Resurrection

by Bud Sparhawk

“Non posso… ” the lobster-like alien beside me whispered in perfect Italian as we pushed our way through the marshy vegetation, a forest on this excessively wet and gloomy world. I could not continue onward either.

“Si, signore Ttch*lok,” I responded in the same tongue, nearly choking on the liquid glide in the middle of his name. In response to his request I looked for some place of refuge below the thick canopy. Some place where we could safely hide.

Ttch*lok was my first and only convert on this ungodly miserable planet. Six months it had taken for me to find one of these semi-intelligent, hard-shelled beings who had responded to the Word and I was not about to lose him.

I was not worried for myself, for whatever punishment my shipmates could bestow on me would be insignificant in comparison to what my convert would suffer. My friend would be entirely consumed if we were discovered.

I could not let him be eaten by those cannibals.

I

Our mother ship’s initial pass around the planet had revealed no cities, no centers of habitation, nor any of the other usual signs of civilization. To every inquiring sense the planet appeared Earth-like, as these distant places go, and therefore a ripe candidate for exploitation—another victim in humanity’s insatiable cry for living space.

Ten of us were deposited on the planet to verify these preliminary findings and discover more about the life that filled this place that was so distant from Earth.

After our team had been dropped from orbit, our mother ship departed to examine the next system’s prospects. It would be two years before she returned. In that brief time our team had to assess this planet’s treasures and dangers. We had to ensure that she was ripe for settlement.

I was the team’s botanist. Since botany is not a field that can keep one productively employed during the long silences between the stars, I had spent much of my copious spare time assisting the ship’s chaplains.

The Jesuits on Earth had trained me to be one of their own, so I was familiar with all forms of religion around the world and off it.

The botany and biology courses I had taken as an avocation, discovering a facility with the subject that led to no little expertise and, eventually, to a role as professor. When I began my ministry I little suspected that teaching would be a way of supplementing the pittance that supported my woefully small congregation, a post I had abandoned when I secured a post on Hercules’s outward voyage of discovery.

I helped the ship’s chaplains as they attended to the ships’ weak religious needs. This took no great art on my part, for most of the crew were of lukewarm faith. They followed the religious rituals while their minds were, no doubt, preoccupied with temporal thoughts. Form, not substance, was the watchword.

On different days and occasions I assisted the priests, rabbis, mullahs, lamas, brahmins, and the lone archimandrite. Each chaplain praised me for my faithful rendition of their rites, sometimes remarking on some fine point of ritualistic precision and faithfulness where I had done well. There were no complaints.

Yet I wondered if any of these religious people sensed the black hole in my soul; the absence of that core of faith that was the center of the religious experience. I was a sham. Yet, helping them and observing the rituals helped to pass the time.

It made me feel useful.

Our survey party had selected a dry peninsula within the temperate region for our base camp. We’d had to build pads under the ship to keep it from sinking into the soft, moist soil.

Our chosen site was surrounded with low-growing plant life. I immediately noted that some of the brush appeared littoral in aspect, as if it had evolved from living ever on the barrier between dry and wet. What periodic flooding could give rise to this characteristic was something I promised to research when I had time. All evidence suggested that the nearby placid sea was not always at its current level.

Hidden among the alien plants was an amazing collection of animate life. Every ecological niche seemed so loaded with competing species that scarcely a square meter of the terrain lacked its own teeming population of flora and fauna.

The curious thing about most of the motile life was its dependence upon armor. The most extravagant array of plate, shell, horn, and scale was employed by every animalcule or in-sectoid to protect all their vulnerable parts.The local life had no reluctance to try to see if we were as edible as their local prey. To protect ourselves against their sharp array of pincers, claws, teeth, and proboscises we erected a dome about the ship and carefully sterilized every square centimeter within it to create a cordon sanitaire. In this limited area we could squish about in relative security. Walking unencumbered on the muddy soils inside the dome was a welcome relief after spending a week cramped either two to the bunk in our small lander or encased in our hard suits when outside.

Only after we were certain that our dome was secure against the sharp biting, cutting, and tearing appendages of the local pests did we set up our instruments and begin to work in earnest.

I remarked upon the excess of the indigenous life’s protective strategies on one of our first outings as I snipped leaves and stems from some promising specimens of X-Gramen secundus, following the conventional genera naming with the necessary “X,” for extraterrestrial.

“The Earth had a similar proliferation of armor during the late Cambrian period,” Ed replied as he gleefully swept the nearby brush with a vacuum pump and gathered a collection jar full of angry specimens. “Shows the principle of parallel evolution— similar problems lead to similar solutions.”

“But why didn’t that persist?” Els-beth asked as she scooped dollops of lime-green mud into her own sample tray.

Ed chuckled. “Ought to study your biology instead of geology. Most of Earth’s armored forms disappeared in the first Great Extinction, the one long before the dinosaurs arose. We only know about them because of the evidence in Earth’s fossil record, and the horseshoe crab—one of the last survivors. If it wasn’t for that extinction, all of Earth’s creatures would probably be wearing a natural coat of armor instead of soft and”—he added with a grinning leer at Elsbeth—“their sometimes very appealing skins.” Elsbeth blushed and quickly glanced away. I wondered at her reaction; everyone knew about the two of them.

The lobster-like creatures started showing up a few days after we completed the dome. We dubbed them lobsters only because of their huge strength claws and the array of feelers, eyes, and other sensory apparatuses projecting from the front end of their long bodies.

There the resemblance to Earth’s lobsters ended. The aliens’ bodies more closely resembled an armor-plated dog, who just happened to have six legs and a wide, flat tail. The front end of the creatures rose above the rest of the body and provided the perch for a cluster of sensory organs that stuck out in all directions.

The largest of the first group was hardly a meter high and weighed under ten kilos, according to Ed’s careful measurements. The smallest was half that size.

Despite their frightening appearance, they did not appear to be menacing, or even express an interest in us as a possible food source. Instead they followed us everywhere, like curious monkeys encountering explorers for the first time. Ed Corson, head of the biology crew, modestly bestowed the onerous name of X-Crustacea Decopeda Homarus corsonni upon them, adapting our initial nickname and appending his own. We simply called them homaroids, tor they rapidly became a pain in the you-know-where.

Within a matter of days there was a considerable crowd of the homaroids pressed hard against the unyielding surface of the dome. They appeared to be observing us as we moved around the dome, hard at work at our tasks, ululating the whole while in their gurgling, fluid voices. We set Ajita, the closest thing we had to a psychologist, to studying their actions.

On my second trip outside, one of the homaroids proceeded ahead of me, snipping samples exactly as I had done the previous day. To my wondering eyes it began laying them on the ground: root, leaf, stem, fruit, pod, or flower intact—the perfect specimen presentation each time. Just as I had done.

Curious at its seeming ability to so faithfully mimic my actions, I made sure that it watched me carefully uproot an entire plant. I wanted to see what parasites or symbiotes might be attached and was curious as to what my companion would make of this. The homaroid watched me carefully.

After I dug up two more plants, taking care not to vary my actions, the homaroid began to do likewise with another plant nearby, carefully trimming the loose soil away with that huge claw, much as I had done with my spade.

Ajita became very excited when I told her what had happened and immediately set up a testing program. She started running a few specimens through mazes and quickly graduated them to more complex tests when they showed increasing levels of sophistication with the test protocols. Her small collection of homaroids were seemingly able to learn in instants and retain it long term—or so she believed. The difficulty she faced was that her subjects tended to die just as she thought they were making headway.

“Their bodies decay rapidly in this heat,” she told me. “They start to smell, the shells fall off, and the bugs start eating them right away. I watched a swarm clean out the entire shell in a matter of hours after the subject died. It was horrible to watch.”

Death was only one of the problems with the homaroids. Many of the other lobsters tended to suddenly disappear. We suspected that the larger homaroids that had started arriving were responsible for these disappearances since, by that time we had become aware of their cannibalistic practices—preying upon their own kind.

These late arrivals were much the same in appearance as the earlier ones, but had different shell markings and were a quarter size larger. Ed playfully and provisionally named these X-Homarus evenlarger, asserting them to be another variant.

None of the smaller homaroids ventured close to the larger ones, apparently anxious to avoid coming in reach of their claws. As a result, each evenlarger was surrounded by an open area. When they moved, the smaller ones parted to each side as waves in a chitinous sea.

Ajita reported that the larger ones tested as more intelligent than the others. Ed borrowed a few for closer examination, ruining Ajita’s carefully planned testing regime.

Ed dissected his captives with great care and confirmed his earlier suppositions—the organ that the homaroids used as a brain was not localized, like ours, but was an evenly distributed extension of their central notochord. This latter structure, what we would term a spine, lacked our familiar surrounding bony structure. A little reflection revealed that they had little need for such protection since their entire body was encased within a hard exoskeleton and needed no extra protection.

The notochord ran the length their body, with sites of the higher functions located more toward the center, close to the cluster of sensory organs that projected from the top, while the motor functions lay nearest the extremities. It was a most efficient design.

What was significant was that the “brains” of the larger species were significantly more complex than their smaller cousins.

Ed’s heated arguments with Ajita about the impact of this discovery on the possible intelligence of the homaroids led to an amazing discovery: that the homaroids were able to grow additional brain mass, which provided growing room for additional dendritic nerves, the connectors between active sites.

Both the homaroids’ increase in mass and accompanying dendritic growth appeared to occur in response to learning pressures, as Ed and Ajita learned through ruthless experimentation and dissection.

Ed explained the meaning of this to the rest of us during one of our periodic review sessions. “The same sort of growth of dendritic nerves occurs in humans of all ages whenever they learn new tasks, but not at the rate of growth we’ve found here.”

“But humans just expand the number of dendrites in their brains, not expand the brain itself,” Ajita corrected.

Ed considered, “Well, yes. But we have a lot of excess room in our brains. I also think our dendritic density is higher because of the differences in cell size. I found that the cells of most of the homaroids are on a grosser level than ours—ten to twenty times larger. You can even see some of the larger cells with your naked eye. This means that they have to increase volume to compensate for the lower density.”

Al waved his hands, as if trying to diagram the problem he saw in the air. “It scares me when you contend that they can grow the equivalent of a second brain. Where will it stop? If their environment puts enough pressure on them won’t they eventually become intelligent? Maybe even to the point of sapience!”

The remark sent a challenging and exciting thought through me. I wondered if they would develop a soul along with their intelligence, since they would necessarily understand guilt and consequences.

“I doubt that could happen,” Ed said, dismissing Al’s idea with a wave of his hand. “Unless they are more like Earth’s crustaceans than evidence seems to indicate, the inflexible exoskeleton that protects them prevents any great amount of expansion. Once a homaroid grows enough to fill its body cavity it can’t expand any more. That’s a natural limit.”

“And if it can’t grow then it can’t learn beyond a certain point,” Ajita responded on cue. So much for my dreams of an alien dialogue.

Or the existence of their souls.

As time went on even bigger members of the homaroids began gathering around the dome. Ed assured everyone that these were simply variants of the originals whose difference in size was the result of environmental conditions. He further stated that the bigger ones probably lived farther away, where a more plentiful supply of food was readily available. We all debated continually about the evolutionary mechanisms that would allow such variations in dimensions.

Perhaps, some of our crew concluded, it had taken these later arrivals longer to reach us from their distant feeding grounds.

So it seemed to me as well.

Eventually we had a broad range of homaroid sizes outside the dome. The crowd ranged from the original one-meter X-Homarus corsonni to the X-Homarus evenlarger, some of whom equaled the mass of a small human.

Not a few of the largest ones had imprinted on specific members of our crew. Even Ed, the chief homaroid dissector had his claque of devoted followers as he went about his grisly business. Often he had to shove them away to prevent them from reaching out to grab a snack from the exposed meat.

“Damn homaroids are omnivores,” he remarked proudly. “True survivors. Just as soon eat their own flesh as anything else.”

I despaired for the existence of any semblance of a soul in such animals.

The homaroids followed us every time we ventured from the dome. Since each had striations on its carapace, with unique variations in color and form, we found that we could easily identify individuals. A few of us even gave certain ones endearing names, much as you would a pet.

My own followers were headed by Julius, a medium-sized evenlarger with worn green and brown markings, and a dozen or so smaller corsonni of assorted sizes. I myself noted further correlations between intelligence and size as they mimicked my actions. Ajita had been right, the bigger ones were definitely quicker to learn new things and could handle complex tasks with ease.

On each new plant I discovered I bestowed a provisional Latinate name, for I fancied myself as an alien Linnaeus come to classify and order their world. To amuse myself I began to speak in my native Italian, conversing endlessly about my activities to my alien audience while I gathered my samples.

I often mused, as they repeated the liquid phrases of Italian that I had taught them, just how well they would learn the beautiful language of Dante Alighieri. It should not be difficult, given the fluid nature of their vocal apparatus. Were they as primitive natives of Italia, to observe our alien selves much as his fictional protagonist had observed the demons and devils?

At a deeper level I wondered if we could stay humanity’s colonization to permit these creatures to one day evolve their own version of a political Rome, an artistic Venice, or a Florence brimming with intellectual ferment? I tried to imagine tables full of homaroids sitting on some damp Via di Vita, sipping espresso, and discoursing on the state of the government, perhaps even discussing philosophy … and Med. Creatures without a soul cannot aspire to civilization.

An evenlarger joined my group a week or two after Julius had suddenly disappeared. “Mi chiamo Jhl*kuh” he said to me with a surprisingly flawless Italian accent, rapping himself on his shell with his claw by way of greeting one morning a few days after his first appearance.

Perhaps it was merely because I had been speaking that tongue so much lately that my new companion had picked up the Italian, surpassing even the more senior ones of the troop in his facility with the tongue. It showed surprisingly good mimicking abilities, much as the original had done with my actions regarding the plant.

“It’s just natural mimicry,” Ajita remarked when I related this to her. “It simply copies what you do and say. Don’t read too much into it.”

Still I wondered at the similarity of his name to that of my former follower; had I been using that form of address on him by habit? I dubbed him Julius II and he quickly became the new leader of my flock.

“Nuovo! Nuovo!” Jhl*kuh said one morning as I exited the dome with my sample kit, ready for another day of searching and classification.

“A new plant?” I’d replied in surprise. The initiative, intelligence, and memory displayed by his remark was quite startling. It indicated that these evenlarger might not be so lacking in intelligence as Ajita supposed. Perhaps we should bestow on them the as yet unclaimed X-Homerus sapiens designation.

“Dove…” I began in Italian and then switched to the hideously harsh vulgar tongue that was our lingua franca, knowing that it could not comprehend either way. “Well, let us see it,” I barked slowly. Into the brush we plunged, with the rest of my claque behind us. I wondered what the day would bring as I trudged along behind Jhl*kuh in my hard suit.

Our troop’s trek to the center of the broad peninsula from the dome took most of the morning and, at the end of it, I discovered not one, but a dozen new specimens. These appeared to be a new order, one closer to the seaweeds of tropical seas than the land based ones I had seen so far. I named them X-Aquaia fortejulii, in honor of my new guide. The plants’ presence this far from the water was an indication that the sea had only recently receded, in geological terms, and that their recognizably acquatic features were residual attributes.

Again I considered writing a paper on the possible evolution of these plants and then reconsidered: better, more learned scientists than I would theorize and develop a history of this planet. My present role was merely to catalog the items for an initial survey, not try to unravel the story of this planet’s evolutionary history.

I even doubted that the provisional names I gave to this plant would withstand the erosion of time. This I took as further evidence of the transience of man’s activities and of my own in particular.

By the end of the fifth month Ed finally found out how the homaroids got around their growth limitations and why there was such a variation in their size. He informed us of his findings over our simple evening meal of bread and cheese, smiling broadly as if he were the proverbial cat that caught the mouse.

“They do grow very much like the crustaceans of our mother planet,” he explained patiently. “As we know, periodically their growth reaches the limits of the volume inside of their exoskeleton.”

“Yes, and that was why you and Ajita said they couldn’t be too smart,” Al remarked with a worried frown, as if he still feared that our pets would suddenly become sapient and declare us persona non grata on their planet.

Ed frowned, as if he had been caught in a lie. “Well, yes. I did. But that was only a preliminary thought— a theory—nothing more. Now I have rather more convincing evidence to the contrary.” He took a sip of tea and then continued.

“As I was saying, rather than stop at the point where they reach the limits of their shells, these creatures seem to be able to grow a new exoskeleton with more room to replace the constricting old one.”

“Wait a minute,” Ch’ou, our atmospheric specialist said, interrupting Ed. “Don’t you have that backwards? Shouldn’t it be that they shed and then grow a new shell? It isn’t reasonable that you could get a larger shell inside a smaller one. That’s just a mite impossible.”

Ed smiled as if he had anticipated the question. “Not impossible if you understand the process. The new chitinous shell is soft and pliable and somewhat compressed; all folded underneath the exoskeleton. It is only when the old shell is shucked and it becomes exposed that the new chitin expands and hardens to become a solid exoskeleton. Crabs on Earth do this every year.”

I thought of what he said and wondered out loud, “How long does it take for the new shell to harden? Wouldn’t that make them vulnerable?

I mean, during the period they are without armor they must be quite defenseless against all of the bugs and things that prey on them.”

“Quite right,” he snapped back instantly. “I expect that it would take three to four days for the chitin to harden to the point where it would be effective as armor.”

“Now wait a minute. If their shell is so soft then how could they move? And no, I don’t mean the obvious,” Elsbeth said smartly as Ch’ou started to interrupt her. “Ed told us earlier that the homaroids’ muscles are anchored to their shell. How do they prevent their muscles from tearing the soft shell apart when they rid themselves of the old?”

Ed explained, “The dormant one I dissected seemed to be in a hibernation state. I guess some internal process paralyzes their muscles during the period it takes for the hardening to complete. I would suppose that they sleep through the process as well.”

“Oh my God,” Ajita shrieked. “My specimens weren’t dead! They were just shedding their shells!” With that she raced outside, no doubt to throw some protective coverings over the pens to prevent further losses.

“I still don’t understand how they protect themselves during this vulnerable period,” I said aloud. “And another thing; why don’t we recognize the newly sloughed, or vice versa?”

Ed smiled. “Oh, we don’t? What about that Julius one that dotes on you?”

Wait a minute! I rocked back on my heels with the dawning realization of what he had just said. Julius must have been the reincarnation of my former follower. The revelation must have shown on my face.

“Exactly,” said Ed, smiling broadly.

II

The ship carrying a delegation of civilized homaroids arrived on the 250th day following our landing.

In many ways the ship had parallels to the Roman triremes, with the high poop and armored prow. But instead of banks of oars lining the side, dozens of small creatures were securely lashed to the sideboards, their tails trailing in the water and providing the means of propulsion, A length of cord led from each creature’s single feeler back to the helmsman. Apparently steering was accomplished by tugging on the traces, much as our ancestors must have guided the horses of antiquity.

The ship grounded and three immense homaroids stepped onto the shore. Showing no evidence of fear they came slowly and deliberately toward our camp.

We had tumbled out of the dome only minutes before. As soon as the ship had been spotted we had begun to throw on our hard suits, anxious to examine this startling and unforeseen event at closer range. The aliens, it seemed, were taking the initiative we should have begun. This was akin to the Native Americans canoeing to Spain to meet Isabella.

As I poured myself into my own suit I wondered at the origins of these arrivals. How could there be civilized creatures on this planet? We had discovered no recognizable cities yet they had an advanced technology sufficient to build sea-going ships. How had we made such a serious mistake? More importantly, what meaning should we read into this turn of events?

We congregated six paces from the dome’s entrance and stared at the new arrivals. As soon as they neared the dome they stopped, as if awaiting our response. It was a tableau of opposing monstrosities, although who were the monsters depended upon your point of view; I supposed.

These creatures were quite different from those we had become so familiar with over the past months. All three were nearly two meters tall and each probably massed at a hundred kilograms, if not more. All were painted with stripes of brilliant hues and carried pouches over their backs. The one with the orange and black stripes down his side carried a long staff, adorned at the top with a golden sphere. A badge of office, I guess.

A smaller, unpainted homaroid, of a size and appearance equal to my Julius, trailed behind the trio at the end of a tether. The other end of the tether was held by an alien adorned with vivid green stripes.

With a quick tug of the tether the smaller homaroid was brought to the fore and was pushed into the space between the threesome and our band of hard-suited explorers. The alien with the orange and black stripes raised the staff in his strength claw and drove it into the ground with such force that it penetrated the soil to half of its length. A few turns of the tether about the stake and the smaller lobster was anchored in place. With that accomplished the three newcomers returned to their ship with not a glance behind them.

“Well, what do we do now?” Ed asked. “Is this one a gift?”

“Seems a healthy specimen. The shell looks new, as if he recently sloughed,” Ajita said as she approached the captive creature. “Don’t worry, I won’t harm you,” she said gently as she raised one hand toward the captive, as if she expected it to understand her.

The lobster immediately began burbling and babbling a string of flowing sounds, the like of which we had not heard before. When we did not respond the creature again repeated what appeared to be an identical stream of sound.

“Oh, my heaven,” Ajita, who had a better ear than most of us, remarked. “Could that be language we are hearing?”

Language it was, as we quickly discovered. Not surprisingly, these ship builders had the complex language so necessary for their civilization.

Ed promptly pronounced that these newcomers were the X-Homarus sapiens we had discussed. It seemed appropriate at the time. We all agreed with his decision.

Over the next week each of us took turns trying to teach the small captive the rudiments of our language and trying, without much success, to make sense of its own. Al rigged up a box that would reproduce those fluid, gurgling sounds that we could not imitate. That solved the audio problem for we could now approximate the sounds the captive made with some fidelity.

The grammar and structure became a major obstacle. From all we could reason out both verbs and nouns of the homaroids’ language were highly irregular. But how these were ordered was more than we could understand. There should have been a linguist in the party, but without evidence of civilization why should we have bothered?

The structure seemed aggregative, complex parts of speech being built up from smaller packets of sound, each of which probably represented a word or concept—we couldn’t tell which. Somehow a part of understanding their “tongue” must have been partially hard-wired, just as was our own.

We despaired of ever decoding it and, since I had such success in teaching Julius Italian, we began to use that tongue to speak to the tethered captive.

To its credit, and our embarrassment, the creature learned more quickly than we. As it did so I was assigned to spend more time with it, teaching Italian to a willing student.

Meanwhile Ed and Ajita had discovered another disturbing fact about the homaroids’ growth pattern. It appeared that the process of sloughing expended considerable energy, energy that came from the consumption of their own flesh—about half of the body weight was lost, much of it the precious brain cells. Memory, of course, went with that. Each homaroid awoke from the sloughing as a new creature, possessing only a fraction of its former memories.

“Twenty percent memory retention, at most,” Ajita remarked with some sadness. “What a loss of knowledge for them. What a loss,” she remarked with considerable feeling, looking toward the envoys’ ship.

The blockbuster discovery came a few days later. Ed had noticed that the homaroids that snacked on the guests at his dissection table appeared to gain some of the victim’s knowledge. He had Ajita test this with the smaller versions that she used to run the mazes.

“There seems to be a mechanism very much like we once thought some Planaria had,” Ed explained. “They incorporate the chemical from the brain cells directly into their own, without the interference of a destructive digestive process. It must be an evolutionary mechanism: the ones who survive the shedding must compensate for their loss of knowledge by consuming others. The better predators must gain the most, become more skilled and therefore survive the longest. Makes a great deal of sense.”

At first we thought the animals used to propel the boat were of another species which bore only superficial resemblance to our friendly homaroids, that is until I ventured close enough to examine them. With a sense of shock I realized that not only were they of the same species but each creature’s sensory apparatus had been cruelly amputated, leaving them blind to all but a rope tied to their one remaining feeler.

How could their masters be so cruel as to do this to their brothers? I wondered. Had they no pity, no empathy for the pain and suffering of their captives? What sort of civilization would allow such barbarities?

Then I recalled with shame the Roman slaves who had been chained to their oars in the Roman triremes: Was there a moral difference between us?

I noted that one of the “slaves” was slumped in his halter, as if he were extremely limber. The crew must have noticed this as well and were soon untying it from the thwarts and hauling it on board. Curious to see what would happen next I placed one foot on the prow and raised my head above deck level.

The sight was not one I expected to see and, frankly, horrified me.

The three emissaries and the crew were tearing at the poor slave, ripping off patches of his shell, pinching off gobbets of the white flesh inside, and stuffing them into their maws. These creatures we had thought to be civilized were no more than cannibals!

Quickly I backed away from the ship and raced to the dome, anxious to tell the others about these barbarians and their hideous practices.

Ed remarked matter-of-factly when I related what I had seen. “I can think of some earthly analogues even though such behavior by an intelligent species intrigues me. We already knew that the homaroids were omnivores so it shouldn’t be any surprise that these feast on their kin as readily as anything.”

“But they are intelligent and civilized,” I shot back. “We humans certainly don’t do that sort of thing.”

“Maybe we don’t do it now, but I’m not sure whether that is a social artifact or some more basic survival mechanism at play,” Ed replied. “Besides, humans have had lots of alternative sources of protein throughout our history. From what we know of this planet, the easy-to-find sources might be limited to the homaroid family. I guess feeding on their galley slaves is natural to them. Hey, didn’t our ancestors eat their pack horses when they ran out of other sources of meat?” He laughed at my expression of dismay.

How could he equate eating dumb animals with consuming your own kind? The brutality of creatures who preyed upon their own horrified me. I could not consider them civilized if they followed such practices, no matter what the state of their technology.

And I despaired for their souls, for surely they possessed sufficient intelligence to understand their guilt.

At the end of each day one of the emissaries would approach our language student with a pail of scraps and speak to it for a few moments as it ate its meal. Afterwards, the emissary would take the empty pail and return to the ship.

I made it a practice to speak with the captive immediately after these visits, hoping to glean some information of substance about the intentions of our visitors and to probe the depths of the creature’s understanding of its own environment.

Ttch*lok, the captive’s own name, I learned, proved quite willing to converse with me, as anxious to learn about our ways as we of theirs. Ttch*lok told me a few things about his place in their society.

For one thing I learned that he was not a member of the ship’s crew but was merely a tool—a translating animal that had been trained for one and only one purpose.

“And what,” I asked, “is your destiny when that purpose is fulfilled? Will you then be permitted to be a citizen and recognized as an individual?”

Ttch*lok seemed horrified at my question. “Animals have no destiny,” he responded calmly, without a trace of fatalism. “I will die when my work is done.”

I wondered at his answer the rest of that day. Isn’t it reasonable that when a being achieves enough intelligence to understand its own death then it can also understand the concept of its own immortal soul?

I decided to discover the truth.

“We have been traveling for three crews,” the emissaries explained once Ttch*lok had mastered the rudiments of Italian enough to act as translator. Three crews would be nearly one hundred individual deaths. I shuddered at the thought of so many sacrificed merely to propel this ship to us and the casual way they used these losses to measure their voyage.

They’d started our way soon after hearing of our landing from their scouts, within a month of the arrival at least. “Quick reaction,” Al said in a worried aside.

“The Great Ones send their greetings to you,” the gold and black one continued. “They wish to know more of you and your ways. We few are their representatives and have been sent to grow in knowledge.”

The Great Ones, we learned through painful dialogue rife with misunderstandings on both sides, were apparently a group of ancient homaroids who had managed to survive long enough to amass great intellect and a large storehouse of knowledge. If only 20 percent was retained with each of their sheddings I wondered at the precious cultural knowledge that must be lost whenever they shed.

These intellectuals were, of necessity, highly reclusive. This characteristic would limit the amount of new things they would be exposed to, and reduce the need for frequent sloughing that would result from additional knowledge.

Another probable reason for their secretive ways was, I suspected, to protect themselves from becoming a feast of knowledge for some ambitious competitor.

The horrid prospect of knowing that others could gain a portion of your hard-won knowledge by eating your flesh as you slumbered awakened every horror story of wraiths and vampires that I had ever heard. How pitiable and constricted their lives, I thought, to always live in fear of those around you, afraid to challenge your mind or grow in knowledge because it would make you even more vulnerable. The thoughts of homaroid intellectuals gathering on the Via di Vita to discuss philosophy vanished like soap bubbles in the sunlight.

Because of their intellect the Great Ones also commanded vast resources and a coterie of lesser beings who provided protection and brought information to them. It would be the envoys’ purpose, I suddenly realized, to reduce this journey and knowledge of ourselves to digestible portions for their masters. I shuddered at the thought.

After a short debate when learning of our arrival, the Great Ones decided that contacting these strangers who had appeared on their world was worth the cost of growth.

Their ship had been dispatched within the week.

We watched with some curiosity as the crew of the ship rounded up a few of the smaller corsonni and herded them into a pen they had erected beside their trireme. We suspected that these would most probably become the replacements for their slaves.

The other units had been unleashed from the ship and tossed into the enclosure with the new victims. Whether as trainers for the others or as a food supply I could not imagine. Time would tell, I supposed with some sorrow, and said a blessing for their souls.

Each of the young homaroids had a line tied to one of their feelers and was led into the water. The crew would tug on the line as soon as the tail started to wiggle. Another tug and the other crew member would grab the tail to hold it still. This went on day after day, fifteen minutes per individual.

The mutilated ones meantime were searching the pen, learning their way about with their one feeler until they knew the boundaries of their enclosure. In time each began seeking a quiet place of refuge, usually one of the corners, to begin the process of softening and renewal.

I watched with gorge rising as each was quickly eaten by the others no sooner than the shell had softened.

“Fascinating adaptation,” Ed remarked as he leaned forward to observe the process better. “Not only are the originals a good source of food, but the ones eating them also gain some of the training as they eat, which makes their own training go faster. I would wager that the crew doubles the speed of teaching the new ones this way.”

“But why do they leave the new ones alone otherwise? They have not mutilated their sensory apparatus as yet.”

“ ‘Edited’ is the word to use, padre. And to answer your question—No, they probably won’t edit them until they’re the right size. I would guess that they do that during the hibernation of the softening so that the newly awakened ones know only the reins.” Ed thought for a moment, scratching his chin absently “Pretty clever, eh?”

Clever? I could think of other words to be used; words such as barbaric, gruesome, despicable, odious, atrocious, and unthinkable! Not to mention predatory and abominable. Yet none of these could adequately define the depth of the emotional reaction that I had for these hateful creatures and their vile practices.

III

Our sessions with the envoys had given us some insight into the workings of their society. They had no great aggregations that could be termed cities, for why should creatures who are so vulnerable choose to live close to their potential predators? Instead, each one who grew to adulthood built a secretive cave whose entrance was carefully hidden. Here they could shed their shells in security when the time came. Here they could hide from those who would use them.

With some shock I discovered that none of the envoys knew of their parentage. Sex for them was a spurt of eggs or semen in the springtime response to the tides. They had no emotional attachment to the free-swimming young homaroids that they used so abominably. Only those young who had achieved an educatable size and proven intelligence were brought into servitude.

It was likely then that these civilized beings preyed equally upon their own genetic heirs as well as others, using them as beasts and as food. It was Bentham’s worst nightmare come to life.

I also discovered that they had no concept of religion, no spiritual center to their life. My dialogue with Ttch*lok each evening became a ritual that followed his feeding. But now there was a purpose in my discussions, for, through him, I believed that I could regain the faith that I had lost. If I could have God speak to this creature then there was still grace in the Universe. And there was still hope for me.

I began to tell Ttch*lok of a spirituality through which he could hope to surmount the tether that bound him. I spoke of the virtues of a faultless life, and the certain rewards of the afterlife after the release of his soul. I spoke of a kind God and how he would reward those whose life was free from sin.

In time I believed that Ttch*lok began to comprehend and understand the possibility of his own salvation. I baptized him one night with a cupful of water from the nearby sea, as seemed appropriate at that time and place. “My friend,” I made him repeat in Italian as I held his claw and arm upraised, “We are reborn.”

We prayed together, there on the damp, green mud; a strange crustacean and a failed priest, repeating words whose origins were centuries old and hundreds of light-years distant.

I rejoiced in my eager convert, imagining that he would carry religion back to the godless civilization that spawned him. I fantasized that Ttch*lok would be my first missionary; that he would carry the message of redemption and spirituality to the needful and unknowing souls of this horrid world.

I would have a flock of believers at last! Strange though they might appear to others of my faith. I relished the souls that were to be saved.

One evening I noted that the pail seemed rather full to overflowing. Choice scraps were evident. “Was this a reward?” I asked innocently for today’s session had gone extremely well, with hardly an error in understanding.

“No,” Ttch*lok responded with no hint of sadness. “They are feeding me to make sure that I am full when my time comes.”

“I don’t understand. What time is this? Are you going to return to your masters?” The emissaries had mentioned nothing of their departure.

Ttch*lok clicked his feelers together nervously. “I am at my limit, father. I have learned so much that I feel that I will burst if relief does not come soon.”

Startled at his remark I peered closer. Yes, the signs were unmistakable; there was a cloudy appearance in the eyes, the shell had taken on a milky sheen, and the movement of all appendages were languorous and weak. “The softening is coming,” I said in sudden understanding.

“Yes,” Ttch*lok replied. “And they will eat me for my knowledge when that happens.”

I was rocked back on my heels. Eat their translator? Why would they… Then it dawned on me: By eating him they would gain facility with our language. With that core of knowledge they could more easily gain fluency. Yes, and then they would no longer have to suffer the laborious and demeaning process of translation through a captive animal.

It made perfectly good sense. Ed would no doubt think it a “clever ploy.”

I thought that it was horrible.

All through the night I tossed and fidgeted in my bunk, wondering what my moral obligation was in this case. On the one hand the feeding of Ttch*lok to the three emissaries would materially enhance our process of learning more about their civilization and this world. I had a sworn obligation to aid and support that process.

On the other hand, if I did nothing I would lose my single convert. I would allow a Christian to be sacrificed on the altar of expediency. Not only that, but a living, thinking, feeling being of no little intelligence would be consumed as fodder, with little ceremony or remorse on the part of his masters. To them he was simply a convenient animal whose substance could be harvested with dispatch.

Did I not have a higher obligation to save his soul, if not his material being? I had baptized this child and therefore had a debt to protect him.

The conflict of the two obligations wore on me through the long night hours.

In the steamy dawn I crept from the dome to where Ttch*lok lay sleeping. “Quiet,” I whispered as I cut the tether that bound him to the staff. The line was surprisingly weak. Ttch*lok could have sundered it in a moment with his claw, had he so chosen.

“Come with me, my friend,” I said and led him away from the dome and into the dark vegetation surrounding the campsite. He resisted weakly at first, as if unwilling to move. I assumed he was early in the stage of stupor that preceded the softening.

Finally he stirred, albeit slowly. I had momentarily feared that the progression of the softening had already reached the point where he was unable to move. That would be a serious problem since I doubted that I could bear his weight in addition to the hard suit.

For hours we trudged through the dark foliage and sucking mud, ever away from the dome and those who would misuse Ttch*lok. When gray dawn lay upon the sky we were kilometers away, heading up the peninsula toward the swamps of the mainland.

Ttch*lok stumbled frequently as if his limbs were not strong enough to maintain the pace. I gave him such help as I could, supporting his weight whenever it seemed he was losing strength.

The signs of his forthcoming change were more apparent in the morning light. A small crack had formed, extending from the base of his tail to a point halfway along his back. It had not yet separated, for I could see no white flesh between the sides of the crack.

I prayed that there was still enough time for us to find a safe place to hide.

“Non posso continuare. I tire,” he said finally and slumped to the ground. He could go no farther and, I must admit, my own resolve to continue had faded in the reality of the forced march and my inability to drag his weight any longer.

I discovered a sheltered spot. It was a simple overhang of dirt on the side of a ridge covered with feathery shrubs. I dragged him in as far as I could and lay beside him, exhausted.

We could not be spotted from the outside, I was certain of that.

“Is there anything that I can do?” I asked, wondering what needs Ttch*lok might have and if I were capable of providing whatever might be requested.

“You should not have taken me,” he whispered so softly that I strained to hear him. “I was not made to live beyond my purpose.”

“Nonsense,” I responded at once. “No one deserves to die needlessly. I have an obligation to save you for your own sake, for the sake of your soul.”

“I have no need for this body, father,” he responded weakly. “My soul will go on.”

“Yes, it will,” I responded. “But at a time and place of your own choosing.” “My soul is eternal,” he said. “I live in others,” and with those words my friend, my convert was gone.

He slumped in my arms, surrendering his material self to my embrace, just as I would some day relinquish myself to my redeemer.

I did not know whether his last words were question or statement.

As the day progressed the process of Ttch*lok’s softening accelerated. The crack on his back finally extended the entire length of his body. As it began to widen, a rich, redolent fluid spilled out. Ttch*lok’s body writhed and squirmed in small random motions that twitched his exoskeleton this way and that. His strength claw jerked upwards at one point and then fell limply to one side. There was no resistance when I lifted it; the muscles had loosened completely.

Heat radiated from his body as the process accelerated. I watched the firm exoskeleton split and easily peel away. The oily fluid that oozed from the cracks must lubricate the shell and permit it to peel so easily, I surmised. As pieces of the shell fell away the white flesh beneath was revealed.

Metaphorically I wondered if, when my own mortal sheath had to be sloughed, it would expose the soft white purity of my soul? Just what were the similarities between us, the parallels in our spirituality? Clearly the mores of this world were at odds with the civilized processes of my own, as I had observed many times in these past weeks. Still, couldn’t there be some grace in all of this predation, some salvation from “nature, red in tooth and claw?”

Couldn’t the Word of God be brought to these beings?

The smell of the lubricating fluid and the heat radiating from the process began to attract visitors. The small flying insectoids were the first to arrive and landed on Ttch*lok’s white flesh, ready to feed. I swatted them away with a branch of X-Coniferlycanthus that I tore from one of the shrubs outside of our lair.

The crawling things were harder to deal with. I finally took a few moments to roll a large stone in front of the opening and scooped out a moat in the gray-green mud behind it. The moat immediately filled with water and formed a secondary barrier behind the stone. I used the back of my glove to squish those few crawlers and scurriers who squeezed by the boulder and managed to ford the moat.

As evening fell I heard the larger creatures gathering outside, some of whom were probably wild homaroids. I made shuffling noises to keep them at bay while still waving the branch at the insectoids and keeping an eye peeled for any other crawlers who had forded my moat. I rested not a wink that night as Ttch*lok changed beside me. I tossed pieces of his shell outside as the process continued.

The next day was a repeat of the first, only with greater numbers of flying insectoids and creeping, slithering intruders. My branch was worn to a stick and I had to replace it twice as the day progressed.

Halfway through the day my cooler quit and I began to warm up from the exercise of swatting and squashing. I began to grow thirsty, but refrained from drinking my small water reserve until I absolutely had to. Now that the cooler had gone there would be no more condensation to refill the reservoir.

But regardless of my own discomfort I knew that I must keep my vigil, to guard against those who would steal this soul from my care.

By late afternoon of the second day the entrance to our hideout was littered with the remains of the flying, crawling, and slithering creatures that I had dispatched. In the bright light of day none of the larger predators were visible. That did not mean that they were not there. It only meant that they were biding their time, awaiting a moment’s lapse on my part; a nod from me and they could feast on the succulent body lying in repose beside me.

When night fell I could hear the predators coming close, testing my ability to drive them away, testing my resolve to save this soul from the horrors of his own world. Each time I arose and waved my arms in what I hoped was a threatening manner.

I persisted and wondered at last as to why I was doing this. Why, after abandoning my own calling, had I chosen to intervene with this one pitiable creature, this one who was not even of my own species?

My innermost faith had decayed years and years before, long before I embarked upon this journey into the boundless reaches of God’s great Universe. And perhaps the reason for it.

How could a priest serve his flock when the congregation was an ever changing aggregation? When they were people who looked upon the rites as performance, who changed churches, religions, and morals according to the fashion of the time?

Sermons meant nothing to them, being merely an interesting phase in the show, much akin to the musician who plays to amuse the audience between acts. Mention shame and they would get up and leave, talk of sin disturbed them, speaking of death was unthinkable, and asking them to believe in the Trinity was impossible.

Despite this, I had to pander to the needs of the age, for it was deemed better to have a flock of marginal Christians (and the money was welcome too) than preach in an empty church. Yet, despite all of my efforts to make those who chose to attend realize the peril to their immortal souls, it took only one popular figure to state that Mithraism was the religion and, in an instant, my entire flock would switch allegiance to the temple down the street.

Every waking moment I lived in dread of finding myself without a congregation to care for.

In the end I could stand such lukewarm adherence to the faith no longer. I despaired of mankind ever maturing into a life of belief and spirituality. If we few practitioners, advocates of the faith, could not obtain their commitment then humanity was lost; they would only have the taste of religion without being nourished by the substance.

I abandoned my church, leaving the spiritual care of my two dying parishioners for a younger, and less critical replacement and embarked into God’s great Universe on the Hercules, searching for my lost faith among the stars. Perhaps there I could find renewal, I had hoped.

Instead I had found Ttch*lok.

By the morning of the third day Ttch*lok’s new shell had finished expanding and begun to darken. The exoskeleton was starting to achieve the consistency of leather. This was some relief for me as the smaller insectoids were no longer a problem, for their tiny apparatus could not penetrate Ttch*lok’s new armor. I no longer needed to wave my branch and crush the occasional visitor. I rested my arms and sucked a few drops of water, the last of my reserve.

When that night fell the homaroids and other predators still lurked, awaiting their chance. Perhaps when the shell hardened further I would have a chance to sleep, to rest from this vigil, I thought.

As I sat there I pondered again at what I was doing. A disturbing simile occurred to me in that haze of sleep-deprived, semi-critical thinking: the similarity of the homaroids’ consumption of the flesh of living thinking beings to the rites I had learned. Was this not a communion of sorts? Wasn’t their consumption partaking of the substance of life itself, a sharing of being more intimate than my own ritualistic taking of the flesh and the spirit?

A reason why these creatures had developed no religion occurred to me as well. Each of them was virtually born anew after each successful softening. Each rose after three days, like the Lord, from the false death of mortality, forgetful of their prior transgressions. Each and every one of them was resurrected in a continuous renewal of innocence.

They were living a spiritual life such as I had never imagined.

I cried at the thought, muddled as it may have been. I fervently wished that we humans could do likewise. That we could shed our baggage of sin and pain and return with refreshed souls, able to grace life with greater facility. I yearned that others could drink of my life and experience and so carry it forward to eternity.

But, unlike these blessed creatures, these sorrowfully predatory homaroids, my own sins would not be shed like their exoskeleton but would stay with me unto my final breath, dooming my eternal soul to ascend without a second chance for redemption. Like all humans, I had only one pass at life; one chance to live, and must die with the consequences of my mistakes.

As I’d had to live with my failure to keep my faith.

With these morbid thoughts in mind I must have dozed momentarily. I was started awake by a slight noise beside me and spied a large slithering centipede who, having taken advantage of my inattention, was chewing at one leg of the slumbering Ttch*lok.

I lashed out with my foot, bringing the suit’s armored heel down square in the center of the ’pede’s back. Its legs kicked as it coiled about to tear at my foot with its sharp mandibles. Several of the pede’s appendages tore futilely at the underside of my leg, the piercing spurs on each of its many limbs failing to find purchase in the metal.

I came erect, keeping my foot squarely on its back, holding the creature in place. With a shock I saw that the pede’s mandibles were actually peeling small slivers of my suit’s armor away with each bite. A line of little scratches marked where it had been nibbling.

I placed all of my weight on the pede’s back and brought my other foot down hard on its head, feeling its crown crack in a satisfying shock that ran up my leg as the gore from its innards splattered in all directions. One more spasm and then it lay still under me, dead at last.

With a feeling of disgust I lifted the thing with both hands and tossed it into the night. I heard the nocturnal predators scramble toward it and then listened to the sounds of a scuffle as they battled over the choice parts.

Then the night was silent once more.

I dozed no more that night but stared at the damage my inattention had caused to Ttch*lok’s leg. I had failed in my mission, just as I had failed my flock.

I think I cried then as well.

In the morning I noted some stirring of my charge and, when I looked closer, I saw that there was some movement of his sensory organs. The eyes swiveled toward me, staring blankly. The feelers writhed aimlessly. Was Ttch*lok returning to consciousness, I wondered?

As yet there was no movement in his limbs: Apparently the muscles had not been released from the protective slumber that God had provided to protect him against damage to the still unhardened integument.

After a few moments the eyes closed and the feelers stopped their movement. I prayed that all was well.

Ttch*lok moved no more that afternoon.

To my testing hand the shell appeared to be as firm and solid as his original had been. Few of the insectoids bothered us now. They had learned that they could not penetrate our hard armor. Nor did the crawlers come near. Apparently they had only been attracted by the heat and the smell of the softening fluid and, now that those were gone, had no interest in us.

I was certain that the predators still awaited outside, although I could not see them. Perhaps, I thought in a haze of sleeplessness, I could rest my eyes for a moment, just a moment.

I dreamed of myself as the new messiah of this world, with Ttch*lok as my prophet. I dreamed of the two of us carrying the word of a life free from fear, a life that blessed the sanctity of intelligence for the precious gift that it was, a thing to be guarded and protected. I dreamed of hordes flocking to hear the Word and sharing a true communion of souls, of life and spirit.

But then the dream turned to nightmare as the hordes, misunderstanding our message, fell upon each other, clawing and fighting and tearing and eating at each other in a frenzy, the mass of greenish-gray bodies a massive blur of hideous movement.

I saw my disciple pulled down into the mass and rendered into pieces, surrendering himself in this most intimate of communions.

And then they reached for me.

I started awake to feel something lifting my arm and lashed out, thinking this was still the dream, or maybe fighting some new predator come to call. It was only when I opened my eyes that I realized how wrong I was.

The new Ttch*lok had come fully awake and was standing over me, his huge strength claw grasping my arm while his back legs held my body in place.

A shock of fear went through me: Did this reincarnation retain any knowledge of our relationship? I wondered if he could sever my arm with his claw’s sharp edge, an edge that had not yet been dulled with use? I wondered if our friendship and his discovery of faith was among the eighty percent of memory that was lost.

If so then I was surely doomed.

Anxious moments passed with no change to the tableau as my fear grew, for I now remembered how ravenous any homaroid must be after the softening; desperate to replace the energy that had been lost and anxious to consume me and thereby gain whatever knowledge I possessed.

So much did I fear my own rendering at the hands of this horrific creature that I nearly fainted, slumping in the hard suit that surely would be no protection against that huge, sharp claw.

His eyes swiveled this way and that, seeking to make sense of the surroundings. Ttch*lok had been so deep in his pre-sloughing stupor (Was it only four days ago?) that he surely could not remember how we had come to be in this tight overhang.

Finally his eyes came back to focus on me. He reached across and grabbed my other wrist, lifting both wide. “My friend,” he said in flawless Italian, “we are reborn.”

And with those words he let me go and raced from the place where I had held my vigil, past the rock I had rolled into place, and across the remains of the creatures that I had tossed outside. I had never seen one of the homaroids move so swiftly.

Seconds after he had disappeared into the brush there was a piercing scream and some thrashing sounds. I stumbled out and saw Ttch*lok, or whoever he was in this reincarnation, stuffing the remains of one of the smaller homaroids into his orifice. His strength claw had neatly decapitated the little creature with a clean cut.

The prey had become predator.

I saw no more of Ttchiok, although I searched the vicinity until darkness fell. I did find evidence that he had hunted vigorously in the short time since emerging: severed armor lay near and far, all cut with that fierce and powerful claw, all emptied of their contents. Apparently he had an understandable drive to replace the energy lost during the softening and was hunting with a vengeance. I waited through the night for him to return, hoping that he had retained enough of civilized memories to come back to his friend and mentor. I was disappointed; I had failed again.

I stayed awake as best I could, waiting against hope for his return. I must have dozed frequently, for the day went by much faster than it should. During my waking moments I recalled my dream and puzzled over what it might mean.

Had I been wrong in taking Ttchiok from his proper place and secreting him here in the wilderness? Perhaps the ethos of this place was not my own, was not the smooth, disciplined structure humans had evolved over the centuries and which now was contributing to the lack of resolve in our spiritual lives.

Perhaps the rough edges of this barbarous place held a new level of understanding, one built upon the absolute certainty of rebirth, of the knowledge of what true communion contained for the individual.

Had I prevented the emissaries from sharing Ttchiok and carrying his soul back with them? That possibility worried me more than I cared to think about.

But then I recalled his words upon awakening from his rebirth. “I am reborn,” he had said. A modicum of the faith had remained in him and I knew that he would carry it forward. Even if he fell prey to something larger and more ferocious perhaps some part of that faith would be passed along.

And so it would go until the faith was shared throughout this world, shared in the vast communion of predation and love.

I too, must be reborn, I thought in an amazing epiphany. I now realized that so long as a few of the faithful professed the Word and carried the ideas forward into the future, there would be no loss of God’s faith in the world. Like the flesh of Ttch*lok we few faithful must surrender our own lives to serving humanity until the day we die and pass a part of that faith on to others.

It is our own way of communion.

In the morning I wearily started my journey back to the dome, wondering what my punishment would be now that I had destroyed our link to the emissaries. I am sure that some of my associates would want to extract a horrid penalty for what I had done, forcing me to pay penance for transgressions real and imagined. I doubted that any would understand why I had to act as I did.

God works wonders in strange ways and to me he had administered a hard lesson; but in that lesson he had taught me a new humility about my role in this life.

And renewed hope for my role in the next.

Content

Resurrection
by Bud Sparhawk

I

II

III