dead.”
For a moment he was so weak he wasn’t sure what language he’d attempted it in. But at least he’d spoken for the first time in hours.
The machine clicked over to a new track and hummed a moment.
“Repeat response.”
He nearly laughed. He’d forgotten how ludicrous some of this security equipment could be. He might have just gasped out his dying word, and the stupid thing missed it. Demos, didn’t they have recorders still built in?
He didn’t respond, determined to have human interrogators for a while. Where were they? Gone off to bed? Maybe their stomachs were too weak to watch what their machines did.
“Yes, sir,” said a voice that did not come over a machine tape. “He’s beginning to break. We haven’t made a direct translation. No, I don’t think it was an oath. It was definitely a response. Yes, sir. The scale registered it that way.”
The glaring light over Asan dimmed. There was a low whine slowing down as machinery shut off. Asan closed his eyes although the white glare still danced behind his eyelids. He drew in several deep breaths, his muscles stretching out degree by hesitant degree, burning and cramping as the lactic acid built up from so much tension spread out through his tissues. His body began to shake so hard he rattled against the board. He ignored this reaction. It was natural. He was just grateful for these few minutes of rest.
A hatchway in the side of the cylindrical interrogation chamber opened, and burly Captain McKey and one of his officers stepped inside. Asan turned his head to watch them. They weren’t quite in focus at the edges. He shut his eyes again. McKey reminded him too much of Saunders. Maybe it was that red hair and stocky build. Or maybe it was that dull look of immutable loyalty to the Galactic Space Institute.
“You turned it off,” said McKey. “Just when he was starting to talk? Are you mad, Ramer?”
“Sir. I thought you would prefer to conduct this yourself. The machine’s translator isn’t quite on frequency yet.”
“Damn.”
McKey stood over Asan and rubbed his chin. It needed shaving, Asan noted. A slight sense of superiority filled him. That was one of the nicer things about exchanging a human body for a Tlar one: no more facial hair.
The evidence of a beard also told Asan that McKey was something of a maverick. Beards were strictly against ship regulations.
“Well, Ramer? How the hell am I supposed to talk to this devil?”
“Here, sir.” Ramer stepped up and handed him a translator.
McKey held it in one enormous fist and frowned. He cleared his throat loudly. “Where is Blaise Omari?”
Weariness passed through Asan. McKey could have at least chosen a different way to phrase that question. Asan closed his eyes against this unpleasant angle of looking up McKey’s nose.
“Dead.”
That time the translator made it. Tlar-manufactured translators were better, Asan noted. Or maybe it was just easier to translate Standard into Tlar rather than the other way around. He certainly wasn’t going to betray the fact that he understood Standard.
“Damn,” said McKey. “Omari’s dead. I wanted to bring that little vat snake in myself. All right, you. What happened to him? How did he die? And when?”
“Shot,” said Asan, and went into another coughing fit.
His throat ached with thirst. It was too hard to talk. He longed to be able to communicate directly with McKey’s mind. But there were blanket beams switched on this chamber. The humans knew he was telepathic. Aural must have told them that too.
“Shot?” repeated McKey with a scowl. “Go on. Explain.”
“Executed by Leiil Hihuan, tyrant of Altian. Now also dead.”
As he spoke, Asan remembered that day of bewilderment in the black sands of the desert. Thinking his leg had been shot off, he’d lain out there beaten with exposure and pain until a Bban hunting party found him and dragged him back to their dara.
“Damn.” McKey was holding the translator
For a moment he was so weak he wasn’t sure what language he’d attempted it in. But at least he’d spoken for the first time in hours.
The machine clicked over to a new track and hummed a moment.
“Repeat response.”
He nearly laughed. He’d forgotten how ludicrous some of this security equipment could be. He might have just gasped out his dying word, and the stupid thing missed it. Demos, didn’t they have recorders still built in?
He didn’t respond, determined to have human interrogators for a while. Where were they? Gone off to bed? Maybe their stomachs were too weak to watch what their machines did.
“Yes, sir,” said a voice that did not come over a machine tape. “He’s beginning to break. We haven’t made a direct translation. No, I don’t think it was an oath. It was definitely a response. Yes, sir. The scale registered it that way.”
The glaring light over Asan dimmed. There was a low whine slowing down as machinery shut off. Asan closed his eyes although the white glare still danced behind his eyelids. He drew in several deep breaths, his muscles stretching out degree by hesitant degree, burning and cramping as the lactic acid built up from so much tension spread out through his tissues. His body began to shake so hard he rattled against the board. He ignored this reaction. It was natural. He was just grateful for these few minutes of rest.
A hatchway in the side of the cylindrical interrogation chamber opened, and burly Captain McKey and one of his officers stepped inside. Asan turned his head to watch them. They weren’t quite in focus at the edges. He shut his eyes again. McKey reminded him too much of Saunders. Maybe it was that red hair and stocky build. Or maybe it was that dull look of immutable loyalty to the Galactic Space Institute.
“You turned it off,” said McKey. “Just when he was starting to talk? Are you mad, Ramer?”
“Sir. I thought you would prefer to conduct this yourself. The machine’s translator isn’t quite on frequency yet.”
“Damn.”
McKey stood over Asan and rubbed his chin. It needed shaving, Asan noted. A slight sense of superiority filled him. That was one of the nicer things about exchanging a human body for a Tlar one: no more facial hair.
The evidence of a beard also told Asan that McKey was something of a maverick. Beards were strictly against ship regulations.
“Well, Ramer? How the hell am I supposed to talk to this devil?”
“Here, sir.” Ramer stepped up and handed him a translator.
McKey held it in one enormous fist and frowned. He cleared his throat loudly. “Where is Blaise Omari?”
Weariness passed through Asan. McKey could have at least chosen a different way to phrase that question. Asan closed his eyes against this unpleasant angle of looking up McKey’s nose.
“Dead.”
That time the translator made it. Tlar-manufactured translators were better, Asan noted. Or maybe it was just easier to translate Standard into Tlar rather than the other way around. He certainly wasn’t going to betray the fact that he understood Standard.
“Damn,” said McKey. “Omari’s dead. I wanted to bring that little vat snake in myself. All right, you. What happened to him? How did he die? And when?”
“Shot,” said Asan, and went into another coughing fit.
His throat ached with thirst. It was too hard to talk. He longed to be able to communicate directly with McKey’s mind. But there were blanket beams switched on this chamber. The humans knew he was telepathic. Aural must have told them that too.
“Shot?” repeated McKey with a scowl. “Go on. Explain.”
“Executed by Leiil Hihuan, tyrant of Altian. Now also dead.”
As he spoke, Asan remembered that day of bewilderment in the black sands of the desert. Thinking his leg had been shot off, he’d lain out there beaten with exposure and pain until a Bban hunting party found him and dragged him back to their dara.
“Damn.” McKey was holding the translator
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