Eri steeled her knees so she wouldn’t collapse off the stool into a puddle of mush on the floor. “Why me?”
“You’re our only linguist, Ms. Smith. You must decipher the alien language and root yourself into their society. Only then can you estimate their abilities and any imminent threat to us.”
Did the commander choose her because she was expendable, or truly because of her linguist skills? She shot down the first thought and continued to listen.
Maybe for once I’ll be important.
“We’re not going to land on a planet that may endanger the lives of the people on this mission. You, along with a small team, are to befriend whatever creatures reside on Haven 6.”
Eri’s heart almost burst with pride. “You want me to represent the
Heritage
?”
Grier’s lips tightened like she was mildly annoyed. “This is precisely why all colony ships have at least one linguist—in case they encounter extraterrestrial life.”
“Of course. I-I knew that.” Eri stuttered over her words. “It’s just—I’m so shocked. I’m honored and humbled you’ve chosen—”
Grier interrupted her. “Report all of your observations to me directly. I need to know their intelligence level, their advancements, and any weaponry these aliens possess.”
Eri saluted. “Yes sir, Commander.”
…
The mention of weapons did raise a red flag, but Eri squashed the concern down. The commander was just protecting all of them, making sure no one from the ship would get hurt. Besides, this was the first time she’d been assigned a task that would make a difference, and she wanted to prove herself and make the commander proud at the same time.
By the time I’m done, they’ll be begging to promote me. Then, I’ll have my choice of a lifemate…gorgeous eyes, chestnut hair…someone to talk to, grow old with…
The commander’s rigid voice startled Eri out of her daydream. “Report to the briefing at seventeen hundred in Bay 6. Don’t repeat this to anyone without code nine clearance. Project reference: Delta Slip.”
Eri bowed, her curls falling on either side of her face. She snapped up and turned on her heel, thinking of all the language syntax refreshing she had to do.
The breeze raised every hair on Striver’s arms as he crouched behind a fern cluster, downwind of a bathing swamp boar. The smell of wet hair and mold assaulted his nostrils. The beast stank when it was alive, but roasted on a spit, the smoked meat tantalized his taste buds. He ran his tongue along the tips of the feathers on his arrow for a slight spin when launched.
The boar rose from the water, its hairy hide, over a meter long, prickling the surface. Striver lifted the arrow and cocked his bow.
Holy Refuge, this beast is huge.
Taking a deep breath, he calmed his nerves and sharpened his focus. The boar would feed the entire village for two days, but if it sensed him and charged, its sheer weight alone could crush him. Never mind the cloven hooves. Its snout wiggled, wrinkling up between its curved tusks as it sniffed the air.
No way it’ll sniff me out.
Striver had wrapped swamp weed around his biceps, streaked mud across his forehead and cheeks, and wore a velvety mire leaf on his back. He reeked so much like a swamp rat, he wouldn’t be surprised if one nested in his hair.
Just a little higher and he’d have a direct shot.
The beast sunk until only its black eyes crested the water and Striver cursed under his breath. What was it waiting for?
Leaves rustled across the bog. Striver spotted the boar’s quarry. A weasel worm poked its head from the shoreline, whiskers twitching. The swamp boar stilled.
No, no, no. Not now.
Maybe the weasel worm would squiggle back into the log?
Luck was not on Striver’s side. The small mammal slithered across the shoreline in his direction.
His father’s teachings came back to him.
Wait for opportunity to show itself. Don’t run from fear.
The swamp boar took off, water rippling as it swam across the bog and reemerged on Striver’s side, chasing after the weasel worm. Sludge dripped from its jaw and hefty flanks as it climbed ashore and gained momentum. Then its black eyes locked on his. He aimed and released the arrow faster than his heart could beat.
The beast charged as the arrow slipped through the air like a silent secret and plunged into its chest. Striver fell sideways as the boar roared in pain and slid across the ground, its massive body flattening all the vegetation in its path. Swillow wisps launched in flight, and the weasel worm darted into the undergrowth as if using Striver as a distraction had been its plan all along.
Upturned leaves drifted back to the forest floor. Striver waited until silence fell before emerging from the ferns. He approached the beast from behind, walking through the upturned brush without a sound. It stared into the trees, bleak and unresponsive. He watched the chest for movement, but the boar had released its last breath. Relieved and humbled, he tied the feet with a rope and dragged it away from the shore. He could not bear its weight on his own, so he’d have to ask the villagers to help. Using a few palm leaves, he hid the boar from other predators.
Noting his current coordinates, he slipped the disguise off his arms and circled the bog, using the sun poking through the canopy as a guide. He’d traveled far tracking the beast.
Almost to the border.
Striver paused, leaves rustling around him as a breeze cooled his tense muscles. It would only take a few more steps to reach the wall. The odds of any sign of Weaver were slim, but he’d promised his mother. He had to try. Turning back, he circled the bog and headed to the wall.
The stone fortification rose from the trees like an impenetrable wall surrounding his village’s territory in a semicircle from the mountains in the north to the sea in the south. The stone cast an ominous shadow in the forest. As he approached, the undergrowth tapered off, the darkness too absolute for much growth. Only the tallest trees rivaled the concrete. He touched the cool surface, feeling a mix of wonder and disgust at the only sign of technology in an otherwise natural world. Built by his ancestors, it was meant to segregate the law-abiding from those who wished to follow the pirate legacy.
Metal rungs led to the top, where knife-sharp shards of wood and flint protruded like the hairs on the boar’s back. Striver hung his bow around his chest and climbed, hoping the Guardians didn’t notice his detour. He reached the top and peered through the sharpened pricks. A façade of slick concrete fell to a moat so deep, the water churned black. The tail of a leecher swept up, slapping the surface, and disappeared. But Striver wasn’t interested in the moat waters. He looked beyond the dense trunks, tempted to call out his brother’s name.
“He won’t come.” The voice came from the sky. Striver turned as a ten-foot wingspan blocked the sun.
Phoenix. Had he been watching the entire time?
The Guardian spiraled down, landing on the branches of a nearby tree. He folded his winged arms, iridescent feathers settling behind him, and regarded Striver with pale, opaque eyes. His beaked mouth chirped once, a melancholy sound. “You must let him go.”
Ignoring him, Striver gritted his teeth and climbed down. “I’m never going to give up on him.”
“His life path is his own choice.” The words lilted like sweet birdsong, but to Striver they soured in his stomach.
“I know the rules.” Striver jumped the remaining meter to the ground. The Guardian flew from the treetop and joined him on the forest floor.
Striver resisted meeting his gaze. Phoenix’s controlled emotions frustrated him. Sometimes he wondered if the Guardians felt anything at all.
“I mourn Weaver’s loss as well,” Phoenix said.
Striver pulled his bow over his head and secured his arrow bag closer to his shoulder. “He’s not your brother.”
“We are all brothers here.”
“Of course.” As if he’d forgotten. He knew very well the colony’s unity, taught by the Guardians, was their strength. He just didn’t want to hear it now.
Striver gestured toward the bog. “I felled a boar. Will you help me carry it back?”
“That’s why I came to get you.” Phoenix’s large eyes glistened in a patch of sunlight and, for a moment, he looked amused.
“Must you follow me everywhere I go?”
“The chosen leader of the people has to remain safe. You take risks, just like your father did. Besides, I was guarding the border. I only spotted you when the swillow wisps rose from the trees.”
Striver quieted with the mention of his father. They walked the remainder of the way in silence, listening to the calls of den micers and the pattering feet of weasel worms. The putrid bog air turned to the crisp smell of fresh leaves.
A horn wailed over the forest, and they paused, searching the shadows around them. Striver whispered, “Which direction did it come from?”
Phoenix craned his head. “South. By the
S.P. Nautilus
.”
“Of course.”
Clutching his bow, Striver darted through the undergrowth as Phoenix rose to the sky. The Guardian flew swiftly, but he’d be damned if he let the birdman beat him to the call. Jumping over a brook, he landed on the other side and his boots slid along the embankment. He regained his footing and sped forward, following others as they rushed along the border.
When he reached the southern portion of the wall, men perched along the ridge, firing arrows across the moat on the other side.
Weaver. I hope he’s all right.
Scrambling two at a time, Striver climbed the rungs. He reached the top just as Carven released an arrow. Lawless men and women braved the moat, carrying lengths of rope to storm the wall. They wore boots made from thick boar hide up to their waists to protect against the sharp teeth of the leechers.
“Damn pirates have come for the ship,” Carven growled, reaching behind him to pull another arrow from his bag.
Striver let an arrow fly as a warning and turned to Carven, wondering how a father of four could look so fierce. “They’ll never make it across. The water’s too deep.”
Carven shook his head, streaks of gray hair making him look older than his years. “They don’t have to.”
“But their arrows will never reach—”
One man waded into the waters and held up a black bow, made from bray wood and strung with swamp thickets. He raised it to the top of the ridge and let an arrow fly with a rope attached. The arrow hit Thrift, the potter from their village, and he fell backward off the wall until the rope pulled taut. Lawless hooted in triumph.
Striver’s heart sank.
I know that bow.
Weaver had equipped the army with Striver’s latest invention, the Death Stalker. They’d made them together for the last hunting season. He’d been so proud of his brother for helping him design it. Never did he think Weaver would use the great reach of the bows to scale the other side of the wall.
Never did he think his brother would side with the enemy.
As he gawked, Lawless flooded the wall with arrows, securing ropes. Three men dangled from the first rope, climbing closer to the top of the wall, hand over hand. A team of men on the banks covered them. Guardians flew above the mass, dropping nets to confuse and contain the horde. At a time like this, Striver wished their culture allowed them to act more aggressively.
“There’s too many; I can’t keep them all back.” Carven’s voice wavered.
“Hold your position. Focus on the banks.” Striver shouted the orders to the others on the fence and grabbed an arrow from his bag. The chaos around him muted as he focused on the rope. He saw every twine of fiber and the bulge of the three-part braid.
Now.
His arrow sailed across the moat and severed one of the braids. The men on the rope held on as their lifeline bounced but didn’t break.
Damn!
An arrow whizzed by his cheek. A moment later he stood, aiming for the same spot. The men hung only a meter away from the unguarded part of the wall where Thrift had been stationed. Striver swore he could smell their unwashed clothes and fresh sweat.
Carven gritted his teeth as he ducked behind the wall. “They’re coming.”
“I got ’em.” Striver pulled the bow taut, feeling the familiar stretch of his arms. He released the tension and the arrow flew a millimeter lower than the first one, slicing the rope in two. The men writhed in the air as they fell to the moat. The leechers swarmed, and the water boiled with their wrath.
Blocking their screams, he turned to the other ropes and raised his bow. This time his arrow sliced two at once, each rope sending more men and women into the murky waters. Carven hollered in triumph by his side, but Striver felt no accomplishment in sending men to their deaths.
Carven shouted over the wall. “Take that, you Lawless pirates!”
Disheartened by their comrades’ plunge, and writhing in the nets the Guardians had dropped from the sky, the Lawless retreated to the water’s edge and into the safety of the dense forest, pursued by the Guardians above.
“Well done, Striver.” Carven saluted him. “You’ve driven them back.”
Disgust overwhelmed him as he watched the leechers swim in and out of the pile of empty clothes floating along the surface. “If only they’d stay in their own lands and stop bothering us. No blood would be shed.”
Carven put a hand on his shoulder. “As long as we have the
S.P. Nautilus
, they’re going to keep coming.”
“I’m tempted to destroy it. As much as it is a reminder of where we came from, it holds too many secrets. If the Lawless got their hands on that technology…”
“They won’t. We’ll protect it like we always have.”
Striver sighed, the adrenaline rush wearing off. “I hope so.”
As the last few men disappeared into the forest, Striver spotted a head of chestnut hair a shade lighter than his own.
Was it him?
“Weaver!” He picked his way through the razor-sharp protrusions on the ledge.
Carven called after him, “Striver, wait! It’s too dangerous with Lawless still out there.”