The Ancient Ones, page 4
“I never said I was a member of the planetwide social class that’s apparently preyed upon by three other sub-races of humanoids… those three groups being called the corpambulists, whom I’ve never seen; and the elegant Nomorts, one of whom I last saw guiding my comrades toward castle-like structures on a hill west of the park, presumably into a trap; or Lik’ems like you my captor, who seem to grow abundant lower bicuspids and facial fur during certain times of the month, and relish beer with their raw meat.”
The Lik’em stared at me, rising the rest of the way. “Uh, why are you talkin’ like that?”
“How should I talk to a fellow who has taken away my belt pouch and all my tools, and now holds me captive in a subterranean chamber, a little over two meters in height and roughly three meters long by four wide, with a tunnel exiting along the long axis? There you are, standing almost two meters tall, though in a bit of a forward-canine crouch, on the other side of a table piled high with raw steaks, and you have the nerve to ask—”
“We’re homing in on your signal now, Advisor. I don’t think we can read quite the kind of detail you’re giving us. Not through solid rock. But the room dimensions should help us track you down.”
“—have the nerve to ask why I’m talking like this? You really don’t know why I’m talking like this?”
The Lik’em shook his head vigorously, eyes betraying growing worry. “Look, Doc, maybe we got off to a bad start. My name’s Lorg.” He hurried over to a pile of tarps in the corner. “Here, let me get you that blanket—”
“Got it!” The voice of the ship’s exec cut in. “Hold on, Advisor, we’ve found your locus, in a cavity underneath one of their streets. I’m warming up the blasters right now. Just give us a few seconds. We’ll rip away thirty meters of rock and have you outta there in a jif—”
“No!” I cried out, leaping to my feet so fast that I lost contact with the throat mike. Lorg jumped back in dismay, yelping like a puppy with its tail caught in a door.
I pressed my uniform collar once more. “Don’t you dare!” I reiterated. My heartbeat raced, knowing how quickly demmies can work when they think they’re coming to the rescue of a friend. Any moment now, the planetary crust over my head might start boiling into the atmosphere, surgically peeled in molten sheets by a giga-terrawatt laser.
“Just… just hold it right there,” I added, in a lower tone. “Hold it and stay calm.”
Lorg stared at me, clutching the blanket in front of him, his jaw quivering, tusks and all.
“I’m calm. I’m calm!”
Commander Talon also replied – “Roger, Doctor Montessori. Understood. Standing by.”
I tried to think. So far I’d been improvising… a technique which isn’t taught much at Earth’s Advisor Academy, since that skill is usually left to demmies. (It is their strongest trait.) But sometimes a human has to do the demmiest things. At this point I had my captor intimidated, but I knew that would give way when he realized my loud bark wasn’t backed up with bite.
I took an assertive step towards him. “Where are we now? In the sub-urb?”
Lorg nodded. “Under my own place. You were closest to the manhole, so I grabbed you before the Renks snatched ever’body else.”
This confused me. “You mean the captai… my friends aren’t here too?”
“Naw. The Renks laid a trap for ’em. Me an’ my friends were lucky to get you.”
“Renks? Who are they? Are they Nomorts?” My suspicions of Earl Dragonlord flared. Had he led our party into an ambush?
But that didn’t make sense! We had been following Earl toward the hill of castles he called home. Why should he abduct victims who were already heading into his lair?
“Renks is a kind of Zoomz,” Lorg said, with a shiver and a shake of his head. “They swarmed over y’all. We hardly had time to—”
“Shut up, Lorg!”
A new, harsh voice cut in, making us both startle and turn. At the entrance to the underground chamber, three more Lik’ems had appeared, even larger than my host. Foremost among the newcomers was a giant figure, bulging out of his clothes, which resembled some kind of striped tracksuit, with a sweater draped over the shoulders. Pale yellow fur stood on end with rage, and his curling tusks made Lorg look like a poster boy for Orthodontia Monthly.
“Besh!” Lorg cried out. “I was just—”
“Playing with your food again, I know.” The bigger Lik’em sauntered in – if one can “saunter” with tree-like arms that almost brush the floor. “How many times do I haveta tell you? If you talk to it, that only makes it harder to eat.”
The other two Lik’ems leaned against the door and chortled, a sound vaguely like what an engine might say, after being fed a treat of corundum sand. Lorg turned red – in those few bare patches showing through his matted pelt.
“Uh, Besh, I don’t think this’s food at all. It… he ain’t like any Standard I ever seen.”
“Nonsense! Look at him! X’cept for that funny nose, and those flattish eyes, that silly chin, and smooth fore’ead—”
What funny nose? I thought, a bit put out.
“Besides, what were Renks doing out there? Hunting for partners in a game of spin the skull? They must want this meat pretty bad, risking a foray into our urb like that.”
“Exactly!” Lorg said, gaining some feeling in his voice. “You ever see that happen before? Or for that matter, you ever see Standards come strolling through the urb at night? With a moon full? I tell you, them Renks wanted somethin’ more’n just Standard flesh.”
Besh seemed torn between affront at Lorg’s daring to talk back, and interest in the possibilities he’d raised.
“Not a regular Standard, eh? Maybe something tastier?”
“Maybe something a whole lot more dangerous,” I interjected, speaking with more steadiness than I felt inside.
Besh looked me over, and barked a savage laugh. He ambled toward me with an air of relish… and mustard and mayonnaise, I’d wager.
“I don’t scare off easy, meat. I’m Besh, night-howler and hill-loper! Runner in the woods and bed-lover of all three moons! My yowl curdles milk in far counties. It shatters windows in the Standards’ armored high rises. Nomorts take a sunburn, before they face Besh. Little baldie, you dare try to out-bluff me?”
As he moved closer, flexing hands like the scoops at the end of a steam shovel, Lorg tugged at his sleeve.
“Watch out, Besh. He makes this noise.”
I had been getting ready for a fight, relaxing into Judo stance… as if that would help much against four such demons. But Lorg’s words gave me an idea. I pressed my collar again.
“Did that noise impress you, Lorg? Why, I wouldn’t insult Besh with anything so puny.”
This time the big Lik’em stopped, clearly intrigued.
“Oh yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah! Besh calls himself night-howler? Why, I can out-bellow him anytime, anywhere. I can make clamor that’ll rattle your gums and shake your teeth out of their sockets. I can make water rise up and stones fall from above. You want noise? I’ll give you noise!”
Would Commander Talon understand what I wanted? By sonic induction, it should be easy enough to transmit vibrations directly into the bedrock all around this chamber – something loud and awe-inspiring. It would only be a matter of timing, triggering it to coincide with my surreptitious cue. Just the sort of improvised trick I had seen the Captain pull, plenty of times.
I felt a moment’s triumph from the facial expressions of Besh and the others. Clearly, bravado and bluster were components of Lik’em character, part of how they sorted out their own pecking order. Now to back up my bravado with something that would turn them into jibbering converts, eager to help me any way they could.
“Right!” I took a step forward, brandishing a fist. “I’ll make these rock walls tremble with such a din, you’ll think the world is ending!”
The Lik’ems stared at me, wide-eyed and nervously expectant.
Seconds passed, measured by the slow plinking of condensation droplets, falling unhurriedly into a nearby puddle. With each “plunk” my heart sank. Where was Talon? Why didn’t he answer, to confirm my request?
Besh blinked once. Twice. Scratching his shaggy, blond mane, he ran his tongue back and forth a few times between his tusks, making a thoughtful clicking.
He glanced at Lorg, who looked back at him and shrugged.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Besh said, facing me once more. “What noise is it you were thinkin’ of impressin’ us with?”
“Yeah,” Lorg added, a little eagerly. “Will it hurt?”
I pressed the collar mike against my throat, with desperate urgency.
“Hurt? Why… I can make a racket that will shiver these chambers and rattle your soul! A cacophony to show you I’m nobody’s meat. It’ll petrify your very bones, shrivel your guts, shake your teeth—”
“We heard that part already,” Lorg complained, a little churlishly. I really was doing my best, under the circumstances.
“Enough!” Besh roared, setting off his own reverberations and sweeping the plate of cutlets off the table, crashing to the floor.
“Enough braggin’! Just do it, meat. Give it a shot.”
He crossed his arms, waiting.
My mind whirled. What had gone wrong? Was it a problem with my microphone or nanos? Or had something gone amiss with the Clever Gamble, in orbit?
The eyes of the Lik’em chieftain told me, I had but seconds left.
Improvise! Part of me insisted.
But I’m no demmie! Another part replied. I’m a logical Earthman!
That thought cheered me, just a little. Enough to find some saliva in my dry mouth, to wet my lips.
I brought them together… and blew.
This isn’t going to work, I thought, as I began a softshoe tap-shuffle, to my own whistling accompaniment.
I had never been so right in all my life.
4.
The next time I awoke, it was under a vast canopy of stars, damp, bruised, and in pain. Still, I gasped foremost in surprise at still being alive. My last recollected image hadn’t been all that promising.
After the ship didn’t answer, and the Lik’ems called my bluff, what else could I do but wing it? Starting with the very first thing to come to mind. The Colonel Bogie March was followed by a brief rendition of I got Rhythm, which segued into a blues version of that ancient, venerated Earth melody, Zippedee-doo-dah – attended by every sound effect I could muster with hand in armpit.
Slack-jawed, the four Lik’ems had stared in astonishment while I moved on through a half-dozen of my best animal calls, then a syncopated chant of The Ballad of Eskimo Nell – in some faint hope they’d like the raunchy bits. Or else, perhaps, that sheer tedium would put them to sleep.
No such luck. Of the four of them, the two laconic Lik’em henchlupines had simply stared with glazed expressions. And while Lorg seemed willing to give me points for effort, the giant leader simply glared.
At last, Besh told Lorg – “I guess you’re right, after all. This meat’s no good. I’ll help you throw it out.”
With that, four huge creatures – each about the size and density of a Harley space scooter – buried me under a blurry avalanche of hair and burlap.
In fact, I must have made a good account of myself during the brief fight, since it lasted longer and was even more painful than I expected. Finally, as the world spun and I blacked out, the last words I heard were – “Let’s’ toss him to the Zoomz, if they want him so bad.”
Pondering later as consciousness returned, I didn’t much like the sound of those words, even in recollection. At the moment, though, I had other worries as I lay in the dark, sprawled on my back on a cold, hard surface.
No bones seemed broken, but I hurt all over. Stars could be seen overhead – occulted by the outlines of clouds and tree branches. It was damn cold. Worse yet, my uniform was torn!
That was bad. Circuitry woven into the fibers was essential to communicating with my crewmates in orbit. Wincing at the effort, I pressed my collar tab anyway, and tried to transmit. My voice warbled and scritched like something made of tin.
“This is Ship’s Advisor Montessori, calling… calling Clever Gamble. Come in, Clever Gamble. Do you read?”
No answer. The nanos in my ears remained silent – though I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Besh and his boys had knocked them loose, along with half my fillings.
Maybe it would help if I sat up and smoothed some of the kinks out of my abused shirt. I pushed up to my elbows, and for the first time got a glimpse of my surroundings. My call to the ship trailed off as I made out rows of grayish white forms, mostly rectangular, arrayed in rows that vanished into the gloom in all directions. Some of the slabs stood upright. Others tilted awkwardly or had toppled on the ground. I now lay upon one of the latter kind.
An overturned grave stone.
Frissons of panic climbed my back while my gorge churned. It wasn’t just your typical queasiness, mixed with surprise. When you’ve spent as much time with demmies as I have, you can’t help picking up their penchant for superstition. Right then, my sepulchral surroundings didn’t make me any more appreciative of the direction life was heading.
Then I noticed something else that didn’t help my sense of well-being. Of the tombstones I’d thought “toppled,” several of those nearby seemed deliberately positioned on the ground, with metal fixtures along one side.
Hinges, I realized, unhappily, soon noting that the slab I lay upon came so equipped. Why would anyone put hinges on grave slabs?
As if that weren’t bad enough, it was about then that a voice murmured out of the darkness behind my back.
“There, you see, Sully? He got up. I told you he must be dead. You owe me five.”
Shivering, I turned to see two humanoids watching me. One leaned against a tall funerary monument, managing to look wryly dapper, despite missing an ear, an eye, and nearly half his scalp. The other one sat atop the same marble shrine, swinging her legs while regarding me with an amused expression on her waxy, overly made-up face. Above them both, a stone figure – both heroic and exaggeratedly masculine – stood frozen in the act of offering sage counsel, chiding with an outstretched finger.
Probably warning future generations never to stand still long enough to let birds roost on your head, I thought. Or so mused the part of me still capable of detached observation. Symptoms of incipient hysteria were evident. I was starting not to give a damn.
“I don’t think so, Moulder,” the woman answered her companion with a wry smirk. She slid off her perch to land beside him, and pointed at me. “He smells much too fresh. Besides, ever see Besh and his bunch leave their meat in such good shape?”
“Moulder” winced and touched the missing side of his face.
“Well, maybe it wasn’t Besh that left it here. Some of the other Lik’em bands are still living by the Old Code. Or maybe the Nomorts dumped him, after draining him.”
The female shook her head as she sauntered toward me. Her gait was strange, at once both graceful and somehow impaired – as if she were a dancer, struggling to disguise a progressive neurological disease. Underneath that casual pose, I thought I caught an attitude of intense concentration. She dropped to one knee next to me and reached out toward my neck. I flinched, and her fingers stopped short, then withdrew. She tilted her head, looking at me from both sides… and I caught a pungent, sweet scent, like a ten-times normal dose of tangy perfume.
“He’s not been sipped by Nomorts, either. He’s warm.” She rocked back on her haunches. “And I sense a normal pulse.”
“Ho, yes?” Moulder shambled closer, and I saw that one of his arms hung nearly useless at his side. He gave off a reek that made me quail back, breathing only through my mouth.
“You’re right, Sully,” he muttered, crouching over me. “Lookit him pant like a scared puppy!” Moulder guffawed so hard that something came loose from his mouth, flying past my left ear. A tooth, I suspected unhappily. “So, you’re still Standard, eh? Still among the true-living? Well enjoy it! For a while.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. It seemed time that I took matters in hand. But as I was about to speak, I heard something I liked even less. A rumbling vibration that seemed to come from below my mortuarial platform. There was a scraping clatter, followed by a bang which jarred the stone from underneath.
Both Sully and Moulder stood up and stepped back. I quickly saw that the disturbance wasn’t limited to this area. On all sides, tombstones that lay flush with the ground were being nudged, then rocked… and then flung back, swiveling over their hinges to strike the abused earth with loud thuds, revealing yawning black cavities below.
I stared as more and more opened, the lids pivoting and banging into dirt, raising small dust clouds, until the cemetery hills were pocked with rectangular holes like a carcass pecked-over by neat ravens.
The nearest neighboring grave lay silent for an agonizing eternity that lasted all too briefly. Then a hand emerged… or something that may once have deserved the name.
While I stared, transfixed, the stone beneath me rocked once more, this time insistently.
“Well, bloodywarm?” Moulder sneered. “Gonna get out of the way? Or d’you want to join us the fast way?”
I turned to see that he and Sully had retaken their perches, climbing up the pedestal of the monument, more than two meters above the ground.
More hands were emerging from graves on all sides, followed by vague shapes that made me deeply grateful for the dark. The tombstone that I sat on received a bang from below that lifted one side several centimeters before slamming back down.
I suddenly found the will to move my arms and legs, scrambling to my feet and running past gaping crypts whose residents now emerged like implacable wraiths. Desperately, I dodged around crumbly, foul-smelling pits, evading clawlike hands that reached for me – whether in aggression or supplication I didn’t tarry to find out. I leaped for the pedestal and managed to get my arms over the stone lip, near the cold base of the statue. I was trying to swing my legs up when something brushed my left foot. I tried shaking it off, but a bony grip clamped down on my boot and began dragging me backward!
