The Perimeter (3 page)

“Of course they are,” Melba said so quickly that Phillipa suspected she was lying. “No one is giving up on you, Phillipa. You’re not out here for the same reason they are.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the banished.

“So, is this just a social call?” Phillipa knew it wasn’t but couldn’t imagine why Melba had come.

“Not exactly, although it is good to see you.”

Phillipa waited. For her, it was good to see anyone, but she wasn’t going to say that aloud. Melba was kind, but she was still complicit in banishing Phillipa to this place.

“I’ve come to ask about your experiences in the wild. The survey team is especially curious to know what you’re seeing.”

What she was seeing? She was seeing the same damned things they saw when they went out there. Then it hit her: even heavily armed, they lost people almost monthly. “Oh, I see. You mean, why aren’t I dead? They want information.” She should have anticipated this. Just a week ago, a team had tried to follow her but couldn’t keep up. “So, before something out there gets me, you want to pump me for information.” She eased herself back onto the bed. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Tell them to get the parasite off me; then I’ll happily give classes.”

“Don’t forget, we still provide all of your food and supplies. I gave you a gun.”

The threat hung in the air.

Taking two quick steps, Phillipa launched herself off a rock, landed on the side of another, her fingers and toes gripping the slimmest of crevices. A wave of thumps ran across her abdomen, the parasite’s version of praise, as Phillipa quickly scaled the rock, reached the top, wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her arm. She was quick and agile as a monkey. Not that she’d ever seen a monkey, but Phillipa knew about monkeys and the Eiffel Tower and
Casablanca
.

The parasite seemed more agitated than usual. If the thing had facial expressions, Phillipa couldn’t read them; it seemed to express itself through its legs, and today, its legs were fidgety. How long had it been since that night the parasite took her? Had it been a year yet? More? With no calendar it was difficult to keep track of the days; maybe she should trade Melba some information for a calendar. Then again, what did the number of days matter? Each was a repetitive blur.

The parasite jabbed right between her shoulder blades, setting her heart racing. She’d forgotten what that meant. She tried longer strides, then shorter, but both moves resulted in sharper jabs. She switched her pack to her other shoulder, but that didn’t stop it, either. She didn’t panic; it would be patient as long as she kept trying to figure out what it wanted.

Finally, she got it: it wanted her to stand straighter. Why it cared about her posture, she didn’t know. But it did. Sometimes all it took was an adjustment to her step (her walk was markedly different from what it had been—the parasite insisted she lift her feet high rather than letting them swing); other times it wanted her to walk the entire perimeter of the settlement without stopping for food or water. Whatever it wanted, she did. She hated it.

They headed toward the forest. She’d grown to prefer the forest. The ground was covered in the feathery droppings that passed for leaves on Cyan. On Earth, dead leaves underfoot made a crunching sound, but on Cyan there was no sound, only a soft, cushiony feel. One of the strange Cyan birds was perched in a tree overhead. Maybe it was closer to an insect. When it flew, its wings spun like they were wound by a rubber band; then they slowed and spun in the opposite direction.

Far away, there was a faint sound. Even before the parasite had a chance to alert her, Phillipa had ducked behind a tree. She waited, listening, as the crack of branches announced one of the boulders moving through the forest. That’s what she called them—boulders. The survey team likely had a better name for them. The team members were inept when it came to surviving among the local fauna, but they were terrific at naming the things that killed them.

As the sounds reached a crescendo, the enormous, spiny ball rolled past Phillipa. It had eyes all around it that closed just before they rolled against the forest floor, and it was so utterly beyond anything Phillipa could imagine that the first time she’d seen one she cried out and nearly got herself killed.

Phillipa was in new territory, south of the settlement. The terrain was similar—rocks, pools of water, trees.

It was a shame no one in the settlement was interested in Earth history. During one of their information-for-food exchanges, Phillipa tried to tell Melba about the lessons the British learned eight centuries earlier while trying to settle a new world. The British had sauntered into America and set up a place called Jamestown, bringing all the modern technology of their time and expecting to live their lives as they’d lived back in England. They tried to erect walls to keep the new world out, but the new world wasn’t going to be kept out. The people who didn’t get that, who didn’t adapt, didn’t survive. When Phillipa told Melba this, Melba nodded distractedly, and asked what Phillipa knew about some animal or other. The settlement had half as many people as when they’d landed on Cyan, yet they still didn’t get it. Phillipa finally did.

Cresting a rise on a steep, tall rock, Phillipa stopped short.

Below, in and around a pool that was larger than most, were dozens of parasites. Some were wrapped around creatures, others walking on their own sharp legs or wading in the pool, occasionally diving to feed. In the shadow of a shallow cave, Phillipa spotted one wrapped around a dog—a collie, its coat damp and filthy. Someone’s pet that had somehow gotten beyond the gate or, more likely, been dumped outside when the owners didn’t want it anymore but also didn’t want it to be eaten.

Her parasite prodded her on. Phillipa didn’t want to go down there, but she had no choice.

As they approached, her parasite made a keening noise, drawing the attention of the others. They chattered rapidly, skittering, hopping, crawling toward Phillipa, forming a loose half circle.

Her parasite prodded her to walk along the inner perimeter of the circle, directed her to stand up straight, to lift her feet high. As she walked, one parasite in particular caught her attention. It was attached to one of the birdlike things, its head above and behind the bird’s head. When the bird flew, the parasite would be invisible to anyone on the ground. Phillipa thought of the tall unzi trees in the compound, standing far higher than the repulsion fence. If a parasite riding one of those birds dropped into a tree, it could climb into the compound. They were smart enough; she would bet that was how hers got in. That was information the settlement would pay dearly for.

After a few passes in front of the others, her parasite steered her back up the rock, only to immediately take her back down. Through all of this, her parasite weaved from side to side in a rhythmic manner she hadn’t seen before. It almost looked like it was showing off. Preening.

All of the things it had forced her to do for the past months fell into place with an almost audible thud.

It
was
preening.

She surveyed the beasts the other parasites were attached to—dumb, brutish things. Her parasite had landed itself a smart, sleek ride—a starship among bicycles. For parasites, what they were attached to must be an important part of who they were. It determined their status. Their value.

At the edge of the audience, the dog leaped to its hind legs, pawed the air, and barked. None of the others turned to watch. After a moment it stopped, its bark receding into a plaintive whine.

Her parasite prodded her to swim across the black pool, then climb a steep rock. All this time, it had been training her to be strong and swift not only for its survival, but also to impress its friends. That’s why it had insisted she stand up straight, walk just so, because it wasn’t just about being effective, it was about looking good while doing it. They were all watching; it was basking in their attention.

Maybe she couldn’t kill the little fucker, but she could humiliate it if she could tolerate the pain.

When they reached the summit of the rock, it led her down the side, directed her to jump across a series of pools in view of their audience. Ever so subtly, Phillipa let her foot slip on one of the longer jumps. Flailing her arms, she landed in the pool with an ungainly splash.

As she surfaced, sputtering, the parasite punished her, but it didn’t sting. It was an accident, after all. As she lay panting on the rock under the watchful eyes of two-dozen peeping parasites (the peeping sounded suspiciously like laughter), hers directed her to stand her sorry ass up and continue the show.

It sent her up the rocks yet again to show the others that the miss was a fluke. She resumed leaping from rock to rock, her steps high, shoulders back, just as it had trained her. Still, it was pricking her more than usual, holding the reins more tightly. No mistakes now. She hoped it was sweating.

Another big jump loomed. Phillipa steeled herself against the coming pain, gauged her jump to come up short, leaped into the air…

She landed hard on the steep face of the rock; her cheek, forearms, and knees slammed the rough surface, were torn as she slid down the side, then landed hard on the rocks beside the pool.

The parasite let her have it. The pain was blinding. She screamed as the stings landed on her stomach, her breasts, her lower back. A wall of agony enveloped Phillipa. Every muscle in her body clenched. Her vision went gray, then black.

When she opened her eyes, it felt as if only a minute or two had passed. She lay with her face on the rock, watched parasites warble and bob, the whole scene canted at a ninety-degree angle.

Tentatively, she pushed herself to a sitting position, feeling so light she almost fell backward. Her shredded nightgown was all that covered her torso. She spun to her left, where the long, long body of her parasite stretched out along the rock. It hissed at her.

Not taking her eyes off it, she reached back into her pack and pulled out the pistol. It just stood there, hissing, as she aimed and fired. The parasite’s head exploded, along with a section of rock a dozen meters behind it. Its long body collapsed, the legs closer to the head folding first, the rest following like dominoes.

Then she was running, leaping like a gazelle, bounding across the uneven surface. Behind her she heard the dog bark, the hiss of agitated parasites, like a nest of snakes probably, although Phillipa had never actually heard snakes.

Running on the surface of a high rock, she leaped, her feet bicycling in the air, and landed lithely on the next rock, laughing, feeling light as a feather without the weight of the parasite to carry. She paused to return the pistol to her pack, confident that she could navigate the wilds without it. She took a moment to catch her breath, reveling in how freely her chest rose and fell. There was no hurry, although she was eager to get back.

She wasn’t returning to the settlement, although what she’d learned—what the parasite had taught her—surely raised her value inside. She’d go back to the banished encampment and invite the other misfits to join her in the wild, to found a new settlement. If anyone inside the settlement wanted to join them, they’d be welcome, too, although Phillipa doubted many would. Let them try to hide behind their walls.

The euphoria came.

Will McIntosh is a Hugo Award winner and Nebula finalist whose short stories have appeared in
Asimov’s
(where he won the 2010 Readers’ Award for short story),
Strange Horizons
,
Interzone
, and
Science Fiction and Fantasy: Best of the Year
, among others. His first novel,
Soft Apocalypse
, was released in 2011 from Night Shade Books, and his second novel,
Hitchers
, was released in 2012. In 2008, he became the father of twins.

Soft Apocalypse

Hitchers

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