SLATE

It is futile to offer explanations for impossible phenomena.

The fact that I consider it impossible, is proof that I am utterly unqualified to explain it.

If there is any explanation, it is that there is advanced technology at work — that is, intelligence.

Intelligent life — on this planet.

No. The only logical conclusion is that there was intelligence here once. It can’t be assumed that this is even conscious intelligence. It could just be another incentive structure. It would not be the first of its kind.

It could even be that I (or something I bring with me) generate the phenomena somehow. I am, after all, the only intelligence I am certain of.

There is no reason to think there should not be intelligent life. It is more surprising that such a world isn’t crawling with alien species already. Yet I saw no evidence of it from space.

I start with the obvious — it is a gauntlet. It fits a human hand — my hand. It appears near to me, over my slain enemy. The energy, at least in part, comes from the slain enemy. Yet the slain enemy, is not capable of the act, for various reasons, foremost among them — death.

The object is meant for me.

Someone or something wants me to have it. Though wants suggest consciousness.

It could be a trap but equally, it could be an opportunity to gain an advantage.

But the overriding consideration is — it looks fragging cool and I want it.

The sphere vanishes the moment I grab hold of it.

No trap triggers that I can perceive.

The gauntlet is dark grey or black — it is hard to tell in the night — and neither warm nor cool to the touch. It feels good in the hand, however. It is not clay but has the feel of quality, which does not fit the understated design.

I turn it over in my hands. As far as I can tell from look and feel, it is light, hard, and strong. I cannot say it is metal, but some composite seems likely.

The joints are light, and silent, except for dull clicks at extension. There are no joins visible but that could be the low light.

There are symbols on the inside inner wrist. An alien script that does not trigger any knowledge. I miss it on the first pass, in the dim light. It looks pictorial in origin, like the Earth scripts of the Eastern half of the Asian continent, rather than representational, though whatever it represents is long since become unrecognizable or never was. This makes me think this was an existing artifact, not a creation, though that is not entirely logical.

I feel subtle indentations on the fingertips, which I take to be related to the artifact's function, rather than a tactile language.

Is it human? Solarin? Alien? It does not fit neatly into any category.

Human seems most likely, based on its arrangement, yet the construction and language...

While not beyond human capability, still seems *other*.

I hold it to my hand.

It is more or less the same size — as my hand, which is to say, too small by half.

For all I know it is some mass-produced item of no special value.

Yet, to me, it is a priceless artifact and I cannot entirely say why.

Perhaps it is that I feel I earned it through combat or the way it appeared or that it speaks to something *beyond*.

Thought stops when I look up.

The wolf looks directly at me, pupils drinking in the available light.

She growls a low rumble like pouring stones that fall around me, seeming to come from all sides at once — it does. I feel it ripple through me — the sound of killing intent. On either side of the ravine are a dozen blinking eyes. They pour their revving growls into the ditch.

The growl she directed at the flesh scorpion, now is directed at me.

“Easy now.” Calming tones. Regular, deep.

No. Sudden. Movements.

I reach in the stream of knowledge and come away with collected reports on animal behavior.

A wolf and a man take shelter together in a storm but when that storm is over…

My mind grasps at reasons.

I have broken some rule of the forest. The wolf is displeased by my savagery. The gauntlet I hold frightens the wolf or offends it.

More likely, it is hungry and I am meat.

It has numbers that it did not have before and only one enemy is still standing.

And I have…nothing. A glove.

A single wolf? Maybe I would have a chance though unlikely. But against a pack? Fighting is not an option.

I pick up on something in the animal's past behavior.

I extend my naked hand. “Remember?”

It is the hand she cleaned with her tongue. Grooming. A sign of affection amongst animals. But what I think was familiarity, might be the animal’s hunger. It looks worn down after all.

But not starving. Thick slabs of muscle cancel that idea. If anything, its stomach sags as though it was recently full to bursting -- so back to hunger

The growl becomes a snarl of burning vapor. Its snout vibrates. Its body lowers.

Even low, it is a mass of undulating muscle, and savage snarling teeth.

I have made a mistake. My hand is naked perhaps, but not empty.

Why had I held out the gauntlet?

I blink at it in surprise, as though seeing it for the first time.

“This?” I gesture peace with my empty hand. “This is nothing.” I move slow and smoothly down, unable to help the tremble in my legs.

I let the gauntlet fall to the ground and show empty palms. A gesture the timber wolf of earth could understand. I dip my head slightly, avoiding a direct gaze, which might be read as a challenge.

To show threat or weakness could end badly.

The snarl subsides, though the growl does not.

I extend my hand again. “Remember? Remember how you cleaned my hand?” I feel like an idiot speaking to a wild creature but I suppress all doubt. It was a common belief that animals could sense fear so I blunder on. “I remember. I remember the hot breath. The point of the snout, soft and wet.”

There is some part of me that feels these words. I grab hold of it and wring it for all it is worth.

I feel a connection. To wolves, yes, as members of a shared past. And to this wolf. The first creature that didn’t try to eat me.

Well, not immediately.

The first living thing to show me any kindness.

The wolf runs straight at me.

Black clumps of earth spray behind.

Within two strides I concede its unstoppable momentum. A large object at speed is always decisive. Mounted cavalry sweeping through a standing force. At that point, claws or jaws are almost irrelevant.

I have only one move to make.

I drop to the ground at the last instant. I must avoid the center of its mass and take my chances under its paws, which are at any rate broader and softer than hooves.

I cover my head with my hands.

It closes around my body.

Then it is gone. Not jaws or teeth but the rake of long nails and soft paws that are so large that they do not land entirely on me or off me.

It pushes against me and I boast that I am its launchpad but in truth, I am its stepping stone.

Yet it still feels like I am torn apart. Rather, it feels the world itself is ripped and torn with teeth and brutal concussions.

I have not seen the wolf fight — not really. Not until now.

If it was ever offended by my brutality then it is a hypocrite of the worst kind.

It is impossible to describe the savagery of truly wild animals in battle.

While combat in space is more deadly, it is also silent, fast, and in some ways clean. It is not this.

It is too much for the senses to take in.

Every instinct screams that the battle is beyond my ability. There is deadly danger in every direction. There is no control or plan or strategy. I cannot even contain its magnitude, like a paradox of violence, and every moment I do not solve it, there is the likelihood of swift death.

Wolves leap into the valley from above, streaking over me. They run along banks.

Bodies slam into bodies.

I run. Though run is too strong a word.

It is the only thing I can do.

I run before I realize I am running and I am surprised I manage even that much, as I stagger on shaking limbs.

I trip and stumble down the ravine as fast as weak limbs and shot nerves will carry me.

It may be I am traveling towards the ship or that I am going in the opposite direction. As long as I am running away from that.

Flesh scorpions and nameless horrors crawling over each other.

The forest becomes thick, the night dark. It is a wonder I see anything at all, even with the augments. It is as though the forest has designed a test of my capabilities. Even the white snow turns black but I can see it. The upturned ground is uneven and filled with snares. Even so, my legs gain strength as I go, as though they are remembering how to run.

In the dark, I become aware of the gauntlet in my hand. I must have picked it up when I dived to the ground.

It comforts me. It will protect me.

My thoughts grow superstitious as the wood grows twisted and dark.

I cannot afford to lose myself in it.

Distance. I must put distance between myself and whatever that is. Physical distance, mental distance. Where there is one danger, there will be more. I must be prepared for all the battles ahead even as I run from those behind.

I am like a fresh recruit in his first battle.

Noobs are always vulnerable when they are young and green and that is the best time to cut them down.

Well, I cannot afford a learning curve. I must be the veteran and control what I can.

I harden my mind to iron and run harder. Adrenalin still runs wild through me.

I do not yet feel the cold as I should. In the absence of something with teeth, the cold is now my greatest enemy and I will feel it soon.

Running is good for the cold, though sweating will negate that. I will lose heat through my head and extremities.

I must minimize contact with the ground. The ground itself is not as cold as I would expect. I think it is because it is alive in some way.

Frag. I’m naked. So there's that.

Shelter — my first objective. I must get out of the wind and snow. The wind is the real danger. It is the direct application of cold air to the body. Wind and wet together are killers.

If I am lucky, I will find the ship.

I focus on my surroundings looking for anything that could be of use or for any threat.

Even so, I almost miss it.

My feet skid in the soft earth. I rely on instinct in the dark.

I do not immediately know why I stop but I soon mark a recess in the ravine that is alive with blurring motion that intersects my path.

My vision flashes red in warning.

Dark shapes take form as my eyes seek them out.

The human eye, without augment, can distinguish one hundred million colors. But there is no color here. One hundred and twenty million rods exist to sense minute fluctuations of light and dark. The ability is basic to survival. And then there is the brain's ability to interpret what it can barely see.

I push my vision to the upper limits of sensitivity, an action that leaves me vulnerable to sudden exposure.

Even so, I don’t see much and what I do see is a choice. I can run on or I can risk my life — and the future of my species — on a battle that is of no ultimate significance and which offers no great rewards. A small drama of smaller creatures.

I make the wrong choice.

And I do so blindly — or close to it.

Yet somehow, the same instincts that cause me to stop, recognize the softness and the wiggle, just the same as I recognize the sharp alien slashing. The second is easier, because of its light coloring.

The whipping thing is on top of the wiggling thing.

I find I do not like this.

Suprise is my only advantage. I wield the gauntlet like a club and strike the whipping form.

I want to believe it is an impressive strike but it is more probably that it backs off in fright.

It is hard to gauge the animal's size because of its irregular form. I cannot even make sense of it. It might be five animals at once. But if it is anything like the scorpion — in danger, if not design — then I do not want to find out.

Superstition clouds my thoughts, as darkness and fear join forces.

It is, to me, a specter of death — a wraith of enraged ice.

I grab at the ground my hand closing on something soft. I pull it without care or ceremony and I am running again — away from those things behind me and now from this fresh terror of the unknown.

I almost drop the bundle as I receive at once a bight on my hand from the bundle and a score from the angry wraith. But I am gone before it can do more.

Both draw blood. I feel it more than I see it.

I get off lightly — whatever cuts me is razor sharp and it takes my clotting factor to stem the bleeding from the small cut.

The same cannot be said of the small soft bodies I leave behind, as dark as the earth they lie in. The bodies a spread and torn and still. The wraith was not gentle with them. Warm fur presses against my exposed skin. The small thing expands and contracts as it draws breath. A tiny heart slows under the thick fur. And it becomes still against my chest.

The wraith has plenty to occupy it behind but I keep watch over my shoulder all the same.

My arms burn but I suppose that is better than freezing.

But still, another enemy stalks me in the dark — exhaustion. It creeps on me and gains speed rapidly. Like the bundle of fur, I have been kept alive by fear and adrenaline and now I am crashing.

My enemies join forces, and I start to feel the cold. I lose heat from every available surface except perhaps the warm presence against my chest — so there is that.

I will need to make a choice soon: run on or hunker down but it is not much of a choice. I need shelter.

I must not have run far before coming to a stop. Were I faster, I might have slipped and fallen over the edge.

I file the new information in my geographical perception. I reach the edge of the forest. Or, an edge of the forest. Wind whips around me. The cold of the forest is nothing against it.

The forest stops at the edge of a sloping cliff. Moonlight pools into a wide basin. I would guess it is an impact site of a fair-sized asteroid at some point in the past. But that does not adequately explain why it is a barren snowscape now.

Two moons give a fair amount of light. Though one is small and crescent.

The bundle in my arm is indeed a wolf pup. A dark bundle of fluff of midnight black as though it never left the deep forest. It sleeps — the rough journey doing nothing to wake it from the deep slumber.

What has it been through? How did it survive against the ice wraith?

It did not hide. It did not run.

A brave little thing.

Brave and blind.

Even with its eyes closed, I sense the blood in sockets, smaller craters to match the larger before us. I sense the blood but not the extent of the damage.

I did not think the creature would be of any great use.

Still, the missing eyes mean I should discard it, for it will never hunt, and it is a drain of resources as it is.

But it warms me for now.

And it is no great burden. I can always deal with it later should it become one.

The cut streams dried blood but has stopped bleeding and will not be aggravated by movement. Though, it is never good to see tendon and bone. They move as I close my fist.

The cut is of interest. Like most of the wraith, I cannot make sense of it.

But the most important information at the edge of the cliff, as cold air almost lifts me from my feet, is the pillar of smoke and the soft glow of heat in the distance.

I have found my ship.