by Ric Locke
Alper stood like a statue, and Peters managed a thin smile. “I ain’t in control of nothin’ here,” he told the commander. “The ladies can sort it out, for all of me.”
“What are they talking about?” Alper asked.
“The commander wants clarification of the situation,” Dee told her.
“’Commander’ is a title?”
“Yes.” Dee gestured at Bolton. “This man is the chief of the humans aboard Llapaaloapalla.”
Alper nodded shortly. “Ander, do you have the weapon?”
“Yes.” Ander had moved to stand between Peters and the others. She produced the push-force weapon. “Right here.”
“Good.” Alper nodded again. “Shoot this commander for me, please.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“John, is everyone still whole?” a vaguely English accent interrupted. “You don’t seem to be exhibiting your usual talent for getting on top of random situations.”
“I ain’t had much room for maneuver,” Peters replied. “And yeah, ain’t been no weapons discharged yet, everybody’s still healthy give or take a gut-ache or two.”
“Good,” Prethuvenigis approved. “Gentlemen, move aside a bit, if you would.” The two male officers edged nervously to one side. The trader entered with caution, staying as far as possible from Bolton and Everett, and paused to survey the tableau. “Will someone be kind enough to inform me as to how this situation began? John, perhaps you should speak first.”
“Well, Thuven, I ain’t quite caught up myself, but Miz Travers here come bustin’ in and started makin’ accusations, sayin’ I wasn’t no fit guardian for Ander and Alper on account of usin’ them as sex slaves, and proposin’ to take them off to the women’s quarters,” Peters explained. “Ander wanted to know what was goin’ on, and between Dreelig and Dee I reckon she got filled in pretty good. She turned them down flat, and things started to get out of hand after that.”
“I see. Dreelig, does that account accord with your recollection?”
“Yes, Prethuvenigis,” the Grallt replied, looking around with nervous glances.
“Good. You are dismissed.”
“Enh?”
“I said you were dismissed, Dreelig,” Prethuvenigis said sharply. “Go to your quarters. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Yes, Prethuvenigis,” Dreelig said, and shambled dejectedly to the door.
“Dee, is this the individual who precipitated the altercation?” the trader asked.
“Yes.”
“What is her name?”
“Travers.”
“Thank you.” Prethuvenigis looked the woman over. She was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, the left side of her face an angry red. “Ms. Travers, what was your motive in coming here and accosting these people?”
She had the courage to stick to her guns: “I came to get these unfortunate girls out of the hands of this abuser. I intended to get them over to the women’s quarters where we could take care of them properly.”
“I see. And why did you bring Commander Bolton and his associate along?”
Travers glanced at Peters. “This man is known to be violent,” she said sullenly. “I expected to need backup.”
Prethuvenigis nodded. “Ander, this woman says she came to rescue you from abuse and maltreatment, and take you to where you could be cared for properly. Did you understand that?”
“Yes. She isn’t sane,” Ander said, keeping her neutral inflection. “I tried to tell her, through the Grallt, that I was happy where I was, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Alper Gor laughed in her silvery soprano. “No, she wouldn’t have,” she pointed out. “I don’t know this individual, but we met the type often in the tuwe, didn’t we, Ander?”
“Yes,” Ander Korwits agreed. “A female who assumes the privileges and powers of a male, including whatever treatment of the girls she may care to inflict. In the tuwe they didn’t often survive.”
“That’s exactly correct,” said Dee with heat. “She is the reason I left my post with the officers. I could no longer bear her treatment of me.”
Prethuvenigis nodded. “Ms. Travers, Ander Korwits and Alper Gor in their turn accuse you of wishing to abduct them so that you may conduct molestations of your own upon their persons. Do you have a response?”
Travers went white. “That’s a lie, God damn it. I should’ve known you cuntfaces would stick by your fair-haired boy!” She glared at Peters, her features distorted in a rictus of hatred. “You wait ‘til you get back to Earth, jackass. You’ll be in the dock for slavery, sure as Hell.”
Dee exploded. “Bullshit, Spike! You’re a groper and a fondler. If you had the equipment you’d be a rapist. Half the women in the unit’d bug out if they had a chance, just to get away from you—”
“Shut up, you Goddamned little—”
“Fuck you!” Dee folded her arms and reflected Travers’s hate back at her. “You go ahead and file your goddamn charges,” she hissed. “We’ll see what you look like when your supposed ‘victims’ call you a liar to your Goddamned face, and I turn around and put in about fifty counts of sexual harassment!”
Travers didn’t respond, just stood there in a half-crouch like a cornered animal, breathing heavily, her face a mixture of rage, fear, and abashment. “Commander Bolton, you would do well to take Ms. Travers back to her quarters and see to her welfare,” Prethuvenigis said mildly. “I understand that you have medicines that calm and soothe; their use is certainly indicated.”
Bolton eased toward her, glancing warily at Ander Korwits, who still brandished the weapon. “He’s right, Stephanie,” he said. “Come with us. We’ll get you back to your quarters and get a sedative in you.” He took her arm; she pushed his hand away violently, but when he moved toward the entry she followed, craning her neck to face Peters the whole time. The commander urged her through the door, then turned back to say, “Everett, come on. As for you, Peters—” he gritted his teeth “—be in my quarters in one hour.”
“I think not, Commander,” Prethuvenigis said sharply. “Allow your associate to minister to Ms. Travers, and let me correct your understanding of the situation.” Bolton looked around the room a little wildly, then nodded at Everett, who slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving Bolton standing in front of it, looking pinned.
“Good,” said the trader with a nod. “I know these are your quarters, John, but would you and the women mind absenting yourselves? You might step along to my apartment. Khonig has prepared tea and snacks, and I was on my way to issue an invitation when I discovered the uproar.”
“That seems a good plan to me,” Peters observed, a little amused. “The sort of interview you have in mind goes best without an audience. Perhaps Deela—” he emphasized the name slightly, to call attention to the modification “—might come along as well.”
“Innovation,” the Trader chief remarked. “Would you prefer the more usual ‘Deelis’?” He bestowed a twinkling smile on the Grallt girl.
“N-no,” she said a little unsteadily. “I rather like ‘Deela’.”
“Good,” said Peters. “It was time, I think. Alper, get dressed. We should go.”
“You come with me,” she insisted. “I don’t want to be out of sight of you.”
“We’ll both go,” Ander suggested.
In the bedroom they exchanged a mutual hug before Alper writhed into her kathir suit. Bolton was seated when they left, looking apprehensive, and Peters acknowledged him with a nod and “Commander” as he passed, receiving a flash of lambent rage in return. Prethuvenigis showed them out, saying, “This shouldn’t take too long. I’ll see you in my quarters; we should be planning for the trip Down tomorrow.”
Peters murmured an affirmative, and they escaped into the corridor, followed by Dee—or rather Deela. “Those people are not your friends,” the Grallt observed.
“That has never been in question,” Peters commented without emphasis.
“Bolton can make trouble for
you, can he not?” Deela persisted.
“A great deal, if he so chooses.” Peters shook his head. “Enough. Let us have tea, and discuss window curtains.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Peters sipped coffee and looked around the conference room, still wondering why he was here. The long-delayed trade conference had finally gotten underway; Prethuvenigis had said the ferassi-Grallt were insistent that he should attend. Gooligis, the representative of Trader 1049, had been smirking ever since Peters had showed up, obviously in on the joke. His expectations—that they were going to hit him up about a smallship and a pair of good-looking women having departed the ferassi ship under less than routine circumstances—had not been met so far.
A male Grallt nearly the size of Tollison was holding the door open for a girl. She was small, deliciously pretty to those who knew the Grallt aesthetic; both were in blank tan ferassi-style kathir suits. An elderly Grallt with short white hair and a long flowing mustache followed, his suit decorated in the forest-green of Trader 1049 with enough slanted lines on his arm to signify a person of considerable status.
The old man scanned the room until he found Peters, and his face lit in a broad smile. He began pushing, very politely, through the group, and the two in blank suits followed. “Peteris of Llapaaloapalla, I assume,” he said when he was in earshot.
Peters rose. “I am he.”
The Grallt bowed from the waist. “My depa’olze sends greetings and best wishes,” he said smoothly. “He bids me give you this, and present to you a small gift.” The economical wave that went with the latter phrase seemed to include the other two Grallt; “this” was a buff envelope.
Peters took it and nodded. “I return the greetings and best wishes,” he said slowly. What the Hell is this? “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your mission in more detail.”
“That is the function of the note, depa’olze,” the old Grallt said, eyes twinkling. He bowed once more and left without further ceremony, oblivious to Peters’s strangled “Wait!”
The envelope was made of paper, rare among the Grallt, and so was the note inside. He recognized the script, the blocky Russian-looking characters of the ferassi language, but no more. “Ssth,” he hissed. “I can’t read this.”
“Would you like me to read it to you, ze Peteris?” the girl asked timidly, then looked down, seemingly abashed.
“Yes, please,” he said, and held it out. She reached to take it, hand trembling, and her expression wasn’t apprehension or abashment; it was full-fledged, jelly-limbed fear, bordering on terror.
Peters took a step, touched her gently on the shoulder, and said softly, “Calm yourself. You are among friends.”
“Enh,” she grunted, in mingled fear, astonishment, and—shame?
Peters looked around. The byplay was attracting attention; Gooligis was grinning like a successful thief. “Come with me,” he said in a tone as gently neutral as he could manage. “We will go to a place where you can recover your composure.” She nodded, still looking distraught, and Peters urged her toward the door with minimal touches on her shoulders. The big male followed unbidden.
At the end of the long veranda was a round table, with four wicker chairs upholstered with pillows of white chintz printed with purple flowers. Peters looked up at the man. “What is your name?”
“I have been called Dzheenis.”
“And her name?”
“She has been called Khurs, ze Peteris.”
“Are you a mated pair?”
“No, ze Peteris.”
“I see, I think… Khurs, Dzheenis, if what I suspect is true you are about to hear from me the last command you will hear in your lives,” Peters said, attempting lightness. “Sit down.” He gestured firmly, and they took seats, trying to maintain an alert posture but failing in the soft broad chairs. Peters nodded and said to the n’saith servitor: “A pot of thvithith tea, if you please, and small foods that can be eaten with the fingers.”
“At your direction.” The waiter nodded and took himself off.
Peters sat. “I now inform you of a fact of greatest importance to you,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Among my people, the possession and trading of persons as chattel is utterly forbidden; the taboo is among the strongest we have.” Dzheenis’s head jerked back; the girl’s mouth formed an “O” of astonishment, and Peters nodded. “Your intuition is correct. From the moment you were presented to me you have been completely without duty or obligation to anyone, least of all myself. You owe no deference, save that which you grant out of respect or in recognition of accomplishment; you may order your lives without reference to the wishes of others, unless you yourself grant those wishes power. Have I been clear enough, or should I explain further?”
The waiter came with a cart, and Peters relaxed his intensity and leaned back into the cushions, catching their eyes in turn. Their faces underwent changes: uncertainty, fear, joy, astonishment, finally a dawning realization that Peters encouraged himself to think contained a trifle of hope. When the waiter had arranged the table to his satisfaction he glanced at Peters, expecting acknowledgement; when he received it he set off, pushing his cart, which rumbled softly on the unfinished boards of the floor.
Dzheenis rubbed his chin, apparently inspecting the teapot but plainly not seeing the object; Khurs stared wide-eyed into space, her jaw slack. Both started to speak; they stopped themselves short, and Khurs deferred with a little wave of the hand. The big man focused a thoughtful regard on Peters. “The terms of your exposition were interesting,” he remarked. “I note particularly that at no point did you use the word ‘free’. Given the nicety of your phraseology, I must assume that this was not an omission.”
“It was deliberate,” Peters affirmed. “’Freedom’ is a noble ideal, but has no referent in the perceivable Universe. None of us is truly ‘free’ so long as we require air, water, food, and shelter to survive. This is as true of any here as it is of you.”
“Yes.” Dzheenis caressed his chin, this time pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “The subject has been discussed among us at length. We have generally arrived at a similar conclusion… Khurs, I believe you had a comment?”
“I have several comments. I am trying to order them.” Her voice was astonishingly deep, a baritone only a little higher in pitch than Peters’s. “We are dependents of the ferassi; the word ‘slave’ is not used.”
Peters smiled without humor. “The word used by the person who presented you was ‘gift’. Distinctions of phraseology are irrelevant and distracting.”
Peters used the ensuing long pause to pour tea, rising to serve first Khurs, then Dzheenis, and finally himself. The two Grallt were again taken aback, but Khurs’s expressive face showed dawning comprehension. “Incredible that such a small act could have such large implications,” she breathed.
“How so?” Peters asked.
Dzheenis was regarding a teacup as if it were an utterly unfamiliar object. He set it down and said, “Ze Peteris, you would appear to be a ferassi of the ancestry called ‘darkling’; that is, of the highest possible caste. In the Universe we have inhabited all our lives, if tea were to be poured in the presence of such a man either Khurs or I would perform the service.” He looked away, then back, and tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. “I am reaching for a comparison… it is as if the ship turned inside out, or I discovered that I was able to breathe water. I would have been no more astonished if you had given birth to a child before my eyes.”
“That’s not at all a likely eventuality,” Peters observed.
“It seems no less probable than the others. Hm.” Khurs’s tone was speculative. “Ze Peteris, I see a plate of pastries with fruit fillings. I find them delectable; would you care for one?”
“Yes, please,” Peters replied. The woman nodded, selected a pastry, and handed the plate to him. He made his own selection and passed the remainder to Dzheenis, who took it with a hand that trembled slightly, removed
one to a saucer, and set the plate down with grave care.
“Delicious,” said Khurs.
Peters handed her a napkin, saying with forced lightness: “It appears that they are very juicy. Some has escaped from the corner of your mouth.”
She fixed her eyes on his, reached to take the napkin, and burst into laughter, beginning with soft chuckles like clucks that quickly escalated into a submachine-gun paroxysm. Dzheenis was quickly infected, and the two Grallt laughed helplessly, their shoulders shaking, tears in their eyes.
At some length Dzheenis regained control of himself. “I apologize for my lack of control,” he said, wiping his eyes with a napkin. “The matter isn’t really all that amusing.”
“You needed the emotional release,” Peters said with a nod, glancing at Khurs, whose involuntary reaction had subsided to hiccups.
“I believe you are correct,” the big man noted. “Ah, me… it is a situation I had never imagined, a concept that could never before have entered my mind: to sit at table, taking tea on equal terms with a depa’olze.”
“‘Depa’olze’,” Peters repeated. “The one who presented you used the same term, I believe. How does it apply to me?”
The two Grallt exchanged glances. “The root of the word is pa’ol, a group of persons related by ancestry, together with their dependents,” Khurs explained, her tone cautiously didactic. “The best translation in the Trade would probably be ‘clan’. The syllable ‘de’ is common between the two tongues, with the same meaning: ‘eight’, ‘maximum’, ‘highest’. Combined with the honorific ‘ze’, the term would be rendered most accurately as ‘highest clan person’. ‘Clan master’ might be considered more colloquial.”
Peters looked out over the valley, his gaze as unfocused as the Grallt’s had been a few moments ago. The daystar was sinking, and purple twilight was creeping up the base of the hills… at length he said slowly, “I don’t see how the term might be considered applicable. Three persons hardly constitute a clan.”
