Hounded on Predator Planet, page 3
I crawled toward it and stopped two feet away. Everyone knew an injured and cornered animal could be dangerous, but how much more would be a creature nicknamed “devil dog”?
Closer inspection revealed the black substance was actually an organ. The chuffing noise, now weak, erupted from the partially swollen bag, and the whine emitted when it deflated.
“Pobrecito,” I whispered. “Poor little thing; he needs help!”
“That may be true,” VELMA said, “but I advise caution.”
I ignored her advice and moved close enough to touch what to me, resembled a wolf more than a dog.
“VELMA,” I said. “The mammal uses a vocal sac. I’ve only seen vocal sacs on anuran creatures. Amphibians like frogs or toads.”
“You will be interested to learn that many of Ikthe’s creatures possess the organ. The sacs transmit infrasonic waves undetectable to human ears.”
“Is that how they communicate with each other?”
“Yes.”
My head snapped up and I shined my light out onto the rocky terrain. Was its mother out there looking for it? I danced the beam across the rocks and the wreckage, but nothing stirred.
“I’m going to see if I can help it,” I announced.
“Past human and pazathel-nax interactions have resulted in violence,” VELMA said. “However, if you have any questions, I am at your service, Amity,” VELMA said.
“Thank you for the warning,” I said. “But I have experience with this kind of stuff.” I crawled closer still, keeping eye contact with the animal. I could see its body shudder with difficult breaths. “Do the devil dogs use their vocal sacs to breathe as well?”
“No,” VELMA said. “However, injuries to the sac often lead to death, as they contain a large network of subdermal circulatory tissue.”
I was now petting the creature’s head. It was large for a juvenile, the size of a Great Dane. I had one when I was a girl.
“That seems like a maladaptive evolutionary path,” I murmured. Leaning close to its ear, I whispered, “Todo va a estar bien, perrito.” Everything is going to be fine, cute doggie.
“The ambient average temperature on a vast majority of the planet is one hundred degrees,” VELMA said. “If the superficial horizontal plexus is used to regulate thermal consistency, perhaps that is why it contains such a rich blood network.”
“Fair point, VELMA,” I said. The animal panted, its tongue lolled, and eyes closed, until it let its head drop to the side. It let out a huge sigh, and my own heart picked up its pace. “Dios mio, it could be dying.” I scrambled right next to it and played my light across its massive body, looking for the source of its greatest threat.
The matted fur at its ear and the wheezing vocal sac seemed to be its only wounds. With gentle hands, I lifted its heavy head to inspect the other side. It was dirty, but there were no more injuries. “I think it hit its head, or something. I wonder what its natural habitat is?”
“The pazathel-nax packs migrate across the planet, traveling across ecosystems to hunt a variety of food sources. Their jaws possess 1200 psi force. They eat everything from a common rodent here called the jokapazathel, to the giant reptile called rokhura. In such cases, they work together as a pack to take down larger prey.”
“Interesting,” I said as I probed the head wound with my gloves. “They exhibit classic pack behavior, then. Evolution is remarkable.”
With extreme care, I lifted the deflated sac and found the place it tore from the lower jaw. Its blood had clotted. Focusing the beam on it, I could see that if the tear had been just a little lower, it would have sheared a large vein.
“A near miss,” I said. “Just like me.”
I pulled out my MDPack and found the suture kit. “I’m going to stitch this up, VELMA. Is there any way you could tell me if something is coming? If I fix its sac, it might be able to call up the entire pack.”
“I can modify the FM receiver to accept undetectable waves, to your ears, anyway. It is the best I can do with the limited technology.”
“That’s great, thank you.” I found the items I needed. “We just do the best we can, right?” I placed a hand on the great chest of the dog and felt for its heartbeat. It fluttered and went still. A long moment later, it fluttered again. “If you fight, you can make it,” I told the devil dog. “How about I call you Diablo?”
Removing my helmet, I placed it beside me in case I needed to ask VELMA a question. I found the ragged edges of the tear, and after spreading a thin layer of a topical anesthetic, ever so gently stitched up the seam. I wasn’t a doctor or nurse, or an emergency medical technician, but I used to sew clothes for my dog when he was a puppy. My jaw ached after fifteen minutes of holding the flashlight between my teeth, but I finished and used a sani-cloth from the MDPack to clean the wound again. The more I watched Diablo’s breathing, the more I thought the vocal sac wound wasn’t the issue. I suspected the head trauma had given him a concussion, but I wasn’t a vet, either.
Ignoring the aches and pains of my leg as I stood, I replaced my helmet and limped my way to the smoking wreckage. We both needed water, but Diablo did more than I. I still had a supply in my suit.
Nerves ratcheted up from the noise of every boot step on loose gravel, I flashed my light beam repeatedly to the dark forest and back to the wreckage as I drew closer. I hadn’t heard the devil dog approach my cave. What else was I not hearing? According to VELMA, many of the animals were silent to human ears.
At the crash site, I examined the hole from which I’d crawled, and considered re-entering it. Smoke continued to ribbon up into the sky, disappearing into the inky night.
“VELMA, what are the odds something else from the pod might explode? I need supplies.”
“Calculating, please standby,” she said. “Zero-point seven chance the fractionated quark bomb would detonate, as it is encased in its Galvanite capsule and was not damaged during impact. The RR weapon rounds already detonated upon reentry into the atmosphere.”
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Okay, I’m going in.”
“While in the pod, please find the panel marked with a green circle,” VELMA said. “I advise you to prioritize collecting the pack inside.”
Crawling inside the pod immediately triggered claustrophobia, especially in the pitch black with the strong smell of burning rubber, hot metal and melted plastics. My beam of light didn’t reflect off metallic surfaces inside because it was all covered in oily soot.
I pressed on every panel within reach, but only a few of them opened with ease. Biting my lip, I found the green circle and pressed. A pack tumbled out, and I shone my light on the label.
Electrolyte+HemoSupp.
Gratitude flooded my chest, and I wasted no time opening one of the shiny red pouches and guzzling the sweet contents down. Counting out three more pouches, I realized they were worth their weight in gold. IGMC’s survivalist experts conducted field expeditions with all their miners, and they often talked about HemoSupp, a blood supplement developed by their advanced medicine department for emergency cases. I never dreamed I would need it.
My leg throbbed, so I might have to rest and try again in the morning. But I needed to consider the possibility that if something else could go wrong, it would. I should probably gather as much as I could in one trip.
Finding the expandable rucksack, I started filling it to capacity. Ropes. Carabiners. Tools. Duct tape. Twine. Extra medical supplies. Resting my hand on the inflatable raft a moment, I considered. Should I? Why not? I dragged it out.
Poking at more panels, I found the drawer of pouched water and gave a cry of relief. Leaving the supplies in a pile just outside the opening, I crawled the rest of the way out with several pouches and a metal bowl from the pod’s “kitchen” supplies.
The wolf continued its labored breathing, but I noticed its eyes moving beneath its lids. I removed my helmet. Realizing the bowl was premature, I set it aside and unscrewed the cap on a pouch, then dribbled water into its mouth. Once again, I used my teeth to hold the flashlight so I could use my hands to support its muzzle and drip the liquid. Steady dripping moistened its mouth and lolling tongue, so I continued until my jaw ached and my own mouth was dry. Two pouches later, I was satisfied the animal would be okay for a bit, and I opened another pouch to quench my own thirst.
I focused so much attention on Diablo that I didn’t notice the brightening of the sky hours later. Startled that it was the dawn of the second day on this strange new planet, I rubbed my stinging eyes.
A stiff breeze out of the north whipped up, and I watched the smoke curl away and filter through the trees. The wind carried the smell of water on it. I glanced at the animal, but it was still sleeping. With two of us sharing water pouches, the supply would dwindle, though I would have needed to find a source regardless of a tagalong.
Fatigue dogged my footsteps, but I hiked north in search of the water, the collapsible jug hitched to a loop at my waist, and I put my helmet back on while I limped in what I thought was the right direction. I carried the machete I’d found safely stowed in one of the cubbies on the pod. I didn’t know how useful it would be on this rocky terrain. The last time I used one was in a tropical jungle on Exterra 4, a small planet designated for biological field expedition training.
Scanning the rocks ahead, I wished I had a hiking pole instead. I looked back at the pazathel-nax as it slept. It hadn’t moved, but it still breathed. The twinge in my leg snagged my attention, but I pushed through the discomfort, making my way between the larger rocks and boulders that littered the area. I kept the black slash of the wreck’s skid marks to my left, figuring it must have hydroplaned off the lake or pond, whatever it had hit, before plowing the ground with its speed.
Imagining the impact fired my nerve endings; I was glad I slept through it. Waking up to alarms and the smell of smoke was bad enough. Another ache in my leg, this one worse. I’d used a pain shot sometime in the night. That left eleven.
I snagged the corner of my lip with teeth. I had been kept busy, tending to my wound, scavenging, and then taking care of the “dog.” I hadn’t had time to process the terrifying situation in which I found myself. Cut off from communication with Pattee and another human, susceptible to infection from my leg wound, isolated except for “predators”? The tendons in my neck tightened while my heart picked up a flurried beat. There was no one to save me here, but myself. I exhaled and focused my gaze at the crest of the low hill in front of me. The next pain shot would have to wait. I had work to do.
6
Natheka
Anxious to be on my way, I rose just after the first sun’s dawn. She gave me enough light to mark each crevasse with a dark shadow, but I still trod with care. Scaling massive boulders, I saw each rise and peak as a challenge and as a steppingstone, bringing me ever closer to my goal.
No sounds met my ears, only the scrape of leather and my suit’s metal against rock. The barren wastes of the Magnetic Burst Field were isolated, save for the irritating insects that made their home in hives between the rocks.
I jostled one such hive and they swarmed out, forming a bumpy mass of bodies and legs as they covered my glove and arm. I ignored the pulsing scrum; the Shel in my suit would devour any strays that climbed between my armor joints. Most would drop off in the heat of the Sister Suns, preferring the coolness of the shadows.
My focus was on the sloped grade on the west side of Loud Speak. The hunters of old, nay, the earliest inhabitants of Ikthe, named the mountains thousands of cycles ago. Loud Speak was the tallest of a grouping of five peaks. From a distance, their skyline resembled the spiked back of a pazathel-nax. Loud Speak was at the “head” of the devil dog. Spike Horn, Broad Back, and Running Hip trailed after, and the last of the grouping was called Switch Tail.
From there, I would have a broad view of several jagged peaks. I would be able to see smoke before the high winds dispersed it, and more importantly, I could see the maar from there.
My route traversed through several smaller peaks and would take me only two more days. I wondered how my brethren fared in Agothe-Fax Tunnel last night. There were enough of them, and according to Naraxthel and Hivelt, their mates fought with equal ferocity to Theraxl, so I need not worry. However, a lone dream came to me in the night, of Hivelt with a black tongue, and his heart mate’s face ashen with worry. I grimaced and continued my climb. Anxiety did no good for the hunting warrior. Let the rokhura of each day devour one’s worries. There were always more opportunities to fret with the rising of the Sister Suns on Certain Death.
With grasping claws, I crested the ridge. The tedium of my journey inspired song in my heart to pass the time.
I surveyed my next route, tracing the safest path over mountain rubble.
I climbed in time to the rhythm of the song of the Mountains of Shegoshel.
“They beseeched us to kiss the faces of the Suns
We climbed and fell
The slaves to the Sisters
The weak at the feet of the strong
Every step closer to death
Every step closer to life
May our deaths bring life to the Sisters
May the Sisters bring life
Out of our deaths
As we kiss the faces of the Suns”
The lyrics sobered me. Ever had I lived to serve the Sisters. Both the Holy Sisters of Shegoshel, and the sisters of my home world. It was our culture, our livelihood, our lifeblood. To deny a sister anything was unheard of. And while the hunters serve, the sisters gave of themselves, too. They gave their time and energy, work and spirit, to the building up of Ikshe. Ikshe was a prized jewel among planets. The sisters kept it so, refining the planet with their industry and beauty. They produced vast crops of grain to supplement the meats we brought from Ikthe.
They raised the little hunters and sisters, created art and crafted gardens of luscious flowers. They healed and blessed and cooked. In all my cycles, I had never seen a sister take advantage of the work of the hunters. Until our queen.
The betrayal struck my heart. Was it not the duty of the Ikma Scabmal Kama to preserve the hunters and the rituals that welcomed Theraxl offspring into the world? Did not the Lottery ensure that the mightiest hunters blessed Ikshe with strong progeny? And yet, as my mind replayed the Lottery Draws of years past, I recalled the Ikma in covert conversations with a hunter. Many times, had it been Hivelt. But others, too, had slipped behind the large purple tapestry that divided the great hall from the private chambers of the Elder and Younger Sister Queens, trailing the Ikma while BoKama shifted uncomfortably on the Dais and feigned interest in nearby discussions. That one’s consort sulked in a corner, eyes sodden with jealousy and tracing the steps taken by the newest hunter.
It was not spoken of, but the Queen’s Younger Sister-Ruler, BoKama, once had a loyal consort. He was seduced by the Ikma, thus defiling the BoKama’s bed and forever spoiling the cooperation between the ruling Sisters. Furthermore, The Ikma was not satisfied to procure her sister’s consort for herself. She continued to usurp the ritual of raxshe and raxma, that blessed ceremony that heralded the conception of Theraxl hunter and sister offspring. To what end? Surely the population was at her whim. Why must she lie with the mightiest, the ones whose hunts earned them a place in the Lottery Draw? No children resulted from her many bedsports, and the Theraxl race languished as a result.
The Holy Suns climbed across the sky, marking the path above that mirrored where I must travel below.
I had no answers to my questions. But I knew that Naraxthel was right. Theraxl could not idly witness the slow asphyxiation of our race while the queen devoured the seed that belonged to Ikshe’s fertile soil. She must be stopped, and BoKama would take her place as the Ikma Scabmal Kama and appoint another sister to serve as the new BoKama. My brothers and I would assist. Of course, the Ikma’s WarGuard would kill to protect her, so we may die in our efforts.
But as the song said, may our deaths bring life to the Sisters. Not just the Elder and Younger Sister Queens, but the future sisters of Ikshe. And of course, the Holy Sisters. Ever would the Ikthekal serve, until we died. And kissed Their shining faces.
7
Ikma Scabmal Kama
Sweat poured into my eyes, stinging them, burning them. All was burning. Through blurred vision, I saw the flames. They licked up the sides of my bed chamber, devoured the bed hangings, the linens, my skin. I choked on my screams and the smoke.
I sprang from my bed, frantic for water.
“BoKama!” I called for Younger Sister, but she was not found.
The flames joined to become figures. They surrounded me, chanting of destruction and creeping closer, grasping each other’s licking fingers so that I could not breach them. I spun, watching their faces, looking for relief from the burning, for signs they might relent, for mercy.
Instead, the flames grew hotter. My skin bubbled and popped; my claws curled. The sweat evaporated from my hairline and when I raised my hands to feel my hair, the feathered fronds were flames, and then I was part of the circle, the burning racing up my arms and firing my heart to a pace I knew would cause my death.
I wept tears of molten rock.
“Kama,” a voice whispered into my ear. Cool water bathed my brow. “Wake, Elder Sister.”
Tendons in my neck stretched to their limits. My teeth gritted in my mouth. I dared not open my eyes to see the burned flesh. The cool cloth wiped my cheeks.
“You are safe, Kama.”
My heart slowed. I opened a clenched fist and stroked my thumb across a claw. It was not curled. My skin felt hot and tight, but not burned. I inhaled deep through my nose.
I smelled concern. And something old, like, affection. And wariness.
I blinked twice, and BoKama leaned over me, a damp cloth poised above my face. A lone tear sparkled at her chin, then dripped.
