Authors: Rafael
CHAPTER
15 Cultural Differences
Round
eyes, black as the cave’s interior, inched open. From outside, the tropical
forest’s now familiar scents wafted along curves and around corners. They
included two not detected here before. Abdominal muscles flexed, opening a
marsupial pouch. Kreetor unfolded a wing and reached inside to withdraw the
Seer. Her hand unfolded and pulled away. The tennis-ball size, ball-bearing
like silver sphere hung mid-air. A faint orange glow cast a pall on the
surrounding rock surfaces but the color remained steady. The two scents
presented no danger. Curiosity swelled, goaded by hunger. Her feathers fluffed
then resettled. Kreetor retrieved the Seer and stepped toward the entrance high
up the mountain’s side.
Underneath,
taloned feet crunched the bones and carcasses of past meals. A low hiss
signaled her distaste. The passing of a warrior priestess should never be heard
but accepting the Council’s Sacred Task meant the Unwinged could not accompany
her. Until her return to Sorke, wits and guile would be her servants.
Standing
in the entrance’s shadow, she paused to sample the air currents. Powerful
glands isolated the two scents giving her distance and direction but her large
brain dedicated one-third to processing visual data. Together, nothing within
three thousand wings could escape detection, day or night. One scent recalled
another three cycles ago: the wingless primitive not shaped like the others.
Far below, movement within the dense foliage focused her pupils.
Patience
soothed her as the two approached a position permitting clear view. Their false
skins puzzled her. Magnified details gave no hint why they exposed some
nakedness and concealed the rest. Fragile arms with no hope of flight
nonetheless tried with constant movement and motion. She discerned no
difference in size or weight, nothing that explained the scent distinction.
Perhaps this world had two types of Unwinged.
As
she had since arrival, Kreetor scanned the skies for any sign warriors
patrolled them. Only those incapable of speech or thought flittered about. Some
she had eaten. Frustration forced another hiss emphasized by a clacking beak.
Knowledge belonged to the Unwinged not the Priestesses. To her fell the sacred
duty of guarding the Air Givers’ crèches and in that duty—battle.
A
thought struggled to emerge. Did the scent mark the presence of an Air Giver?
How could that be? The Council had sent her to end all connected with the Gate.
Surely that did not include Air Givers. Surely they would honor her holy oath.
Kreetor
hissed and clacked. Without the Unwinged to provide answers and guidance, she
felt disconnected, unaired. Curiosity overcame hunger. She had to know. With a
mighty flap, the Warrior Priestess took flight.
*
* *
Starting
at the entrance and all along the faint, rarely used trail, Brad and Linda
ignored the signs warning they headed for rugged, dangerous cliffs. They’d met
three years earlier and when their fellow extreme hikers learned the two had
decided on Hawaii for their honeymoon, insisted their getaway had to experience
the closed trail around Kauai’s highest peak, Kawaikini. They paused to look
back on Alakai Preserve’s treacherous swamps some had predicted would turn them
back. “Hold on, honey. I want to take a picture of you with Alakai as a
backdrop.”
Brad
clambered up a few feet, removed his backpack, and fished out the camera. He
brought her into focus then lowered the camera. “Sweetheart, you’re too steamy
for this picture. You need to close one button.” Linda laughed, tossed her head
back to let the breeze catch her long, blond tresses and unbuttoned another.
Brad’s
hands trembled as he centered the viewer. When he took this picture he would
take her. Right where she stood without preamble. Puzzlement swept her face
before horror. Brad felt only the breeze intensify before a taloned foot closed
around his head. One claw sliced through his cheek, jammed his mouth. Another
ruptured his eye socket. He felt himself dragged along the rocky ground before
jerking into the air. A part of him heard Linda’s wails and screams. Another
wondered what happened.
Claws
wrenched open and Brad fell. He looked up to see his blood streaming above.
Beyond a winged monstrosity veered and banked. He slammed into the ground. A
loud crack told him something snapped but blood loss held him in shock’s grip.
He felt nothing. With a moan, Brad rolled onto his back. The sun blazed hot,
but he shivered and trembled. Above him the feathered beast braked. Two flaps
and it landed, legs straddling him. From the wings’ main joint, black-skinned
hands jutted. They began to strip away clothing. Brad howled as the thing
turned him roughly over and back, probing, searching, inspecting. Stubby
fingers flexed, closed on an arm, and tore it off. Brad died before it ripped
off the other.
Linda
stood paralyzed, unable to process the sudden, savage, brutal violence that had
descended without warning. They’d had no preparation; no notice the Eden-like
garden hid a nightmare. Survival shoved forward, crowded out further thought,
reconnected severed reflexes. Adrenaline surged into frozen muscles. Linda
turned and ran. Ran for escape, ran for safety, ran for life.
A
silent shadow glided overhead. It dropped from the sky and morphed into a
killer bird. Wings spread, it blocked further advance. Fighting waves of
mounting hysteria, Linda veered left. Hopping and bobbing, wings flapping, the
thing ran a parallel track. Adrenaline dissipated. Fear-fatigued muscles began
to lag. Linda sank to her knees. Sobs and pants intermixed. She turned to face
her tormentor. Ten feet away, its beak opened revealing a hideous, writhing
tongue. Chirps, clicks, and whirs sounded. Its beak clacked. Dismay laced
Linda’s scream. “What do you want? Leave me alone, leave me alone.” Her cries
ebbed away to whimpers.
The
bird folded its wings from which freakish hands protruded. It bobbed closer,
spewing a string of clicks and chirps. Linda’s hands covered her face. She’d
always imagined life into old age, not this. Her sobs intensified as leathery
hands lifted her by the shoulders. She stared down its gullet from which a hot,
fetid stench billowed. It clacked and chirped. Emotional overload collapsed
Linda into a faint.
She
awoke in darkness. Except for hiking boots, cold rock pressed against naked
flesh. The stygian gloom gave no hint of depth but a shapeless mass detached
from the black stillness. Fear, icy as the stone beneath, again chilled her
blood. Dim shadow gave way to an orange glow. Linda stared wide-eyed at the
metallic, silver sphere hanging in space. She sat up, curling arms and legs
against her nudity. Sounds emerged from the reflective globe. Seconds elapsed
before she recognized them as short phrases in different languages. “Do you
give air?”
Dumbstruck
shock silenced her. Before she recovered, it continued cycling brief
expressions. “Wait, wait. I speak English.” Silence. Whirred clicks emerged.
From behind it, chirps and clicks floated. The ball repeated.
“Do
you give air?”
“Do
I give what?”
“Not
do you give what. Do you give air?”
Linda
let out a breath. It wanted to communicate. If so, she could reason with it to
spare her life. She became frantic for a response. “I, I don’t understand. What
do you mean ‘give air’?” The silver sphere’s orange glow throbbed and pulsed.
“Are
you new?” Linda’s face scrunched in puzzlement. New? As opposed to old,
perhaps?
“I
am new.”
“Who
gave you air?”
Linda
took a deep breath, forced herself to remain calm. If not to her, the question
had to make sense to the creature. What was it? Until today nothing hinted such
a thing existed. It dawned on her it might be an alien. She fought against a
rising sense of panic. An alien wouldn’t think anything like them. She reversed
tack.
“Do
you give air?”
“No.
I guard the Air Givers.”
“What
do Air Givers do?”
“Give
air to new ones.”
Linda
grew excited. The creature before her flew. In the same way water would
influence a fish’s perspective, air would be central to their existence. She
imagined they would not praise one another as “well-grounded”. Insight swelled.
As here, the most important moment in anyone’s existence had to be their first
breath.
“By
‘give air’ do you mean give birth?” The sphere’s glow intensified.
“Do
you give birth?” Relief washed over Linda.
“Yes!
I give air.”
She
never saw the beak that speared her through the face. Linda fell back, dead
before she hit the ground. Relief washed over Kreetor. She could now identify
Air Givers. As Warrior Priestess she had a duty to guard them but the Council
had commanded her to end everyone connected to the Gate. She needed to resolve
the conflict. For now, curiosity gave way to hunger.
Restless
energy coursed through Miranda. She kicked off the covers, pounded the pillow,
and threw herself on her back, wide awake. The clock beside the bunk read
1:17am. Beneath her the ship rolled gently as the engines thrummed across the
Pacific. She turned to stare at the bulkhead. On the other side lay Janesh.
She
pictured him swollen and engorged. Her eyes closed as a hand slipped under her
panties. She pressed two fingers and licked her lips before a soft moan escaped
them. Her lady ached and throbbed. Probing, rotating fingers heightened every nerve.
Her free hand fondled, caressed her breast, pinched the erect nipple hard.
With
a gasp, she sat up. Enough! Miranda knew what she wanted. She wanted sex and
she wanted Janesh to give it to her: raw, savage, primal. She rose from the
bunk, stepped out her panties, and padded toward the shower.
Inside,
its full-length mirror gave her pause to reflect. She turned slowly, grateful
the physical rigors animal care demanded had kept her toned and fit. Unlike the
detached demeanor her image had always invoked, she now allowed its shapely
curves to deepen desire. She reveled in her own sensuality, embraced her woman,
and understood why.
Like
every human being before them, Cross and Dawkins had not known the day or the
hour. They’d awakened unaware their sun would never rise again. Whatever hopes,
dreams, and ambitions they had would forever remain so. She had no idea how
they had lived their lives but she had vowed to inspect every red light, stop
sign, detour, and dead end in her own. Society threw up so many do’s, don’ts,
maybe’s, sometime’s, it left precious little time to
live
. Tomorrow not
today, later not now had become maturity’s signposts but offered no guidance if
they never came and no refunds when they didn’t. If her tomorrow’s had run out,
she would spend now with her legs wrapped around Janesh.
Miranda
let the shower’s liquid needles pick and scrape across her body. Rather than
dampen her ardor, the sharp pinpricks emblazed them. She would lie on his plate
cleansed of uncertainty, doubt, or hesitation. Desire would seize the moment,
tomorrow be damned.
Perfumed
and dry, her body tingled as she opened the bag containing a sheer,
thin-strapped, silk mesh chemise she’d thought an “immediate necessity”. It hid
nothing without being blatant. A light mascara and lipstick followed before she
returned to the mirror and gave her hair a good fluff. Her arms snaked along
her sides and straight above her head where they intertwined. She performed a
slow, serpentine dance, writhing and twisting to her own rhythm then held the
pose. The look matched her wild, primitive state.
Barefoot,
she grasped the doorknob, her heightened passion enflamed by anticipation. A
keen and heated Miranda stepped into the passageway.
*
* *
Janesh
rose from a light slumber, alerted by the dogs’ rumbling growls. He turned in
his bunk to find them staring toward the upper decks. Long hunts together had
attuned him to their body postures. Danger had come to the ChangLi41 as it
steamed toward Hawaii.
Despite
waiting a day for the navy destroyer to pick them up in Tacoma, the USS Ernest
J. King had made short work of the freighter’s head start. At first the ship’s
captain, Jake Santoyo, rejected the navy’s calls to heave to. “Ahoy Ernest J.
King. This is the Captain of the ChangLi41. Be advised we sail under Chinese
flag in international waters.” However right his legal position might have
been, he ordered full stop when a deck gun fired three 5in shells over his bow.
The CIA team, along with the Captain, two Surface Warfare Officers, and six armed
Marines boarded without further incident.
If
they’d had any suspicions about Captain Santoyo’s connections to the
underworld, they ended once he accepted their cover story a foreign power had
smuggled a nuclear device on his ship. He ordered the crew to cooperate fully,
provided access to the computer files detailing the ship’s manifest, and
unhooked the crane to load the suspect cargo containers onto the deck. From
there the plan called for the ChangLi41 to replace the containers with false
ones in Oahu before continuing on across the Pacific with the CIA team on
board. They would chaperon the dummy cargo and follow whoever picked it up in
Singapore. No one raised objections to the plan. Janesh considered it a good
one.
He
threw on pants, slipped his feet into deck shoes, and didn’t bother with a
shirt. From a bag his foot-long hunting knife emerged before he pocketed a
silent dog-whistle. With Duncan and Ronan straining to push through the door,
he paused to mutter a prayer to Vishnu. Door lock released, the silent lion
hunters raced for the companionway.
Miranda’s
cabin door opened as he hurried past. Startled, he jerked around and felt like
he’d been slammed in the chest. Backlit against the hall light, sex oozed from
her every pore and the garment which ended mid-thigh left nothing to the
imagination. Her ethereal beauty left him faint, unable to push air into his
lungs. A cold spasm iced across nerves while heat surged through veins that
engorged him.
Miranda
stared at his bare chest then lingered on his bulging pants. A coy grin spread
across her face. “Well, this is convenient.” Janesh strained to keep eye
contact.
“Where
are you going?”
“I
was feeling…warm. I thought you might have something cool to drink. Taking the
dogs for a walk?” She shifted her gaze to his hand. “With a knife?” Before he
could respond, the ship went dark. Miranda remained irrepressible. “How
romantic.” A machine pistol chattered from the upper decks. “What was that?”
“Gunfire.”
Janesh shoved her back inside. “Lock the door. Stay inside until I return.”
Janesh
rushed to the companionway taking the steps two at a time. Relief escaped his
held breath to find the dogs blocked by a closed hatchway. They stood little
chance against bullets. So did he. His mind raced for a plan.
Above
him and rising four stories over the stern stood the bridge, with the captain’s
and officers’ cabins on the third. The Marine guards occupied the second story
and equipment storage compartments sat deck level. Here just below, the section
housed guests and passengers while the level underneath comprised crew
quarters. Three gigantic cargo holds stretching to the bow formed the ship’s
remainder.
From
below, hastily dressed and thick-eyed, Ben Wolford and two field agents
clambered up. Forefingers spanned the trigger guards of cocked automatics. The
sounds of a fierce fusillade drifted through the closed hatch. Wolford’s
expression turned sardonic. “Someone must have found the Marines. What’s going
on?” Janesh shrugged.
“Just
got here myself. We don’t know enough to charge out this door. I’m thinking of
heading starboard. There’s a passageway that runs below deck the length of the
ship to the bow. From there maybe we can see what’s what and who’s who.”
Ben
glanced at Janesh’s hand. “You can’t go to a gunfight with a knife—or dogs.
I’ll tag along.” He turned toward the agents. “Stay here. No one comes through
the hatch.” The two followed Ben’s lead and put on their head pieces. “I’ll
signal you if we need support.” He turned back to Janesh. “Maybe you should leave
the dogs here.”
“We’re
a team. You’d be surprised what we can do.” Ben nodded.
“Lead
the way, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Come.”
Flanked
by the dogs, Janesh ran toward the passageway’s junction sixty yards away. With
Wolford right behind, the three turned left and continued toward the bow. Boat
designers had installed the narrow walkway to permit access along the ship’s
length during high seas when monster waves crashed over the deck. Now it hid
their movement.
Janesh
reached the corridor’s end where a short ramp led to a sealed hatchway. He
waited for Wolford to catch his breath while keeping an eye on the dogs. Eager
and alert, their body postures indicated no nearby threat. In between pants,
Wolford waved him on. Janesh wheeled the lock and eased the hatch open. Through
the inch-wide gap, sporadic gunfire sounded. Threatening clouds deepened a
murky night. On a calm sea, the ChangLi floated dead in the water. No lights
shone along its hundred fifty yard length and the bridge stood dark against the
gloom. At its base, black-clad figures scurried about. Janesh eased the hatch
shut and filled Ben in.
“Any
sign of the Captain and crew?” Janesh shook his head, Ben continued. “I’m sure
the Marines have to be low on ammo if not out already. We have to help them.
They’ll come for us next. Any ideas?”
“We’ll
have to play it by ear. Our biggest advantage is surprise. Everyone out there
has their backs turned. Stay behind us and provide cover. Once you shoot
they’ll know we’re here so don’t unless you have to.”
“What
about you?” Janesh gave a cold smile.
“Knives
don’t make noise.”
Janesh
slipped outside flanked by the dogs. Underneath, he noted the deck’s rubberized
flooring, meant to keep traction on a rolling sea, would silence footfalls. Six
hold covers sealed by hydraulic doors rose four feet above the deck fore to aft
and formed intersecting paths and aisles. Bent low, Janesh crept behind Duncan
and Ronan toward the midships. Nearing the row between the third and fourth
hold covers, their ridge hairs stiffened. Janesh whistled a stop and sidled
past for a look. Along with tarpaulin and scattered ropes, two Marines lay
sprawled on the deck beside five ski-masked invaders. Janesh muttered a curse
and eased back toward Wolford.
“The
science equipment is gone. The Marines are down at least two men but took five
with them. No telling how many are left of either.” Together they peeked over a
hold cover. Three ski-masked guards patrolled the deck area at the base of the
bridge structure.
“The
rest must be inside. The Marines may still be holding out or your own men have
them blocked.” Before Ben could flip his transmit switch a tremendous explosion
blew out the windows on the Marines’ second story
quarters. Shattered glass and debris rained everywhere forcing them to duck
lower. It didn’t make sense they’d blow up an empty floor. Nothing could have
lived through that.
Wolford moved the thin microphone stem to his lips. “Fogarty,
Barnes, you copy?”
“What’s up, Chief?” Another explosion, more muffled, rolled up
from belowdecks. The open channel hissed static.
“Fogarty, Barnes, you read me? Fogarty, Barnes?” Cold dread
descended on Janesh. Miranda’s defensive line had just disappeared.
“I’m
going to present myself to these three. Don’t shoot. You’re my hole card.”
“They
might shoot you on the spot.”
“Maybe,
but I’m confident they won’t shoot until they’re sure I’m a nobody or have
nothing important. By then it’ll be too late.” Janesh braced the knife in the
small of his back, placed the whistle between his teeth, pointed the dogs
toward the port side, and gave a short blow. Duncan and Ronan trotted off. When
they reached the far railing, he blew short and long. Wolford watched wide-eyed
as the two turned left.
Bent
low, Janesh headed for the starboard side and turned right, counting off an
estimate for the dogs reaching the hold cover’s end. He gave two short blasts.
Duncan and Ronan stopped. Removing the whistle, Janesh called out to the
black-clad guards. “Hey, you over there. Don’t shoot, I’m coming out. I give
up.”
The
three whirled around leveling their weapons. They shouted in Chinese until one
tried accented English. “Hands up. Walk here.” Janesh placed the whistle
between his teeth and slowly stood. He stepped toward the men then blew short
and long. Behind the guards, Duncan and Ronan turned left. Heads low, eyes
focused, they stalked forward step by slow, cautious step.
“We
intend you no harm. Take what you want and leave us.” The one who spoke English
stepped closer while his buddies covered him. He waved his weapon for Janesh to
move up. Silent wraiths crept nearer. “Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed. Who are you?
What do you want?”
“No
talk. On knees.”
“What?
You want me to get on my knees?”
The
Rhodesian Ridgebacks stiffened, tendons rippled along coiled legs. Janesh blew
a long whistle. Lion hunters sprang from their crouch, legs blurred in a death
charge. Instinct turned two heads before they could brace for impact. Down they
went in a flurry of arms and legs. Weapons clattered away now useless as
matchsticks. Screams born in their throats died on their tongues when steel
jaws clamped around necks. The powerful dogs shook them like rag dolls. The
third Chinaman watched in horror as his comrades’ eyes rolled up in their
sockets. Frozen by the attack’s ferocity, he looked down to see a knife point
protruding from his chest. His ruptured heart stopped pumping. A last thought
and breath ended before he hit the ground.
Janesh
pulled hard on the blade before wiping it on the Chinaman’s shirt. He turned
his back to the still snarling dogs worrying their lifeless victims. The
Mahān Śikārī shuddered but let them
vent their instincts. “Release.” They obeyed and trotted up each to a side. He
bent on one knee to hug both. Once again they had cheated death and the three
reaffirmed their bonds and renewed life grip.