by Steve Perry
“Tichinde!” Dachande made his voice angrier than he was. The yautja surrounding the arrogant youth stepped away from him, tusks opened wide.
“You may show your ‘skills,’” Dachande continued, his voice threaded with sarcasm, “by a jehdin/jehdin spar with… Mahnde. First fall determines the winner.”
There were rumblings of disappointment as the young males moved from the match area to line the scarred kehrite walls; with no weapons to be used, both combatants would probably still be alive after the match. Still, the energy was high. Several yautja had seen the look between Tichinde and the Leader, and all could see the disrespectful face of the student now. What would the Leader do about this? How would he respond? Was he weak enough to allow a Challenge to pass, even one so veiled?
Dachande paused until all were in place before giving the command.
“Begin!”
As one, the yautja began to howl and chant as the two young males circled. Dachande watched carefully as Mahnde lunged forward for the first blow, arms raised.
Tichinde blocked easily and countered with a jab to the throat.
Mahnde moved aside, not fast enough to avoid the shot completely. A chorus of guttural hisses filled the room as he stumbled and pulled back. A clumsy response. No one was impressed.
Tichinde shrieked and ran at Mahnde, talons extended for a stab to the abdomen.
The defender, already off-balance, blocked too high. Tichinde hit full on and knocked Mahnde to the padded floor. The victorious youth threw back his head and screamed in triumph. The kehrite pounded with the cries of the agitated students. The match was over.
Too soon. Blood was still too warm; none would be satisfied with such a quick bout.
Dachande looked for a challenger amidst the yowls and clicks of the clamoring spectators, displeased with Mahnde’s performance. Perhaps Chulonte, he showed promise…
A score of new sounds filled the room as the yautja began to scream in surprise and renewed excitement. Dachande’s gaze flickered back to the match area—and he watched in amazement as Tichinde kicked his fallen opponent in the head.
“Ki’cte!” Dachande had to shriek to be heard. “Enough!”
Tichinde kicked again. Mahnde rolled over, tried to cover his face and grab at Tichinde’s foot at the same time. The yautja were going wild. Blood was molten; spittle flew as they shook their heads in excitement.
“Tichinde!” Rarely had Dachande seen such disobedience. He stalked onto the match floor and shouted again.
Tichinde turned to face the Leader. He snarled. The young male extended one hand and shoved at Dachande’s left shoulder.
Dachande avoided the push automatically.
The clawed hand fell short.
The watching yautja suddenly fell silent, only a few dying clicks and cries of wonder. Tichinde’s movement was unmistakable, and since Dachande had attained Leadership, a move that he had not seen. The sign of direct challenge.
Dachande sighed to himself silently. What an idiot this one was. How had he survived this long?
* * *
The baked dirt that covered the valley floor appeared nearly lifeless under the searing heat of the dual suns. What vegetation there was appeared stunted, twisted, cooked. The twin stars were hardly an exact match; the secondary’s shadows were barely visible, a frail blur next to the deeper charcoal hues cast by the primary. The towering plateaus of dirty tan rock—there had once been water here to cut them so—ran in corridors throughout the basin and offered no comfort unless you crawled among the stones—which no sane human would want to do for all of the venomous forms of hidden life there. Besides the stinging flies and poisonous snakes, there was a particularly lethal form of scorpion that nested amidst the boulders during Ryushi’s nineteen-hour day. Even after sundown, the heat rarely fell below body temperature, and without the relief of the cool breezes that sometimes came with desert climate after dark. The air was always bone-dry and the feverish winds that occasionally blew were sharp and unpleasant, the crack of a hot whip. Maybe it was somebody’s idea of paradise—
But not mine.
Machiko Noguchi ran a delicate hand through her short black hair and punched the scan button. The portable eye panned across the barren wasteland, showing her more of the same. It was identical to almost everywhere else on Ryushi. Besides the few artificial watering holes and the settlement itself, the whole planet looked like a desert prospector’s version of hell—rocks, dirt and heat, and no precious metals hidden there, either.
Noguchi sighed and tapped a few keys. As the small screen faded to black, she leaned back in her form-chair and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and growled softly through clenched teeth. When the opportunity had presented itself, she had not hesitated. Only twenty-nine years old and already offered an overseer’s post for the Chigusa Corporation. Prosperity Wells, at the far edge of the Beta Cygni system, very quiet; “Sounds exhilarating,” she’d said.
Right. Only her six months of phase-in was almost up and she was so sick of this rock she could vomit. A necessary career move, she kept telling herself.
Well, at least there’s air-conditioning…
Noguchi stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. Her lunch break was almost over, time to get back to the office. She usually ate with Hiroki, but he’d had a meeting with a few of the ranchers and she had decided to slip back to her apartment and go over a stat report for the company. Might as well let him keep the reins for the last few weeks of his stay. Besides, only in her private chamber did she feel free to relax; to let her feelings show anywhere else was—it was not an option. There was too much at stake for her to be anything but completely professional.
She glanced at the holomirror by her door on the way out and nodded at what she saw—cool, composed, detached. Attractive in a typical Japanese way, although that was not important to her. She looked… authoritative. The ranchers didn’t seem to like her very much, but they would respect her—her honor would accept nothing less.
* * *
Dachande felt his anger flare and then, almost regretfully, he let it pass. Half a lifetime ago, such a display of brash audacity would have meant a quick death for the young male; the yautja who would dare to challenge him? Certain thei-de. And grinning all the while he delivered it, too.
But he was Leader now. Not a kind Leader, but a just one. There were others who would kill for such an offense—but these days, he would teach. There was no point in a match you knew you would win. Doubt was necessary or it was but an exercise.
All of this flitted through his mind in less than a second.
Tichinde pushed at him again.
Again Dachande slipped the move unthinkingly. He saw the surprise on the young one’s face. And perhaps, too late, a touch of realization that he had made an error. A very bad error.
The juvenile yautja gave up their stunned hush at this new transgression and roared for blood. It did not matter whose.
Dachande reflected no longer. He grabbed Tichinde’s hands and held them high with his own.
Tichinde screamed into his face, the shrill sound blended with the cries of the spectators.
Dachande did not pause.
The Leader jerked his head forward. Their skulls met with a dull crack that sent a peal of renewed clatterings and hisses through the assemblage.
Tichinde pulled his hands loose and staggered back, arms still held high, but dazed.
They circled.
A tiny trickle of pale blood ran down Tichinde’s face from beneath his dlex band. Without taking his gaze from Dachande, the student reached up and touched the flow, rubbed it between his fingers for confirmation; he did not seem to like the feel.
Too bad.
Tichinde spread his arms wide, back hunched, and screamed. The sounds were garbled with fury, but the inflections unmistakable—Nan-deThan-gaun. The Kiss of Midnight.
Tichinde’s intentions were crystal: he would kill his Leader, if he could.
Enough was enough. Dachande locked his fingers together and leapt. He landed beside the impudent yautja and brought his double-fist down, hard, into the small of the still-screaming Tichinde’s back. Tichinde fell to the floor. His lower jaw smacked the mat quite audibly.
Dachande jumped back quickly as Tichinde slowly regained his feet. Aware of his audience, the Leader moved with all the grace and skill he could muster. The motion was nearly perfect and any of the watchers who could recall even a bit of training would be impressed by the flow of it. Which was the point.
New blood oozed from the young male’s lower mandibles. The watching students sang out calls of victory for their Leader as Tichinde turned to face Dachande. The cries of derision from his peers were perhaps what spurred the young male into action. With a strangled hiss, the bleeding yautja ran at Dachande, fists extended.
Give him credit for spirit. Credit for brains, no. For skill, hardly. But he was no coward.
Still, it was poor form. Dachande fell to his knees before Tichinde reached him and grasped the student’s overstretched upper body with one hand, his nearer leg with the other. Suppressing a grunt, he strove to make the move appear effortless.
As if the youth weighed no more than a suckling, Dachande stood and thrust Tichinde high over his head.
The howling yautja tried to escape and regain the floor, but his writhings were to no avail. Dachande held the young male high, let out a growl of conquest—then threw Tichinde across the room.
The mob of howling young males split, narrowly avoided the flung body before it smacked into the wall. They chanted triumph for Dachande, harsh sounds of nain-desintje-de; pure win.
Dachande made no chant himself and none was needed. The fallen Tichinde spoke for him.
For a short time, nobody moved.
Finally, Tichinde staggered upright and walked slowly toward his Leader, head bowed. The outcome was obvious, and a further display of aggression would be dishonorable, not to mention stupid. Tichinde stopped in front of him and raised only his eyes to see what Dachande would decide; in such a Challenge, death was not an unreasonable punishment.
Dachande pretended to consider his options as the chants fell to a breath-held stillness and overstretched tension. There was really no question for him; a good Leader did not have to kill one of his own to prove anything—and to embarrass the young male would tell later in Tichinde’s Hunts. He waited because all eyes watched and the hesitation was penalty enough.
After a few breaths-time Dachande tilted his head to one side and spoke. “Payas leitjin-de.” He paused. “Hma’mi-de.”
Tichinde hung his head lower and stepped back, his relief visible. Several young males came forward to touch Tichinde’s hair in appreciation of the Leader’s compliment. The precise tip of Dachande’s head combined with the words indicated both acknowledgment of the student’s submission and a respect for his bravery—“Remember God’s practice.” Tichinde was allowed his life and his name, but with the ritual warning a slap to his embarrassed face. Still, there was no real shame in losing to one who had faced the Hard Meat with nothing but talons and blade.
Dachande almost allowed himself a grin, but did not want to lighten the effect of his pronouncement; he raised his hand and gestured for the students to fall in line for training. Tichinde knew who was Leader, and would not forget it. And if another yautja strayed from obedience…?
After this, it would not likely happen. If it did, there would be more than one “dachande” on ship. His honor would accept nothing less.
3
They were still in space, but it wasn’t nearly so deep now. The ship’s drone had mellowed as the gravity drives slowed them to intersystem speeds.
“Eleven days, buddy boy, and then no more of your dick in my ear for what, seventy-two hours?”
Tom grinned and shook his head. “You wish.”
Scott raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Here’s to pretty girls and sunny days, Tommy.” He sipped the watery liquid and grimaced. “Nothing like a nice mug of shit to put a shine on the morning, hey?”
“It’s…” Tom glanced at his terminal. “Four in the afternoon, you pig. Happy hour.”
“Right,” said Scott “Whatever.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Tom worked studiously at one of his crosswords, tapping in words and erasing them at the same rate. Scott gazed into the darkness and tried to remember the words of a poem he used to know. He could probably just look it up in the ship’s library, same as Tom and his puzzle, but learning how to kill time was a good trick in their line of work. Nothing to do and plenty of hours to do it.
‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves, did gyre and—something-something wabe—all mimsy were the borogoves and the something-hath outgrabe—
“Six-letter word for ‘saint’?”
Scott thought for a second and then smiled: “Thomas.”
“Funny. Like not wanting to fuck over all things great and small makes me some kinda prince. I mean, really—” Tom paused. “Hey, that’s it. Prince. You’re good for something after all, you pagan asshole.”
“You still pissed about last night?” Scott shook his head. It seemed that this debate would never die—but eleven days was eleven days. “Like I said, survival of the fittest. The fact remains that if the human race needs to do something to survive—and the lower orders don’t have the power to stop us—we’ll prevail. It’s not right or wrong, it’s just the way things are.”
Tom looked up from the monitor, jaw set. “So it’s all right to do whatever we want, exploit any ecosystem, as long as we don’t run into anything big enough to kick our butts—that’s basically it, right?”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“That’s opportunistic rationalization, Scott. Where’s your sense of social responsibility? Didn’t your mama raise you right?”
“I was a tube child, thank you very much.”
“That must be it.” Tom hit the store button on his keyboard and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I have this sudden overwhelming urge to take a dump.”
Scott chuckled. “I’m not even gonna touch that one.”
Tom slapped him on the shoulder and exited the control module. Tom was all right, he didn’t take himself too seriously at least. Scott had been paired up with worse. He felt his grin slowly melt as he turned his gaze back to the deep. Killing time, that was all.
Beware the jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite the claws that catch—beware the jub-jub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch.
Yeah, that was it. What, he wondered, did it mean? And why was he thinking about it now?
* * *
Hiroki’s face remained expressionless as Noguchi lit a cigarette at her desk and exhaled a haze of gray smoke. She knew he disapproved, but she also knew that it was not appropriate for him to speak of it; it was, after all, her office now. It was not even a habit that she was particularly attached to—
But wouldn’t your father be displeased, Machiko?
Noguchi inhaled deeply.
Hiroki uncrossed his legs on the couch and smoothed his small mustache carefully with one finger. “As I was saying, Ackland expressed some concerns with the agreement. He says that he has the support of the other ranchers, or at least Harrison and Marianetti.”
“Well, that’s three of the big four,” Noguchi began. “Perhaps we should contact the company—”
A small green light flashed from the control panel set into her desk, accompanied by a low tone.
“Excuse me, Hiroki.”
“Of course.” He picked up a sheaf of hard copy and settled back into a plush cushion.
Noguchi punched up visual and hit receive.
“Mr. Shimura, we have an unidentified incoming at—oh, Ms. Noguchi.”
Noguchi smiled slightly at the young man’s visible discomfort and waited. He was one of the scan watchers, a low-level company worker.
“I, uh, I have a message for Mr. Shimura. Is
he there?”
Noguchi frowned. “Yes, he’s here. But you can give me the message, Mason.” She glanced at Hiroki, who made a point of being deeply engrossed in the rhynth count report he was reading.
Mason swallowed. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Long range is showing a UFO. It’s probably just a meteor, but it’s not breaking up, it is going to hit—if it stays on its present course, it’ll make planetfall about thirty klicks north of here—open pasture. Make a boom when it lands.”
“Any damage likely?”
“No, it’s not that big.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” Noguchi stubbed her cigarette out into the pewter tray on the desk. “We can investigate after the roundup. Noguchi out.”
The screen went blank. She took a deep breath and then looked at Hiroki. He had set down the file and was watching her, face impassive as usual. At least there was no sympathy. She opened her mouth, uncertain as to what she was going to say; their relationship had progressed to a first-name basis, but that didn’t make them friends.
“I—” She forced herself not to look away. “I’ve been here nearly six months, Hiroki—and still they report to you. The ranchers, even the staff treat me like a stranger. I have done all I can think of to make this job mine—”
Noguchi fell silent and waited. Hiroki watched her for a few seconds and then stood and faced her, hands clasped behind his back.
“Maybe that is your problem, Machiko. You’re trying to adapt the job to you, rather than adapting yourself to it. You can’t run an operation like this and hide from it at the same time, no matter how nice the office.”
Noguchi nodded slightly, thoughtful. This sounded like something he had been waiting to say until asked, which made her wonder how long he had been holding his tongue. Still, she needed an informed opinion. The ranchers respected Shimura—no, even further, they trusted him. She had not thought to find out how he had achieved their loyalty.