DISSENSION IN THE RANKS
Lightning split the sky and Gregor shouted in alarm and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Mitzi sat calmly by his side, counting: “A one, a two, a three…” She kept going until she reached ten and at that moment thunder boomed so loud Gregor nearly wet himself.
“Clot me, that was close,” he said.
“Not that close, sweetie pie,” Mitzi said. “The lighting was maybe two-and-a-half kilometers away. Maybe more.”
Gregor frowned. “How do you know that?” he demanded.
“My momma was a farm girl,” Mitzi said. “She said every five seconds between lightning and thunder equaled a bit more than a klick in distance. That one was over ten seconds, so that’s more than two kilometers.”
“Doesn’t make me feel any safer,” Gregor said. “Maybe the same rule doesn’t apply here.”
Mitzi shrugged. “Maybe.”
They were deep in the forest. Skink had called a halt when it became too dark to see. They were camping on the sandy banks of a creek, surrounded by tall trees and thick foliage.
The little creek made musical sounds as it ran over its rocky bed. A few birds called, and there was rustling in the bushes by small nocturnal animals going about their business.
The pirates were grouped around lanterns, speaking in low tones. Gregor had purposely made his own camp a short distance away. He told Mitzi it was for privacy, but the fact was Skink and his pirates scared the clot out of him. They were all rough and ready beings of a half-a-dozen species and shot him nasty looks whenever he met their gaze. He could tell they despised him. They’re just jealous low class slobs, he thought. My father would kill them if they dared touched me. He fingered his dead comm. Help was depressingly far away.
Anthofelia’s group had also set up camp a short distance from the pirates. Gregor thought that they seemed an odd group, morosely nibbling trail rations, or tending their weapons and gear and speaking to one another in whispered asides.
Even to Gregor, who was not sensitive to the feelings of others, they seemed to be out of sorts with their leader.
There seemed to be a growing disdain. When she spoke to them there was much rolling of eyes behind her back, and barely concealed snorts of disgust. It seemed a far cry from earlier in the day at the Transport Center, when they gave her fawning looks and treated her with respect—even adulation.
Gregor didn’t care about them one way or the other, but they added to the sense of unease that had descended on him after the Transport Center debacle. He knew that in theory he was perfectly safe. He was Lord Fehrle’s guest, after all. Gregor refused to use the word “hostage,” although he knew that was actually the case. But Fehrle had called him a guest and Gregor clung to that term with grim determination.
Making things worse, Gregor hadn’t been out in the countryside since his basic training days. He’d hated it then, and hated it even more now. He felt dirty, the food was tasteless, the ground hard on his buttocks, and even with the thermal blanket around his shoulders he was cold.
He felt completely out of place on Demeter. An unwelcome visitor shunned by all of his companions except for Mitzi and even she had seemed not quite as respectful as before.
Nothing he could put a finger on, or even put a name to. It just seemed that… He broke off that train of thought. It was stupid to distrust the only real friend he had. His loyal and passionate lover.
It was this place that was at fault. In Demeter he was definitely a stranger in a very strange land. Everything was so very neat and artificial in the agworld. From the farms they’d passed where there were no houses, only shelters for the ’bots and farm equipment. To the high mountains with their snow-capped peaks that looked so perfect, as if they’d been carved with a giant hand. And here in the forest it felt particularly contrived.
The trees were so neatly spaced and there were more varieties than he’d ever seen before. Stranger still, almost all of them bore fruit or nuts. Some trees had several kinds of fruit growing from their branches. The same with the nut trees.
Cables dangled from the trees, all of them going from platform to platform and ’bots of various sizes swarmed back and forth on the cables, busily going about their tasks like insects ruled by a group mind.
The spookiest thing of all is that when Gregor looked up through the tops of trees there was only dead night to be seen. There was not one star in the sky. Logically, there wouldn’t be. This was an artificial world, after all with no sun or breakaway moons.
It was also an enclosed world, with thick opaque shielding to hold the atmosphere in. So, no, there wouldn’t be any stars or moons to see. But it just added to the strangeness. The feeling that crawled up Gregor’s spine whenever he heard a noise.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anthofelia climb to her feet. Flanked by two of her women, she stalked over to Skink’s group.
The pirate chieftain looked up at her when she approached. She leaned down to speak to him and a moment later he rose and followed her to a spot a short distance away.
Gregor strained to hear, but they spoke in such low tones that it was impossible to pick up a single word. From the look of things, it was not a friendly conversation.
* * * *
“I hesitated to speak my mind before, Captain Skink,” Anthofelia said, “but now your decisions directly affect the safety and well being of my women. I fear it is my duty to criticize, where criticism is warranted.”
Skink sighed. He’d had been waiting for a confrontation ever since Anthofelia’s forces joined his group. He knew the Himmenops looked down on other species. That bitch Venatora made it plain that she thought her people were far superior to other beings.
Except Venatora, he grudgingly admitted to himself, often had reason to consider herself the brightest being in the room. But Anthofelia was definitely not Venatora. From the beginning, she’d done nothing to distinguish herself or her troops. In fact, whenever a conflict threatened, she tended to hang back. Like how she positioned her forces when they set up the ambush so there would be little danger to herself.
“I suppose you’re referrin’ to the little mix-up we had back at the Transport Center.”
Anthofelia placed a hand on an outthrust hip. “I certainly am,” she said. “Clearly your people rushed in without thinking and made some critical errors. Errors that have left us afoot and have threatened the success of the mission.”
Skink shrugged. “Wasn’t too pleased myself, the way things worked out. But none of us have been faced with drakh like that before. Mistakes happen. The trick is to swallow it up and move on. Which is what we’re doin’ now.”
“I blame lack of leadership,” Anthofelia said. “You should have investigated the Transport Center thoroughly before you let people run around like headless capons.”
Skink didn’t know what a capon was, but the word was clearly meant as an insult. His yellow eyes narrowed and one clawed hand rose to grip his side weapon.
“Careful what you say, lady,” he said. “I won’t hear my people being insulted. One of them died gettin’ into this place. While you and your people lollygagged around doin’ nothin’ to help.”
Anthofelia’s temper rose. “How dare you,” she said. “You’re an incompetent. And I intend to tell Lord Fehrle what a fool you are the minute we see him at the rendezvous.”
Skink laughed. “Listen, you trumped up crown stealer, Fehrle won’t give a drakh what you or anybody else has to say when we show up. He’ll have Demeter, and that’s all he’ll care about.”
The princess was momentarily taken aback. Skink was right, of course. Fehrle was only interested in results.
“Very well, Captain,” she finally said. “But consider my words a fair warning. If there are further mishaps I may be forced to take steps.”
“I’m sure you will, Princess,” Skink said.
Then he rudely turned on his heels and stalked back to his people. He said something in a low voice and everyone laughed. Anthofelia was certain it was something crude. Crudity, after all, was the last bastion of misogynists. Never mind that a good number of the pirates were female. They might as well have been male, from the way they behaved.
She walked back to her women, who were huddled around an array of lanterns.
“That didn’t look like it went very well,” Your Highness,” Nalene said.
“Don’t know why you bothered, ma’am,” Yatola said. “Me and Nalene warned you that all you’d accomplish was to set them against us even more.”
Anthofelia was shocked at the criticism. None of her people had spoken to her that way before.
“Mind your place, woman,” she said. “I’ll not be addressed that way.
To her surprise, Yatola opened her mouth, as if to make a retort. Then she stopped herself. Shrugged.
“Sorry, ma’am,” she said. “I’m a little tired.”
And then she turned away and stretched herself out on a sleeping mat, pulling a thermal blanket around her. Deliberately turning to face the other way.
Astounded, Anthofelia looked over at Nalene, her most ardent supporter. But Nalene wouldn’t meet her gaze. Instead she covered her mouth to yawn.
“Forgive me, Highness,” said. “I’m pretty tired myself.”
And like Yatola she curled up on her mat, back to her superior, and acted as if she were falling asleep.
Hesitantly, Anthofelia stretched out her senses. Testing her pheromone powers over her soldiers. Normally, they would sigh and gaze on her with loving, almost lustful looks. Their skin would become flushed. Their breathing would quicken.
But this time she got very little reaction at all. Those who were awake, paused a moment, then went on with whatever they were doing. Those who were asleep, stirred a bit, then resumed their slumbers.
What was happening? She had to talk to Father Huber right away. She lifted up her comm to call, then remembered. It was dead.
Anthofelia was desperate. She didn’t know what to do. A breeze picked up and she shivered. She was cold. That was the problem. Just a chill. Maybe she’d picked up some sort of bug. What she needed was warmth. The kind of warmth that a good campfire gave off.
All she required was a little wood. She’d get a big bonfire going and her women would gather around and talk about old adventures.
Anthofelia strode over to a nearby bush. Getting her knife, she grabbed a good handful of fairly dry branches and slashed down.
The branches didn’t part on the first blow. So she hacked away. Then began sawing back and forth.
Suddenly the ground under her feet seemed to move. She paused. Put a hand to her forehead. My imagination, she thought. I’m just tired. A little dizzy. She took several deep breaths to steady herself, then went back to her sawing.
There was a slight whimpering sound. Almost a whisper. Above her, the leaves on the tree stirred in a non-existent wind. Almost like wagging tongues.
Ignoring it, Anthofelia made a final, heavy blow with her knife, then wrenched the branches away from the bush.
Anthofelia raised the branches over her head in the rebel pose that had served her so well. As if she were the victor in a glorious battle.
She’d show them. She’d clotting show them all.
And then everything went to hell.