Free The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1 by R.M. Meluch Page B

translated, and the Arran women squealed. The Arran guards’ lips unstiffened, perilously close to cracking their stony faces.
    The Archon stalked to the lieutenant colonel, had to look up to study Steele’s dour face—his white-blond hair buzzed flat across the top of his squarish head; his eyes of vivid, piercing blue; his brawny shoulders set straight across.
    Donner turned then to his growling, blocky, muscular dog-thing. “I see it.”
    The women’s laughter sparkled.
    “What happened to him?” Donner asked Farragut.
    Farragut puzzled a moment. Donner’s question seemed to refer to Colonel Steele. “Nothing. What do you see that you think is wrong with him?”
    “His color.”
    Farragut was a loss of how to explain Steele’s fairness. “That is just his color.”
    “He has hideous eyes. Yours are merely ugly. His eyes are creepy.”
    “The women don’t think so,” Augustus said.
    The Archon jerked up short. Partly that the furniture was talking again, and partly from what the furniture said. Donner turned sourly to his women, demanded doubtfully, “Is this so?”
    The sylphs dissolved into high, musical Geisha giggles.
    The Archon turned away, miffed and mystified. “Well. Blue eyes. Who could have guessed women liked blue eyes?” Donner returned to Colonel Steele, pointed to the black bars bracketing the outer corners of Steele’s eye sockets. “What are those?”
    Farragut hesitated, answered, “Cameras.”
    “And what more?”
    The hesitation had not escaped notice. Donner heard the missing “and.” Surprising, the nuances that the alien could detect.
    Bluntness was apparently the wisest course. “And gun sights,” Farragut let the other shoe drop.
    “Ah. Is this a gun?” The Archon reached, but Steele’s hand clapped over his side arm first.
    The Archon’s guards bridled, but Donner backed them down, and Steele barked his Marines into line.
    Farragut maintained a calm, friendly manner. “Yes, those are guns. Colonel Steele, indulge our host.”
    Steele briskly unsnapped the flap, unholstered the side arm, and flipped it around, butt end out.
    The Archon fit his small hand around the fat grip. “How does this work?”
    “It doesn’t,” said Farragut. “It is coded to its issuant. In your hand, it’s a lump of metal.”
    Of course, the Archon would have to try it. Testing the truth as much as the weapon, the Archon pointed the weapon at Steele, pulled the trigger.
    Nothing happened.
    Donner smiled. Steele had not blinked.
    “What an excellent idea. You must tell me how it is done.” He was speaking to Farragut. He relinquished the weapon to Colonel Steele. Donner then pointed to Captain Farragut’s sword. “Ceremonial?”
    “Actually not. We use them.”
    The Archon gave a disbelieving cough. Then guessed, “So that you do not poke holes in your spaceship?”
    “Oh, I have put holes in my ship,” Farragut admitted merrily. “The force field keeps the vacuum out. I am more worried about hitting one of my own guys on the other side of the bulk. This is a useful antique, like Morse code.”
    “Like . . . ?” Morse code did not translate.
    “Don’t ever throw out your old technology, Donner.” Farragut probably ought not advise a new contact, but he had made an instant primitive connection with this alien leader. “Swords are useful.” That and John Farragut liked ’em.
    Kerry Blue, standing at attention, lost track of the conversation, distracted by a tickle on the back of her neck. She knew there was a white ledge lined with plants high behind her head. The tickle felt like a leaf from a hanging vine touching her neck hairs. She edged discreetly forward. The touch returned, grazed her cap.
    Finally she cranked her head back and up to look at the plants.
    The plants looked at her.
    Under thick coats of iguana green, nictitating membranes flicked over saurian eyes. A very long sticky tongue flicked experimentally to Kerry’s cheek.
    With wooden slowness, Kerry returned