The speculative short fi.., p.23
The Speculative Short Fiction of P. E. Cunningham, page 23
Clayton’s skin went cool as ice, in spite of the sweltering air. What should he say? I had a gun. I was going to kill you. He shifted, uneasy, and noticed he was sitting beside the ptero’s narrow foot, four-toed and armed with stiletto talons that could shred a man like paper. Allarn rumbled impatiently. “We were on a plain, at the edge of a forest. It was early evening, I think. I was… I was…”
A flashlight beam slid over the ground and glided up to glare into Allarn’s eye. The ptero blinked, hissing acidly under his breath. “What are you doing here?” Beaumont’s voice called out of the twilight. It was salted with a vague contempt Clayton had heard in other voices over many years. The tone irritated him, and he got to his feet. Instantly the flashlight beam swung down to impale him. “You know the regulations,” Beaumont snapped. “No natives within settlement perimeters after sunset—” The beam picked out Clayton’s Terran clothing, moved up to light his face. Beaumont’s attitude thawed accordingly. “Dr. Blackbear! Sorry. I thought you were one of the Chosen. Most of the researchers are at dinner right now.”
“Yeah, well, uh, I came out for a bit of air — bad air, it turned out; really stinks, doesn’t it? — and ended up in a delightful, though one-sided, talk with this fellow here.” He patted Allarn’s neck. The ptero sniffed. “Not exactly sparkling conversationalists, are they?”
Beaumont sniggered. The colonel kept his free hand near his beamer, and did not move any closer to Allarn than he had to. “Isn’t it the truth. Big, stupid lizards. Pity to waste a planet on ‘em, even if the air does smell bad.” He tapped his gun and yelled at Allarn, “G’wan, you scat. Go home. We don’t like these beasties around town too much, especially after dark. Makes people nervous. Go on, move!”
Allarn stretched himself sluggishly to his feet, the picture of a dim-minded reptile. His eyes swung down to meet with Beaumont’s for an instant’s regard… and suddenly Clayton saw the misty image of a second ptero, veiling Allarn in ebony. The black ptero’s eyes stabbed Beaumont with an electric surge of power. Beaumont staggered backward, mouth stretched in a scream as his brain first writhed and then collapsed before the awful telepathic force cannoned into it. Every nerve in his body flamed brilliant crimson against pallid skin — flamed, flared, and blackened; brain, nerves, and tissue crackling, burning—
Allarn eased his wings wide. The vision vanished, shattered by the movement. Beaumont backstepped hastily. “Watch yourself. They kick up quite a wind when they take off.”
Shuddering, Clayton retreated. Allarn glanced his way, his gold eyes masked. We must speak again, soon. There’s too little time left before — He cut himself off. Don’t seek me out; I’ll find you. Above all, don’t mention this to anyone.
“Don’t mention what? Why not?” But Allarn was airborne, streaking for the cliffs. If he heard Clayton’s shouted questions, he chose not to answer.
“What? You talking to me?” Beaumont said. Deaf to Allarn’s mental voice, he knew nothing of the ptero’s parting admonition. “I think maybe you’d better come inside, Doctor,” he added, with a faint hint of condescension. “You’re right; the air’s a little funny.”
Clayton mumbled something and followed Beaumont back into town. Don’t mention this to anyone. Why shouldn’t he? What was Allarn afraid of? And what did that hallucination mean the vision of the black ptero?
“Oh, hell, there’s another one. They never listen. You go on in, Doctor.” Beaumont abandoned him in the street and bore down with long, aggressive strides on a single ptero lingering outside the prefab dining hall. The creature was a bony youngling, lush jungle green with a pale sandy blotch on its chest. A boy and girl murmured and laughed beneath the shelter of its wing. Beaumont pinned them with the flashlight beam and rapped out a command. The ptero hissed and snaked back its head to strike. Beaumont scrabbled out of reach, his beamer snapping into his hand as if by teleportation. At once the boy stepped forward, hands raised, mouthing placating words. The flashlight played across a lean, earnest face and brilliant sunset hair. At a gesture from the boy, the ptero bent for mounting, though its hisses were audible even at this distance. The boy swung himself gracefully onto the reptile’s back, and just had time to wave to the girl before the ptero’s wings carried them up and out of the town, toward their own section of the Nest.
Now Beaumont lit into the girl. Her clothing was Terran, her voice, in hot rejoinder, loud … and familiar. Clayton paused to listen. Was that really Corinne?
The two snapped at each other for several minutes. Clayton could not hear her words, but Corinne’s rigid stance spoke loud as a shout. Before Beaumont could retort, she stepped pointedly around him and stalked, blade stiff, toward the dormitory. She had not seen Clayton, and started when he called her. “Cory? What was that about?”
“Oh, Clayton! That? Oh, nothing. Did you have dinner yet? I didn’t see you.”
“Forget dinner. You were with a Chosen.”
“What of it?” Her voice went defensive. “It was only Jared; you met him this morning. He stayed to have dinner with me when you didn’t show up, and we got talking…”
“I’ll bet. Look, Cory, these people may be dangerous. I don’t want you alone with any one of them.”
“And how am I supposed to get any work done?”
“Stay with your group, or come to me. You don’t need to deal with them one to one.”
“Not even if I want to?” What was this sudden anger in her that fired her first against Beaumont and now him? “You do what I tell you, Corinne, or I’ll have you shipped back to Earth. You hear me?”
Her face was sullen. “Loud and clear, big brother. Just like always.” She turned her back on him and slammed into the dorm. Clayton, deserted, growled in his throat. What was wrong with her? His only wish was to protect her; he didn’t like to be harsh. Why, after years of sensible obedience, would she choose to be difficult now?
This planet. It had to be this damned planet, where everything was wrong, setting Corinne on edge as it had Clayton from the start. But not for too much longer. When he met with Allarn again, he would solve the riddle of his dream; then he would get his sister safely back to Earth, out of reach of New Eden’s claws forever.
Though he hunted among the pteros who came to the settlement, and though he kept himself highly visible within the confines of Terra’s Nestian territory, Clayton did not see Allarn again for eight days. Nor did he see much of Corinne, busy as she was with her own work of delving psychologically into the minds of the alien Chosen — always in the presence of her group, he noted with satisfaction. Left to himself, he occupied his time with his own pursuit, the study of the Chosen culture.
They had accomplished much in a short time. Though primarily hunters, agriculture was not unknown to them; garden plots were common. Clayton spoke to herdsmen also, who tended domesticated bovine grazers and the shaggy Nestian goat. Art was little beyond the cave-painting stage, but they did have music, mournful airs based upon the Christian hymns of their forebears. Stories and poetry were passed along orally, usually by the historian or his apprentices; written communication, rendered obsolete by pteroan telepathy, had become extinct with the first generation. Government was by an elected Council of Elders, and each Elder represented a specialty: Herdsman, Weaver, Healer, Historian, others. All were men — white men, Clayton noted cynically. Not a surprising fact. Although there had been Negroids and other ethnic types among the original colonists, “God’s Chosen” had been predominately Caucasoid, and even the Fever had not effected a racial balance. Like Earth, New Eden seemed to have fallen into the hands of the white man.
Man. Not pteros. Clayton found the reptiles rather dull — not stupid, surely, but in the main not particularly aggressive, certainly not all that curious, definitely not imaginative. They seemed content to let the humans make the decisions, run the government, carry the bulk of the cultural exchange with the Terrans. With the exceptions of Allarn and Sala, they were exactly what he first took them to be: no more than intelligent animals.
Unless there were others like Allarn and Sala, quietly kept hidden from the Terrans…
Alerted by this and other suspicions, he began to notice things. How no one, from a pair of visiting Elders to the simple herdsmen, would discuss the rumor of psychic talents among their people. How Daniel the Historian always seemed to be elsewhere when Clayton wished to speak with him. How Sala had not returned since that first morning. Or perhaps was kept from returning. Beneath the Chosen’s veneer of friendliness, he found a furtive hostility. Their smiles were for the surface only, their amity gone the instant the Terrans turned their backs. Though he lacked Corinne’s knack for reading people, Clayton sensed a society afraid, a people who had fled Earth only to find her once again on their doorstep — Earth who smiled and promised peace, yet who always came armed. The Chosen would be helpless in a fight, and knew it. They could only watch the Terrans, waiting for the inevitable hostilities, waiting.
That above all struck Clayton about them: the feeling of expectation, anticipation, as if something that would save them was on the way, something still in the future. Even the uncomplex pteros had it, an infection caught from their riders. Something was coming, not yet, but soon, soon.
So the Chosen smiled to the Terrans, made them welcome since they could not drive them away, traded knowledge for knowledge … and waited.
Clayton.
Startled, Clayton looked up and saw the wide-winged speck of a ptero circling high overhead. The shuttle field. Sunset. The speck broke its circle and arrowed away.
Allarn. The ptero who, like Clayton, saw the future. Perhaps he knew the Chosen’s secret and had foreseen an answer to it.
Tonight at sunset, Clayton vowed, he’d have that answer, too.
New Eden’s gold-red sun had already dipped beneath the line of trees by the time Clayton managed to slip from the dining hall and escape to the landing field. Allarn was there already, a thick green silhouette against the indigo sky. His tail slid gently back and forth across the harsh sere grass. Clayton sensed none of the waiting in him that so shrouded the Chosen and their pteros. Every line of Allarn’s stance bespoke an aura of decision. For Allarn, the waiting was done.
The ptero greeted Clayton with an easy bow of his neck. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve been busy, asking questions. I hear you’ve been doing the same, probing the Chosen and their history.
Clayton took a seat on the ground beside Allarn’s wing. “It’s my job. When I go back to Earth, I’ve got to have something to show for it. Not that I got that much. You’re a closed-mouth bunch.”
Pity. I’ve been more successful. I’ve learned quite a bit about Earth from Daniel, and from the Terrans themselves. They’re a loose-tongued people in front of us pteros; they don’t think we can understand. A set of muscles along his neck corded and relaxed, like a human fist. Terra still considers the Nest its colony. What are the chances they might try to reclaim this hatchling of theirs?
Waiting. “You’re afraid of invasion, is that it?”
We have treaties with them, but—
“Treaties.” Clayton snorted the word, as if Allarn had told him a very poor joke. “We had treaties with them, too. You can wipe your tails with their treaties. That’s about all they’re good for.”
Allarn regarded him in silence for a moment. They, he said at last. Always “they” to you. Aren’t you Terran yourself?
“Just a technicality. Ask your historian about Terra’s history of racism and white supremacy someday. Find out what he knows about Indians.”
I don’t understand.
“No? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Race doesn’t seem to mean as much here. I sure haven’t seen any pteros oppressed because of the color of their skin.” He snickered. “Guess you don’t have any black pteros, do you?”
Allarn’s reaction startled him: the bunching of neck muscles, the twitch of wing-claws, the sudden stillness of his tail. His voice trembled, low and wire-taut. A black ptero… is extremely rare, There’s only one at the cliffs now, Pelli, though two of her offspring are very dark. He abandoned the subject before Clayton could speak. Tell me about these “Indians.”
“They’re called ‘Natives Americans’ or ‘Amerinds’ now. They’d already settled North and South American when the Europeans ‘discovered’ the New World.” He warmed easily to the topic, his life. “My people were Shawnee. We populated the Northwest Territory, what became Ohio and Kentucky and the Great Lakes regions. I think it must have looked a lot like this, green forests, hills, river valleys. The hunting was rich there. Buffalo — something like your grazers — deer, elk, bear… we shared with the Delawares and Miamis and Wyandots, the tribes who loved and respected the land as much as we did. Until the white men took it away from us.”
Allarn scraped the ground with a set of foot-claws. You didn’t fight?
“Of course we fought,” Clayton snarled. “For all the good it did. They had us outgunned and outnumbered. They forced us clear across the continent until we couldn’t go any farther, then penned us up on reservations.” He felt his voice shaking. “Fight? We should have fought, down to the last warrior. Better extinction than life in a government cage.”
Extinction, Allarn said thoughtfully. He gazed out over the forest, in the direction of the pteros’ cliffs. What became of your people?
The fever slowly ebbed from Clayton’s face. He gouged out a clump of earth with his heel. “We survived. In the white man’s world. What else could we do? Survived with the memory of what we had and what we were, knowing we could never reclaim it. Maybe that’s why…” He sighed. “When Earth perfected spaceflight and started colonizing, the Indians left. All the tribes that remained, most of the populations. Packed up and moved on to try to start over.”
But not you.
“They were wrong!” he burst out. He groped for words to explain. “They should never have given up like that. The white man took our world away, but it was still ours. Our — our Nest.”
His voice broke, ceased. Allarn’s tail, still throughout his story, resumed its gentle weaving. The ptero released a long, low hiss of a sigh. Then you do understand. Good. Abruptly he hopped to his feet and crouched low, broadside, in front of Clayton. Get on my back. I want to show you something.
Puzzled, Clayton complied. His knees clamped tight to the ptero’s neck in momentary panic as Allarn took to the air. The ground flashed dizzily past. Bent low to avoid Allarn’s bony headcrest, Clayton shouted, “Where are we going?”
Not far. I just want to approach the settlement from the direction of the cliffs.
Allarn banked, and the world tilted sideways. Clayton hugged the reptile’s neck with legs and arms. Allarn swung round and stretched his wings to level off. Look down, Clayton. Tell me what you see.
Clayton leaned over Allarn’s neck and looked. The settlement had become a toy village: dark, block, native wood constructions side by side with the wide, cylindrical prefab buildings used by the Terrans, the silver material painted pale rose by the rising moon. The church spire slashed the sky like a sword. Allarn angled lower. Clayton rubbed his eyes. The wind bit at them with acid teeth, blurring his sight, blurring—
— shimmers of heat blurring the daylit street, the exhaust of many ships. Six shuttles crowded the landing field; others circled, vulturelike, waiting their turn to land. In the street itself men kicked up dust, troops in service uniform, armed with heavy guns. A squad at one of the shuttles was unloading a laser cannon.
Clayton cried out. Allarn snapped left, breaking his view of the settlement. He sped back to the landing field and touched down hastily, bare seconds before Clayton slid off his neck. The man’s hands clawed into the turf, gouging long wounds in the earth, tearing out strips of seared grass. The hot, slimy stench of the overturned ground gagged him. He choked, gratefully, focusing his being on this and not the vision. When his nostrils finally cleared and he warily opened his eyes, New Eden’s night, the present, lay comfortably around him.
Allarn prodded Clayton gently with his beak, then offered his tail for support so he could rise. “Timevision,” Clayton gasped. “Shuttles on the field… soldiers…”
So you can see it, too. I first saw it several weeks ago. Since then I’ve seen it many times, always when I fly over town from that direction.
By now Clayton had regained his feet; he released Allarn’s tail. “It looked like part of an army. What were — what will they be here for?”
You know what they want as well as I do. They’ll come to reclaim their colony. They want the Nest.
“By military force? But—” No. As Clayton knew from his own history, that was all too possible. “That’s just one vision. Maybe there’s an alternative, another future, maybe—”
Don’t you think I looked for it? Allarn roared. Ever since that first vision, I’ve been searching the timepaths. The Terrans will come; that much is certain. Beyond that…
“How much time before…?”
I’m not sure. I’m guessing at years, perhaps as few as five, as many as twenty. His tail thrashed rapidly over the grass. There’s still a chance.
His voice had taken on the hint of knives, a tone that stirred ghosts out of
a vision, the remembered mad voice from a dream. “A chance for what?” Clayton asked.
Life. Survival for my people. Ive seen only five possible futures for us. Four are unthinkable, and the fifth… His gaze strayed away from Clayton, out over the trees, finally rounding back to alight on the settlement. If you had a weapon, one that could destroy you as well as your enemies, but was the only way to save your people from extinction… would you use it? Would you let another use it?
