A few beats later he had trees and sawgrass between him and the settlement and was trotting easily through shallow water, the naked and filthy chorek wound into an equally filthy blanket and draped over his shoulder. Though he hated touching the creature, Kurz held him in place, arm across the backs of his knees. The chorek’s arms hung loose behind him and slapped against him with every step he took. He closed his mind to this and to the stench, concentrated on getting back to his camp as quickly as he could. Trying to hide his trail would just waste time; he couldn’t beat the trailcraft these swampbyks were likely to have.
When he reached the islet, he bound the chorek to the trunk of one of the trees, clipping off a loop of the filament cord and passing it under his arms and over a thick stub of a branch so he couldn’t work the loop down and step out of it, knotting a much shorter length about his wrists. He left the man sagging over the chestrope and lowered miniskip and the weapons cache. He collapsed the shelter, loaded the rest of the gear into the drag trailer, and clicked the lid down. He didn’t lock it. This was only the first of several sites he planned to visit. Having the weapons cache out and open, giving the chorek a taste of bounty that could be his, that was part of his plan. And there was even a chance he’d have to kill his captive and haul all the weapons to another site. If the male was locked into challenge mode and unwilling to listen, there’d be no point in continuing his speech.
He pressed his hand against the palm lock, then threw the lid back so his captive could see the neat rows of cutters in their velvet niches. He set the stim spray in the turned back lid and, careful to pick a spot upwind from the chorek, hunkered down to inspect his captive.
The skin under the oily patina of the forever unwashed was sickly pale and the chorek’s long thin arms and legs, the torso with its ribs showing, his incipient pot belly made him look half-starved and diseased. Kurz discounted both impressions. Though Hunnar’s Pet was clean and a lot older, his skin was like this one’s, fragile as a kaliba’s soaring skins, but he was spry enough. And his body shape wasn’t that different. This chorek was reasonably set up for his age and circumstances.
A scar wandered down the side of his face, a thin line with dots along side from the sutures. Knife cut. Probably a fight. Which he won, otherwise no one would have bothered to sew him up. Puncture wound just above his left hip. That one could have killed him if it had been a hair to one side. Small red dots on his belly and thighs. Good thing the bugs on this world don’t like the way Chave taste. Odd puckered scars on his arms, one on his shoulder near the neck, several of them with what looked like burn marks across them. He’d lived hard and used up more than his share of luck in staying alive.
Kurz frowned. He’d taken this one because analysis of the satwatch data showed he was the leader. Easier to convince one kreash than trying to herd half a dozen hostile mud-humpers. And he’d chosen to begin with this band because they were among the most active-and successful-of the choreks working out of this Marish. A bloody, greedy collection of sublife.
Kurz glanced to the west. The sun was a red blur behind a thickening layer of clouds. They were blowing inland faster than he’d expected, starting to fade the shadow cast by the trees. Not to his taste, flying in that muck, but hanging about here was even less attractive an option.
He took up the stim shot, pressed the end against the side of the chorek’s neck, stepped back as it took hold, and stood watching him come back to awareness.
The slack mouth with its sickly pink lips opened and closed, the matted beard and mustache moving greasily with it. The eyes that blinked open were that peculiar blue that many of these mudhumpers had. Surrounded by those straw-colored cilia, they were disgusting. The chorek jerked at the braided strands holding him against the tree, stopped when he decided he hadn’t a hope of breaking them. He realized that quickly enough to warn Kurz that he was clever and therefore not to be trusted.
The chorek hawked up a glob of mucus and spat it at Kurz.
It fell short, of course. Such a trite reaction. Kurz was disappointed, but was careful not to let it influence his estimate of the man. “You will listen,” he said and was pleased at the effect of the words on the chorek. He didn’t like language transfers, they made his head hurt, and all these subhuman langues put ideas in his head he didn’t like to see there, but it was indeed useful to be able to talk to them. “You don’t like me,” he said. He picked up one of the pods the tree had dropped during the night, used his thumb claw to dig a bit of fluff from inside it, then blew it away. He sat watching it a moment, then turned back to the chorek. “What you like and don’t like is worth that to me. I come to offer a trade which will get us both what we want.”
The chorek glared at him. “Mesuch. I wouldn’t give you a handful of wet chert.”
“Unless you’re very stupid, you will. Listen to me. It hurts nothing to listen, and you’re certainly going nowhere. We want this world cleared of Yaraka. You know them. The furfaces. You want that, too. You want to be rid of us. We will confine our activities to Melitoлh, leaving Banikoлh to you. We want metals and minerals. When those are gone, we are gone. This is a light world. We don’t like light worlds. We live most comfortably on worlds that would crack your bones and suck your guts out through your crotch. The Yaraka are different. They are after drugs and botanicals. Plants is what that means. Plants never run out, they make themselves over and over again. The Yaraka are here forever unless you get rid of them now.”
The chorek’s eyelids flickered and his face softened. “I can see that,” he said and his mouth moved in what he must have thought was a guileless smile. “So cut me loose and we can make our deal.”
Kurz sighed. They always think it’s so easy. “In a while I will, but not yet.” He reached into the cache and lifted out a cutter. “This is a weapon that regenerates its force if you push this slide back…” He used the claw on his forefinger to snap the thin metal cap along its grooves, exposing the collector beneath. “Thus. Set the weapon in full sunlight for a minimum of four hours, and by the end of that time it will be strong again. It is a fire at your fingertips, one that will only burn your enemies. Thus.” He shoved the slide home, lifted the cutter, and sliced the outer end of a limb not far above the chorek’s head. It brushed his shoulder as it fell. “You can see what it does to wood. Consider what it would do to flesh and bone.”
He got to his feet, walked out of the shadow under the trees, exposed the collector and set the cutter on the sand to replace the small bit of energy he’d expended.
When he was back hunkered beside the cache, he said, “It is as easy as that. The weapon will be at full strength again in less time than it will take me to say these words. There is no danger of overcharging. It was developed with folk like you in mind, men who have little acquaintance with such weapons.” Made to withstand the stupidity of fools like you.
There was a shine to the chorek’s eyes and a tension in his shoulders that told Kurz he’d got his first customer well and truly hooked. “So I see what you’re offering,” he said. “What you asking?”
That you don’t massacre each other, but go after the Yaraka. I wonder if this is worth the cost. Hm, if nothing else, you’ll keep the Yarks chasing their tails a while.
Kurz went to fetch the cutter. He showed the chorek the green light that meant the weapon was fully charged, then replaced it in its niche.
“We want the group from University dead. Whoever supplies proof of this will receive two bods of gold for each person removed. The proof must be convincing, but we will leave that to you to figure out. For the death of any of the Yaraka we will offer a bounty of five kolts weight in pure gold. For the death of the Goлs Koraka hoeh Dexios, I mean the Yarak who is the chief of all the Yaraka here on Bйluchad, for him we will offer seven bods of gold. Again, upon proof that he is truly dead.”