T. Bass: The Godwhale

“Pickables?” asked Larry.

Belt showed him a variety of fruits and grains—huge steak-tomatoes, rich breadfruit, sticky grapes. He was dazed by the wild profusion of edible biologicals. Names? His vocabulary was limited to the city’s gelatin flavours: ambergris, calamus, kola nut, melilotus, rue, storax, and ilang-ilang.

“Show me a flavour that is both stimulating and subtle.”

“ Genus Malus ,” suggested Belt. “Swim the lake and climb that far hill on your left. Look for a tree with thick gnarled branches and fruits of many colours.”

Larry ran down to the water’s edge and kicked off his woven sandals. A disturbed catfish cut a “V” away from the grassy bank. Throwing his fibrejeans aside, he stepped into the cool water. Mud oozed between his toes. A chill line of gooseflesh crept up his legs and back. He tossed his jerkin back on to the grass and lowered himself into the sparkling wavelets—shuddering. Now the more purposeful cutaneous capillaries puckered to conserve heat. A stray drop choked him. His first strokes were clumsy until remotely learned cerebellar reflexes took over and he managed an eccentric rhythm—a cogwheel stroke that jerked him across the water. A spillway slide put him in the out-creek. He climbed a bridge aqueduct and rode the high stream, bodysurfing in the rushing water of the elevated waterway, high above the maze of canals and walkribbons.

The grass was soft at Malus hill. A hidden clutter of twigs bruised a sole made sensitive by the soak. Dripping, he pulled himself up into a tree and sat gingerly on the rough bark. Grafting had placed a variety of pome fruits within his reach: acid crabs, heavy reds, and light yellows. He picked a waxy red and bit into it with a juicy snap! Crisp pulp crunched noisily. Flavour! A warm checkerboard of sunlight splashed through the leaves, drying him. Fermenting windfalls attracted a noisy bee. Belt sang. Larry shifted his weight on the knobbly limb and dozed off. Dusk’s cool breeze awakened him.

“How much have we spent?” he asked.

Belt calculated: “1,207 footprints at 0.027 plus 6.11 water-minutes at 1.0 gives us 38.7 Crushing-Biota Credits.”

“38.7 CBCs,” mumbled Larry. “That much! I guess we’d better take the free way back.” Exposing his bark-reddened hunkers, he climbed down and trotted along the inert polymer walkribbon to his heap of clothing, dressed in the sun-warmed fibres, tucking the jerkin under Belt. The cyber sputtered:

“Did you enjoy Park’s sensory experiences?”

Larry nodded absently. Day was ending, and with it he lost Park stimuli. Returning to City-central meant monotonous, mind-dulling tedium. Pausing outside the station, he was repulsed by the sight of the crowded passenger levels with their fetid vapours. On lower levels the freight capsules waited on their rail sidings, offering a wilder but illegal ride—a temptation for new tactile thrills plus an opportunity to avoid the olfactory insults of the passenger tubeways. Climbing the protective grills, Larry ventured between dark, heavy machines reeking of aromatic lubricants.

“Danger,” admonished Belt.

“Where’s your spirit of adventure? My credits will cover the trespass.” He approached a capsule riding low on its springs—heavy. He stepped up into rungs and climbed to the catwalk. “Smell this tank. Must be labile calories.” Lifting the dust cover, he set the controls on manual, wedging the cover against the toggle switch. A red light blinked. The controls slipped back to auto. He wedged the dust cover tighter.

“Danger,” repeated Belt.

Larry crawled along the catwalk and tugged on the hatch. It hissed open, wafting cool, spicy air into his face. The cargo was dark and refrigerated.

“Fermenting.” He smiled. “Raisins or grapes.”

“Let’s not steal.”

“Relax,” coaxed Larry. His tongue was buoyed up by copious parotid secretions. “We won’t be caught.” He glanced up and down the rails. The line of freight capsules stretched out of sight in both directions. He saw no guards or sentry towers so he leaned quickly inside and scooped up a handful of the moist pearls.

“WARNING! WARNING!”

Larry’s purple, dripping hand was at his mouth when he stopped, irritated. “Now what?” Belt’s amber lights changed to red. The train groaned and the capsule lurched. Larry’s wet hand slipped on the door frame. The hatch slid shut, softly but firmly, catching Larry by his waist. Belt sputtered through a bent lingual membrane.

“Damn! Now I’ll get caught and fined for sure,” said Larry.

The train lurched again. The dust cover fell away from the control switch. Larry felt the hatch tighten its grip. He struggled, tearing at the hatch with bloody fingernails. His stomach and liver were squeezed against his diaphragm. The air was forced out of his lungs and he found he couldn’t inhale. Belt squawked as its circuits were crushed. Larry’s tongue and eyes felt swollen. His senses clouded. The pressure on his abdomen increased as the hatch inched tighter. A narrow slit of sunlight showed his limp hands trailing in the shifting, wet mass of grapes. The click, click, click of wheels muffled as the slit narrowed further.

Darkness.

Consciousness returned. Pain had lessened. He still hung upside down, like a bat. Lips and eyelids were puffy and numb. The cargo slurped at his hands. Juices had surfaced with the vibrations—a wet flavoured quicksand that threatened to drown him. He searched for support, groping at the hatch. It was closed flush! An involuntary shudder rattled his teeth as he traced the hatch rim with moist fingers. No clearance. He wondered if the sun was still shining. There was no sensation of heat on his legs. There was no sensation at all! Not a sound penetrated the capsule’s thick walls. He listened for the wheel clicking. Nothing. Just cargo sloshing.

“Belt!” he wheezed. “Call for a White Team. I’m hurt bad. Belt? Belt?” He palpated the crushed, funnel-shaped cyber at his waist. “The door killed you!” He ran his trembling fingers over his face. “The door killed me too,” he said flatly. “I’ve been cut in two. Damn! What a stupid thing to let happen!”

Fingers traced the edge of the hatch again and again. Unwilling to accept the loss of his pelvis and legs, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to feel his toes. Cerebral efforts at knee bending, urination, and foot movement failed to produce any reassuring sensory feedback—only the phantom limbs of yesterday. His mind remembered the lost legs and gave him a hazy sensation of feet—cold and unreal—that refused to obey his orders.

“Damn! Damn! Damn! I’m dead,” he whispered.

The pop of a broken seal interrupted his premature eulogizing. Light flickered where a tank sensor squeaked out on its screw threads. The hole that appeared was located at the far end of capsule, about twenty feet away. It was large enough to admit a man’s forearm. Something fidgeted around outside of the hole and interrupted the light beams several times.

“Help?” said Larry, questioning whether he had found the magic word that would save him.

“He’s alive,” said a distant voice.

“Let’s get him out of there,” said another.

“No! Wait. Please. If you open the door I’ll…” His voice trailed off. His lungs seemed too small to permit both talking and breathing. He had visions of the hatch opening and releasing its grip on his severed abdomen—spilling guts and blood—and dropping him headfirst into the deep cargo of tangy, purple mush.

“No!”

The hatch jerked open. He did not fall. In the glare of two meck light beams he saw the upraised arms of a white robot—the Medimeck—a mending octopus with clamps, haemostats, and sutures poised to stem any flood that might occur. None came. Larry hung from a tangle of circuitry—Belt had been crushed into a big clamp. The Medimeck proceeded to put in through-and-through “stay sutures’. Thick, white bandage-packing was pressed into the wound as the stays were tightened. Needles with wide bores were stabbed into Larry’s arms to guide flexitubes into his blood vessels. Soon he felt warm and comfortable as nutrient and sedative fluids washed through his vascular system, soothing frayed autonomics.