Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [94]
A half hour later, the pilot returned with information.
“Tezlac Catal is here, on the Bazaar. He’s got his own headquarters out on the rim of the station, but there’s an area in the third midlevel that has recently been sealed off by his order. He made it public: The area’s off limits by order of the savant himself. Rumor has it he has some VIP prisoners in there, strangers that he didn’t want to send directly into his slaving operation, but too many of them to keep in the holding cells in his HQ.”
“That sounds like a promising lead,” Jackson allowed. “It could be the people from the Pangaea.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” the pilot said. “I can show you the place—at least the outside of it—and you can take it from there. Okay?”
“Good,” the LT replied. He touched his ear, thinking about a question that had occurred to him. “I know these translators are ubiquitous; everyone seems to have one. But I’m wondering. If we go up to some Eluoi flunky and start talking to him, I know he’ll understand us, but is he going to notice that we aren’t speaking Eluoi, or Assarn?”
Parvik shook his head. “For one thing, there’s a lot more than one Eluoi language. They all use the same alphabet, of course, but there’s hundreds of different dialects, speech patterns, and word lists. People on these types of stations are so used to listening to the translation that they’re not likely at all to pay attention to the sounds actually coming out of the speaker’s mouth. And even if they did, I doubt they could tell the difference between English and, say, the language spoken on Arcton V. Remember, since the Shamani first contacted your planet, the major languages of Earth have all been incorporated into the translation databases.”
“Good,” the officer said, the answer setting aside one of his concerns.
The pilot led them back to the transport, which was a huge, crowded lift carrying some fifty passengers at a time as it whooshed “up” and “down,” carrying people from the hub of the station to the outer hull and back. This time they stopped at the third midlevel—Jackson made a note of the symbology so that they could find the place again—and Parvik led them out onto a crowded street.
Both sides were lined with shops and stalls where merchants tried to attract the attention of passersby, luring them with shiny baubles, high-tech gadgetry, garments that ranged from silken finery to denim practicality, and a host of other things too strange for the SEALS to identify immediately. Pushing through the crowd, which was thick but orderly, not unlike a Manhattan sidewalk during the lunch hour, the Assarn brought them to a wide plaza where an amazing array of aromas assaulted them.
“This is a food plaza. You’ll find anything you want to eat in the galaxy at one of the stalls around here. But over there is what you’re really interested in.”
Parvik pointed to the wide avenue leading out the other side of the plaza. Jackson spotted the target immediately: A large, closed doorway was guarded by two armed Eluoi soldiers. Even on the crowded street, the pedestrians seemed to give the place a wide berth.
“That’s the place Catal supposedly is keeping his prisoners. You fellows have a look at the situation and come up with a plan. I’m going back upstairs to see about getting your Captain Carstairs a shuttle that might look a little less obvious than a United States Navy space frigate. Good luck,” Parvik added.
“And to you, too,” Jackson replied, watching the Assarn pilot return to the transport shaft. “Well, men,” he said to his three Teammates. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”
Nineteen: A Measure of Respect
The SEALS set up an observation post (OP) in the middle of the wide food service plaza, an area that was not terribly different from the food court at any of Earth’s large shopping malls. Several hundred stalls were located around the periphery,