by Nathan Dodge
“He was there? Tonight?”
“Yeah. The tall, blond one. I thought he was dead. I mean, he looked dead. Then I got a good look at the leg. It wasn’t bone sticking out, it was metal. Looked like titanium, and it wasn’t jagged like a broken bone, it was square with a hole in the end, like a piece of aircraft strut. Then I noticed the blood—only it wasn’t blood. It was too dark to tell the color, but it smelled like transmission fluid. Like he had a mechanical leg. I checked the arm that was bent back, and it had a hole in it, leaking that same fluid.”
“He had a mechanical arm and leg?”
Chris leaned forward, intense. He nodded.
They stared at each other a moment in the dim light of the distant street lamp. Finally, Michael asked, “What did you do?”
“I was trying to figure out what I was seeing. I thought the guy had artificial limbs, like, you know, he was a war vet. I figured I had to get some help. Did I tell you his eyes were open? Just staring at me.
“So I left him there, ran up to the nearest house and rang the bell, banged on the door. Nobody answered. No luck at the next house either. My house was only a couple doors down, so I ran home, got my phone and a flashlight. I was dialing nine-one-one as I ran, but when I got back, he was gone.”
“As in nothing there?”
Chris nodded. “I looked all around, but the body was gone. All that was left were a few drops of that liquid. Yellow-colored in the light, and viscous, like motor oil.”
“Maybe he wasn’t hurt as bad as you thought.”
“Michael, he—it couldn’t have been human!”
“So you’re telling me this guy was an android?”
“Yes.”
“And this android—which was all broken up—just picked himself up and walked off?”
Chris shook his head. “I don’t think so. That car really messed him up. I think his friends came for him. And they did it quick, before I came back.”
Michael repressed the urge to tell Chris he was crazy. “His buddies came and got him? How would they know he was hurt?”
Chris stretched, looked at his dark porch. “I thought about that. Look, if he’s some sort of robot, then his friends are, too. Surely they have some non-verbal way to communicate, like two-way radio or Wi-Fi. I mean, hell, they never talk while they run. And wouldn’t it make sense to have a distress beacon that automatically broadcasts if they’re disabled? I think that’s what happened. He went down, the signal went out, they came for him.”
“And you know he’s fixed, because you saw him tonight.”
“Exactly. Running like always, in perfect shape.”
Michael sighed. He told himself that this was Chris, his best friend at work for many years. “Look, if it were anyone but you, I’d kick you out of the car and drive away. Think about your story. You’re an engineer. Current robotic technology isn’t near that level.”
Chris nodded. “I agree. They must be extra-terrestrial.”
Michael laughed. “Now they’re ETs? From Mars? From the Pegasus Galaxy? Why would alien androids want to run at a high-school track? They wouldn’t need exercise to stay in shape.”
Chris looked miserable again, sinking a couple inches in the car seat. “I don’t know. Maybe to keep their systems at optimum. Maybe it’s their recreation. But I know what I saw.”
“Did you talk to the Wiggins kid? Maybe he saw something. I mean, hell, it was his fault. If he would come forward, at least you’d have someone to verify….”
Chris snorted into the pause. “Someone to verify my sanity? I went down to his house, talked to his parents. They didn’t know anything. Very conveniently, he left to visit cousins downstate the next day. He’ll be there for the rest of the summer, so I couldn’t even look at his car. Which wouldn’t make any difference, that Camaro is so beat up.”
Michael rubbed a hand through sweaty hair. He tried to think of something to say, but failed.
“I gotta get home.”
“But, Mike, what do I do?” A frayed, hysterical edge tattered Chris’s voice.
Michael looked at him blankly. “What’s to do, Chris? The guy you saw is healed, repaired, whatever. Let him alone. Those guys mind their business, you mind yours.”
“Mike, I know about them. And they know I know. You saw how they looked at me tonight. What if they don’t want anyone to know? What if they want their secret kept?”
“Keep it.”
“But how do they know I’ll keep it? What if they decide to hush me up?”
“Now they’re going to come and kill you? They don’t look violent to me. They come to the track, they run laps, they go home. Leave them alone and that’s all there is to it.”
“But … Mike, now you know.”
“What do I know? Just a crazy story.” Michael shrugged in the darkness. “I gotta go.”
Chris had been staring out the windshield. He turned to look at Michael. In the darkness, his eyes were tiny points of light. “You know me, Mike. We’ve worked together a long time. Why can’t you believe me?”
Michael shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Think about it, Chris. If I told you that story, what would you think?”
Chris’s hurt and bewildered expression made Michael feel like a complete jerk. “I know you’re not some crazy person. But a group of androids hiding out in our neighborhood is hard to swallow. Are you sure this wasn’t just a dream?”
Chris opened the car door. As he got out, he muttered, “It wasn’t a dream. I saw it.” He slammed the door.
Michael shifted into gear, toggled the passenger power window. To Chris’s back, he said, “Take a shower, have a drink, get some sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
He pulled away from the curb, turned up the satellite radio, and tried to let music erase his uneasiness. The thing was, Chris wasn’t some nutcase. He was hard working, a straight arrow.
Home was half a mile away, and by the time he arrived, Chris’s wild story had slipped to the back of his mind. Already planning the presentation for the next morning, Michael started making PowerPoint slides.
The conference went well. The customer rep was demanding and generally irritating, but the boss adroitly talked him into absorbing most of the increased costs, so Michael left work in a good humor.
On the way home he called Chris, but got no answer. At home he fed the dog, ate a sandwich, watched TV, and went to bed. He called Chris twice the next day, and once each on Wednesday and Thursday. No answer, and Michael’s text messages were not returned. Chris was absent from work all week. On Wednesday afternoon, Michael decided to call Mona’s mobile again, but she wasn’t answering, either. He gave up after that, too busy to consider anything but the project, burying himself in his work. It wasn’t until he checked his mobile Saturday morning that he found voicemail, tagged at three AM.
Chris’s shaky voice nipped at his ear. “Michael, I’m hiding out. Don’t dare go home. Called Mona and told her to stay with her mom, then went to a hotel. Paid cash, used a phony name.
“They know, Michael. They know, and they’re trying to shut me up. They’re watching my house. Look out for them. They’re smart, and they saw me talking to you. I’ll call when I can.” No note on where he was. Nothing else.
Repeated calls to Chris’s number yielded only requests to leave a message. Michael’s reason fought with his loyalty. Could Chris have gone crazy in the last week? Could this have been coming on for a long time? Should he speak to the personnel department at work?
Eventually he made a decision, of a sort. No jogging in nearly a week meant that he really needed exercise. The athletes in question often showed up around dusk on Saturday. If they did so while he was at the track, he could try to strike up a conversation, get to know them a little. Maybe get them to meet with Chris, prove to him that they weren’t alien robots.
The sun still barely topped the horizon, and it was reasonably cool, so he walked to the track. A brisk eight blocks was a good warm-up.
When M
ichael hit the track, the sky was a cheerful orange, the sun having disappeared behind the row of houses to the west. Few folks were on the oval, just a couple of teenagers running sprints and a middle-aged man and woman walking together.
He started slow, doing two easy laps, then increased the pace, completing another ten at about eight minutes a mile. As this was a weekend run, he didn’t do sprints, just slowed and began a one lap cool-down before starting home.
It was then that he noticed them—the regular group of five beginning to run their normal, fleet-footed ninety-second laps. Maybe this was his chance.
He sat on a bench by the track, winded, sweat rolling down his face. Pulling a well-used towel from his bag, he swabbed his face and arms, watching the five eat up the laps, waiting for an opportune time to approach. After ten loops, with no sign of their stopping, he stood and waved at the group as they came around the eleventh time.
No response.
They blew past with enough speed that he could feel a breeze in their wake. Perplexed and irritated, he sat down to await their next pass.
Snotty bunch. Act like they’re better than the rest of us. Which they are, I guess.
He watched them make another full circle, running without apparent effort, legs rising and falling together in an easy, natural rhythm. As they approached once more, he waved at the group. “Excuse me, I need a moment of your time.”
As they came abreast, all five heads swiveled and looked directly at him. For an instant he saw that golden gleam in their eyes. Like cat’s eyes, like the eyes of something feral. Then they swept on, their pace never varying.
He didn’t resume his seat angrily, didn’t sit down at all. He shivered, watching the group growing smaller, reaching the far curve, starting to swing left.
Suddenly he didn’t want to be at the track, or anywhere near those five figures. He turned, striding hurriedly across the parking lot, onto the street and left.
Pulse beginning to pound, his walk ratcheted into a jog, quickly became a run, elevated to a sprint. All he could imagine was getting home, getting inside, locking the doors and keeping the lights off.
One block, two blocks, three. Instead of feeling relieved, the apprehension grew. He couldn’t hear anything but his own accelerating footfalls. Still, he turned for a look behind.
Only a little gray remained in the west, but it was enough to show the runners, all five of them, no more than a block behind.
As usual, they were gaining.
Her Teeth, That Rend Like Kisses
Nathan; Sharon
The babies have almost finished eating my legs.
I haven’t felt anything below my gut in a long time, so it doesn’t hurt. I understand the next part will, but with some chastising the little ones will probably wait to eat the more enticing bits of me until I’m dead. Ovana, my nuft-Scäldi, is quiet next to me, nuzzled against my cheek. Her fur is mostly absent after being carried inside me so many years, but her teeth still shine in the starlight. The suns are coming, the dawn rising over the iron mountains; I probably won’t live for much longer. Neither will she. The morning will be dazzling, the sky clear and blue, the whistling wind from the north playing a cheerful tune that matches my own pleasure at the end of my life. This is not what my mother told me to expect.
After all, how many Kal[!] get happy endings like mine?
Before
Idiot[!], I indicated, the delicate shudder of my wings beating in counter time to my claw-click and tail-snap. Together, they indicated a precise, large measure of disdain that my nuft-Scäldi could not miss, echoing over the flat prairie around us.
Not so, she tapped out within my breast, her delicate front paws hammering musically, each pair tapping a separate rhythm to indicate a second, more complex counter message. She tries unlike others played out against the quieter secondary thrum of She is little more than lay-Scäldi. Than a baby.
Tonora, the young female at the head of the traders’ group, glanced up at me nervously while our diplomat, cousin to my own Ovana, tried not to appear amused. Neri’s twitching ears betrayed her, her fur catching the light over her pleasant, round bell-body that only just poked out of the tall grasses surrounding us in the golden afternoon sunlight. The tall creatures with their strange skin, neither furred nor scaled, reminded me of the mosh we eat. Large though the female was compared to any Scäldi, I dwarfed her as she did my companion. I pushed back my wings and settled down on the ground in order to look smaller, my vent only just visible. Ovana turned nervously in me, trying to find a better position, but did not complain. Diplomacy, Neri had warned us, is never comfortable.
I missed what Ovana’s cousin said, trying to smooth things over. It was hard for me to pay attention, though I knew it was important. But the visitors bored me. Their insistence on air-speak from us embarrassed the Scäldi and was impossible for me. They did not seem to understand the natural law that we each had our own speech. Instead, they played at a language they could not know in their hearts, and asked us to do the same. There were rumors, too, that earlier visitors had abducted Scäldi, starving them to keep them small, little pets too malnourished to be true thinking entities. Neri maintained this happened only once, and had been a misunderstanding much regretted. But they seemed strangely quick to misunderstand us—and to enjoy their misunderstanding. Most notably, they tried to call us names of their own tongue, creatures familiar to them.
I had not told Ovana this, but I had liked their misnomer dragons, or at least, had enjoyed it after they had explained their fire-breathing deities to us. It was the only thing that inclined me to like them at all. But bunnies had a nasty, mocking ring to it, a joke we did not fully understand but instinctively mistrusted. Perhaps most concerning, the visitors feared the Kal[!], a fear they would not own, and it was their dishonesty rather than their fear that troubled us. Their false reports left us hunting the unshared truth of their speech in every word. Neri had agreed to continue discussions only if this one, this Tonora, attended us. I found her no different from the others, except perhaps a little darker of flesh.
Tonora tried again, using her little sticks to tap the rhythm in single-speak, no second, clarifying paws explaining her subtler thoughts.
The Kal[!] talk, Tonora tapped. The missing implication of the phrase—query, declaration, or desire—I could only guess at. Perhaps I should have been thankful for her attempt at Scäldi ground-speak to ask her question, but I was not. She spoke like the honey-cows in the fields that barely merited the title of entity. I sighed, the air thrumming out of me with such force the visitor wobbled a bit on her knees. Neri hesitated in response. We are truth-speakers, Kal[!] and Scäldi, and uncertainty is difficult to relate in ground-speak. We do not speak when we are uncertain; we accept that some things cannot be sure. But we had learned that this was not acceptable with the visitors.
Yes/no? Neri tried. No? The words she needed were as beyond her as air-speak was beyond me.
“We are different,” Neri said, her mating trill used out of context. Ovana shifted uncomfortably. These sounds had not been meant for our ears. I turned my face to hide Neri’s shame, even as I shifted to give Ovana a better view of her cousin through the vent in my chest. Different: the air-speak word was one I remembered from before, and I listened closely even through my embarrassment for Neri’s subsequent words.
“Different … language. But … understanding.” Ovana tapped out her own translation almost inaudibly on my breastbone to aid me in my comprehension; Scäldi have ever been the communicators of our world, Neri among the very best. It was for this, among other reasons, that we paired ones commanded such respect in the höhe. The little ones have always spoken with elegance.
Tonora seemed to give up, reverting to her own airspeak. “Neri, they think the dragons are livestock. Do you understand livestock? Livestock that are eating intelligent creatures, what you call entities. Do you understand that? Do you understand how dangerous that is? All you have to do is refute this. Say i
t isn’t so, that they are your friends, which anyone can see. Dragons don’t eat Scäldi, right?”
“Dragons not right word,” Neri said.
Tonora frowned. “But there is no word you’ve given for them,” she said. As if her language had all dominion.
Neri put out her foot hesitantly, as if she were Kal[!], and made the name-cry to go with the stamp of her elegant paw. “In air-speak, perhaps it would be said, ‘Kal[!].’” The combination of paw and mouth made the air-speak more pleasant, more right. Ovana and I tapped our appreciation at her innovation. Neri’s reputation as a diplomat was not unearned.
The female grew agitated. “It doesn’t matter what they’re called. Just say they don’t eat you. That they’re your friends. That they’re entity, right? Say they are entity. Our treaty is with you, you understand? Not with them. They are not protected. I’m telling you to tell us that they are your friends.”
Neri stepped back, unable to hide her horror. Not matter what we were called? As if air were water and water, air? A growl rose in my throat. My claws tapped out condemnation.
“Not matter? Not matter what called?” Even patient Neri was shaken.
“Tell us to protect them too, Neri. Tell us they don’t eat you.”
“Why need protection?” Neri said, amusement returning. “We are strong. Kal[!] are strong. Protection not needed.”
“So the Kal—”
“Kal[!]” corrected Neri, issuing a foot stamp.
“For God’s sakes, do they eat you?”
Neri’s fur rippled, but out of interest, not irritation. “Which gods? Dragon-gods?”
“Do they eat you?”
“By the hundred-hundreds, every year, at the great crawl,” Neri said impatiently. When the Scäldi returned to us, at the end of their lifecycle. Did they know nothing? Neri tapped out the rest: Kal[!] eat Scäldi. Scäldi eat Kal[!]. As all family does.
“But about your gods,” Neri continued.
* * *
Years ago, my mother tried to make me promise never to carry a passenger. She did not say that it was bad—no Kal[!] would—but she emphasized the joy of carrying your own clutch to adulthood, mentioned how many Scäldi roamed the plains, how few Kal[!] were in the great basin. She added, too, with subtle claw-tremors, how Kal[!] sometimes died if their passengers were not quick to settle in. Some nuft-Scäldi died too, of course. Suffocation was always an issue if the passenger vent was not built quickly enough at the joining, then starvation if they could not connect to the mosh-gut. It was a risk on both sides. I had never promised, but not out of any real intention. I simply did not wish to speak until I knew the words to be true.