The Forlorn(48)

When the teams go in, they rely on an integral part of the cell's structure. The Morkth had discovered in the course of a myriad experiments on their human subjects that a certain combination of flashes of the visible spectrum, as well as pulsed low-frequency sound, caused uncontrolled neuromuscular spasms in humans, inducing, in effect, a petit mal fit, followed by neural overload and a blackout. Under these conditions no escapes had ever occurred. Until now. The cell was no longer part of the hive's power net. It wasn't even a complete cell any more. Just the front section, all that S'kith had ever been able to see.

The woman in the cell's eyes had been conditioned to a lifetime in semidarkness. The moonlight was almost too bright for her, unlike the half-blind Morkth and housefolk. She didn't know where she was . . . or care. All she knew was that at last the warriorbrood women's hatred could have solid form. Her hysterical strength outmatched the Morkth worker who had been pulling her legs open. Beywulf came roaring into the fray. He'd been obliged to leave his sword behind for the climb. He substituted it with the master of the house, whom he swung by both legs.

"SHIT! S'kith! Bey! Let's get out! Morkth'll be here any moment," shouted Keilin, putting the pieces together as he struggled towards the window.

The Beta-Morkth base for the southwestern quadrant was less than seven seconds off. The warrior crews waited in their craft with the ready-to-strike immobility that their kind could muster for patient hour upon hour. In the last four missions flown, two had been lost completely, crew, craft and all. The last six missions had also failed to retrieve the core section. In the three hundred years and the five missions previous to that, they'd always struck without loss and successfully retrieved the core sections. It was obvious to the Beta that the equation had changed, and stakes were rising. Therefore three platecraft were on standby.

One got away. As Beywulf and Keilin fled across the rooftops, half-carrying S'kith, Keilin replayed it in his mind. One of the items that stuck out was the child's voice, as in his half asleep state he came out of his room, and loudly asked what the terrible whining noise was. This in the midst of a killing brawl! Then there was that naked woman from S'kith's materialization, with her insane blind ferocity, and tiger smile even as she bled . . . And S'kith throwing the core section to him, before diving into the fray. The Beta-Morkth had been prepared for human weapons when they had arrived. The presence of an Alpha warrior with an energy weapon had torn their strategy, as had the attack by a trained Alpha guard, and a hairy berserker. Still, without the screaming suicide attack of that woman . . . Keilin shook himself. She'd killed two of them, ripping their heads from their torsos before she'd died. Why had she called out a number as it happened? And just what had it done to S'kith?

There'd be time to think about it when . . . if they got away. Meanwhile the city guards were champing about frantically, like bugs from a broken termitarium. At least he'd got one more Morkth himself. Strange that a poison which caused eventual loss of consciousness on hot-blooded creatures would produce instant shuddering death in Morkth. It had been on Marou's spear blade, and Keilin had tipped his knife and arrows with it.





CHAPTER 9


"You stupid, clumsy ham-handed bastards!" Cap's anger was not in the least ameliorated by the fact that they had brought him another core section. "You deserve to be bloody court-martialed, or at least flayed for gross insubordination."

Beywulf was probably the only one feeling the edge of his tongue. Keilin was still too unused to riding to be doing anything but concentrating on staying in the saddle at this speed. And S'kith was sunken deep into some private and expressionless misery.

By that evening Keilin felt that even flaying would have been more gentle than that ride. The opal dealer's shop stood beside the south wall, above the fault cliff. They had not dared ride back through the toll passage. Instead they were pushing further south just as fast as their horses would carry them.

At least Cap's temper had cooled by sunset, although the three were still at the top of the fecal list. The tall man grimly produced a core section from his pocket, and looked at Keilin and S'kith. He drew the thin-bladed knife. "I need to know where we are going next." S'kith showed fear, backing away slightly, his eyes growing that dangerous glazed look which foreordained combat. Keilin sighed. "I'll do it. Relax, S'kith."

The vastness was comforting and familiar. Here at least there was a sense of a job well done. Five more core sections lay together in a place of near total darkness, and endless repeated patterns. It was warm and not-quite scented . . . somewhere between a badger's hole and sweet lavender. The emotion ran high in it, too. It had the tinny taste of hatred . . . and fear. Then came the familiar message about betrayal . . . somehow tied to the smell.