Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  They returned to the main camp. Duty took Tomás and Kor to the captain’s tent-office and Rigi went to “her” and Margit’s shelter, after a stop by the necessary and then the secondary mess for water and more water. Rigi drew the creature in more detail, and tried a larger version of her sketch, but she just could not get the neck correct. After four tries, she gave up and drew two creatures, one with a neck as short as it appeared from the hide, then a second digger with an additional hand-span of neck. The longer neck seemed to be in better proportion to the rest of the beast, but was her artistic sense overriding her anatomical honesty?

  “Pish and puddle,” she declared, noted the page, closed the pad and flopped onto the cot, arm over her eyes.

  “Is it true that you discovered a new sapient species?”

  “How many of your team were eaten? The initial reports said only twenty.”

  “Dr. Xian, can you comment on the treatment of Staré by the military?”

  “Is it true that twelve Staré were brutally murdered by a soldier?”

  “Are the hidden cities going to be opened for visitors?”

  “Miss, is it true that you married your rescuer?”

  Rigi tried to hide behind Dr. Xian, but she stood a full head taller than the compact xenoarchaeologist, and the holo-recorders found her anyway. Fleeing into the woods would be better, she thought, trying not to panic at the wall of recorders and reporters. The path from the transport to the edge of the landing area had been kept well clear, lest anyone get maimed or killed by an arriving or departing flitter or transport, but a solid mass of humans blocked the path through the gate to where Rigi saw her parents, Uncle Eb, and Aunt Kay waiting. Would fainting help? Probably not, and she didn’t know how to pretend-fall without getting hurt. How about one of those fits that the lady, Mrs. Three-Long-Names, indulged in on Home, the ones that sent everyone around her either fleeing in dread or rushing to console and succor the “poor suffering dear.” Rigi thought they were all a bit silly, but shrieking, wailing, collapsing and demanding to be served and carried about had some appeal, especially if it cleared the blockage.

  Margit grimaced and whispered into her ear, “Where’s a stink-rat when you need one?” Rigi bit her tongue to keep from laughing aloud at the mental picture, even as she nodded just a fraction of a centimeter. One large, angry stink-rat would clear the entire landing pad, and probably trigger evacuations as far as two kilometers farther downwind. Nothing but nothing, not even trap-lizards and hunter-lizards, bothered stink-rats. Dr. Xian seemed unruffled and held up both hands, as if signaling for quiet. When that failed to stem the flow of demands and questions, she turned her head to catch someone’s eye and nodded. A piercing whistle cut from behind Rigi, and a few of the reporters covered their ears or ducked. The commotion and hubbub died as if hit by a bolt from a military-power shooter.

  “Thank you for your concern and you interest in our findings,” Dr. Xian called. Mr. De Groet had worked his way forward and stood beside her, looking dramatic with his arm in a sling and sporting an impressive black eye that owed only a little of its color to cosmetics. That he hid Rigi from the reporters was pure accident, of course, or so all of the expedition members would aver if asked. “However, this is not the time or place to give you a full briefing that will answer your questions with the thoroughness they deserve. Yes, several important discoveries were made, some of which you already know about, including the twelve new species and genuses. No one was eaten alive by the wildlife, so please stop spreading that tale,” and she glared at a young woman in a shirt with a pattern so loud it made Rigi’s ears ache. “As you can see several of us have injuries that need proper medical attention, and the stress of losing four of our colleagues has worn on all of us. There will be a full, formal briefing and release of preliminary images very soon. Again, thank you for your interest. Good day.”

  The wall refused to move, and more shouted questions few toward the returnees. “Miss, how does it feel to be the survivor of such terrible sexual attacks by the Staré?”

  “Is it true that you uncovered evidence of smuggling of rare species?”

  “Mr. De Groet, can you confirm your choice for the local pitch-ball champion?”

  Micah De Groet called back, “The Four-fields Fieldhands, of course. Do I look like a traitor?”

  “But they’ve never won a tournament?”

  “And humans will never leave the planet Earth,” he riposted, generating laughter and a few protests.

  The wall of reporters, holo-recorders and sundry pushed forward and moved toward Rigi. She didn’t want to deal with the crowd, didn’t want to answer questions, and she started to panic. She looked toward her family, heart racing, shaking. Uncle Eb and her father seemed to lean together, then she heard, “Look out!” Martinus leaped forward.

  “Here boy, here boy!” Rigi called. “It’s OK, boy.”

  “Wooeef! Wooeef!” Martinus scrambled toward her and the reporters dodged out of the way as a hundred kilos of m-dog ran at top speed. Rigi crouched and opened her arms. Martinus slowed at the last moment and she hugged him, patting his head, and back, and gushing about what a good dog he was. Together they trotted through the gap in the crowd toward her parents and family. The reporters seemed unwilling to follow, perhaps because someone else now stood with her parents. Colonel Prananda could loom very large when he cared to. Rigi stopped and curtsied, then “oof!” as her brother almost lifted her off the ground and threatened to break her ribs. He and Col. Prananda acted as shields, allowing Rigi and her parents to start moving toward a waiting vehicle. The other men followed, and Rigi kept one hand on Martinus. Uncle Eb opened the door and an unfamiliar third Stamm Staré who could have been a mirror image of Lonka got out, standing watch on attack-alert as the family boarded. He and Col. Prananda got in front and rode in the guide cabin. Rigi couldn’t see who was driving.

  “Your bags are here already.” Aunt Kay said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Rigi handed the shooter case to her aunt. “I used one gas-pack. It is in the case.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.”

  Rigi’s very pregnant mother leaned forward against the shoulder harness and peered at her daughter, then sniffed. “I believe that suit needs to be cleaned, Auriga. Were there no wash facilities?”

  “Yes, ma’am, there were after a fashion. I’m sorry, but the Staré of the plateau have rather interesting ways of washing their things. They boil them with a foaming root, then pound them on rocks, then boil a second time, before squeezing the water out. I did not want to inadvertently ruin anything.” Formality and control came easily, here, in the quiet and seclusion of the vehicle. “The white foam appeared to be a type of bleach.”

  “I see. They need a proper cleaning.”

  “Yes, ma’am, they do.” As do I, she thought. Her hair was clean, but not as clean as she preferred.

  “You’re not going anywhere without me again,” Cyril announced.

  Her mother’s lips pursed, and Rigi leaned back into the cushioning, trying to duck the pending quiet, controlled explosion. Instead her father coughed, a quiet sound. “I believe that matter will be discussed later.” The unspoken “much later” made her brother shift in his seat, but her mother’s rising eyebrows quelled the pending protest.

  “Tomorrow is a Rest Day, Auriga. We shall observe it with all due thanks and reverence,” her mother stated.

  “Thanks be for rest and for those who give it,” Rigi recited, and the others nodded, even Uncle Eb and Aunt Kay.

  Her aunt raised a finger in caution. “Stay off the newsfeeds, meaning do not look at them, for at least two days, Rigi. There’s a wave of silliness about the Staré sweeping the press that seems to be cresting, and it won’t help your rest or your patience to read it just now.”

  “You are far too kind, Kay,” Rigi’s father sighed. “Silliness is not the word I’d use.”

  “Yes, well, none of us are supposed to know the words that we’d like to use, so we wo
n’t,” Uncle Eb stated. Flame danced in his eyes and Rigi wondered just what was going on.

  “Ah, Uncle Eb, remember that matter about Mr. De Groet’s theory that you asked me to look into?”

  He blinked, then seemed to recall. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  “I fear that his hypothesis was as, ah, hypothetical as you surmised, sir.”

  “Indeed?” A little smile played around the corners of his mouth and he smoothed his white mustache.

  “As hypothetical as rainbow-striped wombows, I am sorry to say, sir.” She paused, then added, “Circumferential stripes, not longitudinal.”

  The adults all smiled at the mental image, and Rigi let herself relax.

  9

  Enemies, Allies, Ancient Mysteries

  Dr. Xian sounded and looked most apologetic. “I’m sorry, Miss Auriga, I truly am. I tried to explain that you are under age and should not be bothered or forced to attend because of the strains of your recent experiences, but they threatened to come to your home and set up reporting points outside the fence until you answered questions. Will two more days be sufficient rest before you join us for the press meeting?” The xenoarchaeologist looked smaller and harried, and she ran both hands over her short-clipped, grey-speckled black hair.

  “Yes, ma’am, it will be. My elder brother and a Staré assistant will be coming with me, but not into the meeting itself.” At least, Cyril wouldn’t. Makana, however… It would be easier to convince her mother to leave the faith than to persuade Makana to stop hovering. He shared his twin brother Lonka’s intensity and focus, and his reason for acting as her guard had given everyone pause.

  “That will be fine. In fact, having Staré attend may make things far easier.” Dr. Xian looked up, as if pleading for patience or assistance. “I feel as if I’ve come back to a different planet every time I see the news feeds.”

  Rigi let herself slump forward, then straightened up. Proper young ladies do not slump like a sack of yams. “I am glad to hear that, ma’am, begging your pardon. I thought it was just me.”

  “No pardon needed, and it’s not just you, believe me. I’m tempted to run spectrometer and bio-materials tests on the wind to see if something is blowing through to make so many people act so oddly.” Dr. Xian patted her head again. “Oh, Dr. Troomp thinks your long-necked night-hunter is correct. The hide has been cut, as if someone removed a ten-centimeter slice from the hide for some reason, going by the missing vertebra, and that fits your impression. Lt. Prananda took holos of the skeleton and body as the soldiers skinned it, and gave me the images. He’s good about that.”

  Well, he is a hunter, Rigi thought. “Yes, he is. Very observant, or so all the Staré and others say, ma’am.”

  “Quite so. I do wish he’d come into xenoarchaeology,” a little sigh, “but I understand his decision. And he’s young enough to change his mind. Men do that quite often.” She shook her head just a tiny bit, looking over and past the visual pick-up. Rigi wondered who the professor had in mind, or if it was a meditation on male mammals in general. If all male mammals, Rigi quite agreed.

  After Dr. Xian signed off, Rigi returned to sorting her things. She clucked her tongue at the state of the jacket and skirt she’d worn in the village, and decided that it could not be mended. The fabric had worn too thin in places, and patching only delayed the inevitable. Her leggings had disappeared on the night of her rescue while she’d slept, never to be seen again. Three female soldiers who had washed her after the medical officer examined her and gave his permission and probably burned them out of health and safety concerns. Rigi had dozed off during the medical check and then slept through everything else, apparently inspiring amusement and some envy. Her boots had also needed professional attention, and Lonka had whisked them away at the first available opportunity. Makana, his brother, brought them back repaired and re-conditioned.

  Makana had been firm about staying with Rigi. “Not my will,” he informed her, ears slightly back-tipped, upper lip raised to expose his large and slightly uneven upper front teeth. “The will of First Stamm, of Tankutshishin and council. I remain.” The strong oder of //resolve/settled// reminded her of Mar when she had ended a discussion. No argument or further talk would change matters, and the humans had best accept the fact and move on to other things. Happily for Rigi, he and Lonka had enough physical differences that she could tell them apart, even if her parents and brother had trouble, while most other humans failed completely. How could they miss the little white spot at the base of the back of Lonka’s right ear, or Makana’s tail shading? Even their scents differed, with Makana’s smelling heavier, darker, even when he laughed.

  Of the items she’d left with, one set of skirt, jacket, and leggings had served their time and needed to be retired. A few other small garments required replacement, eventually, but she’d worn her oldest of those for that very reason, in case they had to leave their luggage and flee. She’d apologized to Aunt Kay for not properly cleaning the holster and belt, but her aunt waved the words away. “My dear, what did your uncle say? Shoot first, clean later. And you were a touch distracted.” Rigi turned another skirt inside out and discovered the seam unravelling and a long loose thread waving at her, so to speak. She set it aside to mend, along with two vests with punctured pockets, and the blouse with the collar that simply would not stay attached. Rigi frowned, took it to the light, and peered closely. She frowned more and set that one on the chair to show her mother. Someone had cheated on the fabric.

  “Who made this one, Auriga?” Her mother fanned a little where she sat, feet propped up. The house felt cool to Rigi, but she was not the one a few days from delivery. Mrs. deStella-Bernardi lounged, wearing a loose dress without leggings, loose house slippers, and trying to work on a stitching project around Rigi’s brother-to-be. “Thank you, Siare,” she said to the fourth Stamm female who handed her cool water.

  “One of the fabricators, ma’am. I believe it was at Chang’s.” Her mother nodded permission as she sipped the cool drink and Rigi looked through the household account files. “Yes, the last thing we purchased from Chang’s. I’ve not been pleased with any of the items they made, ma’am.”

  “I have not been satisfied, either. They left far too little fabric on the seams on your father’s shirts, and the fasteners did not line up properly.” She set the glass aside and fanned more. “I believe we will not do business with them in the future.” Rigi made a note in the file. “Has Dr. Xian returned your comm?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she has. It seems the media are not content to work with her and Mr. De Groet alone, and are threatening to set up outside the gate and besiege us until I give an interview. She scheduled one for two days from today, and had no difficulties about Cyril and Makana coming. She seemed relieved about Makana’s presence, given recent rumors and commotions.”

  Her mother smiled just a touch. “He is less intimidating than Martinus, at least on holo.”

  “I believe that is one aspect, yes, ma’am. And he is less likely to, ah, answer on impulse a question directed at another.” Cyril’s protectiveness had gone far enough, and her father had sat on him, metaphorically speaking. Rigi wished a wombow would sit on him, at least until she got everything done that she needed outside the house. She had not mentioned killing the Staré to her family, and Cyril’s behavior suggested that the forty-second of Someday would be the perfect date to tell them.

  Her mother sighed. She seemed to do a great deal of that when Cyril was involved. “I should correct your statement, Auriga, but it is nothing but the truth. And he was like that when he was small, so I fear that it is not simply a phase that he will outgrow.”

  Rigi sighed. Siare replaced her mother’s empty glass with a fresh one and held up two dresses. “The brown please, Siare.” The female inclined her ears and disappeared, returning with two shawls. “Both. Babies make messes.”

  Siare smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Much messes.” She left once more.

  Rigi had returned to discover that an
addition had been built onto the house, making it resemble a long-muzzled leaper head seen from the side. A nursery/child’s room took up the space that had belonged to Shona and the others. A new, larger chamber formed the extended nose of the house, allowing space for three male Staré if needed. Siare had a small room that joined the baby room, and another Staré residence had been constructed in the back of the garden, should any of the staff wish to make use of it. Siare came with a recommendation from Mar, and was known to Lonka. She also came from a high fourth Stamm family, with two members raised to second by skill, and knew a little nursing as well as general child-care and household management. She deferred to the males, but had no hesitation about fussing at Rigi and Cy when she felt they needed it. Rigi couldn’t decide if she was sixteen, twelve, or adult when Siare fussed.

  Her mother did not need anything from her, so Rigi went back upstairs, put everything away, and sat down at the comm set with a grump and a smothered sigh. She didn’t want to look through recent news stories, but neither did she want to look like a gulping fish, taken by surprise by a reporter’s questions. She suspected someone would have an out-of-the-stars question or one of those four-paragraph statement/questions that reporters seemed to find entertaining to launch at unsuspecting targets. Rigi started with the sports scores, a harmless topic, then glanced at the latest fashion news. She boggled at the enormous cape/trains now in style, and wondered how one young lady managed to walk without assistance or snagging. And the orange polka-dots did not improve the outfit, in Rigi’s opinion. She took a deep breath, murmured one of the prayers for calm and patience, and started on local news and the Staré stories.