Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

“‘It means that the jacal has an opportunity to raid every hour of the night. He had already acquired plans for your pens, he knows when the full-response droid is as far away as it’s going to get, he chaffs the half-loaded droid, overwhelming its intake, flips in his scoop and gets the target out before the full-response can locate the trouble and cross the intervening space. He can do it over and over again, whenever he wants. If you add flesh guards, he’ll kill them. I take it you’ve moved the jinnkitt once or twice?’

“‘Yes. First night, it was off its feed, we had it in the infirmary. The second time was just before a client was coining to look at it. We were grooming it and playing with it so it would be in good spirits.’

“‘Right. That’s the only reason you still have it. The first part of the answer is simple. Change the routine. New pattern of patrol every night, for one thing. For another, download after one hour, not three. You keep your droids livelier, time down is much shorter, and the change in pattern will annoy the jacal no end.’

“I hadn’t thought of that, Ro, it was such a simple change and so obvious, once he said it. It was worth whatever trouble this chatting business put me to. Besides, I liked the man, I already liked talking to him. I did what he said, we caught the jacal, Digby got enough on the one who hired him, a turd named Tambaedee, to scare him off, and the rest you know.”

Omphalos was using the same android every time they came for him; it had a scratch underneath its right vision-lens which gave it a rakish look, almost like a dueling scar. He was sure they were keeping it on full-cycle, twice he’d seen signs it was near saturation, a faint hesitation in its movements, a sluggishness in its responses. The first time was before he had the stunrod, the second time they made him strip in the cell before they took him out, they were taking him to a special session in the lab, so he had to leave the rod behind.

Now he was cultivating a hunter’s patience, waiting quietly till all three factors clicked in.

It would happen soon. Had to be soon. Before they gave up on Miralys and moved him to Black House.

The Grand Chom was away, they said. How true that was Rohant didn’t know. Or where. Or what had happened to him.

There was a restiveness in the place that was connected with the Chom’s absence. Something has gone wrong for them; they can’t figure what, but they feel things aren’t right. He knew that nervousness, it was the kind that passed through a herd when a predator was eying them.

He had to get out of here.

Soon.

Savant 4 (speaking to notepad):

Subject 7R (native name: Rohant) has emerged from the fugue state, but continues in a curious passivity. Tech 1 insists this has nothing to do with passivity but is rather the typical huntmode of a predator, the time of waiting before the strike.

NOTE: Tech 1 is showing further signs of deviation, I recommend removal from Mimishay and rehabilitation at the Institute; if his attitude does not improve subsequent to such actions, I must advance a suggestion of termination with prejudice; his skills as a tech are without question; however, his growing insubordination is a corrupting force among his juniors.

FURTHER NOTE: Negotiations with Voallts Korlach are proceeding slowly, but there is no real problem. Another rat is being prepared to increase pressure on the Toerfeles so she will expedite the bargaining and reach the point of decision. Despite the losses, this has been a markedly successful ploy. Congratulations to the planners. May their fertility increase.

Worms In The Walls, Wasps In The Rafters: Wherein Mimishay Learns The Folly Of Messing With Dyslaera And Distorting The Creations Of Dedicated Artists Like Ginbiryol Seyirshi

Shadith / Ginbiryol Seyirsi / Tsipor

Shadith followed the android onto the bridge.

She stopped in the doorway, shuddered. It was the ugliest place she’d seen since Stavver stole the diadem from the RMoahl towers: what wasn’t starkly utilitarian was, heavily, disastrously ornamented. The cabin Ginny gave her was stripped to the bones, nothing there but toeup furniture and gray walls. As she looked around, she decided he had redeeming qualities she hadn’t noticed before since he hadn’t put her in a suite with this sort of decor.

Ginny was seated off to one side, working at the comspec’s station, a habit she remembered from the first time he’d hauled her off somewhere.

He braced his prosthetic hand against the sensor board and pushed the chair around. “You slept a long time.”

“I was tired.”

“Apparently. Tell me something, Singer; was Ajeri Kilavez among the prisoners in the hold? You do remember her?”

“She was there, in the pod beside yours.”

“Ah. I thought so. The Omphalite told me she died at the Hole.” He brooded for a moment, staring down at the unflesh hand, watching the fingers and thumb twitch; then he looked up. “I had to replace my crew. The pilot is one Mertoyl. There are two mercs in crew quarters, they will handle beams and missiles, and I have acquired a Sikkul Paem in bud to tend the drives. I prefer Sikkul Paems as engine crew; they do not interfere in what is not their business. It is an attitude I recommend you adopt.”

“Tui-tui, where’s all this cooperation you flourished when you roped us in?”

He contemplated her a moment, produced a small tight smile. “Cooperation? I do not think I mentioned the word. My recollection is that we have agreed not to kill each other for the moment.”

“Right.” She settled herself in the co-seat, crossed her legs, and rested her hands on her knees. “So. What now?”

“We will talk in a moment. I must finish what I am doing here.” He pulled himself around, bent over the slantboard and went back to tapping the sensor plates, watching the hexa cells in front of him as the half-dozen he was working with flickered through image after image.

Shadith rubbed at her eyes, let her head fall back as she considered the new pilot.

Mertoyl was a thin, fair woman with wispy ash blonde hair and gray eyes so pale they were nearly colorless. Her trousers were gray leather, its shadow diamond texture identifying the leather as murraskin which meant it was contraband and almost as expensive as her tunic. That tunic had the deep subtle sheen of avrishum, probably cost more than many people earned in a year. A single earring dangled from her left ear, a teardrop of silver with a gray shimmerpearl in the cut-out center. She was a ghostimage of a woman, but a ghost with very expensive tastes.

Where does he get them, these etiolate blondes? These peculiar pilots with their penchant for absolute loyalty? Because she has it, too, bad as Ajeri. Has it already, though she can’t have been with him more than a few months. Is it catching? Gods, I hope not.

Tsipor was squatting by the back wall, her arms crossed on her knees, her dark red eyes empty of expression. Though she was hard to read, her rhythms so alien they only rarely approached Cousin norms, she seemed powered-down, almost dormant.

Shadith glanced at her, shivered, looked away. During the nights and days of the ride across the Brushland she’d felt close to the Raska; their shared needs and the solitude they were locked into had overcome instinctive dislike. Mutual dislike-Tsipor found the monkey Cousins as repellent as they found her and had no difficulty making that revulsion apparent. That closeness… pseudo-closeness… whatever… it was gone now. Probably because Tsipor had transferred her loyalty, such as it was, to Ginny as the one most likely to see Omphalos rolled in the dust.