It wasn’t the intense odor of vanilla that told Bott where he had landed so much as the fuzz. He recalled the time that his Klamathan captain, especially upset, had ordered half the crew to shave their legs and hips before being stood in corners. Easing one hand up past his face, ge fave the yielding yellow obstacle a push.
Vo complaint came from the Klamathan, but she did step forward, relieving Bott of the idea that she had been killed and hung on the wall as a trophy. As he pulled himself free of the tube he’d descended through, he found three sets of buttocks but no other threats in the small cubicle.
Apparently the Klamathans had decided simultaneously to remove their clothes and hang the garments on hooks thoughtfully provided by the Emperor. Perhaps they had taken a shower; about an inch of water was lapping at their toes.
He did not approve of the way they stood, their arms dangling, their heads tipped back at a ninety-degree angle. Had he accidentally slid into a lab where His Imperial Walrus made copies of people, and found half-finished replicas of his crew?
He glanced up to look at what they were seeing. His eyes narrowed at the flashing lights; not bright enough to cast illumination around the cube, they must have some other purpose. Concentrating, he could just hear the music. He had learned, during his time on the Klamathan pirate ship, that certain frequencies could affect the minds of greens; he had learned a room ago the same thing could happen to golds. No doubt there were notes which could attach any Klamathan, particularly ones like these, especially susceptible after long days in the Imperial cells.
The lights did impart a soothing air; Bott wondered if there were some code in the shifting of the lights, some subliminal command. He realized as he watched that he had not had any natural sleep in days. And there were hooks on the walls for his clothes. The maze wouldn’t go away; he could try to get through some more after a nap.
His hand slid down his jacket but the cold fabric made him pause in removing it. The sensation clashed with the message of the lights, so he looked down. The water was now lapping over the tops of his boots. So THAT was the message: just rest there while we drown you.
Better not to look at the water; the surface was reflecting the lights. And he thought his nap might just have to wait. Looking around the walls, he found two chute openings, one of which he had just come through. Both were closed now, lest they interfere with any recreational homicide. He moved to the one he hadn’t used. A lock was visible, and elementary. He turned to consider his crew.
They were somehow more daunting in the buff: he could see everything they wanted to bring him into greater acquaintance with. Was there any reason to take them along? Really?
Bott let a finger slide below the symbols on the lock. Then he pushed away from the wall. No self-respecting captain would abandon his crew. Not, at least, without checking their clothes to see if they were carrying anything he could use.
He found a few things they had not mentioned; he wondered if they had even mentioned them to each other. There was a dagger with an Imperial reucas on the hilt and dried blood on the blade, perhaps a memento of the previous owner. The blue had shown no inclination to use it this far. The gold had a tiny metal box of crystallized honey. Where had she been hiding that? He decided not to worry about it.
“Ah!”
He thought he remembered them mentioning this. He slid it free of the green’s overalls, and studied the three rebels. “Chlorda, we want you about here.”
She moved one step in the direction he pushed her; the water splashed her shins. Moving back, Bott sighted along the six buttocks. Sloshing back a bit through the rapidly rising water, he squinted. Then he came up and urged Bassada backward one step. He noticed she had a tattoo. He hoped this was the last time he saw it.
Setting his shoulders on the wall between garments smelling strongly of chocolate and honey, he measured the jumprope along one arm, tying knots at proper intervals. Then, an end in each hand, he pulled it tight once or twice before pushing off from his leaning post.
The rope shot overhead with a loud pop. He nodded. He sighed. If this worked, he would probably regret it for the rest of his life. But there were things a captain was expected to do for his crew.
The rope swung in the air long enough to pick up some momentum, and then came down. A dark green stripe appeared across the bottom farthest from him.
Had it produced any other result? Bassada’s head turned to look back over her shoulder.
“C’mon, Cap’n! One or two more fer good measure!”
Bott coiled the jumprope around one hand. “No time to play.”
Louba rubbed one buttock and said, “Well, a little’s better’n no dessert at all.”
“Cap’n’s got a knacky hand with a rope,” Bassada agreed. “’At’sa way I likes him: firm but unfair.”
Bott fiddled with a knot. “Grab your clothes and let’s move. And don’t look at the ceiling: that’s what trapped us.”
Pursing her lips, the golden aristocrat sploshed through the water until her breasts were all but resting on her shoulders. “I tried to urge them through, but one has to check for traps and….”
“She found ‘em.” A green thumb and forefinger reached over to squeeze one peach-colored nipple nearly flat. “Whose t’rone’s gotta hole in the seat now?”
“In general,” said Chlorda, her narrowing eyes still on Bott, “It takes a specific frequency for any single Klamathan to be hypnotized. But the lights rendered us vulnerable and then the music froze us.”
Louba’s generous swat against the golden backside nearly sent Chlorda and the captain against the wall. “When ya gots such little parts, they’s easier ta freeze.”
The gold whirled. “At least I don’t need to wear trousered garments to keep bits of me from dragging on the floor!”
Louba slapped her own backside this time. “B’leeve me rear end’s in peart good shape, considerin’ ever’thin’ yer leadin’s dragged it through.”
“Mebbe ‘at’s not one o’ the bits she meant,” Bassada put in.
Louba reached out, took the blue nose, and shook it left and right. Two blue fingers jabbed into the green abdomen.
“Better hurry.” Bott did not have to bend very far to slap the water with his hands. “The door looks so simple there may be a trick.”
Chlorda moved deliberately to her clothes, arms fully extended, hands straight up, fingers arched. Bott caught the little motion of those fingers, and knew what it meant in Klamathan. Louba’s response was less elegant, but then, she had bigger fingers.
Bott leaned against the wall again. He wondered whether any of these rebel leaders had ever led to anything much. No doubt their companies had little in the way of central control. Everyone did just what seemed good at the moment.
Like a pirate.
That was a depressing thought, so he drew his grenade satchel a little farther from the water and looked inside to find out how many antique weapons were left. “’At’s an idea,” said Bassada. “Bust a hole inna walls and let some water out.”
“No no!” Chlorda shook her head vigorously. “My mother was put in an Imperial maze, cut her way out, and fell into a system of narrow tunnels filled with Vannasan caterpillars, long fuzzy things as thick as your leg. We never saw her again.”
“They…ate her?” Bott demanded.
She shook her head again. “No, Mother enjoyed their company so much she never came out.” Golden shoulders shrugged. “She does text us on our birthdays.”
Bassada expelled air, and a little moisture, between her lips. “Oh, le’s have a moment o’ silence fer Maw. Okay, ‘at’s ‘nuff.”
Seeing his crew mostly clad, Bott moved to the door and pressed the tabs on its lock. A quarter tist to the left sent the door sliding into the wall. A light blue tube beyond went straight for about three body lengths and then curled to the right.
“I don’t trust that curve,” he said, as his crew crowded behind him, six hands quite accidentally sliding along his back. “We’ll go in order of size, smallest first. Then you can grab our ankles and bring us out if we get stuck.” Louba and Bassada stuck their lower lips out. Chlorda limbered up her fingers.
Bott set his hands on the rim of the door, but jerked back when the tunnel whined at him. The sound stopped. He put his hands down to boost himself up again, and the high, discordant drone started again. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up and into the tunnel. The pitch went up a half step.
“I….” he began, glancing back.
His head swiveled forward as a bright square containing white diamonds alternated with black spralled along the wall, too fast for him to dodge. He felt nothing; it was just a projection. A second diamond came twisting toward him, the black and white diamonds changing colors or places as it sped by.
Chlorda’s head and shoulders were inside the tube. “That…could be pretty bad.”
“So it must be the right direction,” Bott replied, raising his voice above the whine of the tunel.
“Mebbe ‘ey jus’ wants ya to think so,” Bassada suggested.
That was certainly possible, but Bott had no desire to backtrack and try to find another door. Hitching up the shoulderstrap of his satchel, he crawled toward the oncoming diamonds. “Come on, crew.”
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