Primary Inversion (2 page)

      
My node thought,
I am releasing a drug to inhibit the action of psiamine on the neurons in the para centers of your brain, including attachment to P1 receptors. Inhibition will continue until external input drops below your default safety tolerances.

      
Can’t you just say you’re blocking them?
I grumbled.

      
I am blocking them,
it obliged.

      
The onslaught of fear receded. As my shoulders relaxed, I thought,
Procedure verified. Switch to Brief mode.

      
Brief mode entered.

      
I glanced around. Taas was standing next to me, staring at the students. Their fear radiated off him like heat from a red-hot ingot.

      
“Shut them out,” I said softly.

      
He didn’t move. He seemed mesmerized.

      
“That’s an order, Quaternary,” I said. “Initiate blocking.”

      
Taas jerked. Then he closed his eyes. After a moment he looked at me.

      
“You all right?” I asked.

      
“Yes.” He winced. “They caught me off guard.”

      
“Me too,” I admitted.

      
Rex glanced from me to Taas. Then he glanced at the students, and I felt him block their input. Although I couldn’t pick up Helda as easily, her brief glazed look told me she had accessed her node. None of them took more than an instant; apparently their nodes weren’t harassing them with verification procedures. Well, maybe harassing wasn’t a fair word. I was the one who had told it to warn me when too long went by without a check.

      
“I don’t know why I slipped up like that,” Taas said.

      
“It’s this blasted nervoplex.” I motioned at the boardwalk. “It’s like a mood enhancer.” Taas and I were more sensitive to the effect, he as the least experienced member of the squad, and I as the strongest empath.

      
Helda frowned at the students. “Why are they so upset? What they think we do to them?”

      
“I get tired of evoking that reaction,” Rex said. He pushed his hand through his hair, mussing up the black locks. No, not just black. More white showed at his temples every day.

      
But what was this? Why did Taas have that odd smile? “What’s so funny?” I asked.

      
He flushed. “Ma’am?”

      
“Why are you grinning?”

      
He immediately stopped smiling. “Nothing, ma’am.”

      
I laughed. “Taas, you don’t need to say ma’am.” In a group as tightly knit as ours, we let the formalities drop. “What’s funny?”

      
“That boy had, uh, a different reaction to you than he did to the rest of us.”

      
“Different?” I blinked. “How?”

      
“He thinks you’re—uh…”

      
I waited. “Yes?”

      
Taas reddened. “He thinks you’re sexy.”

      
For flaming sake. “I’m old enough to be his mother!”

      
Helda laughed. “But you look like a youngster, Soz.”

      
“I do not.” In truth, she wasn’t the first to tell me that.

      
Rex grinned, and I felt Taas relax. Our group tension trickled away. As Rex started to speak, his gaze shifted over my shoulder—and his smile disappeared like a door slamming shut. Puzzled, I turned to look.

      
Traders.

      
My good mood vaporized. Of course they didn’t call themselves Traders. They were Eubians, members of the euphemistically named Eubian Concord. Five of them had invaded the boardwalk, all in grey military uniforms with blue piping on the trousers and crimson braid on the sleeves. Although it was hard to see their faces from this far away, I didn’t think any had the red eyes of an Aristo. One did have an Aristo’s finely chiseled features, the black hair, even the arrogant stance. And his hair glinted. But it didn’t have that liquid shimmering quality so distinctive of an Aristo. He was probably some Aristo’s by-blow—which made him no less dangerous to us.

      
They stared at us across the Arcade as if they had discovered slime oozing over the nervoplex. The crowds continued about their business, bustling between our group and the Traders, blissfully oblivious to the tension.

      
An odd fear grabbed me, one with a nurturing intensity, which certainly didn’t match the Traders. Looking around, I saw a woman hurrying several children away from us. She glanced at the Eubians, then at us, and then urged her charges to speed up. The smallest boy balked, trying to head for a stall where sugar candles hung on a wire, dripping sugar confections instead of wax. The woman pulled him away, ignoring his loud protests as she sped him through the crowd. I didn’t blame her. If I were a civilian who had seen four Jagernauts and five Eubian military officers in the same place, I would have laid fast tracks out of there, too.

      
Taas scowled at the Traders. “They can’t just come here and walk around.”

      
“What, you want them to get a license?” Helda asked. “We’re harmonizing, remember?”

      
“They could be spying,” Taas offered.

      
Rex was watching me. “What’s wrong?”

      
“That tall one,” I said. “He looks like Tarque.”

      
Rex stiffened. “Tarque is dead.”

      
Long dead. Ten years dead. I had killed him.

      
“Who is Tarque?” Helda asked. “It sounds Aristo.”

      
Somehow I kept my voice steady. “It is.”

      
Rex nudged my mind. After years of working together, he and I were close enough that I could catch his thoughts if he directed them at me with enough force.

      
Are you all right?
he asked.

      
I took a breath, struggling to keep my pulse steady.
Yes.

      
Helda was watching me. “Where you know this Tarque?”

      
“I went undercover on Tams Station ten years ago,” I said.

      
“Tams?” Taas asked. “You mean the Trader planet?”

      
I nodded. “I got—caught.”

      
“They broke your cover?” he asked.

      
“No. I don’t mean that way.” It was a moment before I could continue. “Ten years ago the Traders installed an Aristo governor on Tams, a man named Kryx Tarque. His people were making sweeps through the cities, selecting taskmakers to serve in his estates.” Taskmaker was the generic name Aristos used for most of their slaves, which as far as they were concerned included everyone in the universe who wasn’t an Aristo. “I got caught in a sweep.”

      
Taas stared at me. “You’ve been a Trader server?”

      
“No.” I spoke with a calmness I didn’t feel. “A provider.”

      
Taas blanched, and Helda’s muscles bunched up along her shoulders.
Provider.
It was one of the ugliest Aristo euphemisms.

      
Helda rolled her shoulders like a fighter easing out knotted muscles. “How you escape?”

      
I shook my head. I couldn’t talk about it. Across the Arcade, the Traders were talking among themselves, probably discussing the outrage our being allowed to walk on the same boardwalk as them.

      
Taas spoke awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Primary Valdoria. About Tams.”

      
I tried to smile. “Call me Soz, all right?” I had told him that so many times I had lost count.

      
He reddened. “Yes, ma’am.”

      
Helda’s thought brushed my mind, far weaker than I had felt from Rex:
I also am sorry.
Then, more lightly:
Give Taas time. You scare the bejeebs out of him.

      
Hey!
Taas thought.
I caught that.
He glared at her.
I have no bejeebs. Whatever they are.

      
Rex sent them a mental grin.
That’s because Soz scared them all off.

      
I tried to smile, knowing they meant to diffuse the tension. And I should be pleased; it was the first time Taas had succeeded in joining our link without help from our ships. But I couldn’t stop staring at the Traders. They had started to walk, keeping watch on us as they receded into the crowds.

      
“Looks like we bore them,” Helda said.

      
Taas shifted his feet back and forth like a ball player waiting for his opponent to make a move. “We can’t let them walk away.”

      
“What justification would you give for anything else?” I asked.

      
“They’re Traders,” Taas said. “Isn’t that enough?”

      
I tilted my head toward the Allied police officers who had gathered in the area, their blue and silver uniforms easy to spot among the crowds. “I doubt they would agree.”

      
Taas scowled. “If it wasn’t for us, the Traders would have long ago taken over their Allied Worlds. They should be grateful we’re here.”

      
I smiled slightly. “If it wasn’t for the Traders keeping us occupied, we might have long ago taken over their Allied Worlds.”

      
Taas’s forehead creased. “Don’t you hate the Traders?” He hesitated. “Especially after—”

      
“Brawling in the street won’t serve any purpose,” I said. “It also happens to be illegal here.”

      
Helda shrugged at Taas. “We have better ways to occupy our time, Hoiya. I would like a drink, myself.”

      
I had never quite figured out what
Hoiya
meant in Helda’s language, but I thought it was something like “sweet young one.” Taas had yet to realize it was more than a nonsense word she threw into her sentences. It was going to be entertaining to see her explain herself when he realized she was calling him a sweet boy.

      
Rex smirked. “Heya, Helda, Hoiya, you want to get drunk?”

      
“Hoiya yourself,” Helda grumbled. Then she grinned. “Maybe a few drinks, heh?”

      
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said. A strong drink, the kind that obliterated memories.

#

Night had been pressing down on the sunset for over an hour, darkening the reddish-purple streak of sky along the horizon. A full day here lasted sixty-two hours, and the sunset clung to the sky as if it resisted giving up the light. Clouds streaked the horizon, their lower edges rimmed with a brilliant pink that deepened as the sunset withdrew behind the Arcade roofs. The heavens overhead had turned a deep violet. The Delos sun emitted more purple light than most human habitable planets, and the thin atmosphere scattered it less, giving the sky a purple tinge even here at sea level.

      
The Arcade was even more crowded now, as people took advantage of the respite from the heat. With thirty hours of sunlight, the temperature heated up a great deal during the day. It was more comfortable for humans in the evening, as the day cooled down.

      
We walked along a line of bars. Their holosigns lit up the dusk: a shocking pink flower glowing over a door, gilded insects flying in ellipses, a cluster of blue-green planets orbiting a blue giant star that could never really support such a solar system. Hologram screens sided most of the bars, spawning holos everywhere: poles of light rotated between buildings, swirling with gaudy purple and red stripes; luminous arches spanned the roofs; scampering animals sparked and popped like firecrackers as they ran up walls or morphed into different species.

      
Music jangled, raucous tunes mixing with seductive melodies. Sounds jumped out as we approached their sources and receded into the general buzz after we passed. Hawkers called out from doorways in a slew of languages. The ones I understood were trying to entice customers with promises of liquor and smoke-sticks, and seeds of the oilweed plant that set you to dreaming or to making love for hours. The smell of cooking meat and spices saturated the air.

      
I couldn’t read most of the holosigns. Finally I pulled down a translation menu in my mind and overlaid it on an elegant sign that said “Constantinides.”

      
Translate,
I thought.

      
Greek,
my node answered.
Translation: Constantinides.

      
“Well, that helps a lot,” I said.

      
“Where you want to go?” Helda asked.

      
I pointed to a rusty building. One pole topped its roof, with a few desultory circles that clanked in the wind. The holosign above the door was in English, the only language I had seen so far that I could even marginally read without a translator.

      
“Jack’s Place,” I said.

      
Rex peered at the bar. “It sounds vintage Earth.”

      
Helda snorted. “It look vintage wreck.”
 
      
“Come on, Helda.” Rex laughed. “Be brave.”

      
“Why you want to go to this place?” she demanded.

      
“Because,” Rex said. “It looks like it has authentic old Earth atmosphere.”

      
“This is good thing to have?” Helda asked.

      
I smiled, in a better mood than earlier. “Let’s give it a try and see.”

      
So we went inside, pushing open the door under the sign. Tables covered by red and white checked cloths filled the room. A counter stretched along one wall, its black top pitted with age. Stools lined the counter, each upholstered in a red material that shone from use. A man with stains on the white apron tied across his big stomach stood behind the counter, polishing a glass. A band was playing on a small stage in one corner. The instruments were unfamiliar: hourglass shaped boxes with strings pulled tight, gold horns with handles that moved in and out, and fat drums. The music had a compelling rhythm, a sensual blend of sound that made me want to dance with the young man who was singing. Garish cartoon holos flickered in front of panels that lined the stage.