Caine moved fifteen meters away from his little sleeping-mesa, starting walking its perimeter at that range, placing the sensors as he went. It was already deep dusk when he finished his protein stick, placed the last sensor—and heard a noise in the brush behind him.
Recent practice paid off: he had the shoulder-slung Valmet semiautomatic down and in his hands in a single motion, snapping the safety off as he brought it against his hip. Nothing—yet. Use the seconds you have. Holding the venerable assault rifle steady—his right hand tucking the pistol grip into his body—he reached up with his left and pulled the night vision goggles down sharply from their perch on his forehead. His left hand never stopped moving: leaving the goggles, he brought it down to the rifle’s forestock, then brought the weapon up to his shoulder as he scanned the brush.
The bioluminescent leaves stuck out like the skeletons of burning green-white trees, courtesy of the light-amplification lenses. The integrated thermal-imaging system showed the body heat of a fading contact—either very small or very distant—receding up the slope, directly away from Caine’s camp. Intriguing, but first things first: he turned slowly, weapon up, scanning the entire perimeter. Nothing else. He swung back to the first contact: gone. As though it had never been there. Very small—or very fast—indeed. Here, as on Earth, and probably on every world where predators had ears, the night sounds reasserted once the rapid motions and urgent activity had passed.
Caine tilted the goggles back up on his head, felt the darkness wash in around him like a tidal surge of enigma. He hopped back up on the irregular rock platform that was his campsite, stared at his sleeping roll. Before, at the end of a day’s hiking, it had always been a mute promise of sleep.
Tonight, it looked like a body bag.
* * *
Caine looked up at the sun: almost midday. He finished rolling up the sleeping bag, felt himself smile. Three days ago—his first alone in the bush—he had hardly been able to sleep. This morning, he had slept until noon. Part of that was exhaustion: he had pushed hard the last two days, crisscrossing the land from the western bank of the river to the foot of the mountains as he pressed further north. But mostly, he owed his sound sleep to acclimatization. The nights were quiet here—or had been so far. Dawn and dusk were periods of frenetic activity for the smaller animals, the most plentiful of which were small burrowing lizard-toads (or so they appeared) and arboreal opossum-koalas that were ugly enough to make him wince. He had heard some large animals during the day, but had never seen them. Because he was stalking immobile objects—spoor, further ruins, anything that might signify the past or current presence of an intelligent creature—he made no special attempt to remain silent or unseen. Consequently, the larger animals—whatever they were—obviously saw and/or heard him coming from far away, and elected to maintain their distance. Having slept late, he wondered if any of the larger creatures might have strayed a little closer to him: maybe he would get a glimpse—
A shuddering crash in the underbrush—not more than one hundred meters further up the valley—triggered an immediate repentance of his curiosity. He snatched the Valmet, snapped the large safety lever down, dropped to one knee, sighted in the direction of the sound.
Which reprised itself, coming closer. Something was pounding through the bush: a dense thump, thump, thump was punctuating the other intermittent sounds—ferns being smashed aside, tuber-trees squealing out sharp bursts of the air that they held within their hollow trunks, bladderlike. He saw movement—a rustle in the ferntops—at two o’clock, swung about slowly to face in that direction, iron sights raised to his right eye.
A blackish-brown shape burst out of the brush, well in advance of the approaching thumps. Caine almost fired, then flinched his finger off the trigger—just before he realized it was going too fast for him to hit, anyhow: the creature had already swerved to one side, evidently either avoiding Caine or taking evasive action. Probably evasive action—because the heavy pounding sound was now right behind it.
The sound seemed to break free of the same dense thicket in a dusty burst of tubers, shoots, and fronds, all erupting away from the Pavonosaur that churned to a stop in the midst of the savaged foliage. The predator searched right and left—and then snapped erect as it noticed something it had evidently never seen before.
A human.
Caine stared back at the monster. The Pavonosaur’s body had a narrow cross section, tapering into a long, sharp, paddlelike tail that might have belonged to a monstrous tadpole. Its head completed the suggestion that this creature was built for speed both on land and in the water: the long, thin snout—more reminiscent of a crocodile than a dinosaur—was not scaled, but was the tip of a seamless carapace that swept back around and over the eye-and-ear sensor cluster, ending in a small, bone-finned crest that covered the rear of the skull. The mouth cycled through a panting open-closed motion, revealing not teeth, but a set of serrated ridges, threatening like three serried ranks of wood saws.
Caine swallowed, held as still as he could, cheated the barrel down a little lower. It’s a young one. Three meters toe to top, at most. Aim low and shoot steady. Twenty rounds in the box, staggered between dum-dums and tungsten-cored discarding sabot. He can’t take more than four or five hits. Can he? Can he? Jesus, let’s get this over with: start your charge, you ugly bast—
The Pavonosaur’s head swung back in the direction his prey had fled, and with a hissing rattle, he leaped along that course—
Because the black-brown biped was still there.
Caine—maniacally focused upon the Pavonosaur—only now noticed that the first creature had not made good its escape. Or, if it had, it had returned. What the hell—?
It’s trying to help. No other possible reason.
Caine had swung the gun, tracking the Pavonosaur, before he was aware of doing so. He squeezed the trigger twice, shouted “Hey, HEY!” in the intervals between the recoil of the rounds.
Neither hit. But the Pavonosaur swiveled its head in his direction so quickly that Caine wasn’t sure he saw the motion: one moment its head was lowered in pursuit of the biped, the next it was staring at Caine.
Staring back, leaning forward into a challenge posture, wondering if this meant he was suicidal, brave, or both, Caine shouted: “HEEYYY! SHIT-HEAD!”
The Pavonosaur answered with a painfully high-pitched screech and came streaming over the ground, bent low and forward as it sprinted toward him.
Caine leaned low into the sights and fired one, two, three rounds—
The third clipped the Pavonosaur in the shoulder; it came more quickly, if that were possible, without a single waver in its stride.
Caine was about to start hammering out the rest of the clip but saw a change in the creature’s gait. It was slowing—but not because it was hurt, or reconsidering its charge: it was preparing to gather its legs under it to jump up on the rock that Caine had slept upon.
Wait: right before it jumps—was an instinct more than a thought. Fortunate, because the Pavonosaur was quicker than human cognition. Even as Caine was realizing that the creature was going to give him a split-second opportunity to fire at a stationary target, the monster had half-contracted into its preparatory crouch.
Caine saw the torso rise into his sights; he fired three fast rounds. He rode the recoil of the last back down and kept firing, steady and sustained, about one round every second.
At least two of the first three hit: the Pavonosaur stopped just as it was about to uncoil upwards into its leap, tried to recover, caught another round square in the center of its chest. That produced a dark coppery-purple stain and a screech that was equal parts shock, pain, and indignation. It tried to reset for its jump, but Caine’s steady volume of fire kept the monster from regaining the initiative. Two rounds went wide or high: two more hit its torso—and the animal staggered back, either unaccustomed, or completely unadapted, to a flight reflex.
That moment of delay was the fateful—and fatal—moment in its attack. Caine
’s bullets now hit regularly. More purple spattered outward, this time lower in the belly. Then a thin, pulsing spray—brighter and more coppery—at the base of the neck. Two more hits and the Pavonosaur slumped over with a crash that Caine could feel through the rock under his knees.
Caine breathed, was ready to indulge in a relieved forward sag—and realized that he had, at most, three rounds left in the clip. And if they hunt in pairs—
He was on his feet, right index finger pushing forward against the magazine release as his left hand tore open the cover of an ammo pouch and tugged out a fresh magazine. As the expended clip clattered at his feet, he brought the other up into the receiver, wrestled briefly to get it seated correctly, and then gave its bottom a sharp upwards slap. A crisp snap announced it was ready. Caine retrained the rifle on the bush that had vomited out the Pavonosaur: nothing.
Movement to the left—slow, silent—caught his attention: the biped? Still there?
He turned his head, careful not to have the barrel of the gun track along with his gaze.
The biped was still there—possibly staring back at him. Caine couldn’t tell because he couldn’t see anything that looked like eyes. A smallish and tightly-furred head—shaped like an edge-on tetrahedron—topped an improbably long neck that swayed slightly back and forth like that of an ostrich: that had been the motion Caine had noticed. The body, also closely furred, was akin to a wasp-waisted gibbon with comically long limbs and oddly-flanged hip joints. A knee-length, bifurcated tail flexed once, restively—and then each half pursued its own, independent prehensile coilings and unfurlings.
Now what? Want a nice banana, monkey? Take me to your leader? Let’s pretend this never happened?
Caine decided not to move, not to speak. Anything could be misunderstood—except what he was doing now. And with all animals—whether intelligent or not—the best outcome for any first encounter is not a breakthrough in communication, or peace-offerings, or an exchange of phone numbers: it can simply be measured by duration. The longer it is, the better it is—and the more likely that neither party will consider a second contact aversive.
So Caine stood and looked at the biped, which was evidently doing something similar in return. Caine started counting: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…
At “thirty,” the gangly gibbon-with-double-coati-tail was still there, scratching at one—thigh?—with half of his tail. Evidently, this degree of relief was insufficient; he/she/it reached out a hand—or paw, or something—that seemed to writhe at, rather than scratch, the troublesome spot.
Oh, well, if we’ve become comfortable enough for actual movement—Caine shifted the gun, looked down to check the time—and noted rapid motion from the corner of his eye.
The biped seemed to speed sideways into the bush, as though it had turned its hips without turning its torso, or had somehow rotated its legs at the hip. Either way, it was gone before Caine could blink.
Evidently, the biped’s prior decision to engage in unconstrained movement had not indicated a willingness to tolerate the same from Caine. Instead, the creature had reserved the exclusive right to run like hell at the faintest hint of action from the newcomer. Which was a perfectly reasonable choice, Caine reflected: had anyone taken a picture of him during his motionless half minute, they might well have titled the image, “Still Life of Human with Assault Rifle.” After what the local had seen that weapon do to a Pavonosaur, he/she/it had every reason to err on the side of extreme caution.
Local. I’m calling it a “local.” The assumption of intelligence—that’s a big step. But was it? Bipedal posture, opposable manipulatory digits, a voluntary return to danger in the hope of—what?—luring the Pavonosaur away from the hapless stranger? Or was it all on a par with African mountain gorillas—behaviors that mimicked, yet were not really indicative of, intelligence? One way to find out.
Caine moved off the rock slowly—both watchful for other predators and determined not to make any sudden motions that an unseen observer might find unsettling—and walked over to where the biped had stood. A quick scan revealed nothing. Caine followed the creature’s exit trajectory into the bush and again saw nothing—except a large, recently snapped frond stem. Caine frowned: odd. The creature seemed so adept at moving in the forests, it was hard to believe that it would have been so clumsy as to break—
No. That wasn’t what had happened.
Caine darted into the bush, scanning quickly—and five meters further on, found another freshly snapped tuber. No other damage to the foliage was evident: not a leaf turned back, not a weed crumpled underfoot. Nothing except the freshly exposed pith of the tuber, gleaming like a white trail-blaze. Which is exactly what the local was doing: leaving a trail.
Caine looked into the forest: yes, they were locals.
Chapter Nine
ODYSSEUS
Caine shifted the A-frame, ran a wet forearm across his more-wet brow, checked his watch: three hours until sunset and he was still playing follow-the-leader with the local. How long is this going to go on?
Caine could have spat at himself: as long as it takes, asshole. This is first contact: not something you fit into a convenient slot on your busy day-planner. He pushed on—
—and emerged onto a trail. An actual, groomed foot path, a little wide, by human standards. It would have been invisible had he not been looking for it: no visible damage to the surrounding vegetation, yet no growth in the harder-packed dirt, or starting up from the sides of stones worn smooth and flat. Weeds never got a chance to grow here.
Caine pulled out his palmtop, patched into the rudimentary GPS net, synced it to the survey maps, and as he waited for the machine to orient itself, he looked up and down the trail.
About ten meters to the left—roughly to the south—there was a broken vine: snapped clean, the two dusty-rose-colored cross sections stared at him like a pair of bright, pupilless eyes. Okay, that way then.
The palmtop flashed readiness: the broken vine was, in fact, due south. Just a kilometer further west—although he couldn’t see it through the canopy—was the foot of the nearest mountain. The local had been pushing in that direction until he reached this north-south trail. Caine zoomed out from the map, tapped the stylus on his current location, then again on the main ruins at the extreme southern edge of the screen, made a range inquiry. 102.4 kilometers. Altitude increase of 345 meters. He turned the palmtop off to save the batteries, looked south. Okay, so you want me to follow you south. Back the way I came. Are you trying to get me to go away, to return to my start point? Or do you think I’m lost and you’re trying to help me find my way back home? Or do you have something else in mind?
Caine slipped the palmtop back into his chest pocket, hefted the A-frame higher up onto his shoulders: only one way to find out. He started south.
* * *
Less than a kilometer further on, the footpath split. The main trail, marked by a broken tuber, was still visible, although somewhat less distinct; it angled gently to the right, up into the hills. The other path was new, almost invisible: it was the faintest hint of parted foliage—barely a game trail. It veered sharply to the left, back east toward the river. Five meters down that trail, through two layers of overhanging mosses, Caine caught a glimpse of yet another cleanly-snapped tuber.
I’m to follow both paths. Hmm. A tour of the local highlights.
He pulled out the palmtop, marked the position on the GPS map overlay, moved up the main trail to the right.
He had covered about a kilometer—could see the steep, green sheltering slope through the gaps in the canopy—when the path widened and then disappeared around an outthrust spur of the mountain. Caine followed in that direction—and stopped as he turned the corner of the moss-mottled stone ridge.
The structure—cut out of the natural rock—would have been invisible to scans. Its density and smooth outlines were consistent with, and blended directly into, the skirts of the mountain. Steps radiated out and down from a b
road, out-curving esplanade. Tiers cut into either side of the rocky shoulders hemmed it in: an amphitheatre of some kind.
Caine looked behind: nothing was following him—at least nothing he could see. He turned back toward the structure, noting the squat obelisks that followed the curved lip of the esplanade like low, roofless pillars. He approached slowly, resisted an impulse to unsling his rifle, saw hints of galleries in the shadows at the rear of the raised floor of the arena, cut back into the mountain itself.
He stopped at the base of the stairs, uncertain, noted that the hair along his brow had become more damp. Why so anxious? Look: nothing lives here, nothing has for thousands of years. And if the local wanted you dead, you’d have been led into a deadfall pit or some other trap an hour ago. You’re supposed to see this, which means you’re probably safer now than any time since you landed in this valley. So why the jitters? Caine looked at the outthrust arc of the broad stairs, each riser almost half a meter in width, and then up at the squat obelisks. Because it’s strange, alien-looking: not like the mini-Acropolis back at Site One. And because—he looked around again—because there are no weeds. None of the stones have fallen—or, if they have, they’ve been removed. Maybe the locals—caretake this place…?
The locals provisionally rose higher on Caine’s ad hoc scale of cultural complexity. Did they remember that these were the creations of their ancestors? Did they have a sense of history that strove to reach back into such a distant past? If they did, they were not so very different from some of the more remote tribes of Earth, only a century ago.
Caine took out his photographic equipment slowly, as if a sudden movement would startle the stones, would scare the—well, what do I call this? The ruins? No; not the right word. The memorial? The historical preserve? Whatever it was, “ruin” was not the correct label: that term suggested the wear of ages and of neglect. This structure was, admittedly, time-worn—but there was no sign of neglect.
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