Asimov’s Future History Volume 8

by Isaac Asimov

  “You were the one who kept jumping in early on the cheering, weren’t you?”

  Oops. Maverick’s ears went flat. “Er, actually —”

  WhiteTail set her knife aside, sat up alertly, and looked closely at Maverick. “Yes, I remember now. Did you know that I was watching you almost the entire time?”

  Maverick’s ears popped up straight. “You were?”

  WhiteTail turned back to the carcass, but not before shooting one last look of disgust at Maverick. “Did you really think that you were the first one to try to improve your status by loudly faking belief!”

  “Fake? Look here, girl, I —” The argument died in his throat.

  Face it, Mavvy old boy, she’s a very clever one, and she’s got you by the ears. You may as well try the truth. Maverick plopped down on his belly, crossed his forepaws, and laid his chin on his paws. “Okay, I admit it. Every pack I’ve ever met has their own kind of strangeness, and I thought this SilverSides business was just one more weird local custom. I’ve been on my own for over a year, and I’m getting really tired of being an outcast. Can you blame me for trying too hard to fit in?”

  WhiteTail set her knife aside again and favored Maverick with a less enigmatic smile. “You get two points for honesty, stranger. Most fakers just protest louder when they’re caught. You’re the first one I’ve met who’s shown even a vestige of integrity.

  “In return for that, I’ll give you a little confession of my own. I don’t believe, either.” WhiteTail’s eyes narrowed, and she watched him closely, studying his reaction.

  Well, Mavvy, this honest bit seems to be getting us somewhere. Let’s go with it. Maverick sat up, cocked his head sideways, raised one ear, and gave WhiteTail a bewildered look. “You don’t? But at the meeting you said-1 mean...”

  WhiteTail’s expression hardened. “Understand one thing, stranger. LifeCrier isn’t just the leader of PackHome, he’s my father, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him. That includes tricking him into leading a hunt when the pack is hungry.” With a swiftness that surprised Maverick, WhiteTail suddenly snatched up her stone knife and set its point against his breastbone. “Or cutting your heart out and feeding it to the sharpfangs if you try your pious-believer act on him. Do I make myself clear?”

  Gingerly, Maverick pushed the point aside. “Absolutely.”

  “Good.” She dropped her guard and turned her attention back to the carcass. “Now either get lost or make yourself useful. Do you know anything about WalkingStone anatomy?”

  Maverick followed her gaze down into the jumbled pale blue mess that was the inside of the WalkingStone’s chest cavity. Judging by color, there were at least six different kinds of veins, but the cavity was strangely bloodless and there was nothing that he could clearly identify as a heart. For that matter, he wasn’t even sure that he could tell the difference between organ and muscle. A lot of the cavity was filled with the oily blue gravel he’d been picking out of his teeth since the fight.

  “No,” he finally admitted.

  “Good. Here’s your chance to learn. Help me roll this thing over, will you?” With a grunt of exertion, WhiteTail started pushing at the corpse. Maverick helped her. Despite being legless and headless, the corpse was surprisingly heavy, but together they managed to get it flipped.

  “Now, stranger —” She looked up sharply. “Say, what is your name, anyway?”

  He hesitated a moment. Well, boy, just how far do we want to push this honesty business? “Maverick,” he said at last.

  “Maverick? That’s an outcast name. Don’t you have a pack name?”

  He looked away, and his tail started twitching in tight, nervous jerks. “Not any more.”

  WhiteTail gave him another appraising look and then shrugged. “Pay attention; I don’t like to repeat myself.” She picked up her knife and turned to the corpse.

  “Now,” WhiteTail began in a cool, formal voice, “the problem with hunting for WalkingStones is that there doesn’t seem to be anything inside them that we can eat.” She dug her knife in between where the shoulder blades should have been-if the thing had had bones-and opened the carcass down the back. By this time it was no longer surprising to find that the WalkingStone had no spine.

  “They have no liver,” WhiteTail continued. “No heart, no kidneys, and the muscles-well, you’ve already tried a leg. What did you think?”

  Maverick grimaced at the memory. “I’d rather eat a stinktail.”

  WhiteTail nodded sagely. “A popular opinion.” She caught Maverick’s eye and directed it to the WalkingStone’s shoulder area. “Another problem is that the WalkingStones don’t seem to have a proper skin. It’s impossible to tell where the skin ends and the muscle begins — which makes it really funny to watch the younglings try to flay one of them.

  “But there’s something else even more peculiar about the skin that I want you to see. Look there; what’s happening?”

  Maverick got up on all fours and sniffed closely at the spot WhiteTail had indicated. “Why, it’s healing.”

  WhiteTail frowned helplessly. “This WalkingStone is dead, right? I mean, its front legs are over here, its back legs are —” she looked around the clearing a bit and gestured in the direction of a fallen log, “— over there, I think. And Mother knows where the head’s gotten to.

  “But leave the skin alone for a few minutes, and wounds flow closed so fast you can watch it. Leave the organs alone long enough, and they melt down into this gritty blue stuff that’s indistinguishable from skin or muscle.” WhiteTail dug the knife in again and extended the cut across the WalkingStone’s hip area.

  “So far as we can tell, there are only two organs in a WalkingStone that don’t change shape. One is the brain. The other —” she plunged her forepaws into the wound and began groping around inside the body “— is usually right about —” a slightly startled look flashed across her face, and then resolved into a smile “— here!” With a sucking, popping sound, the corpse gave up the organ, and WhiteTail fell over backward with the recoil.

  Maverick looked at the thing she’d gone to so much work to pull out. “A giant egg?”

  “That’s what it looks like, all right.” WhiteTail got back on her feet, brushed some of the clinging blue grit off the thing, and then found her knife and tapped the egg a few times with the blade. “But it’s got the hardest shell that I have ever seen.”

  Maverick wrinkled his nose in a deep frown. “Still,*an egg?”

  “Interesting thought, isn’t it? That WalkingStones might be some kind of giant flyer? Although personally I think the shape and size is more like a sharpfang egg.”

  Maverick shook his head. “No.”

  WhiteTail tapped the egg with her knife again. “Agreed, sharpfang eggs are soft and leathery, while this one is as hard as a rock, and too small. Still —”

  Maverick pushed in and laid a paw on the egg. “No, you don’t understand. These four WalkingStones we killed; they all carried eggs?” WhiteTail nodded. Maverick looked her straight in the eyes. “Don’t you see?”

  WhiteTail didn’t see. “What?”

  “No wonder they were such poor fighters. We jumped a bunch of females who were all nesting.”

  The instant those words left his lips, Maverick knew he’d made a mistake. Whatever warmth had been in WhiteTail’s eyes, it was gone now. She drew herself up to her full, slender height and asked, “And tell me, O great hunter, since when is a mother protecting her young harmless?”

  “Well,” Maverick hedged, “there are some; female whistlepigs, and redflyers too, and...”

  “Useless, absolutely useless,” WhiteTail growled. “I shouldn’t be wasting my time with you.”

  Maverick froze, rooted to the spot, as his internal voices erupted into a full-scale screaming argument.

  Submit, idiot, submit!

  What? To this insolent little pup?

  Who also happens to be the leader’s daughter!

  Don’t do it, lad. Roll over and b
are your throat to her now and you’ll never get another chance to show her who rules the den.

  But you were wrong, idiot!

  “Well?” WhiteTail said in challenge.

  Maverick was saved by the arrival of LifeCrier, who blithely trotted right between them. “Okay you two lovebirds, break it up. We’ve still got a day’s hunting ahead of us.” A few trots away, he looked over his shoulder without breaking stride and added, “Well, daughter? Are you coming?”

  WhiteTail’s hackles went down, her lips relaxed back down over her fangs, and she turned to follow him. “Yes, Father.” Maverick started breathing again, and he turned his back to WhiteTail and took another look at the egg.

  The bite on his hindquarters took him completely by surprise.

  “Yike!” He leapt half a trot in the air and came down in a whirl. WhiteTail was standing there with a wicked smile on her face and a little bit of his fur in her teeth. “What was that for?” he demanded.

  “Just a reminder, sweetheart. I’m not done with you yet.” Then, with a cold glare and a vicious snap of her whip-like tail, she turned and trotted after her father.

  Maverick sat down and watched her go. When she was safely out of earshot, he softly said, “Mavvy old boy, are you sure you want to be in the same pack with her?”

  Five minutes later, when LifeCrier had gathered all the other adult hunters and gotten them formed up and ready to move out, Maverick still hadn’t come up with an answer to that question. So he took one last look at the WalkingStone egg — only to discover that a skinny youngling had dragged it off, wedged it in a crevice, and started pounding on it with a rock. Then he sighed, got to his feet, and trotted after the rest of the pack.

  Had he understood that the egg was actually Linguist 6’s microfusion power pod, he would have moved considerably faster.

  Chapter 12

  DEREC

  DEREC AND HIS father sat side by side in the ship’s robotics lab, hunched over a matching pair of robotic data entry terminals, staring intently at the video displays. A casual observer might have mistaken the pair of them for a new breakthrough in humaniform robots, so still were they: unmoving, except for their fingers and the barely perceptible motions of their chests as they breathed; unblinking, their paired attention completely focused on their work.

  And yet there was something subtle, barely tangible, yet almost unmistakably lifelike about the pair. It wasn’t the white stubble on Avery’s chin; that effect could have been achieved with common nylon bristle. Perhaps it was the delicate filigree of bloodshot veins that adorned the whites of Derec’s eyes. More likely it was his hair, which had that limp, greasy look that could only be achieved through the use of expensive petrochemical plastics.

  Or three days of nonstop programming.

  Occasionally, a finger moved. Lips parted; a word or two passed between them, although not in anything that the average observer would have recognized as being part of a human conversation.

  “Adb ixform.”

  “Got it.”

  “0B09?”

  “15.”

  “0B2C?”

  “A0.”

  “Sounds good.” There was a long pause while Avery studied something on his screen.

  Whatever it was caused him to frown and then to speak again. “Can you give me a du?”

  “Fifteen-point-four-four-three-seven gigs.”

  “Well, if that’s not enough, I don’t know what is. Set the pipe.”

  “Piped.”

  Avery leaned back in his chair, ran his fingers through his bristly white hair, and blew out a deep breath. “Okay, we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. Cross your fingers and start the yacc.”

  “Yaccing.” Derec punched one last command into the terminal and leaned back in his chair in unconscious mimicry of his father. Numbers flashed and danced across the screen; Derec watched it for a few minutes and then rubbed his gritty eyes and turned to Avery. “Now what?”

  “We wait.” Slowly, painfully, Avery got up out of his chair and limped over to the autogalley. “Coffee, black,” he told the machine.

  Derec noticed the limp, and a reaction finally worked its way to his vocal cords. “You okay, Dad?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

  Avery chuckled a little and slapped his dragging leg. “Yeah, I’m okay. Foot fell asleep, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” Derec yawned. The autogalley chimed gently, and the serving door slid open to reveal the cup of coffee that Avery had ordered. Derec’s nose perked up at the rich, earthy scent. “Smells good,” he observed.

  “You want some?”

  Derec thought it over. “Sure. With casein and two lumps of sugar.”

  “Decaf? You look like you could use some sleep.”

  Derec rubbed the back of his neck and then studied the grit that had adhered to his fingers. “Nah. I’ve been in here three days; Ari’ll make me sleep on the couch anyway. Mayas well stay awake.”

  “Okay.” Avery repeated Derec’s order to the autogalley. When the second steaming cup appeared, he picked it up and carefully carried it over to the work table.

  The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping their cups of coffee, while the numbers danced and capered across Derec’s terminal display.

  “I hate robotic coffee,” Avery said at last. Derec spoke without looking up. “Why?”

  “Fresh-brewed coffee’s supposed to burn your tongue. That way you take a little more time, drink it a little slower. Robot-made coffee is served lukewarm, gets cold too fast. You have to gulp it down and get back to work.”

  “Oh.” Derec took another sip and resumed staring into space.

  “I could use some food,” Avery said after another long pause. “Anything you’re partial to?” He got up again and toddled over to the autogalley.

  Derec gave the matter his deepest available thought. “Snack food,” he decided, with some effort. “Crackers. Cheese. Something along those lines.”

  Avery leaned against the bulkhead, rested a hand on the autogalley’s control panel, and scrolled through the menu of preprogrammed selections. “Cheese is a pretty complex organic compound,” he said. “I’d hate to taste what this thing might come up with if it’s not specifically programmed for — ah, here we go. Magellanic fromage. Close enough for you?”

  “Sure.” Derec waved a hand in a noncommittal gesture. Avery gave the autogalley the order, and in a minute he returned to the table bearing a plate full of blue marbled paste and some little round white things that were either crackers or poker chips.

  “Dig in, son.” Avery smashed a chip into the mound of paste and stuffed the resulting accretion into his mouth. Derec picked up a dry cracker and began nibbling at it in an absentminded manner.

  A half-dozen goo-covered crackers later, Avery took a slurp of coffee and turned to Derec. “Well, any lint yet?”

  Derec checked his terminal screen. “Nope.”

  Avery frowned. “I hate sitting through yaccs. I mean, I just feel like I should be doing something constructive with this time.”

  Derec looked up and gave his father a bleary-eyed stare. “Such as?’’

  “Oh, talking, maybe. Finding out the answers to some questions that have been bothering me for a long time.”

  Derec yawned. “Okay.” There was a long pause. “Anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”

  Avery closed his eyes, stroked his whiskery chin, and thought it over. “Yes,” he decided. “This Aranimas fellow: Who is he, and why is he trying to kill you?”

  Derec shrugged. “You want the full story or the condensed version?”

  “Depends. Where’s the yacc at?”

  Derec rubbed his eyes and checked the terminal one more time. “About twenty percent, I’d guess.”

  “That far already? Better condense it.”

  “Okay.” Derec took a deep slug of his coffee and closed his eyes in thought. Just when Avery was starting to wonder if he should give the boy a little nudge to
wake him up, Derec opened his eyes and began speaking in a low, raspy voice.

  “Aranimas is an alien, from somewhere outside Settler space. You could call him a humanoid, depending on how loosely you define human, but when I finally got a close look at him, the first thing I thought of was a plucked condor with fisheyes.”

  Derec took a nip of his cracker, chewed it thoughtfully, and swallowed. “His species call themselves the Erani. They’re a wonderfully simple people: vicious, brutal, and utterly without empathy. In a couple years you’ll be able to look up ‘cruel’ in the dictionary and see a picture of an Erani. You‘d get along great with them.” Derec paused to sip his now-cold coffee.

  Avery bristled at the boy’s cheap shot, but held his tongue.

  “The Erani claim to control about two hundred worlds, but I think they must be counting every rock, asteroid, and moonlet in their solar system. That ship of his-did you happen to get a look at his ship before we jumped?” Avery shook his head. “Oh. Well, that ship of his appears to be one-of-a-kind, the first hyperdrive the Erani ever developed. I don’t know whether Aranimas built it or stole it, but the first thing he did when he got to human space was hijack a good Auroran hull to put it in. Wolruf tells me the Erani hyperdrive is fantastically unstable, and that being in the engine room of their ship is almost as dangerous as being on the wrong end of their guns.”

  Avery interrupted. “What is Wolruf, anyway? A genetically engineered dog or something? And how’d you hook up with it?”

  “Her,” Derec corrected. “No, Wolruf — that’s not her real name, by the way, that’s just as close as the human voice can pronounce it. I guess our mouths aren’t the right shape, or we don’t have the right ultrasonic frequency components in our speech and hearing to really get her name right

  “Anyway, Wolruf was Aranimas’s navigator. She was basically a sort of indentured servant on board that ship; I counted at least four different species of intelligent aliens on board Aranimas’s ship, and they were all conquered subjects of the Erani. I suspect that if we humans ever have a real confrontation with the Erani, we’re going to find a lot of allies on their subject worlds. I met Wolruf when