After Earth: A Perfect Beast

by Peter David Michael Jan Friedman Robert Greenberger

  Cecilia was about to tell her the truth when she heard a tremendous yell of triumph. One of the farmers, using a scythe, had chopped the Ursa’s head off. “I got it!” he shouted. “Wait’ll Vander Meer gets a load of this! I’m gonna be rich!”

  Oh, you bastard, she thought, and she tried to stand up, but her knee betrayed her. “Like hell!” she managed to grunt. “It’s mine!”

  No one heard her. The farmers, having completely forgotten about their savior, were busy arguing with one another. It was clear that Cecilia wasn’t the only one who had heard Vander Meer’s offer.

  “Keep away!” said the man who had the head, and he actually swung it around and knocked over some people with it, black Ursa blood flying everywhere. Then another farmer came up behind him and slammed him with a hoe in the back of his skull. The head tumbled out of the first man’s arms, but he wasn’t unconscious. Turning around, he slugged his assailant in the face.

  The grisly trophy bounced away, and people stumbled over one another to get their hands on it.

  Cecilia lay there, with the young girl trying to find a way to position her leg so that it wouldn’t hurt.

  “What’s wrong with them?” the girl asked. Her eyes were filling with tears. It was clearly horrifying to her to see the adults, covered in black blood and filth from battling the Ursa, turning against one another.

  Cecilia watched the display. She saw the fury on their faces and the lack of humanity. They seemed ready to kill one another. Only moments earlier they had been united against the common enemy; now they found an enemy everywhere they turned.

  She thought of what she had been like when she had killed the men back at the mining colony. She had done it in self-defense and thus had been ruthlessly efficient in doing it, yet even then the violence had sickened her. It was one thing to be part of the Rangers, but this?

  The worst thing was that she knew that if her leg were functioning properly, she would be right in there with them. She would be wrestling for the proof of the creature’s death, and she might even be desperate enough to start shooting.

  What good would I be to my family like that? Is that what the children deserve? A mother who’s thrown fundamental human decency out the window? Who’d be willing to slaughter her own people not to protect her life or the common good but out of desperation? Is that who I want to be?

  The little girl was still looking down at her. Cecilia wiped the tears from her eyes and whispered, “They don’t know any better.”

  That was when another, even more devastating roar sounded across the colony. Everyone froze at the sound. Two men had been struggling for possession of the head, but they both dropped it.

  It was another Ursa, eagerly advancing on them. It roared again, and it was impossible to tell whether it was angry over the loss of one of its kind or if it didn’t give a damn and was simply informing them that it was going to kill them all.

  Before the farmers could decide whether to come together as one or run in a burst of every-man-for-himself, the Ursa decided it for them. It charged into their midst.

  Oh, God … it was all pointless, Cecilia thought, and that was when she heard a triumphant hum: a fleet of Ranger skipjacks.

  A Ranger on a skipjack descended from overhead, coming in fast. A dozen other Rangers were right behind him on similar vehicles. Undaunted by the Ursa’s strength and teeth and talons, the lead Ranger leaped off his skipjack and fell toward the creature.

  He had something in his hand that was like nothing Cecilia had ever seen. It was some kind of staff, except it looked like it was constructed of intertwined strands of silver metal. At the end of the staff, there was a vicious-looking blade.

  As Cecilia watched, spellbound, the Ranger landed on the back of the startled Ursa and drove the blade into the back of its head.

  The Ursa roared and twisted, throwing the Ranger off. He hit the ground and rolled to his feet, but before the monster could reach him, the other Rangers had hit the ground and begun thrusting at the Ursa with their own strange bladed weapons.

  Cecilia had been incredibly lucky with the thrust of her machete; if she hadn’t been as close as she was, it was likely that the blade never would have penetrated. And how often could one reasonably expect to get that close to an Ursa?

  But the attacking Rangers didn’t appear to require that proximity. They moved around the Ursa in a continuous circle, spearing, slicing, and moving lightly out of the way before the Ursa could counterattack. Everywhere they struck, their blades penetrated with such ease that they might as well have been assaulting a gigantic stick of butter.

  And it wasn’t just blades they were using. They had pikes and spiked balls and hooks on the ends of their weapons as well. But—and Cecilia didn’t know if she was hallucinating this part—it wasn’t that each weapon was different. It seemed to her that each one was transforming itself from one shape to another as she looked on.

  One thing she was sure of was that she knew one of the Rangers: Commander Hāturi. Despite his age, he was attacking shoulder to shoulder with the other Rangers, maneuvering as ably as any of his subordinates. With a roar of rage, the Ursa swiped at the commander with its talons, but he retreated in time to keep from being cut to shreds.

  It was the last offensive move the creature would make. The Rangers piled on, moving in a fluid and coordinated manner. The minutes seemed to take an eternity to tick away, but when it was over, the Ursa lay on the ground, cut to pieces. There was no question in anyone’s mind that it was dead.

  “Sweep the area,” Hāturi ordered. “Motion sensors on full. I don’t want anything getting this near again.” Then Hāturi turned his attention to the farmers. “Everyone here okay?”

  The little girl, who hadn’t budged from Cecilia’s side, called out, “This lady could use some help.”

  Seeing the mess Cecilia was in, Hāturi called, “Medic!” and walked over to her. As he did so, his blade transformed itself into something blunt and inoffensive. A medic came in right behind him, and Hāturi knelt next to Cecilia. “You’re going to be all right, Miss …”

  Then his face darkened. His gaze had fallen upon the pulser in her hand, and there was genuine threat in his voice as he said, “Where did you get that?”

  She would have laughed, but she was starting to feel pain in her chest as well. It was possible that she had broken a rib, but that was a problem for later. She winced as the medic started examining her knee, but she managed to get out, “Cecilia Ruiz, formerly Ranger Cecilia Sanchez.”

  Recognition dawned on Hāturi’s face. “Sanchez? I remember you. Some sort of nerve injury, yes?”

  “Only to my shooting hand.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. You’re a farmer now?”

  She managed to shake her head. “No, sir.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Killing Ursa, sir.”

  Hāturi studied her for a long moment. The man wasn’t stupid. She knew that he was figuring it all out. She found that she couldn’t keep looking him in the eye. She felt ashamed, as if she had betrayed some deeper meaning of the Ranger oath she had taken so long ago, the oath that, thanks to her injuries, she had left long behind.

  “I thought I saw people fighting over the head when we were coming in.” He eyed her. “The reward credits are that important to you?” he asked, removing any doubt that he hadn’t seen through her purpose.

  “Taking care of my family is.”

  He looked back in the direction of the Ursa’s carcass. “Makes you sick, huh?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “And I assume you were the one largely responsible for killing the beast?”

  The little girl spoke up. “Yes, sir. She was. She blowed it up good.”

  “Indeed.” His eyes narrowed, and there was anger in his face. “I don’t approve of Vander Meer’s methods, but fair is fair and a reward’s a reward. I’ll make sure you’ll get the head—”

  “No, sir,” Cecilia said qui
ckly before he could stand and move away. Then she let out a sigh. The med tech had injected her with painkiller, and the ache was fading to something manageable.

  “Why not?” Hāturi was clearly confused.

  “Because …” She tried to frame the thoughts tumbling through her head. “I don’t know.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the weapon that Hāturi was holding. Before he could press the subject, she said, “What is that?”

  “Well”—he held it closer—“the unofficial name for it is a cutlass, although I’m sure we’ll come up with a better name before long. It’s a new weapon developed by an engineer named Lyla Kincaid, may she rest in peace. As you can see, rather formidable and much more effective against Ursa than pulsers.”

  “Definitely.”

  He studied her a moment and then slid his hand along the thing and tapped it. Instantly, the cutlass grew a blade at either end. He handed it to her. “Give it a try,” he said. “Just don’t tap it. You might get a nasty surprise.” With a gesture of his head, he indicated to the med tech that it might be a good idea to back up.

  Cecilia swept the cutlass back and forth with facility. It felt comfortable in her hand. Natural. Remarkably light but also obviously devastating in a battle.

  Hāturi was now standing, and he addressed the farmers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a formal voice, “the United Ranger Corps thanks you for your cooperation. It has come to our attention that this young woman has personal needs that you can attend to. As thanks for her aid to you, you’re going to gather a considerable amount of food and present it to her for her to take back to her family.”

  One of the farmers tried to protest but wilted under Hāturi’s gaze. “How much?” was all he managed to say.

  “We’ll tell you when it’s enough,” Hāturi said coolly. As if that ended the discussion—which, as far as the commander was concerned, it clearly did—he turned back to Cecilia. “So what do you think of the cutlass?”

  “Incredibly maneuverable,” she said. “Been field-testing it long?”

  “Long enough. We’ve killed dozens of the damned Ursa with it. It’s devastating. We’ve got enough DNA samples of the things that the Savant is in heaven, or at least whatever he believes heaven to be. We haven’t gotten that bastard Gash yet—the biggest Ursa you’ve ever seen—but we will. We’re closing in on putting an end to these bastards.”

  “Well, that’s … that’s great to hear.”

  She offered the cutlass back to him. Hāturi studied her and then said quietly, “Of course, even when we kill the last of them, there’s no guarantee there won’t be more. In fact, I’m sure there will be. The Ursa represents a sea change in Ranger preparedness.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged; there didn’t seem to be much else to say.

  “I suspect that the cutlass is going to become the primary weapon of the Rangers, especially when it comes to combating those things.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “And I can’t help but observe that you seem to be holding it reasonably steadily.”

  “Yes, I suppose I—”

  Her voice trailed off as the significance of what he was saying began to settle in. He reached down and took the cutlass back, and as he did, he said, “It would appear to these eyes that the small muscle control that you don’t possess to wield a pulser accurately really isn’t an issue when it comes to a cutlass. Would your family be upset if you had a regular job again?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “Good. Because we’re sorely in need of Rangers, especially experienced ones. This bunch with me are all cadets, believe it or not.”

  Cecilia had thought they looked a little young.

  “And although the economy is a little soft right now, I’m sure we can find some credits to cover back pay for the years you missed. Right now, though, you’ll return home, get some rest, and prepare some nice meals for your family, thanks to the generosity of these farmers, before reporting for duty.” He saluted her. “Welcome back to the fight, Ranger.”

  She returned the salute. “Glad to be of help, sir. Um … I hate to seem ungrateful …”

  “But?”

  “Do you think you could give me a ride home?”

  Conner stood in the Ranger supply depot and counted out two dozen salt tablets on the table in front of him. Out in the desert, he wouldn’t last long without them.

  Of course, if he had been the Prime Commander in name as well as in practice, someone would have been available to count salt tablets for him. But even then, he would have done it himself. My life. My responsibility.

  It was something his father had taught him, one of many things.

  He had barely counted the last tablet when he heard a knock at the open door. He turned and saw Blodge standing there. “Come on in,” he said.

  Blodge joined him in the depot. “I know you’re busy getting ready and everything, but I’ve got to ask: Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  Conner picked up the tablets and poured them into a Ranger-issue waterproof container. “What do you mean? My going after Gash?”

  “Your going after Gash alone. I know you’ve got a plan, but what if something happens to you? What are the Rangers going to do for a leader?”

  Conner smiled to himself. “They’ll find somebody. They always have.”

  “But this is a bad time to settle for somebody.”

  “Is it? Gash is the last Ursa we have to worry about. If I don’t get him, someone else will.” In fact, he had already begun thinking in terms of that possibility, even down to the question of who would lead the squad that came after him. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure of that.”

  “I’m not talking about Gash,” said Blodge. “I’m talking about the Primus.”

  Conner looked up. “The Primus is missing. Unless you know something I don’t …”

  “No. But he’ll turn up; everybody says so. And even if he doesn’t, there’ll be somebody else. Vander Meer, maybe. Or some other Primus.”

  Conner saw what his friend was talking about. “And I’ve stood up to them. But you think somebody else won’t be able to.”

  “Even Wilkins was having a hard time with this stuff, and she was hard as rocks. She had to give in on the budget, right? All that stuff about cutting back; it was destroying the Rangers, making us an afterthought.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What do you think will happen if you get killed out there? You think people are going to take it easy on your replacement? Someone will try to bury us all over again.

  “And this time,” Blodge continued, “there’ll be no one to fill the breach. Hāturi, maybe, but he’s already as much as said he’d make a lousy Prime Commander. Kincaid? He’s a bigger hothead than you are. They’d be no match for someone who knew how to work public opinion.”

  “True,” Conner conceded. “But then, I’m not ready to take on someone like that, either.”

  Blodge looked shocked. “What are you talking about? You’ve got the public eating out of your hand.”

  “Sure, because our campaign against the Ursa has been a success. People are grateful. They think the Rangers are heroes. But what happens when the Ursa are all gone? People have short memories. They’ll forget what the Rangers did for them. They’ll start to feel cocky. And they’ll listen when Rostropovich or someone else starts talking again about cutting our funding.”

  “All the more reason to have you around to remind them.”

  “Me?” Conner laughed. “I’m eighteen. Why would they listen to me?”

  “Without you we would never have gotten rid of the Ursa. We’d be hiding in our houses, waiting for the creatures to kill us.”

  “You know what role I’ve played in this, and so do the other Rangers. But who knows outside of the Corps? Not many. The Savant, sure, but he’s not going to pin any medals on me. So really, what am I? Just an eighteen-year-old who did a good job filling in for his superior. A Raige? That’s nice. Always did like those Raiges.”

&nbs
p; Blodge held his hands out, seeking understanding. “What are you saying?”

  “That I’m expendable like anyone else.” He thought about Lyla. “And that I’ve got no choice.”

  Blodge looked at him for a while. Then he said, “Guess I’ll see you before you go, then.”

  “I’m counting on it,” said Conner.

  He waited until his friend left. Then he went back to packing his salt tablets.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Desert sunsets were beautiful, Conner thought as he hummed across an expanse of red-clay flat on his skipjack in the last rays of second sun. In fact, he couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful.

  When he was little, he and his family had gone out from Nova City and camped out in the desert, finding themselves in the embrace of the land. They had made fires and huddled around them against the evening chill, and Conner’s mother had sung funny songs.

  It seemed like a long time ago.

  But then, the Ursa had changed so many things. Now Conner meant to change them back.

  Gash was more than a predator engineered to destroy, if the Savant had it right. It had become a symbol of death and misery and despair, no doubt exactly what the Skrel had intended when they had sent the Ursa to Nova Prime. Humanity wouldn’t be free of its nightmare until that symbol was destroyed.

  I’m coming for you, Conner thought.

  There had been reports of an Ursa—a big one, bigger than any of the others—heading out that way. It had to be Gash. It was the only one of its kind still unaccounted for, the only one that had escaped the scrutiny of the Savant’s scientists.

  Of course, it might take a while for Conner to find him. That was all right. He wasn’t in a hurry. In the cities, people rushed back and forth. But not out here in the desert.

  In the desert, you took your time.

  * * *

  A few hours after full dark, Conner landed the skipjack and laid out his bedroll. Then he set up a ring of monitors around him that would wake him if anything got close.