The Summer Thieves

by Paul Di Filippo

  “More trouble, Dad?”

  Landon gripped his son’s elbow and steered him to a quiet corner. “It’s this damnable mess with the Brickers. Overnight it’s blown up. Right now it looks pretty certain that the eight of us will have to leave for Bodenshire imminently, to settle this dispute. Failure to do so could result in some really dire consequences.”

  “Would that be today?”

  “No, tomorrow morning.”

  “And so the wedding would be postponed until your return?”

  “Naturally. You wouldn’t wish it otherwise, would you? To plunge ahead without us?”

  To his chagrin, Johrun could not fully empathize with the carking bureaucratic demands placed on his elders, nor even with the real danger to their joint familial possession of Verano. All he could contemplate with dismay was the new necessity of entertaining everyone for extra days, of being on display, of dealing with Minka’s outlandish whims. But none of this could he reveal, without sounding like an absolute whiner.

  “Of course not! I need all of you here when our two families are finally united. The Corvivios and Soldevere clans as one! It will be the culmination of all our dreams.”

  Landon clapped his son on the shoulder. “That’s the stuff! No need to fret. It’s just a pit on the trail. Go and enjoy yourself on the hunt. There’s still a slim chance we might be able to resolve it all remotely. If push comes to shove, I’ll announce the delay at tonight’s banquet. Make it into an excuse to extend the partying. No one will object, I’m certain.”

  Landon left with the air of a man juggling too many mental hatchets one-handedly.

  Suddenly realizing he was starving, Johrun descended on the buffet and piled a plate high with various easy-to-eat wraps: sweet adzuki bean paste with dates; fish and potato frittata; peanut butter with slices of half-sour pickled melon rind. He munched as he walked, nodding to faces familiar and novel, as he looked for Minka. Finally finished with his breakfast, he gave up his fruitless visual search and just pinged her. His vambrace revealed her location—just a short distance away from the main lodge—and he hustled there.

  Approaching the site, he abruptly realized where he was heading.

  This was the lot assigned for the new home that would house Johrun and Minka whenever they were resident at Danger Acres, the mate to the fairy-like palace, the Aestival Gazebo of Margravine Thais, which Johrun had selected as their domicile when at Sweetmeats Pasturage. In all the hurly-burly of the past few days, he had neglected to inquire of Minka what kind of home she had chosen to be built for them here. He must make amends for that oversight!

  Minka and her school chums, along with a few other curious bystanders, had congregated at the edge of the fenced lot. Minka was playing commands into her vambrace while her cohort laughed and pointed. To his astonishment Johrun observed that a flock of hephaestus machines were busy at work on the structure, even though it appeared already finished.

  The building was—or had been—a large but still modest and tasteful chalet, all half-timbers and stucco and expansive windows, plainly influenced by the architecture of the alpine villages on Mittelgebirge—a planet, Johrun recalled, where Minka had once spent some memorable school holidays. Johrun could have imagined being very happy in such a place. But not as it was currently being deformed.

  The hephaestus machines under Minka’s controls were adding ridiculous candy-colored turrets and useless buttresses, dangerously cantilevered porches, and bulbous oriel windows, all without any regard for esthetics or gracefulness. The plain wooden roof shingles were being dissolved and replaced by round bullseyes of duralloy. The bridal cottage was rapidly being altered to a nightmare.

  Johrun came up to Minka as she was exclaiming, “A circus, a carnival, the tents of a flaming rave! That’s what’s needed here, to house the union of two such ridiculous families!”

  Impulsively, an angry Johrun spun Minka around by her shoulder. When she saw him, her manic expression of devilish anarchic delight writhed and morphed into a look of sheer panic.

  “Oh, Johrun, where—”

  With these words her eyes rolled back into their orbits and she dropped bonelessly to the turf.

  Instantly remorseful, Johrun acted decisively, summoning the resort’s doctor. During the short wait, he cradled Minka’s head and shoulders where she lay.

  Anders Braulio approached and looked down with no great worry. “I wouldn’t be too concerned, Jay Cee. I’ve seen her like this before. She exhibited such a response during the pressure of senior exams. A kind of defensive and proactive quasi-dystonic neurasthenia, I believe. Completely harmless. She always recovers swiftly and is right as rain.”

  Johrun glowered at Braulio. “She never showed such behavior before, in all the span of our growing up together.”

  “To be fair, Jay Cee, you haven’t known her on a day-to-day basis for four years now, as I have.”

  “Quit calling me ‘Jay Cee!’ And I refuse to believe such a dramatic collapse is normal, or anything close.”

  Doctor Fraisine Zahkuala, head of the Danger Acres medical staff, bustled up, a floating stretcher intelligently following her. A petite dark-skinned woman, more striking than pretty, with elaborately braided platinum hair piled high, she was attended by a flock of micro-effectuators and probes.

  Minka stirred in Johrun’s arms just as the doctor bent down for a look, the swarm of sensors and tools echoing the doctor’s movements. Zahkuala’s voice was deep yet lilting, the accent of her native metropolis of Grenfell on the world of Averett prominent. “I thought we fixed up this naughty girl when she came to me the other day with the galloping heaves. But look-sees like we need to do a major workup. Let’s get her onto the floater.”

  Minka now jolted fully awake and, registering the doctor, assumed a look in which Johrun detected fear, slyness, and ill-concealed disdain. Pushing off from Johrun, Minka stood with easy alacrity.

  “What’s all this foolishness? I’m totally fine. Just a small spell. Surely you’ve heard of planet-lag before? So much interbrane travel over the past week. My system is still adjusting from all the jumps. I don’t need any pesky Polly poking.”

  Braulio said, “I tried to tell them all this, Minka, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  Johrun’s scowl cut short Braulio’s intervention. “Minka, dearest, don’t you think you should let Doctor Zahkuala just perform a few simple tests? You don’t want your condition to worsen, whatever it is.”

  “Ridiculous! I’m fit as a Gilike goat! And I’ll prove it in just a short while by bagging the biggest gryffoth of the day! We’ve got a hunt ahead of us, remember?”

  The doctor exchanged a quizzical and resigned look with Johrun. “No way I can jimmy open the boss’s daughter’s cells without her consent. I don’t like it, but such it be.”

  “Very wise of you, Doctor. Now, let’s be off!”

  Johrun waved toward the bridal cottage, where the hephaestus machines were busy constructing a new wing along the lines of King Bismuth’s legendary Undersea Folly. “What about this mess?”

  Minka swiftly brought up the original plans for the chalet and sent them to the builderbots, who instantly began their restoration.

  “Can’t you enjoy a little jest, Joh? It’s all in fun. You need to lighten up! Otherwise you’ll be a most intolerable husband!”

  Johrun bit his tongue to stop from replying that, contrariwise and more importantly, Minka needed to sober up, or she would be a most intolerable wife. “It’s almost time to set out on the safari. Let’s go to the stables.”

  Braulio turned to his four compatriots: Ox, Braheem, Trina, and Viana. Johrun was relieved to see that the two women were not making overfamiliar cow eyes at him nor leering nor giggling. He returned their neutral glances with relief.

  “I’ll see you four later today,” said Braulio. “And I expect to be carried off on your shoulders as the champion hunter, when you see my conquest.”

  Johrun said, “Have you ever hunted gryffoths before
?”

  “Never! And I’m not even sure what they are. But my marksman’s prowess extends to all prey.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Johrun watched Minka carefully as they all walked toward the Danger Acres stables. She seemed alert, focused, physically unimpaired, making the kind of negligible conversation anyone might make under similar circumstances. Was it possible that the rigors of her University studies—along with perhaps some compensatory recreations that tended towards the hedonistic, as well as the aforementioned planet-lag—could have indeed weakened her nervous fibers? Johrun resolved to insist on a full checkup once all the pressures of the wedding were behind them.

  The other forty-seven hunters were already massed at the stables, making Braulio, Johrun, and Minka the final arrivals. Bona Jebb Tipstaff and the four other bonas under his command stood ready to assume the guidance of their groups of ten. The stables presented a simple granite facade, fronted by a fenced paddock featuring a neat supergrass turf.

  With the completion of the party, the rangy Tipstaff, attired with utilitarian simplicity, began his introductory lecture, leaning one arm on the fence with infinite insouciance. A gaily cocked battered bushman’s hat, some proudly preserved facial scars and a sardonic mien conveyed that his words issued from a place of deep experience and uncompromising wisdom concerning all things artemisian.

  “Welcome, bold and noble hunters, to Danger Acres, the finest such resort and preserve in all the Quinary. Our goal today is to provide you with the most exciting and rewarding kind of primeval experience, an ancient type of reality seldom encountered in today’s effete and cosseted daily round. Human wit and courage, abetted by the finest weaponry, against the wiles and savagery of the most exotic and devious beasts to ever emerge from nature’s forge, from Harvester legacy, or from Polly sartorization. Additionally, we hope to return most of you to the lodge still basically alive and sound of mind and body. For any in-field ministering, we will rely on the services of Doctor Odisho Sloat, a man who has seen more than his share of spilled innards.”

  Tipstaff nodded towards Sloat, a dour, troll-like figure.

  “But to avoid any such mishaps from the get-go, it is imperative that you listen closely to the commands of myself and my four subalterns, obeying our instructions to the letter, without fleering contradictions or dilatory obtuseness, real or feigned. This is the practice that will ensure your safety! And of course, all of you have signed liability waivers, should you nonetheless decide to embark on some dangerous caprice.

  “I will now turn this stultifying yet essential monologue over to our Weaponeer, Oshry Gaddam.”

  Gaddam, a potbellied, balding fellow, guided a tall floating arms locker front and center. He opened it to reveal three-score identical rifles precisely racked, elegant and matte black.

  “This is your standard Isher Brothers Mark Topaz color-glass condensate long gun. Its ammunition consists of glasma particles which leave the barrel at almost relativistic speed. You may have heard the effect likened to ‘hitting the target before you pull the trigger.’ In any case, the particles carry great force, and usually one strike anywhere on the body is lethal to most quarries. If you were to fire one round per second for the next month, you could not exhaust the magazine’s capacity. Deliberately, there is no smart targeting. You must aim your best with the attached scope. However, there is some trivial artilect programming in the scope that prevents shooting another human, by accident or intention. Of course, all this is familiar to you from the qualifying simulations, which I am happy to report you all aced. Now, if you will step forward in an orderly fashion, we will dispense the rifles.”

  Johrun, Minka, and Braulio received their weapons. The amateur hunters among the group hefted their guns with pride, awe, and flamboyance. The more experienced shooters quietly inspected the few moving parts of the rifles knowledgably, and employed their sights on the weathervane of the stables and other distant targets to assess if any calibrations were needed. The amazingly lightweight rifle felt familiar in Johrun’s grip. He noted that Braulio handled his own gun with some familiarity, perhaps borrowed from that famous Uncle Zerb who had patronized Danger Acres before.

  Tipstaff had returned to the forefront of his audience. “Next, the matter of transportation. While we could of course proceed easily in floaters to the district of our hunt, the Caramel Patches, we will instead be travelling via animal mounts. We here at Danger Acres feel that the leisurely ride heightens the anticipation delightfully, as well as conveying some small sense of the rigors that our distant ancestors faced when abroad for game. Also, the slow progress allows anyone having second thoughts about participating to reconsider and return home on their own. Our mode of transportation frees up any employees from having to divert their efforts from the main safari in such cases. Your mounts, you see, are quite intelligent enough to guide you home. But here is Kellia Brancusi to make that plain!”

  The large double doors of the stable opened and a woman appeared. From the waist up she conformed to Gaian norms, with long blonde hair and a winsome face. But her lower half represented the shaggy unclothed flanks of a satyr, from stubby little tail to hooves. A few spilled drops of moisture gleamed in her fur. As she trotted out into the paddock, she was followed by a line of simiakentauroi, centaurs amalgamated from zebra-like equines and great apes. The velvety black, brown, and auburn pelts of the assorted apes segued subtly into the striped hides of the horse parts.

  Brancusi paraded her charges once around the ring for the admiration of the oohing and aahing patrons. She halted at the closed gate and said, “Mirs and Virs, may I suggest that you acquaint yourselves with my gentle herd? They understand all simple commands, endearments, and mild chastisements. Once you select a steed, they will all reenter the stable to help each other don their saddles, then return unfailingly to your side.”

  Minka and Johrun made a beeline toward mounts whom they had found congenial in the past. Johrun’s was a female named Tinkerbelle, while Minka held her reunion with a large male dubbed Plunger. Tinkerbelle’s broad black wide-nostriled nose snuffled Johrun’s scent appreciatively, while she groomed his hair gently with blunt fingers. A pleasant odor of ape and horse tickled Johrun’s nose.

  After patrons and steeds had paired off and the mounts departed to fetch their own tack, the hunters returned their attention to Tipstaff.

  “And at last, but not without full import, let us become familiar with our quarry, the gryffoth, or airavata volante. Their natural recalcitrance and feistiness prohibit having a live specimen on show for you, but here is a vivid recording.”

  Tipstaff’s vambrace threw forth a colorful shaped-light display showing a single gryffoth, initially standing boldly on the ground.

  The creature, plainly a sartorization, consisted of the front half of a woolly mammoth mated to leonine hindquarters, the conjoined bulk sporting enormous wings suggestive of some commensurately massive owl. An informative graphic indicated the gryffoth stood some four meters tall at the shoulders.

  While the hunters watched, the gryffoth used its enormous tusks to gouge the soil, coming up with some type of suitcase-sized pillbug that it immediately gulped down, despite the bug’s desperate struggles. A second gryffoth approached, and the first expressed its resentment of the newcomer by rearing up on its lion legs, pawing the air with its barrel-like forelegs, and trumpeting as loud as a tornado-warning siren. The rivals smashed their heads against each other and clashed their tusks until the interloper gave up and stumbled away. The victorious gryffoth then began to canter, and when it had got up to speed it took to the air, zooming away until it was just a dot in the distance.

  The patrons all manifested a stunned silence. Tipstaff blanked out the display, drily commenting, “The flight of such a monstrosity of course smashes all mere physics. But knowing that the sartors cunningly implanted fifth-force components, under the instinctive mental command of the brutes, explains all. A gryffoth can charge on land at speeds approaching fifty
kilometers per hour. Their aerial attacks are four times as fast, and they jink and curvet in the air like a human with a fireworm up his arse. They are not naturally aggressive, but resent humans coming closer than one hundred meters. Did Weaponeer Gaddam forget to mention that each glasma bullet from your rifle decays into harmless muon neutrinos after fifty meters? So be it! There is no art without the challenge of the medium! I suggest you consider all this information intelligently, while we get ready to depart. We have extensive refreshments for the length of our three-hour ride, both coming and going. If all goes well, you will be back to the lodge in plenty of time to compose yourselves for dinner. And should any of you succeed in bagging a gryffoth, the lodge kitchens would gratefully accept the donation of the meat. Otherwise, the standard nano-taxidermy job comes cost-free—although transportation of your trophy off-planet must be arranged on your own nick.”

  Tipstaff turned away to consult quietly with his four lieutenants, leaving the patrons to murmur among themselves.

  Braulio had lost none of his swagger in the light of this formidable presentation. “Does anyone care to wager a few chains on who will be first to bring down one of these pitiful dumbos? I of course will bet heavily on myself.”

  Johrun regarded Braulio with disbelief. “If you structure the wager so as to nominate which entity will draw first blood, gryffoth or overconfident human, I will be happy to put my bet on the animal.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Several of the simiakentauroi carried the provisions, as well as camp stools and even a compact pavilion that hobermanned open to a colorful mesh-sided canopy offering welcome shade. Verano’s equable clime did not preclude sweating. At the halfway mark of the lazy outbound excursion, having just passed through the small forest known as the Kentish Groves, an airy expanse of fronded blue tamarind trees, the party welcomed a stop. Although the simiakentauroi exhibited an easy gait, and although the saddles provided ergo-squirm comfort, many of the riders felt muscularly challenged past the point of ease. So a chance to stand and socialize, with a mug of non-inebriating Nimrod’s Punch in one hand and a goat-meat kebab in the other, became more of a festive occasion than it would have seemed in other circumstances—even with Tipstaff and his lieutenants patrolling to make sure no one added liquor from a hip flask to the drinks, in deference to the wise motto that guns and drunkenness were akin to matter and antimatter, the conjunction of which was dangerous to all.