Asimov's SF, October-November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Islay nodded grimly. “Let's go."

  "What about her?” SinBad nodded at Pretty Bottom, who had not bothered to draw her knife. “Thuria is up."

  Islay dismissed his concern. “That Issus battery is line-of-sight, good for fifty haads in any direction in flat country."

  They thrashed off through the grass, with Simba in the lead and Pretty Bottom bringing up the rear. Three locals with home-forged weapons, surrounding a tourist with a laser rifle. None of the other offworld “ba'ath hunters” would be much help, never having seen their prey outside of a game park.

  SinBad let Islay lead, covering the laird's back. Attack could come from any direction, and if something mean leaped out at them, he wanted that laser rifle safely ahead of him. The only weapon he could comfortably turn his back on was Pretty Bottom's skinning knife. If she stabbed you, it would not be by mistake. SinBad had hoped to have the young Crow sitting safe behind the energy fence, with the White apes and hangers-on. Surface-to-space missiles would have to do.

  Steppe Hyenas yipped at each other out on the sward, excited by the commotion. Scavengers of all sorts liked to hang around tourist camps, hoping offworlders would do something stupid.

  After a couple of haads the trail dipped down into one of the steep lush valleys found in equatorial Barsoom, deep slashes in the sward where water and vegetation collected. Canyon walls looked down on thick brush and thornwood, full of hiding places perfect for lying up and eating your kill. Wild moropus just like he'd had for breakfast stared suspiciously up at them. First a she-ba'ath with pretty prey in her teeth, then two species of humans. Enough to make any thinking herbivore uneasy.

  Simba sniffed the breeze, then whispered, “She is in there."

  "My wife or the ba'ath?” Islay whispered back.

  "Both."

  SinBad reached behind him, feeling Pretty Bottom's knee. He could hear her breathing, just behind his ear. “How you doing?"

  "Thirsty,” she hissed back.

  He gave her a long swig of fruit juice from his canteen. Handing it back, she nuzzled his ear, whispering, “Watch out for the cat."

  "Sure. You too. Watch my back.” He felt silly, telling a Crow how to stalk.

  "Not the ba'ath, the other cat.” She meant Simba.

  "Why?"

  "Just beware.” She squeezed his hand for silence. SuperCats heard better than both of them.

  Shit, Simba was the one he half-trusted. Not good. He faced a silent stalk into deep cover, trailing a ba'ath with a taste for people. Putting a lot on the line, just to view bloody remnants of someone he had liked. Or at least lusted after.

  Islay gave him a communicator to clip to his ear, then they entered the brush. Tickbird sentinels sounded out, warning the moropus herd that armed humans were tromping through their feeding grounds. Which made SinBad step even more lightly, creeping along pigeon-toed, his weight on the sides of his leather boots. At least Thuria was not looking over his shoulder. Dense double-canopy cover beat Issus interceptors for shutting out Slavers.

  Visibility shrank to sofads. He could hear Islay just ahead, sliding invisibly through the underbrush. Behind him, Pretty Bottom was both silent and unseen. Comforting. No ba'ath would get him from behind.

  Half a haad into the tangle, they came on Silver-wig's communicator, lying on the trail.

  Flipping his sand goggles to night vision, he searched for a heat source in the tightly woven tapestry of branches, vines, and thorn twigs, a dense living wall as opaque as radiation armor. No luck. With two humanoids ahead of him, and the moropus herd munching the greenery, there were way too many heat sources. Thermal overkill.

  With her hyper-keen nose and hair-trigger hearing, the ba'ath would know they were coming long before they arrived. Totally unfair. He was a sand sailor, for Issus’ sake, hoping to see open sward again. SinBad jacked up the magnification on his glasses, though he could not see beyond arm's reach. Veins on the leaves leaped out as he peered into the spaces between them, looking for anything that might belong to a ba'ath.

  Nothing. Not even the odd moropus, though these retrobred rhinoceros-hide quadrupeds were all about, head high at the shoulder, weighing up to a ton. Crow warriors rode them instead of horses, which would never survive on Barsoom. These wild ones were twice as mean, and just as big, with wicked white tusks and a terrible temper—totally hidden by the bush.

  Eventually they left the moropus herd behind as the spoor wound farther into the tangled morass, which just got darker and deeper. Light from above faded. Dusk was coming on. Which would give the ba'ath every advantage. If the cat had heard them, the beast would not lay up until nightfall. Simba saw it too, calling a halt.

  Islay wanted to go on. “My wife might still be alive."

  Simba shrugged. “Pugmarks say the ba'ath has dropped her load. We are tracking her so close, she stashed her kill. She will come back around to feed."

  Laird Islay did not like hearing his wife discussed so clinically by a bio-engineered being. “Sure it's the same ba'ath?"

  Simba smirked, hissing between saber-teeth, “She is."

  "How can you tell?"

  "By her smell. She's in heat.” Hot and hungry. Simba acted like he used to date her.

  "My wife could still be alive,” Islay insisted.

  "If she is, she is back behind us,” Simba reminded him. “this cat is no longer carrying her."

  SinBad looked at Pretty Bottom, who nodded in agreement. At least Simba was not lying.

  Islay put in a call to camp, telling the ship to meet them at the edge of the tangle. Hefting his laser rifle, he told SinBad, “Thanks for watching my back. Want them to bring you something with punch? These are line-of-sight, self correcting, and can burn through battle armor."

  "No thanks.” SinBad had his crossbow. Offworld weapons were wonderful, but he did want to kill a ba'ath five haads away—it was the ones up close and angry that worried him. And none of them wore battle armor.

  Simba stuck to his spear. They turned about, backtracking, looking for the spot where the cat had dropped her prey. There had been very little blood spoor, just a few drops on the grass tops. Which gave Islay hope, though the ba'ath could have broken Silver-wig's neck, then stashed her body high in the crotch of a tree, to snack on later.

  SinBad looked up this time as well as down, searching for blood streaks on branches. He was no longer looking for a ba'ath, but a body. That made him sad. Going from fear to grief, without a good moment in between.

  All he saw on infrared was moropus-sized heat sources. The herd was munching its way deeper into the brush pile. These giant browsers had thorn-proof hide, and clawed limbs able to strip off leafy branches and succulent bark. They were retrobred to turn thorn trees into fertilizer and provide surface transport for anyone crazy enough to tame them. Like the Kick Belly Crow.

  Without warning, a cry rang out, a ba'ath screaming bloody murder only twenty paces away. Maybe their ba'ath, keening like crazy.

  Brush exploded around him. SinBad saw branches fly, and heard bushes erupt with the menacing grunt of an angry moropus. Just in time, he was jerked backward, out of the way of the huge beast that thundered past him, headed for the tall grass.

  Ahead of him, Islay just had time to turn and shoot, pegging the charging moropus with a perfect laser beam brain shot.

  Clutching his useless crossbow, SinBad watched the galloping behemoth collapse in a heap at the visiting laird's feet. No explosive bolt could have done that—not one fired by him. Pretty Bottom had heard the moropus coming, and she'd pulled him out of the monster's way. Leaves rained down on both of them.

  Before SinBad could take a breath, another moropus burst bellowing from the brush, following in the steps of the first monster. Seeing its mate lying prone in the trail, the enraged moropus spun like a prize quarterhorse, charging at Islay.

  Again the laird took aim at the animal's hideous head. Moropus barsoom had two tusk-shaped canines rising from its lower jaw, to add to their great claw
ed feet and murderous temper—which was why Crow warriors liked to ride them whooping into battle.

  This time Laird Islay of Islay just stood there, staring into his rifle sights, until the charging moropus was on him. Swinging its gleaming tusks, the beast hooked him in the ribs, throwing Islay high in the air.

  When he landed, the moropus was there, raking his remains with those tremendous razor claws. Just as the moropus was warming to its work, SinBad squeezed off a shot, aiming at the base of the neck.

  Without waiting to see what happened, he cranked another round into the crossbow, then took aim again. Jackpot. His first shot had spined the moropus, dropping the thrashing herbivore next to Laird Islay.

  He fired anyway, blowing out the back of the dead beast's head, just to be safe. Always kick an enemy when he's down. SinBad had done nothing to disturb this four-legged ogre, even going out of the way to avoid him and his friends. Blame the ba'ath if you liked.

  Cranking in another round, he went to check on Islay. Miraculously, the laird was still alive, though not by much. Shooting that mad moropus had given Islay half a chance.

  Simba appeared, spear in hand, calling for med-evac on his communicator.

  Night continued to fall, and the ba'ath was still out there, after taking out a wife and husband who had come a dozen light years just to shoot her. Unless this was another ba'ath, toying with them—which SinBad doubted. A ba'ath had way better things to do, unless it had a bug up its butt. This was the cat they had trailed, hounded, keeping her hungry and horny, getting some of her own back. Crossbow cocked and ready, SinBad loosened his loincloth, which had been sopping wet ever since that first moropus burst out of the brush.

  The orbital yacht landed, and he helped hustle Islay into an autodoc, tossed and trampled by a beast that is casually ridden by Crow children, several at a time. Small wonder. Barsoom had dozens of ways of taking you down, none of them nice and easy.

  Simba insisted on setting up an overnight camp, so they could go looking for Silver-wig at first light. “She is now my employer."

  With Islay in a coma, his wife was in charge of the hunting party. Unless she was already eaten.

  Thuria was down, and Pretty Bottom meant to make the most of that opportunity, throwing her arms around him, whispering, “My wonderful hero."

  "Who wet his loincloth,” he informed her.

  "So did I,” giggled Pretty Bottom, who was not wearing one.

  "Come, my chieftain.” She dragged him into the thicket, aiming to celebrate their brush with fate. He went, eager to get out of the wet loincloth, and he owed her for saving him from being trampled. In the midst of snatching life, she licked his ear playfully, whispering, “Simba is a Slaver."

  So that was it. SinBad nearly missed a stroke. It fit. The leaderless hunting party had been dragged from behind its energy fence, into a tangled valley that stretched out of Issus range. And in half a zode, Thuria would be up. “Don't worry,” Pretty Bottom brought him back to business with a kiss, “he's just a cat."

  SuperCat actually. Bred to be better than SinBad, or at least more dangerous—faster, stronger, smarter, with big teeth and claws. Ba'aths called back and forth in the darkness. Maybe even their ba'ath, looking for a boyfriend.

  When they were done, SinBad asked, “How do you know Simba's a Slaver?"

  Snuggling against him, Pretty Bottom replied sleepily, “Who else would hunt ba'aths at Wife Stealing Time?"

  Good point, SinBad admitted. He was not here for the ba'aths. Simba must be at least as smart.

  "Last year, this same cat was lurking about, when Arapaho Woman disappeared, along with her little sister. Only then he was a smuggler, trading offworld jewelry for civet skins."

  "So you bought some?” SinBad saw where this was going.

  "For five skins. It is pinned to my possible sack."

  Which was aboard his sand sail, thank Issus. Haads away from here. Passing out radio-tagged trinkets to winsome young nomads was an old Slaver trick. No wonder they had checked out his sand sail. Her possible sack had drawn them straight to it.

  "Killed the civets myself,” she murmured. “Strangled them to save the skins."

  She was soon asleep, happy, fed, and pregnant, safe from Slavers and ex-boyfriends, turning Wife Stealing Time into time away from the tipi. Ba'aths called in the darkness, mating cries, from close at hand, having their own tryst in the thicket. She-ba'aths in heat kept finding mates, even after becoming pregnant, to keep the males guessing.

  Simba came on the communicator, sounding a general recall.

  Not trusting the communicator, which doubled as a tracking device, SinBad reported in person, leaving Pretty Bottom asleep under the thorn bushes. She did not fear ba'aths, and strangled wildcats barehanded, so she should be safe until Thuria rise.

  He found the SuperCat waiting at the yacht's airlock. “With no energy fence here, we should all sleep on the yacht,” the bioconstruct explained. “There are ba'aths about."

  No shit, Simba. More all the time. “I am wondering about that laser rifle."

  "Want one?” Simba grinned. “Paint the target and pull the trigger, rifle does the rest."

  Not always. “Islay's rifle did not fire."

  Simba shrugged. “Transient malfunction. I retired that one."

  Another ba'ath call sounded, even closer.

  "Better get your mate,” Simba suggested.

  Pretty Bottom was hardly his mate. Goes Ahead had gotten in ahead of him. Along with Alligator Stands Up. But he was not about to argue personal relations with a bioconstruct and suspected Slaver. Nor was he likely to spend the night aboard ship. SinBad left, pretending to obey.

  He made his way back through the thorns to where he'd left Pretty Bottom. But there was nothing there. Sleeping booty was gone.

  Damn. No note or token. No sign of a struggle, just gone. How like her. Determined not to spend the night alone, SinBad slid two more explosive bolts into his crossbow to fill the clip. By now the ground was cool enough for her to leave a good heat trail, so he flipped his goggles onto infrared.

  Her heat trail appeared at once, headed away from the moropus thicket deeper into the canyon. Great. He had wanted to sit out Thuria rise, curled under a thorn bush with his cute Crow companion; instead he was headed deeper into a canyon that had already swallowed two wealthy offworlders. Ba'aths called back and forth in the blackness, sounding like they had made a kill. Hopefully no one he knew.

  With each cautious step, he remembered the scratches on his crossbow stock. A ba'ath with a bad attitude had jumped him at point-blank range, without even a warning growl. He got off one shot before the ba'ath batted the crossbow out of his grip, then bowled him over.

  Luckily, when shooting at arm's length, he rarely missed. Instead of being ripped to shreds, a dead ba'ath landed in his lap. When he heaved the beast off him, he'd found an arrow broken off in the ba'ath's belly, a festering wound that must have hurt horribly. An Apache arrow, but try telling an angry ba'ath that you are Huron. He did have hard words for some local Apaches, who laughed to hear how he'd found their arrow.

  Slowly the heat trail faded. He was not moving fast enough to catch Pretty Bottom, wherever she was going. Crow women were always up to something, which was why they had Wife Stealing Time.

  Then, without warning, the glowing trail got stronger. Something close to Pretty Bottom's size had recently passed through. He picked up the pace, finding the trail getting brighter and fresher. Encouraged, SinBad kept his crossbow in front of him, ready for anything.

  Almost. Sitting in a grassy clearing ahead was the source of the heat trail, a barefoot and bedraggled Silver-wig.

  Her wings were drooped and broken; her silver body paint was scraped off, revealing large swaths of pink flesh. Clearly happy to see him despite the cocked crossbow aimed at her bare chest, the offworlder smiled wide. “Hi, Huron."

  Why was he always drawing a bead on beautiful women, thinking they were ba'aths? He lowered his bow. “Actual
ly, my name is SinBad."

  "Really?” Silver-wig seemed surprised.

  "What is yours?"

  "Deirdre. Deirdre Islay."

  Very offworld, and meaningless, but somehow pretty. “We thought you were dead."

  "I thought I was dead,” Deirdre admitted, “when that ba'ath grabbed me. I fought, screamed, and fainted."

  Then the cat carried her off unconscious, dropping her when pursuit got too close. Doubling back on her tracks, the ba'ath led her bungling pursuers into the moropus herd. SinBad asked, “Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. “Grass burns, a couple of nasty cuts. But not a tooth mark. I think he dragged me by my wings."

  "She dragged you,” he corrected her. “You were grabbed by a female. On Barsoom both sexes have black manes."

  "Oh.” Clearly she knew very little about the beasts they'd come light years to kill.

  Yet she had survived the ba'ath attack unbelievably well. In fact, her real troubles were just beginning. He asked, “Are you cold?"

  She nodded. He took off his buckskin jacket and gave it to her. He had just a light linen shirt underneath, but this was spring in the tropics, about as mild as Barsoom got.

  Shedding broken wings, she pulled on the jacket, not bothering with the bone buttons, asking instead, “Have you seen my husband?"

  He had seen parts of Laird Islay his wife never had, but SinBad did not say so. Who wanted an hysterical tourist on their hands? “He's aboard the yacht."

  She looked about. “Where is that?"

  "Close by.” Thuria would be up in a few xats. Who knew what would happen then? Not him. “But we need to hide first."

  "Hide? Why?"

  He nodded at the night sky. “The Slaver Moon will be up soon."

  "How can you tell?"

  "It's not hard, when you have grown up under these stars.” What nomad boy did not thrill at Thuria rise, watching the girls scurry for cover? Imagining himself saving some beautiful offworld princess from Slavers, and winning a warm reward. Like a lot of boyhood dreams, the ideal totally beat reality.

  He hustled the winsome tourist into the underbrush, where she could not be seen by Thuria light. Though there was still their body heat. If Simba told the Slavers where to look, a diligent search would find them.