Dean Koontz - Beastchild

Docanil had closed his eyes, for he did not need them now. The exterior cameras fed sight data directly to his brain — that super brain that could interpret all sensations much more thoroughly and readily than the average organic mound of gray tissue.

The copter swept up the mountainside, following the road that its radar gear said existed beneath the billowing, undulating dunes of snow.

Banalog had never seen so much snow in his life. It had begun snowing steadily only yesterday afternoon, and in one day had put down almost a foot. The occupation force meteorologists said the end was not in sight. It looked as if the storm could last another six or eight hours and put down another half foot of the white stuff. Not only was it a record breaker in duration and amount of precipitation (in naoli experience) but also in the area it blanketed. It stretched all along the top of what used to be called the States, from the Mid West to the New England coastline. It would have held the traumatist enthralled, had not the Hunter also fascinated him.

The copter drifted on, flying itself, only twenty-five feet above the land.

They were almost to the top of the mountain when Docanil opened his eyes, leaned forward, kicked the automatic pilot off, and took control of the machine.

"What is it?" Banalog inquired.

Docanil did not answer. He brought the copter around, headed back down the mountain for a few hundred feet, then set the machine to hover.

Banalog looked out the windscreen, studied the area that seemed to concern the Hunter. He could make out only what appeared to be a few guardrails thrusting above the snow, a tangle of safety cable, and a great deal of drift.

"What?" he asked again. "I'm supposed to help you if I can."

He thought the Hunter almost smiled; at least he came closer to it than any Hunter the traumatist had ever seen.

"You help me to think ahead of Hulann. I can pick up the trail myself. But since you are curious… Do you see the rails and the cable?"

"Yes."

"The rails are crooked, as if they have been partially uprooted or bent out of shape. The cable is broken. See how it meanders across the snow. Something has struck here. Perhaps they have already died. See the drift ahead? They could have swerved to miss that."

Banalog licked his lips. He wanted to twine his tail about his leg, but knew the Hunter would see. "I didn't know you were so sensitive to clues this small or to — "

"Of course," Docanil the Hunter said.

He took the copter over the rails and down the side of the mountain, handily avoiding the pipes, swerving through breaks in them that Banalog did not even see until they were upon them, zigging and zagging, using the stiff wind that tried to batter their craft, moving with it instead of against it.

"There," Docanil said.

Banalog looked. "What? I see nothing."

"Between the two columns of rock. The car."

If the traumatist looked closely, strained his big eyes until they watered, he was able to make out pieces of a shuttlecraft body peeking through the snow, no section more than a few inches square.

"The vehicle is on its side," Docanil said. "And it is the one they escaped in."

"They're dead?"

"I don't know," the Hunter said. "We will stop and look."

Leo was roused by the stuttering blades of a copter. He sat up on the plush couch and listened closely. The noise was gone now, but he was certain he had not dreamed it. He sat very tensely for a time. At last, he got up and went to the windows, walked from one to the other. There was nothing but the trees, the snow, and the hotel grounds.

Then the sound came again.

A helicopter. Close.

He ran across the room to where Hulann slept, shook the naoli's shoulder.

Hulann did not respond.

"Hulann!"

Still, he did not move.

The sound of the copter faded, then came back again. He could not tell if it was coming closer or not. But he knew it was almost a certainty that the passengers of that machine were looking for he and Hulann. He continued to harass the sleeping alien, but with no more luck than before. There are only three ways to wake a naoli from his nether world slumber.

Docanil the Hunter clambored out of the smashed shuttlecar, walked across the side of the twisted wreck, and jumped to the ground, sinking in snow up to his knees. Despite the difficult conditions, he moved with grace and catlike quiet.

"Are they dead?" Banalog asked.

"They are not there."

Banalog managed to keep his relief from showing. He should have been anxious for the Hunter's success and against anything that benefited the renegades. Irresponsibly, he felt just the opposite. He wanted them to escape, to find refuge, to survive. Deep within, he was aware of what the Phasersystem said would happen if humans survived. A hundred years from now, two hundred, and they would find a way to strike back. His irresponsibility, if it became popular, would be a danger to the race. Yet… He did not stop to analyze himself. He did not dare.

They boarded the chopper again.

Docanil pulled the patch-ins from their slots and reconnected himself to the exterior pickups. The cords dangled. When the copper alloy needles had slid into his flesh, he started the machine and — keeping it under manual control — took it up into the grayness.

"What now?" Banalog asked.

"We quarter the mountain."

"Quarter?"

"You are not familiar with search techniques."

"No," Banalog agreed.

The Hunter said no more.

At length, after they had danced back and forth, up and down a relatively small portion of the slope for some time, Docanil brought the copter in over a pylon boarding station that was part of an aerial cableway running from the base of the mountain to the top.

"There," he hissed, as excited as a Hunter could get.

Again, Banalog could see nothing.

Docanil said, "Ice. See? Broken from the steps. And it has been melted from the control board recently." The helicopter passed over the platform; he brought it around once more. "They've used the cablecar. Also notice that the ice has been broken from the cable going to the top of the slope, though it still remains on the cable leading to the bottom. They went up."

He turned the copter; they fluttered toward the peak.

The cable ran by below them.

The Swiss-styled header station laid ahead, becoming visible through the snow.

Leo had heard stories of naoli and the condition they entered when they slept and when they drank alcoholic beverages. He knew there were other ways to wake them, but he did not know what they were. He had only heard about the application of pain, heard about it from spacers who had been in the outer reaches, among the many races of the galaxy. He did not want to hurt Hulann. There was no other choice.

The chopper was working closer now, swaying back and forth directly down the slope from them, around the cableway system. He could hear it coming gradually closer, then receding, only to come back again.

"Hulann!"

The naoli did not respond, and there was no time to try anything but that which he knew would work. He stood and ran through the lobby, along a corridor and into the main dining hall. The tables were set, everything ready for a full house — except dust had collected on the silverware. Leo moved between the tables, through the double doors at the rear of the room and into the large hotel kitchen. In moments, he found the knife and went back to the lobby.

He knelt next to the couch where Hulann slept. His hands shook as he brought the blade forth, and he dropped it as if it were red hot the first time the gleaming point touched the tough alien skin. He looked at the knife on the carpet and could not bring himself to lift it.

The helicopter's engine changed tone. Then, the roar of it grew steadily louder. It was coming directly for the hotel!