Ric Locke - Temporary Duty

“I’m John Peters.” He released the women and stepped forward. “What’s this all about?”

“John Howland Peters, you are under arrest,” the woman said, and smiled, a rictus that only emphasized her hostility. “Regulations require me to inform you that any resistance will be met by force, up to and including deadly force. You are advised to cooperate fully.” Peters was too stunned to respond immediately; Laura Cade said over her shoulder, “All right, boys, round ‘em up.” She stood aside, and men dressed like the first but armed with handweapons started to push into the suite.

“Stop where you are!” Dzheenis shouted, and the invaders spun to face the big Grallt. He had his hands in the air, palms forward, and the armed man in the lead let out an audible sigh. “I am obliged to inform you that this room is an embassy outside the territory and jurisdiction of the United States of America. If you leave now this regrettable incident can be excused.” His phraseology was a little stilted, as if he were delivering the speech from memory; what Peters didn’t know was where and why he’d memorized it.

“I told you, we’re Internal Revenue Service,” Cade snapped. “Embassy status doesn’t matter to us when we’re in pursuit of a fugitive.”

“I am obliged to inform you,” Dzheenis said, still reciting, “that the laws and regulations of this jurisdiction do not recognize differences in status among those brandishing weapons. You are threatening us with deadly force, and nice definitional distinctions are irrelevant. I repeat: if you leave now, this regrettable incident can be excused. If you persist, we will be compelled to recognize this act of war as such.”

“Act of war? This is a civil arrest!”

“You have invaded our territory under arms and threatened to carry away our people and sequester our possessions under threat of deadly force; I heard you utter that very phrase yourself,” Dzheenis said, sounding as if he were now speaking ex tempore , indeed with the tiniest hint of amusement. “By our definitions that’s what a war is. We don’t care what your definitions are, nor do we observe artificial restrictions on the means of self defense.”

“But—”

The room darkened as a large object obscured the windows. Glass sprayed inward, and heavy blows smashed window frames and walls to form an aperture about the size of a standard double door. Bür in dull green kathir suits began filing through the opening at a lope, cloaks swinging, each armed with a weapon that looked like a carpenter’s level bent slightly in the middle. “The one without a hat is the leader,” Dzheenis said, and the bür in the lead nodded.

Adding six bür to the population of the room made it distinctly crowded. “I am obliged to inform you,” Dzheenis said, reciting again, “that you have committed an act of war. We are reserving our reprisal. We have further determined that the following conditions apply: if you discharge a weapon, none of you will survive; if one of us is injured, this building will be destroyed; if one of us is killed, the bür will evacuate the survivors and destroy Washington with meteor strikes. Is this clear to you, or should I repeat it?”

“I don’t—”

Dzheenis held up a finger and interrupted, in a tone that might have been used for instructing third-graders: “First, if you discharge a weapon none of you will survive. Second,” another finger, “if one of us is injured, this building will be destroyed.” Third finger: “Third, if one of us is killed, the site of this city will glow red-hot for some considerable period of time. I hardly see how I could speak more clearly, but I will repeat it again if necessary.”

“It’s a felony to interfere with a Federal law enforcement officer in the performance of her duties!”

“Laura Cade, you are not an officer of any kind here. You are only a dangerous nuisance,” Dzheenis told her, still in the voice used to rebuke a child for mild misbehavior.

Cade was taken slightly aback for the first time in the interchange. Peters had noted, with approval, that the lead gunman had moved his finger away from the trigger of his weapon; he was clutching it so tightly his thumbnail was noticeably pale, but he wasn’t likely to kill someone by reflex. The ex-sailor, sometime diplomat, took half a step forward, palms up and out, and said as levelly as he could manage: “I reckon we ought to try to calm this situation a little before somebody gets hurt.”

The officer turned and snapped, “The way to calm this situation is for you to stop resisting arrest!”

Peters lifted his eyebrows. “Ms. Cade, if you’re stupid enough to think you’ve got the upper hand here I reckon your boss’d thank us for shootin’ you and gettin’ you off the promotion list. The way to cut the fuse on this here bomb is for you to tell your folks to ground arms and stand easy, and I’ll do the same.” He gestured at the bür. “These folks got a ship in orbit that’s armed to the teeth and couldn’t set down in the park yonder, and I recommend that you think real hard about sendin’ a squad or two of cops up against folks who think the difference between a gunshot wound and a ten-kilometer crater is that the flash and smoke’s more fun to watch.”

One of the helmeted men had flipped up his face shield and grasped Cade’s upper arm; he was speaking quietly but urgently into her ear. “Very well,” she said truculently, expression unrepentant. “Troops, ground arms but stay on your toes. This isn’t over yet.” The last phrase was directed at Peters.

“No, it ain’t. Now give me a minute. I’ll get back to you,” he said with a nod as the Federals began easing their stances, and turned to face the bür he thought was the officer. “Pleasant greetings. May I know who you are?”

The Trade phrase was a polite request for name and precedence; the bür brought his right hand up, palm forward, and touched his chin with his forefinger. “My name is Velix Teeda,” he said, accompanying that with a nod. “I am lusi of dekre two and eight, formation six, parade one and eight of Therzin Vee , ship six, eight, and three squares of the Host of All Bür,” he said, the full formal self-introduction. A “dekre”, or “eight-person”, comprised eighty troops—sixteen “hands” of five men—plus officers and noncoms, totalling ninety-five; its CO, or “lusi”, would thus be about lieutenant equivalent, Marine style.

“My name is John Peters. I am depa’olze of the Peters pa’ol , trade ship Llapaaloapalla ,” he said with equal formality. “Thank you for your prompt arrival, lusi Velix. May I direct you?”

“I was ordered to obey your directives unless they were clearly demented, ze Peters.”

“Good. Please direct your people to assume nonthreatening postures but remain alert.”

Lusi Velix nodded shortly and barked two short phrases, and the bür soldiers shifted to positions similar to parade rest, weapons at port, cloaks draped over shoulders and upper arms. The movement caused a stir among the Federal officers, but nobody got too excited, and the tension in the room ratcheted down noticeably.

“Will your smallship accommodate my family? Five persons,” Peters asked.

“No, it is fully occupied. A passenger carrier of sufficient size can be here in a few antle.” The lusi tapped an object on his belt, and Peters was startled to note a perfectly ordinary phone, the sort available over the counter with prepaid time included. He’d never had one—they were too expensive, and he hadn’t had anyone to call anyway—and he had never even thought about them. Velix Teeda took his silence as assent, punched a speed-dial combination, and spoke urgently. “Two and eight antle, no more,” he said with a smile, and clipped the gadget back on his belt. “Useful item, that,” he noted with evident satisfaction.