Afterburn

B urn met no other mercenaries on his way to the portside tank where the surviving Ylydii were being held. Part of him was glad; the small wound inflicted by the male he had killed had already stopped bleeding, but the rawness of it inflamed the rage inside him. He focused on making his way through the ship and cooling his blood by working out the Ylydii’s helm controls in his mind. Within a few minutes he was in the corridor leading to the occupied tank.

Burn needed to make the survivors aware of his presence, and narrow their point of location, but releasing a full pulse might alarm those guarding them. Instead, he uttered a soft wave of wordless sound, low enough to be mistaken for the normal noises made by the ship. Almost at once the wave bounced back to him and gave him all he needed to know about the occupants beyond the tank’s single open hatch.

One male wearing equipment to breathe; a mercenary. A second form, motionless with death. And the third, almost as still as the second, but breathing.

The low vibrations that returned this time painted a vivid portrait of the third. She was female, long and beautifully shaped. The graceful echo of her form absorbed him, sending small shocks of pleasure down his spine, until he realized why she was hardly moving. Something tightly wrapped around her form.

The pleasure of feeling her through the water faded. She was in trouble, perhaps wounded. Her companion was dead, and the water was rank with blood. At least here on the ship the smell and taste of it wouldn’t attract predators, as it would if they were on K-2.

Burn wanted nothing more than to charge the tank, but he forced himself to think as a soldier, not an outraged male. Have to protect her. Disable the mercenary first.

There was one way in or out; he could see signs that the other hatch leading into the tank had been welded shut. He couldn’t risk firing a weapon blindly into the interior; the charge might hit the survivor and kill her. That left subterfuge, something at which he had never particularly excelled. He swam back and forth, keeping his movements as minimal as possible so as not to disturb the water too much.

A low-pulsed hum—not ’Zangian—enveloped him. He went still and shuddered as it caressed his hide. The music of it sank through his flesh and seemed to warm the center of his bones. Only when a second wave washed over him did he pick up the subtle difference in intensity from the first. The eerie song was not being directed at him; she was singing it to the guard.

Burn repositioned himself just outside the tank. He waited until he felt the singer in the center, and felt the disturbance in the water as the guard lifted his weapon. Then he kicked off a wall panel and shot into the tank, making himself into a missile and slamming into the guard’s legs.

Bubbles and pulse fire sprayed through the water as the guard was upended into an uncontrolled spin. Burn disarmed him with a single flip of his flukes and grabbed the pulse rifle before using the stock wedge to crush the flow valve at the top of the guard’s air tanks.

A shadow darted beneath him, a patch of quick-moving black. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he flipped over and darted down, slamming into the small form and pinning it to the bottom of the tank.

The pulse released from the creature was frightened, capitulating, and not at all like the sound that had come from the survivor. Keeping one fin hook pressed to the soft flesh beneath it, Burn flipped on the light of his headgear.

He tore the cloth from her head. That revealed large black eyes, rimmed with gold, which blinked and then widened to stare into his. The soft black of her eyes matched the hide covering her trunk and fins. It was so dense it reflected none of the dim light, but instead seemed to absorb it. She might have been a very dark ’Zangian female, except for her fins, which, even as tightly furled as they were, stretched three times the length of Burn’s.

Burn clenched his teeth. Catching her like this was making him feel things completely inappropriate to the situation, so he focused on releasing her from her bonds. Why were you trying to escape?

I don’t know. Burn eased the last of the net from her flukes and saw that she still held her fins in tight furls. It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. I was sent to help. Where is the ambassador?

It’s nothing. There were no currents into which he could drop to increase his speed, so Burn tore off his flightsuit and presented his back to her. Grab onto my fin. As soon as he felt her latch on, he added, Hold on tight, this is going to be fast.

Swimming fast meant no longer maintaining a visual field, so Burn sent a series of continuous pulses ahead of him to navigate his way through the dark passages leading away from the tank.

The female Ylydii did her part by clinging fast to his fin and keeping her head pressed down against his hide, eliminating most of the drag her body might have caused. Burn could feel her frantic heartbeat against his spine, but he didn’t dare to slow down to explain things more until he had put some distance between them and the other mercenaries on the ship.

Once they were in the hub, he slowed and rolled, swimming upside down to keep the female from being a target to any snipers possibly positioned overhead. At last Burn reached the cargo hold he had secured, and after pulsing to assure it remained empty, he secured the hatch and came to a stop. This is safe for now.

He swam over to the wall panel and attached a transmitting device to it. I’m going back to get them, as soon as I can signal for reinforcements.

Liana watched the ’Zangian as he communicated with his patrol. Never had she seen a male so large or powerfully made. How could a female hope to control such a male? Were the other males of his kind of such size? Did they issue orders to their females as easily as he had to her? Was he never punished for such audacity?

Liana had never had any personal contact with the other aquatic species, nor had she been permitted to learn a great deal about them. Her mother had once told her that the ’Zangians and their ways were very different from their own, and at the time she had not sounded as if she had approved.

Males are suitable for pleasant companionship, and breeding, Liana, but that is all. Their bodies are too weak, and they have no song, so their minds never truly develop. It would be unkind to demand more of them.

Liana caught herself staring at the ’Zangian and averted her gaze. She was glad that she had not given him her proper title, and that there was no one around to see her behaving so badly. If she had shown such attention to an Ylydii male, other females would have interpreted it as a mating claim.

It was not mine. Astonished that he would attend to her when he was wounded, she stretched out her petite veils. It seems that I am only bruised.

From the bonds. They were tight. Liana turned with him, trying to keep face-to-face. His singular gray color did not repel her, but it did seem odd. Where are your veils? She had thought them concealed under the strange, false hide he had worn before, until he had removed it.

We don’t have veiled fins like you, and I’ve been changed. It’s a long story. The ’Zangian went to the hatch and checked the locking mechanism before returning to her. What is your name?

No Ylydii would ever have been so rude, and for a moment she stiffened. Then she understood: she had not given him her name, and he needed to call her something. I am called Liana. Although he was only a male, she made the appropriate gesture of naming oneself before a comrade.

Burn. Yes, he did exactly that, with life and power and determination. She repeated it, and while she had never met anyone named for such a violent verb, she liked the sound of it. What will we do now?

The mercenaries will soon begin searching for us. I don’t know if the patrol can get to the docking portal to send in reinforcements. Burn disconnected his transmitter. I must fly the ship out of the battle zone. Stay here.

If he was not with her, she might be captured again. I can help you. I will watch your back, and show you where things are. Thank heavens her mother had insisted she be given a thorough tour of the ship.

Such intimate physical contact with an alien male was not seemly, and it was time she began behaving like an Ylydii royal should. I can swim on my own, Burn.

Liana, if anyone shoots at us, I can shield you better if you’re holding on there. He waited, obviously certain that she would obey him.

Had her mother heard Burn issuing such orders, she would have ordered him driven from the synchrony. But what he asked of Liana made sense, and there was no one to observe her abandonment of protocol. Still, it had been much easier when she had done this in the tank, when she had been afraid for her life.

Gingerly Liana latched onto his dorsal fin again, and aligned the lower half of her body so that it cradled the back of his. The coupling position was reversed—if they had been mating, they would have faced each other, belly to belly—but it did not make her feel any more comfortable.

Were we still face-to-face, you would feel a great deal more, Liana thought a little hysterically. Out loud she simply said, Yes. Don’t let go, Burn said, and then he opened the hatch and shot into the conduit.

Emily Kim walked out of the corridor leading to the public reading room of the Colonial Archives. She had woken up an hour earlier than necessary to prepare for her shift at Admin, and decided to visit the archive and continue learning about K-2, and possibly make some friends.

It wasn’t the other colonists’ fault. As she scanned the faces around her, she noted that her presence brought out the usual range of emotions from indifference to dislike. And as always, no one would speak to her, no matter how friendly she tried to be. It was exactly the same way her neighbors at her living quarters treated her. She tried not to take it personally—she was Terran, after all—but a week had passed and the silent hostility wasn’t getting any easier to endure.

Her casual glance around the room continued, and then halted as she saw the bald, dark pink head of the one person on K-2 besides her boss who had been friendly toward her.

Don’t rush over, she told herself as she walked through the aisles, making her way to him. He’s reading, so wait and don’t break his concentration. Don’t let on that you can’t remember exactly how to pronounce his name. She kept her pace sedate, and her expression polite, but her heart was definitely trying to hammer its way out of her rib cage.

“I do as I have always done, except now in new and different surroundings.” His skin turned a darker shade of pink, and some of his gildrells straightened. “You are well?”

“Not lately.” That sounded so pathetic. Was that disgust in his eyes, or pity? It was so hard to tell, and the bottomless pit she was hoping to drop into wasn’t appearing. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll just go now.”

“I was . . . bothered . . . to see you, but it is because I am not used to such attention.” Hkyrim moved to face her. “I am not skilled with words, nor have I ever met a Terran before you. I worry I will say something offensive.”

“I know my species is notorious for being unfriendly toward, well, basically everyone else in the universe, but I’m not like them. Actually I transferred to K-2 because it’s a multispecies colony, and I thought it would be the perfect place to learn more about people from other worlds.” She sighed. “The only problem is that now that I’m here, no one will give me a chance.”

He glanced at the others around them. “I have not made any new friends, either. Most species have an aversion to those who handle the dead.”

“I am used to it now.” He looked at his wristcom. “I have not yet had my afternoon meal interval. I become very irritable when I must eat alone. Are you in need of nourishment?”

A short time later they were seated at a small table and being served their orders. Hkyrim had warned her ahead of time that the Omorr diet consisted mainly of insects and root vegetation, so she was not alarmed to see what appeared to be a bowl of gleaming blue crickets sprinkled over a pile of orange beet slices. She was just hoping he wouldn’t ask her to taste it.

“No, this is a type of Terran grain.” She pushed aside the mental image his question invoked. “The little round things are legumes, and these round slices are spiced synpro. It’s called red beans and rice, and it’s very tasty.”

“Grain, legumes, and imitation flesh. That all sounds so . . . nutritious.” He gave her a sudden, worried look. “Do Terrans require dining companions to share their food during a meal?”

“Generally, no. Sometimes friends offer each other a sample, but everyone generally eats their own food.” She leaned forward. “Tell you what. I won’t ask you to taste mine if you won’t ask me to taste yours.”

Emily felt very self-conscious at first, and had to forcibly keep from staring at the Omorr as he used his gildrells to eat. It was somewhat bizarre—his three arms stayed at his sides while only the white tendrils covering the lower half of his face dealt with the food—but he ate with a precise sort of delicacy. She kept up a flow of what she hoped was casual conversation, but was only too aware of the attention the other diners were giving them.

Why do they have to stare at us like this? Can’t they see we’re just normal people having a normal meal? Emily flinched as something small and blue jumped onto the edge of her plate.

One of Hkyrim’s tendrils whipped out and snatched the insect back, popping it into his mouth. “I am sorry, Emily,” he said after he chewed and swallowed. “I think the cook neglected to prepare the karaja properly. It requires at least ten minutes of steaming to kill the oldest ones.”

“No, we eat synthetics so we don’t have to slaughter our animals anymore.” She rested her hand on her chin. “Does it bother you to see me using my hands or chewing my food?”

“Unusual. Emotional.” He frowned. “Your features change with your feelings. I am not sure what all the changes mean as of yet, but I believe I will learn from verbal accompaniments. At present I can tell when you are happy, and when you feel concerned.”

“Yes, you were. I wondered if that small line between your brows would ever disappear again.” He ran one of his membranes over his gildrells. “When I was not afraid that I had food crawling all over my face.”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she choked a little. She grabbed her napkin and covered her mouth until the coughing spate was over. “I had a bad moment there when that karaja jumped at me.” She cleared her throat and wiped her watering eyes. “I didn’t know whether to swat it or ignore it.”

The warm light in his eyes danced. “On Omorr you would have been expected to eat it, and then give me a portion of your meal in exchange.”

“On Terra you would have been arrested for eating that meal,” Emily said when she caught her breath. “Off-world cuisine that contains alien life-forms is illegal.”

“Yes, well, that is because grain on my world is consumed by our milk producers,” he confided. “The temer, or chaff, is used to stuff headrests for our sleeping platforms.”

“She’s new, and the new ones are always trouble.” The officer’s head lowered as he said to Emily, “I saw you spitting before. You were told to keep your body fluids to yourself, weren’t you?”

“She was choking, not spitting, and your interference is uncalled for.” The Omorr’s gildrells resembled icicles. “My friend and I were sharing a meal and not bothering anyone. You certainly had no reason, other than your own prejudice, to come over here and make your offensive inquiry.”

“On my world, friends defend each other. That being is fortunate I did not challenge him.” Hkyrim sat back down. “I apologize for naming you as my friend before any such relationship was formally declared and established between us.”

“I am a life sculptor and barax expert,” Paal told Moleon as they walked from the Hlagg embassy to the border of the forest. “How do you serve your people?”

The artist did not mind being ignored; he had gone on many hunts with the Skartesh now and knew that few chose to communicate verbally. It was always good to try conversation, though; a young female he had once accompanied had shyly responded and told him much about her culture.

Paal also liked the Skartesh. There were a number of furred and lupine species on K-2, but most had shown a distinct aversion to the Hlagg’s unusual bond with their insect friends, and those who did not were few in number. There were many Skartesh on colony now—some said all that were left from the military disaster that had destroyed Skart—and while they had seemed as indifferent to the Hlagg as they were to all other species, they were not afraid of insects, nor did they try to harm them.

Paal admired the stateliness of the Skartesh species, too. They were twice the size of the tallest Hlagg, and much stronger physically. The unfamiliar heat and humidity of K-2 had caused the Skartesh’s fur to fall out, but one of the FreeClinic physicians had found a counteragent and had been given reluctant permission by the Elders to administer it to every member of the cult. Now their pelts were thick and healthy, just like Moleon’s, and Paal thought them a very handsome species.

He had no such illusions about himself. Like all Hlagg, he was short and lean, with shiny reddish-brown fur, small paws, and a sharp-snouted face. When he was excited, he had an unfortunate tendency to forget to walk erect and instead ran around on all fours. He did not have a wide mane like Moleon’s, nor would he ever be able to wear such clever braids in his fur. His small, sharp green eyes were hardly as dramatic as the hunter’s large, liquid black eyes that seemed to glitter like polished volcanic rock.

The Skartesh, like most of his kind, disdained forming friendships with those outside his species. Still, Paal could make some conversation, even if it was with himself. Anything was better than this brooding silence.

“My mate is back on Sret, the Hlagg homeworld,” he told Moleon. “She did not wish to leave our barax, and indeed it was very difficult for me to transfer here without them. I had hoped to establish a new colony for our smallest sculptors before returning, but if we do not soon find—”

Moleon made a gesture indicating silence and dropped down to sniff the soil. Paal watched as the hunter then stood and turned his head slowly, breathing in deeply. Finally the Skartesh nodded and pointed in the direction of a thick grove of trees.

It was not as polite as saying “That way” but Paal nodded and trotted after the bigger male. Along the way he talked, keeping his voice as low and soft as the shuffle of their footgear through the layer of fallen leaves covering the ground.

“I hear this Peace Summit being held in orbit should be something to observe. Our ambassador, Heek, offered his services, but I think he was merely being polite. I hate getting wet, and all know that we Hlagg cannot function well when immersed in water.” Paal knew that the Skartesh were hydrophobic, but even the mention of the word seemed to upset the hunter, whose neck ruff bristled. He decided to change the subject. “It is so good of your people to assist us in finding our small friends. I worry that my barax are lonely for me. You can never truly tell, of course—barax are so aloof to begin with—but I have always sensed they enjoyed the sculptures we have fashioned together.”

The big Skartesh hunter stopped and looked down at the small Hlagg. Had there been whites to his eyes, they would have been showing. “You have been . . . submerged?”

“It was during one of our monsoon seasons. The rainfall exceeded our expectations and overran our town’s retention ponds during the night.” What a mess that had been, too—it had taken their field burrow-worms weeks to build new irrigation gutters. “I woke up in darkness to discover my sleeping platform moving on its own around my bedchamber, and climbed off before I realized it was floating.”

Paal squelched a sharp bark of laughter. Like everyone on colony, he knew that immersion in water sent a Skartesh into shock, and could easily kill them. It must have seemed to Moleon as if he were describing a dip in a vat of acid. “Oh, yes.” How could he make this gruesome tale seem slightly more amusing? “You know, I’d never cleaned my fur with anything but checrymin lice before the dunking I took that night. I found out just how water strips all the oil from your fur—when I finally dried the next day I swelled up like a ball of fluff.”

“I was more miserable than anything.” He shuddered, remembering the horrid sensations of soaked fur. “I still find it hard to believe there are land-dwellers who voluntarily submerge themselves each rotation. I wish we could have our lice here. They are so much gentler to the pelt.”

“So is scrub sand.” The big hunter scratched the side of his neck. “The sonic cleansers they make us use at the compound now always leave my pelt feeling flat and too slick.”

Paal tried to imagine washing in sand, and couldn’t, but then imagined the use of cleaning insects might seem very outlandish to the hunter. “What else do you miss of your homeworld, if I may ask?”

Skart had been an ice world, Paal remembered, before the Hsktskt’s orbital bombardment had destabilized the mantle and turned it into a global volcanic inferno. “Were all your hills made of ice?”

“Most. The wind would sing to us on our hunts through the formations, and they were poetry for the eyes as well.” Moleon looked up. “I miss, too, the white sky. Here it is so green I sometimes cannot tell up from ground.”

“We must all make unpleasant adaptations, I suppose.” Paal sighed. “I think friends best help ease the discomforts of being away from one’s home place. May I call you friend, Hunter?”

“Before the Knowing and Seeing, it was entirely forbidden for us to even speak to those not of the Promise,” he said. “Now . . . now it is yet frowned upon by the Elders.”

“No.” He met Paal’s gaze. “You are very brave, and you survived water. I would know you as my friend.” He slapped Paal’s narrow shoulder with one paw.

They moved deeper into the forest. Some of the trees here were not familiar to Paal, and he paused now and then to admire them. It was during one of these brief stops that Moleon went ahead, and then a crackling sound preceded his sharp outcry.

“Moleon?” The Hlagg looked ahead, but the hunter had disappeared into thin air. He hurried forward, following the same path the Skartesh had taken. “Hunter, where are you?”

The edge of the hole was crumbling, so the Hlagg scrambled back and grabbed a vine hanging down from one of the nearby purple-leafed trees. He wrapped the vine around his wrist and tested it to see if it would hold his weight before creeping forward again. “Can you climb out?”

“It is too deep for that,” the Skartesh called up. “I cannot see to find a handhold. I think this is some sort of nest; it feels as if it has been dug out. Have you a light emitter?”

Paal fumbled for the small penlight he kept in his pouch—the luminous worm inside the lens case was sealed in, so it would not escape—and held it over the edge. “I am dropping a light down to you. Be careful of your head.” He released the penlight.

Paal squinted, following the light’s beam until he saw the familiar gleam of a small green shell. “By the Flanks of Solstra, it is a hive! You have found my barax, Hunter. Well done.”

“They do not . . . seem to being heeding . . . your call.” The hunter cried out and the light wavered wildly. “There are too many. You must help me out of here.”

Paal tried the tonal order again, but heard the sound of barax swarming. Cursing, he dragged another, thicker vine to the edge of the nest and dropped it over the side. “Can you climb up?” He was not sure he could pull the hunter’s heavy body to safety.

The length of the vine went taunt, and then jerked as the Skartesh hunter climbed up and emerged. Dozens of barax clung to his lower limbs, which were bleeding from as many small wounds.

“There is something terribly wrong with them.” He was forced to knock them from the hunter’s legs with his paw, and yelped himself as he was bitten.

“No, they only eat roots. I don’t understand why they are doing this.” Paal watched the barax crawl away from him and Moleon and back into their underground hive. Seeing the wounds they had inflicted on the hunter and feeling the bites on his own pelt made him want to purge. “They have never harmed us or any other living thing. Not since the time my species emerged from their dens to build the first village.”

“None of our other insects have harmed your kind. Why would the barax do such a horrible thing?” Paal, who had never been bitten by an insect in his life, felt stricken to the depths of his soul. “We must not let them harm anyone else.”

“I will not kill them.” Moleon eyed the hive. “Whatever the reason for their change in behavior, I think they were only defending what was theirs.”

“No, they cannot be killed, but others who come here may not be as understanding as you.” Paal thought for a moment and removed a net from his pack. “Help me cast this over the open hole.”

With a little difficulty, the two males spread the net over the open portion of the underground nest. Just as they had finished, the barax climbed up the sides and began using their body’s secretions to seal the small holes in the netting.

Within thirty minutes, the net had been turned into a solid, silvery-white surface. Most of the barax had sealed themselves in, but a handful remained outside the hive. They spaced themselves around the edge of the hive at regular internals.

Moleon used arrows from his quiver as posts and encircled the area. Following his idea, Paal brought thin vines and tied them like cord to the arrow shafts until a visible barricade had been established.

“That should keep others from stepping on it until more permanent markers can be erected, and the hive can be safely removed,” Paal said. He sat down by one of the arrows and pressed his ear to the soil to listen. The sounds he heard told him that the barax were busy repairing the damage to their hive’s structures.

“I saw some of their sculptures while I was down there,” the hunter told him, “but they were much larger than anything I have seen at your embassy.”

Such a change in barax behavior alarmed Paal even more than their attack on him and the Skartesh. “We must return to the colony at once and inform security.”

Paal didn’t answer. He had already abandoned his dignity and was hurrying back toward the embassy, running as fast as he could on all fours.