The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) (20 page)

Running Elk appeared, riding a restless calico. He was a leaner, younger buck. Drum-Blue Owl felt that he had more shoulder meat than his opponent. He smiled. The tape gnawed at his belly again. If Running Elk saw the Blue Owl was the larger, he did not indicate it by his posture, although it was no disgrace to back down from a dwelling contest. There would be other meadows and other seasons. The river was not a bad place.

The calico started to trot towards him. Drum-Blue Owl held his flint blade high as he guided White Pony down the slope. They closed at a gallop. Drum-Blue Owl kept his blade up, planning to drop it at the last instant – going for the eye. They would pass with left sides together. Instinct told him where his point was, so he only had to watch his opponent’s lance. He bunched up the muscles in his left forearm to take the blow. The shafts came down on the left sides of the ponies’ heads as they passed. The jolt bruised his right hand and right armpit where the butt of his lance jumped. His left forearm felt raw and broken. But his legs held firm. He was still mounted. Kneeing White Pony around he looked for Running Elk.

The calico wandered aimlessly with the young buck belly-down on its neck, lance dragging. Drum-Blue Owl glanced up at his flint and saw that his prayer symbols were completed. Hair covered the blade and red blood trickled down the shaft, filling in the drawings. Drum-Blue Owl circled the meadow confidently; his opponent slumped and retched. He saw a strip of white skull glistening through Running Elk’s lacerated scalp. A hairy flap hung down over his eyes as gobbets of blood splattered the calico.

Drum-Blue Owl tore his loincloth and wrapped his left forearm. The sun climbed higher. His tongue dried and his belly ached. The tapes weakened him. He sat tall and straight, watching his opponent’s deep irregular breathing.

Unexpectedly Running Elk let out a whoop and charged a second time. Drum-Blue Owl watched the frantic approach. If the young buck wanted to die here on the meadow he would accommodate him. He heeled White Pony into a trot. His opponent’s face was hidden by the gory mask of dangling scalp. Too late he saw the beady, calculating eyes. He tried to swing his flint to bear. Hooves threw sod. The impact snapped a lance. Running Elk toppled over the calico’s rump and lay crumpled in the grass, the broken lance butt by his side. Drum-Blue Owl glanced up at his own flint – no new blood; no new pain.

Running Elk stood up slowly, feet wide apart, arms folded. Drum-Blue Owl glanced at the three chiefs. Surely they would not allow this young buck to stand against a mounted and armed warrior! He gestured with his spear: ‘Leave my dwelling place.’ The downed warrior brushed his bloody scalp back from his eyes and stared quizzically. Chiefs sat stoically. Odd. Drum’s lance grew heavy and tapes gnawed at his belly. He didn’t have all day. If Running Elk wished to die, that was his decision. Drum lowered his lance to charge, but White Pony wandered and nibbled grass. Cursing, Drum tried to knee her around. The pony ignored him. One of the chiefs dismounted. He saw his own pregnant mate running down the slope.

The landscape tilted and dumped him into the grass. Matted green blocked his vision. His mate lifted his head into her lap. She was gentle.

Drum wanted to cry out when he saw the thick splintered shaft of Running Elk’s lance protruding from his chest, but the sullen neolithic mind of Blue Owl just accepted it. With a heavy right hand he patted his mate’s belly. Drum tried to warn her to cook the fish when she roamed the river to protect herself from
D. latum
, but the only words he could get past the Stone Age lips were: ‘Teach my son to hold his lance high.’ Click!

The Mullah shook Drum’s shoulder. ‘Citizen Drum, are you back with us?’

Drum shook his head. ‘That was painful trip. I can still feel those tapeworms.’

‘The gastric mucosa is probably eroded a little. Have a green-four mint to settle your stomach. What did you think of our Flint and Tapeworms?’

Drum frowned. ‘That’s not for ARNOLD, I’m afraid.’

Mullah agreed: ‘True. There are probably too many old clichés in it – motherhood, mates, valour in defence of the nest – trite themes. Too simplistic!’

Drum swallowed hard. His stomach felt tight.

Mullah continued: ‘I liked those tapes for their sensory content, but I’m afraid they would strain even ARNOLD’s intelligence. Neolithic conflicts were fine in the Stone Age, but we are asking him to defend the Hive, where such problems as the Cattail contest would be solved by simply removing the birth permits from the two warriors. No infants: no reason to fight over the meadow. They could live in peace and share the hunting and fishing – as long as they had population control.’

‘Like the Hive,’ said Drum.

Mullah nodded and took out a stack of leptosoul outlines. ‘This is ARNOLD’s series. We will use Daddy Longlegs to give him coordination to run
Rorqual
’s fighting cranes. The Capon and Fighting Cock sequences will give him confidence.’

Drum relaxed. ‘Yes. Stay on a lower vertebrate level – away from hominids.’

‘We’ll keep his reflex training as simple as we can. The less philosophizing he does the better.’

ARNOLD was sent to the Shipyards to grow muscle and to learn
Rorqual
’s anatomy from old hulks.

CAPON LEPTOSOUL

Click! Capon ARNOLD roosted with other fat-bottomed neuter birds – neither cock nor hen. Each had his own generous mush cup and water. ARNOLD was restless. His soul remembered when food had texture and hens were speckled. His capon gonads were limp, swollen, and steroid-numb. He tried to stir up his roostmates by shouldering them away from their mush and eating it himself. They wouldn’t fight. They hung their heads. He gained weight rapidly and invited an early axe. Click! END OF TAPE.

NEW LEPTOSOUL: BATTLECOCK

Click! Battlecock ARNOLD was all testicular valour and iron spur. His days of secret training in the keep had hardened his muscle and strengthened his wind. A hundred times a day he had been tossed by the hand. Each time he flew back to his windowsill to look out over his hen yard. His diet removed excess water and fat from his body: twelve kernels of corn, chopped cooked meat, chopped lettuce, wheatgerm, honey, and peanut butter. When his irons were tied over his spurs he knew someone would die. Odours of blood, tobacco, and whiskey told him that other hands were there with their cocks. He rested comfortably in his handler’s arms until fight time. He was placed in the pit with a Claret. Twice they went up and locked iron into meat. Each time they were tenderly disengaged and placed back in the pit. Fresh air came in through a long bone fracture. During the third pitting he took some iron in the skull and his vision clouded. He couldn’t see the Claret, so he waited after the hand released his tail feather. When the Claret attacked he felt the air from its wings. He knew just where it was.

ARNOLD went up, striking out with his spurs. He felt the Claret’s needlepoints in his belly and left wing. Then his tardy iron crunched cartilage and diced the heart. After they were disengaged this time he was held in the arm and petted by the hand. He heard the Claret’s last coughs.

The hens were his. After his injuries healed he was brood cock – under wire – with three of the most feminine Frost Grey hens. The big hen tried to shoulder him away from the water, but he gave her a resounding peck. He was King. He would see that all three sat on handsome clutches of eggs.

One morning the wind carried a faint answer to his crowing. There was another cock on the far side of the ridge. He couldn’t wait for the chicken wire to be lifted.

‘This wire is the only thing that is keeping you alive,’ mumbled ARNOLD.

Mullah smiled confidently. ‘Wonderful! Notice how real these leptosoul experiences have become for him. He is ARNOLD the battlecock now. His subconscious considers these taped dreams to be more significant than the dull routine of his Hive existence.’

‘I suppose they are,’ said Drum. ‘They have more psychic strength – more sensory input – more trauma.’

Drum studied the feedbacks to see if ARNOLD was showing maximum response. There was room for improvement. ‘Let’s step up the intensity next time. We’ll run through these tapes with a higher energy level – enhance the axe pain at the end of the Capon sequence, build up the euphoria and sexual rewards after the battlecock win.’

‘. . . and the crayon creatures,’ added Mullah.

Drum frowned. ‘Crayon creatures? That is just childhood fantasy. Why use them now?’

Mullah just stacked the tapes back in the rack and smiled knowingly. ‘There is more to it than that. Actually the “purple slurp” is a very important trigger for the post-hypnotic suggestion. We’ve programmed the ARNOLDs to go into attack mode with it – a combination of simple childhood memories and adult sexual stimulation. Very effective.’

Drum just looked puzzled.

‘It’s the Daddy Longlegs coordination we need to operate
Rorqual
’s manual overrides in battle. The ARNOLD can be triggered to revert to his old leptosoul on command. The “purple slurp” is that command.’

‘Do you mean that he is programmed to become
Rorqual
’s brains?’ asked Drum. ‘He’ll revert to one of his prior leptosouls and fight a battle using the ship as his weapon?’

‘If necessary . . .’

Drum sat down, shaking his head slowly. ‘First we program his genes. Now we program his soul.’ He took out his gold emblem and sighed. This Leo assignment had drained him. The Hive’s issuance of his prostheses had given him a second chance at life, but after ten years the extension was running out. His teeth were working well and the vigorous chewing of all the fibre food in his new diet gave him a jaw. Walking had toughened his legs, seating the metalloid joint firmly in the hip bones. His body was stronger, almost younger; but emotionally he was still aging. ‘When does ARNOLD sail?’

‘Soon. Perhaps on his eleventh birthday. His testosterone levels are high enough. Bones are mature. He’ll be ready.’

‘Yes. I’m sure he’ll do fine.’

A sullen Clam stalked on South Reef, warm body tickling sensors. His presence activated ancient circuits, and fields of waving, man-sized umbrellas welcomed him. He swam towards Leviathan’s new trawling lane, pausing at two-fathom umbrellas to fill his lungs. Ahead of him the reef sprang to life. Meck pumps filled the umbrella airpockets. Snap electrolysis spiked the air with oxygen. Clouds of marine zooplankton and overflow bubbles rose from the writhing shapes – cyber barnacles that had survived the twenty-seven centuries to serve the rare fugitive Benthic.

Clam waited at the edge of the reef. Behind him the umbrellas quieted. He watched the surface overhead. A dark sky spat big drops into the choppy water. Leviathan’s whale shape approached, trailing nets. Clam left his air pocket and grabbed the fine mesh netting; in a moment he was on the rain-spattered deck. His boarding caused no pandemonium this time. A well-drilled crew responded to the siren with a regular cadence of squeaking boots. Rows of Nebishes lined up, carrying shoulder-high netting – walking fences. Clam recognized the threat and leaped up on the cabin roof.

Thunder rolled. Hump palms rustled in the wind. ARNOLD stepped out of the foliage and studied the Benthic, a hundred yards away across the rows of tangle-foot netting. Clam was dark-skinned and naked, a six-foot giant like himself. ARNOLD wore standard coveralls with a wide, studded belt. His big bare feet made flat slapping sounds like Clam’s.

‘Hello!’ shouted Clam, waving.

ARNOLD silently motioned for the nets to be lowered. He advanced slowly across the wet mesh. Clam glanced around for a possible attack from behind. The nose of the ship had no visible hatch. Beyond the hump one of the cranes worked casually on heavy plankton netting. Only the deck crew and ARNOLD seemed aware of his presence.

‘I can permit you to live,’ offered Clam, ‘if you give me this ship.’

ARNOLD stopped.

‘GIVE ME THIS SHIP!’

A cock crowed in ARNOLD’s subconscious, and he sprinted across sixty yards of open deck, leaping with teeth and nails bared. Clam couldn’t believe the fury of the attack – kicking, biting, scratching. They tumbled down on the foredeck. ARNOLD’s teeth crunched deep into Clam’s left forearm. A wave carried them off the nose of the ship and a huge maw sucked them into the rakes. ARNOLD’s fingers gouged at his face and then closed tightly on this throat. Clam writhed into an oozy green mound, losing his footing. Nebish netters draped the pair with sticky tanglefoot mesh. Clam clawed at the choking fingers as his senses clouded. The tunnel vision frightened him. He found ARNOLD’s middle finger and quickly bent it back, breaking it with a snap. He clung to the stump, twisting it hard. ARNOLD’s grip slipped. Clam vaulted back into the sea, dragging the netting and three drowning Nebishes.

Drum wheezed as he patted ARNOLD’s forearm. A banjo splint held the damaged finger along with all four fingers in a fan-like configuration.

‘Good warrior. You did well. You are only eleven years old and you defeated the Benthic beast.
Rorqual
’s playbacks identified it as the same one who struck down Captain Ode a dozen years ago. It is older and wiser now, yet you saved the ship. The sea is now open to the Hive. We can trawl anywhere on the shelf.’

ARNOLD smiled and nodded. He accepted the accolades and returned to the Shipyards for a little one-armed shore duty. When his injuries healed he’d captain again.

Drum carried the battle records down to the Chapel.

‘He let the Benthic get away. We’ll have to step up his battle conditioning. Use that heavy tape – Dan with the Golden Tooth. We have six weeks until he sails again.’

Mullah programmed the Leptosoul Meck.

‘How far do you want to go with this? I have one tape here that shows Dan with his head cut off so he can fight two battles at the same time. His head wins and then flops into the second pit where his body is holding off the second contestant. He wins both fights easily.’

Drum shook his head, saying: ‘No. Keep the battle physiology plausible in human terms. We want ARNOLD to use a little judgment. Not much – but a little. In name at least – and by the grace of some learning-tape conditioning – he’ll be captain of the ship. He’s programmed for a little judgement.’