Irshe stood stock-still, staring from
her eyes to her wristcomp and back. And how did I ever see those intelligent
gray eyes as cold? she thought irrelevantly.
“Guta k’o Kirraugh,” he finally
said. The wristcomp conveyed this in a neutral male baritone as:
« Is it part of Kirrah? »
What a perfectly … reasonable question , she marveled. Not ‘Run from the Devil Woman!’. Not falling on
his face in worship at her ‘magic’. An immediate, pragmatic acceptance of what-is,
and a logical enquiry whether she had some kind of speech organ growing on her
arm, or was it some property of her suit.
You could always take off the suit,
I mean the wristcomp and show him, someone thought. Now cut that
out, thought Kirrah right back at …whoever that was. This is Lieutenant
Kirrah Roehl, Regnum Survey Service, on duty! And I will be on
duty, for the next one hundred eighty days unless sooner relieved, and no
matter what a good idea it may seem like at this or any other time until then,
we are not going that native .
Aside from the significant issues
of her personal security, it seemed pointless to get emotionally involved with
a local. Given the awkward duration of her stay here - too long for a fling,
too short for a relationship - it would either be boring, or interesting and
over too painfully soon. Loser, either way. Same thing you say in every
other port , thought someone. And besides, if you don’t want ‘emotionally
involved with a local’, what do you call what you are doing with Akaray, then? The body-memory of the child snuggled against her last night, last two nights,
came unbidden to the skin of her inside arms and belly. Ouch! Not fair!
We’ll have this out later! she thought, firmly dragging her attention back
to Irshe, who was waiting patiently, his left eyebrow rising expressively to
half-mast.
“No,” she said, “Not part of
Kirrah. It is my voice servant. My machine…” A soft buzz from the wristcomp
over the word “machine” told Kirrah that word was not yet in its vocabulary. If
it even existed – the tech level she’d seen so far was not very high.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
« Going to zzzzzzz » said the
wristcomp. Damn, I know, ‘more data will increase accuracy’. Let’s
set this thing to just pass any words it doesn’t know… Now, what had he said? ‘Mara’ma Talameths’cha’. Go-we-Talameths’cha. With a bit of luck, that would
be the name of a not-too-distant capital city and seat of local government.
Fine.
“My country will be grateful for
your assistance” she said. Might as well establish her diplomatic status early
on. Diplomatic immunity too, she hoped. Irshe gave her an odd look, and
with an apologetic bow, moved on to the duties of breakfast.
After a fairly leisurely meal,
followed by washing up, packing and saddling the horses, their party set out
again - at a slower pace, it seemed to Kirrah, than yesterday’s travel. After
an hour more riding southwest, with the stream on their right and the forest on
their left, it became apparent even to her eyes that they were following some
kind of path or trail. Or road, if you were a bit liberal with your definition.
She was beginning to wonder how or whether they would cross the ever-larger and
deeper-looking stream, when the trail suddenly ended in a small clearing. Not
really ended, she realized, as she noticed the wooden dock.
One of the men drew his belt knife
and with its hilt, struck a half-meter strip of iron dangling by a bit of twine
from an overhanging branch. In response to the resonant gong, a flat boat about
six meters long by three wide, cast off its moorings on the far shore, and to
Kirrah’s mild amazement, without any apparent means of propulsion it drew
across the intervening twenty-five meters of open river and tied up at their
dock. It kept its prow into the current, moving crabwise, straight across. No
oars, no sail, one pole, not used, obviously no motor… hah! there was
one
her eyes to her wristcomp and back. And how did I ever see those intelligent
gray eyes as cold? she thought irrelevantly.
“Guta k’o Kirraugh,” he finally
said. The wristcomp conveyed this in a neutral male baritone as:
« Is it part of Kirrah? »
What a perfectly … reasonable question , she marveled. Not ‘Run from the Devil Woman!’. Not falling on
his face in worship at her ‘magic’. An immediate, pragmatic acceptance of what-is,
and a logical enquiry whether she had some kind of speech organ growing on her
arm, or was it some property of her suit.
You could always take off the suit,
I mean the wristcomp and show him, someone thought. Now cut that
out, thought Kirrah right back at …whoever that was. This is Lieutenant
Kirrah Roehl, Regnum Survey Service, on duty! And I will be on
duty, for the next one hundred eighty days unless sooner relieved, and no
matter what a good idea it may seem like at this or any other time until then,
we are not going that native .
Aside from the significant issues
of her personal security, it seemed pointless to get emotionally involved with
a local. Given the awkward duration of her stay here - too long for a fling,
too short for a relationship - it would either be boring, or interesting and
over too painfully soon. Loser, either way. Same thing you say in every
other port , thought someone. And besides, if you don’t want ‘emotionally
involved with a local’, what do you call what you are doing with Akaray, then? The body-memory of the child snuggled against her last night, last two nights,
came unbidden to the skin of her inside arms and belly. Ouch! Not fair!
We’ll have this out later! she thought, firmly dragging her attention back
to Irshe, who was waiting patiently, his left eyebrow rising expressively to
half-mast.
“No,” she said, “Not part of
Kirrah. It is my voice servant. My machine…” A soft buzz from the wristcomp
over the word “machine” told Kirrah that word was not yet in its vocabulary. If
it even existed – the tech level she’d seen so far was not very high.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
« Going to zzzzzzz » said the
wristcomp. Damn, I know, ‘more data will increase accuracy’. Let’s
set this thing to just pass any words it doesn’t know… Now, what had he said? ‘Mara’ma Talameths’cha’. Go-we-Talameths’cha. With a bit of luck, that would
be the name of a not-too-distant capital city and seat of local government.
Fine.
“My country will be grateful for
your assistance” she said. Might as well establish her diplomatic status early
on. Diplomatic immunity too, she hoped. Irshe gave her an odd look, and
with an apologetic bow, moved on to the duties of breakfast.
After a fairly leisurely meal,
followed by washing up, packing and saddling the horses, their party set out
again - at a slower pace, it seemed to Kirrah, than yesterday’s travel. After
an hour more riding southwest, with the stream on their right and the forest on
their left, it became apparent even to her eyes that they were following some
kind of path or trail. Or road, if you were a bit liberal with your definition.
She was beginning to wonder how or whether they would cross the ever-larger and
deeper-looking stream, when the trail suddenly ended in a small clearing. Not
really ended, she realized, as she noticed the wooden dock.
One of the men drew his belt knife
and with its hilt, struck a half-meter strip of iron dangling by a bit of twine
from an overhanging branch. In response to the resonant gong, a flat boat about
six meters long by three wide, cast off its moorings on the far shore, and to
Kirrah’s mild amazement, without any apparent means of propulsion it drew
across the intervening twenty-five meters of open river and tied up at their
dock. It kept its prow into the current, moving crabwise, straight across. No
oars, no sail, one pole, not used, obviously no motor… hah! there was
one
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