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Authors: William F Nolan
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gazelle. This was Swala’s first hunt, and his father knew he would do well.
With them rode Nyati—the buffalo—a wise tracker who knew every vine and thorn bush, every ridge and rock and rolling green hill within the Serengeti.
Two masters—and a brave boy who hoped, this day, to become a man.
Duma smiled. The first kill I will take for myself, as elder, for this is custom on a hunt—but the second kill shall be reserved for my son. It shall be Swala’s. This had been agreed to by Nyati. The veteran tracker would hold back. For Nyati, there would be other days, other kills, as there had been before— as many as the faces of the night moon.
Beneath Duma, the marabunta paused to swing its giant clicking antennae toward a patch of reed-shadow near the inner ravine wall. The sharp clicking alerted the others.
All were stopped, eyes probing the bank.
“ There , Father!” shouted young Swala, pointing at Jessica. “A condemned one! Behind the rock.” She stood up, poised to run, inviting the spear of Duma.
He drew back his muscled arm, spearhead glinting in the leaf-filtered sunlight banding the ravine floor. But he did not loose the weapon.
A snake-hiss of sound, and a bone-tipped reed buried itself deep in the warrior’s scarred chest just above the heartline. Silently, he toppled from the saddle.
“Father! My father!” cried Swala. He was confused and frightened; his mount swayed back nervously as he fought to control it.
Logan ignored the boy. He charged straight at the second hunter, yanking Nyati’s leg violently, pulling him from the ant’s saddle and knocking the spear from his hand.
An upper-neck chop slammed the Masai, stunned, into the silt. Logan scooped up the fallen spear, preparing to drive it into the man’s bronzed back, when he heard Jess scream, “Marabunta!”
Duma’s warrior ant was in full attack. The giant insect reared up, its shining, razored antennae slashing air, its red and black body towering directly over Logan.
He spun sideways, but his upper shoulder was opened to the bone by one of the whipping antennae. The ant moved in, sensing its advantage, jaws wide, ready to finish the kill. Again Logan pivoted, and, using his good arm, plunged Nyati’s spear into the creature’s bulbous right eye.
Incredibly, smoke and sparks poured from the wound as the creature went berserk, wildly thrashing its immense, segmented body to left and right.
A robot, marveled Logan, the thing’s a robot!
Now the frenzied ant’s left antenna swung up to knock young Swala from the saddle; the boy fell heavily to the floor of the ravine, striking his head on a silt-covered rock. He did not move as the maddened machine-creature reared up to crush him.
Logan sprang between them, driving the boy’s spear full-strength into the ant’s vulnerable underchest. The great dark insect spun crazily to smash head-on into the ravine wall, exploding as it hit, showering the area with bits of broken metal. Then it lay unmoving, silent, its clockwork interior gutted.
Logan knelt by the unconscious young Masai. Jess was already there, cradling the boy’s bleeding head.
“He’s all right,” she told Logan.
Nyati had seen it all, seen what this brave white condemned one had done. He had saved Swala’s life.
He had slain the marabunta.
Nyati had seen, and he would remember.
He would never forget.
----
THE OTHER ME
The trip across the hot plain to the Masai village was painful for Logan. His shoulder throbbed under the still-powerful afternoon sun, and the makeshift sling bandage was stiff with blood. Jessica had cleaned the wound with water from the canteens, but there was very little to be done by way of remedy until they reached the village.
Jessica rode one of the massive warrior ants with Swala, who was subdued and aloof, while Logan followed on the second machine-creature. Nyati ran lightly and easily beside him, sleek-muscled legs pistoning over the grass. The Masai was in awe of
With them rode Nyati—the buffalo—a wise tracker who knew every vine and thorn bush, every ridge and rock and rolling green hill within the Serengeti.
Two masters—and a brave boy who hoped, this day, to become a man.
Duma smiled. The first kill I will take for myself, as elder, for this is custom on a hunt—but the second kill shall be reserved for my son. It shall be Swala’s. This had been agreed to by Nyati. The veteran tracker would hold back. For Nyati, there would be other days, other kills, as there had been before— as many as the faces of the night moon.
Beneath Duma, the marabunta paused to swing its giant clicking antennae toward a patch of reed-shadow near the inner ravine wall. The sharp clicking alerted the others.
All were stopped, eyes probing the bank.
“ There , Father!” shouted young Swala, pointing at Jessica. “A condemned one! Behind the rock.” She stood up, poised to run, inviting the spear of Duma.
He drew back his muscled arm, spearhead glinting in the leaf-filtered sunlight banding the ravine floor. But he did not loose the weapon.
A snake-hiss of sound, and a bone-tipped reed buried itself deep in the warrior’s scarred chest just above the heartline. Silently, he toppled from the saddle.
“Father! My father!” cried Swala. He was confused and frightened; his mount swayed back nervously as he fought to control it.
Logan ignored the boy. He charged straight at the second hunter, yanking Nyati’s leg violently, pulling him from the ant’s saddle and knocking the spear from his hand.
An upper-neck chop slammed the Masai, stunned, into the silt. Logan scooped up the fallen spear, preparing to drive it into the man’s bronzed back, when he heard Jess scream, “Marabunta!”
Duma’s warrior ant was in full attack. The giant insect reared up, its shining, razored antennae slashing air, its red and black body towering directly over Logan.
He spun sideways, but his upper shoulder was opened to the bone by one of the whipping antennae. The ant moved in, sensing its advantage, jaws wide, ready to finish the kill. Again Logan pivoted, and, using his good arm, plunged Nyati’s spear into the creature’s bulbous right eye.
Incredibly, smoke and sparks poured from the wound as the creature went berserk, wildly thrashing its immense, segmented body to left and right.
A robot, marveled Logan, the thing’s a robot!
Now the frenzied ant’s left antenna swung up to knock young Swala from the saddle; the boy fell heavily to the floor of the ravine, striking his head on a silt-covered rock. He did not move as the maddened machine-creature reared up to crush him.
Logan sprang between them, driving the boy’s spear full-strength into the ant’s vulnerable underchest. The great dark insect spun crazily to smash head-on into the ravine wall, exploding as it hit, showering the area with bits of broken metal. Then it lay unmoving, silent, its clockwork interior gutted.
Logan knelt by the unconscious young Masai. Jess was already there, cradling the boy’s bleeding head.
“He’s all right,” she told Logan.
Nyati had seen it all, seen what this brave white condemned one had done. He had saved Swala’s life.
He had slain the marabunta.
Nyati had seen, and he would remember.
He would never forget.
----
THE OTHER ME
The trip across the hot plain to the Masai village was painful for Logan. His shoulder throbbed under the still-powerful afternoon sun, and the makeshift sling bandage was stiff with blood. Jessica had cleaned the wound with water from the canteens, but there was very little to be done by way of remedy until they reached the village.
Jessica rode one of the massive warrior ants with Swala, who was subdued and aloof, while Logan followed on the second machine-creature. Nyati ran lightly and easily beside him, sleek-muscled legs pistoning over the grass. The Masai was in awe of
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