“Let’s get the equipment set up,” Jonas said.
Later he was delving into the cowclass="underline" pulling up jointed limbs that terminated in scythe blades as sharp and tough as chainglass, or in telescopic protuberances that looked like hollow drills; excavating one red eye from the carapace, jumping back when it fluoresced, laughing and returning to work; running an optical probe down into one small mouth to study the cornucopia of cutting and grinding gear inside.
“You know, the present theory is that the hooder requires all this so it can deal with a kind of grazer living in the mountains. Those creatures feed on poisonous fungi, the toxins from which accumulate in the black fats layered in their bodies. When the hooders capture them under their hoods, they need to slice their way through their prey very meticulously, to eat only what are called the creature’s white fats.” He glanced at Shardelle who was watching with fascination.
“They don’t kill their prey,” she observed.
“Apparently. When the hooder goes after a fungus grazer, the grazer immediately starts breaking down the black fat to provide itself with the energy to flee, and then its blood supply and muscles become toxic, too. So any serious damage to either could release poisons into the uncontaminated white fat. The hooder dissects its prey, not even allowing it to bleed. It eventually dies of shock.”
“The same with any prey it catches,” Shardelle added. “Including us.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute,” said Jonas. “The fungus grazers are only a small part of its diet, and many hooders don’t even range into the mountains.”
“Why, then?”
“I just don’t know.” He lifted out another jointed limb, this one terminating in a set of chisel-faced pincers. “All I do know is that when they’ve finished with their victim there’s usually nothing left larger than a coin.”
He continued working, only noticing much later that the tent’s light had come on, and that Shardelle had gone. Looking outside he saw that she had set up her own tent, and no light showed inside. He went back to work, only stopping in the morning to get something to eat and plenty to drink, and to then sit meditating for an hour while his asomnidapted body cleared its fatigue poisons. As Calypse gazed down and the rising sun etched fire across the horizon, he experienced a moment of deep calm clarity. He knew now, felt that somewhere, deep inside, he had always known. So much confirmed it. Total confirmation had come from close nanoscopic study of the carapace. The sun had breached the horizon when he returned inside to package his samples. He needed no more from this beast now. Others could come here if they wished.
Shardelle wormed out of her tent, smelling coffee and feeling a deep overpowering need for it. For a moment she could not figure out what was different, then she saw it: the frame tent was gone, the hooder’s cowl and two attached segments were in pieces. Jonas was sitting crosslegged on one of the limestone slabs, sipping a self-heating coffee. He gestured to another sealed cup resting nearby. She walked over to him.
“You’ve finished?” she asked incredulously.
He grinned. “Amazing what you can achieve when you have no need for sleep. I’ve been working for Taxonomy for fifty-three years. In my last eighteen years of being asomnidapted I’ve done more work than in the previous thirty-five.”
“Perhaps I should consider that for myself,” said Shardelle, pulling the tab on her cup. She preferred the coffee from her machine in the Tagreb, but here this convenience was preferable.
While she waited for her drink to heat, she observed that he had a piece of carapace resting on a brushed aluminum box before him.
“Any conclusions?” she asked, leaning her buttocks against a nearby slab.
“Very definitely.” He reached inside his coat and removed a small handheld gun.
Shardelle recognized it as a quantum cascade, QC, laser.
“I promise not to steal your research,” she quipped.
He grimaced. “It’s not the stealing I would worry about, but how it may well be hushed up.” He pointed the laser at the carapace and fired. A wisp of smoke rose, picking out the beam in the air. There was a red glow at the point of contact, but whether from heat or simply reflected light, Shardelle could not tell. But nothing else was happening to the carapace.
“You know, every piece I’ve managed to study has been old and partially broken down by bacteria. These are the freshest remains I’ve ever studied.” Still he was firing the laser, and still the carapace was unaffected. “You see, a piece of old carapace would have started disintegrating by now, that’s because certain nanostructures inside it would have broken down.”
He turned off the laser, then abruptly put his bare hand flat down on the carapace.
Shardelle leaned forward. “An insulator?”
“You’d think.” He poured coffee on the aluminum box and it immediately sizzled into steam.
“Shit!” Shardelle squatted down beside the box to peer closely at the carapace. She then looked up at Jonas. “Conductive … superconductive?”
“Carbon fullerene nanotubes. When was the last time you saw something like that naturally produced?”
“About never.”
“They’re laced through the carapace material, which bears some resemblance to the shock-resistant composite laminates we use in our spaceships. The interesting part is that the nanotubes link down deep into the hooder’s body. I’ll have to look closely at the scans but my guess is that the more you heat up one of these bastards the faster it moves.” He picked up the piece of carapace. “Of course, though you won’t see stuff like this naturally produced, you can find it elsewhere.”
“Sorry?”
He looked at her directly. “Polity battlefield armor.”
“What? … What are you saying?”
“The genome was the first clue: so short, so concise, so exact. What I’m saying is that hooders, though living creatures, are artifacts; biogenetic artifacts.”
Ahead lay a plain of flattened flute grass, boring and level as it disappeared into misty distance. Shardelle set the ATV on automatic, monitored by Rodol, and decided it was time, as Jonas was now doing, to check into the virtual world. She took her aug from a pocket of her envirosuit and plugged it in the permanent plug behind her ear, closed her eyes, and booted up.
First she checked her messages and was appalled to find over four thousand of them awaiting her attention. She opened only those from recognized sources. Some of them were personal; from her brother, from two of her three children, one from her third husband, another from her great-grandmother. The first ones were easy enough to answer with pages from her diary run through a personalizing program. The one from her great-grandmother, who was a xenobiologist of some standing, she took rather more care over. As she laid out the reply, detailing her frustrations and nascent theories, she wondered if Jonas knew her great-grandmother. She had been in Xeno for seventy years and he in Taxonomy for fifty-three, perhaps they had met at some time? Other messages updated her with news from the Tagreb. A gabbleduck’s bill had been discovered in the mountains. In her absence it had been measured and analyzed ad nauseum, but nothing new learned. Still other messages debated the merits of this linguistic theory or that one, and it was with a sinking sensation that she opened some of the messages from unrecognized senders to find links to where papers on The Gabble had been published. She turned her attention to the linguistic net.