Alien Shores (A Fenris Novel, Book 2) (11 page)

Skar blinked at him.

“There are other Teleships,” Cyrus said.

“More have come from your solar system?” Skar asked, hopefully.

“No. I mean the cyborgs must have some.”

“You’ve said before that the cyborgs are your enemy.”

“They are,” Cyrus said. “But there is also an old Earth saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

Skar’s frown deepened and he spoke quietly to himself, perhaps testing the saying. His eyes brightened and he looked up. “That is a clever saying. How does it apply here?”

“The cyborgs have attacked the star system. The Kresh must have driven them off. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense that I could talk to a cyborg and get him to agree to take me home. Everything seems hopeless. I need space marines and a space vessel, but I don’t know where to get either.”

Skar pointed up at the two rockets leaving the atmosphere. The huge missiles had almost dwindled out of sight.

Cyrus watched them, and the wheels began turning in his mind. “Maybe there is a way off Jassac. We know more rockets are going to land at the converters, right?”

“Yes,” Skar said.

“So . . . we head there, wait, and stow aboard one of the rockets, getting back into orbital space. Then what do we do?”

“You have your mental abilities,” Skar said. “Can you not twist minds like the psi-masters do?”

“I’m not much of a telepath. My telekinesis is stronger.”

“But you have practiced some telepathy, yes?”

“I have,” Cyrus admitted. “What’s your point?”

“We leave Jassac on a rocket and go to where the ice haulers bring their frozen water. The ice-hauler ships must head back to the outer asteroids. We stow away on a hauler heading out-system. You make them help us.”

Cyrus tried to envision that. It was a wild plan, but it was a plan that didn’t include Kresh in sky vehicles sweeping the plains for him day in and day out. “Do humans pilot the ice haulers?” he asked.

“Yes,” Skar said.

“It’s crazy, but that seems more feasible to me than searching for a single man on an Earth-sized moon, especially as I have no idea what to do with Klane once I find him.”

It also struck Cyrus as easier than scaling down an impossible canyon wall with Kresh hunting for him.

“Let’s go,” Cyrus said. “I’ve rested long enough.”

10

Chengal Ras seethed as he stalked back and forth in a home-world atrium. White sand glittered under intense lamps. The sand was warm under his talons and it sparkled from time to time.

Eons ago, the legends said, the Kresh had lived on a perfect world with sand like this. Yes, Zama Dee flaunted her status and her access to great wealth. She—

A large door hissed up, and the 73rd strode into the atrium. Chengal Ras expected a retinue to follow. Instead, the large Kresh entered alone. That was interesting and daring on her part.

Zama Dee was larger than he was. She possessed larger jaws, longer teeth, and a bigger cranium. She had a yellowish hide with black mottling. Metallic streamers tinkled as she stalked toward him. He noticed the steel-shod talons on her feet. Yes, he had heard rumors before that she enjoyed slaying in the old manner. She shredded and, it was rumored, devoured game raw, like a wild beast.

He would be wise to remember that. She ruled Jassac, and her clique wished to terraform as many moons and planets as possible. They opposed intensifying the Chirr-Kresh War, wishing to deal first with the new threat: the cyborgs.

“I welcome you to Jassac, 109th,” Zama Dee said. With a hand-talon, she struck the scent maker dangling from her neck. A hiss of powerful odors sprayed outward from it.

“I accept your hospitality, 73rd,” Chengal Ras said, following the ancient formula. From his belt, he lifted his own scent maker, squirting acceptable odors into the air.

She bent her large torso, and her nostrils quivered. “Delectable,” she said.

“This room,” he said. “I am in awe of it.”

She raised her large tail and let it swing back and forth in a ritual movement.

These mannerisms were odd to Chengal Ras. He had been born to the Seven Sisters in exile. They had been in rebellion to the old ways, believing in nothing holy, wishing to change to a unified approach where all shared all and did all.

“My latest Attack Talon approaches Jassac,” he said.

Her tail thudded onto the white sand, and she faced him with flashing eyes.

He recognized the blunder. He had initiated the topic. He had broken protocol. If he admitted it and sought her recompense—ah, he knew what to do.

“I had wondered if your holy-callers would bless the vessel,” he said. “That is why I mention it. I do not wish to repeat the tragic accident of my first Attack Talon.”

She continued to regard him. Finally, she asked, “When did Chengal Ras revert to the ancient beliefs?”

That was tantamount to an insult, but he would have to swallow it. He didn’t have enough hand to challenge her here.

“If I have misspoken—” he said.

Her tail lashed back and forth, sweeping white sand, throwing some into the air.

Chengal Ras noted that she wore a weapon. Protocol had forced him to surrender his before entering the atrium. Maybe she would attempt to rend him with her steel-shod talons. Yes, she would be practiced in the ancient art of combat. In more than one way, he was at a severe disadvantage. If she wished to harm him . . .

He forced the words through his teeth, expelling them in a hiss. “I have erred.”

“You have,” she agreed. “How will you repair it?”

Chengal Ras did the only thing he could. He tore a streamer from his arm, and he stalked toward her, handing it to the 73rd. She accepted the streamer, and thus, he gave her ten codex points, weakening his position and strengthening hers.

“You are generous,” she said.

“It is an atrium of white sand,” he said. “And I am awed to think of ancient times.”

She opened her jaws, maybe to spew an insult about the Seven Sisters. With an effort, it seemed, she clicked her deadly teeth together.

Chengal Ras waited in silence, seething inside, hoping that someday soon he could kill her for this indignity.

“It is time for us to speak,” she said.

Still he waited.

“You have come to Jassac chasing cattle,” she said. “You lost an Attack Talon, and the High Station 3 cattle landed on the surface. Do you realize that they have eluded my investigation teams?”

“I had not realized, no,” he said.

She regarded him closely. He wondered at the scrutiny. “Your cattle slew a Kresh,” she said.

“Blasphemy against nature,” Chengal Ras said, putting horror into his words. This was bad. He had never expected something like this.

“I blame you, 109th.”

He thought at lightning speed, and he realized he would have to backtrack now. He was in grave peril otherwise.

“I’m afraid I must confess an error,” Chengal Ras said. “No. I will be blunt. I have misinformed you of the nature of the chase.”

Her tail swished again, throwing up more white sand. The tail and her stance showed her anger. “Logic dictated you would mouth such an obscenity to me,” she hissed.

He barely kept his tail from lashing. On all accounts, he couldn’t let her goad him into a fight. She was a traditionalist. Therefore, he did not believe she would murder him outright. No. She had honor and she would not take advantage of such an easy kill. But if he gave her an opening . . .

“The records at High Station 3 are exposed for all to view,” he said. “One of the cattle in the prey-craft was from out-system.”

“Do you mean a metal man?” she asked in outrage.

“No, 73rd,” he said. “I would have given a system-wide alert if any metal men were running free. This is something else entirely. The mind extractor has shown us the new cattle speak an old truth. They have come from the original cattle system of Sol.”

“This is amazing,” she said. “Speak on.”

“These cattle have discovered a faster-than-light drive.”

“Ah . . . so the rumors are true,” she said.

He made a gracious gesture.

“You are free with amazing truths,” she said, canting her head and looking at him in a new manner. “Why would you admit this to me?”

Chengal Ras still thought fast, and he came to a decision. He would skate as near to the truth as he could. Zama Dee might be smarter than he was. Likely, she could trap him except for one thing: he would cheat and break every tradition if it helped him achieve his goal. Yet he would have to gauge the use of his cheats very, very carefully if he hoped to defeat her.

“I have stumbled upon a mystery,” Chengal Ras said. “The arrival of the new cattle must have unhinged the Humanity Ultimates on High Station 3.”

“I do not bother with the cattle cults,” she said with a convulsive shake of her tail.

“I believe that is an error on your part,” Chengal Ras said.

“You dare attempt to correct me?” she asked, sounding scandalized.

“I correct no one,” he said. “Rather, I am letting you know my reasoning for taking the course of action that I have. The needle-ship was not prey-craft. Rather, Humanity Ultimates constructed the vessel in secret perhaps as long as several months ago.”

“They did this at High Station 3?” Zama Dee asked.

“Alas, that is so.”

“It cost me a Kresh, 109th.”

“If you demand blood payment, I suggest you aid me in my quest to uncover the Humanity Ultimate plot. You may then shed their blood in vengeance for the Kresh death.”

Zama Dee made rapid hissing noises, Kresh laughter. “Are you expecting me to believe that we here at Jassac are as lax and—I hardly know the right term for the stupidity of letting cattle outwit you. They actually built a spacecraft under your nose?”

“The cattle are clever,” Chengal Ras said. Another of his great strengths was his hatred of lying to himself. Kresh were superior to all other life forms, but that didn’t mean all other life forms were incapable of clever thought. In this, he saw clearly, he knew.

“These cattle have killed Kresh,” Chengal Ras said. “They are dangerous, and they have come to this world for a reason.”

“That is absurd,” Zama Dee said. “By this world, you mean Jassac?”

“Yes. I am telling you stark truth.”

“I had thought you clever and dangerous, Chengal Ras. Instead, I discover you to believe fairy tales and egg-laying fables. This is all utter nonsense.”

“If it is nonsense,” he said, “do you have any objection to allowing me to inspect your primitives?”

She eyed him, and she glanced at the ten-codex streamer in her talon. “You wish to fly onto the preserve and help in the hunt?”

“No,” he said. “I would like to inspect any cattle you happen to have in captivity here.”

“You want to interrogate them?”

“If it is permitted, I would like to observe them.” At that moment, he caught her eye movement. It was a quick shift up toward the heat lamps. It was an odd flicker, and it indicated—

She’s lying to me. She has something to hide. Could it be she, too, believes in cattle fables?

“Yes,” she said. “Inspect the cattle. One of my investigation teams has picked up an interesting specimen. Perhaps you can aid me by observing and giving me your opinion.”

“Let me be of service, 73rd.”

She examined the ten-codex streamer one more time. With a deft twist, she attached it to her arm rack, letting it flutter with her own streamers. “Let it be so,” she said, ending the interview with a ritual phrase.

11

Two days later, a downpour nearly caught Cyrus and Skar by surprise.

In a matter of minutes, clouds rolled into the sky. They grew ominously, thickening and darkening with black bulges. Soon, flashes of lightning crackled into existence and thunder boomed. It shook Cyrus’s teeth the first time, and he instinctively crouched low. The flashes intensified and so did the booms.

“Do you smell that?” Cyrus asked. He meant the ozone. “It’s going to rain soon.”

Skar shook his head.

“Rain,” Cyrus said, “water cascading down from the sky in little droplets.”

Skar gazed heavenward.

“As a matter of fact,” Cyrus said, looking around, “this area seems unsafe. I bet rainwater will sweep down into the canyon.” He’d seen videos of such things while training in Crete.

“Is that a problem?” Skar asked.

“You’ve never lived on a world, huh? You’ve been in places like High Station 3 or inside spaceships all your life.”

“That is true.”

“Quick,” Cyrus said. “We have to climb before it starts pouring.” He hurried away from the edge of the canyon. Skar followed, and the two of them soon walked on higher ground.

A big, fat, cold drop plunked against Cyrus’s nose. “Here it comes,” he said. He looked up and then looked around. He scrambled onto a higher rock. “This will have to do.”

After settling onto the rock, Skar scanned upward in wonder as raindrops began spilling onto them. Another flash of lightning slashed down. It struck the ground nearby, splintering a boulder with a boom and a crescendo of stone-raining noises.

Skar huddled beside Cyrus, and cold rain poured onto the weary travelers. The lightning lit up the dark afternoon and the booms hammered right on top of them, shaking them and the ground. Slowly, the flashes and the noise drifted across the canyon. Soon, water raced down from higher ground, and gushing streams poured over the edge of the canyon in an amazing flash flood.

Fortunately for the two of them, Cyrus had had a good eye. They watched as water boiled past them, inching higher and higher. Cyrus spied a spider-coyote bobbing in the waves, thrashing its legs. Pieces of vegetation raced by as everything went over the edge and into the canyon.

“I never knew it could be like this,” Skar shouted.

Cyrus had never personally known either, although he had read about it at the institute.

Finally, the rain ended, but the clouds remained. Cyrus shivered, thoroughly soaked.

“We have to keep warm,” he told Skar. They huddled closer together, shivering under an extra garment. Soon, water no longer sluiced by, but meandered slowly. That stopped after another half hour, leaving muddy soil.

“Let’s start walking,” Cyrus said.

Skar nodded as his teeth chattered.

For a time, they trekked farther inland than normal. Skar turned around once and pointed at the muddy footprints they left.

“Yeah, we’d better get back onto the rocks,” Cyrus said. “We don’t want the Kresh finding those.”

It drizzled shortly thereafter, and likely blurred their prints. Too soon, night came. Luckily, their clothes had dried out by the friction and body heat.

The mountain-sized convertor was much closer than two days ago. They heard it in the distance as it chugged vapor into the sky. Large hoses lay on the new iceberg, feeder tubes for the great machine.

“I wonder how often the rockets come,” Cyrus said. “We might be in for a long wait.”

The clouds dissipated enough so that around midnight the stars reappeared. Skar shook Cyrus awake before taking the extra garment, wrapping himself with it, and lying down. The former Latin King sat up. He rubbed himself around the shoulders and leaned against a rock. He listened for the sounds of a sky vehicle. Later, he wondered about Jana and the primitives. The number of Kresh sorties had lessened, but enough cars still went out that he doubted any Berserker Clan members would dare venture into this area.

Cyrus drew a deep breath and he stared up at the stars. He’d been on Jassac for nearly a week. He’d eaten more bloody spider-coyote meat than he even wanted to think about. He hated the taste of blood. Maybe as bad, killing the creatures had lowered the charge on the heat gun. Skar had shot a spider-coyote once with his gun, but there hadn’t been much left to eat after the pellet exploded everything into gore.

Back on Earth at the institute, Cyrus had read a few stories. One of them had been about an explorer who had made a bow and fashioned arrows. The explorer had slain wild game with the arrows, saving his high-tech weaponry for tougher situations. Unfortunately, there weren’t any trees out here—at least none that he’d seen. Cyrus had a pocketful of rocks, and he’d hurled a few at the creatures. The spider-coyotes had dodged each one. Skar had done better, had gotten closer, but the soldier had also missed. Successful primitive living clearly took practice.

Cyrus continued to scan the heavens. None of the constellations looked right. It made him feel lonely—stranded far away from the world he’d known. Maybe as bad, the planetary smells were off. He’d noticed it more in the beginning. The sights, smells, sounds, the feel, were all alien. This wasn’t Earth and it didn’t feel like Earth.

Would he ever see Crete again? Would he ever walk in Milan? He didn’t see how. He had joined up for a dangerous quest, and he would likely die on Jassac. He’d hated the Kresh more in the beginning, when he’d been in their ship and the Vomags had kicked Captain Nagasaki to death.

You’d better remember that. The Kresh will kick Earth to death unless you get off-planet and warn your world.

Cyrus drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He stared at the stars. Later, his eyelids drooped. He heard a scuffling sound—

Cyrus’s head snapped up. He dug out his heat gun and scrambled to his feet. Twisting around, he saw that a primitive with smooth legs and a spear stood over him, perched on the rock. A woman grinned down at him. It was Jana. Cyrus brought up the gun. Jana moved faster, snapping her torso and bringing the end of her spear around. The end clipped Cyrus on the side of the jaw and knocked him backward. He slammed down hard, hitting his head on rocky soil, and for a moment, his eyes hurt and blurred.

Jana jumped down onto the ground. He heard her thud.

Cyrus spied his gun lying a few feet away. From on the ground, he lunged for it. With a clatter of noise, Jana kicked it out of range. The two stared at each other in the darkness.

“Skar!” Cyrus shouted.

Jana grinned wider. The primitive had starkly white teeth.

“Skar!” Cyrus said again.

Out of the darkness, Skar appeared. The soldier gripped his short-handled axe. He moved fast, charging Jana. The primitive jumped back.

Even with his head ringing, Cyrus saw it. A net came up from behind the rock he’d been leaning against earlier. The net swished through the air and descended toward Skar. Small rocks weighted down the edges. Other primitives must be hiding behind the rock.

“It’s a trap!” Cyrus shouted. He tried to rise, but the back of his head exploded in pain, and he groaned and sank back down.

The net landed on Skar, entangling him. The soldier tripped and went down. Now more primitives appeared, Berserker Clan members, no doubt. They produced clubs and beat the soldier into unconsciousness.

Cyrus waited for the same thing to happen to him.

“No,” Jana said, as savages approached with their clubs. “He is not as strong as the demonslayer.”

The biggest primitive, a man with a low forehead and huge shoulders, scowled thunderously at Jana. “Are you the hetman?” the man asked in a loud voice.

“Yang is hetman,” Jana said.

“Do you try to tell Yang what to do?” the big man shouted.

Under the light of the stars, Jana shook her head. “I tell no one and certainly not Yang. Yet I would remind all of us that the seeker said we must not harm the pale-skinned outlander. He knows strange lore.”

“The seeker?” Cyrus asked. “You said the Berserkers don’t have a seeker.”

The huge primitive—Yang, apparently—stepped up and grabbed Cyrus by the hair, lifting his head. “Who are you to say the Berserkers have no seeker?”

“I am from space,” Cyrus said, trying to ignore the man’s sweaty odor.

“You are a demon,” Yang pronounced.

“The seeker told us—” Jana said.

Yang released Cyrus and whirled on Jana. The beetle-browed hetman used his spear to prod the woman between her breasts.

“The seeker is not here,” Yang said. “I am the hetman. I rule the Berserkers.”

“These two are a gift from the sky,” Jana said. “I saw them slay a demon. They know old lore.”

“You lie!” Yang said, with a malicious grin. “I know you lie for you saw me trap your so-called demonslayer just now. He was a fool. He fell to Yang. That proves he could never have slain a demon.” The grin grew. “Now that Stone Fist is dead, I say what happens here, and I defy the seeker.”

“You are the hetman,” Jana said slowly.

“Do any here challenge me?” Yang shouted, looking around, searching faces.

“I challenge you,” Cyrus said.

Yang whirled around. “You?” he said. “You are a captive. You are the spawn of the demons. You cannot challenge me.”

“Oh, so you’re afraid,” Cyrus said. “I understand.”

“What?” Yang roared. “Afraid of you? I am not afraid of anything, least of all a pale weakling.”

“Then prove it and accept my challenge,” Cyrus said.

It was hard to tell, but in the starry light, Jana seemed to watched him closely. She cocked her head, and she glanced at Yang. “I could defeat the outlander,” she told the others.

Yang’s eyes widened. “You told us he killed three Berserkers. He killed Stone Fist with a spell wand.”

Jana pointed. “His spell wand is on the ground. He tried to use it against me, but I kicked it away. Yes, he killed three Berserkers, but I could defeat him now that he lacks his wand.”

“I am the hetman,” Yang said, slapping his chest.

“That is true,” Jana said.

“I decide who will fight whom.” Yang regarded Cyrus. “Without your wand, you have no more power, demon-spawn.”

“That ought to make it a short fight then,” Cyrus said. “But if you fear me—”

Yang lowered the spear’s point so it rested under Cyrus’s chin. “I can kill you here and now.”

“I challenge you,” Cyrus said again. And even though his telepathy was woefully weak, even though the back of his head throbbed, he attempted to tweak the primitive’s mind.

Show everyone here how powerful you are. Accept the demon-spawn’s challenge and defeat him before everyone. That will make you the champion of champions, for you know that Jana told the truth and these star men killed demons
.

“I should kill you,” Yang said.

Cyrus’s head hurt, and his eyesight wavered. He sent another thought, another argument, and that was all he could send.

Yang lowered the spear. “What do the rest of you think? Should I thrash the demon-spawn, the murderer of Stone Fist?”

“Accept his challenge,” another primitive said.

“I dare you to fight him,” Jana added.

“How would you fight me?” Yang asked Cyrus. “What weapon would you choose?”

“A knife,” Cyrus said.

A grin spread across Yang’s face. “I accept,” he said. “Put him on his feet.”

Jana came forward, helping Cyrus stand.

“Is there something wrong with me choosing the knife?” Cyrus whispered.

“You have made it a death fight,” Jana whispered in his ear. “Yang has a metal knife, and he has killed with it before. He is skilled with the blade. I tried to help you, star man. The seeker . . .” Jana shrugged. “Try to die with honor, at least. Otherwise, I doubt I will be able to keep Yang from killing your friend.”

As Jana stepped away, Cyrus blinked several times. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the splotches from them. Afterward, he gingerly massaged the back of his head. The blow to the face earlier was going to mess with his reflexes.

“Let us get this over with,” Yang said. “We have a long journey ahead of us tonight. Quit delaying.”

As he spoke, Yang removed the fur cloak from his shoulders. Then he drew a broad-bladed iron knife from the sheath on his chest. He took several practice slashes before leering at Cyrus.

“I will cut you ten times and watch your blood water the ground,” Yang said. “Afterward, I will eat your heart and gain your knowledge, man from the stars. All will acknowledge Yang as the greatest Berserker of all.”

Cyrus shook his arms. His face ached, talking hurt, and if he moved too fast, his eyesight wavered. It was a bad combination for a knife fight. He needed nimbleness, and instead it felt as if he were moving through water.

“Hurry,” Yang said. “Draw your blade, star man. Face me and die in a death challenge.”

It would have been better if Skar fought the monster. Cyrus glanced at the soldier under the net. Now that he thought about it, Yang had clubbed Skar hardest of all. In some manner, it appeared that Jana wanted him to succeed.

The most interesting thing was this: Jana had lied about the Berserker Clan lacking a seeker. Why would she have done something like that?

“Draw your blade,” Yang repeated, sounding impatient.

Cyrus licked his dry lips, flexed his knife hand and let it settle on the hilt of his blade. He’d acquired the weapon on High Station 3. A criminal had fought him. He’d gained use of the man’s knife and killed with it. He liked its heft. Too bad it wasn’t a vibrio-knife.

“Are you afraid?” Yang sneered.

“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “I’m afraid you’re going to shit your pants once we start and that I’ll gag on the stench of it.”

Yang stood motionless. Then he howled with rage and charged. He moved like a legendary rhinoceros, an extinct Earth beast, a mass of muscle and heavy bones. The knife thrust and Cyrus twisted aside. He didn’t attempt to draw his blade—he tried to avoid death. The enemy knife slid past his chest, slicing fabric and scratching his flesh. Cyrus had been in many knife fights, and he had practiced long and hard. On the voyage to New Eden, he had learned new tricks from the space marines. He wasn’t a fancy fighter, but he was gifted in pragmatic tactics and he was exceptionally fast.