Read Online Ancestor's World by A. C. Crispin, T. Jackson King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. C. Crispin, T. Jackson King
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power of the Royal House.
"We're here, though a bit late," said Mitchell. "If we hadn't had to stop for midday devotionals ..."
Beloran thought back to that time by the side of the road, as he had prayed and meditated, with Mitchell's awkward accompaniment. The Liaison had enjoyed prolonging the rite, even as the archaeologist squirmed....
Too bad Mitchell's entire archaeological camp could not disappear, like one of the remote Na-Dina villages found empty of inhabitants. The
Disappearances had begun decades ago. Not everyone believed in them, but Beloran had seen one village for himself--echoing, deserted, desolate ...
as though the villagers had just... left.
As he moved to get out of the vehicle and follow Mitchell into the Skyport, Beloran repressed another sigh and steeled himself to meet this new wave of Infidel intruders.
Mahree Burroughs stood in the visitor hall of the Skyport, surrounded by milling archaeologists, piles of equipment and baggage. She sighed. There wasn't anyone, Na-Dina or human, here to meet them. Where the devil was Mitchell?
How the heck were they to find transport to Mitchell's
49
Base Camp? Surely the man had more sense than to expect them to land Emerald Scales downcountry, in a dangerous approach to a beaconless canyon?
Mahree realized uneasily that all of the archaeologists were regarding her expectantly. That was only fair, she thought grumpily--after all, she was the high-ranking CLS official. Trouble was, she didn't have the faintest idea of what to do.
She wiped sweat from her forehead, wishing she were wearing shorts and a sleeveless top rather than the black StarBridge jumpsuit with Interrelator insignia she'd put on that morning. Searching in her pockets, she ran fingers through her mane of waist-length hair, scooping it up into a ponytail so it was off her neck.
Just then, the double doors slammed open and in walked two people: a middle-aged human male, and a Na-Dina alien. Relieved, Mahree headed purposefully for them.
She was amused to note that Mitchell was dressed exactly like an archaeologist in one of Rob's antique films-- rough khaki pants, leather boots, and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His muscular forearms were traced with scars and abrasions, old and new.
"Ambassador Burroughs?" the human called in a pleasant tenor, waving to her as he approached. "I'm Gordon Mitchell." He was tall and ruggedly good-looking, with a deep tan and brown hair streaked blond by the sun. His teeth flashed when he smiled.
"Mahree Burroughs," she said, striding up to meet him. She was too hot and sweaty to smile, but she nodded cordially as she held out her hand. Mitchell grasped hers in a rough-palmed grip. He smelled of new sweat and old dust.
"And for the duration of this visit, Doctor Mitchell, my title is 'Interrelator.' "
Mahree slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew her CLS credentials, then handed them to the blue-scaled Na- Dina. While the alien glanced at them, she took another look at the archaeologist, and her eyes widened. Mitchell wore a gun belted to his waist. A pulse-gun!
Biting her lip, she forced herself to look away from the
50
weapon. She didn't want to create a scene in front of a Na- Dina official.
Later, though, she'd have a LOT to say about that gun. Didn't the man have a grain of sense?
"Ambassador?" The Na-Dina was bowing to her, beady black eyes inspecting her one-piece StarBridge uniform; then the alien broke eye contact. "We apologize for our lateness. We were delayed in our arrival due to the midday obeisance." Mahree heard the alien's words in stereo--the translation to Mizari whispered by the voder earcuff she wore, and from her own knowledge of the Na-Dina hiss- click language. Alien languages were her speciality, and she'd gained a passable fluency on the trip out.
Mahree returned the Na-Dina's bow. "Esteemed Representative of the Royal House," she hiss-clicked, "I come bearing--"
"I'm not of the Royal House," the alien
"We're here, though a bit late," said Mitchell. "If we hadn't had to stop for midday devotionals ..."
Beloran thought back to that time by the side of the road, as he had prayed and meditated, with Mitchell's awkward accompaniment. The Liaison had enjoyed prolonging the rite, even as the archaeologist squirmed....
Too bad Mitchell's entire archaeological camp could not disappear, like one of the remote Na-Dina villages found empty of inhabitants. The
Disappearances had begun decades ago. Not everyone believed in them, but Beloran had seen one village for himself--echoing, deserted, desolate ...
as though the villagers had just... left.
As he moved to get out of the vehicle and follow Mitchell into the Skyport, Beloran repressed another sigh and steeled himself to meet this new wave of Infidel intruders.
Mahree Burroughs stood in the visitor hall of the Skyport, surrounded by milling archaeologists, piles of equipment and baggage. She sighed. There wasn't anyone, Na-Dina or human, here to meet them. Where the devil was Mitchell?
How the heck were they to find transport to Mitchell's
49
Base Camp? Surely the man had more sense than to expect them to land Emerald Scales downcountry, in a dangerous approach to a beaconless canyon?
Mahree realized uneasily that all of the archaeologists were regarding her expectantly. That was only fair, she thought grumpily--after all, she was the high-ranking CLS official. Trouble was, she didn't have the faintest idea of what to do.
She wiped sweat from her forehead, wishing she were wearing shorts and a sleeveless top rather than the black StarBridge jumpsuit with Interrelator insignia she'd put on that morning. Searching in her pockets, she ran fingers through her mane of waist-length hair, scooping it up into a ponytail so it was off her neck.
Just then, the double doors slammed open and in walked two people: a middle-aged human male, and a Na-Dina alien. Relieved, Mahree headed purposefully for them.
She was amused to note that Mitchell was dressed exactly like an archaeologist in one of Rob's antique films-- rough khaki pants, leather boots, and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His muscular forearms were traced with scars and abrasions, old and new.
"Ambassador Burroughs?" the human called in a pleasant tenor, waving to her as he approached. "I'm Gordon Mitchell." He was tall and ruggedly good-looking, with a deep tan and brown hair streaked blond by the sun. His teeth flashed when he smiled.
"Mahree Burroughs," she said, striding up to meet him. She was too hot and sweaty to smile, but she nodded cordially as she held out her hand. Mitchell grasped hers in a rough-palmed grip. He smelled of new sweat and old dust.
"And for the duration of this visit, Doctor Mitchell, my title is 'Interrelator.' "
Mahree slid a hand into her pocket and withdrew her CLS credentials, then handed them to the blue-scaled Na- Dina. While the alien glanced at them, she took another look at the archaeologist, and her eyes widened. Mitchell wore a gun belted to his waist. A pulse-gun!
Biting her lip, she forced herself to look away from the
50
weapon. She didn't want to create a scene in front of a Na- Dina official.
Later, though, she'd have a LOT to say about that gun. Didn't the man have a grain of sense?
"Ambassador?" The Na-Dina was bowing to her, beady black eyes inspecting her one-piece StarBridge uniform; then the alien broke eye contact. "We apologize for our lateness. We were delayed in our arrival due to the midday obeisance." Mahree heard the alien's words in stereo--the translation to Mizari whispered by the voder earcuff she wore, and from her own knowledge of the Na-Dina hiss- click language. Alien languages were her speciality, and she'd gained a passable fluency on the trip out.
Mahree returned the Na-Dina's bow. "Esteemed Representative of the Royal House," she hiss-clicked, "I come bearing--"
"I'm not of the Royal House," the alien
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