Larry Niven - Footfall

“We win. There are costs. Many deaths were caused by difficulties in perception. Our lives aboard Message Bearer haven’ prepared us to recognize what we see. Fithp have wandered of cliffs, or broken their legs in holes, or shied from something harmless into real danger. The human enemy finds the simples of hiding places indecently effective. In spotted green clothing they seem to vanish. Many have guns, yet even without guns they kill us. Pointed sticks fly from the greenery—” Chintithpit-mang’s voice trailed off, and his eyes focused on Fookerteh, as if seeing the mudroom for the first time.

“Fookerteh, I have applied to return to Message Bearer for mating season.”

Well you might. “You shall. I was told.”

“Good.” Chintithpit-mang walked into the mud, bringing a bow wave with him. He sank, eyes half-closed, and it seemed he would not speak again. Then, “I fear the paths my mind would walk if I missed mating season. I have already walked too far from the life I knew.”

“I came to learn such things.” The Attackmaster had never spoken of such. “Can you tell me how Pheegorun died? I’m told you were there.”

“I was there.” Chintithpit-mang was deep in the mud, eyes fully closed now, only his head protruding. “We were not even in danger. I cannot think — we behaved stupidly. Nonetheless we did not understand Africa as we do now.

“You must see the jungle. I will show you. We had tamed it when I arrived, though the cost was high. When I stepped off the float-fort I found Pheegorun examining what might have been a primitive digging tool. .

Chintithpit-mang spoke without body language. His voice was almost a monotone. It was as if the emotions raised by his terrible tale had long since been burned away, by time or by worse to come.

Pheegonin said, “Here, Eight-cubed Leader, you can see that there’s a blade moored to one end. The native throws the stick and hopes the blade-end hits one of us hard enough to penetrate skin.”

Were Pheegorün a friend, Chintithpit-mang would have swatted him across the shoulders. Mocker! But this was a subordinate, a sleeper, a stranger — “Are you in fact joking?”

“No. They make it work. They kill us with these. Why doesn’t it turn end for end? How can they throw it so hard?”

Chintithpit-mang considered. A long, thin mass would have the proper moment of inertia if it could be thrown straight. But how? “Perhaps if you hold it properly? At the end, perhaps?”

“Lead me.”—

Chintithpit-mang picked up the long shaft with just the tips of his digits. He raised it into place, above and behind his head, point foremost, and threw it. It traveled some four srupkithp and landed sideways.

Pheegorun tactfully said nothing. Chintithpit-mang said, “Pause. Maybe if I—” He retrieved the spear. This time he carefully wrapped all eight segments of his trunk the same way round. “Now when I let go, it should spin, right?”

“Lead me, Eight-cubed Leader.”

The spear traveled four srupkithp and landed sideways.

“Take it,” said Chintithpit-mang. “Give it to a prisoner and let him demonstrate.”

Chintithpit-mang, who had been seeing nothing at all, was abruptly staring Fookerteh in the eye. “Of course Pheegorun must have tried this already. He had seen the spear kill, and he had studied it longer than I. He must have perceived me as a talkative novice an interloping fool. He was a good fi’, a good officer. He might have been one of the elite.”

“What happened?”

“He followed my orders.”

The man was very black and very tall and nearly naked of clothing and hair. The hair of his head formed a huge puffball. There was paint on his face and patterns and ridges in his skin, carefully applied scars. Of the prisoners he was the only one unwounded. He had stood up from the bush with a spear in his hand, too close to the column. A soldier in the rear had knocked him flat with a swipe of a gun butt, rolled him over, and taken his surrender.

He wore strange harness. Ancient fur pieces encircled his ankles and wrists. Once splendid but now bedraggled feathers hung about his neck. His head was circled by a green furred band. All of his harness was old and brittle, stained with earth and sweat.

They had seen many dressed that way.

The man listened to his orders. He looked about at his audience of a hundred fithp warriors. Then, without answering not so much as nodding, he strode to the spear and picked it up, holding it in the middle.

Chintithpit-mang felt he would never get used to the sight. It made his belly queasy, as while a spacecraft was involved in a finicky docking. Why didn’t the man fall over? He was tall and narrow even by the standards of men, and if he fell he ought to break his neck. But he didn’t fall. He stood almost motionless, weaving slightly, as Pheegorun pointed to the target.

“Put it as close to the dot as possible,” he called. He was standing a safe eight srupkithp away. Would this work as he expected? Pheegorun must know how closely his Eight-cubed Leader was watching.

The man raised the spear, level with the ground, aimed at the target. He raised himself-on his toes, and still didn’t fall. He slapped the spear haft with his free hand; the spear turned ninety degrees, and so did the man, and Pheegorun was looking straight down the halt.

Pheegorun turned to run. Eight srupkithp distant or not, he turned to run, and half his soldiers were raising their weapons. The spear flew.

It thudded deep into Pheegorun’s side. Pheegorun froze. Chintithpit-mang glimpsed the black man standing calmly, arms at his sides, in the instant before the guns tore him apart.

Pheegorun took his surrender. They don’t think like us… never mind. It flew straight. I saw it.

The medic studied Pheegorun without touching him. “I want him to lie down,” he said. “Some of you help. First, brace him while I pull the stick-blade out.”

Two soldiers held him with their mass while the doctor pulled. Pheegorun screamed at the pain. It was deep inside him, tearing its way out-it was out, held bleeding before his face. Chintithpitmang, watching horrified, felt the tearing inside when Pheegorun tried to breath.

“Good. Now brace him. Pheegorun, can you hear me? Lean to the left. You should be lying down.”

Pheegorun couldn’t make himself move. The doctor pushed, and he leaned anyway, and was lowered to his left side. His own weight was forcing his lungs shut. Exhaling was a matter of letting it happen, despite the agony, but inhaling was like lifting a mountain. The doctor said, “This will end the pain. I believe the stickblade punctured a lung. I must cut him open and sew up the wound.”

“Save him if you can,” said Chintithpit-mang.

Pheegorun was dying. He must have known it. He had to speak now or die silent. His eyes found and locked on Chintithpit-mang. “Did you see? The danger—” and he was reduced to gasping. His eyes filmed over. The doctor’s knife was cutting into him. He tried to make his mouth work.

Not loud enough. Chintithpit-mang bent his ear next to Pheegorun’s mouth. Pheegorun gathered his will, forced his rib cage to move, gathered breath like a thousand daggers, and spoke.

“Thumbs,” he said, and died.

“His village.” Chintithpit-mang screamed the demand. “Coordinates!”

Someone answered. Chintithpit-mang shouted into the communications box.

Five eights of makasrupkithp away, green lines laced down tight spirals. When they were done, Chintithpit-mang turned the prisoners.

“Who from his tribe?”

They all were. When the work was finished, Chintithpit-mar sent two captives away to tell others.

“I can guess what he was thinking. Their thumbs are more dexterous than our digits. We were the supreme tool users until we came here. We were ready for the wrong things. We guessed some of the prey’s advantages: his greater numbers, his knowledge his own territory, his grasp of an inferior technology that he ha at least built himself, with no thuktunthp for guidance.