“That’s out of my league, Doc”—Talina seated herself and laid her rifle across her lap—“but I think they’re two mutually exclusive biological systems. Two different evolutions. Even if some of the critters look sort of earthly. Take quetzals for example. Some people have called them dragons. Other people say they look like dinosaurs, but there’s nothing about their bones or organs that’s remotely earthlike.”
“Parallel evolution,” Dortmund suggested. “There are only so many ways animals can move: legs, wings, paddles, constriction or expansion, cilia, or a screw. Maybe some sort of jet in a high-density atmosphere or a liquid environment. And when you look at legs, essentially they’re just springs. How many ways can you make a spring? Especially when simple is always the best?”
“Donovanian life is different way down at the bottom,” Kylee said, her gaze fixed on the distant sandstone ridge.
“What do you mean, child?”
“It starts at the molecular level. With the TriNA. Dya thinks the nucleotides are the same because that’s the easiest way to build an information molecule. Like you said: Simple is best. And that’s what’s simple in our universe.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Duh. It’s basic organic chemistry. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen chemistry. It’s about shapes: triangles, squares, pentagons, hexagons, and heptagons. When I was eight, Dya made me try and program information into amino acids. Didn’t matter how many times I tried. Didn’t work. But making even the simplest RNA? Like, I could do that in the lab when I was seven. It’s fundamental chemistry.”
Dortmund blinked. What the hell? “Who taught you this?”
“My mother.”
“Dya Simonov?”
“That’s her.” Those eerie blue eyes were fixed on his.
“She’s just an evolutionist.”
“How much farther can you fall, Doc?” Talina asked. “Here you are, locked away on a world where survival of the fittest is put to the test every day, and dependent upon two infected and exiled hybrids for your very survival. Hell, you’re as much a pariah as we are.”
“Me?”
“From the way you tell it, your charming personality alienated Dya, Cheng, and the rest. Then you made such a nuisance of yourself that Kalico hauled you off to Corporate Mine in an attempt to figure out what to do with you. A fate you found so reprehensible, you stowed away in my aircar. And here you are, a human being so detestable, you’re stuck with us.”
“Do you know who I really am?”
“Yeah, blow it out your ass, Doc.” Talina chuckled softly under her breath, the breeze playfully flipping her raven hair over her shoulder.
Kylee giggled.
“But, I . . .” The words faded into a sense of desperation.
Talina stiffened, tightened her grip on her rifle. “On your feet. Company’s coming.”
Kylee had picked out the threat and was scrambling to rise even as Talina brought her rifle up.
Dortmund took two tries before he could get his feet under him on the slippery rock.
“What is it?” He followed their gazes, trying to place the two beasts scampering up the stone slope toward them. Indeed, they might have been some sort of dinosaurs, maybe allosaurus, or one of the species of raptors. Bipedal things, but with larger front legs tucked up under their chests.
“My God,” Dortmund wondered. “They’re sky blue? What kind of predator wants to stand out like that?”
“Means they’re wary,” Kylee told him. “When they turn blood red and the expandable collars are extended? That’s your last warning before they eat you.”
Dortmund put a hand to his suddenly queasy stomach. It was dawning on him as they drew closer: They were huge. Maybe two meters tall and another five or six in length.
“Shoot them,” Dortmund whispered, looking around for any direction to run. The only way that seemed even remotely feasible was back into the vegetation in the drainage. Maybe he could hide down in the biteya bush, sidewinders, and you’re screwed. Anywhere out on the open rock there was nowhere that he wouldn’t stand out like a signpost.
“Shoot them?” Talina asked through a wry laugh. “Why, Doc, whatever happened to your conservation ethic?”
Dortmund swallowed hard, wondering the same thing.
“What do we do?”
“See what they want, silly,” Kylee told him. “And if they’re starved, we’ve always got you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, like, you know, an offering while we make our escape.”
50
As the quetzals charged closer, Talina shot a sidelong glance at Weisbacher. The guy was whiter than bleached flour. Absently, she wondered if the panicked professor was going to piss himself. Hell, the quetzals hadn’t even dropped their light blue color yet, let alone turned the faintest shade of red.
Her own quetzal was actively tying her guts into a knot. She could taste the first hint of peppermint. Damn it, life was easier back in the old days. All it would have taken was two shots. No muss, no threat. Then skin the carcasses for the leather and cut some of the steaks from along what passed for a backbone.
She could feel Rocket’s disapproval.
Yeah, well, little buddy, if we get eaten today, you share my disappointment with these two when they digest your molecules.
Talina let them get within thirty meters before calling, “Far enough!” As she did she shouldered the rifle, muzzle slightly lowered, but ready for a snap shot.
The quetzals stopped, tails lashing, colors shifting to patterns of yellow, green, and pink. Questioning. So far, so good.
“What do you think they know?” Kylee asked.
“Hard to say,” Talina answered. “But we’re west of Port Authority. My quetzals come from this country. This is the direction Whitey was headed. Who knows? They could very well have shared molecules, or maybe they’ve never seen a human before.”
Talina lowered the rifle to her hip, the quetzals apparently understanding the gesture.
“Kylee, check out what’s behind us. Be just like them to send a third one in from the rear.”
“Yeah, looks empty,” the kid told her after scanning the bare rock.
“Keep your eyes peeled on the creek bottom, too. One could make a run at us from the vegetation.”
“What are you going to do?” Dortmund demanded.
“Shut up, Doc. I’m going to try and keep anyone from being killed.” And with that she stepped forward, her mouth beginning to salivate out of control. The taste of peppermint ran bitter over her tongue.
At the halfway point, she stopped. Spit into her hand, and offered it.
The larger of the quetzals turned the white, mauve, and orange interplaying with yellow, green, and pink: curious and questioning. Hissing, it vented an explosive exhale rearward through its vents. The three eyes were watching her with a burning intensity.
Again Talina spit into her hand, offering it. Her heart had begun to pound. The demon quetzal in her gut had gone apeshit crazy.
This close, her rifle dangling by one hand, her left extended, there was no way she could raise the weapon and fire before the quetzal was on her.
“Come on, damn it. I’m trying to communicate here.”
The second quetzal stepped warily forward, head lowered like the first, the three-eyed gaze so intense the air seemed to burn.
Once more she spit into her palm, extended it, saying, “This isn’t like computing inverted symmetry mathematics, guys. Taste the spit. Give me a break.”
The first quetzal cocked its head in what would have been a quizzical gesture for a terrestrial species. Could have meant anything on Donovan. Or nothing.
“All right, I’m calling this a bust,” Talina said. “Weisbacher, Kylee, I’m going to back away. Be sure that nothing’s sneaking up on us from another direction.”
&
nbsp; And so saying, Talina took a step back.
As she did, the first quetzal opened its mouth, made a clicking and twittering sound down in its throat, then literally blew a harmonic organ-like tone out its rear vents.
“Never heard that before,” Talina muttered. “Kylee?”
“Don’t know.”
She took another step back, and started to raise . . .
A flash of brilliant crimson. A blur of speed. And then the impact. A claw tore her rifle from her grip. She felt herself knocked backward. Hit the rock hard on her butt. A clawed foot slammed her down.
She had a vision of the Mayan bowl hitting the floor. Its hollow pop matched the hard impact as her head hit the implacable sandstone. Fragments of pottery flew through her head; strobing light blasted in her vision. A sensation of breathlessness, the distant sound of clattering potsherds, and then darkness drowned any other sense . . .
51
In all of his life Dortmund had never known total and abject terror. The son of two professors, he’d grown up in a privileged household in a university environment. He had been a brilliant student and then an ambitious and acclaimed professor. The worst fright he’d ever endured was that he might embarrass himself in a professional setting. Might have a paper dismissed, or be academically humiliated.
The quetzals terrified him down to the roots of his soul. Paralyzed him with a consuming fear. Like mythical monsters come to life. Not to mention that they ate people. And there was nothing between them and him except Talina Perez.
But when they flashed red and leaped on the woman, hammered her against the hard stone, Dortmund seized up tight.
The image seared into his brain: horrifying beasts, iridescent colors flashing, crouched atop Talina’s limp body. Their wedge-shaped heads where bumping as their tongues lashed out, distorting Talina’s mouth, protruding her cheeks, knocking her jaw about as her head jerked under the impact. The woman’s long black hair gleamed bluish in the sunlight as it was splashed this way and that with each jarring insult.
Dortmund couldn’t breathe, heard a broken whimpering from deep in his throat. Something warm rushed down the inside of his thighs.
Time stopped. A crystal quality to his vision. The beasts before him rendered in such precise detail. The glint of light on their eyes, the armored, scale-covered muzzles. Each serration of the jaws. How the tongues looked bruised-purple in the harsh glare. The incredible vivid red—almost painfully crimson—radiating from the flared collar membranes.
A ringing heterodyne blared in his ears, as though they refused to recognize the chittering and growling, or the hollow thumping of Talina’s head against the stone.
He’d never quite know how long he was lithic. How time had compressed, or the horror made manifest.
It shattered when Kylee uttered a shrieking and shrill wailing. Like something torn by its roots from pure pain.
It startled Dortmund to the point that he jerked his head around. Fixed on the little girl’s face, now turned demonic red, mouth twisted into a savage visage that showed her teeth.
She was moving. Charging forward, small hands like claws as she rushed the stunned quetzals. Like whips, the tongues slapped back into the gaping mouths, the eyes fixing on the girl.
“No.” It came as a whisper choked from Dortmund’s throat.
But Kylee was upon them, and again the eerily tortured shriek broke from her throat.
Just as Dortmund thought the girl would leap onto the beasts, only to be torn asunder, she stopped, bent forward, craning her neck and head in a lowered and extended manner. Again she screamed, then thrust her arms out to the side, almost like a dancer’s bow.
Dortmund tried to swallow, choked as it caught in his dry throat.
The quetzals forgot Talina’s body, seemed to swivel on their hips, heads lowered eyeball to eyeball with the little girl.
Oh, dear God. They’re going to kill her before my eyes.
Instead—and nearly as awful—the girl opened her mouth. Like striking serpents, the tongues lashed out. Kylee’s head was batted this way and that with the impact. Somehow she kept her feet.
A moment later the two quetzals sucked their tongues back, retreated a couple of steps. Stared at each other, a thousand patterns of color flickering on their hides.
Dortmund had recovered his ability to breathe. Now he sucked one desperate breath after another. His heart was trying to explode in his chest. A nervous sweat broke out on his face, neck, and chest.
It surprised him that he was parked on his butt, legs akimbo, braced by his shaking arms. When had he collapsed?
The quetzals flashed white and pink followed by a day-glow orange. Almost quicker than the eye could see they turned, trotting off in that bipedal lope that reminded Dortmund of a racing ostrich.
Kylee braced her hands on her knees, head down, gasping for air. Then she stiffened, her body convulsing as she threw up.
Dortmund took two tries to get to his feet. Only then did he feel the cool wetness, horrified to look down at the urine stain darkening his pants. A cry of disbelief stuck in his throat.
He turned, considered how far it was to the Rork Springs dome. He could go now. Before anyone could see his shame. Change clothes. Maybe one of the pairs of overalls in the closet would fit. Then come back.
Torn, he glanced back at where Kylee now knelt beside Talina, struggled to hold the woman’s head up.
Whatever possessed me to come to this appalling planet?
“Help me!” Kylee called.
The little girl was glaring at him. He clamped his eyes shut—damned in his humiliation—and wearily turned his steps to where Talina and the girl waited.
He could smell himself. Was gratified that the little girl barely gave his soaked pants a glance, then turned back to where she cradled Talina’s head in her lap. “She’s still breathing.”
Dortmund sniffed. Over the smell of urine, he could identify the most unusual and spicy odor coming from the unconscious woman’s mouth.
“What just happened here? Was she out of her mind? Just walking up to them? And you? Were you trying to get killed?”
Kylee said emotionlessly, “They may be back once they think it through. We’ve got to get Talina to the dome. You get her rifle.”
Dortmund shot a worried glance at the weapon—more malignant in its own way than even the quetzals. “I don’t touch guns. I don’t believe in them. You take the gun. I’ll get Talina.”
And so saying, he reached down, only to discover that he hadn’t the strength to lift the limp woman. Every time he got a hold, she’d slip through his fumbling grasp.
“Are you a complete waste of skin?” Kylee asked skeptically.
“What do you mean, waste of skin?”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“I’ll have you know—”
“Sure, you’re a fucking professor. What can you do in the real world? So, like, squat down behind her, slip your arms under her armpits, and lift with your legs. I’ll hold her head up, until she’s braced, and you can drag her.”
Dortmund—despite the fact that he was still shaking and nauseated—managed as the little girl suggested. It wasn’t far to the dome. Not more than a few hundred meters.
Turned out to be a distance that seemed beyond forever. By the time he dragged Talina into the dome’s protection, it was a couple of hours, way too many rests, and more effort than he’d ever spent at anything. The urine had long dried. He considered it a miracle that his heart hadn’t burst, and it felt like every muscle in his body had been pulled from its anchoring.
Levering Talina into one of the beds at last, he collapsed onto the floor. Unable to help himself, he lowered his head into his hands and wept.
52
Talina Perez wasn’t sleeping easily. She thrashed periodically, and twice Dortmund caught the woman just be
fore she flipped herself off onto the floor. In the end, he tied her onto the bed, feeling curiously vulgar as he wound the strap around her body.
“You do that like you don’t want to touch her.” Kylee was watching from the room door.
“It feels like a violation.” Dortmund pulled the strap tight, double checking to make sure Talina couldn’t accidentally strangle herself.
Dortmund straightened, every muscle in his body on fire. Talina had a slight swelling on the back of her head. The scalp was barely lacerated. He checked the woman one last time, wondering what he was going to do if she had brain damage.
As if he’d recognize the signs.
The only thing he’d known to do was check her pupils; he found her irises fluctuating in unison when he pulled her lids up. What the hell was happening to the woman’s eyes? He couldn’t quite place what the difference was.
With a sigh he turned, flicked off the lights, and followed Kylee back to the main room. He’d washed and dried his pants, still thunderstruck. He’d just survived the worst day of his life.
“I should use the radio to call Port Authority,” he stated as he walked up to the door and peered out through the duraplast window at the yard. The familiar stone out front gleamed in the white yard light’s glow. No quetzal was peering back in at him. Only a swirling cloud of flying bug-like things were moving as they swarmed the overhead light.
Sometimes the similarities with Earth amazed him. But then Simons in his 2098 paper had demonstrated mathematically that there were only so many ways organisms could evolve morphologically within given environments. Legs were limited to certain structural limits to bear weight and move mass by the universal laws of physics. It didn’t matter if it was on Earth or Donovan; when it came to limb dimensions, phi—the golden ratio—ultimately remained the best solution to minimize the amount of energy expended to move a creature over a given distance with the greatest efficiency. A wing, no matter what its composition, was limited in shape by the laws of aerodynamics in a gaseous environment. Biomechanics was an exact science based on physics. Period.
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