Camallay: An Infinite Worlds Novel (Marik's Marauders)

by Joel Babbitt

  Ryker sat there trying to register what Barabas had just said. “You mean she’s working for Titus Brutian?” he asked.

  “He no say, only say pretty girl talk to Brutian muscle-man like he be boss-man,” Barabas answered. “Here, I send three-pic,” he said. Moments later a three-second picture of Rianna talking with Josh Langdon popped up on his linker. Her hands moved excitedly and she was obviously agitated at Alexander’s smug-faced former lieutenant. Too bad three-pics didn’t come with sound. Ryker would have liked to have heard what she was saying—and he’d never learned how to read lips.

  Ryker shook his head. Langdon had been Colonel Alexander’s lieutenant—until the ambitious man had sold his soul for credits to Stellar Corp and Titus Brutian, and betrayed Marik and Colonel Alexander in the process. He was now one of Stellar Corps’ men, chief liaison to Titus Brutian’s operation even. The evidence was clear, but Ryker just couldn’t accept that his sister was working for the same madman that was bringing war to the eastern colonies.

  “You’re sure that she’s working for Brutian?” Ryker asked incredulously, not wanting to believe the clear evidence.

  “Hey, my man say he no hear them well, but three-pic no lie.”

  Ryker sighed. “Any idea where she is now?” he asked.

  “No, Ryker-man,” Barabas answered. “She riding quadcopter, my man say, but he leave soon after pic, so no know if she gone or she stay at Principay.”

  Ryker shook his head and laid back down, covering his eyes with his arm. “Alright, Barabas. Good job, as always.” There had to be some other explanation, some angle she was playing. He couldn’t believe she would work for a man who had brought death to so many innocent people.

  “Now you tell me why you chasing beautiful woman?” Barabas asked.

  “Can any man explain why we chase beautiful women?” Ryker countered, deliberately diverting his contact’s line of questioning.

  Barabas chuckled at the inside joke. “Yes, trueness. You stay safe, Ryker-man.”

  A few minutes later Ryker sat up, unable to sleep. Outside the heavy skin of the survey vehicle, the nocturnal yazri of the Mon-Jonesik clan were gathering in the dark of night for what appeared to be a hunt. The first group was silent as they gathered at the central clearing, but even so the movement of so many did not go unnoticed by those who were already awake.

  By the movement in the trees above, Ryker could tell that the yazri were out in force. Indeed, as the minutes passed it appeared as though almost every warrior of the Mon-Jonesik was gathering. Crested megavores who were young enough to still serve as mounts snorted in the night air, biting at their bits as riders soothed the massive beasts, groups of five or more warriors clinging to the harnesses that straddled the backs of each of the mighty beasts. Scattersaurs in their yipping packs dipped and ducked as they nipped at the grass, skittish at the gathering of so many warriors, knowing that they would be driven before the great hunt to alert them of any dangers. All about the swelling groups of warriors and their great mounts families gathered in the great trees, making quite a noise by now as they called to their warrior mates and fathers.

  By this time, Ryker was standing in the cupola of the survey truck, propping himself up on the heavy sonic gun as he looked around in wonder at this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Just then, he saw Colonel Alexander among the yazri. A group of the most decorated hunters had begun the dance, the joy of pending slaughter boiling within their blood, and Colonel Alexander was with them, knife out and jumping from foot to foot as he whirled around with the rest of the yazri.

  Ryker stood in wonder for a few moments, then began to smile. It was as if the old man was a young warrior himself. He knew that Alexander was under a Renova contract, which renewed much of his body, though the wrinkles beside his eyes and his salt-and-pepper hair belied his newly acquired youth, but Ryker was surprised that the old man could do the motions that he was doing, and with such practiced ease at that.

  From the compound the company’s four yazri warriors all emerged, their LCIP armor plating and T-1 Blaster Rifles standing in stark contrast to the primitive Mon-Jonesik yazri with their ancestral blades strapped over their bare chests and bows and spears shaking up and down in the starlight.

  “Hey Sergeant Hobbs!” Ryker called down, a broad smile on his face. “Why don’t you go hunting with them?”

  If Hauberker Mon-Shay heard Ryker, he didn’t show it. For the moment he was no longer Sergeant Hobbs, but was just another yazri warrior shaking his weapon in anticipation of the blood-letting. As the four yazri joined the hunt-dance, they reveled in the moment; they danced as brothers among their fellow yazri warriors, and Colonel Alexander danced as one with them, accepted by all the warriors of the Mon-Jonesik Clan.

  The chant which had started among those who jumped about in the hunt-dance now spread throughout the entire great hunt. Then, as the intensity of the chant reached a fevered pitch, almost as one the great beasts the mounted hunters rode turned and the entire great hunt began to pour out of the central clearing of the Mon-Jonesik to the east toward their traditional hunting grounds. Scattersaur family groups were driven ahead of the megavores, whose great crests swung back and forth as they disappeared into the jungle at the edge of the stand of great trees where the Mon-Jonesik Clan made their home. Behind the crested megavores, the rest of the warriors who did not ride ran after the rest of the great hunt, shaking spears in the air and crying out in the ecstasy of having been released to the time of blood.

  As the great hunt left, Colonel Alexander stood with his feet planted solidly in the middle of the central clearing, breathing heavily with a ferocious smile on his face. Sergeant Hobbs, Priest, Gunner, and Soar were nowhere to be seen; they had gone with the great hunt, and as the last of the yazri disappeared into the black of the midnight jungle, the rest of the company, who had all been awoken by the gathering, sleepily went back to bed.

  Ryker stood in the cupola of the survey truck, embracing the silence now that even the families of the warriors had departed as much as he had embraced the noise of the great hunt gathering. As he stood there watching, he saw what had to be a very old yazri warrior glide down from the trees above, followed by a handful of other yazri, landing just in front of the colonel.

  As Ryker watched, the colonel greeted them by grasping arms, then there in the dark of night, while all others were asleep, the colonel talked with the yazri for some time. As Ryker slipped down into the passenger’s seat and watched with the vehicle’s thermal imaging projected on the base of the windshield, he could tell that the yazri were not there for social purposes. He wasn’t that familiar with yazri ways, but by the intensity of their discussion, Ryker could tell that they were either asking the colonel for something, or they were warning him of something. Whatever it was had quickly brought the exuberant older man back to earth.

  Ryker, ever curious as he was, slipped out of the vehicle as quietly as he could and made his way out to the gate in the compound’s palisade. While he was approaching the gate, he heard footsteps coming and quickly leaned against one of the posts, trying to look as disinterested as possible. Within moments the colonel rounded the corner.

  “Ryker,” the older man said, obviously surprised to see him. Then, without missing a beat he continued. “Good thing you’re awake. It looks like we may just have trouble on our hands. Let’s gather the folks and have a chat.”

  * * *

  The night of twin new-moons was inky black under the cover of the massive trees; few stars even showed through the canopy. It was because of this that the five figures entering the palisade wore thermal goggles, not that anyone could see that. No, their holo-screens ensured that anyone looking with the naked eye or with thermal imaging only saw what was behind them, with only the slightest seam appearing around their invisible bodies. Their sonic dampeners ensured that they made literally no sounds; ghosts would be more obvious than these five.

  As they approached the four vehicles, the five figures wo
rked in pairs to lift each other up to peer into the insides of the vehicles. Seeing no one inside, the leader of the five pointed with his infrared pinpoint light toward the front of the cabin, marking it for the first pair. The leader then marked the rear of the cabin, where a plain wooden door served as the only other entry or exit from the large, box-like cabin.

  The first pair of figures glided across the open area between the vehicles and the front door, taking up positions on either side of the door, raising kiz’zit slicers and painting them with infrared light to reveal the charge counts on the exceptionally lethal assassin weapons. Satisfied, one of them signaled their leader, who stood in the shadows of the palisade between the cabin and the vehicles.

  As the first pair was checking their weapons’ charge counts, the second pair moved quickly and quietly toward the back of the building, taking up positions on either side of the rear door, then checking their weapons’ charge counts with infrared light before signaling the team’s leader as well.

  Walking out of the shadows, the leader brought a fist-sized plastic explosive from a pouch at his side, mashing it into shape before walking toward the side of the building.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice came from the palisade wall on the far side of the compound.

  The five figures froze.

  “Put down your weapons and I’ll let you live,” the voice was unmistakably that of Colonel Marshal Alexander. To put some force to his promise, the top hatches of all four vehicles opened and all four guns powered up.

  Suddenly, each of the five would-be assassins made their choice. The two figures at the front door began firing their kiz’zit slicers wildly toward where they’d heard Colonel Alexander. Deadly charged disks lodged deep into the logs of palisade, some of them cutting clear through before loosing their charge. One burst from the pulse laser on the armored trucks severed legs and arms, blew out chests, and turned heads into so much vaporized bone, blood, and brain.

  The would-be assassins’ leader drew back to throw the plastic explosives, but was instantly slammed into the cabin wall by one of the heavy sonic guns, his body crumpling and bleeding as if swatted by the hand of some god. The noise the gun made shattered the stillness of the night, but the explosion the packet of high-grade plastic explosives made as it was flicked away from the cabin created a rather broad, if shallow crater.

  At the back of the cabin, the other pair of assassins began to run for their lives, in a desperate attempt to escape the counter-ambush to their would-be hit. Sergeant Thompson was having none of that, however. After the first heavy sonic gun missed and the pair of assassins disappeared behind the cabin, he jumped out of the vehicle and ran toward the other side with an area burst rifle in one hand. Reaching the corner, he fired an entire clip of shrapnel rounds around the corner of the cabin to where the assassins had run.

  Screams erupted with the first explosive round, but by the time the fifth liter-bottle sized grenade exploded there was no further noise. Peeking briefly around the corner, Sergeant Thompson relaxed his gun and walked around the corner to observe the shredded bodies of his quarry.

  Walking over to the wall where he had placed the linker, Colonel Alexander saw the device had been shattered by a slicer disk. Cursing his bad luck, he threw the device into the trees and turned to walk back toward the leader of the assassin team.

  “Specialist Ya-da-na,” the colonel said to the three trillo aspects who stood gaping at the bodies.

  “Yes,”—one aspect said—“sir?” a second finished.

  “Turn off their holoscreens, will you? This millimeter wave vision is good for catching people trying to sneak up on us, but not so good for assessing damage.”

  The three furry, armadillo-like creatures with their shared mind swarmed around the first assassin’s body fiddling with the first screen, but couldn’t seem to figure out how to turn it off. Finally, Triplets just ripped the device, belt and all, off the leader, one aspect throwing it off to the side.

  Laying there on the ground, the colonel could now see that the leader of the assassin team was still alive, if only just. He was a muscular younger man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with ruddy skin and unruly blond hair. Blood dripped from both ears, from his nose, and from his mouth. The right side of his chest looked strangely sunken, and his breath, once he could breath at all, came in short, ragged gasps.

  Colonel Alexander felt no pity for the man, but he needed answers so he couldn’t let him slip away yet.

  “Who are you,” Alexander asked.

  The blond man just coughed and looked at Colonel Alexander with large eyes.

  Alexander picked the man’s head up off the ground and slapped his face repeatedly until he showed some sign of cognizance. “Hey, I asked you a question! Who are you!”

  “Please… please don’t… let me… die,” the man pled.

  “I can’t promise you that, but we’ll see what we can do. First you have to tell me your name,” Alexander pressed.

  “Peter… Jones,” the man gasped.

  “The clan lord?” Alexander asked in surprise.

  The man coughed as he shook his head slightly. “No… his son.”

  “Why’s your father sending assassins to kill us?” Alexander asked.

  “Brutian… Brutian asked…” the man’s breathing was becoming more labored. “He… paid… bounty…” the man writhed about in pain, his face contorting as he groaned, and then he went limp.

  Setting the man’s head down on the ground, Alexander closed the man’s eyes with his fingers then stood and looked toward the great tree in the middle of the clan hold.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have some unfinished business with the over-clan lord of the Mon-Jonesik,” he said. “And I’m not one to leave business unfinished. But first, I have something I have to do.”

  With that, Colonel Alexander stood and looked toward where a cluster of old yazri warriors watched from the lower branches of one of the clan’s home trees. Raising his weapon, he acknowledged them.

  “Sergeant Thompson, see to the clean up, will you?” Alexander said as he walked off to where the old warriors were gathering on the ground at the edge of the clan’s holdings, waiting to take him with them to the tree hold of the Mon-Jikkik sub-clan.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hunt master,” the old yazri spoke warmly, his stooped shoulders straightening somewhat as his memories stripped away the years in his mind. “It has been many years since we drew blade together in the bug wars.”

  “So it is, Stey-Jik, thirty-three years to be precise,” Colonel Alexander answered, his eyes kindly, yet invigorated by this reunion with his old platoon sergeant.

  “You have aged so little, hunt master, and yet my old bones will soon feed our trees, and my spirit will soar with the ancestors, likely before the new year comes,” Stey-Jik spoke solemnly.

  Alexander smiled. “It is the life magic of the star people renewing me, my friend. The ancestors do not want me yet, for there is still much work that I must do here.”

  Stey-Jik smiled a wistful smile as he sat in the clan hold of the Jikkik sub-clan. Around him the several tree-lords of the Mon-Jikkik were gathered, waiting in deferent respect for what was to come. Stey-Jik had been clan-lord before his eldest son, who had once been over-clan lord, but now Stey-Jik’s second son was clan lord of only their clan, for Clan Lord Jones had killed the over-clan lord in a challenge of blades.

  “This is good, hunt master, for the task you have chosen is not for one so old and bent as we are,” Stey-Jik said, motioning to the other old yazri who sat in the talking circle. “Who knows but perhaps our ancestors have counseled together to bring you here, and perhaps through the life magic of the star people they have prepared you for such a day as this?”

  “You speak wisely, my brother,” Alexander answered. “Would you add your charges to my right of justice?”

  Stey-Jik’s face clouded as he knew now was the time to s
peak their grievances. “For a long season Mon-Jonesik has stolen our treasures. He is not a ring-giver, but instead demands a portion of all that we grow or hunt or trade. All this to support his many wives. He is a bad man, always in rut and ever hungry for our wealth.”

  The other old yazri around the circle nodded their agreement. “He beats the powerless,” said one. “And he cheats us of our rightful hunt kills,” said another.

  Stey-Jik leaned forward then with a flare of the same intensity he had had thirty-three years before when he and then Lieutenant Alexander had fought together in the bug wars. “And Mon-Jonesik slew my son unjustly!”

  Alexander nodded slowly. “What proof can I lay before the over-clan matriarch?” he asked.

  Stey-Jik shook his head. “Nothing! One moment my son was poised for victory, with his knife about to slay the Jones, and then without his knife even near my son’s chest blood left from my son and he collapsed. Only after that did Jones put his knife in my son’s chest as though he had struck him.”

  “So you think someone shot him with a kiz’zit slicer,” Alexander said.

  Stey-Jik nodded, the weight of loss again dousing the fire which had emerged. “Yes, hunt master. It is as you say.”

  “Then I will avenge your son,” Alexander spoke, and Stey-Jik looked up into his eyes. “Truly, I feel the divine power of the ancestors already coming over me, strengthening me for what I must do.”

  “Then let it be so,” Stey-Jik said and began to stand. From the high place, the young, unsure matriarch that was the mate of Stey-Jik’s second son floated down on billowing wings. Though she wore the trappings of the matriarch, letters scrawled on her wings and adorned with vines and berries, her nervousness robbed her of any of the overawing dignity that such trappings usually inspired in the warriors of clan. Besides, Stey-Jik had been a clan lord in his day and was literate, so letters no longer held such mystery for the old warrior, nor was a matriarch a thing to be feared for one who had already seen his destiny played out in his long life. Now, in his sunset years, as he had grown beyond the moors of his own society, Stey-Jik felt his role was to strengthen the young ones who took on such heavy roles.