Phylogenesis (34 page)

When no response was forthcoming, either verbally or in the form of the by-now-familiar elegant gestures, Cheelo walked over and nudged the blue-green torso with a foot. “Rise and shine, Des. Not that you don’t shine all the time.”

To look at the thranx was to see nothing wrong. The same brushed, metallic blue-green sheen gleamed from wing cases and limbs, head and neck. The multiple lenses of the eyes, each as big as a human fist, threw back the early morning light in cascades of gold. But something was missing. It took Cheelo a long moment before it struck him.

It was an absence of fragrance.

There was no smell. The delicate, flowery miasma that was the thranx’s signature perfume had vanished entirely. Bending over, he inhaled deeply of nothing but fresh mountain air. Then he saw that along with the enthralling alien scent something else had departed. Leaning forward, he gave an uncertain shove with both hands.

Stiff as if frozen, the thranx fell over onto its side, scavenged blankets fluttering briefly like dark wings. They had become a funereal shroud. Rigid legs and arms remained fixed in the positions in which they had last been held, folded tight and close to the body.

“Des? C’mon, I got no time to coddle bugs. Get up.” Kneeling, he tentatively grasped one upper limb and tugged gently. It did not flex, and there was no reaction. Using both hands, he pulled harder.

A sharp, splintery crack split the air, and the uppermost joint, together with the truhand, came away in his startled fingers. Blood, dark red tinged with green, began to seep from the maimed limb. A shocked Cheelo straightened and threw the amputated length of alien appendage aside. The dismemberment had provoked neither reaction nor response. Stunned, Cheelo realized that Desvendapur was beyond both.

Sitting down hard, indifferent to the damp vegetation and the cold clamminess of the ground, a disbelieving Cheelo could only stare. The bug was dead. No, he corrected himself. No. The poet was dead. Desmelper…Dreshenwn…

Christ,
he cursed silently. He still couldn’t pronounce the alien’s name. Now it was possible he never would, because the owner of that appellation could no longer lecture him on the fine points of thranx enunciation. He found himself wishing he’d paid more attention when the alien had talked about himself. He found himself wishing he’d paid more attention to a lot of things.

Well, it was too bad, but it wasn’t his fault. Unpredictable destiny served as every sentient’s copilot. Just because the thranx had met his here on a cold, wet mountainside in the central Andes didn’t mean Cheelo Montoya had any obligation to follow its lead.
His
fate still lay somewhere in the future, first in Golfito and then in the remunerative flesh pits of Monterrey. His conscience was clear.

As for the bug, he owed it nothing. Hell, it didn’t even belong on his
world
! The consequences it had suffered were the consummation of its own unforced, willful actions. No guilt concerning the final outcome attached to Cheelo or, for that matter, to anyone else. It was dead; things hadn’t worked out; and Cheelo had seen it all before, albeit only among his own kind. No big deal. No big deal at all.

Then why did he feel so goddamn lousy?

This is ridiculous, he told himself. He’d done his best by the alien, just as it had by him. Neither of them had anything to be sorry for. If called before a court of judgment, both could have honestly proclaimed the verity of their conduct while traveling in each other’s company. Besides, if the situation were reversed, if he, Cheelo Montoya, had been the one lying dead and motionless among the undergrowth, what would the thranx have done? Returned to its own people, for sure, and left him to rot forlorn and forgotten on the surface of the sodden earth.

Of course, Cheelo Montoya had nothing to leave behind.

He wavered. There was no one to coerce him, no accusatory visages staring at him from the depths of the cloud forest. Whatever urgency he felt came entirely from within, though from where within he could not have said. It made no sense, and he was nothing if not a sensible man. Everything he had ever learned, every ounce of self, all that there was that went to make him what was known as “him,” shouted at him to pick up his gear and be on his way. Head down, get going, abandon the no-longer-needed campsite by the little waterfall. Seek out a comfortable room in beckoning Sintuya, arrange his flight, and claim the franchise that had been promised to him. His life had been one long litany of misery and failure. Until now.

Tightening his jaw, he rolled the body, blankets and all, into a dense mass of dark green brush. There it would lie hidden from above until the cloud forest claimed it. Not that the perpetual clouds needed any help in concealing objects on the ground from above.

Snatching up his backpack with a violent grab, he swung it onto his shoulders, checked the seals, and started resolutely down the trail. As he did so, he stumbled over something unyielding. Snapping off a muttered curse, he started to kick aside the piece of broken branch, only to see that the obstacle that had momentarily interrupted the resumption of his determined descent was not made of wood. It was the upper joint and hand he had unexpectedly wrenched from the thranx’s body.

Divorced from the rest of the arm, it had assumed an air of artificiality. Surely those stiff, delicate digits were detached from some calcareous sculpture and not a living being. Sublime in its design, sleek and functional, it was of no use to its former owner anymore, and certainly not to him. Bending to pick it up, he examined it closely for a moment before tossing it indifferently over his shoulder and resuming his descent.

Down among the next line of vegetation he halted. Cloud forest trees bloomed intermittently year-round. Ahead rose one that was like a roaring blaze among green stone, an umbrella of brilliant crimson blossoms. Sunbirds sipped drunkenly at the bounteous nectar while giant electric blue morpho butterflies flitted among the branches like the scoured scales of some fantastic cerulean fish. Cheelo stood gazing at the breathtakingly beautiful sight for a long time. Then, without really knowing why, he turned around and began to retrace his steps.

22

S
hannon didn’t much care for her new posting, but it was a step up from covering tourism and reforestation projects. At least Iquitos had facilities, something to do at night, and climate-controlled shopping where city dwellers could escape from the oppressive heat and humidity. It could have been worse, she knew. The company might have assigned her to report on tropical research. That would have meant weeks at a time living out in the jungle with scientists who would condescend to her questions while resenting the imposition on their time, the access her presence provided to general media notwithstanding. Being assigned to the district office in Iquitos was better, much better.

It also offered the opportunity to do more than just report news. Hard to descry in the rain forest, traditional human-interest stories were plentiful in the city and its enjungled suburbs. Like the one that had presented itself this morning, for example. Plenty of reprobates and lowlifes tried to lose themselves in the vast reaches of the Reserva, but sooner or later their presence was detected by automatic monitoring devices and they found themselves a guest of the rangers.

The only thing different about this one was that instead of petty misappropriation of credit or common vandalism or illegal entry or poaching, the subject had been booked on a charge of murder. Iquitos could be a rough town, but homicide was uncommon. Advanced law-enforcement technology coupled with the threat of general instead of selective mindwipe was usually enough to forestall most killings.

That was not what made this particular case intriguing, however. What made it interesting from a general media standpoint was that its progenitor had “a story.” She was mildly curious to see if the teller was as crazy as his tale.

A guard was stationed outside the interview room; not surprising considering that the one incarcerated within stood accused of a capital crime. Having already been scanned for possession of weapons and other forbidden items, she identified herself to the sentry’s satisfaction and was granted admittance. As the door slid into the wall he stood aside to let her enter.

The aspect of the solitary figure seated on the other side of the interview table was not promising, and she found herself worrying that she might well be wasting her time. Not that there was any especial demand on it at the moment. Pulling out and activating her recorder, she checked to make sure that the protective cover had retracted and that the lens was clean. Treated to repel dirt and grime, it flickered briefly in the subdued overhead light.

The brief flash caught the attention of the prisoner. When he lifted his head, she was able to get a better look at him. It did not improve her opinion. Neither did the way he looked at her, used to it as she was.

“I was expecting a reporter, not a treat.” He leered unpleasantly. “How about we get the monkey cop to opaque the window?” He nodded toward the doorway.

“How about you keep your mouth and your eyes to yourself and you answer my questions?” she retorted flatly. “Otherwise, I’ll waft and you can play with yourself until the official interrogators land on you again. They won’t listen to your lunatic stories, either.”

His macho bravado instantly deflated, the prisoner looked away. Fingers working uneasily against one another as if he didn’t know what to do with them, he muttered a reply. “First you got to get me my personal belongings.”

Her dyed and striped brows drew together. “What personal belongings? The report on you said you were picked up out in the forest with only the clothes on your back.”

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “When I saw that the rangers had me referenced, I buried my pack. Without what’s in it you won’t believe a word I say.”

“I doubt I’ll believe a word you say anyway, so what’s the big deal? What’s in your miserable pack that you had to hide from the rangers? Illegal narcotics? Gemstones?”

He grinned, this time knowingly. “Proof. Of my story.”

Shaking her head sadly, she turned off the recorder. No point in wasting the cell. “There
is
no proof of your ‘story.’ Not in some mysterious buried backpack or anywhere else. Because your story’s crazy. It makes no sense.”

The smile tightened but did not disappear entirely. “Then why are
you
here?”

She shrugged diffidently. “Because it sounded different from the usual run-of-the mill rubbish we use for backscreen fillers. Because I thought you might be good for a new angle or two on how some miscreants try to mask themselves from the attentions of the legal process. So far I’m just annoyed, not enlightened.”

“Go dig up my pack and I’ll enlighten the hell out of you. The contents will enlighten you.”

She sighed heavily. “I skimmed the report. There are
no
thranx in the Reserva. There are no thranx in this hemisphere. Their presence on Earth, like that of all representatives of newly contacted sentient species, is restricted to the one orbital station that’s been equipped with proper diplomatic facilities. We have occasional closely supervised visits by especially important individuals holding the rank of eint or higher, but they are not allowed outside the official boundaries of Lombok or Geneva. Even if one somehow managed to end up here, it couldn’t survive.”

Inclining toward her again, he dropped his voice so low that she had to lean forward to make out the words. She did not relish the proximity. Despite the treatment accorded any incoming prisoner, he still stank strongly of his time spent in the Reserva and of his own disagreeable self.

“You’re right. ‘One’ couldn’t survive. But a properly prepared and equipped landing party could.”

She rolled her eyes and looked away. She’d had just about enough of this homicidal
ninloco
and his pathetic fantasies. “Now you’re trying to tell me that there’s not one, but a whole landing party of thranx bashing around undetected inside the Reserva? What kind of moron do you take me for, Montoya? If the rangers can run down one human like yourself who’s trying his damnedest to avoid them, don’t you think they’d find something as alien as a thranx? Much less a whole landing party?”

“Not if it stayed underground and had human help,” he shot back. “And I wasn’t trying to avoid the rangers. Not anymore. I wanted to be picked up.”

She frowned uncertainly, her irritation diminishing just enough for her to sustain a modicum of interest. “Underground? You’re trying to tell me that there’s an illegal thranx landing party operating inside the Reserva and underground?”

His countenance subsided into a complacent smirk. “Not a landing party. A hive. A colony.” His tone had become insolent. “There aren’t a dozen or so thranx in the Reserva—there are hundreds. And they’re not peeking at plants or collecting butterflies—they’re living there. And breeding.”

She stared hard at him, at this slender, vainglorious
madrino
who sat with arms crossed and smile smug. He did not look away. She wanted to, but could not. Not quite yet.

“So what’s in this pack of yours that would prove a claim as outrageous as that?”

“Then my ‘crazy’ story might be a little newsworthy?” He was taunting her now. She wouldn’t let him get away with it.

“Give me the coordinates for this pack of yours and we’ll see what’s in it. If anything. If it exists.”

“Oh, it exists all right.” He glanced briefly toward the doorway. “But first we need to come to some kind of agreement. Officially recorded and witnessed.”

“Agreement?” Shannon was not pleased. Her bureau’s discretionary expense file was in proportion to her assignment. Iquitos wasn’t Paris. “What kind of agreement?”

For the first time since she had entered the interview room he appeared to relax. “You don’t think I’m going to give away the story of the century out of the goodness of my heart, do you?” For a moment, his eyes took on a faraway look and his voice fell to a whisper. “I
have
to get something back, because I’ve already missed my appointment. I forfeited the franchise. For this.” He shook his head slowly, his tone disbelieving. “I
must
be crazy. One other thing: We tell it my way. I want editorial input.”

She started to laugh, but then she saw that he was serious. “So now in addition to being a murderer you want to be a journalist?”

His eyes lowered. “That killing up in San José was unfortunate. An accident. It’ll all come out at my hearing.” The smile returned, sly and knowing. “It’ll be a sealed hearing, you’ll see. I know too much, and the government doesn’t like people who know too much to run around loose babbling what they know. But it’ll be worth it to you. I promise.”

She sat up straight and turned her recorder back on. “Never mind all that other nonsense: What makes you think you know anything about telling a story?”

Pursing his lips, he blew her a kiss. She recoiled distastefully. “You just bought mine, didn’t you?”

The pack was there, surprisingly far to the south, buried in a shallow pit between two gnarled strangler figs. Right where he’d said it would be. That in itself meant nothing. The presence of an identifiable, functioning thranx device inside was likewise conclusive of nothing except the owner’s ability to obtain contraband through channels with which he was clearly familiar. The section of thranx arm, however, was another matter. It was sufficiently fresh and well-enough wrapped so that it had not yet begun to decompose, even under the relentless assault of the opportunistic rain forest. Taken together, they lent veracity if not proof to the prisoner’s story.

The next time Shannon visited Montoya, she had company. Not rangers, but a pair of commentators from her company and one wizened, white-haired senior editor.

The prisoner eyed them with an amiable wariness. On the table between them lay the section of alien limb and the device that had been removed from the buried backpack. Neither appeared to have been touched, though in fact both had been carefully examined with a view toward verifying their authenticity. This had been done. Now it remained for the exceedingly curious media representatives to find out how these unlikely objects had come to be in the possession of a minor criminal whose erstwhile home lay far to the north on the American isthmus.

One of the reporters pushed the device across the table in Cheelo’s direction. “We know that this is of alien manufacture, but we don’t know what it does.”

“I do. It’s a scri!ber. I told you—Des was a poet. That means he did more than just put words together. Among the thranx, poetry is a performance art. I know: He performed a couple of times for me.” A gaunt, regretful smile split his features. “I didn’t get much out of it. Didn’t understand the words or the gestures. There was a lot of clicking and whistling, too. But God, it was beautiful.”

The reporter who had asked the question was about to laugh, but her companion put a restraining hand on her arm. Leaning forward, he spoke understandingly. “I’m Rodrigo Monteverde, from the parliament district. I haven’t seen the kind of performance you’re referring to myself, but I’ve talked to those who have. Your description fits.”

“These thranx have performed for ranking officials. A couple have been on the tridee.” The senior editor did not stir as he spoke. “He could have seen a recording.”

Shannon gingerly pushed the length of amputated limb toward the prisoner. “What about this? What’s this?”

Montoya lowered his gaze to the blue-green fingers. His insides knotted and a sharp pain shot through his gut, but to all outward appearances he was unaffected. “That? That was my friend.” He looked up, smiling at Shannon before shifting his attention to the gray-hair who obviously called the shots.

“I’m offering you the biggest story of the last hundred years. You want it, or should I put out the word that I’m ready to talk to another media conglomerate?”

The senior editor retained his unshakable composure, but a hint of a smile toyed with one corner of his mouth. “We want it—if there’s anything more to it. The question is, what do
you
want?” He nodded in the reporter’s direction. “Ms. Shannon here has apprised me of your petition but did not supply any details.”

All eyes were on him, components of expectant expressions. He reveled in the attention. It made him feel…big. “That’s better! First, I want all charges pending or planning to be filed against me dropped.”

“I understand you committed a murder.” Shannon’s tone was dry as dust. She didn’t like him, Cheelo knew. That did not matter. What was vital was that she saw the opportunity to work on a big story. He was not the only one to whom the word was important. Much of the world still worked that way. “It was accidental, like I told you. The idiot had to go macho and grab the gun and there was a struggle. Nobody could prove premeditation. Scan the wife and you’ll see that I’m telling the truth.”

“Nevertheless,” declared the senior editor inexorably, “you left an innocent man for dead.”

“Fix it.” Cheelo’s tone was harsh and uncompromising. “I know what the media can do. After all charges are dropped, I want my permanent record expunged. I’d like to start over, clean.”

“So you can fill it up again?” The editor sighed. “What you ask is doable. Expensive and awkward, but doable. Especially if what you say about scanning the wife holds up. What else?”

“Some credit in my account. I haven’t settled on a sum yet. We can work that out together.” His tone turned wistful. “You probably won’t believe me, but by letting myself get picked up I sacrificed a lot more money than you can imagine. More than that, I gave up a career.”

“How noble of you.” As the editor spoke, all three reporters were taking notes.
Notes,
Cheelo thought silently. That’s all any of us are: a bundle of somebody else’s notes. When we die, we’re all dependent on the notes made by others. Unless we take the time to make some ourselves.

“One more thing.” He pushed the alien scri!ber toward Shannon. “I want everything that’s on here published. I don’t know what that means in this case, or how you’d go about doing it, because it’s not like human poetry. But I want it
done
. I want it all published and disseminated. Among the thranx as well as here on Earth.”