Syn-En: Registration (22 page)

Ruth pressed against his leg.

Bei’s armor hardened.
Keyes, you’re going to have to track my position. Find the quickest route to the surface, and two alternates.

Understood. Admiral, I can’t find any record of a new vein discovery. I think you’re heading into a trap.

Chapter 23

Elvis’s nails scraped the ground. Cold seeped through his paws, penetrated the marrow in his bones.
Faster. Must run faster. Must warn the others.

His sides heaved like bellows. Moisture evaporated from his tongue. Dried saliva glued it to the side of his muzzle. His eyes strained.
Show me something. Anything.

Boots pounded in the tunnels behind him. Metal scraped metal. The rumble of Scraptor voices mingled with a soft moan. Light exploded in bursts through the passage.

Show me a
nything but evidence of the Scraptors.

Muscles coiled tight around bone. He plunged into the pitch black passage. Ozone clung to his fur and pain rippled from his haunch. The hit had been a fluke. The Scraptors had been firing blindly after him.

Given the number of shots, one should have hit him.

The wound was only superficial, not proof that male Amarooks couldn’t be predators or were weak. Especially not him, not the son of generations of alphas. His ancestors had freed the Amarooks from the Skaperians’ genocidal experiments.

He and his sisters had the memories encoded onto their DNA.

The blood of warriors drummed in his veins.

He wouldn’t fail this mission.

Not like he failed to protect Nell Stafford.

Elvis slowed to sniff the air. A hot breeze ruffled his fur. The surface exit. He’d found it thanks to the traitor Anwar’s stench. Sand clung to his paws. The tunnel tilted slowly down and a pin prick of light dotted the wall.

Lowering his head, he dashed around a corner. A pyramid of sand poured through an Amarook-sized opening. He had to get outside. He leapt. His paws sunk deep into the sand. Muscles quivering, he lifted one paw. The ground gave way and he slid back.

A low growl reverberated up his throat.

He had to lead the Scraptors outside.

Elvis retreated to the far side of the tunnel. Shoving with his hind legs, he pushed off the wall. One length. Two. He sprang. Landing halfway up, he tasted the sweetness of victory.

Before he moved a paw, the ground liquefied and the exit receded.

“He’s heading for the exit.” The Scraptor’s voice echoed through the tunnels.

Elvis whipped his head toward the sound. They were close. Too close. His heart pounded. No more playing around. If the two-footed humans could get out this way, he should be able to as well. Tucking his tail close, he hunkered low then leapt up. He landed smack in the middle. Paws and hands clawed at the shifting sand.

No! He couldn’t fail.

His fingertips brushed something hard. Was it a handhold? A step? He dug faster, deeper. Dust fogged the air.

“We’ll call in air support once we reach the surface.”

Elvis swallowed the hard knot in his wind pipe. He could smell the Scraptors. Yet he floundered around like a puppy in his first snow. His palm skimmed something solid. His fingers closed around it and heaved.

A red rope cut through the pile of sand.
So that’s how the humans did it.
Hand over hand, he pulled himself up. Muscles burned as he pulled his legs out of the sucking sand.

The hole at the top widened. He stuck his head through. Sand invaded his nostrils and blasted his eyes. Wiggling into outside, rock scraped his back. Curtains of sand shimmered in the orange haze.

He plodded a few steps into the barren landscape, watched as the wind erased his tracks almost as soon as he created them.
Excellent.

“This is Daget. The prey has reached the surface.”

Elvis’s ears twitched.

The Scraptors stood in the tunnel below.

Sidestepping ten lengths, Elvis burrowed into a dune.

“What are your orders?” Daget’s gravelly voice carried over the storm.

“Search and destroy.” The orders burped through the static. “Once the storm fades we’ll send two patrols in your direction.”

Elvis pulled dust over his head, leaving only his nose covered by his hands sticking out. Even if he weren’t invisible, the sand clinging to his hide should make it impossible for the Scraptors to detect him.

One smooth red head stuck out of the tunnel. Dust quickly coated the bubble eyes and segmented armor.

Nell had been right. The Scraptors did resemble Earth insects. Nell… Elvis swallowed a whine. He would avenge her death. Maybe he’d even hang one of the bug heads on his den wall.

Three Scraptors climbed out of the opening.

And just stood there. Facing north, the middle one scratched his head. The one on the right, kicked at the sand as if to unbury Elvis’s tracks. The third took turns staring at the other two.

One minute passed, then two.

For pity’s sake, what was wrong with them? The Syn-En wouldn’t be standing around scratching their armor. They’d be moving out of the way, so Elvis could return to the tunnels.

He blinked at the dust in his eyes. And just where were the others? Hadn’t the promise of his svelte Amarook pelt been incentive enough?

A heavy weight settled deep inside his belly.

Why settle for one trophy when the Skaperian embassy was full of them?

His body twitched with impatience. Was he already too late? Had the Ck’sons had their long green limbs cracked and broken? Had poison polluted the Shishes underwater home? Were the padgows having their pink tentacles plucked one-by-one from their bodies?

As for the Humans…

The Scraptor in the middle strode forward. “Come. Let us bag this dog before the storm clears and the strike force takes the best prizes.”

Elvis closed his eyes. His kind may have once viewed Daget’s comparing Amarooks to an Earth pet as an insult, but that time had long passed. Humans deserved respect, even if they were a set of limbs short of equal.

“Shall we fan out?” The smaller of the three fell into step behind the first two.

“Negative.” Daget pressed the heel of his boot and his soles spread out like wings, enabling them to walk on the soft ground. “We head to the river. All animals need water eventually.”

So they weren’t as stupid as they looked. He was still smarter. Elvis waited until the Scraptors climbed the dune two hills away before emerging. Shaking the sand from his fur, he staggered toward the opening. He stretched out on his belly and surfed the soft sand to the ground.

When his paws touched stone, he sneezed the dust from his nose. The air stunk of pungent Scraptor. He blew it from his nostrils and sniffed again. There, under the armor polish, he detected his scent markers. Between them and his memory, he shouldn’t have any more setbacks.

Sticking to the middle of the tunnel, he ran for the embassy.

***

Elvis’s front leg buckled. He slammed into the walls. Pain lanced his fur. He shook it off clearing his head. Six dead ends. Three sidetracks. One near miss with the other two Scraptors still searching the tunnels.

And who knew how much time had passed?

Still he hadn’t reached the embassy.

But he had to be close. His joints screamed from the abuse. His body begged him to stop.
Move front paws. Move back paws. Repeat over and over and over.

He had to reach the others before the storm cleared.

If it hadn’t already.

Mustn’t think like that.
Nell wouldn’t approve. Elvis stumbled over his front legs, landed on his face. Air whooshed out of his lungs. His dry tongue stuck to his teeth. Stars danced in his peripheral vision.

Too bad they didn’t light the tunnel.

He pushed up with his hands. His raw fingertips burned and the metallic scent of Amarook blood tinged the air. His insides knotted. Loping down the tunnel, he’d had to trace the walls to avoid suffering a collision with them. Now he must limit his contact and reduce the number of blood trails for the Scraptors to find.

He’d go slow, stick to the middle, and thank Nell’s creator that he had a hard head.

A soft bleating sound scratched his ears.

Elvis paused and sniffed. Nell’s scent. His markers. Anwar’s. Pet’s, and… something else. He padded forward, turning his head left and right. He caught the smell.

Caprinae.

Only a few heartbeats away. His stomach growled and saliva pooled in the mouth. If the wooly animals were close, then the embassy must be nearby. A new surge of adrenalin warmed him, and he cantered toward the sound. His ears rotated, tried to pick up more sounds.

One bleat answered another. 

Water gurgled.

The energy reserves in his toes exploded through his body and he shot forward. If the caprinae still lived, the others must as well.

Bouncing off a wall, Elvis rounded the corner. Light glowed in the distance. A caprinae bounded out of the light and into the shadows.

No sounds of fighting.

No stench of blood.

Just human, caprinae, Ck’son and Padgows undertones.

He’d made it. He’d reached the embassy. He kicked with his hind legs and raced up the incline. Round street lamps pushed against the darkness. Light filtered through the dome, coating everything with an orange hue.

The storm wasn’t over.

His nails clicked on the pavement before fading to the crunch of dead grass. He sped by row upon row of empty homes. Blackened windows.

Everyone must still be sleeping off last night’s celebration.

He turned the corner, heading into the center of the embassy. Green leaves swirled in his wake. Broken glass glittered on a marble stoop.

His heart stopped. Something was wrong. What had he missed?

Veering off the street, he leapt a hedge and gulped air into his lungs. He landed on something soft and his paw curled under. Rolling, he glanced about.

A patched doll lay discarded on the ground.

The hair on his scruff rose. He processed the scents as he gained his feet. Shish. Padgow. Caprinae. Ck’son. Human.

And… something else.

Something…

A net flew through the air. Elvis dodged left, raced under a tree. The weights clattered to the ground, wadded up the ropes.

Where had it come from? Hunkering low, he scanned the area.

A shadow skimmed his vision.

The second net closed around him, tangled with his legs and brought him down.

Chapter 24

Groat stood on the command deck of the
Striker
-class
Terbium
. Sand frothed around the hull. Thick cannons jutted from thinner lines of projectile guns. The dome over the Scaperian embassy sparked and fizzled.

Soon it would cave in, burying everything under the sand.

Emeralds winking on his cape, Mopus paced the deck. A jeweled tie held back his long hair. “I do not see the reason for such wanton destruction. Those servants could be recycled.”

“And risk word spreading about Humanity’s thwarted registration?” Groat adjusted the striker’s bearing, bringing him alongside the dome.

“They’re inferiors.” Mopus flapped a thin arm in dismissal. “Who listens?”

“Other inferiors.” Groat’s claws clacked before he got them under control and locked them behind his back. Could the Muncian be blinded by his own arrogance?

“Exactly. No one.”

“The Skaperians listened.” Groat resisted the urge to knock his helmeted head against Mopus’s soft one. “Their petitions to Intergalactic court on behalf of sixteen protected species is still talked of today.”

Mopus rolled his brilliant green eyes. “Talk by the inferiors can be ignored.”

“Talk is dangerous. Many Scraptors died—”

“Yes, and we’ve improved your armor.” The willowy green alien picked a piece of dust from Groat’s shoulder.

“I am not your pet.” Groat growled. His claw whipped around his back and latched onto the Munician’s wrist. Just a little more pressure and he’d slice bone and tendon. 

“Of course not.” Mopus tugged on his hand.

Not releasing him, Groat squeezed, stopping the circulation to his comrade’s hand. “Then do not touch me.”

Mopus inclined his head. “My apologies. I believe I shall recommend some kind of anti-dust improvement to your armor. It’s a shame to mar such a magnificent appearance.”

“We’re marching into battle, not a parade.” Groat opened his claw, freeing the Munician. These scrumming scrumpers. They were completely ignorant of basic military tactics, yet they often directed Scraptor missions.

“Without the dust, I don’t think you will be as irritable.”

Groat’s nose twitched. His body relaxed and his anger fled. He really shouldn’t be so irritable. Mopus was only trying to help. Mopus…. Scrum! The Munician was using his stink against an ally. Groat clamped his claw around his arm and pinched. Pain overrode the pheromone madness stewing his thoughts. “Turn off the stink or I will pitch you overboard.”

Mopus rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”

“I am doing what is necessary for the good of the Founding Five.”

“By cutting into our profits? We haven’t had a fresh supply of Ck’son, Padgows or Humans in forever. They will fetch a tidy sum at auction despite the universal economic downturn.”

“We will gain all the supply we want. In thirteen axis spins, Skaperian protection of Earth ends.” Groat maneuvered the Striker into range of the shield. The ship hovered over the dunes, warping them. “Ready arms. All aft batteries.”

“Aye, Superior. All Aft batteries ready.”

Groat stared at the glowing screen before stroking it.

Mopus clucked. “Must you? I mean, what is the difference between these Humans and the ones we will collect from Earth?”

“The difference is time.” Groat straightened. “The fresh supply will think their governments imploded naturally. They won’t see us manipulating their destruction. These will know that we prevented the registration, and there’s always some do-gooder sentients that will look into it.”