Read Online The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) by T. J. Bass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. J. Bass
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place. He filled his belly, waited, and filled it again. The sounds of the two older children were easy to follow. They had survived somehow. He’d follow and survive too.
City-base formed a gravity well for refuse. Everything that dropped from any of the mile-high living levels ended up here. Some things were edible. Most were not. Little Har’s job was to get to fallen objects before the rats. Sweeper Mecks came through infrequently; the refuse piles were over twenty feet deep. Each thump attracted a crowd of hungry investigators – rodent and human. Har carried a heavy length of pipe to ward off the competition.
‘Ma!’ he called. The louvers over the air vent were matted with dust. He wiped them, releasing a cloud that entered his old room. The ill female that turned towards the sound of his voice was toothless and hollow-eyed. He backed down the conduit, moving against the airflow. ‘Ma?’ he mumbled. The old woman turned her head this way and that. Menopause had drained her. As steroids dropped, so did her body protein.
Har couldn’t believe it. Cautiously he crept back and re-examined the room. Same built-ins. Same scratches and dents. The family-five oven had three original members. Yes, that female had been his mother-figure. Now she too was gone – metabolically and mentally. He was sorry he had climbed this way. For years he had had the hopeful fantasies of returning to Mother someday. Now these hopes were gone, replaced by the harsh realities of being a Tweenwaller. He returned to City-base to scavenge.
‘Take a bite.’
Har didn’t like the looks of the raw meat – it was on too big a bone to be rat muscle. The fifteen Tweenwallers were hunkered down around the wet mess of bone and meat. Something had fallen a long way before striking the base. It had landed in a clean area, so there had been no deep trash to soften the impact.
‘I don’t think I’m very hungry,’ he said, holding out the wet object.
‘Take a bite anyway,’ said the gang leader, pushing it back. ‘It was one of the Security Squad sent Tweenwallers after us. If we put enough teeth marks in these bones it may discourage them from sending anyone else in to bother us.’
Har didn’t like the taste, but he liked being hunted even less. He bit, chewed, spat, and bit again. The gnawed femur was added to the heap of bones.
‘I’ll dump these on the Spiral Walkway. If we leave them as calling cards after our attacks on Citizens we can be certain they will be reported. Where is the rest of his gear? A bone is just a bone unless we identify it with something.’
Har watched the gang sort through the paraphernalia: needle gun, cartridge belt, lights, communicator, helmet, and boots. Items of soft cloth were already being worn by the scavengers.
‘Here’s you calling card,’ said the leader. Har walked away with a boot and a femur. There would be no mistaking that. He was now a Tweenwaller, and a cannibal.
Har leaped down from the ceiling, landing in front of a Food Dispenser. The Nebish crowd backed away. Many carried their daily ration of calories. Har jumped up and down screaming, waving the gory femur and making short rushing attacks. The soft, white Citizens tried to escape by running, but they had episodes of shock and plain clumsiness – fainting and tripping over each other. The floor was soon littered with tube steaks, fruit bars, and squeeze bottles. Har loaded his arms and fled Tweenwalls.
Larry Dever screamed in the darkness, choking on bitter, granular fluids. This second rewarming was nothing like his first. Waves of pain and numbness swept over his nervous system, just as real waves surged over him, threatening to drown him. His struggle, half swim and half climb, brought his chin up long enough to clear his airway. Lights danced in the distance. Six pencils of brightness marked the approach of a large noisy machine and a team of masked humans. Masks – bulky and grotesque.
Larry’s scream was garbled by
City-base formed a gravity well for refuse. Everything that dropped from any of the mile-high living levels ended up here. Some things were edible. Most were not. Little Har’s job was to get to fallen objects before the rats. Sweeper Mecks came through infrequently; the refuse piles were over twenty feet deep. Each thump attracted a crowd of hungry investigators – rodent and human. Har carried a heavy length of pipe to ward off the competition.
‘Ma!’ he called. The louvers over the air vent were matted with dust. He wiped them, releasing a cloud that entered his old room. The ill female that turned towards the sound of his voice was toothless and hollow-eyed. He backed down the conduit, moving against the airflow. ‘Ma?’ he mumbled. The old woman turned her head this way and that. Menopause had drained her. As steroids dropped, so did her body protein.
Har couldn’t believe it. Cautiously he crept back and re-examined the room. Same built-ins. Same scratches and dents. The family-five oven had three original members. Yes, that female had been his mother-figure. Now she too was gone – metabolically and mentally. He was sorry he had climbed this way. For years he had had the hopeful fantasies of returning to Mother someday. Now these hopes were gone, replaced by the harsh realities of being a Tweenwaller. He returned to City-base to scavenge.
‘Take a bite.’
Har didn’t like the looks of the raw meat – it was on too big a bone to be rat muscle. The fifteen Tweenwallers were hunkered down around the wet mess of bone and meat. Something had fallen a long way before striking the base. It had landed in a clean area, so there had been no deep trash to soften the impact.
‘I don’t think I’m very hungry,’ he said, holding out the wet object.
‘Take a bite anyway,’ said the gang leader, pushing it back. ‘It was one of the Security Squad sent Tweenwallers after us. If we put enough teeth marks in these bones it may discourage them from sending anyone else in to bother us.’
Har didn’t like the taste, but he liked being hunted even less. He bit, chewed, spat, and bit again. The gnawed femur was added to the heap of bones.
‘I’ll dump these on the Spiral Walkway. If we leave them as calling cards after our attacks on Citizens we can be certain they will be reported. Where is the rest of his gear? A bone is just a bone unless we identify it with something.’
Har watched the gang sort through the paraphernalia: needle gun, cartridge belt, lights, communicator, helmet, and boots. Items of soft cloth were already being worn by the scavengers.
‘Here’s you calling card,’ said the leader. Har walked away with a boot and a femur. There would be no mistaking that. He was now a Tweenwaller, and a cannibal.
Har leaped down from the ceiling, landing in front of a Food Dispenser. The Nebish crowd backed away. Many carried their daily ration of calories. Har jumped up and down screaming, waving the gory femur and making short rushing attacks. The soft, white Citizens tried to escape by running, but they had episodes of shock and plain clumsiness – fainting and tripping over each other. The floor was soon littered with tube steaks, fruit bars, and squeeze bottles. Har loaded his arms and fled Tweenwalls.
Larry Dever screamed in the darkness, choking on bitter, granular fluids. This second rewarming was nothing like his first. Waves of pain and numbness swept over his nervous system, just as real waves surged over him, threatening to drown him. His struggle, half swim and half climb, brought his chin up long enough to clear his airway. Lights danced in the distance. Six pencils of brightness marked the approach of a large noisy machine and a team of masked humans. Masks – bulky and grotesque.
Larry’s scream was garbled by
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