by Ric Locke
“Sure they do. They just don’t give a damn if we get any or not.” Peters shoved his chair under the table.
“Must be nice to have an interpreter on call.”
“You wanta ask for advice?” Peters demanded harshly.
Dreelig was engaged in conversation with Mr. Devon and Ms. Weber, shoving something into his face between phrases and paying no attention to anything outside his group of charges. “Uh, no, don’t think I ought to interrupt,” said Todd. “Maybe we could hire one of our own. We got the chill.”
“Maybe later,” said Peters. “Come on!”
Before they got to the door they were intercepted by one of the locals, their waiter perhaps, who spoke in low urgent tones and flourished a slip of paper. “The bill, I reckon,” Peters said disgustedly.
“Fuck that,” Todd said. He pointed back in the general direction of their table, then clutched at his stomach and groaned artistically. Peters followed his lead, embellishing to the extent of generating a dollop of heave that spattered the slip of paper, the arm holding it, and part of a chair back. The waiter retreated hurriedly, waving his soiled arm and jabbering in a loud angry voice, and the two took the opportunity to recover miraculously and escape. “Didn’t know you could do that on demand,” Todd observed as they got back to the lobby.
“It’s a gift,” Peters said. “Now I need somethin’ to drink.”
There was a clerk stirring around behind the desk, not paying much attention until Todd approached. “Pleasant greetings,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“My friend want something drink,” Todd told him.
“Food and drink are available in the restaurant,” the clerk said, gesturing in that direction.
“We went,” Todd noted. “Food not good, got nothing drink.”
“That is not correct,” the clerk declared. “Please wait here for a moment.” He disappeared through a door behind the desk, and they heard snatches of babble before he returned. This time he brought his superior, or at least someone older, if gray strands in the facial hair meant age.
“I am Deris,” the newcomer declared. “How may I help you?”
“We went to the restaurant,” Peters said. “We did not understand the menu, and the waiter didn’t help. The food was not good, and we got nothing to drink. I would like something to drink, to take the bad taste away.”
“What would you like?”
“We don’t know the names,” Peters admitted. “Last night we had a yellow juice that was very good, and tea. Perhaps we could have some of the tea?”
“Of course.” Deris gestured at the lobby, where there were chairs and couches, with low tables. “Please sit and wait. Someone will bring tea in a short time.”
A “short time” turned out to be three or four minutes. The tea, when it came, was in a silver pot on a silver tray, with cups thin as eggshells. Along with it was a plate, carved of brown wood, holding crisp brownish wafers and black lumps. The wafers were crumbly and almost tasteless, but the black lumps were good, soft and creamy with a meaty taste. The waiter—they couldn’t tell if it was the same one—stayed until they had tried everything and decided what was edible, then nodded decisively and left.
“Much better,” Peters said.
“I am happy to hear that,” Deris said. “The hotel hopes to please its guests.”
“I am sure it is difficult,” Peters said. “You have many guests with many different wishes.”
“That is generous,” Deris said with a small smile. “We do indeed have many guests, but it is not so difficult to find what they like. All of the kree are more similar than not, and we do not offer to others. The waiter should be more helpful. He will be disciplined.”
“That would be correct,” Peters suggested, “but not too severely, I hope. Only enough to make him remember.”
Deris smiled, the same somewhat alarming gesture that Denef had used. “You are generous again. He will lose his pay for today, and go back to the village to think. Tomorrow he will do better.”
“That seems appropriate,” said Peters. “What will be the charge for this?” He gestured at the tea service.
“There will be no charge,” Deris said. “It is our apology for the trouble.”
“That is good of you.” Peters groped in his pocket. “Please give this to the one who brought the tea,” he said, handing Deris an ornh.
“Yes, I will do that,” Deris said. “And now I must be going. I have business of the hotel.” He sketched a bow and left, disappearing behind the desk.
Peters and Todd idled for the next half hour or so, nibbling black lumps and sipping tea, not speaking much. From time to time the waiter appeared to refill the teapot or provide more lumps. The sun was fully up when they finished and got up, saluting the desk clerk and strolling out the doors.
They’d decided not to wear kathir suits today, and the air had a tinge of coolness that hadn’t been apparent inside. Sprinklers made diamond flowers over close-cropped magenta grass, dampening the tan-cobbled walkway in a few places. A low wall of gray stone blocks separated the lawn from the beach, and a couple of low broad steps led down to the sand. The two sailors picked a direction at random and set off up the beach, still not talking much. Occasionally one would pick up a stone or a handful of sand, toy with it a few moments, and then drop it. Neither one tossed anything into the water.
It took them about a tle to reach the headland. Rounded rocks, tumbled from the cliff and water-worn, were scattered in the surf and along the backshore. They scrambled up onto the coarse grass behind the berm and looked back toward the water.
“Nice spot,” Todd broke the silence.
“Yeah.” Peters had picked up a stone and was tossing it from hand to hand. He made as if to toss it in the water, then remembered and threw it toward the top of the ridge, where it made a click and dislodged a few more the same size. The minor shower of dust and rocks wasn’t even disconcerting. “The whole place is a nice spot.”
“Not like the last one.”
“We ain’t gonna be goin’ back there.”
“We may not be going any damn where.”
“We can go anywhere we want. We got money, remember?”
“Yeah, and for how long?” Todd demanded. “You really think that’s gonna make a damn difference? The assholes are gonna be all over us.”
“They can’t touch us.” Peters threw another rock. “My hitch is up in, Hell, if I remember correct it’s about ten days. Yours’s longer, but you’re still out before we get back.”
Todd made a rude noise. “There’s nobody to cut our separation orders. We’re in until we get back and they do that.”
“I ain’t so sure,” Peters disagreed. “Llapaaloapalla’s civilian, and we ain’t assigned to SPADET 1. Verbal orders are good as any.” He heaved another rock, again dislodging a minor avalanche. “Right now we got a million ornh apiece and a zifthkakik between us. What I expect is they’ll trade the money for a dollar an ornh and confiscate the football as contraband. And if that’s what happens, and we wanted to come back out here—” he gestured at the scenery, “—reckon how many American dollars somebody’d charge for a ticket?”
“We don’t have to tell anybody,” Todd pointed out. “We haven’t yet.”
“Shit,” Peters objected. “They know somethin’s goin’ on. They don’t know the details, but they know enough to tell the Feds where to start askin’ questions.”
“We could tell them part of it… tell them about the zifthkakik, maybe, and leave the cash out of it.”
“Sure we can. Then they start fillin’ us up with happy juice, and out the rest spills like vomit on the sidewalk,” Peters explained. “Then we’re what, traitors or somethin’? We end up in Statesville, and they get the money anyway.”
There was a long pause, during which Peters selected another stone, tossed it from hand to hand, then threw it against the dike, eliciting another shower of pebbles. They had gotten this far in their assessments before.
Both tacitly assumed that going to any of the Chiefs, or the officers, for advice was pretty much the same as handing over the goodies and checking themselves into the brig. Finally Peters spoke: “We could always stay, you know.”
That was the first time either of them had actually said it right out loud, and Todd didn’t reply for a few minutes, just sat on a rock, looking out to sea, arms crossed in front as if hugging himself. “Remember what I told Dee when we were thrashing things out with the Master Chief? I’m not ready for that.”
“Me neither, but it might be the best way. We don’t need to work, we got the money to live a long time, but we could probably sign on as crew. If not, there’s other possibilities. Maybe we could be translators.”
“Maybe you could. Hell, you’re already a zerkre. But why would anybody need translators? The Grallt speak good English. They don’t need us.”
“Maybe other folks’d like to have a human to do the translatin’,” Peters suggested.
“That’s possible, I guess. What about our folks?”
“Yeah, there’s that. I’d like to go to Granpap’s funeral.” Peters tossed another rock. “That ain’t right, I’d rather the old buzzard lived forever… dammit, this is fun, even when it ain’t. Sometimes it’s polychrome palm trees, sometimes it’s snikk—”
“Or turd in snot sauce,” Todd reminded him.
“Or somethin’ like that. It’s good, it’s bad, shit, it’s excitin’… if we go back, you know Goddamned well we won’t never get back out here again. It’s gonna be piss-green walls and headshrinkers in relays until we die.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Sure as the sun shines,” said Peters. “Whichever sun that is… I get these dreams, y’know? Here’s stars and spaceships and planets, and there I am, stuck in some interrogation cell, wonderin’ what’s happening.”
“Hnh.” Todd stared out to sea for a long time, then looked up at Peters. “I wake up in the night too. I see myself in the ops bay, looking down at Earth, and I can’t go there… I don’t sleep too good for a while after that.”
“Yeah.” Peters stood for a long moment, looking out to sea, tossing a stone up and catching it, face still… finally he snorted, relaxed a little, and dropped the stone at his feet. Without turning he said, “Well, we still got a little time.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Todd stood, still hugging himself. “We can’t put it off forever.”
“But now’s not the time.” Peters looked up at the ridge, shook his head, and changed the subject. “Wonder what’s over this hill here?”
What was over the hill was a pretty little cove, with an arc of beach stretching to another headland covered with red-and-yellow trees. The path stayed back of the beach, leading to a village that nestled in the foot of the farther cliff. A long concrete dock or pier extended into the water just below the village. Before they had seen snikk they would have wondered why the pier was so sturdily built, and why the boats were so big and robust. There wasn’t a dinghy or skiff in sight.
The buildings of the village were low and substantial, stuccoed in salmon, rust, and ocher, with hints of blue-green. Several locals sat eating and drinking under one of a number of broad porches roofed with vegetation much like Denef’s bar, possibly a cafe or similar public building.
“You know, breakfast wasn’t much,” said Todd, eyeing the patrons.
“I could do with a bite to eat myself,” said Peters. “It’s been, what, a couple hours?”
“At least that. Come on, maybe we can get something.”
They took the steps up to the plank flooring and were met by one of the locals, who wore a pink apron and said something they didn’t understand.
“I don’t understand you,” said Peters. “May we have something to eat?”
The local bared his teeth in their alarming smile. “Eat place here. Sit.”
The local didn’t have much Trade, and after some back and forth Peters just told him, “Bring food. You choose.”
What they got was portions of flaky white stuff, fish perhaps. “This is good,” Todd said. “Wonder what it is.”
Peters put the question. “Snikk,” said the waiter.
“Hunh,” Todd grunted, looking at his plate. “Good to know all that effort didn’t go completely to waste.”
Peters looked out across the water. “I got a suggestion.”
“How’s that?”
“Let’s get a room an’ stay here instead of goin’ back to the hotel.”
Todd thought about it, staring across the sparkling waves, then up and down the peaceful tree-lined street. He took a bite of snikk and smiled. “Peters, have I told you lately that you’re a fuckin’ genius?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“We didn’t see much of you this time,” Mannix remarked as they gathered to board the dli. “I gather that your fluency and your well-known capacity for making friends have once again gained you entreé to regions of delight not accessible to the more cloddish.”
Peters flushed a trifle. “We been spendin’ most of our time in the little town where the folks live, back over the hill yonder. Sort of peaceful.”
“I see. Well, I shan’t complain. You’ll be pleased to know your language lessons didn’t go at all to waste; Tollison and I displayed a gratifying degree of civilization on a number of occasions, did we not?”
Tollison grinned. “We ordered a lot of beer.”
“Precisely, and good beer it was, too.” Mannix grew a little more serious. “That was not the reason I accosted you, though, pleasurable as it always is. Our illustrious Commanding Officer requires your presence, and Master Chief Joshua selected me to bring you the happy news.”
“I reckon that pleased you ‘bout as much as it does me.”
“Taking care of these small but vital points of protocol is an essential part of our duties.” A person not familiar with Mannix’s speech patterns might have missed the tiny barbs in that. “Had I been punctilious about it, I would have notified Howell and let him bring you the glad tidings, which I’m sure would have gratified you no end.”
“‘No end’ is about right.” Peters surveyed the group, found the officer in question standing by one of the dli, in conversation with… Collins, by the shoulder boards. “Thanks, Gerald.”
“You’re quite welcome.” The short First Class tagged along as Peters worked his way through the crowd of sailors waiting to board the dli for the trip back to Llapaaloapalla, but uncharacteristically said nothing more. He saluted once in range of the officers.
Peters, in civvies, simply dipped his head. “You sent for me, sir?”
Bolton returned Mannix’s salute, then looked Peters over. “Who authorized you to be in civilian clothes?” he growled.
“Begging the Commander’s pardon, sir,” Mannix put in, “civilian clothes are authorized on liberty except when the Orders of the Day specifically say otherwise, and unless they have been altered since Master Chief Joshua and I drafted them they say nothing of the sort, sir.”
Bolton acknowledged that with a nod; the thin smile on Collins’s face might have been Peters’s imagination. “Very well,” the commander admitted sourly. “I understood your asshole buddy was a Third Class.”
Peters opened his mouth, but again Mannix beat him to it. “Begging the commander’s pardon, sir, but is the phrase ‘asshole buddy’ a specific charge in this context, sir? If so, Petty Officer Peters might care to respond formally, sir.”
Collins’s smile manifested itself fully. “He’s got you there, Harlan.” When Bolton said nothing, she looked from one sailor to another, finally focussing on Mannix. “Commander Bolton has been feeling extremely frustrated, I’m afraid. His remark was the unfortunate result of combining that with his usual good humor.”
Bolton had gone from flush to pallor as she spoke; now he said in a voice kept level with notable effort, “Yes, my apologies, an unfortunate remark. Consider it retracted… Petty Officer Peters, are you ready to serve as my interpreter wit
h the shuttle pilot on the trip back up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.” The officer glanced at the dli, where Gell was leaning, arms folded, against the wing. “We should board, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Collins put in, “I don’t think I’ll accompany you, Harlan. I’ve had my chance at the controls.” She took the resulting look with equanimity. “Petty Officer Mannix might like to occupy the vacant seat.”
“Whatever,” the commander growled, his usual mood reasserting itself. He turned and walked toward the dli, body language tense, and Peters and Mannix followed, acknowledging Collins’s half-smile and lifted eyebrow with another nod and a salute, respectively.
“Hello, Peters,” Gell said as they approached, without coming out of his slouch. “I take it we have another of your superiors to instruct.”
“Yes, this is Commander Bolton, the first in precedence of all of us.”
Gell looked the commander over. “An impressive specimen, especially with that look on his face. Does he lunch on ship metal, or only on his subordinates?”
“I can’t answer that. I haven’t the precedence to dine with him.”
“Kh-kh-kh! I believe you are about to find out.”
“What’re you gabbing about?” Bolton wanted to know.
“I introduced you to him, and told him who you were, sir,” Peters explained. “Commander Bolton, sir, this here’s Gell, he’s the second most senior pilot on Llapaaloapalla, sir.”
“Tell him I’m pleased to make his acquaintance.”
“Yes, sir.” To Gell: “I told him you are second ship operator of Llapaaloapalla. He says it gives him honor to be presented.”
“I’ll just bet,” said Gell cheerfully. “Are we ready to go? The other officer are already aboard. I don’t see your associate.”
“Todd isn’t with me today. This is Mannix, another friend. He’ll ride along with us.”
“Pleased know you,” Mannix managed. Peters hadn’t realized he could do that much.
“And I you.” Gell looked the group over, made an ushering gesture. “Let’s get aboard. We’re losing time.”
