Rituals of Sacrifice, page 5
Looking back, she recalls the moment of their first true bonding. Less than an hour after their graduation, she had wandered off to visit an acquaintance. She had even, on impulse, given away her new diploma. Minutes later, her return to her new companions became the seed of their current trust bond.
Could things have gone some other direction? Possibly. Where Janek Larrivay is concerned, one could never know.
That was two successful missions ago. Yet now, here are on Nidia, their need for leadership seemed to be driving her in a serious “make it or fake it” direction.
“I suppose,” Sarika says, “we’ve delayed long enough. Go ahead; call in the next poor bastard.”
Stratified by volume of managed wealth (Seyu slave holdings) and by ancestral clan integrity, Davao society is rife with rigid social levels. Fortunately, each interviewee will have his tells. Also, given Yoonra’s supplied intelligence files, few will have any capacity for sustained prevarication.
Rule one: when beginning a discussion with someone who appears especially upset, let them speak their piece. They will often run out of energy. Prior to that point, the odds of shared listening are all but zero.
Rule two: if you can get someone talking about their feelings and attitudes, the usual percentages come into play. Ten percent of anyone’s feelings surface as spoken words. Forty percent of a statement’s essential meaning comes in the way words are spoken. Forcefulness. Dialect. Nuance. The balance comes from facial expression. Although it had taken several weeks to sort the subtleties, even the Davao gave racial proof to such probabilities.
Late in the afternoon, silent in his approach, a Davao of modest stature scuttles from an archway to their left. His name is Yooloh.
Sarika adjusts a fold of her ruana to more evenly fall across her shoulders. Though terribly fatigued, her partners lace their fingers with hers and surrender themselves without question.
Dendrites merge. Consciousness expands. Vision steadies. “Quiet,” says Sarika. “Let it all drop away. Concentrate and hush. Hush.”
The release of shared neurotransmitters is a quantum-level event and thus susceptible to probability.
Information flows.
“Please tell us about yourself, Yooloh. How could one of your great stature come from such a small clan line?”
Resentment flares. Yooloh is perfectly aware of why he is here. Of how splendidly the Rija Varja is using these strange creatures. Yet, even knowing this, his answers reveal:
—untoward levels of generational conniving.
—The amount of time he spends extracting promises from other Davao.
—The extent of his clan’s intelligence gathering apparatus.
—The many ways he skirts commitment, sows doubt and courts rivalries.
“This may be the one!” sends Rall. “I mean, health-wise. Note the indications of deep cancers. The many metastatic, secondary tumors. Few tissue layers remain unencumbered. All lymph centers radiate distress.”
Tam concurs with, “And look at this poor fellow’s adherent shell segments! The guy’s a goner for sure. He’s got, what? A week? Ten days?”
Sarika studies Yooloh. “But just think of all the wondrous, sweet things an individual might do in a week or ten days. How can we—”
“Look deeper.”
“Oh. Oh, my.”
While not everyone on Nidia is … a bad person, Yooloh is no innocent. While not precisely what the Rija Varja has been searching for, Yooloh might … suffice to satisfy demands.
Out loud, Sarika says, “Poor, Yooloh. So many troubles. We see that you may have gotten in over your head.”
The creature’s emotions grow chaotic.
“If you open to our deep sight, there is a chance we may be able to help your clan avoid the stain of any … unpleasantness.”
Oh, how Yooloh now listens! How helpful! How agreeable!
More’s the pity.
So it is, come early evening darkness, that Sarika has a single guilty name to deliver. While doing so comes at a definite personal cost, she knows to do what she always does in such situations. She will stow away her guilt while working her tail off to push it all back in the darkness. Out of growing affection, she will do the same for her Two and Three without them ever needing to know about it.
So yes, to Sarika’s chagrin, the day flows toward an end. Looking back, that is what she feared more than anything else. Has she become coldhearted? In her past, she had come across diplomatic liaisons with a freakish ability to kill. Is there a danger, any risk whatsoever, of her descending along a similar path?
Because. She. Would. Die. First.
Linked with copper topknots and bands of filigreed silver, sixteen jade monoliths line the crushed shell walk to Yoonra’s banquet hall.
“The name?” asks Yoonra. “You must surrender it!”
“Yooloh,” whispers Sarika, hoping the poor creature’s life might be worth all the Diplomatic Corps hoped to gain.
But could any good grow out of such tactics?
Are all deep wounds capable of healing?
“Yooloh,” repeats Yoonra. He delivers something that passes for a knowing grunt. Dorsal splines quiver. He repeats the name, and his lieutenants veer off and disappear in the gathering dusk.
At the peal of hammered chimes, the Rija Varja’s scattered warriors draw to a halt. Segmented skin plates glisten. Polishing mantles flutter. Striking batons lift in salute. Blood-heat, mixed with sensations of zeal and unease, sweeps the banquet hall.
Yoonra rakes a bank of glowing embers. He repositions long skewers heavy with dark, marinated meat and something like small onions. Grease spatters and flares.
Seyu slaves race to deliver decanters of frothing nectar. Smaller and lighter of form than their cousin Davao, they vigorously clean each warrior of parasites. In contrast to their “betters,” each Seyu appears content even while flossing dental ridges or massaging venom sacks.
As his purged and purified warriors gather, Yoonra trundles close to Sarika. “I can see that among human beings you may be considered a lovely, young woman. Self-motivated. Energetic. Joyous in the face of discovery. And, supplemented by your companion’s instincts for deciphering veiled nuances of character, I see you may also will yourself toward heights of devilish psychological intuition. I also share some instinct for perceiving all that drives or dooms others. However, here on Nidia, you humans will never be more than poorly tolerated—What’s the best word? Ah, yes—filth. While you have now earned a chance to study our deep past, I will be closely watching you.”
When he lifts an anterior lash, Sarika holds back a preemptive wince. Bobbing, oscillating, it pivots in the air before falling to drape her shoulder. When it twists, Sarika resists the impulse to tilt away or grimace. Goose flesh ripples down her arms.
Careful, she warns herself. Careful. The Davao are experts at measuring perspiration rates and galvanic skin response. Given reason for concern, Yoonra could likely detect all but the most heartfelt of lies.
He reaches into the glowing coals. He offers her a skewer. The meat sizzles. It burns her fingertips. Chewing carefully, finding the marbled flesh revolting, she disguises all reaction and waits. Rall and Tam accept similar servings. They, she knows, are equally ready to support the name she has delivered.
Yooloh.
And yet, Yoonra never asks her to verify the name with evidence. He does not even seem to care. Instead, he rasps, “Talk to me. Tell me all your people already know of Dar Chetyr.”
Sweat beads. A headache spawns as her pupils contract. Her jaw aches. Something like cold electricity tickles her ribs, and her mouth runs dry.
“Dar what?” she asks. “Chetyr?” She does not dare reach for her drink. “Never heard of it.”
Images pour into her mind. Memories. Not of the new Dar station the Diplomatic Corps hopes to locate, but of Dar Cenia. Mosaics. A central tower. Sirsa cruisers. Ring portals.
The Davao have many spies. How is Yoonra doing this?
Regret beats at her. Hesitation. She never would have accepted such a dangerous mission had not her association with Dar Cenia and Janek Larrivay so stained her record.
Her skin tingles. A nasty, slithering sensation claws at the tendons and blood vessels rising along her neck. Think of something else, she tells herself. Anything else aside from the possibilities that might go along with finding other Dar stations.
Could there really be as many as six more?
Hush, she reminds herself. Hush.
“I perceive,” says Yoonra, “a fixation on moral imperatives. Conflict between an obligation to ill-defined orders and the necessity for coexistence with … adversaries.”
He sidles around to more squarely face her. “You are clearly aware that we Davao are unhappy with the new peace between the Cleve and Dhyda. While they remained in conflict, we reduced our military expenditures on the assumption we could not alter galactic events. At this point, however, I am sure you have reported my views on rapid resurgence and domination.”
She sips nectar. Chews gristle. Makes herself swallow. Shrugs.
“You may also disagree with how I deal with Yooloh. The traitor. This conspirator you have named. If I allow your exit from this world, I wish your superiors to understand one thing. The Davao way of life centers of deceit and ruthlessness at the expense of our adversaries.”
Sarika stills her breath. Beside her, Rall and Tam vibrate with anxiety. Hush, you two. Hush.
“Has any Rija Varja,” she asks, “ever tried not being a monster?”
This brings a glint of humor to Yoonra’s manner.
“We have a destiny to take charge of this galaxy. As all others were created to serve us, your precious Dar stations also exist to further that destiny. Now, I grow tired of this tension between us. Certain levers move the cosmos. Every being has motivations and a price. Once discovered, it can be used to shape events, now and in the future. As Rija Varja, I already own everyone you have ever or may ever encounter on this world. The fun comes in forcefully reminding them of such facts.”
At his signal, a hail of staccato orders needles the air. Security officers take station along the room’s perimeter. Punctuated by the slash of an adjutant’s whipping pennon, a chorus of Davao rasp out the presence and readiness of their assigned battalions.
As the roll call ends, Yoonra rasps the command to:
“Sit!”
Seemingly pleased to gain a sense of renewed direction, the Davao make for their assigned grazing mats. Bookended by Rall and Tam, Sarika tucks her legs under, crosses them at the ankles and also sits.
Yoonra eases into a stance reflecting watchful interest. A hush fills the banquet hall.
“Please,” he says. “Eat.”
And thus they do.
As the others around them refill large platters, one of Yoonra’s lieutenants says, “Few offworlders have had the fortune to witness this. Although our dining rules are now somewhat ritualized, they date back many centuries. Before contact with those you call ‘exotics,’ we had somehow failed to develop edged weapons. It may have something to do with our weather. The planetary dust storms. The corrosive rains. At any rate, when we do use a knife or blade, it can only be attributed to some degree of cultural contamination.”
He goes on to tell them about that.
As Yooloh arrives, the Davao pass each stark bone or lump of gnawed cartilage to the end of each aisle. Technically shared with all those around him, this is to be Yooloh’s last meal.
When he has had his fill, the end comes quickly. At the instant Yooloh rises to voice penance for his imagined betrayal, the Rija Varja pierces him with his tail and carries him aloft. Scissoring his whipping rods, Yoonra briskly opens Yooloh end-to-end while turning him in the air. The practiced speed surprises Sarika, even as Yooloh appears unfazed.
For an instant, Yoonra twists the other Davao in a torturous angle obviously designed to expose symmetric suture lines.
Yooloh’s carapace falls aside.
One last, violent crosscut bequeaths Yooloh the overall outline of an end-to-end, spiral-cut ham.
Memory and emotion burst across Sarika’s senses.
When Rall reaches out as if to comfort Yooloh, Sarika warns, “Don’t! Do not touch him! I’ve seen what a dying being can do to a liaison. The destruction. The heartache. I know you’ve seen the memories within me. Please, Rall. Back off!”
Cutting pennons stored, Yoonra slides the fresh carcass into a vat of steaming marinade. Yooloh’s remains will help fuel a future banquet.
Chapter 5
Ventilators thrum. Diagnostic lights blink. IV bags glisten. As Tegwin’s critical care pad inflates and tilts, her slim dressing gown drapes to reveal enameled leg joints the size of a man’s knuckles and half a dozen thin, aquamarine, pressed-foam sickbay slippers.
I keep picturing her in that alley. Tortured and broken just to lure me from hiding. Briefly closing my eyes, I kick myself for each delay in gaining more-advanced medical care.
At least I’d managed to round up a sweet float gurney a whole heck of a lot nicer than your basic, run-of-the-mill levitation sled. And by “round up,” I do mean steal.
I’m not proud of it. It had to be done. I couldn’t very well lug a half-comatose Moorad through Måyveth’s planetary customs kiosks in a shredded backpack, could I?
Over the course of our voyage, my crushed hand had swelled to a breadth that might have made a mother snow leopard proud. Fortunately, my symbiont already has some experience dealing with agonizing, long-term complications. It had even learned to dial back the worst of the deep throbbing without overcompensating with too many feel-good endorphins.
Lucky me.
Meanwhile, poor Tegwin’s spiking temperature repeatedly drove her to delirium; even sometimes threatening to strand her in some nether land between reason and unreason. Although I couldn’t follow much of what she said, my symbiont often discerned some pointed desire behind each dissonant phrase. Thirst. Hunger. The impulse to vomit or visit one of the ship’s heads. This proved disheartening as I wished to explore her thoughts as a means of previewing the world ahead. Plus, she has never once been up to addressing my concerns over Sarika’s place in all this.
As we disembark, the air is hot and moist. Sultry, some might allow. To Tegwin, this is the air of home and I hope some of it may be bleeding through her ventilators.
The Moorad on the other side of the scan panel waves me through, then frisks me hairline to toenail. Ruana, diploma crystal, stylized olive branch in titanium and silver. All-weather boots and fingerless gloves. I mostly look the part of a freelance liaison, if somewhat threadbare and ragged. Funny, the things you find in an interstellar transport’s lost and found.
I can’t pass as a full liaison, of course. I barely display any hint of the usual Tassera scars. Oh, and I’m not exactly walking around as part of a diplomatic triad, am I?
Across an intervening, empty expanse of tile three strides deep, the next security officer is shapely, of middling mass and ringed in skirts of fluted tubes and sensory-nerve fettuccine. Petite grasping mouth. Powerfully clawed forelimbs. Mud-brown torso. Touches of his race’s defunct “Rada” and “Tuwa” religious orders somewhere in the genome. Then, as usual with some Moorad, I notice his eyes. Ordinary eyes. Bloodshot. A bit oversized, but ordinary. How could someone so alien have such ordinary eyes? And why are Moorad bloodlines sometimes so different from one another?
“Next?”
A latticed window. An inset speaker grill. A shallow, divided tray.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
An exchange of diplomatic visas. The cellophane crackle of flexing holographic stickers. Emerald light sifts over barcodes and transit glyphs.
After returning my bogus travel documents, he draws several small palps along his speaking strands. I sense feelings of mild contempt and resignation. With the aid of my symbiont, the squeak and squeal become, “Destination? Travel connections? A more detailed purpose of visit?”
Mouth dry, cheeks seemingly packed with cotton, I manage, “No connections. At the moment, this is as far as we go. As to purpose? Medical aid. Business in the city. Client meetings.”
Pivoting his screen, he exposes a tangle of open code. “I see you carry a neural symbiont. Are you a member of Earth’s Diplomatic Corps?”
“Not officially. I guess you could say we’ve parted ways. Even so, a guy has to earn a living.”
The Moorad glances about his post. A large picture window dominates the room’s outer wall. Someone’s nearby pacing has set a bank of vertical blinds aflutter.
“That he does. Talk to me about your unlucky companion. Name. Clan. Planet of origin. Last three worlds visited.”
“Her name is Tegwin. Tegwin Silja, but I don’t know her clan lineage. I think she’s from here. Right here, I mean. On Måyveth. I know she spent some time on Earth and then Anatta. One of Earth’s colony worlds. Before that, I’m not sure what to tell you. As you’ve noticed, she’s quite ill.”
“Yes.” He interacts with his display. “What is the nature of her illness?”
Tegwin’s critical care pad deflates, leaving her sprawled and as motionless as roadkill.
“Well, you’ve got me there. Her last doctor seemed to sum it all up with just one word. ‘Gaffkemia,’ I think he said. Some sort of blood disease?”
The security officer scuttles several steps backward while eyeing every seal on Tegwin’s medical glider. His sensory bands pale, as he and I share a moment of fear.
Should he let us through inbound customs?
Will he let us through?
He seems ready to call for help when some small motion on his monitor draws his attention. His gaze flies to the crux of my collar bones where the drawstrings of my ruana hood drape.
