Timothy Zahn - Dragon and Slave

Jack felt his throat tighten. The day of the magic show, he remembered, Noy had been coughing a lot. "I didn't know he was sick," he said.

"And didn't care either, I suppose." Gazen shifted his eyes back to the computer display. "Put him in an isolation hut," he told the Brummga. "We don't want this spreading to the rest of them."

"Treatment?" the Brummga asked.

"None," Gazen said darkly. "I'm tired of this. The boy's always been more trouble than he's worth."

"Like his parents," the Brummga said.

"Exactly like his parents," Gazen agreed, an edge of contempt in his voice.

"Put him in a hut and leave him there. If he gets well, fine. We'll get a little more work out of him." He pulled the tube out of the computer and handed it back.

"If he doesn't, make sure you decontaminate the body before you get rid of it."

The Brummga nodded as he took the tube. "I obey, Panjan Gazen." He lumbered back out, closing the door behind him.

"Now," Gazen said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. "Where were we?"

Jack took a careful breath—"Oh, that's right," Gazen said before he could speak.

"You were going to spin me some lie as to why you used a false name when you were brought in here."

He picked up the slapstick and began waving it gently around again. "Would you like me to tell you what I think?" he asked.

Jack was still trying to decide whether he was supposed to answer when Gazen flicked the slapstick toward him—

And a fresh slash of pain burst across on his shoulder like a bolt of lightning.

He gasped, jerking back in shock and pain. And only then did his squinting eyes register what had just happened.

Gazen's weapon wasn't an ordinary slapstick, he realized now. Instead, it was composed of a slightly flexible cylindrical spiral that could extend several feet outward at the flick of a wrist. Even as Jack clutched at his shoulder, Gazen lifted the slapstick back toward the ceiling, letting the extended sections slide smoothly back into the outer sheath. "When I ask a question, I expect an answer," he said. "Shall I repeat it for you?"

Jack shook his head. "Yes, I'd like you to tell me what you think," he managed.

"Better," Gazen said approvingly, waving the slapstick idly in his hand again.

"I think this whole thing about your partner selling you to us was never more than a complete scam. I think he's sitting in your ship right now, monitoring your activities and waiting for you to reach your objective."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong."

Jack thought his heart had been trotting along at a pretty good clip before. Now, as he stared into Gazen's face, he could feel it going into sprint mode.

"I don't understand," he said. "What do you mean, selling me to you?"

Gazen gave him a smile as thin as a con man's promise. "Oh, of course," he said.

"I forgot. You knew nothing about that, did you?"

"I still don't—I mean—"

"You see, we have a problem here," Gazen went on. "The problem is that he's still sitting out there at the spaceport. If he'd really sold you as he claimed, don't you think he'd have taken off for parts unknown the minute he had his money?"

Except that Gazen's payment hadn't been made in cash, Jack knew. It had been in the form of credit, good only at the Ponocce Spaceport. Uncle Virge couldn't go anywhere else, at least not if he wanted to spend that money. He opened his mouth to point that out—

And strangled back the words just in time. He wasn't supposed to know anything about the deal, after all, including how the payment had been made.

Mentioning the credit line would be a dead giveaway that he was still in contact with the partner who'd supposedly sold him into slavery.

And from the look in Gazen's eyes, he realized with a creepy sensation, that was exactly what the slavemaster had been fishing for. Proof that Jack wasn't what he claimed to be.

Jack's mouth was still open, waiting for words to come out. "He's probably trying to get me out," he improvised. He could hear a quaver in his voice, one that had nothing to do with his acting skills. "Maybe trying to work a deal with the authorities about that burglary charge."

"Very good," Gazen said softly. Either Jack's act hadn't fooled him, or else he wasn't ready to abandon the bluff just yet. "Stubborn loyalty, naive unthinking trust. Honor among thieves. Is that it?"

"I don't know about honor," Jack said. "But he is my partner. We've been together a long time."

"Of course," Gazen said. "Tell me something. Just for my own curiosity, you understand. Are you an actual member of the Daughters of Harriet Tubman? Or are you simply a stupid young fool they talked into doing this job for them?"

Jack blinked. "A member of what?"

"Don't insult my intelligence, McCoy," Gazen said, his voice abruptly as cold as Neptune's north pole. "If that's even your real name. I was watching just now as we discussed that useless Noy kid. You reacted far too strongly for a simple professional thief. I know the type, and none of them cares about anything but the continued safety of his or her own skin."

"I don't care about Noy," Jack protested. Even to his own ears the words sounded lame. "I don't care about any of them."

"Of course not," Gazen said, clearly not believing a word of it. "Did the people who hired you happen to mention that they've been a splinter up my fingernail for longer than you've been alive? Or that I hate everything and anyone associated with them? Hmm? Did they?"

And then, suddenly, the name clicked. The Daughters of Harriet Tubman: the building Draycos had spotted across from the gatekeeper's house. "I don't know what you mean," he insisted. "I never even heard of them before."

"Still, I have to admit they've come up with something new this time," Gazen went on. "Usually they try official protests or attempts to interfere with Chookoock family business. Sending in a thief to steal our records is beyond even their usual level of insolence."

He tilted his head toward his computer. "I trust you had no trouble with my files?"

"I didn't touch your computer," Jack said. "I told you, I only came in—"

"Of course, as they say, it doesn't always take a genius to create a clever plan," Gazen cut him off. "Sometimes an idiot can fall over one by accident."

He smiled faintly. "But as they also say, you can't make lox without smoking a

few fish. In this case, you're that fish."

Again, he flicked out the slapstick. Jack flinched away, the movement sending another splash of pain through him. But the tip of the weapon passed harmlessly past his left shoulder. Gazen was just playing with him. "What that means is that you're going to disappear," the slavemaster continued, his voice as calm as if he were ordering dinner. "You will be prepared for service; and then you will be quietly smuggled off-planet and delivered to your new owners."

He waved the slapstick idly. "Leaving your friends at Tubman to sit around their meeting rooms, sipping their tea and eating their scones. Wondering occasionally whatever happened to you."

A heavy silence filled the room. Jack tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat were as dry as a summer's day in the Gobi. Certainly he'd been in tighter situations than this one, facing ruthless people like Snake Voice and the enemy mercenary he'd dubbed Lieutenant Cue Ball.

But all the others had at least seen him as a person, someone to be manipulated or squeezed or maybe bargained with. Gazen saw him as nothing more than an old hat he might sell for a little pocket change.

And somehow that fact was more chilling than any of the man's veiled threats.

Death he could face, and maybe talk or wiggle or con his way out of. A