Joan Vinge - The Summer Queen

Reede looked surprised. “Me? No.” He didn’t say what he did do. Kedalion didn’t ask. “Why?” Reede asked, a little sharply, and then, “You need one?”

“I am one.” Kedalion shook his head.

Reede nodded, easing off. “I knew your name was familiar. Your ship is the Prajna. That’s a Samathan word for ‘God’—?” He raised his eyebrows.

“One of them,” Kedalion said. “It means ‘astral light,’ actually. It’s supposed to bring luck.” He shrugged, mildly annoyed at having to explain himself.

“It seems to work for you.” Reede’s mouth twitched. “You have a good reputation. And you had your share of good fortune tonight.” He spoke Trade, the universal second language of most people who did interstellar business. Everyone here in the port spoke it; even the boy Ananke handled it well enough. It was easy to learn a language with an enhancer; Kedalion spoke several. It wasn’t easy to make a construct like Trade sound graceful. And from what he had seen tonight, Reede was the last person he would have expected to manage the feat. He glanced at Reede again, wondering where in hell somebody like this came from anyway. Reede looked back at him, with an expression that was close to thoughtful “So ‘honor among thieves’ is the code you live by?”

Kedalion smiled, hoping the question was rhetorical. “I only wondered how you came by this.” He raised his cup of the water of life in a toast; its scent filled the air he breathed. The silver liquid lay in the cup like molten metal, waiting.

Reede shrugged. “I got it at the bar.”

“From Ravien?” Kedalion asked, incredulous. “That bastard.” He pointed at his own bottle. “He claimed this was the best he had; he’s been serving me swill for years.”

Reede grinned ferally. “He does that to everyone. You just have to know how to ask…” He fingered the expensive-looking jeweled ear cuff that dangled against his neck; jerked it off suddenly, as if it was burning hot, and flung it down on the table in disgust.

Kedalion looked away nervously. “Uh-huh,” he murmured. He wondered how old Reede actually was; sitting here he had begun to realize that the other man was much younger than he had thought. Reede had a strikingly handsome face, and surprisingly nobody had smashed it in yet. But it was the face of someone barely out of his teens—hardly older than Ananke, and a good ten years younger than he was himself. The thought was depressing. But maybe Reede was just baby-faced; his punk-kid looks were peculiarly at odds with his manner and his apparent status. Kedalion decided that whatever Reede’s real age was, someone who lived like that was not likely to get much older.

Reede sat moodily biting his thumbnail. He noticed Shaifaz staring at his castoff earring, and flicked it across the table at her. She picked it up with long, slim fingers that hesitated slightly, and put it on. She glanced at him, her expression grave. He smiled and nodded, and slowly she smiled too. Ananke watched them silently; he barely seemed to be breathing.

Kedalion let out his own breath in a sigh, and lifted his cup again. “Good business,” he said, offering the toast, savoring his anticipation. The two Ondineans raised their cups.

“Good fortune.” Shaifaz gave the answer, still fingering her new earring as she lifted her cup.

As the cup touched Kedalion’s lips, a loud sudden noise made him jerk around. The rest of the room seemed to turn with him. a hundred heads swiveling at once, looking toward the club’s entrance. And then chairs were squealing on the patterned floor and the crowd found its voice, the room became a sea of shouting, cursing motion.

“Son of a bitch,” Reede muttered irritably. “A raid.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in resignation, like a man waiting out an inconvenient rainstorm.

Kedalion exchanged glances with the two Ondineans, not feeling as sanguine about the outcome. He had never been present when the Church Police raided a club, and never wanted to be. He had heard enough stories about their brutality toward offworlders—that it was even worse than their brutality toward their own people. The Hegemonic authorities were supposed to have jurisdiction over noncitizens, but the Church inquisitors seldom bothered to notify or cooperate with them.

A half dozen armed, uniformed men stood in the entrance, blocking it off, searching the crowd as if they were looking for someone in particular. Kedalion felt the habitual cold fist of paranoia squeeze his gut; realizing that in a crowd like this it was monstrous egotism to think they were looking for him, but not able to stop the sudden surge of fear.

And then a local man stepped from between the uniformed police—one of the youths Ravien had thrown out of the club. He pointed. He pointed directly at Kedalion.

Kedalion swore, sliding down from his chair as Shalfaz and Ananke rose from theirs. Reede looked toward the entrance as he noticed their panic. “You better get out of here—” He was already on his feet as he spoke, beside Shalfaz, taking her arm. “You know another way out?”

She nodded, already moving toward the back of the club, with Ananke on her heels. Kedalion started after them; hesitated, turned back to grab the silver bottle off the table. He plunged back into the sea of milling bodies like a man diving into the ocean; he was immediately in over his head, battered by the surge of panic-stricken strangers. Cursing, he fought his way through them in the direction he thought Shalfaz had taken, but the others were lost from sight.

Hands seized him around the waist and dragged him back and up. He struggled to break the hold, aimed a hard blow at his captor’s groin—

“Goddamn it!”

He realized, half a moment too late, that the man was not wearing a uniform.

Reede swore, doubling up over him. “You asshole!” He straightened with an effort, holding Kedalion under one arm like a stubborn child.

Cursing under his breath, Kedalion let himself be carried ignominiously but rapidly through the crush of bodies, through a maze of dark tunnels, and finally out into the reeking back-alley gloom. The others stood waiting, fading against the darkness. Reede dropped him on his feet.

“Go, quickly,” Shalfaz said, waving them on. “I must get back.”

“But—” Kedalion gasped, with what breath he still had in him. “Will you be safe?”

She shrugged, her body going soft with resignation. “I am only a woman. I am not held responsible. If I let them—”

“No!” Ananke said. “Don’t! Come with us.” He pulled at her arm almost desperately.

“The earring,” Reede said. “The stones are genuine. Buy them off. You know the customs.” She nodded, and he shoved Ananke out into the street. “Get moving.” He jerked Kedalion off his feet again.

“Damn it, put me down!” Kedalion swore as Reede began to run. “i can—”

“No, you can’t.”

“Goddammit, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. In big trouble. Complain about your injured dignity later,” Reede hissed, looking back over his shoulder as he heard shouting. Light burst on them from up ahead, lancing through the mudbrick alleyway between building walls; they collided with Ananke as the boy skidded to a stop. “We’re trapped!” Ananke cried, his voice going high like a girl’s.

Reede glanced up, at something beyond sight, and grunted, “They’re high tracking us.” He turned and forced them into the narrow tunnel between two buildings, out into a small open plaza; all Kedalion could see was mudbrick and shadows, all he could hear was the sound of angry voices shouting at them to stop. He shut his eyes. Any minute Reede would go down to someone’s weapon, and this grotesque ignominy would reach its inevitable conclusion—