The hovercraft made next to no sound as they darted toward the party. Their riders gave the Englishmen the uneasy sense that they were defying the laws of science—a feeling that Finnbogg shared. The cyborg appeared unaffected by their fears.
Happily content to take advantage of another "observational opportunity," Clive thought with some bitterness, with no consideration of the possible danger it presented to them. The cyborg's next comments served only to confirm Clive's feelings.
"Fascinating," Guafe remarked, almost to himself. "The craft appear to be a form of scooter, utilizing an air cushion to keep them aloft, but still capable of great speed. I wonder what their method of propulsion would be"
The machines settled slowly to the ground in a half-circle facing the party, the low hum of their engines dying as their silver-suited riders switched off the ignitions and stepped down from the machines. Settled upon the ground, the flyers no longer appeared quite so marvelous. They were merely machines now—gleaming steel, and far beyond the technological capabilities of Clive's own England—but still machines.
It seemed, he realized at the present turn of his thoughts, that their continued tenure in this odd land was leaving him somewhat inured to its wonders.
He studied the approaching riders. At least they were humanoid—very much like Europeans, really—though it was hard to make much of their features behind the goggles and helmets they wore. The shimmery material of their suits clung to their bodies like a second skin, acquiring particularly intriguing shapes on the two women in the group.
One of the women was obviously the leader.
She took a few steps ahead of the others and removed her helmet and goggles. Her hair was blonde, and cropped to within a half-inch of her skull. Her eyes were the green-blue of the sky, her features not quite classically beautiful—due as much to her lack of hair to frame them, Clive thought, as to their actual proportions—but handsome all the same. Clipped to her belt was a holster that obviously held a firearm, though of what sort neither Clive nor Smythe could even make a guess.
A casual glance at the others of her party revealed that they all bore similar weapons. The woman regarded them each for a moment, then returned her attention to Clive. A friendly smile touched her lips.
"You will be Major Clive Folliot?" she asked.
Clive blinked with surprise. "How do you know my name?"
She gave a casual shrug of her shoulders, which gave her breasts an enticing bounce. Clive forced his gaze to remain on her face.
"We have been keeping a watch out for your party." she said. "You have been expected. We thought to find you sooner, but when we spied the porten herd, we delayed long enough to bring one down." She nodded over her shoulder. "Others of my company are butchering it as we speak. There is enough sustenance there to feed the city for a month. A worthy delay, don't you think?"
Confusion still reigned in Clive's mind, but he managed to school his features to give none of it away. "Certainly," he said. "But tell me, how did you know we were here?"
"Your brother, the priest, asked us to look for you—Father Neville."
The priest? Clive thought. Was Neville coming down in the world? The last they'd heard of his religious inclinations, he'd called himself a bishop.
"I see." he said. "And where is Father Neville? Can you take us to him?"
"Of course. That is the reason we have been looking for you."
"Who are you?"
The woman smiled again. "So many questions. Father Neville told us you would be full of them. I am Keoti Vichlo, First Scout of the Dramaran Dynasty."
"Dramaran—that is the ruined city a few days' journey to the east?"
Keoti frowned slightly. "Ruined, yes—but not for long. Now that your brother has raised us from the Long Sleep, we have begun to restore it to its former glory. Still, you must not worry that all is hardship in Dramaran at the moment. We have pleasant lodgings that are still intact, under the city."
"Long Sleep?" Clive couldn't help but ask. for all that he didn't wish the newcomers to realize just how ignorant of advanced technologies and this world his party was.
But Guafe understood immediately. "That would be a form of suspended animation. I presume," he said. "Can I assume that there was some form of malfunction with your equipment, effectively trapping you in that state until the fortunate arrival of... ah... Father Neville?"
Clive and Smythe shot the cyborg a curious look. Neither had ever heard Guafe hesitate in speech before and it jolted them. Keoti gave the cyborg a considering look as well. She seemed about to speak, but Clive was quicker.
"How do you come to speak English so well?" he asked.
"Father Neville taught us," she replied with a shrug. "We fed his language into our computers through a bio-feed link and received the data in a similar fashion. Is this not the way with your own people?"
Clive had only the vaguest notion as to what she was referring to. but he nodded. "Of course," he said.
Keoti turned her attention back to Chang Guafe. "What a superior piece of workmanship," she said. "Your humanotron appears so lifelike. One would almost believe that it was truly alive, rather than a construct."
"I am a self-aware cyborg," Guafe told her coldly. "Not a construct."
"Pardon me," she said. "I meant no offense."
"None taken." the cyborg replied, though it was obvious to all that exactly the opposite was the ease.
Don't start now, Clive thought. The Dramaranians appeared to be quite friendly, and he preferred to leave things that way—not insult or anger them, as Guafe was apt to do if he began to argue.
"Yes, well," Clive said briskly. "It will be wonderful to see my good brother again. Let me introduce you to the rest of my companions. Chang Guafe you have just met. This gentleman on my right is my good companion Quartermaster Sergeant Horace Smythe."
"Yes," Keoti said. "Father Neville has spoken of you, Horace Smythe. You have some gift with... theatrics, I believe."
"I'm not sure what you mean, madam," Smythe said.
She smiled. "A talent that allows you to appear to be something other than you are."
"And this is our friend Finnbogg," Clive said.
Keoti gave the dwarf a polite smile, but introduced none of her own companions. "We can take one passenger per flyer," she said. "If you are willing, we can begin the return flight to Dramaran as soon as I give my second-in-command—" she glanced back to where the greater number of Dramaranians were still at work on the porten's carcass "—his orders."
Clive glanced at Smythe and knew by the expression on his former batman's features that the same worries were troubling him. This Keoti woman was extremely friendly and forthcoming, but with Neville involved— and who knew what mischief he was up to—they might well be walking into yet another trap. Still, what choice did they have? When Smythe gave a brief shrug, Clive turned back to the woman.
"We'd be delighted to partake of your hospitality," he said.
Keoti smiled. "Will you ride with me?"
"I think we'd prefer to walk," Clive said. "At least as far as that... porten carcass your company is butchering. We'll join you there."
"As you wish."
She gave Clive a warm smile. Replacing her helmet and goggles, she returned to her flyer. Within moments the hovercraft were airborne once more, and speeding back to rejoin their companions.
"Well." Clive said, once they were gone. "They seem pleasant enough."
Smythe nodded. "Too pleasant. I'm thinking, sah. I don't like this—not with Sir Neville's hand in it, stirring the pot."
"At least they have some technology worth studying," Guafe offered, "even if their observational powers are somewhat limited."
They began to walk toward the dead behemoth, where the Dramaranians continued their harvesting work, busily surrounding the slain monster like a flock of flies.
"Did you know of any of this?" Clive asked Finnbogg. "Of this Lone Sleep, or this second city, buried under the ruins of t
he First?"
"Not a whisper," the dwarf replied.
"What's Sir Neville up to?" Smythe wondered aloud.
"'Father Neville,' indeed. The man's about as holy as a fat, pursy gunner, living high on the hog of his spoils."
"At least he's waiting for us." Clive said.
Smythe nodded. "As he's waited for us before. The thought doesn't give me much comfort, sah. I'd sooner just give him a few stout blows in the head than take the chance of falling victim to another of his jigamarees."
"I doubt our present hosts would allow that," Guafe said.
The carcass was looming closer—truly, if not a mountain, then a large hill of flesh, rising up from the Hat surface of the veldt. The Dramaranians were cutting the huge slabs of meat from the monster's haunches with some form of saw that appeared to be composed of a tightly focused band of light.
"Lasers," Guafe said.
None of his companions bothered to ask him to explain. It was all simply too far out of their depth.
"Well, I, for one, will be very interested in hearing what Neville has to say for himself," Clive said. There was a hard look in his eyes as he spoke. "He has a great deal of explaining to do."
Smythe nodded. "Very interested," he agreed. "Just don't blink in his presence, or we might find ourselves whisked away to Lord knows where."
Keoti walked out to join them as they finally approached. They had to crane their necks to look at the top part of the porten's carcass.
"I am finished here." she said. "If you are ready to go now...?"
She led the way back to her hovercraft without waiting for Clive's reply.
"Careful now." Smythe whispered quickly to Clive as another of the Dramaranians motioned to him.
"And you," Clive replied.
Finnbogg, however, wouldn't go with the Dramaranian who would be ferrying him to the ruined city.
"Finnbogg weren't meant to go floating in the air." he said. "It's not right."
"We won't be going very high," the Dramaranian coaxed him. "No more than a few feet above the ground."
"A few feet more than Finnbogg wants to be." the dwarf said. He stamped a foot against the ground. "Here's where Finnbogg is meant to be. With dirt in toes. Not playing bird."
Clive quickly interceded before Finnbogg shifted into one of his more belligerent moods. He put an arm around the dwarf's shoulder.
"It will be fine," he said. "We're all riding with them, Finn."
"It's not right." the dwarf repeated, though not so forcefully this time.
"Think of it as an adventure." Smythe said to him. "What a tale you'll have to tell—skimming for leagues over the veldt to a ruined city that's being rebuilt by its inhabitants." He rubbed the palms of his hands together. "Doesn't just the thought of it make you itch to get there the sooner?"
"We don't want to leave you behind," Clive added.
"Hrumph," Finnbogg said.
But though he walked stiffly, and frowned with every step, he let himself be led to the flyer. He mounted it gingerly, as though the machine would bite. Once he was seated, the others went to the flyers they would be riding.
It fell decidedly awkward, Clive thought as he sat behind Keoti, the machine straddled between his legs. It was like mounting a legless horse—and with nothing to hold on to, to keep from falling off. Keoti showed him where to put his feet—they went on small pegs, set into the side of the machine, that lifted his knees level with his buttocks—then placed his hands around her waist.
"Hold on," she said.
The material of her bodysuit had a metallic texture, but it was so supple that Clive could feel the bottom of her rib cage and the soft flesh of her waist, as though there was nothing between his hands and her skin. She looked over her shoulder at him, head like a bug with its helmet and goggles, but her lips were a woman's, and they smiled cheerfully at him.
The machine's engine set up a vibration against Clive's legs when it was turned on, then suddenly they were up in the air, hovering some three feet above the ground. He felt giddy at the sudden movement and clutched Keoti very lightly. Realizing what he was doing, he eased his grip. He looked around to see how his companions were doing. Finnbogg's face was blanched. Smythe's and Guafe's features were impassive.
Then the flyers shot off, and they were skimming across the veldt. They circled once around the brontosaur carcass, where the remainder of the Dramaranians continued their butchering work. The workers lifted bloody hands in greeting, and then the open plains were in front of Clive's party, and they settled down for the long trip to the ruined city, where Neville was waiting for them.
Twelve
Time took on a slow-motion quality for Annabelle. She and the shark man stared at each other as though they had just spotted each other's face in a crowd and were trying to place the half-familiar features. Annabelle knew she should be doing something—striking out at him, taking him down—but her limbs felt weighed down, heavy and dull.
She saw the shark man's mouth open wider. The first chica-chic of his approach had been a sound of surprise. Now he was going to call out a warning to the other villagers. She didn't feel she could do anything to stop him, but started to rise all the same, lead-heavy arms reaching toward him.
Then, one of Shriek's hair thorns sprouted suddenly from his throat. His eyes widened and his stillborn cry became a death gurgle. He toppled toward her.
Annabelle continued to reach for him, bracing herself to catch his weight as it fell. Before he landed. Sidi was there at her side, helping her. Together they lowered the dead shark man to the ground. Annabelle turned slowly to see Shriek half sitting up, her weight supported on three of her arms, the fourth just lowering from its upflung position. There was a dullness in most of her eyes, but one was already clear, the others clearing.
Whatever chemical she'd infused that particular spike with, it had done the job efficiently, and fast—very fast.
Is it dead? Shriek asked. Her voice echoed weakly in Annabelle's mind.
Annabelle nodded. "Thanks."
Shriek merely spat in the direction of the shark man's corpse. Sidi touched Annabelle's shoulder.
"We can't delay," he said.
Annabelle glanced down at the corpse, then gave a quick nod of agreement. While Sidi and Tomàs went on ahead to the river, she got her shoulder under one of Shriek's left arms and helped the alien to her feel. Together they hurried to join the others.
Just beyond the shielding wall of huts, they could hear the sound of the villagers—snatches of conversation in a language none of them could understand, the occasional, high-pitched bark of possum dogs, the nerve-grating sound of their uvulas, the hollowed ends rattling, the shaking sound magnified by their mouth cavities.
Chica-chica-chica....
Without bothering to strip off his clothes, Sidi lowered himself into the water. Annabelle and Shriek quickly followed suit, leaving Tomàs hesitating on the river bank.
"Come on," Annabelle whispered sharply.
Plainly unhappy, the Portuguese slipped into the water with them. Sidi took the lead, walking them out at a right angle away from the village until the water was level with his neck. Then he kicked his feet free of the river bottom and began to swim, careful not to break the water with a splash that would alert their captors.
Annabelle and Shriek moved through the water closer to the river bank, as Shriek couldn't swim. Instead, with Annabelle there to help support her weight in the water, she half walked, half kicked herself along, using the river bottom as a springboard. Tomàs took up the rear.
Soon the village was out of view, and then even its sounds faded. The bugs were worse than ever this close to the river, and time and again they had to dunk their heads to get rid of the clouds of mosquitoes that were settling on their faces and neck, even in their hair.
"The sooner we get to that gate and outta this jungle," Annabelle muttered, "the happier I'm gonna be. I don't care where it takes us."
"At least we're free of
our captors," Sidi remarked.
But he spoke too soon. Even with the distance that they'd put between them and the village, the sudden cries of outraged anger carried clearly toward them.
"Shit."
Sidi glanced at Annabelle and nodded. "We'd best get out of the river," he said. "Considering what they are. I don't doubt that they'll be able to track us through the water—just like the sharks of our own world."
"You're kidding. I thought water was supposed to throw off your scent."
Sidi nodded, then lifted his arm to show the tiny cuts and bruises there, like those they all had. "But a shark can track blood for miles."
They made their way to the shore, clambering up among the thick vines and vegetation. Low-hanging boughs hid them from view, but their trail led directly to where they stood.
Look, Shriek said.
She pointed with one arm to where the first of the shark people had come into view. He swam with an undulating motion of his body, arms kept close to his side, dorsal fin breaking the water, head bobbing up and down with the movement. In moments there were three more, close behind, then another pair.
Shriek plucked a hair spike from her thigh and. holding back a bough to give herself room, threw it at the foremost of their pursuers with a sharp snapping movement of her arm. The spike struck true. The creature began to thrash in the water, limbs convulsing, blood coughing up from his lungs. The others immediately attacked him, tearing at his thrashing limbs with their powerful jaws.
Annabelle turned away, a sick taste coming up her throat.
Shriek flung a second spike, and then the creatures were tearing at that victim as well, fighting among themselves in a feeding frenzy.
That should keep them, Shriek said.
"More will be coming by land." Sidi warned.
Nodding in dull agreement, Annabelle let the Indian lead them deeper into the jungle, away from the river. Some twenty paces in. they stumbled over the game trail, which appeared to have entered the village and then continued on to meet them here. With its more solid fooling, and its overhang relatively clear compared to the surrounding forest, they set off at a mile-eating gait, trying to put as much distance between themselves and their pursuit as they could.
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