Cat Karina

by Coney, Michael

  Three years later the race began in strong winds and it was the turn of Salvatore to become legend. Off to a flying start, he rolled towards the switches ahead of the field with all sails set and straining. Unfortunately the strain was too much for the lee guiderail which collapsed. Salvatore’s car leaped to the ground, miraculously still upright.

  Normal procedure would have been to drop sails and brake hard, but the Tortuga Race was not a day for convention. The hull slid along the guiderails of the adjacent track, holding the car upright, and Salvatore, standing on the poop deck, had an inspiration.

  If he couldn’t win the race, at least he could ensure that nobody else did. He shouted to his crew to haul the sails in tighter still.

  The sailcar bounded through grass and scrub, scattering spectators and animals alike, and ploughed into the switches, demolishing the trackwork. Nobody could pass. Runners were sent to Rangua North Stage, shrugleggers came trotting and Salvatore, his car already on the ground, was the first to the taro siding. His craft had suffered considerable damage but, with a superb example of sailsmanship, Salvatore nursed it along and was finally credited with finishing third.

  Such was the background to the start of the Tortuga Race in the year 122,640 Cyclic. A history of disaster, opportunism and greed.

  “This year,” said Maquinista as he turned from his work to watch the sailcars gliding towards the switches, “I hope to God nothing goes wrong.”

  “My only hope is if nothing goes right,” said Tonio, stacking tortugas in the hold of Rayo.

  Joao was leading in Esperanza. This was unexpected, and Captain Herrero was watching in some astonishment as the car in the adjacent track began to pull away from him.

  “Antrez!” he shouted to his chief crewman. “Sheet in the main and set the topsail. That bastard’s getting away from us!”

  It was unthinkable! He’d looked on Tonio as his only threat so he’d bribed the little Specialists to refuse to do night work, which put Tonio out of the way. He’d secured the services of Dozo who, although perhaps not so competent as El Tigre, was one of the better Rangua felinos. And he’d made a couple of other arrangements down the line. But in order to take advantage of them, he had to get there first. Who in hell was this Joao, anyway? Nobody knew him, and it had been a surprise when he’d qualified to be among the eight racers. He’d come from some obscure Canton down south; Rocha, perhaps. Damn the man!

  Soon the Esperanza was half a length ahead. Herrero studied the set of her sails and gave further instructions to his crew. Sheets were hauled in and other sheets paid out, but without appreciable effect, Herrero left the poop deck and strode forward. Joao, ignoring the Urubu as though it was of no consequence, gazed steadily ahead from his casual stance at the stern rail. Herrero roared his rage, pushed a crewman aside and seized the mainsheet, sawing the boom to and fro in search of the optimum position.

  Joao’s crewmen relaxed, belaying the lines and sitting down.

  The Mark approached.

  Further down the track, Ocean Switcher, anticipating the result, gave the order to his men.

  “Track three. All together, now!”

  They lifted the guiderail into position and began to dog it down, setting the track to let the Esperanza through first.

  “God damn you!” Herrero shouted. “He’s not there yet!” It was that last load of tortugas. He should never have allowed it aboard. Urubu was too heavy, too ponderous for quick acceleration. Furious with himself and his agent, he watched Esperanza creeping ahead.

  Esperanza passed the Mark.

  Urubu reached the Mark a second later. Her bow, where Herrero stood, was level with Esperanza’s stern, where Joao lounged with a crewman — and where the mainsheet was fastened tautly to a deck cleat.

  So close that Herrero could almost have touched it.…

  And now, at last, Joao looked at Herrero. There was a faint smile on the southerner’s face.

  Herrero, lips tightly compressed, snatched up a billhook — a long pole capped by a knife used for cutting vegetation free from Urubu’s wheels and spars. As Karina had noticed previously, all Urubu’s knives were fashioned from metal, wrought in the Wrath of Agni. The billhook was razor sharp.

  Herrero raised it above his head and brought it down across the deck of Esperanza.

  The mainsheet parted with a crack like a whip.

  The boom swung out, carrying a crewman with it. The sail spilled wind, flogging uselessly.

  As Esperanza slowed and Urubu began to pass her, Herrero uttered a roaring yell of triumph. So much for the goddamned foreigner. Then Urubu ran into the guiderail, smashing it aside and flinging Ocean Switcher to the ground. Lurching and wobbling, Urubu stayed on the running rail by virtue of Herrero’s expert juggling of the sails, gained the undamaged track, and fled south. The race leader was on his way.

  At Rangua North Stage.

  The sun-ovens had been going since dawn. They were huge, used only at this time of year, great bowls comprising countless hemitrexes and big enough to roast oxen. They were contained in heavy wooden cradles to which llamas were harnessed. Mostly the animals grazed, but every so often the sun in its movement across the sky would light up a single hemitrex above each oven, directing a hot beam of light onto the rump of the llama, which would take a step forward, thus correcting the sun-oven’s solar alignment.

  The kikihuahuas would have approved of this mechanism.

  The sun-ovens were arranged along the beach and the wind bore the aroma of roasting tumpmeat inland, adding spice and anticipation to the festivities. Twenty meters inland the parallel tracks of the sailway ran above short grass and coastal scrub, turning inland at the Stage for the diagonal climb to Rangua Town. Rangua North Stage was similar to the South Stage where Karina lived, comprising a couple of sidings to accommodate crippled sailcars, a clutter of sheds for the shrugleggers and, on the hillside, a large community hut surrounded by the vampiro tents of both Stages.

  The main activity of the Festival was concentrated in the strip from the community hut down to the shruglegger sheds, then east to the sun-ovens. Along this thoroughfare the pitchers of ale were set up, and the temporary huts erected for mating. The bards squatted here, singing of heroism and glory to the complex Carerra rhythms so different from the classic simplicity of the Song of Earth. There were True Humans from Rangua dressed in bright cottons, walking in male-female pairs. There were Specialists of all kinds, from the hawk-mothers and their chattering broods enjoying a day out while their menfolk manned the signal towers, to the grim-faced cai-men. Long-necked mountain people laughed nervously, sharp-faced little pygmies from the upper jungle twitched their noses at the cooking smells, felinos strode everywhere, big loose-limbed men and beautiful women dressed in tunic of the finest skins.

  This was the time of waiting, when people walked about the Stage chatting and joking, drinking little as yet. The felinos saw to the shrugleggers, decorating them with ribbons and jockeying for advantageous positions at the trackside. Frequently teams would become tangled and the shrugleggers would begin to kick and plunge. Then the felinos would dive in, cursing and jerking at harnesses, occasionally coming to blows.

  The time of waiting was an electric time, and this year it had lasted since dawn because of the accident to Haleka’s tump.

  Dozo had established his position early and defended it against all comers. His shrugleggers waited patiently between the tracks — so that they could take a car whether it arrived on the east or west track — a little further up the hill than the others. He reasoned that any captain, and particularly Herrero, would want to roll as far uphill as possible before taking on assistance. It was a question of calculating just where the sailcar would stop.

  El Tigre had assembled his shrugleggers beside the inland track, level with Dozo.

  “Too proud to fight for position with the others?” Dozo taunted him.

  “Rayo was drawn on an inland track.”

  “There are other cars beside Rayo.�
��

  “I made an agreement with Tonio.”

  “Ha!” Dozo uttered a bark of derision. “Since when have we trusted the word of a True Human? Mark my words, El Tigre. If Rayo happened to come to rest beside Manoso down there, do you honestly believe Tonio would wait for you to bring your team down? Of course not. He’d tell Manoso to hook up. I’m surprised at you. You’re the one who preaches revolution. You, above all, have reason to hate True Humans!”

  “So far as we’re concerned, Dozo, the Race is the climax of our year’s work. I feel it would be sacrilege to disrupt it. I might cheat a True Human — or be cheated by him — at any other time. But not during the Race.”

  The track trembled, and bright sails came gliding along the beach.

  Urubu rolled to a stop.

  Dozo had overestimated, and his hindmost shruglegger stood twenty meters past Urubu’s nose. Herrero stood there, sizing up a team directly beneath him. It belonged to a felino from Rangua North Stage named Peleante.

  “My honor,” said Peleante.

  Dozo hurried up while an assistant undertook the difficult task of backing his team downhill to Urubu.

  “Piss off,” said Dozo to Peleante. To Herrero he shouted, “My shrugleggers are raised on the southern slopes, Captain. They’re far stronger than these scraggy creatures.”

  Herrero glanced over his shoulder. Another set of sails was approaching, passing swiftly through the coastal scrub. “Hook up, Peleante,” he snapped. “The fat man’s lost his chance.”

  “I have three grupos to set on you,” said Dozo quietly to Peleante. “Look to your left.”

  Peleante did so, and saw a row of powerful women lounging against the guiderail, watching him with narrowed eyes.

  “Look to your left, fat man,” he said.

  Another bunch of females stared through the tracks like caged animals. Dozo, recognizing a stalemate, changed his tactics. “Captain!” he called. “My price is reduced by the advance payment you made at the yards!” It was the ultimate sacrifice, allowing Herrero to apply the bribe against the towing charge.

  Herrero’s habitual expression of irascibility did not change as he rapidly checked out the economics. Then, after another glance over his shoulder, he said, “Couple up then, Dozo. Make it fast!”

  Dozo’s assistant was already fastening the harness to the towbar. Dozo named his price and Herrero tossed a handful of tokens at him. Meanwhile the car behind had arrived on the same track as Herrero and its captain, seeing a chance to overtake, was paying a gang of felinos to manhandle him through the crossover onto the other track. Peleante hurried across to haggle with this new arrival while his assistant reversed the shrugleggers. They became entangled with a team belonging to Diferir, and while they were sorted out Manoso’s team was engaged for the haul to the summit.

  Peleante shrugged and turned to watch for further arrivals. It was all in the game; all part of the bright tapestry of the Tortuga Race. There was no point in getting excited over a few hardwood tokens.

  A short distance away, El Tigre had company. A woman, beautiful with the voluptuousness of the mature felina had approached him. “All alone, El Tigre? What are your plans for today? I have a tent with many cushions of the best skin over there.”

  “I’m sure you do, Iolande.” As she raised her arm to point, her tunic had slipped a little, displaying a brown, erect nipple. El Tigre smiled, it had been artistically done; no wonder Iolande was the most sought-after of the felinas. “I expect you have plenty to eat in there, too.”

  “Everything a man could desire.” She still bore the marks of Karina’s nails on her face, but this imperfection had the perverse effect of heightening her desirability. “Anything you want, El Tigre.”

  “Including stolen tumpmeat?” He reached out and tweaked the nipple playfully. “Maybe later. Right now, I have a job to do.”

  “I may not be around later,” said Iolande.

  “A woman is a woman,” he said casually. “There are plenty of opportunities on the day of the Festival.”

  Now she smiled, too. “And a man is a man. Only True Humans make commitments, and look at them.” A True Human couple were walking past at that moment, arm in possessive arm, while their eyes wandered among the attractive cat people.

  “Go away, Iolande,” said El Tigre gently.

  “Later, then. And.… El Tigre, I’m sorry it had to be your grupo we tangled with the other day.” The theft of the meat was nothing; felinos’ principles were different from those of True Humans and Iolande’s punishment had been a mere reprimand. The framing of El Tigre’s daughters was a matter of circumstance; no felino could condemn opportunism. But it was a pity, and Iolande recognized this. “Where are your little girls today, El Tigre?” she asked maliciously.

  Before he could reply, Torch walked up. The young man was frowning, scanning the hillside. “Yes, where is the grupo, El Tigre?”

  “They’ve gone to Torres.”

  “That’s a pity.… I’d hoped that we.…” Torch’s voice trailed away. He’d hoped that tonight, as the drink flowed free and dissolved petty objections, he might have consummated his relationship with the El Tigre grupo.…

  While they’d been talking, four more sailcars had passed, drawn by shrugleggers amid much shouting and cracking of whips. Next came Dozo, riding downhill with his shrugleggers trotting behind.

  “Herrero’s away. Salvatore close behind. Four on the hill — that leaves two.” As he talked, Dozo cocked an eye at El Tigre. “Ah, and that’s Belin coming in now. Arrajo has him. So that just leaves Rayo.…”

  Iolande said, “You’ve agreed with Tonio, El Tigre?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re an honorable man. You could have taken any of the others, but you didn’t.” She made a parody of sighing. “Ah, well.… I must get back to the fun. Maybe …?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She left them, walking slowly to disguise her limp — another legacy of her fight with Karina.

  Dozo said, “Just a couple of weeks ago we were all getting heated about this Rayo, and how it was going to give True Humans all kinds of advantages — and where’s Rayo now? Stuck on some siding, I’ll be bound, with a broken spar.”

  “Rayo will be here,” said Torch. “Or Captain Tonio will have El Tigre to answer to!”

  “Loyally put,” Dozo’s tone was sarcastic, as the seventh car rumbled up the hill, the impetuous Arrojo flogging his shrugleggers and the captain yelling encouragement from the prow.

  “Here she is!” The triumphant shout from Torch announced the flag which could be seen moving above the trees some distance away. Then Rayo burst out of the delta region and the white sails flitted along the flat lands behind the beach, taut and shining.

  “She moves fast,” said Dozo thoughtfully. “Very fast.”

  El Tigre took the harness of the lead shrugleggers and began to drag the team uphill, anticipating that Rayo’s present speed would carry her much further up the bank than he’d thought. “Move, you bastards!” he shouted, and the shrugleggers obeyed, eyes rolling in terror. Dozo and Torch ran beside him.

  “She’s coming. She’s coming so fast,” gasped Torch, trying to look over his shoulder and run at the same time.

  The hubbub of the Festival quietened suddenly. The only sound was the pounding of feet from El Tigre’s team.

  Then came a drawn-out, piercing shriek as Rayo hit the curve at the foot of the bank and the guiderails protested with the strain. Children scattered and felinos yelled in alarm, dragging their shrugleggers aside as Rayo swept by.

  El Tigre ran on, hearing the running rail resonate beside him, knowing without looking that he still had a long way to go. The shrugleggers ran behind in an untidy file, beginning to balk, kept going at this unnatural pace by their fear of the big cat-man who led them. And then El Tigre’s foot caught in a tussock and he fell. The shrugleggers halted, bunching and milling.

  El Tigre stood. The shrugleggers would go no further. If Tonio pas
sed this point, he would have to roll back to him.

  The rumble from the rail was growing to a roar.

  El Tigre looked back.

  Rayo had barely slackened speed! Sails full and straining, she raced up the gradient towards him, passing shrugleggers and felines, passing the cairn marking Triunfo’s record height of two years ago, passing Dozo as he toiled uphill, passing Torch who stood gazing in open-mouthed astonishment, passing El Tigre’s shrugleggers.…

  Rayo rocketed on and the wind of her passing pushed El Tigre aside. The shrugleggers were snorting and pawing in terror and El Tigre fell, still hanging onto a rein. As he lay there he caught a split-second image of Tonio’s face, pale and staring fixedly ahead; then Rayo was climbing rapidly away from him and the sound of her passage, already unnaturally quiet, was fading to a murmur.

  Seconds later, Dozo arrived. “I told you, never trust —” Then he saw the expression on El Tigre’s face, fell silent, and began to think. A car had climbed the bank without assistance. The implications began to hit him, one by one. “Mordecai.…” he whispered.

  El Tigre said, “Round up the men, Dozo. Saddle up the fastest mules.”

  Then he began to run up the hill.

  Reaching the signal tower at the south end of the town he began to climb the ladder. From the top he saw Rayo, going like the wind, heading out across the plain. In the far distance he could see the hill at Torres and, as he watched, a winking light caught his eye. News of the race was coming through.

  He threw open the signalbox door.