The Perimeter

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A
sound like the scrabbling of a hundred fingernails woke Phillipa. At first she thought it was part of whatever dream she’d been having, but it grew louder as she came fully awake instead of fading away.

It was coming from both the closet and the ceiling. She couldn’t imagine what it could be. There were no mice on Cyan, but it was too uneven—too intentional—to be machinery. She pulled the covers to her chest and drew her legs up, her bare feet suddenly feeling exposed. Nothing from the wild was supposed to be able to penetrate the settlement’s perimeter fence, but how many failures and breaches had there been since they’d arrived ten years ago? Twenty at least. More every year.

The skittering stopped.

Just as she was beginning to feel relieved, it returned. A sharper sound joined it, of clicking on tile. A prickling dread ran through Phillipa as she propped herself onto her elbows to peer into the dark closet. She could see something moving inside but couldn’t make out what it was. Her heart was hammering.

What she needed to do was leap off the bed, take two huge steps so her feet spent as little time as possible on the floor, and get out.

A small, bulbous head squeezed through the crack in the door. Phillipa inhaled sharply and screamed for help. The thing stopped short and looked at her, its eyes narrowing. It hissed a warning as Phillipa drew her knees to her chest and screamed again, unsure if anyone could hear her.

Round, intelligent, lidless eyes stared up at her as it emerged. It had so many legs. Phillipa clapped her hand over her mouth to partially muffle a terrified squeal.

It just kept coming, unwinding out of the closet, pressing along the baseboard. The brilliant teal-and-burgundy legs rippled like waves as the thing moved. It had no feet—its legs ended in points.

Phillipa’s breath came in tremulous gasps. She looked around the room for something she could use to kill the thing or drive it away, but there was nothing hard, nothing sharp. Only clothes, framed photos, a half-eaten melon on a plastic plate.

By the time the thing’s tail (pointing toward the ceiling like a terrier’s) appeared, it was pressed along all four walls. It had to be twenty-five feet long. Its neck stretched horribly as the thing raised its head almost level with her bed. She had to get out of there. Stand on the bed, leap to the floor, one step and use her adrenaline to leap high over the thing and out the door. Slam the door shut, get out of the apartment—

The thing exploded into movement. It darted under her bed—a long chain snaking crazily, its tail whipping. Phillipa pulled herself into a ball, unable to breathe, as a gentle scratching started and the blanket at the bottom of the bed fluttered and danced, and she could feel its pointed feet scrabbling on the sheets. Phillipa cried for help in an airy whimper. She was quivering uncontrollably, drenched with sweat and sobbing. She was afraid to move an inch, terrified to look under the blanket. But she had to do something, had to get herself to safety. She lifted the blanket and peered beneath.

It was everywhere.

Tears rolled down Phillipa’s face. Her lungs refused to accept air as the thing took a ginger step onto her stomach, a pointed leg pressing, threatening to puncture. It was watching her, its three eyes a kaleidoscopic yellow and pink. It took another step. Phillipa slid partially upright, ever so gently. The thing gargled, pressed a needlelike foot into her stomach until she felt a painful prick. She froze. The pressure eased.

Propped on one elbow, she watched, terrified, as it crossed her stomach, slid beneath her—its legs scrabbling against her back like a hundred roaches—and came out the other side. Then it crawled across her stomach again.

It wound around her a second time. Dozens of needle-sharp legs pressed against her skin, each leaving a slight indentation, threatening to press harder. The legs fidgeted; the sectioned body twitched.

If she could reach her com in the kitchen, there was a word to call a security emergency. Phillipa couldn’t remember it. She could barely think.

It went around her again, higher this time, feet like thorns puncturing her nightgown, pressing into the soft flesh of her breasts. Her nose was running, but she didn’t dare lift her arm to wipe it.

Soon there was nothing left of the thing on the sheets; all of it was on her, wrapped around her a dozen times. It tucked its head against her collarbone and looked up at her.

An inch at a time, Phillipa slid out of bed. The thing didn’t protest. She had to get to her com. Barely able to inhale, her breath impeded by the constriction across her chest and stomach, she watched the thing’s face for signs that it noticed her movements, but it only went on looking at her.

When she felt the cold floor under her feet, the thing opened its long slit of a mouth and gurgled something. She didn’t understand the deep, watery sound that came from it but knew it was a warning.

“Help me, help me, help me,” she chanted as she crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. She activated her com and said, “Emergency red, emergency red,” the distress phrase coming back to her out of thin air.

Almost immediately a voice answered, “Emergency red, or do you need a medic? You shouldn’t call emergency red unless—”

“Emergency red, goddammit!”

“On the way,” the voice responded.

Phillipa stood in the center of the kitchen, arms extended, whimpering, as various legs on the thing lifted to groom its body. It covered her from waist to chest, and it smelled awful, rotten.

She heard the front door fly open. The thump of boots filled the hall; then half a dozen people in red security uniforms appeared.

A thousand points stung Phillipa’s skin. Phillipa dropped to her knees, screaming from the pain as the creature made a horrible sputtering sound, like an oil-filled tire deflating. It swayed from side to side like a cobra while every single spiny foot squeezed Phillipa simultaneously.

“Help me,” she whispered, still holding her arms away from her body as the thing gurgled at the security people.

The small, dark woman in the lead spread her arms. “Everyone take a step back. Don’t make any threatening movements. Weapons away.” There was rustling and clicking, then silence. “Back out of the room, one at a time. Meisell, you first.”

When everyone was out, the woman looked at Phillipa. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Phillipa.”

“My name is Melba. Can you tell me what happened in a nice, calm voice?”

Phillipa told her as the creature’s head turned one way and then the other, as if trying to follow the conversation.

When Phillipa finished, Melba asked, “Do you have family we can contact?”

“What? No, my parents are dead. I have uncles and…” She trailed off. The question had thrown her because it wasn’t what she’d expected to come next. “Jesus, why are you just standing there?
Get it off me.
”

Melba shook her head tightly. “Some of the creatures in the wild are extremely bizarre, and I don’t know anything about this one. We could cut off its head and learn that only makes it angry.”

“Well, find someone who does know about it.”

Melba held up her hands, urging Phillipa to stay calm. “Someone is working on that right now.” Melba lifted her com, requested a medic. Why a medic hadn’t been alerted as soon as the emergency red had been called, Phillipa couldn’t guess. “In the meantime, I’m going to have you sedated. We can’t let a medic get close enough to you to deliver the injection, so you’ll have to do it yourself. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” A sedative sounded good to her. She’d never so desperately wanted to be unconscious.

Pain woke Phillipa, shredding the thick haze of drugged sleep. When she came to awareness, she found she was already sitting up. A medic, dressed in orange and wearing a mask, was holding vigil over her, hovering uncertainly, keeping her distance in a small room with a low, rounded ceiling. For a few seconds, Phillipa couldn’t remember the terrible thing. She knew something awful had happened to her but couldn’t remember what.

Then she saw the creature peering up at her, and she remembered. She made a pitiful, hopeless sound in the back of her throat.

It was hurting her. Not as badly as when the security people burst into her kitchen, but bad. She stood. The pain stopped.

Relief washing over her, she tried to catch her breath. She could only take shallow breaths, and the terror she felt demanded great whooping breaths.

“I can’t breathe,” Phillipa whimpered, looking at the medic, whose mouth was a tight line, her eyes filled with tears.

The thing pricked Phillipa again, and she jolted and cried out. It was less harsh this time; its legs were pressing and easing in a rhythmic motion, not puncturing, and it was only using a few of its legs, all on her left side, high on her rib cage. She sat.

Instantly, the pricking turned to vicious stabbing. Screaming, she leaped to her feet. It stopped.

Melba burst into the room. “What’s happening? What is it doing to you?” Phillipa was too distraught to answer. The rhythmic, focused pricking had started again. It grew more intense, more insistent with each repetition, until it felt like she was being stabbed with a dozen needles. Whimpering, she stepped toward the medic. The medic took a step away reflexively as more feet pricked Phillipa, all on her left side.

“Somebody help me,” Phillipa pleaded. She turned toward Melba, looking for help, any kind of help.

The pain stopped.

“I can give you more painkiller or a stronger sleep inducer,” the medic offered, looking sympathetic but also terrified.

The pain started again, only this time on her right side.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Make it stop. Somebody please make it stop.” She wanted to sit, to sleep, but she was afraid if she did, it would sting her again. The pricking was bad, but the stinging was much worse.

“Phillipa, do you want more painkiller?” the medic asked. Phillipa turned toward her, and the pain stopped.

It started up again instantly on her left side. Phillipa turned toward Melba, to her left, because last time that had worked. It worked again. Phillipa looked down at the little face looking up at her. She almost expected it to nod, but it didn’t; its cold, strange eyes only stared.

The pricking started again, only this time it ran right up the center of her belly and chest, and it was less painful, more of a prod.

Phillipa thought she knew what it wanted her to do. She stepped forward between Melba and the medic. The pricking stopped for an instant, then started up again right up her center. She took another step, then another. The pricking stopped.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?” Melba asked, following her.

“The pain—it’s directing me with the pain. If I move where it wants, the pain stops.”

“
Wait
,” Melba called as Phillipa stepped out of the little room right into an open field. For a moment, Phillipa didn’t understand where she was. The repulsion fence was fifty meters away. Hundreds of people were lined along the other side, peering…out. They were peering
out
at her—she was
outside
the fence. The encampment for the banished—those condemned to die outside the walls because they were both low value and criminal—was a hundred meters to her left.

The people inside were staring, their eyes wide. There were shrieks of surprise and alarm at the sight of Phillipa. Two security people who had been waiting outside the hut eyed her with outright suspicion.

The pain started again, prodding her to walk forward—toward the fence. The thing’s head was darting left, right, up, down, taking in everything. Phillipa stepped toward the fence and the pain eased somewhat. She wasn’t wearing shoes; the rocky, sloped ground was cold and uneven underfoot.

“Don’t go near the fence,” Melba called from behind, her tone suddenly authoritative. “Phillipa,
stop
.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Phillipa said over her shoulder. “It will hurt me if I don’t do what it wants.”

Melba shouted an indecipherable command, and a moment later she and the two security people rushed past Phillipa, motioning at the crowd behind the fence. “Back. Everyone back.” The onlookers surged backward, away from the fence.

“You can’t go inside. Under no circumstances will you be allowed inside,” Melba said. The creature’s prodding shifted, directing Phillipa to turn left, along the perimeter of the settlement.

She turned, walked along the fence line, among thick weeds and stone. She’d never been outside before—few had—and she was terrified, even with two armed security people trailing her. A growing crowd of onlookers followed inside the fence, most of them silent, a few shaking their heads, tsking in empathy.

As she walked, Phillipa tried to absorb what was happening. The Senate must have called a meeting as soon as Phillipa was unconscious and voted to move her out because people were scared. Scared the parasite would tire of Phillipa and choose one of them as her replacement. Scared it would lash out and bite a child’s nose off. Maybe scared it would lay eggs, like the marabi had done when they burrowed into the settlement last year. So they’d decided to toss Phillipa out to die with the other problem settlers.

Why not? She was a low-value person, after all. Phillipa was well aware that the Senate calculated a numerical value for each resident, but had no idea that value impacted not only how much she would be paid, but also the value placed on her life. If this animal was on one of the senators, that senator would not be banished to a hut outside the settlement. On the ship, she hadn’t been good at engineering or biology or any of the other high-value skills, so she’d been trained as the sole Earth historian, to carry the knowledge of their home world. No one had much use for Earth history since they’d arrived a decade earlier and realized this settling thing wasn’t going to be as easy as they’d thought. Cyan just wasn’t cooperating.

After walking a few hundred yards, the prodding had mostly stopped. Phillipa tried to slow down, and it started up again. Quickly she resumed her pace.