by West, Shay
--That is not possible. When our machines finish a task, they go dormant, waiting for their next set of instructions on where to dig. And none of our machines has the capability of traveling through space--
--May we see the machines?-- Lamnor asked, interrupting the heated conversation.
--If you climb the highest tree, you can see them in the distance-- The shaman said, indicating the tree they were to climb.
Feeror gestured to Voilor and the warrior nodded at his superior before beginning the arduous climb. Even though the telcor were perfectly adapted to climbing, the trees were so high that it would take Voilor some time to reach the topmost branches.
--Why don’t we have some refreshment while we wait?-- Thundering Pine said as he gestured to one of the younglings peering from behind a tree.
She ran off, scuttling up one of the rope ladders. Before long she returned, along with several older women, each one with a pack slung over one shoulder.
--This is Falling Leaf, my life-mate. This youngling - Thundering Pine ruffled the little female’s head, --is our only kit. She has yet to come into her name.--
He noticed Feeror’s confused frown.
--With our kind, our brands are part of us, much more than merely something others call us. It brings us closer to that which is important to our people and brings the group luck. Each if us must find out what our brand signifies. Others cannot give it to us--
Thundering Pine passed around the contents of the shoulder pouches: unfamiliar fruits and tubers, as well as some sort of insects with thin exoskeletons and a myriad of jointed limbs. Lamnor looked a little uncertain about the fare, but to the Volgons, it looked more appetizing than the tasteless gruel they had eaten most of their lives.
Though not nearly as good as fresh meat.
They followed the telcor’s lead and ate their meal, sharing a drink from a large dish carved from a reddish-colored hardwood. Feeror turned his head at a scrambling sound coming from above. Voilor was scurrying down the rope ladders, breathing heavily.
--It’s as we thought. The Mekans are far away, but I could just catch sight of them-- Voilor said as he dropped gracefully to the ground.
--And were they harming anyone?-- The shaman asked.
--Not that I could tell-- Voilor admitted.
--Perhaps you are mistaken about the origin of your enemy-- Thundering Pine said.
Feeror frowned. This was the only symbol that had shown itself on the scrolls on more than one occasion. We were so sure! --Perhaps we could—
A distant chirping and trilling interrupted Feeror. A male telcor came running to the group on all fours, his fur drenched in sweat.
--Solid Stone, why have you come? You are not supposed to return for many days yet-- Thundering Pine said.
--There is something wrong with the machines. They continue to dig even though we give them the signal to stop-- Solid Stone answered. --They’ve begun digging in areas where other groups live and have destroyed many domiciles--
Feeror met the eyes of his fellow Chosen.
It’s beginning.
DARK PLANET
--YOU KNOW SOMETHING. Speak-- Thundering Pine ordered.
Feeror sighed. --I am not sure I can explain—
--You think us too stupid to understand?-- Storm Cloud bared his teeth at Feeror.
--Not at all. It’s merely that your language does not have such words to explain. But I will try-- He added hastily, after the large telcor moved forward menacingly.
Feeror told the group about the threat the Mekans posed, about the portals, and about traveling through time. It was difficult, even with the others trying to aid by drawing pictures in the dirt and using grand sweeping gestures.
--It is hard to believe these strange things you have told us. And yet, if what you say is true, our invention will bring great harm to others-- Thundering Pine said.
--The harm has already come. Our world and all our people are dead. We three are all that remain of the Volgon people-- Voilor said.
--What can we do? If the input devices won’t work to shut down the machines, how do we stop them?-- Solid Stone asked.
Feeror gazed into the large eyes of those gathered around him, steeling himself against the despair that was turning his blood to ice. --We must fight them. Do everything we can to keep them from leaving your world--
--You know not what you ask. The machines were built to withstand the harshest conditions. The weapons we have may not stop them--
--What kind of weapons do you possess?--
Thundering Pine tossed Feeror the large stick he had been holding. --This is our most formidable weapon--
Feeror turned the polished wood in his hands, testing the balance. It was dark, almost the color of blood, streaked with beige swirls that glowed with their own light. One end of the weapon was tipped with a blade black as night while from the other tip dangled feathers of many hues. As he ran his paws over the length of the staff, he noticed a raised area the same size as the pad of his thumb.
He pressed the area with his thumb and yelled in surprise as the weapon bucked in his hand, shooting several arcing bolts of blue light into a nearby tree. The group scattered, their voices raised in indignation and annoyance. Voilor and Moylir moved toward the tree, eyes widening at the large steaming hole in the trunk.
--I think these will do nicely-- Feeror said, grinning savagely.
***
Feeror took up the rear of the group that Thundering Pine led through the thick forest. The sky barely lightened in what passed for day on this dark planet. Large birds with leathery wings flew from tree to tree, their raucous calls shattering the silence. Strange sounds emanated from the shadows created by the massive leaves and dense shrubbery. Feeror suppressed the urge to bolt off into the darkness, to stalk whatever made the scuffling and rustling, to feel the warm blood spurt down his throat. The call of the hunter was strong. The distant rumbling of the Mekans pulled him back to reality.
Today, I hunt other prey.
As they moved through the forest of enormous trees, Feeror listened to the other telcor as they chatted with one another. Maybe it was part of being one of the Chosen or perhaps their language was simpler than he’d first realized, but he found that he was able to understand some of what the telcor were saying to one another.
--Are you able to understand what they are saying?-- Feeror asked Moylir.
She listened to the telcor for a moment, eyes widening and chops curling in a smile. --Most still sounds like gibberish but some of the words make sense--
Voilor admitted he could pick up most of the words while Lamnor merely shrugged. He wasn’t able to discern any meaning behind the strange sounds the telcor made.
-- Perhaps it’s tied to our being Chosen?-- Moylir suggested.
Feeror nodded. Whatever the reason, he was determined to learn as much of the language as he could. It would be so much easier to communicate directly with the telcor rather than relying on the clone. He shouted out some words and the telcor stopped in surprise. Thus far they had only heard the visitors speak nonsensical words or words that did have meaning but were rearranged in such a way as to make their speech incomprehensible.
“You speak now?” Thundering Pine asked.
Feeror nodded. “Some. Been hearing.”
Thundering Pine shook his head as though he didn’t understand. Feeror sighed and tried again. “Been hearing—” he pointed to some of the telcor close by as they whispered to one another.
“You mean you ‘listened’?”
“Yes. Listened.” The word sounded right when he said it.
Thundering Pine smiled. “You learn fast.”
Feeror frowned, trying to understand what the telcor had said.
--He said you learn fast--
With a little help from the clone, and with the telcor pointing to various things around them and demonstrating plenty of patience, the Chosen absorbed the language, saying the words until they felt comfortable on their l
ips.
Lamnor was walking at the back of the group, arms folded over his chest and looking rather forlorn.
--I’m sorry, Lamnor. Guess we just got caught up in trying to learn the language-- Feeror said.
--At least you are capable of learning it. I can pick up one word in every hundred they speak--
--It’s not your fault. I think it might be a gift of being Chosen. That’s the only thing that explains it--
Lamnor shrugged. -- I suppose--
--Just keep practicing and you’ll get it--
The trees thinned the closer they got to the machines. Feeror’s skin crawled and his gut twisted as he spotted the first of the Mekans. Visions of his world in ruins and his people dead flashed through his mind.
Growling, he pointed the lightning stick at the closest of the machines, unleashing fury and hatred in a blast of blue fire. Two of the legs exploded, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. He yelled in triumph as the machine lurched to one side and toppled over. A smaller droid moved beside the one lying in the dirt, avoiding the feeble kicking of the remaining legs. Appendages appeared from hidden compartments along its sides. They unfurled like strange metal arms and their ends were tipped in various tools. The end of one appendage sparked blue lightning as it moved to fix its fallen comrade.
The ground beneath them suddenly lurched. Feeror fought to keep his balance and his grip on the weapon. A loud whining that grew louder by the second forced him to cover his ears. The ground in front of him began to bulge as though something were trying to break free. He shouted to several telcor standing nearby to watch out.
They can’t hear me!
He waved his arms frantically, urging them to move backward. The ground continued its upward movement. Suddenly, the earth erupted in a fountain of dirt, sending boulders and rocks into the surrounding area. Feeror tucked into a ball, protecting his head with his arms.
When the eruption was over, he sat up, ears ringing. Pain shot down his leg. He brushed a hand across his thigh and it came away wet with blood.
“Feeror!”
He looked up and spotted Voilor limping toward him, aided by Moylir, who appeared to be uninjured.
“Where is Lamnor and clone?” Feeror asked.
“Other side,” he pointed in the direction of the eruption.
Feeror gasped. Where there had been solid ground only moments earlier, only a gaping hole remained. The ground still shook and bits of dirt and rock bounced into the chasm. He could barely make out moving figures on the other side, their movements obscured by dust. Something crawled in the bottom of the chasm, its metallic skin reflecting the light from the few stars in the sky.
“Help me up.” Feeror reached for Moylir and grasped her hand firmly in his own.
Feeror fought a wave of nausea as he placed weight on his injured leg.
“It’s not whole,” Moylir said with a shake of her head. The words didn’t sound exactly right but it was the closest she could come up with. Suddenly her face brightened. “I mean, it’s broken,” she said with a sharp nod of her head.
Moylir helped Feeror move away from the hole in the ground. She deposited him on a rock. “Stay. I search for others.”
She returned shortly, escorting Lamnor and the clone. Both covered in dirt but uninjured. Thundering Pine and several of his people trailed behind them.
“We lost most of the party when the ground opened up,” Thundering Pine said. He had one arm tied to his side and his fur was covered in blood.
“Sorry for your people. But we must stop machines,” Feeror said.
“I’ll send for reinforcements. Maybe I can get word to some of the other colonies to send aid.”
Feeror nodded as picked up the word “reinforcement.” “Tell me how machines work.”
“I’ll have our chief engineer tell you everything. He should be at the main compound, unless that’s been destroyed.” Thundering Pine looked ill. “I’ll have someone see to your wounds.”
“No time—” Feeror shook his head at the telcor’s words.
“You won’t make it half a click on that leg. Looks broken to me. You either let us stabilize it or you stay behind.”
Feeror clenched his jaw, knowing the telcor leader was right. He waited impatiently while several female telcor measured his leg and cut two sturdy branches to fit the lower half. They mixed together some material from leather pouches they kept at their waists, crushing it and mixing it with a bit of spittle. Feeror sat stoically as one of the females rubbed the herb mixture on the injured area, letting the pain wash over him rather than trying to fight it.
In moments, a slight tingling sensation moved up and down his thigh, and then he felt nothing. The females bound his leg with the splints and it was as though he were watching someone else get their limb bandaged. He could feel nothing at all.
“It will be difficult to walk but that will be preferable to pain. The effects of the herbs will wear off quickly. We had best be moving,” Thundering Pine ordered.
With Moylir’s help, Feeror was able to hobble his way to the compound where the bulk of the engineering team was supposed to be located. The sound of the Mekans grew louder as they approached.
“This is the only place the machines are supposed to be working. This area is full of rare metals,” Thundering Pine explained.
“What do they dig for?” Feeror asked.
“Metal and other things that are useful.”
“What you do with it?”
“We sell it. In return, we are given the materials needed to make more machines as well as food to sustain us during the long cold season. Those who gave us the metal showed us how to make the machines and how to keep them running.”
“Need contact them.”
Thundering Pine smiled at the stunted, broken sentences. “I’ll have my chief engineer get them a message.”
As they approached the building, the sound of chaotic voices met their ears. Though Feeror couldn’t hear what they were saying, their distress and fear was obvious.
“Where is Tall Mountain?” Thundering Pine demanded.
“He has gone to try to stop the machines. We’ve been trying to shut them down, but nothing is working,” the telcor said.
Thundering Pine led the way, moving quickly through the trees. Feeror gritted his teeth. He had never suffered an injury so painful. A warrior should not be carried along like some invalid!
The noise was so loud that even though they shouted at one another, they could barely make out the words. Thundering Pine pointed to a lone telcor high up in the branches of a tree, making his way toward the tips. The telcor—Feeror assumed it was Tall Mountain—perched on the end of a branch which sagged under his weight. A Mekan moved ponderously through the trees, its metal tracks leaving huge gouges in the soft forest soil.
With perfect timing, the telcor leaped from the end of the branch, landing squarely on the Mekan’s head. Feeror growled in frustration, wishing he was close enough to see what the telcor was doing. All he could see was a flurry of motion.
“What is he doing?” he shouted to Thundering Pine.
“It looks like he’s trying to access the main processing chip. If he can remove it, the machine won’t be able to function.”
Feeror pinched the bridge of his nose. The solution was so obvious. Of course! Remove the processor, kill the machine.
“We need to return to the village—” Thundering Pine said.
Feeror gasped as a low-flying drone swept over the group, heading for the Mekan and Tall Mountain. He tried to shout at the telcor on the machine but it was no use. The drone crashed into the telcor, pulling him from the top of the Mekan and sending him tumbling to the hard ground below.
The Mekan on the ground continued to make its way through the trees, heading straight for the group. Feeror shouted at everyone to take cover, hobbling as best he could for the largest trees.
“I try,” Voilor shouted as he pointed to the machine.
Voilor dash
ed up a tree before Feeror could argue. He growled and indicated with hand signals to Moylir to take up position and keep a lookout for flying drones. She nodded once and moved to get a better view, the powerful stick-like weapon of the telcor held at the ready.
Voilor leaped onto the head of the machine. In moments, another flying drone made its way toward the large Mekan on the ground. With marksmanship born from years of practice, Moylir fired the strange weapon, blasting a hole in the wing of the flying machine. It veered off course, unable to maintain its heading. It crashed into the trees.
A cheer erupted from the telcor and the Chosen. Feeror was certain they were on the verge of finally stopping the Mekans once and for all. His heart raced as he waited for the Mekan to halt its forward progress. Voilor stood and fired his weapon into the brain pan of the machine. The bolts of lightning were deflected and slammed into Voilor’s body, knocking him from the machine.
Feeror wanted to run to meet Voilor but his numbed leg wouldn’t allow more than a stilted hobble. His comrade lay in the dirt, smoke rising from his furry body. Moylir was already at his side, doing her best to sooth his hurts but Feeror could see that there was nothing to be done.
Voilor coughed and motioned Feeror closer. “Not able to take out.” He gasped and his body spasmed in pain.
“Take what out?” Feeror asked.
Voilor shook his head.
--The main processor was fused to the mechanism in the Mekan’s head-- the clone said.
Voilor nodded emphatically.
“What means this?” Feeror asked Thundering Pine.
The telcor leader shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Why did weapon not work?” Feeror asked Thundering Pine.
The telcor leader shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
--Perhaps the machines did something to protect themselves against such an attack-- the clone suggested.
Thundering Pine snorted in derision. “You speak of them as though they were like us.”
“How you explain? Did you alter it?” Moylir waited for Thundering Pine to shake his head before continuing. “Machine altered itself,” Moylir said.
