then. Also, none of you leave here in the meantime. Nobody phones or texts anyone.”
I did a mental eye roll. Radio silence? For a hunting trip? Really? I spread my palms. “Who would we call? Sir.”
Kit stood, arms crossed, brow wrinkled.
Cutler motioned to the hire’s driver to carry the luggage into the warehouse, and watched while the man waddled, until he passed out of earshot. Then Cutler stared at Kit and me. “I’ll explain when you need to know.”
Fourteen
Zhondro and I finished our checklists, and had everything stowed on the C-lift, by midmorning. Cutler wanted to leave Eden for the Line immediately, and drive all night. Kit recommended that, once we cleared Eden’s Triple-A umbrella, we only drive during daylight.
The Abrams, with the C-lift in tow, made eighty miles outside the city limits of Eden along the dirt single track road that led out to Kit Born’s Line section. That put us twenty miles south of Kit’s Line camp, and would give us plenty of daylight the following day in which to travel the remaining distance.
At fifteen minutes before End of Evening Nautical Twilight, we laagered for the night.
The fifteen minutes allowed for the four of us to exit the Abrams, button it up, then get buttoned up inside the Sleeper before full dark. We had electrified nets to set out, but Kit told us not to bother. The good news about the hours of darkness on Dead End was that the gorts didn’t fly at night. The bad news was that the reason they didn’t was that night on Dead End was too dangerous for them.
To Cutler, the Sleeper was “a Boy Scout camp in an armored box, and a damned cramped one.” To a Yavi like me, the Sleeper was a capacious and luxurious portable apartment for four, though Zhondro prayed to his God for dispensation to bunk stacked four-high, separated from a woman not his wife only by a forearm’s length and a thin foam hammock.
Evidently Zhondro’s God returned calls promptly, because thirty minutes after we four finished dinner, he lay snoring in his bunk.
Kit and I sat facing Cutler across the Sleeper’s fold-down dining table while we sipped coffee, ours from thermcups, his from private stock he had brought along. Outside, something—several somethings—snorted, then thumped the armor plate hard enough that my coffee sloshed. Cutler’s eyes widened. I suppose mine did, too.
Kit waved her hand as she shook her head. “Woogs. Closest thing to grazing vegetarians on Dead End. They actually eat plant matter, which doesn’t nourish any animal on Dead End. It’s the insects inside that actually nourish the woogs. But that means they move and eat all day and all night, every day and every night, to process enough fodder to survive. A mature female weighs six tons. Think your electric fence would have bothered them, Parker?”
Another woog bellowed as it brushed the Sleeper.
I steadied myself with a hand against the wall. “Something’s bothering them.”
Kit shrugged. “Would it bother you to crap a pound of sand every time you ate a raisin?”
Cutler asked, “How long will this go on?”
“All night, probably. Herds average twenty thousand inside the Line. Two predator species eat woogs. Grezzen, and stripers, which are kind of six-legged tyrannosaurs. If there’s a grezzen around, the stripers look for smaller prey. Beyond the Line, there’s no doubt about who’s the species-in-charge.”
Cutler paused. He cupped his chin in his hand, stared at her, and asked, “Why do you think the grezzen have been so dominant for so long?”
She shrugged, stared down into her cup. “Speed. Power. Size. Durability.”
Cutler asked, “You think it’s that simple?”
She shrugged again. “Why not? Grezz are perfectly adapted to an ecosystem that’s been static for thirty million years. On Earth, sharks have succeeded for even longer.”
Cutler asked, “But these robot bombs have upset their applecart. Why do you think that is?”
Kit shifted in her chair, then
I did a mental eye roll. Radio silence? For a hunting trip? Really? I spread my palms. “Who would we call? Sir.”
Kit stood, arms crossed, brow wrinkled.
Cutler motioned to the hire’s driver to carry the luggage into the warehouse, and watched while the man waddled, until he passed out of earshot. Then Cutler stared at Kit and me. “I’ll explain when you need to know.”
Fourteen
Zhondro and I finished our checklists, and had everything stowed on the C-lift, by midmorning. Cutler wanted to leave Eden for the Line immediately, and drive all night. Kit recommended that, once we cleared Eden’s Triple-A umbrella, we only drive during daylight.
The Abrams, with the C-lift in tow, made eighty miles outside the city limits of Eden along the dirt single track road that led out to Kit Born’s Line section. That put us twenty miles south of Kit’s Line camp, and would give us plenty of daylight the following day in which to travel the remaining distance.
At fifteen minutes before End of Evening Nautical Twilight, we laagered for the night.
The fifteen minutes allowed for the four of us to exit the Abrams, button it up, then get buttoned up inside the Sleeper before full dark. We had electrified nets to set out, but Kit told us not to bother. The good news about the hours of darkness on Dead End was that the gorts didn’t fly at night. The bad news was that the reason they didn’t was that night on Dead End was too dangerous for them.
To Cutler, the Sleeper was “a Boy Scout camp in an armored box, and a damned cramped one.” To a Yavi like me, the Sleeper was a capacious and luxurious portable apartment for four, though Zhondro prayed to his God for dispensation to bunk stacked four-high, separated from a woman not his wife only by a forearm’s length and a thin foam hammock.
Evidently Zhondro’s God returned calls promptly, because thirty minutes after we four finished dinner, he lay snoring in his bunk.
Kit and I sat facing Cutler across the Sleeper’s fold-down dining table while we sipped coffee, ours from thermcups, his from private stock he had brought along. Outside, something—several somethings—snorted, then thumped the armor plate hard enough that my coffee sloshed. Cutler’s eyes widened. I suppose mine did, too.
Kit waved her hand as she shook her head. “Woogs. Closest thing to grazing vegetarians on Dead End. They actually eat plant matter, which doesn’t nourish any animal on Dead End. It’s the insects inside that actually nourish the woogs. But that means they move and eat all day and all night, every day and every night, to process enough fodder to survive. A mature female weighs six tons. Think your electric fence would have bothered them, Parker?”
Another woog bellowed as it brushed the Sleeper.
I steadied myself with a hand against the wall. “Something’s bothering them.”
Kit shrugged. “Would it bother you to crap a pound of sand every time you ate a raisin?”
Cutler asked, “How long will this go on?”
“All night, probably. Herds average twenty thousand inside the Line. Two predator species eat woogs. Grezzen, and stripers, which are kind of six-legged tyrannosaurs. If there’s a grezzen around, the stripers look for smaller prey. Beyond the Line, there’s no doubt about who’s the species-in-charge.”
Cutler paused. He cupped his chin in his hand, stared at her, and asked, “Why do you think the grezzen have been so dominant for so long?”
She shrugged, stared down into her cup. “Speed. Power. Size. Durability.”
Cutler asked, “You think it’s that simple?”
She shrugged again. “Why not? Grezz are perfectly adapted to an ecosystem that’s been static for thirty million years. On Earth, sharks have succeeded for even longer.”
Cutler asked, “But these robot bombs have upset their applecart. Why do you think that is?”
Kit shifted in her chair, then
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