Hunted on Predator Planet

by Vicky L Holt

  “Running medical scan. Please attach all nodes and bio-mechanics for a complete evaluation.”

  I grumbled but did as asked. The IV port on my sleeve squeezed my arm, and I felt the sting of the needle.

  “Please remain calm. Scanning. Your results will arrive momentarily.”

  It hurt to breathe. That spider-scorpion did a number on my breastbone. I hoped it wasn’t cracked or broken. My ribs could be broken, too. I groaned. It just got better and better.

  “Scanning complete. Administering anti-inflammatory medicine through the port. Bruising found on your ribs. Recommended treatment is eight to ten weeks of rest with no heavy lifting. Standard doses of anti-inflammatory medicine will help the swelling and discomfort,” VELMA said.

  While it felt good to be back in the pod, I questioned the necessity of coming all the way back here for what amounted to a couple ibuprofens. But what did I know?

  “You also have multiple contusions from the erratic movements of the EEP.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed. Cringing—I could imagine life with Chris again. The bruises. I shook my head.

  “Results of your blood screening as follows:”

  My head snapped up. I should have known it would do a blood test as well.

  “Abnormal amounts of antibodies indicate the presence of a possible infection. Trace amounts of an unknown substance are present in your blood. Did you ingest anything on this planet?”

  “No. I haven’t even had time to take a pee!”

  “Your blood has been tested for hundreds of substances. The unfamiliar chemical resembles the chemical makeup of Salvinorin A, a hallucinogenic.” Images of a flower my mom called Salvia flashed on the screen in my pod. “If you see something similar to this, it is recommended you do not ingest it.”

  “I haven’t hallucinated,” I protested. Flashes of my dream came to mind, but that didn’t count. “And I didn’t eat anything. In fact, I’m starving!”

  “Please choose an MRE packet and drink at least three pouches of water,” VELMA responded. “Your blood shows some signs of mild dehydration.”

  “Anything else?” I said, dreading pretty much whatever VELMA was going to spout.

  “Low-grade fever of 99.9˚ F.”

  I groaned. I needed to eat, rest, answer nature’s call, oh, and find the busted beacon and launch off this cursed planet that somehow was drugging me. All while lying on my side.

  “VELMA, are there signs of life outside the EEP?”

  “There are no signs of animal life within a thirty-foot radius.”

  Okay. I needed to right the pod again. What a pain in the ass. Didn’t the stabilizers do anything?

  “VELMA, I need to egress and stand the pod up again.”

  “Detaching bio-mechanics.”

  I grabbed my helmet and secured it. Took a deep breath and groaned. “My chest.” I opened one of the hatches, wincing when I raised my arm. I poked my head up, ready to retreat immediately. In the distance, storm clouds were gathering in the dusky sky, and a gust shook the feathered grasses. One of those snakes could be hiding in there. I watched for a while, looking for movement that was out of sync with the wind.

  Satisfied it was all clear, I struggled to climb out and initiated the same process I had done yesterday, rotating handles and adjusting mechanisms. It took longer this time, since one of the stabilizer legs had been damaged.

  I was no mechanic. VELMA sent instructions to repair it, but I ended up finding a flat rock with gray and black striations in it and putting it under the leg. I stood back to admire my work. “Gneiss.” With a quick scout around the area, I scrambled back inside and shut the door.

  Now I could use the bathroom!

  It was the simple things in life.

  Since it was an emergency vehicle, there wasn’t a shower. I had to use recycled liquids stored in pouches with super absorbent cloths to clean up, careful of the awful bruises found everywhere on my body. I reached up both hands to massage my scalp, ow, and that fragrance of soil and pepper wafted into my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, realizing it came from my hair. Whoever had braided my hair had left a lingering scent upon the braids.

  Tears welled up without warning, and I hiccoughed on a sob.

  Was it worth it? Leaving Chris and everything he did to me behind, only to be stranded here?

  Just like old times, bruises covered a lot of my body, but the most enduring pain was in my soul. For some reason, the braids triggered my tears.

  Who did it, and why? I couldn’t even begin to guess at the why, but weirdness aside, it was a tender gesture for someone who lay unconscious and dying on a cave floor. VELMA could give me medicines, but as far as I knew, my EEP didn’t have a cure for a broken heart.

  20

  “Iktheka Raxthe, welcome to the Royal Court,” said my revered queen. The Elder Sister’s white braids were woven with strands of purple woaiquovelt, the prized metal of Ikthe. It was soft and malleable, yet rare. It caught the light from scattered torches throughout the great hall.

  Hunters who had been able to retrieve the metal were rewarded handsomely. I had never been chosen for such an expedition, but I had no regret of it. To extract woaiquovelt, hunters must travel by two into the mountain. If my death came during a hunt, I preferred it came by no one’s fault but my own.

  My musings were not missed by the Elder Sister. “Something troubles you, Iktheka Raxthe,” she whispered. I cocked my head as I looked into her light-ringed, blood-colored eyes. Her textured skin glowed from the application of a scented oil mixed with the crushed pearls found in the oceans of Ikthe. The jewels embedded at her temples glowed orange. Never would such a privileged Theraxl have had occasion to speak to a lowly Iktheka such as myself. Before today.

  “I must thank you for the esteemed invitation to join you on the Dais,” I said as I bowed my head. “An honor so high is not soon forgotten.”

  I hoped my manners were suitable, for my heart ached to be somewhere else. Elder Sister fixed her shrewd, calculating eyes upon me.

  “We at the Court enjoyed your sight-capture very much,” she said with gleaming white fangs. “The Younger Sister and I were most delighted to see the blood spill upon your armor.”

  A deep crease formed between my brows. A thought occurred to me. While I hadn’t noticed the small vehicle until much later, could it have shown up on the sight-capture? I perspired.

  “Such violence and power. It is what Theraxl thrive upon, is it not?” She let her hand linger upon my arm.

  The Elder Sister wasn’t … wooing me, was she? Such things were whispered about in hushed tones behind the tapestries. The rituals dictated who mated with whom. The Elder and Younger Sisters had consorts. I slid my eyes around the room casually, trying to locate them. They were absent. And yet my nose did not deceive me. I smelled arousal and lust from her skin. An image of the soft traveler’s naked stomach flashed in my mind. I frowned.

  “Hunting is a filthy business,” I said. “It took your eunuchs many rotiks to wash the fakathe from my skin.”

  “We know,” Younger Sister said from behind me. She rested her claws upon my arm, where the black metal rings circled my upper arm. “The Royal Court admires the dirty work of all of our Ikthekal.” She rubbed her bare stomach with her other hand, the claws making lazy circles around the dip of her navel. “The Sisters of the Royal Court grow hungry, and the Mighty Hunters sate our many hungers.”

  I looked from the greedy eyes of Younger Sister to the cold ones of Elder Sister. I smelled conflicting scents between the two females, yet I couldn’t distinguish between them. Arousal, but also hatred and … trepidation? My mouth turned down.

  For a moment, the growling eyes of the rokhura crossed my mind.

  “It is both a duty and an honor to feed the Sisters of the Royal Court.” I could think of nothing else to do but dip my head again, my hair fronds brushing along my cheeks and brow.

  I was a hunter. I was not familiar with the intrigues of
the Court. I did not know the games or the words or the strategies. I bowed, not wishing for their shrewd eyes to witness my discomfort.

  The Elder Sister tittered.

  “Come, Iktheka Raxthe,” she said as she stood. “It is time for the Lottery.” She took me by one hand.

  Younger Sister handed me my tablet, a circle made of stone with my family lineage symbol etched upon it. Many of the other Sisters of the Royal Court had guests they led by the hand to the large drum in the center of the hall. We dropped our tablets into the funnel at the top, and they wheeled down the drum with a deep rolling sound.

  I met the eyes of my fellow hunters. Most of us hunted alone. I saw expressions of yearning and hope on their faces, as well as boredom and restlessness on others.

  The counters would draw the names after the great feast.

  Eunuchs hastened into the hall and removed the drum, while mechanical Tech-Slaves entered with tables and stools.

  My discomfort grew as the Elder and Younger Sisters insisted I sit with them on the dais for the feast. I was accustomed to sitting at the long table near the doors. From that less-esteemed position, I could scout the room for those females who might join me in raxma and raxshe, blessing me with posterity. From the dais, the entire room was visible, but gazing upon any females other than the Elder and Younger Sister would be considered rude.

  Not for the first time, I marveled at my poor reception of the grand invitation I’d received. As if some fragile spy from another world had more clout with me than the rulers of my people. It was nonsense.

  Yet throughout the meal of roasted rokhura meat, organ pies, spiced entrails and other meaty delicacies, I found myself anxious for the meal to end, for the Lottery to end, and to be dismissed.

  The Sisters sat on either side of me, sharing smiles and looks, and touching my arms and hands, and my thighs, as well.

  They offered me the fruited wines of Ikshe, strong drinks made from the fruit of the flower meadows at the peak of ripeness. They plied me with so much drink, I felt I might float away.

  They drank as well, and with the flowing wines, their words tumbled about my ears.

  “You are so quiet, Iktheka Raxthe,” Younger Sister teased me. “Do you miss the adventure of the Hunting Grounds?”

  “He misses Certain Death!” Elder Sister crowed.

  “Yes, he misses Certain Death frequently,” Younger Sister agreed. They laughed at their double-speak. “Lucky for us!”

  “Indeed. We are quite lucky,” Elder Sister said. “Tell us stories, Naraxthel.”

  My head shot up. I had not given leave for anyone to use my true name. All evening they addressed me as Hunter or Mighty Hunter, as was proper. Hearing my name on the lips of a beautiful yet powerful female, the Ikma of our people, caused a deep shudder in my body.

  When I didn’t smile, Elder Sister frowned at me. I saw anger flash in her blood-red eyes.

  “Do you have any stories?” Her voice was quiet, her stare unflinching.

  My left fist clenched and unclenched, my claws digging into the flesh of my hand. But I nodded. “I have a story.”

  The Sisters clapped their hands together and my Ikma whispered into the ear of one of her eunuchs. He blew a horn, and everyone grew quiet.

  My mind ran through the stories of my hunts through the last fifteen cycles. None would compare to finding the spy. Yet something held me back from revealing her presence on Ikthe.

  “Last Cycle, my ship crashed just short of the Mountains of Ikfal.”

  Some in the crowd nodded. They knew the terrain there; it was difficult to navigate.

  “My Tech-Slave lost its comm ability, and I was left alone near the nesting grounds of the rodaxl.”

  Some of the females crooned. They were a bloodthirsty group.

  “As expected, the rodaxl flew out to discover what caused the disturbance in their forest. One swooped down and grabbed my useless Tech-Slave. Now I wouldn’t even be able to fix it. They would tear it apart once they realized it wasn’t meat and scatter its parts throughout the ikfal.”

  I took a swig of my fruit wine. I’d had so much, I lost its flavor on my numb tongue.

  “The rodaxl hunted me,” I began. “I ran amongst the trees of the ikfal, dodging their talons every time they swooped. The great one, the one with the largest wing span, dove for me. The rodaxl are very intelligent. I knew I couldn’t outrun it, but I would need my wits about me to outsmart it.”

  I looked around the hall. The older hunters nodded.

  “I decided to climb a tree.”

  The Younger Sister gasped. “You would be too close to them. They could snatch you so easily!”

  I smiled at her. “That was my plan.”

  Elder Sister had yet to smile at me since requesting the story. It made me uneasy.

  “The rodax snatched me up, and when it tried to tear me limb from limb, I gave it pieces of my armor instead. In frustration, it lifted its head to yowl, as they do, and at that moment, I lanced its vocal sac, spilling its blood like rain down on the ikfal.”

  The room broke into applause and shouts, and goblets of wine clanked against each other, the red wine spilling like rodaxl blood.

  The din grew louder as the other hunters regaled their table companions with stories of their own hunts. I downed the rest of my fruited wine and tore into a great chunk of meat on my charger.

  Elder Sister watched me with shining blood-red eyes. “And then you survived the fall from the sky, when the dead rodax fell?”

  I smelled her distrust. “I landed in a tree and climbed down.”

  “Bed me tonight, Naraxthel,” Elder Sister commanded.

  I spewed food out of my mouth. Younger Sister burst out in a deep laugh.

  I bowed my head and wiped my mouth. My mother never taught me of Royal intrigues. My next step took me out over a chasm. Perhaps I would land on a slender ledge.

  “You honor my family and my name, Ikma Scabmal Kama.” I stood from my stool and bowed deeply, my headdress dipping to the floor. “A humble hunter must refuse such condescension.”

  I waited for her to say it was all in jest. The Consorts would demand my death if I accepted her invitation. Would they not? I had yet to rise, waiting.

  I heard her clap her hands together.

  “Let us draw the Lottery!”

  More shouts and clapping and laughter. I remained bowing to my queen Elder Sister.

  Younger Sister placed her hand on my shoulder. “Rise, Iktheka Raxthe.” A waft smelling like curiosity tickled my nose for a jotik, then it passed.

  I rose, schooling my features. I had still to learn if I passed whatever test my Ikma had given me. I snuck a glance at Younger Sister, who regarded me with narrowed eyes and a folded brow. But she said nothing.

  Five names would be drawn from the drum.

  The five hunters would wander the room, talking to females until suitable matches were made. The couples would leave the Royal Court and begin the earnest pursuit of producing offspring. The remaining hunters were welcome to eat and drink or leave at their leisure.

  Recreational mating was not discouraged, but no offspring would come of it, by Royal Edict. Without the sacred raxma and raxshe rites, it was not biologically possible.

  Eunuchs pulled five tablets out. Younger Sister read the true names. It was one of the few times when a hunter’s name was heard aloud in public.

  “Raxkarax.”

  A burly hunter with a long mane of hair fronds stood proudly. His friends clapped him on the back and cheered. Someone proclaimed he had eight offspring already.

  “Natheka.” The hunter who joined me on my first hunt. He had two offspring now.

  “Raxthezana.” I had heard of him. His father died on a Shegoshel Waters expedition. He had one child.

  “Hivelt Matheza.” A very large hunter stood at the end of the long table. He would make a mighty foe. I was glad he was not maikthe, the enemy.

  The fire pit behind the Dais burned hot with the hard
wood of the ikfal on Certain Death. I felt sweat slide down my spine. One more name, and I would make my excuses and leave for Ikthe. Perhaps I would make it back before the traveler awoke. Perhaps she still lived. If she had perished from her wound, I would bury her in the cave where she slew the younger sister agothe-fax. Not a small kill for a frail soft traveler, a yasheza mahavelt, from another world. She was a good little hunter, too, a joiktheka.

  “Naraxthel Roika.”

  My heart stopped, and my heart-home readied to open, to release it. How could this be?

  Younger Sister nudged me forward. The crowd burst into song, the raxshe raxma, the song of sex and offspring. Two years from now, the mothers would bring forth their baby hunters and sisters, the results of tonight’s ceremony. Those whose names had not been chosen would be entered into another Lottery in three moon’s time, and so on.

  To say I was unprepared was an understatement. I had no female chosen. I had no retreat prepared for the ritual of raxshe, the creation of my first child. My mouth was dry, but my goblet was empty of fruit wine.

  I felt claws dig into my arm and pull me away from the Dais. Elder Sister took me to an alcove behind a tapestry.

  “You will mate with me, Naraxthel.”

  I stammered. “M-my Ikma. What of my Ikna? I would not dishonor your Consort.” This I said, once again bowing my head. I need not remind her offspring between us was forbidden, her position as Queen and Elder Sister notwithstanding.

  A clawed hand brought my face close to hers. “You will deny your Ikma?”

  A thousand thoughts raced across my mind. Offspring, Consorts, making an enemy of the Elder Sister. There was no right choice. And yet one thing brought peace to the echoing chamber of my heart-home: the thought of the dying traveler on Ikthe.

  “I will deny my Ikma the mistake of mating with a lowly hunter.” I bowed, then rose and looked into her raging eyes.

  “I give you one more chance, Naraxthel,” she ground out her words.

  Anger, bright and hot, flashed in my own face.

  “You would deny me offspring?” I said. “I never imagined Elder Sister would be such a selfish female.” I bit out the words and grasped her wrist, yanking her hand from my face.