by Larry Niven
“Yes. Just call them pterodons.”
Marco lifted his rifle, sighted at them through the laser scope. The computer assisted device wasn’t exactly a sporting weapon. “No need for that,” Cadzie said. “We won’t land to get it, and their meat is pretty sour.”
The former star grinned. He was eager to hunt. If Cadzie had been in an uncharitable mood, he might have said “eager to kill something.”
Maybe he didn’t like Marco so much after all.
Marco grinned at him. Lots of teeth, perfect hair, hugely likeable, totally plausible. Cadzie reminded himself to keep an eye on this one. “Good point. Well . . how fast are they?”
“I’m not really sure.” He paused. “I’d bet the Shakas have some statistics.”
“Don’t tell me that you’ve never tried them. I mean, your wings to theirs.”
Skeeters didn’t have wings of course. But he got the reference. He said, “Risky.”
Gloria Stype sat directly behind Cadzie, sandwiched in the jump seat with Joanie. He noticed that Joanie looked almost petite compared to the major, as opposed to her somewhat Amazonian contrast with most of the Surf’s Up set. “What say we test them a little!” Gloria asked. Her voice was at the low end of feminine register, and he liked it. He found that he wanted to show off for her. Also that in his entire life, he’d never piloted a skeeter with full capacity, and wanted, really wanted to see what it could do.
“Why not?” he said, and with that, banked sharply and dove directly at a flock of pterodons. If he hadn’t known them to keep a safe distance from propellers, there might have been a touch of cruelty about his actions, but instead, as they responded with razor-sharp reflexes, bleating disapproval and winging frantically in all directions, it was mischief, not mean-spiritedness. A celebration of new possibilities, not a lack of respect for their fellow Avalonians.
The skeeter responded like a dream, with the sensitivity and intelligence of his horse Cameron, only faster and through more planes of motion than any horse could dream of. Only at this moment did he really realize what he had been missing, how tentative and strictured his previous flights had been.
This was pure joy, and he screamed “Yahhooo!” As he looped it and tested the aerodynamics to the max, one eye stayed on the readouts, until he realized they were so rock-steady that he could put his entire focus into the act of flying.
His passengers were laughing, not tense and frightened. They egged him on, challenged him by word and expression as he corkscrewed through a flock of pterodons, zipped among the crags with calm hand on the tiller, the proximity alarm never flashing red or screaming at them, no sign of structural instability in the frame, engines, power-train or propellers.
This was flying. This was what he had been born to do, and had never even known it. When they cleared the mountains and he righted himself and flew straight once again, there was much laughing and backslapping, and he almost wanted to cry.
All misgivings about Marco had vanished. All his life he’d waited for these new friends to arrive. And had never even known it.
Another hour’s travel eastward brought them to the edge of the vast grassy plain stretching for a thousand klicks to the east and north, eventually giving way to desert, and on the far northern side of the desert, mountains and finally arctic regions as yet unchallenged by human beings.
The Veldt.
And now, after only another twenty minutes of flying, they encountered the first signs of alien life. Strange signs, things that must have been conundrums indeed if viewed from orbit, let alone the edge of the solar system. The yellow-green grasslands were grooved with vast scrawling patterns, as if a godlike being had written in an unknown language in an arcane cursive script. Vaguely reminiscent of cuneiform, stupefying upon first encounter, suggestive of myth and magic. The Godsons in Red One were leaning against the Plexiglas, fogging it with their breath as they gazed down.
“When we first saw them,” Joanie said, “I think we were imagining some ancient agrarian society was responsible for this. Maybe something like the Peruvian Nazca drawings. Either abstract art, or something designed to be seen by their gods.”
Piloting Skeeter Blue, Sven Meadows chimed in over the speakers. “I can believe that. They’re visible from space. In fact they were all we could see on Avalon that suggested life.”
“Oh, it suggests life, all right.” Joanie squealed in joy, and pointed to the north. “There, Cadzie!”
He wheeled the skeeter around and within another minute, they were clearly approaching their first scribe.
The titans were reminiscent of turtles or prehistoric ankylosauruses. Larger than a brontosaurus but smaller than sperm whales, they were the largest land animals human beings had ever encountered, mossy-backed leviathans secure in their armor and size, eating their way around a million square klicks of grasslands, arguably the only Avalonians that dared mock the deadly grendels.
Their backs bristled with great hooked boney protuberances, and on the first scribe they reached, three grendel skeletons hung tangled in the barbs. No . . two skeletons, and one rotting carcass even now being picked at by insectoid scavengers of some kind, something that looked vaguely like a grasshopper the size of a German Shepherd. As they approached, two of them looked up, and one took off in an odd whirlygig pattern. It might have been squawking in alarm or protest, but he couldn’t hear them over the autogyro prop-purr.
He found himself laughing, for no good reason he could think of. Life . . just felt good.
Cadzie knew what he was looking for: a section of rocky plain with insufficient cover for grendels, despite the assurance of his passengers and new friends that they had adequate protection in the form of armament and constant scans from a revitalized Cassandra.
“We told you we could protect you, that Avalon was safe, remember?”
Major Stype nodded. “And we still provided our own security.”
“Made sense to us. You say that your sensors will detect a grendel heat signature five klicks out?”
“Yep.”
“We believe you,” Cadzie said. “But we’re going to do this our way.”
“Belt and suspenders,” Meadows said over the speaker.
Skeeters Red One and Blue Three spiraled to the ground, and within a half hour the defense perimeter, tents and porta-potty had been set up, and soup was on the fire. The Avalonians followed their procedures, and the Godsons theirs, but he noticed that there was no real conflict between the two. They were learning from each other.
Four Avalonians and four Godsons had made the trek, along with a heavy load of luggage and equipment and a goat that was just coming to wobble-legged consciousness. The twin skeeters had performed beautifully. Cadzie was quite certain that their own machines had never been so strong and agile. He’d not have been able to outmaneuver a pterodon even in a Skeeter flying solo, let alone hauling four passengers and equipment.
The guarding Godsons were no more attentive than he himself tended to be. But his own attitudes and actions, modeled on what he knew of his grandfather’s behavior, were fairly singular in the colony. Mocked at times, even by his own inner voices.
These men and women understood, and there were ways they felt more like his own tribe than his friends and neighbors ever had. And that was an oddness it would take some time to resolve.
Humans and a goat chained to a stake gathered around the campfire. They were triple-protected: Cassandra’s satellites scanned for heat signatures, the Godsons carried advanced portable scanners, and two men were on guard at all times. And yes, it was men. He’d noticed that. As undeniably strong as the Godson females were, there was far more of a dichotomy between male and female roles than there had ever been in Camelot.
And that created a bit of discomfort, even if, again, he couldn’t quite say why.
As they feasted on roast chicken around the cook fire, the conversation was carefully casual and light. All concerned were on their best behavior. Everyone wanted this new syner
gy to thrive.
For a small man, Toad could pack away an amazing amount of food, and the open air seemed to expand that appetite. Where did he put it all?
“Grendels have a unique heat signature, even when they aren’t on speed,” Toad said, wiping a hand across his greasy lips.
“Good,” Marco grunted. He seemed solid, satisfied in some way, the firelight casting peaks and valleys of shadow across his face. “That’s good. You know, this is better than I’d expected.”
“What did you think you were heading into?” Cadzie asked.
Marco gave a hard laugh. “We didn’t know. We just knew we needed to leave Earth.”
That caught Joanie’s interest. “Why? What was so terrible about Earth?”
Marco considered. “No frontiers. Too many people means too many rules. Everywhere. About everything. No room for a man to mark out his own destiny.”
“Is that why you came?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Bearing gifts,” Cadzie said.
“Of all kinds,” Trudy said, perfectly straightfaced, but in the very blandness of her response, he read mischief.
♦ ChaptEr 24 ♦
a slaughter of grendels
The fire eventually died down. By that time the guard had changed, all of the sensors checked and rechecked. The closest grendel heat signatures were far away, heading south toward the Veldt. They would have at least five minutes warning before anything scaly and toothy could reach them.
By the time Cadzie yawned awake in his tent he could smell eggs and mutton sizzling on the breakfast pans. He stretched, then rolled out and followed his nose to find Trudy cooking over a renewed fire. “How are things going?”
Behind him, Toad answered, but he didn’t take his eyes off Trudy, who seemed perfectly content in her domesticity. “Getting right along,” Toad said. “We have heat signatures thirty-two klicks southeast.”
“Veldt country.”
Through an open flap Cadzie spied Marco seated brawnily cross-legged in his tent-mouth (a little surprised that Marco and Trudy had not shared a tent last night. Instead, she and Joanie had been roommates). The big man was scanning a hand-held sensor screen. He motioned Cadzie to join him.
One thick forefinger indicated large and small yellow blotches against a map. Cassandra’s eye view, he guessed.
“Scribes?” Marco asked, pointing at three large splotches.
“That’s what it looks like. I’m guessing a family cluster. Maybe three adults, five lambs.”
Marco nodded, and pointed at much smaller, redtinged forms heading away from a river (marked in blue) toward the family of giants. “Grendels? They don’t look so fast.”
“They’re not on speed,” he guessed. “Yet. The scribes came too close to running water. Would have been better off approaching a pond.”
“I thought you said they were invulnerable.”
“Not when young. But then they have the protection of their parents.”
“How exactly do the parents protect them?” Trudy asked. She sipped at a long-handled spoon, tasting something bubbling in the pot. It smelled delicious.
“The lambs hide under their parents. The mommies and daddies hunker down, and just wait out an attack. At least that’s what we’ve seen.”
“Shall we have some fun?” Marco asked. “Suit up?”
Cadzie’s stomach bubbled: excitement and fear. This was why you came, dammit. Get a grip. He nodded.
One of the guard unlocked the equipment cases lashed beneath Skeeter Blue. What nestled within looked a little like chain mesh armor. Lighter, more plastic or ceramic than metallic, and according to the tech folks he’d spoken to, well-nigh indestructible.
Also adjustable, so that there were only two sizes needed for normal adults. He had seen but not worn one until now.
It was decided that half the camp would remain back at the fire circle, while the others went off on their mad adventure. Specifically, seeking a slaughter of grendels.
With (Cadzie was glad to see) an extremely sober and businesslike attitude, the armor was laid out. Damned good. The adventure discussed over beer and roasted pig had sounded like the thrill of a lifetime. Now, the insanity was smack up in his face, and the voices in his head screamed for dear life.
Trudy helped him on with his gear, explaining its purposes and instructions as she did. “These are called ‘shrimp suits.’” Her grin was mischievous. “Custom made for this expedition. The designers were told to make the strongest, safest, deadliest battle armor ever designed. The first designs were based on previous human armor and armament, but eventually that changed and the researchers based the different systems on the most aggressive and successful predators on Earth, and one of the deadliest was . . .”
“A shrimp?” he guessed.
“Specifically, it’s called a ‘mantis shrimp.’”
The armor felt flexible, like a thick mesh plastic of some kind. When he pushed against it gently, it yielded. But when he smashed his fist against his shin . . it yielded. His hand felt it yield. But his shin felt almost nothing.
“What’s so special about a ‘mantis shrimp’?” he asked.
“Fastest animal strike on Earth,” she said. “Faster than a .22 caliber bullet. Its connective tissue is unique in responsiveness and toughness, capable of surviving repeated accelerations at twenty-three meters per second from a standing start.”
Yow. Was she joking? In comparison, a grendel was a sloth.
“By studying this little killer, and other creatures of similar lethality, the armorers went in creative directions, and we ended up with this.”
He stood up, so that she could finish sealing him in. This was the closest he had been to Trudy. Her body heat was intoxicating, and she smelled like sea-salt. Fresh.
Wrenching his mind back to business he studied Marco to get a better perspective on how he must look, and the best way to carry himself. Marco’s suit was red with blue trim, not much bulkier than a flight suit, with head covering and a facial shield that he guessed had a polarizing function. A backpack pouch might have been ammunition, rebreather apparatus . . he wasn’t sure what, but bet it could be swapped out for packs with different functions.
Marco crouched and, after a dramatic pause, jumped. And soared up twenty meters, and disappeared. What the hell . . ?
Then . . a thump not fifteen feet away, accompanied by a puff of dust. Nothing. Nothing had hit the ground. What, then . . ?
No! There was a heat shimmer the size and shape of a crouching human being, masked by some kind of active camouflage system that blended him in with the dirt and grass so perfectly that for a moment Cadzie’s eyes couldn’t pick him out. Once he focused, its outline was perceptible as a distortion, as if light was bending around a solid shape.
Not for the first time, he felt a stab of resentment toward the men and women who had decided to bring children unborn to a planet infested with horrors yet not build proper defense equipment. Damn! This was the technology he should have had all his life!
“What are the specs on this suit?” he asked.
“Fifth Gen battle armor, with enhanced anticipatory reflexes and enhanced strength. Built in sensory enhancement: thermal and auditory tracking, and integration with weapon systems.”
“Weapon systems?” Toad asked.
“Yes. There are some pretty fancy add-ons. I don’t think we’ll need them today. Grendels are just animals, right?”
“Yes,” Cadzie said. “Just animals.” It almost hurt his mouth to say that.
Trudy smiled, all blond Nordic mischief and challenge. “Then I don’t think we’ll have much trouble, do you?”
An hour later they were not only suited, but had conducted a series of basic drills. While there was no doubt that their new friends were more experienced and familiar with the gear, the suits were as user-friendly as bicycles with training wheels.
Major Stype, he noticed, was checking her diagnostics soberly, no sense of the almost childlike,
toothy enthusiasm which bubbled over in Marco. While he envied the gymnastic contortions and leaps Marco demonstrated with ease, he himself could jump three times his height, and lift twice the weight any human being had ever hefted without assistance.
He felt like Spider-Man, and that was quite enough for the moment.
Marco nodded approval when Cadzie landed from a leap in a perfect three-point superhero landing. “All right. It’s pretty intuitive, right?”
“Unbelievably so,” Cadzie said. He spoke from behind a faceplate, but wasn’t sealed in, was still breathing ambient atmosphere. These suits had to be the greatest innovation in mobile war since light chariots with spiked wheels. What was that, 2500 B.C. . . . ? Kazakstan . . . ?
He realized that his mind was desperately seeking distraction. His gut bubbled like a caldron.
“Try this . . .” Trudy said, and toggled a plate on her own wrist.
His transparent faceplate shimmered and shifted, segmented into four sections displaying thermal and satellite deep-scans, running in parallel but arranged so that he could see clearly. Columns of alphanumerics and symbols ran at peripheral vision, available at the slightest turn of his head. “Hugely adjustable, my friend,” Stype said. “But we’re just giving you the minimum right now, so that you can begin to function. We’re dropping you in on the deep end, I think.”
He saw everything, including the heat-shimmer around Stype as Trudy finished strapping her in. “Amazing,” he said.
“I assume you’re talking about the armor?” Joanie asked. She’d tried the armor on last night at Surf’s Up, and had proved more agile than Cadzie, actually pulling off a decent back-flip. Not perfect: she had pancaked, but her “oof!” had been goofy, not painful.
“I did better than you,” she whispered. “I should be going.”
