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The Indari is still alive when he’s brought back to camp, but I can’t imagine how. I had landed a few hours earlier and re-hired my regular guides. It’s dangerous work, and illegal, but the money I pay them will keep their families fed for a couple of months. We had set up camp a few klicks outside their village, and after lunch I rested in the scant shade of a thorn tree. The mali-flies hummed in their hypnotic rhythm. Breathing the hot, dry air had pulled me down into a stupor when I heard a shout. I spotted two of my hires hauling a third one on a blanket. The Indari have good upper-body strength, but they are slow on their squat legs. Once in range they began chattering that Tipotl was attacked, he’s bloody and on the edge of shock. I steeled myself when they dropped him onto a table, but I had to swallow bile when the dark, sticky blanket was peeled back. Tipotl’s face is a bloody ruin, and his remaining eye blinks at me in confusion. His breath comes in pitiful, ragged gasps, and a scarlet bubble pulses at his throat in perfect time. Across his chest are deep gashes, and only his ribs had ensured that his heart and lungs remained intact. His arms and hands are filled with tiny splinters and will have to be scrubbed out thoroughly—for now they merely itch, but within hours his arms will balloon with rash. His carriers had shoved his intestines back into his lower torso. Beefy chunks of flesh drape down from his thighs. I quickly start pouring disinfectant into him, watching the fluid pour out his wounds to puddle on the table. Simple field dressing is all I can do—infection will set in soon. He will need a doctor within the hour. As I work on him, he finds his voice and begins jabbering, his good eye holding me with its intensity. Indari are baffling; convince one that he is cursed, and he will lie down and die by sunset, but they can take a shredding that would kill a human, and in a few weeks they are back, scarred and wary. We piece together the story as we dress his wounds. Tipotl had set out after the meal to set some traps for small biltha birds. Like a fool, he had gotten separated from his companions—a mistake he may not live to repeat. He blundered around a bush and froze, staring into the glassy eyes of a krillion having lunch. In a flash, the krillion sprung for the kill. Tipotl fell back and raised his long knife, scoring the beast across the stomach just as the animal plunged its claws into his face and throat. Its back legs pumped across his legs and belly, the two beings merging into a storm of limbs and teeth and crimson spray. Suddenly, the krillion vanished into the grass. Tipotl’s companions had heard the bloody attack and came running. I do what I can for Tipotl and send him off with another Indari in one of the vehicles toward Melazambaka, the closest town with any sort of medical services. Arterial blood drips off my hands into the dirt at my feet, and as I watch the vehicle race away, shedding a pillar of dust behind it, I curse to myself. Within two hours the local authorities will know I’m back. I have until tomorrow’s dawn at best to get a krillion and get out. If I don’t bring one back, thousands of my people will die. Ordinarily I would have three to four days to take my time and do the job right before the cops sniff me out. I can’t waste time rotting in a jail. Time was, they saw me as a harmless boost to the local economy. Lately they’ve been too eager to shoot on sight to keep me on respectable terms. Now I will have to rush, and too often rushing means making mistakes. Mistakes can be overcome when cooking, drawing to an inside straight, or even waging interplanetary war. Mistakes when hunting krillion often means pain, death and having parts of yourself being digested by the deadliest predator on three planets. But the choice had been made for me. Tipotl had stumbled upon a krillion feeding, which both surprised the predator and presented a rival for the meat. When Tipotl raked his knife across its belly, he turned a cunning killer into a wounded one. Now the animal will be angry, perhaps crazed with pain, and uninhibited. A hunter can usually count on krillion to be shy of noisy, foul-smelling animals that walk on two legs. But a wounded krillion is a horror. Our flimsy camp is wide open for a hurting krillion with blood in its eyes. Likely it will try to add the local villagers to the menu if it’s unable to make its usual kills. One way or another, this will have to end by sunset. With Charl as a guide, I drive the second transport south, getting angrier by the minute. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was looking forward to taking the kill the intelligent way, the safe way, like I did three months earlier.  First, we had bagged a drangean boar—a fat herbivore whose primary means of defense is body odor. Then we had looked for a tree—isolated, but with branches low enough for the krillion to drag up the carcass. Krillion will eat small animals at ground level, but it can feed on the boar for three days, and scavengers are a nuisance. Having found a suitable tree, we had constructed a blind, careful to use only natural materials and disturbing the local vegetation as little as possible. Krillion have an uncanny sense of territory, and grow suspicious easily. The blind had to be due south of the target tree, letting the sun rise and fall from shoulder to shoulder; the animal’s sharp eyesight would spot reflected sunlight from the rifle’s scope, and northerly winds would scatter my scent. We dug a shallow trench and draped a gnarled tree branch over the top with some matted grass to act as a stand for my Stone & Higgs rifle. With me eyeing through the scope, Tipotl scaled the tree, removing any branches in the line of sight, being careful to stick them in his belt rather than tossing them on the ground—a sure giveaway to the krillion. Next we drove in with the boar, dumping it and walking around, talking normally. The krillion was probably watching our movements from a distance. A krillion can kill an animal six times its size in a minute; it does not have the ability to count. The Indari gathered back up in the transport and drove away, leaving the krillion to think that the bellowing two-leggers have gone... except that I was tucked into the blind, settled in for a long wait. For hours I lay on my left hip and tried to ignore my cramping muscles. I drank little and ate less. I was careful to urinate into the empty canteen; the smell of human urine is too easily detectable. The boar was covered with flies and vermin, and occasionally I got a whiff that made my stomach flop, but rotting meat was of no concern to my prey. I hoped the krillion would inspect the meat before nightfall—other scavengers could find the meat, or worse, the krillion could carry it off elsewhere. A night-scope was no use; the electronic whine, barely perceptible to me next to my ear, would be like a shout to the sharp ears of my prey. Two hours before sunset, it arrived, and I started taking shallow breaths. The animal paced around and nosed the carcass, sniffing the air for danger. I was fifty meters away watching all this through the scope. Much closer and I would have been detected. After a while it began to take cautious nibbles at a flank, then trotted away as if bored with the whole thing. Finally it returned and used its serrated teeth to pick up the boar. The carcass weighed nearly as much as the krillion, but powerful neck and back muscles daintily held the meat above the ground. It headed for the nearby tree; then, still holding the boar in its mouth, it lifted the entire burden up out of reach. Draping it over a branch, it dropped to the ground again to sniff around one more time. Then, it returned and began to feed. It was here that I had to exercise the most patience. I waited for another hour, letting the heavy meat in its stomach make it drowsy. It rested its chin against the rotting carcass—I swallowed the metallic tang in my throat. The time had come. I took a dozen deep breaths to slow my heartbeat. I sighted the crosshairs across the animal’s dappled coat and fixed on a point behind its neck. Ideally, the bullet would smash its shoulder, spraying bone fragments into its heart and lungs, blast it in the engine room. Carefully, I engaged the chamber, certain that the krillion heard the snick and was now bounding towards me ten meters at a leap. But no, his eyes, although still moving, did not focus on me. Slipping my finger into the trigger, I waited to time my shot between heartbeats. I contracted my hand as if squeezing a ball... The recoil jarred my shoulder, and the deafening noise of the shot pounded in my ears. A plume of birds blossomed into the sky. I lost focus in my scope, and as I swung it back to the cross branch, I saw the half-eaten corpse of the boar and nothing else. I dropped the rifle and picked up my shotgun, no longer concerned about noise and movement. Aiming the muzzle toward the tree, I held my breath and listened hard for the telltale swish of grass. I had either made my shot or I would have a wounded, enraged killing machine in my lap in five seconds... After a few minutes, I picked my way out from the blind. My field glasses told me what I needed to know and I start to breathe again; the krillion lay inert at the base of the tree... I pull to a stop around two hundred meters from the scene of Tipotl’s attack and kill the engine. I step out into the afternoon sun and listen, knowing full well I won’t hear anything. The wind hums behind my back, tickling the hairs standing erect on my neck. My scent is probably being carried straight to it, its sharp nose reading my thoughts. I’m tempted to put on my hunting armor, but I decide against it. The tough leather would only buy me a few seconds against the krillion’s dagger-like claws; I opt for freedom of movement instead. Likewise, a helmet would reduce hearing and vision. Scalp wounds are bloody and painful, but rarely fatal. I settle on only a leather collar around my neck and a headband to absorb sweat and blood. For my weapon, I go with the Manifred shotgun, 12 gauge, no choke. I don’t apologize for the anachronism. Sure, a pulser rifle would put a four-thousand-degree bolt of pure energy through the entire length of the killer in mid-leap, but if I missed I won’t have time for a ten-second recharge. The Stone & Higgs rifle works best for the long, clean kill, but only if I see it before it sees me. For my shotgun, I’ve employed a pistol grip for quick action, and no choke for a wider spray. I chamber one shell and load the magazine with four more. I tell Charl that he is staying behind, which makes him mad. His throaty clicks and grunts are tough to make out, but fear concentrates my mind. He and I have hunted before, and he is as reliable as he is silent. If we were moving through tall grass to a particular destination, then he makes a good gun carrier. But in this situation I may have to snap shoot in any direction. From my canteen I take a swallow of water, then check the lacings on my boots. I crack my knuckles to loosen up my fingers. I double-check my shotgun. I run out of excuses to hang around the transport and set off. The sun is over my right shoulder, and the wind has backed a bit. I set my eyes on the head-high munga bush that stands between the scene of Tipotl’s filleting and me. The animal has likely bolted off nearby to lick its wounds. Stepping on the outsides of my feet, I carefully pick my way forward. I hold my shotgun low and back; I don’t want the krillion to get between the muzzle and me. Shooting from the hip is difficult, but I will almost certainly have a huge, angry target at chest-level. The grass is mostly knee-deep, with patches up to my waist—plenty to hide a cunning killer poised to spring, blending into the tan and gray brush. With each step my mind screams. I am fighting millions of years of evolution in a single afternoon. My ancestors evolved quite nicely by running away from situations like this. Now I am taking slow, steady steps toward death. It will wait until I am close enough to attack in a single spring. It will stare at me, hidden and motionless even if I bounced pebbles off its skull, or grazed it with sporadic buckshot. It will dig its hind claws into the soft dirt to gain purchase. Once it leaps, how many seconds will I have to make the shot? Three? Two? My hands start shaking, and I will them to stop. In half an hour I have moved fifty meters. I am now behind the munga bush and plenty nervous. My heart is pushing out of my chest. I am both sweating and shivering. I clamp my teeth to keep them from chattering. I take two steps and survey the ground. Blood is splashed everywhere, and the spoor shows the krillion has bolted ahead and to the right. The half-eaten corpse it was feeding on still lies in the afternoon sun, covered with vermin. I can feel its glassy eyes on me. I hold my breath and listen, but all I hear is the almost-musical thrumming of the mali-flies in the distance. Unlike most predators, krillion do not scream before attacking. My eyes scan the undergrowth, thick as soup. If the light is right, a krillion’s eyes will flash—a reflection of sunlight. I see nothing. The sun, pitiless to my desperate struggle to keep living, is close the horizon. In minutes it will set, leaving me in thick darkness with a mostly nocturnal creature. I have little time now, and shadows are starting to stretch toward me like a dark tide. I follow the spoor, gripping the stock of my shotgun. I fall into a robotic rhythm: step... exhale... scan right... scan left... inhale... step... exhale. For the sixteenth time I curse Tipotl. Irrational, I admit. Why did he separate from the others? Why did he stab the krillion, making it deadly, dangerous, and angry? Why couldn’t he have killed it—never mind the impossibility? Now I am forced to come out here and offer my flesh as a sacrifice, my blood’s warmth as a lure to attract a vicious killer. I try not to think of its burning saliva on my skin. Its dappled coat is silky smooth when rubbed, but against the grain a hand comes back filled with tiny barbed hairs, like splinters from rough wood, that work into the bloodstream and cause infection. Even wrestling with an arthritic, defanged, toothless krillion would leave me in a hospital to have hard-faced nurses scrub my skin off with wire brushes. Inhale... step... My legs are cramping. I wince at the noise each footfall makes. My headband is soaked, and drops of sweat line my face, stinging my eyes. I can’t wipe them. I hold them open, resisting the urge to blink. Exhale... scan right... scan left. At ten yards I freeze, my heart clawing out of my throat. It’s in front of me, I know it. I can’t see it, but I can feel its eyes raking across me. I hold my breath, racked with tension, and my skin prickles with nerves. Is that breathing I hear? Can it hear my heart pounding? Is that dark spot an ordinary shadow? Or is it a muzzle, concealing serrated two-inch-long teeth? I swallow hard. A drop of sweat tickles through the tiny hairs of my left eyebrow. I want to wipe my face but I don’t dare move. I can’t take another step. A fly crawls across my lip. How long can I stand here? What if—? It leaps. I hear the swish of grass, and I see it in the air. My eyes had actually focused on its hindquarters, and I shift and see its face, huge jaws open. It does not scream. Even in mid-leap it gives no warning. Time freezes. I stare at its lithesome, deadly beauty. Front legs as thick as logs reach for me. Its front paws are stretched toward me, claws extended. Behind them is a mouth of fangs under cold, burning eyes. A swollen tick feeds on its long jaw line. My limbs turn to concrete, and for an instant I am motionless to this length of harsh death arcing toward my throat. Then... I fire. I squeeze the trigger and I feel the shotgun kick in my leaden arms. I do not hear the report, but I watch fifteen buckshot rip into its face and shoulder. One eye explodes but it keeps coming. I squeeze the trigger again, seeing pale fur turn crimson at its chest. I fire again, filling its throat with hot metal. Seventy-five kilograms slam into my upper chest and I am knocked back to the ground, my breath forced out of my lungs with a whoosh. I hit my head hard on the ground and through spots I look up into golden-red clouds. I wait for cold nails caked with rotting meat to scrape into my flesh, to gore, to gouge, to rend, to tear... My vision clears; blinking makes my head hurt. I steal a deep breath, and I feel my chest rise and fall. I lift my head and look down the length of my body. My gun lies on the ground next to me, but I am covered in blood. I feel nothing; I must be in shock. No, I can move my legs, my arms. I sit up, which makes my head throb even more. As if I am playing a macabre game with myself, I pick my hands across my face and run my fingers through my hair. I feel a bump, but scalp and hair seem to be in their proper places. I bring my hands back and look—dirt, but no blood. I look behind me. It’s on its stomach, facing away from me, motionless. The blood on me is not mine. I stare at it for a long moment, taking short breaths. Suddenly, my lunch, my breakfast, and everything I’ve eaten for the past week comes out of my mouth. I retch and heave, gagging on the bile until my stomach quiets down. I am just wiping my mouth on my sleeve when I hear a crashing come through the brush. Charl heard the gunfire and came running. His broad face looks surprised to see me alive, and he clicks at me faster than I can follow. But it is enough to remind me. Charl hands me a small package, and I stand up, ignoring the lancing pain in my head. I shake out the small, tightly wrapped square to unfold a thick plastic bag as tall as me, with a long slit in the side. Together, Charl and I wrestle with the dead animal. He has donned thick gloves and can handle the carcass itself. I am maneuvering the limp legs by gripping them through the bag. Once the animal is inside, I use a rag to wipe the blood off my chest and shoulders, wringing the drippings into the bag. I scan the ground where the animal came to a rest, wiping up foliage of bright blood—each drop is precious. We zip the bag sealed and heft it to our shoulders, heading back to the transport. My crotch is wet. My canteen must have leaked on me.  By morning I’m back on my ship, leaving orbit with studious urgency. My head still aches, and I will have nightmares for weeks, but I’m alive. What’s more, I have my kill. Back in cold storage rests the body of the second-most deadly killer on three planets. This krillion will be no trophy; my shotgun ruined its face and throat. But I didn’t come to stare down death for a trophy, nor for the “thrill of the hunt.” “Mitch,” my contact says over the comm. “You’re back early. Did you get it?” “Of course. This one practically fell into my lap.” “I’ll bet,” she says. “Lose any blood?” “Some. It had been wounded a bit, probably lost a liter.” “That’ll cost you.” “No way. Spine’s intact with no loss of spinal fluid. Minimal bone marrow contamination. She’ll do.” “We’ll see.” She pauses. “Jon’s dead. Gone, yesterday morning.” Damn. What the hell do I say? “I’m sorry. I was hoping he could hold out until...” “He was too far along. Wouldn’t have made any difference.” My people are dying. Tomko’s disease attacks the central nervous system; once a person’s infected, it’s the morgue in three weeks, tops. We’d been fighting a losing battle for four years, until we discovered the special properties of krillion fluids. “The locals are screaming again.” I can picture her smirk. “Let ’em.” I got what I came for, and maybe a hundred thousand of my people will live because of it. “It’s only going to get tougher,” she says. “They put krillion on their critically endangered list—they say there’s less than fifty left.” Personally, I figure that number is low by a factor of ten. Krillion are very, very good at not being found. “Until we get this thing licked,” I reply, “we’re going to need all of them.” “Then what?” I don’t have an answer. We’ve tried to breed them—no luck so far. Protein synthesis has been too slow. “Likely they’ll round up the last few and lock ’em up,” she says. I think about the look in the krillion’s golden-green eyes as she hung in the air, enormous paws barbed with needle-sharp claws stretching out for my throat—that look of cunning malice. I involuntarily shudder. “Sweetheart, I’d like to see them try.”
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