Midworld (22 page)

“Bitter taste?” Cohoma asked.

Born shook his head. “No, the taste is wondrous, and the pulp nourishing and rejuvenating to a tired wanderer. The danger is in separating the fruit from the seeds within.”

“That’s a problem with most fruit,” the pilot observed.

“It is a particular problem with the greeter fruit,” Born told him, as he reached up and casually plucked one free. After staring silently at the plant, for a long minute, Logan noted—emfoling again. “No animal of the world has been able to solve the problem,” the hunter continued, turning the attractive, harmless-looking fruit over and over in his hand. “Only the people.”

He hunted around until he found a long, thin, dead branch growing from a nearby bush. Breaking it off cleanly, he sharpened one end with his knife. Then he slid the point into the fruit, taking care not to pierce the center. Laying the impaled fruit on a branch, he used the knife to make a multiple incision on the side away from the stick. Then he lifted the branch high overhead and began tapping the incised area firmly against the protruding knob of a small cubble.

On the sixth tap there was a bang of such unexpected volume that Logan and Cohoma ducked. There was a violent snarl from their left. Ruumahum stuck his head out from a clump of wire bushes. Seeing that no one was injured, he uttered a snort of derision at such foolish goings-on and vanished once more.

Born drew the stick downward, showed it to the giants. The whole left side of the fruit, where the incisions had been made, had been blown away as though there had been a small bomb within it, which was exactly the case.

“This is how the greeter spreads its seed,” Born explained needlessly. Peeling off sections of the remaining undamaged fruit, he extended them to Cohoma and Logan. Logan slipped it hesitantly between her lips, the recent demonstration having dampened her appetite somewhat. As soon as her taste buds made contact with it, she sucked in the whole piece and rolled it around in her mouth, squeezing the juices free. It was exquisite, sugary, yet tart, like grenadine and lemon.

“What finally happens to the seeds?” she asked, when the last drop was drained, the final scrap of pulp swallowed.

By way of reply Born directed them upward and to the left of the parasitic bush. Born studied the trunk of the tree nearby, finally pointed. The pilots stared close. Arranged in a tiny, neat spray pattern on the trunk were a dozen small holes, penetrating the solid wood for several centimeters. At the bottom of each hole they could barely make out a tiny, dark seed. Six spines protruded from each. Each seed was perhaps a half-centimeter in diameter, including spines.

With his knife, Born dug one of them out. Logan reached to touch it, and Born had to block her hand—had she learned nothing of the world these past many seven-days? She and Cohoma studied the minute seed with interest. Closer inspection revealed that the edges of the six spines were razor-sharp and lined with microscopic, backwardfacing barbs.

“I see,” Cohoma murmured. “The seeds germinate in the trees. But how do they get spread? Does the fruit dry up to the point where internal pressure sends them flying?”

“Can’t be, Jan,” Logan objected. “If the fruit dries out, where’s the source of this kind of pressure? No, it has to be—”

Born shook his head. “The greeter does not root in a plant. When an animal which is old or ill has lost its judgment, hunger may drive it to eat a greeter.” He resumed the march.

Logan paused long enough for another glance at the little spray pattern where the seeds had bored holes in the thick hardwood, then followed the hunter.

“An animal tries to eat one of the fruits, bites through the pulp until it punctures the inner sac and gets the whole barrage right in its face,” Cohoma theorized grimly. “If it’s lucky the seeds kill it outright. Otherwise it probably bleeds to death. Meanwhile the corpse serves as a ready-made reservoir of nutrients.”

“Jan, the plants have struck an even balance on this world. No, I take that back. They have the upper edge. The animals are outnumbered, outsized, and outgunned. I wondered how Born’s ancestors could have lost so much technology so fast. I don’t wonder any more. How can you fight a forest?”

The discovery came days later, announced in the usual phlegmatic fashion of the furcots. “Panta,” Ruumahum called back to them. Both furcots were sitting at the end of a long, relatively clear cubble.

Born’s spirits rose. “A Panta is a large open space, a depression in the world. Of course,” he added hurriedly, seeing the look on the giants’ faces, “it might be a natural Panta. There are half a dozen within two days’ walk of the Home.” He turned back to Ruumahum.

“How big?”

“
Big,
” the furcot replied softly. “And in the middle, thing of axe metal like skyboat.” Triple eyes stared suddenly at Logan.

Without knowing why, she looked away, concentrating instead on Born. “The station! It’s got to be!”

“It is done, then. Quickly.” He turned to jog down the cubble.

This time it was Logan who put out the restraining hand. “Not too quickly, Born. There are mechanisms—like our compass— which protect the station from marauding forest-dwellers and sky-demons. No creature of the hylaea world can reach it.”

“Silverslith?” asked Losting with uncertainty.

“No, Losting, not even a silverslith.”

The hunter persisted. “Has your stationHome ever been attacked by a silverslith?”

Logan had to admit it had not, but she was adamant in insisting that even that gigantic animal could not stand up to a gimbaled laser or explosive shell. Both hunters were forced to confess they had no idea what these magical weapons were. Cohoma assured them with a barely supressed smile that they were more toxic than jacari thorns.

“Then the demons of your own worlds must be far, far greater than even those of Hell,” Born surmised, “for you to need such weapons.”

“They are,” she admitted, without bothering to explain that the demons in question were two-legged. Besides, now that they were within hailing distance of the station, there was an experiment she had been waiting all this time to try. She looked straight at Ruumahum. “All right,” she said in a commanding tone, “take us to the Panta, Ruumahum.”

The furcot eyed her strangely for a moment, then turned and trotted into the greenery ahead. Born said nothing. Perhaps in his mind the event held no significance. But it indicated to Logan and Cohoma that the furcots would respond to the commands of humans other than those of Born’s tribe. That could be most important in smoothing certain things over.

A few more lianas, some two-meter-tall leaves, and a couple of branches eased aside—and they were standing on the fringe of what looked like a vast green circle paved with green, beige, and brown.

The floor of the Panta was composed of the tops of hundreds, thousands of trees, cubbies, and epiphytes which had been sheared off to provide the station with a protective “moat” of open space devoid of concealment. In the center of the greenwalled amphitheater the station itself rose on the cut-off crowns of three Pillar trees grown close together. They supported the whole weight of the station. The structure itself consisted of a single vast metal building with a sloping, domed top. A large blister of transparent acrylics emerged from the apex. A wide porch, protected by a waist-high mesh fence, encircled the entire structure. At each point of the compass, a covered catwalk extended from the central edifice, terminating in a bubble of duralloy and plastic. The narrow, blunt end of a laser cannon projected from each of these turrets.

The independently mounted cannons could swivel so that three could be brought to bear on any one point as near as twenty meters to the station. Any impartial observer surveying this awesome array of firepower might have calculated that the modest exploratory outpost was expecting an invasion in force from the surrounding forest. Actually, they were also there to protect against assaults from other than local predators.

The “sky-demons” the founders of the station were really worried about would attack at high speed, backed by intelligence, and armed with writs, ordainments, ordinances, and regulations. These lastnamed were more to be feared than the teeth of roving carnivores.

Halfway between the bottom of the station and the top of the cut-off forest, a series of interlocking struts laced with thick cable mesh surrounded each Pillar-tree trunk. A steady electric current flowed through those cables, sufficient to discourage any curious meat-eater, which might somehow have evaded starlit eyes and electronic surveillance systems.

That explained, Born inquired as to the purpose of the flat disk of metal set off to their right. A fifth catwalk, slightly larger than the others, extended from it to the station. A smaller-topped tree was sufficient to support this lesser weight.

Born did not recognize the oblong shape resting on the platform as a larger cousin of the giants’ skimmer. The shuttlecraft differed sufficiently in shape to remain unidentifiable to both hunters, as did the web of grids and antennae which projected from the station’s sides and from the observation dome at its top.

Behind the gimbaled gun placements and metal catwalks, behind the encircling double-meshed fence and walkway, lay living quarters, laboratories, administrative offices, quartermaster’s stockrooms, a communications center that would be the envy of any operator on a planet with a million-plus population, skimmer hangar and service bays, solar energy concentrator and power plant, plus a host of peripheral chambers, alcoves, and rooms. Even a casual traveler, with minimal outplanet experience, instantly would have recognized the extraordinary expense that had gone into the construction of this first station.

“Here goes,” said Logan.

In theory everything had been thoroughly pretested, and nothing in the way of automatic weaponry would vaporize her before a thorough check on body and type was run. In theory. She had never had the chance to verify it personally. She had it now.

There was a half-cut cubble leading in the general direction of the station. She stepped out of the green wall and into the open. Two stubby nozzles immediately swung around to cover her. She hoped whoever was on shift at the computer board was not sleepy, doped up, or just itchy for a little target practice. Nothing happened for long moments. She waved, made flapping motions. Cohoma waited expectantly, while Born and Losting kept wary eyes on the open sky and fingered their snufflers.

Other thoughts fought for attention in Born’s mind. The half-dream of the giants station-Home was real. It existed, sat solidly before him. Whether it held all the wonders promised remained to be seen. For now, while exposed to all manner of sky-demons, they would put their trust in the efficacy of jacari poison and not promises.

Figures could be seen moving rapidly and carefully toward them. As they neared, Logan looked down at her feet, then up, and saw that a path—doubtlessly one of many— had been traced out across the forest top. She had been briefed about the existence of such pathways but had not committed them to memory, since she never expected to have to use one.

The figures carried handguns and were clad in the same kind of gray jumpsuits Born had first seen on Cohoma and Logan. As they drew nearer their eyes grew wide. There were three of them. The one in the lead pulled up before Logan, looked her slowly up and down. His expression was half hysteria, half astonishment.

“Kimi Logan! I’ll be damned!” He shook his head slowly. “We lost all contact with your skimmer weeks ago. Sent out scouts and didn’t find a thing. You missed a nice burial ceremony.”

“Sorry, Sal.”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Sal.” She turned and called back into the brush. “All clear, come on out, everybody.”

Cohoma stepped clear of the treetops. At the appearance of Born and Losting, the man with the gray sideburns and cleft chin temporarily ran out of expletives, “I’ll be double-damned,” he muttered finally.

After a glance from Logan he holstered the handgun. His gaze went back to the two hunters. Born fought down the urge to fidget nervously under the evaluating stare. Besides, he was occupied studying the three new giants. The biggest one, the one Kimilogan called Sal, was no different from Cohoma, though slightly taller and heavier. The other two giants were Logan’s size, though only one was female.

“Pygmies, no less!” He eyed Logan inquisitively.

“Natives.” She smiled back at him. “Too many similarities for parallel evolution. We can’t be positive, of course, until they’ve been given a thorough runthrough in Medical, but except for a few minor differences I’ll bet they test out as human as you or I. Jan and I figure they’re the remnants of a century’s-lost colony ship. Maybe even pre-Commonwealth.

Incidentally, they speak excellent, if sibilant, Terranglo.”

Sal continued to stare in wonderment at Born and Losting. “Sounds right. There were enough of those first colonizers who ended up in the wrong place. Might not have met the thranx for another millennium if it hadn’t been for a lost ship.” He grunted. “Minor differences … you mean those toes and their size?”

Logan nodded. “That and their acquired protective coloration. Look, Jan and I have been going through that theoretical hell you just mentioned. I’ve spent weeks programming the kitchen in my head to turn out everything from steak to afterdinner mints. And I haven’t had a real bath since we left.”

“And some decent clothes,” Cohoma added fervently. “Oh Lord, for clean underwear!”

“Hansen will be glad to see you both back,” Sal smiled. “I wish I could see the old man’s expression when you walk in with your two friends, though. Priceless!”

“You ought to see him when we tell him some of the discoveries we’ve made. You ought to get out and walk around, Sal. It’s the only way to learn about a world.”

“Yeah? If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the hiking and grubbing to you two enthusiasts.” Cohoma took a playful swing at him. “Tell me about ’em?”

“Sorry, Sal.” Cohoma grinned. “Province of the discoverers, you know.”

“Oh Churchfire, Jan, I wouldn’t try to mad any of your bonus money. How could I prove any of it, anyway? But it’s good to hear you had a profitable little walk. The old man’s been under some heavy pressure from the home office, story has it, ever since Tsing-ahn killed himself.”