Stardogs (58 page)

There were two possible ways that S’kith 235 could evade certain capture and death at the hands of his masters. A Beta-Morkth raid, or flight. The probability of the former was about 0.2 percent. The Beta-Morkth would simply kill him, it was true; they despised the Alpha’s use of humanity. The human race was something to be destroyed utterly, and not consorted with. The probability of S’kith 235 fleeing was even slimmer: The hive was his universe, a conditioning going to the core of his being from his earliest thought. The Alpha-Morkth had attempted to breed the kind of loyalty which was instinctive to them, and constantly reinforced by the pheromones unique to each queen’s gene line. At the same time they had done their best to remove all normal human emotional cues: love, family and sex.

They had failed to make S’kith loyal to anything but himself. In humans loyalty is a two-way street, and the hive gave none of the emotional return humans require above such physical things as nutrition. But they had managed to make him terrified of the non-hive world.

The women had known his time was coming. They had not realized that the time was tonight. S’kith stood watch in the darkness on the hive roof. As soon as he saw them come out of the exit port, the Morkth-man knew something was wrong. The mistresses never exposed themselves on the roof of the hive. Besides the safety aspect, they found clear, bright light unpleasant. The gene mistress leading the all-Morkth party was easily recognizable, her high-status patterned chelicerae gleaming in the moonlight. The conclusion was inescapable. They’d found him. S’kith drew his sword and began the ritual of bioenhancement exercises he knew would double his reaction speed, and stop all pain for a few minutes. There was a high physiological cost to this, but he doubted that he would be alive to pay it.

Two hundred zeth-klicks away the Beta-Morkth scanners were watching with their endless robotic patience. They registered the presence of the traitorkind in an exposed position, and alerted their masters.

The target was tempting: so many Alpha exposed in one fire zone. Clawed hands flickered across the console, calculating the possibility of success, against the use of scarce and irreplaceable resources. The target was declared worthy of one low-impact chemical missile unit. It streaked away on its killing trajectory.

The blast knocked S’kith off his feet. But by the time the debris was starting to fall the warrior training took over. He was up and running. This was a target zone for ordnance: get out, get down. The action seemed to break down barriers within him. Now, he would not,
could
not stop. He hurtled across the broken masonry, swung down from beam to beam, and ran at the gate of the outer hive enclosure.

The gate was intended to prevent entry by human ground troops—a low probability threat here, deep in conquered lands. The hive roof was where Beta-Morkth would attack. The best Morkth-men warriors were put up there. After all, to defend the hive against true Morkth warriors with technologically advanced weapons called for near superhumans. The next best of the crop of Alpha-Morkth bred warriors went to the invasion troops. The gate guards were the bottom of the barrel, adequate for their task, but almost totally rigid in their responses. They were gate guards. Not even an explosion from the hive behind them would turn them. The gate was open, to allow the passage of a worker Morkth-man party. The gate guards would continue to watch for any threat from outside, unless otherwise ordered. S’kith, his body converted into a deadly killing machine by the bioenhancement and pure adrenalin, cut through them like a sharp scythe through wheat stalks.

He was out, and still running. The surviving gate guards stood staring, confused. They watched as S’kith 235 hurtled straight into the flood-full river at the foot of the hill. He was gone, the black of his uniform swallowed by the darkness and the black muddy churn of earth-laden water, and its broken flotsam of branches and logs.

Swimming was not part of a roof guard’s training. Drowning, however, was something for which he needed no prior experience. S’kith 235 had, in his frantic thrashings, managed to break the surface several times. He was about to go under for what would have been the last time, when a section of uprooted walnut tree caromed into his back. He managed to grasp its branches with all the strength of a drowning man.

It had taken the last of his energy to haul himself onto the trunk of the long-dead tree. Having roughly wedged himself upright between two branches, his mind slipped into post bioenhancement oblivion.

He regained consciousness to find his clothing being torn away by a scarecrow figure in a long, ragged skirt. The stirring and opening of his eyes elicited a start and a surprised comment, “Well, damn me if it ain’t alive. Mebbe there’s more profit in it than just a few bits o’ black rag.” He was vaguely aware of being dragged, then of a delicious warmth stealing through his limbs.

The Morkth-man drifted in and out of consciousness several times in the next few days. The man who gave him broth and tended the fire, confirmed S’kith 235’s beliefs that non-Morkth-bred humans were very alien creatures indeed. Totally misshapen, bulging with fat on his chest, and wide about the hips, and not wearing proper trousers. Long-haired too. Fever and darkness took him down again.

The place was silent when S’kith woke clear-headed at last, some three days after his flight and involuntary escape from the hive. His ribs ached, and his scalp and chin itched furiously. He looked about the place, trying to piece happenings together from a patchwork of memories.

He was in a low cave, crudely fronted with rocks, and a half-drawn curtain of hide. A smoky fire burned at the back of the cave. He was lying under some rough covering on a straw pallet. His clothes were gone, and his hands and ankles were bound. He heard voices, and they were coming closer.

“. . . . found him on that spit yonder, more dead ‘n alive, jammed in a dead tree, free days ago.”

To S’kith there was something familiar about the voice. “Them Morkth-men is good workers. Too dumb t’stop, heh, heh! You gonna give me a goo’ price fer ‘im then?” There was a wheedling, whining quality to the voice.

Somebody snorted. “Likely not worth a bent copper, Sheela. He’s probably so bent ‘n buggered by the river I won’t find a buyer for him.”

“Naw! ‘E’s in good nick, I promise. Checked him out meself, all over. ‘E’s well hung too. Fought of keeping ‘im for a stud for me old age, I did.” The vaguely familiar voice went off into a cackle of laughter.

“He’s entire?” The second speaker was incredulous. “Then he’s no bloody Morkth-man. Stole the clothes y’showed me, likely enough. Stupid bastard.”

“Well, I’ll take ‘em off, then. I’ll not let ‘is nuts stand between me an’ a goo’ price.” The hide was pushed aside, and the skirted figure with long hair was suddenly outlined against the background of a river sand spit. The face was prune-wrinkled. It was something that S’kith had never seen before. Morkth-men were killed when they began to age past their prime. The eyes that looked out of the face were sharp, and flickered across his attempt to sit up.

“See, Ser Farno. ‘E’s in good shape, considering. Now, I’ll cut his cods off quickly.” The knife that came out of her sleeve was long and wickedly sharp looking. It was a mistake. The sight of the knife triggered defensive reactions. To the Morkth trainers the best form of defense is attack. The old cords that bound his wrists were no match for S’kith’s iron-hard muscles. They snapped, and he was moving, propelled by his still-bound legs. The knife wrist was seized, forced down. The blade of his hand struck the knife wielder’s neck. There was an audible brittle crack.

Without pausing to look at his fallen victim, S’kith took the knife and sliced his ankles free. Stepping into a crouch, knife extended, he advanced on the other person who had entered the cave with her.

“Keep away from me, you bloody madman! You’ve killed the old woman! You’ll hang for that!” There was real fear in the fat man’s voice as he edged back against the wall.

S’kith paused. “Woman? That was . . . a woman?”

Trying to press his way back into a crevice behind him, the man stuttered. “Yeah, I, I know she was an ol’ bitch, and as ugly as sin, but you didn’t haveta’
kill
her. Just . . . just lemme out, okay?”

“You are sure that was a woman? Are you a woman too?”

“Me!” Squeaked the fat one. “No . . . no really, I’m a man. Just like you. I saw . . . it . . . it . . . it was an
accident
. Honestly! Now I’ll just go an’ tell the Sheriff . . .” He made a sudden lunge, attempting to reach the mouth of the cave. S’kith cut him down without remorse. He’d killed a woman . . . that was wrong . . . somehow. He’d never wanted to
kill
warrior-brood women. He looked down at the tumbled body. Was this really what they looked like?

He lifted the dead woman’s skirt. Yes, undoubtedly. She was physically different from him. So
that
was what it actually looked like. He had never been able to
see
it properly before. His emotions, those strange puzzling feelings, were stirred. If he had known the term he would have said that he was saddened by the killing. So, as it was what the females in the Morkth cells had always wanted of him, he had sex with the body. It was not particularly pleasant, but he felt it was the least he could do. Getting up afterwards he realized he was hungry. So he cut himself some hunks off his male victim, and ate them. He took some of the clothes and dressed. He stropped the knife carefully, and shaved his face and head. Then he cut some more steaks for later, put them into a sack, and set out into a world he felt he did not belong in. The gold from the slave buyer’s purse was left scattered in the dirt of the cave floor. He had no idea that it was of any value.

It was nearly four hours later that the hue and cry was raised. The country was up in pursuit of the monster: Rapist, Murderer and Cannibal.

CHAPTER 4

The thin stream of filth spilled out of the broken pipe and onto the sand. Once, the pipe had extended far out into the breakers. But time and storms had eaten at it. Now, at low tide it spilled into a series of filthy pools and then trickled into the sea. Occasional seagulls swooped and picked, their mournful cries echoing in the mouth of the pipe, where a scared, hungry and bitter boy waited. The pipe-mouth circle of sky blue faded, becoming tinted here and there with orange and violet cloud streaks. It would be dark soon, and then he would set out.

The mountains . . . how would he get there? All the roads and trails would be watched. He also had no food, no way of carrying water, and a desert to cross. But he was a city child, to whom the distances on the map meant little, and the realities of crossing the desert meant nothing at all. He would follow the dry valley that the map described as the Syrah River. There would be no patrols, for there was no road there, and surely he would have finished crossing the desert by morning.

The sun sank at last in torn gossamer pink streamers of vague cloud. Keilin stepped out into the purple twilight, stretching his cramped limbs. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and washed his hands, legs and feet in the surf margin. Even half-wet the walk to the mouth of the valley was pleasant. The sand was still warm on the beach, as was the gentle night breeze.

When Keilin reached the rocky point which had been shown as the mouth of the river, he set off inland across the farmlands. He was city bred, but when he stumbled across a melon in a field he did manage to recognize it.

Keilin picked five melons, and carrying them in his shirt, he marched resolutely away from the sea, and onwards into the valley. Soon the fields gave way to short grass. The tussocks became further apart as he went on, and then there was just dry sand crunching underfoot. He walked, and walked, and walked. The moon rose slowly ahead of him. Eventually the boy could go no further. He sat down with his back to a rock. A cold dry wind blew down the valley. Taking a melon out of his shirt, Keilin tried to work out how to get into it without a knife.

Finally he settled for cracking the fruit against a stone. The hard outer peel split, showering him with seeds. Eagerly he scraped these aside and bit into the flesh. It was surprisingly hard, totally lacking in the sweet succulence he’d expected. It had less taste than the paper he had chewed on, on hungry days in the library. There was moisture, but not much. The only melons he’d ever tasted before had been two he’d stolen in the marketplace. Belatedly he remembered the housewives pressing and smelling them. Keilin worked things through in his quick mind: ripe fruit would be on the market, not still in the fields. Doggedly he ate on, resisting the temptation to try the other melons. It filled his belly. It gave some moisture. It did nothing for his sore feet, but it did lift his spirits considerably.

He had meant to sit for just a few minutes and then press on, but sleep came on silent feet and stole his consciousness. Sheer cold eventually cut through his exhaustion, waking him to stare wide-eyed at the panoply of stars above him. The moon was edging down, and in the darkness and clear sky, Keilin suddenly saw just what a crowded heaven it really was. The smoky sky of Port Tinarana had never allowed him to see one tenth of its icy splendor. Besides, the nights were working time, not stargazing time. He knew what stars were, having read incredulously about them. He’d laughed at the ignorant masses who believed them to be the lights in the windows of God’s house. Now it didn’t seem so funny. Ah well, perhaps if the mountains didn’t offer refuge, he could travel to those stars and find a safe place somewhere.