something—anything—to spark recognition, to remind him why he’d been drawn to this planet, to this place.
The airbus passed back into the inner city. A place of towering buildings, of flashing laser and gel-lights and holovid displays, where the streets were choked with layer upon layer of vehicles, from flashy cruisers to shabby wrecks that barely seemed able to jolt along above the wet, filthy streets. Where factories belched pollution, where the rank stench of shorelines at low tide battled with bitter smoke. Where spacecraft shot into the murky skies over the dark, windy bay. Where showers of cold rain splattered down, but did nothing to clear the air.
His gaze narrowed on the beings crowding the streets, passing in and out of the buildings. They ran the gamut from the homeless dragging rickety cartloads of their belongings to those strutting along in flashy apparel and glittering jewelry, demanding all others make way for them.
He couldn’t say he knew these streets, but like the space port, at gut level he understood them. He could survive here—he knew this, without understanding how he knew it. Rather than memory, he operated now on instinct, like a man in a dark place navigating with his sense of touch.
Chapter Six
Lode stepped off the lumbering airbus onto a wet street corner in the oldest section of the city. Although it was long after midnight, the thoroughfare still teemed with lights, noise, pedestrians and vehicles.
The damp air reeked of mildew and the bay blocks away, cooking odors from the kiosks still open along the sidewalks, cheap perfumes on the crowds of garishly clad partiers strolling, and rank body odor from the shabby street beings crouched in doorways of businesses closed for the night.
Lights were everywhere, gleaming from holomarquees, strobing from holoboards on building fronts and flashing from holovids floating above the streets, glossy models promising bliss with the use of their product.
A cacophony of noise assaulted his ears—music, the rumble of enhanced gliders and aircycles, and voices from across the galaxy, strident with the false joviality of alcohol and legals.
A dull boom sounded in the distance, shuddering the pavement under his feet, and light flickered through the low clouds overhead.
“Orra le wak?” squawked an alien voice behind him. His com translated. “What is that?”
“Riots on the docks, sweets,” answered a human voice. “Unions against scabs and the cops. Just stay west of the Astra Quadrant and you’ll be okay.”
On the side of the street, he stopped under the cover of an awning outside a drink shop. A sickly sweet, fruity smell drifted out to mingle with the stench of pollution and unwashed bodies.
The vendor, a Vulpean with a visage that resembled the rats skittering in the shadows, squawked indignantly. “Hey, human. You block my entrance. Either buy or move your ass.”
Lode’s com translated the words for him. He shot the Vulpean a look over his shoulder.
The rotund little being froze, his whiskers quivering, his clawlike digits scrabbling nervously at his stained tunic. “Oh, sorry, sir,” he whined. “Er … stand as long as you like. Just let me know if you want a drink. Yes, yes, anything.”
Lode ignored the offer, turning back to studying the street. After a time, he moved out into the stream of foot traffic and headed south, toward the bay.
“Buy my noodles,” a Pangaean called from a small kiosk emitting steam redolent of spices. “Very fresh veg, give health and energy.”
Lode’s stomach growled, and he paused. He’d last eaten on the voyage, a tube of vegprotein and the swill that passed for coffee on the ship. This kiosk smelled cleaner than most.
He exchanged credit for a steaming bowl, the contents sprinkled with tiny bits of green veg. Facing the street, he lifted the bowl and drank, slurping noodles along with the broth. It was tasteless but filling.
However, when his bowl was only half-empty,
The airbus passed back into the inner city. A place of towering buildings, of flashing laser and gel-lights and holovid displays, where the streets were choked with layer upon layer of vehicles, from flashy cruisers to shabby wrecks that barely seemed able to jolt along above the wet, filthy streets. Where factories belched pollution, where the rank stench of shorelines at low tide battled with bitter smoke. Where spacecraft shot into the murky skies over the dark, windy bay. Where showers of cold rain splattered down, but did nothing to clear the air.
His gaze narrowed on the beings crowding the streets, passing in and out of the buildings. They ran the gamut from the homeless dragging rickety cartloads of their belongings to those strutting along in flashy apparel and glittering jewelry, demanding all others make way for them.
He couldn’t say he knew these streets, but like the space port, at gut level he understood them. He could survive here—he knew this, without understanding how he knew it. Rather than memory, he operated now on instinct, like a man in a dark place navigating with his sense of touch.
Chapter Six
Lode stepped off the lumbering airbus onto a wet street corner in the oldest section of the city. Although it was long after midnight, the thoroughfare still teemed with lights, noise, pedestrians and vehicles.
The damp air reeked of mildew and the bay blocks away, cooking odors from the kiosks still open along the sidewalks, cheap perfumes on the crowds of garishly clad partiers strolling, and rank body odor from the shabby street beings crouched in doorways of businesses closed for the night.
Lights were everywhere, gleaming from holomarquees, strobing from holoboards on building fronts and flashing from holovids floating above the streets, glossy models promising bliss with the use of their product.
A cacophony of noise assaulted his ears—music, the rumble of enhanced gliders and aircycles, and voices from across the galaxy, strident with the false joviality of alcohol and legals.
A dull boom sounded in the distance, shuddering the pavement under his feet, and light flickered through the low clouds overhead.
“Orra le wak?” squawked an alien voice behind him. His com translated. “What is that?”
“Riots on the docks, sweets,” answered a human voice. “Unions against scabs and the cops. Just stay west of the Astra Quadrant and you’ll be okay.”
On the side of the street, he stopped under the cover of an awning outside a drink shop. A sickly sweet, fruity smell drifted out to mingle with the stench of pollution and unwashed bodies.
The vendor, a Vulpean with a visage that resembled the rats skittering in the shadows, squawked indignantly. “Hey, human. You block my entrance. Either buy or move your ass.”
Lode’s com translated the words for him. He shot the Vulpean a look over his shoulder.
The rotund little being froze, his whiskers quivering, his clawlike digits scrabbling nervously at his stained tunic. “Oh, sorry, sir,” he whined. “Er … stand as long as you like. Just let me know if you want a drink. Yes, yes, anything.”
Lode ignored the offer, turning back to studying the street. After a time, he moved out into the stream of foot traffic and headed south, toward the bay.
“Buy my noodles,” a Pangaean called from a small kiosk emitting steam redolent of spices. “Very fresh veg, give health and energy.”
Lode’s stomach growled, and he paused. He’d last eaten on the voyage, a tube of vegprotein and the swill that passed for coffee on the ship. This kiosk smelled cleaner than most.
He exchanged credit for a steaming bowl, the contents sprinkled with tiny bits of green veg. Facing the street, he lifted the bowl and drank, slurping noodles along with the broth. It was tasteless but filling.
However, when his bowl was only half-empty,
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