by T. J. Bass
‘Where will I find you?’
‘Can you get a compass reading from my tightbeam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Two hundred twenty-eight miles. A mountain with a flat top. We will be looking for you.’
‘I’ll have to think it over.’
He glanced at Mu Ren and the infant. The dangers of the gardens were very real to him. He had seen the effects of exposure on hunters.
‘Travel at night,’ said Harvester. ‘We will decoy the hunters so you should be safe. But stay in tall vegetation and below canal banks. Don’t carry metals. If you cover more than ten miles a day they won’t be able to hold a fix on you. I must sign off now – a questing field tickles our beam. Don’t wait too long.’
Tinker took off the earphones slowly.
‘Who was that?’ asked Mu Ren sitting up.
‘I’m not sure, but we’ll find out. We’re going Outside.’
Fear crossed her face. She hugged the infant.
‘The variance will come through,’ she cried.
He went to her side and patted her head.
‘This is our . . . Junior’s only chance,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll be prepared for the exposure and try to avoid the hunters. I’ll pack what we’ll need. It won’t be too bad. We have maps.’
‘No one goes Outside and lives,’ she blurted. ‘The Inappropriate Activities and the Molecular Rewards – they go out to die. If the hunters don’t get us, the buckeyes will. They’re vicious cannibals.’
He gave her a nonritual hug. ‘There are Followers of Olga out there. They’ll protect us.’
She was unconvinced, but he began to make preparations immediately. Several trips to shaft base supplied him with extra issue tissue clothing, mending tools, small medipacks, and bedding. Avoiding metals, he made up back packs, utility belts and a papoose frame to carry Junior. Tinker strapped the frame on his back and tested it for size.
Unexpectedly, two heavy men stepped into the doorway – reliable neuters from Security.
‘Planning on going somewhere?’ asked the captain in a cruel voice.
Tinker reflexively smiled his Good Citizen smile.
‘Certainly. A Climb. My vacation. You should have checked before you came over.’
It was twenty-one hundred hours. The squad must have been scrambled as soon as they had a fix on his tightbeam. He doubted if they knew anything about him personally. They hesitated. Out in the crawlway he heard another SS man call in about the Climb vacation. Tinker leaned out the door. Three more stood back by the spiral – quarterstaffs and throwing nets.
Mu Ren clutched her infant nervously. A third SS neut entered with a communicator.
‘He is bluffing about the Climb. Very anti-ES family-3. Unauthorized infant. He’s on job strike. She has ignored Clinic summons. Warrants are out on all three.’
First officer took out his set of ankle hobbles.
‘We’ll take these two in. Chuck the kid down the synthesizer chute on the way. Psych will bring them back around to ES orientation,’ he said, advancing on Tinker.
Tinker’s face smiled. His mind raced. Three neuts, as heavy as he – but without shoulders. He backed up against his workbench, nudging a switch. The room vibrated with 160 decibels of 10,000 hertz sound. Whipping a four-foot flexi-cable, he scattered the guard. Gouts of rose water splattered walls. Chunks of soft meat flew. He pushed Mu Ren ahead. She pressed the infant between her breasts. The crawlway was blocked at the spiral by the SS throwing net and staffs. Neuts watched through the tanglefoot mesh. He dragged her away from the shaft – out-crawlway. An access hatch admitted them into the darkness of ’tween walls.
Thick spongy dust cushioned their footsteps and clung to their faces and hands. Disturbed rats squeaked and darted away. A long climb up a spiral air vent brought them to the surface.
‘Our packs,’ moaned Mu Ren. ‘We left them.’
They peered through the louvers into the brilliant garden. Fruits and vegetables provided a kaleidoscope of color that mesmerized them. Even Tinker had never looked Outside without protective goggles before.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said squinting. ‘We are safe here. We can travel after dark.’
They rested and caught their breath. Tinker dusted off the papoose frame and hitched it up tighter on his back. They wiped the baby’s face and let him sleep in the frame.
‘There’s one thing we don’t have to worry about Outside,’ he said.
She looked up quizzically.
‘Flavors.’
‘Gone buckeye? Impossible. Not Tinker,’ shouted Val, pacing around Tinker’s deserted quarters.
The Security captain sat while the Mediteck/meck worked on his wounds.
‘Well they’re Outside – and it certainly wasn’t IA or MR.’
Val stamped about searching the jumble of boxes and wires. ‘Neither of them had five toes. They just aren’t buckeyes by definition.’
‘Nevertheless, they’re Outside. One of the Pipes came over and tracked them up the vent tube. Found the broken louvers.’
Val was preoccupied with Tinker’s refresher. He found a straight razor and a strop.
‘Does the Sharps Committee know about this?’ he said, holding up the wicked four-inch blade.
‘I don’t think so,’ muttered the captain, backing away nervously.
Val closed the blade against the handle.
‘Leave it to Tinker to ignore the nice safe Kerato-Sol depilatory and manufacture his own razor. Polarization certainly changed him.’
One of the SS tecks working around the cot and bedding stood up with his printing gear. His eyes were wide.
‘Five toes!’
It was the infant’s footprint.
‘The bad gene,’ mumbled Val. ‘They were both carrying it. That explains his anti-ES action.’
The Security captain got slowly to his feet.
‘You’ll send out Hunters?’
‘Of course,’ said Val. ‘Turn this razor in to the Sharps Committee,’ he said, handing over the folded blade.
Foxhound trundled up to Garage’s sphincter. Walter tightened the loops on Val’s suit and handed him the Pelger-Huet helmet – a large light sphere with a granular outer surface and a horizontal bean-shaped view glass.
‘Do you think it is safe to go after him alone?’ asked old Walter. ‘His wall charts were pretty detailed. He knows where he is going.’
Val nodded grimly.
‘Can’t see any reason to scramble the entire platoon. They can continue their routine patrols. We can only use them one at a time, anyway. They need their drugs out there, and would hunt each other if we put down a crowd. I know Tinker. Maybe I can talk him in.’
‘If you can’t?’
‘I’ll be in Foxhound. I’ll be all right. Tinker doesn’t have any protective gear. He can only travel at night. Shouldn’t be much trouble finding the three of them.’
‘What will you do?’
‘That’s Tinker’s decision. My hands are tied. I have my orders. If he wants to lay down his life for an unauthorized kid and his anti-ES mate – well, I’ll just let him do it,’ said Val, picking up his heavy long bow. His long hours on the archery hallway would be put to some use after all.
Walter made a motion to ease his bulk into Foxhound. Val blocked his way gently.
‘Stay and keep an eye on HC. You can help me more back here with the buckeye detectors. I don’t know how long I’ll be out.’
The sphincter opened. Walter shielded his eyes. After Foxhound left, he tapped Tinker’s dispenser for its audio and optic memories. The infant’s birth interested him. He watched Tinker’s talented hands run through the primip procedures smoothly – treating Mu Ren and the baby just like any of the mecks he was always working on – a little wet and soft, but a biologically sound machine. Walter fed the recordings through Security’s Psychokinetoscope searching for FBMs – the fine body movements that indicated psychoses. Nothing. Both Tinker and Mu Ren appeared to be stable until their
desertion. Walter was puzzled. Going buckeye had to be psychotic – for Outside was a hostile environment – fatal for citizens.
The Huntercraft settled quietly into a grove of fruit trees and scanned the scum-flecked canal. Cetaceans bellowed and submerged. Val turned off the cabin lights, put his bow across his knees and waited. He was certain Tinker would be along as soon as the sun set. Unexpectedly, the viewscreen picked up a figure walking toward him.
‘The sun is still up,’ muttered Val. ‘Tinker should know better than to expose his epidermis to—’
The figure registered seventy kilograms – with mane, shoulders and breasts of a coweye. She waded knee-deep in weedy water along the bank. Val cringed and whispered into his wristcom.
‘A rogue coweye. A big one. Her IR skin pattern reads way over in the luteal phase.’
She paused and glanced around suspiciously.
‘Can you get a shot at it?’ wheezed old Walter.
Val quietly nocked his arrow and motioned for the Huntercraft to crack the hatch. The meck refused.
‘Prime directive, sir,’ it said. ‘You cannot hunt from inside my cabin. I would be taking an active part in hominid killing. Step outside. Expose yourself.’
‘But I’m a supervisor!’ blustered Val.
‘She has spooked,’ said the meck.
The quarry lowered herself into deeper water. For a few seconds her dry hair trailed on the surface. Then she was gone, leaving tiny bubbles. Foxhound rose with a cloud of dust and leaves – tracking. Her warm body glimmered on the screen. Val swung down-harness, landing in the coweye’s path on the opposite bank. He renocked his arrow. Foxhound moved off in his passive role of taxi – waiting. Val watched the mint-green waters, trying to estimate where she would surface for air. Seconds dragged into minutes. More time allowed her more distance. Nervously alert, he crept further down the bank.
Stumbling over something cold and wet, he let the arrow fly out over the canal. Foxhound’s optic followed the trajectory – a wobbling flight into a distant flowery canopy. Val struggled to his knees and groaned into his wristcom.
‘What is it?’ asked Walter.
Val pulled off his glove and palpated the slippery form.
‘It’s the coweye. She somehow got ahead of me. Powerful swimmer.’
‘Hurry and cut her carotid. She’s dangerous.’
‘She’s dead already,’ scoffed Val.
Walter studied the sensor readings. The body was that of the coweye – same seventy-kilo mass reading. Same breasts and shoulders. Same long hair. Only now she was reading wet and had a temperature the same as the ambient. Mud covered her legs below the knees.
Val signalled Foxhound for pickup. ‘Aren’t you going to take a trophy?’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ said Val. ‘Besides, I’m here for Tinker. Lost too much time already. Make a note to have the Sampler check her remains in the morning.’
Darkness settled. Val relaxed in the cabin listening to an entertainment channel while the Huntercraft scanned. Telltales danced.
‘Sighting.’
‘Let’s see it on the Hi Lo beam,’ whispered Val. ‘I want to get a look at . . .’ He paused open-mouthed. ‘The coweye!’
They watched the long-haired female rewarm and climb from the dewy kale greens into the warm canal. Slipping under water she vanished again.
‘They’re immortal,’ gasped Val.
‘Get hold of yourself,’ commanded old Walter. ‘I saw it too, but there must be a logical explanation. Probably just a defective sensor or poor transmission. Foxhound isn’t in the best of condition. I think you should call off your Hunt and get back here. The routine patrols will find Tinker tomorrow.’
Val didn’t need further coaxing. Shuddering, he buckled himself into the safety of his seat and turned the entertainment on loud.
Moses Eppendorff fitted the new louver into its sockets and tested its mobility. He wore his Pipe caste emblem – Aquarius. As each louver was added the defect narrowed and the bright gardens were slowly shut out. Bright, ominous gardens.
‘Moses. Walter here. How is it going up there?’ Moses glanced at his belt communicator.
‘Fine. I’ve got enough in place to relax. If they come back now, at least they won’t be able to get in this way.’
Walter could sympathize with any citizen working so close to the Outside – being conditioned to life in the hive so long. Added to that was the potential attack of an IA like Tinker.
‘Well you can relax,’ said Walter. ‘The three bodies have been found cooking in the sun about a mile from there. The Sampler is already on its way. You are safe now – as are we all.’
Moses relaxed.
The robot Sampler trundled around the three brown flaky corpses while the teck directed its operation from the safety of an adjacent shaft cap.
‘That will do for the optic records. Pick up the infant’s body first and put it on the lid of the hopper.’
The Sampler’s heavy lower appendages scooped up the friable mess. The green grass underneath caught the teck’s eye. ‘Sample the grass. The body hasn’t been here long.’
While they watched the small blades of grass slowly stood up. The Sampler’s small upper appendages quickly dissected the corpse, indexing a missing segment of rib and a perforated heart and chest wall. Moving to the nearest adult-sized body it noted six large puncture wounds of the trunk – each about three inches in diameter. Sex, male. Liver and large muscle masses of thigh missing.
The teck made a mental note that the buckeyes must have killed them – making a meal out of parts of Tinker.
The next body also had the marks of many spears. Liver and muscle groups were missing – but the sex again was male! The teck checked the roster of the missing – Tinker, Mu Ren and a one-year-old infant.
All the bodies were loaded on the meck. They were dry and mummified – months dead. The grass under the bodies was bright green. The teck shrugged. It didn’t make sense.
A nervous Nebish work crew blundered around the quiet bulk of the renegade Harvester at the base of Mount Tabulum. Their cumbersome suits snagged the tools and the phobias of Outside clouded their minds. The huge meck’s power cell was exhausted, but enough charge remained on its plates for mentation and tightbeam operation.
The Hip and several of his naked followers watched from a high sheltered crevice.
‘They know not what they do,’ murmured Hip majestically. ‘They will not take our Harvester.’
As if to confirm his prediction the big meck lurched and crushed one of the suited forms under a tire. The others ran frantically around in circles for a few minutes. Then one collapsed, apparently from shock. The rest withdrew to a shaft cap.
The Hip held his crystal ball high and repeated.
‘The hive will not take our Harvester. The meck will be faithful to us alone. We will have wheels and a tightbeam. And – we have a meck brain to share our love of freedom.’
Then he studied the horizon . . . adding: ‘A Tinker is coming to us – from the hive. He is one of us, as you will see by his child’s toes. His hands are skilled. His mate is fertile. We will welcome him to our village.’
The followers nodded.
Tinker felt defeated. Three days of crawling and swimming had disintegrated their issue tissue garments. Now their skins were disintegrating too. Lacking melanin and niacin, their epidermis blistered and peeled. There was no place to hide from the sun’s deadly radiant energy. The rays bounced off water and waxy leaves – seeking their naked bodies. Blister beds festered with gritty exudates.
‘Certainly need our medipacks,’ said Tinker.
‘We just didn’t have time to bring them,’ soothed Mu Ren. She touched his hand gently – weakly.
Tinker foraged briefly, returning with protein-rich whole grain. Their baking nap was brief, restless. That night they averaged two miles per hour. Feet and knees swelled. At dawn they bathed wounds in canal waters.
‘Shouldn’t we ask the Big ES fo
r mercy?’ wept Mu Ren.
Tinker studied their skin lesions. Back and shoulders were getting worse – no sign of healing. But on their hands and arms blisters crusted. Ulcers dried.
‘There is no mercy in the hive,’ he said. ‘Just the law. We broke that when we came Outside and crushed crops. Each footstep deprives some citizen of calories. The hive will remember that. Our credits have been confiscated. Oh, it wouldn’t be too bad for me. After a bout with Psych I’d get my old caste position, but you wouldn’t be so lucky. And certainly Junior’s fate is the pattie press.’
He picked up his son, hugging him and letting Mu Ren rest her arms. None of the child’s blisters had broken, and now he noticed a hint of color coming to the backs of the pudgy little hands.
‘He’s tanning,’ exclaimed Tinker.
Mu Ren failed to see the significance.
‘He has our genes. We should tan too. There is hope.’
They both squinted through the bright green radiance. Yes, there was a hint of melanin in the child’s skin. Their sleep was more restful that afternoon. On their seventh day in the gardens their courage was rewarded with a lessening of skin pain. Dry crusts covered much of their upper trunks, and covered them comfortably. Their appetites improved. On their tenth day a canal crossing was actually enjoyable – so strong was their skin.
‘Those would be the mountains,’ said Tinker.
‘There are so many. Which one?’
‘Can’t be sure from here. I’ve been trying to keep us on a course about five degrees south of due east. I hope we can find a flat-topped mountain in about ten more days of travel.’
Mu Ren climbed up onto a tree limb. Her brown scales matched the bark.
‘Some have snow caps. Don’t see any flat ones yet,’ she said, shielding her eyes with cupped hands.
‘Huntercraft!’
They fled into the canal – three heads nose-deep in grassy waters. The craft kept its straight course, crossing a hundred yards downstream. Its large cup-shaped sensors stared ahead.
The ancient seer of Mount Tabulum climbed arthritically onto the Harvester’s neck and pressed his ball against the big neck’s knob of neurocircuitry. Ball glowed. Harvester stirred.