“But I thank all the heavens you didn’t, because you’re such an embarrassment I’m sure she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with anyone who knew you.”
Bruce made a lunge for him. A laughing Kazimir dodged ahead and started running. The pair of them burst out into the fort’s main chamber, still taunting and insulting each other loudly. Heads swung around to check out what was happening. Some frowned at the flippancy of the youths at such a time. Others—those of a similar age—smiled tolerantly. Most simply turned back to their work.
Kazimir and Bruce put on their sober faces, slowed down, and nodded courteously at their fellow clansmen. The rocky cavern had been carved in the rough shape of a football amphitheater by storm waters now long gone from this side of the mountains. Two fast channels had once merged here, swirling around and around as they clashed before rushing out toward the northeastern lowlands. The surging waters also had eroded a host of smaller passages and caves, tributaries that had splintered and shifted as geology took over from hydropressure.
Rock Dee was one of the largest Guardian communities, and a formidable safe refuge. There was still fresh water to be found in the lower caverns, filtering in from the mountains that guarded the desert above. Solid-state heat exchange cables had been sunk deep into the mantle below, providing power for lighting and cooking, along with the more important task of supplying the armory with electricity. All that had to be brought in was food, and that was supplied by the McKratz clan’s farms and grazing lands scattered throughout the Dessault range.
Kazimir felt a surge of pride at what he saw in the big chamber. If only he could have brought Justine to see this, then she would have believed in the Guardians’ purpose. Over eighty fighters were busy on the chamber floor, making up one of the largest raiding parties the Guardians of Selfhood had put together in years. But then, as everyone here knew, events were picking up with the construction of the human starship. The Starflyer’s long-laid plans were maturing rapidly, bringing disaster and death to the Commonwealth from the one direction no one in authority was looking.
All the clans had contributed to the raid. McFosters had provided a dozen young fighters, who were checking over their packs and equipment. Their emerald and copper kilts had been packed away; this evening they wore their navy-blue and ebony hunter tartan, helping them pass unseen through the night.
The McNowaks, also predominantly fighters, were in their gray and brown tartan. A group of them were engaged assessing the armor worn by one of their captains. The blue skeletal suit flooded the air around him with a nebulous orange haze, as if he were standing inside a ghostly amoeba. The radiance crackled and intensified each time a test penetrator cane was applied against him. With each application the force field emitter was gradually tuned until the emanation was nothing more than a faint aural outline, the kind any Old Testament saint might possess. Fine-tuning inverted the radiance, cloaking him in a skin of absorptive shadow.
The McOnnas were the third clan to focus on the soldier ethic. Their nomadic boys and girls were undergoing the same lessons, training, and tests that Kazimir himself had gone through. All of them he knew he could trust as much as Bruce. All were totally loyal to the cause, prepared to give their lives that humanity could be liberated. The squad they’d sent were wearing their nightguard blue and vermilion kilts, along with dark leather travel jackets; ion pistol holster and harmonic blade knife sheaths hung from their belts.
The McMixons, who were charged with the keeping of Rock Dee and other forts in the countryside surrounding the Institute, were tending to the Charlemagnes, the warhorses they would all ride to the raid. The gene-modified beasts were fully twenty-one hands, carried by legs like small tree trunks. They had no mane or tail; their thick leather hide was tougher than rhino skin, and a similar dull slate-gray in color. A short unicorn spike rose out of their heads, tipped with carbon-bonded titanium blades by the Rock Dee smithy. Any unprotected human caught by one would be ripped in half; and even force field armor had been known to give way from the inertia of a full charge. Fat iron bolts had been driven through the tough shield ridges of bone that protected the neck and underbelly, and straps of leather and silicon threaded through hoops in the bolts to hold the saddle in place. The Charlemagnes had been designed by the Barsoomians in their lands away to the east of the Oak Sea. Not for money—an emblem of the culture to which the radical ecogeneticists were fiercely aversive—but for the challenge of engendering an animal that in symbiosis with humans had only one purpose: carnage. The Barsoomians probably even delved into the forbidden field of psychoneural profiling, for no clan fighter had ever known a Charlemagne to shy away skittishly in the heat of battle like an ordinary horse would. With their tough skin, triple hearts, and multiple stress loading pathway skeleton, the great beasts were inordinately difficult to kill even with modern weapons.
The McPeierls, the widest-roaming clan of all, gathered intelligence on Institute activities from all over the planet. They also collected the advanced equipment that Johansson smuggled through the gateway along hundreds of innocuous routes. This evening, their members were distributing the final pieces of technology and weaponry required by the raiders.
The McKratzes farmed and raised cattle out across Far Away’s sweeping plains and tricky mountain pastures. They were the ones who bred the Charlemagne herds and lynxhound packs, and other domestic animals used by the clans. Throughout the year, they insured the more nomadic clans were fed and supplied.
And everywhere in the main cavern moved the McSobels, the armorer clan, responsible as well for general technology. Lugging their test equipment over the rock floor, they stopped beside each fighter and warhorse, running test programs through the arrays. Scarlet superconductor cables were pulled about behind them, supplying top-up charges to batteries and weapons magazines. Seven of them had been assigned to the raid, dressed in kilts that were matte-black with a plain grid pattern of thin dark gray lines and equally black coats. Five were bringing the missile launchers and medium-caliber plasma cannon, bulky titanium-cased units hanging from their Charlemagnes, which didn’t even seem to notice the extra weight. The remaining two operated electronic warfare systems intended to neutralize the Institute communications and throw in as much confusion and false data as possible.
Walking up to his own warhorse, Kraken, Kazimir felt the gooseflesh rising as the prospect of the coming raid grew more real. The Charlemagne snorted like a small thunderstorm, lifting and turning its head slightly so it could watch him walk around to its flank. Kazimir had absolutely no instinct to pat the creature reassuringly, this was nothing like the normal ponies and horses he’d learned to ride on. It was enough that the beast didn’t try to bite his head off on sight; the carnivore tusks curving over its rubbery lips were thicker than his fingers.
He began to check his pack once more.
“So are you two screwups ready?” a rasping voice asked.
Kazimir smiled around at Harvey McFoster, his old tutor. The man was a veteran of many clan raids against the Institute, and had the scars to prove it. Years ago, an ion beam fired by an Institute soldier had vaporized a superconductor battery beside him, and the superenergized molecules had penetrated his armor force field. After his injury, he spent his time teaching rather than fighting. He was lucky he survived the toxic shock. Clan medics spent six months repairing as much tissue as they could; even so the skin on a third of his body now had a melted appearance, and he could never raise his voice to shout. Not that he needed to, his presence alone inspired awe in his pupils. Kazimir considered himself privileged to have been one.
“Doing my best to be ready,” he said.
“Good enough,” Harvey said. “And you, Bruce, are you scared yet?”
“Ha.” Bruce gave the ion pistol on his belt a confident pat. “No, sir.”
Harvey’s cheek muscles moved his too-thick skin into a grimace, looking even more like some Halloween grotesque. “If you had a brain, lad, you would be.”
Bruce’s
eternal cockiness vanished.
“Be nervous,” Harvey said. “Their soldiers are trying to kill you, or worse. Fright is your friend, it keeps you alert. That gives you a chance out there.”
“Only heroes are fearless,” Kazimir said. “And they die young.”
“I’m glad you heard something I said,” Harvey told him. “Even if it is just an old lyric.”
“We’ll make you proud,” Bruce insisted.
Harvey’s hand closed on his shoulder. “I know you will, lad, although I’d prefer it if you just stay alive. Remember, keep your eyes focused in front of you the whole time, not on your dick.” He gave a labored wink toward the McNowak group, then walked off.
Kazimir and Bruce smiled at each other in the same way as they had when they got caught playing truant. Bruce lifted his pack up and fastened it behind his saddle. “He’s right, you know.”
“I know. We mustn’t let our attention slip.”
“No, you idiot, about them.”
“Huh?” Kazimir followed the line his friend was surreptitiously indicating. Four of the McNowak fighters were young women. Kazimir had even chatted with a couple of them yesterday when they arrived in Rock Dee.
“That one with the dark hair, she hasn’t stopped looking at you since we came in.”
“Andria?”
“Oh, ho, you already know her name. Quick work, my friend. So who’s the one next to her? I wouldn’t mind a tumble with her after the raid.”
“That’s Bethany. I think she’s paired with one of the McOnnas. And anyway, what about Samantha? It’s only another month until she’s due, right?”
“So? This is why I love being a McFoster. We exist to kill the Starflyer and breed enough warriors to make the cause successful. That’s our duty. We fight. We fuck. When you think about it, what else is there worth doing? And believe me, that Bethany over there, she’ll be thinking along the same lines.”
“Dear dreaming heavens. Bruce, she’ll be thinking how to brain you with her pistol butt, that’s all. Can’t you ever get a grip on yourself?” Kazimir unfolded the lightweight shield coat, and threw it over Kraken’s back, bracing himself should the beast not want it and react with a fast kick. The dark fabric was embroidered with glittering black metal curls and spirals, long tassels hung from the lower edges, almost touching the ground. He started to smooth it over the warhorse’s thick skin, and used its straps to tie it to the bolt rings.
“I’m being honest,” Bruce protested with genuine hurt feelings. “You know that. This raid is going to make every female fighter incredibly horny afterward. It does me. What better way to celebrate our glorious victory?”
“How about in a civilized fashion?”
“Ha! I remember the West Irral raid. You were drunk for a week after. And you vanished off with that McSobel. What was her name?”
“Lina.” He didn’t mention it was because in the midst of his happy drunken haze Lina had looked more than a little like Justine.
“That’s the one. So don’t go all noble on me. You and I are the same.” Bruce’s arm went around his friend’s shoulder. He turned the reluctant Kazimir until they were both facing the young McNowak women, and gave them a cheery wave. Andria returned a sly smile, her gaze lingering on Kazimir before turning to her Charlemagne. Her three companions went into a huddle with her. The boys heard giggling.
“Now tell me that wasn’t an invitation,” Bruce insisted. “Look at her. What a figure. I bet she’ll be as lusty as hell in bed. And those breasts, dear heaven, they’re huge.”
“Will you shut up!” Kazimir tried to clamp his hand over Bruce’s mouth. “They’ll hear you.”
“You’re such a virgin. Ohooo, be quiet, or they’ll hear how much we like them. Wake up and smell the coffee, Kaz, you’re not going to live forever. And it’s such a beautiful life in the meantime, especially when it’s got breasts that size in it.”
“Stop it!” He started plucking at Bruce’s shirt, peering under the collar, checking the cuffs.
“What are you doing, Kaz?”
“Looking for the off switch. Please, heaven, let there be one.”
Bruce laughed, pushing his friend away. “No man can stop thinking about women, especially not at a time like this. Battle fires up all the primitive instincts.”
“That explains a lot; nobody gets more primitive than you.”
“Let’s get over there, we’re wasting time.” He took a step forward.
“No!” Kaz almost had to lunge to grab hold of Bruce’s shoulder and stop him. All four McNowak women were staring at their antics now. “I swear I’ll shoot you dead on the spot if you make a scene with them,” he growled at Bruce.
Bruce allowed himself to be halted in midstride. “Kaz! You do care about Andria.”
“I don’t want the whole raiding party to think we’re a pair of jerks, that’s all. Which is what they will do if we go over there and you spin them your usual bullshit lines. Now will you quit being such an ass in public?”
“Okay: I will be quiet if you promise you’ll bed her after the raid. Deal?”
“And that’s really a promise I can make.” Kazimir wished his traitor mouth wasn’t trying so hard to smile. It seemed as though from the moment he and Bruce became teenagers every second of their time together had been spent plotting strategies to meet and impress the opposite sex. Now when relationships were more adult, casual, and easier, he wasn’t interested. Though Andria was genuinely attractive, and it had been pleasant talking to her earlier. And it had been a very long time since Lina. I wonder if Justine has found a lover? She would never lack for young men pursuing her.
“If you don’t, I’ll take her.”
Kazimir grunted in utter contempt. “Oh, yes, and that’s even closer to reality. Everyone knows your reputation. And if she didn’t know about Samantha, I’d tell her. I’ll go over there, and…”
“You’ll do it then?” Bruce’s face was radiating delight.
“Anything to shut you up.”
Bruce hugged him heartily. “Thank the dreaming heavens. You have no idea how badly you need to get laid. Every second since your offworld nympho left has been torture for your friends.”
“Good! So now you know what my life is like having to listen to you the whole time.” Kazimir lifted up his saddle and slung it over Kraken’s back, settling it on top of the blanket. He was convinced that even the warhorse was laughing at him.
The raiding party left Rock Dee an hour after nightfall, fully eighty clan fighters filtering out of hidden clefts amid the desert-side foothills of StOmer. They led their warhorses at first, negotiating the tricky passes and steep dune banks. Before midnight, they had all reached the southern side of the mountain, and mounted up to start their descent into the lowlands. Small tufts of wiry dry grass the color of straw were appearing in the gritty sand. As the gentle folds in the land began to deepen into distinct valleys the grass turned greener, and began to spread out into patches that soon joined together into a single carpet. This far down, and facing due east, a cold wind blew at them. For the first time they felt a tinge of moisture against exposed skin.
The air warmed quickly as they moved steadily lower. Even though it was now deepest night, they were only a few degrees south of the equator. A thin belt of giant heather formed the upper border to the forest that covered the lower half of StOmer’s eastern slopes. By daybreak they were safely under cover of the lush trees, and moving in small groups along the myriad hidden tracks.
They had a long break at midday, taking time to sleep as best they could as the heavy warm rain pattered against the broad canopy of leaves overhead. A quick, cold meal at the start of the afternoon, and they were on their way again. As the light began to drain out of the sapphire sky they had reached the edge of the forest, where the land fell away in a steep shingle and grass ridge. The captains of every squad sent out scouts, who crept up to the edge of the ridge to check the ambush point. Several of them were McSobels, who pinpointed and n
eutralized the remote sensors that the Institute had installed along the road below.
Far Away only had one major road: Highway One, which ran southward from Armstrong City to cross the equator where it snaked along the western side of the Great Iril Steppes until finally driving into the valley where the Marie Celeste had crash-landed and the Institute had been built to study it. The road provided the sole supply route from the gateway in the city to the Institute, a twin lane strip of enzyme-bonded concrete extruded by the only pair of tracked roadbuilders ever to be exported to Far Away. They’d been brought in specifically for that one job, although once they’d finished the long north-south route they’d managed to keep going long enough to lay down a few smaller roads linking Armstrong City with the larger towns in the north. But after they finally broke down no spare parts were ever brought in to fix them.
From their position atop the ridge, the clan scouts could see the stone-gray ribbon of the road curving around the hill that marked the entrance to the alien arkship’s valley. It was late afternoon, and the thick cover of vegetation that lay across the lowland was still steaming gently. Carried on the air, echoing and drifting out of the valley that contained the Institute, was the faintest of mechanical sounds. For over a year now, scouts had been reporting increased activity around the massive metal hull. The news had been given an ominous reception by the clans, its synchronicity with the work on the human starship was too strong to be ignored.
But now, from the vantage point of the ridge, there was no sign of any activity. Nobody was using the road. The scouts settled down and waited; their information on the convoy was good, it was only a matter of time.
Every couple of weeks a supply convoy delivered food and equipment to the Institute. It took at least a week to drive the route down from the city, often longer depending on the road’s state of repair, and the level of sabotage by the Guardians. Each convoy was protected by soldiers who were hired by the Institute and licensed by the planetary governor.
The Guardians had been monitoring this convoy since it left Armstrong City. There were twenty big trucks hauling the cylindrical freight containers that had arrived through the gateway over the last fortnight. They were all FordSaaB VF44s; sixteen-wheel, twin axle, diesel-fueled, and manual drive—even the most sophisticated arrays would have trouble coping with Far Away’s poor surfaces and absence of satellite positioning systems. The Institute had chosen them for its transport fleet because they were designed for low maintenance and rough terrain.
Pandora's Star cs-2 Page 44