The Leagacy of Heorot

by Larry Niven

  The house receded. The water was growing denser with grendels. A few must have followed the taste of human garbage in the water, but the rest had followed garbage and grendel blood too: the taste of territory to be taken.

  They were almost halfway to the drop-off. "Now," said Stu.

  He didn't have to look. The stink told him: Mits had the stopcock open and was spraying along the river. The Skeeter blades scattered the stuff; it must be falling over a path a hundred meters wide.

  And every speed sac they'd put through the blender had been quite flat. Grendels used up their speed when they were dying. That mist must be as thin as hope.

  Grendels surged from the water. It worked beautifully! Half the grendels were murdering the other half! No, not quite. But the flying was easy, and Stu freed one hand to touch his comcard.

  "Anyone there?"

  "We're kind of busy," said Joe Sikes. "They're coming through the fucking mine field."

  "I'm halfway down to the bluff. We're spraying. The grendels are all on speed. This stuff is magic. I'd say only about half of them are reacting to it, but they set the others off. We're going to lose about two thirds of them in an orgy of murder."

  "Good news."

  "Bad news is, about a third of them are just running away from each other. Say, just guessing now, four hundred are now fighting and two hundred just scattering, the cowards, and of the two hundred, a hundred and fifty are going up. Toward you."

  "I read you. A hundred and fifty coming."

  "We're getting close to the drop-off and... the batteries read dead. I think—"

  Mits called from aft. "I've got the other tank in place. It's running."

  "Sure is. Joe, we'll stay up as long as we can and then try to get away from the stream."

  "I copy. You think the Skeeter cabin will hold?"

  "Sure."

  "That's a relief." Trace of sarcasm there? "Stu, Mits... ah... on behalf of all of us and world civilization, I want to express our thanks."

  "Don't be pompous, Joe. Save it for the victory speeches."

  Joe shouted something incoherent. Then there was only the popcorn sound of gunfire, and not enough of that, and it was dwindling.

  Grendels seethed in an orgy of murder. Some of the warier grendels had sprinted away from the water before the spray reached them. At a good, safe distance from the battle, far from the stream, they watched the Skeeter. More and more of them, left and right of the river, watched Stu in the Skeeter cockpit.

  The batteries had to be on their last gasp. Stu veered left, away from the stream, and angled uphill too. Grendels that had been watching were suddenly in the spray pattern. Stu grinned: half of them were streaking away, escaping, but they did it by going on speed.

  Then the power was gone. Stu called, "Dump it!"

  The tank tumbled out.

  The ground came up hard.

  "Button us up." He'd done the best he could. The tank was spraying its remaining speed juice into one square meter of ground, and that was between the Amazon and the Skeeter. Grendels would go crazy before they got here. It might be enough.

  Cadmann slammed a rifle into Mary Ann's hands and spun her toward the steps. "Get in the goddamned house!"

  By the time she scrambled past the deadfall to the house, the rifle fire was a steady crackle.

  In the living room, a dozen of the weak and wounded were sequestered.

  They huddled in clumps, eyes huge. They stared out the clerestory slits. Outside, the actions of other men and women decided their fates. "Everyone away from the spring!" she screamed. "Against the far wall!"

  They pushed into the far corner. Mary Ann's mind fought the panic.

  Somehow, in a hurricane of terror, she found an eye of calm.

  The house shuddered as mines exploded to the west: the grendels were coming over the wall! Dirt and shattered rock rained on the roof above her. A grendel leg slid through the clerestory and thudded to the ground in front of them. It twitched.

  Next to her, Jill screamed and screamed. Mary Ann savagely backhanded her. Jill reeled back, stunned.

  Mary Ann flexed her hand. It hurt. Then she hunkered down, tucked the rifle butt into her shoulder, and waited.

  Chapter 33

  THE LAST STAND

  Thou hast covered my head in the day of battle.

  THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER

  The horses were thinking about letting her catch up. Carolyn cursed the stupid animals in her mind; she didn't have breath for more. Thirst was a fire in her throat. Her burning legs were ready to collapse, and her ride receded coyly before her.

  The horses stumbled from time to time. She'd have to get those ropes off them if they were to have any chance to live.

  They wheeled to the left. She followed.

  The stream was a sudden surprise. It was small and pretty and it ran in graceful curves. She hadn't seen it lower down. It might curve south and join the Amazon; it might seep into the water table and disappear. She could hear it bubbling now, and the thirst rose up in her like a grendel.

  The horses lined up to drink. They didn't flinch as she joined them. She had swallowed two cupped handfuls before she noticed how dirty the water was. She was downstream, and the horses had fouled the water.

  She spat out the grit. Thirst was still there, but she took the time to free the horses from the line of ropes. Do everything slowly and carefully. Fool yourself into being calm. She patted their necks, she called them by name, she walked around and among them and knelt to drink clean water upstream. And saved her life thereby.

  When her belly was a cold fullness, she stood and looked back.

  Far down toward the edge of storm, a cloud of spray rose from the stream.

  Something dark came out of it. Came fast. Charlie had gone for water first, but now he was on speed and coming for the horses. Carolyn stepped back behind a rock that was only hip high. Knelt. She concentrated on arming the harpoon gun. She didn't lift her head until she was armed.

  Just her eyes peeped over the rock.

  The horses were scattering, all but Shank's Mare. Shank's Mare had gone thirty meters before the thing tore into her. Now she thrashed with blood spraying from her ravaged hind leg—Charlie had developed a habit—and the black streak circled back to bite away half of the horse's head. Shank's Mare convulsed, then collapsed like a bag of old laundry. The grendel hooked her with its tail and dragged her back into the stream.

  Carolyn stood up and walked forward. There was no running from a grendel. Charlie was occupied and the time was now.

  The horses had hidden her, and then the rock, but now... Charlie must have seen her at once. The grendel came straight at her, pulling the mass of the horse and a mass of water too, moving no faster than a jogger. It realized its problem and stopped to shake the horse free. Carolyn shot it from six meters away.

  The harpoon exploded against Charlie's wide face.

  The grendel came for Carolyn. It was free of the horse, and it accelerated like the best of motorcycles. Carolyn wouldn't have had time to move even if she'd had the nerve and another weapon. The thing went past her in a wind that twisted her around, and she saw it smash into the hip-high boulder, bounce over it, land tumbling, look about—

  Look with what? The blast had torn its face entirely away, leaving cracked red-and-white bone. No eyes, no nose, most of the mouth blown away. A grendel's ears were nearly invisible, but she couldn't believe those weren't gone too.

  There was blood in Carolyn's mouth. She had bitten deeply into her lower lip. Blood soaked into her trousers, and a line of pain crossed her leg above the knee: the tail of the thing must have brushed her. She lowered the harpoon gun and felt the pain in her cramped hands. "Stupid," she whispered. "Stupid, Charlie. Pulling a horse! I hope your sisters are that stupid."

  Charlie's tail was a blur like the blades on a Skeeter. She charged in a straight line, with no clear target. Only by accident did she intersect the stream. She stopped then, sank underwater, then lifte
d again. To breathe. The snorkel was gone too.

  Carolyn became aware that she was grinning like a grendel.

  The rest. Where were they? She couldn't see them; the ground curved strongly, but they must be at least several hundred meters downslope. Three grendels—and two harpoons left. She remembered a line from Dickens and told herself, "I have every confidence that something will turn up."

  She knelt to drink again, then set off to join the horses.

  The mist was thin now. The sun had burned it away, giving them a warm afternoon.

  Thank God. Grendels on speed would move through that heat.

  The grendels struggled in knots. Screams of challenge crowded the air.

  Chilled the blood. There was war where Mits had dropped the spurting tank of speed soup. A mere seven grendels had rounded that distraction to reach the Skeeter.

  They must have been the bright ones. They screamed challenge at each other, circled each other, they took turns butting the cabin walls and the door; but not one had died.

  Mits sat in the cargo hold fingering an ax. He watched dents appear in the steel. "I have to admit it's getting to me," he said.

  "It's the only entertainment we've got," Stu said. He cracked a window and set his comcard in it with its solid-state memory set to record. "And this is for the National Geographic Society."

  "You're nuts," said Mits.

  Maybe. But today would see the end of one species. Grendel or man.

  This, these final sounds of struggle, would be preserved for posterity.

  Someone's posterity.

  Too many. Cadmann knelt at the western edge of the veranda. He fired carefully, making each round count. There wouldn't be nearly enough ammunition. Not rifles, not spear guns.

  "Wound up," Jerry said beside him.

  "In place," Joe Sikes said. "Let her fly." The crossbow bolt flew out, over the lip of the bluff, to shatter a jar of speed extract. Something screamed defiance down there. Jerry grinned like a thief. "Winding," he said.

  "Watch it!" Carlos shouted. He fired his spear gun: the grendel had come over the low wall of the veranda. The explosive bolt caught it at the withers and crippled its left side. It began to drag itself toward them. Harry Siep ran up and smashed its head with an ax. The tail lashed out and knocked Harry against the wall.

  "Siep?" Joe Sikes yelled.

  "Kicking. Stupid but kicking."

  For the moment there were no more grendels. "Hang on here a minute,"

  Cadmann said. Carlos nodded. Cadmann sprinted across the veranda to the eastern corner where Omar and Rick had set up a machine gun. Five riflemen stood with them.

  "Omar. Take the gun over to Carlos and set up there."

  "Uh—"

  "Over there. By Carlos. Set up there," Cadmann said.

  "All right." Rick reached out to lift the gun.

  "Not by the barrel," Cadmann said.

  "Oh." The barrel wasn't glowing, but it was hot enough to boil water.

  Cadmann stood on the wall and used his binoculars to scan the area downstream. Seems strange to do this in a battle. Never to worry about them shooting back.

  Grendels all along Amazon Creek. Too many of them. But for every grendel in the water, six more faced them on land. In twos and threes they toppled from the internal heat; in twos and threes they attacked the defenders of the stream, and died or won—and if they won, they became the new defenders. Grendels on speed, grendels cooking themselves from inside, couldn't reach the water because other grendels kept them from it. And none of those presently threatened the house.

  But there were attackers enough.

  If they could be stopped far enough away—But they couldn't be.

  Cadmann touched numbers on his comcard. "Ida. What's your status?"

  The dentist's voice was strained. "Maybe five minutes of power in the Skeeter. No more than that."

  Five minutes. They'd spread the solar panels, but the sun hadn't come out in time. "Not enough time. Unload the superspeed. Load up the kerosene."

  "Kerosene. You want me to fly around with kerosene with five minutes' flying time?"

  "That I do."

  "And then what?"

  "Ida, the next wave may get through. If they do, you and that kerosene will be critical. Spray around the house, just below the veranda. Then throw flares into the soup. Then go uphill and land."

  "And pray I'm far enough from the fire."

  "Something like that. Will you do it?" If she wouldn't, who would?

  Fifteen minutes to put another pilot in place. Carlos? Me?

  "Yeah, I guess so—"

  Explosions rocked the plateau. The cattle, penned to the east, lowed and stomped.

  And attracted grendels.

  Some sped across the perimeter. Cadmann saw several of them actually collapse before they could reach the cattle. Ran out of speed. They're burning up.

  Wiser, stronger siblings hooked the twitching dead and dragged them away.

  Everywhere grendels were dying, but the line of corpses moved closer and closer to the house. Grendels fought each other, dragged each other away, climbed over their own dead in a mindless fever to reach the house.

  A cluster of grendels broke through the mob, racing for the livestock. Omar Isfahan clambered out onto the hill. He lifted a spear gun, sighted with unsteady hands.

  He missed. The grendels became suddenly, horribly aware of his presence, and streaked for him. Before Cadmann had time to yell warning, Isfahan was down, three grendels at him. He screamed once, and then there was nothing left to scream with.

  "Jerry! Inside," Cadmann ordered.

  The doctor hesitated for a brief second. "Right. Going."

  The cattle had gone mad. They broke free of the pens and stampeded.

  Grendels brought them down one by one. Grendels died of heat prostration trying to drag butchered cows to safety, or they ran out of speed and were crushed beneath the hoofs of the herd.

  The cattle raced to the low wall, over, down the mountainside.

  Grendels followed.

  It was as if a signal had been given. The grendels surged forward, up the hill. Grendels exploded in the minefield, but others were weaving along the safe path. Bullets found some of them; other grendels stopped, considering, looking for an enemy. Too many came on.

  Gunfire erupted from within the house. And grendels fell. Flame throwers coughed their last bit of jellied fuel, and scorched monsters reeled away, streaking for the stream.

  Monsters crowded up the hill.

  "Ida? Now."

  "Need a couple more minutes," she answered. "Getting that damned water tank out—"

  "Right. But get going as soon as you can." Cadmann raced across the veranda. "Deadfall," he shouted.

  "Si." Carlos followed. They left the veranda and raced down the hill.

  The deadfall: an enormous boulder, held in place by large chocks.

  Above it were dozens of smaller boulders ready to plunge down, along the cleared path through the minefield.

  Chocks held the deadfall boulder in place. A dying grendel crouched against the chocks.

  "Son of a bitch!" Cadmann shouted.

  Carlos grinned and fired. The explosive shell struck the grendel in the chest. It leaped upward—and struck its head on the boulder above, and fell in a heap, still blocking the chocks.

  "Aw, shit," Carlos said.

  "You said it. Here." Cadmann handed him the rifle. "Hold ‘em off while I pull."

  "You'll need help—

  "Bullshit I need help! You watch for grendels."

  "All right."

  The corpse might have weighed eighty kilos. They were getting big, and this one must have fed well. Not too much to drag, but awkward. Cadmann reached for the tail. It lashed. Spikes caught his thigh. He fell heavily against the boulder.

  "Amigo—"

  "Look out ahead!" Cadmann shouted.

  More grendels coming. Cadmann desperately reached the lines holding the chocks in place. "I got it.
Be out of the way!"

  "For sure."

  He heaved against the lines. The chock moved slightly. He pulled again. It was hard to brace his good leg against the rocks and still have purchase on the line. He pulled again. The corpse moved; crimson foam ran from its back, frothed down against the wooden chocks. This time when he pulled, the chocks moved—

  Carlos was firing rapidly now.

  One final heave. The chocks came loose. The massive boulder seemed poised in space. Then it began to roll. Down, followed by a mass of others.

  Carlos joined in his shout of triumph.

  A grendel came over the large boulder, sprang between the smaller boulders, tried to dance among them. It didn't quite succeed. A rock the size of a footstool hit it in the side. Carlos shot it twice more. Still it thrashed forward, toward Cadmann, who lay with his legs toward it, legs spread, monster crawling up, up, between his legs. Cadmann writhed, twisted. The grendel fell onto his uninjured leg. Something snapped. Pain surged.

  Carlos stood staring wildly. Grendels below them. He couldn't shoot and carry Cadmann at the same time. He looked the question.

  "How the fuck do I know?" Cadmann said. He was surprised at how soft his voice was. The grendel hadn't moved. Sixty kilos of dead meat. Both legs screamed their agony in his brain; he couldn't think past that. I've used up all my adrenaline. Like a goddam grendel uses up its speed. No adrenaline, and I don't even care what happens.

  Carlos fired twice. Cadmann couldn't see what he was shooting at.

  The grendels leaped like fleas among the bounding boulders. The deadfall was taking its toll: he could see smashed grendels, he could hear the weakened challenge-screams of grendels facing death. How do you see death, amigos? A mature grendel the size of a mountain?

  But a grendel in the air had no control of its path. They leaped, and Carlos took them at apogee, rapid-fire practice with pop-up targets, shoot and forget.

  It was over. The slide continued, a horde of rocks among the horde of grendels, crossing the brook and onward. How long had it taken? A minute? Less.

  And he had leisure to help his friend.

  Cadmann was no more than half conscious. One leg was crushed; the other looked broken. Carlos worked his way under him and heaved. Cadmann was lifted from the ground, a big man in high gravity, and Carlos walked. Weaponless. Both hands occupied.