A Season For Slaughter Part 3

We were approaching a shallow dip. "Be careful here." I pointed forward.

He didn't answer.

"There's a lot of baby vines across this area. That's a bad sign. They'll work together like an antenna. They'll feed the vibrations of our footsteps straight to the nearest ganglion. We'll have to slow down."

"Slow... down... ?"

"Uh-huh. One stimulus won't trigger an attack. Two or three consecutive stimuli will. We'll need to slow down our pace."

He moaned. The sound was almost comic. "How can you do this-?"'

"It's called The Patience Exercise. We did it in the Mode Training. The idea is to see how long you can take crossing a room. We had to take a whole day just to get across a roorn the size of a gymnasium. There were a lot of angry people in that room before the day was over."

"Sounds stupid. What's the point?"

"Well, first you get to confront how impatient you are with the process of your own life." I remembered what Foreman had said. "It's about living in the moment of now. Most people are stuck in the past-except when they're trying to live in the future. Very few people know how to live in the now."

"Sounds like a lot of California bulls.h.i.t," said the major.

"Very probably-but eventually there comes a point when you realize that there's no difference between a moment of waiting and a moment of moving. They're both moments. Each has equal value. So a moment of waiting isn't something to endure, to be gotten through as quickly and painlessly as possible; instead, it's just a moment to be lived, like any other."

"You believe this s.h.i.t?"

"I don't believe anything anymore. I gave up belief. Now I just accept what the universe presents and act appropriately."

"I hate evangelists," he said.

"So do I," I agreed. "You asked. I answered."

He was silent for a while. I knew he wasn't counting. He was watching me, taking a step only when I did. He didn't know whether to be afraid, frustrated, or angry. I could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was trying to do all three at the same time.

Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. "We don't have to do this-this tiptoe-through-the-tulips routine-all the way back to the tanks, do we? I mean, how long until we're out of range?"

"It depends on how far the net of creeper vines has spread. Relax. We've got a long way to go before we can even think about making a dash for it."

"What about this? We run and one of the tanks comes and gets us?"

"We'd never make it. We're still too far."

"Well, what if a tank circled around wide and laid down a swath of flarne between us and the trees?" His anger was going, but he was still frustrated and desperate.

"Same problem. Too much vibration. It'd trigger the tenants for sure." I turned and studied the trees again, just to be sure. They loomed tall and ominous. Great black lumps of vegetation, they dripped with showers of wide, waxy leaves, a purple-and-ebony cascade. Several of them were decorated with blood-red vines and parasitic creepers with bright pink flowers. "Uh-uh. They're spread too far apart.

We could never hit them all. Not with enough flame. And certainly not fast enough-a.s.suming we could even get a tank into position. They'd all swarm at once."

"I thought these suits were supposed to provide some kind of protection-" Now the frustration was going, leaving him purely desperate. Would he bottom out at resolve or catatonia?

"I've seen what a shambler swarm can do to a herd of livestock. Do you think your jumpsuit is stronger than cowhide?"

"It's supposed to be- "Do you want to bet your life on it?"

He didn't answer. He took another elaborate step. He was starting to look a little rocky. No question anymore. He was aiming straight for the paralysis of despair.

Too bad. I'd honestly expected better from him.

I knew how he felt. Walking this slow is more difficult than it looks. It's actually harder than running. I could feel the sweat trickling down my sides. The only satisfaction was that Major a.s.shole was sweating worse than me: I wondered how much more he could take-I glanced back at him. His face was so pale, it was colorless. "Oh, s.h.i.t." He was about to faint.

I caught him just in time. "Come on, stay with me. Don't go down. Come on, Major."

He stayed limp. He'd been frightened into unconsciousness.

"I should leave you here," I said. "It just might buy me enough time to run for it."

No response. He really was out. Terrific.

That there are many large areas where the infestation appears to be minimal or nonexistent should not be construed as evidence of either weakness or failure on the part of the agencies of infestation, nor should it be interpreted as evidence of the effectiveness of control measures of human agencies. Such misperceptions can lead to dangerous miscalculations of resources and energy.

What has become apparent with time is that the member species of the Chtorran infestation need to clump. They seek each other out for mutual benefit. Beyond the relationship of predator and prey, there is partnership; these plants and animals depend upon each other for immediate survival and ultimate success.

Where the density of infection is thickest, there you will find the healthiest, the most vigorous, and the most confuient of Chtorran organisms; there you will also find the most rapid growth and expansion.

Where the density of infection is at its thinnest, you will find that the individual specimens of the invading ecology are weaker and smaller than their more successfully integrated counterparts.

The a.s.sumption here is that the Chtorran ecology prefers to feed on itself first, and on Terran species only when the preferred foods are not available. Further investigation of this behavior is still required and is strongly recommended as it may have considerable impact on long-term strategy for Terran survival.

This leads to one immediate recommendation: that any military energy applied to a target area be specifically designed for the circ.u.mstances of the infestation prevalent in that area, instead of following the usual blanket-fire approach that is currently in practice.

Implementing this recommendation will mandate a considerable increase in both skillage and manpower, particularly at a time when both are increasingly scarce.

Nevertheless, the recommendation stands.

For the application of our energies to be effective, it is imperative that individual cases receive critically tailored attention. What may be appropriate in one situation may prove to be fatally inappropriate in another. (The reader is directed to Appendix III, Case 121, for a particularly dramatic justification for this caution: the disastrous results of attempting to flame a grove of hunting shamblers as opposed to flaming a single torpid individual.) -The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)

Chapter 3.

Residuals "I enjoy watching amateurs make fools of themselves. Most of the time, it's the other way around. "

-SOLOMON SHORT.

It was my fault, really. I'd pushed him too hard. I picked him up and hoisted him over my shoulder. As if the job hadn't been impossible enough before, this was all I needed, a pa.s.senger.

My headset beeped. "Captain?"

"Yeah?"

"Is the major okay?"

"He fainted."

"Oh."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. It's a nice day. I wish I'd brought some sunscreen though. You want to bring me some?"

"Uh, that's a joke, right?"

"Right."

Silence for a moment. I took a step. The major was heavy.

"Captain?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh, Siegel's been going through the briefing book, and-"

"Forget it." I cut him off quickly.

"But, sir-"

"I know the page you're looking at. It's not applicable here."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"Well, okay... "

I shook the major gently. "Come on, a.s.shole, wake up." I had to think about this.

What kind of physical reactions did acute panic cause? Could he be in some kind of hypoglycemic shock? Or worse? Maybe he'd had a heart attack. I shifted the a.s.shole to my other shoulder He moaned.

I recognized the sound. He was fine. He was faking. The son of a b.i.t.c.h. I shook him harder. No reaction.

An uneven flotilla of bright pink puffb.a.l.l.s bounced across the scarlet hills. They were already starting to break up, leaving a trail of luminous powder hanging in the air behind them. It gave me an idea. I clicked my headset on. "Which way is the wind blowing?"

"We were just thinkin' about that, Cap'n. We can lay down some smoke, if you think it'd do any good."

"I don't know. n.o.body's ever tried it on shamblers-if they did, they didn't come back to talk about it."

"Bees, sir. Bees slow down when they're smoked. They don't attack."

"Tenants aren't bees. What if the smoke triggers them?"

"Oh." He sounded crestfallen. "You're right. Sorry." Still...

I poked the major. "You awake yet?" He moaned again.

Not only an a.s.shole, a coward too. He was conscious, but he was paralyzed with fear. He was going to let me do it all. Well, we'd see about that.

I clicked back on. "Let's think about this. I might have been too quick. The smoke will cover us, won't it?"

"Yessir."

"Maybe it'll make it a little harder for the bugs to find us."

"You're the expert, Captain."

"n.o.body's an expert on smoke," I said. "It's too new. It looked good in the lab."

Sort of. Some of the Chtorran species curled up and withdrew. Some got really p.i.s.sed. I hadn't seen any reports about shamblers or their tenants. This was a real gamble. d.a.m.n. I hated this business of quality control in the field. I took another step. The major was too heavy. I made a decision.

"Okay," I said. "Let's try it. Tell you what-" I stopped talking while I shifted the major back to my left shoulder. "Turn the lead tank so it's pointed toward us. If anything'happens, start driving toward me as fast as you can. If I have to, I'm going to drop the major. Leave the hatch open till the last possible moment; but if it's obvious I'm not going to make it, close it. Two dead officers will be hard enough to explain; but losing the vehicle could ruin your career. They'd certainly dock your pay."

"It's okay, Captain. I'm not a lifer. I'm only in it for the duration."

Shortly, two of the tanks began belching blue and purple smoke. It wasn't actually smoke-it was a powdery mix that exploded into the air in thick peppery clouds. Its scientific name had seventeen syllables, but we called it smoke. It only looked like its namesake, it smelled like eau de skunk. We were going to reek with it by the time this was over. I'd heard it was hard to wash off too.

The smoke was supposed to be strictly organic and nontoxic to humans. It had something to do with diatomaceous earth. Diatoms were tiny one-cell creatures that lived in the sea. When they died, their bodies floated down to the floor of the ocean.

It was a continual process, and it had been going on for hundreds of millions of years. It was still going on today. After a while, the remains of the diatoms piled up in thick beds. After a longer while, they compressed into a kind of powdery clay.

You could find diatomaceous earth almost everywhere the seabed had been raised above water level. The particles were small and hard and were terrific at jamming up insect mouths and legs and wings. It was purely a physical reaction, and it worked just as well on Chtorran insects-well, insect-like creatures really-as it did on Terran ones.

There were other things in the smoke too, hormones and bacteria and spices to confuse the Chtorran ecology. The idea was to use Earth's natural defenses in concentrated doses. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Life was full of surprises, most of them nasty.

The plume of blue smoke drifted silently across the rolling red ivy. When it reached us, I buried my nose in the major's side and suppressed the urge to cough; then I turned so that Major Bellus was facing into the worst of it. My eyes were already watering badly. The d.a.m.n stuff stank worse then I remembered; it was a thick, cloying smell, disagreeable and unpleasant. Combined with the rank soup of a.s.saulting Chtonan fragrances, it was enough to raise the dead and send them off looking for a less odoriferous place to rest.

Major Bellus began to cough. At first he tried to suppress it, then it became uncontrollable and he began to retch. He spasmed so badly, I almost dropped him.

It was time to lower the man to the ground. He sagged like a bag of wet laundry. He rolled over on his side, clutching his stomach, coughing, choking, retching, and trying to wipe his eyes all at the same time. It was a lousy performance. Yes, the smoke was bad, but not that bad- "Give me a break," I said. "You're not only a hypocrite, you're a fat, flabby, phony. You're not fooling anybody. You're conscious, and you can d.a.m.n well walk the rest of the way by yourself." I jerked him back up to his feet. "Because if you don't, I'll f.u.c.king well leave you here. It'll make my life a whole lot easier. And I'm likely to survive a whole lot longer."

He opened his eyes and glared at me.

"Stow it," I said, cutting him off before he could speak. I took a step, pulling him after me. I'd made a terrible mistake, of course. Never call a man a coward in front of witnesses-especially if it's true. He'll never forgive you. And of course, by now, there were probably a lot of witnesses on line. Interesting deaths always pulled a high rating-and the heirs, if any, were usually grateful for the residuals.

The all-time record for residual benefits paid on an interactive death was still held by Daniel Goodman, a deranged Hollywood programmer.

The short version: Goodman was obscure, reclusive, and almost totally unknown, when he was hired by Lester Barnstorm, a somewhat tarnished and definitely over-the-hill executive at Marathon Productions. Barnstorm and Goodman had only one thing in common-both were desperate to prove their worth. Bath felt overlooked. And both were hungry for success of any kind. Goodman at least had talent, but he had no social skills. Barnstorm had lots of social skills, but no talent. It was a perfect partnership, a marriage made in h.e.l.l. Barnstorm gave Goodman a rat-hole office, where he toiled for seventeen months, eventually developing an imaginative fantasy called The Solar Ballet. Although originally targeted as a minor low-end adventure, under Barnstorm's skillful management the project grew into the most incredibly bloated investment in the studio's history; thus guaranteeing the studio's investment in a major publicity effort in a desperate attempt to recoup some of the millions before the stockholders got wise and replaced the present management team. Daily, Barnstorm told Goodman how pleased he was with his work and showered him with gaudy promises-money, credit, even a parking place on the lot-but when The Solar Ballet finally geared up and went into actual production, Lester Barnstorm was credited as the sole contractor and Daniel Goodman was horrified to find that he'd been given only a minor credit as a "program consultant."

When Goodman confronted Barnstorm, he was fired for being disloyal. Goodman promptly sued. Like most interactive-reality contractors, Goodman was an obsessive-compulsive; he had taped every meeting and logged each day's work in a personal diary. Unfortunately, most of the information that would have proved Goodman's case did not come to light until after his death, but the subsequent investigation uncovered a very d.a.m.ning collection. Barnstorm was revealed as a vague old man with few ideas, a hair-trigger temper, and a sn.i.g.g.e.ringly adolescent att.i.tude toward s.e.x. He knew how to make good speeches, however, and had built a career on telling other people exactly what they wanted to hear. Barnstorm had mastered the style of his industry; he had not mastered its substance. Most of his remarks on the tapes consisted of long, rambling quasi-philosophical discourses on humanity's failure to live up to Barnstorm's standards. Tape after tape demonstrated that Barnstorm had contributed only small pieces of the total project, while Goodman had done almost all of the actual writing and programming needed to construct The Solar Ballet interactive reality. In point of fact, the dispute between the two men could have been resolved quickly and without rancor-were it not for the lawyers. All that was needed was for Goodman's contribution to be fairly acknowledged and fairly recompensed. Unfortunately, by the time the real nature of the situation was understood, The Solar Ballet was only two months away from release; and the publicity mill was grinding away at full power under Lester Barnstorm's direct supervision. Any attempt to acknowledge Goodman's contribution would have been seen by Barnstorm as a direct attack on himself. The studio lawyers had been through these situations before. They knew what to do-keep the lid on the legal battle as long as they could. Nothing could be allowed to damage the earnings potential of the soon-to-be-very-successful Solar Ballet property.