Symbios (3 page)

His eyes might be a weak point, but they were always covered by that face plate — Zabzug even wore it to sleep. His skin was covered with scales, and though they looked moist, they were hard, almost metallic, to the touch.

The vulnerable point was his mouth. It was crammed full of sharp teeth, but maybe I could jam something down his throat and into all the soft parts inside.

At the first peek of sunlight I’ll go to Zabzug’s ship with my spear.

What does alien lizard taste like?

Voice Module 195585

Record Mode:

He didn’t come out all day, and I couldn’t find a way in. There isn’t a seam on the entire ship. No cracks or ridges or anything to pry or beat open. After several hours of trying, I decided to just wait. He’d have to come out eventually.

He wanted the same thing I wanted.

Voice Module 195586

Record Mode:

The bastard ate my hand.

Chomped it off at the wrist. I fell asleep, waiting for him to come out.

But I got him…haha…I got him…jammed the pipe down his throat, into the soft stuff.

Dead. He’s dead.

Zabzug, my friend, is dead.

I used my belt as a tourniquet for my hand, but it didn’t stop the bleeding.

I had to use the solar matches to close the wound.

The pain…so much pain in my wrist.

But the hunger…the need…is even stronger.

I’m going to cut him open now.

Voice Module 195587

Record Mode:

I’m full! What a wonderful feeling! For the first time since I landed on this planet, I’ve eaten until I’m ready to burst.

I’m so happy I don’t even notice the pain.

Voice Module 195588

Record Mode:

Zabzug lasted for a whole month.

Some parts were delicious.

Some parts, not so delicious.

I ate everything. The inedible parts were boiled into soup until every calorie and nutrient was leeched out.

I even gained a few kilos.

And now, with the last of the soup gone, with the hunger pangs returning, I am afraid.

Voice Module 195589

Record Mode:

Four days since I’ve eaten anything. Zabzug had stretched out my belly, and I drink a lot to keep it full, to try and fool it into feeling sated.

My belly isn’t fooled.

I’ve managed to get into Zabzug’s ship, using a key. It’s a tiny sphere he’d been keeping in a pocket. When it touches the ship, the portal opens.

I’ve fully explored the interior, trying to gain an understanding of how it works. The vessel is a marvel of engineering, with a navigation system light-years ahead of ours. The technology is even more valuable than the iron-rich planet I’m stranded on.

If I can get off this rock, I’ll be the wealthiest man in the universe.

The first thing I’ll do is get a limb graft…no, the first thing I’ll do is have a banquet. A feast that will last a month. I’ll gorge myself like the ancient Romans, purging between courses so I can cram in more food.

Such a beautiful picture.

Voice Module 195590

Record Mode:

My wrist isn’t healing right. It doesn’t seem to be infected, but the wound keeps opening.

I think it’s a symptom of starvation. My body is conserving its energy, and deems healing unnecessary.

I’m so weak it’s an effort to even stand up.

I have to do something. If I stay here, I’ll die. Perhaps there’s food somewhere else. I’ve scouted at least fifty kilometers in all directions, but I need to pick one and keep moving.

I decide to follow the sunset. I’ll leave tomorrow.

I have no other choice.

Voice Module 195591

Record Mode:

I don’t know how far I’ve traveled. Perhaps a hundred or a hundred and fifty kilometers. I’m in a desert now, and ran out of water a few hours ago.

My tongue is so thick it’s hard to speak.

I fear sleep, because I don’t think I’ll wake up.

Voice Module 195592

Record Mode:

I can’t move another step. Thirst is worse than hunger. I’m hallucinating. Hearing things. Seeing things. I even had a fever-dream, imagining a space ship crashing in the distance…

Voice Module 195593

Record Mode:

A week has passed.

Obviously, I didn’t die in the desert. I was rescued. Well, sort of.

That ship I’d imagined I saw — it really did exist. A salvage ship, which had made a run at retrieving the trailer full of ore we’d lost.

They also got sucked into the wormhole, and were spit out here.

Their ship is damaged beyond repair. They’d been here for only a few days, and saw my Voice Module unit glinting in the sun.

They listened to it, unfortunately.

Marta, the woman, said she didn’t judge me. She understood.

The man, Ellis, didn’t say a word to me.

I received fresh water, medicine for my wrist, and synth rations.

“We have enough synth rations for a month,” Marta told me. “And we’re hoping for a rescue.”

But all three of us knew that a wormhole rescue has never been attempted. It’s suicide to go near those things.

I eat, and drink, and try to regain my strength.

I’ll need it.

Voice Module 195594

Record Mode:

I got them while they slept.

Ellis, with a large rock to the head.

The rock made a mess. I smothered Marta. Not bloody, but it took a while.

One month rations for three people equals three months rations for one person.

I’m sorry I had to kill them. I truly am.

I’m not a monster.

Voice Module 195595

Record Mode:

Is this thing still working?

Play Mode:

Is this thing still working?

Record Mode:

It’s been…how long has it been since I used this? Many months. Perhaps years.

I stopped shaving, and my beard reaches my chest.

Where did I leave off? I think it was with Marta and that guy, I forget his name. The one I killed with the rock.

It was for their synth rations. I paced myself, ate small portions, but still finished them too quickly.

I knew what was next. I knew it from the beginning.

When the rations were finally gone, I ate the people I’d murdered.

Humans, it turns out, are the best meat. Better than dog people. Better than alien lizards.

They sustained me for a while, but then they were gone too.

I began to starve again.

Days, maybe weeks, passed, and I began to whither away. Though I knew hunger well, it didn’t make the pain any easier.

At night, I watched the skies. Watched them with a yearning. Hoping for another ship to crash on this planet.

And one did.

Astronomical luck?

Hardly.

Only one survivor this time. Angela something. She explained.

The ore-filled trailer from my ship, the Darion, didn’t become lost in space. It’s in orbit around Wormhole GG54, daring salvage ships to try and take it.

Many ships have tried. None have succeeded. They get pulled into the wormhole and pushed out here.

It’s a giant, baited trap.

According to Angela, five ships have already been lost.

There’s a good chance they’re somewhere on this planet.

I asked Angela how large her crew was.

She told me there were seven. All dead.

When I killed her, that made eight.

Eight.

Mmmmm.

But that’s not enough. It’s never enough. I always run out.

I need to find those other ships. And I think I can. The Organic Brain on Angela’s ship is still functioning, and it created a partial topographical map of the planet.

The map pinpoints the other crash sites. Some, only a few kilometers away.

I need to move fast. There may be survivors.

The longer I wait, the thinner they get.

“W
here is it?” Theodore Roosevelt asked John Stevens as the two men shook hands. Amador, Shonts, and the rest of the welcoming party had already been greeted and dismissed by the President, left to wonder what had become of Roosevelt’s trademark grandiosity.

Fatigue from his journey, they later surmised.

They were wrong.

The twenty-sixth President of the United States was far from tired. Since Stevens’s wire a month previous, Roosevelt had been electrified with worry.

The Canal Project had been a tricky one from the onset—the whole Nicaraguan episode, the Panamanian revolution, the constant bickering in Congress—but nothing in his political or personal past had prepared him for this development. After five days of travel aboard the Battleship Louisiana, his wife Edith sick and miserable, Roosevelt’s nerves had become so tightly stretched they could be plucked and played like a mandolin.

“You want to see it
now
?” Stevens asked, wiping the rain from a walrus mustache that rivaled the President’s. “Surely you want to rest from your journey.”

“Rest is for the weak, John. I have much to accomplish on this visit. But first things first, I must see the discovery.”

Roosevelt bid quick apologies to the puzzled group, sending his wife and three secret service agents ahead to the greeting reception at Trivoli Crossing. Before anyone, including Edith, could protest, the President had taken Stevens by the shoulder and was leading him down the pier.

“You are storing it nearby,” Roosevelt stated, confirming that his instructions had been explicitly followed.

“In a shack in Cristobal, about a mile from shore. I can arrange for horses.”

“We shall walk. Tell me again how it was found.”

Stevens chewed his lower lip and lengthened his stride to keep in step with the Commander-in-Chief. The engineer had been in Panama for over a year, at Roosevelt’s request, heading the Canal Project.

He wasn’t happy.

The heat and constant rain were intolerable. Roosevelt’s lackey Shonts was pompous and annoying. Though yellow fever and dysentery were being eradicated through the efforts of Dr. Gorgas and the new sanitation methods, malaria still claimed dozens of lives every month, and labor disputes had become commonplace and increasingly complicated with every new influx of foreign workers.

Now, to top it all off, an excavation team had discovered something so horrible that it made the enormity of the Canal Project look trivial by comparison.

“It was found at the East Culebra Slide in the Cut,” Stevens said, referring to the nine mile stretch of land that ran through the mountain range of the Continental Divide. “Spaniard excavation team hit it at about eighty feet down.”

“Hard workers, Spaniards,” Roosevelt said. He knew the nine thousand workers they had brought over from the Basque Provinces were widely regarded as superior to the Chinese and West Indians because of their tireless efforts. “You were on the site at the time?”

“I was called to it. I arrived the next day. The—
capsule
, I suppose you could call it, was taken to Pedro Miguel by train.”

“Unopened?”

“Yes. After I broke the seal on it and saw the contents…”

“Again, all alone?”

“By myself, yes. After viewing the… well, immediately afterward I wired Secretary Taft…” Stevens trailed off, his breath laboring in effort to keep up with the frantic pace of Roosevelt.

“Dreadful humidity,” the President said. He attempted to wipe the hot rain from his forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I had wished to view the working conditions in Panama at their most unfavorable, and I believe I certainly have.”

They were quiet the remainder of the walk, Roosevelt taking in the jungle and the many houses and buildings that Stevens had erected during the last year.

Remarkable man, Roosevelt mused, but he’d expected nothing less. Once this matter was decided, he was looking forward to the tour of the canal effort. There was so much that interested him. He was anxious to see one of the famed hundred ton Bucyrus steam shovels that so outperformed the ancient French excavators. He longed to ride in one. Being the first President to ever leave the States, he certainly owed the voters some exciting details of his trip.