Part 17 (1/2)
”Of course this one's got offspringl” the newcomer growled. He had trimmed his facial hair, and the remaining mustache was waxed and pointed.
”Just look at those paws of his. I'll bet he's never done a day of honest chim's work. Probably he's a tech, or a scientist.” He made it sound as if the very idea of a neo-chimp wearing such a t.i.tle was like a privileged child being allowed to play a complicated game of pretend.
The irony of it was that while Fiben's hands might be less callused than many here, under his s.h.i.+rt were burn-scars from crash landing on a hillside at Mach five. But it wouldn't do to speak of that here.
”Look, fellas, why don't I buy a round. ...”
His money flew across the bar as the tallest zipsuiter slapped his hand. ”Worthless c.r.a.p. They'll be collectin' it soon, like they'll be collecting you ape aristocrats.”
”Shut up!” somebody yelled from the crowd, a brown ma.s.s of hunched shoulders. Fiben glimpsed Sylvie, rocking up on the mound. The separate strips of her skirt rippled, and Fiben caught a glimpse that made him start with amazement. She really was pink . . . her briefly exposed genitals in full estrus.
The zipsuiter prodded Fiben again. ”Well, Mr. College-man? What good is your blue card gonna do you when the Gubru start collecting and sterilizing all you freebreeders? Hah?”
One of the newcomers, a slope-shouldered chim with a barbelate, receding forehead, had a hand in a pocket of his bright garment, gripping a pointed object. His sharp eyes seemed carnivorously intent, and he left the talking to his mustachioed friend.
Fiben had just come to realize that these guys had nothing to do with the big chim in the dungarees. In fact, that fellow had already edged away into the shadows. ”I-I don't know what you're talking about.”
”You don't? They've been goin' through the colonial records, bub, and picking up a lot of college chims like you for questioning. So far they've just been taking samples, but I've got friends who say they're planning a full-tilt purge. Now what d'you think of that?”
”Shut th' fkup!” someone yelled. This time several faces turned. Fiben saw glazed eyes, flecks of saliva, and bared fangs.
He felt torn. He wanted desperately to get out of here, but what if there were some truth in what the zipsuits were saying? If so, this was important information.
Fiben decided to listen a little while longer. ”That's pretty surprising,” he said, putting an elbow on the bar. ”The Gubru are fanatical conservatives. Whatever they do to other patron-level races, I'd bet they'd never interfere with the process of Uplift. It's against their own religion.”
Mustache only smiled. ”Is that what your college education tells you, blue boy? Well it's what the Galactics are saying that counts now.”
They were crowding Fiben, this bunch who seemed more interested in him than in Sylvie's provocative gyrations. The crowd was hooting louder, the music beating harder. Fiben's head felt as if it might crack under the noise.
.”. . . too cool to enjoy a working man's show. Never done any real labor. But snap his fingers, an' our own chimmies come running!”
Fiben could tell something was false here. The one with the mustache was overly calm, his barratrous taunts too deliberate. In an environment like this, with all the noise and s.e.xual tension-a true grunt shouldn't be able to focus so well.
Probationers! he realized suddenly. Now he saw the signs. Two of the zipsuited chims' faces bore the stigmata of failed genetic meddling-mottled, cacophrenic features or the blinking, forever-puzzled look of a cross-wired brain -- embarra.s.sing reminders that Uplift was an awkward process, not without its price.
He had read in a local magazine, not long before the invasion, how the trendy crowd in the Probie community had taken to wearing garishly colored zipsuits. Fiben knew, suddenly, that he had attracted the very worst kind of attention. Without humans around, or any sign of normal civil authority, there was 'no telling what these red-cards were up to.
Obviously, he had to get out of here. But how? The zipsuits were crowding him closer every moment.
”Look, fellas, I just came here to see what's happenin'. Thanks for your opinion. Now I really gotta go.”
”I got a better idea,” the leader sneered. ”How about we introduce you to a Gubru who'll tell you for himself what's goin' on? And what they're plannin' to do with college chims. Hah?”
Fiben blinked. Could these chens actually be cooperating with the invader?
He had studied Old Earth History-the long, dark centuries before Contract, when lonely and ignorant humanity had experimented horribly in everything from mysticism to tyranny and war. He had seen and read countless portrayals of those ancient times-especially tales of solitary men and women who had taken brave, often hopeless stands against evil. Fiben had joined the colonial militia partly in a romantic wish to emulate the brave fighters of the Maquis, the Palmach, and the Power Satellite League.
But history told of traitors, also: those who sought advantage wherever it could be found, even over the backs of their comrades.
”Come on, college chum. There's a bird I want you to meet.”
The grip on his arm was like a tightening vice. Fiben's look of pained surprise made the mustachioed chim grin. ”They put some extra strength genes into my mix,” he sneered. ”That part of their meddling worked, but not some of the others. They call me Irongrip, and I got no blue card, or even a yellow.
”Now let's go. We'll ask Bright Talon Squadron Lieutenant to explain what the Gubru's plans are for chim bright boys.”
In spite of the painful pressure on his arm, Fiben affected nonchalance. ”Sure. Why not? Are you willing to put a wager on it, though?” His upper lip curled back in disdain. ”If I remember my soph.o.m.ore xenology right, the Gubru are pretty sharply clocked into a diurnal cycle. I'll bet behind those dark goggles of his you'll find that b.l.o.o.d.y bird is fast asleep. Think he'll like being awakened just to discuss the niceties of Uplift with the likes of you?”
For all his bravado, Irongrip was obviously sensitive about his level of education. Fiben's put-on a.s.surance momentarily set him back, and he blinked at the suggestion that anyone could possibly sleep through all the cacophony around them.
Finally he growled angrily. ”We'll just see about that. Come on.”
The other zipsuits crowded close. Fiben knew he wouldn't stand a chance taking on all six of them. And there would be no calling on the law for help, either. Authority wore feathers these days.
His escorts prodded him through the maze of low tables. Lounging customers chuffed in irritation as Irongrip nudged them aside, but their eyes, glazed in barely restrained pa.s.sion, were all on Sylvie's dance as the tempo of the music built.
A glance over his shoulder at the performer's contortions made Fiben's face feel hot. He backed away without looking and stumbled into a^soft ma.s.s of fur and muscle.
”Ow!” a seated customer howled, spilling his drink.
”Sorry,” Fiben muttered, stepping away quickly. His sandals crunched upon another brown hand, producing yet another shout. The complaint turned into an outraged scream as Fiben ground the knuckle down then twisted away to apologize once again.
”Siddown!” a voice shouted from the back of the club. Another squeaked, ”Yeah! Beat it! Yer inna way!”
Irongrip glared suspiciously at Fiben and tugged on his arm. Fiben resisted briefly, then released, coming forward suddenly and shoving his captor back into one of the wicker tables. Drinks and sniff stands toppled, sending the seated chims scrambling to their feet, huffing indignantly.
”Hey!”
”Watch it, ye bastid Probie!”
Their eyes, already aflame from both intoxicants and Sylvie's dance, appeared to contain little reason anymore.
Irongrip's shaven face was pale with anger. His grasp tightened, and he began to motion to his comrades, but Fiben only smiled conspiratorially and nudged him with his elbow. In feigned drunken confidence, he spoke loudly.
”See what you did? I told you not to b.u.mp these guys on purpose, just to see if they're too stoned to talk. ...”
From the nearby chims there came a hiss of intaken breath, audible even over the music.
”Who says I can't talk!” one of the drinkers slurred, barely able to form the words. The tipsy Borachio advanced a step, trying to focus on the source of this insult. ”Was it you?”
Fiben's captor eyed him threateningly and yanked him closer, tightening the vicelike grip. Still, Fiben managed to maintain his stage grin, and winked.
”Maybe they can talk, sorta. But you're right about them bein' a bunch o' knuckle-walkers. ...”
”What!”
The nearest chim roared and grabbed at Irongrip. The sneering mutant adroitly stepped aside and chopped with the edge of his free hand. The drunk howled, doubled up, and collided with Fiben.
But then the inebriate's friends dove in, shrieking. The hold on Fiben's arm tore loose as they were all swamped under a tide of angry brown fur.
Fiben ducked as a snarling ape in a leather work harness swung on him. The fist sailed past and connected with the jaw of one of the zipsuited toughs. Fiben kicked another Probie in the knee as the chim grabbed for him, eliciting a satisfactory howl, but then all was a chaos of flying wicker-work and dark bodies. Cheap straw tables blew apart as they crashed down upon heads. The air filled with flying beer and hair.