by Jaxon Reed
I choked and spit out my meat.
He ignored me and continued.
“Actually, they should have their own genus since they’re exobiological, but there’s a long tale about the politics behind that, associated with the story of the State kicking most Scientists and everyone else out of Redwood several years back. So, for the sake of simplicity they’re classified in the Bos genus. At least for now. They’re similar to Old Earth’s Bos taurus of course, just much larger. And tastier. I can tell you there was a lot of disagreement over whether they should even be in the same family as Old Earth cows, let alone genus.”
It was the longest train of thought I heard him utter. I figured out later he only really opened up on talking if the subject interested him. But I wasn’t thinking about that at the moment.
“Redwood cow? But that’s . . . that’s . . .”
“Illegal?”
“Heck yeah it’s illegal. We could . . .”
He nodded. “I know. Go to the penal colony on Orange for it. Look, m’boy, you’ve already left Redwood City without permission, stolen a QC, eaten import restricted fruit, aided and abetted an admitted tobacco farmer, and who knows what else you’ve done. Enjoy your steak.”
-+-
After supper he excused himself, saying something about a humidor. He came back with two cigars and motioned for me to follow him outside. Once settled on the lounge chairs, he clipped the ends off the cigars and showed me how to light them.
“They’re made in different sizes, both length and gauge. Some people like the Churchill, named after Winston Churchill. It was his favorite size: seven inches with a forty-seven ring gauge. The ‘standard’ size is the corona: six inches with a forty-two ring gauge. My favorite is this one, the robusto. It’s four and seven-eighths inches. I think the smaller size enhances the flavor, at least with Redwood tobacco.”
After several moments letting flame kiss the cigar, developing a good glowing tip, I took my first forbidden puffs.
“Don’t inhale into your lungs. Mouth only. Cigars are meant to be tasted, not inhaled. These have a maduro wrapper. Lots of flavor.”
He was right. The taste and aroma of the smoke was slightly sweet, mixed with strong spices.
It was delightful.
We puffed a long time in silence.
“Well m’boy, what do you think?”
“I can see why these are banned. They’re wonderful.”
His laughed barked out. “You’re starting to catch on.”
“I always heard . . . well, maybe it was State propaganda or something, but I always heard cigars smelled awful. This smells really good.”
“Well, most cigars sold back before the State banned tobacco were cheap. Cheap cigars stink. And the majority of cigars sold were cheap. They still are when you can find them on the black market. Good cigars that taste and smell good have always been expensive. They take a long time to produce. Years if done right. Then they’re hard to ship, and hard to keep in shape for consumption. All of that adds to their cost.”
He paused to take a puff, then continued.
“It’s one of the reasons cigarettes were so popular back in the day. Each cigar may taste different, even from the same box. Cigars have to be conditioned properly, spend lots of time in a controlled environment like a humidor. And you typically have to spend lots of money to get good ones. Cigarettes pretty much taste the same, one after the other. They can be consumed a lot quicker, and don’t have to be stored so carefully. So if you want to get addicted to nicotine, cigarettes provided the cheaper, easier solution for delivery.
“When tobacco was banned, addicts suffered the most. Cigarettes go quick. They’re designed to. The supply dried up fast, soon after the factories shut down. You still see some enterprising souls manufacture a few thousand cigarettes and sell them somewhere. The State hunts them down with a vengeance, they never last very long. Most nicotine addicts have gone over to other delivery methods or just kicked the habit.”
The stars twinkled, the night birds and insects sang their noisy choruses. My first cigar burned down near the end. The flavor had changed after a couple inches were smoked, again in the middle, and now once again at the end.
“Fine cigars are aged properly from the best tobacco. There’s never a big supply of them to begin with, so they’re always more expensive. I understand mine are considered by many to be the best in the Janus String.”
I nodded. I was experiencing my first nicotine high. A thought crossed my mind. I asked, “How much do these go for?”
“Last I heard, about a hundred credits.”
I coughed for a few seconds. “A hundred credits?”
For perspective, a large meal for two in one of the nicer restaurants on New Texas might run ten credits. I was finishing up the equivalent of ten nice meals, all going up in smoke. I looked over at Kalinowski in astonishment. He barked his laugh again.
I said, “Who can afford hundred credit cigars?”
“Who else? State officials. Higher level bureaucrats. Redwood tobacco never makes it to the black market on the streets, m’boy. Stuff this good is only consumed by people like The Old Man and other heads of State.”
My cigar was winding down, with about an inch left. I did the math and figured I was holding about twenty credits worth of tobacco.
“Care for another one?”
“I don’t think I can afford it.”
He barked his laugh. “Perk of the job, m’boy. One of the many benefits of being out here. All the cigars you could possibly want. But it’s probably best we stop for the night anyway. Remember Ulysses S. Grant.”
I gave him a blank look.
“You know who Ulysses S. Grant was? Union general . . . Eighteenth President of the United States?”
“Yeah, I took American history. Why should I remember U. S. Grant?”
“Well, he was very popular once he started winning battles for the Union in the American Civil War. A reporter commented in a story about how he liked cigars, and with the technology of the day, early photographs and lithographs, he was sometimes portrayed with one. Legions of adoring fans started sending him cigars. He received boxes upon boxes of them. More than he could possibly smoke. But he tried. At one time he was smoking up to twenty sticks a day.”
He paused to put down his own dwindling cigar in an ashtray between us, cracked his knuckles then folded his hands behind his head.
“Eventually he developed throat cancer and died. Very painful. Too many cigars.”
I looked down at what was left of my own cigar and hurriedly threw it in the ash tray. All the propaganda the State put out about tobacco came back to me.
“Why are we smoking these things, then?”
He smiled. “Moderation in everything, m’boy. A cigar every now and then likely won’t kill you. Twenty a day is simply not healthy. The same goes for wine, beer, whiskey, steaks or other fine foods. The lesson from Ulysses S. Grant is, ‘Don’t overdo it.’”
Chapter Five
The days raced by as I helped Kalinowski gather and tend to the crops and his tobacco warehouse. Although it was still menial labor, the work was different from my duties in Redwood City somehow, out here in the middle of nowhere. For one thing, nobody was forcing me to work. For another, nobody was there to watch my every move. I spent hours and hours in splendid isolation. The food he prepared was great, too. Every three or four nights he’d grab a couple cigars out of the humidor and we’d enjoy them late into the evening.
After a couple more weeks I made my way back to the QC. It was still where I left it, undisturbed. I fetched a couple vials of Schmidt’s blood and satisfied my needs.
Time raced on and before I knew it, I’d been at AES 3 for over a month.
One morning over breakfast Kalinowski said, “Well, got a delivery coming. I’ll send you back with the foodstuff.”
“Back where?”
“The Ranger station. In the trees.”
I finished eating my bacon t
hinking about this.
“What if I don’t want to go? What if I just stayed here?”
“You were heading for the trees when I first met you, m’boy. Surely you still want to see them?”
I nodded. “Yeah, someday. Not sure I want to meet the Rangers, though.”
“You’ll like them. Good people. Most of them are Aggies. Besides, you need to go. They’ll figure out what to do about you.”
After breakfast I helped him move outside all the food and cigars we’d been accumulating in the rec room. He laid a giant net on the ground, then put four wooden pallets in the middle. We stacked things on the pallets: boxes of cigars on one, boxes of fruits and vegetables on the others.
When we were done he gathered up the net and tied it off on top with a sturdy rope.
“Now we wait.”
We wandered over to the lounge chairs and waited.
-+-
About an hour later he pointed to a distant speck in the sky. As it drew closer, I made out the dimensions of a giant bird flying toward us.
“A synthetic bird?”
He nodded. “Yup. That’s what the Rangers use. Minimizes ecological disturbance.”
As it grew closer, I could make out the synthetic bird was carrying something in its claws. When it approached for landing, I could see the Ranger on its back, behind the neck. It neatly dropped a pallet with boxes of stuff wrapped up in a net, then with a single whuff! of its wings, it flew over the deposited load and landed gently on the ground before us.
The Ranger crawled out of his perch and climbed down off the bird. Soon as he turned around he stared at me for a moment, then made his way toward us.
“Glad to see you Jenkins! M’boy here’s about to eat me out of house and home.”
Kalinowski stepped forward to meet Jenkins, while motioning for me to stay put. They talked quietly over by the bird, each casting glances my way while evidently discussing my fate. I couldn’t hear what Kalinowski was saying, so I focused on Jenkins’ expressions to try and gauge his reactions. At first Jenkins’ eyes were narrow, as if listening intently. Then they grew wide as Kalinowski said something that either surprised or impressed him. Or both. Finally they grew thoughtful, and he looked at me as if appraising my potential, like a shopper who finds an odd object at the black market and begins thinking of ways to use it before deciding to buy it or not.
Jenkins looked to be in his mid-thirties. Dark hair, light brown skin just like most people. Medium height, but he was built well. He seemed to be in great shape and looked like he stayed active. I’d only read about Rangers, never seen one before. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, impatient.
Finally the two men headed toward me.
“Colt Jenkins, meet Marcus Savitch.”
We shook hands and I didn’t even bother to comment on the Aggie ring. I’d come to expect it. Nothing but Aggies out here, I thought. He had a smaller ring on his left hand, which I noticed but I didn’t think much of, at the time.
“I’d like you to come back to the Ranger station with me, Mr. Savitch. If you’re willing.”
I nodded, thinking quickly. I didn’t know I really had a choice. Was he just being polite? Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I’d probably never get to the trees if I didn’t go with him.
“Of course.”
-+-
After saying our goodbyes to Kalinowski, we climbed up onto the synthetic bird. I sat behind Ranger Jenkins, and the synthetic skin under the feathers automatically indented, making a seat for me. Once I got settled, it tightened up slightly on my legs and around my waste.
“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Savitch. It’s just to hold you in, so you don’t fall off.”
A hologram control panel appeared in front of Jenkins, and he said, “Bird, grab the load in front of us and return home.”
The bird turned his head so its left eye made contact with Jenkins’ and it squawked.
Well, that’s different from the usual response beep, I thought.
It spread its wings and whuffed! them down. We rose in the air and its claws grabbed the net filled with supply pallets. The wings flapped harder and faster.
Whuff! Whuff! Whuff!
We were up and away, and headed toward the trees.
I looked back and down, saw Kalinowski rapidly receding in the distance. I waved goodbye. He cupped his hands and yelled up to me, “Remember Ulysses S. Grant!”
-+-
The synthetic bird kept a steady rhythm, and as we gained altitude it caught a breeze which helped with its lift. Slowly the trees grew larger. Soon they dominated our field of vision. Below were giant red-brown trunks, hundreds of feet in diameter. They stretched out into a Brobdingnagian forest of unimaginable size, reaching hundreds of miles into the center of the continent.
Above were leafy branches, stretching high into the sky, a dense green maze. Giant sail-size leaves gently swayed in the breeze.
I had to yell above the wind and flapping of wings to ask Jenkins a question.
“How high are the tops of the trees?”
“About eight thousand feet at the highest point!”
I’d only seen this vast forest from a spaceship flying over, and on vid screens. Seeing its edge in the air, as we grew closer, was completely different. I felt very small, and utterly in awe.
As we neared the first of the giant trees, near the intersection of branches and trunks, I began to make out some patterns evident just inside the forest border. Straight lines are often the sign of humans, and as we flew into the forest’s periphery, a wooden city suspended from the branches materialized before us.
Near the edge closest to us, a landing platform jutted out. The bird gently dropped its heavy load, whuffed its wings a final time, and landed neatly on the wooden deck. A sign nearby read, “Welcome to Ranger Station Alpha.”
As we climbed down, I saw something else which immediately tore my attention away from the trees and the giant structure we were on: a woman.
She ran up to Jenkins, hugged and kissed him. Then she turned to look at me.
“Marcus Savitch, meet my wife, Eleanor.”
“Pleased to meet you, Marcus. What are you doing here?”
I shook her hand, too stunned to speak for a moment. Finally, I snapped out of it.
“Uh, I guess I could ask you the same thing . . . ma’am.”
I wasn’t sure what to call her, what the proper protocol was or anything. Mrs. Jenkins? Did she have an assignment with the State? What was a woman doing on Redwood? What was one doing way out here in the forest?
Her laughter tinkled, reminding me of wind chimes.
“Well, Rangers have a couple perks. One of them is they get to keep their families nearby while on assignment.”
“I see.”
I didn’t see. I’d never heard of such a perk, and I’d researched all the State assignments assiduously in a vain hope of changing mine from Servant to something (anything) else.
“Ella, will you please take him to see the Professor? I’ve got to get Kalinowski’s shipment sorted.”
“Of course. Follow me, Marcus.”
-+-
Think of a tree house. Now think of a giant forest. Now think of a tree house city built in that giant forest, and you’ll come close to having an idea of what the Ranger station was like.
Buildings were suspended by beams placed between branches. Different levels were connected by rope ladders. Suspension bridges stretched between buildings. Wooden sidewalks connected platforms. It was all organized chaos, with new additions tacked on to the old, newer dwellings sometimes a branch above an older one. No people appeared yet, though.
I did a double take as we passed a sunny spot where a garden was planted.
“Oh, you like gardens? Yes, we don’t have to rely on everything from Professor Kalinowski. You know, Colt helped fly up the soil for our garden when we started it a few years ago.”
Ella continued chatting as we walked, pointing out water
collection points and discussing little details about living a few thousand feet off the ground in a giant tree house city. We passed a building she described as a mess hall, and what looked to be a small chapel near it.
“Yes, that’s our chapel. The stained glass was smuggled in from New Texas some time ago. It’s pretty, no?”
We rounded a corner, and a head popped out of a nearby doorway. A boy about my age. His hair seemed light, but not as blonde as mine. I’d call it a dirty blonde. It popped back inside, then a moment later it popped out again with two more heads just like it.
“Hello! What’s this?”
“A newcomer!”
“Stranger! Stranger!”
We stopped and Ella’s laughter tinkled out.
“Marcus Savitch, meet the O’Donnell triplets: Jacob, Jason, and Jeremy. I’m sorry, I can never tell which one’s which.”
“I’m Jason. The ugly ones are my brothers.”
“Who you calling ugly?” one of them said. The other landed a rough punch on Jason’s shoulder.
“Ow!” He slugged the offender on the chin. Then the other one punched both of them and they all started slinging fists and insults.
Ella laughed again. “Those boys. Always fighting. Come on, Professor Cruz is right over this way.”
We walked into a building larger than the others. Behind a table sat an older man and woman, and a young girl about my age. All had tan skin and dark hair. They stood when we entered and stared at me. Obviously, nobody is used to newcomers around here, I thought.
“Professor, this is Marcus Savitch. Professor Kalinowski sent him with the shipment today.”
“I see. Glad to meet you, Marcus. I’m Curtis Cruz. This is my wife, Melody. Our daughter, Consuela.”
I shook hands all around. His daughter said, “You can call me Connie.”
I nodded. “You can call me Marc.”
“Consuela, why don’t you give Marcus a tour of the station?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Marcus, you realize we’re going to have to hold a meeting to discuss you.”
I nodded. My gut wrenched. I knew they’d have to investigate me. I thought, certainly they’ll get rid of me when they find out what I am, what I’ve done. I wondered if they’d just kill me or turn me over to the Redwood Agents.