Fugitive (2 page)

   "So, what about it, Drusie?" Ralph said brightly. "Going to go to Barada?"

   Drusilla hated to admit it, but there was no reason not to. She was used to traveling to distant locales in search of subjects for her paintings and didn't even have a plant that would need watering while she was gone. And there was that thing with Dave… She might have to disappear for
months
to live that one down.

   "Sure, Ralph," she replied. "Just tell me the rest of it."

   "Well, now, you'll need to take your paints—I'll have the canvases shipped on ahead, of course. And be sure to take your swimsuit, though if my information is correct, you could swim in the nude and no one would see you," he tittered. "They speak the Standard Tongue, so you won't need a translator, though it
is
a second language for them. Oh, and there's no need for insect repellent. No biting flies or mosquitoes of any kind! Can you imagine?"

   Since Drusilla had been nearly eaten alive by bugs in many of the places she'd visited to paint the waterfowl, she found this hard to believe. "No, I can't," she replied, deciding to take some repellent along with her anyway. "But it sounds wonderful."

   "And you haven't even
seen
the birds yet!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm growing. "They're absolutely gorgeous!" This was really all Drusilla needed to hear to get her hooked on the plan. Her idea of heaven was to lie beside a lake and watch birds all day long. Not very exciting to others, perhaps, but it was something she enjoyed.

   "I'm sure they are," she said. "And thank you, Ralph. You're a peach."

   Smiling gleefully, he said, "I'll send you the rest of the info in a moment. It'll be fabulous. Have a wonderful trip!"

   "I'll do that," she replied as he rang off.

   Drusilla leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Getting away was a good idea, and one she should have thought of herself. Ralph, bless his heart, looked after her far better than she did. There were times when she didn't eat more than a few bites for days on end if she was caught up in a painting, and she often went to bed with her arm stiff and sore from holding the brush. She some times secretly wished to be like normal people and find enjoyment doing something else, but art was her life, her passion, and it wouldn't let her go long enough to discover any other interests—or even realize that her current boyfriend preferred the company of other men.

   Glancing around her studio, Drusilla noted that, unlike her new destination, when it came to comforts and amenities, it could boast very few; all it really had to recommend itself was good light and plenty of space. She rarely ventured out unless she was going off to paint and wondered if it was even possible for her to take a vacation—a true vacation where she didn't feel the need to do at least a quick sketch of every bird she laid eyes on. She'd been to a casino once at the instigation of some friends, and while she'd come away a good deal richer than when she arrived, she didn't understand the appeal. Drusilla had tried other leisure activities and knew that while other people enjoyed myriad pleasures, she'd yet to find even one that could compare with the rush of excitement she felt when she caught a fleeting glimpse of brilliant plumage hidden among the green leaves of a forest or gracing the surface of a quiet pond. Her friends often teased her about her artistic tempera ment, but they didn't understand it—and sometimes, neither did she.

   Her parents hadn't known what to make of her, and Drusilla felt no urge to have a family of her own, knowing that they wouldn't understand her any better than anyone else did. She had more in common with other artists, but, like her, they were often too caught up in their own work to fall in love.

   So it was that at thirty-four, Drusilla Chevrault was completely unattached and unlikely to ever become a wife to anyone—which was okay with her, if only she didn't have the sneaking suspicion that something was missing…

***

Arriving on Barada Seven, Drusilla was at once struck by the beauty of the planet and the homeliness of its inhabitants. The mountains in the distance were snow capped and breathtaking, the sky was a brilliant shade of purple, which was reflected in the vast ocean, and the riotous green of the jungle promised birds galore, but the people looked like skinny, wart-covered, orange toads. Drusilla wondered how they managed to talk with mouths nearly the full width of their heads and tongues that were forked like a snake's, but what was even more remarkable was how nimble their fingers were. She was fascinated by them—had never seen any species that could move so quickly, their hands almost a blur whenever dexterity was required.

   "You guys must paint really fast," she said to the Baradan who was checking her passport.

   When he grinned at her, his face seemed to split in half. "We do many things quickly," he said—and left it at that. It might have been a suggestive remark, or a very true one, Drusilla didn't know, but she had an idea that this might be the reason there were no mosquitoes on Barada; they'd all been slapped out of existence long ago.

   One attribute the natives did have was pleasant, almost musical voices. The males varied from bass to tenor, the females from alto to soprano, and, if you closed your eyes, you could imagine you were being addressed by the most beautiful creatures in the galaxy. Their style of dress was simple—tiny little shorts for the males and shorts with a scarf tied around the upper torso for the females—and while this provided an easy way to differentiate the sexes, it did nothing to enhance their attractiveness. Drusilla decided that where she would be staying, she wouldn't be around them enough to ever become accustomed to their appearance, but thought that, given their beautiful voices, it might be possible with time.

   After assuring the officials that she had no weapons in her possession, she exchanged some standard credits for the local currency, called triplaks, which appeared to be nothing more than carved pebbles, and received her visitor's permit along with a complimentary cup of fuuslak juice. It might not have improved her disposition appreciably, but it did have a pleasant taste and seemed to wash away the fatigue of her journey, leaving her feeling refreshed and revitalized.

   Upon leaving the thatched hut that served as immi gration office, spaceport control tower, and welcome center, she was immediately swarmed by a throng of Baradan women and children. All were dressed in the scant native style, and several of the children had rat like monkeys perched on their shoulders.

   "Would you like some fruit?" one of the children asked. "Only one triplak for six bolaka fruits." Upon hearing this, one of the women gasped and waved her hands in a delicate dance, after which the child added, "I misspoke; that will be
ten
bolaka fruits for one triplak."

   Drusilla smiled down at the mischievous boy. "Do you offer free samples?"

   The child looked up at her questioningly. "I do not understand."

   "Well, what if I don't like bolaka fruit?"

   The boy shrugged. "Then someone else will buy them."

   "Good point," she conceded. Handing the boy one of the pebbles, she added, "Just be sure they're ripe."

   He grinned at her, his snake's tongue curling over his lower lip. Setting down his pet, he waved his hands in a signal to the animal, which then scampered up a nearby tree. "He will not take long," the boy said.

"What is your name?" Drusilla asked.

"Roger," the boy replied.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Why? Does my name sound so odd to you?"

   "Not really," Drusilla said dryly, "which is why it seems so odd."

   "You must come to the market," one of the women prodded. "There you will find anything you need."

   "I'm sure I will," Drusilla said, eying the woman's clothing with interest. "How many triplaks for a shirt?"

   "Only two," she replied. "But it will look quite lovely on you."

   The tiny scrap of fabric the women wore to cover their breasts wouldn't have been much larger than an armband on a Terran; even someone as small as Drusilla would have required two or three of them tied together. "I'll think about it," Drusilla said as she noticed Roger's monkey returning with a bag of fruit.

   "Here is your bolaka," Roger said as he retrieved the fruits from his pet. "What is your name?"

   "Drusilla," she replied, accepting the bag.

   This revelation drew a great many sighs from the native women. "Drusilla," an obviously pregnant female said, drawing the name out as though each syllable had a distinct flavor. "My child will be called Drusilla," she said in a lilting tone as the other women nodded in agreement.

   "Better hope it's a girl," Drusilla muttered. Her next thought was to wonder whether the Baradans were mammalian or oviparous, but she wasn't quite sure how to phrase the question, opting, instead, for the time honored: "And when is your baby due?"

   "Not for another month," the woman replied. "This will be my first child, and what to name her has been a great worry of mine."

   "Glad I could help," Drusilla said. "How do you know it's a girl—?" Drusilla left the sentence dangling, hoping for a name—and perhaps more information.

   "What do you—oh, of course!" the woman said with a musical giggle. "I am called Crystal, and we Baradans always have a female child first. It is not so with your species?"

   "Well, no—at least, not naturally," Drusilla admitted. "It can be done, of course, but that's by choice. So, a girl first and then a boy, huh? Do they alternate with subsequent births?"

   The woman who had corrected Roger nodded. "Roger is my second son," she said proudly, adding, "I am called Maria."

   "You have a fine son, Maria," Drusilla said, hoping she was making the correct reply. Turning to the boy, she went on, "And that's a pretty well-trained monkey you've got there, Roger. How did you teach him to do that?"

   Roger stared at her blankly for a moment. "You mean my srakie?" he asked finally and then burst out laughing as he and his chums started off.

   "No, really," Drusilla called after them. "That's amazing. How do you do that?"

   Roger just waved his hands and ran off into the trees.

   "How very odd," she commented.

   "We will visit you soon," Crystal said eagerly.

   "Or we will see you at the market," Maria added as the others nodded in approval.

   Still staring after Roger, Drusilla nodded absently. She had no desire for company just yet—and wasn't sure she needed anything from the market either—but, if nothing else, she could buy some of the local "shirts" to use as handkerchiefs.

   As the women dispersed, Drusilla was met by another Baradan male whose job it was to take her to the lake house. He appeared younger than the first one—his orange skin was brighter, less blemished. Wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, and not even sandals on his flat, flipper-like feet, he introduced himself as Lester, which confirmed Drusilla's suspicion that there was a fascination with Terran culture among the Baradans— at least with respect to names—that Ralph had known nothing about. Leading her out to a truck so antiquated as to actually have wheels, he then loaded it with a speed that left Drusilla stunned, and, seeming bent on discov ering as many details about Drusilla's life as he could in as little time as possible, he fired six questions at her before she had a chance to reply.

   As she climbed into the passenger seat, he was finally quiet long enough for her to answer him: "Yes, I'm female. No, I don't have a mate. No, I don't have any children. Yes, I'm a painter. No, I don't want another cup of fuuslak juice, and, thank you very much, but I don't think I'll be needing a massage."

   "Just checking!" Lester said in his rich baritone. "You never know when it comes to offworlders. I might end up stealing someone else's mate or even trying to mate with another male!" He cackled with laughter at the thought of such nonsense and fired up the engine.

   Drusilla had been to many different worlds, and though this wasn't the first time she'd been seen as a conquest of sorts—sex with an alien was still an inter esting enough concept to gain her all sorts of offers— she'd never been bounced along on such a wild ride through a jungle before. Having left the spaceport, which was little more than an open field near the shore of one of Barada's many oceans, she glanced nervously at the dense jungle undergrowth and wondered again just how much Ralph had known about the planet he'd sent her to. There were no houses on the ground that she could see, only dwellings high in the trees with nets and vines hanging down from them, which had Drusilla trying to imagine what manner of creatures had been nasty enough to drive the Baradans up into the boughs.

   Lester noticed her apprehension and said informatively, "There are no dangerous animals here and the house is very secure. You will be quite safe." He hitched his skinny butt uncomfortably on the seat before adding, "But I must tell you that there is an eltran living in the lake."

   Drusilla failed to see how a thatched hut could ever be considered "secure" but let that pass for the moment in favor of something that sounded far more disturbing. "An eltran?" she echoed. "What's that? Some sort of man-eating fish?"

   "No," Lester replied sadly. "If they were only fish, it would be much easier to control them."

   "Control?"

   "They are amphibians," he replied. "They live in lakes but can walk through the jungle from lake to lake if needed." He shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "They are very… annoying."

"Really?" she said curiously. "How so?"

   "You will see," Lester replied mysteriously. "I have no way of knowing how your species will react, but we consider them to be pests. Unfortunately, it is impossible to get them to leave a lake once they've taken up residence."

   "If they're such pests, why don't you just kill them?"

   Lester drew back in horror and the truck lurched on its wheels, nearly hitting a tree. Wrestling with the wheel, Lester got back on the track before he replied. "They are an intelligent life form," he protested. "To kill one would be a terrible crime!"