Its eight legs, the saber-tooth mandibles and the huge, fully retractable eyes gave the monster the appearance of an ant, an illusion spoiled only by its reptilian movements and the tail. Hence the name.
“It’s so cute! Why can’t we get one for a pet, Daddy?”
Andrea’s amazement at the resilience and malleability of a child’s mind made her smile. In Cindy, Andrea was looking across a psychological gap as great as the physical gulf between Earth and Phoenix. She’d never understand Cindy’s acceptance of this true bug-eyed monster. Ironically, Andrea had begun to regard herself as the feral child “rescued” from the “wilds,” and who would never adapt, only because the opportunity was past and other matters now occupied those brain cells.
For the good of her children, she realized, she had no option but to cultivate alienness in them.
The thought stung.
“DEMONSTRATION IN 15 MINUTES. DEMONSTRATION IN 15 MINUTES.”
A little too abruptly, Andrea gathered Cindy up and hurried to the building, along with scores of other small children and their mothers. Through a door at one end of the long blank wall they entered a different world—windowless, bright, colorful and filled with every conceivable toy. The children streamed in and dispersed with the rush and turbulence of fast water. The moms followed slowly, swirling and mixing in the eddies, greeting one another. Some, like Andrea, hoped for a few words with other newcomers like themselves.
“Julie! Hi! Over here. Is it Harry’s time this year?”
“No, no. He’s over there. Jonathan?”
“Yes. He and Bill are watching the demonstration. I’ll be going with them for the shooting later. Can you keep an eye on Cindy then?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, I hate this, Julie. Jonathan’s only six.”
Julie suddenly seemed close to tears. “I know. I can’t stand the thought of Harry doing it next year, either.” She shook her head to regain control.
Then the two transplanted women fell silent. Their eyes lost focus and they listened involuntarily for clues about the mayhem taking place back at the tree.
As Andrea watched the children at play she could visualize all too well what was going on outside. Inside the windowless play room most of the other moms, native-born obviously, were relaxed and engaged in chit chat, as nursery employees brought a caged animal (usually some native rodent-like climber) to the base of the tree.
Cindy, recognizing a friend, ran around in circles with her, screaming merrily, as the cage was lifted by a crane to the top of the tree.
Julie’s son finally had his chance at a vid game, biting his lip and smiling in turns, as a spring-loaded latch released, opening the cage, dumping the helpless animal into the treetop.
Cindy and her friend settled down to play house, serving tea to a stuffed toy animal propped up in a chair, as the animal got its bearings in the tree. The leaden foliage gave no warning rustle as the reptant streaked through the branches toward its victim.
Even if the doomed intruder had time to react, there would be no escape. If talons and mandibles didn’t get it, a long tongue, tip barbed like a harpoon, could spear it lightning-fast as much as six meters away. Then it would haul its victim in and hold it, the razor mandibles cutting through flesh and bone in order to free the tongue. Holding the trespasser in its grappling hook grip (eyes fully retracted into its skull for protection) the reptant’s arm and leg talons would rip the animal’s body, almost or already dead, to ribbons.
A horrific scream penetrated faintly into the play room. It shocked some of the women back to the moment, and went unheard by the others, or by the children.
By this time the reptant would have dropped its victim’s remains from the tree. Cindy hugged a stuffed toy reptant, spun and fell into a sea of pillows.
“Weeeeeeeeee…!”
For her daughter’s sake, Andrea urged her face into a smile.
Bill appeared at the door. His apologetic, almost embarrassed grin told Andrea that the time had come—time to leave Cindy in the care of toys and pillows and mothers without sons eager to embark on their manhood this year.
Jonathan was wide-eyed and jabbering as the three Formans walked toward the staging area. “Wow, Mom, that thing was fast! You should have seen it. The Phoenicoon never had a chance!”
Andrea smiled and let Bill quietly deflect Jonathan’s comments away from her. Deflect but not stop. The boy was a torrent. So much to absorb. So much to filter through trusted ears and minds.
Andrea savored the sound of her husband’s voice, and the feel of his arm around her waist. Umbrellas in an unpleasant rain.
They entered a miniature forest of potted reptant saplings. Jonathan was off on a frenetic run, darting randomly from tree to tree, to touch, feel, judge. Andrea and Bill followed at a leisurely stroll, defining the mathematical average of their son s Brownian motion through the place.
When at last Jonathan settled on one particular tree, Bill went over and squatted next to him. Together they appraised the choice. Bill droned on comfortably about height, texture, color, smell, and prospects for it to survive replanting. He had an arm draped casually over Jonathan’s shoulders. Those strong, expressive arms and hands. They said more to Andrea than her taciturn man ever spoke.
While nursery employees took the tree to a cubicle reserved for them, the Formans proceeded to the cages.
The baby reptants reacted sluggishly to the excited faces and the little boys’ fingers tapping on their flex-glass cages. The animals, all roughly the size of newborn puppies, were rounder and softer looking than the adult in the big tree. Only those oversized eyes betrayed them. No youthful trust and eagerness there. Only disdain.
Yet Andrea felt an odd sympathy for the immature ghoul Bill and Jonathan finally selected. Was there a universal attraction for the young of any species, or was it her awareness that her own son was about to…
She should be glad, she knew, should relish this little revenge. But she only felt dread—partly for her son’s upcoming ordeal, and partly for her own.
“Mom? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”
Andrea smiled uncertainly. It was the look in Bill’s eyes that gave her the strength to say, “Sure, son.”
Jonathan carried the reptant cage to the cubicle where their tree waited. The boy was strangely subdued. He would glance at the reptant, then stare forward moodily. Reality seeping in. Andrea wanted to hug him and take him away from this. But she couldn’t. This was a man’s rite of passage.
The cubicle, four meters wide and six long, consisted of tent walls three meters high on all four sides. Bill pulled aside the entrance flap and let Andrea and a quiet Jonathan in.
Along the opposite end, a flexglass wall one meter high ran against the tent wall at the back, forward along both sides, then it turned and formed a partition that bisected the area into two equal parts. Inside this flexglass enclosure, at the back of the cubicle, stood the sapling. Formed into the flexglass wall, in the middle of the cubicle, was a tray with a white porcelain bowl and stainless steel surgical knives.
Bill leaned over the partition and set the cage on the ground. He took a short length of rope from a pocket, slipped one end through a latch on the cage and draped the other end over the partition.
“Ready, son?”
“I… I guess so.”
Bill’s rifle leaned against the flexglass wall. “Here, son, take this and get the feel of it. Just like we practiced.”