“Threatening a Federal agent is—” Cade’s expostulation was cut off by the adviser’s hand over her mouth, and he and another agent in bulletproofs seized her by the upper arms and hauled her by main force out the door. The point man, left alone, looked around a little wildly.
“Just stay calm and don’t do nothin’ stupid,” Peters advised him in an undertone; he set the butt of his weapon on the floor, lifted his face shield, and leaned against the wall, watching but doing nothing. The passenger carrier arrived, and the bür ship moved aside to let it match its hatch to the opening, leaving the soldiers obeying their orders enthusiastically, comprehensively trashing the suite. “My love to you all,” Peters said. “I’ll see you when I can.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Ander asked in alarm.
“No. I must go and see if any of these fools can be made to see reason.”
“My depa’olze, I must advise you that I consider that highly dangerous,” Dzheenis said soberly.
“Yes, I know.” He sighed and pulled the two women tightly against him. They were crying, pouring a flood of tears down his chest. Khurs was no less affected; she pushed a little, and Ander and Alper edged aside to permit the little Grallt to participate in the hug. Dzheenis stood erect, but his eyes were wet, and Lisi, the newest of the group and the least able to follow the events of the last few minutes, looked gravely alarmed.
“You’ll miss the babies!” Alper wailed.
“Very probably. You should hurry and get back to the ship before you have them on the trip up.” He looked up at Dzheenis, who stared soberly back, and sighed. “It is just possible that something may still be salvaged from this mess. Go, and let me try.”
“And if not?” Dzheenis asked.
Peters grimaced. “I have no advice, and to give orders would be fatuous. Please go. This does not become less painful for being extended.”
“Yes, my depa’olze.” Dzheenis began urging the others toward the boat, Lisi first. Then he took Khurs and Alper’s hands and tugged gently, and Ander followed, holding on to Peters until compelled to let go, face barely recognizable behind her mask of grief. The hatch closed and the smallship lifted away, allowing rain to lash through the opening.
Peters wiped his eyes and looked around at the remaining human occupant of the suite. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Harold Carstairs.” He was about twenty-five or twenty-six, and added a wary “sir!” as Peters approached.
Peters smiled and turned. “Lusi Velix, a moment.”
“Yes, ze Peters?”
“I’ll be leaving with this young man. Don’t be alarmed at the events of the next few moments. When you are finished here, return to your other duties with my thanks.”
“My pleasure, ze Peters.” The bür officer saluted and nodded.
Peters nodded back and faced Harold Carstairs. “Does your promotion path include Miz Cade’s job?”
“Yes, sir, eventually, if I’m good enough.”
“Well, congratulations. You just convinced a dangerous criminal to surrender after an armed confrontation in which fortunately nobody got killed. That oughta be good for a couple gold stars, don’t you reckon?”
The man—boy—looked confused. “I suppose so, sir.”
“Then let’s go get you that promotion, hey? I’ll go quiet like, and you can wave your shooter. I’d admire if you didn’t actually shoot me with it, though.”
“Um… “
“Somethin’ wrong?”
The boy looked embarrassed. “I have to wrap you.”
“Heh? Even if I’m cooperatin’?”
“Yes, sir. The regulations say that all detainees have to be restrained, sir.”
Peters sighed. “Then go ahead, but don’t make it too tight.” He turned and presented his hands behind his back. “That about right?”
“Yes, sir, that’s perfect.” Carstairs wrapped Peters’s wrists with a strap, not too tight as specified, and picked up his weapon. “Let’s go, sir.”
Peters smiled to himself and started toward the door. When he reached it Carstairs called out, “Coming out! Open the door!” in a surprisingly strong voice, and the panel swung open to reveal a hall full of bulletproofs, uniforms, and weapons, with Laura Cade in the lead, face flushed. “Mr. Peters has agreed to surrender,” Carstairs commented. “He’s been real cooperative.”
“I’ll bet,” Cade snarled. “Get him in the wagon.” A pair of goons in bulletproofs grabbed him by the upper arms and began hustling him down the hall, and Cade followed, mouth set in a grim line. When they turned to go down the stairs Peters looked back. Harold Carstairs was standing, gaping a little, watching them leave, and another of the agents was looking at the young man who’d performed the arrest, face a study in speculation.
They half-pushed, half-threw him into a boxy vehicle and slammed the door. He’d barely had time to seat himself on the unpadded bench when the vehicle started up, turning right, left, right, then abruptly left before descending into an underground parking lot. Then it was more comealong holds and a fast shuffle down corridors covering what seemed like a kilometer before stopping at a steel door with a single thick window.
“Stand still,” Cade snapped. The two goons produced a handweapon each and pointed them at his head, staying away from direct contact; no doubt the precise distance was specified in the regulations. Laura Cade expertly stripped off the wrapstrap, pulled the door open, and said, “Inside.” She shoved him, hard, and he half-fell through the door, which closed with a final-sounding thud and a multiple click of locks going home.
Chapter Forty-Nine
This was the fourth prison he’d been in, and for a prison it wasn’t too bad. It was cold, but that was a common feature of prisons and lockups in his experience; the temperature was set by regulation, no doubt. He wished he had his kathir suit, but that had been taken the morning after his arrest. They’d threatened to cut it off; at that point he’d still had some dim hope of eventual release, and being at the epicenter of what amounted to an atomic explosion would have made that moot at best. He’d skinned out of the suit and handed it over, receiving in exchange the first of a series of loose, sloppy, orange boiler suits like what he was now wearing.
The bunk had a mattress and linens, the toilet had a seat, and there was a mirror over the washbasin. It was as good as many of the quarters he’d had in the Navy, and better than most shipboard ones, bar the guard outside; the door wasn’t even locked. He lay on the bunk, trying to remember every word anyone had said in his presence in ferassi, searching for cognates and similarities in the Trade and puzzling out the meaning. The exercise also served to call back Ander and Alper’s faces as he’d first seen them, still and unresponsive as statues and with less expression. By now he could almost react coldly to the memory.
The television, a panel set into the wall behind bulletproof glass, flashed images that Peters ignored. The programming was a mixture of “news” and “business information”, pornography that seemed aimed primarily at male homosexuals, and depictions of people whose lives included cars, telephones, computers, running water, and full-time electrical power. The first category he found occasionally diverting, though it was carefully screened to keep him from finding out anything he wanted to know; the second totally failed to engage his interest; and the third served only to emphasize that he had less in common with the people behind the screen than he did with lusi Velix. Another prisoner had shown him how to bugger the earphones so that they looked OK to casual inspection but didn’t work; after that he wasn’t even distracted by the sound.