by Ian Stewart
your eye-ring open for them. New kinds, too. They seem to thrive on fireworks. The changes in the air must be good for them.» Halfholder knew about aeroplankton—you could eat them, raw or cooked, and they were delicious.
It was time to go home. On the way, Halfholder started asking all the other questions that she had suppressed while the display was happening.
«Where do fireworks come from?»
It was typical of Halfholder to want more than just the spectacle. Annoying though her attitude sometimes was, her squod valued it as a sign of an inquiring brain and did its best to satisfy her demands. «They come from the sky, Halfholder.»
«The clouds make them?»
«No, they come from above the clouds. A long way above them.»
«Above the clouds?» Halfholder had never heard about above-the-clouds. This was exciting. She'd noticed that grownups often told her exciting things on special occasions. «What is above the clouds?»
«Space. Lots and lots of empty space. Nothing, not even air.»
«No clouds?»
«Well, there are some very big clouds of very thin gas a very long way away . . . but mostly what's up there is rocks.»
«You said it was empty.»
«Pedantic child. Nearly empty, then. Lots of space and a few bits that aren't.»
«What are rocks?»
«Lumps of very hard stuff, there is none of it here. The rocks . . . float in space, and sometimes they fall down. That's what the fireworks are—bunches of small rocks. When they encounter our world, the air makes them heat up and that makes all the colors. The watchers only let the little rocks through, the ones that just make pretty sparks and don't do any harm.»
«Are there big rocks in space, too?»
«Some. We don't usually think about them, Halfholder: that's the watchers' task, symbiauts are very good at that sort of thing. There is one very big, special rock . . . but it is not really a rock, it is made of gas. Very hot gas. That one is even bigger than Secondhome. Other rocks go around it—Secondhome is one of them.»
«I did not know Secondhome was a rock.»
«Well ... it is a kind of rock. A small solid rock inside a big gas . . . rock. That is why we can live on it—it has the right kind of gas. We call the gas
This was fascinating. We live on a big rock . . . there are other big rocks . . . «Who lives on the other rocks?»
What a question] «Nobody. Blimps cannot live on them, they have the wrong kind of gas.»
Halfholder's imagination was racing. «But—could there not be . . . special kinds of blimps that breathe a different kind of gas and do not mind the cold?» It seemed reasonable enough to her, and it all came out in a rush.
«Do not be so foolish, Halfholder! How could there be different kinds of blimps? Blimps have lifesouls. The Lifesoul Cherisher could not cherish a creature without a lifesoul, and if you have a lifesoul, you have to be just like us. That is why animals have no lifesouls.»
Halfholder digested this. It made sense of a lot of things she'd been hearing about as she grew Which reminded her . . . «Do plasmoids have lifesouls?»
«Who told you about plasmoids?»
«The Didact for the Distant Past. I have been learning about the Exodus.»
What are they teaching the young these days? «Plasmoids. Xxxx ...» A tricky one. «Plasmoids have . . . their own kind of lifesoul, I suppose. I have never thought about it before.»
«The Didact said the Exodus happened because the plasmolds were upset by snowstrikes. But when I asked him what those were, he said I would have to wait until I was grown up. What's a snowstrike?»
«Xxxx—oh, look, Halfholder, there's a vendaut selling am-moniated aeroplankton! Would you like some? They're really nice!»
Humplet and Turbo were fine, but Halfholder was getting worried about Mopple. The three brightly colored gaspods had been gifted to her less than a thousand years ago; watching them growing up in the netting enclosure that fenced off one corner of her private nook, she had become fond of them. Halfholder had been aware for a while that Mopple was in some sort of trouble, so it wasn't a complete surprise when she came in one day and found the bulbous creature floating on its back. It seemed perfectly happy that way . . . but you couldn't have an upside-down gaspod in your vivarium: everyone who saw it would huffle. And she couldn't bear the thought of sending the poor thing to the terminator when it seemed entirely contented with an inverted lifestyle.
She cast around for an idea and spotted a disused flotation bladder. Yes! A bag or two of live levispheres, a spot of glue, and she'd be in business.
She was holding the levisphere-filled bladder down with two trunks and dabbing the glue onto it with a third when Phrasemonger bobbed in unannounced. Startled, Halfholder let go of the bladder and it popped up to the ceiling. Ample Phrasemonger of the Violent Foam's eyes popped out in involuntary shock, but he quickly recovered his poise. Glancing around the nook, he took in the inverted gaspod, the cocoon of quick-drying glue, and the flotation bladder.
«lt is an interesting idea, Halfholder, but it is still going to look very silly. We can get you another gaspod, and Mopple will be well treated by the terminator . . . There is no need to look at me like that, gaspods do not— xxxx, very well, have it your own way. Just do not expect anyone else to help out if it does not work.»
«It will work,» said Halfholder, floating up to the roof to retrieve the bladder. «But Mopple may not like it. If he does not, we can have him terminated. I just want him to have a chance.»
Phrasemonger could sympathize, but there was a problem. «You know what is wrong with him, do you not? You know that whatever you do, he will slowly get worse?» Clearly the adolescent had no idea. «He must have a tumor, a nasty lump, on the top of his reservoir—it is quite common and I have seen it before. The lump has made him top-heavy, so he rolls over. It will just keep growing until it kills him. Better to have him terminated before it gets uncomfortable.»
«As soon as it gets uncomfortable, we will. Not yet; he is happy.»
Trut. It could wait. In fact, it would be a salutory lesson. Phrasemonger helped hold the gaspod down while Halfholder pressed the bladder against its back and they waited for the glue to dry. An adult would have done that with an trrvgiy bladder, and put the levispheres in last. . . oh, well.
«I like Mopple's colors. He reminds me of the fireworks . . . When are we going to see fireworks again, Phrasemonger?»
Oh, dear. She had really liked those. This was going to he a big disappointment. «Xxxx ... I do not think there are going to he any fireworks for a while, Halfholder.»
«Why? Have the little rocks stopped falling down?»
«No . . . but we won't be able to go and see them anymore.»
«Why not?»
If in doubt, tell the truth; it stores up less trouble for later. «The Elders have forbidden it. Do not look at me like that, they had good reason to. They have decided it is dangerous to take a city that close to a fireworks display—a blimp got hurt recently when the city authorities made a mistake.» A chance in a trillion, hut that is the Elders for you, reactive rather than proactive, and very cautious. «So now everybody has to stay well away from any fireworks.»
«But I like fireworks!»
«So do lots of blimps. Halfholder, we cannot always have what we—»
«I hate the Elders!»
You are not the only one, youngling, hut it is unwise to say so. «Never squark that again, Halfholder. The Elders are acting in everyone's best interests.»
Halfholder bobbed politely. «Yes, Phrasemonger.»
The glue had set: they popped Mopple back into the vivarium. It stayed upright, but. . . They watched as it drifted up to the ceiling, its flukes flapping ineffectually. «Perhaps it would be a better idea to take some of the levispheres out, Halfholder. Then Mopple can float next to the others. Gaspods like to stay together.»
And I like fireworks, thought Halfholder, hut I do not get what I want. I may
not he allowed to squark it, hut I can still think it. . .
I hate the Elders!
5
Ulambwe Valley. 2210
In the shade of a rocky outcrop, two men sat waiting for the sun to move away from the zenith. Their names were Carlesson and Kandinsky They wore heavy boots, khaki trousers, and military-style camouflage jackets. Crossbows, of the kind used in international sporting competitions, were slung on their backs.
Carlesson passed the water bottle to his companion, who wiped the top and swallowed several mouthfuls, cursing the heat.
"Careful with that. It's all we've got and the next water hole is ten miles away."
Kandinsky grimaced. Carlesson was much too uptight. "Better inside us than inside the bottle." But it was understandable on his first run. Kandinsky remembered his own initiation— the taut nerves, the dry mouth, the sweat seeping from his skin.
"Us." The tone was accusatory.
"Okay, me. But I've taken no more than my fair share, Henrik. Early, that's all."
Carlesson nodded wearily. "Sure, Pyotr, sure. Sorry. It's the uncertainty; it's getting to me." He unsheathed the knife that hung from his belt. It was nearly a foot long, with a thick taped handle and a razor-sharp serrated edge. He touched the edge gingerly with a finger.
"Don't worry about the knife," said Kandinsky. Knives were for close-up work only; if the crossbow did its job, you wouldn't need a knife. "It's not how sharp your knife is, it's how sharp you dirt." He glanced toward the sandy ground, gauging how far the rock's shadow had moved. Carlesson's eyes followed his gaze. "Aim your bow accurately, and you can forget about the knife. When the shadow hits that patch of pebbles, we'll move on. Agreed?"
Carlesson grunted and returned to his knife. A lot was going to depend on that knife. And the training that went with it.
From the distance came an eerie wail.
Kandinsky shut his eyes and leaned back against the rock. "Hyena. Nasty little beasts. I hate 'em. Pity there's no market for hyena bones, we could clean up." He licked the corners of his mouth, which already was becoming dry again. "Must have found a lion kill, probably zebra." He pulled himself to the corner of the rock and peered round. "Yeah, there are vultures circling. Highly intelligent birds, vultures." Kandinsky fancied himself as a bush naturalist, although his information was occasionally wildly inaccurate. "You know, hyenas are often thought to be cowards. But I've seen 'em take a zebra carcass away from half a dozen hungry lionesses."
"More likely a wildebeest," said Carlesson. "More common."
"Not 'round here."
"If you say so." Carlesson sounded skeptical.
Kandinsky felt an irrational wash of anger. He checked his wristnode to see when the next survsat was due. There were still only a handful of surveillance satellites, but they could spot an unusual movement from two hundred miles up and photograph its smile. Assuming they were looking in the right direction, and Hunters were trained to make sure that they weren't.
Like all Hunters' wristnodes, Kandinsky's was shielded, and hooked up to the Xnet via an anonymous baffle. Provided they were careful with the survsats, they would have only the Diversity Police to fear.
There was a clear twenty-minute window. Knowing he was being childish, Kandinsky got to his feet, pulled a pair of collapsible binoculars from a pocket of his camouflage jacket, and began climbing the rough wall of the outcrop. "Let's take a look." There were easy footholds and he had no difficulty making his way to the flat top, some fifteen feet off the ground. Standing near the edge, he raised the binoculars and performed a series of slow scans. He could see where the vultures were swooping low, getting ready to land, gliding in with their clawed landing gear already lowered—but there was no sign of the hyenas or their prey. The grass was too thick.
A movement caught his peripheral vision. After a few seconds he gave a low whistle. "Henrik? I can't see what kind of kill it is, but we've hit paydirt. Scramble up here and take a look."
Carlesson joined him, took the binoculars. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw them.
"Cheetahs."
"You said it, sunshine. A mother and her baby."
Carlesson felt his muscles tightening, part excitement, part apprehension. An adult cheetah was worth $250,000 in Shanghai—$220,000 for the bones and the rest for the skin. But a baby would be worth twice that. It wasn't the quantity, it was the special quality of infant cheetah bone that pushed the price up. Stripped of flesh, dried in the sun, and ground to powder. Cut every which way with talcum, flour, you name it. . . But with that elusive touch of ancient Oriental magic. The sellers of folk medicines must make a real killing, considering the price they were willing to pay; pinch for pinch, cheetah bone was worth far more than heroin or cocaine on the wholesale market. Guess what the retail value must be.
All because jaded Shanghainese merchants thought it would give them a hard-on. Crazy. There were drugs for that kind of thing, they actually worked, for god's sake. But Free China did not trade with Ecotopia, barbarian drugs were not the Old Ways, and some were so dissipated that they were beyond drugs. In the name of such ignorance, the world's rhinos, tigers, leopards, and other big cats had been brought to the brink of extinction. The elephants were just about holding on.
Carlesson wasn't hot on morality or political correctness, but every so often he became dimly unhappy about his chosen— and utterly illegal—trade. He quite liked animals. But he liked a big bank balance more. Survival of the fittest, he told himself. If the big cats can't hack it against humans, tough. In any case, the Hunt had rules that gave the animals a fighting chance; the rules had evolved to keep the populations viable, modeled on the international case law that two hundred years before had preserved what little was left of global fish stocks. The main rule was: no guns. Hunters were trained to use crossbows for longdistance work, knives close up, and bare hands in an emergency. Hunting cheetahs was a crossbow job: Carlesson hoped fervently never to get near enough to a living cheetah to need a knife.
A hyena wailed again. Concentrating on the scene through his binoculars, Kandinsky failed to notice that a slab of rock was splitting off from the top of the outcrop. He leaned his weight forward, and it tipped up. His arms flailed at the air, and he toppled off the edge. Carlesson barely had time to register what had happened before Kandinsky's anguished scream assailed his ears.
He scrambled down from the rocks. Close to panic, he maintained just enough presence of mind to check his 'node for survsats. Five minutes. He knelt beside Kandinsky.
Kandinsky moaned as a wave of pain swept over him. His left leg was shattered; a jagged end of fractured bone poked through the flesh, white smeared with red.
"Fuck you," said Kandinsky through gritted teeth.
"You're the one that fell off the goddamned rock."
"Yeah. And you're the one that—" he moaned again as Carlesson touched his broken leg. "It was a fucking zebra," he hissed, while part of his mind realized he was being ridiculous.
"Yeah, it was a zebra," said Carlesson. He looked blankly around him in search of inspiration. Kandinsky was the experienced one; how would he, Carlesson, survive on his own?
"Help me," pleaded Kandinsky.
Silence.
Carlesson came to a decision. He got to his feet.
"Henrik! Where are you going? You can't leave me like this!" Kandinsky levered himself half upright, ignoring the pain. "Call Base. Arrange a pickup."
Carlesson had remembered another rule. He stopped, turned. "Pyotr, you know I can't do that." No guns—and no outside help until after the kill. "Base will send a 'giro to pick up the cheetahs. But they won't pick me up, and they won't pick you up. Alive, dead, whole, injured—Hunters are always on their own."
Kandinsky was on the verge of tears. It wasn't fair. It was Carlesson, the rookie, who ought to have broken his leg. Suddenly the Hunt's rules, intended to preserve a macho image as well as keep animal stocks away from extinction, seemed pointless and stupid. Not me
! They don't apply to me! Nearer now, a hyena's cackle split the air. The joke was on Kandinsky, and it was a sick joke. Fear welled up from his stomach. Hyenas. Dear God, hyenas. "Henrik! For pity's sake, Henrik!"
Suddenly Carlesson was back at his side, but before Kandinsky could register his relief, a knife was at his throat. "Kandinsky, if you move an inch while the survsat is overhead, I'll slit your miserable throat, you understand?"
"Hyenas," moaned Kandinsky He felt ill, he felt dreadful. He felt afraid. "Teeth like bolt cutters. They slice through bones.
They kill sleeping people, Henrik, and drag them away." Tears ran down his face. "They'll cut me into pieces, eat me alive."
"Shut up, and stay very still." This was where the camouflage jackets were worth their weight in gold. Carlesson and Kandinsky formed a frozen tableau, welded together by the knife. One minute . . . two. Then the survsat's footprint was transected by the rocky outcrop, and they were hidden again.
"You bastard."
"Nothing personal, Pyotr. You know the rules. I'll stay with you a few minutes longer." Carlesson's face softened. "I'll splint the leg."
"With what?"
"Your crossbow." He knew it was a waste of time, but somehow the gesture made him feel better.
"No. You're right." Kandinsky swallowed hard, felt lightheaded. "Hunt rules. But for the love of God, Henrik, please don't leave me for the hyenas."
Carlesson looked at his hand, then the knife. He placed it next to Kandinsky's throat. One quick slice . . .
His hand fell away. "Sorry, Pyotr. Truly sorry. I can't." He got to his feet.
Carlesson pulled Kandinsky's knife from its sheath and placed it in his hand. "You want it, you do it." The next survsat wouldn't clear the horizon for a couple of hours: plenty of time. He began crawling through the brush toward the big cats.
"No!" Kandinsky howled. He screamed obscenities at Carlesson as he crawled through the long grass, heading toward the cheetahs. His voice sank to a croak; then nothing.