Sea of Stars(6)
“AFA,” Jax’s voice is steely.
“What’s that?’ I ask, hearing stress in his voice.
“Armored Fugitive Apprehender,” Jax replies, and then looks at Trey. “What does it want?”
I can’t see over Trey’s shoulder, so I have to glance around his side to see what has set them off. A dronelike robot hovers in front of the window outside. Its shape resembles an inverted pyramid the size of a soda machine. The surface of the drone is dull, metallic nickel, but the triangle face is black. Within the center of the triangle resides a round lens eye that glows red. As the red iris adjusts, focusing its omnipotent camera lens on us, I’m struck by its likeness to the all-seeing eye on a dollar bill. Then it moves, the two points of the top of the triangle shift downward and twist so that they adjust rapidly to form pointed barrels—not unlike the barrel of a gun . . .
“It’s arming!” Jax’s voice is anxious. The AFA sends out a strident, deep-moan sound; the noise vibrates the pane in front of us, shattering the window-wall into twinkling, glistening pieces that billow in an explosive cascade of glass. Trey turns and dives at me, bringing me to the ground and covering me with his body to protect me from the sharp, jagged pieces. He takes most of his weight on his side so that I don’t get crushed when we land.
As we lie on the floor panting, the entry door to Trey’s living quarters slides open, disappearing into the ceiling. A blur of shiny black boots make clipped, tapping noises on the floor’s hard surface. Fully armored combat-uniformed soldiers enter the foyer. Blue dots from mini-Gatling-like machine guns freckle my skin when Trey rolls off me.
I’m fairly certain that the men with their guns pointed at us are Brigadets; their uniforms are different from Cavars’. “Kricket Hollowell!” the leader of the unit barks. “Remain still!”
I don’t move. I can’t: I’m a shattered ceramic garden gnome, rooted to the floor by fear.
“By administrative order nine-four-two-four-six, you are hereby charged into the custody of the head of Civil Defense, Minister Telek, for interrogation.”
Trey rises to his knees slowly. Blue spots make connect-the-dot patterns on him as well. “Kricket,” he says to me in a calm tone, like he doesn’t want to alarm me. Too late! “Tell them that you intend to comply.”
My voice is calm—numb—as I say, “I intend to comply with the order.”
Two soldiers move forward; one grasps me and hauls me up to my knees from the ground. He holds my hands behind me while the other one removes what looks to be an aerosol can from his belt, spraying my hands and wrists with it; it feels like foam coating my fingers. The foam hardens, welding my wrists and hands together in a tight clump. In shock, I glance at Trey. His fists are encased in plastic behind him too.
Looking over his shoulder at the soldier who read the order, Trey asks, “When did Minister Telek become the head of Civil Defense? Where’s Minister Vallen?”
In a matter-of-fact voice, the soldier answers, “Minister Vallen is dead. They found him this morning with his larynx torn out. Our report says you visited him last night, Gennet Allairis.”
“I did.” Trey answers honestly. “We discussed the Declaration of War he intended to sign.”
“The Declaration of War was signed this morning by Minister Telek after he was appointed to the post and sworn in. He has some questions for you, Gennet Allairis—for all of you.”
Trey becomes tight-lipped. Jax and Wayra hold still as they’re foam-shackled like us. One of the soldiers grasps me by my upper arm, lifting me up from my knees to my feet. My knees want to knock together, but I know how stupid it is to show weakness, so I square my shoulders and look straight ahead.
“Aww, look how tough this one be, Leelenaw,” the soldier who holds my hands behind me says. “She’s a right pixyish look for a shefty Alameeda boosha.” I don’t know if I’m right in my translation, but I think he said I have a pretty fairy look for being a shifty Alameeda slut.
Before I was brought to Ethar, Jax had surgically implanted a language translator into the area of my brain located behind my ear. Since then, I’ve learned that the implant has branched out from the module, creating pathways to the frontal lobe, affecting centers in my brain that control not only language, but speech and sound as well. It deciphers several of the dialects used on Ethar, but it doesn’t always get everything right. Just like with any technology, it’s only as good as the information loaded into it. Slang, as well as some other Etharian-to-English translations, can sometimes still be confusing and insufficient to me. The way in which things are said—the use of idioms as modes of expression—can throw me off. I’m going to have to have Jax upgrade my language chip to accommodate this kind of slang.