by Alma Boykin
He refused to run out of the transport or to lick the ground as he stepped down the ramp onto the landing pad, but he did throw a rude hindfoot sign at the transport as he stalked off. He hooked his bag’s tether to his carry harness and dragged it along, looking around until he saw a small green-and-brown-striped female holding a sign reading “TarKili Timber.” Tartai diverted over to her. “I’m Tartai of Schree’s Rest,” he informed her.
“Welcome to Poldak, sir. I’m waiting for one other arrival and we can go.” Tartai dragged his case to his other side and stood behind her. As he waited, he pulled a data link out of his carry harness and looked for messages or news. He found the weather forecast. Why me? The storms were supposed to arrive in the area on the day of his planned departure. I’m cursed. That’s all there is to it. He stowed the data box and told his guts to stop churning.
“Tartai? We’re ready, sir,” the female called. “This is Tardeet. He’ll be sharing your vehicle,” she explained. Tartai studied the medium-brown male, who seemed to be equally curious about him. “This way, please.” She led the males and their luggage around the milling pack and out a private side gate. “Here, sir,” and she triggered the door switch on a sturdy ground transport. A small tasteful sign on the door announced “TarKili Lumber: Pokara’s Finest.” The two males climbed in and stowed their gear in the racks built into the benches.
Tardeet spoke once they started moving. “Tartai. Are you by any chance related to Tartai of Mountain’s Edge on Drakon IV?”
“Yes.”
Tardeet made an odd gesture. “Ah. I thought you looked like my father. He was Lord Tarkeela’s oldest male offspring. Tarkeela paid for his raising and training, then helped him found TarKili.”
That sounds like my sire, from what mother said. Tartai nodded. “We’re cousins, then. Tarkeela was my sire.” He left it at that.
“So its true that he made all his offspring learn real trades. Good to know,” Tardeet declared.
Tartai didn’t answer, because the vehicle turned off the main road and onto a tree-lined side route. He studied the trees as they passed, cataloging the mix and sorting them into timber, furniture, and pulp piles. He recognized about two thirds of the species from the wood tests he’d had to take, but he’d never seen them live before. The unnaturally straight rows told him that they’d entered a plantation, and he wondered how much faster the crews at Schree’s Rest could work if all the trees grew in nice straight lines, sorted by type. Crew boss would still find a reason to complain, he snorted to himself.
The trees opened up, and Tartai caught a whiff of bread. Except it wasn’t bread, but burnt grass. Or was it both? He noticed Tardeet going stiff and looked out that side of the vehicle to see a swath of black where golden-brown, ripe grain should have been. I wonder how they did it.
“How they burned it?” Tartai had spoken aloud without realizing it, and Tardeet growled, “They had the Imperials spray and ignite it, I suspect, but I’m just a paranoid idiot, so what do I know?”
The driver shivered and Tartai wondered how he should respond. He settled for rumpling his tail. “Makes as much sense as some of the other stories floating around the capital. The one about it being a new species of insect didn’t make much sense, but then the rumor that spies from Mornic-loy set the fires is almost as bizarre.”
Tardeet gave him a narrow-eyed look and rumpled his tail in turn. “I’ll have to tell our etymologist about the bug rumor. That one’s new to me.”
“I thought it was rather more creative than most,” Tartai affirmed. Because you don’t need a conspiracy when you have a governor who seems to be going mad, but I’m sure as the five levels of hell not going to mention that.
The vehicle coasted to a stop just outside the gates of the research facility, or so Tartai guessed. The door opened and Tardeet sighed. “I apologize sir,” the driver offered. “We’re not allowed to go in for the time being.”
Tardeet waved his tail. “I know, I know, governor’s orders and all that. Here,” and he passed Tartai a data card. “If you want to look around, or compare family stories, cousin, contact me.”
“I might do that. Thank you.” Tartai watched the male limp up to the gates, present his ID, and then enter. A puff of dust suggested that someone was coming to meet him, and Tartai relaxed. He did not like the thought of Tardeet having to walk several kliqs.
The driver got back on her bench and they drove the rest of the way in silence. The headquarters and workers’ residences sat among a stand of specimen trees. The light afternoon breeze rustled through the wide leaves and narrow needles, and Tartai wanted to stop and look at the different varieties. Instead he stepped out of the vehicle, rescued his case, and turned around to discover a small pack of males and females waiting for him. They all bowed, and one older male straightened up. “Lord Tarkeela, welcome.”
I’m not lord Tarkeela! Tartai ground his teeth. “Thank you, but please, I don’t want to keep anyone from their work or other duties,” he hinted.
The group failed to take the hint, and Tartai spent the next hour being introduced to various administrators, clerks, and others. The people he’d rather have spoken with were all still in the field working. They came back just before dark, growling and grumbling.
“What now, Peilat?” the site manager snapped.
“I’ll tell you what now,” the tan-bellied, dark-brown supervisor snarled. “Some damned furbearer barked all the hybrid yellowwood near the border fence with the Ag Center. And I mean every single tree, mature all the way to saplings. Cut ‘em around clean as clean can be, strip about so,” and he held up his forefoot, talons spread.
The site manager looked as if he was going to faint. Tartai rubbed under his muzzle. “Any sign of who?”
Peilat turned to him. “Nope. Got away clean and cost us at least ten thousand, plus eight years of work. Who’re you?”
“Tartai of Mountain’s Edge, worked timber at Schree’s Rest for a couple years, got sent to look at wood for furniture and fine products. How clean are the cuts?”
“Look for yourself,” and Peilat pulled a data pad out of his carry harness and called up a picture. “That’s not just some idiot with a grudge.”
No, it wasn’t, not unless the idiot had access to a military-grade vibro-cutter and a few other goodies. Tartai grunted, “Thanks. Can you salvage the grown timber?”
“Nope. Wrong season. The sap’s up and pollen’s out, so the wood’s too wet. It’ll bog our cutters now and shatter as it dries.”
“Fewmets,” Tartai swore. “I want to look at the stand, tomorrow, in the daylight,” he told the site manager. And I think I need to talk to my cousin about their little problem, if he can get away.
Meanwhile, Dak-lee wondered if it was too late to change his career and become a sergeant with the Imperials instead of crown prince. Put in twenty or thirty years service, then he could retire to a little village, find a mate, raise some fat juniors, and in between not have to worry about anything worse than drunk troopers and dumb junior officers. My sire’s sire’s ghost would not give me a moment’s peace—and that’s only after my sire finished killing me, Dak-lee moaned in the privacy of his head. Which happened to be pounding, in part from repressed anger and in part from what should have been mind-numbing personnel reports. Dak-lee ran the back of his talons under his muzzle as he considered what he’d found.
He wasn’t the smartest of the Imperial offspring, but he had a knack for finding patterns. The pattern he’d fallen into in the files suggested that his uncle had been manipulating the promotions and retention of the Imperials stationed on Pokara for at least the past year-turn, and possibly longer. Aggressive, creative officers and NCOs who proposed changes and improvements, or even just new uses for older materials, slid to the bottom of the list. Not for anything specific, but when Dak-lee began comparing the names of soldiers who’d been turned down for promotion with those mentioned on the proposal lists, well . . . . And almost every reptile who’d served
in the unit assigned to the region that included the Ag Research Station had been denied promotion or disciplined. The few exceptions stood out, including Zee-Shu, the sergeant who’d organized the search, rescue, and evacuation after the accident at the exhibition hall.
And yet Kalaki blamed Zee-shu for not stopping the sabotage on the Ag Station. If I were suspicious, I’d wonder if Kalaki used that unit as a dumping ground. And promised a reward and possibly promotion to those who might be willing to do something off the record. Dak-lee did not want to believe it was possible, but he wasn’t a first-growth junior, either. And there was the mad streak in the Imperial lineage, which made some males see talkak in every bush and enemies behind every rock and tree. Dak-lee pinched his nostrils shut, then continued his review of the Imperials’ rosters. He’d told Breekhar that he was doing the usual review, which was true. It also served to explain to his uncle why he’d been looking at the files.
By late afternoon Dak-lee needed the release of a training bout. If one more junior officer or NCO cozened up to him, trying to be oh so helpful, hinting about promotions and other things, the dark-green reptile was going to rip the offender’s head off with talons alone. He found a wrestling dummy and attacked it, practicing grapples and rolls, tail strikes and kicks. Dak-lee allowed himself to imagine trying to fight Kalaki. He had no doubt that he’d win in a fair fight, but he recalled stories about one of Seetoh’s brothers, and how many soldiers the mad prince had taken to hell with him before Seetoh finished the job himself.
Who will the soldiers side with, if it comes to that? Dak-lee wondered, and did not like the answer he imagined that he’d get.
After a solitary supper, the prince thought about writing up his observations, until he recalled that Kalaki could read everything. That also chafed, and Dak-lee decided that if he was going to play the role of the “prince who thought with his hindbrain,” he might as well continue as he’d begun. The prospect of another evening with Shizara improved his mood significantly.
Several hours later, a relaxed but distracted Dak-lee sauntered back to the governor’s palace, sniffing the cool night air. He was so distracted that he’d gone several blocks before realizing that two males appeared to be following him. Now alert, he sped up and they accelerated. He slowed his steps and they did likewise. He stopped, peering around at the street and building markings as if checking for landmarks in the dim lights, and the pair crept closer. Are they spies or stupid? Dak-lee hoped it was the latter. He felt the sides of his muzzle tightening, revealing his fangs. Let’s see what we have to play with, shall we? He started to turn up a side street, hesitated, then continued on for another block before peering around as if lost and turning the wrong way, away from the main route and the palace.
The two males picked up the pace. He heard their steps and slowed, then whipped around to face them. “You!” One of them snarled, holding what looked like a knife or other blade. “Hand over your carry harness, now.”
His blood singing with the challenge, Dak-lee snarled with bloody glee, Oh goody! Aloud he replied, “You don’t want this.”
“Yeah, furbearer, we do. Give it to us or we’ll take it,” the second, larger male threatened.
I warned you. Dak-lee bared his fangs and attacked. He charged for the smaller male, knocking him off his feet with a shoulder to the flank and rolling him, slicing with his talons as he did. The male screamed and Dak-lee turned to the larger male. The would-be thief hesitated before throwing himself on Dak-lee. The prince took the weight and then bucked the male off against the wall of the building beside them, snarling as he felt talons cutting the top of his tail. Before his attacker could recover, Dak-lee spun, rose onto his hind legs, then crashed down, all his mass on his extended talons. The steel-reinforced digits sank into the other reptile’s flanks and gut, and Dak-lee pulled back. Another scream rewarded his efforts. He shook the offal from his talons, slit the throat of his moaning victim, and said, “You asked, I gave. Pick your targets more carefully next time.”
He stalked off and found three Pacekeepers waiting in the shadows. “Yes?” The blood rage still sang in him, and if they wanted a fight he’d happily provide.
The smallest of the trio peered around his bulk at the expiring thieves. “Did they start it, Imperial Highness?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No, Your Highness, just needed confirmation is all.”
A second Peacekeeper sidled around the prince, turned on a harness-mounted light, and made a rude noise. “That didn’t take long. This one was Light-Thumbed Brownie.”
“Fewmets!” The patrol leader swore. “You’re positive?”
“Yup. Recognize the scars and the spots on his strong-side hip. He may have broken his old record for recidivism.”
“Oh?” Dak-lee inquired. “I take it you have a professional acquaintance with the hide-nipper?”
“Yes, Your Highness. He’s a repeat offender. The justicar in this district knows him as, ‘you again.’ He’s been out of jail, what,” he turned to the third Peacekeeper. “Two days, Tray?”
“Less than that, I think. I had him going five days before he strayed off the righteous trail, damn it.” He sounded more amused than irritated.
The Peacekeeper examining the bodies snorted. “I had three days!”
That’s pretty bad, if they had a betting pool, Dak-lee growled. “Why was he out, instead of in the punishment pack?”
The two reptiles facing him both shrank back and exchanged nervous looks. Dak-lee imagined them thinking “You tell him,” “No, you tell him.”
“Ah, his excellency the royal governor Prince Kalaki issued an amnesty three sixts ago, Your Highness. I suspect Light-Thumb got loose under that, sir.”
Right, now I know Kalaki’s out of his mind. “Hmm,” Dak-lee grunted. “If you don’t need anything from me, I think I’d best get cleaned up before I terrify the night sanitation pack.”
One of the Peacekeepers played a light on his bloody talons and turned it off again. “Not to be giving advice to you, Imperial Highness, or to put words in other reptiles’ muzzles, but that would be much appreciated, I’m certain.”
They parted, and he stalked off back to the palace. He got cleaned off and slept very well.
His satisfaction turned to blazing anger the next morning when Kalaki confronted him at breakfast. “You young idiot! Do you not realize that if you were not the Prince Imperial, you’d be on trial for murder?”
Dak-lee blinked at his sire’s brother. “They attacked me. I defended myself. They died. The Peackeepers said that at least one had a long criminal history.”
“That doesn’t matter! You killed two citizens without provocation. Damn it, Dak-lee, that is inexcusable.” With Kalaki all but shoving the end of his narrow muzzle into Dak-lee’s teeth, the crown prince could smell the fish and eggs his uncle had eaten for breakfast. And something else, an acrid underscent that made the younger male’s spines twitch. “And spending time sticking your organ into a high-priced whore instead of working like your sire ordered you to! I should throw you into cells before you start a revolution, you fool.”
A haze came over Dak-lee’s vision as his anger flamed white hot. Only the lack of witnesses and the suspicion that Kalaki had a blaster hidden up the sleeve of his robe kept him from attacking his uncle outright. Don’t give him or his allies an excuse, the furious prince reminded himself. He made his tail and talons relax and counted to ten. “I believe, honored uncle, that you will be disappointed with the results of your generosity and mercy. The criminals that received your amnesty, in at least one case, failed to take advantage of the Pack’s willingness to welcome them back.”
Dak-lee picked up the cup with tea in it and sipped, forcing his uncle to move back enough to allow the movement.
“That may be so,” Kalaki growled, “but you had no cause to murder two almost-defenseless Azdhagi.” He spun and stalked out, bristling with righteous indignation.
As he stormed back
to the governor’s quarters Kalaki knew that he had to act soon. His nephew’s mad streak was worse than he’d thought. Should he tell Tahdak? No, at least, not unless he had a live, secure connection. Dak-lee had no doubt tapped into the communications system and was monitoring his transmissions to Drakon IV. His accusation about Kalaki releasing known criminals was absurd. Yes, there’d been the amnesty, but the males and females involved had all sworn to give up their bad ways and had pledged their loyalty to him, Kalaki, and to the good of the Pack. Only someone touched with paranoia and madness would think that the former criminals would fail to abide by their promises.
“. . . It sounds paranoid, I know, but,” muddy green Reik gestured to the dying trees. Peilat made a sound that might have been a rude contraction of an obscene phrase. Tartai agreed with the phrase as he considered the lost revenue and waste of excellent, rare, legal, wood. The shaggy-barked trees stood in neat rows near the border fence with the Ag Research Station. Sap oozed out of the wood below and above the fatal cuts, and Tartai sniffed the pale-yellow fluid carefully before peering at the cuts and touching the wood with his talon tip.
“No, you are right, these were cut with a military-issue vibro-cutter, the type we used in the Defenders’ militia for medical and rescue work. You can set the depth of the cut to the exact millimeter.”
Reik blinked. “Millimeter, my lord?” the manager asked.
“Talon-thickness, Reik,” Tartai clarified. “I wager the heat from the cutter sealed the cuts on these monsters,” and he patted the dying tree just above the barkless stripe. The trunk measured at least two meters around, and Tartai’s mind flinched from the thought of how many tsus worth of exotic wood TarKili had lost to the vandals.