Iron Mike (21 page)

Mike was undecided. A burning sense of revenge wanted him to stay, but the logical course was to move on. They had a good ten minutes on Mayhew and Jimbo, and Mike doubted the two thugs would be willing to fight on even terms – not after checking out the Burger King that Kari had made of Tommy. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded.

He froze when they reached their bikes. “Kari?” he asked tensely.

“I see it,” she replied. “What the fuck is it?”

It was a metallic orb, shaped oddly like the puzzle cube the babies liked to play with, but it was definitely no toy. It was so black and sleek it gleamed blue. It wasn’t powered like a drone – it simply floated there, between their bikes. Mike slowly reached and drew the shotgun up. There was a slight popping noise and the smell of ozone, and then Mike no longer had voluntary muscular control. The shotgun stopped moving, and Mike stood frozen – as did Kari.

The orb moved between the two humans, its motion completely, eerily silent. Kari’s eyes were huge with terror, and Mike felt his own heart beating rapidly as well. Something niggled at the back of his brain, though, something as faint as a memory he didn’t yet have. For some reason, he relaxed, knowing this thing meant them no harm.

The orb floated to Mike, approaching level with his neck. There was a sudden hissing sound, and the orb
spat
at him – a burst of cool liquid landing right on his burn wound! For an instant, there was agony as the drops of liquid touched the blistered flesh, but just as quickly, it was gone. And so was the pain –
all
of the pain. Mike could have sobbed with relief; he didn't realize how much exquisite discomfort he was moving under until it was, suddenly, no longer a part of him.

Kari whimpered low in her throat as the orb approached her, level with her eyes. It didn’t spit at her as much as gently blow a waft of sweet-smelling, pink-tinted chemical toward her. She held her breath instinctively until there was no choice. She gasped in the air, her eyes wild and panicked … and then suddenly calm. The bruises and lacerations on her face began to heal themselves, as if they were flower buds opening in time-lapsed photography. The bones in her wrist knit together, healing itself in mere seconds. The pain in her eyes calmed.

The orb bobbed away and vanished back into the trees. Both Mike and Kari could move as easily as if they’d never been immobilized.

“What the hell was that?!” Kari yelped, staring at Mike in disbelief.

Mike grabbed his helmet and nodded at Kari to mount her bike. “I have no idea. We can talk about it later, Kari, but we better get the hell out of here while the getting is good.”

Kari changed her clothes quickly, leaving the despoiled garments where they dropped while Mike gathered up the supplies Mayhew and Crank had scattered. They were almost five miles away when Mayhew and Jimbo returned to the hunting cabin. Already livid at Kari's betrayal, Mayhew howled in rage at the sight of his cousin’s body. They had killed him like a dog! His neck was snapped as if Crank had never even served in Iraq, never even been a war hero at all! Mayhew sobbed for several minutes while Jimbo looked on uncomfortably.

March 15.

Scientist-Farmer

Scientist-Farmer greeted Researcher-Xenohistorian politely on their second meeting. There was a tension in the air between them now, a feeling almost akin to … fear. Scientist-Farmer raised the privacy shielding around the conference room, double-checking that no inquisitive presence, no matter how psionically skilled, could penetrate the shields. When he was done, not even Shaman-Untranslatable could have entered their conversation.

Researcher-Xenohistorian watched all of Scientist-Farmer’s preparations silently. When he completed his task, she added her own layers of impenetrable shielding. Scientist-Farmer didn’t know whether to be offended she didn’t trust him or impressed with her obvious psionic skill, so he opted for the latter.

He assumed a corporeal form and watched as Researcher-Xenohistorian did the same. Interestingly, they both opted to assume human shapes.

“When last we spoke …” Scientist-Farmer began. Researcher-Xenohistorian smiled, and suddenly, the memory was in front of both of them. They had met in the laboratory, a mere three moons ago.

“Do you see, here?” Scientist-Farmer asked. “The youngling’s face. There is no familial resemblance, Researcher-Xenohistorian, and more so, no familial bond.”

Researcher-Xenohistorian nodded. “I see, Scientist-Farmer,” she replied.

“The human kit –“

“Child.”

“Yes, the human child. She clings to Human-Male, but she does not even … know him. I am afraid I do not understand.”

“She is not his offspring, Scientist-Farmer. Human-Male is a juvenile, barely of mating age.”

“That … Well! How is that possible, Researcher-Xenohistorian? I thought the human male and female were traveling with their litter to try to escape the harvesting.”

“No, Scientist-Farmer. Only one of the children is of Human-Male’s genetic likeness, and that one is a sibling, not offspring. My conjecture is that Human-Male and his female gathered the children from the hive to take them to a place of perceived safety. The child he is holding met him only the day after harvesting began, but she feels safety in his arms she does not feel with the other humans.”

Scientist-Farmer was stunned at the implication. Pieces started tumbling together in his minds. He found thoughts and images among Researcher-Xenohistorian’s offerings that supported his suppositions. It was beginning to make sense now, and a feeling of excitement rippled along his synapses. “So," he mused. "Human-Male is willing to die to protect a child that is not his own.”

“It appears so,” Researcher-Xenohistorian replied, her voice painfully neutral.

There was a long moment of silence between them.

“Do you believe the humans are Level Eight sapients?” Scientist-Farmer finally asked, speaking the question outright.

Researcher-Xenohistorian was no fool. “The beliefs of one individual are irrelevant,” she said stiffly.

“The beliefs of one individual, supported by objective scientific data, can build or destroy worlds,” Scientist-Farmer proffered.

“Indeed, they can,” Researcher-Xenohistorian said quietly. “Yes, indeed they can.”

Scientist-Farmer blinked, enjoying the sensation of moisture flowing over his sclerae and irises. Assuming corporeal form was always a sensory feast, and this human body seemed particularly well-adapted to receiving a variety of input.

“Thank you for the recording, Researcher-Xenohistorian,” Scientist-Farmer smiled.

Researcher-Xenohistorian took a seat at the small conference table opposite him. “You are quite welcome. How may I assist you, Scientist-Farmer?”

Scientist-Farmer frowned. “I admit, I have been deeply troubled about the humans. I have watched them carefully – particularly Human-Male and his pack.”

“Family,” Researcher-Xenohistorian corrected gently, even as she nodded.

“Yes. Family and friends. And now, enemies.”

He sighed heavily, clearly weighing his options, and then he opened his third mind to bring forth the memory. He allowed her to see the recent events – the torture and rape of Human-Male and his mate -- and then, incriminatingly, his own complicity in directing the Spotter to heal both humans. When the memory ended, Researcher-Xenohistorian was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was troubled, even in the human form. “Thank you for trusting me, Scientist-Farmer,” she said quietly. “I am honored.”

Scientist-Farmer shrugged, an odd gesture he was beginning to pick up from Human-Male. “I need to know, Researcher-Xenohistorian. Are the inhabitants of this harvest planet, these humans … are they Classification Eight sapients?”

Researcher-Xenohistorian sighed heavily. “I wish I had better news for you, my colleague. The other members of the committee would not even determine Level Seven Sapience,” she said, an edge of bitterness seeping into her voice.

Scientist-Farmer drew back, dismayed. “Not even Seven?” he repeated. “How is that even possible, Researcher-Xenohistorian? Level Seven sapience should be beyond question – the point of contention is whether they are Level Eight, which would require us, by law, to stop harvesting the planet and restore everything as it was.”

Researcher-Xenohistorian shook her head, another odd gesture Scientist-Farmer was becoming acquainted with. “I have put forth the same opinions, Scientist-Farmer, and have been met with implacable, unmovable opposition. They won’t even
consider
modifying the sapience rating.” They waited a long moment in silence before she added quietly, “I am afraid it was the cannibalism.”

Scientist-Farmer was staggered. “The humans … practice cannibalism?” He was so shocked it took him several seconds to turn his brains to task. He searched quickly through his memories of every encounter he’d had with Human-Male and Human-Female while his secondary and tertiary brains scrambled for the little he knew about the human species. He’d been a fool, concentrating on only their past four thousand years of history!

Even so, he encountered nothing even remotely resembling cannibalism, barring a few extremist cults that were statistically insignificant. “Please explain, Researcher-Xenohistorian.” Scientist-Farmer kept his voice calm, his inner shields firmly in place. He and Researcher-Xenohistorian were equals in the Consortium’s hierarchy; it would be inappropriate to express incredulity.

“It is a part of their religious practices,” Researcher-Xenohistorian said, weariness in her tone. “Not all humans are practitioners, of course. But a statistically significant number of humans practice the observance each week. It is barbaric.” She spoke softly, a deep sadness mingling with the weariness in her tone. “There were almost two billion adherents to the practice before the first phase of the winnowing, Scientist-Farmer.”

Scientist-Farmer felt sick. There were no changes in his metabolic rate, psi pressure, or synapse activity. It was a sickness of the soul, perceived more clearly in this frail human form. How odd, that the conscience of a beast that would eat its own was so strong as to create an ache in the stomach area just because of unhappy thoughts! “And the … the ritual, Researcher-Xenohistorian? The practice itself?”

She nodded at him, her eyes empathetic. She, too, was struggling to understand, was hoping to find something – anything – to keep her beloved humans from extinction. She sighed, speaking with obvious reluctance. “A piece of biscuit is given to each participant and a sip of fermented grape. The words spoken are, roughly translated, ‘Take this, all of you, and eat it. This is my body which will be given up for you. Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is the cup of my blood which will be shed for you. Do this in memory of me.’”

Scientist-Farmer remained very still, the colors in his aura barely moving as he assigned all seven brains to the singular task of making sense of this new knowledge and fitting it with what he knew of Human-Male and Human-Female. There was silence in the conference room for several long passages of time as each being contemplated the information.

Finally, Scientist-Farmer, speaking very slowly, asked, “Is it possible, Researcher-Xenohistorian, the humans recognize the event as being in itself symbolic? They use … what, biscuit and fermented grape … not the actual flesh and blood of another being?”

Researcher-Xenohistorian blinked. “I – I do not know,” she said after a moment. “The practice of cannibalism was so barbaric and shocking that we … the committee … never appointed anyone to enter the humans’ minds during the ritual itself.”

“If they perceive the act as symbolism … if they know they are indeed,
not
consuming the flesh of their deity, but are instead consuming biscuit and wine in honor of him – in memory of him – then that knowledge must be a factor in the determination of sapience.”

He felt the hope in her aura when his words and thoughts came together. Researcher-Xenohistorian’s reaction was stronger than he expected it would be; she had been struggling with the question for two centuries and had agonized over the fate of her cherished test subjects.

“Yes,” Researcher-Xenohistorian finally said, her corporeal voice shaking even as she removed the form. “You are correct, Scientist-Farmer! It is time to bring the humans into the laboratory for testing. Perhaps we are not too late.”