Renée Harrell
Aly’s Luck
Hunting Monsters Press
Smashwords Edition / March 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Renée Harrell
www.MarsNeedsWriters.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portions thereof except in the case of brief quotations used in articles or reviews.
Cover illustration by 1 Rat Studio Graphics
contact: 1RatStudio(at)gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people, events or incidents is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9829221-8-7
This book is dedicated to
Matthew and Rachel,
T’ing’s first visitors.
Before the Beginning
Aly shifted in the chair, feeling it react to the movement and remold its surface to her body. Artificial sunlight sparkled down on her and she caught the scent of a mountain fir in the re-circulated air swimming around her. All at once, the building’s silver walls seemed to press upon her, a metal coffin threatening to seal her life away.
Stay in your seat and get this done, she told herself. You fill in some forms, you pay a lot of money, and you take a vacation. Everyone takes vacations.
Even you.
So why was the skinny man with the weirdly-translucent skin arguing with her?
In front of her, the name plate on the desk proclaimed the argumentative man was HEBER BLAUVELT. Beneath his name were the words, Travel Agent. The man said, "Please call me, 'Heber'."
“Must I?”
Heber Blauvelt blinked at her, his mouth forming an uncertain half-circle.
Aly said, “Travel’s no longer prohibited. Not for years now. Tourists do go to T’ing.”
“Not the intelligent ones,” he said. “At least, not if they’re sane. Have you even glanced at Fenckens? You must have.”
“I’ve seen the travel brochures.”
“Not nearly the same thing.” Pressing a skeletal finger against his desk, Heber transformed the face of his desk from cherry wood into simglass.
Letters
appeared almost instantly:
Fenckens
Guide to Intergalactic Travel
Your
Destination: T'ing (the Bugworld)
Preferred
Carrier: Boorian Spaceways
Language:
Y'togish/T'ingese
Currency:
Dibblestick
Suggested
Travel Dates: N/A
Holiday
Calendar: N/A
Recommended
Accommodations: N/A
That
Romantic Getaway: N/A
Fenckens
Tips for Travelers: Following the Great
Slaughter (Bugworld vs the Universe), severe restrictions were placed
upon the import of advanced technology into T'ing. Initially, all
weapons were banned while devices of limited technological value were
allowed for import. Seven years later, following the Rain of Blood
(Reign of Blood/ Bugworld vs the Universe II), further restrictions
were imposed.
Since
that date, T'ing has made little progress. Seemingly bereft of
scientists or researchers, the planet remains technologically
backward. An inhospitable environment, T'ing provides few leisure
opportunities for anyone, including the native-born.
The
Council of Worlds Recommends: Dangerous,
unsafe for the foreseeable future. Not suitable for travel.
Heber tapped the desk again and its surface rippled briefly before adopting its wooden face. “There are other options. I can show you images that’ll make your head spin. With your budget, you can go almost everywhere.”
“I’ve been there.”
His brow wrinkled. “Been…?”
“Almost everywhere.”
“The rings of Trimurti –”
“Two years ago.”
He said, “Maybe a different galaxy. Once you’ve stood on the rim of the Hanzuo Crater –”
“Last year.”
“The plains of Radegast?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“Radegast. Really.” The agent studied her. “You must have an adventuresome spirit.”
“Those trips were work-related. I need a vacation. I’m a transporter.”
“Oh,” Heber said without inflection. “How interesting.” He made no effort to sound interested at all.
Mustn’t blame him for that, Aly decided. He’s probably spent his whole life as a Dome drone, riding the tube from home to work and back again.
Never feeling the kiss of a summer breeze or the bite of an arctic wind. Never tasting fresh rainwater. Never inhaling the scent of freshly-spilled blood.
Such a sad, wasted life.
“The customer is always right,” he told her, “even when she’s wrong.” He tapped on the desk, then tapped again more rapidly. “Consider it done. You’ve just bought a round-trip ticket to the Bugworld.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s your funeral.” He laughed. “Who knows? You’re a transporter. You might survive. You might even come back.”
“I’m lucky that way,” Aly said.
* * *
Deep inside the fortress of Dr. Ketu, the shape-changer was in a bad mood.
Syr said, “This is not my idea of a holiday.”
“I never used the word, ‘holiday’.”
“You asked if I wanted to have some fun. Feasting and whoring and lying on the beach.”
“Okay, I admit, I made a mistake,” Dobbins said. “I assumed, if a place is surrounded by water, it has beaches.”
“You also assumed this island would have plentiful females and stocks of food.”
“I did.” Dobbins grunted as his shoulder popped. He rotated his left arm, pulling it free from the red-streaked manacle. He grinned. “See? We’re as good as out of here.”
The changer frowned. “It can’t be good for you, the thing you do with your shoulder.”
“I don’t do it often.”
“You did it six months ago.”
With one arm free, the rest of the manacles were quickly unlocked. Dobbins dropped to the floor. Finding the Dungeon Master’s whipping stand, he dragged it over to the shape-changer.
“Once we’re free,” Syr said, “I want some time to do something pleasurable. Travel somewhere we can just enjoy ourselves.”
“Sure,” Dobbins said easily, climbing onto the stand. He reached for the restraints binding his friend. “We get back to Zirmunqdir, we’ll set something up.”
“There’s a passenger ship at the spaceport. It departs in three days.”
Whistling lightly, Dobbins worked on the ties holding the changer. These bands were bigger and stronger than the pieces that had held him to the wall but their mechanical workings were just as basic. He said, “You’d think a mad scientist would understand the value of a good lock.”
Freed from his ties, the changer fell to the ground. Rolling to his feet, he stood and brushed himself off. He asked Dobbins, “Can we get there in time?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How many guards are out there.”
Solemnly, they contemplated the dungeon’s only door. Lifting his muscular purple leg, Syr kicked at the wooden bar holding the rectangle closed. The bar splintered into two and the door flew open.
A single, startled guard jumped away from the opening. At the sight of the changer, he dropped his weapon and ran down the corridor, screaming.
“Zirmunqdir, here we come,” Dobbins said happily.
Chapter One
Cygxz was worried.
Oh, he wasn’t afraid. Not of a chund, anyway. True, this one was female and, in his experience, the females of a species were always the meanest and nastiest of their kind. But she was also a softbody.
A softbodied chund posed little threat to a Bug. Even when the chund was armed.
This one carried a large-knobbed stick and a tiny knife with a shiny, serrated blade. The stick would bounce harmlessly against his hard pincers; his hooked beak could easily snap it in half. The knife, as small as it was, wouldn’t so much as scratch his shell.
Nonetheless, he worried.
It was largely agreed that all chund were crazy and this one, this Aly Krebbs, was the craziest he’d ever met. She refused to eat the good meats and dead things he offered her (and at a substantial discount from the township retail rates), preferring to subsist on the leaves, nuts and berries she found.
She acted as if she enjoyed the outdoors and pretended to like walking. The two of them hiked until Cygxz was certain his legs were going to fall off - and one of them did, its budding brown replacement still too short to provide him with a comfortable sense of balance.
And, really, to what end? Now they were in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to show for it. Cygxz’ own food supply was growing dangerously low. Still, this Krebbs refused to be dissuaded.
“You promised to find the Crystal Cave,” she said. “Your word is your bond.”
What nonsense. She acted as if a promise was something that needed to be honored.
He should have insisted on payment in advance.
With each day’s passing, he found himself growing more despondent. Finally, on their sixth night out, he scurried beside her to offer a confession. While she gnawed at a twig or a stick or some brown-colored thing, he managed to catch her attention. He told her the ‘Crystal Cave’ she sought was given a different name by the explorers of his world.
“We call it, the Cave of Doom,” he said, his voice breaking in just the right spot. “It contains terrors. Night things. Monsters, some call them.
Krebbs smiled at him, crunching down the last of her brown whatever-it-was. She rolled out her sleepsak.
Cygxz looked at her with large, worried eyes. “I’m not certain I can protect you.”
Shrugging a jacket from her shoulders, the chund folded it neatly. She unbuttoned her blouse. “I can protect myself.”
He goggled. Had Krebbs never seen a mirror? Had she somehow failed to realize she was covered in pink flesh, carrying no more armor than a mewing pupa?
Truly, she was mad.
“Perhaps you’ve been told of the jewels lining the walls of the cave,” Cygxz continued doggedly, if a little less certainly. “Gemstones. Beautiful, pulsing crystals of such beauty they seem to sing to all who see them.”
The chund yawned.
“Naturally enough, you want to find the cave and strip it of its treasures,” Cygxz said. “Ruin its beauty for generations to come while enriching yourself, however temporarily. Such greed is understandable. Commendable, even.”
Krebbs touched the buttons at the side of the ‘sak. With a sigh, the bag unfurled.
“The cave’s riches are only a myth,” the guide told her. “A bit of whimsy to amuse our off-world visitors. I’ve walked these trails for many years. I know this. But I know something more.
“The Cave of Doom holds a dark power inside its bowels. A wicked magic so enticing it draws the innocent inside. My cousin, young Styxz, went exploring inside the cave. He never returned.” A yellow tear rolled down the side of Cygxz’ beak. “No one who enters the cave ever returns.”
He dabbed at his eyes, as if overcome by his memories. It was, he felt, one of his finest performances. No tourist was immune to the horrors of his ‘Cave of Doom’ presentation. Inevitably, they pleaded with him to be returned to their chundhuts.
Naturally, he always agreed. Usually after negotiating an additional fee.
He checked for his customer’s reaction.
Aly Krebbs was buried inside her sleepsak. He was watching her when she began to snore.
Loudly.
In the days that followed, the situation worsened. Krebbs kept pace with him, no matter how quickly he moved. His sense of self-preservation kept them alive while her uncanny sense of direction drove them on. Within an hour, maybe less, they’d be within sight of their destination.
Cygxz was aghast.
Delivering a client to her preferred destination was an amateur’s mistake. To do so without extracting additional monies? Such a thing simply wasn’t done. The other guides would be furious.
No matter what the payment, he had no intention of entering the accursed cave. Something inside that black hole had gobbled up Styxz. If there was a creature lurking in there capable of ending that ill-tempered horror, it would make short work of anyone else.
Clearly, he was in a predicament. If he refused to follow the chund, he would lose the balance of the fee owed him. Yet he’d given too much time to this project to leave without full payment.
Sourly, Cygxz examined his customer. The Krebbs-chund was perched atop a boulder, her tanned legs tucked beneath her. Catching his glance, she waved at him.
He drew back, stiffening his antennae haughtily. She returned to assembling the boneless mush of her mid-day meal.
If only something would eat her, he mused.
Once considered, the thought teased at him. Such a tragedy wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Everyone knew accidents happened. Hardly a season passed without one or more softbodied tourists wandering into the jungle, never to be seen again.
Still, this softbody had employed a guide. There would be little demand for a guide who lost his clients in the brush. Even less for one who allowed those clients to be eaten.
Nonetheless, Cygxz felt the idea deserved further consideration. If Krebbs were to disappear, he’d collect his fee in total (and a hefty bonus on top of it, judging from the size of the sackett tied to her belt). It would be the first time he’d ever lost a customer - well, almost - and his reputation would likely survive.
It wasn’t as if there were other chund with her, ready to spread the news of her disappearance. She would just...vanish. As deranged as she was, it might even be a good thing.
A kind of public service, come to think of it.
It wouldn’t happen without a spot of nastiness, though. Krebbs was surprisingly resourceful for a chund. Not that it would matter in the end; he was hard-shelled and she was not. ‘Resourcefulness’ only went so far.
Any evidence of foul play would soon disappear. When the smell of a dead thing wafted into the air, something always came along to eat it.
He felt a bit peckish himself.
“We’re almost there,” Krebbs said, waking Cygxz from his reverie. “The cave, I mean. I can feel it.”
He blinked up at her. “You’re right. It’s over the next rise.”
The words came out clumsily, his tongue growing thick with excitement. He could feel his twin hearts racing beneath his shell. The two blue spots on his thorax grew warmer, an indication they would soon turn purple.
Krebbs wiped a food crumb from the corner of her mouth. “What is it?”
“Your sackett.” His tongue snaked along the exterior of his beak, reaching up nervously to groom an antenna.
“Your fee, you mean.” She slid down from the boulder. “Your fee is earned once we’ve found the cave. You’ll get what you’re owed when I’ve returned to the township.”
“Of course.” He dipped his head in an obsequious manner. Doing so, he scuttled closer.
The chund appeared unconcerned by his approach. She wore a bemused expression, scratching lightly at her chin as he planted himself in her path.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said.
Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Cygxz was short for a Bug, barely reaching Krebb’s shoulders, but he had width, accented by the thick plate of his shell, and he had power. He lifted his two sets of arms away from his body and raised his pincers in attack position. The end of each barbed pincer was colored in a brilliant green.
“Stupid it is, then,” Krebbs said. Her little pointed nose twitched.
Clacking his pincers, Cygxz charged.
She waited for him, her eyes bright. He swung his primary claw and she stepped beneath it. From behind her back, her knobbed walking stick appeared in her right hand. Sweeping the stick at her foe’s feet, she upended him.
Cygxz crashed backward. In a sudden, hard whoosh of sound, the air escaped from his lungs. His head smashed against hard ground. Unable to stop himself, he bounced forward before falling onto his side, his antennae wiggling wildly.
Krebbs walked past him, rapping the knob of the walking stick against his beak. The blow sent the sky swimming before Cygxz’ eyes. When his vision cleared, he rocked back and forth then staggered to his feet.
The chund was gone.
“Tourists,” he muttered heavily.
Krebbs’ brown tunic was dark against the yellow sky as she topped the hill in front of him. Somehow, she was already well ahead of him.
He’d have to hurry or she’d find the cave. If she found the cave’s opening, she’d enter it - she was exactly the type of person who would do such a thing - and be eaten. Whatever ate her would likely steal her sackett as well.
Where was his profit in that? He sighed. He simply had no choice.
Cygxz skittered after her.
Krebbs glanced up as he drew closer. Still holding her knobbed stick, she was almost exactly at the center of the mound. Thin whispers of whip grass waved beneath her feet. These were nothing like the thick, reed-like stalks growing at the center of the jungle. Healthy vegetation shrank away from the mound, daring only to grow along its perimeter.
Perhaps the soil here was too thin to nourish plant life. Perhaps there were other reasons.
Cygxz crept toward his client. His antennae bobbed in a submissive manner.
“An apology?” Krebbs asked.
“It is not an apology,” he said, bristling at her. “I am sorrowful for our misunderstanding.”
“I understand you perfectly. I understand you’re a liar, a cheat, and a lousy guide.”
“I’m an excellent guide! The best in the township.”
“You couldn’t find the cave.”
“Anyone can find the cave. Even you. You’re standing on top of it.”
The chund studied the ground beneath her feet.
“There’s no trick in finding the cave,” Cygxz told her. “The challenge is finding the entrance. There’s a single hole, only one. Find it once, you’ll have to try twice as hard to find it again.”
“Why?”
“It moves.”
“Holes can’t move.” She dropped to her hands and knees. Crawling forward, she wet the fingers of one hand. Extending the hand, she skimmed her fingertips above the ground.
Holes can’t move, she said. Cygxz shook his head disapprovingly. Softbodies thought they knew everything.
“It isn’t safe,” he said.
Suddenly, her hand froze in mid-air. Her interest sharpened as she moved to her left. She brought her fingers to her mouth again, lapping her tongue against their tips.
Disgusting.
He strolled casually toward her. The female was squatting and that limited her mobility. Her damnable walking stick had disappeared, vanishing when she knelt to explore the mound. Most importantly of all, her neck was exposed.
Cygxz knew the rule: Take a beast by the neck and it was at your mercy. Hold the neck and you own the spine. Control the spine and the skull is your toy. Open the skull and, well - there wouldn’t be any further arguments about collecting his fee.
It wouldn’t be an enjoyable kill, he knew. Her snippy attitude ruined any possibility of that. Even if he waited to eat, he’d be lucky to have any appetite at all.
He was almost within killing distance. As his pincers extended, Krebbs looked up sharply.
Cygxz swung a pincer westward. “There it is! The entrance!”
Her head followed his gesture and Cygxz lunged at her. One of his feet stumbled over the walking stick - So that’s where it went - and he pitched forward. He slammed into the ground, his beak digging into the dirt.
Krebbs reached for her walking stick. Spraying grass from his mouth, Cygxz cried, “It was an accident!”
She rapped the knob of the walking stick against his beak. Tears flooded his eyes. Shaking them away, he saw Krebbs creeping along one side of the mound, her fingers fluttering lightly above its grassy surface.
Cygxz lurched upright. “We need to come to an understanding.”
Ignoring him, she inched forward.
“The hole used to be at the side of that boulder. The red one.”
Krebbs’ eyes went to the large, colored stone jutting from the surface of the mound. When she stood to her full height, dirt and grass fell from her knees.
“There’s no reason to look there now,” Cygxz said. The dismissive expression on her face irritated him. “I told you, the entrance moves. It isn’t just an opening to the cave. It’s a trap. The ones below, they’re clever. They cover the old entrance as they build a new one. Explorers – explorers who think they know so much - stumble into the new holes while looking for the old ones. And then they’re eaten up!”
“Oh, I get it.” Krebbs crossed her arms. “You’re the only one who can help me.”
“Exactly right.”
“So this is the part where I’m supposed to get scared.”
A whisper of hope sprang alive in Cygxz’ chest. Could it be? Was the chund frightened? At last? The tone in her voice seemed oddly flat for a frightened softbody. But she was not the usual tourist.
She started toward him. “This is the part where I say, - ‘Oh, please, dear Cygxz, I’ve made a terrible mistake’.”
Well, yes, she was correct about that, too. “You want me to take you back?”
“This is where I offer you anything you want, if only you’ll return me to the township in safety.” She tugged the sackett from her waist, widening the bag’s mouth. “Is this enough?”
Dibblesticks and gemstones filled the small bag. It wasn’t quite the rich bounty he’d imagined, but it would certainly do.
This was turning out to be a good day, after all.
“It’s nearly enough,” he said. “It’s not easy, the way back. A bit more dangerous. Other expenses will almost certainly arise. But, for now -” He reached for the sackett.
Aly Krebbs yanked it from his grasp. “You’ll get nothing.”
Cygxz’ beak dropped open. “What?”
“Not a dibblestick, not a gemstone.” She cinched the sackett closed. “When I return to the township, I’m reporting you to the authorities. Corrupt as they are, there must be some rules they follow.”
“But –” His mind reeled. “This is the part where you’re frightened! The part where you give me riches! You said so yourself!”
“This is the part where you leave.”
“I’m your guide!”
Her hand curled around the walking stick. “Go.”
“It isn’t fair,” he told her. “Not fair at all.”
The walking stick rose up in the air. Cygxz sped up, backpedaling quickly. “Because of our bond, our friendship, I’ve decided to leave for now. Perhaps when you get back -”
Before he could finish his statement, a cloud of grass at his feet weakened, separated, and Cygxz spilled into the earth.
Chapter Two
Dropping the walking stick, Aly bent to the spot where the Bug had disappeared. She tore the grass away from the opening. With bright sunlight behind her, she peered into the opening.
“Cygxz?” From the blackness below, there was only silence. “Cygxz!”
Finally, his voice floated up to her. “Am I lucky.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I found the entrance.”
“I know.”
“Other guides, they never would have taken you here,” he continued. “Other guides would have tried to scare you off, lead you back to the township. Surely I deserve some sort of bonus for this.”
Aly dropped the carrypak from her shoulders. Loosening the straps, she spilled its contents onto the ground.
“It’s dark down here. Too dark for someone with only two eyes. There’s some light from the crystals in the cave walls. I think... yes, some of the bigger crystals have gemstones in them.” Cygxz paused. “Why, look over there, a big stone, violet-hue. A Jayll stone, I’m almost positive.”
Another pause from below. Then, “A Jayll stone, they’re rare. A few hundred dibblesticks in any marketplace. If I wasn’t multi-lensed, I’d never have seen it. How fortunate for you that we’re working together.” His voice grew smaller. “We are still working together, aren’t we?”
Aly picked through the carryall’s contents. Taking a tiny bottle, she dropped it into her tunic’s top pocket. She shook free a coil of rope, wishing it were longer.
From below the hole, she heard a whimper. “Are you hurt?”
“A scratch, that’s all. A twisted arm, a broken leg or two. No cause for complaint.”
She remembered how Cygxz had sulked for two days after chipping one of his minor claws. “Can you walk?”
There was no answer from inside the cave.
Aly searched for an anchor to secure her rope. The whip grass waved under a light breeze, free from any visible obstruction. Bracing her arms about the opening, she dipped her head into the darkness.
Slowly, the world below came into view. Tendrils rose from the floor of the cave, waving helplessly.
“You’re on your back,” Aly said softly.
No Bug would willingly take such a position. On its back, a Bug was nearly helpless.
“I am not,” Cygxz protested in a quavering voice. “I am resting - on my side - while I consider whether to share these treasures with you.” He swallowed audibly. “Pull me up and I’ll bring the Jayll stone with me.”
“A Jayll stone. A desert jewel. Yet here we are, in the jungle.”
“That…that makes it all the rarer, don’t you see?”
She saw the situation all too well. There wasn’t a Jayll stone in the cavern below. She doubted if the cave entrance held anything valuable; if it did, Cygxz would never have revealed it. He’d have enticed her with a different lie.
She also knew, if the situation was reversed, or if her guide found it profitable or expedient, she would certainly have been left to die. Sometimes there were advantages to being a Bug.
Lifting up from the opening, she commanded, “Talk to me.”
Cygxz’ respirations sounded a little loud, a little fast. Running her hands along the curve of the hole, she felt the sharp edge of a root scrape against her palm. Pinching it between her forefinger and thumb, she gave a tug.
Sandy loam jumped upward, spraying a few small pebbles. The brown shoot lifted from the ground. The root was a little longer than her hand and not as thick as her smallest finger.
“Did you hear something?” Cygxz called.
Aly caught her breath. Having studied the caves of T’ing, she knew they rarely contained treasure. She also knew they were seldom left empty.
Urgently, she dug through the thin soil. Finding the smooth contour of the root, her fingers curled around it, and she yanked at it. It ripped through the grass, growing longer as it came into the sunlight.
It was almost the length of her arm now. Still barely thicker than her little finger. Not nearly stout enough.
“The sound is getting louder,” Cygxz said. He moaned softly.
“Scared, Bug?” Aly asked. “You want to be scared of something, be scared of me. You’d better be carrying a Jayll stone when you come to the surface.” She tugged at the root. “We split ninety-ten. You’re the ten.”
“Ninety percent for you!” Cygxz cried. “I found the entrance!” His tone made it clear: Regardless of his situation, he wasn’t about to accept the lesser portion of his imaginary findings.
“Anyone can fall through a hole.”
“But I fell through it first,” he said. “Sixty-forty. You’re the forty.”
The tips of Aly’s fingers were beaded with blood. “Eighty-twenty, then. Twenty percent for you, but only if you carry the gemstones back to the township.”
“Seventy-thirty,” Cygxz countered. “You’re the thirty. Because you’re a chund and I pity you.”
She looped a coil of rope around her palm. Forcing the loop under a bent section of root, she knotted it. The root wasn’t thick enough but it would have to do.
“The sound is here again,” Cygxz said. “It’s not as loud anymore, but it’s closer. Don’t you hear it?”
“I’m coming in.”
“I don’t see anything.” His voice trembled. “I don’t see it but I can smell it. I can hear it.”
Kneeling over the opening, she heard it, too. It was the sound of a great beast, a low rumble in its throat. Over the rumble, she could hear its tamped breathing. It was a wet, wheezing sound, masking a shriek behind every exhalation.
The creature’s odor wafted up to her and she almost gagged. The smell of dust and rot. The smell of disease and death.
It was the smell of a Zneeth.
“Every cave has its noises,” Aly said. She tightened the line around her waist. “Every cave has its smells. A good guide would know that.”
“I’m scared.”
The rope held firm in the bend of the root. She braced her feet inside the circle of the hole. In the few seconds it had taken her to get ready, the scent of disease had grown stronger.
From somewhere inside the pit, there was a cracking sound as if something had pressed its weight upon a fragile surface. The sharp snap echoed through the cavern, so loud and unexpected that it gave her pause.
“I’m scared,” Cygxz said. “I’m scared, I’m so scared, I’M SO SCARED!”
“No!” Aly shouted. “Don’t be frightened, don’t you dare be frightened!”
Cygxz’ scream answered her. It was high-pitched and horrible, wailing and wailing, terrified –
Then gone.
She sagged against the rope, closing her eyes. Knowing better, she cupped her hands over her ears.
But the Zneeth is silent when it feeds.
Chapter Three
“You came to me,” the Bug said.
“So?”
“So I’d hoped you might be reasonable,” the mudhut’s proprietor said. “A few days ago, I sold a sleepsak to a female chund. A Terran, like you, but not as irritating. She had a little pointed nose.”
Dobbins raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“She paid my asking price without complaint. Every stick of it.”
Dobbins considered the offerings he’d brought to the mudhut. There were a handful of coins, some semi-precious gemstones, and three thick towels bearing the legend, Mel’s Travelrama.
On the opposite side of the counter, the mudhut’s proprietor had placed a grappling hook with rope, a nightblack stocking, and a pair of gloves. The grappling hook was three-pronged, with a hook on the end of each barb. The nightblack stocking was too large for a man but could be made to fit. The gloves were an amazing find. They each sported five fingers and might actually fit Dobbins’ hands. They were exactly what he needed.
All in all, it was more than he ever expected to find on a world like this.
“Look at how little you offer me,” Dobbins told the Bug. “A sleepsak for a Terran, sure, an item like that is something special. No wonder the female paid your price. But I’ve brought you treasures and you insult me with this – this junk.”
The shop owner’s eyes narrowed. He responded in his own tongue, a chattering string of sing-song syllables.
“I don’t speak Bug,” Dobbins said. “I’ve told you twice now. Basic. Use Basic.”
The Bug pointed at his pile of goods. Smiling, he chattered at him again.
Dobbins turned to his companion. “Syr, speak to him. Tell him, if he wants to complete our trade, I have to understand him. He has to talk in Basic.”
The Bug chittered away. Syr raised a large purple hand and the shopkeeper’s monologue faltered. The tall hominoid spoke to him and the Bug’s expression turned sour.
“Basic,” the shopkeeper grumped.
“As a kindness,” Syr told him.
“I dislike Basic.”
“This way, we can talk to one another,” Dobbins said. “We can get to know one another.”
“I already know you,” the Bug pointed out. “I dislike you.”
“Y’togish is a difficult language to master,” Syr said, “and my friend is still learning its intricacies. He’s missed so many of your novel suggestions. I, for one, never realized the metal hook was intended to fit inside a body orifice. But I’ve not travelled as widely as Dobbins.”
“The softbody is your friend?”
“He’s seen more worlds than I. Dealt with more traders than I.”
“And yet he survives?”
“Hey,” Dobbins said.
The Bug slapped the countertop sharply. “Junk?” He pointed an accusing claw in the human’s direction. “You begged to see five-fingered gloves. Now, you say they’re garbage? You pleaded to examine the hook. Now, it’s worthless?”
“I expressed a general interest in those items,” Dobbins said. “I didn’t plead.”
“It’s hard to tell with a chund.” The shopkeeper sniffed. “Stay on T’ing for long and you’ll almost certainly end up begging for something.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your ignorance reveals itself once more,” the Bug said. “I’ve given you my terms. You want the trade or not?”
“Not.”
“Hah!”
Who knew Bugs could smirk? Gripping Syr by one well-muscled arm, Dobbins guided his friend to the back of the shop. “I need the emergency fund.”
“No.”
“It’s our money, it’s for emergencies, this is an emergency. Give it to me.”
“You told me we were shopping for essentials. These things aren’t essential.”
“You thought I meant food.”
Syr glowered at him. “What use would an honest citizen have for these items? After the incident on the ship, you swore there’d be no more chicanery.”
“You ate this morning.”
“That has nothing to do with it! Although,” he acknowledged, “it has been hours since we last fed.”
“No sticks then?”
“Not one.”
“So be it.” Dobbins returned to the front counter. Unfolding a towel, he returned his belongings in its center. “No deal.”
“Don’t be foolish,” the Bug said.
Knotting the cloth, he tucked it under his arm. “Let’s go.”
The Bug reached out, catching the human’s sleeve. “No one else will trade with you. I’ll make certain of it.”
“Small concern,” Dobbins said. “It hardly matters now. After all, what is a man without honor?”
“A chund.”
Syr crossed his arms. “You said it was time to go. Why do you continue to linger inside the doorway?”
Dobbins asked the Bug, “Do you know the Mound Lord?”
“Mound Lord Tzzle?”
“Yes, Tzzle,” Dobbins spat the unfamiliar name. “Tell him, with my regrets, that I won’t be at the estate tonight.”
“I know of the Mound Lord,” the merchant said. “I’ve seen him pass by my hut. I’ve never actually met him.”
“Beg his forgiveness for my absence,” Dobbins continued. “Offer my apologies. Tell him my friend is hungry. Tell him the demands of my friend’s stomach are more important than my sworn promise. Perhaps the Mound Lord will understand.”
“Mound Lords are not known for their understanding,” said the shopkeeper.
“Who is this ‘Tzzle’?” Syr asked.
“Mound Lord of this township,” the Bug said. “Very rich. Very powerful.”
“He’s an acquaintance,” Dobbins said. “A close associate.”
“We made planet fall only days ago,” Syr said. “How is it you made such a friend so quickly?”
“I’ve a gift for making friends. While you ate, I canvassed this area’s pathways. While you ate, I shook hands and claws and talons. I’ve made quite an impression on those in power – while you ate.”
“I don’t recall you missing any meals,” Syr said tartly. “Perhaps one of your new friends can lend you the
currency you need.”
Dobbins dropped his head. “Is there to be no end to my disgrace?” he asked quietly. “Is this how you wish to see me, imploring strangers for the nub of a dibblestick?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Reluctantly, Syr reached into the pouch at his waist. His fingers caressed the intricate carvings on the face of the dibblesticks. “These things on the counter. Why do you need them?”
“For the bork hunt tonight. The Mound Lord invited me.” Plucking the sticks from Syr’s hand, Dobbins placed them on the counter. “There’s quite a competition to get the first bork of the season. If I do well, Mound Lord Tzzle will certainly view us with favor. It can only improve our situation.”
The Bug studied Dobbins. “I’ve never heard of a bork.”
“Not much of a hunter, eh?”
“I’ve done my share.”
“Wonderful.” Dobbins smiled icily. “I’ll request the Mound Lord invite you on his next hunt.”
“Me?” Behind his shell, the Bug somehow appeared to grow paler.
Dobbins patted his chest, as if seeking a writing instrument. “What was your name again?”
“Ah, ah, ah. Borks! Yes. Now I remember.”
“Are these creatures dangerous?” Syr asked.
The Bug watched Dobbins for guidance.
“There’s some danger,” he admitted. The Bug nodded eagerly.
Dobbins continued, “The ridges on their backs are deadly, of course, tipped with a corrosive poison. The gloves should help protect my skin. It wouldn’t do to spook the beasts; I’ll wear the body stocking as camouflage. The grappling hook, well, that’s standard equipment.”
“In a hunt.”
“To climb. One has to be able to chase one’s prey. Few beasts are as agile as a bork.”
Syr said, “Why no weapon for so dangerous a foe?”
“Exactly!” Dobbins directed his gaze toward the shopkeeper. “These sticks should cover what I need.” He beamed back at Syr. “A weapon for the borks.”
The Bug’s claw locked onto his offering. “You need a weapon, too?”
“The Mound Lord will hear of your generosity.”
The shopkeeper snapped his beak shut, stifling an unhappy retort. He counted the four dibblesticks twice, as if willing them to somehow multiply themselves.
“You don’t look like much,” he finally said, bringing his doubts into words. “Small even for a softbody, nearly hairless, too thin in the arms and legs to be good eating. Worst of all, you have no money.”
Dobbins gestured grandly at the dibblesticks. “What do you call this?”
“No money.” A tone of defeat crept into the shopkeeper’s words. “Still, you’re clearly dishonest. Mound Lords admire that trait above all others.”
“What I want, what I need, is a spitzpistol.”
“A spitzpistol!” The Bug steadied himself by locking a central leg onto the counter’s edge. “Even on the black market, such a weapon is a rare find. A discharged pistol goes for ten times what you’ve offered.”
“Won’t do me much good if it’s discharged, will it?”
“Besides,” the merchant said, “it’s illegal to sell such things on T’ing. Especially to an off-worlder.”
“A blade, then.”
“A good blade costs twice what you offer.”
“Mound Lord Tzzle -”
“It’s not a blade you want, anyway,” the Bug interrupted. Struck by sudden inspiration, he rummaged behind the counter. “Blades aren’t any good on a bork hunt. What you want is gas.”
“Gas?”
He lifted a dusty cylinder into the light. “Read it for yourself.”
Dobbins squinted blindly at the faded lettering on the label. Years of neglect had left the can dented and scraped. Even if he’d understood the Bug’s language, he wouldn’t have been able to read this.
“What’s it say?” he asked Syr.
“Who knows?”
“Bork gas,” the shopkeeper told them. “Plainly labeled.”
Dobbins took the can in his hand. It felt sticky.
“It’s preferred on social occasions,” the Bug said. “Occasions such as your hunt tonight. It’s considered more sporting.”
Prying the protective lid from the cylinder’s top, Dobbins asked, “Is it poisonous?”
“Poisonous to borks. Harmless to Bugs and lower creatures like yourself.”
“Good.” Dobbins pressed the nozzle and a cloud of mist sprayed into the merchant’s face.
He screeched, covering his eyes as he stumbled backward. Wiping his face, he glared at his customer with reddening eyes.
“You’ve got a deal,” Dobbins said happily.
* * *
Syr waited as Dobbins collected his purchases. Clearly, the devilry ahead demanded something more potent than something found in the nozzle of a long-forgotten spray can. Just as clearly, his friend couldn’t admit as much without losing face.
“Grab the carrypak,” Dobbins said. Opening a small satchel, he dropped the gloves inside.
Syr slung the carrypak over his shoulder.
Just like that, the last of their capital was gone. They hadn’t eaten since daybreak and the desk clerk at Mel’s Travelrama was making thinly-veiled threats about the monies owed on their room.
Syr hoped the bork hunt proved profitable.
Chapter Four
Lost in thought, the guard undulated forward, his bodyshells slapping softly against one another in a rippling motion. Crossing toward the front wall, he puzzled over the problem of slime.
Like all Twills, the guard inherently left a glistening trail of mucus behind him wherever he travelled. The mucus – slime, really – was transparent-yellow in color and carried a lingering sour odor.
Because of this, no Twill had ever been given Mound duty. Unfair as it was, the guard could expect to remain in the outside yard forever, genetically condemned to patrol the interior wall surrounding the estate.
Personally, he thought, I like slime.
Clink! At the sound, the Twill’s head swiveled.
A grappling hook dangled over the top of the wall. A thin line extended from the base of the hook, leading over the wall and back into the hands of its sender.
The would-be intruder had excellent timing; the street patrol had passed the area only minutes earlier. The grappling hook slid away, seeking a hold as it moved over the surface of the inner wall. It was a hopeless effort. While the exterior had a face of rough stone, its opposite side was smooth and seamless. The barbs of the grappling hook had nothing to grip.
A moment later, the grappling hook bumped over the top of the wall and disappeared.
Taking out a notebook, the Twill noted the time and location of the incident. He would file his report but no one would care. The intruder had acted after the street patrol was gone.
Hmmm. The guard brought his eraser down on the notebook. Using tiny, cramped lettering, he copied over the old notation.
Perfect. By changing the time of the event, it appeared as if the trespasser had attempted entry during the middle of a scheduled patrol. Admiring his handiwork, the Twill reflected, How will the others ever explain this?
Dereliction of duty carried a substantial penalty. The members of the patrol would face demotions. There would be pain.
The Twill enjoyed pain, if he wasn’t the one experiencing it.
When questioned about his note, the Twill knew exactly what he’d say. “I’m sure the street patrol meant to make their rounds,” he’d offer. “Something must have happened. Perhaps they stopped to get a drink, or feed, or rut. I’m just a bellyfoot. Who can tell what legged creatures do?”
The word would spread quickly. The two guards on street patrol would be punished. The Twill might even be allowed to watch.
It was so much fun when members of the street patrol were punished.
Clink! The grappling hook bounced against the inner wall again. For a moment, it lay motionless against the seamless surface.
Frowning, the guard examined the hook as it was pulled, ever so slowly, backward. Each leg of the hook had a wicked barb molded onto its end. The burglar must have studied the estate, learned of the interior wall, and planned to circumvent it with the aid of these barbs.
Imbecile.
The grappling hook bounced away, disappearing over the top of the wall. The Twill opened his notebook. Two attempts! The street patrol was definitely in trouble this time.
Clink! The grappling hook reappeared. It dangled in front of the guard.
The Twill frowned again. If this damnable fool remained outside the wall all night, throwing his hook back and forth, he’d almost certainly be caught. Even the street patrol wasn’t blind. If nothing else, the clinking noise would alert them.
If such a thing happened, the burglar would be captured. The street patrol would be praised. There would be commendations. They might even be awarded ribbons.
The Twill often dreamt of receiving a ribbon.
He grabbed the grappling hook at its base. Feeling a tug in response, his grip tightened.
Might he arrest the burglar himself? No, he dare not. Someone would certainly question how the intruder had gained access onto the grounds. Better to hold the rope, he reasoned, let the thief climb almost to the top of the barrier…and then let go.
The Twill could imagine the sound of leg after leg after leg breaking, fragile shell and bone meeting the unyielding surface of the ground’s hard rock.
A chund’s head appeared over the edge of the wall. He gave the guard a cheery nod.
“Softbody,” the Twill said, disappointed. “I so hoped you’d be a Quoxelpede. Something with a lot of legs.”
Bracing his feet against the side of the wall, the chund pulled his upper body into full view. “Mating season, is it?”
“No!” The Twill’s antennae wiggled in disgust. Rocking his arm slowly, he pulled the hook from side to side. The softbody weaved with each movement of the rope. “Would you fall and squish if I let go?”
The invader looked over his shoulder and at the ground below. “I don’t think I’d squish.” He shifted his feet against the tugging motion of the rope. “Would you stop that?”
“Dizzy?” The Twill swung his claw more broadly. Slithering sideways, he found more room to pull on the hook. The chund shuffled back and forth over the outer surface of the wall, refusing to release his hold.
Now, this was entertainment. “What is your name, chund?”
The softbody danced across the barrier, following the action of the rope. Scowling, he didn’t answer.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll let you drop.”
“I’m Dob - uh, Dobernack.”
“Ho.” The Twill stopped swinging the hook. The sudden loss of motion caused the burglar to slip, banging his knee against the rough rock before he stood upright again. “Ho. Dob Dobernack. Chund have such foolish names.”
“What’s it to you, slime-slinger?”
The guard stiffened. “What did you say?”
“What’s the matter? Slime in your ears?”
The Twill brought the grappling hook as far to his side as possible. The taut rope rubbed against his body. “Say goodbye, Dob Dobernack-chund.”
Straightening his legs, the thief twisted his body, yanking at the rope. The hook tore from the Twill’s claw. It shot forward, one of its barbs striking a shell and splintering it. The metal arm dug into the muscle underneath.
The guard called out, in shock and alarm. Having dropped from sight when the line went loose, Dobernack climbed back into view. “Stings, doesn’t it?”
It stung fiercely. “Let go of the rope so I can remove the barb.”
“I’d fall.”
“Not if you stand on top of the wall.”
The chund’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “I’d make a pretty easy target from up there.”
The Twill released his spitzpistol from its holster. Elongating as little as possible, he set it on the ground, away from the mucus pooling at the base of his body. “You’re safe.”
Dobernack nodded in acceptance. He pulled at the rope, bringing himself closer to the top.
The guard cringed with each tug of the rope but his antennae wiggled in anticipation. The top of the wall was covered with an innocuous-looking blue mold, a parasitic growth that ate into living flesh almost instantly. By skittering along the outside of the wall, the chund had avoided the mold. Once he stood in it, his bare ankles would make an inviting treat. He would be in agony.
Releasing the cord, the softbody bent his legs and sprang forward. His hands slapped against the top of the wall and he somersaulted over it. The incredulous Twill watched as he crashed down onto him.
The crawler’s elongated body spasmed at the blow. He lurched backward, fighting to maintaining his balance as the man spilled to the ground.
“Arrr!” The Twill tore the grappling hook from his body. Pieces of shell rained on the ground and a bubble of clouded pus rose from the wound. Wincing, the guard snatched at his spitzpistol.
He leveled it at the intruder. “Why aren’t you screaming?”
Dobernack held his hands out, palms first. His gloves dripped with wall mold.
“Clever,” the guard conceded. He adjusted the control on his weapon. “I don’t mind telling you, this is more than a little inconvenient. How am I going to explain it? Pieces of chund everywhere -”
Moving with the speed of an accomplished thief, Dob Dobernack stabbed his hand forward. Two goopy fingers slid past the Twill’s broken shell to find exposed flesh.
Too late, the guard jerked back.“That hurts.”
The Twill wiggled about, trying to relieve the burning sensation. It didn’t help. His long body shook inside his shell. Hissing in pain, he fired his spitzpistol at the chund. The errant shot sizzled away the largest branch of a nearby tree.
A second shot sent a blinding flash against the interior wall as a thin, white line dug into the surface. In the distance, a voice called out.
Clawing at his shell, the Twill didn’t notice as the burglar retrieved his grappling hook and crept into the shadows.
* * *
Dropping from a ledge high above the surface, a Mound guard glided downward, her translucent wings spread wide. Three foot guards raced from the base of the Mound, drawing spitzpistols as they ran. They formed a half-circle at the front of the Twill.
The Twill weaved blindly, firing his gun. The weapon’s dangerous spray lit up the night sky.
“Dob!” the Twill screamed. “Dob Dobernack!”
“He’s gone mad,” the first foot guard said.
“That’s the way it is with bellyfoots,” the second foot guard said. “They snap.”
“To the ready!” said the Mound guard, touching to the earth. At her command, the foot guards braced their dominant arms into firing position.
“Set your mode!”
“Which setting?” the second foot guard asked. “Stun or splatter?”
Confronted by an armed Twill, one driven insane by his proximity to slime, there shouldn’t have been any question of which mode to choose. But the crawler’s spitzpistol was nearly discharged. Even as the Mound guard watched, a weakened blast burped from its nozzle, burning the grass along the edge of the inner wall. With another touch of the trigger, the gun would be harmless.
She told the others, “Your choice.”
“I used to work street patrol,” the first foot guard said flatly.
“We all did,” the second foot guard said.
Each of them locked their weapons. They waited for a signal from the Mound guard.
“Fire,” she said.
Chapter Five
Dusk approached when Aly returned to the hole. She dropped her carrypak on the ground.
There was work to be done.
The root remained exposed and undisturbed. Digging at its base, she found a stronger anchor for her rope. Securing it, she dropped through the opening as the cord fed through her fingers. With the sky above her growing smaller, she concentrated on her breathing.
Full and easy breaths. Calming breaths.
Her feet touched the ground. Removing a vial from her tunic’s top pocket, Aly thumbed its lid open. A swarm of microscopic flies came alive, streaming from the bottle. They gathered around her, basking in her body heat. In return, they lit the cavern ahead of her.
Cygxz’ body was almost at her feet, wedged between a crooked brown stalagmite and the cavern wall. On his back, frozen in position, he appeared untouched. His beak was open, his eyes wide with terror.
She brushed his head softly. She jerked back as it crumbled away, the empty husk of his skull collapsing.
Suddenly, her legs felt weak.
Control yourself. You’ve seen worse.
Past her fallen guide, the walls held no wonders. There were no gemstones to have teased poor Cygxz, no crystals to color and brighten the cavern. But the walkway before her held a sight that would have horrified any Bug.
The floor ahead was dotted with Bugshells of all sizes and hues. The majority of the body casings led into the earth, their owners having survived entry into the cave with better luck than her guide.
There was a chance Cygxz hadn’t seen the abandoned body armor. Trapped against a wall, barely able to move, he couldn’t have seen much.
She hoped so, anyway, for his sake.
Aly approached the nearest complete shell. The casing was colored a mottled orange, the type of covering commonly carried by a member of the servant class. Being careful not to press upon it, she studied it.
Its owner had been taller than Cygxz but not as stout. A neat, smooth-edged hole was drilled into its forehead. The unfortunate creature was probably screaming as it had been sucked up, its soft essence liquefied and drawn through the hole.
From her waistband, she removed a thin, wickedly sharp dagger. What’s it going to be, tourist?
She could be out of the cavern and gone from the plateau in a half-hour’s time. After all, this was supposed to be her holiday. An adventure was all well and good but she hadn’t come to T’ing to be eaten.
You came here for a bit of fun, she told herself. That’s what you promised yourself, anyway.
Don’t you want to see a monster?
Well, did she?
It was different when it all seemed like a game. Different when she thought the Zneeth, if there were a Zneeth to be found at all, would reveal itself only from a distance, snorting with impotent rage.
What if there are gemstones? The thought came unbidden but she couldn’t ignore it. Not a Jayll stone, no, but what of a Quizert ruby? Not very valuable, as rubies go, but rare. Its heart so red it seems to bleed.
Quizert rubies were found only on T’ing. And only in its jungle caves.
It didn’t seem possible that this pit held any such wonders. Still, when she first arrived at the township, every creature she approached knew of the Crystal Cave. Everyone agreed the cave existed and most said it could be found, vaguely, in the region where Cygxz promised to lead her.
None of her contacts had spoken of treasure. Only one of them mentioned a Zneeth.
She knew her guide had seen her as just another softbody. Tall for a female chund, auburn-haired, a creature whose hazel eyes turned to green when angered. He hadn’t cared she was a transporter. It was one thing for someone to carry documents for the rich and powerful. It was another thing altogether for that person to hike for days through treacherous terrain.
Will a Zneeth feed on a Terran?
Did she really intend to find out?
Averting her eyes from Cygxz’ abandoned shell, she considered the rope dangling from the opening. Chastising herself, she turned from the entrance.
The truth was, she didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t about finding rare stones. In her profession, she’d had countless opportunities for illicit wealth. For her, money was never important.
“Adventure’s afoot,” she murmured softly.
Really, it would be foolish to leave now. She’d spent most of her savings and traveled half a galaxy to find this cave. She would never again get the chance to explore its secrets.
Besides, she was far from helpless. She’d go into the cavern, a little further at least. If things changed, if she became uncomfortable with the situation, she’d leave.
As simple as that.
With the lighting flies illuminating her direction, Aly picked her way along the path of broken and emptied shells. Moving deeper into the cavern, she noticed how some of the coverings bore signs of a different kind of struggle. There was no neat hole to mark the demise of these spelunkers. Where they’d fallen, the surrounding walls were marked by the dried stain of splattered blood.
A Zneeth didn’t kill like this. There was another killer hidden in these catacombs.
Her source of light splintered as the lighting flies darted around her erratically. Listening, Aly didn’t hear anything unusual. Inhaling deeply, she caught a fresh scent. The hint of a blood-smell teased at her nostrils.
Ahead of her, a shadow separated from the darkness. Pausing briefly, it began a slow advance. Behind the flickering light of the flies, another shadow drew closer. Then another.
Her trackers were the size of large Terran dogs. Stalking her, they moved in near silence. Many-legged, they carried their bulbous bodies with improbable grace.
Kildebeests.
The Bugs detested them. They used every opportunity to root out and slaughter them. Forced out of the cities, the surviving kildebeests had learned to hide away from populated areas.
They liked holes and dark places where they could prey upon the lost or unwary. They preferred to eat Bug above all else, but, in a pinch, Aly imagined a softbody would suffice.
They were loathsome things. Pivoting on the heel of her foot, she saw it was too late to retreat.
More kildebeests had entered behind her. They’d slinked through the side tunnels, tunnels she’d ignored because of their low ceilings. There were several of the creatures; at least eight by her count. They moved toward her with careless disregard, their bobbing bodies suggesting boredom with so easy a kill.
Turning back, Aly walked quickly. She wanted to run but didn’t dare outpace the lighting flies. If left in darkness, she’d die.
Her feet crunched over bits of abandoned shells. Rounding a corner, she came to an abrupt stop. The pathway divided, its two forks leading in opposite directions. Each disappeared into blackness.
Suddenly, the lighting flies scattered. Aly swiveled, her dagger held high. A brown-bulbed kildebeest leapt at her and she dodged away, slicing her blade across the creature’s belly.
Screeching, the kildebeest reared back in pain. Blood spraying from its wound, it fell to the ground. Forcing her forearm below its jaw, she drew her knife across its throat.
A line of blood curled along the side of her hand. Pushing with her boot, she thrust the monster’s body from the knife.
Grouped behind her, the remaining kildebeests stood in stunned silence. As if of one mind, they retreated to a safer distance. Gathering together, they formed a circle, each occasionally glancing in her direction.
Aly wiped her hand as the lighting flies hovered around her. Knowing they sought her physical warmth, she remained curiously comforted by their disdain for the cold-blooded kildebeests.
From somewhere inside the circle of killers, a kildebeest’s words rang out. “It got Jojo!”
The beast’s chittering tongue was a fair approximation of the Bug’s own language. She understood it easily.
The kildebeests viewed Jojo’s body solemnly. One after the other, they studied Aly.
“It has tiny fangs,” said one.
“Useless,” agreed another.
“It has a blade.” They considered her dagger, wet with blood. They seemed amused by the size of the weapon.
“It carries no shell to protect it.”
“It has no talons,” one said, giggling.
“No claws,” agreed another, who giggled as well.
“It got Jojo!” a yellow-scarred kildebeest said, roaring with laughter. Soon, the cave echoed with the sound of the kildebeests’ merriment.
Aly withdrew to the edge of the fork, knowing her only escape to the outside world was somewhere behind her enemies. Some of the lighting flies flew away, their remaining glow fading.
“It has no shell,” announced an older, faded kildebeest as the laughter faded. “No talons, no claws. Yet it killed a member of our pack.”
“Luck,” stated the kildebeest beside him. There was a murmur of general agreement.