Chapter Four
EASTERN FRINGELANDS, BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
The band leader serving as his adjutant and de facto radio-bearer looked up, black-bead eyes half-retracted beneath their protective bony ridge. “Flag Leader Yaargraukh, the scoutband reports that the den is empty.”
Yaargraukh could not entirely suppress the annoyed phlegm-warble in his foot-long nostrils. He reached up for the dioptiscope which was fixed atop the sheath-helmet of articulated plates covering his snoutlike head. He flipped it down, adjusted it until the lenses were snugged against his eyes, and scanned the entrance to the den. Dug into a rock-face, as were most Hkh’Rkh habitations on Turkh’saar, the opening showed no sign of forced entry or damage. Two of his Warriors were roving back and forth in front of it, their large-bore scatterguns at the ready, their torsos stooped and tails slightly raised: a cautious, prowling posture. They were large, even for honor-guards; two and a half meters when they rose erect from their digitigrade crouches, their pony-necks widened to stretch almost entirely across their broad, sloping backs. The tufting that followed the crest of those necks ran down between their muscle-bulging shoulders, along their spines, and all the way to the ends of their slowly swaying tails. Yaargraukh wondered at their unwillingness to wear a kevlar warhide like the rest of the troop. Though they were the two mightiest melee fighters in the group—both halbardichers of the Great Clan Gdar’khoom—even their immense barrel-chests were not proof against bullets or shrapnel. But then again, their oaths of fealty might well require them to believe, or at least act as if, they were invulnerable.
“No sign of other casualties?” Yaargraukh asked, pushing the dioptiscope back up on the undifferentiated slope that ran from the top of his long head to the beginning of his neck.
“None, Flag Leader.”
“The body spotted out among the herpeculture ditches: is there a report on specifics, yet?”
“Just coming in, Scion. A male, presumably the clan’s Voice. Who was also its Fist, I believe.”
“They are so small a clan as that?”
“Yes, Scion. They were.”
Yaargraukh was tempted to reprimand the radio-bearer, but paused. It was possible that his adjutant’s correction was not measured impertinence but a subtle attempt to underscore that among the Old Families, the loss of a clan-head was not so manageable as in a New Family, where relationships were more fluid and practical. In any Old Family moiety, the loss of a clan head without scions to replace him portended the dissolution of the clan itself: no guardians were appointed to the dependents, no property was kept in trust for them.
But even if the adjutant had intended no insolence, it was best to remind him that Yaargraukh had more familiarity with the formalities of Old Families than did most of those who belonged to them. “Band Leader, having been in the invasion fleet yourself, you should recall that I served on First Voice’s staff in the late war against the humans. I am more versed in the protocols of Old Families than thee,” he finished, moving to the archaic informal pronoun to remind his adjutant to remember his place. “It is yet possible that this slain clan-head had a litter-mate who will reinstate the line, come the time. Or do you know otherwise?”
“I do not, Flag Leader,” the radio-bearer replied, dipping his head and keeping it low for a brief but respectful interval. “But Fringelanders usually come out here to seek their fortunes because they have no bloodbonds in the Clanlands, none upon which they may rely for support or sustenance.”
Yaargraukh nodded his agreement and his acceptance of the apologetic bow. “Let us hope this clan is more fortunate than that. Any sign of other family members?”
“None, Scion, but the scoutband estimates that the attack occurred within minutes of the radio summons we received from this place.”
Yaargraukh studied the surrounding terrain again: craggy uplands to the east, a sprawl of clusterwoods to the north, lichen plains to the south. The dirt track by which they had approached from the west wove in between long, low, scrub-covered hillocks. If survivors had run, they would have made for cover: either the northern woods or the western hillocks. But Yaargraukh’s five vehicle convoy had come in from the west and would surely have spotted them. So if there were survivors, they were probably deep in the woods. Capture was the least likely possibility; the raiders had shown no inclination to take prisoners—so far.
The attack had almost certainly come from the north or the east; the woods and the uplands blocked the horizon at both those compass points, providing excellent screening for the raiders’ rotary aircraft, right up until the final approach. And once they emerged from that cover—
“Adjutant, I require information: what manner of weapon was used to kill the clan-head?”
After a brief, muted exchange over the radio, he looked up. “His wounds were inflicted by both human weapons and our own.”
Yaargraukh nodded. “This was to be expected.”
“You mean, some of—of our own people have sided with the humans?”
Yaargraukh fluttered phlegm in disgust. He could almost hear what the radio operator had really meant to say: “You mean, some of the New Families have sided with the humans?” And the adjutant need not be a determined bigot to believe so; there was no dishonor that scions of the Old Families put beyond those of the New, largely because it fit the narrative of disdain that they reserved for that lower class. From which Yaargraukh himself was descended. “No. This simply confirms the earlier, unsubstantiated reports that the humans have been salvaging our weapons and ammunition for their own use.”
“But Scion, Great Fist Jrekhalkar has dismissed this as impossible. The humans are too small to wield our weapons effectively. Their recoil and weight—”
“—are of no consequence if the humans mount them on their vehicles or on bipods or tripods. Which they are certainly capable of fabricating. Besides, their attacks have changed in recent months. They no longer kill indiscriminately, but they now steal all useful equipment, even from the smallest dencote.”
The radio-bearer bobbed deference. “Yes, Flag Leader. As Fist Jrekhalkar points out, they began simply as murderers. Now, they are behaving as invaders.”
Yaargraukh rounded on the radio-bearer, who was easily ten centimeters taller than he was. “If that is so, then why have they reduced the number of casualties they inflict? How does Fist Jrekhalkar explain that?”
“He—he is not beholden to explain his reasoning to those of my station,” the adjutant blurted.
How convenient for Jrekhalkar that none may question his dung-witted conclusions. “Has the scoutband identified any other damage inflicted by the attackers?”
“There is evidence that they hastily removed a great number of fish from the edible aquaculture tanks closer to the dencote. They also entered the dencote itself and apparently inspected its contents.”
“And they took nothing?”
“Nothing, Scion.”
Yaargraukh waited for the radio-bearer to become aware of and correct what was almost certainly his oversight, but when that did not occur, he began to have misgivings. “And the den’s radio?”
“Present and intact, Flag Leader.”
Yaargraukh felt his eyes retract behind their protective folds, then under their bony ridges. The radio—left behind? The humans never failed to take radios or fuel. Ever.
He rose from the passenger seat in his command vehicle, uncertain and unsettled for the first time since he had left Iarzut’thruk in an attempt to locate, and possibly make contact with, these perplexing invaders. If that was in fact what they were. Time to leave. And maybe, not a good time to tarry too long in any one place.
He waved and then crossed his long arms twice, resumed his seat in the four-wheel-drive scout car. The other vehicles—one like his, the remainder large-wheeled troop carriers—were already in motion, picking up their dismounted teams and swerving round to form up on him. “We must return to Ylogh at once,” he muttered to the driver. “Something is amiss.”
* * *
Halfway back through the winding hillocks and rolling plains of lichen and runner-shrubs that separated his convoy from the large clancote of Ylogh, Yaargraukh called for a general stop and then commanded his driver to move forward an extra five kilometers. From there, he sent signals—in English and German, the two human languages with which he was familiar—on the frequencies that the invaders used as tactical channels during their attacks. There was, once again, no response.
Reaching around the pintle mount of the scout car’s tri-barrel gatling, Yaargraukh replaced the radio’s handset slowly, resisted the urge to outwardly vent his frustration. He had been trying intermittently to find these humans for months now, tracking them from one raided community to the next, but never in time to encounter them or raise anything on the radio except for static.
He had hoped that the summons to Ylogh might be different, partly because he had been much closer to this settlement than he had been to the others when they were struck. His large-wheeled vehicles had arrived only four hours after the raiders left, the smoke still rising toward the low clouds. What he found resembled no prior attack. There had been few casualties and no seizure of goods. Indeed, the humans had fired only desultory bursts from their automatic weapons until Ylogh’s Voice had activated the clancote’s long-range radio: first, to alert Yaargraukh and the leadership back in Iarzut’thruk and then to ask the humans to cease their assault. Instead, the humans had focused an intense stream of fire at the source of the transmission until they silenced the radio and its operator. After which they had left. Abruptly.
Then, hours later, a desperate call from the nameless den out in the Fringeland. Yaargraukh had not wanted to split his forces, but the humanitarian and morale values of allowing half of his task force to remain in Ylogh had been compelling. So leaving one troop of his tassle behind to secure the town, he had taken the other east to investigate the more recent strike on the den.
Now he was headed back toward Ylogh again, with nothing to show for chasing to and fro other than the vague and ominous feeling that he was being toyed with. Before his convoy began returning through the hillocks, he had called his executive officer, Troop Leader Hshwaarn in A carrier, to seek a perspective other than his own. But that had been unprofitable. Hshwaarn was an upright and dependable Warrior, but he was merely a Fringeland hunter turned militia leader for the duration of the current crisis. His thought largely reprised that of the others in the unit, and of the leadership back in Iarzut’thruk: that the humans had come to Turkh’saar to follow up their victory over the Hkh’Rkh and Arat Kur invaders of Earth to exact some vengeful reciprocity.
Of course, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, the human “invaders” had not landed in spacecraft, were comparatively few in number, and equipped with decidedly outdated weapons. However, these facts did not concern the other Hkh’Rkh populating the politically significant echelons of society on Turkh’saar. Their resolute disinterest was surprising not merely because the data they disdained was tactically important, but because it was highly inconsistent with the presumed human motive of invasion. An intent made even more improbable by the fact that Turkh’saar was unreachable by Earth’s shift-carriers.
But in concluding that the humans were here for vengeance, his fellow Hkh’Rkh were merely projecting their own behavioral reflexes upon the invaders, and so, needed no further explanation. Indeed, any data which problematized that narrative were unwelcome. Why seek facts or motivations that would only lead to uncertainty? Much better a clearly understood conflict with clearly demarcated sides and objectives for all parties involved.
Yaargraukh took up the handset, entered the coded channel-breaks that signalled the convoy to catch up. His executive officer contacted him on the private tactical command channel. “Since the invaders may still be operating in this area, should we perhaps travel with greater separation, Flag Leader?”
“Hshwaarn, your caution is admirable, but we must maintain a formation that allows for mutual support. Our rocket launchers have an anti-air engagement envelope of less than three kilometers. Visibility among these hillocks is often well less than that, particularly once we approach the plain and begin descending through the clusterwoods. If we spread out further, we can be picked off one by one.”
Hshwaarn sounded embarrassed. “Apologies, Flag Leader. I do not have your knowledge of these weapons and vehicles. I meant no affront by my suggestion.”
“And none was taken. While I was on Earth, I had much opportunity to become familiar with similar equipment.” As well as their limitations; it is a fortunate thing that the humans with whom we are currently contending do not have the weapons of contemporary Terran militaries.
If they had, it would have been folly to engage them with the colony’s militia-grade matériel. If any of the Great Voices of the Patrijuridicate had given thought to surreptitiously establishing a true military garrison on Turkh’saar, they had taken no discernible steps in that direction. And who among them would have perceived any need to more openly violate the nonmilitarization agreement with their partners in the system, the ever-anxious Arat Kur?
As his scout car topped a ridge, Yaargraukh turned to look back along the vehicles of First Troop. Excepting the other scout car, they were three six-wheeled armored carriers. Blocky, diesel-powered conveyances, their hatch-rings sported the venerable fifteen-millimeter machine guns that Indonesian guerillas had dubbed “autocannons.” Compared to the humans’ lighter weapons, Yaargraukh understood the inspiration behind the label. One of the carriers was also equipped with a heavy, pintle-mounted rocket launcher, its tube locked in the slightly elevated ready position.
But despite their fearsome appearance, this model of APC had been decommissioned from front-line military service forty years ago, and lagged almost a century behind human APCs—those which were still wheeled or tracked, that is. Confronted with a true invasion, this vehicle, like the other equipment of the small Colonial Militia, would have been reduced to smoking wrecks within the first hour. Possibly within the first five minutes. They began descending into the next narrow vale that separated the washboard-ridges of the region.
Yaargraukh’s radio-bearer gestured for his attention. “A call, Scion—no, I was mistaken. Or perhaps it was the distortion of a growing solar storm. Or—” He stared at the overcast skies. There had been some distant thunder on the drive out to the isolated dencote, but the clouds had dissipated.
Yaargraukh nodded. “Or it could be jamming. Was there a consistent pattern?”
“I could not discern one, Flag Leader. The signal only lasted a moment, right as we crested the last rise.”
Yaargraukh conveyed his understanding with a sweep of his hand. With true military commo gear, even that brief sample would have been sufficient to discriminate between jamming and meteorological effects. But the militia’s radios were no better than those used by the upland rovers of the New Families, whose livelihood depended upon an uneven mix of hunting and prospecting. Indeed, that would have been Yaargraukh’s lot in life, had he not been chosen by the Rectorate to study on Rkh’yaa.
“Are the human s’fet truly capable of jamming?” his adjutant wondered aloud.
“They are; the humans have done so several times. And I shall correct you only once more; the humans are not s’fet. They are beings.” More than that, they are persons, but you are not ready to hear that. You may never be. “If you label them as animals, you will think of them as animals, and so you will underestimate them. As we did, repeatedly, during our invasion of their homeworld.”
“I remember, Flag Leader.”
Yaargraukh clacked the opposed thumbs of both hands as the scout car started its descent of into the final defile that separated them from the plain dominated by Ylogh. Hearing that sharp warning sound—one which, from first steps onward, signaled the almost-exhausted patience of a parent or teacher—the radio-bearer spun around to face his superior with lowered head. Yaargraukh waited a long moment, forcing the other to hold, and reflect upon, that position of attentive compliance. “You remember what you heard about the invasion, Band Leader. You remained in orbit; I was on the ground. From the very first hours. So, learn this as if your life depends upon it, for it very well may: if you underestimate the humans, that will be your undoing. I cannot count how many times I saw that demonstrated, on both the smallest and largest scale.
“In part, I chose you to be my adjutant and radio-bearer because you know what we suffered on Earth, and, as a communications-intercept specialist, you learned two of the human languages. But now you must learn to see the world through their eyes, if only for the briefest glimpses. Otherwise their methods and reasoning will remain dark to you. And I assure you; your death waits in that darkness.”
The driver’s small, triangular earflaps were tight against his head, snugged just under the lower rim of his sheath-helmet. He was trying very hard to act as though he heard none of the exchange. In part, that was simply common courtesy during a comrade’s reprimand, but it was exacerbated by an ardent desire to shut out Yaargraukh’s notorious and, to some, disloyal opinions regarding the humans. Well, so be it. Today we only have time for the truth. Battles are won by facts and physics, not self-congratulatory ideology.
As they started up the back slope of the last ridge, Yaargraukh clacked one set of opposable digits, releasing his adjutant from the submissive posture. “Begin scanning for coded signals from Troop Two. Only send a squelch break in reply. We need to alert them to our imminent return to Ylogh, yet maximize radio silence.”
“Do you expect the humans to still be in the vicinity, Scion?”
“I do not not expect it, Adjutant.”
“Even though they already struck Ylogh once?”
“Even so.” Their first strike on Ylogh was peculiar, as was the one upon the Fringeland den. Something is not right here, and where humans are involved, that is reason enough to remain wary.
As they began rising out of the radio shadow of the ridgeline, and the following vehicles of the column began emerging over the top of the prior bluff, the radio began spitting and hissing, bursts of a voice-grade message struggling to be heard between the waves of static.
“What frequency, Adjutant?”
The radio-bearer looked up at him, his eyes starting out from their recessed sockets. “Fist Jrekhalkar on the command frequency. Sending from back in Iarzut’thruk.”
What idiocy is this? “Do not respond, even in code. We must not betray our location by transmitting.”
The radio-bearer was halfway through an affirming nod when the signal cleared suddenly. He listened, turned back toward Yaargraukh with tightly retracted eyes. “Scion, it is the Fist himself. He demands to speak to you. At once.”
Yaargraukh kept himself from blinking. It was difficult to believe that the de facto leader of this world—the meager gem in the shabby colonial crown of the Hkh’Rkh Patrijuridicate—had so little understanding of communications protocols. “You are to reply in coded channel breaks only. Send the cyphers for ‘cannot comply,’ ‘observe battlefield protocols,’ ‘will recontact soonest.’ Execute.”
The adjutant did so, waited, turned back toward Yaargraukh the same moment that the scout car topped the ridge. “The Fist is insistent—and waiting on the line.”
Yaargraukh took the handset, checked to see that the scramblers were synced before speaking. “Fist, this is unwise. We should—”
And then, between the parallel trunks of the clustertrees through which they were descending, he saw long, black lines of smoke rising up from the vicinity of Ylogh. “Fist, I must clear this line. Ylogh has been attacked again. I fear Second Troop has been heavily attrited.”
“It has. And you will remain on this line, Flag Leader.”
There is no stupidity like that of a pampered Old Family second scion. The eldest usually has more innate confidence, less to prove. “I must send instructions to my executive officer; then I shall return.” And give the humans an easy opportunity to triangulate upon my signals and blast me out of existence, if they are still in the area.
“Do so quickly.”
The radio operator needed no prompting. As soon as he heard Jrekhalkar’s agreement, he switched the channel to the secure tactical frequency. Yaargraukh flicked over to a new encryption setting. “Hshwaarn, reply.”
“I am here, Flag Leader.”
“Ylogh has been attacked again. You will coordinate our Troop’s approach. Use coded squelch breaks only. Presume there are hostiles in the area and that once we break from the clusterwoods, we shall be under immediate observation and that the enemy will seek and rapidly achieve firing solutions. Make for the cover of Ylogh swiftly.”
“And what will you be doing, Flag Leader?”
“I will be conversing with the Fist on a long-range, voice-grade channel.”
“You say this in jest.”
“I wish I was.”
“Be careful, my friend. He is painting a target-circle upon you.”
In fact, I wonder if that is precisely what he is doing, since he has not been able to silence me any other way. “Be careful as well, Hshwaarn. I shall head across the plain first. Watch for enemy reactions. Flag out.”
The driver’s ears had gone rigidly erect at his instruction, “Watch for enemy reactions.” He knew what that really meant: the command car would attempt to draw enemy fire so that the rest of First Troop could locate and hopefully suppress any human attackers. Wherein the key term was “hopefully.”
As his adjutant changed the frequency and encryption back to the one used by Jrekhalkar, Yaargraukh surveyed Ylogh. There were four black plumes curling skyward: almost certainly vehicle fires. Not a good sign.
The radio operator glanced back, “Fist Jrekhalkar is impatient, Scion.”
Yaargraukh thumbed the handset. “I am on the channel, Fist. From your last message, I infer that you have been in contact with Second Troop since they were attacked.”
“No, I was in contact with them when they were attacked—”
—Meaning your lack of discipline almost certainly led to them being targeted and destroyed, you dungspawn—
“—and subsequently lost contact with them. Report their status.”
“Destroyed by your incompetence.” But what Yaargraukh actually said was, “I am assessing that now.” He snapped down his dioptiscope and panned across the low, angular skyline of Ylogh. “All three carriers have been hit and disabled, probably destroyed. One scout car is fully aflame. I have no visual on the other. I believe I see casualties lying in the streets, but we are still too distant to be certain. However, if those are bodies, their number is significantly less than Second Troop’s full complement. It is likely that many have survived, are sheltering in the buildings.”
“Any sign of the s’fet invasion force?”
Yaargraukh resisted retracting his eyes in frustration. “I see no sign of the attackers. I see no new damage to Ylogh itself, although a building near one of the tracks also seems to be burning.”
“Has the clancote itself been attacked?”
Yaargraukh swung his head in the direction of the various openings that had been carved into the face of the largest rock spur that jutted up from the flat, empty plain. “No sign of attacks against any Unhonored.”
Jrekhalkar’s phlegmy snort was audible through the connection. “I think that more a consequence of fortunate laxity rather than an increase of conscience among the invaders.”
“It may be as you say,” was the most agreeable reply Yaargraukh could bring himself to utter. Humans had no concept of the complex Honor Codes that bound and dictated behavior in Hkh’Rkh society. And yet, they were not without their own version of it. Although human soldiers did so for different reasons and with less reliability than true Warriors, they usually attempted to spare “civilians,” their analogous but far more malleable term for the Unhonored.
Jrekhalkar did not sound happy with Yaargraukh’s reply. “It is exactly as I say, Flag Leader. And it is your good fortune that the humans have not yet attacked Ylogh’s females, young, elderly, and infirm, for their blood would be on your digits.”
The radio-bearer and driver both started. Even though they were Old Family sons themselves, the Fist’s imputation of responsibility for the unfolding situation was not merely beyond justification, it was beyond reason. It was Jrekhalkar himself who had ordered Yaargraukh to explore the signal from the isolated Fringeland den, thereby necessitating the splitting of his force.
Yaargraukh waved away their surprised stares; he had expected no less from Jrekhalkar. After all, if a New Family officer could be blamed for a defeat, it was almost obligatory among the Old Family scions to do so. “It is indeed fortunate that the Unhonored have been spared.”
“And what are you going to do to ensure their continued safety?”
Yaargraukh had not expected that. “I stand ready to intercede, should the humans return.”
“You are finally close enough to strike, and instead you show the timidity that First Fist Graagkhruud saw in you during the invasion of the s’fets’ homeworld. You plan to wait in safety while Unhonored huddle, terrified, in their clancote? You will go at once to their aid!”
Yaargraukh flipped back the dioptiscope, surveyed the plain they were rapidly approaching, the thickest of the clusterwoods behind them. Almost two kilometers across at its widest, the flatland upon which Ylogh squatted was completely clear in all directions, except for occasional, lesser spurs of scrub-covered rock. The eastern hillocks from which they were approaching climbed higher as they wound southward and became less wooded. Conversely, they tapered to the north, where the clustertrees grew higher and even thicker, sending out a long green and yellow arm that dominated the northern horizon as well. To the south, the land sloped down to the distant Okhrek River, which ultimately wound its way to the Equatorial Sea. The west was a mix of gently rolling country, and scattered hills: the only useful cover for attackers approaching from that direction.
“Fist, hear me. We will soon arrive at the edge of the last stand of clustertrees. Once there, we will have a commanding view of the plain and the advantage of cover. We shall dismount weapons and personnel to set up a broad base of fire with which to protect the clancote and ancillary structures. If the humans return it will be we, not they, who shall enjoy the advantage of attacking from ambush. And given the human doctrine of surprise attacks, they will withdraw, even if they detect our—”
“Enough. Do as you are ordered. Move immediately to Ylogh. Reinforce the remaining Warriors of Second Troop and assure the Unhonored that those who bear Honor shall protect them, as is their first responsibility—despite any personal fear that might make some of our commanders seem to be cowards.”
The radio operator and the driver turned slowly to gaze at Yaargraukh. Only by the thinnest of semantic margins had Jrekhalkar’s mention of cowardice remained a generalized imputation rather than a personal accusation. It was within Yaargraukh’s right to ask for a clarification that would preserve his Honor. If Jrekhalkar did not provide it, Yaargraukh would have to give Challenge or be much diminished.
But since Jrekhalkar seemed more focused on Honor and Challenge than the execution of his own orders, Yaargraukh gambled that a disorienting shift of topic might allow him to salvage a potentially disastrous command situation. “Fist, I presume you mean me to advance upon Ylogh according to standard battlefield doctrine?”
Jrekhalkar balked. “I—what? Well, yes, of course.”
“Excellent. I am executing that directive. Going to radio silence until we have reached Ylogh.”
“What? I—?”
But his baffled voice snapped out of existence as the radio operator obeyed Yaargraukh’s hand signal to terminate the comm link. The two Hkh’Rkh in the command car looked at their leader. “What now?” asked the driver, slowing as they neared the last, sparse edges of the clusterwood.
“Now, you accelerate and hold this car to all its speed.”
“Scion, that will put us in the open—and alone.”
“That is correct. Do it—and drive well, lest you wish to sup with your Greatsires tonight.”