The Progenitors

by J. E. Andrews

  The Progenitors

  by

  J. E. Andrews

  a Science Fiction Novella

  Copyright April 2016 by John E. Andrews

  Cover Art by Piyo http://piyotm.tumblr.com/

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This Book Is

  Dedicated

  To My

  Daughters,

  Jess

  &

  Joy

  and

  Friends

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  - 1 -

  Beautiful days are oft interrupted by the unexpected.

  A loud snap and crackle hissed in the high clear sky. I glanced to see a black cloud expanding, pointing away in the distance. Then the sound of an explosion reached me. I crouched like it was a physical thing, ears flattening, tracking the line of smoke as it arced away. It would hit inside a forest preserve.

  I looked to the sky again, where another airborne vehicle flew away. Whether with the fallen one or there by coincidence it should've rendered assistance. But the ways of these visitors are not our ways, so I could be mistaken of their concern one to another.

  I began running in the direction of the downed vehicle. It was unlikely my help would be required. Still, it was a part of my duty.

  I am Akena, a governor of my people. Once, not so long ago, our world was all but forgotten by those who ranged the stars. We'd known they would visit. We'd been forewarned. With these visitors it was a matter of time. They were ever changing. We did not.

  Pacing myself in the heat of the mid-day sun, I ran along the wasteland's edge. In all directions the ever-shifting landscape of sand was the same. There was life here, faint and sometimes deep. Most ignored me, busy with survival, day to day life. Some few observed my passing for their curiosity.

  From the sands to the rock I trotted. My shadow extended ever before me. Life was more abundant among the rocks, but survival was a greater task, requiring cooperation. This region of rock rose gradually in altitude and the gullies and ravines grew more treacherous, though easy enough for me. Above and to the sides, the rock was wind-sculpted and dull, no easy place to live. There were serpents and burrowers. The largest were the rare Teilflag, large flying hunters. The coloring and patterns of their feathers matched the rocks where they sat, conserving their energy, until their sharp eyes spied prey.

  I felt the eyes of one upon me. I was not prey.

  Clawing my way upward, I mounted the range, reaching the plateau. Crossing the bare gently sloping rock with more speed than I'd climbed the face, I studied the distant preserve. Standing, panting, the breeze from the river valley cooled me in the early night. There was no sign of the crash, now. There would have been heat, likely a smoldering fire and smoke. The trees of the preserve were large and their canopy would diffuse the smoke but it was too dark now.

  No fire showed.

  To the north, beyond and above these heights, the river flowed through a slash in the dying mountains. We say dying, since once upon a time they touched the clouds with pointed fingers. Now, of course, there were fewer clouds and the sky came down to touch them.

  I moved to where the valley spread beyond my feet, here the river was not the rushing torrent it was to the north. I had determined the trajectory and knew approximately where the vehicle had crashed. Down the steep cliff-side I hurdled, changing briefly to glide to the bottom near the widened river. I could have skimmed across but I changed to swimmer and dove into the freshening coolness. After the dry of the dunes this was a pleasure. As well, there were many small swimmers herein to ease my hunger.

  Upon the other side I changed again to my usual sleek form and continued. Rocky and barren landscape climbed with a regular, steep slope. Beyond that ridge, the land changed. Ranging into the distance was the forest preserve. It was reclaimed land, planted and tended ages ago with fostered life thriving within its depths. Many of the trees were second and third growth, achieving heights rivaling these ridges. Soon, in a hundred years, the trees would prevent a view of the farther mountains, where now they were only screened.

  I slowed my pace, enthralled with the view, with the spread of life across what had been empty lands. It had not been as bad as the wasteland but this was an obvious sign of the progenitors. Only starlight lit my path, but I knew the way. When the foul odor of burnt petrochemicals and plasma hit my tongue I was beneath the canopy of the forest. It would never be too dark to see, but shapes were often confusing.

  Local denizens, having scattered from the impact area, were making their way back.

  This darktime movement gave me direction, since the smell of the wreckage was spread wide. I took familiar paths.

  A sound not borne of the woodland became my guide and I picked up my pace. There was no hope of survivors, from the first sight of it going down I knew that. The aircars of the visitors were heavy and unwieldy. My concern was for the damage to the land. During all of this time there had been no craft of the visitors in the skies.

  There it was, with blue flames surrounding it, the blue giving a false coolness. Tongues of yellow flickered on occasion. A thin smoke spilled from the wreck accompanied by a constant hiss. It did not look good. Split and shattered tree limbs pointed out the path of descent and the plowed furrow showed the impact zone. A mound of earth held its prow down though it was unlikely to ever touch the sky again. The frame was bent. The engine compartment was a great blossomed black flower of metal shards. Creaking and tics of sound came from all sides as though it tried for life. It was the cooling of parts and the frame.

  Only the continuing hiss raised questions.

  Blackened ground showed where a broad range of fire had burned after impact. This blue fire showed no sign of diminishing. I didn't know what fueled it. I didn't know what still seeped into the soil or what hissed, leaking. I circled it, near enough that my fur singed from the heat, sniffing the odd smells, trying to identify the raw chemicals rather than those cooking off.

  Along one side, where the slight breeze crossed the cracked hatch, I caught an easily recognized odor. The smell of burnt flesh was so thick that I couldn't separate the numbers knowing that male and female visitors were mingled in death. I did not want to force a way inside. I did not want to witness these dead. My pacing continued. I kept my tail carefully distant from the lap of flames.

  It was my duty.

  Still, I moved from the restless sound of the craft and turned my ears to the sky. Beyond the faint sigh of wind in leaves, there was nothing of aircraft. The technology of the visitors was adequate to track every one of their vehicles. Even one like this being lost from rescuers was unusual. Before I could resume my pacing I heard a living sound, faint breath drawn in over parched lips and moaned when released.

  At the skewed hatchway I changed for strong hands. The metal was hot but not searing my flesh as I gripped and tore the panel free.

  Smoke billowed up momentarily, thick and black and horrible.

  Even before that smok
e thinned, a blast of fire from the fresh air thundered past, shoving the panel. After it settled, I dove inside, changing, keeping hands but maneuvering quickly to the sound of life.

  Several bodies with smoldering uniforms were on the floor. Others were in harnesses hanging broken in the slant of the craft. Of need I pulled one man's body from the pile and aside, noticing a neat slice across his throat. The blood was dry. The blood streak that remained showed he had died in another position than where I'd moved him from. Beneath him was a woman, dead, broken. A small sharp blade like a peta's claw showed in her fist. A hole burnt through her uniform at one breast was from one of their blasters. Beyond her was the body struggling for life. When I pulled her from my path I reached the crash-webbed cocoon holding the living form of a male visitor. The webbing was twisted and knotted. I turned to the woman, to pry the peta claw from her fist. After slashing the nets away I replaced the claw. I pulled the bundled body free, dragging and carrying it as best I could to the hatch.

  I changed quickly in the fresh air, sloughing off dead skin before pulling the body farther from the wreck. The heat, fire and rapid changes were weakening but I continued with the duty of assessing this male visitor. Using my claws I removed his clothing, ripping the seams until he lay naked upon a bed of rags. His mouth and face were seared and inflamed, swollen, parched. One hand was scorched, two fingers blackened with cracked flesh oozing a clear fluid. His feet were fine but one leg was twisted, disjointed at the knee.

  I studied the injured leg and the whole, comparing the difference, the flexion of the joint with fingers. I understood the need. Changing for better hands and strength, I held the upper and lower parts and pulled and twisted, aligning them. The parts fit together handily as I had hoped, popping, snapping into place. He moaned and waned visibly but when I finished, his heart settled its pace. The damage was still serious. In the lifespan of visitors this was a boy barely passing the period of adolescence; perhaps fifteen of their standard years… or as close as I could judge it. The lack of strength and stamina in his youthful frame showed these injuries might yet severely weaken him. I could not let his death be on my path.

  I sang him into a deeper sleep.

  I entered the forest to forage, I needed food and plants and sap for the boy. It was deep night but the haze of starlight and glow of lichen helped. A cache of cela nuts and dried berries in the hollow of a tarrac tree met my need. It was a boram's nest. I took several handfuls, eating hungrily.

  It took time to find all I needed. When I returned, the fires were faint blue flickers and a fading mist of smoke.

  A flock of night-flying whilisps sat at his head and among the rags. They were shifting his hair with claws and beak searching for insects. They'd find nothing but they'd still search. One fluttered up to my shoulder to watch me prepare the poultice. As I smeared it onto the boy's mouth and face they flew away as the fragrance was unsuitable. A tremor moved him at the pungent odor but that was his only reaction. His heart sounds continued.

  After changing, I held his hand in my paws, braced myself and began licking the burnt flesh. The roughness of my tongue loosened it gently. I spat it aside.

  The boy thrashed and moaned as I worked. I held his hand easily though he didn't awaken. As soon as I cleaned him, I changed, to slather the poultice on, to stop the bleeding. It also stopped his writhing. I wrapped several layers of tuma leaves around his fingers and hand and used strips from some of his garment to wrap that.

  He needed water. At a nearby stream I drank my fill, then sought among the reeds on the far side for a bell cup, to fill. A finger at the bottom of the stem kept the water inside as I returned. I began dripping the water into his mouth. He was not fully conscious but his body responded, swallowing tiny amounts. I continued dripping the liquid. It would be risky to trust him to swallow mouthfuls.

  He was no longer in danger of death.

  After he'd had enough, I used what remained with a cloth to clean his face.

  I changed and crouched beside him. Again, I turned my ears to the sky as I wondered why no visitors had come to investigate… to claim or clean.

  *

  The flames had all died, the hissing sound had quit, and the cooling metal had stilled before Tamsla began to light the world. I was biting one claw, worrying at a nagging itch when the boy awoke.

  "Oh," he said and gave something of a moan.

  As soon as his eyes opened he faced me. The strange blue of his eyes was startling. I stretched my paw out as he got oriented. Twisting, he looked around, not yet trying to rise.

  "What's happened?" he wondered.

  Asking the question, he remembered. Then he sat up, discovering pain in his leg and the bindings on his hand simultaneously. Ignoring them he looked at the dead husk of the vehicle. For a moment he faced it, turned from me.

  "Mom?" he said, wondering at something the inflection hid from me.

  I understood the language and the tone and scents enough to know he referred to the dead woman with the peta claw. He knew she was dead. The muscles bunched and tightened around his neck and shoulders as he faced the wreck. I could not understand what he was thinking. The visitors had a wide range of behavioral patterns and the young have even more.

  I waited.

  It is a shame that he had lost his mother but the evidence showed that she had died in his defense, or at least, in her own.

  "How did I get…?"

  The open ended question covered the full range of his wonderings. Then his breath caught.

  "What happened to my clothes?" he demanded of the world.

  Then that concern evaporated. As his good hand felt at his lips and jaw I raised my paw to bite at that itch again.

  "My face…" he said. "I remember… it hurt. And my hand…"

  He raised the wrapped appendage. I watched with narrowed eyes, wondering if he was going to unfasten it. But he just touched it, patting it gently, seeming bemused. Then he touched his knee, shaking his head. His fascinating blue eyes returned to study me.

  "Look," he said. "I know you're a Shymyra, one of the holy cats here, but there's no way you did all of this. Where is your companion? Your helper…?"

  He glanced around as though I had some assistant cowering in the brush. The visitors had many assistants to every position of authority but they did not know us. That was our common law.

  I settled down, folded my forelimbs and rested my chin, returning his gaze. Then he was biting his lip and a faint tremor moved him before he sighed. It was pain that I couldn't help. As he started to rise I moved, to set a paw on his shoulder to hold him down. I realized he'd given up the attempt even as I touched him and now we stared face to face.

  I gave a quiet snarl.

  "So. I shouldn't get up?" he said. "Can't anyway. My leg hurts like hell. But I need the emergency kit."

  I looked at the wreckage.

  "What?" he said in surprise. "You'll get it?"

  I stared at him. Backing away, I turned to the craft, not desiring to taste its interior.

  "Well," he said. "While you're at it could you see if my kit bag survived? There should be some clothing… I'll need that."

  I didn't bother looking back. It was ironic how boys of any species dealt with things in the same patterns. The interior of the ship stank worse than I had expected. I changed and ripped the emergency kit from the wall by the hatch and dropped it. Then I changed again to use a sensitive nose. I tracked the faint animal scents to the boy's bag. Its outside was charred but it had survived. Most fabrics of the visitors resisted heat and flame.

  After tossing it back to the hatch I changed and hurried to the entry. Regretting the need, I bit a handle and dragged the emergency kit over the sill, onto the earth. I dragged it to where the boy waited. I didn't bother looking at him as I went back for his kit bag. The bag was lighter but awkward. I left it beside him and walked away, heading to the stream.

  "Thanks," he said belatedly.

  Still, he said it.

 
; That I did my duty on this path was not his concern but mine. I would wait to see what the journey provided. I scrubbed my muzzle and whiskers and then changed to find another bell cup. This time I wove a net of vines to hold it and plugged the stem so it did not leak. Carrying the full cup back I noticed his distress before he noticed me.

  Staring at me, whatever had disturbed him was now displaced. I managed to get him to take the net from my teeth before the vines broke.

  "So, now what?" he said. A fresh bell cup could not tip without spilling. I flicked a claw at the plug and he caught on.

  "Is it safe?" He wondered then, worrying at this late time.

  I pushed his arm with one paw and he seemed to understand. Raising the cup high he wiggled the plug free and drank the water. It was more than enough to satisfy him.

  "Thank you," he murmured, laying the cup to the side.

  Gathering the net I carried it to where the other cup was drying. I hung this one and carefully shaped it to retain its capacity. I felt his gaze but didn't turn.

  "You're really something," he said. "And I don't believe you did that alone, either."

  Resuming my place, where the grasses were curled to fit my body, I bit at my paw and watched him. He'd been watching me but now he gestured to the items from the emergency kit spread around him.

  "There's no transponder and no flare launcher," he said, with a flavor of anger in his voice. "There's no way to contact the base. It was a burn job from the very beginning. I think mom knew it was a one way trip, but too late."

  Glancing to where her body rotted, he shook himself, though I didn't know what that meant. Neither did I understand what he meant by burn job, although I had an idea. It did not bode well for the child. Then he grabbed his bag, pulling it near, opening and dumping in one flurry of movement. A slight gasp of pain eased from his mouth even as he scattered his clothing, shoes and miscellany in all directions.