Far From This Earth

by Chad Oliver

  The rain materialized. It did not fall—it came from all directions. Huge fat drops of warm water swirled and splattered. There had been controlled rains in the early years, but nothing like this. The O’Neill would never be wholly dry again. The wind-driven globules of water smashed the world.

  Lightning exploded in searing discharges. The crash of thunder was continuous. The sound could not get out. The booming echoes were so loud that people screamed to relieve the pressure in their ears.

  At the end of the storm—just before the silence began—Caroth was struck by lightning.

  Rick felt the stunning shock that hurled him to the wet vegetation. He smelled the acrid burning of ozone. He fought the numbness …

  Caroth was marked. He did not know that the lightning had triggered his sickness, but he believed it. When his senses returned, it was pain that he felt. The pain chewed at him for the rest of his life. He lost his hair. His body became bent and twisted.

  He worried about the Acknowledgment. What would his father think of him now?

  There was a change in the way that people treated him. There was distance. Even Smoke-Eater withdrew a little, and Mac was careful with his jokes. Caroth knew their minds. He had the power. It was not uncommon among the people, a kind of compensation perhaps for shrinking numbers.

  The people took it for granted that Caroth had been marked for a reason. Such things did not just happen. Caroth had been singled out.

  And his father? Caroth could not read his mind.

  They waited warily, father and son.

  When the Acknowledgment came, it was strange.

  The fire was like other ceremonial fires: four logs blazing on Spirit Hill. The feasting was good, but there was a sadness in the heavy air. The people were aware. Lastborn was already a child, and Dreaming Woman had seen her visions of hollow emptiness….

  His father had always been a stern man and there was no softness in him now. He held the ancient knife with a steady hand.

  His father slashed his own left arm first, wrist to elbow. Then he cut his son, deeply. He offered the knife to the flames. He grasped Caroth’s arm and pressed it against his.

  The red bloods mixed.

  As the people chanted, his father said new words: “I will be your father, but you are not as other sons. I acknowledge you, and we are one. I charge you to continue. Remember me as I will remember you.”

  Caroth responded with the old formula: “I have heard your words.” It was the best that he could manage.

  Caroth’s father seldom spoke to him again. He never explained the meaning of what he had said at the Acknowledgment. When his time came, Caroth’s father climbed silently onto the traditional metal raft and poled himself out upon the waveless sea. He said no goodbyes.

  Rick could identify with Caroth, and more. There had been no farewell from his own father. There had not even been an Acknowledgment.

  It hurt.

  Emotionally spent and exhausted, Rick followed the remainder of Caroth’s life. It was a world and a life that Rick knew: he had come in at the end of it. Caroth, the leader. Caroth, the unbroken. Caroth, the schemer—

  An old, old man fighting the decay of his world.

  Waiting, dreaming …

  And always the dripping rot of the jungle, the pain, the mold that oozed, the fires that warmed, the dark shadows of the watching chimpanzees—

  And hope, the hope that would not die.

  When the journey was over, Rick and Caroth stood not far from Spirit Hill. Both men were shaking with fatigue.

  “Which way do we go?” asked Caroth. His voice was harsher than it had to be. He feared Rick’s answer.

  Rick still had the strength to smile. “Do we have time?”

  “There is enough.”

  “The Hill first, of course. Then the other.”

  Rick Malina understood.

  Caroth held himself together by the sheer power of his will. He shut everything else out and concentrated on one urgent thought: Do it right.

  It was now or never, and never was intolerable.

  He took the time to kill a small pig. He gutted it with the ancient knife and got the meat ready. There had to be a feast. It was nothing without the feast.

  They climbed Spirit Hill. The elevation was not great, but the ascent was a struggle. Caroth was very tired.

  There was no need to gather the four logs. Caroth had put them in place long, long ago.

  Rick started the fire in the old way. That gave Caroth immoderate pleasure. The boy was learning.

  While the meat was sizzling in the flames, Caroth cleaned his knife.

  The two men ate in silence. There were few words left. They should not be wasted.

  When it was time, Caroth stood in the dancing shadows. He felt the ghost-people who once had gathered on Spirit Hill. He could hear the chanting. Ah, it was clear, so clear….

  Caroth gripped the ancient knife firmly. He ripped his left arm with great care, wrist to elbow. There was a lot of blood. The pain was nothing.

  Rick extended his arm. Caroth slashed it. He locked their arms together with all the strength that remained to him.

  The red bloods mixed.

  Caroth said the words: “I will be your father, but you are not as other sons. I acknowledge you, and we are one. I charge you to continue. Remember me as I will remember you.”

  He offered the knife to the flames. His release was so boundless that he had almost forgotten part of the ritual. He was soaring. It was like gliding through the bright corridors of yesterday—

  Caroth hardly heard Rick’s response: “I have heard your words.” Caroth knew that Rick would not fail him.

  He was not a bad son.

  Caroth could feel himself staggering. He almost fell. His will was failing him. He was ashamed.

  A strong bloody arm supported him.

  Rick.

  There wasn’t far to go.

  Caroth was not used to accepting help from any man. He took it now.

  He offered no thanks.

  Damn son.

  That was what he was supposed to do.

  Rick Malina was so tired that he could not think. He just did what he had to do.

  Caroth was too heavy to carry. He would not have permitted that in any case. The old man still had some pride.

  He wanted to die with dignity.

  Rick assisted him without being obtrusive about it. When Caroth stumbled, Rick caught him. When Caroth hesitated, Rick took the lead.

  They made it, somehow.

  The old metal raft was waiting on the shore of the waveless sea. Caroth collapsed on the raft and then struggled back to his feet. He picked up the pole.

  Rick started to help him with the launch but thought better of it. He let Caroth do it for himself.

  The raft drifted out and up across the surface of the dark and oily water. Caroth became small and indistinct. The last view of him that Rick had was starlight reflecting from his white bald head.

  Then there was only starlight.

  Nameless things swam and scuttled in the shallow basin of that sea. They were great for the ecology.

  Rick staggered only a few steps before he found it. He knew that it would be there. A fresh nest, snug and dry and lined with flowers. The old devil had thought of everything.

  Rick crawled into the nest. He closed his bloodshot eyes. He slept and slept and slept….

  When he was conscious again, Rick felt the pain in his shoulders. He examined himself. He half expected to find the body of a twisted old man.

  No. There was a raw slash-wound on his left arm. Otherwise, he was the same—on the outside. He experienced a guilty surge of relief. Rick was young enough for vanity.

  He picked some red berries. He knew the right ones. He swallowed them by the fistful.

  Eating for two, he thought wryly.

  He had his mind back. He rather liked it. It was stronger now.

  There was a lightness in him, a soaring.

  C
all it joy.

  Grief? Not for Caroth. They were one. Caroth continued. He had no use for a maudlin son.

  It was time for Rick to finish what he had started. There was more than one kind of salvage operation.

  Rick returned to the communications equipment and sent his signal to Earth.

  He built a small fire close to the airlock. He sat hunched in the shadows, waiting. There was pain in his shoulders. His arm was beginning to scar.

  They were coming.

  He was ready.

  He had an enormous advantage now. He could see into their minds. There was much that he could do.

  He could stall the destruction of the O’Neill indefinitely.

  He could work with the remnant of his people.

  He could bring something back to Earth more precious than artifacts. He had lived the past, and he had professional training. He was a link with all the vanished generations. He knew them. Not just on the O’Neill. On Earth.

  He would endure. He would continue.

  When the unbarred airlock was opened from the Outside, Rick Malina crossed to the shuttle with a smile on his face.

  One day, he might have children of his own. Caroth had a good chance of becoming a grandfather yet.

  The old man would like that.

  The O’Neill waited patiently as it had waited for so many years. It was waiting for decisions. Most of those decisions would be made far away.

  The air inside was fresher now. There were no more fires.

  A troop of chimpanzees knuckle-walked along the trail near the airlock. There were ten of them: big old males with their massive arms, smaller females, infants with their brown gamin eyes. They barked and hooted cheerfully.

  They acted as though they owned the place. They did.

  There were other chimp troops, but there was plenty of food. Sweet fruits grew in the tangled vegetation. There were lots of bugs in the spongy mold. Once in a while, the chimps could catch a young pig or a calf and feast. It kept things interesting. It was fun to live in a world without humans.

  They were free, and they knew it.

  A female detached herself from the group. She had a child that was still so young that it rode on her shoulders, hanging on for dear life. The mother moved purposefully, without wasted effort.

  She went to the airlock and examined it with her dark intelligent eyes. She muttered to herself.

  She balanced on her flexible feet and the roughened knuckles of one hand. She reached up with her other hand and grasped the metal sealing bar. She was very strong. She slipped the bar from its moorings and dropped it into the sockets. It was easy.

  She knew what she was doing. The airlock would not open from the Outside.

  She twisted her head around. Her child leaned forward and nuzzled her.

  The mother gave a low bark of pleasure.

  She turned and rejoined her troop.

  END OF THE LINE

  The City was behind him now.

  Earl Stuart did not look back. He could feel the glow of the City on the horizon but he shut his mind to it. He drank in the night air, tasting the smells of the living earth. He looked up at the warm stars like a man released from prison. The rifle in his hand glinted in the starlight.

  He hated the tunnel. It was the only way out, of course, but he had never gotten used to it. It was like descending into an ancient grave. It was worse than the City; it was an older death. It took an eternity to get through the tunnel. A man had too much time to think. And some night, he knew, the security men would be waiting for him when he came out of the tunnel.

  And then—

  “Damn it, Earl,” Doc said. “Slow down, can’t you? How much further is it to those sleds?”

  “Couple of miles.” Earl Stuart kept the same pace. “If we get caught out here in the open you’ll have more than sore legs to worry about.”

  Dr. Ochoa almost broke into a run to catch him. He grabbed his arm. “It’s not me, Earl. It’s the mothers. They can’t keep up.”

  “They knew what they were getting into. Nobody forced them to come out here.”

  “We need them. What good will it do if we get to the sleds and then have to go back to look for them? You’ve proved your point. You’re big and strong, a real throwback. We’re impressed. The girls will fight to get the first shot at you if they’ve got any strength left when we stop. So what? Take it easy or this is going to be a one-man expedition.”

  Reluctantly, Earl Stuart slowed down a little. He liked to walk, to use his body, to move fast without the aid of machines. He felt as though he were leading a pack of invalids. But Doc was right. They had to stick together.

  “Okay,” he said. “Drop back and tell them it won’t be long now. Another hour ought to do it. Pass out some pills, Doc, and take a couple yourself.”

  “Go to hell,” Doc Ochoa said, panting.

  “I’ve been there,” Earl said. He walked more quickly for a moment, separating himself from the expedition he led.

  He liked to walk alone out here. Sometimes, when the City got on his nerves, he slipped through the tunnel by himself. He knew the danger, accepted it, relished it. He found a strange kind of peace outside, an inner peace, a cure for the restless hunger that gnawed at him.

  He belonged outside. He felt at home here. He could envy the savages, even when he gunned them down. Stinking, dirty, bug-ridden, wild-eyed brutes—but by God if he had a choice—

  He had no choice, of course.

  They would tear him to pieces if they ever got their hands on him. More than one expedition had never made it back. He had seen what had happened that time last summer. Fourteen men and five women. He wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. They had all been eaten.

  The savages were always hungry.

  There wasn’t much meat around.

  There wasn’t much of anything around. Maybe that was what he liked about it. Just empty savannah country, gently rolling, with lots of grass and a few young trees. The sky was bigger out here, bigger and somehow closer. A great vault of burning stars at night, a living blue vastness by day, a blue that came right down and touched you, a blue that was big enough to hold a sea of clouds and a sun that seared the naked skin.

  Once, he knew, there had been other cities here. He had seen what was left of them. The domes were gone, but some of the buildings were still standing: silent, desolate, pock-marked with holes where strange birds nested….

  He did not miss the cities, and they were no mystery to him.

  Everyone knew the stories, but only the historians could keep the details straight. It hadn’t been a war, really. Just too many missiles, too many bombs, too many fingers on too many buttons. Nobody remembered what the arguments were all about. Nobody cared.

  There weren’t very many cities left, anywhere.

  There weren’t any bombs. That was over and done with.

  Earl Stuart put it all out of his mind.

  He had a job to do. It was a forbidden job, against every law of the City. He didn’t care about the law. He believed in what he was doing.

  And there was money in it. Good money.

  He wasn’t doing it for the money. Probably none of them were, at least not for the money alone. But the money was nice, if you didn’t get caught.

  If you got caught, all the money in the world didn’t help.

  It was long after midnight when they reached the hidden sleds. Earl Stuart gave them no time to rest. They could sleep when the sun came up and it was too dangerous to move.

  Right now, he wanted to get out of there.

  He supervised the loading of the sleds. Ten men with rifles, including Doc Ochoa and himself. Six mothers, their young faces drawn in the starlight. Four sleds, already loaded with the few supplies they would need.

  Nobody said much. They were too tired, too uneasy.

  Most people didn’t like it much outside.

  Earl Stuart took the lead sled. He had two men and two mothers with him.

  The sled lift
ed gently under his practiced hand. He kept it low, almost skimming the tops of the trees. He showed no lights. The sled was completely silent. He could hear the moan of the air as the sled cut through it.

  He smiled a little, ready for what was coming.

  The City faded behind him.

  Ahead of him, lost in the night, the other world waited.

  Helen Sanderson could not sleep. She had taken one pill and it had worked for a few hours. Now she was awake again and she did not want another pill. She was fuzzy but her mind was racing.

  Had she forgotten anything?

  She still had plenty of time, of course.

  It couldn’t be tomorrow; that was too soon. Not the next day, either, or the next. Maybe not at all.

  No. Don’t think about that.

  This time, she would get one.

  All that money—

  “Honey,” she said. “Are you awake?”

  Larry Sanderson, who obviously had been asleep unless he had developed the habit of snoring to render his insomnia more palatable, rolled over and grunted. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Helen said.

  “Swell.” Larry buried his face in the pillow.

  “Honey, I can’t sleep.”

  “Take a pill,” muttered the muffled voice.

  “I took a pill. I’ve been thinking about Bobby.”

  Larry Sanderson woke up for good and sat up in bed. “Don’t torture yourself. That was five years ago, Helen. You can’t go on thinking about him forever.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to remember him.”

  Larry took Helen’s tense body in his arms. She felt cold, cold and rigid. He shuddered a little. That was the way Bobby had felt that last time. “Of course you want to remember him, darling. I didn’t mean that we should forget him. But you can’t go on like this. If you would go back to the doctor—”

  Helen began to cry. He could taste the salty tears that ran down her cheeks. “I don’t want a doctor. I want a baby. I want a baby!”

  “We’re doing everything we can.” Larry’s tone was reasonable. He knew that was the wrong approach but he wasn’t up to another scene. “You’ve got to be patient.”