Staré: Shikari Book Two Read online

  Staré

  Shikari Book 2

  Alma T. C. Boykin

  Copyright © 2018 by Alma T. C. Bickers

  Cover art © 2018 by Rory Modena. Used with Permission.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To Rudyard Kipling, H. Ridder Haggard, and Co. who inspired

  the Cat who Walks By Herself.

  Contents

  Untitled

  1. Home coming

  2. Old and New

  3. Socializing and Siblings

  4. Preparations

  5. Exploring the Plateau

  6. Among the Strange Staré

  7. Escape and Evade

  8. Rescue and Return

  9. Enemies, Allies, Ancient Mysteries

  10. Colliding with Ignorance

  11. Maps and Accusations

  12. Blood Calls to Blood

  13. Out of Chaos, a Clue

  14. Strange Sightings

  15. Death and Life

  16. The Truth Emerges

  17. Found Pasts and Troubled Futures

  About the Author

  Also by Alma T. C. Boykin

  1

  Home coming

  “Auriga Maris Regina, the planet is not going anywhere. Now come, we need to clear the cabin again before boarding the landing shuttle.”

  Rigi, who had gone through the cabin with the finest-tooth comb known to twelve star systems, allowed herself a sigh before leaving the viewing window and walking across the large room to where her mother waited. The few lingering passengers gave her sympathetic looks, and a tall, dark young man seemed to be studying her more intently that was perhaps polite. Rigi did not return the regard. At the moment she had little time for young men, strangers or otherwise. Rigi moved carefully, mindful of the lower gravity on the long-distance transport. Mrs. Acherna deStella-Bernardi pointedly did not pat her foot on the deck. Instead she turned and walked down the color-coded passageway leading to the passenger cabins, her daughter following dutifully behind.

  Rigi swallowed a number of comments and complaints that she would have made when she was younger. Her mother’s dreadful fear of ship-to-ground shuttles made her snappish and brusque, but only to family members. Outside the family, she remained the model of comportment and hospitality that Rigi had always assumed was her mother’s true self. They had left Shikhari almost four years ago, in order for Rigi’s sister to find a husband, for Rigi to go to school, and to reunite with the older brother that Rigi had barely remembered. Cyril had remained on Home to go to military school in hopes of a finding a Navy career and later obtaining a job within the Company that administered most of Shikhari and several other colony worlds. In those four years, Rigi had discovered her mother’s paralyzing terror of shuttle flights.

  Mrs. deStella-Bernardi keyed open the cabin door and Rigi went in. Stewards had already removed their bags for loading into the cargo pod, making Rigi’s task somewhat easier. With a smothered sigh she bunched her skirts, got down on hands and knees, and started at the bottom, looking for anything small that might have gone astray.

  She’d almost finished the last cubby when a chime sounded from everywhere and nowhere. “Shuttle one is now boarding. All passengers on shuttle one please report to the boarding area. Shuttle one is now boarding.” Her mother rushed forward, grabbed Rigi’s arm, and almost dragged her off her feet.

  “Mother, please. I’m coming.” Rigi kept her voice low and soothing, trying to calm her mother without obviously doing so. She wished her father were there, but Timothy Bernardi had gone ahead, recalled to Shikhari by the Outworld Trading Company LLC to take up a supervisor’s position. Her parents still refused to discuss the reason for the abrupt recall in front of Rigi, instead diverting the conversation elsewhere. The last time that had happened, Rigi had wanted to point out that she was sixteen, almost seventeen, and not ignorant of the ways of the world. Her mother’s near collapse at the realization of having to take shuttles to and from ground-side to the transport and back had changed Rigi’s mind, and she’d held her peace. Proper young ladies eased others’ distress—they did not exacerbate it.

  The two ladies joined the flow of passengers walking to the boarding bay. Her mother stumbled a little and Rigi caught her. Mrs. deStella-Bernardi kept her eyes closed, her lips moving as if she were reciting a litany of some kind. Rigi placed her hand under her mother’s elbow and guided her without seeming to, lightly steering through the gathering passengers until they reached the boarding line. Rigi wanted to close her own eyes and shut out the crowd, but someone had to stay alert, wary and watchful. This wasn’t the central worlds, she hadn’t heard any comments or caught any hard looks from fellow passengers since they’d left Eta Tolima, but it only took one, and—

  “Oh, who is this?” Rigi’s back stiffened and she inhaled, counted to four and exhaled. Creator and Creatrix, surely not. But that half-condescending tone, the too-eager steps could only belong to—“It is! Little Auriga, my how you’ve grown. You look so much older than your age.” Rigi half-turned, hand still on her mother’s elbow, to see Mrs. Elaine Debenadetto pushing toward them through the wall of waiting people. She still moved like a person fresh from Home, arms held close to her body, steps short but fast, with dark, close-cut clothing that took up no extra space around her. She stood out from the Shikhari and other out-world residents, drawing attention Rigi preferred not to endure. Mrs. Debenadetto stopped too close to Rigi, smiled, and looked over her clothes. “My, you do look old for your age. You can’t be more than what, twelve?”

  “Sixteen, ma’am. It is good to see you well,” Rigi inclined her head, as was proper for a distant older acquaintance outside her social circle.

  “And your sister, Lyria I believe? How is she?” Mrs. D scooted uncomfortably close. Rigi wished her mother would open her eyes and take over, but wishing never brought fishing.

  “She is well, ma’am. She married last year and she and her husband are expecting their first child, Creator and Creatrix be praised.”

  “Married? But she’s only a child!” Mrs. D backed up far enough to put her hand over her mouth, and to attract more attention. “How could she? What about her education and her career?”

  What about boarding the shuttle, Rigi wondered, desperate to disengage and get her mother to the front of the now-moving line. “I apologize, Ma’am, but I fear this is not a good time to discuss family. Please pardon my rude behavior, but we are on the shuttle currently boarding and I don’t want to inconvenience anyone by being late.” She nudged her mother ahead.

  A hard veil seemed to settle over Mrs. D’s face. “Of course. There will be more than sufficient time dirt-side.” She turned on her toes and bustled off. Rigi, feeling twelve years old again, wanted to crawl away or to follow and apologize profusely for her abrupt behavior. Instead she wove through the watching passengers, leading her mother to the blue stripe on the floor where the crew waited. Rigi presented her boarding pass, and after discreet fumbling found her mother’s pass in her mother’s belt-pocket and presented it as well. The man scanned them. A small light turned green and he nodded, returning the passes.

  “Miss Rigi, Mrs. deStella-Bernardi, may I be of assistance?” A sturdy young man in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Royal Planetary Forces asked. He smiled and Rigi recognized him even before she saw his name chip. As he spoke he gave the boarding director his own pass and was green-lighted to board.

  “Lt. Prananda, it is truly
delightful to see you here, and yes, if you could be so kind?” Her mother had begun shaking as if ill with fever, and Tomás took her other elbow. With their similar brown coloring they might well be related, and no one gave them a second glance as they half-carried Mrs. deStella-Bernardi into the interlock to the shuttle. Tomás eased ahead and guided as Rigi supported and pushed, walking her mother into the cabin. Two stewards rushed forward and assisted Mrs. deStella-Bernardi to her seat, then watched as Rigi strapped her mother in and confirmed her security. “Thank you so much sir, gentlemen,” Rigi said, smiling and hand-bowing out of habit. The stewards went to help another passenger and Tomás smiled back, then discreetly nudged her shoulder with two fingers and winked before finding his own seat. Seeing him made Rigi feel much better, and she strapped in beside her mother.

  Aside from the usual gravity drop queasiness, and her mother squeezing Rigi’s hand until the pain brought tears to Rigi’s eyes, the drop and glide into the port at Sogdia was uneventful. Certainly less exciting than worm-jumps, but then anything was less exciting, almost. One in a thousand people could not tolerate the buffer drugs given to passengers during worm jumps, and one in ten-thousand of those suffered jump wobbles. To Rigi’s chagrin, she was that one in ten-thousand, and had decided that the bizarre swirling art of the Stellar Visionary Period was actually lingering worm-jump hallucinations executed in acrylics or hard light projections and sold for millions of credits. At least it had given her some additional sketching time, since she and the crew were usually the only ones awake and moving about during the main jumps themselves. Once the wobbles faded, she’d had several hours to work in absolute peace and quiet.

  The shuttle rocked a little and grew warm inside as reentry heated the vessel. Mrs. deStella-Bernardi moaned quietly, then resumed praying. Rigi wished she could see out, but no one wasted mass on passenger windows. She felt the push of the retro-boosters kicking in, and the roar of passing atmosphere changed to the roar of atmospheric engines. The shuttle bumped a little more, and Rigi tried to recall which season it was in Sogdia. The beginning of the cool and wet, yes, and storms probably lurked near the city. More bumping, an abrupt drop accompanied by yelps and a few quiet squeals from discomfited passengers, then quiet. The ride smoothed out once more, and the now-familiar sounds and sensations of the heat shield retracting and landing wheels extending sent adrenaline flowing through Rigi. They were almost home!

  The world called Home—or Earth—might be the origin of humanity, but the colony called Shikhari had claimed Auriga Bernardi’s heart. The shuttle landed with a bump and a thump and a whoosh as the drag extended, slowing them. No one moved until the stewards gave the all clear. After the hideous accident on WemWorld, unbuckling before the doors opened had ceased abruptly. Rigi let herself out, and then reached for her mother’s harness. But her mother seemed awake and capable of undoing the latches, trembling hands notwithstanding. The steward assisted her mother to stand, and Rigi braced a little before getting up. Standard gravity felt strange after almost a month at eight-tenths-g. Tomás half-bowed and offered her his hand with a bit of a wink. She accepted his assistance with a wink of her own and a smile. “Can’t have Shikhari’s most famous artist breaking her fingers from a g-flop, now, can we?” he teased quietly.

  Rigi murmured, “And trip the colony’s most famous explorer after Capt. DeHaan? Perish the thought.”

  “No, that would be Uncle Eb’s m-mule,” he said under his breath, letting go so she could hold onto the rail beside the three steps. “Speak of the devil and he appears.” He nodded past her shoulder, to the stooping older man standing beside her father.

  “I don’t see any m-mules,” she joked back.

  “Lieutenant Prananda,” a stentorian voice bellowed, and Tomás tapped her on the shoulder once more before assuming a professional demeanor and striding over to man who resembled a tree trunk in uniform. He moved one arm and Rigi saw stripes and Vs that met at the elbow and almost overlapped. That would be the planetary Master Sergeant, senior NCO of the Royal soldiers assigned to liaise with the Company security people on Shikhari, and “second only to the Hunter in authority and dignity,” or so Rigi recalled hearing from Major (now Colonel) Prananda, Tomás’s father and a Royal Marine. Rigi caught up with her mother before dropping back and averting her eyes as her parents embraced. Ick. Parents kissing.

  “Uncle Eb,” she hand-bowed, as was the custom among the Staré of Shikhari. He smiled and bowed in return. Ebenezer Solomon Trent—academic linguist, eccentric explorer, and several other things as well—studied her. “I grew a little, sir.”

  “Just a little. Welcome back, Miss Rigi. Did you get the article draft? De Groet,” he shook his head. “His enthusiasm may have outstripped his common sense. May.”

  “Yes, sir, and I’d like to see just what he’s talking about, if possible, sir. I may have missed something, but the description doesn’t fit, quite.”

  “No, and that’s what makes me wonder if—” A complicated mix of expressions flitted across his face, and he straightened up and backed away from her, cold formality settling on him as he did. Rigi turned around to see a fair-haired man with a rolling gait and enormously broad shoulders stalking toward them. No, not stalking, she decided, storming. He moved like one of the rolling dust clouds of the central desert on the Crimson Plains. Without thinking Rigi shifted her weight and moved sideways, freeing her hand and clearing her uncle’s line of fire as well as hers. Then she remembered that she’d had to pack her shooter.

  The man smiled with his mouth and nodded, more of a fast head jerk, to Uncle Eb. “Ah, Mr. Trent. So the rumors of your presence are true.” He looked at Rigi, then back at Uncle Eb, and raised carefully shaped eyebrows. “A daughter? Or have you converted?”

  “My niece, Mr. Smargad.”

  The man began to speak, then backed up as Rigi heard a welcome “Wooeef! Wooeef!” from behind her. She turned and knelt as Martinus, her m-dog walked up. She hugged the metal neck and patted the synth-fur pad on top of his head. “Wooeef.”

  “Wooeef yourself. Good boy, good dog.”

  “You never did get him re-trained, did you?” Uncle Eb chuckled.

  “I gave up, sir.” Although that wasn’t exactly true. Martinus did have a true bark. She’d heard it twice, once when he’d destroyed the carnifex leaper that tried to eat her, and once when she’d almost been attacked some years before. But that remained her secret, like the little extra sting he carried inside.

  “You gave her a dangerous bot?” the stranger hissed.

  Rigi rolled her eyes, even though it was not what proper young ladies did. “Is someone calling my m-dog dangerous?” her father asked as she stood. He continued, “A common error, sir. Civilian m-dogs are rare in the central worlds.”

  The stranger studied Rigi and her father, and coldly mouth-smiled again. “Neo-Trads. That explains a great deal.” He turned away, rolling toward the baggage and cargo claim area.

  “He was badly injured in a transport accident and full joint replacement was not an option for reasons I do not know,” Uncle Eb said, still watching him. “The years have not mellowed him, or so it appears.” He seemed to shake all over and the old stoop-shouldered Uncle Eb returned with a smile. “However, you and your honored mother need to see the new house before the social whirl begins and the rains start as well. Word will spread quickly that you are back.”

  Rigi’s mother nodded. “It would be best to be at the house so that we can officially be at home. And to meet the staff.” She frowned just a touch, inclining her head toward something behind Rigi. “Auriga, who is the young man watching us so intently?”

  Rigi turned around. She did not recognize the person in question, although she thought that she had seen him before. A former schoolmate? One of the boys from the Temple? “I do not know, ma’am.”

  “Very well.” They walked to the large, echoing building that housed luggage and cargo receiving. Ideally, their bags and shipping containers would be waiting for
them. Rigi had yet to encounter this ideal.

  As they waited for the inspectors and agents to confirm and verify everything, Rigi asked her uncle, “Sir, in your travels, have you ever gotten your luggage in the proper sequence?”

  He appeared to be watching someone or something, concern creasing his forehead under his white and grey hair. “Not yet. But I’m still young, so it might happen. Twice Kay has. She seems to inspire a greater activation of survival instincts in luggage bot programming than I do.”

  Rigi covered her mouth to hide the giggle that threatened to bubble out. Proper young ladies did not giggle, or do anything that might attract attention to themselves. Although the looks she and her family were getting from some of the off-world visitors warned that they’d already drawn notice. She patted Martinus’s head again. It was too bad that the military grade invisibility technology remained unobtainable, or she’d ask for a visual shield for her and her m-dog as her coming-of-age gift. Her father did not stand out in a crowd, but she and her mother did, at least in the presence of people from the First Diaspora worlds and Home. Long hair worn above the collar, long sleeves and comparatively long skirts, practical shoes and dark boots, or shorter skirts over full, loose trousers, all in rich, cool colors that might as well be holo-signs, Rigi knew, telling onlookers that she and her mother belonged to the neo-Traditionalists. That Rigi did not mind so much, but what other people thought they knew about neo-Traditionalists… Rigi wondered yet again how seemingly rational individuals created such fascinating and false stories.