In defense of Friedrich and Mijolin, Harper was in exceptional form when he awoke. Unlike his captain, he recognized the situation immediately--the beefy guards sitting a few feet from him and another at the door tipped him off. Ahh, memories.
He opened his mouth, but instead of a cutting witticism on Nietzschean culture or his guards' mothers, a pained groan escaped his lips.
"Kludge's awake," the big one announced, never shifting his eyes from said kludge.
"Already?" The less visible guard, leaning against the doorway, looking out a tinted window, sounded surprised. "Tough little mud foot."
Despite his growing ire--triggered by Nietzscheans and a small room--and that fluttering excitement that came with the adrenaline speeding through his veins, the Uber's commendation hit him. Not the tone of amused admiration, as for a scrappy kid; even when whaling on him, the Ubers had to admit that he /was/ a real piece of work. But how had the guy known that he'd grown up planetside? It wasn't a random hijacking, then--this was a carefully planned and prepared kidnapping.
"What can I say, you breed 'em on slave worlds."
Leaning Uber chuckled, but Beefier glared. "Not tough enough, if they're still slaves."
Once Harper would've leapt at this, but he wisely restrained himself. Well, physically speaking. "A lot better to ruin our economy and environment, kill a fifth of us, and /oh yeah/, send in the Magog whenever the fleet gets tried of the screams from the ghettos. Real tough."
Leaning spoke up. "Might be a tough ghetto kludge, but that won't help you here. We're not supposed to rough up the pretty one, but you're no beauty queen. Your host wouldn't mind if you fell down a flight or ten of stairs on account of your mouth."
Beefier was somewhat less eloquent. He leaned forward, grabbed Harper's collar, and growled. "Shut up, kludge."
Ha. As if that had ever convinced Harper before. /So Beka's here, too./ He could ponder that later. Right now, he had a couple of Ubers to piss off. "I see one of you went to the Dragan school of, uh, self-expression. Classes generally don't go beyond the two-syllables, do they? They engineer the brawn or sometimes the brain, but never in the same package, huh?" He had met a few exceptions to the rule--served with two of them aboard the Andromeda, in fact--but that was hardly relevant here. Taunting Nietzscheans was like skydiving--you knew you might end up a smear on the concrete, but /damn/, it was a rush.
Beefier grabbed Harper's shirt again and slammed him against the wall at the head of the mattress he lay on. "Think you're so smart?" Bam! "Dumb kludge better /shut/ up before you get /messed/ up!" Bam!
"Hey, good one, it rhymed. I bet you're hiding a sensitive poet behind that caveman image."
The expected jolt came again but half-hearted. The guy was starting it through his thick Dragonian skull that pain wouldn't quiet Harper.
He grinned. "You know, this is my favorite part. /Your/ boss wants me alive… for a while, and until he figures out that /my/ boss doesn't deal with terrorists, you two gotta put up with me." He stretched his legs and gently rested his head on twined fingers, swallowing a wince and smiling.
He opened his mouth, but instead of a cutting witticism on Nietzschean culture or his guards' mothers, a pained groan escaped his lips.
"Kludge's awake," the big one announced, never shifting his eyes from said kludge.
"Already?" The less visible guard, leaning against the doorway, looking out a tinted window, sounded surprised. "Tough little mud foot."
Despite his growing ire--triggered by Nietzscheans and a small room--and that fluttering excitement that came with the adrenaline speeding through his veins, the Uber's commendation hit him. Not the tone of amused admiration, as for a scrappy kid; even when whaling on him, the Ubers had to admit that he /was/ a real piece of work. But how had the guy known that he'd grown up planetside? It wasn't a random hijacking, then--this was a carefully planned and prepared kidnapping.
"What can I say, you breed 'em on slave worlds."
Leaning Uber chuckled, but Beefier glared. "Not tough enough, if they're still slaves."
Once Harper would've leapt at this, but he wisely restrained himself. Well, physically speaking. "A lot better to ruin our economy and environment, kill a fifth of us, and /oh yeah/, send in the Magog whenever the fleet gets tried of the screams from the ghettos. Real tough."
Leaning spoke up. "Might be a tough ghetto kludge, but that won't help you here. We're not supposed to rough up the pretty one, but you're no beauty queen. Your host wouldn't mind if you fell down a flight or ten of stairs on account of your mouth."
Beefier was somewhat less eloquent. He leaned forward, grabbed Harper's collar, and growled. "Shut up, kludge."
Ha. As if that had ever convinced Harper before. /So Beka's here, too./ He could ponder that later. Right now, he had a couple of Ubers to piss off. "I see one of you went to the Dragan school of, uh, self-expression. Classes generally don't go beyond the two-syllables, do they? They engineer the brawn or sometimes the brain, but never in the same package, huh?" He had met a few exceptions to the rule--served with two of them aboard the Andromeda, in fact--but that was hardly relevant here. Taunting Nietzscheans was like skydiving--you knew you might end up a smear on the concrete, but /damn/, it was a rush.
Beefier grabbed Harper's shirt again and slammed him against the wall at the head of the mattress he lay on. "Think you're so smart?" Bam! "Dumb kludge better /shut/ up before you get /messed/ up!" Bam!
"Hey, good one, it rhymed. I bet you're hiding a sensitive poet behind that caveman image."
The expected jolt came again but half-hearted. The guy was starting it through his thick Dragonian skull that pain wouldn't quiet Harper.
He grinned. "You know, this is my favorite part. /Your/ boss wants me alive… for a while, and until he figures out that /my/ boss doesn't deal with terrorists, you two gotta put up with me." He stretched his legs and gently rested his head on twined fingers, swallowing a wince and smiling.