Whatever Gods May Be

by George P. Saunders

  Zolan drank his fill then devoured the slabs of beef the people had given him. It was badly burned, and filled with grit, but it was the best thing at the moment that Zolan had ever tasted. Still reeling from the Stinger venom, his appetite had become voracious, and it wasn't until fifteen minutes later that he finished completely satisfied.

  The generous brutes around him had not spoken a word. They grunted and gibbered a little, but seemed not the least bit interested in communicating with Zolan. They stared at him, and he in turn stared back. After several minutes, he found himself looking forward to the giant Thalick's return. At least here was some kind of conversation, albeit limited.

  Half an hour earlier, Thalick had descended into the torch lit valley. The Stinger then disappeared, leaving Zolan to confront those of his own species on this world for the very first time. He had not needed to question Thalick on the tribe; it was instantly clear to him that these were Valry's people who were facing an immensely threatening future.

  He had been surprised. Valry herself was such an advanced organism, capable of the kinds of powers that Zolan was accustomed to seeing back among his own, distant race of men. Had she simply been some kind of freak, born to this civilization of prehistoric gibberers by mistake? It was certainly possible, Zolan was forced to admit; he was himself a product of a defective genetic trend. Valry's case was of a somewhat different nature inasmuch as she was the superior link to pervasive inferiority.

  The Birdog chomped happily next to his feet, while he now stood up and faced his giant audience. He could see their eyes held the unmistakable sadness of illness; apparently, they too, were suffering from the same contagion which Thalick had so effectively wiped clean of his own system.

  The giants moved back several feet as Zolan stepped toward them. Despite their great size, they were like children; innocent and frightened of this new intruder to their territory. A larger crowd began to gather, and soon Zolan was the subject of almost fifty pairs of eyes. Only the crunching and authoritative approach of Thalick dispersed the wondrous group.

  The humans, Zolan noticed, responded almost indifferently to the enormous scorpion. Thalick for his part barely acknowledged their presence, though he did hiss continuously; presumably, Zolan reasoned, to inform those near him that he was coming their way, and to move. Now, where the glow of burning wood filled the valley with light and wavered ghostlike against the stark canyons all around him, Zolan could make out every detail of this strange specimen Valry had referred to as Thalick.

  One thing was instantly clear -- the creature was gargantuan He was also truly frightening to behold, and Zolan's face could not help but wrinkle in awed revulsion. He had seen endless varieties of monsters in the galaxy, some more hideous to look upon than Thalick, some less. Yet none so far filled his soul with the same combination of humbled fear and respect. He suspected this was mainly due to what he knew existed within the brain of the Stinger -- an extraordinary intelligence, coupled to one of the most powerful exteriors in the universe.

  The Birdog greeted Thalick with a bark. Zolan concluded that the Birdog probably had a natural alliance with the Stinger; this observation alone helped comfort him immediately. For truly, since he had met the menacing insect, no harm had yet been inflicted on him.

  COME, RZZDIK, Thalick hissed commandingly.

  Zolan followed the Stinger silently. The curious group of sick humans tagged along, while the Birdog remained near the stream bank to finish her bone. He could see that a great deal of activity was transpiring around him; it looked as though a journey was being prepared for. Those not part of Zolan's entourage of curious fans, moved quickly about on other business, namely packing rolls of tent ware and collecting primitive weapons or cookery.

  One of the most disturbing observations he had made thus far were the number of sick or incapacitated bodies littering the ground. Zolan felt that he was visiting a battlefield, as he listened to the tragic moans and cries all around him. His suspicions of the existence of a disastrous plague were now horribly confirmed. But why had Thalick failed to offer the kind of cure to these people that he himself was so fortunate to receive just an hour earlier?

  Thalick stopped ahead of him, and Zolan could make out a single tent, propped up by a few loose timbers, and held to the ground by rocks only. Thalick hissed suddenly, which made the crowd behind him jump back, Zolan included. Thalick remained standing by the entrance of the tent.

  Zolan looked around himself, then shrugged. He crawled inside, moving a small crucible of fire away from the flap way.

  The smell was unpleasant in here, and there was no space for Zolan to even sit down. He realized a moment later that he was not alone.

  "Who are you?" a voice grumbled in front of him in a language Zolan thought he would never hear again.

  English:

  An Earth language, here on this world: Zolan squinted into the dim interior of the tent. The wild lapping of the small flame beside him gave a spooky quality to the inside of the tent. As Zolan caught sight of the old man lying four feet beyond, the eeriness of the place was complete

  Zolan didn't speak for a second. He adjusted his bifocals carefully over his nose, studying the withered form in front of him with intense interest.

  "Can you speak, man?" the creature spoke again, in a tone that sounded distinctly irritated and pain filled.

  Zolan fumbled for words.

  "Yes. I...just wasn't prepared to hear-" Zolan paused, not sure he wanted to confess surprise at encountering a language that could only remind him with a past disaster. Staring dumbly for just a moment longer he finished. "I just didn't expect to hear so many words. Everyone else is remarkably untalkative."

  Now it was the old man's turn to sit up and stare in amazement.

  "My god," he croaked unbelievingly, then just sat there and chewed his lip in awe. Zolan could see that the man had lost an arm just recently; in fact, he looked like he was falling apart at the seams.

  But there was something disturbingly familiar about the old man's face that made Zolan tremble. He was obviously not of the same species of humans Zolan had just left outside of the tent; though aged and destitute, the eyes held within them a penetrating and inquisitive sparkle, denoting a highly evolved intelligence. The old man's language - one of the most prolific on Earth - was sufficient evidence that this man like himself was light years from his own world. Yet, how strange!

  For no Earth technology before the War had possessed the means to send a man to the stars.

  The old man held Zolan's gaze in a manner that initially suggested madness or senility. Zolan imagined that his own expression at the moment was equally stupefying; like two survivors to a shipwreck marooned on an island, they both shared the same disbelief in finding another one of their kind still alive.

  Zolan began quietly. "Thalick found me a short while ago."

  The old man nodded almost nonchalantly, as if this trifling fact was of little consequence. After a moment, he found his voice.

  "Yes, Thalick is very good at that. There's not a whole lot a Stinger can miss," he said in a mumble.

  "A Stinger," Zolan repeated the word, "is that what he's called?"

  "Well, that's what my daughter calls them. They call themselves Thelericks."

  The old man's face looked suddenly very sad.

  "They?" Zolan gulped incredulously, "You mean there are more than one of those things crawling around?"

  The old man coughed horribly while nodding, and Zolan could spot the red stain blot the rag he held to his mouth.

  "Ten, actually," he answered, recovering from his attack. Zolan's memory fought with the past. Where in the name of heaven had he seen this face before?

  "Are they...dangerous?" Zolan asked.

  "Well, yes, I suppose so; that is, if you're a Redeye or a Jumper. But otherwise, they're as gentle as kittens."

  Zolan's eyes raced for understanding. Suddenly, he remembered what he had seen in the crater.

  "Oh," he sai
d quietly. "Then you know about them:"

  The old man nodded again, but continued staring. At last, he leaned back and sighed.

  "Do you know how long it's been since I've spoken with another man?"

  Zolan shrugged, then turned around and peeked out of the tent. Thalick was still standing directly outside, but the small group of human savages had dispersed.

  "Judging from the company you keep, I would say a very long time indeed."

  The old man chuckled grimly, then winced in pain. Very soon, they were both staring at one another again.

  "Who are you?" the old man asked.

  Zolan couldn't remember how many times he had been asked that question in the past few days.

  "The name is Rzzdik," he said, then held his breath in wonder as he suddenly matched the old man's face to a very familiar place. Was it possible, Zolan argued with himself, that this poor, withered frame belonged 'to the same man he was thinking of; a man whom he last remembered seeing as being at least twenty years younger ... on a planet, now dead, countless light years away?!

  "Phillips!" Zolan barked. "John Phillips. You're the astronaut; the one with the baby."

  The old man stared on in fascination. "That was my wife. But you're right about my name," he said in a whisper, "How would you know that?"

  "Television," Zolan answered excitedly. He then calmed down and stared at the old man in bafflement. "You've... changed." The old man closed his eyes and nodded.

  "Your wife," Zolan began again, "she's dead?"

  "Yes."

  Zolan remembered something the man had said earlier. "And your daughter? Is she still alive?" The old man stared at Zolan for a long time. He could see a tear form in Phillips' eye.

  "No."

  Zolan nodded and said nothing for a few seconds. Phillips saved him the trouble.

  "I saw you land, Rzzdik. I assume that was your ship that came down a day back."

  "It was my ship," Zolan replied miserably. "It's gone now. Almost took me with it, too."

  "And your crew?"

  Zolan shook his head.

  "Just me. The Rover was fully self-contained."

  The old man sniffed with interest.

  "You going to tell me how you know about me? And, also, where you've been hiding all this time? The only thing I've seen on this continent in two decades that reminds me of home is smashed concrete."

  Zolan nodded emphatically.

  "Oh, no...you don't understand. I'm afraid its a long story. I'm, here by mistake."

  The old man blinked in puzzlement.

  "You see, I-"

  Zolan cringed as the tent suddenly was ripped away from above. Staring down at him were three of the things called "Stingers." They were obviously not in the mood for conversation; before he could protest, Zolan found himself once more in the grip of a powerful claw, with Phillips grumbling near him in a similar position.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Rover was no longer a graceful object of silent power; it now puffed and hooted like an ancient steam boiler, grinding its powerful motors to full capacity just to stay airborne. All of the ship's navigational operations were failing quickly; at its present degeneration, the Rover could expect further collapse of all other function within the hour. Once this happened, the Rover would experience the closest thing it could ever know of death.

  Still strongest among its deteriorating programming banks, was the Rover's communication beacon; and while it presently had little to transmit, it's receiving circuit was having a field day processing an erratic signal from the beachhead below.

  The ship passed noisily over the night surf. It grinded itself to a growling halt, expending vast amounts of energy remaining stationary in the air while its sensors zeroed in on a small, crumpled object on the sand. Almost painfully, the Rover activated its tractor facilities. Though operating on only a tenth of normal power, the transport beacon was able to latch onto the object below and begin retrieval.

  Valry stirred slightly as she heard the low hum of the Rover's crippled star drive. Then she felt the gradual tug of the tractor beam; a sad, knowing smile passed over her lips.

  Another prayer had been answered.

  The Rover's cargo hatch slipped open and shut, spilling sea water onto the beach as it received Valry's body into the lower level hold.

  Valry had no problem this time in disengaging herself from her nearly lifeless body now. She was in complete control; nothing in this world anymore could overpower her.

  When she spoke, her voice reverberated through every data bank not burned out on the ship.

  "Rover."

  The ship blinked with commingled astonishment and curiosity. "Identify transmission," it announced tonelessly, wandering through miles of circuitry in an attempt to isolate the bizarre electronic intruder.

  "Rover, time is very important to us. We must work together." The ship remained silent.

  "We must work to help Zolan."

  The Rover's busy and intricate computers perked up at the mention of the most important name in the universe to its existence.

  "Please identify frequency," the Rover stated officially. Then: "Where is Zolan?"

  "He is safe, Rover."

  "His location?"

  "Forty miles due east from this position."

  The Rover studied the figure in silence.

  "Rover," Valry continued slowly, "You're drive unit will ever sustain itself sufficiently for that distance. In about fifteen minutes, you can expect a total collapse of all propulsion systems. Do you agree with this projection?"

  The Rover sounded as indifferent as ever.

  "This is an accurate projection. Failure to all operations to occur within thirteen point five minutes."

  "You agree that it is important to help Zolan?"

  "Agreed. Please identify yourself," the Rover uncharacteristically mix mashed its thoughts.

  "I will. But I must ask you for a favor. You must grant this favor, because when I explain to you the necessity for it, you will understand everything. Will you listen to my proposal?"

  "Agreed."

  The ship assimilated Valry's thoughts at speeds well beyond mere light. After digesting the proposition, the ship answered in turn.

  "Agreed."

  And with that, the Rover proceeded to pull its own plug.

  * * *

  "They've been here for thousands of years, so far as I can tell. Nurses maids to us all, really. I've always liked to believe I'm in charge of this humble little group, but I'm really not fooled for a minute. The Thelericks run everything. Once in a great while, Thalick listens to what I have to say; though I think only out of a strange kind of politeness. It doesn't matter.

  Thank god the Stingers have stayed with us. Without them, we would have been dead long ago."

  "But why have they done this," Zolan asked, still rubbing his backside from the latest round of Thalick's potent administrations. Phillips was a different man completely after his Stinger injection; he was full of energy now; more than anxious to tell a good story.

  "For one thing, they're trapped here, just like you and me. The Dark seems to exert enormous force against the gravitational pull of the world, thus making an escape velocity virtually impossible. It saved me a lot of time and trouble; had I even been able to get Challenger off of the ground, I still wouldn't have made orbit."

  Phillips pulled a blanket up around his shoulders as a new round of chills took over. Zolan helped the old man, then returned his gaze to the valley around him. Thalick and the other two Stingers had carried Phillips and himself to the base of the enormous peak which grew out of the valley floor. Groups of the giant people began to congregate near them, as the Stingers began to herd most of the tribe away from the center of the valley.

  "I think the real reason the Stingers have remained with us for so long is out of need. They seem to be creatures devoted to work and duty. Perhaps, in a way we couldn't begin to hope to understand, they actually care for us. Champions of the et
ernal underdogs, if you know what I mean."

  "And the Dark?" Zolan asked, looking up at the pitch black sky above him. "What is it exactly?"

  Phillips shrugged.

  "We don't know. It's always been there, usually segmented and unobtrusive. The Thelericks claim that it is killing us. And after twenty years, I can't say I disagree with them. We've lost thousands, even with Happy Hour. The Stingers are not miracle workers; they provide us with stimulants and various antibacterial venoms to keep us going, just to face the thousand and one other different diseases we're so receptive to. But the Dark's influence is not only devastating, its impervious to any kind of analysis. And without proper study, no hope of a cure or treatment has ever been found."

  Zolan's face twisted in puzzlement.

  "You said that this Dark has been segmented before. What does that mean.?"

  "Just that. Two days ago, the Dark began to do this," Phillips continued, staring up at the blank slab of black above him. "As a matter of fact, when you arrived."

  Zolan's stomach began to knot.

  "I don't know why. I have nothing to do with it."

  Phillips face suddenly went grim and white. "I believe you," he said, allowing his gaze to absently mull over what was happening near the forest. Only half a dozen men and all ten Stingers were still near the break-off point of desert and valley. Fires were being lit intermittently along designated points across the ground, extending from the mutant tree growth to the opposite side of sheer canyon. Within seconds, a line of flame began to grow, creating a smoldering wall between the tribe's valley and the desert beyond.

  Zolan remembered the thousands of marching demons flooding the inside of the crater. This feeble fire break hardly looked adequate to stop such a monstrous force.