Free In Silence Waiting by Nikki McCormack

In Silence Waiting
     
    Holding the carcass down with strong paws, the kirak rips away a strip of red flesh. Flavor and texture go unnoticed. It listens and sniffs the air, vigilant to the threat of superior predators. It freezes, sensing another presence, becoming still as any rock in the desert. No sound or smell accompanies the sensation. Lean muscles twitch. It resumes tearing at the fresh kill.
    I draw back from the kirak’s mind, relinquishing the exhilarating wildness of the predator. It startles again at my departure, aware of my presence, yet unable to understand what I am. It will go back to feasting soon.
    I spread my area sense, like water spreading over the surface of a stone, as far as I can in all directions, searching for something more threatening than a well-fed kirak. The actions of every living thing in that expanse are mine to observe, an illusion of power crushed by the collar I wear.
    Satisfied there are no pressing dangers, I draw back into my physical self. I am crouched, palms pressed down on either side of bare feet, claws sunk into the familiar red dust that blankets the New Gobi. A soft breeze stirs the powdery dust into small funnel clouds. The dust is silky smooth, a texture that would be welcome in different circumstances. Here, it is a nuisance. It permeates everything.
    I look up at the muscle-bound brute holding the end of my chain and nod once, parting my lips to show the tips of pointed incisors in subtle threat. The crude mutant grunts satisfaction and tosses a scrap of dried fish my way. I lunge and catch the savory bit before it’s lost in the thick dust.
    I crouch as I eat, reaching out with my area sense again. I see myself through the eyes of a watching woman as I chew the dried fish. My pointed incisors show in quick flashes as my jaws move, my bronze eyes unfocused. Short mottled fur runs along my wiry shoulders and tapers down my arms and mid-back. Her reaction is unusual, not quite disgust, something more than mere curiosity.
    I withdraw and watch the woman through my eyes. She emerges from the group of apprehensive humans gathered to gawk at me as they always do while we prepare for the desert crossing. A mane of dark red hair emphasizes her fierce green eyes. She stops when the second brute swings his battered rifle up to block her. One slender hand rises, her fingertips coming to rest on the barrel. She gazes at me over it.
    “It’s almost human.”
    She speaks under her breath to no one in particular, but the brute guffaws and my hackles rise. I twist my lip in a snarl. I am not human. They are frail creatures with soft flesh, slow reflexes, and limited awareness. I may share some of their genetic makeup, but I am not them.
    “Move on!” The brute shifts the gun away from her hand.
    The first brute places manacles on my slender wrists. The woman regards me with galling pity before turning away.
    Like my kind, the cynta, brutes were developed using human genes. Whatever other genetic material is used, it is enough removed from the cynta mix that we can’t sense their emotions. Brutes are bodyguards and cynta handlers, their inhuman genes apparent in the bulge of extraordinary muscles and the gray cast of their skin. The only organ in their bodies that isn’t overdeveloped is the one between their ears.
    With the manacles fastened, the brute’s stony scowl becomes a condescending smirk. I bare tapered canines at his back when he leads me to the front of the caravan. Thirteen wagons and nearly fifty humans wanting to cross the New Gobi are lined up and waiting. Laurin, their hired guide, my owner, clucks at our draft beasts. The caravan starts up groggily like a great, fat serpent waking from sleep.

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    We must plan camp early so a new location can be found if I sense danger. With the sun dipping towards the horizon, the wagon train stops within a half circle of red rock protruding jagged from the earth like the spine of some massive beast. The formation is natural,