The Eternal Enemy by Michael Berlyn Page A

as if the meaning of life were contained in them. When there was nothing else to divert them, they watched Markos’s offspring, communicated with the Old One, or meditated in silence.
    Markos was glad he had taken the Old One’s advice. He had originally planned to walk over the face of Gandji, spending the rest of his life acting as a flow-bridge. The Old One had explained that that was unnecessary; he’d said the mature Habers would come to the village and seek him out.
    His children were born with a Terran’s understanding of conflict and competition, something they exhibited in play, though it was as alien to the Habers in the village as to Markos himself.
    â€œAre you ready for the next two?” the Old One asked, sitting by Markos’s side.
    Markos turned away from the child he had named Alpha, the most aggressive of the children. Alpha had just made a discovery: a stick can be used as a weapon to hit someone.
    Markos stood and held out his hands, offering them to the two slowly advancing Habers. It struck him as strange that they would be so shy and hesitant, as if Markos might change his mind any moment and refuse the contact.
    They gripped his hands firmly, melted their flesh into his flesh, changed their hands into his hands, creating the link through which their genetic material would flow. He accepted the pleasure that brought, the intense physical sensations and excitement, embraced it and tried to hold it close to his mind, but the feelings were too intense, too glorious to try to hold. He let his mind relax and take control of the genetic materials entering his body. He pictured the children he would produce, an image of stronger, taller, more solidly built Habers than anything he’d imagined before.
    Then something happened in his mind that he couldn’t stop. The images of the stronger and taller children exploded in size until Markos could detect vast spaces between what must have been molecules. It was as if he were shrinking, falling deep through the images and into some representation of the genetic material that made up the images. He somehow knew that molecules needed changing, and he could see the molecular structures change as he thought about altering them. With each change he made he felt a peculiar but pleasant sensation in his brain.
    When the genetic materials had been molded and manipulated, he pushed them out through his hands and into the two Habers. Contact was broken.
    The whole experience couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two, but he was left feeling hollow, washed out. The Old One stood and offered him a root, which Markos gladly accepted. As he ate, he remembered what the Old One had said about his eating: “We, we demand this of you. That we, we don’t eat out of choice is our birthright.”
    He rested, giving his mind and body the time needed to recover fully. It was a simple life, one he was enjoying. He was doing something his crewmates could never do, in a way they could never imagine—being a xenobiologist firsthand.
    A Haber approached quickly, something odd for a Haber, until it stood before him. Markos flashed green to the Haber, and it returned the greeting.
    â€œThe people have destroyed the village nearest their settlement.”
    Impossible. “Did you see this happen yourself?” Markos asked.
    â€œYes. I, I saw this happen. I, I was leaving the village on my, my way to see you.”
    The crew had remained quiet and kept to themselves over the last few months. Markos had walked back to the area in which the ship rested and watched from a distance, curious as to what the Terrans planned. They had been setting up a semipermanent camp around the ship, keeping clear of the natives, being careful not to push too fast or too hard. Markos had been thankful for the time this gave him; his offspring could grow, eat, build themselves up, learn from their father about this strange race of invaders, understand what