The Trial of Tompa Lee by Edward Hoornaert
15 Drunk, Like Orgy
A hand grabbed Tompa’s arm. Another hand, more powerful, seized the elbow anchored by the rucksack. Together, the hands pulled her to the surface. Desperate for air, she gasped too soon, pulling water into her lungs.
“Graceful human,” Awmit bleated, “this one knew negatively of humans sinking! Pardon this one’s ancestors for bearing him, five times pardon!”
Coughing violently, Tompa pulled wet hair out of her face and rubbed her forehead. Her eyes stung but she forced them open regardless, desperate to regain control. On her left, Awmit was bobbing on the water, the pear-like bulge of tissue on his hips floating him like an inner tube. His face was scrunched into an open-mouthed, narrow-eyed expression that she guessed showed concern or contrition. She tried to reassure him, but coughed instead.
Roussel took the rucksack from her shoulder and felt around in the water for the other one. “How,” he asked as he retrieved the sack and held it up to let water drain, “is it humanly possible for anyone to drown in three feet of water?”
Tompa’s dazed self-control exploded in a red haze of fury. She balled her fist and swung at his solar plexus. Unfortunately, standing in water past her waist made her movements slow and clumsy. Roussel dodged easily—and then had the gall to laugh as she stumbled and splashed headfirst into the water.
Awmit helped her regain her feet. “Sinking human exists safely?”
Nothing like a clumsy dousing to chill a salsa of the brain. Later, Roussel, she promised herself. Later. “Yeah, yeah,” she said to Awmit. She coughed. “I’m fine. My mouth was closed this time.”
“Now that is a miracle,” Dante said.
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Her voice lacked the vehemence of her words.
Awmit squeezed her hand. “Fight negatively, humans. These ones flee hurriedly.”
“He’s right,” Dante said. “We need to head up the waterfall.”
Tompa just coughed.
Awmit bent at the waist so his chest was parallel to the water, then used his arms like paddlewheels to zip to the far bank. He swam like his mother was half dart-boat—no wonder he hadn’t thought twice about shoving her into the pool. And he was clearly going to do what Roussel suggested. Should she follow him?
Still standing in the water, the cop tossed one of the rucksacks to the far bank. When his gaze caught hers, she looked away. Resigned to the inevitable, at least until she got to dry land, Tompa followed Awmit. The water grew deeper. She had difficulty keeping her footing.
Roussel tossed the other rucksack to the bank. He swam past her and scrambled onto dry land. “Don’t you know how to swim?”
“No, I don’t know how to fucking swim.” The water was getting shallower, so she’d be spared the mortification of asking for his help. “In my world, patrol boats zap anyone they catch in the rivers trying to escape from Manhattan. Sons of bastard cockroach policemen like you even shoot at kids trying to cool off in the summer.”
Roussel held out his hand to help her onto the bank. She paused, then took it. When she had solid footing, she yanked on his arm, trying to jerk him into the water. She might as well have tried to pull the Empire State Building into the East River.
“We don’t have time for this childishness,” he said.
The fact that he was right didn’t make her feel any better.
She sprawled on the ground, squeezing a fistful of rough sand over and over. Awmit knelt beside her to pat her arm. When wet, his body odor was sweeter and tangier than usual, but not unpleasant—unlike Roussel, whose armpits probably smelled like the cesspool at the bottom of an abandoned elevator shaft.
Awmit picked up a rucksack and carried it to the rocks, leaving footsteps in the sand headed for the main channel, just as Roussel had suggested.
Suddenly, as though willpower had been the only thing keeping her from collapse, she was overwhelmed by a torrent of coughs that kept her from breathing. Panic washed away her remaining strength. She was scarcely aware of Awmit’s hand on her arm, leading her to the rocks just as Roussel had wanted. Her coughs echoed off the canyon walls, and her wet clothes sucked the warmth out of her, making her shiver uncontrollably. The hot desert sun would feel wonderful right now.
“Graceful human breathes healthily?” Awmit touched her shoulder as they edged along the base of the cliff toward the waterfall.
She nodded, not caring whether he understood the gesture.
“Shock,” Roussel muttered. The word made no sense to her. After a moment he said, over the harsh noise of falling water, “I’ll carry you to the top of the waterfall.”
First, though, he tried to pick up Awmit, who bleated a protest. Clearly you couldn’t carry a Shon the same way you would a human. When Roussel put an arm around his hips, Awmit stopped complaining. Tompa watched as he started climbing the rocks at the side of the waterfall. They were damp from the spray, but no water flowed over them. She shivered again.
Moving would help her coldness. Wearily, she started to follow Roussel up the slippery cliff. She climbed a few steps, then rested her forehead against a rock.
“Are you all right?”
Roussel was beside her, his hand on her back. She hadn’t known enough time had passed for him to carry Awmit to the top and then return for her. “Get your flickin’ hand off me,” she whispered as she turned to face him.
“Ah, profanity. You’re back to normal.”
“Scratching your eyes out would mean I’m back to normal.” She doubled over, coughing.
“That settles it,” he said.
Tompa straightened and eyed him warily. He stood a couple feet below her; his hair was thinning on the top, approaching baldness. “Settles what?”
“I’m going to put you over my shoulder and carry you to the top of the falls.”
“Like hell.” Tompa stared at him. She shivered so powerfully that her knees wobbled.
“Here goes.” He leaned forward and in one deft motion, bent her over his shoulder. She flopped hard against his back, knocking the wind out of her. He wrapped an arm across the back of her thighs to hold her in position. “You know, you’re a lot heavier than Awmit.”
She hit him. She didn’t keep it up, though, because if he fell, she fell—and for her, it would be a headfirst plunge.
Between the upside-down position and the jostling, water was trickling out of her lungs. She coughed experimentally, not wanting to distract him. It didn’t have that deep, serious feel like before. This position was clearing her head as well as her lungs—not that she’d let this maggot know. She must never, ever let herself act weak like this again.
Roussel’s foot slipped and as he jerked forward to hold onto the rocks, Tompa’s face slammed against his back. When she reached up to rub the sting out of her nose, her hand came away with a spot of blood on it.
“Watch it, maggot.” Her voice was stronger than before.
“If you see anyone around who can get you up here quicker and safer,” he said, panting only slightly, “feel free to let them carry you.”
She didn’t say anything, but she wiped the blood from her nosebleed onto his shirt. It was the least she could do.
When they reached the top of the waterfall, Tompa expected him to put her down. He didn’t, and that dispelled any lingering remnants of lethargy. “What are you doing?”
“Be quiet.”
Roussel carried her across twenty feet of wet gravel that crunched underfoot to where Awmit was soaking his sore leg in the water. Then Roussel squatted, which let her feet touch the gravel. She straightened. As soon as she did so, her skirt fell into place, covering Roussel’s arm and transforming it into something far too intimate and threatening. She shoved both his shoulders. He rocked back and ended up sitting on the gravel.
He linked his arms around his raised knees. “You could say thank you, you know, or maybe apologize for clubbing me.”
“Go to hell.”
“Apology accepted.”
Tompa looked away.
One of the cameras floated high overhead, above the canyon rim. They’d been found. “Come on, Awmit, let’s get out of here.”
“Agree powerfully, graceful human.”
“You think you can walk?” Roussel asked her.
“I don’t have any choice, thanks to a certain cockroach who handed me over to the Shons.” If she walked fast enough, maybe she could warm up and lose Roussel in the process.
No. She wouldn’t be able to hurry because of Awmit.
Wait a minute. She glanced from Awmit to the stream. He was a fast swimmer. If he swam instead of walked, they might be able to outdistance Roussel—
No, dumb idea. He could walk at least as fast as they could, even with Awmit swimming. They’d need to get away from him somehow and then put on the unexpected burst of speed to surprise. But how to lose him?
She glared at him. “I don’t want you with us. Don’t even think about tagging along.”
“All right.”
So easy? She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll be your rearguard and, with luck, meet you at the ruined bridge I told you about.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a maroon metal case about the size of a small cockroach: a first-aid kit. “Stim pad, Tompa?”
“Go to hell.”
He gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “Suit yourself.” He held the case at reading distance while he made some adjustments, then clicked it so it dispensed a tiny, flat dot. He put the dot on his wrist and was about to rub it in when Tompa interrupted him.
“Wait. I’ve changed my mind.” She pointed to the dot. “I’ll take that pad.”
He looked at the pad and again shook his head. “You think I was going to poison you or something? Here.” He grabbed her arm none too gently, dragged his own wrist across hers to transfer the pad, and then rubbed it so hard that she winced.
While this was going on, Awmit hobbled close. “Dots signify what, graceful human?”
Her wrist was red where Roussel had grabbed her, but the pad was already blending in with her skin. “It’s complicated.”
“That’s all right,” Roussel said. “I’ll explain.”
Tompa glared at him, but he didn’t even notice.
“You place one of these over a vein.” He dispensed another pad from the case onto his wrist and rubbed it in. “The mellite pad is saturated with a stimulant to give you a burst of energy so you can walk or run faster. Sensors monitor the dosage to make sure you’re getting the right amount. It lasts about two hours.”
Awmit stared at the pad as it became indistinguishable from Roussel’s skin. Then he unexpectedly sat down, rolled onto his back and held up a leg. “Place healingly a dot on this one’s injured leg, making quickly this one walk.”
“Sorry, it’s human medicine.” Roussel paused. “Still, your biochemistry is aleph One B.” He dispensed another pad from the case, then paused again. “This is a human dosage. Sorry, Awmit, it isn’t safe.”
“Does this one exist safely now, pursued murderously by hundreds holding abilities to walk faster?”
Roussel looked over at Tompa. “Do you think it’s all right?”
“Give me the flickin’ pad.” She held out her palm. “You’ve never been desperate, I can tell.”
“Yes,” he said in a bleak voice, “I have.” He put the pad into her palm. “This is the last pad. I . . . I didn’t think about this very well. I’m sorry.”
She wasn’t sure why, but he obviously felt badly—an opportunity for her. “You’re an idiot, Roussel.”
He stared at the pad in her hand, scowling. “I should have waited for an emergency.”
Getting far away from him was an emergency, but she didn’t say so out loud.
He shook his head. “Oh, well. I hope the pad isn’t so strong it makes Awmit see pink elephants.”
Tompa knelt down and tried to find a vein on Awmit’s leg, but saw nothing vaguely resembling one.
“Pink elephants exist as what, graceful human?”
“He means that the pad might make you drunk.”
Roussel pulled a paper-wrapped food packet from one of the rucksacks. “Can I have some of this? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
It was one of the packets she considered inedible, and in any case it was probably ruined by the water. “Be my guest.”
“Drunk, like orgy?” Awmit asked.
“Orgy?” She knelt by Awmit’s leg and put the pad on what might have been a vein. She rubbed it. “What are you talking about?”
“Their wine is an aphrodisiac,” Roussel said with his mouth full. “We realized it after several shore leave parties besides yours reported, uh, consorting with each other uncontrollably. Hey, this stuff tastes great.” He made a face as he took another bite. “At least the moist parts do.”
Now that he mentioned it, she vaguely remembered him telling her about the aphrodisiacal effects of the wine when he and Schneider announced they were giving her to the Shons. She hadn’t paid much attention then, but now stared straight ahead, scarcely seeing Awmit or the pea gravel he was lying on. Instead she saw the tattooed face of Paolo MacShallin. She hadn’t realized it, but it hurt to remember her former boss as a hypocritical lecher. If the wine made him act like that, well . . .
“Let’s get ready, Awmit.” With a grunt, she grabbed a rucksack. The damn thing weighed twice as much as when dry.
Awmit stood, shook his limbs experimentally, and then picked up the other sack. His movements had an edge of frenzied jerkiness that made her put her arm on his head to keep him in place for a moment before he dashed away. She rummaged around in his sack and pulled out another packet of food. The flaky grey stuff had absorbed a lot of water, and taking it out would cut the weight of Awmit’s rucksack by a third.
“Here.” She tossed the packet to Roussel.
He caught it in one hand. His face looked wary at first, then surprised. “Thanks.”
“Okay, go.” She gave Awmit a gentle shove, and he started wobbling upstream. She waited a few seconds for him to get a head start, then followed more slowly, looking back at Roussel as she walked. “No need to thank me,” she told him. “That stuff is poisonous for humans.”
Roussel paused with his hand raised to his mouth. “What?”
“Poisonous.”
“But I’ve already eaten some of it.” When she didn’t answer right away, he spat out what was in his mouth.
She grinned.
“How do you know it’s poisonous?”
“Awmit told me.” She faced forward and walked faster.
“I don’t believe you. Their biochemistry is aleph One B. And how would he know, anyway?”
Tompa grinned wider and ran to catch up to Awmit, who was swaying from side to side as he walked, and yodeling at the top of his voice.