In addition, he didn’t need the distraction that conversation would evoke; he had enough to do just keeping an eye on his adversary while also sparing the occasional glance behind him to make sure he didn’t inadvertently trip over anything while keeping a safe distance between them. Not helping matters was the fact that he still only had one shoe on, which had the effect of throwing his equilibrium off to a small extent.
Despite appearances, however, Maker wasn’t just randomly retreating; he had a plan of sorts, which he stayed mindful of as they moved through an area of the park populated by towering trees with broad, rectangular trunks.
It was around that juncture that the inevitable happened: as Maker continued to fall back, his unshod foot, covered only by a sock, came down on something hard and unforgiving – presumably a stone or something similar. Pain shot up through his foot, and Maker drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth as his leg buckled slightly. He recovered almost immediately, gingerly moving away from the offending object, but the episode gave his opponent the opening she had been looking for.
Noting that Maker was now favoring one foot, the woman dashed forward, arm cocked back. Hampered by his injury, Maker instinctively realized that he’d lost the ability to be evasive. That being the case, he steeled himself, and a moment later the woman rammed a meaty fist into his midsection.
Air exploded forcefully and painfully from his lungs as the wind was literally knocked out of him, and Maker’s body essentially folded around his attacker’s clenched hand. In fact, her fist was the only thing holding him up, as he otherwise would have collapsed to the ground.
Leaning towards his ear, she whispered, “Guess I kind of took your breath away, huh? I tend to have that effect on men.”
Then, giggling at her own joke, she made a flicking motion with her hand – like someone trying to shoo away an annoying insect – and the next thing Maker knew he was flying through the air backwards.
He coasted for a few feet before hitting the ground hard, then pitched and rolled for a couple of yards before fetching up against a tree. He lay there for a moment, simply trying to get his bearings, then started to rise as he saw the woman heading towards him. He had just come to his feet when she placed a vise-like grip on his neck with one hand, hoisted him from the ground, and then slammed him against the tree that had stopped his helter-skelter tumbling a few moments earlier.
“You know,” she mused as she held him aloft, “I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I expected more of a challenge from the famous ‘Madman Maker.’ Considering the way you took out Frost and Marco” – she nodded in the direction of her two companions – “I just knew I’d have a real fight on my hands. Instead, though, it feels like you should have called for reinforcements.”
As before, Maker didn’t allow himself to be baited by her words. Instead, he busied himself with trying to pry the woman’s hand from around his neck. She wasn’t squeezing, hadn’t tried to choke him out (at least not yet), but – leaving little leeway for him to draw in air – it was far from what he’d describe as comfortable.
He might as well have saved himself the trouble. The woman’s flesh felt as though it was chiseled out of stone, and trying to pry her fingers away was an effort in futility. He’d have had better luck trying to pick up a cinderblock with a pair of paper tongs.
At the same time that he was trying to free himself from his opponent’s grasp, Maker was also kicking wildly. However, rather than aim at the woman holding him, he instead slammed the heels of his feet repeatedly against the tree where he was pinned. He suspected that the image was reminiscent of a petulant and unruly child, kicking and screaming in a tantrum while being held by a long-suffering parent. Unfortunately, it looked as though his antics were having no effect (other than causing additional pain to shoot through his injured foot), and then it happened.
Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Maker’s attention. Turning his head to the side (or rather, as much as he could with his throat gripped), he saw an oversized insect crawling out of a hole in the tree trunk just a few inches away. It was about six inches long, with a navy-blue body and white wings, along with a pair of mandibles that twitched almost spasmodically.
Maker recognized it immediately: a razor-wasp – an insect native to Baskin, but which was exceptional in a number of ways.
The razor-wasp beat its wings for a second, as if testing them, and then took to the air. A soft droning reverberated as it flew a lazy path that brought it near Maker’s face. It hovered there for a moment as if scrutinizing him.
On his part, Maker stayed as still as possible, having ceased both his kicking and his efforts to pry the woman’s hand from his throat. After a few seconds, the insect seemed satisfied. It then spun around and began drifting towards the woman, apparently intent on giving her a similar perusal. Regrettably, it never got the opportunity.
From Maker’s perspective, it was almost as if the razor-wasp had vanished. Of course, it hadn’t simply disappeared, but it was gone – batted viciously aside by the woman with her free hand. (Her other hand, of course, still graced Maker’s neck.) The action had happened so fast that Maker had barely noted it visually, although he couldn’t miss hearing the painful chirp that escaped from the insect as it was struck. It now lay on the ground a dozen feet away, crumpled and dying, letting out a curious warbling sound.
“What the hell was that?” the woman asked, staring at the insect. The question was more rhetorical than literal. Nevertheless, Maker answered.
“Reinforcements,” he hissed, a grin starting to form on his face.
The woman simply stared at him for a moment, probably astounded to finally hear him speak and simultaneously confused by his answer. But before she could respond, the air began to fill with sound – the same droning the razor-wasp had made while in flight, but much greater in volume and pervasiveness.
The woman’s head quickly swiveled from side to side, and her eyes widened as she suddenly took note of something Maker had already observed: all of the trees in this area had holes in their trunks similar to the one near Maker’s head. More importantly, swarms of razor-wasps were now filing out of said holes and taking to the air.
One of the insects seemed to light momentarily on the arm being used to pin Maker to the tree. The woman jerked it back reflexively, unceremoniously dropping Maker in the process. Because of his adversary’s stature, he’d only been held a few inches off the ground so he managed to stay on his feet. He then watched as the woman slowly backed away, holding the arm that the razor-wasp had touched, which now seemed to be red and swollen where the insect had made contact.
She looked around wildly, all thoughts of Maker forgotten as she realized she was in the midst of a swarm of angry insects – more specifically, angry insects with razor-sharp stingers. As if proof of this was needed, the woman suddenly yelped and slapped a hand at the back of her neck.
At that point, the air was thick with razor-wasps. It was as if the trees were industrial smokestacks, but ones that belched out hordes of insects instead of clouds of gas and exhaust fumes.
Maker’s erstwhile adversary yipped sonorously, arching her back in pain. She then reached with her left hand towards her lumbar region while reaching over her shoulder with her right, giving the impression that she was trying to grab something on her spine. At the same time, she quickly spun around in a half-circle, and Maker noted that there was indeed something on her back: a host of razor-wasps. (And from what he could discern, they appeared to be stinging her repeatedly.)
As Maker watched in fascination, more of the insects converged on the woman. Within seconds, they were a writhing mass, swarming all over her to such an extent that no part of her body could be seen.
Panicking now and obviously in pain, the woman took off, running on a course that was tangential to the spot where she’d dropped Maker. Frankly speaking, Maker was curious how – as blanketed as she was by razor-wasps – she could see anything. A few seconds later, he
had his answer as his former opponent ran pell-mell into a tree, plainly indicating that she had been running blind.
Although she had hit the tree hard enough to shake its branches, the woman stayed on her feet – at least initially. She staggered around for a few moments, clearly stunned, and then – swaying like a drunkard – she collapsed to her knees before pitching forward face-first onto the ground.
Maker continued watching her prone body for a few seconds as if in a trance, only coming back to himself after a sharp pain lanced through his wrist. Looking at it, he noted that he had been stung by one of the insects. It was a stark reminder that, while the razor-wasps seemed focused on his former attacker, he himself was not completely out of danger. With that in mind, he lay flat on the ground, tucking his face into the crook of one elbow to protect it.
Chapter 3
Maker lay hunkered down for what felt like an hour, but was probably no more than five minutes. During that time, he received two more vicious stings to his back, but otherwise suffered no harm.
Eventually, the droning of the insects diminished, receding so quickly, in fact, that it took Maker slightly by surprise. Taking a chance, he raised his head – just in time to see what appeared to be the last of the razor-wasps retreating back into one of the tree-holes. Assuming that any danger was now past, he slowly rose to his feet.
Glancing around, Maker couldn’t help noticing how peaceful and serene the park looked, with shafts of sunlight shining down through the treetops and branches swaying gently in the breeze. It felt somewhat surreal considering that, just minutes earlier, the air had been filled with throngs of angry, hostile insects. Counting himself fortunate to have escaped their wrath essentially unscathed, he decided to see how his female attacker had fared. Walking in the direction where he had last seen her, he soon got his answer.
The woman still lay on the ground, and her condition was such that Maker would actually have been shocked if she’d been capable of movement. Every square inch of her body appeared markedly puffed up – incredibly swollen and inflamed – as if she had acquired a rampaging case of massive boils that had infected her from head to foot. Even her scalp hadn’t been spared and now bulged ominously, giving her head a misshapen and malformed appearance, as if her brain had outgrown her skull. Moreover, many of the lumps on her body gave the impression of being infected by either weeping pus or oozing blood.
Frankly speaking, she was an unsightly mess, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that the form before him seemed to regularly expand and contract – a sure indication of breathing – Maker would have been hard-pressed to say whether she was even alive (although he harbored no doubt that she was unconscious). The razor-wasps had obviously had a field day with her, stinging her repeatedly with complete and utter abandon.
Surveying the area, Maker saw a few of the insects lying dead on the ground. Obviously some would have been crushed when the woman ran into the tree. Others surely met their demise when she collapsed to the ground (and possibly rolled over).
Needless to say, Maker owed the razor-wasps a debt of gratitude. They had come to his rescue like the proverbial cavalry, although in truth it was something he’d been banking on.
Basically, there was a reason why this area of the park was deserted, and Maker’s female opponent had found out (the hard way) what it was: the razor-wasps. Not that the insects were territorial – far from it, in fact; they seemed to take a live-and-let-live approach with respect to other lifeforms. However, they were extremely protective of their own, viewing an attack on one as an attack on all. As a matter of fact, they were known to fly miles in order to exact revenge – for lack of a better term – on anyone or anything that assaulted one of their number. This would be the case even if the assailed razor-wasp was nowhere near any of its fellows. (Entomologists had postulated that this ability to unerringly identify and track down attackers was due to some sort of hive mind or collective intelligence, which might even be psychic to some degree.)
Considering that human beings had an almost instinctive tendency to swat insects that got too close, putting people and razor-wasps in near proximity to each other was a bad idea. Thus, the local advisory – a written pamphlet for those new not only to Baskin but also this specific geographic region of the planet – had suggested avoiding the area of the park where the insects nested (which was how Maker typically found himself the only jogger on the nearby trails).
Obviously, Maker’s female assailant had known none of the facts about razor-wasps, or she never would have made herself a target by striking that first one. She had clearly failed to read the advisory, an oversight that had ultimately cost her dearly. (On his part, Maker always thoroughly reviewed the advisory of any planet he was visiting. It was a habit he had picked up during his first mission as a Marine, after another member of his squad lost three fingers to a carnivorous plant on a strange planet.)
Still, Maker’s slapdash plan, which had been premised on using the razor-wasps to level the playing field (or maybe even gain some type of advantage), had required more than a bit of luck. For starters, it was the beginning of hibernation season for the insects; he hadn’t been sure they were still active or – if they weren’t – whether they could be roused. In addition, he hadn’t been certain that the woman would play along; there had always been the chance that she’d realize that Maker’s retreat from her was more purposeful and deliberate than seemed warranted. Thankfully, she hadn’t been particularly astute and had allowed herself to be led down the primrose path.
Standing over her now, Maker almost felt sorry for the woman. The stingers of razor-wasps were about an inch long, sharp as scalpels (hence their moniker), and full of potent venom. That said, attacks from the insects were seldom fatal; it was if they knew exactly how much punishment a victim could take and would break off an attack before it became lethal. That, however, was small consolation to someone on the receiving end of one of their assaults, as Maker could attest: he had been stung only three times, but as a result he could positively affirm the potency and effect of both stinger and poison. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be repeatedly stung by them all over his body.
Satisfied that the woman was incapacitated for the nonce, Maker turned and walked away, heading for the area where he’d left his two male attackers. When he reached them, he noticed that both men seemed to be unconscious. The first – the one Maker had tackled – had white bone sticking out of one leg in a grotesque manner. Surprisingly, however, the injury hadn’t bled as much as Maker would have suspected. (Presumably some kind of auto-meds had kicked in, stopping the bleeding and perhaps inducing unconsciousness to keep the man from going into shock.)
As to the other fellow, it was no surprise that he was still out of it. Having taken two blows to the noggin at roughly the same time – Maker’s fist-to-the-nose while striking his head on the ground – the guy would be lucky to escape without a concussion.
Satisfied that neither man was in any condition to attempt further shenanigans, Maker turned his attention to the real reason he’d returned to this area: his thrown shoe. It only took a few moments to locate it, as his missing footwear was in the same general vicinity of the two unconscious men. Maker was in the process of slipping it back on when the sound of footsteps, approaching from the rear, reached his ears.
Suddenly alarmed, he quickly spun around, assuming a fighting stance as he did so. A moment later, he relaxed, letting out a deep breath when he saw who had been coming up behind him: Bain Browing.
Browing spent a few seconds taking in the scene around them, letting his eyes linger momentarily on the two prone figures on the ground. Then, turning to Maker, he said, “I see you’ve been making friends again.”
Chapter 4
Maker never got to finish his run. Instead, he found himself in Browing’s hovercraft a short time later, heading toward the latter’s apartment. He stared out the passenger-side window as they zipped along, sitting quietly while Browing completed a
call to a local medical unit, informing them of three unconscious individuals in the park they had just left. After completing the call, Browing cast a sideways glance at Maker.
“So you were just going to leave them there?” he asked.
“Well, when you say it like that, it makes me feel ashamed,” Maker retorted sarcastically. “After all, had they beaten me to a pulp, I’m sure calling for a medic was the first thing on their agenda.”
Browing gave his passenger a judgmental look but didn’t say anything.
“How’d you find me, anyway?” Maker continued.
“Ha!” Browing guffawed. “You’re a creature of habit in a lot of ways, such as morning exercise. Every day you leave at roughly the same time, take the same route, jog at the same pace…”
Maker frowned as Browing trailed off. “So, what? You’ve been watching me?”
Browing snorted derisively. “Hardly. I just asked Ariel where to find you.”
Maker kept his face impassive, but mentally he scowled. This was the risk inherent in developing a romance with someone like Ariel Chantrey. As a behavioral scientist, her job was observing and dissecting attitudes, actions, and conduct, which segued nicely into her specialty: discerning and predicting human behavior. More to the point, it wasn’t something she could simply turn off, not even for someone who she was involved with, like Maker. (In fact, Maker had been – and actually still was – her specific work assignment.)
As to their personal relationship, it was still fairly new – only a few weeks old. To be honest, Maker wasn’t sure how to define it (and hadn’t yet decided if he was truly comfortable with it), but found himself with few complaints. His primary objections were two in number: first and foremost was the fact that any attempt to predict his behavior always gave Maker the impression that he was being handled. He generally had no problem with being given or carrying out orders – even those he disagreed with – but he detested the thought of being manipulated.
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