14 The Swimming Hole
Dante froze, not knowing from which direction attack would come. His muscles tightened, ready for action. He couldn’t guess whether his chances against the twenty creatures were good or nonexistent. Before his injury, he’d already have sized up the situation and devised three brilliant plans. Think, damn it. How on earth had Tompa Lee managed to do so well against them yesterday?
With a club, of course.
Of course . . .
Dante turned to Peffer. “I’m the policeman who turned Tompa Lee over to your court.” He touched the side of his head where she’d hit him. Blood still oozed from the wound; his fingers came away red. He held the fingers up for the Shons to see, while pointing to the broken remnants of Tompa’s stick with his other hand. “She did this to me, with a club.”
Peffer listened and stared at the blood. Dante extended the hand toward him. Peffer stepped closer, then leaned forward and licked the blood with a fast flick of his tongue.
“Blood!” Peffer gesturing excitedly to his companions. “Monstrous little human clobbered viciously the huge human. Blood!”
The disciplined squad of soldiers dissolved into a bevy of curiosity seekers, eager to see and taste human blood. After half a dozen of them had licked his fingers, Dante lowered his hand to his side.
It seemed to be the wrong thing to do. The Shons stiffened and regarded him warily. “Why,” asked Peffer, pointing at Dante, “lives healthily that one? The huge human tries possibly to fake the sharing of prook-nah against the monstrous human?”
Dante decided to answer only the first question. “I’m bigger, so it takes more to injure me. Plus, I have a hard head.” For emphasis, he rapped himself on the forehead with his knuckles.
Peffer translated for his companions, then rapped himself on the head, too. “Hard head.”
The other Shons found the gesture hilarious. Soon they were all knocking on their own and each others’ foreheads. Their extroverted good humor, though brief, was powerfully infectious. Dante grinned along with them, but was detached enough to see the evolutionary advantages of herd creatures being able to communicate moods quickly and effectively.
He tried to sidle to the edge of the group, but although they now acted friendly, the Shons subtly kept him surrounded. Peffer had noticed his efforts. Dante smiled, as though being encircled bothered him not at all.
“Truth shines,” Peffer said, “that the pod-loogs desire bloodthirstily the glory of killing Tompa Lee for themselves. The necessity of our prook-nah exists that huge human”—he splayed his fingers so all six of them pointed at Dante—“stays here until our prook-nah defeats gloriously the devil from the stars.”
“And if I don’t want to remain here?”
“Peffer insists ardently.” The moment his words finished, his twenty companions stepped back, reestablishing the circle around Dante, and reached inside their vests. As one, they pulled out small black tubes. As one, they pressed something that made a metallic whooshing sound. As one, sharp six-inch blades appeared from the end of the tubes.
“Hey, I’m on your side, remember.”
Peffer fluttered the fingers of one hand. “Remain pacifistically here, huge human.”
Dante looked from Peffer to one of the cameras, then back. “You aren’t supposed to have weapons. That’s one of the rules of the trial.”
“Peffer of the pod-loogs strives divinely to change the rules.” The Shon stepped closer to Dante. “Know you, human, what makes a Shon into a god?”
Dante shook his head. When Peffer didn’t react to the gesture, he said, “No.”
“Resisting sublimely the full force of the herd and turning it masterfully to one’s will. Know also, human, that Peffer considers himself godlike and titillates with the souls of his ancestors at this opportunity of proving divinity to the world.”
“Oh, shit,” Dante muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “What does that have to do with the knives?”
Peffer gave a wheezing laugh. “After Peffer and his pod-loogs slaughter slowly the monstrous human, my divinity in using torturingly weapons, against even the will of Bez-Tattin, will be factual.”
“Those are pretty small knives.”
“Small knives, small cuts.” Peffer twisted the wrist that held the knife. “A cut removing a tiny morsel of flesh the size of a crah-brah berry. A waiting for cries of agony. Another small cut. Another waiting. Far too soon—no more than two or three days—death. And godliness.” He stood straighter. “Following briskly will be the fatality of all humans on Bez-Peffer’s planet.”
It took Dante a moment to comprehend what Peffer had just said. Dear Lord, he hoped Tompa had taken his advice about following the tributary. But no, she probably hadn’t reached it yet. It was a mile away, and considering the way her friend was limping, it would take them more than the twenty minutes or so that had elapsed since they left. If only he could fly ahead and warn her . . .
“Tompa Lee,” he said slowly, groping for words and trying not to stare at the camera hovering closest to the ground, “considers me her worst enemy. But that is only because she has not yet met Peffer of the pod-loogs.”
Peffer responded with a wheezing laugh.
“I’m only human, and don’t dare stand in the way of a god. I’ll remain here as you wish.”
“While Peffer slices elegantly justice out of Tompa Lee’s flesh. The huge human decides intelligently.”
Peffer left four of his troop to guard Dante. They spread out so as to block him from following the main group of pod-loogs. Dante pretended to pay little attention to the departing troop and the cameras that trailed close behind. He ambled toward the stream, making dipping gestures toward his guards to indicate that he wanted a drink. They followed warily. He knelt and drank deeply, because he was indeed thirsty. The stream was about a foot and a half deep here—probably deep enough to hinder the short legs of a Shon, if he could get them to chase him across the water.
Dante started to rise, but instead of standing straight he pushed off and leapt to the far side of the water. The guards bleated a warning to the main group, then splashed into the water after him, swimming rather than wading. Only one of them made it to the other bank in time to block his path. He feinted to the guard’s knife side and dodged the other way, knocking down the Shon with a forearm before the creature could use the knife.
Dante sprinted upstream, the guards close behind. Although he quickly opened a lead on them, he had to leap back across the stream to reach a camera, and that sliced his lead to a few steps. His boots squished as he ran. The tube-like handles of the Shons’ knives appeared too unwieldy for accurate throwing. He hoped so, at least.
Ahead, the main group had turned to face him. Peffer was screaming and gesturing. Knives glinted in the sunlight. The camera Dante hoped to catch was rising quickly enough that he’d have only one chance to grab it. Meanwhile, Peffer and his pod-loogs scurried back so quickly that they might be under the camera before he’d reach it. Despite his recent drink, Dante’s mouth was dry.
He charged straight at the Shons, who charged straight at him, Peffer in the lead. Their faces showed no fear, no hint of backing down from a seemingly inevitable collision; he had size, but they had numbers. The balloon camera was halfway between them.
With a defiant cry, Dante leaped high. His fingers closed around the metal bars at the base of the balloon. He pulled his legs up to avoid Peffer’s head—not that he’d mind bashing the bastard, but he didn’t want to risk being jarred loose. His momentum thrust the balloon higher into the air. A blow swatted the heel of his boot ineffectually as he hopscotched over the troop of Shons, soaring in a rainbow arc that carried him a hundred feet.
Dante got a better grip, then craned his neck to look down and back. The pod-loogs were chasing, and though they couldn’t run as fast as he was floating, his arc was lazy enough to give them a good chance of catching up. It carried him above the rim of the ravine, but he paid little attention to th
e vista of barren plains dotted with ruined buildings. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do but wait to come down.
Or was there? With a hand on each side of the balloon’s base, he tried to use his weight to steer it to the opposite side of the stream so his pursuers would have to cross. The balloon’s propellers whined their resistance. It took him a few tries, but finally he managed to nudge it to the right—just enough that he was headed directly for the stream. Behind him he heard splashing and wild screaming.
“Turn right, damn you,” he grunted as he tugged with his right arm. The balloon continued to plummet toward the water, but at least it was toward the right-hand side of the creek. Dante was pulling so hard that he almost wasn’t ready when his feet hit the bank of the stream. He ran awkwardly for a few steps, nearly losing his grip on the balloon’s frame, before managing to leap as though doing the long jump.
It wasn’t a perfect leap—a two-legged kangaroo hop would have been better—but the arc was much flatter, with more forward speed. The pod-loogs fell behind.
“Balloon,” he shouted as he dangled fifteen feet above the stream, “I love you!”
The cliffs lining the ravine kept getting higher and closer, giving Tompa a creepy, closed-in feeling, as though she were in jail. Combined with the frustration of moving so slowly, the feeling weighed on her spirits more heavily than Awmit’s arm weighed on her shoulder as she helped him walk. The Shons were going to catch them. It was inevitable.
As they came around a sharp bend in the ravine-turned-canyon, the cliff behind them cut off the sunlight and cloaked everything in shadows. Unsettled by the sudden change of scenery, Tompa slowed. The sound of running water was louder here, and the air smelled funny. After a moment, she realized the smell was moisture. In the gloom, she saw that instead of barren rocks, sponge-like greenery clung to the bases of the cliffs. As she walked, she reached out to squeeze a clump of the sponge. It was hard and brittle rather than soft. Her hand came away coated with something that had a sickly sweet scent.
“This is like a totally different world,” she murmured.
“Oasis,” Awmit said. “Much water flows life-givingly here.”
She rubbed the sticky hand on her skirt, only to have the white pleats stick to her hand. “But where does it all go? Downstream it’s just a trickle.”
“This one guesses with some certainty underground.” He pulled his arm from around her shoulder and wandered closer to the stream, pointing to fifty feet ahead where it spread into an oval pool surrounded by low bushes. “Reminder to this one of swimming hole in adored but forever unreachable home village.”
Tompa managed to tug her fingers off her skirt. She’d wash her hand when they reached the swimming hole.
Awmit pointed with all the fingers of his right hand. “Tributary ahead, graceful human, with waterfall. Evil human predicted uncannily the tributary’s existence.”
Tompa kept walking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. After a minute, she saw that mist drifted out of a side canyon not far ahead where the ravine forked into a ‘Y’ shape. Grim grey rocks loomed on all sides, at least ten stories high. The cliffs were deep in shadow, except for the very top of the middle. There, sunlight cast into stark prominence a strangely proportioned, white stone building with two gaping windows that glared down at her. The building was empty, roofless and abandoned, like a skull abandoned by its flesh.
Tompa turned away from the building’s glare and realized she’d stopped dead. “What’s that?” She pointed toward the building.
Awmit craned his body to one side and turned his head; apparently having no neck made it harder to look up. “Ancient edifice, purpose unknown. Many such exist decayingly here.” Awmit hobbled along for a few steps in the hunched over posture, then stopped and looked back at her. “Of the legs, which draws our footsteps? The tributary thigh evil human recommended convincingly? Or fatter thigh to the right?”
Tompa glanced back up at the building, only to find her gaze trapped by its ghoulish stare. She’d spent most of her life in and around abandoned buildings, so she didn’t understand why this one filled her with such hesitancy. It seemed so alien, and very, very dead. She shivered.
“Graceful human, which thigh?”
Good question.
Suddenly the air was torn by a shriek that boomed off the cliffs and pounded her from all directions.
“Yee hah!”
Startled, Tompa darted ahead, then stopped and spun around, crouching defensively. Her heart thudded as a huge flying shape blotted out much of the scant light creeping around the bend in the ravine. A balloon camera had finally caught up with them—but why would a camera be shrieking in a human-sounding voice? What the ratshit was happening?
The balloon banked around the bend. When it neared the ground fifty feet behind her, Tompa realized someone was hanging from the bottom of it.
“I’m getting better at steering this thing,” a male voice called.
It was Roussel. He lifted his legs as the balloon settled toward the ground, then thrust out with both feet. The balloon bounded into the air and went directly over her. “Hello,” he said as he passed overhead.
Awmit tried to follow the balloon’s trajectory as it floated above him, twisting to the side and turning his face upward so far that he toppled ungracefully onto his side. He lay there, gawking at the balloon.
It headed toward the main branch of the canyon, banking slightly. Roussel let go and landed on his feet, running to slow his momentum. After a few steps he turned back toward them. Flexing his hands and arms, he reached the base of the ‘Y’ and stood there, grinning like cockroaches had eaten all the important parts of his brains.
“I wanted to make sure you followed the tributary.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the misty branch of the ‘Y.’
Tompa looked where he pointed. She was close enough now to see a waterfall around two stories high. There was no obvious way around it, even if she wanted to take that route. Which she didn’t.
Roussel squatted, then pressed a finger into the damp sand around the joining of the two streams. Behind him, the camera’s balloon caromed into the canyon wall, bounced to the ground, and deflated with a sound like a huge piece of paper slowly being wadded into a ball.
Roussel saluted the wreckage, then looked back at her. “Tompa, you and your friend wade the stream toward me. Leave plenty of footprints in the sand so your pursuers think you’re following the main canyon. Then you can squeeze along the rocks at the base of the cliff here to reach the tributary without leaving a trail.”
“Go to hell, Roussel.”
“Too late, already been there. Hell in this case being the company of a certain Shon named Peffer of the pod-loogs, who wants to kill you in an extremely slow and unpleasant way.”
“Pod-loogs?” Awmit stepped to edge of the pond and faced Roussel. It hurt Tompa to see him approaching her archenemy so trustingly. “At genesis, fire-clothed pod-loogs handed companionably this one a sign for waving in graceful human’s face.”
Roussel looked from Awmit to Tompa. “I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but it sounds important.”
“This one suspects suspiciously pod-loogs of involvement in bombing.”
Roussel let out a whoop. “Did you hear that, Tompa? We might have a lead on the real murderers!”
Instead of answering, she hitched up the rucksacks that had slipped down her arms and marched to where Awmit stood. She planted herself between him and Roussel, ignoring the bushes on the pond’s bank that scratched at her legs. Only then did she say, “I don’t give a ratshit.”
“How can you not care?”
“They”—she jerked her head in the direction of the pursuers—“don’t care about proof of my innocence. Wake up, Roussel. Playing detective won’t change prook-nah.”
“Really?” He frowned. “Well . . . but even if you’re right, this could change the entire complexion of the Trade Commissioner’s investigation. If Consortium Earth had no pa
rt in the bombings, then the likelihood of sanctions—”
“The roach-damned Commissioner won’t do a flickin’ thing to keep me alive.” Defiantly, she stared at the policeman across the scant protection of a few low shrubs and twenty feet of water. Behind him, one of the deflated balloon’s propellers was still whirring in spurts, as though it hadn’t yet realized that flying was impossible.
“If you’re thinking of dashing past me to take the main channel, forget it.” Roussel stood with hands on his hips, as though to emphasize how easily he could block her way. He heaved a sigh. “Oh hell—hurry, Tompa, please. You don’t have much time.”
Awmit poked his head around her. “Evil human speaks realistically.”
“Evil human?” Roussel scrunched his face into a pained expression, then shook his head. “I prefer to be called Dante. What’s your name, sir?”
“Dante human, this one was born low-statusly. Negatively a sir.”
How dare Awmit hold a civil conversation with this cockroach! Tompa stepped in front of him again, trying to regain control of the situation. “His name’s Awmit. He’s my friend.” She emphasized the word ‘my.’
Roussel glanced at her, then to her left. Awmit, she discovered, was again peeking around her torso.
“Mr. Awmit,” Roussel said, “please tell Tompa Lee to get her skinny little ass over here right away.”
A six-fingered hand poked her bottom. Startled, Tompa spun around to face Awmit.
“Skinny little ass.” Awmit wheezed out a laugh. “This one had noticed immediately its littleness, Dante human. Tinier than a tot treading wobbly its first steps.”
“Why you,” Tompa sputtered, “you traitor, how can—”
Awmit interrupted her. “Time for talk equals zero. Hurry across, graceful human.” And with no further warning he bumped her with his body, making her trip over the bushes behind her. She fell backward into the pond.
She was screaming a protest when she hit with a splash. Water invaded her open mouth, choking her. She tried to stand, but the rucksacks carried her to the bottom. She struggled to get them off her shoulders. One came off easily, but the straps of the other tangled around her elbow like an anchor.
As air bubbled out of her mouth, Tompa realized why the ruins atop the cliff had bothered her: Death lived there. Her Death. And now she heard Death’s watery chortle as he pressed on her chest, squeezing the remaining air out of her lungs.
The Trial of Tompa Lee Page 15