Chapter 3
despite has more enemies than it can count. the true warrior knows but one.
—The Legend of Qu'u
The food preparer beeped and cycled into inactivity. Jackie opened the door and pulled out her dinner, moving it from the warming tray to the small table opposite. She pulled down a cold drink and opened it and settled down to her meal.
Eat, she told herself, after dawdling for a while. Never know when you might get another meal. She forced herself to work her way through the food, chewing but not really tasting what she'd prepared. It was comforting to realize that she was still thinking like a soldier, but it didn't do much for her appetite.
Four days out from Crossover, and her mind was still back there: with Noyes, with Ch'k'te . . . It was almost as if that place was a crossing-over of sorts, like the ferryboat across the River Styx.
You are too melodramatic, she thought to herself, toying with the food in front of her. Too many zor legends.
"Too much talking to myself," she said aloud, testing it, trying to see what her voice sounded like. It sounded despairing, desperate, alone. No faithful friend to advise her.
On the other hand, she thought, I still have my spirit-guide.
She'd felt uncomfortable trying to talk with Th'an'ya since leaving Crossover almost four days ago: The way it had all come about, as if it were planned . . . It almost placed Th'an'ya in the same category as whoever/whatever had manipulated Jackie into this quest. She didn't know whether it was true, but she did realize that she'd become damned lonely in this little ship hurtling through jump.
"Th'an'ya," she said out loud, and concentrated on the image of the zor female who cohabited her mind. She closed her eyes; when she opened them, an image of Th'an'ya had appeared across from her.
"I am here, se Jackie."
"I need to understand some things. I—I don't even know where to start, really . . ." She let the sentence drift off, not knowing what to say.
Th'an'ya spoke: "When I was a teacher at Sanctuary," Th'an'ya began, "when I still held the Outer Peace—I conducted a training course for Sensitives. We used a technique to analyze a situation by reviewing the events that had led up to that situation, called 'flying the path.' Perhaps you should consider this method, to try and see how we have reached this point; and it may help you to understand what you must know next."
"May I make a suggestion?"
Th'an'ya's wings adjusted themselves slightly to indicate faint amusement. "Of course."
"You should 'fly the path.' Review for me how you—how we—reached this sun. I think I might find that useful."
"As you wish." She resettled her wings, assuming a more deferential posture. "It is appropriate to locate the event most distant from the present which bears directly on the current situation. That event, I think, would be a dream I had, nearly twelve turns ago."
"Twelve turns?"
"I was living on A'aen at the time." Th'an'ya laid her clawed hands on the table and looked down at them. "You know that I had gone to Sanctuary when my Sensitive powers began to manifest themselves. Once I gained full control, the Master of Sanctuary, se Byar HeShri, offered me a position as a guide and instructor there. For nearly two eights of turns I worked either at Sanctuary or on loan to one or another Nest, but at last I decided that I needed a change of scenery. With Byar's permission, I went to A'aen as a gardener."
"A gardener?"
"A very relaxing job, excellent for strengthening the hsi. Not that I sought that; I simply wanted to be away from Sanctuary, on a different flight. Yet I was followed even there. I had a dream: Somewhere out in the void, the esGa'uYal had stolen the gyaryu, and the great hero Qu'u had gone out to find it.
"With regard to prescient dreams, it takes a skilled Sensitive to distinguish between imagination and a true precognitive impression. The best test is repetition—if the dream recurs, and is consistent, it is usually prescient.
"The dream recurred several times; each one more detailed and more disturbing than its predecessor. I finally had to return to Sanctuary. Within a few days of my return, several eminent guests arrived, including the High Chamberlain ha T'te'e HeYen, and—at last—the Gyaryu'har."
"You've met se Sergei in person?"
"Yes. They had come to Sanctuary to contemplate a most unpleasant flight: The High Chamberlain and others had attempted to make contact with the aliens out there." At Jackie's involuntary shiver—which was almost amusingly reflected in Th'an'ya's image—the zor female crossed her hands in front of herself. "I know what you are remembering, se Jackie. There were eleven Sensitives that tried to contact the aliens, and eight of them transcended the Outer Peace in the process.
"As you no doubt have been told, the High Lord is the most prescient Sensitive of the People. He had begun to sense the esGa'uYal even before the eleven tried to contact them, and he also had had a precognitive indication that the High Nest should pursue The Legend of Qu'u. It was the will of esLi that I go to Sanctuary, and at that point I became included in their plans."
"And what were their plans?"
"They concluded that the gyaryu had to be placed at risk somehow, but did not determine the way in which it could be done. At Sanctuary I had another prescient experience, linking the gyaryu with a young warrior whose face I did not know."
"Ch'k'te."
" . . . Yes." Th'an'ya wavered again. "I can sense your anger, se Jackie, for I know that you know what happened next. Yes, I did seek out Ch'k'te, who had just recently come into his Sensitive powers, and who was a young, impressionable warrior . . ."
"You used him. Like I'm being used."
"You are so quick to judge." Her wings settled low on her back, indicating sorrow. "When I perceived what I thought to be the hand of esLi in this affair, I assumed that li Ch'k'te was to represent Qu'u. Still, I beg you to believe that I loved him."
"How much did you see, Th'an'ya? How far down in time did you perceive? Did you see your own death—and his? If you hadn't made him a pawn in this terrible game, he'd be alive now." Jackie's fists clenched. "How dare you talk about love."
"You understand us so little. You mind-linked with li Ch'k'te and felt the depth of his feelings for me, and you must sense that I tell you the truth about how I felt about him . . . Feel. Neither you nor I—even in present form—can ever know what flight li Ch'k'te might have taken, had I not sought him out as my mate. Yet I think that our cle'eLi'e—our 'mating'—strengthened his own hsi abundantly and made him strong enough to be the Ch'k'te that you knew."
"And loved," Jackie whispered.
"It is difficult for you to admit that."
"Of course it is—especially since I could never tell him." Jackie felt her voice growing husky and thick, and frowned. "Damn it, things used to be so simple, and now they've gotten so blasted complicated."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Love is a difficult emotion; it seems that your many human languages only make it more difficult." Th'an'ya's wings assumed an almost reverent position. "That you are not one of the People and yet were thrust into the impossible position of acting the part, makes all of this difficult to comprehend. I did love li Ch'k'te . . . and yet he was destined to play a role in 'this terrible game,' as you put it. I thought that he would become Qu'u, and so gave him most of my hsi."
"What does that really mean?"
"It means that . . . what was left behind, was only an 'image' of me. It functioned but was only barely a Sensitive. Given time, the hsi might well have been strengthened, but . . ."
"Did you . . . Did your death come about as a result of giving so much hsi to Ch'k'te?"
"I have no way of knowing, since this hsi-image"—Th'an'ya gestured to herself—"was not present at the moment of my physical body's death. I suspect, however, that the answer is yes."
"So you killed yourself to make him strong—and he killed himself to save me."
"There I think you err. I did not transcend the Outer Peace to make li Ch'k'te strong: I was flying the path that esLi had marked out for me. Similarly, Ch'k'te's death has meaning in the context of allowing you to continue holding the Outer Peace; but he died primarily for himself, se Jackie. In the greater scheme of things, his end was completely fitting, as he destroyed the object of his dishonor: that thing which had condemned him to life."
"You make suicide sound like an art form."
"Just so. To one of the People, the style of death is high art. You humans have an exceptionally parochial view of life and death, treating them as two essentially different things. They are merely different forms of the same thing. For example: Into what category do you place me? Am I alive, or dead?"
"Dead. But I see what you mean. How do you classify those unfortunate trillions who were not so clever to insert their hsi into unsuspecting mates?"
"If they are of the People, I classify them as within esLi's Circle of Light. It is they whose wisdom and Inner Peace make it possible for some of our race to be poets, dreamers, artists . . . and, of course, Sensitives."
"esLi . . . is the composite of the People that have gone before? Is that a common belief?"
"Of course, se Jackie. We believe esLi to be the possessor of all the hsi of our race, since its beginning. It is the hsi that guides all of us, from the High Lord to the simplest warrior. It is for this reason that one of the People feels it so important to maintain the Inner Peace: to retain his honor. To become idju is not merely to suffer the contempt of one's own people, but to be separated from the guidance of esLi Himself."
Jackie took a sip from her drink and pushed aside the mostly eaten tray of food. "You . . . said that you saw this path when you were at Sanctuary; or, rather, that you dreamed of Ch'k'te"—she felt her emotion rising, and took a deep breath to fend it off—"in connection with The Legend of Qu'u. You sought out and found him, mated with him and gave him a large portion of your hsi. What happened after that?"
"What I know, subsequent to that, is only second-wing information and conjecture, se Jackie, since this hsi-image was submerged from the time of our cle'eLi'e until the moment when li Ch'k'te summoned me forth during our mind-link on Cicero. But I will seek to reconstruct it for you.
"After my death, li Ch'k'te grieved greatly for me and sought transfer from the naval service of the People to the Imperial Navy. As a distant clan-brother of the High Nest this was easily effected. Eventually he was posted to Cicero under your command. I cannot say for sure, but I can believe that the High Nest arranged to place him there."
"Then, Ch'k'te's posting to Cicero was no accident."
"Certainly not. The High Nest knew, or rather sensed, that there was something about to happen beyond the edge of the Empire; it also sensed that Cicero was at—or near—where the event was to occur. As the High Lord's madness progressed, the inner circle of the High Nest began to make preparations for the quest to be undertaken, se Sergei, the Gyaryu'har, was sent to Cicero when it became apparent that the sword should be placed into the possession of the enemy."
"Someone from the Envoy's Office explained that se Sergei had been sent to Cicero, but I never realized how far back it went . . ." Jackie stared into her drink-cup, looking at the face gazing back at her. "But, if all these people—including Noyes!—believed that Ch'k'te was Qu'u, how did I get mixed up in all of this?"
"I would conjecture that the esGa'uYal believe that Qu'u must be one of the People, since only a warrior of the People would be willing to transcend the Outer Peace to fulfill the Law of Similar Conjunction," Th'an'ya responded.
"Further, I could simply say it was the will of esLi. Even now, you might find that insufficient—insulting, even. I cannot describe in Standard why I recognized your hsi as that of the returned hero, but I knew it from the outset; even li Ch'k'te knew it, when you linked on Cicero. I chose to transfer my hsi to you at that time; my intuition was confirmed when you fought Shrnu'u HeGa'u during the Dsen'yen'ch'a. I helped you create the hsi-images with which you fought him; and he, too, saw . . . that you would fly the path of Qu'u.
"That ordeal was clearly painful for li Ch'k'te. He learned that I had moved my hsi into your mind. Like most Sensitives, he did not believe this could be done. He considered the idea of a hsi-image residing within a naZora'e mind as even less possible. When we spoke, in your quarters on Adrianople Starbase, I explained to him that despite my love for him, I existed for a specific purpose: to aid the avatar of Qu'u in regaining the gyaryu."
"What must he have thought of me after that?"
"For a time I am sure he was angry at his fate—but you must believe that he had great respect and affection for you. You should not diminish his memory by thinking he resented your role, or his own."
"Did he resent your role?"
"He never really knew my role. But on the Plain of Despite, he was able to lift up his gaze."
"You think so." Jackie stood up, carried the tray to the disposal and tossed it in. "You think he was a true hero?"
"By all of the metrics we apply, yes: Ch'k'te was a hero, and his hsi now resides with the Lord esLi."
Jackie didn't speak for a moment. She leaned on the counter, facing away from the Th'an'ya-image still standing by the table. Jackie felt tension and emotion trying to overwhelm her as she stood there. She half expected Th'an'ya to have disappeared, when at last she composed herself and turned around, but the zor was still there, her wings arranged in a formal posture.
"It's getting easier to maintain that image," Jackie said to her.
"As we get closer to the gyaryu, it is only to be expected. You have become much stronger as a Sensitive, se Jackie, and your connection with esLi has grown."
"But I'm still not one of the People, and never will be."
"You say those words as if an apology were required. It is clear the wisdom of the Lord esLi is greater than our own, and He has chosen a human to be the agent of His will.
"You accepted the risks—you know the stakes. The High Chamberlain se S'reth—and even the servants of esGa'u—accept you as the avatar of Qu'u. As do I . . . as did li Ch'k'te. We must move on from that point."
"Where? Where do we go?"
"Consider this." Th'an'ya's wings moved through several positions, as if she were trying to decide on a direction. "The esGa'uYal have what we seek. It is clear that the closer you come to the gyaryu, the more your Sensitive talents manifest themselves; therefore you will have to rely upon signs of that increase, to locate it."
"I just wander around until my Sensitive talents tell me where the gyaryu is? Surely the aliens will know I'm coming and will be guarding the sword rather closely."
Th'an'ya's wings assumed the Posture of Polite Resignation: For a moment Jackie was painfully reminded of Ch'k'te. "You are right, of course," Th'an'ya answered, and it was clear she wasn't really answering the question.
"They could be waiting for me when we come out of jump."
"Perhaps. We have no control over that, but I cannot believe the Lord esLi would abandon us after bringing us this far. We can only hope that the esGa'uYal continue to await one of the People as the avatar of Qu'u and will not recognize you."
"They must know."
"The creature at the Center on Crossover Station did not know, se Jackie. If the esGa'uYe on Crossover was unable to communicate with others—and I suspect he had no time to do so—then the only ones who were aware of your identity would be li Ch'k'te, yourself . . . and the alien at Crossover. Two of those three individuals are now beyond the Outer Peace.
"This is the only advantage you—we—possess. We must make use of it. There must be information aboard this vessel identifying the alien and its role in esGa'uYal society. You must take its place."
"I wish I had such confidence in that advantage."
"Eight thousand pardons, se Jackie, but what choice do you have?"
Jackie didn't answer, since she couldn't conceive of a response. After a few moments of silence she felt Th'an'ya withdraw, unbidden, and she was alone again.
They had chosen Port Saud by consensus. It wasn't marked in the altered databases in the Negri's navcomp, as Adrianople and Corcyra had been. It was outside the Empire—and was far enough away from trade routes to be worth no one's while to claim it.
The wars with the zor, at the opposite end of Imperial Space, had made the place even less interesting. The Imperial Grand Survey didn't get to mapping it until 2372, and Port Saud hadn't been approached for annexation since then. Poor in minerals and other resources, thinly populated and far off even from freelancers' trade routes, Port Saud seemed an uninteresting target for would-be conquerors.
At least, that was the theory. Lieutenant Owen Garrett had picked the destination almost at random when they'd jumped from Center, with places like Adrianople possibly already in enemy hands. It could be a trap—but then, going almost anywhere could be a trap. Negri Sembilan had to refuel sometime, and if there were aliens at Port Saud, they might not realize the ship had been recaptured.
Negri arrived insystem while Owen was off the bridge; they were only two hours away from Port Saud Station when he took the pilot's seat. It wasn't a surprise: There really was no need for him to supervise end-of-jump, as there were a dozen crewmembers aboard with more experience than he had. End-of-jump was timed to the millisecond. Owen's special skill would come in handy later, when they reached the port.
"A pretty sorry lookin' place, if you ask me," said Dana Olivo, vacating the pilot's seat as Owen arrived. Dana was one of the Negri officers who had escaped with them from Center. "But it's acknowledging Standard comm. We're lined up for the fuel queue at the gas giant in Orbital Five, then we've got an approach for temp berthing-space at Port Saud Station."
"Just like that."
"Negri Sembilan was here eight months ago," Dana said. "They may not know Negri's current status."
"Meaning they don't know we've got it back."
"Meaning they may not even know that the bugs captured it. There's a mercantile council in charge of Port Saud. Negri is—was . . . is, really—an IGS vessel that pays courtesy calls once or twice a year."
"Do they know Damien Abbas here?"
"Sure enough. There's a merchant factor who's been a regular informant—guy by the name of Djiwara. The skipper would go stationside and visit Djiwara, toss back a few pints and get the latest gossip; he always seemed to know what was going on."
"Would he trust anyone but Abbas?"
Olivo gave Owen a look that said, roughly, How the hell should I know? "I guess," he finally said, "it depends on what story you give him."
It was a place to start. Refueled and ready to make its next jump, the Negri was docked at Port Saud Station. The station originally had been built at half the size of Cicero Op. Owen learned from the Negri's comp that the Port Saud Consortium—the governing oligarchy of Port Saud System—had bought and boosted the thing from Far Macintosh System in the early 2200s, when that world had become a Class One world within the Solar Empire and earned itself a brand-new, Navy-built facility. Given the cost of orbital insertion from the planetary surface, even an inferior orbital station paid for itself in time, and the Consortium had added piecemeal to the original, orderly, wheel-like structure so that it now resembled the legs of an ungainly insect, spread out in a dozen different directions with no real order or organization.
Owen went aboard, his engineer's mate Rafe Rodriguez at his side. Owen wasn't sure if he could protect more than one other person; also, he trusted Rafe, the first man he'd met on Center when this strange new phase of his life had begun.
He and Rafe walked up an access corridor from the Negri's berth, past stacks of cargo canisters and assorted construction materials.
"Dana's right. This station is a piece of crap," Owen remarked.
"Independent commerce in action," the big man answered. "But the universe is full of places like this. Everyone here"—he waved his hand around the wider corridor they'd entered, which was filled with activity—"is trying to make a living."
"Even in wartime?"
"I don't think it matters to them," Rafe said. "This isn't Center or Cicero. It isn't even Crossover."
"But it's still—"
"It's just a place," the engineer's mate continued. "It's been settled for more than two hundred years and it's never paid a single credit to the Imperial Government. It's never had an Emperor's Birthday celebration. Know what? They don't mind. And the pols in Sol System don't care. There are probably five hundred places like Port Saud System, and none of them is at war with the bugs."
"They're all at war with the bugs," Owen replied. "They just don't know it yet."
It wasn't hard to find Djiwara. He had offices on the main concourse, a wide-open area traversing the long axis of the station, close to the largest cargo docks. The great man himself—recognizable from an image stored in Negri's comp—was standing outside the office, engaged in an argument with another merchant. The other man was getting the worst of it, and finally gave up and, with a few caustic remarks strong enough to peel paint, he turned his back on Djiwara and stalked off. Djiwara looked quite pleased with himself as he turned away.
"Mr. Djiwara?" Owen said.
The merchant factor trained a glare on Owen and Rafe. "J. Michael Djiwara at your service." He looked them over as if he were calculating their annual income. "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Garrett, of Negri Sembilan. This is Rodriguez."
"Negri?" His expression softened. "Where is my old friend Abbas?"
"He's . . . indisposed. He sent us instead."
"Really."
Djiwara made a great show of looking up and down the concourse, then beckoned them within his office. The room they entered was like a museum of curiosities, except it contained several rooms' worth of this junk jammed into an area no more than five meters across. Djiwara took a collection of plastic containers off of two chairs in front of his desk and gestured for Owen and Rafe to sit. He settled his own large form behind the desk.
"Thanks for taking the time," Owen said. "We—"
"Mr. Garrett." Djiwara held up his hand. "I have only one question for you: Where is Damien Abbas?"
"Mr. Djiwara, I—"
"Let me make it simple for you, Mr. Garrett," Djiwara interrupted again. "I have been in business on this worthless station for a number of years. While I have been here at Port Saud, my good friend Damien Abbas has visited more than twenty times—and each time he has sent a tightbeam message from the jump point telling me when the Negri Sembilan would dock and which vintage he would come and enjoy with me.
"Each time he has done this; each time except this one. Therefore I must assume something has happened."
Garrett exchanged glances with Rafe. When he looked back at the merchant, Djiwara had a pistol in his hand, aimed directly at Owen.
"Mr. Garrett, I would very much like to know what."
"You know," Rafe said, not moving a muscle, "some people might take that as being unfriendly."
"Not everyone is who he seems to be. You can't be too careful." The pistol remained pointed at Owen.
"That's true," Owen said. "But if we weren't who we seem to be, you'd already be in trouble, wouldn't you? I'd be willing to wager a liter of whatever swill they drink out here, that you could get a single shot off before the other one of us killed you."
Djiwara's frown deepened. Anger flashed in his eyes.
"What's more"—Owen said, adjusting himself in his seat; Djiwara's weapon followed the movement—"we wouldn't let it get that far. If we weren't what we seemed."
Djiwara looked from Owen to Rafe and then back again. Owen never looked away, but tried to feign complete indifference with the weapon pointed directly at him.
"All right," the merchant said at last. He laid the pistol on the cluttered desk in front of him. "No hard feelings," he added.
"None at all," Owen answered.
"Right," Rafe said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Nothing like good old Port Saud hospitality."
Djiwara glared at him. "I still want to know where Abbas is."
"I don't know," Owen said. "Honest to God, I'd tell you if I knew—if it were up to me, he'd be sitting in this office right now. But . . ."
"But he's dead." Djiwara finished the sentence.
"No, I don't think so. Someone—some thing—has been impersonating him for most of a Standard year, but it's dead now. As for Captain Abbas . . . Look, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"A band of light swept him off the bridge of the Negri when we took it back from the bugs."
"'Bugs'?"
"I think you know what I'm talking about."
"I'm supposed to have some insight into this preposterous story of yours." Djiwara's gaze traveled from Owen to Rafe and to his pistol. "You're right. I don't believe it—except that no one would make up something like that."
"Look, we need your help," Rafe interrupted. The merchant's gaze slipped back to him. "We need to know what's going on here."
"Here? On Port Saud? Nothing happens here. But maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on. I hear all kinds of things and most of 'em make no sense. Comm to Cicero is down—I suppose you know? There hasn't been any contact with it for nearly two months. Comm to Adrianople was down for several Standard days; it's working again—but there's something going on there, too.
"People pass through here and talk about fleet movements out at this end of the Empire. Then you show up and tell me— " Djiwara rested his hand on his pistol again. Rafe shifted in his chair; the merchant slowly and carefully moved his hand away.
"They're aboard Port Saud Station, aren't they?" Owen said quietly, knowing the answer.
Djiwara held Owen's gaze for a long time. "Something is aboard. There are people . . . not acting the way they should. People I've known for a long time." He leaned back again in his chair, like the weight of the whole of Port Saud Station was on his shoulders.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Owen said again.
The lighting dimmed for just a moment. All three men looked up; then the lights came back to normal levels.
"The Solar Empire is at war," Owen said, his attention returning to Djiwara.
"Bugs," Rafe added. "Shapechangers. They've been replacing people—people you know. People like—"
"Abbas."
"Yeah," Owen said. "Like Abbas. He's been gone for several months, at least. The—alien that replaced him took over the Negri Sembilan and has been operating it outside the Empire. Its disappearance was the first indication we got that something was happening."
"'We'—meaning . . ."
"The command at Cicero. Cicero belongs to the bugs. I . . . was stationed there." Owen's fists clenched. "Sounds like Port Saud belongs to them, too."
Djiwara scowled at Owen and Rafe again. "What the hell does this mean? If there are . . . bugs . . . on Port Saud, what do they want?"
"I have my suspicions," Owen said. "Believe me, this time you don't want to know."
They made their way back from Djiwara's offices on the main concourse; it seemed less crowded now. Still, there was activity at several docking-bays, and foot traffic alongside them. They had come aboard lightly armed; nothing to attract attention, but no one would go into a free port armed with nothing but a smile.
"Company," Rafe said, when they were several minutes along. He gestured above and to their left.
Owen looked briefly where Rafe had pointed. A station crewman in overalls was keeping pace with them on an upper catwalk. Owen concentrated, and after a moment was confident that their shadow was an alien.
"Fight or flight?" Rafe asked.
'There's nowhere to run," Owen answered. "Let's see what he does."
After a few hundred meters they had their answer. The one who was following them came down a ramp to meet two others. Together, the three aliens in human form turned to face Owen and Rafe as if they were waiting for them.
Owen felt the slightest pressure in his mind. He turned to Rafe, who was shaking his head like flies were buzzing around it.
"If you're looking for a fight," Owen said, from five meters away, "you'll get one."
"We have a message for your captain," the middle alien said, crossing his arms. "We don't have time to bother with you . . ." He lowered his voice and added," . . . meat-creature."
The term the aliens used to refer to humans, chilled Owen but he ignored it. "Fine. Let's hear the message."
The alien smiled. "Tell your captain that the time has come to switch sides."
"Why would he want to do that?"
"Because his faction has already lost. Even her N'nr Deathguard will not protect Great Queen G'en in the end. He must know that."
"The captain keeps his own counsel," Owen answered, trying to sound like he knew where the hell this was going. "Besides, what purpose would it serve, to switch sides at this point?"
The three aliens looked at each other, then back at Owen and Rafe.
"Just deliver the damn message," the leader said.
"You know," one of the others said, "it only takes one of them to deliver the message."
Rafe clenched his fists. "There's just one problem. There's only three of you. I don't even need this guy"—he gestured at Owen—"to help me wipe the deck with you."
The leader didn't say anything, but looked up and to his right. Owen followed the glance to the catwalk; there he saw another tech watching the exchange. Owen's heightened senses, sharpened by his anger, made him certain it was another alien. He looked across the concourse at a group of cargo handlers: One of the group had stopped loading a canister and was watching as well; a few dozen meters farther on, a customs inspector stood, comp in one hand, the other resting on a sidearm. Both of them were aliens.
"Rafe—" Owen began, but the alien leader interrupted:
"Such audacity for a meat-creature," he said. "No. As entertaining as the idea might be, we have no instructions to disrupt your captain's mission." He turned to his two companions. "Let him go." He looked straight at Owen. "But you tell him."
Owen and Rafe walked forward and past the group, headed for the side accessway that led to their berth. All the way back to the Negri Sembilan, Owen felt eyes watching his every step.