by Kacey Ezell
Located roughly five sprints (or, as Deluge preferred to think of it, a half-kilometer) north of the City’s geographic center, the market functioned as one of the City’s two hubs. The other hub, of course, was the starport terminal itself, where the roar of orbital shuttlecraft punctuated the din of commerce at regular intervals.
When the ancient elders had created the starport, they’d done so on the site of the research facility that had initially catapulted the Hunters towards the stars. The research facility had included a university with a central courtyard-type area used as an amphitheater. After the first space-going Hunters returned with tales of thousands of alien races and a complex, rough-and-tumble galactic economy, the Council of Elders had convened for a whole season. That time of deliberation had become legendary. Mollies still sang songs to their infant charges about the battles, both verbal and otherwise, that occurred between the various clan elders before the season ended. When it did end, however, the council presented their clans with a new paradigm. A paradigm that would define the Hunters as a race forever, and give them a new name: the Depik.
Of course, “Depik” was simply an alien word for “Hunter” in the native tongue of one of those thousand species, but still, it mattered. Because before they were the Depik, the Hunters were merely the apex predators on their lovely home world of Khatash. After becoming the Depik, they were the apex predators of the Galaxy itself.
At least, Deluge reflected with a grin, we certainly like to think so. Our arrogance would probably be more justified if we weren’t constantly teetering on the edge of extinction.
“Something funny, Hunter?” a merchant being asked from a booth nearby. The being spoke from within the shadowed interior of a booth set back alongside the street. Wide swaths of brightly-colored fabric draped across the sides and top of the booth. The voice itself carried an electronic tininess that indicated the use of a translator.
“Almost always,” Deluge said, turning to face the booth and raising up onto his back legs. He could hear the voice of his own translator weaving through his natural tongue. “I, Choking Deluge, greet you, unknown being. Welcome to our negotiation.”
“I am Rurranach,” the being said and stepped forward enough that the punishing light illuminated the lines of its form. An elongated head, maybe a bodylength long, sat atop a bulky trunk swathed in more of the rich fabric. He was obviously male from the impressively large size of his cranial crest. Female Sidar simply didn’t grow that big. Dark, wiry fur covered the face of the alien, and traced along his muscled neck to disappear under the clothing. Two huge, intelligent eyes dominated the facial structure. “Fine fabrics and other luxuries suitable for a mighty Hunter such as yourself, if you’d like to take a look.”
“A Sidar,” Deluge said, letting his delight and curiosity infuse his tone. “I’ve never conversed with one of your race before.”
“Ah,” the Sidar said, dropping his jaw open in what Deluge presumed was a smile. “Well, I am honored to be the first, mighty Hunter. It is only recently that we have begun trading here on mysterious Khatash.”
“Welcome, then. And you can call me Deluge. Have you enjoyed it here?”
“What little I’ve seen of it, yes,” the Sidar said. “I respect your customs, but I admit to a rather unprofessional amount of curiosity about your emerald of a planet. Does the jungle really cover every bit of land?”
“Most of it,” Deluge said. “There are some barren places in the mountains, but everything else is pretty well covered.”
“What of your polar ice caps? Surely the jungle does not grow there?”
“I would be surprised if it did, since both poles are oceanic,” Deluge said, tilting his head and flicking his ears to indicate that his tease was meant to be gentle.
“How fascinating,” Rurranach said.
“If you say so. Tell me about your wares. Are you doing well with your fabrics?”
Rurranach blinked his big eyes, then dropped his jaw again.
“I was warned that the Depik Hunters were blunt. An ‘unrepentant mirror’ someone called your kind. Many species would find such a question as that to be rudely inquisitive.”
“I did not intend it to be so,” Deluge said. “But you can be offended if you choose. I will not mind.”
Rurranach’s jaw dropped lower and a curious chittering sound issued forth. Laughter, Deluge realized, and slow blinked his own pleasure in response.
“Choking Deluge, Mighty Hunter, I believe I like you,” the Sidar said. “I have not had the opportunity to talk with many of your race. Are all Hunters as entertaining as you?”
“Almost none, in fact,” Deluge said. “I’m considered quite the wit.”
“I can see why,” the Sidar said, letting out more of the chittering laughter. “To answer your question, yes, I have found that my cloth—particularly the luxury fabrics—are in fairly high demand. Though I seem to be selling mostly to off-worlders like myself, rather than the native Hunters. I know that you Depik sometimes wear clothing over your fur…”
“Sometimes,” Deluge said, and let his face twist in a little moue of distaste. “When we have to. It isn’t very comfortable, as I’m sure you know. You’re furred yourself, aren’t you? How can you stand being swathed in fabric like that?”
“Well, I—” Rurranach laughed again. “That was clever, turning my question back on me like that.”
“Thank you,” Deluge said modestly. “But I genuinely do want to know.”
“Well, I shall tell you,” Rurranach said. “But only if you answer a question of mine.”
“Done,” Deluge said. “But if you ask the wrong question, you know that I will have to offer you a choice.”
“A choice?”
“Between me answering or not.”
“Why would I choose not to have you answer a question I had asked?” the Sidar asked, tilting his large head to the side. Deluge smiled in the Human fashion, letting his sharp predator’s teeth be seen.
“Because on Khatash, knowing the wrong answers is a death sentence for off-worlders.”
“Ah,” Rurranach said, and he fell silent for a long moment while his eyes studied the Depik’s face.
Deluge didn’t mind the scrutiny and stood motionless under it. He maintained a pleasant expression on his face as he watched the Sidar trader study him. Behind him, the noise of the City continued as beings and vehicles moved in eddying currents through the market plaza.
“Why have I seen so few Depik?” Rurranach said, his voice low. “Is that the wrong question?”
“Probably not,” Deluge said evenly, and his predator’s eyes caught the subtle movements of Rurranach’s massive shoulders relaxing. He slow blinked and went on to answer. “You’ve not seen many of us because there aren’t many of us. Our population is much lower than most of the races in the galaxy. Some of the beings you sold to were probably sigiled to a clan though.”
“Sigiled?”
“Sworn. Like a…retainer.” ‘Retainer’ sounded better to alien ears than ‘pet,’ or ‘slave,’ Deluge had learned.
“Oh, so those who contract to perform a service for a clan?”
“No, that is different. Anyone, even another Hunter, can contract with a clan. Sigiled beings are…more. Special. Always alien, but in a very real way, members of the clan. Within their clans, some are as respected as any deo or damita.”
“Deo? Damita? These are new words to me. I thought there was only the Dama, and the rest of the clan.”
Deluge opened his mouth in a grin at the Sidar’s fascination. He was like an attentive kit, hanging on every word.
“The Dama is the most important, of course,” Deluge said. “She is our mother and queen, and the chief elder of any clan. But any larger clan will also have deos, male Hunters who have earned the title of elder, and damitas, lesser damas who have borne litters but do not lead the clan.”
“Fascinating,” Rurranach said, tilting his great head sideways. “Thank you for your answer, i
t was more than satisfactory. As to your question…”
The Sidar shrugged, and his cloth drape fell away from the top half of his body. Deluge felt his eyes widen in delight as the webbed wings that had been hidden under the cloak half-spread from Rurranach’s shoulders, until the claws at the wingtip touched the booth on either side.
“Most know that we’re a volant species,” Rurranach said. “But in business, there are times when it is best to be discreet.”
“In life, I’d imagine,” Deluge said. “Your wings are magnificent. Thank you for showing me.”
“You are welcome,” the trader said. He dipped his left wing and with the prehensile claws that capped each finger bone, picked up the discarded cloak and swirled it around himself again. “I have enjoyed getting to know you, Choking Deluge.”
“And I, you, Rurranach.”
“Perhaps I can give you my contact data? In case you’re ever in the market for luxury fabrics? Or if you wish to exchange any other interesting bits of information? If you have a slate, I can input it directly…”
“Just tell me,” Deluge said, slow blinking again. “I will remember.”
“Oh! Right. The Depik eidetic memory. Very well,” Rurranach said and rattled off his booth schedule and off-market contact procedures. Deluge took the information in and stored it away. One never knew when the most esoteric bit of information could be useful. Another thing he’d learned from his Human molly.
“One more thing I’ll tell you,” Deluge said before he stepped away from the booth. “Do not try out those wings on Khatash. We have Hunters who fly, and we see in the dark at least as well as you with your sonar.”
“I don’t know how that’s possible,” Rurranach said.
“And that is why you still live. Enjoy your day, Friend Rurranach!”
With that and a final friendly nod, Deluge stepped away from the fabric booth and continued his saunter toward the scent of spiced Khava.
* * *
The klaxon blasted through the air, knifing through any other sound like a blade through soft flesh. Death From Above (simply Death to her friends and family) dropped the slate she’d been reading and leapt to her feet. Along with all the other aerial Hunters in her squadron, the lean, striped Depik female tore down the short corridor and into the launch hangar at her top speed.
Which, since she was a Hunter, was very fast indeed.
Her bird was parked in its designated bay, canopy already open. The crew chief, a young Hunter in flight training, was already there, ready to strap her in and confirm readiness to launch. As she had done nine times ninety and nine times before, Death vaulted into her seat and began running the scramble start procedures. As soon as she was in place on her belly, her helmet automatically came down over her head. The leads inside contacted her pinplants, and her heads-up display (or HUD) appeared in her vision.
“Start Engines,” she thought. First one, then the other of the Basreeni fighter’s atmospheric engines roared to life as the retractable roof of the scramble hangar finished its opening sequence.
“Good Hunting!” the crew chief called out as she toggled the canopy closed and leapt away. The canopy latched into place with an audible click, and Death brought up the command and control comm channel with a thought.
“Death ready,” she said, her tone empty of emotion.
“Zaru ready.” “Asash ready.” “Royou ready…” The other members of the squadron checked in one after the other.
“Unidentified, unauthorized space and atmospheric craft sighted on three-one-zero heading for four ranges,” the voice of the command and control Hunter came back into their minds. A map appeared on the HUD, with the target in flashing red as it swept on its flight path. “Your orders are to launch and destroy.”
“Acknowledged,” Death thought back. “Squadron, elements of three, stack altitudes per the standard. Launch!”
On her thought, the vertical catapult under the fighter bay fired, throwing the Basreeni up and forward through the open roof of the hangar. The engine whine increased as the maneuverable little fighter rode that initial momentum and began to fly under its own power. The Basreeni could take off on its own, but the short take off and land launch capability cut significant lag time out of a scramble start.
Plus, it was fun. Death found herself grinning as her squadron separated itself out into nine three-ship elements, separated by three thousand feet of altitude each. Her own element flew at the middle at one-eight-thousand feet…which just happened to be the target’s current altitude.
“Funny, that,” Asash, her squadron second in command, said across the private command net. “Looks like you picked the lucky altitude.”
“It’s not luck, it’s skill,” Death shot back. “And doing my homework. These bogeys usually camp out just below twenty k.”
“And you want one.” Asash’s tone was teasing, and held no note of rebuke. Therefore, Death refused to feel guilty about setting herself up for the kill.
“Of course I do. I’m the squadron commander, and all of my people but the very newest have multiple bogey kills. I’ve only two, and—” she stopped herself before she said too much and focused instead on the flashing target icon in her HUD. It was moving toward them.
“Combat spacing,” she snapped out to her element with a thought. The Basreeni on either flank moved outward slightly, gaining more room to maneuver and cover her, and each other. Death checked the position and angle of the sun, and felt a surge of savage joy when she realized it was behind her. This could not have worked out better.
“Cloak,” she ordered, and she felt the ripple of reality as the fighter’s neural interface system magnified her use of quintessence to bend the baryonic light of the sun. Her visual scanners confirmed that she and her two winghunters had effectively vanished from sight. Unless the pilot of the unidentified craft was a Hunter, he’d never see them coming.
And no self-respecting Hunter would fly like that. Hunters entering atmosphere from orbit announced their intentions, or they got shot down. Everyone else got shot down regardless. That was the law on Khatash, and it was well publicized. As a race, Hunters liked their privacy.
The blinking icon began to grow larger and larger in the HUD. Death confirmed her laser and magnetic accelerator cannon (MAC) were online and ready to go. She also had six rockets slung under her belly, just waiting for her order to fire. It was time to dance.
“Warning, multiple targets.” The electronic voice of the Basreeni’s audio warning system manifested in her head as the icon doubled, and then doubled again. Before long, there were eight flashing symbols arrayed in front of her element, and closing fast. Then the symbol changed from “unidentified” to one she recognized.
“Closing in. Watch the flanks. Likely only one is manned, the others are photo-recon drones. Don’t waste your time with the drones. Find the leader.”
Her winghunters acknowledged her orders with growls of assent. Death hovered her finger-pads over the trigger of her MAC as the formation pushed in closer and closer. Before too long, she could pick up the targets visually. Eight of them, flying in two diamond patterns, offset by about a sprint.
The law on Khatash was very clear. Except for correctly-marked Hunter aircraft, all other flight outside the extraterritorial cone above the starport was forbidden. And photo reconnaissance was a clear violation of the privacy statutes the Council of Elders had put into place millennia ago. The surface of Khatash remained a mystery to all but the Hunters themselves. Low orbit spacecraft even saturated the planet’s stratosphere with enough electromagnetic jamming that satellite photos and communications with the surface were impossible. But occasionally, a small ship would slip through the orbital blockade and make it into atmosphere. They would then release data-collecting drones and attempt to take as much information as possible before blasting back out, presumably to be picked up just outside of Khatash’s orbit. Death didn’t really know.
None of them had ever made it. The credit for
surface photos must be pretty good, though, because the poachers still kept trying.
“Fire,” Death whispered, dropping her fingerpads as the point ship in the formation grew larger in her view screen. She felt the kick shudder through the Basreeni’s airframe as the MAC began spitting hate.
The point ship faltered, smoke appearing in its slipstream. It lost altitude, but the others kept flying. A drone then, and not important. Once she took out the controller, the drones would either crash or self-destruct.
A warning shrieked in her ear. She rolled the ship on its side, feeling the buffeting of the air as a missile streaked by her belly. Another blast from the MAC took out the trailing ship, and then she continued the roll and pulled her nose down into a dive before the left and right wings of the formation could fire upon her. Her winghunters were hard at work, covering her as she dove, picking up airspeed before pulling up into a climb that formed the bottom of a loop. All that kinetic energy flung her up into the air as she poured on the power and rocketed into the vertical. The trail ship of the target formation banked hard to the right, preparing to dive, but it was too late. The arc of the target’s flight brought it right across Death’s nose, and she fired her missiles into the target’s belly.
Explosions flashed across the sky, causing the light-reactive glass of the Basreeni’s cockpit to gain down to near-opaque darkness. Death’s HUD confirmed that the remaining drones went dark, meaning that the trail ship had been the controller. When the outside visuals returned, Death pulled back the power and kicked in a bit of yaw, which pivoted the fighter around a wingtip, and let her see the trails of smoke as the drones spiraled out of control toward the surface.
“Good shooting!” Zaru, her left winghunter, crowed through the interplane frequency. “I’m showing all drones dark!”
“Terminate, Terminate, Terminate,” Death ordered in response, her voice the same, emotionless tone it had had been during the engagement. She toggled the autopilot on and monitored the formation as it reconstituted itself.
