Day Thirty

There are leaders and there are followers, fancy titles notwithstanding.
Which will this one be?
Does it matter?
One does nothing and talks incessantly; one says nothing and fires. Another intended means of causing confusion. No wonder any previous Silence Hunters were consumed so quickly: they couldn't believe such a collection of mismatched creatures could be a credible threat.
Although... they call this new one a “Royal.” A leader. A leader of leaders. If I were to locate anyone who might be aware of means and method-- and reason: why, for what gain do you do this-- it would be a Royal. If this creature is so important to the others, I could even take advantage of that and hold its head at nearly fatal angles until those others tell me everything I want to know.
A Royal.
I abandon my scratchings, pace to the projector and spin through the reels.
This might just change things.
< Maybe you won't have to die after all> suggests Crackling-Wind, < Maybe you could even come back to us>
The thought is a new one; my own in sibling's guise. < Come back?>
< Sure. We're patient. You know how long those creatures live-- by the time you know everything there is to know about them they'll all be dead and you can come back to us>
< But what about you? What about the sickness?>
Smooth-Stones replies. < We'll manage. More will die. All will suffer. But we'll manage>
< Don't give up on us just yet> says Crackling-Wind.
< But the Array> I protest, < They won't let me come back. They don't mean for me to come back. The monsters are taking me away to eat me, remember? Or-- or jabber at me forever, one of the two>
< You're a Silence Hunter> snorts Smooth-Stones. < And, more importantly, you're our sibling. Now, listen. In a few moments you'll take one of their Royals hostage and the monsters will tell you everything and then you can get them to give you one of their vessels and you can come back and tell us. Understand?>
< Yes>
A good plan. A very good plan.
I stop the projector at the entry for “Royal,” a black-furred Wonder-Conqueror wearing a silver breastplate and holding a crude model world in one upraised hand. Its eyes are narrowed, its visage crinkled, its fangs displayed, and in life it would stand only as high as my chest.
Guards or not, Demolishers or not, if I can get even a few tendrils wrapped around this “Royal Ninth House” I can make either it or its followers tell me how they're causing the sickness. And even if they don't know-- even if ultimate knowledge is held only in the gestalt, the greater galaxy-wide scheme-- I will still end more informed than I am now. Every project starts with the first blow.
Die, nothing. The Array can kill me when I get back.
I whisk a few tendrils across my makeshift “armor.” Only a few strips, metal so soft it might as well be paper, but it helps. One thin band hooked around my crests, another two across my shoulders, a third encircling one of my upper forelegs. Dull silver, all of it. It does little to hide the scarring, but with clever posturing and adroit use of light it may serve to blind. Maybe the Royal will have something better.
< Like that breastplate>
The bowl material is nowhere near as bright as our metals, nor as resilient, but I buff it as best I can. Only minor scratches. I have to make a good impression. So that later I may leave one, and its memory will sink deep.


CHAPTER NINE
The door creaks in warning. Then interior locks start sliding back: klam, klam, klam.
I arrange myself directly before the heavy panels, steam spilling from my chest, wisps rising in reverse waterfalls. I must be fast. The grille said there would be guards, plural, and that means Cutters, plural. In addition to whatever the Royal might be carrying. I already resemble a poorly-patched figurine; I have no desire to heighten that impression.
“Now, mekoven, we will open the door. Remember: Royal Ninth House. And it would do no harm to bow.”
Bow? Incline my crests to an animal? Hardly. I will wait for the doors to open, and then I will say, very politely, the creature's name-- “Hello, Royal Ninth House”-- and then I will leap forwards and catch it in my grasp and commence interrogation. They'll never expect that. I haven't said a word to them thus far-- at least not in their language-- and when they discover how accomplished I truly have become, master-by-rote, of their noisome system, they will be paralyzed by shock. Thus making my task that much easier.
The panels shudder. I drop to a half-crouch, legs bent, arms retracted. Ready. Monster, are you ready?
A shriek: the door slides back on buttressed rails.
Standing beyond is the Royal. A Wonder-Conqueror. My first encounter with one in person.
Contrary to the picture still playing across the wall, this one has white fur. It is also not holding anything, although there is a blocky device strapped to its leg, and in fact the only resemblance to the prototypical Royal is by species and apparel. This one, too, wears a silver breastplate, in addition to coverings over its arms and shoulders and feet, a work in some ways akin to our own armor and decorated almost as richly. It isn't armor, of course. Not proper armor. No more than the bits of bowl I've appropriated. But the sight of it-- to see that creature clad in such mockery of our own finery, while I stand bare-- to see it so confident in its own importance, not realizing that its intricate embossing pales to insignificance beside true beauty, a beauty that, even now, it and its kind drain dry--
“Hello, Royal Ninth House,” I snarl.
Two Demolishers flank it, massive piles of striped green and fuming hose and distant masked eyes. No matter.
The Wonder-Conqueror nods its head, swings its ear-flaps forward. “And to you, B--”
I attack.
Specifically, I launch myself directly at it, aiming for its neck, a target around which to lock my claws and hold. I launch myself quickly, no hint of prior warning. So quickly, in fact, that I am halfway through the door before the first cutting beam burns into my side.
It hurts-- but soon, once I am closer, the guards will be unable to fire for fear of harming their Royal. Two more shots, even five or six, are acceptable risk. Acceptable pain. I do not think they will be able to inflict more than that.
The Wonder-Conqueror gazes up at me with flat blue eyes as I hurtle towards it. It's not moving. It doesn't know what to do. Leader of leaders, indeed.
Another beam. Another. One lancing into my head, the other my right midleg. Too slow. Too slow, as I was once too slow, and now the Royal is mine.
I spread my arms in greeting, and reach.
It is at this moment that I learn yet another lesson. Or, more accurately, make first acquaintance with a new friend. It is a friend I will encounter many times over, and the sort of friend you seem to run across everywhere you go-- even the strange places, like concerts you know they don't like.
As I soar through the doors on direct collision course, and, indeed, even as I collide, a bomb explodes.
A bomb explodes, and I am inside the bomb.
It explodes and I am hurled backwards to topple onto my carriage with my legs crooked awkwardly in air, and a boot clomps light upon my chest. Fuzzing. Buzzing. I open my eyes to the pitiless lens of a gun.
I have just met madwork.
I have just met Victory.
The Wonder-Conqueror taps its breastplate. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Blackscale. Don't do that again.”
“Shall we kill it?” whispers one of the guards, drawing near and bending to inspect me. It moves with a horrid fluidity, joints sliding smooth, muscle rippling over bones of oil.
“Would be our pleasure,” says the other. It keeps to a distance, cutter leveled at my midsection.
“Would be no problem.”
The Wonder-Conqueror shakes her head, weapon deviating not one claw's-breadth from my head. “No. None of that. I need it intact.”
The nearer guard scrapes a blade across my plates, almost gently. “Scars are intact.”
Another refusal. I find myself pathetically grateful. Three weapons, two Demolishers, and-- and-- whatever that burst had been. Any chance of extracting information from this new apparition seems slim, at best.
< Seems they can do more than just cause sickness>
“Stole some of our armor,” I mutter, still dazed from the blow. “Array must have given it to them.”
< Your armor> agrees Smooth-Stones. < It only makes sense. How else could they do this to you?>
The Wonder-Conqueror's ears twitch. It leans forward, placing more of its weight upon my chest. It is small-- so thin, so fragile, practically without mass-- but its breathing, steady, foreign, hisses in my ears. “Let's try this again. I allow you to stand. You say hello. I say hello. Then we talk like civilized people.”
< Civilized> chortles Smooth-Stones.
I listen to the rush of air from the creature's innards-- hssssh... hssssh...-- and say nothing.
“Or,” it amends, “I could leave you to the care of these fine professionals and have pieces lopped off, non-essentials first, until you're willing to chat. It doesn't matter to me. I have questions for you, Blackscale, and I don't want to waste my time playing charade.” Yet closer, bellows-pump of wind curling warm against my face. The monster bares its fangs. It taps its weapon against my crests. It whispers. “I know what you are.”