The Trial of Tompa Lee by Edward Hoornaert

13 The Roach, Roussel

  A buzzing insect dragged Dante halfway to wakefulness. Without opening his eyes, he rolled over. The insect returned.

  Except it wasn’t an insect. It was his mumbler. He tensed the muscles in his upper arm.

  “Dante,” Carolyn said through static, “do you hear me?”

  A yawn kept him from answering immediately.

  “Dante Roussel, please respond.”

  “Roussel here. Tell me.”

  “Are you all right? What’s happening down there?”

  “I was sleeping.” As he sat up, the dried vines he’d gathered into a bed-sized pile crinkled and snapped underneath him. They’d made a surprisingly comfortable bed. He’d been lucky to find them because once he left the stream, the countryside was a dry wasteland except for this shallow depression that he guessed became a pond when it rained. It was ringed by ruins buried by time, with only the tops of a few rocks protruding above the windswept dirt. “What do you know about Tompa?”

  “Why I’m fine, Dante. Thank you ever so much for asking.”

  Dante rubbed his eyes. The eastern sky was starting to lighten a bit, but it would be a while until dawn. Too damned early, in other words, for sarcasm.

  “The Shon cameras are all shut down for the night,” Carolyn said, “so I don’t have much to tell you about the trial. However, I ordered an emergency evacuation of all humans back to the Vance because of riots caused by that street meat’s savagery. I’ve been up all night working on that. In fact, I just got back to the Vance myself.”

  He sat up and rubbed bits of vine off his hair. “Anybody hurt in the riots?”

  “One bloody nose. But Dante, the biggest news is that the Trading Council’s Inspector has arrived.”

  “What race?”

  “Tasiskpik. And you know what that means.”

  He tried to recall what he knew about the Tasiskpiks. He could conjure a mental image of a female: whiplike, five-foot-long arms on a round, pink body, and a preference for nudity. Their scarce and highly treasured males were semi-intelligent breeding machines. That was all he could remember. Before he could tell Carolyn of his ignorance, she continued on.

  “The Inspector is definitely going to be biased in favor of the Kalikinikis, unfortunately. I’ve arranged for her to stay on board the Vance, rather than on a Klick ship. That might help us a bit.”

  “You’ll do fine with her, Carolyn,” Dante said. He meant it, too; manipulating and convincing were her strengths. “You know, I’d forgotten how beautiful stars are from the surface of a planet.” Again he yawned. “Glad you called. Time I got moving if I’m going to catch up with Tompa this morning before that army of Shons does.”

  Carolyn’s voice became hard. “Officially you’re there as an observer only. You’re not to endanger yourself or hurt anyone. That means no fighting to defend Tompa Lee.”

  “Sorry, Carolyn, your last transmission was lost in static.”

  “I’ll bet. I repeat, don’t risk yourself for a bloodthirsty piece of street meat. She’s not worth it.”

  “Can’t hear a thing, Carolyn.” Dante frowned as he concentrated on bringing his downloaded topographical knowledge to bear on the murky scenery. It took a few seconds for him to pinpoint exactly where he’d seen the cameras last night, hovering over the spot where he assumed Tompa was sleeping. He should get there in half an hour or so. “Signing off for now.”

  The sunrise was spectacular, glowing downstream where the walls of the ravine narrowed to a vee, abruptly flooding the streambed with red-tinged glare and long, ominous shadows. Still sitting beside the pool, Tompa faced the sunlight and stretched. Despite the menace of the coming day, she felt surprisingly good. Give her an hour of quiet to wish away the world and she could face most anything.

  Now, though, it was time to tell Awmit third sleep was over. An unwelcome thought intruded on her peace. It would be safer for both of them if she departed without him. She didn’t want to leave the old coot, but she didn’t want him to die defending her, either.

  Awmit, dead?

  Tompa’s good spirits evaporated. Before now, she’d been too busy to really think about being responsible for his death. In fact, since Gramps died, she’d never worried about anybody but herself, and she liked it that way. The responsibility was heavy and unwelcome, as though she were carrying the bodies of yesterday’s dead and injured Shons on her shoulders. Was this the price of friendship?

  Tompa squinted into the light. To hell with this. She’d leave without Awmit. She had to.

  Her uniform was almost dry, so she carried it to a protected spot at the base of the cliff where Awmit couldn’t see her if he awoke. She lay the blouse flat on a rock as she pulled on the skirt, but paused before putting on the blouse. Her greatest dream had been to wear a Naval dress uniform. Life was a brutal bastard, granting her wish under these circumstances. But she already knew that.

  Something tapped the top of her head, then rattled to the ground. She looked up, listening.

  From the cliff above her, she heard a noise like a footstep, followed by the clatter of pebbles. A handful of them landed on the blouse, dark red and ugly. Like bullet holes. Looking up, she saw only rocks. But someone was up there.

  Ratshit. It was starting again.

  At least there seemed to be only one Shon. As quietly and quickly as possible, she pulled on the blouse. Then she picked up her club, grimacing in pain until she changed her grip. She hoped the blisters on her right hand would let her swing as hard as yesterday.

  Alternating her attention between the cliff and anything that might make noise underfoot, she crept downstream, following the stealthy progress of the overhead footsteps. Walk around a small, lizard-like creature basking in the sun. Check the cliff. Step over a rock that looked wobbly. Look up.

  There. A flicker of cloth. The white sleeve of someone edging along a protruding shelf of rock that slanted downward and ended in a cave-like overhang fifty yards ahead. From underneath the overhang, it looked as though she could ambush the Shon when it jumped the last few feet to the bottom of the ravine. Getting there would be tricky, however, because a curve in the cliff would put her in plain sight if she weren’t well ahead of her pursuer.

  Tompa took a deep breath, then scampered toward the overhang. Halfway across, she kicked a fist-sized rock, knocking it over. Flattening herself against the base of the cliff, she tried to listen over the pounding of her heart. The footsteps approached exactly as before. The Shon wasn’t yet in sight. She sprinted the last ten yards.

  In the deep shade of the overhang, she tried to catch her breath without making too much noise. She waited there a few seconds until the footsteps reached the overhang. She got ready to club anything that hopped off the low end.

  She hoped Awmit was all right, up in the cave. If this asshole hurt him, she’d—

  Suddenly something plummeted to the ground in the glare of sunlight well to her left. The Shon hadn’t waited till the end to hop.

  Swinging the club wildly in front of her, Tompa shrieked as she charged, hoping to regain the upper hand through sheer ferocity. The creature stumbled back from her onslaught and fell.

  “Stop,” it said.

  Tompa ran into the light, raising the club for a crushing blow despite her blisters. The figure scrambled to a standing position. It was sturdy and tall—a lot taller than she was. She paused. For the first time, she really looked.

  “Ship’s Ward Lee, I order you to stop.”

  It was a man. Roussel. The roach responsible for putting her in this mess.

  “Put down the club.”

  With a scream, Tompa started flailing the club in an x-shaped pattern. The club glanced off his arm. She drew it back to hit him harder. Roussel ducked, then backed away. She ran toward him.

  “Graceful human,” Awmit called. “Trial resumes already?”

  Tompa paused, panting. When Roussel edged toward her, she lashed out with the club. He stepped back.

  “This one see
s . . .” Awmit began, then paused. “This one sees truthfully a human?”

  Tompa glanced fifty yards downstream, toward the cave halfway up the cliff, where Awmit stood with his hands covering his eyes against the harsh morning sunlight. She turned back to watch the cop. “Yeah, he’s human. But he’s one of them. An accuser.”

  “No,” Roussel said. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Your kind of help I don’t need, you puking maggot!” She rushed toward him, swinging with fierce strength. The club bounced off the arm he raised to protect his head. She kept swinging. Humans were sturdier and a lot bigger than Shons, but she’d bash his head until she felt the crunching of his skull. And this time she’d enjoy it.

  “This one races supportively, graceful human,” Awmit called from the cliff.

  Roussel tripped. His eyes met hers, and the damned asshole didn’t even have the grace to look terrified—just resigned and sad. She raised the club.

  An inhuman shriek stopped her. She turned. Awmit had lost his grip and was falling down the cliff.

  Tompa reached toward him. “No!”

  Awmit landed on his side on the dirt at the bottom of the ravine. He bounced once, rolled, and then was still.

  “Awmit,” she whispered. “Awmit!”

  She heard Roussel move. He’d raised himself to a sitting position and was looking toward Awmit’s motionless body.

  With a shriek of rage, Tompa bashed the side of his head. Even as the blow struck, however, she was turning away. She raced toward her friend, sobbing, not even glancing back at the man who’d caused yet another tragedy for her.

  With each step, her head throbbed where it had been injured in the grenade blast, as though in sympathy. The fifty yards to where Awmit lay seemed to take forever. If he were dead, then Roussel would die, too. She didn’t know how or when, because she’d need the element of surprise against a man who weighed twice as much as she did. But sometime when he was least expecting it . . .

  This killing stuff got easier to stomach.

  As she neared the motionless body of her friend, Tompa slowed to a hesitant walk. “Awmit?” She stopped, took one more step. “Awmit?”

  He let out a whistling groan.

  Breath exploded from her lungs in a sigh as she fell to her knees beside him. “You’re alive,” she whispered. She hadn’t expected that, she really hadn’t. Her arms shot out to hug him, but stopped before touching him. “Are you all right? Awmit, you have to be all right.”

  The wrinkled, grey membranes that covered his eyes fluttered as though trying to open. His head jerked away from light and one hand came up to cover his eyes.

  Tompa touched his arm with her fingertips. “Is anything broken?”

  “Pride,” he said, eyes still closed. “Shattered ingloriously.” One eye opened to a slit. “This one hurts poundingly, but major organs and bones feel intact.”

  When he struggled to sit up, Tompa helped him. She shaded his eyes with her body, even though that put her back toward Roussel. She doubted the roach would be out of action long. After yesterday, she knew the difference between a solid blow and a glancing one.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Awmit.” Her eyes stung. “I thought you were . . .”

  “Dead.” Awmit shook his head as though trying to clear it. He repeated the brusque motion several times, then squinted at her with one eye. “Naha, naha. This one knows totally certain experiences from decades as roofer. Falling. Landing. Aching.” He let out another whistling groan. “Truth shines that this one existed ineptly as roofer, graceful human. Now, exist ineptly as justice fighter.”

  “It’s okay, Awmit. As long as you’re all right.”

  He tried to stand. Tompa had to help him, because he was favoring his left leg. He shook off her arm and took a few steps. “Injury feels unserious.” He tried a few more steps, only to start limping. “But walking will proceed slower.”

  “Slower,” she repeated. He was already slower than she was. Because of his age, she imagined he was slower than most of their pursuers. And speed meant life, so he was wrong. This injury was not unserious.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed movement. It was one of the balloon cameras, coming to investigate. If the cameras were aloft, the Shons were undoubtedly on the move against her. Tompa felt the world closing in on her.

  Awmit limped toward her, coming closer than he’d ever done before, until he rested his head against her chest. “Graceful human,” he said, “leave this one.”

  Tompa was so startled by the unexpected embrace that she could scarcely comprehend his words. “What?”

  “Pile branches as weapons, leave sparingly food, then flee. This one will attempt bravely fighting the hunters, in graceful human’s example.”

  “No!” She hugged him. “No, Awmit, I won’t leave you.”

  “Insanity. Run gracefully away.”

  “I’m not abandoning you.” She squeezed him, feeling a pang of guilt because that was exactly was she’d been planning to do. “I won’t leave you.”

  He jerked away from her and made a loud bleat that the translator didn’t try to render. “Graceful human is considered sane by fellow humans?”

  “Huh?” She hadn’t known he could speak so loudly.

  He made a sweeping gesture with both arms. Agitation gave his voice a shrill quality. “Giving untimely water to enemies, refusing unreasonably an obvious proposition. Insane human should be that one’s descriptive nickname, not graceful human!”

  She grinned at him.

  “Tradition and integrity,” he roared, “impose harshly this defender’s obligation to help establish innocence. Tradition demands similarly that insane human’s obligation to defenders equals zero.” He stopped pacing to face her, gesturing to give emphasis to his words. “Zero. The world of morality spins thusly forever. Zero, insane human. So leave hurriedly!”

  Tompa took a deep breath. Just a day ago, what he was saying would have made total sense. Now, though, the words seemed out of focus, like a Shon phrase the translator couldn’t handle—even though she’d learned long ago that abandoning others could keep her alive while the vultures of the world paused to slaughter her companions. She took another deep breath. “Okay. I’ll leave.”

  Awmit abruptly stopped gesturing. “Naha?” He stared at her. Was he disappointed in her, despite his anger?

  “I’ll leave,” Tompa said, “but you’re coming with me.”

  He blinked, and for the first time both eyes were wide open. “Insane human for certain.” His voice was quiet again, and all traces of his anger had vanished as abruptly as they had erupted. He scratched his belly, then leaned forward to rest his head on her breast. “Insane in a divine pattern.”

  “Enough of that kind of talk.”

  Awmit made a contented sound as he wiggled against her. “Malleable pillow for this one’s head. Peculiar body structure.”

  Tompa had to restrain herself from flinching. She stepped back slowly. “We have to hurry.”

  Awmit swivelled his head all the way around. “The evil human is dead?”

  Oh God, how could she have forgotten the cop for even a minute? While her attention was fuzzy he could have been sneaking up behind her and—

  But no, he was back where she’d left him, sitting and watching. He rose to his feet and started toward her, hands outspread to show they were empty.

  “No such luck, Awmit.” She took his hand in hers and tugged him in the direction of the rucksacks. “Hurry.”

  “These ones flee precipitously where?”

  Tompa walked sideways, keeping half her attention on Roussel and the rest on helping Awmit walk. Roussel was gaining ground. “I guess to the temple the orange-and-whites talked about, up on Mount Holy. If we’re up the mountain, at least we’ll have the upper floor on the others.”

  When they reached the two rucksacks, Awmit bent as though to pick one up. With a backward glance at Roussel, Tompa grabbed the rucksack before Awmit did and then picked up he
rs, as well. The cop was close enough that panic rose in her throat. She slung a sack over each shoulder, then pushed Awmit to herd him away from the man.

  The Shon, however, seemed less concerned than she felt. “Valiant human knows the reaching of Bez-Tattin’s temple?”

  “We find holy mountain and climb it to the top, I guess. Hurry!”

  Roussel stopped, fifty feet behind them, hands still outspread. “You want to get to the big ruins on top of the volcano?”

  Tompa paused in the act of turning to run.

  Roussel didn’t wait for a reply. “That’s a pretty good idea, now that I think about it. Yeah.” He rubbed at the side of his head where she’d hit him, but seemingly in thought rather than in pain. “A mile upstream, a tributary comes in from the left; it forms a waterfall. Follow the tributary for nine miles to a collapsed bridge. The road that goes left from the bridge heads to the ruins.”

  Tompa stared at him, at a loss for words.

  Awmit tugged at her sleeve. “Evil human knows how this island so well?”

  Roussel touched his right ear. “What did he say? I guess you knocked the translator out of my ear when you hit me.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’m okay. Just don’t do it again, though, because I have an old head injury a lot like yours. Blows to the head make it throb for hours.”

  “I meant I’m sorry the translator is all I knocked out of you.” She looked away, grinding her teeth in frustration. With him on guard against sudden moves, she didn’t stand a chance of hurting him. “You’re going to tell the Shons where we’re headed so they can ambush us. Aren’t you?”

  “No.” The surprise on his face appeared genuine, but that just meant he was a good liar. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  Tompa didn’t answer. In Manhattan she’d learned through bitter experience not to trust roaches, but also not to talk back to them. She’d already said too much.

  She started walking away, dividing her attention, as before, between guiding Awmit and keeping her eye on Roussel.

  He took a step forward. “I’m here at huge personal risk to help you, Tompa Lee.”

  She stopped, clenching her fists. She shouldn’t respond, should just get the hell out of here while she could, but she didn’t have that much self-restraint. “I notice you showed up only after it became clear the Shons wouldn’t kill me easily—at least not without a little outside help. Come on, Awmit, let’s get out of here. And you,” she said to the policeman. She paused, trying to control the anger that threatened to render her incoherent. “You slithering cockroach. You say you had a head injury. Where?”

  Roussel spread his palm wide on the skull over the left ear. “Here.”

  “Thanks. If you follow us, you maggot, I’ll know where to aim.”

  Dante watched Tompa and the Shon head slowly upstream. She didn’t want his help. She didn’t want his advice, either, and he suspected she wouldn’t use the directions he’d given her. “Remember, Tompa, take the tributary on the left,” he urged. “When you get to the collapsed bridge, follow the road toward the volcano.”

  Without missing a step, she glared at him over her shoulder. “Fuck you, cockroach.”

  “Once the road starts to climb the mountain, it gets narrow,” Dante said in an urgent voice. “The Shons can’t overwhelm you with sheer numbers the way they can down here. Please believe me, there’s no other route where the topography works so much in your favor.”

  She picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it at him. He didn’t bother to duck; she threw like a girl, and the rock thudded to the ground ten feet in front of him. A small cloud of dust marked its landing, a pitiful echo of the mushroom cloud she undoubtedly would have preferred.

  “Stay away from me, you lousy maggot!”

  He started toward her. “I—”

  She flinched. Terror trembled briefly across her lips.

  Dante stopped dead, looking away from the fear in her face. Curses and rocks couldn’t stop him, but a trembling lip . . .

  Shaking his head, Dante stared down at the mingled footprints of the woman and her alien companion. After a minute he opened his mouth, but closed it without saying anything. When he finally looked up, she was already well away, holding the Shon’s hand and running awkwardly with a rucksack dangling from each shoulder.

  He couldn’t force her to accept his help. All he’d accomplished by trying was frittering away precious minutes of her head start. To think that he’d risked his life and career for that ungrateful wench. What a fool. His head throbbed and his empty stomach growled. A pair of balloon cameras floated near the ground for closeups of his dejection.

  Well, what next?

  If he stayed put, the Shons would slaughter him. He supposed he could find Major Krizink and try to kill at least one real enemy of mankind before he himself died. However, when last seen, Krizink was surrounded by a squad of Klicks and an army of Shons, so that was impractical. He could run from the conflict like a coward and become Carolyn Schneider’s pet—but that was even worse.

  To his left was a stone the same size as the one Tompa had thrown at him. Lashing out, he kicked it with the side of his foot as though kicking a soccer ball. The stone splashed into the stream a satisfying distance away.

  For as long as he could remember, the question of what to do next had been straightforward: do what the Navy told him, or make decisions within the scope of orders to achieve the Navy’s goal. Now he had no orders, no goal, nothing. It felt . . . bizarre. Like an entire shift’s wet laundry thrown on top of him, smothering him, rendering him immobile.

  If this was what civilian life would be like when the Navy put him out to pasture, he wanted no part of it.

  Dante watched impassively until Tompa disappeared around a bend in the ravine. Then he turned and did the only thing that came to mind. He went back to the marks in the dirt where she clubbed him and searched for the translator. Sunlight glinted off the little computer, making it easy to find. Its metal burned as he shoved it into his ear.

  The translator reminded him that he hadn’t tried to contact the Navy recently. “Roussel here,” he subvocalized. “Commerce Navy Ship Vance, come in.” Silence and static. He was adrift in an alien desert, light years from home, with no good reason to bother taking another breath, isolated and alone.

  Wrong. He wasn’t alone.

  Approaching from downstream was a group of a twenty or so Shons. If he’d been alert he would have seen them several minutes ago, because they were almost on him.

  They weren’t charging or attacking, though, merely walking. Maybe they didn’t recognize him as one of Tompa Lee’s champions—which wouldn’t be too surprising, since she didn’t recognize him as one either. Over the mumbler, Carolyn had said something about him being an observer, and perhaps that was what the Shons thought he was. Dante faced them with outward confidence he didn’t feel inside.

  When the Shons were almost close enough to touch, they stopped in a straight, perfectly spaced row, facing him. They looked at him, then at each other, as though they didn’t know what to expect from him.

  The Shon in the very middle of the line sort of puffed up his puny chest, drawing Dante’s attention. The little man wore a red and yellow, flame-patterned vest. The others wore bandanas of flame cloth, as though it were a uniform. If that was correct, the one with more flames was probably their commander.

  “I embrace proudly the name Peffer,” the commander said. “Peffer of the pod-loogs.”

  Dante hadn’t had many dealings with Shons, but this introduction nonetheless surprised him. It sounded too individualistic to come from a herd-like Shon. “Dante Roussel,” he replied, “Associate Vice President of the Commerce Space Navy Ship Vance.”

  “The huge human embraces truthfully a name as large as himself.” Rocking from foot to foot, Peffer stared at Dante. “Human opposes aggressively our search for justice, or views pleasurably the desert scenery?”

  “I’m here as an observer for Consort
ium Earth.”

  “Huge human’s answer translates incomprehensibly. Clarify, pleasingly.”

  Dante took a deep breath. The old injury in his skull tingled. Was Tompa Lee aware of her injury the same way he was?

  And with that thought, he knew. She didn’t want his help, but he still owed her. He should have sprinted past her—it was only a mile to the tributary, he could run that far—so he could block the main ravine with his hated, terrifying presence. He could use her fear and dislike to herd her up the tributary.

  As though they realized he’d reached a decision, the Shons abruptly scurried into action. They spread out, with the ones on the ends of the lines hastening around and behind him. Human soldiers could never have executed such a rapid and precise encirclement, especially not in total silence. Within a couple of heartbeats, Dante was surrounded.