T. Bass: Half Past Human

“Teeth,” it said. “Both of you need teeth. Carry me and I’ll help you find teeth.”

Moon flicked his tongue over the stumps of tender dentine that were almost covered by hypertrophic gum tissue. Almost two centuries of chewing had worn them away. The subsequent softening of his diet was softening his body too. He sighed. Oh, to bite and chew again—he could not finish the thought. He picked up the hundred-centimeter javelin and the three of them left Rocky Top.

William Overstreet stood on the long knoll watching a distant Huntercraft zigzag along the valley. He was naked except for a crumbling utility belt and dented helmet. The rest of his closed-environment suit had shredded away months ago. His skin showed the ugly geographic pattern of scar and keloid where the harsh sun had repeatedly peeled it away. His face—protected by the helmet—was only slightly pitted and puckered.

The Huntercraft spied him and stopped its random search pattern. He raised his right hand and started down the slope towards it—relying on his helmet and belt to keep them from shooting. He hoped they recognized him as a citizen and not a buckeye. He trotted casually, staying in the open—hoping to decoy them away from his nest.

His nest—for the past two years he had lived with the most beautiful female he had ever seen. Her name was Honey—after golden yellow hair. Her spirit was protean—like the phases of the moon. At new moon she growled and swam the Coweye Sump alone. At full moon she returned, and like her name, Honey, was sweet treacle. Her three yellow-haired children shared the nest too. The eldest was five. Their smooth skins varied from olive to mahogany, but their hair was their mother’s. He hadn’t seen Honey lately. Since she had begun to grow with his child her moods remained “new moon’—luteal and hostile.

The craft set down and its hatch opened. Two hunters approached cautiously, carrying long bows. They wore the wrinkled white suit and spherical helmet of the Cl-En suit.

“Hi, fellas,” he said cheerily, waving.

They each grabbed one of his arms and ushered him into the dark cabin. Needle-like pricks hit his shoulders as the Hi Vol guns dosed him with hypnotic drugs. Hallucinations.

“Did you run a check on him?” asked the first hunter.

“This belt belonged to William Overstreet—lost on a Hunt two years ago. This fellow’s bone structure fits, but his soft tissues are too messed up for positive ID.”

“Lost on a Hunt—” repeated the first hunter. “Well, reinforce his hypnoconditioning. He can finish this Hunt with us.”

Willie stalked numbly. A voice said, “Track.” He saw other hunters to the right and left. They were closing in on a small foxhole with three jungle bunnies. Arrows flew. Screams whetted his hunter’s appetite. He raised his bow and sighted through the scope. Another scream. A hunter held up a bloody trophy.

A pink shape moved across his sights. The cross hairs set on a pair of symmetrical breasts. Below, the belly bulged with a three-month-gravid uterus. Above, he saw a disheveled head of bright yellow hair. A voice told him to shoot.

Vision skipped. Blanks appeared. He held up a pair of oval bloody objects trailing short white rubbery segments. He didn’t recognize the surroundings. He was many miles from the Coweye Sump—perhaps over a hundred. The bloody trophy meant nothing to him. His mind was blank. An empty Huntercraft hovered over him—had been dogging his trail for hours. He waved it down and climbed in for a ride back into the hive.

The Mediteck/meck finished with him and pronounced his body scarred but healthy. The Psychteck was less than enthusiastic.

“This CNS reflex pattern indicates severe trauma—but the magnitude is difficult to evaluate—a lot of drugs were used on the Hunt.”

Willie rolled his eyes upwards—staring longingly at the door.

“See how he longs to go back Outside. I suspect he may have emotional attachments to a coweye in the region of Sump Lake.”

The Watcher listened to the Psychteck’s analysis.

“Well, we could chuck him or suspend him, I suppose,” said the Watcher. “But it is really too early to know how much of a problem he may be for the Big ES. Why don’t we transfer him to one of the other countries—say, Orange Country. He has no attachments to the megafauna there. He may turn out to be a Good Citizen.”

The Psychteck nodded. Willie was transferred to a shaft city in Orange. One of his neighbors was a Pipe named Moses Eppendorff—sensitive and competent. Their city lay just west of the mountains.

The mountain range formed the geological backbone of two continents. Six thousand miles north of Rocky Top, other fugitives clung to their precarious existence in the cold, thin air of a lofty peak.

Ball, a metalloid sphere, occupied a rocky cairn in the center of a tattered Neolithic village. A place of reverence, the cairn was surrounded by meager food offerings. Ball had protected these villagers of Mount Tabulum until their numbers had grown into the hundreds. Dawn brought them out of their hide-sewn shelters with flint tools and clay bowls. Grain was crushed. Drying meats and fruits were fingered—work, work.

All activity stopped when the flap of the large shelter moved. Eyes focused on that flap. The wrinkled, bald male who stepped out wore flowing skins stained with metachromatic berry juices. Walking majestically to the cairn, he placed both hands on the sphere, which resembled his own head in size and baldness. For a pensive moment the villagers studied their seer’s brooding face as he attempted to contact their unseen protective deities. Alarm appeared on that aged face. Food offerings were scooped into the folds of the robe.

Immediately the village broke up into families and small social units. Shelters came down. Burins, scrapers and truncated flakes were wrapped with grain and dried meats. The hide bundles were strapped on adult backs. Weapons appeared in calloused hands. Moments later the village was deserted—only dust and debris remained.

Across that dust walked a pubescent female—leaving clear, measured, five-toed footprints. She walked slowly and alone—down a narrow, steep trail on the rocky mountainside. She was bait. Six sullen males, each carrying a stout spear, watched her leave. Then they crouched into dark crevices along her trail.

Silence returned to Mount Tabulum. The sun climbed higher. A male child—puberty minus five—became lost during the flight. Wandering into the open, he never even heard the hum of the approaching arrow.

A nattily clad, fat, pale bowman approached the flopping jungle bunny. With a narrow, pointed boot he steadied the small ribcage while he ripped out the barbed tip of the hunting arrow. He unsheathed the short curved blade of his trophy knife and bent down over the twitching form. Mercifully, falling blood pressure clouded the victim’s sensorium. His grisly trophy bagged, the hunter renocked his arrow and walked on up the trail. Finding the village deserted, he followed the five-toed footprints down another slope.

This was his third day without sleep—a small console on his neck titrated his blood level of Speed. Pausing cautiously, he studied the towering boulders. His wrist buckeye detector saw nothing through the dense stone. Spearchuckers shifted impatiently in their hiding places. A flash of movement at the bottom of the trail—the bait showed herself. Another trophy. He started down the trail at a reckless trot.

The first spear caught him in his wide belly. Shoulder-thrown, it hit solidly and penetrated to the lumbar vertibra. A shower of spears ventilated the insulated coveralls letting in air and sunshine—and letting out the rose-water fluids.

The circuits of the buckeye detector lay crushed on the trail. Chunks of fresh meat were divided among the fugitive villagers in their makeshift camps on the lower slopes. Their robed seer received his usual generous portion. His crystal ball had saved them again. The buckeyes of Mount Tabulum ate well that night.