David Palmer - Emergence

Just a question of when.

And with whom…

Well, having made decision, resolved to give it best shot. Simple question of equity: Rollo’s commitment total; pledged time, efforts, plus contributing wealth of knowledge, experience. Doubtless find life in jeopardy before events reach dénouement. Entitled to fair return on investment.

(Harbored no genuine doubt as to physical ability to deliver own side of transaction.)

And never once considered possible out offered by suggestion would lose interest if I didn’t enjoy. Cheap-shot evasion. Fair is fair; promise is promise. Would try to be as merrily enthusiastic a partner as fondly remembered Sally.

Maybe better…

(Oh-oh…! Occurred to me then [speaking of fair]: Could hardly accept Rollo’s attentions, continue to exclude Adam, whom had known longer, and of whom, by this time, was very fond.)

Took deep breath, released slowly to establish control over emotions, voice. Stood, took another deep breath, opened mouth…

And before could announce decision, became suddenly, shockingly, horribly moot. Rollo, bustling about kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, got too close to Terry’s stand. Twin’s head shot out, huge bill halves closed, chopping golf-ball-sized gobbet from left tricep, shirt sleeve and all. Bobbed head gleefully, eyes glinting in malicious triumph, as flung bloody mess across kitchen; then crouched, wings half-spread, red-splattered bill gaping wide, poised to strike again.

Rollo gasped, eyes widening in shock. Spun, roaring with pain, rage. Drew back fist — containing heavy iron frying pan…! Would crush fragile avian skeleton like eggshell — Rollo about to murder my baby brother!

“Time slowed” ancient cliché. But happens — and happened then: Suddenly everything happening in slow motion. Had ample time to study every tiny detail as situation developed. Enough time to notice sequential tensioning of Rollo’s muscles, starting with abdominal, then chest, neck, shoulder, upper arm, forearm, as lethal swing began, pan accelerated in arc toward helpless sibling. Time to notice Adam’s expression of growing horror; mouth slowly opening to shout warning, protest: “ No-o — ”

Enough time to realize own body suddenly in motion. But without conscious volition; moving of own accord: Combat computer, conditioned-reflex matrix, engaged, in control. Mere passenger now in own body; relatively sluggish conscious mind powerless to interfere, alter outcome during next few milliseconds.

Felt, then heard own kiai rip from throat; watched self cross nearly ten feet separating us midair, spinning counterclockwise. Left heel intercepted Rollo’s forearm; limb folded in unnatural place, direction. Pan ripped from fingers, continued tangentially, well clear of intended victim.

Rollo’s neck corded, beginning motion that would turn rage-contorted features toward me. Muscles governing still functional right arm twitched; hand slowly formed claw, started my direction.

Already wasn’t there. Landed in stable cat stance, still passenger. Stepped under, past reaching limb; side-kicked spot just below hip. Femur broke with sound like snapping ax handle. Impact drove Rollo against wall, position from which could not fall away from blows.

Which continued as blocked still-reaching claw with forearm, ducked back under to front, unleashed hail of alternating lunge and reverse punches to clavicles, sternum, larynx, each powered to break bricks, driving through frail body tissues as if so much Jell-O.

Rollo began sideways motion to right, falling along wall toward damaged leg; but combat computer interpreted as flanking attempt. Clockwise spin-kick swept legs from under, sundering left knee at point of impact. Back-fist lashed out from continuing rotation, catching alongside jaw. Maxilla, mandible disintegrated with grinding sound.

Rollo hit perhaps another dozen times before conscious mind overtook events. Regained control as combat computer finished triphammer series of right-handed front-fist blows to upper thorax. Braced against rebounding from impacts by wall down which was sliding, Rollo absorbed blows’ total force internally: Ribs snapped like balsa; underlying structures turned to pulp.

Time resumed normal pace. Tail end of Adam’s cry echoed through kitchen: “ —o-o-o…! ” Rollo arrived on floor with mushy squish. Pan clattered against far wall, fell to floor.

Terry bobbed head, said, “How ’bout that.”

I uncoiled shakily, staring at ruin at feet. Looked up to meet Adam’s gaze. Stunned expression mirrored my own.

Essayed speech: “I didn’t mean… he would have killed…”

Tora-chan approached. Sat, surveyed body for long moment. Then stood, inspected mashed face; sniffed along broken length, head to foot. Moved off-side front paw along floor toward body, flipped upward: Same motion employed when covering mess in litter pan.

Tora-chan finished, glanced up with unmistakable cat smile. Purred. Performed luxurious head-dive on my ankle.

Next thing I remember is waking fully dressed following morning in own bed in trailer. Hugely depressed, but several minutes before remembered why. Adam supplied intervening details:

Went into shock, catatonia — whatever: nonresponding, physically inert, eyes-open stupor. Adam concluded immediate elimination of evidence, separation from scene best therapy.

Wiped Terry’s bill, placed bird on shoulder. Picked up stand, called Tora-chan.

Then, moving cautiously, watching closely lest Weapon still armed, took me by hand, led to trailer. Stripped me, pushed into shower, washed off blood, adhering meat scraps. Dressed me in clean clothes. Debated old outfit briefly; judged icky beyond salvage, plus now probably haunted. Pitched in toto .

Placed me in van. Then drove as if demons pursued. Continued far into night, until accumulated shock, nervous exhaustion, fatigue called halt — nearly conked out at wheel.

Put me to bed; started to get into own. But delayed reaction arrived then: Pitched such hysterical fit that Adam (hasn’t said, but probably at considerable personal risk) sedated me. Finally climbed in with me, held me until asleep before adjourning to own bed.

Ten days now since killing. Beginning to come to grips with guilt.

Adam big help: Pointed out, and cannot disagree, am no more responsible for Rollo’s death than unfamiliar firearm with which had managed to shoot himself. Am Sixth Degree Black Belt. And female. Terry my sibling/child-substitute.

Rollo’s murderous lunge triggered maternal protective instinct, which in turn set off conditioned-response matrix at starkest level. Probably wouldn’t have reacted with such single-minded, nonstop efficiency if merely swung at me — but my retarded baby brother…!

Besides, had hurried me.

Okay. Absorbed that; do believe it. Intellectually.

Problem is, haven’t resolved it yet on gut level. Still hurts. Lots. Rollo nice man, basically good — certainly no saint, but frank about it. Made straightforward offer, value for value, yes or no, my choice. No doubt would have lived up to his end.

Adam thinks Terry sensed Rollo had violent temper; hence instant antipathy. Possibly. Equally possible: Just plain terribly painful bite — sure looked it. Adam disagrees; been hurt accidentally himself by people, once seriously. Managed without going musth.

Granted. But even if true, character flaw only; not capital crime. Nothing for which deserved to die. And could have prevented harm to Terry without killing, but for programmed response.

Therein lies hard-to-swallow part: Killed innocent person — unnecessarily. No getting around it: Unnecessarily. Unavoidably, true, given circumstances; but still unnecessarily.