by Chance Maree
Seeing neither victory nor success, Gunner stood. “Fine,” he said. “You have an important exercise this evening. Grab some hiking boots and meet me outside. You have three minutes.”
⁂
Gunner and Tyr crouched behind tall reeds and brush along the bank of the clear and slow flowing river. The camp was an hour's walk behind them.
The sun began to set, and a herd of six small, deer-like animals ventured to drink from the river.
“They are a family,” Tyr said. His voice was a whisper behind his mask.
Gunner's eyes narrowed. He grunted affirmation.
“I remember playing games with my brothers.” Tyr gasped from a sudden burst of excitement. “Can you bring them here, too?”
Gunner wished Tyr would take off the mask, but he chose not to order the boy to do so. Developmentally, Tyr was a teenager now. Time had come to disclose as much of the truth as the boy could handle. “I'm sorry, Tyr, but your brothers are all dead.”
“No, they're not! Dr. Stevenson said they went to live with other families.”
“Dr. Stevenson was talking to a child. You are older now, so I'm telling you the truth.”
“How did they die?” The boy's voice cracked.
Gunner moved from his crouched position to sit cross-legged. “They were different from other children. You're different, too.”
“I know,” Tyr whispered.
Gunner gave up trying to peer into the eyeholes of the mask. He watched the boy's body language. “Dr. Stevenson was my friend. A brilliant man, if I ever met one. His dream was to stop sending inherently damaged or weak people into war by genetically designing and raising the perfect army. The project was leaked to the public during an election year. A third party had been in power for the first time in U.S. history, so both right and left extremists were gunning for the president to be taken down. Dr. Stevenson's project became their political football. Conservatives protested the use of embryonic cells. Liberals pronounced it as a violation of the UN World Peace Treaty. Both sides stirred the public into a frenzy until Stevenson was forced to shut down the project.”
“What happened to my brothers?”
Gunner shifted, trying to ease the discomfort in his legs. “The administrators hadn't the balls to execute children, so they confiscated the drugs that regulated their growth systems. Without it, the boys aged too rapidly, and died. News stations reported that the project's unnatural subjects had died from natural causes.”
Tyr turned his mask toward Gunner. “Why have I been kept alive?”
“Stevenson couldn't bear to see all his work destroyed. He and I were roommates at the academy. Raised a lot of hell together. Then I went to war, and he went into Intelligence. Before the news leak, Stevenson asked me to hide you. He worked out everything I'd need to keep you alive—even turned over education programs that he said would turn you into a soldier like the world has never seen.”
Tyr removed the mask and wept. “I wish he would have just let me die.”
“Goddammit, Tyr,” Gunner said through clenched teeth. “People risked their lives and careers for you.” He turned to watch the animals by the river. “I don't want to hear any more of your baby-ass bellyaching. Now, get up. We have a job to do here.”
Tyr wiped his eyes and replaced his mask. A band of three deer were in the shallow water on a nearby inlet. They lifted their heads when Tyr stood, but did not run.
Gunner whispered, “You are current on all your lessons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then focus on the anatomy of that young buck.”
Gunner watched as Tyr's breathing slowed.
“Can you see it?”
“I see its heart beating,” Tyr said.
The marvel of such an ability was stunning, if it were real. Incredible, but I need proof.
“You have eaten food provided by others. Now is the time to make a contribution to the community.”
The boy, keeping his eyes on the buck, asked, “What do you mean?”
Gunner whispered, “Our food supply will run out eventually. We need a new source of protein. Stop the heart of that animal, and you will have provided us with our first taste of wild game.”
“He's too beautiful,” Tyr said, still focused on the buck. “I won't do it.”
Gunner sighed. Quickly, he pulled out his pistol and shot the animal, paralyzing its hindquarters. The other deer sprang away, leaving the buck crippled and bleating, thrashing in the shallow water.
Tyr jumped to his feet. “Why? Why did you do that?”
Gunner replied, “The beast is suffering, Tyr. You can put it out of its misery.”
“Shoot it yourself!” Tyr screamed.
“He continues to suffer because you won't do the right thing.”
Tyr jumped up and down, frantic now. He grabbed the hair on each side of his head and his mask fell to the ground. Gunner closed his eyes at the sight of the boy's monstrous face.
“Shoot it, shoot it. Shoot it, please!”
“No.”
The buck continued to thrash and cry piteously. Its front hooves dug into the bank. Tyr ran closer to the wrecked animal. Gunner followed.
“Stop the heart,” Gunner ordered.
The boy planted his feet shoulder-width apart and clenched his fists. His face flushed red and his eyes turned slightly upward. The buck convulsed, and then stilled.
The back of the commander’s neck tingled. Telekinesis had been widely debunked, and, as much as he trusted Stevenson, he doubted his friend could design a brain with superhuman powers. Stevenson, old boy, I wish you were here to see this.
Tyr turned on Gunner with rage burning in his face. “I hate you!” he screamed. “I want you to die!” Tyr clenched his fists and lowered his head, staring at Gunner's chest. The boy immediately dropped to the ground, grabbing at his own chest—gasping and confused.
“You can't hurt me, son,” Gunner stated evenly, hiding his relief. “Now, get those kind of emotions under control before you injure yourself.”
Gunner resented Tyr's hateful glare. I at least told you some of the truth.
CHAPTER 10
Ata
The icy river that flowed through the grassland originated from the land of mountains. At the foot of the range, rocky crags sheltered thorny plants, horned lizards, and a hidden alcove where Ata stashed secret treasures near walls smooth enough to draw upon.
Ata's tribe were herdsmen and warriors. Her mother, however, had come from a community of farmers where the women were skilled in the ways of herbs and in creating decorative urns and jewelry. Tarq, Ata's father, reminded Calestanta that her people's weaknesses were due to the pursuit of such activities.
“Our sons will be strong hunters and expert horsemen,” he often told Calestanta. “We fear nothing! Not like your tribe, who cry about floods and drought and insects.”
However, Tarq allowed Ata to learn the way of plants. Calestanta's knowledge of seasonings and healing had proven to be desirable skills in a woman.
Calestanta made earthenware when she could. She taught Ata how to mix red ochre or charcoal with boar's fat to make paint for decorating their cookery. In Ata's secret hideout, she decorated the rocky walls with black lined drawings up as high as she could reach.
On one wall, Ata had used her hands and fingers to draw images of her parents: Tarq on his horse, and Calestanta gathering herbs near the riverbed. Ata added deer, birds, and flowers. On another wall, she drew from her memories of the day the sky-wagon people landed: their ship, the beetle with its gaping month, and the beetle's babies. Ata was considering adding herself and her brothers off in the grass, watching the beetle, when she heard a voice and footsteps. Ata's new pony, a small bay mare, lifted her head from grazing and whinnied.
The footsteps stopped. Ata scurried behind the nearest pile of boulders. She pressed her eye against a crevice and saw a stranger peek tentatively around the wall of the alcove.
Sky-people! Ata held her breath as
the stranger rounded the corner. Its entire body was covered by a material the color of river flowers. On its shoulder, a little creature with a face like an old man with whiskers sat chattering. They stopped in front of Ata's drawings.
Go away, go away, go away…
The little man hopped off the stranger's shoulder and scampered over to Ata's bowl of paint. It had five fingers on each hand, but ran on all four limbs and used its tail like another hand. Ata thought the creature quite charming until it grabbed the mixing spoon and dripped her precious paint into the dirt.
We fear nothing! Her father's words stirred courage in Ata's heart and she flushed, embarrassed to be hiding like a trembling rabbit. Ata stood and stepped from behind the boulder. She and the stranger stared at one another. The stranger looked like those who had fallen from the beetle's mouth, but it was tall—not like a baby at all. The stranger crouched. Its voice was deep, like a man's, but Ata was more concerned with the little creature that was tasting her paint.
“Byrd,” the stranger said, pointing at himself. Ata noticed he had five fingers, too. She shooed the little creature away from the bowl. It shrieked and flung the spoon at her before scurrying back and climbing up Byrd's arm. “Rafiki,” Byrd said, pointing to what Ata thought might be one of their elders.
Ata placed her thumb over her heart and spoke her own name.
“Hello, Ata,” Byrd said.
Ata picked up the bowl. Byrd pointed at the drawings, then at Ata. She nodded, distractedly, trying in earnest to shake the dirt off the mixing spoon.
Byrd reached into the clothing over his hip and pulled out a silver stick. He walked over to the rock wall, and, after scrutinizing Ata, he moved the stick over the surface. The rock glowed red and emitted a cloud of smoke.
Ata inched forward. Byrd was drawing! Glancing at Ata twice more, Byrd stepped away from his sketch of a little girl with large eyes, a small, flat nose, a pointy chin, and a long braid hanging in front of her shoulder.
That's me! Ata smiled.
“Ata,” Byrd said, pointing at the picture he'd drawn. He pointed at the paint bowl, and then at another empty space on the wall.
Ata stirred the paint while she studied the stranger. She stepped up to the wall and dipped her finger into the paint. The Sky-people were not what Ata expected. After the war, her father, more stone-faced than usual, had barely spoken to his family. He and other riders had ridden the fastest horses away from the camp. Her mother had said they needed help from the People in the Canyon.
After studying Byrd for a moment, Ata began to draw. She painted the large arc of his beak, a long, thin neck, and added two beady eyes.
Ata stepped away from the wall so Byrd could see her drawing. His beak opened, making him look hungry. Then, surprisingly, Byrd staggered, gave out a cry, and dropped to his knees. Rafiki hopped off as Byrd crumbled to the ground, where he lay as though sleeping. The Sky-people certainly were strange.
Rafiki gently tapped Byrd's cheek.
“He's just sleeping,” Ata said. Rafiki looked up at her with eyes, round and dark like hers, but full of sadness and worry. Suddenly, Ata understood—they are not so different from us. She hoped the People in the Canyon would be merciful.
CHAPTER 11
Pilot Pots Kahn-Anderson
“That's one measly hypothesis, Byrd.” Pots shifted in the camp chair, her skin stinging from posterior pressure—a new symptom, aggravating in that any touch, clothing included, stimulated nociceptors enough to make her want to scream. The discomfort had started right after she'd been barred from piloting. The sensation was vague at first, like repressed memory. Now, physical pain and irritability was constant, and in full bloom. Pots wondered if she were having some sort of withdrawal symptoms. After all these years, she finally had something in common with her little brother.
Dr. Byrd was still strutting the length of Commander Dovmont's tent. Pots had suggested he stop flapping his arms while he squawked, but her words were ignored.
“What else could it be? The girl drew what she saw.”
The commander stood with his arms folded across his chest. “And you, Pots—you still think we're seeing illusions?”
Dr. Byrd interrupted, “Not possible! The native girl should not see the same illusions as us.” Byrd seldom blinked anymore but he was clearly upset and his eyes seemed to flutter. Maybe he’d hit his head when he’d passed out in the cave.
The doctor continued, “She drew me as a bird! What we thought were hallucinations are real.”
Pots stood and stretched the flesh-biting fabric away from her chest. “For everyone to have changed simultaneously from a human face to an animal face is physically impossible. Therefore, we must seek out other explanations.” She paced, mostly to distract herself from scratching. “The natives could be telepathic, and Ata simply drew Byrd's delusion. Maybe something in this sector of space affects all humanoids, linking our imaginations, or giving us shared visions. This condition is new to us, but it may normal for the Ostarians.”
Pots didn't look directly at the commander, but she heard him hiss. “Pilot Pots, those explanations sound like some geek wet dream science fiction movie. Can't you suggest anything more realistic?”
“Realistic? We flew to a planet in Tau Ceti on the back of a worm-mole! And it's Dr. Kahn now, thanks to you.” Pots glared. She shouldn't antagonize the commander, but her private meeting with him had been hijacked by Byrd ranting about cave drawings, and with all the itching, Pots was running short on diplomacy. Any chance of convincing Gunner to pressure Captain Montalbam to reinstate her as a pilot on Alpha Horizon would have to wait.
The corners of Gunner's scaly lips twitched. “Dr. Kahn-Anderson. According to your file.”
Pots struggled to spew a Japanese curse. It seemed the only thing she could concentrate on anymore was scratching. “Perhaps the girl's bird drawing was a hallucination. For that matter, the girl herself could have been a hallucination.”
The commander blinked his transparent eye. Doctor Byrd scratched his head.
“Has anyone checked holos or videos lately? Ones from Earth?” Changing the subject appealed to Pots, especially if it meant Byrd would be sent away on an errand. Byrd took the bait.
“Now that's an interesting question. Do our illusions extend to photo images? Funny, I have some old holos stored away, but I've hadn’t thought to look.”
“Do it. I expect a report in the morning.” The commander stood. “Pilot Pots. Dr. Byrd. You are both dismissed.”
“Do it yourself, Gunner,” Pots said, moving toward the tent flap. “Until I'm reinstated, I'm Dr. Kahn, your local astrophysicist, and I don't do memorabilia.”
Outside, the night sky was overcast. With no visible stars and the planet's lack of a moon, the sky held little interest for Pots—just a dismal space devoid of worm-moles. Pots's craving for the pilot's chair surged from the pit of her stomach to the apex of her skull. Like never before, Pots understood what it meant to crave—to need something so deeply that all else faded into distraction.
I should be grateful—I'm alive and on a healthy planet. Yet, feeling guilty over a wash of discontent only added to Pots's misery. The illusions could be permanent. If only the days would stop feeling like nightmares. Still, none of this could compare with the catastrophes people were experiencing on Earth. I should be grateful.
Pots took her last tranquilizer. Byrd would insist on a therapy session before he would give her more. Dr. Reynolds was a better source. Jacob had messaged her that he'd be home in two days.
Jacob's coming home. He could have settled in any city, with any number of younger, fertile women, but he had chosen Galileo, and her. For now. Jacob would certainly want someone else once he decided to start a family, but for now, the doctor was too busy setting up clinics. Pots hadn't seen Jacob since she'd left the ship. What animal does he look like, she wondered.
Madly scratching her forearms, Pots doubted she could endure his touch. Her skin burned and itched and ached
for the pilot's chair, and her mind craved dissolution in space.
A pack of canids jostled past Pots, pushing her off the pathway and up against the side of a tent. They laughed in whispered, breathy pants. Over his shoulder, one turned his brown shaggy head, and with a lolling tongue and flashing white fangs, his lifted his muzzle and howled.
Pots quickened her pace. She slipped past the community square where supplies were kept and food distributed. People liked to gather here to socialize and restock their tents. Pots counted five categories of visages: Reptilia, Aves, Canidae, Felidae, and Ruminantia. Two mixed couples walked hand in hand—a minx with a wolf, and a gecko with a parrot. All others mingled amongst their own kind.
Pots entered her tent and fastened the flap closed with magnetic clips and Velcro. She stripped off every thread of clothing and stood in the middle of the dimly lit space, imagining the feel of the pilot’s chair against her skin, the moist, warm pulse that would come before the surge of—the whirl of—exciting, expansive space. I need to fly.
The reality was, crones were continually being trained, and Captain Montalbam could easily replace her. The mission would continue—Alpha Horizon would carry increasing loads of passengers from Earth to Ostara, passengers who might find themselves having to adjust to looking like animals. Pots needed to adjust to life as it was, not as she wanted it to be.
The time had come to face her reflection. Pots removed a mirror and its stand from the bottom of her storage container. She closed the lid and set the mirror upright. Kneeling before it, she tried to look, but her eyes squeezed closed. I'm afraid to see.
Pots waited. These hallucinations, illusions, stress-induced delusions were visible to everyone in broad daylight. She saw little need for sentimental, self-indulgent candlelit ceremonies—those were Celine-flavored histrionics. Pots turned the solar-powered light pole to full illumination. She preferred to view the world without the flicker of shadow and mystery. Pots opened her gaze to the mirror, and lost the ability to breathe.