The Clan Chronicles: Tales from Plexis

Genres: Alien Contact; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

Authors explore new corners of the Clan Chronicles universe in an anthology that brings readers into the lives of the alien inhabitants of one of the sci-fi series's most memorable locations

Welcome to one of the iconic settings of the Clan Chronicles: the infamous interstellar shopping extravaganza of the Trade Pact known as Plexis Supermarket! A market and meeting place, Plexis is where pirates rub shoulders with freighter crews, where the rich come to party and the out-of-luck chase that last opportunity, where anything can be bought or sold and only your airtag tells the truth. Most of the time.

Dock your starship, pay your parking fee, and enter. You'll never know what you'll find. Or who you'll meet. Because here, for the first time, Julie E. Czerneda has opened the airlocks to her fellow scribes and lovers of all things Trade Pact to produce this anthology of remarkable, all-original stories.

Learn the beginnings (and kitchen secrets) of the famed Claws & Jaws: Interspecies Cuisine. Solve mysteries. Slip through service tunnels or shop with goldtags!

Want the truth about Turrneds? The Neblokans? How Terk met his partner? More of Raj Plexis and Bowman? The way to Ansel's heart? Kurr di Sarc. Huido. Manouya. Those balloons.

Plexis awaits your pleasure.

Release date: December 4, 2018

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 468

Sample

A Hold Full of Truffles

“CONFIRMED, PLEXIS APPROACH. Silver Fox, Karolus reg­istry, inbound on your directions.” My oh‑so‑proper tone was an accomplishment, given our current state. Letting go of the com button, I settled back into that still- new, still- wondrous dis­traction of tangled limbs and warm torsos, the pilot seat of the Fox adjusting with a familiar aggrieved whine, my hair slipping, delir­ious, around my captain’s neck. Where were we—A slightly desperate mumble.
I snuggled in tighter, deepening my senses to include the beat of his heart, as wild as mine. Oh, yes, here—
Witchling, with a dose of regret, even as Jason Morgan lifted me up and away, setting me gently on the deck. He shoved a hand through his hair and gave me a look. Fond exasperation, that was. “We’re on final to a space station, chit.”
I grinned, unrepentant. It wasn’t as if my Human couldn’t dock with Plexis in his sleep. “It’s routine.” Another still-new treasure.
“Only if we don’t crash.” An arm around me, a quick, affection­ate squeeze, then my Chosen was at the control panel, all business.
I took up my perch on the copilot’s couch. If I slid back, the couch would curl to accommodate my stature, but I liked to sit where I could watch his nimble fingers working the console. Oh, the ship could—and did—fly herself.
Just not, in Morgan’s estimation, into something as complex as a parking spot. Especially here, on the most famous space station of all: Plexis Supermarket. Its lurid sign—“If You Want It, It’s Here”—could only be seen from space, but Raj Plexis’ gamble, turning a failed asteroid refinery into a traveling shopping com­plex, had succeeded beyond all expectations. We’d be one of tens of hundreds of ships on the move, inbound or out, while the sta­tion remained in real space. Morgan kept a wary eye on the prox­imity sensors, it being too late, he’d informed me, once alarms sounded.
I put my arms back in my coveralls, shrugged the garment on, and fastened the front. My hair twitched in disagreement, presum­ably because Morgan’s coveralls remained around his waist, the con­trol room lights limning the muscles working under the skin of bare shoulders and back.
Routine. A home. New to me as love was to us both. We’d come a long way since our first visit to Plexis.
Something cold arrived with the memory. I pushed it back.
“What is it?” Morgan didn’t look around, but he’d felt my discom­fort. Chosen could, being Joined through the M’hir, that permanent link between minds and, in our case, hearts.
“Nothing.” I tightened my innermost shields, enough to keep my foolishness to myself. “Are we there yet?”
A preoccupied grunt was my answer, the aging ship claiming his attention. I leaned back, hands around one knee, to wait. There’d be checks to run once the Fox was clamped to the station. As Hind­most, several were my responsibility, so I recited the list to myself, determined to impress—or, more honestly, not to miss anything crucial. Unlike a planetary landing, on worlds suited to our form of life where we could open ports and breathe what arrived, here we’d have to pay for any air we “shared” with Plexis. Along with anything else, so for ships like ours, hookups were the minimum permitted by station regs.
Possible before the Fox had sprung a few I called them “leaks,” which made my Human wince—peculiarities. We’d have to accept the full spread of links this docking, at least until our parts were delivered and installed.
A home needing parts was also routine, if an adjustment for someone of my heritage. After all, the Clan didn’t work with tech, they employed— or influenced— Humans to do it for them. In that, I supposed I was something new myself. My kind would get used to it.
After this trip, with this cargo? I smiled to myself. We’d be able to afford the parts on Morgan’s lengthy list. Enough to keep us flying.
“Say again, Plexis?” The edge to my Human’s voice would have penetrated a Carasian’s shell.
Not so the being on the com. “You can make payment now, Captain Morgan— shurrrrr—” The bland voice was nasal, not in itself indicative of nonhumanoid; the faint whistled pause was. “— or before you unload.”
It—a F’Feego, according to Morgan, and “it” was appropriate, only the neuter caste dealing with aliens— had identified itself as Officer Esaliz E’Teiso, authorized representative of the Plexis De­partment of Consumables Duties and Tariffs, a seedy bit of bureau­cracy of which I’d been blissfully unaware until we’d parked the Silver Fox.
They’d noticed the truffles.
We’d a hold full of the black earthy- smelling lumps, fresh from the jungles of Pocular. Merle truffles, to be exact: a rare and utterly delicious— according to others— delicacy. Morgan had helped dig these with his own hands, while I, as our custom, stayed behind in Ancoma, the Poculan shipcity, to look after ship tasks suited to being Hindmost. Our third such cargo for Huido Maarmatoo’kk— more and more species now enamored of his recipe for the things— and the first promising to turn a significant profit for us all.
I’d a sick feeling Plexis had noticed that, too.
“What payment? Our cargo’s a delivery for a Plexis restaurant,” Morgan retorted. Something’s not right, he sent with a tinge of frus­tration. Plexis takes its cut off the end product— portions served. “There’s some mistake, Officer E’Teiso. I’d like to speak to your superior.”
“I— shurrr— am in charge of what is designated an import under our regulations. Truffles fall within a new category:— shurrr— Items Imported For Local Consumption. As such, you owe—”
At the outrageous amount, I covered my mouth with both hands to stifle words I’d learned in the not- nice part of shipcities.
“The sum includes the missed fees for the previous two cargoes— shurrr— no late penalty added,” the F’Feego finished magnani­mously. “Your ship will— shurrr— remain attached to Plexis pending settlement.”
A threat even I, late‑to‑space, understood.
If we paid, now and doubtless for any future truffles, Huido’s venture was over before it really started, any and all profit going to Plexis.
If we didn’t, we could lose the ship, an outcome only too likely given Huido, in a fit of optimism, had sunk everything solvent into our cargo. We’d nothing of our own. As the expression went, the Silver Fox flew on promises. If the Claws & Jaws couldn’t pay us, we couldn’t pay for those essential new‑to‑us parts.
Foreclosure by Plexis. Grounded by failing engines, followed by foreclosure by Plexis. I didn’t see much difference.
Morgan replied, his tone mild, “Thank you for this information, Officer. We’ll be in touch.” His finger found the com button and pressed. Lingered. “Interesting.”
I’d other words for it, but swallowed them when he walked to a plain portion of wall. Putting fingertips together, my Human con­centrated.
A hidden console flipped out: controls for equipment that should have been removed when the former patrol ship was decommis­sioned. Morgan worked them in silence for a moment, then stepped back, watching until the console returned to its hiding place. His eyes found mine and there was nothing mild in their expression. “I’ve enabled secured‑in‑hostile- territory mode. No one can enter the Fox or tamper with her exterior without— unfortunate— consequences.”
From the now- frantic flash of the com light, Plexis noticed that, too. Oh, good.
More fines.
“We could just ’port the truffles to the Claws & Jaws,” I sug­gested. Within my Power, certainly, and likely, with Morgan’s own growing Talent, his as well. “No one would know.”
A wry grin. “We’re attached to the station, chit. An unusual shift in the ship’s mass will set off every alarm they have.” Morgan rolled his shoulders, then nodded. “First things first. We tell Huido. In person.”
Because the Carasian tended to break things when upset, start­ing with his com unit. “I’ll ’port us to his apartment.”
“We walk,” he ordered before I could form the locate, that mem­ory of place my Clan Power could use to draw us through the M’hir. A half smile. “You told me you wanted to see more of the station.”
It was a delaying tactic, I judged, to give Morgan time to plan how to break the news to our headstrong friend, but I made myself smile. “That I did.”
Just not today.