Алан Дин Фостер - Relic

He was starting to worry that after a probable lifetime of scrambling and hiding to survive, this singular survivor might bolt in fear. It struck him that he had no proof of her existence to show his companions. As a non-researcher, he carried no recording device with him. His roughly modified clothing was not equipped with the integrated scientific instrumentation that smoothly adorned Bac’cul’s and Cor’rin’s attire. If this individual ran from him, he would have to somehow convince the Myssari that he had indeed encountered another live human, and that might not be so easy. In the absence of any confirming facts or visual proof, even Kel’les would be reluctant to accept such a claim.

He maintained his cautious approach to the survivor. Fearful of doing something to spook her, he kept his voice low, the tone insistent but gently pleading.

“I can help you. My friends can help you. I’ve lived among the Myssari for many years. They only want to ask questions of us. They can get you away from here, off this world, to a safe place. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He swallowed hard. “Can you speak? Please, won’t you at least tell me your name? I haven’t heard a nonrecorded human voice in decades and I’m… lonely. Aren’t you lonely?”

Save for the peculiar songlike thrumming of small creatures moving within the pile of debris, it was completely silent around them. Then, from within the mass of containers, came something he never thought to hear again: the unrecorded voice of a human female. It shocked his ears.

“My name is Cherpa.”

An enormous smile creased his face and he halted his advance. “It’s very nice to meet you, Cherpa. Won’t you come out so I can see you better? I’m sure you can see me, and so you can see that I won’t do you any harm.”

A human shape emerged from the shadows. It was short and slender and nearly cloaked in hair the color of weak chocolate. No wonder the brief, indistinct recording made by the outpost’s automatics had been so inconclusive. With hair that reached to the backs of her knees, the survivor, from a distance, would look very much like a small example of the indigenous tribal bipeds. Cherpa had the barest nub of an upturned nose and wide, curious blue eyes. His heart fell even as his spirits rose. The clash of images and thoughts that had dominated his imagination ever since he had identified the survivor as female vanished in a puff of wishful thinking.

She looked to be about eleven.

His very wide smile subsided somewhat. With as deep a sigh as his more than middle-aged chest could muster, he extended a hand once more. “It’s very, very good to meet another human, Cherpa.” His gaze rose to scan the mountain of material behind her as he tried to frame the question he dreaded but which had to be asked. “Where are your parents?”

“Gone and dead, dead and gone, their bones gnawed and their faces flawed.” Her reply took the form of a girlish singsong leavened with melancholy. In front of him, she began to dance. “Mary, Mary, relativistically contrary, how does your gravity flow? Depends on the size of your bottom, gottum, sottum.” She ceased twirling, staring up at him. “Do you have any food? I like mine live, but I can eat dead things when I have to, when I have to. Too much to do but got to eat to grew, to grew you. To grew you? Who knew?”

The muscles around his eyes tensed but he held back. Not for his sake but for hers. It was going to take time, he knew. Time to mend, time to see if a change of surroundings would help. Until then he could only guess at how crazy she was and how far from reality she had slipped. He extended his arms, offering a hug, but she skipped warily out of his reach. Her gaze narrowed as her tone turned ferocious.

“No touch! Touching is bad. Touching is kills.”

“I’m not one of them.” He gestured in the direction taken by the fleeing natives. “I’m human just like you.”

She shook her head violently. “Different meant. You’re big and strong, like them.” Turning her head, she spat in the direction of the departed predators. “Gnaw Cherpa’s bones while she moans.”

“No.” He made no further move to advance toward her, relying on reason and his voice. “I’m just…” It struck him then. He had no way of knowing how old she had been when her parents had died. It was possible she did not recall her father and, not remembering, saw this new mature male only as something different. He didn’t want to be a father figure. He had wanted… he had wanted…

It didn’t matter what he had wanted. It didn’t matter what he had twirled and danced with in his mind’s eye. She was eleven. Or so.

“I’m a man, Cherpa. You’re a girl. Yes, we’re different, but we’re a lot more alike than we’re different. I’m like your father. We’re the same species.”

“Big,” she repeated warily. He stayed where he was, being patient, giving her time to study, to evaluate him.

Finally she came forward, advancing hesitantly, the wide blue eyes glazed. Glazing over the haunting, he decided. He could not imagine what her life had been like, surviving alone and abandoned in a place like Dinabu. When she finally spoke again, it was decisively.

“I’ll call you Bogo.”

He could not quite swallow his quick responsive laugh. “That’s not a very dignified name for the last man alive. My name is Ruslan.”

“Bogo.” She seemed pleased with herself. He gave a mental shrug. If it made her happy, if it led her to cooperate—Bogo it was.

“You can call me whatever you want, Cherpa.” This time when he extended a welcoming arm, she did not retreat. But neither did she allow him to embrace her. Within her protective psychosis she remained guarded. He would have to deal with it as best he could and hope; hope that with time and care and tenderness the protective mask of madness would fall away. “Let’s go and meet my friends. You’ll like them. They’re… funny.”

His respected, highly educated companions probably would not have appreciated his description, but his sole concern of the moment was to get her away from an area where she surely knew every hiding place and back to the outpost before she could change her mind about him.

One childish hand reached out to touch his bare forearm. The small slender fingers should have been soft and smooth. Instead they were tough and wiry. The callused tips stroked his skin. He didn’t move; just stood still, letting her explore him like a kitten with a new toy. Her hand withdrew.

“You feel like me.” Her tone was as solemn as her expression. “I remember others like me.” Turning her head, she nodded in the direction taken by the departed two-legged predators. “Others like me gone to food, every one.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But if you will come with me, I promise you won’t go to food.”

Her eyes widened still further as she turned back to him. “Promise? Cross your heart and hope to remove it?”

“Cross my heart and—hope to remove it.” Putting his hands on his knees, he squatted so that his face was level with hers. “In fact, if you come with me and decide that I’m lying, I’ll let you remove it yourself.”

“Give me a knife and I can do that.” He did not think she was boasting.

“Well then.” For a third time he extended a hopeful hand. This time she took it.

“You have nice hands, Bogo. No claws.”

“No claws,” he agreed. “My friends the Myssari don’t have claws, either. In fact, their hands are smoother than a human’s. They don’t even have fingerprints.”

“What’s a fingerprint? Is it like a scratch?”

“More like art. I’ll show you, later.” Addressing his pickup, he uttered a key word. Nothing. Puzzled, he looked down.