Good enough. For now.
4
Teeth and Territory
Krilly
Thejunglegetsmeaneras we push northeast.
Not gradually, not politely. The undergrowth thickens in the space of fifty metres from manageable to combative, barbed plants catching on my jumpsuit, vines pulsing when we pass like they're tasting the air. The canopy knits together overhead until the light turns dim and amber-green, and the sounds change. Less chittering. More silence, the kind that means something large has cleared the smaller things out.
"Territorial boundary," Horgox says, holding a branch so it doesn't snap back into my face. "Lowland pack hunters give way to canyon dwellers here."
"Please tell me canyon dwellers are friendlier."
"They're solitary. Ambush predators. Larger, more aggressive, but they don't coordinate." He scans the canopy, gold eyes tracking movement I can't detect. "The trade-off is that you only face one at a time."
"So we're upgrading from organised murder to freelance murder. Comforting."
His jaw tightens against something that might be amusement. He doesn't let it through. Two days of partnership and I'm learning the geography of his restraint: what almost makes it past his defences, what doesn't, the precise muscle movements that mean he's suppressing a reaction rather than not having one.
We've been moving for over an hour, Bebo's core warm against my chest in its makeshift harness, when Horgox stops mid-stride.
Not the casual pause of route assessment. The absolute stillness of a predator who's identified a threat. Every line of his body changes, weight shifting forward, hands open at his sides where the claws can extend.
My mouth stays shut. My feet stop. Two days isn't long, but it's long enough to learn that when Horgox goes still, you go still.
His hand finds the small of my back. Warm through my jumpsuit. Steadying.
"Scavenger pack." Against my ear, barely a vibration. "Six, maybe seven. Following our trail for the last two hundred metres."
Two hundred metres. They've been tracking us for two hundred metres and I didn't hear a thing.
"Testing whether we're easy prey," he continues. "They haven't committed. If we demonstrate we're more dangerous than we're worth, they'll disengage."
"How do we demonstrate that?"
"Stop hiding. Make ourselves visible." He straightens from stealth posture into something else entirely. Taller. Broader. Presence expanding to fill the space between the trees. "Stay close. Let them see us as a unit."
My side presses against his, and his arm settles around me. Not gentle. Possessive, deliberate, a display aimed at the shadows between the trees. The message isn't for me; it's for whatever is watching.This one is mine. The cost of taking her is more than you can pay.
We move through the undergrowth like that, his body shielding mine, his gaze tracking shapes I can only catch in peripheral glimpses. Scale-flash between ferns. The scrape of claws on bark. Heavy breathing from multiple directions.
"They're still following," he says after a few minutes.
"Persistent."
"Hungry. That clearing ahead. Fallen trees creating natural barriers, good sightlines. If they won't disengage, we make them regret committing."
"We fight."
"We make a point." He guides me into the space, positions me with the same tactical precision he uses for everything. "Whenthey come, right flank is yours. Drive them back hard. They need to see you as a threat, not a target."
My molecular torch comes off my belt. The weight of it is familiar in my hand. Not a weapon by design, but I've cut through hull plating with this thing; scales shouldn't be much harder.
"Together?" My pulse is hammering, but my hands are steady. Mining station hands. The kind that don't shake when the equipment is failing and the vacuum is on the other side of the bulkhead.
"Together."
