Midworld

by Alan Dean Foster

  Cohoma had joined the others. “They’re a bit more than animals, sir. They can talk, a little. Enough to make conversation. I talked to them myself. They don’t like talking, as I under—”

  “Shut up, you idiot,” the station chief said in a quiet voice that was worse than a shout. He continued muttering, “And they expect me to run a clandestine operation like this, on an inimical world like this, with a crew like this—”

  “Excuse me, Chief,” the head of engineering offered quietly. “Do you want me to round up some people to plug this thing?” He gestured toward the gap.

  “No, I don’t want you to round up some people to plug this thing,” Hansen shot back, mimicking the engineer’s querulous tone. “Cargo, where’s Cargo?”

  “Sir?” The head of station Security stepped through the group.

  “Leave this opening untouched. Mount a rifle over it with a four man crew, and rotate the crew every four hours.” He put hands on hips and rubbed absently at the brown robe. “Maybe they’ll try and come back this way. No more talk this time, not with one man already dead. We’ll find this Home and start fresh with these folk.”

  “Sir?” Cargo hesitated, then asked, “The turret crews are a bit skittish. They’re not too sure what they’re supposed to be watching out for.”

  “A couple of short, swarthy men accompanied by—” He looked over his shoulder, snapped at Logan, “What are these things supposed to look like?”

  “Six-legged,” she explained to Cargo, “dark green fur, three eyes, long ears, a couple of short thick tusks sticking up from the lower jaw, several times the mass of a man …”

  “That’ll do,” said Cargo drily. He nodded to Hansen, spun smartly on one heel and strode away to communicate with his people.

  “Tell me,” Hansen queried Logan, “did you ever get the impression that your friend Born might not approve of our aims in coming here?”

  “We never went into specifics about our activities, Chief,” she replied. “There were times when one could have read his questions and answers several ways. But since he was in the process of saving our lives, I didn’t think it expedient to argue motivations with him. I felt our primary objective was to get back here whole.”

  “Yet despite this uncertainty about how he might react, you let him leave these two semi-intelligent animals free to mount a rescue.”

  Logan couldn’t keep herself from showing a little anger of her own. “What was I supposed to do? Drag them along bodily? It seemed to me best at the time to stay on friendly terms with Born and Losting. The furcots saw what a laser cannon can do. None of Cargo’s brilliant assistants located any passageways in these support trunks! How could I guess that—”

  “You could have insisted he bring his pets along.”

  “You still don’t understand sir.” She fought to make it plain. “The furcots aren’t pets. They’re independent semisentient creatures with extensive reasoning powers of their own. They associate with humans because they want to, not because they’ve been domesticated. If they want to do something like remain behind in their forest, there’s no way Born or anyone else can force them to do otherwise.” She glanced significantly at the hole in the floor where the metal had been peeled back like the skin of an apple. “Would you want to argue with them?”

  “You debate persuasively, Kimi. It’s my own fault. I expect too much of everyone. And those expectations are always fulfilled.” He looked broodingly at the dark tunnel. “I wish there were some way of avoiding a confrontation. Not because it would make our operation here any less illegal if we have to kill a few natives.”

  “Not natives, sir,” Logan reminded him, “survivors of—”

  Hansen cocked his head and glared at, her, his voice steady, hard. “Kimi, back in spoke twelve I saw a maintenance subengineer named Haumi with his face pushed in and his back broken. He’s dead, now. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Born and Losting, and any of their cousins who feel similarly about our presence here, natives, hostile ones. I have an obligation to the people who put up the credit for this station. I’ll take whatever steps are necessary to protect that. Now, is there any chance you could find your way back to this village, or Home?”

  Logan paused thoughtfully. “Considering some of the twists and turns, ups and downs we took, I doubt it. Not without Born’s help. Our skimmer must be nearly covered by fresh growth by now. Even if we were to locate it, I don’t know if we could find the Home from there. You’ve no idea, sir,” she half pleaded, “what it’s like trying to move through this world on foot. It’s hard enough to tell up from down, let alone horizontal direction. And the native carnivorous life, the defensive systems developed by the flora—”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Kimi.” Hansen jammed his hands into the robe’s pockets. “I helped clear the space for this station. Well, we’ll still try to take at least one of them alive when they come back.”

  “Your pardon, sir,” Cohoma said, his expression uncertain. “Come back? I’d think Born would tend to hightail it back to the Home to organize resistance to us and warn his fellows.”

  Hansen shook his head sadly, smiled condescendingly. “You’ll never be much more than a scout, Cohoma.”

  “Sir,” Logan began, “I don’t think you’re being entirely fair—”

  “And the same goes for you, Logan. Goes for the two of you.” His voice sank dangerously, all pretense of fatherliness gone. “You’ve both been guilty of underestimating your subject. Maybe their smaller stature made you feel superior. Maybe it was the fact that you’re the product of a technologically advanced culture—the reasons don’t really matter. You probably still think you talked this Born into making this trip. You think you kept him in the dark concerning the station’s true purpose. Instead, look what’s happened. Why do you think Born wanted advanced weaponry above all else? To fight off local predators? Patrick O’Morion, no! So he could eventually deal on even terms with us!

  “Now he knows the nature and disposition of our defenses here, the station layout, has a rough idea of our numerical strength, and sees how really isolated from outside help we are. He’s also divined our intentions and decided they run contrary to his own. No, I don’t see that kind of man running for help. He’ll take at least one crack at us on his own.”

  Cohoma looked abashed. “None of which would matter,” Hansen went on, “if he was still sitting back in that room, under guard. It pains me to have to kill so resourceful a man. The trouble is this spiritual attitude they apparently take toward the welfare of every weed and flower. That’s what you two have failed to perceive. With your Born, our announced activities here are grounds for a holy war. I’ll bet my pension he’s out there now, sitting on some idolized thornbush, watching us, and thinking of ways to make the blasphemer’s way into hell fast and easy. Now, tell me more about these furcots of theirs.” He kicked at the bent metal around the hole. “I’ve got the evidence of one dead man and a breach in the station proper to testify to their strength. How invulnerable are they?”

  “They’re flesh and bone—flesh, anyway,” Cohoma corrected himself. “They’re quite mortal. We saw several of them slain by a marauding tribe of local killers called Akadi. The time to worry is when they throw nuts at you.”

  Hansen eyed Cohoma oddly, decided to press on with his questions. “What about weapons?”

  “Something called a snuffler, kind of like a big blow-gun. It shoots poisonous thorns. Otherwise all we saw were the usual primitive implements—knifes, spears, axes, and the like. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Hansen said grimly, “the first time I see one sticking out of your neck, Jan. A club can kill you just as dead as a SCCAM shell. Anything else?”

  Logan managed an uneasy smile. “Not unless they’ve learned how to tame a silverslith.”

  “A what?”

  “A large local tree-dweller. It’s at least fifty meters long, climbs on several hundred legs, and has a face only an AAnn nest-
master could love. According to Born, it never dies and can’t be killed.”

  “Thanks,” Hansen replied tartly. “That encourages me no end.” He started to leave, turned back. “There’s also the chance nothing at all’s going to happen. So we’re going to continue with normal operations under more than normal security. I can’t afford to close up shop waiting for your little root-lover to proclaim his intentions. You’ll both report for duty tomorrow as usual and check out a new skimmer, pick up new assignments.”

  “Yes, sir,” they chorused dispiritedly.

  Hansen took a deep breath. “For myself, I’ve got another report to make out, more than usually negative. Get out of my sight, the both of you.”

  Cohoma seemed about to add something, but Logan put a cautioning hand on his arm and drew him away. Hansen continued to hand out directives. One by one, the crowd dispersed, each to his or her assigned task. The station chief was left alone. He stood staring down the hole for a long time until the rifle crew arrived.

  When they began to set up the powerful, slim weapon on its tripod, he spun around and stalked off toward his office, trying to imagine the phraseology that would explain to his shadowy superiors how the station perimeter was violated by two aborigines and a pair of oversized, six-legged cats.

  The director would not be pleased. No, most definitely not pleased.

  XIII

  BENEATH A BROAD CURVED panpanoo leaf which served as shelter from the steadily falling night-rain, man and furcot rested on a wide tuntangcle and held a council of war. Hansen was right. To Born and Losting, Ruumahum and Geeliwan, the actions of the giants were grounds for a jihad.

  “We can conceal ourselves in the trees below the level where they have killed,” Losting suggested, his voice sharp against the constant pit-pat of rain, “and pick them off as they come out.”

  “In their sky-boat skimmers as well?” Born countered. “With our snufflers, no doubt.”

  “Gather the brethren,” Ruumahum growled terribly.

  Born shook his head sorrowfully. “They have long eyes for seeing and long weapons for killing, Ruumahum. We must think of something else.”

  It was silent then save for splash and spray and occasional shuffling below the panpanoo. Once Born’s half-lidded eyes opened and he muttered to the wood, “Roots … roots.” Other eyes gazed at him hopefully, till he turned quiescent again.

  “I have an idea of how this may be begun,” he finally announced without looking at anyone in particular. “It scratches at the edge of my mind like a wheep hunting for the entrance to the brya burrow. Roots … roots and a parable.” He got to his feet, stretched. “Where is the power of the giants anchored? From whence do the marvels attributed to them come?”

  “From Hell, of course,” Losting mumbled.

  “But which Hell, hunter? Our world draws strength from the Lower Hell. These giants, from what they say, derive theirs from the Upper. Their roots are locked in the sky, not the ground. They have cut their way into our world by digging downward. We will cut into theirs by digging up.”

  “How can one dig up?” Losting wondered aloud.

  By way of reply Born walked to the edge of the sheltering panpanoo and stared up into the tepid rain. “We must find a stormtreader.” He turned back to eye Ruumahum questioningly. “How many days till the next big rain?”

  The furcot uncurled himself and padded to stand next to his person. The blunt muzzle probed the night air. As water dribbled off his face, he sniffed deeply, inhaled through his powerful mouth. “Three, maybe four days, Born.”

  The stormtreader was not too rare, not too common, and no two were ever found near each other. But moving on the Third Level, they had located the silver-black bole rising in the forest on the far side of the station. It was not close to the cleared area, but the long, chainlike leaves reached downward all the way to the Sixth Level. They would reach upward as easily.

  There was only one way to handle the leaves of the stormtreader. By covering hands and paws, arms and legs with the sap of the lient, it was possible to safely draw up hundreds of meters of interlocked leaf and coil it in readiness.

  “I still do not understand,” Losting admitted, as they rubbed the sticky black sap from their hands.

  “Remember, the giant-made vine web we first passed through when they took us into their station-Home? Remember the Sal-giant explaining what it ate? I once saw a cruta eat so much tesshanda fruit it exploded. Its insides flew all over the branch it had been sitting on. I’ll never know whether I looked as surprised as the cruta did, but I’ll not forget the sight as long as I breathe. This is what we do here, I hope.”

  Losting was appalled. “We may only make the giants’ roots stronger, firmer.”

  Born shrugged. “Then we will try something else.”

  Despite Losting’s impatience and uneasiness, they waited through the storm that raged the third night. Born knew he had made the right decision the fourth evening, when Ruumahum scented the air and rasped, “Rain and wind and noise aplenty, this night.”

  “We must move quickly, then, before it howls at us, or even the sap of the lient won’t save us.” He spoke as the first big drops began to set the forest humming.

  In near total darkness they started toward the station, moving beneath the cleared area covered by multiple electronic sensors and fight amplifiers and the red light death. They had three of the long silvery leaves. Each of the furcots wrestled with one, Born and Losting with the third. Thickly coated with lient sap they dragged the ever-lengthening strands behind them, until they reached the dark wall formed by one of the station-supporting trunks. Born touched it, peered close. The topped tree was already beginning to die from loss of its leaf-bearing crown and infection of the heartwood.

  Moving slowly they started upward, parallel to the colossal trunk. Thunder boomed down to them now, as the still distant lightning cracked the sky like drying mud beneath a summer sun. Already Born was drenched. Ruumahum had been right. Rain aplenty, this night.

  The black lient also helped conceal them when they emerged into the open air. Wind still carried the rain to them, but here, directly beneath the shielding bulk of the station, it was still relatively dry. That was fortunate, since there were no friendly cubbies and creepers to mount there. They had to make their way with the heavy leaves up the vertical shaft. But though security was no less lax and those who studied the monitors and scanners no less intent on their tasks, the tiny blots that moved up the trunk were not seen. The station’s defenses were aimed out, not down. Nor did Born make the mistake of trying to mount the tree Ruumahum and Geeliwan had used to rescue them. That bole, at least, still commanded plenty of attention.

  Born waited till all were ready just below the metal web that prevented further ascent. Lightning split the night-rain steadily now. They had to hurry. Above him, the web crackled and sputtered with each atmospheric discharge. He nodded. Together, man and furcot carefully draped the three silver-black leaves over different strands of the web. Born held his breath as the leaf touched metal. A few tiny sparks, then nothing.

  “Down and away—quickly!” he called to the furcots.

  Within the sealed outpost, an unexpected movement caught the eye of the third engineer on duty at the generator station. He frowned, walked over to the dials in question. There was nothing radically wrong about the slight fluctuations in current that were registered, but there should have been no such flutterings at all. The variations were more than the most violent storm was expected to produce. For a brief moment he considered waking the chief engineer, decided against chancing that worthy’s temper. Probably there was some minor malfunction in the monitoring equipment itself—the B transformer had displayed a tendency to act up from time to time. And it could hardly be due to normal shifts in the power produced by the solar collector—not in the middle of the night!

  The monitoring chips checked out operational one after another. He was still searching for the source of the disturbance when a hu
ge lightning bolt struck near enough for the sound to penetrate the station’s dense soundproofing.

  Several things happened simultaneously.

  The ear-splitting discharge struck a tree in the hylaea to the southeast of the station. There was no shattering of wood, no brief flare of flame. The crown of this particular tree was not split or blackened. Instead, the naked apex of the stormtreader drank the lightning like a child sucking milk through a straw. The metal-impregnated wood quivered visibly under the impact, but was not damaged as the tremendous concentration of voltage was distributed by the tree’s remarkable inner structure.

  Momentarily, the mild defensive charge the tree usually maintained was increased a thousand million times. Under normal circumstances the entire charge would have been dissipated into the distant ground by the stormtreader’s complex root system, creating oxides of nitrogen and heavily enriching the surrounding soil. But this time something else commanded the full force of that jagged disruption, diverted it through the defensive screen formed by the tree’s long, deadly leaves.

  The puzzled engineer would never know that his meters and dials had registered correctly, would never learn the source of those first enigmatic fluctuations in current.

  Born did not know what to expect. He had hoped, as he had described to Losting, to overfeed the protective webs which guarded the station’s underbelly. Instead, the three grids exploded like pinwheels a nanosecond following the deafening draw by the stormtreader. They flared like burning magnesium for long seconds before wilting and melting to slag.

  Distant explosions sounded across the dark Panta, and lights flared within the station, reaching out to the tiny knot of stupefied watchers crouched in the forest wall. Modulators sparked and exploded, unable to regulate the stupendous overload. The storage batteries simply melted like ice, depriving the station of back-up power.