by David Weber
“I mean,” he continued, still looking at the smaller beast, “what makes you say that?”
The little beast was interesting, he thought. The legs, instead of being splayed out like a lizard’s, were directly under the body, like a terrestrial mammal’s. And the eyes looked much more intelligent than any Terran lizard’s.
But it still looked like a six-legged lizard.
“All these children,” O’Casey said, snapping her pad closed. “There are six children below what I would guess to be reproductive age for every adult. Now compare that to humans, and you can see that they must have either a tremendous rate of population growth, or a high infant mortality rate. And there’s no evidence of population growth. So—”
“What would cause it?” Roger asked absently, holding out another charred bit to the lizard. It shuffled forward hesitantly, sniffing at the tidbit and looking around cringingly. Reasonably sure that it was in the clear, it bared two-centimeter long fangs and hissed, then darted forward with the speed of a striking snake to take the offered treat out of Roger’s fingers. It was a precise strike; Roger was left holding a tiny bit of the meat, which had been sheared off cleanly within a millimeter of his fingertips.
“Youch,” he said, wiping off the carbon on his fingers.
“Oh, various things. I suppose barbarism is probably the biggest single factor.” O’Casey leaned back on Matsugae’s rucksack. The valet had left the overstuffed container in her “care” while he went around the camp, examining the cooking methods of the Mardukans. He was currently discussing something with a Mardukan female who’d emerged from one of the huts to lather a substance on the lizard being cooked in the center.
“People evolve to barbarism and usually stop there. Little civilizations rise and fall under the tide of barbarism.” She yawned and thought about the history of Earth and some of the less well-prepared slow-boat colonies. “Sometimes, it seems that barbarism, for all its horrors—and they are many—is the natural state of a sentient species. So many, many times humanity has slid into barbarism in one area or another on one planet or another. In fact, we came within a centimeter of it on an interstellar scale during the Dagger Years; I think only your great-to-the-umpteenth grandmother prevented it. Not that that was what she was thinking about—”
She broke off as a yawn interrupted her, then winced as she stretched.
“God, I hurt,” she observed, and lay back and closed her eyes. “Which, I might add, is a consequence of another mortality factor: living in a jungle ain’t easy. It’s a very competitive environment. Something is always trying to eat you, and finding things you can eat is hard.”
She reopened her eyes looked up at Roger as the rain began to fall once more. The thunder of it on the thatch was lulling, and she yawned again.
“Roger, we’re in a jungle,” she said, and her tone was oddly ambiguous. “Jungles try so hard to kill you. They’re always trying to.” She stopped and smiled at him. “I’ve tried to get you to listen to me so often, but I’m going to try again. You have to check your tongue. You have to keep your temper. Learn from Pahner, don’t piss him off, okay?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him quiet.
“Just . . . try to bite your tongue from time to time, all right? That’s all I ask.”
The last two days of strain had drained her, and she could feel herself drifting off despite every intention of staying awake. Not only was the social organization of the natives fascinating, but opportunities to catch Roger in a mood to learn anything but sports and hunting tricks were rare. Yet, despite that, she simply couldn’t keep her eyes open.
“Jungles are beautiful,” she continued in a mumble, “until you have to live in them.”
Her eyes closed, and despite the heat, flies, and noise of festive preparation, she slept.
“You’re making me proud, brother,” Cord said, watching the gathering feast. Its lavishness would extract a price from the tribe, but it showed they were of good status. Something that would be important for this “Roger” to remember.
“It’s the least I can do for my brother,” Delkra replied. “Ayah! And for these odd strangers.” He paused for a moment, then gave a grunting laugh. “They look like basik, you know.”
Cord clacked his teeth sourly. “Thank you so much for pointing that out, brother. Yes, I’d made the same connection.”
The small basik were often found around open areas in the jungle. Their mid-legs were foreshortened, and when they were frightened—which was virtually all the time—they ran on their hind legs with their upper limbs flopping loosely about. They were a beast of choice when it came to training young children to hunt, since they were small, harmless, cowardly, and stupid.
Very stupid.
“Get used to it, brother,” Delkra said with another grunt. “Others will make the same connection.”
“I suppose,” Cord conceded. “And, demons know they’re just about as stupid in the jungle. But although I’ve only seen those weapons of theirs used twice, I know to fear them. And rarely is the guard of a lord taken from among the most foolish. I don’t underestimate them.”
Delkra clapped his lower limbs together and changed the subject abruptly.
“Asi, at your age!”
“You keep saying that, brother,” Cord observed. “You’re not that much younger.”
“Tell me a truth unknown,” the chief replied somewhat sourly.
Cord understood, of course. Both of them would soon have to leave the Warrior Path, and although those who’d survived it enjoyed great status, few lived long thereafter. It was a thought neither enjoyed contemplating, and the shaman looked around, searching for a neutral change of subject. His gaze flitted about the familiar village which he soon would leave behind forever, and his eyes narrowed as he noticed a puzzling absence.
“Where is Deltan? Hunting?”
“One with the mists,” Delkra said, rubbing his hands together to drive away bad luck. “An atul.”
“What?” the shaman gasped. “How? He was surprised?”
“No,” the chief snapped. “The spearhead broke.”
“Ayah!” the shaman said, but he refused to show the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He’d never had children, not even daughters. A single paring as a youth had resulted in the death of the brood wife from an infection that was, unfortunately, all too common. Since then, he’d never taken another mate, and his brother’s children had become as his own. Delkra certainly had enough to go around; half the females in the tribe had brooded a litter for him at some point. And he ran heavily to males in his broods.
But Deltan had been one of the special ones. He’d shown a flair for the learning of the shaman, and Cord had hoped that someday the fine young warrior might follow in his own footsteps. Now that was done, and it boded poorly for the tribe that he must leave with his asi and there would be no shaman to pass on the traditions. He’d hoped to pass on a few critical pieces of knowledge to Deltan before leaving, or perhaps to have him accompany them on the first leg of the humans’ travels.
“Ayah,” he repeated. “Evil times. The iron?”
“Bad,” the chief spat. “Soft and rotten beneath a brittle exterior. It looked fine, but . . .”
“Aye,” the shaman said, “but—”
“There’s no other choice,” the chieftain interrupted. “It must be war.”
Cord clapped opposite hands in negation.
“If we war with Q’Nkok, the other tribes will pick our bones.”
“And if we don’t,” the chief pointed out, “Q’Nkok will continue taking our lands and giving feck back! We must have the lands or the tribute. As it is, we have neither.”
Cord clasped all four arms around his knees and rocked back and forth. His brother was correct; the tribe was in a lose/lose situation. They could neither survive a war with the local city-state nor permit the present intolerable trends to continue, yet war was the only way to stop it. There seemed no way out.
“Q’Nkok is to be our first stop,” he observed after a moment. “The humans want to trade for such things as only the shit-sitters can provide. We will discuss this with the humans.”
“But—” his brother started to object.
“The humans aren’t good in the jungle,” Cord overrode the objection, “but they are very wise, nonetheless. I know they’re shit-sitters, but they’re smart and, I think, honorable shit-sitters. If I had my old master here, I would ask him for advice. But I don’t. Far Voitan is fallen, and all its heroes with it. I can’t ask my master; therefore, we will ask the humans.”
“You’re a stubborn flar beast,” Delkra told him.
“But I’m also right,” Cord retorted with a grunting laugh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eleanora awoke to a high-pitched, atonal chanting and a low-tempo, muffled drum beat. Her eyes flickered open, and she froze in adrenaline shock at the sight of a swaying vampire larva. The perspective was weird as the flickering firelight of full dark combined with the swaying dance of the creature to make it seem a strange hallucination. It seemed to shrink to the size of a caterpillar, and then swelled suddenly up to the size of a . . . Mardukan in a mask.
The dancer swayed in the firelight, and as Eleanora blinked at him the long, dripping fangs of the beast were revealed as a crown about his head, the camouflaged body as a painted wrap. Behind the shuffling figure were more dancers: a giant, pincer-armed beetle, a two-armed snake like the legendary Naga, and a low, writhing, six-armed beast whose maw was filled with sharklike teeth.
The fog of sleep and firelight, the swaying of the dancers, the singing and drumbeats were hypnotic. Eleanora lay in a spell, trapped by the symbolism of the animistic rite as the drumbeats increased and the singing shifted through patterns of atonality. The tempo increased, and the dancers’ rhythm became more frenzied, until with a final burst of song, now perfectly blended with the drums in tone and pitch, there was a final crash, and the dancers froze.
The audience was left with a feeling of pleasant incompleteness as the dancers departed and conversation broke out among the Marines and Mardukans. Eleanora tried to shake off her fog and looked around for something to help with the attempt, only to find herself rather dreamily contemplating a boot.
She blinked, and her eyes moved upward. The female Marine to whom the boot was attached stood at parade rest by her head, one arm behind her back, plasma gun cocked forward. Eleanora looked around, and discovered another one—this one a grenadier—at her feet. How interesting.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. It didn’t help. She still felt like death warmed over, but at least her brain was a little clearer than before the nap. She looked up at the Marine at her head.
“How long was I out?” She hadn’t checked the time at any point in the afternoon, so the current time, halfway through the local evening, told her nothing. Nor did her question communicate very much to the Marine. It came out mostly as a croak, so she cleared her throat and tried again.
“Corporal . . . Bosum, isn’t it? How long was I sleep? And, thank you, but guarding me was probably unnecessary.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The Marine looked down and smiled. “But His Highness told us to make sure no one bothered you.” She thought about the other question. “I don’t know how long you were asleep before we got here, but we’ve been on guard for three hours.”
“Five or six, then,” was Eleanora’s mumbled guess. “I should feel better than this after five hours’ sleep,” she muttered plaintively.
She stood up, and every joint in her body seemed to creak or pop. Her legs hurt so much that she felt lightheaded and queasy, and she swayed for a moment until the Marine corporal steadied her.
“Take it easy, Ma’am,” the plasma gunner said. “You’ll get used to it after a few more days.”
“Oh, sure,” Eleanora said bitterly. “That’s easy for you Marines to say. You’ve got so many nanites running around in you, you’re practically cyborgs! And you’re trained for this, too.”
“But we don’t start out that way,” the male Marine put in. “They start us off systems-free in Basic.”
“He’s right,” Bosum agreed with nasty cheerfulness. “We all go through this the first few days in Basic. It’s just your turn,” she added with an evil grin.
O’Casey twisted her torso and gasped as she felt her back crack in half a dozen places. Rotating her shoulders, arms, and legs extracted more crackling, and she decided that with a shower, a bath, another shower, a couple of tubes of heating gel, and two days’ sleep, she’d be just fine. Barring that . . .
“Where is His Highness?” she asked, as she glanced around the clearing without seeing either Roger or Pahner, who was bound to be close by the prince.
“I’ll lead you to him,” the plasma gunner replied, and the male Marine fell in behind as they wove their way across the stockade.
Roger, Pahner, Kosutic, and the senior Mardukans were in a nearby hut, watching the festivities. Roger looked up from feeding the lizard he’d apparently adopted and smiled as Eleanora hobbled in.
“Ms. O’Casey,” he said formally. “You’re looking better for your nap.”
The creature swarmed onto his lap at the chief of staff’s approach and hissed at her faintly. His Highness tapped it lightly on the head, and it ducked down and stretched out its neck to sniff at her. Apparently, it decided she was part of the pack, because it gave one last sniff, then twisted around and curled up on the prince’s lap, exactly as if it belonged there.
“I feel like death warmed over,” she answered. “If I’d known you were going to be taking me on adventure tours, I would have had the appropriate upgrades before we left.”
She nodded at Matsugae as he handed her a plastic cup of water and two analgesic tablets.
“Thank you, Kostas.” She took the tablets and a sip of the water, which was surprisingly cool. It had obviously been chilled by one of the bladders. “Thank you again.”
She looked around the gathering. The Marines were scattered throughout the village, interacting much more fully with the Mardukans than they had been. Some of the humans were cleaning weapons, and some were quite obviously on alert, but most were socializing. Poertena had produced a pack of cards from somewhere and appeared to be teaching some of the younger Mardukan warriors poker while other Marines were demonstrating their entertainment pads or simply talking. Warrant Dobrescu had apparently set up an aid station and was doing a little “hearts and minds” work.
Dobrescu, it turned out, was a pearl beyond price in more ways than one. The chief warrant officer had gone to flight school as a second career track after spending sixteen years as a Marine Raider medic.
Normally, the Navy provided Marine units in combat environments with corpsmen, but the Raiders were the Empire’s version of Saint special ops teams. They were designed to be out of contact with support for long periods of time, and thus needed specially trained medics who could do more than slap on a bandage and decide who went into the cryochambers and who didn’t. The training was intense, and included everything from primitive methods of reducing gangrenous infection to serving as the hands of a remote surgeon for thoracic trauma surgery.
Since Prince Roger’s company had never been intended for detached duty, none of the Powers That Were had ever considered the need to assign it an integral, dedicated medic. Unfortunately, DeGlopper’s sickbay attendants had been needed to support the transport’s final battle, and somehow not even Eva Kosutic had thought to point out that the company would require medical services on the planet. All of which made it extremely fortunate that Dobrescu was along.
At the moment, he was examining the Mardukans who were willing to let him and doing his best to repair the various wounds and infections that any jungle inflicts on its inhabitants. As in other jungles, both on Earth and other planets, surface lesions were the main complaint. The Mardukans’ mucus covering helped in that regard, however, and only in spots where the coa
ting had been damaged did the sores break out.
Dobrescu had analyzed the lesions and determined that they were primarily fungal in nature. A universal antifungal cream seemed to work on them and didn’t cause negative side effects. Better yet, the cream was produced by yeast in an auger jelly which could be replaced with sterilized meat broth. That made it one of the few regenerating systems that they had, which meant he could be relatively spendthrift in its use. Since some of the Marines already sported similar infections, that was going to be a good thing.
With the cream and self-sealing bandages, he’d just about fixed all the simple problems in the village. There were a few advanced cases of infection that he was less sanguine about, and a couple of other cases where something was attacking eyesight had him scratching his head. But in general, he’d done good service to the village that day.
“What did I miss?” O’Casey asked as she watched the slight warrant officer packing up his tools. He’d obviously worked through the celebrations that she had slept through, and the realization made her even less thrilled with her physical weakness.
“Oh, you would’ve loved it,” Roger admitted in Standard English, scratching the lizard’s head. It hissed with pleasure and rubbed its chin on his chest.
“We had a nice little ceremony. Very symbolic of all sorts of things, I’m sure. Cord forswore all previous allegiances in my favor, while I promised not to throw his life away pointlessly. Then we had all sorts of bonding oaths: the usual suspects. Last, but certainly not least, it involved eating a small bit of slime from Cord’s back,” he finished with a grimace.
Eleanora chuckled and seated herself carefully on the ground with the rest of them. The hut was walled on three sides by bundled branches with mud packed in the cracks between them. There was a rolled up covering for the open front, woven out of some sort of fibrous grass or leaves, and the sleeping areas arranged along the back and sides were also covered with the woven mats, which appeared to be designed to be staked down. It would be an awfully warm way to sleep in the muggy heat.
