by T. J. Bass
‘What is so manly about a Hunt?’ asked Moses. ‘You take some drugs to give you courage, and you use a bow against some ignorant savage. That game has no chance against all the electronic gear.’
‘It is manly to just be there – Outside. I was putting it on the line, not sitting here talking big about a megajury killing.’
‘You’re here now.’
The little man’s adrenergic response pulled him from his stool. He strode around the bar shouting at Moses: ‘Look, killer – you’re probably real good at pushing buttons to kill some unfortunate guy whose brain malfunctions. But your reason is all wet. There isn’t enough overcrowding to warrant the unnecessary killing of anyone. Have you ever looked Outside? I went out and didn’t see anything – just the black dirt, a few shaft caps and that damn Agrifoam. No buckeyes. If Hunter Control can be wrong about buckeyes, why can’t the Suspension Clinics be wrong about overcrowding?’
‘You’re not a very trusting fellow.’
The little man calmed.
‘I question a lot of things – especially the overcrowding. What can we really see in our shaft cities? Nothing. Just walls. Tubeway walls. Shaft walls. Cubicle walls. Even if you travel there are just more walls. I’d just like to get a good look Outside once – like from the top of a mountain. See just how crowded the shaft caps are.’
‘We’re over half way up a mountain right now. Why don’t we climb up and have a look around?’ challenged Moses.
The bar grew silent. All eyes moved to the ceiling where coils of frayed rope hung from rusted pitons. The pitons, granular with age, were symbolic of the Climb. Most Nebishes came here for sex, drinking and spectating. Today Moses and the hostile would entertain.
Clumsy in his insulated gear, Moses crunched across the virgin snow to the edge of the balcony. A flexible ladder danced in the wind. The hostile crunched past and put his foot in a rung to hold the ladder taut. He gestured for Moses to go first.
As Moses started up, the hostile lifted his foot and the ladder jumped out of the snow. Wind sailed Moses over the mile-deep crevasse. Spinning like a kite, he saw a rotating view of sky, mountain, chasm, sky, mountain, chasm – vastness and vertigo triggered primordial fears. His muscles locked rigidly. Around and around he turned until his gravity senses were lost – clouds above and mists below merged. Time stopped. Snowflakes on his faceplate refused to melt.
When the wind changed direction, he swung back over the ledge. Dizzy, he looked down at the firm surface mocking him only a few feet below. The ladder’s slack whipped up huge chunks of snow as it snaked back and forth. He tried to climb down, but his fingers were frozen to the rungs by fear. The group from the bar stood, drinks in hand, watching through the open door and taking sadistic pleasure in his terror. The wind sent him back out over the misty void and he blacked out.
He felt himself falling. Screaming, he opened his eyes to see that he was safe on his cot. Bulky dressings covered his hands and feet. His nose hurt. His Attendant hurried to his side with a liter of hot broth. She steadied his hands while he drank deeply.
‘Try to relax,’ she said. ‘But don’t close your eyes until your semicircular canals settle down. You’re going to feel like you’re spinning and falling for a while yet. You were on the ladder a long time before I got you down.’
‘Thanks,’ said Moses.
The broth was not too bad – fat cubes, woven protein and a vegetable bar. It strengthened him quickly. She removed her garments and crawled under the covers, rubbing him briskly.
‘Hey. You’re going to injure my frostbite.’
‘It isn’t bad. Probably won’t even blister. Those bandages can probably come off tomorrow.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said, flexing his fingers carefully. ‘Then I’ll still be able to keep my appointment up on the mountain with that little hostile.’
‘He is looking forward to it – dropped in while the Mediteck/meck was working on you. Three days from now.’
‘Three days . . .’ said Moses, propping up his pillow.
The Attendant poured two glasses of liqueur – dabbing a few drops of the aromatic fluid on her wrists and throat.
‘Plenty of time . . .’ she said softly, handing him his glass.
‘For what?’
‘Kipling,’ she answered. With nimble fingers she adjusted the cot-and-a-half controls. The bedding flexed. Two bolsters were brought from the closet. He watched – puzzled. She swiveled their dispenser closer and carried a gadget-covered cord into bed with her. As the viewscreen activated she crawled roughly onto his lap. He smelled and tasted pomegranates.
‘Easy . . .’ he said. ‘I’ve never been kipled before.’
The next three days passed pleasantly.
Sensate focus was directed toward taste, smell and touch as they shared their viewscreen’s presentation of ancient ditties, ballads, ghost stories and other verses.
Moses kept his foot in the rung while the little hostile climbed the ladder. Through the bug-eyed lenses of his Pelger-Huet helmet, the scene appeared gray-on-gray. He listened to music – soothing strings – while he climbed. The wind whipped him about, as before, but he climbed steadily. The hostile gave him a hand up to the narrow icy ledge. They cracked their helmets and eyed each other.
‘Sorry about the ladder ride the other day – but it was the best way I know to cure your Outside phobias.’
Moses shrugged. Cure or kill, he thought.
The hostile waited for his apology to be acknowledged. Moses glared.
‘Okay, killer,’ said the hostile, ‘follow me. We hike up the ridge to the snow line. Then it’s a mile or so to the cave. We can sleep there and go on to the summit in the morning.’
Moses followed with his helmet cracked to conserve oxygen – save enough to keep the incubus off his chest while he slept. The trail was narrow and rough. Snow flurries hid the hostile occasionally. Ice and loose drifts made the footing treacherous. Pitons and a line guided him on steep spots. At dusk he sipped water and turned on his suit light. Pausing at the lip of the miniglacier, Moses glanced eastward and saw the slopes of other mountains begin to glow as millions of cliff-dwellers turned on their lights. The foothills and flatlands remained dark – there were few lights in the gardens.
Wading through knee-deep powder tired Moses. He closed his helmet and took oxygen. A dark stone wall loomed ahead. The hostile’s light penciled about – illuminating black stone and white snow. A triangular crack at the base of the wall formed the mouth of a cave.
‘Moses,’ called the hostile. ‘You go inside and unroll your bedding while I try to find some firewood.’ He began to make random circles in the snow.
Firewood? This far above the tree line? Moses was too fatigued to argue. Without a word Moses wandered deep into the cave looking for relief from the numbing cold. The walls were icy, about five feet apart at the mouth, and widening to a cubicle-sized chamber about twenty yards inside. He flashed his light around. Odd. He thought he smelled wood burning.
‘Okay in there?’ came the hostile’s shout from the mouth of the cave.
Moses turned around to answer. A moment later he was knocked to his knees by a thunder clap that vibrated the cave floor and showered him with pebbles. In the silence that followed he heard an evil laugh from further back in the cave. The thunder clap had come from the mouth of the cave. There were no more sounds from the hostile.
Moses crawled into a corner and turned off his light. Footsteps approached from the back of the cave. He fumbled for his small ice pick. The footsteps were accompanied by a flickering torch.
Moses held his breath. What he saw chilled him. A sinewy old man approached carrying a burning pine cone on a stout spear. His legs were wrapped below the knees, and he wore tattered rags and a loose outer cloak. He was not alone. Walking before him was a squarish, four-legged beast that should have been long extinct – a seventy-pound, long-snouted carnivore. The beast was covered with battle scars. Its eyes were slits behind thick lids of gr
istle. Moses did not know its species, but its long, well-toothed snout told its diet.
Man and beast moved past Moses toward the mouth of the cave. Several minutes later they returned carrying peculiar jointed structures that dripped. The man’s resembled a human leg, the dog’s a human arm. This time the procession stopped at Moses’ hiding place.
‘Eppendorff?’ called the old man, shifting his grip on the dripping burden. He carried it casually at the knee. ‘Come back to our fire. We want to talk.’
From his seated position on the floor of the cave Moses viewed the beast as hopeless odds. The beast squinted at him through slant eyes, wagged its tail three times and led the way back to the fire. Its hunk of meat dragged – leaving a sticky trail. Moses got to his feet and tried to be casual about slipping his ice pick back into his belt.
The flame was small, stingy, fed by a few resinous fragments of pine knot. The walls were sooty. The floor was littered with small bundles of twigs and bones – cracked femurs, arched ribcages, and a whole line of skulls up against the wall.
A buckeye camp site!
The old man stabbed a peg under the leg’s Achilles tendon and hung it in one of the dark recesses of the cave.
‘Pull up a rock and relax. I’ll have something cooking for us in a minute.’
‘You’re not planning on eating that—’ Moses gagged.
That red thing? Oh, no. Fresh stuff is too tough. I have a nice black aged quarter here someplace.’
The old man crawled back into another recess and returned with a shrunken dark object fuzzed with mold. Moses couldn’t recognize it – he asked no questions.
The glowing coals flared up white and blue under the dripping meat. The beast lay, paws and chin on its raw forequarter, until the old man gestured for it to eat. Then its powerful teeth crunched quickly – devouring soft tissue and bone alike. Only the epiphyses of the long bones remained – dense and without marrow. Moses was fascinated by the sheen of the beast’s teeth. They looked metallic!
‘The conditions in this cave are ideal for aging meat,’ said the old man, offering Moses a generous muscle bundle. ‘Almost makes the trip worthwhile.’
Moses held his portion at arm’s length.
‘Go ahead and eat,’ said the old man. ‘You’re from the hive. Where do you think all your woven protein comes from – algae? Ha! This is the same thing, only it hasn’t had all the flavors processed out.’
Moses frowned. ‘Meat? Wasn’t that a human being you just killed? Don’t you have any feelings?’
‘Just so much protein to me,’ snarled the old man. ‘Can’t have too much feeling for the four-toed hive creatures – parasites!’ Pointing his spear at Moses for emphasis, he admonished: ‘And don’t waste time mourning that one. He had the same thing planned for you. Didn’t you notice the way he sent you into the cave first with the pretext of looking for firewood? He’s been at this Rec Center long enough to know the gossip. I’ve been here before – and they never know when I’ll be back.’
‘You’re a – buckeye?’
The old man stood up apologetically: ‘Oh, I am sorry. We’ve been eavesdropping on you so long – waiting for you to come up here – that we forgot you didn’t know us. I’m Moon – old man Moon, and this is my dog, Dan.’
‘Eavesdropping?’ said Moses, handing his charred muscle to the dog.
‘Toothpick spied on you. He has the circuits for it.’
Moon gestured towards his spear.
‘Hi,’ said the spear. ‘I’m Toothpick. Actually, your being here is my idea.’
Eppendorff stared at the spear – a machine. A very sophisticated machine. His years in the Pipe caste had exposed him to many machines – mostly class tens. Toothpick was more than a class ten.
‘But why?’
‘We want you to come with us – live Outside,’ said Toothpick.
‘Impossible. Life is too short for me to waste it being hunted.’
Moon handed Toothpick to him, saying: ‘Here, Eppendorff, take Toothpick for a walk. Let him convince you.’
Moses Eppendorff carried Toothpick gingerly toward the mouth of the cave. They passed a massive stone deadfall and stepped out under the stars. Moses turned on his suit heat and light, cracking the helmet open.
Toothpick spoke: ‘Don’t mind the way Moon talks. He has confidence in me because I’m so old. Actually I’m just a leftover cyber from the period when man had many of us. It was an age of high technology and low population density – man and his machines were all over this planet, in the sea and air – even off planet – the moon, near space – even Mars and Deimos. Ancient five-toed man even dreamed of star travel. I enjoyed those days – companion cybers were numerous. My circuits must have been on stand-by for centuries. I still feel strong, well-charged. Now I am Moon’s cyber. He gives me intellectual stimulation. I try to protect him. But now I think we need a younger man: you, Moses. Moon and Dan are old – nearly two hundred. Their genetic clocks are off, but their scars accumulate – slowing them down. Hunters will get them soon, unless we have a new strong partner.’
Moses nodded. He had heard of early attempts at genetic decoding – society’s attempt at improving the citizen stock. The result was Homo superior, the complacent hive citizen. Genetic engineers stumbled on the clock – polycistronic RNA which translated the message of species life span from the gene to the messenger RNA. A virus-like anti-gene was manufactured to destroy the clock, but the Big ES didn’t like the idea of multi-centenarian Methuselahs accumulating and obstructing the evolution of ideas. The old five-toeds had to be replaced over and over in order for the hive to evolve. Clock work was stopped – Moon and Dan were just relics. The gene molders turned to other things – the five-toed gene. It carried more than the toe . . . immunoglobulin A, calcium and collagen, neurohumoral axis, melanocytes. Those with the fifth toe could not be crowded. It had to be engineered out of the population,
‘Did man ever reach the stars?’ asked Moses.
Toothpick didn’t answer immediately.
‘I’m not certain,’ said the cyber slowly. ‘My own memory banks are small. What they contain seems to have been put in a long time ago. A lot of it doesn’t make sense. I’ve tried spying on the circuits of Big ES, but the stacks are badly cross-indexed. Whenever I make contact the questing fields seek me out and we have to run from hunters. Stars? I feel a warmth in my circuits, but I can’t explain it. I like to think that man did reach the stars before the hive stagnated.’
Eppendorff knew about stagnation. The Pipe caste was losing ground with simple drinking water and heat pollution.
They talked through the night. Toothpick and Moon had walked over most of the two major continents in the hemisphere. Conditions were the same everywhere. In the tropical and temperate zones, man had moved into underground shaft cities and cultivated every square inch of the surface. Vagabonds between the cities were tolerated when their numbers were small, but were relentlessly hunted like varmints when they increased.
Toothpick did not like this new Earth, but – Moses reasoned – he was a companion cyber and would naturally prefer a world where he could play a more important role than that of a vagabond.
At dawn Moon reset the deadfall at the cave mouth. It was a beautiful job of stonecutting – if you could ignore the gore long enough to admire the precision of the counterweight and the marble key.
Locking the key with his foot, Moon said, ‘Don’t want anyone to get hurt while we’re away—’ and laughed.
He picked up a ten-centimeter section of tube and attached it to Toothpick’s shaft. It had an optic and had been set in the trigger area. Toothpick was more than a toy.
Moon gathered up the hostile’s kit and carried it back to the fire. Pocketing the food bars, he tried on various articles of clothing.
‘This issue tissue certainly doesn’t last long,’ he complained.
He was ready to lead out when Moses gave him an argument.
‘Thanks for the invitation
– but I won’t be going with you. It sounds like an interesting existence. I just don’t want to end my days as a fugitive crop-crusher . . . and certainly not as a cannibal.’
Moon flushed with anger.
‘Do you really know what you’re going back to? That secure position in your hive culture? What is your life really? You live alone with no possibility of changing your future. Jobs? Move the sewage or kill the psychotic. Love? Nothing. Don’t tell me about your Attendant back there. The only reason she took you down off that ladder was to save her share of your rations. Future? You have none. That hive culture is reproducing only the four-toeds. If you come with us you can have more children than you can count.’
Moses winced at the thought.
‘Jungle bunnies? Have children that will be hunted all their lives?’
‘It is better to be hunted than not to exist at all. Look, you owe it to the human race to try to pass on your genetic fifth toe – Toothpick thinks you were born with the bud of one. The hive culture is the end of the line for man – evolution stops here. Hive humans can survive hundreds of millions of years with their damn four toes. Nebishes can’t evolve. The hive is like a living organism – each individual is just a specialized unit with one function. Even reproduction and sex are separated. If a Nebish ever did come up with a mutation that was advantageous for the individual, he’d probably end up in suspension. It only took a few thousand years to advance from camp fires to space ships. In the next million years the hive will accomplish nothing. It doesn’t have to. It is the dominant life form on the planet.’
Moses glanced at the old man, Toothpick and Dan.
Snugging up his shoulder harness, he put on his helmet and said, ‘Well, I came to see the other side of this mountain. Might as well take a real good look.’
Two humans, a dog and a cyber made the trip to the summit. The view was encouraging – naked rocks, ice, snow and an endless blue sky flecked with small puffs of white cloud. The old man waved proudly at the austere surroundings.
