NABC Book 2: Chapter 1: Sky God
Book 2: Chapter 1: Sky God
Book 2: Chapter 1: Sky God
Bob
February 2167
Delta Eridani
An angry squeal erupted from the pile of deadwood. The two Deltans paused, poised to retreat. Seeing no further response, they resumed pelting the area with rocks. The individual I had named Bernie, his fur erect along his spine and ears straight out with excitement, chanted, “Here, kuzzi, kuzzi, kuzzi.”
I moved my observation drone to the rear to get out of their line of sight. They were okay with me observing the hunt, but I didn’t want to distract them when even a slight misstep could result in injury or death. Mike glanced up at the movement, but the Deltans otherwise paid no attention to the football-sized drone.
Someone must have scored a direct hit with a rock. Screaming like an irate steam engine, the pigoid erupted from the entrance to its den. The two rock-throwers sprinted out of the way and the other hunters moved up. Each braced the butt of his spear on the ground and placed a foot on the end to hold it in place.
The pigoid reached the hunting group in less than a second, screaming in rage. The Deltans held their positions with all the courage of medieval pikemen facing a cavalry charge. Even though I watched the action remotely via a floating observation drone, I could still feel my nether regions puckering up in fear. At times like this, I wondered if I hadn’t gone a little overboard with the level of detail in my virtual-reality environment. There was no reason for me to even have nether regions, let alone for them to pucker.
The pigoid crashed into the waiting spears without slowing. Fast, yes. Smart, not so much. I’d never seen a pigoid try to dodge the spear points. One of the hunters, Fred, was thrown to the side as his spear bowed and then snapped. He screamed, either in pain or surprise, and blood spurted from his leg. A distracted part of my mind noted that Deltan blood was almost the same shade of red as human blood.
The other Deltans held fast, and the pigoid was lifted right into the air by the leverage of their spears. It hung in midair for a moment, then crashed to the ground with a final screech. The Deltan hunters waited for any more movement, lips drawn back to show their impressive canines. Occasionally, a pigoid would get back up after this level of mistreatment and wade in for another round. No one wanted to be caught with their guard down.
Bernie sidled up with his spear in one hand and a club in the other. Stretching as far as he could with the spear, he poked the pigoid in the snout. When there was no reaction, he turned to his fellow hunters and grinned.
Not literally, of course. The Deltan equivalent of a grin was an ear-waggle, but I was so used to the Deltan mannerisms that I no longer needed to consciously interpret. And the translation software took care of speech, converting idiom and metaphor between English and Deltan. I had assigned arbitrary human names to individuals to help me keep track of everyone.
Truthfully, humans and Deltans would never communicate without a translator. Deltan speech sounded to human ears like a series of grunts, growls, and hiccups. According to Archimedes, my main contact among the Deltans, human speech sounded like two pigoids in a mating frenzy. Nice.
The Deltans looked like a kind of a bat/pig mashup—barrel bodies, spindly limbs, large mobile ears, and snouts not too different from a boar’s. Their fur was mainly gray, with tan patterns around the face and head unique to each individual. The Deltans were the first non-human intelligence I’d ever encountered, in only the second star system I had visited since leaving Earth more than thirty years ago. It made me wonder if intelligent life was perhaps as common as Star Trek would have us believe.
Bill regularly transmitted his news blogs from Epsilon Eridani, but they were nineteen years old by the time I received them. If any of the other Bobs had found intelligence, Bill might not even have received the reports yet, let alone re-transmitted them to the rest of us.
I returned my attention to the Deltans as they began to organize their post-hunt routine.
The hunters checked on Fred, who was sitting on a rock, swearing in Deltan and pressing on the wound to staunch the bleeding. I moved the drone in to get a close look, and one of the group moved aside to give me a better view.
Fred had been lucky. The gash from the splintered spear was jagged but not deep, and appeared clean. If the pigoid had gotten its teeth into him, he’d be dead.
Mike made a show of trying to poke the wound with his spear. “Does that hurt? Does that hurt?”
Fred showed his teeth. “Yeah, funny. Next time you can have the bad spear.”
Mike smiled back, unrepentant, and Bernie slapped Fred on the shoulder. “Come on, don’t be a baby. It’s almost stopped bleeding.”
“Right, let’s get this thing hung and bled.” Matching action to words, Mike unwound his rope from around his torso. He flipped the rope over a convenient tree branch, and Bernie tied the rear legs of the carcass.
Knot-making skills, not so good. The rope-work was rudimentary, and probably slipped occasionally. I made a mental note to teach Archimedes some sailing knots.
I watched in pleased surprise as she took the time to clean the wound with the piece of hide, using the freshly boiled water. This was progress. Granted, the hunters helped a lot by putting their collective foot down; but if Cruella got into the habit, incidents of infection would drop dramatically.
I bobbed the drone once in acknowledgement, then sent it off to station-keeping at the perimeter of the village. I returned to my VR once again, sat back, and closed the drone’s video window. The change in procedure by the medicine woman was a major victory, and I was happy to get out of her way in return. It would allow her to save face, and she wouldn’t feel the need to dig in her heels next time.
I’d miss the rest of the celebration, but the pigoid’s ultimate fate was a matter of routine, and well-documented. And probably delicious. I thought of ribs in barbeque sauce and my mouth watered. I didn’t need food any more, being a computer and all, but I could do anything I wanted in VR. And if you’re going to program in a coffee simulation, you might as well program in barbequed ribs.
Spike came walking across my desk, meowed once, and plunked down on my keyboard. I accepted a coffee refill from Jeeves, then turned to Marvin. “Okay. Excitement’s over. What’s up? You wanted to talk to me about something?”
Marvin nodded and stood. He dismissed the La-Z-Boy and walked over to my work desk. Pulling up a wingback, he invoked a globe of Eden in mid-air over the desk, with a small section of one continent outlined in red. “This is the current range of the Deltans. I’ve excluded the old village, since they no longer live there—”
“—and that was more of a refuge than a permanent home.” I nodded. “They hadn’t even been there for a full generation.”
Marvin bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of digging—literally, in some cases—and I’ve arrived at a reasonable estimate of Deltan population movements over time.”
He looked at me expectantly, and I made a rolling motion with my hand for him to continue.
“They do not appear to be from this area at all. It looks as though the sentient Deltan subspecies originated here...” Marvin rotated the globe and pointed to a different part of the continent. “...and moved from there to the current location.”
“And they’re no longer at the old location? Why?”
“That’s what I don’t get, Bob. I’ve found a lot of evidence of abandoned Deltan villages, and some burial sites, but not nearly enough graves to account for the expected population.”
“Predation?”
“You’d think, but then we’d find Deltan remains here and there, at least in the form of piles of bones. You’ve seen what the gorilloids leave behind when they’re done with a meal. They’re not fastidious.”
I rubbed my chin, gazing at the globe. “That doesn’t make sense, anyway. From your notes, the original area didn’t have gorilloids at all. So they moved from a safer area to a more dangerous area, and disappeared in the safer area.”
“Then fled the more dangerous area to set up in an even more dangerous area.” Marvin shook his head in confusion. “They aren’t morons. They may be just in the process of becoming human-level sentient, but they have common sense. We’re missing something.”
I shrugged, and sent the globe spinning with a flick of a finger. “It’s a mystery, Marvin, and we do love a mystery.” We exchanged grins. After all, Bob. “But the important thing is that they’re much safer here, compared to where we found them. They’ve settled in nicely in Camelot, the hunting’s good, and the gorilloids are beginning to get the hint and have pretty much stopped trying to pick off Deltans.”
“You’re really going to call their village Camelot?” Marvin gave me the stink-eye. “Every time you say it, I hear Knights of the Round Table.”
I grinned at him and waggled my eyebrows. “It’s only a model.”
Marvin rolled his eyes and stopped the globe. “Anyway, I’ll keep at this, but we’re at a disadvantage here. On Earth, scientists were building up from existing knowledge of a world they understood. On Eden, we’re starting from scratch.”
“Yeah, and even then, it took years for them to figure out things like the fate of the Anasazi.” I sat back and shook my head. “Yeah, I get it, Marv. I have to admit, I’m glad this is a pet project for you. I did some basic research and exploration when I landed, but it wasn’t a priority for me.”
Marvin chuckled and, with a parting nod, disappeared back to his own VR.