Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) (38 page)

“I bet he got transferred out to the Far Sectors this late in his career because somebody wanted him and his addiction away from the high-rankers he ferried from base to base.”

Nate took the folded blanket from Bithia and gave her a hand as she rose from the ground. “As for you, you’re not setting foot in the
Murphy
’s control chamber again, nor getting anywhere close to an AI interface port. I don’t care if you got the flight data or not, coming so close to losing you wasn’t worth the risk. We can stay on Talonque forever before I’ll let you take such a chance again.”

“I’ve no desire to repeat this experience, I assure you. I think I did get the information we were after. I have a dim recall of success. But, as you say, we’re not likely to have the chance to use whatever I saved.”

“Talonqueni immigrants.” Thom assumed an air of good cheer. “I’m getting real used to the idea.”

“Sure you are,” Nate said as he bounded up the gangplank into the
Murphy
. “Reveling in it like the rest of us, I bet.”

The ship’s portal closed on the sound of their laughter.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After setting the controls for self-destruct and complying with every last word of Sectors ship-abandonment regulations, Nate and Thom stood and watched the ship melt in upon itself. They remained, stoically observing, until the
Murphy
was nothing but a pool of molten metal, seeping into the ground below. Bithia said she found it too depressing to watch the entire sad process. She’d taken herself off to sit in the shade of a small tree and wait until her companions felt free to leave. When the last of the ship’s material disappeared below the surface, Nate gave the order to saddle the kemat and ride away.

Nate was relieved to leave the area of the ship, abandoning his hope to get home as well. They rode all day without seeing anyone or anything, not even wildlife. The first night on the trail he’d selected a peaceful spot beside the upper tributary of the river for a camp, fished for dinner and slept soundly. The next morning they’d boldly taken to the great road, galloping past the few other travelers with impunity. The only people they met were Githholz stragglers or small-time trading caravans, all going southward. No one else appeared to be interested in heading to the mountains.

“It’s partly the season,” Bithia said. “The trading time is over, and winter will soon be upon us. The winters in the foothills and mountains are particularly fierce. Only the hardy people who actually live in these parts will stay over winter.”

“Great, and we’re heading straight into this bad weather?” Nate asked, remembering too late her penchant for leaving out little details, as she called them, here and there. “What if we can’t winter over in your father’s base? Or decide we don’t want to?”

“It’ll only take a few days to get there and find out,” Bithia said confidently. “If we find living there is impossible, we can be safely on our way to the plateau or even all the way to the south before the winter gales develop.”

“I don’t know, maybe a trip to that southern island Atletl and Celixia claimed to be from, back at Poqueteele, might not be such a bad idea if we’re going to be marooned on this planet.” Thom’s voice held genuine longing. “At least it’d be warm and we could fish.”
 

So he and his two companions had ridden and debated their range of future choices, companionably, not too worried about anything but beating the first storms of winter. It was good to have a new purpose to replace all the planning and hopes he’d centered on the
Murphy
, although Nate was concerned about what to plan for after the excursion to the mountain facility was concluded. He worried about Bithia’s reaction once she’d explored the last possible link to her father and her home. Her reassurances about not pinning too much hope on finding the main base operational sounded convincing, but he had his doubts.

As they traveled, the road rose imperceptibly until the track suddenly veered east to parallel the foothills. Bithia directed their small party to a narrow one-lane trail branching away from the main road and winding into the foothills, serving as the main passage through the mountains to the lands beyond. There’d been a town, which had taken them a day to cautiously detour around. Nate had no desire to set foot in such a large place, or attract attention, which would have been inevitable.
 

After two more days of slow going into the foothills and then the mountains themselves, leaving the road and detouring onto an even narrower, more winding trail, he’d made the decision to abandon the kemat, which were showing signs of respiratory distress. Nate traded them to a delighted subsistence farmer, whose family grew a few vegetables and tended a herd of sheeplike creatures at high elevation. The farmer gave them food and a single beast of burden, which was sufficient to carry their combined, pared-down possessions.

“He thinks we’re fools, lowland idiots, trading four kemat for this homely old creature and some food,” Bithia told Nate as they trudged away from the farm the next morning, working their way along the narrow, steep mountain road.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Nate said. “And I don’t like this damn, what do you call it? Yallurt? Acts like the classic description of a stubborn terran mule I once read about. Now I understand the concept vividly.”

“Yes, but the beast is so strong.” Bithia laughed, watching him and Thom trying to inspire the sturdy creature to proceed up the trail. “And basically sweet-natured.”

“Sweet to you maybe, ma’am,” Thom said in disgust as the yallurt finally condescended to trot a few yards. “It don’t like me, and the feeling is definitely mutual. This animal ain’t gonna replace the kemat in my affections.”

“You don’t appear to have any instinctive link with yallurt, the way you did with the noble kemat.”

They made pretty good time in the mountains once Thom figured out the trick of encouraging the yallurt with handfuls of sweet grass. Nate thought it was a good thing they were hiking, since the trek gave them time to acclimatize to the ever-increasing altitude and resulting decrease in oxygen.

Nate heard music long before they came upon the village tucked into a bend in the mountain trail. The remote pocket of civilization was a small hamlet consisting of perhaps two dozen houses and outbuildings. The mountain trail became an unpaved street, leading to the heart of the village. The men pulled the hoods of their capes more firmly over their heads to shadow their faces.

Perhaps this high in the mountains, the people won’t have heard anything about us.
Nate needed a good night’s rest and decent food before attempting the final ascent to Fr’taray’s main facility. Bithia and Thom weren’t in any better shape.

He got the impression the entire population of the town was gathered for a feast or a party or whatever the festive occasion was. The three weary travelers and their single pack animal stood on the edge of the small square and watched the dancers, unnoticed at first. Then people began to stare, nudging each other and whispering. Finally, the musicians fell silent in a discordant ending to what had been a rollicking dance tune. Everyone in the square stood and gaped at the trio of new arrivals.

“Please, we don’t mean to disturb you.” Bithia’s voice carried effortlessly across the plaza. “We’ve come a long, hard way from the lowlands on a pilgrimage to T’naritza’s mountain. We only wish to buy some food.”

“And perhaps a room, shelter for the night,” Nate said. “We can pay.”

People glanced uneasily at each other for a moment. Finally, an elderly man in a wildly colorful overshirt and loose pants woven from black, orange and bright turquoise threads stepped forward. The villagers parted silently to make way for him. He made a welcoming gesture with his hands and bowed. “I am Hatur, First Elder of Shalonn. We’re celebrating the wedding of my granddaughter tonight.” He waved a hand at a young woman standing arm in arm with her new husband in the center of the now motionless dancers. “While it is much past the customary season for pilgrims, guests are always welcome at a wedding feast, as you surely must know, even in the lowlands. Please, come and join me. Speak no more of money—you’ll be my personal guests.”

“I appreciate your welcome and your kindness.” Bithia stepped gracefully through the plaza beside Hatur, Nate and Thom silently following. She made quick work of introductions, adding, “Our good wishes to the newlywed couple.”

Hatur summoned one of his grandsons to take charge of the pack animal, and it was led away, complaining but docile.

Not sure he liked the crowd’s reserved demeanor, Nate decided to follow Bithia’s lead. He made sure she was comfortably seated at the long table, in the place of honor next to Hatur, and had a glass of the local wine and a plate of steaming meat, vegetables and bread. He and Thom took positions behind her chair, alert but not overly so. The Mark 27 riding at his hip was a constant reassurance these days. Despite not encountering any trouble since leaving the ship hundreds of miles away, Nate was wary.

Nate watched serving girls place plates and wine in front of Bithia. He reached around her to snare a choice bit of crispy roasted meat. Bithia unhooked the clasp of her black cloak and removed it. A small sigh escaped the crowd as her long, flowing blue and purple hair was revealed in the torchlight and the delicate planes of her face came more clearly into view.

Hatur kept his composure admirably. Nate pushed his own hood back, Thom following suit a moment later. He bet Thom was the only redheaded person of either sex on the entire planet. His own chestnut-brown hair didn’t blend in too well with the glossy black predominant hair color, but it was sure a lot less noticeable than Thom’s or Bithia’s.
 

Hatur harangued the musicians, who were gaping at Bithia from their platform off to the side of the head table, instruments forgotten. “Why aren’t you playing? Haven’t I paid you and fed you well enough, and yes, given you wine, lazy ones? We must dance, and my clumsy friends and neighbors can’t do the steps without your noise!”

A ripple of laughter greeted his sally. The five musicians launched into a new tune, more or less together, and slowly the crowd resumed the evening’s program of dancing and dining. Conscious of a great many sidelong glances in their direction, Nate regretted not discussing with Bithia in advance how they should present themselves in the village.

He leaned down to speak to her. “These people have to know who you are. Or who you’re supposed to be.”

“Yes,” she agreed absently. “What does it matter now? Sarbordon and Lolanta are dead. We’ve nothing more to fear from them or any of their people. Why don’t you and Thom relax and have something to eat?”

“Later.”

The bride and groom danced to the table and paused. “We’re honored you chose to bless us with your presence, great lady,” the bride said, eyes demurely lowered. “Won’t you join us in the dancing?”

Bithia cast an appealing look at Nate, who kept his countenance unreadable. He’d done any number of things for her on this planet, but dancing wasn’t going to be one of them. “I’m afraid we don’t know the steps, but thank you,” she told the girl.

“The next dance is only for the women, and all present must dance or bad luck follows.”

“I’ll be pleased to dance in the circle. Thank you.”

Nate helped her get out of her chair and handed her gallantly onto the dancing floor. Immediately surrounded by a laughing, happy circle of women and girls, Bithia whirled away into a rollicking circle dance weaving like a tolokon through every inch of the village square. Nate and Thom watched her obvious enjoyment.

Thom leaned over to tell Nate defiantly, “All I can say is there’d better not be a dance for the men, or I’m out of here.”

“You and me both. Local customs be damned.”

“You mean they didn’t teach you to dance at that fancy school?”
 

“Let’s say I paid more attention to the sword-fighting lessons.”

The music changed tempo, and suddenly the men and boys of the village were moving into the square, each seeking his choice of partner and separating her from the hand-linked chain of revelers.

“I don’t like this,” Nate said.
 

Bithia continued dancing, hand in hand with some young girls now, but she seemed nervous as the men surged into the area.

Nate vaulted the table and moved quickly to her side. Smoothly, he took her hand from the youngest girl and swept them both out of the dance, saying, “I can’t choose between you, ladies, so you’ll both have to be my partner for the evening, agreed?”

“Thank you,” Bithia said a bit breathlessly.

The young girl stared at him with awestruck dark eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely, my lady. What’s your name?”

“Sharla,” she confided, suddenly shy. But then she perked up, head high, making sure all her friends observed how the Lady’s warrior had chosen her. Nate judged she was about six. He’d only taken her hand and twirled her a time or two to smooth over his abrupt extraction of Bithia from the dance, but now he decided to play out the game. She was pretty, with long, shiny black hair falling in ringlets. Her dress was a riotous mixture of oranges, pinks and turquoise, and her small feet were shod in soft pink woven slippers.

When Nate got both ladies to the table, Thom had two chairs waiting. Bithia and Sharla sat, and Nate sat beside them. A plate was brought for him, and he made a game of feeding his new lady whichever tidbits she wanted from the feast.