Prime Pickings

by Richard Raley

  To think there used to be so many people. How they must have got tired of each other. Ceanmaste tribe hadn’t seen another hover tribe in six weeks. What would it be like to see strangers every day? Worrying about intentions of so many foreign faces day in and out . . .

  Damn nightmare.

  Others dropped behind him. Even more of the tribe watched from the ship, leaning against railings, pushed up against viewing windows. One hundred feet above Yechter, the Ceanmaste hung in the sky, its whole length throbbing. It was longer than wider, like some water boats, but thick around the waist. Plenty of space for living and sleeping and recycling and even growing food. Long as we don’t get too much bigger, then we’ll need a bigger ship too . . . The hovership . . . one of mankind’s answers to the Eater Mistake. Over hundred years old and she’s still flying.

  Noana came up behind him—why was it the woman couldn’t ever talk to him face to face? Always had to surprise him? “All ready, Chief.”

  Twenty in all. Not a big number. But for new territory Yechter was always cautious. Vicet Rownac he wasn’t. Haven’t lost a man to an Eater in three years, don’t plan to ever again. He’d decided on ten scavengers under himself and ten hunters in a group under Noana. The hunters all had themselves mag-rifles to take down game, bags to hold what they killed, and optics for the dark—everything they needed to hunt.

  The scavengers only had two mag-rifles, one of which Yechter himself was hauling, the second belonging to sixteen-year-old Eorge Hackson on account of him being the son of the Head Engine. The others carried scavenge tools: torch-cutters, axes, pry-bars, chemical kits, solar lamps, and enough foil-bags to cover the entire hull of the Ceanmaste.

  Yechter nodded—as ready as he could make them. Fumbling with his mag-rifle, he brought a hand up and twisted his jaw-micro. “Hear me?”

  “Yes, Chief,” Noana whispered, her voice repeated at his ear.

  “Good.”

  “Prime pickings, Chief.”

  It looked even better on the ground than it did from on high. Doors were attached to some of the houses, the cars were in driveways leaking fuel and outlined in rust, tires mostly worn away. All the cracks of the concrete had weed and grass and tree working its way up, but overall . . . prime pickings.

  “We’ll split up. Scavenge take inside the houses, you take outside the houses. Know what you’re shooting at before you shoot,” he told them all, staring right into the eyes of each one with a mag-rifle, especially Eorge Hackson. “I don’t want no wounded due to stupidity worrying about Eaters. We ain’t seen signs yet—that don’t mean there isn’t one around—but it’s unlikely. And if there is one—trust me, you’ll notice long before you see it.”

  He chose the closest house with a door still attached. Two hundred years or so since the Mistake began by most reckons, which meant door or not, nature had worked its way against the house—cracks in walls, sagging ceilings, overgrown with creeping plants, rust, fungal growth. The fact that the natural climate of the place was nothing like what the manmade climate of the place had been in the ancient days was the only thing keeping it from being overrun with plants and trees. No more lines of water direct from the tubes they’d used back then, only what the gods gave in the way of rain.

  Two hundred years and it still has a door. Red corroded metal to be sure, but still attached, still locked when the owner had left it. Yechter hadn’t seen a door locked like this before.

  Most hover tribes kept out along the coast in well-scouted territory, running Aja to Ashingland and back, stopping at the San Bay Settlement half way to trade. Occasionally you’d mix up, make a run across Crameno cityscape, up towards Aho in the mountains where Eater’s were rare. Not as rare as locked doors though . . .

  “People used to live in this thing?” Eorge Hackson asked, expression filled with disbelief and just a little stupidity. Not that stupidity ever really left Eorge Hackson’s face . . .

  “Used to look better back then,” Yechter whispered, half to himself. He motioned to his crew. “Wrap your face.” Some used cloth, others stripped foil-bag. Being Chief, Yechter got the only breath-mask on the ship. If only the perk made the troubles worth it . . .

  He nodded to two of the biggest men in the group, Red and Keyet. “Break it down.”

  Big axes came out, but they needn’t have bothered. That much wear, the door popped with the first synchronized shoulder slam. Red seemed put out, staring at his axe forlorn-like.

  Yechter patted the lad on the shoulder. “Plenty of houses here.” A single finger in front of his face got their attention. They knew all this, but he always repeated it. Eorge Hackson wasn’t the only one with a little stupid in him. “Watch out for bugs, watch out for snakes, and keep an eye on the floor and another eye on the roof. Don’t move nothing if it don’t look secure, got it?”

  He got nine nods back.

  “And if you hear Eater, don’t run out like some settleman late for supper!”

  Nine more nods, smiles crinkling cloth and foil-bag.

  “Right then, Eorge, you’re point.”

  The lad beamed with pride. Being that pointman was about ten-times more likely to die than anyone else on scavenge, maybe the boy had more than a little stupid in him.

  *

  Yechter’s jaw-micro buzzed with Noana’s voice, “Won’t believe what I just shot.”

  Scavenge team heard the noise.

  They were still in the first house. It was like finding some lost cattle farm with all the cattle lonely and lined up to be ate. Only bad thing is we didn’t find it in Granddad’s time. Mold and rain did the worst damage to rooms mostly kept intact from the outside atmosphere, save for a hole in the ceiling here and there. It was surprising how well it had all held up.

  Guess that’s what a locked door will do for a place.

  That and the fact no one had been in the house since the day the owners had left it, probably fleeing to whatever safety they’d been told to flee to during the Mistake. It’s a lonesome place, this house. Like walking into a settlement museum. Moss and rain, little in the way of animals, and so much to pick that Yechter didn’t know where to start. Nine grown men and one half-grown Eorge Hackson staring with open-mouthed shock, their facewraps bulging out with each breath.

  Intake wires and pipes in the walls, furniture, art on the walls, even clothes in the storage rooms—Keyet had found and counted eight-nine pairs of shoes in one, all for a single woman’s feet looked like. Beat up, uncared for, ravaged by time all of it, but there were parts still worth taking: metal frames, glass tops, rubber bottoms, patches of cloth they could cut out of the whole and wash to good as new.

  Hover tribes know how to work something to good as new.

  All they’d packed in the foil-bags so far and it was worth weeks of scavenging on well-picked costal ruins. All they’d packed . . . and they hadn’t touched a single ‘pliance yet . . . and there were tons of them. Comps, lights, frigers, an ancient waver, even flats in every room. And wires and cables all over them. Yechter felt a tear on his cheek. We’re rich . . . more houses like this and we’re more than rich . . .

  Then the loud zip of a mag-rifle, followed seconds later by another pair of zips.

  “You shoot me a dog?” Yechter asked, wiping at the tear. After this find, a good dog for dinner would just top off the day as the best of his life, better than his wedding day even—though Ennif would never be hearing the thought.

  “Better.”

  “No such thing.”

  “I found such a thing.”

  “Pig?” There were supposed to be pig to the far east, past all the desert and mountains, but those were just wild rumors since Yechter had met few hover tribes desperate enough to travel even as far as Zona, much less Tejhas.

  “Pig?” Noana’s static ridden voice managed to sound scornful with disbelief just like she was in the room with him.

  “You said better than dog! Pig would be better than dog, I reckon.” Yechter pointed at two of his lounging sca
vengers listening in on the conversation and not working at cording up wires. “Arik, Olan, get to it, damn it.” Then back to Noana’s griping, “You shoot some cattle? You shot cattle and I’d give the wife to a younger man and marry you.”

  There was silence.

  “Don’t tell her I said that,” Yechter pleaded.

  “I think it’s a deer,” Noana ignored him, voice pained-like over the jaw-micro, “We’ve seen sign of more but they’re fast when you startle ‘em. Going to have to get sneaky, break up.”

  “. . . deer?”

  “Has horns like an Eater. Size of a big dog like. Small face, skinny legs. What else it be?”

  “Deer supposed to be all dead round here, even in the mountains. Eaters get them.”

  Noana growled some cursing with the jaw-micro clicked so he heard it. “You doubt me so much, why don’t you head a mile north and join us?”

  *

  “That’s a deer alright . . .”

  The deer was lain out on the Ceanmaste’s open deck along with the rest of the day’s take, the sun dying so night could get to work. It was the only mammal they’d hit, deer apparently being a pain-in-the-ass to sneak up on if you’re in a hurry. Next to it was a dozen birds, big inland birds, geese most like. The hunters had chased a deer down by a pond and startled a whole flock of the birds. Luckily they weren’t as fast with escape.

  Beside meat, the scavengers had brought up more than twenty different ‘pliances, each one in such good condition to be almost priceless with material. Then there was the few hundred pounds worth of clothing and molding furniture, even more weight from the wires and piping, and out behind the house—surrounding by a crumbled wire fence—they’d found heap and heaps of herbs and wild berries.

  Someone had themselves a garden before the Mistake.

  “I told you it was a deer!” Noana growled.

  “Well, I just can’t believe that based on your description, now can I?” Yechter asked back in his trouble-dodging way.

  Ennif and Pal Hackson—Eorge’s not as stupid daddy—were with them, doing their duties as Cook Head and Engine Head. Both were left numb and silent absorbing the day’s take. That left the entertainment to Noana and Yechter. It was Noana’s turn: “It had horns and hoofs and it is gods-awful fast, what else it be?”

  “Could have been a dog humped a pig is all I’m saying.”

  “A dog humped a pig!”

  “Could have been.”

  “You have nothing but dog on the mind!”

  “Doubt it will taste good as dog if it is deer.”

  “It will too, fast like that it has to have good muscle on it, not much fat at all.”

  They both looked to Ennif for her opinion as Cook Head. Well trained at ignoring her husband, she added Noana to the list. “We’ll pluck the birds and then save them for later. Lots of good stews and broths out of them in the days to come.”

  “And the deer?” Yechter asked.

  “It is a deer,” Ennif confirmed, “I checked one of the ancient wild life books your granddad gave me on his deathbed.”

  “Why I not surprise? Man’s causing me trouble from behind the grave . . .”

  “How ‘bout deer steaks?” Noana asked, tongue already working on her lips, “There enough?”

  Ennif shook her head, silver-brown hair swaying the same color as one of the picture frames they’d scavenged. “Not even close for the whole ship. We could make an exception: draw lotto for a meat meal special. Yechter’s father used to do things that way when meat was scarce.”

  “And Yechter’s daddy used to rig the lotto,” Yechter pointed out. “Made endless problems for the Ceanmaste doing things that way. No . . . we’ll all eat the same, no matter what we get of it.”

  Ennif reached out to touch the deer’s hide. Noana had gutted the thing, but hadn’t wasted time in the field with the full job. It even had its horns left. “We’ll chop it then,” Ennif decided. “Use all the meat, fill in with eggs and veggies fined up, then make a burger over a slice of ration-bread.”

  All four of their stomachs growled. It was Pal Hackson’s first communication as he stared open-mouthed at the ‘pliances. Yechter thought the man might have had himself a heart-death except there was some drool slipping from his corner lip.

  “My, my,” Yechter gloated, “am I going to sleep good tonight!”

  *

  “Chief!”

  Ennif was naked head to toe against him, completely quiet with sleep and looking absolutely appealing enough for any man. Been awhile since this scenario. Both the quiet and the nakedness . . . each a miracle in its own way. My thoughts of late are going to get me into trouble . . .

  “Chief!” Noana at his door, hissing through the message slot.

  What a wonderful dinner. Whole tribe came out, save for those unlucky enough to draw engine and watch duty. Figure four hundred people crammed in the social room, getting themselves a deer burger. After that Ennif served berry-flavored rehydrated ice cream and the tribe band struck up a tune which had every one smiling and clapping along.

  The whole ship buzzed with excitement. Twenty ‘pliances from one house, all that cloth they could clean, metal and wiring and rubber . . . if the Ceanmaste stripped the ruins bare they might be richer than even Vicet Rownac had ever dreamed. Might commission a brand new ship built up in San Bay . . .

  “Chief!”

  Afterward Ennif had been as frisky as she’d ever been as a teenager. Yechter had never thought he’d outgrow sex, but his body’d had a tough life of scavenge work, and there wasn’t a hair that hadn’t turned fully gray. Last night . . . Ennif had beat him down into submission in the most humiliating way . . . she’d out-sexed him. He’d found his limit . . . begged her to settle down . . . whined for sleep . . . damn deer meat must be one of them sex-jumper-cable foods Granddad was always teasing me about.

  “Chief!”

  “Go away . . .” he mumbled.

  “Chief!”

  “Noana . . . I said late start, damn you!” he finally yelled, Ennif shifting to roll away into covers. There’s a shame . . . exhausted or not it’s a lovely view . . .

  “It’s an emergency, Chief!” she hissed back, lips visible through the message slot despite the lack of light.

  Has to be close to sun-up, Yechter thought. “How big an emergency? Unless the ship’s falling out of the air then I don’t care, girl.”

  The lips set themselves in a fierce line of disapproval. “The kind of emergency you don’t want me saying aloud, Chief.”

  Eater . . .

  Shit.

  *

  “Why’s it just standing there?” Eorge Hackson asked.

  Fool boy had been the one to first see the Eater and fool more had screamed about it instead of running and finding Noana like he was supposed to. There was a crowd on the main deck looking down over the side, staring with big eyes all of them as Noana and Yechter stumbled from the inner part of the ship.

  “Everyone back, damn it!” Yechter yelled. “Ain’t losing you to slip!”

  An Eater finding them just after they found this paradise of scavenge and food, that figured with his luck. Yechter didn’t bother to look down at the Eater first thing. Someone saw an Eater, then it was an Eater, wasn’t no mistaking it for a pig or a deer. Even Eorge Hackson was smart enough to know a difference so large. What Yechter did bother to look at was his tribe, clutching themselves in the morning cool, sun rising up behind them.

  This won’t do . . . won’t do at all . . .

  He studied faces. “Eorge, you stay. Jonny and Keyet, you two also. The rest of you get down to your rooms and get some rest, Eater ain’t going to get any of you and you all got a night of partying to sleep off.”

  There was mumbling and rumbling in the crowd, but his glare silenced it up. Or Noana’s glare from over my shoulder . . . “Go on, now.”

  They filed off with the gait of a herd. He didn’t like doing that to his own tribe but it was for the best. Twenty ‘pliances
in one house. For the best, indeed . . .

  “That’s a big one all right,” Noana said from the rail, herself being an expert on big.

  With a resigned sigh, Yechter leaned over the edge and gave a glance down at mankind’s biggest enemy beside itself.

  An Eater.

  Sure enough . . . it’s a big one . . . had to be a big one . . . couldn’t be a baby we could drop something on and crush, had to be old and big and thick with armor.

  Almost twenty meters tall at the shoulder, longer than even that, it had four big limbs stretching out ending in clawed feet the size of rusted cars. Then the neck, head, and the jaws coming out another ten meters, all mouth and nose and eyes and ears: better to smell you with, better to see you with, better to hear you with. All of it was covered in thick metallic shells that glowed in the sun, concentric like some oversized roly polie, up its back, arch grinding against arch, then up its neck and finally small scales of grey down its snout, teeth showing underneath.

  Mankind’s biggest enemy.

  Mankind’s biggest mistake.

  Making globe-warm look not so darn bad.

  Rising tides not finding much traction against man-eating genetically-manufactured carbon-dioxide scrubbers gone wrong. Not for the first time he asked himself: why’d the idiot science-men give it armor?

  “Just the one,” Yechter said, mostly to himself.

  “Why’s it just standing there?” Eorge Hackson asked.

  Poor boy had never seen one. Many didn’t. Even in hover tribes. They made such an effort to avoid them they rarely chanced by one in the field. If the scavengers or hunters did come across one it was all a bunch of hide-and-chase getting to the hovership, but once they were back and the call was given, Ceanmaste could get out in a hurry. Since Eaters are never alone . . . save for this one.

  “Think it had itself a mutation?” Noana asked. Girl’d gotten a pair of mag-rifles from somewhere and handed one to him.

  Guess she already knows the plan.

  Yechter checked it proper then tossed the mag-rifle over his back. “Sometimes they do go rogue. When they get old and just want to be alone and die on their own terms.” The cold morning air went right through his clothes and found his bones. “I can sympathize with ‘em some mornings.”