Tropic of Creation (22 page)

Turning, he gave her a thin smile, mimicking ahtran placidity. “Quite all right. One is able to participate. It is very satisfying.” He managed to watch impassively as a pack of tree climbers converged on a soldier who had unwisely taken refuge in the dead-end upper branches.

Beyond the cruelty of the game she played with him, there was more to Nefer, he knew. He intended for her to have no satisfaction of him, but he worried what else she meant to have. Her assigning Maret to him was a ruse, nor did she ever plan for Eli to speak in their favor. She seemed indifferent to the threat of war. In fact, he feared she sought it.

Nefer settled herself cross-legged. A rug materialized under her. “One should punish you for the matter of the gomin,” she purred. “But one relents. One grows … fond? Is that the word? Fond of you.”

The beasts roared as they ate. “Regrettably, one can’t return the sentiment.”

“Of course. The matter of your failed command. You will tend to blame me.”

“As to that, it appears the soldiers of my command still live.” He gestured to the jungle below. “Does all this commotion mean I’ve won our wager?”

“Your wager was that they would survive. They are not, as you observe.”

“Some of them are dying. But it’s a big forest down there, and I had a lot of soldiers.”

“One hundred fifty-seven, so you affirmed.”

“Is that what I said? That was on just one ship,” he lied. “I had two ships. Forgive any inaccuracy. I had a head wound at the time.”

“No matter. The more of them, the worse it will be. The monsters will abandon pursuit of more cunning prey and exploit the ready meat. Your people will tend to herd together, as humans do. So regrettable. One understands your distress.”

“And I yours.”

A slow blink. “One does not feel distress.”

He seated himself in front of her. “Among my people, when one has served—an organization—for a long time and is not advanced, there is cause for distress.”

Her markings, unusually pronounced today, lost some of their edge.

“For instance, it’s distressing if one is overshadowed by a more gifted person, causing one’s own talents to be eclipsed.” He shrugged. “I understand that Hemms is young and in fine health. Although one would not begrudge good fortune in others.”

A cry erupted from the base of the cliff. A long, slow, painful-sounding death. Nefer sat very still before finally taking a dab of snuff. Then, speaking in a pinched voice, she said, “Is one disposed to slow deaths, or quick—to allow satisfying participation?”

“Slow is more realistic. More like war, which I am well used to.”

She murmured, “One had thought you had more … compassion … is this the word?”

“A liability for an officer. My job is to lead soldiers to their deaths.”

“One wonders if one has mistaken you, Eli Dammond. One is ignorant of human ways. You must teach me.” She rose in a languid movement.

“Before you leave, Nefer-as, there remains the question of our wager.”

“The outcome of the wager is awaiting happenstances.”

“But you hold to the wager?”

“Certainly.”

He meant to pin her down, slippery as she was. Maret had shown him the ahtra data screens and the wagers registered there. So, by God, he would have his wager public.

“If you hold to our wager,” he said, “I would register the wager in the flow. Otherwise, one fears you will only honor it if you win, and not if you lose.”

“Such rudeness is surprising in an individual so beholden to one.”

He shrugged. “It is a human way, to be suspicious of treachery.”

The rug she’d been sitting on broke up into spots of color and evaporated. “It does no harm to register our wager in the flow. It shall be a token of one’s fondness for you.”

Another cry erupted from the bottom of the cliff. “You see?” he said, turning to watch the slaughter. “A few are still left.”

“It is a construct, you perceive.”

“A convincing one. My compliments to your techs.”

That night, the cries went away.

T
hey lay in the high grass, hugging the ground. Upwind, a herd of rippers was dozing in the sun, some standing on one leg, beaks turned into furry torsos. Every now and then, one of the birds muttered a croaking word or two, like
fire, sweet cheesus, behind joo
.

“Fucking chickens don’t even have feathers,” Private Brad Limon muttered. Known as Lemon for his personality, he was skinny as a bird himself, with nervous eyes that seemed to dart independently of each other. Juric and the others ignored him, too parched to talk. Besides Lemon and Sergeant Juric, there were privates, Leo “Chi Chi” Vecchi, Bill Tafoya, and big “Pig” Platis.

Sascha lay on her back, filling her eyes with light, as though her brain needed drying out.

Of course they don’t have feathers
. “What are the chances that feathers would evolve twice in the galaxy?” she whispered. “Think about feathers, how improbable they are.”

The bot was humming next to her. They hoped it wouldn’t attack the herd, betraying their position. For
now, the bot seemed to be on siesta. But a bot on automatic was a dicey proposition, relying on AI judgment, the last resort of battle. Sascha knew that the bot couldn’t save them. She expected to die, and the thought kept her from despair.

Lemon spared her a quick glance, taking in her posture of openness, when everyone else was belly-down in the dirt. “I joined the army never to have to learn shit like that.”

“Shut up, Lemon,” Juric whispered, “or you’ll get a close-up lesson on chickens.”

Sascha watched the grass sway in the hot breeze. Each stalk was jointed, like what her nanny used to call horsetails. Interspersed were wildflowers with blooms remarkably like an insect. The petals were like wings, stamens like antennae … all to trick an insect to attempt copulation with the flower while fertilizing the plant with pollen-laden feet. In her mind, she held a conversation with her father. The jointed plants were arthrophytes. The flowers were mimicking. It was important to remember everything so it could all be written up and not lost. That way, it would all be for something. She reached up and snapped off a flower, tucking the specimen into her pocket.

Somehow, they had survived their first night out of camp. Three groups had fled the bunker. That might be all that was left. Two groups each had a bot, and the race was on for the lander. Juric let her keep her lamp on, though the men argued for the cover of darkness. When morning found them all still alive, the lamp idea got more respect. Now its bulbous eye was pointing at the two suns, recharging.

They’d seen dead lizards everywhere. The patches wouldn’t call them amphibs, and Sascha knew better than to correct them. The men stepped on them, grinding them under lug heels, grinning like maniacs. They pranced for one another’s benefit, who could stomp more lizards. It
surprised her, how silly grown men with stubble beards could be. But their smiles were as thin as bubbles. Underneath was something more like panic.

Somebody wondered out loud what killed the lizards. But Sascha knew. Life killed them. They emerged from the lakes and streams famished, feeding their short lives with vast supplies of bloody fuel until, breeding accomplished, nature abandoned them. Just in time to avoid the emergence of the rippers. Blood was the best fuel for a short life-cycle. She’d said as much to the men. But some of them seemed to feel that by understanding the creatures, she was siding with them. The way they looked at her, it was clear they had no love of their baby-sitting job. She heard them mutter that they should leave her behind. But she wasn’t slowing them down.

The mud was slowing them down. They sank in most places past their boots. And it was time-consuming to search for the best fording points of the numerous rivulets and streams. So far, they’d managed not to wade.

“Fucking Christ,” Private Tafoya whispered.

Sascha scrambled up to look in the direction he was staring. Every ripper head had emerged from its dozing position, and was stretched high, eyes alert. Guns snapped into position.

But in another instant the rippers bounded off in the direction of the Gray Spiny Forest, with a speed that soon took them from sight. Whatever prey they’d sighted, Sascha felt sorry for it.

“Let’s go,” Juric growled. They set out over somewhat firmer ground, hunched down, though the grass was six feet tall. Using its own judgment, the plate-shaped bot morphed into a hammer shape, making a shurring sound as its matrix sides brushed against the grass. Sascha hoped it would survive them and carry her report to her grandfather.

“Remember this,” she’d whispered to the bot late last night. “My mother died by the fire of our own guns during the attack, and my father died when he ran to protect her from the rippers.” Those were the facts. She reported them as though they pertained to someone she barely knew. “Captain Marzano lead out a detail a week ago and was never seen again. Baker Camp fought honorably in the Gray Spiny Forest. And Badri Nazim was very brave,” she added, because she was sure it was true. “When the camp was attacked, we separated to make for the ship in bands, to throw the animals off our scent. Captain Dammond took it on himself to investigate the ahtran craft that dig down below. He gave his life to be sure it was no ahtran outpost. Grandpa, he inspired everyone with his sacrifice. Make sure everyone knows.”

They heard a rustling noise inside a fallen log. For a moment they glimpsed the first few inches of an insect with many legs. Now the enlisteds took to arguing about how long the thing really was. Judging by what she’d seen, Sascha guessed a good five feet. Insects with tracheae could be large here, her father had theorized, because of elevated oxygen on Null, which would work well for insects that absorbed oxygen through the skin with a few tubes to distribute it to the rest of the body.

Sascha walked with her lamp on. She liked walking better than hiding. While walking there were things to observe, catalogue, sample, and investigate. There was putting one foot in front of the other—no mean feat in some of the mud wallows—and she concentrated on these things rather than the unthinkable night before last. It hovered around her, saying,
Remember, remember
. But first there was walking and cataloguing. Later, remembering.

They came to a river. It flowed slowly and broadly through the valley. Though in the molten sunlight, they could see to the bottom, they stood well back from it. The
bot wandered off, reconnoitering, its movements traced by the parting grasses.

“Tell it to stick around,” Vecchi suggested to Juric.

Juric looked at him like he’d just suggested a swim. “It doesn’t take orders anymore. But that’s OK, Chi Chi, ‘cause it’s got more smarts than your whole family put together. I’d rather have that dog than you. So never mind about the dog.” He licked his lips and grinned at the private until Vecchi broke eye contact.

Hurt, Vecchi walked off to stand near Pig, who was watching the river with disgust, carrying the heavy domino like a baton. Baker Camp’s reports on the dark rivers of the Sticks had raced through Charlie Camp faster than radio. The enlisteds weren’t used to enemies in the water and didn’t like the prospect of it.

The grass behind them rustled. They heard the whine of the bot’s firing, followed by an eruption of bird screeching. The grass thrashed. Backs to the water, the men started firing in the direction of the commotion. The first ripper sped out of the melee and was caught in midair by lobs from the domino. Then they were everywhere, beaks with eyes on both sides, swiveling heads looking for, then locking on targets.

Sascha was forced into the water by the retreating men who now ignored the river’s dangers for the immediate attack on three sides. She was hit in the face with someone’s blood, then knocked to her knees by Juric, by accident or design. Under the gunfire and shouts of the men, Sascha heard distorted croaks of, “run,” “bot,” “cheesus.” As she struggled to rise, she turned. Behind her, two yards away, a pair of long pincers emerged from the glittering water. She glimpsed a flat-bodied creature as big as a dog, with eyes on its back. Grabbing her lamp to aim its beam, she shone it in the creature’s face. It backed off in slow motion and pincers snicked shut on the arm of someone nearby. It was Tafoya, floating facedown. Sascha stood up
and chased the creature with her lamp as it backed into the deeper water. It released Tafoya and disappeared beneath the surface.

When she turned around again, the rippers had disappeared. Many of them lay in the grass, slaughtered by bot and human fire, their long legs twitching. While Pig pulled Tafoya from the river, Juric and Vecchi scrambled to a small rise to see if more remained. Sascha fled the water and joined them.

Across the shallow, grass-filled valley, the rippers loped in tight formation, their heads appearing in unison above the grasses on every stride. In close pursuit, a taller creature ran, matching long strides with rippers. Muscular and upright, the creature’s lower body was obscured in the grass, but they saw a very long, jointed arm reach forward and haul down the hindmost ripper.