Kaleb's Critters

Chapter 7

Paradise.

They were going to Paradise.

Gigantic computer screens wallpapered Sheila’s Processing and Shipboard Homeostasis Chamber, displaying photos of yawning mountain vistas, fertile meadows, sandy beaches and dense forests. Huge, reptavian creatures, frozen mid-flap in an aerial ballet, flocked among the wispy cirrus of a cobalt, alien sky. Absolutely beautiful…

“We’ve ‘ad probes seeding the atmosphere for nearly a year now, collectin’ data, photos—the usual drill. Our science boys down in Research had a field day with this stuff when they finally got it in last month.” Kaleb Burnow, lord and master of the hunt, stood silhouetted in natural beauty: a mountain among his extended family. He turned to the rest of his crew, eyeing everyone—especially Robin—with excitement. The camera angle on a snowy vista behind him changed, panning down rocky hillocks into a deep gully: an inhabited gully.

Squalid hutches of mud, rock, and weaved, gray plant life lined the edges of the depression along a rocky stream. Morning light spilled over the eastern edge of the gully wall, flowing among the stout structures to collect in the center, reflecting off a grinding and slashing knife of running water, cutting down deep through the middle of the primitive settlement. The only movement was that of running water and motes of floating dust, and Robin wondered briefly if the place had been abandoned.

Kaleb’s thick, eager intonation quickly pulled the new cameraman’s attention away from the screen and back to the “preliminary science briefing” as Abe called it. The crewmembers met with the Channel Research team on a rotation according to trip, and apparently it was Mr. Burnow’s turn, so Robin tried to give him his full attention.

“There’s a radiation field around the whole planet, so I hope you boys are up to date on rad-vacs, and the whole thing’s on an eighteen hour rotation, giving us the perfect opportunity for some night hunting.”

“Great,” Dexton grumbled to himself. Scratching behind his left ear, he gave Robin a quizzical, bordering on pleading, look. “Hey, Fairweather? You been to the clinic lately?”

“I told you to get yourself checked up weeks ago, Dex,” Abe growled, casting an apologetic glance toward Kaleb before turning the full force of his glare upon his unfortunate nephew, “and don’t interrupt.”

Dexton chuckled sheepishly, rubbing a thin shoulder. “Sorry…”

The copilot of Satan’s Grandma was small, nearly a head shorter than Robin, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in personality. Dexton had chatted excitedly since they’d arrived, only stopping to rub a hand over his uneven buzz-cut or cry “tits” in frustration or enthusiasm or… well whatever reason someone would growl the word “tits”. His uncle had to give him a swift kick in the calf so Kaleb could give his report, and he’d been generally well-behaved since. The boy was of average build, and his skin was a shade lighter than Samuel’s under a dirty, red mechanic’s jumpsuit. Thin lips twitching, he looked briefly to Robin for help, maroon eyes pleading silently.

Fairweather didn’t know what to do. He’d just met the kid and had no idea what he wanted from him, so he just gave him a quiet nod. Dexton lit up, and, smiling, turned back to Kaleb’s presentation.

“… four dominant species that we can identify: all generally quadrupedal in build, and, because of this, they vary greatly in size. We’ll have more time to focus on non-sentients on the trip out, but I want to get you all up to speed on our primitives before we get going.”

Burnow hunched, sliding into a seat at one of the terminals. Pressing a few buttons, the main viewscreen—a large LCD rig that was settled in the center of several smaller liquid monitors—flashed once, twice, three times, before resolving into a recording of a reddish cliff-side. A snow-spattered ledge had been carved into the rock, laced with caves at seemingly random intervals. A few of the cave mouths appeared to be covered with mats of vegetation or animal skins, while others remained empty, yawning and whistling in the winter wind.

“TB-1128 has one major land mass—not quite 'Pangaea' quality, but definitely large—surrounded by islands ranging in size between tha’ of the Irish Collective and Old Austrahlia.” Kaleb paused, taking a moment to gesture toward the main screen, and the snowy mountainside within. “These cliffs are located in the center of the northern-most island. Watch the cave to the far left.”

Left-most? Robin focused on the cave furthest to the left, a bare hole carved out of the cliff. No decoration: did something really live there? It seemed pretty empty to him…

Nothing happened for several seconds, and Dexton got impatient.

“Boss, what exactly are we—oh! What the fuck?”

Robin, who had glanced at the complaining copilot, quickly turned back to the screen. Red maser-fire filled the monitor, soundlessly scorching the cliff-face for nearly a full minute. Eventually the attack ended, burnt door-hides fluttering in the wind, and the mountainside was empty once more. The probe had been firing at something, but what? And why?

“Language, Dex.” Abe growled. Turning to Kaleb, he asked the question that Robin was afraid to. “Could’ja bring that up again? I didn’t catch what happened.”

“T'was just the probe’s self-preservation programming kicking in,” Kaleb explained, rewinding the recording. “Protecting the investment is priority two, here.” Static gave way to the mountainside, wailing wind carrying flurries of snow among the caves. Robin concentrated on the left-hand side of the monitor, waiting.

Suddenly, the cliff moved.

Red fur and white feathers leapt forward into the open air, a swinging flurry of naturally camouflaged limbs that froze in mid-air at the touch of a button, a long shaft of material tipped with a shining, metal point stopped several yards from the camera. Its path had been clear: a direct assault on the Planet-Hopper.

“That, there,” Kaleb began, pointing to the blurry mass frozen on-screen, “was a semi-intelligent life form: one of four suspected primitive species on 1128.”

“Can you enhance the image?” Nowell asked, squinting through a pair of old-fashioned glass spectacles he seemed to produce out of nowhere. “I need something to give Marketing for the bi-monthly promotion change.”

“Sorry, Simon,” Kaleb chuckled. “The blightah moved too fast, and the probe went and blasted ev’rything in the canyon. A shame… would’ve made a good shot for this month’s promo, you’re right. If you still want a picture, Probe Seven took a couple stock photos of another, live group, or you can have a corpse analysis picture from this one.” The screen changed, depicting what Robin assumed was the dim interior of one of the creatures’ dwellings. Several shapes lay on the dirt floor, steaming in the winter air—whether from the cold or having been half-cooked by maser-fire the cameraman was unsure.

Another change, zooming in on a sharp, cracked beak-like muzzle, and deep, yellow, pupil-less eyes. Blackened and melted brown fur extended in clumps across the creature’s body, topped with a layer of snow-white feathers from the barrel up. The camera turned, revealing a set of lengthy, majestic wings at the beast’s sides, still twitching jerkily above two sets of limbs: a pair of scaly, clawed appendages extending from its feathered chest and two muscular, furred hind-legs below a feline tail.

It looked like a cross between a cougar and an eagle... and it was really damn familiar.

Nowell grunted and considered for a moment, adjusting his glasses—Robin tried to remember if he’d seen him wear them before—and running a thin hand through his long, greasy locks. “Mmmmm’corpses sell. Send me the analysis and I’ll get it out to Daniels tonight. If you have any other good shots I could use those, too.”

“Sure thing, Simey,” the Australian mountain rumbled—an avalanche with an accent—before typing another command. The screen went dark for a moment, before reawakening to a rather similar scene, but with much less cooked eagle creatures. The recording centered on a small pack of the strange, combined beasts hovering in a tight circle around a smoking mountain bush. They hovered around, circling the burning plant, passing in and out of a stream of billowing smoke.

“Interesting little tidbit, here,” Kaleb continued, “According to Doc Sisson, these things never touch the ground when they can help it: just float around in the clouds near the mountain peaks their entire lives on those wings of theirs. Apparently the group our probe destroyed was a family of exiles 'r a trading caravan of sorts."

At age seven, Robin saw a B.E. sprite—perhaps an ancestor of the canister of sprites Kaleb's team retrieved many years ago—at the New Metro Zoo on a school trip. The creatures on screen reminded him of the tiny iridescent aviators, resting peacefully on the clouds of sulfur vapor in its enclosure one moment; darting quickly in a burning, liquid dance the next. Rippling in their immense power, the beasts' wings beat in time, continuing their eternal battle against gravity as they stalked their flaming focal point like furry vultures.

“What’s up with the smoke?” Dexton queried, closing in on the monitor to get a better look: watching the screen with equal parts amazement and disgust as the odd creatures flew round and round. “They—uh—They dancing? Like a ritual or something?”

Burnow smiled, clapping the young copilot on the back with a brief, barking laugh.

Dex flinched, but was soon smiling goofily at the hunter’s kind attention. Was Robin jealous? No…

“Good question, boy, a proper question. I knew you were a good hire the moment your uncle brought you in.”

… a little.

“The newer ’77 Planet-Hoppers have their own little chemistry analyzers,” Burnow explained, commanding a pop-up from the electronic ether in the bottom corner of the main screen. Colored spheres grew and bubbled outward—a molecular model of sorts, one that Robin couldn’t even begin to understand—and slowly rotated around a central axis. “It took a sample of the cellulose of the plant the 'Gryphons'—research team’s been calling them that straight out of an old Mythos book—are flying around, and came up positive for THC and plenty of other chemicals: relaxants, hallucinogens, you name it.”

“So they’re doping?” Nowell quirked an eyebrow, smirking at the circling, spinning, inhaling aliens. “They’re more civilized than they look.”

“Basically, yes,” Kaleb conceded. “But let’s move on.” The screen split in four, one remaining focused on the “Gryphons,” while the others quickly displayed far different scenes.

Gryphons. Oh wow it was a pack of Gryphons... that was so... coincidental? Groundbreaking? Looking around the room, noticing similar looks of mildly surprised recognition on the faces of his fellow crew members—and Nowell's near-orgasmic grin—Robin realized the true implications of this discovery: Channel ratings would go through the roof for this.

This could push their station—Robin's new home, really—ahead of the other entertainment guilds. Lord they would be rich...

Kaleb either didn't realize or didn't care about the source of his crew's excitement, simply turning their attention to the four screens with a wave of his arm and a huff. Robin quickly scanned the panes in Sheila's virtual window:

Top left: a rocky sea-shore, illuminated by a gigantic, setting sun and an enormous bonfire. Five small, bipedal creatures galloped around the blaze, dancing through the sand and surf, watched by a much larger, meatier primitive with a pair of curvaceous, wicked horns atop its massive head.

Bottom right: a familiar clutch of huts lining a sunlit river. A raft—or rather, a ferry of sorts—drifted across the rushing waterway, pulled by two impossibly thin creatures of deep ebony. Lithe and antelope-like, they pulled themselves along on a rope of woven plant fibers to the riverbank: two stretched, black voids in a world of obscene color. The only break in their unsettlingly uniform bodies were their eyes: pupil-less, like the gryphons', and white. Four each, their insane contrast made Robin blink back tears of irritation. They were difficult to track, like a distorted image in the corner of one’s eye.

Robin wondered if that was why he hadn’t seen them in the earlier recording of that same valley.

Bottom left: static. Kaleb fiddled with the keyboard, muttering angrily. He punched in a refresher code—nothing—a beta override sequence—still nothing—and finally, with an annoyed snort, he stood up to kick the console.

The casing dented inward, and the screen cleared to reveal a grassy meadow bordered by an expansive lake.

“Granny’s getting’ spotty…” Kaleb groaned, adjusting the focus on the corner screen. Makeshift rafts were defined, contrasting against the calm, blue waterfront. “Fairweather, I want you to take a look at the wiring here once we’re under way: can’t have the monitoring systems on the fritz on the jaunt tomorrow night.”

Robin started, turning away from the new picture to find Burnow giving him an appraising look. “Uh… yes?” Kaleb raised an eyebrow and Robin blanched, imagining his employment disappearing right before his eyes. “I mean—uh!—yes! Y-Yes, sir!” The big man stared him down another second, ice-chip eyes traveling right through him. Robin couldn’t help but notice the hunter had grown out his hair: a bright white swatch of fuzz covering what was once bare skin—usually hidden beneath the folds of his trademark hat. Now he was hatless and smiling in amusement, canines glittering in the fluorescent light.

“Relax, kid. Just fix the thing, aight?”

Nowell raised his hand to speak, and Robin suddenly feared further boredom at the Channel Rep’s greasy, bureaucratic hands, but the hand quickly lowered before Kaleb took notice. Simon sighed quietly, and Robin was relieved. It seemed that “Simey” would rather brave mountains of potential insurance paperwork over the Everest of “Kaleb’s Critters,” Mr. Burnow.

“Okay Mr. Burnow. I’ll take a look before tomorrow night.”

“Good, good,” Kaleb nodded. “Now, as you can see, these ‘marks’ show signs of sentience, meaning they will be the focus of our second month of filming—so take a good look, Fairweather—and will be our most challenging game…”

Robin was engrossed in the shaggy, upright creatures in the top left of the screen. The smaller ones had become sluggish as the sun dipped below the horizon. They were digging into the sand, closer to the fire, and Robin was able to make out more than just silhouettes and Kaleb was droning and… and someone was tapping him on the shoulder.

The cameraman glanced right, catching Dexton giving him a sly smile. The fuel-greased copilot winked and gave him a thumbs up, thoroughly confusing the poor cameraman. Unsure of how to respond, Robin simply nodded, smiling stiffly, and tried to pay attention. He needed to know what he would be filming, no matter how boring or technical.

Compared to the things he’d seen on the show as a kid, these ‘marks’ seemed rather mundane.

“… think doing a live dissection of the ‘Void Antelope’ would be a good way to finish up the trip, seeing as they’re by far the most impossible-lookin’. The only settlement of ‘em we could find was this one here, so we’ll leave the probe as a markah and make that our last stop.

“The ‘Minotaur’ is going to be our most challenging primitive mark, just due to size alone. I know it’s hard to tell on camera, but it is easily the mass of an Great Angolan Elephant—and their horns'll spear you clean through, too, can’t forget that…

“Anyway, it still shouldn’t pose much of a threat if we do it right. The ‘mark’ I’m most anxious about’ll be these little guys.” A meaty finger tapped the screen that had been static only a minute ago. The picture had zoomed in on the raft in the middle of the lake, revealing three small quadrupeds, sitting back on their haunches at opposite edges of the raft and staring into the still water. Robin was surprised: they were the only ones wearing what resembled clothing.

Vibrant and colorful, they had small, cat-like heads that seemed frozen in place upon their shoulders; single, spiraled protrusions jutting from their brows. Ratty, burlap-esque clothing clung to their thinly-furred bodies, very poorly covering the small creatures' heads, horse-like tails, and various appendages. Short limbs ended in blunt stubs, and their eyes! They were enormous: bright irises and deep, expressive pupils taking up almost half of the primitives' diminutive heads. The only change in their flawless hides—besides their shaggy, impossibly colored manes rustling in the breeze, they looked artificial, like metal-plated trophies—were images, like tattoos, covering the area just above their hind limbs.

Robin considered himself no longer capable of surprise after what he'd seen that day, but he was wrong. Why?

Because he was looking at a bunch of god-damned unicorns.

They were small—colored like a box of glow-oil children's markers—but they were unicorn's nonetheless. Unbelievable.

The phallic appendage atop the closest unicorn's head glowed blue, and the water stirred. A squirming, writhing, prehistoric fish—"No fucking way..."—lifted into the dry air, thrashing about with its broad tail. It was flying against its will… right toward the creatures on the raft. Robin watched as the flailing impossibility slipped quickly out of sight: wormed into a stout basket at the center of the raft with a brief flash of silver and brown. The glow surrounding the statuesque creature disappeared, and soon the lake was still once more.

“What did we just see?” Abe asked, voice quiet; contemplative.

“That,” Kaleb answered, tapping the trio of creatures on the screen one at a time, “was magic.”

“Bullsh—crrrap… Bullcrap.”

“Nice try, Dexton,” the hunter growled, “I’ve been around since this place was still called Rhode Island, and I’ve never had the need for profanity, so keep your mouth clean, pup.” Robin’s coworker deflated, rubbing his arm sheepishly, until Kaleb spoke again: “But… you’re technically right. It isn’t really ‘magic’ per se.”

“Psychokinesis?” Robin suggested, remembering an old pleasure book he’d read at the University—drugs giving people “psychic” powers.

“Yeah, like from the old raid-lite commercials!” Dexton piped, quickly recovered from his previous reprimand, much to his Uncle’s visible chagrin. He cleared his throat: “This is your brain. This is your brain with the power of raid!”

“Possibly,” Kaleb conceded, “but unlikely. Prof. Reichland thinks it has something to do with the radiation field ‘round the planet. We’re bringing him one—alive—for study in the city center waste storage bungalow, along with a sample of fish and several other small animals: the parallels in evolution interested our Research Head quite a bit, and he believes we can supplement our oceans and preserves with a few 'a them. There're two other variations of the 'unicorns' we've got here: one with just wings and another with neither wings nor rad-manipulators—like small, rainbow ponies—but Reichland only wants a horned one.”

“We don’t usually do ‘alive’ very well, Boss.”

“An’ whose fault is that, Dutchy?” Kaleb teased, swinging around in his seat to face his pilot. “Certainly not mine! The restraints were your job last trip, if I remember correctly.” He was referencing something Robin was unfamiliar with, but he assumed it had something to do with the odd stains he’d seen on the floor of the holding bay. “We’re takin’ them at a distance so’s to be out of range of their manipulation. Surprise is on our side, boys. Don’t fret.” Kaleb stood and began pacing the room, stopping in front of each of them in turn. “Since this is a Class VI terrestrial body, we’ll have to take extra care not to leave anything behind: no plastic wrap, clothing, tools. We’re also, as usual, going to steer clear of any and all major population centers.” The screen flashed, revealing a great stone fortress at the foot of a steep, jagged mountain range. Small hamlets stretched outward like District Rings from the central structure, petering out at the edges of the valley.

“Quaint,” Nowell snorted, cleaning his fingernails with a razorblade he kept in the seam of his smog-jacket.

“You could say that,” Abe mused. “Looks more ‘feudal’ to me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kaleb cut back in. “We’re stayin’ away from them, so no sightseeing.” One by one, the screens flickered into nothing, and Robin watched the beautiful valleys and majestic peaks disappear with a heavy heart. “We’ll finish briefing with the video Prof-Zock put together when we’re in orbit on Sunday. You boys have the rest of the afternoon to yourselves: get drunk, visit the clinic, say goodbye to your wives, whatever… because tomorrow we’re loading and leaving.” Ableman eyed Simon critically at the mention of “wives,” and the gaunt representative, checking to make sure Kaleb wasn’t watching, flipped him off and sneered. “What’re you all waiting for? Get off’a my ship!”

Technically, it was the Channel’s, but apparently no one felt like correcting him.

Dexton fled first, Abe following closely behind, and Robin and Simon trailed out together—not by any conscious choice on Fairweather’s part: he merely wanted to stay in the same room as the greatest hunter who ever lived as long as possible. As they left, Simon sidled closer to him and slipped a small, leather pouch into his hands. Plastic rotobucks clicked and rustled inside, and Robin looked at his unpleasant superior with undisguised astonishment.

Nowell scowled at him.

“For your lady friend. Believe me, kid: money’s all they care about. ‘Sides, that’s not mine anyway,” Nowell slid his pale hands into the pockets of his smog jacket and slowly waltzed away down to the lower decks. “It’s Abe’s.” Snickering and snorting, greasy hair flopping in the stale, recycled air, Simon disappeared, leaving Robin by himself with a sack of money.

Looking down, Robin wrestled the small zippered pouch open, revealing nearly a hundred “black stackers”.

Cue the moment of disbelief, aaand done…

“What? Wha…What?! I could buy an entire District with this! Ohmygod I’m going to put this in the ban—no not the bank—under my mattress?—no, no I need to spend this—I need boots and a smog-jacket—scratch that, no smog on 1128—I need a parka, swimsuit, maybe some slacks, UV-con, an auto-focus lens—does the mag-cam already have one?—wait, then what about Jenna?—should I leave her some?—I can’t even get inside—fuck her—but she might take me back—no, it won’t be worth it just keep the money—but Nowell gave it to me to—FUCK her and keep it!—I… I… shit… this is Abe’s money—did Nowell cheat to get this?—nah, he wouldn’t do that, would he?—I’m not giving it back—then should I leave it with Jenna?—bad fucking idea—What do I do?!”

Conflicted, Robin put the pouch in the ripped lining of his corduroy and slowly made his way out of the ship.

Down the stairs. Left through the rec-room. Right into the bunk halls. Past the cockpit—Abe inside flipping switches—“Get some rest Fairweather.”—“Yes, sir.” Through the main umbilical to the holding cells. Lowered into the hangar on the platform with a dull thump.

Dust billowed from the cement floor, obscuring the light of the afternoon sun through the open bay doors. Airman’s Field lay in the distance, grass brown and white and black from radiation leakages and magnetic damage. Robin smelled something burning.

“Hey, Fairweather!”

Leaning on the edge of the gaping bay doors, waiting—impatiently, of course—was Duwain Dexton III.

“Got plans?”