by Alma Boykin
Pale brown Seedak made a note and shrugged his tail. “Our Clan is secure. From that we can rebuild anything.” The other males made gestures of agreement and Seetoh allowed himself to relax a fraction of a talon’s length.
“The Empire holds fast,” the King-Emperor rumbled. “If we lift our forefoot talons for an instant, it is only to take better hold with our hindfoot.”
“The Empire holds,” his sire’s sons chorused. They knew the foe and they knew what they had to do. With that Seetoh ended the conference. He did not offer the usual invocation or benediction—they felt wrong, like the sticky-sweet underscent of a sick talkak.
After the mid-day meal, Seetoh met with the officers of his personal guard. He could not trust others with the… things… that might need to be done.
Tarkeela went with four of his technicians to New Southdown. Once more he thanked whatever inspired thought or bit of bad food had driven his sire to scatter TeerClaw’s production and storage facilities around the continent, because TeerClaw Industries had “only” lost twenty employees. Tarkeela’s people found the remains of the shipping facility solely by satellite navigation; the blasts had destroyed even the location marker attached to the building’s foundation. “Well, my lord, no one here suffered,” the lead tech observed, studying the twisted and flattened building.
Tarkeela’s hindfoot flicked a warding-off gesture against bad luck as he agreed. “That is the only blessing. Can we salvage anything?”
Half an hour’s investigation proved that they could not. Nothing remained to be salvaged of the building and its industrial contents, and any bodies would remain where they lay. Tarkeela had already spoken with the survivors of the twenty workers and all had asked that any remains be left in place if possible. “My lord, thank you, but who knows what might come back with Seekl’s body? I have juniors to think of,” one injured female had told her mate’s employer. The grey-brown noble did not argue or try to persuade anyone otherwise. Instead he invited them to join Tarkeela lineage, and all but two families had accepted his offer.
Mindful of the terrible hazards if he tore his equipment or fell, the noble climbed onto a sturdy-looking pile of concrete, stone, and metal rubble to better look around. He’d fought in war and had walked on Shibo as part of his military training. Shibo’s battered surface seemed fertile and friendly compared to the shattered remains of New Southdown. The warm sunlight and beautiful blue sky overhead struck Tarkeela as obscene. The entire planet should be mourning the dead, dying, and maimed! A little whirl of wind picked up the omnipresent black soot and dust, swirling them into a sick parody of a spin-dancer that twisted across the debris. As he stared around, only the lack of debris told Tarkeela where the inner spaceport had been, that and the pattern of shock-damage.
His people had shipped everything out the day before the disaster, leaving the facility empty until the next sixt. But eight reptiles had gone in to clean and do repairs. The other twelve had been rushing to help their work-packsibs when the second and third explosions caught them en route. Tarkeela hung his head for a moment, marveling at their courage. We don’t always live well, he sighed, but damn, we Azdhagi know how to die well. But no one knew why so many had died.
Remote computer logs and e-comm tracks had pinpointed the first explosion’s time and place, but nothing Tarkeela had seen thus far gave any hint as to why Section Two-sixes blew up and took the entire city with it. He made a forefoot negation. Wherever the Azdhagi built their next spaceport, it would never have a city built around it, ever. The King-Emperor and others had made that abundantly clear in their early announcements and statements.
Tarkeela’s techs and a retired Imperial who served as his lead accident investigator had wondered if the storm had triggered a series of accidents that cascaded into the disaster. “I’ve seen odd and read stranger, my lord,” the investigator had shrugged. “That conflagration in Cormal Prime’s industrial district? It started with a lightning bolt that hit a disconnected deflector just after some poor worker dropped a canister of Mallowy fire gas and broke the valve off. And you know about the depot explosion, my lord.”
“My lord,” a voice interrupted Tarkeela’s morose cloud-stalking. “My lord, there’s nothing here we can salvage.” The noble climbed down to meet his workers. “Ah, we found…” the lead tech just pointed with his tail to a worker lighting an incense stick jammed into some twisted metal.
“Thank you, Sarka. Good thought, that.” He waited in silence as the workers offered more incense to the dead. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
They’d walked, carefully, picking their way through the ruins, for a quarter of an hour when Sarka inquired under his breath, “My lord, are they going to try rebuilding or general salvage here?”
“I think not.” Tarkeela turned over what he’d heard and his own plans for several minutes before adding, “Who would work here? The Makers’ lab, the explosions and deaths, if I were superstitious I’d say this is cursed land until enough generations pass that no one remembers what happened.”
“Thank you, my lord. Rumors are floating around and I wanted to be able to pounce and kill them quick. Mind this bit,” Sarka called to the three workers following them. “Loose pave here.”
It took over another quarter hour of scrambling and careful walking to reach their transports. Two TeerClaw employees waited for them, along with another Azdhag. “Yes?” Tarkeela demanded.
The exhausted sounding reptile tried to speak, but began coughing instead. Sarka slapped his back with his tail until the stranger recovered. “Thank you,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I, my lord, please help us, my mate and I and three others, plus some juniors.”
Tarkeela mimed calling for help and one of the drivers slipped around to the vehicle’s door, clambering in quietly to make the transmission. “What do you need?”
“My lord, we just need transport out and a home for the juniors. We adults will make our own way, but the juniors don’t deserve punishment,” the male wheezed before coughing again. Black-tinted spittle dripped from the corner of his muzzle and even the noble knew what that meant. Tarkeela glanced at the vehicle driver, catching the male’s rapid forefoot and tail gestures. Their third vehicle, a second goods carrier, was en route.
“We can get you out, and we will. Do you have a name or lineage?” Sarka promised before Tarkeela could respond. What was the noble to do, say no? Tarkeela’s stomach heaved at the very idea of leaving anyone in this wasteland.
The stranger barked. “Lineage? No. I’m called Tareshah, my mate’s Shahkay. The other adults were members of our temple, and we found the juniors scattered around.” He coughed again, then dropped to his belly in submission, pleading. “Take the juniors, please.”
Tarkeela walked over and draped his tail over the broken reptile. “We’re taking everyone, Tareshah. Tarkeela looks after anyone in need.”
Only later did Tarkeela ask for Tareshah’s story. Now, the three vehicles followed the battered male’s directions to the remains of a temple on the edge of New Southdown. Four adults huddled around nine juniors, all of them staring nervously at the strangers. “Be easy, packsibs,” Tareshah called. “This is Tarkeela and they’ll help the juniors.”
“We are taking all of you,” Tarkeela corrected. “Do any of you need medical attention right now?”
“No, great lord,” a female replied. “Those who did are there,” and she pointed her tail to several fabric-draped bodies.
“Do you know who they were?” one of the workers asked, his tone soothing and calm as he picked up one of the juniors to carry to the cargo vehicle.
The adults made negations and another female, Shahkay, offered, “We found them along our way here, but could not help them. The Temple’s supplies are buried too deep for us to reach.”
As Tarkeela stayed out of the way, Sarka spoke quickly with the stranger adults and his workers. Together they used some of the TeerClaw salvage equipment to lift a bit of wall and roof enough to let Shahkay wiggl
e into the remains of the storage section, passing out water containers and food, along with two bundles of cloth and some medical supplies. And two packets of incense that Tareshah reverently stroked with his forefeet before adding to the cloth bundle. Shahkay asked something and Tareshah hesitated, then approached Tarkeela as he ensured that all the others had found places in the vehicles. “Ah, great lord, may we burn a stick in memory of our wise guide?”
“Of course.” Time was no longer of the essence, so a little delay could do no harm.
Tareshah selected one stick, tucked it into a bit of concrete and stone, lit it and prayed silently. “Thank you, great lord.” None of the reptiles looked back as the small caravan fled the charnel house that had once been New Southdown.
Three days later Tarkeela finally remembered to return Cheerka’s messages. “I’ve been a little busy—lots of scents but no clear tracks,” he excused himself. “What do you have for me?”
The story-catcher refrained from saying “a hide-nipper”. Instead he launched into a recitation of the latest rumors and news, worst first. “First, my lord, that the Clan-kings plotted with someone outside to destroy New Southdown and Central City. The good news is that most people are ignoring that one, but they are using ‘Clan-king’ again and not as a polite term.” He waited until Tarkeela grunted a reply before continuing. “Second, that it was an attempted invasion that got beaten off. Third, that it was a few Clan leaders alone, and you might tell Lord Shu to stay away from Sea Gate and other cities for a while because some people think he’s the instigator if there really was a noble-led plot to destroy the cities.”
“That does not surprise me at all, Cheerka.” Tarkeela gestured with his forefoot, “Would it surprise you to learn that the other lords are keeping Shu quiet?”
“Not in the least, my lord, and good hunting with slow, fat prey to them,” Cheerka smiled. “The most common rumor is that some kind of utterly terrible accident happened, possibly compounded by something the nobles or an outsider did. His Imperial Majesty made a very good choice when he ordered the investigation and recovery to be as open as possible, my lord.”
The noble gestured his agreement. “Have you made any progress on my little project?”
Cheerka hissed through his teeth. “Not yet. I’ve asked quietly, but none of my contacts here can take in any more juniors. Is it true that the True-dragon Houses offered their assistance?”
“With personnel and materials, yes. They won’t take orphaned Azdhagi. Apparently their medical people and ours are not sure what exposure to all that telepathy would do to traumatized minds.” The report had made no sense to Tarkeela, who’d read the important bits and ignored the details.
Cheerka read from his notes, “The news that the new spaceport will be well away from settlements and permanent residences and unrelated businesses forbidden won more support for his Imperial Majesty, Oh, almost forgot,” he looked up and gave Tarkeela a wry look. “Someone—and not me—started a rumor that Four Claws blew up a warehouse at the spaceport because he had not been paid, and that that started the conflagration. Supposedly Four Claws survived, left Central City, and is making his way to Sea Gate. Or to Zhangki City or Nightlast. Or he’s been seen in Cloudwash, threatening some of the mine unions into voting him mayor there.” Cheerka looked smug. “The wagers are running three to one that Four Claws survived, seven to one that he blew up New Southdown, and sixty-six to one that he’s in any of the cities.”
Tarkeela stared at the burly, tan reptile in utter disbelief. Then a laugh, harsh and black, forced its way out of the flabbergasted noble. Once he started, Tarkeela could hardly stop, and Cheerka joined him. Finally he gasped, “Cheerka, you fur-draped monster, that’s horrible.”
“Isn’t it, my lord? And I thought I’d heard some twisted stuff while I was in the Imperials and peacekeepers,” the story-catcher puffed, trying to recover.
“What do you think happened to him?”
Cheerka spread his forefeet as if catching something. “He’s dead. Died tossing some of his whores’ juniors out of their den.” Tarkeela’s jaw started drooping as Cheerka raised a talon, “Really. The building caught fire and the den was on the upper floor with only one exit ramp. Claws managed to get eight or nine juniors out, onto the roof of a building next door, where they could get down to the ground. Then the floor burned through under him. One of the females sent me word.” The story-catcher shrugged his tail. “He was that kind of hunter: took care of his people if they took care of him. The pack protects its own.” That Four Claws had probably bribed or intimidated the building inspectors, code enforcers, contractors, and junior welfare monitors into ignoring the den and the lack of exits or fire-suppression gear wasn’t worth mentioning.
Tarkeela swirled his tail, amazed yet again at what Azdhagi would do to protect juniors. “On more relevant business, Cheerka, the work at Mountains’ Edge has gone much faster and better than anticipated. Winter didn’t hit as hard as forecast, so construction and land clearing finished on or ahead of schedule.” Tarkeela called up a calendar for Cheerka to look at. “I’ve already sent the first part-pack north, and the refugees will go in the next group. Unless you have pressing matters to take care of, I want you in the third part-pack, so you have two moons to get ready to go. Plan on traveling by sea from Sea Gate.”
Two sixts ago Cheerka would have argued and demanded more time at Sea Gate, or at the very least a guarantee that he’d have full comm and news net access before moving. Now, he just wrote everything down and replied, “Very good, my lord. I’ll be ready.”
“Thank you. And now I have to go piss on a grass fire, so to speak. Tarkeela out.” The screen darkened and Cheerka wondered if the noble was joking. The last few days of rain certainly made grassfires hard to start. Cheerka rumpled his tail and turned off the comm unit. He’d sent out his news for the day, so the reptile decided to get some fresh air, perhaps a mug of tea or something stronger, and hunt stories.
Cheerka stayed in the upper third of Sea Gate, away from the main vehicle paths and courses. Even from his small dwelling space he could see a steady flow of hundreds, if not thousands, of cargo vehicles streaming over the hill toward the port. Without New Southdown, everything traveling to the colonies or for export had to go in small cargo aircraft or ground vehicle to a port, then via ship to Nightlast, unless the value or time-sensitive nature justified the cost of direct air transport. Zhangki City absorbed some cargo and even more passengers as the Clans relocated their people, but most people and goods wound up in Sea Gate before going elsewhere. Azdhagi fleeing to the north or just staying with distant kin and Clan members congregated in the lower part of town, and Cheerka had no desire to get caught in another large crowd. Two days after the Disaster, or “That” (as everyone called it), engineers constructed new extended piers at Sea Gate and brought in more automated loaders. The dockworkers didn’t complain, not after a group of angry refugees had formed a silent, solid wall of battered bodies and shattered spirits, surrounding the most vocal opponents of the new equipment and glaring at them.
Cheerka nodded to a few people he recognized and stopped by a terrace park. The terrace parks always took him by surprise. Houses or shops and businesses covered most of the ancient farm fields, carved out of the hillside on platforms of earth, rock, and timber built hundreds if not thousands of years before. A few old fields remained as play places for the younger juniors, those too small for the schools or home learning. As the tan-and-brown male watched, three juniors scampered around playing a chase game, nipping at each other’s tails. Two dams watched the trio. Another forefoot full of juniors, one at that awkward stage in his second growth phase where coordination lagged well behind leg-length, clambered over a stack of climbing logs.
“I hate parks,” a weary female voice stated. Cheerka turned to see a young-looking, pale gray, mated female staring at the juniors with both longing and anger in her eyes. “The parks should be overflowing with juniors and dams. Not anymore, not e
ver again.”
He swirled his forefoot. “Things will improve. They always do, ma’am. The worst will pass with our generation and then juniors will overflow into the walks, tripping everyone.”
She rumpled her tail. “I can’t believe that anymore. The Disaster ended any hope for better.”
“And what says your mate, if I might ask, ma’am?” Her depression worried Cheerka but he couldn’t quite discern the tracks to why.
She looked through Cheerka, somehow, making his spines rise a little. “He was Shu. We had a deathtouched male. Both are dead. There’s no hope for my daughter.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve year-turns, but Shu orders her sterilized. So we’re here, looking for better.”
On impulse, Cheerka invited, “Come north to Mountains’ Edge, the Tarkeela holding. A group leaves in two sixts, and I can get you and your daughter room.”
The female blinked at Cheerka, tipping her head slightly. “How can you? We are corrupted.”
“Lord Tarkeela cares not, nor if you are out-Clan. Here,” and he fished a data card out of a carry-harness pouch. “Contact Sarka. Tell him Cheerka sent you and he’ll get you passage. By my tail tip and talons,” Cheerka swore.
She hesitated, then took the card and tucked it safely into her carry-bag. “Are you of Tarkeela Half-clan?”
“Not by birth but by choice. Our pack takes care of its own, ma’am.” With that he walked off, leaving her to stare first at the juniors and then at the departing stranger. Cheerka hoped she’d take his offer. His thoughts turned dark as he wound his way up to his now-favorite drinking spot. Had the Lone God created Lord Shu without a conscience and sense of morals, or had the fur-bearing storm-catch paid a medic to excise them like a back-grown talon? Cheerka knew about Shu’s “generous offer” to his people through Tarkeela, who had sworn him to silence. Although, the universe seemed to hate Shu as much as Cheerka did: of all the Clan Lords, Shu had suffered the greatest loss in personnel, goods, and property in the Disaster. Not Clan Shu, but the noble personally, because much of the cost came straight from Shu’s individual accounts. Cheerka felt a vicious smile creeping along his muzzle and erased it before some passerby saw it and panicked.
