Alexei Panshin - Rite of Passage

Looking from the top of the rocks, you could see over miles of expanse. On one side, the mountain dropped and beyond it you could see miles of ocean, gray flecked with white, see part of the coast and shore, brown clifi and dark wet rocks and a narrow beach, see occasional birds gliding on the wind and imagine their calls. Turning your gaze inland, you could see upland meadows in the foreground and mountains much like this one beyond, making a line along the coast. Farther inland were lower hills and curving valleys, blending together, all covered with another rolling sea of trees, a sea at close range made of varying shades of gray and green, but at a distance an even olive.

Down there, under that sea, were all sorts of things — wild Losels and men hunting us. We had seen the Losels and they had seen us; they had gone their way and we had gone ours. The men hunting us we hadn’t had a glimpse of for four days, and that last time they hadn’t even seen us. Also under that sea might be some of the other kids from the Ship, but we hadn’t seen them at all.

Early in the morning we triggered the signal. It was six hours before the ship came. We passed the time quietly, keeping one eye on guard, talking. There was a tiny little animal chittering and nipping around the rocks and I tossed it some food.

We went aboard when the scout came, and put our horses away. Mr. Pizarro was there, checking us back aboard. We were the sixth and seventh.

I said to Jimmy, “I’m going upstairs and talk to George.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell Mr. Pizarro what happened to us.”

We thought they ought to know. Certainly things had been more adventurous for us than anything we thought might have been counted on during Trial. So I went upstairs to see George.

“Congratulations, Adult,” he said when he saw me. “I knew you’d make it.”

“Hello, George,” I said. “Tell me, have you had any trouble in picking up people so far?”

“No trouble,” he said, “but I have been wonying. Look.” He waved his hand at the grid he was using as a guide for his pickups. There were nowhere near twentynine lights. I counted them and there were twelve.

“The last light came on two hours ago,” George said. “I’m afraid a lot of people aren’t going to get picked up.”

I told him a little of what had happened to us. I stayed upstairs while we dropped down and picked up Venie Morlock, and then another double pickup. Then I went down and sat with Jimmy.

I said, “There are only six more pickups to make. Look how few of us there are.”

“Is it that bad?” Jimmy said. “I wonder what the Council will say.”

There were only ten of us aboard now. Jimmy and I and Venie were safe, but Att and Helen and Riggy were not yet aboard.

All of a sudden, George called for attention over the speaker. “All right, kids — shut up and listen. One of our people is down there. I didn’t get close enough to see who, but whoever it is is being shot at. We’re going to have to bust him out. I’ll give you two minutes to get your weapons and then I’m going to buzz down and try to get him out. I want all of you outside and laying down a covering fire.”

Some of the kids had their weapons with them. Jimmy and I hopped for the gear racks and got out our pistols. I loaded mine for the first time. There were eleven of us, including Mr. Pizarro, and four ramps to the outside. Jimmy and I and Jack Femandez-Fragoso stood by one ramp. Then George swooped down, touched light as a feather, and dropped all four ramps.

We dived down the ramp. Jack went left, Jimmy center, and I to the right. We were at the top of a wooded slope and my momentum and the slant put me right where I wanted to be — flat on my face. I rolled behind a tree and looked over to see Jimmy almost hidden by a bush.

Here, hundreds of miles from where we had been picked up, it was misting under a familiar rolled gray sky. From the other side of the ship and from below there was the sound of gunfire. Our boy was pinned down fifty yards below us among some rocks that wouldn’t have sheltered properly anything larger than the tiny animal I had been feeding earlier in the day. The boy in the rocks was Riggy Allen and he was fighting back. I saw the sighting beam of his sonic pistol slapping out. About thirty feet toward us up the slope was the body of Riggy’s horse. Riggy turned his head and looked at us.

Riggy’s attackers, the ones that weren’t separated now on the far side of our ship, were dug in behind trees and rocks, at least partly hidden from Riggy, as he was partly hidden from them. From where we were, though, they could be seen more clearly.

I took all this in in seconds, and then I raised my pistol and fired, aiming at a man firing a rifle. The distance was greater than I had counted on and the shot plowed earth ten feet short, but the man jerked back.

This was the first time I had fired the pistol. It bucked in my hand and it made a considerable noise. In a sense, there was a certain satisfaction in it, though. A sonic pistol is silent and if you missed the most you could expect was a sere and yellow leaf. This gun made enough noise and impact in your hand that you knew that you were doing something and a miss might raise dirt, or make a whine, or rip a tree — enough to make the steadiest man keep his head down.

I aimed higher and started to loft my shots in. Jimmy was doing the same thing, and the net effect was enough that the firing at Riggy stopped. Riggy got the idea, stood up and began racing up the hill. Then my gun clicked empty and Jimmy’s firing stopped, too. Jack continued to fire, but except for one burnt arm, the result was less obvious to those being shot at and as our firing stopped, those heads came back up again and took in the situation. They began firing again immediately. Riggy gave a twitch and a hop and went flat behind the body of his horse.

I reloaded as fast as I could, and then I was firing again. Jimmy started firing, too, and Riggy was up and running again. Then I started thinking clearly and held my fire until Jimmy stopped. The instant he stopped, I started again, a regular squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, not caring whether I hit a thing as long as those heads stayed down.

As I finished, Jimmy opened again and then Riggy was past us and up the ramp. He went flat in the doorway there and started firing himself. I retreated up the ramp, then Jack, then Jimmy. When Jimmy was inside, I yelled for George to lift the ramp. He was either watching or he heard me, and the ramp lifted smoothly up and locked in place.

Shots were still coming from the other sides of the ship, so I yelled at Jimmy to go left. I cut through the middle, tripping and practically breaking my neck on one of the chairs.

In the doorway, I skidded fiat on my face again and looked for targets. Then I started firing. The three I was covering for used their heads and slipped aboard one at a time. As the second one came aboard, I heard Jimmy call for his ramp to be raised. My third was Venie Morlock, and as she ran aboard, I couldn’t resist tripping her. I yelled to George.

Venie glared at me and demanded, “What was that for?” as the ramp swung up.

“Just making sure you didn’t get shot,” I said, lying.

A second later, Jack yelled for the last ramp to be raised. My last view of Tintera was of a rainsoaked hillside and men doing their best to kill us, which all seems appropriate somehow.

Riggy had been completely unhurt by the barrage, but he had a great gash on his arm that was just starting to heal. So much for a turtle policy, at least on Tintera. Riggy said that he had been minding his own business in the woods one day when a Losel jumped out from behind a bush and slashed him. That may sound reasonable to you, but you don’t know Riggy. My opinion is that it was probably the other way around — the Losel was walking along in the woods one day, minding his own business, when Riggy jumped out from behind a bush and scared him. That is the sort of thing that Riggy is inclined to do.