"This is about Oolithi Drift, isn't it?" Harry asked. "As I understand it, that was a just a battle, not some mystical test."
"Then you do not understand the Markov, or the Hunters. Not surprising, given that you have only one example of the latter, and no personal experience with the former," OC said.
"So, 'splain it to me, oh Great and Powerful Alien Kitty Cat, and my dauntless Merchant Prince of wonderful goods at low-low prices!"
"I can get you a good deal on a slightly used starship lifepod, by the way," Parl said, leaning over. "It makes a really nice tomb, if I understand your Human burial customs..."
Harry shuddered, and both Parl and OC laughed, or rather, Parl yipped some more, and OC rumbled his amusement.
"The Autocrats' Immortals are a special force, an elite guard, made up of the Markov nobility. They are apart from the regular space forces of the Markov Imperium. They set up the trap at Oolithi Drift, and bore the brunt of the losses. Not only did the Rangers and the Huntmaster's Own lose their finest fighters and warriors, the ruling houses or clans of the Imperium lost their first sons and daughters. Think about that, for a moment."
"Ah, vengeance. A dish best served cold."
"Truly, it was. The second sons and daughters loved their siblings, fathers and mothers, and went a little mad. The ones that thought a little more clearly saw it as their chance to do certain things."
Harry saw it, now. "It's an old, old principle. The cold logic of genocide, and atrocity. If you kill off the survivors, after you defeat the defenders, your children won't have to face the next generation. And, if you force your soldiers to participate in an atrocity, you set your hooks in their souls. You own them, and force them down a path that they can never turn away from."
***
The hunting lodge wasn’t very old. Nothing on this world really was. The Den Leader removed the caretakers, and a nephew and his girlfriend, who were using one of the cabins, and wished them luck. In fact, he wanted to do more, but the Hunter insisted.
“If you would do anything for me, honor my wishes in this. No one else at risk, and, well, if the property damages should turn out to be too painful…” Old Complications said.
Orrik Parl yipped. It was too little. Cheap, by his measure.
“I’m serious. Go to the Rangers, if you need to, or the Engineers. Hojin Venn manages the 5th supply and repair platform, around Shushkenzhoo, at Daraz on the Deerlin Finger, not far from here." He continued on, as if he wasn't talking to a Merchant Prince with a far better grasp of the trade routes, and Parl let him ramble. It was not surprising that a rising star like Venn was one of Old Complications' people, but he made a mental note, for later.
"Also, if the man lives, and I hope he does-“
“I kind of hope so, too,” Harry said.
“Then he will be needing passage, off world, to a location I’ve provided. Discrete transportation.”
“I’ll see to it. Perhaps you will be going with him?” Parl added, hopefully.
“I do not think so. I rather think that the Autocrat’s Immortals will insist.”
“I imagine they will, at that,” Parl said. He looked at the two of them for a long time, then turned and got into the personal transport. It flew off to the north, back towards the Den Orrik.
Harry picked up his new bag, and hefted it. It was a gift, and it was heavy with kindness, the kindness of new friends. He had set out on this trip with almost nothing, and had picked things up along the way, just like every other journey of his entire life. It wasn’t just about setting your feet down, one after the other; it was also the things which happened along the way, the things you did, the choices you made, and what you carried away, with you.
Harry took his bag into the first cabin, if that was the right word, and set it by a sleeping platform. The dwelling was built into the hill, and made him think of The Hobbit and Middle Earth. That would make the Gara furry hobbits with teeth. He smiled at the image of an old Gara/Hobbit smoking a clay pipe, sitting on a wooden foot stool in front of his little hobbit-hole. He went back outside, and found the Hunter standing, looking off at some clouds.
“I’m going to go for a little run. Been going soft, living in all this luxury…”
“There is a good vantage point on that hill-“ The alien said.
“I’ll be checking all that,” Harry said, a little sharply.
“It may already be occupied.” Old Complications said mildly. “Den Orriks’ security chief sent me a dossier on the most likely groups of interest. There is a group of Markov tourists on public land, in the next valley. Inserted last night, if they are what I think they are. They have a few tons of gear.”
“On speculation, only?” Harry asked. OC nodded.
“I’ll walk softly. Wave and make nice, but keep my distance, if I do see any hippos.”
“Clouds are moving in. It’s going to rain. There should be quite a show, tonight.”
Harry didn’t bother to ask him if he was referring to the storm.
***
“One of them, but not the target,” the sniper said.
“Has he seen us?” asked the lieutenant, in Autocrats’ Immortals purple and green.
“No, sir,” the sniper replied, turning to shrug his shoulders at his relief, who was readying to take over from him. The Regulars were all still in civilian togs, as was the Lt, technically, but he’d chosen his colors based on the dress uniform of the Immortals. No one had had the nerve to say anything to him about it, but they had discussed it, among themselves. The universal opinion was that he was an idiot.
It was the regulars’ lot to be lead by idiots, and they complained about it, like soldiers will, anywhere. Soldiers in good armies, that is. In bad ones, they kept their opinions to themselves, and initiative and morale suffered.
They didn’t particularly like their mission, either, but that was also typical.
***
His old DI wouldn’t have cared for the way the Markov deployed, but, in the end, they managed to cooperate in maintaining the polite fiction that they were tourists, and that he was just out for a run. He got back to the cabins just as the first rain drops fell, and he smelled something delicious.
“I hope you like burnt meat… I’m not a very good cook,” OC said.
“What is it?” Something in the back of his head was gibbering about hippo steaks, but he ignored it, as his stomach rumbled.
“A small local herbivore. On retreats, the Gara trap them, or hunt them with small arms. A few purists run them down.”
Harry noted the blood stains around OC’s mouth, and decided that the big alien definitely fell in the latter camp.
“I’ll have a little of that…”
In the end, they ate ‘bunnylope’ and baked tubers, un-risen bread with the local version of caviar, and a smooth alcohol that OC cut with a lot of ice water. Harry had a taste, uncut, and it was potent stuff, but very smooth, like Grey Goose vodka.
There was definitely a ceremony to this.
“Is there something else you wanted to clue me in on?” Harry asked.
“I am not eternal.”
“None of us are,” Harry said, laughing nervously.
“I sometimes forget.”
“So just tell me, damn it!” Harry shouted.
“Would you believe that I don’t know how old I am?”
“I knew this was a mistake,” Harry muttered, and looked up at that Cheshire cat’s grin.
“They call me He-Who-Waits.”
“Crazy alien kitty-cat…” Why, oh why, Harry thought, didn’t I take that out, gone home to write a report… which very few people would have read, and even fewer would have believed. He sighed.
“I’ve been around and around, and around, to paraphrase the song. Many turns of the wheel.”
“Alright, I’ve seen some things I can’t explain, before. I know when to take some things on faith. When you can trust the guy next to you…”
“Even when he’s an alien kitty-cat?” Another alarming grin.
“He-Who-Waits, huh? Waits for what?”
“That’s a very good question.” The alien looked away, to where the rain rattled the window panes.
“I’m waiting.” Harry smiled.
“It’s vague. I apologize, but after a long enough time, it all runs together. Births, deaths, sons, daughters, wives and husbands-“
“Whoa! Slow down. How does this work, exactly? Coz I think I can handle the part where you’re immortal, or something, a lot easier than the part where you’ve been, I don’t know…”
“I’ve been many things. Once I was married to a Princess of the Ilshani, and I failed her, and her people. Later I was the Tester, the Living God of the Hunters, and uplifted them to sapience. Then I plotted and schemed to bring about another great flowering of Galactic culture and technology."
"Two hundred years ago, I helped save an entire world, spent blood and treasure and the lives of friends and students alike. It was my beloved Rangers finest hour. They burned bright, and lit up the Galaxy."
"But I failed to remember the most basic thing, that I was building with living minds, hearts, people with their own hopes and fears. And myths. Someone used that against me, and now the Hunters are gone. Those few who remain must stay in hiding, and… I need to cease to be Old Complications.”
"Understand, this is not self-pity, or survivor guilt. I owe them that last full measure. There is something which can be done, that only I can do..."
***
“What can you tell me, about the Autocrats’ Immortals?” Harry asked.
“They are children, playing with the hopes and dreams of an entire people.”
“You… don’t quite sound like you hate them.”
“I do not hate them. Much.” OC looked up at the window, as the storm winds buffeted the panes. “They say that the blood of heroes flows through their veins, and two stout hearts. They are right.”
Harry stared at the alien.
“Oh yes, it does, and they do not remember.” He looked at Harry, almost seemed to be looking inside. “Can you imagine, that your kind has done great things, and forgotten them? Or done despicable things, and, mercifully, do not know.”
“The Demons infested many worlds, and are still around, in one form, today.”
Harry said softly, “In one form,” and then he knew. “The Oddities!”
“Yes.” OC hrummed, a little bit like the purring of a cat. “From time to time, the demon lifecycle runs its course, and a worker-form Oddity becomes a killing machine, running amok. Every Oddity lives in fear of what lies within. They say that the Oddities have three hearts, and every one is a cowards heart. They could not be more wrong.”
They listened to the wind for a while, and the crackling hearth fire. Harry thought, 'There is always fire around Old Complications.'
“What about the Markov? And… what do they call their homeworld?”
“Girreenjaya, the place of the ancestors.”
“And, Gir- Gir-reen-jay-ah, it was ‘infested’ with demons as well?”
“Yes. On one world, and one only, they were wiped out. The pre-starfaring Markov did that. What they call ‘The Blight’, the great salt marsh where the demons sought to remake the place of the ancestors, is all that’s left of it, inhabited by a hated minority, who still tell the old tales.”
“I’m confused. Heroic monsters want to kill you, and by the way, me as well, which I don’t much care for. Plus reformed demons, on a twelve step program, captain starships and are some of your best friends. Is that about right?” Harry asked.
“I would say that about covers it, with a little less sarcasm, please.” OC displayed that alarming grin.
***
"I am just going outside and may be some time."
Harry caught the reference, and his head snapped up. He'd been dozing, damn it!
"Wait! You-" He saw that OC was smiling at him, having a joke at his expense.
"Don't worry; this is just the first act. I won't let you miss the finale." OC shouldered the door open, against the wind, and went out.
Harry got up and got his bag out. Metal clinked, and he took out the weapons, and made them ready. An Uzi, and a Tokerov, and he smiled, longing for a good, American firearm. There were also working reproductions of WW II Japanese grenades, and he wondered about the local laws, briefly. These had come from a little security officer and weapons collector, who had been parted from them with heartfelt regret.
"'Parting is such sweet sorrow'," Harry mused.
***
On one level, he was the Tester. He had uplifted the Hunters for more than one reason. They had potential, of course, and this was not just a means to an end, but a worthwhile end, in itself.
"We are the universe, made self-aware. We know and feel. We are!" OC rumbled the litany, the first line of the Rite of Testing.
He had needed helpers, needed a technical civilization, power and industry and information. Ideals, dreams and starships, for traveling the Star Road again.
And, he had loved those big, hairy fuzzballs. The first time, that first new-born cub, had been his child. If there was a way, by his living or dying, he would save what was left of them. It was what he did. It was his gift to the Rangers, the Conservancy. Not a burden, but a purpose.
This, however, was about the Hunters. It was good night for this, in the storm, thunder and lightning. He roared the ancient challenge.
"I accept the Testing!"
"I am Strong!"
"I am Clever!"
"I am Hunter!"
***
"What is he doing?" The sniper asked.
"He's making our job easy, is what he's doing," The lieutenant muttered. The sniper nodded and prepared to take the shot.
"No!" The Lt. snapped. "I'll do it!" He added, eagerly.
The sniper got out of his way, and nodded to the sergeant. As the Lt. got ready, the sergeant moved up beside him, and raised his rifle. Annoyed, the Lt turned, and the rifle butt struck him in the side of the face, instead of by the ear, and the sniper winced. That was gonna hurt, a lot more...
"Stupid git moved," the sergeant commented. "Anybody have a problem with this?"
No one particularly did, except for the repercussions.
"I'll have a nice long talk with the Lt. Got some leverage, but I suggest that those of you who are planning to stay in, request a transfer, after tonight."
***
The Lieutenant came to about a half hour later. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he needed help. He took the hand that was offered, and looked up at the Sergeant.
"You hit me." A statement, not a question, and he said it with wonder, as if it was impossible. It was certainly outside his experience.
"Yes, sir."
He sat there for a time, then he asked for water, and he rinsed and spit, and drank some more. "Why?"
The sergeant understood that he meant more than just, why did you do that, but why it was worth doing.
"I wasn't going to let you add one more stain to the honor of the Imperial Service."
The Luitenant nodded, as if it was more or less what he was expecting him to say. Then he said, "You realize that that's nonsense?'
"No, sir, it's not. I've had years to consider what we should have done, and work out exactly what was was wrong. I've written thousands of pages in my journal, about the morality of what was done. At the very least, a soldier is owed good leadership, and the right not to die for an unjust cause."
"Gods and Ancestors! You're a lunatic!"
"No, sir. At worst, I'm a romantic, and if that's a crime, then they need to put the entire species in jail. At the bottom of it, the moral justification for this war, is simply that the Markov are the most fit to run things because we will take care of the other species, and the Galaxy. Not superiority, per se, although most of us presuppose that, but because we would
honestly do the best job."
"Well, of course."
"I think it's best, for all concerned, if this never happened. The Hunter is left alone, and was never here."
"And, if I don't agree to lie to my superiors, and betray the Autocrat's trust in me?"
"This could get very embarrassing. Admittedly, I'm on the inside, looking out, and would certainly be called on to explain myself to the Autocrat, and make my apologies before going to the Grel pits..."
"At the very least."
"This would destroy you. I will see to it. I, and others like me, will see to it."
"Madness!"
***
The sergeant left the lieutenant by himself, to think it over, and moved around, checking on the rest of the soldiers. They were concerned, of course, but not afraid. They would get through this. They trusted in him, not the green and purple fool.
As he was making his way back from the northern observation position, he felt as if something was watching him, and he smoothly checked his surroundings. There was nothing obvious, but now he was even surer of it. He walked a little way off of the path, and waited.
He was still not ready for the voice that spoke out of the darkness. “So you think you have the right to determine how your short and pitiful lives are spent, do you?”
“Who are you?”
“I am the Hungry Dark,” the voice said, and laughed. It was a horrible laugh, for there were gurgling sounds with it, nothing of the Markov, or any other species the sergeant knew. But he did know what the Hungry Dark was; a demon from the old tales his grandmother had told him, late at night. That, and the laugh, filled him with dread.
“If you are what you say you are, then show yourself. On my Naming Day, my father chose Trin for me.” Trin, from the old tales, also known as the Trickster and demon-slayer.
“You really shouldn’t go looking for death, Markov. It might find you!” the voice roared, and out of the dark came a whistling sound, as the hooked and barbed tentacle reached for him. He ducked, nearly avoiding the blow, but what did connect, sent him sprawling. A healthy adult Markov masses about 700 kilos, and the sergeant was a hefty specimen, a paragon for the recruiting posters, nearly a tonne of muscle and bone, and also, in his not so humble opinion, brains, blood and two stout hearts. He left wrecked trees in his wake, and could hear the sound of the demon’s passage through the woods.
Old Complications Page 4