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Chapter Thirty-Six

Caine frowned at the looming storm heads to the southwest. “So this is not uncommon?”

To his right, Bey shook her head. “No, Leader Caine. This is quite common in spring, although it is rare that the sea rains come so far north.”

To his left, Ulchakh grunted agreement. “That is true. These great storms come up along the river. I have been caught in two, both times in a caravan moving between Forkus and the port known as Atagurkhu. Usually they bend west just before or after Forkus itself.”

Riordan glanced at Bannor and Newton: both shrugged. Dornaani sensors were excellent for gathering nearby details, but in this case, the best they could give was the range to the clouds and confirmation that they were moving quickly: too quickly. “If you’re wrong, and we hard march north, that puts us in what Ta’rel calls the western wadi country when it hits.”

The mangle, standing slightly lower on the slope from which they were surveying the approaching storm, nodded. “That is correct, Caine-Riordan. That country’s wadis are fewer but deeper. They could become unfordable for many days.”

“And we’d be bogged down in mud,” Bannor muttered. “Which, being mostly dust on this side of the river, would get in everything. O’Garran says he can’t guarantee the effect it might have on the Dornaani gear.”

Riordan folded his arms. “So the choice is bunkering in here, where there’s almost no cover and hoping that we don’t get washed or blown away. Or, we try to get north of the usual path of such storms and hope that we don’t get locked into wadi country.”

Bey frowned. “There is another reason not to remain here, Leader.”

“Yes?”

She pointed west. “That higher ground may seem reassuring. Specifically, if we are stuck here, it is logical to travel there and skirt the heads of the wadis flooding this plain. But those lands are much more dangerous than these.”

“More x’qai?”

She shook her head; her thin, tight braids swung as if to amplify her argument. “They are greater in hunger, not number. Prey is scarce upon the slopes.” Her eyes hardened against the fear that tried rising into them. “And there are . . . larger creatures. They do not rouse often. But when they do . . . Leader Caine, those slopes are more likely to kill us than save us.”

Ulchakh sighed. “I have never ventured there, in part because of tales which match her own.”

Riordan nodded toward the soft-spoken mangle. “Ta’rel, what would you do?”

He shrugged. “Move north as quickly as I could. But whatever you choose, heed Bey’s warnings about the west. Every few years, one of my people’s portage trains are chased up into those slopes. Most do not return.”

Riordan nodded. “Well, if going to the west isn’t safe, we can’t just sit around hoping that the storm doesn’t come this far north. Because if it does, we’d be trapped until the water recedes and the mud hardens. So we march north. Now.”

***

At almost the same time two days later, Caine was racing to catch the shelter halves that the suddenly spiking winds tore apart with a warbling howl. Again, Bactradgaria was teaching them the danger of their ignorance. Because the energy in the planet’s storm systems was greater and because there was so little to slow down the movement of their fronts, hurricanes like this one not only held their speed longer, but rotated far more rapidly. As a result, although the eye was still forty klicks south, the wind arrived with an abruptness that none of them had ever experienced. As Craig put it, whereas terrestrial hurricanes rotated at the speed of a clock’s minute hand, the ones on Bactradgaria raced along like the second hand.

The rain was so hard and thick that they were effectively blind, except for the modest improvement provided by their helmet’s thermal imaging: they could still see each other’s blurry silhouettes. The winds peaked at just under one hundred ten kilometers per hour and what little shelter they found became indistinguishable from grey quagmire that soon surrounded them.

It was two more days before they could move. Only two days after that, a following gale drowned the land again, just before they arrived at a swollen tributary.

With the regular crossings washed out, the only way to traverse this smaller river was a ford ten klicks inland: which was to say, ten klicks closer to the dread western uplands. After trudging through muck to reach it, they discovered that it was almost as drowned as the downstream crossings. The local experts—Ulchakh, Bey, and Ta’rel—pronounced it uncrossable, and it would have been, but for the training of the IRIS and military veterans.

They didn’t try to get directly across at the ford itself, but started almost half a kilometer upstream. Anticipating the push of the agitated current, they moved carefully, being pushed a meter downstream for every one they advanced toward the other side. By the time they reached the ford itself, they were close enough to fire line-grapples into a nearby sandstone formation. Riordan was certain that one or another of the team might have been lost on two separate occasions. But, sealed in the Dornaani suits, drowning was never one of their worries, which allowed them to focus on the other dangers they encountered.

Throughout these tribulations, Riordan and the Crewe discovered a new level of appreciation not only for the sealed environment of the Dornaani vacc suits but the smart fabrics of their garments. They had a feature that Eku called variable permissibility; it altered the weave and microstructures so that the material resisted water and wind to different degrees, as well as retaining or shedding heat.

In contrast, the locals endured miserable conditions of constant wet and cold. Even in spring, and even as they approached the punishing equatorial line they simply called Hotside, the nights were still brutally cold; they were three hours longer and in a desert. Fires, while already rare, became impossible and food was often too sodden to eat until it eventually dried. The h’achgai had good sleeping furs, at least: the hide of some creature that was as water repellent as a seal’s. But the trogs, being city dwellers, only had a few blankets suitable for overland travel and so, sharing body heat became all important. More than once, Bey had to intervene when fights erupted over who slept at the colder margins of their claustrophobic piles.

What the Crewe marveled at, however, was the sheer toughness of both species, particularly the trogs. History and practical experience of human formations predicted that, under similar conditions, they’d be struck down by diseases that were perennial among campaign troops. Among the trogs, three came down with head colds.

As their extended immobility came to an end, Caine and the others were able to observe yet another Bactradgarian phenomenon in action: the cycles of tidal backwash thousands of kilometers from the coast. Predicting it seemed far more of an art than a science, much the same way Micronesians in proas had navigated their way across the vast expanses of the Pacific. The locals who were native to Forkus had little skill in the matter. However, as they resumed travel, the others were able to make reasonable guesses based on the surges and currents of the water assessed in conjunction with not only the moon’s phases but its elliptical orbit.

With the ground finally favorable again, Riordan had walked along the column, issuing a few last orders that would put several skirmishers and scouts further out on the formation’s landward flanks. As he waited for the formation leaders to report in on their readiness, he weighed the good and bad results of their long, wet, and mostly immobile sojourn.

For five days, they made slow progress, but that didn’t mean they ate any less. That was not just bad; it was very bad. They would now run out of food before reaching Khorkrag. Also, even though the nights were becoming warmer and drier nights, the trogs were in particular need of ample food in order to recover from wearying effects of the punishing cold and wet. And there was only one answer to both needs: a hunt. And that was, itself, a bad answer.

Caine and his command staff had wrestled with the implicit risks before: that the time lost and spoor left by a hunt was a gift to any pursuers. But perhaps their path had been so obliterated by the weather that, if they kept the kill well inland from the bank, it would not be found. Or at least, it would require a wide, time-consuming search pattern. But there were only two people who apparently knew the land and prey well enough to counsel him on how to get the meat they needed in the shortest time and away from their line of march.

As Riordan walked down from the small rock outcropping that protruded into a swamp-bottomed wadi, Dora saw him and chuckled. “There’s a man with a mission, if I ever saw one! Who you lookin’ for, boss?”

“Bey and Yidreg.”

“Saw them just a few minutes ago.”

“Good. Show me.”

***

Bey found Zaatkhur repointing several of the arrows that had been used to bring down the q’akh during the x’qao attack. He looked up as she approached and smiled, probably because he knew her well enough to almost see the words trying to burst out of her. “Now what?”

“We are to hunt!”

Zaatkhur shrugged. “This is good news. But that is not the news you most want to shout at me.”

“I do not shout!” Bey almost shouted. “Leader Caine has assigned me to lead one of the three coursing teams.”

“You are surprised?”

Bey frowned. “Of course I am. He has not even asked for my—for any of our—fealty.”

“True.” Zaatkhur waited. “There is something else.”

Bey resisted the urge to sit and frown a mighty frown. “Ugrekh and Fwerk have been placed under me in that team.”

“Ah,” her friend exhaled. “I am sure those two young kajh rejoice in that honor.”

Bey grumbled. “Joke if you like, but it is no laughing matter. Besides, they are not so young.” She allowed herself the luxury of a small smile. “Except when their years are compared to yours, I suppose.”

“You have always been a hurtful whelp. All the more because you speak the truth. Tell me: do those two refuse to be led by you?”

“No, but they could hardly do so.”

“Why?”

“They were present when Leader Caine told me.”

“Ah. And what of Sho? Is she also in the hunt?”

“Yes, but along with Leader Craig and Leader Newton.”

“Do you envy her?”

Bey frowned. “No. It would be easier, but it bodes well that they trust me to lead.”

Zaatkhur nodded. “And they know that although Sho’s mother was of the Tribes, she has only known the city. Even if only as a whelp, you have been on hunts. And as far as those two young brutes are concerned, it serves them right!” He snorted. “As if anything should matter in a leader other than sharpness of mind, swiftness of foot, and keenness of eye!”

“They might not think so.”

He nodded. “I am sure that they do not. Be at ease, Bey: I shall watch them. Carefully.”

Bey moved to stand closer to him. “Thank you, old friend.”

He shrugged, pretending not to notice her fond tone. “You are the child of the one I loved. No matter that she chose he who was our leader, back then. You are as my own.”

She squatted down and hugged him gently. “I am quite sure she would have chosen you, Zaatkhur.”

His body relaxed into her hug, even though he did not return it. “I was not in favor with that leader, so she had no choice in the matter. Not if she meant to protect you.”

Bey sighed. “Yet it did not protect her, in the end.”

“Our fates are never in our own hands. For me, it is enough that you survived.”

“I would not have, if you had failed to shelter me in your shadow. Then and later.” Bey moved so that she was looking directly into his crow-footed eyes. “You risked much. Even the ire of the next leader: Jzhadakh’s dislike of me turned into his dislike of you.”

Zaatkhur released a long-suffering sigh. “Let us speak plainly. He did not dislike you; he feared you because he saw, from the first, that your wit was far greater than his. And even before you chose the way of a kajh, he knew you would not submit to his, or anyone else’s, will.”

Bey stood, frowning. “Which is why I find these new humans so puzzling. None of them fear my mind or my will.”

Zaatkhur shrugged “Why should they? They are humans.”

Ignoring the galling suggestion that no human would ever deem her mind the equal of theirs, she kept after the true source of her perplexity. “Yes, but even so, they do not behave as other humans. They set no tasks to remind us that their superiority or authority is absolute. Nor have they tasked us to swear fealty to them. Yet they did bring us over to join them in celebrating the defeat of the x’qao.”

“Their ways are strange,” Zaatkhur agreed. “And yet, recall what we saw in Forkus: whatever his reasons, Leader Caine insisted upon being the first to kill one of the oathbreakers.”

She frowned. “But why? I have found no answer to that mystery. Clearly he did not revel in the act.”

Zaatkhur considered, then shrugged. “No, but there is still no reason why he should have performed a task that is rightly left for underlings who must still prove themselves. Unless, of course, he believes what cavers do: that he takes the power of any foe slain according to ritual.” He studied her deepening frown. “You saw something different.” He smiled. “As usual.”

She shook her head. “All I know is that those reasons are at odds with all his other actions and speech.”

“Then why would he lessen himself by executing prisoners?”

“I don’t think he was lessening himself, not in his or his companions’ eyes.”

“But he did. That is the custom, everyplace x’qai hold sway.”

“I’m not sure he is from such a place.”

“Well, he is certainly not from Zrik Whir, if that is what you mean. With the exception of the big, quiet one called Newton, the strange humans are all burntskins.”

She nodded, knowing the truth of Zaatkhur’s words far better than he did. “I agree; they are not from Zrik Whir. But who knows what other places exist across the seas? I am only certain that he did not wish to execute the oathbreaker.”

Zaatkhur’s nod was slower, as memory rebuilt the scene. “Yes. He looked as sick as a first-day tannery slave.”

Bey raised an eyebrow. “Many of the others looked as bad or worse.”

Zaatkhur threw up his hands, as was his wont. “So what does it mean?”

“It means that although the deed sickened him, Leader Caine saw it through. The way a leader does when he must encourage others to do likewise.”

Zaatkhur shrugged. “Or if he believes his followers might doubt he is just as capable of a task as they are.” He considered. “So, you see him as a strong leader, not a weak one?”

She frowned again. “It feels strange to say it, but yes. It reminds me what my mother told me, and I remember, of the chiefs of the Free Tribes. But even that does not answer all the mysteries of these humans’ behavior.”

“That is a large understatement, little one.”

She scoffed. “I’m still ‘little one’?” Bey stood straight and looked down at Zaatkhur with a smile. Half a head taller, she had neither his short limbs nor thick, sloped shoulders, despite being sturdily built.

He chortled. “As tall as your whakt blood makes you, you shall always be ‘little one’ to me.”

Bey bent down quickly and gave him a faster, harder hug, in part so he would not see the tears in her eyes.

Grouvg!” Zaatkhur exclaimed in mock revulsion. “Get away and be moonish somewhere else. I have work to do if we are to go hunting, and it’s harder now that I’m missing half of my best fingers!”

***

After two blissfully dry days, Caine stood atop a small rise to observe the hunt through the HUD. Only three of the Crewe had been assigned to it: Newton with the heavy-draw crossbow; Craig as his reloader and personal security; and Bannor with the Dornaani hand cannon. He was there primarily to protect the three teams. The greatest danger was that the herd might suddenly turn on the hunters, but it was impossible to rule out attacks by chance-met x’qai.

Bannor’s team were essentially drivers: a large group that advanced slowly toward the dustkine to get them moving further away from the river. The two smaller teams had already moved well out to either flank, ready to chase, withdraw, or harry as required. The HUDs could measure target speed with great accuracy, which made it fairly simple to analyze the movement of each creature in the thirteen-head herd. It quickly revealed the two best targets.

One was the youngest, which naturally lacked the speed and endurance of mature dustkine. The second was the oldest, which had the same mobility limits but was not constantly guarded by protective females. It would be harder to bring down, but Yidreg and Bey agreed that, once cut out from the herd, it would not excite the same defense that the young one would. And of course, it had at least three times the food value.

The hunt evolved much as the two experienced coursers predicted. The dustkine saw the approach of a sizable number of humanoids and began moving in the opposite direction: westward into a small network of wadis. Already there, the two smaller teams emerged and the already nervous kine veered away at their every approach. Though they could have easily slain or stampeded those few, small harriers, their flight reflex had already been excited. At this point, they would only turn about and attack if they lacked a clear path away from the threats.

It was not long before the oldest dustkine began falling behind. Bannor’s large group adjusted its pressure on the herd so that the others were gradually forced farther away from the target in order to keep retreating from the threat. Bey’s group ultimately crossed that axis of advance to begin firing at the target, which caused it to veer more sharply away from the rest of the dustkine and toward Newton’s team.

The hardest part of the hunt was now behind them. The two teams would parallel the target while sending occasional bolts or shafts into it, thereby bleeding and tiring it as they closed to effective range. And if it tried to break away too early, the tangle of partial wadis would bring it up short.

At least, that was the plan.

Caine wasn’t aware anything was amiss until a great cloud of dust rose up from the fleeing dustkine: the kind that would indicate it was no longer simply avoiding its pursuers, but charging. Usually, it would reserve such speed to escape the pursuit teams, but as Riordan increased the magnification of his HUD, he discovered that something had spooked the old kine away from Bey’s team on the right . . . and sent it charging directly toward Newton and Sho’s on the left.

Shit! “Bannor,” Riordan snapped toward the helmet mic, “do you have an angle on—?”

“Negative. My own team is in the way. Can’t get lock yet.”

Before Caine could connect to Newton, the old dustkine was upon his team. More dust flew high just as two wildly flashing lights appeared in its midst: Dornaani stun grenades. Their yowling reaching him a long moment later.

The dust swirled as if it had become a dust devil and then . . . stillness. Over almost as soon as it had begun.

“Newton—” Caine began.

It was Craig who answered. “He—we’re all right, sir. Well, most of us.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“Sho is . . . well, sir: she didn’t have a stun grenade.”

***

Although the locals didn’t even have a special term for an “after-action report,” they had the concept. And, as was usually the case when things had not gone well, the faces in that circle were grave.

Riordan was sure to keep his spine very straight. “So, Lieutenant Baruch, you hit but did not kill the dustkine.”

Newton nodded. “That is correct, sir. Sho did the same at about the same moment that Sergeant Girten and I deployed our grenades. Startled, it swerved. Directly toward Sho. She could not avoid it in time. It was already quite close.”

Riordan suppressed a sigh. “Was there any chance at resuscitation?”

Newton’s sideways stare explained before his words did. “Sir, there was . . . there was no longer sufficient anatomical integrity to make such an attempt.”

Arashk frowned at several unfamiliar words which had no equivalents in Low Praakht.

Riordan turned toward him. “The dustkine broke her body apart. She could not be saved.”

He nodded, his jowls hanging limp in his species’ expression of bitter acceptance.

“Do you have any idea why it spooked away from your team, Bey?”

The hollow-eyed kajh shook her head slowly. “There was much confusion just before it did. One of my coursers slipped into a wadi, came out in such a way, and at a place, that neither we nor it expected.” Her chest heaved as she drew in a ragged breath. “It was startled. An arrow was loosed at it and it fled.”

Riordan raised an eyebrow. “Had you given the command to fire, Bey?”

Her eyes hardened into a blank stare at nothing. “I had not, Leader Caine. My group . . . I was surprised by the events. I did not immediately see what was occurring, nor what orders would be best to give. The fault was mine, Leader Caine.”

Riordan nodded but thought, I know the sound of someone falling on their own sword, Bey. But that was a conversation requiring more time and a private place. Just like another matter that needed settling and which, after weeks, he couldn’t put off any longer. “Are there any other questions?” There weren’t. He rose. “Then we are finished. First watch in an hour.”

***

Once the sun had set, Riordan walked down to the river to stand his watch. It was one of the rare times the shape of the high-water bank made it prudent to lay a good part of their perimeter along its lip.

When Caine was sure he was unobserved, he unsealed the chest pocket of the Dornaani suit and removed the small sheet of paper he’d kept in his pack until today. Until it was time to send it on its way. He removed the ignitor he’d carried alongside it and stood looking up at the stars across the river.

He had resolved to get it over with quickly, but found he couldn’t. Because he was not parting with just one thing, but a whole host of related fantasies and hopes that he’d stacked one upon the other, like a house of cards that swayed between the extremes of its own implausible geometries.

Not that any individual card in the tilting construct defied reason. It was possible that they might somehow find a way to get to the ship. That they would discover where Bactradgaria was in relation to Earth. Or anything. That they would be able to repair it and return to the Accord. That they would bring the evidence of the conspiracy that Dornaani Arbiters had hatched with Hsontlosh. And that, in a final moment of bliss and triumph, they would be able to find some way to rejuvenate or recarnate Elena.

Except that Elena was dead. Caine had said it out loud often enough since Eku shared his report; he certainly didn’t need to again. And if, in defiance of all evidence and common sense, there was some way to restore her to this life, he still had to admit that it was no more likely than discovering that Santa Claus really did exist.

Riordan looked at the paper in his hand. It had to stop. The tilting tower of fantastic hopes had to be jettisoned: all of them, all at once. It was absurd enough to hope and strive for just the first leaning card, the first impossible item, on his list: for them to find some way back to the ship. But beyond that? Well, any of the other wild hopes were like unbuilt bridges: they’d cross them when they came to them.

“They.” The ones I call my friends. That takes real nerve. Or maybe selfishness. They wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for my growing collection of fantasies. If I had taken this simple step sooner, they’d be back on Earth right now, living their lives in safe, familiar places. But they were as true as friends can be—and so they paid the price for me to chase my fantasies right into hell. No more.

Riordan unfolded the paper and lit the igniter. He glanced over the words of the poem one last time. There were a few others he’d kept, but he’d left those on the ship, as if that would somehow preserve Elena and her reaction to them during the very few hours they’d had together.

His eyes lingered on the title and he almost laughed. Until this very moment, he hadn’t realized it was just another term for what he’d been doing for years, every time he thought of her, every time he looked at her picture, every time he read this too-aptly-titled poem:


Baggage Check


Leaving,

I fold the shirt in which you slept

within the shirt that I wore,

packing up

all our brief days

Together, * * *

the shirts are almost

Fully entwined,

as we were almost

Fully entwined.


They recall our scents, mingled

as I recall us, senses mingled,

inseparable as

Our eyes * * *

don’t lie, nor do

our bodies,

which fit snug along every seam of

each Other * * *

worlds call us away.


I fold the shirts close together,

mine within yours,

inseparable,

unlike us.


As he tilted the flame toward the words, he couldn’t smile, couldn’t cry, couldn’t do anything except think:

I’d have made a lousy poet.


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