Wait: right before it jumps-was an instinct more than a thought. Fortunate, because the Pavonosaur was quicker than human cognition. Even as Caine was realizing that the creature was going to give him a split-second opportunity to fire at a stationary target, the monster had half-contracted into its preparatory crouch.
Caine saw the torso rise into his sights; he fired three fast rounds. He rode the recoil of the last back down and kept firing, steady and sustained, about one round every second.
At least two of the first three hit: the Pavonosaur stopped just as it was about to uncoil upwards into its leap, tried to recover, caught another round square in the center of its chest. That produced a dark coppery-purple stain and a screech that was equal parts shock, pain, and indignation. It tried to reset for its jump, but Caine’s steady volume of fire kept the monster from regaining the initiative. Two rounds went wide or high: two more hit its torso-and the animal staggered back, either unaccustomed, or completely unadapted, to a flight reflex.
That moment of delay was the fateful-and fatal-moment in its attack. Caine’s bullets now hit regularly. More purple spattered outward, this time lower in the belly. Then a thin, pulsing spray-brighter and more coppery-at the base of the neck. Two more hits and the Pavonosaur slumped over with a crash that Caine could feel through the rock under his knees.
Caine breathed, was ready to indulge in a relieved forward sag-and realized that he had, at most, three rounds left in the clip. And if they hunt in pairs-
He was on his feet, right index finger pushing forward against the magazine release as his left hand tore open the cover of an ammo pouch and tugged out a fresh magazine. As the expended clip clattered at his feet, he brought the other up into the receiver, wrestled briefly to get it seated correctly, and then gave its bottom a sharp upwards slap. A crisp snap announced it was ready. Caine retrained the rifle on the bush that had vomited out the Pavonosaur: nothing.
Movement to the left-slow, silent-caught his attention: the biped? Still there?
He turned his head, careful not to have the barrel of the gun track along with his gaze.
The biped was still there-possibly staring back at him. Caine couldn’t tell because he couldn’t see anything that looked like eyes. A smallish and tightly-furred head-shaped like an edge-on tetrahedron-topped an improbably long neck that swayed slightly back and forth like that of an ostrich: that had been the motion Caine had noticed. The body, also closely furred, was akin to a wasp-waisted gibbon with comically long limbs and oddly-flanged hip joints. A knee-length, bifurcated tail flexed once, restively-and then each half pursued its own, independent prehensile coilings and unfurlings.
Now what? Want a nice banana, monkey? Take me to your leader? Let’s pretend this never happened?
Caine decided not to move, not to speak. Anything could be misunderstood-except what he was doing now. And with all animals-whether intelligent or not-the best outcome for any first encounter is not a breakthrough in communication, or peace-offerings, or an exchange of phone numbers: it can simply be measured by duration. The longer it is, the better it is-and the more likely that neither party will consider a second contact aversive.
So Caine stood and looked at the biped, which was evidently doing something similar in return. Caine started counting: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…
At “thirty,” the gangly gibbon-with-double-coati-tail was still there, scratching at one-thigh? — with half of his tail. Evidently, this degree of relief was insufficient; he/she/it reached out a hand-or paw, or something-that seemed to writhe at, rather than scratch, the troublesome spot.
Oh, well, if we’ve become comfortable enough for actual movement-Caine shifted the gun, looked down to check the time-and noted rapid motion from the corner of his eye.
The biped seemed to speed sideways into the bush, as though it had turned its hips without turning its torso, or had somehow rotated its legs at the hip. Either way, it was gone before Caine could blink.
Evidently, the biped’s prior decision to engage in unconstrained movement had not indicated a willingness to tolerate the same from Caine. Instead, the creature had reserved the exclusive right to run like hell at the faintest hint of action from the newcomer. Which was a perfectly reasonable choice, Caine reflected: had anyone taken a picture of him during his motionless half minute, they might well have titled the image, “Still Life of Human with Assault Rifle.” After what the local had seen that weapon do to a Pavonosaur, he/she/it had every reason to err on the side of extreme caution.
Local. I’m calling it a “local.” The assumption of intelligence-that’s a big step. But was it? Bipedal posture, opposable manipulatory digits, a voluntary return to danger in the hope of-what? — luring the Pavonosaur away from the hapless stranger? Or was it all on a par with African mountain gorillas-behaviors that mimicked, yet were not really indicative of, intelligence? One way to find out.
Caine moved off the rock slowly-both watchful for other predators and determined not to make any sudden motions that an unseen observer might find unsettling-and walked over to where the biped had stood. A quick scan revealed nothing. Caine followed the creature’s exit trajectory into the bush and again saw nothing-except a large, recently snapped frond stem. Caine frowned: odd. The creature seemed so adept at moving in the forests, it was hard to believe that it would have been so clumsy as to break-
No. That wasn’t what had happened.
Caine darted into the bush, scanning quickly-and five meters further on, found another freshly snapped tuber. No other damage to the foliage was evident: not a leaf turned back, not a weed crumpled underfoot. Nothing except the freshly exposed pith of the tuber, gleaming like a white trail-blaze. Which is exactly what the local was doing: leaving a trail.
Caine looked into the forest: yes, they were locals.
Chapter Nine
ODYSSEUS
Caine shifted the A-frame, ran a wet forearm across his more-wet brow, checked his watch: three hours until sunset and he was still playing follow-the-leader with the local. How long is this going to go on?
Caine could have spat at himself: as long as it takes, asshole. This is first contact: not something you fit into a convenient slot on your busy day-planner. He pushed on-
— and emerged onto a trail. An actual, groomed foot path, a little wide, by human standards. It would have been invisible had he not been looking for it: no visible damage to the surrounding vegetation, yet no growth in the harder-packed dirt, or starting up from the sides of stones worn smooth and flat. Weeds never got a chance to grow here.
Caine pulled out his palmtop, patched into the rudimentary GPS net, synced it to the survey maps, and as he waited for the machine to orient itself, he looked up and down the trail.
About ten meters to the left-roughly to the south-there was a broken vine: snapped clean, the two dusty-rose-colored cross sections stared at him like a pair of bright, pupilless eyes. Okay, that way then.
The palmtop flashed readiness: the broken vine was, in fact, due south. Just a kilometer further west-although he couldn’t see it through the canopy-was the foot of the nearest mountain. The local had been pushing in that direction until he reached this north-south trail. Caine zoomed out from the map, tapped the stylus on his current location, then again on the main ruins at the extreme southern edge of the screen, made a range inquiry. 102.4 kilometers. Altitude increase of 345 meters. He turned the palmtop off to save the batteries, looked south. Okay, so you want me to follow you south. Back the way I came. Are you trying to get me to go away, to return to my start point? Or do you think I’m lost and you’re trying to help me find my way back home? Or do you have something else in mind?