Beastchild

Chapter Fourteen

Ahead was only desert, a vast stretch of yellow-white sand broken through with patches of redder dirt. Now and then, a volcanic plug arose to break the monotony, great columns of stone, freaks of the land-forming process. There was a sparse scattering of vegetation, none of it particularly healthy looking. It was not a place to be. Hulann stopped the shuttle on the crest of the ridge, looked down the highway that crossed the endless spanse of desolation.

"It'll make good beater surface for the shuttle, even if we get off the road," Leo said.

Hulann said nothing, merely stared ahead at what they must cover. The last eight hours had brought a lot of soul-searching. He had turned the facts over and over in his mind, and still he did not cease to be amazed, intrigued, and horrified by them. The awful, bloody war, had been totally unnecessary. But who would have guessed any race would have been breeding spacemen like naoli bred Hunters? Did this lessen the naoli guilt? Did this make their acts of genocide somehow more justified — or, at least, reasonable? Could they be held responsible for such a whim of Fate? Surely not. Yet.

Even if one considered "the trick of Fate, the war did not become acceptable. Instead, it became morbidly amusing. Two giant races, both able to travel between stars with relative ease, waging total, blows-to-the-end combat over a simple misunderstanding. The entire affair became a cosmic comedy. And such awe-inspiring death counts should never be fodder for humor.

"What are you thinking?" the boy asked.

Hulann turned from the desert and looked at the human. So much had transpired between their races — with so little meaning. He looked back out the windscreen; it was easier to meet the glare of the desert than the soft, patient eyes of the child.

"We should tell them," Hulann said.

"'Your people?"

"Yes. They should know about this. It changes everything so much. They wouldn't kill you once they knew. And they wouldn't wash and restructure me or hang me or whatever. They couldn't. Oh, some of them will want to. But the evidence does not permit it. If any humans are still alive, we must do whatever we can to help them."

"We aren't going to the Haven?"

Hulann considered it. "We could. But it would serve no purpose. It would solve nothing. Our only chance is to let the others know what I've found. Oh, they'll get it on their own sooner or later. There are archaeological teams sifting the ruins of every city not ruined. There are anthropologists piecing your culture together. Others will find that the spacers were a different breed. But it may take months — even years. And in that time, the few remnants of your race may be found and killed. And then knowing about the spacers will do no good at all."

"I guess," Leo agreed.

"Then I'll call the Hunter off."

"You can do that?"

"I can try."

"I'll go for a walk," the boy said. "My legs need stretching." He opened the door, stepped onto the road, slammed the door behind. He walked off to the left, stooped to examine a small, purple-flowered cactus.

A moment later, Hulann opened his contact with the Phasersystem.

He sensed the channel of minds.

"Docanil," he said with his mind. "Docanil the Hunter."

There was silence. Then:

"Hulann."

He shuddered at the coldness of the thoughts.

"We will not run any longer," he said to the distant Hunter. "If you will listen to us, we will not run,"

"Listen, Hulann?"

"To what I have discovered. I — "

"Am I to understand you are surrendering yourselves to me?"

"More or less, Docanil. But that is not what is important. You must listen to what I have discovered about the humans — "

"I wish you would run. If you are begging mercy, you are not being realistic."

"You will not want to kill us when you hear what I have to say."

"On the contrary. Nothing you say can influence a Hunter, Hulann. A Hunter cannot be made to sympathize. And a Hunter cannot be deceived. There is no sense in what you plan."

"Listen and you will not kill — "

"I will kill on sight, Hulann. I will dispose of you at once. It is my prerogative as a Hunter."

Docanil the Hunter had only been humiliated once in his life. Having little emotional range, a Hunter clings to and nourishes whatever deep feelings arise in him. Even if those feelings are humiliation, anger, and hatred.

"I know where you are Hulann. I will be there soon."

"Please — "

"I am coming, Hulann."

Hulann spread the area of his broadcast, boosted it so that it was something that could not escape the notice of any naoli on the Second Division system.

He said: "I have discovered something vital about the humans. It is something which makes the war senseless. You must listen. The humans — "

But before he could continue, the psychological conditioning dreams began.

He was standing on a dark plain. There were no boundaries to either side, nor any ahead or behind him. He was the highest point for a thousand miles. He stood upon a cushion of vines that tangled in upon one another, concealing the real floor of the land.

"We are in an unknown place," the conditioning chanter whispered. "This is not the home of naoli."

He realized, for the first time, that there were animals in the spaces between the vines, hiding beneath the surface. He could hear them rustling, scampering about. He thought they must have long claws and sharp teeth, small red eyes, poisonous venom. Though he did not see any evidence to support this conception and did not know why he imagined them as beasts.

"Because they are beasts," the chanter said.

He felt their fingers at his feet, trying to topple him. He knew that, if his face came close enough, they would shred it, go for his vulnerable, green eyes.

"They are clever."

He thought he felt one coming out of the vines and starting up his leg. He kicked, tossed it free. He began to run, though he found that when he moved his feet tended to slip between the vines, down into the holes where the things waited.

He fell, rolled, gained his feet. There was blood running down his face from where the claws of a beast had struck in the split moment he had been down.

There is no running. They are everywhere. The naoli had to realize this. There could be no running, for the beasts came wherever the naoli went.

Slowly, he began to realize that the beasts in the vines were really humans. The Phasersystem increased his fear tenfold, fed him a host of anxiety patterns.

The only thing to be done was exterminate the beasts. Exterminate them or be murdered ourselves.

He found himself with a flamegun in his hands. He trained it on the vines.

Yellow-crimson fire leapt forward, flushed into the growth.

The beasts squealed below.

They leaped into the open, Burning.

They died.

The vines did not burn: a naoli only destroyed that which had to be destroyed.

The beasts did death dances on flaming toes, tongues lit, eyes turned to coals and then gray ashes.

And Hulann enjoyed it. He was grinning. Laughing now… … and suddenly gagging.

He choked, felt his stomachs contracting. The conditioning dream had not been strong enough to counteract the truth he had learned. The humans weren't vicious enemies. They were basically as peaceful as naoli. What should have been done was this: the Hunters should have been pitted against the spacers. And the normal citizens of both races should have been left to their gentle lives.

The dreams were your last chance, Docanil said through the Phasersystem. I did not agree to the flan. But others thought you could be reached.

Hulann said nothing. He opened the door and vomited on the sand. When both stomachs were empty, he became aware of Docanil the Hunter still speaking on the Phasersystem link.

"I am coming, Hulann."

"Please — "

"I know where you are. I come."

Hulann broke his Phasersystem contact. He felt seven hundred years old, in the last of his days. He was hollow, a blown glass figurine, nothing more.

The boy returned to the car, got in. "Well?"

Hulann shook his head.

He started the engine.

The shuttlecraft moved forward, down the rise into the great desert, on toward the Haven somewhere in the mountains of the west.

Half an hour later, Docanil the Hunter brought his copter down on the same knoll where Hulann had stopped to contact him. He looked out across the plain of sand and stone and cactus, grinning. A very, wide grin. Some minutes later, he looked away, took out the maps, and looked them over. Banalog watched him trace a route for a moment, then said, "Aren't we following them?"

"No," Docanil said.

"But why?"

"There is no need."

"You think the desert will kill them?"

"No."

"What then?"

"The naoli have some expensive and effective weapons systems," the Hunter said. "But none more expensive or more effective than the Region Isolator."

Banalog felt the scales of his scalp tighten painfully.

"The next two hundred miles was — at the beginning of the war, a major nuclear weapons stockpile for the humans. An Isolator was dropped to effectively cut the humans off from the greatest number of their warheads. It has not yet been dismantled. It will seek out any human life with its sensors, engineer a weapon, and destroy that target. The boy, if he is not dead already, will perish before nightfall."

Banalog felt ill.

"Then, what will Hulann do?" the Hunter mused. "I can hardly imagine. If they planned on going to the Haven, that will be impossible. He could not get in without the boy's aid. We will fly around the region affected by the Isolator. There is only one highway exit. We will wait there to see if Hulann continues his journey."

He was grinning quite widely — for a Hunter.