Conquerors' Heritage

And even as he'd shot back to the cutting, the door had swung shut with a deep and hollow boom.

Prr't-zevisti had gone over the scene probably a thousand times since then, wondering what he could have done that would have saved him from this. Should he have paid more attention when he'd first started looking around, putting more effort into avoiding detection? Should he not have dropped down into the grayworld, hiding like a frightened child, after he'd been spotted? Seventeen cyclics too late, of course, but should he have allowed the technics to take that second cutting? Another cutting, nestled in a pyramid on another of the eighteen worlds, might have been open to him.

Or should he perhaps have taken the ultimate gamble? Should he have simply stayed at the length of his anchorline and let the Humans close the metal on his fsss cutting?

It was a thought that had occurred more and more frequently to him these past few fullarcs, and it was a thought that had never yet failed to send a chill through the core of his being. The anchorpoint effect of the fsss organ had been known among the Zhirrzh since prehistoric times, whereas the double-anchorpoint of a fsss plus a fsss cutting had become practical only twenty cyclics ago. Barely enough time for the Zhirrzh people to become comfortable with the idea; far too little for a situation even remotely similar to this one to have come up. It was possible, he supposed, that if he'd let them cut him off from his fsss cutting, he would simply have hung out there in space until the Prr-family shrine had cleared the shadowing metal and he'd been drawn back home.

It was possible. But in Prr't-zevisti's opinion, it was vanishingly improbable. It was far more likely that, like an Elder whose fsss was destroyed, he would simply have died.

Would have died.

Which was really why this whole line of thought was so u

From across the room came a muffled clang. Prr't-zevisti started, darting across to the upper corner by the door and dropping deeper into the grayworld. The door clanged again and swung open, revealing two Humans.

Prr't-zevisti was outside like a shot, easing past the stacks of metal and out into the open air. The sun was shining brilliantly out of a clear blue sky as he stretched out to the length of the anchorline. Maybe this time Dharanv and the family shrine would be within reach.

But no. The anchorpoint-sense wasn't there. Either he was being absurdly unlucky here, or else the piles of metal combined with the angles of Dorcas's rotational and orbital movement had managed to create a permanent shadow in Dharanv's direction. And unless he was willing this time to risk death...

He was back to his fsss cutting well before the Humans shut the door, sealing themselves and him inside the metal room. He drifted up into his corner again, hiding himself in the mist of the grayworld, a fresh shiver ru

He didn't want to die. A fatuous statement, really; he didn't suppose anyone ever really wanted to die. The First Eldership War of a thousand cyclics ago had been sparked by that reluctance: the common Zhirrzh demanding the same right to this postponement of death that their clan and family leaders were already enjoying. The desire to maintain and continue one's life was probably as close to a universal instinct as was possible to get.

Zhirrzh warriors had the knowledge of Eldership to comfort them through the dangers of war. Did the Human warriors, he wondered, have anything similar?

Across the room one of the Humans was saying something. Cautiously, Prr't-zevisti eased up toward the lightworld again. The Humans were standing beside the torn and barely recognizable body of the Zhirrzh warrior that had occupied the center of the room since shortly after Prr't-zevisti's cutting had been brought in. At first he'd assumed the mutilation had been the result of some barbaric attempt at torture, and had hated the Humans for it. Only as he'd watched them work had he grudgingly decided it was probably more likely a medical dissection on the body of a Zhirrzh who'd been raised to Eldership in battle.

But this fullarc they weren't working on it. Instead they were carefully maneuvering it into a long translucent bag they'd apparently brought in with them. They finished the job, using some kind of sealing strip to close the bag, and together lifted the body to a rolling table. With one of the Humans at either end, they pulled it across the room. The one in front opened the door, and they began to pull the table outside.

They were taking the body away. And when it was gone, they would be leaving Prr't-zevisti there.

All alone.

"No," Prr't-zevisti whispered to himself, a ripple of panic flickering through him with more intensity than he'd felt from any emotion in the seventy cyclics since being raised to Eldership. To be sealed in here alone—maybe forever—without even the Human's occasional visits to break up the monotony...

And in that beat he finally recognized the truth that he'd been trying to avoid ever since his capture. The truth that there were indeed some situations worse than facing the dark and frightening unknowns of death.

And it was time at last to make the final decision.

He eased to the top of the doorway and rose to the edge of the lightworld, nearly trembling as the panic turned to a grim resolve. All right. He would do it. As soon as the Humans had their burden all the way out, he would go. And this time he wouldn't come back. No matter what. The back wheels of the table dropped to the ground outside with a muffled thud; bracing himself, Prr't-zevisti moved around the corner—

And abruptly stopped. Off to one side, accompanied by two more Humans, was a second rolling table with another Zhirrzh body laid out on top of it. The first table cleared the doorway; without losing a beat, the other Humans began pulling the second table inside.

Prr't-zevisti retreated back to his corner again, the panic and resolve draining away and leaving only fatigue in their wake. Fatigue, and the painful recognition that he was indeed near the end of his rope here. If he didn't find something to keep his mind occupied, he was never going to make it through this.

But what could he do? Run through the memories of his life? No. He'd done that often enough during the dull times on Dharanv. Here it would only depress him. Try to replay favorite books or poems or movies? No; he didn't have nearly that good a memory for such details. Hold imaginary conversations with his friends and family and descendants? Hardly. Borderline insane, and any kind of insane was exactly what he didn't need right now.

Or should he finally quit all this whining and self-pity and get busy doing his job?

He looked down, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, as one of the Humans closed the door with its unusual muffled clank. Yes, he'd been a warrior once, serving both the Dhaa'rr clan and the Overclan Seating with honor and distinction. And warriors of the Dhaa'rr clan had never been known for neglecting their duty. But that had been a long time ago, back when he was a physical living in the lightworld. He was an Elder now, with all the limitations that came with it. What in the eighteen worlds could he do?