A small group hurried through the temporary tent city erected on the stream’s north bank. A local politician assigned to help run the outfit, a big cat expert, two security officials from the national government, and the Syphon. She had been the country’s Syphon for four years, and she’d already seen more action than the first dozen Syphons combined.
“When did it happen?” the Syphon asked.
“She made contact at 1310,” the politician said.
“But she carried the other cub with her?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do we have a location?”
One of the security officials, an older French man who was a paratrooper in his youth, answered, “Five clicks west by northwest.”
“She would have hurried, but she could only go so fast with the boy in her mouth,” the big cat expert noted. He flipped through his notebook. “I estimate it would have taken her about two hours, factoring in water stops and any detours to avoid a pack.”
The Syphon raised an eyebrow. “Pack?”
“Hyenas.”
The group came to a stop at the end of the packed-earth lane that was the tent city’s de facto Main Street. Eleven months ago, the government had set up shop out in the middle of nowhere. They needed a headquarters in the field to deal with the many and increasing crimes against protected flora, fauna and land. It had become an unfortunate second-home for the Syphon.
“Presumably she took some time to look around, then more to decide to come to us.” The Syphon looked at her watch and calculated in her head. “So probably sometime around 0900?”
“Yeah. Somewhere in the 0900, 0930 area,” the lead security man said. “We dispatched two trucks and two ATVs. They arrived about 1340, spent 70 minutes on a search grid in the area. No cub, no people hiding out. We expanded the grid. At 1520 we found tire tracks two clicks west.”
“How come they weren’t found at the scene?”
The younger security official mimicked the sweeping of a broom. “They brushed them away. Probably dragging something behind their truck.”
The Syphon nodded and fell silent. She looked out over the savannah. At the horizon, she could see heat ripples from the last of the day’s punishing temperature. The thieves had most of a day’s head start on her. Even at a conservative pace, they would be 300 miles away. Her only hope came with the setting sun. They must stop for the night. She would have on her side speed and, for a very short while, time.
“Ok, let’s recap before I go talk to her,” the Syphon lifted her hand and counted off the info on her fingers. “Around dawn, she stashes the two cubs and goes hunting. She returns around 1020, 1030 to find only one left in its hiding spot. We have to presume the other left the hideout, was spotted by the thieves and taken around 0930. She searches the area, can’t find the missing cub which is…?”
“Female,” the cat expert answered.
“By 1100 she decides it’s definitely gone and makes up her mind to enlist our help. She picks up the other cub and begins the trek here. Since 1340, we’ve run localized searches which have turned up nothing of the missing cub but have turned up fresh tire tracks headed basically west. Yes?”
The politician nodded. “That about covers it. Are you in a position to say-”
“I have no idea what position I’m in,” the Syphon said. “I’m going out there.”
“Ma’am,” the politician replied in deference.
The French security officer handed her a small pouch. “For when you catch them.”
The Syphon stepped off the makeshift tent city road and onto the rocky ground of the open savannah. She marched with purpose through the intermittent shrubs toward the setting sun. Just outside the tent city, a mother Cheetah crouched low in a small ditch. Nearby, a few security officials stood watch, far enough to avoid making the big cat nervous.
With her hands raised in a sign of peace, the Syphon approached the Cheetah. Ten paces away, she stopped and lowered herself to her knees. With a long exhale, she nodded at the mother. The Cheetah stood and patiently examined the surrounding area. When nothing appeared amiss, she lifted her cub in her teeth and prowled forward.
The woman nodded slowly in greeting. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Syphon.” The Cheetah mother’s voice was raspy and uneven. Human language was a foreign object in her mouth.
“And you know what I can do?”
The Cheetah nodded.
“There are risks,” the Syphon warned softly.
“I understand.”
“If I don’t make it back before dawn-”
“I understand,” the Cheetah interrupted.
“I’m saying you could lose your-”
“Only if you are not back by dawn.”
“That’s right.”
“Then we better get you going,” the cheetah stepped closer. “I want my daughter back.”
This was the worst part. In these instances, they always wanted an assurance, something to lean their weight against through the night.
“I’m going to do everything I can,” the Syphon said, trying to sound confident without guaranteeing anything. She hated when she sounded like that.
For a long moment, the Cheetah stared at the woman, unblinking. By her feet, her male cub slumbered in fits. The day had been hectic and scary. That it was getting sleep at all was probably a good sign. Eventually, the mother nodded.
“What do I do?”
“Bow your head and relax, I’ll do the rest.”
The Cheetah stepped in front of the kneeling woman. As one, they lowered their heads and closed their eyes. At the edge of the tent city, a group had gathered to watch with arms crossed in concern. From their vantage, the sun blazed the day’s last moments of light behind the odd pair.
There wasn’t much hope, and time would soon turn against them. This wasn’t the Syphon’s first chase, and she was motivated like no one else to catch the thieves. No one except the Cheetah herself.
There was no sound. No energy whooshed between bodies, and neither of them felt any change. There was no way for the Cheetah to know anything had happened until the Syphon sighed and lifted her head.
“Ok. Sit tight.”
The woman stood and gave a few exploratory stretches. Her body felt limber and lighter than usual. She felt a slight pang, a powerful desire to feel the warm meat of an antelope slice between her teeth. With a show of extensive will, she banished the thought. There was a chase afoot, and she had no time to waste.
The Cheetah watched in amazement as the human started to run directly at the sun. It was a normal human running motion. In truth, it was entirely remarkable – until it wasn’t. The Syphon accelerated, on and on, well beyond the normal limit for a human.
Through the ancient rite bestowed on each generation’s Syphon, she had borrowed the Cheetah’s speed. She would chase the thieves, and either she would catch up to them and save the missing cub or she would not. For now, the Cheetah had done all she could. She gathered up her son in her teeth and lumbered, with alien slowness, to the edge of the tent city and the safety these humans could provide. At least, until dawn.
Night careened past the Syphon in flashes of shadow and clipped animal calls.
Dust kicked up behind her tensed, pumping legs.
Hyenas leapt from her path with surprised cackles.
A pride of lions watched her roar by from the cover of a tangled tree.
Dueling bull elephants had their tusk-crashing dispute broken up by the blur of her pursuit.
Two hours into her chase, while her muscles burned with the effort, the Syphon motored through a wisp of smoke and a horrifying smell of burnt meat. She thought she caught a glimpse of something human, maybe a campsite, but then it was behind her. Poachers met with some catastrophe? She couldn’t afford to stop and investigate. Time ticked away.
Beneath her, the tracks leaned to the Northwest. This was away from civilization, away from the country’s military air support. She knew then where they’d set their destination – the middle of nowhere. Where a plane could land with the morning light and carry off their bounty.
The halfway mark of the night came and went, and still she followed the endless parallel lines in the dirt. Time was an enemy now. Every minute she did not catch them was one fewer minute she had to make the return trip.
So she called up her reserves from a body already defying its built purpose.
Twenty minutes later, it sprang up at her from the darkness. A silhouette – squared lines of pure black against the blue-black of the night behind it.
She skidded to a stop far enough away to maintain her stealth. Fifty yards away, a dusty Jeep sat out of place in the vastness of the wild savannah. Nearby, three small tents were erected by a low-slung tree. It could not come to a fight. These men would be armed with machine guns, and she had only a knife tucked into her belt.
With incredible care, she tiptoed toward the Jeep. In the back, a blanket covered something small and square. A cage.
The Syphon dropped to a crouch and cozied herself up to the side of the Jeep, careful to keep it between her and the thieves. Quietly, she dug out the small pouch the Frenchman had handed her. She extracted a little electronic device from inside. She peeled something from the side of it and, gently, placed the magnetize GPS tracker to the underside of chassis. She whispered a silent prayer that felt strange in her mind – she wished the thieves a safe escape. Them, their Jeep, and the GPS tag stuck to it.
Then she took a deep breath. The next part would require lots of speed and a little luck.
She stood, grabbed the edge of the blanket and whipped it off the cage. And she hoped, hard.
No lock, no lock, no lock….
Inside, the cheetah cub stood, back arched, and hissed in fear. Surely she must expect yet another terrible upheaval to her young life. At that moment, she could not have known just how lucky she was.
There was no lock.
Deftly, the Syphon threw the two small latches and swung open the cage door.
Under the nearby tree, one of the men stirred, asked a question in half-sleep to his partners.
The Syphon grabbed the cheetah cub and wrapped her in the blanket.
There was a shout from the tree. A man suck halfway out from under one of the grimy tents. He had leaned out to investigate. But he’d left his gun back by his head. He turned back in, grabbed it, and burst from the tent with muzzle raised. The whole thing took him four, maybe five seconds.
The Jeep was alone. The cage was empty. The cub was gone.
And the ghost that had stolen it was nowhere to be seen.
The night passed, and the Syphon powered through it. She’d affixed the cub in the blanket, sling-style, onto her back. She felt terrible for the awful bouncing the girl must be suffering, but there was nothing to be done about it. Morning crept closer, and she had miles to eat up. It was going to be close.
But she knew how this part went. Not nearly enough of these missions worked out how she wanted. This one had gone almost perfectly. And she was currently in that wonderful paradox of approaching-victory. She was running faster, making up time, despite the ache in her muscles and the added weight.
Her burden made her faster, not slower. It gave her strength, and she drew on that with every thump of her foot against the hard dirt.
Morning crept closer, but she was fast. So very fast. Tonight, she would outrun the sun.
The Tall Tale Year 