Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [24]
Riker tried to free himself, to roll the weight of the container off him, but it was hard work. Slow work. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs; his chest seemed to be caught in a vise. And the fellow with the blaster was getting closer all the time.
He had no idea what had happened to his projectile gun, nor would it have helped him much now—he needed both hands to keep the container from caving his ribs in.
The fugitive came out of the shadows far enough for Riker to get a good look at him. A Pandrilite. Big, heavyset—Lyneea had been right. He never could have outrun them.
And where in blazes was Lyneea? He peered down the alley, saw no sign of her.
The Pandrilite smiled and aimed his weapon at Riker’s face. He was standing no more than four meters away now. There was no way he could miss.
“Stop struggling,” said the broad, bony face behind the blaster. “It won’t do you any good.” Suddenly the smile fell away. “Where’s your friend?”
“Damned if I know,” said Riker.
But just as he said it, there was a soft, scraping sound above them—and something fell on the Pandrilite, knocking the blaster out of his hand and bringing him to his knees. Something long-limbed and, at a second glance, very Lyneea-like.
The two of them fell in a heap, the Impriman on top. Both went for the blaster; Lyneea got to it first.
“All right,” she told him. “On your feet—and over to that container.” She indicated the one that was still doing its best to compress Riker’s anatomy.
The Pandrilite did as he was told.
“Now help him remove it.”
The Pandrilite stooped and, bringing his considerable strength to bear, gave Riker the leverage he needed to roll the container off him. That was only fair, thought Will, since he had put it there in the first place.
With an effort, Riker got to his feet and belted the Pandrilite, sending him staggering into a wall.
“That,” he said, “was for dropping me into the isak pit.”
The Pandrilite wiped his mouth and glared at him, but refrained from retaliating. After all, Lyneea still had the blaster pointed at him.
“Now,” she said, smiling approvingly at Riker’s outburst, “I want to know what made you nervous enough to drop my companion and flee the tavern.”
The Pandrilite’s lip curled. He barked out one word: “Raat.”
Riker looked at Lyneea. The word didn’t seem to mean anything to her, either.
“What’s raat?” she asked.
The Pandrilite’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t work for Drohner?” he asked.
“Ah,” said Lyneea. “Drohner. Sure, I’ve heard of him.” She turned to Riker. “Big labor broker. Corrupt as they come.” Then she turned back to the Pandrilite. “What’s he got to do with you?”
The Pandrilite shrugged. “I … crossed him. Organized a little labor crew of my own—an independent called Raat. It’s a Pandril word. Means ‘freedom.’ ” He spat. “Drohner didn’t like it. I heard he was trying to find out more about me, maybe teach me a lesson.” He stared at the Impriman. “You sure you don’t work for Drohner?”
“Positive,” she said. “If I did, would I have come after you with a projectile gun?”
Realization dawned. “You’re a retainer,” he said.
Lyneea nodded. “And I couldn’t care less about Drohner’s difficulties in maintaining his monopoly. But I do need information, and I think you can give it to me.”
The Pandrilite straightened. “What kind of information?”
“We’re looking for someone named Teller Conlon,” Riker cut in. “Heard of him?”
The Pandrilite was expressionless. “Maybe. What do you want with him?”
Riker shook his head. “I asked you first.”
“The way I see it,” Lyneea told her captive, “you have a choice. You can be incarcerated for a little while, for possession of a high-tech weapon during carnival time. Or we can contact Drohner and see if we can do some business with him.”
The Pandrilite measured her. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” she said.
A pause. “All right. But I don’t know very much about Conlon. Only that he did a little smuggling on the side.”
Riker felt the heat as it flooded his face. “You know that for a fact?” he asked.
The Pandrilite shrugged a second time. “That