The Year's Best SF 12 # 1994

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “Well, it is difficult to fathom, especially in a species that would one day control most of the galaxy. Did they think every race they met was inferior to them?”

  “They certainly behaved as if they did,” said the Historian. “They seemed to respect only those races that stood up to them—and even then they felt that militarily defeating them was proof of their superiority.”

  “And yet we know from ancient records that primitive man worshipped non-sentient animals,” put in the Exobiologist.

  “They must not have survived for any great length of time,” suggested the Historian. “If Man treated the races of the galaxy with contempt, how much worse must he have treated the poor creatures with whom he shared his home world?”

  “Perhaps he viewed them much the same as he viewed my own race,” I offered. “If they had nothing he wanted, if they presented no threat…”

  “They would have had something he wanted,” said the Exobiologist. “He was a predator. They would have had meat.”

  “And land,” added the Historian. “If even the galaxy was not enough to quench Man’s thirst for territory, think how unwilling he would have been to share his own world.”

  “It is a question I suspect will never be answered,” said Bellidore.

  “Unless the answer lies in one of the remaining artifacts,” agreed the Exobiologist.

  I’m sure the remark was not meant to jar me from my lethargy, but it occurred to me that it had been half a day since I had assimilated the knife handle, and I had regained enough of my strength to examine the next artifact.

  It was a metal stylus …

  February 15, 2103:

  Well, we finally got here! The Supermole got us through the tunnel from New York to London in just over four hours. Even so we were twenty minutes late, missed our connection, and had to wait another five hours for the next flight to Khartoum. From there our means of transport got increasingly more primitive—jet planes to Nairobi and Arusha—and then a quick shuttle to our campsite, but we’ve finally put civilization behind us. I’ve never seen open spaces like this before; you’re barely aware of the skyscrapers of Nyerere, the closest town.

  After an orientation speech telling us what to expect and how to behave on safari, we got the afternoon off to meet our traveling companions. I’m the youngest member of the group: a trip like this just costs too much for most people my age to afford. Of course, most people my age don’t have an Uncle Reuben who dies and leaves them a ton of money. (Well, it’s probably about eight ounces of money, now that the safari is paid for. Ha ha.)

  The lodge is quite rustic. They have quaint microwaves for warming our food, although most of us will be eating at the restaurants. I understand the Japanese and Brazilian ones are the most popular, the former for the food—real fish—and the latter for the entertainment. My roommate is Mr. Shiboni, an elderly Japanese gentleman who tells me he has been saving his money for fifteen years to come on this safari. He seems pleasant and good-natured; I hope he can survive the rigors of the trip.

  I had really wanted a shower, just to get in the spirit of things, but water is scarce here, and it looks like I’ll have to settle for the same old chemical dryshower. I know, I know, it disinfects as well as cleanses, but if I wanted all the comforts of home, I’d have stayed home and saved $150,000.

  February 16:

  We met our guide today. I don’t know why, but he doesn’t quite fit my preconception of an African safari guide. I was expecting some grizzled old veteran who had a wealth of stories to tell, who had maybe even seen a civet cat or a duiker before they became extinct. What we got was Kevin Ole Tambake, a young Maasai who can’t be twenty-five years old and dresses in a suit while we all wear our khakis. Still, he’s lived here all his life, so I suppose he knows his way around.

  And I’ll give him this: he’s a wonderful storyteller. He spent half an hour telling us myths about how his people used to live in huts called manyattas, and how their rite of passage to manhood was to kill a lion with a spear. As if the government would let anyone kill an animal!

  We spent the morning driving down into the Ngorongoro Crater. It’s a collapsed caldera, or volcano, that was once taller than Kilimanjaro itself. Kevin says it used to teem with game, though I can’t see how, since any game standing atop it when it collapsed would have been instantly killed.

  I think the real reason we went there was just to get the kinks out of our safari vehicle and learn the proper protocol. Probably just as well. The air-conditioning wasn’t working right in two of the compartments, the service mechanism couldn’t get the temperature right on the iced drinks, and once, when we thought we saw a bird, three of us buzzed Kevin at the same time and jammed his communication line.

  In the afternoon we went out to Serengeti. Kevin says it used to extend all the way to the Kenya border, but now it’s just a 20-square-mile park adjacent to the Crater. About an hour into the game run we saw a ground squirrel, but he disappeared into a hole before I could adjust my holo camera. Still, he was very impressive. Varying shades of brown, with dark eyes and a fluffy tail. Kevin estimated that he went almost three pounds, and says he hasn’t seen one that big since he was a boy.

  Just before we returned to camp, Kevin got word on the radio from another driver that they had spotted two starlings nesting in a tree about eight miles north and east of us. The vehicle’s computer told us we wouldn’t be able to reach it before dark, so Kevin had it lock the spot in its memory and promised us that we’d go there first thing in the morning.

  I opted for the Brazilian restaurant, and spent a few pleasant hours listening to the live band. A very nice end to the first full day of safari.

  February 17:

  We left at dawn in search of the starlings, and though we found the tree where they had been spotted, we never did see them. One of the passengers—I think it was the little man from Burma, though I’m not sure—must have complained, because Kevin soon announced to the entire party that this was a safari, that there was no guarantee of seeing any particular bird or animal, and that while he would do his best for us, one could never be certain where the game might be.

  And then, just as he was talking, a banded mongoose almost a foot long appeared out of nowhere. It seemed to pay no attention to us, and Kevin announced that we were killing the motor and going into hover mode so the noise wouldn’t scare it away.

  After a minute or two everyone on the right side of the vehicle had gotten their holographs, and we slowly spun on our axis so that the left side could see him—but the movement must have scared him off, because though the maneuver took less than thirty seconds, he was nowhere to be seen when we came to rest again.

  Kevin announced that the vehicle had captured the mongoose on its automated holos, and copies would be made available to anyone who had missed their holo opportunity.

  We were feeling great—the right side of the vehicle, anyway—when we stopped for lunch, and during our afternoon game run we saw three yellow weaver birds building their spherical nests in a tree. Kevin let us out, warning us not to approach closer than thirty yards, and we spent almost an hour watching and holographing them.

  All in all, a very satisfying day.

  February 18:

  Today we left camp about an hour after sunrise, and went to a new location: Olduvai Gorge.

  Kevin announced that we would spend our last two days here, that with the encroachment of the cities and farms on all the flat land, the remaining big game was pretty much confined to the gullies and slopes of the gorge.

  No vehicle, not even our specially-equipped one, was capable of navigating its way through the gorge, so we all got out and began walking in single file behind Kevin.

  Most of us found it very difficult to keep up with Kevin. He clambered up and down the rocks as if he’d been doing it all his life, whereas I can’t remember the last time I saw a stair that didn’t move when I stood on it. We had trekked for perhaps half an hour when I heard one of the men
at the back of our strung-out party give a cry and point to a spot at the bottom of the gorge, and we all looked and saw something racing away at phenomenal speed.

  “Another squirrel?” I asked.

  Kevin just smiled.

  The man behind me said he thought it was a mongoose.

  “What you saw,” said Kevin, “was a dik-dik, the last surviving African antelope.”

  “How big was it?” asked a woman.

  “About average size,” said Kevin. “Perhaps ten inches at the shoulder.”

  Imagine anything ten inches high being called average!

  Kevin explained that dik-diks were very territorial, and that this one wouldn’t stray far from his home area. Which meant that if we were patient and quiet—and lucky—we’d be able to spot him again.

  I asked Kevin how many dik-diks lived in the gorge, and he scratched his head and considered it for a moment and then guessed that there might be as many as ten. (And Yellowstone has only nineteen rabbits left! Is it any wonder that all the serious animal buffs come to Africa?)

  We kept walking for another hour, and then broke for lunch, while Kevin gave us the history of the place, telling us all about Dr. Leakey’s finds. There were probably still more skeletons to be dug up, he guessed, but the government didn’t want to frighten any animals away from what had become their last refuge, so the bones would have to wait for some future generation to unearth them. Roughly translated, that meant that Tanzania wasn’t going to give up the revenues from 300 tourists a week and turn over the crown jewel in their park system to a bunch of anthropologists. I can’t say that I blame them.

  Other parties had begun pouring into the gorge, and I think the entire safari population must have totaled almost seventy by the time lunch was over. The guides each seemed to have “their” areas marked out, and I noticed that rarely did we get within a quarter mile of any other parties.

  Kevin asked us if we wanted to sit in the shade until the heat of the day had passed, but since this was our next-to-last day on safari we voted overwhelmingly to proceed as soon as we were through eating.

  It couldn’t have been ten minutes later that the disaster occurred. We were clambering down a steep slope in single file, Kevin in the lead as usual, and me right behind him, when I heard a grunt and then a surprised yell, and I looked back to see Mr. Shiboni tumbling down the path. Evidently he’d lost his footing, and we could hear the bones in his leg snap as he hurtled toward us.

  Kevin positioned himself to stop him, and almost got knocked down the gorge himself before he finally stopped poor Mr. Shiboni. Then he knelt down next to the old gentleman to tend to his broken leg—but as he did so his keen eyes spotted something we all had missed, and suddenly he was bounding up the slopes like a monkey. He stopped where Mr. Shiboni had initially stumbled, squatted down, and examined something. Then, looking like Death itself, he picked up the object and brought it back down the path.

  It was a dead lizard, fully grown, almost eight inches long, and smashed flat by Mr. Shiboni. It was impossible to say whether his fall was caused by stepping on it, or whether it simply couldn’t get out of the way once he began tumbling … but it made no difference: he was responsible for the death of an animal in a National Park.

  I tried to remember the release we had signed, giving the Park System permission to instantly withdraw money from our accounts should we destroy an animal for any reason, even self-protection. I knew that the absolute minimum penalty was $50,000, but I think that was for two of the more common birds, and that ugaama and gecko lizards were in the $70,000 range.

  Kevin held the lizard up for all of us to see, and told us that should legal action ensue, we were all witnesses to what had happened.

  Mr. Shiboni groaned in pain, and Kevin said that there was no sense wasting the lizard, so he gave it to me to hold while he splinted Mr. Shiboni’s leg and summoned the paramedics on the radio.

  I began examining the little lizard. Its feet were finely-shaped, its tail long and elegant, but it was the colors that made the most lasting impression on me: a reddish head, a blue body, and gray legs, the color growing lighter as it reached the claws. A beautiful, beautiful thing, even in death.

  After the paramedics had taken Mr. Shiboni back to the lodge, Kevin spent the next hour showing us how the ugaama lizard functioned: how its eyes could see in two directions at once, how its claws allowed it to hang upside down from any uneven surface, and how efficiently its jaws could crack the carapaces of the insects it caught. Finally, in view of the tragedy, and also because he wanted to check on Mr. Shiboni’s condition, Kevin suggested that we call it a day.

  None of us objected—we knew Kevin would have hours of extra work, writing up the incident and convincing the Park Department that his safari company was not responsible for it—but still we felt cheated, since there was only one day left. I think Kevin knew it, because just before we reached the lodge he promised us a special treat tomorrow.

  I’ve been awake half the night wondering what it could be? Can he possibly know where the other dik-diks are? Or could the legends of a last flamingo possibly be true?

  February 19:

  We were all excited when we climbed aboard the vehicle this morning. Everyone kept asking Kevin what his “special treat” was, but he merely smiled and kept changing the subject. Finally we reached Olduvai Gorge and began walking, only this time we seemed to be going to a specific location, and Kevin hardly stopped to try to spot the dik-dik.

  We climbed down twisting, winding paths, tripping over tree roots, cutting our arms and legs on thorn bushes, but nobody objected, for Kevin seemed so confident of his surprise that all these hardships were forgotten.

  Finally we reached the bottom of the gorge and began walking along a flat winding path. Still, by the time we were ready to stop for lunch, we hadn’t seen a thing. As we sat beneath the shade of an acacia tree, eating, Kevin pulled out his radio and conversed with the other guides. One group had seen three dik-diks, and another had found a lilac-breasted roller’s nest with two hatchlings in it. Kevin is very competitive, and ordinarily news like that would have had him urging everyone to finish eating quickly so that we would not return to the lodge having seen less than everyone else, but this time he just smiled and told the other guides that we had seen nothing on the floor of the gorge and that the game seemed to have moved out, perhaps in search of water.

  Then, when lunch was over, Kevin walked about fifty yards away, disappeared into a cave, and emerged a moment later with a small wooden cage. There was a little brown bird in it, and while I was thrilled to be able to see it close up, I felt somehow disappointed that this was to be the special treat.

  “Have you ever seen a honey guide?” he asked.

  We all admitted that we hadn’t, and he explained that that was the name of the small brown bird.

  I asked why it was called that, since it obviously didn’t produce honey, and seemed incapable of replacing Kevin as our guide, and he smiled again.

  “Do you see that tree?” he asked, pointing to a tree perhaps seventy-five yards away. There was a huge beehive on a low-hanging branch.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then watch,” he said, opening the cage and releasing the bird. It stood still for a moment, then fluttered its wings and took off in the direction of the tree.

  “He is making sure there is honey there,” explained Kevin, pointing to the bird as it circled the hive.

  “Where is he going now?” I asked, as the bird suddenly flew down the river bed.

  “To find his partner.”

  “Partner?” I asked, confused.

  “Wait and see,” said Kevin, sitting down with his back propped against a large rock.

  We all followed suit and sat in the shade, our binoculars and holo cameras trained on the tree. After almost an hour nothing had happened, and some of us were getting restless, when Kevin tensed and pointed up the river bed.

  “There!” he whispered. I looked in t
he direction he was pointing, and there, following the bird, which was flying just ahead of him and chirping frantically, was an enormous black-and-white animal, the largest I have ever seen.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “A honey badger,” answered Kevin softly. “They were thought to be extinct twenty years ago, but a mated pair took sanctuary in Olduvai. This is the fourth generation to be born here.”

  “Is he going to eat the bird?” asked one of the party.

  “No,” whispered Kevin. “The bird will lead him to the honey, and after he has pulled down the nest and eaten his fill, he will leave some for the bird.”

  And it was just as Kevin said. The honey badger climbed the bole of the tree and knocked off the beehive with a forepaw, then climbed back down and broke it apart, oblivious to the stings of the bees. We caught the whole fantastic scene on our holos, and when he was done he did indeed leave some honey for the honey guide.

  Later, while Kevin was recapturing the bird and putting it back in its cage, the rest of us discussed what we had seen. I thought the honey badger must have weighed forty-five pounds, though less excitable members of the party put its weight at closer to thirty-six or thirty-seven. Whichever it was, the creature was enormous. The discussion then shifted to how big a tip to leave for Kevin, for he had certainly earned one.

  As I write this final entry in my safari diary, I am still trembling with the excitement that can only come from encountering big game in the wild. Prior to this afternoon, I had some doubts about the safari—I felt it was overpriced, or that perhaps my expectations had been too high—but now I know that it was worth every penny, and I have a feeling that I am leaving some part of me behind here, and that I will never be truly content until I return to this last bastion of the wilderness.

  The camp was abuzz with excitement. Just when we were sure that there were no more treasures to unearth, the Stardust Twins had found three small pieces of bone, attached together with a wire—obviously a human artifact. “But the dates are wrong,” said the Historian, after examining the bones thoroughly with its equipment. “This is a primitive piece of jewelry—for the adornment of savages, one might say—and yet the bones and wire both date from centuries after Man discovered space travel.”