The Predator of the Meadow
Stephen W. Cote
Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2005
About the Author
Hello and thank you for reading. My name is Stephen W. Cote. I am a Software Engineer and Consultant, a United States Marine, a martial artist, and an author. You can find more information about my early creative writing and ongoing open source projects on whitefrost.com. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996.
If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects such as the Hemi JavaScript Framework, or inquire about unpublished manuscripts and shorts, please contact me at whitefrost.com.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work and I hope you enjoy it.
Prologue
It was rage, an exaltation of pure bliss. Behavior modification isolated and exposed the deepest desires of the human mind. Each instinct was fed into the conflagration of the soul as it arose, and everything that made the host sapient was burned away. The strongest instincts were to sleep, to mate, and to fight. He was presently capable of only feeling rage.
He charged from hiding through the thicket and tore out the jugular of a young fauna lapping from a stagnant pool. The beast of prey turned round toward the heavy forest, leaving the fresh meat to rot. A growl from his flank sent him reeling ninety degrees. Another predator had broken the ranks of his pack and was mid-leap and inbound. While his feline instincts told him to leap into the fray, a stronger human intuition compelled him to use a different strategy. He hunkered down and pushed off his haunches into a short leap and gored the exposed belly of his attacker. In one graceful motion, his saber-like teeth plunged into the soft underbelly and his claws caught hold of intestines. When all four paws were firmly planted on the ground, the predator steadied himself against the weight of the enemy body. The enemy struggled and dug its hind legs into his ribs, but was dead when the predator shucked the heavy weight from his back.
The primal lusts coalesced, no longer scattered and fragmented by an animal’s mind. As lust, rage, hunger, and sleep came together, Vincent Wagner was cognitive of his own existence. He shook his head to clear the rapacious behavior. His vision of the meadow and forest blanched, and he found himself backed against a thick shrub of mauve ribbon-shaped leaves. He was in a meticulously tended garden and could see an alien metropolis glowing in atomic orange pastels on the horizon. A stone fountain was erected in the center of the garden, reminding him of ancient parks on Earth. But the brief respite of tranquility passed. A searing pain quickly filled his legs but he did not see a wound. Blue blood soiled his camouflage fatigues, and he had to strip off his instrument belt before he discovered a chemical laize wound. Looking around to find the source, he saw an enemy soldier near the stone fountain, its face burned away. Another soldier was half-buried to its waist, sunk in the miry soil of a drained pond at the garden’s edge. The enemy soldiers were everything humans fantasized how aliens should appear and Vincent could not think of any words to describe them.
“Time,” he whispered. “How long?” The pale green sun cast a strange pallor on the sky, tinting the clouds in a broad band of lime, without providing any indication of the time of day. From the corners of his mind, the meadow threatened to consume him. “Not yet!” he demanded of himself. Though he could not remember where he was or what he had done, he knew he would die if he didn’t stop the bleeding from the wounds inflicted on his legs. He could not remember what he was at that moment, but knew what he had been before coming to this strange land.
Deep pangs of thirst compelled him toward the fountain’s placid waters. “I’m not crazy,” he told himself while pulling his wounded body toward the stone fountain. “I’m a soldier for the Panthera Corporation,” he said, struggling to gain every inch. It was painful to move at all and he wept for all the memories that wanted to come. When he reached the fountain, Vincent sat against the finely crafted stones and pulled an empty rifle clip from his instrument belt. He stared at it dumbly. Thirst policed his limited cognitive abilities and he cupped his hand and brought a mouthful of water to his lips. Vincent’s parched lips were sensitive to the warm, acrid water. “If I wake up in a strange place, I may be wounded. If a medic is not available, improvise.” His mind fought for right and reason, but the meadow bled around his vision. When he peered into his peripheral vision, he felt ready to lose himself into the painless and satisfying world of the predator. The meadow was so very beautiful and enticing, but his wounds prevented a complete transgression.
Vincent wasn’t sure if he had ever woken from modification before this moment, and hoped he would have no memory of the alien world, the stone fountain, or the face of the enemy. The meadow knew nothing of memory and its close proximity was affecting his thoughts. Panthera had promised no memories of the war.
The rifle clip felt heavy in his hand and he started to wonder again why he held it. “If I am wounded,” he said to himself, smashing the rifle clip against the fountain. He was overwhelmed with pain and smashed the rifle clip again. Vincent knew that his mind contained hypnotic instructions that were triggered by certain physical or mental conditions. “If I am wounded,” he said again, trying to find the hypnotic implant that would release the lifesaving information.
But his mind was empty and restless with dominating instincts. “If I am bleeding,” he said louder. “I am bleeding and don’t have a medic!” he said forcefully, while managing to restrain his voice so he didn’t draw attention. At last, blissful awareness cleared his mind. “If I am bleeding and a medic is not available, break the shell on a rifle cartridge. Use the liquid Compound Y from the breached energy cell to cauterize the wound.”
Vincent smashed the clip again and then moved the leaking case over his wounds. When the fluid struck his flesh, it fused his blood, clothes and torn skin together. Although he was ready to howl in anguish and fury, the meadow had already returned to dominate his thoughts and the entire event was forgotten. It would never be remembered.
Part 1: On Becoming Ferocious