AUTHOR'S NOTE: See Author's Notes at the end of this chapter.
xXx
Those first few moments left Anise feeling giddy and exhausted. It was a confirmation of intelligence and went a long way toward making her feel better. No more was her mind a maelstrom of doubt and despair. She allowed herself to feel hopeful that things might work out after all.
xXx
Escthta was amazed at how much better he felt as the human's mood lifted. What had previously weighed him down with doubts and self-criticisms was being lifted off his shoulders. He remembered his dream, those weeks ago, and the nascent presence of Yugmnelsh suspended before him, as if underwater. A gift, he had said, to do with as he wished.
He watched the human in front of him, the tired look her face couldn't lose, and her exhaustion that told in her movements. He knew now what the Bathyrian had meant, that he had been given a gift, but it wasn't something to use at his will. It was a tool for the coming times, and it was one he would need desperately. He needed to discover and develop his abilities, instead of letting them dictate their own strength and focus.
H'chak-di was still clothed in the full bodysuit he'd found her in, and he rankled at the smell coming off of her; it was a mixture of the body's fear and filth, and it suddenly attacked the inside of his mouth, leaving him feeling slightly ill. The care of the body was as important as the care of the soul, but it had taken on new meaning with the yautja, for whom good hygiene was necessary.
Prey could smell them coming if they stank of gore and sweat and musk. Half the training an unBlooded went through was learning to mask his own scent while Hunting, so that he would not alarm the prey. Escthta was struck with the thought; if he could smell her, could she smell him? He had supposed for many years that not all the Hunted could detect their musk or smell. He would have to find out in due course from Thtarok whether the humans could capture their scents.
He felt protective of her, much the same way one protects a cherished heirloom, and if only for that reason, he would not have her enter the public baths. Only a riot could ensue, and she would almost certainly be killed. He felt a pang of guilt as that scenario played out in his mind. He remembered the blank eyes of the invalid male and the silent pleading in his mind – In the name of anything you hold dear, take care of her. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in and trying to wash the stain of that memory away, trying to fade the human's message and the strength of his conviction. It worked, for the moment, as he watched her, small and helpless, the odor of death and sorrow heavy on the air.
He eyed his bathroom; the privilege of being an officer had been nestled behind his berth on the other side of a small metal door. A small, functional bathroom with a hand-shower and a sunken toilet. It would not be a substitute for the average yautja, who went to the baths to socialize as much as clean himself. However, it could prove useful in keeping H'chak-di out of harm's way. He clicked softly at her, saying her name again, watching as her eyes sought his and then looked away. It was a flighty response, one suiting for prey, and the dual oddness and familiarity of it prompted a gentleness he might not have otherwise felt.
"Come now. You smell horrible."
It was a terse assessment, one he knew she could not understand, but she seemed to grasp the bathroom quickly once shown how the facilities and the faucets worked. He only had to show her once, and she did it again herself without his help. He had to go about obtaining suitable clothing for her. He feared that there would only be the rags of slaves left, but he might be able to find something for her. After that, he would need his own visit to the baths.
He had been right about the unavailability of clothing, he soon discovered. There was not much to choose from, but he was finally able to procure a set of threadbare bedding, the fabric a faded, silvery grey. He was not trained in the manufacture of garments, but there were several slaves on board who were, and he would see to it that some clothes were made for her. He stopped by his quarters after leaving the lower decks, dropping the folded bedding on his desk and walking out.
There were few others in the baths as he entered; they were mostly engaged in excited conversation about the Hunts going on at the moment. Escthta heard the talking quiet as his presence was fully noticed in the room. He was easily the tallest yautja in the Clan and his presence was impossible for most to ignore. His quick disrobing and subsequent scrub in silence kept most mouths shut, however. He dug a few mites out of his shoulders, scrubbing the small inflammations to the best of his ability. His sensitive skin chafed in protest, but there was little else he could do. He smelled the blood of H'chak-di's kin rise as he scrubbed and was again beset by guilt.
He was confused at the ache in his chest; it was a human like any other he had killed, though he had taken no trophy. Perhaps, he mused, his brisk scrubbing slowing down, it was the female. He hadn't ever killed in front of a female before, unless she was also a warrior, in which case it was a moot point. He had also never killed in front of the prey's family. These two things and the human's final pleas gnawed at him with sharpened teeth. He rinsed himself with a hand shower, knowing it wouldn't clean away his disgust, and walked with muted steps over to an empty soaking tub. The warm, mineralized water relaxed him; he eased his arms up over the sides, resting on them and closing his eyes.
xXx
Paya was the Creator, a fierce mother goddess who created the Sea of Eternity and set a Great Ark afloat on its horizonless expanse. She taught her children, the sentient beings, the beginnings of civilization: philosophy, art, war, music, religion. The Yautja were her favorites, and to them she gave the most advanced ships and technology, along with the brains to understand it. Paya created the humans, the Hard Meat, and thousands of other races that spotted the stars. Paya said unto the first Yautja, "Be strong of heart, for though you leave me first, it is you I hold dearest. Take as my parting gift the Gift of the Hunt and go out into my glory and know my works."
But Paya's love was not for the Yautja alone. She was the All-Mother, and all things were dear and beloved to her. She named her second creation the Iantha, and the Iantha were never satisfied with being second best. They have always been called the Hard Meat by the Yautja, who lived to Hunt. The Iantha, eager to win Paya's foremost favor, modeled themselves after her. Queens of hives drew their strength from her will and modeled themselves after her, becoming strong and fierce warrior-mothers. They developed the virgin birth in her honor and they bred warriors to battle for Paya's favor against the first-created, the Yautja.
The humans were the last to leave her ark, and neither the Iantha nor their hunters ever knew what Paya told them.
Her task was finished, but Paya was filled with loneliness. She created for herself a pregnancy. She bore two sons. The firstborn was Cetanu, dark-skinned with fearsome dreadlocks, made in the image of her favorites. He was a violent-tempered son, and he smashed stars and worlds full of creatures for his amusement. Only when his mother threatened his total exile to the Deep Dark was he quieted. He began to Hunt, as his likenesses did, but his task became the caretaking of souls. The yautja named him the Black Warrior, and many who fought in early tribal raids claimed they saw an impossibly tall shadow stalking the dead.
xXx
Escthta lifted his head some minutes later, hearing the others leave. His thoughts of devotion had only half-distracted him from the human in his quarters. Regardless of his whereabouts, he could not divest himself of guilt or responsibility. He conjured up the dying faces of humans he had killed before, their widened eyes and lips wet with blood. Maybe that was another thing that unsettled him about killing the defenseless male; he had never done a mercy killing before, and it preyed on his mind. Had it been merciful?
He settled on the only course of action he could decide upon. In the past, he had visions without his consent, without warning. This evening, he would try to trigger them on his own. If anyone had answers to his concerns, he suspected the Bathyrian did. Yugmnelsh controlled the thoughtpaths of the universe, or so he had said, and seeing into others' thoughts and emotions would surely grant him some sort of clairvoyant experience.
xXx
Gulchak sat in the kehrite, seething with discontent. He knew his musk would alert the others around him to his charged state, but he didn't care. A filthy ooman had been brought on board, not as trophy, but as prize to be ferried back to the Council. He spat in disgust. Unlike most yautja, who obeyed Council decree that no females be taken, Gulchak was a woman-killer. Gender wasn't a concern to him; they bred like vermin and taking a few females wouldn't matter. Many of the skulls on his trophy wall were diminutive with smaller muscle attachment sites and less pronounced processes.
His inability to distinguish between prey and breeders—no, he knew the difference and didn't care—was what had cost him the Leadership. He remembered the hulking Councilman inspecting his trophy wall, and the knowing looks as he was told he couldn't qualify for Leadership. "You may yet have some other purpose," the Councilman had murmured, and indeed, Gulchak had found it on this ship. The blatant favoritism shown Cthinde rankled him, but the Councilman's promise of honor had lingered in his ears like a buzzing insect. The ooman childmaker had missed someone's spear and ended up in an officer's quarters. He sipped at his drink, feeling the liquor's fire in his veins. Someone on the Council had paid him in skulls and slaves to make sure she never arrived.
He wondered briefly if the science officer's tastes ran to the ooman females. It was revolting and frowned upon to the point of exile, but not punishable by death. Gulchak recalled a fiasco a few years ago involving an Elder and a human female. The female had been put to death and the Elder relegated to a spectator's position in society. No yautja females would have him, and his line had effectively been destroyed. All that for a human female that couldn't breed warriors. Served him right, he thought. Anything stupid enough to fuck one of them doesn't need to be breeding.
So it was with great malice that he eyed Escthta, the science officer, as he entered the common room. The Storyteller, as he had begun to be called among the Blooded, was the tallest yautja on board. There was a power in his limbs that Gulchak both feared and envied, but his blood was boiling hot with a self-righteous fire. He stood, taking one last swig of the c'ntlip that had fogged his mind with thoughts of anger and violence, and then threw the drinking vessel at a nearby slave, relishing the thunk against his head and the yelp of surprise.
The cry drew eyes from all over the wide room; the stink of his angry musk had been heavy in the air for a while and all could tell that it wouldn't be long before a challenge was made. Indeed, the onlookers were correct. Gulchak wasn't nearly as tall as Escthta, but his shoulders were broader and more heavily muscled. His stocky body was quite a match for anyone on board, but his bloodlust led him straight to Escthta.
Gulchak's swift strides brought him up behind Escthta quickly; he made the lunge for the taller Hunter's shoulder, shoving him hard. Escthta took a step forward, but caught his assailant's hand over his shoulder and turned slowly with his hand around Gulchak's bulky wrist. Gulchak's breath stank of alcohol, but the set of his head and the way his mandibles flared were a direct challenge. Escthta hissed softly at him. "There is no honor in killing a drunk."
Gulchak roared and lunged for Escthta, his claws out. Escthta braced himself, catching the dangerous hand that was aimed at his throat and easily toppling the drunk Gulchak to the floor. He hissed in warning and then continued toward Cthinde's side.
"S'yuit-de!" Gulchak bellowed, "Coward!"
Escthta spun in his tracks and walked back to where Gulchak was getting up unsteadily. "You call me coward?"
"What else could you be? An ooman childmaker." He scanned the taller yautja, his eyes hard with anger. "Who would have thought we'd have a sick fuck like you on board." There was a hush, a baited-breath silence to see what the outranking Blooded would do. Eyes were on him, and his judgment was going on in the brains behind them. The taller yautja's hands made the signs for combat, one-on-one. It was not a claw-challenge. This was a fight to the death. Death-challenges were best avoided on a Hunt, but what Gulchak said was unforgivable. There would be a fight and someone was going to die.
xXx
The combatants wore minimal armor and carried only the serrated wrist-blades so common in hand-to-hand combat. Escthta had chosen a handicap by refusing to wear torso armor; it was a further insult to Gulchak, who sneered at Escthta from across the arena. He made a show of checking his weapon and its sharpness, but Escthta paid him no mind. The pre-fight silence began to fall, and Escthta crouched into a wide-legged stance, prepared to attack or feint when the fight had begun.
Cthinde had appeared to oversee the fight, and his face was austere with the implications. It was the first death-challenge he would be ruling on as Leader, and his best friend was involved. It was important that he not call the end of the fight too soon or he would be seen playing favorites and it would breed contempt in the Clan. If Escthta began to lose, he still was not sure if he would call the fight to save his friend's life. It would be dishonorable to deny him a death in battle, but to die at Gulchak's hands with the kind of slander he had thrown about was a wretched death almost preferable to dishonor. Still unsure of his role in what might yet be a bloodbath, Cthinde raised his arms. "Dtai'k-de!"
Gulchak shrieked and charged toward Escthta, swiping wildly at him with his wrist-blades. The air where Escthta had been standing sang as the blades ripped through it, but Escthta was unfazed. He stepped backwards, putting some space between himself and Gulchak. Gulchak's mandibles were flared wide, and Escthta saw the flush of blood in his mouth, the unmistakable sign of having drunk too much, but it was only for a moment as Gulchak lunged at him again. Escthta blocked the wild strike with his forearm guard and put his weight behind a punch into Gulchak's gut. The muscles in the torso were soft and unprepared for a blow; a few more strikes like that would make him unable to fight.
The crowd screamed in their blood frenzy and the air was thick with the smell of aggression. Gulchak staggered back, one hand held close to his abdomen. Ropes of spittle dripped from his mandibles, and he only took a moment to recuperate before attacking again. Escthta ducked under the other's charge quickly, his kneeling form sliding under his guard. With a quick motion, Escthta stood, flipping Gulchak onto his back. The spectators howled with glee; it was a move that would have decided a winner in a claw-challenge and it was a sign that the fight was at last getting serious.
Gulchak sputtered, but rolled out of the way before Escthta's well-placed foot could crush his sternum. The foot-plant raised a small puff of the dust that covered the floor of the training ring, but no-one noticed it in the scuffle that followed. The combatants locked arms, each trying to outdo each other in strength. Gulchak had the advantage; his fingers curled between Escthta's and his claws pierced the tough top of his hand. Escthta hissed and spat in Gulchak's face. Gulchak reached up to wipe away the saliva, taken off-guard by the tactic, and Escthta saw his chance. He hooked his foot behind Gulchak's knee and tugged, collapsing the joint and sending Gulchak sprawling into the dirt in a heap.
His sense of victory was short-lived; the stockier yautja reached out and slashed at Escthta's leg with his ki'cti-pa. The blades were half-deflected by the shin guards that Escthta wore, but one of the cold tangs carved a jagged wound into Escthta's calf. He howled and clutched at the ragged hole in his leg that streamed bright green. His hand was coated with blood and he screamed his rage at Gulchak. The blow had been lucky, but it severely limited Escthta's use of his left leg. He held it half-off the ground, his clawed toes dangling in the dust. Gulchak leered at his opponent, his arrogance finding footing in his successful strike. "Does it hurt, humanfucker?"
Escthta would later explain that he never moved from where he stood; but he was suddenly across the ring, looming over Gulchak. Without hesitation, he buried his wrist-blades in Gulchak's abdomen. The crowded room keened with shock, admiration and ecstasy. Even though the pain in his leg seared his nerves with fire, he jerked the blades deeper into the stunned yautja's flesh. With a twist, he pulled them out and stepped back, slinging chunks of gore into the silt. Gulchak had yet to cry out, but his hand was pressed over the seeping wound; the body's high pressure systems had been compromised and Escthta knew that organs struggled to peek out from behind his fingers.
Gulchak wheezed when he breathed, but he lifted his fists again, the edge of his blades still glinting green. Escthta growled low, his mandibles flared wide and threatening. Gulchak was beginning to look pale; the small trickle of blood had darkened a pile of silt under him. Escthta began to lower his hands; there was no point in fighting someone who was mortally wounded.
Gulchak exploded. "Don't underestimate me!"
He staggered into a run, and his speed surprised Escthta, who limped out of the way of his blades, but got a set of claw-marks on his arm for his trouble. Gulchak swung his thick arm toward him, and Escthta blocked it with his guard again, only to catch the other fist on the temple. His vision went spotty, but Gulchak had been hurt as much by the assault as he had. Escthta could hear the wound sucking as he panted; he'd gotten one of Gulchak's lungs, and the watery noise when he breathed was a sickening sound.
Escthta shook his head to clear it, squinting at his opponent. Gulchak had lowered his head, and seemed to be gathering strength for a final attack. With a hoarse cry, he first shuffled and then rushed toward Escthta, his blades outstretched. The attack was obvious, and Escthta found himself stepping aside from the dying warrior.
Though his leg was deeply wounded, he spun himself around to catch Gulchak's shoulder as he barreled past. He buried his fingers in the other yautja's tress and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. His eyes calmly met the glassy, panic-filled gaze of Gulchak, who knew that this was the end. The crowd hushed; the death blow was something that none would have wanted to miss in their violent revelry. With a keening noise of his own, Escthta dug his claws into the column of his throat and ripped out the viscera, casting them into the dirt behind him. The green-white of Gulchak's spine showed weakly through the gaping hole. Gulchak's eyes widened in shock that could not be hidden, then they fluttered closed and he was gone.
Silence followed Escthta as he left Gulchak's body, his left leg nearly useless. He limped to Cthinde for the approval of his victory. Cthinde looked at the body and then at his friend, splattered with blood. He would never show his relief at having the difficult choice made for him, but only nodded slowly. Escthta's win was valid, and the murmur of the yautja began to hum through the room again. Gulchak's body was dragged away and Escthta leaned on Cthinde as they limped through the halls to the infirmary.
xXx
A dish of thick brown soap was the only one available. Anise dragged a finger through the yielding goo and sniffed at it cautiously. There was an acrid quality that she couldn't quite place, and her fingertips began to sting in short order. She flung the stuff away from her violently, washing what remained off her hand with the spray. Obviously, the soap was formulated for the Hunters, as she was getting accustomed to calling them. The wall of skulls had been a tapestry of memento, and they were trophies as much as any deer's head or antler rack.
She rubbed her fingers together absently, unable to quite divest herself of the slippery soap or its granules, but it didn't sting any more. She looked around for a vessel to dilute the soap in, but failing to find one, simply mixed a small daub of it in her hands again, working fast enough to avoid the gnaw of the basic solution. She washed her scalp and arms and legs, pleased to find that there was some grit in the soap to abrade her dead skin. She wrinkled her nose as she realized how badly she smelled. Stale sweat, fear and blood all fell before her earnest scrubbing.
The water made her skin flush a bright red, but she continued to scrub until her skin didn't feel slippery any more and then shut the water off. A cursory examination of the area produced no towels, so she was left with little option but to air-dry. She eyed the bodysuit in a heap on the floor and felt her heart sink at having to wear it again. She had worn it in a different time, when her brother had lived and her heart had been something approaching light. After a moment's hesitation, she spread it and her undergarments flat on the tiled shower floor and scrubbed at them with the soap, working until foam no longer rose up. She spread it out to dry on the half-wall that separated the shower from the facilities.
By this time, her hair had formed stringy clumps that were dry on the outside, but wet on the inside. Her skin had completely dried, and except for a slight bit of irritation, she was clean. Anise poked her head out of the washroom, finding the adjoining room deserted. She looked around, at a loss for clothes until she saw the folded pile on the bunk. Was she supposed to make his bed? Would this be her trade-off for leaving the human world? Was she free or a slave? She felt a chill on her exposed skin as she let her imagination run wild.
Calm down, Anise, she told herself. If I find him ugly, he probably finds me ugly. She cherished that thought, using it to wholly convince herself that she wouldn't be asked to do anything sexual and finding it only slightly more comforting than the thought of slavery in general. After she'd fought down the fear and nausea, she picked up the folded cloth. The silvery grey felt slick between her fingers, and she reached down to touch the sheets on the bed with her other hand; the materials were similar, but the ones she held seemed of a higher quality.
After only a moment's hesitation, she unfolded them and tried to decide how to clothe herself. After a few experiments, she tied together the corners of each sheet's short side and put her head through the hole it made. She had nothing to belt it together with, but her eyes fell on the knife again. That knife…she shook her head clear and removed her makeshift toga, cutting a wide strip from the back hem to use as a belt The back was significantly shorter now, but it occurred to her that she could pull the longer front swath between her legs and tuck it into the belt in the back if it was necessary. The wide belt acted more like a corset, but the desired effect was achieved; an easy-to-wear garment that kept her fairly modest.
Now she was dressed, but the room had been empty now for hours; she wondered where Talon had gone, if he was going to be gone very long. Her stomach felt decidedly empty, and she rubbed it absently and twitched at the gurgle produced. She feared to touch anything in the room; the earlier glimpse of his life had been fraught with ritual and she had the unnerving feeling that her welcome would wear needlessly thin if she disturbed anything.
Instead, she walked to the large fresco that she knew concealed the skulls. Now that she could see it closely, she could see that the small figures dancing at the bottom were his kind; they held heads aloft on pikes, and even in the stone, their dreadlocks and tusks seemed to roil and quiver with the kind of frenzy their Hunt would bring. She rubbed her arms, warding off the goosebumps that tickled her skin when she thought of being hunted by them.
The door beeped softly behind her and then slid open. Talon and Fang walked in, side by side, although the taller had his arm around Fang's shoulders, using them as a crutch. Anise felt worry rise up inside her; Talon was a murderer, but he was the only thing keeping her alive. It was a well-developed sense of self-preservation that prompted her gasp and quick steps to where Fang was helping him into the berth.
Anise could see his injuries then; a thick padded cuff was wrapped around his leg, and green-stained bandages peeked out from its edges. There were similar green marks like those from claws, and a nasty bruise near his temple. She looked at Fang, and reined in her revulsion at his face. He was also without his mask, his face the same strange jumble of angles. His eyes were a dark green, and she imagined that they glittered with anger at her. She lowered her gaze, doing her best to act subservient.
Fang turned his head back to Talon and chittered in a low voice. He then turned away, moving to leave. "Thank you," Anise said, before she could remember her place. Fang stopped and turned back, walking until he nearly touched her. "For helping him." She gestured to the drowsy Talon, who was already half asleep from the pain killers. Fang followed her hand and then looked back at her. He clicked softly, that long, drawn-out chatter that Anise had come to think of as pensive.
He suddenly growled at her, his mandibles flaring out and exposing the sharp teeth. When she didn't move, the growl became a roar. Anise cringed and closed her eyes, but didn't move. The roar quit, and she heard Talon say something from the bed. Fang, breathing slightly fast, grunted and then shoved her shoulder. She knew somehow that she was to shove him back, the thought planted in her mind. She reached up to his shoulder, nearer to her than Talon's had been, and gave it a hard push.
xXx
Cthinde looked down at the human with a mixture of doubt and curiosity. He had tried to frighten the human, but she hadn't budged through his tirade. And now, Paya knew how, she had officially greeted him. He felt his guts wrench with confusion, swaying between allegiance to his friend, and everything he had ever been taught. The battle pulled him out of balance and left him teetering on the edge of what could reasonably be called comfort.
His adrenaline was up, though he was not in a Hunt, and his breathing changed. This human was no warrior and hardly looked dangerous. A niggling voice in the back of his head reminded him of the Hunters that had died when underestimating their prey.
He looked over at Escthta, and his look was enough of a question. Escthta's mandibles were nearly slack, and Cthinde took this as the reason for his delayed answer. "Her name is H'chak-di."
"You named her that?"
"I did."
Cthinde looked down at the human again. A woman of mercy. The name gave him pause. There was something that Escthta was not sharing with him, and it had a lot to do with why she was named Mercy. He said her name to her, like one does a pet, and was further startled when she patted her chest and parroted it back at him. She tapped him on the chest and said something in her strange tongue, something that sounded like a sharp pain. He looked at Escthta again.
"It is her name for you." Escthta's voice was slurred.
Cthinde half-smiled in his way, his head tilting to the side. The name like pain pleased him in a way he couldn't explain. He looked her over once more and then turned on his clawed foot, moving out the door and leaving his friend at her mercy.
xXx
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The deities Paya and Cetanu are rooted in canon. In the canon, Paya is not explicitly given a sex, but is referred to as the "conquering warrior", with all its masculine connotations. I can't see a culture with such powerful female figures bowing down before a male god. I think the ladies would put their collective male ass in a microwave if the men even thought about seizing control. The Sea of Eternity is my own creation myth, as the meager hints at one in the canon are tied to the "male" Paya.