was well into another period of darkness before the legionnaire neared the top of the mesa. The dooth was understandably weary. Vapor jetted from its nostrils, and a beard of half frozen saliva dangled beneath its chin
Booly was exhausted, his mind numbed by the arduous climb and more than twelve hours spent in the saddle. Still, the realization that he had arrived served to revive the legionnaire’s nagging spirits, and he stood in the stirrups. The sun, still engaged in its never-ending game of hide and seek, had just started to peek over the eastern horizon. It glazed the ancient walls, caused ice crystals to glitter like diamonds, and threw shadows toward the west.
Man and animal passed through the narrow defile where sentries had sheltered from the wind and emerged on the mesa itself. Low walls, few more than three feet high, marked where wind breaks, animal shelters, and storage buildings once stood. The dooth’s hoofs made a lonely clip clop sound, and it snorted loudly.
That’s when Booty saw the shuttle, felt ice water seep into his veins, and jerked the dooth to a halt. The aircraft was black, of a type the legionnaire had never seen before, and, judging from the pods mounted under the short stubby wings, heavily armed.
Booly’s mind flashed back to Sintra on Earth, to the Thraki assassins, and the attempt on Maylo’s life. The aliens had no reason to murder him back then—but they did now. When the Will of the Gods exploded and Grand Admiral Andragna died along with most of his staff, there had been confusion. But that was then. The Thraki knew who was responsible for the flagship’s destruction now, could deduce who had given the order, and might be out for revenge. And where better than here? Where they could attack with impunity, remove the body, and leave nothing but a mystery?
Well, not without a fight, Booly thought grimly. He slid the assault rifle out of its scabbard, checked the ammo indicator, and removed the safety. Then, with the weapon in hand, he slid to the ground. He listened, heard nothing but the wind, and was thankful for the opportunity to prepare. He led the doom to a wind-sculpted tree, tied the reins to a much-tested branch, and wished there was a way to make the animal disappear. But there wasn’t, so he patted the beast’s neck, and backed away. There were plenty of places to hide, which meant that Booly would need to be careful. The sun was higher by then, which would make it easier for the legionnaire to see his potential adversaries—and easier for them to see him.
The shuttle represented the obvious starting point for his investigation, so Booly circled to the left, careful to keep the sun at his back. A two or three-inch crust of snow covered the ground and made soft crunching noises as he followed one of the lichen covered walls. There should be tracks somewhere ahead, unless the shuttle’s occupants had elected to remain aboard, which would make sense if they were what? Shipwrecked? No, anyone who needed help would get it from one of the navy ships now in orbit or would land at the fort. Yes, the Legion did make use of civilian contractors from time to time, but they liked their comforts, and never ventured into the boonies without benefit of an armed escort. The kind of escort that would be confronting him by now. That left the possibility of spies, smugglers, or the assassins he had feared from the beginning.
The shuttle crouched on its skids. Though small as spaceships go, it loomed large on the mesa and was very intimidating. Booly paused, took a long slow look around, and called on his full array of senses. Other than the serial number painted on the much abused hull, there were no apparent markings. If the registration number was real, it conformed to Confederate conventions, but phony RN’s were extremely common.
Now, for the first time since reaching the top, Booly considered calling for help. He had a radio—Kirby had insisted on that—and a fly form could be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. But what then? Which was worse? Calling for help when it might turn out that he didn’t need any? Or confronting the assassins alone? It was stupid—he knew that—but the first choice seemed worse than the second. Pride Yes, and he wasn’t especially proud of it.
Booly listened, heard nothing more ominous than the keening of the wind, tested the air for any scent that shouldn’t be there, and came up empty. Not all that reassuring, given the fact that the first set of Thraki assassins had gone to considerable lengths to neutralize their natural body odors. The officer approached the aircraft from the stem, on the assumption that there would be fewer sensors aimed in that direction, stepped in by a drive nacelle, and touched the metal with a thickly gloved hand. He waited a moment but felt nothing. The hull was cold, very cold, which suggested that the vessel had been there for a while. Waiting for him to show up? Or for some more innocent reason? There was no way to know.
Moving as stealthily as he could the legionnaire made his way forward. The hatch was closed, and a muddle of slush indicated where someone or something had left the ship. Tracks pointed north. Booly debated the merits of pounding on the hatch, decided to leave that approach till last, and followed the tracks. They were small, consistent with the Thraki theory, but less than perfectly clear, thanks to the fact that the prints went in both directions, as if one or more individuals had completed multiple trips to and from the ship. And, based on lessons learned as a youth, the officer could see that repeated exposure to the heat of day and the cold of night had altered the size of the impressions, making them more difficult to interpret.
Careful lest he follow the tracks into an ambush, Booly angled out and away. He kept the trail in view but walked parallel to the footprints. The fact that his back was to the spaceship made him nervous, but there wasn’t much choice. The tracks wound back and forth, passed under a sturdy arch, and rounded the comer of a tumbledown building. Then, straight as an arrow, they headed toward a rocky spire. His spire, the one that marked the location of the underground dwelling where his mother and he had camped, and the box of mementos had been buried. A coincidence? Or something else?
It was that particular moment when Booly’s nostrils detected the odor of cooking. Something good from the smelt of it. What was Thraki cuisine like anyway? The legionnaire had no idea. Booly moved forward, found the spiral stair, and eased his way down. The steps were dry—as if no one had used them for a while. Light danced on the opposite wall, the smell of food hung in the air, and the rifle pointed the way.
The officer eased through the entry and into the common room. Only one figure was visible, and he, she, or it was crouched in front of the fire pit, stirring the contents of a pan. Whoever the individual was put the container on a platform constructed for that purpose, stood, and turned. The light illuminated only one side of her face, but Booly would have recognized her anywhere. He lowered the rifle. Thoughts, questions, and emotions tumbled over each other and blocked his capacity to speak. Maylo smiled. “Well, it took you long enough ... I thought you’d like some breakfast. Kitty Kirby was most helpful. . . Not too surprising since she was a woman long before the Legion promoted her to Colonel.”
