by David Weber
But D’Len Pah had turned up in the nick of time. He and his clan were something like a cross between Old Earth’s gypsies and professional caravaneers—semi-nomadic freight carriers who owned and managed their own string of flar-ta. Roger had been astounded when he arrived at the citadel with Julian and Portena to offer his clan’s services to the humans, since no one else in Q’Nkok had wanted to go anywhere near the lunatics who thought they could actually get through to Voitan. But D’Len Pah had gone by the Houses the Marines had taken down to make a personal examination of the wreckage, and he’d also talked to survivors who’d seen the humans’ weapons in action. Clearly, he calculated that if anyone could get through and reopen the long-closed (and highly profitable) trading routes through Voitan, Bravo Company was that anyone.
Roger had come to suspect that there were other factors at work, as well. For one thing, he was pretty certain Xiya Kan had strongly “suggested” to D’Len Pah that it would be in his best interests to make the offer. For another, the chief mahout clearly hoped to pick up some of the offworlders’ marvelous devices and knowledge for himself. And, finally, the scummy had insisted on receiving two-thirds of his payment up front, before leaving Q’Nkok . . . and extracted a promise that he would not be required to hand it back over if—or when—the humans actually encountered the Kranolta and realized they had no choice but to turn back or die.
For all that, though, D’Len Pah and his clansmen looked like tough customers in their own right. They were well armed, by Mardukan standards, and clearly accustomed to looking after themselves. No doubt they had to be, since their entire families, including women and children, traveled with them. They were likely to prove a worthwhile addition to the humans’ forces in a great many ways . . . and whatever else, they would at least keep Pahner from losing a dozen or so of his Marines finding out that driving a flar-ta was just a bit more complicated than handling an air lorry!
Roger grinned at the thought and looked around as the company made its final preparations to leave. It was early, barely past dawn, and the heat wasn’t really on the day yet. It would be soon—turning the humidity up into the customary steam bath—but for now, it seemed relatively cool.
Everyone was checking his personal gear, making sure that it was just right. A strap out of place would make for a sore day, so it made sense to check ahead of time. Weapons were being serviced, and ports sealed against the conditions. They were down another plasma rifle, and the Old Man had indicated that they might have to put them all away in sealable bags. Roger intended to have a few choice words with whoever had approved the weapons for deployment; they’d only been on the planet for a couple of weeks, and the complicated weapons were failing left and right.
He saw the captain coming up the line of pack beasts, checking the gear. Since the flar-ta were carrying so many items that were absolutely vital, not to mention valuable, the Marine officer had placed a small explosive charge on each of them . . . and demonstrated the devices to the mahouts. If one of the beasts tried, for whatever reason, to run away with the company’s gear it wasn’t going to get far.
Pahner hadn’t even bothered to mention the tracker planted on each of them.
Nor was that the only “precaution” the human castaways had taken. Somewhat against his own better judgment, Pahner had given in to O’Casey’s argument and agreed that the chief of staff could brief both Xyia Kan and D’Net Delkra on the true reason for their visit to Marduk. The captain was unhappy at the thought of telling anyone anything he didn’t have to, but he’d had to admit that O’Casey had logic on her side when she pointed out that both The People and Q’Nkok already knew they were effectively shipwrecked. Telling their leaders and rulers how and why couldn’t increase the risk that one or both of them might have designs upon them, but—like Pahner’s radio listening watch—alerting people with reason to wish them well to the fact that their trail might need covering couldn’t hurt.
“Your Highness,” the captain said as he reached the pack beast Roger was examining. He looked up at the prince’s armor, then back at the prince himself, and smiled. “Try not to get yourself killed, Your Highness.”
Roger smiled back and hefted his rifle.
“I’ll try, Captain. But it’s going to be a long march.”
“It will that, Your Highness.” Pahner fingered his breast pocket, but decided to forego a stick. “A long march.” He raised an eyebrow at the item at Roger’s feet. “That looks . . .”
“Fairly full?” Roger hefted the rucksack and swung it into place. “Well, I couldn’t let Matsugae carry it all, could I?”
“No, I suppose not,” and Pahner said, then looked up as Kosutic caught his eye and made the circular hand motion that signaled everything was in order. In the years they’d been together, he’d never had reason to doubt her, and he didn’t this time.
“Well, Your Highness, it looks like it’s time,” he said, looking up and down the line of pack beasts and the last-minute goings-on. O’Casey, still spouting Machiavellianisms from the top of her pack beast as the king said goodbye. Cord, having a last word with the delegation from The People which had arrived to negotiate the mining arrangements. Julian, making motions of kicking down doors to one of the female privates in First Platoon. Poertena, bickering with one last merchant. But, really, they were ready to go.
“Agreed, Captain,” the prince said, looking at the hills across the river and shifting a strap of his bulging pack. The bridge had been lowered to let their caravan cross, now all they had to do was find a way through trackless jungles filled with vicious enemies to a fabled lost city. And from there, on into the true unknown. He looked to the northwest and tied the braid dangling from under his helmet into a knot.
“Time to head upcountry,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Roger leaned over the big kettle and sniffed.
“Is that what I think it is?”
The company had waged an exhausting battle against nature across the brutal hills. Whatever paths had once existed had been erased over the years, and they were forced to create new ones. Driving a way through the choking undergrowth for the big pack beasts would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but the hills’ vicious carnivores had made it nightmarish.
They had lost Sergeant Koberda to the carnivore Cord called an atul and the company just called a damnbeast. It was low, fast, and hungry. About two hundred kilos, it had a triangular head filled with sharklike teeth, and a rubbery, mucus-covered skin similar to that of the Mardukans.
A burst of bead fire had torn the beast apart, but not before it had savaged the sergeant. The tough old NCO had held on for a day, riding on one of the flar-ta, but he’d finally succumbed. Even the nanites and Doc Dobrescu’s Magic Black Bag hadn’t been able to heal all the damage, so they’d bagged the popular squad leader and fired him up. Captain Pahner had said a few words, and they’d moved on. Marching upcountry.
Along the way, they’d become accustomed to the constant danger. Roger saw it all around him, and even in himself. Everyone was getting better at reading the jungle, at anticipating the dangers. The Marines on the perimeter now made a game of spotting the killerpillars in the trees, and the ones that were on the path were harvested. The fangs of the horrible worms contained two poisons, both of which were considered valuable by the Mardukans.
The whole company was changing, getting a little wilder, a little wilier. They were learning about “waste not, want not,” and that if something is attacking you, it’s probably edible itself. Which brought Roger back to the stewpot.
Matsugae smiled, stirred, and shrugged.
“Damnbeast, Your Highness. The one you killed. Clean shot as well, which I appreciated. Not too torn up but well bled by the time I got it.”
“I can’t believe we’re having damnbeast for supper,” Roger said, and brushed a recalcitrant strand of hair out of his eyes.
“Well, the troops are having damnbeast stew,” Matsugae said with another g
rin. “Just wait until you see what the officers are having.”
“I still can’t believe that was damnbeast,” Roger said, leaning back and setting down his fork.
Matsugae had somehow secured not only a large quantity of a really good wine, but a variety of local spices. The troops had seen him at various times throughout Q’Nkok, talking to restaurant and tavern owners, and when the company started out on its journey, he had immediately established himself as a cross between chief cook and caravan-master.
The result was a smoothly functioning caravan. D’Len Pah’s mahouts had experience of this sort of thing, and Matsugae hadn’t hesitated to pick their brains. It was the mahouts who’d suggested unloading one beast and letting it break trail, for instance, thus lightening the load on the Marines. It was also the mahouts who’d pointed out that it was silly to waste good protein just because it was trying to eat you. And that there was nothing wrong with shooting for the pot.
That last point had nearly caused Pahner to go ballistic. Hunting on the move went against every bit of his training. Modern ground warfare required that troops move through the woods as if they weren’t even there, since anything that could be seen could be killed. That a unit was “made out of mist” was a high compliment, and shooting at everything that moved and looked vaguely edible was noisy anathema to his dearest principles.
But in the end he’d been forced to concede that their situation was . . . unusual. After looking at their consumption rates and how far they’d traveled, he’d agreed—not without one last, severe tussle with his military professionalism—that they needed the supplement. Once he’d conceded the point, however, he’d implemented it with his customary thoroughness, and thereafter a member of the company who was a superior marksman was routinely put up front with the point specifically to look for game.
More often than not, and over Pahner’s fuming protests, Roger could be found in the same area for the same reason. He usually rode the unencumbered flar-ta, like some latter-day raja on an extraterrestrial elephant. It should have been faintly ludicrous, but the elevation and the fact that the pack beast wasn’t recognized as a threat by the local wildlife often gave him shots well before the “official” company hunter. And he rarely missed.
This day, the only thing he’d seen on the route hadn’t been, to him, food game. The crouching damnbeast would have been invisible to the point until she reached attack distance. Given their increased awareness, and the guns pushed to the front of the formation, the point might have survived the encounter. And, then again, maybe not. The question was moot, however, for Roger had shot the beast while the lance corporal was still seventy meters distant.
Now he picked at a bit of the lightly spiced meat and shook his head.
“This was good! The last time you tried it, it was . . . well . . .”
“Rubbery,” Matsugae said with a laugh. “Right?”
“Yes,” O’Casey said. The academic was coming to her own terms with this world. She still resented the heat, the humidity, and the bugs, but they all did that, and at least she no longer had to slip and slide in the mud. Instead, she got to ride on one of the great pack beasts, and she thought she might live, after all. She’d felt bad about being “pampered” for a while, but one of the Marines had finally remarked that O’Casey had never volunteered for this, and she’d decided not to worry about it.
She wiped at her brow and drew a breath. The tent was hot and close, but it kept out the bugs and theyaden. The latter never seemed to attack when people were up and about, but better safe than sorry. And since the troops had taken to zipping their one-man tents closed at night, they hadn’t lost anyone else, even if it did make for hot, fetid sleeping environments.
“But this is actually quite nice,” she continued, taking another bite. “It reminds me of a light-tasting beef.” Fortunately, it was also leaner than beef. A heavy meal in this climate would be devastating.
“Emu,” Lieutenant Jasco said, taking another helping of barleyrice and meat. “It tastes a lot like emu.”
“Emu?” Cord repeated. “I don’t know what that is.” The shaman rolled a ball of barleyrice and popped it into his mouth. He had pulled it from the communal bowl, as was his people’s custom. Not for him these bizarre human notions of forks and such!
“Flightless bird,” Roger said offhandedly. He pulled a bit of his portion of damnbeast off his plate and fed it to Dogzard, who’d been patiently waiting by his chair. “Originally from the South American pampas. It’s distributed all over now. Fairly easy to raise.”
“We raised ’em on Larsen,” Jasco said nostalgically. “Almost tastes like home. Now, if you’d just chop up the leftovers and put them in a hotdish, I’d have to marry you,” he told the valet with a grin, and Matsugae laughed with the others as he poured Roger another glass of wine.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. I already had one spouse. Once was enough.”
“How’d you get it so tender?” Kosutic asked. She took a sip of wine and picked up one of the barbecued vegetables. The squashlike plant had been christened yuckini because, unlike zucchini, it had a bitter taste in its uncooked state. However, a combination of one of Matsugae’s marinades and cooking over a slow fire resulted in a surprisingly delectable vegetable course. The cooking, or perhaps the marinade, left the slices with a sugary coating somewhat like a honey glaze.
“Ah,” Matsugae said with another smile. “That’s a chef’s secret.” He put his finger against his nose and smiled again, then, with a slight bow and a spatter of applause, he let himself out of the tent.
“All right,” Pahner said. “I want to make sure everyone is clear on tomorrow’s march. Gulyas wants to have a word.”
“I’ve been talking with Cord and his nephews,” the lieutenant said, swallowing a bite of barleyrice and clearing his throat with a sip of wine. The vintage was fairly heavy for the conditions, almost like a sherry. But wine was wine. “As everyone knows,” he went on, “we’re in Kranolta territory. So why haven’t we been hit?”
“Yeah.” Jasco nodded. “We must have passed right by that group that was waiting to attack Q’Nkok.”
“They couldn’t have stayed in one place for too long,” Cord said. “The strip of flatland along the river is too narrow for good hunting. That’s why The People have never taken it for their own.”
“Apparently,” Gulyas nodded at the shaman, “hunting parties go over there when game is sparse on their side of the river. The Kranolta hunt there also, but only occasionally. For the raiding party to stay there, they had to be broken up.”
“Foraging.” Kosutic nodded tugging at an earlobe. “Of course.”
“So we might have brushed some of them,” Gulyas said. “And, conceivably, they could be on our back trail, catching up fast.”
“Do you rate that as likely?” Pahner asked. He and Gulyas had already discussed this, but he wanted the entire group to hear the whole story.
“No, Sir,” the lieutenant answered. “At least, not quickly. They’d still be waiting for word from the conspirators in the city. Even if a messenger preceded us, they’d have to assemble before taking us on. Even the Kranolta are going to recognize that we’re a serious military threat.”
“However,” Cord said, scratching at the tent floor with his knife, “that was a raiding party outside its traditional territory. They wouldn’t attack unless they had all the warriors necessary to destroy us. Once we enter the home territory of the tribes, they’ll attack at every turn. The deeper we enter, the bolder they will become, and the more they will attack.”
“So,” Pahner said, “we need to begin being extra alert. The tribes don’t hunt the hills we just passed through, but they do hunt the lowlands. Whether there’s a big force on our back trail or not, we now face the probability of regular attacks. And we haven’t the time to teach them the price of an Earthman slain.”
“The troops are going to have a problem with that,” Kosutic admitted. “I’m worried that they’re getting slo
ppy. We told them to expect regular attacks through the last two weeks in the hills, and no Kranolta materialized: just big nasties. We’ll need more than the Lieutenant’s read on it for them to take it seriously.”
Pahner nodded.
“Get with the chain of command,” he told the lieutenants. “Make sure that they, at least, are aware of the likelihood. We need to make sure the troops are as alert as possible. These aren’t half made recruits. Remind them of that.”
Julian leaned on his rucksack and listened to the quiet of the sleeping camp. The clouds often seemed to break for just a bit after sunset, and tonight was no exception. The smaller moon, Sharma, cast a faint, ruddy light over the scene. Dim as it was, it would have been more than sufficient for his light enhancers, but he’d switched them off. The jungle seemed placid tonight, with hardly any animals stirring. Even the roars and gurgles of the normal night were muted.
That was just as well. He had two more hours as sergeant of the guard, and then he could get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long march through the jungle, and being stuck as sergeant of the guard meant damned little rest, but for the time being, he could chill out. All the posts were placed, and he’d done a walk-around a half hour ago. Everybody was staying awake and alert, per normal.
He leaned on the rucksack a little harder and sniffed. You could still smell the stew Kostas had cooked up, and Julian shook his head. Who would have thought that the fussy little valet could have become such a tower of strength? Or turn out to be such a good cook? The actual work was done by a couple of the scummy beast drivers, but Matsugae made sure it was done right and no one was about to complain about the result. The company definitely wasn’t starving, although what might happen when they ran out of barleyrice and dried fruits and vegetables was another story. Hopefully, their supply would hold out to the next city-state–