Come, Hunt an Earthman

Book 91: Gateway Essentials

by Philip E. High

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

If you're a human, the deadliest game. You may consider yourselves experienced hunters. You have hunted on many planets. But here things are different. For there are no mindless monsters or charging carnivores, but a devious, intelligent and dangerous prey. A prey who is out to get you before you get him. Man!

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 172

Sample

THEY trooped into the dome and I looked them over. I looked them over visually and, at the same time, checked their personal possessions with my instruments.

“Vol Noth?”

“I am Vol Noth.” A Kaldren, florid face, scarlet crest, big bulging eyes.

“You have read the list of forbidden goods?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Then you will be good enough to surrender your intoxicant inhaler, please.”

His crest fluttered furiously and he turned a dull red. “You exceed your authority, Hunt Master.”

“The list of forbidden goods is specific. You must surrender the inhaler or abandon the Hunt.”

“Very well but it seems absurd, utterly absurd.” He placed the inhaler on the table with ill grace and obvious regret.

“Be seated, please.” I waited until they had settled themselves, then I said, “I trust you have all read the Hunt Manual?”

There was a murmur of assent but I was not deceived. Perhaps some of them had glanced at the title but that would be about all. Decadent, purposeless races seldom bothered with minor details. I would, of course, have to give them my usual lecture. I had a high safety rating which I was not going to throw away for a bunch of casual incompetents.

“Clearly you have all been on Hunts before, but how many in pursuit of an intelligent prey?”

“I have.” Kalvaninar, an Ankrolon, beak-nosed, solemn and bushy-browed.

“I have hunted on Ilexsar and Pondurit. I have three hundred and seventy-two trophies.”

I believed him. He held the long-barrelled Prengos as if it were part of him, almost as if he loved it, which he probably did. I knew I should have to watch him; love of killing showed in his grey flinty eyes.

I turned to the others. “For those of you unfamiliar with intelligent game, I must remind you of the rules.”

“Rule One demands that your shields are raised at all times.”

“Rule Two insists on discipline. You will obey all my commands because your lives depend on it. If I instruct you to stand still or hold your fire, you will obey or suffer the consequences.”

“Rule Three is a preservation law. You will not shoot infants under any circumstances. You will not shoot female and, where possible, you will spare the elderly—is that quite clear?”

They all assented verbally so I rammed home the primary clause. “Any intelligence who disobeys the Hunt Master in respect of the above, may be fined one hundred thousand units and banned from hunting for life.”

I allowed a long pause for this to sink in. “All of you, no doubt, consider yourselves experienced. I must warn you, however, that on this planet, previous experience must be wholly discounted. I have been a Hunt Master on many worlds and I can assure you that this is the most dangerous of all.”

I paused again for them to absorb the information. I wanted them alert when they started out. If they were not alert, many of them would die quickly and painfully.

Most Hunt Masters allow for a ten per cent loss and, on this world, twenty per cent was not considered bad but I wanted it well below that—if possible.

I leaned forward, determined that they should understand. “I am aware that the Hunt Manual dismisses this culture as class eight but the ingenuity rating is far, far above this. So also the incredible resistance level, moral and material. Let it be clearly understood, you are not hunting a fleeing prey. You are hunting a creature whose determination to get you before you get him borders on the fanatical.”

“Many of you, I know, have hunted creatures as big as twelve story buildings, creatures that charge like juggernauts. Here, however, are no mindless animals like the screaming hordes of Bulaka. Here are reasoning intelligences with a primitive but highly efficient technology. We have damped down their stockpiles of uncontrolled nuclear devices but the rest of their technology remains. I must warn you, as soon as you leave this building, you may be under attack.”

I paused. “Anyone now wishing to withdraw from the hunt may do so—deposit and expenses will be refunded.”

I watched five shuffle into the ante-room with relief. That left me twelve, a far easier number to handle.

“Any questions?”

“What is the procedure?” Kalvaninar again, caressing the Prengos as if it were a fretful child.

I activated the wall map. “We have transport to this point. After which we must proceed on foot to the hunting grounds which begin on this line. As you will see, the area is a rough triangle, bounded at each point by a native city.”

I turned to the party again. “Now, please, a list of equipment. I will start with you, if I may, Vol Noth.”

He was still angry, I could see that and he went through the list in a harsh unpleasant voice.

“Force Shield, oxygen supply, wrist detector, Prengos, and additional small arms. First aid pack, containing—”

I let the rest go through their lists, then I said: “Sleeping cubicles may be found through the door on the right. May I suggest an early night, transport will be at the main entrance at 06.30 Standard Galactic Time.”

A beautiful day, for, make no mistake, this is a beautiful world. Tiny white clouds sprinkled a sky of such gentle blue that no other known world can match its sweetness.

The foliage is generally green but its subtleties of shade are beyond words. One has to see the pale morning meadow, dappled with yellow and scarlet flowers to understand the real meaning of beauty.

The natives have a unique way of arranging words to convey both their emotions and the beauty of their surroundings. A construction of words—which I have never found elsewhere—which they call poetry.

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun

And waves of shadow went over the wheat.

On this day, the waves of shadow passed over the long grasses and touched the trees. …

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro, the wave that runs forever

By the island in the river.

I am certain, of course, that none of my party were aware of the beauty around them, nor had they ears to hear. The rustle of leaves and grasses meant nothing nor, for that matter, the sweet songs of birds. No other world which I know has flying things which sing with joy. I have seen birds on other planets, sailing across the sky like yachts, their plumage the colour of a thousand rainbows. These things do not sing, they screech as if in pain.

I hear very clearly, you must understand that. I hear birds, the dancing water in the hidden stream, the hum of insects. Yes, and high up in that innocent blue sky—beyond normal hearing—the thin mosquito-drone of the watchers.

These same watchers are seeing us now. They are circling, watching and reporting back what they see. It is already known we are leaving, alarms will be sounding and there will be preparation for battle.

The transport follows the native road, a once crowded six-lane highway, which, for us, is but a trail to the hunting grounds but, for the prey, the front line.

When we reached our destination, I did not permit my party to step carelessly into the open but warned them yet again.

“From the first moment you step into the open, you will be under attack. It is true that you are the hunters but it is because of this you become an instant target. Death is waiting for you in every road, every field and every ditch. It is lying beneath the soil, it is poised in the air and it is lurking in every shadow. One moment of inattention, one fraction of time with a lowered shield and death will strike and pass on before you have time to realize it.”

I led the party and literally pounced on the first one out.

“Detector!”

He jumped. I could see he was already nervous.

“Uh? Oh, sorry, Hunt Master.” He flicked the stud on his wrist instrument. Figures appeared and the black warning needle crept round the white dial.

He became slowly pale of feature. “Explosive beneath the ground! Four paces only! I think—I think I would prefer to return to the dome. I do not mind monsters, you understand, hordes of creatures coming in waves but, no, not this. When the others are out, I shall return, life is more important than trophies.”

The rest, chastened, came out watching their detectors and treading warily. All of them, I noticed, had their shields functioning at full power.

We started off across the fields, picking our way between the mines which had been sown almost as thickly as blades of grass.

On the far side of the field we came to a tree-lined road, dusty, deserted and winding away into the distance. We followed it, alert and on edge. One never knew what was behind the next ridge or concealed in the next cluster of trees.

On the other hand, in my opinion, it was just a bit too quiet. Which meant, of course, it would not be quiet for long.

I was right.

It came down the road like a thunderbolt, wing tips brushing the leaves of the trees and so low that everyone ducked automatically as it approached. Short red flames stabbed from the edges of the stubby wings, cannon shells churned the surface of the road.

Kalvaninar took most of the burst on his shield in a welter of crimson splotches and showers of sparks. Then dust was swirling about us and the plane was gone.

Before the party had recovered from its surprise, another plane came hurtling down the road from the opposite direction.

This one fired no cannon, yet, but for the shields, we should have fried. As it was, the party just had to wait, shields up, oxygen capsules on, while flame and black smoke surged in fury about us—napalm takes a long time to burn out.

When we were able to move again, I saw that the party was shaken. The daring and skill of the two native pilots in such obviously crude machines had brought them face to face with what they were up against.

Another decided to pull out. “I had no idea we were hunting such fanatical intelligences. When I hunt, I prefer the percentages in my favour, seventy-five per cent, not forty.”

There was only one comment on the attack and that was from Kalvaninar. “These creatures are frerdnig.”

The word ‘frerdnig’ is peculiar to his home world and difficult to translate. A broad interpretation renders it ‘inspired hero’ but there are subtle overtones which implies both the reckless and the piratical.

He went up in my estimation, not as a life-form, but as a user of apt descriptions.

We continued on our way but had not gone far before the road in front of us geysered upwards in flame.

This time Kalvaninar was ready and the Prengos made its characteristic zinging noise as he pulled the trigger.

The Centurion tank which had fired on us came to an abrupt stop and developed a shimmering blue aura. As we watched, it began to shrink visibly.

Kalvaninar had learned quickly. He took his time, alert for mines and, when he got there, his trophy was ready.

The Prengos, besides being a weapon, alters the atomic construction of its target. It reduces in mass and size without in the case of mechanisms, reducing its efficiency.

“Here!” Kalvaninar lifted the tank up triumphantly between thumb and forefinger. “My first trophy on this planet. This goes in the middle of my collection.”

I could imagine the shelves of his trophy room laden with trophies, Guthas, Kossbunds, Latziens. Now he had a Centurion tank, a tracked armoured vehicle perfect in every detail which would lie snugly on the palm of his hand. Given the correct fuel, the tank would function, the long gun traverse.

I watched him drop the tank into his trophy bag. The crew were still in it. Unfortunately, however, although reducing organic life, the Prengos did not preserve it. Inside the tank would be little toy soldiers, hard as metal, still in the postures of action but quite, quite dead.

We went on. Occasionally missiles slapped into the shields but the party was learning. More and more trophies went into their bags, half-tracks, soldiers in green-brown camouflaged uniforms, a motor cycle.

Vol Noth got a tank. He, too, had learned and took his time.

He picked it up from the long grass. “Here! See I——”

He never finished the sentence. One moment he was standing there, bulging eyes bright with triumph, and the next he was lost in smoke.

His shield bulged outwards, swelled like a huge smoke-filled air balloon then suddenly deflated in a hissing jet of smoke.

A twisted Prengos, a few blackened personal possessions lay in the grass but all that remained of Vol Noth were a few spatters of blood.

I walked over and there, a few paces away was the tank—Vol Noth’s trophy tank.

I held it up for them to see.

“It is not possible! We all saw him pick it up!”

“No, you are wrong.” I held it out for closer inspection. “I warned you that the prey was highly ingenious. He knows what happens to his armo. . .