Cobra Slave-eARC (32 page)

Barrington keyed in a star chart, running the numbers in his head. Three days back to Aventine—maybe two now that they knew they could trust Aventine’s stellography charts—then another five or more to Qasama. “Projected transit time?” he asked.

“Approximately—just a moment, sir,” the officer interrupted himself. “Commander Ukuthi is sending a proposed course.” On the nav display a squiggly white curve appeared, superimposed on the star map.

“Interesting,” Barrington murmured, eyeing the course. Instead of a straight-line path from the Hoibe’ryi’sarai homeworld to Qasama, Ukuthi was suggesting the Dorian swing a few light-years back toward Aventine, then curve off and head more or less straight toward Qasama. “Any idea why this particular route?”

“He could be taking us back toward Aventine to avoid the edges of other demesnes,” the tac officer offered. “But there’s no way to prove that without knowing exactly where those edges are.”

“Convenient, though,” Garrett murmured. “It’s almost as if he wants us to detour to Aventine.”

“Not wants us to,” Barrington corrected grimly. “Dares us to. See how the course meanders? That strongly implies he’s already plugged in the stellography for us. If we divert to Aventine, we’ll end up on a vector that’s off just enough from his that we’ll need to run at reduced speed. If, on the other hand, we divert to Aventine and then come back to his course, it’ll cost us twice the diversion time.”

“True, but that should only be a few hours,” Garrett pointed out, his eyes darting back and forth as he ran the calculation through the data stream. “No more than fifteen or sixteen total.”

Barrington gazed at the display, weighing his options. Time was critical—Ukuthi had made that abundantly clear during their conversation. But if the Troft was planning something underhanded and the Dorian went in alone, without support from the other two cruisers….

“We can’t risk it,” he decided. “Especially since it’s entirely possible that the coordinates he gave us aren’t for Qasama at all, but for some other system.”

“So you do think it could be a trap?” Garrett asked, frowning.

“Not necessarily,” Barrington said. “If we show up on schedule at his coordinates, thereby proving that we keep our promises, he gives us Qasama’s actual coordinates. If we show up late—especially if we show up late with the Megalith in tow—we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere with him long gone.” He cocked an eyebrow. “In fact, the more I think about it, that’s probably the way I would do it.”

“But we can’t just leave Commodore Santores out of the stream,” Garrett protested.

“We won’t,” Barrington assured him. “As soon as we head off on Ukuthi’s course we’ll start prep on the Hermes. As soon as it’s ready, we’ll break out, drop it, then continue on our way. It shouldn’t cost us more than ten minutes, and that short a time discrepancy will be easily explainable as mechanical problems if Ukuthi calls us on it.”

“I suppose that’ll work,” Garrett said slowly, a frown still creasing his forehead. “If Commodore Santores reacts quickly, the Megalith shouldn’t be more than a few hours behind us.” He shook his head. “But if these aren’t the final coordinates, they’ll find themselves in the same middle of nowhere you just suggested.”

“In which case, we’ll drop a beacon behind with the proper coordinates before we leave,” Barrington said. “Timered so that it won’t start transmitting until we’re long gone, just in case Ukuthi leaves someone behind to make sure we didn’t leave a crumb trail.”

“It still leaves us vulnerable,” Garrett pointed out. “The fact he’s pushing this so hard makes me suspicious. When someone insists on quick action, he’s nearly always up to something.”

“Could be,” Barrington said. “But there is another possibility why he’s in such a big hurry.”

He looked back at the star display, and the tortured line that would be leading the Dorian into the unknown. “That Merrick Broom really is in immediate, serious danger.”

#

Merrick’s introduction to the term winghunter had during his imprisonment on Qasama, when Anya had first given him her name. She hadn’t explained it or even referred to it after that, and Merrick had simply assumed that it was like a family name, harkening back to some kind of animal or bird that some founding member of her lineage had been particularly good at hunting. Later, aboard the Drim slave ship, he’d come to realize that the slaves’ names weren’t related to families that way, but were descriptive of the actual person who wore them.

Still, as he and Anya headed to the Gangari hunters’ lodge his mind continued to hold onto the mental image of the two of them moving up and down the mountain slopes in search of some elusive eagle or owl nest. The kind of hunt where his optical and audio enhancers might give him an extra edge to balance out his lack of experience.

It wasn’t going to be like that. Because the wing in winghunting didn’t refer to a bird. It referred to the delta-shaped wing of a hang-glider.

“It unfolds this way,” Anya explained, opening the accordion-style folds as far as the cramped space in the lodge’s storeroom would permit. “You strap yourself into this harness, lying in a face-down position beneath the wing, then use this control bar and the movements of your body to shift yourself left or right, up or down.”

“Right,” Merrick said, his mouth unpleasantly dry. He’d never had a particular fear of heights, certainly not in aircars or spaceships. But the thought of hanging hundreds of meters above the ground beneath a mere strip of cloth, his life at the mercy of air currents, storms, and his own ineptitude, was twisting his stomach into multiple knots. “I suppose there are techniques for keeping yourself from falling straight to the ground?”

“There are many such, yes,” Anya said, giving him an odd look as she picked up a stack of thin, sheer white cloth. “While we fly, we’ll each have one of these fastened to our ankles and spread out behind us.” She unfolded the top layer and showed him the meter-wide opening. “We’ll seek out swarms of jattorns and fly through them, capturing some in the net with each pass.”

Merrick stared at her. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Of course,” she said, looking puzzled. “Jattorns are a delicacy beloved by the masters.”

So naturally they would set their slaves to capturing them, Merrick thought blackly. And just as naturally, they would order them to do it in the most dangerous way possible. “You can’t just drop in on them with an aircar?” he growled. “Or shoot them from the ground?”

“They fly too high for arrows, and lasers and projectile weapons destroy too much of the meat,” Anya said. “Aircars are also of no use, as the sound and emissions frighten and scatter the swarms.”

She straightened up and gave him a surprisingly sharp glare. “And if there were no jattorn hunts for us to participate in, many more of us would be bred to the Games. Would you prefer that?”

Merrick sighed. It was so easy to forget—or to refuse to remember—that these people were slaves, under the absolute authority of their Troft masters. “No, of course not,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t…”

“Think like a slave?” Anya looked away. “I wish I didn’t. I long for the day when I will no longer have to.” She shook her head, a quick twitch as if shaking away unpleasant thoughts. “Have you ever used something like this?”

“Not even close,” Merrick admitted. “I guess you’re going to have to teach me on the fly. So to speak.”

“I’ll try,” she said doubtfully as she refolded the wing and fastened its straps. “But there’s no time now. The masters are waiting and will be suspicious if we linger. We’ll speak later tonight, while they sleep. Come over here—there is clothing more suitable for mountain travel. We can take whatever we choose.”

“Okay,” Merrick said, following her as she moved down the narrow space between the shelves of equipment. Her proposed nighttime conversation assumed, of course, that the Trofts were comfortable enough in the presence of their slaves for both of them to sleep at the same time. If the positions were reversed, Merrick wouldn’t be nearly so trusting.

On the other hand, if Merrick didn’t think like a slave, he also didn’t think like a slave master. Maybe the Trofts assumed their pet humans were so beaten down and servile that they had no fear of them.

If they did, great. If they didn’t, Merrick would probably have to learn winghunting right on the job. From a few hundred meters in the air.

He could hardly wait.

The clothing Anya found for them was sturdy, warm, and considerably cleaner than the jumpsuits they’d worn since leaving Qasama. She selected two sets of shirts, trousers, boots, belts, and jackets, and they changed quickly into them. The fasteners were of unfamiliar design, but Merrick was able to figure them out without too much trouble.

Henson and the two Trofts were still waiting when they returned, but the two boys and the other referee were gone. Hopefully for medical attention, but of course Merrick couldn’t ask about that. [The preparations, they are complete?] the second Troft asked, his membranes quivering with impatience.

[The preparations, they are complete,] Anya confirmed. [The mountain, we shall begin ascending it.]

[Your progress, we shall observe it,] the first Troft said, climbing into the aircar and motioning his companion to do the same. [The ascent, you will begin it now. Haste, you will make it.]

The aircar lifted from the ground and disappeared over the rooftops to the east. “You remember the path?” Henson asked stiffly.

“I remember it,” Anya said. “Don’t fear. We’ll return safely.”

“See that the Trofts return safely alongside you.” Henson’s eyes bored into hers. “If they don’t, neither will you. Either of you.”

He spun around, putting his back to them. Anya gazed at him a moment, a sequence of unreadable expressions flashing across her face. Then, silently, she also spun around and strode across the field toward the mountains. Merrick followed, wondering briefly if he should ask her what that had been about.

Staring at the rigidity of her back, he decided it would be smarter to keep his silence.

Earlier, as they’d approached Gangari, Merrick had had the impression that the mountain behind it rose directly from the edge of the village. Now, he found that sense had been correct. Barely five meters past the last house the ground turned rocky and angled upward. There were no trees right at the lower edge, probably having been removed long ago for fuel or building material, but there were plenty of bushes scattered along the edge. Between two of the bushes was a path that snaked upslope through the undergrowth before disappearing into the clusters of small trees that began about twenty meters past the village edge.

The Troft aircar was hovering over the path, its rear crash plate shining with the light of the sun now hanging low in the western sky. Without breaking stride Anya stepped onto the path and headed up. Trying to look as confident as she did, Merrick followed.

The lower parts of the mountain were easy enough. The slope increased only gradually, and the potentially foot-tangling undergrowth and half-exposed tree roots were easily visible where they intruded across the path’s mostly open ground. The slope itself was nothing that Merrick and his servos couldn’t handle, though he kept a close eye on Anya to make sure he didn’t look like he was having it too much easier than she was.

More of a problem was the sunlight, which first hid potential obstacles in long shadows, and then, as the sun sank below the trees, concealed everything in a uniform gloom. They kept at it long after Merrick expected, certainly longer than he could have made it safely without his opticals’ light-amplification enhancers. Why Anya was pushing so hard he didn’t know, and was rather afraid to ask.

It was approaching full dark when her reason finally became clear. Rounding one final stand of scrubby trees, they stepped out into a thirty-meter-wide clearing with a small but sturdy-looking hut at one edge. “We’ll spend the night there,” she said, pointing to the hut. “It will be safer and more comfortable than sleeping beneath the sky.”

“Assuming the Trofts don’t commandeer it,” Merrick murmured, looking at the aircar now settling to the ground at the opposite end of the clearing.

“They will stay with their vehicle,” Anya predicted. “There’s wood in the shed behind the hut—bring two or three pieces and some kindling and I’ll start a fire. Then I’ll hunt our dinner.”

By the time Merrick returned with the wood Anya had cleared the brush from a fire pit a few meters in front of the hut and added some kindling. “Put it here,” she directed.

[The male human slave, he will come here.]

Merrick looked across the clearing. The two Trofts were standing in the gloom beside their aircar, gazing through a gap in the trees toward the forest stretching out beneath them, the tops of the distant trees catching the last hint of glow from the western sky. [The male human slave, he will come here,] the first Troft repeated more sharply. [A puzzle, the male human slave will explain it to us.]

Merrick flashed a look at Anya. [The male human slave, he cannot speak,] she reminded them, getting to her feet and gesturing Merrick to follow. [The puzzle, perhaps I can explain it.]

[The explanation, we will hear it,] the first Troft said.

A moment later, Merrick and Anya stopped beside the aliens. [The puzzle, may I hear it?] Anya asked.

[The puzzle, it is there,] the first Troft said, pointing out across the forest and handing Anya a small nightscope. [A gap in the trees, there is one. A naturally formed gap, it does not appear to be one.]

Anya took the scope and pressed it to her eye. Peering over her shoulder, Merrick activated his telescopics and keyed up his light-amps.

There was a gap in the woods, all right. It was long and narrow, more like a tear in some exotic fabric than any normal clearing. His opticals marked it as just over twenty-five kilometers away and about half a kilometer from the road he and the others had come in on.

[The gap, perhaps it was created by disease,] Anya suggested. [The gap, it doesn’t look like it was created by fire.]

[Yet the gap, its edges show evidence of fire,] the second Troft pointed out. [A fire, what form of it burns only small areas?]