard to describe, but tried: hot engine oil mixed with cayenne pepper, waxed leather with an overlay of aniseed.

We had the garden to ourselves. Kee gave a running commentary on the plants, pronouncing their alien names and telling us which ones were revered in Ashentay lore for their healing properties.

She stopped before a thin, tall plant. It was blue and looked like a sculpture of twisted metal with a series of barbs which sprouted from its central stem, hooked and cruel like oriental daggers.

“This is the hleth bush,” Kee said in almost a whisper. “Many millennia ago, Kayanth, who was an evil man, was killed by a young man called Hleth. He used one of these spikes to kill Kayanth, and so saved his people from slavery.”

She flicked a barb with a tiny finger, and smiled. “At a certain time of year, the hleth shed these spikes if pressed like this…” She applied pressure to the underside of the metallic-looking barb, forcing it upwards, and suddenly it sprang into the air and fell to the ground. I almost expected to hear it rattle on impact.

Laughing, Kee ducked and retrieved it. She held the dagger to her lips and whispered something, then tucked it into her belt. “It is considered good luck if the spike comes off easily.” She beamed at us. “Now we will all have good fortune in the days ahead!”

Hawk leaned down and kissed the head of his alien lover, and we continued our stroll.

We were passing from the garden, rounding a trumpet-bloomed bush, when we came upon our host.

He was arguing with his alien aide, Fhen. When he saw us he stopped mid-sentence and gave his limited, rictus smile. “Ah, I see you have sampled the strange wonders of the dry garden. And you have been regaling your friends with tales from your history, Kee?” His gaze merely flicked at her before alighting on the hleth barb at her waist. “I trust you will be careful with it, my dear. We wouldn’t want whatever good luck it brought your way to be tempered by the misfortune of an accident, would we?”

Almost inevitably, Dortmund’s eyes alighted on Hannah and he smiled his sickly smile, almost a parody of affection. “And you, my dear, are still wearing your… gemstone, though I see it is now in a different setting.” I glanced at Hannah as she self-consciously fingered the brooch at her breast. It resembled the choker she had worn yesterday, an emerald green stone set in filigreed silver.

“I often think,” he went on cryptically, “that such ornamentation conceals as much as it reveals, don’t you?”

Hannah stared at him. “Meaning?”

Dortmund laughed. “I think you know what I mean, Lieutenant,” he said. He inclined his head to us. “Hawksworth, Conway… Do excuse me. I have a few details to settle with Fhen. I will join the party presently.”

He swept on into the garden, leaving us staring after him.

I looked at Hannah. “What was all that ‘I think you know what I mean’ business?”

Hannah played nervously with her brooch. “I don’t know. He gives me the creeps.” She shivered. “Come on, I need another drink.”

We hurried around the house to the now busy front lawn.

We replenished our glasses and mingled with the other guests, chatting to acquaintances from Mackinley and Magenta Bay. It was the kind of occasion I enjoyed: easy and informal, with the chance to meet people I hadn’t seen for a while and catch up with the trivial events of the colony.

Hannah said at one point, “You know so many people!”

“Well, without wanting to sound big-headed, everyone wanted to know me after the opening of the way.”

She punched my arm playfully.

Hawk observed, “I see Dortmund has deigned to join the party,” indicating the off-worlder with his glass. The tall, white-suited Dortmund was moving from group to group across the lawn, the very epitome of the conscientious host, listening with his head inclined thoughtfully, a tolerant smile on his thin lips. I watched him as he attended to what his guests had to say then rejoined with some witty quip which left them laughing, before he moved on.

As we wandered across the lawn, I heard the comments of those blessed by his wit, “So brilliant. How does he do it? I thought I knew all there was to know about…”

Hawk leaned towards me and whispered, “The man’s a conniving charlatan, David.”

At one end of the lawn, a small orchestra were setting up their instruments; they proceeded to play a selection of modern classics. At the opposite end, closest to the villa, a smaller band played mood jazz. We gravitated towards the latter, refreshed our glasses, sat down and listened.

At one point the Elan Fhen bobbed past and smiled at us. I waved. “Would you care to join us?”

The alien paused comically, as if torn between continuing on his way and being seen as rude, or accepting my offer. The dilemma took a few seconds to resolve. He carved a semi-circle in the air with his long right arm, evidently some extraterrestrial affirmative. Finally he crossed to us and lowered himself onto the grass, an elaborate and lengthy process involving the slow folding of multiple knee joints.