Costumed to the ears, wearing the heavy, silly square felt hat
of a Family heir, Deeth stood beside his mother. Guests filed past
the receiving line. The men touched his hands. The women bowed
slightly. Pugh, the twelve-year-old heir of the Dharvon, honored
him with a look that promised trouble later. In response Deeth
intimidated the-ten-year-old sickly heir of the Sexon. The boy
burst into tears. His parents became stiff with embarrassment.
The Sexon were the only First Family with a presence on
Prefactlas. They had the most image to uphold.
Deeth recognized his error as his father gave him a look more
promising than that of Dharvon w’Pugh.
He was not contrite. Hanged for a penny, hanged for a pound. The
Sexon kid would have a miserable visit.
The evening followed a predictable course. The adults began
drinking immediately. By suppertime they would be too far gone to
appreciate the subtleties of his mother’s kitchen.
The children were herded into an isolated wing of the greathouse
where they could be kept out of the way and closely supervised. As
always, the supervision broke down.
The children shed their chaperones and got busy establishing a
pecking order. Deeth was the youngest. He could intimidate no one
but the Sexon heir.
Sexon fortunes would decline when the boy assumed his
patrimony.
The Dharvon boy had a special hatred for Deeth. Pugh was strong
but not bright. Only by malign perseverance did he corner his
prey.
Deeth refused to show it, but he was terrified. Pugh was not
smart enough to know when to quit. He might do something that would
force the adults to take official notice. Relations between the
Dharvon and Norbon were strained enough. Further provocation could
escalate into vendetta.
The call to supper, like a god out of a machine, saved the
situation.
Why did his mother invite people with grudges against the
Family? Why was a social slight less easily forgiven than a
business beating?
He decided to become the richest Sangaree of all time. Wealth
made its own rules. He would change things around so they became
sensible.
Deeth found the meal unbearably formal and ritualistic.
It was a dismal affair. The alcohol had had its effect. Instead
of raising spirits and stirring camaraderie, it had eased
restraints on the envy, jealousy, and tempers of the Families the
Norbon were excluding from the Osirian market.
Deeth struggled to keep smiling down that long table of sullen
faces. The meal progressed lugubriously. The faces grew more
antagonistic.
During the desserts the senior Dharvon, sotto voce, expressed
his animosity in words. His voice grew louder. Deeth became
frightened.
The man was falling-down drunk, and had a reputation for verbal
incontinence even when sober. He might say something that would
push the Norbon into a corner of honor whence there was no exit
save a duel.
The Dharvon was little brighter than his son. He did not have
sense enough to avoid offending a better man. And the stupid pride
of his heir would, of course, lead the Dharvon into vendetta. The
Norbon Family would strike like a lion at a kitten and swallow the
Dharvon whole.
But the mouth of a fool knows no restraint. The Dharvon kept
pressing.
His neighbors edged away, dissociating themselves from his
remarks. They shared his jealousies without sharing his stupidity.
Sullenly neutral, they hovered like eager vultures.
Sangaree found feuds entertaining when they were not themselves
involved.
Fate interceded just seconds before challenge became
inescapable.
Rhafu burst into the hall. His face was red, frightened, and
sweaty. He ignored the proprieties as he interrupted his
employer.
“Sir,” he said, puffing into the Norbon’s
face, “it’s started. The field hands and breeders are
attacking their overseers. Some of them are armed. With weapons
from the wild ones. We’re trying to get them under control in
case there’s an attack from the forest.”
Guests buzzed excitedly. Heads and station masters shouted
requests for permission to contact their own establishments. A
general rising could not have been better timed. Prefactlas’s
decision-makers were far from their respective territories.
A few mumbled apologies for leaving ran from the table. What
began as a babble of uncertainty escalated into a frightened
clamor.
An officer of the Norbon Family forces compounded it. He
galloped in, shouted over the uproar, “Sir! Everyone! A
signal from Norbon Spear.” Spear was the Head’s
personal yacht and the Family flagship. “A flotilla-scale
naval force just dropped hyper inside lunar radius.” A single
sneeze broke the sudden silence. A hundred pale faces turned toward
the soldier. “No IFF response. The ship types are those of
the human navy. Spear’s signal was interrupted. We
haven’t been able to raise her again. Monitors show a sudden
increase in gamma radiation at her position. Computer says she was
hit in her drive sector and blew her generators.”
The silence died. Everybody tried to leave at once, to escape,
to flee to his own station. The great terror of the Sangaree had
befallen Prefactlas. The humans had located their tormentors.
A gleeful wild devil spun circles of terror around the hall.
Children wept. Women screamed and wailed. Men cursed and shoved,
trying to be first to escape.
There had been other station raids. The humans had been
merciless. They never settled for less than total obliteration.
Prefactlas was an entire world, of course, and a world cannot be
attacked and occupied like some pitiful little island in an ocean.
Not without overpoweringly vast numbers of ships and men. And,
though sparsely settled, Prefactlas had a well-developed defense
net. Sangaree guarded their assets. Normally a flotilla could have
done little but blockade the world.
But conditions were not normal. The decision-makers were
concentrated far from the forces responsible for turning attacks.
No one had yet found a way around Family pride and stubbornness and
formed a centralized command structure. The various Family forces,
because their masters were far away, would be loafing far from
their battle stations. Or, if the slave rising were general, they
would be preoccupied. Attacking quickly, the humans could be down
before defenses could be manned and effective interception barrages
launched.
Even Deeth saw it. And he saw what most of the adults did not.
Attack and uprising were coordinated, and timed for the height of
this party.
The humans were working with someone on Prefactlas.
Their commander need only take the Norbon station to seize
control of the planet. Having eliminated the decision-makers and
gotten their ships inside the defensive umbrella, they could deal
with the other holdings piecemeal. They could conquer an entire
world with an inferior force.
The whole thing smacked of raider daring. Nurtured by treachery,
of course.
Some laughing human commander, smarter than most animals, was
about to make himself a fortune.
Over the years since their discovery of the Sangaree, and the
fact that they were considered animals, the humans had created
scores of laws designed to encourage one another to respond
savagely. Billions in bounties and prize moneys would go to the
conquerors of a world. Even the meanest shipboard rating would be
able to retire and live on his interest. A developed world was a
prize with a value almost beyond calculation.
The fighting would be grim. Human hatred would be reinforced by
greed.
Deeth’s father was as quick as his son. Defeat and
destruction, he saw, were inevitable. He told his wife, “Take
the boy and dress him in slave garb. Rhafu, go with her. See that
he’s turned loose in the training area. They don’t know
each other. He’ll pass.”
Deeth’s mother and the old breeding master understood. The
Head was grasping at his only chance to save his line.
“Deeth,” his father said, kneeling, “you
understand what’s happening, don’t you?”
Deeth nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. Once he had
examined and thought out the possibilities he had become afraid. He
did not want to shame himself.
“You know what to do? Hide with the animals. It
shouldn’t be hard. You’re a smart boy. They won’t
be expecting you. Stay out of trouble. When you get the chance, go
back to Homeworld. Reclaim the Family and undertake a vendetta
against those who betrayed us. For your mother and me. And all our
people who will die here. Understand? You’ll do
that?”
Again Deeth dared only nod. His gaze flicked around the hall.
Who were the guilty? Which few would see the sun rise?
“All right.” His father enfolded him in a hug that
hurt. He had never done that before. The Norbon was not a
demonstrative man. “Before you go.”
The Norbon took a small knife from his pocket. He opened a blade
and scraped the skin on Deeth’s left wrist till a mist of
blood droplets oozed up. Then he used a pen to ink a long series of
numbers. “That’s where you’ll find your Wholar,
Deeth. That’s Osiris. The only place those numbers exist is
in my head and on your wrist. Take care. You’ll need that
wealth to make your return.”
Deeth forced a weak smile. His father was brilliant, disguising
the most valuable secret of the day as a field hand’s
serial.
The Norbon hugged him again. “You’d better go. And
hurry. They’ll come down fast once they’re into their
run.”
A raggedy string of roars sounded out front. Deeth smiled.
Someone had activated the station defenses. Missiles were
launching.
Answering explosions killed his pleasure. He hurried after his
mother and Rhafu. White glare poured through the windows. The
atmosphere above the station protested its torment. Guests kept
shrieking.
The preparatory barrages had begun. The station’s
defenders were trying to fend them off.
The slave pens were utter chaos. Deeth heard the fighting and
screaming long before he and Rhafu arrived on the observation
balcony.
Household troops were helping the slave handlers, and still the
animals were not under control. Corpses littered the breeding dome.
Most were field hands, but a sickening number wore Norbon blue. The
troops and handlers were handicapped. They had to avoid damaging
valuable property.
“I don’t see any wild ones, Rhafu.”
“That is curious. Why provide weapons without
support?”
“Tell them not to worry about saving the stock. They
won’t matter if the human ships break through.”
“Of course.” After an introspective moment, Rhafu
said, “It’s time you went.” He gave Deeth a hug
as powerful as his father’s had been. “Be careful,
Deeth. Always think before you do anything. Always take the long
view. Don’t ever forget that you’re the Family
now.” He ran the back of a wrist across his eyes. “Now,
then. I’ve enjoyed having you here, young master. Don’t
forget old Rhafu. Kill one for me when you get back to
Homeworld.”
Deeth saw death in Rhafu’s watery eyes. The old adventurer
did not expect to survive the night. “I will, Rhafu. I
promise.”
Deeth gripped one leathery old hand. Rhafu was still a fighter.
He would not run. He would die rather than let animals shatter his
courage and the confidence of his own superiority.
Deeth started to ask why he had to run away when everyone else
was going to stand. Rhafu forestalled him.
“Listen closely, Deeth. Go down the stairs at the end of
the balcony. All the way down. There’ll be two doors at the
bottom. Use the one on your right. It opens into the corridor that
passes the training area. There shouldn’t be anyone in it. Go
to the end of the hall. You’ll find two more doors. Use the
one marked Exit. It’ll put you outside in one of the
vegetable fields. Go to the sithlac dome and follow its long side.
Keep going in a straight line out from its end. You should reach
the forest in an hour. Keep on going and you’ll run into an
animal village. Stay with them till you find a way off planet. And
for Sant’s sake make sure you pretend you’re one of
them and they’re equals. If you don’t, you’re
dead. Never trust one of them, and never get close to any of them.
Understand?”
Deeth nodded. He knew what had to be done. But he did not want
to go.
“Go on. Scoot,” Rhafu said, swatting him on the
behind and pushing him toward the stair. “And be
careful.”
Deeth walked to the stairwell slowly. He glanced back
several times. Rhafu waved a last farewell, then turned
away, hiding tears.
“He’ll die well,” Deeth whispered.
He reached the emergency exit. Cautiously, he peeped outside.
The fields were not as dark as he had expected. Someone had left
the lights on in the sithlac dome. And the slave barracks were
burning. Had the animals fired them? Or had the bombardment done
it?
Little short-lived suns kept flaring between the stars overhead.
A long, rolling thunder of chemical explosions came from the far
side of the station. The launch pits had been hit. The shriek of
rising missiles was replaced by secondary explosions.
The humans were getting close. Deeth looked up into the heart of
the constellation Rhafu had dubbed the Krath, after a rapacious
bird of Homeworld. The human birthstar lay there somewhere.
He could not distinguish the constellation. There were scores of
new stars up there, all of them too bright, and visibly
brightening.
The humans were on the downward leg of their penetration run. He
would have to hurry to clear the perimeter they would establish
with their assault craft.
He sprinted for the side of the sithlac dome.
By the time he reached the dome’s far end the new stars
had swollen into small, bright suns. Missile exhausts rayed from
them in angry swarms. He could hear the craft rumbling over the
explosions stalking through the station.
They were just a few thousand feet up now, and braking in. His
escape would be close. If he made it at all.
A flight of missiles darted toward the bright target of the
dome. Deeth ran again, sprinting straight out into the darkness.
Explosions tattooed behind him. Blasts hurled him forward, tumbled
him over and over. The dome lights died. He rose, stumbled ahead,
fell, rose, and went on. His nose was bleeding. He could not
hear.
He could not see where he was going. The flashing of explosions
kept his eyes from adapting as quickly as they should.
The assault craft touched down.
The nearest landed so close Deeth was singed by the hot wash
spreading beneath it. He kept shambling toward the forest, ignoring
the treacherous ground. When he was safe he paused to watch the
humans tumble off their boat and link up with the craft that had
landed to either side. The burning station splashed them with eerie
light.
Deeth recognized them. They were Force Recon, the cream of the
Confederation Marines, the humans’ best and meanest. Nothing
would escape their circle.
He cried for his parents, and Rhafu, then wiped the tears away
with the backs of his fists. He trudged toward the forest,
indifferent to the fact that the humans might spot him on
anti-personnel radar. Each hundred steps he paused to look
back.
Dawn was near when he passed the first trees. They rose like a
sudden palisade, crowding a straight line decreed by the
station’s planners. He felt as though he had stepped behind a
bulwark against doom.
Once his ears had recovered he had heard stealthy movements
around him. He was not alone in his flight. He avoided contact. He
was too shaken, and had too poor a command of the slave tongue, to
handle questions from animals. The wild ones used a different
language. He expected to have less trouble passing with them. If he
could find them.
One found him.
He was a quarter-mile into the forest when a raggedy, smelly old
man with a crippled leg pounced on him. The attack was so sudden
and unexpected that Deeth had no chance. His struggles earned him
nothing but a fist in the face. The blow calmed him. He bit down on
a tongue that had been damning the old man in High Sangaree.
“What are you doing, please?” he ventured in the
animal language.
The old man hit him again. Before he could do more than groan, a
sack had been flung over his head, skinned down to his ankles, and
tied shut. A moment later, head downward and miserable, he was
hoisted onto a bony shoulder.
He had become booty.
Costumed to the ears, wearing the heavy, silly square felt hat
of a Family heir, Deeth stood beside his mother. Guests filed past
the receiving line. The men touched his hands. The women bowed
slightly. Pugh, the twelve-year-old heir of the Dharvon, honored
him with a look that promised trouble later. In response Deeth
intimidated the-ten-year-old sickly heir of the Sexon. The boy
burst into tears. His parents became stiff with embarrassment.
The Sexon were the only First Family with a presence on
Prefactlas. They had the most image to uphold.
Deeth recognized his error as his father gave him a look more
promising than that of Dharvon w’Pugh.
He was not contrite. Hanged for a penny, hanged for a pound. The
Sexon kid would have a miserable visit.
The evening followed a predictable course. The adults began
drinking immediately. By suppertime they would be too far gone to
appreciate the subtleties of his mother’s kitchen.
The children were herded into an isolated wing of the greathouse
where they could be kept out of the way and closely supervised. As
always, the supervision broke down.
The children shed their chaperones and got busy establishing a
pecking order. Deeth was the youngest. He could intimidate no one
but the Sexon heir.
Sexon fortunes would decline when the boy assumed his
patrimony.
The Dharvon boy had a special hatred for Deeth. Pugh was strong
but not bright. Only by malign perseverance did he corner his
prey.
Deeth refused to show it, but he was terrified. Pugh was not
smart enough to know when to quit. He might do something that would
force the adults to take official notice. Relations between the
Dharvon and Norbon were strained enough. Further provocation could
escalate into vendetta.
The call to supper, like a god out of a machine, saved the
situation.
Why did his mother invite people with grudges against the
Family? Why was a social slight less easily forgiven than a
business beating?
He decided to become the richest Sangaree of all time. Wealth
made its own rules. He would change things around so they became
sensible.
Deeth found the meal unbearably formal and ritualistic.
It was a dismal affair. The alcohol had had its effect. Instead
of raising spirits and stirring camaraderie, it had eased
restraints on the envy, jealousy, and tempers of the Families the
Norbon were excluding from the Osirian market.
Deeth struggled to keep smiling down that long table of sullen
faces. The meal progressed lugubriously. The faces grew more
antagonistic.
During the desserts the senior Dharvon, sotto voce, expressed
his animosity in words. His voice grew louder. Deeth became
frightened.
The man was falling-down drunk, and had a reputation for verbal
incontinence even when sober. He might say something that would
push the Norbon into a corner of honor whence there was no exit
save a duel.
The Dharvon was little brighter than his son. He did not have
sense enough to avoid offending a better man. And the stupid pride
of his heir would, of course, lead the Dharvon into vendetta. The
Norbon Family would strike like a lion at a kitten and swallow the
Dharvon whole.
But the mouth of a fool knows no restraint. The Dharvon kept
pressing.
His neighbors edged away, dissociating themselves from his
remarks. They shared his jealousies without sharing his stupidity.
Sullenly neutral, they hovered like eager vultures.
Sangaree found feuds entertaining when they were not themselves
involved.
Fate interceded just seconds before challenge became
inescapable.
Rhafu burst into the hall. His face was red, frightened, and
sweaty. He ignored the proprieties as he interrupted his
employer.
“Sir,” he said, puffing into the Norbon’s
face, “it’s started. The field hands and breeders are
attacking their overseers. Some of them are armed. With weapons
from the wild ones. We’re trying to get them under control in
case there’s an attack from the forest.”
Guests buzzed excitedly. Heads and station masters shouted
requests for permission to contact their own establishments. A
general rising could not have been better timed. Prefactlas’s
decision-makers were far from their respective territories.
A few mumbled apologies for leaving ran from the table. What
began as a babble of uncertainty escalated into a frightened
clamor.
An officer of the Norbon Family forces compounded it. He
galloped in, shouted over the uproar, “Sir! Everyone! A
signal from Norbon Spear.” Spear was the Head’s
personal yacht and the Family flagship. “A flotilla-scale
naval force just dropped hyper inside lunar radius.” A single
sneeze broke the sudden silence. A hundred pale faces turned toward
the soldier. “No IFF response. The ship types are those of
the human navy. Spear’s signal was interrupted. We
haven’t been able to raise her again. Monitors show a sudden
increase in gamma radiation at her position. Computer says she was
hit in her drive sector and blew her generators.”
The silence died. Everybody tried to leave at once, to escape,
to flee to his own station. The great terror of the Sangaree had
befallen Prefactlas. The humans had located their tormentors.
A gleeful wild devil spun circles of terror around the hall.
Children wept. Women screamed and wailed. Men cursed and shoved,
trying to be first to escape.
There had been other station raids. The humans had been
merciless. They never settled for less than total obliteration.
Prefactlas was an entire world, of course, and a world cannot be
attacked and occupied like some pitiful little island in an ocean.
Not without overpoweringly vast numbers of ships and men. And,
though sparsely settled, Prefactlas had a well-developed defense
net. Sangaree guarded their assets. Normally a flotilla could have
done little but blockade the world.
But conditions were not normal. The decision-makers were
concentrated far from the forces responsible for turning attacks.
No one had yet found a way around Family pride and stubbornness and
formed a centralized command structure. The various Family forces,
because their masters were far away, would be loafing far from
their battle stations. Or, if the slave rising were general, they
would be preoccupied. Attacking quickly, the humans could be down
before defenses could be manned and effective interception barrages
launched.
Even Deeth saw it. And he saw what most of the adults did not.
Attack and uprising were coordinated, and timed for the height of
this party.
The humans were working with someone on Prefactlas.
Their commander need only take the Norbon station to seize
control of the planet. Having eliminated the decision-makers and
gotten their ships inside the defensive umbrella, they could deal
with the other holdings piecemeal. They could conquer an entire
world with an inferior force.
The whole thing smacked of raider daring. Nurtured by treachery,
of course.
Some laughing human commander, smarter than most animals, was
about to make himself a fortune.
Over the years since their discovery of the Sangaree, and the
fact that they were considered animals, the humans had created
scores of laws designed to encourage one another to respond
savagely. Billions in bounties and prize moneys would go to the
conquerors of a world. Even the meanest shipboard rating would be
able to retire and live on his interest. A developed world was a
prize with a value almost beyond calculation.
The fighting would be grim. Human hatred would be reinforced by
greed.
Deeth’s father was as quick as his son. Defeat and
destruction, he saw, were inevitable. He told his wife, “Take
the boy and dress him in slave garb. Rhafu, go with her. See that
he’s turned loose in the training area. They don’t know
each other. He’ll pass.”
Deeth’s mother and the old breeding master understood. The
Head was grasping at his only chance to save his line.
“Deeth,” his father said, kneeling, “you
understand what’s happening, don’t you?”
Deeth nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. Once he had
examined and thought out the possibilities he had become afraid. He
did not want to shame himself.
“You know what to do? Hide with the animals. It
shouldn’t be hard. You’re a smart boy. They won’t
be expecting you. Stay out of trouble. When you get the chance, go
back to Homeworld. Reclaim the Family and undertake a vendetta
against those who betrayed us. For your mother and me. And all our
people who will die here. Understand? You’ll do
that?”
Again Deeth dared only nod. His gaze flicked around the hall.
Who were the guilty? Which few would see the sun rise?
“All right.” His father enfolded him in a hug that
hurt. He had never done that before. The Norbon was not a
demonstrative man. “Before you go.”
The Norbon took a small knife from his pocket. He opened a blade
and scraped the skin on Deeth’s left wrist till a mist of
blood droplets oozed up. Then he used a pen to ink a long series of
numbers. “That’s where you’ll find your Wholar,
Deeth. That’s Osiris. The only place those numbers exist is
in my head and on your wrist. Take care. You’ll need that
wealth to make your return.”
Deeth forced a weak smile. His father was brilliant, disguising
the most valuable secret of the day as a field hand’s
serial.
The Norbon hugged him again. “You’d better go. And
hurry. They’ll come down fast once they’re into their
run.”
A raggedy string of roars sounded out front. Deeth smiled.
Someone had activated the station defenses. Missiles were
launching.
Answering explosions killed his pleasure. He hurried after his
mother and Rhafu. White glare poured through the windows. The
atmosphere above the station protested its torment. Guests kept
shrieking.
The preparatory barrages had begun. The station’s
defenders were trying to fend them off.
The slave pens were utter chaos. Deeth heard the fighting and
screaming long before he and Rhafu arrived on the observation
balcony.
Household troops were helping the slave handlers, and still the
animals were not under control. Corpses littered the breeding dome.
Most were field hands, but a sickening number wore Norbon blue. The
troops and handlers were handicapped. They had to avoid damaging
valuable property.
“I don’t see any wild ones, Rhafu.”
“That is curious. Why provide weapons without
support?”
“Tell them not to worry about saving the stock. They
won’t matter if the human ships break through.”
“Of course.” After an introspective moment, Rhafu
said, “It’s time you went.” He gave Deeth a hug
as powerful as his father’s had been. “Be careful,
Deeth. Always think before you do anything. Always take the long
view. Don’t ever forget that you’re the Family
now.” He ran the back of a wrist across his eyes. “Now,
then. I’ve enjoyed having you here, young master. Don’t
forget old Rhafu. Kill one for me when you get back to
Homeworld.”
Deeth saw death in Rhafu’s watery eyes. The old adventurer
did not expect to survive the night. “I will, Rhafu. I
promise.”
Deeth gripped one leathery old hand. Rhafu was still a fighter.
He would not run. He would die rather than let animals shatter his
courage and the confidence of his own superiority.
Deeth started to ask why he had to run away when everyone else
was going to stand. Rhafu forestalled him.
“Listen closely, Deeth. Go down the stairs at the end of
the balcony. All the way down. There’ll be two doors at the
bottom. Use the one on your right. It opens into the corridor that
passes the training area. There shouldn’t be anyone in it. Go
to the end of the hall. You’ll find two more doors. Use the
one marked Exit. It’ll put you outside in one of the
vegetable fields. Go to the sithlac dome and follow its long side.
Keep going in a straight line out from its end. You should reach
the forest in an hour. Keep on going and you’ll run into an
animal village. Stay with them till you find a way off planet. And
for Sant’s sake make sure you pretend you’re one of
them and they’re equals. If you don’t, you’re
dead. Never trust one of them, and never get close to any of them.
Understand?”
Deeth nodded. He knew what had to be done. But he did not want
to go.
“Go on. Scoot,” Rhafu said, swatting him on the
behind and pushing him toward the stair. “And be
careful.”
Deeth walked to the stairwell slowly. He glanced back
several times. Rhafu waved a last farewell, then turned
away, hiding tears.
“He’ll die well,” Deeth whispered.
He reached the emergency exit. Cautiously, he peeped outside.
The fields were not as dark as he had expected. Someone had left
the lights on in the sithlac dome. And the slave barracks were
burning. Had the animals fired them? Or had the bombardment done
it?
Little short-lived suns kept flaring between the stars overhead.
A long, rolling thunder of chemical explosions came from the far
side of the station. The launch pits had been hit. The shriek of
rising missiles was replaced by secondary explosions.
The humans were getting close. Deeth looked up into the heart of
the constellation Rhafu had dubbed the Krath, after a rapacious
bird of Homeworld. The human birthstar lay there somewhere.
He could not distinguish the constellation. There were scores of
new stars up there, all of them too bright, and visibly
brightening.
The humans were on the downward leg of their penetration run. He
would have to hurry to clear the perimeter they would establish
with their assault craft.
He sprinted for the side of the sithlac dome.
By the time he reached the dome’s far end the new stars
had swollen into small, bright suns. Missile exhausts rayed from
them in angry swarms. He could hear the craft rumbling over the
explosions stalking through the station.
They were just a few thousand feet up now, and braking in. His
escape would be close. If he made it at all.
A flight of missiles darted toward the bright target of the
dome. Deeth ran again, sprinting straight out into the darkness.
Explosions tattooed behind him. Blasts hurled him forward, tumbled
him over and over. The dome lights died. He rose, stumbled ahead,
fell, rose, and went on. His nose was bleeding. He could not
hear.
He could not see where he was going. The flashing of explosions
kept his eyes from adapting as quickly as they should.
The assault craft touched down.
The nearest landed so close Deeth was singed by the hot wash
spreading beneath it. He kept shambling toward the forest, ignoring
the treacherous ground. When he was safe he paused to watch the
humans tumble off their boat and link up with the craft that had
landed to either side. The burning station splashed them with eerie
light.
Deeth recognized them. They were Force Recon, the cream of the
Confederation Marines, the humans’ best and meanest. Nothing
would escape their circle.
He cried for his parents, and Rhafu, then wiped the tears away
with the backs of his fists. He trudged toward the forest,
indifferent to the fact that the humans might spot him on
anti-personnel radar. Each hundred steps he paused to look
back.
Dawn was near when he passed the first trees. They rose like a
sudden palisade, crowding a straight line decreed by the
station’s planners. He felt as though he had stepped behind a
bulwark against doom.
Once his ears had recovered he had heard stealthy movements
around him. He was not alone in his flight. He avoided contact. He
was too shaken, and had too poor a command of the slave tongue, to
handle questions from animals. The wild ones used a different
language. He expected to have less trouble passing with them. If he
could find them.
One found him.
He was a quarter-mile into the forest when a raggedy, smelly old
man with a crippled leg pounced on him. The attack was so sudden
and unexpected that Deeth had no chance. His struggles earned him
nothing but a fist in the face. The blow calmed him. He bit down on
a tongue that had been damning the old man in High Sangaree.
“What are you doing, please?” he ventured in the
animal language.
The old man hit him again. Before he could do more than groan, a
sack had been flung over his head, skinned down to his ankles, and
tied shut. A moment later, head downward and miserable, he was
hoisted onto a bony shoulder.
He had become booty.