Starshot Page 4

  “Kaishi, convince them you hear what the Ignos’ says,” Father whispers. “Our village needs a priestess, and your parents need you.”

  Then he’s gone towards the Tier. I notice too that he’s carrying the black-glass knife in a loop around his waist. It’s clean, though I didn’t do it.

  Ignos shatters the moment, as he often does, with an angry tone.

  You’re too primitive to answer my questions. To help me remove the block.

  I ask Ignos what ‘the block’ might be, but get no answer.

  As the sky turns purple and orange, I make my way towards the Tier. Some of the crowd is already there, assembled for what promises to be the most interesting sacrifice in some time. Which is when it hits me. I’m performing the ritual, which means I’ll have to do the sacrifice. Cut into the man and take out his heart.

  I start to sweat. I’ve never done that before. Even with Father up there, guiding me, the thought of cutting through the living skin of another person is terrifying.

  You saw the entire sky light on fire. Picked your way through a dark and dangerous jungle to find something you’ve never imagined before. Went up to it and met me, and you’re scared of something you’ve seen so many times?

  Ignos, of course, is right. This shouldn’t be so hard.

  That’s what I tell myself as I walk between the gathering people to the foot of the Tier. I’ve climbed up and down these stones before.

  Dawn is the best time, when the rocks are cool and at the top you can see the blanket of mist covering the entire jungle. Trees poking their green leaves through. Now the stones are warm and I lift each leg, place each hand slow, taking care to plant my feet correctly. One step at a time. Nobody will trust a priestess that falls.

  I glance up and see Father’s already up at the top, along with the man blowing the hollowed caller. A sound I don’t really hear as I’m so focused on climbing. The sacrifice is there too, along with the usual pair of assisting elders. This one is a scrawny hunter, and unlike yesterday’s, his face is full of fear.

  You and me both, I want to say, but that would be cruel. He’s going to die regardless. I’m only dead if I fail.

  Which isn’t going to happen.

  Ignos is suddenly full of encouragement. As if the god realizes his chosen body might go under the knife if he can’t come up with something good. If I misremember a crucial phrase, or botch the cutting.

  But I manage the first stage well enough. Make it to the top, next to the altar. Ignos’ light is still hot up here, even at dusk. Like he’s staring right at me across the horizon, and now I know why Father seems to spend the whole ceremony looking down at us or with his eyes closed. Doing anything else means blindness.

  When I angle down to my village, though, I don’t see the rows of people I’m looking for. Instead, the crowd is pushing into itself. Cowering against one another, because there’s an army - no, that’s too big of a word, a patrol - surrounding them. Maybe three dozen. Only these aren’t wearing the capes and cloths of our hunters. Many of these sport patchwork brown skins of bears on their heads, and all of them hold weapons.

  Kukri. I can catch the black-glass glint from up here. The shards are jammed into the tops of wooden sticks, the glass cut like an eagle’s talons. Like the knife Father still holds, they’re capable of tearing a person apart. I know because our village has only one, taken from a long-ago prisoner. It sits, unused, in someone’s house. Our bows and arrows make for more effective hunting. Nobody would bother with kukri in the jungle.

  Which, it hits me, is what these warriors are. They’re not Solare. They’re from outside, the plains to the West. We call them Charre, and in some distant past they left the jungle behind for clear skies and the brutality that comes when there’s no place to hide.

  As I’m processing this, one of the Charre, the only one I can see wearing the faded tan furs of a lion around his neck and shoulders, comes forward towards the Tier. Our villagers don’t stop him, but shrink back, with mothers putting arms around sons, and fathers moving to shield them both. It’s time for the ritual, so nobody is armed. Other tribes wouldn’t think of a raid now - showing such disrespect for Ignos would be unthinkable.

  Which is why I’m not so surprised when the lion warrior waves at me to carry on. Now that he’s closer, I can see that he’s not much older than I am, though his chest bears a few scars and his dark arms appear covered in tattoos. He notices my stare and gives me a smile in return, as though I’m supposed to treat their interruption as nothing.

  They’re here for you.

  Ignos says it the same moment I’m piecing it together. Our village isn’t the largest, our tribe isn’t the wealthiest. The only reason these Charre might come to our little town is because they heard a woman talking about how she communes with their god.

  “Begin the ceremony, Kaishi,” Father says. “There is no other option, now.”

  I take a deep breath. Feel the humid jungle air fill my lungs, and when Ignos begins to feed me lines, I say them. One after another. I lose myself in the recitation, so much so that I don’t even know what I’m saying. It could have been complete nonsense, except I see the crowd falling into words. Even the Charre turn towards me, let their kukri hang loose in their hands. At the base of the Tier, the lion warrior drops to his knees.

  I speak the last line and my voice falls silent. Father moves forward with the knife, and I know right now that I cannot kill this man. I’m not ready, and I don’t know how.

  “I can’t,” I whisper, turning and taking the black-glass knife from Father anyway, to hide our voices.

  “You must,” he replies, though I can tell he’s sorry to say so.

  I stand over the sacrifice, who now has both elders’ hands pinning his back to the altar. His white eyes roll towards me. His lips are drawn back, and I can tell he wants to scream but can’t quite bring himself to it. Can’t shed that last end of his dignity.

  I hesitate.

  Give the sacrifice to the Charre. There is no dishonor there, right?

  If Ignos himself tells me there is no dishonor, then there cannot be. My relief at the escape pushes me to point the black-glass knife down the steps towards the lion warrior, who starts in surprise.

  “We give this honor to you, visitors, so that you may leave our village in peace,” I say, using the same words Father has said before, though that was trading trinkets, not whole persons.

  The lion warrior covers any shock, sliding on a straight face. He stands, “I came to see a priestess, and I believe I have.” The warrior shifts to look at the crowd and I see that his back, too, is tattooed in a black-inked version of Ignos, a dark halo and colored rays shining up to the warrior’s shoulders. “Your priestess has bought your survival with the offer of this sacrifice. She can buy your freedom as well, with her own.”’ Ignos’ shock runs through my mind, mingling with mine. Quick enough, though, Father is next to me, whispering in my ear.

  “You must go, Kaishi,” he’s saying. “Do not fight. Do not resist, or they will kill us all and take you anyway.”

  I had expected Father to deny this warrior’s demands. To call my village to fight in my defense, but even as his words churn my stomach I see their point.

  I asked Ignos for a destiny and he’s delivered.

  To save my family, my village, I move down those steps. Go past the lion warrior, and feel him walk behind me. Hear his call to gather the sacrifice and prepare to leave.

  He lets me say goodbye to Mother, Father, and I know I’ll never see them again.

  8 Assault

  The thing about gravity is that, this far from the gas giant, there’s not much of it. Only enough to boost the Oratus’ momentum. Which works in their favor, because when the shuttle’s pointed tip pierces the seed ship’s hull, allowing the nose to crash through, Sax and the others let go of the hanging bars and shoot forward towards that translucent shuttle bow.

  Where they’ll splat into a gooey pile if things don’t work as the
y should.

  But the shuttle is a Vincere craft, and the Flaum that maintain it do so with the constant penalty of death for any failure whatsoever. Vigilance isn’t just expected, it’s enforced. So the shuttle’s nose bursts like a blossoming star; pointed triangles flaring out and leaving a wide open window into the seed ship for Sax and the other three to fly through.

  For the barest second as he launches from the shuttle, Sax feels the tug of vacuum pulling him back towards space. Then, again, the shuttle does its job: those flared ends fold back against the seed ship’s inside hull, and from each one slides out metal slats. They mesh with each other and create a seal against outer space, and now the fun’s beginning.

  The four Oratus soar into what looks like the seed ship’s growth quadrant. Dark blue lights shine from the top of a smooth ceiling down onto open clusters of terminals and liquid-filled tanks that quickly give way to a forest of glass tubes, most full of greenish ooze and the floating bodies of all sorts of species. They’re tall, going from floor to ceiling, which in the seed ship means a towering height. Ten times Sax’s own. The Oratus have to watch themselves or they’ll splatter against those tubes too.

  Not that they have much control after being flung out of the shuttle. Sax, with the Stim giving him plenty of time to look as the four of them fly over the Sevora’s thin defense, has a second to torque himself around before he hits the first tube.

  He tenses his muscles.

  And bounces.

  His claws slide across the glass, pulling him around the tube and then Sax kicks off, launching himself further towards the back of the section. Bas, Gar, and Lan do the same, jumping from one tube to the next, leaving behind the growing laser-light show as their soldiers engage the Sevora.

  Who, it looks like, are using Flaum too. Only these aren’t the same as the Vincere soldiers. Mostly because the Vincere conscripts are actually Flaum, all the way through. On the Sevora side, though, they’re just bodies. Flaum hands holding the rifles, fingers pulling the trigger, with a Sevora in their heads calling every shot.

  Which is why Sax, with every tube he hits, digs his claws in just enough to crack the glass. To splinter it inside the tube and start the fluid spilling. The leak will kill the half-grown specimen inside. Prevent one more Sevora from getting the body it wants. If the mission succeeds, all of these test tube species will die anyway, but Sax prefers confirmed kills to hypothetical ones.

  The seed ship’s own homespun gravity, coupled with the gas giant’s, starts to pull the set down before they’ve reached the end of the tube forest. Sax calls, through the mask, for his team to drop now so they don’t get too scattered, and the next tube he hits serves as his ride to the ground.

  At the base, it’s a hard metal landing. Terminals whiz and beep as Sax crashes into a deserted cluster of tubes. Monitors show waving lines and green numbers. Sax ignores it all and orients himself towards the back of the section. They have to get further into the seed ship, and they don’t have long to do it.

  A chittering noise slips in through Sax’s mask. Followed by more. Looks like some of the Sevora saw them flying overhead. Weren’t fooled by the assault troops spilling from the shuttle. Sax reaches for his own miner and draws it from his belt. The miner is made for an Oratus, with circles that close neatly where each claw ought to go. Precise, deadly control.

  Only the chitters aren’t coming closer. Maybe Sax is wrong. Maybe they didn’t notice.

  But now Sax has noticed them.

  He creeps around the tubes, careful to place his claws lightly on the metal floor. The soft gravity here means such steps aren’t hard. Sax just has to be careful so an accidental twitch doesn’t send him floating.

  What Sax sees when he pokes his head around the side of a tube cluster and into a wide hallway, is a trio of Sevora Flaum setting up a gouter on a tripod. A large cylinder attached to a pair of wheeled containers as large as Sax, the gouter will, in another moment, start spraying hot chemical doom through the air towards the Vincere troops.

  The gouter’s liquid would melt a mask in no time, and would melt a hull too, which is why, when it cools, the stuff hardens into a stiff seal. The Sevora don’t see Sax, so he takes a moment to put his miner back. No sense wasting energy.

  Or fun.

  Sax bursts around the corner, claws digging hard into the floor, then he leaps at the Flaum settling in to the gouter’s targeting chair. The Flaum’s friends turn at the shriek of tearing metal, but all they have time to do is scream before Sax hits. His claws do the work on the gunner, while Sax uses his tail to wrap around the left one’s neck.

  Constricts enough to feel the jolt that says the job’s done, and then he’s turning to the last one. Sometimes Sevora know their end is coming, and they face it bravely. Stand there silent as Sax claims them for his kill count. This one, though, cowers. Backs away from the Oratus as Sax climbs out from the gouter’s chair. Behind him, Sax uses his tail to bash apart the chemical feeds, ruining the weapon for any future parties.

  “Tell me, Sevora,” Sax hisses as he towers over the tiny Flaum. “What are you hoping will happen? That I’ll spare you because you look so pathetic?”

  The Sevora stares back at Sax through the Flaum’s big black eyes. There’s still a small weapon hanging from the Sevora’s holster. If drawn and shot perfectly, it might pierce the mask. Give Sax a scar. Sax wants the Sevora to reach for it, to see if Sax is faster. He doesn’t get the chance.

  Bas dashes by in front of him, and without breaking stride, her claws leave a fatal rend that has the Sevora collapsing to the ground.

  “Stop playing with your food,” Bas says through the mask as she hurtles on towards the edge of the section.

  Sax can’t argue with her logic, and he bounds after her. They’re almost to the gate leading further into the seed ship. Which is good, because, by Sax’s counting, their time is almost up.

  9 The Lion Warrior

  The Charre have grown like a nightmare. I first heard of them years ago, through stories told by passing traders. If we had a penchant for sacrifice, the Charre have an obsession. They feed on conquest. On taking land and people and abusing both. Father would curse them and, in equal breath, our own ancestors for letting Solare fall into such squabbling decline.

  When the Lunare appeared, however, everything seemed to change. Caught between two greater powers, Father and the elders held long nights debating about which side to join. Staying independent meant death, of that they were certain. Still, they had pushed back a formal decision, waiting to see which of the two would prove more dangerous.

  Now here I am, being pushed through the jungle by kukri-wielding warriors, a victim of that indecision. My anger, though, funnels to the only possible target: the lion-sporting chief who walks next to me while his band spreads out around us.

  As we move away from the village, his stance changes. Out of the eyes of the crowd, he relaxes, even presumes to offer me a friendly smile. He’s not much older than me, and his frame, as I look at him, says he’s a powerful hunter, though every glance is undercut by the fact that he could order me killed should the mood strike.

  The shape of his eyes and his smooth skin - he has white-lance scars on his chest and legs, mingling with the tattoos, but his face has been spared - boosts the appeal. He radiates a charm, an ease with the power he holds, but it’s nothing against my wall of rage. I’m almost surprised at how angry I am, but the shock of being taken transmutes itself to fire easily.

  “My name is Malo,” he says, and I nearly spit at his face.

  “I don’t care,” I reply.

  You should. His smile looks genuine, and he might be the only friend you have now.

  Ignos is right, of course, but I’m human and can’t accept the current state of things without flaring up. Malo sees this and swallows, looks around as if hoping one of his warriors will offer an excuse to end the conversation. But he doesn’t break stride and stays by my side.

  A brave move.

&nb
sp; I thought you asked for a destiny? Is this not what you wanted?

  Again I cede the point. Why ask for a change if you’re going to be devastated when it happens? My counter argument goes like this:

  Damn destiny, I want my family back.

  “I’m sorry,” Malo tries conversation again. “I know it’s hard.”

  “I don’t know how you expect this to go,” I reply, cooling my heat long enough to form a real sentence. “You took me from my home. You’ve surrounded me with killers. I’m not going to be your friend.”

  “I don’t need you to be my friend,” Malo replies. “I do, however, need you to listen.”

  That I can do. Listening lets me simmer in my self-pity, and I revel in it while Malo talks about the rules of traveling with a Charre army. When food is served, how sleeping works, and the marching schedule. All of it’s aggressive. Dawn to dusk and with expedience. Even the hunters in our tribe don’t approach the Charre’s hours on the move.

  Malo’s words lay lightly on my mind as I race through memories of my parents, childhood, and routines that I’m now realizing may be forever gone. Eventually Malo becomes aware that I’m not asking questions or even looking at him - my eyes have drifted to some vague point in front of us - and he stops. Waits for me to ask him to keep going.

  I don’t, because I’m recalling the pig planted beneath the earth and how, right now, Father is probably taking a bite of it. Part of me hopes he can’t eat it after losing his daughter, and another part is ashamed at the same.

  “Can you tell me your name?” Malo’s question interrupts.

  “Kaishi,” I say.

  “Look around at my warriors and tell me what you see.” Malo sweeps his own gaze around the band.

  They’re not all visible in the night as some are scouting through the brush, but there are at least a dozen around us. I don’t expect the question, and that prompts me to follow his suggestion and peer around.

  All of the warriors carry weapons and have tattoos. Most wear the giant, toothy maws of bears in the same way Malo sports the lion skin. I see something else, too: many of the warriors are blinking, stepping on roots here and there. Those carrying spears in addition to their kukri have them hanging low rather than at proper marching height.