Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  Rigi went out with the hoplings the next day to get water. As always she had her satchel and the concealed blaster. Adults had borrowed several of the larger hoplings to assist with washing and bringing in crops and fishing, leaving Rigi and the smaller, weaker hoplings. When they reached the well, Rigi looked from the mechanism to the others. The youngsters gave her hopeful, pleading looks, and she sighed, setting down her shoulder yoke. Rigi and the biggest male untied the well apparatus and threw their shoulders against the crank that drove the wheel to pull the heavy main bucket up, then she and a clip-tailed male balanced the sealed wooden vessel and poured with great care, filling the others’ small buckets. It took two runs of the lift bucket to fill all the requests, and as they got ready to finish, four adults appeared with larger buckets. The adults moved fast, not quite hop-walking. Clip-tail took the hint and lowered the bucket, then he and Rigi cranked as fast as was safe. As soon as the main bucket appeared the adults filled soft leather carry-bags and their buckets, then rushed back to the village. Rigi topped off Clip-tail’s bucket and her own, and they lowered the main bucket once more, secured the crank to keep animals from messing with it, and started back. As they did, Clip-tail froze, head up, and Rigi saw a hint of motion. “To cover, hurry,” she hissed in Staré, trotting carefully so she wouldn’t spill. He followed. They ducked inside the walls.

  The pole chafed her neck, so she stopped, stepped out of the main path of Staré, and adjusted things. Before she could go again, a medium-tan adult male lifted the pole. He growled, “To hoplings go,” //concern/anger/fear.// She let him take the pole and buckets, hand bowed, and hurried that direction. Then she doubled back and hid behind a pile of wood near the carpenter’s work area. Over the sounds of the Staré, Rigi heard another flitter, then a second one.

  “Called old-evil!”

  “Kill, must kill.”

  “No, wait for wise ones. They say.”

  “More spirits come, can not wait.”

  “Wise ones know.” Rigi picked just enough out of the babble of voices and the cloud of scents to begin to panic. She had to get away. She had to warn the others. How? Their building sat alone beside the square, with clear lanes around it, and at least a dozen Staré on all sides at all times as they came and went on business. More Staré seemed to be coming, probably going to the market to learn what the elders decided.

  “Kill them!”

  “Not kill!”

  “Hssraaah!” A dark-colored male attacked the “not kill” male, and tufts of fur scattered, along with pure //anger// stink. Rigi ducked and wove between piles of wood, slipped under low-hanging eves, and snuck as close to the gates as she could get. Several meters of clear space separated her from the gate. Danger lurked outside the gate, but inside as well, and she knew where the humans were and could tell the people with the flitters. Rigi hesitated, torn inside. She didn’t want to abandon the others, but she didn’t want to have to fight the Staré. Her shooter could not stop a village full of angry Staré, or a well-aimed sling-shot pellet. If she could find the people outside, the ones with the flitters… She looked toward the gate, then back into the square.

  The tumbling, hissing fight spilled into the open area and the Staré closest to the gate hurried to see what was going on. Rigi murmured a prayer and ran. She scurried out the gate and up the trail, past the well, and into the shadow-dappled forest. She ducked claw-bushes, wove past the yellow warning leaves of a stinging striped-leaf and continued until she reached a large tree and a clearing. Her side hurt. She took a deep breath, then another, and walked on. The gate pointed toward the humans’ camp, if she remembered the map correctly. Why had she not brought that file reader with her? Because it weighted too much, took up too much space and she didn’t have time to read files when she worked, she reminded herself. And it would be out of battery by now, assuming she’d been allowed to read it.

  Once her breathing slowed and her heart stopped thudding so loudly that she couldn’t hear herself, Rigi paused and listened. A bird called, then another, bell-hammer birds it sounded like with their pure pinging call. A scarlet screamer answered, and something else chittered. She caught a glimpse of furry tail flicking around the tree limb, and relaxed. At least in the south, those never came out if they smelled a big predator near. Rigi nodded once, moved her satchel to the other side and after glancing around for watchers, undid the buckle on her holster belt and moved the hand-shooter to the outside of her skirt so she could draw faster. She undid the safety strap, checked the charge in the canister and spare, and resumed walking after making a brief stop behind some bushes.

  She’d gone for another hour before something made the hairs on the back of her neck tremble. She didn’t stop or look behind her, but she slowed a little, listening and inhaling for scent. The faint touch of air from behind carried a sharp, crushed leaves scent. Was it something she’d stepped on? No, because she’d remember it. Rigi wove her way around the tall stump of something black with light brown and orange shelf-fungus on it, then scooted out of a direct line and behind a large, dark-grey tree with smooth bark. She heard sound, an animal? Maybe, but too rhythmic. Please go past, please go away, I just want to go home, go by, please go by, there’s no one here, she whispered in her heart. Her right hand eased down, smoothly, slowly, and drew the hand-shooter, then lifted it, finger clear of the trigger. The beam shooter is always loaded; never point at something you are not willing to destroy; finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire; be aware what is behind your target she recited, and prayed again. Something grunted like a Staré or a striped leaper. Please be a striped leaper, please, please, pleasepleaseplease.

  “Hssst taka,” and three male Staré trotted past, all three carrying spears and two with sling-shots as well. Rigi held her breath and tried to blend into the tree. The stains and spots on her clothes might help, she hoped. The trio kept going, and she relaxed slightly, letting her shoulders drop and exhaling silently, then inhaling. She smelled frustration and anger. Rigi moved her second finger and turned the safety to off. Slowly so slowly she put her left hand over her right hand and wrist, steadying them and the shooter.

  A fourth Staré stormed past. Something called to the left of the clearing and he turned his head, then tripped. He said something that Rigi could guess at, and her face warmed a little. How amazingly vulgar, and anatomically impossible, especially for a plant. The light and dark brown blotched male got to his feet and looked around, started to continue on, and spun, spear raised and pointed at her.

  “No,” she called in Staré, lowering the shooter’s concentration barrel.

  He threw.

  She fired as she dodged.

  He missed.

  She didn’t.

  Rigi gulped, and crept forward. She had to confirm that she’d killed him. She could not let him suffer—

  Nausea churned her stomach and tears blurred her eyes. She’d forgotten to reset the shooter from three-quarter power and the male no longer had a chest or front ribs. She whispered a prayer, dialed the power setting back to half, and scurried off at right-angles to her former track. The way would take her back to the grassland, eventually, and to the break in the woods where she thought a stream ran. She needed a drink, and to wash the tears off her face. From the open she could signal the rescue party.

  She should have grabbed the beacon, brought it with her. Rigi wanted to hit herself with a stick, to knock a little sense into her own head. She was in the woods without a map of any kind, on a continent with unfamiliar plants, without any sort of protective equipment, about to start her cycle, and if it rained she’d be miserably wet and cold. And the beacon would call the rescuers to the village, where she was not. Tomás and his father would scold her, Uncle Eb would lecture her, Aunt Kay would sigh, and her parents had probably already decided to ground her until the local sun burned out. And Martinus would seep oil onto her clothes and shoes out of spite. A pile of something dark, damp-smelling, and jumbled rose up ahead and she aimed to the l
eft, keeping her right side and the shooter to the pile. Piles tended to have residents. It seemed to be a bunch of trees that had fallen together, possibly during a storm, and were rotting as a heap. Rigi kept moving, aiming for the tongue of grassland or meadow she thought she remembered. Full dark came soon, and she did not want to be lost in the woods at night. Things with teeth and claws moved at night.

  She found the grass, and a spring-fed stream, just before sundown. Rigi chose a tree that seemed harmless and pulled young, leafy branches down, resting them against the trunk like the trainer had told them to when the archaeologists had gotten emergency survival lessons, in case someone got lost in the woods. She drank more water, cleared some of the ground near the mouth of the shelter, and searched for dry leaves and old wood. Her tiny battery-powered sparker worked on the second try, and she tried to nurse the little fire. She moved too fast, poked in too big of a stick, and it died. Rigi sat back and swore, silently, using every Staré oath she knew and a half-dozen human curse words. She made herself calm down and try again, moving slowly at every step and not rushing. Her little fire stayed lit, and she eased twigs and little sticks into the fire.

  She started to doze off and pinched herself. Rigi fed the flames another stick and thought. Running into the woods had been stupid. Very stupid. And killing the Staré even more stupid. Her hands began shaking and she hugged herself, drew her knees up to her chest and stared at the fire, all of her shaking. She could see him, smell the anger and rage, saw the pale wood of the spear and the sharp tip, how a little light had caught the stone and hardened wood, watched his multi-colored fur rising and his ears tipping flat in anger. She closed her eyes and saw his dead face, tongue sticking out sideways, chest open and charred, blood seeping onto the leaves under him, the smell of roast meat and death… She opened her eyes again and added two small twigs to the fire. Forgive me, she pleaded. Forgive me, I didn’t want to kill you. Why didn’t you stop?

  Her eyelids tried to close and she fought them open. Sleep meant no fire. No fire meant animals. Rigi wanted a bath, oh she needed a bath, she itched all over. She’d probably picked up fleas from the dead male. “Just my luck,” she whispered.

  Something moved on the grassland-side of her little camp. Rigi drew her shooter, ran the power setting back up to full, and waited. Something large, but perhaps not that large moved in the darkness. And another something. Please not again, she prayed, Creator and Creatrix have mercy, hear my cry, please oh great ones protect me, send danger far away, hear my cry. The creatures moved again, walking lightly but coming closer. Rigi shifted her weight and folding her skirt, getting onto her knees so she could move faster.

  A faint red light moved over the ground. That wasn’t Staré, not the local Staré! She lowered the shooter, sliding it into the holster. Rigi added three sticks to the fire, closed one eye, and puffed on the fire. It blazed up, throwing light. The red beam swung toward her and she waved, slowly.

  “Come out, slow.” The voice came through a filter of some kind, like a helmet’s face-guard. Rigi crawled around the fire, making certain her skirt stayed well away from danger, and stood, hands in the open and well away from her shooter. The red light followed her and she thought she could see someone behind it, a hint of an outline, maybe. “Name?”

  “Auriga Bernardi, sir.”

  A Staré voice demanded, “What eye have you?”

  “The wise eye,” she replied in Staré.

  “The sight, scent, and answer confirm,” the Staré reported in Common.

  “You can put your hands down, Miss Bernardi. Where are the others?”

  “They are held in the village by the river. They were all alive this afternoon, except four. The Staré killed those in the first attacks.”

  The dark figure made a strange noise. “Warrior’s oath,” Rigi said, keeping her right hand up and holding the fingers to mimic a Staré forefoot. “The archaeologists began digging and the local Staré attacked us.”

  “Why are you free?”

  “The Staré thought I was a hopling, sirs, and let me do chores with the other hoplings. When they started fighting over killing us, this afternoon, I ran away.”

  “She has the right scent for a hopling,” the Staré said. She heard sniffing. “Faint now, but present.”

  “Come with us.” Rigi got her satchel, pushed and kicked dirt over the fire until she was certain it had gone fully out, and followed the nearly invisible figure.

  “Sirs, the local Staré do not go out at night,” she offered. “There are too many dangerous predators.”

  The males did not respond, and Rigi had to stretch her legs to keep up with them. They took her to a vehicle, a small run-about, and loaded her into the back. “Hold on.” They drove toward the old camp. Rigi fought to keep her grip on the metal framework as they bounced and rocked. It took only a few minutes, or so it felt, for them to reach a military camp. She assumed it was military, based on the people who emerged from tents and vehicles to meet them.

  “Find something interesting, Scout?” a man with stripes on his sleeve called.

  “One of the expedition, hiding at the edge of the woods. Kor identified her.” The man didn’t offer to help Rigi, but Kor did.

  The dark Staré steadied her as she staggered, then staggered again. Brilliant blue-white light blinded her, and Kor gusted //anger/irritation/rude.// Rigi murmured, “I agree, Kor, completely agree, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I am Auriga Bernardi, sir.”

  The light moved away, but she still couldn’t see. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side. She stumbled and started to fall. Kor caught her. “Stop. Wise One exhausted.”

  “What in the name of the micro-moons were you thinking, Corporal? Your pardon, Miss Auriga,” strong hands took her under the elbow, allowing her to lean without touching too much of her. “There’s a rest shelter and food this way, Miss.”

  “Thank you, but if you can move now, please do. The Staré were fighting over whether to kill the others when I fled. And I mean fur-tearing, clawing fighting. Four of them followed me and I had to kill one who attacked me. I made a map of the village, can show you where the beacon and the humans are.”

  They’d reached light, and the sergeant eased her into a seat, then handed her a glass of water. She drank, then remembered her manners. “Your pardon. Thank you, Sergeant.”

  A new voice asked, “You mentioned a map with where the humans are, Miss?”

  Rigi opened her satchel and pulled out one of the sketch pads, turned pages, and held up the drawing. “The wide stripe outside the walls is the river, sir. The human building, I’m sorry, the building with the humans in it is here,” she pointed. “There is a gate, the main gate here, an open area here, and all the adult males and females without young are in the western end of the village. Hoplings and females with pouchlings are here,” she pointed to the enclosure. “I do not know what these buildings are, sir. There are about four hundred Staré, probably more, they do not have much metal tech but they use sling-shots as artillery. That’s what killed Dr. Sanchez, or so Dr. Xian and Mr. De Groet said. They bring down wombeasts with them, with the slingshots that is, sir.”

  “Where are the guard posts?”

  “There are none. When an enormous river lizard attacked the outer wall, almost tore through, I had to wake an adult male and then he roused the warriors to kill the beast.” She blinked as the men seemed to sway. “I’m sorry sir, I think I’m about to collapse.”

  Kor held her upright in the seat. The officer handed her a different map. “Which river village, miss?”

  She peered at it, blinked, peered, and said, “This one. Where the beacon is.”

  The men seemed to stare at each other. “Shit. That’s what the pilot was fussing about. He was using the wrong freq—Oh, I beg your pardon!”

  Rigi had closed her eyes, just for a moment, they burned so…

  8

  Rescue and Return

  She felt clea
ner, or her clothes did. No, Rigi realized, she was in bedding, real bedding. And she needed to get up, and where was she? Not the village, that much she knew by the sheets and the semi-soft bed. She blinked and sat with care, keeping the sheet over her front. A set of clothes sat on a camp chair beside the bed, which had been surrounded with canvas to make a screen. Her satchel sat propped up against a chair leg and her shooter and belt lay on top of the clothes. She found water and washing things on a camp-table. After cleaning most of herself as best she could, Rigi dressed in someone else’s trousers and tunic, then lifted part of the canvas out of the way, taking care not to knock the frame down. It didn’t look too sturdy.

  “Blast, that’s what I was afraid of,” a wonderfully familiar voice said. “How badly?”

  “Nothing fatal, sir, but Lakk will have a new joke-name and Jeela won’t be doing any lifting or anything requiring two forefeet for at least six weeks, sir.” The Staré sounded professional and Rigi smelled //resigned/pleased.//

  “Thank you, Subala.”

  Rigi opened the tent flap to find Tomás, in uniform, sitting at a camp desk under an awning and taking notes as two Staré reported. The trio pivoted when they heard canvas rubbing on canvas, and Tomás got to his feet. Rigi didn’t rush over and hug him and his soldiers, but she smiled and hand-bowed. The Staré replied in kind. Tomás bowed, smiled, and offered her his chair. “Miss Bernardi,” he said. “It is good to see you well.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Pardon my lack of proper manners, but have your men located the other expedition members?” She hid behind formality, using manners to conceal her fear.

  “No apology is needed, ma’am, and yes.” He looked grave. “All are present or accounted for, although three of the men, Micah De Groet, Thaddeus Martinez, and Richard Liu, suffered injuries during the rescue. Your beacon gave us the location of the correct village, and your map allowed my scouts to find the building and mark it for the others when they broke into the enclosure.”