Hunted lop-4

by James Alan Gardner

  Calmly, I stepped into the circle of the skimmer’s spotlights. The warriors looked back and forth between me and Mr. Clear Chest, their pincers whisking angrily. The threat didn’t faze the spirit possessing me; I kept walking forward, right up the tail of the nearest warrior until I was standing high on his back. The sheer nerve of doing that froze him in place — otherwise, he would have bucked me straight to the moon.

  "There’ll be other nights and other recruiters," I told the Mandasars… but I kept my eye on the glass-chest man and his Larry. "If you all die now, who’ll protect your hives? No matter how much you want to spill this recruiter’s blood — and no matter how much he deserves it — as of this moment, you gentlemen are at war. War to save your homes, your hives, and your personal honor as warriors, keeping your heads clear to defend what is truly precious rather than becoming some recruiter’s brainwashed thugs."

  The Mandasars growled at that. I took that as a good sign. "And when you’re at war," I said, "you don’t fight stupid battles. You pick your time and you pick your place, because you’re fighting for something that must not be lost. You act like true warriors serving an honorable cause, not fools who get into pointless brawls because you can’t control your tempers."

  Off to my right, one of the Mandasars growled, "Fools? Fools we? Fools?"

  Uh-oh, I thought. The spirit possessing me had gone too far. I could sense it in the face of every warrior there: fiery indignation at what had come out of my mouth. Musk surged up from the warrior beneath me, so thick I swear I could see it — a thin pheromone mist oozing out of his pores. It scared the willies out of me, but obviously not the spirit in command of my body. I could feel my head shaking sadly, as if I pitied the huge hulking warriors around me…

  …then I ripped off my shirt and threw it in the face of the kid who didn’t want to be called a fool.

  It surprised me as much as anyone else. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Clear Chest tense up, but he didn’t tell the Larry to shoot; by now, he realized I was his best chance for getting out alive. His gaze flicked from me to the warrior with the shirt over his face. The youngster was snorting angrily, pawing at the fabric with his weak upper arms… but by the time he’d pulled his snout clear, he wasn’t snorting so much as sniffing.

  Sniffing at my sweaty shirt.

  I jumped lightly forward, straight in front of more warriors — within easy reach of their claws. Calmly, cockily, the spirit moving my legs made me walk bare-chested around the circle of Mandasars, passing before each one in turn. They were all sniffing me now, jutting out their snouts, almost touching me with their nose spikes. None of them tried to get a whiff of my face, where there might still be queen’s venom; they were snuffling at my body, as if it had some amazing perfume they’d never smelled before.

  I couldn’t smell it myself. Just the burning-wood odor everywhere, covering the natural stink of the stagnant canal, the trees all around, even my own sweat.

  Like taking a walk in the park, I went around the whole circle. Zeeleepull was part of the crowd, on the far side of the clearing where I hadn’t recognized him before. Even he seemed surprised by whatever he smelled on me; I couldn’t understand that, considering that he’d got a snootful of queen’s venom when it was several hours fresher. But the spirit possessing me didn’t think anything was unusual — I walked past Zeeleepull no faster or slower than any of the others, till I’d finished a complete circuit of the assembled militia.

  "Now," I said to them all. "Back up and let this shit of a recruiter go. He’s not worth any of our lives. This is the first action in a war… and it’s our enemy who’s running with his tail in the air."

  I looked at Mr. Clear Chest. With the light coming from straight over his head, I still had trouble making out his features… but I could tell he was glaring at me in hate. His heart jerked fast beneath his plastic skin; his lungs heaved tight against his ribs.

  Let him huff and puff, I thought. As long as he realizes there’s only one way to get out alive.

  "Back up," I said again to the warriors. "Let the bastard leave."

  Eyes glittering fiercely in the searchlights, every warrior slowly pulled back out of the clearing. I retreated with them, feeling shaky relief once I’d been swallowed by the shadows of the forest.

  We all watched the recruiter grab hold of the rope ladder and climb quickly to the waiting skimmer. The Larry held its position, hovering three meters above the clearing till the man was safely inside the vehicle. That was the moment that scared me most — when the recruiter might send the Larry swooshing at us for a strafing run, just as a parting shot.

  But it didn’t happen. The Larry spun its way laughing up to the skimmer, and disappeared inside.

  For another moment, the clear-chested man stood in the skimmer’s dark hatchway: a shadowy figure peering out from the blackness. In that instant I saw a pinpoint of crimson burning in his belly, like the tip of a ruby laser shining deep within his guts. I blinked, not believing my eyes… and when I looked again, the light was gone.

  With a soft hiss of engines the skimmer zipped away, speeding off into the night.

  All quiet in the forest — no sound but the night breeze rustling through the branches, starting to thin out the fumes of musk in the air. Then softly, in a whisper, one of the warriors murmured, "Teelu."

  "Um," I said. Suddenly I was unpossessed again. Wondering how to tell a bunch of Mandasar kids they had the wrong idea what Teelu meant.

  "Teelu," whispered someone else.

  "Teelu." From the opposite side of the clearing.

  "Teelu. Teelu. Teelu"

  They were all chanting now, the whole militia, prostrate on the ground. "Teelu. Teelu. Teelu."

  Getting louder. Getting stronger. "Teelu. Teelu. Teelu." Till they were roaring the word, fierce and proud, their voices ripping through the trees, echoing across the valley, rising to the hills.

  "Teelu! Teelu! Teelu!"

  Your Majesty. Your Majesty. Your Majesty.

  Part 3

  DONNING THE ERMINE

  15

  IDENTIFYING WIFTIM

  The thing about chants is you need a signal when to stop. People want some leader to call out "Amen!" or a choir to start singing, or lights coming on, or curtains going down, or something. Otherwise, the chanters get to feeling awkward, and wondering when it would be polite to shut up, but not really comfortable just letting things dwindle and die off, because that takes away from the great uplifting solidarity. After three minutes of "Teelu, Teelu, Teelu," I could tell the warriors were trying to find a graceful way to give it up. They’d chanted enough; they wanted to move onto the next glorious thing, whatever it would be. I guess they expected me to wave my hands, call for quiet, then give some rousing speech that would channel their excitement into something useful. Trouble was, I didn’t have a clue what to say… and it would be horrible having two dozen kids waiting for me to speak when my mind was a total blank. They wouldn’t turn violent or anything; they’d just sit and stare, thinking, Well, he may be a blood-consort, but he can’t be very smart.

  Desperately I peered into the darkness, hoping to catch sight of Admiral Ramos. It would be great if I could thank the warriors for their nice adulation, then turn everything over to Festina. She was an admiral; she had to be good at public speaking, even if she didn’t have a specific plan of action. While Festina talked I could stand back listening, all serene and placid… the way Queen Verity always posed on her silver dais as she let some cabinet minister read the latest speech from the throne.

  But Admiral Ramos was nowhere to be seen. Either she’d left or was hiding, both of which were good ideas considering what the warriors might do if they noticed an unknown human lurking in the dark.

  Without thinking, I lifted my hand to chew on my knuckle… and that’s all it took to stop the chanting dead silent. Shows you how eager the kids were to hear me pontificate. "Um," I said. "Well. Hi." Then I remembered a standard thing the protocol minister
s had taught me to say years and years ago: in Troyenese, "Greetings to you all from the court of the high queen. You are valued; you are worthy. Just as you give your hearts to her service, so the queen gives her heart to you."

  That brought on a big cheer… even though these kids had to realize the court of the high queen was twenty years dead. Maybe they thought the war was over: that Troyen had a new high queen who’d sent me to solve their problems. All of a sudden I got myself tongue-tied, worried I’d just given them false hopes and terrified I’d keep putting my foot in my mouth whatever I tried to say.

  "Um. Don’t get all… I’m not…"

  There were so many things I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I’m not what you think. I’m not what you need. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, "there’s a lot of stuff you don’t understand…"

  That’s when the police skimmer buzzed in overhead and a loudspeaker blared, "Nobody move!"

  The best way to get a Mandasar moving is to tell him, "Keep still." In a split second, the kids had scrambled to their feet and were gearing up for an outraged display of claws and shouts and stamping… but I yelled, "At ease! Parade rest!" and that got their attention. None of them had a clue how to stand at parade rest, but they all stiffened into postures that were unnatural enough to come across as military. I hissed to a few who looked outright hostile ("Close your claws!" "All feet on the ground!" "Why are you waving your hands over your head?") but it didn’t take long to get them settled into poses that wouldn’t scare the police too badly.

  "You there!" blared the loudspeaker… and a searchlight stabbed down on me from the skimmer’s belly. "Are you in charge?"

  "Yes!" shouted the whole militia. Thanks a lot, guys. "Are you Admiral Ramos?" the loudspeaker asked.

  "No," I answered — thinking to myself these cops didn’t know much about the navy. Admirals wear gray; my uniform was black. Then again, after I’d swum the canal and run through the forest and hit the dirt I don’t know how many times, maybe it wasn’t so easy to tell. "I’m Explorer Second Class Edward York," I told the police. "Admiral Ramos is around someplace, but I’m not sure where."

  "Here," Festina said, stepping out of the forest. I must have stared in her direction three or four times but never spotted her. She must know some really good tricks for hiding.

  "Are you all right, Admiral?" the police asked.

  "I’m fine," she replied, "but there’s been a murder. One of these warriors was killed in cold blood with a banned weapon."

  There was a pause. I got the impression whoever was using the loudspeaker had turned off the microphone and was having a quick conference with other people in the skimmer. Finally, the speaker clicked on again, and a different voice, deep and male, said, "Are you sure it was murder?"

  "I saw it myself," the admiral said, as I nodded too. All the warriors looked around the clearing, their expressions going grim. They must have been trying to figure out which one of them wasn’t there.

  The policeman gave a heavy sigh, loud enough to carry over the loudspeaker. "All right," he said, "I want the Mandasars to return to their homes while Admiral Ramos and Explorer York stay to give us details. We’ll get statements from the rest of you later on, but for now, just disperse." Pause. "Please."

  The warriors didn’t budge. They looked toward me, like they didn’t care a snifter for the police unless I said it was okay. "You can go," I said, "we’ll be fine."

  But the warriors still seemed reluctant to head out… as if they didn’t trust the cops, or maybe they just wanted to hang around to see what happened next. Before anyone else could move, Zeeleepull stepped forward from the pack. He bulled his way up to me, then lowered himself till his head touched my foot. "Leave cannot I, Edward York," he said. "Sworn to protect, sworn to guard, sworn to defend."

  "All right," I told him… and because every other warrior was a split second away from rushing forward to vow loyalty too, I held up my hands and waved the crowd back. "One bodyguard is all I need. It doesn’t look right for a consort to hide in the middle of an army."

  Samantha had come up with that line for me, long ago when Verity wanted to assign a whole platoon of guards to keep me safe. The excuse had worked back then, and it worked now; warriors go all bashfully guylike when you suggest they’re undermining your honor.

  Slowly, reluctantly, the militia slunk off into the woods till only three of us were left: Festina, Zeeleepull and I. We drew back to the edge of the clearing so the police had plenty of room to land. Despite that, their skimmer took its time… scanning its searchlights around the area, checking there weren’t big rocks on the landing site, and waiting till the warriors were really gone.

  When the skimmer finally touched down, a gaggle of armored folks jumped out — most with truncheons but a few carrying rifles or pistols, and even a shotgun. You never saw police brandishing firearms on a Technocracy world… not unless they knew they were dealing with dangerous non-sentient criminals who had lethal weapons of their own. Then again, maybe this response team had heard about the Laughing Larry, in which case bringing out the big guns made perfect sense.

  In the middle of the armored people, one hawk-nosed man stood out. He wore the same gear as the others, but on him it looked slapdash: his helmet was shifted way back on his head, with the visor dangling open; his bulletproof jacket was unfastened at the side seam; his boots weren’t strapped tight, so they slopped around his ankles as he walked. I couldn’t see any insignia on his uniform, but the man had CAPTAIN written all over him. No one else could look so disheveled and get away with it.

  The man sloshed forward toward us and nodded a millimeter to Festina. "Admiral Ramos." His eyes flicked over that blotch on her face; the bright police lights heightened the angry purple against the brown of the rest of her skin.

  I tried not to stare at the birthmark myself.

  "Greetings," Festina told the policeman, bowing the same tiny millimeter. "You are?"

  "Captain Adam Tekkahawnee, Greater Bradford Regionals. Where’s the murder victim?"

  "Follow me," the admiral told him.

  She started back the way we’d come, and the whole company tagged along. Tekkahawnee matched our pace while the other cops tried to set up a moving perimeter around us. Since they didn’t know which way we’d go from one second to the next, there was a fair bit of jockeying every time Festina shifted a different direction: suddenly, the folks who were trying to stay in front of us had to jog sideways, trying not to trip on undergrowth or smack into trees. Once or twice it seemed the admiral turned deliberately away from the murder scene, just to give the cops more of a run… but she was probably taking shortcuts around bogs or something.

  As we walked, Festina spoke to Tekkahawnee in a low voice. "So, Captain — not that I’m sorry you showed up, but who called you?"

  "Who didn’t call us?" Tekkahawnee growled. He looked like the sort of man who growled a lot: still young, maybe in his forties, but already his face had set into permanent frown lines. "Every damned Mandasar from here to Orore rang up our station, screaming about recruiters… but we get calls like that five times a month, and they’re all false alarms. A stray dog wanders into the fields, a skimmer flies too low, or the wind makes a funny noise, and the stupid lobsters start wailing that someone wants to kidnap them."

  Zeeleepull’s whiskers twitched angrily. Before the boy went all hotheaded on us, I told Tekkahawnee, "It wasn’t a false alarm tonight."

  "Mmm." The captain didn’t sound convinced. "Then," he said, "we got a call from someone else, a woman named Kaisho. She claimed to be a retired Explorer, and said her exalted friend, Admiral Festina Ramos, was broadcasting an emergency Mayday from this area. Word is, this Kaisho threatened our police chief your navy would blockade the whole planet if we didn’t give you every possible assistance."

  Festina rolled her eyes. "Kaisho, Kaisho, Kaisho," she muttered under her breath. To Tekkahawnee she said, "Kaisho is indeed an ex-Explorer now living on Celestia
— she’s the one who tipped me off about the recruiter problem, and she’s been helping me investigate… says it’s the most fun she’s had since she retired. But I gave her strict orders to stay on the other side of the planet; she’s confined to a hoverchair these days and completely unfit to go waltzing into trouble." Festina made a face. "As if Kaisho ever obeys my orders. She must have followed me here in her own skimmer. If Kaisho heard my Mayday, she couldn’t run to my rescue herself; so she bullied the cops into doing it."

  Tekkahawnee glanced in the admiral’s direction. "That talk about blockades was exaggeration?"

  "You can never tell with the Admiralty," Festina replied. "Their idea of deterrence is being irrationally unpredictable. When outsiders endanger an admiral, sometimes the High Council just blows hot air. Other times they overreact spectacularly, blockading star systems, seizing ships, imposing sanctions on everyone who twitches. As far as I can tell, it’s deliberately random — if you annoy the navy, you never know if you’ll get away with it or be clobbered by an extravagant show of force."

  "But," Tekkahawnee said, "you’re bottom of the barrel when it comes to admirals, right?" He wasn’t taunting her; it sounded like he was stating a widely known fact. Even so, it shocked me how anyone could say such a thing to an admiral’s face. No one would ever talk like that to my dad.

  "Celestia may not be part of the Technocracy," Tekkahawnee went on, "but we hear rumors, Ramos. Word is, the High Council invented the rank of Lieutenant Admiral for you and you alone, as a sign you didn’t have a chance in hell of making it to the inner circle."

  "Absolutely right," Festina agreed, "but the High Council might still go bugfuck if someone managed to kill me. It would be good PR to make a lavish show of grief. Poor Festina — she never saw eye to eye with us, but we still respected her. I can just picture them professing how dearly they loved me. And inner circle or not, I do wear the sacred gray uniform. It’s in the council’s best interest to send a message to Celestia and every other two-bit parasite world clinging to the Technocracy’s shirttails: ‘Thou shalt not allow any admiral to come to harm.’ "