ISB
0-345-3fe.254-3
9780345362544

AN OFFER HE
COULDN'T REFUSE
"It's not too late to make amends," the case
officer said at last. "Here's what we're going to
do: You're going to show me around. I want to
see the dumb agents, cut-outs, drop points, the
entire menu. Is that understood?"
Jalak stared at Santoul. "You're not going to
cut me off?"
Santoul shook his head. "No. But I expect to
see some changes: Lose the beard, the glasses,
the stoop. I want a new and improved Jalak or
word goes straight to the Dazyldesk."
"I understand. And I want to—"
"No, don't thank me yet, professor. You've
still gotta earn this one. We want intell on
movements through the flashpoint. And you"—
he raised a thick forefinger—"are going to help
me recruit the talent who'll gather it."

By James Luceno
Published by Ballantine Books:
RIO PASION
RAINCHASER
A FEARFUL SYMMETRY
ILLEGAL ALIEN

ILLEGAL
ALIEN
James Luceno
A Del Rey Book
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1990 by James Luceno
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-
right Conventions. Published in the United States of America by
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York,
and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada
Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-91540
ISBN 0-345-36254-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: April 1990
Cover Art by Barclay Shaw

For Brian Daley, partner
in travels, travails,
tomfoolery.

PART ONE
UPSIDE

ONE
Practically everyone Remy ran into
lately knew the joke: What do you do when you find
yourself in a quandary?—the final word compressed so
that it came out sounding like NCorp's Dazyldesk tag
for the planet and its downside indigs.
"You grab yourself two handfuls of pelt and enjoy
the ride!"
Remy, emerging from torpor on the Chakra with tin-
gling palms and sinuses plugged from the residual ef-
fects of the aromatic tutorials, had heard the joke from
a medtech in biostat decomp. The guy's I.D. badge read
kraus, ellar—a broad-shouldered vet with a loose,
friendly style, who kept referring to himself as Tiger.
"So I tell myself: Tiger, one more jump and you're
gone, okay. No more starslinging, that's clear. Dhone,
Ralii, Enddra, Burst ... I know the sector like I know
my own genome. What's left to see besides? I've run
with the coats, the 'berries, the slopes. Three tours in
the war and Tiger's still retscanning biostat displays.
I'm dazzled, I'm fucking screen weary." A lopsided
nod had motioned Remy off the padded bench. "No,
it's back to home system for this redundancy. Already
got my aps in for work in the 'tats."
3

4
James Lucerio
Remy hadn't bothered to ask which orbital habitat,
but Tiger told him anyway. "Triple M'd suit me. Even
Golden Arches or Am Way. I've got family there, two
half brothers."
"I'm from Citi," Remy had told him.
"Figured you for a spacer. So you know Triple M."
"Used to visit about once a year before the new regs.
It's a tight wheel. You'd get by."
"The way I see it," Tiger said. "So what's your de-
bark dest, Santoul?"
Kwandri, Remy told him, and that's when Tiger had
volunteered the joke.
"The fucking coats," he laughed.
The planet was listed in the registry files as
Q'aantre—which apparently meant "chosen land"—but
some deskbound umbilicaled processor in Semiotics had
started calling it Kwandri and the name stuck.
Six months of force-fed input had familiarized Remy
with Kwandri's cultural basics (just as the aromatic tu-
torials had prepared his nose to handle the indig's ol-
factory idiom), but he still couldn't get used to having
his testicles cupped where a simple handshake would
have sufficed.
"You will be a worthy addition to the rite," an effete
specimen of the planet's upper class was telling him
now, one furred hand lingering at Remy's groin.
The lingua franca scarcely did justice to the ritual
greeting. Your testicles are swelled with anticipation
would have been a more accurate translation. But what
with the greeting normally reserved for the middle
months of "Red Years" and Tegganon a standard-year
off, Remy had to ask himself if Norak Baj didn't have
more than etiquette in mind.
Densign, the Terran mission's envoy, had made the
introductions before slipping off to resume a purposeful
orbit through the crowded hall.
"A son for your household," Remy returned, weigh-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
5
ing Baj's heavy scrotum in his right hand. The Kwan-
dri's oblique eyes widened with delight. It was the rare
Terran who was familiar with Tegganon, let alone con-
versant with the subtleties of ritual exchange.
TechSciDiv had warned Remy about hands-on con-
tact. The Kwandri could pass info to one another
through secretions as well as exhalations, but Baj's trou-
sers muffled whatever his glands might have been say-
ing.
"Q'aantre is pleased to welcome all representatives
from Earth," he told Remy, steering him by the elbow
toward a quieter spot beneath the thickly curtained win-
dows along the west wall.
The indigs were somewhat myopic and hard of hear-
ing by human standards. Remy had once heard them
referred to as "the little bigfoot," but he didn't under-
stand the reference.
At just under six feet, Baj was tall and gangly for a
Kwandri, his fine coat reddish brown where it peeked
from the elastic cuffs of loose-fitting trousers and blousy
sleeves, but dark honey blond where swept back in oiled
waves from an almost flat, flesh-toned face.
Red Year of the Lulle, Remy ventured, summoning a
mental image of the indigenous lynxlike creature.
Kwandrian births of that particular year were generally
of an apolitical type. His eyes had immediately been
drawn to the distinguishing blond streaks; such mark-
ings, especially if artificially applied, told much about
SerNorakBaj.
A precis would have helped, but the Dazyldesk op-
erations chief had insisted on sending Remy down cold.
Better to bring in someone who knew nothing than
someone who knew too much.
"I presume you're with the mission legation, Mr.
Santoul?" the Kwandri continued in a louder voice. The
hall was rapidly filling with fashionably late arrivals,
offworlders for the most part, their names and titles

6
James Lucerio
announced over a primitive PA system of amp-driven
speakers.
"I'm with DisneyCorp," Remy said in the same loud
tone. "Artifact and Icon Exchange." The first time he
had used the cover there was some trace of hesitation
in his voice, but that was absent now.
"Then I'm doubly honored. I knew your predeces-
sor—Ms. Canu." Baj moved from trader's tongue to
high Kwandrian to add, "She was a perfume of aston-
ishing clarity. Aggressive yet pleasingly transparent. A
bath in a cool mountain stream."
Tiger had told him to expect such appraisals. The
coats don't see well, but they can sniff you out across
the room and taste you like a wine.
"So I've heard," Remy said.
"We were all so sorry to learn of her transfer to . . ."
A heady redolence of enthusiasm momentarily
eclipsed the hall's olfactory leitmotif of prosaic scents.
But beneath Baj's deliberately projected exhalation,
Remy detected suspicion. The tutorials had trained his
nose to sculpture the exhalations into human-
recognizable scents and their attendant qualitative com-
ponents. And just now Baj smelled of patent leather
and old rugs.
"To Enddra," Remy completed. It was fact, but he
tongued the release of a reinforcing oral mist neverthe-
less. Truth unassisted could rarely be counted on to
convince.
The Kwandri's suggestion of a nose twitched. "To
Enddra, of course." He adopted a conspiratorial look
and began to tug back the right sleeve of his garment.
"She made a gift of this shortly before she left."
Remy glanced at the bracelet the Kwandri wore high
up on his forearm. "Swatch," he said with feigned pro-
fessional interest, aware that Baj was continuing to test
him. "Earth, early 1990s. Korean assembly, glass crys-
tal set in a plastic housing. Battery-powered."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
7
Baj smiled, wrinkling the skin around narrow eyes.
"Correct on all counts."
"It's customary to wear it on the wrist."
"Oh, my," Baj said, blushing, blunt fingers already
working at the watch's Velcro band. "These pointers
are supposed to turn, I believe. Unfortunately, the thing
lacks a battery."
Remy was about to say that he would see what he
could do about procuring one, when Densign reap-
peared, his first orbit complete.
"And how is Mr. Santoul comporting himself, Ser
Baj? Nothing untoward in his emanations, I trust?"
The Kwandri stiffened perceptibly. "I think the Ter-
ran Consortium has finally seen fit to send us an edu-
cated Earther, Mr. Densign."
Remy concealed a smile.
"Yes, well I'm sure you're right about that," Densign
said, gravely voiced and mimicking Baj's canted pos-
ture.
He was a long-faced, stoop-shouldered man of about
sixty, with heavy jowls, a bulbous nose, and pro-
nounced sacks under close-set eyes. His hair was black
and wiry, brushed straight back from a hairline distin-
guished by twin scoops of forehead flesh. Envoy to Xella
before the war, a founding member of the Orbital Club
. . . Remy could picture him relaxing under two milli-
grams of Halflife at the club's on-station franchise, a
hired hand for company in the baths. Rumor had it there
was Dick Nixon donor-clone in Densign's ancestry.
Baj had his wide animal mouth arranged in a grin.
"I was just lamenting the fact that so few Terran trade
products reach us." He shrugged. "Of course one hears
stories this is about to change. But who can say, given
the Grand Assembly's current infatuation with Xella."
Remy didn't need his reeducated nose to tell him that
Baj was baiting the envoy. Densign cleared his throat
with ambassadorial vigor.
"Naturally, the Consortium would like to see trade

8
James Lucerio
relations improved between Terra and Kwandri." He
gestured with a manicured hand to Remy. "That's one
of the prime reasons DisneyCorp was invited downside,
Ser Baj."
Remy heard it coming.
" One of the prime reasons? Then there are secondary
purposes?"
Densign's head seemed about to disappear down the
round collar of his formal tunic. "I only meant to sug-
gest that artifact exchange might speed the process
some."
The envoy's response triggered a confusing array of
aromas from Baj: irritation, optimism, eagerness-
coffee and vanilla extract, peaches and tomatoes, along
with several more elusive scents.
"There is certainly a place for DisneyCorp's re-
sources, Mr. Densign—as we both know. It concerns
some, however, that the Consortium has placed
Q'aantre in a position where in order to be awarded this
priceless orbital tower, it must at the same time accept
to heart the political ideology of the culture that per-
fected it." Baj summoned a sigh. "Perhaps we are des-
tined to remain planet-bound after all."
"Extraplanetary travel is the right of all worlds,"
Densign insisted, stating mission policy, "not a privi-
lege for Terra, Xella, or any other planetary system to
grant."
"And yet your two great systems possess what
amounts to complete control of the technologies. And
you have seen fit to strip the Raliish of that right in the
wake of their defeat."
Densign's face, jowls quivering, was growing ruddier
by the moment. Remy wished he could take him aside
and give him a whiff of the provocative scents Baj was
emitting.
"If Kwandri is suddenly so eager for space, Ser Baj,
perhaps the Assembly should be persuaded to contract
with one of the private corps."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
9
"And barter what? some would ask. This precious
wormhole the Inner Arm League had deigned to con-
sider part of our celestial territory?''
"Exactly that, yes. This alone should convince you
of the importance we place on self-determination."
"Self-determination!" Baj snorted, the three waxy
nostrils of his nub of nose flared. "Yes, I suppose you
could have swept down on us as conquerors rather than
far-flung brethren. But perhaps you've forgotten what
it's like to be confronted with the sudden realization that
your race is but a primitive, inconsequential member of
this would-be fraternity of worlds." The Kwandri re-
garded the two Earthmen curiously. "Perhaps you have
never known."
Densign relaxed his scowl. "Contact was a gradual
process for us. But your planet is far from inconse-
quential," he was quick to add. "Cosmicization is the
destiny of all worlds."
Baj studied the hairless palms of his five-fingered
hands. "Ah, yes, the evolutionary goal," he said qui-
etly. "Cosmic consciousness, the planetary mind. That
most important element of the cultural view we are
asked to embrace in exchange for the tower. So at odds
with the quaint traditional values Q'aantre perpetu-
ates." He looked up from his hands. "Again, Mr. Den-
sign, it strikes some that Terra's aim is a self-serving
one indeed. Xella makes no such demands on us."
"The Xell'em are superstitious bas—" Densign be-
gan, but stopped himself.
Baj's grin returned. "Yes, they are like us in that
respect. Ripe, I suspect, for conversion."
Remy decided that hanging around listening to Baj
and Densign debate Kwandri's future wasn't going to
get him anywhere, so he excused himself and set off
trailing a servant shouldering a drink tray.
The burnished-metal service bar in the hall's domed
antechamber was doing a brisk business in offworld li-

10
James Lucerio
queurs, but Remy was after a sweet mug of the local
brew. He'd sampled the beer on debarking days ago and
hadn't been able to slake his thirst for the stuff since.
Thick and amber-colored, it was served warm and
topped with pungent spice, as was only fitting on a
perpetually chilled world.
Several Kwandri Assembly members sought to place
themselves in his path as he jinked through the crowd,
but he was successful in avoiding direct contact and
returning greetings without arresting forward motion.
Moments later he was treating himself to a long pull
from an embossed tankard, while his blue eyes scanned
the room.
The Consortium was well represented by Densign's
mission staff and a score of high-profile Terrans speak-
ing for various private corps and special interest groups.
There was a scattering of singletons as well, rogue spa-
cers by the look of them, the sons and daughters of
wealthy families who fled the orbital habitats when
Earth Force had moved in to quash the rebellion.
Remy tipped the tankard to his lips in a silent toast.
Enddrese, sinister-looking in robes and headgear of
prewar Xell'em design, comprised the offworlder ma-
jority. Like the Kwandri and the dozen odd sentient life-
forms who inhabited the inner curve of the Arm, they
were humanoid in aspect and in character, swarthy en-
domorphic bipeds with unreadable eyes and rotten dis-
positions.
Subscribing to the NCorp line, Remy accepted that
every planetary race chosen to ascend evolution's ladder
to self-awareness and cosmicization was predetermined
to assume the form for a time; that every creature spit
from an ocean or dropped from a tree eventually arrived
at an upright two-legged stance.
But if the proper physical form for evolvement had
been found, the proper mindset most often had not. For
while this very sameness had made communications and
information exchange such a straightforward affair at

illegal alien
the onset of galactic expansion, it had likewise made
warfare a simple matter in the end. The Consortium,
however—firmly convinced that its victorious emer-
gence from the war constituted proof of what lay in
store for the right-thinking—had undertaken a crusade
to correct that oft-encountered psychic imbalance. And
so NCorp had been conceived, initially to implement
the Consortium's policies and to counter the plans of
all those who would stand in the way of planetary
wholeness and conversion.
But with war's end the intel corp had fallen on hard
times, and there was even talk about phasing out NCorp
entirely. Several thousand operatives had already been
reassigned, and Remy figured it was only a matter of
time before similar notification surfaced on his own
screen. He hoped that wouldn't happen until he had had
a chance to tip the scales in his own favor.
Remy wasn't sure just what was expected of him on
Kwandri, but the jump costs alone made the operation
a high-priority concern. Then there were the additional
costs of the olfactory and tactile tutorials ... It was a
willingness to undergo periodic neural rewiring that had
kept Remy out in the field gathering HUMINT while
most of his peers were umbilicaled to consoles back at
Center with neat rows of cyberports dimpling their
heads; but the buccal and pore modifications were about
as far as Remy cared to go with implants.
He wasn't, however, the only spy in the room. And
even now a raven-haired Xell'em female was assessing
him over the rim of an upraised wine goblet.
Remy favored her with the friendly nod he'd been
using all evening, and followed it up with a Kwandrian
gesture of salutation before edging back into the crowd.
Odors in the thick of things were cloying, floral—save
for the occasional whiff of offworlder moodscents—but
devoid of data in any case. Where Remy's nose picked
up traces of genuine Kwandri emanations they were of
a lighthearted, socially acceptable sort.

12
James Lucerio
He paused once to drain the last of the beer, and in
so doing spotted what looked to be the best seat in the
house: a circumferential balcony some fifty feet above
the hall's polished floor.
But first, another drink.
One of the taller beings in the room, it took him only
seconds to relocate the Kwandri with the drink tray. He
began to work his way past a dozen or more food tables
and arrived finally at the foot of a sweeping marble
staircase, only to find that the servant had already
moved on. In his place stood a group of Kwandri fe-
males, who were waiting for the elevator to return from
the balcony. The five appeared to be in some sort of
huddle, an illusion maintained by the wedge of heel
bone that lent a forward cant to Kwandrian carriage.
The slimmest among them—a girl of seventeen or so—
watched Remy approach and exhaled something that
brought the entire group around.
There was less somatotype diversity among the
Kwandri than some of the other Inner Arm dwellers,
and the typical young adult female was long-legged,
high-breasted, and narrow-hipped.
Remy fashioned a flat triangle with his hands and
brought the backs of his extended fingers to his lips.
Giggling, the females returned the greeting, delicate
hands at mouths to stifle private exhalations. The one
nearest touched a forefinger to her upper lip, then mo-
tioned to Remy. He considered for a moment that he
had neglected some detail crucial to the ritual ex-
change, but soon understood that the girl was merely
commenting on the ridge of beer foam adorning his
upper lip.
The five were dressed alike in woolen shawls and
shapeless long-sleeved gowns cinched by narrow belts;
outfits designed to be practical and unappealing, as dic-
tated by tradition, which restricted the wearing of bright
clothing or jewelry to the three months preceding Teg-
ganon. Answering to restraints of a biological nature,

ILLEGAL ALIEN
13
the Kwandri female's coat was dun-colored—save dur-
ing estrus, when it took on a red sheen—whereas the
male's could run what someone back at Center called
"the Crayola gamut." It was somewhat coarse as well,
and sparse across the whole of her ventral side—
enticingly sparse, to hear Tiger tell it.
"I hope he's still here at Tegganon," the slim one
said as Remy was licking the foam from his lip.
The fucking coats, Remy could hear Tiger laugh. You
grab yourself two handfuls of pelt and enjoy the ride.
Back in the main room, the crowd was beginning to
congregate around the hall's central arch—a sign that
Ambassador Xu had arrived. The Xell'em were known
for their entrances. They'd certainly put on a show dur-
ing the war, Remy reminded himself. Laying waste to
Raliish cities with little of the fanfare that attended their
social and political events. He had had frequent deal-
ings with their operatives then—NCorp and the Mani-
fest's intel networks allied for a time—but peace had
since made them competitors.
Musicians and dancers led the line as the legation
filed in, playing to Kwandri's dearth of visual and au-
ditory exotica. Percussion and wind instruments con-
spired in riotous concert, while Xell'em youths wearing
brass bells and finger cymbals gyrated in gauzy cos-
tumes. Behind, marched a phalanx of soldiers outfitted
in antique armor; a resplendent retinue of fifty or more
masked maidens and stately attendants; and last, the
hover litter bearing the ambassador himself, a cruel-
visaged male of indeterminate age, his gilded torso con-
figured into a twisted cross-legged posture.
Remy watched in childlike fascination. As the crowd
parted to afford the Xell'em space, the air grew loud
with an overwhelming array of intoxicating exhalations.
Remy felt himself begin to respond to the offworlders'
display; to experience the sights and sounds the way the
Kwandri were experiencing them. The loss of control
was unnerving at first, but he found that regulated

14
James Lucerio
breathing could successfully dampen the olfactory im-
pact.
TechSci had equipped him with filter implants to
safeguard against sensory overload, but the chief of sta-
tion on the Kwandri wheel had suggested he see just
how much he could withstand before bringing them into
play.
The extravaganza was nothing more than the opposite
face of the operation NCorp has set in motion by in-
serting DisneyCorp reps downside, taking advantage of
a sudden back-to-basics movement that was sweeping
the local group. Traders in Terrana, as Earth artifacts
were called, were making fortunes on dozens of worlds
by selling off bits of the planet's preexpansionist past.
Genuine artifacts of that time had even become a basis
for currency in places.
NCorp hoped to further Terra's chances with the
Grand Assembly by bartering period pieces for Kwan-
drian hearts and minds. Xella hoped to hold on to its
influence with costume and pageantry.
At the heart of it, though, Terrans and Xell'em—de-
spite the latter's penchant for dermal design and cranial
deformation—were not all that different. Both cultures
tended to be as acquisitive as they were inquisitive, and
both, in their consolidation efforts among the worlds of
the local group, claimed to be guided by truth. But
where the Consortium recognized one unifying cosmic
principle, the Manifest—much like Earth's ancient Maya
lords—saw a plethora of gods and demiurges. A few
historians had advanced the view that the Xell'em ac-
tually were Earth's Maya. But Remy had enough trouble
comprehending trends of the past hundred years to
bother much with those that had shaped the previous
two thousand.
By now the Xell'em had spiraled their dazzling pa-
rade to the center of the floor, and Xu and his near-
chinless wife were preparing to address the crowd.
Remy, stalled not far from the elevators, spied the

ILLEGAL ALIEN
15
beer tray bobbing nearby and began to angle toward it
while the ambassador was unfolding himself atop the
hover litter. But no sooner had the Xell'em eased out
of his contortion and uttered his first words than the
hall was rocked by the concussive reports of three sep-
arate explosions.
Remy ducked along with everyone else in the im-
mediate area, but surfaced grinning as he watched the
ambassador's cleverly orchestrated spectacle deteriorate
into chaos. The Xell'em presented quite a picture,
crouched on his bit of baroque while a hundred Kwandri
ran crazed circles around him, laying down a miasma
of unadulterated dread.
"She is saying that she likes you better with the face
comb," Baj said uncertainly, using the lingua franca
term for mustache. "But I'm not sure I understand. You
didn't have one earlier this evening."
Remy accented his bow to the Kwandri teen with a
long-distance smile, one hand behind his back con-
cealing a skewer of roasted meat and tuber. "From the
beer," he explained.
"The yikal"
Remy turned to face him, toothing the last piece of
meat from the stick. "I had a tankard inside. Left some
foam on my lip. Here," he added, touching himself.
"Ah, of course," Baj said with a slight laugh.
They were standing halfway up the ramplike stairway
that fronted the hall, Remy trying to stomp some
warmth into his feet, Baj at ease in his natural coat and
blousy homespun. Densign and a few of his staffers
were several steps below, wrapped in warmcloaks em-
blazoned with the mission's pyramidal logo. Most of
the offworlder contingents had moved back inside, in-
cluding the Xell'em, who were trying hard to pick up
where they'd left off.
The Kwandri were easily sidetracked when it came to
bombs.

16
James Lucerio
Remy licked grease from his fingertips and tucked
his hands under his arms. "Damn, it got cold. Shoulda
grabbed my jacket."
"Nature played a cruel trick by turning you into the
world naked, Remy," Baj said. "But speaking of jack-
ets .. . Ms. Canu once showed me a holo-image of
something called a bomber jacket. Do you happen to
own one of those yourself?"
Remy snorted. "You and I could retire, Norak. You're
talking museum piece."
"Just a thought."
Baj had more to say, but was scarcely into his thought
when two uniformed police interrupted him. Remy
watched Baj descend the stairs to rendezvous with a
stocky male, who had Special Investigations written all
over him. SPECVES agents were said to be masters of
deadly scents and secretions. A pair of Xell'em advisers
accompanied the Kwandri officer, shaved and deformed
heads encased in quilted thermal bonnets.
A block west of the Grand Assembly hall the tower-
ing iron gates of the Xell'em embassy had been blown
clear off their hinges. When Remy and a hundred others
from the panicked hall had arrived on the scene, the
police were already cordoning off the street; not that
there was much to see or smell, save for twisted metal
and a security booth that had seen better days, and a
lingering odor of angry discontent.
Floodlights illuminated the area now—huge, electri-
cally powered things, sweeping tight arcs across nearby
alleyways and rooftops. Kwandri's night was the black-
est of any world. Even so, entire families of curious
Kwandri were hanging out of upper-floor apartment
windows, and scores of vendors had scurried in from
the Old City to set up food and drink stalls on the broad
sidewalks.
"Someone has a keen sense of timing," Remy said
as Densign approached. "Just when things were getting

ILLEGAL ALIEN
17
interesting inside." He blew into his hands and cupped
them to his face.
The envoy grunted something unintelligible. "The
Xell'em will demand a full accounting. I pity the group
responsible."
Kwandri had recently enacted legislation calling for
harsh punishments for terrorist acts. Few on the Grand
Assembly wanted to see the promise of extraplanetary
travel jeopardized.
The Terran mission, as well as banks belonging to
both camps, had all seen their share of protests and
pyrotechnic, stinkbomb displays of discontent. Small
wonder the Consortium was reluctant to construct an
embassy downside, Remy thought.
"Conversion's rarely won without a cost," he com-
mented, quoting NCorp's Dazyldesk chief.
Densign, head lowered and shoulders hunched be-
neath the warmcloak, scowled at him. Remy ignored
the look, motioning with his chin toward Baj and the
Special Investigations team. "What's he do? Baj, I
mean. I didn't get a chance to ask."
Densign glanced over his shoulder. "Interior Minis-
try. A low-level functionary, but family money has kept
him well connected if not especially well placed."
Baj returned with the SPECVES officer, who intro-
duced himself as Lieutenant Els Matut. Baj explained
that the bombs were believed to have been relatively
simple devices.
"But the triggering mechanisms were of offworld de-
sign," Matut said leadingly. "They bear similarity to
certain Terran-made devices."
Densign looked uncomfortable.
"I'll bet you had help with that one," Remy said.
Matut directed a look at his Xell'em advisers, who
had remained at the foot of the staircase. "Tracing the
origin of the mechanisms could prove difficult."
Densign said, "The mission will of course do all it
can to facilitate the search."

18
James Lucerio
Matut offered a crisp nod. "The perpetrators will be
apprehended and questioned. They'll tell us what we
need to know."
Remy's nose burned. Baj's concern smelled of ash
and urine; the lieutenant's determination carried the ol-
factory sting of fried electrical circuitry.

TWO
now i recognize the face," the
Kwandri station chief told Remy after the cabin hatch
had chirped a sequence of secure tones. She continued
to appraise him from behind a slab of matte-black desk-
top, long legs crossed underneath, one softboot-encased
foot tapping the carpet. ' 'The opticals we received made
you look Arabic. What was the donor-clone name?"
"Beatty," Remy said, suspecting she just wanted to
hear him announce it. "Warren. Film actor, turn of the
twentieth."
"You're DiNA-pure?"
Remy shook his head. "Last I heard there were two
pure living on Trans Am. I've got three generations of
parentals behind me." He paused to show her a roguish
grin. "Though I'm told I retained all the good parts."
The station chief nodded, but didn't smile back.
"That's right, your family were spacers, weren't they."
She ran a fingertip along the cheap, neck-breaking
desktop screen. "Citi, it shows here. And on your ring
if I'm not mistaken."
Remy caressed the ring's raised symbol—a glass ramp
modeled after the crown of a landmark Earth sky-
scraper. "At the end."
1 9

20
James Lucerio
He recalled what the liaison officer aboard the Chakra
had offered about the station chief. Name's Audjo Ish-
ida. Army brat, born in Singapore and raised on half-
dozen in-system bases. Transferred to the Kwandri wheel
eleven months ago and not very happy about it. Trying
hard to make a name for herself. Degrees in systems
analysis and motivational psych. Act cyborg, you '11 get
along.
Audjo Ishida was narrowing her dark eyes at the
screen. Attractive dark eyes, Remy decided. Nicely
proportioned if unremarkable features; a lamp-tanned
face of planes and hollows, with Occidental eyes and
glossed lips. She wore her black hair short and straight
in what would once have been termed a boyish cut. The
liaison man claimed that she wasn't as glacial as she
pretended to be, but Remy didn't see that it was any of
his concern. Although it was interesting to note they
shared the same taste in earrings.
Ishida motioned him to a bench seat. "Relax, San-
toul," she said, glancing up briefly.
Remy set his attache down and adjusted the height of
the seat to accommodate his long legs. He'd chosen an
outfit of twentieth-century design for the appointment-
pleated trousers and a tight-fitting satin jacket from the
DisneyCorp wardrobe File Integration Division had as-
sembled—but contagion control had confiscated the
clothes and issued him a jumpsuit that was an inch short
in the sleeves and way too tight in the crotch. The nar-
row bench seat made matters worse.
"A moment more," Ishida said, raising a hand.
He rested his left ankle on his right knee and did what
he could to stretch the synthetic fabric of the jumpsuit.
Somewhere a seam gave, and Ishida looked up at the
popping sound.
"Do you always fidget so much, Santoul?"
"The jumpsuit," he explained sheepishly, plucking
it away from his chest. "Gave me one off the kids'
rack."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
21
The station chief's gaze returned to the desktop,
searching for what Remy couldn't imagine. Maybe she
was behind in her work, he thought, or monitoring her
estrogen levels. Or maybe it was her habit to call up an
operative's dossier only after she'd formed a first im-
pression. Why else would she have made a point of
bringing up his ancestry? It wasn't anything he could
alter; besides, he felt that he had overcome most of the
donor-clone's proclivities, grown into his own person,
as it were. This far from home you didn't meet many
people who recognized the Warren Beatty in him. Or
cared, if they did.
"An impressive resume," Ishida said. "You've done
well these past four years. Making up for past mistakes,
is that it?"
She didn't mention the Ambii'th Incident directly, but
she might as well have. "Aren't we all," Remy told
her.
He slipped a cherry-flavored stim-wafer into his
mouth and sucked on it while he took in the office. That
it was inner rim told him just how NCorp rated on the
wheel. You could languish in here watching the tugs or
the shaft elevators, or you could do as the station chief
had: move in some personal items, requisition a couple
of potted plants, turn your back to the cabin's narrow
rectangle of viewport. Maybe sit daydreaming about a
reassignment downside or a transfer to some office on
the outer rim where Disney Corp, Golden Arches, and
the other star corps played.
NCorp execs had enjoyed that privilege during the
war; now it was enough to be awarded office space in
a wheel and receive the occasional invite to embassy
functions.
He let out a slow, cleansing breath as the stim-wafer
went to work on his frazzled nervous system. He was
still a bit lagged from biostat, and his sinuses were raw
from exposure to Kwandri's scent-laden air. Ishida had
had him shuttled up from the surface six hours ago, but

22
James Lucerio
he and a handful of Densign's staffers had been whisked
off by contagion control for four hours worth of med-
scans and ultrasonic bombardment. It was one of those
things field agents were supposed to get used to, but
for Remy the experience always summoned memories
of the distrust and outright paranoia that prevailed in
the orbital habitats before the rebellion.
"This what I can expect every time I come up the
well?" Remy asked at the stim-wafer's prompting.
Ishida stared at him for a moment, then blanked the
screen with a verbal command. "What's that, San-
toul?"
"CC. I'm prepped for more viruses than I can name
and they keep me chambered for four hours. Hasn't
anyone down there been apprised of my antigen pro-
file?"
Ishida snorted, leaning back, folding her arms under
her small breasts. "I won't even entertain that. First of
all we don't want you singled out on the wheel or pla-
netside. But more important, we're dealing with biota
from one of this sector's least understood worlds." She
shook her head. "I shouldn't have to explain this to a
spacer. Of course, if it's going to be an issue ..."
"Who said anything about an issue," Remy said,
laughing to diffuse things. "Assign me a few couriers,
I won't even mention it again."
"No couriers on this one."
Remy shrugged. "Then I guess I can live with the
delay if you can."
"Damn right you'll live with it." Ishida swiveled her
chair left, then right. "Tell me about the Xell'em re-
ception. I understand you made contact."
"Densign pushed me on a file-fiddler with the Inte-
rior Ministry, name of Baj.''
"Is that Res Baj?"
"Norak Baj," Remy said. "Secondborn." Only four
first names being possible on Kwandri for males and

ILLEGAL ALIEN
23
females alike: Res, Norak, Els, and Ayyum, corre-
sponding to first, second, third and fourthborn.
"Anything there?"
"I don't think so. He's had his forelock laser-combed
and confesses to an interest in Terrana. But he's tight
with Special Investigations. A Lieutenant Els Matut."
"What about the explosive device?"
"Low-impact damage to the embassy real estate and
one helluva stench. The Xell'em have SPECVES
convinced the dispersion earmarks match our N-14 det-
onator profiles."
"They're suggesting we're supplying the dissi-
dents?"
"Stands to reason we'd try to falsify popular support.
Anyway, Xella's been hit harder than we have down-
side." Gingerly, Remy touched his nose. "By the way,
they're following me around."
"Who is?"
"SPECVES. The hotel suite's online."
"Do you need a workaround?"
"Not yet. The DisneyCorp cover's holding."
Ishida paused to consider this. "I'd be interested to
hear your assessment of the situation, Santoul. Do you
think we can succeed in our efforts?"
"Win over the Grand Assembly? Sure we can.
They're already taken with us—the indigs you meet in
the streets. The Xell'em might have been first to insert
themselves, but most of the Kwandri don't seem to en-
joy having them around. Except when they put on one
of their sound and lights. They've isolated themselves.
They've got nothing to offer. They don't interact with
the local merchants. The streets reek of discontent. You
hear whispered fears of secret alliances between the
Manifest and the Grand Assembly. The Kwandri got rid
of their aristocracy a century ago. They don't want to
see it return in a new form."
Ishida's expression had changed; her round eyes held

24
James Lucerio
a hint of approval. "Very astute, Santoul. I'm im-
pressed."
"Yeah, well, I still don't know what I'm doing here,
do I."
The station chief was suddenly all business again.
"You've been briefed on Kwandri's strategic impor-
tance?"
"Some," Remy said, "if by that you mean the
wormhole."
"And what's your reaction to our handling of the
matter?"
"My reaction!''
"For example, do you feel that Kwandri has a right
to the wormhole as the League suggests, or should we
simply use this system as we please?"
Remy thought about it and laughed.
"There's something funny, Santoul?"
"In a way. I mean, first we tell them there's a black
hole out at the edge of Dazyl's wind—a hole that allows
ships to jump to a star system Kwandri's native scopes
weren't even sophisticated enough to pinpoint ten years
ago. Same time we assure them the hole is their hole,
that we're perfectly willing to pay for the right to use
it." Remy sniffled. "The Consortium'll even throw in
an orbital tower. Did anyone back at Center actually
believe they'd say 'Sorry, not interested.'?"
"No one thought that," Ishida said flatly. "But you
still haven't told me how you feel. It doesn't disturb you
that we've gifted them with a thousand years of progress
in less than a decade? That we've moved them prein-
dustrial to stellar overnight?''
Remy ran a hand over his mouth, realizing all at once
that he was being fluttered, vetted. He began to wonder
where the detectors were concealed. In the holo-
portraits on the desk, perhaps, or inside the flowerpots.
"Why should it disturb me? Extraplanetary contact
has helped unify the planet. I'd rather have them accept
our interpretation of progress than Xella's."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
25
"But perhaps you think it's time we relaxed our ef-
forts some—to allow Kwandri time to sort things out.
As the product of several generations of spacers, I
imagine you have strong feelings about cultural free-
doms."
The seat, Remy decided. The bench seat itself was
the device. "What chance does Kwandri have with the
Xell'em ensconced on the surface? We should increase
our efforts if anything. Flood Kwandri with the best we
have to offer. Look what happened on the habitats when
Earth relaxed control. We grew a systemful of debased
ideologies."
The station chief shook her head and smiled. "You're
very clever, Santoul."
"I'll tell my teachers you said so." He smiled back,
holding her gaze. Ishida broke it off and stood up,
bringing her hands to her thighs in a downward wiping
motion.
"There's more at stake here than the Consortium's
interests in influencing Grand Assembly policy," she
began. "For the past eleven standard-months, the
Xell'em have been making frequent use of the worm-
hole. We've only been able to monitor the destinations
of a few of their ships, but there's reason to believe that
Xella is moving armaments into former Raliish-
controlled sectors."
Remy arched an eyebrow. "What's the traffic like at
the egress?"
"Significant. But no incidents yet. Xella could be
preparing to move against the Burst and Daleth sys-
tems."
"That's fuzzy logic," Remy said. "They know we
wouldn't sit still for that. Center must be misreading
it."
Ishida threw him an ice-cold look. "Are you presum-
ing to know NCorp's assessment?"
Remy accepted the rebuke, deciding it wasn t worth
an argument. Even if the story was a fabrication, an-

26
James Lucerio
other of Center's attempts to keep itself alive with false
alerts, he had no way of knowing. News in the outer
reaches traveled by rumor, and people like Ishida were
paid to exercise careful control over the facts.
"So Xella's picking up where Ralii left off, is that
it?" he asked.
Ishida offered a tight-lipped nod. "We can't allow
those systems to fall—not when they're so close to ac-
cepting Consortium creed."
Remy was ahead of her. ' 'But the Consortium wants
proof before it presents its case to the League. Troop
strengths, destinations, shipping manifests."
"We had all of that until about four months ago.
Then the flow began to weaken. What intel we continue
to receive is suspect."
"Then someone's gotten to our agents," Remy said,
thinking out loud. "What about the downside case of-
ficer—is there a problem?"
Ishida was quiet for a moment. "That remains to be
seen." Remy waited for her to finish. "There's an
NCorp person on-station I want you to see before you
go back down the well. His name is Dakou, Phajol
Dakou."
Warren Beatty, in white ruffled shirt and blue trou-
sers, piloted the two-wheeled, surface-effect vehicle
through a tight curve of asphalt roadway, past pastel-
colored stucco homes and sweeping lawns of emerald
grass. He had just been fucked by several women and
was about to engage in an emotional showdown with
the one he professed to love.
The woman of his past.
Remy was familiar with the flickdisk, although not
the dimensionalized version running in Dakou's office.
One of his grandfather's favorites, he had viewed it sev-
eral times as a teen and had recently sat through it again
as part of the DisneyCorp cover training. Flicks were
venerated for what they had contributed to the early

ILLEGAL ALIEN
27
formation of group mind; a major step on the path to
cosmicization.
Watching Shampoo now made Remy wonder if he
had entirely rid himself of the donor's persona. Jasna
was the one in Remy's past; on Dhone at last report,
where the Ambii 'th horror had its start. Remy had opted
for a more active form of penance.
"A motorcycle," Dakou said in disbelief.
"Monoxide machine," Remy said. "Ancient his-
tory."
Dakou deactivated the player. "I hope you don't
mind. I sent a runner up to Disney Corp's library as
soon as Audjo informed me you'd be dropping by."
"No, it's great, uh, quite a surprise." The Beatty in
Remy talking.
"You do bear a striking resemblance. Except around
the eyes, I think."
Phajol Dakou's high brown forehead was deeply fur-
rowed, even when his thin face was at ease; a web of
laugh lines surrounding deep-set eyes, an upward turn
to the corners of his mouth. He was from Dow-'Bishi
habitat by way of Juba, an African micronation that had
since been engulfed by Sahil.
"My mother's side," Remy told him.
"There are more in the library." Dakou glanced at
the memo screen on his desk. "One entitled Heaven
Can Wait, another called Reds—a political thriller, I
believe." He gestured to the player. "I thought this one
was some sort of product advertisement."
Remy made a mental note to inform Ishida that all
Beatty features should be excluded from DisneyCorp's
downside film consignments. The last thing he needed
was to find himself the overnight star of Kwandri's bur-
geoning Terrana-infatuated underground. Unless that
was part of NCorp's plan.
Another inner-rim cabinspace, Dakou's office was a
step up from the station chief's, spacious and somewhat
better situated, with a view that encompassed several

28
James Lucerio
orbital toruses operated by offworlder concerns and pri-
vate corps.
The tall African's official title was diplomatic coun-
sel, but in this Dakou wore a trio of hats. As the person
whose function it was to assist Earthers in adjusting to
alien cultures he worked for the mission. MediCare paid
him to allay fears of terrorist reprisal attacks, treat ad-
dictions to exotic drugs, or therapy language difficulties
or exophobias about hosting luncheons, interfacing with
servants, conducting the business of day-to-day living.
When running neurometric evaluations, he answered
solely to Center.
"I suppose we should get down to business," Dakou
said. A verbal numeric called up a holo where Warren
Beatty's motorcycle had negotiated the curve moments
before. Remy found himself looking into the face of a
man who had been away from home far too long.
"His name is Simon Jalak," Dakou explained, com-
ing across the room akimbo. "Professor Simon Jalak.
NCorp's man on Kwandri."
"Recently fluttered, I hope."
Dakou laughed. "Last month. Routine reevalua-
tion."
' 'Here or downside?''
"Downside. I doubt contagion control would let the
beard through."
Remy nodded. But it wasn't only Jalak's full beard
that troubled him; it was the shoulder-length hair and
the worried, almost feral eyes behind thick glasses.
"Glasses," Remy said, shaking his head in wonder.
"He refused elective microsurgery."
"Man's a frequent flier. More of this back-to-basics
spread."
"He did his best to dazzle the detectors, but there's
only so much one can do to alter urine, blood, hair,
and hormone workups." Data bars took shape along-
side the primary holo-field as the counsel spoke.

ILLEGAL ALIEN
29
"What's this one?" Remy asked, motioning to an
obviously elevated reading.
"Serotonin level. But we expected that. Epiphenom-
enon associated with the chemosensory training and ol-
factory tutorials. Your own biochem would undoubtedly
reveal similar elevations." Dakou paused. "While we're
on the subject—"
"No complaints—except here," Remy said, pinching
the bridge of his nose.
"What about the palms?"
Remy flexed his hands. "Everything I touch down-
side starts them tingling. But I haven't had a chance to
put the tactile-training to the test."
"I'll prescribe something to lessen the sensation."
"Don't bother. Just tell me about Jalak."
Dakou tapped out a note to himself. "He's quite well
known in culturist circles. Ethnobotanist, linguist,
epigrapher. Did extensive fieldwork on Dhone."
Remy stiffened at mention of the planet. Was the
counsel trying to flutter him now? He masked his con-
cern and pressed on. "How long with the corp?"
"Four years—all of it on Kwandri. Center's respon-
sible for his being here."
"Recruited?"
Dakou shook his head. "Jalak initiated the approach
on Dhone. Kwandri was still under stringent entry reg-
ulations. He wanted in in the worst way." .
"He cut a deal."
"NCorp already had a small network of agents in
place. Jalak was told he could do all the ethno-fieldwork
he wanted, provided he was willing to run the program
and recruit local talent. Which he did, with excellent
results."
"Until a couple of months ago."
Dakou cracked his knuckles. "It goes further back
than that. The test results show a gradual but steady
deterioration." He called up additional datagraphs and
color-enhanced brain scans. "The upper graph is a

30
James Lucerio
biorhythmic projection, the lower an actuality collation.
Notice how the downward trends of the middle and
lower ones coincide."
Remy studied the moving lines of the holo. "What's
the middle?"
"Testosterone levels." Dakou indicated the brain
scans. "The fluctuations are reflected here, in the dor-
sal thalamus. We also discovered changes in the limbic
chemosensory pathways and the amygdala."
Remy scratched at his thick hair. "So what are you
saying—the man needs a macfuck? If that's all it is,
shuttle down some software. I'm sure the wheel's
equipped to cater to all tastes."
Dakou made a side to side motion with his head.
"That's not the problem. Jalak has never placed much
importance on sexuality—his own, that is. The man
spent seven years on Dhone without so much as seeing
another Earther. He's an outsider, here or wherever it
is that captures his attention. No, I think the biochem
changes reflect something more basic at work. Jalak is
in some sense becoming a Kwandri."
"He's gone indig."
"A deliberate transition, essential for the fieldwork."
The counsel regarded Remy. "You've been briefed on
the Tegganon ritual?"
"Universal estrus," Remy said. "Mating once every
two standard-years. Unless, I hear, you're willing to do
or endure a substantial amount of soft tissue trauma."
"Every two years if you're one of the fortunate
ones," Dakou amended.
"But you said Jalak is asexual."
"Correct. But he's been downside long enough to
have experienced two Tegganons firsthand. Who knows
how far he's gone. These physical and biochemical
changes—the hormone levels, the long hair, the sudden
myopia—they could be the result of, well, intimate con-
tact. There's a lot about Kwandri sexuality that we sim-
ply don't understand."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
31
"Maybe that Jalak doesn't even understand."
"Or hasn't told us." Dakou paused. "His accounting
reports have grown more and more creative. Center's
willing to stand for only so much."
Remy thought things through. "Our friend has for-
gotten under whose good graces he was installed here."
He looked up at Dakou. "I'll have a talk with him, see
if I can't learn why he's gone floppy on us. Can I
threaten him with deportation, or is that just going to
send him running?"
"By all means threaten him. I'm certain that he's de-
cided to make Kwandri his life's work. Expulsion from
paradise may be the shock needed to bring him back
online. You might also point out that Xell'em control
of the Grand Assembly would amount to the same end
for him. It isn't likely they'll tolerate his presence—
especially if an account of his past affiliations should
surface."
They discussed options; then spent another hour shar-
ing a flask of brandy and comparing notes on places
and stations they had in common. Remy felt a kinship
with the counsel, who for all his hard edges was still a
fine drinking partner.
"Hey, Santoul," Dakou said as Remy was palming
the cabin's hatch release sensor. "What's the difference
between a flashpoint jump and sex on Kwandri?"
Remy tried to recall if he'd already heard it. "I'm
coming up blank."
Dakou grinned. "In a jump you get to use a hole."

THREE
j/mon Jalak felt the blood drain from
his face as the vein-reader issued a short verification
tone. The NCorp man from Department Five removed
his right hand from the reader screen and folded himself
into a high-backed chair inadequately suited to his size.
"Any problems, Professor?" the man asked.
"No, no, of course not," Jalak managed, staring fix-
edly at the archaic device's data display. "I just, that
is, just . . . give me a moment please."
Jalak didn't dare raise a hand, but he could feel beads
of perspiration squeezing from his brow. An icy runnel
coursed down the left side of his face, just in front of
his ear, working its way through the tight coils of his
beard.
Below a computer-generated portrait overlaid with the
legend, D-5, C-NC-S, R-18, the screen displayed the
name santoul, remy. There was more, but Jalak was
having difficulty reading past the Department Five des-
ignation. And what purpose would it serve now to know
the operative's personal history, his birthplace and war
record.
Cautiously, Jalak raised his gray eyes, fearful of what
would greet them from across the room. But Santoul
32

ILLEGAL ALIEN
33
wasn't even looking at him; he had taken a wooden
carving from the shelf and was turning it about in his
large hands. Almost appreciatively, Jalak thought.
And indeed there was something calm and composed
about Santoul. The handsome face—cherubic, Jalak
wanted to say—under an undisciplined thatch of brown
hair. The wide mouth, even teeth, athletic physique.
Eyes a deeper blue than Q'aantre's crystalline sky,
matched in shade by a single cabochon earring and a
choker of Enddrese burial beads from Dhone, of all
worlds. The suit was two-piece, an iridescent woolen
loom-weave appropriate for a DisneyCorp rep.
The cover I.D. was what had gotten Santoul through
the front door fifteen minutes earlier; but then there
were few Jalak would refuse entry to his home.
He continued to marvel at the man. And yet the truth
behind the calm exterior was pulsing from the reader
screen: Department Five. Penetration, Counterinsur-
gency, Political Assassination.
"You've come to kill me," Jalak said softly.
Santoul carefully replaced the statue and turned to
him. "Kill you, Professor?"
Jalak's bony hands fluttered in spite of his best efforts
to keep them still. "Please, Santoul, don't game me."
"Remy, Professor."
Jalak said nothing.
"This room," the operative began, leaving some-
thing unsaid.
"It's secure."
Santoul grinned and popped a cherry-colored stim-
wafer into his mouth. "Then let's have a talk. You can
start by telling me what you think you've done to war-
rant termination, and I'll tell you whether you're right
or wrong. How's that sound?"
Jalak worked his jaw. "I asked you not to safeload
it. We both know why you've come."
Santoul curled his fingertips in a beckoning motion.
Jalak sighed resignedly. ' 'Your people are convinced

34
James Lucerio
they're no longer getting a proper return on their in-
vestment. The current has slowed, the well's run dry
. . . God knows what cliches are in vogue back at Cen-
ter. But I'll tell you something, Santoul: It's not my
fault. It's the Xell'em. It's this damn Special Investi-
gations squad they persuaded the Assembly to create.
My agents are frightened—and with good cause. There
have been seven arrests this past month alone. Seven,
Santoul. Do you have any idea what that means?" Jalak
snorted, gesturing dismissively. "No, of course you
wouldn't. You see only what Center tells you to see."
Santoul's fingers formed a steeple, which he bounced
against his lower lip. "Tell me about the embassy bomb.
Was that your work?''
Jalak shook his head. "Locals. A noninterventionist
group opposed to all offworlder influence. A request
was made for fuses. I put the parties in touch using a
once-removed agent as go-between."
"And it took SPECVES all of about fifteen minutes
to determine those triggers were Titan-manufactured."
"I was assured they came with a long history. They
were carried down aboard an Enddrese shuttle. There's
small chance of rebound."
Santoul fell silent.
"I'm not a complete fool," Jalak said, "no matter
what you think."
Santoul shrugged. "Let me make sure I understand
you: You're denying that you've allowed things to get a
bit . . . disorganized down here."
Jalak swallowed hard—audibly.
"Professor?"
"I ... I won't deny I've been somewhat remiss in
my duties."
"Somewhat remiss."
"It's just ..."
"Talk to me, Simon," Santoul said. "Convince me
I should go back up the well and tell Ishida that every-
thing's been worked out. That Simon Jalak recalls the

ILLEGAL ALIEN
35
terms of the contract he signed with NCorp and has
promised to increase the output of the network.'' The
operative paused to let his words sink in. "Look, Pro-
fessor, maybe you figure you're done with Kwandri.
You'd like a transfer, back to Dhone or something."
Jalak's jaw dropped. "You can't! My work's here!"
Santoul's face turned hard. "And what d'you think's
going to become of your work when Kwandri has itself
a Xell'em-backed regime? You think they're going to
let you hang around to conduct your interviews? They're
going to award you citizen status while you're filing
away your observations, publishing your esoteric arti-
cles?"
Color returned to Jalak's face with a vengeance. San-
toul extracted a mirror from the breast pocket of his
jacket and tossed it across the desk.
"Take a look at yourself, Professor. Your hair, those
ridiculous glasses . . . Your vision's failing, you want
to grow a coat, is that it? Tell me you're not in over
your head."
Jalak reached for the rectangle of alloy but stayed his
hand at the last moment. He knew perfectly well what
he looked like; knew perfectly well what he was trying
to accomplish.
"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head.
"This world, these people . . . They're extraordi-
nary, Santoul. And we're eroding their culture—Terra,
Xella, all of us. The League should never have decided
in favor of contact."
"The Kwandri aren't your children, Professor," San-
toul said in a minatory tone. "They're your study. You
wouldn't even be here if contact had been voted down.
Besides, it's too late to reverse things. All we can do
now is contain the damage the Xell'em have done."
Jalak showed him a pitying look. "Hasn't it ever oc-
curred to you that our own methods are equally destruc-
tive? You're operating under Disney Corp cover,
Santoul—Remy. You've obviously been briefed on their

36
James Lucerio
methods. We saturate worlds with media presentations
and consumer trinkets to bring them into the fold. And
well the Consortium might gain another member, but
no one stops to think about what's been lost in the pro-
cess."
"You're talking blasphemy, Professor."
Jalak laughed. "That doesn't concern me, Remy.
Terra's worldview is merely one of many, and I've seen
the damage the imposition of that view can do. I can't
bear to sit still and allow it to happen here."
Santoul rubbed his jaw. "You're downloading a new
program all of a sudden, Professor. Right in front of
my eyes."
Jalak brought his fingers to his mouth.
"I mean, first you tell me your agents are in hiding
because of SPECVES. Now I hear you preaching this
cultural relativism crap, and—I'll be straight up, Pro-
fessor—I've got to ask myself if Simon Jalak hasn't been
sabotaging his own network."
Jalak felt his throat dry up. "Nothing I've told you
will come as any surprise to your superiors, Santoul.
NCorp knows why I agreed to terms. Someone had to
map this culture before it deteriorated beyond recogni-
tion. But Center asks too much of me. I'm a scientist,
not an espionage specialist. It gnawed at me each time
I had to ask someone to be my nose and fingertips at
one gathering or the next."
"Nose and fingertips," Santoul said, laughing to
himself. "That's great. You're even talking like an
indig."
"I won't permit that word—"
"You've been following the program, Jalak," San-
toul said. "And my guess is there's no shortage of vol-
unteers." He leaned forward in the chair and gestured
to the room's outer wall. "For every Kwandri waving a
Xell'em flag, there are ten waving fists, Professor. You
want to do this planet a favor?—then get your network
back online."

illegal alien
37
Jalak ran a hand through his matted hair. "I know
all this. It's just . . . well, I've simply retroed things
temporarily. I haven't been pushing for information. I
listen to rumors. That's what I send up the well."
The operative's gaze turned harder still. "You asked
for four thousand last month, six the month before.
You're twenty-three over budget for the period. And
you're telling me you've shut things down?" Remy
shook his head in a mournful fashion. "Maybe you
should be terminated."
Jalak began to lower his head, but instantly felt San-
tours hand take him by the hair, forcing his face up.
"Don't make it tough on yourself," the operative
seethed, his sweet-scented breath brushing Jalak's
cheek.
Santoul relaxed his grip and Jalak fell back in the
chair, heart pounding.
"You think you're the first one to pull this? You think
Center doesn't know when one of their people is scam-
ming funds? Hell, the corp expects that. But stop time-
sharing that genetically boosted brain of yours. You
want more, you better make damn certain you transmit
more. Even if it's junk, it's got to be acceptable junk.
"NCorp's in financial trouble. We could all be reas-
signed tomorrow and your problems would be over. But
you've gotta play the game until that happens. We all
do."
The operative ceased his pacing to regard Jalak for a
long moment. "What is it, you've got yourself a drug
dependency? I know it isn't sexual, 'cause I had a look
at your medcharts before I came down."
Jalak felt nauseated. "It's nothing like that. I've been
helping a few families see to medical costs. You can't
imagine how deeply these people have been affected by
contact."
Santoul laughed. "You're a regular saint."
"Hardly a saint. I'm human, Santoul. Perhaps you're

38
James Lucerio
too young to remember when that counted for some-
thing."
Back in motion once more, Santoul was preoccupied
with his own thoughts. He came to a halt beside the
desk.
"It's not too late to make amends," he said at last,
perching himself on the desk edge. "Here's what we're
going to do: You're going to show me around—the res-
ident culturist escorting the DisneyCorp rep through the
city. It's a natural alliance. I want to see exactly how
you worked things—dumb agents, cut-out teams, drop
points, the entire menu. Is that understood?"
Jalak stared at Santoul. "You're not going to cut me
off?"
Santoul shook his head. "No. But I expect to see
some changes. I want you to lose the beard, the glasses,
the stoop. The next time Dakou vets you, the results
better show a new and improved Jalak or word goes
straight to the Dazyldesk."
"I understand. And I want to—"
"No, don't thank me yet, Professor," Santoul inter-
rupted. "You've still gotta earn this one. NCorp wants
intel on Xell'em movements through the flashpoint. And
you," he raised a thick forefinger, "are going to help
me recruit the talent we need to gather it."

FOUR
\AAlx/ng Likat's cobblestone streets
the next morning, Remy was forced to rethink his ear-
lier evaluation of Jalak's physical condition. The cultur-
ist was even fonder of the local beer than he was, and
Remy had to wonder whether the drink, the yika, wasn't
addictive. An unrecognized addiction might go a long
way toward explaining how the Earther had gone from
serious academic to nascent Kwandri in less than a year.
Jalak was quaffing a warmed, spice-topped tankard
now, pausing every so often to continue his account of
the changes visited on Kwandri's principal population
centers since contact.
They were seated side by side on tall wooden stools
at a crowded watering hole at the fringe of Likat's
sprawling market area. A triangular banner affixed to
the roof of the stall announced that homebrew was
available, as distinct from the commercial brand nor-
mally offered in the city's shops and restaurants. A
group of young males was gathered at the entrance,
inhaling the offworlders.
"This entire area," Jalak was saying, "from the river
all the way to the Monument used to be forest land.
But as soon as word spread about aliens and the tech-
39

40
James Lucerio
nological wonders their ships were ferrying down, Li-
kat began to burst at the seams. Half the farmers in the
land dropped their hoes and pickaxes, packed up their
families, and moved here expecting to see all their
dreams fulfilled."
Jalak's outfit consisted of layer upon layer of shirts
and vests, in contrast to Remy's all-weather suit. Just
Jalak playing Kwandri, but it bothered Remy. There was
nothing worse an operative could do than seek to resem-
ble the locals. The man had been too long without
proper supervision.
"Instead, they learned that their planet had been vis-
ited by a very discriminating breed of aliens, who, while
they might be willing to impart a bit of technological
wizardry here and there, were certainly not going to
refashion the whole world overnight."
Jalak interrupted his monologue to drink. "Q'aantre
suddenly found itself more occupied than adopted. The
people hear about this war taking place in some uni-
maginably distant sector of space, but the only glimpse
they have of it comes in the form of battle troops sent
downside for a week or two of biostat decomp.
"Then just as suddenly this unseen war ends and the
Xell'em arrive. Only they aren't quite so reluctant to
involve themselves in upgrading Q'aantre's standard of
life—particularly if in exchange the Grand Assembly is
willing to grant what amounts to exclusive rights to the
wormhole."
Jalak hammered the tankard on the countertop in a
traditional gesture of thanks and appreciation. The fe-
male behind the counter smiled as she accepted the
Earther's payment and praise, bringing the backs of tri-
angulated hands to her mouth in salute.
Remy followed Jalak outside, the group of young
males parting, then forming up behind to shadow them
down the market corridor. Piglike dogs lay sprawled in
geometric patches of light. Merchants touched one an-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
41
other in wordless greeting, wafting a dizzying catalogue
of scents into the chilled morning air.
Kwandri had been described to Remy as an Earthlike
world, but Tiger held a different opinion. You grew up
in the fucking Himalayas it's Earth-tolerable, the med-
tech had said. Otherwise plan on shittin' ice cubes.
Sunscreen drops protected Remy's eyes from Dazyl's
UV intensity; the planet's slightly lower-than-standard
gravity added an uncharacteristic bounce to his step.
The tail SPECVES had assigned to him—and who had
been with him from the moment he left the hotel-
maintained a respectful distance.
"It wasn't long before the Consortium decided that
technological magnanimity was the key after all," Jalak
resumed. "Regardless of what impact that decision
might have on the indigenous culture. So Earth began
to match Xella gift for gift, innovation for innovation,
promise for promise."
And Likat had grown and grown until it had spread
itself clear across the river and up into the surrounding,
now denuded hills.
"Down came the trees and to hell went the traditions.
The Grand Assembly's primary concern was how best
to maintain a balance between the Manifest and the
Consortium—to profit from both without alienating ei-
ther." The professor laughed in a self-amused way.
"Which brings us to the present mess we've fash-
ioned."
Remy left the statement unchallenged; experience had
taught him there was more to be gained by listening to
people than arguing with them. The more Jalak talked,
the more relaxed he became, and that's all Remy was
after for the time being. It wouldn't do to have the cul-
turist fighting him every step of the way.
He had woken with the thought, shivering in the hotel
suite the Interior Ministry reserved for visiting
DisneyCorp personnel, Dazyl suffusing the rooms with
a misty orange glow. After a breakfast of bread and

42
James Lucerio
fried tubers, he had ridden an electric coach crosstown
and collected Jalak from his native-style stone cottage
near the river.
The professor looked as though he'd been up all night,
but Remy was certain he detected an attitude of healthy
resignation in Jalak's rheumy eyes. Healthy because
Remy was in no mood to repeat the hardhanded per-
formance he had given the previous afternoon.
"It's Dazyl's intensity that accounts for this near mo-
lecular examination of the near environment," Jalak
said as they emerged from the open market onto a broad
street of shops and scent-stands.
Remy recalled the detail of the statue he had exam-
ined in Jalak's office, and began to note like motifs on
doorways and cornices.
Downtown, the recent history of Kwandri was more
clearly etched than anywhere in the city, for it was here
that the indigenous and the offworld had collided head-
on: beast-drawn carts, trikes, and steam-driven trucks
vied for space with electric cars and maglev trollies;
preformed structures of ferrocrete and plasteel rose next
to iron-girder construction and ramshackle wooden
dwellings; Kwandri who made their living trading
in forged plateware and hammered utensils engaged in
daily shouting matches with those who now dealt in
mass-produced plastics and ceramics. And this, Remy
knew, was only the tip of the offworlder's iceberg . . .
Jalak said, "This harsh sky, the essentially colorless
trees and grasses that dominate these habitable lati-
tudes, the silence of the precontact landscape, the very
constraints nature has placed on Q'aantre vision and
sexuality . . . Where else but under such conditions
might one expect smell and touch to take precedence
over sight and sound."
Jalak stopped at an odor-controlled crosswalk.
Smells, tastes, and tactile exchanges were Kwandri's
colors and songs, the culturist explained. There were
dozens of words to describe the fragrance of a night-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
43
blooming rose or the ocean at low tide. And in the few
instances of Kwandrian psychosis he had recorded, de-
rangement always followed an olfactory course. Sub-
jects reported an ability to exhale or emanate scents that
defied objective verification.
SPECVES agents were said to be adept at this; and
of course the shamans of the hill tribes employed the
same talents in prognostication.
"If you're still here at Tegganon," Jalak said, "you'll
see just how important smell and touch are."
The briefing Remy received hadn't amounted to much
more than a description of the mating ritual lifted from
Simon Jalak's own comptexts. The professor main-
tained that he was the sole offworlder who had ever
been permitted to remain downside during the rite; but
Remy had only to recall Tiger's and Dakou's jokes to
question the assertion.
"And despite what you may have been told, Tegga-
non does not occur every two standard-years. When my
informants first furnished me with the years of the six
previous rituals, I assumed there was some calendric
regularity or periodicity. But I've since learned that the
determinations are much more subtle. They seem to
involve a universal physiological alteration whose true
prompt—if indeed one exists at all—has yet to be iden-
tified."
"But it is a kind of estrus," Remy said.
"Among females who have birthed fewer than four
children, yes."
"And the males?"
"The males are universally affected."
"And no sexual contact in between?"
Jalak shook his head, introspective for a moment.
Remy took a look around the street. The gender split
gave all appearances of being equal. "But with some
of the females exempted from estrus ... It must be
one hell of a male scramble come Tegganon."

44
James Lucerio
"Tegganon wreaks havoc with marriage vows," Jalak
said. "It's a chaotic time."
Remy tried to picture it.
"Of course, there's no guarantee of conception. Like
the ritual itself, the process seems to be governed by
inherent constraints, possibly linked to ecological de-
terminants. These are conveyed by a complex system of
scent and smart-secretion signals.
"The population remains stabilized because only a
small percentage of the eligible females are successfully
impregnated." Jalak swept his arm through a broad arc.
"In case you haven't noticed, Santoul, hospitable ter-
ritory is at a premium."
Remy shivered inside the all-weather fabric of his suit.
"I've noticed," he said.
Jalak set off again, Remy alongside in a matching
stride; behind them, a dozen young males hurried to
keep up.
"I worry about Tegganon most of all," Jalak said out
of the corner of his mouth. "Who can predict what
impact our continued presence will have. Xell'em or
Terran, it makes little difference. Each culture in its
own fashion promotes an acquisitiveness and sensuality
unknown to the Q'aantre. Color, fashion, and music
have always been associated with the mystical side of
Q'aantre religion. Now we're bringing all that into the
open."
"Inherent constraints, Professor," Remy said, think-
ing he was making a point. "No matter how much the
Kwandri want it, they can't have it. Anyway, suppose
it is all a wipe, every female on the planet becomes
pregnant. We'll do what we did back home: build 'em
habitats, or find them another world."
Jalak muttered something to himself, then said, "An
NCorp response if I ever heard one."
Lunch was thick slabs of fire-grilled meat, eaten
without benefit of utensils in a restaurant of brightly lit

ILLEGAL ALIEN
45
back rooms with butcher-block tables. Afterward, the
two Earthers gradually right-angled their way out of the
commercial center, made a loop around the Monument,
and headed back down to the river, through the rutted
streets that mazed the industrial sector.
Ultimately Jalak directed Remy to a wooden bench
in a small kiosked plaza, where a stand of native fir had
somehow survived the ax.
"The overturned trash container by the engraver's was
a cue," Remy said. They had passed the thing half an
hour ago after giving their SPECVES tail the slip.
Jalak nodded while he was checking the digital dis-
play of a pocketwatch.
"What's the procedure?"
"If the can's upright, there's no contact," Jalak told
him. "We use several other locations as well. I gener-
ally compose a list for the month and leave it at a dead
drop near the new station. Coded, of course. Anyone
reading it would think they found a shopping list. Live
drops are always assigned to days following trash col-
lection."
"When most of the containers are empty."
"Precisely."
"So your agent left you a positive signal. Now
what?"
Jalak checked the watch again. "He should be along
anytime."
Remy glanced in both directions down the dirt track
that wound through the plaza. "He'll see you've got
company. What's the wave-off sign in case you're being
followed?"
From the pocket of his sweater Jalak produced a coin-
sized disk that might have contained cologne or an
aerosol narcotic. Remy guessed that it was an obsolete
version of the oral and dermal misters his body could
trigger with tongue-to-tooth pressure.
"One whiff and he knows to pass on the drop."
"And suppose I was a Kwandri?"

46
James Lucerio
"Only my agents are familiar with the scent. Anyone
else would simply think I was indulging in drug-taking
or poor eating habits."
Remy was pleased. For all the professor's failings, he
operated a well-run network. It was just a matter of
coming up with new incentives for Jalak's agents—
which could mean money, drugs, or even Swatch wrist-
watches.
He rested his head against the uppermost slat of the
bench and took a deep breath of Kwandri's spiced air.
Dazyl was long past midheaven but the air had retained
the warmth of noon. The temperature was a good fif-
teen degrees higher than when he left the hotel suite.
A Kwandri couple entered the park from the street,
sniffing openly as they passed by the bench. There were
other strollers about, some with news-slates, others on
a late lunch. On the river side of the plaza was a small
playground filled with young children on recess from
school. Remy kept thinking that the place reminded him
of somewhere, but he couldn't locate the source of the
memory.
"Here he comes," Jalak said suddenly.
Remy observed a long-legged Kwandri approach the
bench from the direction of the Monument. The rhyth-
mical grace to his forward-leaning drag-step gait re-
called vid-images of black youths on urban Earth
streets, sauntering to the beat of broadcast music or
some interior tune.
This would be "Glans," Remy thought, one of Ja-
lak's principal contacts with the underground. A wood-
worker by trade, Glans frequently dealt in black market
icons and was a habitue of the cult clubs and cin-dens
along the river strip, where most of Disney Corp's goods
ended up.
The Kwandri's real name was unknown—Glans was
already in place when Jalak had assumed the network-
but included in the file dossier Remy had perused the
previous evening was a list of the payments he had al-

ILLEGAL ALIEN	47
ready received: a pair of ersatz Ray-Ban Wayfarer sun-
glasses, a necklace of U.S. coins and subway tokens, a
Seiko digital watch, a Cher action figure, a plastic
model of the Millennium Falcon.
"What's he waiting for?" Remy asked.
"Patience," Jalak said. "He's being cautious. He's
never smelled me with anyone before. He's not sure
what to do."
Remy looked away, hoping Glans would read it as a
cue to follow through. "Damnit, Jalak, I thought you
had him trained."
Jalak looked peeved. "There's no need to turn away.
Give him a chance, Remy. He can barely make us out
from that distance."
Remy realized that his nonchalant pose couldn't have
been more studied. Glans passed in front of the bench
without breaking stride and continued on down the dirt
path. Jalak was quiet, save for the sniffing sounds he
was making.
"Tell me what you smell?" he asked after a moment.
Remy inhaled as though someone were holding a
bouquet under his nose. "Coriander and peppercorns,"
he said, drawing on the olfactory tutorials. "A baseline
of sweetness, like spun sugar, but undermined by veg-
etal rot. Wet leaves from hardwood trees. Tannic acid
and mold."
Jalak voiced a sound of disapproval. "That's your
nose talking. If this is what Center considers olfactory
training, why didn't they send down a sniffer and save
themselves the bother?"
Remy laughed. "You asked what I smelled, Profes-
sor, not what I felt."
"Let's have it then."
Remy took another whiff. The Kwandri's acidulated
exhalations were somewhat dispersed by now, so he had
to content himself with trace odors. "He's nervous,"
Remy said at last. "There's a hint of anxiety, but noth-
ing he can't handle."

48
James Lucerio
"And?"
Remy shut his eyes in concentration.
"Don't think it to death," Jalak cautioned. "Look to
your memories."
"I'm, uh, I'm remembering the first time I lied to
my parents. Told them I was going to class when I was
really headed for rec deck. Two friends did the same
thing, and we all got caught."
"Not bad," Jalak said, "for a novice. Now you have
to let those memories dismantle themselves into their
basic emotive components. Once you've learned to rec-
ognize those, the hard data will begin to assemble it-
self."
Remy quirked a grin at Jalak. "No need to waldo
me, Professor. What was Glans telling us?"
"His nervousness probably had more to do with your
presence than anything else. He had no important in-
formation to impart, but he wants to make a live drop-
tomorrow night, at our usual place."
"Which is where?"
"A scent theater not far from my home. A 'cin-den,'
as they're termed."
Remy showed him a puzzled frown. "You're telling
me you can pick out a single scent in a place like that."
Jalak shook his head. "For close quarters we employ
an actual brush pass."
"So something tangible's exchanged—a comp chip,
what?"
The culturist smiled tolerantly. "Fluids, Remy. Bod-
ily fluids."
Before development of the tutorials and the Drexler
implants that facilitated on-site analysis of olfactory
binding proteins, NCorp had had to rely on robotic snif-
fers and a wide spectrum of agent-deployed absorbant
materials. These had to be shuttled up the well, treated
with heat, and desorbed of aromacules, which were then
irradiated, subjected to gas chromatograph-mass spec-

ILLEGAL ALIEN	49
trometry, and finally broken down into constituent el-
ements.
Remy, with his retrained nose and implanted nano-
analyzers, was all three in one. But even these didn't
guarantee full comprehension of Kwandri syntax and
scent-idioms. He was like one who had learned a lan-
guage from print media but had yet to hear it spoken.
And while he could successfully decipher the inherent
meaning of an individual odor, the combinations—the
idioms and slang—baffled him.
"A chef bends over a pot of stew and identifies the
dozen different spices you've teaspooned into the pot.
But it takes the connoisseur to fashion a description of
the dish that captures the overall flavor. Wine tasters do
the same thing when they anthropomorphize the grape
with adjectives like arrogant or bold.''
So said Jalak, at any rate, as he walked Remy back
to the hotel. They would stop at scent-stands or on street
corners to decipher smells as Kwandri urbanites went
about their business. Nearly everyone gawked and
sniffed, but no one was particularly guarded about ex-
halations or emanations. Kwandri reactions to offworld-
ers weren't all that varied, and as for the offworlders
themselves, well they certainly weren't conversant with
the olfactory idiom.
"The range of scents a Q'aantre can deposit is almost
unlimited," Jalak explained. "Scents have colors,
shades, nuances, volume, duration . . . There are those
which can arouse trust or distrust, interest or sympathy.
Those by which one can attract attention or lose oneself
in a crowd."
But scents weren't the only way the indigs passed
information to one another, Jalak went on, turning to
an explanation of the brush passes he employed with
some of his network agents. No, it seemed that in ad-
dition to the data to be gleaned from coughs, sneezes,
whispers, wheezes, and farts, there was just as much

50
James Lucerio
to be learned from certain varieties of pats on the back,
handshakes, or testicle squeezes in the communal baths.
"Saliva, mucus, blood, tears, and sweat—although
there's little of that here . . . They all contain biochem-
ical signals which can be rendered accessible to the
trained operative," Jalak added with professorial au-
thority.
Remy didn't want to ask about Kwandri analogs of
semen and vaginal secretions.
The professor was regarding him slyly. "I'm sure
you've heard stories about the chemical debriefings
NCorp's first operatives here had to endure."
"Actually, I haven't—"
"I sometimes think the Q'aantre have more in com-
mon with insects than with true anthropoids."
Remy remembered an ant farm in a touring zoo that
had once played Citi habitat.
"Personal inclination and creativity have a lot to do
with it," Jalak mused. "But it's rare to encounter the
creative aroma in public settings." He inhaled dis-
creetly. "Here, for example, you find yourself bom-
barded with prosaic odors—colored, of course, by
whiffs of surprise or curiosity elicited by our presence.
But I doubt anyone pays these much mind—or much
nose, as the Q'aantre say. Think about it in visual terms,
and try to imagine just how many optical signals we
dismiss during the course of our everyday lives."
Remy's own nose bore this out. But he seemed to
detect something else in the air—a scent not unlike the
tannic anxiousness Glans had deposited in the park.
"Yes, I've been aware of it for several blocks now,"
Jalak admitted. "From the time we reached the Mon-
ument. Tart yet somewhat curdled. Definitely unidirec-
tional. I suggest we've been walking right into it."
Remy's nose had been working overtime since the
park. He encouraged his eyes to do a bit of intelligence
gathering, and recognized the intersection from the pre-
vious night, when he had left the suite to reconnoiter

ILLEGAL ALIEN
51
the hotel grounds and adjacent buildings. He was sur-
prised to find they had come so far from the river in
what seemed so short a time. Olfactory preoccupation,
he decided. Unlike sight and sound, scents had a way
of triggering deep-seated memories. Active participation,
olfactory dialogue, became an introspective experience;
and with that came a sense of timelessness.
The shift from smell to sight was momentarily jar-
ring. It was as though someone had shaken him from
an afternoon dream. But his eyes immediately told him
what his nose couldn't. The reasons for the astringent
emanations were standing across the intersection and
on nearby corners in the form of SPECVES plain-
clothesmen.
Remy was suddenly alert to the sound of distant
chanting—angry chanting at that—which in Kwandrian
fashion took on a kind of barking quality.
"Around the corner," Jalak said, pointing. "A dem-
onstration of some sort."
Remy pivoted through a quick circle to get his bear-
ings. The hotel and the Interior Ministry were directly
in front of them, perhaps three blocks away; but his
evening recon hadn't taken him in the direction Jalak
was indicating.
"What's down there?" he asked.
"Stores, shops," Jalak said, shaking his head. Then
his eyes widened. "The Xell'em bank!"
Colliding with Kwandri who were hurrying from the
scene, the two Earthers rounded the corner in time to
see a sizable mob of coveralled protesters position itself
directly in front of the bank. Fists were being raised in
cadence with the chant, but the mob was also targeting
the ferrocrete building with a collective scent cloud that
reeked of spoiled eggs and tooth decay.
No translations were necessary for the several
Xell'em who were gazing down from upper-floor win-
dows with pinched nostrils and hands pressed to
mouths.

52
James Lucerio
"Is this yours?" Remy shouted in Jalak's ear, en-
couraged for a moment that the culturist's subagents had
organized a monster rally.
Jalak denied involvement. "Could be the same group
that attacked the embassy," he proposed. "Or perhaps
the bombing merely incited further demonstration."
Remy thought the latter more likely. And as long as
things remained anti-Xell'em he could afford to be
pleased. By the sight of the dissidents, if not the nau-
seating smell of effluvia they had conjured. He wanted
to add his own voice to the guttural chant, and would
have done so had the police not chosen that moment to
arrive.
"It might be prudent to secure a spot of shelter,"
Jalak advised nasally as uniforms began to pour from
the open doors of official vehicles. "This could turn
ugly."
Shopkeepers on both sides of the street were already
lowering security grates and hustling passersby inside.
The police were grouping behind ballistic shields at ei-
ther end of the block. Remy caught a glimpse of riot
batons and stunguns.
"Prudent's the operative word," he said louder than
necessary, since the energy the protesters had been di-
recting into the chant was not being funneled into a
search for cover.
Kwandri were edging along the buildings in an effort
to circumvent the closing cordons. The police were
donning transpirator masks. Jalak was already haifway
across the street, making for an unshuttered storefront.
He shouted to Remy over his shoulder. "This way,
hurry."
Remy started off on his left foot. Behind him he heard
the growl of a powerful engine and the strident squeal
of hydraulic brakes. Suddenly there was a monster
squatting in the intersection—an enormous, fanged de-
mon painted in more colors than Likat displayed from
one end to the other.

ILLEGAL ALIEN
53
Piloted by two Kwandri, the creature was equipped
with all-terrain treads, huge fans behind the eyes, and
what looked to be a muzzle where its Terran-
proportioned nose should have been. Up top rode two
Xell'em military officers and a couple of SPECVES
lieutenants outfitted in bodysuits and anticontaminant
masks.
"It unleashes a riot-scent!" Jalak said, back at Re-
my's side all at once and tugging at the shiny sleeve of
his jacket. "They want an excuse to break open a few
heads."
Some things never changed, Remy thought, recalling
the tactics Earth Force had used against the habitats
during the rebellion.
"Come on, man!"
The wind when it reached them carried a stench of
pig dung, petrochemicals, lamp oil, and burning rubber.
Remy watched as the crowd fissioned. Panic took up
where fear left off. The protesters scattered in all direc-
tions, encountering blocked doorways and unscalable
walls when they weren't brought face-to-face with foul-
tempered police units in visored helmets.
It was doubtful anyone felt the sting of the shock
batons, but their appearance alone was enough to fuel
a greater frenzy. With nowhere to hide, many of the
dissidents simply dropped to their knees and brayed at
the blinding sky. Others attempted a kind of crazed
counteroffensive, assailing the cordons with the same
fists and scents they had waved and wafted moments
before.
Remy saw dozens go down, felled and drubbed by
batons and rifle butts. Kwandri of both sexes stumbled
past him, faces smashed, clothing torn, coats matted
with blood and street grime. Jalak was spread-eagled
against a brick wall, eyes glazed behind his glasses,
screaming sound bite invectives borrowed from a dozen
tongues.
Remy was closing on him when he spotted the boy.

54
James Lucerio
The scent cannon was trundling up the street and he
couldn't imagine how the kid had gotten himself caught
up in things. But there he was: twelve years old at the
outside, paralyzed with fear, and apparently oblivious
to the festooned monstrosity that was bearing down on
him.
An innocent, as most victims turned out to be.
The Kwandri drivers had no intention of crushing
demonstrators undertread, but they were a moment too
late in swerving the vehicle up onto the sidewalk. The
boy was struck broadside and launched fifteen feet down
the street.
By the time Remy reached him a small crowd had
gathered around, but no one was going to the boy's aid.
Two police stood among the silent, odoriferous circle,
their confederates busy herding demonstrators toward
waiting trucks. Some had removed their helmets and
masks to avail themselves of a breath of riot gas, an
aromatic incentive.
The boy's crumpled form moaned and exhaled a scent
for succor that got to Remy where he once lived.
He was already pushing his way through the circle
when he heard Jalak's voice crying, "No, Remy, don't!
You mustn't!"

FIVE
And you're sure there's nothing
else I can get you?" Remy asked, relying on the
translator-assist to ease him through the intricacies of
Kwandrian speech. "A dessert or something? Maybe
you'd like to have a couple of friends over?"
Smiling broadly, the youth shook his head and went
about eagerly fingering morsels of meat and sweet bread
into his mouth.
His name was Els Nanff, the third offspring of the
Nanff clan. And he lay propped on pillows in the suite's
master bedroom, arms, legs, and hip dressed in ban-
dages; an assortment of breakfast goodies piled on a
tray in front of him. The vid set was running a comedy
Remy had asked DisneyCorp to include among its
downlink transmissions.
It was one of Kwandri's manifold peculiarities that
the rendering of aid to an injured party was tantamount
to assuming all responsibilities for the treatment and
continued good health of said individual. Until such
time as the courts decreed the obligation satisfactorily
completed. This was especially so when the injured was
a minor. And indeed when Remy had pushed his way
55

56
James Lucerio
through the previous afternoon's circle of onlookers he
was in effect making a choice to adopt Els Nanff.
Medtechs at Likat's Terran-run clinic had seen to the
bandages, casts, and such, but local law prohibited them
from supplying additional care. So Remy had decided
to have Nanff brought to the hotel.
There were planets where such an arrangement would
be looked upon with suspicion, and others where it
wouldn't merit a glance; but on Kwandri the possibility
of sexual overtones wasn't even addressed. Homosexu-
ality wasn't unknown, but save for the occasional flir-
tation, the libidinal drive was reserved for Tegganon and
the months preceding it.
Remy wasn't bothered by the arrangement in any
case. The boy would have ended up a cripple if some-
one hadn't seen to his care.
Now if only one life could balance one hundred thou-
sand deaths, he mused, thinking about the Ambii'th. It
was hard to know just how these things were measured.
The creed maintained that the lives of individuals or
whole species were of small consequence where cos-
micization was at issue. The evolution and perpetuation
of group mind. But then here was someone like Simon
Jalak hanging it on a girder for Kwandri and a doomed
mindset. And here was Remy Santoul nursemaiding an
XT teenager. Back to basics. Like some contagious re-
trovirus.
As for Nanff's recuperating in the hotel, well, the
suite had more room than Remy required, anyway. Far
more than he'd had growing up in Citi, where the stan-
dard bedroom was coffin-size and the baths and kitch-
ens were communal affairs.
The same was true of living conditions on most of
the Consortium's outer stations and the wheels of the
private corps. It was only downside that Remy could
avail himself of the space and physical pleasures indigs
throughout the Arm took for granted.
The shower, for example. The suite was equipped

ILLEGAL ALIEN	57
with a water unit as opposed to an ultrasonic, and how
he had luxuriated under its heated liquid flow these past
few days. The feeling was difficult to convey to wheel-
ies. As difficult as trying to describe the textures and
tastes of Kwandri's foods to people who subsisted on
engineered foodstuffs; the feel of the breeze to people
who knew only recirculated air. Not that Remy thought
of himself as one to go native. But there was no denying
the appeal , . .
He told Nanff to call out if he needed anything, and
pulled the door to the master bedroom closed. Posi-
tioned by the window in the adjoining room was the
transceiver he had assembled at first light from com-
ponents ingeniously contained in his luggage.
For ordinary transmissions—like keying in the re-
quest for the comedy flickdisk—he made use of the
Disney Corp MW dish. But Audjo Ishida had instructed
him to employ the burst transmitter for all sensitive
communiques. While the Xell'em might monitor the
bursts, it was safe to assume that any signals they
scanned would remain hopelessly scrambled.
Remy checked his watch. The message he had re-
corded earlier couldn't be transmitted for another forty-
five minutes.
In the meantime, he huffed his way through a series
of tone-maintenance exercises. The Earth Force regi-
men was required of him, and included meditation, aura
cleansing, and chakra balancing techniques. A moni-
toring device sent the results upside.
He ran a check of his implants; rubbed TechSci's
Pore-trainer lotion into his palms. He submitted himself
to stress analysis, and fed specimens of tears, blood,
hair, and urine into the device's scanner ports.
With a minute or two left, he activated playback mode
°n the transceiver and called the prerecorded message
onscreen.
. I've made contact with our downside rep, he watched
himself say after reciting Ishida's code, and we have

58
James Lucerio
reviewed all recent transactions. Some damage has been
done, but I'm satisfied that the basic structure is sound
and merits continued investment.
Our competitors have made a strong showing, but the
streets are full of surprises. For the moment I have high
confidence and soon expect to reopen an old channel.
The following are required: one pair acid-washed blue-
jeans, one pair Calvin Klein men's briefs, one Lamy
pen, one Nissan Thermos, one Mr. T collectible—either
action figure or simulated gold chain set.
Remy paused the playback and thought for a mo-
ment, then composed himself for the visual pickups and
voice-commanded record mode.
"Addendum to six-slash-nought-nought-niner: Pha-
jol Dakou, Eyes/Ears Only." Remy smiled for the
camera.
"Hey, Dakou," he asked, "what's the difference be-
tween a Kwandri and a Neanderthal?" He gave the
counsel a few seconds. "The Kwandri's the one with
the blue balls."
Baj and two of his underlings from the Ministry of
the Interior arrived with lunch, which consisted of var-
ious starch and complex carbohydrate dishes, served by
three giggling female room attendants dressed in Old
Kwandri costume.
"And how do you like your rooms?" Baj asked in
trader's tongue, sniffing around the place while his col-
leagues were sitting down to the meal.
"It's more elaborate than I'm accustomed to," Remy
said, watching him from the front door.
Baj waved a hand. "You flatter us. I'm sure this is
the very least that DisneyCorp affords you." He finally
got around to opening the master bedroom door, gently
closing it after he'd had a peek inside.
"Then it's true," he said, eyes as wide as they could
get. "And here I was telling everyone they must have
the story wrong."

ILLEGAL ALIEN	59
Remy had joined Ayyum Dali and Ayyum Legguum
at the table. "I guess that all depends on the story."
' 'Why, simply that you rescued this country boy from
misfortune. That you saw to his treatment at the Terran
Clinic and had him brought here."
"That much is true," Remy said, spooning up some
sort of tuber gruel.
Baj discarded his cloak and sat down, patting his
bleached forelock into place. "But whatever do you
mean to do with him—after his wounds heal, I mean?"
Remy savored the taste of the porridge. "He wants
to go up the well. Says he wants to visit the wheel."
Baj and the two Ayyums stared at him, aghast.
"You don't propose . . . Surely, you can't be consid-
ering ..."
"Well, why not?" Remy said. "The Xell'em have
some of your people working out near the wormhole.
It's about time DisneyCorp showed you how we live
upside."
"B-but only Assembly members have been permitted
to visit the Xell'em station." Baj gestured to the bed-
room. "He's just a poor country boy!"
Remy laughed at the falsetto notes that punctuated
the Kwandri's objection. "You're suggesting we choose
someone more deserving . . . Someone like yourself,
maybe."
The coat around Baj's eyes prickled. "I wasn't sug-
gesting myself. But of course I would be most honored.
Just tell me what I need to do."
Remy rubbed his jaw, taking in the electroplated nuts
and bolts that adorned Baj's blouse. The Kwandri were
fond of wearing hardware. "I suppose you could always
get yourself hit by a scent-cannon, Norak."
The three indigs studied their plates in silence.
"A most regrettable occurrence," Baj said at last.
"The entire incident. First the embassy gates, now this.
Likat hasn't found itself so divided in a century of Teg-
ganon."

60
James Lucerio
"Could mean you'll have to make a choice, Norak."
The Kwandri snorted through his nub of nose. "Sud-
denly you sound like Densign, Remy. Heaven forbid
that we should receive from two sources. Or perhaps I
should say, that we serve two masters."
Later, the four of them sat around the holo, viewing
icons available for exchange from DisneyCorp's updated
catalogue. The company was revered because of its foun-
der's early contributions to cryogenics, animatronics, and
role-modeling; and along with its extensive library of film
art and music, DisneyCorp offered thousands of artifacts
from the planet's preexpansionist period.
Late twentieth century was very big just then: Buchs-
baum tables, Starck three-legged chairs, Tizio lamps,
Ward Bennett furniture, Memphis Group pieces, Day of
the Dead figurines, Braun kitchenware, Ollie North and
Ronnie Reagan photo-mannequins, Hindu masks, Roy
Hamilton ceramics, greeting cards, animal-shaped place
mats, Gucci tote bags, Rolex watches, 7-Eleven coffee
mugs, Katharine Hamnet underwear, Chanel T-shirts,
Cabbage Patch dolls, Transformer toys, Nautilus equip-
ment, Nike Aquasox, amulet bags of Woodstock soil,
electric razors that left stubble, Concorde souvenirs, and
bath towels.
The furred Kwandri, however, showed a preference for
steam irons and epilators; cordless pet-grooming vacu-
ums, Dustbusters, rechargeable mustache trimmers, and
toilet seat covers; reflecting suntan mats, Krazy Glue ul-
trasonic massagers, and electric toothbrushes.
Baj was already familiar with most of the items in
the catalogue, but he saved his requests for the end.
Remy hadn't planned on cornering him earlier on,
and felt bad about what had gone down at the table.
But he was trained to regard everyone as a potential
agent. Forcing individuals to take a stand wasn't ideal
for cultivating friendships, but the approach worked best
for rough cuts.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	61
"I must admit I like everything you've showed us,"
Baj was saying, "but I'm particularly interested in items
four-one-nine and five-three-eight. Is historical data
available?"
Remy called the former back to the holo, command-
ing the device to turn it about in the beam. "Pez Dis-
penser," he read from the display screen.
"Ah, yes, a religious artifact, is it not? Ms. Canu
told me about an orally ingested sacrament of some
sort."
"No, you're thinking of something else."
"Then this 'Pez' wasn't a sacrament?" Ayyum Dali
asked.
"A candy," Remy told him. "An ingot of artificially
colored pseudocitric confection."
"And are these ingots still available?"
Remy checked, scrolling data on the screen. "Ersatz
only.''
Baj conferred with his associates for a moment. "Yes,
we'd like one hundred units to award when the Grand
Assembly reconvenes."
Remy entered the order.
"And what about five-three-eight?"
A wafer-thin, yellow disk filled the holo-field, marked
on one side with eyespots and an upward curve of mouth.
"Smiley Face," Remy read. "Peace symbol associated
with mid-twentieth-century geopolitical conflicts. Adapted
for use by some of the NeAsian prototype habitats to
symbolize their independence from Earth."
"Perfect," Baj said, "absolutely perfect." The two
Ayyums were nodding along with him; one of them
emanating an olfactory nimbus of cloying, nectarous
odors.
"Ayyum Dali," Baj said in a scolding voice. "Don't
scent with your glands full."
Remy studied the three Kwandri as he leaned back
into his chair. "Which meaning appeals to you—the
face as a symbol of peace or of independence?"

62
James Lucerio
Baj looked at him nonplussed. "Why, neither, Remy.
For the Q'aantre such a smile could symbolize one thing
and one thing only—the Tegganon."
"The boy's father wants a whiff of you," Jalak told
Remy later, outside the cin-den. "Tomorrow, about
noon."
"Where?"
The culturist gazed at the river and pointed north.
"There. After a hundred miles of foul road."
"I'll see about a car," Remy said.
"That would be wise. I'll accompany you," Jalak
added after a moment.
"Afraid I'll get lost?"
Jalak frowned. "That's the last thing I'd expect of
you. But you won't find anything like Likat out there,
Remy. We'll be journeying into Old Q'aantre."
"Sounds interesting."
Jalak's shoulders heaved under his poncholike gar-
ment as he turned to face the theater. "Probably not as
interesting as you're going to find this place."
The building, like most of those along the river, was
two stories of precisely fitted stone that had a slightly
pink cast to it. The windows were wood-framed and
double-glazed, large on the lower floor and little more
than vertical slits above. Remy ventured that the wind
could be vicious when the hills across the river were
snowcapped. Just now the air at day's end was chilled
but calm.
Jalak led the way inside after a stop at the ticket booth
to purchase two seats. Those Kwandri on line were
mostly young males, dressed in the same loose style
affected by Glans and many of the youths Remy had
observed around town. A few offworlders were present,
several Enddrese and one of the unaffiliated Earthers
Remy recalled from the reception—a tall woman in
jackboots with two synthcrys-encrusted cyberports
glinting from her shaved skull. She seemed to want to

ILLEGAL ALIEN	63
pretend that she was the only human around, so Remy
left her alone.
Jalak had called the place a cin-den, but Remy knew
better than to expect too much from the clientele. The-
aters like this one catered to the softcore, the floppies;
and while the stretch along the river could be consid-
ered a Terrana strip, the entertainments here, offworld
though they might be, had received Grand Assembly
sanction. The kids who frequented them were just do-
ing what Baj and dozens like him did in the privacy of
their own homes.
The hardcore, the undergrounders, gathered else-
where, in places denied to Jalak. The culturist wouldn't
even acknowledge their existence, but Remy could sense
them: deeper, darker, too dangerous to surface above
Likat's cobbled avenues and perfumed boulevards.
Glans was here, though, and that constituted a start.
The concentrated commingling of a myriad exhala-
tions assaulted Remy as he followed Jalak through a set
of swinging doors and down into the theater. The only
light in the room was that given off by a large rear-
projection flatscreen outfitted with a special lens that
compensated for Kwandrian myopia. Holos and dimen-
sionalized vids were lost on them, a fact that restricted
their interest to primitive twentieth-century works.
No one seemed to be questioning Jalak and Remy's
tour guide and newcomer partnership. Remy watched
the SPECVES tail take a seat in the back row.
Onscreen was a laserdisk version of a Formative Era
musical espionage allegory. The plot concerned the
desperate but comical efforts of several ocean-vessel
stowaways to infiltrate one of their number into an opera
company, which by extension symbolized the USA.
Remy had trouble making sense of it, and he initially
thought that the mixed scents buffeting him—odors of
cumin and new-mown grass, aged paper and ocean
spray, boiled eggs and cotton sheets—were an indica-
tion of like confusion.

64
James Lucerio
"Scent-conjurers," Jalak said into Remy's ear, above
honking noises in the film's original soundtrack.
Remy's eyes followed the culturist's finger to the front
of the theater, where a trio of Kwandri were seated at
what looked like an old pipe organ. On closer inspec-
tion the organ resembled a redolence device of the sort
used in aroma therapy salons in the habitats.
"Subtitles!" Remy said, in sudden realization.
Jalak nodded, one hand reaching for a beard that was
no longer there. "Most of them don't understand the
words or the onscreen actions, but a good team of scent-
conjurers can summon appropriate responses with
artificially produced aromas."
"Like piano soundtracks for silents."
"Somewhat, yes. But the scents are more than ac-
companiment or background. They are the dialogue."
Remy got a strong whiff of nose-tickling pollen ad-
mixed with ozone. A smell of oft-used storage lockers,
a hint of methane. Onscreen a dozen people were trying
to cram themselves into a small cabinspace aboard the
ocean vessel. The audience was howling, acting out the
scene in interpretive pantomime. Aliens and movies,
Remy thought. Like love and marriage.
"Glans is here," Jalak said quietly.
They were standing at the back of the theater, but off
to one side; so Remy had a clear view of the trendily
attired youth as he made his entrance and stood akimbo
at the head of the center aisle.
Glans glanced at Jalak, then began to saunter off in
the opposite direction, his right hand trailing along the
low wall directly behind the uppermost row of seats.
Remy watched him turn the corner into the far aisle
and sidestep into a sparsely occupied midsection row.
Glans threw his wedgelike feet over the forward chair
and tipped his head back in a bored fashion.
"All right," Jalak said, "let's get on with it."
The SPECVES agent was thoroughly engrossed in
the film. "Go," Remy told him.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	65
The culturist walked in Glans's tracks, right hand
trailing the wall. Remy assumed they were making for
the empty seats on either side of the Kwandri agent; but
just short of the aisle Jalak about-faced. Remy caught
up with him in the lobby.
"What was all that about?"
Jalak, eyes closed and arms at his sides, was leaning
against the rear wall, flexing his hands, as though ex-
ercising them.
"It sometimes takes a moment," Jalak said, breath-
ing hard.
Laughter filtered in from the theater. "Glans left an
infosmear on the wall. Your hand absorbed it."
Jalak nodded, eyelids tight. "He has information
about the embassy bombing."
"Why the hell didn't he pass that at the bench?"
Remy seethed.
"Because he didn't have it then."
Remy made an exasperated sound. "I want details,
Jalak."
"I'm not Q'aantre, Remy," the professor returned in
a pained voice. "We need a face-to-face. I can use the
aromatic to signal him," he added, patting the pouch
pocket of his trousers.
"Then do it, for chrissake."
The safehouse NCorp had set up for payment ex-
changes and emergency situations was located in a res-
idential district a few blocks from the river strip. The
lower floor was given over to Jalak's library and office,
where he conducted cultural research interviews with
Kwandri informants. The culturist was well known to
his neighbors in the area, who thought little of the con-
stant comings and goings through the tall glass-paneled
front doors. Subagents, however, made use of the cor-
ridor door that linked the safehouse to an adjacent five-
story, multiple-dwelling unit.
The house had been under surveillance some time

66
James Lucerio
ago, Jalak explained, but Special Investigations had sat-
isfied itself that nothing untoward was going on.
The two Earthers were waiting to remote the Kwandri
through the side door.
"I stopped to have something to eat," Glans an-
nounced as he entered, in full control. Remy could
smell the cockiness clear across the room. "I'll give
you what I have, but I want something extra for it.''
Jalak felt Remy studying him from behind the cur-
tains and looked away.
Remy stepped out and ordered the Kwandri to the
couch. Glans threw Jalak a panicked glance.
"Sit down," Remy repeated.
The professor nodded reassuringly and Glans warily
perched himself on the far arm of the couch. Remy put
on his working face.
"Simon tells me you're a woodworker, 'Glans.' "
Glans looked to Jalak before answering. "Yes." The
reply was tentative; the Kwandri's self-possession gone.
"And where does a furniture maker learn about acts
of terrorism?''
The Kwandri's fine brown coat bristled above the col-
lar of his Enddrese jacket. "You're not in any trouble,"
Jalak said. He showed Remy a hard-edged look.
"There's no need to frighten him."
Remy showed them his palms. "I'm not trying to
frighten anyone. But I want assurance the data came
from a reliable source." He regarded the youth.
"Maybe Glans was there when the embassy was
bombed. Maybe he overheard something in a conver-
sation. Which is it, Glans?"
"Someone in the wood shop was talking," the Kwan-
dri began on a reticent note. "He knows two of the
ones involved in the bombing—Norak and Els Fas. He
himself isn't a sympathizer. He would never participate
in such things." Glans looked imploringly at Jalak.
"Please, I don't want to reveal his name."
"That's all right, we don't want the name."

ILLEGAL ALIEN	67
"Then . . . you'll pay me and I can leave?"
Remy adopted an expression of surprise. "Pay you?
For two names, Glans? How many terrorists are there-
twenty? Thirty? Fifty?"
"I—"
"And these two siblings—Norak and Els—are they
just anti-Xell'em, or have they been involved in dem-
onstrations against the Terran mission as well?"
Glans wore a helpless expression. "But Maestro Ja-
lak has never asked— That is, he pays me—"
"I know what he's paid you," Remy said. "And I
know he's been helping you with your wardrobe. But
things have changed. If you want to keep yourself in
Terrana, you're going to have to do better than two
names."
Glans said, "I'll try, I promise."
Remy sniffed fear, confusion, a willingness to please.
"Good. In that case I want to add a little something to
your reward—a gesture of my appreciation."
Glans's eyes widened at sight of the Mr. T gold-plated
chains. Remy let the jewelry dangle from one hand.
"Go on, take it. I know you won't disappoint me."
Glans leaned over and slipped the necklace from
Remy's finger. "I don't know how to reply."
"Hey, it happens," Remy told him.
The Kwandri looked about uneasily. "I should be
getting home."
"Yes, go home, Glans," Jalak said with undisguised
regret. "Just be careful. And remember to mark your
dead drops. It's important we remain in touch."
Glans's nod was an earnest one. He was halfway to the
door before Remy said, "There is one more thing . . ."
The Kwandri blanched. "At the cin-den tonight. I couldn't
help notice you seemed disinterested.''
Glans shuffled in place. "I've seen that one before."
Remy raised his chin. "That would explain it." He
Waited until Glans was through his turn. "I suppose

68
James Lucerio
that's about as exciting as it gets in Likat, huh? A vid,
a pair of UV glasses, a gold-plated chain ..."
The youth was staring at him, nostrils flared.
Remy raised himself to his full height. "Where's a
Kwandri go for real excitement, Glans—the new kind
of excitement?"
It was Jalak's turn to wear the puzzled frown. "What
are you asking of him?''
Remy narrowed his eyes. "Glans knows what I'm
talking about."
The Kwandri met his gaze with a sudden aggressive-
ness. "Is that what you want?"
"For now."
Glans mulled it over. "Meet me at the theater to-
morrow night. Wait until the show has ended." He
made a smirking sound. "The 'new excitement' doesn't
get going before midnight."

SIX
"I
i just thought you were a bit hard
on the boy," Jalak said when they were about fifty miles
outside of Likat. The four-seater methanol burner was
courtesy of Disney Corp and the culturist was driving.
"Plan on my being just as hard on the rest of your
subs," Remy told him. "Remember your training, Pro-
fessor: It's the politically motivated agent you've got to
watch out for. The rest you reward when they've been
good and scold when they haven't. You learn what they
run on and you use that to insure a strong return. You
get nowhere trying to make them like you. I'll tell you
again: They're not your children."
"No," Jalak said flatly, "we just treat them that
way.''
Remy glared at him, then turned away to face the
passenger-side window. He knew that Jalak wasn't to
blame for the foul mood; it was just the damned open-
ness and desolation of the landscape. They hadn't left
the city environs when the agoraphobia settled on him
like bad weather, and he couldn't shake loose the irri-
tability that went along with it.
He had reconned comparable downside scapes on
Daleth and Raliish moons and experienced the same
69

70
James Lucerio
sense of imminent panic. The result of too many years
spent in Earth Force starships and orbital habitats; a
spacer's cross. Odd to think he found more comfort in
crowded cities, but there you were.
Nanff's village was called Tsegg Tsirran, which meant
"place of the high wall." Old Q'aantre, Jalak kept say-
ing, as if the cursed plateau they were traversing wasn't
old enough. Els was back in the suite, vidmerized when
Remy had left him, the envy of the hotel and half the
Interior Ministry to hear Baj tell it. Everyone in Likat
yearned for a Craftmatic adjustable bed, a Rubik's
Cube, a set of Leggos, and a trip up the well.
"And why does one have to be careful with the
politically motivated agent?" Jalak asked, breaking a
five-minute silence.
"What?" Remy said.
"You said you had to watch out for them—the polit-
ical ones."
"Because they've got their own agenda—no matter
what they promise you. You take your time to cultivate
and nourish a network and the next thing you know
you're being ordered offworld by the same ones you
helped set up in positions of power."
"Is that NCorp's aim on Q'aantre—to ascend certain
individuals to positions of power?"
Remy scowled. "You're making too much of this,
Professor. Center just wants the Xell'em out of here."
The two Earthers fell silent once more.
Dazyl burned through gray clouds hugging the edge
of the plateau and a wind came up to stir the bunch
grass. A chain of saw-toothed, snowcapped mountains
appeared on the horizon and Remy began to understand
why the village had been so named.
Tsegg Tsirran had a few buildings that could be con-
sidered modern by precontact standards—a bank, a
consumer outlet, a communications center—but most of
the village was earthen in texture, in composition and
smell. The kind of treeless, windswept place kids ev-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
71
erywhere were wont to abandon for the thrills of urban
life. Word of the Earthers' visit had imparted a festive
mood to the unpaved main street, where several dozen
Kwandri were turned out in resplendent homespun garb.
Most, however, were naked. Clothing was New
Kwandri.
Remy and Jalak made their way from the car to a
decoratively awninged platform erected in the central
square. Dark-coated children with outstretched hands
asked for vid players and fax machines. Odd-looking
domesticated animals growled but kept their distance.
Adult Kwandri were lined up on both sides of a wo-
ven trailer two hundred feet in length, leaning in on
wedged feet, exhaling gustative welcome scents of cin-
namon, baked bread, and mother's milk. The males
cupped their genitalia with one hand, waved with the
other. The females kissed the backs of their fingertips
and bowed their heads. Some hid their breasts.
"I am Els Nanff," the old one on the wooden throne
announced as Remy and Jalak approached. Remy
watched the culturist for cues, determined not to shake
testicles unless he had to.
The elder Els was a shaman and healer of some rep-
utation among the tribes of the plateau.
"This is Res Santoul," Jalak said, indicating Remy
with his right hand. "The offworlder who came to the
aid of your thirdborn."
Silver-coated Els studied his son's benefactor more
with his nose than his oblique eyes. Remy considered
toothing a dermal fragrance but decided to go with
whatever his body was emitting on its own.
"Els is being well cared for?" the shaman asked.
Jalak did the translating. Remy likewise relied on him
to convey his promise that Els would continue to be
cared for until his bones knit.
"And does the Terran wish to honor the ball"
The supplemental, Jalak had called it. The pledge
Remy had made to carry out Els's wish to go up the

72
James Lucerio
well. Remy reaffirmed the pledge now. He couldn't fol-
low Jalak's High Kwandri translation of "up the well,"
but faces were soon beginning to tilt skyward.
Els sniffed thoughtfully. "And Res Santoul will also
see to my thirdborn's return?"
Like the station was just another place on the plateau,
Remy told himself. Hell, maybe it was. "Yes," he said,
"I will oversee his safe return to Tsegg Tsirran as well."
Even if that meant another damned trip through agora-
phobia.
The statement brought a rise out of the crowd and all
at once Remy found himself at the center of a deluge
of spiced emanations. His head swam with chords of
ozone and rain-dampened earth, of leather and musk,
olive wood and feathers.
The elder Els offered a toothless smile and conjured
a floral scent-storm for the crowd. Odors reminescent
of hyacinth, violet, carnation, and sweet pea that put
Remy in mind of the fragrances Jasna, his ex, wore. He
squeezed back a sneeze and a painful memory.
"Well, well," Jalak said, nodding as he looked over
his inside shoulder at Remy, "it looks like you finally
made yourself some downside friends."
"What happened to your car?" Glans asked as he
slid into the passenger seat hours later. He was on time
and there was no hint of the combativeness that had
surfaced the previous evening. Remy didn't want him
to feel too at ease, so he added an edge to his response,
eyes fixed forward, gloved hands gripped on the con-
trols.
"A rock jumped out in front of it," he said, around
a dissolving peppermint stim-wafer.
"A rock?" the Kwandri said.
Remy eyed him askance. "That's right. Now, which
way are we going?"
Sullen, Glans flipped a bleached forefinger toward the
windscreen. "Straight to the shuttleport."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
73
Remy commanded the car out into traffic, enabling
the contracollision system when they had attained the
center lane. Vehicular traffic was light, but there were
plenty of pedestrians to worry about, most of them shuf-
fling preoccupied from darkening cin-dens along the
strip.
The rock had actually jumped in front of Jalak, who
had the wheel when they rammed into it. Standing in
the chill mist of the plateau afterward, the two Earthers
agreed that given the copious amounts of yika they had
consumed in Tsegg Tsirran and the score of bottomless
crevasses that lay between there and Likat, a crumpled
front end was the least of what could have transpired.
It had seemed the shaman's purpose to so sate them on
foodstuffs and exhalations they would be forced to spend
the night; but in the end the nonstop drinking only
caused them to forget to engage the vehicle's contra-
collision system.
With the midnight rendezvous in mind, Remy had
managed to fit in two hours of dreamless sleep back at
the hotel. Not near enough to clear the haze from his
peripheral vision or mute the ring in his ears; but the
car was equipped to compensate for the former, and
Glans had little to say after the initial exchange.
Rain slick on the inner city streets was snow out by
the shuttleport. Nothing the car couldn't handle. Glans
instructed Remy to turn left toward the cargo hangars,
then left again as they neared the turnoff for Pov Tam,
a small prefab settlement that had grown up with the
landing zone itself.
Remy had killed a couple hours here a week earlier,
wandering around while an unexplained warning pulse
in shuttle control had comptechs at the port arguing it
out with the wheel mainframe. The place wasn't much
more than a hexagon of inwardly aligned ultratech
buildings and blackmart stalls catering to cargo movers,
space tramps, and transients. But Pov Tarn's purport-
edly off-limits status naturally encouraged visits from

74
James Lucerio
the more courageous and experimental of Kwandri's cit-
izenry.
All in all it was the perfect setting for underground
action, so Remy wasn't too surprised to see couples
stepping from chauffeur-driven cars and hurrying off
through the flurries toward one garishly plasticized
doorway or another.
Glans directed him to a parking zone in back of a
small semicylindrical hangar. They walked down a nar-
row ramp that led to a card-only portal and entered a
dank and fetid-smelling holding area.
Queued up at a pneumatic entry pillared by two im-
posing examples of transgenic Enddrese musculature
were thirty or more Kwandri, fenced behind a shifting
curtain of laser fanlight. A cyan scrawl of plasma-script
above the door identified the place as the Club Terrana.
"I can get us in," Glans said, loud enough to be
heard over frenzied, high-register horns and a heart-
throbbing bass. Remy stepped aside to let him take
charge. Glans displayed for the queue as he sauntered
by.
"What's your drive?" the hirsute of the two Enddrese
asked in tradespeak, with a slab of callused hand raised
to Remy's chest. Glans was already standing proudly at
the hatch, his admittance secure.
"I was dropped from the Chakra," Remy told him
in fluent Enddrese. "Holing for Ralii on the Anglo.''''
"You sorry fuck," the XT said, grinning. "Guess
you deserve a good laugh." The hand that had been
splayed at Remy's midsection slapped an inset reader
on the wall and the heavy quilted hatch slid aside.
Four wide steps led down into something lifted from
Earth's preexpansionist past: a seemingly boundless
room of deafening music and incoherent light. Off to
one side, backed by a wallscreen of explosive, kalei-
doscopic color, was a low stage featuring a trio of
scantily clad Kwandri females in outsize cages, con-
vulsing their way through a bizarre interpretation of

ILLEGAL ALIEN
75
suggestive, synchronized dance. On the floor below,
Kwandri females in bell-bottomed pants and miniskirts
were mimicking the dancers' stiff movements, while
groups of males clapped off-time from booths, tables,
and couches.
Remy's nose grappled with musky and perfumed aro-
mas; odors of burning paper, smoldering tobacco,
whiskey, urine, and chemical disinfectants. No one was
smoking, though, or drinking, or engaging in any ac-
tivity that could account for the heady redolence of sex
in the air.
Glans was smiling, tapping his foot. "You said you
wanted to see the real thing."
Remy gave him a dubious look and made straight for
a seat at the bar—a circle of stainless steel, centered
around a thick column adorned at intervals with half a
dozen heads-up monitors. Crudely filmed and self-
indulgently edited twentieth-century music vidvertise-
ments were running on some of these; others displayed
similarly aged adverts for sports cars, cigarettes, beer,
and sundry consumer goods.
Atop the bar, ninety degrees from Remy's stool, a
young Earth woman who had spent too many years in
the atrophying effects of null-gee was playing air guitar.
The high heel she kicked in Remy's direction nearly
took out his left eye. Most of the ensuing laughter came
from offworlders.
"You lose eye, you make love like Kwandri," a fe-
male indig told Remy as she skillfully positioned her-
self between him and a bemused Glans. She was
attractive if a bit overweight, with widely spaced eyes
and a wavy coat the color of ferrocrete. "You buy Kitti
drink?" she continued in pidgin, canted in that crazy
Kwandri posture, stroking his shoulder.
"Kitty?!"
"Kitti, Kitti," she said, accenting the second sylla-
ble. "You buy drink, Kitti be nice-nice with tall Ter-
ran?"

76
James Lucerio
' 'Nice-nice ?!''
She bobbed her head, eyes mere slits when she
smiled. The rotund Earther polishing the selector knobs
on the bar's drinkmaster was also smiling. "Two cham-
pain," she told him.
"What about me?" Glans asked, shouldering into
the conversation.
Kitti sniffed in his direction and issued a scent of
disapproval. "Kitti no drink with boy." She followed
it up with a phrase of rapid-fire Kwandri that brought a
look of outrage to Glans's face; but the bartender inter-
vened before Jalak's agent could respond.
"Why don't you two take it down there?" the big
man suggested. "So the Earther and I can merge
words." He eyeballed Remy's synthsilk jumpsuit and
vented jacket as the two Kwandri moved off in argu-
ment. Remy put a hand over his ringed finger. "Haven't
seen you here before, have I?" he asked.
"First time," Remy said. "Only been downside for
a few weeks."
"You're on a ship, then?"
"The wheel. I'm with DisneyCorp."
The man tucked in triple chins in feigned surprise.
"The one night I don't wear my clean shirt. So how's
the trade in icons ..."
"Remy, Remy Santoul."
"Vegas."
Remy shook the proffered hand—the first thing he felt
safe touching since entering the bar. Vegas's bulk was
real enough, but everything else about him—from the
lightning bolt hairline to the triple chins and extra
digits—had been altered at one time or another. ' 'Busi-
ness is," Remy said.
"Yeah, I suppose. Had a guy in here, what, maybe
three weeks ago, said he had a photo-mannequin of
Ayatollah Khomeini he wanted to sell. Looked ersatz
to me, told him so."
"You did the right thing. They're not bringing what

ILLEGAL ALIEN	77
they used to. You see a Ronnie Reagan, you grab it
though."
Vegas was quiet for a moment. "You're from BASF,
my guess. Citi maybe."
"Right the second time." Remy showed the Citi ring.
"Never miss an accent."
'' And you 're Fabrfca.''
Vegas smiled. "Always good to meet another spacer.
So what can I have the bar fix you?"
"You're saying you have valid goods in there?" Remy
asked, gesturing to the drinkmaster.
Vegas looked puzzled, then laughed and motioned to
the tables and dance floor. "They don't come here to
drink. Just act it out, you know. Get loose, drink
'champain.' Just like in the cin-dens."
"I'll have a brandy, in that case." Remy tuned in to
the music while Vegas's back was turned, realizing only
then that what he'd taken for a kind of frantic march
was simply an old standard the Club Terrana veejay was
running at twice normal speed.
"To Sol," Vegas said, lifting a snifter of his own.
"And to warmer worlds."
' 'Nazdorovye.'' Remy raised his glass and sipped at
the amber liquid. "So who's chief programmer for this
little bit of heaven?"
Vegas knocked back the drink and ran a hand across
his full mouth. "You want the rumor or the story ev-
eryone's supposed to believe?"
"Give me both and the next round's on me."
"Ready. The accepted truth's that Golden Arches
went online with some honchos in the Grand Assem-
bly—some kind of probe to see if a franchise'll run
here. There's talk about expanding the shuttleport, put-
ting up hotels, casinos, making Kwandri a downside
stop for tour ships out to Burst and Daleth." Vegas put
his elbows on the bar and adopted a conspiratorial tone
of voice. "'Course that spin's got a lot to do with what
the Xell'em have planned for the place."

78
James Lucerio
Remy swirled his drink. "And the rumor?"
Vegas's voice became lower still. "NCorp funds."
He pronounced it encore.
"NCorp? Why would they want to open a bar?"
Vegas looked around. "It's not the bar, Santoul, it's
what the bar does, you understand? Go ahead, glance
around, you see what Terrana does to the coats. They
keep craving the music, the colors, Xella gets dumped,
right? But what do I care? My credits come at the end
of every month. Hell, Santoul, you're in the business,
you see what goes on."
Remy held the big man's gaze. "What business?"
"Disney, Santoul. Your corp does the same thing."
Remy shook his head. "Vegas, I assure you our ex-
changes are undertaken with the full consent of the gov-
erning body. Years of research go into determining—"
"Yeah, yeah. But it calculates the same, doesn't it?"
Remy motioned to the stage. "We'd never condone
this . . . travesty."
Vegas snorted. "You're a case, Santoul. So we dazzle
them with some sound and light, waft in some aromas
to get them high, encourage them to take their clothes
off. The coats still can't act on anything."
"What do you mean, they can't 'act' on anything."
"Just what I'm saying: We can saturate this place
with musk, dope, and flesh and it just can't go no-
where."
Remy kept his theatrical bewilderment in place.
Vegas laughed, shaking his huge head. "Santoul, I
like you. And when Vegas likes someone, it means
they're in for a special treat. So how about it: you game
for a special treat?"
Remy hesitated. "Special treats have a way of costing
more than I can afford," he began, reaching for his
credit card. But his hand never made it to his pocket.
"Tonight's on the house, how's that?"
Remy slowly exhaled. "Well, sure, Vegas," he said.
"I'm game."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
79
* * *
The offworlders-only back room turned out to be a
comfortably appointed lounge with a mobile drinkmas-
ter and an inhouse holo system. The room was unoc-
cupied when Vegas led Remy in, but the holo was
activated, offering a close-up of one of the Kwandri
dancers onstage.
It was only after Remy had stated his preference for the
live view that Vegas had called up a much wilder scene,
presumably remoted from elsewhere in the club. Infield
now were two naked Kwandri females and one rather
diminutive male, engaged in what was less a simulation
of copulation than a pathetic misinterpretation of it.
"Life in the VIK room," Vegas said, leaning into
the holo-field with an enormous grin on his face.
Remy figured the male was the Very Important
Kwandri in question, although that wasn't necessarily
substantiated by the would-be carnal activities taking
place on the large bed.
The orgy room itself was red-lit and equipped with
its own flatscreen; theirs, however, was running a fuck
vid that had to have been disked on Dhone—one of the
few places in the Arm where humanoids coupled with
such graphic abandon. The human male in the field and
the Kwandri spread-eagled on the bed were presently in
like positions, as were the females bending over them.
Except that where mutual arousal was blantantly obvi-
ous in the flatscreen vid, it was conspicuously absent
on the bed. In fact, the trio's urgent gropings and wild
gyrations bore no more resemblance to human sexuality
than the clipped contortions of the caged females out
front bore to expressive dance.
Still, for all his sudden disquietude, Remy couldn't
take his eyes away. Simon Jalak's words came back to
him; the culturist's concerns about the impact of Earth's
exported culture on the Kwandri's hithertofore bio-
rhythmically regulated sensuality. Jalak either didn't

80
James Lucerio
know about places like the Club Terrana, or chose to
ignore them.
"Santoul," Vegas said leadingly. "How many Kwan-
dri females does it take to change the flux rods in a
jump transformer?''
Remy wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Five," Vegas continued, undaunted. "One to insert
each of the four rods, and the fifth to wipe them off and
put them back where they belong!"
Remy let him laugh for a moment. "I don't under—"
"Sure you do! The whole planet's got a performance
problem, see? Outside of Teg'non, when they all get
nuts, so to speak. I mean, look at them, will you? The
poor coats wanna be just like us but it doesn't run.
They wanna fuck at the drop of a suitflap but they
can't."
Remy watched the trio in the cone-shaped field
change positions and try again. At the bar he had at
least sensed something heartfelt about the dancing and
merrymaking, but this . . . this was a perversion.
"Jeez, haven't they heard of aphrodisiacs?" Remy
asked.
Vegas shook his head. "They don't work. People have
tried, believe me."
"What about direct stim?"
The bartender laughed. "You're out of synch, San-
toul. The coats don't want dermatrodes, they want ac-
tion. The meat. Shit, the whole Arm's sick of direct
stim."
"I know," Remy said, cutting Vegas off. "Back to
basics."
The Kwandri male was on his stomach now, facing
the optical pickup in the room, his partners raking tal-
oned fingers through his rear coat. Ash-blond and slen-
der, he had soulful, downward-turning eyes, widely
spaced in an almost triangular face. His pink belly
looked freshly depilated.
"Who is he?" Remy asked finally.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	81
Vegas leaned back into a couch barely large enough
to contain him. "Hey, spacer, I'm not really supposed
to reveal names. But what the hell," he hastened to
add, "you'll probably run into him next time Disney-
Corp's invited to one of those Assembly dos."
Vegas crossed his hands on his paunch and belched.
"Name's Morli. Liaison chief with the Ministry of
ExtraPlanetary Affairs. Assembly member. Comes in
here maybe twice a week, strictly back-room stuff.''
Remy was all ears. "What makes you think he's with
the ministry?"
"I know the guy, is why. He's into Terrana. I put him
in touch with a guy who had a legit Bug Zapper. I hear
Morli's got it on display in the front room of his house.
But he's not like some of the flashier coats who walk in
here—not like the one you came in with."
Remy didn't ask for Glans's real tag; the fewer names
you knew the better for all concerned. "You keep doing
favors for the right people, you'll end up with your own
invite, Vegas."
"Could be, Captain, could be," Vegas said. "But
I'll tell you one thing: This Morli's got the goods on
Xell'em futures downside. I hear it, he's even been up
to their station."
"What, the flashpoint station?"
"Am I the CEO of valid?"
Remy glanced at the figures in the field. "What about
the women? Always the same ones?"
"Not a chance. Morli might be an ineffectual little
fuck but he's not brain-damaged. The girls work the
house."
"But I thought they couldn't—"
"No, they can't. But like I say, they wanna be just
like us. That Kitti'd talk you into buying her 'champain'
all night and tell you her life story if you'd let her. Be
the first to marry herself a Terran mate. 'Sides, who
knows what'll happen after a year or so of music, mov-

82
James Lucerio
ies, and amp-ed light? Maybe they'll start feeling the
urge out of season, open up a bit."
Vegas laughed. "Coupla space marines come in here
a month back, start talking about organizing things, set
up a fixed price and start numbering the females like
they do on Dhone."
Remy ran a hand down his face; when he looked up,
the bartender had a thick finger on the holo's selector
button. "What d'you say we jump around, see what's
cooking in some of the other rooms?"
"Other rooms?" Remy started to say when the first
of the warning hooters sounded.
Vegas cursed and tapped the selector button until the
field showed a view of the club's front door from the
vantage of the bar. The two Earthers watched as an
unseen directed-energy weapon vaporized the door seal.
"Piss in my goddamned neural helmet!" Vegas said,
propelling himself to his feet. "A raid, a goddamned
raid! And I just paid those fuckers off," he added, turn-
ing to Remy.
The front room was pure pandemonium now as po-
lice in full riot gear began to file through what was left
of the entrance. Behind them came plainclothes officers
and several Xell'em.
"SPECVES," Remy said.
"And then some," Vegas amended.
Remy followed him out into the dimly lit corridor
where dishabille was the order of the moment. Kwandri
of both genders were slipping into whatever articles of
clothing were nearest as they rushed madly for win-
dows, stairways, and exits. Concern for Glans made
Remy turn for the bar, but Vegas restrained him.
"Not that way," he shouted. "There's a better way
out."
By the time Remy spun around, the big bartender was
twenty feet down the hallway, several Kwandri lying
dazed in his wake. Must have spent a small fortune on
bodywork, Remy thought, hurrying to catch up. Who-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
83
ever had done the overhaul had outfitted Vegas with
more than enough muscle to carry the load.
Remy put his long legs into it, and was just streaking
through the first corridor intersection when he collided
with the Xell'em.
They met head-on and went down together, victims
of momentum, hands held to sore skulls as they looked
up to glare at each other from opposite walls of the
corridor. A dozen fleeing, barefoot Kwandri hurdled
their outstretched legs and went keystoning around a far
corner.
The XT male was sizing Remy up. Given their rela-
tive positions, Remy thought he might have five inches
and six kilos on the guy, but what the Xell'em lacked
in height he made up for in shoulders and filed teeth.
And when the Xell'em pulverized a small piece of the
plaster wall with a lightning fast chopping motion of
his left hand, Remy realized that the combat modifica-
tions weren't limited to his mouth.
The Xell'em sprung himself into a crouch and Remy
kipped in response, kicking him two-footed in the face.
The XT fell back against the wall, but the blood he
smeared from under a nose commentators were fond of
terming Romanesque only prompted a second, stagger-
ing display of agility.
That Remy barely saw the punches coming was what
saved him from anticipating the pain they inflicted. He
slid out from under the rain with consciousness intact
and got in a spin kick that connected with artificially
hardened body muscle before the Xell'em had him
Wrapped up in a forward-facing bear hug and was slam-
ming his elongated cranium into Remy's chin.
When the XT tired of that, he opened his jaws and
began to withdraw his head for a carotid strike. That's
when Remy decided to tongue one of the oral mists.
Credit for the repellent spray had to go to the wet-
ware junkie back at Center who thought it might prove
effective in tight quarters, and so it did. Triggering the

84
James Lucerio
fetor simultaneously dammed Remy's olfactory path-
ways, but the Xell'em inhaled more than a good lungful
and was now writhing on the floor, coughing fitfully.
Remy aimed a solid toekick at a tattooed cheekbone
for good measure.
Vegas appeared, scowling and waving a hand in front
of his face. "What a stench," he said. The words were
muffled by his fingers. "Don't they teach you Disney
reps about the pucker factor? You suck in your gut or
it'll turn to mush and run right outta you."
Remy indicated his unconscious opponent. "It's this
one. Something about the Xell'em diet, I guess."
Vegas regarded the XT and shrugged. "Well, now's
no time for foreplay. Correct for attitude, son, the club's
closed for the season ..."
Three minutes of confusing twists and turns and Ve-
gas had them outside in the snow.
"I gotta remember to start tying my goddamned
jacket around my waist," Remy commented, shivering.
Vegas said. "And I've gotta start looking for a new
gig-"
Patrol wagons with Mars lights were roaring toward
the rear of the hangar along the main drive. Remy spied
a solitary limo lost in the darkness not fifty yards from
Vegas's emergency exit. Interior light spilled from an
opened rear door, and it was Morli he saw clambering
inside, naked as he'd been in the VIK room only fifteen
minutes before.
Remy nearly forgot about the cold air and the snow
collecting on his head and shoulders as he watched the
vehicle steal silently from the scene. Thinking how he'd
just secured himself an agent.

SEVEN
Res Santoul," Morli said. "Then
you're also firstborn."
"My given name's Remy," the NCorp operative said,
"but I am firstborn."
"Ah, Remy. The one from Disney Corp. Yes, Norak
has told me about you."
Norak Baj was standing off to one side, the perfect
host, pleased that the introduction had gone so well.
"It's true, Remy. I've been telling Res what an im-
provement you are over your predecessor, Ms. Canu.
Not that I mean to belittle her efforts," Baj was quick
to add. "She obviously meant well. It was simply that
she lacked a certain understanding of Q'aantre ways."
"I only met the woman on two occasions," Morli
said, "so of course I'm in no position to comment. But
I do sense that what Norak tells me is correct—you are
indeed possessed of uncommon messegg—what we call
intuitive kinship." He sniffed ever so slightly in Remy's
direction. "Is this something DisneyCorp has seen to,
or do you come by it naturally . . . Remy?''
"I'm willing to split the credit," Remy told him.
Baj and Morli laughed. "A most politic response."
One of Densign's mission staffers ambled over to in-
85

86
James Lucerio
troduce herself. Remy made use of the interruption to
converse privately with Baj.
"How'd you like the bomber jacket?" he asked qui-
etly through a fixed smile.
"I was left absolutely scentless," the Kwandri said
in a like tone.
"Sorry it had to be ersatz. I told you, we could both
retire on what a genuine commands."
Baj waved a hand. "The jacket was more than I dared
hope, believe me."
The Kwandri probably would have been the first to
deny it, but Remy was convinced it was the jacket that
had secured the invitation to Baj's formal dinner. Just
now Baj was sporting Slinky bracelets, and a red alu-
minum ant-trap pendant hanging from a large-linked
choker of chrome chain.
A little over a standard-week had gone by since the
raid on the Club Terrana. Remy had spent most of that
time ferreting out background data on his new quarry,
Res Morli.
Red Year of the Bontom, he had correctly surmised.
Baj's polar opposite, zodiacally and politically.
Vegas was on target about much of it: Morli was a
member of the Grand Assembly, was well placed in the
Ministry of ExtraPlanetary Affairs, and was indeed
shuttled up to the Xell'em wormhole station on a reg-
ular basis.
It struck Remy initially that Morli was perhaps too
well situated if anything; and it seemed possible that
the Xell'em were grooming him for some more lofty
position than liaison chief. The more Remy asked
around, however, the more he became convinced that
Morli simply regarded the Xell'em as the only game in
town. Densign, after all, hadn't extended any invita-
tions to visit Terra's torus; and it was obvious that con-
struction of the proposed orbital tower might never
commence.
Glans—through the same woodwork shop contact

illegal alien
87
who had furnished the names of two of the terrorists-
had verified Morii's single status and his fondness for
Terrana.
The young agent, along with several dozen club
goers, had spent two nights in jail as a result of the
raid. The charges brought against them had more to do
with violating Pov Tarn's off-limits restrictions than vi-
olating any statutes of public decency. But SPECVES
had interviewed and photographed all of them, and
while Glans seemed to be taking the whole matter in
stride, Remy was forced to consider him dirtied.
The data on Morli, though, had been corroborated
and was firm enough to include in the precis Remy had
compiled. He had finally flashed all the material upside
to Ishida—along with a lengthy recruitment assessment
that emphasized Morii's sexual proclivities—and almost
immediately received operational approval to make an
approach.
The arrival of the invitation to Baj's dinner party
couldn't have been better timed.
The house itself was a spacious, imposing structure
of turrets, grand stairways, and massive fireplaces. The
main room where Remy and some sixty others were
gathered was electrically lit by chandeliers and wall
sconce fixtures. There were perhaps a dozen others
chatting and exchanging scents in the step-down den.
Each of Baj's Kwandri guests had received a Pez Dis-
penser and a pocket diet-dessert spray at the door, in-
cluding young Els Nanff, Remy's personal guest, whom
he had last seen limping off with Baj's secondborn son.
Baj had been careful to invite an equal number of
Terrans and Xell'em. Among the latter group, Remy
had spotted a broad-shouldered bodyguard with a dis-
colored cheek. The man recognized Remy as well—
although Remy's own minor bruises from the corridor
encounter had long since healed.
He was the ugliest member of Ambassador and Ma-
dame Xu's retinue, but had been paired for the occasion

88
James Lucerio
with a statuesque woman in a strapless, backless gown,
stiletto heels, and long black gloves, whose visible al-
terations were confined to ears and chin. Remy thought
she might be one of the most handsome women he had
ever seen—of the Xell'em or any other planetary race—
and even now he had his eye out for her.
"Karine," Morli said suddenly.
Remy turned around and found himself alone with
the Kwandri, Baj and Densign's staffer having walked
off together. "I'm sorry, Res, I didn't—"
"Karine Mareer," Morli completed. "The woman
you were admiring. She processes travel applications
for the embassy." He smiled. "It's not unusual to see
fifty people lined up at her office door—by sunrise, mind
you. Although I suspect half that number have no in-
tentions whatever of requesting visitor permits to
Xell'em station."
"I can appreciate that," Remy started to say as a new
scent filled the room and a bell chimed in the foyer.
"That would be our call to dinner, Remy," Morli
said, inhaling and offering his arm. "Shall we?"
Remy shrugged without showing it and linked arms
with the shorter being. "Delighted," he said, grinning.
Glass and glazed ceramic dinnerware covered a T-
shaped arrangement of intricately carved wooden ta-
bles. Baj's guests of honor—Grand Assembly members
and ministry officials—occupied tall-backed chairs
along the crossbar, while Terrans and Xell'em, inter-
sperced with Kwandri and a few Enddrese, sat facing
one another along the length of the leg, log fires crack-
ling in cavernous stone fireplaces at their backs. Place
settings were equipped with Terran-made translingual
devices capable of rendering dozens of languages and
dialects into Inner Arm tradespeak.
Remy was seated halfway down the leg, flanked on
the left by Ayyum Legguum and on the right by a mis-
sion staffer. Densign was closer to the head of the table,
where Baj and Morli had adjacent seats. Nanff and the

illegal alien
89
other youngsters had a room to themselves near the
kitchen, where Baj kept the prize of his Terrana collec-
tion: a terribly battered Wurlitzer jukebox. The vinyl
disks it had once played were no longer available, so
Baj had decorated the ancient round-topped thing as a
shrine to Moki Jo, the Kwandri goddess of the home.
Opposite Remy across a six-foot expanse of embroi-
dered cloth topped with candle-heated tureens and crys-
tal decanters sat Xu's undersecretary—a woman whose
facial tattoos, receding chin, and severely elongated
skull embodied the very ideal of Xell'em transmogrifi-
cation. To her immediate right was Baj's second sub-
ordinate, Ayyum Dali; and much farther right, almost
at the foot of the table were the bruised bodyguard and
the XT beauty Morli had identified as Karine Mareer.
Baj stood up to give a short welcome speech that was
long on hope and optimism for Kwandri's future, and
after a brief series of sniffing and sipping rituals, the
dinner got under way.
Remy made polite conversation with Legguum and
the staffer while course after spice-laden course was ex-
pertly set down and effortlessly swept away. He put the
number of servants at thirty-two before losing count.
The feast had just reached the dessert stage when the
modified voice of the Xell'em ambassador issued
through the room's score of translingual annunciators.
Xu was rising in place when Remy turned to look.
"Wishing neither to dissipate nor disturb the ambro-
sial redolence of this gathering," he began, "I would
like to take this occasion to comment on the rash of
incidents that have recently been directed against Xel-
la's downside presence on this wondrous world."
Despite Xu's use of the high-formal introduction,
Remy could feel discomfort uncoil itself through the
room.
"I certainly don't mean to suggest that these inci-
dents have been undertaken with either the knowledge
or sanction of anyone in this room—and I'm aware that

90	James Lucerio
Terran concerns have also suffered at the hands of these
terrorists—but I do find myself perplexed at their oc-
currence. So perplexed that I am of a mind to entertain
explanations from anyone present." He paused. "Why
is this such? And what exactly are the demands of this
group, so few in number and yet so powerful in influ-
ence? ''
Xu looked around for a moment. "Can no one an-
swer me?" It was plain that the Kwandri weren't going
to touch it, so everyone turned to the natural second
choice: the Terran envoy. Remy craned his neck around
Legguum's head to catch sight of Densign's reluctant
rise.
"Ambassador Xu," he said, head lowered and jowls
already quivering, "I take you at your word that you
don't wish to disturb the aromatic bouquet of the mo-
ment, but I'm afraid that's precisely what you've done."
Densign showing Xu two could play, Remy thought.
"You conceal the piquant nature of your inquiries in
perfumes and incense, but their acerbic exhalations
come through. Now let me just say this about that—"
"Permit me to interrupt, Mr. Densign," Xu said
calmly, showing his hands. "Perhaps I was too all-
embracing in my solicitation a moment ago. Both of us
are but spokespersons for the policies of our homeworld
governments. But I don't seek to turn this evening into
a debate. I'm asking for responses of a personal sort—
from an impartial quarter."
Xu's epicanthic eyes scanned the table. "Perhaps the
representative from DisneyCorp has some insight to of-
fer."
It took Remy a moment to grasp that everyone was
staring at him. Densign looked pale. Baj, Morli, and
several other Kwandri were smiling. The Xell'em un-
dersecretary had her arms folded beneath her serpent-
patterned bosom.
"Yes, please, Mr. Santoul," one of the Grand

ILLEGAL ALIEN	91
Assembly members enthused. "We're most interested
to learn what you have to say."
Remy opened his mouth and closed it. He blew out
his breath and cleared his throat. The mission staffer
urged him to stand up.
"I, uh . . . " Ayyum Legguum elbowed him in the
thigh, presumably as a demonstration of encourage-
ment.
"Frankly," Remy said, "I'm not as shocked by these
incidents as Ambassador Xu professes to be. Now I
know some of you are surprised to hear me say this,
and I suppose Mr. Densign probably has his hands over
his ears by now"—which he in fact did—"but the truth
is these bombings and demonstrations have less to do
with the Xell'em than they have to do with the Xell'em
presence."
Remy stole a downward glance at the undersecretary
and immediately regretted it; the woman's crossed eyes
launched a preemptive first strike that silenced him for
several seconds.
"What I, uh, mean to suggest is that Q'aantre is us-
ing offworlder concerns as stages on which to act out
its own rightfully incited inner turmoil. I feel confident
about suggesting this because my own world suffered
through millennia of similar travails."
People were leaning forward, rapt.
"At one time we actually thought it was wrong for
white to intermarry with people of color. We took
slaves, we denied women their rights, we even wore
coats made of animal pelts. We thought it was perverse
that those of the same sex should create homes and
families. We distrusted our neighbors and fought wars
°ver religion, territory, and economic needs.
"Ultimately it took near self-destruction to unify our
manifold peoples, but even then we hadn't put all our
Problems to rest. When we spread out into local space,
the old order of things began to reassert itself in the
habitats. And again we went to war with one another.

92
James Lucerio
Fortunately, Earth Force prevailed and corrected the
matter.
"But this is bound to occur when a world people
finally dispenses with its cherished notions of heavenly
salvation and begins to accept responsibility for its own
destiny. When it is finally forced to make an ethical
decision about what it seeks to be, and what face it
wishes to display to other worlds."
Remy was way over into autopilot now, spewing forth
what NCorp's engrammers neurowired into him at least
once a year.
"I see Q'aantre poised at this same juncture. Extra-
planetary contact has brought unity and the worlds of
the Inner Arm have brought technological wonders.
But Q'aantre has yet to decide which way it wants to go.
Q'aantre has yet to decide whether to dispense with the
traditions that have guided it from infancy to adulthood;
it has yet to struggle with issues of religion and equality
and, yes, even sexuality and reproduction.
"So in response to your question, Ambassador Xu,
the emanations you inhale from angry crowds, the
bombs you hear exploding outside the gates of your
banks and offices are not really meant for Xell'em noses
or ears. They are for other Q'aantre to breathe and hear.
They are the signs of a world coming to grips with self-
determination. The signs of a world about to be re-
born."
The cheering startled him. The Kwandri were up on
their feet applauding wildly; the dining room filling up
with saporous scents and buttery aromas. Remy smelled
apples and peaches and amaranth and lily; he smelled
baby's breath and sugar and myrrh.
The Xell'em sat frozen in their seats, and Densign
wore a look of absolute despair. But Morli . . . Mori'
was ecstatic. Morli was inspired, astonished, and most
of all, Morli was convinced.
And Remy knew by the Kwandri's expression that he
had him.

PART TWO
— DOWNSIDE

EIGHT
Morli marched along Likat's broad
sidewalks exhaling anonymity and ignoring caution
scents at intersections, just another preoccupied citizen
in coveralls and poncho hurrying home from work after
too long a day. No one inhaling him, save for the closest
of his friends, would be able to identify him as Ser Res
Morli, Director of Liaison with the Ministry of
ExtraPlanetary Affairs, let alone sense that his belly
was depilated and that underneath the street clothes of
a laborer he was wearing Terran-made bikini briefs. Nor
would anyone perceive the secrets that were stewing in
his secretions: the names and departure dates of Xell'em
ships, the hard data on flashpoint transits and shipping
manifestos, the assessments of troop strength and com-
bat capabilities, the minutes of the latest Grand Assem-
bly meeting.
The sudden wealth of offworlder goods he received
■n exchange had certainly done wonders for his standing
among certain Consortium-leaning members of the As-
sembly, but the designer briefs, monogrammed bath
towels, celebrity makeup sponges, high-tech kitchen-
ware, and low-impact workout vids had never provided
the real impetus for his flirtation with covert intelli-
95

96
James Lucerio
gence gathering. And it disturbed him some to think
that Remy still considered their relationship one of sim-
ple give and take, when in fact there were far nobler
causes being served.
The principal thing that had drawn him to the tall,
brown-haired Terran who looked every bit a vid-star
himself was the impromptu speech he had delivered the
night of Baj's dinner extravaganza. How moved Morli
had been by the words and sounds of Remy's voice-
words that somehow seemed meant for him alone, in
answer to the torment that had raged within him since
Q'aantre's early years of postcontact visitation. Then
there had been many talks and discussions the two of
them had engaged in since, long into the night on oc-
casion, when Remy had spoken of his past and his dis-
tant homeworld.
That Remy had been born and raised on a station not
unlike the ones that orbited Q'aantre was nothing less
than inconceivable. And that he spent most of his life
in similar stations and ships . . . well, it constituted a
realm of experience that was perhaps generations re-
moved from Q'aantre reality. On his most recent visit
to Xell'em station, Morli had tried to imagine a life
lived entirely in space; but he had only succeeded in
arousing in himself a deeper sense of homesickness.
Q'aantre appeared so fragile and insignificant against
the deathly cold backdrop of the void, and he had ex-
perienced a moment of panic standing by the viewport
of the Xell'em shuttle, a strong yearning to plant his
feet firmly in the dark soil of his homeworld and remain
there, forever . . .
During those long nights of discussion, however,
Remy seemed disinclined to address the issues he raised
in response to Ambassador Xu's challenge—the
Xell'em's transparent attempts at inflaming an already
dangerous situation. It was as though Remy refused to
permit politics to intrude on their friendship. But with
some continued encouragement in that direction, he had

ILLEGAL ALIEN	97
finally urged Remy's own secret to the surface and the
Terran had told all.
Up until that point, Remy was something of an
enigma; at times an unsavory combination of contra-
dictory scents. Here was a man strong in messegg, a
man who had taken one of Q'aantre's own into his life,
and yet there hung about him a bitter odor of deceit.
Not unlike the chaffing emanation Morli was himself
issuing now, as he quickened his pace into Q'aantre's
night.
But with Remy's admission, how clear the air had
become; how rich and fragrant. Even now he could
summon scent memories of Remy's change from am-
bivalence and self-doubt to relief.
Remy revealed that it had long been his desire to be
stationed on Q'aantre. But in exchange for the transfer
DisneyCorp ultimately granted him, he had been or-
dered to function as a kind of spy as well. The reason-
ing was complex, as things that had their origin on Earth
often were.
It seemed that the Consortium—to whom Disney-
Corp in turn answered—was convinced that the Xell'em
were plotting to utilize Q'aantre as a staging area for
military operations they were conducting in star systems
at the far end of Dazyl's wormhole. Without hard evi-
dence of this, the Consortium was reluctant to confront
the Manifest or the local group League; and equally
reluctant to approach the Grand Assembly, fearing that
concern might be misconstrued as manipulation.
Even with proof of a Xell'em plot, the Consortium
pledged itself to a policy of nonintervention, which
could only be amended by direct request from the Grand
Assembly. If and when that occurred the Consortium
would lend its support in deposing the Xell'em regime;
but only with the understanding that that support would
not entitle Terra to insert itself in Xella's stead. Q'aantre
was and would always remain the sole arbiter of its
destiny.

98	James Lucerio
Remy had been instructed to gather intelligence that
would assist Earth's ruling body in mounting its case.
You can't imagine how difficult it is to be living a lie
day after day, Remy had said. You don't know what it
feels like to have to walk around like some kind of
transmitter, eyes and ears alert for signals of one sort
or another.
Morli admitted at the time that it was difficult indeed
for him to imagine himself a walking receiver attuned
to sight and sound; but he had no problem sympathizing
with what it felt like to be living a lie. He had only to
think of the sweet but forbidden activities that lay at the
center of his nocturnal being . . .
He wasn't ready to discuss that part of himself with
Remy, though he often wondered what the Terran's re-
action might be. It was Remy who said that Q'aantre
and its people were poised at a turning point—one that
could very well bring sweeping change. But what would
he make of a Q'aantre addicted to lust—there was no
other word for it—one whose life had begun to revolve
around the quest for sexual gratification? A quest that
had yet to lead in any direction but down.
He shuddered at the memory of his narrow escape
from the Club Terrana.
He had, however, offered to be Remy's nose on
Q'aantre, if not his eyes and ears. Remy plainly didn't
want him involved, but he had forced him to consider
the logic of it. Where could one find a more suitable
candidate? He had access to places Remy was denied;
why, he was even a regular guest of Xell'em station!
All this was more than a month behind him. And in
the intervening weeks he and Remy had worked out the
most intriguing method for exchanging information—
trafficking in information, Remy called it.
First they had combed the city—separately, of
course—for places where one might leave an unobtru-
sive message: chalk marks on a utility pole, or a gar-
bage drum overturned; a drawn drape, or a door or

ILLEGAL ALIEN	99
window left ajar at a prearranged time. Then they had
searched out less traveled spots where he could leave a
specific whiff in the air to indicate how things were
going, or if he was presently in possession of intelli-
gence worthy of exchange. It had taken days to famil-
iarize Remy with the emanations and scents, but he had
proved to be a surprisingly quick study.
The routine of passing scents in these isolated spots—
which Remy termed dead drops—was safeguarded from
olfactory surveillance by Special Investigations by a se-
ries of hand cues and wave-off signals. But the really
important exchanges were carried out in crowded places
where activity alone was safeguard enough.
These were the "live drops," where he would de-
posit gathered data in a secretion that had no analog in
human biophysiology. Remy hadn't explained just how
he was able to translate the encoded secretions. Morli
assumed that DisneyCorp was directly involved in the
process.
Remy had encouraged him to find agents of his own
to handle, and he had done so, both downside and on
Xell'em station, where a few Q'aantre technicians were
undergoing training. So now there were people that re-
ported to him before he reported to Remy, who then
reported to DisneyCorp, which itself answered to the
Consortium ... He pictured it as a grand pyramid of
some sort, similar to the one that adorned the Terran
mission flag and the warmcloaks of Envoy Densign and
his staffers. Though he sometimes asked himself just
who sat at the pyramid's apex . . .
Servicing the drops had necessitated changes in his
quotidian routines, which hadn't left him much time to
indulge his nocturnal interests. The covert activities had
also put an end to the evenings of discussion he and
Remy had enjoyed, although they continued to meet
every so often in the safehouse—an office, really, be-
longing to a Terran culturist named Jalak.
Morli had known Jalak on a casual basis, but was

100
James Lucerio
now—to insure the security of the meets—one of the
professor's cultural informants as well. He never knew
what examples of Terrana remuneration Remy would be
bringing to these meetings; and only rarely had he en-
tered a specific request.
Morli caught sight of Remy now as the two of them
were approaching the live drop from different direc-
tions. He was a bit behind schedule, but he didn't sup-
pose it mattered much. He rubbed his right shoulder to
indicate that he wasn't being followed and stepped up
to the food stall to order a yika. While the woman be-
hind the counter turned her attention to the keg spout
and spice shakers, he casually ran his hand along the
underside of the stool.
The emanations and "smart secretions" remained
viable for only a short period of time. Anyone inadver-
tently coming across them could process the data, but
make little sense of it. Morli employed a kind of scent-
code, which Remy had termed shortnose.
He drank the warm brew in a single swallow, laid a
few chips on the counter, and exited the stall, pretend-
ing not to notice Remy, who stood nearby seemingly
engrossed in a newscreen display.
He was especially eager to be on his way. Across the
river a new club had opened, and the talk was that the
house girls had only recently arrived from Masik, a city
known far and wide for the sheer wantonness of its
Tegganon.
His thoughts turned briefly to the data he had just
deposited, wondering whether any of it would be of use
to the Consortium's intelligence specialists.
He had yet to come across any evidence that even
hinted at a Xell'em military operation aimed at some
remote star system, but then who was he to judge.
It perplexed him somewhat that both Xella and Terra
had taken such an interest in inconsequential Q'aantre
to begin with. The comings and goings of their ships
through the wormhole were of no concern to anyone

illegal alien
101
downside, and what, besides, could Q'aantre's alle-
giance to one side or the other possibly mean to the
balance of power among the worlds of the Inner Arm?
It was a question to which even Remy couldn't supply
an answer. Probably not one worth considering.
Remy ceased his incessant pacing to work some of
the tightness out of his joints. He extended his arms
over his head; he dangled them at his sides; he crossed
them over his chest. When he hugged himself, his spine
issued a cackle of worrisome cracks. He shrugged his
shoulders and touched his fingertips to his distended
nostrils.
"Got yourself a virus," the tech said in response to
Remy's sniffle. "I'll bring along an antigen booster next
time I come down."
Remy tried to rub the irritation from his eyes as he
turned to the man at the dubber controls. "I don't think
it's a virus, but thanks just the same."
"Your call." The man shrugged.
The filthy room was about the same size as the one
behind the bar in the Club Terrana, but the similarity
ended there. Except for the shimmering holo-field and
the strident motions of the four figures captured within
it.
The warehouse dive had risen from the ashes of the
Terrana, and the tech cameraman was courtesy of
NCorp by way of Audjo Ishida. He was thirty, give or
take, intense, and muscular, which said something
about how many downside assignments he had drawn
lately. "Detlef," he said when he'd practically crushed
Remy's hand two hours before. Det.
"Humpin' in the holo," Det said now.
Remy tugged his eyes open as he regarded the cone
of light. Four Kwandri—two males and two females—
on a floormat in an even dirtier storeroom downstairs,
trying their best to emulate four onscreen Enddrese.
Trying their best to make it work.

102
James Lucerio
Det shook his head, thick wire-black hair, not a
strand out of place. "Man, I almost feel sorry for them.
Ever happen to you, Santoul?"
"What's that?"
"The fatal curl. You know, not being able to get it
up."
"Find me someone it hasn't happened to," Remy
said, disinterested.
"Happened to me during the war a coupla times. You
see much action yourself?"
"My share, if you're talking about combat."
"That, too," Det said. "Anyhow, my unit was first
to be dropped on Burst Prime, and lemme tell you,
Santoul, we had our pick of everything downside. Half
the planet cheering us as liberators, the other half scared
shitless we were on a termination run." He paused to
reflect. "So I meet probably the best-looking leg I've
ever seen, and nothing. I'm yelling 'Stand up, you
prick!' And this sorry soldier thinks I'm talking to him,
so he gets up and jumps to attention. Meanwhile, I'm
looking down at myself and cursing my luck."
Remy waited to make sure Det was finished. "The
brain's the sexual organ, Marine. Talk to yourself next
time instead of shouting at your hose."
"Yeah, well, it was enough to hook me on direct stim
for the next few months. Bypass the meat, you know."
Remy felt a shiver pass through him, a residual effect
of the intel he had absorbed at the beer stall. His insides
always seemed to itch afterward, long after his doctored
body chemistry had completed the translations.
The sound of Det's voice was getting to him, just as
Morli's exhalations and secretions were. Odors of cam-
phor and wicker, chlorophyll and wood smoke, gan-
grene and stairwells. All straightforward enough on the
surface; and yet each was attached to memories he
hadn't necessarily wished stirred. He dreamed in smells
now, instead of sights and sounds. Crazed mixtures of
odors, alchemical nightmares.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	103
Absorbents coursed through his bloodstream like ir-
radiated particles, plugging up his nose, swelling his
joints . . . Worst of all, opening doors he had locked
for good reason.
It was Jasna who kept coming to mind lately, his
lover for too little or too much time depending on who
was telling it. He didn't like to think of her on Dhone,
punishing herself. He wanted to see her again; to talk
over the memories.
And there he was thinking about her again.
He returned his attention to the holo—not because he
wanted to but because it seemed his only route back to
the present.
Det was closing the camera remote on the action,
centering a familiar face in the 3-D field. Remy felt
aversion run through him.
He hadn't expected Morli to show up at the club.
After the Kwandri had deposited his live drop of ship
tags and dests he must have made directly for the ware-
house—arriving just before Remy had.
Morli's appearance only pointed up how quickly
commo spread through Kwandri's underground net-
work. In search of recruitment potential, Remy and Det
had been instructed to commit to disk a selection of
faces from the new club's hardcore clientele, and now
it seemed Morli's face would be included among them.
Well, it never hurt to have backup evidence. The raw
data.
But he didn't want to see it come to that with Morli.
All month long he had been playing strictly by the
rules—circumspect in his approach, methodical during
the cultivation phase, diligent about nourishing the re-
lationship—and the result had been one of those classic
cases where the agent is convinced that he recruited the
handler.
The Kwandri was still running high on the game,
servicing the drops, running his own subs. Remy didn't

104
James Lucerio
foresee any problems—unless something happened to
scare Morli off.
"We've had about enough of these four," Det said.
"I've got plenty of head shots. What d'you say?"
"Go to," Remy told him, "change channels."
Det soon had another foursome in the cone, three
females and a male this time. "Does get you kinda
horny . . . Watching them, I mean. Makes me wanna
go in there and show them how it's done."
Remy showed his disapproval. "I doubt they're ready
for you, Marine."
Det nodded. "There'll come a time, though."
You grab yourself two handfuls of pelt and enjoy the
ride.
Remy supposed there probably would. And although
he wouldn't confess as much to the tech, the holos were
getting to him. But Karine Mareer was the one he kept
fantasizing about.
He'd seen her on three occasions since Baj's dinner
party: once at a mission function; then, briefly, in the
lobby of the Ministry of the Interior; and most recently
at the shuttleport. She wore Xell'em overcloaks and
jumpsuits as well as she had heels and strapless gown;
but there was a hardness to her features he hadn't no-
ticed that first night. No matter how soft he was imag-
ining her—
"Say, Rem, I don't suppose you'd, uh . . ."
Det was gazing at him, low-lidded and sexy. Remy
snorted. "I'd hate myself in the morning. And every
morning after that."
The tech looked hurt. "No call for insults, is there?"
Remy sighed. "None intended, Det. I was thinking
of someone else, is all." The frown disappeared from
the tech's face. "Look, suppose you station yourself
here for another hour or so, then transmit what you have
upside. Come on by the hotel in the morning and we'll
compose a program for tomorrow night."
Det shrugged assent and busied himself with the task

ILLEGAL ALIEN	105
of fine-tuning a singularly offensive anatomical closeup.
Remy slipped into jacket and cap, and had a hand on
the door when the tech said, "Santoul."
Remy divined what was coming.
"Two Kwandri walk into a bar ..."
He shut the door behind him before Det had com-
pleted the first line.

NINE
the Kwandri couple was thrashing
about in living 3-D atop the pedestal projector in Audjo
Ishida's on-station office. Remy sat tight-lipped on the
fluttering bench. It wasn't enough he had to endure the
recording procedure; Ishida wanted him to sit through
the playback as well.
Off to one side of the station chief's slab of alloy
desk, Phajol Dakou was staring at the holoed figures
and saying, "Yes, yes." Remy couldn't tell whether the
counsel was offering an analytical appraisal or simply
getting off on the couple's hapless sexplay.
He fidgeted on the bench as Ishida regarded him,
sharp-eyed and rock steady.
"What's your reaction to all this?" she asked finally-
"To what I'm seeing?"
"To our methods."
"If the results are positive, the method has been ex-
pedient. ''
Ishida's incongruous Western eyes were iridescent.
"And would you say our results thus far have been pos-
itive?"
"We have a network. We're receiving intelligence. In
106

ILLEGAL ALIEN	107
my small corner of the world the results appear to be
positive. Beyond that I can't say."
Ishida nodded and dabbed a forefinger against the
desk screen. Her nail lacquer matched her eyes. "Do
you have any complaints about your assignment?"
"Some minor somatic distress."
"Nothing else?"
"I'm seeing new places and meeting interesting peo-
ple."
Dakou threw him a cautionary look.
"Do you consider these recordings an infringement
of any sort?"
"Our lives should all be open to close scrutiny. Only
by exposing our innermost secrets can we hope to
evolve."
Ishida waited a moment. "Are you and your crippled
Kwandri teenager lovers?''
"Fuck you."
The station chief's tongue was in her cheek as she
leaned back into her contour chair . . .
The communique ordering Remy to report upside had
been concealed among DisneyCorp memoranda trans-
mitted to the suite sometime during his walk back from
the warehouse club.
Remy had deciphered the message after peeking in
on Els Nanff, who was sound asleep in the master bed-
room. The kid had turned the room into a veritable crib
of archaic Terrana—poster art and Wacky Wallwalkers
decorating the walls; empty dog biscuit and cereal boxes
arranged like a house of cards on the floor; stacks of
Ninja TUrtle comics and self-help books stacked bed-
side, along with an assortment of shrink-wrapped theme
erasers, a Mr. Potato Head, a black plastic divination
8-ball.
Remy woke Nanff to tell him that his wish was about
to be granted—they would be going upside together on

108
James Lucerio
the morning shuttle. The kid was awake for the rest of
the night.
Like Baj, Nanff had a penchant for wearing Terran
hardware, and in the morning was sporting wrist and
anklets of chrome-plated pipe flange. The outfit re-
ceived oohs and aahs in the hotel lobby. It was there
Remy learned about the midnight raid on the ware-
house.
Phajol Dakou had supplied the details while contam-
ination control was subjecting Nanff to a battery of
ultrasonic scans.
Detlef, the NCorp dub master, had been arrested by
SPECVES agents and was being held on charges of
conspiracy to engage in pornography. Several Kwandri
were picked up, but Morli had been spared again. That
morning, he had reported to the ministry on time, if
somewhat shaken.
Det had wiped his recordings before SPECVES con-
fiscated them; the holos running in the station chief's
office now were examples of some of Det's earlier work.
"And how is Mr. Santoul's health?" Ishida asked
Dakou when the projector had been voiced off.
The counsel cracked his knuckles. After Nanff was
entrusted to the capable hands of a station guide, Remy
had been probed, scanned, and chemically debriefed by
NCorp medtechs.
"Basically sound," Dakou said. "Liver and kidney
functions are excellent. Some predictable swelling of
the nasal mucosa and erectile tissue. Novel readings
from the forward poles of the temporal lobes—mild
panic-disorder anxiety, also predictable. An upswing in
metabolic rate. I would, however, recommend a refit of
the buccal implants and updates of the olfactory and
tactile programs."
"What about the stiffness in my shoulders?" Remy
asked.
"We're working on it," Dakou said. "Present think-

ILLEGAL ALIEN	109
ing is that the residues of these so-called 'smart secre-
tions' tend to migrate to the joints."
Remy recalled his first view of myopic, crooked Ja-
lak, and Ishida said, "And how is Professor Jalak
doing?"
Remy managed to fight down the urge for a stim-
wafer. "He's been helpful. The torpor tutorials were a
good intra, but I would've drawn a blank at the live
drops without Jalak's training. There's more to scent
recognition than Center realizes."
Ishida smiled tolerantly. "I'll be certain to pass your
assessment on to TechSci. But what about Jalak's atti-
tude?"
Remy considered it. "He's glad to be out of it. I
haven't tried to dissuade him of the belief he's out from
under our nose, er, our thumb. He's cleaned himself
up, and he's been playing his part at the safehouse. All
he ever wanted was to be left alone to conduct his stud-
ies. He probably figures he's got a good shot at that
now."
Ishida and Dakou exchanged an occult look. "He's
in for a surprise," the counsel said.
Ishida walked away from the desk with her arms
folded. "I want you to know we've been following this
Morli case with great interest." She turned to face
Remy. "I'm very pleased with the way you've been han-
dling him."
Remy sensed a qualification hanging in the recircu-
lated air.
"Have you learned the identity of Morli's subagents
on Xell'em station?"
"I haven't asked," Remy said, making sure his tone
conveyed what he thought of the question.
"You have a problem with that?"
"Of course I have a problem with it. I promised him
his sources would be protected. I don't want to push
him."

James Luceno
"I'm afraid you're going to have to," Dakou
inteijected.
"Center has ascertained that the Xell'em are defi-
nitely using Dazyl's wormhole as a conduit for arma-
ments to nonaligned worlds," the station chief
continued. "There's a problem brewing on Burst even
as we speak. This is in flagrant violation of the League
Accord, and Center wants increased intelligence on all
shipments leaving or transiting this sector. The Grand
Assembly minutes aren't telling us all we need to know
about Kwandri's position in all this. You'll have to see
about infiltrating an active listener into Xella's downside
embassy. Perhaps Morli himself."
Remy fell silent.
"Say what's on your mind," Ishida ordered.
"All right," Remy began, "I guess I'm surprised, is
all. I mean, the intel I've absorbed doesn't indicate any
buildup. I know for a fact Morli hasn't been apprised
of any arms shipments."
Ishida frowned at him. "Didn't you just sit there and
tell me you had no view of the overall scheme from
your 'corner'? Your word, Santoul."
Remy heaved his shoulders. "That's true, but—"
"Then how could you possibly know what Center has
been able to compile from sources elsewhere?"
"I don't suppose I can."
"Be damned sure you can't, Santoul," Ishida
warned. She took a moment to calm herself, then
added, "Now, NCorp wants the entire Kwandri net-
work boostered, end of program."
Remy shook his head. "I told you, I'm against press-
ing Morli right now. I can't entice him any more than
I've already been able to. Sure, he's happy with the
things we're giving him, but he's involved because he's
convinced he's doing a service for Kwandri."
"So convince him he needs to be of greater service,"
Ishida suggested. "Failing that you resort to raw data."
Remy understood what the station chief was getting

ILLEGAL ALIEN	111
at. He was relieved that Det's holos hadn't fallen into
NCorp's hands. "That's not the way to handle an agent
who's been good to you," he said after a moment.
"He's scared right now. We threaten him, he's a wipe,
believe me."
Ishida put her hands flat on the desktop. "I disagree.
This is precisely the time to pressure him. He doesn't
want anyone to learn about his dirty little secret, least
of all SPECVES. Use it for leverage."
Remy turned to watch the tugs and elevators outside
the viewport.
Dakou rubbed his chin. "How should agents be han-
dled, Remy—like Els Nanff"? Like children?"
Remy heard himself with Jalak and silently cursed
his outburst.
Ishida said, "We certainly don't want you to jeopard-
ize your relationship with Morli ..."
"But you want more information."
"There are other enticements, Santoul." When Remy
turned back to Dakou, the counsel had a transparent
lotion dispenser pinched between his fingertips.
"Enticement," Dakou said.
Remy accepted the pokerchip-size disk and flipped it
about in his palm. The dispenser lacked drug corp des-
ignations of any sort; the lotion within was as transpar-
ent as the container itself. "Don't tell me, it's a whiff
of enticement, right?''
"In fact," Ishida told him.
Dakou took back the wafer and admired it at eye
level. "It's a naturally occurring aphrodisiac."
Remy laughed. "They've got the urge, Phajol. What
they don't have is the means."
"Yes, but this particular substance will guarantee
that."
Remy looked back and forth between the counsel and
the station chief. "Look, I don't want to spoil the party
here, but a lot of enterprising smugglers have already
dipped into this well."

112
James Lucerio
"Not with this they haven't."
"And you think it'll work on Kwandri?"
"We're certain it will," Dakou said.
"Your agent won't have to wait for Tegganon to roll
around," Ishida said. "He'll be able to fornicate to his
heart's content."
Remy shook his head in an effort to erase the mental
picture that was forming. He contemplated the ap-
proach instead, thinking out loud.
"So I tell him I have a special treat for him. Some-
thing to save until Tegganon—since I'm not supposed to
know anything about his midnight activities." He
glanced up at Dakou. "But how am I supposed to know
if the stuff's working?"
"By watching him, just as you have been doing. You
and Detlef—once we secure his release."
Remy ran a hand through his hair. "Might be a prob-
lem there. It took weeks for a new club to open after
the Terrana was raided. With the warehouse closed . . .
I don't know, could be months this time."
"That's already being taken care of," Ishida said,
back in her chair now. "We're overseeing the funding
of a new club, which will be impregnable to SPECVES
penetration. It was just a matter of getting to the proper
people and equipping the place with adequate monitor-
ing devices."
"The cover owner's a man named Vegas," Dakou
added. "He's savvy and reasonably certain where the
funds originated, even though we've pursued a some-
what roundabout course. NCorp made use of him once
or twice during the war, so we're not anticipating any
negative spin." The counsel smirked. "He's wise in the
ways of the galaxy.''
Ishida took the dispenser from Dakou. "Mr. Den-
sign's staffers will be carrying two dozen of these down-
side in diplomatic pouches. Give them to Morli and
encourage him to pass some on to his subs."
"You're going to create a demand," Remy said.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	113
"Of course we are. We'll arrange for follow-up de-
liveries to arrive in Disney Corp shipments." Ishida
studied Remy's face. "It's only a temporary measure,
Santoul. Just to keep the information flowing."
Dakou was nodding. "The substance is in limited
supply, but we calculate there's enough on hand to carry
us through the remainder of the operation."
"Or at least until we see what price Kwandri's willing
to pay for it," Remy said, as though trying to clear a
rotten taste from his mouth.
He gave himself a week to come up with a plan he
could live with. He continued, meanwhile, to service
the drops, allowing Morli time to recoup from his latest
close call. That his principal wasn't depositing any-
thing, Remy took to be an indication of just how fright-
ened he was. Jalak, then, arranged for a meet at the
safehouse.
Likat was blanketed with new snow and the windows
of the room upstairs from the culturist's office were
frosted with ice. Morli was sipping tea when Remy en-
tered.
"Did you and Jalak have a good interview?" he asked
casually, doffing his jacket and hanging it up to dry.
"We talked about kinship," Morli said, averting
Remy's gaze. The tea mug was quivering in his furred
grip.
Remy positioned a chair opposite Morli's and
breathed warmth into his cupped hands. "So, tell me
what's been going on."
"You're referring to the drops."
Remy shrugged. "That, and things in general. You're
all right?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" Morli said, finally looking
UP from the cup.
"Well, I don't know. The drops have been empty, so
1 figured you were giving your subs some time off. But

114
James Lucerio
there's been a, I don't know, a kind of evasive quality
to the scents you've left."
A slow smile split Morii's face and he barked a laugh.
"Remy, you really are the most astounding Terran."
The smile faded and collapsed. "But, yes, it's true, I
have been evasive."
"And why is that, Res?"
Morli set the tea aside. "I want to put an end to this.
These routines of ours, our meetings in this place, my
interviews with Professor Jalak . . . It's as though my
personal life has been stripped from me." He shook
his head. "I know it must sound terribly selfish, but
my time means a great deal to me. I can't go into
everything now. I have been injudicious of late."
About getting caught with your pants down, Remy
thought, summoning the phrase from some musty cell-
block of his mind. He said, "Suppose we give it a week
or so and see what happens."
"A week, a month, it won't matter. I'm sorry, Remy,
but I can't be of any more help to you."
Remy showed him an annoyed look before he stood
up and paced to the center of the room. "If you want
me to return some of the gifts," Morli was saying when
Remy whirled on him.
"You want to stop. Just like that."
"It's not that I necessarily want to stop. I must, don't
you understand?"
"No, I don't. I hear you telling me you have personal
needs you've been neglecting. I hear you telling me
you've been careless about something. But you say it
isn't a matter of time, you're through."
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Well, what's going to become of me in all this?"
Morli puzzled over it. "You?"
"What am I supposed to tell my superiors?"
"Just tell them that your source of information had a
change of conscience." The Kwandri showed his di-
minutive hands. "I honestly don't see how the minutes

illegal alien
115
of the Assembly meetings or the names of a few ships
could matter—"
"It doesn't work that way, Res."
"What doesn't?"
"It doesn't." Remy turned the chair around and
straddled it. "See, I could tell them just what you've
told me, but it wouldn't matter. You think the infor-
mation you've been gathering doesn't mean much, and
maybe it doesn't, but what's important is that it means
something to them. And as long as it does, we continue
to deliver, or . . ."
"Or what, Remy?" Morli asked, distressed.
Remy cursed softly. "I'm not afraid of what they'll
do to me. Hell, what can they do—terminate me? Exile
me to some remote system?" He put a hand on Morli's
forearm, triggering at the same time a dermal exhala-
tion of deep concern tinged with fear. The Kwandri's
nostril triad twitched in response. "They know I've
been receiving information from someone well placed.
I admitted that much. I didn't give them your name, but
it wouldn't take long for them to get it."
Morli shot to his feet. "But you said I'd be pro-
tected!"
"They have ways, Res," Remy said in like distress.
"They'll try to find out things about you—things they
can use against you. And if they can't find anything,
they'll arrange for SPECVES or the Grand Assembly
to learn of your treachery."
"Treachery?!"
"Well, how else would you expect anyone to inter-
pret your actions? Sure, you and I know you've been
acting on Kwandri's behalf, but are the Xell'em sym-
pathizers in the Assembly going to read it that way?"
Remy forced a breath. "I never should have involved
you in this." He risked a look up to watch Morli exe-
cute a short nervous dance.
"/ was the one who asked to become involved," the

116	James Lucerio
Kwandri said after a moment. "And by doing so I've
endangered others as well."
"I don't know what to say, Res."
Morli sat down. "But, Remy, tell me: Would
DisneyCorp really do such a thing? You said that our
information has been of value to them. Doesn't that
suggest that they hold us in some esteem?"
Remy allowed himself to relax. "They do, Res,
there's no question."
"They've said as much?"
"More than that." Remy felt his trousers pockets.
"Now, what did I do with ... Oh, they're in my
jacket," he said, getting up. Morli tracked him from
the chair.
Remy fished a hand into the jacket's inner pocket and
retrieved a packet containing half a dozen wafers.
"They wanted you to have these—as a special gift."
He dropped the packet into Morli's hand. "Though I
don't suppose you'll be able to make much use of them
until Tegganon."
"Tegganon?" Morli sniffed at the packet. "What's
contained in these disks?"
Remy summoned a flush to his face. "Well," he
laughed, "I'm told that it's a kind of pleasure en-
hancer. ''
The Kwandri's face fell. "An aphrodisiac, you
mean."
"Of a sort. It's for, uh, assured physical arousal, you
might say."
Morli swallowed audibly. "Assured arousal?"
"So I'm told," Remy said. "I thought you could pass
it around to your subs and friends as a party favor. Who
knows, maybe it'll catch on."

TEN
Remy asked himself: Could a Xell'em
woman with distended earlobes and a reshaped chin
find true happiness with a tall Terran guy with arthritic
joints and a perpetual squint?
It was a match that could only have been made on
Kwandri.
A crowd of four hundred protesters was marching
back and forth in front of the Xell'em embassy, wafting
emanations through the rehung gates. Even from some
distance away, Remy's nose could discern scents of an-
gry discontent: a mix of sulfur dioxide, jalapeno pep-
pers, tar oil, and sizzling animal fat. The odors were
working on him the way hysteria works a mob.
Remy had positioned himself farther away than had
been his usual practice the past two weeks, but he wasn't
too far removed to observe Karine Mareer as she
stepped high-heeled from the annex and began to de-
scend the stairway that fronted the squat building. From
a spot of evergreen shade just around the corner from
the main gate, he watched her regard the crowd for a
long moment. He had an unobstructed view of Karine's
long bare legs when she swung them, knees locked,
into the back seat of the waiting limo.
117

118	James Lucerio
Remy was acutely aware of his heartbeat and respi-
ration rate. He pictured himself standing there leering
at her, hands thrust deep into coat pockets, shuffling in
place, and turned from the fence, laughing in a manner
that suggested both perplexity and self-pity. Quickly,
then, he glanced left and right, concerned that someone
might have sensed him. But those Kwandri within ear-
shot or scentshot were too preoccupied with the protest
to bother themselves with the unintelligible shenanigans
of a stubble-faced Earther, whose sobriety and sense of
decorum were obviously open to question.
No one was more puzzled by the behavior than Remy
himself. The sole certainty was that he had become
fixated on Karine Mareer—the way fans sometimes at-
tached themselves to corporate idols—although he sus-
pected the attraction arose more from an olfactory
gestalt than one of visually perceived image.
Fate had favored him with precious few breaths of
her—and even then her true scents lay submerged under
a haze of floral-based perfumes, a dizzying XeU'em
soup of rose, amaranth, and heliotrope—but on two oc-
casions a hint of Karine's natural fragrance had
emerged: in a maglift she had ridden to the fourth floor
of the hotel, and later that same afternoon in the hotel's
top-floor restaurant. Remy found himself utterly intox-
icated. And so he had taken to strolling past the em-
bassy each morning on his way into Likat center; on
his way to inhale Morii's habit-forming intel drops . . •
The most recent shipment of aphrodisiac wafers was
in the left pouch pocket of his long coat, concealed
inside a half-inch-thick disk fabricated to resemble a
flickdisk of The Towering Inferno, a late twentieth-
century masterpiece of sociopolitical allegory. Remy's
hand seized on the thin package now as he strode
hunchbacked and sniffling into a gust of winter wind.
He glanced at his watch. The riot squad was overdue
at the embassy. Likat had seen a marked increase in
demonstrations against all offworlder concerns.

illegal alien
119
Routinely, Remy would have delivered the package to
a secretary at the Ministry of ExtraPlanetary Affairs,
who then would have unwittingly passed the wafers on
to Morli; but Ishida—apparently acceding to an NCorp
directive to further stimulate the Kwandri network—had
earmarked the latest shipment for Simon Jalak.
The aphrodisiac had to be considered a success in-
asmuch as it had turned Morli and a select group of his
friends and subagents into a hedonistic, libidinous
clique.
Remy couldn't rid himself of the memory of the first
night he had seen evidence of that success: the look on
Morli's face, the near-adolescent joy on the Kwandri's
triangular face as he watched his member swell and
elongate out of season.
Guess Teg'non's arrived ahead of schedule, Det had
smirked from the recorder controls.
At least on Club Vegas's parcel of Kwandri it had,
Remy remembered thinking. Det had trained the re-
mote on the faces of Morli's equally astonished female
partners, who, to judge from the gyrating motions of
their hips, must have been experiencing a wet joy
of their own. Afterward—Det having hurried Vegas into
the surveillance room by then—the three Terran voyeurs
had obtained auditory confirmation of an oft-heard ru-
mor about Kwandri females: They really did purr dur-
ing orgasm.
By the following evening, Morli was deploying scents
at the dead drop sites to the effect that he wanted to
resume service; and three days later he was asking about
the chances of Remy's procuring perhaps a few addi-
tional wafers. No mention of the successful sexplay at
Club Vegas; simply that Morli thought the wafers would
make ideal Tegganon gifts. And since he had so many
Mends to see to . . .
Remy played it according to plan: he wasn't sure how
much his DisneyCorp superiors had on hand; he would
have to make some discreet inquiries . . .

120	James Lucerio
"Maybe if we show them upside that we can deliver
like never before," he had finally suggested.
Overnight, Morli's intel output took the quantum leap.
And suddenly Remy wasn't only absorbing the names
and destinations of Xell'em ships transiting the worm-
hole, but the names of officers and crewmembers; the
content of subspace commo regarding weather fronts
on distant worlds; lists of foodstuffs and dietary supple-
ments contained in ships' stores; requested color
changes to the bulkheads in the fleet commander's quar-
ters; updates on Xella local news, hearsay, jokes, scut-
tlebutt.
The data could only be regarded as worthless—of
even less significance than the stuff he had transmitted
upside before introduction of the motion lotion. But
Remy ceased to care; he had begun to realize there was
something different about the smart secretions-
something profound and almost indecently pleasurable.
It got to be he could scarcely wait to absorb the live
drop pickups. The rest of the day was wasted time-
save for the strolls past the Xell'em embassy for a
glimpse of Mareer.
Just three blocks from the embassy, Remy turned at
the sound of his name and saw Norak Baj hurrying to
catch up with him.
"Where have you been," the Kwandri said in piqued
tone. "I've been leaving messages at the hotel, I've
been looking for you at the mission. Envoy Densign
hasn't seen you, young Nanff doesn't know where
you've been going—"
"I've been busy," Remy cut him off.
"Yes, but busy where? We've been waiting for the
tote bags and eyeglasses you promised. To say nothing
of the Vita-mixers which have yet to arrive . . ." Baj
stopped to regard him. "Why are you standing like that,
with your head down?"
Remy tried to straighten up, but he might as well
have been carrying the weight of a world on his back.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	121
"Just a bit of stiffness." The sniffle that accompanied
the excuse only caused Baj's laser-combed forelock to
bristle.
"Are you feeling all right, Remy? Are you ill?"
"Hey, I'm great," he said. "Just great."
"Your eyes are as narrow as a Q'aantre infant's."
"I might have a virus."
"Yes, well, take care of yourself," Baj said, stroking
Remy's arm in concern. "Is there anything I can do?"
Remy assured him again that he was fine, great, and
promised to follow up on the DisneyCorp consign-
ments, which were probably stacked at customs await-
ing release authorization. He kept a smile in place until
Baj was out of sight, then hastened to make up for lost
time.
Baj hadn't been the first to notice the changes.
Els Nanff was also concerned. It had become part of
the boy's morning routine to join Remy in the Earth
Force regimen of exercises. But Remy hadn't meditated
or balanced himself in over a week. He had discontin-
ued the urine and blood tests as well. The monitor in
the suite hadn't transmitted any med data upside in four
days, but he had yet to hear word one from Ishida or
Dakou. As for the physical symptoms, Remy guessed
they would disappear once his body adjusted to Morli's
presently hormone-laden output.
"You look like my father looks during the Tegga-
no«," Els Nanff had told him.
But if Remy was changed, so then was Kwandri
through his altered senses. Likat's streets were alive in
a way he had never experienced, brimming with a
thousand data scents and redolences; complex and won-
derful in ways he had never fathomed.
Only the sight of parted drapes in a particular second-
story window in the Ministry of ExtraPlanetary Affairs
could eclipse the odors.
Morli's signal that he had deposited a live drop.

122	James Lucerio
Following his nose, Remy raced for the yika stand
around the corner.
Remy manipulated one of the aphrodisiac wafers
through a coin roll across the backs of his fingers. Jalak,
however, paid little attention to the deftness of the one-
handed trick and continued to stare at him, aghast. An
antique digital clock on the far wall of the study emitted
a slight battery-powered hum.
"Do you mean to tell me they're . . . mating outside
of estrus?" the culturist said at last.
"Just the lucky ones."
"The luck—but how?" Jalak gasped. "How have you
done this?"
Remy gave the wafer a flip across the desk; Jalak
snatched it on the first bounce. "What is it?" he asked,
examining the dispenser. "There's some kind of fluid
inside."
"An aphrodisiac. A drop on the tongue and a Kwan-
dri's wet dreams come true." Remy chortled evilly.
Jalak dropped the wafer in disgust. "For intelli-
gence?" he sneered. "I should have guessed it would
come to this."
Remy rubbed his hands together in a washing mo-
tion. "Why didn't you tell me about the clubs, Jalak?"
The professor made a fatigued sound. "Because I
knew you'd use them as a recruiting ground for agents."
He regarded Remy with contempt. "I've never visited
any of them. But I've heard the rumors."
"More than rumors, man, more than rumors."
Jalak fell silent, then said, "But aphrodisiacs aren't
new to Q'aantre?" He retrieved the wafer. "What is
this substance—something your TechSci people cooked
up?"
"I can't help you there, Professor, can't help yoU
there. But Dakou said it was in limited supply. Which
means it's either too rich for the Dazyldesk budget or
damned hard to come by. One reason the op is laSt

ILLEGAL ALIEN
123
ditch, the way I figure it. Center'll probably withhold
resupply as soon as it has the intel it wants."
Jalak scowled. "Is that supposition designed to put
me at ease? First the vids, then the Terrana. Now NCorp
is tampering with something that has been kept under
socio-biological restraint for millennia."
Remy's hands tapped out a beat on the arms of the
chair. "Relax, Jalak. I'm telling you, it's only a tem-
porary measure."
"And I'm telling you this entire culture revolves
around the Tegganon. Are you prepared to assure me
there'll be no permanent effect? What about population
control, has Center given thought to that? Or family and
clan structure? Or, or—"
"The sooner we have a clear picture of Xella's pur-
pose on Burst the better. For everyone concerned,"
Remy added firmly. "Including Kwandri."
Jalak shook his head in disbelief. "This whole thing
is preposterous. The Manifest has no reason to breach
the Accord. No one wants another war." He growled
in frustration.
"Who knows what anyone wants? You nourish, you
cajole, you listen, you transmit, you just do your part.
How can anyone blame you if it's false data? Maybe
Center's misinterpreting the reports, but can anyone
hold that against you? Even if the wrong ship gets hit,
lives are lost, planets spin out of control. It's not our
fault, is it, Jalak? We're just out here, all ears and noses
and fingertips ..."
Jalak was staring at him. "You're raving, Remy. By
the look of you, you've absorbed more than you can
handle. You're as high as an ant in a sugar bowl."
Remy ignored the remark. "Ishida wants you to bring
your own network into this, Jalak. Starting now."
Jalak's initial puzzlement gave way to flushed anger.
He sidehanded the wafer back across the desk into
Remy's lap. "I'll have no part of it."
Remy succeeded in quieting all but his bucking legs

124
James Lucerio
and feet. "Just pass a couple of wafers along to your
agents and tell them to keep their nostrils opened."
Jalak was still shaking his head. "You're asking me
to act against everything I hold sacred, Santoul. The
sanctity, the inviolability of all cultures."
"Then we're right back where we started, Profes-
sor." Remy waited until he was sure that he had Jalak's
undivided attention. "There's no menu. You follow the
program or you're off-planet on the next shuttle."
"In the end it always reduces to threats, doesn't it,
Santoul?"
Remy worked his jaw. "Look, Jalak, it's not like I'm
asking you to pollute Likat's water supply. Just two or
three agents of your chosing. Once they give it a try,
they'll come through with more data than even you can
handle."
Jalak hung his head. "You know, Remy, there used
to be a word for people like us. Pushers," he said,
looking up.
Remy made one final live drop pickup on his way
back to the hotel. Onscreen in the suite was an en-
crypted message from Ishida ordering him to report to
station the following morning.
Thoroughly buzzed from the smart secretions, Remy
felt he could easily reach escape velocity without hav-
ing to rely on the shuttle.

ELEVEN
\A/ell, " Ishida said in a breezy tone,
"you're certainly looking fit."
Remy grinned madly from the swivel armchair, his
eyes blinking nonstop.
"And tell me, are you feeling as good as you look?"
"Great," Remy said through clenched teeth. "I'm
just great."
Dakou said nothing; but he wore the same astonished
look Baj and Jalak had worn the previous day. The sta-
tion chief continued to smile; no more herself than
Remy was his.
He'd managed to steal a glimpse of himself in an
optical monitor after the station medtechs chemically
debriefed him, and the onscreen image that greeted his
narrowed eyes had shaken him clear through. He was
unshaven and stoop-shouldered; his nose was swollen,
his hair matted, his fingers curled. The weeks downside
had begun to assume the shape of some hallucinatory
experience, and something coiled at the core of Remy
Santoul's being had been profoundly disturbed.
A fourth person was present in the office: a pale
middle-aged woman who seemed vaguely familiar, and
who had either allowed or opted for the gray streaks in
125

126
James Lucerio
her long hair. She was slim in the way most station-
bound personnel were, with an attractive, somewhat
drawn face, which only accentuated the deep set of her
large brown eyes. Remy put her at close to six feet tall.
"We've decided to alter the nature of your assign-
ment for a time," the station chief said flatly, glancing
down at her screen in a distracted way.
Alarmed, Remy sniffed at her. "We're not done with
it, I hope. I mean, 'cause if it's something I did, or
maybe just that Morli isn't giving us enough, I'll find
the talent who will. I can do it, too. I'm only doing half
a dozen pickups now, but I could go to a dozen if you
want or maybe more if I—"
"Settle down," Ishida ordered.
Tight-lipped, Remy turned to the viewport, while his
feet tapped and he labored internally to dump whatever
emotions his mind was formulating. It was the first time
Ishida hadn't directed him onto the fluttering bench, but
it was possible that concealed devices were evaluating
him in some novel way. On a deeper level, he was aware
of feeling puzzled, disappointed, angry—
"Understand, this has nothing to do with your ac-
tions downside," Dakou was quick to add. "In point
of fact your handling of things has been flawless. Center
is duly impressed."
The woman no one had bothered to introduce contin-
ued to sit quietly in the corner with her legs crossed,
keying entries into a small unit she wore Velcroed to
her belt.
Remy looked at Dakou. "If Morii's data is valid, I
really think I should be allowed to continue." He snif-
fled. "I mean, hey, I know the real estate now. I've got
the scents down. I'm in touch, believe me, I'm in
touch."
Ishida looked up from the deskscreen to trade glances
with the counsel. "You know we can't confirm or deny
the validity of the data, Santoul."
Remy waited for her to go on.

ILLEGAL ALIEN
127
"Your apparent success aside, the fact remains that
Xella's hold on the Grand Assembly is as secure now
as it was six months ago. This, despite the vigor of our
campaign to influence the Kwandri on a cultural level."
"You're wrong," Remy said, "or the Dazyldesk intel
assessors are. The demonstrations have increased. Two
days ago the offices of a Xell'em shipping concern were
bombed. The underground is growing." He snorted.
"Hell, the cin-dens are packed nightly, the Club Vegas
was standing room only ..."
"Yes, yes, we're aware of all this," Ishida said. "But
you're talking about a relatively small percentage of the
populace."
Remy showed his palms. "Give it some time to gain
momentum. I mean, is someone proposing active de-
stabilization?—arms shipments, what?"
"Any such efforts would violate NCorp's present
charter."
"Then how?"
"By seeing to it that the aphrodisiac becomes widely
available," Dakou said.
Remy smiled and slapped a knee, setting the leg in
motion again. "I think that's a terrific idea, I mean it,
I do." He paused to consider a stray thought that worked
its way through the scintillating force field his mind had
erected. "The Consortium's willing to sanction this,
huh?"
Dakou inclined his head to one side. "Let's just say
that it falls within the parameters of the charter.''
Remy could feel the eyes of the tall woman appraising
him and swung to face her. "We know each other, don't
we?"
The woman nodded and extended a hand. "Csilla
Voss, Mr. Santoul. I did some time on Enddra during
the war."
"Right," Remy said, clutching Voss's slim hand. She
was a highly decorated veteran; ice cold where it
counted. So why then had she let her hair go gray? It

128
James Lucerio
bothered him. "I remember now. Good to smell you
again."
Voss blushed and Dakou cleared his throat. "Ms.
Voss will be working with us for a time."
Remy nodded vigorously. "I could show you around
downside. Wait'll you inhale Likat, it's ... oh, man,
it's just— And you'll have to meet Morli, of course.
And check out the clubs and—"
"The tour will have to wait," Ishida interrupted.
"You're being relieved here, Santoul. I'll be handling
Morli in your absence."
Remy swung to her. "You? But—I'm going some-
where?"
Dakou spoke to it. "We're having difficulty procur-
ing additional shipments of the aphrodisiac. An opera-
tive has been killed."
"An NCorp operative?" Remy asked.
"Yes. Although we're not sure why or by whom.
Someone has learned of our interest in the substance
and put several distributors out of business. The price
has been driven up. Efforts to consolidate the suppliers
seem to be under way."
"Procurement?" Remy said. "Why doesn't TechSci
just cook up a couple tons of the stuff?"
"Because it didn't originate in Center labs. This is a
naturally occurring substance. TechSci is close to syn-
thesizing the active ingredients, but we can't afford to
wait."
"We want you to set up a network for resupply and
delivery," Ishida said.
Remy scratched at the palms of his hands. "So what
is it, a plant or something?"
Dakou shook his head. "Do you know what a marat
is, Remy?"
"Sure, a kind of a cat, isn't it?"
"Yes, a kind of cat. The aphrodisiac is derived from
the scent gland of a rare species of marat, known as
Skaro's Marat."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
129
"I've heard of it," Remy said, trying to remember
where.
"In terms of the aphrodisiac, the creature is only
valuable at the moment of death. Death has a curious
effect on the cat's scent gland."
"Yeah, I've seen the effect it has on other life-forms,"
Remy inteijected. "So we capture one of these marats
and clone it. What's the problem?"
"Precisely what Center intends to do—eventually. But
recently the marat's natural habitat has become overrun
with poachers and organized marketeers. Center is dis-
inclined to mount an operation just now. As things
stand, though, the cat will be extinct in another year if
the poaching continues unchecked."
"A group of militant species-rights advocates has be-
come involved," Ishida thought to point out. "If they
succeed in arousing public concern, the issue could go
to the League courts and even a single specimen might
prove difficult to come by."
Remy gnawed at his fingers. "We need to get to the
marketeers, then."
"And arrange for sufficient shipments to finish what
we started on Kwandri," Ishida said. "It won't come
cheap any longer." She jabbed at the desktop screen.
"I've already arranged for the transfer of several pieces
of art. You'll be able to draw against their value to the
amount of eight million NuYen."
"You want the stuff that badly?"
"We do."
"But I'll be able to return to Kwandri after I set up
supply?" Remy asked anxiously.
"Of course," Ishida said, with a tight smile.
"Jalak's going to fight you every step of the way when
gets wind of this. It's not only a matter of cultural
impact; he's worried about a population explosion."
The station chief waved a hand. "Cultural impact is
to be considered desirable in this instance. There'll be

130
James Lucerio
ample time to address the societal issues once the pos-
sibility of a Xell'em-leaning regime is eliminated."
"And as far as an increase in population," Dakou
added, "TechSci has given us assurances that a contra-
gestational agent can be added to the aphrodisiac with-
out diminishing its potency."
"Jalak will be watched," Ishida said, directing her
attention to Csilla Voss. "Ms. Voss is going to be keep-
ing an eye on things while you're away."
Dakou said, "Jalak has been informed that we're
sending him a personal secretary."
"Live-in," Csilla smiled, revealing slightly crooked
teeth.
Concerns about Els Nanff suddenly surfaced in
Remy's mind as he studied Voss's gray streaks. "I've
got a favor to ask," he said. "The Kwandri kid I've
been helping. His legs are healed. I promised the father
I'd make sure the kid got back home safe and sound."
Ishida showed him a disapproving look. "I don't
know what you expect us to do. You were aware of the
risks posed by indig attachments."
"I know. But he's just a kid—"
"Think about that next time," Ishida started to say
when Csilla Voss interrupted her.
"I was just thinking that I could arrange for Professor
Jalak to oversee the youngster's rehabilitation." She
glanced back and forth between Remy and Ishida. "It
would give Jalak something to busy himself with."
The station chief gave it a moment's thought. "All
right," she said at last.
Remy rubbed his hands, eager to get on with things.
"So where do I find these Skaro's Marats?"
The counsel folded his arms. "Dhone," he said.
Jalak couldn't take his eyes off the bowl of fruit, cen-
tered as it was on the low table that apparently served
as Colonel Gong's desk. While the rest of the room was
prosaic by Xell'em standards, each piece of heavy fuf"

ILLEGAL ALIEN
131
niture, each statue and mask, was worthy of close ex-
amination. But Jalak was fascinated by the shapes and
colors of the fruit.
Two security officers in dark attire were standing si-
lently on either side of the door behind him; Gong,
seated opposite him across the table, wore white.
"I have always wanted to visit your world," Jalak
said in tradespeak.
The colonel favored him with a tolerant smile. "Per-
haps one day you shall." The music of wind and per-
cussion instruments drifted in from the embassy
ballroom downstairs. "Please help yourself to a sample
of our native fruit in the meantime." Gong's English
was thickly accented but comprehensible.
Jalak chose a spiny oval and set his bony fingers to
work on the brown rind.
"Now, what urgent business takes us from the plea-
sures of Xell'em song and dance and aged wine, Pro-
fessor Jalak? The 'sin-sational pleasures of Xella,' as I
believe you termed them in your monograph."
"Sensational," Jalak amended.
Gong contemplated the distinction. "I see. Well,
then, suppose we lay our points on the table."
Jalak refrained from playing speech instructor, and
instead directed an uncertain glance over his shoulder
at the pair of security men. Gong watched him, then
aimed a dismissive motion at his officers. The door is-
sued a pneumatic hissing sound as it opened, and music
filled the room for a moment.
"I have information," Jalak announced weakly.
"Indeed."
"Information about NCorp's designs on Q'aantre."
Jalak's mouth was bone-dry when he tried to swallow,
ln spite of the copious amounts of yika he had con-
sumed earlier on. He sucked at the pulp of the partially
Peeled fruit. "A plan to disrupt Xell'em influence."
Gong touched the inch-diameter spool that distended
"is left earlobe. "When I learned that you had ap-

132
James Lucerio
proached one of our Special Investigation advisers, I
asked myself: What game could Professor Jalak be
playing? Now you say you have information about a
plan to counter Xell'em interests."
The colonel rearranged himself into a posture of cau-
tion as he spoke—right hand raised to the ceiling, right
elbow cradled in the left hand. "Perhaps you should
begin by explaining how an academic—a 'culturist'—
comes by such knowledge."
Jalak felt hopelessly tongue-tied, but managed, "I,
I've done some clandestine intelligence gathering for
NCorp. In exchange for permission to carry on with my
work here. My work is the most important thing to me,
Colonel Gong. Can you understand that?"
"I'll let you know when we've finished." Gong
passed a hand over a sensor-studded device on the table.
"And when you say that you've done some intelligence
gathering for them, what exactly does that mean?"
"I've employed agents—here, in Likat. I've passed
along data. I've investigated underground activities."
Gong raised his hairless browridge. "You're conver-
sant with the natives' olfactory idioms?"
Jalak nodded and wiped a rivulet of fruit juice from
his chin.
"I'm amazed, Professor. And would you be willing
to identify any of these agents?"
"No, I-"
Gong motioned him silent, his eyes fixed on a mon-
itor screen above the door. Jalak heard the hiss again
and turned to see a handsome Xell'em woman enter the
room. The colonel waved her to a chair with the same
silent command he had used to dismiss the security
men.
"You were saying that you wouldn't identify the
agents, Professor."
"The data they passed was of little consequence—to
Terra or Xella. I can't—"
"Forgive me, Jalak, but of what use can you possibly

ILLEGAL ALIEN
133
be to me otherwise? I thank you for advising me of the
existence of this 'plan.' But really, Professor, what as-
surance do I have that your coming forward is not sim-
ply part of that very plan?"
Jalak squirmed, his bladder about to burst all at once.
"Because I'm willing to tell you the name of the op-
erative who's heading it up. Expose him and you can
approach the League. You can put an end to NCorp's
efforts."
"Nonsense," Gong said. "No one operative can be
so important. Center will simply send another."
"Of course they will," Jalak argued. "But it will
take months of training to outfit a second operative.
NCorp might not even be able to afford a second at-
tempt. You'll have time to prepare."
"So Center, too, has financial difficulties." Gong's
expression grew serious. "Jalak, permit me to advise
you about something now: If what you say is true, it
may be necessary to do more than expose this opera-
tive. I don't wish to be indelicate, but my superiors may
find termination the more prudent course. Do we still
understand one another?"
Jalak tried to dismiss all thoughts of Remy Santoul.
Who was Santoul after all, but a facilitator of NCorp's
insidious methods. "Exposure is the best course," he
told Gong. "Xella will be able to demonstrate that the
Consortium has violated the Accord."
"That isn't for me to decide," Gong said. "But I
want to hear you say that you won't hold yourself to
blame for this operative's death, Professor." He tugged
at a drooping lower lip. "I have to know that you won't
suffer some crisis of conscience afterward."
"Q'aantre is all that concerns me," Jalak said. "I
Hake no judgmental distinctions between cultures, Col-
onel. In the best of all possible worlds neither Xella nor
rerra would involve themselves in Q'aantre's affairs."
Gong smiled. "But this is hardly the best of all pos-
s»ble worlds."

134
James Lucerio
"It isn't. But the Manifest isn't resorting to NCorp
tactics. Xella isn't flooding this world with consumer
goods and mind-altering flickdisks. Xella isn't out to
destroy the very fabric of Q'aantre society by—" Jalak
stopped himself before he went too far. He feared that
mentioning the aphrodisiac would only give Gong ideas
of his own.
The colonel and the woman with the luxurious black
hair and reshaped chin were regarding one another.
"Where is this NCorp operative now?" Gong asked.
Jalak continued to writhe in place; the pressure on
his bladder unbearable. "Upside."
"On Terra station."
Jalak shook his head. "On the Tao. Departing for
Dhone."
Gong looked puzzled. "But that's a former Raliish
world. Why there?"
"I'm not sure," Jalak confessed.
"And his name?" the woman asked, speaking for the
first time.
"Santoul," Jalak said, facing her. "Remy Santoul."
Jalak realized that he had met her. At a Grand Assem-
bly gathering, shortly before Santoul had been sent
downside. Jalak even remembered her name now; it
was Karine Mareer.

PART THREE
— UPSIDE DOWN

TWELVE
l\emy—close to a full standard-week
in biostat—had aged two months by the time the Tao
was inserted into orbit around Dhone, a planet known
across near space as a "hot-water world."
Decades before, faced with the task of revivifying the
planet's pollutant-ravaged stratosphere and protecting
the downside populace from UV radiation, Dhone's
Enddrese rulers had rejected a Terran-designed air-
scrub program and opted instead for city smog shields.
DisneyCorp, Dow-'Bishi, Tass, and hundreds of
lesser offworld concerns had all had a hand in fashion-
lng Dhone's terminal phases. Ozone-depleted and
surface-stripped, the planet was all but used up—sucked
dry, hunted out, beyond redemption.
Emerging onto the street from one of the more flour-
•shing of Zalindi's hundreds of commercial banks,
Remy was struck first by the fetid odor of the place.
Scent-laced half dreams of Kwandri had provided back-
ground for the near week in torpor, but he had known
nothing but sterile enclosures since—the few upright
"Ours he had spent inboard the Tao, and the succession
°f vehicles he had ridden ship to port, port to Zalindi
city center.
137

138
James Lucerio
One could walk or ride from one end of the city to
the other—from its crooked spine of arid mountains
down to its brackish bay—without leaving the filtered
air and polarized light of slideways, tunnels, and pe-
destrian bridges; but Remy had chosen the amber out-
doors if only to ascertain whether his tutored nose was
still operating.
The wonders of biostat had him walking and seeing
straight once again, but he felt hungry for something
his body had yet to identify.
He stepped out of the pedestrian traffic flow to par-
take of a deep, intelligent breath, and the next thing he
knew he was slumped against an epoxy wall, Earth-
norm gravity weighing him down, head swimming with
black, amorphous shapes. What little oxygen there was
to be had rode in on an acidic hydrocarbon stench. Sul-
fur, nitrogen oxide, and flawed fullerenes. Remy's nose
staggered him with noxious combinations of plastics and
petroleum; vehicular exhaust, coolant and propellant
spray; insecticides, solvents, and rust.
He supported himself stiff-armed for a long mo-
ment—just another new arrival acclimating to Zalindi's
soot and smog, Dhone's commitment to ecocide.
Affixed to the wall was a holo-advert depiction of the
tigerlike face of a Skaro's Marat. A linear rush of
LEDetails gave the time and place for an upcoming
speech by species rightist, Woodruff Glasscock.
The second thing that struck Remy was the heat,
which seemed to radiate as much from the nebulous sky
as the ferrocrete-surfaced ground. It hardly mattered he
had arrived dressed for it, shaved and shorn, since
Dhone wasn't the sort of place one could prepare for.
Originally colonized by Enddrese spacefarers, it had
been one of the first worlds to fall to Ralii's push for
empire. The occupying armies were gone now, but tens
of thousands of Raliish refugees who had fled their
homeworld before the outbreak of the war had remained
behind.

illegal alien
139
They were a translucent, smooth-faced race of
bipeds, with teardrop torsos and spindly limbs—a sin-
ister version of the cinematic XTs Earth had always ex-
pected to encounter out beyond the solar winds.
Postwar, NCorp had secured safe passage for several
dozen Raliish military officers of dubious background,
who had agreed to serve as double agents in Xell'em
espionage networks. One of these—a former cybereu-
genics researcher named L'sser—had agreed to act as
liaison between Remy and Dhone's principal processor
and supplier of the scent-gland aphrodisiac.
But for all their numerical presence, Remy had to
walk ten blocks before he spotted his first Raliish—his
first three, to be precise. The apparent owners of a juice
bar adjacent to the lobby entrance to the towering Hotel
Ramuhl, where DisneyCorp had arranged for a suite.
The juice bar hadn't been there during the war; but
then neither had the Ramuhl, nor the ever-present hol-
oposter warnings about sexually transmitted diseases.
The city streets were barely recognizable as the ones
he and Jasna had walked four years ago. The tea stalls
and fragrance shops that once surrounded the central
square were gone, replaced by credit unions and drug
outlets. A few of the older buildings still bore the slag-
scars from plasma drops, but overall the city showed
small evidence of the hellish assault Earth Force had
waged against the entrenched armies of the mad Raliish
monarch, The Kell.
Diehard Enddrese were what one bumped into most,
hurrying along unfazed through the heat and stinking
haze. They tended to be short and stocky, but were
otherwise close to human aspect, save for a slight pur-
Pie cast to their leathery skin. The men favored brightly
colored wraparound skirts and status-designated head-
cloths; the women wore heavy metal necklaces and
shawls of the sheerest weave. A look that had followed
them from the islands of equatorial Enddra and was
well suited to Dhone's final-days climate.

140
James Lucerio
At the other extreme were the spacers and freelance
riggers who had gravitated there while Terra and Xella
were busy dividing up the spoils of the war. Many were
habitat exiles, Earthers of mostly Hispanic and Asiatic
extraction, who wore their hair long, in spiked rooster-
tails or tousled eye-concealing styles, and adopted uni-
forms of borrowed bits and pieces from a dozen
cultures: ceramic jewelry, balloon pants, web belts, and
cumbersome grav boots—invariably unclasped.
Remy touched a hand to the beads of perspiration that
had formed on his forehead and rubbed them into his
fingertips, as though some chemical message was to be
derived from their salty content. But all he experienced
was apprehension.
NCorp's power had seemed unlimited in those early
days on Dhone, its future secure, much like Remy's
own at the time. Now here he was come full circle,
Jasna here as well, anchoring him in the rough currents
of his past . . .
He bought a refreshing citrus concoction from the
trio of Raliish at the juice bar, and allowed a swarthy
Enddrese door attendant to usher him into the cool
lobby of the Hotel Ramuhl.
A Terran woman at the front desk voiced him for a
door lock and informed him that his luggage had ar-
rived and was already inroom. Several messages were
waiting, which Remy said he would access from the
suite terminal. She explained that the elevator voice-
command units were down, and inquired whether he
had any special needs for the evening—drugs, an es-
cort, hired hands. When Remy assured her that he was
fine for the time being, she saw him off with a profes-
sional, blue-lipped smile.
The suite was appointed in Enddrese fashion, with
woven wall hangings and silk flowers in each of the
three rooms. The spacious bedroom enjoyed a view of
Banah Bay.
Remy commanded the air-conditioning off and slid

illegal alien
141
open the doors to a balcony enclosed by tinted glass.
Fifty stories up, the suite was above the thickest of the
smog, and Remy could see a forest of like towers pierc-
ing the ground cover in an arc that followed the broad
sweep of the harbor. The sky over the water and distant
hills was a frightening shade of yellow.
He had the bar fix him a drink while he called up
messages on the sitting-room display. Scrolling through
the hotel's welcome notes and service menu, he finally
located what he was looking for among several pages
of NCorp screen litter concerning DisneyCorp busi-
ness.
The message read: Remy: Welcome back to hell. And
in case you are wondering, you can find her running
the Newli table at the Casino Kimeli.
Jasna, Remy thought.
The message was initialed: L.
"I might've known the aphrodisiac was something
you cooked up," Remy was telling his Raliish liaison
several hours later. "TechSci's too synth-oriented to see
what's right in front of them for the taking."
L'sser's tapered cuplike hand mimicked a human ges-
ture of dismissal. "You afford me undue credit. I was
searching for some way to aromatize the cat's scent-
gland secretions when I made the discovery." The
translator the Raliish wore like a collar rendered the
words in a whispering rasp. "But you must understand,
Remy, the scent gland was valued for its aphrodisiac
qualities long before I thought to investigate it."
"Known by who?"
"By Enddrese dreamtime biota-gatherers who travel
the cat's habitat—the Lannsmar. Hunters spoke of spon-
taneous sexual orgies whenever a group chanced upon
a recently killed marat."
L'sser's case officer, an NCorp operative named Mi-
Jung, had set up the meeting and was with them now
in the vapor room of the Ramuhl's CEO club. A lack

142
James Lucerio
of funds had forced NCorp to close its upside station,
and Mi-Jung ran the downside show. The two Terrans
were naked, seated on a tiled bench. The Raliish wore
a transpirator mask and a cloth robe that left much of
his translucent legs revealed.
Remy's Kwandrized nose had introduced him to the
natural Raliish scent a few moments earlier, and he was
thankful for the overpowering aroma of the baths'
steam-fed biovapors. He ventured that the war might
have ended differently had the Raliish odor been acces-
sible to normal human olfaction.
"They're calling the gland extract 'lube,' " Mi-Jung
offered, cupping her left breast and examining it for
some defect Remy certainly couldn't see.
"As in what, lubricant, lubricious?"
L'sser was shaking his hairless head, almond-shaped
eyes bright above the muzzle of the mask. "The word
is Raliish for 'ecstasy.' There are religious connota-
tions."
Mi-Jung laughed. "Like Santoul said, lubricious."
Remy tuned to regard her: She was sweet-smelling
and nearly as white and hairless as the Raliish, save for
a mane of brown hair that cascaded in ringlets to the
middle of her muscular back. Her hands and feet were
disproportionately long, her small breasts upturned and
somewhat walleyed, with large, erect nipples. Remy
observed that he was sweating a lot more than she was.
"Perhaps you wish to try some, Remy?" L'sser
asked, following Remy's gaze.
"You do," Mi-Jung answered for him, holding his
eyes for a moment.
L'sser's translator rasped a laugh.
Remy had known the Raliish during the war. L'sser
had just been ordered to assume command of Ralii's
torture compounds on Dhone when Remy had been as-
signed to oversee his defection. L'sser had always main-
tained that he owed Remy his life; but Remy suspected
he hadn't so much saved the Raliish from his military

ILLEGAL ALIEN
143
superiors in the compounds as he had saved L'sser from
some black side of his own nature.
"Narca has been informed to expect you this eve-
ning," L'sser said. Narca, Remy had learned, had be-
come Dhone's chief supplier of the aphrodisiac.
"Naturally, everyone is excited by the prospect of con-
tracting with DisneyCorp." L'sser's tone put quotes
around the corp name.
"Narca," Remy repeated, trying it out. "Terran?"
Mi-Jung shook her head. "Enddrese. Lube's become
just another illicit to add to Dhone's export lists. Enjoys
quite a powerbase in Zalindi. Second to prostitution
right now."
Prostitution had been an Enddrese contribution. The
purple-tinged XT's were raised to believe that children
must repay their parents for bringing them into the
world; and prostitution was viewed as a desirable form
of employment.
"This Narca's your boss, I understand," Remy said,
looking at L'sser.
"For the past three years."
"Any chance Narca had something to do with the
murder of our operative?''
Mi-Jung's face clouded over with grief. "Fiona was
killed by Glasscock's meres during a raid on a process-
ing plant."
"Species rights," Remy said, recalling the adverts
diplayed throughout Zalindi.
"One and the same."
"What's Center's interest in lube, Remy?" L'sser
asked. "Even Fiona didn't know where the shipments
were ending up."
Mi-Jung threw her agent a scolding look.
The Raliish stiffened. "I only meant—"
"You've been hearing things," Remy said. "Let's
have it."
"Just talk."
"About?"

144
James Lucerio
"An NCorp plan to aid the habitats. By using the
aphrodisiac against Earth," L'sser said. "Create a sex-
ual frenzy among the Muslim downside as prelude to
an attack."
Remy nodded noncommittally. As crazed as the ru-
mor was, it seemed a good one to perpetuate. Neither
Mi-Jung nor L'sser were privy to the op on Kwandri,
and there was some benefit to keeping everyone in the
dark.
Mi-Jung said, "I favor the Kwandri rumor, myself."
Remy maintained an expression of tolerant receptiv-
ity. "Kwandri?"
"Jobber circuit says there's work available in Dazyl
all of a sudden. Architecting a second Terran station or
something. Four crews left Dhone for Kwandri just last
week."
"So it's construction," Remy said, downplaying.
"Where's lube fit into it?"
L'sser raised a foot to scratch at his featureless groin.
"Some say the League has considered relaxing restric-
tions on use of the wormhole. With Burst and Daleth
accessible, there'll be an import rush. Lube could prove
a major earner, unless direct stim vogues."
Remy said nothing, hoping they would read his si-
lence as disinterest. The case officer crossed her legs,
sluicing moisture from one thigh. "I still don't see why
they wormed you in, Santoul," she said, without look-
ing at him. "I could've run Fiona's follow-up. I've had
dealings with Narca."
Remy shrugged. "I spent years here."
"Maybe," Mi-Jung said. "But the Dhone you knew
doesn't exist anymore."
"Except that Remy's old enemies are still about,"
L'sser thought to point out.
The steam room grew quiet for a moment.
"The Ambii'th was a long time ago," Mi-Jung said.
L'sser voiced a rasping sound peculiar to his species.
"Not for some," he said, watching Remy.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	145
Welcome back to hell, Remy recalled from L'sser's
short message.
L'sser entwined his arms in a demonstration of re-
gret. "Perhaps they wouldn't even recognize Remy. He
seems to have weathered the war so much better than
most . . ."
Remy heard the inference and swung around, hair
whiplashing moisture in L'sser's direction. The Raliish
returned the look.
"Yes, I told Jasna you had arrived, Remy. Not to do
so would have been unjust." L'sser rasped again. "You
could visit with her before you meet Narca."
"No reason for me to go all the way out to the Ki-
meli," Remy said quietly, looking for some way out.
"But there is," L'sser told him. "Narca owns the
casino—and Jasna."
"Still the movie star," Jasna said, pushing a stack of
casino chips across the likefelt tablecloth. "Figured
you'd've had yourself altered by now, Remy. Especially
coming back here."
Remy positioned five chips in the rectangle in front
of him. "It's the one I was born with, Jasna. What do
you want from me?"
The game they were playing—Newli—was a variation
on an old Earth card game called blackjack. But in
Newli one not only bet against the house but played the
odds against computer forecasts as well. The minimum
had just been raised to five hundred NuYen and Remy
and Jasna had the kidney-shaped table to themselves for
the moment.
Minutes before, she had watched him approach
through the curved-top doors leading from hovercraft
debark, expecting him, arms folded across high breasts
while the autoshuffler fed plasticized cards into the shoe.
Her green eyes cruel at first, weary when Remy sat
down.

146
James Lucerio
"What do I want from you . . . That's crystal, Remy,
truly." She slid two cards toward him, face up.
"There has to be a motive for looking you up?"
"If the helmet fits, Remy." She turned her own cards
over and swept his chips into the sorter. Remy posi-
tioned five more in the rectangle.
"You like to go around pretending you're a saint,
Remy. You always did." Remy asked for a card and
entered a bet with the computer. "What do they have
you pretending to be this time?"
He won the hand against the computer, but lost to
the bank. "Too bad you're no longer a member of the
club, Jasna. Maybe I could tell you."
It was just before midnight, fifteen minutes remain-
ing before the appointment with Narca. Earlier, he'd
spent almost an hour at the suite's scopescreen watching
the Casino Kimeli come to life on its island in Banah
Bay. Water taxis hovering in from hotels on the point,
where the fog didn't roll in until midmorning.
A dozen times he had been half out the door when
something pulled him back inside the suite; some bit of
business he hadn't attended to, some message he'd for-
gotten to send. But he'd only fooled himself that first
time out; then it had become a kind of game and the
hours passed, allowing him just enough time to say hello
to Jasna before the meet. After all the years, maybe it
was the best way to play it, he kept telling himself on
the hover ride out, the spray in his face, a constellation
of dried salt on the tux jacket now.
Jasna wore green to highlight her eyes, a sleeveless
dress of some clinging fabric. She was bone-thin and
her blond hair was clipped short. Most of the other
dealers and croupiers were Raliish, whose long arms
lent a certain panache to the deal.
The gameroom was filled with Enddrese high rollers,
their mates and lovers, there to be seen; and pale Terran
roustabouts with hired hands, on downside leave and
prepared to dump a month's pay on a night's entertain-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
147
ment. Gamblers were drawn to the place for the novelty
of hands-on play and games thought archaic in corps-
operated casinos. In keeping with the low-tech atmo-
sphere, the waitresses were flesh-and-blood kids in
skimpy outfits, working the floor for tips and whatever
else might happen along.
"So you didn't come all the way across the stars to
see me, then?" Jasna was saying, relieving Remy of
another small stack of chips.
"I wasn't even sure you were onworld till yesterday.
But, yeah, maybe I would have if I'd known."
"So who are you here to see, Remy?"
"Your boss."
Jasna laughed sardonically as she slid two cards from
the shoe. "Talk about matches made in paradise . . .
Eleven," she announced for the benefit of the pit boss.
Remy matched his opening bet with a second stack
of chips and tapped a forefinger against the table.
"Double down," he told her. The computer displayed
a pessimistic appraisal of his chances.
Looking at her, inhaling her, made him think of Kar-
ine Mareer, who he thought he had left behind in bio-
stat with the rest of Kwandri memories. Jasna's face had
the same planes and angles, only she had come by the
chin naturally and the perforations in her ears, though
many, probably wouldn't accept more than thin rings.
L'sser had said she was strung out on zap, a potent
narcotic that eroded memory. Everything Remy sensed
about her seemed to confirm the fact. The gold flecks
in her eyes weren't as bright as they used to be. Her
scent was a mix of rotting lace and parched earth.
Remy was glad they hadn't shaken hands, for what
he might have read from her palm. He could still hear
the whisper of L'sser's translator device: Narca owned
her.
Jasna had played a part in the op that brought L'sser
out during the war, and a larger part in the Ambii 'th
Incident later on—a misfortune that bound the three of

148
James Lucerio
them together in a tragic web. Remy's was the name
most closely associated with the incident, but it was
Jasna who seemed to have suffered most . . .
He drew a three and Jasna turned over twin picture
cards.
"House wins," she said. "Peripheral losses have
been charged to your account."
Remy sighed and thumb-tossed his single remaining
chip. "Looks like you took just about everything I had,
Jaz."
Her lifeless eyes locked on his. "The difference be-
tween you and me, Remy. I know when to quit."

THIRTEEN
I V o one had bothered to mention that
Narca was a woman. She was a few years shy of
Enddrese middle-age, long-haired and aubergine-
colored. And everything about her was full: lips,
breasts, thighs. Though almost twice her height, Remy
ventured he was half her weight. The jocularity was
false, obviously meant to put Remy at ease. He inhaled
the pungent scents of the sharp marketeer beneath Nar-
ca's open displays. Whiffs of curry, cayenne, and saf-
fron stung his nose; a trader's spice rack.
They were in the casino owner's upstairs office, a
hexagon of on-off glass overlooking the Kimeli's high-
roller room. A few of Narca's Terran and Enddrese lieu-
tenants were pacing the room's one-way floor; others
sat quietly at flatscreens and holo units, monitoring ta-
bleside transactions.
The office was a museum of mismatched knockoff
Terrana: wall-mounted Ginsu knives and golf putters;
Gut Busters and hockey sticks; Easy-Squeeze nutcrack-
ers and diamond-studded sharpeners; garbage bag seal-
ers, Power Press orange juice makers, and liposuction
vacuum tubes. Narca had a thing for what she took to
he weapons and torture devices, Remy decided.
149

150
James Lucerio
"Narca just observing Remy at table," she was say-
ing in the local pidgin. "Remy favoring the woman—
for this evening maybe?''
Remy shook his head. "Remy knows the woman."
"Ah, Remy knows her. She's honest this one, not
like some who treasure the zap. She spots a Xell'em
cybercon for Narca only last week. A walking inter-
face, that one. Can dazzle a system from across a
room."
"One has to be careful," Remy said, eager to move
the conversation along.
"The reason the Kimeli is hand-ons, Ter. Narca los-
ing her trust in hardware." She gestured broadly with
a plump, short-fingered hand. A Terran kid with a raised
scar from ear to ear brought drinks for the two of them.
"Narca knows you from somewhere."
"Remy gets this all the time," he started to say, but
the casino owner was already forging on.
' 'Wagering you were here during the war.''
He considered denying it, but denial hadn't been pay-
ing off lately. "Short time."
"Remy Santoul at the restaurant by the hoverdocks—
the one with live meat."
"Remy knows it."
"Remy remember woman standing day-day outside
selling oils and amulets?"
Remy rubbed his jaw. "I think—"
"That's Narca!" she said with her huge arms wide.
"You buying an amulet from Narca."
He touched the wrist on which he used to wear the
thing: a bracelet of terror bird talons. "Long gone
now.''
"No dazzle." She beamed at him. "Narca supply
another. You have to be casino guest, Remy Santoul.
Kimeli finest room—twin Terran toilets."
Remy bowed slightly. "Thanks, same-same, but I'm
happy with the view I have."
She made a disapproving sound. "Remuhl for tour-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
151
ists. Hotels overcharge." When Remy didn't reply, she
attended to her drink. "L'sser tells Narca Terran corp
exec interested in lube."
He sniffed a turn in her thinking; the Enddrese was
guarded now.
Narca studied him. "This personal needs, yes?"
"I'm in position to negotiate substantial purchase be-
half DisneyCorp."
Narca raised painted eyebrows. "Narca want to hear
this from you, Remy Santoul. To make sure L'sser isn't
mistaken. But DisneyCorp . . . Concerns arise."
Remy signaled his willingness to talk.
"What would Earthers want with the lube?"
"Corp exec perks."
"To replace direct stim?"
"As an adjunct—choice-choice."
She took a moment to digest this. "Thinking we have
important product here. New desire for natural stimu-
lants, narcotics, aphrodisiacs." She motioned to the
closest monitor. "New money enjoy old games,
DisneyCorp thinks execs could like-like lube . . . Even
Narca fails anticipate demand. Not now." Her inlaid
teeth reflected the office light.
Remy said, "Now Narca control Zalindi lube-flow."
"But she wants move slowly. L'sser fail synthesize
lube. But who to say what DisneyCorp smart-smart
techs can accomplish. Are we online, Santoul?"
The joviality had disappeared—along with the gutter-
speak pidgin. Remy set his empty glass aside.
"DisneyCorp has no interest in synthesizing it. We
simply wish to secure a supply."
Narca laughed. "Yes, of course you do. To stockpile.
Narca earns meager NuYen transfer, while DisneyCorp
makes big business in back-to-basics trade."
"Charge whatever you want for transport," Remy
Said, sweetening the pot.
Black eyes appraised him. "You won't be moving it
Yourself?"

152
James Lucerio
"DisneyCorp can't afford to involve itself in an en-
vironmental scandal."
She nodded. "Narca is beginning to see more clearly.
But how great is DisneyCorp's need?"
Dakou had run the calculations. "Say, four hundred
liters—to start."
Narca's mouth dropped open, revealing a thick,
coated tongue. "Four hundred? Not that much in all
Zalindi. Even if, Narca has other customers to satisfy."
The same ones NCorp was buying from, Remy as-
sumed. "Just how much is available?"
Narca wriggled her massive shoulders. "Perhaps one
hundred. Possibly one seventy-five."
Remy shook his head. "You'll have to do better than
that."
"Maybe Santoul doesn't appreciate difficulties in-
volved. The cats grow scarce-scarce each day. Narca's
teams have to use local dream time trackers, charge
heavy for services. District supervisors, police units to
appease. Good hunt bring fifty, sixty scent glands.
L'sser can extract ten liters, no more, of the pure."
"Which converts to one hundred liters of lube."
Narca frowned. "We no hit ten-to-one, Santoul.
Narca supply finest lube on Dhone. Seven-to-one, never
more."
"At what price?"
Her eyes narrowed somewhat. "Fifty thousand each
liter."
Remy feigned shock.
"Difficulties," Narca said quickly. "Santoul knows
about Woodruff Glasscock?"
"Species rights," Remy said.
"Some years ago Glasscock makes a field study
the marat. He thinks he is Damir Skaro reborn—the one
who named them. When he learns the cats are being
hunted he returns to Dhone. And when he learns his
own people are receiving monies to look away, he ap"
peals to friends in the League and hires mercenaries to

illegal alien
153
safeguard the cats' territories." She shook her head in
anger. "Last month Narca loses three of her best hunt-
ers to hired weapons."
"What about cloning a reserve?" Remy asked.
"Impossible. Dhone lacks technology."
"Something could be arranged," Remy mused. "But
not immediately. How difficult would it be to bring in
a live cat?"
"Very difficult. Many police, many checkpoints."
Remy mulled over the idea of countering Glasscock's
meres with a small contingent of NCorp freelancers.
"Glasscock here in Zalindi," Narca continued in an
agitated voice. "Talking, bribing everyone to gain po-
litical support. This happens," the Enddrese snapped
her fingers, "the market close. Narca would kill the
man if she could, but he is well protected." She
clenched her fists. "Narca fighting for her survival. All
marketeers in danger of extinction."
Survival of the fittest, Remy thought. "Can I get out
to the cats?"
"You can. Narca can see to it. But Santoul plays his
own odds."
"Understood."
They discussed a plan over second and third drinks.
Narca had a hunt scheduled for the end of the week.
"Santoul certain he doesn't want dealer at Newli ta-
ble?" she asked as Remy was leaving. "Choice soft-
ware." She showed him a phial of clear liquid. "Narca
give you free taste of both—woman and lube."
"Some other time," he told her.
Back at the Hotel Remuhl, the elevator voice-
command units were still down. Remy keyed his floor
jnto the touchpad and rode what must have been the
°cal all the way up to fifty.
He voiced himself into the suite and checked for signs
°f forced entry into the rooms or the computer termi-
nai- Nothing had been disturbed.

154
James Lucerio
Narca contacted him the following morning to sug-
gest that he pay a visit to the processing lab. Some
Enddrese poachers had arrived in town with a cache of
freshkill scent glands, and L'sser would be available to
lead Remy through the entire extraction and refinement
process. Remy agreed, and a midday rendezvous was
arranged. Narca said she hoped he wouldn't take of-
fense at the precautions, but she insisted that the lab's
location remain a closely guarded secret.
Remy recalled that NCorp's former operative on
Dhone had been killed in a Glasscock-directed raid
against a lube lab. He retrieved a stunner from his at-
tache, and placed the weapon with his data and credit
cards.
He had breakfast sent up and nibbled at dark bread
and fruit while heavy drops of rain spattered against the
tinted sheets of thick glass that enclosed the balcony.
He thought about calling Jasna at the Kimeli's staff
condo, but never got around to it.
Woodruff Glasscock was addressing a local chapter
of the Free Species Organization later that morning in
the Remuhl's ninth-floor conference hall, and Remy had
just enough time left to finish the meal and ultrasonic
the previous night's casino smoke from his hair.
With him in the elevator he rode downstairs were
three Terran women sporting holo-buttons that read:
preserve diversity: save the marat. They engaged
him in conversation, asking whether he was familiar
with the cats' plight. When he admitted as much, the
talk turned to other species-rights matters, and by the
time the four of them stepped out on nine, Remy had
learned that the trio were from DuPont habitat, on a
fact-finding tour organized by Free Species. The tallest
among them, Chanel, had a son who worked for
DisneyCorp and wondered if Remy might know him-
He said he didn't, explaining that the 'Corp kept him
on the move quite a bit. This seemed to arouse the
woman's interest even more.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	155
"Perhaps we could have dinner this evening," Cha-
nel said as they were entering the conference hall. "If
you don't have plans, that is."
Remy said that he was free. There was something
about her he liked; a scent, he decided, lusty and self-
assertive, even under the gardenia she had splashed on
sometime earlier.
"Oh, by the way," she added, while her two friends
were heading for reserved seats up front, "it is Warren
Beatty, isn't it?"
"Several times removed," he told her.
"That's okay," she said, showing him a lascivious
smile. "I've never had one of you before."
Remy lingered by the door watching the room fill up.
The audience was largely Terran and Enddrese, with a
scattering of Xell'em and other offworlders. It was a
different crowd than the one that patronized Narca's is-
land casino; not one to line up for lube. Although Remy
had to wonder about the Terran woman. There was still
that free taste of the aphrodisiac—the lube job—Narca
had offered . . .
Woodruff Glasscock entered ten minutes late, and had
the flustered look of a man who was rarely on time.
The beard and the glasses reminded Remy of Jalak.
Glasscock was taller, though, deeply tanned, and a good
deal heavier, almost the picture of a sportsman himself,
were it not for the haphazard style and edgy manner.
Perhaps unaware that he had already been fitted with
an audio pickup, the species-rights advocate began yell-
ing orders to the Enddress sound engineers.
"You mean I'm on?" Glasscock said at last, his
words booming from the room's PA banks. "Well, why
didn't someone tell me?" When he swung around to
face front, it was as though he had just discovered the
andience.
It was clear from the whispered comments and
amused chuckling that everyone found the nuttiness

156
James Lucerio
endearing. What wasn't clear was whether these same
species rightists felt the same toward the rifle-armed
guards Glasscock had stationed at either end of the
stage.
"You know, I'm the first one to accept that planetary
life conspires to evolve an advanced life-form and move
that life-form offworld," the man plunged right in. "I'll
grant, on Earth for example, that humankind paid its
dues during its long climb out of the swamp, that it
suffered disease and geological upheaval and in some
sense earned the right to utilize the lower forms for food
and clothing.
"But Dhone knew no self-conscious anthropoid forms
until the Enddrese arrived. Life was still evolving on
this world when the wanton destruction began. Hun-
dreds of species have already been lost. But we're in
time to prevent the extermination of those that remain.
First, however, we must punish and exile the ones re-
sponsible for hunting these forms to near extinction.
These few—these devolved and debased few who rep-
resent Dhone's true lower forms—"
Remy left before Narca's name came up.
"They're planning to vaporize portions of the road
south," L'sser was telling Remy later on. "Terminate
on detection anyone found in Rambela or the Lannsmar
without authorization."
Remy nodded. "Glasscock was militant from the go-
to. There's little enough left of Dhone. Everyone has to
fight to preserve what remains—especially those life-
forms found here and nowhere else."
The translator made L'sser's laugh sound like a death
rattle. "Life-forms? Did he really say that?"
Remy touched the Mickey Mouse tie clasp he wore
on the pocket of his jacket. " 'On all that's sacred,' as
the 'Corp teaches its execs to say."
The lab occupied the partitioned-off rear area of a
single-story building Remy assumed was a plastics fac-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
157
tory—at least his nose believed as much. Two of Nar-
ca's Terran underlings had delivered him to the place in
the windowless back of a utility hover.
He supposed that someone with Zalindi's puzzle of
streets, waterways, and tunnels committed to memory
would have been able to decipher the route, but Remy
had no such overall command of the layout. He wasn't
even sure he could come within a square mile of pin-
pointing the factory on a map—the city had changed so
since the war—but forced to guess he would have placed
it in one of the dry canyons east of the shuttleport.
"The Earther is a fool," L'sser said. "The marat's
time has come whether the species is hunted to extinc-
tion or left to die out on its own. Dhone itself is fin-
ished. What would Glasscock do, transport the cats to
a new world?"
"He would if he could get the funding."
"This indiscriminate affection for creatures who have
long outlived their usefulness ... I have always found
it curious. But then you water-world races seem to share
a penchant for empathy. You view yourselves as ser-
vants to some larger evolutionary plan rather than the
very architects of that plan."
"We used to," Remy said.
"Used to? Then how do you explain someone like
Woodruff Glasscock?"
Remy shrugged. "Not sure I can. There's a retropro-
gram at work. For a while we were all sick of our home-
world, now a lot of us seem to be homeworld sick—for
the beliefs and fashions of those early days, anyway. I
don't know what it means."
L'sser's elastic arms were doing strange things. "Lit-
tle wonder The Kell lost his war to Earth and Xella.
There is no understanding you."
The Raliish scientist had directed Remy over to a
dewarlike liquid nitro container about the size of an
'ssue EVA helmet—an ice-olation chamber, L'sser
called it. The scent gland had already been removed

158
James Lucerio
and was lying in an off-pink mound on a one-foot-square
piece of plotting glass. It resembled an outsize human
pancreas.
"Not the best specimen," L'sser commented, prod-
ding the thing with a curved finger, "but viable, at least.
Typical of what the poachers bring in. Old cats, easy to
hunt."
Only the Raliish were maskless and gloveless, Remy
had observed; everyone else was outfitted as he was, in
respirator and arm sheaths. The Enddrese on the other
side of the room were using waldos to handle the potent
extract.
"What happens if I finger that thing?" Remy said.
L'sser's reaction approximated a snort. "Arousal.
Concupiscence in the extreme. No self-respecting 'life-
form' or piece of furniture in the immediate area would
be safe for at least six hours."
"It doesn't affect you at all?"
"Not in any way you would understand. I could jug-
gle half a dozen of them and no one would have cause
for concern."
"But you discovered it, you told me."
"I discovered the extract's effects. My hands trans-
ferred it to some glassware which was quite innocently
passed around . . . The next thing I knew, half the techs
in the lab were copulating with one another. You've
never seen such an integrated group. Those without
partners were turning to less yielding apertures and far
more solid protuberances."
Remy allowed it ten seconds of play in his mind's
eye. Bad enough that the filtration mask wasn't pro-
tecting his doctored nose the way it should have, with-
out feeding himself reinforcing mental images of
groping hands and entangled bodies. His prick had been
rock hard for twenty minutes now, and he could well
imagine the sex-crazed scene L'sser and his Raliish as-
sistants had witnessed.
"What is it, Remy?"

illegal alien
159
Remy wiggled a bit, adjusting himself for comfort.
"Just an itch," he said.
He was still aching by the time Narca's men dropped
him back at the Hotel Remuhl. The boner that wouldn't
go away, he told himself, finger-tipping fifty into the
elevator touchpad and thinking wild thoughts about Free
Species militant Chanel in room 5213.
He planned to call her first thing, but had no sooner
voiced himself through the door to the suite when the
pain took hold.
His gut torqued and launched a searing jolt directly
at his heart. Air burst from his lungs and wouldn't re-
turn. His vision tunneled, then gave way to absolute
blackness. He made it halfway to the commo unit be-
fore collapsing to the floor.

FOURTEEN
Remv always felt that L'sser's defec-
tion had gone too smoothly. It wasn't that he believed
the Raliish had set them up or were feeding them a
double, nothing like that; just that things almost never
went by the numbers and the damned op had: one, two,
three, and L'sser was out.
He had approached an Enddrese agent early on in the
war and made it known that he was willing to do any-
thing for a shot at freedom—freedom from his own peo-
ple, who under The Kelt's fanatical leadership had
become a race of equally fanatical warriors. The
Enddrese ran him for more than two standard-years,
dealing the data L'sser furnished to operatives in the
Consortium's fledgling intel agency, NCorp, then turned
him over to Center's care when their own homeworld
was conquered and occupied. L'sser, meanwhile, had
been relocated to Dhone and put in charge of Ralii's
cybereugenics program. Just what The Kell had in mind
for Dhone's Enddrese populace was never fully under-
stood, but the program itself was given utmost priority
and L'sser treated accordingly.
By that time Remy and Jasna were already in place
on Dhone, interfacing with what remained of Enddra s
160

ILLEGAL ALIEN
168
spy network. Earth Force had yet to enter the war, but
it would have L'sser to thank for many of its early suc-
cesses. And it fell to Remy and Jasna to get him out.
The two intel officers were still basking in the after-
glow of the successful defection op when they married
in secret; but NCorp wasn't quite finished with the trio
that operation had birthed. Earth Force needed confir-
mation about a shipment of plasma weapons rumored
to be leaving Ralii for the Daleth system. At great per-
sonal risk L'sser finagled that confirmation from the son
of a Raliish starfieet admiral, and Remy and Jasna had
passed the intel on to Center without bothering to seek
corroboration from secondary sources. They were so
much in love . . .
Earth Force was waiting when the ship—the Am-
bii 'th—emerged in Daleth and annihilated it before it
had cleared the wormhole's nimbus.
Only the ship wasn't transporting weapons. It was
carrying close to one hundred thousand Raliish and
Enddrese women and children who had been packed
into the holds like so much stuffing.
The Kell was eager to issue a full disclosure once the
events surrounding the so-called Ambii 'th Incident be-
came known. Some were foolish enough to believe even
at that late date that some mistake had been made; but
L'sser had divined the truth and Remy was at least half-
way there. Because defection ops never ran smoothly;
it just didn't happen.
The Raliish admiral's son had been acting according
to plan: the one hundred thousand innocent deaths were
L'sser's punishment for leaving the program. And a
clear message to those who had helped him. The Kell
thought that way . . .
Remy seemed to inhale the nightmare recollection
from Dhone's smog while he lay near death in the hotel
suite. When his eyes opened, it was L'sser's near fea-
tureless face and marblelike eyes that greeted him.

162
James Lucerio
"You've returned," the voice box whispered. "Any
near-death experiences you wish to report—corridors of
light, familial presences, heavenly choirs?"
"We once thought you people were angels," Remy
managed, "long time ago."
An alloy medical kit was open on a nightstand beside
the bed, along with bioassay and diagnostic units, an
injector and several smart cartridges. Remy eased him-
self up against the padded headboard and tried to focus
on the entertainment monitor's digital time display.
Someone had undressed him and fitted the bed with
med-sensor sheets and blanket. Jasna was pacing in
front of the balcony sliders, her head lowered. Night
had come to Zalindi.
"I can't read it. How long have I—"
"Not more than thirty standard-hours. Six hours ago
you were lucid enough to inform us that you'd made
some terrible mistake; then you screamed and lost con-
sciousness."
Remy shook his head. "I can't remember . . . What's
she doing here?" he asked quietly.
"I didn't know who else to contact. Our mutual friend
is away on business." L'sser turned to Jasna. She caught
the look and hurried from the room without glancing at
Remy. "She's been here the entire time. It hasn't been
easy for her."
Remy took a shuddering breath. "Yeah, but what the
hell are you doing here? What happened to me?"
"What indeed happened to you." The Raliish looked
around uncomfortably.
"The attache," Remy said, pointing to the room's
walk-in closet. "Raise the top and enter six-four-four
on the touchpad." L'sser followed Remy's direction and
returned to the foot of the bed.
"We can talk now?"
"Go ahead."
"An informant told me that plans had been made to
dispose of a Terran exec. A new arrival."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
163
' 'Who made the plans?'' Remy asked, reaching for a
glass of water.
"This we don't know. As I told you, Mi-Jung wasn't
available, so I tried to contact you here and got no re-
sponse. When this continued I asked Jasna to intercede.
She enticed someone at the front desk to manual the
door. I waited until the attendant left and Jasna and I
found you on the floor."
"No one saw the two of you together?"
L'sser's somewhat triangular-shaped head shook.
"You were as white as the walls of this room. I sent
Jasna for my instruments and here we've been, just the
three of us, like old times."
Remy's fingers located tender places along both sides
of his rib cage and abdomen. His throat was parched
and his joints ached. "So what'd I have, a cardiac?"
"No. My guess is that you were poisoned."
"Your guess."
"Yes. A novel substance." L'sser gestured to his in-
struments. "Something we've never seen."
Remy's first thought was the lube his supersensitized
nose had inhaled in the lab. He told L'sser as much,
but made no mention of the implants or his olfactory
training.
"Most unlikely," the Raliish said. "There have been
instances of overdose, but the damage done is neuro-
chemical and easily corrected. Even in the case of an
allergic reaction, the effect wouldn't approximate that
of a toxin. No, Remy, you were poisoned. Sometime
during the past thirty-six hours. By whom and by what
remain to be seen."
Remy tried to assemble the details of the six hours
leading up to his collapse. Breakfast in the suite, the
Earthers in the elevator, Glasscock's speech to Free
Species . . . "This informant of yours," he said after
a moment.
"A Raliish working with the Enddrese. I've asked
him to continue his efforts."

164
James Lucerio
"Someone from the old network," Remy mused
aloud. "Someone who hasn't forgotten the war."
"Or the Ambii'th," L'sser said. His arms entwined
as Remy threw him a hard look. "A speculation, noth-
ing more."
They tossed it back and forth until Jasna returned
with a meal she had conjured from the suite's sampler.
"You two have things to discuss," L'sser whispered,
and left the room.
Jasna cleared a space on the nightstand and set the
food down. "You shit," she told Remy at the same
time, "I figured you'd come here just to die on me."
"The prospect of dying on you isn't as bad as it
sounds," Remy said. "From my vantage."
"Asshole," she muttered.
Remy slid over to allow her room at the edge of the
bed and she eventually sat down. "It's all right for me
to stand by and watch you kill yourself, is that it?"
She snorted. "I'm not killing myself, Remy."
"No, you're letting the zap do it for you."
Jasna aimed an angry glance at the sitting room.
"What's he been telling you?"
"Nothing that isn't obvious, Jaz. Why'd you come
back here? I heard you'd gone home."
"Earth and I don't get along anymore," she said,
quieter now. "I finally realized I couldn't get away from
Dhone, so I decided returning'd be easier than running
away."
Remy expected her to withdraw her hand when he
reached for it, but she didn't. "Nothing wrong with
working it out. By why the zap?"
"Because it's therapeutic, Remy. I can forget."
"And Narca? The casino?"
She glowered at him. "Solid citizens don't keep com-
pany with people like her, huh, Remy? Then what the
fuck are you here for?" Remy's silence seemed to dis-
perse the force of her words. "Look, I didn't know

illegal alien
165
what I was looking for when I got here. I found L'sser,
he was working with Narca. Things assembled them-
selves. He's been a friend. So has Narca."
"A friend," Remy said. "She offered me you."
Jasna laughed at him. "You're losing it, Remy. She
knows about us. Narca was scanning you."
It sounded right, and Remy smiled briefly. "You
shouldn't have left Dhone in the first place, Jaz."
Her face straightened. "What was I supposed to do?
I couldn't look at you without thinking about the ones
we sent to their deaths."
"It was a long time ago. There was a war."
She shook her head. "It was yesterday, Remy. It's
always going to be. I begged you to resign, and you
wouldn't."
"You wanted to blame NCorp," he told her. "You
still do. But it was our goddamned fault, that's what
you've got to confront."
Her look was pitying. "I live with that, every minute
of every day. But at least I'm out of the game, Remy.
I'm not looking for another oversight to happen."
"And you figure I am."
"Unless you can set me straight. Unless you tell me
Center's seen the error of its former ways."
Remy fell silent again. Regardless of his altered
senses, he had begun to think of Kwandri as a dream,
a shadowy unreality on the far side of the Arm. And he
had come to think of Narca and the scent-gland aph-
rodisiac as some new op, disconnected from the petty
intrigues in that remote corner.
"You better get something inside you," Jasna said,
getting up.
"I guess I'm ready to have something."
"Oh, one more thing," she said from the door. "A
Woman named Chanel stopped by asking for you. Said
>'ou two had a dinner date or something."
Remy looked up from the tray. "What d'you say?"
"I told her you were married."

166
James Lucerio
* * *
Remy kept going over it after they left. He'd taken
breakfast in the suite, fruit and bread and Enddrese cof-
fee. But L'sser seemed convinced that the toxin was
quick-acting, and there had been no ill effects from the
meal.
Remy went over his morning rituals in the bathroom,
in the ultrasonic. He recalled his conversation with the
three species-rights activists, recalled Chanel's garde-
nia fragrance. Then the trip out to the lab in the win-
dowless rear compartment of the hover vehicle. There
had been no time to eat after Glasscock's speech, and
Remy remembered being hungry. . . Everything
pointed to the lab, and yet L'sser maintained that a toxic
reaction was impossible.
Even for someone with a stepped-up olfactory tract.
Remy had actually presented it like that: All right, then
forget about allergies and overdose. What about an in-
fantry specialist—a sniffer? The question had aroused
suspicion, but L'sser had attempted to conceal it. "For
the last time," he said, "psychosis, yes. Toxicity, no.
Besides, the tests revealed that whatever crippled you
could not have been airborne."
So it was either something he ingested, or something
he had absorbed. Inadvertently or deliberately. Some-
thing perhaps lying in wait for an unsuspecting, tacitly
doctored NCorp agent.
L'sser had cautioned him to stay in bed for the rest
of the evening, but the way Remy saw it he'd just awak-
ened from three days' worth of rest and there were
things to be done, things that couldn't wait. His would-
be assassin was bound to circle in for a second try.
He thought he would begin by retracing his steps, at
least as far as the corner where Narca's men had picked
him up. L'sser had promised to run a check on the
utility hover itself and sweep the lab for anything sus-
pect.
Remy took a last look around the suite before he

illegal alien
167
voiced the door open and walked down the corridor to
the opposing elevator banks. A moment later inside the
north bank car, Remy took for granted that the voice-
command unit hadn't been repaired and simply keyed
nine into the touchpad.
He had the answer before the car had descended
twenty floors.
"It's got holes, Santoul," Mi-Jung was telling him
the following morning. "You said yourself the security
cam disks don't show anyone smearing anything on the
touchpad.''
"It wouldn't necessarily require an applicator,"
Remy argued. "Someone could've been carrying it on
a fingertip."
"And risk being poisoned?"
"So whoever it was was wearing gloves or a prosthe-
sis."
Mi-Jung gestured to the security recordings Remy had
spent the entire night going through. "And does anyone
on those disks fit either description?''
"It's difficult to say."
"Because the idea doesn't work, Santoul. No one's
going to walk into an elevator and slather some unheard-
of toxin all over the place just to dispose of a single
agent."
Remy didn't like the sound of it coming back at him
like that. L'sser's case officer had pulled strings to ar-
range access to the elevator security recordings, and
here he was insisting she accept his conclusion while
cognizant of only half the facts. They were in one of
the security station offices just now, a windowless room
on the twentieth floor, empty save for a single desk,
two chairs, and a dozen or more monitors.
"There's another possibility," Remy said at last.
Mi-Jung perched her shapely rump on the edge of the
desk. "I'm all ears, Santoul."
Hardly, he thought. "See, they wouldn't need a glove,

168
James Lucerio
a prosthesis, or a goddamned applicator because what-
ever they were carrying wouldn't have an effect on
them."
Mi-Jung's mouth twisted. "But they'd run the risk of
poisoning everybody who walked into those two cars
and keyed fifty? Come on, man."
Remy blew out his breath. "Suppose they knew I was
the only one capable of absorbing the toxin."
"A Remy Santoul-specific toxin," she said. "A bit
grandiose, isn't it? They'd have to access your DNA
profiles, key into your personal genome . . . Too so-
phisticated for Dhone."
"They wouldn't need either."
"Then how, Santoul? How does someone figure you
and you alone can absorb the stuff? I mean, I'm willing
to follow you only so far. Someone takes a contract out
on you, opts to use an osmotic poison, decides to hit
you here, in the hotel. Your room number's no problem
to come by but since the door's voiced, the elevator
touchpad seems the best bet. But even if we're talking
about a Raliish assassin, why aren't any of the other
seven Earthers on fifty sick or dead?"
Remy sat down next to her on the desk, edging her
over a bit with his hip. "I'm going to tell you something
you're not cleared to hear, which means you're not
hearing it, understand?"
She nodded.
"I've been worked on," he said flatly.
"Don't tell me," she said, grinning. "You're not
Warren Beatty's clone after all."
"Not my face. My nose, my hands."
She looked him over uncertainly.
"I can sniff out data. I can absorb information from
bodily secretions.
Mi-Jung took a moment to respond. "All right, then,
tell me what I'm thinking," she challenged, leading
with breasts and chin.
Remy stood up and faced her, took her cool hand

ILLEGAL ALIEN
169
between his and leaned into her candied scent. "You're
thinking we should just knock off and go up to the
suite."
Her face reddened slightly. "Am I that obvious?"
"Your scents are."
"But why would Center . . . This op has something
to do with Kwandri, doesn't it? Why else would they fit
you for a new nose?"
"You didn't hear it from me," Remy reminded her.
"Important thing's someone knew to get to me through
these." He examined his hands, then looked up.
"Someone on Kwandri blew my cover. Xella's behind
this."
"The slopes," Mi-Jung said, "the chinless won-
ders." She gave the cam recordings a second look.
"Tell me what we're looking for."
Remy retrieved the composite he had dubbed from
elevator surveillance covering the days since he'd ar-
rived downside. "These are just the ones that touched
fifty," he said, slotting the disk into a player. "No one
jumps out at you we start from scratch."
He showed her the Remuhl's human guests first; then
the Enddrese—including a dozen hotel staffers who ap-
parently had something against using the service ele-
vators—and finally the Raliish. Mi-Jung told the
machine to freeze on the final subject.
"Cloud Nine," she said, tapping a black lacquered
fingernail against the flatscreen. "The discolorations on
his face," she explained, "they look like clouds."
The freeze frame showed only five of them. The XT's
eyes and skin tone suggested old age. He was taller than
L'sser, but thinner, not as well proportioned.
"Part of Ralii's old-boy network," Mi-Jung contin-
ued. "Spent most of the war running internment camps
on Enddra. Recruited by the Xell'em about three years
ago. He's been on Dhone since."
Remy ran his tongue over his teeth. "Was hoping

170
James Lucerio
you'd say that. 'Cause I've got him in both elevators.
Four trips, riding to fifty each time."
"I think I know where to find him," Mi-Jung started
to say, but Remy shook his head.
"We're going to wait for him to show up."
"It could be hours, Santoul. Days."
Remy grinned at her. "We could put our heads to-
gether, figure some way to pass the time."
L'sser was deep into the Terminal Meditation of the
Summoning when the apartment's external sensors re-
sponded to a breech in the perimeter. The alert tone
was of a low frequency, but intrusive enough to rouse
him from the depths of the abyss he had fashioned and
ladder him quickly through the Seven Incantations of
Return.
A motion of his pointed hand brought visuals to life
in the holo units adjacent to the conical altar. Not in-
truders but visitors, he noted: Mi-Jung, Santoul, and
some unidentified third party under cover of an appli-
qued Enddrese shawl.
Most unexpected.
He disentwined his arms and rose to clothe himself
in translator and tunic—the one to make him under-
standable to human ears, the other to render his form
palatable to human eyes.
The servant, Maash, would know enough to admit
the three to the receiving room, and L'sser padded up-
stairs to meet them now, deactivating the altar on his
way. His movements were slow and awkward, as he
was still in the throes of the Summoning, but foresight
compelled him to hurry the return to vigilant mind. The
Earthers and their companion were waiting for him
when he arrived.
Even more unexpected, Mi-Jung had a weapon in
hand, aimed in a lazy fashion at the Raliish she had
commanded to kneel on the smallest of the room cush-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
171
ions, bloodied head lowered to the floor and out-
stretched right hand encased in a transparent plasbag.
Remy Santoul stood off to one side, back to the
carved Xell'em screen Narca had procured for the place,
hands thrust into trouser pockets, jaws working at what
was surely a stim-wafer. By the look of him, he wasn't
fully recovered from the effects of the toxin. Either that
or he was far behind in sleep.
Without waiting for invitation, L'sser took a curious
step toward the Raliish. Mi-Jung's bright eyes tracked
him, her hand weapon emitting a short series of en-
abling tones. The old Raliish prisoner lifted his head
and the lingering consequences of the Summoning van-
ished.
"You dare desecrate the home by bringing this one
here?" L'sser said to Mi-Jung in a tone of outrage and
disappointment.
"I apologize," the woman said. "I was against
it—"
"We needed a secure place," Remy said, with no
hint of apology.
L'sser whirled on him. "The home is my secure
place, Santoul." He calmed himself, if only to offset
the prisoner's hideously pleased grin. "Do you realize
who you've brought here—you of all people, Remy?"
Santoul exchanged an uncertain glance with his fel-
low Terran. "Cloud Nine—"
L'sser instructed the translator to amplify his disap-
proval. "Your tongue's most offensive terms would be
too kind still." The contempt he directed at the pris-
oner was answered by an expression of arrogant disre-
gard. "This is Fan'nat," he told the Earthers.
'Deathmaster,' the Enddrese called him, the overseer
of hundreds of internment camps. He was responsible
for more suffering—"
Than you were? Fan'nat subvocalized.
L'sser gave him a look. Than we were, he sent.

172
James Lucerio
Fan 'nat and L'sser as instruments of The Kell, servants
of the campaign.
L'sser had been aware of Fan'nat's presence on Dhone
these past years, but their paths had seldom crossed.
And when they had the old one was always in the com-
pany of his Xell'em employers. Else—
"Why is he here?" he asked, oblique eyes remaining
fixed on Fan'nat.
Santoul spoke to it, explaining how Fan'nat had poi-
soned him by depositing a toxin on the elevator touch-
pads. Mi-Jung had identified the Raliish in the security
recordings, and she and Santoul had taken him into
custody when he had returned to the Hotel Remuhl for
a second attempt.
"Then you have a sample of the toxin?" L'sser asked.
"An applicator of some sort?"
Mi-Jung bent down to seize hold of Fan'nat's right
wrist.
"On the first digit," Remy said. "You're safe," he
added, noting L'sser's reluctance to step closer. "It's a
discriminating toxin."
The NCorp man disclosed that his olfactory and tac-
tile senses had been Center-augmented as part of his
current op. But Fan'nat's knowledge of the enhance-
ments established that Remy's cover had been compro-
mised.
L'sser experienced a moment of humiliation. He had
not perceived his friend's alterations; but worse was that
Remy had withheld all mention of them. L'sser ac-
cepted that secrecy was the climate of the landscape
they continued to inhabit, but for the first time he could
see clearly the Remy Santoul Jasna's despair had de-
fined all these intervening years.
"So why exactly did you bring him to me?" L'sser
asked at last.
Santoul stood over Fan'nat, legs apart, glaring down
at him. "I want you to talk to him, L'sser. In a language
he'll understand." Grinning once more, Fan'nat flicked

illegal alien
173
the tainted digit at Santoul. Remy squatted eye level
with him, one foot weighing down the would-be of-
fending hand. "I want to know where he came by his
information about me. And I want to know who he's
working for."
Fan'nat's vocalizer issued strangling sounds as Remy
brought more of his weight to bear on the wrist. "That
isn't necessary," L'sser told him.
Fan'nat subvocalized a comment that L'sser decided
to leave untranslated. Santoul would only be tempted to
inflict further physical suffering, and such emotional
displays merely slowed the task at hand.
L'sser hooked a cushion with his foot and slid it into
a position opposite Fan'nat's. We were destined to have
this talk, you and I, he subvocalized as he lowered him-
self into an encountering posture. He wondered what
Remy would make of the fact that it was Fan'nat who
had masterminded the Ambii'th Incident.
More to fuel an outburst, L'sser decided. But perhaps
you'd enjoy such a beginning, he sent to Fan'nat. An
entertainment before we commence . . .
You will never break me, Fan'nat answered through
eyes that had gazed on more horror than L'sser could
possibly summon against him. Not the way I broke you.
L'sser conceded the point; the one hundred thousand
deaths Fan'nat heaped about him had indeed broken
him for a time. But since then he had surrendered to
that torment and emerged from under its curse. He
pained for life now, while Fan'nat, Fan'nat continued
to live for pain. And only by negating the fulfillment of
that all-consuming need could L'sser inflict a punish-
ment befitting the crime.
He had known from the moment Fan'nat lifted his
face from the floor that this was the one course open to
him.
Fan'nat was staring at him, beckoning a beginning,
urging the hurt, willing a test of strengths.
"Take his arms," L'sser said to Mi-Jung. "Behind

174
James Lucerio
his back, please. Tightly." The case officer passed the
hand weapon to Remy and scissored Fan'nat's thin,
fragile limbs backward.
Yes, yes, L'sser, you are as drawn to it as I am,
murderers the both of us, one in spirit living only for
the contest of wills, the wonderful play of give and take,
the easement of release . . .
But instead of pain L'sser sent him a mental recon-
struct of the horrid cybereugenic experiments he had
once been ordered to perform on Dhone's wartime cap-
tives. A hands-on adept's approach to the problem of
psychic redesign. Or so it was meant to be.
He reached out and took Fan'nat's face between his
hands in the grip they had once called the vise of death.
Fan'nat suddenly realized his intentions and screamed,
through mind and translator both.
L 'sserl 'sserl 'sserl 'sserl 'sserl 'sser . . .
"Shit," Santoul said, bringing a hand to his ear.
"Take that damned voice box—"
L'sser withdrew his hands and Fan'nat tipped for-
ward, head striking the wooden floor with a hollow
crack.
"Better go easier next time," Mi-Jung cautioned,
Fan'nat's hands in hers.
"It's finished," L'sser said over his shoulder to San-
toul.
"You got it already?"
"There is no breaking this one."
Remy and Mi-Jung traded looks of concern.
"Yes, Remy," L'sser said. "I've killed him."
Karine Mareer regarded the chalk-white body of the
dead Raliish with an unsettling mix of rage and relief-
She had never found Fan'nat an especially admirable
creature, but to see him like this—naked, wide-eyed,
trussed up like some plucked and parboiled fowl—was
more than she had bargained for.
Beings unknown—but presumably Santoul and his

ILLEGAL ALIEN
175
downside NCorp cohort—had delivered the rigid body
an hour ago, rolling Fan'nat out of the back of a speed-
ing hover as it shot past the XeH'em safehouse a block
west of Nafouri Station.
Karine refused to take blame for the setback, but it
was unlikely Colonel Gong would see things her way.
Although she'd urged all along that they employ a hu-
man or Enddrese asset. If only Fan'nat hadn't been so
persistent with the local overseer, Major Imix. It was
as though the assassination of Santoul had been more
personal vendetta than job; some unfinished piece of
past business.
"So what's to be done with it?" Kin asked, striding
scavenger circles around the bloated corpse.
"Sit down," the major told Karine's partner harshly.
"You expect us to think with your boots shaking the
whole room. Over there," he added, gesturing to a seat.
"I don't want to look at you. And get something to
throw over this thing first. It's leaking all over the mat."
Karine couldn't resist a look, and instantly regretted
it.
"And you," Imix said, turning his wrath on the
stocky Kwandri SPECVES lieutenant who had accom-
panied Karine and Kin to Dhone. "You told us your
. . . secretions were powerful enough to kill him."
Els Matut gulped and hacked a dry cough. "San-
tours tolerance is greater than I suspected, Major
Imix."
"Obviously greater, Lieutenant. Or perhaps you're
simply in poor condition."
Matut stifled a reply, and Karine felt for him. Anyone
could see what Dhone's heat, humidity, and smog had
done to him. The cough had commenced the first day
downside, and now his flesh was pale, his silver coat
dull and matted. Outdoors, he smelled almost as bad
as the dead Raliish.
"Let's not blame Matut," Karine said. "It's our own
fault for favoring subtlety over boldness, Major."

176
James Lucerio
Imix sighed resignedly. "But it had just the right
touch of irony, Mareer. To succumb as a direct result
of the talents for which he'd been prepared . . . The
message Santoul's death would have sent Center!"
Karine scowled. Not to be argued that the Terran's
termination by Kwandri toxin would have earned both
of them a promotion; but as things stood, a demotion
was more in order. It was time to set aside finesse and
go straight for the kill.
Exactly as she told herself on Kwandri when Gong
had tasked her for the assignment. There was some-
thing about Santoul that begged caution. She remem-
bered him from the feast at Norak Baj's, the speech he
had given in the name of DisneyCorp. And she thought
she remembered him from several other occasions,
which she couldn't bring to mind. At times, it almost
seemed that he had stalked her in dreams, insinuated
himself into her midst.
"Rather pleasant-looking for an Earther, isn't he?"
Imix was saying, studying a surveillance shot of San-
toul.
"A pervert," Kin muttered from across the room
while he was draping a tarp over the leaking body of
the Raliish.
Karine had learned that Kin and Santoul had thrown
fists during a SPECVES raid on one of Likat's notori-
ous nightspots. She feigned disinterest in the surveil-
lance holo, but secretly agreed with the major's
assessment. Santoul was handsome—for an Earther—
but about as far as one could be from the Xell'em ideal.
Well, maybe the hair and skin coloring were all right,
she decided, but he was far too tall and thin-lipped, his
hair was much too curly, his forehead much too straight.
No, she preferred the altered good looks of her own
kind, of someone like Kin, she thought, regarding him
out of the corner of her eye.
"This Professor Jalak, your informant on Kwandri,'

ILLEGAL ALIEN
177
Imix said, turning to her. "Do you think he was merely
pretending ignorance of Santoul's mission to Dhone?"
"It's possible he knows something. But NCorp is
careful about how much they divulge to their opera-
tives."
Imix tapped a finger against his protruding lower lip.
"Then we must assume this has something to do with
the casino owner, this Narca."
Karine nodded, wondering where the major was
headed.
"And we know that Narca is involved in drugs as
well as gambling. Especially with this scent-gland ex-
tract—"
"Lube," Karine said.
Imix regarded the covered corpse for a moment, con-
templating something. "Santoul's guard will be raised
now. It will prove difficult to get close to him." He
grinned at Karine. "But perhaps we've overlooked the
most willing assets we could find."
"More willing than Fan'nat?" Karine asked, gestur-
ing.
"Of greater number if not single-minded purpose."
"Enddrese descendants of the Ambii'th casualties,"
Kin said, pleased with himself. But Imix only waved
him off.
"Nothing so crude."
Karine was smiling now. "Woodruff Glasscock's
mercenaries," she said. "It's only right we inform them
that a new marat hunter has arrived on Dhone."

FIFTEEN
D ones were all that were left of the
cats, eleven in number by skull count, the bleached re-
mains scattered across a rock-strewn depression in the
parched Lannsmar grasslands. Leafless broadtrees,
home to a group of noisy carrion birds, sheltered the
basin on one side.
"Guess they lucked on a healthy feed," Narca's cur-
rent field expert grunted, hurling a small stone at the
trees. The birds stirred from lofty perches of flayed
bark, lifting off on great wings into Dhone's dome of
white sky. Remy's shielded eyes tracked them against a
smear of orange sun, as they circled overhead squawk-
ing indignation.
The hunter was a Terran named Ryder, ex-combat
soldier and specimen collector for Am Way. He was Re-
my's height, layered in force-fed muscle, bullet-shaped
shaved head inked with depictions of jungle foliage. He
wore ear and nose rings; goggles pushed up on his fore-
head just now; one foot planted champion-style atop a
hole-shot cat skull.
Ryder's all-terrain was parked a hundred feet away,
four Enddrese hunkered down in a narrow wedge of
shade.
178

illegal alien
179
"You extract the glands through the anus," he said.
"Then gut the things for hearts and livers, skin 'em for
pelts. Slip the gland into a licknite container, chow
down on the internals, sell the skins off in 'bela. Ani-
mals take care of the rest."
Two bare-breasted Enddrese women in Rambela had
offered Remy a marat pelt when he'd stepped away from
the truck to relieve himself. The town was the closest
settlement of any consequence, about a day west by all-
terrain; a supply town for the regional troops who
manned the Lannsmar checkpoints. Ryder's file in
Rambela listed him as a licensed guide, a hard-earned
cover that entitled him to unrestricted access to the ter-
ritory and allowed him to organize legitimate hunts us-
ing standard projectile weapons.
The Enddrese drivers and camphands worked for
Narca as well.
Remy Santoul, DisneyCorp exec, was Ryder's client.
"Yeah, these poachers made out," the hunter was
saying, surveying the hollow with an appraising eye.
"Came across a pride, is that it?" Remy asked.
"No. The marat's a solitary cat—like an Earth tiger,
you hear of those? Erect ears, striped coat. Very terri-
torial. Whoever killed these cats had a lucky week, got
one here, one there, used this place for the finish
work."
The cat's pelt was dun-colored but fine. Fingering the
one the Enddrese had warily displayed, Remy found
himself thinking about Morli, Baj, a dozen other Kwan-
dri. But one day soon half of Kwandri would take to the
stars, where Skaro's Marat would survive only as floor-
mats and lube.
"Probably took the scent glands on site," Ryder said,
raising dust with his boots. "You can't be wasting too
much time gutting or skinning with troops cruising the
area."
"Unless they've got a hand in."
"Used to be. Thing now is Glasscock's paying them

180
James Lucerio
more for an arrest than any cut a cat poacher can afford.
Before that, Glasscock was the biggest prize. Narcati
up the amount every week, but the man's not void.
Convinced Zalindi's politicos to let him bring his own
people and weapons in." Ryder laughed, flicking sweat
from his nose. "For cats."
Remy's own laugh sounded shrill, prompted as it was
by sheer agoraphobic terror. On Kwandri's high pla-
teau, he at least had the confining security of the vehi-
cle; but Ryder was hinting that they might be spending
a night or two in the Lannsmar— in pup tents, for chris-
sake. Eating out of shape-memory bowls, sleeping in
warmsacks . . .
If anything was in phase transition, it was Remy. Vis-
iting the field was a bad idea. If NCorp wanted a marat
donor-clone, they could send in some downsider like
Ryder to collect the damn thing. The whole op was
making less and less sense to him. The liters of lube
Narca had already shipped off would be more than suf-
ficient to keep Kwandri's spy business running for a
couple of years. So what were another score of scent
glands going to contribute, except putrefying flesh for
a treeful of sick-looking black birds?
Ryder seemed to be sizing up one of the marat skulls
as a potential trophy.
Being hunted was what had spun him around, Remy
decided, recalling his collapse in the Hotel Remuhl and
the events the attempt on his life had set in motion.
Fan'nat hadn't confessed to being run—not that L'sser
had given him much of an opportunity—but the uniden-
tified fingerborne toxin itself was proof enough of a
dirtied op and a Xell'em thirst for Santoul blood. Remy
had used the body of the executed Raliish to convey his
understanding of the new rules of Xella's downside op-
erations chief, but hadn't received a response.
Just how his own death was going to contribute to
the deadly game Xella and Terra were playing with ga-

illegal alien
181
lactic peace he couldn't say. He was like the marat and
perhaps the Kwandri in that: ultimately expendable.
It was graveyard thinking, Remy told himself as his
booted toe disturbed the lay of a shattered leg bone.
Ryder had worked his way to the rim of the basin and
was gesturing to him to hurry along.
The Enddrese trackers had returned from a brief re-
con of the sparsely forested landscape. All three had
attached themselves some months ago to a group of
dreamtime medicine gatherers who lived on the fringe
of the grasslands, subsisting on foodstuifs bartered in
Rambela for dried strips of hallucinogenic bark and
sundry alkaloid botanicals.
"They've got a fresh scent," Ryder explained as
Remy came alongside, glad for species companionship
in the vastness of the plain.
The woman tracker was down on one knee sniffing
at cat spoor. She had located the bone-splintered drop-
pings half a click east of the basin in a cluster of dry
brush and tall trees, whose limbs reached like dendrites
into the colorless sky.
"About six hours old," Ryder said. "There's older
spoor from a second cat nearby—probably one of the
poachers' kills. My guess, this one was drawn by the
butchering. Maybe signposting some new territory."
Remy joined a second tracker who was busy sniffing
out the brush for scent markings. "She's in heat," the
Enddrese told him.
Remy's nose twitched as he leaned in for a closer
whiff. The odor had the sting of sharp cheese, but wasn't
as pungent as the refined extract he'd inhaled in L'sser's
lab.
Ryder said, "That's the raw lube you're smelling.
The spray from the anal gland." He waved a hand at
the trackers. " 'Course these people don't put much
stock in the stuff—even though they've seen the kind of
party it can whip up among the gatherers."

182
James Lucerio
"Why not?" Remy said.
"They go for the male cat's penis, the spines anyway.
Say that's where the magic is."
Remy snorted. Tiger's penis, rhino horn, black bear gall
bladder, blowfish kidneys, pink dolphin oil, meloid "Span-
ish fly" beedes. He wondered what kept the myths alive—
"Damn male cats can fuck fifty times a day if they have
to," Ryder said, as though plucking Remy's thought from
Dhone's superheated air.
Remy duckwalked a bit farther into the bush, waving
away insects but attuned to the scent now, the trackers
laughing at him and slapping one another on the arms.
"Santoul," Ryder said, "they say you're going in the
wrong direction. They're calling you 'dung-tied.' "
Remy's fingers inspected a series of grooves the cat's
claws had left in a fallen tree branch. The scent signature
of the paw pads gave him what amounted to an olfactory
portrait.
"Santoul," Ryder shouted, impatience in his voice.
"Over here," Remy said.
The hunter came storming through the brush muttering
to himself. Remy cut the reprimand short by indicating
the claw marks.
"Rape a Raliish. How the fuck d'you do that,
Santoul?" He turned his back to call the trackers.
"Phatt, Ina, get your purple butts over here."
"The cat headed south," Remy said, "through here.
The scent from its muzzle glands is all over these
bushes."
Ryder scratched in a puzzled manner at the tattoos
above his goggles. The trackers, along with a few cu-
rious bark gatherers, were coming into view now, wear-
ing like expressions of amusement and surprise.
"They say you're right, Santoul."
Remy stood up, sniffing at his hands. "How far can
it travel in six hours?"
"Depends on how hungry it is. But we'll get it now.
I'll have the AT brought around."

illegal alien
183
Remy nodded and began to follow him out of the
brush, hands parting the tangle. But the trackers
weren't moving. "What's wrong with them?" he asked
Ryder.
The hunter swung around to exchange a few brief
phrases with Phatt, the woman; then he laughed, slap-
ping a hand on Remy's shoulder. "Congrats, Santoul.
They want you to lead."
"The trackers have locked on to the scent," one of
the mercenaries reported, cupping a hand around the
small receiver plug in his ear. "They're moving toward
the rift now. One truck, Ryder and four staff. The track-
ers are on foot about a quarter of a kilometer forward,
the newcomer holding point."
Woodruff Glasscock glanced at the Xell'em woman
seated beside him in the vehicle's front seat. "Your in-
formation was apparently correct, Ms. Mareer. This
man, Santoul, appears to be leading Narca's trackers."
"I'm sure she paid well for his talents," Mareer said.
"Santoul.'s senses were augmented by some people who
worked for your government at one time."
Glasscock bridled at the woman's presumption. "I
am God's subject, Ms. Mareer, no one else's. Certainly
not the Consortium's or NCorp's."
"Sorry, Mr. Glasscock."
The woman's calm voice belied the controlled fury
Glasscock read in her eyes. "I know what you meant,"
he said in a gentler tone. "But you must understand, I
have broken ties with all of them. I respect natural law,
Ms. Mareer, the laws of cosmic order. I have no use
for the rest."
"I admire that, Woodruff."
She is dangerous, Glasscock thought. More danger-
ous than a dozen Narcas. "Where are the gatherers?"
he directed to the radioman. "I don't want them caught
in the middle of this."
"They won't be. They've separated from Ryder's

184
James Lucerio
party. It's just the three trackers, the Terran, and Ry-
der's four. We'll take them the usual way, unless you've
got something special in mind."
"Keep it simple," Mareer said, instinctively. "San-
toul's a dangerous quarry," she added, subservient all
at once, the actress again.
"By all means keep it simple," Glasscock instructed
the mere. "Lead them into the rift. But make certain
your people don't overuse the marking scent. These are
experienced trackers we're dealing with."
"Don't worry yourself, Glasscock. They're not going
anywhere."
He waved the radio off and threw up his hands.
" 'Don't worry,' they tell me. Do you see how deplor-
able this situation has become? They were supposed to
capture Narca's poachers last time. Instead, they killed
them. I'm forced to employ rogues and murderers be-
cause brainless drones fill the seats in Dhone's coun-
cil."
Mareer patted his forearm. "You're doing the right
thing, Woodruff."
Her touch raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
Was there nothing she wouldn't do to see Santoul killed?
It was just the sort of manipulative, civilized behavior
that had propelled him into wildlife studies to begin
with.
Back in Zalindi, where Mareer had sought him out,
she had described Santoul as a professional hunter,
hired by Narca to bring new life to the traffic in marat
extract. Lube—how he detested the word! But it had
taken only a few minutes to see through the Xell'em's
lies. Oh, Santoul was unquestionably altered, but he
was no more a professional hunter than Mareer was the
concerned Free Species advocate she claimed to be.
No, Glasscock supposed it had to do with some insane
power play designed by NCorp or its Xell'em counter-
part.
That the two victors of the war should now be close

illegal alien
185
to engagement was further vindication of his hatred for
all systems of government. An ally one moment was an
enemy the next; it had been so for tens of thousands of
years and was likely to remain so for tens of thousands
to come.
Earth's on and off relationship with Xella—allied
when the Heregep had inadvertently spread jumpdrive
technology through the Arm, then opponents for the
planetary systems the drive brought within reach; allies
again during the Vega Conflict, enemies in its wake—
suggested parallels with humankind's historical atti-
tudes toward cats in general: revered in the ancient
world only to be associated with witchcraft and black
magic a millennia later; then embraced as allies during
the Black Death and domesticated since.
So what might a tomorrow ten years from now bring
for enemies Karine Mareer and Remy Santoul—were
he to live that long? Bedfellowship? Marriage? What
then was he to think in allowing himself to be used as
an instrument of political assassination? And what was
he to make of the Q'aantre, Els Matut, whom Mareer
and her gladiatorial "husband" treated like some pet
or mascot? . . .
The Q'aantre summoned thoughts of Professor Si-
mon Jalak, whose work Glasscock had read, and who
had been Damir Skaro's contemporary on Dhone.
Skaro ... the object of Glasscock's worship and un-
dying love. The one who had taught him the value of
asceticism and sexual abstinence; who had shown him
how to redirect his base desires; who had helped him
find God.
Saving the marat was the least he could do in return.
Even if men like Santoul had to die as a result.
Glasscock could only pray that Dhone's Council
Would eventually close the territory, or that Free Spe-
cies would raise the funds necessary to transport the
few remaining cats offworld. Or that the new trend in

186
James Lucerio
back-to-basics naturalism would put an end to the crav-
ing for sensual excess and aphrodisiacsl
Until such time it was up to him.
"Weathers," he said, reactivating the MV radio.
' 'Tell your people to make certain Ryder's group is well
within range before they open fire. I don't want any of
them to escape."
Remy sent the trackers on ahead and hauled himself
up into the lower branches of a lifeless tree, just high
enough to clear the crest of the stiff grass that had al-
ready exacted a blood toll from his hands and face. The
all-terrain was several hundred yards to the rear at the
leading edge of a sinuous swath of flattened grass. Remy
secured both feet in a notch of limbs and leaned out
from the tree, hanging on with one hand while he com-
menced waving the other.
Taking the point had been the latest in a series of bad
calls. Not that he hadn't fully impressed the trackers
with his olfactory skills; it was just that the rest of his
talents didn't measure up. Twice he'd stepped dead cen-
ter into hostile currents of red soldier ants, some of
which scurried as high up as his ears before he'd man-
aged to pluck them off—somewhat imperfectly, so that
their pincer-equipped heads were even now attached to
his flesh like costume gems.
The seven-foot-tall grass had actually provided a
sense of comforting, operative claustrophobia, but there
were sharp ends and jagged edges to contend with; and
the more Remy thought of Ryder sitting pretty in his
armored mobile, the more frustrated he grew at the
arrangement. Why not stick one of the trackers on the
sloped prow of the AT and let the vehicle do the bush-
whacking? Why not a goddamned robo-sniffer for that
matter?
Then, just when he was ready to abandon the hunt
altogether, or at least trade places with Narca's number

illegal alien	187
0ne man, his nose had alerted him to a scent that
shouldn't have been there.
Ryder jumped from the cab of the idling vehicle and
met Remy halfway, plainly entertained by his client's
somber expression and disheveled state. "Grass giving
you a bit of problem, huh?"
"And other things," Remy told him, tugging a dis-
embodied ant head from the underside of his wrist.
"How much real estate did you say these marats call
home, Ryder?"
"Thirty square, give or take. Why—you thinking
we've gone to far?"
"Phatt read the spoor as six hours old. So I'm fig-
uring we're either following a different scent or this
cat's on a marathon run."
"Different scent, you say."
Remy felt around in the empty space the hunter left.
"All right, foul, then. Ina picked up on it, too. We've
got paw and muzzle marking scents, but something
else—humanoid by the smell of it."
Ryder stroked his stubbled chin. "Could be poachers
following the same cat, what d'you think?"
"That you're supposed to be the goddamned expert,
is what I think."
The hunter grinned and picked an ant from Remy's
nose. "Let's climb up top the toy and have a look
around."
The four Enddrese who had been riding inside the
all -terrain were standing in the grass fanning them-
selves and flicking fly whisks about. Up top, Ryder
cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted a contact
call to the trackers. A patch of grass stirred half a mile
along, and Remy trained field glasses on the spot. Ina's
head came into view a moment later, but Remy couldn't
tell whose shoulders she was standing on. In the far
distance, the flatness of the Lannsmar was broken by a
steep-sided rift. Dhone's sun was a tear of color in the
Western sky.

188	James Lucerio
"I don't like it," Ryder said. "I'm calling them back
in."
Remy was relieved, but only for a minute. Back on
the ground Ryder ordered two of the Enddrese to belly
under the vehicle. Remy heard bolts being turned, com-
partments being opened, and at just about the same
time the trackers showed up, the XTs reemerged with
half a dozen directed-energy rifles.
"You know how to use one of these?" Ryder asked
while passing the weapons around. He gave one an up-
right toss to Remy.
Remy snatched it, wide-eyed, and immediately
checked the rifle's safety and standby code.
"Don't bother looking for a laser marking, Santoul.
They're manufactured right here on Dhone. Earth Force
knockoffs, but better tooled than most."
Remy was too busy inspecting the weapon to hear
him. "Have these fucking things been test-fired, Ryder?
I mean, I'd rather take my chances with rival poachers
than end up with half my face vaporized."
"They'll do the trick—just aim high. Besides, I don't
figure them for poachers." Ryder thumbed the charging
switch and the weapon whined to life. The trackers and
camphands followed suit. "Love that tune," he said,
grinning.
"Glasscock," Remy said.
Ryder handed Phatt a radio set and directed a short
burst of commands to the team. The seven Enddrese
nodded, grim-faced, and snaked off single file into the
grass. "Climb aboard," Ryder told Remy from the door
to the cab.
"What the hell, you're gonna confront them?" Remy
asked, strapping himself into the right-side bucket.
Ryder glanced at him, tight-lipped, scarred hands
gripped on the AT's control sticks. "Narca tell you she
lost three of her best? Well, she's been waiting for this-
We all have."
Remy bit back a reply. He had lost track of the

illegal alien	189
Enddrese in the grass, but it was obvious they were
headed for the rift.
"Glasscock probably laid down a false scent trail.
That's the foul you smelled—one of his sickshit meres.
Figure to lure us into the rift."
"So we turn around," Remy said. "Where's the
loss?"
Ryder laughed and flipped a series of console toggles.
Blast shields rose to cover all but the vehicle's front
windows.
"It's part of the fun, Santoul."
Remy rapped his knuckles against the metal plating
that wasn't there a moment ago. "This, too, I sup-
pose."
"All strictly legit," Ryder said. "Protection from the
big game's what it is." He pulled a radio handset from
its mount alongside the driver's seat. "You can start
your run," Remy heard him say after a female voice
responded at the other end of the freq.
"Put us ten miles south of Ranak's Knoll on the east
side of the crack." The woman signed off and Ryder
howled, slamming a hand against the ceiling. "Stay
tuned for bigger and better surprises, Santoul."
They were a half a mile from the edge of the rift,
well north of the trackers, when Phatt's voice piped
from the console monitors. Ryder listened and re-
sponded in clipped sentences. "I told them to hold up
on the lip," he said, braking the all-terrain.
Remy assisted him in initiating a thermal sweep of
the opposite face of the rift. "There's your big game,"
he said as onscreen signatures of petro-driven vehicles
began to register.
"They're reading our scan," Ryder said, "Prepare to
take fire—"
The first blast struck even as the words were leaving
the hunter's mouth—a conventional round that cratered
the ground not fifty feet in front of them. Reports ech-

190
James Lucerio
oed in the rift as several more explosions set fire to the
grasslands behind.
Phatt reported that the trackers were taking fire from
two scoutcars on the west rim and troops positioned
above the fractured clay riverbed. Ryder told them to
return fire but to stay in motion and gradually work
their way back to the vehicle.
Ryder commanded the AT forward through the fire-
storm, angling down into the nearest blast crater and
bounding back out into the grass. A directed beam
slagged a good portion of the rear doors, filling the
interior with acrid heat, which exhaust fans did their
best to disperse.
Remy's tear and mucus ducts were running riot. Ry-
der wiped his face with his shirtsleeves and turned Remy
a maniacal look. The hunter seemed to be enjoying
himself thoroughly.
Glasscock's meres were showing themselves, running
odd and even crisscrosses down into the rift in pursuit
of the trackers. The AT's forward scope revealed most
of them to be Earthers.
Remy estimated they had covered some two miles by
now, and he was beginning to wonder where the track-
ers might turn up when he saw Phatt and three others
running through the grass off to the left of the AT.
Ryder noticed them and brought the vehicle to a bone-
shuddering stop, leaning out of the driver's door to en-
courage them with frantic hand gestures. Conventional
rounds continued to impact the area, raining dirt and
stones against the blast shields.
"Nip and tuck, Santoul," he said, swinging himself
back inside, "it's gonna be a close call—"
The secondary radio emitted a crackling sound, and
Ryder made a grab for the handset as what remained of
the Enddrese contingent threw themselves into the AT's
rear space through the side doors. One of the camp-
hands was short an arm.
"Give us five and ground-zero the ball a mile west

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of the main burn," Ryder was shouting into the mike,
working the foot pedal controls at the same time.
"Ground-zero what?" Remy said above agonized
cries from the rear.
"Like I told you: Narca's been expecting this."
The AT had been maintaining a northerly traverse,
but Ryder suddenly swung the vehicle away from the
rift. "There!" he said with an upraised forefinger
pressed to the windshield.
Leaning as far forward as the confining harness al-
lowed, Remy could just make out a small, supersonic
air-breather streaking in from the northeast.
"Yeaaah, kiss me where it counts, lover!" Ryder
screamed to the sky, launching a loud smack with his
fingertips.
"The hell's going on?" Remy said.
"BFD," the hunter said. "A little 'neuter' for Glas-
scock's grunts."
Remy stiffened in the seat, all the blood drained from
his face, as Ryder maxed the accelerator and raised the
last of the AT's blast shields.
Just a BFD. A bit of dark outlaw humor leftover from
the worst of the war. A battlefield fusion device . . .
Ryder was cackling like a madman, oblivious to the
ground-pounding explosions rocking the AT side to
side. The Enddrese sat huddled in the rear in an inward-
facing circle, heads between knees. Praying.
Remy watched mesmerized as the thermal screen
flared to blinding intensity. The radios screeched, the
AT lurched as though it had been kicked in the ass, and
the sudden heat sucked the life from his lungs . . .
The device had altered the terrain, leaving a mile-
wide blast crater west of the rift. It would have made
little sense to go down into it even if they could, so they
skirted the hot edge searching for signs of life.
Phat found evidence of a vehicle far enough removed
from the epicenter to have survived the explosion. It

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James Lucerio
had apparently left under its own power. The rest were
memories, fused now to the rock strata underlying the
Lannsmar's grasslands.
As for Glasscock's hired troops, well, Remy thought,
who could say for sure where they were.
They did come across a few bodies in the fire-ravaged
grass that surrounded the glass-sand crater.
One of these turned out to be the Xell'em heavy hitter
Remy had tangled with in the back hallways of the Club
Terrana. Kin—Karine Mareer's escort on the night of
Baj's dinner party.
Lying on the blackened ground nearby was what
Remy first took to be a dead marat. Except that Ryder
was circling the thing, face twisted up behind the clear-
mask of the antirad suit, shouting things like: "What
d'you make of this, Santoul?" and "How the hell did
this get here?"
That was when one of the Enddrese had rolled the
creature over on its back and Remy found himself look-
ing down into the irradiated face of SPECVES Lieuten-
ant Els Matut.
Remy thought about Fan'nat's fingerborne toxin—Els
Matut's poison secretions—and got sick all over the
burnt ground.

PART FOUR
— DOWNSIDE UP

SIXTEEN
Dazyl was just rising when Remy left
the hotel. Kwandri's morning air felt especially chilled
after three weeks of Dhone's heat and the stale womb-
warmth of torpor. A spring was back in his step, but it
was the planet's subnormal gravity that had put it there.
Dakou told him he could expect to find some changes
downside; but nothing the counsel said had prepared
him for Likat's utter transformation.
Outside the envelope, some eight vessels from as far
away as Valis Prime were parked in stationary orbit.
Remy thought they carried construction crews for a re-
cently begun station, but frenetic activity aboard the
Terran wheel suggested something more nefarious at
work. No one was saying just what that might be.
At the expanded shuttleport Remy had noticed doz-
ens of shadowy figures in exec tech suits, hurrying about
toting unusual-looking alloy carrycases.
Hints of Kwandri's new face ran clear back to the first
meet with L'sser and Mi-Jung—the rumors that ship-
ping restrictions imposed on Dazyl's wormhole were
soon to be lifted; that the Burst system was about to be
opened up to colonists and corps. And later, on the
return jump from Dhone, there was the Enddrese rig-
195

196
James Lucerio
ger, Ntendo, who'd whispered from the torpor drawer
adjacent to Remy's of the sensual delights awaiting vis-
itors to Kwandri.
Sensual delights? Remy recalled thinking, unable to
piece together images of hedonistic pursuits and cold,
mountain-high Likat mornings. But that was a real-time
month ago, and now the evidence was right in front of
his eyes.
Cin-dens and paraphernalia shops could be found on
almost every block. Storefronts were boarded up; pro-
and anti-offworlder slogans scrawled on splattered
walls. Refuse fluttered in the cobbled streets. Indigs lay
sprawled sleeping or intoxed on sidewalks, in doorways
and alleyways . . .
The effect was numbing—enough to launder his mind
of some of Dhone's psychic debris. The planet's night-
mare mix of pulse-pounding moments and evil endings
had him casting suspicious glances at every person he
passed.
Woodruff Glasscock had been on-site for the BFD
detonation—apparently in the vehicle Phatt surmised
was at the outer edge of the killzone. Glasscock ap-
peared on live vid in Zalindi with the radiation burns
to prove it. Calling for a death sentence for Remy San-
toul, Dhone's ace marat hunter.
With Mi-Jung's help, Remy had already gone into
hiding by then; but Narca, Ryder, and the woman pilot
who'd dropped the device barely escaped Dhone in time.
Government troops raided and razed both the Casino
Kimeli and the warehouse lube lab. L'sser and Jasna
ultimately became Remy's outlaw mates in two rooms
Mi-Jung secured high up in one of Zalindi's hillside
ghettos.
A touch of the old days for the three of them, living
the fugitive's life, drawing the curtains, and only ven-
turing out under cover of night. Together, L'sser and
Remy had managed to keep Jasna away from the zap;
and Jaz, in turn, had filled Remy's head with dreams of

illegal alien
197
possible futures—providing, that was, he was willing to
resign from NCorp.
But with Glasscock demanding Remy's head every
night on the evening news and wanted holos decorating
half of Zalindi, plans for resignation seemed poorly
timed; and in the end it was only with Center's assist
that Remy succeeded in eluding his pursuers and worm-
holing back to Kwandri.
Ironically, Narca's retaliatory airstrike had actually
worked to Free Species' advantage not only by provid-
ing Glasscock with the political ammo he'd been seek-
ing all along, but by discouraging would-be poachers
from returning to the Lannsmar's irradiated grasslands
for some time to come. There was even talk of rounding
up the surviving marats and transporting them to a
custom-designed wildlife habitat on Moad'dzin.
Audjo Ishida had sat passively through much of
Remy's debriefing. She concurred with his assessment
that the DisneyCorp cover was blown, probably by Si-
mon Jalak, whose authorization to remain onworld was
no longer subject to the good graces of Center but
Kwandri's own Ministry of ExtraPlanetary Affairs. But
the revelation of Remy's identity was of minor conse-
quence, the station chief had asserted—despite the fact
that it had nearly gotten him killed—because the overall
operation had been such a resounding success. Narca's
initial aphrodisiac shipments had reached Kwandri, and
Center had gathered the intelligence needed to present
its case to the Consortium regarding Xella's designs in
Burst.
Ishida and Gong had even reached an accommoda-
tion.
Envoy Densign and Ambassador Xu were soon to be
instated by the Grand Assembly, and the operation on
Kwandri was effectively concluded.
Simple as that.
So why then, Remy asked himself as he walked Li-
kat's sour-smelling streets, did Kwandri feel like a world

198
James Lucerio
on the way to becoming another Dhone? And why
wasn't he feeling pleased with the contributions he'd
made?
The marat had escaped, but Kwandri hadn't.
Females in tight-fitting attire, eye makeup, and
bleached or colored manes sauntered by him, trailing
musky odors and making purring sounds. Others leaned
seductively against lampposts, wafting enticements to
passersby. A few had their wedgelike feet dyed to re-
semble high heels.
Remy quickened his pace through an olfactory on-
slaught of pheromones, rounding a corner only to have
a male youth accost him from the flashing front of a
sex club.
girls! girls! girls! an LED-screen advertised, boys!
boys! boys! duos, trios, combos! all requests en-
tertained!
"Kwandri open soda bottle," the youth announced
in English, shoving a holocard in Remy's face. Remy
glanced down his nose at a depiction of a Kwandri fe-
male and a designer seltzer bottle engaged in an ob-
scene stage act.
"Kwandri make drawing," the youth read from the
back of the card as the scene in front shifted and showed
the same naked female squatting over the blunt end of
a wandwriter.
"Kwandri blow out candle. Kwandri pick up ball
bearings. Kwandri drink through straw. Kwandri shoot
long fruit."
The eager hustler showed a second card, a male de-
picted on this one, nine inches erect. "Kwandri catch
hoops," the kid recited, "Kwandri play keyboards.
Kwandri put out fire. Kwandri blow up condom. Kwan-
dri punch hole in trash bag! You come club next street-
No cover. Much girls, much boys, too too much fun!"
When Remy pushed past him, the youth began to
follow him down the block. "You, Ter, like boys or

illegal alien
199
girls? Both, maybe, huh? You lika lube job, too? Vanna,
maybe?"
Remy stopped short and whirled on him. "Lube? You
have lube—here?"
The boy grinned, adopting a streetsmart pose. "Sure
thing, boss. We got lube. But," he leaned closer, "but
Vanna better, you know. Which you want—Vanna
black, Vanna red, Vanna white, we got all type for
you."
"Vanna?" Remy said.
"Sure, you know. Kwandri pure, boss, no lie. Pure
Vanna, all kind." The boy slipped a card into the breast
pocket of Remy's jacket.
Remy yanked himself away once more and hurried
down the sidewalk past clique after clique of streetpeo-
ple and Kwandri hired hands of both genders and all
ages.
Not everyone was friendly, however. Shopkeepers
stood fast in doorways belching and farting auras of
anger and discontent.
"Earther go home," someone snarled at him.
Remy stopped at the mouth of an alley to upend one
of the trash containers. Farther along he left three par-
allel ink marks knee-high on the door to a commo
booth.
At the intersection he turned right, away from the
river, and began to head back toward the hotel. But all
the wind went out of him as he neared a cin-den in the
middle of the block.
There in full color, beneath a tradeslang translation
of the title, Bonnie and Clyde, was a bigger than life
holo-portrait of his donor-clone. Warren Beatty.
A crowd of young females spied him as he was star-
ing at the poster, screamed wildly, and pursued him
down the street.
"I rushed over as soon as I heard you were back,"
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200
James Lucerio
Remy had stepped to one side to motion him into the
front room when Baj turned without warning and took
hold of his testicles. "Oh, Remy," he went on, giving
a firm Tegganon tug, "it's so good to sense you again!
But why didn't you tell us? We've all been asking what
your motive could have been?''
"Tell you," Remy said, working on it. "Actually I
only just arrived. I didn't have a chance to transmit a
downside reserva—"
"Not that. About who you are! What you had accom-
plished before DisneyCorp recruited you!"
Remy spent a long moment regarding Baj's electri-
cally heated gloves and Goosh-ball pendant necklace, his
bellbottom trousers and sheathed three-speed epilator.
"Remy?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
He thought about the small mob of scent seekers that
had chased him all the way from the cin-den only hours
ago. "Because that . . . that guy you see on those post-
ers isn't me, is why."
Baj's lightened brow furrowed. "Remy, there's no
reason to—"
"Look, Norak, what's my name?"
"Remy . . . Santoul," Baj said uncertainly.
"Right. And what's that, that guy's name, the ac-
tor?"
The Kwandri smiled. "Warren Beatty. But I see what
you mean, Remy. That was just a—how do you call
it?—a screen name, is that it? You don't want any of us
to refer to you by your screen name."
"No, no, no," Remy said, stomping around the
room. He let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm a . . •
clone," he added wondering what had suddenly com-
pelled him to lower his voice so. "I mean, I am a
clone." More forceful now, proud of it. "That Beatty
guy was my donor."

illegal alien
201
Baj was fingering the hennaed hair under his chin.
"Clone. Like a father."
Remy raised a finger. "Not a bioparental."
"A father but not a bioparental."
"You got it."
But Baj didn't. "Like an adopted father, then. What
you became to Els Nanff for a time."
Nanff, Remy thought. He'd scarcely had time to think
about the boy. "Suppose we save the story of my life
for another occasion," Remy said, taking Baj by the
elbow and directing him to the couch. "I want you to
sit down and tell me what's been going on while I've
been away."
The Kwandri appeared flattered. "To me?"
"To you, to Likat, to Kwandri."
Baj took a deep breath. "Well. Just so much, Remy.
More than I could do justice to with a brief summary."
"Try. You can start by telling me about the General
Assembly."
Baj explained how the Assembly membership had re-
cently voted to invite a joint panel of Terran and Xell'em
representatives to act in an advisory capacity on matters
pertaining to civil conduct, comportment, and all in-
ternal concerns of a sociopolitical nature.
Baj reeked of evasive scents. "What exactly does
'concerns of a sociopolitical nature' cover?" Remy
asked him.
"Laws governing the use of force, of search and sei-
zure, that sort of thing," Baj said offhandedly.
"Rights, trials, punishments."
"Yes."
"But not everyone's happy with this new arrange-
ment, Norak. I've smelled, er, seen the signs."
"A dissident few. But it's normal to experience some
discontent during a transitional phase. You said as much
the night of my party. You were quite eloquent, in fact."
Remy pried the sex-club holocard from his pocket

202
James Lucerio
and slid it across the table. "Part of the transition,
right?"
Baj's face darkened; his coat emitted a defensive
scent. "Q'anntre is in search of its identity. If some of
the old ways are left behind, so be it." A hint of im-
patience in his voice. "Why should this surprise you?
You encouraged it."
Remy looked away, deeply aware of his own con-
fused exhalations. "I was making a point, not trying to
start a social revolution."
Baj shrugged. "It seems you succeeded in both."
"But, but these sex clubs and cin-dens," Remy said
after a pause, "all these young people on the street.
The closed shops, the slogans . . . when did it start?"
"Almost immediately after you left. Just about the
time your vids began to appear." Baj smiled at him.
"Tell me, Norak, you've been to some of these
clubs?"
Baj shuddered. "Ah, that's not for me. I have a fam-
ily to think of." He took hold of the Goosh-ball pen-
dant. "You know I have a fondness for the things of
your world, Remy, but I'm a traditional man. I burn
incense to Moki Jo."
Remy worked his jaw. The words sounded right, but
the scents were all wrong. Baj was omitting something.
"What's going to happen to those traditions, Norak?
What about the Tegganorf! What happens to that?"
"Those who are advising the Grand Assembly will
think of something." He sighed. "Most of Q'aantre has
accepted the fact that you offworlders are more intelli-
gent than we. Earth knows best, as we have been say-
ing."
Remy ran a hand down his face, contorting his
features. "What's Vanna?" he asked, looking up and
locking eyes with Baj.
The Kwandri's myopic gaze grew even more nar-
rowed. "Vanna? I'm not sure I know the term."
"Just like you don't know what's going on inside the

illegal alien
203
clubs, right?" Remy shot to his feet. "Come on, Mo-
rale, red Vanna, white Vanna, black Vanna . . . The
whole street's whispering it."
Baj shook his head in a mournful way. "You're the
intelligent one, Remy. You tell me."
Remy waited until dark to check the drops, when
there was less likelihood of his being recognized and
hounded by aroma fanatics. Likat's walkways were more
crowded than he had ever seen them, cin-dens and
clubs, hired hands on the street corners, all doing a
brisk business.
By midnight Morli still hadn't responded to any of
the cues, but early the following morning, Remy dis-
covered that the parallel lines he'd left on the commo
booth door had been crossed in kind by a series of
intersecting marks. Properly read, the resultant grid
supplied the time and place for the meet.
Noon that same day Remy was seated on the bench
Jalak had used for quick drops with his principal agent,
Glans. Empty food and drink containers and Frisbee
plates littered the meager lawn. The climbing apparatus
where Remy had watched schoolchildren at play a few
months back had become the haunt of overeager lunch-
time lovers. Were it not for the all-clear scent, Remy
might not have recognized the Kwandri in matted coat
and filthy clothes who shuffled into the park half an
hour late for the meet.
"Res," Remy said, standing up and purposely offer-
ing his hand. There was nothing to decipher from Mor-
li's dry palm that Remy's eyes hadn't already told him.
"I told myself I wasn't going to answer you," Morli
said, sitting down and staring at the ground between his
furred feet. "But wherever I walked I saw your mes-
sages." He quarter turned with bitter breath. "I didn't
want you to see me like this."
"What's happened?" Remy asked, all sincerity and
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204
James Lucerio
Morli nearly smiled. "Your sudden departure gave us
no chance for farewells, Remy. But I trust your travels
were enjoyable. Profitable. Whichever DisneyCorp re-
quires they be."
"Yeah, I had a terrific time, Res. You couldn't ask
for more from a business trip."
"Ah, is that what it was? Your, uh, replacements
weren't specific on that point. But they did tell me that
you would be back and, well, here you are."
"What else did they tell you?"
Drunken laughter drew Morii's attention to the play-
ground for a moment; his eyes were shut tight when he
swung around. "Only that they wanted to thank me for
the intelligence I'd provided. And reassure me that my
'secrets' were safe with them."
"How'd they say thank you, Res? With toilet seat
covers and Nerf football pillows? A set of matching
electric toothbrushes?"
Morli puzzled over Remy's expression, then laughed
sardonically. "No, Remy, not with Terrana. Surely you
recall the gift your superiors urged you to give me be-
fore you left."
"The . . . motion lotion," Remy said, swallowing
the word lube. "The aphrodisiac."
"Yes." Morli paused to collect himself. "The sad
truth is that I didn't wait until the Tegganon to try it."
He turned to Remy. "And it worked, Remy, just like
you promised it would. It worked so well that I en-
couraged my friends to try it." Morii's mouth twitched.
"You have to understand: it allowed us to be ourselves.
For the first time."
"Is that so bad, Res?"
He laughed again. "At first I didn't believe so. How
could I when it seemed a gift from the gods, Remy?
That's why I agreed to share the wafers Ms. Ishida gave
me with all my friends. Not just with a select few, no,
but with everyone I could. I exhaled its praises, Remy.

illegal alien
205
I convinced friends and acquaintances that the lotion
was Kwandri's path to self-realization."
Remy's eyes widened. "You said Kwandri."
"Yes?"
"You said Kwandri, Res. No Q'aantre."
Morli shrugged. "Q'aantre was." When Remy didn't
reply, he added, "Aren't you curious to know the re-
sults of my campaign of liberation?''
Remy let his eyes answer for him.
"That's right. All you need to do is gaze and sniff
about you. Pay a visit to Likat's nightclubs, or talk to
our new breed of lube dealers. Lube, Remy, that's what
they're calling it." He gestured in a broad manner.
"Take a walk past our theaters and flesh markets and
see the wonders Morli and his magic substance have
given shape to.
"But don't misread my scent, Remy: all this is ben-
eficial to Kwandri. All this releases us from the bonds
of our traditions and elevates us. Why, Kwandri is al-
most worthy of joining ranks with the Consortium or
the Manifest—"
Remy took hold of Morli's arms and spun him around
on the bench. "Stop using it. Tell everyone you made
a mistake."
Morli shook him off and snorted. "You think they'd
listen now? I resigned my position with the ministry to
get them to listen. But now everyone looks to our off-
worlder 'advisers' for leadership." He made a mournful
sound. "The stars aren't for me, they never were. Be-
sides, the ways of your kind are too habit-forming to
dispense with overnight, Remy."
"You mean—"
"No, the lotion itself isn't addictive. But what the
lotion has loosed is. Especially among our young. Do
you really think they would heed the advice of an old
man—the one who started the trend?"
Remy cursed. "Shut down the lube outlets, arrest the
dealers. Prevent anyone from buying it."

206
James Lucerio
"Buying it?" Morli laughed and stood up, preparing
to leave. "Who said anything about buying, Remy? You
forget that fair trade has always been Kwandri's way.
Barter, Remy, barter."
"Barter for what, Res? What's Kwandri giving in re-
turn?"
Morli glanced about. "I have to go, Remy. We
shouldn't be seen together."
Remy put a hand out. "But there has to be a way to
stop it, Res."
Morli sniffed in Remy's direction. "Perhaps. Perhaps
a time will come."
An Enddrese band provided live music for the pa-
trons and onstage caged dancers at Club Wet Spot. The
beat was incessant, primal, and the Kwandri performers
gyrated to it with abandon.
The females wore sheer bras and bustiers; midnight
black boxer-style panties and red lace teddies; single-
snap camisoles, minislips, and sheer peignoirs. Some,
Remy noted, had had reductive alterations and color
impregnation jobs done to their wedgelike feet so that
they now resembled spiked heels.
Faces, breasts, and bellies were fully depilated, and
coats were buzzcut or coiffed into outrageous styles.
Coloring ran from jet-black to rainbow. The males af-
fected lip gloss and eye shadow, and wore little more
than G-strings or codpieces.
On a second stage at the other end of the long room,
a Terran male in garter belt and stockings presided over
an amateur wet fur contest, where Kwandri of both gen-
ders were being hosed down with water-soluble dyes.
Still other Kwandri, identified by numbered pen-
dants, rocked in swings suspended from the rafters or
displayed their talents on the dance floor. Remy waved
off approaches from numbers six, fourteen, and sixty-
six as he sidled through the mixed crowd of indigs and
offworlders and found a seat at the bar.

illegal alien
207
Light strobed from the ceiling and pulsed from the
walls. The live sex shows and genital stunts were re-
stricted to the back rooms, but a small price could buy
anyone admittance.
Remy surveyed the table action on the raised tiers
above the dance floor, where a noisy, dangerous lot of
offworlders in dark glasses sat hunched over drinks,
pounding hands and feet in time to the music. A few
of the exec techs Remy had observed at the shuttleport
were up there as well, circulating table to table with
their alloy carrycases, arms draped around the shoul-
ders of Kwandri teens.
These same suits could occasionally be seen entering
or emerging from a doorway left of the bar. The matte-
black door was flanked by prime specimens of armed
human beef.
Remy had tried to talk his way through a similar por-
tal in the first club he visited that night, only to be told
the room was members-only. And how did one go about
applying for membership? hed asked. You have to be
sponsored, sport, a seven-footer informed him.
Remy turned to order a drink when a familiar voice
behind him said, "Santoul! Thought some worm ate
ya!" Vegas, wearing a synthsilk suit and looking every
bit the happening club owner, extended a hand. "Where
you been, spacer?"
Remy shook hands, absorbing the success.< "Yester-
day and tomorrow."
Vegas waved one of his bartenders over. "Give the
man whatever he wants."
Glans was waiting behind the bar. "An AI, straight
up," Remy said, staring into the Kwandri's smug grin.
"Better make it a double."
"Key, man, what chew say," Glans answered in En-
glish.
Vegas clapped him on the back. "So what d'ya think
of the new place? That's two for yours true. Not bad

208
James Lucerio
for a vet, huh?" The big man was rocking back and
forth on his feet, a bundle of raw energy.
Remy gave an approving nod. "Looks like you fell
into some good shit."
"And came out smelling sweet, Santoul, 'bout as
sweet as it can get before you oh-dee, know what I'm
saying? Kind of deal where the front credit doesn't care
about the overhead and nobody steps on your toes. And
it's only the beginning, man. I'm working on a third
opening 'cross the river, maybe a place with twice the
real estate ..."
Glans brought the drink while Vegas droned on, talk-
ing directly into Remy's ear. The club owner was a sea
of scents, but beneath it all, Remy caught a familiar
fragrance ... a Kwandri scent he couldn't quite place.
On the far stage, the wet fur contest was fast becom-
ing an exhibitionist's dream. Some of the contestants
were already peeling off their clothes to enthusiastic
applause from a growing crowd of onlookers.
"Check this out, Santoul," Vegas said, placing a
holoviewer on the bar. Remy zapped through a se-
quence of calendar screens, each month crowned by a
different bikini-clad Kwandri female.
Vegas grinned. "Primate of the Month. The swim-
suit edition. 'Course I've got a more revealing version
for the hardcore, but this one alone'll probably hang in
every shop in Likat."
Wild cheers from the far stage filled the room. Many
of the contestants were down to the bare essentials now.
Males and females were helping the stragglers out of
what few items of clothing remained, while others were
caressing one another in a provocative, teasing fashion.
The professionals Vegas had obviously placed among
them were striking alluring poses and simulating vari-
ous sexual techniques. The audience members below
were pressing toward the stage, grinding against who-
or whatever was nearby. Video monitors carried close-
ups for those elsewhere in the club.

illegal alien
209
"You don't do something, you're gonna have an orgy
on your hands," Remy said.
"I should be so lucky," Vegas said, scratching at his
palms.
Offworlders seated at tables on the first tier were
shouting out numbers, rushing off into back hallways
and rest rooms with their chosen Kwandri partners. Hu-
mans were joining the stage show, half the audience
down on the floor now, writhing.
Remy reached for his drink and saw a plump Kwandri
hand come down on his own. A young female pressed
soft breasts against his shoulder and purred, "Hello,
big Ter."
Remy looked over his shoulder. "Kitti?" he said in
astonishment as she slipped onto his lap.
At the same time Vegas tapped him on the forearm
to show him a plastic bottle about the size of an old
lipstick dispenser. The club owner squeezed a couple
drops of red liquid into one cupped hand, then began
to rub his hands together vigorously.
"Help yourself, Santoul," he said, proferring the
bottle.
"What is it?" Remy asked, inspecting it.
"Vanna," Vegas said, with a quaking, ecstatic
breath.

SEVENTEEN
c sill a voss's laugh preceded her
through the door. She had someone with her, but it
wasn't Jalak. The front door swung back and two fig-
ures stepped into the darkness of the room. Csilla was
still laughing when the lights came up, a knee raised
under a precariously balanced package. Her companion
was Els Nanff.
Spying Remy in the armchair, the youth let out a
spirited sound and rushed over to embrace him. Remy
stood up to return the hug, lost in scents, watching
Csilla all the while, her expression concerned as she
glanced between Remy and the short walkway to Jalak's
front door.
"Remy, Remy!" Nanff was enthusing, tattooing
blows against the small of Remy's back. "What you
bring me?" The boy was dressed in baggy knee-length
shorts, fingerless gloves, and a poncho much like the
one Csilla was wearing.
"Uh, it's back at the hotel, Els," Remy covered up.
"I'll drop it by tomorrow, how'd that be?"
"What it is?"
" A surprise, Els."
"By what kind surprise?"
210

illegal alien	218
"Now, Els," Csilla said, putting the packages down,
"it won't be a surprise if Remy tells you." Nanff turned
to show disappointment. "Why don't you go make all
of us some tea," she continued through the false smile,
"while Remy and I talk."
"Tomorrow?" Nanff said to Remy.
"My pledge," Remy said, offering a Kwandri hand-
sign. Els hurried off. "I let myself in," he told Csilla
once the boy had left the room. "Too cold to lurk
around outside."
Csilla took a seat opposite him near the door to Ja-
lak's office. "The weather was better last week," she
said in a neighborly way. "When did you get back?"
"Few days ago. I asked Ishida to keep it quiet."
"You're full of surprises, Santoul."
"You could say that."
Csilla sighed and looked around the room. "Back
door?"
"Kitchen window," Remy said. "I'll pay Jalak for
the damage. When's he due?"
She glanced at her wristwatch. "Soon. He had in-
formants all afternoon. Said he'd be home by dark."
"Sounds cozy, be home by dark. You do the shop-
ping and look after the kid, is that it? What's he doing
here, anyway?" Remy added before she could respond,
motioning with his chin. "You were supposed to see
he got back to Tsegg Tsirran."
"I did, Santoul, but . . . Look, it's a long story."
Remy shrugged. "I'm free."
Csilla made her lips a thin line. "We've sort of
adopted Els, Santoul."
"He has parents. I know, I met them."
"Not adopted exactly. We've extended the bal. Els
wants to be schooled in Likat. So we've been appointed
his legal custodians while he's here."
Remy shook his head in a theatrical way. "I keep
hearing this 'we.' "
"Simon and I," Csilla said quietly.

212
James Lucerio
"Simon and you," Remy sneered. "You were as-
signed to watch him, Voss, not den mother his inform-
ants." He stood up and went to the window, peered
through heavy drapes at the darkening street.
"Wounded in service," he said with his back to Voss,
' 'twice cited for meritorious service, recommended for
Department Five by the deputy director himself . . ."
He swung around. "What is it, Voss? Kwandri's air too
thin for your blood?''
"You're one to talk," she said. Her nostrils were
flared. "I don't need you to tell me how to run an op,
Santoul. It's just that things have become . . . compli-
cated since you left."
Remy positioned himself behind her. "It's what hap-
pens when agents go over, Voss." She turned in her
chair to regard him. "Don't look at me like I'm vi-
rused. Jalak's gone over. I don't need to hear how or
why, I just want to know what made it all right with
you."
Csilla was silent for a moment. "I love him, San-
toul."
Remy might have been able to think of a reply if the
door tone hadn't sounded. Jalak stepped in, dropping
his attache and reaching for his pocket as the front room
scene registered; but Remy's weapon was already out
and raised to Jalak's face.
"And I got a hug from Els," he said, backing away
until he had both of them in view. Jalak's beard and
glasses were back. "Take it out slowly and lay it down
on the floor, Jalak. Or'd the Manifest title you by now?"
"It's not what you think," Jalak told him, stooping
to set the stunner down. He nudged it toward Remy
with a foot.
"But then you don't know what I'm thinking, do you,
Professor?" Remy said, pocketing the weapon along
with his own.
Els returned from the kitchen a moment later with
the tea. He placed the tray on the table and smiled at

illegal alien
213
everyone. "Did you bring a wedding present, too?" he
asked Remy.
Remy looked at the Kwandri, then back to Jalak and
Csilla, whose hands reached for one another.
"That's right, Remy," Jalak said. "We're married."
Jalak went on to explain how the elder Els had per-
formed the ceremony over a month ago in Tsegg Tsir-
ran.
"It was wonderful," Csilla said, with a loving gaze
for her husband. "Villagers from all over the plateau
attended. Scent-summoners, artisans, divinators, so
much incredible food . . . You should have seen it, San-
toul."
The three of them were in Jalak's office by then, re-
corders switched off and noisemakers activated. Els was
studying English in his room in the rear of the house.
"I know it runs contrary to everything in my file,"
Csilla continued. "But I knew from the moment I set
foot downside that Q'aantre was the place I'd been
dreaming of. After I got to know Simon, I realized I
couldn't do what Ishida was asking. Not to someone
who had Q'aantre's best interests in mind."
She read the disbelief in Remy's eyes. "You still don't
understand, do you? I've wanted out for a long time,
Santoul. I just didn't know how to go about it. But once
Simon told me about NCorp's plan, I had all the justi-
fication I needed. I don't care what Center tries to do
to me, I won't go back." She looked to Jalak. "Even
after Simon confessed that he'd met with Colonel Gong,
that he'd dirtied the operation, I couldn't bring myself
to inform."
Never trust a gray-haired woman, Remy thought.
"It was the aphrodisiac, Remy," Jalak started to say.
"Simon," Csilla said, shaking her head in warning.
Jalak gave Csilla's hand a squeeze. "Why, what's he
going to do—kill us?" He regarded Remy. "I don't
think he will."

214
James Lucerio
"The aphrodisiac," Remy said.
The culturist nodded. "I told you last time we were
together in this office that you were asking me to violate
the most basic of my principles. What's more, I could
see you had no idea what NCorp meant to accomplish
by introducing lube to Q'aantre. Are you familiar with
the term?"
Remy said, "I've heard it tossed about, yeah."
"I'll admit I didn't even understand the full scope of
the operation then, but I grasped enough to know that
this world's very future was imperiled." Jalak's gray
eyes met Remy's. "The Xell'em were my only hope. I
thought if they could stop you from accomplishing
whatever Center sent you to Dhone to initiate, that
Q'aantre might be able to buy time." He shook his
head. "In retrospect, I see how naive I was."
Remy snorted. "Your shortsightedness almost cost
me my ass, Professor."
"I never meant for you to come to any harm, Remy.
I mean, I suppose I knew they would take the most
expedient course, but I forced the thought from my
mind. It wasn't you, Remy. It was simply that you were
the one sent to do the job."
Remy ran a hand through his hair. "So you told Gong
we'd found a way to interface with the Kwandri on a
biochemical level."
"I did. The colonel was quite impressed."
"How many times did you meet with him?"
"Three," Jalak said. "I'll swear to it, for what it's
worth. They asked for the names of our agents, but I
wouldn't furnish them with anything."
"Just mine."
"Yes," Jalak said quietly.
"And you didn't mention the aphrodisiac, the lube?"
' 'I told Gong that NCorp was mounting an operation
to destabilize Xell'em influence with the Grand Assem-
bly."
"Who else was present at the debriefings?"

illegal alien
215
' 'With the exception of the meet at the embassy, Gong
and I met alone. That first time there was a woman
officer named Mareer present. I haven't seen her since."
It sunk in like a smart secretion. Mareer! Remy
thought, remembering the flayed remains of Kin and
the Kwandri SPECVES lieutenant, Els Matut. Remy
ventured that where they went Mareer had followed—
including into that big hunting ground at the edge of
the known cosmos . . .
"But none of this matters," Jalak was saying, "now
that Ishida and Gong here have worked out the details
of the transaction."
Remy watched him. "The full scope, as you say."
"Yes," Jalak said, returning the look.
"For Vanna, you mean," Remy said, deciding to take
a chance.
Jalak and Voss traded glances. "Then you know."
"I know it's become the object of the game. But I'm
still not clear what it is."
Jalak grew watchful again, then snorted. "Of course
you do, Remy. It's possible you're subject zero when it
comes to Vanna."
Remy waited.
' 'Remember when you first ordered me to spread the
aphrodisiac around my network? You'd been making
smart secretion pickups from Morli for what, two, three
weeks already? And you were flying on the effects of
those pickups. I can still recall your voice and the way
you looked—wired, squint-eyed, hunched over. Strung
out, as it was once called—addicted. Why? Because of
what your lube had done to Morli's physiology. What
the lube handed out by the operatives who have come
in your wake has done to all the hapless people who've
fallen under its so-called liberating intoxication."
"The secretions," Remy managed.
Jalak nodded grimly. "Lube is enhanced by its pas-
sage through a Q'aantre's system. It's empowered, if
you will. And it's certainly the most addicting sexual

216
James Lucerio
euphorant to be unleashed on the Arm since direct stim.
That's Vanna, Remy, in but one of its countless guises.
It's like the vaginal libations that were so prized in old
Earth magic, but it works."
Remy felt his jaw drop.
"You were duped," Csilla said from across the room.
"We all were." She adopted the position Remy had
taken with her earlier on, her voice behind his chair like
an oracle's.
"The scent-gland extract was supposed to be used to
secure intel data from Morli and his subs about Xella's
activities in the Burst system. But in fact Xella has no
operations planned for Burst. It never did. Densign has
practically admitted as much. The scare was a fabrica-
tion, spread by Center itself and backed up by rumors
about the system going accessible to the corps and pri-
vate speculators. A way to misdirect everyone's atten-
tion from what was really going down on Q'aantre."
Jalak left his desk to join Voss behind Remy's chair.
"NCorp must have known about the extract's effect on
Q'aantre metabolism long before they had you run it on
Morli. But maybe they weren't sure just how well those
altered secretions were going to work on humans and
God knows who else. That's where you came in. When
they debriefed you upside and ran their scans, your own
scrambled metabolism told them everything they wanted
to know.
"But your body must have also alerted them to the
fact that you couldn't be trusted to continue serving as
a conduit for the extract. They were worried you were
becoming a second Simon Jalak, and they saw them-
selves losing yet another of their officers to this world.
You showed up on-station with a Q'aantre teenager; you
talked about Morli as though he were a friend, not some
agent you were running."
"So they shipped you off to Dhone," Csilla said,
"and shuttled down a network of distributors and col-
lectors."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
217
"The exec tech suits I've been seeing all over town,"
Remy said.
"That's them," Jalak affirmed. "They set up banks,
complete with deposit and withdrawal accounts. All a
Q'aantre has to do in exchange for lube is put in a quick
stop at one of the Vanna banks and make a smart-
secretion deposit."
Remy thought of the sentried back room at the Club
Wet Spot. "There's no shortage of the extract, then. It
was all a lie."
Jalak shrugged as he stepped into view. "Who
knows? Maybe there was. Maybe TechSci has synthe-
sized it by now."
Things were coalescing in Remy's mind with all the
subtlety of a star system whirling itself into creation.
Vanna white, Vanna red, Vanna black . . . The varieties
were near countless because each and every Kwandri
was a separate biochemical laboratory. It made him
think of Earth's oyster-slurping bars of generations back.
He thought too about Lieutenant Els Matut's self-
generated toxin, and what SPECVES-secreted Vanna
must be like. It bogged the glands!
"No wonder Ishida wasn't concerned that you'd gone
over," he said to Jalak. "I figured her estrogen level
was depressed." He looked over his shoulder at Voss.
"And she was probably thinking of herself as match-
maker when it came to the two of you." He laughed.
"I come up out of Dhone's well in one piece, so they
have me returned here. But I'm not only compromised,
but a goddamned cin-den idol in Likat."
Jalak cleared his throat. "Yes, we've, uh, seen some
of the adverts. Ishida must have decided to compromise
you further."
Remy stood up to pace the room, turning the reve-
lations over in his mind. "But why?" he asked after a
moment. "Just for some new addiction they could dump
on the Arm? What's in it for Xu and the rest of the
Xell'em downside?"

218
James Lucerio
"Funds," Jalak said flatly. "And power. Think about
NCorp, Remy. You're looking at an agency that can
barely sustain itself on what the Consortium allocates
to operations. You yourself said so. And I suspect the
same holds true for Center's Xell'em equivalent. The
war's over. There's no dire need for intelligence right
now. But that doesn't mean Ishida and every NCorp
officer like her is going to sit still while the agency is
dismantled underneath them.
"No, with funding there are always ops to run and
intrigues to fashion. And on Q'aantre—in Vanna—
Ishida and Gong have found a well they can tap for the
funds required to finance projects in a dozen other sys-
tems. They could go public with the NuYen Vanna will
bring in."
"It isn't just Q'aantre anymore," Csilla interjected.
"It's about secret alliances and unsanctioned penetra-
tions. It's about destroying a culture just to keep your-
self employed."
Remy tried to recall what he'd learned about Earth
history's odd paring of governments and drugs: about
heroin being introduced to offset morphine addiction
after World War I; about the use of LSD for mind
control; the smuggling of cocaine to fund covert oper-
ations . . .
He took a long hard look at Jalak and Voss. "You
two are talking like this thing's already accomplished.
But I'm not hearing it in your voices."
Csilla relaxed some. "Lube's secondary purpose was
to quash the rebellion," Jalak began. "By keeping ev-
eryone in the movement so busy discovering their sex-
uality there'd be no time, no motivation, to stage a
revolt. At the same time, Envoy Densign and Ambas-
sador Xu quietly slip into positions of power.
"But there is an opposition. The same one that's been
trying to minimize offworlder influence from the begin-
ning, and the membership is increasing every day.
They're searching for some way to present Q'aantre's

illegal alien
219
case to the League. But first the Grand Assembly has
to be convinced to rid itself of Densign, Xu, and the
rest of these so-called advisers who have assumed con-
trol of Q'aantre's internal affairs."
"How do we get to this group?" Remy asked.
Jalak swallowed and found his voice. "Most of them
are my informants. Morli included."
Remy laughed. "So you've finally learned how to run
a network, Professor."
Jalak blushed. "With Csilla's help."
"Right now the Consortium is too pleased with
NCorp's apparent success here to wonder how it came
about," Csilla said. "But if the opposition can find a
voice with the League ..."
"They will," Remy said, sure of himself. "Only it's
up to us to show them how."
Karine Mareer slid a hand into the hair at the nape
of her neck and blanched as a huge tuft came loose
between her quivering fingers. She removed her hand
as delicately as she could, but the once-luxuriant clump
continued to loosen of its own accord and dropped from
the shoulder of her uniform to her lap, where it lay there
like the tail of some small animal. Colonel Gong's slope
of hairless brow furrowed as he regarded it, but he went
right on speaking as though nothing had happened.
Karine wanted to scream.
And kill in ten thousand lingering ways the man who
had brought the sudden hair loss about. The man re-
sponsible for the deaths of Kin and Els Matut, and the
burn treatments she and Glasscock had undergone in
Zalindi. The man who would surely have left the two
of them to die of fluid loss or radiation poisoning if the
fusion device hadn't killed them outright.
How well she could recall the flash, the evil wind,
the hell she had inhaled that afternoon on the Lanns-
mar. The retreat to the city in the near-crippled land
crawler, the smell of vomit in the front seat, the smell

220
James Lucerio
of illness and death clinging to all else. Glasscock at
the controls, vacant-eyed, navigating by rote . . .
"And while I appreciate your desire for revenge,"
Gong was saying, "I cannot sanction what you ask at
this time. We wish no problems with NCorp or Kwan-
dri, and a political assassination of the sort you propose
would only undo our hardwon alliance." He stared at
the strands of hair in Karine's lap for a moment, and
added, "I'm sorry, Major. For everything."
Major, she thought; her promotion, her reward. She
tried to speak but coughed instead, feeling as though
some fluid-filled sac had burst in her lungs. "But, Kin,"
she managed to say.
Gong was leaning as far from the desk as his chair
would permit, certain she was about to launch a second
blood-speckled spray in his direction.
"Major Kin afforded his life a noble end," he said
finally. "His account has been credited and his name
logged in our files. At any rate, Major, it is my under-
standing that Narca and her smugglers are more to
blame for his death than the Terran."
Karine brushed the strands of hair from her lap as
though they were hateful insects. "I can always attend
to them later, Colonel. But Santoul is here, now, and
who can say where he'll be reassigned tomorrow. And
even if you choose to credit the Enddrese with the kills,
there remains the matter of the Raliish double agent
who was abducted by Santoul and tortured."
Gong made a dismissive motion with his left hand.
"Fan'nat was a nuisance. Santoul did everyone a fa-
vor. ''
Karine fought to remain seated. She was tempted to
fling a handful of her irradiated scalp across the desk
into Gong's fatuous face. A favor indeed! "I want San-
toul," she said firmly.
"And I repeat: You have no authorization." Gong
glared at her with slightly crossed eyes, then softened
his expression. "Are you aware, by the way, that San-

illegal alien
221
toul is quite well known in the entertainment world?
His filmworks are playing in quite a few theaters in
Likat-"
"I want his balls!" Karine screamed, making two
upraised cups of her talon-fingernailed hands.
Gong showed her a disapproving look. "Forget your
grievances, Major. Regard your mission as an unqual-
ified success: in your own small way you and Santoul
have contributed to a much needed rapproachement be-
tween the Consortium and the Manifest."
"But surely this isn't to be desired, Colonel." Her
voice was pleading now, desperate.
"Perhaps not in the long run," he was willing to
concede. "But for a time, yes—for reasons I'm not at
liberty to discuss. Favor me by attending the Grand
Assembly meeting as my guest. It's still two weeks off
and by then perhaps your, er, hair will have grown in."
Gong cleared his throat. "You'll see for yourself how
wonderfully we're all getting along."
Karine thought she could take out both of Gong's
eyes if she lunged just then, but again she restrained
herself. "Can you at least promise me that the Terran
murderer will attend?"
The colonel rubbed his nub of jaw. "I can't promise,
of course, but I could certainly arrange for an invitation
to be forwarded through Santoul's superiors. Would that
be enough?"
Karine resisted an urge to scratch her scalp and kept
the grin limited to a tight smile. "Yes, Colonel," she
said after a moment. "I just want to see him one last
time. To thank him for helping to mend the wounds that
have kept our worlds divided."

EIGHTEEN
i\emy spent the next two weeks decid-
ing where best to place the charges that would bring
down the house NCorp had built on Kwandri. Ishida
had him fluttered to gauge his reaction to the downside
transformation, and while Remy initially believed he'd
been successful in dazzling the neurometric instru-
ments, the station chief was suddenly hinting that re-
assignment might be in order.
His countersuggestion was that he at least be allowed
to serve out the role as DisneyCorp exec, if for no other
reason than to keep his cover intact for future ops. Ish-
ida saw no harm to it, but Phajol Dakou's suspicions
had been aroused. Each evening when Remy returned
to the hotel suite, he would find a message from the
counsel waiting onscreen. Dakou's dark eyes narrowed,
something sly about the set of his mouth as he asked,
"Why those particular vid requisitions, Remy? Am I to
take it you've grown self-infatuated, or is there perhaps
some more righteous method to your madness?"
And each morning Remy would transmit the same
message to the station: "It's true, Phajol, I can't seem
to get enough of myself. There's something thrilling
about being chased down the street by an adoring mob
222

illegal alien
223
of scent seekers. Besides, what better way to keep in
shape. As ever, Remy."
He had begun by having the disk of Bonnie and Clyde
dubbed. Copies of the flick were now showing in five
different cin-dens in and around Likat.
Then he'd requested Disney Corp to send down sev-
eral other works featuring his donor-clone, under the
pretext of studying the effectiveness of a vid festival to
stimulate point-of-sale purchases of ersatz Terrana. He
cited in particular the Beatty film Shampoo, which—
what with its emphasis on haircare and personal adorn-
ment—might create a downside market for creme rinses,
conditioners, fixatives, and the like. He offered up ex-
amples to reinforce the pitch—the current trend in coat
coloring and laser-combing, for one—and as a result
not only received the requested disks but an employ-
ment placement offer from a visiting DisneyCorp veep.
Within days Likat's cin-dens and odor theaters were
inundated with his handpicked selection. In addition to
little known classics like The Parallax View and Mc-
Cabe and Mrs. Miller, there was Splendor in the Grass
(retitled "A Q'aantre Tragedy"), Reds ("The Smell of
Beets"), Heaven Can Wait ("Tegganon Can Wait"),
and Ishtar ("Zaniness on Dry Land")—which audi-
ences failed time and time again to comprehend.
Concurrently, without Ishida's knowledge, Remy be-
gan to make personal appearances.
As Warren Beatty.
Since the Kwandri were inclined to believe that vids
showed life as it was really lived outside their small
circle of cosmic space, Remy had an easy time con-
vincing his audiences the flicks were more in the way
of biographical pieces than works of art. So he would
use a film like Splendor in the Grass to illustrate a point
about the pitfalls of youth, or the dangers of wandering
too far from tradition. Or he might use McCabe to dis-
cuss drug addiction, or Shampoo to discuss the prob-
lems associated with multiple sex partnerships. But he

224
James Lucerio
would always lead up to Parallax View to show how
easily a being could be manipulated by evil forces, and
Reds to demonstrate how even those evil forces could
be overthrown.
Hardly what the Kwandri came expecting to hear. But
they listened, and they sniffed, and they exhaled olfac-
tory whisperings to one another while Remy delivered
his messages from makeshift rostrums and hand-painted
lecterns with built-in fans that wafted his NCorp-
enhanced emanations into the crowd.
To drive home the point, he closed every appearance
with a dimensionalized version of King Kong, hoping
some would get the message that a fall from the tower
was too great a price to pay for bright lights, big city.
By the end of the first week of the Warren Beatty
festival and lecture series, incidents of Kwandri attacks
on offworlder consulates, banks, and corp concerns had
tripled and appreciated in strength.
And by the end of the second week, Simon Jalak's
growing band of dissidents was ready to hear Remy out.
Sort of.
"Please, quiet down!" Morli was shouting at the au-
dience, backing the words up with stinging aromas
Remy and a stage-frightened Els Nanff could smell from
centerstage. "At least let him make his point."
"Why should we?" someone near the front returned.
Remy recognized her as a former staff officer from
SPECVES, many of whom had joined the rebel move-
ment after the unexplained disappearance of Els Matut.
"DisneyCorp is as responsible as any for this crisis!"
Remy winced. He realized now that it was probably
a mistake to have had Morli introduce him as a rep from
the 'Corp. NCorp was unknown to most Kwandri and
DisneyCorp had apparently come to symbolize a pri-
mary source of the world's woes. Still, there were a few
shouts of encouragement from the audience.
Billed as an ethnological forum hosted by Professor

illegal alien
225
Simon Jalak, the meeting was being held in a spacious
but cold riverside theater. Jalak and Csilla Voss were
also on stage, but well off to one side—where Remy
wanted to be.
"It's true!" a second staffer echoed from the back.
"Down with Disney Corp!" Several more were on their
feet, overpowering Morii's exhalations with nidorous
fumes of their own.
"We were told this would be a strategic meeting, Res
Morli, not some excuse for further propagandizing!"
Morli turned a hopeless look Remy's way before at-
tempting to answer the charge. "We are here to discuss
strategies. If you'd only silence and deodorize yourself."
A dozen more stood up, raising fists in unison and
directing some mordant scent toward the stage.
Morli adopted an imploring stance. "He isn't here to
speak on DisneyCorp's behalf but Q'aantre's." He ges-
tured to young Els Nanff. "He has one of our own with
him."
"We can speak for ourselves, Res Morli!"
"We've nothing to learn from a country boy!"
Remy worked his jaw as he glanced around the room.
The turnout was better than expected, but it suddenly
seemed unlikely any good would come of it. Perhaps it
had been a mistake as well to count on Els helping
things along.
A burly male near the door aimed a finger center-
stage. "I've already heard this Terran speak."
"Then you know I stand with you." Remy said into
the antique mike before anyone could offer a follow-up.
"I know you speak in riddles," the Kwandri said,
turning to those nearby. "He's a product of the system
they've sent to ruin us. He wears the face of our ene-
mies. He subverts our youth!"
"Lube is your enemy," Remy answered him. "Lube
and what some of you have been donating in return."
"No one here!" a female said.

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James Lucerio
"Listen to him, then," Morli chimed in, "if you
wish your world returned to you."
Gradually the crowd quieted. Remy's nasal passages
began to dilate; he took a deep breath and inhaled ar-
omatic scents of wariness commingled with receptivity.
He exchanged smiles with Els.
"The way I smell it," he began, "the only way to
stop the flow of lube and Vanna is to get rid of the
advisers the Grand Assembly has placed in control in
Q'aantre's affairs. But you're not going to accomplish
that by continuing to single out banks and consulates
with your stinkbombs."
"You'd have us silence our only voice, Terran?"
someone asked.
"No. But your attacks are only giving the Assembly
cause to entrust offworlders with the power to regulate
civil law. The Assembly has become too frightened to
listen to you any longer. Your government hears the
stirrings of discontent, and it interprets these as the
rumblings of revolt. Their next step will be to call for
offworlder troops to protect the peace."
Remy paused. "You'll have no recourse but to resign
yourself to the end of Q'aantre culture as you know it.
One by one your traditions will crumble and fall. Your
world will grow overpopulated, polluted, crime-ridden.
The Consortium and the Manifest will offer you salva-
tion in the form of League membership, but with that
will come absorption into the homogeneous whole and
a loss of the things you hold sacred." Remy gestured
to his young friend. "Think of your future. Your chil-
dren."
The crowd was growing restless. Remy picked up
traces of the violent odors his previous public appear-
ances had given rise to.
"To whom do we vent our anger if not to your em-
bassies?" the burly Kwandri wanted to know. Others
voiced similar demands.
"To the Assembly members themselves," Remy said.

ILLEGAL ALIEN	227
"They must be convinced to order Xella and Terra off-
world. They must be convinced of the fact that we off-
worlders are no different than you are. That we don't
have all the answers, and that we certainly have no rights
to impose our culture on your world.''
"But the membership looks up to you," a female
thought to point out. "Half of Q'aantre would willingly
surrender itself to Xella's or Terra's control. We are
your . . . lessers."
The basement filled with sullen scents and no one
spoke for a long while.
"Give us weapons we can hold to the Assembly
members' heads," someone said at last. "We'll con-
vince them." There were shouts and smells for and
against the idea.
"There's a better way," Remy said, holding his hands
aloft in a gesture of pacification. When everyone was
quiet again, he added, "But the plan requires some of
you to use lube one final time."
Karine Mareer's plan was a simple one: she meant to
kill Remy Santoul. It was just the where and how she
had yet to work out. She already had the when—during
the Grand Assembly session slated for the day after
next. Kwandri's top officials were expected to surrender
control of the planet to a joint Xell'em/Terran council
headed by Ambassador Xu and Envoy Densign. The
day Remy Santoul would be surrendering his life to the
woman he had nearly killed.
The bald woman, Karine thought as she regarded her
image in the vanity screen.
She ran a hand back to front over her smooth scalp
and let it pass down over her face to her mouth, where
it became a white-knuckled fist muffling the scream
lodged in her throat. No, her hair had not grown back
as Colonel Gong suggested it might. In fact, it had be-
gun to fall out in larger and larger clumps-collecting
around her feet in the water shower like some undone

228
James Lucerio
bird's nest—until there was nothing left to do but shave
it off entirely.
She leaned closer to the mirror's optical pickup, then
upped the magnification so that she might inspect the
tissue grafts on her face. Thankfully, these were hardly
discernible now, except for a fingernail-size patch of
slightly crinkled tissue over her left cheekbone, which
cosmetics would conceal. But her lips looked as plump
and perfect as they always had; her earlobes fell to just
the right length on both sides; her nose retained its
graceful outward curve. And her body looked fit, she
decided, turning to admire the flat of her belly, the firm
round swell of her breasts and buttocks, the power in-
herent in the smooth muscles of her long limbs.
With a wig, who would be the wiser? But even as she
bent to scoop the hairpiece from its lifesize mannequin
bust, she felt the fire return to her blood, and instead
of donning the raven thing she hurled it across the room,
where it struck the corridor door and slid noiselessly to
the carpeted floor like some dead creature from Dhone's
nuked grasslands.
Which Karine felt herself to be.
The embassy cosmetologist had promised that given
a week's time he would be able to seed her scalp and
return her hair; but she understood that this would mean
nothing unless done in celebration of Santoul's death.
Despite Colonel Gong's beliefs to the contrary, Kar-
ine was convinced that Santoul had been apprised of
her mission long before he had lured her and Glasscock
and the rest to the circular grave his fusion device had
carved out for them in the Lannsmar. At the very least,
the Terran had tortured the truth from the Raliish agent,
Fan'nat. She was more inclined to think that Simon
Jalak had delivered false information from the start. But
what could she have done to Santoul that had aroused
such venomous designs against her?
Karine was certain now that she had seen him on
several occasions before Dhone. Sessions with the hyp-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
229
notherapist onstation revealed that Santoul had actually
been following her for at least a standard-week prior to
his departure. So why hadn't he made an attempt on
her life then? Why arrange for such a tedious journey
and hideous death unless deep in Santoul's mind there
festered some wound from long ago.
And from just how long ago? she had been asking
herself. She didn't think they had crossed paths during
the war; but then could she really be sure of anything
anymore?
She found it a comforting thought, though, that San-
toul had experienced for perhaps years what she had
come to feel these past weeks. It gave them something
profound in common; more than the tenuous bond Gong
had held forth as a kind of rationale for the sufferings
she had endured at Santoul's hands.
But as much as she desired to nurse a sadomasochis-
tic delight from imaginings of Santoul's unknown
wound, the compulsion to avenge herself was overpow-
ering. And, with this in mind, she had begun to case
the Assembly hall for potential kill zones as soon as
sources assured her that Santoul would be attending the
occasion.
As a DisneyCorp rep.
On this historic occasion.
And she had decided in the end to take him out in
the very fashion that had failed on Dhone—using the
literally hand-held Kwandri-exuded toxin. Only this time
she planned to wear it herself ... To approach tactile-
enhanced Remy Santoul boldly in the welcome line,
extend a broad smile and a poison-smeared gloved hand
to him, and say in her best English: How wonderful to
see you again, Mr. Santoul.

NINETEEN
flow wonderful to see you again,
Remy," Norak Baj said, emerging from the crowd on
the Assembly hall steps with his arms open.
Remy eliminated all possibilities of a ritual testicle
grasp by stepping into Baj's embrace, bending way over
to exchange claps on the back with the Kwandri.
"I haven't seen much of you these past two weeks,"
Baj said, stepping back, but keeping Remy within reach.
"Up close, that is. But word has it that you've been
seen all over Likat promoting your, uh, your donor's
films." He showed a paternal grin. "So you enjoy be-
ing the idol."
"Stardom has it privileges," Remy said.
"Assuredly so." Baj scanned the noisy thousands
pressed behind police cordons at the foot of the stairs.
"Who would have dreamed that so many would attend.
And to demonstrate support for the Grand Assembly's
decision . . . Well, it's certainly more than I ex-
pected."
"And what was that, Norak?"
Baj sniffed. "Billowings of disapproval, at the very
least. Rage, violence, explosive displays. Note the
230

ILLEGAL ALIEN
231
number of police units in attendance. It's apparent the
Assembly members had similar misgivings."
Remy tugged at the sleeves of his tunic jacket while
he searched for familiar faces. He caught sight of Morli
and a dozen other dissidents about midway down the
staircase, positioned either side of the carpet that ran
from the hall's columned entryway to the street.
"Even Res Morli is here," Baj said in a private voice.
"Are you aware that he resigned the ministry? Imagine
abandoning a post that took one into space—up the well,
as you say. What I would give for such an opportunity."
He paused for a moment of reverie. "But you know,
Remy, I'm doubly surprised to see him here. What with
all the rumors."
Baj was conspiratorial now, leaning into Remy's
space. Remy said, "About the rebel movement, you
mean."
"Exactly. And yet, here, around me are some twenty
faces I thought would be the last to welcome offworld-
ers into the Assembly." Baj sighed and exhaled won-
derment. ' 'I am twenty times surprised—and somewhat
confused, I'll admit."
"Maybe it's just the good weather that brought them
out."
"That might well be," Baj said, indulging in a deep
breath. "It seems that spring has come early this year."
Remy excused himself when he saw the first of the
Terran Mission limos complete its wide swing into the
square and motor slowly through the crowd, answering
all the cheering, the hand and flag waving with short
bursts of horn and siren.
The crowd parted to accommodate the limo as it
neared the base of the hall's broad staircase, but hun-
dreds of hands continued to stroke and pat it on all
sides. Mothers held their children in outstretched arms;
old men raised canes and crutches; everyone proffered
exhalations of exuberance and enthusiasm.
Three other vehicles followed the lead limo into the

232
James Lucerio
square, and even as these were discharging their re-
splendent passengers, the Xell'em motorcade was arriv-
ing from the opposite direction. Kwandri leaned from
the windows of buildings across the square to wave or
dust the convoy with confetti and scraps of paper.
Densign's staffers were beginning to ascend the steps,
the men offering fixed smiles and noble gestures to the
onlookers, the high-heeled women bunching long gowns
to one side, concerned more about remaining upright
for the duration of the climb than anything else.
But the envoy himself was lingering behind, probably
waiting for Ambassador Xu to arrive, Remy decided.
He pictured the two of them walking up the stairs to-
gether arm in arm, proud of the separate peace they had
forged. Disregarding that it had been achieved at Kwan-
dri 's expense.
Remy edged forward through the crowd to get a bet-
ter look at his fellow planetmates as they filed into the
hall.
Morli and his people were offering their hands. And
the unwitting Terrans were accepting them.
Morli realized that he was bouncing up and down on
his feet, but he couldn't help himself. The lube was
coursing through him like a hot river and it was all he
could do to stay rooted to one spot on the steps. Ayyum
Matut—younger sister of the disappeared SPECVES
lieutenant—was alongside him, under the lube as well;
and every so often their elbows, hips, shoulders, or
knees would make contact and Morli would go rigid
from sheer physical charge.
Not that parts of him weren't already rigid. And from
the way Ayyum Matut was looking at him, it was plain
that the sexual circuit wasn't operating unidirectionally.
Morli observed the same look on the faces of his
male and female colleagues on both sides of the plush
runner someone in the Assembly had ordered pulled
from storage for the occasion. Directly across from him

ILLEGAL ALIEN
233
on the steps, Norak Kaz was actually grinding himself
against Els Seff's backside as he reached over his shoul-
ders to stroke the face of one of the Terran Mission
staffers.
Well, maybe it was Els Seff who was rubbing himself
against Norak Kaz, Morli thought. Heaven knew he was
more than ready to tear off his clothes and let the tall
and shapely Ayyum have her way with him right where
they stood.
Fortunately, the people around them—the ones will-
ing to give Q'aantre away for a lube job—were too en-
grossed in the task of scenting, flag waving, and well
wishing to pay much mind to the inexplicable writhings
of a few individuals; although Morli was certain that
the Tegganon-Vdden atmosphere was going to get to ev-
eryone soon enough.
Perhaps just about the time the Vanna would kick in
for the offworlders.
Not a Terran staffer had escaped the curious gauntlet
Morli and the rest had set in their path. The women had
been stroked on hands and bare arms, on faces and slim
necks exposed under upswept hairstyles; and while the
men's dress jackets had provided the Q'aantre with
fewer surface target areas, there were still hands to grab,
depilated cheeks and jaws to touch, ample zones for
contact.
The Xell'em climbing the stairs now presented a dif-
ferent set of problems, because of the cumbersome cos-
tumes they affected. The Xell'em weren't as comfortable
about being touched as the Terrans were. Morli, nev-
ertheless, had already managed to lay a hand on more
than his share of Manifest legation flesh, squeezing a
thigh here, a breast there.
Vanna Res, Vanna Norak, Vanna Els, Vanna Ayyum
... the offworlders were getting a taste of the range of
flavors and colors.
Q'aantre's last stand, Morli had time to think. And
should the day end in victory, the world would have

234
James Lucerio
Remy Santoul to thank for a large part of it. He had
glimpsed the Earther earlier on the top of the staircase,
but Remy had since moved off. Morli still didn't know
what to make of the man; it was as though he had de-
cided to make Q'aantre a personal crusade.
But better enigmatic Terrans like Remy Santoul than
the Envoy Densign, who was coming up the stairs arm
in arm with the Xell'em Xu. Densign, this strange-
looking human Santoul said was modeled after an Earth
leader of generations ago. It was difficult for even Morli
to understand how one like Densign could rise to power.
But then who could comprehend the bizarre nature of
human culture. A mere brush pass with it and Q'aantre
had been nearly tipped out of orbit.
With this in mind, Morli reached over the cordon of
uniformed arms that contained the stairway crowd and
extended a quavering hand to the envoy.
"Mr. Densign, Mr. Densign," he shouted, mimick-
ing the almost craving tone of his neighbors.
The Terran, head lowered and close-set eyes peering
from beneath beetled brows, was busy fending off a
dozen hands; but Morli knew he had him as soon as
their eyes met. Densign collapsed the upraised V-
formation he had made of his right hand and offered it
to the insistent Q'aantre straining at the cordon.
Morli held on to the clammy hand for a good six
steps, while someone did the same with Ambassador
Xu.
There were only the last-minute arrivals to attend to,
he saw as he backed himself into the crowd, military
officials like Colonel Gong and the statuesque woman
officer Morli recognized as Karine Mareer.
Karine had had no trouble picking him out from the
crowd at the top of the stairs—the full head of brown
waves, the wide mouth, the handsome symmetrical fea-
tures, the straight teeth that near glinted in the after-
noon light. But now she had lost him. And fallen in

illegal alien
235
behind Densign and Xu, who were taking their own
sweet time about entering the hall.
To add to the frustration, it seemed that every Kwan-
dri she passed was dying to lay hands on her. Already
shed been nudged, squeezed, fondled, kissed, em-
braced, poked, and prodded, and she was beginning to
wonder whether she would even make it to the top with
her costume of wristlets, pectorals, and belts intact.
Fearing that someone was going to make a grab for her
hair, she had planted one hand firmly atop the wig; but
that of course had only given the Kwandri free access
to her underarm and the whole of her left breast.
Karine could well understand how the creatures were
oveijoyed at the prospect of surrendering their petty
planet to offworlder rule; but the Kwandri were display-
ing something more than simple enthusiasm. Especially
those pressed against each other midway along the steps,
leaning in at her from both sides with hungry expres-
sions and cloying breath. Had she not known better,
she would have sworn there was a sexual component to
all the crazed gesticulations and desperate lungings.
The one part of her she couldn't offer them, however,
was the gloved hand at her corseted breast, the one
impregnated with toxin and reserved for Remy Santoul.
She knew she would find him inside the hall, and
could see him there: standing at the rear of the gallery
while the members of both legations settled themselves
behind the curve of tables the Kwandri had erected.
As she rehearsed the planned greeting line a smile
played about her lips, which the spectators read as a
sign to resume their pawings.
Her bare skin was tingling strangely by the time she
reached the hall's columned entrance.
Remy checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed
since the first of the handshakes; that left no more than
five before the Vanna came on. The gallery was still
filling, but most of the offworlder legation seats were

236
James Lucerio
occupied. Remy calculated that with a bit of old-
fashioned luck the onset of the sexual euphorant would
coincide with Envoy Densign's introductory remarks.
He and Xu were at the center of the table, with Xu's
wife seated between them. On either side of the trio sat
a mix of Xell'em, Terran, and Kwandri.
Remy and Morli stood in the rear of the hall among
a group of rebels who could barely keep their hands off
one another, and were receiving a slew of disapproving
stares and angry remarks as a result.
"Show some respect for our guests," one indignant
Assembly member directed to the group as he was en-
tering the hall. Laughter and a dozen invitations to join
the fun sent him hurrying off to his seat.
"How long, Remy?" Morli asked in an anxious
voice.
"Three minutes, Res."
Down front, the Assembly speaker was calling for
quiet. Densign gave it a moment and rose slowly to his
feet, milking the applause. He wedged a finger into the
collar of his shirt, took a sip of water, and cleared his
throat.
Somewhere in the balcony above, Csilla Voss had her
camera running.
"First," the envoy began, "let me just say how proud
I am to be a part of this historic occasion." Densign
radiated sincerity, jowls quivering as he shook his head
for emphasis. "You know, when I was a boy—and I
was a boy once upon a time—I always believed that our
society would reach a point where it would be able to
offer only its breast, er, its best to the emerging worlds
of the near group. And now it's time to come—uh, now
the time has come to join glands—hands!—with the
Xell'em to lick the Kwandrian shaft—to speak in Kwan-
dri's behalf!"
Remy fought back a grin and studied his hands. When
he looked up, Densign was reaching for the water again.
A confused murmuring swept through the gallery as the

illegal alien
237
membership tried to make some sense of the envoy's
translated statement.
"What I mean to say," Densign began again, "is
that Ambassador Xu and I would like to get it on, would
like to get on with it, would like to get this mating
under way, this meeting under way with a few words
from Madame Xu—who, may I say, has about the nicest
set of melons I've ever seen."
The gallery went dead still.
But instead of raking a hand across Densign's face,
Xu's wife tittered. She playfully wiggled her ample
bosom in the envoy's face as she stood up, sniffling,
narrow-eyed, and hunched over.
"I want to thank Mr. Densign for the compliment,"
she told the audience. "And I'd like to say in return
that I have long been an admirer of the envoy . . . and
of his staff as well."
"And what a stiff staff it is!" someone said, eliciting
laughs from the rest of the legation table.
Ambassador Xu, meanwhile, was whispering to the
Earther beside him, whose hands were busy doing
something beneath the table. Farther down the line cou-
ples were beginning to explore one another. A few were
already lip-locked in passionate embraces; others were
tossing items of clothing into the gallery.
The Kwandri speaker was trying to call for order.
Madame Xu shrugged out of her top and lifted a bent
leg to the tabletop. A wary-eyed Densign fumbled with
the fasteners that secured her shoe and commenced go-
ing down on her painted toes.
"This is an outrage!" the voice of a rebel rang out
above all the others raised in protest and outright dis-
gust. "Is this what we want to become?"
The offworlders were too preoccupied to notice. Por-
tions of the table had been swept clean of monitors,
mikes, and hardcopy to accommodate the more hori-
zontally inclined. Some squirmed face to face or front
to back in chairs and on the hall's cool floor. Densign

238
James Lucerio
was slavering over Madame Xu's knee, both hands
raised in victory signs.
"Get them out of here!" someone screamed.
"They're animals, animalsV' said another.
"We're better than this!" from a third.
"Animals!"
"Hose 'em down!" Remy added from the rear, hid-
ing his mouth with a hand.
Morli took hold of Remy's upper arm. "We've done
it, Remy, we've done it," he rasped.
Remy smiled down at his friend, even as his flesh
began to tingle.
Several police units had burst into the hall, but were
making no attempt to approach the writhing piles of
bodies on the floor and tabletops. A dozen uniformed
Kwandri stood a safe distance away, studying the vari-
ous entanglements with perplexed and lopsided expres-
sions. Moans and exclamations of deep-seated pleasure
issued from the PA systems as the legation strived for
a collective orgasm.
The musky redolence was simply more than most of
the audience could absorb and many were heading for
the streets. Remy, figuring his work was done, was just
about to join the mass exodus when he spotted a Xell'em
woman staggering toward him, one gloved hand raised
in a kind of claw as she fought her way through a rush
of Kwandri moving in a perpendicular direction.
It took Remy a few seconds to recognize her because
the hair was all wrong—in fact, it appeared askew—but
there was no mistaking Karine Mareer's cheekbones,
even under the snarl she wore, nor the purpose of that
upraised clawhand.
He didn't have time to marvel that she was alive.
Principally because Mareer was suddenly on him like
a storm and driving him back into an unyielding throng
of Assembly members bottlenecked at one of the door-
ways. Remy had had the presence of mind to grab hold

illegal alien
239
of the wrist of the lethal hand, but Mareer was lightning
fast with the other.
They performed a kind of ragged ballroom dance,
careening from bottleneck to wall and back again, right
hands uplifted in mutual salute while their lefts flailed
for purchase.
Karine's lips were curled back from filed teeth, her
hot breath was in Remy's face; but there was something
besides bloodlust in her speckled eyes. Remy realized
what it was and grinned, feeling a sudden sexual charge
from Morli's inadvertent caress.
Mareer was Vannaed.
"I want you," he said to her in his best bedroom
voice, the back of his left hand pressed against her
breast. "I want you more than any woman I've ever
known."
He felt a shudder pass through her, saw her eyelids
flutter and almost close. But just as quickly the mur-
derous intent reasserted itself and the gloved hand
swung down past his face.
They were crossarmed now, like square-dance part-
ners who had somehow missed a follow-up call. Remy
pitted all his strength against her and leaned in to nuz-
zle her neck. She went slack for a moment, then
snapped at his ear and drove her knee into his groin.
He sucked in the pain and trapped her knee between
his thighs, sent her crashing down to the floor amid a
group of panicked Kwandri, Remy on top, arms still
between them.
Remy leaned in once again only to find that Mareer's
hair had somehow slipped down over her face! He pulled
away, but the wig was snared on his teeth and came
with him.
Desperate, he let go of the Xell'em's left hand, pro-
viding Mareer with all the leverage she needed. She
reversed the hold and sat up, straddling him groin to
groin, her bent knees tight against his sides.
Remy whipped his arms over his head and she came

240
James Lucerio
down on him, breasts flattening against his chest. He
heaved his hips and she followed him, again and again.
And before long their thrusting movements found
some unsought cadence. Mareer was panting in his ear:
"I want you, I hate you, I want you, I hate you . . ."
A moan that began way down inside her was gradu-
ally working its way into her throat. Remy's balls had
something of their own to contribute. Mareer's moan
emerged a minute later as a stuttering scream of ec-
stasy.
Remy joined her.
They were looking into each other's eyes when they
came.
Remy felt all the strength pump out of him, and barely
sensed the gloved hand as it came down square on his
face.
He had a fleeting image of a bald-headed woman
scurrying off into the Kwandri crowd on hands and
knees before his body surrendered to the poison and
darkness prevailed.

TWENTY
iaces orbited in the blackness—jalak,
Csilla, Els Nanff, and Res Morli—each a separate sta-
tion, circling, circling . . . Kwandri pursuing him in
sleep. Remy thought he might be dreaming until scents
of concern and expectation began to excite his nose.
He closed his eyes, fell back into darkness for an
indeterminate time, then awoke: sore and out of sorts,
but focused. He didn't recognize the room.
"Drink this," Jalak said, forcing a glass of bitter-
tasting liquid on him.
Els Nanff edged closer to the hard bed to stroke his
shoulder. He was wearing the Citi ring Remy had given
him.
"Remy," he murmured, emanating relief. Csilla
urged the boy away after a moment and sent him out of
the room.
"I've been here before," Remy said, raising himself
on elbows.
Jalak shook his head. "No you haven't. We're across
the river—"
"No, I mean I know what happened to me."
Jalak traded looks with his wife and Morli. "You
do?"
241

242
James Lucerio
"A SPECVES agent-generated toxin."
"That's right," Jalak said, astonished. "But how—"
Remy held up a hand. "Just tell me how long I've
been out this time.''
Csilla said, "Two days. We took you directly from
the Assembly hall to the clinic, but no one knew what
to make of your condition." She indicated Morli.
"Then when Res learned about the attempt on your life,
he brought over an ex-SPECVES lieutenant, who con-
jured a smart-secretion antidote."
Jalak noted Remy's puzzled expression, and added,
"You don't want to know how he administered it,
Remy."
"What about Mareer?" Remy asked after a moment.
Csilla tightened her lips. "No word on where she
ended up. Ishida and Colonel Gong have people
scouring Likat for her, but the rumor is she shipped
out of Dazyl on an Enddrese freighter bound for Da-
leth."
She must have been with Glasscock when the BFD
blew, Remy surmised. He shuddered, remembering
their few minutes of near-death sexplay on the Assem-
bly hall floor. Morli was regarding him curiously.
"Inasmuch as you assisted us, I can understand why
the Manifest might sanction your assassination, Remy,"
the Kwandri said. "But Karine Mareer's sudden disap-
pearance is most mysterious. Could there have been
some personal motivation?"
Remy managed a shrug. "Maybe she doesn't like
Warren Beatty flicks."
Jalak quirked a smile. "I only wish you could have
witnessed the look on Densign's face when the Vanna
wore off. He and Madame Xu ..." The culturist
blushed. "Well, let's just say they were rather uniquely
positioned."
"Along with Xu and the rest of them." Csilla laughed
into her hand. "I don't think I've ever seen a thirty-

ILLEGAL ALIEN
243
person coupling before. You'll have to view the record-
ings when you're feeling up to it."
Jalak showed Csilla a disapproving look. "The Grand
Assembly appealed to the Enddrese consulate to put
Q'aantre in communication with the League. Then
Densign, Xu, and their staffers were ordered offworld.
The Assembly threatened to display Csilla's recordings
to the League if there was any argument. As it is, an
investigative team is due to arrive any day. Until they
render their decision, Q'aantre has been designated off-
limits to all but a few private corps."
"The Vanna banks have been closed," Morli said.
"The cin-dens also."
"Must be a lot of disappointed people around,"
Remy said, thinking of Norak Baj and others. Morli
fingered the fur at his neck. Remy could smell his am-
bivalence.
"The vid closings are only temporary," the Kwandri
explained. "The Grand Assembly needs to come to
some decision about Disney Corp's continued presence
downside."
"Trade will eventually resume," Jalak added confi-
dently. "But the mistake won't be repeated." He looked
over at Morli. "Especially under the enlightened lead-
ership of the Assembly's new president."
Remy's eyes sparkled. "Res—"
Morli made a dismissive, humbling gesture. "It's only
a possibility. There has to be a vote, a referendum . . ."
"He's a shoe-in," Csilla whispered theatrically.
Everyone laughed.
"Any, uh, word from my boss?" Remy asked Csilla.
The former NCorp operative's smile faded.
"That's one of the reasons we're across the river and
not at Simon's house, Remy. Seems your supervisors
have been putting two and two together. They know
about the flickdisk requisitions and the personal ap-
pearances."
"You mean I'm going to be fired."

244
James Lucerio
Csilla held his gaze. "Terminated, yes. And I don't
figure Xella's going to forgive and forget, either."
Remy comprehended the meaning. "Fuck," he said
softly.
"There's no need for you to return to DisneyCorp's
employ, Remy," Morli said quickly. "Q'aantre would
be honored to afford you citizen status."
"Thanks, Res," Remy said absently. "Any chance I
can get offworld," he asked Jalak, "if I decide not to
take Res up on his kind offer?"
The culturist nodded. "I've done some asking
around. I believe you know a man named Vegas."
"I know him."
"He tells me that arrangements can be made to have
you smuggled out of system. The cost is somewhat stag-
gering, but I think we can manage it. Though you'll
have to be content with returning to Dhone."
Remy hung his head and uttered a sardonic laugh.
This is your work, Jaz, he told himself. I know you're
behind it. "What the hell," he said, looking up. "I've
got unfinished business there, anyway."
"That's a yes, then?" Jalak asked.
Remy nodded. Back to basics.
Morli looked disappointed. "I'll be sorry to see you
leave again, Remy. And I won't be alone."
Remy gripped the Kwandri's furred forearm. "I'll be
sorry to go."
"Well," Jalak announced in a determined voice,
"Csilla and I better see to those arrangements." Voss
leaned in with a kiss on the cheek before she followed
her husband out.
"I'll be going, too," Morli said, twitching his nose,
"but I'll stop back to see you this evening."
"Take care, Res," Remy told him.
Morli turned around at the door. "I meant to men-
tion, Remy, that I've been familiarizing myself with old
Earth history. I have a question about two of your
homeworld's life-forms, if you'll indulge me."

ILLEGAL ALIEN
245
"Go to," Remy said.
Morli stroked his chin. "Let me see if I can remem-
ber . . . Oh, yes, that's it. What's the difference be-
tween a human being and a gorilla?''
"A hu-" Remy narrowed his eyes. "You tell me,
Res, what's the difference."
Morli exhaled a proud fragrance. "The ape's the one
with the finer coat."
Remy was still laughing when the door closed.

About the Author
James Luceno has made ends meet as a rock musician, gen-
eral contractor, astrologer, travel consultant, scriptwriter, and
pseudonymous coauthor of a bestselling mega-space opera
series.
His first novel, Headhunters, was published in 1980; fol-
lowed after a long hiatus by Rio Pasion and Rainchaser (both
published by Ivy Books) and A Fearful Symmetry (published
by Del Rey Books).
He resides, with his two children, in New York.

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