Authors: Taylor Anderson
22
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Wilds of Borno
“W
hatcha thinkin’ a
bout?” Dennis Silva asked, dropping to the damp mulch beside Ensign Abel Cook. Water dripped constantly from the dense canopy in the aftermath of the daily deluge, and Silva removed his helmet and slicked back his sodden hair. Nothing could repair the wild appearance his beard had achieved, and like them all, his clothing had begun to rot off. What remained of the “Corps of Discovery” and its native Khonashi guides had stopped for a brief, unusual rest, and the majority of Abel’s command was making the most of it. Many were already asleep where they’d dropped their packs. The Khonashis themselves were suddenly very busy, however, grooming themselves and each other, and cleaning their weapons and gear. Abel nodded at them and snorted.
“I assume we must be near their home at last, and they want to look their best when we arrive.”
Silva nodded, and Abel looked at him, surprised the big man didn’t comment further. Maybe even Silva was finally worn out?
No
, Abel realized disgustedly, when Silva started
humming
to himself while he picked at something on his shoe with a stick! Abel groaned. It was impossible to say how far they’d come in a straight line, since no part of their journey hadn’t gone up, down, or around innumerable obstacles. The confusing, convoluted track I’joorka and his band led them on constituted countless miles, and they’d taken them at a literally killing pace. Three of I’joorka’s warriors had been slain by creatures they probably could’ve avoided or killed if they hadn’t been so exhausted themselves, and a ’Cat Marine had fallen to his death crossing one of the mind-numbingly numerous gorges that snaked and squirmed through the darkest interior of the land. Everyone, even their Grik-like escort, had grown thin and haggard, subsisting largely off things Abel preferred not to contemplate. He still considered himself a naturalist in training, but their pace had made serious studies difficult, and honestly, his enthusiasm had waned. He was still fascinated by many of the creatures of Borno, but he’d developed an intense dislike for the large, frightening insects. There’d been little time for hunting, and I’joorka didn’t allow cooking. As they’d suspected, cooking actually
drew
predators. As for the bugs, Abel’s most intense scrutiny now involved breaking off the bits he simply wouldn’t eat.
Most of Abel’s party had been violently sick at some point. The pace they maintained and injunction against fires made it impossible to boil all the water they drank after all. The resulting “scramblin’ screamers,” as Silva dubbed the condition, hadn’t killed anybody—yet. But only time would tell if they’d picked up any toxic parasites. Everyone had eventually recovered to various degrees, but the acute stage of the affliction had made it impossible to maintain one’s dignity, and I’joorka’s people had been amused by the discomfiture of their charges—until Pam Cross silenced their hacking laughter at her expense and sent everyone pelting through the trees with an apparently indiscriminate fusillade from her Blitzer Bug. Abel was reasonably certain the shots had been aimed high. But Pam was treated with the most respectful care by the Khonashis after that.
It had been a grueling trek in every way, and only Silva and Moe seemed little affected by the water or exertion. Moe had lived in the wild all his life, and Cook suspected Silva had “inoculated” himself against the water at some time past, against standing orders, by drinking it without telling anyone. In any event, just then, Silva was far fitter—and even cheerful—than Abel Cook would’ve preferred.
“They do appear to be dandyin’ theirselves up,” Silva finally agreed, gazing about. “I’ll be glad to get outa these sticks an’ meet this English-speakin’ honcho o’ theirs.” He chuckled. “At least that’s made our chore o’ gabbin’ with the critters a touch easier.”
“If all this isn’t just some elaborate scheme to lure us to their home as hostages—or food,” Abel grumped.
Silva laughed. “I’joorka ain’t gonna
eat
us! Him and his pals are sociable as puppies! Larry’s even glommed on to a little o’ their lingo. He likes ’em. Ain’t that right, Larry, you fuzzy little gecko?” he added as Lawrence approached.
“I think they’re okay,” Lawrence said seriously, crouching down. “They’re less angry around the ’Cats, in general . . .” He nodded at Moe, who was gumming a piece of jerky. “They still don’t like he, though. They know he’s a hunter.”
Silva grunted thoughtfully, then tossed his stick and fished out his tobacco pouch to stuff a wad of the yellowish leaves in his mouth. “Mmm.” He looked back at Abel. “Well, anyway, I think they’re square. Hell, one of ’em bought it savin’ that silly damn Pokey, who was laggin’ behind, pickin’ up the brass you dropped shootin’ at that thing that looked like a sport-model skuggik!” He saw Abel’s expression. “Not your fault, Mr. Cook. I’da shot it too. Nothin’ the size of a turkey deserves that many teeth. How was we s’posed to know they run in swarms like that?”
“I should’ve known,” Abel said with a frown. “I believe they
are
skuggiks of a sort and they, like most scavengers, congregate together.” He didn’t mention he’d shot the thing because it just suddenly appeared in front of him and scared him very badly.
“Well, I’joorka wasn’t pissed at you or us. Just warned us not to be shootin’ at them things unless we was willin’ to get ’em all. Took it pretty well, actually, an’ even seemed pleased ol’ Pokey was okay. Really, if it was anybody’s fault, it was mine,” Silva admitted, “for lettin’ us get as strung out as we were at the time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since we got on this world, it’s that lone wolfin’ it ain’t such a good idea. Folks have to stick together.”
He chewed for a minute, looking around. Gunny Horn was asleep, and so was Stuart Brassey. Pam wasn’t, but she was with one of the Lemurian Marines a short distance away, cleaning weapons. All were within a perimeter maintained by I’joorka’s warriors. “Anyway, I was hopin’, once you an’ the rest are secure amongst the friendly aboriginites, maybe you’ll cut me an’ Moe, an’ ol’ Larry loose so we can scamper back ta Baalkpan. Somebody’s gotta report, an’ not only do us three have the best chance o’ makin’ the trip in one piece, but
Walker
’s refit’s bound ta be finishin’ up by now—an’ honestly, Mr. Cook, I don’t want to miss my boat.”
Abel sighed. “I thought you just said we need to stick together?”
“Sure, an’ you do. Me an’ Larry an’ Moe’ll be stickin’ together too, all the way home.”
“What about Lieutenant Cross?” Abel asked, cutting his eyes at Pam.
“Well, she stays with you, o’ course.”
Abel shook his head. “We’ll see, Chief Silva. Once we discover the situation at our destination.” He glanced at the big, black-bearded Marine snoring against a tree. He was still skinny, but they all were, and he’d muscled back up amazingly.
That probably has a lot to do with the high-protein diet we’ve subsisted on,
Abel mused distastefully. “Gunny Horn should be sufficient to protect us, if intimidation is all that’s required.” He squared his jaw. “And the rest of us can take care of ourselves.”
“No doubt o’ that, Mister Cook!” Silva hastily added, sensitive to the boy’s feelings. “An’ like you said, we need to see the setup first. Just thought I’d plant the seed.” He paused. “Now, what else have you been thinkin’ about?”
Cook’s face reddened. “That’s none of your business, Chief Silva.”
Dennis nodded. “That’s what I figgered. You’re worried about the munchkin princess. Me too. An’ I’d be lyin’ if I said another reason I’m anxious to get back ain’t to get the latest news outa the Empire.”
Abel formed a protest, but it never came. Instead he just looked away and repeated, “It’s none of your business.”
“I reckon it is,” Silva countered. “I’m mighty partial to the Imperial scudder, as you know, and uncommon protective of her too.” He took a breath and spat a yellowish stream. “That said, I know Princess Becky kinda likes you an’ Mr. Brassey, and I sorta wish one er both of you was with her about now. She’s bound to be havin’ it rough.”
“She does like you,” Lawrence confirmed, his crest rising in what could have been amusement or protectiveness. He pointed his snout at Brassey. “He too.”
The mating customs of Lawrence’s people were very strange to, well, everyone else, and the idea of human or even Lemurian monogamy was just as alien to him. He did understand friendship, however, and had learned to equate human and Lemurian mating rituals to intense friendship with a procreative component. Sometimes he wondered how that would work among his people, but knew, with his own Sa’aaran race so reduced, such a thing couldn’t happen for a long, long time. Customs change, however, and with his people’s close association with the Maa-ni-los, who knew what Sa’aaran culture would become in the future?
“Why not you and he oth— each—’arry her?
Silva laughed as Abel turned even redder; then he ruffled Lawrence’s crest. “Don’t work that way, little buddy! If it came down to it, much as they like each other, Mr. Cook an’ Mr. Brassey’d face each other on the Imperial Duelin’ Grounds before that ever happened!”
“They’d
kill
each other?” Lawrence demanded, eyes wide.
“No!” Abel finally managed, rising. “I’ve no reason to believe the princess—I mean Governor-Empress—Rebecca likes either of us in
that
way, at any rate. Even if she did—does—the choice is entirely hers, and she’ll likely choose another long before either of us sees her again! And, like I said, it’s no one’s business! Look,” he said, changing the subject. “I’joorka is coming. I suspect our short rest is at an end. Get everyone on their feet, Chief Silva!”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Cook.”
* * *
They reached I’joorka’s village within the hour, and even more surprises awaited them there. The first thing they noticed was sharp, animalistic cries from the trees that seemed to carry a great distance through the jungle, yet whoever—or whatever—made the sounds was extremely well camouflaged, and they couldn’t pick them out amid the leaves and branches overhead.
“Perimeter guards,” Gunny Horn said to Silva. “Good idea.”
Silva was squinting above with his good eye. “Yeah. Enough scary boogers rompin’ through the woods, even without enemy tribes.”
“An’ they don’t eat bugs heah, thank God,” Pam added, moving up alongside them. “I smell wood smoke.”
“Me too,” Silva confirmed, “but that don’t mean anything except maybe they
cook
their bugs at home. Besides,” he leered, “I figgered you was getting’ partial to ’em, considerin’ what they done for your figure.”
“Shut up, creep.”
The first sentries showed themselves soon after that, coming forward to greet I’joorka and his comrades and stare at the newcomers.
“Close ranks!” Horn barked at the straggling group. “Shoulder arms!” he added, hoisting his heavy BAR to lie against his collarbone. The ’Cat Marines quickly scurried into line, pushing Pokey along with his sack of brass. Moe, maybe a little chastened, put his musket on his shoulder and so did Lawrence. Even Silva raised his massive rifle from where he habitually kept it in the crook of his arm. Pam left her Blitzer Bug slung, but straightened. Abel looked back and smiled thankfully at Horn; then he and Brassey look their places at the front of the little column.
More of the rust-colored, striped, feathery/furry, reptilian . . . folk . . . appeared. Younglings, so much like the “Griklets” that plagued their armies in the West, scampered everywhere: up and down trees, across their path, even around their feet. They seemed just as curious and ill-behaved as their Sa’aaran cousins, but unlike Griklets, they weren’t hostile, only rudely curious. The procession continued on.
“Hey . . .” said Horn, looking around, surprised, and the rest suddenly realized they were surrounded by permanent dwellings. They’d probably been moving among them for some time before they noticed. The structures were built high in the trees to avoid predators, in the Lemurian way, but were wildly organic, formed and shaped from the living jungle. They’d all heard tales of how the “swamp lizards” of
Chill-Chaap
had encouraged a similar warren to engulf the once-stranded
Santa Catalina
, but only Moe had actually seen it—and he wasn’t the first to spy the related technique here. The dwellings weren’t deliberately decorated, although colorful, flowering ivies covered them like spiderwebs—but that had grown increasingly common throughout the local jungle. If anything, great pains had apparently been taken to camouflage the structures and the ivies only added to that effect.
“Wow,” Brassey said, “no wonder our aircraft have never seen anything from above! One has to look hard to distinguish the buildings from the
ground
right beside them!”
“Yes,” Abel agreed. “And even the wood smoke from cookfires will dissipate before it filters through the trees and up as far as the sky! It might resemble the evaporative haze that is so prevalent. Amazing! They’ve obviously been building this way for a very long time, long before they could’ve seen aircraft. Does it help them hide from other tribes? Perhaps the dwellings are defensible from ground attack as well? Fire might be a concern . . . but the living foliage would be difficult to light. They could slay their enemies from above. . . .” He abruptly stopped speaking, stunned, because it was then that they saw the first
human
Khonashis.
“I’ll swan,” Silva muttered. “
Real
Injuns!”
Groups of humans dressed in leather breechcloths and little else intermingled among the Grik-like Khonashis in an everyday way that indicated they were perfectly comfortable with the association. Most had shaved heads and were daubed with paint that made their dark skins match the coloration of their friends’, to a large degree. Some were garishly decorated with claws and teeth, feathers and furs, and most appeared to have filed their teeth to sharp points. Silva had seen that before and wondered if it was a tradition these people brought with them—from wherever they came from—or did it to simulate the sharp teeth of their Grik-like friends. All of them, males and females, carried longbows almost identical to those the Lemurian armies used to such good effect before they had firearms. Many wore what looked like bronze-bladed “Lemurian” short swords or cutlasses as well. Just as the travelers had suspected when they first saw the Khonashi crossbows, it appeared again that there had to have been some kind of contact between these people and Baalkpan around the time the destroyermen were first helping arm the Lemurians there against the Grik.