Grendel Unit

by Bernard Schaffer

  Horses trotted past him, with their riders tipping their broad-brimmed hats toward him, and Bob found himself scurrying to the side of the road, getting out of the way of such large beasts and their stamping hooves.

  At the far end of the settlement, he heard a sound that turned his head. He recognized it, but could not say how. It struck him as unmistakably and irresistibly as the sound of a crying infant to its mother from the next room. Metal on metal. The sound of a hammer striking hot iron. The crackle of red, flaming coals that hissed when heated.

  Bob followed the sound toward a large barn, feeling intense heat emanating through the wooden beams of its walls as he approached, and the sound and smell of the forge within grew louder. He stood fixed in the barn's entrance, starting at the man bent over the anvil. A furnace blazed to the man's left, glowing so bright that it illuminated the rest of the room red. The hammer in his hand was heavy and thick, and despite the man's age, he swung it down easily, cracking the metal so hard it made musical notes that echoed from the barn's rafters.

  Hand-tooled leather hung from the barn's walls, long strips of the richest brown and reds Bob had ever seen. There were polished saddles there as well, with gleaming brass fittings. On the other wall hung all manner of tools, including a dozen hammers of varying shapes and sizes. Each of their handles twisted slightly at the end, a hallmark of their creator, as did many of the saw handles and screwdrivers and multiple other implements hanging beside them. Each thing Bob saw had been made by hand, no doubt by the same craftsman he saw swinging the hammer in front of him.

  Over the forge was mounted the grinning skull of a creature Bob had never seen before. Its empty eyes peered down at him over a set of thick, curved fangs, and as he tried to figure out what manner of beast it was, a voice made him flinch in surprise. The blacksmith was looking at him, saying, "Can I help you, friend?"

  The way the man held the hammer in his hands as he looked at Bob, he was not sure the man considered him a friend at all. He was taller than Bob, and his arms and neck were thick and deeply tanned. Sweat soaked through his gray shirt and dripped down the sides of his bald head and the tips of this thick mustache.

  "I'm sorry for wandering in here, sir," Bob said, eyes wide as he looked the rest of the room. "Did you make all this yourself?"

  "Of course," the man said gruffly.

  Bob walked over to the nearest strip of leather, rubbing his hand down the surface of it. "All of this is from natural materials," he said wondrously. "Taken right here from the land around you."

  "It's a little hard to get deliveries from off-world, in case you haven't noticed," the blacksmith said.

  "I've never seen anything like this," Bob said. "All we have are material composites and whatever comes out of the replicators." He felt the curve of the leather saddle and its wooden base, touching each metal rivet. "This is incredible."

  The blacksmith cocked his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing. "You're the one that saved Jebediah's girl, ain't you? Jumped out of the top floor of his barn with her in your arms before that maniac could hurt her."

  "Something like that," Bob said, nodding.

  "I was there. I helped your medic pull the bullet from Jebediah's guts. Held him down, an' all."

  "It's good you were there, then," Bob said.

  "In a way," he said, looking Bob over. "You were holding your side when you carried Maria over to us. You break something in the fall?"

  "Some ribs. No big deal."

  "How they feeling now?"

  "A little better."

  The blacksmith looked down at his forge, "Think you can manage swinging a hammer with them hurt ribs?"

  Buel watched him turn the hammer over in his hands and hold the handle out toward him. He nodded slowly and said, "Yes sir, I think I can do that, no problem."

  The blacksmith's name was Oren Adams, and his great-grandfather was among the first settlers, named Randal Adams. The older Adams had served in Unification's Materials Division, spending a lifetime learning how to fabricate and replicate all the known elements in the universe into useable goods. In the early days of his career there had been some artistry to it, but within a few decades, their large machines had been replaced by devices no bigger than toasters, and entire control panels dumbed down to single buttons. When news of a planet emerged where no technology functioned, he'd signed up for the expedition team.

  The first settlers struggled to survive, depleted of resources and medicine, completely unused to surviving off of the land, and nearly half perished. They had no way to communicate with their superior officers, and Unification sent a recovery team. Then another. When no word was received from anyone sent to the planet, they gave up on it and marked it Class Five. Forbidden. They'd placed multiple dampeners in the outer atmosphere surrounding the planet, discouraging anyone from approaching. Every once in a while one of the dampeners malfunctioned and fell out of orbit, streaking across the sky in a bright flare as they burnt up.

  The settlers eventually discovered that their new home was rich in natural materials. They found soil filled with iron and aluminum. Enormous trees of sturdy oak and pine. There was wildlife and crop formations indigenous to the planet that could be harvested and eaten.

  Stories and rumors about instantaneous death kept most of the galaxy away from Pentak 1, but not everyone. The official government explanation was that the planet was too toxic to support life, and anyone who went there died instantly. The stories abounded though, and found many who could not resist the chance to find a place free of technology. Free of the sprawling reach of Unification's government. To simply be free.

  Two generations ago, someone landed a freighter bearing horses, pigs, cows, chickens, and all manner of birds. With careful planning, the livestock had flourished. Birds now freely roamed the skies and settled in the brush, kicking up entire flocks whenever a horse trotted through their fields.

  Oren Adams had learned the blacksmithing trade from his father, who'd learned it from his. With each son, the mastery of how to bend metal and forge steel was passed down, as well as a deep appreciation for the feel of something real in a man's hands. The smoothness and smell of polished wood. The heat and glow of the coals in a working forge. The sweat that ran down your face and the ache in your muscles as you sawed and hammered and bent something new into existence that had not been there before, but if you made it correctly, would last until the end of time.

  By the end of the day, Bob was soaked. Sweat pooled in the soles of his boots, and his shirt was hanging from a hook on the wall in hopes of drying. The compression bandages wrapped around his chest, securing his ribs, were still fixed tight. They were one of the few pieces of modern tech recovered from the Samsara that Frank had been able to use. There were no electronics in the cloth, but it had been woven from smart fabric that would stay bound no matter what.

  After much instruction, he'd fashioned a pile of nails and spikes that met with Oren's begrudging approval. As the sun fell it threw javelins of gold and red through slits in the barn's walls, and Bob leaned back against the wall, feeling its cool surface on his skin. Oren handed him a towel and said, "You did good for a beginner."

  Bob smiled weakly and turned his head toward the far end of the barn. In the corner were several large objects covered in leather tarps. The first was taller and wider than the horse-drawn carts he'd seen people riding in, and he assumed the blacksmith was building it, or repairing it, for someone on commission. Another tarp was draped over what looked like a large workbench with multiple items hidden beneath it. But what caught Bob's eye most were the broken, deformed weapons hanging on the wall above it.

  Black pistols made of polymers that had cracked or warped out of shape. Larger military-style rifles that had rusted through and their plastic casings and switches were snapped off or hanging loose.

  "What is all that?" Bob said. "Antique guns you are trying to repair? I could help you."

  "Those?" Oren said, scowling at the guns on the wall. "I
wouldn't waste my time with those."

  "That's a shame," Bob said, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "My friends and I will need weapons if any more soldiers come."

  Oren's eyes fell on the tarps momentarily and opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. He patted Bob on the arm and said, "Get your shirt and come on. My wife makes a hell of a stew, and you earned your dinner today."

  34. SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES

  Frank enjoyed riding out to the Samsara, even if its front end was buried deep in the mud and there were catastrophic fractures up and down both sides of the frame like thick incisions. She'd never fly again. He knew it, but he still liked seeing her.

  Not that he'd ever expected to see the ship again. When Vic and Monster were arrested, their ship had been seized by Intelligence agents. No doubt they'd scoured her data banks for evidence in their trials. Somehow, they'd been too busy to remove all of their personal gear. The ship was still loaded with all of their weapons, too. Not that any of them were worth a damn on Pentak 1. The dampeners in the sky rendered everything dark. The days of guns working off just metal and polymers were long, long gone. Now even the toothbrushes had computer chips, syncing up to your bathroom's digital assistant, who offered you kindly reminders that you hadn't flossed for two days, and you were due for a checkup.

  Luckily, most of his medical equipment was still on board, and even though it too was loaded with various computer components, he still managed to find a few things they needed. Medications still worked, though he'd had to pry them out of their dispensers. There were ointments and bandages as well, though he was quickly running out of everything.

  He'd done the best he could to make do. The barn where they'd killed Yultorot was now a makeshift field hospital with one vary large, very shaggy, patient. He'd been too big to drag into one of the houses, so once Frank stabilized Monster's injuries, they simply built up the hospital around him.

  Frank often wondered how it was that Yultorot had come into possession of the Samsara. He couldn't have stolen it. Not from Unification Intelligence. The only possible thing was that he'd been given it, probably by President Wolmar himself. In battle, warriors often took trophies from their fallen enemies. Weapons. Uniforms. Flags. A ship was of special distinction. If you captured an enemy ship, they'd likely display it in a museum somewhere, long after the war was finished.

  The Samsara hadn't been captured, though, and her crew had not fallen. Not yet, anyway, he thought.

  He slid down from his horse's saddle and patted it on the neck, "Stay here. I'll just be a few minutes." As he started for the ship, he heard something clank inside that made him instantly bend his knees and duck down. He squatted near the mud, listening.

  Just an animal, probably, he thought at first.

  He'd last been out to the ship two days prior, and distinctly remembered pressing the door shut tight for that specific reason. So far, he'd heard enough about cougars and black bears roaming the prairies of Pentak 1 to become a believer in them, and also a believer that he did not want one taking up residence in his ship.

  Kids, then, he decided. Probably here on a dare, looking for something to take back to their friends and prove that they'd really come out to the mysterious ship and gone inside. Lucky for them, I already took out Monster's baby doll. He'd have gone nuts if someone took that thing.

  Frank raised his hand to the side of his mouth and called out, "Hey! I know you're in there! Come on out, now."

  The door did not open, and there was no sound within.

  Frank sighed and raised his voice again, "You're not in any trouble, just come on out."

  When there was no response the second time, he got to his feet and started for the door. Probably, the kids were going to be hiding inside, afraid of being found. He decided to leave the door open and then walk back to his horse, announcing loudly his intentions to return. If the kids had any sense at all, they'd run off.

  Frank walked as loudly as he could through the brush toward the ship, trying to give plenty of notice that he was coming. The townsfolk had been good to them, and he had no intention of scaring one of their children. As he reached for the door, it suddenly burst open, coming directly at his face. He jerked backward, out of the way, barely fast enough to avoid it cracking the side of his head open. Son of a bitch, he thought angrily. They were waiting for me to get close enough to hit me with the door.

  A hooded figure leapt through the threshold, running at a full sprint through Frank's grasping fingers. He spun to give chase, the thick soles of his boots sinking into the loose dirt while the hooded figure seemed to glide over top of it. They were heading for thick brush, a tangle of thorns and dead trees, and Frank's horse turned its head to watch him run past, snorting incredulously.

  Frank shouted, "Hey! Stop!" as he ran, holding up his hands to avoid being whipped in the eyes by snarled branches. A long length of thorns snaked around the inside of his right thigh and rip the skin below. He cursed and cried out, "Couldn't you have run a different way?"

  The figure cut left, then right, turning away from a thick cluster of thorns, and Frank saw his opportunity and charged, diving for the back of the cloak and grasping it with both hands. The cloak came free in his hands as he stumbled forward, headfirst into the brush.

  There were thorns in his arms and the back of his neck as he pushed himself out of the bushes, using the cloak's fabric to protect himself, with little result. As he stood, he saw the one he'd been chasing had cleared the brush and kept running. Unencumbered by the cloak, it was easier to run, and easier for Frank to see who was running. The back of her long black ponytail jerked side to side as she scrambled up the hill to get away. His eyes lingered too long on the shape of her legs and bottom as it vanished over the crest.

  Frank plucked a thorn from his collar bone and looked at its long, curved shape in the overhead sun. He flicked it away and turned, taking the cloak with him. It was covered in burs and thorns, and he busied himself with pulling them out as he made his way back. The horse snorted and pawed the ground at the sight of him, and Frank knew it was laughing. He folded up the cloak and went to stuff it into one of his saddle bags, then stopped, and held it up first to sniff the inside of the hood where the woman's hair had been. He lowered his head into the folds and inhaled more deeply the second time, closing his eyes to picture the woman he'd seen running away.

  The Samsara was as he'd left it. Whoever the woman had been, she had not been a thief. Or he had caught her in time. Not that there was nothing to steal, anyway. All of their equipment was useless on this planet. He inspected his medical station and saw it was undisturbed. He'd already secured the medicines and bandages in Jebediah Strong's house, in his room. The remaining biometric scanners and surgical machines were nothing more than hunks of plastic with dead screens. They made good paperweights on Pentak 1 and that was about it.

  He'd spent the first two weeks prying open his supply of medicine canisters and extracting what he needed with the old glass syringes and measuring spoons, and restocking them by hand into mason jars and test tubes. He'd borrowed all of his other equipment from the settlement's doctor, who had a woefully small supply, and the veterinarian, who did not.

  The farmers and homesteaders of Pentak 1, he found, prized the health of their cattle and horses much greater than that of their fellow residents.

  Frank closed the door and pushed it shut, making sure it was tight. There was no way to manually lock the door. He made a mental note to ask Bob Buehl to work out a way to secure the ship, or at the very least, they could ask one of the blacksmiths to fashion them something.

  It's going to look and sound like hell, flying around with a gigantic iron padlock bouncing around the Samsara's hull, he thought, touching the side of the ship affectionately.

  But that was an impossibility, he knew.

  Even if they found a way to leave the planet, their ship would never fly again. She had crashed too hard, and been left dark for too
long. Aside from the cracks in her hull, without any power to keep her inner components functioning, all of her fluids had cooled and settled to the lowest position available. They'd begun to coagulate into a thick, unusable syrup. By now, were they even able to get the ship to power on, everything would seize and sputter and die.

  Eventually they would have to disassemble her. They'd repurpose whatever materials they could, burn what could be burned of the remains, and bury the rest.

  It pained Frank that their ship's last flight had been at the hands of an enemy. He told himself it was nonsense to get emotional over a ship, felt angry about it anyway, and patted the Samsara once more before heading back to his horse. It's just a ship, he chided himself once more.

  Yes, but she was ours, and she was good, and that bastard didn't deserve to be there for her last flight.

  The horse snorted and shook its head as Frank swung up into the saddle. He stroked the long mane and tapped its ribcage with the inside of his left heel to get it moving. They rode from the crash site, up the embankment, toward the crest of the deep scar in the land the settlers called Copperhead Canyon. There were no signs or fencing to warn people of the steep drop. The flat plain extended out from the main road and simply stopped. Frank tried to maneuver the horse over to the edge of the canyon to look, but it stiffened its legs and refused. He slid down and walked across the weathered rock and bald dirt to do it himself.

  As he peered over the canyon's edge, he felt the wind rise. All he'd need to do was spread his arms, and it would carry him up into the air and let him soar free. Maybe even take him high enough to help them all escape.

  For a moment, maybe, he thought. Then it would send everyone and everything that came near it straight down into the jagged rock below.

  The sky stretched endlessly over the horizon, laying over the mountain ranges in the distance. It was the brightest blue he'd ever seen, and there had hardly been a cloudy day since they'd arrived. For all of their refusal to embrace technology, the original settlers of Pentak 1 had done a fine job of locating the perfect planet for their little experiment. Everyone who lived there now had either descended from those original settlers, or come of their own avail, tired of the spaceships and blinking lights and interplanetary politics of humanity versus aliens. They chose a simple life, raising cows, riding horses, and living off the land. Everyone on the planet was born here, or came here by choice, Frank thought. Everyone except us.