Алан Дин Фостер - Relic

Far more than a boy, not yet quite a man, Pahksen was as tall as Ruslan. No more than seventeen or so, Ruslan decided. Youth and adult regarded each other: the latter with appreciation, the former with suspicion. Remembering how it was done, Ruslan extended a hand.

“Pleasure to meet another survivor. My name’s Ruslan.”

“Pahksen.” No hand reached out to accept the older man’s offering. Whether this constituted a deliberate snub, indicated general wariness, or was because both of the youth’s hands were needed to support the very large rifle he was holding Ruslan could not say. He fully intended to find out later.

Pahksen’s blond hair was long, nowhere near as long as Cherpa’s had before it had been cut back at the outpost. He was lanky as a willow tree, all lean muscle and darting blue eyes. These danced methodically over Ruslan and Cherpa before pausing to consider the watching Myssari. Eventually they returned to Cherpa. She did not move toward her fellow survivor but neither did she retreat, comfortable as she was in Ruslan’s presence.

“The man’s a man, sure, but what are all these other ugly things?”

“They’re called Myssari,” she told him. “They’re good people.” Her gaze flicked upward to the face of the individual whose waist she held. “They helped Ruslan. He’s from another world called Seraboth.”

“Never heard of it.” Pahksen continued to hold the power rifle as though he might opt to utilize it at any moment. While Ruslan would have preferred that the youth deactivate it, he did not begrudge him the ongoing tension. Introductions were still in progress, and something like the mushwack or the aggressive natives might put in an appearance at any time.

“He’s been with these funny three-legs for a long time,” Cherpa explained. “He says their homeworld is a nice place to live, they make sure he has anything he wants, and they appreciate all the help he’s given them while they try to learn everything they can about our kind. He says they’ll do the same for me, and I believe him. Anyway, it’s nasty here. You know that. I don’t suppose it could be nastier where they live.”

“Unless he’s lying.” The youth’s gaze, which was inordinately intense, focused sharply on Ruslan. “How about it, old man? You lying?”

Ruslan was not sure which bothered him more: the fact that the youth continued to grip the rifle as if at any moment he might choose to turn it on his rescuers or the fact that he had been referred to as an old man.

“You don’t want to shake my hand, fine. You don’t want to believe me or Cherpa, that’s fine, too. Much as the Myssari want you to join us, no one’s going to force you. You can stay here and deal with the local lifeforms on your own, if that’s your wish. I’m offering you respect and comfort for the rest of your life, free of worry about where your next meal is coming from or about becoming something else’s meal yourself. It’s entirely your choice.”

For the first time, the muzzle of the rifle dropped toward the ground. “And what do they want in return? Every lifeform-to-lifeform exchange is a trade-off.”

“The Myssari desire only information. Like any civilized species, being of a curious nature they seek to learn about the unknown. Until we outsmarted ourselves, humankind was a respectable species. Daribb isn’t an isolated world, you know.”

“I know that.” Pahksen fairly spat his reply. “D’you think I’m stupid?”

Naturally confrontational, Ruslan wondered, or a learned trait? He would hopefully have ample time to find out. Whichever, it was an attitude that could be corrected. Good food and safe surroundings would work to mollify the youth’s hostility.

“We’re all gone. Every last million of us. Except, apparently, for we three standing here, right now, this minute. The Myssari are very curious about us, about our civilization. They’re at least as smart as we are. Or were. But there are aspects to human culture no study of records and artifacts, no matter how passionate, can properly parse. That’s where I’ve come in. I’ve helped with explanations. You can, too, you and Cherpa. You’ll outlive me and be even more valuable to them.” He looked around. “You can join in helping the Myssari to understand us, or you can stay here and retain ownership of… all this.”

A few small, unseen creatures continued their scampering among the ruins. For a long moment their calls were all that was heard echoing among the crumbling walls and pavements. To Ruslan’s relief the youth finally eased his aggressive grip on the rifle, setting the butt down on the ground.

“I’m not sure I believe in any of this,” the younger man muttered. “But I believe in what I can see. You’re real enough, and you look healthy enough. I don’t know if that means that these things are treating you as well as you say or that they’re fattening you for an eventual meal, but Cherpa’s no dummy.” He eyed the girl, who did everything but stick her tongue out at him. “If she’s going with you and voluntarily, then there must be something to what you say.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’d be a change.”

Cor’rin had edged forward until she was standing very close to Ruslan. Now she whispered to him. “Is the new human coming with us or not? We can sedate him if you think it would facilitate matters.”

“Temporarily it would,” he answered in Myssarian. “It might also mean the end of any eventual cooperation once he was revived. Let’s proceed without such measures, at least for the moment. Yes, he has agreed to come with us, though he is exhibiting a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. I’m hoping time and good treatment will ease his concerns.” Turning back to the frowning Pahksen, who had understood none of the conversation between man and Myssari, he provided an explanation.

“The individual to whom I’ve been speaking is Cor’rin. She’s a scientist.” Turning, he pointed. “That’s Bac’cul, her colleague. The rest of the Myssari work at a scientific station not terribly far from here. We can leave to go there now, unless there are objects of a personal nature you’d like to take with you.”

Pahksen pursed his lips, thinking. “Can I bring my gun?”

“Of course,” Ruslan assured him expansively. “Bring anything you want. The Myssari are not fearful of you, and you have no reason to be afraid of them.”

“I’m alive because I’m afraid,” the youth shot back. “I’m even afraid when I’m asleep. If you had to live like I have, you’d be the same way.”

Though I wouldn’t be as surly toward my fellow humans, Ruslan thought. Patience. The youngster was understandably twitchy. Time and Myssari good treatment would smooth down the rough edges.

“Anything besides the weapon?” Ruslan asked him.

“A few small things. I’ll be right back.”

Moving with the grace of a longer-limbed predecessor primate, he disappeared back into the rubble only to return sooner than Ruslan had expected. A bag of some green synthetic material was slung over one shoulder. Time enough later to inquire about the contents, Ruslan knew. The important thing now was to get him and Cherpa back to the outpost, and both of them off Daribb before Vrizan belligerence had a reason to reassert itself. He smiled at the thought.

The multi-jointed bipeds would be more than upset to know that not one but two surviving humans had been living right under their collective if nearly nonexistent noses. Ruslan had no intention of thumbing his own at them.

As far as he was concerned, everything revolved around securing a comfortable future for three surviving humans. If this provoked a serious clash of science and diplomacy between two alien civilizations, so be it. If he had learned anything at all from the decades he had spent among the Myssari, it was that it was always best, where and when possible, to reduce matters of seemingly great import to the most basic equations.