Timothy Zahn
The Icarus Hunt
CHAPTER 1
THEY WERE WAITING as I stepped through the door into the taverno: three ofthem, preadult Yavanni, roughly the size of Brahma bulls, looming over me from bothsides of the entryway. Big, eager-eyed, and territorial, they were on theprowland looking for an excuse to squash something soft.
From all indications, it looked like that something was going to be me.
I stopped short just inside the door, and as it swung closed against my back Icaught a faint whiff of turpentine from the direction of my would-beassailants.
Which meant that along with being young and brash, they were also tanked tothe briskets. I was still outside the invisible boundary of the personalterritories they'd staked out for themselves in the entryway; and if I had any brains, I'dkeep it that way. Yavanni aren't very bright even at the best of times, butwhen you're outweighed by two to one and outnumbered by three to one, brainpowerratio isn't likely to be the deciding factor. It had been a long day and alonger evening, I was tired and cranky, and the smartest thing I could dorightnow was get hold of the doorknob digging into my back and get out of there.
I looked past the Yavanni into the main part of the taverno. The place waspretty crowded, with both humans and a representative distribution of otherspecies sitting around the fashionably darkened interior. It was likely tostaywell populated, too, at least as long as anyone who tried to leave had to passthe three mobile mountains waiting at the door. A fair percentage of theclientele, I could see, was surreptitiously watching the little drama about tounfold, while the rest were studiously ignoring it. None of either grouplooked eager to leap to my defense should that become necessary. The two bartenderswere watching me more openly, but there would be no help from that direction, either. This section of the spaceport environs lay in Meima's Vyssiluyanenclave, and the Vyssiluyas were notoriously laissez-faire where disputes ofthis sort were concerned. The local police would gladly and industriously pickup the pieces after it was all over, but that wasn't going to be much comfortif I wound up being one of those pieces.
I looked back at the Yavanni flanking my path, one a little way ahead and tomyleft, the other two to my right. They still hadn't moved, but I had the mentalpicture of coiled springs being tightened a couple more turns. I hadn't run, didn't look like I was going to run, and their small minds were simmering ineager anticipation of the moment when I put a foot across that invisiblebarrier and they got to see how many colors of bruises they could raise on me.
I wasn't armed, at least not seriously. Even if I had been, blasting away fromclose range at three full-size Yavanni was not a recommended procedure foranyone desiring a long and happy life. But there was a trick I'd heard about afew years ago, a nice little combination of Yavannian psychology andphysiology that I'd tucked away for possible future reference. It looked, as the sayingwent, like the future was now. Gazing at each of the Yavanni in turn, Icleared my throat. "Do your mothers know you boys are here?" I demanded in the deepestvoice I could manage.
Three jaws dropped in unison. "It's late," I continued before they couldrespond. "You should be home. Go home. Now."
They looked at each other, their earlier anticipation floundering inconfusion.
Talking like a Yavannian dominant male was probably the last response they'dexpected from an alien half their size, and the molasses they used for brainswas having trouble adjusting to the situation. "Did you hear me?" I snapped, putting some anger into my voice. "Go home."
The one on the left apparently had faster molasses than the other two. "Youare not Yavannian," he snarled back at me in typically Yavannian-mangled English.
A fresh wave of turpentine smell accompanied the words. "You will not speak tous that way." Paws flexing, he took a step toward me—
And I opened my mouth and let out a warbling, blood-freezing howl.
He froze in place, his alien face abruptly stricken as his glacial braincaughtup with his fatal error. I was stationary and he was moving, which meant hehad now violated my territory. I was the injured party, I had given out with theproper Yavannian accusation/indictment/challenge shout, and I was now entitledto the first punch.
By and by, of course, he would remember that I wasn't a Yavanne and thereforenot entitled to the courtesy of Yavannian customs. I had no intention ofgivingthat thought time to percolate through. Taking a long step toward him, Itightened my hands into fists and drove both of them hard into his lowertorso, into the slight depressions on either side of the central muscle ridge.
He gave a forlorn sort of squeak—a startling sound from a creature his size—
and went down with a highly satisfying thud that must have shaken the wholetaverno.
Curled around himself, he lay still.
The other two were still standing there, staring at me with their jaws hangingloosely. I wasn't fooled—flabbergasted or not, they were still in territorialmode, and the minute I stepped onto either's chosen section of floor I wouldgetmauled. Fortunately, that was no longer a problem. The left side of theentrywaywas now free territory; stepping over the downed Yavanne, I passed through theentryway and into the taverno.
There was a small ripple of almost-applause, which quickly evaporated as thoseinvolved belatedly remembered that there were still two Yavanni left on theirfeet. I wasn't expecting any more trouble from them myself, but just the same kept an eye on their reflection in the brass chandelier domes as I made my waythrough the maze of tables and chairs. There was an empty table in the back, comfortably close to the homey log fireplace that dominated that wall, and Isat down with my back to the crackling flames. As I did so, I was just in time to see the two undamaged Yavanni help their unsteady colleague out into thenight.
"Buy you a drink, sir?"
I turned my head. A medium-sized man with dark skin stood in the dim light tothe right of my table, a half-full mug in his hand, a thick thatch of whitehair shimmering in the firelight. "I'm not interested in company right now," Isaid, punching up a small vodkaline on the table's menu selector. I wasn'tinterested in drinking, either, but that little fracas with the Yavanni had drawn enoughattention to me as it was, and sitting there without a glass in my hand wouldonly invite more curiosity.
"I appreciate what you did over there," the man commented, pulling out thechair opposite me and sitting down as if he'd been invited to do so. "I've beenstuck here half an hour waiting for them to go away. Bit of a risky move, though, wasn't it? At the very least, you could have broken a couple of knuckles."
For a moment I gazed across the table at him, at that dark face beneath thatshock of white hair. From the age lines in his skin he clearly had spent a lotof his life out in the sun; from the shape of the musculature beneath hisjackethe hadn't spent that time lounging around in beach chairs. "Not all thatrisky,"
I told him. "Yavanni don't get that really thick skin of theirs untiladulthood.
Kids that age are still pretty soft in spots. You just have to know wherethose spots are."
He nodded, eyes dropping momentarily to the ship patch with its stylized "SB" on the shoulder of my faded black-leather jacket. "You deal a lot with aliens?"
"A fair amount," I said. "My partner's one, if that helps any."
"What do you mean, if it helps any?"
The center of the table opened up and my vodkaline appeared. "If it helps youmake up your mind," I amplified, taking the glass off the tray. "Aboutofferingme a cargo."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but then he smiled. "You're quick," hesaid. "I like that. I take it you're an independent shipper?"
"That's right." I wasn't all that independent, actually, not anymore. But thiswasn't the right time to bring that up. "My name's Jordan McKell. I'm captainof a Capricorn-class freighter called the Stormy Banks."