by Mark Wandrey
“If we run, we’ll have to abandon almost everything we need to survive,” Illapt had said. That was what had sold Vat on intervening. With the enemy forces breathing down their necks, he was glad now there hadn’t been enough whinnies at the camp. He and his team would still have been days away when the satrap attacked.
Eventually, he spotted Miizhaam standing near a tent. Unlike many others, this one showed no signs of people being packed out.
“This is our Atii, or old-one, Ooshwelo,” Miizhaam said.
“I thought you said she was your grandmother,” Vat said to Salsaliin.
“We sometimes refer to extended older family in such a way. If they have no surviving family, they are all our grandmothers. You should simply refer to her as an old one.”
Atii, Vat thought and mentally added it to the column of non-conforming wordforms. Miizhaam held the tent flap open, and he entered.
The interior was dark and warmer than outside. A shape he’d thought was a pile of blankets moved, and he saw a head, stooped over and missing much of its hair. As his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, he could see she was looking at him.
“Sit, please. You are the one from the stars,” she said.
He sat, listening to her speak. Her voice was full of the inflections he’d been recording, the non-conforming elements. He slid a hand into his jacket pocket and activated the recorder, determined to get the most out of this situation in case he didn’t get all the answers he needed. He could at least get a good recording of all those strange language elements.
“Yes,” he said and bowed his head. “It is a pleasure to meet Ooshwelo, the Atii.”
Her face cracked into a slight smile. “Your speech in our words is pleasant to the ears, though it is obvious you have learned from the Fraa.”
Vat blinked and thought. The word was similar to Fri, which meant new. “Fraa?” he asked.
“New ones,” she said.
“Are there many Atii?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Very few of us.”
“Can I ask how old you are?”
She smiled again. “I have seen one hundred and two years.”
“You lived through the last Searing,” he said, his eyes going wide. She nodded sagely. “You have traveled to the pole and back?”
“No, I have never seen those lands.”
He leaned closer. “I-I don’t understand.”
“When you are Atii, you learn a few things.” She was quiet for a long time. He began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep, but then she blinked and spoke. “What would you like to know of this old Atii?”
Old and Atii? It came out as a redundant statement, like saying an old old house. He couldn’t wait to listen to the conversation again. “I would like to know about the Daaj.”
“Oh,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Salsaliin mentioned your curiosity. I’m sorry, I cannot. You are an outsider.”
He was disappointed—very—but he couldn’t argue with her. How could he? “Can you tell me why your language seems different than the rest of your people?” He gave her several examples. “Even your title, Atii, doesn’t match Ktoran in form.”
Her smile returned, though more subtle this time. “You believe Atii is a title? How interesting. I would say you have much still to learn about us. I am glad you have come to help. I’m tired now, though; please go away.” She lowered her head and appeared to immediately fall asleep. He sat for a long moment then felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miizhaam, gesturing for him to come. He got up and followed her out of the dark, warm tent.
“Did you learn what you wanted?” she asked once outside.
“No,” he admitted. “Do you think she will talk again? After the battle, and they bring her back?”
“Back? She is not leaving.”
“But we’ll be in a pitched battle!” he complained. “We cannot protect her.”
“Atii do not run away. They stay in the area they are born. It is their way.”
He didn’t know what to say so instead he headed back to his people.
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
As night fell, scouts began to come in. Bafguur had five men out on fast whinnies, trying to track the approaching forces. Vat was provided ten of the tribe’s fighting men and women to use in his team. Preparations were largely complete as the suns began to set, which allowed Vat time to check in with Bafguur and his scouts.
He found them next to the small corral for the tribe’s whinnies, speaking to three trail-weary men with locally-made guns. The riders looked at Vat suspiciously as he approached. Bafguur offered a warm welcome.
“This is Lieutenant Thomas, known by the name Vat. He leads the people from the stars.”
The three scouts examined Vat curiously, their eyes lingering on his uniform, gear, and particularly the Thompson submachine gun he had slung over his shoulder.
“What news?” Vat asked. “Have the other two scouts come in yet?”
“They won’t return,” one of the scouts said.
“This is Kejern,” Bafguur said. “He is my best scout and hunter.”
“The satrap’s flying bag killed the other two. It is over in that direction, not far.”
“Show me?” Vat asked.
“It is too far to see in the last of dusk; we would have to ride out. They can shoot you as far as you can see them, at this hour.”
“We have these.” He held up a pair of binoculars. The scout looked at them in confusion. “Loan me a whinnie, and let’s ride up to that hill,” he said, and pointed. Bafguur nodded, and they were off. After a minute, he had to admit the whinnies were nicer than horses. Funny, since they were carnivorous reptiles.
At the top of the hill, Vat spent a minute searching. While mostly dark, the sky and wispy clouds to the west still showed light. Using the powerful Vietnam-era field glasses, he quickly found the satrap dirigible.
He guessed it was about two kilometers away, hovering 500 meters above the ground. He could just see ropes being tossed down. “Do they ever attack at night?” Vat asked.
“No, never. They have their smoking wagons, so they move faster. They don’t risk the night.”
He showed Kejern how to use the binoculars, and while the man marveled at them as he examined the dirigible, Vat’s smile grew predatory. The whinnies were not spooked by gunfire, unlike horses which took extensive training to get them used to weapons. “Kejern, how much can a whinnie carry?”
As the other man considered his answer, Vat looked at the horizon and calculated. There might be enough time.
* * *
Panazar watched as the bundle of gear was carefully maneuvered out of the gondola. The dirigible was tethered to the ground and had descended to 100 meters, as was necessary when heavy equipment or personnel were being transferred. If you unloaded something heavy and the craft wasn’t tied down, it could shoot upward. The blimps gave them a huge advantage over the primitive dung-divers who scratched their food from the ground. That is, until the off-world interlopers had arrived.
He’d been placed in charge of this operation, sweeping out and around where the interlopers seemed to be centered. Nobody was certain of the new enemy’s location, only how effective they’d been against his satrap.
“If we don’t get control of this before the Searing, our heads will roll,” one of Panazar’s leaders had warned him. “So, we circle them, pick off the little tribes, have some fun, maybe get some answers. Do what you will with their women but bring me answers about the off-worlders.”
It was a simple enough mission, and Panazar anticipated an easy job of it. Yes, he’d lost a two-truck patrol several days ago. The surviving men had come crawling in, weaponless and complaining about being ambushed by a massive force of off-world warriors. Panazar knew better. There were no more than a hundred or so of the off-worlders, but they were well armed and schooled in strange tactics. Like his leader said, his satrap and the others needed to get control before the Seari
ng.
“Be careful with that!” he yelled up at the crew on the dirigible. If the motors had been running, they would never have heard him. As it was, someone waved acknowledgement. He wanted to get some sleep before they attacked in the morning, but if he left it to his subordinates, they would make a mess of it. Plus, the moon was about to come out, and they’d have its light to work under.
Above, the man attached a rope to the overhead pulley, took the rope in hand, and someone else pushed the load out. The rope quivered as it was lowered. A second later there was a thumping sound from above and someone fell out the door.
“Watch out!” the loading crew yelled, and the body plummeted toward the ground. The suspended load, without sufficient manpower to hold it aloft, began to drag whoever else was holding the rope. This person, deciding they didn’t want to join the first man, let go. The bundle of gear fell.
“Damned fools!” Panazar yelled. Then a crack echoed across the camp at the same time the body hit the ground with a sickening crunch. That sounded like a gunshot. Above him the glass in the dirigible’s gondola exploded and rained down. Another crack echoed several seconds later. It wasn’t the booming sound of their guns; it was how he’d heard the off-worlder’s weapons described, like a very loud whip.
“We’re under attack!” A line of bullets cut across the camp, tearing through everything in its path.
* * *
Sam’s shot was dead on. Vat could see inside the dirigible clearly; the man who’d been standing at the controls clutched his chest and pitched over. “Bullseye,” he called out.
“Artyom,” Vat said. “Open fire.”
“Dah.” The big Russian had a hand-rolled cigarette clutched between his lips. He reached forward, racked the bolt on the PK machine gun, and pulled the trigger. He didn’t bother with bursts; he unleashed the 7.62 belt-fed machine gun in a continuous roar. His chin was tucked against the old wooden buttstock as he located concentrations of movement and raked them with gunfire. The belt had red tracers interspersed every four rounds; it was a wonderful sight aid.
The PK machine gun was fired from a tripod as a crew support weapon. However, he’d had the villagers arrange a mount that attached to a whinnie’s saddle for the weapon’s integral front folding bipod. Artyom stood at the whinnie’s side and held the gun, working from a slight crouch. “I wish I met Kalashnikov,” he yelled as the first box ran empty. “I would like this man!”
The whinnie took the rain of empty casings with indifference. They would be hot enough to burn a man’s hand, but the lizard’s tough, heat-resistant skin wasn’t bothered in the least.
“Just reload,” Vat said.
“I think I have the commander,” Sam said. He was also firing over the back of a whinnie, using his saddle as a shooting stand. The lizard didn’t even jump at the first shot.
“Do not, I repeat, do not hit the commander. We want cohesion in their ranks.” Vat used the binoculars. “And anger, lots of anger.”
Artyom was through his second 100-round box of ammo before the first enemy bullet snapped through the air near them.
“That’s good,” Vat said, “mount up!”
“One more box,” Artyom said. “This is so much fun!” He was fumbling the box into place in the gloom, forgetting to lift the belt holder after the receiver cover. He got it in place as a flurry of bullets swarmed around them, and one hit his left arm. “Blyat!”
Despite the risk of hitting whoever was in charge, Vat lifted his Thompson and emptied the 30-round box, raking it back and forth across the camp a hundred meters away. “Get him on his whinnie,” he yelled at Sam as he changed magazines.
Incoming fire fell off just long enough to allow Sam to get Artyom in the saddle. The big guy was putting pressure on the wound and cursing profusely as they turned the whinnies and urged them into a run. The one with the mounted PK followed without any urging. Vat hoped the PK stayed attached; he didn’t want to lose it.
The incoming fire from the camp continued as Vat, Sam, and Artyom made their escape. Artyom didn’t stop cursing the whole time.
“You know they’re gonna be coming now,” Sam said.
“I’m counting on it,” Vat said. Behind them, the gunfire stopped, and they could hear engines revving to life.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
“Stop shooting, stop shooting!” Panazar yelled over and over. Slowly, the gunfire tapered off. “Someone find the team leaders and get them organized! I want everyone in the trucks and ready to move!”
“But the dirigible!” someone yelled, pointing up.
In the near darkness, Panazar saw the dirigible rocketing upward, completely out of control. He wondered if the crew had been killed in the shooting. It didn’t matter, it would be of no use. “Get me a body count and prepare to attack!” All those gunshots, so close together. Then it just…stopped. They had to be out of ammunition. He had to act before they got away. The first truck started with a roar, and he went to find his gun belt.
* * *
One of the tribe’s healers looked at Artyom’s arm and made a tsk-tsk sound. Vat felt a little sick looking at the wound. The bullet had taken a chunk of meat out of his triceps the size of a shot glass. The healer brought her bag over, found some chopped up leaves inside it, and started stuffing them into the still-bleeding hole. Artyom revealed he had not yet reached the end of his lexicon of Russian swear words. Vat was impressed.
“You smoke, yes?” the healer asked. Artyom cursed and ignored her. She slapped him across the face.
“What?” he demanded.
“You smoke, yes?”
“Yes, why?”
She handed him a little hand-rolled cigarette, and someone forced a brand under the end. He convulsively puffed, and his eyes went wide. “What is this?”
“A pain killing herb. Shut up and smoke it,” the healer said, cramming more leaves into the wound. A second later, Artyom’s eyes crossed, and he sighed.
Must be some good stuff, Vat thought. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes,” the healer said. “The Gii leaves will stop the bleeding and begin healing.”
“Don’t let him get too stoned; we need him.”
“Stoned?” the healer asked.
“Intoxicated,” he said. Guess some words don’t translate from Ktoran. She nodded and took away the cigarette after one more puff.
“Hey!” Artyom complained.
“How’d it go?” Lech asked, coming up behind Vat. Then he saw the bloody mess. “Oh, damn. He going to be okay?”
“Based on what I’ve heard about their medicine, probably. They gave him some drugs to smoke for the pain.”
“Is goooood stuff,” Artyom said in slightly slurred Russian.
“Let me try some.” Lech leaned in to reach for the butt.
Vat intercepted him. “I don’t need you wasted, too. Is everything ready here?”
“I have them in place. We heard the shooting. How much damage did you inflict?”
“Hard to say,” Vat said. “He put two belts into the camp, and I’m pretty sure Sam took the blimp out of the fight.”
Sam nodded as he stood to one side and watched Artyom being patched back together. “I capped at least two of them in the blimp, including the pilot.”
“You finish setting your surprises?” Vat asked Sam.
“Good to go. I only had enough for the two escape routes.”
“It will have to be enough.”
“I heard you were back,” Bafguur said as he ran up. He saw Artyom being tended to. “How is he?”
“He’ll be okay,” the healer answered.
“Kejern just came in and said he hears the smoking wagons coming.”
“Good,” Vat said.
Bafguur shook his head in bemusement. “I hope you are right about this.”
So do I, Vat thought. “I am. Have everyone who’s still here take cover. This is going to get messy.”
* * *
Panaza
r rode in the first truck, his rifle cradled in his lap, his pistol in its holster. The rifle was one of the best they had, a gift from one of the advance scouts from Kulsis. “A taste of what is to come for our loyal forces.” It used a lever to load one bullet after another, five shots before reloading. It was an amazing weapon, the envy of everyone in his command. He planned to use it to kill all the off-worlders, one at a time.
The truck rumbled over a hillock, and the campfires of the village came into view. They would only have had a few extra minutes by the time the bastards returned after attacking him. Attacking him, in the dark? How dare they be so dishonorable?
Panazar leaned out the door and signaled the other trucks; it was time to begin the attack. His men whooped from the back of his own truck. The eleven men who were killed were friends and comrades, and the dung-diving villagers were about to pay the price for allying with the off-world scum.
They came abreast of the first huts and the men in the back started flinging glass bottles full of petroleum, each with a burning rag attached. They smashed against the huts, which burst into flames. Within seconds, a dozen huts were aflame. The driver brought the truck to a halt in an open space, and his men began to pile out.
“Wait,” Panazar said, confused. “Where are all the villagers?”
“Safe from you,” someone said. Panazar spun around and saw a strange man in strange dress holding an even stranger gun. “Goodbye, asshole,” the man said with a snarl.
* * *
Vat stitched the leader from left to right in a controlled 5-round burst, killing him instantly. He was no longer of any use, having delivered the prey into the trap. The empty huts had been filled with dry grass and arranged in a convenient circle, the few still occupied were a hundred meters away, behind him and, hopefully, out of the field of fire. The second truck was just grinding to a stop when the villagers he’d armed opened up with their M3 Grease Guns.