Expendable - James Alan Gardner [81]
The heavyhandedness of it all weighed drearily on me. I sat on a glass bench and tried to will myself into seeing the color as sincere celebration, not a vain roaring against the bleakness.
Silence. The emptiness of a place whose spirit had died.
Many Happy Returns
With a swish, a door opened in a building behind me. Four Skin-Faces marched out, two men, two women, all holding spears. They fell into position beside the doorway, men on one side, women on the other—like an honor guard lining up to welcome a VIP.
“Attention!” one of the men called. Attention: the English word. All four spear-carriers slammed the butts of their weapons on the ground and snapped rigid in perfect Outward Fleet form.
I didn’t move. If I ran, they might chase me; and where could I hide in a city of glass?
Two imperious hand-claps sounded sharply from within the building. I couldn’t see who’d clapped—the Skin-Faces blocked my line of sight. Very slowly, I adjusted my grip on the stunner, in case the clapped command was an order to attack.
It wasn’t. One of the women cleared her throat, hummed a musical tone, then began to sing: Happy Birthday. The others joined in.
On the third line (“Happy birthday, lord and master”), a figure emerged from the building: a person in tightsuit, its fabric smeared with grass stains, brownish sludge, and clots of rust-red. The suit’s helmet had its visor set to oneway opaque; I couldn’t see whether the face inside was flesh or glass.
Walking slowly, bowlegged, the tightsuited figure passed between the lines of Skin-Faces and continued across the plaza—straight toward me. I raised the stunner, ready but not aiming it directly at the approaching stranger.
The figure stopped, then spread its arms wide, showing its hands were empty: an obvious “I’m unarmed” gesture.
I didn’t lower the stunner. I did, however, say the words. “Greetings. I am a sentient citizen of the League of Peoples, and I beg your Hospitality.”
A chuckle sounded within the suit—a male chuckle. “Hospitality?” The figure reached up, popped the releases, and took off its helmet. “A lot you know about hospitality, Ramos. You haven’t even wished me happy birthday.”
“All right,” I said. “Happy birthday, Phylar.”
Part XIII
GIVEAWAYS
The Tip
Phylar Tobit’s face spread into a grin. One of his front teeth was vividly whiter than its yellowed siblings. I assumed the clean tooth was false.
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me,” he chortled.
“Happy birthday was a dead giveaway,” I replied. “So the Fleet finally pulled you from the Academy teaching staff?”
“Eight years ago,” he nodded. “Something about setting a poor example.” He opened his mouth and loosed a belch; trust Tobit to be able to do that at will. “I think we both know how the council handles embarrassments to the uniform.”
“And what a delightful coincidence,” I said, “that on a planet the size of Earth, we happen to run into each other. What are the odds?”
“Damned good,” Tobit replied. “Assuming you got the tip.”
“The tip?”
Tobit shrugged. “If you didn’t get it, maybe your partner did. Or whatever turd of Admiralty shit you escorted here. The tip.”
“What tip?”
“The tip that you should land on this particular continent. Best chance for survival and escape.”
I stared at him. “Someone told you that? Before you landed?”
“Told my partner.” He held up his hand to stop my next question. “No, I don’t know how the tip was delivered—my partner didn’t share confidences…especially not with me. We were assigned to each other for this mission only; she knew the council wanted me Lost, and was pissed as hell to get dragged down with me. Selfish bitch. All she said was someone passed the word: land in this neighborhood if you want to save your ass.”
Chee or Seele, I thought to myself. The tip had to come from Chee or Seele. They’d already visited Melaquin; and their looped broadcast claimed there were spaceworthy ships in that city to the south. Now that I thought about it, Chee had said