Chapter 10: Queen of Beasts Part 1

"I am unused to disobedience, Lieutenant Rinsin. It galls me."

Studious Turtle stood at the foot of the boarding ramp, icon-painted Tongue Box in her hands, clad in her most impressive amber-colored wrap, looking down at the land-navy officer.

Rinsin of the Mosasaur was foolish enough to argue. "I have no wish to attract your anger, Lady Turtle - "

"A wise attitude. Now kindly order your men to accept my luggage and direct me to my quarters."

" - but we were not informed of your arrival - "

"How could you be? The portents that attracted the Synod's attention occurred while your captain and only qualified Tongue Box operator was away from the fort."

" - and Captain Ngarong is not here."

Turtle smiled. Let that statement hang for a moment in the rich alluvial air, so all could appreciate its foolishness. "Why should my uncle's presence make any difference as to where I put my things?"

Studious Turtle advanced, and Rinsin retreated backward, grimacing. "I did receive instructions based on the communication received by captain Ngarong's Tongue Box, but I was told to await the pleasure of an Abbot Igwiv."

"What a happy turn of events," said Turtle, "For here is the estimable abbot in all his holy puissance."

She turned her smile on the hunched and bearded form of the holy man, who did not return the expression. "Lieutenant Rinsin," Igwiv sighed, "please let us ashore."

The skinny soldier looked nervous. "Father Abbot, I comply in the case of your holy person, but no mention of the Lady Studious Turtle is made in my orders."

"I am not at all surprised, child, since I myself was completely unaware of her presence aboard until we had put out."

Turtle dimpled at the old man. The arts of escape and stowing-away were just a few of the lessons she had absorbed during that long, beautiful week hiding with Trals.

"So I should not let her disembark, father?"

Igwiv sighed. "Very much the contrary, child. Find the lady Turtle a room."

The officer stiffened. "Is that an order?"

"Consider it rather advice from the depths of my wisdom."

Still the imbecile hesitated. Would Trals Scarback have tolerated this treatment? He would have unsheathed Vritai the All-Cutter cleaved right through Lieutenant Rinsin's scrawny neck. Turtle would do the same, only verbally.

She lowered her voice. "Do you really think, Lieutenant, that my uncle would turn me away?"

He blinked rapidly. "I could not say, my lady."

"Try," said Turtle, "extend your powers of inference, Lieutenant. Would Captain Ngarong turn aside his niece at his door? Would he allow any of his subordinates to do so?"

"No, but - "

"I am glad we all agree," Turtle clapped to direct his attention away from the fact that this "door" was in actuality the dock of the Thalassocracy's most dangerous outpost. "Slaves, unload the trunks. And help me with this Tongue Box. Careful with it. It is worth more than your life if you damage it."

Rinsin made one last gambit. "My lady, I do not have the authority to allow you to disembark."

"My dear Lieutenant," she patted his cheek, "do not trouble yourself with matters of authority. The abbot and I have plenty."

She swept past Lieutenant Rinsin in a flurry of amber ramie cloth.

Trals would be proud of her, although he probably would have left with more blood on the ground and less sway to the hips. Everyone has different talents to bring to bear on problem-solving.

"I apologize for the confusion." Abbot Igwiv stroked his double beard. "But Lady Studious Turtle will require private chambers. And a bodyguard to ensure she does not do anything..." the fingers on the beard gripped, tugged, "ah, that is to say, that no harm comes to her."

"Oh, no guard will not be necessary." Guards would make it hard for Turtle to sneak away.

"They will be," Igwiv insisted, "but only until a contingent of guards and sailors can be arranged to send her back to my abbey."

Turtle nearly laughed aloud. What a fool the abbot was, to show his intentions. She had plenty of time, and more than enough skill, to turn matters to her advantage.

Trals Scarback had taught her much, hiding in that loft above a stable in Luna Meridiana. Her barbarian lover had shown Turtle what true power was: the ability to bend men to one's will, to make tools of them. Even the highest-born admiral could be made a slave, if one knew what strings bound his heart.

Rinsin and Igwiv continued their discussion behind her. "Is that the niece? The one who - "

"Yes, and entirely unrepentant of the act."

"With Trals Scarback? I've seen the man, and I would think he'd scare off any highborn maiden."

"If highborn maidens behaved as we think they would, this world would be an easier place in which to live," said Igwiv, "for me, in any case. Lieutenant, believe me when I say I would like nothing better than to expedite the return of Lady Turtle to her home."

"Once we have word from Captain Ngarong, it will be my pleasure to comply."

Turtle inhaled the redolent tang of the sea, the savage growth, danger, and excitement of the Thalassocracy's southern frontier, what the Ethlek called 'the Face God.' The wind slid across her face like heated gossamer, rustling the riotous forest, white and delicate pink with flowers, that lay just beyond the walls of this fortification. The sounds of birds in the canopy...and...what was that?

"That thrumming," said Turtle. "What is that?"

There was no response. Turtle turned, frowning back at the men. They stopped, all her baggage train behind them, looking at something in the sky.

"Angels preserve us," Abbot Igwiv held up two crossed fingers. "What in God's abandoned creation is that thing?"

"I can't say, but," Rinsin's Adam's apple bobbed. "In his last communication with me, Captain Ngarong said he had found the location of - of the Ship of Years, Father."

"The Ship of Years," Turtle squinted, trying to reconcile the clattering object in the sky with the pictures in the memorial plaques. "It isn't it a bit globular? And small?" It looked more like a gingko nut than anything else.

"It must be Captain Ngarong," said Rinsin. "My God. Captain Ngarong has found the Ship of Years."

No. A strange portent in the sky? Terror in the eyes of the Thalassocracy? This was the work of Trals Scarback.

The lieutenant shouted at his men, "The captain is coming back in the Ship of Years! Open the - prepare the - prepare for it, devils take you!"

"'It hung in the sky like an ornament, and from there transgressed the boundaries of years that had been erected.'" Abbot Igwiv quoted to himself. "If this is the Ship of Years, do you realize what that means?"

It meant Turtle could be moments from reuniting with Trals. She gripped one hand in the other. Together she and the philosopher warlord would conquer the world with their love.

***

Andrea pounded through the swamp, pushing her suit to the limit.

At first, she'd believed Trals was taking her to her people, imprisoned downstream. But the time machine hovering over their canoe was a pretty powerful sign that either she'd misinterpreted his gestures or the caveman had lied to her. Whichever, Andrea had a job: protect the scientists. No scientists in the canoe, so over it went.

The claws extruding from her feet, gripped tree roots. Trunks and branches splintered off her powersuit's skin. At one point she stepped on a sleeping crocodile. But the suit corrected, kept her upright and moving toward the time-machine's locator beacon. The sweet, swimmy adrenaline rush buzzed in her head like a shot of scotch.

Focus. Andrea might not be a hostage anymore, but Yang and Larsen still were. If she'd understood his game of charades right, Trals's enemies took slaves. Normally, Andrea wouldn't worry about stone-age primitives overpowering suited soldiers, but the group of paleontologists had already managed to get itself one-third killed. And now the time machine was landing at the bad guy fort, which might mean clever tactical planning on the part of the scientists or coercion on the part of the natives. And come on, which one was more likely?

The daylight was fading, the leaves of the trees black against a luminous lavender sky. This place was a lot like Louisiana. Same waterlogged ground, not quite swamp and not quite river, same huge, mossy cypress trees. Same gators. Same sort of life-threatening situation, give or take a few Hurricano suicide-bombers. Was that why Andrea felt so good here, running, fighting, using the skills she'd spent so long perfecting?

Andrea pushed her suit harder, sprinting across the surface of a tributary. Another. Water sprayed in twin fountains as she blasted across the water.

She was a soldier in a powersuit. She could do this.

Something big and dark bulked around a bend in the river. A fort. Her HUD told her the time machine was just now landing on the far side.

Andrea increased her speed.

Her HUD flashed up its low-battery symbol and the message: INITIATE CAPACITOR SAVE?

NO. Andrea blinked angrily. The fort was getting closer now. She could knock politely and give them a chance to surrender at her, or...no. She had a better idea.

CHARGE P-CANNON, she commanded her powersuit.

Her feet found solid ground.

P-CANNON CHARGED AND READY, the suit told her.

Smart Actin congealed into plates and cooling fins, expanding up Andrea's stiffening arm. Claws dug in for traction. She pointed her palm at the fort in front of her.

***

The force of the explosion threw Chris into the mud.

PARTICLE WEAPON DISCHARGE, his HUD flashed across his visual cortex, NON-COMS CLEAR THE AREA IMMEDIATELY.

"Yeah, sure," he said, wishing he'd never followed Beardy out of the Hilbert Space vehicle.

Another beam of plasma flashed against the purple sky. Wood splintered, people screamed. It was clear that Andrea had found them.

"You know the smart thing to do," he told himself. "Wait here. Let Andrea come to us, find us, get aboard the Hilbert Space vehicle, and leave."

The only problem was that Chris couldn't seem to move. His body just wanted to lie back and look at the smoke curling into the sky.

A face popped into view.

It was a girl, leaning over him. Talking to him. Even if she'd been speaking English, Chris wouldn't have been able to hear her over the noise of battle. He could sure feel her hands when she put them to his face, though. Her fingers pressed his cheeks, squeezed.

"Um hello. Are face massages of greeting traditional in your mph?"

She pinched Chris's lips together and peered at him. Her eyes were pale blue, eyebrows so light they were almost invisible over milky, freckled skin.

God help me, Chris thought, I've been captured by the Ginger Princess of the Maastrichtian.

Another rumbling explosion.

Andrea. Chris pushed himself off the ground. Or at least tried to. The girl's forehead cracked off his. "Geeze, sorry." He reached up, found what he hoped was not an inappropriate place, and pushed her back.

She grabbed his arm and pulled.

"Hey thanks, I appreciate the help, but - "

Another hand took his other arm, and pulled harder.

Chris rose, blinked the spots out of his eyes, and realized he'd been lying in the middle of a crowd.

Men in quilted leather tunics surrounded him. Soldiers? Another man, older, had on a conical hat, a dark robe, and a long, two-pronged beard. He stood protectively next to the girl. They were making the "I surrender" sign at Chris.

CHRIS, his HUD blinked.

A silent message from Andrea. WHERE R U? Chris messaged before he saw the glowing locator beacon. He whirled and the natives backed up, trembling.

GET F. IN T.M, she sent back. Probably that meant get the fuck in the time machine.

WAIT, Chris sent back. He could see her now, standing in the hole she'd made in the wall.

A blast of heat and sound as she fired off another round from her p-cannon. Andrea must have the codes to unlock negotiation mode, but why was she firing away from the fort?

RIGHT F. NOW, she told him. The suited figure shook itself against the flames. MORE B.G.S IN TREES.

What were "B.G.s"? Chris's HUD magnified the swath of dark forest.

Hunched shapes in those trees bristled with weapons and dangling hair. Their eyes glowed in his enhanced vision.

Oh. B.Gs meant Bad Guys.