THE FATHER QUESTION
Venatora paused at the edge of a forest. She’d never been in a place so strange. Demeter was a planned wilderness. The trees, the mountains, even the rivers and waterways had the appearance of great age. And yet she knew for a fact that the agworld couldn’t be more than a few years old.
The trees before her had golden leaves, but as the forest climbed the mountain they took on a deep green hue. Set against the slate gray of the rocky cliffs and the pure white snow caps of the promontory, it was a place of remarkable beauty.
A beauty that was all but lost on Venatora. At first, she was dazzled. They had passed a waterfall a few klicks back and as the water poured into a lake it kicked up a mist of lovely rainbows. But as she gazed upon the scene a feeling of dread crept up her spine. There seemed to be a malevolence lurking in the perfumed air. It was a feeling that was difficult to ignore.
Once she had stepped off the road to get a closer look at a strange bird and under her feet the ground gave a lurch and she quickly stepped back. A small leafy plant lay crushed against the earth and she could swear it moved. Stems seemed to writhe. Nothing dramatic. The movement was slight. But she could have sworn she heard something whine, as if in pain.
Clew came up beside her. “Something wrong?”
Venatora thought a moment. Good question. Was there something wrong?
“I don’t know,” she said. She shivered. “Except I don’t trust this place.”
“What’s not to trust?” Clew asked. “It’s an artificial world built by ordinary beings like ourselves. More of a machine than a truly living thing.”
“You’re right, of course,” Venatora said. She rubbed her forehead. “I’m just tired,” she said. “All I want to do is find Skink and kill the drakh head. Then get us to the Operation Center and then get the clot out of Dodge.”
“Dodge?” a puzzled Clew asked. “Is that another word for Demeter?”
Venatora shrugged. It was something she’d heard Sten say once.
“Never mind,” she said.
She called over Marta and Palsonia. “I don’t think we have much hope of catching Skink before nightfall. I don’t want to march in the dark. We might run into them and then there will be hell to pay—and it might not be a hell that is in our favor.”
“I could scout ahead,” Palsonia volunteered. “See what the terrain is like so we’re better prepared in the morning.”
“Good idea,” Venatora said. “Don’t get too close to them. Skink doesn’t even know we’re here. When the time comes we’ll have surprise on our side.”
Palsonia preened at being chosen for such an important task. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said, voice tinged with emotion.
“What about me?” Marta said. She seemed a little jealous. “I can get a squad together and follow in case Palsonia runs into something she can’t handle.”
Palsonia snorted. “As if,” she said, a little angry.
Marta put a hand on her hip. “It could happen,” she said. “Even you are not perfect, Palsonia. No matter how much—“
“Cease and clotting desist,” Venatora snapped, cutting her off. “Fighting nerves do not become either one of you. Remember your training.”
The two hung their heads, mumbling apologies.
“Now, let’s sync our comms,” Venatora said. “Make sure everything is copacetic.”
She keyed her unit, but to her surprise it remained dead in her palm.
“What’s this?” she said, slapping the unit against her thigh and trying again.
Still nothing.
“Mine’s dead too, Majesty,” Marta said.
“And mine.” This from Palsonia.
Clew had the same problem. Venatora called to her other women. “Check your comms and see if they are working properly.”
After much fumbling and cursing, the other women reported the same problem.
“This probably has something to do with what we saw back at the Transport Center,” Clew said. “All the gravsleds were dead. The computers and ’bots were inoperable.”
“Skink must have pulled something,” Venatora said. “In case he was followed.”
“But how could he know that we are even here?” Marta asked.
“He couldn’t have known,” Venatora said. “My guess is that he doesn’t trust his fellow captains. He’s afraid they’ll double cross him.”
Clew chuckled. “And so they would, first chance they got.”
Venatora thought for a minute. “We’ll just have to make do,” she said. “I’m sure we can straighten things out when we get to the Central Command Center.”
She looked around her group. After she’d discovered the lack of transport she’d loaded up enough supplies to get them to the Center, with a little to spare. Knowing Skink’s love for big guns, she’d also brought several heavy weapons to even the odds. The only drawback was that they slowed her down.
Venatora could move much faster than Skink—her women were in tip top shape, unlike the pirates whose idea of exercise was lifting a mug of spirits as many times as it took to get falling down drunk. Even so, it would take more time than she liked to catch up to Skink and remain fresh when they engaged him.
After thinking it through, she added, “We’ll have to do things the old fashioned say. We’ll have runners bringing messages back and forth.”
She turned to her women. “Atlanta, front and center.”
A young woman with amazingly long legs trotted out of the crowd and gave her a salute.
“Yes, Majesty,” she said.
“You are by far the fastest runner in our group, are you not?”
Atlanta blushed. “I usually win most of the running contests,” she admitted.
“She’s never lost a single race since she was twelve,” Marta said.
Atlanta’s blush deepened.
“Very well,” Venatora said. “I want you to go with Palsonia. You’ll be carrying messages back and forth for us.”
“I’m honored, Majesty,” Atlanta said, a tremor in her voice.
Venatora studied her. The young woman was clearly overawed to be in the presence of her queen. Venatora had grown accustomed to such things, but the poor woman’s knees were practically shaking.
Side glances confirmed that the others were equally affected—with the exception of Clew, who was not a member of the Himmenops race and so wouldn’t be as affected as much by Venatora’s pheromones.
Instinctively, Venatora worried that this might not be healthy. Passions could run amok. The women could start fighting to curry favor. Witness Marta and Palsonia’s little tiff. Normally, they were competitive, but remained the best of friends.
She wished she could ask Father Raggio’s advice. Maybe tone down her pheromone output—something she couldn’t do on her own without so much effort it would exhaust her.
Experimentally, she touched the earbud. It was dead, just like her comm unit. Okay. So she didn’t have Raggio to fall back on. She’d just have to make do without him.
Lately, she’d begun resenting Raggio and the other fathers. Why did they need them, anyway? What did they really contribute?
Venatora had lain awake the past few nights, counting the plusses and the minuses. It soon became clear that the plus column was almost non-existent.
And she began to think that with Demeter, she wouldn’t need the Fathers at all.
“Ma’am?” This was Palsonia, who had been standing there the whole time awaiting orders.
Venatora waved an impatient hand. “What are you still doing here?” she snapped. “Get going.”
Palsonia flushed, her head bobbing up and down. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Sorry, ma’am.”
And she trotted off, Atlanta at her side. Marta stared after her, a look of dislike on her face. She muttered something under her breath.
Venatora shot her a look. The woman was clearly pleased at Palsonia’s discomfort.
“What are you looking at?” Venatora growled. “Get everybody up and moving.”
Chastened, Marta did her bidding. Without looking behind her, Venatora set off at a blistering pace. She was moving so fast she nearly caught up to Palsonia, who looked back over her shoulder and speeded up.
This won’t do, Venatora admonished herself. Get a grip woman! And she slowed down to a reasonable pace.
Just at nightfall, she found a good camping place beside a little stream.
And she settled her people in for the night.