Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [35]
“Well, mine wouldn’t” Stiles concluded. “Obviously. Because they sure as hell know I’m here.”
“The Federation declared the sector red, so they have to observe it or they can’t expect anyone else to. It has nothing to do with you personally, Eric. Ambassador Spock would’ve had you out of here if influence mattered.”
“If they made it away from the planet alive. They could all be cosmic dust for all we know.”
Zevon turned to him. “Eric, you must cling to better hopes. I’ve had to watch you deteriorate physically, it’s taken its toll on us both, but I refuse to watch your hopes turn to dust. Spock expects you to behave like an officer and a gentlemen. I expect that also.”
Stiles grinned. “Talk, talk.” He gestured at the vibrations playing out on the data screen. “Look at that… here we sit with information that could save the billion, and we can’t figure out how to get the word to anybody farther up than Orsova. He’ll eat it, probably choke, then hit me.”
“He is a victim of alien backlash. The Pojjana no longer know whom to trust. You and I are convenient representatives of all the trouble brought down upon these people by the Constrictor. If they knew it was I personally who had-“
Defying the numbness in his legs and shoulders, Stiles launched forward and grasped Zevon’s ann. “Quiet! Shut up. Don’t take chances.”
Zevon’s gaze fell. “I wish, now and then, just to tell them and be done with it. I deserve whatever they do.”
“You keep your alien mouth shut. You want to risk these plush surroundings? If they ‘knew, they might put us someplace … oh… tacky.”
Now Zevon looked up, and his expression tightened. “We have to risk a change, Eric. You can’t stay here much longer. You can’t stay on this planet, much less in this prison complex-“
He was interrupted by the sharp clack of the lab door lock. They both tensed visibly, though Stiles was too weak to do much more than uncross his legs. “Uh-oh-“
Assistant Warden Orsova came in first, as he always did. He was a typical Pojjana northern-hemisphere male, built like a brick, a head shorter than Stiles or Zevon, but nearly as wide. His coppery complexion shimmered in the lab light. His eyes were black as the drawer knobs around the lab. Following him was one of the guards of the lower ranks, with an infantry symbol emblazoned on his uniform front and the colors of an unfamiliar unit.
“Hello, you men” Orsova slurred the words as he drawled his way through his own language.
He was drank. They recognized the signs. Orsova held his liquor well, but there was a certain lingering odor, and his behavior would change, submerged anger bubbling behind his eyes. On days like this, his frustrations and boredom fluttered to the surface, and he would eventually come to act on them.
The soldier, though, seemed perfectly sober. His dark eyes glowed with anticipation, and his fists were clenched.
Orsova looked at Stiles and Zevon. “What are you doing today?”
Fighting his nerves, Stiles fiddled with the spectrometer, making sure not to do anything by mistake that could wipe out their newfound readings. “Just sitting here making up my mind that zebras are white with black stripes instead of the other way around.” “Get up,” Orsova ordered.
Suddenly icy, Zevon turned to the clutter of equipment on the lab table. “We have twenty more minutes.”
“Not you, ears,” Orsova corrected, and looked at Stiles. “Just him.”
Stiles chuckled and shook his head. “Orsova, your timing smells to Tarkus. So does your breath, by the way” “Get up.” “He can’t get up,” Zevon protested, but too quietly.
Orsova buried his wide hands in Stiles’s collar and dragged him to his feet. Holding Stiles with one hand, he held the other hand out to the soldier. “Pay.”
Grinding his teeth, the soldier dug into his thigh pouch and came up with several of the thin nonted chips the Pojjana used as a medium of exchange and piled them into Orsova’s hand.
Without ceremony Orsova handed Stiles over to the soldier, who by now was fairly gasping with the thrill.
Zevon said nothing, did nothing