Part 19 (2/2)

Jobert grimaced again, his wrinkled, age-darkened face dour with pessimism. ”They went out armed with pin-rifles and concussion grenades, hoping to ambush a Gubru patrol.

”Actually,” the elderly chim added dryly. ”We were expecting news more than an hour ago. I'm afraid they are already very late getting back.”

27 Fiben

Fiben awoke in darkness, fetal-curled under a dusty blanket.

Awareness brought back the pain. Just pulling his right arm away from his eyes took a stoic effort of will, and the movement set off a wave of nausea. Unconsciousness beckoned him back seductively.

What made him resist was the filmy, lingering tracery of his dreams. They had driven him to seek consciousness . . . those weird, terrifying images and sensations. The last, vivid scene had been a cratered desert landscape. Lightning struck the stark sands all around him, pelting him with charged, sparking shrapnel whichever way he tried to duck or'hide.

He recalled trying to protest, as if there were words that might somehow placate a storm. But speech had been taken from him.

By effort of will, Fiben managed to roll over on the creaking cot. He had to knuckle-rub his eyes before they would open, and then all they made out was the dimness of a shabby little room. A thin line of light traced the overlap of heavy black curtains covering a small window.

His muscles trembled spasmodically. Fiben remembered the last time he had felt anywhere near this lousy, back on Cilmar Island. A band of neo-chimp circus entertainers from Earth had dropped in to do a show. The visiting ”strongman” offered to wrestle the college champion, and like an idiot Fiben had accepted.

It had been weeks before he walked again without a limp.

Fiben groaned and sat up. His inner thighs burned like fire. ”Oh, mama,” he moaned. ”I'll never scissors-hold again!”

His skin and body hair were moist. Fiben sniffed the pungent odor of Dalsebo, a strong muscle relaxant. So, at least his captors had taken efforts to spare him the worst aftereffects of stunning. Still, his brain felt like a misbehaving gyroscope when he tried to rise. Fiben grabbed the teetering bedside table for support as he stood up, and held his side while he shuffled over to the solitary window.

He grabbed rough fabric on both sides of the thin line of light and snapped the drapes apart. Immediately Fiben stumbled back, both arms raised to ward off the sudden brightness. Afterimages whirled.

”Ugh,” he commented succinctly. It was barely a croak.

What was this place? Some prison of the Gubru? Certainly he wasn't aboard an invader battles.h.i.+p. He doubted the fastidious Galactics would use native wood furnis.h.i.+ngs, or decorate in Late Antediluvian Shabby.

He lowered his arms, blinking away tears. Through the window he saw an enclosed yard, an unkempt vegetable garden, a couple of climbing trees. It looked like a typical small commune-house, the sort a chim group marriage family might own.

Just visible over the nearby roofs, a line of hilltop eucalyptus trees told him he was still in Port Helenia, not far from Sea Bluff Park.

Perhaps the Gubru were leaving his interrogation to their quislings. Or his captors could be those hostile Probationers. They might have their own plans for him.

Fiben's mouth felt as if dust weavers had been spinning traps in it. He saw a water pitcher on the room's only table. One cup v?as already poured. He stumbled over and grabbed for it, but missed and knocked it cras.h.i.+ng to the floor.

Focus! Fiben told himself. If you want to get out of this, try to think like a member of a starfaring race!

It was hard. The subvocalized words were painful just behind his forehead. He could feel his mind try to retreat ... to abandon Anglic for a simpler, more natural way of thinking.

Fiben resisted an almost overpowering urge to simply grab up the pitcher and drink from it directly. Instead, in spite of his thirst, he concentrated on each step involved in pouring another cup.

His fingers trembled on the pitcher's handle.

Focus!

Fiben recalled an ancient Zen adage. ”Before enlightenment, chop wood, pour water. After enlightenment, chop wood, pour water.”

Slowing down in spite of his thirst, he turned the simple act of pouring into an exercise. Holding on with two shaking hands, Fiben managed to pour himself about half a cupful, slopping about as much onto the table and floor. No matter. He took up the tumbler and drank in deep, greedy, swallows.

The second cup poured easier. His hands were steadier.

That's it. Focus. . . . Choose the hard path, the one using thought. At least chims had it easier than neo-dolphins. The other Earthly client race was a hundred years younger and had to use three languages in order to think at all!

He was concentrating so hard that he didn't notice when the door behind him opened.

”Well, for a boy who's had such a busy night, you sure are chipper this morning.”

Fiben whirled. Water splattered the wall as he brought up the cup to throw it, but the sudden movement seemed to send his brain spinning in his head. The cup clattered to the floor and Fiben clutched at his temples, groaning under a wave of vertigo.

Blearily, he saw a chimmie in a blue sarong. She approached carrying a tray. Fiben fought to remain standing, but his legs folded and he sank to his knees.

”b.l.o.o.d.y fool,” he heard her say. Bile in his mouth was only one reason he couldn't answer.

She set her tray on the table and took hold of his arm. ”Only an idiot would try to get up after taking a full stunner jolt at close range!”

Fiben snarled and tried to shake her hands off. Now he remembered! This was the little ”pimp” from the Ape's Grape. The one who had stood in the balcony not far from the Gubru and who had him stunned just as he was about to make his escape.

”Lemme ”lone,” he said. ”I don' need any help from a d.a.m.n traitor!”

At least that was what he had intended to say, but it came out more as a slurred mumble. ”Right. Anything you say,” the chimmie answered evenly. She hauled him by one arm back to the bed. In spite of her slight size, she was quite strong.

Fiben groaned as he landed on the lumpy mattress. He kept trying to gather himself together, but rational thought seemed to swell and fade like ocean surf.

”I'm going to give you something. You'll sleep for at least ten hours. Trjen, maybe, you'll be ready to answer some questions.”

Fiben couldn't spare the energy to curse her. All his attention was given over to finding a focus, something to center on. Anglic wasn't good enough anymore. He tried Galactic Seven.

”Na ... Ka ... tcha . . . kresh . . .” he counted thickly.

”Yes, yes,” he heard her say. ”By now we're all quite aware how well educated you are.”

Fiben opened his eyes as the chimmie leaned over him, a capsule in her hand. With a finger snap she broke it, releasing a cloud of heavy vapor.

He tried to hold his breath against the anesthetic gas, knowing it was useless. At the same time, Fiben. couldn't help noticing that she was actually fairly pretty-with a small, childlike jaw and smooth skin. Only her wry, bitter smile ruined the picture.

”My, you are an obstinate chen, aren't you? Be a good boy now, breathe in and rest,” she commanded.

Unable to hold out any longer, Fiben had to inhale at last. A sweet odor filled his nostrils, like overripe forest fruit. Awareness began dissipating in a floating glow.

It was only then Fiben realized that she, too, had spoken in perfect, unaccented Galactic Seven.

28 Government in Hiding

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