Undazzled

by Chance Maree

  Before dawn, Tyr and Ata slipped into the camp, avoiding guards and early risers. Ata stole inside her parents’ ger. Moments later, she emerged with Mori, who, upon seeing Tyr, nearly gave them away with a whoop of excitement.

  “We're here in secret,” Ata whispered to her brother. She explained that the baby was practically an orphan and was in dire need of a wet nurse. Mori did not question or challenge Ata's requests. He agreed to wait until Tyr and Ata whistled a signal before taking the baby inside.

  Ata gave Mori a quick kiss on the cheek and instructed him to tell their parents she was on an adventure with Tyr. She asked that Mori assure them that she was fine and would return in one or two days.

  ⁂

  　After a brief nap and quick meal of military rations that set Ata choking, Pots drove the WeeVil miles and miles over plains until they reached the edge of the steep-sided canyon.

  Ata remained asleep, tucked so snugly inside a sleeping bag that Tyr and Pots were reluctant to disturb her. They climbed from the vehicle and stood at the canyon's edge, taking in the panorama of layered rock formations.

  “This is the oldest geological structure I've seen on Ostara,” Pots said, her voice so whispery Tyr wondered if she had pharyngitis. Ata climbed out of the WeeVil and Tyr could tell by the widening of her eyes and dropping of her jaw that the girl had not seen the canyon before.

  “We are in the right place,” Ata explained. “My father said that to visit the People in the Canyon, he had to ride his horse down a steep path.”

  Tyr sensed her rising agitation. “Are you certain you know where they are?” he asked gently.

  “In the canyon.”

  “In the canyon?”

  “There's a narrow pathway here,” Pots said, stepping down off the ledge. “It's going to be tough going with gear. We should have brought air boards.”

  “Are we in range of your com?” Fearing a call from the commander, Tyr had closed his com the night he had run away from Galileo.

  Pots seemed to understand his fear. She put her hand to her ear and nodded. “We can call for help if we need to.”

  Tyr and Pots loaded their packs with water and nutrition bars. Although the temperature had been cold during the night, it grew warm as the day progressed. Their progress slowed in the afternoon when Pots and Ata needed frequent rests and sought relief under the shade of overhanging cliffs. As the sun moved overhead, shade became scarce and Tyr noticed a dangerous rise in Pots's core body temperature. Ata began to move slowly and her speech became slurred.

  “You both need to drink more water.” Tyr didn’t try to hide his impatience.

  Pushing the bottle away, Pots rasped, “Ata needs it more than I do.”

  Ata mumbled, “The People in the Canyon will give us—” The girl slipped and disappeared over the ridge. Tyr leapt over the ridge, hopped rocks—one, two, three, four—and scrambled down a loose pebble bank. He landed in front of Ata, catching her body before it rolled over another treacherous cliff.

  Tyr held Ata in his arms and looked up. Pots peered down at them. With Ata in his arms, Tyr nimbly climbed up the banks towards Pots, while she descended cautiously, clumsy of foot and weak-legged. Together, they huddled in a sliver of shade. Ata, meanwhile, remained unconscious.

  “She's breathing,” Pots said.

  Tyr quieted his mind and tried to see inside the girl. The defensive energy was not there to block him. “She has a concussion. Broken ribs. Collar bone. Right femur. And a collapsed lung.”

  Pots gasped. Then, simultaneously puzzled and frightened, she reached for her com.

  “I can fix her,” Tyr admitted. He looked into Pots's eyes, seeing dilated pupils. He could smell her fear.

  “I know what you are.”

  “What I am?”

  “I mean, I know who you are.”

  Tyr turned to Ata and focused his third-sight on the rib that had pierced her lung. With his hands and his mind, he moved the rib back into place. Using his will alone, Tyr accelerated Ata's body repair of the lung tissue. As soon as the lung inflated, Tyr was thrust away from Ata with such force that he fell backward.

  I'm not done! Tyr detected other internal bleeds, and a concussion. He tried again, but Ata's defenses were impenetrable. He knelt by her side, taking her hand. “Ata, let me help you. Please. Our people won't get here in time. You could die.” Tyr looked upward, to a sky devoid of drones.

  Pots was already on her com. She grabbed his arm. “Look.”

  “What?” Tyr searched the sky.

  “No—look at the rocks.”

  The rocky face of the canyon wall was moving, as though getting comfortable. Not only one wall, but all the walls that surrounded them moved! They morphed and shifted; shapes like eyes formed, and noses and mouths so the cliff faces looked like old men, craggy and wrinkled and dry.

  Then came sounds, varying in pitch, low in tone—all vibrated within Tyr's chest. He saw, somewhere behind his third-sight, geometric shapes that formed and reformed like a kaleidoscope. Pots's grip on his arm tightened. The sound from the rock faces consolidated into something familiar.

  Pots said, “They're laughing.”

  One of the faces opened its mouth, wider and wider until the contours of the face disappeared, and from the dark cave of the mouth stepped a biped humanoid clothed head to toe in a white cleanroom suit. The caveman's face was obscured by a dark shield built into the white hood that covered his head.

  A memory flashed before Tyr’s eyes—a scene from Earth: men and women, his caretakers, in cleanroom suits. Tyr shook his head, trying to clear the hallucination. When Tyr saw the white-suited caveman again, it towered over him, a tall, frozen statue.

  A barrage of signals pounded Tyr's senses. They zipped past and were followed by a sensation of suffocation. Tyr ripped off his mask and threw it down. He looked down at his hand, which felt as though it had been scalded. But I know I can breathe with the mask on, he thought. He lifted his hand and saw that it was unhurt. One glance at the caveman in the cleanroom suit and Tyr understood that his senses had been manipulated. The caveman has third-sight! Tyr shouted, “Who are you?”

  The caveman turned away, dragging his boots as he walked. He paused, stepping carefully over rocks until he arrived under the ledge where Ata lay. Pots scrambled backward, gasping with fear. The caveman stooped and lifted Ata using both hands. Tyr held his breath, anticipating Ata's destruction, but the caveman moved gently, as though he carried a precious doll.

  Tyr threw his own third-sight into the caveman's chest, and found himself groping in the dark.

  “Where are you taking her?” Tyr yelled. In anger, he sought some of the caveman’s flesh to destroy.

  The caveman waved his hand and Tyr was brushed aside. He fell back against a boulder and cried out in pain with a sudden rush of anger. He cannot take Ata! I'm responsible for her! Gathering strength through body and will, Tyr’s mind raged—a chaotic storm against the calm intruder. In the next instant, Tyr blacked out, third-sight and all.

  The next time Tyr opened his eyes, he saw only sky. He tried to sit up, but his head spun and contents from his stomach burned his throat. “Where's Ata?”

  Pots stared down at him. “The guy took her inside the cave. Somewhere behind those rocks.” She brought a bottle of water up to Tyr's lips. “Here. Drink.”

  Tyr pushed the bottle aside and tried once again to sit upright. The canyon walls were normal—motionless, soundless, and without faces.

  “That was one of the People in the Canyon?”

  Pots nodded and replaced the bottle’s cap. “That would be my guess. Even so, I'd say we're all in deep kuso.”

  No longer feeling unique and powerful, Tyr knew by the icy blood in his veins that Pots was right.

  CHAPTER 20

  Commander Gunner Dovmont

  We find ourselves threatened. An unknown race, or tribe, called the Canyon People secretly inhabit Ostara. A native has referred to the Canyon People as powerful protectors.
If they exist, these people have successfully kept themselves hidden from our surveillance, leading us to assume they may be more technically advanced than the native tribes we've observed so far.

  Gunner paused writing in his log. Am I getting worked up over the mere babbling of a young girl? He recalled Ata's threat—they will squash you—which struck him like a tuning fork, sending every cell in his body to vibrate at an alarming pitch.

  Do the Canyon People even exist? They could be nothing but folklore, superstitions, or the imaginings of a single child—a child who had been taught to parrot English and was brought into the camp by a rebellious, genetically fabricated teenager. This could all be a hoax.

  Yet Gunner could not dismiss the idea that the Canyon People were real, and were savvy enough to evade detection, and to “squash” their foes. Gunner's troops and limited weaponry may well be outmatched—at least until help arrived from Earth. But how much longer would Earth be able to provide military resources? If their preparations amounted to a fire drill, it may prepare them for the real threat later, and the commander knew that one day they would face a threat. Danger is always lurking, waiting until you least expect it. Gunner vowed to summon every scrap of mind, body, and wit at his command to secure the survival of his people.

  For his meditation, Gunner turned to Sun Tzu. Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.

  In fact, the commander's plan to eliminate the Ostarian natives was meant to win the war. Once the natives died out, there would be no further bloodshed, no battles would be fought because the Canyon People would have no one to protect. The logic and elegance of the plan gave Gunner a deep sense of confidence. He regretted that so few people would ever know of it.

  One problem lingered: how technically savvy were his enemies? Enough to reverse Dr. Reynold’s sterilization method? A new race of natives could arise through cloning. Gunner knew he’d have to give the plan further thought.

  In the meantime, the commander dismissed Lieutenant Thomas. The lieutenant hadn't taken time off since they launched from Earth, so the man most certainly could use a day of R&R. More importantly, Gunner himself wanted a day without a shadow.

  Dr. Geoff Byrd’s home was the commander's first destination. The psychologist had moved into a new housing construct, and Gunner was interested in seeing it. The units were insulated and functional, made with a mix of durable materials from Earth grafted upon adobe-style bricks compounded with Ostarian dirt. If Gunner cared about such things, he would have considered the construct to be ugly, yet more importantly, he acknowledged that they looked sturdy. The door he knocked on sounded like real wood.

  No one answered, but shuffling inside was unmistakable. “Doctor Byrd, this is Commander Dovmont. I need to speak with you.”

  Still no reply.

  “Doctor,” Gunner leaned against the door. Byrd, he suspected, was crouched on the other side. Keeping his voice low, the commander threatened, “Open up, or I'll suspect that you are incapacitated and call a patrol to break down the door.”

  “Don't! No need for that. I didn't hear you. I'll be there in a moment.” The door opened a crack and Byrd's long beak peeked out. “What a pleasure to see you, Commander.”

  “I apologize for not making an appointment, but I have a matter of some urgency.”

  Byrd gulped. “Could you wait a couple minutes, or come by later?”

  Gunner pursed his lips and shook his head. “My curiosity is piqued. What is it you're hiding?”

  “Pornography. I'm so ashamed.”

  “Hmmm. No.”

  A crash sounded inside the house.

  “Don't tell me you have a woman in there, Doctor.”

  “Yes, yes! We're having an illicit affair. Her husband would be devastated.”

  Gunner flinched at the sound of another crash. “Enough with the games. Open the door.”

  “Please, Commander, allow me my privacy.”

  Gunner grabbed Byrd's beak and pulled until he could look Byrd in the eye. “I recommend you show me what you're hiding.”

  Byrd's wrestled his beak from Gunner's grip. “I cannot bear its disclosure. Please, Commander, I beg for your mercy.”

  “Your request has me piqued. Now move.” Gunner pushed Dr. Byrd aside. The interior was dimly lit, and it took Gunner a moment to adjust. Although the construct was insulated and sound, Gunner decided he preferred his tent. The block style room felt sterile—too confined and institutional for his personal taste. Gunner opened the window blind. A shaft of sunlight drew his eyes to two doors—a narrow one led to the head, and through the other door, he saw the corner of a neatly made cot. One quick glance around the room, and Gunner realized he was alone.

  “Dr. Byrd, come in here.”

  “I'd rather not.”

  Gunner insisted. The moment Byrd stepped into the room, a squirrel sized animal burst out of a hidden corner of the kitchen area. The creature scurried towards Byrd and into the doctor's arms.

  “You had better explain what in the hell you are doing with a monkey.”

  Byrd gulped and sputtered. By the time he was finally able to speak, his words spewed forth in a rush. “When the universities shut down the biology labs, all the animals were to be euthanized. I raised this little guy from a baby. He's completely healthy and tame, so I liberated him. Rafiki didn't do anything wrong. I had no choice—I couldn't let them kill him, and I couldn't leave him behind.”

  “Everyone aboard the ship had to abandon their pets.”

  “Commander, please don't kill Rafiki! I swear he's not a threat to you, or anyone.”

  Gunner paced. How did Byrd manage to hide a monkey for the entire trip from Earth? The doctor couldn't possibly believe he'd be able to keep this creature a secret forever. Everyone who had to sacrifice a pet would resent it. And yet, most animal lovers were too sentimental to want the monkey killed. Some others would be angry. The issue would blow over—however, the doctor's fear could be useful.

  “What about diseases?”

  “I put Rafiki through the same quarantine and sterilization process as humans.”

  Gunner took a closer look at the creature. It was about 13 centimeters long, mostly black, with old man's eyes and a long, droopy white mustache. “It almost looks human.”

  “Rafiki is a tamarin. They are very smart. I know this sounds pathetic, but he's like family to me.”

  “I understand, Doctor, but if I look the other way, I would come across as complicit.”

  “Please, Commander. Look the other way! I'd be in your debt forever.”

  Gunner smiled on the inside. “My purpose in visiting you this morning was to discuss an important matter.”

  “All ears, here.” Byrd's voice was choked. Perhaps he understood the implications of his debt.

  “I need people to understand and believe that the Ostarians are a threat to our survival. They look human, I know, but so does this monkey. I need you to turn the natives into bogeymen. I want no native sympathizers.”

  “There's no evidence…”

  “What good is evidence? Use your psychology, dammit. I want as much dedication to this project as you've given to hiding that animal. If the population of natives begins to dwindle, I want our folks to be glad of it. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Commander.” Byrd squirmed, as Gunner hoped he would. “I will give it my full attention.”

  “I suggest you start with your colleagues, and other health care workers. I'm not just talking about Galileo. You have people across ten cities to convince.”

  Gunner opened a covered bowl sitting on the lone table. He plucked out a grape tomato, one of the first fruits to be grown in the hydroponic garden, and offered it to Rafiki. The monkey hesitated, and then quickly snatched the bowl and scampered off. Greedy bastard, Gunner thought.

  ⁂

  With winter approaching, buildings larger than standard home domiciles had been constructed to continue promotion of social
gatherings. Gunner walked into one such establishment, The Nag's Head, which had been named by the volunteer in charge of running the place.

  After observing five project work sites, Gunner felt cordial toward the hard-working and industrious people who were building the foundation of the city. The commander had entered the work sites unaccompanied and in casual military attire, yet the workers instantly recognized him and thanked him for his service. Gunner decided to stop by the bar they recommended to taste the new alcoholic beverages lauded as the best beer-like drink on Ostara.

  I will remember this day, Gunner thought as his eyes adjusted to the bar's dim interior. This is the day the surreal has come to look normal. The Nag's Head was a large meeting room with a door leading to an annex in the back. The floor space was crammed with a zoo of animal-headed people. Some were standing, others seated. A few were dancing, or engaged in conversation, but mostly they were drinking. Gunner noticed backslapping, flirting, arguing, even uninhibited singing. Yet, the bar lacked military personnel; Gunner knew his men spent their off hours hanging around various military tents, and the mess.

  A man moved quickly from behind the bar. “Commander Dovmont! I'm Neal McKinney, caretaker of this fine establishment. What an honor to see you, sir!” Neal tossed his equine head, and, with a roll of his eyes, invited Gunner to join him at the bar.

  A familiar voice drew Gunner's attention. At a corner table, Dr. Reynolds sat drinking with his medical staff, a woman and two men—Gunner remembered seeing each of them in the lab. He drank from the mug a bar maid had placed in his hand and complimented Neil on the beer.

  “Ostara's Finest!” Neil said, beaming.

  The weasel-faced construction worker passed by and mumbled, “Also known as Ostarian piss.”