T. Bass - Half Past Human

“What will become of it?” she sniffed.

His face fell.

“It isn’t authorized,” he answered weakly. “They will come for it.”

She sobbed herself to sleep. Agonizing dreams ruffled her alpha waves. Sound became color. Colors flowed into flavors. A meat-flavored patty contained a small hand open in supplication. A tiny finger pointed into her mother’s heart. The meat flavor became sound—the sound of a baby’s cry as it hit the blades of the patty press. Mu Ren came full awake in the terror of her first nightmare—the first of many.

Tinker’s nonritual hugs did little to allay her fears. He began to doubt the wisdom of the hive.

The naked, hirsute aborigine fled across Filly’s green cyberskin. This was his fifth day without sleep. His right neck ached where the first hunter’s arrow had struck. Fibrin and erythrocyte crusts covered the edematous laceration. He had managed to kill that hunter, but another was put down. That one dropped from exhaustion after three days tracking. Now the Huntercraft was back. Its keen optics sought him out. Underfoot. Filly’s sensors fed coordinates back to Hunter Control. His every footstep itched the city. A third hunter swung down-harness—a short, fat, bug-eyed killer with an ugly trophy knife and a deadly long bow.

Filly’s organs surrounded her mountain—a single ice-capped peak. The buckeye climbed. His ridged, hyper-keratotic palms and soles gripped granular stone surely and lifted him up. The icy wind pulled his long gray hair back from his tired old eyes. The only name he knew was Kaia, a name given to him by his first mate—in her language it meant The Male .

Bird Dog IX rested on an eight-thousand-foot ledge, tracking. Sharp optics followed Kaia’s slow ascent up the sheer face of a thirteen-thousand-foot overhang. Ninety millimeters of oxygen triggered his cardiopulmonary adjustments to the altitude. Below, struggling in his clumsy suit, the Nebish hunter turned up his oxygen and followed. Above, a deep white snow beckoned—offering a soft, peaceful sleep. Kaia weakened. Hoary frost grew on the hairs of his scalp and forearms. Below him, on the same cliff, the hunter was stalled. The white suit and helmet resembled a snowman.

“Come back,” called Bird Dog. “He is trapped up there. No need to track. Come back.”

The hunter’s hypnoconditioning did not allow for interruption of the tracking frenzy. He kept clawing at the sheer rock until his motor end-plates fatigued. The poor Nebish had already exerted himself far beyond the capacity of his soft body. A light gust of wind lifted his numb form from the rock and sent it sailing down into the clouds below. Bird Dog tracked—and noted the impact area.

Kaia hadn’t seen the hunter’s flight. He was too high, and too intent on sleep. Bird Dog’s powerful optics relayed Kaia’s climb to Hunter Control.

“We’ll never get that body down from there,” said Val.

Walter turned up the magnification. Kaia crawled into a shallow cave and heaped snow over the mouth. Bird Dog’s sensors watched through the snow as the naked aborigine curled up on the rocky floor and rapidly cooled off.

“At least we know where the body is,” said Walter, “if we ever find anyone fool enough to want to climb up for the trophy. Should keep well at those temperatures—especially since winter is coming.”

Moon and Dan hid under a pile of greenish-brown fiber trash half way down a cliff. Below them a Huntercraft skimmed over the waters of a wide deep canal. Toothpick’s pointed nose projected above the trash.

“It is circling back. Will pass overhead. Don’t move,” said the cyber.

They heard the drone rise and fall. The fibers danced in the wind. Silence. Moon thrust his head up.

“Smells like the ocean. We’re miles inland.”

“That’s the sea-level canal.”

“We’re going to swim that?” he asked, raising his voice.

Toothpick cast his optic about.

“We’ll use dry stalks and gourds to float us.”

Moon strained his eyes.

“But I can hardly see the other side.”

“It is less than two miles. We can take our time.”

Moon remained deep in the trash.

“Your teeth are on the other side. It isn’t far now. Don’t you want to be able to crack open a femur again?” said Toothpick.

Moon pursed his lips and gummed thoughtfully. His edentulous dog, Dan, glanced up at him trustingly.

“Where are the damn gourds?” he said, climbing about in the vegetable trash.

The night sky held a lunar crescent and a few stars. Moon aimed his bundle of gourds at the North Star and kicked slowly, purposefully. Dan paddled around him several times and then came to rest with his paws on the old man’s back. Toothpick was tied among the gourds.

“Careful,” said the cyber. “You’re pushing me underwater again. I’ve got to pick out a safe landing spot. If we ever do this again, I’ll design a float with an outrigger for stability.”

Moon shuddered at the cold brine.

“We won’t be doing this again.”

The lunar crescent slipped below the western horizon. Toothpick watched the north shore moving by as the currents swept them along. The shaft cities on this continent looked about the same—squat pillbox caps housing the end-organs of vast underground warrens. Cybercaps that watched over the gardens. They would be in danger if the morning sun caught them exposed. Cybercap’s eyes could be sharp when scanning the open waters of the canal.

“Stay off shore,” said Toothpick. “There is a better landing site coming up.”

They drifted into a steep rocky slope carved out of a high ridge. Crags offered cover, but Moon was exhausted. Dawn found him sleeping on a narrow ledge.

“Good a place as any for a rest,” shrugged the cyber.

Fat old Walter wheezed into Hunter Control to find Tinker and Val in tense conversation.

“What’s got you youngsters so upset?” he asked as he eased his bulk into the control seat and activated his console.

“It’s his pregnancy,” said Val. “It is unauthorized.”

“But I’m a good worker. My child will be a good worker.”

Walter assessed Tinker’s anxiety. These family-2 situations were dangerous. Imprinting wasn’t diluted effectively, and the pair tended to grow too fond of each other. Bad for ES efficiency.

“Your permit is a class three—carbon copy?” said Walter.

Tinker nodded.

“For a hybrid you’d need at least a class four,” continued the fat old man. “Probably a class five, since Mu Ren is far too young to have earned the right to reproduce herself. That’s it. Class five. Hybrid permit with mate-of-choice. Have you applied for a variance?”

Tinker hung his head.

“As soon as I found out,” he said sadly. “The committee hasn’t met yet, but the meck who took the application explained that it usually took some act of planet-wide benefit to earn a class five. Probability very low.”

Walter patted the younger man’s shoulder and said cheerfully: “Well, a meck isn’t a committee. We have men to decide such things—human beings. You have been a very good worker, Tinker. I know some of the committee members. I’ll speak with them this morning. Why don’t you try to relax. Go for a shakedown cruise with Val. Doberman needs checking out.”

Val and Walter exchanged glances. Tinker was too preoccupied to notice the thick stack of wrinkled charts—unusual for a mere shakedown cruise. Doberman III flexed his hinge muscle as they approached. The hatch opened to a dim cabin.

“Morning, sirs,” greeted the craft.

Val climbed in, tossing the charts on the dash. He fumbled for harness buckles. Tinker paused.

“Won’t we be needing our closed-environment suits?”