David Edelman - Infoquake

"We can salvage what's left," stated Brone. His voice boomed with the strong and vibrant tones of a born politician. "We can survive here. But if we leave, there's no telling what we're going to find out in the wilderness."

"And what are we going to live on?" yelled Natch. His voice was a crow's squawk, the sound of metal grating on metal. "The stores we have are almost gone."

"There are deer running around. We can hunt."

Natch let out a dismissive snort. "You're saying we should start eating real meat? Those aren't synthetic deer out there. We'll all get sick again, right when we can't afford to lose any time."

"But we'll survive."

The conflict raged through the afternoon, and gradually the boys began to polarize into two separate groups. Occasionally, someone would manage to insert a fact or an opinion into the discussion, but by and large it remained a conflict between Natch and Brone, the two stubborn boys at the top of their class. When the sun finally slunk down over the horizon, someone suggested the question be put to a vote. Should they abandon their adopted home and search for other encampments, or soldier on here at CAMP 11 and hunt for food?

Natch lost.

The boy sat in the center of the ruined camp for several hours, oblivious to the whispers of the rest. All his frustration and humiliation from the Figaro Fi episode rushed over him in a black rage that clouded over his senses. Eventually, the rest of the boys abandoned the convocation and went off to find sleep.

Natch sat and sulked, his mind whirling. The stench of death lay over Brone's plan, as obvious to Natch as the wind or the rain. He couldn't just follow Brone to his grave, could he?

Horvil put a hand on his shoulder. "You know what Sheldon Surina said?" he remarked to Natch quietly. "He said, The man who doesn't know how to compromise only has himself to blame. "

"I'd rather think about what Lucco Primo said," rasped Natch in reply.

"What's that?"

"Never bet on the optimist. "

The boys had seen little of the local wildlife during their eight months at CAMP 11, but that didn't mean the predators weren't out there. Generations of black bears and wolves prowled the woods nearby, living out their own dramas of survival with nary a thought to the humans in their midst. They were not prone to violence, but the Autonomous Revolt had decimated their natural habitats and taught them to be less forgiving. The miserable winter drew them closer and closer to the human encampments in search of food.

Horvil was the first boy to run afoul of the black bears. He was tromping purposefully through the snow gathering firewood when he stumbled on one of the larger specimens. Two hundred-fifty kilograms of ursine horror lunged at Horvil with no warning, sending the boy darting back to the camp at a speed he wouldn't have believed himself capable of.

"Bear!" he yelped as he stumbled down the hillside, shedding sticks of firewood the whole way. "Bear! Help! Bear!"

The camp instantly descended into chaos. Before anyone could propose a coherent strategy, Brone rounded up a small contingent of boys and armed them with torches. Horvil and a number of others scampered into their cabins and barricaded the doors, assuming the bear would wander off on its own accord. Natch, meanwhile, was out on one of his aimless peregrinations around the woods.

The initiates would debate what happened next for many years afterward.

Brone and his comrades located the beast soon enough. He had headed straight for the storage silo containing their hard-earned stockpile of fruit. But the boys' bravado was quickly snuffed by the sight of a cornered bear rising up on hind legs with claws extended. Brone made a feint with his torch, which only succeeded in frightening the bear into a rage. He charged at one of Brone's companions, sliced him neatly across the chest, then tripped and fell directly onto another boy. A few of the remaining initiates managed to toss their bleeding comrades over their shoulders and make a break for the cabins, while the rest scattered in confusion.

Natch, returning from his walk, observed all this from a distance. Fools, he thought. You can't accomplish anything without a strategy. He realized that if the camp were to survive this latest incursion, he would have to take control. It was a strange feeling, to be responsible for others and not just oneself. He tried to pretend that he was not accountable, that he could just run off and let the rest of the initiates fend for themselves. Then the image of poor hapless Horvil came unbidden to his head, Horvil standing and pleading with him, You'll take care of me, won't you, Natch? He cursed his friend's name and quickly devised a plan.

Seeing that the bear was now pursuing the firebrands that had taunted him moments earlier, Natch rushed into the fray and ripped a torch from the hand of a campmate. The boy, stunned, put up no resistance. Natch instantly reversed course, waving his torch at the beast and leading him in the opposite direction, away from the camp.

Natch's thoughts were jumbled, incoherent. Primal reflex took over and dispelled any more complex emotion. He could feel the pulse of blood rushing through his legs, the lash and sting of the branches across his face. The bear was constantly a few steps behind, growling, ready to pounce and devour him. Yet he knew these woods like nobody else in the camp did. He knew exactly where he was going.

Until, as chance would have it, he spotted Brone.

Natch whipped around and headed in his direction.

Brone had made his way to a clearing on top of a low hill, hoping to gather his wits there. His torch had snuffed out in the snow somewhere during the frantic escape from the bear, and Brone was now busy scanning the area for a suitable branch to use as a cudgel.

He had only a split-second to react when Natch came sprinting by at top speed, and then the black bear was upon him.

The carnage that followed haunted Natch for many years to come. You should have listened to me, he would say to Brone during these midnight pantomimes. You should have realized we couldn't have made it in that camp. You should have recognized you were wrong. Then he would turn to the other initiates and uncage his fury on them. Why didn't you ask better questions? Why did you submit to Brone's leadership and not mine? He reserved the bulk of his wrath for himself. If only you had been a better politician. If only you had known how to cultivate friendships among the boys. If only you hadn't been so weak.

Natch had to stare at him for several hours in the cramped cabin of a Falcon four-seater under the watchful eyes of a fat irritable pilot and a steely-eyed paramedic. Every few minutes, the paramedic would get up from her seat to examine the gnarled stump that had once been Brone's arm. She would bend down to his chest and listen for the faint wheezing sounds, then she would turn to Natch with a murderous look that seemed quite inappropriate for a healer. Natch was beyond emotion; he simply looked back, expressionless. Don't they have to take an oath of non-violence or something? he wondered.

"Maybe we should just take him straight to a Preparation compound," suggested the pilot. "Cape Town's a long way away, and they got a Preparation compound right near here. I run back and forth to that place all the time."

The paramedic nodded absently. "That won't be necessary."

"You sure? He's suffering, I can see that. They'll take care of him down there, make sure he goes easy-"

"I know what happens in those compounds, Clar," the woman said with a tone of finality. "This one doesn't need to join the ranks of the Prepared-not yet, anyway. He's going to pull through."

For the first time, Natch noticed that the pilot and the paramedic both wore dartguns. He gazed at the cartridges of OCHRE-tipped darts hanging low on the guns' underbellies and tried to imagine what kind of code they contained. A paralysis program, maybe, or a routine to cause temporary blindness? He couldn't quite figure out why the two were armed in the first place. Were they looking after his safety, or Brone's?