by Jo Clayton
Stripped to his dry rough hide, Kikun strolled away from the cluster of buildings and walked along the ruts to the wharf. Shadith looked at him, found herself looking away, forgetting him, looking back, startled each time she saw him. His hands were empty, he had no weapon, nothing visible anyway. She looked away again, forgetting him again as she heard yells of anger and disgust, then a rattle of shots from the largest of the crumbling warehouses. One of the searchers came out, kicking vermin from around his boots, cursing them. He shoved his pelletpistol into its holster, gave a mangy lump a last kick. "Dyesh, Mikka, Tank, where the hell are you? Nobody in this dump but cha-sakin' mitsish."
The second kana came out of a shack, brushing cobwebs off his arms. "E-heh." He glanced toward the wharf, saw Kikun step into the boat. "Kekwa?" Shouting as he ran, he lunged toward the wharf.
Shadith lifted the stunner, waited.
Not trusting his aim at that distance with the unfamiliar weapon, Rohant tapped the darter to spray and swung the line of darts across the face of one runner then the other, dropping them in mid-stride.
In the boat Kikun was behind the driver; as the kana jerked awake, the lacertine took his helmeted head into an enveloping embrace, twisted sharply. Shadith winced. She was too far away to hear the CRACK, but she felt it in her own neck. With a continuation of the neck whip, Kikun flipped the local into the river on the shoreside, used a boathook to shove the body under the wharf where it got hung up among the rotting piles.
Shadith and Rohant swung down from the tree and started toward the boat as Asteplikota came hurrying out of the tangle behind them, carrying their pouches and Shadith's harpcase, the two cats loping beside him, watching him with the amiable speculation of sated carnivores. Sassa spiraled into the sky and circled overhead, waiting to be summoned.
Asteplikota joined the other two as they stopped beside one of the bodies. "That was the last easy thing," he said as he shrugged out of the tangle of strapping. "When they find these dead, there will be no more lazing on the job."
"No doubt. Shadow, you and Kikun load up the boat, get the cats settled, get it ready to go. Aste, you and me, we'll clear up this refuse." He strolled to the corpse, coughed and spat, landing a gob of clotted mucus on the turtle armor bulging over the dead man's chest. "We'll put these bodies under the wharf with the, other one. Give us a bit of luck, they won't be noticed for a while, long enough for some lead time. I take it, it wouldn't be a good idea to be found with kana equipment on us."
"Right. On the other hand, we don't want anyone wondering who's that in a kana boat. The cats can go under a blanket, but we better have those helmets; we can leave them with the boat when we leave the boat.
We can't ride it all the way to Aina'iril, there's too much traffic. Go through their pockets for their money, it's anonymous enough and we could need it."
"Mmh. Grab his feet, will you. Let's move."
Twenty minutes later, they were on their way, going full out down the river, riding the edge of disaster. Since Shadith didn't dare explore the instrument board, she didn't know what the riverbottom was like. Asteplikota lay back in the seat beside her, his eyes on the cloudless sky, scanning for the flits Rohant had seen earlier. Kikun sat in the back with the brewpot between his feet; it was sending out wisps of steam and a thickening green smell. Eyes glassy, faced flushed to a dark copper as his cold took a deeper hold on him, Rohant sprawled beside Kikun, the cats leaning heavily against him; he was coughing and sneezing between sips at the brew. After a while he slept.
She turned bend after bend, the boat droning through a bluesky morning and an increasingly busy countryside. Hundreds of flits zipped back and forth like lie blackfly swarms Rohant had called them; they ignored the boat, but Shadith could see grounded flits and men stopping trucks on the levee road, other flits dipping down at what looked like random intervals so kana could search groves and farms, factories and anything else that caught their attention; at first, the search was disorganized, chaotic, but as time passed it tightened up and she began to wonder just how long they could go on unmolested.
The river was wide and muddy, the current was frighteningly powerful, a giant hand grasping the keel; as the traffic thickened, she slowed and as she slowed, that current took on a demonic perversity and seemed bound to smash her into something. There were barge strings around every curve; there were freighters and tankets, fishets, sailers, even rowboats. There were snags and shoals, bridges and wharves. Trouble and trouble and trouble.
On and on… Kikun fed her more of his brew; the taste didn't improve as it cooled, but it kept her going… on and on… Rohant woke briefly several times, grumped under his breath, cleared his throat and spat overside into water, went back to sleep… on and on .. there was an air of desperation about the flits swooping overhead, but none of them seemed interested in the kana boat, no matter how erratically it raced down the river… on and on…
"Turn soon," Kikun said.
"Yes," Asteplikota said, "We'd better get off the river."
"Where? What side?"
"Left. Into the Wetlands. There's a branch should appear soon… There. Now."
WATCHER 3
CELL 27
The fire bloomed in the dark, sudden as a sneeze. A naked man painted in horizontal stripes of dusty black and chalky white rose from the ring of painted men who raised a noise of rattles and rattling drums that seemed to lift him off the ground. Nata kata atahao, they sang in the Oldiangue, Kiki kiska kiskelita.
The dancer scooped resins from the spirit pouch and flung them into the fire with passionate intensity in every line of his body, flung himself into leaps and cartwheels, the capers and caprioles of his sacred dance. The ring of men swayed and chanted in unison, breathed in unison, even thought in unison.
Na-priests came from the trees in black cowls and black leather, pellet rifles in their black-gloved hands. Sunk deep in their outlaw ceremony, the celebrants saw nothing, the dancer saw nothing but the grand images of the dreamgods. A black hand lifted, the rifles snugged against black leather cheeks. The hand fell. There was a rapid, spitting volley. The celebrants fell over between one breath and the next, dead before they knew they were shot.
Several of the Na-priests gathered the bodies into a pile while the rest of them vanished into trees. There was the shriek of chainsaws and other less definable noises, then the priests were back with chunks of wood which they piled around and over the bodies. They emptied half a dozen carafes of fuel over the pyre and tossed matches at it. In silence as intense as the chanting and the dance, they squatted and stared into the fire until the pile was ash, flesh and wood alike.
CELL 26
PAKOSEO PAKOSEO PAKOSEO The Serpentine grew and grew as it wound through the workers' quarters and burst into the streets where the Tawa merchants had their clan houses, the Tanak and Maka folk would not have dared this intrusion even a month ago, but the Pakoseo fervor was building among the despised and disenfranchised and beginning to catch among the young in the more advantaged castes. Shy and a little afraid, young Tawas, male and female alike, slipped from the dull-faced Tawa compounds, Pakoseo ribbons fluttering In their hands, tambours tied to their belts and sashes. They caught hold of Tanak and Maka hands they wouldn't have touched in ordinary times and raised their voices in the driving beat of the dance: PAKOSEO PAKOSEO PAKOSEO
CELL 28
A two-wheel racer went roaring and squealing through the filthy, rain-sodden streets of the laborers' quarter, In the factory town called Alomapoy. When it came to the town square, the rider reached back, slashed at the cords binding the bundle on the rack, then went racing off, leaving the mutilated body of the kipao sprawled on the worn cobbles.
CELL 18
His ancestors had dug the Room, lined it with stone and timber, then laid plaster frescos over the stones, images of rites that excited him desperately when he first saw them and realized what they promised. He found the place by accident of rot and worm, stole money from his father to hire a
Tanak tramp to repair the panels and restore the secrecy. Killing the Tanak wasn't very satisfying, he was so ignorant those days, he'd known nothing. He used the frescos as a crude guide and buried the man folded in fetal position beneath the hearth. He hadn't read the books yet, he hadn't heard the Secret God whispering In his ear. He hadn't known about Becoming or Hitsa or how Hitsa could help him Become. He hadn't known who he really was, that he was Nataminaho the Hunter being reborn from the flesh of man.
The EYE followed him, recording his satisfaction as he marked a girlchild as his next sacrifice, recording his impatience as he waited for the proper moment to take her. It was not yet time to move openly. His time would come to him. God's Voice told him she would come. And it was so.
He collected her like a ripe fruit, took her to the Room and followed in loving detail the ritual he had derived from his reading.
When she was at last near her peace, he took her beating heart from her body and ate it, slicing it thin as paper and roasting the slices over the ritual fire, consuming the Hitsa with her heart, drawing into himself her purity and her strength, taking another step toward the Great Transformation. The God Voice had promised him a Pakoseo Year and it was upon them even now. Everything the Voice had promised had come to him. He was very happy.
When the heart was gone, he wrapped the child in a clean sheet, took her out into the night. She was an empty vessel; if he burled her as he had the Tanak, she would begin to draw back into herself the power he had taken from her. He dropped her In the ditch, took the sheet back to the Room and burned it.
It didn't matter what happened to her leavings. She was empty, she had played her destined role and all that was sacred in her lived in him now.
CELL 19
A little girl's body lay sprawled in stinking water and rotten weeds; she was naked and she'd been beaten until her face was a pulp, broken ribs glistened white and yellow through the mud and putrifying meat; her torso was ripped open from pelvis to just above the heart which was missing and there were other mutilations, at the moment mercifully hidden by the mud and broken weeds drapped over her corpse.
She lay undiscovered for several days, then a farm laborer came past on a tractor, intending to get a field ready for planting. He saw the body, fell off the machine, and waded into the ditch. He eased her up out of the mud and slime, wrapped her In a bit of canvas, and took her to the village.
The villagers gathered around him, wordless, their anger so deep they could only moan and sway. A woman came pushing through them, uncovered the body. She screamed, tore at her hair, her face, her clothes. Her sisters and the other women led her off.
When she was inside her house, the men of the village took the child's body to the lspisaco and banged on the Great Door, their heavy somber blows the dead child's knell. There was no response this time, there'd been none the time before or the time before that. They didn't expect any. They took her head and her hands and left the rest of her in silent accusation.
CELL 4
The thin wiry man was pacing about the command center with the furious energy of a fruiting tornado as he listened to the reports coming in from assorted sources.
"Kwantawiyal lost them, he's been disciplined and is hot to go after them, we have promised him a bounty for each head if he brings them in alive. There is nothing in writing, so that is no problem."
"A patrolboat on the Kinosipa is about an hour overdue with its call-in. Five kanaweh crewing it, Wisake no Wohtin, the Ni-sec. A slug, him, been disciplined so often he's worn a rut in the Cage. But you-know-who's his Uncle. We have attempted to establish contact, but we haven't been able to raise him. Since he was in the grid, seems likely his continued silence is directly connected with the explosion that occured just before dawn at the Iskota Estate. The flit that exploded was reduced to shards as we reported-earlier, but we did manage to locate a section of the drive pod with a serial number. We ran it through the Log. It's legit. Flit's registered to one Napechiko, a Kawa In a twoboat fish village named Wanshin, about thirty Iskals north of Aina'iril. It's a junker he rents out to whoever comes up with the price, the last one being a gutter-bait go-between of even less worth than the flit, guess who. E-heh. One Kwantawiyal. Tests are still being made, but it is becoming clear that there was nothing organic in the flit when it blew. It Is possible, therefore, that the patrol came across the fugitives and was killed by them. The Ni-sec being our favorite slug Wiseacre, there's not much doubt of it. Most likely those terrorists have taken control of the boat and are using it to escape the search grid. We are combing both riverbanks for evidence this happened. So far there is no result from that investigation.
CELL 1
The squat black powerboat surged past a long string of barges, swept round a bend and went into a wild, slew as Asteplikota saw the Branch he was looking for, where the ancient delta was once, where the present-day Wetlands began. Shadith fought the current, clawed her way back to the mouth of the Branch and started down it, slowing as quickly as she could so she wouldn't run aground before she got far enough from the river Kinosipa.
The trees closed in over the boat and the POV dipped lower. The stream was sluggish, a greenish-ocher brew that looked solid enough to walk on.
The boat-worked north along the edge of the Wetlands as the sun passed zenith and crept toward the western mountains. it was twilight-a stinking, steamy twilight under the giant ferns and the squat, spongy palms with their festoons of moss and tangles of vine-when they reached an islet of fair size, relatively dry, with thick grass, a cluster of trees and even a small, clear stream.
They piled out of the boat, unloaded it, stood arguing for several minutes, then Kikun turned his back on Rohant and walked away. He stepped into the boat, reversed the water jets until it was clear of the mud, then went scooting away from the islet, vanishing almost Immediately into the murk.
Hands on hips, Shadith stood looking after him, then she shrugged and went to join the others setting up the camp.
Pukanuk Pousli scowled at the cell, swung round. "Ginny, should I give the Makh Hen a yell? You don't want that bunch runnin loose in Aina'iril. They're too hard to handle long distance."
Ginbiryol Seyirshi looked up from the pathecorder. "Not yet. And not when they are with Asteplikota. I prefer to keep him out of the hands of the Nistam or the Gospah. He is the planner; the balance wheel, the rebellion will sputter to nothing without him." That is so obvious, he thought, why do I have to keep saying it? Ah well, it is the nature of the beast; if he were smarter, he would be unusable. "No, Puk. Kiscomaskin needs his brother. If the Avatars decide to go with Plikota to the Islands until the stir dies down, we will let them keep running. The Islanders have no skipcom for us to worry about and time is a thing we have plenty of. If the Avatars break off and head for Aina'iril, then you may inform Makwahkik where they are so he can pick them up. I will expect you to see that Plikota is sent on his way unharmed."
"That might be touchy, sir. What if that little bitch starts dumpin what she knows? He'll be spooky as a three-legged rabbit."
"I think you will find he cooperates with whoever is sent to draw him off. He is a modest man, but a clear sighted one. He knows the weaknesses in his brother, he knows how much he is needed to keep Kiskomaskin steady. Discretion, Puk. You know whom he would be most likely to trust, arrange for such an individual to be available if he is required."
"Yes, sir. Ahh, one thing I might mention, the Makh Hen's gettin resty, he wants us to Pin the Avatars for him."
"Quash that immediately. Inform Makwahkik that we will withdraw completely if he presses us."
"He's not goin to like that. He don't follow the bit, he got a hard mouth on him."
"You must simply be harder, Puk. I trust your gifts in that direction. Once the point has been made, however, you may sweeten him with a personal handarm and slightly more advanced surveillance equipment than we have provided before. Tickle his ambitions and he will quickly forget the strings."
"Yes, si
r."
Chapter 11. History for dinner
As the sun went down, blackflies, gnats, and other biters rose in thick clouds; with them came flocks of small, hairy fliers who went swooping through and through the swarms, sucking, in the insects like whales straining plankton out Of seawater, yet even they scarcely made a dent in the hordes; more and more of the biters appeared as if the air itself squeezed them from, the dark. Shadith scratched and slapped, then pulled a blanket around her and huddled close to the fire, privately mourning the absence of bugbombs and silentscreamers; technology might have its drawbacks, but meeting nature face to face wasn't all that great either. She waved the endbit of a dried frond back and forth before her face and squinted across the fire at Asteplikota.
"Pakoseo," she said. "What is that? I know this much, it's some kind of pilgrimage."
He looked up from the pot where he was stirring the soup he was making from the remnants of supper. "History lecture?"
"Yeh. About the Pase-something-um-wapal, something long like a river."
"Pasepawateo Mitewastewapal, from the god-tongue, the god-time. It means the time of dreaming and desire when lightning strikes the heart. Where'd you hear that?"
