FSF, August-September 2009

by Spilogale, Inc

  And all through the cave, moving like giant birds, the adults went about the business of tending the nests and feeding the young. Some worked at repairing the sacks, reinforcing them with saliva that they drew into threads with their mandible hands. These saliva weavers were smaller and grayer than the hunters, with fingers that ended in pads rather than claws.

  And the hunters worked too, disgorging meat that they dangled above the nests, encouraging the young to leap and grab....

  The hatchlings were strong, agile, perhaps only days away from leaving the nests.

  * * * *

  Cara grabbed the rover, latched it down, and lashed it to the harness. Then she climbed out, her legs and hips stiffening by the time she reached the top. She checked the monitor on her wrist, flinched, and looked away. Something was wrong with her lower back. A pulled muscle? A cramp? The bar graphs didn't specify. They merely showed that the pain was nearly off the chart. Now that she had the rover, the best thing to do would be to sit and wait, rest her limbs until one of the fang-claws arrived ... or until the lander came to blast her into retirement.

  But she couldn't rest, not with the catecholamines coursing through her. She was buzzing. She needed to move.

  Turning toward the sound of crashing waves, she walked along the ledge until sandstone gave way to misting air. Looking straight down, she realized the extent to which the ledge overhung the wall beneath. Even leaning out as far as she dared, she could not see the vertical face below.

  To her left, however, the view was different. There the slope of a partially collapsed wall curved beyond a narrow channel of mist and waves. Weeds grew along the slope, angling down to a hanging forest of windswept trees about thirty meters below.

  Nowhere on the adjacent mass of rock were there signs of caves like the ones that riddled the wall beneath her. Was it possible that the X-eeÑa nests were to be found only in one place on the entire island? Long-Eyes had assured her that it was so. But why? And where did the X-eeÑa come from? And where did they go when their spawning period ended? So many questions. So much to learn.

  "I want to learn it,” she said, speaking aloud, almost shouting.

  The pounding surf shouted back, echoing up from the inlet between the seawalls.

  "I'm still capable,” she said, speaking louder. “I know this island. I know its people. They know me.” Her mind raced. Perhaps she should walk some more, burn off the endorphins. But she stayed put, her thoughts flashing to things Delta had said about Epsilon. A moment later, she came to a conclusion that crashed louder than the waves: “I have to go back!"

  Echoes thundered in the narrow inlet, rising between the seawalls, reverberating through her. She lifted her face to the orbiter, its amorphous hull appearing as a point of fading light in the brightening sky. “I need to go back!” She exaggerated the words, enunciating them in hopes that Alpha might read them on her lips. “Tell Epsilon. Tell her I'm not retiring. I need to talk to her, and you need to listen in."

  There had been times, before the age of cybernetics, when people had carried handheld communicators. In those days, hardware, not people, had been expendable. When a device failed, it was discarded for a new one. Life was easier, simpler. Perhaps, if Alpha transmitted the parts, Cara could assemble an external communicator that would enable her to resume control of the mission—provided she had not by then damaged her body beyond repair.

  She glanced at her wrist. Pain had spread to her good leg. What did that mean? Nerve damage? And if that were the case, could she even make it back to the village? “I'll take it slow,” she said, resolving to head into the forest and keep watch from there. That way, when the lander arrived, she would be clear of the blast. It was a good plan, but again she hesitated, realizing deep inside herself—at a level beneath her energized confidence—that she was in no condition to make such a plan. “I need to stay the course,” she muttered, not believing a word of it.

  Behind her, a shrill whistle rose from the trees, the sound of squids jetting from high branches. Their bodies shimmered in the sunlight, banking overhead, gliding down to the hanging forest on the adjacent wall. They flew like arrows, piercing the treetops, vanishing beneath the leaves. She recognized the behavior. Danger was coming. She heard it, too. The predators that had killed Delta were returning home. And something else. Another sound from farther away. She cocked her head, listening.

  "The lander!"

  She unslung her rover, extended the riding shaft, and mounted the pedals as the first fang-claw emerged from the forest. Sun struck its face, reflecting in its eyes. She suspected it was the one that had chased her into the forest. But it looked different. Sunlight revealed sagging skin, scarred flanks, and broken claws that had not been visible in the darkness. And its eyes looked dead, milky with cataracts, thickened with age. She wondered if this old male had a nest to care for in the caves below. Or did it live alone, going through the motions of a life that no longer mattered?

  She rolled toward it.

  The animal stopped, watching her as its two companions appeared behind it.

  She accelerated, jumped the pit, and kept moving—weaving between their legs as she headed for the forest.

  They turned with her, crashing together, giving chase.

  She would lead them into the trees and lose them there. They would survive the explosion, but that wasn't a problem. A few confirmed survivors would work to her benefit once she returned to the village. She was the X-eeÑa wrangler, the person who knew their moves better than anyone, the logical choice for assuming control of the mission.

  The plan flashed through her. It felt like destiny. But then an animal leaped in front of her, cutting her off. She changed course. Another animal came at her. She swerved again. Claws swung. She ducked and turned once more, and suddenly she was racing out along the southeastern side of the ledge—the side that rose above the hanging forest of gnarled trees.

  The animals followed.

  The lander roared closer, changing pitch, entering its dive.

  She pogoed, throwing her weight upward and spinning through a 180-degree turn. Her wheel smoked as it hurtled her back the way she had come, but this time one of the fang-claws caught her, clipping her with a swinging leg and throwing her sideways—first across level rock, then out into empty air.

  She flew over the inlet, arcing down to crash into cliff-side weeds on the adjacent wall. Then she slid down to where the slope ended above the hanging forest. Leaves spread beneath her. She struck them hard, crashing through. Boughs snapped. Or was it bones? She rolled, grabbing at branches, finally holding on to one as the lander hit its mark. She felt the explosion more than heard it, a deep concussive shifting in her bones. She gripped the tree, looked toward the adjacent seawall, and waited for the landslide....

  Nothing happened.

  Something had gone wrong.

  She scuttled back along the branch, then down the trunk to level ground. In that instant, as she collapsed among the cliff-side trees, the lander finally exploded.

  The wall shivered. Dust flew from the caves, followed by swarming animals who raced out along the vertical rock. She watched them, amazed by their movements—as agile on the vertical wall as they were on level ground. And then, with a roar loud enough to drive her breath from her lungs, the wall calved, belched dust, and folded into the sea. And when the air stopped ringing, when the haze of airborne grit gave way to cleansing mist, she found herself looking down toward the remnants of the fallen wall. Dark shapes lay amid the rubble. On one of the rocks, a hatchling stood on spindly legs, stretching mandible arms toward empty sky.

  * * * *

  Cara's legs finally failed as she neared the village. Her back cracked a final time, and she went down, falling onto a wedge of sloping ground.

  Then she crawled.

  The village came into view, dark beneath heavy clouds. Thunder roared, reverberating as a figure emerged from the gate. It waddled like a goose in a knee-length tunic.

  It was Long
-Eyes.

  He was alone.

  She reached for him. “The tall one?” she asked, garbling the words. “I need to see her."

  He cocked his head. “The other?” he said. “You are asking about the one you left behind?"

  She raised her fist.

  "In the great hall,” he said. “I will bring you to her.” He gripped her arm, swung it around his shoulders, and started walking.

  "The X-eeÑa,” she said. “They're gone ... maybe not all of them ... but enough. You'll be safe now."

  "We know,” he said, holding her tighter as they slipped through the gate, past rows of silent huts, and toward the sound of chanting voices.

  "Everyone is in the great hall,” Long-Eyes said. “We received the signal before dawn, when you were meeting with your sisters.” He swung his long neck around, looking deep into her eyes. “The signal came from X-ah."

  He pronounced the last word as a glottal click followed by a breathy sigh. A simple enough word, but one that Cara had not yet been able to translate. It seemed to refer to some kind of higher power, probably a deity, possibly a kind of collective consciousness.

  They walked on, following a muddy trail until the great hall appeared before them, smoke rising from roof vents, voices chanting within. She tried making out the words, and realized she was hearing a single word being chanted over and over—the same word that Long-Eyes had just spoken: X-ah!

  Higher power ... deity ... collective consciousness?

  The entrance to the great hall lay through a passage that curved back on itself before opening into a wide fire-lit room. The air reeked of burning wood, boiled meat, and steeping tea. The latter produced a strong narcotic effect that would serve her well when her dorsal plug stopped functioning. For now, however, she resolved to have none of it. She would need her wits when she confronted Epsilon.

  The crowd parted as Long-Eyes led her through the center of the hall, toward a raised dais that held a wooden chair, its height and depth contoured to accommodate the human form. Colored stones adorned its sides. Atop its backrest, a bright jewel flashed in the firelight.

  Was it Epsilon's chair? Her throne? Cara shivered. “What has she done?” She spoke the question in her own language, muttering it aloud as if addressing Alpha. And then she blacked out.

  * * * *

  A three-fingered hand gripped the back of her head, lifting her up, pressing her lips to a steaming bowl.

  "No!” Cara pulled back. “No tea!" She opened her eyes to see Long-Eyes staring at her.

  "It is not tea.” He pushed the bowl toward her, letting her smell the brothy steam. “You're weak,” he said. “You need this. You—"

  She didn't need to be told again. Instinct took over. She was famished. She drank, gripping the bowl.

  "You haven't eaten since last night, and then hardly anything at all. You need your strength."

  She finished and eased back, realizing that a figure now sat in the jeweled chair. Cara glimpsed an embroidered shoulder, the edge of a tall form in an ornate robe.

  "I need to talk to her,” Cara said. “Take me to her ... now ... please. Take me to her!"

  Long-Eyes arched his neck, a sign of confusion. “Take you? What do you mean?"

  "You said you would take me to her."

  "No.” He gripped her hands, pulling her to her feet. “I never said that.” He stepped aside, giving her a clear view of the gleaming chair and the robe she had glimpsed earlier. But Epsilon was not wearing the robe. No one was. Its broad shoulders draped the back of the chair. Its sides hung open, waiting.

  It dawned on her then. She grabbed Long-Eyes’ arm, holding on. “What did you say?” She squeezed his hand. “In the field, what did you tell me? Say it slowly."

  He did, and this time she heard it—the glottal declension that trumped word order.

  Her gut knotted, heaving weakly, producing only a dry cough as two strong-armed males pulled her to her feet.

  "I brought her to you,” Long-Eyes said. “And now she is being brought to everyone."

  Looking around the great hall, Cara saw bowls being passed hand to hand.

  "It is a wondrous morning,” Long-Eyes said. “You die but live. We consume you, and yet you remain. You consume yourself ... and become stronger."

  Cara glanced at the bowl in her hand.

  Long-Eyes stepped back, raising his voice. “The great champion. The immortal champion!” He held the bowl higher. “X-aha ö X-ooh ee-ö X-ah!"

  The final exclamation went through her like a thunderbolt.

  "X-aha ö X-ooh ee-ö X-ah!"

  The first word wasn't a native word. It was her name rendered in native phonemes: X-aha. In sound and tone, it was nearly identical to the final word in Long-Eyes's statement, the elusive X-ah.

  The crowd chanted it with him, louder, stirring the smoky air as they walked Cara toward the robe-draped throne.

  "Cara!” they chanted. “Cara the champion from X-ah!"

  "You can't do this!” She dug in her heels, trying to stop them from leading her onto the dais. “My commander won't let this happen.” There was no native word for commander, so she spoke it in her own language, the strange consonants reverberating like a feral roar.

  How could she explain to these people what would happen now? They stood no chance of grasping it. And yet it was real, as real as the force that had blasted the X-eeÑa into the sea.

  Alpha would now have no recourse but to transmit a new Cara—Cara Theta, eighth integration of Cara Prime. But unlike the others, Theta would never set foot in the village. She would remain at base camp, studying from the safety of that sheer-walled mountain.

  "Do you realize what you've done?” Cara roared. “You've destroyed a great opportunity."

  "No,” Long-Eyes said, leaning close as she mounted the dais. He peered into her eyes, gazing deep as if reading her thoughts. “No more Caras will come. You are the last.” He backed away, gesturing toward the glowing jewel atop the throne.

  She blinked at it, noting how it caught the firelight, reflecting the flames on its mirrored surface.

  "Our X-ah told us where to find it,” he said. “We climbed the steep mountain after your sisters flew away. We took it and brought it here. For you. For all of us.” He lifted the robe from the chair. “Please trust us, Cara. Believe in us. It is better that way."

  She felt herself moving again, yielding to the hands that gripped her arms. Then they released her. She teetered forward, catching herself on the armrests and staring at the shining object that crowned the chair. It was the optical guide from the base camp's integration chamber—the piece of hardware that made it possible for Alpha to transmit supplies and personnel to the planet's surface.

  "It is the best way,” Long-Eyes said. “The best way to make sure you are our final champion."

  "But I'm crippled."

  "We will heal you."

  "No! You don't understand! We need someone here who can communicate with—” Once again, she found herself groping for words that did not exist in their language. “We need someone here who can communicate with my X-ah.” She pointed upward. “Do you understand? I need—"

  "That isn't necessary,” Long-Eyes said. “Now that your voice is dead to your X-ah, we will teach you to communicate with ours. You will see. You are blinded now, cut off from the truth—but that is the way to realize who you are ... why you are here ... what you must do."

  "What I must do?” She spoke the words in her own language, considering them as she gripped the throne. What she needed to do was heal, gather her strength, and then return to base camp. She would take the optical marker from the back of the throne and reattach it to the integration chamber. Then her replacement would come. And then, at last, she would retire.

  She leaned forward, staring at her image reflected in the marker's right-angled mirrors. Multiple reflections stared back, gazing with the eyes of many Caras—Caras beyond number. But she could not take the marker now. She needed to heal before the dorsal p
lug's power supply ran dry and she found herself paralyzed with pain.

  Something hissed along her back, pressing down, warming her. It was the robe. Long-Eyes hooked it into place as she collapsed into the chair. And now the storytellers launched into a synchronized song, one that sounded rehearsed even though it detailed the destruction of the nests on the eastern shore.

  She looked upward, toward the smoky ceiling and the vent that stood open to a gathering storm. She couldn't see the orbiter, but it was up there.

  "I can fix this!” She mouthed the words, wishing Alpha could see her through the skylight, through the smoke and gathering clouds. “I can fix this. Trust me.” And so she prayed in silence to her other self in the sky, mouthing the promise as the song of her exploits rose around her.

  Novelet: THREE LEAVES OF ALOE by Rand B. Lee

  Rand B. Lee has lived and worked in Northern New Mexico since 1987. His father, Manfred B. Lee, co-authored the Ellery Queen detective novels, and was close friends with Anthony Boucher, the first editor of this magazine.

  "Amrit Chaudhury! Kindly report to the supervisor's office. Amrit Chaudhury!"

  Amrit looked up from her workstation and sighed in frustration. Around her rose the chatter of a hundred women's voices, the ring of telephones, the clatter of fax lines. She was a small young woman with a heart-shaped face and large, intelligent black eyes perpetually clouded with worry. She had been laboring on the telephones at Mumbai-Astra Telecom, Ltd. for the better part of a year, and this day, which had not gone well thus far, was looking to become much worse.

  "Amrit?” The undersupervisor, fat Shraddha Singh, was looming over her. “Madame needs a word,” she said. “At once, please."

  "What is it this time?” asked Amrit. Her tone held more spice than was perhaps prudent, and the undersupervisor raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry! It's just these Americans.” She pulled off her headset and let it fall with a clatter on her desktop. “They're so suspicious. And they hate parting with their money so. I can be as sweet and as polite as one can wish, but it avails nothing. Three-quarters of the time they hang up before I've finished saying, ‘Hello, Mister Wayne, my name is Maggie Jones.'” She punched log-off to indicate an excused break, and pushed back her chair. At least, she thought, they have proper chairs here. The last place she had worked there had been only inverted oilcans to sit upon.