Jo Clayton: Shadowkill

She disengaged the tethers, walked the ship on pressors from its slot. With a wary eye on the blob, she eased the ship along behind the others tethered in that row until she was drifting at the sunside of the tieup, fingers crossed that the ship the tow wanted was down the other end.

Yes. Yes. That big sucker. Z’ Toyff, they came prepared for a hefty cargo. Whoever.

Followed by two smaller ships, the large transport moved free of the marina, sucked in the blob as soon as it was clear, then the three ships hung together without moving or giving any sign of life for ten minutes, twenty, thirty…

Abruptly they shot up, arcing high over the marina, heading for the sun.

So what does one do now? Digby, Digby, wish I could call you. No. We’ll play this out first, there’s no time. No time…

Autumn Rose waited until they dropped out of sight, then went after them, hanging far enough back so they wouldn’t spot her.

Kikun sang to himself. He’d found a clipboard somewhere and was slapping at it, drumming himself into the hunt trance, getting the Spirit Hound ready to go snuffling on the trail of the ships running ahead of them.

A flare behind them.

She read the monitors. Not the sun. Must be Koulsnakko’s blowing. Bastards set it to go Nova. She shivered.

Goerta b’rite for Kuna’s visions.

The ships ahead hit the Limit and dropped into the insplit.

With Kikun’s song and his drumming filling the bridge around her, she dropped after them.

Prisoner 1: Ginny In Chains

Two men came through double doors, walked toward a workstation on a dais; its screens were retracted, the sensor pads shrouded in plastic covers. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the black and white squares of the marble floor.

It was an immense domed chamber and they were alone in it.

There were other workstations, smaller and less complex, ranked around the walls, over fifty stations, closed down now, hooded and silent, chairs empty. This was a holiday, a rest day for everyone but them.

The one with the manacles on his wrists and the leg irons was a little man with thinning gray-brown hair combed across a bald spot, a forgettable face and eyes like dead leaves. Ginbiryol Seyirshi, prisoner and not liking it-though he didn’t let his anger surface. His hands hung at his sides, relaxed, loosely curled, as he stepped onto the dais and stood beside the lefthand seat, waiting with an appearance of mild interest for something to happen.

The other was an Omphalite, muffled in heavy black robes with a cowl shadowing his face. A big man, twice Ginny’s size. There was arrogance in the set of his shoulders, in the boom of his distorted and deepened voice. He set a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, pushed him down into the seat, and closed more fetters over his arms and legs.

The Omphalite settled himself before the operations console, brought a screen humming up and spreading before them, waved a gloved hand at the image that appeared when he tapped a sensor at the center of the board. “There she is, your… ah… nemesis.”

The contempt and mockery in those words ate at Ginny, but he gave no outward sign of this.

A young woman with matte brown skin and hair a mass of bronze springs sat in a narrow cell staring into the lens. On one cheek she had an outline of a hawk acid-etched into her skin, an elegant brownline drawing. She looked tired and fearful, her eyes were red and still teary, though she’d stopped crying. She was twisting her hands together, repeating the same motions over and over.

It was almost three years since Ginny had first seen her; she’d looked about fourteen then. Despite the stresses and strains of the time since, she seemed hardly older though she had to be nineteen or twenty. Bone structure, he thought, and that baby skin. And playing the child. He didn’t believe any of what he was seeing; he’d learned better. “Kill her.”

The Omphalite snorted. “She’s nothing,” he said. “A front for that sauroid. A pawn. That creature was the real source of her so-called powers.”

Ginny turned his head, stared a moment at the shadow under the cowl, the black jut of the voice distorter. You are a fool, he thought, but he didn’t say it. He went back to gazing at the girl.

“No profit in killing a strong young thing like that,” the Omphalite went on. “She’s due for mindwiping tomorrow, then we’ll put her into a labor levy and sell her services such as they are.” He paused, contemplated the image. “We thought about training her as a courtesan, but she didn’t catch the fancy of anyone here and she’s not pretty enough to be worth the trouble. Strong back and clever hands, that’s her forte. Just recently we acquired a contract labor company, Bolodo Neyuregg Ltd. It was forced out of business because a ring of Execs were caught dealing in outright slavery. Caught, hnh. Foolishness.” He clasped his gloved hands over the solid curve of his belly. “We have reorganized the company and gotten it reinstated with Helvetia. It’s proving a very profitable addition to our portfolio and a useful dump for products our Interrogators have finished with.” Contempt crept back into his voice. “Since you’re so nervous about that chocho, we’ll flake her mindwipe for you. Watching her drool, you’ll see you can forget about her and concentrate on your work.” He touched another sensor and the scene shifted.

A Dyslaeror was prowling about a cell, his fury almost tangible. Rohant the Ciocan.

“Magnificent beast, isn’t he.” The Omphalite flashed images of other Dyslaerors onto the screen, ending with the dark glowering Tolmant. “Aren’t they all. Along with the four we captured during the attack on Betalli, these are the first Dyslaera we’ve managed to lay our hands on. Interesting creatures. Dangerous. Which makes them all the more valuable. Rohant the Ciocan. He and his woman run Voallts Korlach, you know. We want that business. Very profitable. Excellent reputation. Access to places we haven’t been able to touch, you understand.” He grunted. “Stubborn beasts. We tried the probe on two of the younger ones. One of them’s dead, the other might’s well be. Vegetable. They seem to have some twists in their heads our savants haven’t seen before. Perverse. One almost feels it’s deliberate. Which reminds me, our chief Savant will be visiting you in a day or two, give him everything, you know about the Dyslaera. Hnh. They’d make magnificent guards, very decorative and maybe even effective. Assassins perhaps. Think what we could charge for them if we could guarantee conditioning and control. We can start with these, but we’ll have to have more of them. We need to know how to avoid stirring up that cohesiveness and bloody-mindedness they show when one of theirs is attacked. Or perhaps we could learn to transfer that loyalty to us. That’d be good.” He tapped the sensor again.

“That’s a tracer Op called Samhol Bohz, he’s a native of Ekchua-TiHash, interesting world, I’ve sent a small expedition to see what we can pick up there. This obsession of yours, Seyirshi, it’s proving immensely valuable to us. We acquired Bohz in that attack on Betalli; he was leading it. Works for something called Excavations Limited, the proprietor of which is one Digby no-last-name no-planet-of-origin. Digby. My chief Interrogator thinks the name’s a pun, shows the way the blitsor’s mind works, something he thought up when he started his business. Odd man, if you can call him a man these days. Tied to his kephalos with more fibers than a Paem bud to ve’s parent. Stays in his nest, never goes out except by holo. Can’t get at him. Which is the point, I suppose. He’s beginning to be a nuisance, but we have to leave him be until we have more data. We’re thinking of programming Bohz and sending him back to scavenge for us. Maybe, maybe not. Depends on what we can wring out of him here. Whatever, there’s always the labor levy. One way or another, he’ll make us a profit. We have expenses, you know, we can’t afford to waste anything. Besides, recycling is a virtue, yes? Talking about profits…”