After Earth: A Perfect Beast Read online

  After Earth: A Perfect Beast is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Del Rey eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by After Earth Enterprises, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

  After Earth: Ghost Stories: Peace and After Earth: Ghost Stories: Birthright copyright © 2013 by After Earth Enterprises, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

  After Earth: Ghost Stories: Hunted copyright © 2012 by After Earth Enterprises, LLC. All rights reserved. Used under authorization.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains the following short stories, previously published individually in 2012 and 2013 by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., as eBooks: After Earth: Ghost Stories: Hunted, After Earth: Ghost Stories: Peace, and After Earth: Ghost Stories: Birthright.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54055-3

  www.delreybooks.com

  Cover illustration: Raphael Lacoste

  v3.1

  Not unlike the bear which bringeth forth

  In the end of thirty dayes a shapeless birth;

  But after licking, it in shape she drawes,

  And by degrees she fashions out the pawes,

  The head, and neck, and finally doth bring

  To a perfect beast that first deformed thing.

  —GUILLAUME DE SALLUSTE DU BARTAS

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Interlude

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by These Authors

  After Earth: Ghost Stories: Hunted

  After Earth: Ghost Stories: Peace

  After Earth: Ghost Stories: Birthright

  PROLOGUE

  “Zantenor! Zantenor, lost to us! Oh, mighty Zantenor, the Vermin have taken it, and we must have it back. Zantenor, lost to us …”

  The High Minister of the Krezateen thinks he is going to lose his mind.

  Outside his isolation pod, the Obsessives continue their chanting. There is no single caste in the entirety of the Krezateen society—which features as of last count 197 castes—that drives him more insane than the Obsessives.

  He never knows through what process they decide which cause or issue will be the target of their attentions. Unlike many other castes, the Obsessives have no central authority, or so it seems to him. There is no council, there is no single leader, there is no meeting place. Or if there is, its location is a well-hidden secret, which would be fortunate for them. If the High Minister were aware of it, he would be eminently inclined to go there himself and burn it to the ground.

  Yet somehow, even without a centralized organization, the Obsessives would no doubt find something to seize and fixate on. They would do so for however long they desired. Whether they actually bring about social change as a consequence of their fixations never seems to matter to them. They obsess because they feel like doing so, and they continue to do so until they stop.

  But they have not stopped when it comes to Zantenor. They have been going on about it for years.

  And years.

  And years.

  How long has it been since the Vermin took over the Holy World? Centuries, surely. During one pilgrimage long ago the Vermin had not yet arrived, and Zantenor was its normal pristine self. The Krezateen had shown up in their vast spacegoing vessels, and everything had been fine. They had orbited Zantenor; they had worshipped and prayed to the gods. And the gods had not answered, which was, as always, a good thing. Silence was good. Inactivity was good. The holy writings of the Krezateen were quite specific on that matter. If the gods accepted the offerings and felt one’s prayers to be worthy, the gods would take no action against the Krezateen. If, however, misfortune befell them, the gods were making their dislike and disapproval abundantly clear.

  The pilgrims had returned from their voyage and reported that the gods had been pleased with them. There had been much rejoicing on Homeworld. As was customary, the debauched celebration had lasted for a solid year, and consequently a new generation of Krezateen had been spawned, further showing the approval of the gods.

  But the next visit to the Holy World had been a very different story. The Vermin had appeared.

  “Zantenor lost. Lost to the Vermin. Oh, blessed Zantenor, forgive us our failures …”

  It was impossible to determine exactly when the Vermin had shown up on the Holy World, but they had come out of nowhere, it seemed. Some believed that the Krezateen’s ancient enemies, the Ventraya, had deposited them there and even cited similarities to Ventrayan technology in the design of the Vermin’s vessels. But there was no way to change speculation to a certainty. The Vermin were clearly some sort of scavenger race—four limbs, tiny heads, no weaponry whatsoever built into their bodies—and they could have found some Ventrayan technology on their own and somehow adapted it to their needs.

  After all, they had sensory organs on the front of their faces capable of accessing the hideous light portion of the electromagnetic spectrum, just as the Ventraya did. The Krezateen lacked such organs—eyes, the Ventraya called them—and it was good that they did. Their gods frowned on the light wavelengths. In fact, they frowned on so many things that it was difficult sometimes to keep track of them all.

  But it was the Vermin that they frowned on most of all.

  They were everywhere, it seemed. They had taken over entire sections of Zantenor and created nests to sustain them. The nutrient-rich ground was being used not for the gods to walk upon in their eternal contemplation but to grow food for the Vermin to consume. They were reproducing as well; during their monitoring the Krezateen identified smaller versions of the Vermin running around, filled with childish joy—as if they had any business being there.

  “Blessed be Zantenor, we are not deserving of you, for we have failed to protect you …”

  The High Minister cannot stand it anymore. “Be quiet! Damn the lot of you; be quiet!” he howls. His claws, a gleaming silver, open and close instinctively. Nothing would suit him better at that moment than to explode out of his pod, leap into the heart of the gathered Obsessives, and begin tearing away at them. He imagines himself in full combat fervor, clamping his teeth on the throats of the Obsessives a
nd ripping them open, demolishing the lot of them. And as he does so, he imagines that they are the Vermin, the wretched Vermin. Would that not be glorious? To be able to tear into the Vermin in that fashion, like a mindless killing machine, like some sort of …

  … some sort of …

  “Animal,” he whispers.

  He closes his perception organs, and his mind reaches out.

  He needs his nest brother, the High Chancellor, to come to him immediately. Less than a few seconds pass, and the High Minister obtains confirmation that his thoughts have been received and will be attended to immediately.

  However, “immediately” when it comes to the High Chancellor is very much a subjective concept. He has many things to attend to, and thus his definition of that term is different from most others. The High Minister is accustomed to this and will wait.

  He decides to occupy himself by pacing in his pod. Such pedestrian concerns as gravity have no meaning within it. He moves along the curved, smooth, featureless surface up, down, and then sideways, whichever direction his whim takes him.

  The Obsessives continue their chanting, nonstop as usual, but it is bothering him less and less. He supposes that he should feel grateful to them. They have sent his thoughts off in a direction that may well prove useful. So he decides that he will, for now, allow them to live and march around and chant outside his pod for as long as they are inclined to do so. He can always annihilate them later if the mood seizes him.

  When the High Chancellor finally arrives, his presence is projected immediately into the High Minister’s mind. The far wall of the pod peels itself aside for him, and the High Chancellor enters.

  “I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.” As always, his grunts and clicks are precise, as is his telepathic syntax.

  “Not at all. Three days is actually rather swift for you.”

  “You are my nest brother in addition to all that you are for the Krezateen. Naturally I would expedite myself for you. So”—he inclines his head slightly—“how may I be of service to you?”

  “I mean to discuss Zantenor.”

  “Ah, Zantenor,” sighs the High Chancellor. He nods in the general direction of the unperceived chanting Obsessives going on endlessly outside the High Minister’s pod. “Considering what you are listening to on a daily basis, I am not the least bit surprised. How do you endure it? Why do you not just eat them?”

  “I’m strongly considering it, but that’s not the point at the moment. We need to dispose of the Vermin.”

  “I readily agree. And the gods know that we have been trying. But the Vermin have proved horrifically resilient. Twice now, we have attacked them from the air. We have bombarded them with all the power at our disposal. And yet they have survived.”

  “Which leaves land assault.”

  The High Chancellor says nothing for a moment. Finally he speaks, his voice grave: “You cannot ask that of our people.”

  “Chancellor—”

  “You cannot.” His voice is so loud, so forceful, that the sides of the pod actually seem to tremble. “You know that treading upon the sacred soil of Zantenor is forbidden, nest brother. Forbidden. Surely you understand what forbidden means?”

  “Of course. I—”

  “It means that once you have set claw on Zantenor, you can never again return to the Homeworld. Once you die, your essence will not be allowed to join the Miasma. You will go neither forward nor back. You will be forever unclean—condemned to either remain on Zantenor, where the gods will surely abominate your presence, or else wander the stars aimlessly.”

  “I know all that …”

  “So you claim. But here you are suggesting that Krezateen once again volunteer … or are they to be forced into it this time? Would you have them drafted into—?”

  “Nest brother, enough!” howls the High Minister, and he holds up his claws as if in a gesture of surrender. “I am suggesting nothing that you are claiming! I have no desire to perceive more of our people, voluntarily or otherwise, set foot on the sacred world.”

  “But you said—”

  “No,” and he actually chuckles, something he rarely does. “No, you said. You made assumptions that were not remotely in line with what I was considering. Yours was an energetic rant but one that was wholly unnecessary.”

  The High Chancellor, clearly confused, bows slightly. “My pardons, Minister. I should not have interrupted you. So tell me, then: What would you suggest? Aerial assault has failed thus far to accomplish what we need. If we do not intend to send down ground troops, then what would you have us do?”

  Once again the Minister is circling his pod, but this time he is doing so with enthusiasm rather than aimless wandering. “The answer has been right in front of us the entire time. I am, frankly, embarrassed that it has not occurred to me before this. We have routinely referred to these unwanted invaders as Vermin. Animals.”

  “Because such they are.”

  “Then why not”—he pauses, apparently for dramatic emphasis—“dispose of them through the most logical means available: with animals? Send animals to kill animals.”

  “I don’t understand.” The Chancellor is shaking his vast head in confusion. “What manner of animal would you send? We cannot simply pluck animals from our ecosystem, drop them on Zantenor, and then expect them to survive. The creatures would have no chance at all. The air is different, the food sources—”

  “That is exactly the point.”

  The Chancellor looks lost. “Obviously, Minister, you have thought this through …”

  “We create animals to destroy animals.”

  “Create?”

  “We have a host of data that our scientists have gathered on the Vermin.” He grows more excited as he speaks. “Their strengths, their weaknesses. How their brains function, the number of hearts they have, the number of brains …”

  The Chancellor shakes his head in incredulity. “Yes, so I’ve heard. One. One pathetic little heart and brain each—and those light-perception organs. It explains a great deal about them.”

  “And we know more than enough about the Vermin to create animals specially designed for one thing and one thing only: to destroy the usurpers who have dared to occupy our Holy World. What do you think?”

  “It’s brilliant. That is what I think. I am frankly astounded that no one has thought of it sooner.”

  “Because it is not the way of the Krezateen,” the High Minister says. “We are not accustomed to having others do our fighting for us. But we are hampered by the strictures against setting foot on the Holy World.”

  The High Chancellor nods.

  “Now, though, comes the major question,” the High Minister continues. “Specifically: How long will it take? After all, my dear Chancellor, the organizing of the scientific community is under your purview. What needs to be accomplished cannot happen without your support, your dedication, and your organizational skills.”

  “I should point out that there are those who will argue that introducing a new life-form to Zantenor is nearly as great a crime as setting foot there ourselves,” the High Chancellor says, “that we will effectively be accessories to a religious crime.”

  “The Vermin are the crime that is currently being perpetrated upon Zantenor. We should not be condemned simply because we are trying to put an end to that crime.”

  The Chancellor considers and then nods. “A valid point. You realize, however, that there are others in the Order who will not concur and may even offer opposition.”

  “Let them. I look forward eagerly to killing and devouring any who refuse to perceive the matter my way.”

  “That,” says the Chancellor, “is the Minister nest brother I remember.”

  “Then we are in accord?”

  His nest brother nods. “Very much so.”

  “Then again I ask—how long?”

  “To develop the creature?” The Chancellor strokes his pointed chin and ponders the question. “We need to do more than study the info
rmation on the Vermin we have gathered to this point. We need to dissect it molecule by molecule. There are many directions we could take in preparing the animal. We could opt for something as small as an insect to move in vast swarms across the planet’s surface. Or we could explore something so gigantic that it would crush the Vermin beneath its feet.”

  “Even though we have been careful not to target anything on Zantenor’s surface, we have received complaints that the aerial bombardments are destructive to the planet’s surface,” says the Minister cautiously. “I’m not sanguine about the notion of a beast that would do even more damage.”

  “Very well, then,” says the Chancellor. “But size does not necessarily matter. Ferocity, speed, all of these are factors to consider. Obviously, we’ll have to pore over the material we have gathered on the Vermin with more scrutiny than ever before …”

  “Yes, yes, obviously.” The Minister is beginning to lose patience, but he works to maintain it because the High Chancellor is both his nest brother and a valued ally. “How long do you project the program taking?”

  “Analyzing the Vermin’s vulnerabilities? Developing a genetic outline?” The High Chancellor goes on and on, listing a host of necessary steps before the undertaking may reach fruition.

  The High Minister stops paying attention after a while, since the High Chancellor is clearly in his own world. Finally the High Chancellor falls silent, ponders for a few more moments, and says, “About a century.”

  The High Minister considers the time frame and then says approvingly, “That would be acceptable. But you’d best hasten, then. A century is not all that much time.”

  “Indeed,” says the High Chancellor. He extends a clawed hand, and the High Minister puts his own hand atop it. “Thank you for coming to me with this concept, nest brother. I will not let you down.”

  “I know you will not,” says the High Minister. And he is secure in his confidence, for the High Chancellor knows that as generous as he is when satisfied, the High Minister can be merciless when disappointed.

  The High Chancellor leaves with a sense of urgency. The High Minister is lost in thought for long moments afterward, until the chanting of the Obsessives finally recaptures his attention.