Krillaz Read online

  ***

  The following morning – though there's no such thing as a true morning on this world, of course – I caught the local shuttle to Sirocco. There weren't many passengers and most of them looked like hunters. The craft flew over storm-tossed seas. If you're interested, there's not much marine life on Hancox 1 – things similar to giant sea-slugs and slime-fish but that's about it.

  Two hours later, the shuttle landed on the only part of Sirocco not infested with Krillaz. One narrow, rocky peninsula had been cleared of them and a fence sealed it off from the rest of the sub-continent. There was a landing field next to a small town. Nearly everyone there was in the military or else made a living by servicing hunters. Disembarking, I followed the rest of the hunters through clearance.

  I had to sign a legal disclaimer saying that I didn't expect to be rescued if I got into difficulties and waiving all rights to sue the authorities. Nothing unexpected – par for the course. Also, they checked I'd had my vaccinations – as well as everything else, Krillaz carry disease. Then I was reunited with my weapons, which had earlier been sealed.

  I was milling around Arrivals when a man approached me. "Vic Vargo?" he asked. He must have known who I was as my neural implant was broadcasting my identity. I guess he was being polite.

  I checked him out. Luis Çrámerr, aged 42, a manager at Economou Interplanetary Logistics, Inc., a big multi-world outfit, that, you must have seen their lime-green starships on the trading routes – married with four children; his hobbies include... but I didn't have time to peruse that or his most recent holiday snaps, which he was broadcasting, although that pic of his wife surfing in a skimpy mono-kini looked worth spending time over.

  "Pleased to meet you," Çrámerr continued. "Did you have a pleasant trip over? Come and interface with the others." Çrámerr shook my hand. His grip was firm and he made good eye-contact. Definitely the confident, hail-fellow-well-met management type. He guided me away from the luggage carousel to a café on the far side of Arrivals.

  On the way, I looked at Çrámerr, wanting to get a feel for him on a gut level, rather than what his implant was telling me. Çrámerr was tall, good looking in a Nordic way with perfect teeth and ruler-straight nose. His full head of dark hair was swept back in a fashionable style. Perhaps to blend in with the locals, he had a neatly trimmed beard. He was all set for the expedition into the interior and wore camouflage – purple-green on this world – under a multi-pocket battle vest.

  Only thing – what was those silly accents doing under the C and over the a? Was that to make him stand out from the herd of lesser Cramerrs? So why not do it properly and throw accents over or under every letter? Perhaps he was saving that for the boardroom? Or perhaps I should stop moaning, take a leaf out of his book and look into changing my surname to Värgö or something? Does that look more impressive?

  Before we reached the café, I worked out who I would be travelling with, and not just because of their broadcasts. There were four people sitting around a table. One was obviously our guide. He was of average height with the locals' usual trimmed beard, tanned skin and hawk-like profile. He wore well-worn camouflage and his broadcast told me he had led many previous trips. Unless that was an advertising hoax, that reassured me. You need a man who knows what he's doing when you're after prey like Krillaz. His name was Farrie-Galv Kham.

  The others were two men and a woman. All were executives with Economou Interplanetary and looking for promotion. I realised this was one of those team-building exercises designed to sort the synthi-sheep from the GM-goats. No doubt my new best friend, Luis Çrámerr, would be evaluating how they handled themselves on this trip. You know, see how they cope under life-and-death pressure and how that later translates into boardroom skills.

  Being a sexist boar, as one of my female friends calls me, I turned to the woman first. She was called Clemency L'Alleyn and came from Neuf Gironde – one of those surprisingly common Francophone colonies. Way I hear it; you usually get great wine and cheese on their worlds but don't expect to get anything done during lunch. Compared with here, she must feel homesick for the great lifestyle back home. She wasn't broadcasting much – only the bare minimum. With her long, straight hair, porcelain skin, blue-ice eyes above high cheekbones and thin face with a longish nose, I marked her down as a Grade A ball-breaker.

  The two male executives were much of a type, except physically. Good genes – undoubtedly enhanced – supportive families, followed by attending top Universities and then fast-tracked for success. Their names were Geroge NcDona and Hari Thalami. They both stood as Çrámerr and I approached and we all shook hands.

  NcDona was a big guy, who looked like he did a lot of weights. E-tattoos moved under his skin creating different scenes. I reckoned his ancestors ultimately came from Angola. Thalami, on the other hand, was much smaller, neatly dressed, with straight black hair and mournful eyes. He bowed politely, and his broadcast said he was a native of the teardrop-shaped isle of Trapobana on Earth itself.

  "This is the hombre I was telling you about," Çrámerr said by introduction. "We're going to help him search for his friend."

  "When did you last hear from him?" Kham asked. His dark eyes searched mine. Undoubtedly he was also scrutinising my neural data. If he was any good, he'd be reading between the lines.

  "Almost five weeks ago," I said. "It took me a little while to sort things out and get here."

  Kham didn't say anything. He didn't have to. In his opinion, Âgustin was almost certainly dead, killed in a terrible way.

  "His last transponder signal was received by satellite star date: HI-0I," I said. "Âgustin and his party had plenty of food and ammo. If they holed up somewhere secure in Bas-Hinna, then they should still be okay. His family persuaded the local military to send out a search party but they couldn't find anything. All the same, I owe it to Âgustin to double-check and...," turning to the whole group, "...I'd like to thank you all for your assistance."

  They nodded. To avoid embarrassment, and to give them chance to study my data, I crossed to the counter and paid for coffee – well kaffe, but it was a good blend – and brought them over to the group. By now, they should know as much as they needed about me and Âgustin. Of course, there's info I share only with friends but they didn't expect to know that.

  "I reckon there should be a bonus if we find Âgustin," Çrámerr joked.

  "Like I say, I appreciate your help. You know he worked as an intern for Economou for a time?" I said.

  "That's the big A1 reason we agreed to help," Çrámerr said, his voice a mellow bass.

  We finished our kaffes and then left Arrivals. It had started raining again and we hurried over to where the hire company had our vehicle. Our luggage and weaponry had already been collected and taken on board. That's one of the benefits of working for a huge interstellar outfit like Economou. Everyone bends over backwards for you – or your money – which comes to the same thing.

  While Kham dealt with the paperwork, we checked out our vehicle, which would be our home and base for the next week. I was impressed. It was battle-scarred but more than up to the job of getting us to Bas-Hinna and back. It was an 8-wheel drive Steg-0-Saw All-Terrain Vehicle. A heavy, slab-sided, boxy ex-troop carrier with the rear compartment now converted into accommodation. It was armoured with Durarmor, reinforced studded tyres and a one-man turret protruded from the top next to a searchlight. It had been painted in wasp-like black and yellow stripes. Hard to miss in the gloom. The others piled inside and I followed. Unsurprisingly, Çrámerr slid behind the wheel. Typical Alpha-male.

  As soon as Kham was on board – as the guide, he took the shotgun seat – we set off. I guess I wasn't the only one with butterflies in my stomach as the three executives were also quiet as they watched the view-screens. We drove through the town towards the perimeter fences. Another check of our e-Passports and then the guard buzzed open the gate. With a call of "good hunting," the gate slid open and we were through. Into the abandoned wilds of Siroc
co. In the distance, another Steg was heading north – to the happy hunting grounds of the northern coastal region.

  Çrámerr pumped the air and let rip a rebel yell. "Yee-haw," he cried. He turned to face us and the three executives followed his lead. "Yee-haw," but their yells were more muted and Thalami's was decidedly half-hearted.

  "Luis can't hear you," he called back.

  "YEE-HAW," they screamed, eager to outdo each other. They all wanted that promotion.

  I kept my face to the screen. Our Steg-0-Saw was now crossing a sterile wasteland. For a distance of one kilometre from the fence, the authorities had a scorched earth policy. Nothing grew or moved. The Krillaz had initially attacked the fence, eager to scale it and get at the warm, succulent hi-man bodies behind it. They'd learned the hard way – at the cost of thousands of deaths – to stay away from the fence. Any Krilla showing its snout on the desolate wasteland found itself blasted to oblivion by automatic weaponry mounted along the fence.

  But it was a dismal scene. Rain soaked grey rock beneath leaden clouds. What a world. It didn't get much better after we passed the scorched earth. Instead of rock, the terrain was covered by bryophytes. The plant grew to height of half a metre and had ovoid spore cases on top of the stems. It was a dismal greyish, purplish green and spread all the way to the horizon. If necessary, Krillaz can eat bryophytes but they don't enjoy it. Flesh is their preferred diet.

  Our vehicle trundled along a potholed road that was crumbling away to ruin.

  "How far is it to Bas-Hinna?" Çrámerr asked.

  Kham checked the GPS system. "Just over two thousand klicks."

  At an average speed of 70 kph, that would mean a journey of less than thirty hours. I suppressed a groan. Thirty hours cooped up with these management types. Not my idea of a good time.

  "We should have gone to Ul-Zhabbir on the north coast. They say the Krillaz are really virulent up there," NcDona said.

  Çrámerr turned around to face the rear compartment. "Think of the glory when we rescue this Âgustin. There should be a company bonus for whoever finds him." That word 'bonus' grabbed their attention like nothing else. Good luck to them. I wasn't sharing my reward.

  The scenery was nothing to hold their attention so after a few minutes; Clemency booted up her HandPad and started working on some office documents. Geroge opened his case and showed Hari his Augmented Flux-Blaster. A good weapon but I thought too overpowered and slow for fast, numerous vermin like Krillaz. All the same, any Krilla hit by it would be atomised.

  In turn, Hari showed off his Gatling PPD – a rapid fire weapon loaded with flechette shards that would shred any unarmoured enemy. That was more like it – no Krilla would stand a chance against it. Only problem, it was heavy on ammo and needed recharging frequently.

  I soon had enough of their company so I climbed up into the little turret and swivelled about. There wasn't much to see and bryophytes covered everything as far as the eye could see. Looking up, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. Soon, it rained and water bounced off the turret's view-screen. It was going to be a long journey.

  We passed a few towns, the low buildings crumbling into ruins. Once I saw movement – or thought I did – but Krillaz aren't stupid enough to attack a heavily armoured vehicle. After a while, I dropped down from the turret, ate a rehydrated meal – no water shortage on this planet – and then lay down on one of the bunks welded to the side. Switching my neural implant to sleep mode gave me a guaranteed eight hours rest.

  I went out like a light.