After he had gone through decontamination, customs, and immigration, he emerged into the main section of the port to find a group of Gyonnese officials waiting for him.
The Gyonnese were slender creatures, as fluid as their city. They weren’t much wider than his thigh, with long bodies and even longer heads.
This group included some of the city’s leaders. Most humans wouldn’t have recognized them, but Yu had worked hard at distinguishing the Gyonnese’s features.
The Gyonnese had eyes, placed in roughly the same position as human eyes, but whiskers composed the rest of their face. The whiskers were tiny and varied in color and length depending on age and gender. The Gyonnese rubbed their whiskers together to create the sounds that composed their speech. To be understood by most humans, the Gyonnese had to use an amplifier.
Yu didn’t need one to understand them. He also knew that speaking in a normal human tone would hurt their ears (which were hidden somewhere in their midtorso).
“Hadad Yu.” The Gyonnese closest to him was the one who spoke. The Gyonnese often designated one of their number to communicate with humans.
Yu nodded toward the speaker in acknowledgement, but spoke to the entire group.
“You have broadcast that you are available for hire. Is this thing true?” When the Gyonnese spoke, it looked like the flesh beneath their eyes undulated. In reality, it was just their whiskers as they rubbed together.
This was the moment Yu could back out, and he probably should. To have so many high-ranking Gyonnese waiting for him did not bode well for the job they wanted to hire him for.
But this might be his only chance at work. And the Gyonnese paid well, even if they often asked for vaguely illegal things.
“Yes,” Yu whispered. He made sure the sound was so faint that most humans would think he was whispering to himself. “I sent a message that I am available for large jobs.”
“You have angered someone in the Alliance,” said the speaker. The others bobbed—their version of nodding.
“I have,” Yu whispered. “I had been warned that she was an unreasonable client. I spent three years on her job, but she would not let me finish. Instead, she is spreading lies about me.”
“That you are unreliable,” said the speaker.
Yu wished he knew their names. When he was speaking to humans, he tried to use names to put them at ease. But the Gyonnese did not use names.
Instead, they had honorifics, which were based on what stage of life the Gyonnese was in. Some were Elders, others were Apprentices, and there was a whole list of honorifics in between.
“She has said I am unreliable,” Yu whispered. “But an unreliable man does not work on a job for three years without payment. You know me. I have always worked well for the Gyonnese.”
“That is why we are here. We need to hire you.”
He figured as much. Normally, he would suggest a private place to discuss the work, but the Gyonnese did not meet aliens in private. Carrying on the discussion in the port was the best they would do for him.
“Tell me the job,” he whispered, “and I will tell you if I can help you.”
“We will pay your debt to this liar,” the speaker said as if Yu hadn’t spoken. “And then we will pay five times your normal fee.”
He felt cold. His normal fee for the Gyonnese was always ten times larger than the fee he charged human clients. This job had to be huge.
“And,” the speaker said, apparently taking his silence for reluctance, “we will pay your personal expenses in advance. Any change in the cost will work to your advantage. If the expense amount is more, you will submit a final bill. If it is less, you will keep the difference.”
The muscles in Yu’s back were so tight that they ached. He had to turn this job down now, before he heard their proposal. Because he knew the Gyonnese. They understood that this job wasn’t one he would want to do. They were trying to bribe him.
And it was working. He would be able to keep his private funds, pay off Athenia, and have money enough to return to the small work that he preferred.
“What’s the job?” Yu was glad he was speaking in whispers. He wasn’t sure his voice would be steady enough to ask the question.
“We need you to recover a Fifth,” the speaker said.
It took him a moment to understand. They didn’t mean a measurement. They meant a type of Gyonnese. The Gyonnese had great trouble having children. Most Gyonnese only had one child, which was called the Original. But at the larval stage, the Original Gyonnese divided into several other matching Gyonnese. Humans couldn’t tell the others apart. Biologically, there didn’t seem to be a difference. But the Gyonnese could tell. A Second, Third, Fourth, or Fifth was, to the Gyonnese, an inferior creature, subject to greater rules and stricter living conditions than the Originals.
Yu knew enough about the culture to understand that the Gyonnese who faced him now were all Originals. He was stunned that they had even mentioned the existence of a Fifth to him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered—and he truly was. He would have loved the money. “But while I am familiar with your culture and respect it a great deal, I am not sure I could tell a Second from a Fifth.”
He knew better than to say an Original from a Fifth, which was the actual truth.
The Gyonnese surrounding him raised their whiskers over their eyes. The gesture made a whispery clicking sound, which was their version of laughter.
“We do not send you after a Gyonnese Fifth,” the speaker said when after the whiskers had returned to their usual position. “We send you after a human Fifth.”
Humans don’t have Fifths, he nearly said, and then he realized what the Gyonnese meant.
“You want me to go after a clone?” He spoke out loud.
The Gyonnese scuttled backward. He had done the equivalent of shouting.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I did not mean to speak so loudly. But by law, clones are humans, not items to be recovered.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Within the Alliance, clones were considered human for some parts of the law—if one was killed, it would be considered a homicide—but in other parts, clones were just as insignificant as the Fifths of the Gyonnese. In many parts of the Alliance, clones had no economic legal standing. The original child received the inheritance and all the protections accorded to a child in a family. The law considered the cloned child as if it were an orphan.
As far as Yu was concerned, however, clones were humans. He did not recover humans.
“You’ll need a Retrieval Artist to find this Fifth,” he said. Retrieval Artists usually hunted for Disappeareds, people who went missing on purpose, usually to avoid prosecution or death by any one of fifty different alien cultures.
“We have contacted seven such highly recommended ‘Artists,’” the speaker said, “before it became clear to us that none will take our money. They work for humans only.”
Of course. Yu hadn’t thought of that. Retrieval Artists worked against alien cultures, not with them.
“A Tracker, then,” Yu whispered. “Someone used to finding people. I find things.”
“A Fifth is not a person as we understand it,” the speaker said.
That statement was accurate as far as it went. “Person,” as the Gyonnese used the word, only counted the Original.
“Does this Fifth live within the Alliance?” Yu asked.
“Yes.” The speaker scuttled toward him. He realized that the Gyonnese thought the question meant he would take the job.
He took one step back, which was the Gyonnese equivalent of putting up his hands. “The reason I ask is this. If I recover a human Fifth that lives within the Alliance, I am breaking human laws. The action would be called a kidnapping. I could go to prison for the rest of my life.”