Bear, Greg Hegira

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Kiril looked up. A shadow on the rock above them pointed a gun into the crevice.
"Come out of there, all of you," the shadow said.
"What does he want?" Bar-Woten asked.
"He wants us to get up out of here," Kiril replied. "He's speaking English -- good old
English. That," he grimaced, "was my specialty a few years ago." He held up his hands, and the
others mimicked him. "Coming," he said.
"Damn right you are. Nothing false, now."
A boat rowed silently near the water-washed rocks. It was filled with men dressed in black,
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all sporting wicked-looking rifles.
"Into the water," the man said. "It's shallow. Go on."
They were hauled into the boat and securely tied with scratchy ropes. Bound and helpless, they
were pitched into the bottom. A shadow stood over them, bending and reaching out to examine them.
The shadow's profile was irregular. A flap of black cloak fell away and Barthel looked directly
into the figure's face. His skin paled in the lamplight from the prow. Kiril lay face down in the
boat and couldn't see.
"It's not a man," the Khemite whispered.
"Be gentle with these," the figure said, it's voice muffled. "They're different from the
others."
The oars were pulled in, and the boat drifted with the river currents.
Twenty-one
Kiril looked their captors over quickly as they were shoved into line with the rest of the
prisoners. The night hid the features of the one Barthel had said wasn't a man. It walked to the
rear of the armed guards and whispered instructions to several uniformed men. It moved its limbs
with an odd jerking motion. Its loose-fitting robes formed novel humps and hollows as the wind
grabbed at it.
Those tents that hadn't burned were being searched. Sporadic gunfire still accented the wind.
The hulking flying ships whistled and hummed. A ramp was lowered from the nearest craft, and the
first line of thirty prisoners was herded into a dark aft compartment, Kiril among them. Barthel
and Bar-Woten were in the next line but didn't come aboard his craft.
The cramped quarters reeked with fear. A few lights flickered on above them, strips of white
in the low ceiling, and he saw the floor was padded. Seats lined the walls. Those who could sit
did so. Nobody from the Trident was in the group beside Kiril. He squatted on the padding and
rubbed his face with his hands. His fingers came away wet with tears. He felt like dying, he was
so confused.
The engines beneath them coughed, seemed to laugh, then broke into a body-strumming roar. The
craft lurched and rose. The engines pitched higher.
Sometime in the next few hours he slept. He awoke in a press of bodies and struggled free of
nightmares about slaughter. Most of the captives were breathing slowly, rhythmically, a sea of
flesh gently rolling. He wiped sleep from his eyes and wet his finger to erase traces of dried
tears from his cheeks. A few owlish eyes returned his gaze from across the room, but most of the
prisoners were lost in blind, escapeful slumber.
He had to urinate. The pressure was almost unbearable. He crossed his legs and gritted his
teeth to still the insistent acid pangs. There was already urine smell in the air from others. He
felt a small, mild nausea, a reminder he still had a stomach and that he hadn't eaten for a while.
At least the flying ship didn't roll with the water -- if they were still over water.
He stood without disturbing those sprawled around him, stretched his arms, and tensed his leg
muscles. He could touch the ceiling. With one finger he felt a light-strip. It was warm but not
hot. He thought of Barthel and Bar-Woten. Perhaps they were dead already, and he was on his own.
He found that hard to accept. He had gotten so much strength from the two despite their
differences.
"We've been moving for six hours," said a man across the cabin. Kiril recognized the guard of
the makeshift jail. He had a broad bruise above his eye, and he held one arm as if it were a baby.
"Did your friends get away?"
Kiril shook his head. Unsettled, he looked away from the guard. "Your friends didn't hurt me
badly," the man said. "But these bastards -- I think they've broken my arm."
He didn't seem to hold a grudge, but Kiril thought it best to consider everyone and everything
an enemy now. He felt it was within his power to kill if he had to -- something he had never known
before. He flexed his hands and looked at them speculatively.
If Bar-Woten and Barthel were dead he'd have to protect himself. He was no longer a ward, an
amateur. He was a caged animal.
The engines changed pitch. The craft banked forward, then rocked back. He tumbled over as they
slowed.
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The other prisoners were waking. Questions passed back and forth in volleys. A man and a woman
hugged each other joyfully, then gazed around like cornered rabbits.
The engines stopped. The craft thumped gently to rest. The hatch opened and blinding daylight
poured in, silhouetting five armed guards. The prisoners were herded from the craft down the ramp,
stepping into soft snow covering gray concrete. Slate-gray mountains rose on three sides, and on
the fourth a stretch of wave-flaked water. Above was a bank of rushing clouds, piling around the
mountains and sculpting wind-saucers in their lee. Kiril's heart leaped with the crisp smell of
the air -- forests and cold stretches of beach, lakewater smell, rain smell. The land was horrible
and beautiful at the same time, mountains raw with black jagged rock and stunted trees, the wind
like a flight of icicles. The prisoners beat themselves with their arms and puffed their cheeks
out, huffing, trying to keep warm. The guards kept their slender guns raised and ready.
The thirty were lined up on the concrete and snow in two rows and made to stand until they
were blue.
A second craft climbed from the water of the lake and whisked across the concrete apron to
park beside the first. A third followed, and both disgorged loads of prisoners. These were lined
up twenty meters behind Kiril's row. He craned his neck searching for Bar-Woten and Barthel. He
thought he saw the Khemite, but couldn't be sure. He was afraid to turn. His teeth chattered until
they threatened to vibrate his aching eyes out. His ears were numb, and when he touched his armpit-
warmed fingers to them, they tingled.
Trucks with canvas-covered beds rolled onto the strip and stood with engines idling, white
smoke belching from pipes hung near the cabs. Kiril saw the shrouded figure climb down a ladder
from the second hovercraft. It wore a silvery mask beneath its dark hood. Two men conferred with
it, then took its arms and led it to the cab of the truck. It tugged them to a stop and turned to
point to the ranks of prisoners. Its hand, Kiril saw, was gloved. Beneath the silvery mesh of the
glove there could only have been three fingers, unless more than one digit occupied each finger. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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