New Orbit Magazine Issue 08; Feb 2020, The Future of Animals

He couldn’t think any longer. Bits of his
guts spilled to the parched earth of his world.
He convulsed again, but he no
longer felt anything, not even the spasms of
his own body. Then he stayed still. He had
already fallen into the abyss, and
unconsciousness led him further and further
down. He couldn’t crawl or escape from the
hunter.
“I’m dying.” His words trickled in a
halting mumble while the hunter rummaged
through his deepest liquids, but without
causing him, strangely, more suffering.
“The Death Gods of the Mist have taken pity
on my loneliness in the end. Luxo’s last
survivor.”
Miles Artsixten inched forward. The
dying prey’s screams hurt his eardrums.
They sounded like the pan flutes with which
the Earthling women entertained their party
guests, but much more pervasive. Miles
thought if he had to listen to that sick dog’s
lament for a few minutes, he would end up
losing his mind and shooting himself in
order to spare himself from the torturous
howl.
“Psst… creature.”
His hands were shaking. Certainly, his
aim wouldn’t be accurate. That morning of
pursuit and hunting had exhausted his
senses. He only wished that the day would
end once and for all so that he could return
to the refuge—not always warm—of the
base, with the prey in good condition.
“If they dry completely before death,”
Miles recalled, “the hide is useless. Pure shit
can’t be recycled not even as pulp for coats.”
He rummaged again through the dark
hole that pierced the dying animal’s flesh.
To his relief, although the shot had ruptured
some of the water bags—liquid testicles, as
the veteran hunters would say halfjokingly—at
least a dozen remained intact.
Sufficient. He hadn’t wasted his time like a
fool running through the forests on that
infernal planet of conical trees whose leaves
looked like blue and red bubbles, or listening
to the constant moaning of the plants he
stepped on in his tracks. At least, this time
the veterans wouldn’t make fun of him. Not
too much.
With a smile of sheer elation, Miles
loaded the last cartridge he had saved for the
hunt that afternoon. Slowly, like a gourmet
who savors the greatest dishes. Now that he