As I hopped back down the stairs, my paws fitting nicely into the grooves etched by centuries of feet, hooves, pads, and other treads, I knew what I had to do.
If I wanted that future I’d envisioned on Ersh’s mountain, or any future, I’d have to find my Enemy before it found me.
And stop it.
53:
Concourse Afternoon
“AND you can afford all this?”
I’d have thought Ragem’s clothing would have been enough to convince any shopkeeper, but perhaps it was the reticent way the Human handled the credit chip—as though it might bite—that raised all four of the clerk’s eyebrows.
“Check it yourself,” my friend said with admirable aplomb, as if he were in the habit of buying a private yacht and requesting it be ready to lift in two hours, with all the supplies and toys available installed. The clerk, an Ervickian in its ap-morph and so definitely old enough to have seen it all and no longer find any of it amusing, took the offered card and fed it into his reader.
The eyebrows went a little higher and there was a new respect in his voice. “Anything else today, Hom Slothe?”
“Rostra sprouts,” I mumbled at Ragem. “And remind him about the shrubbery.”
“The ship has to contain a portable conservatory, remember,” Ragem insisted. “We won’t travel without some life in the place. And be sure the galley has a box of fresh rostra sprouts.” The clerk didn’t blink, Ragem’s credit rating—under the alias Megar Slothe—obviously overcoming any doubts about the sanity of a Human and a Panacian insisting on live plants or ordering food poisonous to both species.
I was impatient and found it difficult not to swivel my head around to look over my shoulder. This was Ultari Prime, a place where just about anything could be purchased. While this made it perfect for our outfitting, it also made it a logical place for anyone to look for us.
Deal concluded, at least until we could inspect the ship for ourselves in about a standard hour, Ragem, led the way from the Ervickian’s shop. Once we were several steps past the entrance, walking along the broad sidewalk, he expelled a long, soundless breath.
I clicked my upper hand in amusement. “Was it that bad?”
“I just spent—do you know how much I spent?”
This form shrugged quite eloquently. I enjoyed the gesture. “There is more.”
Quite a bit more,
as I recalled, but there was no point further overwhelming Ragem. “You are of my Web; what I have is yours.” I’d made sure he had his own access to the accounts Ersh had set up, my future not being completely assured at the moment.
The peripheral vision of a D’Dsellan was superb, allowing me to watch Ragem as we continued to our next destination. He seemed to find something fascinating in the brick pavement passing beneath our respective feet. “You don’t have to come with me, Paul Ragem,” I said quietly, not for the first time. “The ship has adequate automatics.”
His eyes flashed to me, their gray almost black. “We’ve been through this, Es. If you’re going to fight this thing, you’re going to need help.”
What I’m going to need is a miracle,
I thought, but tucked it in a private place. Habit, since there was no other to share my flesh. The pain of my loss was distant, as if I’d somehow shunted that away too for safekeeping.
What bumped against the edge of my carapace was also in safekeeping until I had a private secure place to deal with its contents. Ersh’s final legacy, wrapped and still-frozen in the cryosac, lay within a small box hanging from a strap. I trusted the thing looked of little value; there were thieves here, as well as entrepreneurs of every type. Ragem had taken to wearing a very visible biodisruptor on his hip, as well as a far less obvious pair of force blades, accepting the weaponry with an alacrity that confirmed my belief in the underlying barbaric nature of humanoids in general.
Still, he was on my side. And I knew Ragem’s nature; he wore the deadly things as a bluff rather than in any hope of using them.
Our next stop.
I hadn’t told Ragem what we were buying here. The squealing and stamping emanating from inside the low, dark building won me an inscrutable look. “Ganthor?” Ragem wrinkled up his nose and balked in the doorway.
I tapped him on his good shoulder. “Old friends,” I said, not bothering to add aloud the
I hope
part of it.
Ragem looked in vain for a sign. Unlike the other buildings along the row, each flamboyantly advertising its wares, the one before us had only a number code beside its door. “Come on,” I urged him, taking the first downward step.
None of my web-kin had been able to defeat our Enemy, not even Ersh. Divorced from any emotional context, the meaning was clear: nothing in my shared memories would help me save myself.
Well, I didn’t intend to die.
Hiding had some charm. Unfortunately, hiding wouldn’t stop the creature’s rampage through civilized space. The battle with the Kraal convinced me it was capable of resisting the ephemerals’ attacks. So I’d reached the inevitable conclusion.
I had to kill it.
I took another of the three steps down to the entranceway, Ragem now beside me, fastidiously avoiding the appendage rail with its sticky shine.
How to kill it? How to survive?
Here was part of my answer. Since nothing from before would help me, I would draw on what was only Esen’s, what was unique to me and not shared by my Enemy.
Starting with a barful of unemployed Ganthor mercenaries.
*Contract void*, the Matriarch clicked, shaking her big head in melancholy above her bowl of beer. *Tly backing down*Conflict resolving* Bad news for the mercenaries; I couldn’t help but be pleased by it.
Ragem and I perched on stools beside her, her Seconds leaning against the bar to either side. The long, lowceilinged room was hot, dark, and the source of the truly appalling smell Ragem had noticed at street level. The noise level had dropped only briefly as we stepped inside. Clickspeak worked well enough at close range, except when the bartender arrived with new glassware and deposited it on the counter nearby with a distracting clatter. We all glared at the being each time it happened. The bartender ignored us.
*Opportunity for herd*, I responded using the tips of my claw against a bottle. Her nose twitched, bubbling mucus, but I couldn’t supply any scent to help her. All I could offer was my credit chip.
One of the Seconds took it in between the fingers of his hand and passed it through a reader.
A well-prepared group,
I thought, even though their funds had to be running low. It hadn’t been difficult to find them. Mercenaries advertised, and there were no other Ganthor herds currently in the Ultari System. Skalet-like, I found I wanted known parameters.
Another interruption as the bartender needlessly intruded to take away empties and slap down replacements. I glanced at Ragem and he nodded, “On mine, for the lot,” he said to the bartender, intercepting its reach for the Matriarch’s card and handing his over instead. There was a minor stampede as the Ganthor hurried to take advantage of this bounty, a stampede that broke into a shoving match as the lower seniority individuals were firmly put back in their place.
The Second restored order with a quick *!!* before conferring with the Matriarch about my credit rating. They might prefer barter, but well-traveled beings such as these had learned the value of currency. Had I been Ganthor, I’d have shared the scents of pleased expectancy and new hope that raced through the room. As it was, I tried to keep my orifices as tightly closed as practical without suffocating.
My card was returned. *Task?* the Matriarch clicked as she dipped her snout deeply into the bowl to slurp up beer, her long red tongue mopping up the foam overflowing onto the counter.
*Specifics* I clicked, pulling out a sheet of folded plas and handing it to her Second. *Security* I summarized vaguely enough.
*Resupply necessary* she clicked, curling up her hand in a gesture I knew expressed a distasteful topic.
I’d known that detail, having been present when the poor Ganthor had lost all their hardware, and had made my own preparations. *Included* I clicked, pulling out a second credit chip, this one a prepaid account with the leading arms dealer on Ultari Prime. Depending on supply and demand, it was possible the canny Ganthor could buy back the very same weaponry they’d been forced to donate to the Tly.
The Matriarch eased herself off her stool and stamped twice *!!*!!* to focus the attention of her herd. *We accept*
Ragem and I had stood at the same time. I bowed, a D’Dsellan affectation I couldn’t help, then nudged Ragem. The quick-witted Human stamped his boot on the floor twice, an accomplishment beyond the soft padding of my current feet. *Confirm when supplied* I clicked on the countertop.
“Mercenaries and rostra sprouts,” Ragem itemized as we headed to the shipcity, the servo aircar loaded to its capacity with our final purchases. His lips twitched.
I hugged the icy box of Ersh bits on my knees. “Ganthor are very brave,” I said defensively.
“And the sprouts?” Definitely a grin now.
I didn’t answer. It would spoil the mood if I told him they were for a last meal if my plan failed at any of several likely moments.
The ship wasn’t exactly what we’d expected, but I was satisfied. My companion wasn’t. “If this is a yacht, it’s my turn to be a Quebit,” Ragem had growled, obviously disappointed to find out he’d spent a fortune to buy a used intersystem taxi.
Skalet- and Mixs-memory reassured me as I went over the ship. It was old, but sound. The luxury promised by the dealer consisted of some glued-on plas panels and fairly new carpeting, all intended to disguise where rows of seats used to be, but the control panels had been updated recently. “She’s translight-capable,” I stated, “And holds air. That’ll do.”
I was more concerned that our supplies were in order. The Ervickian should have made sufficient profit on the taxi not to try and cheat us any further.
Not a good bet.
We’d have to open everything, except what we’d brought with us to the ship. I shunted the memory of the Ervickian’s name into a place I could recall easily.
Ragem recovered quickly, resilient as always. I found him stroking the pilot’s seat a short while later, a bemused, wondering expression on his face. “Happier?” I asked.
“It’s not everyone who can afford their own starship,” he said ruefully. “I should have been more grateful—”
“Grateful?” I interrupted, my worry for him, and for myself, resurfacing. “Why? This ship is to carry us to my Enemy. I can’t believe I’m letting you come.”
His fist struck the back of the pilot’s chair hard enough to set it rocking. “Enough, Es! We’ve been through this.” Ragem’s lips were tight; the joy gone from his eyes. “And it’s not your Enemy. It’s mine. It’s everyone’s. This creature has cost me my place, my friends—let alone the murders it’s committed and will commit again unless we stop it.” He took a deep breath, looking at me almost accusingly. “No more talk of whether I belong here. It’s not your decision.”
I kept my tail from retreating between my legs with an effort, having returned to my birth-form the moment we were in the privacy of the ship. I hadn’t bothered shaving or putting on more than a vest. Once we lifted, it would be back to the Ket. Ragem was amazingly adaptable, but it seemed polite to use the forms he’d already befriended.
Had I made the first new Rule for my Web?
“Well,” he said, his tone deliberately light as if to make up for the outburst and, I thought, to forestall any attempt to suggest there was a debate to continue. “We can’t let her go up without a name.” Ragem consulted the control panel. “Right now it’s Speedy InterSys Transit No. 365.”
I laughed until my tongue drooped out the corner of my jaw. “You bought her, my friend,” I said when I could speak coherently again. “You name her.”
Ragem’s answering smile was the best thing I’d seen in days.
Out There
CHEATED!
Cheated! Cheated!
Death flung itself through space, howling its disappointment, shuddering at the closeness of its escape.
Almost death. Almost death.
The Oldest had tried to trap it, almost succeeding. Death writhed at the memory of being lured by that exquisite taste into merging with its mountain, sinking together into lifeless rock.
Must survive!
Somehow it had pulled free. Somehow it had fled.
Never go back,
it vowed.
Never never never.
Besides, it remembered, there was more.
54:
Taxi Night
RAGEM had christened our little ship the
Ahab,
citing a Botharan legend about a man who succeeded in defeating a terrible monster. I didn’t bother informing him that the story was far older, Terran in fact, and involved a man cursed to follow his quarry into death. Both were possibilities.
The
Ahab
lifted from Ultari Prime only a bit behind schedule. We’d had to delay—and pay the fine—to accept an emergency shipment. The plants the Ervickian had supplied were lush, green, and healthy, but he had neglected to include the lighting fixtures to keep them that way. Ragem and I went through everything else we’d ordered to make sure there had been no other potentially fatal omissions.
I was really going to remember that being.
At least we had rostra sprouts. Six large cases of rostra sprouts.
Once the automatics were engaged, and we went translight, Ragem took the first turn to sleep. The
Ahab
did have two cabins: not quite the staterooms we’d been shown on the vistape, but comfortable and clean.
I didn’t waste any time once I was alone in the control room. The com gear I’d bought had been almost as expensive as the ship herself, and was illegal tech in the Commonwealth.
Another reason to shop Ultari.
I knew how to use it, in theory. One of the problems with shared memory was a certain lack of hands-on practice. But the system looked idiot-proof.