But had we, in our headlong rush to perfection, somehow left holes somewhere in the human psyche? Or was it rather just a new body, a new form, new hormones and whatever that created those boles where they’d never been before? For the moment, I preferred to think the latter—although, from a practical standpoint, it made no real difference when it was happening to me.
Several times during the three weeks we roamed the jungles of Charon, I was on the brink of telling her my real identity, my real mission, but I always held back. Nothing was to be gained from doing so now, and there was always time later on. I got to know her, though, as thoroughly as I knew anybody, and I liked what I found. She was a quick study, too, entranced by my tales of the civilized worlds and the frontier she would never see. She had less trouble than I would have thought with the alien/Four Lords backdrop, although I suspect that she thought of the aliens only as a new form of changeling. When you’re bright green, 215 centimeters tall, have a horn and a tail, the concepts of “alien” and “nonhuman” just don’t come across quite as well. But she understood that alien did not mean form as much as mind. If, as I suspected, Morah was an alien, she was all for saving a humanity she’d never see nor ever be a part of.
Some aspects of the new form were definitely affecting my mind, though. I found myself increasingly emotional, and increasingly aware of that emotion. I still retained all my training and its gimmicks, but I felt everything with an intensity I’d never known before, both positive and negative.
Our new form, which I shortened to darvas, wasn’t at all bad, either. We were enormously strong, and despite being large, we could indeed fade into any green underbrush, then sprint faster than any human could run. The talons were handy as weapons, although we hadn’t had to use them for that, and for cutting and slicing food of no matter what sort, and they made no difference to us, since our skin was extremely thick and tough—and it shed water like a waterproof coat.
There was no question they were out looking for us, though. We saw soarers on many occasions, some coming very close to the treetops or open spaces, occasionally with troopers spray-firing into clumps of growth just to panic anything and flush it out The roads were under constant patrol by more of those nasty-looking troopers as well as some locals. Still, as long as we didn’t run into a sore or an apt and betray ourselves, we found it little trouble to stay out of the way.
The only trouble, in fact, came near the end of our jungle exile. We had both become easily accustomed to the jungle, a fearsome place for most humans. Our hides were too tough for the insects to penetrate, and we were relatively immune to predators and strong enough to break free of vines and mud. It was, in fact, a wondrous sort of place, the kind of place where there was endless fascination, endless beauty. Although we didn’t really realize it, what we were doing in psych parlance was “going wild,” totally adapting to an environment for which we were, quite literally, designed.
What brought it home to us was when we ran into the bunhar. Now, we’d seen and encountered many of the large creatures of jungle and swamp, including hundreds I’d had no idea existed before, but mostly we’d managed to steer clear of them—and they seemed to accept us as well But this one was different I will never be sure just what we did wrong. Maybe he was just horny and smelled Darva. But, anyway, he didn’t avoid us; he challenged us with a great roar and snarling teeth. In fact, be looked to me like he was all nice, sharp, pointed teeth.
Despite some overlarge fanglike incisors, we had the omnivore’s complement in a human-type mouth and face. It was a no-win situation, but try as we might to avoid him he challenged all the more, and we realized we had a fight on our hands. Oddly, I felt a rush of adrenalin or something similar like I’d never known before. While the big saurian sat there, snarling, I found myself overcome with anger and rage—and heard similar, animalistic snarlings from Darva. Without even thinking, both of us charged the brute, who was about our size, heads down and horns straight.
The bunhar had teeth, all right, but no horn, and I don’t think he was quite prepared for our sudden charge. He reared back on his tail to protect his head, and both our horns penetrated his upper chest, while our talons ripped at him. Again and again we plunged and ripped into him, and he roared in pain and anger as his blood gushed all over his chest and us. Then Darva whirled around and kicked the creature behind his right leg with her own powerful leg, rearing back on her own tail for maximum effect, and the bunhar toppled.
In a moment we were both on him, plunging our horns into his vulnerable neck and ripping out flesh and limb. The poor creature never had a chance from the start, not only because of the horn but because, even in our animal rush, we had the advantage of human fighting tactics. The creature was killed outright, and neither of us received more than a slight scratch from the foot talons as we plunged in.
But when it was dead, the anger, the rage, the sense of power without thought, continued in both of us for some time, and we drank of the dead creature’s blood and ripped off and ate chunks of raw flesh until we could eat no more and it was a bloody mess. Only when the eating was done and the feeling of satisfied lethargy overtook us, did we relax. The great emotions subsided, and rational thought returned.
For a while neither of us could say anything. Finally, Darva looked at me, as blood-spattered as she, then back at the carcass that was already drawing insects and would eventually draw carrion eaters. “My god, what have we done?” she gasped.
I looked at her, then at the carcass, then back at her again. I shook my head in tired wonder. “It looks like we’re more animal than even you thought”
She looked dazed, slightly horrified. “It—it wasn’t the bunhar. I mean, the damned thing asked for it. It was—after.” She dipped her hand in a small pool of bunhar blood, brought it up to her nose, then licked it off her fingers. “My god, Park—it felt good\ And it tasted…”
“I know,” I replied wearily. The whole experience was wearing off now, leaving me feeling very tired, muscles aching a bit, and aware now of my scratches. I knew she was feeling the same.
She was still in that shocked daze. “I—I’ve been this way for over two years, and I never felt like that before, never did anything like that before,”
I nodded wearily. “Your Isil was more creative than you thought I suspect that this was to be the next stage if you didn’t cave in, as you weren’t—if your Gneezer even remembered you anymore. It was probably a good idea at the time, long forgotten. If the change wouldn’t do it, they would put you off in the swamps, where your animal instincts would take over. You’d go wild, either winding up with a bunhar group or crawling back to them.” I paused for a moment. “Still, it’s not all bad.”