The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Renford was a man who gave his military talents for money instead of ideals. Amanda did not doubt before this day finished, he would order workers to investigate.

  Amanda drew in a deep breath. She felt frightened to her bones. She had a theory, but quite likely she was wrong. According to Heralda, this thing, this killer, overexcited sections of the brain adjacent to those firing Talent. It was not, Heralda said, Talent itself responding to this thing. It was a combination of Talent and something else.

  Or so Heralda thought, but she could be wrong. Probably was wrong.

  "I am a freak," Amanda said with as much force as she could muster. Even so, her voice came out as little more than a hoarse creak.

  Renford looked at her, pale eyes expressionless, waiting for her to finish.

  "I am a freak," Amanda repeated in a stronger voice. "My bloodline is intermingled with the New World Clan several generations back. Like all the New World native peoples, I have no Talent. Nobody in my family has Talent." Drawing in another deep breath, she released it shakily. "I'll go."

  "Maybe," Leona said. "Not yet, or for weeks. Nobody goes in there until Sybil and I have made a complete series of tests."

  "Seconded,"Sybil added. "Until then, it's just too dangerous."

  Amanda nodded, but Renford looked thoughtful.

  Chapter 15

  Samuel Aybarra woke early on the morning of August the twenty-first knowing he had to visit the community trench. Old age and irritable bowels had taken their toll on his sleep almost every night for the last two years. This was but once more. Though insistent, the need was not yet immediate. He took time to stretch out his muscles and look down on his wife, enjoying the sight of her body in the dim, not yet morning, light.

  I, Aybarra told himself, am a lucky man. Uralla was not a young woman, and like almost every Chin who had bypassed their teens, she was not pretty, but she was nude, ripe, and easy to touch. Most of all, she loved him. Her heart, her soul, every fiber of her being was infused with a total and complete love for the man named Samuel Aybarra.

  In this, she felt exactly the same as his other three wives, and for that Aybarra counted himself lucky. Not many men knew beyond a doubt they were so completely loved. Fewer loved their wives with an equal fervor.

  Uralla stirred, mumbled something in her sleep, and turned on her back. Leaning down, Aybarra gave her a soft kiss. He considered waking her more thoroughly to have her waiting when he returned, but Uralla slept too quietly, too gently. He hated the thought of disturbing her for quick bout of sex. Almost as restless a sleeper as he, she would dress and attend to chores afterward.

  "I love you," he whispered just before rising to pull on his pants. He took extra time shoving his feet into his boots because a person never knew what he might walk on in the dark. Quietly maneuvering his way around his other two wives, he shoved past the tent flap.

  The air felt crisp and clean as he wound around tents and fire pits. He passed the ferbog contestants, frowning and holding back a contemptuous snort as he took in their slumbering forms. These were men and women of warrior years. Weeks earlier they had been ready to take up arms and defend their people. Now, they were fat bellied worthless drones. Not one had traveled more than six unaided paces since the contest began. Their blood and milk diet combined with an almost total lack of unnecessary movement had created two dozen wrecks and at least one corpse when Asidria died a week earlier, her belly burst open by over-consumption. Aybarra had been assured hers was not the first death during the last few years and would not be the last.

  To Aybarra, the strange part was the honor given somebody for eating themselves to death.

  He went by the sleepers, careful to make no noise. His pant legs felt damp against his ankles and shins. The grasses around him were covered by early morning dew.

  Once he reached the pit, Aybarra made sure to pluck plenty of weeds so he would have enough for cleaning. Pulling down his pants, he squatted on his heels and did his business while reminiscing about the old days when he did this task while sitting on a contoured plastic seat.

  Truthfully, he did not miss that life or world. While it was true Jefferson offered comfort and convenience, it was also true he had been a field agent for the government, an agent fated to never plop his butt behind a desk. If he had remained in Jefferson, he would likely be years dead, killed on some pointless mission. Essentially, he traded Jefferson's comfort for a longer life, better friends, greater responsibility, and love like he never expected to know.

  It had been a good trade.

  Business finished, he rose, pulled up his pants.

  A sound! Rustling.

  Pants half fastened, he paused, his attention focused. Again he heard something, almost lost beneath a cricket's chirrup. A stealthy footstep.

  "Who's there," he called out quietly so as to not wake the camp.

  Wearing only a small loin cloth, Laura Bainridge stepped out of the dark. "It's me."

  Relaxing, Arbarra released a small chuckle and finished fastening his pants. "Like to have scared three years off my life. "

  "I liked what I saw a few moments ago," Laura said, moving close. Reaching up, she ran a soft hand across his gray stubble. "I hope that doesn't make you feel uncomfortable."

  "I'm a bit long in the tooth and too deep in the brush to be bothered by such things," Aybarra told her, but he stepped back half a pace. "I'm not even bothered by you being half-naked. Even so, I am a little leery about the touching thing."

  "I'm not." With a swift brush of her hand, she pulled her loincloth away, stepped forward, pressed against him, and wrapped her arms about his neck. "Use me," she whispered in his ear. "Put your other-world baby in me."

  Placing both hands on her shoulders, Aybarra tried to shove her back but failed when she refused to release her hold about his neck.

  "Use me!" she demanded again, whispering angrily. "Damn you! Show my parents what they get for caging me. They'll hate me for it. They'll hate you!"

  This time Aybarra shoved harder. When she still refused to release him, he grabbed her arms, jerked them apart, and sent her stumbling away. "Sorry, lady, but I'm not playing this game. Find somebody else."

  With a sweep of her hand, Laura indicated her body. "What's wrong with this? Why don't you want it?"

  Aybarra grimaced. "Lady, you're twisted, and I don't want anything to do with--"

  Laura gasped when a spear shot out of the dark to pierce her left breast, Twisting on her heals, she stumbled and fell.

  Two forms leaped for Aybarra.

  Spinning to face them, he opened his mouth to yell warning but the yell was cut short when a thrown knife pierced his windpipe. Another knife slid beneath his sternum.

  Grunting, he fell to his knees and then lay down. Looking up, he saw a layer of thin clouds begin to obscure the full moon. Crickets chirruped, and Laura breathed slowly. For a moment he wished he had kissed her, had allowed her to think she would get her way, but the time for that was gone because she no longer breathed.

  Samuel Aybarra's last thoughts were for the wives he loved.

  * * *

  Yan rummaged through the dead man's foreign pants, being careful not to touch blood. He cursed under his breath upon discovering all the pockets were empty.

  "Hurry!" Verhad hissed. She crouched over the naked woman, holding a severed left ear in her hand. "We have to look for the other sentries. I won't have Biorf kill more than we do."

  Yan made a sharp gesture as he rose. This man had carried nothing of worth, but there would be other bounty. An encampment of unwary people waited.

  "I don't understand," Verhad whispered when she joined him. Her fingers brushed against his shoulder, a brief lover's touch. "We should have encountered more sentries by now, and they should have been further out."

  Heavy footsteps sounded. Whipping his knife to the front, Yan crouched beside the man's body. Verhad disappeared. Only the faint wavering of a few weed heads showed where she had been, but that was h
is Verhad. Her skill, grace, and courage drew him. Verhad would gladly spit in an enemy's eye and demand death before she'd accept dishonor.

  "Come out," a voice spoke loudly. "There will be no raiding this day. There will be no deaths."

  Unsure, Yan rose slowly to his feet. Verhad rose from where she hid more than twenty feet away.

  Coll, daughter of their war leader, stood before them. Her features hardened when she took in the bodies.

  "What have you done?"

  "We killed a sentry and a crazy woman," Yan answered slowly, not understanding why Coll treated these killings like a crime.

  Coll pointed toward the fires. "There is a ferbog in this encampment."

  Yan paled. Licking his lips, he looked down at the man and then to the woman. Neither were milk fat, but it did not matter. Encroaching on a tribe's ferbog could damn a person's soul. Worse, it could enslave a person's tribe for three years. He glanced at Verhad as she drew near. If anything, her complexion appeared paler in the faint moonlight than he knew his own to be.

  "The deaths are entirely mine," he lied. Verhad's honor would not allow the lie to stand, but he had to try protecting her. "I killed them both.

  "Your carelessness has cost us," Coll said coldly. "You were under my command, and I am my mother's daughter. Because of you, our preparations are in vain."

  Yan stood still while Coll drew her sword. He looked at Verhad, saw her lips drawn thin and her face stricken. He expected her to speak, to claim her own share in this crime so they could die together, but her lips remained tight shut when Coll raised the sword high.

  Sadness washed over him. Verhad would not speak. The courage he admired did not exist. Even so, Yan could not find it in himself to denounce her. Instead, he focused on Coll, stared straight in her eyes and did not flinch when her blade swung toward his neck.

  * * *

  Delmac remembered a time several days earlier when he and Mac Harris looked over Harris's troops after a drill. Mac told Delmac he felt pride because they were fit, disciplined, and well trained in their weapon craft. Best of all, they had learned to fight in a line, to use shields, and to allow their neighbor to protect their open side. His archers knew their duty, as did his rifle wielders. Those rifles, though few in number, would have a large effect on the battle, counting heavily when an army could kill the enemy before entering into arrow range.

  Yes, Harris had said, his people were as good as he could reasonably expect after a few short months of training. They were not perfect, far from it, but they were good, and they had Turner's secret weapon, the ability to cover ground quickly.

  Now Harris had a chance to prove his people were as good as he believed.

  A day earlier a young glorai of no more than sixteen years came into the camp with news Harris anxiously awaited. The enemy, she said, were camped less than three days distant. Of course, she spoke from ignorance, not knowing about the runabouts. She didn't know Harris' troops could travel further in one day than she could in three or four.

  Now, Delmac stood outside the group as plans were made for those who could not ride. Harris's troops possessed several two person runabouts. Because Delmac owned strong legs, Harris assigned the girl to him, ordering them to take front position.

  "Don't you think we should put out scouts?" the girl asked.

  "Unnecessary," Harris answered. "Speed is the key. Scouts will slow our progress. Worse, they might be seen by the enemy. No, this way is best. We might encounter some of their scouts or distant outposts. We might suffer a few casualties, but we won't have to worry about anybody giving warning. We'll travel too quickly for word to outpace us."

  The young woman looked at Harris admiringly. Her eyes, big and open, glistened with hero worship. The sight almost made Delmac sick. Harris preened from the attention.

  "What kind of terrain will we be covering?" Harris asked.

  "Mostly flat like this," she answered. "There are some choppy, rolling hills near the spring, but none more than ten feet high. Your machines can go over them, or if the terrain is too difficult, you can always travel around."

  "We'll go around," Harris determined. "I won't risk wearing out my troops before we engage. Girl, climb on back of that thing."

  "Certainly," she answered before maneuvering onto the back of the long seat. Pegs had been welded onto the frame for a second rider's feet. She only kicked Delmac's ankle once while finding them.

  "Captain Delmac," Harris called out.

  "Sir!" Delmac answered promptly just to prove he was not such a savage he could not learn a modicum of military protocol, unlike his rider.

  "Lead out, Captain.

  "Yes, sir!"

  He made sure the girl was firmly seated before setting his feet to the pedals. Behind him, two thousand troops did the same. Delmac set his runabout in low gear before peddling, but before long he shifted to the fourth of its ten gears.

  "You aren't one of us," the girl said into his right ear. "Your facial bones aren't right, and you have a heavy accent." Her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Her chin rested on his shoulder. Her smell was reminiscent of fresh sweat and spice.

  They hit a bump.

  "Ooomph. I guess this isn't a perfect way to travel," she said with a giggle.

  Later yet. "Are you going to talk to me? You should, you know. We're stuck together for the next several hours."

  "I don't trust you," Delmac finally answered. His legs continued pumping while he wondered why he was here. He had thought he wanted a war, but was that really it?

  No. He had not truly wanted to kill again. He wasn't even anxious to see Turner dead, though his death wouldn't make Delmac unhappy. The truth was he had been snubbed. His pride had been hurt because his clan now saw him as someone not entirely Clan. They thought of him as a mongrel, as something belonging neither here nor there, a thing too soft to live among them.

  His pride had been stung, and like a child, ran to the only war falling somewhere within the traditions he knew. His pique had led him to this, to riding a runabout through thick grass, a woman he did not trust at his back, and two thousand troops following behind. Like Delmac, those troops also rode runabouts. They had shields, were trained to fight in lines and squares, and some carried the fire spitting arms Turner helped bring into this world.

  Seeking the familiar, he had run to a war that was anything but traditional.

  "Why?" the girl asked later.

  "Why what?" he replied.

  "Why don't you trust me? I almost took an arrow in my gut getting here. Your General Harris trusts me because I brought him information."

  "Nothing personal," Delmac answered. "I don't trust anybody."

  "Maybe you'll learn to trust me," she laughed. "I'll ask you again in the morning."

  They rode quietly for a short time before she tapped his shoulder. "Angle off to the left a little more."

  * * *

  The foreign glorai stopped their progress a mile from the hills. Harris growled deep in his throat as his entire column came to a halt, though a secret part of him felt glad for the respite. He was no longer young, and his legs were not used to this type of work.

  Maybe that was why they paused. Captain Delmac had ridden double for more than three hours covering, as best Harris could tell, more than forty miles. Delmac's legs must be worn out. Like Harris, he was not a young man. He had to be somewhere about forty.

  "Do you need a break?" he demanded when Delmac wheeled his runabout near.

  "No, sir," Delmac answered. "I need those hills scouted."

  "I agree," Delmac's rider interrupted, "I went through them the day before yesterday. They were clear then, but I won't guarantee they're clear now."

  Growling, Harris fought down the instant anger that always seemed to rise when people questioned his judgment. These two did have a point. There was no time crunch because the runabouts gave them such speed, and safer really was better.

  Turning in his seat, he surveyed his people. "Sergeant Jessic, ta
ke twenty-five troops and scout the hills."

  "Yes, sir!"

  More than an hour passed before Jessic returned. Her face appeared tired, drawn, but her expression radiated satisfaction when she reported no enemy sightings. What was more; she saw no signs of recent occupation at the spring located on the far side of the hills.

  Harris gave Delmac a knowing look. Out of spite, he ordered the man to take the lead once more..

  They made it through the hills without event. Because of their earlier delay, Harris allowed only a twenty minute break upon reaching the spring before ordering his troops on their way. The enemy were, from the girl's report, more than eighty miles distant.

  He scanned the grasslands as they rode, seeing nothing out of place, exactly as he expected. In war, planning was everything. He smiled. With luck, Turner's war would be finished in a couple months. When it was over, he would relax for a while. Turner paid well. He paid more than well, enough so Harris could wait as long as a year before taking another commission. The layover would give him time to reflect on what to do next. He didn't think it would be another war. Maybe he would recruit a few good people, train them up, and run some infiltration missions. Harris had considered doing something similar several times in the past but never had enough money. He soon would, and he had about a dozen places on his list that needed infiltrating. A prepared man could do well for himself. A careful man could become rich.

  Harris started when he saw the right hand of the girl riding behind Delmac rise into the air, holding something large and dull in her grip. With a sudden movement, she brought her hand down against Delmac's head. Delmac swayed. The runabout tipped, and they both fell to the ground, Cursing, Harris jerked his head to the windward side to see warriors rising from the grass, casting aside studded camouflage blankets and shouldering weapons.

  "Form up!" he shouted, but his people were strung out too far apart to hear. Long, double tube rifles were leveling in enemy hands.

  Almost as a single sound, the rifles blasted out their chorus. Thick black smoke shot into the air, answered by choked curses and falling runabouts.