IronStar Page 5
Fair enough, she thought, reaching for the twenty-centimeter knife in its sheath on her right thigh. The green strands parted easily enough, but there seemed to be so much of it, slithering towards her from all directions, even as it dragged her thrashing body briskly toward the center of the swamp. After a few more moments of intense struggle, the score was approximately: Kirrah - two or three hundred severed green strands; Green Strands - one neatly trussed Survey Lieutenant. Looks like I’m gonna find out how deep it is in the center, after all. The growing mass of living green rope had her tangled like a bird wrapped in a net, and was pulling her under the surface.
The suit’s air recycler had cut in automatically when her helmet closed, and on the faceplate’s clear surface she could see hundreds of tiny serrations working back and forth, as the Green Web began trying to saw its lunch into convenient bite sized pieces. Meter and a half, max, she decided, looking up at the water’s surface. Not so deep, but I can see how this would be a nuisance to someone without their own air supply… like that little boy, for example… how was he doing, she wondered briefly. I hope those Grass Weasels really need something in their front end, we hadn’t really known one another long enough to target vital spots… Frustrated at the toughness of Kirrah’s survival suit, the green strands shifted tactics, twisting and pulling her tangled limbs painfully. With her chin she nudged the stud that extended the auxiliary controls in the suit’s collar. As she took the control stalk in her mouth, the suit’s AI projected the main menu onto a corner of the faceplate. Using tongue and teeth on the stalk’s mouth-control pads, she called up:
the screen declared primly. Not yet, Kirrah thought grimly, but this predator is determined to tear me limb from limb, and it’s probably strong enough to do it.
she tongued. Her suit turned suddenly rock-hard as its approximately 75 million tiny interlocking hullmetal links stopped simulating a supple cloth, and locked rigidly into place. Chew on that, you… thought Kirrah. Stalemate.
Time passed.
How long am I gonna have to imitate a rock, she wondered, before you get the idea that I am not your next meal? Eighteen minutes, it turned out; then the green webbing just sort of lost interest and slowly slithered back to its ambush position on the pond bottom. Kirrah’s suit drifted to the surface where she bobbed and rolled gently. One of the blue bird-things landed on the rigid hullmetal cloth covering her right wrist, which was twisted across her chest. No, you can’t pick my bones, you’re my lunch, she thought as it pecked experimentally at her right hand, which was still clutching, thank God, the sidearm.
she tongued, and groaned with relief as her limbs were released from their painfully twisted positions. Slowly, slowly, she eeled her way toward the shoreline and solid ground. Looking down into the water, it was easy to see the green strands, lying like a fishing net among the plants and reed roots. It seemed to cover the entire bottom of the pond. About ten meters from the bank and with the water’s depth down to twenty-five centimeters, she cautiously planted a knee and hand in the squishy bottom and rose, a little shakily, to her feet. One step, two steps… with a surge and a froth of water, the Green Web again responded to her motion.
Much easier when you know the drill. Kirrah gazed up at the sunlit ripples on the surface of the pond a meter above her faceplate. No point in struggling this time, just get comfortable and do the rock-imitation. More time passed. Hmm, thirteen minutes thirty - you may run on instincts, Mr. Green Web, but it seems you can learn. Kirrah bobbed to the surface for the second time. This was beginning to be a real nuisance. Any motion or pressure seemed to set off its grab-reflex, and while it apparently couldn’t harm her, this was not how she had planned to spend the rest of the day. Or month. Was there anyplace the bottom wasn’t covered with Green Web? Let’s at least swim back to where we came in… and there, standing nervously on the bank twenty meters away, was her young friend, looking anxious but unharmed.
Any idea how to leave this party? Kirrah thought at him. The locals probably don’t have much practice getting out of Green Web’s grip - that is one efficient predator. Hmm, I wonder how it’d respond if I used the beamer set on low, just kind of stewed it in its own juice… where did that boy go? He was there just a second ago…
“Kallala! Dathan marathka irwua! Gaelae!” Damn, I’m going to have to learn that language, she decided, as her suit’s audio brought in the boy’s voice clearly. There he was, fifteen meters around the bank, carrying a big chunk of what looked like the Grass Weasel she had blasted earlier.
“Gaelae! Gaelae! Marathka Irwua!” he repeated insistently, then spun on his heel and did a perfect discus-toss with the, Yes! I get it, little fellow! What a bright lad! Thank you! The gobbet of meat landed a dozen meters out in the pond in front of the boy. Again the water surged, Green Web responding even more vigorously to the presence of bloody juice in the water than to her earlier ill-advised footsteps. Under her barely-floating body, the pond bottom flowed in the direction of the free lunch. Within seconds, the last green strands passed by, rushing to join the rapidly-growing ball around the bait. Kirrah stood and ran through the shallows, reaching the solid bank in six great splashing strides.
The boy stood, wide-eyed, obviously ready to bolt. Oh yeah, the helmet… touch, touch, twist, the clear polycorundite bubble slid back into its roll at the back of her collar. Even more wide-eyed, but less apprehensive, he watched as she holstered her beamer, knelt and opened her arms wide, palms up, in what she hoped was a universal peace gesture. In response, his face crumpled, and he ran into her open arms, sobbing like the end of the world, wiry little arms gripping her fiercely as his body spasmed and shook.
Chapter 6 (Landing plus one): Picnic
“A good listener is not only popular everywhere, but after a while he gets to know something.” - Wilson Mizner 20th century A.D. writer and gambler; Terra
This is getting to be a problem, Kirrah reflected ruefully as she held the sobbing boy. Everyone has their own personal agenda, and none of them include lunch. I wonder what spooked him so badly? Possibly the attack of the Grass Weasel? The shot from my beamer? The Pond Monster? So many choices… Her arms held him close, one hand stroking his hair. His scent was a complicated brew of swamp, Weasel’s insides, and a faint aromatic little-boy spice… a dash of old loincloth, and… sniff… was that just a hint of putrescence? As his sobs tapered off and his grip loosened, she held him at arms length and inspected her small rescuer. He inspected her right back. A hundred ten centimeters tops, she judged, and under thirty kilos but tough, wiry and apparently in general good health. Intelligent light brown eyes in an open, tanned face, narrow chin, curly dark-blond hair (currently matted filthy), light golden eyebrows and long, graceful eyelashes to kill for… yes, a heartbreaker in the larval stage, no doubt about it. And what was that subtle, putrid smell?
Kirrah sat back on her heels and mimed turning around, her hand making a flat circular motion. Looking confused, the small boy turned and scanned the horizon behind himself, giving her the backside view she had intended. Yes, there, on the back of his left calf, two distinct days-old puncture wounds, raw and angry red at the edges, one an unhealthy bubbly gray at its center with faint purple streaks running ten centimeters up his leg. Won’t you be glad I’ve got meds, little fellow. Not just this minute though, you’re probably close to the edge of …whatever that was you were just feeling, and a probe from my suitpack could mean anything at all to you right now.
The boy had completed his scan of the horizon, and was staring gravely at her, studying her in turn. His eyes had the most disconcerting beauty: come back in twelve years, Kirrah, and meet Apollo…
“Eetah!” he said. “Sasstha kiros irwua,” big smile, pointing at the pond. No, she realized, pointing at his victory over the Pond Monster…
or was it her victory over the Grass Weasel?. Damn, time to make introductions and get down to language lessons. And lunch, her stomach reminded her, not very gently.
Holding her left index finger vertically at eye level got his attention. Deliberately she pointed to herself, and said “Kirrah”. He flinched sharply, crouched, and anxiously scanned the sky. What? No, no, pay attention! She waved her hand in front of him, and when she had his attention again, repeated the gesture. More slowly and very calmly, she said “Kirrah”. His eyes widened (in recognition, hopefully, that that was her name), and he repeated it:
“Keee-rrraugh!” His light soprano drew the word out, tearing the “r” sound almost like ripping cloth, and putting almost a cough into the final syllable. She smiled at him, nodded. He seemed to get the idea. He raised an index finger, pointed to himself, and said:
“Akaray” – not drawing out the “r” as he had done with her name. He stood straighter, waiting…
“Akar-ay”, she repeated as closely as she could, pointing at him. Hmm, so far, so good…
“Keeraaa”, he said, pointing carefully at her. She smiled again, nodded. Closer sounding the second time. This lad is sharp as a nanoprobe! He took a step backward, stood even straighter, and again pointed to himself. Kirrah belatedly and, she hoped, unobtrusively, turned on her wristcomp in Learn mode. When he had eye contact again, he said carefully,
“Akaray shu’Malafoth sho’Malamethsha”. He then pointed off to the southeast and said, “Malame’thsha” again, quite distinctly. This is going to take a while, she sighed inwardly, and lunch is overdue, and Akaray looked like his people have solved the problem of human-compatible nutrition on this planet. Hmmm, worth a try…
Holding up her left index finger again, she put the tip in her mouth. Akaray watched solemnly. Finger out. In again. Chewing, lip smacking, swallowing. Pick a tuft of not-grass, touch it to her lips, scowl, toss it away. Walk three steps to where the truncated body of the Grass Weasel lay soaking its juices into the not-grass. (Was it really that close when she’d nailed it, or did it crawl around while she was playing submarine? And how long is this thing? Later!) Pick up a small bit of Weasel, touching it to the wristcomp’s probe at the same time, pass it toward her lips…
“Eeyu!” Akaray’s hands raised in …alarm? Scowl, throw it down, covert glance at the wristcomp… yes, digestible, and laced with the same toxin as the slug she’d tested earlier, oho! So that’s what little Grass-Weasels looked like… Ok, Kirrah, put some feeling into this… Sad, hungry, (that’s an easy one!), finger back to lips, c’mon, you’re such a bright lad… there! Kirrah could almost see the light switching on behind her little friend’s clear grave eyes.
Ten minutes later, she was munching greedily on her eighth or ninth peeled bulb. They seemed to grow at the base of every one of the thousands of reeds around the swamp. Tastes like a garlicky hardboiled egg yolk. The best garlicky hardboiled egg yolk she’d ever, ever tasted. How long would she have walked around on top of dinner, Kirrah wondered, testing one unlikely substance after another? Thank you, Akaray, and thank you, whatever ancestor of yours first risked his life making this culinary discovery, without benefit of bioassay. And hosannas to the discoverer of those tart juicy white berries hiding in pods under that low bushy plant, I’ll remember that leaf shape.
With stomach appeased, if not fully satisfied, Kirrah was able to review their earlier verbal exchange in light of the wristcomp’s analysis. While scarfing another few pods of white berries. Several options scrolled up its small screen, to Akaray’s intense but dignified interest:
· tribe name (14)
· “male child” (8)
· “human” (6)
· unknown (3)
· “child of” (22)
· “from” (19)
· part of other structure, or unknown (12)
· tribe name (20)
· family name (17)
· location name (13)
· mother’s name (9)
· other (9)
· “son of” (25)
· “child of” (13)
· part of other structure, or unknown (5)
· location name (22)
· family name (19)
· tribe name (17)
· father’s name (12)
· mother’s name (3)
· other (27)
· “stop” (23)
· “poisonous” (9)
· unknown (4)
Yeah, thought Kirrah, I’d go with those choices… or possibly “eeyu” means “Look out for the Swamp Monster, you stupid tourist!”. Hmm, come to think of it, I bet “Irwua” is the local name for the Big Green Net out there. The pond was quite calm at the moment, almost inviting: reeds swaying gently, bird-analogs piping and chuckling, that low clucking sound was coming intermittently again, from somewhere in the dense lower bushes.
“Okay, Akaray, let’s have a closer look at that Grass Weasel you tangled with”, she muttered, packing a dozen reedbulbs and several handfuls of white berry pods into a small mesh bag. Akaray watched closely as she flagged the location of the pond in the wristcomp’s Inertial Nav screen, then folded the photoelectric sheet she had carefully recovered from the site of her recent baptism, and checked her weapons and equipment. Kirrah paced back along the length of the decapitated Grass Weasel, her lips pursing at twenty meters, eyebrows rising in amazement as she reached the apparent nether end, some thirty-five meters from the ruined neck. The thing’s skin was tough and rubbery, and it sported a three-centimeter coat of curly green… hair, she supposed, an exact match for the faintly yellowish green of the not-grass, right down to the lighter, yellower tips and edges of individual strands. The aft five or six meters of the thing’s body was flattened like an empty coat sleeve, still nestled into invisibility among the dense strands of not-grass. Stubby ten-centimeter legs every meter and a half gave it purchase in the ground cover. What remained of the head sported a dozen tiny eyes arranged in a circle around the mouth, a thirty-five centimeter circular cartilaginous opening set with three-centimeter meat-shearing teeth. Yeah, and its flesh is toxic, too.
“These are really quite impressive predators you keep here,” she mused, wondering how a nearly-naked boy had managed to survive hidden in the reeds for so long. Or had he? How long had he been here? And why was he hiding, and what was an eight year old boy doing out here by himself, anyway? “Don’t you have a tribe or something?” she wondered aloud.
The subject of her speculation gave a small tug on one hand, looking up earnestly at her:
“Or’eeyu snath, marathlauma, ma” he said, and when she looked at him in puzzlement, he added “Gaelae, gaelae ma.” She stared a moment longer, resisting his tugging on one hand. Exasperated, he dropped the hand and crouched on the not-grass on all fours. Growling back in his throat, he mimed a four-legged run and pounce on the body of the Grass Weasel.
“You’re attacking the dead monster?”, she asked uncertainly. This reminded her too much of sorority word-guessing games, which she had never been very good at. Not because she’d been too slow to think of words to go with her teammate’s mimed actions, but because a hundred possible interpretations competed in her mind for each one. Akaray stopped, rolled his eyes exactly as her sorority partner had done, and formed his hands into claws, swooping and thrusting them again and again at the dead beast. The rubbery flesh bounced and joggled under his miniature siege. Suddenly the penny drop
ped, and a cold shiver ran down Kirrah’s back as she considered what kinds of scavengers might be attracted to a thirty-five meter long corpse, and how soon, and decided that her day could be rich and fulfilling without meeting a ‘snath’, whatever that was.
“Ok, ok, you’ve convinced me!” she said, kneeling beside the increasingly anxious boy. “One last item” she said, holding up one finger and pointing to herself. “Kirrah”, and then at him, “Akaray”, and then at the carcass - she couldn’t go on calling it ‘Grass Weasel’ when it had a perfectly good local name - and raising her eyebrows in query.
“Eesa tso’ckhai,” he said, the “ckh” sound catching a little in the back of his throat.
“Tsoh-ckhaii” she essayed, pointing again at the, the tso’ckhai? Akaray nodded vigorously, and again tugged on her hand, a look of pleading coming into his eyes. She stood, and made a show of scanning the horizon. After a quick glance at her wristcomp, she said “Malame’thsha?”, simultaneously sweeping her hand in an arc that ended with her finger pointed southeast, as near as she could remember to the direction Akaray had indicated earlier. Light flickered briefly in his eyes, and as quickly clouded over, with pain or grief or something that caused a single slow tear to wash a clear path down through the grime over one cheek. Oh-oh, she thought, I guess we all have our troubles.
He stepped tentatively to her right side and very carefully placed the tip of two fingers on the butt of her sidearm, that strange-to-him tool that had been in her hand as she spat bright yellow death at the tso’ckhai. He looked up with that unnervingly open, direct eye contact, nodded slightly, and said: