A Closed and Common Orbit (Wayfarers #2)(23)
They walked down a coolly lit ramp, which curved and swayed as it wound its way underground. NO REDREED IN COMMON AREAS, a printed wall sign read. SAVE IT FOR THE SMOKING ROOMS.
‘How come?’ Sidra asked. She’d seen about a dozen different recreational substances being consumed in line, including some that required a pipe.
‘Makes Aeluons’ eyes itch,’ Pepper said. ‘Which I imagine would be absolute hell in a closed space like this.’
Down, down, down they walked, music growing louder, the line getting ever more excited. All at once, the wait was over. They arrived.
A deluge of information hit Sidra’s pathways, but in a way that exhilarated her. There was as much happening as there would be in a busy market square, but there were edges here. Walls. Her field of observation was instantly defined; her protocols did not reach endlessly outward. The same was true whenever she went down to the tech caves, but the activity there was often confined within shops and behind doors – places she saw only hints of as she walked by. The main hall of the Aurora, on the other hand, was a wide-open space filled with booths and tables and accessible displays. The caves were a series of closed cupboards; this was a buffet. Her field of vision was a nuisance, as always, but much of what overwhelmed her topside and bored her at home was absent here. This . . . this was a party.
‘Look at you.’ Pepper laughed.
Sidra realised the kit was smiling with an open mouth. She wrangled it into a less effusive expression. ‘It’s very exciting.’
‘Good!’ Blue said, squeezing the kit’s shoulder. ‘That’s great.’
‘First order of business,’ Pepper said, clapping her hands together. ‘Drinks.’
Sidra took in as much as she could as they searched for a refreshment vendor. Aside from the decorations – braided garlands of leaves dyed in monochrome, hanging metal charms displaying superstitious numbers for good luck and fertility – she had little immediate impression that this was a specific cultural event. On the contrary, everything about the happenings around them screamed ‘Port Coriol’. She saw an Aandrisk acrobat playing with a shielded ball of water, a Harmagian laughing at a Laru’s joke, a group of Humans blissfully plugged into a portable sim hub. There were places to sit. Places to dance. Nooks filled with cushions and lighted globes and shouting faces. Clouds of smoke – not redreed, she hoped – appearing and disappearing. A cacophony of smells: sweat, slime, food, feathers, flowers. A merchant selling handmade jewellery. A modder showing off a petbot with webbed wings and gem-like eyes. A tray of sugar-snaps upended. A tray of fried root vegetables devoured. The whirs and clicks of gadgets and implants piercing the sound of overlapping languages, all underlaid with the thick thoom-thoom-thoom that made the dancers buck and sway.
Sidra processed, processed, processed, but the walls kept her from stretching too far. It felt good. It felt right.
‘Pepper!’ a voice cried. A male Aandrisk, waving at them from the opposite side of a circular bar. Sidra didn’t recognise him, but Pepper obviously did. She hurried towards him, hands above her head. A Harmagian saw Pepper coming, and made room for her at the bar, tentacles curling with respect. Sidra felt a bit of awe warm through her pathways. Was there anyone on this moon who didn’t know Pepper?
‘Hist ka eth, reske,’ Pepper said, leaning over the bar to give the Aandrisk a hug. Good to see you, friend. Her pronunciation was rough, but the Aandrisk didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
‘Ses sek es kitriksh iks tesh.’ I was wondering when you’d get here. He reached over to Blue, hugging him across the bar as well. ‘It’s not a party without you two.’ His grey-green eyes flicked to Sidra. ‘And who’s this?’
Pepper put her palm between the kit’s shoulder blades. ‘My good friend Sidra, recently arrived at the Port, and just as recently hired by yours truly.’ She nodded at the Aandrisk. ‘Sidra, this is Issek, one of the finest bartenders on this rock.’
‘One of?’ Issek said, flicking his tongue. ‘Who else?’
Blue grinned teasingly. ‘Pere’tek at the Sand House pours f-faster than you.’
Issek rolled his eyes. ‘He’s got tentacles. That’s hardly fair.’ He tussled Blue’s hair, then turned his attention to the kit. ‘Sidra, it’s a pleasure. First drink’s on me. What can I get you?’
‘Oh.’ Sidra didn’t know how to respond. Having the ability to ingest fluids wasn’t the same as knowing which one she was supposed to purchase. ‘I don’t—’
Pepper gave Sidra a secret, reassuring glance. ‘It’s customary on Shimmerquick to drink something that comes from the same place you do. Or the same culture, at least. As close as you can manage.’
‘Ah,’ Issek said, raising a claw. ‘That’s what you buy for yourself. If someone else is buying, then it has to be something from xyr home. So, as I’m buying’ – he gave a little bow – ‘you’re getting something my home city of Reskit is famous for. Ever tried tishsa?’
‘I haven’t, no.’
Issek plucked a tall, thin ceramic bottle from the table behind him. ‘Tishsa is made from the sap of a tree whose pronunciation I won’t burden you with. Grows in the marshlands east of Reskit. There are two traditional ways of serving it: neat and very, very hot, or’ – he poured a stream of inky brown liquid into a tiny bowl-like cup with a subtle pour spout – ‘at room temperature, wiiiiith’ – he uncapped a second, smaller bottle – ‘a drop of nectar syrup, to counter the bitterness, and’ – a small box was produced – ‘a dash of salt, to balance the whole thing out.’ He gave the concoction two quick stirs with a long rod, then slid the cup toward Sidra.