He shoved a prickly gray-green bough from his
path. Released, it shot back behind him.
Silent as the bubblecart ran, he knew that
it yet pursued. He knew that he hadn’t outdistanced its cadjine
weaponry. He knew that those in the craft wished to kill him.
How long would they entertain themselves before
firing? Again. His hand returned to sticky red wetness. The compressed
wound screamed an agony as of skewering knives. Haven’t much time.
No, he did not. His vision blurred, his steps faltered, and every
flame-filled gasp begged another.
Afoot, no one could outrun or evade such a craft.
His hope had turned elsewhere.
He had planned to avoid the students in the
southlands that day—young people from the north on a tech fieldtrip.
Now, he looked for these teens. An ammunition release among them would
provoke the High Command. Surely those who pursued him would not risk a
military response.
His foot hooked a root—almost taking him down. He
stumbled a step then kept going. He had to keep going.
Eyes dimmed by pain and loss of blood darted about
him. Wherever he went, wherever he looked… On all sides he saw only
golden-leaved trees and summer-dried brush of browns and grayish greens.
If only he had listened and taken the suggested
guard. But his people should avoid Calexic’s citizens and northern
entanglements. Prudence had argued that one man’s stealth would best
serve. Too, he hadn’t imagined such men as these in the
southlands—certainly not on this side of the Calassel.
“It isn’t human!” said the one at the bubblecart
controls. “Eight minutes with a hole as big as—”
“I need no nursling to wipe,” said his instructor.
“That’s the point. It isn't human, and don't be thinkin' otherwise.”
The jaw of the pilot-trainee stiffened.
“It isn’t human,” his instructor said again. “Never
forget it.”
“When do we finish him?” The younger man adjusted a
camouflage cap of grays and green.
“Eight minutes ago.”
“I was thinkin’ maybe when he can go no further.”
The trainer smirked.
“We could have fun with—”
“And lose it, too.” Dark eyes narrowed, and thin
lips formed an ugly line. “The muck-worm’s none too scared yet not
knowin’ what we'll do.”
“Well, I’d be scared.”
“Flippin’ rook. You're human. Hit on it, and we
don't know what we get. They’re freakish unnatural.”
The trainee shook his head slightly. “Bedtime
stories.”
Filth rolled from the instructor’s tongue.
“Who you think he is?”
“It’s Xys. Tha—”
“But maybe we’ll get in trouble. The Xyster—he
might take exception, you know. ”
Contempt darkened the trainer’s near-ebony eyes.
“When you get something like this… If you’re going to start pumpin'
adrenaline over some Xys-spider, say it fired on you. Self defense.”
The younger said nothing as a smile started. “He
was, wasn't he? We say he tossed a siplike when—”
“It was goin' for something, and we blew him to
forever. That's how I'll remember it. Ready to take your first Xys?”
“Sure. Sure.” The pilot-trainee gnawed a lip,
looking not at all sure.
“Use the cadjine again. Can't call it
excessive, and it'll be just as dead.”
“Should turn him arou—”
“It.”
“Just tryin’ to say… Can’t be shooting it in the
back and say that it shot at us.”
“Naw, we need it eyeball to eyeball. Here…” Eager
fingers stabbed keys, adjusted dials, and goosed the throttle. The craft
circled around to cut into the path from the side.
The instructor had calculated, though, a decrease
in the prey’s steps. Trainee and trainer both reached for a halt then
looked.
“Where…?”
Colorful words spilled.
“How could he…?” the younger sputtered as the craft
advanced. “He couldn't ju—”
“Bedtime stories, eh?”
“Beneath—on the mounts, I bet. Ready a burst.
That'll fix him.”