THE ATTACK
The next morning, Skink and Anthofelia decided to leave the injured behind and strike out for the Demeter Command Center as fast as they could.
They barely took time to stack rocks over the corpses of two pirates and the Himmenops woman who died in the previous night’s disaster. They used rocks because they were afraid if they dug into the ground Demeter would consider it an attack and retaliate.
Anthofelia’s women were decidedly unhappy when she announced her decision. There was a good deal of discontented muttering.
One of the women made bold to speak her mind. “Venatora would never leave us behind,” she said in a loud voice.
There were noises of agreement from many of the others.
Her authority questioned, she was about to come down on them hard, when Nalene stepped in.
“We don’t have much of a choice,” she told the group. “If we take the injured with us, we won’t be able to keep up with the pirates. And they’ll cut us out of the whole thing if they get to the Command Center first.”
“Even so,” the woman said. “Venatora would have thought of a way.”
Anthofelia had enough. “I advise you to shut your mouth,” she told the woman, “before I shut it for you—permanently.”
And with that, she drew her sidearm. The woman’s mouth snapped shut. Anthofelia glared at the others.
“Anyone else care to voice their uninformed opinions?” she said.
No one spoke.
“Good,” she said, holstering her weapon. “We have wasted enough time. Let’s get going.”
She started off, walking swiftly and trying not to limp. Her injured thigh throbbed fiercely, but she didn’t dare show weakness.
Even so, there was s definite extended moment before the women followed. To her dismay, Nalene and Yatola made no attempt to catch up to her and walk by her side, as was their custom.
She could hear them talking behind her. Their voices were too low to make out what they were saying. She doubted if they were being complimentary.
She began to get an uncomfortable itch between her shoulder blades. She kept her hand resting on her sidearm, fearing that at any moment one of them would attempt to plunge a knife in her back.
Oh, Father Huber, she thought. Where the clot are you?
* * * *
Skink was so tired he could barely think and no matter how much water he drank his thirst was never quenched. Usually, the only exercise Skink ever got was repeatedly hoisting a goblet of spirits, or carving a thick, juicy soy steak.
And yet he kept going, leading the long columns of pirates and women warriors. Periodically stopping to hasten their pace with shouted curses and boots to their lazy butts.
Skink was a Parlitas, after all—a nomadic desert world race whose bodies were uniquely suited to travel great distances in difficult terrains. Severe deprivation—like hunger or thirst—triggered special organs in his body that allowed him to carry on for weeks and months at a time without food or water.
And, so while his fellow pirates and Anthofelia’s women suffered from the long march under Demeter’s hot, merciless lights, Skink was not only able to soldier on, but in some ways he felt stronger than when they started.
It helped that they’d emerged from the forest a short time ago and were now moving past a desert-like stretch of Demeter. Rows of cactus pears and varieties of ground nuts grew in sandy soil that rolled onward toward the mountains in towering dunes.
Behind him, he heard Gurnsey curse as he tripped and fell. Skink glanced back to see Hasana help the burly pirate to his feet. At any other time it would have been a humorous sight. Tiny Hasana, who stood barely over a meter and half, hoisting up a fellow pirate nearly twice her size and weight.
But Skink was in no mood for joking, even when it involved his favorite type of humor—the suffering of another being.
“Pick up your feet, Gurnsey,” he growled. “We have a long way to go.”
“Can’t we stop for just a minute, Captain?” Gurnsey pleaded. “Got a pebble in my boot that’s startin’ to feel like a boulder. And I’m hotter’n hell. I know the other fellers are feelin’ just as poorly. A bit of rest would set us all right, it would.”
“What a bunch of weaklings,” Skink said. “We’ll march till I say otherwise. We’ve gotta get some serious klicks down before it’s night again.”
“Just ten minutes, Skink,” Gurnsey urged. “Ten minutes.”
“You want to rest?” Skink said, his hand going to his sidearm. “I’ll fix it so you can rest all you like.”
Gurnsey flushed, getting angry. He was not one to take threats well. He was about to speak, but Hasana gave him a nudge.
“Skink’s right, Gurnsey,” she said. “We gotta keep moving. Come night, no tellin’ what kind of trouble we’ll see. Sooner we get to where we’re goin’, the better.”
Gurnsey sighed. “Sorry, Skipper,” he said. “Just feelin’ out of sorts.”
Skink was about to push it, but Hasana gave him a pleading look.
Relenting, he said, “Guess we’re all feeling out of sorts after that bitch woman’s shenanigans last night.”
He resumed the march. Behind him, he heard people cursing as they once again began the arduous task of putting one boot in front of the other.
Skink thought that before long he might have to kill one them to set an example. Gurnsey? Nah. Dumb as he was, Gurnsey was popular. When he got drunk he had all kinds of amusing tricks.
Once he’d ripped off a prisoner’s face and stuck it on his own. Then marched about the Gibbet’s Hall making rude noises through the bloody lips.
Skink chuckled at the memory. No, he wouldn’t start with Gurnsey.
As they marched onward he came upon a large cactus pear whose fleshy branches intruded over the walkway. The plant itself was well over two meters in height with a thick main trunk.
Skink’s mouth watered. Cactus pears were his favorite childhood treats. He reached out with one of his claws. Hesitated, then thought, what the clot, fruit was meant to be eaten. How could there be any harm?
He plucked a particularly plump fruit from its home. It bristled with nettles, but that was no matter to Skink, whose mouth was hardened by evolution to devour such fare.
But just as he was about to bite down, the mother cactus plants stirred. Sensing the motion, Skink glanced up just as one of the cactuses wrenched its roots out of the sand.
“What the clot?” Skink said, taking a step back. He’d never seen or heard of such a thing.
To Skink’s amazement, more roots were pulled free of the ground and the cactus lumbered forward on hairy root balls.
It was actually walking!
But plants can’t walk—can they?
He was so amazed he just stood there, frozen, while the thick, fleshy cactus branches slowly drew back.
Then another root ball emerged, and the cactus lurched forward, spiky branches whipping out.
Skink shouted in fear and fell on his back. Several thorny branches slashed his face. Only his scaly reptilian hide kept it from being ripped off.
And now the cactus was above him. Its shadow blocking out the rays of the arc lights. Then it came smashing down with its full weight.
Skink rolled to the side, clawing his sidearm from its holster, and fired.
There was a shriek as the first shot missed and one of his pirates was smashed backward, a smoking crater in his chest.
The cactus struck again, Skink desperately trying to roll away. A thick branch slashed his belly and there was a burning pain.
He fired again and this time his aim was true and he blasted a hole in the plant. It bellowed in pain, but still came forward.
Skink held down the trigger. A stream of AM2 bullets blasted out, cutting the cactus in half. The top part fell over, but the bottom section kept coming, roots dripping clumps of sand.
Now Gurnsey was at his side, opening fire on what was left of the plant.
It kept moving, so they continued firing until there was nothing left but a steaming pool of green.
With difficulty Skink climbed to his feet. He felt drained. His mind reeled.
“What the clot?” he said.
“Uh, boss,” Gurnsey said, voice breaking. “Look’it out there.”
Heart thumping double time, Skink looked to see what Gurnsey was so excited about. In the desert beyond he saw other cactus plants stirring into life. There must have been fifty of sixty of them. And they were all turning in Skink’s direction.
“Let’s get the clot out of here,” Skink said and ran as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.
The entire column of pirates and women warriors took to their heels and ran after him.
As they ran, they fired on the cactus plants with every weapon that came easily to hand. Sidearms, battlerifles, and even a few grenades, came into play.
But the big cactus pears kept coming. Pieces were ripped off. Green liquid splattered everywhere.
And somewhere high above the pirates could hear an unearthly wail.
* * * *
When Venatora emerged from the forest the heat from the unrelenting arc-lit sky fell on her like a blow. She held up a hand, bringing the column to a halt, then looked around to examine the terrain.
Ahead, a wavering, mirage-like haze rippled above mirror surface of the steel road. Yellow desert sand stretched on either side. Having just stepped into the bright light it was difficult to see more than general shapes and colors.
Then, as her vision cleared, she heard Clew exclaim, “What in the clotting world?”
And then the others were all making noises of astonishment as they looked at what appeared to be the scene of a strange sort of battle.
On both sides of the road, the desert was littered with the remains of huge cactuses. Some were whole. Most were ripped to pieces. Branches and trunks scattered everywhere. Pools of green liquid soaked into the sand. It was like the aftermath of an aerial assault.
Venatora drew her sidearm. “Clew and Marta,” she said, “come with me. Palsonia—take charge.”
There were murmurs of “Yes, Highness,” and the three moved forward, weapons at ready.
As they drew closer to the forms sprawled on the road a hot breeze picked up, bearing the awful smell of rotting corpses.
A moment later they saw the first body. It was a Himmenops woman. From the Sharkwire tattoo on her bicep, she was one of Anthofelia’s people. Her clothing and flesh were ripped to shreds, as if she had been beaten to death with a flail. She was covered with dried blood, except for her face, which was untouched. Her eyes were open and the look on her face was that of someone who had witnessed a great horror.
“I know her,” Marta said. “She sat next to me in navigation class. Used to stop by her creche once in awhile. Her creche mistress made great chocolate chip cookies.”
She started to say more, then stopped. She looked up at Venatora, her eyes moist. “I can’t remember her name,” she said, voice quivering. She leaned down as if to examine the woman’s gore-covered dog tags.
Venatora stopped her. “It was Fryda,” she said.”
Marta frowned. “What?”
“Fryda,” Venatora repeated. “Her name was Fryda.”
She put an arm around Marta and pulled her close. Marta sobbed into her shoulder, while Venatora slightly increased her pheromone output.
In a moment, Marta recovered. She pulled back, eyes brimming with love and admiration.
“Thank you, Highness,” she said.
Clew spoke up. “Do you really know all of your people’s names?” she asked. “I thought it was just… you know… stories. Politics.”
Venatora sighed. “I know them all,” she said. “No politics involved. That’s one reason why it hurt so much when people like Fryda deserted me for Anthofelia. It was like losing a friend. No, not just a friend. But a sister.”
They moved onward. Edging around cactus remains. Examining the corpses of dead pirates and women.
“I count eleven dead,” Marta said. “Three of Anthofelia’s and eight pirates.”
“Too bad Skink wasn’t among them,” Clew said.
“It’s just as well,” Venatora said. “I’m looking forward to doing him myself.”