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Savage Planet

by Barry L. Longyear

Armath squatted in the snow as his deep red eyes studied the

two-tracked vehicles in the valley below. The wind gusted, causing a light

rain of fine snow to fall upon his broad, hairy back. As two creatures

emerged from one of the vehicles, Armath drew back his lips, exposing

gleaming white fangs. A low growl issued from his throat and he pawed

the snow with dagger-tipped fingers.

"Hey, Charlie! Bring the caps!"

A third creature emerged from one of the vehicles, it walked over to the

other two and handed something to them. The first two stooped over and

dug at the snow while the third watched them. Armath looked at the

marks the vehicles had made over the floor of the valley. Twenty times the

vehicles had stopped, and as many times the creatures had emerged,

buried something, then climbed back into the roaring metal carts. The

two stood, waved at the one vehicle, then the three of them climbed into

the second. The carts roared to life, then moved away.

Armath's heavy black brows wrinkled as the carts kept going instead of

following the pattern that had been established. He waited a moment

longer, then rose on his four walking legs, shook his heavy mane to free it

from the accumulation of snow, and began walking toward the most

recent burial site. His eyes darted left and right, instinctively searching for

darkness against the snow. Halfway down the slope, he spotted another

male. Armath reared up, bellowed and held out his arms, fingers and

claws extended. The other male reared up and returned the bellow. They

both came down together and altered their paths slightly to avoid

meeting.

Armath's new course took him away from the nearest burial site, and

he chose another. As he approached it, he saw the other male squatting at

one of the first sites, and clawing at the snow. He turned back to see the

disturbed area, marked with a tiny orange flag. Five paces from the flag,

the snow around Armath seemed to erupt with an ear-shattering slam. He

fell to the shaking snow, covered his eyes, and howled as lumps of ice

struck his back. When the ice stopped falling, Armath uncovered his eyes

and stood, his ears ringing.

The tiny orange flag was gone. Cautiously he approached the site and

saw a hole that extended deep into the snow, through the frozen soil, into

the hard rock beneath. He frowned and looked toward another site. It too

was nothing but a hole. Armath turned to look at the other male and saw

him crumpled next to the site he had been investigating. Armath growled,

then fell silent as he padded toward the other male. He was lying on the

snow, his back toward Armath, the wind blowing back his long black hair,

showing the gray skin beneath.

Armath halted the customary four paces away. "You!" The male did not

move. "You!" Armath bellowed. Still nothing. Armath traversed a circle,

four paces from the reclining figure, until he came to the male's other side.

Armath looked down at the hole in the snow. It too went all the way to the

rock of the valley floor. He looked up at the other male and howled. His

face was missing.

On the liner to Bendadn to accept his post of chair of the Bendadn

School Department of History, Michael studied two texts on the planet

and its population. The Benda had evolved to dominate other lifeforms,

and had been at the brink of their Iron Age, when RMI put down its ships

and missionaries preaching the creed of the bountiful god of

multiplanetary corporate domination. Earth was signatory to neither the

Ninth Quadrant Council of Planets, nor the United Quadrants. However,

both bodies had made clear to RMI that invading Bendadn with a

combination of money and mercenaries would incur opposition by the

combined armed forces of both organizations. Michael picked up the

senior high-school text that was RMI's secret weapon: Manifest Destiny —

A History of Human Expansionism .

Michael again opened the text and leafed through it. He had finished

reading the thing eight days before, and it still hadn't changed. Michael

shook his head. Some fantasy writer must have collaborated with an

advertising copywriter to produce Manifest . Certainly no historian had

anything to do with it. It was a simplistic, highly romanticized, overblown

account of the human expansion into space, ignoring the warts and

highlighting the invincible, inevitable nature of human force. The message

was clear: humanity, because of its nature and tradition, was meant to

rule. Willing subjugation meant peace and prosperity; resistance meant

destruction. Michael closed the text with a snap. "What drivel."

He leaned back on his couch and closed his eyes. At first he'd refused to

take the top history post, but as the good Mr. Sabin had pointed out,

"you're selling your professional soul for eleven hundred a month; why not

sell for twenty-five hundred? It's the same soul in either case." A good

point, thought Michael. Whether or not my soul is for sale is the concern

of principle; how much is only the concern of economics and bargaining.

The crime is no more severe by being a high-ranked flunky rather than a

middle- or low-ranked flunky. Michael nodded. The good Mr. Sabin had a

definite way with words.

Michael closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Then he shook his head.

Opening his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the seat. No one

who has sold out has a right to be bitter , he thought. Why am I doing

this? As the good Mr. Sutton replied when asked why he robbed banks:

"That's where the money is ." He nodded and tried to sleep. Recognize it,

accept it, and to Hell with it .

A week to Bendadn, and Michael Fellman parked his water wagon and

headed toward the ship's lounge for the first time. He had played with a

vague thought of using his experience on Bendadn as an excuse for

turning over a new leaf, but as the trip and his studies of Manifest

dragged on, his resolve wore as thin as the cliche. As he slouched in an

overpadded booth sipping his fifth Martini, he had to admit that Rolf

Mineral Industries allowed one to sell out in style.

"Mind if I join you?"

Michael looked up and made out the face of Jacob Lynn, RMI's Project

Manager for Bendadn. The man who would be the top RMI man on the

planet. Michael held out a hand. "Be my guest, sahib ."

Lynn raised his eyebrows, then laughed as he sat and placed his drink

on the table. "You ivory-tower hypocrites really kill me." He sipped at his

drink, then laughed again as he lowered it to the table.

"Perhaps you could share the cause of your amusement, Mr. Lynn."

His face in smiles, but his eyes colder than RMI steel, Lynn leaned back

and studied Michael. "I've been wandering around the lounge listening to

some of you old mossbacks bitching and whining about life in general, and

their own places in it in particular."

Michael nodded. "And, Mr. Lynn, you are pleased with your place in

this universe?"

"Yes." He nodded and sipped again from his drink. "There are still

things that I want, but now that I've made my peace with reality, I know

I'll get most of them." He smiled and waved a hand in the direction of a

booth full of graying instructors working hard with the free booze, trying

to forget its price. "Look at them. For the first time in their lives they are

being practical. But all they can do is pickle their heads to try and ease the

pain of growing up."

"You seem to take a perverse pleasure in their distress, Mr. Lynn."

Michael sipped again at his Martini. "Particularly when they in all

likelihood don't even understand why they are unhappy."

Lynn nodded, then faced Michael. "But you understand it, Fellman.

That's why you're the biggest hypocrite in the bunch. And, yes, I do enjoy

it." Lynn finished off his drink and motioned to a steward for a refill. "The

reason isn't too hard to understand, Fellman. When I left the university,

after having you dream merchants stuff my head with nonsense for four

years, reality slammed me right in the face. Every ideal you people

implanted in my skull was a program for disaster. You didn't teach me

what I had to do to survive in reality as it is. No, you and your

fuzzy-headed colleagues taught me what you thought really should be."

Lynn laughed, then took his fresh drink from the steward. "And here you

all are, putting should be on the back burner while dancing to the tune of

what is—if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor." He nodded and grinned. "I

once had an instructor who was very picky about mixed metaphors. Now

she's working for me as a secretary."

Michael raised his eyebrows, then finished off his drink. He lowered the

glass, then frowned. "Tell me, Mr. Lynn. Why do I get the feeling that you

want me to argue with you; to tell you that ideals are still important?"

"You're drunk."

"Which does not answer the question."

Lynn looked for a moment at the overhead, then brought his glance

down to look at Michael. "Maybe I'd like to see you put up at least a little

fight; something to tell me that those years I wasted in and after college

were worth something. You know, when I finally made my peace with

reality and got with the program, I felt guilty—like I was betraying myself.

I didn't stop feeling guilty until I saw you characters being frozen out of

teaching positions, and finally hopping on the RMI bandwagon." He shook

his head. "And all the time the truth was staring me right in the face."

"Truth?"

"Biology. Any lifeform faced with the circumstances of its environment

must either adapt to those circumstances, or perish."

"And you have adapted?"

Lynn nodded. "And so have you, finally. And there really wasn't any

choice, was there? Powerful blocs of capital, labor, and governmental force

are the circumstances of our environment, and those blocs aren't ruled by

foggy ideals, Fellman, but by pragmatics."

Michael shrugged. "I still have the feeling that you expect some kind of

protest from me."

Lynn curled his lip. "Don't you just make yourself the least little bit

sick? Where are all those ideals you and your bunch held so dear?"

Michael motioned for another drink. "They went the way of the snail

darter and the dodo, Mr. Lynn. As you put it, I have adapted." Lynn

narrowed his eyes and stared at Michael for a moment, then he left his

half-finished drink on the table, stood and walked quickly from the lounge.

Michael took his fresh drink from the steward and gulped it down. As he

held the glass in his hand, he glanced at the door through which Jacob

Lynn had disappeared. He looked back at his glass and nodded. "Of

course, some of us adapt better than others." He studied the glass until it

shattered in his hand.

Armath squatted sullenly as his wives moved away from the eating fire.

He watched Nanka, his head wife, as she went to the edge of the forest and

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