Chapter 15: The Use Of A Prisoner Part 3

"Stay behind me, Turtle."

"Then move faster, you crumbling old men," Turtle shoved at her uncle's protective arm. "We have to get to the Chris before anything happens."

"Too late for that," muttered Ngarong, and in a louder voice. "Lieutenant Rinsin, your situation?"

"Captain Ngarong," the soldier saluted, "we are containing the monster."

Turtle could just make out the elongated form of the Chris behind the men's upraised hands. A cavorting devil in an etching. She had calmed the renegade angel with kindness, but her uncle's men had found a different way to control these creatures.

"Uncle, we cannot allow them to kill it like they did the last one."

"I of course await my captain's orders," said Rinsin tightly.

"Let us not be hasty," said Abbot Igwiv. "There is much we can learn from it."

"So you do understand it," said Ngarong.

Igwiv stroked his forked beard. "Somewhat. Old Memorial is a poorly attested language, only a few plaques dating back to before the Purge of Lies. I suspect this creature's dialect is even older. Older than the Fall of Megga, which fills my mind with wonder, and should throw all you lay-people on your knees." The abbot swept a hand toward the huge white Ship of Years behind them.

"You cannot suggest," her uncle gritted his teeth, "that that thing is the sign of God's return and the ending of the world."

"All the more reason..." Turtle ducked out from behind her uncle and strode forward.

This time it was Igwiv who put a hand on her shoulder. "Stay back, child. If anyone can sort this out, it will be someone with training in the language."

"I have training in the language. I told it 'no,' and it obeyed."

"He's breaking out," roared Rinsin. "Don't panic. Keep those arms up."

But Igwiv was already calling at the Chris in its ancient control language, arms raised. "Angel, servant of God and men, I compel you in the name of He who created you to remember your function. Remember and be devil no more. Listen to my - "

A dark and glittering blur spun into the Abbot. His calming voice vanished as if a Tongue Box had been shut. Blood sprayed across Turtle's shoes.

"What...?" she looked around, but could only find a tangle of broken limbs at the end of a smear of gore. The Chris had thrown a soldier in full armor into Igwiv, and utterly smashed both men.

Turtle stumbled back, gagging, black wheels spinning in her vision, hands and fingers numb. Her stomach clenched and bile squirted up her throat. Igwiv. She'd never really liked the man. The only other person who could speak with the Chris was dead. Turtle was the only one left with a hope of controlling the fiend.

"Get back!" Rinsin stumbled away from the breach in the crowd of soldiers as the Chris boiled into freedom.

Turtle slid away from the hands reaching out to protect her. Now to swallow the vomit, straighten her spine, and remember her seminary lessons. "Chris," she said in the being's angelic language, "here!"

The head snapped around to look at her. Its man-like eyes wide, limbs trembling.

"Here," Turtle said, "here, Chris."

It took a shuddering breath. "Help me," it said, and she understood.

"Yes. Help." Turtle came closer. She had to crane her head up to look into its eyes. Mustn't let it see the terror there. She embraced it, pressed her cheek to its hard, slick chest. "You are good," Turtle said in its language. "Good Chris."

Whether she got the words right or not, the Chris understood her. When Turtle pulled it back toward the Ship of Years, it followed her.

And Turtle's fear receded, the waters of panic steaming away in the heat of her power and ambition.

"Good Chris."

***

It was true what they said about p-suits. They spoiled you.

Running flat out in nothing but her skin and her gray underwear and a whole lot of mud, Andrea felt like she was crawling through the swamp.

She didn't worry about leaving a trail. She couldn't help it, or not enough to fool the cavemen. All she had to do was get to the river, swim downstream until she came to the fort, and it wouldn't matter if they followed her.

Problem was she'd seen the river yesterday, and there were things in that water. Crocodiles, snakes, bloodthirsty prehistoric monsters Andrea didn't even have a name for.

On the other hand, she sure as hell had a name for what the cavemen would do to her once they all woke up and found how she'd killed their buddy.

She pushed herself harder. There, that thick-trunked tree with the giraffe spots. She would stop when she got to it. No, that flowering shrub with the leaves like tuning forks. She would stop there. No, there.

She was back outside the wire. Her lungs burned. Her thighs ached. What skin wasn't covered in mud was scratched and crawling with prehistoric bugs. Damn, Andrea'd forgotten how good it felt to be in combat.

The undergrowth was thinning out. The thick, broad-leafed trees gave way to tall mossy piney things. The ground squished and slithered under her toes. And there, between the trees was the river.

Andrea grabbed a branch and stopped herself. The coffee-colored water rippled around snags, tricks of the current, and hungry local carnivores.

So what was it to be, water monsters or cavemen? Andrea bunched herself for a shallow dive.

Movement in the corner of her vision and she ducked just as something dark, feathery, and murderous exploded against the tree trunk behind her.

Andrea dodged the flapping terror, feet skidding across muddy roots. Had someone thrown a turkey at her?

The animal caromed of the tree trunk, way more active than anything should be after slamming that hard into wood. It hit the ground and flicked from cartoon tornado into something sleek, compact. A pheasant the size of a German shepherd. It pivoted on a foot, thumb-sized killing claws, wickedly curved, quivered on arched toes. Yellow eyes fixed on her, gleaming with focused, lethal insanity.

"Holy fuck," Andrea whispered, "I'm looking at a raptor."

The dinosaur froze halfway through its step, toes delicately pointed. Its dark, brindled feathers blended into the soil and leaf-shadows. Blink, and it was another meter closer. With jerky speed that might have been a trick of dappled light, the predator closed on her. The wings unfolded. Hooked claws twitched, cocked forward like the arms of a praying mantis.

Andrea realized she was unarmed.

She clenched her fists and the raptor's fingers twitched. She faked left. It followed her movement, pupils dilating. So much for evasion. She pushed off a tree and ran at the monster, yelling.

But the raptor didn't back off like a dog would have. It braced its feet. Its head went down. Its tail went up. The arms spread, fanning feathers. Thick-muscled legs bunched.

A whistle between the trees, and a voice.

His damn voice.