Primal Estate: The Candidate Species (7 page)

BOOK: Primal Estate: The Candidate Species
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Rick sat near him and smiled, saying nothing.
“Any luck?” Carson asked.
“Nope. You?”
“No, but I enjoyed it,” Carson replied, feeling better rested than he could remember.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
They got up and started walking back to the Jeep. Rick looked at him and said, “A lion almost got me, so I guess I did have some luck.” Carson looked at him as if to scream, Tell me! Rick related the adventure on the way home.
Chapter 4
On the Provenger ship,
RecentlY returned to the solar sYstem
Over the years, his anxiety and excitement regarding his fights with these beasts had faded into apathy and calm. He didn’t really care about winning anymore. His record was about even; he’d won as much as he’d lost, consistently through the last ten years. But whereas in his early years he exerted a full effort, he now only went through the motions. What the Provenger didn’t know was that in the last few years he’d purposely thrown half of his fights. He could beat them now, always, but he didn’t want them to know it. As he had learned to move with their speed, anticipate their actions, watch their eyes, and see their center, he’d begun to taper off his efforts. He had become so adept at reading them that when the fights became a grapple, he could even get cues from their scent.
He’d made a study of how to beat them, and when he’d learned all he could from victory, he’d made a study of how to lose to them. Learning the markers of their emerging confidence and arrogance, he gained knowledge of when and where they would let down their guard. He’d learned what they would do in a moment of confidence, the traps they would set, and he would deliver himself to them, for fun, to see what they would do. Yootu could even manipulate their reactions after achieving a victory.
He realized all this gave him even more insight into who they were. He obtained a sense of the engineering of their minds. They seemed to him as machines made of flesh, complex yet predictable, passionate yet soulless. Despite their superior technology, size, and strength, he was planning for the day that he doubted would happen, a day that he would need his skills to exact revenge. Yootu feared the day would never come. But if it did, he knew they would never see it approaching. Their hubris would be their downfall.
Just as they knew nothing of his physical abilities, he also wisely hid from them his true intellect. For reasons Yootu didn’t completely understand, he had always been able to speak with strangers in their own tongue very quickly. He could communicate with animals in their own way; he understood them. And when he was abducted, he quickly learned the Provenger language, and he remembered all that he heard. He was, in fact, brilliant.
Yootu slipped on the level two sparring gauntlets that served as his weapons, securing one on each forearm. As he touched it to his skin, the intelligent fabric almost integrated with his alien flesh, for he was human, and it was made for Provenger.
The gauntlets were almost exactly like the ones the Provenger wore for real fighting and hunting except for two major differences. They had no embedded technology, and the two long, ridged blades which extended out along the back of each hand were made of moderately hard, but only slightly sharp polymer. They were formulated to break if used to stab, and if used to slash, which was its standard use, to be of minimal effectiveness. It was just enough to let the opponent know they’d been sliced. The level one sparring gauntlet that was normally used for these bouts had soft polymer blades with dye markers on the end. Wherever an opponent was hit, it would leave only a line of pigment.
Today Layrd, the first Provenger Yootu had ever fought and a particularly powerful opponent, was paying Yootu’s keeper extra for the use of the level two. Yootu knew he could not only beat Layrd, but that he could kill him if he wanted. And he wanted to, for it was Layrd that had brought this curse of bondage upon him many years before. Layrd had taken him from his tribe on Earth during the rebellion and fight that caused the death of Youtu’s father, Romus.
No, Yootu thought, I will lose again today, and tomorrow and the next. I will make them think that I am getting old and slow. They will see me as tame. I will no longer be dangerous to them. And we will see if I can improve any of my opportunities. I have nothing else to do.
Standing over six feet tall, hulking, and ripped with lean muscle, in his breechcloth and bare chested, scars replete across his arms and chest from previous battles lost and won, Yootu was an imposing figure. To the Provenger he was a wild man with alien blue eyes, long reddish brown hair and beard. They perceived him as simpleminded, even if he happened to spar especially well. They joked about how he’d never improved, and thought him incapable of learning much. Despite this, he felt dangerous to them because, unlike sparring with each other, they always sensed the anger in him and imagined that quality of a real fight, where the rules of etiquette and technique immediately became irrelevant, and the struggle for life emerged as the only arbiter of success. It infused a thrill to their sparring that they could not get otherwise. And they paid well for the opportunity.
Yootu and Layrd assessed each other from across the ring, a large circular pit twelve feet deep, all white, with a highly textured floor and walls to enhance traction while one was covered with sweat, blood, or vomit. Toward the center of the ring were six graduated columns in a circle, wide enough at the top to be mounted by a single fighter and only so far apart that he would be within reach of the fighter on the adjacent columns. Yootu had learned long ago that taking the fight to the top of the columns rarely, if ever, provided a fighter with any advantage. The tops were merely pedestals that allowed the prideful to display themselves to onlookers. The best place to fight was on a surface that offered itself any time the foot sought its security and aided in a variety of stances.
Their fight would continue until one was injured, exhausted, or yielded to the other. Yootu had practiced his fighting skills while acting like he’d been beaten; he practiced his humility in the form of yielding when he knew he could win.
Layrd started talking to Yootu in his own ancient tongue, as the Provenger were also masters at language. “Well, my old friend, how have you been?”
“I’m alright,” Yootu droned, as they both walked toward each other, to one side of the columns, testing the fit of their gauntlets.
“I hope you don’t mind using the level twos today, but I’m looking for a little more excitement than usual,” Layrd said especially loud so that his friend and the few Provenger milling about in the ring’s auditorium could hear.
Because you’ll get a thrill out of cutting me up, Yootu thought as they slowly circled each other. “No, that’s okay,” Yootu replied. Maybe I’ll give him just a little surprise if he wants some excitement. I just want to see the look on his face. Then I’ll let him win.
Layrd began speaking to Yootu, this time in perfect English. “Have you made the most of your five minutes prep time? You’d better, my big idiot. You’ve got a beating ahead of you.”
Yootu faked a quizzical look. Now you’re definitely getting a surprise, you sadistic prick, Yootu thought.
“Does the new language still sound strange to you?” Layrd continued, this time in Russian. “It shouldn’t. It is of your own planet. You know we are now back in your solar system, now subject to its language protocols. You are breaking our law if you refuse to speak it,” Layrd said with a smile.
Yootu faked another curious look.
“Or are you too stupid to understand?” Layrd asked in French.
Now I really want to crack your skull. Yootu slowly backed away from Layrd as they circled each other, three times was the requisite before they could engage. Yootu had used this trick only twice before in the last five years. He was saving it for a special occasion and figured now would be as good as any. Layrd was special to him.
As Yootu backed, Layrd sensed apprehension in his opponent, perhaps because they were using the level twos today. Layrd inched closer as they completed their third circle. As their center shifted closer to the columns, they completed their third circle. Yootu had timed his rotation perfectly to align his back to the column. As this happened he moved slightly toward Layrd, relaxed his guard and shifted to a flatfooted stance. Layrd immediately saw the opening and with blinding speed lunged at Yootu, positioning his left gauntlet high to block anything incoming and swiped, mid-level, with his right.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a devastating blow, but it happened to be exactly what Yootu had arranged. In a move that could only be accomplished with complete anticipation, Yootu sidestepped to his right then in toward his opponent. He hooked under Layrd’s blocking arm with his left, slashed across Layrd’s back with his right gauntlet, and used his knee and Layrd’s momentum to enhance his flight head first into the column that had been at Yootu’s back. Simultaneously, a slight sweep to Layrd’s foot had him almost air born when he hit. And, in a moment of brilliance that was in Yootu’s nature, he used the foot sweep to fake a trip and launched himself flying into the floor in the opposite direction.
He’d learned to go to the ground when besting a Provenger. It calmed their pride a little while they were recovering. Yootu would make some faces, express some pain, massage a shoulder, and think about what fools they were.
Yootu was worried for a moment when, lying on his stomach, he looked back at Layrd. First, there was no movement, then some, then a groan. Yootu had gone a little too far. Perhaps he wanted it too much? If Layrd is unconscious, I’ll just stay down so he sees me get up with him, Yootu thought.
In a moment, Layrd stirred and brought himself to a sitting position as Yootu forged a moan and rolled onto his back, feeling a bit childish with his acting. “We both got the worst of that one,” Yootu muttered, loud enough for Layrd to hear. Layrd sat up and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his head. Yootu was worried. If he was injured too badly there would be an inquest, normally restricted recordings of the fight could be reviewed and Yootu might be discovered. His fights had been reviewed in the past, and only their confidence in Yootu’s limited intelligence had saved him.
They both stood, recovered their bearing, and resumed the fight. Yootu was impressed with Layrd’s recovery. Damn he is tough, Yootu thought. Now I will get beaten, badly. I’ll have to make it look good after that stunt I just pulled.
To the Provenger, Yootu was a guest/slave on their interstellar ship, kept under tight security and continual observation by both his keepers and school children on field trips. He was a forty-five year old man who, they thought they could tell, was beginning to show the effects of his species’ age.
As a Paleolithic member of the early Homo sapiens, with a brain capacity slightly larger than the modern human, the Cro-Magnon was of a dense and powerful build. He was the progenitor of the smaller modern man, scourge of the mammoth that he would hunt to oblivion, and executioner of the Neanderthal. They were masters of the elements and the sole survivors of climactic changes and harsh environments that administered to the extinction of all their related species.
Yootu was an exceptional example of this race. To his ancient tribe, he was known to be fathered by the sun. He was keeper of the red moon spirit, a hunter, warrior and their supreme shaman. To the current humans of Earth, Yootu was now a twelve thousand, eight-hundred and ninety-two year old Cro-Magnon stranger.
Since their first arrival on Earth, the Provenger had picked a fight with the human race. As a child, Yootu’s first feeling for them was contempt. In adulthood, it became a spiritual hatred. Yootu was determined to avenge his father’s death, the destruction of the Earth’s small red moon, and free his people from the slavery they endured--big plans for an over-the-hill idiot.
Meanwhile, somewhere else on the ship…
Nwella was by any standard a beautiful creature, one of multitudes of a species that held physical beauty, youth, and health as some of their premier individual and collective values. Thought of as barely an adult by her long-lived kind, at thirty-seven she was ready to start her own household, but had found neither a partner nor domestic space. Her father’s position in the Perpetuant Cycle Project had delayed her progress. Potential suitors were skeptical over her father’s prospects at success and therefore cautious about her. Lodgings suitable for a young female even of her social stature were extremely limited due to the maturity of the Provenger Nation Ship. The population was packed into every available cell of this massive intergalactic voyager.
Nwella didn’t hate her father for these converging circumstances, but there was resentment; for what, she was not sure. If only she could have been born at another time or in another ship, before the last war that marked the culmination of the Provenger golden age. She always felt she belonged in that era.
They had just arrived in this system, adjacent to a massive gaseous planet with colorful rings of dust, stone, and ice circling it. The indigenous called it Saturn. They named it after a god from one of their ancient societies, a god who presided over agriculture, among other things. How appropriate, she thought.

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