by Kathryn Hoff
Alaska
All the characters in this story are fictional. In addition, Alaska Eagle Med, the Rainbow and Dirty Dog Rivers, and the villages of Rainbow, Cody, and Mankeeta are all fictional, the product of an overactive imagination.
The Dalton Highway is real, as are the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and the spectacular Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve.
Alaska has more active volcanos than the rest of the US combined. But there is no Mount Taktuq, and no volcanos exist in the area I’ve described in the story.
Alaska State Wildlife Troopers
Never use cannabis.
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Also from Kathryn Hoff
If you enjoyed Project Hannibal, you’re sure to like the Sparrowhawk space adventure series: Bloodstone, Ghost Ship, and Fugitive.
Bloodstone
The Selkid colonists on Santerro made a brandy that, according to the traders’ database, was famed throughout the outer sectors as an exhilarating, carefree immersion in silken texture and enticing flavor.
Or as my half-brother Kojo said: “Quick high, tastes good, headache manageable.”
We ordered enough to fill the cargo holds of our little space hauler Sparrowhawk.
Judging by the level of inebriation on Santerro’s streets, the brandy lived up to its reputation. Selkids the size and shape of walruses lolled happily next to tipsy Terrans, flippers and hands alike in their grip on their precious bottles.
“You know, Patch,” Kojo said as we dodged boisterous tipplers, “maybe we should stay here another night. We could see the sights, enjoy the famous Santerro hospitality.” He pushed his black curls from his face, flashing his cocky grin.
I’d learned to distrust that smile a long time ago.
“You mean enjoy the hospitality of the casinos.” I shoved him toward the spaceport. “Forget it. We leave tonight, as planned. Go oversee loading while I buy the rest of the provisions.”
With a regretful look toward the glittering lights promising food, drink, and other delights, Kojo strolled toward the docks. I shook my head as he left, wishing the ancestors had endowed my half-brother with more caution. He was twenty-eight—eight years older than me—but sometimes I felt like Kojo’s scolding auntie instead of his younger sister.
Recharged power modules, jump cells, food staples, air and water filters, engine lubricant—I’d almost fulfilled my list when my datacon buzzed with a message from Kojo: Delays in loading—new inspection procedures. Found some passengers.
Damn. New inspections, just what we didn’t need. And passengers? Zub blast him, we’d said no passengers this trip.
By the time I got to the spaceport, the gates to the docks were mobbed. Queues snaked out into the street with luggage-toting Selkids vying for position with Terran traders and their crates of merchandise and freighter crews staggering back from shore leave with bellies full of brandy and pockets crammed with extra bottles. And among the screeches, howls, and grumbles, one topic prevailed: complaints about the new inspectors.
Even with my height, I had to climb onto a crate to peer over the crowd. I spotted Kojo in queue, halfway to one of the five inspection stations. He was chatting up a pretty woman. Of course. With his handsome brown face and winning smile, Kojo never failed to find someone to flirt with.
Looking beyond Kojo, my stomach sank. No wonder there were delays. The inspection stations weren’t staffed with easy-going, bribable Selkids, but by Gavoran Corridor Patrol officers. The Patrol employed only Gavs: Terrans’ Neanderthal cousins, sober and dedicated to enforcing the Settlement Authority’s tech restrictions. They were stopping everyone going to the docks, scanning identity implants and scrutinizing baggage, searching for items on the Settlement Authority’s lengthy list of regulated technology.
And somewhere among the docks beyond the inspectors, past the grand passenger ships and freighters, lost among the independent haulers and ragged shuttles, berthed in one of the cheap slips with low-capacity lifters, was Sparrowhawk.
“Burzing Neanderthals,” said the bleary Terran to my left. “They don’t give a damn about holding everyone up. I don’t mind Selkids—flippers out all the time for a little sweetener, sure, but at least they keep the traffic moving. But Gavs—they won’t even take a decent bribe.”
I shot him a glare. Apparently, he was too drunk to notice my own half-Gav features.
At least I had the advantage of Gavoran size. I’d just begun to push my way toward Kojo when shouts came from behind.
“Runaway slave! Halt!”
I froze, craning my neck to see what was going on.
A young Gav girl, furred forearm bearing a slave brand, dodged between torsos in a desperate dash toward the docks.
“Stop her!” Two burly Gavs in the black vests of Clan Enforcers pounded after her. Massive shoulders and long arms, forward-thrusting heads covered with sleek pelts instead of hair, they shoved the waiting crowds aside with the bluster born of centuries of Gavs’ technological domination.
A bystander snatched at the girl, but she darted behind a trio of mountainous Selkids. Terrans sympathetic to the plight of Gav slaves clucked their tongues at the enforcers or cheered the runaway, but none risked breaking the Selkid laws of non-interference between races.
My heart ached for her. With the Corridor Patrol at the gate, she’d need a miracle to make it onto a ship willing to take her to a Terran world where she could claim asylum. And if she were caught, her future would be grim.
Maybe I could improve her chances.
I turned my back on the pursuit and stepped to the right, leaving a clear path on my left for the girl to dash through. As soon as she passed, I stepped left and quick-turned.
The foremost enforcer barreled into me. Swinging my bag of ration packs and Prestoseal into his knees, I shrieked in Terran, “Watch where you’re going!”
We fell in a tangle. As the second enforcer stumbled over us, I caught his ankle. He was on his feet in a moment, but by then the girl was out of sight, lost in the crowd.
The enforcer grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Filthy Terran! Interfering with Gavoran clan matters is a violation.”
“What are you talking about?” I snatched my arm away. “Burzing gorillas. You ran into me! Go harass one of your own kind.”
The enforcer paused, staring at my mismatched features. Terran father and Gavoran mother—my face fit nowhere. To Terrans, my heavy brow ridge—not quite hidden by my yellow beret—and receding chin suggested brutish stupidity. To Gavorans, I was embarrassingly ugly: prominent Terran nose, ears too big, and bushy orange hair instead of a neat Gav pelt.
For a moment, my heart beat fast. Would he arrest me out of sheer anger? Out of suspicion? Did I face hours in a detention cell while a Selkid official considered the size of the bribe he’d need to confirm my identity as a free Terran?
With a snarl, the enforcer pushed past me to comb through the crowds at the next queue.
I breathed again. Ancestors, grant her courage.
It was only then, after the excitement was over, that I noticed blood dripping onto my left wrist. Damn! The collision had torn the graft that hid my old slave brand.
Acknowledgments
I wrote this book while sequestered at home during the COVID-19 pandemic. While writing is always a solitary effort, it is even lonelier while facing the same walls day after day with little opportunity to vary the scenery.
Isolation has made it all the more important to have helpful, constructive advice from my posse of critique partners from CritiqueCircle.com, including: Douglas Phillips, author of the Quantum Series books, Ophélie Quillier, Nancy LaRonda Johnson, and Lizzie Newell.
All mistakes about life in Alaska, flying a small plane, rural medical practice, camping, surviving the sui
cide of a loved one, and riding a mammoth are mine and mine alone.
Special thanks to the Kirkwood family, proprietors of the fabulous Kennecott Glacier Lodge in the heart of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park.
Fleetwood Robbins and Tammy Salyer were tremendous help in the editing stages.
Thanks to JD&J Design LLC for their fabulous covers.
Finally, as always, an infinity of thanks to my spouse, Ari Patrinos, for science consulting and his unflagging support, and to daughters Maritsa and Thalia for their support and patience with my technical questions.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kathryn Hoff has studied anthropology, manned the trenches on archeological digs, penetrated the mysteries of financial statements, and negotiated billion-dollar investments into developing countries. She has now graduated to making up stories. When not writing, she volunteers at a major zoo. Favorite animal: Heterocephalus glaber, the naked mole-rat.
