by Paul Bishop
“That’s because this big one has scared away anything smaller.”
“Sshem Mula, we follow these tracks to find water, nuts, berries, roots, and perhaps sshelter. We may not even find the creature that made these tracks. We may not need to. But if we do, why must you assume that a creature is trouble or dangerous? Because it is large? Perhaps it is a gentle beast, Sshem Mula. Jake does not assume that any creature is trouble—”
“Until it bites you?” I moved the foliage to locate another track and another. I couldn’t tell if they were made by only one beast, however. “How about you look for those nuts, berries, and roots instead of following this?”
I scrutinized our surroundings. When Lokhagos Bakas dumped us in this field, my ire was turned up all the notches and so I really hadn’t paid attention. We were in a stretch with few trees—and those were scraggly and seemed old. The ground was fairly level and all of it was covered with green, from grass a few inches high to clumps of flowers, ferns, and what I considered weeds that grew barely past my knees. Toward what I was certain was the west, I saw the suggestion of mountains, the tops concealed by a layer of low-hanging clouds. To the north, the ground extended for klicks before everything was obscured by a dense forest. More forest grew far to the east and to the south, the land went on and on in variations of green.
South looked the most appealing to me and the easiest. But Lokhagos Bakas had mentioned that a promotion was on the other side of the mountains. I could see myself as Tagmatarkhis Shem Mula rather than Hoplight Shem Mula. A tagma had a silver star and a considerable bump in pay.
But could I last a month in this backwater place? In only the clothes I wore? How far away were those mountains? And why in the twelve systems couldn’t Lokhagos Bakas have left us with a little tech to make this manageable? What about the other teams? Where were they, and would we cross paths?
“Jake wants to follow these tracks,” Jake said.
Apparently, there would be no discussion about it. The cephalon’s tentacle arms continued to move the vegetation aside and, his gaze focused on the ground, he struck out northwest.
I waited for a moment but couldn’t find a convincing argument for another tactic or direction. Besides, I didn’t want to be left alone so I followed but kept my gaze up and scanned the landscape constantly. I knew that whatever it was Jake tracked was big, and that print I’d looked at had clearly indicated that the beast had claws. A part of me doubted our commanding officer would have dumped us in a truly dangerous place, but that was a small part. He had called it extreme survival.
“You know this could be an unfortunate idea,” I offered. “We don’t have weapons.”
“Jake thinks these tracks are fressh, made earlier this day.”
“Does Jake think he’ll catch up to this beast? I really don’t want to—”
What passed for his shoulders shrugged and his speed increased. It was good that I was in fine physical shape as the cephalon’s tentacle-legs were longer and I had to hurry to catch up. Although the land was level, for the most part, there were depressions, stones hidden by plants that I had to dance around, and ridges that might have been made by small burrowing animals. I wondered if the burrowers were tasty. By this point, I was hungry.
He stopped abruptly three klicks later.
“What?”
“Jakes smells water.”
I’d been so alert to the visuals that I’d not paid attention to the shift in the air. Now that I focused, I smelled it too—an amazing scent that for the moment, made me forget I was angry with this godsawful training program. It was fresh and teased my senses. I walked forward and left Jake to examine whatever had caught his interest in a clump of ferns.
The river ahead was narrow and the water moved at a lazy pace. I’d not had much experience with the wilderness—a trip to a nature preserve in my young school years, images in vids, and tales from explorers. The blue of the water mirrored the sky and in places, it glimmered like silver filings had been cast upon it. A riot of plants grew along both banks. Maybe Jake would find some of them edible.
I wondered if the water was safe to drink and what it would feel like splashed against my skin. The lakhagos had said this planet had been ravaged by chemical wars in centuries past. Were the chemicals still in the water? Did it matter? I was thirsty so caution seemed like merely an irritation. I started forward but was yanked back by a tentacle arm. I spun to yell at Jake, but he threw his other tentacle across my mouth like a gag and pulled me against him. All the scents of earth, water, and wildflowers were replaced by the fusty acridness of the cephalon. His skin and tentacles felt like rubber.
“Sshush, Sshem Mula,” he whispered so softly I could barely hear him. Almost gently, he turned me so I could see what had emerged in the center of the river.
The creature he had followed was indeed large—at least the size of an escape pod. It was a massive beast of fur and claws and I’d not seen it initially because it had been underwater. Black-brown fur covered all of it save for a pointed snout that I was certain held sharp teeth. Clasped in its jaws was a large, colorful fish that squirmed for life. The beast trundled to our side of the river and proceeded to feast.
I reached for the transponder in my pocket. With one push, help would come and whisk me away to the bowels of a merchant ship, where I’d be consigned to scut work for the next three years. But, I reasoned, I’d be breathing.
My companion glared, released me, and crept forward.
We have no weapons! I wanted to scream the words aloud but had to keep them in my head. I was wise enough to keep my mouth shut and my thumb on the button. If I pressed it, how soon would a team arrive? How far away was the ship?
The beast shook itself and water sprayed like motes of crystals suspended in the air. It raised its wide head and with oddly small eyes, looked at Jake, who continued to ease closer.
Did the damn cephalon intend to talk to it? Steal its fish? I was fit but could I run faster than the beast? Faster than Jake, most likely, as my adrenalin would be great fuel. I only needed to be faster than Jake.
It opened its maw and fish blood and guts dripped from its jowls. When it roared, it was so loud I swore I could feel the ground tremble through the soles of my boots.
Push the button or run?
Push the—
“No!” I hollered as Jake and the beast raced toward each other. My knees locked and my fingers froze. The beast roared louder, and my teammate uttered a keening sound that made my teeth hurt. I tried to shout again but all the words buried themselves in my fear-tight chest.
Jake’s tentacle-legs bunched and like springs, propelled him up and above the creature. He landed on its back and his arms coiled around its throat. The animal bucked and shook and it’s claws raised—it had six legs, and all of them ended in wicked, sharp-looking claws—but were unable to swipe at the clinging cephalon. When it reared on its hindmost legs, it was easily four meters tall.
The beast’s small eyes bulged, and its jaws snapped while foam flecked its lips. The enraged roar was softer now. I watched the tentacle legs whip around the creature’s abdomen and guessed he was squeezing. The beast gyrated and swatted, howled and twisted, but was unable to throw him off. Gobbets of bloody foam dripped from its jowls, and I stared transfixed. No fight vid could match the desperate intensity of the battle.
I had guessed the beast would win because of its size and monstrous appearance, but as the fight wore on, the colossus tired and Jake prevailed. In the end, the cephalon had managed to strangle the creature.
Finally, sensation returned to my limbs and I shuffled forward, my gaze fixed on the still animal. Jake disentangled himself and stood, his chest heaving from the exertion. His simian visage bore a smug expression.
“Why did you do that?” A dozen other questions had tumbled through my head, but that was the first to come out.
“Attack the animal?”
I nodded. “Why the—”
“It had a thick pelt an
d Jake worries that nights could be cold here,” he said.
“You wanted the fur?”
“A quick decision. Yes. Help me skin it. There is plenty of pelt to sshare. Meat for you. Bones for weapons. Organs to use as water skins.”
“You know survival training.” I stood over the creature and prayed there was nothing larger on this planet.
“Jake read the manuals,” he said. “Jake has survival sskills.”
“We’ve nothing to skin it with.” I turned, walked to the riverbank, and picked up what was left of the fish. I wondered if it would taste good raw. “But we have something to eat,” I called and brandished it.
“Eat the fish, Sshem Mula. Jake does not eat animal flesh.”
“No, but Jake has no compunction about killing animals,” I said under my breath.
“Jake has something to sskin this beast with,” he said after a few moments. “Jake cheated a little.”
I brought the fish with me, unwilling to let the prize be plucked up by a hungry bird. Actually, I realized I’d neither seen nor heard birds but was immediately sidetracked from the thought.
“Cheated?”
Jake pulled the hem of his tunic up to his face and his blunt teeth bit at the edge. Two thin blades fell out. He wound a tentacle around the small handle of one and nudged the other blade toward me.
“You cheated,” I said flatly.
“Jake admitted to cheating,” he responded practically.
I smiled, took the thin blade, and used it to cut the fish. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” I ate a piece tentatively. It wasn’t awful but its texture and temperature felt odd.
He shook his head and started to work on the beast’s carcass.
“Three days, this sshould take,” he said and worked quickly. “Three days to treat the skin with oils from the brain. We’ll camp here for three days, Sshem Mula. Jake will sshow you how to catch fish.”
“Too bad you can’t cook them.”
“Jake will sshow you how to do that, too.”
And he did, demonstrating how to start a fire with rocks and twigs.
I recalled my ire when we were dropped there at being partnered with a cephalon and had to admit—to myself at least—that I was an idiot. Jake was a gift. At the end of three days, we had two heavy pelts, leg bones that would serve as clubs, sharpened ribs for additional weapons, and water skins made from the beast’s stomach and bladder that were waterproofed with resin he extracted from a tree and covered with leftover hide and sealed with sinew.
We struck off toward the mountains, keeping the river on our right. Two days later, we crossed at a shallow place and found something amazing in the undergrowth on the other side.
It was straight and ancient, and I tugged furiously at the flower vines that obscured it. This verdant hellhole was primitive now, but our discovery was proof of a previous civilization.
“What is this? What is this?” I hadn’t asked the question of Jake, but he answered.
“Tracks.”
I continued to tear the vines away. He touched a tentacle to them.
“Rolled steel, asymmetrical rounded beam,” he pronounced. “Very old. Centuries maybe.” He stepped across and touched a tentacle to one that ran parallel and began to yank the vines there away. “One thousand, four hundred and thirty-five millimeters apart,” he said.
I was curious how he could measure distance without instruments or tell the composition of these beams. Perhaps I’d ask him later—or better yet, not bother and continue with my exploration.
“Concrete,” he said moments later. “Crumbling. Very old. Concrete ties that connect these beams.” A tentacle brushed aside gravel he’d uncovered. “Ballast. Loose sstones help with the load. The ties hover on the ballast, and the weight of the steel beams stabilizes everything.”
I looked up. “How the hell do you know this stuff?”
“Jake reads a lot,” he returned. “The tracks are elevated, cushioned on a foundation above the underlying ground, part of a drainage system.” He continued to pull vines free. “Ahh, Sshem Mula. These will be handy.”
The cephalon held two spikes, heavily rusted.
“Carbon steel,” he said smugly. “Jake will clean them. Could be useful tools.”
Or maybe weapons, I thought. I looked around until I found some too.
“I want to follow these tracks.” My voice was firm as his had been when he trailed the prints of the large creature. “It looks like they run near the river so we have water and fish. And you have those roots you’ve become so fond of.”
“Yummy,” Jake agreed.
The metal tracks pointed directly to the mountains, on the other side of which we would gain promotions. Food was plentiful along the way and my trousers and tunic actually became a little tight because I gained weight. I replaced them with the tanned hide of a deer-like creature, the skin soft and comfortable.
Eventually, we reached the foothills and the tracks led us to a tunnel that cut all the way through. I’d worried about climbing and feared our month would disappear before we made it to the other side. The tunnel was warm, dry, and filled with scattered relics from the previous civilization. The tracks ran down the center. I knew I would return to this place later.
Jake and I camped on the other side of the mountains, away from our precious metal tracks that continued west as we didn’t want Lokhagos Bakas to discover them. Let the commander think we’d made an arduous climb and barely survived, not found a direct route and thrived, and not endured the training but relished it. I had come to truly appreciate this world, and I wanted to explore more of it.
“Tomorrow, Sshem Mula,” Jake said and gazed at the night. “It will be one month tomorrow, and Lokhagos Bakas will come to retrieve us.”
Disappointed, I stared at the stars and drew the fresh flower-tinged air deep and held it. I felt the grass beneath the palms of my hands and the play of the breeze across my face. Another river was not far. I could smell it.
“Sshem Mula?”
I pulled the transponder out of my pocket and handed it to him.
“I’m staying here.”
Jake did not look surprised.
“I don’t think he’ll find me without the transponder.”
“Sshem Mula, what will Jake tell—”
“You can tell Lokhagos Bakas that I died, killed by some big six-legged fur-beast.”
We looked at the stars together.
“Why, Sshem Mula?”
I smiled—perhaps the first genuine smile I’d offered in a long time.
“I want to follow the tracks.”
A Nice Century For Dying
By
Douglas Hirt
A Nice Century For Dying
The Carlos Vendimos File:
I frowned as I closed the bulging folder and stared out the window without seeing much to think things over. Not that there was much to see anyway, only the faint outline of a building across the street mostly hidden behind the red Los Angeles haze. Even the big construction cranes on New Shores lay hidden beneath today’s inversion. LA was immersed in another Three Stink Alert, not helped at all by the ongoing eruption in Oregon—what was it now? Two years? But I wasn’t really thinking about that as I fingered the ragged edge of the folder. I was remembering. There was history in there between these covers.
A knock at the door stopped me as I stood to put the folder away. I sighed and dropped the folder back on my desk, wishing I could file it under closed instead of active. The knock came again.
They were JT’s goons—big, ugly, and all shoulders and no necks. I grimaced. Only one reason would have brought them there. I ambled out of my stark little office with a view to nowhere and started down the hallway. The goons fell in on either side.
“Nice day,” I said to see if they’d pick up on the sarcasm. One of them grunted. They weren’t at all talkative, these goons. We stopped outside another door.
I gave them a curious look. “You mean I get to g
o in all by myself?”
“He wants to see ya alone, Sole,” one of them replied.
“Alone?” The muscles across my shoulders tightened. Something was up. Normally, the goons would have escorted me inside and remained quietly in the background until JT dismissed them.
The door slid open with the soft hiss of the magnetic glides and whispered shut behind me. It was a familiar room filled with a collection of antique furniture that would make a Sotheby’s auctioneer’s eyes tear up. I always thought it kind of amazing that he somehow managed to find such pristine examples hundreds of years after they’d been built. I noted the addition of several new pieces of furniture placed meticulously in carefully chosen positions.
A heavy oak bookcase guarded a collection of leather-bound treasures from bygone ages against one wall. Across from the books, the wall was painted pale-blue and naked except for a large Rembrandt and two smaller Monets. Knowing JT as I did, I was reasonably sure they were originals. The only other item in the large blank expanse was a pretentious oak door, maybe eight feet tall and ornately carved. It always remained closed. Another antique? Maybe. What lay beyond it? I’d stopped hoping to find out years ago.
In the middle of the room stood JT’s imposing desk, strategically placed to intimidate visitors. It was not a relic of an earlier age but expensive and expansive, nonetheless. Beyond it, a large window looked out onto a hazy view every bit as inspiring as the smaller view from my own office.
From behind the desk, the sweet aroma of Havana drifted from his cigar. “Come in, Martin. Sit down,” he said and motioned to a chair that looked as out of place as a submarine in a desert. I waded across a broad pink sea of carpeting and lowered myself into the indicated fixture—sculpted chromium steel and green hemp fabric—mid-twenty-first century all the way and a little quaint but still modern enough.
I let my view wander approvingly around the grandiose office and linger upon the new additions. “Chippendale?”
His eyes brightened. “Why, yes, it is, in fact. I’m impressed, Martin. I managed to rescue it from Oscar’s office after they got to him.”