The Ramal Extraction

by Steve Perry

  “Okay, this building is owned by something called the Hari Corporation. Hold on a second ...”

  Jo waggled her fingers at the sight-reader. More intel appeared.

  “Looks like a shell. Officers listed are Krishna, Vishnu, and Durga. Might take a while to backwalk it.”

  “We can get that later,” Cutter said. “Take us in closer.”

  Gramps waved his hand. The camera’s VP did a slow zoom, so the one building filled the holograph. At ground level, the VP circled the structure, showing the windows and doors.

  “All right, let’s get the materials specs and start the tacticals,” Cutter said.

  ~ * ~

  The door to the van’s cargo compartment rolled up, and Kay caught the odors of three humans—one who had recently eaten meat, one who needed a bath, and one who stank of fear. She inhaled a bit deeper and caught the scent of a fourth, ten meters away. One or all of them could be armed, but surely the farthest one would be.

  Only four—five, counting the one she had killed. She was insulted.

  Of course, she was also captured, so the insult was overridden by shame.

  How had she allowed it to happen? It was pathetic.

  Best she prepare for what was coming.

  Vastalimi learned as cubs how to enter an auto-trance state called spokoj, similar to hypnosis. This was usually done to enhance focus for detail work, or for rote memorization of a lot of data, but it could also alleviate pain. It wasn’t enough to calm a serious physioemotional state, something like a zrelost seizure, but it was useful.

  She whispered the trigger phrase under her breath and tripped into spokoj.

  Good thing, too. Almost immediately, she heard:

  “Is it still asleep?” one of the men said.

  “Of course. The dart carried enough tranquilizer to put a giant out. It will be unconscious for another two hours, minimum,” said a second man.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Watch.”

  She held her breath, sank deeper into spokoj, waiting ...

  There it came. A jab, into her side with something sharp. It broke the skin, but was stopped by the rib. A short knife, probably. No real damage.

  “You see? If it was awake, it would have jumped when I pricked it. Let’s get it out and into the cage.”

  Four hands grabbed her, shoulders and behind the knees. A fifth hand reached between her legs to cup her ruta under her fur.

  Ah. She might be a thing to them, but one of them was curious about her sexual organs. On this world, that would make him a deviant, but it was not a surprise.

  Human males would mate with anything possible.

  They lifted her.

  “It is heavier than I expected,” one of them said.

  As calm as she was, Kay allowed her smile to play. They wouldn’t know the expression even if they noticed it, not humans who called her “it.”

  “Hurry up,” the fourth man said. That was the one in charge, she guessed. Best to keep that one alive.

  Three of them were holding her, and the fourth’s position was easy to mark. She had both scent and hearing; she didn’t need to see.

  She didn’t need to see—but she opened her eyes—

  ~ * ~

  Both hoppers were in the air, and the entry plan set. Jo and Gunny would kick in the southwest door while he and Wink blasted in via the northeast entrance. They could toss concussion and photon grenades to stun anybody close to the doors. Gramps and Nancy would keep one hopper aloft and the vehicle’s guns ready to spike any enemy who came out or who arrived to come in after them. Simple, fast, direct, and in such chases, that was almost always the best way.

  The warehouse did have sensor shields in place, which was not so good, so they couldn’t tell where everybody was, but they’d deal with that as it unfolded. Speed and surprise made up for a lot of things.

  “ETA, forty-five seconds,” Nancy said.

  “Pucker up,” Cutter said. He wanted to tell them to be careful and not shoot Kay, but they all knew what the stakes were.

  “And it would be nice if we could keep one alive to chat with.”

  “They hurt Kay, we’ll have to draw straws to see who gets to end that conversation,” Jo said.

  ~ * ~

  “Aaiie! It’s awa—!”

  Kay twisted and slashed with her left paw, removing half that man’s face. She stabbed him in the throat with her other claws as they dropped her—

  —as she fell, she twisted and caught the second man with both hands behind his head and used her clawed feet to disembowel him—

  —she shoved off his falling body, twisted, spun, and caught the third man, fleeing, from behind and swung him around as a shield—

  —the fourth man fired a pistol at her, but the man she held absorbed the soft-target darts; he screamed as they punched into his flesh, one-two-three-four-five—

  —the shooter was only four meters away, and she shoved the wounded man at the shooter, dived to the right, rolled, came up, and sprang to her left, jinked back and forth twice as she charged him—

  —he backed off as he saw her coming, but his weapon was aimed away from her and she was moving fast—

  He must have realized he wouldn’t be able to get it lined up on her in time.

  She showed him her fangs, gathered to spring—

  —he had just enough time to shove the gun’s barrel under his own chin—

  “No!” she yelled, already in midleap—

  He fired. The sound was muffled where the muzzle pressed against his throat. He collapsed bonelessly, and she sailed over his falling form.

  “Jebi mi!” she said as she landed.

  ~ * ~

  Jo had her augs cranked and she was through the door and past any potential danger fast, before Gunny could get her grenades in play. She skidded to a stop, senses on full alert, questing for a target.

  None in sight—

  “Clear!” Jo yelled. No point in having the light show and loud noises.

  “Jebi mi! Supak glupan glupak! Seljak mamlaz macola! Mentol seronja kaka!”

  Jo grinned. Kay! And cursing like a pubful of sailors. Fem could take the paint off a battlewagon with such language. She didn’t sound hurt.

  She sounded mad...

  When Jo got to where Kay stood, looking down at four dead men, she said, “You had to kill them all?”

  “I did not kill them all. I killed those two. That one shot this one, then shot his jebanje self. Holeass fornicator of his mother!”

  Gunny arrived and pulled up. Four seconds later, Rags and Wink got there. They looked around.

  Rags said, “Did you have to kill them all?”

  Kay glared at him.

  Jo laughed.

  ~ * ~

  On the way back to HQ, Jo thought she might defuse some of Kay’s smoldering anger by getting her to talk.

  “I’ve wondered: Why are the Vastalimi such fierce fighters? Yeah, you have the biological tools, the claws and teeth and speed, but what is it in your makeup, can you tell us?”

  Kay looked at her. She thought about it for a couple of seconds.

  “There is on my world a small predator, called a gmiza. Something like a Terran lizard, but with longer and more powerful legs. The size of a house cat, perhaps five kilograms, a gmiza can leap vertically more than twice the height of a tall Vastalimi.

  “Its primary prey is a small bird, the ptica, which feeds on grass seed.

  “The gmiza mate for life and hunt in pairs. They will crouch in low grass in ptica habitat, and their skin will take on the coloration of the background. Nearly invisible, they will wait until a flock lands to feed, but they are fast and agile enough to take prey on the wing.

  “They have learned how to use the ptica’s startle response, and often one will show itself, causing a ptica flock to take flight toward its hidden mate.

  “It is quite impressive to see a flock of ptica three meters above the ground and rising beset by a springing gmiza as
it snatches one from flight and drops back into the grass.

  “They have few natural enemies. There are larger predators who will take gmiza when they can catch one, but mostly, they don’t catch them. The ones large enough are generally too slow; the ones fast enough, not as fierce.

  “Gmiza live in small, natural volcanic rock caves in the hills bordering grasslands, and anything big enough to threaten them usually cannot get through the entrance to their den.

  “Gmiza have learned how to dry their food, using hot, flat rocks in the sunlight, and the plucked and desiccated bodies will keep for weeks. So even if a larger predator traps a pair of gmiza in their cave, they can feed and wait until it gets too hungry and leaves.

  “There are Vastalimi who hunt gmiza. The creatures are not as fast as we are in a straight line, but are much more agile and able to turn quicker and more acutely. Catching one is a challenge, for they know how to use the terrain, and they can dodge and weave among the rocks enough to frustrate the most adept Vastalimi pursuer. You might go out a dozen times and not collect any.

  “As a people, we are not known for our patience, and we aren’t going to squat outside a cave and wait weeks for gmiza to run out of food. Of course, that is not the point—the challenge is to catch them afoot.

  “It’s much easier to catch the birds they eat than the gmiza. So one collects a dozen birds, fogs them with chem that makes them tractable, then uses them as bait. If one is lucky, one can fool the gmiza into thinking the birds are legitimate quarry.

  “However, the gmiza are wary and easily spooked. They are sight-hunters, and their vision keen, so the smallest wrong detail will make them vanish. One moment, the pair is almost in range; the next, they are in the wind.”

  “Do you hunt them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She said, “If you attack one, then you attack both; if you capture or kill one, its mate will go for you full out, and fight to the death.

  “Picture it: They have no hope of winning, but they will sacrifice themselves to protect or, failing that, to avenge their mates. More than a few hunters have come home nursing wounds that festered, became infected, and caused serious illness, so it is not a completely trivial thing to hunt gmiza; still, the risk is minimal. A Vastalimi is bigger, stronger, and possessed of a sharper brain. All the gmiza has is an ability to dodge quickly, a defensive mode, and pure defense eventually loses to offense.

  “But the creatures also have a willingness to die, and that makes them dangerous. They have a singular focus:

  “A gmiza will attack a Vastalimi ten times, fifteen times its size, certainly knowing it will not survive. How can one not admire the courage of such a steadfast being? And how could you take pleasure in defeating such? Only someone with a small ego would glory in besting an opponent with almost no potential chance of winning.

  “If there is not much danger, how can there be much triumph?

  “If you want to compliment a Vastalimi’s ability? Say, ‘She held. She fought like a gmiza.’”

  Kay blinked, considered her words, said:

  “There are better ways to improve your skills as a hunter and fighter. We have a saying: ‘Borba neckta tjova veli ‘cina.’ It means, ‘Attack one your own size.’”

  They all nodded at that.

  “A match against someone who might defeat you? There is a challenge.”

  She looked at Jo, who nodded. Their matches were play and usually in Kay’s favor, but there was, Jo thought, a chance that she would prevail.

  “There are among the Vastalimi fierce and adept warriors, males and females who can hold their own with half a dozen lesser-skilled opponents, those who live for the joy of close-quarters fighting, claw-to-claw. They are respected for their skills and ferocity, and they go places that provide opportunity for them to use both.

  “The best of them tend to die young because they constantly test themselves against like fighters. A small error against an expert in a serious match often results in death for one or both.

  “Those who survive sometimes become teachers of fighting methods, passing along what they have learned. I had such a teacher when I was a cub, an old male who had lost an arm in battle.

  “When you must make one hand take the place of two, you either learn a new method, or you cannot compete.

  “My teacher—Starkmasc, call him Ess—developed a sinuous kind of circularity in his upper body that allowed him to block and strike together. He could whip his single arm fast and hard, using his hips to generate speed and power, and the result was an unconventional system opponents either did not expect, nor could match if they did see it coming. And the stub of his other arm had uses opponents did not expect, as well.

  “Ess never used his handicap as an excuse. He considered himself the equal of or better than any Vastalimi, and he won many fights against those who were bigger, stronger, and possessed of two good arms.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “His final fight was against three attackers. He died from his wounds. So did two of the three, with the third left maimed.

  “There are things that one walks away from,” Kay said. “But when one chooses to stand? One seeks to fight like a gmiza, all out, no thoughts of defeat or death. Or like a one-armed Vastalimi who turned a handicap into an asset. That’s how a Vastalimi fighter thinks. No hesitation, no qualms, move until you prevail or you cannot move anymore, whichever comes first.”

  Jo nodded. Good to know.

  ~ * ~

  NINETEEN

  Formentara was in hir augmentation trance when Jo arrived, hands waving back and forth in a sensor-hula over hir console.

  Jo had seen this often enough to know it was better to let it run its course, so she sat and began to mentally review the operations so far. One needed to revisit tactics, to see if there were things that could have been done better, and there almost always were ways to improve. Even a small move left instead of right might make the difference between life and death; one needed to examine the process and consider. Better to learn from someone else’s fatal mistake ...

  “I’m done,” Formentara said. “Gone off into your own trance, I see.”

  Jo looked up to see hir grinning. “XO’s work is never done,” Jo said.

  “But you love it, so it’s not really work, is it?”

  Jo returned hir grin. “You got me. So what’s up? Am I due for a balance?”

  “Nope, your augs are in perfect sync, as of course they would be.”

  “So ... ?”

  “I have a new thing.”

  Jo’s interest blossomed. Formentara was unrivaled when it came to biological augmentation. “You found it here! I thought you said this planet was the equivalent of the Stone Age.”

  “I didn’t find it, I created it.”

  “Really? Can I have it? Please?”

  Zhe grinned. “This is why you are my favorite patient. Because you ask that before you even ask what it is.”

  “You created it, I don’t need to ask.”

  “Absolutely true, but still, I’m touched by your confidence. Okay, here’s the deal...”

  Jo listened, and by the time Formentara was done telling her, her mouth was open in wonder. “Holy shit. When can I get it?”

  “When are you free for an hour?”

  “Now. How about now, is now good?”

  Formentara laughed. “On the table.”

  ~ * ~

  Deep into the augmatrix, Formentara shunted, adjusted, revised, retuned, and did hir dance among the hormones and viral moleculars and implants, a maestro conducting a complex symphony, every note important, the smallest gestures critical. This was hir realm, hir universe, hir reason to get up every day. A hair this way lay failure; a hair that way, genius, and it was a delicate juggling routine that could crash down in a heartbeat. Any decent augmentor could take a piece of off-the-shelf wetware and spin it up, make it work exactly as designed. There were a million keyboard players who co
uld play Mozart’s music—but only one Mozart... There, the shuttle of enzymes for hypothalamic registration; here, the adrenals rebalanced. There, the new battery ignited; here, the redistribution of power on the afferent/ efferent exchange. Eliminate those senescent dregs; reroute the output of those neurons.

  Dance, dance, and dance again.