Seb walked through the forest, marveling at the detail of the place his subconscious had produced. The slight give of the mulch underfoot in places where sunlight struggled to break through the leafy canopy, the sap bleeding from some of the pines. The spider webs suddenly appearing as they came out of shadow. The smells and the sounds of the forest, the crisp, clean, pure air that never failed to lift his spirits. He remembered his early morning walks back in Los Angeles. The Verdugo slopes at dawn had been a mainstay of his routine when he was at his creative best, writing songs, spending afternoons at the studio. He’d usually walked alone. Sometimes he’d met up with Bob and his dog, Marcie, but Bob—a man of few words at the best of times—had understood the value of silence. Seb missed him.
He walked on. The trees started to thin out. The incline got steeper, and the soft earth gave way to drier, rockier terrain. As he headed for the summit, the sound of birdsong and wind in the trees faded. The growing silence was more intense because the sounds of his body were absent. No cartilage crackles. No breath.
He stopped and sat on a rock, looking back at the clearing, the cabin, and the lake. He thought about Fypp’s proposal. Then he turned his thoughts to Earth. More specifically, he thought of Mee and the life he had left behind. The island of Innisfarne, its peace and tranquility. His brother John, whom he’d never had the chance to get to know. A home. Maybe, one day, a family.
Seb knew that his feelings weren’t normal. He thought about Mee, the woman he’d loved ever since she’d walked up behind him and pinched his butt at a recording session in London. He could remember the passion, the intensity, the carefree willingness to give up everything just to be able to be with her. To talk with her, kiss her, undress her. But that was the problem - he was remembering the passion, the intensity. He could calmly recall the beautiful insanity of love, and that just wasn’t right. The distance he felt wasn’t just physical. He knew he’d changed. How could it be otherwise? By most standards, surely he wasn’t human anymore.
He started walking back to the cabin. He wondered if it was even possible that he could do what Fypp was suggesting if he wasn’t fully T’hn’uuth, or fully human. He felt as if he needed time to process what had happened to him since he had sacrificed his biological body to re-engineer the Unmaking Engine and prevent the destruction of his species. His ex-species? He felt adrift. Mee had completed him in some way beyond the clichés and platitudes associated with romantic love. And yet, he couldn’t make the feelings come back.
Seb wasn’t sure who he was anymore. And this was not the kind of existential crisis that could be sorted out by lying on a couch and talking to a stranger about how you secretly watched your aunt getting changed at the swimming pool when you were ten. This crisis involved sorting out which species he belonged to. Maybe it really wasn’t the best time to enter some kind of simulation, become someone else and, hopefully, set the future of intelligent life in the entire universe on a new, uncharted course.
On the other hand, who else was gonna do it?
Fypp, naturally, was delighted - a fact she felt compelled to demonstrate by turning cartwheels for five minutes while whooping. Loudly.
When she finally settled down, she stepped back up into the roofless cabin and smiled at the silently calm Baiyaan, the impassive Bok, the simmering Kaani, and the permanently confused Seb.
“Come on, guys, why so serious? It’s not life and death, you know. Well, it might be, I suppose.” She did her best to look crestfallen and managed it for a split second before grinning again. “Well, it’s not life and death for us, anyway.”
Bok made a noise which Seb’s Manna interpreted as clearing his throat. Fypp’s brow creased for a moment, then cleared as she glanced around the group and recognized the inaccuracy of her remark.
“Okay, Mr. Pedantic, Seb could die, true enough, but it’s fairly unlikely, so there’s no need for you to bring us all down with your doom and gloom.”
Bok ignored her and pointed at Seb.
“Although not significantly high enough to cause great concern, the odds of Seb losing himself and forfeiting his—”
“Oh, don’t start with odds, you great baboon. He’s not interested in all the boring details, are you, Seb?”
“Well, Fypp, I guess it might be useful to—”
“See?” Fypp took Seb’s arm, scooped up the Gyeuk Egg from the table and walked him over to the edge of the lake. The water was lapping gently at the shingle shore. Seb thought briefly of Penn Pond, at Richmond Park, where he’d first met Mee. And where he’d had virtual conversations with Seb2. Then he remembered the beach at Innisfarne. He tried to think of Mee’s face and was pleased to find he could picture her perfectly. Next moment, his heart sank when he realized the image he had was too perfect. It wasn’t the unreliable recall of a lover, with misremembered details and a tendency to airbrush imperfections, it was as perfect as a photograph. And as soulless.
Fypp tugged at his sleeve. Her voice was more gentle than normal.
“Let it go, lover boy.” Seb flinched. He wondered how much information his Manna gave away. Perhaps very little was hidden from a creature as ancient as Fypp. The child raised an eyebrow at him. “It’ll hurt a little, but it will pass. Some changes, once set in motion, cannot be reversed. You’ll learn to accept it. Eventually, those kinds of primitive emotions will seem almost embarrassing. You’ll outgrow them.”
“And if I don’t want to outgrow them?”
Fypp shrugged and skipped over to a large, waist-high rock which featured an unnatural indentation perfectly fitted to the Egg’s dimensions. She placed it there. Seb noted how gently and carefully Fypp handled the Gyeuk Egg, despite her studied couldn’t-care-less demeanor. He walked over and tried, with some difficulty, to look at it again, still in awe at its refusal to settle into an appearance his senses were comfortable with.
Fypp poked him in the side with one finger.
“I asked for a little drama when you first show up,” she said, nodding at the Egg. “You’ll know it when it happens. Just a little convincer to help you get started.”
Seb stopped trying to look at the impossible object.
“Why does someone have to go in there at all?”
Fypp looked at his face and sighed.
“If you had any idea how tedious it is having to explain things at this level…never mind. Fair question, I suppose. Since it’s you doing the hard part. Yes, we could request the target species’ evolutionary template to favor a certain religiosity. We could even suggest character traits based on what we know of influential religious figures in Earth’s history. But what we are searching for is uniquely human, so trying to reproduce that through software, or wetware, however sophisticated the Programming, is impossible. It has to be you, Seb.”
Seb sighed. “And when I’m done? When I come back? How will you know if I succeeded? Six months is hardly going to be long enough to change the future of a species.”
When Fypp spoke, it was with utter seriousness. He had no idea if she was being sincere or not.
“Don’t underestimate yourself. I have faith in you.”
19
After a cathartic hour of howling her fury and sadness at the uncaring landscape, Sopharndi trekked northwest, doubling back on herself slightly as she headed out into Canyon Plains. She found one of the clumps of plaintrees before dark and clambered high into the canopy of the tallest tree, expertly slinging her cloak under a sturdy branch and curling into it to sleep. After the sustained emotional outburst of the afternoon, her sleep was deep and dreamless, and she awoke with a clear mind, her grief a stone in her belly.
Today she would hunt. Still in her perch high in the tree, she broke her fast with a few strips of dried meat and some water from the skin. Then she surveyed the area, looking for fresh signs of animal movement.
Herds of ha’zek crossed the plains from the northwest every spring, following the river as they went. They had mostly moved on now that summer was here, but small group
s of stragglers could be found even now. The skin of the ha’zek was prized for its warmth. Its bladder was often used for waterskins, such as the one Sopharndi now carried. Its meat was unpleasant when fresh, but, smoked and dried, it sweetened, and each summer’s bounty was stored, ready to be distributed in the leaner winter months. There were strips of it in the bag tucked next to the knife in Sopharndi’s belt. Along with the berries she would find while hunting, she knew she wouldn’t go hungry.
She trekked half a day into Canyon Plains, only stopping to eat and take some long swallows of water. She couldn’t stray any further and still be able to carry an animal back on her own, and her need for solitude was tempered by her duty to the People. Katela was an extremely able warrior, but Sopharndi was First, and her place was with those she had sworn to protect. She would stay away for one night, no more. She would return for the gathering, Cley’s death would be acknowledged, and the tribe would move on. Sopharndi would move on, too, eventually. Cley’s life might not be remembered in stories or songs. His memory would never be cherished like the ancestors who had served the People well.
Sopharndi tied the bag back onto her belt. She would never forget Cley. The rage she felt against the harshness of tradition would keep his memory fresh for a good while, but she knew the bitter taste of her sadness and loneliness would surface soon and stay with her far longer.
Before moving on, she thanked the Singer for the food with a few muttered words, followed by touching her fingers to her lips. She thanked the Singer with her words, but not with her heart.
The landscape, like most of the topological features around the settlement, was named unimaginatively, if accurately. Canyon Plains was a mixture of umber canyons and jagged rock formations, surrounded by green-yellow plains, north of the river. To the northwest, the skyline was broken up by a jagged mountain range known as Hell’s Teeth. The forest lay south of those forbidding mountains, just patches of trees at their foot, becoming densely wooded closer to the settlement. To the south was the Parched Lands. Walk to the east with the river on your left, and trees, grass and bushes soon gave way to stonier, harder ground as the land started to descend, the water starting to become louder, white-flecked and angry as it made its way downhill, away from the plateau where the People had settled. The river was the only river they knew of, and, longer ago than the first songs, an ancestor ungifted in poetry had named it the River.
She had crossed it at the narrow ford that morning. The ford had been constructed when the People had first abandoned a nomadic existence and chosen this place to become rooted. It was designed to provide a path that was dry for a few months in summer, wet in spring and fall and ankle deep and chilled in winter. It was also designed to be easily defendable. It fell away to deep water either side, and there were breaks at both banks as well as one in the middle, where those crossing—which was only possible in single file—had to jump a four-foot gap to continue. Trees and bushes had been cleared around the ford to make it impossible to approach the crossing without being seen. It was a point of entry into the settlement, but any hostile visitors would be crazy to try such an exposed route.
There was a distinctive rock formation about five hundred yards ahead. The Giant’s Fist looked exactly as it sounded - as if a rock giant had tried to punch her way out from below ground and had managed to penetrate the land’s skin with one fist before her strength gave out. A song told of her holding her breath underground, waiting for the day another giant would pass that way, recognize her plight and finally pull her free. As Sopharndi silently scaled the rock, she hoped today wouldn’t be the day the song came true.
Her careful progress was necessarily slow, as she couldn’t afford to make a sound. The Giant’s Fist provided the best shelter from the sun for miles. Any ha’zek crossing Canyon Plains would be sure to wait out the worst heat of the day on the far side, where the overhang provided by the Fist’s knuckles allowed an area of land to remain relatively cool. The deep shadow made the animals invisible unless you were right on top of them. Which, after twenty patient minutes of climbing, was exactly where Sopharndi was. A breath of wind came from the northwest, bringing a blast of musky, sweaty animal odor, but leaving the beasts themselves ignorant of her presence.
She counted twelve of them, kneeling in the shade, huffing in their distinctive fashion, or taking turns to lick the salty, mineral-rich moisture from the rock face. Ha’zek, when fully grown, stood about chest high on a person. Short-haired, with long faces and unfeasibly curled eyelashes above their brown eyes, they were usually born light-gray or white in color, before darkening as they reached maturity. They traveled constantly, their lives following a mysterious, but predictable course the purpose of which was known only to the Singer. The herds began to appear every year on the outermost northwest limits of Canyon Plains as the snows melted on Hell’s Teeth far behind them. They grazed along the river until they were about ten miles from the settlement, then peeled away from the water and the danger of the People, heading inland to patchier feeding grounds amongst the rocks of Canyon Plains. Whether they were on their way to somewhere specific, or whether they spent the intervening period wandering, no one knew; but—as sure as bard farts smell like wine—they were always back by mid-fall, heading in the opposite direction.
The group below Sopharndi was late making its trek east. She could see why - eight of the herd were calfs, born too late to make the trip with the main herd. Of the four older animals, Sopharndi set her sights on a female who looked a little past her physical prime. Ha’zek could run like spit in a hurricane, so it was best to target older, or injured beasts. Sopharndi waited until the older animal had separated herself from the others in search of some more of the tough green and purple weeds that somehow managed to thrive in the splits and fissures of the rock itself. A spear thrown from this angle would likely hit the spine - a mass of bone that would deflect even the sharpest blade. The result of that would be a stampede and—more than likely—the loss of her spear. Better to fall onto the animal from her perch above, bring it down hard, breaking one, or both, of its forelegs.
Crouching in preparation, she took a long, steady breath and held it, her eyes fixed on the female.
I will give you a good death.
With a practiced, fluid, motion, she sprang outwards from her position on the rock, twisting in the air so that her feet would hit first. There was a moment in her fall when everything was absolutely quiet. The ha’zek were half-dozing in the shade, their heads down. Sopharndi’s sense of time and awareness of anything else around her was now completely gone, as time slowed and the world shrank to just her and the female.
For the space of just under a second, she didn’t think of Cley.
Then the soles of her feet hit the shoulder of the ha’zek, driving her into the ground, and the world came back to life in a riot of sound and movement.
The rest of the small herd reacted exactly as Sopharndi knew they would. She had targeted an animal on the edge of the group, so—even as the older female shrieked in surprise and pain—every other ha’zek ran in the opposite direction, away from the threat, abandoning their wounded comrade without any hesitation. As well as being predictable, it was the best course of action to ensure they stood the optimum chance of survival. If Sopharndi had been part of a hunting group, the remaining animals now presented a fast-moving target, much harder to hit.
There was a crack as the older female hit the ground and rolled onto her side. Her scream of agony was cut short and she lay still. It was the best result Sopharndi could have hoped for. Either it had hit its head hard enough to lose consciousness, or the shock had caused it to faint. If it was the latter, as Sopharndi suspected, she didn’t have much time to finish the job before the animal woke up.
She took her knife from her belt and knelt by the ha’zek’s head. Before slitting its throat, she offered up the traditional prayer of gratitude to the Singer. At that precise moment, the beast opened its eyes, grunted and—with its good for
eleg—kicked Sopharndi in the chest. Sopharndi skidded backward and hit the rocks hard enough to hurt. She ran her fingers across her chest and pushed down on the bones underneath. Bruised, not broken.
Sopharndi and the ha’zek got to their feet at the same time and eyed each other. Then the animal took an experimental step forward, decided the injury to her right foreleg wasn’t painful enough to stop her, and sprinted away to the north in the same direction as the rest of the group.
Sopharndi growled a few choice curses, then made a grab for her spear, which had fallen a few feet away.
She watched the pace of the animal as it tried to escape. The impact may not have broken its leg, but it had done enough damage to significantly affect its ability to run. The beast slowed a few times, limping, before looking back and setting off at another sprint, each time a little slower than the last.
Sopharndi pulled the spear back as she ran. She waited until the ha’zek slowed again, then increased her own speed for a few steps - just long enough to give her throw more momentum.
The sharpened tip of the spear glinted in the sun as it flashed into the sky in a low arc. The beast, startled by Sopharndi’s sudden burst of speed behind her, stumbled into another run, but her pursuer had allowed for this. The point of the spear, spinning as it fell, pierced the skin at the base of its neck. It emitted a pained scream as it fell, then lay twitching, trying to drag itself back upright, blood spurting onto the sand.
Sopharndi sprinted now, not wanting the animal to suffer more than it had to. As she reached the stricken creature, she drew her knife and buried it into the ha’zek’s throat, slicing into its flesh as she pulled it swiftly upward. The scream turned into a wet gargle for a few seconds, then the creature lost consciousness. Its head dropped to the floor, and its death came quickly and quietly.
The journey back was tiring and uncomfortable, but Sopharndi welcomed the distraction from her grief. She had hefted the body of the ha’zek onto her shoulders before making the long hike home, and she had only allowed herself two brief rests. Her muscles were beginning to complain now, and she knew she would feel the ache there for the next few days.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 105
