Trek It!

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The hand withdrew but the panting grew nearer. Plog could not restrain a shiver as he felt and smelled the creature's hot, acrid breath in his face. The rhythmic flow of rank heat pressed toward him until he was sure the Vox's muzzle was mere inches from his own.

  Plog tried to steady his own breathing, but it became rougher and faster the harder he worked to control it. He could not reign in his raging nervousness, and with good reason.

  He thought he might die at any moment.

  As a physician and a man of generally unflappable temperament, he had come to regard death in a matter-of-fact way. He had believed that it held little terror for him…certainly far less than it inspired in most sentient beings.

  And yet, as he cowered in darkness, bathed in the reeking breath of a creature capable of fierce and fatal action, he discovered an unexpected wellspring of fear within himself. The possibility of his own extinction filled him with a crippling dread far more intense than any he had ever known.

  Perhaps it was because he was blind and alone, unable to see his attacker…forced to imagine the Vox's feral expression and anticipate the moment when the creature's teeth or claws would strike. Maybe that would explain his extreme reaction.

  Or maybe the terror had been lurking within him all along, just underneath the clinical detachment and philosophical dismissiveness…primal, vast and inescapable, waiting for a near-death moment, any near-death moment, to overflow its secret reservoir and overwhelm him.

  The creature growled. Though he could not know for certain, Plog could have sworn that the Vox's nose was less than an inch from his own.

  Again, he dug deep for calm and clarity…but as plentiful as they were at any other time, they had completely deserted him now. There was just the growling and the heat and the stink and the darkness and the fear of what was to come – both during and after the killing.

  Fur brushed his cheek. He felt the cool wetness of the Vox's nose press into his throat.

  Gritting his teeth, he tried to steel himself for the penetration of the creature's razor sharp fangs.

  Then, he felt the univator car come to a stop and heard the doors swish open.

  The Vox's nose jerked from his throat. Suddenly, the creature leaped away; he heard it run from the car and out into the corridor.

  For an instant, Plog stood there, heaving for breath, heart pounding. He had been so close to the end that he could scarcely believe he was still alive. He had been so deeply submerged in panic that it took a great effort to drag himself back out again.

  The univator doors slid closed.

  Plog flung his arm to one side, scrabbling his fingers along the wall in search of the control panel. As soon as he found it, he felt his way to what he believed was the key for E Deck, where medlab was located, and depressed it.

  Only when the car began to move did he feel the slightest bit safe. The Vox was still out there, roaming the corridors, but the univator was moving away from it now.

  It couldn't kill him now.

  As his panic subsided and his breathing and heart rate slowed, Plog began to inch around the car. He felt his way along the wall, stopping when his foot struck an object on the floor…probably part of one of the security officers' bodies.

  Raising his foot, he nudged it forward and gently brought it down, clearing the object and stepping into an open space. Bringing his other foot ahead, he set it down in the same spot…then leaned forward and felt along the wall at what he judged to be the approximate height of the comm panel.

  When his fingers found the familiar speaker and set of keys, he immediately activated the device.

  "Dr. Plog to medlab," he said, raising his voice to reach the pickup. "Medical emergency in the univator! Security officers down!"

  With practiced hands, he switched the comm to another channel. "Plog to bridge! Intruder alert!"

  *****

  Chapter Twenty

  It was a long way down.

  Staring below as the two sleds approached her on the outer skin of the tube, J'Tull estimated that she was ten floors from the ground. If she fell while attempting to descend by jumping from tube to tube, she knew that she would die.

  Even if she had been fully rested, such a course of action would have been daunting. Though she was an excellent athlete, she was by no means a trained acrobat.

  Nevertheless, she prepared to jump. She simply had no other choice; she would either jump from the tube or be pushed off by the Vox sleds.

  Identical sleds cruising over the tubes below would make her descent even more complicated. To ensure that she would have a clear spot on each tube to land on, she would have to time her leaps to coincide with the sleds' movements. Even then, it was possible that she would be forced from one tube before an open space appeared on the next one down.

  She knew that the odds of her success were slim. If any other option had presented itself, she would have pounced on it.

  Earlier, she had completely locked off the emotional part of her mind, slamming shut steel doors to prevent it from hindering her. As complete as her emotional control was, she still felt a tingle of fear as she considered the task ahead and the consequences of failure.

  A single slip, a single miscalculation, a single instant of weakness, and she would fall…bouncing from one tube to the next on the way to an obliterating impact with the ground.

  The logical, rational part of her did not shy from death. As an organic lifeform, her eventual death was inevitable; it was not logical to fear such a natural and unavoidable phenomenon. Further, if she fell to her death while trying to rescue her shipmates, she would be fortunate to die quickly and in service to others.

  Such considerations meant nothing to her emotional side, however. She was not ready to die; she was not ready to jump.

  The sleds were almost upon her, but she hesitated. For an instant, as she stared downward, she felt unsteady; though she did not have an aversion to heights, she experienced a feeling of vertigo…the worst possible condition that could afflict her at that point. A wave of dizziness and disorientation swept through her, leading her to rock backward from the brink.

  Then, summoning every last shred of mental discipline she had left, she annihilated the vertigo, expunging every trace of it. Pushing it down and locking it away would not have been enough; to do what she was about to do, she had to erase the disorientation from existence and replace it with unwavering focus and calm.

  When she jumped, she was a thing of single-minded purpose and precision, as free of doubt and distraction as a machine.

  The drop wasn't far, perhaps six meters…and she landed firmly on the tube's curved surface. She had no time to pause, however, for a sled glided toward her from several meters away.

  She stepped off immediately, aiming for a lower tube that ran perpendicular to the first. This time, the drop was further, but she was right on target and landed solidly. Two sleds zipped toward her when she hit, but they were far enough away that she had a moment to collect herself.

  Though the next jump was less than three meters, her landing was bad. Her feet came down too close to the edge of the tube's curve, and she nearly toppled over it. She had to fight for balance, leaning back and waving her arms…but she caught herself and stepped back from the edge.

  A heartbeat later, she had to jump again or be run off by an approaching sled. She had no time to wait for a sled on the lower span to pass, and for an instant, she thought she would come down on top of it; at the last possible second, however, the sled moved out of the way, leaving her a clear spot on which to land.

  Quickly assessing her next target, she realized that it was farther away than she had thought when plotting her course from above. The tube was some twenty meters distant, which would make her next drop the longest yet.

  Ears attuned to the hum of approaching sled motors, J'Tull searched for another, closer tube to target, an intermediate step that would allow her to break up the jump. Though tubes veered closer at other points along the
span, nothing was available near where she stood…and she couldn't get past the oncoming sled to reach the higher spans.

  Yet again, she had no choice. Taking a bead on the lower tube, which looked slender and hard to hit in the distance, she stepped off her current perch and dropped into the cool wind.

  She fell fast, plunging down like a sinking stone. To her credit, she had accurately judged her trajectory; she hit the tube dead on, directly in the center of the curved surface.

  Unfortunately, the force and angle of the impact surprised her. One leg flew out from under her and she swung forward, slamming facedown onto the polymer.

  She wasn't injured, but the fall knocked the wind out of her. For a moment, she lay there and hugged the tube, catching her breath, paying no attention to any possible sled traffic in the vicinity.

  It had been a close call. She could have easily tumbled right off the structure and plummeted to the ground below. It had been enough to make her feel the terror of onrushing death.

  If, that is, death had held any terror for her whatsoever.

  J'Tull pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and stayed there another moment, regaining her full concentration. She had already completed half her descent; if she could continue just a little longer, she could make it the whole way.

  By necessity, her inward focus was intense. It would only take an instant, but she had to turn inside to marshal her mental resources.

  It was one instant too many. The sound of the Vox sled cruising up behind her didn't register until it was too late.

  When the nose of the sled struck her, it knocked her off the tube. The next thing she knew, she was in freefall.

  Snapping back to a state of full alertness, J'Tull spread herself wide on the rushing wind and assessed her predicament in a flash. She had to break her fall immediately…but no span straddled the path of her descent.

  Pulling in her arms and legs, she rolled forward as she fell…then pumped her legs out as she raced past one of the tubes. Her feet struck the polymer and she kicked off from it, flinging herself in another direction. Tucking in her limbs, she rolled again…then shot out her legs and kicked off another tube, changing the angle of her plunge a second time.

  The acrobatics worked, shunting her toward an approaching span. She spread her body wide again to maximize her chance of hitting it with as much of herself as possible.

  Her strategy worked too well. She came down hard, crashing onto the tube crosswise, taking most of the impact in her stomach and upper body.

  Then, legs dangling off the edge of the tube, she started to slide backward. Her hands scrabbled over the curved surface, but she could not seem to get any traction.

  As she slid, she heard the sound of an approaching motor, and she glanced toward it. A Vox sled was gliding along the tube in her direction, coasting in from just a few meters away.

  *****

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When the latest crowd of Vox showed up outside the gallery wall of his cell, Swift eyed them with weary indifference. Since the disappearance of his three young friends, several such groups had shown up to taunt him; he had surveyed each crowd with great interest, searching for his allies…each time becoming more convinced that they were never coming back.

  This group was different, though he didn't notice it at first.

  For a while, it was the same old same old. As he watched, the Vox went through their hyperactive paces, screeching and waving and hopping around. A few threw soupy red fruit that splattered against the window; others gleefully smeared the mushy pulp over the transparent surface and each other, chattering hysterically.

  "I swear," Swift said to himself. "I'll never go to a zoo again."

  Disappointed, he turned from the antics and closed his eyes, wishing for an aspirin. Instead of getting better, his headache was worsening, hammering away from behind his eyes and at the base of his skull. He was sure that his multiple bruises and utter exhaustion were to blame…though the commotion outside the window certainly didn't help any.

  He could hardly complain, though. His friend was in far worse shape.

  It had been hours since Zeke had lost consciousness. Long ago, Swift had lost hope that he would spontaneously come around. If the damage inside him was anything like the damage he had suffered externally, Turner was in dire straits indeed.

  Yet again, Swift reached down and pressed his fingers to the side of Zeke's throat. He trembled as he did each time he checked for a pulse, fearing that he might not find one.

  But this time, at least, he found one.

  Slumping back against the cell wall, Swift reached up to knead his temples, but it did no good. His headache wasn't going anywhere; he was starting to think that he would never be headache-free again.

  Just as he gave up and cupped his face in his hands, he heard it.

  For all he knew, it could have gone past him numerous times, mixed in with the jangle of screeches and chatter that he had been trying to block out. Now that it caught his ear, it sounded as clean and clear as birdsong at dawn; it was nowhere near as loud as the rest of the tumult, but it jumped right out at him as if it were the only sound in the room.

  His name, spoken by a familiar voice.

  Looking up, he returned his gaze to the gallery window, searching for the source. He saw nothing but the frolicking revue of howling Vox, becoming more excited as he took notice of them.

  "Swift…"

  He heard it again. Taking care not to strain his left side – home of what felt like at least one broken rib – he got to his feet and walked over to the transparent wall between him and the crowd.

  In response, the Vox became even noisier and more animated. The next time he heard his name, it was shouted…the only way the speaker could hope to be heard over the ruckus.

  Looking in the direction of the shout, he finally glimpsed a familiar face. Down in the corner of the window-wall, blurred behind smeared fruit pulp, Lyra waved at him.

  Swift's heart raced. She had come back for him after all.

  Perhaps there was hope for Zeke.

  After glancing over his shoulder to make sure the guards had their backs turned, Swift crouched at Lyra's corner of the window. Smiling with genuine delight, he pressed his palm against the polymer surface.

  Though the wall was smeared with fruit on her side, she did the same.

  "Hello, Swift," she said.

  "Hello, Lyra," said Swift. "It's good to see you."

  "Good," said Lyra, whiskers twitching. "Good to see you."

  Though he knew she was only repeating what he'd said and didn't understand it, Swift was happy to hear her say it anyway.

  "Zeke is hurt bad?" said Lyra, looking past him to where Zeke lay on the floor of the cell.

  Swift nodded gravely. "Yes," he said. "Zeke is hurt."

  "Lyra help Zeke," she said. "Lyra help Swift."

  "How?" said Swift, spreading his arms wide in a questioning pose. "How will you help?"

  Lyra understood. "Swift help," she said, pointing a clawed finger at him.

  Then, she proceeded to act up like the other Vox, hopping and chattering and hammering her fists at the transparent wall. She went on like that for a moment, adding her voice and movement to the mayhem…and then she stopped and pointed at him again.

  "Swift help," she repeated, launching into another flurry of wildness.

  She stopped and pointed behind him, jabbing a finger toward each of the three guards outside his cell. She pressed a fingertip against the polymer, as if she were pushing a button…and then she swept both hands along the wall in a sliding motion.

  Swift thought he understood.

  "You want me to…," he said, and then he hammered his fists at the wall without making contact. He opened his mouth wide and shook his head, pretending to holler…simulating the kind of commotion that he thought she was suggesting.

  "Good," said Lyra. "Swift good."

  Turning, he gestured toward the guards. "They'll open the wal
l," he said. He placed both hands against the window-wall and slid them to one side. "Open," he said, repeating the gesture.

  "Open," said Lyra. "Good."

  Swift nodded and smiled. The plan was worth a shot.

  It had worked before, after all, when he and Zeke had taken the Vox interrogators hostage. The guards had stopped them by lifting a single finger – all that was needed to open the gallery wall and admit the frenzied crowd to the cell to subdue them. Maybe, if Swift generated enough of a disturbance, the guards would do the same thing.

  "Open," said Lyra, repeating the sliding gesture. "Swift," she said, twitching two fingers in front of her like running legs.

  "What about Zeke?" said Swift, pointing to his friend. He copied the running motion with his own fingers and shook his head grimly, trying to convey that Zeke couldn't leave the cell on his own. "Zeke is hurt bad."

  "Lyra help Zeke," she said, raising her palms to simulate carrying someone. "Altis help Zeke. Uvo help Zeke."

  "Where are Altis and Uvo?" said Swift, spreading his arms to encompass the crowd.

  Lyra pointed toward the back of the group. "Altis," she said, nodding. "Uvo."

  Swift craned his neck but couldn't see them. "Okay," he said, taking her word for it…but still concerned. The two friendly faces were lost in a crowd of strangers, and he worried that they might not be able to break through to provide support.

  "Dorsa help Zeke," said Lyra, touching the shoulder of the Vox beside her. "Lema help Zeke," she said, pointing out another nearby Vox.

  "Clovin help Zeke," said one of the Vox hopping around behind her.

  Lyra swept her arm around to indicate the entire group. "Vox help Zeke," she said. "Vox help Swift."

  Scanning the manic revelers, Swift noticed for the first time that they all resembled his three friends to some extent. None of them bore painted markings on their fur…and all were noticeably smaller in size and build than the adult Vox he had seen.