Ric Locke - Temporary Duty

Dzheenis looked down, then met Peters’s eyes. “I apologize, depa’olze. I fear I have allowed my mind to fall into old patterns of thought.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you have.” Peters smiled. “You’re a good man, Dzheenis; I’m proud that you are a member of my pa’ol. When we get to Washington, get Gell to take you back to the ship. Ask the lady, and if she says yes, bring her back with you. A pa’ol need not grow only by natural increase. Accretion works as well, and may be faster.”

The big man’s eyes were wet, but he laughed shortly. “Kh! I believe I’ll do that. Thank you, depa’olze.”

“No thanks necessary. Now go to bed, and if you feel alone, remember it’s your own fault.”

“You’re a cruel man, depa’olze,” Dzheenis said with a smile in his voice.

“You betcha,” Peters said with a grin. “Good night, Dzheenis.”

“Good night, Peteris.”

They met Khurs coming out of the bathroom wearing a thin wrap and an anxious smile. Peters just smiled and nodded, got a smile and nod in return, and went to bed.

“You’re sure you won’t have any problems,” Donald said a little dubiously. He still looked a little wild-eyed, but it was hard to see under the self-satisfied pleasure.

“Nope,” Peters replied with confidence. “Every zifthkakik has its own signature, call it a serial number, and there’s an instrument on the dli that’ll find ‘em. There’s two or three in Washington; all I gotta do is follow the needle.” He gestured at the sky, which was still heavily overcast though the blizzard had blown itself out the day before. “That ain’t no problem any more, either. Now you’ve got a zifthkakik , I can get back here the same way.”

His grandfather nodded. “And I can have the lights on whenever I want, too… any chance of you stopping by again before you leave?”

“Sure.” Peters shrugged. “Prethuvenigis wants me there for the trade talks, but those’ll be over someday, and after that I’d like to come back. Probably be spring by then. There’ll be great-grandkids for you to spoil, and I’d like to have the girls see the place when it ain’t covered with six foot of white shit.”

“Any time.”

Peters reached to hug his grandfather with a little less awkwardness than when they’d arrived, and looked down. “Khurs, detach yourself from my grandparent, please. We have to leave.”

“Yes.” She gave a last squeeze and took a step away, then looked up. “Donald Peters, I have enjoyed my time with you more than I can say.”

The old man grinned. “Same here, little lady. If you should decide to come back I’ll be glad to see you, and never mind the boy here.”

“I have to ‘mind the boy’, he’s my depa’olze. You should be proud of him. He’s a fine man, and a true descendant besides.” She reached up to peck his cheek. “Goodbye, Donald Peters.” Then she turned and climbed the steps to board the dli .

“Goodbye, Khurs,” Donald almost whispered. Then he held out his hand. “See you, boy.”

“See you, Granpap.” They exchanged a final hug and handclasp, and Peters boarded and took his seat. He lifted the dli straight up, and his last view of Granpap was cut off by a bank of lowering clouds.

Spring rain lashed the windows, and the wind tossed the branches in Lafayette Square across the street. The trees were starting to bud out, and everybody had told him to look forward to cherry-blossom season, but if the rain and wind didn’t let up soon there wouldn’t be any blossoms to look at.

A disappointing cherry-blossom season made a perfect metaphor for how things were going otherwise. Despite nearly two months of crash course he still had no idea how these people reasoned, if they did. He’d always known about concepts like “sovereignty” somewhere in the mishmash of irrelevancies he’d learned in his lifetime, but the people he’d been dealing with had them so thoroughly ingrained in their thought processes that explaining to them that the Grallt, and the rest of the kree, not only didn’t use them, but didn’t approve of them, was blank-look material. The typical reaction seemed to be a brief stunned expression, a shake of the head, and a return to the original line of thought, as if he’d described a direction as “yellow”: Does Not Compute. It didn’t help that it was an election year, and his interlocutors were walking on eggs, fearful of doing or saying something that might disturb the uneasy balance of power between the Democratic-Progressives and the Democratic-Conservatives, thereby bringing the awful wrath of both factions down on their heads.

“Good morning, John,” said Ander as she emerged from the bedroom.

“Hello, lovely lady,” he told her, and took her in his arms for the first time in at least fifteen minutes, being careful not to push painfully on her swelling belly.

“I don’t feel lovely,” she grumped. “I feel swollen and gross, and everything hurts.”

“You are a lovely lady,” he said firmly. “Your depa’olze says so, and the depa’olze ‘s word is law.”

That wasn’t at all how things were managed in the Peters pa’ol , but it was enough to make her smile and offer a kiss. He took the kiss, returned it, and gave her another squeeze. “How’s Alper feelin’?”

“As well as can be expected. She’ll be out in a few moments.” Ander looked down at herself, expression rueful. “I hate this part. I truly do believe that the reason for it is to make the woman look forward to the pain so it can be over with.”

“You’re probably right,” Alper agreed as she came out of the bedroom. She snuggled against Peters, and for a moment they stood in their three-way embrace, as best they could with swelling bellies in the way. The blonde woman was taller and seemed less distended in proportion, but the best calculation they had of the due dates amounted to “any time now”. Peters had secretly hoped that at least one of the children would share his birthday, but the twelfth had come and gone with no such event. The women had seen doctors, both aboard Llapaaloapalla and, reluctantly, here in Washington, and their pregnancies seemed to be progressing normally, but they were extremely uncomfortable and anxious for the process to be over with.

Dzheenis came in, trailed by his new mate, and greeted the group. The blonde Grallt was as tall as Alper but not as slender. She didn’t speak much English yet, but had a dry, deadpan wit in the Trade that had already—more than once, in fact—caused Peters to look up half an hour or so after she’d said something and realize he’d been zinged. Khurs entered only moments later, and Peters wished that Granpap could have been there. His pa’ol was assembled, everyone he could call a close relation bar the old man, and he would have liked to eliminate the exception.

“Attention, everyone,” he said. “The sessions will begin at ten o’clock, so we have a little less than a llor to prepare. No doubt they will be as futile and fruitless as they have been to now, but we must continue to approach them in good faith. Dzheenis, do you have the figures on zifthkakik availability that Assistant Secretary Horowitz asked for?”

“Yes. I’m afraid they’re tentative, but they are the best I can—”

The door flew open with enough force to bang against the entry wall, and a man in head-to-toe bulletproofs with helmet and face shield stepped through and levelled an ugly-looking weapon. “Everybody freeze!” he said sharply. Everyone did, more out of shock than eager compliance, and a slighter figure, a woman by the hair and makeup, also in bulletproofs but without a helmet, stepped up behind him. “Laura Cade, Internal Revenue Service, Enforcement Division,” she said, and flashed something shiny in a black folder. “Which of you is John Howland Peters, Taxpayer Identification Number 1457-96-2307?”