Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks

by Ronald Wintrick

  None of the trees had particularly low branches. This variety of tree did not sprout its branches close to the ground, and they were all of this variety here. An old forest where the dominant form predominated.

  Studying this particular branch in the dim glow of her cuff light, she saw that it grew out and then curved up, but its weight pushed the branch down farther out, before it began curving back up again. She moved to its lowest extremity, standing directly below it.

  She would have no choice but to use her broken hand. There was no other way. The branch was accessible, but it would not be easy. She would have to jump and she knew she would not be able to hang on with only one hand. She would have to use both. She set herself and leapt.

  The wrist splint was a marvelous piece of technology. It was sturdy, it held the wrist firmly in place under normal circumstances, but it was not a servo-powered robo-limb. Agony lanced through her as the weight of her body slammed solidly on the hands gripping the branch.

  She almost let go, but somehow managed to hang on. Using the same momentum, she swung her legs up and wrapped them around the branch, one to either side.

  Her vision clouded haze-like as the agony washed through her. The outside edges of her vision swam into darkness as she neared unconsciousness, until she was experiencing a kind of tunnel vision, as weakness tried to overwhelm her. Like breakers on the reef of her awareness.

  If she let go now, she knew she would not be able to do it again. She clung both to the branch and her consciousness, though it took everything she had.

  She hung under the branch, gasping and sweating, like some weird long tongued lizard waiting for its prey to walk by underneath. Despite her predicament, she had to chuckle as the thought crossed her mind.

  Her laughter sounded hysterical to her, like that of a mad-woman.

  When the pain subsided somewhat, a matter of long agonizing minutes, she began scooting along the branch, moving first one leg and then the other, then the hands, in the darkness broken only by the dim green glow cast by her cuff light.

  It was not going to be easy to climb onto the top of this branch, she realized when her feet bumped the bole of the tree. She was hanging at an upside down angle. She should have approached it head-on!

  She got herself as close to the trunk as possible and then rested again. She only had one option. She had to get onto the top of that branch.

  Since there was nothing else to do but to do it, she began struggling to pull herself around the branch, one-handed, and failed. And failed. And failed again.

  Angrily she dug fingernails into the bark with a hand that was already short one fingernail. And pulled with every bit of life-force she possessed.

  But her own legs wrapped around the branch defeated her, they would not slide as she pulled. She remained hanging from the branch.

  Anger isn't usually a good thing in bad situations. In most cases anger will defeat it's owner faster than any opponent could ever hope to do so. But in some few cases, when used effectively, it can be the lever your body uses to push itself that last little way that plain willpower alone might be unable to overcome.

  Furious, Rebecca dug her fingers into the bark and pulled with all the fierce anger that a person who has suffered all that she has suffered had within herself to call upon, and she pulled herself up onto that branch.

  It seemed like it had been the hardest thing she had ever accomplished, and maybe it had been. Now she lay easily on the large branch while her breath came in gasps and the newly cooled breeze bathed her sweat slicked body. Her lightheadedness took long minutes to dissipate. There was no light but the dim green glow cast by her cuff light. It now seemed an entirely different world.

  Climbing to the spot she had chosen, she wedged herself into it and completely uncomfortable, fell immediately asleep.

  She was a soldier. She could sleep any time, any place. It was something she had learned early in her life.

  Chapter 11

  Despite the prior evening's intoxication and a long night spent pleasing his wives, Nago was awake before the sun broke the horizon. Cloaked in darkness, Nago threw the skin coverings from the bodies of his wives around him, welcoming the chill morning air on his naked flesh.

  "Prepare my breakfast." Nago said gruffly. Immediately the women were up and moving, but he caught Atvar by the wrist, his youngest wife, before she slipped away, and pulled her back down to him. He noticed she hadn't tried to move away too quickly.

  His hands roamed her still firm flesh, her full breasts, as she cuddled to him. Atvar was still childless. She had only joined his family several months ago. She was thirteen Summers and ripe for motherhood. It would not be long now. She would soon be with child. She would bear him many sons, he was sure. She had come herself from a brood of eighteen. Eighteen was a lot for any one woman, where the average was ten or twelve, at most.

  Bearing children wore away a woman's vigor. The women did the majority of work as well. So they aged much more rapidly. But they weren't burdened by the incessant warfare and dangers of the volatile environment, as were the men. At forty-six, Nago was an elder of the tribe. Not the oldest, but among the oldest.

  While Atvar's eager lips roamed his body (she would not be so eager once multiple childbirths had worn away her youth and vitality) Nago considered how the tribe had prospered under his rule these past twenty years.

  Under his guidance they had grown considerably. He had changed the nature of the tactics they employed in the nonstop warring with their neighboring tribes, from that of ineffectual guerrilla actions upon one another, to full-scale attacks with the total annihilation of entire tribes his goal. He only allowed the women and girl children their lives, and these he incorporated into the Dunaj, enlarging the tribe in the process.

  Where else did these women have to go once all their men-folk were dead anyway. They had been done a favor, as far as Nago was concerned.

  There were no tribes now remaining anywhere within a week’s march in any direction. The Dunaj were the dominant force in the region.

  Nago was a brilliant tactician. He was a military genius. Through strategy and ruse had he conquered and prevailed.

  For several years there had been no sign of any new threats, but a scout had failed to return who was due, and the tribe was now on alert. There was more than one way to die in the forests of Bali, but the man had been one of his best, and unlikely to fall prey to natural calamity.

  Plus he had been preoccupied of late with Atvar, who he now cuffed across the face for delaying, teasing him, a little game she knew annoyed him. The cuff wasn't hard enough to leave a mark but enough to let her know he was in no mood this morning.

  Without a sound or complaint she moved to where she was wanted and took his manhood into her mouth, eyes seeking his as she pleased him, in the dim light creeping around the cured Tarn skin doorway to the room beyond, where the rest were already at work in the light cast by the rendered fat fueled lamp. The lamp was only used on the rare occasion.

  His other wives were angry and jealous of the attention he was giving Atvar, but he did not care. Women were always acting jealous or angry or fretful or worried, some kind of drama or other. It was simply their natures. If he took another wife after Atvar, something he was not sure he wanted to do at his ripening age, Atvar would be no different than the rest. She would forget that she had once been in the same place.

  As he began to near orgasm, and that quickly under Atvar's already experienced touch, he motioned her up. She immediately moved up to straddle him, settling herself onto him with a gasp of pleasure that was as much a real reaction as it was designed to be rubbed into the other women's faces. She would pay for it later. The other women would make her pay.

  She began working herself along his length, ever so slowly, pulling away so far that he nearly slipped free, before sliding all the way back onto him. It was pleasurable. The flesh of her womanhood was still very firm, gripping him tightly. Under this slow cadence she could make hi
m last for an extended period, but there was no time this day.

  He reached up and pinched one of her nipples roughly. Her eyes sprang open in pain and she again gasped, but this time it was not a gasp of pleasure. The snickering of the women in the outer room told they had recognized the difference.

  "I'm in a hurry, woman!"

  Atvar increased her pace significantly. The fingers still pinching her fat nipple helped with her decision. Her ragged breathing indicated she had gotten what she wanted as well, and suddenly she shivered and shuddered from head to toe, her sex locking on him in convulsive grips that brought his own release, and his seed spewed strongly into her.

  She fell upon him, panting.

  "Don't go." Atvar whispered in his ear. "Stay with me and make a baby in me!" She emphasized her words by grinding against him. Nago shoved her away roughly and sat up.

  "Fetch me chala." Nago said, not unkindly, but dismissing her in no uncertain terms. He needed the drink's potent stimulant this day.

  He suspected that Atvar was already with child. Only newly conceived, the signs were slight, but he thought he recognized them. If not, then when he returned.

  If he returned. If the great fireball had been something sent by the Gods, they might not appreciate his interference, and the Gods could deliver death in many forms, if they were displeased. He had no illusions about that, but he did not think the fireball had been sent by the Gods. It smacked of man, the mankind of his mother's people. The Outsiders.

  Nago arose and dressed. Atvar brought his tankard of chala, her breasts jiggling heavily in the fire glow cast by the hearth fire in the main room over which his breakfast was now being cooked, and handed him his tankard.

  Nago was tempted to pinch a nipple again to take some of the proud hauteur out of her stance, but held back. There would be a reckoning while he was gone no doubt, where her sister-wives would teach her a valuable lesson about vanity.

  It would change nothing. Atvar would be his favorite for many years, and no matter how the rest punished her for her superiority, she would continue to shove it down their throats.

  There was a rap on the exterior door as Nago exited the sleeping area.

  "Get dressed." He told his wives, and they rushed past him into the back room as Nago moved to the door.

  Nago lifted away the heavy bar that held the door secured and set it down against the wall. There was nothing to fear inside the Dunaj village, nothing or no one could slip past his sentries, not without raising the hue and cry, but he liked the security nonetheless.

  He recognized Jorg's knock and it was Jorg who entered from the darkness without, dressed for the trail and fully armed, his long sword in its sheath on his belt, and his bow and quiver upon his back. He wore one knife.

  The Dunaj had thousands of these weapons stockpiled. They never wore out. It was a good thing, because the Dunaj had absolutely no idea how they were manufactured. They were unbreakable, completely indestructible, nor did the blades ever become dull.

  "Do you still intend to follow this fool's quest?" Jorg asked, gazing levelly into Nago's eyes. Nago sipped his chala.

  Nago's own weapons were close to hand. He watched Jorg closely, without seeming to.

  "Pick two hundred men. The best." Nago said.

  Jorg smiled, hesitating, but then before it could be considered insolence, turned and departed without another word, into the now lightening darkness beyond the doorway. Nago shut the door but left it unsecured.

  An unguarded appearance was not necessarily a lack of caution. Nago's smile would have warmed no hearts, if anyone had noticed it.

  Nago sipped his chala again and stepped to the hearth to turn the meat sizzling in the pan there. The pan was more Outsider stuff. It was large, solid and strong, yet as light as a handful of grass. In a fit of anger he had once used one to bash in someone's skull. Like the swords and other Outsider implements, it was completely indestructible. The tribe had thousands and thousands of them.

  Within minutes of dressing, his women had a pack prepared for him, his weapons arrayed, and meat and gruel on the table before him. On the trail there would be only smoked meat and dried grain from their packs to eat. They would not stop to hunt or cook. Staples were always kept in reserve for such instances, those instances usually being the necessity to go to war.

  "Be careful." Nadia said when he had finished eating. "You are no longer young!" Nadia was the wife of his youth. Number one wife. Atvar might be getting the majority of his attentions now, but Nadia was still number one wife, and the rest did as she ordered, or felt Nago's heavy hand. Eight years his junior, Nadia was well into old age, yet he still treated her as he always had, though he did so with misgivings; she wanted to give him another son, but he was sure if he allowed it, it would kill her. The last nearly had.

  "It is nothing." Nago said. Tentatively she touched his shoulder, the look in her eyes speaking volumes, then returned to her duties. There were twenty-two children in the home to be cared for, not counting the twelve who had already left, and more on the way.

  Nago gathered his things and walked out without another word.

  The men were ready outside. Waiting. Most would not have had a hot meal, but that was not his problem. He was not known to dally once plans had been made, and Jorg would've made sure they were all aware, the previous evening, despite his personal feelings.

  "We go." Nago said, and led out himself. He set the pace at a fast jog, a pace he could still maintain throughout the entire day. He was aging, but he was still fit, firm and powerful. Only just months previously a challenger had found this out the hard way. When the time came for him to step down, he would do so willingly. He did not think he could be ousted. Yet. Many had tried.

  Chapter 12

  Baldwin readily admitted that the fading daylight literally terrified him. Bali was moonless. With no moon to reflect any of the Sun's light around the curvature of the planet it was going to get very dark. It would also soon arrive. He had seen nothing throughout the long day that could be considered a safe refuge for the impending night. He was no coward, but he knew his odds if he were to be set upon in the night by those cowardly, creeping rat creatures, especially if his first indication of intrusion was a dozen sets of their teeth all tearing into his flesh at once. It would then be far too late.

  He recognized that the trees above would offer some protection, but a night spent sleepless, balancing upon some tree branch, was a dead end scenario. Eventually he must succumb to sleep, and if he waited until utter exhaustion, nothing but gnashing teeth and searing pain would awaken him. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

  And how far did he dare travel away from the wreck? How close was too close? He had no doubt they would be able to track him, but how long would they follow? What kind of tracking animals did they have? Weren't dogs often given to Prison Colonists? He did not know.

  Darkness was falling with a sure swiftness, a startling abruptness. There were but minutes left of the day when he made the only decision possible in the situation. He must climb into a tree and out-wait the night.

  The blast rifle was equipped with a spring-loaded shoulder strap in the stock of the weapon. Baldwin pulled it free and clipped it to its catch under the barrel, then settled it comfortably on his back, the strap over his shoulder.

  Then he quickly climbed into the branches of the tree overhead. The light vanished as he settled himself, and he sat there, in the dark, legs dangling, completely exhausted and cursing his foul luck.

  All because he had to see some stupid Prison Planet that no one in their right mind would give two shits about! He thought about the lives which had been wasted, the loss of the beautiful ship, and the suffering his own family would be doing worrying about him.

  And the Space Corps! They were supposed to be so competent! Hadn't that been exactly what he had been thinking right before their inexcusable blunder? Yeah.

  Well they were certainly effective at keeping out those who weren't allowe
d, Baldwin thought, not without some wry humor at the situation, considering how well they had just handled those who were supposed to be allowed.

  He tried to make himself comfortable in the darkness.

  .........................................................................

  The Tarn crept through the darkness which was its home. Its large nearly saucer sized eyes gathered in enough ambient light from its surroundings to guide it swiftly and unerringly on its way. Its sense of smell led it towards its goal. It knew its prey had settled in for the night. A diurnal animal now at rest. The Tarn had startled many such from their rest in its long life. That was how the Tarn hunted and it had always been an effective hunter. Until recently.

  The Tarn was old. It's step now less sure. Age had taken the spring from the Tarn's leap. Had dulled all of its senses, though they would suffice now. It had failed to kill many times recently. Its empty belly testified to that. It could not now remember a time the empty ache had not been there. It was much weakened and very desperate.

  All it knew was what it knew. It had to continue to hunt. Its continued failures frustrated it. It did not understand old age. It was now very close to its prey.

  Razor-sharp retractable claws sank into the bark of the tree into which the prey the Tarn followed had taken sanctuary. It silently climbed to the lowest of the trees great branches, massive muscles rippling under its brown coat, and though diminished in strength, it moved easily upon its task.

  The Tarn would nowhere be considered a species of cat, though it had many attributes of those predators, an animal evolved strictly for hunting. The Tarn was from the same evolutionary tree as the Hoag, with the same two spade like front incisors and skull structure, but that is where the resemblance ended. The two evolutionary lines had diverged many hundreds of thousands of years previously.

  The Hoag were heavily muscled in their hindquarters, like scavengers everywhere, and with shorter, weaker front legs. The Tarn was built oppositely, with the massive barrel chest and powerfully muscled front legs, while slightly leaner in its rear. A frame built for running, grabbing, tearing and ripping.