Starshot Page 9

  What you’re here for? Go to the gates. Your life is too valuable to waste!

  I ignore Ignos. Push the god’s voice to the back of my mind, so that Ignos’ words come only as a buzzing, far off conversation. No Solare god would advocate fleeing such a challenge, so this must be another of Ignos’ tests. My courage and conviction are being called into question, and for one of the first times in my life, I can control my own actions.

  I will not run.

  Ignos has no reply.

  I find a stall covered in growing plants. Vines wrap the entire canopy, with wooden tables draped in urns overflowing with various leafy things. I go towards it, and barely begin to look them over before a short man appears, his long black hair tied on his head.

  “I’m Zolin, and welcome to...” the shopkeeper trails off as he notices the medallion. Starts to turn away, but I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Please, why does everyone see this medallion and act strangely?”

  “Because it’s a sign of Jakkan’s disfavor,” Zolin replies. “You are stained by the high priest. Nobody would share in that.”

  “Stained? Jakkan gave me this medallion himself. As a sign I was on a mission from him.”

  “Then you’re going to have a tough time of it.” Zolin’s still watching the medallion, like it’s a snake that might bite him. “You won’t find any help in Damantum wearing that.”

  “Fine,” I reach to pull it off, but before I can even start, Zolin grabs the medallion and pulls it back down. Keeps around my neck.

  “No, you can’t take it off! Not unless the high priest does it himself. Any guard sees you try to remove it, they’ll kill you.” As if thinking he could be implicated in the idea, Zolin shoots rapid looks around the crowd.

  Nobody’s paying us any attention.

  “So I can’t take it off or I die, but you’re not going to help me if I’m wearing it?”

  Zolin rubs his hands on his face. Looks hard at me. “You’re young to get that prize. What’d you do to earn it?”

  I tell the short version of my story. That I’d come to Damantum after a religious experience and that I want to become a priestess. Jakkan gave me the medallion and sent me on a quest to the Pits to tame a juar. When I finish, Zolin laughs.

  “Tame a juar? That’s a quick way to the grave,” Zolin says.

  “That’s why I’m here.” I point at the plants. “I need some curare. Do you have any?”

  “What would you need that for? You’re not a doctor.” Zolin’s his left hand flies up to his tied hair, where it begins pulling on a loose strand and wrapping it around his fingers. “Unless you mean to...”

  “I do,” I say. “And bamboo. A small stick.”

  Zolin nods. “I’ve got those, but if you’re planning what I’m thinking, you’ll need to find something to do the dosing. I’ve not got that.”

  I see Zolin’s eyes slip past me, across the avenue. “But you know somebody that does?”

  “In this market? You can find anything.” Zolin leads me around the stand, cutting a few leaves off of one particular plant and, using a mortar and pestle, crushing it into a thin liquid. “How’d you manage to learn about this beauty?”

  “I’m not from around here,” I answer. “We used it from time to time at home.”

  Zolin pours the liquid from the mortar into a small jar, caps it loose with a piece of wood. Then, from a rangy bamboo thicket at the back of the stand, where the reeds are nearly as tall as I am, Zolin cuts a section off. Using the same knife, Zolin cleans out the inside of the piece and then hands both things to me.

  Then waits.

  “I, uh, don’t have anything to give you,” I say when I realize what he’s waiting for.

  “Oh yes you do,” Zolin says. “Here’s what I’m asking. You make it past this, and I’ve got a feeling you’re going to, you keep me in your prayers. And you come see me whenever Jakkan needs more incense, all right?”

  I laugh.

  “The needle?” I ask. “Where can I get that?”

  Zolin points across the road to a stand that looks to be advertising hardier weapons. Jagged, curved swords and other big blades. At my hesitance, Zolin grunts, walks out from his stand and leads me across the street. Without letting me get a single word in, Zolin speaks to the surly blacksmith manning the shop and, in no time at all, comes out with a pair of sharp needles, each one an inch long.

  “Now you’ve got the materials, but do you have the skill?” Zolin asks.

  “You’ll know if you ever hear from me again.”

  “I hope I do, Kaishi,” Zolin says. “There’s grim rumors coming about the Lunare, and I’m thinking this city might need a new kind of priestess. One as smart as our warriors are deadly.”

  24 Predator and Prey

  Without the mask, the seed ship’s air is cool. There’s a slight breeze - the recyclers keeping things fresh - and Sax smells the burn of disinfectant in the air. A hallmark on ships; the chemicals do their work to keep disease, deadly in compact confines, to a minimum.

  It’s this familiar scent, more than anything, that brings Sax down from a raging panic as the Flaum carry him out into the section. The sterile sting is a connection to things not quite so terrible as this moment, and the smell jolts his mind to what’s important.

  Namely, not becoming a Sevora toy.

  The Flaum struggle to hold the Oratus’ weight, and Sax sways through the air as the small creatures shift back and forth. As a result, Sax, whose numb muscles have his neck and head limp, gets a clear look at the captive Oratus following him. Sax’s mask is in those claws, and the Oratus is snapping commands at seemingly nobody, which must mean that armor of his has a communicator in it.

  Ideas for escape come and go, but they all have a common theme: Sax has to get his muscles moving again, or he’s done.

  It’s a matter of trying. Like, after he’s woken up in an awkward position, urging his legs to move. Flexing and loosening the muscles in his arms. At first, nothing happens, but gradually the feeling comes back. Twinging nerves burst like shocks.

  Now the Oratus stops and watches as the Flaum maneuver Sax through a hard-railed fence gate. The ground here is smooth silver, spotless. Not scuffed with use like the rest of the section. As they move Sax around, he sees Bas, Gar, and Lan assembled in a line. There’s a band of Flaum around them, holding rifles to the Oratus’ backs. Captives all.

  A new sound plays in the background. A burbling, shunting noise. Liquid current. Sax knows what they’re doing now, and its confirmed when the Flaum swing him around to the side of a small pool full of purple-black ink. Not a birthing pool, but a hosting one.

  Where the Sevora claim their victims.

  Then, without fanfare, without a taunt, the Flaum throw Sax in. A fleeting moment in open space - the lower gravity hesitates before pulling Sax down - and then he hits the ink. The stuff pulls at him, sucking him inside and under the surface.

  Before, in the birthing section, the Sevora were numerous. They gave off tremors as they swam towards him. Here, there’s little indication. Sax guesses why when he feels the first tickles at the edge of his head. Only one in here. A Sevora that’s earned its prized host.

  The captured Oratus had said the armor and its electric shock was a test. One that had worked, for a while. One that, with the mask deflecting some of it, isn’t able to keep Sax stunned long enough.

  Time, and the relentless push of Sax’s desperate anger, frees him from the shackles.

  The Sevora tickles again. Trying to find a way inside Sax’s mind. Unaware that it’s no longer predator, but prey.

  25 The Pits

  If the market had been bustling with commerce, the Pits hum with death. I walk by the Vaos again to head towards Damantum’s west side and leave behind the scent of incense for the harsh blow of burning flesh, of bloodstained air, and sweat’s salty stink.

  Yells echo down the alleys, punctuated with the roar of wild things. Crowds shift from those in traditional
garb - the capes and loin cloths or skirts - to darker fare. Hair, on both men and women, begins to fall down around their shoulders instead of being held up in ties. Scars make their appearances. Grime is everywhere.

  In the market people had met my eyes and looked away, here they don’t notice I exist. All at once the buildings disappear and I’m pushing through a throng into a wide courtyard, cracked stones replacing the hard dirt beneath my feet. Crude wooden barriers divide the courtyard into four parts. Stakes nailed to others with bits of metal act as fences. Not enough by themselves to hold in a creature that wants to escape, but that’s where the crowds come in; people ring each of the arenas, raising fists and passing coins. Others share skins full of what, I don’t know.

  I’ll protest one last time. This is foolish. Needless. You’re risking my miracles on a stupid chance.

  I am, and I am not. I know I could turn around and walk out of the city. Perhaps even scrounge or find enough help to make it back to my village alive. But what then? Wait out the coming attack, either from the Charre or the Lunare? What end is that?

  You could gather your strength, find a better way. One that includes fewer claws.

  There isn’t time. I’m here, now. I can do this. I can use, for once, what the jungle has taught me, what me people have given me. In my right hand, hidden beneath my cape, I hold the bamboo reed with the needle, soaked with Zolin’s mixture, inside of it.

  I’m ready.

  Yet, nobody here seems to notice the medallion. Not a soul calls out to me, or tries to guide me through the press of people watching the fights. In one arena, a pair of what appear to be slaves fight each other with clubs, bashing away though neither looks like they want to.

  The next pit over holds a strange event: several Charre warriors, wearing their bear skins, face off against a single captive. The warriors appear to be taking turns - darting in and exchanging blows with a desperate, bloody prisoner.

  “This one is the last of his tribe,” one of the watchers is saying as I go by. “He took down two bears himself. The bunch of them are fools for getting in there with the man, I think. Why risk death and waste a great sacrifice?”

  On the other side of the courtyard sits a stack of bamboo cages with rope tying the stalks together. Foxes, small bears, and larger lizards pace, growl, and sleep inside. Other creatures I don’t recognize. One is huge, with eight thick legs and covered in short white hair, and its large, eyeless head dips towards me as it laps up some foul-smelling slop from a shallow bowl on the ground.

  The juar waits at the end. Lazing on a mat, with a leg of some animal set before it. Dinner. Which is a good sign. The predator might not be hungry when I step into the ring with it.

  I move closer to the cage. Look harder at the animal. Its tanned fur seems healthy, and when the jaur yawns, I see its jagged teeth, sticking out from its mouth at all angles, are long and sharp. We consider juar to be shredders, to be uncaring predators who will slash and snap at anything that moves. Or even things that do not - I’ve seen a coconut bearing the scars of a juar’s rage.

  Not every animal earns a caring treatment here, but the juar appears to be a lucky one. I come close, my face near the bars, and the big creature, standing taller than me, stares back with amber eyes. Slowly, I draw up my right hand.

  “What are you doing? Getting a look at the competition?” a brash voice sounds right behind my ear and a thick arm claps down on my left shoulder. “Don’t you worry, you’ll get your chance soon enough.”

  I look and see a large, round man whose withering teeth and clawed face leer at me. “Been a while since Jakkan sent another one to the Pits. I thought for sure all the upstarts had realized pushing the head priest was a quick way to die.”

  “He gave me this.” I, with my left hand, hold up the medallion.

  The big man doesn’t bother looking at it.

  “I know who you are. Word’s been spreading all night. You’re the one that says she can talk to Ignos, right?”

  “I can.”

  “Better get chatting, then, cause you’ll be needing some help once those warriors get done with that poor soul over there. Soon as he’s down, you’re in.” Then the round man turns, bellows something over the clamor of the crowd, and heads away.

  I wheel back towards the juar cage. Bring the bamboo reed up to my mouth with my right hand while cupping my left in front of my face, as if to quiet a cough. I take a deep breath, and blow hard into the reed. I don’t see the needle fly, but then, I don’t need to. The juar yelps, hisses, and bats at its chest.

  Not where I want the shot to hit. The neck would have been far better. The chest takes time to circulate. Too much time, going by the size of those paws.

  Behind me, the crowd bursts into a frenzy of yelling and shouting. I catch enough words to know the cause. The bear warriors have finished their business. The captive is dead.

  My turn.

  26 Dangerous Captives

  The tickling becomes full on contact as the Sevora finds its target: Sax’s aural cavities. Slight pricks of pain as the Sevora digs its barbed tentacles into Sax, and the moment’s now. If Sax is going to survive, he has to act.

  But slow.

  There can’t be any hint to those above the surface that something is going wrong. His left foreclaw moves, sluicing through the thick ink up towards his own head. The Sevora slips in - Sax can feel its body contorting, pressing against the inside of him. The barbed tentacles start to retract.

  Too late.

  Sax dips a claw into his own head, and when it makes contact with the Sevora, the parasite freezes. Sax does not. He pushes harder, feels the claw break the Sevora’s skin, and pulls back. An explosion goes off in Sax’s mind as the Sevora realizes what’s happening and tries to fight. Tries to squirm inside Sax’s brain. Its tiny tentacles are no match, however, for an Oratus arm, and Sax’s claw is hooked enough to keep the wriggling Sevora on it until the parasite is out.

  Without pausing, Sax pulls his claw down, turns his head, and shoves the Sevora in his mouth. Ink floods in too, but its designed to keep the parasites alive and tastes like nutrient soup. Good for washing down Sevora squid.

  Sax doesn’t even need to breathe in here - the ink carries with it the oxygen he needs to survive, so Sax waits a few moments. Figures it would take a bit of time for a Sevora to get control of its new host, learn how the muscles work. Sax does a silent count to a hundred.

  Then curls his legs beneath him and pushes against the pool’s floor. Surfaces slowly. With extreme control. How a Sevora would do it, hopefully.

  The ink drips away from Sax and he’s able to see everyone’s stares, even the Flaum who ought to be paying close attention to the three deadly Oratus right next to them.

  They’re waiting to see what’s come out of the pool. Sax dashes his eyes around, holds contact with Bas for just a moment so that she knows, and then he wades to land. Walks to the captive Oratus, who tilts his head in a nod towards Sax.

  “Give yourself time,” the captured Oratus says. “These bodies have many limbs. No need to rush.” He turns to the other three Oratus. “You see what’s become of your leader? The same thing that will become of you. Give us your masks, save yourself some pain, and join us.”

  “What is your name, friend?” Sax hisses. In a moment, his claws will be ripping apart that armor. Tearing off the head inside of it. Sax wants to know who he’s about to end.

  “Avan,” the Oratus replies, and Sax can hear the question in his voice. “However, shouldn’t you know that already?”

  Sax replies with something other than words: his mid-claws stab forward, biting into Avan’s hard armor, while his foreclaws swipe at Avan’s head. A normal, trained Oratus would have seen the attack coming. Would have reacted in time.

  Avan is not a trained Oratus. Avan’s reaction is to jerk back. Or try to.

  Sax tears at the helmet, rending its straps to pieces and ripping it off of Avan’s head. He knows there’s a chance Avan could
trigger the electric shock again, send Sax into a numbed fit, so he’s got to move fast.

  Then he’s not holding Avan anymore. Just an armor plate. Avan’s backpedaling, a spiderweb of clasps dangling from his chest. Which is when Sax understands why Avan didn’t try to shock him again: the mask. Avan still holds it in his claws.

  The shocking armor didn’t destroy the mask while Sax had it deployed, but a dormant mask is like cloth - easy to tear apart. As Sax tosses aside the armor - it’s lightweight here in space - he catches hints of the battle apart from him. Skittering panic from the Flaum as they try to organize some sort of defense. Hissing anger from the other three Oratus as they rend that defense to pieces.

  Surprise is the great equalizer, and Sax has it here.

  That advantage dies with every second, though. Avan’s already pulling for his miners, and Sax can’t give him any more time. Without a mask, Sax is vulnerable, so he takes to the air. Leaps forward, all four claws extended and sharp.

  Avan ducks away to his right, barreling through a fence to a sparse target range. Behind him loom the four core buildings of the section. Sax catches the ground, digs in those claws and bursts after Avan.

  Part of Sax wonders where the other Sevora are? Four armed Oratus and all this giant seed ship sends are a few Flaum? He expected battalions. Artillery. Real resistance.

  It comes a moment later. With Sax bounding after Avan, his claws outstretched, shining, when the section’s lights extinguish, plunging everything into darkness.

  27 Trapped With Teeth

  The caretaker, the man who’d grabbed me by the juar cage, takes me by my shoulders and guides me through a parting crowd to the fighting pit. Inside the wooden fencing, the gray stones are splattered with blood, spit, and spoiled food lobbed in from outside. The caretaker leads me inside the stakes, then looks at me.