Cecelia Holland - Floating Worlds

She translated it, watching Newrose for any sign that he spoke Styth. She said, “This is the Prima Akellar, the Matuko Akellar, Saba, Kritona, the Guardion, the prima General of the Styth Imperial Fleet.”

Newrose started to offer his hand but stopped, without embarrassment, when he saw Saba would not take it. The Martian inclined his head in a shadow of a bow.

“I hope our mission here will be fruitful and of advantage for everybody concerned.”

“You tell him,” Saba said, “that the only advantage he can hope for now is ours.”

“Give me a chance to translate.”

“He knows all about me, he knows I understand him, look at him.”

Newrose was watching them, his face bland. She said, “I don’t think he speaks Styth.”

“I don’t think he speaks anything that I speak.”

Ketac was standing in the doorway. Saba got out of his chair and Newrose backed away a stride to give him room; his eyes followed the big man up. Saba waved to his son. “Mind him.” Without another word to Newrose, the Prima left the room.

Paula grunted. “He isn’t a diplomat.” Ketac advanced toward her, and she took his arm and brought him face to face with Newrose. “Mr. Newrose, the Prima’s son will attend you.” Leaving them together, she went out after Saba.

“They’re stalling,” Saba said. “Newrose is just here to gain time for the Martian Army.”

Paula sat down on the edge of the bed. There were eight rooms in his suite, but this was the only place they could talk in private. Everyplace else was given over to his aides and officers. She said, “I wish Tanuojin had been there.”

“I’m trying to keep him away from Leno.”

He went restlessly around the overcrowded room. She fingered the shaved nap of the bedcover, thinking of Newrose. All the furniture in the room, the bed, the three padded chairs, and the sideboard, had been picked for size, not design. Nothing matched, not even the colors. He opened the sideboard and took out a bottle.

“I’d offer you a drink if you’d take it..”

“Never mind. I’m going back to my room.” She went to the door. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

A dogleg corridor led through his suite to the trunk corridor. It was jammed with Styths. She went in among them. In their midst was a tall redheaded girl, saying, “But I have to see him. Please—”

The girl was at least twenty years younger than Paula. An aide of Newrose’s: she recognized the fiery hair. Her one-piece suit, of some metallic cloth, was cut out over the stomach and most of the back and the holes filled with net. Paula said, “What is she looking for? Or am I silly to ask.”

The Styths’ faces were broad with their smiles. Ketac sat on the table at the mouth of the small corridor. He said, “She says she wants my father.” The other men laughed.

The girl clutched Paula’s arm. “Please—I have to see the Prima.”

“Did Newrose send you? Let go of my arm.”

The girl’s fingers opened but her hand rested on Paula’s forearm. “I just have to meet him. I know I can change his mind about us.” She was six inches taller than Paula and had to bend to talk to her. Paula looked around. There were no other Martians; she had come alone. Paula looked past the fluffy red head at Ketac.

“Go ask him if he wants to see her.”

“Thank you.” The girl gripped Paula’s hand. “I can—we may save the Middle Planets.” Her hand was slick. The Styths were all trying to see through her clothes. Paula freed herself from the moist grip. Ketac came back.

“He says to send her in.”

Paula nodded to her. “Go on. It’s the last door on the right.”

The girl reached for her again, and Paula avoided her grasp. “Please,” the redhead said. “Come with me.”

“I’d be an inhibiting factor.”

“But I don’t speak their language.”

Paula let herself be drawn up the narrow corridor, away from the Styths. “I think you might. Anyway he’s bilingual.” At the door, her hand on the latch, she turned, admiring the smooth skin of the girl’s net-covered belly. It would be fun to tease him. She opened the door and let the girl in ahead of her.

“Prima, now they’re sending you virgins.”

He was standing near the foot of the bed. The girl went toward him, her hand out. “My name is Lore Smythe. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk.” He took her hand, not to shake it, and smiled at her. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to do something that boring?”

Paula leaned over the back of one of his stuffed chairs. “You are so subtle.”

He nudged Lore Smythe toward the sideboard. “The liquor is in that cabinet.” His head swiveled toward Paula. “I thought you were leaving.”

“She thinks she’ll need an interpreter.” Paula smirked at him.

“Good-bye, Paula.”

“Not even a stirrup cup?”

“Miss Mendoza,” Lore Smythe said, in a new sharp voice. “Stay where you are.” Paula and Saba turned in unison toward her. In her hand she held a gun.

Saba lunged toward her and the gun snapped. Paula heard the thunk of the missile hitting him. He fell on his face and rolled over. A short clear dart stuck up out of his left chest. He clawed at it once and his hand slid limp to the floor.

“That was stupid,” Paula said. Lore Smythe pointed the gun at her.

“The rest of the shots are all killers,” the redhead said. Her voice was different than when she had been pleading to see him. “And I don’t have any orders to bring you back alive.”

“Is Newrose behind this?”

Lore’s full mouth curled with contempt. “Newrose.” She stuck two fingers down into the front of her metallic suit and took out a small blue piece of plastic. “Here. This is a thumblock, you see? Put it on him.” She threw the plastic at Paula. Too light to carry far, it landed on the brown tile floor midway between them. Paula stooped to pick it up, and Lore Smythe circled behind her to the door. She heard the lock click.

“That’s narcolepta in the dart,” the redhead said, in her hard, crisp voice. “It will drip into his system for the next twenty hours. By then I’ll have him halfway to Mars.”

The thumblock was shaped like a figure-of-eight. Paula went over to Saba’s body. The girl called, “Don’t get between me and him. And don’t try to pull the nail out—it’s long, and it’s barbed. Hurry up.”

The dart’s clear three-inch barrel stuck up straight out of his chest. Blood tinged it pink at the needle end. Paula circled behind him and knelt. She touched his cheek and his throat. His skin was cool, but not cold. He was only asleep, then, not knocked out.

“This will never work,” she said. “They’ll kill all three of us before they let you take him to Mars.”

“Just thumb him.”

His left arm lay half under him. She pulled it free. “Do you want me to tie his hands behind him or in front?” Surreptitiously she took a fistful of his shirt under his armpit and tugged, which tilted the dart toward her.

“Unh—”

“Have you tried this on any real Styths? You know they’re much stronger than we are. Him especially.”

Lore’s eyes narrowed. Her cheeks were flushed. “Just do as I tell you.” She waved the little gun. Its narrow barrel was longer than its body. “All I have to do is pull this trigger, lady, and in thirty seconds you’ll be dead.”

There was a knock on the door, and the redhead wheeled, the gun aimed at it. The latch moved up and down. While Lore was watching the door, Paula tugged once on the dart. It was fast in his chest. The pink color was spreading in the drug. He traded a drop of blood for a drop of narcolepta. The knock sounded again.

“Papa.”

“David,” she called, alarmed. She was afraid to speak Styth to him; Lore might think she was calling him in. “Come back later. We’re busy.”