The Hunter Victorious (22 page)

“Ironic isn’t it? I, who have had more men in love with me, powerful men in high places, than one could easily count, falling
for an ugly dwarf thief! An ugly dwarf thief whom I doubt would ever speak to me again. It’s almost enough to make one believe
in witches and curses!”

Braldt stared at her, wishing that he could believe her story, but it was so unlikely. Could a woman—any woman, much less
a beauty such as Mirna—truly fall in love with Septua? “What is it that you like about Septua?” Braldt asked, trying to give
her the benefit of the doubt, still fearing that she was the bait in an elaborate trap.

“He never lied to me. He was honest in everything he did and said.” She lifted her eyes and stared at Braldt. “I guess you
can’t understand that. You’ve probably always told the truth; it’s lying that would come hard to the likes of you. But Septua
and I… we’ve had to fight all our lives to get what we needed and to keep what we got. Lying is our way of life, like breathing.

“For him to talk to me honestly, not lie… it meant something. It meant a lot. I think he was the only one who ever saw me
for who and what I was and loved me anyhow. But I wasn’t ready for that because it meant that I had to take a good look at
myself as well and I didn’t like what I saw.”

“So how did you wind up here?”

“I was of no more use to Gunnar, so he got rid of me.
Free, I was a danger to him because I had learned a lot about him. I’ll be executed soon; all of us will. But if you help
me get out of here, I’ll help you. I can be very useful.” Mirna’s voice grew soft and sensuous. She pressed her body against
his and his flesh seemed to tingle where she had touched him. Her eyes promised pleasures unknown, and for a moment Braldt
felt himself being sucked down, swayed by her persuasive power.

“Wait.” He placed a hand against her chest and gently pushed her away. “I do not require such payment as you suggest, but
if I take you with me, you must promise that you will help me and not leave me for some plan of your own.”

“Do you know where the dwarf is?”

“I know where he was when I was taken. If we cannot find him, I’m quite certain that he will find us. He sticks to me like
dirt to a child.”

Mirna gave him an odd, appraising look. “You do know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

Braldt stared at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

Mirna sighed and shook her head as though dealing with a stupid child. “They are leaving here, leaving Valhalla. All those
who remain behind will die. That is why Septua is staying with you, making himself useful. He knows that you will not be one
of those left behind. He thinks that if he stays with you, he will be saved as well.”

“Yes, I know,” Braldt said. “And I suspect that our time is running out.”

Fortran floated quietly in the darkness of space. It wasn’t
really dark. When one was silent like this and spread one’s aura in a manner that he was just beginning to master, there
was all sorts of illumination. Thoughts came flooding in from all sides, filling his mind with information and observations
he had never before experienced.

There was real light as well, the soft, beneficent radiance of other worlds, and he basked in their reflection, drawing knowledge
of those far-flung worlds as easily as if he had spun a dial. This too was new and strange and yet delightful. He almost wished
that he could float forever, absorbing, expanding, growing. He spread his mind and touched Zostar 411, his closest friend,
he who had so often shared the same mutinous thoughts that had plagued Fortran all of his life. Zostar had followed Fortran
by a mere five seconds, startling the Grand Yerk. The others had come along one at a time, but more often in pairs or larger
groups, as though it took more of them to summon the courage necessary to face the Grand Yerk’s displeasure.

Fortran had not remained long enough to hear how they fared, for by that time he had been sent on his way to complete the
final stages of his education.

Even as he reflected upon the sudden warm golden glow of a distant star going nova, he could not help but ponder the
incredible circumstances that had just transpired, which in their own way were just as explosive as that distant star.

Who would ever have imagined that they were expected—no, perhaps
expected
was too strong a word—it was
hoped
that they would be strong enough, have learned enough, to question, to reason themselves out of the limbo in which they were
trapped.

Fortran could not help but wonder whether the Grand Yerk had had anything to do with their abduction and subsequent imprisonment
on Rototara. Nor could he help but wonder whether or not some of his brethren would ever emerge from their self-imposed imprisonment;
their minds were too narrow, their spirits too timid to question or defy authority. He wondered if they would remain on Rototara
forever or if the Grand Yerk would, relent and save them from themselves.

Now, what was to come next—that was the exciting and at the same time frightening thing. It had been explained to him that
questioning authority was but one step along the way to final maturity. Beyond rebellion there had to be another step, constructive
action of a sort that would offer a creative solution to the problem one had rebelled against.

They had nearly succeeded back on Rototara. They had seized the moment, dared to rebel in order to help their fellow prisoners
overthrow their oppressors. But then, at the first word from the Grand Yerk, their courage as well as their resolve had crumbled
and their rebellion died in an instant. The memory of that moment of cowardice was still painful to contemplate. He would
not make that mistake again.

Fortran thought back to the ancient times his parents had told him about. In those long-distant days, children were supposed
to study for long periods of time and then take—what was that word?—oh, yes,
tests,
before they could advance
to the next level. In a way, that was what was happening to him now. It was a test.

Rebellion was easy, the Grand Yerk had cautioned. It was what one chose to do next that counted… to bring order to chaos,
that was what mattered. Fortran had not been told what to do; that would have been too easy. It had been left to him to decide
the whats, wheres, and whys.

Fortran did not have to think long or hard about what he wanted to do. It was difficult for him to keep the strange alien,
the one known as Braldt, out of his mind for any length of time. Never had he known anyone so brave, so bold, so full of action
with less regard for authority or rules!

He had learned something of Braldt’s story during their time of confinement on Rototara and he could not help but wonder what
had become of Braldt and his strange companions. He wondered if perhaps there was some way in which he might be of service.
Fortran closed his eyes (figuratively speaking, of course), took a deep mental breath, and then slowly began to release his
consciousness, allowed it to trickle outward, like tiny rivulets of water seeking the sea, reaching farther and farther, seeking
the one known as Braldt among the many worlds where he might possibly be.

Fortran knew also that it might take a long time, knew that it was a dangerous thing he was attempting, for the thinner one’s
aura became, the easier it was to penetrate and shred. It was possible to die under such circumstances. But Fortran could
feel the excitement building within him and knew that no matter how long it took, no matter how great the risk, he would not
give up until he had found Braldt.

Teams of technicians had been filing aboard the
Oseberg,
the great ship of space that had been named after one of the most famous ship graves of antiquity. Barat Krol had watched
them file out all morning, had hovered near the main entrance
of the mountain in hopes of learning something. He did not have to wait long. Soon more and more workers were hurrying toward
the ship, strapping their tool packs around their waists, worried expressions furrowing their brows. It appeared that the
results of his midnight visit had come to light. He could only hope that they would not find everything.

But there was worse news still to come. The more he listened, the more agitated he became. The workers had been called out
for a routine inspection, but Barat Krol learned from bits and pieces of their conversation that a launch was anticipated
sometime in the near future, immediately after the king’s wedding.

Barat Krol was filled with a sense of urgency as well as a sense of despair. What could he possibly do to save himself and
his people? Were they all to die on Valhalla while the Scandis survived and colonized yet another planet built with the blood
and effort of their Madrelli slaves?

Barat Krol pondered the problem. Uba Mintch had begged him not to use force, to find some peaceful solution. He revered the
older Madrelli, respected his wishes, but in his heart he knew that there was no way they could be honored. There was not
even enough room for all of the Scandis aboard the
Oseberg;
there was no way the Scandis would allow the Madrelli aboard. What was he to do?

He wandered through the huge complex pondering his options. Violence was one choice. Kill all the Scandis and take their places
aboard the ship. But much as Barat Krol hated to admit it, the Madrelli needed the Scandis too much to do such a thing. What
did he know about piloting a ship, and where were they to go? Even he, who had eavesdropped and spied on the Scandis in their
most secret of meetings, had not learned where they intended to go. What was their destination? There were so many worlds,
but so few of them fit their needs and could support an entire population.

Even if they could somehow steal the ship and force the Scandis to take them to the new world, Barat Krol had to admit that
it would be difficult for them to colonize a world on their own. They needed each other. The Scandis needed the Madrelli,
but since they thought of them as little more than pack animals, there was little reason for them to waste valuable space
on full-grown creatures. The fertilized frozen ovum of a hundred million Madrelli filled two beakers (a loose-lipped lab worker
had confided this bit of information shortly before Barat Krol forced him into that same freezer unit and allowed the door
to shut).

He thumped himself on the head with the heel of his palm. How could he have been so stupid? How could it have taken him this
long to find the answer when it was staring him in the face all along? He would steal the beakers! Without them, there could
not be any new Madrelli. The Scandis would be forced to listen to him, for he would be holding their future hostage!

He remembered how to reach the laboratories, but the problem was that he had no business being there on his own. He was certain
to be challenged. He would have to think of a way to get around the problem.

A half hour later, he was on his way. Under his arm he carried a bundle of stolen computer printouts. Normally they would
be recycled, but he had other plans for them. He kept his head down, eyes on the path, and adopted a slope-shouldered, humble
gait, more in keeping with his oppressed brethren and less likely to be challenged.

Soon he reached his destination, a room where newly woven garments were stored, garments woven by the nimble fingers of Madrelli
women. He crumpled the paper into balls and scattered them around the room until the floor was buried. He crammed piles of
the crinkly balls between the neatly stacked fabrics and draped lengths of material from stack to
stack. When he had crumpled the last sheet of paper and tossed it on the pile, he lit a taper and placed it in the very center.

Barat Krol hummed beneath his breath as he exited the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. It was a pity to destroy
such beautiful work, but fabric could be replaced far easier than lives. He strolled down the concourse, knowing that his
handiwork would be discovered before long. He just hoped that the fire would have time to seize hold.

His wishes were granted, for he had nearly reached the bottom of the spiraling walkway before the first shouts of alarm reached
his ears. He smiled and continued on his way as others rushed past him, responding to the dreaded cry.

It took him longer to find the laboratory than he had planned, even with his unusually keen memory, for it was not meant to
be visited by casual passers-by and was hidden in the depths of a labyrinth of confusing passages.

Alarms had been ringing for quite some time when a secondary set of Klaxons began to sound. Barat Krol felt a deep sense of
satisfaction. From this new chorus of alarms, he was able to ascertain that the fire had proved difficult to extinguish and
appeared to have spread, for the Klaxons indicated a level two fire, one that was not contained and was spreading. More assistance
was required than those who had responded to the first call. He received a few startled glances as white-coated technicians
raced past him, reporting to their assigned posts against the possibility that sensitive materials were endangered. No one
stopped to question his presence.