L Warren Douglas Simply Human

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Possibly, even probably, these
"pure-humans" may turn out to be ancestral to one particular line of simianoid
humans. Less probably, the biocybes will reveal the entire tale to be a
construct without any real historic connections. It is, after all, derived
from sources which few of us would accept, in their original forms, as
factual. We at MYTHIC
limit our speculations to literary ones, and sincerely hope that our
subscribers will do the same.
Kaledrin, MYTHIC Project Senior Editor
Department of Galactic Literature, The Great School, Midicor IV
The croaking water creatures of the forested swamp sounded loud amid the stony
crags of ancient buildings. No matter how hard Benadek looked, he had never
caught a glimpse of the animals making the sounds, nor had he seen much other
life only stinging flies, and land-leeches that had to be salted from their
legs; the dwellers in mossy ground, trees, and green, weed-covered ponds were
as elusive as the pure-humans who called the morass home.
For days now he had followed his master's unsure steps among ancient ruins
that thrust up from the soggy peat, hunting the pure-human camp. They lived,
Achibol said, in "caves," gutted interiors of long-abandoned towers of steel
and artificial stone. Miles of ancient streets spread about them, straight
paths between pockmarked cliffs higher than the oldest trees, paths now
clogged and overgrown, or flooded and impassible. The pure-humans could be a
hundred yards away and they'd never be found unless they wanted to be. Why was
Achibol so worried that honches would have found the village, if he himself
could not, even knowing that it was here?
Young noses were better than old, and the faint, acrid stink that pervaded the
lowland mist was the best clue they had to follow. The fire-scent meant either
that the pure-humans were near, or that there had been a fire of unusual size.
Benadek observed the waxing and waning of the odor as they moved about, and
carefully noted the direction of breezes that swept down the ancient streets.
The burning had occurred north and west of them, and there were no diagonal
avenues directly to his goal, but before the sun moved two fingers' breadth,
the odor was overpowering, and there was no doubt that a disaster of some
magnitude had occurred. The old man advanced hesitantly, postponing the moment
he dreaded.
"It's not your fault, Master," the boy said as he grasped the sorcerer's
skinny arm. "The honches have burned other villages, too. You couldn't have
prevented it."
"Perhaps you're right," Achibol said.
"Should we leave the mules with Sylfie?" Benadek asked. "Their harnesses
rattle and their hoofs suck and slop in this watery soil."
"If the camp's inhabitants are dead, it won't matter if we're noisy. If not,
they'll welcome us. Many in this camp knew me, once."
A sound! Not the croak of tree-fish or the rattle of stiff leaves against
scaly hide, but a jingle.
Metal-sound. And the rhythmic suck-and-pop of large feet. The listener's pale
eyes darted from the still-empty trail below to the cave-mouth surmounting the
rubble slope. A tactical dilemma. He must hide until the intruders were in
full sight, then decide whether to attack or remain in hiding. Or, he could
enter the dark cave and confront his quarry, the most recent pure-human
survivor to return and fall into his hands.
The thinker did not shape such thoughts vocally, as might Achibol or his
apprentice; rather, the mental pictures of alternative actions presented
themselves simultaneously, as if he viewed a separate image with each mental
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"eye."
Left: the sound of metal-shod hoofs striking rubble evoked an image of a mule
climbing the rise toward his position. Vaguely human shapes accompanying the
beast were smoke-wraiths, faint positional images with little informational
content or detail. The watcher did not speculate; the densities of the images
signified probability, determined by that organic computer that was his
analogue of imagination.
Right: a gray silhouette made a dash from the black cave-mouth and slipped
away into the wet woods.
The image shifted again: a pure-human lurked just inside the cave, a jagged
rock in hand, waiting for him.
He saw himself darting quickly into the cave, throwing himself forward and
rolling before coming erect and knocking the frail mutant over, its stone
falling harmlessly.
Left: mules approached. Smoke-wraith figures with clearly defined ears heard
the sounds of his motion and paused cautiously. Faint images of unspecified
weapons formed in their misty hands.
The images faded. A decision had been made. The flesh-and-blood honch made his
dash into the open cave-mouth.
"I heard something," Benadek whispered, raising his hand. The mules, edgy from
the stink of dead fires and the thick odor of rotted flesh, skittered as he
halted suddenly.
They all heard it then: a muted, muffled shriek, the growls of a forest
predator, the clash of metal on stone. Benadek pointed. "It came from that
cave." A deep moan confirmed his statement, overlaid with echoes as if the
cave were large and open inside.
Achibol's hand on his arm restrained him. "Let us see who emerges before we
show ourselves."
"Master, if someone is dying in there . . . Let's make a light."
"Wait. If something dies, something may have killed it. Didn't you hear the
beast-sounds?" Benadek had heard the growling and snarling, and subsequently
the shrieks. He squatted next to Achibol, and watched, and waited.
The sun continued its slow course above them: one finger, two, three. Then the
clack of rubble alerted them. With a scrape and the jingle of metal on stone,
a pale hand groped outside the cave, a hand extending from a black leather
sleeve.
"Honch!" Achibol breathed. An arm appeared, bare white flesh dark with blood,
shredded as if by great claws. A blond head followed, matted with leaves and
blood, asymmetrical where an ear had been torn away, dark where an eye socket
gaped empty.
"Why doesn't it die?" Benadek whispered.
"That would be poor design in a soldier. Let's see how far it gets."
Such callousness surprised Benadek. He would have succored the honch, or put
it out of its misery.
"Let's go," Achibol said getting to his feet. "I have some questions to ask
before it dies." Still astounded by his master's unseemly objectiveness,
Benadek followed. The honch lay on its side, breathing in shallow pants, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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