Because you can’t say Peter Lorre and not get my attention. Something to do with an Uplifted pug or pugs. Possibly freaking everyone out with their good intentions couched in their minion-ish voices. – weirdlet
(#00422 - A047)
Buddy, Igor knew, was not the best dog for the negotiations table. Buddy would literally say ‘yes’ to anything, provided someone was scratching his ear.
Igor… tried.
He had Buddy fitted up with the Diminished Responsibility locator bracelets, of course. And told Buddy to 'heel’ even though he hated it. It smacked of their slave-days, but Igor really didn’t want Buddy roaming around and getting dangerously lost.
Together, they went from trade-booth to trade-booth, trying to find someone to take their cargo.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I believe we have a cargo you might find… most advantageous.”
The cogniscent in the booth went wide-eyed and scooted unsubtly away. “It’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Nothing illegal. I checked to make certain.” And then Igor made the mistake of laughing. That laugh was a deal-breaker. It chased away clientele. And it kept bubbling forth whenever he was nervous.
It wouldn’t be so bad if there was just one cogniscent race that wasn’t viscerally terrified by his voice or his laugh. He was getting tired of seeing personal safety screens raise between himself and a potential customer.
They had a profitable cargo. And no-one to sell it to. Not even the perennial drunken fool Hwell Barrow would buy from them.
Igor sat miserably under a sculpted tree and wished -not for the first time- that he or Buddy could safely eat the apples that grew on it. “I could try surfing the text-nets,” he told Buddy. “But there’s always the face-to-face factor. Nobody likes the blind trades. Nobody.”
“Has anyone ever told ye that ye sound like Peter Lorre?” said a musical voice on the other side of the tree.
The speaker was a tall humanoid with skin so dark it made it troublesome to distinguish her features underneath her glowing eyes. There was a mop of long, wild, white hair, but the focus of Igor’s attention was the gold nehru vest.
“My apologies for disturbing you, Ambassador. We will… be moving along…” again, than damned nervous chuckle.
“Don’t you bluidy dare,” she said. “I never said didnae like Peter Lorre. And besides, I consider meself the honorary patron saint o’ lost souls around here. You fellas need a JOAT.” A sharp-toothed and honestly frightening grin. “And I’m his agent.”
*
Rael the JOAT took one look at the three of them and said, “No.”
“Aw come aaaaaawwwwnnnn…”
“No.”
“Look 'em in their poor little faces…”
“They’re Uplifts.”
“Freed Uplifts,” corrected the Ambassador.
“They’re illegal Engineered Life Forms,” added Rael.
“So are you. And?”
“You and I both know that I’m officially a grey area. The residents of Nufurria knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Aye, but it wasnae illegal there until the Galactic Alliance stepped on 'em good and hard.”
“No. There is nothing you can say to change my mind.” Rael folded his arms and turned away.
Ambassador Shayde said the magic words. “Mutton and clootie dumplings…”
*
Rael the JOAT insisted on doing a very good job. Igor insisted on learning the recipe for the magical Mutton and Clootie Dumplings. And Buddy… got the tummy-rubbing of his life from Ambassador Shayde.
All parties should have been happy, but Rael the JOAT seemed determined to be grumpy.
“I’m a leader amongst my people,” he growled. “I should not be known to do business with… waifs and strays. Especially legally dubious waifs and strays.”
Shayde made a noise. “Call it charity work an’ puff yer feathers, then. Someone’s gotta help 'em out.”
“Why does it always have to be you?”
Shayde plucked a litte piece of lint off his shoulder. “Because somebody once helped a wee stray by the name o’ Rael once. I’m payin’ the favour forward.”
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