"We've had a good run these last ten years. From a little startup company, I've built a corporation that's known around the world. In any normal world, Porter Industries would be in position to dominate. Like Ford did. Like Microsoft or Google. With my market share and my talent pool, I'd be able to set the tone for the next thirty years, or more. Machines wearing my name would rebuild our planet, and then they'd take the first steps toward remaking the Moon and Mars.
"But this isn't a normal world. Not anymore. Technologies change every month. Every week, in some cases. The patterns of change are hard to measure, impossible to predict. These are events without historical parallels. But even if you're not a very curious soul, Conrad ... even the most stodgy, dim-witted piece of humanity has to notice all these revolutions emerging—"
"What do you want to say?” asked Shadow-Below.
"Last winter, one of my brightest and best from Research came home from a conference. She'd met a fellow who works for a subsidiary of Bounty's company. I'm not sure, but I think they slept together.” He shook his head, as if wounded by her minor treachery. “Anyway, the young fellow let her see the schematics for a new system of robots. And what he showed her—for whatever reason he showed them to her—what she saw were plans for entirely new kinds of chassis and revolutionary minds, plus power systems unlike any species of engine I've ever seen."
There was no one in the world but Shadow-Below and this angry, scared man. The river might have been a thousand miles wide and long enough to reach Mars, for all the notice either of them gave to the shoreline.
"Somebody wanted me to know. To understand.” Porter took a huge breath. “When I feel charitable, I tell myself that somebody was giving me a friendly warning. In a few weeks or months ... soon, for sure ... all of my hard work and smart decisions, and with that, my entire legacy ... these glorious accomplishments were going to suddenly mean nothing."
Quietly, Shadow-Below said, “Huh."
"'Huh'? That's the best you can do?” Porter faced forward, and out of simple frustration, he slashed at the river with his paddle, kicking up their speed until they were flying past the junipers and buffalo crap. Then he turned again, facing Shadow-Below, months of nervous rage emerging. “When you were working down at Bounty's City ... did you ever see what kind of place it was...?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did they make apartments for people? Did you see toilets being shipped in, or front doors? Anything that normal souls demand?"
"What's inside,” said Shadow-Below, “was built there. Raw materials were rolled in and transformed inside the walls, and that's all I can tell you."
"You know, Conrad. I picked your class for a reason.” Porter told him, “I did my own research. And I wanted to talk to you."
"But I don't know anything."
"And I don't believe you, Conrad."
He said nothing.
"I'm not an idiot. Or at least, I wasn't an idiot until recently."
A sandbar rose up to collide with them, the grinding noise in the hull ending with a musical squeak.
"Everybody hears stories about that Bounty's house.” Porter shook his head, an angry smile flashing in the faint glow of the day. “Officially, it's a dream community maintained for his employees and their families. But there aren't that many employees. At least not in any official roster, there aren't. And there's the stubborn old rumors about some giant AI brain that Bounty has built. People tell you that the brain has figured out the universe. It knows everything, or it knows everything worth knowing. Either way, that machine is doing nothing day and night but inventing wonders that are going to make its master even richer."
Softly, Shadow-Below admitted, “I've heard those stories."
"And everybody's mistaken. I think.” Porter suddenly noticed the sandbar, looking about as if puzzled by this wrong turn. Then he saw his wife and son rounding the last bend, catching up to them. “My family doesn't know,” he blurted. “Maybe I'm wrong, but I haven't told either of them ... not about what my Research woman said, or anything else...."
Shadow-Below gave a small nod.
"A great machine mind—anyway, that's a lousy solution for the problem. If you ask me.” Porter leaned close, speaking softly but with emphasis. “If you want brilliance, the best solution is to get a lot of bright minds that are busy and inquisitive, and that want to compete with one another. And then you let them go wild, doing whatever they want to do!"
A solitary mule deer was standing in the trees, watching the two men sitting in that smoky-orange canoe.
"I heard a different story about Mara's house,” said Porter. “Do you know where ten billion of the smartest, most curious citizens of our planet are living right now? Do you?” He shoved his paddle in the air, saying, “Downriver from us. In the middle of this damned grassland. Thriving in a space too small for ten thousand clumsy, old-fashioned apes like you and me!"
* * * *
Raven had always been an amiable, eager-to-please child. When Shadow-Below thought of the People that he left behind—when he was in the mood to imagine their futures and fates—he never pictured his nephew facing banishment. The boy had always been ridiculously good. And more important, Raven's grandfather adored him. Speaking with the conviction of a man who had little time left in this world, he once told Shadow-Below, “I think there is a chance that he is the One."
"The One? Are you serious, old man?"
"Do not bark at me, son. I know what I am speaking of."
Shadow-Below shook his head, taking a moment to compose himself. But his mood didn't grow calm. With a fierce voice, he reminded the shaman, “You said the same great things about me. I was going to be the One. Do you remember those days and nights?"
"You have not forgotten them, I see."
This was several years ago. Raven was only in his sixth year, and Shadow-Below still lived with the People.
"He is the One? You mean this?” asked Shadow-Below.
"I do."
"You are telling me that that child will someday save our world?"
"Somebody must. And I think he might be suited."
"I was suited once. You promised me, Father."
"Good. Now we both understand that I can be mistaken."
Shadow-Below pulled one hand across his face, thinking hard. Then he carefully said, “This is bullshit."
The old man said nothing.
"Your time is short, Father. You are scared and desperate."
"Perhaps."
"And I am finished with this nonsense,” Shadow-Below announced. “I won't pretend anymore. Living underground, in secret ... this is madness. Even a dirty little prairie dog gets to climb out of its burrow during the day."
"If your heart for our life has left you,” said the shaman, “perhaps you should find the courage to walk away from us."
"Perhaps I will.” Then with a forced grin, he added, “But once I'm gone, I won't have anything more to do with the People."
Shadow-Below meant to injure. He wanted anger and rage, and maybe a weak swing from his father's good arm. But the response was quiet laughter wrapped around the words: “You will never abandon us."
"And how do you know this?"
"Because you are a good man. Walk as hard as you wish, but every path leads you back to this hole in the ground."
* * * *
Their first campfire proved easy work. After a few moments of sizzle and smoke, last year's grass began to burn, his students feeding in sticks and then the big limbs that they'd dragged from the rain shadow of an old ash tree. Soon the blaze was tall and hot, and people backed away. The mood was mostly pleasant, like a party where everyone felt obliged to behave. Mara shared one log with her companion. For several minutes at a time, she would talk quietly. Quickly. Shadow-Below heard phrases and single words, but none of it felt important. Mara was jabbering like any happy teenager might. Then she paused, and her companion instantly offered a quick word or two of advice. By contrast, Porter and his wife wer
e having an intense discussion. They were standing farther from the fire than anyone else—two people full of tense little words and silent moments, hands stabbing the air when emphasis was needed. Every so often, Ginger would look at their teacher. Porter studied Mara and chewed on his lip. Then suddenly, Ginger reached up and held her husband's face with both hands, making certain he heard what she had to say before she turned and walked off to their tent.
In the morning, beside the smoldering fire, Shadow-Below learned that a new passenger was going to ride in his canoe. Porter had invested an entire day talking about Bounty and his New-Year City, but now the billionaire wanted a break. Or maybe he'd finally realized that Shadow-Below would never discuss these matters. Or perhaps this was Ginger's idea, convincing her husband to let her continue the polite interrogation, but with tricks that Porter could never have tried.
Shadow-Below didn't know what to think; these people were strangers to him, and that was all they would ever be.
"A million dollars for your thoughts,” said the red-haired woman.
He pretended not to hear her.
The woman looked back at him, sporting an oversized smile. “Are you disappointed? Do you want somebody bigger and stronger to paddle?"
"We're doing fine,” he replied. Then he added, “This isn't a race, is it?"
She said, “Conrad,” with relish. Then she said that name again, softer this time. “To you, I bet we look a herd of fools."
"Never,” he replied.
"Another two days, and we'll be out of your hair.” Her husband and son were up ahead—strong men paddling with sloppy determination. When she was sure they were out of earshot, she admitted, “I'll miss that beautiful hair of yours."
He said nothing.
His silence amused her. “Tell me,” she said, laughing too loudly. “Are we better or worse than your average class?"
"You're the best ever."
"Well,” she said, “that is the nicest little lie!"
The day began with more rain. But by midday, the sky had dried to where blue gaps showed in the thinning clouds. Ginger removed her poncho and life jacket. She seemed extra small and pale today, and very pretty. There was no way to ignore her body. When she pretended to paddle, Shadow-Below discovered his eyes watching that fit little rump. And when she turned around again and crossed her legs, like now, he couldn't help but notice her bright green shirt and those three buttons that simply refused to remain fastened.
Porter and his son were rounding the next bend, but they had quit paddling, each lifting his paddle up to point at something up ahead.
Something new.
"Buffalo?” Ginger asked. “Do you think it's a herd, maybe?"
The landmarks told him where they were. “No, they're seeing the big fence. That's all."
The fence was tall and anchored deep in the ground. But Shadow-Below had the combination to the gate in midriver. Even city eyes could see that the land beyond was different: The grass near the water had been chewed to nothing by lazy cattle. The pastures were well maintained, but generations of hooves had cut lines into the distant dunes, leaving white scars of sand. The country even had its own stink, heavier and more intense than before. Ginger mentioned the odor, and Shadow-Below explained that livestock preferred to gather near the water. Flat brown turds littered the eroded banks, smothering everything beneath them. “There aren't any predators here,” he lied. “And the river gives the cattle easy shade."
All the canoes were bunched close. When he finished talking, Mara said, “There's another reason for the smell."
"What is it?” asked Ginger.
"The bison and elk,” the girl began. Then she hesitated, measuring her words while glancing back at her companion. “Their genetics have been changed,” she mentioned. “Just a little bit, just to help their digestive systems."
Porter and his son were back in the lead. But when Mara spoke, they stopped paddling and listened.
"And the bacteria in their guts,” she explained. “Those are tailored bugs that don't make as much pollution as before."
"Elk don't fart?” Porter's son blurted. Then he laughed at his own joke.
"Oh, they do that,” the girl responded calmly. “But there's not as much methane. Which is good, since that's an awful greenhouse gas."
Removed from the wilderness, everybody felt like talking. Tame country did that to people. Ginger set down her paddle again, asking questions as soon as she thought of them.
"How many buffalo are there?"
Shadow-Below had old numbers, but Mara could recite figures accurate to the nearest ten thousand head.
"And how big are the Commons?"
He didn't answer. Mara's figures were up-to-date, and she easily divided up the lands owned by the Commons Corporation, the ground leased from absent ranchers, and the various federal and state lands that created a realm large enough to swallow most nations.
"So why does this one ranch hold out?"
Mara looked at Shadow-Below, and when she realized what she was doing, she quickly glanced back at her friend.
The silent man offered her a vague little smile.
Ginger noticed Mara's expression and then stared at her new friend. “What makes this land different, Conrad?"
"The owner's very stubborn,” he said.
"Do you know him?"
"I've spoken to him once or twice,” Shadow-Below allowed. Then he repeated what he had mentioned at breakfast. “This river is public territory, but we don't have permission to use the land. Leave the river, and you're guilty of trespassing, and subject to a lot of old, dangerous legal problems."
These were people with property, and they respect property. Just as he had hoped, his words made them tentative. The canoes began to drift apart, and a few strong strokes put him into the lead. The water here was peaceful and clear, with dark deep holes beyond the biggest snags. Even without Ginger's help, he pulled farther ahead at each bend. The sun was breaking free as they came to a long, straight reach of water, and in the distance was a lone bright wire suspended above the sparkling Dismal.
"The wire's hot,” he mentioned. “Keep down."
Except for a thousand landmarks, the next pasture was indistinguishable from the last. Shadow-Below began to paddle again. Rounding the next bend, he forced the canoe to hug tight against the steep outer bank, the massive old hill standing directly on their right.
"Are we in a race?” Ginger asked hopefully.
"I need a bathroom,” he said. “That's why I want distance."
She looked back at him, grinning for too long. But she didn't say what was on her mind. And then with a mother's warning tone, she reminded him, “This is private land."
"And I could be shot for this,” he added. “So stay in the boat, on the water, why don't you please?"
* * * *
The hill was enormous—an ancient sand dune gnawed at by the river but surviving just the same, held together by inertia and the roots of a few cottonwoods and maybe a thousand junipers. Facing north, the hill held the day's deepest shadows, and the air beneath the trees was cool, and every breath contained familiar scents, while each little patch of ground needed to be examined for a long moment, Shadow-Below hunting for signs that refused to be found.
Twice, he paused to look back at the river, making certain the woman was following instructions. Then he stepped into a dark tangle of old growth, kneeling and opening his toilet kit.
A small shovel and a wad of one-ply paper were set aside.
The kit had a second pocket hidden under the first, opening only with the touch of his right thumb. In the gloom, with hands as much as eyes, Shadow-Below removed and sorted the contents of that second pocket. There were little packets of pills—new-generation antibiotics wrapped inside simple instructions—and cloth sacks stuffed with fishhooks and thin, nearly indestructible lengths of fishing line. There were also three blades without handles—black diamond blades, sharpened and bolstered with nanofibers. Add handles o
f bone or wood, and they would make wonderful knives that would never grow dull or break. And there was also a charm created from owl feathers wrapped inside the wing of a small wise bat.
Shadow-Below left the gifts beneath a limb that looked like an old man's hand. Then he gathered up his paper and shovel and the kit, and he turned back toward the river. “I don't want the boy,” he said quietly. “I can't teach Raven anything useful, and I won't be able to protect him much longer. I don't believe in his ghost, or anything else. Either you take him back, or I'll leave him with somebody who can help him more than I can."
He paused, listening hard.
But the forest was silent, dark and indifferent to his little problems.
Retreating to the river, he found Ginger sitting in the canoe, her shirt opened halfway to her navel. The others were noisily approaching, Porter and his son flailing their way back into the lead. Shadow-Below paused for a final moment. He found himself watching the woman's little neck, studying the pale red hairs dancing in the breeze. Then a dead branch shattered. The clear sharp crack was behind him, loud and purposeful, and it was all that he could do not to look over his shoulder—even when he knew there was nothing here but familiar woods filled with the potent, bitter scents of home.
* * * *
They drifted out of the ranch by early afternoon, making camp with the first hint of dusk. The women built a small, intimate fire while the men dragged in logs, forming a rough hexagon where everyone could sit shoulder-to-shoulder. Wilderness again stretched to the horizon. The brown grass rattled. A wolf sang from some high dune. The sun was down, a starless night holding sway, and across the river, a great-horned owl woke to proclaim, “Hoo-hoo-hoo.” On silent wings, the owl followed his voice across the water, settling in a treetop above the campsite, and with the same booming voice, he repeated his warning to the world.
People were startled, flinching and then laughing at themselves. Was that the same bird? Really? Shadow-Below had known enough owls to guess what was coming. But what surprised him was Mara's companion: Unperturbed, even amused, the man showed a thin smile as he stared up into the rising smoke. Then he suddenly turned, staring hard at Shadow-Below, and the smile brightened as he offered a quick, mysterious wink.
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