Alien Chronicles 3 - The Crystal Eye (35 page)

They didn’t have registration implants. Nashmarl’s mind suddenly remembered all the warnings their mother had given them, again and again, through the years. Now, here they were, bold as anything, making the worst mistake of their lives.

Foloth had his hood up too, but he held his head high. Arrogantly he said, “We don’t have arm registrations. Your scanner will register nothing.”

He spoke in Viis, and Nashmarl’s alarm grew. He wanted to hit Foloth, and make him stop this, but it was too late.

The patroller lifted his gaze slowly to them and his red eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Abiru, talking Viis?” he said in disbelief. “What is this?”

“We are not abiru,” Foloth said and threw back his hood before Nashmarl could stop him.

The patroller swore and jumped from his stool as though shot. He stared at Foloth in horror, and his rill extended behind his head. “Lieutenant!” he shouted.

Nashmarl gripped Foloth’s arm. “Let’s run for it.”

“No,” Foloth said curtly, shaking him off.

An officer, who along with two other patrollers was examining the bottom hull of a low-slung cargo-hauler as if they suspected it of having hidden compartments, straightened when called and turned around.

He was carrying his helmet under his elbow as though it were too hot to wear it, but when he saw Foloth his rill stiffened, and he came hurrying over at once, with the other two patrollers right on his heels.

“What is this?” he asked.

The patroller who’d summoned him stiffened to attention and saluted crisply. “I do not know, sir. This creature appeared and says it has no registration.”

“I should think not,” the lieutenant said. “Look under the owner’s registration or—”

“Excuse me,” Foloth broke in, still speaking Viis with an arrogance that made Nashmarl flinch, “but we have no owners. We are free, like all Viis, and we wish directions to the imperial palace.”

“Foloth, no!” Nashmarl exclaimed, too shocked to remain silent.

Everyone ignored him. The lieutenant flicked out his tongue and glanced away from Foloth.

“Clear this horror away,” he said. “And the other one, too. It’s probably worse, that it hides its face with such shame.”

“Wait,” Foloth said. “You don’t understand—”

Nashmarl gripped his arm. “Let’s go!”

He tried to pull Foloth away, but the three patrollers were on them by then. One of them clubbed Nashmarl across the back of his head with a stun-stick, and the world suddenly looked a sick yellow, then gray, then black.

He dropped to his knees before the world came back into focus around him. Foloth was tugging at him, and Nashmarl thought his brother was trying to help him up. But as he staggered to his feet, he found himself shoved by Foloth. He realized his hand was still gripping Foloth’s arm and Foloth was trying to pull free of him.

A patroller, faceless inside his black-visored helmet, hit Foloth across the back of his shoulders, knocking him sprawling.

Another blow crashed into Nashmarl’s shoulder. He half-fell across his brother, crying from the pain and fear. Someone kicked him, hard enough to make him yell.

“Get out of here, freaks,” a patroller said.

“They aren’t even Rejects. Look at them.”

Nashmarl found himself yanked upright. His hood was torn back, exposing his head and face to the merciless sunlight. He squinted and held up his hands for mercy.

“I don’t want to look at them,” another said. “They sicken my eyes.”

The one holding Nashmarl shook him so hard the cub thought his neck might snap, then shoved him away. He tripped over Foloth, and fell down again.

“They are too stupid to run.”

“They don’t understand the drill, which means they aren’t from Reject Town.”

“They aren’t Rejects.”

“No, something far worse.” The patroller who spoke unclipped his side-arm from his belt and aimed it right at Nashmarl’s head.

Nashmarl couldn’t breathe. He could see nothing except the business end of that weapon, glowing red as it charged. He opened his mouth, but no plea for mercy came out. It was as though whatever had paralyzed his lungs had frozen his throat as well. He no longer had a voice. He no longer had any reason, except one single certainty.

Flinging himself around, he somehow gained his feet and dodged to one side. The shot scorched the air between him and his brother, and the plasma slug hit the ground, turning a rock into a little puddle of slag.

Foloth screamed and scrambled in the opposite direction.

Laughing, a second patroller fired on them, first at Foloth, who was running full tilt now, then at Nashmarl. The shot hit Nashmarl’s heel, and pain flared up his leg. He was thrown off his feet and went tumbling. His fear was like something wet and clammy coiled about his throat. It was pulling him down, keeping him down despite his efforts to get up and go on running.

“Foloth!” he called desperately. He dragged himself on the ground. His leg was numb now, useless. He couldn’t even pull it up beneath him to get back on his feet. “Foloth, wait for me!”

Foloth glanced over his shoulder, calling something that Nashmarl did not understand. Foloth didn’t stop, and he didn’t come back to help. He just went on running toward the shacks clustered a short distance away.

Nashmarl was weeping and screaming in fear. He dragged himself desperately, flopping facedown and floundering as he tried to get on his feet again. Behind him he could hear the patrollers laughing.

“Run, freak!” one of them called out.

Somehow Nashmarl got on his feet. His injured one wouldn’t support his weight. He hobbled, nearly fell, and kept hopping forward. For the first time in his young life, he realized how his mother’s crippled leg must hinder her.

Another shot kicked up the dirt at his heels.

Nashmarl screamed, certain the next shot would plug him through the back and melt his spinal column, but it didn’t come. He heard the cultured tones of the lieutenant now, berating the patrollers for wasting ammunition when a beating would have sufficed.

“Didn’t want to touch the freaks, sir,” someone answered.

By then Nashmarl had reached the shacks and the narrow, dark streets leading into Reject Town. He was still hopping, still desperate to get himself away and out of sight. His facial fur was wet with tears and streaked with mud. His injured foot came down to the ground as he tried to go faster, and a fresh jolt of pain shot up his leg like fire.

Foloth wasn’t even in sight.

Hating him, Nashmarl staggered behind a shack and dropped into the shadows, gasping and shuddering, certain he was going to be sick. He never should have come here, he told himself, moaning as he gingerly ran his hand down his leg to his foot. He never should have listened to Foloth, with his crazy ideas. He never should have left the camp while Mother was gone.

And he wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t deserted him. It was all her fault for going away and staying away.

And now he was here in this awful place, and Foloth had abandoned him too. Foloth had the pack with the last of their rations and the water skin in it. Nashmarl figured he could starve to death here in Reject Town before anyone would help him. This wasn’t like their camp, where folks might squabble but everyone knew they had to help each other. Here, there was no one to help.

And now he was alone, and hurt.

“What are you doing?” Foloth’s voice demanded. “Crying? We haven’t time for that.”

Nashmarl looked up, relieved to see his brother and furious at being caught crying. He slapped his hands across his face, smearing the tears and grime even worse.

“You left me,” he said in a bitter voice. “They shot me and you just ran away.”

“How could I help you if I got shot too?” Foloth asked him reasonably.

Nashmarl glared. His brother always had a logical answer.

Foloth nudged him with his toe. “Come on. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” Nashmarl said. “I’m wounded.”

Foloth crouched beside him and grabbed his foot.

“Ow!” Nashmarl yelped. “Take it easy.”

Foloth dropped his foot, letting it thud against the ground. Pain jolted all the way up into Nashmarl’s throat. He gasped, rigid with agony, until it eased off.

Blood pounded in his head, making him almost dizzy. He tried to kick Foloth, but his brother dodged and stood up.

“You aren’t hurt,” Foloth said without sympathy. “You aren’t even bleeding.”

Slowly Nashmarl unclenched the clods of dirt he’d gripped during the worst of the pain. With a mutter, he hurled one of them at Foloth, who didn’t duck fast enough. Dirt splattered across the front of his jerkin.

Foloth brushed it off and glared at Nashmarl. “Get up now, or I really will leave you.”

He turned and started away. Nashmarl glared at him, seething with resentment. He wished he could just sit here forever, letting Foloth disappear and never be seen again.

But finally he levered himself to his feet. His foot wasn’t bleeding, just as Foloth had said. It should have been, but Nashmarl could find no visible wound. His heel, however, was bruised and extremely sore to the touch. Maybe the patrollers hadn’t all been using lethal plasma force. Maybe he’d been shot with a stun bullet instead.

It still hurt.

Limping and cursing Foloth under his breath, he followed his brother deeper into Reject Town.

It took but a few minutes before Nashmarl was regretting ever coming into this slum too. Even Foloth had slowed down and was looking around with a grimace of disgust on his face.

Nashmarl had never been anyplace so squalid. He’d never imagined such filth could exist or that anyone would be willing to live in it.

Reject hatchlings, smeared with grime and wearing rags or nothing at all, ran from them, screaming.

A female trudging along with a water yoke across her shoulders saw them and stumbled to a halt so abrupt she sloshed water from both her pots. She turned around and trotted away from them as fast as she could carry her heavy burden.

Nashmarl stopped in his tracks. “Foloth, wait!” he called.

Reluctantly Foloth looked back. “What now?”

“Where are we going?” Nashmarl asked him. “What are we going to do here?”

Foloth looked at him impatiently. “We’re going to find someone who can get us inside the city. I want to see the imperial palace.”

“Well, you’re a long way from it right now,” Nashmarl said.

“Over that wall,” Foloth said, pointing at the pale stone rising above the roofs of the rickety shacks around them. “Mother said it’s on the side where the river runs.”

“You’re crazy,” Nashmarl said. “We can’t even get through the city gates, much less close to the palace. What would you do if you got there, anyway?”

“I want to see it,” Foloth said.

“No, you’re hoping to see the Kaa again,” Nashmarl said. “Ever since you saw her, you’ve been unable to think of anyone else.”

“She was beautiful,” Foloth said, his eyes lighting up. “Like a vision, all in gold. Her skin was the color of the sun, and her eyes were like fire. She was wearing a gown like the sky itself. The cloth shimmered with colors. There were jewels sewn on it, and—”

“You’ve said all this a thousand times already. I don’t want to hear it again.”

“It was a sign,” Foloth said gravely. “A sign of destiny.”

“Whose destiny?” Nashmarl asked scornfully, pulling his feet from the mud. The stench made him feel sick. He wanted out of here. He wanted to go home.

Foloth was staring around them at the squalor and poverty with grave interest. “I think Mother was born in a place such as this. And then she was taken to live in the palace. I think my seeing the Kaa means that we’ll also go to the palace.”

Nashmarl stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Is that why we’ve come all this way? Is that why we’ve been beaten and shot at?” he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. “You really have gone crazy. And I shouldn’t have come with you.”

“Then leave,” Foloth said coldly. “I don’t need you.”

That hurt, like a stab over the heart. Nashmarl glared at Foloth to hide how wounded he felt. “I don’t need you either,” he said angrily. “And I don’t want to be a Viis. They’re cruel and vicious, just like Mother always warned us.”

“Mother doesn’t know everything,” Foloth said. “And she doesn’t tell us everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s a hypocrite,” Foloth said, stepping closer. “Warning us about the Viis, always criticizing the Viis, when her real opinion is very different.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Where is she?” Foloth asked.

“I don’t know!” Nashmarl replied in frustration. “Maybe she got hurt, or maybe she’s been arrested.”

“Or maybe she’s gone back to her Viis lover and abandoned us,” Foloth said.

His voice was very hard and cold when he said those words, words that shocked Nashmarl into silence.

Foloth glared at him, and his dark eyes were almost black with resentment. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said to Nashmarl. “You fool, how do you think we came into being?”

Nashmarl turned away from him, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting to think about it. He was crying again, and he didn’t want Foloth to see.

“Oh, yes, cry about it,” Foloth said with scorn. “I wish I hadn’t brought you. Especially now that you’re causing me this much trouble.”

“Trouble bigger than you think,” said a voice neither of them recognized.

Startled, Nashmarl spun around and found himself looking at the hostile faces of four Reject adult males. Each one was carrying a mesh-sided sack full of stones.

“Lots of trouble, you coming here,” the Reject said. Blue-skinned with lavender shading at his throat, he had no rill at all. “Abiru thieves, coming here all the time, stealing our food, taking what is ours. Get out!”

Foloth backed up, pressing against Nashmarl, who had to step aside. Together, both cubs retreated from the advancing Rejects.

“Please,” Nashmarl said, his voice quavering enough to shame him. “Don’t hurt us. We’ll go.”

But the Rejects were already reaching into their sacks. When they threw the first barrage of stones, Nashmarl knew what the sacks were for.