"Ah, now, you're getting cynical." Colmuir gestured at the younger man's face. "Your eyes still recovering? Didn't they give you a supplemental 'band to speed up th' healing?"
"My eyes?" Dawd touched his goggles absently and then shook his head. "I'd forgotten I had these on." The sergeant lifted his head, indicating the bathroom. "Do you suppose he'll leave any hot water for us?"
"Probably not," Colmuir snorted, forcing himself to his feet. He stared at Dawd, tight-lipped. "Let me have a look at this injury of yours – if yuir eyes are still hurting, it's best you visited the ship's medbay…"
"Master Sergeant, I'm fine!" Dawd lifted a hand, stopping Colmuir – who was looking rather pale – from touching his goggles. "Another day or so and they'll be good as new."
"Let me see," Colmuir said, making a sharp, beckoning gesture. "I can tell when a man's hiding something – and you are, Sergeant – there's no sense in being stoic about an injury."
"Of course," Dawd said, rather stiffly. He lifted both hands and slowly removed the goggles. Behind them, his eyes were closed tight, and puffy with dark red bruising. Scorch marks scarred his left socket, and his bushy black eyebrows were ashy smears.
"Ah, lad, you look terrible!" Colmuir peered closer. A queer tickling sensation at the back of his neck was making him even more nervous. "D' they work at all?"
The master sergeant gently peeled back the lid of Dawd's right eye, revealing a massively dilated pupil surrounded by the thinnest verge of green. The whites were a rough, angry red. The sergeant hissed in pain, flinching away.
"Sorry," Colmuir said, shaking his head and turning away. "Tha' looks quite bad."
"No…trouble, Master Sergeant." Dawd gingerly put his goggles back on. In the brief instant before the glassite lenses once more obscured them, the ruined eyes rippled and shifted, subsuming the hastily extruded skin and swollen veins. Cold watery blue irises emerged from beneath the camouflage and purpled bruises faded as the shiftskin of the Lengian <sower|teacher|adjudicator> returned to an efficient and optimal configuration.
This <protector|guardian|hound> will have to be destroyed, the creature thought, with the faintest tinge of dismay, watching Master Sergeant Colmuir sit again, his lean old face pinched with pain. It is suspicious – heart-rate is elevated, senses are sharpened – by the Makers, its perceptual gestalt has determined I am not Sergeant Leslie Dawd at all. Now this one must be destroyed. What a waste of a superior gene-line…
Dawd licked his lips, then said: "Master Sergeant, if you don't mind my asking – have you any children?"
"Me?" Colmuir was entirely taken aback by the question. He laughed, running a scarred hand through short, springy gray-black hair. "Oh, scads, I'm sure. Somewhere. Why?"
Dawd nodded to himself, pleased. "Nothing, Master Sergeant. I was just suddenly curious."
"Ah!" Tezozуmoc bounded back into the main room, glistening and clean, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. The prince seemed, for once, actually happy. "Let's order room service," he declared, grinning foolishly at his two bodyguards, and snatching up a portable comm-plate emblazoned with the swan-mon of the liner. "Let's see just how good their liquor cabinet is!"
Colmuir grunted, but a smile was beginning to show on his lips. "Ah, I would not refuse a fine Skawts whiskey today, mi'lord, no I would not."
"Excellent!" Tezozуmoc turned to the creature sitting so comfortably in the shape of a man. "Dawd, what'll you have?"
"Whatever you're having, mi'lord," the Lengian replied, making a bit of a bow towards the prince. "Whatever you're having."