Horror Stories Part 16

She gave him some fresh water and birdseed, then padded off to the bathroom.

The cat's litter box contained several bowling ball-sized deposits. They didn't come out that big, but once the moon went down, things went back to normal.

That was the price she paid for having pets.

"Hey, Roscoe! How about a little song while I shower?"

"...please...Selma..."

"Do you want me to get the cheese grater?"

Roscoe began "Blue Moon."

Selma smiled. After all, who else had a bird that sang baritone?

The closest I've ever come to hard science fiction. I wrote this back in college, and then polished it up a decade later when it was published by Apex Digest. It was originally called Star Vation, but I wisely changed the t.i.tle.

Voice Module 195567 Record Mode: Is this thing working?

Play Mode: Is this thing working?

Record Mode: This is Lieutenant Jehrico Stiles of the mining s.h.i.+p Darion. I've crash-landed on an unknown planet somewhere in the Eighty-Sixth Sector. Captain Millhouse Braun is dead.

I suppose I'm Captain now.

Captain Braun's last VM concerned the delays we'd been having due to a micro meteor shower while mining Asteroid 336-09 in orbit around Flaxion.

A lot has happened since then. The Brain caught the Madness.

I told Mill a thousand times we shouldn't have used an Organic, but he was willing to take the risks, as long as he had extra cargo s.p.a.ce to carry more ore. You know the sales pitch. Why have an interstellar processor that weighs twenty six metric tons and takes up gads of s.p.a.ce when an Organic Brain with nutrient pumps can navigate the s.h.i.+p while weighing only three kilograms?

Well, we did fit more ore on the s.h.i.+p. And now Mill and the rest of the crew are dead. When the Brain went bad it thrust the s.h.i.+p into Wormhole GG54 and I got spewed out here.

Mill and Johnson and the rest of the crew were fried when the Brain misfired the photon props. One moment I was watching them on the console viewer, drilling into the asteroid's cortex, and the next moment they were vaporized and the s.h.i.+p was being hurtled toward the wormhole.

The trailer detached before I went through, sending millions of credits worth of iron on some unknown trajectory.

I survived re-entry because the ionic suppressors run automatically and not on Brain power.

The Brain wasn't so lucky. It's dead now, the nutrient containers smashed when we hit the planet's surface. But the Brain had enough juice left in it to seal every hatch and cargo hold before its functioning ceased.

Nothing on the s.h.i.+p works. The com-link is dead. The homing beacon is dead. I can't even open the steel doors to the pantry, and my unrefrigerated food supply is rotting away without me being able to get to it.

The oxygen systems have malfunctioned, but the planet I'm on has an atmosphere I can breathe. The nitrogen level is high, and I'm light-headed a lot, but so far I'm still alive.

The temperature is also hospitable to human life. A bit chilly, but mostly pleasant. Days last about forty hours, and nights about twenty.

I'm surprised this Voice Module still works. It's got a crack in the case, but the batteries haven't leaked. I figure without a recharge, I've got maybe two hours of recording time left.

I'll have to use it sparingly. I've salvaged all I can from this d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p, and I can't find a lousy pen.

Voice Module 195568 Record Mode: This is my fourth day on the planet, and I made an impressive discovery. The terrain here tests high for ferrite, making this planet worth a fortune. If no one has staked a claim, I could get funding and mine this place until it's just as gutted as earth is. The planet is large enough that it might even end the Ore Crisis, perhaps for a few years.

The only problem is that I'm starving.

There's a water stream nearby, brackish but drinkable. I waded in deep and searched for hours, but couldn't find animal life in the water, or the surrounding area.

Plant life abounds. At least I think they're plants. Maybe they're fungi. They're reddish in color, lacking chlorophyll, and they have appendages that resemble leaves. The landscape is littered with hundreds of different species, some as high as buildings, some the size of gra.s.s.

None have been edible. Everything I've plucked so far contains an acidic enzyme - concentrated highly enough to burn my fingers and my tongue. Swallowing any of it would tear a hole through my stomach.

But at least I have water.

I haven't scouted very far yet, only a few kilometers. Maybe I'll be lucky and there will something to eat on the other side of that big hill that splits my horizon.

Hunger is starting to weaken me. I can't stay awake for more than seven or eight hours. Tried several times to pry open the steel pantry doors, but can't budge them a crack. I think I broke my big toe kicking the panel in frustration.

I hope for rescue, but know the odds against it. If this is truly an undiscovered planet, then no one knows it exists, and no one knows that I'm here.

And I have no way to tell them.

Voice Module 195569 Record Mode: My hiking boots were a gift from my mother, and came with genuine antique pig-leather laces.

I boiled and ate the laces this morning. My boots won't stay on now, and I've got - I know this sounds funny - a terrible knot in my stomach. But there's nothing else to eat. The only other organic thing on the s.h.i.+p is the Brain, and I'm not touching that. I'd rather starve to death. I'd rather die.

Morals are what make us human.

Voice Module 195570 Record Mode: I met my new neighbors today.

They are only knee-high, and somewhat resemble the extinct species called dogs. They're covered with a short, rough fur, have pointy ears and yellow eyes, and walk around on underdeveloped hind legs.

I was sleeping in what used to be the control bay, dreaming about food, when I felt something poke me in the ribs.

I opened my eyes, startled, and found six of them in a circle around me. They spoke to one another with high pitched yaps.

None wore clothing or carried weapons. And even when I stood, towering over them by some five feet, none seemed afraid.

One of them yipped at me in what might have been a question. I said h.e.l.lo, and it c.o.c.ked its head, confused by my voice. I can't recall reading about any life form like these back in school. For all I know they are an undiscovered species.

They half-coaxed, half-pushed me out of my s.h.i.+p and led me further than I'd previously scouted, over the hill.

They took me to their home. There were no structures, just a collection of holes in the dirt. When we arrived, dozens of little brown heads popped up out of the holes to stare at me.

A short time later, I was surrounded.

A kind of collective humming sound rose up within the group, and they all came to me, holding out tiny paws to touch my legs. They took turns, their eyes locked on mine.

For a moment, I felt like a G.o.d.

When I reached out to touch them they weren't afraid. And when I did pat a head their dog lips turned into grins and they wiggled their tails.

It was like being around dozens of well-behaved children. For a while I completely forgot how hungry I was.

Voice Module 199571 Record Mode: They eat the plants. Somehow they're immune to the acid content. They eat many different varieties, raw. Then, out of their droppings, new plants grow.

Nature's perfect symbiotic planet. Ironic that I'd wind up here, considering how my own species has trashed the earth, and the planets of the surrounding star systems.

Perhaps this is a penance of sorts.

I stayed for most of the day in the village, watching the puppies play, patting small heads. I've counted eighty-two dog people in this settlement. Maybe there are other settlements, elsewhere. Staring across the huge landscape with nothing to see but kilometers of horizon, I have to wonder.

Later I left them and tried once again to pry open the metal door that locks away all of the food in the s.h.i.+p's pantry. Once again I was unsuccessful.

Voice Module 199572 Record Mode: I'm dying. My clothes hang on my body like sheets, and I know I've lost at least fifteen kilograms.

The dogs seem to understand that I'm deteriorating in some way. They try to do funny things to make me laugh, like cartwheels or jumping on me, but I can't laugh.

In fact, when I look at the dogs for too long, I start to salivate.

I wonder what they taste like.

Like that synthetic meat, locked away in the s.h.i.+p's pantry?

I've never had real meat. Could never afford it. My father had a cat steak once, and said it was delicious. My grandfather remembers when he was young and there were still a few cows left, and he used to get meat on holidays.

What do these little dog people taste like?

If I wanted to I could wipe out the entire village in just a few minutes. They have no weapons. They don't move very fast. Their teeth are rounded. I could kill their entire population and not even get scratched.

But I don't. I can't. I won't.

Voice Module 199573 Record Mode: I ate the Brain today.

I thought it would be rotten, but there was no decay at all. I have a hypothesis why. Decay is caused by bacteria, and perhaps this world has none.

I boiled the Brain, picked out the gla.s.s shards, and ate with my eyes closed, trying not to think about what it was.

But I did think about it.

It shouldn't matter. After all, the Brain had ceased operation. Tissue is tissue.

Even if the tissue is human.

Besides, the volunteers who sign up for the Organic Processor Program are elderly, near the ends of their lives. Running a stars.h.i.+p gave a brain donor dozens of extra years of sentience, of life.

And, important point, this one did go mad and kill my crew and destroy my s.h.i.+p.

It owed me.

There wasn't any taste to it. Not really. But when I was finished eating, I cried like a child.

Not because of what I had done.

But because I wanted more.

Voice Module 199574 Record Mode: I can't eat an intelligent life form. Not that the dog people are particularly intelligent. No tools, no clothing, no artificial shelter, though they do have a rudimentary form of communication. I even understand some of their words now.

I can't eat things that speak.

But all I've consumed in the past fifteen days were two shoe laces and a soggy, very small Brain.

I have a few solar matches left. I could spit-roast one of these doggies using a piece of pipe.

What did my grandfather call it? A barbeque.

The village has named me. When I come by, they yip out something that sounds like "Griimmm!"

So to the dog people I am Grim.

They sleep next to me and hug my legs and smile like babies.

Please let a rescue s.h.i.+p find me tonight, so I don't have to do what I'm planning to do.

Voice Module 199575 Record Mode: I ate one.

When I awoke this morning I had such a single-mindedness, such a raw craving to eat, that I didn't even try to fight it.

I went to the dog people's village, picked up the nearest one, and as it yipped "Griiimmm!" with a smile on its face, I broke its neck.

I didn't wait around to see what the others did. I just ran back to s.h.i.+p, drooling like a baby.

Then I skinned the little dog person with a paring knife.

It was delicious.

Roasted over an open fire. Cooked to perfection. I only left the bones.

When I was done, the feeling was euphoric. I was sated. I was satisfied.

I smacked my lips and patted my stomach and knew how grandfather must have felt. Real meat was amazing. It made the synthetic stuff seem like garbage.

Then I noticed all of dog people around me.

They stared, their eyes accusatory and sad. And they began to cry. Howling cries, with tears.

When I realized what I had done, I cried too.

Voice Module 195576 Record Mode: Two months on this d.a.m.n planet, and that's according to these sixty hour days, so it's more like half a year. I haven't recorded anything in a while, because I haven't wanted to think about what I've been doing.