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There Aint No Justice 130
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #130 |
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Three Maracite Stories
by Arifel & Ace Lightning
- RAUMMIR -
by Arifel
According to my notepad, i was supposed to meet Treel, the Maracite
Representative, in the crossover lounge of the orbital ExPort over
Millimillenary at eleven. It was only a half-hour trip from there to
Raummir, the Maracite homeworld; I was to be the first outsider to visit
the planet since its founding two hundred years ago. Something had happened
there recently, and no-one outside of the Maracites themselves knew what.
This change had allowed me in.
Ordinarily, they kept very much to themselves; you'd be lucky to see more
than one a month through the crossover lounge. In the past two days I'd
seen more than thirty of them, haunting the bar, dressed in their sombre
black, with their dead-pale faces and elaborate shocks of black hair. I'd
tried to speak to some of them in the hope that they would either be my
contact, or know him; they'd listen to my words, with occasional slight
nods to indicate that they understood me, and when I'd finished, silently
indicate confusion with polite smiles and slightly concerned looks. They
spoke to each other in whispers, some private language filled with sibilant
hisses and rolled Rs.
I'd seen enough of them now to notice some variation; they appeared to be
divided into three groups - males, females and neuters. The males wore
heavy, long black coats over black shirts, pants, boots that buckled up to
the knees; the females wore expansive dresses in black lace, gauze and
velvet.
The neuters - who had that thin, androgynous look - generally wore baggy
black trousers tucked into boots and shapeless, fluffy jumpers which hung
down off one pale shoulder with a totemic design either painted or tattooed
on. One of the in-betweens (possibly male, possibly a neuter), heavily-set
and with a haggard look on his face, entered the lounge from the docking
section, carrying a purple backpack. As all of the Maracites in the lounge
turned to look, he dropped the pack, looked down, raised his arms into the
attitude of crucifixion, fingers splayed out and said one word, quietly but
loud enough for everyone to hear: `Kisheshi.'
At this, the Maracites all glanced down at the carpeted floor and hissed. I
couldn't tell if this was disapproval or some other emotion unique to them,
although i noticed sly smiles on some of their faces.
The Maracite who'd made the announcement came over to me and gave me their
equivalent of a handshake; eyes closed, head slightly bowed, a faint smile
and the palm of his left hand placed over the back of his right. He was
wearing fingerless lace gloves. `Fenderson?' he whispered.
I nodded. `Treel?'
He glanced up at me through the fringe of his wavy purple-black coif, eyes
glittering, gave me a sardonic smile and nodded. `You want to visit the
homeworld. To what purpose?'
I didn't beat around the bush: `We'd like tourists to be allowed to visit
Raummir - strictly controlled, of course; you won't have mobs of unplanned
illiterates leaving trash all over the place, and so we thought a visit, to
scout out the territory, would -'
Treel's smile faded and the haggard look returned. `You should visit before
you decide. Things have changed.'
I nodded, and, on a hunch, inquired, `"Kisheshi"?'
He glanced up at me sharply, warily, then smiled. `Come. My ship.'
I didn't know that the Maracites had their own starships; i thought the
NoSanNoOs forbade ownership of private space-going craft with a faster-
than-light capacity. The inside of Treel's ship looked like a tomb; wide,
low-ceilinged corridors with faux-marble walls, authentic-looking cobwebs
in the corners, a thin layer of fresh soil on the floors. It smelled like
dry rot and age and damp decay. Illumination was by dimly glowing fist-
sized rubies deeply set into the walls at random intervals. Towards the
ends of the corridors, the air looked foggy.
I followed Treel to a large, open space with a low marble bench in the
middle. He kneeled in the soil before the bench, drew his left sleeve up to
the elbow, held his hand out over the bench. He slowly clenched his fist,
the middle and ring fingers digging into the palm, the other fingers cocked
at odd angles. I could see his hand quivering with the strain; presently,
dark liquid began dripping from between his pale fingers onto the pale
marble. He moved his hand around, drawing a simple pattern in crimson
spots; when he'd drawn a complete circle, the lights flickered and a deep
rumbling began somewhere below us. The ship began to move. I raised an
eyebrow at this outre control system.
Treel licked the palm of his hand and led me towards a battered old leather
couch over in a corner. He held out his bloodied hand; for a few moments i
examined the two crescent-shaped cuts caused by his fingernails, smeared
with red, before i realised he wanted me to lick it also. I declined as
politely as possible; he dipped his head as if acknowledging the strange
habits of outsiders and sat back in the couch.
There was an awkward pause before he offered: `Well. What do you want to
know?'
`Everything. As much as you're willing to tell me.'
He raised an eyebrow. `Not much is known about us.' I nodded. `Two hundred
and twelve years ago we petitioned the NoSanNoOs for a world we could make
our own. Information, imports, some people would be allowed in; nothing
would be allowed out. Visitors were not permitted unless they had agreed to
stay and to adopt our View. It didn't happen very often. We had contacts on
the outside who were willing to direct others of our kind to us, when they
found them.'
`Why? Was it a religious thing?'
He considered this. `No. It was a social thing. We... feel an affinity with
Darkness. Traditionally, our kind have been regarded with suspicion;
tolerated, if not attacked outright. We needed a safe place to be. The
NoSanNoOs gave us Raummir, and we devoted it to our View, which has only
recently come to its conclusion.' He paused to lick his palm again and
smiled. `Tell me: what is done with your people when they die?'
I was somewhat taken aback. `I don't know. It depends on where it happens.
Most of them are taken to Medicals and... uh, disposed of, I guess. If
they're offworld when they die... uh...' I was embarrassed at my lack of
knowledge. Treel smiled tolerantly.
`When a human dies and there is no prior arrangement, the body is brought
to Raummir and buried. Many alien races permit this also. Some of them
recognise our View, and insist on it.'
The subliminal bass hum suddenly faded, leaving a painfully obvious
silence. Treel stood and gestured that i should follow.
He led me to an observation corridor, windows all down one side showing a
grey planet before a distant, dim star: the planet Raummir. The ship was
descending rapidly, and I could make out faint light-grey lines marking out
irregular patterns on the dark-grey continent below us. Treel was silent,
lost in contemplation of his home; politely, I waited until the ship had
penetrated the lowest layer of cloud over the mainland and we were flying
over an empty, desolate city. It was, for the most part, rendered in grey;
not a touch of colour anywhere apart from occasional, decorative bursts of
flame from the tops of some of the spires. It looked like one of the
abandoned megacities of the late twentieth century, before people had
scattered.
`How many people are on this world?' I asked. He held his hand up and
smiled as if to say: I'll explain when we've landed.
For a moment, I thought he'd ignored me. Then, in a faint, distant whisper,
he replied: `Two: you and i. No-one else lives on this world. It has been
filled with mausoleums and cemeteries and ossuaries and monuments to the
dead and catacombs. There is no room for the living.'
- MARACITE -
by Arifel
I'd said to her: `I would very much like to see what you're hiding
underneath that cloak,' half-drunk, careful to avoid slurring my words, not
imagining for a moment that she'd take me seriously. All evening I'd kept
forgetting she was a Maracite, that they don't think the way most of us do.
The place was filled with all kinds of aliens, but she seemed the most
alien of all, because she looked so human and behaved so differently.
Abruptly, she smiled at me, revealing elongated incisors. Another Maracite
trademark. It went along with the dead-pale-white skin, the elaborate sweep
of blue-black hair, the dark-red lips, the black clothing and the air of
mystery. She'd been drinking something that had turned her tongue light
blue. Her right ear was hidden by her hair, which had been swept back from
her left ear to show the modifications she'd had done to it. This was the
next stage beyond piercing; I'd seen it before, a glittering hand-sized
metal clamp on the side of the head, attached to the ear at several points
like a rack, stretching the lobe and the upper rim, the flesh treated with
chemicals or, occasionally slashed with a knife and left to heal that way.
The end result was unusually pointed ears, frills and vanes like the fins
of exotic tropical fish. I'd heard that the flesh, once healed, was more
than usually sensitive; even erogenous. She also had piercings, thick rings
of chromed steel, loops of chain running from one point to the next which
jangled quietly when she moved.
In the dark recess of the venue where we'd met, she appeared as a
triangular blur of white over non-reflective black, her forehead the base
of the triangle, the v-cut of her cloak at the apex (it was frustrating;
when she moved, the cloak swept back to reveal tantalising glimpses of her
dress, flashes of silver on black, tightly wrapping her body). She had the
longest eyelashes I'd ever seen. In the past fifty minutes of cautious,
covert scrutiny (thanks to my Railer implants, I could hear Maracite
whispers clearly) I'd established that her name was either Lizh or Vali.
I was about to try and withdraw my drunken remark when another song
started; her eyes widened and she took on the aspect of a small animal
trapped in the headlights of a transport; blank resignation, fear and
anticipation. As if in a trance, she left the bar and strode down to the
dance-floor. This was the fourth time it had happened since we'd started
talking; I watched them moving around each other, seemingly at random yet
never touching, always just managing to dance around and not into their
partners, hands moving in slow, sweeping gestures somehow pregnant with
meaning, invoking things that only they could see. I was on the verge of
understanding the pattern they were moving in when the song ended; they
simply stopped moving and she blinked and looked about as if surprised to
find herself out amidst the others. Returning to the bar (moving with a
curious stiffness of posture, as if she'd broken her ribs) she apologised
again: `When the call comes, we go.'
`Is it something in the music? I can't see any similarity in the songs
which make you go off like that.' She glanced down, ducked her head and
smiled apologetically; a now-familiar gesture which said, `You don't
understand and I can't explain it.'
The Maracites had always set themselves apart from the mainstream of
humanity, and having their own world had obviously accelerated the process,
allowing them to pursue their own odd culture, habits, patterns of thought.
They could speak Terran but had their own private language which sounded
something like Latin, something like Russian and something like the hisses
of mildly displeased cats or reptiles.
Another one of them - a male, encased in what looked like a skin-tight suit
of armour made of glossy black plastic - brushed past me, took her hand in
his and whispered something in her altered ear. I picked it up, a string of
syllables run together to form one long mellifluous word followed by a
brief snatch of song in oddly-accented Terran: `he star-ted head-ing for
the mo-tor-way...' He glanced back at me, face empty of expression; then he
tilted his head to one side and smiled as if I'd started growing antlers
and he was amused by it. Not taking his eyes off me he kissed the back of
her hand and wandered off into the darkness.
She sat facing me with that fascinating, faint smile, her eyes off to one
side, following him as he left; then seeming to remember me, her eyes
darted back to me and her cat-like pupils dilated. It was an old, corny
trick, but it worked on a subconscious level; I didn't resist as she took
my hand and led me away.
I thought she was taking me to a private room somewhere else in the club,
but the spiral escalator led up to the roof. One of the reasons that people
hung around the Maracites (despite their reputation) was because they were
allowed to build their own starships, possibly the only race in the entire
Dominion with this privilege. The ship was in keeping with the Maracite
style; black with gold details, spiky protuberances that had no immediately
obvious function; a smooth, black metal gargoyle with faster-than-light
capacity, the size of a twenty-seater bus. It crouched on the edge of the
building, claws sunk into the faux-stone, facing out into the night. A
Bythian scout-craft rested next to it; over in the far corner was another
Maracite ship, shaped like a stylised, over-detailed coffin.
She led me over to a spot about five metres from the side of the gargoyle-
ship and clapped her hands twice. The ship stood up on thick legs,
hydraulic bronze-faced hinge-joints hissing, turned to face us with the
general aspect of a large predator disturbed at its meditations. Two dim
red running-lights mounted on the front came on, glowering at us; it
emitted a bass rumbling just within the range of my implants, reinforcing
the impression that it was a living thing. I took a step back.
She stood there for a moment with her arms outspread in the attitude of
crucifixion, then inhaled deeply, threw her head back and gave a shrill
scream, a raw, frenzied cry of rage that must have hurt, a note that rose
to a climax over a period of thirty seconds and then abruptly stopped. She
let her arms drop, breathing heavily; the front of the ship unfolded like
the chitinous mouth-parts of a locust and a ramp extended down to her feet.
`Some people just use a button,' I said wryly, holding out my wrist and
showing her the credit-transfer contact attached there. She gave me a wry
smile, ran her tongue over an incisor, took my hand and led me inside. I
couldn't escape the feeling - reinforced by the odd, spicy aroma coming
from the ship's airsystem - that I was walking into the mouth of a dragon.
The ship didn't have any traditional control consoles or displays; it
looked more like a messy bedroom than a starship. Clothing, books, musical
instruments, figurines made of broken glass, and things with less
immediately obvious functions lay scattered around a huge, black-lace-
canopied four-poster bed made of dark brown wood, the bedposts as thick as
her waist, running from the thickly carpeted floor up to the ceiling. I
knelt and ran my hand through the carpet; it felt like animal fur. It
couldn't have been real, of course; that sort of thing had been illegal for
hundreds of years. Still, it was a very good imitation.
She was sitting on the end of the bed, her cloak wrapped around her body as
if to keep out the cold, holding the lapels closed with her black-leather-
gloved hands, looking very vulnerable. Thinking that she expected me to
leap on top of her and behave like a stereotypical human male, I thought
I'd try and throw her by behaving submissively; I crept closer to her on my
knees and crouched before her, looking up through a fringe of hair.
For a few moments we remained there, very still, eyes locked together. Her
vertically-slitted pupils combined with her bizarrely-shaped ear and fangs
combined to make a profoundly unsettling effect. Suddenly, she didn't look
as human as I'd first thought, and I wondered if this was a good idea.
Her gaze darted briefly down to her cloak, coal-dark folds still gathered
around her, parting at the knees to allow a view of her leather boots; rows
of glittering eyelets with dark purple laces threaded through them reaching
up into the mysterious depths. She looked back at me and gave me that odd
smile again, incisors making tiny dents in the pillow of her lower lip;
then she leaned back, hands supporting her weight, and moved her feet a
fraction of a centimetre apart. I supposed this was some subtle Maracite
invitation, so I shuffled a bit closer and slowly parted the folds of her
cloak, drawing them open from the knees upward.
The boots went all the way up to her thighs, silver palm-sized disc hinge-
plates set on either side of the knees, laces crossing a four-centimetre
gap of pale flesh and digging into the skin near the top. I undid each knot
in turn, loosened the laces and drew the boots from her shapely legs.
Pushing the edges of the cloak further apart I exposed the hem of a tight
leather skirt - actually a wide belt, tightened around her legs to the
point where it constricted movement. My hands felt around the hem, looking
for a buckle or catch; I found it at the back, a confusing array of buttons
and metal plates that had to be twisted just so before it released. The
strap had pressed a red mark into her legs as wide as my hand; she hissed
with pleasure and spread her legs wider, hooking one foot around my waist.
The rest of her dress was similarly brutal; there were wide crescent slits
up each hip, with more laces digging into her soft skin which left cross-
hatched marks when undone. Her waist was strapped into a corset which began
just above her pubis and ran up to cup her breasts, reinforced with dozens
of unrelenting, thick leather straps attached to wide chrome buckles,
arranged in a line up her stomach. I unfastened each one in turn, releasing
the dress and allowing her to breathe freely for the first time in days,
judging from the welts on her skin. As I tightened the straps to allow the
buckle-pin out of the belt-holes, she winced and smiled.
The belts had pressed through the thin leather of the corset and had made a
ladder of pale purple and blue bruises up her sides, slightly darker over
her rib-cage. Her hips were patterned like corrugated cardboard where the
laces had cut into her. I hesitated before touching the welts, not knowing
how painful they were; she gently took my head between her hands and guided
me down to her skin, and she hissed again as my lips touched the hot flesh.
- FINDER -
by Ace Lightning
I liked this club. More so than many others, it attracted a diverse crowd,
and was one of the few places where humans like myself could mingle
socially with Maracites (and other sentient races). The more diverse the
crowd, of course, the better my chances for finding the kind of individuals
I was looking for.
It has to be done circumspectly, of course; we don't know for certain what
the NoSanNoOs position is on psi, but we'd rather not find out. (The
Metamorphs know about us, but they generally leave us alone. Our abilities
are far more limited than theirs, and they know our own need for secrecy
keeps us from revealing them.) Some of us are telepaths, or telekinetics,
or healers, or far-seers, and new abilities keep coming to light, as well
as new sub-specialties within each one. I'm a Finder - a telepath with the
ability to sense potential Talents in people. My job is to Find them and -
if possible - let them know that there are ways for them to develop those
Talents and put them to use.
I'd been watching the slightly drunk human male flirting with the Maracite
girl, Vali. Even depressed by alcohol, his potential was obvious to me.
Equally obvious was the fact that he hadn't a clue to his own abilities. I
had trouble "reading" Maracites (there are others like me who specialize in
them, though); all I could tell about Vali was that she was very young, and
not one of the hidden Metamorphs among the Maracites (although her mental
patterns suggested that her mentor probably was). I'd have to let their
little scenario play out before I could approach the human.
Many humans might have mistaken _me_ for a Maracite, although no Maracite
would ever make that error. My skin was naturally very pale, and I'd dyed
my hair a deep violet-black and arranged it in a complex upsweep, held in
place with jewelled silver ornaments. Some of these "hair ornaments" were
actually borderline-illegal (because they skirted the definition of
nanotech) devices which enhanced my psi, and enabled me to access the
shadowy half-tech/half-psi construct we called "psyberspace", punning on
some words out of old Earth science fiction. If I needed assistance, or I
found myself in an emergency situation, I could get information there, or
even call upon other Talents to come help me.
I was wearing a dark cloak, much like the type favored by many of the
Maracites. Mine was really a very dark purple, which looked black in the
dim lighting of the club. The fabric was also nanotech-enhanced, and I
could change its appearance, but for now I wanted to stay cloaked in
darkness. I was drinking a syrupy purple liquid from some distant backwater
planet. It tasted vile, but it went with my outfit. More importantly, it
contained no alcohol to depress my psi - in fact, the exotic intoxicant in
it was actually a mild psi enhancer. Maracites sometimes drank it because
in them, it intensified the cross-linkage between pain and pleasure... and
perhaps they also drank it because it tasted so vile.
Vali led my human "subject" away toward the exit to the roof. I knew her
starship was parked up there with any other Maracite ships and the
inevitable Bythian vehicle. I sighed to myself and ordered another purple
drink; this might take a while. With one part of my mind, I followed his
mental "signature" - not that I meant to eavesdrop on their tryst, but so
that I would know what sort of emotional state he'd be in when he returned.
On another level, I listened to the music and watched the dancers, trying
to puzzle out the hidden meanings of the elaborate pattern-dances the
Maracites did to certain songs. Once a male Maracite dressed in chitinous
shiny armor - I'd seen him talking to Vali, earlier - came over to me and
asked wordlessly if he might sit with me. I indicated to him that I was
waiting for someone else; he smiled that inscrutable Maracite smile, and
then his expression went dazed as the music started and all the Maracites
began another of their patterned dances. I didn't bother trying to follow
him mentally as he joined the pattern; I'd done that before, with other
Maracites, and I still found the process incomprehensible.
The human wandered back into the crowded club, less drunk but more
bewildered than he had been; Vali was nowhere to be seen. He had an
emotionally bruised look around the eyes, and I realized what had happened.
The girl had, of course, been submissive with him - all Maracites were bred
and trained to submissiveness. For most non-Maracites, that passivity would
be merely a titillatingly different form of sexuality. But my subject was a
potential soul-healer. Soul-healers, even more so than other Healing
Talents, are naturally very giving people. Encountering that Maracite
submissiveness, he gave of himself in an unconscious attempt to fill her
undefined needs; he had poured himself into her bottomless passivity until
he himself was drained dry, and wondered why he still could not fill it. It
was time for me to make my move.
I gave him the tiniest mental 'nudge' in my direction; he stumbled over and
half-collapsed into the empty seat by me. Gathering what was left of his
wits, he said, "I'm going to try this line again: `I would very much like
to see what you're hiding underneath that cloak,'" I smiled at him and
said, "I think this time you'll get a different response; I'm not a
Maracite, you know," and touched the clasp at my throat. My cloak became
diaphanous, the merest shimmer of violet haze veiling what I wore beneath.
His eyes went wide as he looked, then *saw*, my costume.
Jagged, lightning-bolt-shaped strips of metallic purple film wound around
my body, seemingly at random, but emphasizing (by concealing) the erogenous
zones in age-old fashion. The film, though vanishingly thin, was multi-
layered. One layer was piezoelectric, and generated small currents whenever
I moved or even breathed. The outermost layer used this power to generate
light, and coruscated in the near-ultraviolet with every movement; the
wavelengths were tuned to resonance patterns which would evoke recognizable
responses from individuals with different psi talents. I'd designed it
myself, and it wasn't *quite* illegal. It clung to my body like a tattoo.
His pupils dilated and his breathing quickened.
The combination of emotional exhaustion and rekindled desire left his mind
completely open, trivially easy to scan. I barely concealed my own startled
reaction as I found he was not only a potential soul-healer, but a catalyst
telepath. These rare and wonderful individuals, by their very nature,
triggered the awakening of psi potential in anyone who possessed it; there
were only a handful of them in the known universe, and someone very much
like him had catalyzed the first development of my own powers. I quickly
sent an excited message out into psyberspace: "I think I've found an
undeveloped Catalyst!"
I talked him into trying some of my purple drink, knowing that the psi-
enhancing drug it contained would make the next phase of my work even
easier. I laughed at his reaction to its disgusting taste, and smoothed
part of my costume against my body in what looked like a flirtatiously
seductive gesture. In fact, I was fine-tuning the resonance of my
flickering lightshow to activate his latent abilities. The patterns within
his mind shifted gradually until his undeveloped telepathy began to focus.
When I was certain he could "hear" me, I "spoke" to him without a sound.
::I think we've both found what we came here for.::
It took him a moment to realize that I hadn't spoken aloud. "How did you do
that?" he stammered. As I touched my fingertips to his lips to indicate
that he needn't speak, he kissed them in a wholly involuntary reaction. It
took all my training to keep from radiating my own reaction back to him; I
was finding him very appealing, and hoped that once his powers were
activated and trained, we might see more of each other.
::I'm a telepath. So are you. Would you like to learn more about it?::
Hesitantly, not knowing whether it would work or not, whether it was real
or not, he replied, ::I think so...::
I opaqued my cloak, took his hand, and we left the Maracites dancing their
pattern-dances behind us...
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