Analog Science Fiction and Fact 04/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “Mph? Sure. Little, but with big heads and four limbs. Now, the flare was coming, but we got the force dome up in time. Then I left the rest of the crew behind and went out with my gear to watch the flare. I didn’t want to be under the dome.”

  “You’d need a lot of protection yourself.”

  “Oh yes, armor and a place to dump the heat. I set up on a raft over deep ocean. I like to be alone when I run a documentary, and besides, my crew was mixed species. It would have been a babble. Come to that—” She stopped. Her sense cluster retracted.

  A Chirp asked, “Are you in health, honored—”

  The sense cluster popped out. “I’m well. It now dawns on me that that was the only reason I had a translator box with me. I would have missed half of what was going on.

  “Here came the flare. A shell peeled off the sun over several hours, and my gear caught it all even if I couldn’t see it. The sea started simmering at the surface. There’s a limit to how hot that can get, so I could still pump heat into it as long as the water lasted. It was all going pretty much as expected. Then a stalk rose out of the water, almost under my raft. It blocked the sun, so it was all shadow, but it looked like a tall tree. It grew like a tree, but fast, and then it put out a great fuzzy black flower.

  “I was moving, trying to get the raft out of range, not just to save the raft from being knocked spinning, but also to get my cameras back on the sun.

  “My translator said, ‘Awesome!’”

  “I hadn’t been expecting company. I asked, ‘Who speaks?’”

  “I am I. What are you?”

  “We wrestled with that. I was talking to the plant, of course. It’s a form of intelligence I’m not familiar with. I’ve talked to some Chirpsithra since, and they don’t know of it either. We’re calling it a Flare Weed.

  “Now, I managed to keep it talking while I recorded. That wasn’t easy. After all, its time was limited, and it was just learning about the world around itself. I told it some of what it had missed. I put us in contact with the Gleesh under their dome, and the Flare Weed chatted with them for a while.

  “When resources are poor, the Flare Weed lives very slowly. It anchors itself to an ocean bottom and hardly grows at all. Sometimes seabottom becomes dry land, and then it’s static. When the sun goes active, it blossoms. An early sun, a T Tauri type, is just what it needs, or a late sun, expanding and throwing off flare shells. It lives fast then, in a flood of energy. It can support intelligence. It doesn’t notice all the time that passes while the sun is quiet. It lives its life in climaxes.”

  I asked, “How does it breed?” “It makes solar sails. It builds a blowpipe that can put sailseeds into the solar wind. A few of those seeds reach other stars. It was growing its blowpipe all the time we were talking.”

  I said, “That’s wonderful. How did it evolve?”

  “Not known to me. Not known to it.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Billions of years, I think, my years or yours, but it hasn’t seen much of that time. In terms of life experience it does not do much better than—” She hesitated, then said, “—you.”

  They’re longer lived than we are, the Qarasht. I broke an awkward moment by going to the bar and came back with two Bull Shots in beer mugs, one for me. I said, “You all survived the flare, I take it.”

  “Sure, even the Gleesh, until next time. The flare is over and the Flare Weed is back on the seabottom, the sea moderately depleted. The thing is, I made a deal. It wants its seed planted.”

  “Ah. And you got copyright?”

  “Yes. Getting me to carry it to another planet is a more efficient way to spread itself than using its natural solar sail. I wondered if anyone would mind my planting it here, in the ocean—”

  “We’ve already got some alien life here,” I said. Immigrant sea life was running the fishing industry in the equatorial Pacific, and Folk were still touring Africa. “The United Nations might object. You should check.” Or just dump the damn thing, I thought, and don’t get caught. “How many seeds are you carrying?”

  “Eight.”

  “And it’ll be a long time before it blooms.”

  “The Flare Weed doesn’t mind.”

  “It wouldn’t bother us any,” I surmised.

  “Plausible,” she said.

  I don’t normally dream, which I suppose is odd given my occupation, but a nightmare came that night. Light glared from a brilliant sky. Fire ran across the land. The ocean boiled. I woke with a scream locked in my throat.

  It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder, until then, why a Quarasht would want to plant a Flare Weed on Earth.

  It doesn’t matter, I told myself. A Flare Weed must be patient. It could wait four or five billion years until Sol expands.

  And I haven’t had that dream since.

  Copyright © 2011 Larry Niven

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  SHORT STORIES

  Two Look at Two

  Paula S. Jordan

  “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Sara said, seeing the set of Jason’s grizzled jaw.

  He had stopped along the path, eyes fixed on the beloved old oak that now dropped heavy branches on the barn with every storm. He laid an arm across her shoulders and squeezed.

  “I’ll try to get it cut before winter.”

  “No,” she said. “I meant . . .”

  He gave her another hug, still sweet, and strong for a man nearing seventy.

  “I knew what you meant,” he said. Then he sighed. “Yeah, I saw another one this morning.” He looked down at her blue eyes. They were sad now, in a face more used for smiling. He turned away so as to not show her all his worry. “It was a rabbit this time, a little one.” He shook his head. “One ear half bit off, then stuck back on again. A gash all but healed on its side. Neat, too, like it’d all been stitched up by a surgeon. Darndest thing.”

  But they didn’t dwell on it.

  It was a perfect fall day on their North Carolina mountain, and their anniversary. Sara’s late class at the local college would be taught tonight by a substitute, and all but Jason’s most needful chores would wait for tomor row. He whistled for Shep, the border collie, and followed its stiff, old dog’s lope along the path that led out through the fields and up the mountainside into the forest. Sara, deep in thought, followed after.

  Neither spoke of the silences, hours long sometimes, when the whole forest had gone still. Each time the small scurryings and bird calls had returned to normal. But once, not long ago, the red fox had limped a little when she reappeared on her twilight hunt along the forest’s edge. Her hurt healed quickly, but in the weeks that followed there had been other injuries. Sara told herself that there had to be an explanation. Whatever the intruder might be—a bear? a mountain cat?—it would soon wander on to higher ridges in search of larger game.

  The thought eased her, and she looked up toward the forest where fall colors glowed in bright, late afternoon light. Then she sighed. Jason, playing “fetch” with Shep along the path, seemed to be shifting his weight to one side as he walked, maybe favoring a sore knee. Well, they were no spring chicks, were they? Either of them. But it would spoil his fun to worry him with it now. She smiled and moved ahead to walk at his side.

  They spoke of small things and laughed at Shep’s antics. He had worked out much of his stiffness in the game and bounded away upslope or down, then back again, joyful as a pup. But his old training held. At the edge of the pasture he settled into lead position, ahead and to the right of his humans. Jason called “Good boy” as they all climbed higher into the forest.

  At the final open space, where an ancient chimney leaned in a thicket of wild rose and rusted farming gear, Jason’s stride shortened. He turned as he walked, to look back the way they had come, then stopped and picked up a stick to whack at the path-side weeds.

  “Maybe we should go back,” he said. “You do have class in the morning.”

  “No
! This is wonderful!” Sara breathed deeply, savoring the clean, crisp air. “We don’t get up here nearly enough anymore.” She gave his arm a playful tug and continued along the crumbling fieldstone wall that bordered the abandoned farm.

  Jason stood worrying, whacking hard at the weeds, as Sara braced her hands on the wall, stepped over, and took a seat on its shifting stones. She looked back at him, laughing, as Shep sniffed out small mysteries in the weed-choked garden beyond the wall.

  Finally, Jason gave in to her mood. He dropped the stick and had almost reached her side when a heart-stopping screech from the highest part of the woods froze the smiles on both their faces.

  Shep pricked up his ears and scrambled over the garden’s far wall, barking long and loud as he barreled through the underbrush on a beeline to the source of the sound.

  “Don’t move from this spot,” Jason ordered, and hurried back toward the ruined cabin. But Sara went the other way, along Shep’s trail of swaying weeds and over the far wall to struggle upslope through underbrush and man-high boulders, following the dog’s receding voice. The screech—half mountain cat and half God-knew-what—sounded again and again through the deepening forest until far away, just at the edge of hearing, the collie yowled in pain and fell silent.

  Sara called his name till her throat hurt, but with no real hope for an answer. Then she was climbing again, grasping tree roots and low branches to pull herself up the steeper slopes, far beyond any part of the mountain she knew. Finally, gasping for breath and aching in every joint, she clambered up a stone outcropping and settled on a boulder to rest. When her breathing had steadied she called again, and nearly collapsed with relief at joyous deep-throated peals of doggy laughter.

  She stretched her aching back and arms, wishing that she could rest on her rock for hours. But with rays of sunlight slanting ever lower through the leaves, she turned back, winded and wobble-kneed, to follow her trail of broken branches down the mountain. She listened as she went, tracking Shep’s yips and rustlings behind her as he made his own way down the slope. Whatever had happened to him, there would be an explanation for it. There had to be.

  She had neared the overgrown garden when the dog bounded from the underbrush to circle joyfully around her legs. But when she reached down to pet him, she touched dampness and a swath of newly trimmed fur along his flank. She told him to sit, but could only study the spot for a moment before he wriggled away and was gone again, scrambling noisily back into the forest. Still, Sara had seen it—a hideous wound extending almost the length of the shorn area. It was new, no question about that, but already more than half healed.

  Sara stared after the dog, frozen in place. The barking and rustling had quieted a bit and settled in one spot, nearer this time. Beyond that the forest was silent. What on Earth could be out there?

  Finally, heart thudding, she took one cautious step in Shep’s direction. Then another. Stillness. Silence. Even the dog had quieted.

  A few steps more and she stopped again, unable to force herself farther.

  For long moments she stared, seeing nothing but massive trees and faint dapples of late day sunlight on leaf-strewn ground. Then—something. A presence more sensed than seen. A deer gone still at her approach? No. Just beyond an ancient hemlock there was a patch of green—not quite the green of the dark feathery needles, not quite man-height above the ground. And above the green, something gave off a dull metallic glint. She stood breathless, deerlike herself, watching the patch of color behind the hemlock.

  As she watched, a pale shape began to move across the green. It continued upward to the metal, briefly blocking its glint before retreating. A sound then, faint, no louder than the whisper of the rising breeze, but inflected, voicelike. Leaves fluttered, revealing hints of other hues.

  Still staring, taking quick, shallow breaths, Sara began to see it—a single slender figure, perhaps a head taller than she was, all but invisible within the drooping hemlock curtain. It stood as she was standing, watchful and very, very still.

  Abruptly the voice stopped, and the pale shape—was that a hand?—moved again, back across the patch of forest-green garment, and up, to touch again at the higher metallic shape. Sara gasped. This creature, watching her from hiding, was unlike any other she had ever seen.

  The voice spoke again, this time in sounds she could almost understand.

  “Our animal . . .”

  A branch snapped behind her and Sara jumped, glanced back. Jason stood among the trees holding a rusty scythe.

  “Where were you, Sara? I have been looking all up and down the path.”

  She signaled him to stay where he was, then looked ahead again. The figure edged to one side, blending into deeper shadow behind the tree.

  More twigs crunched. Jason was moving closer, still hefting his scythe. She signaled him again, frantically, but he came on.

  “What the hell is it, Sara? Come away and let me—”

  “No!” She whispered as loud as she dared. “It’s . . . I don’t know . . . just be quiet and look, behind the hemlock.”

  Jason stepped over a fallen log and came even with her, gripping the scythe, and peered into gathering darkness.

  With a sudden yapping and rustle of leaves Shep barreled out of the forest behind the hemlock to nuzzle the tall figure’s . . . hand? Was that really a hand? The figure moved more noticeably then, and Jason gave a low whistle of surprise.

  “Dear God! Sara, I told you, get back to the path.”

  “Jason, wait! I don’t think—”

  He ignored her. “Shep, heel!”

  The dog looked first at Jason, then at the figure. He bounded over to stand at Jason’s left, still looking intently into the trees. Jason crouched down beside him, eyes never leaving the figure under the hemlock, and steadied the dog by his collar. Then he dropped the collar to stroke his heaving flank, and felt the half-healed wound on his side.

  “What the hell?”

  Eyes still fixed on the figure, he laid the scythe down beside him and nudged Shep forward into a patch of sunlight, glancing down quickly at his side. Then, glaring at the figure, he patted the dog again, released him, and reached for the scythe.

  “Shep! Go to Sara!”

  Shep obeyed. Jason climbed to his feet, leaning on the scythe, then raised it high above his head, knees bent, ready for attack.

  “Jason, please wait. I think it’s okay. I think they’re—”

  “I don’t care who or what they are, I’ll not have anyone torturing or . . . or whatever they’re doing to our dog!”

  “No.”

  It was a windy sort of “no,” more sigh than speech.

  The figure moved toward them slowly, revealing a curious, coiled metal contraption above the dark green cloak, where normal folk would wear a head and a face. It raised the pale shape again. A hand, yes, but very odd.

  “It was not our harm,” it sighed again.

  It stopped, turned its head far around to look upslope almost directly behind itself, and made its gentle soughing sounds into the forest. In moments there was more rustling and a second figure, taller than the first, stepped from among the branches. It led something on a leash, oddly colored and with far too many legs, all with claws. The creature scrabbled forward, straining at its leash, and extended a long fleshy snout toward the dog. The snout quivered briefly, then rolled up tight against its body.

  Shep’s hackles rose. He locked eyes with the beast and moved forward, head lowered, front legs tensed and crouching, teeth bared. He growled low in his throat.

  The beast growled back, the sound escalating into that deafening screech.

  Jason tensed and started forward. Sara grabbed for his arm, but he was out of reach, drawing back the scythe for the strike.

  At the same moment the first figure motioned, and the second, straining at the leash, pulled the beast back to a safer distance. Its many legs scrabbled to resist.

  The first figure turned back to the humans.

  “Our familiar
animal—our pet?—got out of her place. She is mothering soon, and does not like the smells here.” It gestured to Shep. “We regret . . .”

  Jason gripped his scythe, white knuckled, and shifted about for a better view of the figures. Shep held his post, protecting Sara, eyes riveted on the beast.

  Suddenly, the first figure turned, soughing urgency.

  The second soughed briefly in response, then fastened the leash to a sturdy branch and with slow, deliberate movements began to remove its outer garment. Beneath was a body much stranger than the dark cloak had suggested: long, supple limbs and a short, flat torso, all tightly sheathed in thick, moist-looking fabric; a head about human size—small for its height—the face pale gold, lion-color, dominated by the metallic form curving over its head.

  The first figure removed its cloak as well, and both stood watching the human pair, as if expecting some response. Then each reached behind its head and detached the metallic tube from something at its back, uncoiled it, and unplugged it from a single nostril centered on its wide face. The nostril was bracketed by a small, tightly pursed mouth below and two large brownish eyes above. The eyes were set wide apart and bulged a bit from the flattish faces, but peered almost gently at the human pair.

  Each pair watched the other. Carefully. Breathlessly. Shep and the beast eyed one another, wary but silent.

  At last Jason let out a long breath, lowered the scythe to his shoulder, and told Shep, “Enough.” Then the others—the aliens—their tawny color now faded to pasty beige, reattached their breathing gear and pulled on their cloaks.

  The first one spoke again.

  “We could not make your animal well. Not this soon. But he will heal, and his hurting . . . from age . . . will not return.”

  Sara moved closer. “His arthritis? You’ve healed his arthritis?”

  The aliens didn’t answer, but loosed the beast’s leash from the tree and led it back the way they had come.

  “Wait! Please, wait!”

  The first alien looked back briefly. “We must go, now that we have been seen. And we will not return in your time. But we will protect—”