Under the Canopy

by Sorokin, Serg

  Their boat turned out to be surprisingly mobile. Even I barely evaded the trees while they drove away like pro racers. I didn't even bother trying to shoot, if I attempted to reach for the rifle at this speed, it would have been the last thing I did in life. Before long, I realized they were getting away. Beads of blood on the fur, bodies on the ground. I pushed the pedal to the metal, squeezing everything I could from the engine.

  The scooter whined and shook, but the distance between the two machines lessened. I was close enough now that I could see the dashboard. One of the poachers turned and shot at me with a gun. A FUCKING GUN! Most of the bullets whizzed past me, but a couple hit the scooter's nose. So, it's war. Left with no choice, I dropped the rifle off my shoulder, nearly losing it in the process, and gripped the butt under the trigger arm. I made a poor attempt at aiming and realized that I couldn't do it. I locked eyes with the gunman. The poacher held fast onto the cabin's frame. He steadied himself and aimed to kill.

  At that moment, the boat's windshield shattered. The driver acquired two holes in his head, its contents sprayed over his comrades and hit the floor. The man shook in his chair, still holding the wheel, and fell forward, pushing it to the dashboard. The boat's bat-like nose dipped. The gunman fell back inside the cabin, and his shot went somewhere into the canopy. I dropped speed and turned, sensing an unavoidable crash.

  While the gunman tried to push himself to the feet, the other poacher jumped to the wheel and threw away the dead body. He grabbed the wheel and pulled it towards him as hard as he could. The boat's nose went upward, but it was too late.

  There was a fallen tree ahead. It lay on its side, covered by moss, some of its branches still protruding upward. When the boat tried to level out, the nose hit such a branch. The hit was so hard that the wood exploded into splinters, and the boat's nose just disappeared, like it was sheared off. The sound of the impact made me jump in the saddle.

  Having lost its front, the boat became completely insolent. The machine spun around and bucked, until it hit one of the trees. Another loud crash, the cabin exploded with glass, and the boat itself bounced off a mighty tree like a tennis ball. It hit the ground and plowed it, uncovering black earth, until it finally came to rest in a self-made grave.

  I flew up to the crashed boat, still clutching the rifle in my arms for some reason. Bloodstained furs, pieces of wood and metal were scattered everywhere. Poachers inside were probably all dead, but I still wasn't sure.

  'Whoever is alive, come out now!' I shouted at the dark maw of the boat’s cabin and aimed into it.

  At first, there was no sound, but then there came rustling of the glass. A bloodied hand appeared and grabbed the edge. A poacher pulled himself up and threw himself out of the crashed vehicle. I saw that it was the gunman who was going to kill me. The poacher rolled on the grass, staining it with blood. He raised his head and looked at me. I saw the sorry condition he was in and lowered the rifle. The fight was over for him. The bloodied man helplessly fell to the ground.

  With that over, I remembered the shot in the windshield. I couldn't have made it, even accidentally. I looked up, searching for a shooter. And there he was.

  A lone figure was floating high above near the top canopy. It was descending to the crash site. Even before I could distinguish any features, I knew who helped me.

  This was my introduction to Ort.

  Ort landed his scooter near the overturned boat and dismounted. I followed suit, slung the rifle behind my shoulder, and walked up to meet my neighbor. I saw him for the first time and felt a little awkward and even scared. From Edlon's words, I imagined Ort to be some mystic woodman, a hermit. The man didn't disappoint. His gaze was stern, his face sullen, even grim, but I saw no malice in it. Ort was older than me, but not by too much, just one generation ahead. I guess, he was about my age when he came here. Ort was taller, with considerably more body mass. Long hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. A beard, of course, but a short one.

  I stood on the ground, shifting from one foot to the other, not daring to speak first, and watched the older ranger. Ort knelt beside the poacher and examined him.

  'New ranger?' Ort said, not raising his head. He touched the man's neck, feeling for the pulse.

  I coughed. 'Well, I've been here for more than two months now.' I instantly felt silly after saying that.

  'New,' Ort looked at me. 'This one is alive, check the other.'

  I felt that there was no need in that, but obeyed. He had complete command over me. Walking past the kneeling Ort, I looked over his shoulder. He was spraying the poacher's wounds with antiseptic. 'By the way, I'm Wealder,' I said. My voice wiggled, I must have sounded like a schoolgirl.

  'I know,' Ort said. 'I'm Ort.'

  I stepped into the overturned boat and went to the cabin. It was dark inside, but I knew what I would have seen. The stench of blood was too thick to ignore. Nevertheless, I stuck my head inside and waited for my eyes to adjust. Just to be sure. The picture cleared and proved me right. The other two were dead as rocks. With the headshot guy, it was obvious, I saw him go. The other man must have been thrown forward at the impact. If he flew out of the cabin through the windshield, he might have survived the crash. But he struck the center frame. The metal beam cut his head in half and now stuck from the base of the neck. Gross stuff.

  I walked out of the boat and announced, 'All dead.'

  Ort looked over the remaining poacher and stood up. 'Should have apprehended them there. On the spot,' he said. 'Instead, you started a race. Caused a ruckus. You shouted warnings. Am I right?'

  'Well, yes. What was I supposed to do?'

  Ort shook his rifle by the butt. 'You see them — you shoot. Talk later.' He paused. 'They should know. Don't mess with the rangers. They see a rifle, they surrender.'

  I was at a loss for words and pointed at the man on the ground. 'He tried to shoot me with a gun!'

  Ort shrugged. 'You showed weakness. Fussed around. You're still a city dweller. It will pass.'

  I felt ashamed and indignant. For years I considered myself to be the man of my own mind, the calm and the wise one. And here I stood, being berated by a guy who I saw for the first time in my life. But I couldn't argue, for I knew that Ort spoke the truth.

  'So what do we do now?' I said, shifting the subject away from me.

  'I'll do a scan,' Ort said, looking at the surviving poacher. 'He may have more injuries inside. As for you,' he empathized the last word,' you'll go and gather the furs. They mustn't lay around like that. It's just not right.'

  'Yes, the first rule — respect life and death,' I blurted out and bit my tongue. By the expression on Ort's face I understood that I'd just said another silly thing. So I shut up and went to work.

  Ort returned to his scooter and opened a compartment. He took out a small satchel and went back to the wounded poacher.

  I looked at the sight in front of me. The scattered furs created the illusion of an ancient battlefield. I sighed and began picking them up. The furs were coarse and still wet with blood. I stacked them on the ground in a pile.

  Ort injected the poacher with an antibiotic. After that, he used a small device to scan the man's body. Judging by the grunt he uttered, it didn't give encouraging results.

  I finished gathering the furs and brought them to the boat in a heap. 'So…' I said, leaving the question hanging in the air.

  Ort shook his head. 'This man can have internal bleeding. Maybe fractures. Can't carry him to the cabin. Even together, we won't manage. You stay here and guard. I'll go to my home. Call a boat from the sawmill.'

  'Can't you do it from the wrist communicator?' I asked.

  'No.'

  I got content with such a final answer and didn't ask more. Ort went to his scooter and took off. I followed him with my eyes until Ort's scooter disappeared behind the thick trees.

  Thus I was left alone in the woods with an unconscious man, two corpses and a pile of beltysh skins. At first, I strolled around the perimet
er like I did on desert patrols on Clomt. When I got sick of that useless activity, I just sat on the scooter and waited, looking at the mess before me.

  A rustle came from the side. I turned, automatically grabbing the rifle. A tikili picked out of the tall grass, its nasal antenna moving from side to side. The beast's gaze was fixed on the body on the ground. It looked at me, then back at the poacher and stepped forward. It was followed by another one.

  'HEY!' I yelled, getting up. 'Go away!'

  The tikilis flinched and stepped back, staring at me with their hollow eyes. However, seeing that I did nothing more than empty threats, they moved forward again.

  I remembered Ort's words about showing weakness, picked up a rock and threw it at them. The projectile hit one on the side, but the animal didn't even yelp. It only snarled and gave me a brief glance with no respect in it.

  The front tikili dashed at the poacher, its mouth open and yellow teeth glistening. I cursed and fired.

  A piece of land just before the poacher exploded upward, and the tikili jumped back a couple of feet and backed away. The pair pressed together and watched me. The animals didn't have much contact with humans, but they already knew what a rifle was.

  I aimed at the tikilis as they backed away. 'That's right, beasts,' I said. 'Go away.' I didn't have much affection for the tikili, but didn't want to waste them nevertheless. They were simple animals, after all. Just following their instincts.

  The animals peered at me, hypnotizing with their milky eyes, and then one looked to the side. When the other joined him, I understood what they wanted. Their antennas twitched, sensing more meat inside the boat's cabin.

  Though I liked poachers even less than tikilis, I didn't want to become an accessory in man-eating. I fired another shot above the animals, but the tikilis didn't pay much attention to it. They ducked to the ground for a moment and then dashed at the boat.

  I cursed again and fired to kill. I got one on the run. It yelped, hit the metal of the boat with a thump and then fell on the ground, dead. But the other one mounted the hull and got inside.

  I walked forward and stopped beside the poacher. The sounds of ripping meat came from the darkness of the cabin, and I tried in vain not to imagine what the animal was doing to the bodies. However much I wanted to go there and scare the beast away or shoot it, I didn't dare to leave the wounded man alone. There could be other tikilis around. The grass was tall and thick. So I was stuck defending the man who tried to shoot me dead mere minutes ago and whom I despised.

  The feast continued for a few of minutes, but they seemed like hours to me. The sounds of crunching and munching started to get on my nerves. To my horror, my mouth watered, and I spit on the ground. At last, it all stopped.

  The tikili came out of the cabin, its muzzle smeared with blood. Its long tongue worked over the teeth, licking the tasty liquid. The beast looked straight at me, as if mocking the human before it. I thought of shooting it, but decided not to. There was no point in more murder. The beast had won.

  The tikili turned away and disappeared into the brush in one jump.

  Ort returned soon after. He circled over the crash site, examining it, and landed. I felt waves of relief washing over me when he appeared. I put the rifle back on the shoulder and watched him come to me.

  Ort looked at the dead tikili. 'What has happened?'

  I averted my eyes, searching for words. 'I was guarding the man when two of them came out of the grass. They made it for the corpses. I shot one, but the other got inside.' I paused, not saying the obvious. 'When he came out, I didn't shoot him.'

  Ort's reaction surprised me — he chuckled. 'Good for you. Dead meat is dead meat. The live animal is better.' He looked at the poacher on the ground. 'The boat is on its way. Soon be here.'

  I nodded and stepped away from the wounded man. To my further surprise, Ort struck up a conversation.

  'Did you transfer in from the army?' he asked.

  'Yes,' I said. One thought gnawed at me since the beginning. I started from afar. 'Didn't you do the same?'

  Ort shook his head. 'No. I'm from the old trappers. Not many wild woods back home anymore. Nothing to do in the city. Came here.' He paused and looked over the woods. 'It's quieter here.'

  When I heard those words, my spirit rocketed inside. Here he was - my soul mate. 'You know, I feel exactly the same way,' I said and then a flood of words poured out of me, 'I have this theory that modern people just have too much puttering in them. That's my word for all the worrying we do about the silly, unimportant stuff that's imposed on us—'

  I stopped. Ort was staring at me like I was a madman. I suddenly felt very uneasy. Why did I talk about the puttering? It always happens like this. Everything sounds coherent and reasonable in your head, but when you let it out, it turns into gibberish. Call the guys with giant butterfly nets.

  Ort shook his head as if he read my mind. Maybe, he did, in a way. 'Stop overthinking it. Life is simpler than that. Just be a man.' He stopped at that.

  Silence. I thought that Ort would continue the thought, but he only stared at me. His severe gaze made me feel uneasy.

  'What's Edlon's deal?' I tried to shift the conversation off me. Again.

  'What do you mean?'

  'He—' I started and stopped. What did I mean? It was just a question. Asking Ort about the weather or something seemed stupid. I remembered the one-way conversations and Edlon's bipolar swings of mood. 'What's his problem?'

  Ort didn't answer right away and that fact perked my ears. 'Well… He's a blabbermouth. A bit greedy, but he knows his stuff. He may act like a clown, but inside he's made of granite. Believe me.' Ort's voice lowered, and he sounded tired. 'Don't pester him.'

  'As you say,' I said. If anybody pestered anyone here, it was Edlon, but I didn't argue.

  We didn't speak for a while. Ort seemed both forthcoming and restrained at the same time. Maybe, he was just out of the habit of communicating. I didn't push.

  There was humming coming toward them, and soon a boat appeared. It carefully moved between the trees and landed in the clearing. Two medics in blue stepped out, followed by a man in gray. He approached us, and the medicine men attended to the poacher. The gray suit was a large man, mostly by the way of fatness.

  'Hello, Ort,' the man said. He turned to me. 'And you must be Wealder. We haven't met, I'm Fomas Pimock, the chief of security at the sawmill.' We shook hands on the acquaintance. His grip was hard. 'You have created quite a mess here today.'

  'Shit happens,' Ort said. 'Will you clean the debris?'

  Fomas looked over the area. 'Yeah, that won't be a problem.'

  'What will happen to him?' I jerked my head at the poacher lying prostrate on the ground.

  Fomas measured me, as if he wasn't sure whether to tell me or not, and shrugged. 'We will put him in our hospital. Will keep him there till he can stand trial.' He smirked. 'Fucker.'

  While we talked, the medics lifted the poacher and put the stretcher underneath him. After securing the patient, they carried him to the boat. Having done that, they returned for the corpses. Ort and Pimock exchanged some general phrases between them as if I wasn't there. I saw that they respected each other, but there was no friendly warmth in the conversation. When all the bodies were loaded, the boat took off.

  I followed the boat with my eyes. Before they left, Fomas told me that we might meet soon. Weird man. He seemed to be measuring me the whole time. Maybe, it comes with the job, security and all.

  'How's the job treating you so far?' Ort said, pulling me out of my thoughts. There was a hint of warmth in his voice, as if I just passed some test.

  'OK. I like it here.' I looked at the remains of the boat. 'Regardless of anything I don't like.'

  'One piece of advice — don't ever try to camp out overnight. It never ends well.'

  I rooted to the spot. Cold sweat formed on my brow. Before Ort could suspect of my shortcomings in that area, I presented him my hand.

  Ort hemmed, amicably
, and we shook on our first encounter. His grip was hard and gentle; he could have easily crushed my hand in his if he wanted to do it. After that, we went our separate ways.

  I was flying with a smile on my face. Ort was everything I expected him to be and more. Even though he scolded me, I wasn't cross at him. I needed it.

  For all my talk of solitude, I felt lucky to have such a good neighbor. It was good to know that Ort was always out there, backing me up. Compared to him, Edlon and I were just dumb kids.

  Where Metal Eats the Wood

  Fomas' invitation came soon after the poachers incident. The message didn't specify what he wanted, and I didn't really care. I gathered my personal effects and set off for the sawmill.

  The facility was situated a few miles southeast from the border of my sector. Several hours' trip by scooter. The sawmill was built on the riverbank for efficiency — they'd cut up the wood and then sail it downstream right to the city. It was actually just south of Edlon's land, and it made more sense to call him. Maybe, they just wanted to get acquainted with me.

  As I moved closer, the sounds of human industry reached my ears. Ah, bird songs are nothing compared to the sweet melody of a buzzing saw eating its way through the wood.

  I saw a machine ahead as tall as my cabin's pilings. When I flew closer, I recognized it as a treeroller. It had the base of an excavator or tractor, and a tripod sprouted from the front end; two prongs to burrow into the ground for support while the third stretched along the trunk, clasping it with mighty mechanical pincers. You see, Safun's trees are too big to let them fall freely; doing so can lead to catastrophe. Therefore, the workers would saw the tree free from the ground up, carrying the wood it away in cubes, then rollers in the pincers would lower the trunk safely to the ground and the work would continue.

  As I approached, the workers stopped in their tracks and looked at me like I was an intruder, an alien creature. Some of them waved to me and pointed to the facility. Others just stared, hands hanging by the sides, as if they didn't want me to see what they were doing. I waved back, a bit put off by the scene. The rest of the trip didn't take long. The forest grew sparser as my scooter went forward. Trees, bushes, ditches and hills were replaced by flattened land littered with warehouses, machinery and people in safety helmets.