As Bulisa continued to stand watch, the women took stock of their resources. Most of their equipment was still there, along with an assortment of camping gear. Looking at the stove and its containers of white gas, Karen realized that she needed a better sense of what they were up against. "Wait here."
Her binoculars were lying by her pack. Picking them up, she went to the edge of the awning, where Bulisa stood in silence, and trained them on the scene up the beach. The rain was coming down hard, but the moon had risen, and in its milky light, she got a good look at the cryptids for the first time.
Through the binoculars, she counted seven creatures by the dinghy, feeding on the dead and tearing at the shroud with Patrick's remains. When she compared them to the human figures on the sand, she estimated that they were the size of harpy eagles, with wingspans between three and four feet. Their feathers were black, but where the wings met the body, she saw patches of iridescent orange, so bright that they seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Karen studied the nearest cryptid, which was crouching over what was left of Emily. It had wings on its fore and hind legs, trimmed with slender black pinions. When it raised its head from the girl's body, it revealed a long neck, balanced by a stiff tail with a fan of feathers at one end. Along with the clawed wings that Bulisa had described, it had talons on its hind feet, including a recurved sickle claw on the second toe, which it used to perch on its prey.
She watched as they tore at the bodies with their sharp front teeth. They were clumsy on the ground, keeping their forelimbs raised to avoid dragging their wings on the sand, but seemed to have no trouble flying in short bursts in the rain. As she looked on, two of the cryptids on Jesse's body began to fight, hissing, with the larger one driving away the smaller, which flew several yards to where Hiroshi had fallen, his machete still clutched in one hand.
Karen saw that Amanda was watching the cryptids as well. "What are they?"
Instead of responding, Karen went to her pack. Opening it, she fished out her camera with its long lens, then rejoined the others, taking photographs through the mesh of the net.
As she framed the cryptids in her viewfinder, she found that it helped to put things into words. "They don't look like pack hunters. I think they're just being drawn to the same kill. They have large eyes, which means they probably hunt at night, but at least one got Patrick before dark, which means we can't count on them leaving when the sun rises." Using her zoom lens, she took a picture of the closest cryptid. "And they have iridescent feathers. You only see those on birds that are active during the day. It's warning coloration—"
Amanda seemed to understand what she meant. "Like the feathers on the pitohuis."
Karen lowered the camera. Despite her horror, she felt a strange exhilaration. "Yes. The same colors. I think they feed on them. Maybe on the beetles as well. The poison is moving up the food chain, like Patrick said, but there's another level we didn't know was there. It's in their bite, and probably in their skin and feathers. They use it to kill prey and defend themselves from threats. Like us."
Amanda continued to stare at the cryptids. "You think they're territorial?"
"Maybe. They aren't monsters. This whole island could be their territory, a nesting ground, and we invaded it. Which is all the more reason for us to clear out when we can. It's only a matter of time before they come after us." Karen slid the camera into her pack again. "But even if the storm dies down, once we head for the water, we're exposed. And I doubt we can outrun them."
"So we need a distraction," Amanda said. "You said they were drawn to the light?"
"Yes, I think so." Looking into her eyes, Karen began to sense what she was thinking. "They're like birds of prey. Eagles and hawks are drawn to wildfires to catch fleeing animals—"
"Then we'll give them something to go after. But not until we're ready to run."
Amanda quickly explained her idea. Glancing around the camp, Karen observed that they had everything they needed, and when she saw the metal cylinder at the edge of the awning, something else occurred to her. She picked up the vaporizer. "All right. But it has to be fast."
As they put their plan into action, more cryptids arrived from the forest, drawn by the promise of carrion. Bulisa kept watch as Amanda reinforced the nets, piling equipment boxes at the base of each pole. Beneath the awning, Karen laid out a set of aluminum rods that she had obtained by taking apart a folding stool. Each had a plastic bag wrapped around one end.
Amanda knelt beside her. "You still haven't told me what you think they are."
Karen saw that talking would keep both of them calm. "They look like dromaeosaurs. We know from the fossil record that they were related to birds. They were feathered, and at least two species may have been capable of flight. It's consistent with descriptions of the ropen. There's also evidence that some were venomous. It's controversial, but some of the remains show signs of fanglike maxillary teeth, along with skull cavities that may have been venom glands."
Amanda turned back to the growing flock by the dinghy. "You think they're getting batrachotoxin in their diet?"
"That's how it looks. It's possible the glands evolved for some other purpose, then adapted to incorporate batrachotoxin. But I can't say for sure, any more than I know how they managed to survive here for so long. They kept out of sight, stayed on an island that didn't draw attention, and protected their territory. At this point, you know as much as I do."
Amanda did not reply at once. For a long moment, she kept her eyes on the creatures, and she seemed about to say something else when a cryptid came shrieking out of the darkness.
It hit the mist net three feet from where they were seated, rocking it on its poles, and clutched the net in the claws of its hind feet. As Amanda screamed, Karen saw its talons tearing at the nylon, slicing the mesh, and realized that it was on the point of bringing it all down.
The aluminum rods were lined up on the groundsheet. Karen seized the one closest to her, tearing off the bag at the top. Underneath, a rag had been tied to one end and doused with isoflurane.
As Bulisa stood ready with his knife, Karen came forward and pressed the rag against the cryptid's face. She kept it there, holding her breath, as the creature hissed and fought. Within seconds, it began to slow, sliding down the net to the ground. She continued to push the cloth into its feathered snout, her heart going like mad. It took a long time for the anesthetic to take effect, but at last, it ceased writhing and lay motionless on the white sand.
Karen stared at it. It was a small cryptid with a wingspan of three feet, strangely beautiful, its black tail and neck shot through with bands of orange. A few strands of nylon were entwined in its claws.
She heard footsteps. Looking up, she saw that Bulisa had squeezed through the gap at the rear of the enclosure, his bush knife in one hand. Before Karen could warn him away, he was kneeling by the cryptid, the blade flashing in the moonlight as he brought it down again and again, stabbing at it until the blood flowed.
The cryptid opened its eyes. Hissing, it turned and bit Bulisa on the inside of the forearm. Bulisa shouted in rage, shaking his hand free. He stabbed the creature again, nearly taking off its head, then looked down at his own skin. The marks of the fangs were clearly visible.
Bulisa turned to face the women, who were staring at him through the net. Then he rose slowly to his feet, holding the cryptid by the legs, and staggered up the beach. As Karen watched, he began to convulse, but he kept going, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the others. He was very strong. After fifty paces, he fell and did not move again.
The two women waited behind the nets for the rest of the night. As several cryptids flew out from the dinghy to feed on Bulisa's body, as well as that of their own dead companion, Karen stood watch with the flare gun, keeping one eye on the waves. The rain was steady and unyielding, the wind still strong, and the latest transmission from the boat had only confirmed what she already knew. There would be no rescue until the storm
had passed.
After repairing the torn net as well as they could, the women fell into an exhausted silence. They had each stripped down to a shirt and shorts, and Amanda had tied together two pairs of empty water jugs, allowing them to be worn in a rough harness. Once all the preparations were in place, Karen took a final set of pictures, then buried her camera and notes.
Feeling her eyelids drooping, Karen remembered that she hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. She looked at Amanda, who seemed equally drained, and saw that they had to keep talking. "Are you married?"
Amanda glanced up, then smiled faintly. "No. There never seemed to be any time."
"I was married once," Karen said. "Years ago. I wish I could say it ended well."
"I know." Amanda looked out at the ocean. "I know a lot about you. You're the reason I'm here. And I'm not just talking about this island. You didn't recognize me, but when we first met, years ago, you were the woman I wanted to be. It's why I decided to pursue this kind of work. Then I woke up one morning and realized I was nothing like you at all."
Karen kept her eyes on the waves. "I think we're more alike than you know."
Amanda shook her head. "No. Not where it counts. I was always playing it safe, looking out for myself, until I forgot why it seemed so important. It was the only way I'd ever found to keep myself going. That's when I knew I had to track you down. I wanted to see if you were what I remembered, if you still existed at all. And I wanted to convince you to become part of what I was doing, which would tell me I'd made the right choice. Even if—"
She hesitated, then continued in a voice that was almost a whisper. "Even if it meant forcing you to pay attention. So I arranged for the funding for your survey to be cut off. One of our advisors is on the board of the foundation that denied the grant. I knew it was the only way you would agree to help us. It was a test. An experiment. And it's because of me that we're here."
Looking within herself, Karen found that she was beyond anger. She wanted to tell Amanda that she had been driven by her own needs, an ambition so great that it fled from recognition, while always secretly hoping to be found. In the end, she only turned toward where Emily and Hiroshi were lying, thinking again of how they had trusted her, even as she could barely hold together her own life. "It isn't your fault. The decision was mine. I didn't want to admit I had no choice. And I knew that if I said the word, the others would follow. It's the only power I had left—"
Even as she spoke, Karen saw that the wind was dying down, and the rattle of rain against the canvas had ceased. A second later, she noticed something else. On the sand before the awning, closer than the bodies, several birds were pecking at the ground. They were hooded pitohuis. "Look."
Amanda lifted her head. For a long moment, they regarded the birds, not speaking, and Karen realized that it was almost time. If they were going to go for the dinghy, it had to be now.
She was about to say this when she saw the pitohuis take wing and fly away. Feeling her dread rise, she got to her feet, and even as she did, a chorus of hooting erupted from the trees.
Karen turned and saw the cryptids coming. There were seven or more flying out from the forest, and although their movements did not seem coordinated, they were closing in together on the enclosure. Amanda scrambled up beside her. For a second, her eyes met Karen's.
Then the cryptids hit the net. Karen saw several bounce back, falling to the sand, but others clung to the webbing, swarming against it and tearing at the strands with their claws. The largest began to climb to the top, and as she watched, it began to haul itself over, its talons scrabbling at the mesh.
Karen ran to the rear of the barricade. Pulling down the table that leaned against the gap, she squeezed through and yanked Amanda after her, seeing that the cryptids were already flying their way.
Amanda took off for the water. As the cryptids closed in, Karen raised the flare gun and fired at the equipment they had heaped on the groundsheet. Earlier, they had doused the gear with white gas from the stove, and as soon as the flare struck the pile, the mound went up in flames.
Karen let the gun fall and ran for the waves, aiming for a point ten yards from where Amanda had gone, hoping to divide the attention of the cryptids. It was fifty long paces away. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the cryptids detaching themselves from the bodies by the dinghy, most of them flying toward the fire, but a few bearing silently in her direction.
She saw Amanda reach the water. A second later, she was running into the surf. As the water rose around her legs, it slowed her down, but she forced herself to push onward, not daring to look back.
When the ocean was up to the level of her chest, she began to swim. The plastic containers around her shoulders gave her some buoyancy, but the waves were still rough, and she fought to keep her head above the surface. A wave swept across her body, nearly turning her over, but she managed to right herself and kick into deeper water. Amanda was nowhere in sight.
Karen closed her eyes, her arms and legs working in the salt sea. From behind her, she heard what might have been hooting, but it might also have been the thunder of water in her ears. She swam on, trembling at the edge of exhaustion, and when she opened her eyes again, she saw that the sky had begun to brighten. After all she had endured, she told herself, she would not die here.
Before she knew what was happening, a wave bore her forward, and she nearly collided with the dinghy. She clung to the side, feeling herself rise and fall in the water, and breathed. Then she worked her way around to the stern, releasing the cover as she went. Taking hold of the gunwale, she pushed herself up, arms straining as the dinghy tipped under her weight, and slid on board.
A second later, Amanda appeared, fighting her way through the waves. Karen went to the bow, taking up the sculling oar, and extended it so Amanda could grab the blade. For a second, she felt the tension on the shaft that joined them together, equally balanced on each end. Grasping the handle, she pulled, leaning back to keep the dinghy stable, and hauled her in.
The motor started on the first try. Before moving away, they sat for a moment in silence, soaked and panting. Amanda was the first to speak. "I can't believe they were still there."
In the gray false dawn, Karen could make out the shoreline. The remains of the camp were smoldering, sending a column of smoke into the sky, the bodies of the dead ranged along the sand. All of the cryptids were gone.
"Some things can survive for longer than you'd think," Karen said. Then she turned the dinghy around and headed for the Rosalind.
* * *
In Perpetuity
Ellis Morning | 6014 words
"Don't you love a hint of slag on the evening breeze?"
Ali Nazari raised an eyebrow at his colleague, Victor Talbot, even though his mirrored visor hid the gesture. The pair bounded along the dusty lunar surface toward their rover, carrying a loaded rectangular container between them. Gravity was more suggestion than imperative, which helped. On Earth, there was no way the lanky pair would have managed it.
"What breeze?" Nazari asked. "If you smell anything in there, I guarantee it's not slag."
Talbot cackled over Nazari's transmitter. With his free hand, he pantomimed tugging at the collar of his environment suit. "You buffed my poetic streak right out of existence. Congrats. What's the fate of this batch?"
"Probably nothing we haven't already seen," Nazari replied. "I can think of so many better things."
"Like what?"
"Well... like building a fort."
"Complete with slag-snowballs?"
"Seriously. Shape bricks, make a slag-based cement, see how it works. When pyrolysis takes off, slag will be cheap." Nazari hefted his end of the container for emphasis. "It's the building material of the future."
"Lunar suburban sprawl. I can hardly wait," Talbot grumbled.
They reached their skeletal vehicle, added their burden to the existing stack of containers in the rear, and secured it for the drive home. Each lock slid into place w
ithout a sound. Plastic panels beside the locks shifted from red to green to confirm they were fastened.
"Don't want your own place to call home?" Nazari asked.
"Negative. Once one schmuck has a house, everyone's gonna want one. That leads to neighborhoods and, worse, homeowners' associations." Talbot pounded a fist against a stubborn lock. "Then we'll need roads, parking lots, traffic signals, enforcement... you might as well go back to Earth."
"We might not have a choice on that count," Nazari reminded him in a subdued tone. "The budget-axe drops any day now."
Talbot pointed toward the rolling horizon. "Give me stark barren pioneer country any day!"
Nazari allowed the evasion, only to revert to a different sticking point with a teasing grin Talbot couldn't see. "If you stay in colony dorms, how will you ever get time alone with that programmer you're always ogling? Samantha?"
"Oh, can it," Talbot snapped. "It's not like I stand a chance."
The men inspected their rigging one last time. Before climbing into the passenger seat, Nazari turned back the way they came. He faced a shallow depression in the mare, where suited chemists hovered like bees around a vacuum pyrolysis apparatus, the largest and most efficient to date. While Nazari and Talbot hauled away the byproducts of their experiment for analysis, the chemists harvested their end goal: pure oxygen.
Nazari raised an arm to wave farewell to whomever might be watching. That was when he noticed something unusual upon the ground, not far from his feet. To most, it would have been a mundane rock, one of millions littering Oceanus Procellarum. To Nazari, it stood out like obsidian in a riverbed. He drifted over for a closer look.
"Drop something, Ali?" Talbot asked.
Nazari knelt and retrieved the rock. He held the football-sized, pockmarked specimen close to his visor, trying to get a feel for its texture through his gloves. "I thought this whole area was titanium-poor... but this looks like pure ilmenite," he mused.
Talbot was at Nazari's side in an instant. "Hey, that's something! Don't tell the chemists, they'll want to torch it. Mind if I look it over?"
Analog Science Fiction and Fact - 2014-05 Page 8
