Local reindeer herders have learned to tolerate the overpopulated great cats’ constant depredations as a necessary evil. They try to keep their herds away from the areas where tigers prowl, but in any case they always expect a certain loss margin in the heads of cattle that will inevitably be taken as prey.
Hunters in the region avoid the tigers like the devil; regardless of how desperate they get, regardless of how few animals they have taken, they never shoot them. They even keep a close eye on their snares and traps to save any cubs that may have accidentally gotten caught in one.
Once more, though in a very different sense, the great cats are sacred to the sons of the taiga.
For the Ussuri tigers, life is easy and comfortable now. Domesticated reindeer are easier to bring down than their wild cousins or the giant elks. They reproduce unafraid that wolves or bears, decimated by hunters, could wreak havoc on their litters of cubs. No one hunts or harasses them…
Most of the time.
Three or four times a year, men from Planetary Security land on the taiga en masse. They serve as bodyguards to some visiting xenoid VIP, almost always a grodo or an Auyar who previously expressed a desire for some relaxation. And who paid a generous sum for the right to get it…
And what better entertainment than hunting the largest feline on the planet? Exciting, primitive, and… utterly exclusive.
The hunting party is organized with mathematical precision, with beaters, spotters, and tall hunting platforms from which the xenoids may fire their projectile or energy guns at their leisure, free from any risk that the desperate cats might leap high enough to reach them.
Generally, the tigers shot by each visitor number in the dozens, though it is said that some grodo or other who was an exceptionally good shot once managed to rack up a hundred kills.
Sometimes, if the top brass of Planetary Security, or of the Planetary Tourism Agency itself, deign to join the fun, by the end of the hunt the feline carcasses carpet the frozen ground so thickly that the snow, packed hard by the huge paws of the tigers as they tried to escape, is more red than white.
Occasionally guests from other worlds will capture a live cub and take it home with them on their hyperships, like some exotic striped souvenir of their trip to Earth.
They always leave loaded down with pelts, after the beast’s carcasses have been quickly and skillfully skinned by the experts from Planetary Security (who in the process recuperate the locator-transmitters). The rest of the pelts, either entire or reduced to handicrafts, along with the claws, teeth, and bones, become “luxury items” to be sold for steep prices in exclusive boutiques to the wealthiest xenoid tourists. Or they are exported to other worlds, to the same end.
When the humans who control the planet and the visitors who control the galaxy leave the site of the hunt, the wolves and birds of prey feast grandly on the formless skinned bodies of the dethroned kings of the taiga.
The shamans of the local tribes also rummage patiently through the trampled snow, recovering every fragment of skin, every hair, every tooth, every precious remain of their fallen gods, to use in making their time-honored protective amulets.
They jabber in their ancient tongues, which they still insist on speaking in addition to Unified Planetary, caressing the remains of the hunted cats. No one knows what they say…
But there are tears in their eyes and rage in the movements of their wrinkled hands when they drive their knives into the snow, and when they look to the sky, as if they are waiting for something…
The Rules of the Game
Raindrops? Come on, kid, run!
Damn these cloudbursts!
So crazy, it’s salty as seawater… And these Kevlar uniforms weigh a ton when they’re soaked.
Hurry up, inside!
Whew, out of breath… I can’t run like I used to. Good thing we’re inside now. And the night started out so pretty—you could even see the stars. With all these Auyar suborbital propulsion experiments, the atmosphere of this planet’s gone haywire. It’s as likely to rain as to hail. And always briny. Only thing left is snow in the middle of summer.
Wow, looks like a real gullywasher. Too bad we aren’t baby cucumbers, we’d make some fine pickles. Close the door and take your helmet off, like me. Make yourself at home, you know…
What? So, we won’t be able to control the perimeter?
Kid, use your gray cells, don’t make me change my mind about you. Who’d go patrolling when it’s cats and dogs out there? Looking for what?
Anyway, our only job is guarding this place—not the perimeter. If some cannibal cult was crazy enough to go swimming in this downpour and they decided to enjoy their menu right in front of our noses, it’s their problem, I’m staying put. Our responsibility stops at the electric fence around this place.
It’s a nasty job, you don’t have to tell me. The only worse job to pull is ship patrol—running around up there, chasing those idiots who try escaping the planet in their homemade rockets. Getting bored to death like an oyster out of water, that’s all you can do up there in orbit.
Though at least now and then they save some suicidal maniac from freezing solid up there in space. But this guard duty we pulled here makes about as much sense as searching for deposits of ice in the desert…
Nothing ever happens here in the Body Spares depository. There’s nothing to steal, and you can’t find anything much quieter than a body in suspended animation, human or not. Maybe just an actual corpse.
Truth is, keeping night watch here is a pretty stupid anachronism. A leftover from back when they didn’t really understand xenoid metabolism yet, and the boys upstairs were scared that some restless tourist might crawl out of his tank and cause problems zombying around out there while his mind was in another body.
The good part is, shifts here are two hours shorter than normal. Just to make sure we don’t commit suicide out of pure boredom… Especially in this rain. We can’t even watch people walking by.
Not having anything to do always makes me jittery…
Play cards? Sonny, you know as well as I do regulations say we can’t gamble on duty. Maybe some other time. I love hearts. And poker? Forget about it…
But it occurs to me right now all of a sudden that everything happens for a reason. That’s right, Markus—that’s your name, right?—I think we’re gonna find this salty rain as good as holy water. It’s gonna give us a little time to relax. I’ve been meaning to talk with you for quite a while…
Don’t tense up. Just a little talk between partners, not another exam. Basic training’s over. I just want to talk, one Planetary Security guy to another. Man to man. Forget that I’m a sergeant for now, doesn’t matter.
Truth is, right now we practically are the same rank. You’re a rookie agent, and I’m a sergeant in the doghouse…
No, it’s no secret, and it doesn’t bother me, I’ll tell you what happened: a stupid minor incident. This over-sensitive social worker, at the astroport a couple of weeks ago. Girl named Buca… Her face was smeared with that waterproof makeup they all use now, like a mask. I guess it helps them all look the same. And the xenoids love it.
I swear I tried to be nice to the little slut. I thought it was what she needed; she looked so nervous after one of those suicidal Xenophobe Union maniacs started a shootout. Though we neutralized him right away. And one of my agents got a little rude with her. I tried to fix things up—and, see what you get. Seems the girl didn’t like my style. And she complained to headquarters.
Happens every day. Normal procedure is, you file the complaint and that’s that. But some grodo had picked this Buca for incubation, so I was screwed. Complaints from the xenoid big fish always cause a stink in the corps—and that’s never good for us little guys. Something you’d better start learning now. Result? Sergeant Romualdo gets a full month of street patrols, night patrol every third night, and a cut in salary.