Light sparkles off the rippling water, and the small stream that feeds the pool chimes as it dances down the rockfall from above. This place is a good place to stay, and one in which I can live comfortably. It is far enough from Green Hollow that I should not be interrupted, yet it is near enough that I can return easily when I am ready.
I study my left hind leg as I stretch it out over the soft ground cover on the bank. It is still a bit stiff, but I no longer limp, and I can move easily when I need to.
As I watch the ripples in the stream, I wonder how things are going with the Nobodies who stayed closer to Green Hollow. How many, I wonder, have managed to find something that will prove to be of benefit to the Real People?
I check to make sure the year brand that I received to mark the start of my Test has not blurred too much with time. It would not do to be identified as one of the Nobodies from a later year. I wiggle my ears with pleasure as I see that the spirals and interlaced arcs are still visible through my hair. I am satisfied.
I review the skills I have learned during my Testing.
I know how to fish not just for fingerlings, but for the larger silverscales, which provide such succulent flesh. I know to seek out and harvest the barbleberries that infest the forest. I burble to myself when I think of the barbleberry seeds that Real People have thrown away, thinking they were useless. And, oh, that fungus! I wipe away the trail of drool that runs down my chin as I think about it. I have not yet figured out how to cultivate the fungus, but it is what I wish to contribute. If nothing else, I can lead harvesting groups to the mountains.
The line attached to the net draws taut. I reel it in and pull out the flashing, flipping silverscale. I dash its head on a rock to stun it, then slip it into a reed bag. I drop the net back into the pool, then secure the line with a rock. I hope to start my journey back in the next few days, and I want to smoke as much of the meat as I can. I already have several packets of fungus spores in my carry sack, to take back as my benefit.
Brush snaps behind me, and I hear grumbling from beyond the bush screen. I scramble to my feet. A screen of vines, woven into the barbleberry brambles, shakes as if a bull lorox is tearing at it with all four horns. Better safe hidden, I decide. I scramble up the rocks beside the stream and shelter behind the rocks and brush on the crest above the cascade. Once there, I tilt an eye into a small gap so I can see what is going on below.
My hearts thump in dissonant rhythm as I see a trio of People force themselves into the clearing. I recognize them; they are Nobodies from my Testing group. They are together! I shiver with anger. They risk their lives, as well as the fives of any others they approach. Like me. I itch and fret, wondering what they are up to now.
One of them is the bully who was born to the Chief Family. The bully seems not to care that it has company. I curse silently, adding the bully’s behavior to what I saw at the village when I was there. And I wonder; how does the Chief Family expect to get away with law-breaking, and how does the bully plan to prove itself worthy of adulthood benefit? Has it found a benefit yet?
“That cripple was here,” the bully says to its companions. “I can still smell it.”
“It’s not here now,” the smallest of the three says. “Let’s go, before any Real People see us together.”
“Forget the Real People. The cripple stole some of the food my Family set out for me, and I intend to take back what I can, even if I have to skin it. And I’ll take whatever else it has at the same time. Why should I work to find a benefit for those idiots back there if I can take it?”
The third Nobody, whom I recognize by its crooked nose as one of the bully’s childhood followers, says something and lays a hand on the bully’s shoulder. The bully turns and hits Crooked Nose. As I watch, the three of them fight among themselves. I shiver, glad I am not part of their group. And I am grateful again I was never a friend with any of them when we were still children.
The bully knocks down Crooked Nose, then he and Shorty beat it until it collapses. Then the bully looks up and stares at Shorty, both eyes forward. The bully attacks Shorty and drives it to the ground, too, all the while muttering that it cannot leave witnesses. I am beyond shock, my legs locked in my fear, because I know that I am next, as I watch it snatch a piece of deadwood and beat Shorty. The two on the ground finally stop moving as their life fluids trickle out onto the verge. No witnesses. I know that I am to be next.
The bully looks up from the two bodies and moves toward the rockfall where I am hiding. I shift back, away from the clearing, huddling down to avoid being seen. I am a short distance away, just into the wooded area beyond, when the bully scrambles to the top and finds the sanctuary I just left.
“Stop!”
I am not a fool. I run, pushing through the brush, branches whipping my face. I do not care as long as I escape from the bully. Strange bully, thinking I would listen to it, after watching its behavior back at the rock pool.
I climb into the nearby mountains, finding my way through culverts and chimneys in the heights, slipping through angled tunnels as I attempt to get away from the bully. It follows, and it is very noisy. I wince as I hear the various small creatures who live in the low scrub as they scurry for shelter from this angry, loud monster.
I move into a canyon I have not yet seen, and travel along the banks of the small stream that flows there. I come to the end, a rock wall. The stream gurgles out of a fissure in the rock, with small plants—belly flowers—low around it. Their perfume fills the air. I bend over and scoop handfuls of water, still keeping one eye turned to watch behind me. I know the bully still follows, and I need to find a way to escape. This canyon is not the way, yet I am not sure how to get out of it.
I no longer think of the bully by any other designation than the Murderer. That is what it has done, and from all the teachings I learned from the village wise ones during my childhood, it has forfeited its right to becoming a Real Person.
Still, I wonder about history, as I think back on the low survival rate of other groups who have been Tested. I know that Testing those who enter puberty is to weed out those who are not worthy of surviving, but after what I have witnessed, I wonder if our past survivors haven’t been those who are most like the Murderer. What determines fitness to survive, after all?
I stretch after I drink my fill, aware of the aches in my joints and the sharp itch of the scratches on my arms and legs. Some of them are weeping yellow, and when they drip off, they leave a brown spatter in the dust.
The sun batters my eyes until I am not sure which way to turn. I move back and forth at the base of the rock wall, looking for an opening. There is none.
I do find a foothold, so I stand on my rear legs and reach up with forelegs and arms, searching for holds. I pull myself up the rock. Once my rear feet are above the canyon floor, I meld with the rock face, then look for a higher hold.
I find one; a tough spur to my left. Can I reach it? I lift my hand, and my three fingers encircling the stumpy gray stone. I tug on it; it feels firm, yet I hesitate. Do I trust my weight to this? Behind me, down the canyon, I hear the enraged bellow of the Murderer. Trust it I must. I lock the joints of my fingers and pull myself higher, then look for something for my right hand to grasp. My left forefoot is also questing for a niche where I can insert my toes, and I manage to find both at once. Up I go, not daring to look down or behind.
Sweat trickles off my eye turrets as I move upward, each eye swiveling around, as I look for something new to grab on to. Then I find I am on a ledge, where I rest, for fear of collapse.
I look around to find a route to the top from here. There is a trail; narrow, but workable. As I get ready to move on, I look around, and inhale sharply. The Murderer is just below me, climbing the cliff face after me. It is silent as it climbs, except for the deep grunts as it fights for breath. I draw back, surprised, and hope the Murderer doesn’t see me where I stand.
I crawl to the bottom of the narrow path I have found and look up it, then lo
ok back. I inhale sharply again as a large hand lifts up over the ledge. I move up the narrow trail, holding on the cliff face as best I can.
“Why run away?” the Murderer asks from behind me. “You won’t live to return to our village anyway.” I come to a bend in the trail and look back. The Murderer is standing on the ledge. I shiver.
“Give me what you have,” the Murderer calls out.
“Why do you think I have something?” I start up the next part of the trail, the cliff now on my right.
“Because you’re still alive!”
I hear the Murderer’s feet as it starts up the trail. It is moving faster than I am. I turn one eye around to watch behind me as I move into the cleft, and I see the Murderer moving around the first in the trail. Too close. Above me, I see the trail curve into a small cleft. A sharp wind is whistling out of it.
“Do you really want it?” I ask.
“Give it to me! Maybe I’ll let you live.” The Murderer stops below me, holding out one of its hands.
I move the fore part of my body out of the cleft, holding one of the spore packets in right hand. With my left, I worry open the twist that holds the packet shut.
“Take it!” I hold the packet up and empty it onto the wind.
“No!” The Murderer scrabbles up the trail, and reaches out for me. I draw back into the cleft, and watch as the Murderer misses its step on the narrow trail. The Murderer screams once, and I hear a thud, followed by a rattle. I move forward and look over the edge, holding tight to another spur of rock, and watch the small avalanche the Murderer’s body starts as it bounces its way to the foot of the cliff.
The chill of the autumn wind ruffles the hair on my back as I make my way into Green Hollow. I hope some of the others from my group have survived their Testing. I do not want to be the only one of my age group to return. I carry the remaining packets of fungus spores in my sack, with what is left of my travel rations. I have returned, in time.
I reach the village common and look around. One of the people standing near the well swivels his eye turrets, then dashes off. He will bring the elders to complete the formalities of my Test.
The elders come and question me according to the law, then they take away my bit of fungus. When they return, they hold their hands out to me, accepting me as a Real Person and giving me back my gender. I stand to face them. Once I choose a life task and a name, I can consider selecting a mate and raising my own family.
“I wish to be a lawgiver,” I tell them. I do not say that I want to change some of the harsh laws, like the ones that destroy so many of our young. I will have to be very careful about how I go about that. “For a name, I will wear my distinctive mark.” I show them the leg. “Call em will take the name of Silverleg.”
Back to Contents
THE LOAVES AND THE FISHES by John DeChancie
I
STOPPED AT the Long John Silver’s right next to the Long Island Expressway ramp and bought myself lunch—a three-piece “Fish ‘n’ More” with fries and slaw and extra hush puppies on the side. I liked the hush puppies. But I really liked the fish. I liked fish, any kind of fish. Hence, my moniker, which had stuck with me since high school in Bensonhurst.
I came out of the restaurant and headed toward the parked Lincoln. It was one of those perfect fall days on Long Island when you can smell the sea and the wind comes in from the Atlantic and stirs the tall grass. The sun was bright and the sky was mostly clear except for a few clouds that seemed to hurry across the blue, as if called to some pressing business beyond the horizon.
I was so intent on the prospect of eating my lunch— the tantalizing smell of deep-fried cod filled my nostrils, inducing a kind of trance—that I didn’t notice someone sitting in the back of the Town Car until I’d slid into the front seat.
I jumped a little; but when I saw a familiar face in the rearview mirror, I grinned.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Hello, Fish.”
My grin faded. “Something’s up.”
Jerry Juliano, in black turtleneck and brown leather jacket, shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was blond and thin and had a fierce look. He always looked mad at someone. Anyone. Everyone. Legs crossed, he held a revolver almost languidly across his chest. “You screwed up big time, Charlie Fish.”
“Yeah?” I said innocently. “I was just going to the meet with DiNardo.”
“Yeah, with a wire, I’ll bet,” Jerry added.
“Huh?” I said.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Juliano told me. He heaved a big sigh. “Christ, I hate it when I know the guy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“But you don’t leave us any choice. I don’t know what got into you. What the hell did get into you, anyway?”
I played dumb, always a good policy. I shrugged and said, “Jeez, I dunno.”
“Okay, I can understand the midlife crisis thing. Your ma dies. Your brother goes to jail. Your wife starts fooling around. Then she bails on you. I can understand all that.”
“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t believe this. This was too much. I started to laugh. The irony.
Jerry was appalled. “What, you think this is funny? You think I’m kidding? This is just a warning, or what?”
I shook my head. “Nah. I know it ain’t no warning.”
“We gave you warning. Christ, how many times? You don’t steal from us. That’s one thing you don’t do. We don’t care that you run a perfectly good dry-wall business into the ground. We gave you the best contracts, we cut a deal with the union. City contracts, county contracts. All the business you want. And then you don’t pay the withholding, you skim that off, you shortchange on all the paperwork—and we do a surprise audit and what? What do we find? Company’s practically bankrupt. And then what? Do we take you out? Do we whack you? No. We give you a second chance. And then a third chance. And Christ, if everyone don’t start talking about giving you a fourth. Finally, we gotta throw in the towel. Right?”
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging almost apologetically. “Yeah.”
“I even put in a good word for you,” Jerry said. “But I mean how many times do you go to bat for a guy and he goes on screwing you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then we get the word. You’re talking to the feds.”
“Hey,” I said. “When the feds talk to you, you gotta talk back.”
“Yeah? They talked to me, too. I told ‘em to take a cab.”
“That’s you. I strung ‘em along, is all.”
“Christ.” Juliano let out another sigh. “Don’t you think we have people with the feds? People who feed us info? Did you think you could get away with it?”
“With what?”
“Forget it. Okay, get driving. Take the Expressway east.”
“Okay.”
I started laughing again. It was just too much.
Jerry was annoyed. “What the hell is with you?”
I turned the key and the big car’s motor hummed to life.
“I think you’re nuts,” Jerry said. “I always thought you were a flake.”
I shot a grin into the rearview mirror.
“Cut me a break,” was all Jerry Juliano had to say.
I pulled out of Long John Silver’s, drove slowly to the Expressway ramp, and pulled onto it. As I did, I sent a furtive right hand to rummage in the cardboard box bearing the fried fish lunch.
Instantly, the barrel of the revolver was up against the side of my head.
“Don’t go rocket scientist on me all of a sudden,” Juliano said tightly.
“I just wanted a hush puppy.”
Cocking the handgun, Jerry took a look over the seat. “Go ahead, get it.”
I picked up one of the warm balls of deep-fried corn meal batter and popped it into my mouth. I had come to love them.
“I don’t believe you,” Jerry said.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Haven’t had my lunch.”
“You and fis
h.” Jerry shot a quick look back to see if anyone was following, then sat back. After a moment, he took note of the opulence around him.
“Nice interior,” Jerry said.
“Thanks. It’s real leather.”
“Yeah. I’m squeakin’ back here in this jacket. But it’s nice. I never thought of a Lincoln.”
“They’re nice cars.”
“They gonna keep makin’ them or what?”
“I dunno. I ain’t heard anything. It’s got computers all over the place. Look at this dash.”
Jerry leaned forward. “Nice. Go ahead and eat if you want to.”
“Thanks.”
I pulled out a huge piece of fish and bit off a big piece of it with a startling crunch.
“Smells good,” Jerry said.
“Have some. I got the three-piece.”
“Not now.”
“Where we goin’?”
“Out east,” Jerry said simply, reaching over the seat back and rifling the box. He came away with a fry and munched it.
“How far out?”
“Far enough.”
“What’s far enough? Montauk?”
“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“Sorry. You better put on your seat belt.”
“Don’t worry about the seat belt,” Jerry said. “Drive.”
Polishing off two of the fish and most of the fries, I drove east, and east some more.
“What the hell ever did happen to you, Charlie?” Juliano said. “You went wonky on me. I heard all kinds of crap. Like the alien thing.”
“Alien?” I said, still playing dumb.
“Yeah. You were seeing UFOs, or something. Something about aliens taking over your body. Stress, I guess. That right?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. I saw no reason to keep anything from him now. “My body was taken over by an alien intelligence from across the galaxy, thousands of light-years away.”
“Yeah?” Juliano said, chuckling. “How’d they do that?”
“Matter transmission. Transferring bits of alien nucleic acid, supplanting the subject’s. Fairly soon, the host subject is transformed into an alien being, retaining the guise of the subject’s morphology.”
I, Alien Page 22
