Daniel Akamarino stood looking about him. He moved his shoulders and felt his bones relax. This was his world. Derelict it might be, weird it might be, but this was once a starflyer. His fingers felt alive, his body responded to the smells, the feel of metal wrapped about him, the sense of power powerfully controlled. The godstuff was irritating, all this plant and fungus nonsense was a pain, add-ons he wished he could scrape off so he could see plain the stark beauty of the computer circuits, hear the deep middle-of-the-bone nearly silent drone of the engines. For days he’d been pulled tight, as day slid into day he’d been more and more afraid he’d never see a starship again. It was like a part of him had been hacked off. He hadn’t realized how bad it was until he got here; he wasn’t sure he liked knowing that since there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. He enjoyed dirtside life as long as it was in manageable small doses and he could get back into star-jumping when he felt like it. He used his talents then, his most important skills, important to him. He did things he found most satisfying then. Never again? Never! These freaking gods brought him here, they could put him back where he belonged. If they wanted to argue about that, well, why not dig up one of those talismans, find out how to use it and put the squeeze on one of them until the sorry s’rish was hurting so hard he maybe she would be glad to get rid of him.
The children came drifting back, shifting to their bipedal forms as they touched down before Brann. “Bedrooms, washroom, a kitchen of sorts,” Yaril said. “Shuh! are they old. But they’re clean, they don’t smell and they work well enough.”
“I bet this was part of the Admiral’s quarters, him the god was talking about,” Jaril said. “It’s too fancy for crew or settler. Um. Ship hears whatever we say. Yaril and me, we probably could block a small space for a short time if you need it, but I wouldn’t count too much on that.”
Brann nodded. “I hear.” She yawned. “I could use a pot of tea.” She turned to Daniel Akamarino. “How do I work that, Danny Blue?”
Teatime conversation:
Brann: What I want to know is why this thing wants to be turned loose. What can it do but sit somewhere like it’s sitting here? Gods. Most of the time you can’t trust any of them, not even old Tungjii. Remember what it said about incorporating neural matter from the Admiral and some of its other passengers? Neural matter, hah! that’s someone’s head, isn’t it? Gah! Makes me want to vomit thinking about it. You know, if you lock up anyone alone long enough he more likely than not goes crazy. How sane do you think this thing is? I want a lot of answers before I agree to anything.
Daniel Akamarino: (to himself only, internal mutterings) I’m being jerked about. Why doesn’t she shut up? Doesn’t she realize the shefalos is listening to everything she says? What am I doing here? The shefalos, I’d wager two years’ pay on it. Something was messing in my head when it jerked me here, taught me the language. Put the hook in me then. Stupid woman. Why’d she stick her nose in this trap? Everything I see about her says no way she has to do anything she doesn’t want to. She could leave now, get us out of here. Danny One, once he gets his batteries charged, he can do the wards. Shit! Can’t talk about it here, maybe the kids can block the god… sheee, listen to me, god!… the shefalos for long enough to get some serious planning done.
(To Brann, in a querulous complaining tone. His amiability was disintegrating under the pressure of events; he generally preserved his equanimity by sliding away from such pressures. Now that he can’t slide, his irritations are turning him sour.) Don’t be stupid, Brann. You’ve got hundreds of gods infesting your damn world. What’s one more? I want to get this thing over with, you think I like crawling about on this dirtball? I want to go home. I’ve got family, I’ve got work, what do you expect. Stop bitching and finish what you started. (He scowled at the cold scum of tea in his cup, refilled it with wine from Thngjii’s Gift, refused to look at Brann as he sipped at the straw colored liquid.)
Ahzurdan: (He listened as Brann and Daniel Akamarino sparred with lessening amiability until they stopped talking altogether. He wanted sleep and, like Danny Two, he wanted out of this. The nature of the Chained God sickened and frightened him; his attitude to Settsimaksimin and Brann had suffered a radical reversal when he understood the god was that loathsome monstrosity before him, when he realized that it had played games with his head, hooking him with the hope of freeing himself from his habit. He had sat silent and bitter gazing at the thing, knowing all hope was illusory, he was trapped in something he wouldn’t have touched, used and betrayed by the monstrous god and that castrating bitch Brann Drinker of Souls, coarse, low, crude peasant creature. He felt as helpless as a shitting squalling babe, he hated that. If that abomination that brought them here wanted anything from him, it could want, he was out of it, he was going to pull his defenses around him and sit out whatever the god threw at him.)
Morning (because they wakened and ate a sketchy breakfast, inside the ship there was no way of deciding when the sun came up, if there was a sun in this miniature reality).
They followed the resurrected serviteur through the stinking crepuscular corridors to a teeming jungle that had once been the ship’s hold, to a steamy glade deep in that jungle with short springy grass and several newly cleaned benches; a small bright stream sang through it, glittering in the light from the several sources moonhigh overhead. Both Ahzurdan and Daniel Akamarino had tried refusing to move; the serviteur informed them in its echoing emotionless voice that they could go on their own feet, or the god would lay them out and send other serviteurs to haul them where he wanted them to go.
The serviteur clanked awkwardly across the grass to a stone plate, settled on it and seemed to sleep.
Ahzurdan stalked to the most distant of the benches, sat with his back to the others.
Daniel Akamarino strolled to another bench, sat on it and started pouring Tungjii’s wine down his gullet, having decided that if the god wanted him here, he/it could have him, but he/it was going to get someone so paralyzed he could about breathe and that was all.
Brann clicked her tongue against her teeth, shook her head. That pair she thought, what did I do to deserve them? I was quite happy with my quiet little pottery. damn all gods and curse all fates that pried me loose from it. Shuh! Miserable meeching gods. All right, where are you O god in chains, let’s get this thing moving. She settled onto a bench and set, herself to wait.
The children melted into shimmerglobes, bounced high as the hold ceiling then went zipping about through the vegetation; they soon got bored with that and came back to the glade. They dropped on the grass by Brann’s feet. “It’s a regular rainforest, Bramble,” Jaril said. “The god has imported a lot of dirt. Got enough space in here for clouds to form, I expect it does rain every day or so, maybe even thunderstorms.”
Yaril said nothing, just leaned against Brann’s leg.
A sound like a cough, a thump. A tall cylinder of something like glass snapped around her and the children. She sprang to her feet, slapped her hands against the thing, it was warmish and hard, there was no giving to it at all, she tried to suck energy from it, though she’d never tried that before, but apparently her draw was limited to lifefires, whether they belonged to mortal, demon or god. The children shifted and flung themselves against the wall and rebounded, they darted up, down, the ends were closed in also, there was no way out. If they had learned a few things about the Chained God when they probed him yesterday, it seemed apparent that he/it had learned as much about them, enough anyway to imprison them. They subsided into sullen fuming, back in their usual shapes.