by Richard Fox
“Maybe they have a repli-mat or some quality garbage bins I can scrounge from,” she muttered to herself.
A female voice sang in a brief, lilting tune. A few blocks down was what looked like a grocery store—steam rose from the roof and boxes of fruit lay open in front of a counter. A Tyr woman, in an all-covering smock and with a T-line of dark marking across her face and down over her mouth, kept singing the same brief tune, then rapped a small hammer against a tin plate.
A Tyr male with Dalmatian spots and a ruffled shirt came over, picked out some fruit, and dropped coins onto the plate.
“Easy enough, yeah,” Yenin said to herself.
She watched as small groups of Tyr went in through a side door and the woman at the counter snapped her fingers in the air and shouted orders.
“Maybe a restaurant? Not that I can order, but maybe there’s something in the alleyway.”
Someone bumped into her shoulder and a Tyr girl in the same knee-length shorts and a sleeveless shirt dropped a small book beside Yenin’s feet.
“Asta min ha, asta.” The girl put a hand to her chest and picked up the book, then looked up at Yenin.
Yenin turned away, not wanting the girl to look too closely at her eyes and brows. All the Tyr had some sort of markings across their eyes, and Yenin didn’t want to chance anything.
“Asta?” the girl asked.
“Asta asta.” Yenin waved her away with an arm in the folds of her dress. The girl skipped away, waving the book over her head.
Yenin’s throat felt dry as sand and her stomach rumbled harder.
A Tyr that had just come from the stand ripped the skin off an oblong yellow fruit and took a bite of the bloodred flesh inside.
“Just that easy,” she said as the Tyr woman at the counter brought up a basket of steaming pastries. Tyr came rushing over, coins in hand and shouting at the woman with the unique markings.
“OK, here we go…” Yenin waded into the crowd, smelling a sweet cinnamon flavor coming from the pastries. She caught a couple elbows as she shouldered her way to the fruit and snatched some of the leathery yellow ones she’d seen the other eat, then some spotted plum-looking things as well. All went under her robe.
“Tardasa!” shouted the woman at the counter, and suddenly, the crowd around Yenin evaporated.
Yenin froze, three of the spotted plums in one hand, exposed to all the Tyr that had backed into a circle around her.
“Tardasa!” The woman leveled her small hammer at Yenin.
“Asta?” Yenin dropped the plums onto the road.
The Tyr woman vaulted over the counter and punched Yenin square in the stomach. The blow splattered fruit and made an ugly stain as the pulp and juices ran out.
“I can explain!” Yenin shouted and a look of confusion went across the Tyr woman’s face. She grabbed the edge of Yenin’s hood and yanked it away before Yenin could react.
There was a collective gasp as Yenin’s blond hair and pale skin were revealed to all.
The Tyr woman backpedaled into her fruit stand, knocking boxes to the ground, a look of sheer terror on her face.
“You know what?” Yenin brought a hand holding burst fruit out from under her robe and dropped the remains. “Fuck it. Take me to your leader. Is he a BBQ enthusiast?”
Tyr screamed and ran.
“I’m not going to take offense to this!” Yenin shouted. She looked over the counter and saw a restaurant set up inside. Abandoned plates of food sat on several tables. “Why the hell not?”
She went inside and sniffed at the plates, settling for what looked like a cross between oatmeal and couscous with a slightly nutty aroma. Utensils were beaten-up tin spoons. She moved a chair with a groan against the floor and sat down.
“If I run, they’ll burn the jungle down looking for me. I can at least die with a full stomach.” A wide porcelain cup had a muddy liquid in it. She took a sip and thought it was like stale coffee with a dash of turpentine. She drank more and began eating from the bowl.
She was almost finished when she heard the sound of approaching sirens. Two uniformed Tyr armed with revolvers appeared in the cashier window. One leaned forward to look at her and she waved. The Tyr shrieked and ran off, his partner yelling at him.
“Are these eggs?” She poked a rubbery yellow substance on a plate. “Because they look like eggs.”
Her nose stuffed up and a slight tickle began in the corners of her eyes. Odd. Nothing had tasted particularly spicy.
The police officer kicked open a door and approached, his weapon trained on her. He shouted at her, his voice getting higher and higher with anxiety as he got closer.
“Maybe?” She picked up a glass of water, saw lip marks on the rim, then grabbed a fresher glass.
“Han ta ra mitra!” the cop shouted and pointed at the floor.
“Asta.” Yenin shrugged and the cop jumped back at the word. “You know what? I’m full. And I don’t have any other plans. Hell of a way to end it all, right?” She held up her wrists and glanced at the cuffs on the cop’s belt.
The Tyr began shaking.
“I said I’m full. I won’t bite.” She wagged her hands up and down.
The cop slapped one cuff on, then the other. He jumped back and shouted at her, gesturing to the door with his muzzle.
“Whatever you say, buddy.” A tickle rose in the back of her throat and her sinuses began to throb. “Something in here doesn’t agree with me.”
The cuffs felt like a child’s toy on her wrists, but she didn’t try to break free. Wherever she was going probably had food and no one had tried to burn her alive.
Yet.
Chapter 37
“Do you understand what we need from you?” Hower asked Quboth. The Tyr was out of his isolation tube, his space suit hanging in tatters on his body. A ring around his neck was fastened to his spinal column with a small bolt.
“I’ve done commercials and interviews before…” Quboth had a shrink-wrapped silver packet in his hands.
“Same thing, just the cameras aren’t as cumbersome. We’ve got you immunized to our diseases, so there’s no worry about you being around other people. Change your clothes. I won’t look.” Hower turned around as the Tyr stripped out of his space suit.
Hower was grateful that the lab had sanitized Quboth thoroughly. There were no showers in his capsule and who knew how long it had been since the astronaut had changed his clothes.
“What is this?” Quboth had donned the silver trousers and was tugging at the waistband.
“It’s what Corporate believes you should be wearing,” Hower said with a shrug.
“Children wrap themselves in tinfoil and pretend to be me,” Quboth said. “Parents have sent me the pictures. Now I’m the one playing dress-up.”
“All about appearances.” Hower pressed the Velcro tabs closed on the front of Quboth’s silver jacket and then knocked on the door.
“Hello and welcome!” Molly appeared out of a wall of moving lights, holding her arms out wide. “This is the Tyr hero you’ve told us so much about?” She smiled at Quboth and he tried to back away.
“Her lips don’t match what you hear because of the translation software we’ve got installed on you,” Hower said. “Pull back a little, Argent. He’s having a rough couple days.”
“Hower told you what’s going to happen?” Molly asked, exaggerating her syllables and speaking louder. “You’re going to tell us all about your gifts.” She tried to take him by the hand, but he jerked it away.
Hower tensed at the sound of carbine bolts snapping forward.
“He’s no threat,” Hower said. “Weaker than a kitten in our heavier gravity. Isn’t that right, Quboth? We’re all nice and friendly here.”
“Yes. Yes, we are.” Quboth tried and failed to smile.
“Then just follow me over here and…” Molly walked to a long table where items from the crates given by King Menicus were laid out. Camera drones pulled back and Hower made out several Compliance soldier
s along the walls.
“Now, what is this used for?” Molly held up a lacquered plate with golden letters etched along the edge.
“That is a dowry plate.” Quboth stepped closer to her, his hands at his sides and his head down. “When a Royal caste wishes to wed, he’ll place gifts—carved figures of brontos or other animals—that he’ll pay for his bride.”
“Oh, that’s so quaint.” Molly picked up a gossamer cloth with a metal ring at the top. Quboth gasped and tried to step back, but Hower put a hand against his back.
“Problem?” Molly shook the cloth.
“Th-th-that’s a death shroud,” Quboth said. “It preserves the caste markings of whoever it was placed over.”
“Does it?” Molly held it up to the light and an outline of a Royal’s face appeared. “Oh, it does, how interesting.”
“That was on King Iptari’s face when the crown went to Menicus at the Obsidian Dolmen.” Quboth swallowed hard.
“This might have been a mistake,” Hower said.
“Well, maybe you should’ve said something earlier that this was going to have such an emotional impact on the subject.” Molly tossed the shroud onto the table.
“I did point out that the subject had gone through extensive medical procedures and was aboard an alien environment. But no, you have to get your sound bites for a marketing package and—”
“I understand everything you’re saying,” Quboth said, his eyes glancing between the two bickering humans.
“Then we’ll just do an Orson Wells and have you do a voice-over.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Bloody Quboth, can you just pick up everything on the table, say a few words, and smile for the camera?”
“I am unblooded. I have never been in a battle or had my combat deeds witnessed to my clan,” Quboth said.
“Ooo…that was excellent.” Molly tilted her head to one side. “Can we get that line again from a different angle?”
Hower muttered to himself.
****
The isolation tube locked over Quboth and the view port over his face went opaque.
“Are we done with this nonsense?” Hower asked Molly.
“Why are you being such a prick about this?” She shook her head and tabbed through video segments on her slate. “For what it’s worth, no, the indig wasn’t camera ready. I’ll see what we can fix with AI in post.”
“You’ve got one of the bravest, most well-known Tyr on the entire planet playing show-and-tell in a ridiculous getup. He is the first Tyr to orbit their planet. He holds jet-speed records. He—”
“Is he a sex symbol? Maybe that angle can generate some interest with a few fringe demographics.”
“It’s like you just had Yuri Gagarin explain Play-Doh and how to make bread from flour.”
“Who and what?” Molly scrunched her face. “If it helps, you probably saved its life. For a little while.”
“Come again?”
“The director wanted to ash it now that we’ve got serum in mass production. But I suggested you could get some more mileage out of it and some of this footage is useable,” she said.
“You can’t just kill him because he’s no longer immediately useful,” Hower said.
Molly clicked a button on the side of the slate then held it in front of her waist. She pointed a thumb to the ceiling then flashed him three fingers and a zero. Thirty seconds of no monitoring.
“Then how,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “how do we keep him alive?”
“What? You care?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, no, but…” Hower sputtered. “He’s just a Tyr and—”
“You use he and not it.” Molly tapped the edge of her clipboard in frustration. “No time to argue. Give me an idea or he’ll get ashed.”
“Goodwill gesture! Yes, giving him back to the Tyr will be a goodwill gesture, make them more compliant instead of fighting for a martyr. How about that?”
“That’ll work. You’re the expert.”
“In Tyr wildlife.”
“The expert.” She tapped one ear and then her mouth.
“Yes, well, I do hope we don’t have to do this again.” Hower laughed quickly.
“Stow the specimen back in the lab and stay on call. The director’s sleep schedule is a bit erratic.” Molly gave him a quick wave and she left.
“Huh.” Hower rapped on the tube and Quboth knocked back, startling the scientist.
Chapter 38
“This is such bronto shit,” said a Blooded as he threw a tool against the top of his armored vehicle. Layers of plastic ribbons sewn through netting rustled over his head, propped up by long poles. “We were supposed to be on leave!” he shouted to another soldier in the rear-mounted turret.
Quad heavy machine-gun barrels on either side of the turret jerked up and down as the soldier inside shook his head.
“The gimbals are off again. Estan, get me the number five wrench and the grease gun,” said the one in the turret.
“Did you screw up the alignment just so you wouldn’t have to be the one out here sweating your balls off to get the radar nets up? Not one layer. Not two layers. But three layers of net? Because you sure ain’t doing much out here in the humidity, Garta.” He picked up his tool and poked it into the netting overhead.
“In case you didn’t notice, this is one of the King’s finest Slinger air defense vehicles, and yet it still lacks air-conditioning.” Garta wiped sweat from his brow. “And I have been in the poop shoot for hours trying to get the manual controls to finally work right, and now the gimbals just misaligned. Again. So you want to keep whining like a Toiler in the fields or do you want to get me the tools I asked for so I can help you with the netting?”
“You’re going to magically finish the gimbal problem just as I run out of work for you to do out here, I know it.” Estan opened a toolbox and handed over a grease gun and several wrenches.
“Nonsense, I’ll be done after Unblooded Nemsi finally runs the commo wire to the platoon box,” Garta said as he whacked a wrench against a nut, then began to loosen it.
“He’s going to get lost in the woods,” Estan said. “All he has to do is follow the wire back to our track, but that might be too complicated for him. The line sergeant will eat him alive.”
“And then there will be more work for us.” Garta opened a side panel. “Yup. Gimbal’s off the track. Pain in the ass.”
“You know why we can’t use the hydraulics? Or even fire up the engine?” Estan asked. “First, we’re pulled out of leave cycle, then we have to jump through our ass to deploy around the airfield on no notice, triple radar scatter netting…and we can’t use the radio. Has to be wire-only comms.”
“Somebody said they saw the King’s limo on the airfield.” Garta reached into the panel and winced as he twisted a part back into place. “The high Svars don’t want anyone to give a hint to the enemy that the King’s here.”
“What enemies? The heretics aren’t dumb enough to attack us. How’re they even going to get here?”
“They have bombers. You know we’re in air defense, right? The only thing we train to shoot down are heretic planes. I swear, if I ever get my hands on the Toiler that built these gimbals, the Royal that profiteered off the construction, or the Linker that was the middleman, I’m going to—”
“Guys!” A panting Blooded came out of the woods, his lower body visible beneath the netting to the two in the Slinger vehicle. “Guys, it’s me. I’ve got—whew—I’ve got food.”
“Can we eat or are we still working?” Estan asked.
“Let me find out.” Garta grabbed a handle on a wheel and began spinning. The turret spun from side to side painfully slow. “OK, we’re in business.”
“Guys…” Nemsi grunted as he hauled several matte-green thermoses onto the hull of the vehicle. “You guys…you’re not going to believe this.”
“You only brought ambary gruel from the cook tent?” Estan touched small paper inserts on the outside of each c
ontainer. “Not chili? Not even egg loaf?”
“Guys…” Nemsi raised a finger and took a sip from a canteen.
“Spit it out!” Garta shouted.
“He’s here!” Nemsi smiled.
“The King?” Garta asked.
“No…Fastal. General Fastal is at the airfield. He’s alive!”
“Wait. What?” Garta climbed out of the turret with a mess kit and poured himself a lump of off-grey porridge from a thermos. “Fastal died after the war.”
“I heard he was killed by the Shadows after all the rest of the high marshals died,” Estan said.
Garta kicked him in the shoulder.
“Don’t. Fastal was the best general we had in the war. Plenty of good clansmen died in his service,” Estan said firmly.
“Sorry,” Garta said, rubbing Estan’s shoulder. “I forgot. Sorry.”
“But I think I saw him!” Nemsi nodded so fast that his helmet fell over his face. “All the cooks say they saw him too.”
A rattle sounded in the turret. Garta reached inside and picked up a handset.
“But you didn’t see him with your own eyes?” Estan asked as he ate the porridge straight from the container with a long wooden spoon. “Maybe—just maybe the cooks were messing with you? There were some rumors about him at Mount Bagad. But it sounds like they’re setting you up to go ask some Svar for an autograph and then that shit storm will blow downhill onto us. Your track mates.”
“Everyone was talking about him. He’s in some bunker talking to a heretic spy or something,” Nemsi said. “Maybe that’s where he was? Tracking down Slaver war criminals that escaped from the nukes?”
“Blooded don’t make good spies,” Estan said, still eating. “We’re too damn good-looking. Can’t fit in with the heretics. Besides, how many of our caste ever defect?”
“None, because it would bring too much shame on the clan,” Nemsi said.
“OK,” Garta said, returning to his seat on top of the armored vehicle. “Platoon says no radio, no engines, no fires. Signal to request backup is a blue flare. We see the flare and we’re to engage anything that’s not positively identified as friendly. We see anything we can’t positively identify as friendly, we call it in. Shoot it if we get the signal or we feel threatened.”