Temporary Duty

by Ric Locke

  When he returned Peters had rummaged in his backpack. “Present time, Grandpap,” he said, and handed the old man one of the fist-sized zifthkakik he’d bought on Jivver. “Think of it as a battery that don’t run out,” he suggested as his grandfather looked dubiously at the shiny ovoid. “Fifty kilowatts, more or less, and Schott told me how to jigger a power-pole transformer to make it work with house wiring. We’ll get it done tomorrow.”

  “What is it really?”

  “I guess you could call it an engine. Hook it up right, and it’ll lift about ten tons and move it around at pretty much whatever speed you want.”

  “Spaceship engine.”

  “No, this model don’t make atmosphere or the shieldin’ you need for a spaceship.” Peters grinned. “Be kind of fun to install it in the Vette, but then you wouldn’t be able to run the house lights with it.”

  “Hunh… what’s something like this worth?”

  “I paid—” he stopped to think “—call it five thousand eagles for it. Here? You tell me.”

  Donald grunted again. “Hunh… What else have you got there?”

  “It occurred to me you might be a little tired of reloadin’ shells for the Mauser.” Peters indicated the other two objects with a wave. “These here’s called ‘push-force weapons’. They’ll punch a hole in quarter-inch steel plate at close range. The little one’ll knock a man down at fifty meters without killin’ him; the big one’ll do the same at five hundred.”

  “Recoil?”

  “None, nor noise either.”

  “Just the thing for deer hunting. Well, your magic grapefruit isn’t hooked up yet. Time to stoke the furnace.”

  “I’ll help you.” Dzheenis followed as well, and watched with interest as the two men cleaned out ashes and refilled the firebox. “Can you get away with this?” Peters asked as they closed the door.

  “Have for years. You remember.” The elder Peters looked at the furnace, then gave his grandson a twisted grin. “Tonight it’s even legal.”

  “Heh?”

  “Weather emergency. I’ve no other source of heat, and if this blizzard doesn’t count as an emergency I don’t know what would.”

  They trooped back up the stairs and poured more beer, and Peters resumed his story. Dzheenis and Khurs listened with interest; they’d been offered beds, but refused them on the grounds that they hadn’t heard this part before. Khurs stayed close to Donald Peters, making soft comments, touching him occasionally, and missing few opportunities to have him meet her eye or just look at her. Peters noted with sardonic interest that Granpap had quit flinching when she turned her face toward him; possibly the beer helped. The grins Dzheenis flashed told him that the big Grallt understood what was going on; so did he, but he kept his smiles to himself.

  Sometime after three in the morning the story reached their arrival at Earth orbit and the raucous party they’d thrown to celebrate the occasion. “That’s about it,” Peters said, and spread his hands. “The rest of it’s bureaucrats, reporters, and regulations.”

  Donald nodded. “It’s time to turn in anyway. I’m sure I’ll have more questions… I’m interested in these Makers, whatever they are.”

  Peters grinned. “So am I. I ain’t got no more information, though.”

  “Maybe you’ll think of something… Dzheenis, you can sleep in Johnny’s old room, end of the hall on your right. The guest bedroom there will be about right for Khurs.”

  “Where will you sleep?” the Grallt girl asked.

  “My bedroom is there. It’s dug into the hill, so it’s warmer when I can’t fire the furnace,” Donald told her. “Speaking of which, I should stoke it once more before we turn in. This won’t blow over before late tomorrow at the earliest, and we’ll all need the warmth.”

  “Dzheenis and I’ll do the honors,” Peters put in. “You go on to bed, Granpap.”

  “May I bathe before I go to bed?” Khurs wanted to know. “I feel—not really dirty, but I’ve worn these clothes too long.”

  “Sure.” The elder Peters shrugged. “The furnace has been on all afternoon, so there should be plenty of hot water.” He stood and yawned. “I’m going to sleep in tomorrow. We don’t have a schedule, after all.”

  Khurs disappeared into the bathroom with some items retrieved from one of the packs, Donald Peters went up the pair of steps to the loft room, and Dzheenis and Peters headed down the stairs with a small candle-lantern to care for the heating system. “Your grandparent is likely to be somewhat surprised a little later,” the big Grallt remarked.

  “Yes… I’ve never seen Khurs act this way before.”

  Dzheenis looked surprised, then nodded. “That’s right, you never met the man. Peteris, allowing for the effects of weathering on skin and a trifle of height, your grandparent could be Candor Zin’s brother, even his twin.”

  “So Khurs is suffering from nostalgia. She may be in for a surprise of her own. Granpap is by no means infirm.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Hmm… I make it six eights of uzul, actually a little more than that. Pay the number no mind; he doesn’t.”

  “So it would appear. Ah, well, something to look forward to in the morning… is this the control?”

  “Yes, but don’t shake the coals down,” Peters advised. “If you leave the consumed material on top, it will maintain the reaction at a low rate until we are awake again. That way we don’t have to reinitialize it.”

  “I see.” The big Grallt watched as Peters adjusted dampers and air supply. “You know, I’m getting a little jealous,” he remarked as they started back up the stairs. “You have Ander and Alper, and it appears Khurs has found an outlet for her urges. Only I need sleep alone tonight.”

  “That isn’t my fault,” Peters said with a smile. “I thought you had some arrangement with that blonde from the control-room crew. Her name is Lisis, is it not?”

  Dzheenis’s eyebrows went up. “That’s right, and yes, I have. I’ve been waiting for what seemed the proper time.”

  “Proper time for what?”

  “Why, to ask permission from my depa’olze to cohabit, of course.”

  “Shit.” Peters rounded on the big Grallt, forcefully enough that he took a step back, then deflated with a sigh. “Dzheenis, you are a member in good standing of the Peters pa’ol. If you wanted to take your share and move to Zenth to set up a klisti-berry farm, the only question involved would be how much your share would be. If I thought your judgement was that bad I’d dismiss you anyway, but there’s no question of permission.” He shook his head and met the big Grallt’s eyes. “You definitely do not need my permission to select either a partner for an evening’s adventure or a mate for a lifetime commitment. It is a little insulting that you could think your depa’olze might wish to interject himself into a matter so personal.”

  Dzheenis looked down, then met Peters’s eyes. “I apologize, depa’olze. I fear I have allowed my mind to fall into old patterns of thought.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you have.” Peters smiled. “You’re a good man, Dzheenis; I’m proud that you are a member of my pa’ol. When we get to Washington, get Gell to take you back to the ship. Ask the lady, and if she says yes, bring her back with you. A pa’ol need not grow only by natural increase. Accretion works as well, and may be faster.”

  The big man’s eyes were wet, but he laughed shortly. “Kh! I believe I’ll do that. Thank you, depa’olze.”

  “No thanks necessary. Now go to bed, and if you feel alone, remember it’s your own fault.”

  “You’re a cruel man, depa’olze,” Dzheenis said with a smile in his voice.

  “You betcha,” Peters said with a grin. “Good night, Dzheenis.”

  “Good night, Peteris.”

  They met Khurs coming out of the bathroom wearing a thin wrap and an anxious smile. Peters just smiled and nodded, got a smile and nod in return, and went to bed.

  * * *

  “You’re sure you won’t have any problems,” Donald said a l
ittle dubiously. He still looked a little wild-eyed, but it was hard to see under the self-satisfied pleasure.

  “Nope,” Peters replied with confidence. “Every zifthkakik has its own signature, call it a serial number, and there’s an instrument on the dli that’ll find ‘em. There’s two or three in Washington; all I gotta do is follow the needle.” He gestured at the sky, which was still heavily overcast though the blizzard had blown itself out the day before. “That ain’t no problem any more, either. Now you’ve got a zifthkakik, I can get back here the same way.”

  His grandfather nodded. “And I can have the lights on whenever I want, too… any chance of you stopping by again before you leave?”

  “Sure.” Peters shrugged. “Prethuvenigis wants me there for the trade talks, but those’ll be over someday, and after that I’d like to come back. Probably be spring by then. There’ll be great-grandkids for you to spoil, and I’d like to have the girls see the place when it ain’t covered with six foot of white shit.”

  “Any time.”

  Peters reached to hug his grandfather with a little less awkwardness than when they’d arrived, and looked down. “Khurs, detach yourself from my grandparent, please. We have to leave.”

  “Yes.” She gave a last squeeze and took a step away, then looked up. “Donald Peters, I have enjoyed my time with you more than I can say.”

  The old man grinned. “Same here, little lady. If you should decide to come back I’ll be glad to see you, and never mind the boy here.”

  “I have to ‘mind the boy’, he’s my depa’olze. You should be proud of him. He’s a fine man, and a true descendant besides.” She reached up to peck his cheek. “Goodbye, Donald Peters.” Then she turned and climbed the steps to board the dli.

  “Goodbye, Khurs,” Donald almost whispered. Then he held out his hand. “See you, boy.”

  “See you, Granpap.” They exchanged a final hug and handclasp, and Peters boarded and took his seat. He lifted the dli straight up, and his last view of Granpap was cut off by a bank of lowering clouds.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Spring rain lashed the windows, and the wind tossed the branches in Lafayette Square across the street. The trees were starting to bud out, and everybody had told him to look forward to cherry-blossom season, but if the rain and wind didn’t let up soon there wouldn’t be any blossoms to look at.

  A disappointing cherry-blossom season made a perfect metaphor for how things were going otherwise. Despite nearly two months of crash course he still had no idea how these people reasoned, if they did. He’d always known about concepts like “sovereignty” somewhere in the mishmash of irrelevancies he’d learned in his lifetime, but the people he’d been dealing with had them so thoroughly ingrained in their thought processes that explaining to them that the Grallt, and the rest of the kree, not only didn’t use them, but didn’t approve of them, was blank-look material. The typical reaction seemed to be a brief stunned expression, a shake of the head, and a return to the original line of thought, as if he’d described a direction as “yellow”: Does Not Compute. It didn’t help that it was an election year, and his interlocutors were walking on eggs, fearful of doing or saying something that might disturb the uneasy balance of power between the Democratic-Progressives and the Democratic-Conservatives, thereby bringing the awful wrath of both factions down on their heads.

  “Good morning, John,” said Ander as she emerged from the bedroom.

  “Hello, lovely lady,” he told her, and took her in his arms for the first time in at least fifteen minutes, being careful not to push painfully on her swelling belly.

  “I don’t feel lovely,” she grumped. “I feel swollen and gross, and everything hurts.”

  “You are a lovely lady,” he said firmly. “Your depa’olze says so, and the depa’olze‘s word is law.”

  That wasn’t at all how things were managed in the Peters pa’ol, but it was enough to make her smile and offer a kiss. He took the kiss, returned it, and gave her another squeeze. “How’s Alper feelin’?”

  “As well as can be expected. She’ll be out in a few moments.” Ander looked down at herself, expression rueful. “I hate this part. I truly do believe that the reason for it is to make the woman look forward to the pain so it can be over with.”

  “You’re probably right,” Alper agreed as she came out of the bedroom. She snuggled against Peters, and for a moment they stood in their three-way embrace, as best they could with swelling bellies in the way. The blonde woman was taller and seemed less distended in proportion, but the best calculation they had of the due dates amounted to “any time now”. Peters had secretly hoped that at least one of the children would share his birthday, but the twelfth had come and gone with no such event. The women had seen doctors, both aboard Llapaaloapalla and, reluctantly, here in Washington, and their pregnancies seemed to be progressing normally, but they were extremely uncomfortable and anxious for the process to be over with.

  Dzheenis came in, trailed by his new mate, and greeted the group. The blonde Grallt was as tall as Alper but not as slender. She didn’t speak much English yet, but had a dry, deadpan wit in the Trade that had already—more than once, in fact—caused Peters to look up half an hour or so after she’d said something and realize he’d been zinged. Khurs entered only moments later, and Peters wished that Granpap could have been there. His pa’ol was assembled, everyone he could call a close relation bar the old man, and he would have liked to eliminate the exception.

  “Attention, everyone,” he said. “The sessions will begin at ten o’clock, so we have a little less than a llor to prepare. No doubt they will be as futile and fruitless as they have been to now, but we must continue to approach them in good faith. Dzheenis, do you have the figures on zifthkakik availability that Assistant Secretary Horowitz asked for?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid they’re tentative, but they are the best I can—”

  The door flew open with enough force to bang against the entry wall, and a man in head-to-toe bulletproofs with helmet and face shield stepped through and levelled an ugly-looking weapon. “Everybody freeze!” he said sharply. Everyone did, more out of shock than eager compliance, and a slighter figure, a woman by the hair and makeup, also in bulletproofs but without a helmet, stepped up behind him. “Laura Cade, Internal Revenue Service, Enforcement Division,” she said, and flashed something shiny in a black folder. “Which of you is John Howland Peters, Taxpayer Identification Number 1457-96-2307?”

  “I’m John Peters.” He released the women and stepped forward. “What’s this all about?”

  “John Howland Peters, you are under arrest,” the woman said, and smiled, a rictus that only emphasized her hostility. “Regulations require me to inform you that any resistance will be met by force, up to and including deadly force. You are advised to cooperate fully.” Peters was too stunned to respond immediately; Laura Cade said over her shoulder, “All right, boys, round ‘em up.” She stood aside, and men dressed like the first but armed with handweapons started to push into the suite.

  “Stop where you are!” Dzheenis shouted, and the invaders spun to face the big Grallt. He had his hands in the air, palms forward, and the armed man in the lead let out an audible sigh. “I am obliged to inform you that this room is an embassy outside the territory and jurisdiction of the United States of America. If you leave now this regrettable incident can be excused.” His phraseology was a little stilted, as if he were delivering the speech from memory; what Peters didn’t know was where and why he’d memorized it.

  “I told you, we’re Internal Revenue Service,” Cade snapped. “Embassy status doesn’t matter to us when we’re in pursuit of a fugitive.”

  “I am obliged to inform you,” Dzheenis said, still reciting, “that the laws and regulations of this jurisdiction do not recognize differences in status among those brandishing weapons. You are threatening us with deadly force, and nice definitional distinctions are irrelevant. I repeat: if you leave now, this regrettable incident can b
e excused. If you persist, we will be compelled to recognize this act of war as such.”

  “Act of war? This is a civil arrest!”

  “You have invaded our territory under arms and threatened to carry away our people and sequester our possessions under threat of deadly force; I heard you utter that very phrase yourself,” Dzheenis said, sounding as if he were now speaking ex tempore, indeed with the tiniest hint of amusement. “By our definitions that’s what a war is. We don’t care what your definitions are, nor do we observe artificial restrictions on the means of self defense.”

  “But—”

  The room darkened as a large object obscured the windows. Glass sprayed inward, and heavy blows smashed window frames and walls to form an aperture about the size of a standard double door. Bür in dull green kathir suits began filing through the opening at a lope, cloaks swinging, each armed with a weapon that looked like a carpenter’s level bent slightly in the middle. “The one without a hat is the leader,” Dzheenis said, and the bür in the lead nodded.

  Adding six bür to the population of the room made it distinctly crowded. “I am obliged to inform you,” Dzheenis said, reciting again, “that you have committed an act of war. We are reserving our reprisal. We have further determined that the following conditions apply: if you discharge a weapon, none of you will survive; if one of us is injured, this building will be destroyed; if one of us is killed, the bür will evacuate the survivors and destroy Washington with meteor strikes. Is this clear to you, or should I repeat it?”

  “I don’t—”

  Dzheenis held up a finger and interrupted, in a tone that might have been used for instructing third-graders: “First, if you discharge a weapon none of you will survive. Second,” another finger, “if one of us is injured, this building will be destroyed.” Third finger: “Third, if one of us is killed, the site of this city will glow red-hot for some considerable period of time. I hardly see how I could speak more clearly, but I will repeat it again if necessary.”