Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  He took her face in his warm, dry, and slightly rough hands, making her meet his eyes. “They don’t. They are being dramatic. They have a sign saying that the humans have torn the heart from the Staré culture. They do not know. Rigi, little one, what did I tell you five years ago?”

  “Th—that it’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. That sometimes you have to shoot first. That it’s OK to have memories. But sir, a Staré is a person.” She started to cry, trying to fight it, trying to keep it inside, to not cause a fuss. “I killed a person,” she whispered.

  Before Uncle Eb could answer, she heard Makana’s voice. “It matters not, Miss Auriga. You kicked to protect, not from anger.” She felt Martinus leaning against her and petted his head out of habit. “Even hoplings have the right to self protect.”

  “Woo.” Martinus seemed to be looking up at her, sympathy in his brown-lit optical sensors.

  “Listen to Makana, child. I’m sorry, Rigi, you have no idea how sorry. I, your aunt and I hoped and prayed that you would never be faced with that choice. But Auriga Maris Regina, you did the right thing. He attacked, you defended. Never, ever doubt but that you did the right thing.”

  “But, sir, he was a Staré, not an animal.”

  Makana turned around and came so close to her that she could count the short hairs on his forefeet. He rested one of those forefeet on her shoulder. “Wise one, he chose to act as an animal. He attacked you without cause. You were under hopling protection and he attacked. For that he died. All would do this.” He lifted his forefoot and resumed his post, watching the hall.

  Uncle Eb seemed to be staring at the fur on the back of Makana’s ears, or so Rigi guessed. Then he shook his head a little, like Martinus shaking water off but not as messy, and looked at her. “I believe, Miss Rigi, that the last word has been spoken on the matter, at least by me and Makana. However, does anyone else know about this?” He sounded a little worried and concerned both.

  “I may have said something to the soldiers when I told them where the humans were being held, sir, but I don’t remember much after the scouts took me to the military camp. And Tomás, sir. I told him. He said I should talk to his chaplain, but I never did. Maybe I should have.”

  “It would have been wise, I think, because military chaplains are trained on how to help us cope with this.” Uncle Eb sighed. “But this is not the time. Given the leaking and whispering, I fear someone would put two plus two together, derive four to the power of negative-i squared, and you would open the news feed to discover that not only are you married to Col. Deleon but that you also won the Crown Lottery and now own LimWorld.”

  “I thought LimWorld was what the Crown Revenue Service gave you if you failed to pay your taxes for more than three years in a row.” She managed a smile, which her uncle returned.

  “Been there, have you?” He patted her shoulder. “I want to hug you like you were still my Little Rigi, but not with that piece of filth sharing this continent.” His snarl scared her a little, and Makana’s ears twitched.

  Rigi could guess who, and why, and she wanted to hug her uncle, then march outside and give Smargad and his associates a piece of her mind, preceded by frozen mudballs launched from an Indria Staré slingshot. But that would be unladylike, and would cause a fuss. And Cy would want to take a turn and he couldn’t hit the broad side of a starship if he stood two meters from the hull. “How long does he stay with a cause, sir?”

  “In this case, forty years. We were sergeants, and he thought I was the one who—.” He caught himself. “I was not the only one, and do not ask what happened, Auriga Maris Regina. Some things you truly do not want to know.”

  If he said she did not want to know, then she didn’t. “Yes, sir.”

  “Is she alright?” Cy asked, trying to lurk without lurking. He needed to practice more, Rigi thought.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Uncle Eb apologized, “I should not have mentioned what I saw without warning you, and I inadvertently triggered the memory of how Martinus got his fancy tail. Which reminds me, where is it?”

  Cy nodded. “At home. It smells when it gets wet, smells just like a wet animal, sir, and in a small flitter? I told her to take it off and leave it at home.”

  Rigi planted her fists on her hips “It does not smell bad!”

  A strong whiff of //disagree/animal// reached her nose and she backed down. “Not rotting thing bad, just wet fur bad,” she amended.

  “Hmm.” Her uncle looked thoughtful, then winked at her before facing Cy. “Perhaps that explains where the rest of the hide went. It seemed to disappear and your aunt had recently made some comments about my questionable taste in décor, comments with which I vehemently disagree, I might add.”

  Rigi bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling at his tone and because she could see Aunt Kay doing exactly that, probably dousing the offending items with fire oil herself while muttering uncharitable things in several languages, like she’d done with Rigi’s ruined dress and her uncle’s formerly tan shirt after carnifex leaper guts covered both of them.

  “She even cleaned out Lexi’s work area.”

  Makana turned around and stared at them, brown and gold eyes going wide, jaw working as if he were chewing a stalk of sweet-stem. “And yet he lives?”

  “He lives, and conceals his personal cache far more carefully. I fear that males get careless in our old age.” Uncle Eb sounded most unhappy.

  Cy’s stomach growled.

  “That’s what Lexi said, more or less. He had a bag of pickled star rind that she found.”

  Rigi and Cy both wrinkled their noses. Makana pretended to clutch his chest and ears, the very image of Staré woe and distress. Star rind tasted foul, at least Rigi thought so, and pickled star rind could be smelled for kilometers once someone opened the package seal. Staré loved the strips of rind and ate it the way Rigi devoured dried ginter slices.

  Makana had made a joke! Rigi blinked and wondered why. She’d never seen or heard him make a joke or tease anyone before.

  “Which does not change the small problem of leaving the building, sir,” Cyril reminded them. “And Dr. Xian says we may not cut a hole in the ceiling, even over the revenue office.”

  “Pity,” Rigi and her uncle chimed in unison. They chuckled.

  “She did say she’d let us out via the basement, provided we did not take any office supplies or pieces of equipment with us.” Cy rolled his eyes. “She sounded serious. But there’s nothing smaller than a flitter down there, at least not the last time I looked at maintenance plans for the building.”

  Rigi had a good idea that between them, Uncle Eb and Mr. De Groet could probably remove one of those pieces of equipment via a hole too small for Makana to fit through, and likely had at least once. Their parents must have gone grey before the boys grew out of nappies. “I think that would be a good idea, Cy. I’d prefer not to see what Uncle Eb described, if we don’t have to.”

  “No, you don’t have to.” Dr. Xian shook her head as well as the rolled-up map. “They are so melodramatic. And anatomically incorrect. That’s not how a Staré ribcage works, they can’t tell a male from a female, and the arm joints are backward. And he looks as if he has hip-arthritis. Where did they get such a terrible costume?” She sighed and shook the map again. “I mean, how can they not see what a Staré looks like? Follow me and I’ll let you out once I put this away.”

  Dr. Xian hit the problem spot on, Rigi decided as she walked down the steps. The activists looked at the Staré but did not see them. Mrs. D refused to accept what people told her about the Staré, she couldn’t believe what the Staré themselves said. Smargad seemed to find problems where none existed, and had they even thought to ask Staré wherefore and why? Probably not. Rigi threaded her way around some heating and cooling blowers, ducked under some pipes, and stopped, one hand on Martinus, as Dr. Xian went up a loading ramp and entered a code into the wall. Part of the wall faded, revealing a door, and that slid sideways just enough to
allow humans, Staré, and m-dog to ease out.

  At least the rain had stopped and the air seemed to be clearing above them. “I will be on my way, then,” Uncle Eb said. “I need to go pester an old friend.” He set off, his long stride carrying him around the corner and out of sight before Rigi or Cy could answer.

  “What’s wrong with Uncle Ebenezer?” Cy scowled, although Rigi wasn’t certain if he was irked with Uncle Eb, the weather, the protestors, or life in general.

  Rigi patted Martinus on the head. “He and Mr. Smargad are not friends. They have been not friends for some time, and he, Uncle Ebenezer, doesn’t want to be talked at by Mr. Smargad or his associates.” Neither did Rigi, but she didn’t have her uncle’s excuse.

  “Talked at is the right word, Rigi.” Cy pulled his jacket straight and led the way out of the loading area, around a corner, and up two blocks. “Voice-activated weapons and supply systems listen better than some of those activists seem to, at least based on what the news holos show.”

  They stopped at a take-away stand and bought stuffed bread pockets. They also found a Staré take-away shop and had tea next door while Makana ate. The Staré waiting area at the landing and transport center sold meals, so they didn’t get anything for Jaihu. Rigi tried to puzzle out how they would carry anything back for him anyway, since she and Cy being outStamm might cause problems, and Makana came from a lower Stamm than Jaihu did. Or did he? They were both, no, yes, both third Stamm, but was Jaihu higher third than Makana and Lonka? He might be, since he was a pilot as well as her father’s former office assistant. Rigi mulled over the matter as they rode back to the landing area.

  The headline screaming from the public news feed in the terminal stopped all of them cold and chased Rigi’s musings on precedence and Stamm out of her skull for the rest of the day and well into the next week.

  Three Staré Found Murdered! Humans to Blame, Security Chief Declares!

  Cy pointed to one of the images. “Heyla, isn’t that Uncle Eb’s research assistant, Lexi?”

  12

  Blood Calls to Blood

  Rigi scrambled with her bag, hunting for her personal e-messenger. No, it couldn’t be Lexi! No, not the smartest third Stamm she knew, not the canny driver, no. But the dark-brown head looked terribly familiar. Creator and Creatrix, please, no, not Lexi, not someone I know, please, please. Who would kill Staré?

  Rigi found her comm at the very bottom of the bag, under her art pad and her spare feminine supplies. “Oh no.” She’d let it run flat! And she didn’t have the credits or want to call Aunt Kay on a public machine. Please, please, she begged, Creator have mercy, Creatrix lend grace, please not Lexi. Please may this be a terrible mistake. She prayed all the way to the flitter, then strapped in and prayed some more. The flight took months, or so it felt. She wanted to hug Martinus, but he was stowed in the cargo section, strapped down so he wouldn’t shift in rough air. The clouds and storm had moved away, leaving blue sky, but she didn’t look. Instead Rigi prayed, hoping that the news story was wrong, that it wasn’t Lexi. The reporters made mistake, got things mixed up, and some Staré names sound similar to people who didn’t know them well. And who would kill Staré? Maybe if a Staré had scent-sickness and attacked people, she’d heard of that happening, everyone had and took precautions when they saw a Staré acting like that. But that was Staré killing Staré, like when the males fought. There was that one case she vaguely remembered from when she was small, a human gone insane who heard voices and thought a fourth Stamm Staré garden-manager was doing something strange, but that had been ten years ago and more.

  They rushed home to find reporters with holo-recorders at the front fence, waiting for them. Rigi stayed back, hiding behind Makana, one hand on Martinus as Cyril stood straight and marched into the crowd. “What is all this?”

  “Mr. Bernardi, there’s a rumor that a Staré associated with your family was among the three murdered on Klippard Farm.”

  “Mr. Bernardi, a statement on your thoughts of Staré rights!”

  “Mr. Bernardi, is it true that a family member was arrested for murder?”

  “Your cousin had an affair with a Staré while she was married. Isn’t that true?”

  Cyril stopped and stared at the fourth questioner, eyes wide, then narrow. “Really? Can’t they think of anything new?” The reporter herd shifted a little. He shook his head.

  One of the reporters saw Rigi and tried to get past Makana, with minimal success. He didn’t do anything, really, just held up his forefeet, weight shifting forward, tail rising, fur on his back rising as well. The reporter retreated a pace before calling, “Miss Bernardi, is it true that you refuse to assist the Staré in regaining their natural rights?”

  “Miss Bernardi, are you going to mourn for the dead Staré? Publically?”

  “Is it true that the archaeological expedition found evidence of interstellar warfare?” That question stopped everyone, even the reporters pestering Cy, and they all turned to the slender, bony young man who’d asked. “Well, the initial report said the sites were destroyed by kinetic strikes, and that has to be an act of war.” He stared back at the other reporters. “I read the book.”

  Rigi let herself sigh and look impatient. “Sir, if you are referring to Gabriel W. Zimmerman’s latest novel, might I politely remind you that it is fiction?” She did her best to channel Miss Nimmima, the teacher she’d had in 12th year who tolerated no foolishness or misbehavior. “And the initial find report will be released next week, sir. I look forward to knowing what preliminary conclusions Dr. Xian and her team have reached.” She and Makana had been walking forward as she spoke, Martinus leading the way, and they reached the gate. Cy opened it and they rushed in. He and Makana shut it before anyone could push through, although Rigi suspected a few of the reporters might try to climb over at some point. Without her saying a word Martinus turned around and faced the reporters, tail flat and level with his back, optical sensors intent on the dozen or so people milling on the walkway.

  No one had challenged the m-dog by the time Rigi and the males reached the house, so she called, “Martinus, come!” He turned around and ran to join them. “Good dog.” Once at the back of the house she picked up a rope from his “toy box” and they played pull-the-rope until Cy and Makana got done in the coat-and-shoe room. Two large males took up a great deal of space in the small antechamber, especially when raincoats, heavy jackets, cloaks, and boots and rainshoes filled the racks. Rigi checked Martinus’s feet, wiped them a little, then sent him in.

  She removed her shoes and rushed upstairs to the workstation and comm she shared with Cy. He’d already logged in and pointed to a message from Aunt Kay. “Not Lexi,” Cy told her. he got up, leaned over the rail on the stairs, and called down, “Makana, Lexi’s unharmed and with Aunt Kay.” They heard a thumping sound that meant “understood,” and Cy flopped into the chair again. “I’m going to skim the news feeds, Rigi.”

  She put Martinus on his charging pad, then took off her jacket, dropped it on her bed, and changed out of her nice suit into a house dress and loose trousers. She brushed the suit and put it away, then opened the door. “Rigi?” Her brother sounded odd.

  “Hmm?”

  He turned around in the chair. “Why did Uncle Eb send Lt. Prananda away?”

  “I believe that Tomás’s commanding officer would not be pleased to see a holo-vid of Tomás at a Staré rights protest, since Tomás leads a platoon?” She hesitated, trying to remember what Tomás had said he was more or less in charge of. “No, that’s not the right word. He’s the junior officer for a group of about twenty-five or thirty Staré soldiers, and I do not recall the word for all of them together.” It wasn’t squad, either. She should remember the term, and the memory failure embarrassed her. She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve where the material scratched a little. It was a dress she’d brought from Home, and the quality seemed to be only a little poorer than Staré made. “I can imagine what a little editing might do if they caught shots of
him walking through or past the protesters, especially if Mr. Smargad or Mrs. Debenadetto were there.”

  “Is he courting you?”

  Rigi pinched the bridge of her nose. Proper young ladies did not snap at their older brothers, no matter how much one wanted to. Instead she used her mother’s end-of-discussion tone. “No. We went to school together and found the ruins. We, all five of us including you and Paul and Lyria, are cousins by marriage through Aunt Kay and Uncle Eb. And I’m at least two years away from courting, Cy. We work well together, Tomás and I, at least on archaeology things. I suspect when he starts courting, he will have no trouble finding a fiancée.” She shrugged. “He may be courting already, as much as he can. He had several young ladies trying to catch his eye when we were in school, and that was six years ago. There was quite a flutter when he asked, ah, Camilla to the dance and she turned him down in favor of that large seventeenth year with the odd study plan. Half the girls thought she was out of her mind, and the other half seemed to redouble their efforts to catch Tomás’s eye. It was entertaining, at least for my year group.” Rigi smiled and shook her head a little as she re-pinned a stray curl. “We watched from a safe distance away, so to speak.”

  “Hmm.” He gave her a bit of a sideways look, then returned to the news feeds. “That would make sense for Uncle Eb to shoo him away before the reporters began to swarm. And Ebenezer S. Trent might not be a name a young officer wants to see in a report beside his own right now.”

  “Too late, since both Uncle Eb and Tomás are mentioned in the preliminary report draft, at least the outline form I read last week.”

  “No, Auriga.” He had that patient tone that adults used when they thought she was either naive or slow. She glared at the back of his head, then found her latest drawing project and a handful of pencils. She couldn’t work on the illustration of the Staré art until he logged off. Having him at home was as bad as when her sister lived at home, Rigi grumbled, plumping the pillow in the window seat, then sitting down. She toed off her house shoes and sat cross-legged, her skirts and flowing slacks preserving her modesty and decorum. Rigi found the page she wanted and set to work, the pencil making a comfortable scritch scratch scratch scratch as she outlined what she recalled from Wallow Site and shaded in the wallow-like basin proper. On a whim she turned to a clean page and sketched Kor and Tomás standing on the little rise, pointing to features in the site.