Bola paused to give his mother a wildflower that had probably been plucked while riding at full speed. Pudu had been capable of such feats in his younger days—and could remember the way the ground rushed past as he dangled from his zurna.
Having paid his respects to his mother, Bola made his way over to the spot where his father waited. A young female, one of dozens eager to capture Bola’s attention, hurried to bring a second stool. Bola thanked her and accepted a cup of tea from a second maiden before turning to his father. “Greetings, wise one . . . I see the light in your eyes. May it never grow dim.”
Pudu signaled acknowledgment. “It will dim . . . But not today. Welcome home.”
Bola took a sip of tea. “I bring news.”
Pudu knew that. Why else would his son make the long ride up from his station to the south? But a formal request would please the youngster, and he was willing to oblige. “How interesting . . . Please share it.”
“A huge starship landed next to Unda’s Belly,” Bola said, his eyes bright with excitement.
Because the northerners had been circling Savas for thousands of years, there had been plenty of opportunities to name each river, valley, and, in this case, a softly rounded hill. The crest of which resembled a belly. Or would if the person to whom it belonged was lying on his back and half-buried in the soil. That was the way the god Unda was said to sleep. Then, when Unda decided to roll over, the ground would shake.
So based on his son’s description Pudu knew where the landing had taken place. But why? The round heads had been content to live in the jungle until now—and their flying machines were rarely seen. Were the off-worlders planning to take more land? If so, that couldn’t be tolerated.
All that and more flickered through Pudu’s mind as Bola awaited a response. “This is important news indeed,” Pudu said gravely. “You were correct to come here as quickly as possible. Tell me everything you saw.”
So Bola described the ship which, even allowing for some exaggeration, was clearly larger than anything the northerners had seen before. But of equal importance was the way he described the creatures who emerged from the machine. “They were huge,” Bola said. “I estimate that each one of them weighs the amount that two warriors would! And they have head crests, like we do, only less pronounced.”
“So they aren’t Human.”
“No, they look different,” Bola replied. “But they have lots of machines—and what I took to be powerful weapons.”
That was very interesting indeed. At present, there were two types of weapons on Savas. Those manufactured by the jungle-dwelling Jithi—and those the round heads brought in. He knew that doing so was illegal according to Human laws, but that didn’t seem to stop them.
So if the newcomers planned to sell weapons, it was important to not only acquire some but prevent the southern tribe from doing likewise. And the most obvious way to accomplish those objectives was to kill the star creatures and take what he wanted. That wouldn’t be easy, of course . . . But everything was hard. He would think. Then, when the time was right, the sword would fall.
—
SAVAS BASE 001
Two standard weeks had passed since the landing. Engines growled as the Hudathans worked to improve their new base. Thanks to the crawlers that had been stored inside of the Head Hunter’s hangar bay, Admiral Nola-Ba’s ground party had been able to slice the top of the hill off. Now, having paved the raw surface with tilelike metal gratings, the Hudathans had a landing pad. It was large enough to handle two shuttles at once, which meant Nola-Ba could rotate personnel with the ships orbiting above. And that was good for morale. Especially given how primitive the planet was.
The troops were holding up well, however, thanks to skin that turned to a reflective white when exposed to the desert sun. So conditions that might have brought Humans to their knees had done very little to slow the work, a fact that was very much in evidence as Nola-Ba continued his daily walkabout.
Tons of soil removed from the top of the hill was spilling down its flanks. By that time, tunnels had been driven into the heart of the mound. The walls were reinforced with sheets of durasteel salvaged from the Head Hunter. And once the passageways were completed, the effort to create spaces for the ship’s fusion reactors, armory, and living quarters would begin.
As Nola-Ba’s walk took him past the steadily dwindling destroyer, he arrived in front of a specially designed tower. It was being used to drill a well, and the water was there, or so his engineers claimed. And once they tapped the aquifer, the liquid would be pumped into the hill via a system of buried pipes.
Out past the drill rig, Nola-Ba came to the spot where an earthen embankment was under construction. The plan was to use material removed from the hill’s interior to complete the barrier. Once the berm was finished, it would encircle the hill. Then it would be time to remove six energy cannons from the Head Hunter and install them in hardened bunkers. Power for the weapons would be supplied by fusion reactors inside the hill. At that point, the first element of Nola-Ba’s orders would be complete.
Of course, building the fort might be the easy part. He was also supposed to establish positive relationships with the indigenous peoples—and members of the Paguumi species had been lurking around the area since the landing.
Nola-Ba’s thoughts were interrupted by a radio transmission from Captain Ana-Ka. “The executive officer on the Intaka informs me that a dust storm is headed our way. I recommend that we pull the patrols in and stop work until it passes.”
That was regrettable since Nola-Ba wanted to use every minute available to him. But he knew that Ana-Ka was right and gave the necessary orders. All of the personnel on the ground were to take cover in what remained of the Head Hunter and stay there until the storm had passed. That included him. The wind had already begun to pick up, and Nola-Ba was being pelted with grains of sand by the time he reached the safety of the destroyer.
Originally, there had been only a few ways in and out of the hull. But thanks to all the salvage work, Nola-Ba could enter through any number of holes now. Guards were posted at each, and Nola-Ba acknowledged a salute as he stepped through a rectangular opening. From there, it was just a few paces to an internal hatch and the corridor beyond. The lifts had been removed, so it was necessary to climb an emergency ladder to reach the main deck. About half of the controls on the bridge were lit. The rest were permanently dark.
Captain Ana-Ka saw Nola-Ba enter and pointed at one of the few screens that were still operational. The camera was pointed toward the drilling rig, which was almost entirely obscured by flying sand. “It’s getting worse. According to the Intaka’s XO, the dust cloud is about five thousand feet tall and fifty miles wide.”
Nola-Ba nodded. “I hope such storms are the exception rather than the rule. What about our patrols? Have they returned?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Ana-Ka replied. “All of our people are accounted for.”
“Excellent. I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.” After Nola-Ba left the bridge, he took advantage of an emergency ladder to reach the deck below. The emergency lighting flickered occasionally but was sufficient. Once in his cabin, Nola-Ba had to use a hand torch in order to see.
It was impossible to get any work done the way things were—so Nola-Ba gave himself permission to enjoy a rare nap. It felt good to stretch out on the narrow bunk and close his eyes. It wasn’t long until sleep pulled him down into a wonderful dream. He was young again . . . And walking through one of the many villages that belonged to the Ba clan. Things weren’t entirely right, however. He could see people he’d known from childhood, but they couldn’t see him.
Still, it was pleasant to walk up the path past the granary and the blacksmith shop to the barns and the stronghold beyond. It was made of stacked stone and was the place to which his ancestors could retreat when another clan attacked. He followed a walkway up the front door and push
ed it open. Apparently, his father could see him because he spoke. “Admiral Nola-Ba? Can you hear me? We’re under attack!”
Nola-Ba awoke with a jerk as Captain Ana-Ka said his name again. “Admiral Nola-Ba . . . The locals are inside, repeat inside the ship, killing the crew.” The words were followed by the staccato rattle of gunfire and a bellow of pain. Then the intercom went dead.
Nola-Ba swore, rolled off the bunk, and was forced to confront the truth. The mistake was his. What was the saying? “To overestimate oneself is to underestimate the enemy.” The beings he had written off as primitive nomads had been watching for days. What’s more, they understood what Nola-Ba intended to do and were trying to prevent it.
So rather than attack a clearly superior force, the indigs waited for the kind of storm they not only understood but were evolved to cope with. Then, using the flying sand for cover, they’d been able to approach the destroyer unobserved. And with more than a dozen entrances to choose from, all they had to do was kill a sentry and enter the ship. It was a possibility that could have and should have been anticipated.
But the full extent of Nola-Ba’s self-recrimination would have to wait. The first order of business was to grab his weapons and join the fight. Nola-Ba’s pistol belt was hanging from a hook. After buckling it on, he turned to a locker. Ka-Killer was waiting inside. He pulled the weapon free of its sheath and opened the hatch.
That was a mistake. Nola-Ba felt a searing pain as a spear slid along his left side. The Hudathan parried the shaft with his sword and kicked the Paguumi with a huge boot. The force of the blow sent the local backpedaling into the opposite bulkhead. The warrior was a fierce-looking creature with a head crest, bladelike nose, and a black eye patch.
Nola-Ba heard a grunt of expelled air as the Paguumi hit the steel bulkhead and took the opportunity for a follow-up. Ancient steel punctured alien flesh. Nola-Ba gave Ka-Killer a twist to maximize the internal damage. Then he jerked the weapon up before pulling it free. The Paguumi clutched his abdomen and collapsed.
It had been a long time since Nola-Ba had killed anyone face-to-face, but the skills were still there—and Nola-Ba heard himself utter the traditional Hudathan war cry: “Blood!” The war cry was echoed from down the corridor, which meant that others were still in the fight.
Nola-Ba shouted, “To me!” And seconds later, two crew members appeared out of the gloom. One was armed with a combination fire axe/crowbar acquired from a damage-control locker—and the other was clutching one of the short, three-barreled shotguns kept in racks throughout the ship. “Follow me,” Nola-Ba said grimly. “It’s time to hunt.” The crewmen replied with growls of approval.
Having heard fighting over the intercom, Nola-Ba figured that the bridge would be a good place to go, both to engage the enemy and regain control of the ship. So he led the crewmen over to a ladder and began to climb. The rungs were slippery with blood.
As Nola-Ba arrived on the main deck, he could hear bursts of automatic fire, interspersed with the pop, pop, pop of single-shot weapons and warbling war cries. As Nola-Ba emerged from the alcove where the ladder terminated, he found himself behind a group of Paguumi warriors. They were facing the bridge, which remained under siege.
Nola-Ba drew his pistol and opened fire. Two warriors fell, and the rest turned. As they fired, Nola-Ba heard something buzz past his right ear. So he pulled the trigger again, heard the handgun click empty, and allowed it to fall. The crewman who had been armed with the axe was down, but the rating with the shotgun remained on his feet. They moved forward together.
A warrior came to meet him, and Nola-Ba felt the impact as the sword struck the Paguumi and sliced through his neck. There was a momentary fountain of blood as the animal’s head flew free. That was followed by a meaty thump when the body hit the deck.
The shotgun was firing by then, and the last warrior was torn to shreds as dozens of lead slugs tore through his flesh. He staggered, lost his balance, and fell into a pool of blood.
Nola-Ba stepped over the corpse. Half a dozen bodies representing both races were sprawled outside the control area. Consoles, screens, and the surrounding bulkheads were pockmarked with bullet holes and splashed with blood.
Captain Ana-Ka was lying on the floor with two spears protruding from his chest, and an engineering officer lay facedown on the deck. The only member of the bridge crew to survive was the navigator. He emerged from behind the holo tank holding a pistol. His voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Sorry, Admiral . . . They took us by surprise.”
And whose fault was that? Nola-Ba asked himself. The answer was obvious. His. But, much as it troubled him to do so, he would have to blame Ana-Ka for the debacle. It was either that or accept the blame himself, and that would be pointless. Plus it was a way to get back at the Ka clan. A group of five troopers arrived, and one of them saluted. “The ship is secure, Admiral.”
“Good. How many people did we lose?”
“It’s too early to say for sure,” the noncom replied. “But I’ve seen at least twenty Hudathan bodies—not counting the ones here.”
Nola-Ba winced. More than twenty dead. He would avenge them.
CHAPTER: 5
There can be no doubt that the slick skins wanted north to fight south and opened the tunnel through the Towers of Algeron for that purpose.
LOOKBACK THINKSEE
A History of My People
Standard year 2727
PLANET ALGERON, CITY OF PILLARS
McKee could feel the sun on her face, smell the sweet-sour stink of the dooths around her, and hear the wild thumping of her heart. The warrior named Stinkkiller was staring at her. Had he killed Humans? Yes, if his name was any indication. People she knew? Possibly. Her hand was hidden beneath a long cloak. It was in contact with one of two concealed pistols. “There are stories about a female slick skin named Nofear Deathgiver. They say that when Fastblade Oneeye and his warriors attacked the village of Doothdown, she held them off with a handful of soldiers.”
“And females,” McKee said. “Their mates had gone south to take part in the Battle of Bloodyriver. They fought with knives, with axes, and with shovels.”
“I fought in the Battle of Bloodyriver,” Stinkkiller said. “Your soldiers were poorly led. We killed many slick skins that day. And your machine people, too.”
“So maybe the killing should stop. That’s why we’re here . . . To speak with Chief of Chiefs Truthsayer.”
Stinkkiller was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “Follow me.”
McKee’s hand came off the pistol as Stinkkiller pulled his dooth around and led the procession of riders deeper into the nearly empty city. Stone pillars rose here and there, some bare, some topped with wind-ripped flags. The streets turned and twisted without any apparent rhyme or reason, and it would be easy to get lost.
McKee expected her guide to lead them to a large structure commensurate with Truthsayer’s rank and reputation. Such was not the case. When they arrived, it was at a modest, two-story structure notable only for the number of heavily armed males hanging around. The warriors watched with considerable interest as Stinkkiller pulled up in front of the building, slid to the ground, and invited McKee to do likewise. She felt lonely and frightened as her boots hit the ground. Could she count on Storytell? Maybe . . . And maybe not. Venturing into the City of Pillars without a squad of T-1s had been foolhardy. She realized that now but couldn’t back out. All she could do was look confident and hope for the best.
A group of warriors were blocking the front door—but they hurried to get out of the way as Stinkkiller approached. As McKee passed between them, she could feel their hatred. And that was to be expected in the wake of the incredible slaughter that had taken place to the north.
Hinges squealed as Stinkkiller pushed the wooden door open, and McKee followed him into a dimly lit interior. It smelled like beer, food, and dirty clothes. A circular
stairway led down to a subterranean living area, which was lit with lanterns and dominated by a central fireplace. A small dooth-dung fire burned on the hearth, and the smoke rose through a funnel-shaped flue. And there, sitting on a wooden chair, was a small Naa with a hunched back. He was reading a leather-bound book and looked up as the visitors descended the stairs.
McKee assumed he was a scholar, one of Truthsayer’s advisors perhaps, until Stinkkiller made the introductions. “Chief Truthsayer . . . This is Nofear Deathgiver. She would like to speak with you on behalf of her leaders.”
Truthsayer put the book aside and stood. In marked contrast with most adult males, he stood no more than five and a half feet tall. Black markings interrupted his otherwise orange fur, and his eyes were exceptionally large. McKee saw what might have been amusement in them. “Not what you were expecting?” he inquired. “Well, the feeling is mutual.”
McKee laughed and felt herself drawn to the chief as he honored her with the forearm-to-forearm grip. “You are known to me,” he said. “Come, join me by the fire.”
So they sat by the fire while Stinkkiller, Storytell, and the others looked on. Regardless of what happened, there wouldn’t be any secrets. Stories would be told. “So,” Truthsayer began, “were you at the mesa?”
“Yes.”
“Your people fought bravely.”
“As did yours.”
“But we lost.”
“Yes.”
“So what is there to talk about?”
McKee shrugged. “I am not authorized to negotiate with you. Only to invite you to negotiate.”
Truthsayer frowned. “But if they sent you, they must have something in mind.”
“I hope so,” McKee replied fervently. “Lives were lost bringing this message to you.”
“Yes,” Truthsayer said sadly. “It seems that everything must be paid for with blood.”
Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) Page 9
