Children of the Fleet (Fleet School #1)(12)

Dabeet tested this idea by unfastening his seat belt.

Immediately, a uniformed man stood in front of him. “Please fasten your seat belt, Dabeet,” he said.

Dabeet realized—as he should have realized immediately, he knew—that this was not a normal commercial airliner. He had seen movies. He knew that he should have been in a row of five or six or seven or nine seats, all facing forward. But his seat had its back against the wall of the fuselage, and there was a wide space between him and the seat on the opposite wall, facing his. It was unoccupied.

“I need to micturate,” said Dabeet.

The uniformed man didn’t bat an eye at the deliberately rare word; nor did he look contemptuous at Dabeet’s attempt at intellectual bullying. “No, you do not,” said the man. “The gas that was used to render you unconscious also causes your body to retain water, and hardly anything has been taken up by your kidneys in the hours since you were taken.”

The man was actually being rather candid, which was a good thing. How far would it extend? “While I’m sitting here wishing I could take a piss and forbidden to do so,” said Dabeet, “can you give me some information about who kidnapped me, where I’m being taken, what the purpose of this expedition is, what happened to the principal of my school, and whether my father really was the person who came to my school to get me?”

“Quite a list,” said the uniformed man.

“And yet you can see that these are all reasonable things for me to ask about,” said Dabeet.

“Reasonable, and yet premature,” said the man.

“You’re a colonel,” said Dabeet, “and your uniform is gaudy enough that I assume you’re from a Latin American country. Your accent suggests that you are not Brazilian, so I assume you speak Spanish. You look European, so I also assume you’re from an Andean country where Amerindians like me are an oppressed, low-status minority that has little chance of advancing to high rank. The chance of Chile or Ecuador mounting a kidnapping in the United States is nil, and the Bolivian economy couldn’t supply a plane this luxurious to be used on a clandestine mission. This smacks of the perks of high-ranking officials.”

“It used to be a presidential plane,” said the officer, “but it’s been repurposed.”

“So the president now has a better plane. That suggests a prosperous economy, and yet a nation eager to thumb its nose at the United States. Venezuela or Peru.”

“All Latin American nations are happy to thumb their noses at the norteamericanos,” said the officer. “I’m a general but you couldn’t have known that because this is not the uniform of my own country and it does not display my true rank. Nor is this airplane the one-time property of the top political leader of my country.”

“I think I’m going to wet my pants now.”

“Whatever pleases you,” said the general. “You will still have to sit in it until we land, and you will not be allowed to change clothing until bedtime tonight. You’re free to decide how childish you want to appear and how smelly you wish to be when you arrive at your new home.”

“I liked my old home, and wherever you’re taking me, I will never regard it as my home.”

“It’s the nation of your birth,” said the general. “The United States was not. And whether this fits the overly sentimental American meaning of the word ‘home,’ it will definitely be tu casa. Your dwelling place for the foreseeable future.”

“Does my mother know what’s happened to me?”

“She knows that you left school with your father,” said the general.

“Did I?”

“I’m not that person, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nobody involved with this operation is my father,” said Dabeet, “because he’s with the International Fleet, and the IF does not carry out any kind of operation on the surface of Earth.”

“At least not while wearing the uniform of the IF,” said the general. “Really, Dabeet, you keep leaping to conclusions and relying on public information which might be, for all you know, disinformation. Be as bright as your reputation says you are. Try to think at least a few words ahead of your mouth.”

Dabeet said nothing more.

The general reached down and rebuckled Dabeet’s seat belt.

Dabeet unbuckled it.

The general bent over as if to whisper in Dabeet’s ear, but instead jabbed Dabeet sharply in the upper stomach, just below the ribs. Dabeet doubled over, unable to breathe.

“Are we in agreement now? About your continuing to wear a fully fastened seat belt?” asked the general softly.

Dabeet, unable to catch enough breath to answer, nodded.

“Smart enough to learn from experience,” said the general. “But not smart enough to recognize the power structure in a new environment without direct and painful experience. You’re already such a disappointment.” The general walked away.

There were other people seated or walking back and forth in this cabin of the airplane, but nobody spoke to him or looked at him. Dabeet’s mouth was very dry. His skin felt dry. They couldn’t want him to dehydrate. But he didn’t feel inclined to ask for anything at the moment.

He tried to do as the general had suggested, and think through his situation and extrapolate more information from the crumbs the general had let fall. But the gas they had given him left him groggy and he had a headache. He wasn’t thinking at his best.