Empire of Man 01 - March Upcountry (36 page)

Matsugae smiled, stirred, and shrugged.

"Damnbeast, Your Highness. The one you killed. Clean shot as well, which I appreciated. Not too torn up but well bled by the time I got it."

"I can't believe we're having
damnbeast
for supper," Roger said, and brushed a recalcitrant strand of hair out of his eyes.

"Well, the troops are having damnbeast stew," Matsugae said with another grin. "Just wait until you see what the
officers
are having."

"I still can't believe that was damnbeast," Roger said, leaning back and setting down his fork.

Matsugae had somehow secured not only a large quantity of a really good wine, but a variety of local spices. The troops had seen him at various times throughout Q'Nkok, talking to restaurant and tavern owners, and when the company started out on its journey, he had immediately established himself as a cross between chief cook and caravan-master.

The result was a smoothly functioning caravan. D'Len Pah's mahouts had experience of this sort of thing, and Matsugae hadn't hesitated to pick their brains. It was the mahouts who'd suggested unloading one beast and letting it break trail, for instance, thus lightening the load on the Marines. It was also the mahouts who'd pointed out that it was silly to waste good protein just because it was trying to eat you. And that there was nothing wrong with shooting for the pot.

That last point had nearly caused Pahner to go ballistic. Hunting on the move went against every bit of his training. Modern ground warfare required that troops move through the woods as if they weren't even there, since anything that could be seen could be killed. That a unit was "made out of mist" was a high compliment, and shooting at everything that moved and looked vaguely edible was noisy anathema to his dearest principles.

But in the end he'd been forced to concede that their situation was . . . unusual. After looking at their consumption rates and how far they'd traveled, he'd agreed—not without one last, severe tussle with his military professionalism—that they needed the supplement. Once he'd conceded the point, however, he'd implemented it with his customary thoroughness, and thereafter a member of the company who was a superior marksman was routinely put up front with the point specifically to look for game.

More often than not, and over Pahner's fuming protests, Roger could be found in the same area for the same reason. He usually rode the unencumbered
flar-ta
, like some latter-day raja on an extraterrestrial elephant. It should have been faintly ludicrous, but the elevation and the fact that the pack beast wasn't recognized as a threat by the local wildlife often gave him shots well before the "official" company hunter. And he rarely missed.

This day, the only thing he'd seen on the route hadn't been, to him, food game. The crouching damnbeast would have been invisible to the point until she reached attack distance. Given their increased awareness, and the guns pushed to the front of the formation, the point might have survived the encounter. And, then again, maybe not. The question was moot, however, for Roger had shot the beast while the lance corporal was still seventy meters distant.

Now he picked at a bit of the lightly spiced meat and shook his head.

"This was good! The last time you tried it, it was . . . well . . ."

"Rubbery," Matsugae said with a laugh. "Right?"

"Yes," O'Casey said. The academic was coming to her own terms with this world. She still resented the heat, the humidity, and the bugs, but they all did that, and at least she no longer had to slip and slide in the mud. Instead, she got to ride on one of the great pack beasts, and she thought she might live, after all. She'd felt bad about being "pampered" for a while, but one of the Marines had finally remarked that O'Casey had never volunteered for this, and she'd decided not to worry about it.

She wiped at her brow and drew a breath. The tent was hot and close, but it kept out the bugs and the
yaden
. The latter never seemed to attack when people were up and about, but better safe than sorry. And since the troops had taken to zipping their one-man tents closed at night, they hadn't lost anyone else, even if it did make for hot, fetid sleeping environments.

"But this is actually quite nice," she continued, taking another bite. "It reminds me of a light-tasting beef." Fortunately, it was also leaner than beef. A heavy meal in this climate would be devastating.

"Emu," Lieutenant Jasco said, taking another helping of barleyrice and meat. "It tastes a lot like emu."

"Emu?" Cord repeated. "I don't know what that is." The shaman rolled a ball of barleyrice and popped it into his mouth. He had pulled it from the communal bowl, as was his people's custom. Not for him these bizarre human notions of forks and such!

"Flightless bird," Roger said offhandedly. He pulled a bit of his portion of damnbeast off his plate and fed it to Dogzard, who'd been patiently waiting by his chair. "Originally from the South American pampas. It's distributed all over now. Fairly easy to raise."

"We raised 'em on Larsen," Jasco said nostalgically. "Almost tastes like home. Now, if you'd just chop up the leftovers and put them in a hotdish, I'd have to marry you," he told the valet with a grin, and Matsugae laughed with the others as he poured Roger another glass of wine.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. I already had one spouse. Once was enough."

"How'd you get it so tender?" Kosutic asked. She took a sip of wine and picked up one of the barbecued vegetables. The squashlike plant had been christened yuckini because, unlike zucchini, it had a bitter taste in its uncooked state. However, a combination of one of Matsugae's marinades and cooking over a slow fire resulted in a surprisingly delectable vegetable course. The cooking, or perhaps the marinade, left the slices with a sugary coating somewhat like a honey glaze.

"Ah," Matsugae said with another smile. "That's a chef's secret." He put his finger against his nose and smiled again, then, with a slight bow and a spatter of applause, he let himself out of the tent.

"All right," Pahner said. "I want to make sure everyone is clear on tomorrow's march. Gulyas wants to have a word."

"I've been talking with Cord and his nephews," the lieutenant said, swallowing a bite of barleyrice and clearing his throat with a sip of wine. The vintage was fairly heavy for the conditions, almost like a sherry. But wine was wine. "As everyone knows," he went on, "we're in Kranolta territory. So why haven't we been hit?"

"Yeah." Jasco nodded. "We must have passed right by that group that was waiting to attack Q'Nkok."

"They couldn't have stayed in one place for too long," Cord said. "The strip of flatland along the river is too narrow for good hunting. That's why The People have never taken it for their own."

"Apparently," Gulyas nodded at the shaman, "hunting parties go over there when game is sparse on their side of the river. The Kranolta hunt there also, but only occasionally. For the raiding party to stay there, they had to be broken up."

"Foraging." Kosutic nodded tugging at an earlobe. "Of course."

"So we might have brushed some of them," Gulyas said. "And, conceivably, they could be on our back trail, catching up fast."

"Do you rate that as likely?" Pahner asked. He and Gulyas had already discussed this, but he wanted the entire group to hear the whole story.

"No, Sir," the lieutenant answered. "At least, not quickly. They'd still be waiting for word from the conspirators in the city. Even if a messenger preceded us, they'd have to assemble before taking us on. Even the Kranolta are going to recognize that we're a serious military threat."

"However," Cord said, scratching at the tent floor with his knife, "that was a raiding party outside its traditional territory. They wouldn't attack unless they had all the warriors necessary to destroy us. Once we enter the home territory of the tribes, they'll attack at every turn. The deeper we enter, the bolder they will become, and the more they will attack."

"So," Pahner said, "we need to begin being extra alert. The tribes don't hunt the hills we just passed through, but they do hunt the lowlands. Whether there's a big force on our back trail or not, we now face the probability of regular attacks. And we haven't the time to teach them the price of an Earthman slain."

"The troops are going to have a problem with that," Kosutic admitted. "I'm worried that they're getting sloppy. We told them to expect regular attacks through the last two weeks in the hills, and no Kranolta materialized: just big nasties. We'll need more than the Lieutenant's read on it for them to take it seriously."

Pahner nodded.

"Get with the chain of command," he told the lieutenants. "Make sure that they, at least, are aware of the likelihood. We need to make sure the troops are as alert as possible. These aren't half made recruits. Remind them of that."

Julian leaned on his rucksack and listened to the quiet of the sleeping camp. The clouds often seemed to break for just a bit after sunset, and tonight was no exception. The smaller moon, Sharma, cast a faint, ruddy light over the scene. Dim as it was, it would have been more than sufficient for his light enhancers, but he'd switched them off. The jungle seemed placid tonight, with hardly any animals stirring. Even the roars and gurgles of the normal night were muted.

That was just as well. He had two more hours as sergeant of the guard, and then he could get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long march through the jungle, and being stuck as sergeant of the guard meant damned little rest, but for the time being, he could chill out. All the posts were placed, and he'd done a walk-around a half hour ago. Everybody was staying awake and alert, per normal.

He leaned on the rucksack a little harder and sniffed. You could still smell the stew Kostas had cooked up, and Julian shook his head. Who would have thought that the fussy little valet could have become such a tower of strength? Or turn out to be such a good cook? The actual work was done by a couple of the scummy beast drivers, but Matsugae made sure it was done right and no one was about to complain about the result. The company definitely wasn't starving, although what might happen when they ran out of barleyrice and dried fruits and vegetables was another story. Hopefully, their supply would hold out to the next city-state
—

He froze at the tiniest whisper of a scrape somewhere in front of him. The sound had been almost below the level of audibility, but the Marine had unusually sharp hearing. He considered turning on his helmet enhancers, but that scrape had sounded like it was right in front of him, and the helmet would take a second or to come fully online.

He reached up and flicked on the flash clipped to his combat harness.

The low-power red light blinked on instantly . . . and revealed five forms, crawling towards him. The creatures were shaped vaguely like moths, mostly black but with a spotted pattern that turned pale pink in the red light. A score of glittering red eyes gazed back at him, and ten poisoned fangs glistened. . . .

Roger was up, out of the tent, and halfway across the encampment before he realized he'd moved. He looked down, and discovered that he had his rifle in one hand, his bead pistol in the other, and nothing on but a singlet.

The discovery slowed him just long enough for Sergeant Angell to overtake and jerk him to a halt as his tent guards got in front of him.

"At least let us get there first, Sir," the NCO said with a laugh, and handed the prince his combat harness. "And always remember to grab ammo, too. It makes it easier on us."

Roger threw on the harness and resumed his progress more sedately, surrounded by his hovering bodyguards as he crossed to a cluster of troopers gathered in Third Platoon's area. Julian sat on the ground at the center of the small group, cradling a jug of the local wine and shaking his head.

" . . . low-crawling up on me," he said. The normally upbeat NCO was obviously shaken. "No wonder we lost Wilbur."

Roger looked at the shape on the ground while he pulled his hair up into a quick bun. It looked like a giant, six-winged moth, incongruously pinned down with a combat knife, and the area around it was torn up from its death throes.

Warrant Dobrescu ran a sensor over it and tapped the knife. The thing gave a few weak flaps of its wings, and the fangs quivered, but other than that it was quiescent. The warrant officer pulled the knife out and used it to expertly flip the thing over.

"Hmmm," he murmured and raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating."

"What happened, Julian?" Pahner asked. How long the big captain had been standing there nobody knew, but Julian shook his head again and capped the clay jug of wine.

"I was maintaining my post, Sir. I'd checked the posts a half-hour before, and I was just . . . sitting and listening. And I heard a scraping sound. So I turned on my flashlight, and—" He gulped and pointed the "moth" on the ground. "And five of those things were low-crawling up on me. Just like a fire team."

"I'd say that this is the species that got Wilbur the first night," Dobrescu confirmed. The warrant officer had a Marine shining a white-light flash over his shoulder and was examining the fangs of the still twitching moth with a field-scope. "These are clearly evolved for drawing liquids," he said, and looked up with a black chuckle. "I don't think these are nectar-drinkers, either."

"Okay," Pahner said. "We know the enemy now. Break it up and get back to sleep, people. We've got a long day ahead."

He watched the gaggle break up, the Marines heading back to their shelters and zipping them tight, and then turned to Julian.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Sure, Captain. I'll be fine. I was just shook. They're so . . ."

"Horrible," Dobrescu offered, and looked at Pahner. "What do you want me to do with the specimen?"

"Move it closer to the center of camp. We'll burn it with our garbage in the morning."

"Aye," the warrant officer said. "I wonder if this is a foretaste of things to come?"

Roger rocked with the movement of the pack beast, his eyes half-closed in the dim morning light. It had taken a while for the camp to get back to sleep, and everyone seemed quiet and subdued.