Sara

Nobody expected an ambush. It was the perfect place for one. Still, no one aboard the Haupb-woa had any idea of danger until it actually happened.

A century of peace had blurred the once-jealously guarded domains of old. Urrish and g’Kek settlers were few, since the former could not raise young near water, and the latter preferred smooth terrain. Still, all types were seen crowding tiny docks when the Hauph-woa glided by, eager to share scant news.

Alas, there had been none from downstream since that terrible spectacle crossed the sky.

Mostly, the river folk were reacting constructively, rushing to reinforce their facade screens, cleaning the baffles of their smokestacks, or hauling boats under cover-but one forlorn tribe of traeki marsh-dwellers had gone much further, burning their entire stilt village in a spasm of fear and fealty to the Scrolls. Pzora’s topknot shivered at the aroma of woebegone ring-stacks, floundering in the ashes. The Hauph-woa’s captain promised to spread word of their plight. Perhaps other traeki would send new basal segments for the locals to wear, making them better suited for evacuation inland. At worst, the swamp traeki could gather rotting matter, settle on top, and shut down higher functions till the world became a less scary place.

The same could not be said for an urrish trade caravan they passed later, stranded with their pack beasts on the desolate west bank, when the panicky citizens of Bing Village blew up their beloved bridge.

The hoonish boat crew back-pedaled with frantic haste, rowing against the current to avoid getting caught in a tangle of broken timbers and mule-fiber cables, shattered remnants of a beautiful span that had been the chief traverse for an entire region. A marvel of clever camouflage, the bridge used to resemble a jagged snag of jumbled logs. But even that apparently wasn’t enough for local orthodox scroll thumpers. Maybe they were burning it while I had my nightmare last night, Sara thought, observing charred timbers and recalling images of flame that had torn her sleep.

A crowd,of villagers stood on the east bank, beckoning the Hauph-woa to draw near.

Blade spoke up. “I would not approach,” the blue qheuen hissed from several leg-vents. He wore a rewq over his vision-ring while peering at the folk on shore.

“And why not?” Jop demanded. “See? They’re pointing to a way past the debris. Perhaps they have news, as well.”

Sure enough, there did appear to be a channel, near the shore, unobstructed by remnants of the broken bridge.

“I don’t know,” Blade went on. “I sense that… something is wrong.”

“You’re right avout that,” Ulgor added. “I’d like to know why they have done nothing for the stranded caravan. The villagers have voats. The urs could have veen ferried across vy now.”

Sara wondered. It certainly would not be fun for any of Ulgor’s race to ride a little coracle, with icy water lapping just an arm’s breadth away. “The urs may have refused,” she suggested. “Perhaps they’re not that desperate yet.”

The captain made his decision, and the Hauph-woa turned toward the village. As they drew near, Sara saw that the only construct still intact was the hamlet’s camouflage lattice. Everything else lay in ruins. They’ve probably sent their families into the forest, she thought. There were plenty of garu trees for humans to live in, and qheuenish citizens could join cousins upstream. Still, the toppled village was a depressing sight.

Sara pondered how much worse things might be if Jop ever got his wish. If Dolo Dam blew up, every dock, weir, and cabin they had seen below the flood line would be swept away. Native creatures would also suffer, though perhaps no more than in a natural flood. Lark says it is species that matter, not individuals. No eco-niches would be threatened by demolishing our small wooden structures. Jijo won’t be harmed.

Still, it seems dubious, all of this burning and wrecking just to persuade some Galactic big shots we’re farther along the Path of Redemption than we really are.

Blade sidled alongside, his blue carapace steaming as dew evaporated from the seams of his shell-a sure sign of anxiety. He rocked a complex rhythm among his five chitinous legs.

“Sara, do you have a rewq? Can you put it on and see if I’m mistaken?”

“Sorry. I gave mine up. All those colors and raw emotions get in the way of paying close attention to language.” She did not add that it had grown painful to wear the things, ever since she made the mistake of using one at Joshu’s funeral. “Why?” she asked. “What’s got you worried?”

Blade’s cupola trembled, and the rewq that was wrapped around it quivered. “The people onshore- they seem… strange somehow.”

Sara peered through the morning haze. The Bing Villagers were mostly human, but there were also hoon, traeki, and qheuens in the mix. Likes attract, she thought. Orthodox fanaticism crossed racial lines.

As does heresy, Sara noted, recalling that her own brother was part of a movement no less radical than the folk who had brought down this bridge.

Several coracles set forth from tree-shrouded shelters, aiming to intercept the riverboat. “Are they coming to pilot us through?” young Jomah asked.

He got his answer when the first grappling hook whistled, then fell to the deck of the Hauph-woa.

Others swiftly followed.

“We mean you no harm!” shouted a thick-armed man in the nearest skiff. “Come ashore, and we’ll take care of you. All we want is your boat.”

That was the wrong thing to say to the proud crew of a river-runner. Every hoon but the helmsman ran to seize and toss overboard the offending hooks. But more grapplers sailed aboard for every one they removed.

Then Jomah pointed downstream. “Look!”

If anyone still wondered what the Bing-ites planned for the Hauph-woa, all doubts vanished at the sight of a charred ruin, blackened ribs spearing upward like a huge, halfVburned skeleton. It triggered an umble of dismay from the crew, resonating down Sara’s spine and sending the noor beasts into frenzied fits of barking.

The hoon redoubled their efforts, tearing frantically at the hooks.

Sara’s first instinct was to shield the Stranger. But the wounded man seemed safe, still unconscious under Pzora’s protecting bulk.

“Come on,” she told Blade. “We better help.”

Pirates often used to attack ships this way until the Great Peace. Perhaps the attackers’ own ancestors used the technique in deadly earnest, during the bad old days. The grapples, made of pointy Buyur metal, dug deep when the cables tautened. Sara realized in dismay that the cords were mule fiber, treated by a traeki process that made them damnably hard to cut. Worse, the lines stretched not just to the coracles but all the way to shore, where locals hauled them taut with blocks and tackle. Hoon strength, helped by Blade’s great claws, barely sufficed to wrestle the hooks free. Still, Sara tried to help, and even the g’Kek passenger kept lookout with four keen eyes, shouting to warn when another boat drew near. Only Jop leaned against the mast, watching with clear amusement. Sara had no doubt who the orthodox tree farmer was rooting for.

The beach loomed ever closer. If the Hauph-woa made it past midpoint, she’d have the river’s pull on her side. But even that force might be too little to break the strong cords. When the keel scraped sand, it would spell the end.

In desperation, the crew hit on a new tactic. Taking up axes, they chopped away at planks and rails, wherever a grapple had dug in, tearing out whole wooden chunks to throw overboard, attacking their own vessel with a fury that was dazzling to behold, given normal hoon placidity.