The Legacy of Heorot (14 page)

"Don't look at me that way—" Cadmann's voice was pleading, slurred and drunken. He tried to raise his head but it seemed monstrously heavy. It thumped back to the table. The rifle slipped in his grasp a little, and he groaned, tightening his grip.

"Ernst had a bullet hole in him, Cad. We were hoping you could help us with that."

Cadmann, slipping further toward unconsciousness, didn't really hear the irony in Zack's voice. "The monster. It was eating him." He yawned deeply. "Must have hit Ernst. Maybe even tried to. He screamed, Zack. Screamed like a woman. He wanted to die—"

Zack made his move, snatching at the rifle. Cadmann twisted the stock and with a short, choppy movement drove the butt into Zack's stomach. Zack staggered back, grunting, face whey-colored.

Cadmann tried to roll from the table and stand, but fell heavily, ripping the I. V. from his arm. Dark fluid drained from the needle and dribbled onto the white tile of the clinic floor. He struggled to gain his feet, make it to his knees before Carlos landed on his shoulders, pinning him down. Zack stumbled back in, wresting the rifle away as Cadmann sobbed and collapsed to the floor.

"Please. Don't... just trying..." His head sank back to the ground, and he was unconscious.

"Jesus Christ," Carlos whispered, for once his accent forgotten. "What kind of man is he? How much somazine did you pump into that plasma, Jerry?"

"I didn't want to overdo it. Come on. Help me get him on the table."

Sylvia watched Carlos and Terry tie him down. Terry tightened the shackle loop until Cadmann's skin creased.

"Why so tight, Terry?"

"You haven't told us yet," he said nastily. "Is that a piece of Ernst or isn't it?"

"No." Sylvia shook her head, more from fatigue than relief. "I've tried human antigens. It's not calf meat, it's not dog. It reacts to all of them. It's not turkey or chicken, and it's not catfish. So it's alien."

"So he killed a pterodon. So what?"

"I'm tired, Terry. Back off." Her voice was numb. "Jerry—get the liquid nitrogen, would you?"

She tweezed a piece of the meat to a dissection tray, and sliced a quarter-inch piece away. Jerry carried over a ceramic thermos and tipped the lid. The liquid nitrogen, boiling at the touch of room temperature air, foamed white vapor. Sylvia slipped the sample into the pot.

"We're going to do this right. Cassandra has a complete analysis of every life form we've found on this planet. I'm going to run a gene analysis. It will take about ninety minutes, and we'll have our answer. Is that all right with you, Terry?"

"Don't make me out for a villain," Terry said flatly. "Something terrible just happened here, and I want the truth."

Sylvia removed the frozen section of flesh, and Jerry started up the automated apparatus. A conveyer belt hummed, trundling into a rectangular box of chrome and white enamel. She placed the smoking sample gingerly on its tray, and it disappeared inside. There was a tiny, high-pitched hum as the laser saw sliced the meat into specimens only a few cells thick.

Cassandra would build a holographic model and then compare it in depth with the others in her memory banks. Then they would know. Sylvia wasn't sure that she wanted to.

She turned back to the magnascope, to the tissue sample displayed in a quilt of reds and pale browns. She looked disgusted, tired, heartbroken. "It could be anything. Pterodon. Samlon. Or something we never even dreamed of." It may have only been the terrible fatigue, but a tear welled at the bottom of her eye, and she wiped it away harshly.

"What are we doing here?" She snatched the sample tray from under the scope and hurled it across the room. It broke with a tinkle of crystal, and a spatter of clear fluid against the yellow plaster. "Just why the hell did we come?"

"We're all tired," Zack said. "It's going to be a couple of hours before we have answers?"

"Close enough," Jerry agreed.

"Then let's get some rest. Before this is over, we'll need every bit of it we can get. All right?"

Carlos looked at the wall, at the still form of his friend, strapped now to the table. "What about Cadmann?"

"I honestly don't know," Zack said wearily. "But I know that I'm too tired and sore to think. I need some rest. He'll keep."

"Everyone but Jerry out of here," Sylvia said.

"I want to stay." Mary Ann stood against the wall, her arms folded, eyes fixed on Cadmann.

Zack was still massaging his stomach, feeling for bruised ribs. Every few seconds he wheezed in pain. He said, "Carlos, take care of Mary Ann. We need to clear out so that Syl and Jerry can work."

"No, I'm not—"

Sylvia closed her mind to the sound until she heard the door close behind them.

Then she and Jerry methodically stripped Cadmann, sprayed his burns and minor wounds and covered them with gel. When they were done with the hemostats and the dissolving thread and the unguents, they slipped him into a clean smock and refastened the straps. Then they turned out the lights and left.

She shivered in the fog. Jerry turned to her. "What do you think happened out there? You don't really think Cadmann did that damage to himself?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything right now. We'll know in a little over an hour. Just let me close my eyes for a few minutes."

Jerry nodded and started back to his cottage, to the dubious, transitory comfort of a warm bed, when Sylvia's voice stopped him.

"I can tell you one thing, Jerry. No matter what we find out, we're not going to like it. I promise you that there aren't going to be any comforting answers."

"Yeah." Jerry hunched his shoulders against the chill. He turned to speak again, but Sylvia had already disappeared around a corner, or into the fog, and he was alone.

CONTACT

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

FRANCIS BACON

In the shadows beyond the fence, something watched. Something alive, silent, almost motionless save for the rise and fall of its torn and bleeding flanks.

The creature was badly hurt. It had passed the horizon of pain into territory that was strange indeed. Irreversible changes had taken place in its body. In a distant way, it even understood that it was dying. But first there was an obligation.

It hid in the shadowed fields beyond the reach of the searchlights. When it concentrated it could smell the man, the one who had hurt it. This one, whom it had badly underestimated, was the real threat. And every instinct screamed for it to get to him, to find and kill him.

It began to wiggle forward. It lay between rows of corn, just a few dozen meters southwest of the colony. The searchlights still swept across the ground, and the men still walked the edge of the camp.

How to get past the firevines? It moaned hungrily.

In the next instant the solution presented itself. One of the men ran his forepaw along a section of vine. He touched it—leaned on it. It recognized the section. This was the same stretch of firevine that had bitten it before. It seemed safe now. Perhaps firevines could only bite once...

The man was alone and not even looking in its direction. Now. Now, as the searchlights crisscrossed, there was a moment in which darkness was almost total, when shadow licked the fence, the man, and a stretch leading almost to the fields.

It moved.

It moved as fast as a Skeeter skimming at low altitude, moved so fast that the man at the fence hardly had time to look up, had no time to scream before it hit the fence with such momentum that the aluminum fencepost buckled and the lines snapped, that its impact slammed him back into the wall of the veterinary clinic.

His head dimpled the sheet metal and rebounded directly into the creature's flailing spiked tail. It shook the man's head free of the spikes, let the corpse slide to the ground.

It flowed onward, a quarter ton of rippling muscle and bone, black as a shadow, as dark and fluid as the river flowing behind and beneath the bluff, as much a part of the night as the stars or the twin moons.

The creature nudged the door open. It sniffed tentatively at first, then entered.

There was little light inside, but it needed less than it found. Animals were caged along the walls. Curiosity was almost as intense as the pain and resolve, and it stopped for a moment to peer up into one of the cages. A small white shape curled up in the corner, hidden in a mass of wood shavings. The tiny alien stirred slowly, then jerked to wakefulness, staring, blinking its tiny red eyes.

The creature had seen that look before, many times before. Total submission. A trembling readiness, the prey's acknowledgement that it was ready to be food. No running. No fighting, its heart ready to burst before it was ever touched.

Not now. The creature could smell the man, and it turned toward the smell.

The man lay on a table. He moaned softly, and moved limbs that seemed tangled in short vines. That was just as well. It had no urge to play with this one.

It braced its paws on the table, stretching, feeling the hurts in its body, the pain along its sides where it was burned and torn. The long wound in its flank opened again, trickling fluid. It braced itself and tried to jump up onto the table. The table was not a boulder. It tilted. The safety blocks on the wheels popped free, and the table skidded across the room, tubes ripping free of the man's forelimb, dark fluid spraying as they crashed into the wall and the table flipped onto its side.

As the table thudded to the floor, the man's eyes fluttered open.

Their eyes met.

Here it was. Here was the moment it craved. Here was the moment when the hunger and the pain and the anger vanished, and it saw into those eyes as down a deep, chill waterhole, a bottomless grotto. The man's eyes grew wide, wide enough to sink in, to swim in. The creature drew closer.

This was the deadly one. His skin was so soft, so fragile. It pawed experimentally, raking away flesh. Blood streamed from pinkish pulp beneath. The man grimaced, showed his teeth. Small teeth, flat and harmless.

The man was so weak! and yet he had hurt it as nothing else in its short life. The man was at the moment of death, his limbs bound, drawing back as far as he could, shrinking against the table, but his eyes held nothing of submission. His sluggish muscles struggled in the bonds.

So much had changed so quickly in its life. And this one Man had been at the center of so much of it. End it now.

But his eyes. They met its own so steadily. Helpless, bound, about to die—and yet...

And yet...

There was a scream from outside, and a sound of pounding feet. Its attention was split by confusion and uncertainty. It turned back to the man and saw triumph in his eyes, and it knew that somehow he had won, they would win, and that its life was over.

Pain bit into the back of its head, and it spun as a second bullet missed it by inches. It charged directly at the man holding a long stick which spat fire.

It felt another, awful pain, and then it was on him, his head in its mouth. There was a moment of bony resistance to its jaw muscles, then splintering collapse and softness. It spat him out and rushed for the door.

If it could reach the river...

But the doorway was crowded with men and their firesticks. It howled its agony, reversed directions, flailing its tail at them, feeling the pain bite deep until the thing in its body triggered, and the entire world seemed made of blood.

It exploded in the other direction. There were more of the vinelike things, and small metal objects. Strange smells filled the room as liquids spilled. The walls of this cave were thin, and bulged when the tail struck them. Instantly it wheeled. The head smashed at the thin walls. Something ripped open. An entire corner fell away. Outside was night, and the chance to find the river, to shed the heat that was cooking it from inside.

One man blocked its way, and it slammed its tail into him, the spikes piercing his leg.

It couldn't shake him loose! He screamed and screamed, confusing and slowing it, even with speed raging in its body and fire raging in its mind.

Another flick of the tail smashed him against the corner of a building. It pulled its spikes free, leaving him leaking and moaning on the ground.

But the men were everywhere now, and it ran this way and that, plowing into them, its body spasming, out of control now, blind with the blood in its eyes.

NIGHTMARE

I fled, and cried out. Death:

Hell trembled at the hideous noise, and sighed

From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.

JOHN MILTON, Paradise Lost: Book II

Sounds...

Someone screaming. A shot?

Sylvia groped her way up from a dream that clung like a moist membrane. The bubble of groggy sleep thinned as she wavered near wakefulness.

Tactile: Terry next to her, behind her. She felt the soft swell of his stomach against her backbone as they nestled like spoons.

Visual: Darkness. Outside, filtered by the drapes, a dim light glowed.

Searchlight's glow. All was well.

Auditory: The heavy, liquid sound of Terry's snoring. Nothing new or unusual there.

Sleep yawned, beckoned.

No. Wrong thought, wrong time. Her eyes fought to focus in the dark, to find the clock. How long had she slept? Was it time to get up again--?

Another sharp crack of sound, unmistakably a shot. A searchlight briefly lit the drapes. From all around the camp came shouted inquiries, groggy at first, then alarmed.

She lurched up in bed, throat scratchy with sleep, groping out for the reassuring warmth and protection of her clothing. "Terry. Terry—"

"Mmmph. Fug." Terry rolled onto his stomach, surprised when her body wasn't there to support him. His arm flopped out. "Huh? Sylvie?"