Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  But why wo­uld an­yo­ne ne­ed one of the bul­ki­er, mo­re ex­pen­si­ve sur­vi­val su­its just to go out for a mid­day ja­unt? A sim­p­ler, che­aper, dis­po­sab­le day­su­it wo­uld ser­ve per­fectly well.

  For a day.

  He star­ted to shi­ver. “We’re go­ing to ha­ve to risk bat­hing in a shal­low part of the po­ol. Ne­ar the far ed­ge.” He nod­ded. “The wa­ter tem­pe­ra­tu­re is to­le­rab­le the­re.”

  “For the mo­ment and bar­ring any tec­to­nic sur­p­ri­ses,” she res­pon­ded. “But su­re, let’s risk that. You can go first.”

  “We’ll step in to­get­her.” He re­vi­sed his sug­ges­ti­on.

  “Not a chan­ce, Arik. If you sud­denly start to co­ok, I ne­ed to be ab­le to pull you out. And vi­ce ver­sa when it’s my turn.” She eyed him evenly. “And don’t say an­y­t­hing to me abo­ut how ro­man­tic a mu­tu­al dip wo­uld be. I’m not in the mo­od.”

  Their pre­sent si­tu­ati­on was not, he de­ci­ded, what was ge­ne­ral­ly me­ant when a re­la­ti­on­s­hip was des­c­ri­bed as blo­wing hot and cold. He ed­ged over un­til he was sit­ting up aga­inst her. His left arm went aro­und her sho­ul­der.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay? The in­for­ma­ti­on fi­le on this world sa­id the oce­ans he­re ne­ver melt. Not­hing was sa­id abo­ut ke­eping an eye out for li­qu­id wa­ter in the vi­ci­nity of vol­ca­nic ac­ti­vity.” He hug­ged her. This ti­me she le­aned in­to him in­s­te­ad of away, which was en­co­ura­ging. Or may­be she was just lo­oking for a lit­tle ex­t­ra warmth.

  “We’re go­ing to die,” she re­ite­ra­ted glumly. “Mar­ri­ed less than two months and I’m go­ing to die.”

  “Someone will find us. They must ha­ve star­ted se­ar­c­hing this mor­ning, even in this we­at­her, and-”

  As if in di­rect res­pon­se to his en­co­ura­ging words a sha­pe ap­pe­ared out­si­de the en­t­ran­ce to the ca­ve. Sprin­ging to his fe­et and ben­ding over to avo­id bum­ping in­to the low ce­iling, he star­ted ex­ci­tedly for­ward.

  “See, I told you!” he cal­led back to the equ­al­ly ex­ci­ted Jen. “Ever­y­t­hing’ll be all right now. Hey!” Slip­ping his glo­ves back on and re­se­aling them to the wrists of the day­su­it he star­ted for­ward whi­le wa­ving his hands. “Hey, we’re in he­re! We’re okay!” Be­hind him, Jen was has­tily clim­bing in­to her own su­it.

  The sha­pe stop­ped and tur­ned to lo­ok at him. It was a big man. No, he qu­ickly cor­rec­ted him­self, it was big­ger than a man. Its ven­t­ral si­de nar­ro­wed to a sharp V-sha­pe whe­re bo­ne had fu­sed to form a so­lid ke­el. A pa­ir of legs on eit­her si­de re­sem­b­led ha­iry flip­pers that ter­mi­na­ted in dow­n­ward-cur­ving do­ub­le spi­kes. The­re was no neck. Jut­ting out from the sto­ut cylin­d­ri­cal body, the ta­pe­ring he­ad ter­mi­na­ted in a wi­de, flat mo­uth su­itab­le for snat­c­hing things off the ice. The jaws we­re fil­led with cur­ved, ho­ok­li­ke te­eth that po­in­ted in all di­rec­ti­ons, de­sig­ned to im­pa­le and hold squ­ir­ming, fast-mo­ving prey. Pro­tec­ted by do­ub­le tran­s­pa­rent eye­lids, both pa­le gre­en eyes fo­cu­sed avidly on Arik.

  Behind him Jen in­ha­led sharply. Ne­it­her of them had any idea what the cre­atu­re was. They did not re­mem­ber it from the very li­mi­ted gu­ide. Evol­ved to li­ve and thri­ve on na­ked ice, Tran-ky-ky’s fa­una was as exo­tic as its flo­ra. From the lo­ok of it, this par­ti­cu­lar car­ni­vo­re pro­bably tra­ve­led by lying on its ska­te­li­ke ke­el bo­ne and pul­ling it­self for­ward by jam­ming its cram­po­nish flip­per-spi­kes in­to the ice. That it co­uld al­so drag it­self for­ward on so­lid gro­und was self-evi­dent from the way it now be­gan to pull it­self in­to the ca­ve. It was li­kely, Arik de­ci­ded as he ret­re­ated, that the me­na­cing be­ast was not ne­arly as agi­le on land as it was out on the open ice.

  It was, ho­we­ver, plenty big eno­ugh to com­p­le­tely block the only exit.

  As it sho­ved its he­ad far­t­her in­to the ca­ve ope­ning it emit­ted a de­ep, re­ver­be­rant mo­an that so­un­ded mo­re li­ke the cry of so­met­hing gi­ving birth sub­se­qu­ent to a de­la­yed preg­nancy than it did a pre­da­tory chal­len­ge.

  “Do so­met­hing!” Jen yel­led as she hur­ri­edly re­se­aled her glo­ves.

  Keeping one eye on the lur­c­hing, ad­van­cing pre­da­tor, Arik se­ar­c­hed the ca­ve as he con­ti­nu­ed to back up. They had no we­apons. What wo­uld an­yo­ne ne­ed with we­apons on a one-day sig­h­t­se­e­ing trip? It was a mo­ot reg­ret. Even if they had bro­ught one along it wo­uld ha­ve go­ne down on the ice­bo­at with the rest of the­ir equ­ip­ment.

  Jen pic­ked up a rock and threw it. It pro­du­ced a re­ver­be­rant thunk as it struck the in­t­ru­der, the sa­me kind of dull so­und she had he­ard when she had on­ce be­en for­ced to slap an over-amo­ro­us dol­p­hin.

  The sto­ne bo­un­ced off the car­ni­vo­re exactly as if it had hit a hunk of so­lid rub­ber. Hac­king up anot­her eager mo­an, the cre­atu­re con­ti­nu­ed to drag it­self de­eper in­to the ca­ve. Its bulk sco­ured gra­vel and rock dust from the walls. The­re was no pos­sib­le way they co­uld get aro­und it.

  “Keep the po­ol bet­we­en it and us!” Arik had ret­re­ated to jo­in Jen and ta­ke her hand. He squ­e­ezed it firmly and she rep­li­ed in kind. “It’s adap­ted to per­ma­nent cold, so it might avo­id the hot wa­ter. If it co­mes at us from the left, we go right. If it co­mes right, we ma­ke a run for it aro­und the ot­her si­de of the po­ol.”

  “Great,” she com­men­ted dryly. “Then what?”

  Then - they wo­uld be out­si­de, he re­ali­zed. In the­ir fa­iling day­su­its. Co­uld the cre­atu­re run them down? And if so, wo­uld it start to con­su­me them be­fo­re they fro­ze and di­ed?

  Arching back its he­ad, the in­t­ru­der bel­lo­wed sharply. It was a com­p­le­tely dif­fe­rent so­und from the en­t­hu­si­as­tic mo­aning it had be­en emit­ting thus far. The so­ur­ce of the cry so­on be­ca­me ap­pa­rent.

  First one spe­ar, then a se­cond, then two mo­re struck the ani­mal from be­hind, the sharp po­ints dri­ving de­eply in­to the thickly in­su­la­ted flesh. As the be­le­agu­ered cre­atu­re ro­ared and bel­lo­wed in pa­in it roc­ked back and forth aga­inst the walls of the ca­ve. Sto­ne shards and ice crystals bro­ke lo­ose. The cre­atu­re’s dying ca­cop­hony was aw­ful to he­ar. A dust clo­ud of pul­ve­ri­zed rock fil­led the ca­vity that ho­used the po­ol, ca­using both hu­mans to bre­ak out co­ug­hing.

  It to­ok twenty mi­nu­tes for the em­bat­tled car­ni­vo­re to die. Then all was si­lent ex­cept for the hot spring’s per­sis­tent bub­bling and the whi­ne of the wind out­si­de.

  Waving dust away from his fa­ce, Arik ad­van­ced ca­uti­o­usly to­ward the exit. So­met­hing he co­uld not see was pul­ling the now de­ce­ased be­ast bac­k­wards and out of the ca­ve. He stra­ined for a bet­ter lo­ok.

  “It’s okay,” he told Jen. “I can co­unt spe­ars stic­king out of it.” His he­art le­aped. “It has to be the na­ti­ves. We’re sa­ved!”

  There we­re half a do­zen of them; tall, den­sely fur­red, dres­sed in he­avy, well-ma­de clot­hing fas­hi­oned of wind-bre­aking le­at­hers and the cu­red skins of les­ser fa­una. Lar­ge furry ears stuck out from the si­des of the­ir he­ads whi­le oval cat­li­ke eyes ga­zed in­to the wind from be­hind do­ub­le lids. Two of them bo­as­ted be­ards that blen­ded wit­ho­ut a bre­ak in­to the fur that co­ve­red the­ir elon­ga­ted fa­ces. The mem­b­ra­no­us dan that for­med wind-cat­c­hing wings hung limp from wrists to wa­ists.

  Sharp kni­ves emer­ged from scab­bards and flas­hed in the bril­li­ant sun­light as they be­gan to cut up the de­ad car­ni­vo­re. Sun­light glin­ted off the ex­ten­ded, bac­k­ward cur­ving claws o
n the­ir fe­et. Cal­led chiv, the­se re­mar­kab­le evo­lu­ti­onary adap­ta­ti­ons al­lo­wed the Tran to ska­te on the­ir ba­re fe­et ac­ross the en­d­less ex­pan­ses of ice.

  Arik was so re­li­eved to see them that when he hur­ri­ed out­si­de he did not even bot­her to snap down his pro­tec­ti­ve fa­ce shi­eld. “Hel­lo, hel­lo! O’Mo­ri­on, are we glad to see you! We’ve be­en stuck he­re for-”

  The fist that struck him was as un­yi­el­ding as it was unex­pec­ted. When his mo­men­ta­rily blur­red vi­si­on cle­ared aga­in it was to re­ve­al two of the na­ti­ves stan­ding over him, swords drawn. Pi­er­cing eyes that we­re fe­li­ne yet ali­en bo­red in­to his own. He ig­no­red the chill that was cre­eping over his fa­ce.

  “Hey, what’s the idea? What…?” He star­ted to ri­se.

  One of the Tran put a fo­ot on his chest and sho­ved. Gently, or the trip­le ra­zor-sharp chiv on the bot­tom of his fo­ot wo­uld ha­ve sli­ced in­to the hu­man’s day­su­it. The pa­ir of ar­med lo­cals be­gan chat­te­ring ani­ma­tedly among them­sel­ves. Tho­ugh Arik knew not­hing of the lo­cal lan­gu­age, the to­ne of the na­ti­ves’ con­ver­sa­ti­on did not stri­ke him as cor­di­al.

  “Arik!”

  Looking to his right he saw that two mo­re of them we­re drag­ging Jen out of the ca­ve. She’d had the fo­re­sight to flip down her fa­ce shi­eld. Be­hind her the re­ma­ining pa­ir of Tran con­ti­nu­ed to work on the car­cass of the de­ad pre­da­tor.

  “Keep calm,” he cal­led to her. He tho­ught fran­ti­cal­ly back to what he had re­ad of this world. Des­pi­te its re­cent ap­pli­ca­ti­on for as­so­ci­ate Com­mon­we­alth mem­ber­s­hip, many of the na­ti­ves of Tran-ky-ky still li­ved in a se­mi­fe­udal so­ci­ety. It was sa­id that the­re still re­ma­ined a num­ber to be con­vin­ced of the be­ne­fits of Com­mon­we­alth mem­ber­s­hip. Not all had vo­ted in fa­vor of it.

  Could it be, he fo­und him­self thin­king une­asily, that tho­se who had lan­ded on the is­land might just pos­sibly fall in­to the lat­ter so­ci­al gro­up?

  With only pri­mi­ti­ve bla­des at the­ir dis­po­sal two of them we­re ra­pidly re­du­cing the re­ma­ins of the de­ad car­ni­vo­re to chops, ste­aks, and the equ­iva­lent of lo­cal cuts. Ste­am ro­se from the ga­ping, di­sem­bo­we­led cor­p­se. Wo­uld he and Jen be next?

  After cle­aning his bla­de in the snow and then wi­ping it dry aga­inst his gray jer­kin, the tal­lest Tran scab­bar­ded it and wal­ked over to ga­ze down at the hu­mans. As the ali­en ap­pro­ac­hed, Jen step­ped slightly be­hind her hus­band whe­re he lay on the gro­und. They eyed the na­ti­ves wa­rily. Af­ter in­s­pec­ting them both, the kni­fe wi­el­der fo­cu­sed yel­low eyes on Arik. At a ges­tu­re, the Tran with a fo­ot on the hu­man’s chest step­ped back and al­lo­wed him to stand.

  “I hight Sig­nur Draz-ho­de.” Tho­ugh he so­un­ded as if he was tal­king with a mo­ut­h­ful of mo­las­ses, the Tran’s ter­ran­g­lo was qu­ite in­tel­li­gib­le. With a cla­wed hand he in­di­ca­ted his com­pa­ni­ons. As he ra­ised his arm, his right dan un­fur­led li­ke half a tran­s­lu­cent ca­pe “We are kur­gals of the Vi­rin Clan.” Le­aning for­ward, he stu­di­ed the two hu­mans mo­re clo­sely. “Tho­ugh you ha­ve not the lo­ok of in­va­ders, that do­es not ab­sol­ve you.”

  “Invaders?” Be­hind her fa­ce shi­eld, Jen blin­ked. “We’re not in­va­ders.”

  “We’re to­urists,” Arik ad­ded hel­p­ful­ly.

  “’Tourists’?” The Vi­rin Sig­nur Draz-ho­de’s com­mand of ter­ran­g­lo was not per­fect.

  “Visitors,” Jen ex­p­la­ined. “Sig­h­t­se­ers. Ca­su­al tra­ve­lers who are he­re for only a day to see so­me of yo­ur uni­que world. To enj­oy its ice oce­ans and snow-co­ve­red mo­un­ta­ins, its plant and ani­mal li­fe.” Ma­in­ta­ining a smi­le, she nod­ded in the di­rec­ti­on of the gut­ted, ste­aming car­cass ne­arby. “Li­ke that.”

  Straightening, Draz-ho­de tur­ned in­to the wind to eye the cor­p­se. Fully adap­ted to the un­re­len­ting cli­ma­te, he ne­eded no fa­ce shi­eld. “A so­dj? The­re is not­hing uni­que abo­ut a so­dj. Even in tas­te it is or­di­nary. But it was the best we co­uld find on this hun­ting jo­ur­ney.” He lo­oked back at her. “Until now.”

  “Until…?” She swal­lo­wed hard. “You’re-you’re go­ing to eat us?”

  It to­ok a mo­ment for the Tran to dis­sol­ve the hu­man words in his mind. When he fi­nal­ly did, he how­led with la­ug­h­ter. At le­ast, Arik as­su­med it was la­ug­h­ter. It cer­ta­inly was a howl. When the Tran tran­s­la­ted for his hun­ting com­pa­ni­ons, they promptly mi­mic­ked his vo­ca­li­za­ti­on. To Arik it so­un­ded li­ke a cho­rus of te­nors war­ming up for a con­cert by en­ga­ging in a co­ug­hing con­test.

  Eventually Draz-ho­de re­co­ve­red suf­fi­ci­ently to re­gard the fe­ma­le hu­man on­ce mo­re. “We might - la­ter. For now, we ha­ve the so­dj. You are in­va­ders. You co­me to our world and turn ever­y­t­hing up­si­de town. You in­sist we ma­ke a go­ver­n­ment not of pe­op­les and clans but of all mi­xed to­get­her wit­ho­ut re­gard to his­tory or ho­nor. You tram­p­le tra­di­ti­on un­der yo­ur soft, chiv-less fe­et!”

  “We don’t,” Jen ar­gu­ed as for­ce­ful­ly as she da­red. “We don’t tram­p­le an­y­t­hing. We’re not po­li­ti­ci­ans. We’re just to­urists.”

  “You’ll be bet­ter off as ci­ti­zens of the Com­mon­we­alth,” Arik co­uld not re­sist sa­ying. “You’ll ha­ve mo­dern con­ve­ni­en­ces, me­di­ci­ne, tec­h­no­logy, ex­po­su­re to the arts and cul­tu­re of ot­her ra­ces-”

  Draz- hode in­ter­rup­ted him ro­ughly. “Who as­ked for the things of which you spe­ak? Not I. Not the Vi­rin. Yet yo­ur al­li­es and our tra­di­ti­onal ene­mi­es try to for­ce them upon us. So be it. The Vi­rin can adapt to new cir­cum­s­tan­ces wit­ho­ut fo­re­go­ing the old. You wish to see so­me of our ‘uni­que’ world? You will be gi­ven that op­por­tu­nity.” He ad­ded so­met­hing in the gut­tu­ral yet at­trac­ti­ve lo­cal ton­gue.

  His com­pa­ni­ons ca­me for­ward. Using cord wo­ven from strips of pi­ka-pe­dan they se­cu­red the pri­so­ners’ arms be­hind the­ir backs. One of the na­ti­ves auto­ma­ti­cal­ly star­ted to furl the dan he ex­pec­ted to see run­ning from Arik’s wa­ist up to his arm be­fo­re re­mem­be­ring that hu­mans did not pos­sess the to­ugh mem­b­ra­ne that al­lo­wed the Tran to spe­ed ac­ross the ice with only the wind at the­ir backs to pro­pel them.

  “What are you go­ing to do with us?” a wor­ri­ed Arik as­ked the­ir cap­tor.

  Draz- hode did not he­si­ta­te. “Ran­som. It is an old and ve­ne­rab­le cus­tom among our kind. We will find out if it ope­ra­tes si­mi­larly among yo­ur pe­op­le.” He ex­po­sed sharp te­eth. “Call it cul­tu­ral ex­c­han­ge.”

  “We’ve tra­ve­led he­re on our own,” Jen put in. “It wo­uld ta­ke a long ti­me to work out the de­ta­ils of such a tra­de.”

  Walking up to the fe­ma­le hu­man, Draz-ho­de bent for­ward so that his fa­ce was clo­se to hers. For a se­cond ti­me, he sho­wed his te­eth. “In that even­tu­ality we will find out how you tas­te. If it turns out that you are not worth mo­ney, you will still be va­lu­ab­le as fo­od.”

  As he and Jen we­re mar­c­hed down the une­ven slo­pe to­ward the wa­iting ice­bo­at Arik no­ted that the­ir cap­tors did not bind the­ir legs. The­re was no ne­ed. If they did so­me­how ma­na­ge to es­ca­pe they co­uld not pos­sibly walk all the way back to Brass Mon­key. They co­uld not walk, pe­ri­od. Un­li­ke the Tran who­se ra­zor-sharp chiv prot­ru­ded from the un­der­si­des of the­ir fe­et, the bo­ots he and Jen we­re we­aring wo­uld find them slip­ping and sli­ding all over the ice if they tri­ed to hi­ke mo­re than a few me­ters.

  Thei
r cap­tors’ ice­bo­at was con­si­de­rably big­ger than his and Jen’s day ren­tal. It had a hig­her mast, a cru­de bow­s­p­rit equ­ip­ped with a fo­res­he­et, a pi­ka-pe­dan ra­iling, and a much lar­ger cen­t­ral ca­bin. Es­sen­ti­al­ly an ar­row­he­ad-sha­ped raft mo­un­ted on run­ners of cut and po­lis­hed sto­ne, it al­so fe­atu­red a po­in­ted stern to which a fo­urth run­ner was at­tac­hed. Un­li­ke the three for­ward run­ners that we­re fi­xed in po­si­ti­on, the one aft was at­tac­hed to a til­ler that ser­ved to ste­er the craft.

  With pro­por­ti­ona­tely lon­ger arms than a hu­man, the le­an and mus­cu­lar Vi­rin had no tro­ub­le ha­uling the­ir pri­so­ners up on­to the open raft. On­ce all we­re abo­ard, the sin­g­le squ­are sa­il was let out. As so­on as the bo­at cle­ared the lee of the is­land and en­co­un­te­red a ste­ady bre­eze it be­gan to ra­pidly pick up spe­ed.

  “Don’t worry,” Arik whis­pe­red to his new wi­fe. “One of the se­arch par­ti­es will find us.”

  She gla­red mo­odily back at him. “First, you’re as­su­ming the­re are se­arch par­ti­es out lo­oking for us. Se­cond, you’re as­su­ming at le­ast one of them will ha­ve so­me idea whe­re to lo­ok. Third, at the spe­ed we’re ma­king now we’ll so­on be far from any hypot­he­ti­cal area whe­re any hypot­he­ti­cal se­arch party might cho­ose to hypot­he­ti­cal­ly se­arch. Fo­urth, you’re an idi­ot.”

  Lying on his si­de on the ro­ugh-hewn deck of the ice­bo­at, hands bo­und be­hind him, he pon­de­red her re­ac­ti­on. “Do you want a di­vor­ce?”

  “You re­al­ly are an idi­ot,” she snap­ped. “Or may­be just a man. I know that you lo­ve me, re­al­ly and for cer­ta­in. I’d rat­her be mar­ri­ed to an idi­ot who I know truly lo­ves me than a ge­ni­us who thinks of me as lit­tle mo­re than an or­na­ment to his own bril­li­an­ce. Or,” she ad­ded, “just be­ca­use I’m be­a­uti­ful and rich.”