Vox astra, p.8
Vox Astra, page 8
part #1 of Vox Astra Series
“Papers can be forged. Samples can be faked,” Hughes said.
“Sure can,” Duncan said. “I’m no soil scientist to say whether their rocks and dirt are the genuine article or not.”
“Want me to send Pete Dawson to fetch Professor Ridley? He’ll tell you in a second if the stuff is genuine,” Hughes said.
“Already thought of that,” Duncan said. “I see it this way—if they’re on the up and up, no problem. If they’re not, the sooner they think we’re onto them, the sooner this could turn ugly. I think we should get them under control, separate them from that Crawler, and then we can get down to the nut of this on our terms.”
“Why don’t we just send them packing?” Hughes said.
“Broken down and injured? They need a place to go. Can’t be sure they’ll leave if we tell them to. They could just linger around out in the foothills and make trouble for us. Worse, they might find their way into the squatter camp and rile that bunch up. More trouble we don’t need. Better to keep them where we can see them,” Duncan said. “And, Hell, who knows—maybe they’re just who they say they are.”
“I kind of doubt it, but all right; we’ll clear the trail another sixty yards or so to the vehicle shed. That Crawler ought to be able to make it. I can post fifteen, twenty men to block the path toward the square,” Hughes said.
“Do it,” Duncan said.
The sheriff approached the Crawler and waited for Mungelson. He surveyed the odd damage to the vehicle, the scratches and dents left as if something had raked across the hard shell and tried to pound its way into the interior. A hairline crack ran through the windshield, and Duncan pondered a dozen scenarios to explain a break in glass fabricated to withstand an avalanche. None of them satisfied him.
Mungelson ambled out of the Crawler and met Duncan at the center of the trail.
“Have your guys follow my men to the garage. We’ll get you squared away and see about some food and sleeping quarters for the night,” Duncan said.
“That sounds better than fine, Sheriff. I’m grateful to you, my new friend.” A toothy smile creased Mungelson’s broad face.
“Now, just hold off on all that.” A clear, stern voice cut from the darkness beyond the edge of the trail. Joseph Matson and Finch emerged into the light, their repellers up and cocked, one aimed at Mungelson, the other at the Crawler. Something coarse and wet dangled from the crook of Matson’s arm and flapped in the half-hearted wind. The men’s expressions lit an anxious fire in Duncan’s gut.
“Whatever line of bull this scum has been feeding you, Stu, forget it. Him and his men are dirty poachers and liars. There’s blood all over the back tracks of this Crawler. We found this in a broken storage compartment back there,” Matson said. “Thing is full of them.”
He hurled the fresh skin to the ground.
It fluttered in the breeze and unfurled, its blue, black, and gray striping unmistakable, as were the dark red patches of blood spotting it. A caustic odor rose from the dead flesh, the same scent Duncan had sensed in the Crawler, but stronger, an odor he recalled from when men had fought and killed for the right to keep this stretch of ground they called home.
“Kuzzi hide,” Duncan said.
Cold dread filled him, then melted away to searing rage.
Duncan swung once, the blow so unexpected and fast that Mungelson took it flat in the center of his face without quite knowing what had hit him. He doped it out seconds later after he had dropped to the ground, rolled once, and came to rest on his back. Duncan lurched over him with his repeller aimed at the poacher’s heart. He felt confident his numb knuckles and fingers could still squeeze the trigger.
~*~
Back in the clearing, Grant, still watching through the field glasses, cried out, “No way! Your dad just decked the guy, Frankie!”
“Give!” Frank seized the field glasses and raised them to his eyes. “Oh, man, that’s a Kuzzi skin on the ground. These guys are hunters!”
“Outlaws,” Colt said. “Then that means they’re armed.”
~*~
Looking down at the wounded man, Duncan brimmed with venom. “Give me one good reason not to blast a hole in every single one of you sleazy sons of bitches.”
The vengeful edge in his voice shocked his friends as much as it did Mungelson. Hunting Kuzzi was illegal, punishable on Earth by life in psychiatric rehab, but that had not stopped a black market for the creature’s hides and organs from springing up. People who measured their souls in wealth and power proved more than willing to spend small fortunes for the pride of owning secret items made of genuine Kuzzi hide, or for the pleasure of consuming the tiny clusters of glands in their chests that contained a rare chemical hallucinogenic to humans. More than enough money changed hands to tempt men like Mungelson, ample lucre to pay for their ships, bribe officials, and purchase equipment needed to land and work in the wilderness. A week’s hunt could garner a hundred hides for clever, stealthy hunting parties, though the Kuzzi often proved dangerous prey. Career poachers were a rare breed. One who survived more than four hunts earned the tag of veteran. Those few who lasted six often earned enough to retire and live like kings.
Everyone waited for Mungelson’s answer, their attention fixed to the steady black hole at the end of Duncan’s repeller. Mungelson wiped blood on his sleeve and cleared his throat.
“They’re jes’ animals,” he slurred. “Not human.”
“They’re intelligent,” Duncan said.
“By whose standards?” Mungelson said. “They’re savages. Wild beasts. Dirty creatures roaming the hills with no more sense of social structure than a pride of lions. Sophisticated, yeah, but not like men. Way I heard it, the whole lot of them have just been biding their time waiting to see you killed by the Gr’nar. Yet, here you are, defending them?”
“This is their world, not yours,” Duncan said. “They’re not supposed to be like men. It doesn’t mean we’re free to murder them.”
Mungelson laughed. “It ain’t murder, and I really don’t care what you have to say. I thought we might work out an arrangement like reasonable, worldly men, Sheriff, but I’m happy to do this the hard and unpleasant way. Now, throw that repeller over here, or I’ll have my men lob a blisterbomb into your happy little gathering down the road there.”
The top hatch of the Crawler clanked open, and a dirt-matted figure popped up, a broad launch tube poised on his shoulder. The glow of its targeting display colored his face a pale green. He pointed the weapon upward, indicating the arc that would carry its projectile into the town square. Duncan recognized the gun and knew its range, knew what it meant for the settlers. The missile would cover the distance in less than two seconds, then explode twenty or so feet overhead, dispersing a liquid sheet of death to drench anyone below it, burning through clothing to coat their body with thick, caustic oil. Within seconds, the settlers’ skin would turn bright red and erupt with plump pustules and heavy blisters. The fumes would travel into their lungs and spark the same process internally. Within a minute, they would fall to the ground, writhing, unable to move, barely able to breathe, then the inflammations and lesions would swell and burst, carrying flesh away in great swaths shed like a snake’s skin. In less than three minutes, all those caught in the blast spray would die, reduced to bone and molten meat. Duncan played it out in his head. He thought of Sharon, pictured her body decomposing inside and out while he stood by helpless to save her.
“I got a bead on this prick, Stu,” Finch said, steadying his repeller on the man atop the Crawler. “Let me take him out, end this right now.”
“Just hold off there, for now, Rich,” Duncan said. “Now that we have the truth, I want to hear what Mr. Mungelson really wants.”
The satisfied smirk on Mungelson’s face burned Duncan, but he saw no option other than to stall until an opportunity presented itself. He activated the safety on his repeller and threw it to the ground. The poacher stood and brushed dirt from his clothes. He sniffled, produced a stained handkerchief, then pressed it to his face, shivering as pain shot through his head and down his neck.
“One hell of a punch you got there, Stu.” He groped around for the repeller and found it. “Impressive for an old fart. Any harder, and I’d be breathing out the back of my neck.”
“Let’s hear it, Mungelson. What do you want?” Duncan said.
The poacher shook his head. “Damn fool you are. You and all your friends here. Trying to find a way to live with those beasts out there while Earth stews in its own filth, suckling at the meager teat of clean meat and produce you send back. Men could take this world, make it our world, and live like we were meant to—free! Instead, you choose to scrape and sweat, spill your blood into the soil that drinks it up in a heartbeat like it never even existed. You make me sick, Stu.”
Mungelson pulled the handkerchief aside, opened his mouth, and stuck two fingers in while he mimed gagging and choking.
“Just tell me what you want,” Duncan said.
“Fine.” Mungelson drew himself up inches away from the sheriff and leaned in close to his face. “We want protection and shelter until our ship comes to take us away. We want use of your landing facilities. Those miserable Kuzzi are getting smarter. They caught wind of us early this time, and they were waiting. Came at us in a horde while we were stowing our take from one of their hunting parties. Got some new, heavy weapon, battering ram kind of thing, like a redwood trunk. Nearly broke their way into our Crawler, except the thing is built like a tank. We limped away, but they’ve been following us for two days. Thing is, we can’t spend another week exposed in the wild, and we can’t risk them interfering when our ride comes. So, you and the rest of New Dodge are going to put us up until then, fix our Crawler, feed us, hide us from the Kuzzi, then help us lift off. Got it?”
“If the Kuzzi have been tracking you, they know you’re here,” Duncan said. “You’re asking me to put New Dodge at risk.”
“Understand something, here, Sheriff—New Dodge is already at risk. We used a fair number of blisterbombs fighting off the Kuzzi, but we got more than enough left to deal with your little shithole town here. So, I’m not asking you for anything, Stu. I’m telling you,” Mungelson said.
“Think it through, Sheriff,” Joseph Matson warned. “Even if we cover these animals for a week and then let them leave, the Kuzzi will know we helped our own kind get away with slaughtering their kind. They’ll never trust us after that. Won’t matter a bit that it was under duress.”
“I know that, Joseph,” Duncan said. “What choice have we got?”
“Take a minute to give it some thought, Sheriff. That’s all I’m trying to say,” Matson continued, and Duncan picked up on the young man’s unspoken message—buy some time. Something had been set in motion. Duncan did not know what to expect, but he had faith in his friends.
“Go on and let me take the shot, Stu,” Finch said. “I’m telling you, I got this bastard dead to rights.”
“Yeah, maybe you should,” Duncan said, putting on a show of ambivalence. “Figure we don’t take our chance now we’re delaying the inevitable. We either fight this ragtag pile of kison turds or thousands and thousands of Kuzzi. Maybe we’ll get lucky with these losers.”
“Uh-uh,” Mungelson said. “You listen to me before you do anything rash, Stu, because my associate atop the Crawler is but one member of my crew, armed with the firepower necessary to cripple your little tin-walled Happyland here at the push of a button. Go ahead and kill him. Kill me if you think you’re fast enough. You’ll be signing death warrants for a lot of people and your own at the same time.”
“You’re putting me in one hell of a spot here, Mungelson,” Duncan said.
“Quit stalling. I ain’t got time for shooting the breeze,” the poacher said.
Duncan opened his mouth to reply, but the blazing report of a bolt thrower cut him short.
The shot came from the rear of the Crawler, the portion still cloaked in night, and the flash pointed toward town. The poachers had a sniper mounted back there, out of sight, equipped with an infrared viewer and a long-range weapon. Duncan cursed his stupidity for not anticipating such a maneuver as he whirled around and looked for the gunner’s mark. A second shot fired. Through the narrow spaces between buildings, the sheriff saw Mick Busco and Thom Horton laid out on the ground at the edge of the town square. Jacob Matson knelt beside them, a pile of discarded repeller rifles at his feet, scattered alongside those dropped by Mick and Thom. Each man carried an armful of weaponry. A small group, led by Doc Lieber, broke off from the gathering and rushed to help the fallen men. Across the distance, Duncan could not tell if they still lived.
Mungelson sneered. “Now, that’s about the saddest attempt to fight back I ever did see.”
Duncan looked to Joseph Matson and Finch for explanation. Both men’s faces paled. The marksman lowered his weapon. “Damn sniper,” Finch said.
“I’m sorry, Stu. Dad thought Mick and Thom would get through with the guns, get the crowd spread out to defend the town,” Matson said. “We set them up before we reported back to you. Figured it was worth a shot.”
Duncan shrugged. “I suppose it was at that.”
“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Mungelson said. “As if I don’t already know.”
A knot tightened in Duncan’s stomach. Every one of his muscles trembled with the desire to clutch Mungelson and beat him into silence. But he could do nothing. He hated his helplessness. If it had been only his own life at stake, he might have sacrificed it, so long as he could take Mungelson with him. But he had others to watch over and protect.
“Keep your shirt on, Mungelson. I may be ornery, but I know when I’m licked,” Duncan said.
Mungelson’s face broke into a wide, self-satisfied smile, but it faded fast.
A sanguine howl filled the moonless sky: a long, anguished accusation, answered by other voices joining it in a discordant chorus that rose together and meshed into a single outpouring of pain, injustice, and anger. It thinned the blood of all those who heard it. The tall, dry grass that grew off the trail rustled with movement beyond the range of the electric light. The guttural wailing continued, increasing in volume as it drew closer, and achieved a shrill, painful pitch before it ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
Mungelson seized Duncan by his shirt. “We got no time left! Order your men to protect us. Now!”
Duncan ignored the poacher’s frantic pleas. His attention fixated on the lithe form taking shape in the shadows by the rear of the Crawler. The towering figure stepped partway into the realm of the noonlight, where its powerful striped legs identified it as a Kuzzi warrior. The auburn embers of its eyes, still shrouded in darkness, conveyed its disposition. Muscles and sinew twisted and flexed, and a bulky shape flew across the air. A poacher, his hands still wrapped around a bolt thrower, crashed to the dirt. A long spear angled with multiple blades and points protruded from between his shoulders.
A second Kuzzi joined the first, this one taller and stronger, its eyes enflamed with fury, its teeth bared and glowing in the dark. It stamped the dirt beside its wide taloned paws with the haft of its purjung, a spear identical to the one embedded in the sniper.
“Must be a hundred of them out there,” Finch said.
“More,” Matson said.
Guardsmen crouched behind the flimsy protection of the blockade, their weapons raised, their nerves buzzing with anticipation.
“Shoot! Shoot already,” Mungelson cried. “What are you waiting for? You’ll let them kill us all. Give the order, Sheriff, by the count of three, or I will have my man burn your town to extinction.”
Mungelson leveled the repeller toward Duncan and began his count. He never finished it.
At “two,” an explosion ripped across the air, followed half a second later by two more. Even the noonlight paled in the sudden flash of colors that bit the men’s eyes and turned their movements into strobed pantomimes of activity. In the increased illumination, Duncan saw the ranks of the Kuzzi spread out in semi-circles on each side of the trail, two or three deep in places, their lines stretching into the foothills beyond sight. Their long, creamy fangs, slicked with saliva, protruded from black gums; the dark lips of their muzzles drew back in shallow snarls. Their eyes narrowed to bores of ferocity, and their shiny, black manes stood erect and pointed along the backs of their skulls and down the line of their spines. Each one clasped a twelve-foot purjung, arrayed with three or more blades.
There were not a hundred, but hundreds, possibly thousands stretching deep into the foothills, as if the entire Kuzzi nation had turned out in witness for the events of this dark night.
A gunshot cracked. Duncan couldn’t tell who’d fired. The clashing glares tricked his vision. A second report snapped. He ducked in fear of stray shots, but no other gun spoke, and he crouched, uncertain whether to run or defend himself. He rubbed his eyes as the particolored flares faded, giving way to the steady clarity of the noonlight. What had happened had taken only seconds.
Mungelson lay sprawled in the trail, blood spattered across his leather tunic, his chest pumping in erratic gasps for breath as consciousness bled from him. The poacher armed with the blisterbomb hung from the hatch of the Crawler, his rocket launcher lost in the dust at the machine’s tracks. Half a dozen men from the Guard, further back and away from the full intensity of the explosions, now surrounded and entered the vehicle, taking control from the stunned poachers inside. The men tried to ignore the fierce Kuzzi warriors, who watched and waited.
“You all right, Stuart?” someone asked.
Finch’s hand pressed Duncan’s shoulder. “Told you I had the bastard dead to rights.”
Duncan rubbed his eyes. “So you did.”
“Your eyes will recover. One of those fireworks went off right over your head. Another practically set that man on top of the Crawler’s hair on fire,” Joseph Matson said.
