Crudrat, page 13
However, once she got over the twinkle and looked closer, she did see the warrior in them – for all three had multiple weapons tucked about belts and into the wrapped knickerbockers. Right unfriendly type weapons.
The smallest one of the three looked Fuzzy up-and-down and then said in heavily accented space-tongue, "Quy, what you showing your scrawny arse up here for? Aren’t you supposed to be journeyman floating out Okechukio way?"
Now that was familiar talk to Maura. All guns, alien or not, spoke in the same bold crass way.
One of the others said, “We know things are a bit more casual in other branches of the gens but this is Manzanilla’s city. You do realize we wear clothing here on Pillkiacta?" That was all sarcasm.
Maura grinned, understanding why people had been staring, and why her companion had gone over all embarrassed once they came to ground. Old Fuzzy was naked. She gave him an assessing look. Somehow no breeding bits were showing, but still. He’d been so comfortable with her, she’d never guessed it wasn’t normal for his alien kind to be without clothing. But now, looking ‘round, she realized that even the fuzzy-types wore some nod in the garment way.
Fuzzy ignored them all and said to Maura. “Non-enemy, these are my semi-cousins. This one will not trouble you with their talk-names. This one, in case you had not surmised, is called Quy on this city.” He frowned, realizing he had best explain further. “That is not this one’s true-name, of course, merely a talk-name among this branch of the gens.”
The three warriors formed a loose semi-circle about Maura and Fuzzy.
Maura asked, “What should I be called?”
“That, you have to earn, little blue stranger,” explained the shortest.
Maura was intrigued. “Oh really? So the talk-names have meaning? What does Quy mean?”
Fuzzy held up a paw.
His semi-cousins spoke over his hopes of stopping the explanation. “Guinea pig.”
Apparently, this was somewhat bad, for Fuzzy bared his teeth in annoyance. “Pah, family.”
Maura, shoeless feet on ice-cold floor, began shivering. This was all interesting, but despite alien surroundings, she was getting more concerned with finding warmth than anything else.
Fuzzy seemed to agree with that sentiment. “Are we going stand here chatting or do you three have orders? If not, this one is going around to the storehouse to get some clothes.”
The middle-sized of the three warriors snorted in amusement. “Best you get that little furless friend of yours some clothing right quick too. She looks to be turning about as blue as her hair. She is all skin, and doesn’t have more than a stitch on her, except that blue ruff thing.”
The blue ruff thing, with his usual impeccable timing, chose that precise moment to reveal that he was not, in fact, a garment at all. He shifted around Maura’s neck, placed two little paws a top her noggin and hoisted himself up to rest his chin on the crown of her head. He looked with mild interest at the three furry warriors. He was either worn ragged by the shock of the journey, or too hungry to care, for he stayed somber and silent. Neither a chitter nor screech rent the air.
“Great frozen frog teats!” said the smallest of the semi-cousins, a knife sprouting in his hand. “What in space is that thing?”
Maura frowned. “My murmel.”
“And what, precisely, is a murmel?”
Maura shrugged, odd question. “This is, of course.”
The short one narrowed his gaze on her. “Now we see why you and Quy are so friendly. You are a smart-arse just like him, aren’t you?”
Maura felt she ought to take offense, but was too cold to act on the idea. Besides, it was true.
“Clothing will have to wait,” said the largest of the three. That warrior had not spoken yet, but she seemed to be less in the mood to tease than the other two. She also appeared older and, to Maura’s wild guess, more responsible.
“Will it?” Quoin Fuzzy was both unsurprised and resigned.
“She wants to see you.” The explanation was flat – welded tight with no wiggle room.
“Of course she does.” Fuzzy sighed.
The three warriors turned to lead the way. The smallest, shorter than Fuzzy but still taller than Maura by a head or more, tucked his knife back into his belt.
Fuzzy gestured at their backs in a manner Maura took to be rude. She memorized the hand movement for future needs. He looked down at her. “Are you warm enough for the moment?"
Maura could no longer actually feel her feet. “Sure.”
Together they walked across the wide expanse of dock, and into an open doorway. The doorway and the wall in which it sat was made of shaped stone.
Maura smiled. No chip readers or beltways.
Every alien they passed looked right at her. Not necessarily with interest, but at least they looked. They did not see through her. Maura was just another alien among many. But she was real. She existed. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad.
As it turned out, of course, they were worse.
12
They say the first Tinkers got everything right, all the aliens and all the pure bloods, right up and down from the time of Manufacture to Seeding. But those who like to contradict, claim that they really messed up with the Kill’ki.
~ On the Civilizing of Worlds by J. Kilsen Slliurp
Maura wished she knew what to expect. Still she’d gone and thrown herself into this, might was well see it through to the exit. The hallway she now walked though felt a tad more spaceborn than others so far, but not by much. It was appropriately narrow and tight fitting, but it was still made of stone not metal or plastic. It was many stories high, with plaster above, and plaster below, painted white. The stones were fit tight to each other, but pillowed out slightly in their middles. Despite the fact that there appeared to be not a bit of space between them, a soft white light shone from the cracks, illuminating the hallway. Oddest, to Maura’s eyes, was the absence of crud dust in the air. The light stayed white with no blue edge to it at all. So far as she could tell, there didn’t seem to be air ducts either. Which meant no tunnels. This last made her nervous twice over. How are we breathing? And where do I hide?
The hallway was ever so slightly warmer than the landing area had been. Not enough, mind. Maura had never before been this cold in her well-regulated Wheel life. A right unpleasant sensation. Her teeth were rattling up against each other and she couldn’t seem to stop them.
The hallway kept on going for quite some ways. There were little lead-offs to more hallways, and here and there fabric covered doorways that she supposed were private residences. It was all very illogically set up. Why mix residence with working areas? How was one to determine Spoke? Who outranked whom? Periodically, two little walls would poke out into the hallway from the sides, forcing them to single file. These bits would be dangerous if the ice city had to be evacuated. Maura’s mind teemed with questions, but as the three warriors held silence and led them a brisk pace, she kept her peace.
Eventually, they deviated into a smaller even narrower hallway, up a set of three stairways, down another little hall, and through a curtained entrance into a large empty room.
“We will leave you to her,” said the smallest warrior.
“Sooner you than us,” said the middle one.
The large female said nothing only nodding to them once and marching the others back out of the room.
Maura looked at quoin Fuzzy.
Quoin Fuzzy looked at Maura.
“Can I call you Quy, too?”
"You might as well, everyone else here does." His tone was resigned.
“What are the... “ Maura started to ask the next in her long stored-up string of questions.
“Hush, listen.” Quy shook his fuzzy head, interrupting her.
Maura hushed and listened.
A voice echoed down the hallway outside. “…squeeze like a rotten melon after spring festival!” it was saying and then, “Where in the arse end of space is that little floating fish turd of a nibling of mine? I’ll use his entrails for earrings, you see if I don’t!” The voice was loud, but not as angry in tone as the words it uttered would make a person think it should be. It was as though the voice were speaking trash as a matter of course, rather than a matter of insult.
Quy’s shoulders sagged. “And she couldn’t be too busy running an entire city or something useful, could she? Oh no, she has to come down here right now, in person, larger than life and twice as frustrating.” He looked to Maura. “Prepare yourself, non-enemy. Now comes the real battle.”
Next thing Maura knew, the most splendid creature whipped aside the curtain across the doorway and came striding into the room.
She was just as white and as fuzzy as Fuzzy, but a good deal taller, and two times as wide. A giantess. She wore an elaborate crescent headdress with gold tassels and red fringe that added to her height. She wore something a little like a sequensor robe, only without sleeves or hood and belted at her waist. It was made out of a material stiffer than anything Maura had seen Wheelside. It was littered with decoration and embroidery within an inch of its existence, silvers and golds and reds and yellows, sparkling and bright. The giantess also wore multiple metal chains about her neck, and a veritable plethora of weaponry tucked into her wide belt. It made for a most remarkable sight. Maura lost all her vaunted crudrat cool and gaped openly.
“There you are, you disastrous little flotsam,” said the vision to Quy almost affectionately. “Where have you been? You think the gens wouldn’t notice your absence? Your poor father, worried sick, you thoughtless little remnant.” She appeared prepared to continue in this vein indefinitely.
Maura would have enjoyed it, such an awesome sight with such impressive volume in every direction — like some massive angry work of art.
But Quy interrupted the giantess by turning pointedly to Maura and saying, “Non-enemy, might this one present, gens Aunt, called Manzanilla, Patrona of Pikillacta.”
The giantess stopped mid rant, appearing to see Maura for the very first time. “A guest?” she practically roared. “You disappear for days and return with a guest! Are you mad or just mildly insane, nibling mine?”
A pause. No one said a whit.
“Does the little furless sapien speak?” the Patrona finally asked.
Quy sniffed. “Only when strictly necessary or entirely unhelpful.”
Maura poked him in the ribs. Then mustered enough courage to talk – mouth all clogged with chattering teeth and nervousness. She said to the Patrona, in a weak imitation of highstock greeting, “How do you do?”
The hugeness turned all kindly, eyes a-twinkle. “Welcome to Pikillacta, my dear.” She looked at Quy. “What do we call her?”
Quy shrugged.
“M…” Maura started to say her name, but stopped when Quy squeezed her arm. Hard. “I’m called, um, Crudrat?” she offered finally. She’d responded to it often enough so far in her life.
Quy said, like it was his idea, “We may call her Crudrat here at Pikillacta.”
“You are adult in your craft, young Crudrat, to be using the personal?” The Patrona’s necklaces-of-plenty clinked about as she peered down at Maura, squinting liked she couldn’t quite see the outline of the girl.
Maura had no idea what she meant. She looked to Quy for help.
“She is Wheel made,” explained her friend, as though to satisfy all possible questions.
“Barbarian culture. You may explain to her the proper protocol.” Necklaces and bracelets jingled as the Patrona crossed wide arms over massive chest, and rocked back on her heals.
Quy chewed his fuzzy bottom lip. “Until a Kill’ki is adult in skill there is no selfhood.” He was struggling, for the first time in Maura’s presence, with space-tongue. So far it seemed to be the preferred mode of speech-making on this great floating ice city, but now it seemed to be failing him. “At this one’s age, there are many choices,” he glared at his aunt, “even if preference has been registered. The elders see the soul as unsettled.” He looked back at Maura, frustrated. “This one cannot say ‘I’ until adulthood. My aunt here is shocked at your use of the word, being as you are still young. Younger than this one.”
Maura mulled it about. “Am I,” she paused, then rephrased, “Is this one expected to do the same?”
Manzanilla looked at her with an air of surprise, “If you would like to try, such an attempt would be encouraged.”
Maura shrugged. “This one will give it her best run.” She would have smiled but her teeth would persist in chattering.
Quy’s aunt whirled back to him, suddenly fierce and angry again. “You thoughtless scab.”
“Now what?” wondered Quy, rather too casually.
“Your furless friend here is shivering nigh unto death. Go fetch her some warmth, and get yourself decent in the meantime.”
“But…”
“Now!”
Quy shuffled off, all reluctance. Maura, truth be told, was a little nervous herself. They both knew Manzanilla’s ploy, to get Maura alone without Quy’s guiding tongue. It worked, quoin Fuzzy disappeared out the curtained doorway, and Maura found herself alone with the giantess. Ruler of a whole space city!
“Well?”
Maura swallowed. What tunnel to pick? There was kindness to those black eyes, perhaps a plea?
“Might this one beg sanctuary in your space, Patrona?” She hesitated over the words. What kind of debt will this wrap me up in?
Manzanilla looked her up and down, sharp and assessing, as progenetors might review a new purchase. “A petition? Very well, ten days granted, then proof of usefulness will be required, barring other legitimate claims.”
Maura didn’t quite follow, but figured ten spins – days must mean spins – was better than a spacing. She’d many ticks to figure things all out, or find a place to disappear. She winced. There was someone else to consider in this bargaining.
“And for this one’s murmel?” If he lasts without crud.
At the mention, the little creature raised his sad blue head. He was lackluster with shock, cold, and hunger.
The Patrona started violently. “Are you wearing a snack, young crudrat?”
Maura frowned. “I’m wearing a friend,” she said sharply, forgetting her polite speak.
“Looks like he’d go well with hot coca, a tasty blue biscuit.”
Maura hadn’t heard the word before. “Biskweet?”
The murmel cheeped at that, either in disgust or approval, hard to tell.
“Well,” said Manzanilla, “that would appear to be its talk-name, at least.”
Maura sighed, now she had an entirely useless pet named after a snack food. “He eats crud. This may be an issue.”
“Crud?”
What had Fuzzy called it?
Quy came back just at the moment. “She means DMP, the Wheel calls it crud.”
He was wearing one of the brightly colored embroidered cloth wraps about his lower body, and carrying a large white fur pelt with black lining. He draped the pelt around Maura’s shoulders and the murmel. Maura immediately felt better. The murmel didn’t object either.
“That creature consumes DMP? Is that why it’s so blue?” The Patrona was clearly intrigued. She peered, all myopic once more, at the murmel.
“Would you believe they have scythers hundreds of times the size of ours, and clean them manually using child labour and those murmel creatures?” said Fuzzy, as though this were the strangest idea in the universe.
“No, I wouldn’t,” replied his aunt, without blinking.
“Well they do.”
Manzanilla looked to Maura for support.
“This one was just such a runner-type. Biskweet here was my partner. He be needing DMP to live.”
Quy looked thoughtful. “Do you think he might be able to drink it? We could give him dirty flush, and see if that’d work for sustenance. When did he get a name, anyway?”
“Your Aunt just up and gave it to him, thought he might be some kind of snack food. This flush stuff might suit. Could we get mitts on some, you think?”
Quy looked to his Aunt sharply.
The giantess tilted her head, fringe waggling thoughtfully. “Once I have finished with you three here, I'll have someone see to it.”
Maura had finally stopped shivering. The fur pelt was soft, cozy, and familiar feeling. Biskweet seemed to enjoy it too. He perked up, turning into a restless little lump under the weighty fabric.
“This is lovely warm.”
“Mmm, whose is it, anyway?” Manzanilla asked her nibling.
“Great Uncle Raqchi.”
Maura felt queasy, the familiar feel of the fur now explained. It was, in fact, exactly like Quy’s.
“You mean that this is the pelt of a dead Kill'ki?”
The Patrona nodded. “High quality too, he died young.”
“It is a guest compliment,” hissed Fuzzy at Maura’s appalled look, “to wear a member of the gens.”
Maura tried not to be sick. An unsettled stomach, she was finding, was the sum average of her experience amongst these Kill’ki types.
The Patrona turned her attention back to the task at hand by forcibly rerouting the conversation. “So, Quy, where have you been, and how did you meet Crudrat here?”
Quy relayed the story they’d concocted.
“That is the biggest load of space dross this side of the galaxy,” his aunt said eloquently when he’d finished.
Maura issued Fuzzy an I-told-you-so look.
“Really, nibling mine, you might have come up with a better fib.”
Fuzzy wrinkled his nose. “We didn’t have much time to get creative. Give us a day or two and we’ll invent something better.”
All sarcasm ended then, and Quy’s aunt finally got genuinely angry, rather than just an imitation of it. She went from bumbling to scary. Looming up to her full height, she glowered down at them, all narrow eyes and sharp teeth. Maura backed away and angled towards the door. Not that there were tunnels to take too, but she was a runner right and proper, instinct wasn’t something that changed with environment.
