“That would be a reason to keep him around if he were a terminal or a flyter or some other piece of property,” Hari said, his voice stern with disapproval. “The fact that he has a useful talent doesn’t mean that you have any right to keep him here.”
Rishi burned with injustice at this censure. Of course she valued Praxiteles, but as a human being, not as property. “I am not keeping him here! I had you write his contract so he could leave any time. Literally, any time! That’s more freedom than the others have.”
Hari snorted. “And what would he do if he left here? He hasn’t got the means to go home. He wouldn’t even know how to do it if he did.”
Rishi stood up. “All right! I’ll give him a credit account with a reputable interstellar line. He’ll be able to go wherever he wants, whenever he wants.”
Hari gave her a disgusted look. “He won’t leave here unless you send him away. You know that as well as I do.”
Rishi decided to end the argument. She wasn’t going to convince him, and she wasn’t prepared to concede his point. “I’ll see you later. I have things to do.” She didn’t wait for an answer but headed straight into the house instead.
RISHI was late for dinner. Prax knew she had gone shopping that day, so he waited patiently until she came rushing through the door.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” She looked a little flustered, which was unusual for her.
“It doesn’t matter, lady.”
She sat down and picked up her fork. “What did you do this afternoon, Praxiteles?”
“Not that much, lady,” Prax said, helping himself to food. “But I did meet the woman who share’s the chief’s house.”
“You met Anika?”
Prax nodded. “She asks a lot of questions.”
Rishi smiled enough to make her dimple show. “She’s a therapist. That’s how they operate.”
Prax pondered. Whenever he thought he had learned everything he needed to know, he always found some new bit of knowledge everyone had but him. “You mean she’s a doctor?”
Rishi looked amused, but she managed not to laugh at him. “Not exactly. A therapist is someone who helps people with problems—mental health problems.”
Prax took a bite of his dinner. It was good, as usual, but he didn’t pay attention to its subtleties. “What are mental health problems?”
Rishi tilted her head as she sipped her wine. “Mostly they’re problems people develop because of bad situations. For instance, a child whose parents don’t show that they’re proud of her might grow up with no self-esteem. Or someone who’s abused or traumatized might develop odd personality quirks like being afraid to leave his house.”
Prax wasn’t entirely sure what traumatized meant, but he didn’t ask. “And how does a therapist help these people?”
“By getting them to talk about what’s bothering them. She might also use virtual reality technology or even drugs to make the person experience the trauma again and deal with it in a different way.”
Prax shook his head. “I don’t understand your answers anymore than I do my own questions.”
This time Rishi laughed. She patted his hand in a comforting gesture. “Don’t worry about it, Praxiteles. Did you feed the animals outside?”
Prax was happy to change the subject. “Yes. Anika told me they’re called chipmunks. What did you do today, lady?”
“Nothing so useful. I went shopping. But I did pick up something that I want you to have.”
Rishi placed a small object down on the table in front of him, and Prax picked it up curiously.
“What is this, lady?” he asked, holding it in his hand. It was a black box, slightly longer lengthwise than across, and no thicker than his thumb. There were a few dials and a aswitch along one side and a small gray square on one end.
“It’s a credit account box,” she said. “You’ve probably seen them because I often use one when I shop.”
“I never paid any attention,” Prax said. “I don’t have enough money to need one.”
“It works like this,” she said, picking up the box. “You dial the amount you want here and then press your thumb on the side, where the gray square is. The shop will put the box on their credit terminal, and the money will be deducted from your account. It only works for you, though. The account is in your name and only your thumb print will activate it.”
Prax put the box down abruptly. “Are you giving me money, lady?”
“Not exactly. This account is good only at one place, the United Interstellar Passenger Line. That’s a company that has passenger ships, ships you can travel on, if you buy a ticket. If you take this box to their office in Shembor, you could go home to Celadon; you could go to any world you wanted.”
Prax stared down at the black box, confused. He had been afraid she was offering money outside his salary, which could have meant an even greater obligation. But now it sounded like she was sending him away. “Do you want me to go away?”
“Not if you don’t want to go,” Rishi said, and Prax knew it was the truth. “You can stay here as long as you want to stay. It’s just that I have to know that I’m not making you stay here. I have to know you could leave if you wanted to leave.”
She meant it. That was clear. Prax took a deep breath. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Some people might not believe that.” Rishi had an edge to her voice when she said the words. “That’s why I want you to take this. If you ever change your mind, it’ll be there.”
Prax looked at the box again. It was meaningless, really, since he couldn’t leave while the Mercouri owed her a debt. But if it made her feel better, it wouldn’t hurt to take it. He picked up the box. “Very well, lady. If you wish me to have it, I’ll keep it.”
THE next day, Prax was on evening shift again. After lunch he went to the common room. For once, no one was playing poker. Instead, Chio sat at one of the tables watching Ogilvy, a new guard on the staff, play a musical instrument Prax had never seen before.
Prax sat down to watch. Ogilvy was a Terran, shorter than Prax, and darker skinned, with a thin face, almost black hair, and a saturnine expression. He held something that looked like a small bellows with a flute-like pipe coming out of one end, and other pipes coming out of the other end. When Ogilvy switched it on and started playing, it produced a mournful sound.
After a few minutes, Beecher wandered in. Prax usually tried to avoid the other guard, but he was too intrigued by the new instrument to want to get up and leave.
Chio was very taken with the novelty, too. “It’s wonderful, Prax. It’s an even sadder sound than that blasted banjo of yours. No matter what Ogilvy plays, it sounds like a dirge.”
“What is it called?” Prax asked Ogilvy when the other man switched off the instrument.
“Electronic bagpipes,” he said. “It’s old. It’s been in my family for years.”
“Too bad it didn’t stay in your family instead of coming here with you,” Beecher said sourly.
Ogilvy grinned with good humor. “Not everyone likes the pipes. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Well, it’s not one I want to acquire,” Beecher said. “It’s hard enough to find peace and quiet around here since the Mistress picked up her tame savage and his damned musical box.”
Prax leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He told himself that no matter how much Beecher tried to provoke him, he had to keep his temper under control. He could not let himself be pushed into doing something that would get him into trouble.
Ogilvy glanced around the room and then back at Beecher. “What savage?”
“Our very own Elliniká warrior,” Beecher said with a sneer in his voice. “The Elliniká gave him to Mistress Trahn after she saved them from the bogeyman. I guess she wanted a little souvenir of Celadon. Apparently, that was all he was good for, because as soon as she got him ho
me, she didn’t want him anymore. She never even had him in for a quickie.”
Prax gripped the edge of the chair so hard it hurt his fingers, but still he said nothing. Beecher knew the rules better than he did. If he was saying this in front of everyone, then it couldn’t be too serious an offense to insult someone in this way. If Prax got in a fight again, Hari could fire him, and he would have no way to repay the Mercouri debt.
Ogilvy looked bewildered.
“Shut up, Beecher!” Chio said, getting up from his chair. “Mind your own damn business, can’t you?”
Beecher ignored him and went on. “It’s really a shame, too. If he’d been any use to her in bed, he could have saved her a lot of time and money. When she gets the hots, Mistress Trahn still has to go out at night and pay total strangers to—”
Prax didn’t let him finish the sentence. He came across the table at Beecher and knocked the other man out of his chair. He was trying for a wrestling hold, but the older man was too experienced a fighter to make it easy for him. They rolled around on the floor, knocking over tables and chairs. Everyone jumped up and tried to get out of the way.
Eventually, Prax managed to get Beecher on his hands and knees, with Prax practically on top of him. Prax slipped his hands under Beecher’s arms and reached up to grip the other man’s neck. He locked his hands and pulled downward with grim determination. Prax was dimly aware that everyone in the room seemed to be yelling at him to stop, but he paid no attention. He even ignored Rurhahn when the Miloran tried to move his hands. The need to call Beecher to account subsumed any thought of rules or obeying orders.
Nothing would distract him from his goal. He was so close! Only a little more pressure, and he could snap the lying bastard’s neck. Beecher gripped a table leg with one hand in a desperate attempt to get enough leverage to stop him. Prax considered trying to pry the man’s hand loose, but decided against it. Beecher might get away if he let go of his neck for even a second, and the man deserved to die.
“What’s going on here?” Hari’s voice demanded.
“It’s Prax!” Rurhahn said. “I can’t get his hands loose without breaking bones.”
Hari swore. Prax felt something cold pressed against his neck, and then everything went black.
PRAX followed Qualhuan to the common room. The Miloran had told him there would be a hearing, but Prax wasn’t sure what that meant. He stretched his neck to tilt his head back and then side-to-side, trying to get rid of the headache. He had never been stunned before.
When they got to the common room, all the tables had been moved out except for one. Hari sat behind it, facing all the other chairs, most of which were in rows. There was a chair to Hari’s right, placed sideways to the table, and another on his left facing the first chair.
“Sit there, Prax.” Qualhuan indicated the chair on Hari’s left.
Prax sat down. In a few seconds, Beecher came in and sat down in the chair opposite Prax. Then the remainder of the available security staff filed in and took seats in the rows of chairs that faced Hari.
Hari waited until the door had closed behind the last person before he spoke. “This is a hearing to determine what happened in this room earlier today, between Praxiteles Mercouri and Dennis Beecher.” Hari surveyed the room as he spoke, his eyes scanning the faces of his staff. “This hearing is held in accordance with the terms of the employment contracts of both Mercouri and Beecher. All of you are witnesses to this hearing. If at any time it is determined that anyone has lied during the hearing, it will be considered sufficient grounds to terminate the employment contract of that person, with no severance or other benefits.”
Small murmurs of conversation broke out at this. Hari waited until they died down to go on. “Let us first determine the facts.” His eyes swept the room. “Who here was present in the room during the fight besides Beecher and Mercouri?”
Several people raised their hands. Hari made a note of their names. “Joshi Chio, we’ll start with you. What happened before this incident?”
Chio stood up and related how they had been listening to Ogilvy play his strange instrument. He had described the conversation up to Beecher’s saying that Rishi had wanted a souvenir of Celadon when Hari stopped him.
“That’s enough for now,” he said. “Sidney Ogilvy, does this account match your recollection?”
Ogilvy stood up. “Yes, sir.”
“And what was Mercouri doing during the time when Beecher was making these comments?”
“He just sat there,” Ogilvy said. “I’m new, so I wasn’t even sure it was him Beecher was talking about, but I could tell he wasn’t happy.”
“And what did Beecher say that made Mercouri actually attack him?”
Ogilvy shuffled his feet. “Well, I think he said Mistress Trahn chucked Mercouri out of her bed and went out at night picking up men.”
Hari turned back to Chio. “Chio, what was said, to the best of your recollection?”
Chio cleared his throat. “Beecher claimed Prax was no use to Mistress Trahn. He started to say she had to pay men for sex, but Prax went at him before he could get it all out.”
Hari went around the room asking several people what was said. Once he was satisfied, he went back to Chio.
“Regardless of what was said,” he began, “Mercouri was the aggressor? He attacked Beecher without Beecher lifting a hand to him?”
Chio looked unhappy, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And what happened after that?” Hari asked.
“I went to get Rurhahn, sir.”
Hari asked Ogilvy and some others what had happened while Chio was out of the room. They described the fight with considerably more precision than Chio and Ogilvy had described the conversation that preceded it.
Hari had both Rurhahn and Chio relate trying to break up the fight.
“And by this time Mercouri had Beecher in a hold that no one could make him release?”
“Yes, sir,” Rurhahn said. “You couldn’t either, sir. Not without your stun gun.”
“I’m aware of that. Very well. I think I have the facts.” He turned to Beecher. “Is there anything from this testimony that you wish to contest, or do you have any comment you wish to make?”
Beecher shifted his weight in his chair. “He tried to kill me. By rights, he should be in the lockup.”
Prax could tell he believed what he was saying.
Hari turned to Prax. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”
Prax merely shook his head. It seemed straightforward enough to him. Some insults were a challenge, and anyone who used them should pay the consequences. Beecher deserved to die, and there was nothing more to be said.
Hari sat back in his chair and put both hands on the table in front of him. “All right, these are the facts.
“Mercouri was minding his own business when Beecher began to deliberately insult him in a manner plainly calculated to provoke him. Mercouri, on the other hand, was definitely the aggressor. He attacked without speaking and without warning. It’s difficult to say if he truly meant to kill Beecher, but he certainly could have done so if he hadn’t been stopped.”
Hari cleared his throat and stared at Beecher. The guard slouched in his chair and studied the floor.
“Dennis Beecher,” Hari said sternly, “for deliberately provoking a fight, you are suspended from duty, with loss of pay, for three days. You will spend those three days confined in your room, with no visitors.”
Prax tasted the bitterness of regret. The man deserved to truly suffer but Hari had imposed only a minor punishment. Before he could protest, Hari turned his gaze to Prax.
“Praxiteles Mercouri,” he said, his tone even more stern, “it’s true that you were provoked, but it’s also true that Beecher had not actually harmed you, threatened you, or even touched you. In addition, your assault had the potential to be deadly.
Therefore, I’m also suspending you from duty under the same conditions, but your sentence will last ten days.”
Prax’s heart leaped to his throat. He didn’t care about the money, but ten days was a long time to spend in a small room with windows that didn’t open. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Hari stood up.
Rurhahn came up to Prax and stood next to him. “Let’s go, Prax,” he said, his voice gentler than Prax had ever heard a Miloran sound.
Rurhahn walked Prax back to his room. Before he opened the door, Rurhahn took something out of his pocket. “Give me your left hand, Prax.”
Prax held out his hand, and Rurhahn fastened a thick bracelet on his wrist. He locked it in place and checked a dial as if to be sure that it was working.
Prax studied the bracelet. It was silver-colored, with a small series of lights and a tiny dial on the outside edge. It wasn’t heavy, but it wouldn’t come off, either. “What is it?”
“It’s a location monitor. If you try to leave the room, an alarm will sound in the security station.”
“Do you think I would run away?” Prax asked.
“No, but the chief put one on Beecher, so we have to put one on you, too.”
When the door to his room opened, Prax stepped inside.
“Someone will bring you your meals,” Rurhahn said. “Try to relax, Prax. It’s only ten days.”
Prax waited for the sound of the door closing and then he threw himself down on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was back on Celadon, standing on the plains on a clear day, watching the herd graze and hearing the creaking of the wagons behind him. It didn’t work. He wasn’t on Celadon, he was on Subidar, and he was stuck in a little box with no way out for ten long days.
Chapter Twelve
Rishi reflected sourly that time never passed so slowly as it did when you were waiting for something to happen. When Hari’s special notes finally sounded, she jumped up as she called for the bedroom door to open.
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