His eyes widened. “Are you sure?"
"I can't prove it, but I know it. The Dospers wanted me to sabotage your equipment, but I refused. So they had someone sabotage my ship instead."
"Why would they do that?"
"Because they don't want to lose their monopoly on interstellar travel! If you keep digging, David, they'll keep trying to stop you."
"Oh my God,” he said. Then he grinned. “This is great!"
"It's great that they tried to kill us?"
"Don't you get it, Nashira? Thousands of species have studied the Hub and found nothing. If the Dosperhag are afraid of what I'm doing ... it means they must think there's a chance that I can find something. A chance that humans—insignificant, irrelevant humans—can offer the galaxy something that nobody else can.
"And you know what that means?"
"It means,” Rynyan said thoughtfully, “that maybe there is an answer after all. One the Dosperhag have been covering up. You might actually be sane after all.” He slumped. “Aww."
"More than that,” David said. “It means—"
Nashira sighed, troubled that she was beginning to understand how he thought. “It means you can't give up now. That you're gonna keep trying to show the galaxy what humanity can do."
"That's right.” He shrugged. “Maybe I won't keep studying Hub travel—not openly, anyway. I'm not that stupid.” He winked. “But there have got to be other things humans have to offer the galaxy. And I'm going to find them, no matter how long it takes. Just like you're gonna find another special place someday, no matter how long it takes."
"And just as I,” said Rynyan, “will find a way to share the wonders of Sosyryn sex with Nashira, no matter how—"
"Not happening, Goldilocks,” she told him absently before turning back to David. “You're gonna get yourself in so many kinds of trouble."
"Then it's a good thing I have Rynyan to help me out."
"Like I said: you're gonna get in so many kinds of trouble.” She sighed again, knowing she was going to have to keep an eye on the kid until he got a better feel for the big, bad galaxy. If only because she shuddered to think what would happen to humanity's reputation with David and Rynyan carrying the torch.
But maybe, she thought as she studied David's eyes and infectious smile, she had one or two other reasons to care what happened to him. Maybe he'd reminded her what it felt like to care.
So she'd have to stick close until she figured out whether to thank him or take revenge.
Copyright © 2010 Christopher L. Bennett
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Novelette: NARROW WORLD by Carl Frederick
There's a fine line between disrupting an ecosystem and creating a new one....
Grass tastes good. Rats taste better, but I need to cough fur. Birds are good too. But they are hard to catch and most are too big. The rats are in front of us. There's nowhere else they can be—except behind us. When we are hungry again, we will run and catch them and play with them and eat them.
On one side there is a big, wide trail with lots and lots of things that smell bad. The things are big and they move so fast that we can't cross the trail. On the other side, there is another big trail with things going the other way.
A big, big bright thing with a lot of holes in its side is stopping at the edge of the trail. Big animals are getting out. They walk on their back paws and they smell male. Their fur is bright and shiny. They have big front paws with long toes and they carry bags. We hide in the tall grass.
* * * *
When the bus had pulled out of the hydrogen refueling station fifteen minutes earlier and continued leisurely north on Route 81X, Adrian fantasized that it would keep going, picking up speed on that arrow-straight superhighway, to deliver him to Canada, to home—freedom. Looking out the window, he saw the reflection of his neon orange jumpsuit, as well as the orange images of the other passengers. He pressed his nose against the window, concentrating instead on the dark, threatening sky and the green of the highway median strip—and the roadside litter, his calling of the moment.
Just weeks ago, he'd come as a freshman to Cornell University to study forest ecology. Now, he was an inmate at the Elmira Correctional Facility. He stared out the window. Studying highway-median ecology. He tried to smile at the thought, but couldn't. He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes tight.
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! As the bus slowed and drove onto the edge of the median, the Voice-Vibe rumble strip sent the alert through the vehicle. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
"Alright, guys,” the correction officer called out. “As you go out, pick up a bag and a box lunch. You have fifteen minutes to eat it."
With practiced routine, the convicts streamed from the bus in the order of their seating. Adrian's seatmate, Jake, slid to the aisle and Adrian followed. Jake seemed to be in his mid fifties, but he moved like he was in his eighties. They took their lunches and trash bags, and stepped into the fresh air. Under Adrian's urging, they sprawled down as far from the bus as was possible without drawing a rebuke from the corrections officer.
Adrian tore into his box lunch, but Jake just stared at his.
"Are you okay?” asked Adrian.
"Yeah, I guess.” Jake pushed away the box. “It's just that I've been feeling tired lately. Not really able to become interested in doing anything—not even eating.” He looked skyward. “Probably the weather."
Adrian glanced upward. Thunderheads and distant lightning, but it was dry and felt as if it would stay that way. And if it didn't, he had an empty litter collection bag he could slip over his head to keep off the rain.
Jake, seemingly reading his thoughts, said, “Heat lightning, probably. And damn! It is hot.” He fingered his litter bag. “But it's nice we can get out into the countryside. Six months ago, our job was done by litterbots."
"I read about those,” said Adrian vacantly, not really interested in the conversation. “But they didn't work as well in the rain as they were supposed to."
Jake scowled at the sky. “And with this freaky weather lately, rain seems to come whenever it wants."
"Global warming."
"Who knows? Anyway, we might be the first people to have set foot on this median strip in years."
Adrian collected the refuse from his lunch. Jake held open his litter bag, and Adrian tossed the garbage in.
"We're cheaper than litterbots,” said Jake. “Maybe even smarter."
Adrian chuckled. The fresh air and Jake's gentle companionship had lightened his mood.
"I must say,” said Jake, “that you don't seem the type to be a convicted felon."
Adrian stiffened.
"No offense.” Jake made calming motions with a hand. “I imagine you're innocent.” He looked toward the white bus with the letters NYDOC stenciled on its side. Around it sat other orange-clad inmates eating their lunches. “New York Department of Correction.” He chuckled. “Everyone here is innocent."
Adrian hung his head. “I guess I'm not actually innocent."
"Oh?"
"I'd been invited to a dorm party,” said Adrian, still gazing down at the grass. “I'd never been away from home before, and there I was—in college. Someone offered me a ... a joint. And I felt I'd be laughed at if I didn't try it."
"And you were busted."
"Yeah.” A succession of painful thoughts flooded Adrian's mind. “Three months. I'll miss my entire first semester. Busted for drugs.” He shook his head slowly. “I don't know how I'll ever be able to face my mother. I can't stand this."
"You are innocent,” said Jake in a soft voice.
A sudden bright flash bleached the sky, followed by a great rumbling crash. Adrian jerked his head around. So did Jake, but with less energy. Across the highway, a tree smoldered, and as they watched, a limb cracked and plunged to the ground.
"Jeez!” cried Adrian, rolling to his feet. “Closest lightning strike I've ever seen."
With almost audible crea
ks and groans, Jake stood as well. “We'd better get back to the bus."
"I don't want to,” said Adrian, all at once, resolute.
Jake looked back and just then came a second blinding flash, a deafening peal of thunder—and then an explosion.
"Oh, my god!” shouted Jake. He stood rock-still, staring at the bus that was engulfed in pale-blue flame. Other inmates, arrayed around the bus also stared at the sudden conflagration.
"Blue flame,” said Adrian, almost at a whisper. “The hydrogen tank must have ruptured."
"Yeah.” Jake started toward the bus. “Come on."
"No!"
Jake turned to stare. “There are lot worse places to be than in a minimum security prison."
"I'm not going back,” said Adrian, crumpling the litter bag he held. “I ... I can't take it."
Jake nodded.
"Please don't tell,” Adrian pleaded.
Jake paused for a moment. “I've never even seen you.” He stooped and, with more alacrity than Adrian had ever seen in the man, picked up his lunch box. He tossed it to Adrian. “Take it!"
"Jake. Thank you.” Adrian turned and, still carrying his litter bag, ran north on the median, making for a diminutive copse of trees.
From the concealment of the pin oaks, still in full leaf in late September, Adrian peeked out, taking in the scene of the distant bus. Everyone faced the bus and no one seemed to take note of anything else. Two men that he could see were down, neither of whom were dressed in orange.
Adrian let out a breath he'd not known he was holding. Clearly, he'd not been missed—not yet, at any rate. But he dared not move on. In his orange jumpsuit he'd stand out like Canada Day fireworks.
In an act of impulse, Adrian yanked down the zipper of the hated jumpsuit, the mark of his captivity. He wriggled out of the garment and stood clad only in underpants, socks, and sneakers. Absently, he contorted the suit, folding legs and arms inward, forcing the jumpsuit into a bright orange, soccer ball sized sphere.
He slipped the balled suit into the litter bag and then ran—first at a crouch, then erect and at full speed. If anyone noticed him from the road he'd look like a nutcase, but not an escaped prisoner.
He ran until winded and then jogged to the next copse of trees for cover. There's no way I'll get from here to Canada in nothing but my underwear. “Wait a minute!” He grabbed the litter bag by its bottom, letting the orange ball fall to the grass. Taking the black plastic in his teeth, he chewed holes for head and arms.
He wriggled into his makeshift clothing and looked himself over. Not bad! Could use a belt, though.
In better spirits than he had been recently, he took an impulsive running kick at the orange ball, sending it into a high arc. It landed in the grass, then rolled gently into a northbound lane. With mixed emotions, Adrian watched as cars, like soccer players, worked the ball forward. Yes, he hated those prison clothes, but now all he had was underwear and a litter bag tunic.
When the last trace of the orange sphere had vanished from sight, Adrian picked up Jake's lunch and ran again. He felt free—underdressed but free. He smiled with a thought. He could always say he was the victim of a fraternity prank—stripped and abandoned on a median. As he ran, he experienced the runner's high, a feeling of unreasoned exhilaration. He had visions of hitchhiking north to the border. And there, he'd sneak across. It wouldn't be hard. The Canadian border was still relatively unpatrolled. And Canada wouldn't send him back. There was only one negative: he'd not be able to go back to Cornell. “But who cares?” he gasped aloud. Anyway, the U of Toronto was his second choice. He was sure they'd take him.
Gradually, his run slowed to a jog and then to a walk. As he proceeded north on the ribbon of green bounded by the two torrential bands of traffic, he scowled at the profusion of Styrofoam cups and fast-food wrappers—the litter his crew had been tasked to collect. It was disgusting—the idea of people throwing stuff from their cars. He gave a tight-lipped smile. Those very people had made possible his escape.
As the sun lowered to its setting, Adrian all at once felt tired—exhausted. At a small stand of trees, an oasis of dwarf sugar maples, he stopped to take stock of his situation, to observe, to plan, to rest, and to eat Jake's lunch.
Sitting under a tree munching a sandwich, Adrian gazed vacantly at the hurtling traffic. The legal limit, according to a sign, was seventy-five miles per hour. Adrian mentally converted it to a more familiar measure. One hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. Fast! And most of the cars were speeding: one hundred thirty, one hundred forty kilometers per hour, probably. Adrian shook his head. At that speed, the drivers would scarcely have time to contemplate the scenery. No one would take notice of him. Strangely, the thought made him lonely. He was, for all practical purposes, alone. He might as well be on another planet. He'd have thought the road noise would provide some comfort—the sound of people going places. But the traffic was so heavy and regular, the noise sounded as a constant hum; he had to concentrate to even notice it anymore.
A motion in the grass some six or seven meters away drew his attention. A kitten! Then, he saw a second and a third moving slowly toward him.How the heck did kittens get onto this median? He felt a surge of anger at the thought that they'd simply been abandoned. His eyes then widened in astonishment. The animals were certainly kitten-sized, but their proportions were those of adult cats. And they moved with the grace and poise of adults. They moved close to the ground, stalking. Puzzled as he was over the size of the creatures, Adrian was even more puzzled and intrigued by their behavior; they seemed to be working as a group; he'd not known cats to hunt cooperatively.
Then, he saw what they hunted. Mice—five or six fuzzy gray patches on the grass. He watched as one of the cats pounced. Then, as the cat played with his catch, Adrian observed the tiny gray creature's head. It was blunt and chunky; the head not of a mouse but a rat—a baby rat. Adrian narrowed his eyes with the realization that, as were the cats, the rats were most probably adults. Two cases of dwarfism. Because of limited prey for the cats and scant food for the rats, I guess small is better—and their populations are probably very low. He'd read about islands where the fauna were much smaller than their mainland cousins. And this median strip is for all practical purposes, an island—a long, thin island.
Adrian thrilled to the notion of median strips having their own unique ecological systems. He felt giddy with an idea. He'd study it somehow at college. He smiled, visualizing himself as a highway median ecologist—the first and only.
Maybe, thought Adrian, his incarceration had been a blessing—fate showing him the way to his future. He opened Jake's box lunch and tore off the corner of a sandwich containing some unidentifiable, institutional sliced meat. He crouched and held the food toward one of the cats, who'd not caught a rat.
"Here, cat! Puss, puss, puss."
The cat crept forward warily, showing caution rather than fear.
"There's a good cat."
The cat took the meat, and Adrian moved to stroke its fur with his free hand. Suddenly, the cat twisted around, hissed, and bit him at the fleshy point between the thumb and forefinger, drawing blood.
"Damn!"
The feral cat ran to join the others.
Adrian worried about disease. If the median strip could have its own varieties of fauna, it could well have its own set of bacteria and viruses—strains for which humans had never developed antibodies. Adrian shook his head and resolved not to think about it. It was just another occupational hazard of being a highway-median ecologist. And it was a much smaller hazard now than in the days before the universal rabies, tetanus, West Nile vaccine that all kids got—all Canadian kids, at any rate.
Remembering his sandwich, he polished it off and then scarfed down the cookie and emptied the juice box. By reflex, he looked for a trashcan. But, of course, there weren't any. Feeling chagrined, he set the box down at the edge of the road. He himself had become a hated litterer. Not a great way to start my life as a median ecolog
ist.
In good spirits after eating, he continued north. He stopped momentarily to look at an animated information panel suspended over the southbound lanes. It glowed bright against the growing darkness. The sign blinked a warning of congestion due to an accident. The bus, probably.
As he watched the streaming traffic, he playfully thought of the vehicles in ecological terms: the tandem trailers were the elephants. The motor homes were the dumb cows, the SUVs the ... the wildebeest, the Japanese econoboxes the deer, and the police cars the carnivores. He smiled. And the potholes, the pathogens. But there were no potholes, not even cracks on the roadway. For that matter, he'd seen no police cars either. Not much need for them with cameras to detect accidents and speeders. He worried that they'd catch him, too, but decided that the cameras probably didn't cover the median.
Back in Canada, he'd seen road crews. But this high-tech Route 81X seemed to have no need for them. Adrian shivered with the thought that not only was he the first ever median ecologist, but also the only human being in the entire ecological system. Feeling lonely, he turned away from the traffic. The median was dark now, and forbidding. But even though he seemed to be invisible to the passing traffic, it would be good to be able to pee without feeling he was making a spectacle of himself.
He felt he'd gotten far enough away from the bus that it was safe to attempt to hitchhike. But there was no way anyone would stop to pick him up at night—especially not the way he was dressed.
He saw another clump of trees ahead. There, he'd stay until morning. Finding a soft patch free of weeds or roots at the base of a tree, he plopped down and closed his eyes.
He woke in the dark, frozen. He curled into a ball, but that didn't help. He tried pulling his arms inside the litter bag and warming his hands between his thighs. Then he ducked his head inside as well, breathing through pursed lips in an attempt to warm the air a little. He wished he'd not been so careless with the jumpsuit.
Analog SFF, March 2010 Page 19