Foreign Legions

by David Drake

  Jim jumped up and headed toward the foul line and the guy with the ball. "I'll take this one."

  I walked to my man, Jim checked the ball, and the game started.

  We could do no right. Though both of them were shorter than either of us, they shot over us, went around us like we were rooted to the ground, out-rebounded us, and generally kicked our butts. Playground rules were make-em, take-em, and they either made their shots or got the rebounds, so we barely touched the ball. The game ended eleven to one, our only point a lucky heave by Jim on a move that I think was supposed to have been a lay-up but that ended up looking like he was tripping over his own feet while running. I was hugging my sides for wind as I walked off the court.

  I didn't care about losing, and I didn't care about the pain in my side. I was elated. I had come to the courts, found a partner, and gotten into a game. Jim had treated me like I was competent, even though I wasn't, and so though I failed, I at least got a chance to try. As bad as I was, I learned that day that I loved playing the game—even playing it that badly—even more than I loved watching it.

  Jim and I sat together the rest of the afternoon, until I had to go home to dinner. We played every chance we got, and we talked between those chances. We talked about the players on the court. We debated the greatest moment in an NBA championship series, both of us going for classics over recent efforts: Jim argued for Michael Jordan's huge straight-from-the-sickbed performance in Utah, while I pitched a moment from ancient history, Willis Reed's injured run onto the court in the famous game in the Garden. We lost every game, with our best effort coming in an eleven-to-four outing in which a lot of lucky bounces went our way and the other guys looked like they were barely paying attention.

  The best moment of the day, though, came when I got up to leave. As I turned to walk away, Jim said, "See you tomorrow?"

  I smiled. "Yeah." I was sore from a day of playing—not watching, but playing—basketball. I had a partner and a chance to play again. Life was good. "See you tomorrow."

  * * *

  As consciousness returned I fought the temptation to move and instead stayed very still, eyes shut, trying to maintain the slow, even breathing of one asleep. I felt a bit muzzy from whatever the aliens had hit me with and had to work to concentrate, but I was not in any physical pain—good news for R.C., I hoped. I could feel a hard platform under me and bonds of some sort around my wrists and ankles. I tensed my muscles ever so slightly against first the wrist bonds and then the ankle ties, but predictably none of them gave at all. If I couldn't work the bonds I wasn't going to gain any advantage by pretending to still be out, so I opened my eyes and looked around.

  I was in what had been an auto mechanic's garage. As my head cleared, the smells of the room grew stronger, more distinct: oil that had worked its way for years into the pores of the concrete floor, grease, dust, bits of metal, hints of mold. The room was dim but I could clearly see the old wooden workbenches along the side walls and the lighter spots on the walls where racks had hung. I could also see three aliens—they looked like the ones who had taken me, though I couldn't be sure—standing in the same triangular formation near the foot of the unfinished worktable I was sprawled across. To my left and slightly behind them sat a fourth alien, one a bit smaller than the original three and wearing a large breathing helmet instead of the tighter masks of the others.

  The alien who had done all the talking so far picked up where it had left off, as if nothing had happened. "You must locate James Peterson and return him to us."

  My throat was dry enough that it took me a few moments to be able to speak clearly. "No," I said, "I don't have to do that."

  "You are our prisoner, and you must do as we instruct."

  Motivation was clearly not their strong suit. I raised my head a bit and cleared my throat. "No, I don't. You can obviously knock me out and take me captive, but you can't make me do anything. It doesn't work like that."

  The alien in the rear spoke for the first time. His translator must have been set differently from the other alien's, because his voice came out higher, a tenor to the other's bass. "We can kill you if you do not do as we say."

  I was glad and a bit surprised to realize that aliens could be amateurs, too. They were clearly used to dealing with people who were also amateurs, people who had no ability to accurately gauge what they were really worth—or not worth—in any situation. I don't know why I was surprised, because most people—and, I had to assume, most aliens—aren't very good at what they do. I'd almost certainly end up paying in the short term for this knowledge, but it was still a source of power they didn't realize they had given me. "Of course. But if you kill me, I can't do what you want me to do."

  The new speaker paused for a moment, then rose and walked slowly over to me. Though he looked to me much like the others, his slower, more careful walk made him seem older, an elderly man forced out of a comfortable chair by an impolite guest. "You are, of course, correct. Though your life is . . . irrelevant to me, killing you would not help us achieve our goals. We do, however, have another option: We can make your lack of cooperation more painful than the choice of helping us."

  I saw his upper right arm move; then the pain hit and I couldn't see anything. I made no attempt to suppress my scream; they can always make you scream, so there's no point in pretending otherwise. My whole body felt like it was pulsing with currents of pain, every inch of skin, bit of bone, and length of vein and artery a channel for the purest pain I'd known. I prayed I'd black out. The pain continued for a time I couldn't measure or even find the words to contemplate, and then I got my wish.

  * * *

  I'm not sure how long I was out. As I came to I tried to prepare myself for the thickheadedness and the racking residue of pain that my past similar experiences had left, but consciousness returned, as it had before, quickly, and amazingly, pain did not come with it. Either the torture device or their healing technology was very good.

  The older alien was standing where he had been, so I probably hadn't been unconscious for long. When I opened my eyes, he spoke. "Are you now prepared to do as we instruct?"

  I knew I'd win this game—I'd known from the moment I knew they needed me—but I also knew that playing was going to be expensive. What I didn't know was just how expensive. I was going to have to find out. "No," I said. "But—"

  The pain hit just as quickly as the last time and even more forcefully, and it seemed to go on longer. I didn't even have enough control left to pray for unconsciousness, but fortunately it came on its own.

  * * *

  I lost count of how many times I blacked out, but I don't believe there were actually that many. In the few moments of consciousness I enjoyed between the attacks of pain I tried to focus on the goal of making the deal I knew I would have a chance to make.

  Finally, the opportunity came.

  As usual, the older one asked if I would help, and as usual I said no and tried to continue, expecting the pain again. This time, though, he let me go on.

  " . . . but I do think we could make a deal that would meet your goals." I gulped air as I realized I had held my breath before speaking and had tried to blurt out the whole sentence before they could zap me again. When the pain didn't come, I kept going. "I know you can hurt me enough to make me say anything. You can even make me do anything—for a while. As soon as I get a chance, though, I'll end up trying to get away. So, why not make a deal instead? From what I've read about your people, you're here to discuss possible trade opportunities. Well, we can make a trade."

  New sounds filled the air, sounds I realized were their voices in their own tongue. The older one and my gym visitor seemed to be doing the talking, though I couldn't be sure others didn't speak.

  After a short time the older one spoke to me again. "You are right that we are primarily merchants. We do not, though, normally make trades with . . . races such as yours. We simply take the helpers we need. In this case, our goals and our arrangements with your governme
nts make that option more expensive to pursue than normal. So, what sort of trade?"

  "When I work, I do—" I paused to find the right word, a word that would appeal to them "—salvage. I find things for people, and I return those things, and the people pay me."

  "How much do they pay you?"

  "Half of what the thing is worth."

  The alien's response was the fastest it had been. "That is absurd. No such service is worth half the value of the object in question."

  "It is," I said, "if the object is difficult to find and retrieve, so difficult that normal approaches will not work, so difficult that there is significant risk and there are no other options." Anyone talking to the highest levels of all the leading governments on Earth who resorted to kidnapping a single guy rather than simply asking for government help clearly couldn't operate in the open, so I spelled it out for them, just in case. "My services are worth the fee, for example, when the buyer cannot afford to be openly searching for the lost goods."

  "Of course. It is clear that you appreciate our situation. I assume it is also clear that your . . . discretion is vital in this matter."

  "Of course. When I work, it's always confidential."

  "And what price would you put on James Peterson that we might pay you half?"

  They were serious. Jim was alive, or at least they believed he was.

  "He really is alive?"

  "Of course. He has been working for us since the moment we arranged his revival. I repeat: What price would you put on him and on this task?"

  I could have told them that I would find Jim just so I could put him away again, but there was no point in throwing away a good opportunity.

  "I assume you guys don't have anything like a normal bank account, so I have to answer your question with another: What can you pay that I can use but that would also allow you to meet your needs for discretion?"

  They chattered again for a while, then the original speaker left the room. He returned quickly with a stained brown paper bag that looked and smelled like it had been in the trash for a couple of days.

  "Diamonds. We traded some very simple devices to a minor government to obtain some working capital. This bag contains enough value to easily equal the cost of a single human."

  The original speaker opened the bag next to my head so I could look inside. The contents were beautiful, more diamonds than I had ever seen in one place, facets dancing in even the room's dim light, each stone easily a carat or more. He put the bag in my hand so I could gauge its weight. I'd have to revise my opinion about the aliens' skill at motivation: The bag had to weigh at least two pounds, maybe more. Even with the massive cuts we'd have to take to move the diamonds without alerting the IRS, they would buy R.C. and me a long, long break in high style before we had to work again.

  The alien took the bag from my hand and put it on a workbench on the right-hand wall.

  "It's enough," I said. "What do you want me to do when I find him?"

  The original leader stepped back as the older alien spoke. "You do not need to do anything. He—" he pointed with his upper left arm toward the original speaker "—will accompany you. You will leave when you have found James Peterson. He will retrieve some materials that are ours and . . . deal with Peterson."

  I shook my head. "That won't work. To find him, I have to talk to people. Your friend here is hardly inconspicuous, and I'm sure you don't want him to be seen wandering around in the open."

  "That point is not negotiable. He must be with you."

  I stared at the original leader and pictured him in a pair of pants, a sweatshirt, and a big hat. It wouldn't be enough. There was no way I could take him out in public. Perhaps, though, if he stayed out of sight, kept to the car while I worked. "Let's compromise. He can ride with me to each place I go, but he'll have to wait in the car whenever I deal with other humans."

  The two of them chattered again briefly, then the older alien spoke to me. "That is acceptable."

  "What assurances do I have that you will not kill me after I find him for you?"

  "The same assurance we have that you will not try to kill our representative: Neither side would gain anything by such behavior."

  It wasn't much, but it was what I had expected him to say, all he really could say. "Okay. Now, how about letting me go so we can get started?"

  The older alien pointed an arm and the bodyguards freed me. The bonds appeared to be a sort of flexible plastic wrap. I reached for one near my ankle but the nearer bodyguard snatched it away.

  "Leave now and begin your work," the older alien said. Pointing to the original leader, he continued, "He will answer the questions you will need to ask." He turned and walked toward a side door, the two bodyguards trailing him.

  I got up, grabbed the bag of diamonds, and followed them. My new buddy trailed me. The side door led to what had once been the garage's office, and from there we went out into the light. It was early afternoon, the fall air still warming from the sun, so I had indeed been gone only a few hours. My stomach began to rumble as my body relaxed and I realized I was hungry.

  Two black BMW sedans with blacked-out windows were parked outside the garage, which sat well back from the road. On either side of the garage and on the other side of the road were fields of wild growth. A road sign just visible from where I stood told me I was only a few miles outside of Pittsboro, so they had taken me less than an hour from the gym. Moving surprisingly quickly now that he was out in the open, the older alien folded himself into the passenger seat of one of the cars. The bodyguards crammed themselves into the car with him and quickly drove off.

  "You were expecting spaceships?" asked my companion.

  When I realized he was trying to make a joke, I stared at his face for a sign I could use in the future. I found nothing. If their expressions changed, it was in ways I was unable to discern. Then I noticed that his lower right arm was twitching slightly; I'd have to watch those arms.

  "No. It makes sense that with your particular needs you'd try to keep a low profile."

  His lower left arm reached into his suit and briefly disappeared; the suit appeared transparent the entire time. The arm reappeared holding the car's keys.

  "How about I drive?" I asked.

  "I would prefer that," he said. "Your automobiles are not well suited to us."

  "I would also prefer it." I took the keys and headed to the car. The seat was all the way back and leaning two-thirds of the way down, so it took me a few moments to adjust it. The alien folded quickly into the car, but he definitely didn't look comfortable. That was fine by me; we'd be in the car a lot, and after this morning's episode I didn't mind at all that he suffered. "We're going to be together for a while, so I need to know what to call you. I go by Matt; what's your name?"

  "In my language it is—" the translator let out a burst of the chattering noises I had heard earlier "—but the translator cannot find equivalents in your language for our names."

  "Okay, I'll name you." I looked at him crammed into the seat, arms everywhere, a giant blue bug reclined almost on its back, and I laughed. "I'd go with Gregor, but that's too much work to say. So, Greg it is."

  "Greg?"

  "Yup."

  "It will serve. Now, you must find James Peterson."

  "First, we have to go back to the gym so I can change and grab some food." I started the car and we headed out. I drove in silence, wanting the time to think, and I was pleased to find that Greg was content to ride quietly along.

  * * *

  By the time ninth grade ended, Jim and I were the closest of friends. Neither of us needed to study much to keep up with our homework, so we spent every evening we could at the courts. We played every two-man team we could find, we joined every larger game that would have us, and when no one else was around to play, we practiced shooting and played each other. The playing and the practice paid off, because by the end of the year we were regularly joining games on the second court from the trees. The day we were asked for the
first time to play in a game on that court, we celebrated like we had jointly jammed home the winning basket in the NBA championship game.