March To The Stars

chain.'

The leader had jerked back so quickly, despite being off center, that she probably would have missed anyway. She filed his—probably 'his,' although all of the vern wore coverings which made it hard to tell—extraordinary reflexes away for future consideration. But he seemed remarkably unbothered by her effort to separate his head from his shoulders and gestured at the chain with the knife.

'Do you want that cut off, or would you rather keep it on?'

'Sorry,' Pedi said, holding out of her arms. 'Off.'

Now that she could see it clearly, the knife looked remarkably like a simple clasp knife, albeit made of unfamiliar materials. But whatever it might look like, its blade cut through the heavy chain—and her manacles—effortlessly. The vern seemed to exert no strength at all, but her bonds parted with a metallic twang, as easily as if they had been made of cloth, not steel.

'That's a nice knife,' she said. 'I don't suppose I could convince you to part with it?'

'No,' the leader said. 'Not that I don't appreciate your chutzpah.' The last word was in an unknown language, but the context made it plain, and her false-hands shrugged again.

'I am a Mudh Hemh Shin. It is our way.'

'Pleased to meet you,' the leader said. His face moved in a weird muscle twitch which showed small, white teeth. 'I am Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang McClintock, Heir Tertiary to the Empire of Man, and currently in charge of this band of cutthroats.' His face twitched again. 'I saw you kick that one guard to death; you look like you'll fit right in.'

* * *

Only three of the six captives were still alive. One, the Fire Guard, had been killed by the Lemmar, and the other two by the weapons of the boarders or when the chain wrenched them across the deck.

Although both of those casualties had been Shin, Pedi didn't hold them against the newcomers, these ... 'humans' or their guard. War was a way of life to the Shin; from the lowliest serf to the highest of kings. To die in battle was considered a high honor, and many a serf, as the other captives had been, had won his or her freedom by heroic defense against the Krath raiding columns.

Pedi wondered what to do next. Although the serfs came from other clans, it was clearly her responsibility to take charge of them and insure their welfare until they could be returned to their fiefdoms. Should return prove impossible, she would be required to maintain them to the best of her own ability. And at the moment, that ability was rather low.

The female serf who had spoken so abruptly came forward, her arms crossed, and knelt on the deck, head bowed in ritual obeisance.

'Light of the Mudh Hemh, do you see me?'

'You must be from Sran Vale,' Pedi said with a gesture of humorous acceptance.

'I am, Your Light,' the serf said in obvious surprise. 'How did you know?'

'If my armsman saw someone from Mudh Hemh bobbing and scraping like that to me, he would die of laughter,' Pedi said. 'Get up. Who are you?'

'I am Slee, serf to the Vassal Trom Sucisp, Your Light.'

'And you?' Pedi asked the other serf.

'I am also of the lands of Vassal Trom Sucisp, Your Light,' he said, kneeling beside Slee. 'Long may you shine. Pin is my name.'

'Well, in Mudh Hemh, we don't put much stock in all this bowing and scraping,' Pedi said sharply. 'Stand up and act like you know what your horns are for. We're better off than we were, but we're not home yet.'

'Yes, Your Light,' Slee said. 'But, begging your pardon, are we to return to our lands?'

'If I can arrange it,' she said. 'It is our duty.'

'Your Light, I agree that it is our duty,' Slee said in a tone of slight regret. 'But surely it is the duty of a benan to follow her master?'

Pedi felt her slime go dry as she replayed the memory of that tremendous leap on the part of the old man. She would surely have died without his intervention—the intervention of a stranger, with no obligation to aid her.

'Oh, Krim,' she whispered. 'Oh, Krim.'

'You had not realized, Your Light?' Slee asked. Pedi just looked at her, and the serf inhaled sharply. 'Oh, Krim.'

'By the Fire, the Smoke, and the Ash!' Pedi cursed. 'I had not thought. My father will kill me!'

'Your Light,' Pin said, 'anyone can find themselves benan. It ... happens.'

'Not for that,' Pedi said, cursing even more vilely. 'For forgetting.'

* * *

Roger watched the freed prisoners as the discussion of how to crew the vessels wrangled on. Usually, when a ship was captured, a small prize crew was put aboard by the victors. Its purpose was more to ensure that the survivors of the original crew took the captured vessel to the capturing ship's home port than to actually 'crew' the prize itself.

But the Lemmar, almost to a Mardukan, had fought to the death. The reason for that ferocious, last-man defense had yet to be determined, but so far, the reaction to the pirates' efforts on the part of the Bronze Barbarians and their auxiliaries was fairly negative. The Lemmar had fought viciously and without quarter, but not particularly well. In the opinion of The Basik's Own, that changed them from heroic defenders to suicidal idiots.

Whatever the Lemmar's reasons, there were too few left to man this ship, and much the same story was coming from all of the others. Coupled with the anticipated recapture of the convoy's merchantships to the north, it meant that most of the flotilla's present and prospective prizes would be severely undermanned by the time they reached their destination.

It was with that consideration in mind that Roger was examining the freed captives. Depending on their background, it might or might not be possible to press them into service as sailors. Thus far, though, they were looking fairly ... odd.

For one thing, it was clear that the female Cord had 'rescued' (to the extent that she'd needed rescuing) was in charge. That was strange enough, since there'd been only two places in their entire journey where women were considered anything but chattels. Even in those two places, a woman would not automatically be assumed to be the boss, but in this case, she most definitely was.

There was also the question of her age. Her horns were rather short and very light in color. That smooth, honey-yellow look was generally only found in very young Mardukans, but there was a darker, rougher rim at the base, so it was possible that their coloration and condition were manufactured rather than natural. The other female captive, who had been doing most of the talking thus far, also had horns that were smoother and somewhat lighter than normal. He wondered if the coloration and smoothness was a societal symbol? If that were the case, perhaps the warrior-female's companions were deferring to her because the condition of her horns marked her as belonging to a higher caste.

Whatever they'd been talking about seemed to have been wrapped up, though, because the leader—Pedi Karuse, if he recalled correctly—was striding over to the command group with a very determined set to her four shoulders.

'Your girlfriend's on her way over, Cord,' Roger said.

'She is not my 'girlfriend.' ' D'Nal Cord looked down at the prince and made an eloquent, four-armed gesture of combined resignation and disgust. 'I do not play with children.'

'Just save 'em, huh?' Roger joked. 'Besides, I don't think she's all that young.'

'It was my duty,' the shaman answered loftily. 'And, no, she is not 'that young'; she is simply too young.'

'Then I don't see what the problem is,' Roger continued. 'Unless you're just feeling picky, of course.'

He was enjoying the shaman's discomfiture. After all the months of having Cord follow him around, dropping proverbs and aphorisms at every turn (not to mention thumping him on the head to emphasize the points of his moral homilies on a ruler's responsibilities), it was good to see him off balance for once. And for all of his