viable scenario for her part of the triad of war stories. Then, I read the account in the July 30, 1991 issue of USA Today of the live burial of those enemy soldiers, and I had my ending for the tale. But when it comes to war, and war, in any century, all I can eventually do is hang my head after seeing or reading accounts of what actually happens in battle, and ask myself: How can any civilization do something so stupid so many times?
But I think I know the answer to that earless ’gol’s query: We are the enemy. We always have been, and as long as we fail to figure out how not to settle arguments through battle, we’ll never cease to be the enemy.
CONTINGENCIES AND PENTI-LOPE-LOPE
with John S. Postovit
Day 93:
The ’lopes watched us from their self-imposed distance as the six of us gathered in a circle on the flat-grass around the box holding the last of the spacer ’slop. I could see them craning their necks, oddly wide and flat heads jerking, flared ears twitching, as they scrutinized our movements. And Penti-Lope-Lope’s canted amber-orange eyes were focused on my hands, my face, as I tore open my last dinner packet and pretended to enjoy it. At the best of times, the ’slop was a poor replacement for real food. This sure wasn’t the best of times. Even if I hadn’t been preoccupied, I still wouldn’t have enjoyed it. My sinus medication had long ago run out, and without my pills, I had little sense of taste.
And Nutraform (’slop’s official moniker) wasn’t much to brag about even when I could taste it. It was nothing more than a flavor-enhanced, textureless, gloppy substance with the consistency of adipocere flesh; a nutritious, amino-acid, vitamin, mineral, carbohydrate, and damn me I can’t recall what else that was just bulky enough to provide proper elimination, neutral enough not to cause heartburn, indigestion, or allergic reactions after ingestion.
Spacer swill; compatible with any and all human digestive systems, made palatable by loads of flavoring designed to fool the taste buds into thinking it was getting something real. If I ever got back to Earth, I’d start a campaign to impeach the politician who got the stuff on the official provisions list. Him and the moronic food-processing company that makes the stuff. Probably owned by the politician’s second cousin.
Well, he’s safe from me. I don’t expect I’ll ever make it back to start that campaign....
The others half closed their eyes as they moved the ’slop around in their mouths, oblivious to the watching ’lopes, savoring whatever packet they’d saved for their last meal. Their last real meal, before descending into that lonely abyss that yawned before us. I lowered my eyelids, pretending to enjoy ’slop I found as appetizing as nose drippings.
The ’lopes bunched closer, shifting from thickly muscled feet to half-squat in place, elongated torsos supported by their extended tails. They patted each other with their great hairy hands, all the while making those rumbling grunts and semi-mewls. But they came no closer to our meager supper circle. The Last Supper, as it was. If only Christ was here, to change water into wine, and those pole-fruit into bread. Made from safe, Earth-grown wheat....
Finally, Jimmie opened his eyes, and said, “We can’t avoid it, not now. That’s the last of the reserves—”
Huoy gulped down her utterly fake, perfectly bland Cambodian pork then snapped, “Not as long as the vitamins hold out. The water’s safe, so there’s no need to—”
(Beside me, Reba—paying no attention to the spoken words of her fellow esper—kept glancing at the surrounding ’lopes, an unreadable expression on her lightly freckled face. And for their part, the ’lopes likewise remained unreadable, or—at least to us incomprehensible....)
“Ever see a heart after starvation sets in?” Elizabeth asked in that mild, dreamy brogue of hers, face pale beneath burning-brown eyes. Huoy was suddenly engrossed in the crumbling soil and in the brown-to-tan-ombre spotted pebbles resting near her lotus-positioned feet, as the doctor continued, “It becomes like leather, brown leather. Not red. Not soft. Not very big.”
Elizabeth held up her fisted right hand, the skin red-gold from the light of the too-small sun above us. “The body eats itself, attacking the muscle once the fat is depleted. The heart grows hard—”
Huoy stopped shifting the dirt particles between her stubby fingers. “So?” For a second I thought she was going to throw the dirt at Elizabeth. “Either way, we’re dead. Matter of time. We know the anatomy of death by starvation.
“But once we eat this”—soil-stained fingers pointed at the fleshy tubers and foliage around us—“who knows?”
Jimmie crushed the remains of his packet against his chest, sighed deeply then replied, “Ecology here is certainly carbon-based. Right-handed sugars. Digestible at any rate. No toxins showed up in the tests I ran, least so far. Not many of the aminos we need but I can cob up whatever else is missing. At least we didn’t run up against any left-handed sugars or—”
“None of the animals have died,” Neil added, scooping up pebbles and rattling them, gourd-like, between cupped palms.
Huoy’s head whipped around so quickly I heard one of her vertebrae pop softly. “‘None of the animals have died’? My, my...oh brilliant, dear Mr. Aaron. How utterly perceptive of you.... Wait a minute, Mr. Aaron, perhaps I’ll clap for you. Now, do you remember how rats can grow immune to almost any poisons? Or cockroaches? Remember, Neil? Their physiology is not like ours.” Then Huoy’s conversation went silent, her voice taut with unvoiced argument; the others leaned slightly forward, in the unconscious way of espers, and once again I felt like a child—too young and too stupid to be included in the conversation.
Reba suddenly dropped out of silent argument and gave me a little look of sympathy. Poor esp-mute, little boy lost! She leaned closer against me, chin level with my shoulder, and gestured. “That tree over there. Me Eve, you Adam, ’kay, Scott?” She rose to her feet with a graceful motion that made my heart jump. Damn, she was beautiful!
Padding over to one of the two-meter high plants we dubbed “trees” for lack of anything else tall and tree-like on the horizon, Reba reached up and pulled one of the brownish, stick-shaped fruits off of the tree, before carrying it back to our “circle” of two.
The fruit’s peel was husk-dry, faintly pebbled with bumps a shade darker than the rest of the dappled surface. Like ’lope fur, I thought, as Reba dug into the peel with a blunt thumb. The interior was meaty, seed-laced pulp, stringy, yet glistening with juices. It smelled wonderful; a heady, musky, tart pungent aroma which made it past my painfully blocked sinuses, as if it were a sign of virtue. Scooping out some pulp with her index and middle fingers, Reba handed the rest of the fruit to me, her freckled face aglow with an impish smile. Before awareness of our absence had time to register on our crewmates, Reba softly said, “Look the other way, God,” before taking her first dripping taste.
“No, Reba!” Huoy screamed, flat face furrowing as she dashed to where we stood. Jimmie called after her, “Come back, Huoy, what other choice do we have—” but Huoy already had her hands on Reba’s cheeks, shouting; “Spit it out! Spit-it-out-now!” As Huoy tried to force open Reba’s lips, I leaned over and yanked the geologist’s forearm away, warning, “Leave her alone. You know that a biologist like her knows the risks better than anyone—unless biology is also your specialty now—”
Then Reba swallowed, stuck her tongue out at the other woman and spat, “And it’s good, Huoy. Not processed sludge in a damned pouch. It’s good. And I know the ’lopes eat it—they haven’t keeled over yet.”
Huoy
