The slime devil towered over the slim diminutive woman; its roar shivered the metal plates in the walls of the room. She looked up into huge red eyes, showing no fear. Then she dippedher spoon not the shimmering gelatin dessert. The Denebian did not fill her with terror, and she had been brought up to show no fear even when she did feel it.
The fact that she herself had ordered this prisoner chained to the wall helped.
Unfed and unwatered for days, the prisoner was dehydrating at an terrible rate. He was too far gone now to try to mask his interest in the cool food being consumed beyond his reach. Out of the atmosphere of his home planet and deprived of any protective clothing save for a slippery green pair of trunks, he had too little life left to allow for dignity.
She did not speak until every morsel of wriggling blue gelatin was gone. Then, dabbing her lips, she rolled her eyes up at the trembling slime devil.
“Are you ready to let us know who received that box of recipe cards, so it can be found and destroyed?”
The long mouth crackled shut. The woman shrugged and motioned to a subordinate to clear away the food. But the slime devil was not so exhausted as to miss one motion of her thin elegant hand.
She rose from her seat as the table was wheeled out. “It is an insignificant thing for which to suffer,” she said. “Not even recipes of your own planet. We already know who has them. Are you certain you can’t save yourself more pain by confirming our knowledge?”
Eyes on long stalks were all turned toward that one hand. She felt no necessity to conceal the salt shaker. The creature’s skin, when she held up the slender black enamel cylinder, rippled where it still could, making the burns from previous patches stand out in rigid islands.
Back laminated fingernails came down into the waistband of the trunks. “This will seriously disfigure your dainties.”
Long lips tore a bit as they jerked open. “I’ll tell. I’ll tell.”
She pretended to consider this. “But you will tell me more loudly in a little while.” She emptied the shaker within the trunks and let the waistband snap against the wriggling skin.
“No! Come back!” wailed the prisoner, as she stepped to the door, and switched the overhead lights to full glare. “Come ba-a-ack.”
She did not go back. Even had she felt an inclination to do so, to do anything a prisoner suggested meant a diminishing of her authority. She stepped over the threshold of the circular door and let it slide shut behind her with a slap.
A traveling square waited. She moved onto it and set it in motion toward the nearest chute. In seconds she had been deposited before a second circular door, much larger than the prison door, its size unnecessary for any purpose beyond impressing the viewer and allowing a large space for the display of official symbols.
The eyes and globe at the top of the door had been for centuries the hereditary symbol of the Sheriffs of Parimat, imperial peace officers for this section of the galaxy. Beneath this was the spiked planet insignia of the Free Imperial State, symbolizing the fact that n planet, once securely nailed into the imperial structure, had ever pulled loose.
The Rhododendron was one of the tools for driving those nails, a square-nosed polished hammer of a shi[, friendly as a mallet, like its captain, Sherrif Marah Parimat. She snapped a gold security card from its holster on her sleeve, and thrust this into the slot.
The immense metal panel slid back to reveal the dark, gloomy bridge of the Rhododendron. Sheriff Parimat liked gloom. Gloom was good for people. This was why she wore the long grey uniform, more like the clothing worn by prisoners than the multicolored indulgences sported by her counterparts in other districts. The round cheeky face that was the norm for her planet was unavoidable, but she had dyed her naturally pink hair black to add an air of severity.
It worked. Certainly everyone on the bridge hunched over their consoles as she entered, studying with new intensity the routinely winking keys of many colors that flashed at them from the shadows.
“Your grace,” said a tall man with fine narrow features and two log incisors, stepping forward. His heels came together and he bowed slightly. Chief Deputy Taw Brust had developed something of a stoop from dealing with his younger, shorter superior.
“Brust,” replied the Sherrif. She glanced at her seat, checking for dents to show he had used it while she was away instead of staying in his own chair.
His name was usually his cue to bow and step back, relinquishing his temporary command. When he did not do so, she looked up into his face. “You have something to report.”
His upper lip drew back farther across his teeth. He always did this when he was excited. “The Drover’s position has been pinpointed again, Your Grace.”
The Drover had been spotted, fleetingly, seven times so far today. The Rhododendron had barely been able to stay within reach, and though there was still the slightest chance of overtaking the stolen vessel before it moved into another sheriff’s sector, this sighting failed to inspire Sheriff Parimat with any sense of jubilation.
For some reason, however, it had impressed her usually impassive deputy. She blinked at him. “You are about to add something pleasant,” she said, the coolness of her tone a rebuke to his enthusiasm. “Has the pirate indicated a desire to surrender to you personally?”
The deputy’s head dipped I submission, but when he went on, it was clear he had not succeeded in curbing his excitement. “Your Grace, the Drover has rendezvoused with the Dragonshelf.”
This was news indeed. The Sheriff’s head came forward and she peered into his face. All this darkness did have drawbacks: for all she could tell he might be making some kind of joke. “You are ertain?”
“There are no other ships of that configuration in this partition,” he assured her. “It can only be the Dragonshelf.”
“As you say.” She inclined her head to the right. “And you are sure there has been a meeting?”
“The Dragonshelf disappeared from the screen, Your Grace. It must have been taken aboard.”
Sheriff Parimat moved to one of her viewscreens to verify the location of the Drover. “The way that pirate flies, it might well have been a collision. But let us assume you have analyzed the images correctly. We are in pursuit?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Well done.” She moved to her chair. “How fortunate that you did not notify me of this earlier. The Dragonshelf without a doubt received those recipes cards, and I should have had no entertainment with my lunch.”
She reached to a key on the arm of her chair and called, “Pirgy, douse the Denebian and put him away for future reference. What? Certainly. Your own research is your own business; do to him what will preserve him, however.”
Taw Brust had followed, to stand next to his commander’s chair. She looked up and nodded, whereupon he moved to his own seat.
“The pirate’s course has changed slightly since the rendezvoused, Your Grace,” he said. “Now he seems to be on a line for the Lodeon System.”
The Sheriff set both hands flat on her lap. “Is he? Basca, lay in a course for Lodeon VII.”
Her chief deputy looked around the bridge as if to learn where that idea had come from. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, his current position is still quite a distance from the Lodeon System. We have no idea whether he will continue on his present course, nor that if he does so, he intends to proceed to Lodeon VII.”
“You may have no idea, Brust,” said Sheriff Parimat. “Losch, notify His Worship at once that, thanks to Chief Deputy Taw Brust, we are on our way to retrieve the Drover, and the Dragonshelf as well.”
Brust’s eyes went wide. “W…would it not be wise to wait until we have taken them, Your Grace?”
She rolled her eyes up at him. “Brust, when did we last have a triumph to report to His Worship?”
He spread out six-fingered hands. “Why, when we captured the Denebian….”
She tossed her head. “The report will not have gone beyond the Imperial Undersecretaries.”
Brust leaned toward the Sheriff’s chair. “When we destroyed the Library of Karsch….”
“Two notebooks, four bookmarks,” replied his captain. “That may well have reached an Imperial Secretary. We received a command to produce more good reports, and we shall now give them two. First we shall report that you spotted the fugitives, and later today we will report that we have taken the two ships into custody and are recording every step in the punishment of the traitors involved. For their capture is inevitable, of course.” Her voice raised a little at the end, commanding immediate agreement.
“It is.” The Chief Deputy’s response was sincere enough to surprise even his superior. “But if….” He swallowed and hurried on, “If His Worship decides to attend the punishments in person?”
She had not thought of this, but her crew would not see her wince. “Then we shall entertain His Worship imperially, as we did the last time.”
Blogsy Babbles 