The Sky People

by S. M. Stirling

  "Look!" the priest suddenly screeched, pointing at the screen. "It is true what the other one said! The imiAmerican steal away the image of your God!"

  "Oh, you couyon!" Marc swore, as he saw a knot gathering, jabbering and pointing at the screen. His pistol came out, and his left hand drew the bowie-style ratchet knife slung at the small of his back. "Tom, Mary, get back here now," he shouted.

  Tahyo crouched and growled between Marc's feet, his thin juvenile's mane standing up around his neck and shoulders. The two technicians looked bewildered, staring around as the crowd grew with the eerie speed of crystals in a saturated solution, and the noise turned hostile. Out of the corner of his eye Marc saw Cynthia draw her pistol and jack the slide to chamber a round, holding it down in a two-handed grip. Beyond her, a royal soldier who'd been chatting with a housewife staggered forward as someone thumped him between the shoulders… and then fell forward on his face, with a knife-hilt standing in the back of his neck and blood spilling red in the afternoon sun.

  "Tau'wan hubimi!" someone screamed. "Kill the witch-folk!"

  "Merde" Marc said comprehensively.

  Time to flip the switch to us-or-them mode, ran through him grimly. I usually like these Texians, but when it's us or them, I don't need to think very long, me.

  Then he barked: "Take my back!"

  The camera went over with a crash and tinkle and pop of components shattering under feet and sticks. The Kowalskis hadn't drawn their pistols in time, and a dozen rioters from the crowd-turned-mob were trying to drag Mary away from her husband, while as many more belabored the man with fists and sticks and feet. If it hadn't been for their assailants getting in one another's way, they'd have died before Marc and Cynthia could cover the twenty feet to them. Time separated into stuttering instants, strobing flashes that some part of his mind knew even then would come back to him later, mostly when he really didn't want them.

  Crack. Recoil slammed the 10-mm pistol back in his hand. A round blue hole appeared in the back of a head, and blood and bones shot out through a fist-sized gap between the man's eyes. Crack, and Marc fired with the muzzle inches from a man's ear.

  A curved bronze knife slashed at him. He caught it on his own blade; an instant later the man folded over with an oooff and fell, a patch of his tunic on fire from the muzzle-blast of Cynthia's pistol. Marc ignored that direction as a ripple of crack-crack-crack sounded and then a second's pause as she ejected a magazine, slapped in another, and let the slide run forward to chamber a fresh round. Evidently she hadn't wasted her time in the self-defense course.

  Marc kicked, a short snap that hammered the toe of his boot into the side of a man's knee. It broke with a wet, crackling snap like green shamboo, an ugly sensation that shivered up Marc's foot.

  The man let go of Mary Kowalski and dropped to the ground, shrieking, the insect-thin sound lost in the white noise roar that echoed from the high, hard walls all around them. The Cajun thrust with the knife and jammed it up under the short ribs of another man, firing over his shoulder at one who was about to brain Tom with a knobby oak bludgeon set with sharp obsidian flakes. Tahyo's fangs clamped on the face of another who'd come crawling with a knife clenched between his teeth; he dropped that, flailing at the young greatwolf with hands that rapidly weakened.

  The pistol clicked empty; Marc dropped it, pulled out the one Mary hadn't used, and wheeled.

  Suddenly they were in the middle of a bubble of empty space. Tom Kowalski reeled backward and sat down, hands to his bloodied face. Mary wasted an instant crossing her arms over her bare scratched breasts, then picked up the oak club and held it like a baseball bat, glaring. Cynthia snapped a fresh magazine into her pistol, standing beside him with the weapon in the precise range grip, raised to eye level, left hand supporting right. Dead men lay sprawled with the wide-eyed look of surprise they always had, and wounded ones twitched or whimpered for their mothers or tried to crawl away like broken-backed snakes. Tahyo growled and bristled and licked the blood off his chops at Marc's feet, making little two-step rushes whenever he saw movement. The crowd filled the exit from the U of the shrine, glaring back; there was a heaving stir and a couple of the royal soldiers rammed their way through to join the Terrans.

  The soldiers looked bloodied and battered, too, but their tough 'saur-hide armor had protected them, and from the look of their spear points and swords they'd quickly switched from crowd-control bashing with the flat and the butt to nice, deep, soul-satisfying thrusts and jabs.

  "Kill them all, these alley scum, lord!" the senior survivor snarled to Marc, sounding quite like the greatwolf for a moment. "Smite them with your wizardry!"

  "Don't get in front of us or it'll smite you!" he snapped to them. To Mary: "Drop the club and get my pistol there, and Tom's ammo." And at last to Cynthia: "You all right?"

  "Apart from being about to die at the hands of a mob of screaming savages?" she said. "Yeah, doin' just fine, bro."

  Her eyes went up to the flat roofs around them. He glanced that way himself without moving his head: flickers of robed figures ducking behind the parapets. Pretty soon they'd start throwing things, or the mob would realize that there were a lot more of them than the Terrans could shoot before they were overrun; already there was a ripple along the front as those safely behind pushed those in front. That was the problem with superstitious awe about firearms. It wore off too quickly.

  Then a trumpet blared. Marc let out a long whoosh of relief at the sound of stout staffs thwacking on heads and shoulders from farther down the street, to the accompaniment of deep uniform shouts. The mob wavered and then began to run, flowing out of the narrow entrance to the shrine like a film of water running downhill, only played backward. The heads bobbing about half-seen on the rooftops around them vanished, and windows were shuttered with quick, decisive slamming sounds.

  For a moment Marc's stomach twisted as he became aware of how close death had come, and a sheen of cold sweat broke out over his skin. He took another deep breath, mostly through his mouth to ignore the fresh smells of death, and holstered his pistol—without, he noted with a slight flush of pride, letting his hands shake. A squad of burly Sun Temple guardsmen trotted up to the entrance to the shrine; they were armored much like soldiers, but bore quarterstaffs rather than spears and shields. The bronze-capped ends of the six-foot staffs were mostly splashed red; now and then one would jab down to make sure a rioter was dead, with a nasty thock-crunch sound.

  At their head walked a tall blond man, twirling a staff in effortless figure eights with one hand, whistling, ignoring the trickle of blood from a pressure-cut on his forehead.

  "I say, you chappies look as if you could use a bit of a hand," Christopher Blair said cheerfully.

  "Merde," Marc muttered again. It's better to be rescued by him than not be rescued. I suppose.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Encyclopedia Britannica, 16th Edition University of Chicago Press, 1988

  VENUS: Biology

  After the landing of the first manned EastBloc (1981) and American (1982) expeditions to Venus, a torrent of discoveries renewed Earth's waning fascination with her sister world. The greatest single shock was the extreme similarity of Venusian life to that of Earth, not only in gross anatomy—the unmanned probes had made that obvious as early as the 1960s and 1970s—but in detail, even at the cellular and molecular levels. As was the case with Mars but to an even greater degree, the fundamental mechanisms of cell division, DNA/RNA operation, and serum immunology seemed closer to those of terrestrial life than could be accounted for by any amount of parallel evolution.

  Venusian life even proved to be edible, apart from a few poisonous species and a modest range of allergic reactions, greatly aiding the establishment of research stations. The enforced 4-year span of isolation before surface-to-orbit facilities were established at Cosmograd and Jamestown gave a welcome quarantine period; experience showed no great bacteriological or viral threats to the base personnel, and great care was taken under the UN
Extraterrestrial Protection Act of 1980 to ensure that no pathogens were transmitted by interplanetary travel…

  Venus, Gagarin Continent—Jamestown Extraterritorial Zone

  "Hey, growing fast, you," Marc said, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air and letting his greatwolf out into the front-yard run.

  Tahyo was already as high as the Earthman's waist, and the size of his blocky wedge-shaped head and enormous platter-shaped paws showed he'd be bigger yet. The body between feet and fangs was still gawky-gaunt, but it weighed more than half what the man's did. The legs were thicker relative to their length than a dog's, which was to be expected in something that would be as heavy as a small lion when full-grown, but otherwise Tahyo's layout wasn't far from the canine-wolf basic pattern. Right now the whole stern was wagging along with the tail, and then he stuck it in the air and bowed over his forepaws, looking up. Behind him, the sun was rising on a long Venusian day, turning the western horizon salmon pink. There was a deep hush to the air; Jamestown hadn't really quite begun its working routine yet.

  "Note for Doc Feldman: classic canine let's-play behavior," Marc said, and reached down to ruffle Tahyo's ears.

  "Classic drooling, too," he went on, as the not-really-a-dog licked enthusiastically at any part of the man he could reach.

  Marc grabbed the beast by the ruff, rolled him over, and stared straight into his eyes, making his voice deep: "Who's the boss, eh, you? Who's the boss?"

  Tahyo made a whimpering sound and tried to lick the hands that held him, then lay back in splay-legged submission, which was a good enough answer for government work. Marc stepped back and let the big animal rise; when he showed him the leash, Tahyo began to leap and wiggle in midair again.

  "Heel!" he said, and Tahyo did. "Sit! Good boy!"

  Marc tossed him a treat—the bones from a rack of tharg-ribs he'd brought home from the base mess hall yesterday. Today he'd be cooking at home, and not just for himself. The greatwolf made short work of them, crunching them with the relish of a kid with a piece of hard candy; even as a semi-pup, the strength he could bring to bear on the crushing and shearing molars at the back of his huge mouth was impressive. Marc had rigged up the front yard as Tahyo's territory; it was a half-acre, walled in adobe and, unlike the back, not planted to anything but a couple of big oak trees that had been here before the house. It was pretty bare now—it turned out greatwolves were enthusiastic diggers, but as an added bonus they were easy to housebreak and naturally buried their own wastes.

  "Stand!" Marc said as he opened the front gate, slung his rifle, and clipped the chain leash to Tahyo's collar. "Let's go!"

  Instead of the wild lunge of the first few times, the greatwolf trotted along beside Marc as he jogged, obviously wondering why he was going so slowly, and equally obviously resigned to the foibles of the boss. They passed a few pedestrians and one woman mounted on churr-back; Tahyo behaved perfectly, and Marc felt a glow of pride. The process was mutual, too. People were getting used to seeing a man running with a young greatwolf, and even the locals weren't quite as weirded out as they had been at first.

  "They wanted me to have you Iced," he told the dog as they passed the tannery, which Tahyo found fascinating. "Not going to turn you into an electronic zombie, boy. So you be good, eh? No gobbling people's cats or bebettes."

  Out past the tannery he turned south, into the pastures outside the town proper. They were still well within the boundaries the kings had granted Jamestown—which covered an area about the size of Delaware—but they weren't liable to run into anyone while Tahyo was excited.

  "Weh, neg," he said, and unclipped the leash. "Go, boy! Go!"

  Tahyo shot away across the rolling grass, green and up to his back and starred with big crimson flowers; a trail of butterflies and bugs shot into the air in his wake, and occasionally he'd leap his own length into the air with a tombstone clomp of jaws to catch one, or just for the hell of it. On all four paws he had to keep his head up to see where he was going, and sometimes he disappeared for a moment as the stems closed over his back.

  "Stop!" Marc called.

  The greatwolf did, albeit with a glance over his shoulder that said plain as words: Do I have to?

  "Sit! Lie down… up!" Marc threw a stick. "Fetch!" For an hour he worked the animal with basic commands.

  "You're smart, you," he said, when Tahyo lay panting beside him beneath an oak tree. Tahyo looked at him again and put his head in Marc's lap. "Doc says you should be a stupid one, eh, primitive form of mammal… but wherever your pawpaws came from, your family's been here a long time, eh? Dodging the 'saurs and catching dinner. So you've got as much brains as any mutt I've had. Which is a good thing."

  Usually Tahyo paid close attention when Marc was talking, waiting for one of the words he understood, or just focusing on his parent/pack leader/god. Now Tahyo glanced away, the happy sagging grin on his chops disappearing as he raised his head. Then he came to his feet and turned, and suddenly his body was one quivering arrow of attention, his wet black nose wrinkling at the end of his blunt, broad muzzle.

  "Eh, you scent something, you?" Marc said, using the tu-form.

  He came up to one knee himself. The wind was from the west, as it usually was this time of year, and it rippled the grass across the broad pasture. This stretch was empty, but a hundred yards farther on was a board fence. Behind that, a herd of tharg was scattered through the grass, the small domestic variety, up to their chests in the tall herbage, since the settlement had far more grazing than it did stock to keep the growth down. A herdsman watched them, a Kudlack hireling mounted on churr-back, a javelin in his hand and several more in a hide bucket slung across his back, whistling a tune that could just be heard against the sough of wind through the vegetation.

  Marc took his rifle from where it leaned against the tree, working the bolt, then trotted towards the fence. The greatwolf followed, black fur bristling on his shoulders, fangs showing, and the beginnings of a growl rumbling in his chest.

  "What's got you upset, neg?" Marc said.

  A quick scan up showed there weren't any Quetzas or lesser predators of the air around. Nothing big showed on the ground, either…

  "Except that grass there is moving against the wind!" Marc exclaimed, and threw the heavy weapon to his shoulder, letting the crosshairs fall on the patch until he saw a flicker of movement there.

  CRACK!

  He swayed back against the recoil and worked the bolt with a quick flick of his first three fingers. A body exploded out of the patch of tall grass he'd aimed at. It was a biped, about his own size and covered in yellow-green feathers except for a crest of crimson plumes that snapped out in reflex as the lizard body writhed in death. The jump put it a good twelve feet into the air; a good deal of its length was the powerful digitigrade legs, each with a great sickle-shaped claw held up against the hock. Those flashed out in equally automatic reflex as the vicious predator struck out in one last attempt to disembowel whatever had hurt it. A steam engine hiss escaped the long-fanged mouth, scarlet-purple within, and a spray of blood came with it from the lungs shredded by the powerful expanding bullet.

  "Raptor pack!" Marc shouted to the herdsman.

  The yell—or possibly the sight of that leap into the air not twenty yards from him—brought the mounted man to full alertness. His javelin cocked back as the first of the feathered killers burst from cover and launched themselves at him with huge bounding strides; raptors were smart like parrots, and knew they'd have the run of the herd without its guardian. They'd probably associated the death of their pack-mate with the man, too. The steel head punched into the breast of one. The crosshairs of the scope brought the other vividly close, the long feathers working and their hairlike filaments fluttering with the speed of its passage. A raptor could outrun a churr; they'd been clocked at fifty miles an hour for short sprints.

  CRACK!

  The heavy, hollow-point bullet punched the predator just before it began the killing leap towards the herdsm
an. The tharg herd was reacting with bawling panic, but also by forming a circle around the calves and yearlings, tossing their long moon-shaped horns. And Tahyo…

  … gave a roar behind him.

  Marc wheeled with fear-driven speed. Another raptor had crept up through the long grass, eeling on its belly until it was within leaping distance. Tahyo's jaws were closed on its hock just above the six-inch dewclaw; the other poised to kill as the raptor screamed frustration.

  CRACK!

  A quick check showed the other half-dozen raptors heading south at full speed, leaping fences with no more effort than a man clearing a croquet hoop; they'd been out for food, not a fight, and had had enough. The herdsman waved at him.

  Tahyo lay with his jaws still locked on the dead raptor's leg; there wasn't much left of its head, after the 9-mm big-game round hit. Marc gave the hairy form of the greatwolf a quick check-over. There was no obvious damage.

  "Heel, boy! Sit!"

  Slowly, licking his chops and glancing back at the carcass, Tahyo obeyed. Marc scavenged up his spent brass and drew his knife to open the body.

  Then he stood back. "Go to it, Tahyo! You earned it."

  The run back to town took more time; the young greatwolf had eaten until his stomach bulged like a beach ball, and obviously thought it profoundly silly not to curl up near the kill and keep napping and eating until even the bones were gone. He obeyed, though, and sat politely when a slightly nervous Maria Feldman came by down the street, leading her toddler.

  "Hello, Marc. How's it going?" she said, as they cautiously introduced two-year-old to greatwolf.

  Tahyo showed intense interest; Marc could see the it's-a-puppy! reflex kick in after the initial is-this-interesting-or-edible curiosity, and the play-gesture followed. The toddler stuck a dubious hand in his mouth, and then reached out to pat the terrible head.