by Brian Daley
Paloma was silent for a long time, staring at him. Then she said, "Well, who does Heart think the Precursors were?"
"I never asked her, Paloma. Is it too trite a question?"
She considered that. "Not from an Earther. From you, it comes honestly, not labored. You make me rethink the answer. You're from somewhere beyond the clichés and commonplaces. Or maybe it's got nothing to do with Earth. Maybe it's just you, Hobie."
Her dark eyes made a lasting contact that had him fibrillating. "It's Alacrity I'm drawn to but—you, I like better."
She got up suddenly, dusting herself off. "Drillbug time's coming up. Don't stay here too long."
"I won't, Paloma."
* * * *
"How soon will we be in danger of being attacked?" Alacrity asked, leaning toward Pokesnout, holding his proteus out for translation. Alacrity was seated high on the withers of Treeneck, erstwhile alpha-male of the herd.
"Oh, back where we came up onto the high desert, the Verities say," Pokesnout answered without breaking stride. He was moving at a slow lumber, the gawkleg version of a wolf-trot, across the easy-roll planetscape of hard-packed pink sand glittery with infinitesimal specks of mica, marked by jutting prows of mauve basaltic rock. There were infrequent clumps of red or red-brown plant life—fiendishly spiny, spikey stuff more daunting than anything Floyt had yet seen in his travels.
Pokesnout led the recon party, with Floyt astride him and clinging to a rough surcingle improvised from tight-rolled netvine. Floyt's hands were raw from gripping the surcingle, and he'd taken to wrapping a cloth around whichever hand was doing the holding. The cloth had become available because Floyt found that his stylish but tight underdrawers tended to chafe in the rigorous outdoor life he was leading, and a crotch rash was something devoutly to be avoided.
At least the gawks' withers were comfortable for riding, almost made for it. All three humans had taken to their new mounts, and carried long, sharpened saplings as lances.
Treeneck was slightly behind Pokesnout and to his right. Alacrity was surprised at first how quickly and without qualm the herd accepted the little maverick as leader. Apparently something in the droning Verities covered the situation—or, at least, Pokesnout's clever arguments convinced the herd it did—and the gawks' reaction became just about a reflex: crisis made them close ranks behind their leader literally and figuratively. Treeneck became a loyal lieutenant, if a bit slow on the uptake.
Strung out behind them were three more gawk bulls, one carrying Paloma, who had devised the surcingles. Jets of air from the gawks' nostrils and mouths steamed in the cold air, as did the humans' breath. The gawks had become saddle animals without much problem; chief virtues of having a sophant for a mount were companionship and matchless cooperation.
An expedition like the recon, away from the herd, went against instinct, but Pokesnout and his Shadow Verities and New Verities had overruled that. Alacrity had begun wondering if the new herd leader was a mutant, some sudden jump in evolution. Certainly, aside from him, there was a striking uniformity to the herd. It was Pokesnout who'd given an explanation for something that bothered Alacrity.
As Alacrity put it, "Why, of all the wide-open spaces on this planet, should one of the last remaining gawk herds be here, now? I mean, it's a lifesaver for us, but it's too big to be called a coincidence."
"We like the Tingling Mountain," Pokesnout told him. "The one you three came out of. It was a special place for the herd and gave us good feelings, until it got smaller."
So the Precursor site co-opted by Hecate somehow attracted them until it rabbit-holed. That set Alacrity wondering about Precursor influence on the gawks. It wasn't unknown for herbivores to develop intelligence, but it was unusual enough to insure that the creatures would be studied carefully if and when the truth and the Lebensraum Company's misdeeds came to light.
Paloma's mount and the two riderless bachelor males were gawks who'd become disciples to Pokesnout, enthralled by his Shadow Verities and odd ways of seeing and doing things. The two riderless ones carried net-vine paniers of leaf-wrapped food and water gourds. The gawks were well adapted for going without food and water for long periods and for scrounging even in a Lebensraum desert.
"Whoa. If we're in a danger zone, let's call a halt and look the place over," Alacrity said.
Pokesnout slowed up. Treeneck veered off to come up even with him. Rockhorn, Paloma's mount, almost rear-ended Pokesnout until he realized the group was stopping. A snort from Treeneck had Rockhorn and the two behind him hurrying to sort themselves out. Things got straightened away in another couple of seconds, with Paloma drawing up next to Floyt on the other side and the two riderless gawks looking around grazing fashion, finding nothing to eat nearby except pink sand.
"What's our next move?" Floyt asked. He was feeling better than he had on the morning's long final ascent through chilly shadow to the high desert. Alacrity had the thermal insert in his shipsuit against the cold, and the hood unrolled from its compartment in his collar. Paloma's sheer bodysuit insert, its decolletage flap closed, appeared to be keeping her comfortable, besides which she had the shawl. But Floyt's outfit just wasn't as heavy as it should have been for the weather, and the cold was giving him problems though he didn't mention it. Invictus had started warming him, though, and Pokesnout's body heat helped.
"Whatever this scuttle-death is, it killed a lot of the gawks when they fled here," Alacrity said. "Let's not get too far away from safe ground until we know what we're dealing with."
"I agree," Paloma said. "Anything that can give gawks a hard time is something to be wary of."
They peered into the distance. The high desert crossing wasn't too wide, twenty kilometers or so according to the maps, but it loomed in the Verities as a killing ground.
Treeneck exhaled like a storm. "I'm not afraid." His horns churned the air.
"Why didn't scuttle-death follow the herd down to its new home range?" Paloma asked.
"It couldn't. That is all that we know," Pokesnout said.
"But it's up here blocking the way back," Alacrity mused. Maybe what we've got here is a bogeyman? Invented to keep the gawks from going back to be slaughtered by the company?
"I like this place," Pokesnout proclaimed, looking around and sniffing. "And yet I do not trust it. Shall we go a little farther? The edge of the desert isn't far behind, and you know how fast we can move."
"Yeah; like a flea on a hot griddle." Alacrity swept the place with his eyes, shifting uneasily. The high desert looked unthreatening, but then again he didn't know what he was trying to spot. Maybe it's some kind of seasonal critter that's not around right now. We could bring the whole herd over the high desert in one day, if we moved hard—
"Yiii!" the proteus translated as Pokesnout bucked straight-kneed into the air with a bawl to split the sky, one great hoof cocked up close to his barrel belly. Several little things were clinging to the gawk's hock, Alacrity saw in the moment before it slammed down again with a jolt that almost knocked Floyt from its back, even though the Terran's knees were under the surcingle. The gawk's frantic low-frequency signals pounded.
Suddenly Treeneck reared and caracoled, a couple of the things hanging from his hock, too. Paloma was shouting advice or orders, fighting to stay mounted on Rockhorn, as the glittering pink sand seemed to come to life.
Alacrity, lurching against his surcingle-hold, abrading his hand, didn't see how so many of the things could live so close together in the lean environment of the high desert, didn't see how it could support them. Gawks were rearing and bucking, amazingly limber and deft. The midair maneuvers weren't planned as a way to unseat riders, but felt like a good bet to do it. Hordes of the little things closed in, the color of the sand, and the air was filled with a sharp, corrosive, mephitic smell.
The scuttle-death, insofar as Floyt could make out, were rabid little sand dwellers about mouse-size and build, with some tarantula influence. But the front third of their bodylength was fishhook teeth in s
napping jaws.
And they weren't made for climbing; that much was plain because the ones on Pokesnout's leg couldn't improve their purchase at all or do much of anything else except hold on. The things' attack concentrated on the lowermost parts of the gawks' legs; the teeth were penetrating, though Alacrity wouldn't have believed gawk leg-hide would be vulnerable to a sheetmetal screw.
Still, the scuttle-death fangs did it somehow, Gawk efforts to stomp the little terrors into the sand did no good; the scuttles' carapaces protected them. They were sand hunters, after all.
"Back to the rocks!" Paloma shouted over and over into her proteus, pointing it at Rockhorn's ear and Pokesnout's and the others'. Alacrity, hauling at Tree-neck's mane, did the same.
Somehow, in the throes of excruciating pain, Pokesnout ignored his own suffering and acted as leader.
He turned and got the other gawks moving with butts of his head and vicious nipping and kicking. Treeneck somehow reasserted himself enough to help. The party curvetted and bucked into retreat, the few scuttle-death that were on the scene trying for a grip but failing, the legions of reinforcements not close enough yet. The riders barely kept their seats; if Floyt and Alacrity hadn't had instruction from Paloma and practice under her coaching, they'd both have died. The gawks ran, the two riderless males picking up more of the tiny furies. Then, somehow, the whole group was back on the stone trail that led to the gawks' grazing lands.
On the trail, things were different. Some of the scuttle-death had dropped off along the way; those that were left clung savagely but were eventually wrenched off or batted loose by the humans, or simply jarred loose by the gawks then dashed and mashed. No attackers were clinging above the hock level; the scuttle-death were diggers, not good at jumping and lacking any effective means to advance their grip. They were also very poor at making their way over rock.
"Rocks aren't their place. We're all right," Floyt said, crushing a last squirming scutter under his heel and then bending to examine Pokesnout's wounds. The frightened gawks were starting to settle down. "But if they caught a gawk out there on that desert, they'd bring it down in time, and strip it at their leisure."
Alacrity's proteus picked up the words and translated them; the behemoths trembled.
"Sand devils!" Paloma spat. "I should've thought of it!"
"You knew about those things?" Alacrity snapped at her over his shoulder, trying to reassure Treeneck and the others.
As she gave him a hand she explained. "They're not supposed to be cold-climate animals. And you hardly ever heard about them; people wiped out most of them over the years—blew up every hive they saw. Besides, who'd have thought a sand devil could bother something the size of a gawk?"
"Well, they can," Floyt said grimly. "Look at the blood on Poke's legs. And that's just from a minute of it. He's been tapped like a rubber tree."
Alacrity heard the emotion. In his friend's voice and realized just how fond Floyt had become of the runt bull.
"Something is not right," Pokesnout informed them, through the translators. He was beginning to shake and shiver. "I feel unwell." A quick look around showed the other males were ill, too, even the doughty Treeneck.
"Toxin!" Alacrity hissed. "Quick, get over there in the rocks! Prop yourselves up!" Gawklegs never lay down for long, naturally. Even in Lebensraum's lesser gravity the pressure of their own bodies on their lungs could suffocate them.
The big creatures lumbered unsteadily over among the rocks of the washes feeding into the trail, with the humans chivying and encouraging and picking spots, directing and even shouldering them along. The gawklegs tried to rest their weight in notches that would help keep them upright. The three younger males were successful, but Treeneck couldn't find a small enough place. Poke-snout managed to worm in next to him and braced himself, the two keeping one another upright. They throbbed and lowed mournfully to each other.
"This won't do for long," Paloma said worriedly, glancing back at the desert. "And what if those little horrors come after us to eat a la hoof?"
"They don't appear to be doing so," Floyt observed, pulling his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, "and they looked rather specialized to me. That notwithstanding, you're quite right: we cannot remain here. Perhaps we can get a rescue party up here from the herd, to support these ones on the trip back down?"
He used Alacrity's proteus to ask Pokesnout about it. The gawk was still grunting and blowing in pain, but when Floyt got his question across the answer was reassuring.
"No, we are feeling better—a little," Pokesnout said. "And now I know why the herd's losses were so terrible on the Long Trek and why the Verities tell us to shun this place."
"And the company just blew up the sand devils' hives? That finishes them?" Floyt asked Paloma.
"Well, you can just dust them with pesticide, and most of your problems are over," she said. "Or you can throw out poison bait so that the hive queen ends up eating some, but basically you have to wait around for the hive to die out afterward, and that can take quite a while. Yeah, beam weapons, nervefields—they're plenty of ways of getting rid of them, but none we can use."
"Is the hive close by, then?"
"Probably not. As I recall it, those little warrior-workers are hatched and move out across the desert, find a spot and burrow in, waiting. They lie dormant for years, sometimes. When they sense food they come awake, get it and bring it back to the hive. Sand devils hunt and communicate pretty much exclusively by olfaction. I don't know, Hobie; if the hive's been here all this time, that stretch of desert could be pretty much carpeted with them by now."
Floyt gnawed a thumbnail. Paloma sighed then covered her proteus with her right hand while shielding Alacrity's proteus, which Floyt held, with her left.
"We'll have to find some other route. We can't ask the gawks to march into a slaughter."
Floyt shook his head resignedly. "The maps don't look very promising, but I agree. What do you think, Alacrity?"
Floyt looked around and saw that, as he tended to do, Alacrity had gone off without saying a word. Floyt found it an irritating habit.
They glanced around and saw him strolling back down the trail toward them. He'd obviously trotted back up to the very edge of the desert for another look at the sand devils. It was obvious because several of the tiny animals still clung to his pathfinders.
Those boots are even tougher than I thought, Floyt thought. His own boots were already showing signs of advanced deterioration.
Alacrity came down the trail, stamping loose one of the sand devils, which squirmed around for a moment before flopping over the edge of the trail and disappearing. He held a pliabamboo food-storage jar, examining the marks of sand devil teeth that had failed to penetrate it.
"Okay; no problem," Alacrity said, hooking a thumb to indicate the high desert.
"What'd you do, bribe them to look the other way?" Paloma asked tartly.
Alacrity kicked another sand devil loose and crushed it to jellied shapelessness under his heel. "No, although that's not a bad idea, in a way. Anyhow, the desert's our garden path, if we're careful about it."
He grinned at them. "Technology's about to come to the gawks—from the ground up."
* * * *
"Hold still," Alacrity chided Pokesnout, wrestling with the hollow segment of pliabamboo. "If this thing doesn't fit right you'll probably take a spill and it'll be all over for ya, tiny." He rapped the creature's poised, trembling leg.
"This I cannot understand," Pokesnout said. "How can I walk the Long Trek this way?"
The pliabamboo, unlike its Terran namesake, was actually more a tree than a grass. It was flexible, nearly elastic, but Alacrity was beginning to doubt that it was flexible enough.
"Not the whole Trek," Alacrity corrected, cheek contorted in concentration as he tried to shove the prototype gawk boot into place. "Just the desert crossing."
He got it lined up and rammed it partway into place. "Okay; you can put your foot down easy."
&
nbsp; Pokesnout did, very tentatively, balancing gingerly on his other five legs. With the gradual increase in pressure, the improvised footwear seated surprisingly well. It looked like the stem-joint partition at the segment's base would hold the weight, but for how long? Alacrity was resigned that the project would be all experiment and guesswork. Pokesnout tried to walk on the booted foot but instinctively favored it.
It had taken Alacrity a full morning to select, cut, measure, and adjust the pliabamboo joint to fit Pokesnout, even with the gawk's-full cooperation. Let's see: six legs per gawk, times the number of gawks, divided by a couple of boots per day each from me and Ho and Paloma, presuming there're no complications … The answer was very depressing.
Nevertheless, the boot looked like it would work. Pokesnout gained a little confidence and put his full weight on it. Paloma and Floyt were watching from the sidelines.
"What if he loses footing up there?" Floyt asked worriedly, inclining his head toward the high desert.
"Can't you guess?" Alacrity grunted, not caring that his proteus was translating to Pokesnout's attentive ears. "He'll probably die. Just like the herd will die if it doesn't cross that desert and mix with new stock."
Pokesnout was experimenting, putting more and more weight on the boot. He looked to the humans. "And we would only need to have these on us long enough to make the crossing?"
They nodded, then Floyt realized the gesture meant nothing to a gawk. "Yes," he clarified.
"This is a very difficult idea," Pokesnout declared. "It drives the thought from my head! An answer so strange and so simple."
"Welcome to the Archimedean Universe," Floyt told him.
"It may work, it must work," Paloma said, "but we've still got Lake Fret waiting for us, our worst problem."
"We'll figure something," Alacrity said. "We've got to. It's an old tradition here in the Archimedean Universe."
Floyt came walking along with Paloma; both were burdened with netvine bags of scare-flare eggs wrapped in leaves. The scattered family groups of the herd had been summoned together. Gathering food was the least of their troubles, what with gawks uncovering eggs and butting fruits and nuts down from the trees and trampling paths through thorny undergrowth to the best of the berry plants.