by Timothy Zahn
Another surprise was that the road didn’t go all the way into the village. Instead, it split at the edge of the cropland, disappearing into the masses of trees to the north and south. “Is there a path?” Ville asked, coming to a halt at the edge of the blackstone.
“Yes,” Anya said, her voice tight. “But it has most certainly been changed in the twelve years since I last walked it.”
Dyre snorted. “Perhaps we should let your out-village friend find it,” he suggested maliciously. “He hasn’t proved useful anywhere else. He could at least offer us some amusement as he twitched like a chicken.”
Merrick tapped Anya’s shoulder and gestured questioningly. “Crossing a bersark field is dangerous,” she said. “Crushing the plants underfoot releases the poison.”
Merrick stared at her. They surrounded their village with poisonous plants? He gestured again, more urgently this time.
“He really is ignorant, isn’t he?” Dyre said with another snort. “Don’t cower, courageous one—it’ll be properly refined before they allow you to take it.”
Merrick frowned at him. Before they allowed him to take it?
“Is there any other way through?” Ville asked. “Surely the bersark doesn’t surround on all sides.”
“Not on all sides,” Anya said. “But the stream is swift and its banks treacherous, and the marsh on the southern edge is likewise impassible. We shall have to wait for someone to notice us.”
“But will they notice us before nightfall?” Ville asked, looking behind them at the sun. “And even if they see us, will they invite us in?”
“You both grew up here,” Katla pointed out, looking back and forth between Anya and Dyre. “Surely there’s a way for wayward travelers to find the path.”
“There was no such clue set when I was taken,” Dyre said.
“Nor when I left,” Anya said, an odd tone to her voice. “Still, I’ve seen no flights of kilerands in the past minutes. We may be able to risk a shout.”
“And lest the ignorant be further confused,” Dyre added, looking pointedly at Merrick, “kilerands often ingest bersark when they feed. Loud noises draw them.”
Merrick looked across at the village. There were several people out and about, but none of them seemed to have spotted the group standing out here on the village’s doorstep.
They weren’t really stuck out here, of course. The stream might be swift and treacherous, but it wasn’t so wide that he couldn’t easily jump it.
Unfortunately, that would reveal more about himself than he wanted at this point. Shouting across the field, and possibly drawing birds he might have to use his lasers to drive away, would be worse.
But there might be another way. Lowering his gaze to the plants stretched out in front of them, he activated his infrareds.
The fine-tuning that had been added to his generation’s enhancers had been designed primarily for reading and distinguishing human emotions. But Merrick remembered reading that some plants also had different infrared characteristics. If the bersark and the path plants were dissimilar enough, maybe he could spot that difference.
To his mild surprise, the trick worked. Snaking its way in a smooth pair of s-curves from the edge of the road to the far edge of the field was a slightly brighter swath of vegetation about two meters wide. Focusing on one edge of the path, he keyed in his telescopics.
There were different species of plants on Aventine that looked virtually identical, yet had drastically different properties. Mushrooms, in particular, were extremely dangerous for amateurs to deal with. The bersark and path plants were evidently another of that same class. Even knowing where the edge was, he couldn’t see a single clue in the normal visible spectrum that he could latch to distinguish one from the other.
Earlier, he’d wondered about the lack of a fence to guard against unwanted guests. Now, he saw that the villagers didn’t need one. They had a barrier of poison to protect them.
“But waiting until nightfall to call to the village would be even worse,” Dyre pointed out. “I say we let Anya’s out-village friend turn aside to right or left and give a shout. If the kilerands descend, we can try to drive them off before they cause too much damage.”
“Don’t speak venal foolishness,” Katla chided. “If we need to retreat and build another shelter for the night, then that’s what we’ll do. Surely cultivators will be out among the dawn mists.”
“I’ve spent twelve long years away from my home,” Dyre said darkly. “I will not turn my back on it now when it’s so close.”
“It’s my home too,” Katla said, a bit sharply. “I yearn for it as deeply as you do. But I have no wish to die within sight of its edges.”
Keying off his telescopics, Merrick took a deep breath. For once, he was with Dyre. He touched Anya’s arm again and pointed at the field.
And before she could say anything, he stepped off the edge of the road into the middle of the infrared-bright path.
Someone behind him gasped—Katla, probably, though it could have been Gina. He took another step, wondering if he’d just done something extremely foolish.
Wondering, too, if it was the kind of poison that would at least warn him that it was starting to kill him.
But nothing happened. No acrid or bitter aroma, no light-headedness, no confusion or paralysis or convulsions. Either the stuff was slow-acting, or he’d guessed right about the path. He took two more steps, then stopped and looked back.
The others were staring at him, their eyes wide, their mouths hanging a few centimeters open. Katla was standing behind Gina, gripping her daughter’s shoulders, looking like she was preparing to spin the girl’s eyes away from the awful spectacle that everyone was clearly expecting.
Everyone, that is, except Anya. Her mouth was closed, her eyes showing no signs of stunned fear or morbid anticipation. In fact, there was just the faintest hint of an approving smile on her face. Merrick gave her an equally faint smile in return, then turned again and continued on his way.
It took until the first s-curve for them to be convinced. Anya was first, stepping off the road’s shoulder and following the line of Merrick’s footsteps. Ville was next, gesturing the Streamjumper family to follow.
Not until Merrick had reached the second s-curve did Dyre grudgingly join the procession.
They were halfway across the field when a woman tending one of the gardens finally noticed them. Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she dropped her tools and ran off between two of the houses. By the time Merrick reached the last section of curve a crowd was beginning to form. There were no excited shouts, of either greeting or challenge, which bothered Merrick until he remembered Dyre’s warning about neighborhood birds that didn’t react well to loud noises.
But there was no mistaking the gradual brightening of faces through the crowd as they realized that some of their lost children had finally come home. Some of those faces brightened even more when they mentally added in the years and realized which specific children they were.
By the time he and the others reached the end of the field and made their way into the crowd the hugs and tears were waiting.
Dyre got the most attention, Merrick saw as he stepped discreetly to the side out of the way of the quiet jubilation. The Streamjumper family was a close second, especially with the surge of interest that was focused on the young daughter no one in Gangari had ever met before. Ville was clearly recognized and politely received, but Merrick could sense some distance lurking beneath the greetings. Merrick himself garnered a few civil nods and curious looks, but he had expected nothing more.
What was puzzling was that Anya was ignored almost as completely as Merrick. What was even more puzzling was that she didn’t seem surprised by the treatment.
The mass greeting was still in progress when Merrick began to hear odd thudding sounds from somewhere in the distance. Taking a few casual steps away from the crowd, he keyed in his audios. The thuds grew louder and resolved into the impacts, grunts, and groan
s of hand-to-hand combat.
He frowned. Even without his enhancers he’d been able to hear the sounds. The villagers around him should be able to hear them, too. Yet they seemed completely oblivious. Turning his head back and forth, he placed the sounds as coming from somewhere in the center of the village. He gave the well-wishers a final look, decided they could easily do without him for the moment, and set off to hunt for the trouble.
He didn’t have to go very far. About a hundred meters away he passed between two houses and found himself at the end of a rectangular patch of open ground about twenty by thirty meters. Around the edges were lines of four-meter-tall vertical poles, set a couple of meters apart, with attachments along the sides that suggested sections of fencing could be added between them. In the center of the field were a pair of young boys, ten or twelve years old, wearing hand and head protectors and attempting to beat the sand out of each other. One of the men Merrick had glimpsed earlier wearing copper-trimmed black was hovering at the edges of the fight. A trainer, probably, or else a referee.
And at the far end of the field, watching the proceedings from in front of a low-slung aircar, were two Trofts.
Merrick’s first semi-panicked impulse was to put a targeting lock on both aliens’ foreheads. A second later, though, he realized it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The Trofts were dressed in civilian-style leotards, not the armored versions the aliens’ soldiers wore, and they had no helmets or weapons.
Or rather, they had no lasers or blades. But both aliens carried half-meter-long sticks that had the distinctly sturdy look of weapons about them. A check with his telescopics showed that there was something at the end of each stick, either a gas-spitter nozzle or a capacitor electrode.
“Your first happenment with the Games?”
Merrick turned. Another of the black-and-copper men had come up behind him and was eyeing him with open curiosity. Merrick opened his mouth, remembered just in time that he was supposed to be mute, and quickly brought up his hand to point at his mouth as he shook his head.
“Merrick Hopekeeper is unable to speak, Henson Hillclimber,” Anya said, coming up to Merrick’s side. “And no, it’s not his first happenment.”
Merrick gestured toward the boys, holding out a horizontal palm to indicate their height. “But the one I witnessed alongside him was more elaborate and risksome than this,” Anya continued. “And as he now points out, in that Game the fighter was fully grown.”
“Witnessed,” Henson repeated the word, a knowing look in his eye. “So he didn’t grow up in a Games-bred village?”
“No, that he did not,” Anya conceded.
“And yet you brought him here?” Henson pressed. “Deny it not, Anya Winghunter. I know the others still enmeshed in greeting. They either would not or could not have been so bold.”
“Yet Ville Dreamsinger is also here,” Anya pointed out. “I did not bring him.”
“Ville is at least one of the Games-bred,” Henson countered. “By your own admission Merrick is not. So again I ask: why did you bring him here?”
“I met him during my period of slavery. When we were ordered back to our homes, he had no place to go.”
“Why not?”
“Do you truly have to ask?”
Henson’s eyes flicked past Merrick’s shoulder at the Trofts. “No,” he said, some of the truculence finally leaving his voice.
“He wished to come with me, to my village,” Anya continued. “I accepted his wish, and him.”
Henson hissed between his teeth, muttering something under his breath at the same time as he eyed Merrick. “So you still have the death of this village at heart?”
“I never wished our death,” Anya insisted, her voice firm but with an edge of pleading beneath it.
“Your actions belie your words.” Henson gestured to Merrick. “For truly, an adult male without Games abilities could be disastrous to us all.”
“He can fight,” Anya said firmly. “Our village will not be shamed or isolated.”
“We shall see,” Henson said. “And as to whether Gangari will continue to be your village is a matter for further discussion.”
There was a sudden, louder thud from the center of the field. Merrick turned to see that one of the boys was now on the ground, lying still but with his fingers still twitching. His opponent stood over him, a mixture of satisfaction and guilt on his face. Apparently, the fight was over.
Across the field, one of the Trofts took a step away from the aircar and called out something in that odd dialect that Merrick had yet to completely figure out. Henson lifted his hand in acknowledgment and called back something in the same dialect. Gesturing the other black-clad man to move back, he started toward the two boys.
And was jerked to a stop as Anya caught his arm. “You cannot,” she said urgently. “They’re too youthsome. It could be dangerous.”
Henson shook off her hand. “Better a could than a would,” he countered darkly. “It has been ordered. Stand aside, or face the wrath.”
Anya glared at him. But she let go of his arm without further argument. Henson turned again and strode off across the field, digging into a small pouch hanging from his belt.
Merrick took a step closer to Anya. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly.
“The masters demand the Game continue,” she said, her tone angry and pained. “Henson must therefore give the downed boy a dose of bersarkis.”
Merrick stared at her. “Bersarkis? That poison we just walked through?”
“No, no—that is bersark,” Anya said. “Bersarkis is the refined form, a potion that aids in healing and recovery.”
A memory clicked: the vial of light-brown liquid that Anya had always been trying to push on him during his imprisonment on Qasama. He’d never trusted her enough to take any of it. “So if it heals him, what’s the problem? Just that he’ll get up and they’ll keep trying to kill each other?”
“You don’t understand,” she said tightly. “Henson won’t give merely a healing dosage. He’ll quatro the amount…” She trailed off.
Merrick focused on the boy who was still standing. He was trying hard to look calm, but a closer look with Merrick’s infrareds told a different story. The boy was all but shaking with fear as he watched Henson approach and kneel down beside his unconscious opponent. “What does quatroing the amount do?” Merrick asked.
Anya gave a shuddering sigh. “It creates mindlessness.”
Merrick was still trying to figure out how to respond to that when Henson pressed a small white patch of something onto the unconscious boy’s upper arm and gave it a sharp slap. The boy jerked, lay still another moment, then jerked again and opened his eyes. For perhaps three seconds he stared up at the man leaning over him.
And then, abruptly, he reached a hand to Henson’s chest and gave him a shove that sent the man toppling over backwards. Pushing off the ground with his other hand, the boy shot to his feet and hurled himself at his opponent.
The other boy did his best. But it was like stopping a summer storm. His attacker was all over him, flailing with hands and feet and occasionally even butting furiously with the front of his head. The blows weren’t all that accurate, and the defending boy was able to block or avoid many of them. But the ones that got through were powerful enough to stagger him.
And through it all, the attacker filled the air with shrieks, snarls, and animalistic grunts.
Merrick looked over at the Trofts. They were watching the fight closely, with no indication that they were appalled by the carnage. In fact, judging by the quivering of their upper-arm radiator membranes, both of them found the bout highly exciting.
Maybe exciting enough that they wouldn’t want it to simply end with the drugged boy beating the other into the ground?
Merrick swallowed hard. Because it would apparently be simplicity itself to keep the fight going. Another order to Henson, another white patch or two, and the loser would get his chance at some revenge.
One of
the attacker’s blows missed and the boy fell heavily to the ground, giving the defender just enough breathing space to scramble a few steps away. His face was pinched with fear and blotched with spots of oozing or trickling blood, and for a moment Merrick thought he might take advantage of the momentary lull to run away.
But despite the obvious reluctance in his movements, he nevertheless slowed to a stop and remained still, his breath coming in great heaving gasps as he waited stolidly for his opponent to get back up.
It was at that exact moment that it suddenly occurred to Merrick that he still had target locks on both Trofts.
It would be so easy. A quick pair of antiarmor laser shots—hell, even his fingertip lasers would probably do the job at this distance against unarmored aliens—and Anya and Henson could break up the fight and get both boys the medical attention they surely must need by now. He could load the aliens’ bodies into the aircar, fly it out into the forest somewhere, and find a big tree to crash it into. By the time anyone found the wreckage, scavengers would probably have eaten enough to obscure any evidence of how they’d died.
Only it wouldn’t work. The rest of their garrison or settlement would surely know that the pair had planned to come to Gangari today. They would send someone to investigate, and while Anya might be willing to cover for him, Henson almost certainly wouldn’t.
Unless Merrick was also able to take out the investigators before they could report. But that would do nothing but postpone the inevitable, because even the stupidest Trofts wouldn’t buy the idea that two teams disappearing in the same general vicinity was pure coincidence. The next Trofts would arrive in force, and in the end the entire village would suffer.
Time and again during the Troft invasion of Qasama Merrick had seen the Shahni and other leaders make decisions about who would go into danger, and probably die, so that others might live. At the time, Merrick had been glad he wasn’t the one who had to make such decisions.
