Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [6]
The migration was under way.
“I suppose we could have offered to let the Akoe stay here,” he commented to his partner.
LeCleur was tired from work and looking forward to a good night’s sleep. It had been a busy day. “I don’t believe it would’ve mattered. I think they would have gone anyway. Besides, such an offer would have constituted unsupported interference with native ritual. Expressly forbidden by Church protocols.”
Bowman nodded. “You check the systems?”
His friend smiled. “Everything’s working normally. Wake-up alarm the same time tomorrow?”
Bowman shrugged. “Works for me.” He spared a final glance for the heaving, rippling sea of brown. “They’ll still be here. How long you estimate it will take them to move on through?”
LeCleur considered. “Depends how widespread the migration is.” Raising a hand, he pointed. “Check that out.”
So dense had the swarm become that a number of the muffins at its edge were being jostled off into the ravine. The protective excavation that ringed the station was ten meters deep, with walls that had been heat-sealed to an unclimbable slickness. A spider would have had trouble ascending those artificial precipices. The agents retired, grateful for the outpost soundproofing that shut out all but the faintest trace of mass peeping.
The station AI’s pleasant, synthesized female voice woke Bowman slightly before his partner.
“Wha…?” he mumbled. “What’s going on?”
“Perimeter violation,” the outpost AI replied, in the same tone of voice it used to announce when a tridee recording was winding up or when mechanical food pre-prep had been completed. “You are advised to observe and respond.”
“Observe and respond, hell!” Bowman bawled as he struggled into an upright position. Save for the dim light provided by widely spaced night illuminators, it was dark in his room. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Four AM, corrected Hedris time.” The outpost voice was not abashed by this pronouncement.
Muttering under his breath, Bowman shoved himself into shorts and shirt. LeCleur was waiting for him in the hall.
“I don’t know. I just got out of bed myself,” he mumbled in response to his partner’s querulous gaze.
As they made their way toward outpost central, Bowman queried the AI. “What kind of perimeter violation? Elaborate.”
“Why don’t you just look outside?” soft artificial tones responded. “I have activated the external lights.”
Both men headed for the main entrance. As soon as the door opened, Bowman had to shield his eyes against the artificial brightness. LeCleur’s vision adjusted faster. What he exclaimed was not scientific, but it was certainly colorful.
Bathed in the bright automated beams positioned atop the roof of the outpost was a Dantean vision of glaring red eyes, gnashing teeth, and spattering blood; a boiling brown stew of muffins whole, bleeding, dismembered, and scrambling with their two tiny legs for a foothold among their seething brethren. Presumably the rest of the darkened plain concealed a similar vision straight out of Hell. Presumably, because the astounded agents could not see it. Their view was blocked by the tens of thousands of dead, dying, and feverish muffins that had filled the outpost-encircling ravine to the brim with their bodies. At the same time, the reason for the transformation in the aliens’ dentition was immediately apparent.
Having consumed everything green that grew on the plains, they had turned to eating flesh. And one another.
Bulging eyes flared, tiny feet kicked, razor-sharp teeth flashed and ripped. The curdling miasma of gore, eviscerated organs, and engorged muffin musk was overpowering. Rising above it all was the stench of cooked meat. Holding his hand over mouth and nose, LeCleur saw the reason why the outpost had awakened them.
Lining the interior wall of the artificial ravine was a double fence of waved air. Frenzied with instinct,