Symbiote: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
III
Alan Westover entered the small office and Mark Linley followed. A short, thin-faced man was seated behind the registration desk, his heels resting on the counter. He swung his feet to the floor and rose as they entered.
"'Lo there." An ingratiating smile revealed a gap where his front teeth should have been and a thick layer of reddish whiskers coated the pointed chin. A white scar that could only have been caused by a broken bottle reached from jawline to temple. "Can I help you gents?"
Mark stepped up to the counter. "We need a room."
"Certainly sir. Fer how long?"
"We ain't sure. At least a week."
"Okay." The man dug in a drawer of the desk and produced a small key. "Here you go, sir." He flipped open a tattered book. "Sign here, please."
Linley scribbled a name in the indicated space. Looking around at the small, dingy room, Alan wondered at the primitive arrangements. Never before in his life had he been in any motel where such things were handled by anything but a computer. The Jilectans certainly didn't believe in wasting such luxuries on the lower species, he surmised. Chances were that the humans of Shallock never became aware of the nicer amenities of life at all unless they somehow managed to leave the planet.
The man examined Linley's signature. "That'll be fifty credits fer a week, Mr. Lawrence. Payment in advance."
Alan opened his wallet and placed credits on the counter. Mark picked up the key. "Which room?"
"Eighteen. Upstairs, third door on the right."
"Thanks." Mark strode across the grimy lobby toward the stairs. Alan fell in behind him, hurrying to stay apace with him. They went up a bare, uncarpeted stairway, down a short, dim hallway and found their room. Linley pushed open the door and entered.
It was a small, untidy bedroom, illuminated by a single light cell embedded in the ceiling. In the far corner was a battered, filthy stove and a pair of cots were crammed together against one wall. Mark dumped the suitcase on one and scowled at Alan.
"You shouldn'ta paid him so quick. Guys dressed like you don't usually go walkin' around with fifty credits in their pockets."
Alan felt his face grow warm. "I'm sorry. What should I have done?"
"I was gonna haggle a bit -- get the price down some."
"I wish you'd told me," Alan said, a note of annoyance in his voice.
Linley shrugged. "I keep forgettin' how green you are. Don't worry about it. Listen, let's go sell this stuff an' get us some decent clothes."
Alan glanced resentfully at him and Mark grinned. "Sorry, kiddo. I shouldn'ta jumped you like that. Your heart's in the right place. Look, after this you let me do the talkin' 'til you learn the ropes."
Alan relaxed. It was impossible to remain angry with Mark for very long. "Okay. I'm sorry to be so dumb. I'll try my best -- honest."
Mark slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Sure, I know. Don't take me too seriously. I been in the Patrol ten years; remember? It's gonna take a while before I can learn to be a person again. Listen; you siddown an' rest that foot. I'll unpack."
Alan obeyed, watching Linley as he opened the suitcase and removed their meagre belongings. He rubbed his ankle. "I'm hungry."
"Me too. After we sell this stuff, we'll see about gettin' some dinner." Linley placed the Riskellian moonwine on the cot and tossed the little package of jewels over beside it. "Lessee ... better find somethin' t'carry the loot in." He shoved the jewels into his pants pocket and went into the bathroom. There was a clinking sound, and a moment later he emerged, a paper bag in one hand. "Left by the room's previous occupants. I dumped the beer bottles in the trash." He picked up the wine, placing it gently in the bag. "How's the ankle feelin'?"
"Okay," Alan said, untruthfully. Linley surveyed the swollen member, colored every hue of the rainbow, and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Sure it is. Feels about like my shoulder, I'll bet. Listen, let's go get the work done; then we can have a nice, relaxed dinner. You'll feel better then. That's a promise."
Alan stood up. "Okay. Want me to carry the wine?"
Linley looked dubious and finally nodded. "Yeah, I guess you better, since I'll hafta handle the strong arm stuff if anybody bothers us. Hold it against you -- both hands -- and if anybody looks at you crossways, yell. All right?"
"Sure." Alan picked up the bag. Linley opened the door for him and they went out, locking it securely behind them.
The shop where they were to sell the goods was a small, hole-in-the-wall establishment, six blocks from their motel. A peeling sign above the door announced ANDY'S ODDITIES. Mark ushered him through and followed, his hand near the butt of his blaster. A woman was seated behind the counter as they entered, and Andy's Oddities proved to be a large, surprisingly well-lighted room with neatly arranged goods lining shelves, walls, and even dangling from the ceiling.
The woman stood up. She was a Terran, approaching middle age, and immensely fat. A red handkerchief bound her brown, kinky hair back from her forehead. White, milky teeth gleamed in a smile. "Hello, gentlemen. Can I help you?"
Mark stepped forward. "Yes'm, I think you can. We're lookin' for some Ceregon borra-liqueur, but it must be of the Grebbar Clan. I was told there was one bottle left."
The woman never blinked. She turned matter-of-factly and pressed a button beneath the counter. "Browse around, gentlemen. He'll be here in a minute."
Mark turned away, whistling softly. Alan stayed close beside him, glancing nervously at the many customers milling around them. A tall, black-clad figure entered the room as he watched, and the customers fell back. The patrolman, a sergeant by the insignia on his helmet, removed the headgear and wiped his forehead. Another patrolman entered behind him. Alan's heart climbed into his throat and remained there. He felt Mark's hand beneath his elbow, turning him discreetly away from the men.
"Easy." Linley's low voice was steady and perfectly calm. "'Trols come in here all the time. They ain't lookin' for us."
Alan swallowed, trying to calm his heartbeats. A Procyon appeared beside Linley, his round, expressionless eyes sweeping his face and figure. He chirruped softly and spoke. "Come with me, Mark."
They followed the alien through a small side door, into a large, handsome kitchen. The creature waved them to chairs.
"Pleashe be sheated, gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying the soft, slurred sibilants of his species. "I am very happy to shee you unharmed, Mark. The newsh came out twelve hoursh ago ..." He gave a soft chirrup. "Mosht intereshting. The reportsh were that you were a prishoner of thish wicked, degenerate pshychic. Shtrange -- you do not look like a prishoner."
Linley chuckled.
"In fact, from the way you two are behaving, I would guesh that you are rather good friendsh. Hash thish wicked boy brainwashed you, Shtrike Commander Linley?"
"You might say that." Mark chuckled again. "I was wonderin' what story they'd come up with t'explain that business."
Two feathery appendages on the Procyon's head lifted slightly and he made a peculiar cackling sound. "I am mosht glad you have come to me, Mark. Do you have a plashe to shtay? You are mosht welcome to --"
"No, that's all right, Ch'Andeel," Mark said. "Lemme introduce you to my good pal, Alan Westover, who's saved my life twice in three days."
The Procyon inclined his head slightly, the feathers lifting again. "How do you do, Alan? I am mosht happy to make your acquaintanshe, and to congratulate you on your hishtoric deed."
"More historic than you think," Linley interjected. "I saw it. He outdrew the so-and-so. Saved my life."
Ch'Andeel's eyes widened slightly. "A mosht laudable action, Alan. Do, pleashe, be sheated, and tell me what I can do for you."
Mark sat down before the large, round table, and Alan seated himself uneasily beside him. Ch'Andeel turned to the stove, and lifted an ornate silver coffeepot in his taloned, three-digited hand. "Here you are. Coffee, Alan?"
Alan nodded and watched the alien pour steaming liquid into thick, clay mugs. The creature turned, holding the containers dexterously in his clawed fingers, and set them on the tabletop before his visitors. Alan caught Linley's glance and took the paper bag from his lap, setting it in the center of the table. The large, round eyes of the Procyon blinked once.
"What ish that?"
"Good stuff," Mark said. He reached into the bag, taking out the wine. "I thoughtcha might be interested."
Ch'Andeel picked up one of the bottles, examining the labels closely, and then looked at Mark. "Ish thish the genuine article?"
"Taste it," Mark said.
The Procyon poured some into a cup and downed it in a single gulp. He made a soft, chirruping sound, his eyes closing. "It ish indeed, and I shee by the label that it ish ten yearsh old. An exshellent vintage. You are shelling thish?"
"Yep," Mark said.
"I will give you fifty creditsh for the full bottle and thirty for thish one. Do you conshider that a fair prishe?"
Mark looked thoughtful. "You must, of course, make a profit, Ch'Andeel, but I was thinkin' more in the line o' ninety for the full bottle an' seventy for the other."
The Procyon regarded him steadily for a moment. "Sheventy for the full bottle and forty-five for thish one."
"Done." Mark took a big swallow from his coffee cup. "It's a pleasure doin' business with you." He reached in his pocket and removed the knotted handkerchief. "And now, my friend, what will you give us for these rare an' precious items?" He untied the knot, dumping the contents onto the table. Ch'Andeel gave a surprised chirp.
"Jewelsh!" The Procyon reached out a taloned hand, allowing the chains to trickle through his fingers. He chirped softly to himself. "They are magnificent!" He drew a small device from his pocket and held it over the items, watching the readout that flickered across the tiny screen. "They are genuine; no doubt of that. Rubiesh and tani cryshtalsh ..." His voice trailed off. "Thish ish Jilectan work ..."
Mark didn't speak and Alan watched as Ch'Andeel examined the articles again. "Three platinum chainsh encrusted with rubiesh and one gold chain with rubiesh and tani-crystalsh. Very impreshive. I will give you three thoushand creditsh for the lot ..."
Again the haggling began, closing at five thousand, two hundred credits. Alan listened in awe and admiration.
"You have other itemsh?" Ch'Andeel inquired, hopefully.
"Not with us," Mark replied, "but we can get the rest without any trouble. Wouldja be interested, my friend?"
The round, dark eyes of the Procyon glowed. "Indeed I would. You will, then, be shtaying in the area?"
"If we can find work here," Mark informed him. "Our supplies won't last forever. We'll hafta have a more steady income if we're gonna stick around Knitsmye."
Ch'Andeel chirruped again. "There ish a poshibility ..." He paused. "I am in need of a pilot, but ..." Again, he paused.
"But what?" Alan prompted. Mark's elbow nudged him in the ribs.
"Well ... you musht be a bit indifferent to the legalitiesh if you are to perform thish job, and becaushe of thish there ish a shertain element of rishk. Would you be intereshted?"
"Possibly," Mark said.
Ch'Andeel obviously took this reply to mean yes. He chirped again in a satisfied way. "That ish exchellent. In the morning, I will have a ship awaiting you. There ish a cargo which musht be picked up shoon ..."
Dusk was settling as they emerged from the shop, and a light rain was falling. Mark patted his wallet and grinned at Alan. "Old Ch'Andeel an' me go way back. He's a good guy, an he hates the Jils with a dull passion. We can trust him."
"I liked him," Alan said.
"That's good. You're good at judgin' character -- goes along with the rest o' your degenerate talents. Makes me at ease knowin' you liked him -- that the vibes were good. Look; let's get to a discount store an' buy you some decent clothes; then we can eat. Okay?"
"Sure."
They came at last to a large, garishly lighted shop that advertised discount purchases of all types. Among the clothing for juniors, they found a pair of pants and a dark shirt for Alan. The pants were a trifle long and loose in the waist, but he turned them up and tightened Linley's belt. Shoes were harder to come by, but finally they discovered a well-worn pair on a rack in the corner. They fit moderately well, and Mark surveyed him approvingly. "You look a lot more respectable. Ready for some dinner?"
"And how!"
"Me, too. Feel like I'm wastin' away. C'mon. Let's pay for these things an' get goin'."
A plump, motherly woman clicked up the price of the clothing on an antique device that Alan assumed to be a cash register of some kind, although it bore no resemblance whatever to the ones he had seen on Terra, and paused to glance appraisingly at Alan.
"You look very nice, dear," she remarked. "Dy you an' your father go shoppin' together often?"
Alan stared at her in surprise. Good grief! She must think Mark was his father! It was a logical conclusion, he supposed, when you thought about it. He had looked very young in the loose clothing, and Mark, with the beginnings of a blond, curly mustache, appeared about thirty. And Linley was obviously the one in charge -- handling the money, and all.
Mark was grinning. "He's m'kid brother, lady, not my son."
"Oh?" Her eyebrows went up. "You don't look much alike."
"Our dads were different guys."
"Oh, I see." She smiled kindly at Alan. "You look much better, son. That'll be seven point six credits."
Mark paid her. "C'mon, kid, let's go."
They went out into the rain. It was coming down harder, now, and Alan wished for an umbrella. Skirting wet garbage, and giving a wide berth to dark alleyways, the two of them hurried along. The lights of their motel blinked yellow in the distance.
As they approached the entrance, a pair of dark figures detached themselves from the shadows. Linley drew his blaster, shoving Alan ahead of him toward the door. "Hold it!" he barked.
The men froze. Mark and Alan sidled toward the motel entrance, careful not to turn their backs. Linley pushed the door hastily open and they went through together, slamming it after them. The man behind the desk glanced up, his eyes widening as he saw the weapon.
"Whatcha want?" he demanded, his voice squeaking on the last word.
"Nothin'." Mark shoved the blaster into his shoulder holster. "We got followed by a couple o' guys on the way here. Sorry."
"Oh." The man relaxed, never glancing at the spot where the weapon had disappeared. Mark wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. "C'mon. Let's get somethin' to eat. I'm starved." He nodded to a sign above the door to an adjoining room that announced "The Shady Inn Coffee Shop". "Wanna trust it, or shall we go huntin' elsewhere?"
Alan shook his head. "I'm tired."
"Ankle's killin' you, I'll bet. You been limpin' bad ever since we left Andy's Oddities."
Alan hesitated, and then admitted it. "It hurts. You don't suppose it really *is* broken, do you?"
Linley shook his head. "You'd never a' made fifteen hellish kilometers on it today if it was. You just been usin' it too much."
They went into the café and found a corner booth. A waiter approached and Alan jumped. Gold scales glinted faintly in the room's lighting and a long, animal-like muzzle gave the face a curiously repulsive appearance. A large, reptilian crest adorned the scalp where hair would have been on a human. The creature was tall, its whole body covered with the shining scales. An Arcturian, he realized belatedly. He had seen one on Terra, years ago. The being's green, slit-pupiled eyes passed over him, and a four-digited hand dropped a menu before him. The alien turned away without a word.
Mark was studying the menu. "Man! I'm starvin'!" He glanced up at Alan. "What'sa matter?"
"Our waiter's an Arcturian. I ... well, I didn't expect ..."
Mark looked surprised. "I didn't notice. Ain'tcha ever seen a fish before?"
"Only one that I can remember, and it was years ago. They look kind of awful, don't they?"
"You get used to 'em." Mark frowned slightly, beginning to study the menu again. "Take it easy on 'em. I'm sure we look just as bad to them -- and besides, we resemble the Jils more'n any other species in the Sector -- not exactly a point in our favor."
Alan grinned. "I never thought about it that way."
"'Sides, the Jils give 'em a helluva hard time."
"Who? The Arcturians?"
"Yeah."
"Why? Aren't some of them in the Patrol?"
"Sure, a few. There were two or three on the 'Wolverine'. But they don't advance very fast -- an' not because they ain't dependable, either -- but because the Jils don't like 'em. Except for you, I'd rather have an Arcturian beside me in a tight spot than a Terran. The fish never lose their heads, no matter how bad the situation gets. They stay cool an' collected, at least on the outside."
"Why don't the Jils like them?"
Mark hesitated and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Nobody knows for sure. They're a weird species. They ain't reptiles; they're warm-blooded, in spite o' the scales, but they ain't mammals, either. I dunno whatcha'd call 'em. There's a rumor, an' nobody says it out loud, 'cause it's practically considered blasphemy. It's said, an' generally believed that the Jils can't read an Arcturian's mind. Their mental makeup is too different for telepathy to work. The Jils deny it, o' course -- it'd be admittin' a weakness. Jils, accordin' to 'emselves, can read the minds o' all the lower species. They can sure read us Terrans, o' course. Salthvor could pick anythin' he wanted outta me, an' they can read Procyons, too. I've heard tell that the owls are easier to read than Terrans. That might be why the Jils like 'em for servants. But I dunno about the poor Arcturians. The Jils won't discuss the subject, o' course, an' they treat the poor guys like hell."
The waiter was approaching again, his order pad held before him. "Haff you dessided, shentlemen?" The creature's voice held a sibilant quality.
"I'll have the sauteed marshhopper," Mark said, "an' a side o' pilaf."
The Arcturian glanced at Alan and for a moment those strange, slitted eyes locked with his. The pupils dilated slightly and the crest on the alien's head lifted. "What will you have, ssir?"
"The same," Alan said, trying to keep his voice normal. "And a glass of ice tea."
"Yess, ssir."
"An' bring us some Sepo brandy," Mark said.
"Of coursse, ssir." The alien collected the menus and turned away.
"Anyway ..." Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I *do* know that the fish -- that's Patrol slang for Arcturian, by the way -- have a helluva time advancin'. Only one I ever heard of got his commission -- Bonnar's his name, an' it's rumored that he's got friends in high places. Even he's had an awful time of it, though. He was a sublieutenant for nine years before he made lieutenant."
Alan glanced up with more respect as their waiter approached again and deposited a flask and two glasses on the table before them. Mark poured a reddish liquid into one of the glasses. "Here. This'll take the ouch outta that ankle."
He sipped cautiously. The brandy seemed to burst and evaporate in his mouth, and he gasped. Mark grinned, lifting his own glass. "To our new life o' crime."
Alan grinned too, lifting his own glass in return.
The waiter set their meals before them a few minutes later and Linley fell to with a will. Alan examined the small, red-hued chunks of meat, nestled in a bed of rice. "Marshhopper, huh?"
"Try it."
He took a bite. The meat was fork tender with a smoky, delicious flavor. "Hey! That's really good!"
"Even a place like this can't ruin a Shallockian marshhopper." Linley stuffed another bite into his mouth and took a swallow of brandy.
A young woman approached the table, her hips swinging. Alan felt himself flush as she rested her hands on the table and leaned forward, exposing a generous amount of cleavage. She was clad in a gauzy, tissue-thin, pink gown edged with black fringe. Even the most casual observer, he thought, could tell there was no bra beneath it. He found his gaze straying and forced his eyes to focus on her face. Dark, gleaming hair was piled high on her head, and her ears sparkled with inexpensive jewels. Mark took another swallow of brandy and glanced up. He sighed. "Hi there, baby."
"Hello, handsome. Need some company?"
Linley looked across the table at Alan. "You interested, kid? I'm too shot."
Alan felt the heat spreading up his neck and into his cheeks. The girl smiled invitingly, leaning farther forward. Her finger traced a path down the curve of his jaw. "You look sweet, honey." The finger moved softly down his neck. He cleared his throat, glancing desperately at Mark. Linley wasn't looking at him, apparently absorbed in his dinner. Alan coughed.
"Uh ... listen, I'm awfully tired, too. It's been a long day ..."
To his undying gratitude, Mark took pity on him. The big man looked up, grinning a little. "You're wastin' your time here, honey. Run along. Maybe tomorrow night."
"I'll remember that, handsome." She moved gracefully away toward a table in the corner. Mark's grin broadened as he looked at Alan's red face.
"I think she liked you, kid," he remarked casually.
Alan knocked his glass over and brandy cascaded across the grimy tablecloth. Linley blotted it up with his napkin. "Take it easy. Here, have some more." He refilled Alan's glass.
The girl, Alan noted, was now seated beside a large Terran at a corner table, and the man had his arm around her shoulders. Mark followed his gaze.
"It's the only way she's got t'make a livin," he said, apparently feeling that Alan needed an explanation. "There ain't much else she *can* do. They don't teach 'em nothin' in the orphanages, an' the Jils don't hire women, 'cept for nannies an' such. They don't let 'em in the Patrol, y'know."
"Oh." Alan took a swallow of brandy. "I never thought of that."
Linley shrugged. "Like I said before -- pretty standard for Shallock, and lotsa other planets in the Autonomy. The Jils don't care. Guess they don't tellya much about it on Terra, huh?" He took a last bite of his rice and marshhopper. "Man, that was great! I feel pretty good, now. You about finished?"
Alan nodded, scooping up the last of the rice. The warmth in his face was beginning to subside. "I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Me, too. Let's go up to our suite an' get some shuteye." He signaled the waiter for their check.
The Arcturian brought it promptly. "Zank you, ssir." His grass-green eyes looked steadily at Alan. "It hass been a great pleassure. I look forward to sserving you again."
"Thanks." Mark placed credits on the table, added a modest tip and stood up. Alan went with him out of the room.
Mark glanced at him as they mounted the stairs. "What'd you do to make him so friendly?"
"I don't know," Alan said, a little uneasily. "I thought maybe all Arcturians were that way."
"Not unless they like you. The fish don't talk much unless they think you're worth talkin' to. You impressed him, somehow, that's for sure."
**********
tbc
