Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [20]
“Would you repeat yourself, please?” he said, holding the translator padd before him as though it were a shield. Though he hadn’t understood the slug’s speech, he gathered that the creature was presenting itself as someone in authority.
The being chattered again for a moment, saying, “fieoh hugek sm’por-por reskit ao huirt.” Then an approximation of its voice echoed out of the translator in standardized but stilted English. “…per day, although it is cheaper if you wish to pay by the sixturn.”
“One more time, please,” Chandra asked, wondering whether a “sixturn” might be the local equivalent of a Terran week.
“Gods of Jerotkixl! Have you never been to Kaletoo before?” The creature seemed to be growing annoyed.
“No, we haven’t,” Archer said, stepping forward. “In fact, this is our first visit to your fine planet.”
The creature snorted, and a wet, viscous splotch of something scarcely identifiable flew out of what Chandra supposed was one of its nostrils and spattered messily onto the sand-swept landing field. “Fine planet? It’s a peldmes-hole!”
“I’m Captain Jonathan Archer, and I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Help you how? Find a bigger ship? Your crew must be cramped in that little sbnuite, ‘Captain.’ ”
Archer ignored what seemed to be something of a verbal jab. “As a matter of fact, we do need to find a ship, though not for us. We also need information. What did you say your rate was for docking here for a week—a sixturn?”
“It’s negotiable. Are you paying with platinum, gold-pressed latinum, kildrats, or mercury?”
“Platinum or mercury, your choice.”
The creature smiled, showing the stumps of rotted teeth in his gelatinous gums. “Mercury. Three liters.”
Archer stepped forward and put his arm around the bulky creature, then spoke to him in almost conspiratorial tones. “We won’t be staying here for more than, oh, a turn or two, but if you get us the information you need, you’ll still get an entire sixturn’s payment.”
“What are you looking for?” the creature said. “Or who?”
Reed stepped forward. “The Xindi. We traced one of their ships to this spaceport.”
The creature nodded quietly, as if thinking. “Xindi. They don’t come around my facilities very often. I think we last had a Xindi vessel here five daycycles ago, maybe six.”
“What were they doing here?” Archer asked.
“They had business with one of the couriers who works here. La’an Trahve. He’s a pilot who doesn’t ask questions when he shouldn’t.”
“And how do we find this La’an Trahve?” Reed asked.
“He’s usually parked on the other side of town. Drinks a lot at the cantina near the Bresian whore-house.” The creature looked up at Archer, slime from atop his head sluicing onto the captain’s arm. “I’ll give you directions, but if you want to have a look at him first, it’ll cost you extra.”
“What do you mean, ‘Have a look at him’?” Reed asked, sounding suspicious.
The creature pointed a pudgy finger up toward the top of a building nearby, then swept over to point at another nearby rooftop. Chandra and the others turned and saw the wall-mounted recording devices that had been placed at strategic intervals around the rooflines. Security cameras. Very smart, for a man in this business. In a flash, he realized that Hayes and the MACOs—even Reed—might have already noticed the cameras; since Chandra had been assigned to diplomatic duty, he hoped his failure to notice the alien surveillance equipment would be considered forgivable.
“I’m sure I have archive images of Trahve meeting with the Xindi,” the creature said. “But it’ll cost you triple your docking fees if you want to see them.”
“We’ll give you double up front,” Archer said, his voice steely. “Triple after we actually speak with this Trahve.”
The creature turned its back. Chandra