Space Chronicles: The Last Human War (5 page)

During his search for food, Simon forgot about the master predators. New urgency gripped him. Hunting sounds had come from the west. He pulled two branches off the tree, each laden with a dozen ripe fruit pods, and slung them over his shoulder before heading directly opposite the hicay wail. While traveling, he looked for anything that might be used as a weapon—a rock, a heavy stick—anything to fight off a hicay.

He
used all his youthful strength to sustain a torrid pace. After he did not hear hicay cries for quite some time, he decided it was safe to take a break. His brutal pace consumed fluids and energy. Fortunately, his supply of Topi seeds provided both.

“
Food’s not my biggest problem,” he said to himself after seeing several more fruit trees, each loaded with ripe fruit.

During his school years,
a Tanarac biology teacher described how hicays hunt and explained the animal’s physiology. He prepared his students in case they ever ran into a hicay in a quarry.

T
he teacher had said, “Safety is on top of a stripper plow. Heavy carnivores cannot jump that high or lift their body mass enough to climb ladders.”

An idea formed.
Simon would join the Chik-Chik tree dwellers off the ground. He began studying trees as he traveled, seeking those that would get him safely off the jungle floor. Most were little more than tall bushes, certainly unable to stand up to the fury of an angry hicay. He needed large, thicker trees that acted as pillars for the top canopy far above.

That’s it
.
At the first sign of a hicay, I’ll climb the nearest hardwood tree
.

Simon penetrated deep into the Central Jungle, sustaining the fastest pace he could. Thirst became a
persistent problem, and he realized he would not have another gulp of fresh water until the fog returned that night. Fresh fruit was his only source of liquids, so the young man adjusted his pace to match his limited fluid intake.

At nightfall,
he located a large hardwood tree and used its uneven bark and thick vines as handholds to scale its massive trunk. He stopped at the first major branching, a bit higher than the top of a stripper plow and settled in for the approaching night. The uncomfortable limb made his legs lose circulation, forcing him to stand on the branch periodically, until his legs felt better.

What if I fall asleep?

Vines wrapped the tree trunk from the ground to the canopy above. Each heavy vine split into thin shoots, traveling out along the big tree’s major branches.

S
everal small vines tore free easily, and, stripped off the leaves, they braided into crude rope, tethers he used to tie himself into his lofty perch. As last light ebbed, Simon fumbled with empty seedpods he had saved throughout the day.

Noises seem
ed louder at night. It surprised him how much animal activity there was after dark. His acute hearing detected the subtle snap of a twig below. Some heavy ground-dweller foraged in the dark directly beneath his sanctuary.

The
close howl of a hicay pierced the night. Deep grunts and sounds of a violent struggle followed as an unseen victim fought for its life. Three fierce predator calls later, the clash ended. Total silence set in.

Simon shivered but was not cold. He tugged at his safety
harness for reassurance before sleep overpowered his exhausted body.

The life-giving fog reformed during the night, and he awoke to the splatter of water on his ear. He unconsciously cocked his head, mouth open, to capture some of the precious liquid. Buttocks tingled from being in one position on the hard limb all night. He made a mental note to figure out a better way to spend nights in the trees. Stretching as best he could, he waited for safe light to descend.

As d
arkness began to lift, Simon reached into his utility pockets and withdrew several empty fruit skins. The previous day, he carefully extracted seeds using only a small round hole at the top of each pod. He positioned one of the empty fruit skins directly under the nearest rivulet of water. When it was full, he gently tightened a tiny vine around its opening to seal the water inside.

After
stowing the small, improvised water-pouch in one of his empty tool pockets, he repeated the process with some of his remaining seedpods. No single pod held much water, but he knew this collective supply would make a big difference in his travel. After tossing leftover skins into the clearing below, he looked down the tree’s trunk for handholds.

Strange
quiet filled the jungle. Simon hesitated, having experienced the same feeling before Adam was attacked. He scanned the clearing below and noticed subtle movement under a short bush at the far side. A long gray snout with stiff whiskers popped out near its base. The muzzle of a harmless chukka alternated between sniffing the air and nosing under moss for edibles.

The pudgy creature followed its nose
toward the base of Simon’s tree. When it found one of the discarded seedpods, it began eating noisily. The chukka suddenly froze, even its whiskers stopped moving. Nothing moved. The entire jungle seemed on alert.

S
ilence-shattering screams exploded below him as a hicay lurched around the base of the hardwood tree and pounced on the frantic jungle pig. This was the second time he witnessed a hicay kill.

The carnivore
only needed two powerful slashes from its forearm claws to disembowel the Chukka. It circled the dying animal several times before seizing its throat and lifting the entire jungle pig off the ground. Carrying the heavy prey into the brush, the hicay made no effort at stealth as it headed north with its still moving fresh meat.

Simon’s heart pounded. It was clear what would have happened if he had climbed down from his safe haven only moments earlier.

How long do I wait before dropping down from my safe perch? What direction should I go? I’m sure not heading north.

After watching the hicay
attack, it became apparent there was no hope of finding an effective weapon against these killers. His only defense would be to put as much distance as possible between himself and each beast. Fortunately, the one below would be feeding for a while. In that instant, Simon realized he must leave—immediately.

T
he young man summoned all his courage and climbed down from his shelter. He headed southeast as fast as he could travel and only interrupted his pace long enough to take food and water. Each time he stopped, he took the precaution of climbing a tree so he could eat safely.

Toward
the end of the day, he found a tree that was unusually large. Its gnarled bark made for easy climbing. Main lower limbs were much thicker than those from his previous night’s perch. While eating seeds, he noticed the jungle looked different here. Vegetation was not as dense and more light came through openings in the jungle canopy. He could even see patches of blue sky.

Framed in one of those sky openings was a rocky peak, towering in the distance. It
called to him, just as the jungle had when he was back in the Tanarac quarry. The allure was irresistible.

Simon
stared at the mountain peak while he ate. After climbing down from the tree, he began a purposeful drive toward that distant peak, stopping only once to replenish his fruit supply at a Topi tree.

A
pproaching darkness demanded sanctuary, so he sought out the nearest hardwood tree and climbed to safety. After weaving vines to create a primitive nest, he inserted small branches, thick with leaves, into the latticework. The leaf padding proved far more comfortable than his bare-wood perch did the night before.

Simon looked forward to the night’s rest. He was almost asleep when noisy rustling
came from bushes below. To his shock, it was not a jungle creature that emerged, but two heavily armed Tanarac soldiers. They entered the clearing with handheld lights illuminating the area.

He had seen alien soldiers before in camouflaged uniforms at a quarry dedication ceremony.
These men were hunting him. There was no other explanation. To the best of his knowledge, no Tanarac ever entered the Central Jungle looking for “runners.” Crazy humans were simply allowed to die, presumably at the fangs of hicays. Only a personal attack on a Tanarac by a human might provoke such an exception.

They’re looking for me
. I won’t make it easy for them.

The young
man did not move a muscle while the soldiers set up camp below. He noticed how much larger and heavily muscled these soldiers were than typical Taskers. They were even a darker blue skin. The leader seemed to be struggling with a malfunctioning communicator. After attempting to use it several times, he chittered something in anger and threw it to the ground.

S
oldiers set out four area lights and ate some kind of rations. When done, the leader spoke to his comrade who immediately obeyed by slipping into a sleeping bag. The leader leaned against his pack with some kind of weapon resting across his thighs.

Simon listened to sounds of the jungle and watched the soldiers t
ake turns on guard-duty. At some point, he must have dozed off because when he awoke, the soldiers had exchanged places. He could not judge how long he had slept.

That night seemed like it would never end.
He wondered if they would discover him in morning light. Trapped, his only option was to remain motionless and hope for an opportunity to escape. Maybe they would leave in the morning without even noticing him.

Despite spending his entire life in work camps, this was the first time
the former POW camp worker felt like Tanaracs were his enemies. His lifetime of programming portrayed them as benevolent caretakers. Now, he truly feared them.

The edge of the horizon began turning the faintest blue, and jungle features started to become recognizable
. Simon’s adrenaline surged. Despite lack of sleep, he was ready to flee at the first chance.

The soldier on guard-duty nodded, his head slumping onto his chest as he
lost his struggle to remain awake. The second scout was fast asleep in his sleeping bag.

Simon’s thoughts raced.

Maybe I should run now while they’re both sleeping.

The guard shook his head in an effort to stay awake and glanced around the clearing. He even glanced up in the direction of Simon’s hiding place without noticing the human
tucked among the leaves of the improvised nest.

Simon
tensed.

With his complete attention on the soldiers,
he failed to notice the telltale silence that befell the jungle. The change in jungle pitch, however, was not lost on the soldiers below. The guard made a subtle clicking sound to his sleeping comrade, and, in one swift motion, both soldiers stood with their weapons at the ready. Positioned back to back, they peered into the jungle around them.

A bush moved. A twig broke. Another bush moved ever so slightly. Then, the jungle erupted around the soldiers. Hicays attacked from several hiding places simultaneously. In the dim light
before sunrise, the flash from a soldier’s pulse weapon temporarily blinded Simon. A hicay screamed. He could not tell if the animal was in pain or reacting in anger.

The attack was brief
. Hicays retreated into bushes, staying just out of sight but making no effort at being quiet. Moments later, they attacked again. Several more flashes exploded from soldiers’ weapons, although this time, there were no hicay shrieks of pain.

Bright energy
bursts made it difficult for Simon to see. He could only listen to the skirmish below as attacks and weapon discharges repeated several times over the next few minutes. The hicays seemed to have adjusted to the soldier weapons, using nearby brush for cover until they attacked, and then retreating quickly, before the soldiers could take proper aim.

The mass attacks ended as quickly as they began.
Soldiers packed up their camp in a hurry. They chirped excitedly, but he had no idea what they were saying.

The scouts
disappeared into the jungle in the same direction from which they had come. Deep-throated growls followed them and grew distant as the beasts stalked the soldiers.

Even though the hicay sounds were
gone, Simon was afraid to descend. He filled his water pouches with condensation from the morning mist and stored them while he waited for some indication that it was safe to leave.

A small fern at the far edge of the clearing brushed aside and out waddled several baby chukkas, rooting
under jungle mulch in search of food. Moments later, adults joined them, and the usual jungle sounds returned.

Taking his cue from the jungle creatures, Simon dropped into the midst of the chukka pack, sending startled animals scurrying in every direction. He ignored their snorts and hurtled a scampering animal as he ran in the direction of the rocky peak.

His pace carried new urgency. It was no longer enough for him to survive the jungle. Soldiers were hunting him.

Dr. Hadje’s fear came to pass only two days later. The Governing Council met in emergency session, and General Tragge’s impassioned words rang out with greater impact than ever before.

“How many times must I come before you?” He pounded the podium with his fist. “How many times must I beg this assembly of learned governors to exercise the strength of will and good judgment to put the interests of our people above our noble experiment with humans? For three hundred years, we acted in good faith. For three hundred years, we lived by higher standards than any other race in the galaxy,” he paused for effect, “and, for those three hundred years, our people suffered. Why? To protect human
s from extinction. Yes, we honored our moral code,” the general emphasized each word, “for three . . . hundred . . . years.”

General Tragge took a sip of water. The skilled military-politician knew there were growing numbers of pragmatists in government who were deeply concerned about the price Tanarac paid for living by higher principles.

The human attack at Quarry 33 seemed clear. Three hundred years of sacrifice might have been in vain. Humans were still violent. The wily general believed if he allowed time for his peers to wrestle with the dilemma, they would be more receptive to his solution. After a carefully planned delay, the general cleared his throat into his microphone. Discussion subsided.

“My fellow Tanaracs, I would never violate any of our deeply held principles, nor would I ask any of you to do so. We are a peace-loving race.”

He knew this was exactly what moderate politicians needed to hear.

“I submit to you my proposal for debate. The Human Solution Act is quite simple and remains consistent with Tanarac principles. No harm will come to a single human living under our protection. They will continue to live in peace, enjoying all the benefits they presently have, until the end of their natural life spans. My bill simply directs that we cease human reproduction at our Human Genetics Institute. Let the experiment end. In less than half of a Tanarac lifetime, we will be free of the burdens we have endured for three centuries. It is ethical. It is necessary.”

General Tragge aimed a clicker at a large screen nearby and a picture of Simon appeared before the council.

“As evidence to support the necessity for my Human Solution Act, I submit my report on a recent incident at Quarry 33. This violence illustrates the failure of our present human policies better than any words I can offer. Read it. Read it, before you vote. Thank you for your patience and consideration.”

Dr. Hadje offered a rebuttal, arguing passionately against the general’s motion. He branded the proposed law as slow genocide, but when asked for a plausible alternative to the general’s plan, he had nothing to offer but the same old failing programs.

The Council deliberated less than a day, and the general’s proposal passed.
The doctor saw his life’s work ending. Humanity was condemned. The Human Solution Act became law.

The scientist-politician
could not sleep for days. Most of the time, he sat stoically in an overstuffed chair, ruminating about what had gone so terribly wrong.

“
Why did my genetic alterations fail?” he asked himself aloud. “My theories seemed so sound. How does some human DNA manage to re-integrate itself after being altered?”

This was a persistent and troubling pattern. Genetic changes
to diminish aggression worked in some humans but not all. Why? How could human DNA spontaneously repair itself?

The head
of Human Affairs fretted about his scientific and diplomatic failure.

“
If only I had a piece of the male’s skeleton. Perhaps there is an explanation. If only—”

He bolted upright in his chair.

“That’s it!” Dr. Hadje shouted.

The obsessed scientist grasped at the slim possibility and found a thread of hope.

“Simon’s DNA is the key,” he talked to himself as he got dressed. “If there is a logical explanation for the human’s behavior, then perhaps I can offer the Council doubt about their decision. The vote was very close. If I can change only two Governor’s minds, I might save this program . . . and the human race.”

His
depression lifted in an instant. He crossed the room to an antique desk next to his bed. A frayed, hardcover journal lay at the center of his desktop, opened to its last few yellowed pages. He read his life diary entry from two days before. It chronicled the impending extinction of a galactic race due to his political and scientific failure.

The page to the right was blank.
He tapped it with a single finger while he thought. It had yet to be written. Tanarac tradition held that when you die, your life journal, written in your own hand using the ancient, family stylus on thick parchment, would be enshrined in your library to stand forever as a testament to your contributions in life.

After some time, Dr. Hadje took his
ancestral writing quill, passed down through many generations, and dipped it a little deeper into the inkwell than necessary. Extra ink would create a bold entry, an entry that would stand out to all who might someday judge his life. He entered the date, and wrote one simple sentence.

“If it takes the rest of my life, I will find the human, Simon.”