Context (86 page)

‘Hey!’
Thylara’s fist was thumping his thigh. ‘Wake up. You like wrestling, don’t you?’

‘Huh?’ Tom sat up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Come on. Don’t dawdle.’

In a half-natural amphitheatre,
some of the men had already stripped off their jerkins. There was a beefy
woman, in a laced-up vest, among them.

‘Fate,’ murmured Tom, as the
first match began and a sweeping ankle-hook took a wrestler down. “That’s
madness.’

There was nothing unusual about
their grappling technique, but they were competing on solid stone, without
mats. Tom watched, enthralled, as a bearded man threw or locked five challengers
in a row; then the big grappler looked around, disappointed.

‘Hey, Valdur,’ Thylara shouted
down to him. ‘You’ve got a live one tonight.’

“Who’s that, then?’

Tom felt Thylara’s elbow nudge
his ribs.

No.

‘Don’t worry about his name,
Valdur. Or his lack of an arm. This skinny guy’s going to kill you, you big
bugger.’

Afterwards,
everyone save Tom got drunk, and he was more tempted by the booze than he had
been for years. Every burgeoning, needless bruise spoke to him, taunted him
with pain.

I could’ve talked my way out.

But he had not.

Valdur had not been fooled by Tom’s
apparent disability, and they had stalked each other like neko-felines, until
Tom attacked.

He had no idea how long they had
grappled, and no-one seemed to have declared a winner, just finally decided to
drag the bloodied fighters off each other.

Then each had grasped the other’s
forearm, and they laughed like madmen together.

Next
morning, very early, he forced himself to run. Easy pace, through tunnels which
had been deserted for centuries.

Damn, it hurts.

But he ran from more than
stubbornness. Experience told him that resting would make it worse, stiffening
his body until he could scarcely move.

It still hurts...

On his return, the tribe was up
and about. Even the children were helping to load panniers and cargo pods.
Thylara waved at him, a white knife in her hand, inviting him to breakfast.

‘The tribe’s migration,’ she
said, ‘will swing closer to the Grand’aume than we ought. But’—spitting onto
the ground—‘that’s what we’ve been paid for.’

‘Don’t take risks.’

‘With the tribe’s safety? I won’t.’
She slit open a food pack, passed it across. ‘We’ll travel together for three
days, then I’ll take you to the drop-off point alone. OK?’

‘OK.’

Fascinated,
already mounted behind Thylara, Tom watched the TauRiders breaking camp.

I’m privileged to see this.

This was his time, his own
one-way journey through life ... He suppressed the thought, forcing himself
merely to watch.

They moved with practised efficiency.

Within a quarter of an hour, they
had struck camp: all cargo hauled up into thoracic holds, dark arachnasprites
taking up escort formations around the great arachnargoi. Scarlet and blue ‘sprites
leaped ahead, forming scout and vanguard, while others fanned out.

The TauRiders were ready to
continue their migration.

And then the last of the children
was aboard, adults waved, and the first arachnargoi unfastened tendril pads and
moved.

From a hanging vantage point near
the cavern’s ceiling, Tom and Thylara observed the motion.

The entire formation flowed
towards a wide exit.

But—

A person?

Tom turned in his seat as Thylara
kicked their ‘sprite into motion, crawling easily along the ceiling above the
migrating tribe.

‘I saw someone.’ He tapped
Thylara’s shoulder. ‘We’ve left someone behind.’

A shake of her head.

‘That’s Kay la,’ she called back.
‘Too old.’

They’re leaving her?
Deliberately?

A wizened woman, stoically
watching her extended family leave, knowing she was not fit to migrate with
them.

‘Comes to us all, speed-boy.’
Thylara reached back and thumped Tom’s thigh. ‘Comes to us all!’

A last glimpse of the old woman.

Then Thylara leaned forwards,
hands sunk inside black control organs, and the ‘sprite shot into accelerated
motion, faster and faster until the passing rockface was a blue-grey haze,
tendrils becoming insubstantial scarlet mist, as slipstream blurred the world
with stinging tears.

~ * ~

45

TERRA
& BETA DRACONIS

AD
2142

<Story>>

[15]

Turbulent,
churning: the Zajinet’s external form.

<<... crux is ... >>

<<... danger...>>

<<... nexus-node-now...>>

Alarms still wailed.

There was another shudder in the
building, as though XenoMir itself was falling. Components whirled, and the
Zajinet’s internal tracery sparked brighter.

‘Sir?’ Zoë had to shout above the
noise. ‘It’s your former colleague, isn’t it? We need your advice.’

It seemed to shrink, the Zajinet,
as though its external chunks were being drawn together.

<<... danger...>>

<<... yes...>>

<<... it comes...>>

Even above the sirens, a
screeching sound pierced the room. Ro and Zoë turned.

The jammed half-open door was
crumpling . . .

Then a blocky brown
three-fingered hand, close to the ground, ripped the metal door away.

‘Jesus.’

Ro was unarmed, but Zoë had a
pocket lineac—abandoning any remaining pretence at being a civilian—and she
snapped its laser sight on.