Phylogenesis

by Alan Dean Foster

  Faced with a situation for which a lifetime of study and learning had not prepared him, Desvendapur was compelled to fall back on that one aspect of his personality that had never failed him: his imagination. As he pursued his examination of the domicile, he proceeded to lay out in his mind a sequence of actions in much the same way he would design an extended recitation, complete with appropriate revisions and adjustments.

  None of this was apparent to the anxious Cheelo, who grew progressively more distraught in his bonds. Thanks to some fast thinking he had managed to buy some time, but, unlike a new communicator or tridee subscription, it was not guaranteed: There was no return policy in place in the event of dissatisfaction. The two poachers were not deep thinkers. Any little thing, any irritation of the moment or insignificant occurrence, might set them off. In that event he knew they might cast careful consideration and practicalities to the tepid wind that seeped upward from the cloud forest below, and blow his head off. He knew this because he and they were of a kind, representatives of that same subspecies of humanity that tends to react to awkward circumstance as opposed to thinking about it. Maruco and Hapec were too much like him for him to be comfortable around them. The devil he knew was himself.

  Convinced he was at least not in imminent danger of being executed, he switched from watching them to tracking the movements of the thranx. It was impossible to know what the alien was thinking since he could not talk to it without giving away the fact that it understood Terranglo. He had to content himself with imagining. What did it make of all this? Did it care what happened to him? Cheelo knew he didn’t care what happened to it, but right now his future prospects rested entirely with the many-legged insectoid. His life was in the bug’s hands—all four of them.

  If it forgot the scenario, if it deviated from the play and spoke aloud, then the poachers would quickly realize that they had no need of a translator. He would be rendered instantly extraneous. There were many steep precipices just east of the prefab abode into which a body could be thrown to be swallowed forever by rain forest, gully, and cloud. Silently he importuned the thranx to keep silent. Even if they found themselves sold, at least they would still be alive. Future prospects seemed considerably more promising when viewed from a perspective of abiding survival. Who could tell? With luck he might be able to persuade their buyers to make a brief stopover in Golfito.

  He tried to cheer himself up. If the poachers and the bug just kept their heads this wouldn’t turn out so bad. Didn’t he need to hide out for a while? Wasn’t that what he was doing down in the untrammeled rain forest in the first place? What better place to lie low—after he had finalized arrangements for his future with Ehrenhardt, of course—than the private zoo or collection of some incredibly rich patron who had just made a very expensive and very illegitimate purchase? As he had so many times in his desperate, frenetic life, he set about trying to mentally arrange events to his advantage. Even the bug was cooperating, maintaining silence while pretending to examine every object within the building.

  He was giving Desvendapur too much credit. The thranx was not pretending. While the poachers ignored him, he took the time to study each individual example of human manufacture in great detail, paying particular attention to how the two humans operated their manifold devices. Once, the one called Hapec caught the thranx peering over his shoulder as he ran the cooker. The human gestured clumsily and ordered him to step farther back. Maintaining the fiction that he could not understand the man’s speech, the poet obediently interpreted the gestures and moved away.

  By mealtime Cheelo, though still nervous and worried about the poachers’ state of mind, had resigned himself to his captivity. He cooperated while Hapec fed him listlessly, and he watched with as much interest as the poachers while Desvendapur picked through the assortment of rehydrated fruits and vegetables he was offered. When their prize captive seemed satisfied, the two men sat down to their own meal. Dinnertime conversation on their part consisted of coarse jokes, inconsequential natterings, and an impassioned discussion of how much money they were going to clear for selling the only representative of a recently contacted intelligent species into involuntary captivity. While salt, pepper, and hot sauce played a part in their dining, their conversation was seasoned by neither ethics nor morals.

  When Desvendapur had eaten his fill, he stepped back from the exotic but nutritious banquet his captors had laid out before him, ambled over to a far corner, and casually picked up one of their rifles, cradling the lethal device in his right truhand and foothand. It took a moment before Hapec noticed the alien aiming the muzzle of the weapon at him.

  “Hey. Uh, hey, Maruco!” The human’s lower jaw descended, and his mouth remained open to no apparent purpose.

  “Shit!” His eyes darting rapidly back and forth between his two prisoners, the other poacher pushed carefully away from the table. “Cheelo! Man, you tell the bug to put that down. It’s holding a full charge, and the safety is off. Tell it it’s liable to hurt itself. What’s it doing, anyway? We’re its friends, helping it to see and study more of our world. Go on, man: Remind it!”

  “I can’t tell him anything,” Cheelo replied tersely. “My hands, remember?”

  This time Maruco didn’t hesitate. Rising slowly from his chair and keeping his eyes on the enigmatic thranx, he nervously edged his way over to where his other prisoner was secured. Using his knife, he once again released the captive’s arms.

  A relieved Cheelo promptly began rubbing circulation back into his wrists. “Hey, what about my legs?”

  “What about your legs?” the poacher growled. “You don’t talk to it with your feet.”

  “Free his legs.” Desvendapur gestured with the rifle. Designed for thicker-digited, clumsier human hands, the weapon felt light in his arms. Manipulation and activation would be a simple matter.

  “Sure, just be careful with that…” Maruco paused, the knife halting in midswipe, as he stared wide-eyed at the alien. “Son-of-a-bitch-whore!”

  “You can talk!” Both poachers were gazing in open-mouthed disbelief at the suddenly voluble alien in their midst.

  “Not very well, but my fluency is improving with practice. His legs?” Again the rifle moved.

  Slowly, the poacher knelt and ran the blade across the restraining plastic. With a curt gasp of relief, Cheelo kicked his feet apart.

  A thranx did not need to look out of the corner of its eyes to see action transpiring off to one side. Multiple lenses scanned a much wider field than human eyes could see, allowing for considerably greater peripheral vision. He shifted the tip of the weapon significantly in the direction of the larger human, who had risen and taken a step in the direction of the other gun.

  “Although I am not familiar with the kind of result it produces, I believe I know how this weapon operates. I also believe that you should move the other way and stand alongside your friend.”

  “It’s bluffing.” Maruco began edging away from Cheelo, who had risen from the chair where he had been imprisoned and was now stomping about in an attempt to get circulation flowing to his feet again. “It doesn’t know how to fire the gun.”

  “Yeah?” Keeping his hands in plain sight, Hapec slowly and carefully came around behind the table to join his colleague. “Then you go pick the other one up.”

  As he studied the weapon-wielding bug, Maruco spread his hands innocently wide, ignorant of the fact that the subject of his supplication did not know the meaning of the gesture.

  “Okay, so you can talk. There’s no need for this. We mean you no harm.” Smiling ingratiatingly, he nodded at the now-standing Cheelo. “Our tying him up is just part of a special greeting and guest ritual.”

  “No it isn’t,” Desvendapur responded in his whispery but increasingly articulate Terranglo. “You forget that while I did not speak, I could listen. I have heard and understood everything that has been said since you first appeared before us in the forest. I know that you meant to kill us until Cheelo convinced you to sell
us instead.” He did not need to be familiar with the extraordinary diversity of human facial expression to interpret the one that now dominated the muscles of the poachers’ countenances.

  Still rubbing his wrists and flicking out his feet to stimulate the long-restrained muscles, Cheelo walked over to his alien companion. Having resigned himself to being sold as part of a package deal, he now found himself in a position he thought not to experience again for some time.

  “You’re full of surprises, bug.”

  The heart-shaped head and its great golden eyes turned toward him. “My name is Desvendapur.”

  “Ay, right.” He reached out with both hands. “I’ll take that now. Not that I don’t think you can use it, but I’m probably a better shot than you.” As the poet complaisantly handed over the weapon, Cheelo added by way of afterthought, “You do know how to use it, don’t you? You weren’t bluffing?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could have activated it. The firing mechanism is simple, and although the weapon is designed for human arms and hands, it fits well enough in mine. I would never have done so, of course.”

  “What’s that?” Maruco strained to make certain he had heard properly.

  “Although we have had to fight to defend ourselves in the past, and have evolved from primitive ancestors who battled constantly among themselves, we have become a peaceful species.” Antennae bobbed elaborately. “I could never have shot you unless my life was directly threatened.”

  “It was threatened!” Cheelo reminded him.

  The thranx shook its head, further surprising the poachers by its mastery and utilization of a common human gesture. “My freedom of movement was at risk, not my life. Although my preference is to return to the colony, I could have tolerated being transported to another part of your planet, could have lost myself in exposure to an entirely new environment and surroundings.”

  Maruco blinked. “Then why did you pick up the gun in the first place?”

  “As I said, because for many reasons I would prefer to return to the hive. Also because my life and freedom of movement were not the only ones at stake.” Both antennae dipped in Cheelo’s direction.

  A welter of conflicting emotion surged to the fore within the thief as the thranx’s words sank in. It didn’t object to being sold. It had picked up the rifle for his sake as much as for its own. Confronted by the rara avis of actual, genuine emotion, he had no idea how to respond, did not know what to say.

  Screw it.

  “Come on, Deswhel—Desvencrapur. We’re outta here.” With the rifle, he gestured at Maruco. “I want the airtruck. I told you, I’ve got an appointment to keep. If coaxed right, I think that truck’ll make it all the way up to the isthmus.”

  Keeping his hands in plain sight, the angry poacher nodded in the direction of the accessway that connected the ridge-top living quarters to the shop and garage. “You’ll leave us marooned here.”

  “Bullshit.” Cheelo laughed, enjoying the turn of events fully. “Your buyers are going to come running, and they’ll be bringing their own transportation.” He grinned broadly. “Of course, they’re not gonna be real happy with you when they find out that the prize you offered them decided not to hang around. Now, what about that truck?”

  “It’s an open design,” Hapec told him. “Take it. I just have to unlock the navigation system.”

  “Like hell. All you have to do is activate the cencomp. You think I’m gonna give you a chance to program the engine for self-destruct? D’you think I was born dumb, like you two?” Maruco’s expression tightened, but the poacher said nothing.

  “Let’s go.” Cheelo gestured with the muzzle. “Despindo—Des, you follow me. We’ll get as close to this colony of yours as you think we safely can, and I’ll drop you there.”

  “Colony?” Maruco’s small black eyes blinked. “What colony?”

  Cheelo ignored him, waiting for the thranx’s reply.

  “Among my people I am guilty of the most egregious antisocial activity. They would confine me until I could be sent offworld for more formal punishment. So if you do not object, Cheelo Montoya, I would rather continue to travel in your company. For a little while longer, at least.”

  “No can do, big-eyes. This boy’s jungle jaunt is over. I got to fly a long ways now, or I’m gonna be late for the dance. Besides, don’t you have your poems, your compositions, to perform for your fellow bugs?”

  The blue-green head swayed gently from side to side. “Insufficiently mitigating circumstances, I am afraid. I would far rather continue my ruminations, would much prefer to seek additional inspiration. Some day, of course, I will reveal them to all the hives. But not yet.” Overhead lighting sparkled in his eyes, imparting to the multiple lenses a muted crystalline gleam. “There is still so much more I wish to do.”

  “Have it your way.” An indifferent Cheelo gestured again with the rifle. Plenty of time to decide what to do with the bug once they were safely back down in the rain forest. As the two poachers stumbled off ahead of him, Maruco looked back over his shoulder.

  “What were you saying about a colony? There’s a whole colony of ’em here on Earth? Down in the Reserva? I never heard nothing about anything like that.”

  “Shut your face and keep moving. I know the truck’s coded, so you’re going to start it for me.”

  “Then it’s true! There’s an alien outpost in the Reserva that’s being kept from the public.” Rising excitement dominated the poacher’s voice. “And you didn’t say outpost; you said colony.” He looked over at his partner. “This might be the biggest secret on the planet. Any one of the fifty big media groups would pay a lifetime annuity for that kind of information. It’s worth a helluva lot more than one live bug.” Once more he looked back at the stony-faced Cheelo.

  “What do you say, vato? We’ve got the facilities here for communicating worldwide while hiding the source of the signal. We sell the information to the highest bidder and split it three ways. Nobody gets sold; nobody gets hurt. Plenty credit for everybody.” When Cheelo failed to respond, Maruco’s agitation increased. “Hell, we don’t need you to sell it. But the Reserva’s a big place, and this colony or base or whatever it is must be really well hid. Hapec and I are down there a lot, and we’ve sure never suspected anything like this was there. You know where it is. Whatever media group buys in ain’t going to want to go hunting for the place. They’ll want to set down right on top of it, before some competitor gets wind of what’s going on.” His voice fell slightly. “You do know where it is?”

  “Pretty much,” Cheelo lied. “Close enough so that anybody interested could find it within a week.”

  “Well come on then, man! Don’t waft this off. We can be partners. All of us, we’ll be rich.”

  “First you were going to kill me,” Cheelo reminded him, his tone chilly. “Then you were going to sell me as a talking accessory to a bug.”

  “Heyyy,” the poacher demurred, “it was nothing personal.” They were approaching the garage. “That was just business. You’re a businessman, chingón. That was business then; this is business now. You need our business contacts; we need what you know.”

  Cheelo found himself growing confused. The poacher’s insinuating spiel was beguiling. “What about the bu—about Des. He may be an outcast among his own people, but he’d never agree to the premature exposure of the colony.”

  “Chinga the bug,” Maruco snapped. “If it has a problem with this, blow its stinking guts out. We don’t need it no more. What do you care? It’s just a big, ugly, alien bug.”

  “It’s intelligent. Probably more so than either of you two. Probably…probably more than me. It’s…it’s an artist.”

  Maruco laughed madly as they entered the garage. The airtruck rested where it had been parked, sleek and silent, its propulsion system fully recharged and awaiting only coded reactivation. With it at his disposal Cheelo knew he could reach Golfito. Or at least Gatun, where he had friends and could safely refuel.

  His finger ti
ghtened imperceptibly on the rifle’s trigger. “It’s not funny. I used to think it was, but I’ve changed my mind. So now what the hell am I supposed to do? Trust you?”

  “Yeah, you can trust us. Can’t he, Hapec?”

  “Sure. Why should we do anything? We need you to show the site to whoever buys the story,” the other poacher observed. As he spoke, he was drifting to his left, toward a wall lined with tools.

  “Don’t even think about it.” The muzzle of the rifle flicked sideways so that it was aimed straight at the bigger man’s back. As soon as it shifted away from him, Maruco whirled. A compact, high-strung bundle of muscle and furious energy, he threw himself at Cheelo.

  21

  As he tried to bring the rifle around to bear on his attacker, Cheelo’s finger contracted reflexively on the trigger. A tiny, very intense, and highly localized sonic boom echoed through the building. Hapec gazed down in disbelief at the small but lethal hole that the sonic burst had punched through him from stomach to spine. Even as he clasped both hands over the perforation, blood began to gush forth between his fingers. Mouth gaping in a silent “O” of surprise, he staggered toward the two combatants before sinking to his knees and then toppling languidly forward, like a brown iceberg calving from the face of a glacier, to the floor of the garage.

  Maruco managed to grab the muzzle of the rifle before Cheelo could bring it around for a second shot. They struggled violently and in complete silence for possession of the weapon—until a second boom rattled the diminutive oneway windows that lined the walls of the enclosure.

  Thorax pumping, Desvendapur pressed back against the airtruck and contemplated the bloody panorama spread out before him. Two humans lay dead on the floor, their body fluids leaking from their ruptured circulatory systems. Only one remained standing, the weapon dangling loosely from a hand. Heart pounding, chest heaving, Cheelo stood staring down at the body of Maruco lying at his feet like a broken doll.