Alien Bounty Page 4

  Lees, meanwhile, created armies for him to lead, wars for him to fight, and entire kingdoms for him to conquer. She also invented games, his favorite being hide and seek, played in the labyrinth of tunnels shared by their sept.

  They would play for hours alternating between excruciating suspense and gleeful discovery. Such was the case the day he violated one of the sept's most important taboos.

  It happened because he was having such a good time. The feeling had been there for some time, the unmistakable urge to urinate, but that would mean a long trip through the tunnels to the recycling vats, followed by an equally long trip back. By that time Lees might have lost interest in the game, or gone off to do something else. Besides, he'd found a wonderful hiding place and hated to give it up.

  He listened carefully. Nothing. Lees was still a long ways off, probing small airshafts and searching the many storage rooms. This particular storage room was fairly spacious, having its own series of mirrors to bring light down from the surface, and the usual dirt floor.

  Stepping in between some huge earthenware pots, he opened his shorts and extruded his penis. It felt good to relax his muscles and let the urine flow out. It made a small puddle before disappearing into the greedy soil.

  He had just withdrawn his penis when someone grabbed him from behind. It was Weea, his egg mother. She'd come looking for an empty pot and found her son using the holy fluid to water the sterile soil of a storage room.

  Without a word she dragged him through tunnels, up a ramp, and out into the hot sun. The fields were small. Each had been wrested from the grasp of the desert by constant toil and the careful application of holy fluid.

  One belonged to his father, a stern male of unyielding discipline, and as Weea jerked him along fear grew in his belly. What would his father do? He'd knowingly violated one of the sept's most closely held taboos. Whatever the punishment it would be swift and terrible.

  His father looked up at Weea's approach, his eyes lost in the shadow of his supraorbital ridge. His tail came up to shade the back of his head as thick fingers wrapped and unwrapped themselves around the handle of his hoe. "Greetings, Weea. What brings my mate and youngest son out into this heat?"

  Weea bowed her respect. "Greetings, Deeg. Your son asks many questions about male work . . . and wishes to observe your labors."

  Deeg frowned. "His interest is fitting. But the sun is hot, too hot for one as young as my son, perhaps another time."

  "Your concern for your son's health does you honor, Deeg, but I ask an exception this day, for I believe the experience will teach him much."

  Deeg was puzzled. Weea was rarely this assertive, but when she was, he'd learned to listen, so his tail signaled assent. "It shall be as you request. Come over here, son, and sit down on that boundary rock. Watch, and you will learn of male work."

  For the next four hours he watched his father work. Watched as his father broke the ground with an iron bar, watched as he placed each seed into the thin soil by hand, and watched as he watered each seed with the holy fluid.

  The merciless sun beat down all the while, leeching every bit of moisture from his skin, heating the rock until he could no longer bear to sit on it.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, first work was over and his father led him from the fields.

  Nothing more was ever said to him regarding the importance of the holy fluid. There was no need. He'd seen his father work, felt the searing heat of the sun, and understood what Weea wanted him to learn. To waste water was to waste life itself.

  As the memory faded away McCade found himself looking at Teeb. The alien's eyes glowed and his voice was tight with anger.

  "This proves nothing. The story is a famous one often told to Il Ronnian children. Who knows how the humans learned of it, but it makes little difference since he will fail the next test."

  McCade thought the others looked doubtful, but being no expert on Il Ronnian facial expressions, he couldn't be sure.

  "The candidate has passed the first test," Teeb said grudgingly. "Two more await him prior to acceptance. Is the candidate ready?"

  McCade tried to concentrate, but he was dizzy, and Teeb's words seemed to come from far, far away. It was hot, so very hot. He heard himself croak something in reply, and did his best to listen as Teeb asked the next question.

  "It is known that the great one went forth as an Ilwig to test himself in the desert. While there he found the bracelet you now wear, but he found something else as well, something he later claimed was even more important. What was it?"

  Teeb's voice seemed to echo off into the distance and McCade spoke without knowing that he did so. He felt the bracelet on his wrist, a warm and glowing presence, anticipating the excitement it would generate when he came home. But that would have to wait since three day-cycles remained before he could return.

  Always hungry, he decided to test his skill as a hunter, and approached a lonely water hole. Like most water holes this one was a sometimes thing, here briefly during the spring, quickly sinking out of sight as the hot hand of summer gripped the land.

  A thousand tracks crisscrossed the sands leading up to the water hole. And when the muddy little depression came into sight, he knew he'd see the vicious Ikk drinking side by side with the gentle Vidd. Such was the power of the holy fluid. All creatures needed its essence and must trust their enemies in order to get it.

  The sun beat down on his shoulders as he climbed the sandy slope, his broad platelike hooves floating on top of the sand rather than sinking into it, his tail hovering behind his head. Just short of the rim he dropped to hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way.

  Peeking over the edge, he saw the usual assemblage of animals, all lapping at the muddy water, all keeping a wary eye on one another. Many of them were good game animals and if he could get closer would fall easily to his spear.

  He knew from experience however that the moment he appeared they would run in the opposite direction, never allowing him close enough for a kill. Still, they were packed so close together that a spear thrown far enough was almost certain to bring one down.

  He slid backward down the slope until he could stand without being seen. He withdrew the short spear-thrower from its sheath, fitted the butt of his spear into its socket, and assumed the correct position. It was hard to run uphill and launch the spear at the same time, but he did so, the extra leverage provided by the thrower hurling the spear high into the air. For a moment it was a short black line against the lavender sky. Then it fell straight downward and disappeared beyond the rim of sand.

  He ran to the top of the slope and looked. All sorts of animals hopped, scurried, and ran in the opposite direction, leaving one of their number pinned to the sand. He was jubilant at first. His idea had worked!

  As he bounded down the slope he screamed his victory for the heavens to hear and waved his spear-launcher over his head. And then he stopped, for he had seen his spear, and the life it had taken.

  The Fueek was the most beautiful of all the desert birds, a pink vision against the violet sky, its wings beating with the same rhythm as the Ilwig's heart. And now it was dying, its head jerking pathetically, its beautiful wings beating feebly against the sand.

  Unable to give life, he took it, and threw himself down beside the Fueek's body, begging for its forgiveness, as his tears mingled with the bird's blood.

  And in that moment he learned many lessons. He learned that each life has its own special value, that random violence is not a tool of the sane, and that the price of sentience is responsibility for one's actions.

  This time total silence filled the room as McCade's story came to an end. Slowly, one by one, all heads turned toward Teeb. His head was bent, his eyes on his lap. For a long moment he was perfectly still. When he looked up, McCade saw tears running down his cheeks, and when he spoke, there was wonder in his voice.

  "It is true just as the human told it. I am awed and humbled at the power of the great Ilwik. His teachings
are so powerful that even a human can understand them. The candidate has passed the second test. One more awaits him prior to acceptance. Is the candidate ready?"

  McCade was burning up. He knew he should pull the handgun and kill them, but feared he didn't have the strength to do it. He wavered and almost fell off the rock. He felt his lips crack as he spoke. "I'm ready."

  Teeb seemed almost sympathetic as he asked the last question. "I can see that our heat troubles you. I am sorry tradition does not allow a rest period, but your ordeal is almost over.

  "Toward the end of the Ilwik's life a great drought came upon the land. The water holes soon dried up, and before long, even the deepest wells began to fail. The crops withered, the animals of the desert disappeared, and soon his people began to die. Saying that 'to understand a problem you must journey to its heart,' the great Ilwik went into the desert alone. What happened then?"

  McCade found himself transported into the past once again, placing one weary hoof in front of the other, a lonely figure in the middle of endless desert. For five day cycles he marched out into the desert, and for five day cycles he prayed, until so exhausted he could go no farther. Falling to his knees, he cried out in his agony, "Please, God, we need the boon of your holy fluid to live. Surely you did not make us for the purpose of dying. Where is the water we need so badly?"

  And suddenly he was someone else, a tall, thin being with long, thin legs that kicked strongly and propelled him forward. It was a strange sensation like flying might be if air were liquid and terribly cold.

  Liquid! He was suspended in liquid, not just any liquid, but the holy fluid! This was no vision sent by God, but a horrible profanity, sent up from some dark corner of his soul. What greater waste could there be than to immerse one's body in holy fluid?

  But wait, what was that on his long, spindly arm? A bracelet. The same bracelet he'd found in the sacred chamber? It certainly looked the same. If so, this might be part of the bracelet's magic, a memory from its previous owner, a memory called forth by his desperate need for water. Maybe there was meaning here, something he could learn to help his people.

  Looking around, he saw there were others like himself in the water, splashing and calling out to one another. No wonder they treated the holy fluid with such casual disregard. They were swimming toward the edge of a huge vat of it, more holy fluid than he'd ever seen, and more than his people could use in years. But where was this liquid treasure?

  His host turned to float on his back, allowing him to see a rock ceiling far overhead. So wherever the water was, it was far underground and safe from the sun's hot breath.

  It was also cold, colder than anything he'd ever known, so he was joyful when his host turned and headed for shore.

  His feet soon found bottom and walked up onto a sandy beach. Picking up a long white cloth he wrapped it around himself and fastened it in place with a large brooch.

  A large blue-green stone was set into the very center of the brooch, and the Ilwik noticed it was a perfect match for the one in his bracelet. What had happened, he wondered, that the bracelet was there for him to find and the brooch wasn't? Did the brooch have magic powers as well?

  But he never learned the answer because the ancient slipped on some sandals, stepped onto some sort of platform, and floated upward. The ancient stepped off as soon as the platform came to a stop, touched a panel of light, and waited while a heavy door slid open.

  As the ancient stepped outside he somehow knew that his host hated the heat and regretted the need to pass through it. And because of that the ancient hurried, not giving the Ilwik a chance to look around or see where the holy fluid might be.

  Up ahead he saw a construction of shining metal, enough metal to make a million spearheads, and it was toward this metal that the ancient carried him. A hole opened in the metal as if by magic and the ancient stepped into the coolness within.

  Taking a seat on something shamefully soft, the ancient picked up a large bowl and put it on his head. Much to the Ilwik's surprise he found he could still see as the ancient reached out to touch one of the many lights that glowed before him. It was then that solid metal came to life and vibrated with hidden vitality.

  The ancient touched another light and suddenly the Ilwik could see for miles around. There were the three mountain peaks called the "Fingers of Zeek," the long narrow valley called "the place where sun shines not," and stretched out before him the desert called "the land of bones."

  He felt the metal lift under him and his spirits soared with it. He knew exactly where he was! Where the holy fluid was! Where his people would come to survive!

  And survive they did. Most anyway, though many died on the long trek through the desert and in the mountains beyond. But eventually they found the great reservoirs of the ancients, and the mighty subsurface rivers that fed them, prospering and growing until their eggs hatched in the sands of other planets.

  McCade opened his eyes as he croaked out the final words, saw Teeb start to say something, and fell face downward into the hot sand.

  Six

  "Drink this."

  McCade opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the ugliest Il Ronnian he'd ever seen. He'd never seen a really good-looking Il Ronnian, of course, but even by their standards, this one put the ug in ugly. He had a bulging forehead and one eye that was slightly higher than the other.

  But the Il Ronnian held a cup of water in one taloned hand and McCade was extremely thirsty. Thirsty enough to accept water from the devil himself.

  McCade propped himself up on one elbow and drank greedily.

  The Il Ronnian shook his head in mock dismay. "Teeb would have a heart attack if he saw you sucking H20 like an Ikk at a water hole. You must drink the holy fluid reverently like this."

  The Il Ronnian used both hands to pick up a cup of water. Then he bowed his head over it, closed his eyes, and said, "Let life flow through me." Opening his eyes, he drank the water in a series of small sips.

  McCade put his cup down and swung his feet over the side of his bunk. Cool air flowed around him. He was back aboard Pegasus.

  "Take it easy," the Il Ronnian advised. "You're still suffering from the aftereffects of heat prostration. Since we're a bit short of human doctors, we asked your computer for a course of treatment."

  McCade rubbed the back of his neck. "And?"

  The alien grinned. "Your computer suggested we put a bullet between your eyes. Do all your computers joke around like that?"

  "What makes you think it was joking?" McCade asked.

  He got up, groped his way to the medicine cabinet, and fumbled two pain tabs into the palm of his hand. It seemed as if pain tabs were becoming a regular part of his diet. He dumped them into his mouth, squirted some water into a glass, and lifted it to his lips.

  Finding the Il Ronnian's eyes on him, he dropped his head, mumbled "Let life flow through me," and gulped the water down.

  The Il Ronnian shook his head sadly as he cranked up the gain on his heat cape. "Better . . . but still something short of civilized."

  McCade padded down the corridor into the lounge and collapsed into a seat. The Il Ronnian did likewise, his red cape swirling around him.

  McCade opened a humidor, took out a cigar, and puffed it into life. His throat felt raw, but he sucked the smoke into his lungs anyway, and blew it out in a long gray stream. He eyed his companion through the smoke. "I don't want to seem ungrateful, but what the hell's going on, and who the hell are you?"

  The Il Ronnian smiled. "I'll take your questions in reverse order if you don't mind. My name is Neem, I'm your nif, or tutor. You are an Ilwig, the first human to ever achieve that honor, and you're getting ready for phase two of your testing."

  "I passed phase one then?"

  Neem nodded. "With flying colors. You really shook 'em up. Up till now everyone had assumed that the bracelet spoke only to Il Ronnians. A bit ethnocentric . . . but understandable nonetheless."

  McCade looked at his wrist. The bracel
et was missing.

  "It came off when you fell," Neem said in reply to his unasked question.

  "That's strange," McCade said, rubbing his wrist. "The damned thing wouldn't budge when I tried to take it off."

  "I had the same problem," Neem agreed. "But it came off quite easily once my testing was over. Our more rational theologians think the bracelet is some sort of artificial intelligence device that knows that it's become part of our religion and goes along with the gag."

  Neem shrugged. "Nonetheless, we continue to take it quite seriously. In fact, if someone else heard you call the bracelet a 'damned thing,' they'd shove a stake up your anus and leave you in the desert to die."

  "Sorry," McCade said humbly. "I didn't mean it that way. It's an amazing artifact. I wish my race had one."

  Neem gave a very human shrug. "Why? In spite of the bracelet we killed our greatest teachers, including the great Ilwik, and continue to ignore most of his teachings. Wonderful though it is, the bracelet cannot bestow wisdom on those who haven't earned it."

  McCade tapped some ash into an ashtray and regarded the Il Ronnian anew. There was something different about him. Where most Il Ronnians were rigidly formal, he was informal. Where most Il Ronnians were distant, he was friendly. And where most Il Ronnians were secretive, he was open. In fact, now that he thought about it, Neem seemed more human than Il Ronnian. Even his manner of speech was more human than Il Ronnian.

  McCade pointed his cigar in Neem's direction. "No offense, but you strike me as different somehow, more like a member of my race than yours."

  Neem smiled and revealed some razor sharp dentition in the process. "True. I wondered when you'd notice. As it happens, I'm an expert on human culture; in fact, I have the equivalent of a Doctorate in exoanthropology. Added to that is the fact that I'm not exactly normal."

  "Not exactly normal?" McCade asked. "In what way?"

  "Well," Neem replied, looking down at his lap. "I'm insane."