Staré: Shikari Book Two

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  She became so involved in the drawing that she didn’t realize her father had come upstairs until he waved his hand across the page. “Oh!” She startled, spooking and jumping a little. “I’m sorry sir, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Given that your mother and Lonka both have called you twice to supper, I believe ‘not paying attention’ is a gross understatement.” He backed up, giving her room to stand. She went to wash her hands and returned to see him looking at the picture with an odd expression on his face. “Auriga, who is the first standing with Tomás?”

  “Kor, sir. He’s either seventh or outStamm, the hunter and tracker who has worked with Lexi.”

  Her father shook his head. “He’s not seventh. Look at what you drew, Auriga.” He held the pad out to her.

  She saw Tomás, shading his eyes with one hand under the brim of his hat and pointing to something with the other. Kor mimicked the gesture with his left forefoot, ears tipped slightly to the left, toward Tomás. She’d worked hard to get the dark dappling of Kor’s fur just right. “That’s just Kor, sir. He’s odd.”

  “That may be true, Rigi, but he is not seventh. He is first. He is identical to Narlaeetataree, the male who was wisdom keeper for the Staré near Klippard Farm when we first came to Shikhari. Narlaeetataree had to be the oldest Staré I’d met, and your Kor is the perfect image of him, even the size and the uneven ears.” Her father set the pad down. “Which does not change the fact that supper is waiting for you. For us, now.”

  Rigi hurried as much as was ladylike down the stairs, and breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Shona had just set the first course out. She was tardy but not late-late. Her mother gave her a firm look even so, and when the main course arrived, she served Rigi two small, overdone pieces of meat, a sure sign of maternal displeasure. The tam fluff, however, could not be blamed on her mother. It was a meal to be endured. Rigi dutifully masticated the meat and finished the entire over-large mound of tam. It did not keep. At least they had a sharp cheese and lightly-roasted fruit to clear the icky bitter livery taste of the tam. Rigi wondered as she chewed why she liked liver-flavored liver but not liver-flavored tam. Except it was not truly liver-flavored, but more bitter with a strange musky undertone. She still did not care for it, and promised once more that she would not serve it in her own house unless starvation forced her hand.

  Not until after supper did Cy or Rigi mention the headline. “Has anyone heard more about the supposed murder, sir?” Cy asked.

  Her mother had gone to feed Paul, and their father frowned. “Nothing beside that it occurred, and that the killer or killers appear to have used shooters instead of claws or knives, thus the belief that humans did it. Apparently your poor aunt was besieged by reporters who assumed that one of the victims had been Lexi because they’d seen his holo on stories about the archaeological finds, and she opened the door to find half the news crews in Richland on her new verandah.”

  “Oh dear,” Rigi sighed.

  “Did she shriek?” Cy asked from where he leaned against the side of the wooden shelving.

  Their father raised one grey eyebrow. “Kay, shriek? No, and neither did she throw anything expensive or fragile at them. She calmly turned around and asked Lexi if he were dead. He replied that as best he could determine, he remained in the current state of existence, and should he ask his mates for confirmation?”

  Rigi gave in and giggled. She could hear Lexi doing exactly that, in just those words, grave and sober, ears tipped slightly forward.

  “Aunt Kay then ordered the reporters to go find something interesting to write about unless they wanted to help move furniture and clean.”

  Cyril smiled. “I trust they didn’t damage anything in their haste to leave, sir.”

  “Not that Kay would admit to.” He picked up his news reader. “I almost wish she’d thrown a case of the vapors for them. She should win a drama award for those.”

  “Timothy.” Rigi’s mother sighed as she walked in, Paul resting on her shoulder as she patted his back. He burped and then gurgled, pleased with himself, or so it sounded to Rigi. He was growing a fuzz of dark hair and looked terribly cute, with his little black eyebrows and big green eyes. That was, when he wasn’t having a bad diaper. His stomach did not care for yam even though he seemed to like eating it, and the resulting diaper had cleared the house, driving the Staré out into the yard. Rather than trying to wash the nappy, Rigi had buried it under the compost heap with her mother’s blessing. They would stay with milks and rice cereal for a while.

  “You disagree with my appraisal of Kay’s dramatic talent, dear?” Her father stood and helped her mother sit. She still moved a little awkwardly, her balance not quite back to where it had been.

  “No, Timothy, I disagree with trying to deceive reporters, even without using pure falsehood.” She frowned, then gave Paul her finger to gnaw on. He gurgled and she smiled.

  “Mother, what should we say if they appear at the gate again?” Rigi was not certain she wanted to deal with them herself.

  Her father sat firmly in his large, high-backed chair, raising a puff of dust from one of the cushions. Rigi winced inside. She knew what she’d be cleaning tomorrow. “Nothing, Auriga, unless it is about your work. You are underage and have no opinions or information for them. Keep quiet, and if they try to accost you, remember that it is assault should they be foolish enough to lay a hand on your person.”

  “If it is a question about a family member, refer them to that family member, Auriga,” her mother added. “Likewise the Staré who work for us.”

  “Cyril, that goes for you as well,” her father warned. “There are a few who are trying to goad people into being foolish so they can sell news feeds and story access.” He turned his news reader around, and Cyril left his lean to take a closer look at the screen.

  “Good grief. That was a stupid thing to do.” Cy ran a hand over his hair. “Doesn’t everyone older than Paul know not to challenge one of those?”

  Rigi read the headline from across the room and wrinkled her nose as her father said, “Apparently not, or he assumed that being new to Shikhari would make him both invisible and wise. Alas for him that it was not so, and then he compounded his error by telling the reporter of his plans.” He turned the reader around so Rigi’s mother could see and waved at the screen. “If you insist on being both foolish and sober, act first and brag later.”

  Rigi wondered just what the young man had thought Staré wrestling was that a human could enter the ring. Even she knew that a human had serious disadvantages one-on-one against a Staré when wrestling and grappling, no matter if the human had trained as a wrestler and ring-fighter. He deserved to be made a fool of, Rigi sniffed to herself. And trying to grab the sixth Stamm male’s ears? Really, what had the silly twit been thinking? Apparently nothing useful. Ears are not handles, unless you are a newborn and the Staré allowed it. As if thought summoned deed, Siare came in with a fresh towel for Rigi’s mother. Paul waved his arms, trying to reach her, and she tipped her head low enough that he could pet the tip of one grey ear. That seemed to satisfy him and he calmed down.

  “Thank you, Siare,” her mother murmured. Siare straightened up and took the dirty towel with her as she left.

  A few minutes later, Lonka appeared in the doorway. “Mister Timothy, two men in uniform are coming up the walk.”

  “Please let them in when they reach the door. Thank you, Lonka.” Rigi and Cyril brushed themselves off, just in case, and then Rigi went upstairs. Why would soldiers or Company security people be visiting? Usually that only happened if someone were— Oh no, surely not Tomás. Rigi went cold all over and she put her hands over her mouth. No, calm down, take a deep breath, she scolded herself. Colonel Prananda would have commed if Tomás had an accident or other problem. Aunt Kay was at her house, “Aunt” Marli was visiting relatives on one of the commercial lump fruit farms, and “Uncle” Van was… Well, Rigi had to admit, Uncle Van might have walked into a large body of water while r
eading a repair file or trying to solve a problem with one of the machines and m-animals that he maintained and not noticed it until he found himself facing the Creator and Creatrix in person. He was a bit absent-minded when he had a problem to sort out. In fact, he made Uncle Eb look organized, orderly, and easily distracted in comparison. Rigi shrugged, cleaned her teeth, and logged into the work station to see if she had any word on the illustration commission for the birds of Shikhari project. The sponsor-patron seemed to be taking his time.

  After half an hour or so she heard the tap-tap of the caller and went downstairs, puzzled. Two Company security men stood in the hallway with her father and Makana. “This is my daughter, Auriga Bernardi. She was at the University meeting with Cyril and Makana. She had my m-dog with her as well, but I do not know if she had it set to record.”

  “Did you, Miss? Have the m-dog set to record,” one of the men, a sergeant she guessed, asked.

  “No, sir. Dr. Xian specifically requested that no one record the meeting and that we not answer any questions or speak to the media until the release of the official report.”

  “Miss Bernardi, we are trying to determine the whereabouts of Mr. Ebenezer S. Trent. We have reports that you saw him earlier today. When and where was that?”

  Rigi drew herself up and spoke in a clear, calm, and moderate voice, like her mother did. “It was in NovMerv, sir. We met outside the building housing the archaeological and research institute, and Mr. Trent, my brother Cyril, Makana, the m-dog, and I went into the building together. This was at ten thirty in the morning, by the clock on the building across the boulevard from the institute.”

  The sergeant nodded as his associate took notes. “And how long were you with him?”

  “Two hours, sir. The meeting ended shortly after the second group of protesters arrived, the ones with the supposed dead Staré.” She swallowed hard, shoving the memories away again.

  “And do you know who he was with after that?”

  “No, sir. We left by a back route, Dr. Xian let us out the equipment access entrance, and he said that he had a friend he needed to pester. We turned north, I believe it was, and he went south.”

  “Do you know who this friend might be, Miss Bernardi?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Thank you, Miss. If he contacts you, please ask him to call Company Security. We need to know his whereabouts between noon and three today.” He closed his pad and tucked it into the holder on his belt. “A rumor connects him with the deaths on the farm, and we just want to confirm that he was not in the area. Rumor also connects Governor Theodaulf, and he is somewhat well accounted for.”

  “Indeed,” her father said, his voice rather dry. Rigi worked to keep herself from smiling at his tone. The governor had been attending a heated session of the Corporate governing council’s regular meetings, this one about administrative assistance allocations from the Crown budget for the next year, and by now half of Shikhari had seen at least a still holo of him attempting to calm down two red-faced and yelling advisors.

  The security men thanked and dismissed her and Makana, and Rigi went back upstairs. As she sat down and reached for the drawing stylus, the thought struck her. Who would have started a rumor about her uncle being at the scene of the murder of three Staré? Someone who wanted her uncle in trouble with the authorities, which suggested someone who possessed a grudge of some kind. To her knowledge, the number of people on Shikhari who fit that description was rather small, namely one. Rigi told herself to quit making baseless accusations and jumps of logic. And how could Mr. Smargad or Mrs. D be in a position to know where her uncle was, since Smargad had been at the protest in NovMerv, and the farm in question was several tens of kilometers from the scene of the murder, according to the map on the news feed? Rigi scolded herself firmly. She knew better. Just because she did not care for someone did not make them to blame for everything, or for anything. And Mrs. D meant well, she truly did, and Mr. Smargad as well. They truly thought the Staré were being abused and sought what they thought was best for the Staré.

  The comm pinged and Rigi answered it, pushing the image she was working on to one side. Her Aunt Kay’s face appeared. “Rigi, have you seen Eb?”

  “Not since we left the meeting, ma’am. He left in the opposite direction we went.”

  Rigi stared, jaw agape, as her aunt swore rather viciously before settling down with, “Damn and blast it. He was supposed to be home two hours ago and his flitter is missing.”

  Rigi heard her voice saying, “He needs to call security. Two officers were here, asking about him. There’s a rumor he was in the area of the farm where the Staré were killed this afternoon, ma’am.”

  Aunt Kay’s face turned red. Then she hit the mute button. Even with the sound muted, Rigi could guess what her aunt was saying, and possibly about whom. After what appeared to be a “harrumpf,” her aunt turned the sound feed back on and snapped, “I’m going to strangle that Ebenezer when I get my hands on him. I have two dozen reporters on the verandah and supper has gotten cold. I’m going to pour the soup over his head myself.”

  Rigi managed to mute her end and turn away so her aunt couldn’t see or hear her giggling, then trying not to sob. She recovered and turned back around. “I’m sorry, ma’am, coughing fit. I think I’m coming down with something. Please don’t tell Mother or Siare.”

  “Your brother’s nurse believes in traditional Staré cough remedies, does she?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Especially herbal plasters and tonics.”

  Aunt Kay managed a bit of a smile. “You have my sympathy. There’s a reason why Eb stays so healthy, aside from that allergy—Lexi’s mate made him a snap-root chest rub when he had pneumonia several years ago. He’s been terrified of disease ever since. If he contacts you, he is to comm me or else. I trust you to fill in the else, dear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her aunt terminated the call and Rigi stared at the screen, then pulled the art image back to the center. Fretting never paid, either metaphorically or literally, she tried to remind herself.

  It didn’t work too well.

  “There is no place for humans on Shikhari, not after this,” an earnest young woman told the reporter and holo-feed watchers. “There are more reports of assaults, as you yourself have said, ma’am, and the murders. Humans have failed to follow Crown regulations, and it is time to leave. We have over ten thousand marks and signatures from Staré asking for their rights to be returned and for humans to either leave entirely or to be confined to a small trade enclave, subject to Staré regulation.”

  Rigi turned off the early-early-news noise and returned to work. She’d outlined the shapes and marked the colors, and now came filling them in. There was such a thing as being too precise, and the level of detail the patron had requested came under that heading, in her opinion. Pixel by pixel by micron level precision gave her headaches. But he’d paid the institute a very generous sum, and they’d included her in that, so she had two more illustrations to color and confirm.

  How many Staré could read and write well enough to sign a petition? Rigi wondered as she filled in a large background field with light blue originally made from two types of clay ground together. No one under sixth Stamm, aside from Kor, and she wasn’t certain about Kor. She assumed he could read at least, but did he? She’d never needed to ask, and written Staré seemed to be more pictographic than phonetic. But all she’d seen were signs in the market, not books or anything like that. Did the Staré have books? The village on the Indria Plateau had no books or writing that she could recall. She adjusted the shading by one mark, adding a whisper bit of blue to suggest a bit of shadow and changed light on that part of the wall painting.

  Well, she had things to do, and worrying about Uncle Eb and Tomás and the others would not get them done. She “moved” the image, changing sections of the wall, and selected a pink-red, the one that she’d had the hardest time matching. The archaeologists still had not decided what the exact compositi
on of the stuff was, or why it remained flexible under the preserving top-coat after so many years. Rigi had a suspicion but kept it to herself. That stick had felt different, less oily, and smelled oh so faintly like cooked meat. But she wasn’t supposed to have had the color sticks at all—no human was, as best she could tell—and so she had made sympathetic noises and agreed that if they could find something written down and decipherable, life would indeed be easier for everyone. They had yet to decode the marks on the stela, the name stone as Rigi still thought of it. Maybe they weren’t story words at all, but names, and personal names could be terrible to try and sort out, or so she recalled from some long-ago classes.

  She worked two hours, until seven in the morning. At that point her eyes had started to cross, her head ached, and she could smell breakfast as well as hearing the grumbling growl of her brother before coffee. Rigi saved everything, backed it up, and logged off the work station. She used the washroom before her brother could take over, and went downstairs, careful to keep one hand on the rail. Her house-shoe soles had gotten a little worn and slick, and she didn’t care to fall. Cy would laugh, her mother would fuss, then scold her, and Martinus liked to sit on her to make certain she was alright. Neither Rigi nor her father could find where that bit of mis-programming had come from, or how to get rid of it, so they just made certain not to fall when Martinus was around.

  “Good,” her mother said as Rigi appeared. She seemed to be alternating bites of adult food with feeding Paul. “Siare is cleaning up the nursery, Auriga. Please see to your room once you have eaten, and don’t forget that we are going to visit Mrs. Patel-Chang at nine thirty.”