Beowulf's Children Part 46

"This is Skeeter Two. We have no contact at all."

"None?"

"Nothing grendel-sized is moving. No heat source. I don't like it."

"And the river is running with blood, isn't it?"

"The ox was alive when we chained it in the river. We numbed it, sliced it, and let it bleed to death. I'm telling you, it should have done the job."

"Wait ten minutes," Aaron said.

Chaka wheeled around. This was a good life. There was beauty, and endless discovery and growth. But it required vigilance. His life had always required vigilance. Since the first time that he had become aware of the difference between himself and the other children, he had been vigilant.

Since the first time that he had formed the union with Aaron and Trish and the others, he had been vigilant. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Who said that? His father?

He pulled his mind back to the task at hand.

Chaka had been adopted, mentored by Big Chaka. Big Chaka was from America. Little Chaka's seed had come from New Guinea. Still, there was a connection, and it wasn't the odd African name. Chaka smiled to think of it, and looked forward to the visit from the mainland, for the sloping shadow of the big dirigible, and the cargo and people she would bring.

He checked all of his meters. "Ca.s.sandra?"

"Negative, Chaka," she said.

d.a.m.n. There was just nothing warm and willing to move down there. At least-nothing that could be lured by blood. He had long thought that grendels were more intelligent than anyone gave them credit for.

"All right," he said finally. "Let's dump speed."

One of the other skeeters dropped speed pellets into the water. They dissolved almost instantly. The water seethed with scent.

"Let's see," Chaka said.

Old Grendel was in agony. The smells of blood and speed were overwhelming. She wanted to meet these strange creatures on their own ground, to learn.

There was so much that was new about them.

But she couldn't do that. Her whole self wanted to attack. If she came near them, she would tear them to pieces, or they would kill her. She would learn nothing. All she could do was fight against her own deepest instincts, feel the speed boiling within her, and lie buried in the mud and the silt and wait.

And dream.

She remembered a time when she had no dreams.

She remembered when the world had become so strange. When the colors and shapes and smells became patterns. Agony came with the change. She had suffered for a full cycle of seasons, and there were times when she was so sick and crazed that she completely forgot what it had ever been to feel well and whole. And then . . . and then her head felt heavy. Swollen. On the far side of agony came an awareness, a newness.

That was when she began to remember things. To think of the images that came at night, and wonder where they stopped and the world of food and fear began.

That was when she found she could tell the speed to stop, to go away. When she began to master the hidden essence of herself. That was the beginning of everything.

She knew that something had happened. And she knew that she wanted to pa.s.s this something on, a gift for her own young.

Perhaps once a year, she would chase down one of her own swimmers. Quite a chase it would be, too. How was a swimmer to know that the ballistic shape swooping through the water didn't mean to eat it? Every similar memory ended in water clouded with gore. But once a year the jaws would close more gently.

A swimmer could survive out of the water for almost an hour, and she moved carefully through the dusk, briskly, but never hitting speed. If its skin grew too dry, she would vomit a little water over it to keep it comfortable, and continue.

The water tasted different to her here. When she came here, it felt better. And when she brought some of her young, when she made certain that they lingered in this watery place, it felt best of all.

And some of those swimmers that she brought to this place felt the same strange call.

One had died. Her head swelled, as with her sisters before her, but the pain never dwindled, and her thin scream stopped only with death. She was too old. Old Grendel decided. The bones in her head had gone rigid, and expansion below the skull had split it. Old Grendel didn't make that mistake again.

The ones who had not been to the headwater smelled different. They were stupid. They would challenge her for territory when they were not a third her size, when they hadn't even fully grown into speed. She tore them to pieces without a second thought.

The favored ones: she watched them grow, and presently chased them down the river. Most she never saw again.

But sometimes . . . when the weather was dry and the water levels dropped, when there weren't any ponds or marshes to support them, some of them came back to challenge her.

She remembered killing many-but allowing others to flee back downriver. She didn't know what happened to them, didn't really think about it in the way that a human being might understand memories, but she felt a distaste for killing them. Ordinarily, in killing there was pleasure.

The water was buzzing against her skin, pounding in her ears. Old Grendel came back to herself in a flash of terror. Then she recognized the vibration of approaching hooves.

The water was running clean, the taste of speed was fading. She sensed that first. Then she retracted her snorkel, and slowed her fire so that her oxygen would last longer.

The hoofbeats were upriver from her. She could hear everything. The smell reached her a few moments later. Puzzle beasts, the ones who could change their look and scent. A herd of them! She loved the taste of their meat, and the joy of solving the puzzle they posed; for the world was a pattern, and puzzle beasts could hide within it.

Again, her juices began to flow. It was almost too good to believe, too good to allow to pa.s.s.

But she could smell more than a score of weirds. Weirds were dangerous. She could hear it coming, rumble-roar-splash, and she smelled a stink of lightning and heat and volcanic chemicals: one of the dead things, the sh.e.l.ls that the weirds grew so that they could run on speed.

The herd pounded through the river, until the thunder of hooves diminished. Then Old Grendel slowly, cautiously raised her head from the water, and looked. They were moving away, to the east, toward the larger encampment.

She could get closer, and would. The sun was past its zenith. The day was cooling. She could make it to another spring, one which she had discovered on a foray in the rain. It was a long way from her native grounds.

Chapter 29.

CHILDREN OF THE DREAM.

Moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque.

(The Roman state stands by ancient customs, and its manhood.) ENNIUS, Annals

Two rows of electrified fences greeted them as they drove the herd toward Shangri-La.

A sheer granite expanse of mountains rose behind the base camp to the north, solid and impa.s.sive. Steps and supply caverns had been cut into it. These could also serve as shelters in an emergency. There was no deep running water to the north for nearly two hundred kilometers. The closest deep water to the camp was the river twenty klicks east-well beyond ordinary grendel range, except in rainy seasons. In winter and rain they would have to take special precautions.

The sights and smells of a healthy, active camp a.s.sailed them as they rode up, singing and enjoying themselves.

Justin waited for the first fence to shut down and the warning lights atop it to blink off. Two attendants swung the gate open, and welcomed them in.

"How was the trip?"

"Except for Stu," he said soberly, "it was great."

Long faces, nods of understanding.

A drawbridge spanned the horseshoe trench between the two fences. There was no way in or out save across the double pits, by skeeter, or up the mountainside. Every corner of Shangri-La was protected by automatic sensors with links directly to Ca.s.sandra.

A single electrified fence surrounded the forty acres of experimental farmland beyond the main encampment. The electric fence was lightly charged at all times, but the computers could switch to higher voltages in an eyeblink. Watchdogs roamed freely, their collars keyed to the fence's frequency. Irritation increased in direct ratio to their nearness to the fence. After the first week, the collars had been turned down. No dog had been hurt.

The growl of tractors, the laughter of children greeted them.

Justin moved to the far side of the drawbridge, and let the chamels through. The herd hardly protested anymore, as if the snow grendel attack had broken their spirit-or proved the good intentions of their new masters.

The sounds of happy laughter were evidence of the one thing that had caused the greatest debate between the generations. The children.

Clearly, the Star Born had the right to bring their own children with them. Although there had been debate, there were no solid grounds to deny it.

So the age of consent was set at sixteen years. There were a few Star Born between the ages of ten and sixteen who had been allowed to accompany older brothers and sisters. This was for individual families to decide.

The outer gate swung closed, and the spotting skeeters buzzed over the main pads.

Four skeeters had gone out on the run, two weeks ago.

Three returned. Justin shook his head. Snow, dammit. He hadn't thought about that, and Stu was dead, and Katya came that close. But . . . they had taken out five grendels with a single casualty.

The first grendel to enter Camelot had killed seven, and wounded many more. One grendel had nearly devastated the entire colony. But that was twenty years ago.

They were learning. They would have to learn even faster.

The chamels were herded through the second fence, and across the second drawbridge, as Justin swung down off his horse.

The rotors on her skeeter were still revolving as Katya jumped down. She spotted him as she stopped at a data post and uplinked her flight records. Then she ran at him, thudded against his chest. He threw one arm around her, feeling . . . protective?

It wasn't the kind of feeling that he had for Jessica. Perhaps that was familiarity. Family. It felt good to have Katya next to him- "You need a refresher course," he said.

He was holding a marble statue.

She said, "It wasn't my fault."

"Tomorrow, the playtent. We'll shoot some virtual grendels together.

I'll spot-"

"Spot me nothing."

The camp was all prefabricated buildings, squat one-story jobs with s.p.a.cious windows and red roofs. The streets were wide, with enough room to play or wander. Herds of dogs and a few older kids ran in the streets. It was like Camelot made new. First the area was sterilized with flamethrowers, then Earth gra.s.ses were planted.

Then the dirigible created a series of supply depots along the way, along the rock islands dotting the ocean between Camelot and the continent.

One step at a time, until the proposed camp site was supplied and protected. Only then did the human beings enter to construct fences and buildings.

Jessica and Aaron ran up from the side, laughing, Chaka and Trish behind them. "Me for the mess hall," Aaron called.

Justin agreed heartily. Dinner sounded great.

Justin felt comfortable in Shangri-La. There was n.o.body older than twenty, and everything was made to their specifications. It was like a larger, wealthier version of Surf's Up.

When they entered the mess hall there was a roar. They hoisted Aaron up on their shoulders and carried him around the room, and he was handed a huge flagon of beer. Conversations were conducted at a yell: the walls throbbed with an Abo-Asian jazz-fusion performed by computer wave-table synthesis from scores and themes they fed to Ca.s.sandra. Someone had dubbed that the Shangri-La Symphony Orchestra.

It was raucous, and it was home.

Posted on the walls were the totals for the week's work quotas. The entire encampment, the eighty-five of them over here from the island, was broken up into six teams, each with their own duties and responsibilities. The discipline and organization was taken over by internal teams. There was play, there was revelry. There were biweekly orgies. But G.o.d help anyone who didn't meet his quota, or was too drunk, too drugged up or s.e.xed out to take his security post, or till the fields. It wasn't an economic system for the ages, but within this small community where everyone knew everyone else, it worked well enough. There was enough to eat, and there were some luxuries, and everyone could spend at least half time on interesting work.

That night's service detail brought in the food, and the conversation died to a gentle roar.

"Well, what do you think?" Edgar asked Jessica.

"I think it looks great. More paint on the inside, and a few more decorations. The most important thing is the new buildings."

"Most important thing is that all of the quotas are met. The dirigible is coming in day after tomorrow, and we want to be certain that we're ready."

"What's the tally?"

"Nine tonnes of refined ore-Deadwood is running fine. Zack should be happy."

She noticed that the conversation had died down. Everyone understood the question behind the question.

Edgar Sikes said, "n.o.body has the remotest idea what happened in Deadwood Pa.s.s. We've a.n.a.lyzed from every angle. Whatever killed Linda and Joe was just gone. We haven't a clue. We shipped in a grendel-proof shelter and sealed it and installed air tanks. It should stop anything."

"Best bet?"

"Eh. Some sort of gas cloud," Edgar said. "Volcanic origin, something that acted like an acid."

"But wasn't an acid?"

"Certainly didn't leave acidic traces. But that's the way it acted, and that's what we have to a.s.sume."

He dipped his finger in water and drew on the table. "Look here. The best guess we have is that the wind blowing up over the mountains carried a pocket of caustic gas with it. It hit them before they had any chance at all."

"And Cadzie?"

He bared his teeth. "Don't know. Best guess is that she sealed the baby in the blanket. The acid cloud pa.s.sed before it could leak in. But Aaron's sure it was something alive, something that veers away from Cadzie blue."