Deathbeast

by David Gerrold

  At first, he thought it was a grounded blimp—then his eyes adjusted to the scale of the thing and he realized

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  it was only a brontosaur. Not dangerous at all—well, not deliberately dangerous. There was that case of the hunter who was eaten inadvertently because the brontosaur’s eyesight was so poor it hadn’t seen him in the tree—but that one really didn’t count.

  Kalen touched the communicator button, on his collar. “Just a big bronto,” he reported.

  “All right.” Ethab’s voice came filtered back through the earpiece. “We’re coming up.”

  Kalen moved cautiously forward, eyeing the brontosaur with wariness. He knew that a bront’s top speed was less than fifteen kilometers an hour. More than that and the creature risked fracturing its leg bones with the force of its own moving mass. Generally, a bront moved no faster than six kilometers an hour. A human could easily outrun one—but anything that massed so many tons still deserved to be circled warily. Its tail alone—one lash of that... well, there were toppled saplings on the meadow’s edge to testify to its destructiveness.

  The bront was shiny gray, an oily shade—it looked like vinyl paint; but a bit uneven, lumpy, as if the beast were carrying a couple tons of cellulite within its skin. Patches of. a darker color stained its top and sides, green and mottled, a coat of velvet moss, trophy of a youth misspent in stagnant waters. The beast was streaked along its flanks with brackish mud and slime; even from his distant vantage, Kalen could smell its pungency—the monster had a ripe and rotting odor to it. Barnacles and leeches hung from its sides and belly; some were nestled in the folds of skin around its legs and tail, others rode upon its back and flanks. Incongruously, its eyes were soft and baby blue.

  The behemoth ambled slowly forward, its tail held aloft and waving slowly side to side. Kalen stared in wonder—he’d always thought the brontosaur had dragged

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  its tail; but as he watched, he realized that if it had, it would have scoured off the skin and flesh. Although the tail seemed too heavy to carry, its weight would have been even more punishing to itself if it were dragged. The brontos moved in herds as well, there were probably more of them about—they had to lift their tails or their colleagues close behind might step on them; and that explained why many bronto tracks lacked furrows from their tails—they carried them held high; and that was also why they had a second brain high up above their haunches—to control the movements of the posterior limbs and tail.

  The creature stood with head held high. Its neck was vertical, not sloping forward. It reached and nibbled at the upper branches of a tree. And then—it stood up on its hind legs. It dropped its tail to the ground for balance and arched its body upward—its head and neck were still erect, its forelimbs hanging like the forepaws of a kangaroo. It arched its head up high to take the succulent top off of the tree. .

  The others came up to join Kalen then. Nusa gasped in surprise when she saw the bront standing on its hind legs, and grabbed for her holo-fax. “They’ll never believe this,” she said, snapping off a thirty-second slide.

  “That’s a lot of pot roast....” Loevil admitted.

  The bront lowered back to the ground—with a boom that made the earth tremble and sent things skittering through the underbrush—

  Nusa realized for the first time—there were no birds! Nothing took startled flight into the air when the bront came down. Birds hadn’t evolved yet! Feathers hadn’t even evolved—and flying birds couldn’t develop until their ancestors grew feathers first. She looked back to the bront and held her holo-fax aloft again. It chimed softly as she held its record button; this memory was full. As

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  she clipped a new one in, she turned to Loevil and asked about the bront, “They weren’t very smart, were they?”

  Loevil shrugged. “They didn’t have to be. How much brains does it take to sneak up on a bush?”

  Kalen snorted and Nusa looked at him, annoyed. Maybe Loevil wasn’t always funny—but he wasn’t always hostile either. Besides, she felt resentful of Kalen’s claim to Ethab’s time; hell, she felt jealous.

  “We can go around it,” Ethab said, but he made no move to continue. He was still admiring the might and size of this magnificent organic thing—it was prey; its sole purpose was to be lunch for the Tyrant King. It ate foliage, it transformed many low-energy sources into one high-energy one. It was a lunch counter for the death- beast, and it served its purpose beautifully. It ate, it grew, and it couldn’t fight back—it couldn’t even outrun the meat-eater. He admired the brontosaurus for its service to the greater god; willingly or not, it had its place in the prehistoric scheme of things—it was a support system for the survival of the Tyrant King.

  To his left, Nusa was unshouldering her rifle.

  “Don’t waste charges,” Ethab said.

  She glared at him. “I thought you wanted to bait a trap—well, there’s your bait.” She fired in annoyance, a bolt for Ethab’s benefit, even though the target was the broad side of the bront. It steamed and crackled where it struck. An odor like burning blubber came wafting back to them.

  The bront grunted an “Oof!” of suddenly exhaled air. Its head came swinging down around to look, its neck curved gracefully as it tried to see the hole burning in its side, but it couldn’t come back far enough—it had to take a sideways step, and then another, so its head and neck could keep on turning, but then the wound was farther still, so it had to keep on turning—so it kept cm

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  stepping, turning, trying to look at the charring crater on its side. It turned in circles, moving thunderously across the meadow—stumbling toward the water; it raised its head and looked around, confused. Where was the enemy that had bitten it?

  Ethab shook his head. “It’s too big.”

  The bront held its head aloft for a long ruminative moment, looking back and forth and side to side, its blue eyes blinking puzzledly. Its neck curled like a cobra, but with nowhere near the menace. Seeing nothing to alarm it, the bronto turned its head to try to see its wound again. Unable to—it was too close to the base of the neck—it turned back to its feeding. A bronto needed to take in five hundred kilograms of food a day; its lifetime was just one continuous meal—until it became a meal itself.

  Megan, standing with blank-eyed Tril, commented, “It can’t perceive us, Nusa—we’re so totally out of its range of experience, it doesn’t even realize it’s being attacked.”

  Nusa didn’t even look at Megan—she didn’t dislike the senior guide, but she blamed her equally for the loss of Ethab’s attention. She decided to ignore them all, and plugged in a super-charge pack to her rifle; the unit was a heavy bar that sat along the rifle stock like a metal ingot. “Bait is bait,” she said, and moved forward with determination. She fired another shot. It sizzled, crisp and searing, blue-white even in the light of day; it left a purple ozone haze hanging in the air and a crimson afterimage on the eye.

  Her third bolt struck the bronto’s head—it grunted once and turned and stumbled, staggering toward the nearby water of the marsh. It splashed in as two more rapid bolts from Nusa’s rifle scored it. Clouds of steam came boiling up, and an oily smell of rot and methane rose as well.

  There were craters on the bronto now—black and

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  smoking. Nusa kept on firing. Red sleeting heat zip- whooped across the meadow—neon beams and ultraviolet hazes streaked the afternoon. The shrillness of the weapon filled the clearing’s sudden silence. The bronto’s tiny head was lost in flaring, glaring brightness—flashes of light and red, exploding flesh—

  Lowering her weapon, Nusa smiled, pleased with herself. “That’s all it took—enough power—”

  The other hunters weren’t impressed. Loevil and Megan kept themselves as expressionless as Tril.

  Nusa t
urned to look again, and her smile froze on her face. Despite its lack of head, the neck still stayed aloft; where the head had been—a charred, blunt stub of flesh, still smoked, smoldering and steaming. Wisps of vapor curled upward from it. The neck waved slowly as if the head was on it still.

  “Huh—?” Nusa was angered. “Die—damn you!” Disgusted, Megan said, “They don’t have brains enough to die. One in front, one in back. It’s still not enough. They’re too big.”

  Nusa raised her rifle and fired at the beast again. She scorched it all about its body—here, on the side, across the back, along the neck, the haunches and the tail— crimson lightning lashing—flick, flick, flash—the great beast shuddered in its pain and thrashed within the marshy pool—it staggered toward the deeper water. Great sheets of oil streaked its cratered, burning sides—

  Nusa kept on firing, grim and steady—angered that the bronto wasn’t dying faster. The poor dumb thing was dying as fast as it knew how, but it wasn’t fast enough for Nusa. Her bolts gleamed like hellish fire—

  —and then, finally, the brontosaur began to char, began to crisp and bum away. The flesh crackled on its back, blackened, peeled back. The forelegs slipped on unseen muck and sank beneath the boiling surface of the

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  water. The creature slowly toppled, sagging, still blackening from its fires within—occasionally it twitched or jerked, its tail lashing out in pain. It sank slowly, slowly down into the oily waters of the marsh. All around, the moss and scum were bobbing on the ripples of its death— and then it stopped, the neck collapsed beneath the waves, and the water’s agitation slowly ceased. A great gray- green hump remained, a dying island of flesh.

  Nusa was satisfied. She stood proud and erect.

  Ethab didn’t let her enjoy it. When she was finished, he strode forward to her.

  “Bait?” His voice was empty of emotion.

  Kalen, coming up beside him, said, “Take another shot at it, Nusa.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go ahead.” He repeated. “Take another shot.”

  Puzzled, she raised her rifle. The trigger clicked, but nothing happened.

  Kalen stepped over to her and took the rifle from her hands. He snapped it open with a sour expression. “Right There’s another reason not to use the super-chargers.” He thrust the rifle back into her arms. “You burned out the crystals. Overloaded, fractured, and shattered. Seven thousand metric dollars worth of rifle and you turned it into junk.” He faced angrily to Ethab. “I told you not to bring her.”

  Ethab refused to react. He pointed at the hump of flesh still protruding from the water, and merely grunted once.

  Kalen stopped, and turned and looked. Nusa too. Megan and Loevil came up to see as well, with Tril ambling along behind.

  The bront was still sinking majestically into the shiny -water—the oily surface was bubbling with deliberate

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  slowness. Only the highest part of the humped midsection of the animal remained visible.

  “Tar,” said Ethab. “Your shots heated it up.”

  Nusa looked dismayed.

  “It was dead the moment it went into the water—just too stupid to know it.” He scowled and turned away, from the bubbling pool. “Bait, huh? In an hour, that’ll be gone. You wasted your charges—and your rifle.” He turned to the others now, his voice was harsher. “Am I the only one here incapable of making a mistake?”

  Loevil turned away quickly, covering his face with one hand to hide his expression—boy, was that ever a set-up line! But discretion was the better part of survival; he bit his tongue to keep from saying anything. Kalen was echoing Ethab’s angry look; Nusa hung her head in shame; Megan looked embarrassed—she felt sorry for Nusa’s error, sorrier for the bront. Only Tril did not react—she had been distracted by a fluttering insect in a flower.

  Ethab strode fiercely away from the group. Kalen followed, muttering, “And we thought the bront was stupid.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Loevil said to him as he brushed by. “The universe has its own cure for stupidity.”

  Kalen hesitated in midstride. “But it doesn’t always invoke it.” He looked directly at Loevil and added, “Dammit.”

  Nusa stepped around the two of them and went to Tril. She took Tril’s rifle off her shoulder and slung it over her own. No one said anything. Kalen was already using Eese’s gaudy weapon—a rifle was a rifle. Kalen shook his head and moved out after Ethab. Megan took Tril by the arm and guided her after, leaving Nusa looking at Loevil, as if daring him to speak,

  Loevil only noted, “A hundred million years from

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  now, there’ll probably be a museum on this site. They’ll be grateful for the bones.”

  Nusa tossed her dead rifle at the tar. “Here—give them another interesting fossil to think about.” She turned and followed the others.

  Loevil shook his head. “It’s semidegradable. In two million years, you’ll never know it was here at all.” But no one heard.

  He shrugged to himself. “Well, they can’t all be winners,” and followed after.

  Behind him, a couple of small scavenger creatures— birdlike, but not yet birds—fluttered down from the trees to land on the brontosaurus’s back. They began pulling at its flesh with their long, jagged beaks. They were the first of their kind to eat food that had been cooked.

  An hour later,, the hunters stopped for lunch. Ration bars and water. .

  They were in a clearing of desolate wood. The landscape was dry and yellow, the forest—what there was of it—was black. Broken spars of timber jutted upward like accusing arms. The trees were bare and leafless, as if they’d all been sick. There’d been a fire here not too many seasons past; the evidence was still apparent— blackened trunks and fallen trees, a sense of lingering barrenness. The forest was still healing from its pain.

  Only the nearby meadows betrayed gaiety—the everpresent summer flowers bloomed as brightly as confetti, decorations for the annual celebration of pastoral life. The hunters chose a place behind a stand of feather-trees—so they wouldn’t have to look at the riotous colors and perhaps be gladdened by them.

  They ate in silence; the loudest sound was the crunch of wrappers and the noise of chewing. Loevil, Nusa, Megan, and Tril sat on a fallen log. Ethab sat apart, on another

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  log nearly twenty meters distant. Only Kalen sat near him, echoing his sullen mood.

  Megan looked at them with understanding—and disdain. She knew why they felt the way they did, but she also felt that they were wrong for putting personal feelings ahead of working as a team. Partly it, was Nusa’s fault as well, but Nusa was only reacting to Ethab’s attitudes—he was so determined to do things perfectly that he had allowed himself no margin for error—and no one else was allowed one either. The best hunts Megan had ever been on had been the ones where teamwork was considered more important than a trophy. Teamwork guaranteed survival, at least...

  She turned back to the task of feeding Tril. She had to hand-feed her, like a baby. She touched a bit of ration bar to the blank-eyed girl’s mouth. “Eat,” she said. “Come on. You have to eat.”

  Tril did not react. When Megan brought the canteen to her lips, she took a little water; but twice as much went dribbling down her chin. She wasn’t interested in anything—when she swallowed, it was reflexive; there was something in her mouth, it was easier to swallow it than spit it out.

  Loevil was staring at the space between his feet. He was thinking out loud to Megan. “Do you know what a computer does when it’s presented information that it can’t accept—when it gets too much too fast?”

  “Sure,” said Megan. “It overloads and dumps. It wipes itself clean until it can start to assimilate the information at its own pace.”

  Loevil nodded. “I think that’s what happened to Tril.”

  M
egan shrugged. “It hardly matters—she and Eese should never have come along on this hunt.”

  Nusa looked up. “They thought it would be fun.” As if that were explanation enough.

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  Loevil turned to look at her. “And you came because Ethab was coming—?”

  She held her holo-fax aloft. “I like taking pictures. I’m pretty good at it.”

  “I guess so,” Loevil replied. “I don’t know. I never really paid much attention to pictures.”

  There was silence for a bit. Then Nusa said, “You know, you never answered the question.”

  “What question? ‘Where do dinosaurs come from?’ ” “No, the other one. Why do you come on these hunts?” Loevil shrugged. That was answer enough.

  “Why?—” Nusa insisted.

  Loevil took a bite of his ration bar and a gulp of water to wash the dry, mealy mixture down. “I’ll tell you—” He paused long enough to swallow. “Sometimes a hunter gets killed in a particularly messy way — I like to watch that.”

  Nusa studied him warily—was he putting her on again? His face was deliberately expressionless. “Oh,” she said nonchalantly, and waited for him to go on.

  “Well...” Loevil said, still straight-faced. “It makes me think that maybe there is a God, after all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know. Poetic justice ... ?”

  Nusa was trying to understand his logic. “Like Dorik ... ?” she asked.

  Loevil nodded. “Yeah, that was okay. I’ve seen better. . . .” But he stopped for a moment to consider the circumstances of Dorik’s death. “I’d give him a six,” he conceded.

  Nusa stared at him. “You know something? You’re strange. You’re really strange.”

  Loevil grinned at her. “That’s a compliment. Have you ever taken a good look at normal people?”

  “And weird too,” she added. She half turned away.

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  She wasn’t sure she liked playing Loevil’s kind of games. Weird!