Magus Star Rising
Chapter Thirteen

Historically following a warrior’s credo, the Pumans, however powerful, fell to the combined might of the Rim World Conglomerate’s more efficient science and organization. Since the Puman Action, a more recent rebellion doomed from the start, the felinoid race has been quiet, though not unproductive.

PASSAGE FROM “THE PUMANS--A BREED APART” BY ENSHAL TERIOBAN

Ruminations from the Air

Like a giant moss-covered tumor thrusting upward through the planet’s outer skin, the great ziggurat of Lintat Merimum was, nevertheless, impressive even at this altitude.

Elevated oil-globes and electrical spotlights showered the monument and its grounds in a blaze of ambient glory. At this time of night, no visitors were present although the few guard/caretakers working the evening shift looked like insects tending to their hive.

Bright pools of rust-colored runoff dotted the landscape around the ziggurat. The last vestiges of vernal wild flowers colored the surrounding artificially-illumined plains with a dizzying palette. The area in front of the monument, once a field of lush, tall grasses, now lay shaven and paved with a long, winding road leading up to the ziggurat’s perimeter.

A guard-house incongruously kept watch at the road’s end.

Kanoshon stood at the airship’s observation bubble, looking down at one of the sentient-made wonders of his world. And what has the tomb of our great Puman chieftain become? He thought bitterly. An attraction for off-world tourists. Taken from us by force and used to feed the coffers of a corrupt government.

The historical facts Kanoshon had absorbed, both oral and written, burned like brands in his memory. He remembered how the ancient Pumans had ruled the western continent since the world began, how the Senittes, driven from their own lands by greed and opportunism, had found their way to the shores of the western continent long ago and conquered a once-proud warrior race’s great civilization with deceit, lies, advanced weaponry, and disease.

They had tried to fight back again. Once. The Puman Action it had been ridiculously called. More a reaction, he thought. Against the injustices done to us. Kanoshon remembered it well. As a cub, young and full of hope and fire, he had been an enthusiastic participant.

He scratched his wrist where, beneath the fur like a stinging wound, lay the tattoo of his relocation camp number. We would have won, he thought. But for the timing. It was too soon after Contact. We would have taken back our lands except for the Rim World Conglomerate and the Galactic Nexia’s own agendas.

He growled as he remembered that time. His people had been given some reparations since then, it was true, along with the highlands to the north to call their own. The RWC had backed off its original intentions for Alpha Seni, relegating the planet to a stopover point, a playground for off-worlders. But some things had not changed.

We live like our primitive ancestors, subjects of curiosity and awe. Oh, yes! The Pumans! They are the ones who make the knives, are they not? Were they not once a race of warriors?

And yet, he thought of his home with a certain amount of fondness. He missed the mountains and the giant Ada tree groves he and his people lived in, the elaborately constructed tree-top dwellings and ropeways, the meadowlands and surrounding foothills that protected the orchards and farms.

But most of all he missed his mate, Aileea.

His heart ached at the thought of her, of her beauty and patience, of how many times he had to leave her. Of how little she had complained even though she knew the nature of the work Kanoshon had become so adept at. He had never been the metal-smithing type, after all.

Despite the bounty of the wilderness they lived in, the Pumans still needed currency to carry on their forging operations and to buy much needed supplies not available any other way, supplies that sometimes the sales of their goods alone might not cover.

Most of Kanoshon’s people had elected to stay in the highlands, which were now their home, but many, especially the younger ones, had left to try to make another life outside the Puman Circle.

Kanoshon was one in-between. He had chosen another path entirely, one that could give him a taste of both worlds. He had a gift, harsh and cruel though it could be, and he used that gift to help his people.

Hired mercenaries were paid very well. The large payments Kanoshon’s ‘trade’ brought in helped the Pumans. As long as some positive benefit was engendered, the Elders looked the other way as to how those payments were earned.

He could give it up, he knew, this life he had led since his release from the relocation camp, but, deep inside, he admitted there was a part that enjoyed the hunt and the kill.

Yes, even the kill.

I will be home soon, my beauty, he thought, conjuring an image in his mind of Aileea. And perhaps, this time, I will stay.

He watched the ziggurat disappear from view as the airship began its descent. It was still some distance from Frenati City, but the airship was reliant in part on the wind currents, and they rode this one out at its front.

Knowing the passengers would be required to take their seats now, he left the bubble’s cushioned comfort and walked up the step gangways to the upper level where his rooms were located.

Other passengers encountered him in the narrow corridors, looking away or moving aside to allow him to pass first. Some whispered behind his back in fearful, hushed tones.

Frightened fools, he thought with a silent laugh. History paints them as the victors. What do they have to fear?

He entered his private compartment, locked the door and settled into the chair at his porthole, strapping himself in. The plushness and decadence of the décor revolted him. This was the design of the conquerors, after all. But he would use their devices to his advantage, as he always did. He would turn the irony of each situation into something employable to his purpose.

The airship rocked a little, buffeted by the night winds. In the distance, the spires of Frenati City rose out of the horizon, bespeckled and jeweled in twinkling light.

That is where I will replace my prey, he thought, his mind returning to the hunt. I will start with the Yharria. Something tells me this bird has not flown, but remains hidden in his own nest. He purred softly, lost in thought. He has not been seen since his escape, he has not contacted the Ahnka, has left no trail that could be detected. Logic would dictate he has left the Yharria, even Frenati City, entirely. But I do not think so.

The airship angled slightly as it banked over the Yharria’s hoverport. He had committed the packet information to memory. Several inconsistencies about his prey played on his mind. This one wants to prove something, he reasoned, going over the data in his mind. A show of force, perhaps. A new way to utilize his augmentation. Perhaps a way to get the attention of a possible new sponsor.

He knew the Ahnka was the most prominent and powerful player in the Yharria’s criminal shadow games, but not the only one. Others existed, more secretive perhaps or not as visible or famous, that still might make his prey a better offer, even helping to set him up as an independent operator.

Kanoshon felt his energy building. A new hunt always excited him but this could prove to be more interesting than most. And more difficult. Not so easy as the incompetent child-slavers.

I will replace him, he thought as the airship slowed to a halt, its gas jets venting. No matter what, I always replace my prey.