“Dee-Dee, I’m hungry!”
Less experienced a linguist, Laurel needed more concentration. But she’d had a lot of practice disentangling pilgrim’s accents, and that talent served her well. “OK,” she said. “They don’t sound too bad. Say this: Hi! My name is Laurel. Then ask the biggest one first: What’s your name? ”
Further progress was hampered by what seemed to be a combination of incomprehension—questions like “What’s your island?” and “What’s your number?” and “Were you at the Gathering?” being met with silence mingled with interjections like “Huh?” and “What island?” and “We were inna building.” that made no sense— and the girl’s intransigence, questions like “Where are you from?” and “How old are you?” being met with interjections like “Ow! Dee-Dee!” and “Shut up!” and “Don’t be stupid. They could be anybody!”
Finally, it was the youngest of all who broke the impasse, when he whined in the background: “Deelie? I don’t understand! Didn’t Daddy send the Tweety Kitties to rescue us from the bad men? I need to pee! I want Hugo!”
To Laurel, this made no sense. She’d assumed all along that the kids had somehow strayed—or been snatched from—the Gathering camp. She broke off her posture of concentrated listening and spoke directly to Enheduanna. “I don’t understand. Who found them? Where did they find them? When? Where are they? What building are they in?”
Enheduanna made motions of surprise. “The Protector acted as you requested. The sand mines are cleared of vermin. These children were found an hour ago, in a basement. They are outside that building now. The Protector concluded that they might be a variety of vermin because no females were in evidence. Are they past the age of requiring parents?”
Deelie, Hugo, bad men, rescue, Warriors, mining camp and the past tense suddenly added up to gooseflesh. While Asach pondered the interstellar implications of news that Motie Warriors had just wiped a remote, undefended outpost off the map of a human world, Laurel remained focused on the practical problem of communicating with frightened kids.
“Did they kill anyone?”
“The children?”
“No, of course not. The Warriors. Whoever Sargon sent.”
“Yes, as I said. They exterminated all vermin. Farmers are clearing it now.”
Laurel blanched, as she pictured the slaughter of an entire mining camp, its crew consigned to a compost heap. But she stayed on task.
“Did the children see dead bodies?”
Enheduanna conferred briefly. “Yes. Outside the food preparation area.”
Laurel thought a moment, but reached a quick decision. “OK. Do this. Remove the bodies. Tell them: Laurel says its time for lunch. Take them inside, to the kitchen. Use a clean route. Don’t let them see bodies or blood. Tell them: you can eat anything you want. No matter what they say, answer yes. If they want to prepare food, let them. Just don’t let them have knives. Be sure there are no human bodies or blood in the food prep area before they go in! Tell the boys: find the bathroom. Follow them, but let them go in alone. They will know what to do. Listen and report what they say. Bring them back out when they have eaten.”
“And then,” interjected Asach, “get them to us as fast as you can.” Because the fate of your planet may well depend on it. There were a lot of ifs here. If the mine was operated by unlicensed offworlders, and if they were poaching mining rights on somebody else’s land, and if Ollie Azhad could prove kidnap, and if they could all get back safely, then maybe Sargon’s raiders could be painted as extrajudicial heroes working in favor of human interests. But if word got out that Moties had attacked or harmed human kids—well, that was pretty much it. Anything reported five hundred years ago by an oddball scientist about local wildlife would be chaff in the wind.
Asach pictured an interstellar escalation from there that would serve no interest. Asach thought of The Lads, waxing mushy over Deela’s green eyes. The chances that nobody at that camp had reported the attack were remote. They had to assume the worst. It was essential to control the spin. Renner had to know what was up. So did Barthes, for his own safety. And of course, so did the Azhads. Non-interference be damned.
Asach begged off for a bathroom break around the bend, and flashed the message.
Founder’s Retreat, Oquirr Foothills, New Utah
LaGrange slipped from the building, dodged into shadows, and could not believe her luck. Of all the possible vehicles in all the city, Majlid’s pulled up, his scruffy farm-boy cousin riding shotgun. Two of Ollie Azhad’s best boys. Straight-shooter TCM, but local, and no friends of Maxroy’s Purchase. The tall, silver-haired Imperial emerged to wave them down just as she stepped forward to seize the door handle.
He was kindly, unflustered. “I do beg your pardon—Captain? Is it? I’m not very good with insignia. May we help you?”
She was well aware of the strictures: those were quite clear. No, strictly speaking, he couldn’t. That is, he was not allowed to interfere with her official capacities. And who knew who the MPs were in bed with? She hesitated with indecision.
Majlid broke the impasse. “Hey Jeri! Need a lift? Is it OK with you, Mr. Barthes?” He grinned. “Zone Security, so you’re safe with her!” Then to her, earnestly, “Do you believe this shit?”
At which moment Trippe emerged, thankfully buried in conversation with Hooper. LaGrange ran out of options. Without waiting for a reply, she jerked open the door and dove in. Trippe looked up to see Majlid’s bulk opening the rear passenger door for the Librarian. The goofy cousin waved and grinned from the front seat. Barthes’ aquiline nose caught the lamplight as he climbed in. They pulled away, and Trippe bent back to his conversation.
Barthes spoke first. “Would you perhaps be more comfortable on the seat? There’s plenty of room.” Although, he noted, not as much as there had been. Full Plate now lined the floor and every door.
The scruffy cousin answered. “I think she’s best right where she is for awhile.” Suddenly, his grin did not look disarming. He looked very armed.
LaGrange’s cramped voice mumbled up from the floorboards. “Guys, what’s going on?”
The Lads looked at each other, then looked at Barthes in the rear-seat monitor. Barthes stayed mum as they careened through the downhill hairpins.
“Guys, just tell me. If there’s a problem, we can sort it out later. I’m gunna puke.” She sat up, but stayed on the floor.
Majlid nodded. The little one spoke, but his eyes stayed fixed on Barthes. “When the Temple blew up, the MPs went crazy. They turfed us out of all the Zone posts, took control of the command center, killed the gate guards and anybody else who objected, and then a bunch of them wearing civilian clothes went on a rampage in Moorstown. They smashed up half of Ara_t1rmak Kadesi before our guys in the Storefronts Guild managed to stop them. We caught a couple of ‘em alive, but”—he shook his head—“so far nothing. Wait. Get down.”
Ahead on the valley floor, vehicles clogged the roadway, held up at a checkpoint. They could see the bright sashes of the Maxroy’s Purchase Mormon Battalion reflected in distant headlights.
“Shit,” said Majlid. Without slowing, he killed all running lights. They hurtled through darkness. Barthes was acutely aware of the hum of their passage reflected off guardrails, the precipitous drop beyond, the lashing of trees whipped by the wind of their passage, and then sudden silence, all sound swallowed by blackness. He heard Majlid counting, calmly, slowly, under his breath, and then his stomach lurched as they jerked right, straight off the roadway.