by Martin Kee
She calls again, knowing full well how futile her words are. She turns to Ak’klin. “He’s dying you know.”
“The colossus?”
It’s a thought that hasn’t occurred to her, but she shakes it away. “No. Veerh. The town will be without a Preserver if he dies.”
“Ah. Well then maybe one of my men will have a job opening should he decide to leave my side. Work is hard to come by. Eh, Pim?” He laughs, and Pim laughs with him. The small poacher is a head shorter than Ak’klin, wearing a finger from one of Scoop’s kind on a string around his neck, cured and dry as a twig. A silver ring, fused to the skin, glints in the scattered light from the giant trees.
“Call him again,” says Ak’klin.
“No,” Bex says. “This is pointless. He’s gone back to where ever the rest of his kind came from.”
Ak’klin smiles. “His kind came from nowhere near here. His kind comes from the sky, child.”
She flexes her brow in disbelief. “Nothing flies but bugs.”
In response, Ak’klin only shrugs. “Believe what you want, child. You call him again, or we cut our losses here.”
“He won’t come.”
Chitinous hands grip her wrists tighter. “Then maybe he needs more bait. Pim, bring the plansteer.” When he speaks to her again his voice is low. “Maybe your ward likes the taste of meat?”
She stares with disbelieving eyes as the short poacher and one other pull Bindo up beside her. He bellows, looking at her with those wide brown eyes, intelligent only enough to know there is danger, but not smart enough to know why.
“Please don’t,” she pleads, her voice wavering as Pim pulls the sheath from a grafted arm to reveal a slender bone scythe. He raises it above Bindo’s neck as the plainsteer tries to pull away.
A blur and a thump, and Pim is gone. Bex blinks. The poachers are yelling and she can’t figure out why. She spins in a circle as Ak’klin moves around to get a better look, dragging her around Bindo’s rump, and then she sees… a rock.
The boulder is nearly as big as she is, resting in a cloud of settling dust. The lower half of Pim’s body emerges from beneath it. A trail of blood and skin marks the impact and trajectory where the boulder has dragged and left him. A pool of blood slowly forms around the boulder, and the men begin to panic.
She tries to reach for Bindo, to get into his pouch, but Ak’klin spins her around, reaching for his own weapons as the other poachers fan out. Bindo, still held by one poacher watches her, his haunch pocket so close she could reach it if only these grafted hands weren’t binding her wrists so tightly. The plainsteer snorts, his inner legs grasping at the dry ground and rotten pods. The smell of fear and decay is nauseating.
The poacher holding Bindo’s reins points in the direction the rock was thrown, and Ak’klin chirps a quick command as the trees rustle. Two more poachers, the one wearing the human scalp and the one wearing the shirt made of fingernails, pull secondary weapons from their sheaths, arming themselves with poisons and swords. It is the poacher way: skin them alive, waste nothing, harvest quickly. The rustling happens again, and the poacher wearing the scalp fans to the side, pulls back on his spear and lets it fly. The shaft paints a golden arc in the air before vanishing between two trees.
They wait.
“It’s gone deeper,” says one of the poachers. He calls from the edge of the forest. “I see footprints.”
Ak’klin summons the rest of the team along the creak bank as they keep one eye on the forest. Scoop is big and clumsy, almost embarrassingly so, and Bex can’t help but feel sorry for him. They follow the sounds along the forest edge until they hear something new, a sawing, chewing noise. Ak’klin holds up a hand and they freeze, listening.
“What’s it doing?” a poacher asks. “And what about Pim?”
“We’ll worry about him when we get our quarry.”
*
The spear sails past Kendal’s ear, kissing his scalp with wind. He lowers himself, watching through the openings in the thick bamboo as the enemy searches for him, too cautious to enter the forest. If they would only venture in, he might have a chance to kill another, but they choose instead to stick in a pack.
That’s because they are hunters. Whatever she is, she is no hunter. He watches the Youngest through the leaves, chirping her birdsong to the mini-cow as it lows in fear. The mind does some funny things when one is alone and running in fear, and it isn’t the first time in his life he’s run, or that someone has done everything they could to see him escape safely. He didn’t deserve it last time...
*
Uncle Ernie gives him a huge bear hug, the man’s cologne thick and overbearing as they embrace. “Here’s the card key, kid. ID and jumpsuit are in the bag.”
The black satchel slips easily to him as Ernie winks. His mother never spoke much of his uncle, stating only that he is a man who can get things, a man who can get anything.
“Thanks,” is all Kendal can say. He hasn’t slept a wink in what feels like days.
“Now,” Ernie continues. “That badge will get you almost anywhere. You can use the VIP lounge at the port as long as you want. There’s a budget for food, but don’t ask for drinks. I doubt you could pass for drinking age, eh?” He elbows Kendal in the stomach as they walk around to the front of the giant spaceport. On the other side of the fence he sees the shuttles lined up like huge white whales.
“I won’t.”
“And one more thing,” Ernie says. “Don’t step through the shuttle gate, you understand? Just wait in the VIP lounge until it’s safe. It shouldn’t be much longer, but you’ll be fine.”
“Won’t people see me?”
“Hey, it’s the other kid they want. Best if you just stay hidden in plain sight for now.”
“What’s through the gate?”
“Kennie, if you step through that shuttle gate, you won’t ever see anyone you love in this world ever again. You’ll be gone for good. Now do you want that?”
They hug once more and Kendal heads into the spaceport, walking through the security gates, flashing his badge on his way into the VIP lounge where he finds a nice quiet table in the back.
The televid is playing a beer commercial and he sort of just zones out for a while as the cartoons disappear, a lady smiles, and the beer can flashes on the screen. A second later he thinks he might be dreaming as he looks up at the news reel. It’s a picture of himself there on the screen. He’s grown a pitiful mustache since then, and the change of clothes might help a bit, but it’s him up there.
He stares up at the screen for a long time, not even really reading the text. He catches words: MANHUNT, KILLER, SUSPECT. He sees them all, then glances around the room. He has a pair of dark glasses in his pocket, and puts them on. His family is poor, will always be poor. The cost of an attorney would bankrupt them, kill his parents. There’s only one factor he knows he can remove for sure.
“You’ll be gone for good.” Ernie’s voice echoes in his mind.
The image of his face vanishes from the televid and he looks around again. Everyone is all caught up in their own lives, their own bullshit, flirting with waitresses, reading tablets, drinking cocktails, playing games. It’s as if he is the only one aware of anything in this world, everyone else is just dreaming. He tips the waiter, grabs his bag, and heads to the shuttle gate…
*
He’s out of rocks, and the rest are either too small to be of any use, or too large for him to lift. Just throwing that one was enough to give him the worst asthma attack in his life. He wheezes into the mask, sucking down oxygen, hoping they can’t hear his breathing amidst the whispering bamboo hybrids.
Each stalk is about three feet in diameter, the bark a leathery succulent texture. From out in the desert he thought they were much smaller, but now he can see they are quite huge, and far bigger than he could ever use as a weapon. But they are grafted it seems, to smaller, thinner stalks which shoot up along side them before making an abrupt turn, burrowing into the trunk
s. It’s these smaller stalks that are made of hard wood, the color of blood, the width of baseball bats. He grabs one and tugs, but it’s like pulling a vine. The entire limb must make one continuous length that pierces the host stalk. God, a researcher would have a field day here, and all I want is a goddamn club.
Another spear sails past, but further away, embedding into a nearby bamboo shoot, and Kendal wonders just how effective the stitched plating and shells would be deflecting a hand-thrown spear.
He feels clumsy, moving through the dust and stalks, reaching for the spear and plucking it from the tree. It’s too small for him to use effectively, but it is only the tip that interests him. The edge is some kind of metal, the edges serrated for embedding in flesh. The entire thing is only six inches long, but that’s all he needs.
As he retreats further into the forest, he hears the shrill calls of the hunters and the Youngest calling out. He has no idea what they are saying, but he only needs enough time to work the tip against one of those vines.
He counts three more of the poachers, but can’t be sure how many there are total. The real trick will be getting the hunters without hurting the Youngest or her mini-cow. Using the spear in one hand, Kendal begins to saw at the branch.
*
The waiting is painful, and Bex understands now that she could never in a million years be a hunter. Anxiety is bad enough when trying to protect something, but far worse when trying to kill something that could kill you back. Of course, she hopes that Scoop won’t hurt her, but who knows what he is capable of in his blind panic.
Because he’s an animal right? How long are you going to hold onto that?
As long as it takes me to accept otherwise.
A rustle, and the poachers raise spear and blade, crouching. She has no choice but to crouch also as Ak’klin’s extra hand yanks her down by her wrist, and she finds herself pinned between the poacher and Bindo’s flank. The gun bulges from inside the grafted skin.
Rustle.
A spear soars through the air, vanishing into the woods.
“We could use fire,” says Tek’k, a slender poacher wearing a chain of teeth. “Smoke the beast out.”
“And how far do you think we would get before the flames overcame us?” Ak’klin scolds. “Get the shit out of your brain and pay attention.”
“I’m just concerned that we might run out of spears if we keep throwing them—”
The blur of movement takes even Bex by surprise, emerging from a section of forest nowhere near where the spear had landed. The riverbank is largely silt, leaving enough room for a camp and perhaps a small raft, but Scoop crosses it in four long strides. Leaves and insects scatter in the wind as he parts the trees, his eyes wild, his body covered in the plates of husk and shell, now littered with small shoots and dragging vines. One arm lags behind as he comes forward, bringing the arm around, bearing a long red tree trunk. A spear, thrown by one of the rear guard, hits his shoulder, bouncing away like a pebble. In one smooth motion, that seems almost unnatural to his size, he swings the tree underhand just as Tek’k dives to the side. There’s a cry of pain and the sound of something snapping. Scoop vanishes into the opposite wall of trees, leaving Tek’k lying in the mud, his leg bent at a grotesque angle. He cries out, rolling as the last of the poachers looks pleadingly at Ak’klin.
They no longer speak now, Ak’klin making gestures with his small, supple birth-hands. Go aft. Prepare the blow gun. He then looks at her and says with a low tone, “Your Ward is about to get us all killed.”
“I think just you and yours.”
He grins his crooked grin, lip splitting and baring grafted canines. “You Tenders, with your theories. You know nothing of the minds of beasts. You haven’t learned a thing about prey until you’ve stalked it, studied it, and killed it. You know only how they appear on the outside. I have seen them from without and within. I have them inside me. My heart beats with their heart. My lungs bellow their breath. I am them.” He sneers at her. “All you know is what you are taught. This, this is survival. This is what our species was built for. You with your soft birthskin and your naïve views. Your kind has brought us to the brink, good only for presenting animals to us, then taking them away, like some cruel joke to a hungry child.”
She hears the rustling again, and looks to see one of the poachers climbing a nearby stalk, shimmying up the bark with small serrations on the inside of his legs. He unsheathes a dart gun, and nods to Ak’klin, who nods, then returns his gaze to Bex.
“This world is dying, Tr-Bex. And like all carcasses it is better harvested before it dies, ruining the meat as it shits itself. You and yours, they fear death, fear the gift of donation, fear the melding.”
“I don’t fear it,” she says. “But just because I can graft doesn’t mean I should.”
They lock gazes and for a long moment, not even the leaves seem to fall. The rushing water has frozen and Bex hears the beating of her own heart. Then, a rustle, and time continues like the river beside her.
Scoop emerges again, club in hand. He’s grown bold, stepping on Tek’k as the poacher writhes until there is nothing but body emerging from beneath that foot, the head lost in the dirt. Then a crunch, and blood squirts from beneath the sole of Scoop’s foot, Tek’k’s leg twitches, and is still. The poacher holding Bindo releases the reigns, reaching for a weapon as the club swings up. He could have dodged it had it not been for Bindo—released and furious—kicking him into its path. A heavy thud, wind and dirt, the crunch of bone, as Bex and Ak’klin tumble away. By the time she opens her eyes, there is nothing but a small hole in the trees and leaves where the poacher has vanished.
As she turns away, a shadow catches her eyes, but as she looks again, the stalker is gone, hidden in the thick foliage. There is a distant cry where the poacher had vanished behind the trees. Shit. How many, she wonders.
Ak’klin is already to his feet, and Bex feels the release of her wrists. They feel raw and naked now against the wind as Scoop turns to face them, his terrible teeth like massive tombstones, his eyes wild and feral.
“Your gun!” Ak’klin says. “Make yourself useful.”
Bindo makes to scatter again, but she grabs the pouch as he darts away. The burst of power is almost enough to tear her grip free, and Bex wonders if Bindo would rip her arm off should she not release in time. But she holds on in spite of the pain in her joints as the plainsteer bolts, dragging her through the mud, over rocks and stones.
“Bindo!” she yells. “Bindo, you idiot! Stop!”
It’s another minute before he slows enough for her to clamor to his back, and by the time she retrieves the gun, Bex realizes they are far from the scene now. Grabbing him by the back of the neck, Bex throws her weight up onto his back.
“I know you can understand, Bindo. I know you’re scared. But if we don’t go back, we lose everything.”
He snorts and throws his head around angrily, but only a moment later, he lets out a long resolute breath. One brown eye rolls up to look at her as if to say, Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Slowly they turn, and not until they face the opening does Bindo lower his sublegs. The acceleration is intense, pushing her back so that Bex has to hug his neck as they speed along the riverbank, and turning a corner just as Scoop raises his club.
Ak’klin lies bleeding on the bank, and for a moment, Bex thinks he is dead, hopes he is dead. Scoop towers over him, three-times his height, raising the club, and just over his shoulder, Bex sees the dart gun come up and the poacher fire.
She screams his name—
*
And Kendal sees her just as he’s about to smash the living fuck out of this little bug and put an end to this madness. He sees its eyes, small and beady just like the Youngest, only this one has had massive modifications performed. The jaw seems to be fused with insect mandibles, splitting in a way that reminds him of a spider. He can’t even count how many limbs it has, now that they have all appeared. Some reach for the small blade
just out of reach, while another hand, one that looks almost normal—if that is even a word anymore—extends out at him like a victim in a horror movie.
And it is a horror movie, my friend. And I’m the ogre in the story, here to smash your fucking skull and grind your bones.
It feels good to be this powerful, to do something different than hiding in the bushes. It’s the first time he’s acted, the first time he’s taken control of the situation, and finally he has the real monsters in his sights. And that’s when he sees her.
It’s his mother, standing at the edge of the bank, only she’s so small now. She’s got that kind, quizzical smile on her face, that same look she gave him as he ran and ran and ran. For an instant he forgets where he is as she runs towards him, forgets who he is, as the club falls from his hand. There’s pain in his neck, but that doesn’t matter now. He can feel the warmth seep into his blood, coating the inside of his skin with heat and love. And suddenly he isn’t in a forest or on an alien planet or stalking a girl who never loved him. He isn’t stowing away on a ship, running from his life. He’s swimming in warm water, growing smaller with every second.
The ground rushes up to him and Kendal feels the mud on his face, pressing up against it with gentleness, and he is so, so tired now. It’s more comfortable than he could have ever guess, lying here on the riverbank, like sitting in a soft gel bed.