Starfist: Hangfire (19 page)

Claypoole shrugged. "Yes, novels and training manuals, mostly." Ooops! He was out of the Corps now! "Well, when I was in the Corps, that's what I read mostly," he added.

"What'll we have to drink?" Katie asked. She activated the computer. "We're ready to order," she said.

"I'd like a big glass of Reindeer Ale and let's smoke some thule."

"Sour mash bourbon for me, on the rocks," Katie told the computer. "And let me see the card catalog.

There's a book I always love to look at whenever I come here," she said to Claypoole. "Give us the
Speght Chaucer
, please," she said after scrolling through the catalog and picking the call number.

"No drinking or smoking allowed while handling the books," the computer announced. The automated voice was that of Mr. Prost. "Please wear the gloves when you handle this volume." Obediently, they put their drinks onto sideboards.

A panel in a sidewall popped open and a metal box slid out. Katie slipped on the thin cotton gloves that came with the box and opened it. Carefully, she took out a large leather-bound volume and opened it up. On the fly leaf someone had written a long message by hand in ink. It was to "Jack" from "Dad" and dated April 12, 1931. Claypoole whistled; that was 522 years ago! His eyes fell on one line that stood out. It was in archaic English and the penmanship was difficult to decipher at first, but he puzzled it out.

"...Chaucer ‘ever ready to cheer the language of your soul, and gild the bareness of life with treasures of bygone times’—"

"Now look at this," Katie whispered as she turned to the title page. On the obverse of the first leaf was a full-page woodcut entitled "The Progenie of Geffrey Chaucer," and on the recto of the title page, "The Workes of Our Ancient and learned English Poet, Geffrey Chaucer, newly Printed. London, Printed by Adam Islip. An. Dom. 1602."

"This book was printed in 1602?" Claypoole asked, astonished. "Katie, this book is—is, good shit, 850 years old! I've never held any man-made thing that was this old! What do you think it's worth?" he almost whispered.

"Millions, I should think. The people who sponsor this place have money to burn. When they first hired Gerry, he went wild on acquisitions. People come from all over Human Space just to see the books he's collected, did you know that? Yes! Here, let me show you something." She turned to the prologue. "See this?" She pointed to a passage.

"What language is that written in?" Claypoole asked, peering at the strange black letters on the leaf.

Katie laughed. "It's archaic English, but what might make it difficult for you to read is that it's printed in

‘black letter’ type. But rendered into modern typology, you could learn to read Chaucer's English pretty easily. Here, let me read it for you:

"There was an Oxford student...

And he was too unworldly for employment

In some lay office.

At his couch's head

His twenty volumes bound in black and red

Of Aristotle's philosophy pleased him more

Than a rich wardrobe or a gay guitar."

"Do you love books, Lance Corporal Rachman Claypoole, late of the Confederation Marine Corps?"

"Well, I—"

"I do. Oh, it sounds insincere, don't it, when a whore like me talks about love? But I think if I ever was to fall in love with any man, it'd be a man who shares my love of books. A man like Gerry Prost." She nodded toward the reception desk as she carefully put the ancient book back into its case and commanded the computer to return it to the stacks.

"Where'd you ever learn so damned much about books and plays and poets and stuff?" Claypoole asked, a tinge of wonder in his voice. He smiled. He was beginning to like the Havanagas scene. And although he would never tell Katie this—it really would sound insincere—he thought that old book a thing of surpassing beauty, even if he couldn't read it.

Katie shrugged as she peeled off the gloves; inwardly she was delighted. She'd seen how Claypoole reacted to the ancient book, and that pleased her no end. I'm gonna give this guy a night he'll always remember. "How'd I learn all that stuff? Well, I've got plenty of time to read in my business. Now," she settled back and stretched her legs, "let's finish our drinks and have a smoke. And then let's fuck."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Fighters grumbled among themselves, though they were careful to do their grumbling away from the hearing of the Leaders. The Masters and Leaders saw complaints as a challenge to their authority and power, and challenges were punishable by death. Normally, the Fighters kept unspoken any displeasure they felt, but this planet—

The Fighters had not been told the name of the world; they were told it was a secret. As though knowing the name of the pesthole could possibly threaten the True People, much less the Emperor. They called it the "Bog" because soldiers had to call the place where they were by some name. They did not tell the Workers they called the planet the Bog. The Workers might have grumbled among themselves, but they never did it within hearing of the Fighters. The Fighters saw grumbling by the Workers as a challenge to their superiority.

The Fighters who thought about it, few of them because Fighters were not bred to think, wondered why the Bog was so miserable. It was not that different from Home. The air was quite similar, damp and redolent with fish and vegetation. There were many swamps and much marshland. A plentitude of sluggish rivers threaded the land. There was frequent rain.

Maybe it was the rain; at Home it rained more often than not, a refreshing, cleansing rain that left one feeling rejuvenated when the sun came out so the True People could bask in its light. On the Bog, it rained all the time. They had been on the Bog for a few weeks, and there had not been a break in the rain. Sometimes the rain was little more than a mist, sometimes it was a monsoon. And it rained every way in between. Not once in the weeks they'd been on the planet had the sun broken through the solid cloud cover.

Or maybe it was the mud. There were many lush forests at Home, as there were on the Bog. But the forests at Home glittered with all the eight billion greens; they were speckled with flowers in all hues, birds sang in their branches, saplings and bushes carpeted the ground under the trees. The Bog's forests were muted in color, a few dull browns and greens, there were no flowers or birds, and only scraggly treeling-things poked up through the mud. Home had savannas with luscious green growth for browsing animals. The Bog had only small, weedy clearings in its forests and swamps.

Or it could be the animal life. The Bog was home to hideous creatures, like things out of some evildoer's nightmares. They walked on six legs, or climbed with them. They had no heads; instead their eyes were on stalks that poked out of their backs, the tops of their shoulders, and their chests. Their mouths were snouts—some long, some short, some in between—that protruded at a forward angle from their shoulders below the eyestalks. They breathed through tubed openings as far behind the shoulder eyestalks as their snouts were before them. They were brown or black or gray, the colors of the mud on which they lived. Only the fish looked natural, and they had too many eyes and fins.

One kind of animal, larger than a True Person, but not nearly as big as a Large One, walked and climbed with four of its legs and used the front pair as the True People used hands and arms. This kind of animal also used primitive tools and weapons, though it went about naked and did not build houses.

For all those reasons, perhaps, the Fighters, a hundred and more of them, were grumbling among themselves that day as they slogged through the mud. Mud spattered their legs with each step, caked their boots, seeped through the drain holes and squelched in their boots. Heavier than a drizzle, the rain pattered on them incessantly, soaked the uniforms that clung to their skin, runneled down their arms, trunks, legs, added its weight to the mud that built on their legs and feet and inside their boots. The dull colors in the forest further deflated their spirits. And they knew what awaited them at the end of the fatiguing march: a camp of the repulsive creatures that walked and climbed on four legs and had two arms. Creatures had come close to the base in the past several days since their arrival. The Masters had decided they were a nuisance that must be dealt with.

The leader and elders and other advisers stood in a circle under the spreading branches of a forest giant whose leaves diffused the heaviest rain so it fell on them delightfully. None of them bothered to step out from under the cascades of water that fell from the leaves, leaf-trapped rain that was channeled into funnels. Hunters not admitted to the circle gathered in clumps around it so they could listen. Females who were not tending young also edged close.

"Three hunters have gone out and not come back," the chief hunter said angrily, his primary eyestalks aimed rigidly at the leader. "It is past time we organized a search for them."

The leader wagged his primary eyestalks at the chief hunter, acknowledging the topic of the council he had called for, then pointed them at the eldest.

"When hunters go out alone, sometimes they do not return," the eldest said in a creaking voice. "If we search we will probably find no trace. If we do find anything, it will likely be a few scattered, broken bones."

"We must find out why they didn't return," the youngest elder interjected sharply.

The leader reached out and smacked the youngest elder between the eyestalks for speaking out of turn. The youngest elder bowed his torso low but did not point his primary eyestalks at the ground. He kept them defiantly on the leader.

"If we do not find out why they did not return, more hunters will go out and not return." One of the missing hunters was the youngest elder's younger brother, and the youngest elder was still an active hunter himself.

The leader pointed his primaries at the second oldest elder. That was the custom in council. The one who called it spoke first, to say why council was called, then the elders spoke in order of seniority. The leader said nothing more until all the elders had spoken.

The second oldest extended his pectoral eyestalks to look at the semiprostrate youngest. "Get up!" he snapped. He retracted his pectorals and aimed his primaries at the leader. "Both the oldest and the youngest are right. Hunters sometimes go out and do not return and cannot be found and we never know what happened. But when three hunters disappear in a short period of time, there is usually a reason for it, and we must deal with that reason or hunters will keep disappearing until we move to another hunting ground."

The leader wagged his primaries and looked at the third eldest. Her oldest daughter's oldest son was one of the missing hunters,

"My grandson is careful," she said in a voice so controlled it gave no indication of the anguish she felt at the loss. "He has never been injured on a hunt. He is also a careful hunter and always brings back food." She glanced at the chief hunter, who wagged his primaries in agreement. "There is a new danger out there. We must identify it before we lose more mothers' sons."

The leader acknowledged her, then turned to the next oldest, the only elder who hadn't yet spoken.

That elder retracted his primaries in reflection. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly, as though he wasn't certain his words should be said.

"During the night before the day the first missing hunter went out, I had to get up in the middle of the night." This elder was notorious for his lack of control over his excretory functions. "While I was up I heard thunder. It was not normal thunder. It did not crack or boom, it did not roll in a succession of booms. Instead it began almost too soft to hear, then slowly grew to the volume of middle-distance thunder. It stopped suddenly. I listened, but there was no more. I decided a storm did not threaten, so I returned to my nest and went back to sleep." He paused for so long the leader thought he was finished and began to speak. But the fourth eldest flicked up a limb to indicate he wasn't through and resumed speaking. "There was something strange about that thunder. It wasn't all in one place. It sounded," his primaries darted down in embarrassment, everyone knew his hearing was failing, "like it began very high in the sky and came closer to the ground as it got louder." He paused again, but resumed before the leader opened his mouth. "It was in the same direction the first hunter went in."

When it was obvious he was through, the leader looked at the youngest elder.

"I have said what I have to say."

Before the leader could speak, the chief hunter broke in, a breach of custom; the petitioner was not supposed to speak again until after the leader.

"All three hunters who are missing left in the same direction."

The leader didn't strike the chief hunter for speaking out of turn. Instead, he withdrew his primaries in thought. The circle waited patiently. The surrounding centauroids also waited quietly.

After a moment the leader extended his primaries and spoke solemnly. "We must go out as scouts to find why three hunters went in the same direction and did not return. We must be especially careful. If fourth-eldest's ears did not play tricks on him, the monsters may have returned."

Eyestalks, primary, dorsal, and pectoral, popped everywhere. Everyone was startled. The direction in which the hunters disappeared, and in which the fourth eldest heard the strange thunder, was not where the monsters had been before. But the leader was right, there was no reason the monsters should return to the same place.

"The monsters did not kill any people when they were here before," the second eldest said. "Why should they kill hunters this time, if they have returned?"

"Who knows what monsters will do, or why?" the third oldest snapped. Her primaries quivered at him.

No one had an answer.

"Prepare," the leader said to the chief hunter.

"Will you scout as well?"

"I will."

On orders from the Leaders, the Fighters bellied themselves on the mud and slithered in two lines that curved away from each other, then back again until they formed a circle. The slither through the mud was disgusting, but the lack of undergrowth in the unhealthy forest allowed the movement to be made in almost total silence. The biggest problem the Fighters had was keeping the nozzles of their weapons clear of the mud. None of the few who thought of such things wanted to think of the consequences of firing with clogged nozzles. Fortunately, there was little growth to snag the ammunition tanks they carried on their backs.