Free Retaliation by Bill McCay Page B

setting, pro-tected from the sun by a large awning. The rows of tables and chairs had come from the ruins of UMC’s translation school, as did the portable blackboard. There were even some textbooks rescued from the de-funct mining operation’s school.
    Daniel took his place by the blackboard as the class-room filled. Nakeer had apparently taken Daniel’s words to heart-the students offered a mix of sexes and ages. There even appeared to be a couple of El-ders on hand to learn the new language-or keep an eye on their compatriots.
    The usual hubbub of an arriving class died down, and Daniel took a deep breath. “Welcome. Today we begin the study of the English language-one of many tongues on the world I come from-“ His rehearsed speech sputtered to a stop as a young woman dashed under the awning. She was tall for an Abydan, and moved with an unconscious grace that was a delight to see. Wide, dark eyes gazed in conster-nation around the room, seeking an empty seat. The girl-somehow she seemed girlish to Daniel-had a light olive complexion and a stunningly beautiful face, even while biting her full lower lip. The aquiline fea-tures approached the sculptor’s ideal, but were animated with so much life-she had the expression of a beautiful statue come to life and realizing its nudity.
    “I yam saw-ray, Dan-yer,” the young woman said. Her musical voice almost canceled out the problems of her accent. Switching to a rich peasant strain of Abydan, she apologized again. “I didn’t mean to be late, but all those streets ...” She made a helpless gesture.
    “Well, you know where to come now.” Daniel lifted an interrogatory eyebrow. The girl supplied her name: “Faizah.” “There’s an empty seat right here, Faizah. Why don’t you settle yourself, and we’ll start?” Daniel pointed at a space in the first row. Like poetry in mo-tion, she took her place. Just as well she’s in front, Daniel thought. Half the male students will be gawking in her direction anyway.
    He decided to jettison the rest of his welcoming speech and get right down to work. “Let’s see how many of us understood what Faizah first said as she arrived
    ...”
    Whistling tunelessly to himself, Gerekh wrapped a wad of rag around the end of a long, thin wooden rod. Then he rammed the wadding down the sand-fouled barrel of the M-16 Ipy had salvaged.
    Gerekh had become fairly adept at stripping and cleaning lost weapons. He’d paid generously for ex-pert tutelage from an early volunteer in the militia, part of the first wave that had been trained by Skaara and the outworld warriors. Pursing his lips, he peered down the rifle barrel, a small oil lamp providing dim illumination. Perhaps the level of cleanliness wouldn’t have passed muster for a Marine, but it was more than sufficient for pur-poses of sale. Gerekh hastily swept away his cleaning apparatus as his doorman announced a visitor. The newcomer had a harsh, sun-seamed visage, and the squint of a man who habitually taxes his eyes for a glimpse be-yond the next dune. A caravan leader, most certainly.
    “I am Menna,” the man said abruptly. “My mastadges travel the high desert to the black lands of the distant farmers. I am told that you sell-“ His voice broke off as he saw the rifle being re-assembled under Gerekh’s deft fingers. “Yes. You deal in the sort of merchandise I desire.” The traveling merchant was a fierce haggler. But in the end he had to part with silver coins for the rifle and two thirty-round magazines of ammunition. The amount would have kept Ipy and his family in luxury for more than a month. Gerekh drew out the other weapon he’d received, the light machine gun. He hadn’t cleaned it, having only removed the bipod from the weapon’s muzzle. “Another of these death sticks?” Menna said.
    “This one is not so useful,” Gerekh warned. “It spits out bullets too quickly-brrrrrrp!” He imitated the sound of an automatic weapon. “None but the Urt-men can