“No… is it possible to rehabilitate the inhabitants? We have nearly a square of them on our hands, and it’s almost impossible to communicate with them, let alone help them in any meaningful way.”
Fers eyed him seriously this time, eyebrows lifted, but said only, “I don’t see how the concept of ‘rehabilitation’ applies in this case. If their reproductive systems aren’t damaged we could take them into our own tuwe, or perhaps distribute them among several ships. The contribution to our bloodlines would be of value.”
The implications of that needed some thought. “About half of them are Grallt,” he said as neutrally as possible.
“Even easier.” Fredik Fers made a curious gesture, a sharp jerk of the chin up and to the right. “Grallt don’t live like we do, and we don’t interfere when it isn’t necessary. Those could be accommodated or disposed of in many ways.”
“Disposed of?”
The ferassi dismissed the question with a negligent wave, staring thoughtfully at nothing. “If you are telling the truth it is good news of a sort,” he mused.
Peters lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”
“We have heard of some few successes against the dar ptith recently, and their depredations seem to be dropping off. If they’ve been reduced to incorporating Grallt females into their tuwe in the place of ferassi, it means they are becoming somewhat debilitated.” He gestured. “Here is the galley. What would you like to eat?”
“Something soft, bland, and sweet,” Peters specified. The adrenalin was wearing off, and the hangover wasn’t; his stomach was an uncomfortably intrusive presence, his muscles ached, and his head felt like it had been worked over with hammers. “If you have ever overindulged, you probably know how I feel.”
“Yes, I’ve done it once or twice,” the ferassi said with wry amusement. “Some people recommend more of what caused the problem in the first place.”
“That doesn’t cure it, it only puts it off a little longer. Eventually the bill must be paid.”
“That’s my experience as well. Just a moment.” He rapped on the wall next to a windowlike opening, and a female Grallt appeared. They exchanged words for a few moments; the Grallt grinned, bobbed her head, and disappeared, to return with a container the size of a cereal bowl and a tall tumbler of clear liquid. Fers pointed. “The bowl contains tiplirik pudding, soft and sweet as specified, and easily digestible. The liquid is water; you need a lot of it.”
“You have had the experience,” Peters said with some humor. “It sounds precisely appropriate.” He took bowl and glass, nodded his thanks, and carried them over to a table. Fers remained behind, exchanging further words with the servitor, then followed, laying a shiny metal spoon on the table and taking a seat.
Peters took a bite. It was bland, sweet, and smooth, with a taste a little like butterscotch; perfect. He ate perhaps half of the serving, taking sips of water between bites, then looked up. “That’s all for now, I think,” he admitted. “I’ll want something more later, assuming my abused systems don’t reject this.”
Fers sipped his own drink, a chunky tumbler of something clear with a blue tinge, and smiled. “Yes, there’s always that possibility. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, I think so—no, wait.” He laid his left forearm on the table, pressed buttons to extrude the control display. “You called this a ‘punishment suit’. From what I’ve seen it’s a standard airsuit with extra programming. Can we cancel that? I think the controller for the disciplinary functions is well out of reach, but I’m not comfortable with the idea, and the rest of the crew might well object to a prisoner being escorted on a tour.”
“You know how to program a suit?”
“I know how to program the Grallt one I was wearing. Is it still available? Perhaps it would be easier if I just changed.”
“No, your Grallt suit isn’t available. We destroyed it to get you out of it.”
“Why? The override is easily accessible.”
“We didn’t know it, and we were in a hurry.”
“I see, I think… the controls aren’t in a language I recognize. Can you guide me through the functions?”
“Simpler to do it this way. Let me touch the control square.” He reached over, manipulated buttons; the screen cleared, then reformed, displaying Grallt characters. “Can you take it from there?”
“Yes, I think so.” Peters and Todd had experimented with their suits, discovering that programming them was complex and sometimes contradictory. It was much easier to use the larger machine at the suit office to create a program, then download it to the buckle, but everything was possible if the user was patient and persevered. He worked for a little while, finally getting the suit to fade to tan, then assume the blue-and-white of his zerkre rank.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “The disciplinary functions seem to be here, but it wants a password.”
“Yes. I’ll enter it.”
“I think I trust you.”
Fers smiled thinly. “You’ll have to in this case.” He leaned over to punch in the sequence. “There,” he said briskly. “I’ve canceled the disciplinary functions, and entered the privileges of a guest aboard the ship. Are you ready for your tour now?”
“Yes, let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
After the first utle of traipsing around the corridors of Trader 1049 Peters was convinced that these people had about the same relationship with the ones who’d shot up Llapaaloapalla as he did with the pirates infesting the Indonesian archipelago.
The ship didn’t have nearly the population of the Grallt trader, either absolutely or in proportion, but there were people in the corridors and the rooms they visited. All he saw in the after sections were Grallt, but they were just people; about half were female, and they were happy, sad, busy, worried, jaunty, as appropriate to personality and circumstances. There was subdued horseplay.
One woman was singing softly to herself, and the other clerks at desks nearby were craning their heads. He touched Fers on the arm, and they stopped and listened. A pretty song, performed in a cool clear voice that sent shivers up his spine. One of the others began tapping his upper arm, keeping time, and several joined in, finishing the chorus in multipart harmony. Imagining that scene on the pirate ship, among the unfortunates in the aft bunkroom, would have taken more brain power than he had, even if he weren’t still in the throes of a hangover.
They took a long straight corridor right aft, ending at a bare bulkhead Fers claimed was the stern. Peters had no reason to doubt that, but no way to verify it; from there it was up and down stairways and corridors and in and out of compartments. There were only three decks above the holds in the after section, the remainder of the volume being taken up with trade goods. He saw his first new zifthkakik, sealed up in metal cans like oversized foodstuffs. Most of the stock was either smallship-sized, like the ones that propelled the planes and dli, or in two slightly larger sizes intended for vessels of various sizes. There were four monsters like the one that supported Llapaaloapalla; they weren’t in cans, just chocked and boomed to the deck.
He began to notice that all the people they met were deferential, some nodding, others bobbing in a sort of curtsey, male and female alike. That shouldn’t have been strange—Fers was presumably their officer—but the courtesy seemed to be as much to him as it was to the ferassi. Then he noticed that none of them looked straight at them in curiosity, but used sidelong glances and occasional whispers. He couldn’t define why that bothered him.