Asimov's SF, October-November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Before he could fret himself completely into a stupor, Pretty Bottom sauntered back into camp, carrying a fresh hunk of moropus haunch, saying, “This is all they would part with."

  He took the bloody meat, handing her a washcloth. “I feared for you."

  "Needlessly,” she noted, wiping moropus blood off her body.

  SinBad cooked the meat on thorn bush skewers, while Pretty Bottom wriggled back into her fringed buckskins. When the meat was done, he told her, “Thuria is rising. We need to find a safe place to eat."

  Pretty Bottom agreed, “First I must get my possible sack. I left it in a tree."

  Burying his precious cargo, he made a place for Pretty Bottom on the back of his sand sail. She returned with her beaded possible sack, the Red woman's leather purse. Settling in behind him, she asked, “What do they call you?"

  "SinBad."

  She grinned at him. “That's a lie. You sin very well."

  Unfurling the sail, he headed off downwind, looking for a hiding place. Not easy to find on the flat mossy sward that covered most of Barsoom. But he had to do it soon, ahead of the Slaver Moon. Pretty Bottom faced kidnapping and worse, while Slavers would kill him out of hand.

  Finally, he found a spot, a stretch of grassy steppe, cut by a dry wadi, with a high bank on the Thuria side. There was no way to hide the sand sail, so SinBad parked it at the head of the wadi, telling Pretty Bottom, “I'll carry you from here."

  "Really?” She looked shocked. Nomad women regularly carried men's things, but were never carried about by men.

  "We cannot leave a line of women's bootprints for Slavers to follow."

  She agreed with a giggle, more embarrassed by being picked up than by serial adultery. Barsoom's light gravity made it easy, but by the time they reached the wadi, Thuria was breaking the horizon. Slaver macroscopes were already sweeping the landscape for victims, able to see anything, even the eye color of any woman silly enough to gaze at Barsoom's nearer moon.

  Sure enough. Huddled against the high bank, he heard the boom of an orbital shuttle breaking atmosphere, followed by the whoosh of the ship settling down next to his abandoned sand sail. But there was no woman, no cargo, nothing to tempt the Slavers to follow his heat trail into the wadi. Instead they took off again. Slavers knew it was Wife Stealing Time, and had their hands full, combing the area around the Crow camp for errant wives in hiding.

  SinBad settled back, chewing on roast moropus. Pretty Bottom asked, “Are they gone?"

  "Hope so.” He was not about to look. Macroscopes would be trained on the wadi bank, searching for human prey. Thanks to the Greenies, offworld weapons were banned on Barsoom, forcing the natives to make do with bows and swords. Slavers had line-of-sight lasers and orbit-to-surface missiles. They could pick you off without ever leaving Thuria.

  Sighing, Pretty Bottom relaxed against him. “You have been nice to me."

  "You too.” More than nice.

  "It is not easy, being third wife to Alligator Stands Up."

  "Or Goes Ahead's girlfriend,” he reminded her.

  "Even worse.” She grimaced. “Goes Ahead just wants to parade me through camp, to embarrass my chieftain, and bolster his pride."

  Everyone had plans for her, including him. Though his would have to wait until Thuria set. Making love in a wadi was not very practical, especially with Slavers watching.

  Instead they waited, while Thuria hurtled overhead. SinBad noticed several pugmarks in the sandy wadi, one quite large. He pointed them out to the young nomad. “Ba'ath?"

  "Two ba'aths,” she replied. “Mother and cub."

  "You can tell that from these tracks?"

  "Yes.” Pretty Bottom read the spoor as if it were a sensor readout. “The mother was teaching the cub to hunt. She trapped a young gazelle against the bank of the wadi, where they played with it for awhile. Then they killed it, and went off that way, carrying the dead gazelle."

  Looking closer, SinBad saw the smaller prints among the pugmarks, jumbled and frantic, as the terrified gazelle bounded about before being killed and eaten. Like the moropus they had for breakfast.

  Thuria set. By now the east wind had fallen, leaving him totally becalmed. Too bad. He would not start for Kaol today. Luckily, he had someone to occupy his time. Loosening his loincloth, he ran a hand up under her fringed buckskins.

  Pretty Bottom arched a dark eyebrow. “What? You want more?"

  "Oh, yes.” Who would not?

  She feigned surprise. “Last night you were so wary."

  "You are even more beautiful by day."

  "I am?” Pretty Bottom purred.

  "You know you are.” SinBad never lied to women, especially one so handy with a skinning knife.

  Pleased to have found a man who appreciated the obvious, Pretty Bottom let him lift her buckskins. This was Wife Stealing Time. Next week, it would be back to neglect and adultery.

  Before he even got started there was the boom of a shuttle breaking atmosphere. SinBad froze in mid-ravish, looking up at a silver streak falling out of the cloudless sky. This was an old Slaver trick, to leave a ship trailing in orbit, to see who broke cover when Thuria went down. And he had fallen for it.

  "What was that?” his paramour asked.

  "Nothing nice.” Rolling off her, he pushed Pretty Bottom back up against the bank. Too little, too late. He heard the whoosh of a lander settling in the long grass. What now?

  Pretty Bottom whispered, “Slavers?"

  "Probably.” Certainly not Goes Ahead, looking for a lost girlfriend to decorate. He cocked his crossbow, for all that would do against lasers and sleep gas grenades. Pretty Bottom drew her skinning knife. They waited.

  Nothing happened, at first. He sat there, clinging to his crossbow, mentally counting tals. If they were coming for him, it would be quick. Slavers did not like to linger, once Thuria had set.

  Expecting Slavers, he was shocked to have an angel flitter into view; a silver-wigged beauty, wearing glitter paint, white solar-powered wings, and a shining jeweled G-string. Silver-plated nipples shone in the sun.

  Neither he nor Pretty Bottom knew what to say. Landing in an ivory flutter of artificial flight feathers, the silver-skinned woman said, “Kaor. We come in peace."

  Tourist. And unarmed. That much was obvious. “Kaor,” SinBad replied, setting aside his crossbow. He had to stop pointing it at pretty women. “We were going to come in peace. Then you arrived."

  "I did not mean to interrupt,” the silver woman protested. “Please continue your copulation. I hear it is spring on this planet. What you locals call Wife Stealing Time."

  Only if you are Crow. “Is that why you came here?"

  "Oh no.” The offworlder shook her head. “We are here to hunt."

  "What?” asked Pretty Bottom suspiciously, still holding her knife.

  "Ba'aths."

  SinBad grimaced. “This is the place."

  "These are Crow hunting grounds,” Pretty Bottom pointed out. “You need to pay my people."

  "Oh, I am not hunting.” Silver-lashed eyes rolled. “My husband is."

  "Then he must pay."

  "Well, I am sure he will,” the offworlder promised.

  "Now.” Pretty Bottom stood up, brushing off her buckskins, looking about. “Where is he?"

  SinBad broke cover as well, looking up over the bank, seeing a squat, shining orbital yacht, surrounded by a flickering energy fence. Their offworld guest seemed suddenly sorry to disturb their tryst. Spying on the locals was not so fun when natives started making demands.

  "Let us go.” Pretty Bottom still held the skinning knife. “I am Pretty Bottom. My husband is Alligator Stands Up, war chieftain of the Kick Belly Crow."

  Silver-wig turned to SinBad. “Is that you?"

  Pretty Bottom laughed at the notion. “He is a Huron outcast, a sex criminal."

  "Oh."

  "It is Wife Stealing Time."

  "So he stole you?” Silver-wig meant him.

  Pretty Bottom snorted.
“No one stole me."

  "And that is good?” Silver-wig did not want to make another silly mistake.

  "Of course.” There seemed to be no end to offworld foolishness. “Would you want to be stolen?"

  "No,” Silver-wig admitted.

  "Then beware,” SinBad warned. “Thuria rise is only a zode away."

  "Thuria?"

  "Slavers,” he explained.

  "Oh. We have missiles,” she replied brightly.

  Both Red Barsoomians rolled their eyes. Pretty Bottom tucked the knife back in her boot, and went wading through the long grass toward the yacht, stopping at the sand sail to pick up her possible sack. SinBad followed, eyeing the grass tops, his crossbow out and cocked. This was ba'ath country, where your only sure warning was a twitch in the tall grass.

  Silver-wig took off behind them, landing alongside the energy fence.

  Even when he got to the fence, SinBad instinctively kept his back to the offworld camp, watching the grass. Ba'aths knew us, better than we knew them. Where we were, where we had been, where we slept, and where we relaxed. He would sooner turn his back on trigger-happy tourists, armed with lasers and Issus missiles.

  Inviting them in, Silver-wig opened a fence section, but SinBad did not turn about until it resealed behind them. He found himself facing a typical Tourist hunting party preparing to go out, topping off canteens with home-brewed gin, and sighting in their lasers on distant objects. White apes squatted patiently, waiting to shoulder their loads. Their leaders were an expensive-looking gent in tiger-stripe body paint, with a heavy duty laser rifle, and his SuperCat guide.

  This SuperCat, Homo smilodon, was a cross between humans and big cats, walking erect, with tawny fur, clawed hands, a stubby tail, tufted ears, bulging forehead, and saber-toothed canines—not as big as a ba'ath's, but sufficiently scary. SinBad knew he was a local, since the SuperCat carried just a short stabbing spear.

  Sliver-wig introduced them, saying, “This is Pretty Bottom, and her friend Huron. Meet my husband, Laird Islay of Islay."

  Laird Islay had to come from Paradise system at least, since no one closer than that would take light years out of their lives to stalk exotic predators. He stuck out a huge tiger-striped hand, saying, “Thanks for returning my wife. I hear they are in season."

  "Only for Crows,” SinBad corrected him. “I am Huron."

  "Outcast Huron,” Pretty Bottom added.

  Islay winked at him, “Well, Huron, looks like you caught one anyway."

  Silver-wig giggled, “They were just going to mate, when I flew by."

  "Try not to hold it against us.” Islay of Islay slapped his wife's silver rump. She smiled, lowering long gleaming lashes.

  Her laird introduced the silent SuperCat, “This is Simba. We came to kill a few ba'aths, keep some of you from being eaten."

  Unimpressed, Pretty Bottom told them, “I am Crow. Pretty Bottom, wife to Alligator Stands Up, war chieftain of the Kick Bellys. You may not hunt without my permission."

  Islay must have offworld permits. Greenies did not care how many ba'aths humans killed. But his lairdship was sharp enough not to anger the locals, especially pretty promiscuous ones. “What can I give to get permission?"

  "You may start by feeding us,” she suggested primly.

  Snapping striped fingers, Islay of Islay ordered up a vegan feast of fresh fruit, roast tofu, curried rice and vegetables in peanut sauce, raisins, almond butter, apples, celery, and black bean burgers. Washed down with fruit juice. Pretty Bottom stared at a black bean burger, asking, “Where's the meat?"

  "Killing to eat is wrong,” Laird Islay informed her, while almond buttering a celery stalk.

  Pretty Bottom shrugged, pulling out a strip of roast moropus to spice up her burger. Her hosts were aghast. The Crow thought they were crazy. “You came here to hunt."

  "Ba'aths. They are carnivores. Killing them saves countless sentient beings,” Silver-wig explained.

  "You are not going to eat them?” Pretty Bottom looked scandalized. “Not even the heart?"

  Tourists looked down at their tofu, saying nothing.

  "Do you have a see-through sack?” Pretty Bottom asked. Given a seal-a-meal, she filled it with raisins and apples. “How about some silver cloth?"

  They produced that too. “And a See-Me-Too."

  "She means a mirror,” SinBad explained, filling his canteen with fruit juice. He was Huron, so no one needed his permission to do anything. Not in Crow country.

  Silver-wig produced a self-illuminating digital looking glass. Admiring her 3V reflection, Pretty Bottom told them, “Kill all the ba'aths you can."

  Sliver-wig saw them back through the energy fence, asking the Crow, “How did you get your name?"

  "Pretty Bottom is a famous name in my family,” the Crow explained, shouldering her possible sack, now stuffed with loot. “My great-great-grandmother lured a Lakota war party into an ambush, and was given the name, ‘Bares her Pretty Bottom to the Enemy.’ Before that she was called Weasel."

  Made sense. SinBad asked her, “What was your baby name?"

  "Beast."

  He believed it. Silver-wig felt sorry that lunch was less than a success, but Pretty Bottom spurned her apology, holding up the seal-a-meal. “These raisins are delightful. I can always get meat."

  All the vegan huntress could say was, “Good luck."

  As they waded back to the dry wadi, with SinBad's crossbow cocked and aimed at the grass tops, Pretty Bottom told him, “I like her."

  "Who? Islay's wife? Me too,” SinBad admitted, picturing pert silver nipples.

  "I like her silver hair.” His Crow companion could be equally superficial.

  "It's a wig,” SinBad warned her, before she got too carried away.

  "Really?” Pretty Bottom seemed even more intrigued.

  When they got back to the wadi, SinBad was ready to resume what the offworlders interrupted, but Pretty Bottom would not have it, handing him the possible sack. “I have business in the brush."

  Without saying what it was, she strode off into the long grass. He called after her, “Be back before Thuria rise."

  She did not answer. Any woman who had breakfast with ba'aths was impossible to sway. He sat down by his sand sail, eating raisins, and keeping watch on the Tourist camp, hoping to catch sight of Silver-wig.

  Sure enough, after a dozen xats, the energy fence opened, and Laird Islay of Islay strode out, his SuperCat guide at his side, followed by two more tiger-striped tourists, then a trio of White ape gunbearers. Silver-wig soared ahead, surveying the grass from buzzard height. Bon appetit, ba'aths.

  When he could no longer see Silver-wig, SinBad sank back down to wait. Wind had shifted around to the southwest, fair for Kaol, but he was not going anywhere.

  Thuria rise drew near, and Pretty Bottom came strolling up the wadi, asking, “Any raisins left?"

  "Of course.” Time, though, was running low.

  Grabbing a handful of raisins, she told him, “They're back."

  He turned to see the hunters returning empty handed. Just as well. Silver-wig did a wingover, turning their way to land in the wadi, saying, “We did not see any ba'aths."

  "Good.” Pretty Bottom downed a handful of raisins.

  Silver-wig looked hurt. “If you do not want us hunting, why did you give permission?"

  "For raisins, shining cloth, apples, and a See-Me-Too.” Offworlders often missed the obvious. Giving them the right to hunt did not preclude rooting for the ba'aths.

  "Have an apple,” SinBad suggested, to make Silver-wig more welcome. Rudeness to semi-nude women was against his religion.

  Shaking her head, she spread her white primaries, saying, “That Slaver Moon will be up soon."

  Thuria rise was a couple of xats away. Which meant back to hiding behind the bank. Silver-wig took off, and SinBad asked his Crow companion, “I thought you liked her?"

  "I like her wig."

  That too. He watched the offworlder wing her way over the gr
ass, landing at the edge of the energy fence. As the fence opened, a tawny blur with a wild black halo burst out of the tall grass, landing on Silver-wig's back, seizing her in great fanged jaws. Thuria topped the horizon. Silver-wig shrieked, then vanished into the long grass, carried away by a ba'ath.

  * * * *

  HUNTING PARTY

  Seizing his crossbow, SinBad shouted over his shoulder to Pretty Bottom, “Hide."

  Unable to see any sign of Silver-wig, he could still hear her screams. That was good. Screams and shrieks meant she was alive. Cocking the bow, he dashed back into the tall grass, hoping it was just one ba'ath, not a whole pride. At any moment, another ba'ath might leap out of the shag lawn to make a midday meal of him. Leo barsoom was like that, waste not want not.

  When he got to the gap in the energy fence, the screams had stopped. Bad sign. He looked about, finding Pretty Bottom right behind him. “I told you to hide."

  "Thuria is up.” Pretty Bottom nodded at the horizon. Slavers had already seen her, so hiding was worse than useless. Now he had two women to worry about, one seized by a ba'ath, the other menaced by Slavers.

  "Stick close.” Slavers had to wait, since a ba'ath would not. If he did not find Silver-wig in a xat or two, he never would.

  There was a trail in the grass, strewn with solar cells and silver feathers. He bounded down it, to get to the ba'ath while it still had its jaws full. Hopefully, an explosive bolt up the butt would make it open up.

  After a dozen ads, he came on a huge dent in the grass that looked like a kill site. Silver feathers lay all about. Laird Islay and his SuperCat were already there, staring into the grass, Islay cradling a laser rifle, Simba hefting his assegai. Seeing him, Islay asked, “Huron. Have you seen her?"

  SinBad shook his head, not taking his gaze off the surrounding grass.

  "No blood,” said Islay hopefully.

  Simba nodded. “She has not begun to feed."

  "She?” Islay arched an eyebrow.

  "From the tracks I would say an adult female, three years old or so.” Simba meant Barsoom years.

  Tals ticked away, taking with them any hope of finding Silver-wig alive. Islay gave SinBad a haggard glance. “Got some experience with ba'aths?"

  SinBad showed him the claw marks on his crossbow stock.