The Trial of Tompa Lee

by Edward Hoornaert

  19 Ambush

  Fires and panic, Tompa knew only too well, both started small: a single scream, a single spark.

  She knew she should stop screaming, yet she watched in helpless exasperation as sparks of terror set fire to her mind—just like a tenth-floor cooking fire had set fire to an abandoned skyscraper back when she was too young to know better than to have friends. Most of the squatters in the building, including her friends, had tried to save someone or something besides their own lives, and had gone up in flames, screaming.

  Just like she was screaming.

  “What is it?” Rough hands grabbed her shoulders, then shook her when she didn’t answer. It was Roussel. His face looked fierce. “What’s the matter?”

  She didn’t want him to see her like this. She choked off a scream and took a long, deep breath as she squirmed away from his grasp. If he tried to hold onto her she knew she would panic again, screaming and clawing, but for some reason he let her loose. Taking another deep breath, she turned her back on him and faced the panorama of the island below her while she struggled to regain control of herself.

  “Tompa?”

  She ignored him. Only when her breathing was normal did she turn to face him.

  Roussel’s brow was furrowed. “What was that all about?”

  She clamped her lips tightly together; if she opened her mouth to answer, she would either vomit or scream. Her shrieks had wakened even the heavy-sleeping Awmit, who was stumbling toward her, grogginess apparent in every wobbly step. She headed toward him on shaky legs.

  “Wait,” Roussel said.

  He fell into step beside her and reached out to stop her. She clawed his hand away and kept walking, trying to keep her body under control so he wouldn’t see her shake.

  From behind her, he said, “You wouldn’t have screamed like that for no reason.”

  She started to answer but the embers of a scream still smoldered inside her, so she said nothing. Her ear itched. She could feel in her arm the horrid memory of Shon skulls shattering. The smell of roasting human seemed so real that she wondered if her hair was on fire. Down the road, less real than her memories, Awmit tripped on the uneven paving stones and nearly fell.

  “Tompa,” Roussel said, “you don’t strike me as the screaming type. Were the Shons after you? What happened?”

  She stopped and turned so abruptly Roussel nearly ran into her. Without looking, she pointed back toward the bank.

  Roussel looked, then turned to her. “What? I don’t see anything.”

  Surprised, Tompa raised her eyes. The corpses were hidden from view. Well, both she and Roussel had walked right past them on the way uphill; she’d seen them only when she came out of the latrine niche. She pointed again. “Go look.”

  “At least you can still talk.” He hesitated, his frown deepening, but then headed where she’d pointed.

  Tompa continued toward Awmit and the sharboo-cria, shaken nearly as much by the memory of the fire as by the corpses. It had happened soon after Gramps died, yet the memory still set her limbs quivering. That had been the first time she’d smelled burning flesh.

  Losing friends hurt too much.

  “Graceful human exists healthily?” Awmit asked, breathless.

  She nodded.

  He was her friend and she would lose him, inevitably, and how it would hurt. Like dying herself. She wanted to cry but seemed to have forgotten how.

  “This one heard horrible wailing. Dante human exists where?”

  Without looking back, she pointed behind her. Awmit paused, then patted her hip and looked at her with those wide eyes of his.

  “Go,” she said.

  Awmit finally scurried off toward Dante.

  As his footsteps receded, Tompa stood there, staring straight ahead. She saw the pile of bodies back at the cave exit, not the grey, pre-dawn landscape of island and ocean. She smelled smoke, not fresh desert air.

  Other memories, encouraged by the freedom of their murky brethren, flailed inside her, trying to batter their way out. The beating she’d gotten when she tried to stop a mugging. The only lover she’d had, stealing her shoes and clothes while she slept. Skulls shattering, destroying not just life but illusions about her own decency. A hundred betrayals large and small. Sister Lakeisha’s disappearance. McShallin’s hands on her body. The Navy’s eager infidelity.

  If she let the memories out, she’d never stop screaming. She clamped her mouth until her teeth ached. She put one foot in front of the other. Took a step. Then another.

  When she reached the sharboo-cria, she sat on a rough, chilly doghouse and pulled the comb out of her blouse pocket. She dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again. She went to her knees and, with two hands, picked up the comb. She sat. Still using two hands, she began combing her hair. After fifty strokes, she trusted her grip enough to use just one hand.

  She kept combing.

  Dante took a deep breath and regretted it. The bodies were starting to smell, though it seemed too soon for decay. The stench might be a byproduct of the way the roots—if that’s what they were, rather than some strange hybrid of plant and animal—killed their prey.

  This could have been his own death. He rubbed the welts on his forehead.

  He and Awmit stood on the slope just above the road cut where the three Shons dangled when they’d tried to escape. Here on top of the ledge were four more Shons and a Klick, too, all of them turned to plant food. The five bodies were evenly spaced with their heads pointing uphill, the logical sleeping position to keep from rolling down the slope. The ones up here had probably never wakened. Maybe the roots lulled their prey with anesthetic while they burrowed through flesh.

  The dead Shons all wore either flame-patterned scarves or vests: pod-loogs. Combined with the Klick’s presence, this was a clue. Dante enjoyed piecing together clues. The fact that Kalikinikis associated with pod-loogs introduced a whole new set of possibilities into the mystery of the bomb blast.

  “Cadaver possesses unneedfully a rucksack,” Awmit said as he pointed to the Shon closest to him. “This one wonders thirstily whether collecting the rucksack equates to theft and unrighteous disrespect.”

  “Well,” Dante replied, “is your duty to save Tompa Lee or show respect to those who want to kill her?”

  “Dante human asks wisely.” The Shon picked up a rucksack, bowing his head sideways toward its dead owner as though apologizing. He did the same at the next body.

  Dante’s gaze returned to the Klick at the far end of the row of corpses. The Navy needed to know about this. “Come in, CNS Vance,” Dante subvocalized. He waited a few seconds, then repeated his words.

  “Pradeep Singh here,” said a faint voice. “So, you’re still alive, Dante. I told everybody you were too damned stubborn to kill.”

  “Am I ever glad to hear you.” Pradeep had a good mind. Maybe he could see even more implications of the death scene. Collaborating on ideas was one of the things Dante did better now than before the accident.

  “You had us scared yesterday, buddy,” Pradeep said. “I’d love to talk, but I’m under strict orders to turn you over to Ambassador Schneider as soon as you call in. Hold on.”

  “Wait, Pradeep—”

  Too late; the mumbler emitted only the soft hum that indicated a connection was on hold. Dante frowned. Carolyn wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Pradeep to bounce ideas off. She was like the old Dante, eager to take charge and make decisions, rather than listen and reflect.

  Awmit approached the Klick’s body cautiously. The creature must have slept with its mouth open, because a bundle of roots as thick as Dante’s wrist had invaded the mouth, sucking blood from the soft tissues inside. Awmit took two more steps. He nudged the body with his foot. When this got no reaction, he poised on one leg, slowly swung his other leg back, and whacked the Klick’s head viciously with his foot.

  The head budged just enough to rupture some of the overripe roots. Blood spurted in all directions.

  “Dante,” his m
umbler said, “this is Carolyn. Thank God you’re alive!”

  Awmit scurried away from the brief red gusher, wiping blood from his eyes. He tore off his tunic and frantically wiped away the blood with it, as though terrified that the Klick’s blood would somehow contaminate him. A human would have screamed, like Tompa, or at least made incoherent sounds of distress. Awmit, though, panicked in total silence.

  Dante froze, exhilarated by the realization that Awmit’s treatment of the corpse provided another clue. “It’s all right, Awmit,” he soothed. “Calm down. Everything will be all right.”

  “Dante?” That was Carolyn. She couldn’t hear what he spoke out loud, just as Awmit couldn’t hear what he subvocalized into his mumbler. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m doing better than the member of Major Krizink’s clan stretched out in front of me.”

  “Oh, Dante. You didn’t kill another Kalikiniki, did you?”

  “No. I think you can safely call this death an act of nature.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He ran a fingertip over the biggest welt on his forehead; it felt better than it had yesterday. “Before I answer, Carolyn, let me ask a question. Why are we trying to take over the Klick’s monopoly to this planet?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, why bring that up now?”

  “Because it might matter. My guess is that the Consortium decided to steal Zee-Shode because we suspected that the Shons hated Klicks.”

  “We aren’t trying to steal anything, Dante, just negotiate a new—”

  “Okay then, renegotiate.”

  “You interrupted me!”

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “But am I right?”

  “That’s classified information.” She must not like his insistence, because her voice became official and stuffy, like a bureaucrat explaining why your security approval for a vacation to the moon had been unavoidably delayed. “I’m sorry, but there are many things that I can’t tell you because they’d jeopardize our intelligence links in the galactic community.”

  She went on to discuss the need for secrecy and the Consortium’s sealed orders to her, but Dante tuned out her words. If she wanted to, she could probably talk for hours without ever answering his question. It was what she did for a living.

  “This is important, Carolyn,” he interrupted, “and I don’t have much time.” He took a deep breath. “Did we get intelligence to the effect that the Shons want to be rid of the Klicks?”

  There was a long pause. Finally she spoke.

  “Yes.” She said nothing more.

  Dante chuckled. Another piece of the puzzle.

  He told her about discovering the bodies as he watched Awmit rub the blood from his face and arms with his tunic. “They must have camped here overlooking the road last night, intending to ambush us when we got going this morning.”

  “Us?” Carolyn’s question was harsh.

  “I caught up to Tompa and her Shon friend, Awmit, and spent the night with them. I figured it was the best way to keep her from doing more damage.” After he finished the important news, he’d have to ask Carolyn to clarify what she meant by ‘damage.’

  “Apparently,” he continued, “the Shons and the Klick didn’t know about the bloodsucking roots that grow here, so they slept on the ground. I asked Awmit, but he didn’t know about them either, because he lives way north. The dead Shons didn’t know about them probably because they’re all Tukes, and Tukes live halfway around the globe. Awmit says that Zho-arrs are native to the equatorial region, so they’d be more likely to know about the roots. By the way, did you know that there are four separate species of Shons?”

  “You spent the night with Tompa Lee?”

  Awmit finished wiping himself and began unpacking the rucksacks he’d collected. There wasn’t much food or water. That made sense; a Klick would need a lot more food and water than a Shon, yet the Servants of Bez-Tattin had packed the rucksacks with Shon-sized supplies.

  Awmit grabbed a water bottle and opened it. He drank its contents in seconds.

  “No more, Awmit,” Dante said aloud as the Shon reached for another water bottle. “Save some for later.”

  The Shon made a keening noise that Dante’s translator didn’t translate. “Agree reluctantly.” Awmit began combining the food and water into a couple of sacks.

  The mumbler buzzed angrily; Carolyn must have yelled into her microphone. “Did you hear me, Dante? I said, thank you for telling me about the corpses.”

  “You’d have found out for yourself as soon as the cameras woke up and start broadcasting again.”

  “But this way I can assure the Inspector that you had nothing to do with it.”

  Dante went to his haunches and picked up the rucksack that must have belonged to one of the Shons who’d rolled off the ledge. As he tossed the rucksack to Awmit, he asked Carolyn, “Is that important?” Before he initiated this call, he’d had a clear idea of what was important to tell the Navy, but his certainties were becoming muddled.

  “Of course it’s important, Dante! When this messy little affair is over, I want to make sure that you’re able to return to earth with us, rather than facing the wrath of the Klicks.”

  “What about Tompa Lee?”

  There was a pause before Carolyn answered. “You already have my orders regarding her. Remember?”

  “Sure, but . . . well, I also have orders to take care of her.”

  “And that’s what I’ve ordered you to do, too.”

  Dante shook his head and ran his hand over his eyes. The ambiguity of her answer made him feel as though he was thinking through molasses.

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me, Dante? I have a meeting with the Inspector in just a few minutes.”

  “No.” But as he stood up, he suddenly remembered one of the important things he needed to tell her. “Yes, there is. Carolyn, all the dead Shons are wearing fiery scarves or vests. That means they’re pod-loogs.”

  “And what exactly is a pod-loog?”

  “I asked Awmit, and he said it’s a dwarain. I think maybe we might call it a sub-tribe, political party, or maybe a gang. The pod-loogs are Tukes. Their leader wants to become more powerful than the Wods, who are the dominant group on the planet. Now, from what you told me, the Wods wanted to get rid of the Klicks. If the Klicks wanted an ally to keep them from losing their valuable monopoly with this planet, who better than the pod-loogs?”

  “Tukes? Pod-loogs? Are you serious, Dante?”

  He tried to force sincerity into his voice. “Awmit says that just before the bombing at the pub, some pod-loogs talked him into carrying a sign protesting the crew’s visit. So we know the pod-loogs were at the scene of the crime.”

  He started pacing, only to find that he was hemmed in by corpses. “Remember, one of the most damning facts against Tompa was that the Shons didn’t have access to Navy grenades. Well, over the years Klicks must have had plenty of chances to steal grenades. I think they supplied a grenade to the pod-loogs, hoping to prejudice the Wods and the Council Inspector against us so they could keep their grip on this planet.”

  Carolyn said nothing for a minute. “Interesting. I can use your theory to rebut the Klicks’ accusations, if nothing else, and muddy the conversations. But do you have any proof?”

  “I thought I was giving you proof.” He swept an arm at the dead Klick, then felt silly because of course she couldn’t see. But she had a point. “I guess the only evidence that matters in a Shon court is whether Tompa Lee can kill all her accusers.”

  “And you won’t let her kill anyone, will you? If the Inspector witnesses her actually killing a Shon, all your conjectures won’t matter one bit.”

  Dante scowled. Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said? “But Carolyn—”

  “I’m sorry, Dante, I have to rush to my meeting. If you find anything concrete, call me immediately.”

  His mumbler went dead. Dante stared sightlessly, trying to figure out what to do now.

  Bef
ore he could decide, Tompa pulled herself over the lip of the ledge. She paused halfway up, her eyes wide, and her mouth tight.

  Dante hurried over. “Don’t come up,” he ordered. The last thing he needed was for her to get hysterical again.

  She climbed up regardless and, avoiding him, headed toward Awmit, who was stuffing the last of the supplies into two rucksacks. “What happened here?” she asked the Shon.

  Although she’d pointedly not spoken to him, Dante answered. “They must have camped here so they could ambush us when we set off this morning. The local fauna got them, instead.”

  Wait a minute: plants were flora, not fauna. A few minutes ago, he’d basked in a ray of his former brilliance. Now he braced for a sarcastic remark about his stupidity.

  But Tompa said nothing as she studied the corpses as though they were nothing more than curious rock formations. Her control was impressive, considering that half an hour ago she’d been hysterical. She squatted beside Awmit, glancing at the supplies that he was eager to display and then drinking from the water bottle he gave her.

  Remembering Awmit’s eager gulping, Dante started to say, “Tompa don’t—” But by the time the first words were spoken, she’d already lowered the water bottle and replaced the lid.

  “Don’t what?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I was going to tell you not to drink too much, because we don’t have much water.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me the obvious, gordo.” Her tone was mild. She helped Awmit pull a clean tunic off one of the dead Shons. While he slipped it over his head to replace his blood-soaked clothes, she walked over to the Klick and examined it. “Is this the Klick who took such delight in explaining that everyone was going to try to kill me, back at the par-tain?”

  “The what?”

  “Field of justice,” Awmit said as his head emerged from the bulk of the borrowed tunic. “Back in Oa-Shode.”

  “Oh,” Dante said. “No, this isn’t Major Krizink.”

  Tompa shook her head. “Too bad. I didn’t like him.”

  To Dante’s relief, she showed no signs of renewed screaming. Furthermore, she looked almost beautiful, now that she wasn’t trying to kill him. The early-morning light made her hair shimmer, and her mouth had a softness he hadn’t noticed before. She bent at the waist to look closer at the Klick, making her loose blouse gape in an enormously distracting fashion.

  Dante looked away. He asked gruffly, “What did you do to yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your hair. You look . . . well, nice.”

  The softness and beauty in her face vanished under icy harshness. “I warned you not to even think about it, you flickin’ roach.”

  Dante nodded. He didn’t know what to say. Or what to do, either. They couldn’t stand around here, waiting for the bloodthirsty mob. In the distance, one of the flying cameras was already aloft, searching for something worth seeing. The world of vengeance was stirring again.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Tompa grabbed one of the two rucksacks and held it out to Dante.

  After a moment he took it, because he had no better idea of what to do or where to go. Apparently she was prepared to accept him as part of her entourage. “Why?”

  “Why what?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she shook her head. “Look, Roussel, don’t ask questions that make me think you’re a flap-hap, okay?”

  “Okay,” he answered. “What’s a flap-hap?”

  She shot him a scornful look, then turned toward her Shon friend. “Awmit,” she said, “I combined the rest of our stuff into one sack, and it’s lighter than either of these. When we get down to the road, do you think you can carry it?”

  “Leg feels healthily better as morning’s new sun rises. This one tries determinedly to carry his share.”

  She slid the rucksack over her arms, then made a visible effort to steel herself before looking at Dante. “You ready?”

  He nodded.

  Tompa glanced at the corpses one last time. “This place stinks.” And with that, she stepped over the dead Klick, toward the spot where she’d climbed onto the ledge. Awmit followed, except that he gave the Klick’s body a wide berth.

  At the edge, however, Tompa stopped abruptly. She stood frozen as Dante and Awmit came to stand beside her.

  Down below, blocking access to the road, stood six Shons, arrayed in a precise arc. The Shons stared up at them in silence. The camera Dante had spotted earlier whirred at full speed toward them, eager to record the confrontation.