His thumb was bloody from a missed strike.

He'd shaken it out, daubed on a soothing rub from a si!o plant to stop the bleeding, and then taken back up the stone and bone again.

The knapped blade Brooks had made was misshapen, too thick at the base and too thin at the tip. But it did somewhat look like the proper shape, by far the best spearpoint he'd made so far.

Tracker looked at the blade. "It has a fat bottom," he said, grinning. "Like a hamomo that has grown lazy!"

"I could try flaking off some more pieces at the bottom . . ." Brooks said.

"No, no. Perhaps I could, but you would break it. Better to have a spearhead that is poor than no spearhead." Tracker mimed poking something with a stick, adding a squeal for the imaginary beast. "Much better with spearpoint."

"All right," Brooks said, smiling at Traker's impression. He looked back to his work.

He'd been practicing every day for nearly a month. After the coming-of-age ceremony for the two boys - men, he reminded himself - he seemed to be taken as truly one of them, rather than a friendly visitor. The !A!amo had taught him about survival in their world, what plants could be used as food or medicine, their stories of heroes and monsters, how to make for himself a weapon in their style.

The dart gun he'd found nearly impossible; it was sized too much for !Xomyi anatomy, and straight scaling it up did not quite work.

But with a spear, he thought he could manage. Historical sword fighting was an interest of his since his academy days, and he frequently sparred with Jaya, who held several awards from tournaments.

He'd selected an appropriate-length spear, carved a notch in the end, covered the raw wood in a sealant, even decorated it with feathers he'd found outside his tent one day.

Normally he didn't believe in signs, but given that he'd been contemplating ornamentation, it seemed perfect.

Now he only had to do the most important part; set the spearhead. For that, he had to have a spearhead.

The most challenging part was making the main blade, and he'd done that. Now he was trying to finish the edges, chipping out small notches with the tip of a pointed bone, a technique he knew to be called pressure-flaking.

Humans had done it, thousands of years ago. Now he was learning how to again.

Sweat poured from his brow, stinging his eyes, but he kept working.

The sun had visibly moved in the sky when he finished. That had been at least four hours, he reckoned from the star's position above, then checked his system to confirm, and found that he'd been close in his estimate.

"What do you think?" he asked Tracker. In the time he'd been working on one, Tracker had made three new blade cores.

"It looks like it has a fat bottom," Tracker said pleasantly. "Will it fit on the spear?"

Brooks took up the spear shaft, placing the blade into the notch he'd cut.

Or trying to.

It was far too fat at the bottom, and he sighed. "I'll have to risk thinning it up," he said. "I can't take off any more wood and it won't sit properly if I leave it."

"Like a fat hamomo," Tracker said with a laugh. "I knew it was too big!"

"You said it was big, but not that it was too big. Could you have mentioned that earlier?" Brooks asked, not really upset.

"Better you see for yourself," Tracker replied. "Try fitting blade before finishing. Just to get idea of how it fits."

That was so blindingly obvious that Brooks felt humiliated. But Tracker, either oblivious to his feelings or else simply trying to change the topic off it, spoke of something else.

"What is your home like?" he asked.

Brooks positioned his spear head, ready to make a strike that - he hoped - would make it thinner and more even at once.

He paused, considering how to answer. He pointed up. "I live on a rock in the sky."

Tracker looked up, then at Brooks, his face seeming skeptical. "You have strong keotli, Gift Giver, but I do not believe you are a spirit."

"I am not a spirit," Brooks replied. "But I live in the sky, on a large rock." He considered, then altered his sentence. "Inside a large rock."

"Inside?" Tracker asked, surprised.

"Yes. It is hollow inside."

Tracker considered it, but clearly he found it hard to accept. "Do you have success in your hunts inside your rock in the sky?"

"We don't hunt there."

"You don't hunt? How do you live if you don't eat meat?" Tracker mimed eating a piece of meat. Brooks knew by now that the motion specifically meant to eat meat, rather than anything else.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"We eat meat," he replied. "But we do not need to hunt it. We . . . grow meat." It was true; they grew proteins in the form of animal meat in vats. It looked - and frankly smelled - horrible in process. But the results were as delicious as any natural meat. Better, really, Brooks knew, as he had eaten meat from animals before. Vat meat also contained a better mix of nutrients for humans.

"You grow meat! That is impressive. How do you grow such things? I would like to grow some meat right now," Tracker asked, smiling. He was not believing anything Brooks said now, but he appreciated the story.

Before Brooks could reply, the sound of running reached them both. Brooks dropped his hand to his sidearm, and Tracker took up his spear.

Fast of Wing crashed through the undergrowth, stumbling slightly as he came to a stop in front of them.

"I . . ." he panted, "I have found keko!un!"

Brooks looked to Tracker with alarm. They had just moved; the keko!un should not have followed this quickly. They rarely came this far, he had been told. If they were here . . .

"Fast of Wing," Tracker said. "Is it in deep rest?"

Fast of Wing nodded slowly. Tracker rose, letting out a cry, raising his hands upwards.

"What?" Brooks asked. "What do you mean a deep rest?"

Fast of Wing did not answer, but turned, running off. Brooks looked to Tracker.

"Sometimes keko!un get very tired," he told Brooks. "They find a place that is safe, and sleep for many days. But Fast of Wing has found its safe place."

Brooks nodded. Was it hibernation? It seemed unlikely on a warm planet. But he didn't know keko!un ways, how they worked.

Fast of Wing had spent much time away from home recently. Brooks had taken it to be a sign of mourning, but now he realized that all this time he had been hunting for revenge.

Tracker was still talking. "With any luck, we will go to its home, tonight and we will kill it."

A question suddenly formed in his mind. "Is this the same keko!un that slew his father?"

Confusion came over Tracker's face. "It is keko!un," he said.

The !A!amo headed back towards the collection of huts, and Brooks followed. All of the men were gathering, talking excitedly to each other.

"We must go kill it," Fast of Wing was saying emphatically. "We must. When it wakes up it will be hungry, and who might it take, hm?" He looked to Good Hunter. "A wife? A son?"

Bold Hunter had wrapped his wings around himself, his face set grimly. He said nothing, and Brooks could not tell if he was for or against Fast of Wing's idea.

"What about your daughter?" Fast of Wing said to Tracker. "Or your wife with unborn child?" he added to Diver.

"Ayah! Do not put such curse on my unborn son!" Diver protested.

"But the point is well-said," Bold Hunter declared.

"The keko!un are too fierce," Tracker said.

"Pah! Coward!" Fast of Wing said. "You are Tracker, you should have been the one to find the keko!un's safe place! Instead I found it."

Tracker almost lunged at Fast of Wing, but Brooks stepped between them. "Do not fight each other," he said, a rush in his blood. He knew, without even having to consider, that he was one of them. That they'd accept his stepping in, the same as they'd accept any other's. "Fast of Wing has found the keko!un. It is the enemy."

He did not know if he was for or against going, but he knew that they could not turn on each other.

"Your father's spirit must have guided you," Tracker said, wrapping his wings around himself. "To find a sleeping keko!un is rare. Only spirits can find it." He glanced at Brooks, but then looked away.

There was still that lingering superstition at times, he saw. They still attributed all he could do to magic, or keotli, as they called it. The drone that Y sometimes communed through was viewed as his medium to bring about his keotli. They viewed it with awe, but since he had saved Touched by Flames, they seemed to think of him as a being of flesh and blood, like they were.

He wondered if it was because they thought he had been praying to it; he rarely saw them offer prayer, but at times they did chant softly to what he believed to be spirits.

It made him wonder again; in thousands of years, might that basic form of spirituality evolve into religion? Would the !Xomyi repeat the human steps of organized religions with power structures, temple cities?

If the conditions allowed for it, such things seemed to repeat themselves ad nauseum across the cosmos. Every biological intelligent species that came from an environment remotely like Earth and had humanoid qualities had gone down a similar path, stages of building, each slowly - and often painfully - growing into the next.

The only ones to escape it, as far as he knew, were the Corals and the Star Angels. And, he suddenly wondered, perhaps the Shoggoths?

The thought of Kell rose a thousand more questions, ones that had been lingering in his mind since he'd met the being. Questions he knew might never be answered, given the Ambassador's reluctance to communicate.

Their last conversation still haunted him, but he was snapped out of that dark place by the !A!amo, who were still arguing.

"Knows the World will decide," Good Hunter declared. The elder was approaching now.

As he did so, Knows the World glanced to Brooks quizzically. Brooks had no answer for him; Fast of Wing quickly told him what the issue was.

". . . I must be allowed to kill it!" Fast of Wing said, his voice heated.

Knows the World considered. He looked to the others, who spoke for or against the plan, but his eyes then came to Brooks.

"What do you say, Gift Giver?"

"I say that I understand why Fast of Wing wants this," Brooks replied. "But his burning desire for its death is dangerous keotli."

A murmur of surprise went through the group.

"I agree," Knows the World said.

"I will not be denied my revenge!" Fast of Wing spat. "I will go alone, and kill or die, if I must."

"I agree with this as well," Knows the World said. "Tell me; must it die by your hand?"

Fast of Wing seemed surprised. "As long as it dies," he said.

"Then your hand shall not be the spear that strikes," Knows the World said. "Gift Giver is right; your burning rage is too dangerous. The spirit of your father still quakes with anger and it bleeds into you. Once we have slain the keko!un, his spirit, and you, shall rest easier."

Fast of Wing considered this.

Knows the World did not have any true power, Brooks knew. It was entirely possible that Fast of Wing would refuse what he said, and short of restraining him he could not be stopped.

Which, Brooks knew, would not happen. The others would not hold Fast of Wing back. Even if, in Brooks's estimation, Knows the World was right. Revenge changed a man.

"I bow to your words," Fast of Wing said. "I will not slay the keko!un, but I will be glad to know that it has died."

Knows the World nodded. "Who, then, shall strike the blow that kills?" His eyes swept the group.

Brooks had expected some volunteers. But no one seemed eager.

He stepped forward. "I will," he said.

A gasp swept through the !Xomyi, and Brooks suddenly feared he had committed some gaff. But no; awe came into their eyes again as they watched him. Even Knows the World regarded him with wide eyes.

"It will be," the wise man said, turning away. "Prepare for the hunt," he said over his shoulder as he left.