This is a fan translation of Agent of the Star Corps (Агент Звёздного корпуса) by the Russian science fiction author Leonid Kudryavtsev.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 12
"It's not difficult," Apollonius said. "You just need to know how to use it."
He'd appeared in the living room as silent as a ghost. He was holding a small flat box and ordinary sewing tape of the sort still being used on Earth.
"Not difficult to do what?" Michael asked, breaking away from his thoughts.
"Sew clothes. Any clothes. In five minutes. You just need certain skills."
He smiled slyly. The lemur-like alien's thin hands were indeed holding the sewing tape confidently.
"With that?" Michael nodded at the flat box.
"Not only," Apollonius said. "In order to sew good clothes, you need not only skills, but also some knowledge. Then again, it's not going to be difficult to make what you're wearing."
"What do you need from me?"
"Nothing special. The tailoring process hasn't changed in centuries. First we need to do a fitting."
Over the next five minutes, Michael had to stand still, while Apollonius was taking measurements. He was writing down the results on a piece of paper. Finally, nodding in satisfaction, he flipped open a lid in the upper part of the flat box, revealing a keyboard. Apollonius punched in a combination of numbers, then asked, "Color?"
"What?" Michael asked.
"What color should your clothes be?"
The clothes! Of course. He could change his face but not his clothes. The Ragnites had to have figured that out too. That meant he'd have to change at the first opportunity. Like now.
"Let's make it green with golden sparkles."
Apollonius pressed a few more keys.
The box clicked quietly, and a bundle of clothes fell out of it. Tearing the pexalon wrapping, Michael pictured himself wearing the outfit.
Yeah, it was the same as his old one, except for the color.
"Where can I get changed?" Brado asked. Apollonius hesitated but then waved a thin hand.
"In the next room. It's not as nice as the living room, but I know that your customs forbid you from changing in the presence of others."
"Yes, they do," Michael said.
"Then come."
The next room was indeed small, only containing a narrow bed and a huge cabinet with biobooks. A handful of white soil lay on a silver platter on one of the cabinet's shelves. Besides that, the room featured a latest-model holophone.
Noting it, Michael thought that Apollonius could've easily called someone while he was here. Whom? Not the Ragnites.
Shaking his head, he cursed himself for excessive suspicion.
Apollonius tactfully left the room. Michael changed quickly, moving his things into the new clothes, including the unigun.
That lemur would definitely be surprised to learn that I'm not only armed with my fists, Brado thought.
He rolled the dirty and torn clothes into a bundle and placed it under his arm.
Now he could continue on his way. All that was left was to thank his hospitable host, tell him that it was time for him to go, and possibly once more refuse the employment offer before departing. As soon as possible. He didn't have much time.
Michael opened the door to the living room… and stopped.
The smell!
Something had changed in the living room. There was someone else there in addition to the owner of the house.
It was too late to retreat. Not that there was anywhere to retreat to. If these were mercenaries of the Ragnites, then Apollonius's house was already a mousetrap. One that had snapped shut.
All these thoughts passed through the mind of the Star Corps agent. But it really was too late to retreat.
Trying to walk as casually as possible, he entered the living room.
Apollonius did indeed have guests. Based on how they were looking at Brado, they were here for him. But the guests of the fan of Ancient Greece didn't look like mercenaries at all. Based on their appearance, they might not be dangerous at all.
Then again, appearances could be deceiving. Especially when it came to aliens.
There were three of them.
A thick Illurian that looked like a small elephant with three trunks, an ant-like Baraconian, and a tiny five-armed Zammanian. The Zammanian and the Baraconian were sitting in chairs, while the Illurian was making himself comfortable on the floor. His trunks were raised and were undulating in the air, like three small anacondas.
Apollonius threw an embarrassed look at Michael, The Illurian cleared his throat and asked, "Is that him?"
"It is," Apollonius confirmed hurriedly.
"Hmm, doesn't look fearsome. I was expecting to see a giant. I doubt he weighs more than eighty kilos."
The Baraconian shifted his antennae in indignation and said, "What does weight have to do with it? Going by your logic, all mighty warriors have to be huge fat guys. I assure you, excessive weight invariably leads to clumsiness. And to a warrior clumsiness means immediate death. That's why, when our two planets fought long ago, your people didn't manage to win a single worthwhile battle."
"Not a single battle?" the Illurian waved his trunks in indignation. "What about the fight for the planet of green sunsets? And the bout in the blue dwarf's asteroid belt? And that wonderful skirmish at—"
"Exactly," the Baraconian interrupted. "Exactly. All those were little more than skirmishes, where your people won only through sheer numbers. I was talking about real battles that required not only huge muscles but also some brainpower. I mean our victory at Batarloo, the crushing defeat you were dealt at Koschen, the breakthrough of the famous Murlan Ring, and—"
"I think we came here for a reason other than arguing over ancient battles only remembered by historians," The Zammanian reminded the others dispassionately.
At that, one of his five arms, probably the primary one, judging by its longer fingers, stroked the mane growing around his thin neck thoughtfully. The other four hands were hanging freely around his body, almost reaching the floor.
Michael knew that in the body language of the denizens of Zamman this indicated a readiness to engage in important negotiations.
Important negotiations. It seemed these three really did need something from him. But what? And on what terms?
"Right," Apollonius perked up. "You came here for another reason. So why don't we get to it?"
"First it would be polite to offer our guest a seat," the Illurian reminded them.
Michael, who'd been standing by the door and listening to that conversation all this time, snorted.
It seemed these aliens were indeed here on important business. And he was starting to guess which one.
The Illurian's trunks were moving again, the Baraconian's antennae shifted, the Zammanian's fifth hand now studying the curvature of his left ear. Apollonius leapt to his feet and cordially indicated one of the available chairs.
"Please, take a seat. We have important business to discuss."
Michael sat and said, "You called these gentlemen when you stepped out to get the sewing kit."
It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes, that is true," Apollonius admitted remorsefully. "But I had to do it. I had to. We couldn't miss such a fortuitous chance."
"We?"
"Yes, everyone gathered here. We… hmm… are sort of like an unofficial council of the Alien Quarter. Well, you see… there's the official committee that has usurped its authority, and there are… hmm… us. Us four."
"Oh! You're a resistance then."
"What?"
"On Earth of the past, your committee of four would be called a resistance."
The Zammanian's fifth hand was now stroking his forehead, which equated to an embarrassed smile.
"'Committee' is too strong a word for this," he said. "For now we've limited ourselves to theories and arguments. For now. I think now we can move on to action."
"In order words," Michael said cheerfully. "You're planning on hiring me to engage in that action, while you continue… hmm… commanding and engaging in theoretical arguments."
"Pretty much," the Zammanian said dispassionately. "You seem to have grasped the issue."
"I have. But didn't Apollonius tell you that I have no intention of taking part in this?"
"He did."
The Zammanian placed his fifth hand on the table. That indicated a readiness to make a good offer. Looks like the committee has annoyed nearly everyone in the Alien Quarter, Michael thought. If I reject this quartet's offer, rumors of this behavior will spread throughout the quarter. A local refusing lots of money. Sooner or later, the rumor will reach the Ragnites. At that point they will know for certain that I was the one who taught the four committee members a lesson in manners. But I can't agree to it either. I just don't have the time. I need to find the thing Haka stole and get off the planet. Assuming it's possible, of course.
But the aliens in this room were right about one thing. They were amateurs, while he was a professional. For them, in order to deal with the committee, they'd have to accomplish a great feat, overcome their own habits, become someone else. To him it was just work.
But he couldn't. At least at the moment. That meant they'd have to do everything on their own. Then again…
Michael thought about the satisfaction he'd feel if he kicked that damned committee out of the Alien Quarter. They'd leave, very quickly, and wouldn't dare to come back. But time…
Maybe ten to twelve hours. At the moment, losing so much time was unforgiveable. Which meant…
"But you haven't yet heard our terms," the Zammanian said. "You may accept or refuse, but you will lose nothing by listening. Nothing at all."
Except time, Michael nearly said out loud. Time. The most valuable thing I have right now. The xenobotanist. I could've been at his place half an hour ago. Why couldn't I have gone to him five minutes earlier or later?
"He's thinking about something else," the Illurian said in alarm. "He's not interested in our offer."
"It's all right," the Zammanian said. "Once we name the sum we're offering, his attention will return."
He shouldn't have said that.
Michael started getting angry.
It seemed these guys thought that they could buy anything. No way, some things needed to be done on their own. Even when one had a thick wallet. They didn't understand that yet. He'd have to explain it to them.
"And what sum is that?" Brado asked in as casual a voice as he could. The Zammanian named the figure. Michael shook his head.
The sum was indeed impressive. It seemed the committee had indeed gotten entirely out of hand.
"Do you accept?" the Baraconian asked carefully.
"Don't interrupt him," the Zammanian said. "Let him think about what this money could do, what he might buy with it."
Michael grimaced.
Some tempters they were. Did they really think he was an idiot? Should he tell them to go screw themselves?
The four aliens were staring at him with bated breath.
A minute passed.
"He's about to accept," the Baraconian proclaimed. "He's almost ready."
Then Michael leapt to his feet. He walked across the room, reached one column, stood there for a few seconds, examining its awkward curvature, then turned and said with a fierce smile, "Nah, it won't work."
"Why? Why won't it work?" the Baraconian asked.
"It just won't. It's simple. Because you have to be the ones to get rid of the committee. Only you."
"But why?" the Baraconian repeated.
"To prevent pests like that from coming here again. Because if I got rid of them today, tomorrow you'd have a new committee. And it would probably be even worse. You need to do it yourselves. And make sure everyone knows about it. It will be the only guarantee of your safety."
The Illurian and the Baraconian exchanged glances. The Zammanian was drawing figure eights on the table with the index finger of his right hand. Apollonius asked, "But how can we do that?"
"The way it used to be done in distant past on Earth. The way it used to be done on this planet only a few decades ago. It's called a lynching."
"A lynching?"
"Yes. A lynching is a terrible thing that is utterly unacceptable in a civilized society. But only in a civilized society. The committee has managed to lower you to the level of savages. Now the only remaining means of fighting them is mob justice. Lynching. Think about it. How did they get on top?"
"How?"
"Very simply. Are you really afraid of a dozen scumbags roaming your quarter, bullying you, and extorting you for money? No, you're afraid of something else. Anonymity. Because as soon as one of you resists, they will inevitably exact revenge. Anonymously, of course. Their house might suddenly catch on fire, or some unknown individual might beat up their car in the night. Hell, some unknown attackers might beat them up on the street. That's the committee's weapon: anonymity. The only way to fight it is to use it against them."
"Beat up their cars and set their houses on fire?" the Illurian inquired.
"No, that wouldn't help," Michael said. "Only a lynching. No guerilla tactics. Only an open attack."
"But what does anonymity have to do with it?" Apollonius asked.
"There's nothing more anonymous than a crowd. The bigger, the better. All of you need to come out. It's how it used to be done on Earth. The lynchers would wear robes concealing their figures and large hoods hiding their faces. In that case, a lynching could be conducted not only at night, but in daytime as well. But you don't actually have to hang anyone. You just need to frighten the committee. When they see the entire Alien Quarter rise up against them, they'll be out of here like the wind. All such scumbags are cowards."
It seemed that the aliens liked the idea that they didn't have to hang the committee members. Indeed. They weren't big fans of hangings. But frightening someone…
It's all right, Michael thought coolly. They just need to get started. And then maybe they can do more.
"Still, we'd prefer that you rid us of this calamity," the Zammanian said forcefully. "We can even increase the reward somewhat."
"No, you're going to have to do it on your own," Michael shook his head.
"Is that your final decision?"
"It is."
"Then," the Zammanian sighed and continued, "we will indeed have to resort to this lynching thing."
"It will be the smarter option," Michael said. "But now I must go. I have business to attend to."
Thanking Apollonius once more, he left the house. As he shut the door, he heard the Illurian's voice, "Are we really going to have to resort to lynching?"
The Zammanian replied, "I don't see another option. That young Abausian is right about one thing…"
Heading for the gate, Michael thought that the seed he'd planted ended up in fertile soil. It might even sprout. The sooner, the better.
What worried him was the fact that the fight had taken place so close to the professor's home. The Ragnites were likely already aware of it. How difficult would it be for them to search the houses near the place? They probably would do that. But later. Maybe that very night.
Unless the four conspirators decide to convince the inhabitants of the Alien Quarter to do the lynching. If they succeed… If they have the resolve… Well then, the committee members will have other things on their minds than following the orders of their masters. Like saving their lives.
Maybe running into Apollonius was one of those unexpectedly fortuitous events.
Brado came out onto the street and, keeping his hand in the pocket with the unigun, went towards the xenobotanist's house.
The street was deserted. The Alien Quarter was frozen, almost dead. The quiet before the storm.
Michael wanted to hope that was the case. He needed a storm because it muddied the water. And it was easier for a small fish like him to hide in muddied water.
Then again, he thought. Maybe it's just wishful thinking. Maybe the four conspirators will only have enough resolve to remember a few dozen battles their ancestors fought and argue over them.
He ended up reaching the xenobotanist's building without an incident.
The street was still deserted. Realizing that walking around the Alien Quarter in the guise of an Abausian was now dangerous, Michael paused in front of the door and changed his face.
Now he looked like an Adalidan, the native of a small planet located far from Earth. Adalidians looked very much like Humans, except for a tiny third eye on their foreheads. Fortunately, that third eye was a non-functional vestigial organ. Even a plastisymbiote couldn't create an actual functional eye.
The xenobotanist lived in a three-story apartment building. While walking up the stairs to the third floor, Michael passed several doors. A passionate argument in an alien language was taking place through one of them. Through another he heard the voice of a holonews anchor, "…The chief centurion informed the reporters that the bloodthirsty monster that has managed to make its way to our planet will be stopped. There will be no more murders. In less than a day, the Human guilty of multiple crimes will face the just and merciless justice of our planet. Multiple requests have arrived to the chief centurion from those wishing to personally put the hemp necktie onto that…"
While continuing to make its way to the third floor, the "bloodthirsty monster" chuckled.
Going to have to keep waiting for that, Michael thought. I'm definitely not going to let the centurions take me alive.
Finally he found himself facing a blue bioplastic door with a neat sign on it, "Highborn birom of xenobotany Zarul Bararum. Planet Ch'mara."
I hope he's home, Michael thought, pressing the doorbell.
The professor was indeed a native of Ch'mara. The translucent elytra indicated his venerable age, while the antennae overgrown with blue moss spoke of his highborn status.
"How may I be of assistance?" Zarul Bararum buzzed politely.
Michael respectfully got down on all fours and sniffed all of the professor's six legs. It was the common greeting on Adalida.
Damn, he cursed himself. Why did I choose the appearance of an Adalidan? Forgot their customs. But what's done is done. If I'm an Adalidan, then I have to behave like one.
Lifting his elytra in a gesture of politeness, the birom once again inquired what his visitor wanted.
Getting back up, Michael pulled out the leaf he'd found in Haka's room.
"You're considered to be one of the leading specialists in the field of xenobotany," he said respectfully. "That's why I decided to come to you. I'm very interested in this tree leaf. Would you be able to tell me what planet such trees are native to and what is special about them?"
The birom reached out his right grasping arm, took the leaf carefully, and examined it.
"This is not difficult," he said. "Not difficult at all. Please come in."
Based on the fact that the birom's elytra remained motionless, he was perfectly calm. It seemed the mysterious leaf was something quite ordinary and largely uninteresting to him.
Following the xenobotanist, Michael walked into an office that was perfectly clean and organized. Michael sniffed the air. There were multiple odors in it, most of them pleasant, but a some were sharp, heavy, and unpleasant.
The smell of alien plants.
Well, yeah, that was what Zarul Bararum worked with.
Meanwhile, the xenobotanist sat into a soft chair by the table that immediately shaped itself around him, picked up a thick book, and flipped through it.
Michael froze.
He was about to learn what leaf it was and why it had been so valuable to Haka. Maybe the xenobotanist would finally give him a clue to figure out the Betulian's mystery.
"Leaf of old margaron…" the xenobotanist muttered. "No… What about this? Silent blodnosic, double-flowering… No, not that either…"
Flipping through a dozen more pages, he buzzed in satisfaction. Then he picked up the leaf and compared it to the picture in the book.
"Did you find it?" Michael asked.
"I did. The leaf of the sharafey tree. One of the most common trees on a planet called Fostera. It bears fruit annually, the pods look like those of Earth's acacia. They're inedible. The tree is known for its strength of wood. Fosterans can process the leaves into an alcoholic beverage. Some tribes consider it a sacred tree, but that belief has largely disappeared in the age of spaceflight. That is all."
"All?" Michael asked, crestfallen. He felt like a child that had spent a long time opening a wrapped box, anticipating a fun toy inside it. But there turned out to be nothing inside. Or almost nothing.
"What did you expect? Sure, if we search some more, we might learn a few other details about the tree. But that will take time, maybe five or six hours. If you like, I can conduct such research. But then you're going to have to pay me and explain your interest in this leaf of a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable tree."
"No, what you've told me is enough," Michael said hurriedly. "I'm just passing through here and will be leaving the planet in a few hours."
"In that case," the xenobotanist spread his grasping arms, "I can't help you."
Michael thanked him, and the professor walked him to the door.
Finding himself on the staircase, Brado nearly cursed out loud.
So much running, effort, and all for nothing. The sharafey leaf had turned out to be anything but the clue he needed.
Just an ordinary tree. Nothing special. A plant that grows almost everywhere on Fostera.
Clearly Haka had picked up the leaf during his last visit to Fostera. Liking the pretty leaf, the Betulian had decided to keep it. That was all there was to it.
Or maybe it was a clue after all. Maybe he just hadn't figured out how to use it.
All right, let's say it is, Michael thought. I still need to figure out this mystery. And how long will I still have to run around the city, evading enemies? Time. It's slipping through my fingers like water. Maybe I need to sneak back into the hotel and look over Haka's room again. Obviously, centurions have already been there. Probably posted a guard there. But it's an obstacle that can be overcome. As long as I had the certainty that I was on the right path.
He walked out of the building, glanced across the street and… jerked.
A Sniffer stood there.
Upon seeing Michael, the Sniffer did something like a half-bow and smiled.
Michael thought it was the smile of death.