Bruce Bethke - Maverick

While he was still on the commlink, though, he intercepted a coded transmission intended for Beta. The code was a simple one, composed of prime number transpositions, and Basalom cracked it in about 50 nanoseconds. He was just in time to catch Beta’s answering transmission.

Go ahead, Linguist 6.

We have been engaged by a hunting party of near-humans. Supervisor Gamma has already been destroyed.

Again? Very well; try to salvage his brain, if they ’ ll let you.

That may be difficult. Biologist 42 is down with a damaged leg, Organic Chemist 20 is locked up in a First Law dilemma, and I ’ ve lost my left arm below the elbow.

Understood. Mission aborted. Return to the city.

Will comply if possible. The near-humans are circling back. They ’ ve cut us off. I don ’ t think we ’ re going to make it. We ’ d better upload our observational data now. Stand by for core dump.

Ready.

I am commencing to trans

After that, there was only static.

A forest glen: sunlight filtered cool and green through the leaves, while nesting redwings darted through the lower branches of the trees, piping cheerfully. High in the canopy above a newly emerged cicabeetle announced its successful pupation with a loud, low-pitched drone, and off in the distance the happy cries and howls of hunting kin echoed across the valley.

The bowl-shaped floor of the forest clearing was covered with rocky outcroppings, mossy old stumps and fallen logs, and the mangled remains of four robots.

A skinny youngling sauntered past, proudly carrying his prize by the wires that had once connected it to a neck. Someone on the other side of the clearing shouted, distracting the youngling; he dropped City Supervisor Gamma’s head onto a slab of exposed rock, and the resulting clang sent him scampering away. By the time the youngling realized what he’d done and turned back to retrieve the head, it had begun rolling down the slope. Picking up momentum, it skittered across a patch of wet slimewort, dinged off a jutting rock, and took an off -kilter hop and then a long, wobbling bounce. The youngling bounded down the slope after it, trying to catch up with the rolling head.

He skidded to a stop when the head thudded to rest in a pile of soft humus and rotting leaves at the base of a mossy tree stump, not half a trot in front of the tough-looking stranger’s nose.

The head apparently annoyed the stranger. He got to his feet, yawned, and cast a baleful glare at the youngling. Then he sniffed the head in a disinterested fashion, marked it with his scent, and sat down again.

The youngling decided to go find another trophy.

Maverick watched the young kin turn tail, then turned his attention back to the head. So that was a WalkingStone, eh? Big furry deal. It wasn ’ t so tough. He brought a hind paw up and indulged in a good scratch behind the ear and resumed picking at the bit of grainy material that was stuck between his front teeth. On the other paw, I can ’ t say much for the way they taste. Dislodging the shred of Linguist 6’s arm, he spat it out and turned his attention to the group of kin that was busy dismembering the last relatively intact carcass. WhiteTail was easy to spot.

And that ’ s the old guy ’ s daughter, huh? Yuck. She ’ s got spindly legs. Walks like she ’ s got starch in her tail. And she ’ s a bit young, even for your tastes.

Still, what the hey. Maybe in a year or two she ’ llturn into something worth howling about. And in the meantime, let ’ s not lose sight of why we came here. The old guy ’ s in charge, and he depends on her. Off paw, I ’ d say that she ’ s definitely the angle to work, for now. Maverick yawned again, in a deliberately casual way, and gave the rest of the clearing a once-over.

On the whole, he had to admit that this group hunt business hadn’t turned out too badly. At first it’d looked like something straight out of one of his worst nightmares: A chaotic mob of two hundred clumsy pack-kin charging through the briars and stingworts, barking and howling loud enough to send even a deaf smerp running for cover.

But by the time they’d gone a hundred trots from PackHome, the mob had started to break up. Somebody who actually knew something about hunting caught a whiff of a smallgrazer and led a split off on that trail. A bunch of younglings treed a nuteater and stayed behind to bark like fools, jump around a lot, and prove once again that kin can’t climb trees, no matter how hard they try.

Other groups splintered off to chase other promising scents, but Maverick kept his eyes on LifeCrier. There had been a lot of twists, turns, and feints-for a moment there he’d had the absurd idea that LifeCrier was trying to ditch them all and sneak back to PackHome-but even though his left hind leg had started to throb, he’d managed to stick with the old kin the entire way.

After all, that was the whole point of coming to PackHome, wasn ’ t it? To find the center of power, get close to it, and work your way up In the pecking order. And up to a certain point, the plan really had seemed to be working. The group following LifeCrier was down to fewer than ten kin when they’d burst from the underbrush and run straight into the pack of WalkingStones.

Maverick let out a disgusted little sneeze. WalkingStones? You mean the horrible, nasty, killer monsters that we need SilverSides to protect us from? Mother, I ’ ve seen trees that put up a better fight! Despite all the scary talk about silent death and glances that killed, there’d been no lightning, and no thunder. The WalkingStones had simply stood there on their hind legs, staring at the onrushing kin, looking for all the world like a bunch of startled whistlepigs caught out in the sunlight.

If LifeCrier had shown even a second’s hesitation, that would have been the end of it. But the old fool obviously believes this SilverSides business. He charged right in.

And OldMother help me, I followed him. One of the WalkingStones had started to point its left foreleg at LifeCrier. Maverick really hadn’t had time to think, or even slow down; he’d feinted, stutter-stepped, and charged straight for the WalkingStone.

It was a good gamble, Mavvy old boy. If the stories about them throwing lightning from their paws are true, you saved the old guy ’ s life. That could have been a real good play, gratitude-wise. With a mighty grunt, he’d gathered himself and sprung upon the WalkingStone, seizing its foreleg in his jaws.

That’s where everything had gone wrong. Biting the WalkingStone’s limb was like biting gravel. Between the cold pain in his teeth, the oily and utterly unappetizing taste of the WalkingStone’s flesh, and the apparent lack of any bones in the limb, Maverick had momentarily forgotten everything that he knew about balance and timing. He’d been counting on his momentum to pull the WalkingStone off its two feet, just as he’d been counting on its inertia to check his leap.

Instead, the thing’s foreleg had simply tom away in his teeth and he’d gone flying head-over-haunches into a patch of blooming stingwort. His heroic leap had ended up as a clumsy pratfall.

Maverick looked around the clearing again-a clearing full of kin who were not noticing him-and felt a sense of frustration. It ’ s definitely darned tough to impress the locals by landing fiat on your tailbone.