Worlds Apart (ThreeCon)

by Carmen Webster Buxton

  “No, lady,” Prax said, desperation loosening his tongue. “I must go now. I have to be ready for work later.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Rishi said.

  “Yes, lady,” Prax said, and he fled from the kitchen before she could ask him anymore questions.

  PRAX had a break scheduled that afternoon, since he was working in the evening. He went to his room to try to think. When he let himself in, he was still furious at both Hari and Thulan for speaking to him about Nakamura. He would have lain down on the bed to cool off, but it was already occupied. Ingrid Nakamura looked quite at home stretched out on her stomach, her bare feet on his pillow and her chin propped up on her hands.

  “Hello,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d get back.” She was wearing the same dark blue robe she had worn before, except it was no longer fastened in the front. She moved slightly, and it came open. In the bright daylight from the window, her skin was a beautiful creamy color, and her hair gleamed golden.

  “What are you doing here?” Prax demanded. He’d had enough surprises.

  Nakamura blinked. “What does it look like I’m doing? I came to see if you feel like having some fun.”

  “Well, I don’t. Go away and leave me alone.”

  She sat up, heedless of what was exposed in the process. “You don’t need to be in such a snit. I was just asking.”

  Prax gave vent to his feelings. “Go away! I hate it here! I hate everything here! You have no manners. None of you know how to behave, or even how to speak. Your language has no subtlety or proper form. The sky is the wrong color, and the grass makes noise. I have to spend the rest of my life in this miserable box breathing dead air, and I wish I were dead, too!”

  Looking considerably miffed, Nakamura fastened her robe quickly and stood up. “Don’t expect me to come back. If you want anything from me, you’ll have to come ask for it—and ask nicely, too.”

  “I don’t want anything from you except to be left alone.”

  Nakamura obliged him by going out the door at a rapid pace.

  Prax threw himself face down on his bed and buried his face in his arms. What had possessed him to give his word to these barbarians? He thought about Celadon, and he remembered riding across the plains in the early morning—the earthy smell of the prairie grasses, the sound of the herd lowing, the smooth motion of the alogos’ muscles under his legs. These were things he might never experience again.

  Abruptly, Prax sat up. It was no use to lie there and feel sorry for himself. He could at least get up and move, get some real air into his lungs. He went out the door and headed down the hall to the outside entrance. Chio called out to him in the hallway, but Prax didn’t stop. He waited only long enough for the door to open when he pressed his hand against the panel, and then he ran outside as fast as he could.

  Prax kept running, heading toward the perimeter, and then curving to follow it. He slowed his pace only when he began to tire. He dropped to a steady jog and kept it up until he had been running for almost an hour. He stopped, finally, within sight of the house. He stood bent over, with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. After several minutes, when he could stand straight and breathe normally, he walked slowly back to the house, to the little room with the windows that didn’t open, and the life that seemed to have him trapped.

  Chapter Eight

  Prax slept inside the night of the party because he knew it would rain. The next morning, he rose early and looked out the window. The ground didn’t look too wet. If he hurried, he could get in a quick run before breakfast, despite the damp.

  He did his regular route around part of the perimeter, but at a faster pace than usual. He had headed back to the house and was in sight of the security entrance when a man stepped out from behind a clump of trees.

  Gasping, Prax stopped. It was Beecher. His pose told Prax he wanted a confrontation.

  “Well, well,’ said Beecher. “Here’s our wholesome young rustic. Gone for some nice healthy exercise, have we?”

  Prax was still catching his breath. “What do you want, Beecher?”

  “This,” said Beecher, and he hit Prax hard in the stomach. Prax had fast reflexes, and he managed to deflect some of the force of the blow, but Beecher seemed to pack more of a punch than he ever had in training. He wore something on his right hand, a sort of oversized metal glove.

  Prax tried to back off, but Beecher pursued him. Prax turned and tried to get in close so that he could use his own style of fighting, but Beecher hit him in the gut so hard Prax couldn’t breathe. Two more blows hit Prax’s face, the metal glove gouging his skin. With blood running down his face, Prax wished desperately that he had brought his knife with him.

  Suddenly, Beecher stepped back and grinned at Prax, who swayed but kept on his feet. “You come near Nakamura again,” Beecher said, “and I’ll give you a beating that’ll make this look like a walk in the park.” He turned to walk away.

  Too angry to think of the consequences, Prax sprang at Beecher and tried to grapple him into a wrestling hold. Beecher hit him in the face, a powerful blow that hit Prax square on the jaw. Prax’s head snapped back, and consciousness slid from him even before his body hit the ground.

  PRAX became aware that someone was calling his name.

  “Prax! Wake up, Prax!”

  Something tapped his face gently. It hurt, for some reason. Prax groaned and moved his limbs. He opened his eyes.

  Hari’s face loomed over him.

  “Get up!” Hari ordered. “The grass is still damp. Your clothes are wet through. Let’s get you inside and get you cleaned up.”

  Prax groaned, feeling his stomach muscles protest as he moved. He tried to help as Hari dragged him to his feet. Once he was upright, he swayed on his feet as he walked. Hari led him to his own room and helped him lie down on his bed. Prax was glad they had met no one on the way.

  Prax closed his eyes, then opened them a few seconds later as pain shot through him. Hari was washing his face with a cloth, and it hurt like the time Prax had brushed up against one of the needle bushes.

  “I’m sorry if it’s painful,” Hari said. “But I need to see how badly you’re hurt. Hold still.”

  Prax gritted his teeth and allowed Hari to clean his face.

  When the security chief had finished, he surveyed Prax critically. “It could be worse. There are no broken bones, no permanent damage that I can see. You’re going to have one hell of a black eye if we don’t get you to the doctor soon. All in all, your face is a mess. Who did it?”

  Prax pulled himself into a sitting position but leaned against the headboard of the bed. His stomach muscles ached where Beecher had hit him. He said nothing.

  Hari looked annoyed. “I see. You’re doing your impression of a kooja.”

  “I don’t even know what a kooja is,” Prax said, annoyed at yet another illustration of his ignorance.

  “It’s a Miloran animal—the stubbornest animal in the galaxy. Once it sets itself down, no one can budge it.”

  Prax said nothing. He hadn’t sorted out all the rules well yet, but one thing he knew was that a fight between two men was no one else’s business.

  “It’s a damn good impression,” Hari said. “But it’s wasted. If you’re reluctant to talk because you think it was a fair fight, and you just happened to lose, allow me to point out that the marks on your face show that someone used a quahahn on you. That’s a Miloran invention—a sort of mailed glove with built-in hydraulics. Wearing a quahahn allows you to hit someone with a lot more wallop than you would ordinarily have. It breaks the skin nicely, too, which is why you bled so much.”

  Prax still said nothing. Hari had introduced factors that he didn’t understand. Until he knew what had happened, it would be best not to speak.

  “Damn it, Prax!” Hari said. “This is my patch. Someone on my staff did this, and I want
to know who it was!”

  Prax remained silent. More than anything, he wanted Hari to go away and leave him alone.

  “All right,” Hari said abruptly. “We’ll talk about it later. Get cleaned up, and I’ll have someone take you to the doctor.”

  “No!” Prax said at once. The last thing he wanted was more witnesses to his weakness and more exposure to uncanny technology. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  Hari used an expletive that Prax had learned his first day in the gym when Rurhahn accidentally stepped on someone’s foot.

  “Have a look in the mirror,” Hari said. “It might change your mind.”

  Prax got up and went into the bathroom, turning his head to study himself in the mirror. A cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but it still looked raw. He had the beginnings of a black eye, and the other cheek was badly bruised and cut as well. When he moved close to the mirror and stared hard, he could see that the metal glove had left marks on his face, rather like tiny wagon tracks. His mother would have shrieked to see him so battered. Just as well she never would.

  Prax returned to his bedroom. “I’ll live.”

  “Maybe,” Hari said. “But I don’t know that I will when Rishi sees your face.”

  Prax sat down on the bed. “It’s no concern of hers.”

  Hari’s expression grew stern. “Look here! If you don’t tell me who did this, I have to assume you were fighting with someone. The penalty for fighting is loss of three days’ pay. If it happens a second time, I have the option to let you go. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name?”

  Prax kept silent. Money was nothing to him. And he didn’t think Hari would actually fire him.

  Hari sighed. “All right. You’re formally reprimanded for fighting. We’ll deduct three days’ pay from your credit account.”

  Prax ignored him and lay down, stretching out his full length on the bed. Conscious of every bruise and cut, he was very glad that he wasn’t scheduled to work that day. When Hari tried to talk to him, he just turned his face to the wall.

  RISHI slept in the morning after her party. When Lidiya brought her breakfast tray, Rishi was still wearing her nightgown with a robe over it.

  “It must have gone well,” Lidiya said. “You slept later than you have since we got back.”

  “It went fine,” Rishi said, sitting up to inspect the tray. The food smelled good, and the coffee even better. “I made some new contacts and renewed some old ones. Everyone ate lots of food and drank enough to be talkative. That’s the best kind of business party there is.”

  Lidiya laughed. “Well, enjoy your breakfast then. I’ll be back for the tray later.”

  Rishi sat on the edge of the bed to eat. She reviewed her plans for the day and considered which conversations from the night before she should follow up on first. She had just finished a glass of juice when Hari’s chime sounded.

  “Come,” Rishi said.

  Hari advanced into the room with his usual vigor. “Good morning. Sleeping in today?”

  Rishi smiled warmly. “Good morning, Hari. I did sleep late; I was tired. Still, it went well last night.”

  He grimaced. “Nobody got robbed or snatched. That’s my idea of a good party. It beats me why you want almost a hundred strangers wandering around your house.”

  “They weren’t all strangers.” Rishi munched on a fruit stick. “And people relax more at a party than at a business meeting. You learn things—things that help make deals. A man called Van der Keller had an interesting proposition; he’s coming to see me next week.”

  “I hope it’s worth the gray hairs it cost me to have you open this place up like that.”

  Rishi pushed the tray out of the way. “We’ll find out next week. Did you come by just to chat? I have to get moving.”

  “Not exactly. I came by to talk about something in particular. Your Elliniká got into a fight of some kind early this morning. From the look of him, he lost in a big way.”

  Rishi felt a rush of panic. “Praxiteles? Is he hurt?”

  “Nothing life-threatening, but his face is a mess. He’s got a black eye and a lot of cuts and bruises.”

  She got to her feet, alarmed. Hari wasn’t one to exaggerate. If he said Praxiteles was hurt, then it was more than a minor cut. “What did the doctor say?”

  Hari looked grim. “He won’t go to the doctor. He flat out refuses to go.”

  Rishi opened her eyes wide. “But that’s ridiculous. If he’s hurt, he should see a doctor.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  She frowned, annoyed at being balked. “Who hit him?”

  “He won’t say.”

  “Why not?” Rishi demanded.

  “I’m not sure.” Hari glanced around the room and then flopped down into the nearest chair. “Fights happen in Security, occasionally. When it’s a fair fight, one on one, the loser never tells on the winner. Sometimes it’s obvious, but in this case it must have been an unequal contest because no one else has a mark on him. I checked.”

  “So you don’t know?” Rishi could feel anger rising as she thought about it. It wasn’t fair. Praxiteles was new to civilization, and someone had taken advantage of that. She paced a few times. “Can’t you find out?”

  Hari made a face. “I can tell you the six people who the system says left the building during the relevant time of the morning, but none of them is a likely suspect.”

  She frowned. It seemed very lax to her. “You mean you can’t tell who goes through the doors?”

  He made a quick gesture, almost a shrug. “Labor laws here don’t allow me to chip the employees, so I have to rely on external transponders and protocol. Someone who knows how the system works could easily defeat it.”

  “Then Praxiteles has to tell you who it was!”

  Hari shook his head. “I’m trying to tell you I think it’s just as well Prax kept his mouth shut. I don’t know if he’s following the Elliniká code of behavior or just trying to fit in, but he’s doing exactly what one of the other guys would do if they were in a fight and lost. I was mad at him at first, but once I thought it over, I was pleased.”

  “Pleased that he got beaten up?” Rishi asked, appalled.

  “No, of course not. I’m pleased he’s fitting in. He needs a place, Rishi.” Hari gave her his stern father look. “You took him out of his natural setting, and you won’t let him go back. He needs a new place. If you’re not going to make him into a pampered house guest who earns his keep in your bed, then you need to let him find his own place.”

  Rishi was silent for a moment. Her conscience bothered her, and she didn’t like the feeling. Having someone else’s life as her responsibility wasn’t entirely a pleasant feeling. “Is Praxiteles unhappy? He seems content when he’s with me, but I don’t know if he’s just acting.”

  He shook his head. “He doesn’t confide in me, but he seems to have been having a rough time the last few days. I think the difference in his way of life has gotten to him.”

  Rishi studied her hands, reluctant to ask the question. “Should I send him back to Celadon?”

  “You should have turned the ship around that first day when you sobered up,” Hari said gruffly. “It’s too late. If you try to send him back now, he’s going to think he did something wrong. Let him stay a few months—if he’s not totally miserable. Then you can tell him his debt is paid and buy him a ticket home.”

  “All right,” Rishi said, relieved to have an answer that allowed Praxiteles to stay, at least for a while. “Whatever you say, Hari.”

  Hari smiled a little sourly, as if he didn’t believe her. “Leave him alone, then. Don’t make a fuss over him, and don’t single him out.”

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t have him eat with me?”

  Hari snorted. “I wish you hadn’t started it, but it seems that they’re all used to
it now. Just don’t do anything else like that.”

  “I won’t.”

  He gave her a glum look. “If only I could believe that.”

  PRAX stayed in his room. His one appearance in the corridor dissuaded him from leaving his room again; Chio had stared and let out a Miloran phrase Prax didn’t understand. Prax would have gone outside, but it was raining again. Since Rishi had told him she would miss lunch, he knew he wouldn’t have to see her until dinner time. When lunchtime came, Prax decided to skip that meal altogether. He stayed in his room and played melancholy tunes on his bouzouki. It was still early in the afternoon when the door chimed. Prax debated for a second, and then said, “Come.”

  Three of the security staff stood in a clump in the doorway. They had the appearance of a delegation; Tinibu looked to be the leader, with Chio behind him, and Qualhuan, the Miloran, bringing up the rear.

  “Can we come in, Prax?” Tinibu asked.

  Prax put down his bouzouki and stood up, unsure of what was happening. “What do you want?”

  “We need to ask you something,” Tinibu said, stepping into the room. The others followed him, and the door closed.

  Prax frowned and crossed his arms. Three men coming in a group made it more of a demand than a question. “I don’t have anything I want to tell you.”

  Tinibu waved a hand dismissively. “You don’t have to tell us who it was. We know that already. The chief probably knows, too, but he can’t do anything about it if you don’t give him a name.”

  Having so many people in such a small room made Prax nervous. “If you know so much, then why are you bothering me?”

  “We heard that Beecher used a quahahn,” Tinibu said. “Is that true?”

  “Who said it was Beecher?” Prax countered, annoyed. “Go away, please. I don’t feel like talking.”

  Tinibu looked at Qualhuan. The Miloran gave a small sigh, a tiny sound for such a large creature, and shrugged convulsively. He moved a little to Prax’s left; Tinibu did the same on his right. Prax tried to back up, but he bumped into the bed. They sprang at him, and Qualhuan got Prax’s left arm in a hold that Prax couldn’t break, no matter how much he struggled. Tinibu held his right arm the same way while Chio advanced and looked carefully at Prax’s face. Prax tried to pull away, but neither of his captors would let him move.