beef stroganoff, stirred the mess with the tip of his combat knife, and used the same implement as a pointer. “We’ll spend the better part of the afternoon hiking thata way, haul our butts up into the trees, and wait for daylight.”
“ *Haul our butts up into some trees?’ “ MorlaKa inquired warily, “What for?”
“So nothin’ can eat ‘em,” Mondulo replied matter-of-factly. “Let’s say one of you generals gets killed ... You got any idea how many forms I’d have to fill out? Too many—so you’re goin’ up into them trees.”
The Hudathan weighed more than three hundred pounds and didn’t fancy climbing anything as insubstantial as a tree, but he didn’t want to say so. He nodded, finished his rations, and sealed the empty into a bag. Both went into his pack.
MorlaKa relieved Seebo, who came in to eat. The clone jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “I think the big guy is all pissed off. What’s his problem anyway?”
Booty looked up from the log where he was sitting. “It’s hard to know for sure—but it’s my guess he doesn’t like to climb trees.”
Seebo frowned and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Is that all?”
‘That’s all,” Mondulo answered. “I’ll relieve Hebo.”
Seebo watched the noncom go. It seemed strange to serve with beings who looked so different from the way he did. Strange and a little scary, since he knew how his clone brothers would react in an emergency. Simply put, they would react the way he did—which was the genius behind the founder’s plan.
Still, Mondulo was sharp, anyone could see that, which made him feel better. When Booly spoke, it was as if the free-breeder could read his mind. “It’s going to be different, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Seebo replied thoughtfully, “it certainly is.”
“Do you think it will work?”
Seebo activated the heat tab and felt the container start to warm. “Yes, sir. Where the humans are concerned. We’re different but the same. As for the geeks, well, the jury’s out on that one.”
Booly raised an eyebrow. “We need to walk the talk ... so please avoid using terms like ‘geek.’
Personally, I think it will work.”
The clone tore the cover off his food. Steam thickened the air. “Sir, yes sir. But that’s what you have to think. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Booly replied. “I guess it is.”
The Pool of Fecundity had been created by digging a canal from the river into a natural depression. A second ditch carried the water back to the river for a real as well as symbolic union. Only one individual was allowed to use the pond, and she floated about ten feet from shore. The Clan Mother was very, very pregnant. So much so that her swollen abdomen made it next to impossible to walk. Because of that her attendants marched into the pool, positioned the specially constructed litter under her grotesquely swollen body, and carried her ashore. The path from the pond to the village had been paved with a thick layer of crushed white shell. It made an attractive surface and provided excellent traction. A small detail but a critical one, since the Clan Mother was the only female permitted to reproduce. One slip, one accident, and hundreds of eggs could be damaged or destroyed, an important matter for a race in which normal infant mortality ran to sixty percent.
The village, which was know as the “Place Where the Water Breaks White over Old Stones before Turning South toward theGreatSwamp ,” consisted of some thirty beehive-shaped mud huts clustered around a larger mound that served as warehouse and provided the Clan Mother with a residence commensurate with her considerable status.
She had a tendency to become irritable during the final stages of pregnancy and was quick to make her annoyance known. The snakelike head rose and rotated from left to right. Speech came from deep in the back of her throat and emerged as a series of variegated croaks, burps, and coughs. “What’s taking so long? We are hungry.”
The “we” was a not so subtle reminder that she spoke for not only herself but for a generation unborn. Cowed, but careful lest they drop her, the litter bearers hurried up the path. The warriors, their mottled green-black bodies still damp from the trip downstream bowed respectfully as the conveyance passed. Many of them, all of those in their prime, had mated with the Clan Mother, and might have fertilized her eggs. That being the case, they would fight to the death to protect not only her but her progeny.
The litter passed out of broken sunlight and into the mound’s cool. dark interior. Once the stretcher came to a stop, the Clan Mother used her long willowy arms to support her grossly distended belly, lurched to her feet, and shuffled toward the carefully constructed throne. It was made from tightly woven reeds fitted onto a frame made of steambent wood and decorated with colorful flyer feathers, clan charms, and beads provided by gunrunners. It creaked under her considerable weight. “Well?” she demanded. “Where is our food?”
