The Forlorn(16)

The women had known his time was coming. They had not realized that the time was tonight. S'kith stood watch in the darkness on the hive roof. As soon as he saw them come out of the exit port, the Morkth-man knew something was wrong. The mistresses never exposed themselves on the roof of the hive. Besides the safety aspect, they found clear, bright light unpleasant. The gene mistress leading the all-Morkth party was easily recognizable, her high-status patterned chelicerae gleaming in the moonlight. The conclusion was inescapable. They'd found him. S'kith drew his sword and began the ritual of bioenhancement exercises he knew would double his reaction speed, and stop all pain for a few minutes. There was a high physiological cost to this, but he doubted that he would be alive to pay it.

Two hundred zeth-klicks away the Beta-Morkth scanners were watching with their endless robotic patience. They registered the presence of the traitorkind in an exposed position, and alerted their masters.

The target was tempting: so many Alpha exposed in one fire zone. Clawed hands flickered across the console, calculating the possibility of success, against the use of scarce and irreplaceable resources. The target was declared worthy of one low-impact chemical missile unit. It streaked away on its killing trajectory.

The blast knocked S'kith off his feet. But by the time the debris was starting to fall the warrior training took over. He was up and running. This was a target zone for ordnance: get out, get down. The action seemed to break down barriers within him. Now, he would not, could not stop. He hurtled across the broken masonry, swung down from beam to beam, and ran at the gate of the outer hive enclosure.

The gate was intended to prevent entry by human ground troops—a low probability threat here, deep in conquered lands. The hive roof was where Beta-Morkth would attack. The best Morkth-men warriors were put up there. After all, to defend the hive against true Morkth warriors with technologically advanced weapons called for near superhumans. The next best of the crop of Alpha-Morkth bred warriors went to the invasion troops. The gate guards were the bottom of the barrel, adequate for their task, but almost totally rigid in their responses. They were gate guards. Not even an explosion from the hive behind them would turn them. The gate was open, to allow the passage of a worker Morkth-man party. The gate guards would continue to watch for any threat from outside, unless otherwise ordered. S'kith, his body converted into a deadly killing machine by the bioenhancement and pure adrenalin, cut through them like a sharp scythe through wheat stalks.

He was out, and still running. The surviving gate guards stood staring, confused. They watched as S'kith 235 hurtled straight into the flood-full river at the foot of the hill. He was gone, the black of his uniform swallowed by the darkness and the black muddy churn of earth-laden water, and its broken flotsam of branches and logs.

Swimming was not part of a roof guard's training. Drowning, however, was something for which he needed no prior experience. S'kith 235 had, in his frantic thrashings, managed to break the surface several times. He was about to go under for what would have been the last time, when a section of uprooted walnut tree caromed into his back. He managed to grasp its branches with all the strength of a drowning man.

It had taken the last of his energy to haul himself onto the trunk of the long-dead tree. Having roughly wedged himself upright between two branches, his mind slipped into post bioenhancement oblivion.

He regained consciousness to find his clothing being torn away by a scarecrow figure in a long, ragged skirt. The stirring and opening of his eyes elicited a start and a surprised comment, "Well, damn me if it ain't alive. Mebbe there's more profit in it than just a few bits o' black rag." He was vaguely aware of being dragged, then of a delicious warmth stealing through his limbs.

The Morkth-man drifted in and out of consciousness several times in the next few days. The man who gave him broth and tended the fire, confirmed S'kith 235's beliefs that non-Morkth-bred humans were very alien creatures indeed. Totally misshapen, bulging with fat on his chest, and wide about the hips, and not wearing proper trousers. Long-haired too. Fever and darkness took him down again.

The place was silent when S'kith woke clear-headed at last, some three days after his flight and involuntary escape from the hive. His ribs ached, and his scalp and chin itched furiously. He looked about the place, trying to piece happenings together from a patchwork of memories.

He was in a low cave, crudely fronted with rocks, and a half-drawn curtain of hide. A smoky fire burned at the back of the cave. He was lying under some rough covering on a straw pallet. His clothes were gone, and his hands and ankles were bound. He heard voices, and they were coming closer.