Skal's leap blind-sided him; no one could see a hrinn moving in blueshift, except another hrinn doing the same. Heyoka rolled with his attacker, then used the momentum to regain his feet. Skal was momentarily visible, off-balance, his black-and-white face reminiscent of a human-style harlequin mask, then he disappeared again and Heyoka was reeling from a dozen unanswered claw marks.
His savage other roared at the pain, and then he was no longer thinking at all, just reacting in a white-hot fury. How dare this upstart Challenge him when so much was at stake! He would tear Skal's worthless ears off and feed them to him an inch at a time!
Off to one side, Visht and Kei guarded Bey's lifeless body, black eyes unreadable. This was a pattern/in/progress they all understood, one that could only be settled between him and Skal. No one would interfere. Hrinn always respected Challenge.
A spatter of cold rain struck his muzzle. He shook it off and circled warily, waiting for the next strike. One slash across his chest was particularly deep and the hot scent of blood filled the air as it soaked into his fur. He caught a whiff of Skal, too, rancid with fight pheromones, then; without warning, he was falling back. His head cracked on the rocks. His ears rang, and Skal was tearing at his throat. He threw an arm up to fend him off, then saw an opening and buried his own teeth in Skal's shoulder.
His opponent threw himself backwards, roaring with shock. Heyoka pursued, but a buzzing whiteness obscured his vision and his legs gave way. Skal's blood was hot and sweet in his mouth as he struggled to rise. How strange, he found himself thinking. He had never tasted hrinnti blood before. Who would have thought it would be sweet?
He floundered, groping for Skal. His fingers brushed against fur, then lost contact. He whirled, cursing himself. He had to finish this now. A hrinn who lived to fight another day would take down his enemy, sooner or later. He had to find—
His vision cleared just as Skal came at him again. He caught tiny flashes of black-and-white fur as the other dropped in and out of blueshift, creating a series of startling static images. He was playing with him, Heyoka realized, as he struck uselessly at empty air where Skal had just been again and again. Skal could finish him off anytime he chose. This was a chump's game, what humans called "shooting fish in a barrel."
He leaped at a half-seen blur of white and again his claws closed on nothing. Overbalanced, he fell, then Skal was upon him, fingers knotted in his mane, yanking his head back, exposing his throat for a final, fatal slash.
His fierce other reached deep within, where Heyoka could have sworn there was nothing left. For an instant, less than the wink of an eye, the familiar stain of blueshift colored the sky, the mountaintop, his opponent's face. Time slowed to a crawl and he was alone with Skal in a chill universe of crystalline blue. Moving too fast for Skal to see, he broke his hold and scrambled away.
Normal colors burst back into his vision. He sprawled nose-first on the ground, so exhausted, he could barely flick an ear. Drawing upon cellular energy without preparation could be fatal, his former sponsor, Nisk, had always warned, and he'd found that to be true, to his regret. Ignorant of ancient techniques for supercharging cells, he had often been careless back on Anktan, but he had never expected to be able to draw power again and certainly hadn't expected to face Challenge up here.
Skal was slowing down too, though obviously he'd found some way to prepare for this fight. The big male dropped out of blueshift and regarded him with savage black eyes.
"This is pointless!" Heyoka said, struggling to get up. He got one leg underneath him, but the other would not support his weight. Rain began in earnest, the large drops close together and cold. Thunder cracked on the other side of the valley below. He dug his claws into the rock and tried harder. "Our enemy is the flek, not each other! If either one of us dies here, that just makes one less to hold the grid and we are far too few as it is!"
"Weakling!" Skal threw back, but he was panting heavily and his ears were askant. "You are not fit to lead!"
"I am the only one fit!" Mustering the dregs of his strength, he heaved to his feet. The scene before him wavered, as though he were viewing it underwater. "You're a Ranger now. Think back on your training, all you've learned these last months. You know what we have to do here, how important it is!"
Skal disappeared into blueshift. Heyoka whirled, claws bared, but it was no use. He would not see his opponent until it was too late. How ironic that the Black/on/black, whose body supposedly contained the highest number of power receptor cells of all hrinn, should die in a pointless blueshift brawl with a third-rate punk like Skal.
He could retreat, the human-educated part of his brain whispered, and live to fight another day.
His savage other roared in outrage. Honorable hrinn did not run from Challenge! It was unheard of, unthinkable! Such cravenness would shred his honor! Better to die cleanly!
He felt the edge of the ledge behind him, as well as the wind of Skal's approach. He ducked an invisible blow as unseen claws grazed his neck. Certain death was at his throat. He could do as his other demanded, accept it and die, or—
Without thinking further, he turned and plunged over the ledge, arms flailing at the distant canopy of the forest below.
A coughing fit overtook Mitsu in the travel sphere and she could not stop. She knotted her fists and leaned against the spongy covering, holding her breath. This toxic atmosphere would kill her, probably sooner rather than later, and permanent lung damage would no doubt set in even before that. Her tearing eyes burned and she had difficulty swallowing.
World-Architect 549 regarded her with indifference. "Are you damaged?"
"This—shell—is not suited for these conditions," she said hoarsely. "I must either abandon it soon or return to Planet 873."
On Anktan, to her everlasting shame, the flek had made her believe such a thing was possible, that a flek could be altered to pass as human, though, as far as Confederation scientists could tell, it was not. Every flek spy ever unmasked had turned out to be a mind-twisted human. She herself had been betrayed into enemy hands by just such a person. He'd died in Heyoka's raid believing he was a flek trapped in a human body and she'd come very close to sharing the same fate.
The pink sphere dissolved and she blinked at the scene before her—a dazzling white concourse suspended amidst at least twenty more, all looping over and under and even through one another without guardrails or supports of any kind. Flek of dozens of body types she'd never seen before thronged the broad surfaces. They were all the same dead-white with demon-red eyes. A flekish song of joyous service was being broadcast and the chittering of the thousands singing along filled the hazy air.
She felt closed in, though they were out in the open air, trapped and claustrophobic. The flek city vibrated around her, alive with multitudes of the enemy. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. I can't do this, she thought. She felt dizzy and her chest hurt. I can't be that person, the spy-drone clothed in human flesh. I can't go that close to madness again.
Another coughing fit overwhelmed her. She hunched over, braced herself as she fought to control it. Cough-tears streamed down her grimy face. "Water!" she finally croaked to the waiting architect. "This shell cannot function efficiently without water."
The architect diverted a small round courier. It paused for instructions, then scurried away, rejoining the service song. The scrabble of its feet on the gleaming white concourse made her skin crawl.
Her guide started off and she had to follow or be left behind. It strode purposefully ahead of her with its four long legs, much faster than she could manage. She hung back at its heels, trying not to breathe too deeply and trigger the coughing again.
The courier returned and scuttled along at her side, matching her pace, handing up a half-moon carafe filled with water. It was stale and bitter, left over, she suspected, from some sort of cleaning job, but she let it trickle down her parched and aching throat, then felt moderately better.
She passed back the carafe. The courier snatched it out of her hand and turned away, both sets of shoulders hunched. It thinks I'm disgusting, she thought, and remembered how she too had once found herself so, had longed to shed her loathsome pink skin and regain the sleek purity of flek chitin.
They entered an open chamber thronging with the caste known as Deciders. Pink and yellow globules of light danced over their heads. Huge, irregular-shaped screens formed the three walls, each displaying different scenes or marching lines of statistics. The architect continued on to the far side, but Mitsu found she had stopped without meaning to. Her legs simply would take her no closer.
A Decider turned its heavy carnelian gaze on her and she felt it could see right through her shabby deception. "Spy-Drone 87650."
Her fingers danced over one another and she realized she was beating out the flek service song with her inadequate fingers. Cold fear raced through her nerves and she made herself lower her hands to her sides. "That is my designation."
"We had not retained notice of your deployment on Planet 873," the Decider said.
"Preparations were hasty," she said. "There was little time when I was assigned."
"Your original phalanx?"
All-Father, she had no idea what that term meant. Her hand itched to draw the sonic knife from her boot and bury the shimmering green blade in the hulking Decider's chest. And what good would that do? the rational part of her mind asked. You should have killed that grid-tech when you had the chance. Now they know everything it knows.
"Your phalanx?" the Decider repeated. The hot red eyes bore down on her like the visual components of some terrible, sentient machine.
"Dead," she said, for lack of anything better to say.
"On Planet 873?"
"Yes." Sweat soaked her uniform, plastered her hair to her head. The scene before her winked in and out. Everything seemed far away and the rotten-eggs reek of sulphur was overwhelming. Heatstroke, she thought fuzzily, was becoming a real possibility.
"How?"
How—what? She had lost track of the conversation. She blinked unsteadily at the Decider.
"How did your phalanx die?" it said. "Did the Enemy sweep back over Planet 873, after the Makers retreated, or did the perverted ones kill them?"
The laka? "Yes," she said, for lack of anything better to say, "they killed them."
The Decider fell back into a contemplative posture, arms bent, oversized head lowered to prevent distraction. "We had hoped, if we withdrew our forces, the Enemy could be enticed to overrun Planet 873," it said finally. "Once they had eliminated the perverted ones, we would return and exterminate them in turn, which is much easier. Then we could finish the needed atmospheric adjustments to transform the planet according to the architectural style of that period."
They were afraid of the laka. How strange. Mitsu was fast losing her grip on reality, but she filed that tidbit away for later examination. Humanity had fought the flek for generations, in varying degrees of intensity, and more often than not, they were the ones losing territory. How had the gentle laka managed to frighten flek off their world?
Sweat ran down her back, pooled at the base of her spine. She felt cold and hot at the same time. "I have gathered information on the perverted ones, as well as the Enemy," she said, "which is hidden on Planet 873. I must go back and retrieve it."
"The grid-tech spoke of furred animals who fought with manufactured energy weapons," the Decider said.
"Yes," Mitsu said, "but they were very primitive. One tech and a few warrior-drones were more than a match for them."
"True," the Decider said. "However, you will be accompanied by a full phalanx of warrior-drones, when you return. They will be responsible for the recovery of the information, as well as the procurement of at least one specimen of this new species for our records."
Mitsu's knees wobbled. She forced herself to straighten, though black dots shivered like dancing molecules behind her eyes. "And the perverted ones?"
"Kill all who come . . . reach of . . . weapons. Under no circumstances, listen . . . thing they . . . or sing . . ."
The voice had gone tinny and flat, far away. She knew she should focus, that her very survival, as well as those back on Oleaaka, depended on it, but the hot, thick air closed in on her and it was so difficult to breathe. She felt herself falling, and too late, put out her hands. The hot floor seemed to rise up and strike her. Her lungs strained, as a fierce red tide rolled in and swept her thoughts away.
It took Sixteenth Breeder some time to die. He thrashed about between the crystalline columns in agony, his shoulder burned to blackness, pleading with his nestbrothers for release.
Second told him to go ahead and die, if he wished, but Sixteenth didn't appear to understand. His screams should have been disturbing. Certainly, Second Breeder's three remaining companions found them sufficiently so that they left the cavern in search of their own gleaner and translator, as planned. But, for some reason, Second was intrigued. The cries of pain summoned pictures in his mind that hinted at great doings, brave accomplishments, wildly satisfying pleasures. He could not tear himself away until Sixteenth finally uttered a long, sibilant sigh and died.
It had been reminiscent of a Night of Leavetaking, Second reflected, though vastly more exciting. Deaths on those occasions were abrupt and unexceptional, each one inevitably brief and the same as the last. He had attended five of the annual ceremonies during his short life, though of course this season would have finally brought his turn to participate.
The thought of the Leavetaking made him hungrier than ever. If one of the utilitarian laborers had been at hand to prepare Sixteenth's body, he and the other hungry breeders could have at least eaten that. As he recalled from previous ceremonies, processed properly, discarded breeders were quite tasty. Well, when their new colony was established, he would see to it that they had a plentiful supply of laborers.
He hoisted the stiffening corpse between his two sets of shoulders and carried it through the tunnels to the surface. If they acquired a translator before the body spoiled, they could still prepare a feast of their own.
Outside, the light had dwindled to faint rose on the western horizon. The clouds overhead were low and black and the sweet scent of rain hung heavy in the air. It would rain soon, and long too. He deposited the body close to the cavern entrance.
Shortly thereafter, his companions returned, dragging along a delicate translator. All three breeders were beating out Second's forceful new song on their second-hands and the rhythm was quite stimulating, though the translator appeared distraught. Her color had faded to a pasty white-green and she had actually cracked her carapace trying to escape. Tenth Breeder had a firm grip on one of her forearms and was dancing about, looking quite pleased with himself.
"You cannot do this!" the translator cried. "You must all return to the colony at once!"
"This is our colony," Second said boldly, "and you are now our translator."
"We could not find a gleaner," Tenth said and released the translator. She scuttled out of reach and then cowered. "They have all returned to the compound for the night."
Another dismal night without foodstuffs. Second contemplated that prospect and felt quite displeased. He turned to the frightened translator. "Are you familiar with the preparation for the Feast of Leavetaking?"
Her face paled beneath its green tint. "No, of course not," she said, clearly aghast. "That is the responsibility of the keepers."
"But you have seen it," Second persisted. "Translators go everywhere, talk to everyone, or else nothing would get done."
"It has been my privilege to be a translator-at-large the last two seasons," she said and averted her eyes.
"Then you know what to do." Second studied her closely.
"That is not my function!" She was trembling now. "And it is not yours either!"
"`Each to her own function,'" Second said testily, quoting the keepers.
"That is the true and proven way of things," the translator said. Her voice was shaded with misery. "All else is madness!"
"We will make a new way," Second said. He dashed forward and twisted her arm. "We are hungry. Prepare that body for consumption."
Obviously, she had not noticed Sixteenth's charred form before, because now she stiffened and then folded in upon herself.
"This is useless!" Tenth said in disgust. "She won't perform any tasks outside her caste. None of them will."
Second glared down at her trembling form. "Then we will eat her!"
"How?" Tenth said.
He did not know. In fact, he knew nothing at all of any real use, Second realized. He was just a mouth to feed, a body waiting to breed and then be sacrificed in the annual Leavetaking, useful for one brief moment in an entire lifetime.
The only time he had felt large and important was back in the ceremonial arena when the furred alien had stood against them and he had . . . had . . . fought. Yes, that was the word he'd been searching for all of last night and most of today. When he'd fought, and then later again, when he had watched the gleaming white stranger fight the furred ones down in the cave, everything had seemed possible.
"Never mind," he said, and realized he truly didn't care anymore about eating. His hunger was growing familiar, like an everpresent shadow with a mean little edge to it, and he found he liked that, the meanness, the sense of sharpness. "Detain her," he said. "When it is light, I shall go to the compound and fetch back both a laborer and a gleaner."
Heyoka's claws shredded the forest's top layer of leaves as he fell. His scrabbling right hand gained purchase on a slender limb for a second, then slipped, and he plunged through the emerald shade again. Desperate, he used both hand- and footclaws on the bark of a forest giant. He scored the soft wood, almost arrested his fall, but then the tree contracted, as though in pain, and threw him off.
He hit the fork of the next tree over, bounced, then dug his claws in again. This time, they held and he found himself clinging to a massive trunk at least two hundred feet in the air. His heart raced and the breath rasped in and out of his straining lungs. The tree quaked beneath him and he quickly retracted his claws, clinging instead with his arms and pulling himself up to a more secure seat.
The tree still trembled, and he began to climb down, hand over hand. This species must have at least a rudimentary nervous system, he told himself. It flinched when he paused, then shuddered violently. He cursed and slipped a good fifty feet before he was able to stop this time, and took a solid blow to the ribs.
He'd be damned lucky if he hadn't broken something, he thought, then eased himself down as fast as possible. The tree swayed, seeming uneasy, and he thought what his adoptive father, Ben Blackeagle, might have made out of this encounter. Everything is related, he had always said, the plants and the earth and the animals and the stars. They are all your relatives.
The tree spasmed and then he was free-falling, arms and legs windmilling until he landed, spread-eagled, in a stand of dense, prickly bushes. He lay there, stunned, scratched and bruised from end to end. These were no relatives of his and this was certainly no place for a hrinn.
The brush rustled, then parted. A startled lavender face peered out at him with pale-pink eyes.