That produced two more Grallt, who grabbed him by the upper arms, jerked him to his feet, and propelled him into the corridor and down it to the left, accompanied by gabble that had to be discussions of his ancestry and personal qualities. The gunman followed, weapon at the ready, and his original assailant trailed behind, making an occasional comment and getting short replies.
Through a door, into a room full of gleaming machinery. They shoved him into a closet or cabinet and swung the door shut. The structure was a vertical tube, just big enough to stand in, studded with bumps at twenty-centimeter intervals. A dim light came from overhead.
Then the gravity went off. The abrupt change generated a return, or rather an upsurge, of queasiness; he restrained it with effort. The confined space was bad enough; adding vomit, no matter how clear, would definitely fail to improve his condition.
The bumps started flashing, actinic bursts starting at his feet and working upward in a spiral, about once a second. Flash flash flash flash; they emitted no detectible heat and made no sound. When the pattern reached neck level he was forced to close his eyes, still able to detect the flashes as bursts of red through his eyelids.
Nothing happened for a few heartbeats after the last flash, then the gravity came back on and the door swung wide. The two goons grabbed his arms again and jerked him out. Goober the gunner stood well back, fingering his piece, and the first Grallt addressed a few choice remarks in his direction. When he got no response he screwed up his face and gestured angrily. “Chuckles” would do for him, based on personality, until he found out what the fuck was going on.
A slot in the wall delivered a pair of solid white long johns onto a low table. “Chuckles” picked the garment up, held it out to Peters, and spat three syllables. Put this on, no doubt, and despite the situation the prospect was appealing. He nodded and made a palm-up gesture, and Chuckles said something else and fiddled with the thing for a few moments before handing it over.
It was a kathir suit, ferassi version, like the ones they’d found on the human-looking inhabitants of the pirate ship. Peters pulled it on, finding that it was easier to don than those the Grallt had issued. The ankles gave without having to fiddle with closures, shrinking back to a close fit when his feet were properly inserted, and it closed up the front without an overlap. He immediately felt warmer. That had been about to be a real problem; the air was chill, much cooler than the Grallt kept their ship.
Chuckles directed more remarks his way, ending on a questioning note, and Peters simply shrugged and spread his hands. One of the goons—call ‘em “Left” and “Right”, this was “Left”—spoke up, and they all laughed. Chuckles made a dismissive gesture and said something short and pithy, cutting off the laughs in mid-kh , and said, “Very well, we’ll go along with your game. Will you speak the Trade?”
Peters snorted. “Hmph. You have the brains of a chicken and the manners of a pig in heat. If you had bothered to ask that at any time in the last few tle, you might have had less trouble.”
The suit squeezed , constricting his trunk so as to expel air from his lungs, and simultaneously administered electric shocks to his groin and breast. Peters doubled over, and Chuckles looked benign. He said something in the language he’d used at the beginning, frowned at the lack of response, and said, “Either this is no pose, or you are much stronger than you appear. The pains can be more intense if you like. Will you speak Language?”
“I—don’t—speak—the—language—you want,” Peters managed between gasps.
“I still don’t believe that, and I know that Elisin Troy won’t when his turn comes,” Chuckles said in a conversational tone. “I’d advise you to speak up when he asks you questions. You’re obviously tougher than the average for you scum, but as I told you, the suit can generate any level of pain desired.”
“If you ask in a language I can understand, I’ll answer reasonable questions,” Peters said as he straightened up. “There’s obviously some misunderstanding here.”
“The only misunderstanding here is yours. You obviously feel you can get away with pretending ignorance, and I will warn you once more: that position is untenable.”
“That’s your decision,” said Peters sourly. “But once and for all, I do not speak or understand the language you use, and if you kill me without receiving information the effort will be futile.”
“Nothing is completely futile if it is an enjoyable activity,” Chuckles pointed out.
“That fits with what I know of your character. People who assault innocent strangers should be less free with the word ‘scum’.”
This time the constrictions and pain were enough to put him right out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
He awoke on the bunk, in the same room or an identical one. First order of business: vomit again. He stumbled to the head, discharged the contents of his stomach, and began fiddling with the suit in preparation for urination. It failed to yield, which was of a piece with the torture function. If he could get out of it, there’d be little point… he shrugged and released the pressure. If it made a stink, so what?
The matter of food was becoming pressing, but the only thing available was water, so he filled his belly with that and went to sit on the bunk. It was fairly obvious that he and his hosts were operating at cross purposes, although what the basis of that was from their point of view he couldn’t figure. All he’d seen, even yet, was Grallt, and the four he’d seen—or was it a total of seven?—were as assorted as the crew of Llapaaloapalla. The Grallt crew of the ferassi ship been equally diverse, which proved nothing.
He regarded the controls on the arms of the suit with disfavor. Stupid design. It might be more modern in some ways, and the measuring machine was definitely more sophisticated as well as faster, but having thrusters, especially, on the belt buckle was much handier. So it was; a further inspection revealed a diamond of harder spots embedded in the material just below his navel. So what were the arm controls for? Atmosphere, temperature, coloration? Why would anyone need to access those functions continuously?
And could he get out of it? They’d found the overrides on the suits of the pirates. He felt around where he thought it was. Yes, there were a pair of spots, widely spaced, slightly stiffer than the rest of the material, not nearly as prominent as the thruster buttons. It was hard, almost impossible, for the person wearing the suit to activate it, requiring touching both spots simultaneously, but he had big hands, spanning easily two centimeters more than any Grallt he’d met… he felt the closure at the neck loosen, and smiled. Peeling it back was as easy as putting it on had been. If he could get out of the suit any time he liked, he’d prefer to wear it. It was cold in here. He closed it back up.
What else could the suit do? Well, it was programmable, but there was nothing like a readout or display—or was there? On the left arm, just above the wrist, was a six-by-six array of one-centimeter squares, currently blank. It looked like the letter square used for Grallt keyboards. If that was the case, the lower right square should be the key that started the programming function.
When he pressed it a portion of the suit uncurled itself, forming a rigid pane ten centimeters wide by five high just above the key square. fucking ha! Unfortunately, the characters displayed weren’t Grallt. A little more button pushing established that the thruster controls acted as arrow keys. So did a set of similar hard spots just to the right of the square. He arrowed around, displaying functions, being careful not to select anything.