The Origami Dragon And Other Tales (20 page)

He wanted to
and made no attempt to hide his contempt for his replacement. The
leader-no-more was known to the tribe as brave-strong-wonder-aged.
Although something of an outcast, he never strayed far from the
tribe, and even joined them on the hunt from time to time. He was a
moody creature, pained by past injuries and angry at the weight of
years on his bones. He had taken his defeat badly, and was never
pleased to see the one who had replaced him. He scared many of the
younger ones in the tribe, but born-by-silverlight occasionally
sought him out for companionship. The old hunter seemed content
with his presence and had even revealed a few of the forests’
secrets to his young friend.

Born-by-silverlight watched as the one-who-leads climbed up to the
branch above brave-strong-wonder-aged and snarled back at him. Once
they had settled, she told him of the two-legs. His ears perked up
at the news, and he growled deep in his throat. He was not
surprised, born-by-silverlight realised. As a youngster, the
leader-no-more had been part of a tribe that warred with the
two-legs and been beaten, and he still carried scars from his
fighting. He had lost his tribe to the two-legs, but had survived
in the forests alone and fought his way into control of a new
tribe. As the tribe’s leader, he had always preferred the deeper
forests, despite the scarcity of prey and cold shadows. He had
always stayed away from places frequented by two-legs, and had been
so successful that his tribe never had to discover why such caution
was necessary.

The tribe
believed that the leader-no-longer felt no fear, but that wasn’t
entirely true. He didn’t fear the seasons, or the creatures of the
forest, but he was scared of the two-legs and the light-that-burns.
He snarled and dropped lightly out of the dead tree.
Born-by-silverlight watched as he stalked off into the forest
towards the two-legs’ camp. The one-who-leads followed the
leader-no-longer for a few steps, but he growled at her until she
stopped. He disappeared into the forest shadows in a second.

Brave-strong-wonder-aged was no longer part of the tribe, but he
was still loyal to it. He had fathered most of the tribe’s
children, lead many of its hunts and defended it a hundred times
from the leaders of other tribes. The one-who-leads trusted
him.

Born-by-silverlight followed quietly behind her as she returned to
her noisy tribe. She silenced their discussion with a snarl,
slapping a few of the louder members and baring her teeth at the
youngest. The sun was beginning to rise, and the tribe needed to be
hidden before the burning sun rose. Born-by-silverlight found a
resting place in a tree hollow with some of his brothers and
sisters. He listened to them fall asleep one by one, but the sun
was high in the sky before he joined them.

He was woken up
by the sound of loud arguing. It was already late at night, and he
was the last of his tribe to wake. He followed the angry sounds to
where his tribe was gathered around strong-arm-broken-tooth and
brave-strong-wonder-aged. The two were arguing and, in the way of
their people, they had become violent as their passions rose. Both
were already bleeding and sweating.

Strong-arm-broken-tooth had taken some of the younger hunters in a
raid against the two-legs. By doing so, he had defied the
one-who-leads, but won the support of the young hunters who had
followed him. Brave-strong-wonder-aged, the leader-no-more, had
been scouting near the camp and had seen the hunters pass by them.
Brave-strong-wonder-aged had tried to stop the raiders, but they
had ignored him. He had watched as the small camp of two-legs had
been overrun, watched as the stream ran red with blood. The to-legs
had been taken unaware, and offered little fight. He had returned
to the tribe before the hunters, and waited for strong-arm to
return.

Most of the
tribe was excited by the raid, revelling in the raiders’ bravery
and skill, but the older members were wary of this small victory.
They knew the two-legs would retaliate. The leader-no-more had
roared at the young raiders, but strong-arm was no longer cowed by
him. Their argument had also become violent in the way of their
tribe. The rest of the tribe howled insults and encouragements, and
born-by-silverlight was not surprised to see that the
leader-no-more seemed to be winning the fight. He had pinned the
younger raider to the ground, but the fight was broken up by blows
from the one-who-leads.

The
one-who-leads looked at her tribe. She could see that responses to
the raid were divided by ages. The younger members were baying for
blood, mocking the caution of their elders. The older members of
the tribe were agitated, clearly keen to retreat to the safety of
the deep forest. The one-who-leads respected her elders’ wisdom,
but they were no threat to her position. She knew that one day her
leadership would be challenged by one of the tribe’s younger
hunters and that the challenge would come sooner if the hunters
were unhappy. She snarled at the tribe’s elders, snorted at their
caution.

The
one-who-leads roared, and the hunters joined her until the sound of
their war making rose above the forests.

* *

The forest
smelt wrong. Ashes from the fire-that-burns were always on the
wind, and the two-legs had found their way into the forest’s hidden
places. It had become more difficult for born-by-silverlight to
find prey; he mostly had to hunt alone. He was always hungry.

Most of his
tribe was dead, and the survivors had fragmented across the forest.
Born-by-silverlight still remembered the tribe’s short war on the
two-legs. It had started well, with a number of easy raids. Then
came the night when the one-who-leads had taken her tribe right
into the jaws of an ambush. That was the night that the two-legs
stopped being prey and became the hunters. The two-legs had claws
of biting cold, new skins that would not tear, and they brought the
light-that-burnt. The tribe had been unprepared for change. The
two-legs were led by a tall monster with hard arms that ended in
long talons which he swung wildly around his head. The
one-who-leads had died on his talons, as had strong-arm and many
other of the tribe’s best. The tribe had been broken that night.
Born-by-silverlight had been badly wounded in the fighting, and had
only survived because the leader-no-more had dragged him into the
darkness. Born-by-silverlight had woken up alone the next night. He
did not know if the leader-no-more had fled, or returned to
fight.

He hoped the
leader-no-more had run, for those who fought died. Even those who
fled weren’t safe, but were hunted under the harsh sun by the
strange, four-pawed animals that served the two-legs.
Born-by-silverlight had learnt that the sharp-nosed four-paws could
smell members of the tribe easily, especially in groups. Because of
this, born-by-silverlight began avoiding the survivors of the
tribe-no-more. It was the only way to stay alive, but he missed the
companionship of the tribe.

Born-by-silverlight came of age without the guidance of his elders.
He hunted alone, slept alone and waited alone. He would never gain
position in his tribe, never take a mate or fight for rank. He had
learnt to be his own first-see, his own leads-the-hunt. He filled
these roles sufficiently well to stay alive, but he could not
remember enough of his childhood to be a sings-the-memories. He
missed the songs, hurt by the knowledge of his ignorance. He hated
the two-legs.

Sometimes he
would hunt a solitary two-legs for days on end, only taking them
down when he was sure that they were alone. Twice he had even
ventured past the borders of the forest to steal the dumb white
prey that the two-legs kept for meat, but on his second attempt the
two-legs had been waiting for him. He escaped, but not unhurt.
Afterwards he had moved deeper into the forest, searching for his
own kind.

He knew that
other tribes had lived in the forest. As a child he had been taught
to avoid the other tribes and their territory. As he grew older, he
had learnt that the meetings between the tribe and tribe-of-others
were not uncommon. Sometimes the leaders would fight, sometimes
peace would be made, maybe mating would have been allowed. The
meeting of such tribes was not so rare that it was without rules.
Born-by-silverlight had never seen such a meeting, never learnt the
rules. He had no tribe to guide him.

He had been
told that sometimes a lone hunter would join a tribe, or even
challenge its one-who-leads for control. He did not wish to fight
his own kind, but he did wish to be with them. He longed for his
kin , sought them wherever he went.

He found them
everywhere. The two-legs hung them from trees or left them lying in
the mud. Some were skinned, some butchered, some lying unmarked but
lifeless. He sang what fragments of the death songs that he
remembered, leaving their flesh for the birds. There were so many
of them; he had not known that so many tribes had lived and died in
the forest.

He did not know
what he would do if he met a tribe of strangers, but he began to
think that it would no longer matter. He moved deeper into the
forest, searching for a living tribe.

* *

The whole world
smelt wrong. The creature that had once been known as
born-by-silverlight had not met one of his own kind for many
seasons, and did not think he ever would again. He had grown old
alone and surrounded by enemies. It had not been a happy life, but
he did not want to die.

He had been on
the move for more seasons than he could remember, forever moving
deeper into the forest. He could never move fast enough to leave
the two-legs behind. There were more and more of them each season,
spreading like a plague. They had felled trees and fouled streams,
killed the prey and burnt the forests.

Eventually he
reached the very heart of the dark forest. He relaxed in the dank
undergrowth, feeling safe at last. He had neither seen nor smelt
the two-legs’ presence. He knew it was only a matter of time before
they arrived and ruined what little forest was left, but he was
content for the moment. He did not know what he would do without
the forest. He did not think of the future.

One night he
smelt a familiar scent in the air. He recognised it as one of his
people, maybe even one of his tribe. He followed the scent into the
wind, tracing it eagerly as it led him deeper into the forest. He
ran without caution, without thought or fear or caring. The smell
became stronger, and joy rose in his hearts. He burst into a
clearing, and the smell was so strong that it seemed to be
everywhere.

The corpse of
the leader-no-more hung from a tree. His muzzle and claws were
covered with the red blood of two-legs, but his limbs hung broken
and his torso had been opened to expose his silver muscle. Long
strips of his fur had been ripped off, and he hung like dead
prey.

Brave-strong-wonder-aged had been strong, even in his old age he
had been one of the tribe’s best, but his strength had not been
enough. He had been wise, too, wise enough to recognise how
dangerous the two-legs were for his people, but his wisdom had
meant nothing. If he had been younger he may have led his tribe to
a safer place, but he had lost leadership of the tribe, and he had
lived the last years of his life as an outcast from his own family.
He had died alone, surrounded by enemies, and had been hung from
the tree as a warning, or maybe as a trophy.

Born-by-silverlight was startled by his find. He climbed up the
tree, sniffing at the corpse and nuzzling at its cold flesh. The
body smelt right. It was the last thing that ever would.

There is a bar
orbiting Jupiter that serves the most expensive steak known to
humankind. The bar is crowded at all hours of day and night with
clients who never even glance at the menu price but sit and eat as
if they have never seen food before.

One entire wall
of the bar is transparent, and diners can look down onto the
breathtaking vista of the gas giant’s bands and storms. The storms
go mostly ignored, spectacular though they are, because the diners
aren’t there for the view. Nor are they there for the decoration,
the music or the service, all of which are excellent.

No. They are
there for one reason, and that reason is steak.

Almost all the
men and women eating in the bar are cloud miners returning from
their years long shifts on the floating refineries that are Earth's
favourite lifeline. For three long, hard years the miners have been
kept alive by food fed directly into their arteries by tubes and
needles. Being fed through tubes is just one of the uncomfortable
necessities required for humans to survive at high gravities, but
it is a necessity that the miners are keen to forget. The bar is
the only place on or near Jupiter that serves solid food or beer
and is a legend amongst the hard crews serving their time on the
mining ships.

When their long
shifts finally end, the miners make their way to the station. The
first thing they do on arriving at the station is check themselves
into surgery and have themselves returned to what they were before
their work began. This surgery involves the removal of the many
cybernetic and biologically engineered organs required for humans
to survive Jupiter’s crushing embrace, and is generally considered
the second worst part of the job. The first, as you might expect,
is having these organs implanted in the first place.

That takes care
of their body, and from then onwards the miners are free to take a
shuttle to Earth. But the shuttle ride is a long one, and humans
are so much more than just bodies. So it is that the miners’ next
port of call is the station’s bar. They order steak, steak with
chips, steak with vegetables, steak with beer or calamari or gravy
and sometimes even all of these together. It is a ritual that every
returning miner goes through, both a reward and a confirmation of a
return to human life. They eat, they talk, and they try to remember
what it is to be normal.