"Your Gariniya is much more natural-sounding than mine, anyway."
What an opportunity! But this wasn't about pronunciation. Father had never let him in on direct contact – and would never, unless he was desperate. That probably meant they had weeks left, or even days. Add to that the fact that Officer Monroe's failure to communicate with the gecko was the only thing keeping Father from being charged with violations of the Accords on Indigenous Sentients. They had to get out of this somehow.
But what could he possibly hope to do with a poor Gariniki who had just found herself carried off to a diplomatic orbiter?
I do not understand this prison. I have searched it, tested every surface with fingertip and claw, but learnt nothing.
Is it the cell of Duro-mudi? – but no, for there is no barrier of thorns here, no green of leaves, and no flowing water. There is only a soft bed of I-know-not-what; a mirror-basin lying empty and useless while a wall of silver reflects my face; and a chair of knife-metal where my tormentors like to sit.
My tormentors have the faces and ruffs of simians, but are too large and have no tails at all. The male blasphemes before me: I must avert my face as he allows the sacred Word to escape his mouth in this improper place, so far from the House of Leaves and the Mouth of Singing Crystal. Yet the female is worse. She sits and