The way of spider, p.14
The Way of Spider, page 14
Skor glared.
"Ah! I see you would call it a headset." Chester sighed, studying the golden circlet, running his fingers lovingly over the smooth metal. "No, Director, it is a window. A delightful window which has led me into other worlds, human history, music, art, literature, and—"
"You have not answered my questions!" Skor hissed, feeling trapped by this enigmatic man who seemed to know so much with so small a brain.
"Indeed," Chester agreed amiably. "But through delay, your interest is piqued. You will think on my answer more. What you cannot provide is a soul. Indeed, soul. That which is nourished not of bread, drinks not of wine—"
"Enough! I heard. I have never seen a soul, Prophet. I—"
"Nor have you seen an idea in its raw form," Chester told him. "Nevertheless, your problems revolve around that fundamental human need—to nourish the soul. Provide a solution to that, and your Directorate will fall back into your hands. Only be warned. It will never be the same."
"And you know how to do this?" Skor demanded. Seeing Chester's serene nod, he added, "Tell me!"
Chester Armijo Garcia shook his head sadly. "No, Director. That discovery must be yours. Were I to tell you, I would go mad and you would have learned nothing."
"You will tell me!" Skor ordered.
Chester filled his lungs and exhaled. "Have you ever read the ancient plays by Euripides?"
"No, I have not! Tell me!"
Chester's warm eyes regarded him, curiously tender. "Oh. I had hoped we might discuss them. Delightful plays. Some of the earliest recorded theater, quite sophisticated in the portrayal of—"
"You will not tell me?"
"No. But I would talk about ancient plays, they are most remarkable in the thematic uses of—"
"Get out!"
"Susan?" Hans' voice caught her off guard. She lifted the headset from her brow after saving the mathematics problem she was working on.
"Come in, Hans. The hatch will pass you." Slie turned in the comm chair, watching as he entered. He smiled hesitantly, stopping just inside the hatch, hands fluttering at his sides.
"Uh, I waited until I knew the Major was with Colonel Ree." He looked around nervously. "Bet my butt would get slung three ways from tomorrow if Rita found me here."
His awe amused her. "No, not if you came to visit me. Sit down. Cup of coffee? Anything else? Help yourself to the dispenser."
He stood awkwardly—as if he hadn't heard—eyes everywhere but on her.
"Something's wrong?" Susan asked, frowning. "What is it, Hans?"
He took a deep breath. "Uh, there's a strange rumor running around the gun deck ..." He dropped his eyes. "Hey, by the way, did you know your Standard is a lot better?"
"That doesn't have anything to do with the gun deck," Susan reminded, an uneasy tightness building in her gut.
"Uh, no," he agreed, running his fingers through his blond hair.
"Damn!" she exploded. "Sit down, Hans! You're practically bouncing. The Major's not going to scalp you for being here. You're visiting me." She raised her hands helplessly.
Hans nodded, fidgeting, and sat. "Uh ... I mean, how are the lessons coming?" He seemed genuinely interested.
Susan sighed and stood, walking to the dispenser for a cup of tea. Absently, she shook her head. "I ... I honestly don't know." At his baffled look, she added. "Um, think of it like ... like having machine parts dumped into a ship's hold. Any part you pick up you can name. But you don't know what fits where—or even what machine it comes from let alone what it does." She sipped the tea. "That's what sleep stim and all the hours in front of the comm are doing to my head. Thoughts. Bits of information ... all jumbled together."
"Can I help?" he asked automatically, genuinely concerned. "I mean, that's horrible. Maybe I could help you put it all..." He caught himself, suddenly worried. Abashed, he looked down to where he played with his fingers.
"You want to tell me what's bothering you?" Susan asked softly, leaning her chin on the back of the chair.
He chewed his lips for a second. "You know this Friday Garcia Yellow Legs? The one fighting Horsecapture?" His face puckered uncertainly.
She nodded, now wary.
"Well... uh, there's talk on the gun deck." Hans rubbed the back of his neck. He blurted, "People are saying the fight is over you."
Susan closed her eyes, feeling the color drain from her face. "That's ... that's right, Hans. They're ..." She looked up to see him leaving.
"Hans?" she called, getting to her feet. "Hans?" But he was gone, the hatch whispering shut behind him. She watched the portal seal, a curious hollowness in her chest.
For long minutes she fought the urge to run after him, find him, force him to tell her. Angry, thoughts drifting from Friday to Hans, she deliberately turned back to the comm. Sternly, she picked up her headset and placed it on her forehead—willing herself to work on mathematics.
She'd only been at her studies for an hour when Friday's voice brought her upright. She experienced a feeling of foolishness as she rushed for the hatch.
He stood there, smiling uncertainly. "Guess what?"
"What?" she gasped. "Horsecapture called off the feud!"
"Wrong!" Friday chortled, hopping lithely through the door.
Susan frowned, "Then ... what?"
"Well, it's like this, I just got the latest odds on the knife feud. Three to one ... in favor of Horsecapture."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, no, is right!" Friday assented, gnomelike face tense. "I know better."
She took his hand, looking down into his twinkling eyes. The wretched hollowness left by Hans began to expand. This man would die for her. Here he stood, the hint of a laugh ghosting around his broad lips. She realized then just how much she cared for him, how much he'd placed in jeopardy for her sake.
"Sure," Friday continued, nonplussed. "He's twice as big as me, right? So all I got to do is cut him in half, see. Then it's only two to one!"
Susan closed her eyes, hugging him close. "Friday Garcia Yellow Legs, you're ... you're impossible!"
"That's what my mother said when I was born. She thought she'd always been faithful to my father."
"Friday!" she cried, the tightness growing within. Her eyes dropped as she pushed him away, her heart tearing. "Listen, there's still time. Go apologize to Horsecapture. I'm ... not worth your life. He'll cut you to—"
"Hush," he whispered, hugging her close, mock humor vanishing. He touched her tenderly, fingers stroking lightly through her long hair. "Hush, now. No such thing will happen. Besides, I've got to see how you make out. I made some bets that you'd become the greatest Spider warrior of all—got great odds against you. I'll make a fortune and I want to be around to spend it—with you."
Heart pounding, she looked into his eyes, seeing the softness there, the vulnerability. What if he died? A realization of how much he'd come to mean to her began to penetrate her worry. Their lips met, the kiss warm on her mouth.
His eyes glowed, a bittersweet longing vying with his tension. "I've hoped for that," he mumbled happily. "I'll die fulfilled."
"Oh, Friday ..." she began, but he kissed her again. A miserable ache began to grow inside. "Please, don't. Not for me. I ... I couldn't stand it if you ..."
"Shhhh! Major's gone to talk to Iron Eyes. Won't be back for a couple hours. We have time to ... talk. Go for a walk. Whatever you want."
She nodded, fighting a throttled sensation in her throat, wanting to wrap him inside of her where he'd be safe. She kept him pulled tight against her straining breasts, feeling the curious tingle of desire.
They kissed again, her breathing coming short, the feel of his hands reassuring, causing a flutter deep inside. For long minutes, the tingle built. Warmth replaced the endless confusion. A honey glow spread from her hips to her thighs, tickling her toes. She arched into him, pressing close, his kisses demanding more from her lips.
He pulled back, searching her face intently. "You know where this will end up?"
She nodded, a flush spreading through her.
"Um, I don't want you from guilt." He winced. "Oh, what a poor liar I am!"
She fought a giggle as he made hungry noises, nibbling at her flesh. He looked up again, serious. "You're sure, Susan?"
She nodded, blood beginning to race. Her eyes drifted closed as his fingers moved lightly on her skin. She trembled as he lifted her blouse over her head, feeling the pants loosen and fall about her ankles. With sure fingers she undid his war shirt, driven by her need. Her breathing came as ragged gasps, fingers frantic on his body, exploring the hard muscle of his chest and shoulders while he kissed her.
Her fingers dropped, finding his hard manhood. "Oh, Friday," she choked on her desire. "I've never ... never done this ..."
His mouth moved on her breast, teasing the nipple hard. Lungs heaving, she led him to the narrow bunk, barely aware of the soft fabric against her back. His skin burned hot on hers as he lowered himself, powerful muscles rippling. She pulled him to her.
In Rita's quarters, John Smith Iron Eyes settled himself at a monitor and waited expectantly. To his surprise, Rita handed him a glass of scotch.
"What about the Sirians?" he asked, frowning. "You said you wanted to show me some data."
Rita flipped hair out of her collar and settled back into one of the chairs. "Were you this blockheaded around Doc?"
"I don't understand." Iron Eyes leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"Friday wanted to be alone with Susan, War Chief," Rita remarked snidely. "I had to tell you something to drag you away from him."
Iron Eyes thought about it for a second, then shook his head, his face lighting with amusement. "Blockheaded? Yes, I suppose so. No, I don't think of things like that. You suppose it's a fatal flaw?"
Rita laughed easily. "Only when you have to deal with personal matters. Funny about you ... you've always been behind the eight ball, Iron Eyes. I don't think you ever learned how people work—except in warfare."
He ran his tongue over his lips, nodding. "Guess not." He paused. "I know how to deal with Friday in war ... but in love?" His eyes narrowed in concentration. "On the other hand, maybe she'll marry him and stop this woman warrior nonsense!"
"Star rot!" Rita snapped irritably, sinking deeper into the chair and studying him over the rim of her scotch glass. "Why, Iron Eyes? What is it really that bothers you? And don't tell me it's about Spider making men one way and women another. It's inside you. Something persenal."
He chewed his lip in silence for a bit, a dark scowl marking his brow. "I, well, think of it like this," he said unevenly. "Women to us—Romanans, that is—are mothers. The ... the strength of the People, if you will. A man, a warrior, well, he's replaceable. Kill one man, another takes his place. If a lot of men die, there are more wives married to one man. But kill one woman and you deny the tribe three or four children. A woman is the future. A man is nothing, experimental, expendable. If only one man is left alive he can assure the future—even if he's a little busy in the process. If only one woman lives ... the People die."
"One bull to the herd?" she asked caustically.
"I don't think you can call—"
"Star shine," she grumbled. Rita cocked her head. "You given any thought about what's gonna happen when your warriors come marching home from Sirius with their 'wives'? All those Sirian women will have ideas like Susan's—and mine. No second fiddle to any man, War Chief. No meek, ignorant, cowed, eyes-to-the-ground submission. How are the warriors like old Sam Yellow Legs gonna take that? Beat them all to death? Not much value in a female slave if she's dead, huh?"
Iron Eyes rubbed a callused hand over his face. "No, there's no honor in beating a woman to death. I mean ... Oh, Spider take it, we're going to change, Rita. There's no way around it. New ideas ... Well, I guess we just wait and see what happens." He narrowed one eye into a disgusted squint. "You and Leeta ... both trouble."
"So?" she challenged. "What about Susan?"
He spread his arms. "She's here, isn't she?"
"But you don't approve."
"Hell, no! I ..." He filled his lungs, looking away. "Maybe I'll learn. A lifetime of beliefs don't just fade like morning mist in the Bear Mountains."
She smiled wryly at him. "No, but at least you've admitted there might be another way. Give her a chance. If I can cram enough information into the kid's head, maybe she'll make it."
"Maybe?"
"John, you know what she's up against? In five months we'll be landing on Sirius and she's going head first into combat on a world of which she has no comprehension. Oh, sure, the pysch machines can give her the dry information. But it's like ... like putting an encyclopedia in your brain. It still takes a native intelligence to learn how to use it right, to keep from being overwhelmed by all the mountains of discrete bits of data."
"And you think she can?"
"I'm betting the bank roll, John. I, well, it can break a person—overwhelm them because their mind's different—and don't you tell her, either. She's got enough to worry about. But sometimes ... well, the machine overlays memories. Occasionally a person can't deal with what they've lost. They, um, go a little crazy. Identity shock."
Iron Eyes nodded. "This machine. It's like the psych?"
Rita nodded. "Now you know why I'm scared. Some Romanans, those with Prophet blood, go real berserk under psych. Susan reacts well, I don't think there's any problem with—"
"Ah!" Iron Eyes nodded. "That's why the techs were taking all those tests when we adjusted the combat simulators to the warriors. You had to change them so we didn't go berserk when the machines interacted with our minds."
Rita pursed her lips. "That's right. We've learned a lot about how to work around Romanan neurophysiology. It'll save a lot of lives when we hit Sirius. Susan, on the other hand, is getting a double dose. She demonstrates remarkable tolerance for the teaching machine."
He sighed, gaze drifting around his quarters. "When we hit Sirius? Rita, I ... Well, it won't be as easy as we think. I just have a ... a feeling, Rita. Call it a warrior's premonition. I see all the optimism around me, but it's ... false. Here I am, surrounded by all this technology—but I know war. That's what I did—led men into war. Something deep in my bones tells me Sirius will be more horrible than any of us—"
"Come on! You know what sort of power the Patrol has. How can one planet converting a couple of GCIs stand against us? I mean, we're going in with the whole fleet! Sirians aren't warriors, they're—"
"Anyone will fight when they have nothing left to lose." Iron Eyes lifted a tanned hand. "No, there's something else. My Romanans and I, we're at a disadvantage here. Raiding a high tech world? What traps could a clever man make for a barbarian? How do I even explain just how big an arcology is to a Santos warrior who gapes at the Settlements?"
Rita brooded over her drink for several minutes. "I don't want to scoff, but think about it. Once the Patrol takes control of the skies, we'll have the ability to call down strikes against the Sirian strong points. Demoralize them from above. The ATs will give us superior mobility. If the Romanans get in trouble, we'll be able to shunt marines in to cover for their—"
"No," Iron Eyes growled. "That's not good for Romanan honor or morale. No, we've got to take our own ground—do our own work—or we'd best call it off now. My people have to bear their own burdens on Sirius. If we assume anything different, it'll be disastrous for—"
"What could go wrong?" Rita demanded skeptically. "The Patrol comes in in force and the planet crumbles. It's always worked that ... What are you looking at me like that for?"
He reached over and placed a sun-browned hand on her pale one. "Rita," he added soberly, "Trust me. You and your Patrol, you have a lot of practice with 'policing' your Directorate. Me? I have a lot of practice making war. I have learned one iron rule when it comes to war."
"And that is?"
"You can predict nothing. True, you can plan, but nothing ever works according to plan." He smiled. "My cousin Chester is a Prophet. Philip was almost a Prophet. My grandfather's brother was a Prophet. It doesn't run strong in me; I can still sense trouble at Sirius. Things will not work the way we want them to. No, I can see the question in your eyes. I can't tell you how it will go wrong, it just will."
"You talked to Ree about this?"
Iron Eyes shrugged. "He's a Romanan at heart. We've talked. He listens, and nods, and thinks. Then he worries about what I've said and we discuss potential trouble. Any kind we can think of. For that attitude, I've come to respect him a great deal. I have finally met a commander I can trust and subordinate myself to."
She looked up, green eyes wide. "I guess ... that ... well, takes a lot to admit, doesn't it?"
The corners of his lips curled. Gently he said, "Yes, more than you could ever know." He shifted uneasily in the chair. "And to admit it to you, well, that takes some respect and trust too."
Rita opened her mouth, saying nothing, a sudden vulnerability in her eyes. For long moments they looked at each other.
"Thanks for the trust," she whispered finally. "I ... I'll try and live up to it."
He chuckled quietly. "Oh, I think you will. And I ... perhaps ... well, when this is all over.... Well, maybe you and Ree will let me stay with Bullet? Take me to other worlds so I can see and learn? I ... I'm not sure I can go back to raiding Santos for a living."
She laughed. "Damen will keep you. You and he seem to get along. And as for me?" Her voice lowered. "I'd like it if you stayed. We see eye to eye, you and me. No one else could understand about Philip and ... and ..." She looked away.
Iron Eyes tightened his grip on her hand, letting his warm flesh say everything.
"I'm on the last of the scotch. In a half hour, Friday has to fight Horsecapture." She sounded weary. "Here's to the Patrol." She downed the strong drink. "And the way of Spider."
"Here's to warfare and blood, for whatever it teaches." Iron Eyes gulped his and started for the door.
"Willy Red Hawk Horsecapture is seeking status by a campaign to return to the old ways." Rita stared up at the ceiling panels. "A bit early for that. Nativistic movements and revitalization brouhahas generally come later."
