Star Hunters

by Clayton, Jo;

  Kitosime’s shoulders ached and her voice grew hoarse. Her hand moved around the circle again. Again she repeated the names. A spark lighted suddenly in the smaller boy’s eyes. He jumped to his feet and waited impatiently for her finger to come back to him and her voice to make the sound. “Wame,” she whispered.

  He beat excitedly on his chest and nodded. He took a step toward her, still nodding. The other two tried to come with him, but he pushed them back and came eagerly up to her.

  Shaking with triumph and tiredness she poured milk into one of the mugs and handed it to him, then gave him a sandwich, suppressing a shudder of distaste at the sight of his cracked fingernails, black with old dirt, and at a wicked half-healed scratch spiraling up his bone-thin arm.

  He squatted beside her gulping the milk and nearly choking on the meat and bread. Kitosime closed her eyes a moment, then began the tedious naming once again.

  The girl responded next, snatched the food and darted across the court to sit in the shadows on the far side, close to the arch where she felt more secure.

  The oldest boy was the last, perhaps because he was older than the others and had spent the most time in the wild forgetting speech. Kitosime watched him, speaking the name she’d given him over and over, hoping for the slightest spark of understanding. Wondering, as she voiced the word, why wildings didn’t speak. As far as she knew no one had ever asked himself that question or attempted to find the answer. It was a part of the shame of going wild, a part of returning to the animal. They could speak once. Why did they stop?

  Finally the boy stepped forward. She couldn’t be sure whether he really grasped the idea that Amea was his name, a sound belonging to him alone, or only responded when she called him because there was no one else left. He took the bread and milk and squatted beside Wame.

  Both boys crammed their mouths full, gulped at the milk, the excess dribbling from the corners of their working mouths. Across the court the girl ate just as avidly at first, then glancing repeatedly at Kitosime out of shy-sly dark eyes, she disciplined her hunger and ate in quick small bites, quiet and neat.

  Kitosime rose cautiously and moved slowly back into the house for a basin of warm water, some towels and a bar of soap. She settled herself back on the bottom step and waited until the wildings finished their food. Then she called them. Once again Wame was the first to respond. She took his hand gently. Then she began sponging away the grime and stains from his soft young skin.

  He projected PLEASURE. and bent down so she could wash his face.

  S’kiliza came eagerly to be washed, not waiting to be called. She thrust out grubby hands and projected DESIRE. And sighed with pleasure. And projected PLEASURE, once her hands, arms and face were clean. Amea wouldn’t let Kitosime touch him, but he did take the rags and soap and wash himself.

  Kitosime stood and walked slowly up onto the porch. No turning back, she thought. She pushed open the door and turned to face the children. Fumbling at old barriers she struggled to project INVITATION/REASSURANCE to them. They watched her silently. “Trust me,” she said huskily. “Look, I’ll wedge the door open.” She knelt, found the triangular bit of wood kept next to the wall and shoved it under the door. Then she stood and tugged at the edge of the door, showing them how solidly it was braced open. “You’ll be free to come and go.” She noted briefly how much speaking aloud sharpened the REASSURANCE she was still trying to project. “Come in,” she repeated. “There’s no one here but my son and I and fee’s asleep. You don’t have to be afraid.” As she spoke she moved away from the great hall.

  When she reached the foot of the stairs, Wame slid inside. Amea followed. After another minute S’kiliza came cringing in, terrified to the point of paralysis but driven by a desire almost as powerful. Kitosime went lightly up the stairs bubbling with joy and triumph. At the third landing she looked behind. Three shadows were creeping up the steps behind her. Laughing with delight, she ran up the last two flights to the dormitories tucked under the roof.

  The children’s place. After she left her baby crib she’d slept here until her marriage. Leaving the door open, she went to the long row of chests lined up under the windows. As she rummaged through the children’s clothing left behind when the Kisima went, the wildings came shyly in. She pulled put smocks and shorts for them, even for S’kiliza. A dress-cloth would not be practical for the wild.

  With a gasp of joy, S’kiliza ran into the room. She tore off her rags and pulled the smock over her head. With the shorts crumpled in her hand, she streaked out of the room. Kitosime could hear the soft thuds of her feet on the stairs. The boys snatched up the rest of the clothing and ran after her.

  Kitosime went slowly down the stairs. She was tired, her legs were shaking, there was a swimming in her head. But she felt a thing unfolding and unfolding within her until she filled the house, went beyond the house, filled the whole present, went beyond the present time into the mythic time with no past, present or future.

  She stepped into the sunlight. After the still darkness of the house, the green cool breeze and the brilliance of the sun shattered the wholeness of her skin. Then she was only herself, standing on the porch looking into the silent empty courtyard. The children had vanished. Into the juapepo again. What there was left of it. She closed her eyes and tried to project, remembering and envying the quick fluidity of the children’s communication. She felt locked in her head, as if she were suddenly dumb. She tried again, fighting repression, projected WELCOME. And felt the feeble effort drop like a stone into the dust. She remembered her sense that the projections sharpened with speech so she tried again, calling the words into the empty space, letting her hope try to lift the feeling farther. “Come back, please. The door is open. You are welcome, children, my children. You are loved.” For a moment she felt, or thought she felt, a fleeting response.

  She went back inside to get Hodarzu out of bed and start getting herself settled in the house.

  The groups of men standing around in front of the Tembeat compound were bigger on the third day. And they were silent. They walked up and down on the hard-packed earth outside the gates. No muttering. No shouts. No obscenities. And no threats. But the air stank of hatred and rage. That morning the Director stopped the apprentice whose watch it was and sent him back to the public rooms inside the main building. He climbed the ladder, limping a little because an old wound hi his leg had begun to bother him again. He sent away the boy on duty and stood behind the closed shutters looking down through the louver slits at the men below. He stayed there around half an hour, then climbed down, sweating and shaking, his nerves plucked raw. Ignoring the greetings of the walimsh and the apprentices, he went into his rooms and locked the door. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling and tried to find a way to escape what he knew was coming. How long? he thought. The boys. What am I going to do about the boys? Got to get them out of here. His leg ached. He sat up and massaged the scar, remembering the chul cat that made it a long, long time ago.

  Out on the street two men threw their shoulders against the gate, recoiled with grunts, shoved again. More men joined them until the massive gate was shuddering against the bar.

  Umeme forced himself out of his room. He pushed against the flood of mob-rage, silent and stifling. The air felt thick. When he breathed he felt like panting; there was no life in the air he breathed. He pulled himself up the ladder and looked down at the men throwing themselves against the gate and the others silent and expectant, ready to roll in once the gate was down. He turned and fled, down the ladder and across the court. Into the main building. To the Director’s room. He banged on the door and called out. Banged again.

  The Director snatched the door open and glared at him.

  “They’re breaking the gate down,” Umeme said breathlessly. “It won’t last another quarter hour.”

  The old man closed his eyes. He seemed to shrink. Then he straightened his body and opened his eyes. “Get the students together in the Long Room. Apprentices and nov
ices both.” His voice was crisp, precise. “Ten minutes. Have them there. You seen walim Agoteh?” When Umeme shook his head, the Director frowned. “Find him. Send him to me. Here. Then wait for me in the Long Room. Got that? Then get!”

  Umeme darted off, relieved to have something definite to do.

  Ten minutes later the Director limped into the room. The students fell silent and sat staring at him. Fifteen pairs of eyes in puzzled apprehensive faces. “You’re getting out of here.” Mouths opened to protest. “Shut up. No time to argue. Walim Agoteh is waiting for you in the stable loft. He’ll take you onto the roof and slip you into the Chwereva complex.” His lined, hairy face was grim. “Chwereva will kick you out if they see you. Don’t let them. Understand?”

  Umeme burst out, “What about you, Mzee? And the Walimsh?”

  “Not your business.” The Director tugged at his beard. “We’ll do what we have to. Umeme, you’re in charge. See that these cubs keep heads down. Got it? Good. When this mess is over, get them someplace safe. You hear? Long as you—all of you—live, the Tembeat lives. All right. Get!”

  The Director watched the boys file out. Umeme was last. The boy hesitated, saluted and hurried away. The old man sighed. The end of what he’d tried to build here. He went briskly out to organize what defense he could against the madness that was coming.

  Grey felt the tickle in his brain an hour before sunset. He glanced at Faiseh. The Ranger nodded. “Coming up,” he said. “We got to go around and hope Haribu don’t notice us.”

  He turned off the road and began circling to the east, moving away from the river. The groundcar whined and bucked and several times labored so slowly along that Faiseh began muttering and glancing about, his face worried. A small herd of hares moved past, sharp square teeth tearing at the sparse vegetation. They looked lean and bedraggled; their ears drooped limply; they ignored the car in their intent search for food. Faiseh’s mouth closed tightly. The ends of his mustache pushed down. He stared straight ahead and nursed the car along.

  Grey watched the Jinolima mountains come closer as the car got closer to Kiwanji. The city was set at the upper end of the long oval valley, with the mountains rising behind it in waves of blue to meet the paler green of the sky. More small groups of hares rocked past them. Grey examined them with interest. “They look half-starved.”

  Faiseh grunted. “Don’t think about them. Better not to talk at all. Haribu.”

  To the west Grey could see a shimmering haze, vaguely dome-shaped and barely visible. Kiwanji. The psi-screen. Already faltering. Grey scowled. This was a damn disorganized hunt. Not going to try this again. Hunt alone or not at all.

  Faiseh begin to turn west again. Grey thought about Aleytys and wondered what she was doing. Should be starting out by now. He leaned back. Yes, she’s moving. Northeast. Good. The dark shoulders of the ship were coming up now over the scrubby juapepo. He relaxed and nearly fell asleep as Faiseh pushed the laboring car along.

  There were no hares left around the field. Faiseh sighed with relief and let the car’s motor die. It shuddered, gasped and banged down hard on the metacrete. The two men crawled out. Grey stretched and groaned then started toward the ship. “Come on,” he told Faiseh. “I want to be inside when your friend Haribu takes the bait.”

  Faiseh looked nervously at the ship. “Never been in one of those.”

  Grey smiled. “Nothing hard about it. Remember the first time you climbed on a faras?”

  Faiseh chuckled. “If that’s supposed to.…” His mouth dropped open.

  A tall thin man stepped around the curve of the ship. Grotesquely thin. Shimmering like a column of brushed steel in pewter-colored tunic and pipe-stem trousers. He had brilliant red hair and paper-white skin. His greenstone eyes moved from the Ranger to the Hunter “You took your time.”

  Grey clasped his hands behind his back. “Faiseh, seen anything like him before?” Casually he moved a few steps away from the Ranger.

  Faiseh snorted. “He sure’s not watuk.” He strolled toward the stranger, grinning amiably.

  “Think I heard him described awhile back.” Grey unsnapped the holster flap and took out his darter. “He was painted up like a watuk then.”

  The thin man smiled tensely. “That won’t work.” His voice was like a velvet caress.

  “Easy to say.” Grey touched the trigger sensor and knew immediately the darter was dead in his hand. Faiseh’s simpler weapon phutted, but the thin man fanned an arm through the air, knocking the darts aside with contemptuous ease. Grey dropped the gun and sprang at the stranger, the hand with the stunner implants darting for the side of the stringy neck.

  He saw too late the exoskeleton plating the fingers of the withered hands and cupping around the back of the head. His hand slammed against the metal and slid over it; the jolt from the biologic stunner flowed uselessly off along the surface of the skeleton. He twisted desperately as the long narrow hand flicked toward him, its speed blurring its outlines. Pain jarred through him. He stumbled, fell to his knees beside the body of the Ranger, saw the foot coming at him and rolled desperately away.

  The man was on him then, feet slamming into him. He caught glimpses of the smiling face as he scrambled away from a punishment that was turning his body into mush. A sense of futility began to drain away his resolution. He just had time for a fleeting regret about Aleytys walking into a trap without the backup she needed before there was a final explosion of pain.

  Chapter XIII

  Kitosime eased out of the barn trying to keep the yoked buckets steady. I was harder than it looked since they had a tendency to start swinging in off-balance circles. She put a hand on the ropes and took a cautious step down the path to the house, hardly daring to breathe. She remembered the boundwoman Drinnis trotting along this path a dozen times each milking, laughing and calling jokes to the other milk-women. Sometimes Kitosime wondered if she’d ever move with that spontaneous joy in the body after the years of smothering. Or FEEL with the rapid rippling fluidity of the wildings after the years of denial.

  Milk splashed on her foot. She stopped, steadied the buckets, trying to hold the yoke rigidly horizontal. She’d have bruises on her shoulders and hands tomorrow. She glanced up at the sun. The western sky was greening, only the top of Jua Churukuu still visible above the emwilea hedge. The day was almost gone. As the buckets quieted, she stood smiling at the twilight shadows in the kitchen garden, saved from the hares by the high stone walls around it, stood breathing in the pungency of the herbs growing beside her feet. Stood delighting in the silence and solitude.

  She’d worried about that on the way out here, worried about being alone. Foolish, she thought. She laughed and the sound rang pleasantly in her ears. She settled the yoke on her shoulders and walked through the lengthening shadows toward the kitchen door. Her muscles were relaxed now; she fell into a steady rhythm without thinking of it and moved lightly along the tiled walk.

  In the kitchen she set the buckets down beside the door leading down to the cold cellar. Then stood looking around the room. What to do for supper? She was getting very tired of meat and cheese meals and Hodarzu should have hot food. She poked at the beans simmering in a pot at the back of the wood stove. Sitting there since morning and still hard as rocks. How long did it take to cook the cursed things? Maybe some soup. Meat from the cold cellar and vegetables from the garden. The thought made her mouth water. She rummaged through the pets and pans, found one that looked suitable, filled it with water. She mangled off some chunks of dried meat, enough to cover the bottom, then went out to see what she could find in the garden.

  She had to light the kitchen lamps before she finished washing and chopping up the vegetables for the soup. She dumped everything into the pot, added a pinch of salt and some herbs, then set the pot on the simmer shelf beside the beans. She stood back and frowned at it. “I hope you cook a little faster,” she said, giving the bean pot a dubious look.

  Hodarzu, she thought. Time to bring him in. She’d lef
t him playing in the water garden. Patting a yawn, she slumped through the house. She was pleasantly and thoroughly tired; she’d worked her body harder today than ever before. But her mind was calm. All day she’d felt her nerves relaxing, nerves drawn taut so long that she’d almost forgotten now to relax. She moved through the conference room and out the long doors into the garden. “Hodarzu, time to come in, baby.” When there was no answer, she called again, louder this time, “Hodarzu!”

  The garden was empty. A little worried, but not greatly troubled, she went back through the house, calling her son. No answer. She pushed open the front door, frowning. If he was here, he was going to get his bottom spanked. She didn’t want him playing around the Mother Well. She walked to the edge of the porch and looked around.

  The wilding children were flitting about the courtyard like ragged brown leaves in an eerily silent game of tag that looked more like a wild witch dance than any child’s game. And Hodarzu was running with them. The courtyard was filled with snippets of silent laughter and good-natured taunting. They touched and leaped apart following rules she couldn’t understand.

  “Ah no. Ah no. Ah no. No!” Radiating FEAR, HORROR, ANGER, Kitosime stumbled down the stairs reaching for her son. “No. You won’t be wild. Noooo.…” Her foot caught in the hem of the dresscloth and she fell headlong on the tiles. For a moment shock paralyzed her, then she scrambled frantically to her feet and searched for her son.

  The children had stopped their game, turned to face her briefly, mouths open in silent screams. As she fell, they wheeled and fled through the arch. Hodarzu fled with them. Kitosime ran to the arch, limping and awkward from the developing pain in her body. She stood rigid in the arch staring out at the silent empty fields, drowning in pain and fear, not her own fear alone, but the memory of the children’s fear, of her own son’s fear.

  She walked heavily to the steps and sat down, looking slowly and blindly around. My fault, she thought. My own stupid fault. I drove them off. Hodarzu.… She was too shocked to cry.