That can’t be good.
Max read the note.
GREETINGS YOUNG FRUIT EATER. HERE ARE YOUR WATCH, AS WELL AS THE CLOTHING, GEAR, FOOD, AND WATER YOU WILL NEED FOR THIS TREK. THE BLUE DOOR BEHIND YOU IS LOCKED. IF YOU TOUCH IT, YOU WILL DIE. THE GREEN DOOR IS UNLOCKED AND LEADS OUTSIDE. GO THROUGH IT WITHIN THE NEXT HALF HOUR OR YOU WILL DIE.
GO TO VLLGRHMRR’S BASE CAMP, MARKED ON THE MAP. FEAR NO THINKING FOE. BUT BEWARE, THERE ARE DEADLY BEASTS IN THE FOREST THAT WILL HUNT YOU AND, IF THEY CAN, KILL AND EAT YOU. HEED THIS WELL: LIFE CAME TO THIS WORLD MUCH AS IT CAME TO THE KRAG HOME WORLD. CHIRAL MISMATCH WILL NOT KEEP YOU SAFE.
BE CAREFUL BUT BE BOLD.
TRAINER VLLGRHMRR WAITS FOR YOU AT HIS CAMP. YOUR FATHERS BEFORE YOU WAIT IN THE NEXT LIFE. ONLY IF YOUR WITS ARE KEEN AND YOUR HEART IS STRONG WILL YOU MEET TRAINER FIRST AND FATHERS LATER.
Careful AND bold. That’s helpful. I suppose I can do that by hurrying slowly to the base camp.
Inner sarcasm aside, Max was particularly concerned-- “concerned” being a synonym for “scared absolutely shitless”--by the “chiral mismatch” part of the Vaaach note, because it took an issue about which he thought he didn’t have to worry and dropped it solidly right back in the middle of his plate.
Chirality: every midshipman learns about it by age eleven or twelve. And most have a really hard time with it, not because the concept is particularly difficult (it isn’t) but because the middies can’t learn it without unlearning so much of what they “know” about alien life from watching TridVid dramas.
In stories told on the screen, humans on alien worlds sometimes eat the local plants and animals, and sometimes the local plants and animals eat the humans. But, one can always eat the other. And, always, the characters are worried about infection from alien bacteria, having their brains bored into (and, more often than not, their minds controlled) by alien parasites, or being liquefied alive and screaming--in truly disgusting fashion—by slimy alien fungi.
In reality, these things are almost never an issue because of a fundamental biochemical incompatibility between human and alien life (and between life from one alien planet and life from another) called “chiral mismatch.” Chirality is a property of most organic molecules, most importantly sugars and amino acids/proteins, by virtue of which all but the simplest organic molecules have at least two forms with the same formula but in which the atoms in any given compound are assembled in slightly different ways. The most common analogy given by organic chemists is that the two forms are like right and left shoes. The right shoe is obviously the same thing as the left, but one cannot substitute for the other.
All Earth life has “right handed” sugars and “left handed” proteins. All life on the Pfelung home world has right handed sugars like Earth life but is still incompatible because they have left handed proteins. The variation appears to be purely random from planet to planet, meaning that only one world in four will have a chirality that matches that of terrestrial life. And, on these worlds, there is usually some other fundamental difference in biochemistry that makes it and Earth life incompatible and—more often than not—mutually toxic.
Predators can usually sense this incompatibility in potential alien prey, probably because the visiting Humans or Pfelung or Sarthan smell “wrong” to them. For example, a Guo Bear on 61 Cygni B IV, although omnivorous and extremely hungry, will walk right past a human, dog, cat, cow, or other terrestrial creature with nothing more than an indignant sniff. All of which is a good thing for humans exploring other worlds as there are enough things on alien planets that will kill you without being eaten by big life forms or infected by small ones.
But, not all life in other star systems evolved independently. About 11 million years ago, some unknown alien race, for an unknown reason, terraformed an unknown number of planets in distant star systems and transplanted Earth life onto those worlds, meaning that life on those planets is compatible with Earth life. The Krag home world is one such planet, which is the reason they are at war with the Union. Since encountering the Krag, Earth explorers have found two more similar worlds: Huang II and 45 Hickok-Shapiro VI. Life on those worlds is a chiral match to Earth life because it IS Earth life that just doesn’t happen to be living on Earth. Apparently, life on the world upon which Max was now standing—wherever this planet is—is another such world.
Max had hoped for a break here so that he not need to worry about being eaten by local predators. No such luck.
The clothing consisted of Max’s own temperate climate, three season (spring, summer, and fall) planetary surface forest combat uniform. There was no winter gear, so--unless the Vaaach were trying to make things unreasonably hard on him, he would not be stepping out into an arctic wasteland. Max put on the boots, wicking temperature-adaptive undergarments, heavy duty trousers with kneepads and a dozen or so cargo pockets, t-shirt, combat shirt-vest, and the jacket over everything with his rank, unit, and personal insignia. Max noted with interest that someone had changed the insignia on the jacket to reflect his new rank. Whatever he faced on the other side of that door, Max would be going to meet it wearing the field uniform of a Union Space Navy Lieutenant (JG).
The gear included a standard field cap, a rainy weather hat, and a poncho. Max put on the field cap and stowed the other items.
Maybe things are going to get a little wet.
Max made a quick check for the most critical items that the pack should contain, and found most of what he was looking for, all packed neatly in perfect accord with regulations. There were no firearms (a side arm would have been a great comfort right then), but he did find his boarding cutlass, dirk, fighting knife, and holdout knife--essentially every edged weapon he regularly carried. The equipment also included the venerable Model 2197 Naval Battle/Utility Ax (Compact, Folding), invented for the short but brutal D’vett War. As small arms rounds just bounced off the exoskeletons of the oldest and toughest of the D’Vettoom warriors, the ax was handy in close order combat so that Union Marines could hack off five or six of the enemy’s ten limbs throwing the three meter tall insectoids into massive neural shock, shutting down three of its five (or six, depending on the individual) brains resulting in unconsciousness immediately and death within a minute or so. There was a lot of ground pounding in that war, so the Model 2197 had a lightweight folding handle and fit in a quick-deploy pocket in the standard naval field pack.
The pack also contained a Mark XX Compass (with magnetic and gyroscopic modes), field rations for four days, water for two days, four pairs of dry socks, a portable shelter, ground sleeping roll, first aid kit, field drug kit, entrenching tool/shovel, a small selection of ropes and lines, fire starting kit, mess kit, wire saw, and a few other odds and ends. But for the absence of firearms and ammunition, the gear was nearly identical to what he would pack for himself for a three or four day trek through the woods.
Max put the compass and map in a jacket pocket, slipped his dirk into the pocket made for it in the right leg of his trousers, hooked the fighting knife to his belt, and slung his boarding cutlass scabbard over his left shoulder. He shouldered the pack and slowly pushed open the door to the outside.
The first thing Max noticed was the air that blew into the room. It was autumn crisp, but not cold, and bearing a fresh, woodsy smell. It was a good temperature and a good smell.
At least I’m not in a howling arctic wilderness or in the middle of a decay-filled bog.
The door opened out, revealing a scene that could have come from a clear day on any terraformed world in Known Space. The facility he was leaving was situated in a large clearing, surrounded, at least on the three sides with the view not blocked by the building, by what looked to be a typical North American or European type hardwood forest. The ground in the clearing was covered by ankle-high grass and other ground-cover plants, some of which were in bloom, showing brilliant yellow, gold, and lavender flowers. Max could hear birds chirping in the woods.
It was all very idyllic. Max knew, thoug
h, not to let his guard down.
WHAM. THUNK.
Max cringed at the startling sound of the green door closing and locking.
That sounded awfully final.
There was no going back now. It felt like when Max was eight years old after the death of his mother and sisters and his father sent him off to serve in the navy as a midshipman. Two weeks later, Max’s father was dead. From that point, if Max didn’t make it in the navy, he had no home to go back to. Not even the orphanages and foster homes, overflowing as a result of the Gynophage attack, could take him.
I have a home now. My home is the navy. I have a family now. My family is my ship or my squadron. Of course, my home and family are now 14,000 light years away.
That means I’m truly on my own.
Max had been drilled thoroughly in what the navy called “Admiral Newton’s Three Laws of Motion.” First Law: When in hostile territory, move immediately from any position where any enemy may have observed you. Second law: Once you have moved, and if you want to be found by friendly forces, find a safe place and stay there. Third law: If you believe you are being sought or pursued by hostile forces, keep moving.”
I think both the First and Third Laws apply here.
Accordingly, Max decided that his first order of business was to get his bearings, determine a course, and then get moving.
He knelt down on the ground and spread out the map provided by the Vaaach. It looked just like any standard Union topographical map--same 1:24,000 scale, same colors, same symbols.
Thank you, great and powerful Vaaach, for making this map like Union maps. At least I won’t have to waste a lot of time trying to figure out how to read alien cartography.
The map had a standard compass rose, indicating that a magnetic compass would work. Max put his compass on top of the rose and lined it up both on magnetic north as indicated by the magnetic compass and on true north as indicated by the gyroscopic one. Gyroscopic and magnetic (when accounting for the deviation depicted in the rose) readings were in perfect accord. So oriented, map features were in the same positions relative to Max’s map position as the real terrain features were to Max’s actual position. The map was helpfully printed such that the building out of which he had just been thrown was in the center. Northwest of his position, marked with a blue “x” labelled “Base Camp (Your Destination)” was, of all things, the base camp that was his destination. The body of the compass was made of clear plastic inscribed with a ruler which Max used to measure the map distance from his present location to his destination. He converted the map distance to ground distance in his head.
About 30 kilometers as the crow flies.
He looked at the terrain between the two points. There were some steep hills that he thought it best to avoid. Then there was an area of swamp that transitioned to marsh that transitioned to a low river flood plain that, as far as he knew, could very well be flooded.
I’m not homesick enough to go that way.
He marked a tentative path with a pencil included in the miscellaneous tools in his pack, and then worked out the distance from waypoint to waypoint.
Closer to 40 kilometers as the Max walks.
Fast moving, experienced hikers traversing prepared, familiar trails could cross that distance in a single very hard day. Infantry crossing average terrain under noncombat conditions would normally allow two days to cover that distance. In light of being on an alien planet and having no idea what lay ahead except for what he could see on his map or with his own eyes, Max thought it best to allow three days. The Vaaach had given him food for four days, though, and he thought that he should be prepared to be in the field for that long.
Max measured the map bearing to his first waypoint: 322 degrees true. He picked up the compass, popped up the electro-optical sighting system, sighted down that bearing, and picked a landmark in that exact direction. He put the compass in a jacket pocket, folded the map and put it in another jacket pocket, took a sip of water from the canteen, shouldered the pack and boarding cutlass, and started out toward his landmark at an easy pace.
In less than an hour, he reached the edge of the clearing. Max stopped and peered into the forest ahead. His initial impression had been correct--it was essentially a temperate zone hardwood forest. The trees were a reasonable distance apart—a meter or two in most places, and there were several apparent animal trails through the ankle to knee-high vegetation on the forest floor. He checked his leg protectors--something like leggings that went from the middle of Max’s boots (just above the ankle) to just above the knee--a useful piece of gear that turned back thorns, shed plant saps and resins to protect the wearer from plants like poison ivy, and instantly turned hard as rock when struck hard, thereby protecting from snake bite.
If these woods are like the ones back home, there are at least a dozen species of poisonous snakes between me and where I’m going. I don’t want to be the test subject who determines whether “universal snake anti-venin” works on these snakes.
The training manual for such things, which Max had dutifully studied as a midshipman, said that he should pull out his binocs and give the forest a thorough visual scan, especially in infrared. But, it was a bright, sunny day with the sun filtering through the trees to provide plenty of light for Max to see nearly half a kilometer into the woods from where he was standing.
Standing here panning the binocs slowly back and forth 50 times to cover 50 different infrared frequency sub-bands revealing the presence of 50 kinds of nothing will take fifty minutes at least, and I want to get the hiking part of this thing out of the way. I’m not going to waste my time.
Max stepped toward the tree line. He took one slow step, one very slow step, and then stopped stepping.
Maybe this is one of the places where I have to be bold. Carefully.
Max took the binocs out of his pack. He performed one slow scan in the visual light spectrum at 3X magnification, with enough brightness and contrast enhancement to let him see sixty or seventy meters into the forest while giving him a reasonable field of view so that he wasn’t scanning for danger while looking through a high magnification drinking straw.
He followed this procedure with three more scans at the same magnification, but with the digital imagers set for three different frequency ranges in the infrared band, consisting of longer wavelengths that tend to be emitted by warm objects—like large warm-blooded animals.
The selection of these ranges was, however, almost certainly not what the relevant field manual would have recommended. Max was fairly sure that, when he worked through the training module entitled “Operation and Maintenance of Visual Imaging Devices Used In the Field by Non-Specialist Personnel,” these bands were parts of the electromagnetic spectrum that signaled the presence of some hazards that Max should avoid. But, whether those hazards were toxic-fume-spewing geothermal vents, skin-crisping high-temperature pyroclastic clouds, colony mounds of deadly stinging insects, or hungry human-devouring carnivorous animals, he couldn’t manage to remember.
You can bet I’ll review that lesson module when I get back.
IF I get back.
In any event, Max saw what he expected to see: trees and bushes in infrared, which didn’t look all that different from trees and bushes in visible light, except that anything directly illuminated by this system’s unidentified primary was almost blindingly bright. In any event, he saw nothing that he could tell posed any particular danger. Max took a quick compass bearing, visually plotted a path, and stepped into the woods, following animal trails wherever he could. He checked the compass every ten minutes and usually had to correct his course a few degrees left or right.
Walking through the woods--without anyone to watch his back--on an alien planet known to harbor carnivores that would gladly eat him, wasn’t a lighthearted nature hike with a troop of Wilderness Girls. Max was acutely aware of that fact, and he tried to act accordingly. He paid scrupulous attention to his surroundings, listening attentively for the sounds of
a stalking beast snapping twigs or crushing underbrush, as well as for any changes in the low level but ubiquitous birdsong that filled the forest. Max also knew, however, that his increased alertness might well be doing him absolutely no good whatsoever. After all, forests aren’t the typical training venue for young Union naval personnel, nor are they the subject of any meaningful classroom instruction, all of which meant that Max had a very strong suspicion that he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the sounds caused by a stalking predator and those generated by the hopping passage of a fluffy little pink-eared bunny rabbit. That is, if this planet even had bunny rabbits, and even if they were small and fluffy with pink ears.
And, even if, when you fried them with some Holy Trinity (the characteristic Cajun mixture of celery, onion, and bell pepper) plus some garlic, black pepper, and cayenne, they were incredibly delicious. Dang, I wish I hadn’t thought about rabbits. It’s making me hungry, and not in a way that gets filled up by any standard naval-issued field rations.
In fact, for all he knew, if this planet had rabbits, they could leap five meters straight through the air and decapitate him with a couple of bites like the Devil-Hares of Caerbannog VII.
He did, however, give it a good try. He really did. Seriously.
But, I’m made for space, not the forest. Give me a hostile sensor contact any day.
Notwithstanding the danger built into the situation, thus far Max had felt relatively safe or, at least, not under any immediate threat. Slowly, however, after about an hour and a half, that began to change. Max had a strong sense of wrongness, akin to the feeling he got when a Krag was tracking his fighter from some sensor blind spot and firming up its firing solution. He had come to trust these senses, feelings, and hunches over the course of his young life, because--more often than not--they turned out to be right. Alone, on an alien planet known to harbor predators that might like the taste of his tender, pink, commissioned officer flesh, Max was certain that he needed to rely on his instincts more than ever. Accordingly, when the sense of a knife pointed right between his shoulder blades became acute, he halted and began a 360 degree look around both with his binocs and the Mark I eyeball starting with directly behind himself, known for centuries to pilots as their “six o’clock position” or simply “six” for short.
The Hunters of Vermin Page 10