Skar glanced in the natives’ direction. “We are strangers. How do the Tash-Toi or other clan members treat strangers on Jassac?”
“You think they’ll attack us?”
“There are five of them and two of us.”
Cyrus thought about that. “One of my teachers once told me that intercity gangs act like primitives. I happen to know a little bit about gangs. Yeah, maybe this is their territory and they’re coming to chase us off. But I’m not too worried. We have guns. We ought to be able to make them listen to us.”
Skar folded his arms, watching the dust, no doubt watching the outlines grow. “We will not need guns to deal with them.”
Gingerly reaching up, Cyrus attempted to massage his neck, particularly a hard knot the size of his eye. When he touched the bruised flesh, he winced, dropping his arm. He thought about lying down, but wondered if he’d be able to get up again anytime soon. He might stiffen into a log. That would be bad, especially if any Kresh came to inspect the wreckage.
“We can’t stay here,” Cyrus said, indicating the antigravity sled in the distance. “In fact, we’d better leave before the Kresh show up.”
“Can you walk?” Skar asked.
“I don’t have a choice, not if I want to remain free. Let’s go.”
“Do we head toward them or away?” Skar asked.
You’d better think really hard here. This isn’t a game. This is life or death for you and for your friends in High Station 3. It could even be life or death for the solar system. He knew what he should do, but just how hardened a survivor was he? He knew about making the tough choices. He’d been doing it all his life in Level 40 Milan. The schooling he’d received in Crete had given him a veneer of civilization, nothing more. At all costs, he had to remain free of the aliens.
“We need native clothing,” Cyrus said.
Skar gave him a level stare.
“The Kresh came after us from High Station 3,” Cyrus said. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but it shows they’re taking us seriously. You and I stick out like sore thumbs out here. We have to blend in better if we’re going to hide from the Kresh.”
“I doubt the natives will give us their clothing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cyrus said. He’d been an enforcer for the Latin Kings. He’d used a gun before, and knives, and he’d made penniless people hurt for failing to make the vig, the interest on loan-sharked credits. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
He got up and they started walking. It made his left side throb, and he soon found himself panting, with sweat staining his clothes. Despite his injury, he didn’t believe he was that out of shape. Then it came to him.
“This place must have a thin atmosphere,” Cyrus wheezed.
Skar glanced at him. The soldier seemed the same as ever, a block of hardened muscle who could endure anything.
For a moment, Cyrus hated the shorter man. You’d better be glad for what you have and exploit it to the max. With that resolved, he concentrated on the landscape and the approaching natives.
The mountains towered to the left. A field of ten-foot spindly grasses waved far to his right. The approaching warriors kicked up dust, having come from a vast open expanse. They ran in a line, thickly muscled men standing taller than either Skar or him. Their reddish-brown skin looked tough, like cracked leather. They had dark eyes, slashes for mouths, and hooked noses. Each warrior wore leather garments and complex conical helmets of fur and bits of bone and black rock. Uniformly clad, each clan member carried a leather shield, what looked like a stone-shod spear, and a heavy flint dagger strapped against his chest.
Wait a minute. The last one looked different. Instead of a man, she was a woman. And instead of blocky muscles, she was lithe, with long legs, and she wore a knit cap. She also happened to be well endowed, a regular barbarian princess.
The others seemed similar to what he’d viewed in the reader these past three weeks. Were they Tash-Toi, or were they from another tribe? How likely was it he had landed in the right spot?
“Do they speak our language?” Skar asked.
“We’re going to find out soon enough,” Cyrus said.
The lead warrior halted, pointing his spear at them. The other warriors and the woman, the barbarian princess, halted beside the first man. Each native glared with open defiance, possibly hatred. They were roughly a hundred yards away.
“What do you want in our land, demons?” the first warrior, the largest of the group, shouted. He had a booming voice. “Be gone from us. Return to your valley of evil.”
“They speak our language,” Skar said.
Cyrus found it difficult to raise his left arm, but he managed to cup his hands around his mouth. “We’re not demons,” he shouted. “We’re men just like you.”
The biggest warrior glanced at his fellows. Warily, he approached closer. After he had taken five steps, the others reluctantly followed. The leader halted fifty yards away.
“You have the guise of men,” the leader shouted. “But we saw you float down from the sky. Only demons possess such magic.”
“You’re wrong,” Cyrus shouted. “We’re men and we floated down from space. Surely, your legends tell of a time when people flew in the void.”
The big warrior stubbornly shook his head. “You cannot deceive us, demons. We are the Berserkers, the fiercest warriors on the plains. Other clans run from us and hide. We do not accept your deception. Go! I, Stone Fist, demand it.”
“Have you heard of Klane?” Cyrus shouted.
“Is that the name of your chief demon?” Stone Fist shouted. “Do you attempt to conjure a spell with his name? Know, demon, that I am unimpressed and do not fear your paltry spells. Your sky vehicle crashed. You are weak and therefore easy prey.”
“We’re not demons,” Cyrus said. “Can’t you accept the evidence of your own eyes?”
“He mocks you,” the woman shouted.
Stone Fist raised his spear. “I give you your last warning, demon-spawn. Run from us while you can.”
Skar unclipped his gun and handed it to Cyrus. Then the soldier drew his small-handled axe and strode toward Stone Fist.
“What deception is this?” Stone Fist shouted. “You dare to challenge the Berserkers on their own land?”
“I am a man,” Skar said. “And I will defeat you in fair combat. Then you will see we are men like you.”
Several of the warriors backed away, and they looked uneasy. One of them spoke quietly to Stone Fist.
“Stay here,” Cyrus called to Skar. “It’s better to talk this out.”
The soldier shook his head and continued stalking toward the primitives.
Stone Fist bellowed and shook his spear. Then he beckoned his fellow warriors. With a roar, the Berserkers charged Skar. They towered over the shorter soldier; their shoulders were broader and their muscles seemed denser. Cyrus didn’t see how Skar had a chance.
Skar didn’t back off, though. Instead, he broke into a sprint, charging them.
Cyrus took in the situation. On one side was a Kresh-trained soldier with his axe, with gene-warped strength and speed. Despite that, he’d seen Argon toss soldiers like boys. The Berserkers looked powerful, and each side had equivalent weapons. Was Skar five times better than the primitives? Cyrus didn’t want to bet on it, and he needed the soldier.
Cyrus’s chest tightened. He didn’t want to do this. But the needs of Earth, of humanity, demanded he take action. Lifting the soldier’s gun, gripping it with both hands, Cyrus fired. He’d expected it to act like the other heat guns he’d seen before on High Station 3. Instead, Skar’s pistol held exploding pellets. The first shot went wide, and blew a puff of dirt near the primitives. Two of the Berserkers noticed, and they looked surprised. It didn’t slow them down any, though, and that’s what counted.
Cyrus adjusted and fired again. This tim
e, the leader’s chest exploded, and the force knocked the Berserker to the ground. Without waiting, Cyrus retargeted. He caused the next native’s head to explode with gory results.
That did it. The last three skidded to a halt. Cyrus shot again, killing the third native, blowing him onto the dirt. The last two Berserkers pivoted and sprinted like mad to get away, although they held onto their weapons.
Cyrus hesitated. He knew he should kill. They would tell their clan what had happened. Later, other clan members might hunt them, using their primitively honed skills. He’d have to kill a woman in cold blood, though. The hesitation lasted long enough that the last two sprinted out of easy range. Cyrus wasn’t sure he could hit them even if he did fire, and he didn’t want to waste precious ammo.
Lowering the gun, Cyrus moved in his uneasy gait to a watching Skar. The soldier finally slid the axe into its belt holder.
“I could have defeated them,” Skar said, stonily.
“Defeat all five?” Cyrus asked.
“I am trained. They are primitives.”
“Underestimating your foe is a bad idea.”
“Given your action,” Skar said, “you should have killed the last two.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Cyrus handed the soldier the gun. He felt soiled, and he wished he hadn’t murdered them. Just gunning them down—
“We’ve got to ditch our clothes,” Cyrus said. “We’ll wear their leathers so we can blend in.”
“Neither of us have their reddish skin,” Skar said. “I am clearly a Vomag, and you look exactly like what you are, an out-system human. We will fool no one.”
“We wouldn’t fool a Vomag, perhaps,” Cyrus said. “But we might fool a Kresh.”
“That is even less likely,” Skar said.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Now let’s hurry. I want to get out of here, and I don’t want to keep looking at their corpses. I feel bad enough as it is.”
Skar gave him a blank look before heading to the corpses.
A second later, Cyrus followed. He was stuck in an alien star system. He had to do what he had to do. That didn’t mean he had to like it. No, murder was never easy. Now they had to get far away before the Kresh showed up.
6
Chengal Ras brooded as his single-ship orbited Jassac. He was having second thoughts concerning his precipitous action. Perhaps he should have taken Dez Rek into his confidence and slain her later at a more opportune moment. He could have saved Valiant and the prime cattle specimens. Now they were gone.
Yet revealing secrets to Dez Rek would have been a gamble, perhaps a bad odds hazard. He would have needed to trust her, and she had been a climber and an egotist. She might have attempted to leverage more out of him. It’s what he would have done under similar circumstances. In fact, he had done exactly that several years ago.
His screen blipped. He tapped it, and Zama Dee regarded him.
Chengal Ras knew even greater unease. He reminded himself that she was 73rd for a reason. Some might believe her more logical and more clever than he. Her rank supported such a thesis, naturally. But he rejected the hypothesis out of hand. He was Chengal Ras. He was a prodigy, one hidden from the Hundred and from the Ten. Even from this inferior position today, he would play the game with utmost skill and outmaneuver the arrogant interloper.
“I have just been informed of a tragic accident,” Zama Dee said. “Your Attack Talon unexpectedly exploded.”
He heard her gloating tone. She thought him a buffoon to have lost his vessel. Should he play that role and use that angle to trick her?
“Just before the end,” he said, “I detected sabotage.”
She stiffened. “I hope that is not an accusation directed toward me.”
“I would not be so rash as to accuse you,” he said.
“That implies you mean not to openly accuse me,” Zama Dee said. “Thus, you secretly accuse me in your heart, or at least suspect I or one of my confederates had something to do with your ship and crew’s destruction.”
“I am at your mercy, clearly. I have—”
“Chengal Ras,” she said. “We will settle this issue here and now. Do you accuse me or my confederates of sabotage?”
“I have no evidence to base such a claim,” he said.
“Am I to believe that you intuit such a thing?”
“No, of course not,” he said.
“Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?” she asked.
“Is that your price for allowing me to land?”
“Do not be absurd,” she said. “You have every legal right to land and request transfer to another locale.”
“I have already placed a summons to High Station 3. A second Attack Talon will leave the station in several hours and rendezvous with me here.”
“Do you wish—” Zama Dee glanced to her left as someone spoke in a low voice. The whitish core burn on her snout deepened in color. She regarded him again. “Survivors escaped your High Station 3 prey-craft. My observers have reason to believe your cattle have landed on the surface.”
“I find that interesting,” Chengal Ras said.
“I am sending an investigation team at once. I demand purity in my tests, and your cattle represent a possible contamination of my Jassac game preserves, infecting my primitives with new ideas. Possibly, you inserted your cattle here to warp my findings. Is that your hidden game?”
“I am not so foolish,” Chengal Ras said. He was impressed, however, with the depth of her paranoia. Yes, she had made it to 73rd for a reason. He would adjust his actions accordingly.
“It appears your cattle have landed among the primitives in the Factor Three Reserve,” she said. “Because you claim they arrived by accident, are there any unusual attributes concerning these two that I or my wardens should be aware of?”
Chengal Ras hesitated. There were several unusual attributes to those two. Of that, there was no doubt. They had escaped High Station 3 and successfully reached Jassac. At all costs, he must acquire them and extract everything each of them knew. Would Zama Dee claim the Sol native if her wardens captured him? Yes, unquestionably she would. He might possibly bring the case before the Hundred, but they usually decided legal cases in favor of one of their own. Even if he won legally, it might be months or even years before Zama Dee returned the Sol native to him.
Logically then, it would not pay to tell her the truth. What were the odds of her investigation team capturing them? The odds would be high, indeed. Yet those two were unique. Well, the one creature was different from the regular run of cattle. The other, if his facts were correct, was a Vomag.
“Your hesitation does not reflect well on you,” Zama Dee said.
“I find that an odd comment. It is, in fact, slanderous in nature.”
“You tread on dangerous ground, 109th.”
He switched tack because he realized she was right, and she had a deep pool of paranoia. He respected that. “I hesitate because I am attempting to remember their classification.”
“Your memory is legendary. Therefore, your hesitation implies duplicity.”
“I assure you it is otherwise,” he said. “The sabotage, the loss of Valiant—”
“The incident has upset your mental facilities?” Zama Dee asked. “Is that your claim?”
“I received an injury during the blast,” Chengal Ras said.
“You appear well.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“That is not—oh, never mind. Continue your explanation,” she said.
Good, good, she had returned to believing him a buffoon. His smoke screen had worked, at least to a degree. “To answer your query, one of the cattle is a soldier—”
“A Vomag?” Zama Dee asked.
“Precisely.”
“And the s
econd?”
“A high-grade pilot of human norm appearance,” he said.
“What species?”
“Ungraded, as I’ve implied,” he said.
“What made it such a good pilot?”
“That is precisely what I am endeavoring to discover.”
“Chengal Ras, I must now inform you that I perceive deception. I have taken the liberty of monitoring certain of your bodily functions. I mean your breathing rate, the twitch of your eyeballs, and the nearly imperceptible changing hue of your facial hide.”
“I protest this invasion of privacy,” he said. She had lulled him. He would remember that. Had she become his enemy? How could he destroy her?
“I note your protest, and have logged it now.” On screen, she tapped a panel before her. “However, I am the authority on Jassac. I find the sudden destruction of your Attack Talon to be highly suspicious. The bodily indicators show me you are not without—”
“Zama Dee the 73rd,” he said, formally.
Her manner changed and she stood taller, taking a more imperious stance.
Chengal Ras thought at a furious pace. He had been reckless with his statements. Now she doubted him, and she used science to pierce his lies. He would remember her reliance upon machinery. Now he must summon the power of his supreme egotism. Several years ago, he had tested a theory on his humans and had discovered a most interesting truth. The best liars believed their own lies. It gave them the semblance of telling the truth.
I believe. I have already started the paper. How dare she attempt to thwart powerful research.
“I must confess,” he said. “Before the Creator, I will acknowledge my secret treatise. The unclassified specimen has shown me something interesting.”
“I’m listening,” Zama Dee said.
“Must you strip my data from me?” he asked. “It is a codex point—”
“Listen to me well, Chengal Ras,” she said. “I have grown weary of your continued intent to sow confusion. You practice subterfuge at a dubious moment, to wit: directly after the destruction of prized property. It makes me wonder if you caused the destruction.”
“This is outrageous,” he said.
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