The recent discovery of the enigmatic Homo floresiensis had rekindled the debate on whether we Homo sapiens still share the same turf with others much of our own kind. Nonetheless, the jury is wide out on how human is human? Are we to embark on a Panhomo [sensu the PhyloCode] Genome Project - only to assert they share 99.9% genetic similarity with us? Or count on whether our lads would fall for their gals - only to learn that the answer is a negative more often than not in "human history"? Worse still, lads tend to make war, not love... and sidelining other Homo species as non-human (read: animals) would certainly have put forth a handy excuse to exterminate them for good. Pardon my naivety: it's really a matter of time we encounter some tribes of "lesser-humans" in our ceaseless exploit of terra incognitos. Alas, how less is less? Are we adamant on their having (or not) civilization? society? culture? scripture? language? Or yet another presumed character of humanness? Or, just a facial expression that tells us of fear and love? In fact, in my favorite childhood novel I tried to explore this scenario. And I believe we must. For it's one that, if you let me borrow a line from my favorite protagonist, would come in like:
And I promise that
If you calculate - do calculate -
You will find that
The arithmetic doesn't match...
Below is their story.
Prolog: footprint
FEBRUARY 29th. Sea-Cloudy Hills, Lamveland.
Thaw. At dawn.
The chilling ocean gale chiseled hard on the thin veil of frost covering the fine beach sand, whilst the rumbling waves rocked the shoreline in its incessant rhythm.
I stared ahead.
Thunderclouds were looming out of the bleak horizon, menacing the Shorelane Resort, but it was dead silent when the first raindrop splattered on my face.
Broom... a thunder or two, but eerily silent if you'd neglect the now gushing downpour.
So eerily silent.
I must be hallucinating...
"Medic!" A faint yell came amid racing tracer bullets and exploding gunfire. I blinked under the whitening flares and searched for the sound, shrewd enough to duck another thudding string of bullets.
"Medic..."
"Hang on, I'll be right here!" the guy was just a sprint away, shear luck.
Well, me, not him. I glanced at the wound - shit. No way. I mechanically gauze packed his ruptured right popliteal artery, plucked in a dose of morphine while sparing my whichever hand to reach for the artery clamps. Fixed for the moment, but this poor lad would have needed an above-knee amputation back to the field surgery, death aside.
"Arrrr..." The guy suddenly screamed in pain, coming out of delirium.
Caught aback, I was suddenly drawn to his face, not - as years of professionalism ensured - his wound. And my own face froze.
He was a teenager, yes. But not our guys - the crossbones insignia on his blood-soaked tunic told it all. White Island Liberators, their say. Terrorists, our language.
Oh my god. Why did I give him that first aid rather than that last bullet?
Why? Because of the mandate of primum non nocere that bound us as surgeons?
Or, because he's simply one of us - a human?
Us - Homo sapiens - the same wise kind. Fuck Linnaeus.
Crazy fighting wrapped us, but I started to feel my mind swirl...
BROOOOM!!!
"Wes! Sir, are you alright?"
I blinked again, shivering in the thorough shower.
I cleared my eyes, but for sure the visibility was now just five yards.
"Helluva thunder, sir!"
"Wes! Name and rank, kid?"
"Johnny Hart, sir, corporal of the Falcon Legion."
Small wonder, now that hordes of the military top-notches were gathering here at Shorelane Resort on the cryptic Pacific Island Resource Assessment et Exploration summit. Jokingly, "pirate". Being the creme de la creme of the Lamveland elite forces, the Falcons were to be there.
"Hey corporal, I thought I saw a shadow moving ahead just now."
"Sir, you worried about terrorists?"
"Guns out and lets have a security scout."
It took but several paces before we stopped, then knelled down. Right in front of us on the wet silky beach sand was a footprint.
A huge right pes print pointing inshore with a deep calcaneal pad, high plantar arch, five clear toe marks with the hallux clearly clenching on the slippery ground steering the foot leftwards as if to avoid something... and, the striking familiarity.
Johnny exhaled. "Sir, have you ever seen a bare foot terrorist?"
"Well, technically muddy ground can make print marks larger than they ought to be..." I blurted out some crap. Johnny nodded eagerly, but I knew that's simply crap.
Footprint. A human footprint. Or was it a human's?
© Leo W Sham, MMVIII
And I promise that
If you calculate - do calculate -
You will find that
The arithmetic doesn't match...
Below is their story.
Prolog: footprint
FEBRUARY 29th. Sea-Cloudy Hills, Lamveland.
Thaw. At dawn.
The chilling ocean gale chiseled hard on the thin veil of frost covering the fine beach sand, whilst the rumbling waves rocked the shoreline in its incessant rhythm.
I stared ahead.
Thunderclouds were looming out of the bleak horizon, menacing the Shorelane Resort, but it was dead silent when the first raindrop splattered on my face.
Broom... a thunder or two, but eerily silent if you'd neglect the now gushing downpour.
So eerily silent.
I must be hallucinating...
"Medic!" A faint yell came amid racing tracer bullets and exploding gunfire. I blinked under the whitening flares and searched for the sound, shrewd enough to duck another thudding string of bullets.
"Medic..."
"Hang on, I'll be right here!" the guy was just a sprint away, shear luck.
Well, me, not him. I glanced at the wound - shit. No way. I mechanically gauze packed his ruptured right popliteal artery, plucked in a dose of morphine while sparing my whichever hand to reach for the artery clamps. Fixed for the moment, but this poor lad would have needed an above-knee amputation back to the field surgery, death aside.
"Arrrr..." The guy suddenly screamed in pain, coming out of delirium.
Caught aback, I was suddenly drawn to his face, not - as years of professionalism ensured - his wound. And my own face froze.
He was a teenager, yes. But not our guys - the crossbones insignia on his blood-soaked tunic told it all. White Island Liberators, their say. Terrorists, our language.
Oh my god. Why did I give him that first aid rather than that last bullet?
Why? Because of the mandate of primum non nocere that bound us as surgeons?
Or, because he's simply one of us - a human?
Us - Homo sapiens - the same wise kind. Fuck Linnaeus.
Crazy fighting wrapped us, but I started to feel my mind swirl...
BROOOOM!!!
"Wes! Sir, are you alright?"
I blinked again, shivering in the thorough shower.
I cleared my eyes, but for sure the visibility was now just five yards.
"Helluva thunder, sir!"
"Wes! Name and rank, kid?"
"Johnny Hart, sir, corporal of the Falcon Legion."
Small wonder, now that hordes of the military top-notches were gathering here at Shorelane Resort on the cryptic Pacific Island Resource Assessment et Exploration summit. Jokingly, "pirate". Being the creme de la creme of the Lamveland elite forces, the Falcons were to be there.
"Hey corporal, I thought I saw a shadow moving ahead just now."
"Sir, you worried about terrorists?"
"Guns out and lets have a security scout."
It took but several paces before we stopped, then knelled down. Right in front of us on the wet silky beach sand was a footprint.
A huge right pes print pointing inshore with a deep calcaneal pad, high plantar arch, five clear toe marks with the hallux clearly clenching on the slippery ground steering the foot leftwards as if to avoid something... and, the striking familiarity.
Johnny exhaled. "Sir, have you ever seen a bare foot terrorist?"
"Well, technically muddy ground can make print marks larger than they ought to be..." I blurted out some crap. Johnny nodded eagerly, but I knew that's simply crap.
Footprint. A human footprint. Or was it a human's?
© Leo W Sham, MMVIII
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