“Damn right you are. We lower thermocouples deep into the boiling water below sand. You remember the rendition yesterday.”
He jolts physically. “That’s where? That’s how you make electricity?”
I nod and smile. “Sure. Out on the Rocklands steam geysers exist. That’s where thermocouples are driven into the depths of Here-Born. It is mostly solid rock all the way down—where they blow a path already exists. Oh? Thermocouples are two different compounds reacting to heat and creating an electrical current—we use unique materials, make gigantic ones and so generate usable electricity.”
“Seen no grid,” he says.
“They are either on the desert surface or buried below sand depending on what happens with the wind.”
“Yeah sure.”
“Peter. I’m talking about flexible pipelines...conduits that is. Big ones. Designed to withstand high winds and driven sand. They whip around like sidewinders during sandstorms. Most of the time though, they’ll rest quietly beneath sand...who knows where they are?”
“That’s all?” he asks.
“No further information is available. They own it and run it and maintain it.”
“I see,” he whispers.
“On the other hand Nomads own and run electronic systems. Not electrical. Electronic. You understand? Inter-planet connections, boosters and all other communication systems. Oh! You need to understand Fragger technology to understand boosters.”
“I see,” he whispers.
“Our commercial basics for you. We are business orientated—Free Marketeers. Nomads run communications. Desert Drivers command power supply and mechanical systems.”
“That fair, Once-Other?”
“Whatever fair is...it’s the way we evolved.”
“I see,” he says.
“Oh. Many believe Nomads became cannibals but no evidence is available or was eaten.”
“How about a couple of straight answers here,” he growls.
“Ease up and listen, Peter. We figure Desert Drivers and Nomads are in continuous conflict over sand, territory. Nomads I believe live a simple but exact and honorable life. Desert Drivers are more aggressive and unpredictable—some insist violent.”
“Yeah. One hell of a lot of words to say nothing.”
“Try this on. Possibly Desert Drivers and Nomads do have our economy in their hands. But. All three groups work together forming one economy. None can continue as economically viable without the other two. All three play economics together. And there you have it.”
“Have what?” he growls.
“Why we say one-two-three so often.”
He licks his lips with the satisfaction of the underdog having conquered the alpha male and says, “Sounds like they’re tied into your UWMD Once-Other.”
“Sure, rumors galore...no one knows for sure. They don’t advertise let alone—”
“As you would say...damn informative indeed,” he whispers and rubs an earlobe as though it itches more than usual.
We step outside and I point with pride. “This is brand new and you are to be its first passenger.”
“Where’s the name like on the other one?” he asks.
“Purchased it this morning. I think I’ll paint her name right here—midway between the four rear wheels and the front ones.” I run my hand along the lower fairing beneath the speeding orange teardrops. “Hellbent II. What you think?”
“Looks kinda dangerous—orange teardrops and all.”
“Not really Peter. Just don’t jump or fall off at speeds well over a hundred miles an hour.”
“What the hell?” he asks.
“Peter? The higher the speed the more bones you break—the greater the pain.”
Needless, to say...he is not amused.
CHAPTER 30
Of Peter’s Manifestations And Once-Other’s Condition
Peter shifts his weight in the saddle as I navigate around an old warren. I smile at having recently come a cropper due to one and turn my attention southeast to where Mourner’s Wind originates. This morning she slumbers leaving the air thick with heat.
Upon the vast desert, nothing stirs other than Hellbent II and its dust plume. We climb up the face of North Guard dune. At its peak, a tabletop unfolds to the horizon. I smiled contentedly at how Hellbent II navigates sand on six wheels with ease.
Ahead of us lie many hours of droning across sand headed north. Invitations to nod off will be constant.
Later we charge down old riverbeds, eons dry.
Our companions are consistent, heat, sand and salt. The latter preferring a diet of eyes, lips and lungs. But licking one’s lips leads to bleeding. Then pressing them together, without any preservatives present, glues them closed.
Nevertheless, when salts attacks one often longs for wind despite knowing it will compound one’s misery. I wipe mine carefully and glance at the sky. It’s clear as always.
Again I check the southeast, still nothing visible there.
That we are headed dead North requires I remain fully alert to any storms headed our way. But to stay awake during the long drive I set about feeding Peter’s Foundation a diet of new ideas mixed with Here-Born descriptions. All the while, I am hoping they will serve as an antidote to his rigid attitude.
Fragile hope indeed.
After an hour of racing through heat, sand, and more heat, I get the distinct impression he’s not listening. He remains silent and disinterested. I cover the many wonders of Here-Born anyway. Four more hours out and with not a single comment from him, I lock wheels and slide to a halt saying, “So Criers are dangerous, ordinary and outright frightening. Right?”
“Whatever,” he snaps back.
“We’ve no whatever out here. Be careful Peter.”
“Yeah! Whatever.”
He dismounts stiff in leg-n-back, brushes his suit off, checks our location over and glances to the horizon. Desertscape unfolds in all directions. Maybe he notes sand out here is a little orange in color—perhaps not. He looks a question at me.
I ponder his hidden mind once again but find no resolutions nor solutions. I attempt accessing it and still nothing. I sigh in exasperation, squat down, scan the desert and find what I’m looking for. “Now. Something like we did outside the Mall.”
“Not that BS again,” he says.
“A little different this time.”
He jerks back-n-forth as though attacking and fleeing in the same instant. An animal rage flashes across his face. He licks at a fleck of foam on his lip and crouches like EB apes do—arms hung loose, head swaying.
I back away and turn sideways to what appears to be an attacking stance. “Peter?”
“Once-Other?” he says.
“You alright?” I ask.
He shudders and shakes violently enough to rattle his teeth together. His eyes roll up white and back to normal. He drops to his knees and grunts. I take a cautious step forward but he waves me away.
“Give me a moment Once-Other.”
“Do you suffer something?”
“It’ll pass. Wait.”
He wraps his arms around his chest and squeezes. Within a minute the shaking subsides. He takes a few deep breaths, gazes around as though seeing where he is for the first time, notices me and says in his usual voice, “Thank you Once-Other. It’s done. Okay. Let’s do this.”
He stands up and steadies himself.
“You sure?” I ask.
“I’m good. Don’t worry.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah! Tell me what to do.”
“Okay then. There is something out here. But if you search as though you already know all there is to see...you won’t see anything new. With me?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Look at sand like a child in a playground does for the first time.”
He looks-n-looks. After some minutes his face changes and a smile evolves. “There’s...patches.”
“Yes. Describe them.”
“They’re about
two and a half feet wide and four to six long, faintly sunken. Above each...a whisper of vapor. I’d never have...something to thank you for...I guess.”
He reaches over, we shake hands, and a blade stabs at the inside of my skull. I drop to my knees, struggle back up and manage to remain upright. But at the same time I cannot tell if it is actually happening or not.
Similar to Franciscoa, though less so, I’ve been poisoned by Criers and slashed and cut more often than I care to recall. I’ve also broken bones hitting Crier burrows while riding a SandRider.
Other scars tell their own tales. In addition, I replaced both arms when I became a campaigner. My head I changed out as well but with help of course. Therefore, what rules me rules Franciscoa: Crier poison.
Once inside...always inside.
In a voice hoarse with heat and dust, I whisper encouragement to self, swallow and take several deep breaths to no relief. I wait, after several seconds my vision clears and a little strength returns.
Is a heart condition worsening?
Perhaps.
Even so, damn poison is the real culprit—now as in the past.
CHAPTER 31
Of Water Criers, What Is And What Is Not Dangerous
I shake my head and Peter withdraws from reaching to steady me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod yes and motion for him to follow. “Stay on mine,” I say, pointing at my footprints. “I don’t want you stepping on a Crier burrow and getting bitten or worse...stung.”
I gentle down prone and leopard crawl towards a cluster of Crier burrows. I pause, come carefully to my hands and knees, lean forward and hold still a few feet short of a burrow.
The Crier stirs awake and lifts its pouch a little. I hold my breath waiting for it to relax again. The Crier vibrates its pouch-cover cooling itself. After a few moments it stops and snuggles down.
Old pain revisits and an ancient meat grinder assaults my head. I take several slow breaths and pain slips back into yesterday. I nod for Peter to follow. He goes to his hands-n-knees and crawls closer.
The Crier senses Peter’s movements, stirs uneasily and starts standing up. I wave frantically. Peter halts. We hold still for several minutes.
Eventually, the Crier relaxes, wriggles lower and sand pours onto its back hiding it completely. The sting-claw cover peeks out momentarily then disappears beneath the covering of sand.
Heart beat faster, I edge forward one hand and knee at a time. Behind me, Peter steps into the hand and knee indents I had made. Sweat drips down his face. He wipes some away and turns his cooling lower.
“Hot out here,” he whispers.
I nod at the obvious.
He raises an eyebrow in query.
I nod towards the burrow and in a low whisper say, “Note Peter. No, there—the faint hump right at the tail end.”
“Oh? Yeah. Explain.”
“In a minute. The hump lines up towards the center.”
“Yeah. Okay. Get on with this so-called tour.”
“Follow an imaginary line down the center of the back to the folds of skin just visible. Right there is where the stun-point is. Only practice in finding it helps if attacked. We have real live ones to learn on. And they’re not tame in any way.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“But! The sting itself is not particularly dangerous.” And I smile within.
“What? After all you’ve told...how enough of their poison can get you dead. You’re trying my patience, Once-Other!”
I’m pleased some data I’d passed on found a home. “Well no. You see—a sting-claw is a sting-claw and nothing more. Now back of it is a poison sack, which in itself is not dangerous either. Wait-wait. In the sack is a potent poison which as you probably guessed isn’t dangerous either.”
“What is?” he asks in a cold, hard whisper.
“Excessive amounts of poison inside your body doing damage...though...being stung is itself damn painful altogether.”
His eyes of woe-n-stop reject my humor. “I’ll definitely be reporting you for endangering happiness with cruel intent...a violation of assured Happiness.”
“If you must report—you must report. Now—pay attention if you don’t want to get stung. We’re about to do the difficult part. As I mentioned earlier—Criers stand around four of your feet high just under a sand pace. Top of its head down to sand.”
“Yeah, I got that. All-damn-together!”
“Okay.”
He calms some. I smile at him. He glares at me. I nod ahead. We crawl a little closer, stop-up and examine the patch.
“To repeat. Folds of skin and fur protect its neck. The sting-claw is on the tip of the pouch-cover covered by a fold of skin...here. We say pouch-cover...but it’s more a trunk lid decorated with long dark hair and hinged behind the neck. Opens like an auto’s trunk.”
“How come this one is not coming at us?” Peter asks.
“Nothing much hunts them...they fear no enemies except Arzerns. They’ll retreat from built-up areas solely to escape the noise. Interesting item about Criers and Arzerns—communication is by a form of mind-to-mind.”
“Yeah. Tiny mind to tiny mind,” he says.
“We can hear them snarl and Arzerns scream but we can’t pick up when they communicate an attack or a strategy amongst themselves.”
“Genetics Once-Other. Eons of programmed behavior.”
“Not from our view,” I say.
“The blind leading fools to imaginary points-of-view,” he says sneeringly.
I wave it aside and say, “Look here!”
He pushes closer inspects what I’m pointing at, backs away and says, “Yeah. What?”
“Crier fur is a combination of regular hair and feather-like hair—very slippery. But now! There’s no other way to do this, Peter. So watch carefully, stay alert and last but not least the only way to get Crier water is the right way.”
“Where do they get water? I’ve seen no surface water nor did I see some in the museum rendition either.”
“In a moment. Pay attention please...this may save your life. Here’s what. Crier jaws are like that of wolves, fangs-n-all. Teeth for biting, holding, chewing.”
He hisses saying, “Altogether! Cut out the BS and answer my question.”
“Not yet. Genetically speaking, Criers were large dogs or wolves who somehow survived the disaster when Here-Born turned to desert. We have not been able to establish how they escaped the catastrophe or if they were introduced after it by settlers or perhaps by God. Nor how they evolved those pouches.”
“Still no answer! What here is fiction, speculation or science, Once-Other?”
“A little of all I suppose,” I reply.
He nods and smirks.
“Now! Moving on. Their long black back hair grows on their pouch-cover. The cover connects just behind the neck about there. Beneath the cover is a pouch. Inside it right behind the neck, are two teats. One for water. One for milk. Wait. Wait. Their young live in the pouch until they’re old enough to venture out on their own.”
He stares at the sketch I’d made in sand exhibiting an odd rapture of interest and frustration. He cocks an eyebrow but I’m not ready to answer.
I partly unfurl my Crier fan.
“What’s the large eye on it for?” he asks, pointing.
“It’s like a Crier’s eye. We use it to hold their attention while getting water.”
He grabs the fan and opens it fully.
“How’s this work?” he asks.
“You hold the fan close to its eye, very close...rocking it back-n-forth like this.” I rock his hand back-n-forth, and he nods. “They slip into a trance. Don’t go for water until then. Once they’re in a trance, reach over, hook a finger under the sting-claw and gently lift it to expose the teats. As I said one for milk one for water. We drink water from the teat to their left.”
“Sounds awful. Disgusting.”
“Not when you are dying of thirst Peter.”
“I
guess not. Whatever.”
“No whatever...if there’s a young one in the pouch we try another.”
“Why?”
“They bite and sting as well.”
He swats at flies and says, “Oh yeah. Why not drink their milk? Nutrition...right?”
“First let me say that you should have purchased anti-fly from me. I have a spray can in my SandRider. Care to buy it?”
“Just answer the question,” he growls.
“Well okay. You can drink the milk but...that’s how I got stung when doing my final survival test.”
He leans close. “You got stung? Tell me how oh wise one.”
I grin at which he snarls silently. “I’d been told not to drink the milk but we were desperate for food, for nutrition, so I drank some.”
“Yeah?”
“And got stung.”
“Would you tell me!”
Thoughts and emotions streak across his face and into his eyes. I reach out for them but he waves a hand by his eyes and they disappear. Did what’s under his armpit erase them? If yes, can it be disabled? Thus far no luck in doing so and not that I haven’t secretly tried over-n-over.
Will I lose here with a tourist once again? “Keep going, Once-Other,” I say mind-to-mind and to myself. Sitting back, I stare across sand taking time to remind self of all I’m doing.
This defense of ours at times seems tougher on Here-Born soldiers and campaigners than violent conflict. Hope is all we have. Hope that we can bring into being within enough Earth-Born citizens a realization of our Here-Born Rights, our Constitution and our way of life.
And not just an ordinary Life.
But a Life free of government interference.
In addition, a political structure in which We the People hold all the power and are the true guardians of Freedom. Yet, a society filled with conflicting cultures and customs...living side by side without racial hate yet with adventure for all.
We of Here-Born refer to our system as a New Political Civilization. And proudly so.
I sigh.
Peter glares some, frowns, glances at the patch and waves me on again.
CHAPTER 32
Of Drinking Water And Sting-Claws
Once-Other Page 19