Dyson was starting to look annoyed. “I told you, we bought it, we didn’t think it up. You’ve heard the losses we’ve experienced here. Three machines just last month. Out away from the colonies and the fixed defenses, they’re essentially vulnerable against even light weapons. We’ve taken to issuing pulse rifles to all our crews, welded some makeshift armor to the control cabs, but the losses continue. These aliens—natives—whatever they are, somehow didn’t show up on our surveys, so we never imagined it would be an issue. But this,” he waved at the Bolo again, “was marketed as a solution for mining on ‘hostile worlds.’ They simply don’t get much more hostile than this. The rest of our machines are vulnerable, but the Prescott 4800—”
“The Bolo.”
“Whatever . . . It can take the kind of attacks we’ve been experiencing. We can send it into the most isolated and dangerous areas with impunity. They won’t be able to hurt it, and maybe we can learn something. Learn how to protect the rest of our equipment.”
Tyrus cursed under his breath. “You have no idea of the trouble you’ve caused me personally, bringing me here. I suppose you want me to work this beast into the maintenance rotation here?”
Dyson looked away. “Actually, we already have a pretty good maintenance chief at the colony. We were hoping that you’d run the 4800 for us.”
Tyrus blinked his eyes in disbelief. “You want me to command a Bolo?”
* * *
Whitestar shifted the hand-forged blade in his hand, feeling the comfortable way his clawlike fingers held the grip, the natural way that the handle cradled against the long bones of his hand. It was a good blade, good balance, a weapon he understood, one that became an extension of his arm. The knife pleased him, made him glad to be alive. The weapons provided by the Ones Above were powerful, but clumsy and unnatural. Only with a blade in his hand did he feel like a fresh-hatched warrior again.
The afternoon breeze ruffled his fur and carried the smell of wood smoke from a nearby burrow. He was dimly aware of his fellow clansmen gathering around the circle, clicking their jaws in rhythm, the ancient ceremony of challenge. Some part of his mind dimly registered all this, cataloged it, filtered it for any undetected threat, but his focus, his combat-eye, was entirely on the smaller Tersae across the circle. His name was Warrior Twostone, and he was trying with all his might to kill Whitestar, his clan-lord.
Twostone lunged, his long, curved blade flashing in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.
Agile for his greater size, Whitestar turned away from the thrust, hooked Twostone’s blade with his own and pulled, throwing the warrior off balance. He brought his foot around and kicked Twostone in the back, his talons drawing blood.
Twostone staggered for a moment, but quickly caught himself, turning, knife held high in a gesture of defiance. He turned his head at right angles to Whitestar, focusing one eye on the lord, and a sound came from his throat, a low chattering that in the Tersae was an expression of amusement. In context it was a sign of continued calm and reason, despite his wounds. The Tersae blood ran hot. A warrior could too easily lose themselves in that heat, forget the mission, forget their clan-brothers, and waste their lives on the battlefield. A good warrior knew how to maintain the balance, even when their own blood painted the enemy’s blade.
You are truly a fine warrior, Twostone. It will be a shame to lose you.
The two circled, each looking for some weakness in their opponent. Finally, Whitestar simply grew tired of looking. He feinted an attack causing Twostone to step backwards, then again, and again, never letting the warrior find balance, focusing his attention on Whitestar’s blade. Then Whitestar struck, not with his blade, but with a flying kick, his talons digging into Twostone’s blade-arm, pushing it aside. He squeezed, feeling skin tear beneath his claws, until the blade clattered to the forest floor, then released, twisted in midair to strike with his blade, bringing it against Twostone’s throat. He held the blade there and he grabbed Twostone’s arm and spun him around.
Twostone ended up with his back against Whitestar’s left shoulder, the knife tight against his skin. “My life is my lord’s,” he gasped, “my blood is my lord’s. Take them, in the name of the Ones Above.”
“I take your life,” responded Whitestar, “I take your blood. I give you back your blood. I give you back your life, Sacred Warrior Twostone, to serve the Ones Above.” He lowered the knife, stepped in front of Twostone, and held it across his own chest in salute.
Twostone bowed, folding his arms behind his back like a new hatchling, a gesture of extreme supplication and humility. “How may my unworthy life serve the Ones Above?”
“Rise, Twostone. You have been bested by your lord, but you fought honorably, and well. You are worthy. Tonight we strike the devils in their nests. Tonight you will carry the Fist of the Ones Above. We will barter your life for a thousand and twenty-four of the enemy’s lives.”
Twostone nodded his head sharply in gratitude.
“Go to your fire, and we will speak later.” He turned to the circle of observers. “Make way for the Sacred Warrior!” The circle parted and Twostone stepped through, and with that, the ceremony was ended. The crowd immediately began to disperse. A few looked disappointed that no more blood had been spilled, a few others paused to compliment Whitestar’s skill and prowess.
Only old Scarbeak lingered at his side as Whitestar headed back to the Lord’s Burrow. “You should take a new name, my lord. ‘Bloodtalon’ would suit you well.”
“Such a name would only fire the young warriors, old one. I fight too many challenges as it is. Tonight our Great War begins. I should be reviewing our plans, not holding a knife to my own warrior’s throat.”
“So speaks the lord. I forgot for a moment the recent challenge of your eldest hatchling. It was thoughtless of me. It pains one to take blood from one’s own brood, or one’s own clan.”
Whitestar dismissed him with a click of his jaw. “You meant only to compliment me, old one. I did what had to be done, and with luck, Blackspike will yet recover and take my place as lord of the clan.”
They walked past the stream, where young females soaked weaver-vines and beat them between rocks to extract the useful fibers. A few young males crouched, watching them cautiously from a distance.
“You don’t know these young ones, elder. The fire burns strong in them. They have no wisdom at the fight.” He was not speaking of his son, but he could have been.
“Wisdom comes with age.”
“Then it is not a lord’s destiny to be wise, elder. One day I will be too slow at a challenge, and—” he hissed and made the motion of a slicing blade with his hand— “that will be the end of me.”
“Wisdom is relative, lord. You are wise enough for what you do.”
“And you, elder? Is the Fist of the Ones Above ready?”
“The sacred connections are made, the sacred modules all show the light-of-function. The Ones Above promise that it will cut deep into the belly of the human devils. The explosion should be spectacular.”
“Let’s hope so, Scarbeak. Twostone is a fine warrior. I wouldn’t like to waste his life on a fool’s mission.”
* * *
The first sign of real trouble came when the hangar lights flickered, followed by the sound of a distant boom. Tyrus looked up from where he was crouched, inspecting one of the Bolo’s two-meter-wide treads, and wondered if the area was prone to thunderstorms. At the same moment, a quiver seemed to go through the huge machine, as though all of its secondary systems were being cycled through their test cycles at once.
Tyrus shook his head and went back to his inspection, knowing as he did that it was pointless make-work. It was late. He should be home, helping the boys unpack. Fact was, he didn’t want to see Lee, and he strongly suspected that she didn’t want to see him. They’d had a fight that afternoon. She’d never wanted him to take the transfer to the Taft Colonies, even though it was the only way to keep his job with the company. When they were diverted to mining colonies on Thule, she’d blamed him. Taft at least had alien ruins for her to explore, some chance for her to continue her often-interrupted career as an archeologist. Taft had an established family environment for the kids. Thule was one step up from a shanty camp, a sprawling, walled, cluster of prefabs, brothels and miner bars. A cold feeling of dread knotted in his gut. He was going to lose them. He knew it.