Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Maddened by the panic she felt in her master’s mind, Pip let loose a stream of venom at the creature’s face. The dense fur absorbed most of the caustic liquid, but a few drops struck the ear membrane. While not as sensitive as an eye, it was certainly delicate.
Instead of roaring or bellowing, the white monstrosity let out a loud, pain-racked moan as it rose on its hind legs and snapped with that slightly extensible mouth in the direction of the minidrag. It was extremely quick for so massive an animal, but not anywhere near as agile as the flying snake. Pip simply backed air and hunted for another opening.
By this time Flinx had the heavy needler aimed. There was no time to fool with the setting. The important thing was to distract the carnivore from Clarity. The gun whined softly as the narrow beam struck its target just behind the head. It uttered another of its oddly muted moans and turned toward him. As it did so he fired again, aiming for the open mouth.
It shuddered and moaned, the circular jaw irising open and shut several times. As it came on, he fired a third time, heedless of the weapon’s rapidly diminishing charge. When it was several meters away, it dropped to its knees and continued to advance in that manner despite having absorbed three shots that would have killed most creatures its size.
Flinx paused long enough to reset the needler. He took enough time to take more careful aim when he fired. This time the shot struck the monster’s spine. It let out a heave and vibrated all over, then halted. The mouth slowly opened halfway and froze in that position. There were no eyes to close.
They were able to tell it was dead because it had stopped breathing. Shaken, Flinx recovered the light tube, listening intently in case the monster had not been alone. The cavern was still alive with noise, but there was no more dangerous mewing.
An agitated Pip was darting like an angry bee around the head of the fallen carnivore while Scrap fluttered anxiously nearby. But there was no need for her to spit again.
Clarity was leaning against her lifesaving stalagmite, breathing hard and staring at the dead mass of fur and flesh. “It’s all right,” she mumbled before he could say anything. “I’m okay. I’m sorry I screamed.” Her anger was directed at herself.
“No matter. I would’ve screamed myself except I didn’t have the time.”
Her eyes met his. “No, you wouldn’t. But thank you for saying so.”
“What is it, anyway?”
“Not a vexfoot.” She let go of the stalagmite and moved hesitantly toward the corpse. It might have been resting instead of stone dead. “Half the requisite number of legs. Maybe a related form. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t think anyone else has, either.”
“I must have surprised it. Otherwise I don’t think it would’ve let me get that close before attacking. Of course, without any eyes it couldn’t be that certain of my position.”
“Don’t bet on it. We’ve been talking for hours. It must’ve heard us.”
“Unless it was listening on a different frequency or tracking something else. If it was stalking us from the beginning, why didn’t it attack from behind?” Suddenly something else came to mind, and he looked back at the stalagmite. “Where’s your light?”
She swallowed hard, turned, and pointed. “Over there.”
He raised his tube and saw where she had flung hers. It had shattered against a cluster of small stalagmites. Like a phosphorescent worm, the liquid light that had been contained within was running away in several directions, disappearing into cracks and holes in the floor.
“Never mind. We still have mine.” He did not offer to let her carry it.
“It startled me. I panicked, and I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to do.”
“You’re right. It was a dumb thing to do. I’ve been known to do one or two dumb things in my life, too. Well, it can’t be helped and it probably doesn’t matter. Chances are both tubes would have gone out at the same time. We’ll have light for as long as we would have, anyway. We just won’t have as much of it.” He frowned suddenly. “Where’s Pip?”
She looked past him. “Scrap’s gone, too. They were here just a minute ago.”
“Pip?” He raised his voice and the light tube. Brown and white flashed back at him from the ceiling, but there was no familiar darting pink and blue diamondback pattern.
“She’s over there.” Clarity pointed to where the flying snake was hovering, staring back at them out of slitted eyes.
“Let’s go.” Flinx gestured with his chin. “We have to keep moving.”
Instead of complying with her master’s command, the minidrag whirled and sped off into the darkness, returning briefly only to vanish a second time.
“She’s found something.”
“Not another of those round-mouthed carnivores?”
“Think straight. If she had, would she be trying to lead us toward it?”
“No, but what else would make her act this way?”
“Strong emotional reaction, but that doesn’t make any sense since you and I are the only ones down here.” He hesitated, watching his anxious pet. “Or are we?”
The thranx lay on his side, an unnatural and uncomfortable position for one of his race. A light harness was strapped to his thorax and was surmounted by an oddlooking double-barreled instrument slung crossways. As they drew near, Flinx saw that the device was a shoulder light. It was not working. Small picks and other duralloy instruments dangled from the pack and abdominal belt, the latter fashioned of yellow leather that was gouged and scratched from heavy use.
He held his light close. By the absence of ovipositors he knew the injured thranx was male. His chiton shone deep blue with only slight purpling on the dorsal plates. Middle-aged, then, and apparently otherwise healthy. Brilliant orange and yellow ommatidia formed the large compound eyes. The feathery antennae hung limp and collapsed on the thranx’s face.
Flinx edged a little closer and then stopped, his expression changing to one of disgust. “Deity! What’s that thing that has him?”
The thranx walked on four trulegs. The right front limb was shriveled and distorted by a dense growth of slimy glistening tendrils that extended from the middle part of the leg back to a huge wet mass that filled most of a hollow beneath a drapery of flowstone.
“Careful.” Clarity put a hand on Flinx’s arm and drew him back. He kept his eyes on the wounded thranx as he retreated, feeling the gorge rise in his throat. “It’s a necromarium. A scavenging carnivorous fungus. It shoots those tendrils at its prey, though like the photomorphs it’s not hard to avoid them.”
“I doubt he’d agree with you.” Flinx indicated the inert form of the thranx.
“Is he still alive?”
“Here.” He passed her the light tube. “Bang your head against the wall if you want, but not that.”
“Don’t worry.” She accepted the admonishment without comment. “I’ll break an arm before I lose this one.”
Dropping to hands and knees, he pressed his middle three fingers against the b-thorax. Because of the unyielding outer exoskeleton it was difficult to take a thranx’s pulse. The b-thorax, which corresponded to the neck in humans, was the best place to try. Instead of the rhythmic pounding a human being would produce, he felt a warm pulsing, as if he had laid his fingertips against a concealed stream. The circulatory system was still functional, which meant the heart was still working, which meant . . .
Something brushed lightly against the back of his hand. One of the long antennae was stroking him. The head moved next, slowly and painfully, and the four opposing mandibles parted. Flinx leaned close, trying to make out broken words in low thranx. Not an easy language but simpler than high thranx. Thranx spoke Terranglo better than humans spoke their language, and there was always symbospeech, but in his pain and distress this one was understandably resorting to his native language.
Flinx kept his comforting hand on the b-thorax. “Just take it easy. We’re friends.” The antenna withdrew, and the mandibles relaxed. Though he was a mature adult, if the thranx had been standing on all four trulegs his head would not have come up to Clarity’s. Flinx would have towered over him.
Something lightly stung the back of his other hand. Looking down, he was horrified to see a thin silvery tendril protruding from the skin. Instinctively he pulled away, but the stuff was stronger than spider silk.
Pip was there in a second, responding to his distress. But this time there was no enemy to spit at, nothing except a large mass of glistening brown and silver that looked like a disintegrating pillow.
Flinx rose to his knees. A second tendril exploded from the cushiony mass beneath the flowstone curtain and just missed his flailing fingers. It landed instead on the thranx’s b-thorax and began spinning and convulsing. Flinx could see the tiny pinprick of a hook at the tip, spiraled like a drill point as it tried to work its way into the softer flesh underneath. It could not penetrate the tough exoskeleton. Flinx assumed the other tendrils must have infested the thranx through a leg joint.
He could feel the one that had hooked his hand worming its way deeper into the muscle. The pain was severe, barely tolerable. Forcing down the nausea he felt, he used his free hand to pull the needler, reduce the setting, and fire at the main body of the abomination, spraying the beam methodically back and forth across its surface.
It was almost too primitive to kill. It had to be slain one part at a time and absorbed more charge than they could afford to expend, but he was in no mood to be logical. He persisted until the entire organism had been reduced to a steaming, smoky mass. It smelled of ooze and carbonized corruption.
The tendril still clung to his hand. A minuscule burst from the needler severed it a dozen centimeters from his wrist.
Clarity carefully inspected the skin. The tendril was losing its healthy silvery sheen, turning a dull gray. “Not toxic or you’d be feeling the effects by now.”
“It hurt real bad when it was digging in. Now that it’s not moving anymore, it just stings.”
Aiming the needler precisely, he sliced away the ankle-thick cables that clung to the thranx’s shriveled truleg. “Can we do anything for him?”
She checked the pocket on her left pants leg and removed a small packet. “Omnifungicide,” she explained. “You don’t go anywhere on Longtunnel without it. Comes with the clothing.”
He was staring at the thin tendril that hung limply from the back of his hand. “Do you know what this thing is?”
“No. The species is new to me. That’s not surprising. I told you how little we know about Longtunnel.”
She pressed the applicator to the back of his palm. Immediately the lingering burning sensation went away, replaced by a soothing coolness. Several minutes went by before the tendril fell to the floor, no more dangerous now than a cotton thread.
Bringing his hand up to his face, he inspected the tiny wound the drilling tendril had left. A single drop of blood had emerged and was already beginning to coagulate. He flexed his fingers.
“No pain. You’re sure it’s not poisonous?”
“I’m not sure of anything. I’m no mycologist, Flinx. But most of the venomous flora and fauna we’ve cataloged so far possess toxins that are fast-acting. You’re still walking and talking, so if it is poisonous, it didn’t have sufficient time to work on you.” She nodded at the motionless thranx. “Unlike him.”
He kicked the smoking ends of the tendrils that had enveloped the thranx’s truleg. “What is this stuff, anyway?”
“Haustorium. A hyphae network. The fungus you fried puts them out, and they keep subdividing and subdividing until there’s one to penetrate each cell of the host. That’s how it eats. It started to eat you.” She nodded at the unlucky thranx. “It looks like it’s been eating him for a while.”
“I couldn’t break it with my hands,” he murmured. “It’s thinner than most wire, and I couldn’t snap it.” He indicated her pants. “Any wakearounds in those pockets?”
“Ought to be.” She felt her pants. “Do you think they’ll work on him?”
“They should work on any oxygen breather. We’ll find out.”
She found two of the thin tubes, one in each side pocket. Flinx bent over the thranx and snapped one above the nearest quartet of breathing spicules. The powerful chemical made the thorax jump.
The insectoid moaned, an eerie inhuman noise. With Flinx’s help, he managed to roll onto his front, gathering his trulegs and foothands beneath him. The valentineshaped skull looked up at Flinx, mandibles trembling. A sure sign of discomfort and pain. The inflexible face was capable of little in the way of expression, so the thranx relied on movements of the entire head, the antennae, and the delicate fingers of the uppermost set of limbs, the truhands. These were working tightly against each other.
“Try to relax.”
The endless weaving of tiny stiff digits slowed. When he spoke this time, the words were soft but comprehensible.
“You aren’t with them? The mad humans who attacked the outpost?”
“No. We’re refugees ourselves.”
Clarity moved nearer. “I’m Clarity Held. I was chief gengineer for Coldstripe. Who are you?”
“Sowelmanu. I am with the research team from Willowane studying geofood sources.” The blue head swiveled to gaze at the smoking mass of tendrils beneath the flowstone curtain. “It would appear that is an interest which works both ways. A fair turnabout, though one I could have done without.” He dropped his eyes to the remnant of truleg still encased in the severed haustorium.
“I have consumed my share of the local flora. I suppose it only fair that they enjoy their meal in turn.” The trembling in his voice belied the humor he was struggling to put on the situation. “It hurts rather extensively.”
“What’s he saying now?” Clarity asked. “My low thranx is pretty bad.”
“He’s hurting,” Flinx told her. “The thing’s been eating his leg.”
“Damn. I hope it hasn’t worked its way up inside the abdomen.”
Flinx put the question to their new friend and explained about Clarity’s linguistic deficiencies.
“No,” he replied in perfect Terranglo. “I think the infestation was confined to the leg.” He gazed curiously at Flinx. “You speak the finest low thranx of any human I have ever met. Are you a linguist?”