Branches whip my face and tear at my clothes as I crash through the undergrowth, churning up mud along the edge of the creek as I choose speed over caution.
I burst into the clearing without any pretense of stealth.
I see it immediately—a giant creature, some kind of wild cat, solid muscle beneath tawny fur, teeth bared in a snarl. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life—not on any planet. Long canines, dark, intelligent eyes. This thing outweighs me easily, and one bite will do for Lilac.
It’s got its front paws up against the trunk of a tree, growling low in its throat as it rakes them down the bark, leaving a row of parallel gashes. Lilac’s up the tree, screaming, though how she got up there I don’t know. I lift the Gleidel and brace it with both hands. Closing one eye, I draw a breath, wait until I steady. The shriek of the laser mixes with the frustrated yowls of the beast as the gun leaps and quivers in my hands.
The creature hits the ground with a crash, twitching and snarling as it kicks up the leaves and sends up clouds of dry dirt. It thrashes around for the count of ten and then lies still, the clearing filling with the horrible smell of burned hair and flesh. Up in the tree, Lilac’s screams descend into a series of ragged gasps. I stand and watch the cat for the count of thirty after it stops moving.
Keeping the Gleidel in one hand, I walk slowly across the clearing to where the creature lies still. There’s a moan of relief from the tree, and I realize she hasn’t been able to see me until now. I can’t focus on her yet.
“Stay up there,” I call. “It’s dead if it keeps its brain where it’s supposed to. Did it touch you?”
There’s no reply, but she hasn’t fallen out of the tree yet, so I can only suppose she’s unharmed.
I loose an extra bolt into the creature’s head for safety’s sake, the Gleidel shrieking again. I take my time over it, nudging it carefully with the toe of my boot, waiting for a response, and eventually stepping in for a closer inspection. The eyes are glassy; its side doesn’t rise or fall. Dead.
What kind of a terraformed planet is this, with a thing like that running around? There’s no reason to introduce a higher-order predator into a place like this; the felines should be a quarter this size or less. Their part in the ecosystem should be attacking small rodents, not chasing socialites up trees. This one has the same stripes around its face as the kind I’m used to, but it’s a man-eater.
So how did this thing get here? I study it for a few moments longer, then give up—it’s dead, and that’s what matters. When I look up, Lilac’s white as a sheet, clinging to the lowest branch. She stares down at me, blue eyes wide, shining. She’s not even crying, which tells me how bad the fright has been.
No kidding, Miss LaRoux, I’m pretty shaken up myself. As I stare up at her, a rush of relief overtakes me, my hand trembling where it holds the gun.
I fight the urge to drag her down from the tree. I could shake her. I could kiss her. I can’t let myself do either. I can’t believe I was so moronic as to let her go off alone after I’d seen those paw prints. I have to be smart, handle this next part carefully. I swallow, clearing my throat to make my voice even.
“That was some climb. Do you need a hand down from there?”
She ignores my offer, which reassures me more than anything else that she’s suffered no permanent damage. I’d be more concerned if she let me help her. She more falls down than climbs down, sliding sideways, dangling for a few seconds, then letting go so she can hit the ground with a thump. She crumples to sit on the dirt, then scrabbles backward away from the dead creature.
I know this moment too well, I’ve seen it in the field. Hell, I’ve been there myself. I could rub it in that I was right, and she was wrong—that I saved her life, that she needs me to survive. But there’s no point. She knows it. I’m not going to force her to come crawling back. I’m the one with field experience. I should have stopped this from happening.
“Let’s go,” I say, listening to her ragged breathing. “We can cover a little more ground before we have to make camp.”
A part of me wants to reach down and take her hands, and hold them until she feels safe. But I can’t. If I do, she’ll start crying, and she won’t stop. I need her to stay tough. It’s the best thing I can do for her. So I speak again. “Are you ready?”
She nods, climbing to her feet, not even bothering to dust off her hands. I’m aching, and I hate this, but damned if I’m not getting this girl to the crash site. She can hate me for the rest of her life once we’re rescued—at least she’ll be alive to hate me.