The Hunter Victorious (23 page)

His luck ran out soon after he entered the first of the storage rooms. A short, blond woman with a shrill, annoying voice
demanded to see his work order, demanded to know what he was doing there. Barat Krol was glad to show her his credentials,
in the form of his fist. It descended upon the top of her head with a most satisfying thump and he was pleased to have
stopped the dreadful sound so easily. She was not dead, merely unconscious, but by the time she revived, he would have found
what he was searching for and vanished. He did not worry about being identified, for ridiculous as it seemed, it was a well-known
fact that Scandis could seldom tell the Madrelli apart; supposedly they all looked alike.

The second and third rooms were devoid of people, but unfortunately they were also devoid of the precious beakers. He began
to worry that he would not be able to find what he was searching for; nothing looked familiar. At that moment a harsh, ominous
buzzer began to repeat itself over and over. Barat Krol knew this to be a third-level warning, an appeal for all available
hands.

Barat Krol wondered what was happening, wondered if the sun had begun its final surge, the deadly flare that would precede
its ultimate demise. Briefly he thought of abandoning his quest but rejected the thought even as it was formed. There was
nothing he could do to help them; the only way he could help anyone was to continue what he had begun.

Barat Krol could not have know that he was responsible for the panic that had spread throughout the entire city. The fire
that had begun so quietly, so neatly contained in its own little room—the fire that Barat Krol had set as a momentary diversion—had
spread beyond his wildest expectations and grown into a dangerous, life-threatening beast.

The room where the material was stored was vented by a small air duct that channeled fresh air into the room. The air currents
also discouraged the growth of a microscopic mold that weakened the fibers. The mold could not grow unless the air was both
moist and motionless.

Unfortunately, the ductwork connected to several other chambers which also required fresh, filtered air, namely the computer
room, where the massive mainframes were housed, and the operations center, where the delicate, irreplaceable
communications equipment was kept. Both of these installations were filtered for fine particles that might disturb the functions
of their precious equipment, but there was no way it could filter out the dense clouds of thick black smoke that poured through
the vents with absolutely no warning.

Neither of the rooms was equipped with water sprinklers, for water would have been equally as devastating as fire. Fire had
never been a serious consideration or threat, for the technicians were far too careful to have made even the slightest mistake.
But just as no one had considered the link with the fabric room, which was just above the communications center, neither had
they ever considered the possibility of smoke without fire.

The technicians went wild, for most of them were so dedicated to their machines that they thought of them more as children
than as bits of metal and plastic. They shouted frantic orders which frequently contradicted one another and were soon at
each other’s throats, driven almost insane with the threat to their beloved machines. They who had fretted and worried over
the tinest change in temperature, the smallest particle of dust carried in on the antiseptic bootie of a worker, now shrieked
and wailed as they heaved at the massive machines in their attempts to move them to safety. And all the while the thick, black,
viscous smoke feeding off the oily lanolin contained in the natural wool fabric continued to pour in through the efficiently
functioning vents. It never occurred to anyone to shut them off.

Blissfully unaware of the chaos he had inflicted upon his enemies, Barat Krol continued to search the vast medical complex.
The first and second alarms were calls for labor; the third alarm was a call for more specialized assistance, including medical.

Only as the last of the medicos with their intergalactic red cross emblazoned on their chests rushed by carrying their
bags did the thought occur to Barat Krol that he might have done well to have captured one of them and persuade him to take
him to the containment units.

He waited for a time, but it appeared that the last of them had passed. It worried Barat Krol that it should have taken him
so long to think of capturing a medico. Such a basic thought; how could he have been so dumb? No sooner had he raised the
thought than it came to him that it was not the first time he had made such a mistake. Lately, it seemed that his mind was
operating more slowly, taking longer to come to obvious conclusions.

And then it hit him with a wave of certainty. The Scandis were depriving him of his daily dose of the intelligence enhancing
drug, substituting a look-alike placebo! What better way to rid themselves of a troublemaking Madrelli? Soon he would sink
to the same level of indifferent intelligence as his less fortunate brethren and the Scandis would be rid of the thorn in
their side, bloodlessly and without implicating themselves in any way. “A failure of the drug—unfortunate, but it happens
that way sometimes.”

The realization was so stunning that Barat Krol sank down on his haunches and bowed his head. How close he had come to death
without even knowing it, for life without intelligence was little more than death with another name.

Just then a voice intruded on his thoughts, a nagging, prissy voice, the kind of voice that belonged to one who followed every
rule no matter how stupid, obeyed every sign as though it had been printed by the god of the universe and expected others
to share his vision of order. “You there, what are you doing? There is no loitering allowed in these halls. Where is your
permit? Show me your permit! Why are you here? Where is your keeper?” The flood of words beat around Barat Krol’s head like
a swarm of mosquitoes.

Third-class technician Thorvald Johannson stopped a mere
two paces from the numbed Madrelli, furious at this obvious breach of regulations. How was it that all the others had managed
to pass through these same halls and not notice such a large creature on the loose? Thorvald heaved a sigh and pressed his
thin lips together in a droop of martyred weariness. Why was it always he who had to clean up everyone else’s messes? It was
probably that lazy, no-good Erik Girstad—he never finished what he started. Why, if Thorvald hadn’t decided to come along
behind everyone else and check, this ignorant creature could have run amok. Thor only knows what mischief he might have caused.

Thorvald pursed his lips again and hooked a toe into the Madrelli’s rib cage, a sensitive spot as he well knew, painful in
the extreme. “Here! You stinking animal, up! Back in your cage!” he cried as he drove the point of his foot into the animal’s
rib cage for a second time, wondering if he had injured it with the force of his blow.

He had expected the Madrelli to react; a cry of pain, a crouching, posturing snivel for mercy would have been normal. Instead,
a massive black furred hand shot out and grasped his ankle, hard, squeezing it hard enough to bring tears of pain to Thorvald’s
eyes.

He opened his mouth to scream at the Madrelli, to threaten him with punishment, when his brain finally acknowledged what his
eyes had known for some time. The Madrelli was not one of those small, cowering, terrified specimens they kept caged in the
labs for use in experiments.

Still gripping the technician’s foot, the Madrelli stood up, raising himself to his full height, which was easily two heads
taller than Thorvald Johannson. He was huge, gigantic, immensely muscled, with powerful arms and a chest and shoulders that
rippled with muscles each time he moved.

Thorvald’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound emerged. The Madrelli’s mouth opened too. Thorvald
stared at him in horror, his eyes opened wide. The Madrelli’s lips drew back, exposing his black gums and his long, pointed
canines.

The Madrelli was staring at him with a look of utter joy upon its ugly animal face. Its large dark eyes glittered insanely.
Without taking its eyes off the terrified technician, it yanked his leg, hard, painfully hard, drawing him closer. Thorvald
Johannson took one final look—the bright eyes, the sharp teeth, the powerful muscles—and did the only logical thing left for
him to do. He fainted.

After Braldt had been captured, Septua had wandered
without aim or goal—not knowing what to do with himself. He had found himself in the labyrinth of corridors belonging to
the healers and had sunk down on the seats circling the operating amphitheater to ponder his limited choice of options. When
the alarms began to sound. At first he rose, fear hammering in his chest. He could hear the sounds of running feet, and yells
and curses as the various workers responded to the call.

His first impulse was to run. But where would he go? He had no designated post, as did every Scandi over the age of twelve.
They had not deemed him worthy of assistance in the face of danger. The old bitterness twisted in his gut, accompanied by
the familiar burning anger.

He could not have honestly said whether he was sad or angry or frightened, for he was filled with currents of strong, conflicting
emotions, each warring within him for dominance.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying to bring himself under control. It was then that he heard his name called.
Startled, he looked up, his hand darting to his dagger even as he recognized the Madrelli—what was his name… Bartha Kol? But
what was he doing here?

The two disparate figures, one short and barrel-chested with outsized features, the other immense and shaggy with intense,
burning eyes, approached each other warily, yet with
a certain amount of barely concealed eagerness. Each desperately hoping that the other, barely known, would become an ally
in this place of enemies and danger.

Slowly at first, and then ever more swiftly, the words tumbling over themselves like rocks careening downstream in a flood,
they told and compared stories. All the while, the Klaxon continued to blare its urgent message of alarm.

“What’s ’appening? Is the world exploding?” asked Septua, looking around him fearfully.

Barat Krol barked a short, mirthless laugh. “I set the place afire. Must have done a better job than I thought!”

“Fire… that’s good. Never would ’ave thought of fire myself,” Septua said, looking up at the Madrelli with admiration. “Ought
to give us some time to find the stuff what you needs.”

“You’d help?” Barat Krol asked in astonishment.

“Consider it done!” Septua said, grinning broadly. “Anyone what sticks a rock in their engine ’as got me in their corner!
Let’s be on our way afore they comes back!”

The frozen ova were harder to find than they had anticipated, and the precious intelligence-enhancing substance no less obvious.
What they did find were a wide variety of animals and Madrelli, little better than animals themselves,. most of whom were
in pain, all of whom were being used for Scandi experimentation.

Barat Krol went berserk when they encountered the first of these unfortunates linked to machines by various implanted wires
and tubes. The creature, a doglike animal, looked up at them and seemed to cringe, although such an action would have been
all but impossible considering the number of attachments controlling its body. Its eyes were large and soulful and seemed
to implore them silently. A whimper of anticipated pain escaped from its muzzle.

Barat Krol destroyed every single machine that the poor
animal was linked to, in an attempt to free it. There were so many machines, it was impossible to know which one contained
the link that kept the poor creature alive. When the last of the machines had crashed to the floor, the last of the bottles
had broken, spilling their fluids, the piteous crying had stopped. Only then did they discover that the animal had mercifully
died.

Barat Krol was shaking with rage, his eyes ringed with scarlet, the whites shot through with red. Septua had never seen such
a towering rage, and despite himself he was more than a little afraid of the Madrelli. He began to edge away when Barat Krol
turned to him and tried to smile, tried to bring himself under control. “I-I’m sorry. It troubles me to see creatures treated
so poorly. Would they do such a thing to one of their own?”

Septua was unable to speak, remembering all too well some of the tests and experiments they had done on him as a youngster
when it had first been ascertained that he was not “normal” and would never achieve his full growth. His mother had put an
end to it, but Septua had never forgotten… or forgiven.

Together they “liberated” the rest of the animals. Those that had not been damaged beyond salvation were freed and each helped
the less fortunate. Those who would never be whole again they freed as well, giving them well-deserved eternal peace and surcease
from their pain.

Barat Krol and Septua were icy calm by the time they opened the last of the cages. Their earlier fury had become a steely
resolve that drove them relentlessly on. Had they not been so determined to find and rescue every last creature, they might
not have found the lab technician, who had done his best to squeeze himself into a tiny ball inside of a storage compartment.