by T. J. Bass
7
Big Hunt at 50:00
Tiller lumbered along, turning the soil. Its ten-ton chassis traveled lightly on wide, soft wheels and powerful motor units. As its appendages dug into the wetter bottom lands it slowed. Hugh approached from behind. A rear optic picked him out. Tiller stopped.
‘Good morning, human.’
‘Hi!’ said Hugh. ‘Can you give me a ride back to my people in yonder valley?’
The big meck politely turned toward the valley, estimating the distance at two miles – and turned him down.
‘I am very sorry, human. But I have my chores.’
‘Mind if I ride along?’
‘Enjoy your company.’
Hugh climbed up on the neck behind the anterior bulge of neurocircuitry. ‘Play me a tune,’ he asked. The Agromeck tuned in on some entertainment channel for music-of-the-day. Hugh waited, watching the sky. Even during the day there were visible aurora when the EM disturbance was greatest. About an hour later the light blue flares crawled across the northern sky. The music fizzed and blanked out. Moving quickly, Hugh reached up and plucked out the antenna. Tiller stopped.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I would like a taxi ride into the valley.’
‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’
‘And keep your appendages up while we travel.’
The acromegalic raised a heavy stone and pounded the shaft door – denting and chipping.
‘Entrance unauthorized—’ moaned Door.
Slowly the metalloid paneling warped under the blows. Door’s microcircuits cracked and bent as the mechanical stresses vibrated through the paper-thin brain. Fatigued, the acromegalic set down his stone and peered curiously through the elliptical-shaped crevice. It was his first look into the dreaded hive.
‘It’s dark in there – smells kind of rotten,’ he related to the crowd behind him. ‘There are humans in there – little fat guys. They seem to be armed and waiting. Better call some of the stronger, young men before I go any further on this door.’
Tiller rolled up to the door carrying about twenty light-hearted fugitives. They were laughing and joking until they saw the door.
‘You want to go inside?’ asked one incredulously.
‘Tiller, here, can crush open that door – can’t you, Tiller?’
The big Agromeck balked. ‘I cannot damage – especially another cyber that is just doing its duty.’
‘Door is a cyber?’
‘Here, give me that stone. I’ll show you how it is done,’ said a burly fellow. He took up the stone and bounced it hard off the door. Little circuits broke. Door sagged, mindless.
Garage was empty except for mecks. The floor by Door was littered with throwing nets and quarterstaffs, but Security had fled. Groping in the semi-darkness, the ragged fugitives filed inside cautiously – fingering heaps of rubbish and small discarded parts. Garage retracted its small Servomecks. Larger Agromecks rested in their bays – eyeing the new arrivals with only mild interest.
Moses and Hugh noticed the gaping door and entered.
‘Here’s a dispenser. Toothpick, see how much food it will deliver,’ said Moses. He set the cyberspear up against the garage dispenser while he explored the bays. Little food items began to fall into the chute, sluggish at first – but when Toothpick figured out the ordering sequence there was a steady shower of protein bars. Hugh snapped antennae from the Agromecks he found and ordered them Outside.
‘Lots of power sockets here. We should be able to recharge the mecks, load up on food bars and move on in pretty good shape,’ said Hugh.
Moses smiled. ‘Take a load of men to that other shaft cap. These garages are pretty standard. Should find the same things there.’
Squads of fugitives assaulted twenty shaft caps that day. The five-toed glacier became an army – the first Earth had seen for over a thousand years. Agromecks became armored personnel carriers; food bars, rations; garage scrap, weapons.
Greyhound II hovered. The bug-eyed hunter swung down-harness and stood on a rise of ground overlooking the mass of fugitives. Too far for bowshot. The craft lifted off to put another hunter on the far side.
‘There’s one!’ shouted Hugh. He was standing on Tiller’s back directing the big meck on perimeter patrol. The twenty club-swinging fugitives leaped from their taxi-meck and rushed the startled hunter.
‘Let me at him.’
‘This one is mine.’
An awkward arrow wobbled into the flesh of the first hunter – causing only a three-inch slash across the ribs. The cutting and hacking that followed reminded Hugh of some sort of ceremony, rather than a battle. Whatever evil spirits might have inhabited that soft, little body – they were certainly driven out. When they moved on, Hugh had another bow.
That night Tiller deposited a squad of tired bowmen at Moses’ campfire.
‘So the outriders are back. Have a good patrol?’
‘Caught seven hunters before they could kill. Two got through – lost eight of our people from the right wing.’
Moses ladled soup from a kettle – upside-down fender propped on stones and hot coals. Food bars boiled with vegetable scraps. The weary patrol ate eagerly.
The next day was much better. The army flowed south another twenty miles – cracking into a dozen shaft caps. The kidnapped Agromecks served well – as long as they weren’t asked to take an active part in the killing. They dogged the Huntercraft and tracked the hunters. More of Moses’ people had hand weapons now. The perimeter was very secure. Food bars stolen from the hive proved almost adequate to quiet the hunger pangs by nightfall.
Hugh was almost smug as he sat around the campfire. His heavy axle-bludgeon was cradled on his knees.
‘If things continue as well as they are – we’ll have no trouble reaching the border.’
Moses paced around the little group nervously. The massive army had cohesion – purpose. He felt the power that a leader must feel. He was Earth’s first general in a millennium. He could lead his people anywhere tonite, and they’d follow. Odd, but he felt he would be successful – with Toothpick’s help. He wondered if all generals felt such optimism.
The next morning he studied the horizon apprehensively.
‘Aren’t those Harvesters?’
Hugh followed Moses’ index finger to a distant army of busy machines – dust and fodder flew.
‘So?’ said Hugh. ‘They’re harvesting. As long as they stay over there and do their job—’
Moses’ sharp eyes and years of living in the gardens told him something was wrong. He ran over to Tiller.
‘Old meck, tell me – what are those Harvesters doing?’
Tiller flexed his optics. Three miles was a long view for him, but the spectroscopic analysis was all he needed.
‘They harvest triple-crop – but it is not ripe.’
Moses’ suspicions were confirmed. A three-mile zone was being harvested – all around the army. Soon foam filled the zone to a depth of seven feet. The sun fried the foam nutrients into a pasty crust on top. Auxins and insect hormones were probably present in almost toxic levels.
‘Crack the shaft caps!’ shouted Moses. The army still covered an area three miles in diameter. Foam jets were bent and blocked as they started to ooze. The ten shaft caps in their camp were smashed into – they were devoid of supplies – dispensers were empty. Frightened citizens cowered in their cubicles – starving.
Moses led a small band of his more courageous followers downspiral to shaft base. Nothing. The entire city was being slowly starved by Big ES. Not even water flowed in the bubblers. Refreshers filled with offal.
‘Are these citizens being cut off with us?’ asked Hugh.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Moses. ‘When we move on they’ll get their usual basic rations. We’ll have to hurry to 50:00 now. We’ll be needing food.’
Moses stood on the canal bank shouting up to Hugh.
‘Get the antenna?’
‘Right.’
Hugh sat down on Irrigator’s trellis back and directed the spray nozzles with firm words. The meck did its best. The canal waters rained on the foam – melting it away. Soon the hungry army had a soggy path south. Moses put troops on both sides of the canal. They followed the waterway – spraying foam away – and drinking from the Irrigator’s nozzles.
‘At least there’s water up here. Those poor bastards down in the hive aren’t so lucky. That last city we went into had bodies on the spiral,’ said Hugh.
Moses shrugged.
‘We can’t be too concerned for them. They’d kill us if they could.’
The columns of Agromecks trundled south. Moses’ army marched in little companies now – each managing its own food and water problems – each taking its turn on the perimeter – and each caring for its sick and wounded. Efficiency improved.
The army flowed into a wide, shallow depression that ran north-south. It was cultivated now, but in the past it had carried fresh waters from the polar ice cap.
‘This the river?’ asked Moses.
Toothpick studied the sun’s arc in the sky.
‘No,’ said the cyberspear. ‘This should lead to it though. We have several more days’ travel.’
Moses, Toothpick and Hugh rode point on Tiller.
‘Looks like a river bed to me.’
‘Just an old dry canal. Toothpick is looking for the geological memory of a real river. It used to be the principle river on the continent – The River,’ explained Moses.
That night, as the main army bedded down, Tiller rolled on south several miles and climbed a hill. Toothpick studied the stars.
Harvesters cleared and Agrifoam flowed. Sitting on Tiller’s chassis kept them dry, but landmarks were masked by the white fluff, and they had to travel slowly – carefully.
At dawn Moses looked hopefully at the southern horizon – jumbled boulders and skeletons of derelict mecks – the socio-political moraine that marked the border at 50:00.
‘There it is,’ said Toothpick confidently. ‘Our troubles are over.’
‘And none too soon,’ said Hugh. ‘A few more days and we’d be losing people to hunger.’
The horde cut its way out of the encircling foam and quickened its pace, but it stopped at sundown, exhausted, hungry and still half a day’s march from its goal.
‘Sent runners to scout ahead,’ said a left flank group leader. ‘Had lots of volunteers – there are few rations in camp.’
‘I’d like to go too,’ said a voice across the fire. ‘I’m anxious to see those bountiful crops Toothpick has been promising.’
‘Maybe the Big ES has harvested them too – it’s keeping well ahead of us, here. Nothing edible for miles.’
‘Don’t worry. Toothpick will take care of us.’
Noisy Agromecks patrolled the perimeter of the huge encampment.
‘Bountiful – food. Squeak,’ said Toothpick. ‘Many of my circuits were damaged. Memory shot full of holes. Squeak! Bountiful food at fifty-oh-oh.’
Moses listened to his companion cyberspear. He was a little apprehensive. Toothpick’s information about 50:00 lacked the usual convincing details that his other predictions had had. Moses wouldn’t relax until his people were safe.
Dawn brought the return of the scouts.
‘Ambush!’ shouted the first scout. ‘There is an army waiting for us. If we want the food we’ll have to fight for it.’
‘How many?’ asked Hugh.
‘Thousands. An army the size of ours.’
Hugh glanced at Moses questioningly. Toothpick squeaked. Other scouts came in with a similar report.
‘We’ll fight. What other choice is there?’ said Hugh, waving his bludgeon. The battle cry passed from man to man – driven by hunger.
Toothpick tried to scan but the EM upheaval was free from Huntercraft communication efforts.
‘Wait,’ said Toothpick. ‘I do not detect hunters. Whose army can it be?’
The scouts glanced at each other. Gradually they put together their fleeting observations.
‘No craft or equipment – just spears. No hive helmets. Heads hairy. Uniforms tattered like our own. Deployed like an experienced army – holding high ground – patrols out.’
‘No craft—’ mumbled Moses. He swung up onto Tiller’s back. ‘Let’s take a meck force and scout ahead – take a close look during the daylight. Toothpick thinks we may not have to fight.’
Hip stood with flowing robes and outstretched arms facing the sunrise – mists masked the face of the sun. Ball glinted on a cairn in front of him. Beyond Ball, in the dry river bed, his throng of buckeye followers repeated after him – his holy words.
‘This is The River,’ he intoned.
‘The River – The River—’ they chanted.
‘Soon we will be with Olga.’
‘With Olga – with Olga.’
‘Olga is Love.’
‘Love – Love.’
Tinker and Mu Ren picked their way along the rocky river bed to their shelter. Tinker Junior slept on their packs.
‘Are you sure this is the right river? It seems so narrow,’ said Mu Ren.
Tinker shrugged. ‘One place is as good as another for Hip’s ceremonies. I think he used the stars to find the right latitude. I’m worried that he has bit off a little more than he can chew. His little tricks were enough for our villagers, but buckeyes from all over the continent are here now – hundreds of thousands. They are expecting a pretty big show – and they could get nasty if they don’t get it.’
Mu Ren sat down on her bundle. Her belly was growing again. Their third child – if they hadn’t lost one.
‘I don’t need a big show,’ she said. ‘I’d be happy if we were back on Mount Tabulum. At least we had food.’
Tinker patted her on the head. ‘The Hip has promised bountiful food at The River. He hasn’t been wrong before. Let’s trust him a while longer. There will always be time to start back for home, if this doesn’t work out. The Huntercraft aren’t too efficient these days. Everything will work out.’
He was interrupted by distant wild screams. The calloused and sinewy army of buckeyes seldom reacted with such emotional sounds. Something must be terribly wrong, he thought. Clutching his spear he ran toward the disturbance.
The buckeyes had cleared away from a shaft cap. They stood in a sullen ring fifty yards from the closed garage door. Outside the door were bodies. About thirty buckeyes lay writhing with arrow wounds. Many of the wounded had more than one bloody shaft in their bodies. Some lay still.
Tinker ran out alone onto the field of carnage. Buckeyes, coweyes, jungle bunnies – a random sample of their people. Whoever shot the arrows certainly didn’t aim. Then he looked back at the circle of faces watching – many more had arrows dangling from superficial punctures – walking wounded.
‘There must be a hundred arrows!’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened?’
One of the older buckeyes approached. His left biceps was transfixed by a bloody shaft.
‘The garage door. It opened suddenly. There were three rows of hunters with bowstrings pulled way back. They fired, and the door closed.’
‘Watch out!’
The door hissed open. Tinker dove to the ground. A volley of arrows passed over. The old man was too slow and caught one in the chest. Most of the other arrows flew the fifty yards and stuck ineffectually into tough hides – barely penetrating.
Tinker shouted. ‘Get some spearchuckers up here. On the double. When that door opens again, I want it blocked open with something. Those rocks. We’re going to clean out those hunters.’
The row of spearchuckers carried tough hide shields. They stood four deep with spears ready. Garage’s optics above the door picked up their sullen visages and muscular arms. Door remained closed.
Hip came over to assist with the healing by calling down cures from the heavens. Tinker labored long hours removing arrow heads. Most injuries in adults were minor – a rib, sternum or any other bone usuall
y stopped the arrow. Belly wounds were bad. So were the deep wounds of shoulders or hips if the major vessels or nerve trunks were injured. For children it was different. The shaft could pass clean through the little trunks, anyplace. Tinker worked angrily – picturing his own children in his mind as possible victims.
When another shaft cap a mile away popped its door and sent a shower of arrows into the resting buckeyes, Tinker’s curses could be heard all over the camp.
‘Let’s break into one of those shaft cities and clean them out!’ he shouted.
A group of angry spearchuckers soon formed up behind him. Hip stopped them with a raised hand.
‘Olga is Love,’ he sang.’
‘Love – love,’ chanted his followers.
He took Tinker aside and spoke to him with a hand on his shoulder.
‘These are trying times, but I did not gather my people to wage war. We are Followers of Olga – people of peace.’
‘But your people are getting punched full of holes. Look at all those arrows.’
Hip stood majestically among his ragged followers, unmindful of the bleeding wounds.
‘Olga will protect us. That’s all we need to know.’
Tinker shook his head and returned to Mu Ren and Junior.
‘I can’t get through to him that we’ve got to strike back. The Big ES is going to keep picking on us until we hurt it.’
She hugged him lightly.
‘In a way, I agree with you. But Hip has a point. If you invade the hive I may never see you again.’
Tinker sat dumbly for a few minutes, then with a serious set to his brow, he unfolded his tool kit. Rocks were shaped into a charcoal forge. He searched the harvested gardens until he found what he was looking for – an air vent. The louvers proved to be quite malleable.
Two puberty-minus-four children worked the cetacean-hide bellows while Tinker fashioned the metal. The coals pulsed and glowed a pleasant orange. His stone hammer and anvil clicked and clacked. Sparks flew. All through the night he worked. More louvers were brought to him by the eager spearchuckers. They crowded around, marveling, as he quenched, reheated and pounded.
