Though none of them pointed a gun directly at him, the respite was brief. Two of the tall forms brushed past him as if he didn’t exist, nearly knocking him off his feet. When he saw what they were pulling from the carry pouches attached to their waist straps, he started forward.
“Gentle Sakuntala,” he began anxiously, “if I have given offense to you, please to let me know what it was and I will endeavor most strongly to make amends. I have no idea what has prompted this anger of yours, but I assure you that—here now, you can’t do that!” He started forward. “You must stop! I am telling you most strongly, you cannot—”
Something struck him hard from behind, knocking him down. As the Deyzara had no knees but only a system of entwined ligaments and tendons in their arms and legs to support them, he folded rather than crumpled. At first he thought he had been shot. But the angry ache in his back was not accompanied by spreading blood.
His vision was blurred, but not his hearing. Though not as acute as that of Sakuntala or humans, it was good enough to overhear the Sakuntala laughing and chattering among themselves. All around him, he heard the rising cries of his neighbors as they were rousted from their homes and businesses by other armed indigenous. As he lay stunned in the rain on the now slightly swaying walkway, he wondered what had brought this on. Ever since the Deyzara had come to Fluva there had been rampages against them by the native populace. But these had all been sporadic, unorganized, and of brief duration. What was happening around him now smacked of careful preplanning. Furthermore, in the old days his attackers would simply have shot him. These seemed almost at pains not to do so.