Jane Carver of Waar Read Free Page B

often—I’d been gay-for-the-stay in a couple of young women’s correctionals in my youth—I tend to go for big-ass, baby’s-got-back chicks. This gal was a mite too delicate for me, but it wasn’t hard to figure why Square-Jaw had the hots for her. Even screaming and trying to kick his teeth in, I could see she had the goods: pin-up body in a tiny yellow bikini-top and loin-cloth outfit, long black hair, pouty lips. The whole package in a handy, carry-out size.
    Square-Jaw laughed off her attacks and threw her over his shoulder. He looked down into the coach again, like he was making sure Long-Hair was dead, then shot a glance around at the empty prairie. He shrugged. I read him like he was Marcel Marceau: “Why bother, he’s a dead man anyway.” He hopped back on his mount, signaled his gang, and off they rode, back the way they’d come.
    Maybe you’re wondering why I didn’t leap into the fray and rescue the damsel in distress. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m not an idiot, that’s why. I’ve never minded a scrap, but naked and unarmed against the Ginsu clan wasn’t my idea of good odds, and besides, it was all coming over the plate a bit fast, new planet, new gravity, giant birds, guys out of an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess . And anyway, I hardly had a chance to react. It was over in less than a minute.
    The part I don’t have an excuse for is why I didn’t try to help the dying red-cloaks as soon as Square-Jaw and his posse had giddi-upped off back the way they came. I could hear the poor guys moaning and sobbing, but I just stayed where I was, crouched behind the stone disk with my jaw hanging open.
    Maybe I’d seen too many movies where the hero thinks the monster’s dead and then something rips out of its stomach and eats the guy’s face off. Whatever. I was chicken, and some of those guys probably died because of it. By the time I finally got myself moving, clouds of alien flies were settling over them for a mid-day blood binge.
    Getting to the guys was like trying to walk on a trampoline. I kept springing up twice as high as I expected, and crashing on every part of my anatomy except my feet. At least I fell down as lightly as I stepped, so I didn’t get more than a few cuts and scratches. By the time I’d reached the killing ground, I’d adjusted my walk to a wobbly glide.
    I was way too late. The one guy who was still breathing when I found him died by the time I found anything to bind the gushing wound in his leg with. I felt like a fucking idiot.
    Up close the dead guys looked pretty damn human. Too human. Back in the rangers I’d had to help clean up a helicopter crash after a training exercise went wrong. A lot of these guys were just as young as those kids had been, and they’d died just as scared. I decided I didn’t like Square-Jaw too much.
    What made it worse was that they looked like kids I knew. Hell, back in my punk-rock run-away days most of my friends had haircuts just like these guys. Except for the purple skin and pointed ears, I wouldn’t have given any of them a second look walking down Hollywood Boulevard. Their eyes were a little longer, their canines a little sharper, and they were a tad shorter than the average American guy, but they had hair where we have hair, and five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot, and everything else where you’d expect to find it.
    This nearly freaked me out more than all the rest of it. Weren’t aliens supposed to be more, uh, alien? They always were in the movies. Shows you how much I know about the universe.
    I looked at the coach. There was one guy left to check on. Long-Hair. What was I supposed to do if he was still alive? Help him out? He probably still had that dagger on him. I didn’t want him stabbing first and asking questions later. On the other hand, if I was stuck here, I’d have to meet the natives sooner or later, and one-on-one with some wounded sap with a dagger was probably better odds then alone against