Temporary Duty (62 page)

«Surely you’ve been in ship-fights.»

«Yes.» Gell looked up, then around. «This is different somehow.»

Peters laughed without humor. "Just more personal, is all. C’mon, let’s finish this up and get back to the hotel."

«Yes… Peteris? Please speak Trade, if you would. I’m frightened enough already.»

«I’m sorry. Were you injured?»

Gell shook his head. «Not that I can determine… I don’t know which frightens me more: the danger we were in, or your reaction to it. You are a very effective fighter.»

«Ssth. Hardly.» Peters kicked at one of the bodies, which was leaking onto the path. «These were stupid, confident of their ability to frighten us into doing whatever they wanted. That made them easy meat. If they had been experienced fighters that would be us down there.»

«I’ll take your word for it. I lack all familiarity with this area of expertise.»

«What, you don’t have bar fights when you visit strange planets?»

«Never… of course I hardly ever visit strange planets. What do we do now?»

«Now we search them. They may possess some clues as to why we were wanted.» Peters suited action to the words, producing his multitool and bringing out the scissors. The leader’s clothing was tough but yielded to the stainless steel; it was the work of a few moments to dispose of the outerwear. Underneath he had on a
kathir
suit of the same type the ferassi had worn, in a simple pattern, deep forest-green below the waist and white above. A quick search of the pockets produced a handful of
ornh
and a few bits of unclassifiable debris.

«Nothing concrete, but a strong clue,» Peters pronounced, turning an arm up to display the suit controls. «What have you discovered?»

Gell was disrobing a second figure, more neatly as he had no cutting tool. «Much the same. Half a square of ornh, a small folding knife.»

«Let’s check the third one.» The last of their attackers had much the same assortment as the others did, and they added up the inventory: two, two eights, and a square of
ornh
, two folding knives, half a pound of miscellaneous stuff including a few coins, and the weapon. No clues beyond the suits presented themselves. «Ssth,» Peters hissed. «Nothing.» He put the
ornh
in his pocket and gestured. «We’re done here. Let’s go.»

Gell shook his head and followed. A few
tle
of walking, Peters limping slightly, brought them to the edge of the lawn surrounding the hotel, and a few more had them sitting in rocking chairs on the verandah. A n’saith servitor observed their arrival and came up.

«May I serve you?»

Peters nodded. «Commendably prompt,» he approved. «When I arrived, I found a carafe of liquid in my room. I don’t know the name of it, but I found it quite drinkable. A small quantity of that would be enjoyable.»

«The liquid is called ‘thivid’; it is a specialty, prepared from local flora.»

«Yes. A serving of thivid, then, and whatever my friend will have. I am in suite three-one-two; place the charges on my account.»

«Of course.» The servitor took Gell’s order and turned to go.

Peters stopped him. «A moment, if you would… you may have observed that we are somewhat mussed. We were assaulted on the path in the forest.»

The n’saith expressed alarm. «Terrible! I assure you the establishment makes every effort possible to keep the paths safe.»

«We have no complaint against the hotel,» Peters said. «You might care to inform the staff that the path is disfigured by a quantity of carrion. I’m sure they would wish to tidy up.»

The servitor eyed him sidelong, the effect enhanced by the large liquid eyes. In this light it was possible to see that the eyes were composed of a multitude of pinhead-sized lenses. «I will see to it that the staff are informed,» he said, projecting disquiet. «In the meantime I will get your drinks.» He bustled away, looking back as he entered the door to the serving area.

Gell shook his head. «I believe I have almost stopped shaking,» he remarked. «If I recall correctly, I asked if you would ward off predators, and you agreed. You have certainly been effective in that regard. I have never been so frightened in my life.»

Peters laughed. "Compared to bein’ rolled in a crib in Marseilles, this was a walk in the park," he pronounced.

"Remind me not to go to Marsay, or whatever you said."

"I’ll do that," Peters promised with a chuckle. "For right now, I see our drinks comin’. We’re drinkin’, and they ain’t. That’s what I personally call a happy endin’."

* * *

Peters woke to a pounding headache, a mouth tasting of fur and rotten slime, and a knotted gut. He achieved sufficient coherence to determine that he was nude and that something in his environment was not as it had been, then went unconscious again.

His next waking was more protracted. The headache had localized itself just below his eyebrows, where the two components launched attacks on one another at every pulse, and the knotted gut had eased to the point of incipient nausea. What had waked him, though, was an absolute requirement to urinate, and that provoked a more thorough investigation of his surroundings. If there wasn’t a head somewhere nearby, unfortunate events would result.

He wasn’t in his suite; so much was obvious. No wood paneling, no curtains–in fact, no windows–and no decanter of thivid on the sideboard; no sideboard. The room most resembled his and Todd’s quarters aboard
Llapaaloapalla
, but it wasn’t that, either: the bunk was wider, there wasn’t a second one, again no window, and the paint was a different color. There was a door in approximately the right place, though, and he investigated that first.

It was a head, similar in most respects to the one on the Grallt ship, lacking the pass-through door to the next compartment. The fittings were almost identical and arranged similarly; he utilized the appropriate one, searched for and failed to find the flushplate, and stepped back with a headshake. The toilet roared; the rush of water made him dizzy and provoked a spasm of vomiting.

He knew this feeling, knew what to do about it. Water and rest were the first requirements; he’d be wanting simple food later, when his alimentary system started up again after being paralyzed by alcohol poisoning. There was no cup by the sink basin, but his cupped hands made a satisfactory expedient. He stumbled back to the bunk and fell on it, with a load of cold water sitting like lead below his diaphragm.

The next couple of hours went exactly as expected, unfortunately. Drink water, rest for a while, heave; rinse and repeat. Gradually the headache subsided to a dull throb, and the nausea to a mild queasiness. About now he wanted something bland to eat, something with a lot of sugar and fat; commercial packaged puddings had always been useful. The room offered nothing in that respect.

He tried the door, a side-swinging latch handle like the shipboard ones. Locked, or blocked from the other side. He regarded himself ruefully. Without clothing his explorations were likely to be restricted, even if the locked door failed to prove a barrier. Exploring in the lockers and cabinets of the room yielded nothing whatever; the place was as bare as it had been when it was built, except for sheets and a thin blanket on the bunk.

He was sitting on the bunk, sourly reviewing the stupidity of getting falling down drunk in a strange place with known enemies about between sessions of dry heaves, when the door mechanism emitted clicks and the panel swung outward. Two Grallt males entered, one coming fully into the room and addressing a remark at the naked sailor, the other hanging back by the doorframe, fingering a weapon similar to the one the guys in the forest had had. Peters shook his head–the language sounded the same, and was still incomprehensible–and the lead Grallt wrinkled his face in a sneer and said something else, an order by the sound of it. When Peters didn’t even bother to look blankly at him he spat a syllable and grabbed an upper arm.

The blow to the gut didn’t work, foiled by muscles operating on about a quarter power, brain ditto, and an alert opponent. He found himself with a mouthful of deck, his arm twisted painfully behind his back, and the Grallt shouting something in his ear. The gust of propelled breath wafted past his nose and tickled his gag reflex; he spasmed and heaved, propelling a stream of vile-smelling pale yellow liquid onto the feet of the weapon-wielder, who stepped back. The one holding him down chattered, and the gunman looked at something outside the door and made a remark of his own.

That produced two more Grallt, who grabbed him by the upper arms, jerked him to his feet, and propelled him into the corridor and down it to the left, accompanied by gabble that had to be discussions of his ancestry and personal qualities. The gunman followed, weapon at the ready, and his original assailant trailed behind, making an occasional comment and getting short replies.

Through a door, into a room full of gleaming machinery. They shoved him into a closet or cabinet and swung the door shut. The structure was a vertical tube, just big enough to stand in, studded with bumps at twenty-centimeter intervals. A dim light came from overhead.

Then the gravity went off. The abrupt change generated a return, or rather an upsurge, of queasiness; he restrained it with effort. The confined space was bad enough; adding vomit, no matter how clear, would definitely fail to improve his condition.

The bumps started flashing, actinic bursts starting at his feet and working upward in a spiral, about once a second.
Flash flash flash flash
; they emitted no detectible heat and made no sound. When the pattern reached neck level he was forced to close his eyes, still able to detect the flashes as bursts of red through his eyelids.

Nothing happened for a few heartbeats after the last flash, then the gravity came back on and the door swung wide. The two goons grabbed his arms again and jerked him out. Goober the gunner stood well back, fingering his piece, and the first Grallt addressed a few choice remarks in his direction. When he got no response he screwed up his face and gestured angrily. "Chuckles" would do for him, based on personality, until he found out what the fuck was going on.

A slot in the wall delivered a pair of solid white long johns onto a low table. "Chuckles" picked the garment up, held it out to Peters, and spat three syllables.
Put this on
, no doubt, and despite the situation the prospect was appealing. He nodded and made a palm-up gesture, and Chuckles said something else and fiddled with the thing for a few moments before handing it over.

It was a
kathir
suit, ferassi version, like the ones they’d found on the human-looking inhabitants of the pirate ship. Peters pulled it on, finding that it was easier to don than those the Grallt had issued. The ankles gave without having to fiddle with closures, shrinking back to a close fit when his feet were properly inserted, and it closed up the front without an overlap. He immediately felt warmer. That had been about to be a real problem; the air was chill, much cooler than the Grallt kept their ship.

Chuckles directed more remarks his way, ending on a questioning note, and Peters simply shrugged and spread his hands. One of the goons–call ‘em "Left" and "Right", this was "Left"–spoke up, and they all laughed. Chuckles made a dismissive gesture and said something short and pithy, cutting off the laughs in mid-kh , and said, «Very well, we’ll go along with your game. Will you speak the Trade?»

Peters snorted. «Hmph. You have the brains of a
chicken
and the manners of a
pig
in heat. If you had bothered to ask that at any time in the last few tle, you might have had less trouble.»

The suit squeezed , constricting his trunk so as to expel air from his lungs, and simultaneously administered electric shocks to his groin and breast. Peters doubled over, and Chuckles looked benign. He said something in the language he’d used at the beginning, frowned at the lack of response, and said, «Either this is no pose, or you are much stronger than you appear. The pains can be more intense if you like. Will you speak Language?»

«I–don’t–speak–the–language–you want,» Peters managed between gasps.

«I still don’t believe that, and I know that Elisin Troy won’t when his turn comes,» Chuckles said in a conversational tone. «I’d advise you to speak up when he asks you questions. You’re obviously tougher than the average for you scum, but as I told you, the suit can generate any level of pain desired.»

«If you ask in a language I can understand, I’ll answer reasonable questions,» Peters said as he straightened up. «There’s obviously some misunderstanding here.»

«The only misunderstanding here is yours. You obviously feel you can get away with pretending ignorance, and I will warn you once more: that position is untenable.»

«That’s your decision,» said Peters sourly. «But once and for all, I do not speak or understand the language you use, and if you kill me without receiving information the effort will be futile.»

«Nothing is completely futile if it is an enjoyable activity,» Chuckles pointed out.

«That fits with what I know of your character. People who assault innocent strangers should be less free with the word ‘scum’.»

This time the constrictions and pain were enough to put him right out.

He awoke on the bunk, in the same room or an identical one. First order of business: vomit again. He stumbled to the head, discharged the contents of his stomach, and began fiddling with the suit in preparation for urination. It failed to yield, which was of a piece with the torture function. If he could get out of it, there’d be little point… he shrugged and released the pressure. If it made a stink, so what?

The matter of food was becoming pressing, but the only thing available was water, so he filled his belly with that and went to sit on the bunk. It was fairly obvious that he and his hosts were operating at cross purposes, although what the basis of that was from their point of view he couldn’t figure. All he’d seen, even yet, was Grallt, and the four he’d seen–or was it a total of seven?–were as assorted as the crew of
Llapaaloapalla
. The Grallt crew of the ferassi ship been equally diverse, which proved nothing.