Maeve (36 page)

Aleytys rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “I could, I think. Reach you, I mean. But a competent brain scan would show my tampering. Did you … no, that's stupid, of course you did. What did it show?”

“Not much.”

“The Reps. What did they look like?”

“Hardly your typical watuk. Talker was sloppy fat. Important syb of one of the Eight Families on Watulkingu. Director in Chwereva. Had a twirp with him. Paper carrier, negligible as far as I could tell. Couldn't make an impression on a milk pudding if he sat on it. Third one was interesting. Watuk features, coloring, scale markings. Tall man, grotesquely thin, wearing an exoskeleton.” Head raised a hand as Aleytys looked up. “No. Analyzed before he got in here. Exoskeleton and nothing else. Very nice drivers. Take a look at schematics when you go through the files. Serd-amachar syndrome. Why he wore it. Wasting disease with no known cure. Under his clothes he was bone and a bit of dried-out skin.”

“Maybe the RMoahl?”

“No. Not their style.”

“Then a psi-freak like me. One of those three.”

“No point in pooling ignorance. Since this is your first Hunt proposal, I have to explain that you may turn it down if you choose. That would let us off the hook. I hope you don't. However, before you decide, you should know this. You won't go out alone this time. I'm going to link you to another Hunter. We'll take time for one of the implants. A minor operation. Just to set in a tracer. I want you to have a backup. Hunters Inc. itself is riding on this.”

“Who's going with me?”

“Grey.”

“What! No, I can't.…”

Head watched her quietly. “Grey has seen you work. And he's a professional. And he knows you. He can head you off if you start running wild. Whatever stands between you, he won't let it interfere with the Hunt.” Her strong face turned stern. “Make no mistake, Aleytys. He's in charge. Do what he tells you. Blow this Hunt and we drop you, never mind what we've spent on you.”

“Do what he tells me.” Aleytys scowled. “Even if I think he's got rats in his head?”

“If it's a question of the Hunt, yes. His judgment is better than yours.”

“You try me high.”

“Exactly.”

“My god, Head. We nearly killed each other that last time we quarreled. Putting us together—it's ridiculous. Stupid!”

Head's lips twitched. “Have you no tact at all?”

“I can lie as gracefully as anyone. Do you really want that? I didn't think so.”

“You might have wheedled a solo from me.”

“If I was that stupid, you really would dump me.”

“Clever. Having found my weakness, you flatter me by subtle indirection.”

“Is there any way I can win in this exchange?”

“No wonder Grey found you a prickly handful.”

Aleytys winced. “Very low blow, Head.”

“No rules in this game. Did you expect there would be?”

“No.” Aleytys grinned suddenly. “I surrender.”

“Accepted.” Head reached into the desk and pulled out a folder. “Preliminary data on the Hunt in here. Study it. If you decide to accept, meet with Grey in the Library at the sixth hour this afternoon. He'll walk you through the tapes and reports, give you an idea what you can and can't do. I want to see the two of you here tomorrow morning. Tenth hour.”

“Right.” Aleytys walked slowly to the door. Hand on the massive slab of polished wood, she looked back over her shoulder. “Thanks. I think.”

Aleytys yawned, smiled sleepily. “Sunguralingu. Nice name. When will we get there?” She rubbed at her shoulder, still a little sore from the placing of the implant.

Grey let the viewer fold back into the chair arm. “Couple hours. About sundown, local time.”

“Funny thing happened.” She frowned at the wide viewscreen over the console.

“It
has
been a quiet trip.” He started to smile. “What is it?”

“Fool. Seriously, I've been touched twice by someone there.”

“Touched how? Where?”

“Sunguralingu, I think. Hard to be sure. Psi-link. Sensory tie.”

Grey looked startled. He swung the chair up and examined the instruments. “This far away? And in the interface?”

“See what I mean?”

“Friend or enemy?”

“Friend, I think. He doesn't like me much, seems to find me revoltingly unfeminine.”

“Probably a native. The Vodufa's a back-to-the-primitive movement and pretty damn fanatical about it. You did your homework. You know how they treat women. What are you going to do about him?”

“For one thing, find out more about him. My god, what a reach he's got.” She closed her eyes. “He's riding through a windstorm now, bothered about a lot of things. He's heading for Kiwanji, so I suppose we'll be meeting him there.”

The sun was going down as Manoreh rode into Kiwanji. The wharves were clogged with incoming barges and the refugees who were streaming up the hill to the temporary barracks set up for them. He waved perfunctory greetings to those who called out to him, but didn't stop to answer the questions they yelled at him.
Faiseh must have come in several days ago
, he thought.
With this much set up already
. He relaxed as he left the last of the shelters and rode through emptier streets, past the market square and the small employees' houses. The air cleared for him; the people here accepted him for what he was. Coming back into this quiet was like plunging into cool water on a hot, sticky day. The little houses were empty, their inhabitants lodged now behind Chwereva walls.

The Tembeat was a mud-walled compound sitting like a wart against the walls of the larger complex that housed Chwereva headquarters. One wing of the gate was open. Manoreh slid off the faras and groaned with pleasure as he stretched tired and aching muscles. He scratched briskly beside the fara's mane and projected
PLEASURE
. The animal rubbed his nose against the Ranger's shoulder.

A gangly apprentice on duty in the gatehouse grinned down at Manoreh from one of the windows in the guardroom. “Hey, couz, long trip this time. You back?”

Manoreh chuckled. “No, Umeme. I'm really still chasing Gamesh across the grass lands. Little man, you've grown half a meter since I saw you last. How goes the training?”

The boy grimaced. “A lot of sweat and not much play. Wish I could go out like you.”

“Time will come. Director in?”

“No, couz. He's over there.” Umeme nodded at the Chwereva compound. “Something's up.” He grinned. “Not that they tell us students anything.”

Manoreh slipped the pouch from his shoulder. “Catch.” He threw it up to Umeme's waiting hands. “See the Director gets that. I've got something I've got to do.” He threaded the faras's nose rein through a tie-ring. “Catch someone passing and have him stable the faras.”

“Sure. Anything el.… would you look at that!”

A ball of shimmering light arced down across the darkening blue-green-black of the twilight, cutting past the misty ring of moonlets just becoming visible. As he watched the bubble drift down, a thistleweed corolla with a dark seed at the center, he was certain that the dream woman was on board. He ran into the street.

A small groundcar hummed around the corner of Chwereva compound. Manoreh lifted a hand, smiling as he recognized the driver. “Faiseh, couz, hold up.”

Faiseh brought the battered little car to a rocking stop, a wide grin lifting his mustache. “Hey, Manoreh, you're back.”

“You're the second one to tell me that. I begin to believe it.”

“Damn hares marching.”

“So I saw.”

Faiseh thrust his arm out the open window and the two Rangers clasped wrists. “Good to see you, couz. Long time.”

Manoreh nodded. “Long time.” He glanced toward the landing field. The glow was gone. The ship was down. “Listen, let me take car.”

Faiseh's fuzzy eyebrows arched. “Why not. Later, though. Got to go to the field first. On duty, couz. You saw the ship.”

“Take me with you.”

“Climb in. But get a move on or the Director'll have my skin. Important visitor. Very important.”

Manoreh slapped Faiseh's shoulder in thanks and went around to the far side. As he slid in, he said, “Who?”

“Chwereva has hired Hunters Inc. Finally dug up some official who could count to ten without taking off his shoes, I suppose.” He wove the car through the streets then out the gap in the low screen wall. He snorted with disgust as several hares came out of the scrubby juapepo and hopped along the roadside. “Already here. You ever see so many of them?”

“No.” Manoreh stared down at his hands. The hares reminded him of the ghost. His hands felt stiffer already. Instead of anger he felt a deep chill.

Faiseh glanced at him. “What's eating you?”

Manoreh looked up. “Haribu got pushy. Had to split off a ghost.”

Faiseh drove for several minutes in worried silence then said, “You going back to swallow it?” He scowled at the hares hopping raggedly through the brush. “You better hurry if you want to get out of here.”

“Right. Soon's I see the Director.”

“Well, Hunters will beat hell out of Haribu for us.”

“If they live up to their reputation. Elders won't let them bring in energy weapons.”

“Stupid.” Faiseh waved a hand at the increasing number of hares threading through the juapepo and beginning to move onto the road. “A few weapons like that and we'd wipe out those bastards.”

“I know, but what can we do? Mention energy weapons to the Council and they'll shut down the Tembeat before you get all the words out.”

“Well, we could always go join the crazies on the coast.”

The hares were spreading across the road. Faiseh cursed as the car began to wobble over the bodies that disrupted the smooth ride. He relaxed as the car steadied over the meta-crete of the landing field. The mild current fed into the outer strip was enough to keep the hares off, but they circled it in a solid ring, twenty deep in spots. Faiseh stopped the car a few meters from the dark oval resting on its belly in the center of the field. He shifted uneasily behind the steering rod. “Hope they get a move on. Feel that?”

Haribu was smothering the field. The air hung still and heavy. Hard to breathe. Manoreh closed his eyes.
She's there
, he thought.
A Hunter?

“The lock's opening.”

Manoreh opened his eyes. A tall man in a gray shipsuit swung down from the lock and stood waiting. The woman came into the circle of light. Slender and tall, taller than he'd expected. The red hair was braided and coiled tightly around her head. She swung down beside the man and the lock closed behind her.

Manoreh watched her, fascinated, locked to her by the link that had formed as she came here, ghosting in the interface that let ships move faster than light. She came past the man and stopped beside his window. Her face was a pale blur in the deepening twilight but he didn't need light to know her features.

“You,” she said. “We've met.” Her voice was a surprise also, a warm contralto. He found her confusing. She seemed to him both man and woman. Cool and independent and at the same time.…

“I know. Why?”

She swung around, facing away from the car. “Later,” she said absently. He thrust his head out and twisted around to see what she was looking at.

The hares were on their hind legs staring at her. Force slammed out of them, almost visible in its intensity. She shivered. Manoreh dropped back on the seat, gasping, drowning. His hands closed tightly on the edge of the door. In the corner of his eye he saw movement and turned.

The male Hunter had moved quickly behind the woman and put his hands on her shoulders. She leaned against him. Manoreh heard a ripple of dear pure notes, then stared as a crown of light circled her head and a shimmering golden glow sheathed the two of them, then struck outward at the hares.

Abruptly the pressure from the hares was gone. The crown faded. She slumped back against her partner in obvious distress. He lifted her and carried her the two steps to the car. Hastily Manoreh reached over the seat and shoved the back door open.

The Hunter slid the woman inside and then was in beside her, cat-quick and neat in his movements. “Go!” he snapped.

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About the Author

Jo Clayton (1939–1998) was the author of thirty-five published novels and numerous short stories in the fantasy and science fiction genres. She was best known for the Diadem Saga, in which an alien artifact becomes part of a person's mind. She also wrote the Skeen Trilogy, the Duel of Sorcery series, and many more. Jo Clayton's writing is marked by complex, beautifully realized societies set in exotic worlds and stories inhabited by compelling heroines. Her illness and death from multiple myeloma galvanized her local Oregon fan community and science fiction writers and readers nationwide to found the Clayton Memorial Medical Fund.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1979 by Jo Clayton

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3842-3

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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