Skalet, to her surprise and growing dismay, fit in too well.
The eighteen stationed at the outpost were, to put it plainly, disposable. The arrival of another such was occasion for no more than a shifting of bunk assignments. Skalet’s calm acceptance of a lowermost bed had nothing to do with stoicism, although it impressed the Kraal. Dumping heat was essential for a Web-being forced to hold another form and the temperature at floor level in all the buried domes was close to freezing. A cold bed was thus, as Skalet would say, convenient.
But her behavior set a pattern. Ersh’s orders and her situation notwithstanding, our reluctant Web-kin wanted as little to do with Kraal as possible. She took the worst shifts. She’d seek out the most dangerous, dirty tasks and do them alone. She’d eat first or last and clean up every trace of her existence. Unfortunately for Skalet, everything she did to avoid the other eighteen at the outpost only served to enhance her reputation. The others admired her fortitude, nicknamed her Icicle, and whispered of rapid promotion. Several went so far as to broach offers of support, gambling, with the single-mindedness of true Kraal, her inevitable rise in rank would similarly increase that of her allies.
Skalet had no idea how to stop any of it, short of disobeying Ersh and fleeing this world.
Case in point, this afternoon’s trip out to the antenna array. Skalet would have let someone else take the dangerous duty—and praise—but such excursions were her only escape from the populated tunnels and tiny rooms of the outpost.
And there was, she admitted, a peculiar satisfaction in pushing this form to its limits. There could be no radiation released outside the protection of the walls and snow cover—a snow cover that had to be routinely reduced or they’d be buried permanently. Such radiation would not only risk discovery of what was to be a secret from all Kraal but House Bryll, but would also ruin the observations being made by the sensitive equipment—the reason for being here in the first place.
This meant no light or beacons to guide her from the safety of the outpost to the array. Instead, Skalet reached for and found the guide line leading from the dome entrance to the distant equipment. If she let go, it was a step in any direction to be completely lost. If she was in truth what she seemed, it would be a long while before her frozen body would be recovered.
They’d lost two techs this winter, before her arrival, a distressing tally even for the Kraal.
Skalet knew every step of this journey, the ramplike rise to the surface from the dome entrance, the hit of wind, the emptiness to every side.
But even she kept her glove, stiff and frozen, on the line there and back.
It took as long to peel off the rock-hard layers of frozen cold-weather gear as it had to stagger out to the array, dig free the ladder’s base, climb the ladder, dig free the chipping tools, and hammer clear the tracks, wires, and supports. All the while the wind. All the while the knowledge that nothing else stood above ground. Hopefully.
Skalet fought her numb fingers and toes, hanging her coats by their hoods on the hooks lining the corridor walls. No space was wasted. Her gloves went into mesh hanging from the ceiling, taking advantage of the warmer air to dry. Boot liners joined the gloves. Drops of sweat melted from her hair and she swept the loose strands impatiently beneath their strapping. She’d shave the stuff, but to be inconspicuous among the fashion-obsessed Kraal of this era meant shoulder-length locks confined by annoying leather bands. Inefficient.
A similarly-banded head popped out from one of the small round doors. “Good timing, Icicle.”
Skalet raised one eyebrow. “How so, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Maven-ro, a capable sparring partner when not exhibiting a curiosity the equal of a certain Web-kin’s, and as little welcome, flicked her fingers against the bright red tattoo curled on her right cheek. House Bryll held her affiliation, that promise of unquestioned obedience, if not the return vow of unwavering protection. Front line Kraal soldiers understood their worth. Skalet’s own cheek bore a twin mark, though applied in paint rather than imbedded ink. “We’ve guests.”
Guests? How had she missed an arriving transport? Alarmed, Skalet reached for the knives in her belt. The energy weapons the Kraal favored were forbidden within the domes. Fire was the enemy; extinguishers hung at intervals on every wall and drills woke them just as regularly. Were these guests a new threat?
“An unexpected visit, but by one who is entitled to do so.” Maven-ro’s eyes gleamed approval. “Come. A meeting’s called. Your presence is commanded, Icicle. If you’ve sufficiently thawed, that is.”
Humor. The Kraal, like other Humans, were prone to its use in stressful situations. Skalet saw no purpose to it.
The thought of some Kraal authority interested in her didn’t help her feel any better.
Meetings were held in the one room large enough to hold everyone, the dining hall. Not by accident, it was the only portion of the outpost to benefit from the Kraal aesthetic—at least to the extent that the wall without kitchen equipment was crusted with gilded metal plaques commemorating the achievements of House Bryll in battle. A small and central spot was reserved for accomplishments from this obscure little outpost. The Kraal were also afflicted with Human optimism.
In Skalet’s judgment, the expected future of the place was more accurately seen in the lack of ornamentation anywhere else. The poorest Kraal House indulged in ostentatious display everywhere possible; even warships boasted wood carving and lush upholstery. Here was ice, frost-covered metal, and bags of supplies.
Reluctantly accepting her tiny glass of serpitay, the ceremonial drink no Kraal gathering of import could start without, Skalet eased behind others. She couldn’t disappear from view completely; her Humanself was taller than most of the Kraal assigned here. Every set of shoulders was braced, as if ready for anything.
A querulous voice demanded, “This is all?”
“The full complement, Your Eminence.” The outpost’s commander, Dal-ru, touched the backs of his hands to his tattooed cheeks and bowed, a gesture echoed by everyone in the room. “We await your pleasure.”
The pleasure they awaited belonged to the oldest Kraal Skalet had ever seen. Ersh-memory held older, but not by much. In a culture like the Kraal’s, such age meant extraordinary value to a House, toughness, or, most likely, both. The female’s maze of tattoos warred with wrinkles; her face might have been heartwood, ringed by the passing of countless seasons, a record of survival and success, for they were the same among Kraal.
Impressive.
“What’s the status of the fleet?”
“Fleet, Your Eminence?” Skalet was amused by the immediate tensing by everyone in the room. She knew, as well as they there’d been nothing on their scans for months. Which made the obedient Kraal likely to offend this noble no matter what. Dal-ru took the braver course. “We haven’t detected any ship movements.”
Her Eminence had not come alone, although her entourage was peculiarly small for a noble away from flagship or homeworld. Undoubtably, Skalet thought, others waited outside the domes, perhaps within the connecting tunnels. A courier, for such the noble must be, traveled with sufficient force to affect the actions desired by her House. Here and now, she was flanked by only two black-garbed guards, taller than Skalet, more muscular than the most fit crew of the outpost, girded with every weapon possible, including several that would be fatal to all if used in this room. Now one stooped to whisper something urgent in the courier’s ear. She shooed him away impatiently. “Then that’s the status, isn’t it?” she snapped. “I trust you have eyes on all scans for when that changes?”
Seven Kraal bowed hurriedly and dashed from the room. Two had been in front of Skalet. Thus exposed, she found herself caught by the curious regard of the old noblewoman’s milky eyes. “Who are you?”
Skalet’s bow was impeccable, the brush of knuckles to fake tattoo exquisite. Inwardly, she trembled. “S’kal-ru, Your Eminence. Tech Class—”
“Ah. The Dauntless Icicle. Attend me
.” The noblewoman rose to her feet without assistance, a smooth efficient motion that lifted Skalet’s eyebrow in involuntary appreciation. Admirable.
I knew Ersh filtered my Web-kin’s reactions to their own experiences before sharing them with me, probably viewing most as nonessential to my learning. Oh, I assimilated physical sensations, such as taste, and useful emotions such as fear, but, to this point in my life, the latter came to me so dimmed the memories could have belonged to any of us. This sharing was different. The intensity of Skalet’s fascination with the old Kraal came through as clearly as the remembered chill from the outpost. I fluffed out my fur and shivered. “I thought Skalet didn’t want to be noticed.”
“What have I told you about asking questions before you’ve finished assimilating?”
“Wasn’t a question,” I mumbled, hastily dipping back into memory.
Ersh, as usual, was right. I now owned this part of Skalet’s past—whether I wanted to or not.
“They tell me you don’t feel the cold, S’kal-ru. Is this true?”
Skalet, granted the unthinkable privilege of being allowed to sit in the presence of such high rank, hesitated.
“Come now. I didn’t invite you here to be a statue. If you won’t converse, let me hear that lovely voice of yours. Your commander didn’t exaggerate. Surely you sing.”
Banter, from someone like this, was even more unthinkable. Skalet felt her skin warming as her stressed form dumped heat. Luckily, this intimate setting was, as befitted the outpost, barely above freezing. Their breath mingled and twisted in the air like the fumes of forgotten dragons. “I don’t sing, Your Eminence,” Skalet said with a hidden shudder, then added honestly. “I don’t mind the cold.”
“You don’t let yourself mind it. That is good. Very good. So few learn to control the flesh, to put aside the instincts that would keep us cowering by the fire.”
As this didn’t seem to require a response, Skalet merely looked attentive. Her Eminence had taken Dal-ru’s office, a room hardly used since its location in a poorly insulated storage dome made it impossible to heat properly. Cases of beer lined the wall behind the ancient Kraal. She’d ignored them, more intent on this strange conversation.
“So tell me, Icicle, of the state of affairs among the Houses of Bract, Noitci, and Ordin.”
On familiar ground again, Skalet took care to answer as any Kraal here could. “The Bract and Noitci share fourth-, possibly fifth-level historical affiliations; both hold ninth-level affiliation with House Bryll. Ordin is a newer House, also affiliated to House Bryll.” She flicked her fingers over her tattoo. “Through us, Ordin gains third-level affiliation with both Bract and Noitci.”
The wrinkles and tattoos reshaped into a look of pure satisfaction. “The nexus being ours. The position of strength.”
Skalet frowned slightly in thought, but didn’t dare speak.
She didn’t have to. The Kraal was terrifyingly good at reading faces. “You see some flaw,” she guessed softly. “Interesting. Tell me. I grant you leave to criticize your own House.”
“As you wish.” Challenged, Skalet drew upon memory. “House Arzul, powerful yet inherently unstable, recently lost reputation and ships to Noitci, itself a fairly weak House, but thanks to a high-status alliance, temporarily enjoying a tenth-level affiliation with Bract, one of the strongest and noblest.” She found herself warming to her topic. Her own kin had no appreciation for the subtlety of this culture. “Arzul will rally to reclaim those losses. The nobles of Ordin are too impatient for power and lineage to let this opportunity slip by, or worse, be taken by a rival. They will attack Arzul, acquire affiliation with Noitci through blood debt, and thus gain ties to Bract. Unless House Bryll acts, it will be forced from the nexus to the outside of a new, powerful set of alliances, losing a great deal of status. Perhaps more than a House can afford to lose.” A disgraced Kraal House was like a fresh corpse to scavengers. Something to dismember.
“Acts how?” softer still. The Kraal noble leaned forward, creased chin on one palm, sunken eyes intent on Skalet. “Go on.”
Skalet could see it so clearly, like pieces on a board before a skilled hand swept them aside. “A preemptive move against Bract. Remove its alliance with Noitci by assassinating the First Daughter before her union, then remove the five who remain in the Bract Inner Circle.”
The wrinkles mapped nothing worse than curiosity. “You’d sacrifice a powerful ally and two former lovers of mine to what gain, S’kal-ru?”
“The audacity of the strike would enhance our affiliation with Ordin, a House of significant future promise should Bryll help it survive its own impetuousness. At the same time, Arzul would lose its patron, removing it as a threat to Noitci. Noitci, its alliance cut, would in turn be diminished, as would any affiliations outside of House Bryll held by Noitci and Arzul, drawing both closer to Bryll. Finally, and most importantly, existing alliances would mean the Inner Circle of Bryll would dominate that of Bract in the next generation. The closest affiliations between Houses of true power. All Kraal would benefit.”
“This presumes success.”
Skalet let herself smile, nothing more.
“Few think in generations. They want gains now, in their lifetimes.”
“ ‘What are lifetimes but strokes on a canvas?’ ”
“You quote N’kar-ro. Not easy reading, S’kal-ru. Again, you impress.” The noble paused, wrinkles deepening. “How has Bryll overlooked such quality as yours?”
Not a safe question. “I should return to duty, Your Eminence.”
“Your duty is to keep me company while we wait.”
“Wait for what?” Skalet’s own audacity shocked her.
The courier merely nodded, as if she’d expected the question. “For fools, S’kal-ru, who lack your grasp of tactics. Oh, they see the same patterns, but rather than the prick of a pin in the hollow of a neck, the certainty of poison built for one, they prefer the sound of trumpets and mountains of rubble.”
“A planetary assault force?” Skalet’s eyes widened. All she’d learned of Kraal pointed to a growing control and finesse of conflict, not a return to the devastating attacks that had almost ended this race in its infancy. “Against what target?”
The other woman’s mouth twisted and she turned her head to spit decorously over her own shoulder. “Farmland. Factories. The uninvolved. The sous.”
Sous. Noncombatants. The quiet majority of Kraal, who served their affiliations through a lifetime of peace and accomplishment, fueling the vast economy that afforded the great Houses their wealth—by convention and utter common sense, untouchable.
Until now. “You must stop them!” Skalet blanched at the ring of command in her own voice. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. I meant no disrespect.”
“I heard none. Conflict as a challenge to advance a House tempers our society. Strip challenge from conflict and we become no better than Ganthor, squabbling for the day’s profit. Yet even that shame can be forgiven, with time.” Her fingers formed a gnarled fist, punching down through the air between them. “To attack those who provide for all? That, S’kal-ru, is to court our own extinction. Which is why I need you, Icicle.”
Perhaps some part of Skalet remembered the Ersh and the Prime Law. If so, she made a choice to disregard both for the first time in her life.
“What do you want me to do, Your Eminence?”
Circles within circles, folded back on each other until the overall pattern of Kraal society appeared more an orgy of snakes than an organization of Humans—or those whose ancestry traced back to the same trees. Despite the perception of the non-Kraal, war had never been a game to those who created the Great Houses and defended them. They waged their power struggles without losing sight of the future or their desire to make it as they wished. There was much to admire in a culture that took charge of its own evolution.
Until those who believed they had the right chose the short path, the one that wasted the lives and resources on which the future depend
ed.
Skalet fastened the strap of her goggles around her neck, then methodically checked the laces and zips of her clothing. One opening and this form could suffer frostbite and impairment. She could risk neither tonight.
Her role was deceptively simple, elegant in Kraal terms. The Bryll assault fleet would pass in range of this outpost on its way to attack the Bract homesystem, to take advantage of their scans to detect and warn of any Bract ships in the area. Their fleet would remain unseen until it was too late to mount a defense. Except that Her Eminence, as Courier to Bryll’s Inner Circle, specifically those within that Circle in opposition to those mounting the assault, had sent a coded message to the Bract, recommending this system as the ideal place for an ambush.
Bryll would sacrifice her own, Skalet the pin to prick the unsuspecting throat.
Maven-ro, always alert to comings and goings, appeared in her doorway. “Didn’t you just come in, Icicle?”
“Hours back.” Skalet shrugged her fur-cased shoulders. “Weather’s worsening. We can’t risk anything impeding reception.” She flicked two fingers against her pseudo-tattooed cheek. They’d all been briefed by Dal-ru on the importance of protecting the fleet.
Maven-ro’s look wasn’t as approving as usual. In fact, she began to frown. “It’s bad enough out there even Her Eminence’s guard has come inside. There’s no indication of ice buildup yet. Stay.”
Skalet lifted a brow. “If I wait until there’s a problem, it could be too late. You know that.”
The Kraal shook her head. “There’s attention to duty and there’s being a fool, S’kal-ru. The winds have doubled. You won’t be able to stay on your feet, let alone hold to the guide line.”
Skalet rattled the clip and safety cable around her waist. “I’m prepared.”
Maven-ro threw up her hands. “Fine. Go freeze stiff. If we find you this spring, we’ll stand you up as a flagpole.”
Women of War Page 6