Cat Karina (19 page)

The first sailcars past the Mark would receive precedence at the switches, and all other sailcars would have to reduce speed.

Ocean Switcher heard the cry, “
Volad!
”

“Ready,” he said to his men, glancing down the row of intent faces. They nodded and he turned his gaze back to the distant sails. Beside him, the rails began to rumble.

The two switches were the most crucial points in the whole race, and rarely a year went by without some kind of incident. Perhaps the most spectacular event had occurred eight years previously, when two captains on adjacent tracks had reached the Mark simultaneously — or so they later insisted. Whatever the truth of the matter, the Ocean Switcher of that time made a decision and pegged the switching rail to favor the easterly car.

Neither car slackened speed and, neck and neck, they rumbled irresistibly towards the switch. The switching team scattered. The captains yelled at each other.

The sailcars reached the switch at the same instant and jammed there while rails splintered and flew. Ocean Switcher, who had stuck to his post until the last, was flung several meters away. The two captains, their craft locked in a reluctant embrace, continued to exchange their views while the crews, being of more forthright material, met on the fused deck to settle the issue with the bare fist.

Meanwhile Mountain Switcher’s men were so intent on watching these happenings that they omitted to peg their own guiderail. It collapsed as the first sailcar arrived. The car lurched off the running rail and fell between the tracks, bottling up the only other route south.

The carerra songs tell of the eventual winner of that race, one Mario, who had the presence of mind to send a runner to Rangua North Stage. A team of shrugleggers arrived at the trot by which time Mario had removed a guiderail from the track beside his car. The shrugleggers then dragged Mario’s craft down a jungle trail and re-railed it a kilometer past the yards at a short siding normally used for loading taro root. Mario went on to win by several hours and assure himself of a place in sailcar lore. Ocean Switcher, bruised and disgraced, resigned his post, and Da Para took his place and his name.

Three years later the race began in strong winds and it was the turn of Salvatore to become legend. Off to a flying start, he rolled towards the switches ahead of the field with all sails set and straining. Unfortunately the strain was too much for the lee guiderail which collapsed. Salvatore’s car leaped to the ground, miraculously still upright.

Normal procedure would have been to drop sails and brake hard, but the Tortuga Race was not a day for convention. The hull slid along the guiderails of the adjacent track, holding the car upright, and Salvatore, standing on the poop deck, had an inspiration.

If he couldn’t win the race, at least he could ensure that nobody else did. He shouted to his crew to haul the sails in tighter still.

The sailcar bounded through grass and scrub, scattering spectators and animals alike, and ploughed into the switches, demolishing the trackwork. Nobody could pass. Runners were sent to Rangua North Stage, shrugleggers came trotting and Salvatore, his car already on the ground, was the first to the taro siding. His craft had suffered considerable damage but, with a superb example of sailsmanship, Salvatore nursed it along and was finally credited with finishing third.

Such was the background to the start of the Tortuga Race in the year 122,640 Cyclic. A history of disaster, opportunism and greed.

“This year,” said Maquinista as he turned from his work to watch the sailcars gliding towards the switches, “I hope to God nothing goes wrong.”

“My only hope is if nothing goes right,” said Tonio, stacking tortugas in the hold of
Rayo
.

Joao was leading in
Esperanza.
This was unexpected, and Captain Herrero was watching in some astonishment as the car in the adjacent track began to pull away from him.

“Antrez!” he shouted to his chief crewman. “Sheet in the main and set the topsail. That bastard’s getting away from us!”

It was unthinkable! He’d looked on Tonio as his only threat so he’d bribed the little Specialists to refuse to do night work, which put Tonio out of the way. He’d secured the services of Dozo who, although perhaps not so competent as El Tigre, was one of the better Rangua felinos. And he’d made a couple of other arrangements down the line. But in order to take advantage of them, he had to get there first. Who in hell was this Joao, anyway? Nobody knew him, and it had been a surprise when he’d qualified to be among the eight racers. He’d come from some obscure Canton down south; Rocha, perhaps. Damn the man!

Soon the
Esperanza
was half a length ahead. Herrero studied the set of her sails and gave further instructions to his crew. Sheets were hauled in and other sheets paid out, but without appreciable effect, Herrero left the poop deck and strode forward. Joao, ignoring the
Urubu
as though it was of no consequence, gazed steadily ahead from his casual stance at the stern rail. Herrero roared his rage, pushed a crewman aside and seized the mainsheet, sawing the boom to and fro in search of the optimum position.

Joao’s crewmen relaxed, belaying the lines and sitting down.

The Mark approached.

Further down the track, Ocean Switcher, anticipating the result, gave the order to his men.

“Track three. All together, now!”

They lifted the guiderail into position and began to dog it down, setting the track to let the
Esperanza
through first.

“God damn you!” Herrero shouted. “He’s not there yet!” It was that last load of tortugas. He should never have allowed it aboard.
Urubu
was too heavy, too ponderous for quick acceleration. Furious with himself and his agent, he watched
Esperanza
creeping ahead.

Esperanza
passed the Mark.

Urubu
reached the Mark a second later. Her bow, where Herrero stood, was level with
Esperanza’s
stern, where Joao lounged with a crewman — and where the mainsheet was fastened tautly to a deck cleat.

So close that Herrero could almost have touched it.…

And now, at last, Joao looked at Herrero. There was a faint smile on the southerner’s face.

Herrero, lips tightly compressed, snatched up a billhook — a long pole capped by a knife used for cutting vegetation free from
Urubu’s
wheels and spars. As Karina had noticed previously, all
Urubu’s
knives were fashioned from metal, wrought in the Wrath of Agni. The billhook was razor sharp.

Herrero raised it above his head and brought it down across the deck of
Esperanza
.

The mainsheet parted with a crack like a whip.

The boom swung out, carrying a crewman with it. The sail spilled wind, flogging uselessly.

As
Esperanza
slowed and
Urubu
began to pass her, Herrero uttered a roaring yell of triumph. So much for the goddamned foreigner. Then
Urubu
ran into the guiderail, smashing it aside and flinging Ocean Switcher to the ground. Lurching and wobbling,
Urubu
stayed on the running rail by virtue of Herrero’s expert juggling of the sails, gained the undamaged track, and fled south. The race leader was on his way.

The sun-ovens had been going since dawn. They were huge, used only at this time of year, great bowls comprising countless hemitrexes and big enough to roast oxen. They were contained in heavy wooden cradles to which llamas were harnessed. Mostly the animals grazed, but every so often the sun in its movement across the sky would light up a single hemitrex above each oven, directing a hot beam of light onto the rump of the llama, which would take a step forward, thus correcting the sun-oven’s solar alignment.

The kikihuahuas would have approved of this mechanism.

The sun-ovens were arranged along the beach and the wind bore the aroma of roasting tumpmeat inland, adding spice and anticipation to the festivities. Twenty meters inland the parallel tracks of the sailway ran above short grass and coastal scrub, turning inland at the Stage for the diagonal climb to Rangua Town. Rangua North Stage was similar to the South Stage where Karina lived, comprising a couple of sidings to accommodate crippled sailcars, a clutter of sheds for the shrugleggers and, on the hillside, a large community hut surrounded by the vampiro tents of both Stages.

The main activity of the Festival was concentrated in the strip from the community hut down to the shruglegger sheds, then east to the sun-ovens. Along this thoroughfare the pitchers of ale were set up, and the temporary huts erected for mating. The bards squatted here, singing of heroism and glory to the complex Carerra rhythms so different from the classic simplicity of the Song of Earth. There were True Humans from Rangua dressed in bright cottons, walking in male-female pairs. There were Specialists of all kinds, from the hawk-mothers and their chattering broods enjoying a day out while their menfolk manned the signal towers, to the grim-faced cai-men. Long-necked mountain people laughed nervously, sharp-faced little pygmies from the upper jungle twitched their noses at the cooking smells, felinos strode everywhere, big loose-limbed men and beautiful women dressed in tunic of the finest skins.

This was the time of waiting, when people walked about the Stage chatting and joking, drinking little as yet. The felinos saw to the shrugleggers, decorating them with ribbons and jockeying for advantageous positions at the trackside. Frequently teams would become tangled and the shrugleggers would begin to kick and plunge. Then the felinos would dive in, cursing and jerking at harnesses, occasionally coming to blows.

The time of waiting was an electric time, and this year it had lasted since dawn because of the accident to Haleka’s tump.

Dozo had established his position early and defended it against all comers. His shrugleggers waited patiently between the tracks — so that they could take a car whether it arrived on the east or west track — a little further up the hill than the others. He reasoned that any captain, and particularly Herrero, would want to roll as far uphill as possible before taking on assistance. It was a question of calculating just where the sailcar would stop.

El Tigre had assembled his shrugleggers beside the inland track, level with Dozo.

“Too proud to fight for position with the others?” Dozo taunted him.

“
Rayo
was drawn on an inland track.”

“There are other cars beside
Rayo
.”

“I made an agreement with Tonio.”

“Ha!” Dozo uttered a bark of derision. “Since when have we trusted the word of a True Human? Mark my words, El Tigre. If
Rayo
happened to come to rest beside Manoso down there, do you honestly believe Tonio would wait for you to bring your team down? Of course not. He’d tell Manoso to hook up. I’m surprised at you. You’re the one who preaches revolution. You, above all, have reason to hate True Humans!”

“So far as we’re concerned, Dozo, the Race is the climax of our year’s work. I feel it would be sacrilege to disrupt it. I might cheat a True Human — or be cheated by him — at any other time. But not during the Race.”

The track trembled, and bright sails came gliding along the beach.

Urubu
rolled to a stop.

Dozo had overestimated, and his hindmost shruglegger stood twenty meters past
Urubu’s
nose. Herrero stood there, sizing up a team directly beneath him. It belonged to a felino from Rangua North Stage named Peleante.

“My honor,” said Peleante.

Dozo hurried up while an assistant undertook the difficult task of backing his team downhill to
Urubu.

“Piss off,” said Dozo to Peleante. To Herrero he shouted, “My shrugleggers are raised on the southern slopes, Captain. They’re far stronger than these scraggy creatures.”

Herrero glanced over his shoulder. Another set of sails was approaching, passing swiftly through the coastal scrub. “Hook up, Peleante,” he snapped. “The fat man’s lost his chance.”

“I have three grupos to set on you,” said Dozo quietly to Peleante. “Look to your left.”

Peleante did so, and saw a row of powerful women lounging against the guiderail, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Look to your left, fat man,” he said.

Another bunch of females stared through the tracks like caged animals. Dozo, recognizing a stalemate, changed his tactics. “Captain!” he called. “My price is reduced by the advance payment you made at the yards!” It was the ultimate sacrifice, allowing Herrero to apply the bribe against the towing charge.

Herrero’s habitual expression of irascibility did not change as he rapidly checked out the economics. Then, after another glance over his shoulder, he said, “Couple up then, Dozo. Make it fast!”

Dozo’s assistant was already fastening the harness to the towbar. Dozo named his price and Herrero tossed a handful of tokens at him. Meanwhile the car behind had arrived on the same track as Herrero and its captain, seeing a chance to overtake, was paying a gang of felinos to manhandle him through the crossover onto the other track. Peleante hurried across to haggle with this new arrival while his assistant reversed the shrugleggers. They became entangled with a team belonging to Diferir, and while they were sorted out Manoso’s team was engaged for the haul to the summit.

Peleante shrugged and turned to watch for further arrivals. It was all in the game; all part of the bright tapestry of the Tortuga Race. There was no point in getting excited over a few hardwood tokens.

A short distance away, El Tigre had company. A woman, beautiful with the voluptuousness of the mature felina had approached him. “All alone, El Tigre? What are your plans for today? I have a tent with many cushions of the best skin over there.”

“I’m sure you do, Iolande.” As she raised her arm to point, her tunic had slipped a little, displaying a brown, erect nipple. El Tigre smiled, it had been artistically done; no wonder Iolande was the most sought-after of the felinas. “I expect you have plenty to eat in there, too.”