DISCLAIMER: The Thundercats are owned by other people and institutions and not by the author of this work. The author is not benefiting financially by this work. The author owns any other character appearing in this work that is not Thundercats or part of the Thundercat Universe.

“Fruit of the Gods”

By RD Rivero

©January 25, 2001

**final version**

“Can you imagine language, once clear-cut and exact, softening and guttering, losing shape and import, becoming mere lumps of sound again?” -- HG Wells (‘The Island of Dr. Moreau’)

Prologue

The vast, untamed jungles of Third Earth were unusually silent that early morning but for the babble of trickling brooks and effervescent spray of meandering streams snaking across the fertile land whose rippling surfaces shimmered in the light of the rising sun. Owls, tired from their nocturnal hunt, returned to their nests -- holes carved along the trunks of tall oaks where young and unhatched eggs awaited. Scavengers, satiated from their stalk through the darkness, retired to their caves and dens -- hideouts camouflaged by the dense underbrush.

A small furry creature emerged from a thicket of green reeds to the edge of the riverbank. It hobbled forward on all fours, dragging its knuckles on the dirt, tail curling over its back. It reached the edge of the waters and dipped its muzzle into the currents to drink. A disfigured image of its face and form reflected back onto its own eyes -- the faintest spark of intelligence seemed to radiate from those dull brown orbs. Its body was primate-shaped with an odd mixture of feline and human characteristics. Its coat was a patchwork of orange that alternated between thick and thin, serrated by black stripes here and there. Rows of shinny stitches, like little interlocked teeth crisscrossed its limbs, its white underbelly where the effect of contrast was pronounced.

It turned its head upward in a singular, fluid motion, curious and cautious about the cause of the strange noise that just then rumbled through the air. Fear, born of a lifetime of pain, made it scramble out of the openness of the riverbank into the safety of the shades of fallen, mossy trees. Strange, cool mists clung statically to the earth around the hollowed logs.

The tiny animal panted for breath amid the entangled bushes. Again it looked up to see -- the sky had attained a bright shade of blue while massive gray clouds adorned the far off distance. The disturbance resonated from that menacing, advancing storm front. The bolts of lightning that sprung cloud to cloud confirmed its intuition, its experience. A drizzling rain would form in a few hours despite the sun’s rays filtering across the treetops the dreary fate would be inevitable.

No longer thirsty, the creature retreated from the stream to the village where it would be warm and secure nestled in its arboreal den.

The ThunderStrike

Tens of thousands of feet above the ground, the ThunderStrike rushed at top speed headlong across the valley. Bengali sat at the helm in the central pod while Pumyra and Tygra were to his sides. The white tiger adjusted a knob on the dial next to the wheel -- he bit his lip while he did so in nervous agitation. He did not enjoy traveling to and from DarkSide, worse still was piloting through that treacherous part of the world. Lynxo was much better at that than he and the old cat’s skills in the caverns were unmatched. It was that particular deficiency in his training that meant a longer trip about the Lunatic’s realm. Again he adjusted the pitch and a series of dials, taking his eyes away from the forestry unfolding about the vehicle.

“Do you really think they fell for it?” Bengali asked her unexpectedly.

She looked to her right, to him and then back to the arboreal panorama.

“I can’t find them on the radar. With any luck they’ll think we did go through the cavern -- and end up at the other side, where Liono and the rest are waiting,” Pumyra said at last.

“That was a spectacular move,” Tygra interjected. He had checked his instruments and paused to contemplate the unknown, unexplored valley below. At that moment he recalled it -- he could see it again -- the ThunderStrike traversing the dark smoke, the oily fog that permeated DarkSide, that relic of First Earth’s decadent pollution, entering the caverns. Bengali braked and hid the vehicle in a wide alcove, the lights and engines off. The Thundercats were utterly and completely vulnerable to attack when the Lunatics in their ships entered the canyon and sped heedlessly into the winding passages, oblivious to their true location. Once enough time and distance had passed, Bengali restarted the vessel and exited from where he had entered only to begin the arduous trek back to Cat’s Lair the other way around the planet.

A large metal case hit the inner wall of his pod in response to another of the white tiger’s abrupt course corrections. Tygra was brought back to reality by the alarm of that low thud -- his mind returned to study the terrain. Isolated by a ring of tall white-capped mountains that loomed menacingly along the wide arc of the horizon, the valley was framed above by amassing, heaving clouds and below by sloping forests. A faint smoke oozed from a clearing of black stones, dotted with shrubs where he thought for a fleeting moment that he had seen a brick chimney. No animals, not even birds came close to that patch of ground and yet his worn-out vision had him following neatly carved trails cutting through that spartan land.

Pumyra noticed Tygra’s curiosity. “One day we should come back and explore this place,” she said but none heard her.

For a singular instant he saw a troop of ape-like creatures furrowing in the leafy branches of the taller trees. “Hmmm,” he mumbled just under his breath. He derided the primitive life forms, wordlessly, the idyllic scenes sending chills of dread and horror down his spine.

“What, Tygra?” Bengali’s voice broke the static in his ears.

He adjusted his headset and sat up. “Nothing -- I just thought I saw monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” Pumyra looked out of her pod.

He grabbed the metal box and set it upon his lap. “At least I thought they were monkeys. Detestable creatures.”

“Oh, come on,” Bengali added, “there’s nothing wrong with animals. You know, many animals here look strangely familiar.”

Tygra adjusted himself in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in his clothes, in his own skin. “Perhaps too familiar,” he said, regretting his words. He was not one to open up to others -- to expose the deep, dark secrets of his mind. He kicked himself for having said too much and stomped on the flooring of the pod, hoping that no one saw it.

“Ah, don’t listen to him, Bengali, he just doesn’t like to be remained about where --“ her abrupt silence was interrupted by the sound of a loud blip on the radarscope.

Tygra held the case and its dangerous contents close to his chest. He was bitterly tense, already knowing what was going to happen. Their clean get away was no more, their worst fears were gaining in on them.

“A Lunatic!” the white tiger shouted. “I can’t say which one --”

“Only one ship?” Tygra asked, hiding with concern the guilt he felt for the relief that the distraction of the unexpected situation afforded him.

“Just one -- wait --” he dodged the vessel suddenly, violently.

“It’s firing at us again,” Pumyra said. Her words were followed by another sharp turn.

The ThunderStrike was sinking fast in a vain attempt to lose the enemy amidst the swaggering treetops of the canopy.

“Another Lunatic, I don’t believe it!”

At that point he could not tell which of the two were speaking what. His attention was focused entirely upon the strange box on his lap -- the box and its infernal contents, the box that he, Bengali and Pumyra were willing to risk their lives for.

The vehicle was shaken violently.

Smoke filled Bengali's pod, his unscratched cough echoed in Tygra's brain. A shot of blue plasma was fired and the windshield was cracked open by the action of a blunt hammer. Dense ash poured out of the gaping hole until at last the white tiger was again in the clear, rehousing his weapon.

Yet another direct hit jostled the vessel -- sparks from the breached fuel tanks streaked through the air in a thin line that traced the ship’s every move.

Tygra was helpless, able only to listen to the chaos that ensued among his companions. The minutes flashed by in seconds -- his actions slow and anguished. He had lost the ability to act with reason, he had become what he most feared, what he despised to the deepest levels of his being -- a useless --

Pumyra had begun to return fire and Bengali was taking back control of the ThunderStrike when a stray blast seared through the air and whizzed past Tygra’s line of sight. He felt himself rise. His pod rocked and with one last jerk he realized that the shot had broken him free from the main body of the ship. He was falling toward the ground, rushing to his doom.

The Village

The instant his pod was cut loose from the main body of the vessel, sending him tumbling down the sky, he was hit again by a blast from the yet unseen, unheard and unannounced attackers. He dropped uncontrollably. Gaining speed without bound, the emerging forces caused his blood to rush from his head to his chest. His heart beat ferociously but he could not help it and he lost consciousness.

What remained of the ThunderStrike, crippled and defenseless, continued on by the slimmest chance of miracles. An arc of white-yellow smoke poured out of the vehicle while it streaked through the clouds. The fighting had stopped, the Lunatics had retreated, satisfied that they had taught the Thundercats a lesson not soon forgotten.

The tiger had no memory of crashing into the trees or turning over and over. One hundred feet above the ground, he came to rest upside-down entangled in thick branches and flowered vines. Fire raged in the pod -- it was its sound and blazing heat that awoke him abruptly. He opened his eyes to a chaotic scene, indescribable to his despondent mind.

The sharp fragments of the broken glass of the pod’s shattered windshield covered his face. The shinny bits were held in place on his fur by the blood that oozed from the cuts around the exposed parts of his body. It was not until he had finished removing the shrapnel and had begun checking his body for broken bones or fractures that he remembered the box. In a thoughtless panic he twisted out of the safety belts of the seat. His harsh actions caused him to fall forward and, acting quickly, he grabbed the controls just in time. Desperately, he held onto the framework of the console, while his feet dangled out of the gapping hole that had been torn into the fuselage.

Undaunted, the fire continued to heat the interior of the pod. The buttons on the control panels trickled and dripped as thick, multicolored liquids -- the goo stung his flesh when stray drops fell and hit his arms, his face. The very frame itself melted and came away in his grip. Spiraling along a rapid descent he hit his head on a tree limb -- again his world faded into darkness.

By the time the pod exploded -- once the fires had breeched into the fuel tanks -- Tygra was safely far from the scene. Hours after the ordeal was over the wreckage continued to bellow an arcid, ashy smoke. Soon it would burn itself out -- before the late evening drizzle could have its effect. Meanwhile the arboreal inhabitants kept their distance from it as they went about their business.

The air was calm, warm and scented by the open blue flowers that adorned bushes and vines wrapped around trees. The aroma was soft and idyllic, tranquil. He felt as if he was wrapped in loving arms and he did not want to get up, not even to open his eyes.

A sound came to his ears -- a sound that simply did not belong in that serenity. It seemed akin to speech but it was random, irregular, indiscernible from grunts and yelps. Unable to recover from that jarring disturbance, he had no choice but to awake.

He found himself in a small cramped room, dimly lit by the sun, or by what slants of sun that could break out through the heavy cloud-cover that had amassed in the otherwise blue skies. The chamber was walled by white plaster, offset by exposed beams of wood. A dark, aged wood. What bits of furniture he saw -- a table and stool, a bucket and the posts of the bed -- were made from it. He noticed, too, that those items of comfort were small, only half his size. He was curled in a fetal position on the mattress of stuffed leaves, fresh and green, that provided a pleasant scent of its own.

He pulled back the blankets that covered him and turned to the side to try to peer out of the bare, unblocked window. Intertwined fronds of dense vegetation hung down in thin strands from the top of the frame. A strong breeze fluttered them into the room then drew them back out. The light of the heavens darkened as more clouds clashed violently together.

Indistinct shadows, cast on the plaster of the windowsill, hobbled from side to side -- the sharp-tongued ‘language’ came from the bearers of the silhouettes. One of the tiny creatures crawled into the room through the open door. He sat up as best as he could in those cramped quarters and looked across the room attentively to it.

In function it was simian in character -- it walked on all fours, dragging its raw knuckles over the wooden planks, curling its prehensile tail above its straight back. Yet it was not like any other primate he had ever seen. Its head was too cat-like but its shoulders totally revealed its feline origins. Its fur was alternately thick and thin, alternately red and white: scars and glimmering stitches bordered oblong patches of hair along its body. Its eyes were brown and by the lashes he could have sworn it was even Thunderian.

It opened its mouth -- toothless -- and squeaked.

“Yes?” Tygra asked.

It screamed in response and darted back out the door from where it had entered.

Looking out the window again he caught another pair of Thunderian-like eyes looking at him and when he took notice of them, they, too, darted away, trailing away in that same high- pitched squeal.

“Animals,” he said, rolling his eyes and scratching his face. He reeled in pain, only then noticing the bandages and stitches that covered his body.

He arose from the bed, hunched under the low ceiling. It was only about four feet high. Outside, he stood on a wooden platform, carved into the trunk of the tree. Dangling vines tickled his nose and he turned his head up in a single, fluid movement. Above him were three other tracks built into the tree, each higher than the other. Swinging bridges led from one tier to the next, from one tree to the next, all around the sparse forestry. He found hundreds of little homes and dens in the elms and oaks. He saw sparks of lamps and traces of motion even out into the distance.

It was evidence of intelligence, but he was sure it was not the ‘intelligence’ of those creatures, those strange, misshapen creatures. The small primates were pets, he told himself and he went on, convinced that he was in a village that had been built for them by a generous and loving master, perhaps. Nothing else could explain how the architecture conformed to their anatomy so perfectly -- certainly, he was sure that those things could not have built the homes on their own.

The world was silent save for the birds that chirped and flapped their wings in the upper canopy. It was noon or afternoon -- he could not tell what time it was or how long he had been out cold. By chance he caught sight of the smoke that poured out of his fallen pod. He pointed to it, though he did not understand why he did so.

The sound of wood snapping caught his attention. He looked down -- the planks upon which he stood were beginning to give way to his great weight. He realized something else, too -- he was naked, stark naked. He panicked and looked back in the room but neither his clothes nor his whip was in the chamber.

The platform could not support him any longer and he had to act fast. He sprinted across the narrow corridor until he reached a spot he was more comfortable with. He jumped from off the ledge, twenty feet, to the ground where he landed on his hands and feet. He stood and turned to head into the shaded, covered parts of the clearing.

He called out ‘hello’ and his name once he felt he was safe to do so but no answer came. Frustrated, he tried to think of a way out of the valley but the area was thoroughly unknown and unexplored. He did not know which way to go and besides, he thought, any journey back to Cat’s Lair would have taken a week or longer. He had no stores, no supplies or provisions and, worse, he did not even have his weapon to defend himself with -- and without it he could not contact the rest of the Thundercats.

The shades of late afternoon drew near -- the air was tainted by a hint of cold and an all-embracing darkness was cast upon the land.

“They won’t leave me behind,” he convinced himself on the verge of tears. “Liono will know where I am, he’ll rescue me.”

He thought about the ThunderStrike and his companions. If they could make it home then it would still take Panthro a while to fix the vehicle. He gasped, the memories of the attack were missing, corrupt. He had been distracted at the time -- “The box!” he shouted and looked up -- he spotted the source of the smoke and ran in that general direction. He hoped the box would still be there, still be around the wreckage there.

Upon the soil were fresh prints and markings -- for a second he stared at them. They formed a trail directly to where he was headed. As he studied the torn and battered ground he realized that it was related to him and his ordeal. He had been dragged by his rescuers into the village, dragged by -- “Impossible,” he said -- the creatures, the small primates had been the ones that had moved him for the tracks conformed to what he had seen of them earlier in the room. Nowhere was there a humanoid footprint. Nowhere was there a sign of a being of his stature except for the scuffmarks of his own knees.

Yet that was put to the side, he needed the box, nothing was more important than the box.

“Jagga only knows if it’s been damaged!”

Meeting the Elders

Tygra set off in the general direction he had gleaned but before he had even made it to the perimeter of the village he was stopped by a troop of those odd primates. That time they came to him on their hind legs and stood just over three feet tall. They had crudely-designed weapons, maces that were thin sticks with a sharp nail that stuck out of the working end. Over twenty of them circled him, wielding their armaments in their gnarled hands.

He took notice of their variety -- he saw cats, canines, wolves, bears and even Wollos, reworked Berbils, Warrior Maidens and Mutants. All of them, one after another, reduced as if by sorcery into ape-like forms and yet they retained enough of their true character, their true nature to give away what they were or might have been. Much to his dismay, they possessed a certain, advanced knowledge. Just how advanced he could not and would not say but they seemed to know what they were doing.

By poking him with their maces they directed his movement toward a large straw and timber hut, built upon a platform by the slopes of a cascading stream. It was a large building, with windows and framed walls and a door suitable to let him enter without difficulty. It seemed to be ancient, well used and worn by the elements.

Within, the creatures -- who had only grunted to each other as far as he could tell -- showed him to a corner. Upon an undersized chair were his clothes, washed and expertly mended. He donned on his outfit quickly, not wanting to be as naked as his hosts. Sitting down, one of the primates, an unarmed Berbil, jumped on his lap without prompt. He was startled and froze while it crawled up his arm to his head. It tended to his facial wounds with its needle-like fingers, picking away the bandages and snipping at the stitches. It smeared a thick, lumpy goo on the bleeding scars. It seemed to him that the substance was moving, squirming but it did not sting and he tried desperately to keep those sensations out of sight, out of mind.

Throughout the exam Tygra had remained silent and still. Once it was done, he took the Berbil-primate-like animal in his hands and lifted it toward the light of the window. It remained as equally as docile while he inspected its body. Like a Berbil it had a soft-alloy metal body. Half plastic, half titanium, its outer shell was a living polymer. But it was grotesquely distorted -- the arms and legs, in particular, had been tortured into their current form. And the addition of the tail was an unanswerable mystery.

He put it down and it crawled to the others. In the time that he had been distracted, the remaining creatures had seated themselves on the bare, wooden floor, facing the back wall. They sat differently depending on their origins. The cats were perched on their hind legs, the canines were curled on their sides, the Wollos and humanoids were prostrate on crossed legs.

Out of curiosity, he picked up a male Wollo -- or what should have been a male Wollo. It had no visible genitals and only then did it strike him that none of them had sex organs. Perhaps that was why they had left him naked for so long, perhaps they had never seen that before. Bizarre thoughts crossed his mind and then he saw it.

What he had mistaken for stitches that crisscrossed the strange primates were, in fact, zippers. Zippers intertwined with pulsating veins. Zippers wrapped around the limbs, the tail and neck, the back along the spine, the front across the abdomen. Searching carefully, he found the devices used to open the interlocked teeth buried amidst deep folds of flesh.

“Hahahaha, hahahaha, hahaha,” he giggled and laughed hysterically. He put the subject down -- the others had taken no notice, their eyes had not left the back wall.

He rubbed his eyes, almost asleep, only to be brought back to life when the seemingly secure walls came down at once, exposing him again, as it was. He noticed that he was in the center of a vast congregation. Outside hundreds of those misshapen creatures stared into the shadows of the hut -- shadows that persisted despite the burning torches that adorned the support columns, shadows compounded by the darkening skies. It was winter in the part of Third Earth and evenings were coming earlier and earlier.

Exotic fumes engulfed the air and suddenly the light of the lamps intensified.

An ancient-looking Mutant -- a cross between a lizard and a rabbit -- approached Tygra with a porcelain bowl. He took the dish that was deceptively heavy and set the plate on his lap. At the same time, smaller cups were passed among the creatures in the hut and the spectators around the enclosure. He examined the food closely -- a yellow mush, somewhat loose in consistency, it seemed to be the only thing those toothless ones could eat, they ate it heartily with their fingers or directly from their bowls.

He sat motionless, not sure what to do next. He did not know if it was safe to consume that concoction or not. The malformed Mutant-primate returned to his side crawling on all fours and, standing weakly, it indicated with clear and concise hand gestures that he had to eat the food.

The air cooled unexpectedly, the faint smell of moisture permeated the stillness. The sky was dark gray, dense with clouds, framed by the swaying tops of tall green trees. A muffled and distant pang of thunder crashed in the heavens. He shivered, it occurred to him that it would rain soon and, somehow, the hanging lanterns attained a kind of warmth that was quite unexpectedly soothing -- for a moment his worries and troubles vanished.

But their eyes -- their eyes -- were fixed upon him. The stabbing pressure was blunt against his crawling skin. The elder creature continued to prod him to eat out of the bowl and at last he gave into the communal insistence.

He took a morsel of the stuff in his forefingers and brought it to his mouth without thought. It had the sweet taste of fruit with an aftertaste that made him gag to the point of retching. It was a metallic tang, a flavor of pure lead. It had lumps that were hard and crunchy. He mistook them for seeds but they were moving and there were also other solid parts that he could not identify.

Under a nearby torch he looked at yet another handful of the food. The substance was alive -- alive with the writhing of twisted insects, hundreds of insects. They tried desperately to crawl out of his hand, out of the bowl but the gruel’s high viscosity kept them in place. The mad thrashing crushed their bodies and even tore away their legs that though detached continued to thrash wildly, violently.

In disgust, he threw the bowl on the floor where it shattered -- its half-living contents squirming in the jiggling mass. He screamed and stood, hitting his head on a wooden beam. He tried to get out but by then the food -- the bitter fruit -- was having an effect. He tried to think of something and as his inner voice spoke, it degenerated from understandable words to chirping, yelping and howling.

Tygra began to understand them, the quasi-simians and what they were saying.

Four elder members of the village stood in a semicircle, chanting what they called the ‘laws’ while the others merely repeated them, their words and mannerisms.

“No kill. No lie. No steal,” were among the ideas he recognized.

He lay across the floor, curled like a dog -- his arms wrapped around his head, fighting back the excruciating pain of an emerging migraine. The aching was tormented by the repetitions, the choruses of the laws that the ancient ones recited. He wondered if those were the only words they knew and then the ‘laws’ took a certain, ominous turn.

“His is the house of the Fruit,” one would say.

“His is the hand that gives and takes away,” another would follow.

Tygra had eaten little of the goo and so the effects ceased shortly. A headache and cramping stomach were all that remained of the experience. The chorus retained its incomprehensible character and, distraught, he returned to the chair, amazed that the others had not taken notice of his actions.

The Others Appear

The elders and the others in the hut came around him and, rearmed with those laughable weapons, led him back outside. The throngs of spectators stood away, prostrate, kneeling -- worshiping. He desperately wanted to get out of there, out of the forests and far from those detestable, offensive, unsanitary creatures -- whatever they were. He hated being the object of so much attention, he hated being out so open. And to be revered like a god -- it was intolerable. The ignorance and depravity of those things were beyond all enduring.

It had not left him that he had no whip -- but only then did he recall the box.

A fine, cool mist spread through the air between the tall trees and the riverbank. He walked across a timeworn trail, etched into the land after generations of use. Dew collected on the crisp, green leaves, the petals of flowers and the delicate filaments of heavy spider webs. The forest was again a live with the sounds of the night -- but the nocturnal beasts kept their distance from the fire and the torches that the strange primates totted along with them. He could still see the green reflections of their eyes while they stalked in the cover of the underbrush.

The ground beneath his feet acame to a dead, black ash, spotted, every so often, by tufts of sparse grass. He was stopped and turned to the side. Yet another chair awaited him -- that time it had been built to fit him and had been pieced together very recently. He was directed to sit on it and he complied reluctantly, wondering when, if ever, his ordeal would come to an end.

“How embarrassing,” he thought, “and if the rest were to see me now?”

The abnormal simians gathered about him. They were not timid and, overpowered by their curiosity, they came forward, closer and closer. They touched him and rubbed their bodies against limbs.

Tygra did not know what to make of that kind of attention. He dismissed it as a type of worshiping but he could not put it past them to be marking him as theirs with scents secreted from unseen glands. He wanted to leave -- he was determined to leave -- but he was sure that they must have had his whip, hiding it perhaps, perhaps getting ready to give it back to him soon enough.

“As soon as I get my hands on it,” he said aloud, “I’ll turn invisible and get the hell out of here.”

The box -- he put his hand over his open mouth. The box that contained the secret of First Earth’s power. The box with the knowledge of life and death. The box that marked the course of evolution for the entire galaxy. The box he was prepared to give his life to protect from falling into the hands of evil -- it was there, right there, before him. An elder Wollo-like primate stood on it with a cane directing the others.

Tygra leaned forward, arms outstretched, hands ready to grasp it.

Moonlight broke through the cover of the clouds and illuminated the half-world in its eerie, pallid aura. Trumpet calls filled the night air -- he turned his eyes up to glean its source but it was in vain. The alarm came from everywhere, from the jungle itself.

The elders and the throngs moved back, apparently used to the events that were then unfolding for the first time for him. Past the meandering stream, where the earth was devoid of life and from where a gray smoke plumed up from a brick chimney, appeared five large figures.

The others were as large as Tygra but their bodies were built like apes. They were human in origin, but distorted, deformed by a cruel, unseen hand -- he knew that then, proof that there was an intelligence working in that valley. Their legs were shorter than their arms, their hands were mangled, the knuckles worn. They had no tails. Their flesh was bare and their exposed, sweaty hide only accented their stitches -- the zippers that held them together. They were overtly muscular and covered scantily by heavy leather aprons.

The newcomers had brought with them kegs full of that mushy, lumpy gruel that the smaller primates took for food -- the younger, stronger specimens of the smaller creatures were already dragging the crates back to the village.

The hooded one -- the leader of the five -- walked to the elder who stood on the metal box and picked it up, ripping open the zipper that cut across its stomach. The savage wrung and twisted the still-living simian like a wet rag, popping its entrails and shredding its flesh. The victim fell to the ground, crawling about on its arms in circles. It had not made a sound -- not even then -- nor had it attempted any resistance.

Tygra was sick to his stomach, watching the sorry sight, hoping the elder simian would die quickly -- it had happened so fast that he had not had enough time to react. The leader stomped on the head of the elder Wollo-like creature it had disemboweled -- even though its skull had been shattered and smeared into oblivion, its broken body continued to move but only he had taken notice. The larger brute wiped the gore from off his foot on the soil.

“I’ve gone from one level of savagery to another,” he said aloud.

The hooded ape roared in that wild tongue and the small worshipers that had been gathered around him fled in terror.

He inched closer to the box, thinking he could grab it at the last moment. The large ape-like beasts crawled toward him, encircling him completely. Cutting off his escape, crashing his plans, the hooded thing spoke -- that time to Tygra himself. He did not know what to say, he just stood there, dumbfounded, unable to reach the box.

At once the five pounded on him and he was surprised by his weakness.

He had no struggle left, he did not fight back. As he was beaten to a pulp he reasoned that it must have been a side effect of that stuff he had eaten back at the hut. The metal -- he had mistaken it for lead -- but it may have in fact have been something else, something far more sinister. It appeared, too, that his attackers did not want to kill him, only to prove that he was not a god.

Tygra was hog-tied and dragged over the gravel, heading up the river to the chimney. One of them held the box but he was not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing to have happened. One look back revealed that the smaller primate-like creatures were not following him, they were not moving beyond the border of the forests and when he was at last enveloped in darkness and their dim eyes could not follow him any further they turned around and headed back to their village.

The Loyal Subject

It was more than just the cold air that awoke him: it was the smell of ammonia, that pungent odor of disinfectant -- impersonal and deliberate -- that grew more and more potent until it had become unignorable.

Sitting up, he found himself clothed but uncovered on a bed. He shivered, his teeth chattered and though he was weary he was not in pain. Standing, he recalled his beating at the hands of those five thugs -- primate-like apes -- his weakening by the Thundrainium he had foolishly ingested. Not knowing how long he had been knocked out, he was overcome with a morbid, almost compulsive sense of fear and anxiety. Yet, despite his misgivings, he was in excellent condition: his strength and agility had returned, his body was unbruised. Cuts and scars that had dotted his outward appearance had vanished.

On his feet and fully alert, he focused his attention upon his confinement.

The chocking, pungent air circulating the room was replaced by the fanning, pleasant aroma of thin misty sprays. The fresh breeze had detectable tastes that were not as agreeable as its scent. And it occurred to him that the perfume was really nothing more than a distorted, artificial recreation of nature -- a kind of synthetic substitute one with extraordinary, preventive conditions would need to enjoy the real variety. The contrivance tickled his nose and caused him to sneeze through the space of about a minute.

His eyes -- that had grown accustomed to the dim light -- retreated beneath his lids when the hanging fixtures blazed to life. The dead, fluorescence lent the chamber inklings of melancholic dread. The large room remained featureless, however, he could tell only that it was large, that it had no doors or windows visible and that the source of its only sounds were coming from the hum of ventilation units.

He approached the wall on the opposite side of the bed. On its flat surface he discerned the outline of a door. Outlines of the faces of what might have been rectangular drawers. A second door along another mural -- even the suggestion of a window were clearly and distinctly visible. The figures were apparently etched into the substance of the walls and coated with a clear material -- the fine structure of its glossy interference pattern suggested that the crevices were covered over by layers of molecular thickness. It was shocking, but far, far more disturbing was that he had found no way to open the perforated doors and it left him wondering if indeed the permeable orifices could be opened.

Almost out of hope, he discovered at a remote corner the metal case and his whip. He jumped for joy, fearing -- knowing -- that he could have been heard by his captors but not caring. He was excited but his elation was premature. The whip did not react to his commands and upon further inspection he realized that his weapon had been tampered with. The box, too, was scratched by deep grooves, indicating that it had been opened. Forced open.

He carried the box to the bed where the lights were the brightest. He snapped the lid back to see just what irrecoverable damage had been done. Within the compartment the case was empty.

At that very moment the second door he had spotted dematerialized into a brown haze -- the effect was accompanied by a loud hiss.

Tygra turned to see -- the hall beyond the oblong frame was totally lightless. Standing in the way was a human figure dressed in a shiny black outfit. The stranger entered silently, his face carrying the expression of stern authority with a hint of annoyance, his beady eyes roaming across the chamber, looking for its sole occupant. One completely in the room the door reappeared out of the brown mist.

A table and a pair of stools formed at the center of the chamber -- all gray metal with silver accents. The man spread his arms over the tabletop and plates of food, cups of drink materialized from a sudden, green aura.

“Come,” he said in a soft voice, extending a hand over the stools. “It is -- breakfast.”

The Thundercat though for a moment and wondered if the stranger was either unfamiliar with the language of if he had not spoken it for years. He crawled to the food slowly, cautiously, letting the box’s lid fall back down in place. “Where am I?” he asked.

“You are -- in my lair,” he answered a second later.

The stool before the tiger slid back to allow him to sit on it.

“It is safe -- do not be -- afraid.”

“Who are you?” the cat asked, taking the seat. He looked into the man’s eyes -- lids almost completely covered them. The lights were, it seemed, to bright for him.

“I am Doctor Soltan and this valley is my realm,” he pointed upward, moving his forefinger in a widening arc as he spoke. He had not taken his seat as Tygra head.

The red tiger removed the doomed metal lid that covered the plate to reveal a puff of hot steam and a bowlful of that yellow runny gruel. It was missing the insectan ingredients and did not quiver but those were about the only things that were different.

“It is called the ‘fruit of the gods,’” the doctor said in response to the striped cat’s apparent reluctance to eat. “It is what we eat here. We all eat it here.”

“But it has Thundrainium,” he said, staring across the table at the man who had already removed the top of his own plate.

Soltan sighed: “Ah, yes, fire rocks. It is a mineral that occurs naturally in the soil in this part of the world. It is in everything.”

He looked into that second bowl -- it had the arthropodic parts.

The doctor sopped his serving with a spoon: “Yes,” he continued, “I forgot that you ate it already. How -- unfortunate -- but do not worry. You will no longer feel the effects of the fire rocks.”

Tygra’s ears perched up under his mane -- his hair, too, stood on end.

“I have -- fixed you.”

The goo drooled from the corners of his lips. He wiped his face with a napkin while the Thundercat watched. The man had no teeth, it was noticeable then while he continued to speak: “Go on -- eat -- it is safe.”

The tiger looked down into his plate, revolted. He picked up a spoon and dug it into the mush. Ripping, swirling sounds -- he scooped a morsel then wondered aloud: “What do you mean? Fixed me?”

“Eat.”

He paused -- his eyes did not stray from the spoon before his face.

“If I wanted you dead then you would not be alive right now.”

He ingested the food, intent on swallowing without tasting but taste he did and he was immediately surprised. It had retained its sweet flavor but not the metal tang. His head did not ache, his consciousness did not waver -- as far as he could tell.

“How did you fix me?”

“You were, injured,” Soltan said, cleansing his palette with a sip of a dense, clear liquid. “For that I must apologize -- it was uncivilized of me. The guards are not used to, strangers, but then, what else can you expect from animals?” The tone of his derision seemed oddly familiar -- and there was even a hint of humor in it, as if he was sharing an off-color familiarity.

The cat read intensely the doctor’s contorted expression -- his eyes had definitely widened but were still unnaturally shut.

“Animals?” the red tiger asked.

“Yes, you’ve met them. They are my loyal subjects. The Eloi, who live in treetop villages. The Morlocks, who live down here, with me."

“You are lord over those creatures?”

The man laughed: “It’s not that simple.”

The striped cat was about to speak but was cut off.

“It’ll be explained.” The more Soltan conversed the better his command of tongue became. “You must eat. You have been through many, harrowing adventures. Once your mind has rested then I’ll let you in on my -- secrets.” A smile almost came to his face -- it quickly vanished.

The doctor became tense and unresponsive and for a time just sat there watching Tygra eat, studying his movements, his shape, his body, as if taking notes in his head silently.

“I sense the possibility of a deeper intelligence in you --”

“Tygra,” he said, filling in the blank. “My name is Tygra.”

“Hmmm,” he rubbed his chin. “How -- appropriate.”

“My whip,” the Thundercat stammered, recovering his empty dish. It disappeared along with the cup and utensils.

“Again, my apologies. My guards were unnecessarily cruel. Be assured that I have punished them accordingly.”

A flash of light followed his words. A green horizontal line formed over the table and spread apart in the shape of a rectangle that then lit aglow. It was a holographic display in which he could see the five ape-like creatures from the night before.

“The Morlocks,” the tiger said under his breath.

The hooded one was the first to be disciplined. A hand -- the man’s hand -- tore open its abdominal zipper. The innards were scarcely visible under the spreading flesh. The hand -- that had momentarily gone off-camera -- returned, holding a large spider that, acting by its own instinct, crawled into the slit that was then promptly closed. Whatever it was, whatever it did, it took effect immediately. The figure screamed in agony -- a shriek that could have passed for human. It tried to fall to the floor but the chains around its arms kept it upright. A mass crawled under the bare flesh, churning the entrails, the zipper oozing blood while the stomach inflated.

He turned away in horror.

“Animals,” Soltan replied to the nonverbal cue. “Pain and fear are all they know.”

The view screen dematerialized.

“You’ll want to freshen up,” he said, standing by the door. He pointed to the back of the room, by the bed, where another door ‘opened’ to reveal a bright antechamber. “We have much to discuss, Tygra.” The doctor turned to face the dark corridor of the interior of the complex. “As for your box,” he started almost as he was about to finish -- that cat’s ears perched again, his heart raced -- “I found its contents -- amusing. The toy was for a child, no? I suppose so. Let’s see if we can’t find a more suitable alternative.”

The man vanished, the door materialized behind him.

He rushed to the site of the etched ‘opening’ and banged on it -- his feverish pounding exacting a heavy toll on his energy and yet did not produce a single sound in the room. He turned around -- the table and stools had disappeared, returned, as it were, to the ethereal substance from whence it had come.

“The fruit was wonderful, I hope I’ll have more soon,” he thought, startled by the words for he knew they did not come from him, they were not his own. Although the taste did not offend him, he did not like the gruel at all. The way it looked, the way it felt in his mouth made him want to gag but the more he resisted that alien idea, the louder its voice became, the more assured it was that he loved the fruit of the gods.

“No! I don’t like it!” he shouted.

He fell to the floor, arms twisted around his head.

Tremors, shivers -- his body ached. He crawled toward the bright light of the antechamber. Exhausted, he had spent too much energy fighting off the urge and the voice that echoed in his brain. Silent, he heard for a moment a slight hum. The disturbance did not come from the vents but more than that he could not tell for just as soon as he had noticed it the vibration had silenced, leaving him in a calmer, more tranquil state.

He rushed into the newly opened room that he at once recognized was a bathroom. He stopped at the sink and turned on a faucet -- splashing cold water in his face he asked aloud: “Why is this happening to me? For Jagga’s sake. I am a Thundercat. That has to count for something -- or are we nothing without that sword?”

Looking up he saw no mirror. Indeed, around the antechamber there were no mirrors anywhere, there were no shiny surfaces upon which he could catch his reflection. It was odd, but then too many things were odd and he did not want to dwell on it any longer. Everything would be all right at the end, he convinced himself, Liono would come and get him. Yes. The others were on their way to the valley already, no doubt.

Soltan.

The doctor was -- strange? Perhaps he had been out of touch with civilized society for too long, perhaps he was mad. The man was unapproachable and monstrous -- but he meant well, he was sure of it. He needed company that extended beyond that realm of animals. The creatures must have rubbed off on him a touch of their savagery -- but underneath he was a man of reason and supreme intelligence. He had to give him a chance before he could judge him.

The displaced hum resumed -- but that time its effects were not as harshly felt.

After all -- his train of thought continued -- he had ‘fixed’ his Thundrainium problem. If it was safe enough then the rest of the Thundercats should undergo the procedure. It was to their advantage, he told himself.

The box was damaged, destroyed but life went on -- and perhaps it was for the best, perhaps those violent rogues had done humanity a favor, destroying that ancient relic. Still, the wasted knowledge was a shame. But, if Soltan had understood what it was, what it meant and what it had been then, maybe, just maybe, he could be coaxed into divulge its secrets.

He found a toothbrush wrapped amid an unopened plastic sheath. A powdery cleansing paste was smeared over its bristles and he instinctively activated it under the stream of running water. He brushed his teeth and, finished, spat into the sink. Stunned to find so much blood along the basin he examined his mouth with his fingers. The bleeding had stopped and he felt no pain -- two molars were loose but he paid it no attention. He dismissed the effect to the beating he had received.

He stripped and entered the shower.

“The doctor,” he said, “of what?”

He lathered his mane in the warm spray of the showerhead.

Tygra froze in terror. His fingers had roamed about the base of his skull, feeling a series -- a row -- of cold, metal teeth, tightly interlocked. A sore lump of flesh rounded one of its ends.

The Intelligence Test

The shock he felt at what he had found on his body wore off in the wake of a flood of other, seemingly more important concerts. But just what those impending reasons were remained inexplicably vague and indistinct in his mind. And yet he did no care, he was not bothered by his lethargic intellect, his degrading mental aptitude.

Done with his shower, he left the stall, fur dripping loudly, water collecting on the floor in large pools. A strong current of hot air circulated around him from gratings on the ceiling to thin slits along the lower portions of the walls. As he dried he reached over to the covered toilet seat to grab his clothes -- but as he flexed his hands he grasped nothing. His uniform was gone and he was about ready to curse aloud -- to himself -- when he realized hat there was someone or something else lurking in the shadows of the other room, spying in on him.

“Who’s there?” he asked, poking his head out of the steamy bathroom. He did not want to leave the safety of the antechamber for he had also found no towels or the like that he could have used to cloak himself with. “Hello? Soltan?”

A grunt, a low rumble answered.

Seeing no other course of action, he returned to the larger room. Its lights had been extinguished and only the glow from behind him illuminated his immediate vicinity. The air, too, was cold for the action of the blowing heat had stopped and he shivered, stark naked. He hit upon the bed at the foot of which a gnarled and deformed hand appeared from the darkness to point to a pillow upon which a folded black uniform awaited. He took it with a swift jerk and darted back into the bathroom where he donned his new clothes.

The outfit was similar to Soltan’s but tailor-made to fit only the tiger. It was made of leather but softer, more plastic. The material was unusual but incredibly comfortable. It kept him warm -- by what mechanism he was unsure.

Back in the main chamber the misshapen hand waved and the bathroom door shut in its characteristic hiss, enveloping Tygra in total darkness.

“But now I can’t see,” he complained dryly and in reply the lights turned on just enough to cast the room in an eerie, moonlit glow.

The hand belonged to a Morlock, a part humanoid, part ape-like creature. The specimen was larger than the five he had seen earlier -- bigger than him, too, despite its hunchback stature. It was leaning forward, resting itself on its long, muscular arms. Its skin’s texture was that of rough hide, coated with short, frizzy fur and segmented by zippers.

Seeing the grizzly metal teeth he became acutely aware of the ones on his neck. He inched forward to ask: “Who are you?”

Without as much as a grunt it lumbered toward the door, dragging its knuckles and swinging its body. The main door vanished when it reached it to let it enter the outer hall. He hesitated for a moment before he followed it into the corridor. The door reappeared after he passed through its frame, leaving not a trace behind, not even an etched outline of where it had been.

The halls were dim and brightened only in sections here and there as Tygra walked passed its various sensors. As he treaded on he felt the walls with his outstretched hands and identified its stones, concretes and metals by the various degrees of roughness. It was a certain knowledge he had accumulated through years of the study and practice of architecture. He discovered the engraved forms of other doors -- most were ‘closed’, if such was the word, but every so often he stumbled upon a few that were ‘opened’. Stagnant air clung to the area around the unblocked orifices -- he detected strong magnetic fields, too, for the zipper on the base of his skull tugged ever so slightly to the bare frames while he passed them.

Armed with only the aids of touch and weakened vision he was able to gauge the direction in which he was being led. Some turns confused him, though, some sent him out of synch. The last time he remembered it happing he paused for a moment to turn back and attempt to regain his bearings. It was in vain: following him was another Morlock, just as large and bulky as the one leading. Under the light that surrounded him he saw that its eyes were covered with a pair of dark goggles.

The trek ended at the foot of a deep stairwell, in a room that was strongly illuminated with an impressive array of lamps. Tygra’s eyes hurt at the sight. The guards would not go in but indicated with hand gestures that he was supposed to -- so he complied.

Doors shut behind him mechanically. Immediately he understood he was in an older part of the complex, a section devoid of advanced technology. It was a stately chamber, astute and quaint, in sharp contrast to the impersonal quality of the bed and bathroom that he had come to know.

The walls were brimming with well-stocked books, sitting in shelves carved into the wood and rock. The library ranged from one end of the subject spectrum to the other. He gravitated toward the section labeled ‘science’ and took out the first volume he found. It was a treatise regarding time travel, written by none other than Doctor Soltan Dorsag himself. He smiled amused and removed another sample. The ancient-looking masterpiece was about sunspot activity, again written by the doctor. He checked their publication dates -- not only were they both old but they had been written three thousand years apart.

His mind reeled, his head turned from side to side, examining the spines on each and every book. The author listings were the same everywhere: Doctor Soltan Dorsag. Art, philosophy, music, literature, science -- he was the purported creator of them all.

In a light-headed stupor he stumbled upon a round oak table. Under a green-shaded lamp was a thick book, open to a random page. Dying to be read, his eyes skimmed but a phrase: “And the spirit of Soltan hovered of the waters and HE said ‘Let there be light!’ And there was light.”

A set of doors thrust open as if on cue. The soft voice that followed the crash was difficult for Tygra to hear:

“So you’ve discovered my books -- how do you like them?”

The Thundercat stood and spun around to see Soltan in the room, next to a large conference table. The same two guards from before remained motionless at his sides. He leaned forward. He did not answer but no one took notice of that.

“It took me a long, long time to produce all these works,” he said, arcing his pointing finger from one end of the bookcases to the other. “They are like my children in many ways -- yes, like the Eloi and the Morlocks. Engineered and manufactured not merely by the hand alone but by the mind as well,” he gesticulated arched, arthritic hands about his head. “Look at them! They are mute and useless,” he reached the round table and peered down upon the large book the tiger had found by accident, “they need me to speak for them.” He shut the profuse volume and directed the stunned-silent cat to the conference table upon which the guards had set certain items.

“Your clothes,” the doctor continued, “were -- imperfect, inferior,” his voice was accompanied by a peculiar hum but by then not even Tygra paid much attention to it anymore. “I replaced them by a more perfect outfit and I’m glad to see it agrees with you.”

“The clothes are an improvement. Thank you,” he replied not really knowing where those words had come from for clothes were not something he had ever regarded as an improvement.

Seating himself at the head of the table, the man presented him with the items the Morlocks had left on display. The whip, the box, a plate of that mushy goo, the fruit of the gods concoction and one thing more -- a covered surprise.

He spoke: “Your whip was very inventive but I think you’ll find it would have had few uses here. The box was a curious toy -- I did say that already, didn’t I? Although it had been years since I’ve seen an atomic device, I don’t think I’ve ever chanced on one quite as crude as that had been.” The red tiger looked attentively into Soltan’s eyes in disbelief. “It was for a child, no? A youngster eager to learn the ways of science. Yes, I have things more suitable for that in my lab -- I’ll let you pick out a replacement from among my instruments, at your leisure, of course.” He paused and the uncontrollably glee he had felt ebbed -- an expression of stern authority returned to his face. “You must forgive me. It has been a while since I’ve met someone like you -- someone so much like myself. A fellow scientist, an equal capable of understanding me. I have been shunned and shut out of the world --” he seemed to look at something in the distance -- something, a vision perhaps, that only he was aware of.

The striped cat placed the whip into the box. The first guard took the metal case and left the room. The second ape-like Morlock followed.

Only the matter of that concealed item remained.

Soltan slid it forward -- it was covered by a red velvet cloth that gave little away of its hidden contents.

“This,” he started, “is an intelligence test.” He pulled back the sheath. It was a small chessboard, three by three squares. On each corner was a knight: the top two red and numbered ‘1’ and ‘2,’ the bottom two white and numbered ‘3’ and ‘4,’ in clockwise fashion. “I’m sure you’ve seen chess before?”

Tygra nodded.

“The knights here move exactly as they do in the regular game, in that ‘L’ shape.” He moved the piece labeled ‘1’ along an ‘L’ shaped path just to make sure that the Thundercat understood. “Using that fact, you are to move the knights from the corners where they begin to the opposite diagonal. That is, number one is to end up where number three is and number two is to end up where number four is and vice-versa. You are to do that in no more than sixteen moves. Does it sound easy?”

“I suppose so --”

“Ah, but there’s more.” From a drawer he produced a thick ream of papers and a few pencils. “You must also solve the problem mathematically.”

“What? Why?” the tiger asked defiantly. He arose from the chair but the man kept him back with unusual strength.

“A true intellect has no reason to -- at least no reason as mere commoners understand it. No, no, it is the love of knowledge and the pursuit of the unknown that drives the true thinking man. I have no patience for the ignorant and for those who have taken the gifts that the great,” he was about to speak a word, a certain word but stopped himself. He sighed and completed his amended thought: “That the great -- lord -- has given and wasted with vice and baseless folly. Why I have chosen to test you and what my plans are for you, you will soon see.”

He stepped backward. His small, almost invisible eyes never left the cat. The door behind him creaked open.

“You have four hours. You may look through whatever books you want but you’re assured you won’t find the answers there.”

He vanished into the shadows and the door locked tight after him.

The Thundercat sat staring at the puzzle, wondering what to do next.

Enigma

The hum had vanished, the headache had ceased.

Tygra attempted the physical puzzle, judging that the abstract problem could be derived from his observations. He moved the knights labeled ‘1’ and ‘3’, reasoning that the pieces would have to exchange positions by the end. Yet to his dread, past that initial play, he discovered he could make no further progress. He noticed, too, a demented sort of symmetry to the riddle: moving knights ‘2’ and ‘4’ led to the same result. Moving figures ‘1’ and ‘4’ or pieces ‘1’ and ‘2’ were equally futile.

On the top blank sheet he wrote: “To get to the winning position, all four knights must be moved at the same time.” He paused to contemplate the daunting proposition, wondering for a moment where it -- the idea -- had come from.

“Moving two pieces at a time is confusing enough,” he said, aloud, “but all four at the same time?” He sat up and breathed deeply. “Well. If it’s not impossible, then it can be done.”

More often than not he suspected that he was being watched. To relieve the paranoia or confirm the insight of that macabre sensation he took frequent breaks and walked about the library, listening to the silence, trying to discern with sharpened focus the supposed interloper’s slightest disturbance. He detected a series of clicks originating from a vent but inspecting it closer he dismissed it to the effects of metal fatigue. The room’s temperature fluctuated wildly and in response the metal fixtures were always either expanding or contracting, producing distinctive sounds each their own.

The puzzle had symmetries that were both subtle and startling. Studying the mini-chessboard the answer struck him and at once he devised an empirical system of rules. The knights would be moved one at a time from figure ‘1’ to ‘4’ along the clockwise direction. As soon as all four pieces had been played once he would call that a ‘turn’. By the fourth ‘turn’ the problem would come to an end and the position of the knights would be their diametric opposites.

“Four turns with four moves per turn yields sixteen moves -- the limit Soltan had given me.”

On a fresh sheet of paper he drew a three-by-three grid, placing the figures as they appeared at the start and labeling them ‘1’, ‘2’, ‘3’ and ‘4’. Next to the drawing he set another grid called ‘plays’, listing the pieces’ initial positions at the top and final positions at the bottom. On the checkerboard he moved knight ‘1’ one way and knight ‘3’ the same way but along the mirror image of the first’s path. He repeated the same exact motions for pieces ‘2’ and ‘4’, rotating the board through an angle of ninety degrees.

In total there were only four movements: two ‘L’ shapes aligned vertically and two ‘L’ shapes oriented horizontally. He listed the advancing positions of the knights on the grid and when he finished he memorized the physical solutions so well that he could execute the moves blindfolded. He had even discovered another answer, a mirror of the original that led to the very same desired configuration.

His confidence boosted, he tried to find the abstract solution. That was that he or the doctor -- or both -- wanted to know why those plays were the only valid answers to the ‘Four Knights’ Problem’.

But he had to stretch his legs and again and again he stopped to walk around the chamber. He thumbed through tomes of Shakespeare -- rather, what he knew was Shakespeare for the plays listed Doctor Soltan as their author. And it hit him like a bolt from the blue. He ran back to the table, fingers combing his mane violently.

The man had given him four hours but no watch, no clock, no way to measure or gauge how much time had passed.

During the course of seemingly endless minutes he tried one unsuccessful method after another, each theory more complex than the one before it. Only at the end did he understand what he had to do. He had to give each figure its own ‘equation’ -- that of a line -- which would describe its motion from start to finish. Just as he was forming the outline for the rules governing those equations the main doors were thrust open, the four hours were up.

Fruit of the Gods

The man browsed through the notes, grunting and mumbling to himself.

Tygra sat back, silent and still. The hum had returned, the vibration rung through his head, chattered his teeth.

“I almost got it,” the Thundercat said.

“I see,” he answered. His two shaded Morlock guards stood on either side of the tiger, staring down with blank, dead faces.

“If I had had more time --”

“I gave you six hours,” Soltan answered, nearly in tears, “because I pitied you after the ordeal you had suffered. I was sure you’d use the time wisely if you thought you didn’t have much of it.” He shook his head and put the papers away. In a voice that sounded like a shadow he lamented: “So close, so far.”

The cat stood and the hum intensified. He stepped toward the doctor and his head felt as if it was about to burst. He tried to speak but his lips were silenced by the jar of his mind’s internal racket. The man lowered his gaze into the light of a lamp -- a stone stern expression was painted on his face, the look freezing the red tiger’s blood.

Soltan bit his lip as though to fight the urge to laugh -- a struggle that he quickly lost. The striped cat joined him with a mad cackle of his own. It occurred to him too late, far too late, that the doctor was not amused. He was not laughing at something ‘funny’.

Tygra stopped, the man followed suit. Regaining his composure, he excused himself with vague apologies. The Thundercat lowered his eyes to the table, to a plate of food that was empty. The bowl had been licked clean but to be sure he had no memory of eating the gruel.

“I have something to show you,” Soltan said. “Perhaps you’re curious to see where we produce the fruit of the gods?”

Taking the offer in the best stride, the tiger nodded his acceptance.

The doctor led the way from he library, past the doors, to what were evidently the private rooms of the subterranean complex. He did not attempt to conduct a tour. He had a goal, a destination and did not stray from his aim. The man was perfectly content to let the cat’s curiosity wander -- several rooms and connecting halls were ajar, their interiors and contents partly revealed.

A gray metal door opened to a dark featureless corridor. A bright light glared from the passage’s distant end. The party’s footsteps echoed loudly. He noticed that Soltan’s two ever-vigilant guards were at the back silently sentient.

“Here’s the hatchery,” the doctor announced, “here is where the whole of the valley’s nutritional needs are met.”

The red tiger stood at the head of a skeletal stairwell. Open before him was a vast chamber, tens of thousands of square feet in area. Its walls were black shale, long fluorescent lamps hung from its sloped ceiling. Thick ash coated columns that supported its roof that curled about a central ‘ornament’ -- an array of vents and humidifiers that kept the room at a constant temperature throughout.

At the doctor’s prompt his attention was focused to the floor, a dizzying depth below. He saw tables, uncountable tables, upon which were large balls -- writhing globs of white covered with layers of mucus.

Descending the steps he asked: “What are those things? The fruits?”

The man chuckled, masking for a moment the sounds of his guards dragging themselves down the stairs immediately behind. “Those are the females.”

He let the striped cat approach a table and examine a specimen at his leisure.

The orb was gigantic -- three feet in radius -- and was engorged with things that were alive. He saw their hidden bodies crawling and squirming, he caught glimpses of their outlines poking through the underside of the gooey, fleshy substance.

“I don’t understand. Females? It’s just a ball, it has no detail, no features, just what’s in --”

Soltan tapped the tabletop slightly -- it was not metal but plastic and from certain angles allowed the eye to see through it.

Tygra peered into the container and screamed horrified. Beneath the partly translucent plate was a face, part human, part insect. The eyes were black and wrapped around the temples -- they had no visible pupils but moved and followed him. No nose and the mouth was a wide-open hole, surrounded by two large and protruding mandibles -- they were interlocked and coated with feathery tendrils.

He screamed again -- a large orange tube extended out of the mouth and hit the lid from beneath.

“That’s its feeding tube. It’s sucking up the liquid: a mixture of water and fructose that gives the fruit its sweet flavor.”

The Thundercat looked at the doctor completely stunned: “The fruit --”

“It doesn’t come from trees -- it’s produced by this species of insect.” He pointed to the female’s submerged head. A five-inch long creature had crawled out of the feeding tube. Swimming through the buoyant fluid it reached a hole in the plate and emerged to the dry air. “It’s a male, it’s finished mating.” With a clenched fist he pounded the insect, crushing it into a green, quivering mess.

A Morlock came to the table with a hose that it connected to the hole, replenishing the spent syrup.

“The males and females are utterly different, aren’t they? That’s how Nature made them. But, of course, I admit I added my own, particular, improvements.” The man lapped off his hand the entrails of the thing he had killed, savoring the remains as if it was a delicacy. “You see, in her natural environment she would mate with only one or maybe two males.”

Disgusted, the tiger looked back into the table. Two antennas whipped the water-sugar fluids the creature was immersed in. Six segmented legs -- each a foot long -- radiated out of the thorax. The abdomen expanded from a thin waist to form that white throbbing mass, that orb.

“Over a thousand males are in her body right now, spreading their seeds upon her ripening eggs.”

Soltan led the cat by the arm to a table nearby where Morlocks worked on a female. He said she was ready to hatch and with a cold, impersonal tone he described the procedures as they were performed:

“The abdomen, filled beyond the ability to expand any further, tears along a seam that runs from the anus to the tenth radial section below the waist. The attendants cover the lower body with a plastic bag and tie it tightly. Only then is the orb -- the ‘ball’ as you called it -- cut free. She will live to form another egg case.” He continued: “The amputated mass is placed in a large vat and cut open. Those large, orange objects are the fertilized eggs -- they’ll be sorted by hand. The female eggs will be stored for future use. The male eggs will be hatched immediately so that they’ll mate with the rest of the mature females. Once that’s been taken care of, what’s left in the container will be put to the blender. The abdominal case, the males, the unspent seed -- those are the ingredients of the fruit of the gods!”

The red tiger turned his head and vomited.

“Does it shock you? Neither the Eloi nor the Morlocks have teeth and are neither allowed to hunt nor eat flesh. This substance contains all of our vital nutrients: water, protein, sugar, minerals and salts -- all that life depends on is here,” he said, ladling his cupped hands into the revolting goo, raising them to let it drip with chunks of mashed insect parts from his grip to the vat. “Is it any wonder we esteem it so highly?”

“I want to go home,” the striped cat said, lunging at him in defiance. “I want to go home, I want to get out of here! You’ll let me go at once! You have no right to keep me here against my will.”

A pair of Morlocks tackled him to the ground.

“Your will?” the man asked, amused at himself.

“I have friends and they’ll come for me. They’ll rescue me --”

The thugs lifted him to his feet.

The Soltan approached him, smiling, laughing: “Your will? There is no will other than mine. There is no power other than my own! You have disappointed me -- on many levels.”

The hum in Tygra’s head heightened to new levels.

Licking off the gruel that remained on his hands the doctor spoke: “You have failed, you are not intelligent enough to remain as you are, as a disgrace. You must face the consequences of your new position, your place in my universe!”

“No! No! You don’t have the -- AHHH!” The hum increased to the point where its sound overpowered his sense of hearing. It was at that moment that he understood where it came from.

The man gave the signal -- the Morlocks followed his direction, dragging the Thundercat all the while.

Secrets Revealed

A leather gag was wrapped around Tygra’s mouth but he continued to grumble and resist. The Morlocks handled him roughly but Soltan had told them not to beat him -- he did not want to deal with any more ‘complications.’ The doctor, for his own part, continued to lecture to his impending victim -- though at first the Thundercat could catch only fragments of his words, those not distorted by the hum in his skull or by his struggle to break free.

“I have lived in this valley for many years,” he said, maneuvering through a dark hall. “Hidden in my cavernous lair, I started my life as a hermit but I was not always alone. Over time many ventured across this land and in the beginning I tolerated the incursions and even looked the other way to the gross abuses they committed upon my home. I was too busy studying the arts and experimenting with the sciences, I was too distracted to see what was being done until it was, I thought, too late. I noticed, to my utter dissatisfaction, that the interlopers were rude, nasty people, without enough decency to respect that which was not theirs. And when they invaded my realm beneath the ground I knew then that I had to act fast. I could not destroy them, for animal life is sacred, so I had to find something else to do to them.”

He let the echo of his words dampen and die in the corridors before he continued.

“Afterwards, sometimes one or two stumbled into my paradise, sometimes entire tribes would try to root themselves into the land. I did not want to be cruel and so in fairness I tested them -- their intelligence. Not that puzzle I gave you,” he looked back -- the Morlocks were carrying the tiger on their backs. “I never use the same question twice, I always tailored the exams to what best suited the subject. Oddly, no one ever passed, no one was smart enough.”

The man entered a code in a keypad and a set of heavy doors opened silently -- the room it led to was lit by blue lamps that produced an eerie, moonlight glow.

“I cannot abide by ignorance, in all its perverted forms. So I fixed them, I fixed everyone who failed me,” he said, speaking in a light tone.

The guards dropped the cat. On the cold floor he arose to his feet -- the Morlocks wrapped their bulky arms around his body. In front of him was a metal platform with leather straps and restraints. A portable frame next to it housed numerous surgical instruments. Hanging from the shadowy ceiling were drilling and sawing apparatuses -- sharp knives and implements of pain glimmered alarmingly.

“Using surgical methods that I’ve perfected, I turned them into what they deserved to be -- the animals that they were all along. Surely, you must have seen my handiwork, my children, as I call them. The Eloi, the Morlocks -- or how else did you think they came to exist? If not from these hands that shaped and molded their brains, their bodies,” he looked at his hands that he extended to his face and laughed hysterically. Washing them in a deep, wide sink: “I transformed them from Wollos or Berbils or Humans -- or whatever else they were originally -- into the form that truly fitted them. The ape,” he turned around, eyes open. The tiger saw them: they were black, completely black, without a trace of white cornea. “Apes, because for so long they walked about the earth, aping that holy form, that body that the great Soltan himself created after his own image, as if indeed they were thinking men -- intelligent.” He gasped. “What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable. In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!”

Amused by the sound of his voice, the man walked up to the striped cat, teasing him with the scalpel he held in his gloved grasp. The gag was loosened but he did not speak, the hum in his head was too intense -- but he did think, it could not stop him from thinking. He recognized and regretted his arrogance, his harsh judgment. The Eloi, the peaceful, tree-dwellers who had saved his life, once free and innocent, had been reduced to their deprived condition, their dignity cut-off and amputated by that madman. Even the Morlocks, yes, even the mindless brutes he pitied. In their own particular ways, from their customs to their habits, his ‘children’ retained a certain resemblance of greater humanity that their master lacked.

Tygra could not hold back his rage and disgust any longer: “Soltan! You are the animal! Your arrogance has blinded you -- do you really think you’re the great lord, the creator, the ultimate judge of the world? Can’t you see your own, fatal irony? At last, at the end, you are no better than those ‘animals’ you hate and loathe. You need them and fear them. Yes, you fear them, the great Soltan -- that’s why you control them and make them dependant on your gruel. And you need them because without them here to worship you as their ‘god’ you would be alone, you’d have no one. You are pitiful --”

“Pitiful?” he said, leaning forward. “Those that I liked I turned into Morlocks to help me in my endeavors. Those that I hated, the weak, I turned into Eloi, to live up there,” he motioned to the ceiling, “there, in the dungy earth to wallow in its death and filth. The horror, the horror.” He whispered into the Thundercat’s ear, drooling and salivating with every syllable: “I’m going to turn you into one of those -- I’m going to shrink your head, tear your brains apart and clobber the mess back together. I’m going to chop your body into little parts, mangle your arms and legs, hahahahahahahaha!” He drew back and trashed the awaiting blade through the air. “I’m going to give you a little tail. I’m going to send you up, up, up to the treetop village where you’ll crawl into a hole to urinate and defecate in your den. You’ll wallow in your own waste like the animal that you are. You’ll fit right in, mwahahahaha and spend the whole rest of your miserable life eating your, gruel.”

He tapped the tiger gently on the check then whispered into his ear again: “Can you image language, once clear-cut and exact, softening and guttering, losing shape and import, becoming mere lumps of sound again? Can you image a world where, step-by-step, everything decays and deteriorates, sinking deeper and deeper into a realm of flesh without spirit? Haha, hahaha, hahahaha, haha, you will! YOU WILL! YOU WILL!” He arched his head back in ecstasy. “Strap him down!”

The thugs dragged the cat forward awkwardly. The jostling action caused the gag around his mouth to fall to his neck and fall to the floor. He leaned his head toward the man as though to speak to him directly but instead bit into his ear, gnawing the soft flesh relentlessly. He tasted blood -- dripping -- his lips were wet with it.

Soltan screamed in agony. He broke away from the vice of the tiger’s teeth, staggering, wailing to the side of the wide sink. He washed the painful wound with a bath of purified water. The Morlocks reacted chaotically at the unexpected turn of events. The two let the cat go but for a moment and the feline took advantage of their passing weakness. He rushed to the site of the operating table.

Tygra grabbed the doctor by the scruff of his uniform and with his claws tore the fabric to reveal -- his eyes widened and he stepped back, shocked. The man’s chest was crisscrossed by zippers -- rusted zippers -- that ran around his arms, his neckline, arched down to his stomach. Horrified, he threw the limp figure across the table where he crashed into a bank of instruments.

He spun around to see that the guards were back on their feet, inching forward. While they dragged their knuckles on the ground he sped toward them, quickly removing their dark goggles, blinding them. They fell upon each other, screaming in pain.

Soltan got back on his feet. The fabric of his uniform had repaired itself and even his ear was not bleeding anymore -- although the torn flesh dangled freely. He barked orders into a microphone control-pad. The tiger kicked his chest and knocked him flat on his back.

The control pad flew out of the doctor’s hands and fell to the floor, where it rolled to the closed doors. The cat picked it up, unsure how to use it but satisfied that the man would not be able to use it against him. The Morlocks had regained their composure -- they covered their eyes with one mangled hand while they sprung to the Thundercat, roaring and grunting ferociously.

“Get him!” Soltan commanded, aiming at Tygra as he stood.

The red tiger’s eyes glowed over with a bright hue of orange-yellow. Thunder crashed from above, its pangs muffled by the deadening distance.

The heavy doors were unlocked but difficult to open nevertheless. He crawled through a crack just wide enough to let him pass and just in time for the Morlocks crashed upon its frame in their mindless rush to get him. They fumbled about its knobs with their gnarled, misshapen hands -- only the doctor opened those old-fashioned doors for only he had the dexterity to do so.

He vanished deep into the corridor, pushing the various buttons on the instrument panel he had taken from the man. It was his only weapon, if indeed it could have been called that. He felt that his best chance to break free from that dreadful place was to find his way back into t complex’s private chambers, where there was more light and where he had seen doors opened to ascending stairs and grated shafts lit by the weakening light of sunset.

The Rescue

Dawn -- yellow sunlight snaked across the land. The roar of the heaving engines of the approaching ThunderStrike abruptly stifled the jungle’s tranquility. Liono piloted the vehicle in the central pod. To his left Bengali busied himself in his pod, adjusting the dials on his control panel. To his right the remaining pod was empty -- brand-new, it had been recently rebuilt and refitted by Panthro.

The vessel landed on a clearing of black ash-covered pebbles. Fifty feet to its