He was ready to turn back, more than ready, when for the second time in as many visits dank and depressing Dinabu tantalized his hearing with unidentified sounds. One hand dropped to his sidearm as he listened intently. This time he would not be surprised, would not be caught off guard by whatever came gnashing out of the ruins. Shrieks and rumbles, rapid-fire coughs and chitterings, assailed his ears. He let his hand relax. Somewhere in the depths the local lifeforms were disputing among themselves and it was none of his business.
He didn’t care how fascinating they might be, or if they comprised representatives of one or more new indigenous species. Let the exploration team’s xenologists assemble themselves to record the goings-on. He wanted none of it. Rising from the twisted ceramic beam where he had paused to rest, he turned to rejoin his companions. Bac’cul and Cor’rin might not be ready to leave, but he was. He found that he was looking forward to the return to Myssar. There would be no retirement for him there, only comfort and a tending to his needs. Even his death would be valuable to the Myssari scientists who were fascinated by all things human. They would watch and study his passing with as much interest as they had his life, carefully recording his last wheezing breaths, solicitously noting the stoppage of his heart, the shrinking activity of his synapses, the final forceful exhalation of his collapsing lungs….
He turned so sharply he nearly fell on the weather-warped walkway. That last sound—had he imagined it? Strikingly different in tone and timbre from the preponderance of guttural hooting and hollering, it had pierced him as cleanly as a surgical probe. While he was trying to analyze it, to decide if he had really heard it or if his hearing was playing tricks on him, it resounded again. Several times, increasing in pitch.
A scream. An undeniably human scream. Underscored by overtones he had not heard in decades except in recordings salvaged and offered up for his inspection and explanation by Myssari xenologists. Feminine overtones. The screamer was female.
He began to run, drawing his sidearm as he did so. As he raced in the direction of the screaming, he silently cursed every obstacle in his path, every shortened stride that kept him from reaching its source that much sooner. As he ran he spoke, haltingly and with difficulty, to the aural pickup that clung to his chest like an iridescent blue insect.
“Kel’les! Bac’cul, Cor’rin! I’m monitoring what sounds like local creatures fighting, but there’s something else. It sounds hu—” Mindful of earlier disappointments and opprobrium, he leavened his call with caution. “I think it might be human. I don’t have visual yet.”
Initial exhilaration gave way to prudence. What if the screams were being made by the Daribbian equivalent of a Serabothian mocking climber? What if what he was hearing was nothing more than the mindless replication of shouts once made by now long-dead inhabitants of the city, perfect reproductions passed down through generations of masterfully imitative indigenous creatures?
As to the source of the wild howling and bleating, he had no illusions. This was confirmed as he rounded a corner and came upon a choice chunk of chaos.
The fight between two groups of the long-haired hunters, one of whom had nearly killed him in the course of his previous visit, was ongoing and fierce. Battling with clubs, spears, and crude axes, more than twenty of the creatures were flailing away madly at one another. In the absence of anything resembling a combat strategy, sheer unfocused energy prevailed. Skulls were bashed, limbs broken, bodies sliced and stabbed. Whether they had noticed his arrival or not he could not tell, but none of the combatants paid him the least attention. Formed into a semicircle, one group was attempting to defend a pile of still-intact building supplies while being assailed by their adversaries. Though slightly outnumbered, the first group was managing to hold their assailants at bay.
Then Ruslan saw that what the first group was so zealously defending was not building supplies.
Initially he was so stunned he did not react. More than half a century had passed since he had last set eyes on another living human being. Despite the scouting report that had brought him and his companions to Daribb, he had not really, in his heart, expected to encounter one. Now he found himself staring through the red flush of battle at a struggling, unkempt figure that even at a distance the cynical Twi’win herself not could mistake for a native.
He knew he ought to wait for the others. Intervening on his own might get the both of them killed. But at any moment a stray blade, a thrown spear, might destroy his last chance to feel the flesh of a fellow live human pressed against his own. Blurting his discovery into his pickup, he raised his sidearm and rushed heedlessly forward, yelling and firing as he went. His charge would have been more impressive had he been a few decades younger. His speed would have been better, and his reaction time. The avalanche of adrenaline that shot through him helped to compensate for the passage of years, however, and he did have on his side the significant benefit of complete surprise.
Neither of the two contesting groups of primitive bipeds had ever seen an advanced weapon before. While the flashes of light from the muzzle of his sidearm were little more than distractions, the devastating consequences of the energy bursts they unleashed manifested themselves in the form of obliterated heads, severed limbs, and flowering guts.
When one or two of the creatures showed signs of challenging him, they were quickly dissuaded by the hasty departure of their fellows. Deprived of backup, these braver members of the two tribes joined their colleagues in flight. Low on the intelligence scale they might be, but they possessed enough cognizance to recognize superior firepower when it was shown to them. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh rose from the corpses they left behind. They made no effort to take the bodies of their dead with them. It was likely that as soon as Ruslan left the scene the survivors would return; to recover, to bury, perhaps to consume. He knew next to nothing of the biology of the local aborigines, nor did he much care. His attention was focused solely on the small figure that was huddling at the back of the mountain of material. Dust coated the surfaces of boxes and crates like brown sugar, indicating that they had not been touched in a very long time.
Slowing down as he approached, he lowered his weapon and extended his other hand, fingers splayed in open invitation.
“It’s all right. It’s okay. I’m human, like…like you are. My name is Ruslan.” In the absence of a response, he continued. “I come from a world called Seraboth. Like this world, Daribb, it was once part of the human expansion. Now I live with a race called the Myssari. They’re not very human, but they’re quite nice. They’ve taken good care of me.”
He was starting to worry that after a probable lifetime of scrambling and hiding to survive, this singular survivor might bolt in fear. It struck him that he had no proof of her existence to show his companions. As a non-researcher, he carried no recording device with him. His roughly modified clothing was not equipped with the integrated scientific instrumentation that smoothly adorned Bac’cul’s and Cor’rin’s attire. If this individual ran from him, he would have to somehow convince the Myssari that he had indeed encountered another live human, and that might not be so easy. In the absence of any confirming facts or visual proof, even Kel’les would be reluctant to accept such a claim.
He maintained his cautious approach to the survivor. Fearful of doing something to spook her, he kept his voice low, the tone insistent but gently pleading.
“I can help you. My friends can help you. I’ve lived among the Myssari for many years. They only want to ask questions of us. They can get you away from here, off this world, to a safe place. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He swallowed hard. “Can you speak? Please, won’t you at least tell me your name? I haven’t heard a nonrecorded human voice in decades and I’m…lonely. Aren’t you lonely?”
Save for the peculiar songlike thrumming of small creatures moving within the pile of debris, it was completely silent around them. Then, from
within the mass of containers, came something he never thought to hear again: the unrecorded voice of a human female. It shocked his ears.
“My name is Cherpa.”
An enormous smile creased his face and he halted his advance. “It’s very nice to meet you, Cherpa. Won’t you come out so I can see you better? I’m sure you can see me, and so you can see that I won’t do you any harm.”
A human shape emerged from the shadows. It was short and slender and nearly cloaked in hair the color of weak chocolate. No wonder the brief, indistinct recording made by the outpost’s automatics had been so inconclusive. With hair that reached to the backs of her knees, the survivor, from a distance, would look very much like a small example of the indigenous tribal bipeds. Cherpa had the barest nub of an upturned nose and wide, curious blue eyes. His heart fell even as his spirits rose. The clash of images and thoughts that had dominated his imagination ever since he had identified the survivor as female vanished in a puff of wishful thinking.
She looked to be about eleven.
His very wide smile subsided somewhat. With as deep a sigh as his more than middle-aged chest could muster, he extended a hand once more. “It’s very, very good to meet another human, Cherpa.” His gaze rose to scan the mountain of material behind her as he tried to frame the question he dreaded but which had to be asked. “Where are your parents?”
“Gone and dead, dead and gone, their bones gnawed and their faces flawed.” Her reply took the form of a girlish singsong leavened with melancholy. In front of him, she began to dance. “Mary, Mary, relativistically contrary, how does your gravity flow? Depends on the size of your bottom, gottum, sottum.” She ceased twirling, staring up at him. “Do you have any food? I like mine live, but I can eat dead things when I have to, when I have to. Too much to do but got to eat to grew, to grew you. To grew you? Who knew?”
The muscles around his eyes tensed but he held back. Not for his sake but for hers. It was going to take time, he knew. Time to mend, time to see if a change of surroundings would help. Until then he could only guess at how crazy she was and how far from reality she had slipped. He extended his arms, offering a hug, but she skipped warily out of his reach. Her gaze narrowed as her tone turned ferocious.
“No touch! Touching is bad. Touching is kills.”
“I’m not one of them.” He gestured in the direction taken by the fleeing natives. “I’m human just like you.”
She shook her head violently. “Different meant. You’re big and strong, like them.” Turning her head, she spat in the direction of the departed predators. “Gnaw Cherpa’s bones while she moans.”
“No.” He made no further move to advance toward her, relying on reason and his voice. “I’m just…” It struck him then. He had no way of knowing how old she had been when her parents had died. It was possible she did not recall her father and, not remembering, saw this new mature male only as something different. He didn’t want to be a father figure. He had wanted…he had wanted…
It didn’t matter what he had wanted. It didn’t matter what he had twirled and danced with in his mind’s eye. She was eleven. Or so.
“I’m a man, Cherpa. You’re a girl. Yes, we’re different, but we’re a lot more alike than we’re different. I’m like your father. We’re the same species.”
“Big,” she repeated warily. He stayed where he was, being patient, giving her time to study, to evaluate him.
Finally she came forward, advancing hesitantly, the wide blue eyes glazed. Glazing over the haunting, he decided. He could not imagine what her life had been like, surviving alone and abandoned in a place like Dinabu. When she finally spoke again, it was decisively.
“I’ll call you Bogo.”
He could not quite swallow his quick responsive laugh. “That’s not a very dignified name for the last man alive. My name is Ruslan.”
“Bogo.” She seemed pleased with herself. He gave a mental shrug. If it made her happy, if it led her to cooperate—Bogo it was.
“You can call me whatever you want, Cherpa.” This time when he extended a welcoming arm, she did not retreat. But neither did she allow him to embrace her. Within her protective psychosis she remained guarded. He would have to deal with it as best he could and hope; hope that with time and care and tenderness the protective mask of madness would fall away. “Let’s go and meet my friends. You’ll like them. They’re…funny.”
His respected, highly educated companions probably would not have appreciated his description, but his sole concern of the moment was to get her away from an area where she surely knew every hiding place and back to the outpost before she could change her mind about him.
One childish hand reached out to touch his bare forearm. The small slender fingers should have been soft and smooth. Instead they were tough and wiry. The callused tips stroked his skin. He didn’t move; just stood still, letting her explore him like a kitten with a new toy. Her hand withdrew.
“You feel like me.” Her tone was as solemn as her expression. “I remember others like me.” Turning her head, she nodded in the direction taken by the departed two-legged predators. “Others like me gone to food, every one.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But if you will come with me, I promise you won’t go to food.”
Her eyes widened still further as she turned back to him. “Promise? Cross your heart and hope to remove it?”
“Cross my heart and—hope to remove it.” Putting his hands on his knees, he squatted so that his face was level with hers. “In fact, if you come with me and decide that I’m lying, I’ll let you remove it yourself.”
“Give me a knife and I can do that.” He did not think she was boasting.
“Well then.” For a third time he extended a hopeful hand. This time she took it.
“You have nice hands, Bogo. No claws.”
“No claws,” he agreed. “My friends the Myssari don’t have claws, either. In fact, their hands are smoother than a human’s. They don’t even have fingerprints.”
“What’s a fingerprint? Is it like a scratch?”
“More like art. I’ll show you, later.” Addressing his pickup, he uttered a key word. Nothing. Puzzled, he looked down.
He had forgotten to activate the communications device. No wonder none of his companions had arrived in response to his frantic calling. Nudging the appropriate tab, he was pleasantly surprised when Kel’les answered instead of one of the scientists or escorts from the outpost. His minder’s tone was anxious.
“Ruslan? We have not heard from you in some time. We were about to—”
“I’m fine and on my way back,” he said, hurrying to allay his handler’s concern. “And I have company. When you see her, you’ll understand the confusion that arose from the automatics’ report.”
“You make funny sounds.” Cherpa was looking up at him. He was careful to let her hold his hand instead of gripping hers. He did not want her to feel as if he was attempting to pull her along.
“That’s Myssarian, the language of my friends,” he explained. “It’s very straightforward and not hard for a human to learn. I’ll teach you myself. Until then you’ll have to wear a translator. I did, too, when they first found me.”
She pondered this as they made their way across pedestrian walkways that were strewn like disembodied tendons above the mudflats and throughout the empty city. “So you were alone, too? Like me, except that these Miserables found you?”
“Myssari,” he corrected her. “They’re very nice people. Don’t let their appearance frighten you. They have three arms and three legs and more joints than we do.”
Her reaction was not what he expected. She clapped her hands and looked delighted. “An extra arm and an extra leg! You’re right, Bogo—they are funny. I don’t think I’ll be scared at all.”
After the life you’ve likely had, he thought somberly, I doubt th
ere’s much that could scare you. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances. It would be heartbreaking if, after having found another living human, something caused her to panic, flee, and lose herself back in the dark viscera of the city. Nor did he want to do anything that might result in having to restrain her against her will. Given her apparently precarious state of mental health, pushing her too hard might well result in sending her over a psychological cliff from which her remaining degree of sanity might never recover.
He knew what the Myssari reaction would be. Restraining their eagerness to study her was not going to be easy. Presented with a second living representative of the species, and one of the opposite gender at that, they were going to want to poke, probe, measure, and record the girl down to the smallest detail. He was going to have to impress on them that she was not only immature but mentally unsettled. Examine the crystal too closely and too often and you are liable to shatter it. An outcome like that would crush both him and his alien associates.
An ancient human expression come down through the centuries would have to define his position. What was it…“Cave canum”? No. “Back down”? No…“Back off.” Yes, that was it. Where Cherpa was concerned, the impatient Myssari were going to have to back off lest they damage the very subject they wished to appreciate.
That would extend to the removal of any viable eggs whenever the girl became sexually mature. Desperately as they wished to reestablish the human species, they were going to have to continue to focus on cloning his cells and those of the recently deceased rather than actual breeding. Theoretically, his own sperm ought to be serviceable for another twenty years or so, if not longer. While he did not wish to contemplate such activities, he knew that he must, if for no other reason than that it would be one of the first issues the Myssari would raise.