Peter David - After Earth

He knew Virginia would do her job, protecting the perimeter while he went after the beast, but he had no idea if she’d still be there when the mission ended. A part of him was planning a future that included her, but with every step forward he was trampling that dream, risking the first tangible happiness he’d had in years.

The deserted stalls appeared to frustrate it, and the Ursa tore through thin metal and wood and Plasticine as if they were all cotton-weight fabric. Behind it, Kincaid could spot two more Rangers in addition to the one who had charged toward it. That one could not be seen, and he hoped the man was not dead.

He spied the Rangers deploying their cutlasses. Lightweight and versatile, cutlasses could quickly morph into a dozen or more shapes depending on need. Right now, all the Rangers’ weapons appeared to be in sickle formation, clearly intended to hobble as many of the creature’s legs as possible and bring it down. Of course, first they had to catch the thing.

Then Kincaid saw another Ranger spring from hiding, his cutlass shaped like a needle, and fly toward the beast, ready to pierce its tough hide. The Ursa, though, must have smelled the man and reared up on its hind legs, the forward limbs shredding him in the air. Organs and blood spilled to the ground moments before the dead body followed. The Ursa roared not so much in triumph but because it could.

Quickly, it turned around and charged toward the Rangers, who scattered out of its way. The creature chased the ones who ran to the left.

This was Anderson’s chance. He rushed forward and grasped the fallen Ranger’s cutlass. Now that he was wielding it, there was little to differentiate the corpsman from the Ranger, and Kincaid recognized he had a debt to repay, first to the woman who had saved his life and then to his family’s legacy.

He had to move carefully to avoid alerting the monster but also so that he wouldn’t slip on the messy pools of blood, viscera, and squashed fruit. The sickly-sweet smells made him want to gag, but he swallowed it down and kept approaching the beast as it continued its charge toward the Rangers. The other Rangers were out of sight; either they had run away or they were stealthily approaching it.

The siren finally cut off, and Kincaid whispered thanks to the heavens, just as his mother had taught him.

He focused his hearing and heard the clatter of taloned paws moving the Ursa along, the cracking of worn wood, and the crackle of the cutlass in his hand.

Then he heard a different sound, a low, plaintive resonance. Not human and most certainly not Ursa. It then struck him that livestock was also on display at the market, mostly as a petting zoo for the kids while the parents shopped. Demonstrations were put on to teach the children how the animals contributed to society. These were not happy noises, and he heard shuffling about. The animals were spooked, and that could only mean the Ursa had decided it was lunchtime.

Kincaid crept closer, hands tightening and retightening their grip on the cutlass. He had never hefted one before and had no real clue how to make it alter its configuration. If the scythe shape was particularly sharp, that might be all he needed.

An animal cried out, with others repeating the sound at a lower volume, and he knew the Ursa had slaughtered one, maybe a horse. He hoped to catch the Ursa unaware, preoccupied as it was with eating whatever poor animal had lost its life before its time.

He worked close to the pens, and as he rounded one corner, he came upon the remains of more Rangers. One’s torso had been torn apart; another’s head was severed from the neck. The man’s head had rolled a few feet away, the look of shock on its face frozen in place, a sight Kincaid wanted to forget immediately. Instead, it seemed to find a place in his mind, right next to the image of the charging Ursa at the playground when he was a child.

The Ursa paused in its consumption, suddenly aware of Kincaid’s presence. Sightless, it turned toward him but held its ground. Dim light reflected off the smart metal protruding in a haphazard pattern around its body. No way could a single shot from that distance take out the beast. Heck, pulsers were useless at point-blank range. Kincaid had to get closer but was having trouble making his feet move. Perhaps the Ursa would have to come his way; it was a terrifying thought.

He knew that if it imprinted on him and his fear, it would hunt him down until one or the other was dead. Kincaid had other plans for his death—first and foremost being that it would not be for a long time—and so he did the only thing he could: shuffled backward, away from the creature, hoping it would stay to finish its meal. There were still Rangers operating and no doubt more coming. The Rangers’ main mission was to protect the world; his primary job was to protect the citizens here , right now.

To his surprise, the beast took a bite of intestine and proceeded to ignore him. He couldn’t fathom it. The things were supposedly killing machines. The only thing he could surmise was that the Ursa considered him too puny or weak to charge right now. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other, he felt vaguely insulted.

Making no sudden movements, Kincaid headed toward the periphery of the market. He heard human sounds and stopped to listen: They were coming from underneath a collapsed fabric stand. Judiciously stepping over debris, he approached the mound of colorful fabrics and sundries. Individually, each bolt of cloth was light enough, but one atop the other, they created a weight that clearly had someone pinned beneath.

He kicked over a few bolts and called out, “Who’s there?”

“Miranda,” a whimpering voice replied.

“Hi, Miranda. I’m Anderson, and I’m here to free you. Are you hurt?”

“My arm,” she said, and gasped.

He knew about arm injuries and quickly began shoving the fabric out of the way. As he dug through at least a yard’s worth of cotton, wool, linen, and other materials, he encountered wooden and metallic shelving that had gotten tangled up with the bolts and was not loosening easily. He strained at a particularly stubborn bit of metal, and his right arm ached.

Kincaid rarely thought about what made his left arm unique, but he knew that it didn’t tire, didn’t ache, and was far more durable than his right arm. He tried never to rely on its superior strength—he insisted his doctors calibrate it to male norms—but he also knew it was never a precise process and the prosthetic arm remained somewhat stronger. Now he wanted super strength, the kind he remembered from stories he had heard as a child of strong men such as Samson and Superman. He now wanted to be as mighty as they were for real and save Miranda.

As he applied all the pressure he could muster, the metal began to crumple in his hand, which closed viselike. He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his neck, chest, and legs begin to strain. Still, he didn’t let go, and bit by bit the metal began to give in to the pressure. With a popping sound, it twisted and finally came free, nearly pulling Kincaid off his feet. After regaining his footing, he reached within the opening he had created and continued to yank bits of metal and wood and cloth away. He managed to create an opening and paused to peer within.

Miranda had to be fifteen, if that, and was a redhead with long curls that flowed over her yellow dress, which was now bloody and torn. The arm she complained about was pinned beneath a sewing machine, and she was lying at an angle that prevented her from moving it herself.

“Hi,” he said to calm her.

She grunted and gave him a panicked look. “I can’t feel it,” she said.

That didn’t sound good at all. He renewed his efforts and managed to reach the machine from his side of the mess. Using the cutlass as a pry bar, he levered the machine high enough for her to move her entire body, taking the limp arm from underneath. She began moving toward the opening he’d created. He pulled her through and then stood her up. He gingerly reached for her to examine the arm, but she threw herself at him and gave him a one-armed hug.