by Clayton, Jo;
Like the smaller one in Workhorse, it was divided into a number of hexagonal cells, each one with its own image.
*The Kinravaly in Workhorse. Borrentye with her. Hatenzo? That was a surprise. Tyomfin.
*Tibo, looking rather demonic, his dark face lit from below by the faint reddish light coming from the skip’s controls. Tavva and Uszer crowded in beside him. The image switched momentarily to show dark water rolling beneath them. They were out over the sea waiting for the boy to leave. Sunup was the departure time he’d registered, that would be about a half hour away now at the Laby Youl Meridian. A daylight flight to South Island and the wild yaut reserve; he was keeping a record of the changes in a single family of those lanky six-legged predators whose domestic counterparts were bred and trained for racing. They looked awkward, even comical but they could cover ground with astonishing speed. And they were extremely dangerous if the observer got careless; it spoke a lot for the boy that he was being allowed to go there on his own. Zelzony beat her hand twice on the chair arm then forced herself to relax. He was going to be hurt by another predator, but he wouldn’t be killed, he might even be proud of what he’d done to save other lives. No matter what, he was going to know what he’d bought with his injuries. She swore that to herself, swore a loyalty to the boy over all other loyalties. It was the only way she could live with what she was doing.
*Lipitero in her skip, her scars like ink spilled across her face. Timka dimly visible curled in the other chair looking as limber as her cat form. Kert and Fescan behind them, recognizable only because she knew who was there. Again the flicker of another image, dark rugged moutain peaks with conifers like mangy fur. The Yaut Reserve.
*Rostico Burn in the third skip, alone, looking stern, the All-Wise only knew what game he was playing. Flicker. Image of an enclosed court, a soaring tower on his left, a tower with lighted windows near the top. The Kinra Residence, Yasyony.
*Kinra Selyas, Elexin at her side, in the Round Room with the table of electronic gear and the circle of windows. Several of the windows are open and a strong breeze catches crumpled papers about Elexin’s feet and sends them rustling across the room. At the moment he is reading a note, a grave-faced young page at his elbow. He scrawls an answer, tears it off a pad, gives it to the page who darts across the room and flings herself out one of the open windows.
*In the Round Room with the Kinra, but over to one side, near the windows, Marrin ortza-fej, playing terg with Ellum and Pekkal to pass the time until the call comes that the boy is safely off from Laby Youl. Then they will crowd into the skip with Burn and run for the staging area where Lipitero and her passengers are waiting, a high mountain meadow not far from the camp area where the boy plans to spend his double fortn’t.
*Three wings with dark cloaked forms strapped to the carry bars, speeding across dark choppy water, runner lights muffled, the middle one badly, so a few streaks of white burn out of gaps in the black felt.
“Would you care for something to drink while we wait? You could try a wine I like at times like this, not much alcohol in it so you won’t fuzz your brain, or I could have Pic brew up some iska for you. Petro likes the stuff so we’ve laid in a supply of it.” Skeen chuckled. “Don’t be so surprised. I’d get insulted at the look on your face if asking you wasn’t Pic’s idea, she scolds me all the time about neglecting my guests.”
“Iska would be best, I think.” Zelzony tried a smile and found it fairly easy to manage with most of her mind distracted by the screen and what was happening on it. “I don’t believe this is the best time for experimenting.”
“Could be you’re right.”
In the Round Room. “He’s off. A half-hour late, but what boy ever got out of bed on time.”
To Rostico Burn from Picarefy. “Get ready for your passengers, you’re clear to go.”
To the Kinravaly, Zelzony speaking, voice transmitted by Picarefy. “It begins. The boy has started. Elexin reports the triad left Laby Youl separately three hours ago. The seed spies show them still traveling across water. Lipitero and Timka have landed in the Reserve. They’re waiting.”
From Tibo, a report. “We’re moving; some clouds about, enough to keep him from spotting us. We’re some seven hundred meters above him and about as many northeast. Tavva has glasses on the boy, no trouble at all keeping him in view.”
To Lipitero. “He’s on his way. Anything happening around you?”
Lipitero to Picarefy. “Nothing. There wouldn’t be, would there. It’s a twelve-hour wingflight there to here. We wait.”
Rostico Burn to Picarefy. “Passengers in, we’ll have to come back for the wings and gasbombs and the rest of the junk. Probably need Lipitero if we’re to do the hauling in one trip. Those wings are bulky and gassing them up doesn’t work, we should have done a bit of experimenting before we tried hauling them.”
Picarefy to Rostico Burn. “You didn’t think of it either, chirk, so don’t go holier than on me. I’ll get the message to Petro.”
To Lipitero. “Ross is on his way, be there in an hour. The equipment has turned out to be bulkier than expected, so be ready to help him ferry it. Should be ample time. Tibo can let us know when the boy is getting close. Swing wide on your rounds to the Residence and back, don’t want the targets spotting you, you can afford an extra half hour’s flying time.”
Lipitero to Picarefy. “Just as well I’ve got something to do, sitting around here is making me crazy and I’m not the only one, Ti-cat is out and prowling.”
Skeen to Lipitero. “When you see her, tell her if she’s got ants, she should make wings and hunt round the boy’s campsite. The triad won’t play with him anywhere near that camp, but they might try ambushing him there. And tell her if she isn’t back by the time the boy hits the coast, I personally will dump her on a waterworld where she’d have to spend the rest of her life as a fish.”
Picarefy to Tibo. “Give a shout when the boy’s about an hour from land. We’ve had to do some revamping of arrangements, equipment foul-up.”
Tibo to Picarefy. “Hear you. Isn’t there always. The boy’s sailing along easy in clear skies, no sign of the triad. Me, I think twilight’s when they’ll do it. Catch him flying, probably half asleep.”
Skeen to Tibo. “I say they’ll wait till he’s on the ground.”
Tibo to Skeen. “Double or nothing, the take’s the stake.”
Skeen to Tibo. “Done.”
Time passes. Lipitero, Ross and Timka have something to do to help it pass. They work hard, loading down the skips until they’re dragging tail, then sweat them back to the staging area where Marrin and the other agents work off some of their nervous energy unloading their gear. In Picarefy, watching the screen cells has lost whatever charm it had originally. Skeen has vanished somewhere into Picarefy’s entrails, Zelzony has settled to a painful brood over her explosive and ambivalent emotions, trying to wrestle them into a shape more pleasing to her and more conducive to maintaining her self-esteem.
Tibo to Picarefy. “Coastline of South Island ahead. Hour away as requested. From his level, the sun’s almost gone. Tavva says after he hits the coast he’s got another hour and a half before he reaches the camp. Where are the targets?”
Picarefy to Tibo. “Everything is set at the staging ground. The targets are in the air again, heading toward the boy. Estimated intersect, forty-five minutes. The sooner they do it, the better we’ll all feel.”
Tibo to Skeen. “My game.”
Skeen to Tibo. “Looks like, but we’ll wait till they take him just to be sure. Hmmm?”
Zelzony to the Kinravaly. “The boy has reached the coast. It’s getting dark. The triad is in the air, moving toward him. Soon now.”
Kinravaly to Zelzony. “Please ask ship Picarefy to let us witness the capture. We must see how it is done.”
Picarefy to Zelzony. “With your permission, Zemtrallen, I’ll comply with the request.”
Zelzony to Picarefy. “Given. Thank you.”
Picarefy
to Skeen in shower-room. “Hey, get your butt up here, things are starting to happen. I’d rather you were here, Skeen, makes me feel more secure.”
Skeen to Picarefy. “Crock of shit, that; I’ll be there soon as I dry off.”
Dark wings, dark cloaks wound about them, the triad drifted toward the boy, riding higher than him, silent shadows slipping closer and closer. When they were a short distance from him, they separated and came at him from three directions. One slipped into a long glide that would take him into the airspace in front of the boy. The other two slanted more steeply, dropping until they were beneath the wing and close behind their prey. He was limp, half asleep, not bothering about what was going on around him. The sharp crack as one of the riders behind him snapped a net out of its folds and tossed an end to the other rider broke through his weariness. He started to look around, but it was too late. They swung the net up, tangled him in it. The rider in front of him slipped in until the noses of the two wings were rubbing against each other, then he swung a yautwhip at the boy’s head and put him out with a neat precision that spoke of considerable practice.
“Eshkel and his racing yauts,” Zelzony muttered.
Skeen rubbed at her nose. “They’ve had a lot of practice at that maneuver. You’ve found nine bodies; I’d say you better look for more.”
“Saaaa smik!”
Picarefy to Lipitero. “Capture complete. They’re on the move, going somewhere. I’ll advise when they settle.”
Zelzony to Marrin. “Capture complete. Be ready to move when they settle.”
Zelzony to Kinravaly. “Capture complete. Now we have to let them go to ground. Marrin and the crew are in the air, waiting. Timka is after them already, bird shape, she’ll be on the scene before anyone else so she can take care of the boy until we get there.”
Kinravaly to Zelzony. “The All-Wise guard and guide.”
The sandstone canyon was deep and rugged with a shallow creek wandering along the bottom between thin stands of shuddering longleaves. At several points wind and water had washed deep recesses into the walls. The triad flew the boy into one of these.
Ti-owl glided past, circled round, came back. Glad of the darkness which turned her into a faint smudge against the pale stone, she hung about trying to work out a way of getting into the hollow without alerting the triad. One Ykx left, Peeper, picking his way carefully over the scree slanting from the recess to the bank of the creek. After water, she supposed, and gave herself a metaphorical pat on the back when she saw the dripping bucket the big brown was hauling up. She grinned, also an inward thing since owls aren’t equipped for ironic grins (or any other kind), as she watched that murderous thug struggle back up to the recess, his toe claws gripping the scree, the leather bucket giving him enough trouble to start him cursing violently as he fought to keep the water from spilling.
As he disappeared into the shadow, sour-faced Laroul came out, carrying a hatchet. Ti-owl clicked her beak. None of them trust the others enough to leave alone with the boy, has to be two in there so they can watch each other. Ah, shit, as Skeen would say. For a short while longer, she watched Laroul hacking at downwood, then she spiraled up out of the canyon and started back toward the staging area.
Ti-cat ghosted between the trees. Kert and Fescan drifted after her, almost as quiet despite difficult conditions; along with the soft flowing flightskins that threatened to catch on every stub, they had imagers with long lenses (night adapted) strapped to their harnesses, instruments both heavy and awkward. She led them into a thicket of small trees growing palely in the shade of a giant conifer that had extracted sufficient nourishment from the thin coarse soil in the bottom of the canyon to grow to twice the height of the longleaves; at that point it began dying from the top down, going bald in its old age. Using hand and toe claws they climbed past the fringe of needles and onto the doubled trunk, each finding a crotch to sit in so they could turn their imagers on the recess and start recording what was happening in there.
Timka went back to guide another cluster of agents in, these with night glasses. They were to be witnesses and arresting agents when the time came to stop the torment of the boy.
Zelzony clutched the arms of her chair, watching the central cell which had been expanded a dozen times larger than the others.
The triad carried the boy into the great hollow, a space large enough to swallow a sailing freighter. They put him down. Laroul began cutting the net off him. Eshkel checked his pulse, then settled back to watch Laroul work, his eyes flickering over the boy, his tongue pulsing in and out between his lips, a fine film of sweat gathering on the bunched glands in his forehead and cheeks. Peeper stood with feet apart, his hands clasped behind him though that must have squeezed his flightskins into tight uncomfortable folds. His eyes, like Eshkel’s, were fixed on the boy, but his face was an unreadable mask. As Laroul finished removing the net, Peeper said, “I’ll fetch water, one of you better be ready to get in a load of wood when I come back. Toss for it if you can’t decide who.” He turned and left.
Laroul touched the swollen spot where the yautwhip had landed. “He’s been out a long time. If you’ve spoiled him, Eshko, Peep and I will make a meal out of you.”
Eshkel’s hand jerked. He glowered at Laroul. “He’ll be coming round soon enough.”
“So you say.”
“Yes. So I say.”
“You’re a lazy duggen, Eshko. Peep and I have done most of the work; make yourself useful, go fetch the wood.”
“Saa saa, you’d like that wouldn’t you, leaving you alone with the boy. We draw lots for who gets him first. You heard Peep, we draw lots for who gets the wood too, and that ’un don’t leave until Peep gets back.” He pulled a handful of terg counters from the pouch on his belt, held them in his fist. “Put out your hand.”
Laroul hesitated, then thrust out his long lean hand. The claws were partway out, a half-threat which Eshkel ignored. He shook the counters in his fist then let one fall. Laroul examined it. “Tree.”
Eshkel shook his fist again, let a counter fall on the stone floor, left it there. Laroul picked it up, turned it over, swore. “Fire,” he said. “Fire takes tree.”
Eshkel shrugged, reclaimed the two counters and returned all of them to his pouch. He got to his feet, found a blanket roll and dragged it into a position where he could see the boy and look out into the canyon whenever he wished. He dropped onto the blanket, shivered a little. “It’s supposed to be spring down here. I thought it’d be warm.”
“Early spring, you’re up high, it’s a clear night so the heat radiates away fast. I wouldn’t be surprised to see frost on the ground come the morning. We’ll need more wood than I can bring in one load.” Laroul sniffed. “Want to or not, you’ll have to do some work or freeze. You try dugg’ning out on us, Eshko, Peep and I will pop those lots to see who gets your blankets.”
Eshkel glared hate at Laroul but the Yasyonykx ignored him.
Peeper came stomping in with the bucket, set it in its frame. “Who gets the hatchet?”
“Me for the first round.” Laroul got to his feet. “Who’s doing the supper?”
Peeper snorted. “Neither of you. I want to be able to eat it.”
A moan from the boy. The triad stiffened and turned as one. Their captive moaned again, stirred feebly, tried to move his arms. His wrists and hands were bound, he tugged at the bonds before he was fully awake, whimpered when he couldn’t dislodge the thongs. He lifted his head, gazed with bewilderment at the blotches of thicker darkness a short distance from him. “Who are you? Where am I? What happened?”
Rasping breath. One of the shadows swayed off from the others, bent to take something from the stone, the boy couldn’t see what it was but there was so much menace in the silence and that hoarse breathing that he went rigid with fear.
One of the shadows moved toward him. Teeth clamped on his lip to hold back the fear whimpers, the boy tried to wriggle away. Large gentle hand took hold of him, lifted his head and shoulde
rs, held a cup to his lips. “It’s only water, Giulin. Drink. You must be thirsty.”
The cup was cold and wet as it pressed against Giulin’s mouth. His throat was dry and painful, his lips cracking; confused and still afraid, he managed a few swallows, then turned his head away. The strange Ykx lowered him back to the stone, moved off a few steps. Giulin lay silent a moment, then, trying to speak with easy unconcern, no fear, only an understandable curiosity, he said, “Why am I tied like this?”
“So you won’t run away, my dear.”
The voice came from the other shadow, husky tones, a quaver in them like that in the voices of the very old, though Giulin didn’t feel that the speaker was old, not in that way. There was something else in the voice, something he didn’t understand, something that made him shiver from a cold not caused by the chill from the stone that was striking up into his bones. “Why would I want to run away? Where am I?”
“Yaut Reserve, of course. Wasn’t that where you were going?”
“Are you poachers?”
“Poachers, you hear that, Peep? He thinks we’re here to net us some yauts for the running game.”
“Clever boy.” The second voice was amused, almost playful. This was the one that had given him the water.
Giulin’s fear increased; a little more and his sphincters would let go. He felt a searing shame at betraying himself that way and struggled to control the fear, but though they’d done nothing to him so far, nothing but tie his wrists and ankles, though they hadn’t threatened him or hurt him, something was going to happen, something terrible. Don’t be stupid, he told himself, keep cool and you’ll get out of this. All right, so they aren’t poachers, that doesn’t mean they haven’t got reasons for being here. You just ran into those reasons without meaning to. All they’re going to do is keep you tied up here, out of their way, until they’re finished with their business. Though he didn’t quite believe any of that, he calmed down enough to realize that part of his despair came from the cold that was sending spasms of shivering along his body. He steadied his jaw, cleared his throat. “I’m freezing. Would you bring me my blankets please?”