Continuum 4, page 8
part #4 of Continuum Series
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Alex Porvenir said with a sly grin.
“It looks like Exhibit A,” Tucker Olton said. “In your sanity trial.”
“Come now.” Alex fired up his pipe, which was as foul-tasting as ever. “You’ve lost your faith in the old man.”
“You really think you’re going to palm this off on Ashtola?”
“I know I am. Getting it into the hides of the Kwosa will be the real trick.”
“I’m not worried about that. Even as the junior partner in this team I think I could figure that one out. The Kwosa have this thing about bravery. They’ll love shots just so they can show that pain doesn’t bother them. That’s why you’re using syringes instead of some more modern method.”
“That’s one reason. The other is that we can teach the Kwosa to administer shots themselves. It doesn’t take much in the way of special equipment or training.”
“Okay, okay. But you can’t sell Ashtola on this stuff. He isn’t a complete fool.”
“No, not a complete fool. He is, however, essentially a politician. He doesn’t know anything.”
“He knows there ain’t no such animal.”
“Does he? Want to bet?” Alex took the tube of red liquid from Tucker’s hand. He held it up admiringly to the light. “Do you know what this is?”
“Not exactly, no. But I could —”
“I’ll tell you what it is. It is Serum 247-B.”
“Serum 247-B? What the hell is that?”
Alex puffed on his pipe. “You don’t remember your history, Tuck. Serum 247-B was one of the last weapons created by the Biological Warfare Division of the Allied Armies in the Final War. It was never used. But all lightships carry a contingency supply for extreme emergencies.”
“That’s news to me, and I’ve been on a lightship with you for a lot of years. What does it do?”
“It subtly alters the endocrine system in such a way that it ultimately produces a psychologically superior fighting man. In short, a kind of superman. And it breeds true.”
Tucker Olton stared at him. “You’re telling me —”
“I assure you that it’s the absolute truth.”
Tucker Olton continued to stare at the older man. “Alters the endocrine system? How does that affect the genes?”
“It produces what might be termed a consistent and quite predictable mutation shift.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Tucker Olton snorted — more in relief than anything else. “Alex, that is pure fantastic unadulterated fast-flowing crud. You know damned well it is.”
Alex chewed on his pipe stem. “Serum 247-B. Had you going for just a minute there, didn’t I?”
Tucker flushed. “I don’t pretend to know everything. It’s a defect of your teaching. It almost sounded reasonable at first.”
Alex smiled. It was not a warm smile. “Look, friend. I know it’s balderdash. You know it, because you’re an intelligent man and have some scientific background. But Ashtola won’t know it — not until it’s much too late and we’re light-years away from this place. If I can snow you a little I can bury him in an avalanche of fancy-sounding verbiage. It will work because he is what he is. He’ll think it’s just something he hasn’t heard about, and he will never admit ignorance. It isn’t his nature, believe me. He’ll recognize good old Serum 247-B, despite the fact that it doesn’t exist. He’ll think the whole scheme is A Wonderful Plan. He may even try to get me a medal.”
“That tube of red gunk won’t solve our problem, though. It won’t make more Obo.”
Alex refilled his pipe and lit it. “Want to bet? You see, we’re going to administer a slightly different version to the hondari herds too.”
“Serum 247-C, I suppose?”
“How did you know? You probably don’t remember, but in experiments some years ago at the Cuthbert Pomeroy Gundelfinger Institute of Veterinary Medicine they were able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt —”
Tucker Olton threw up his hands. “Enough, already! I give up. Alex, you’re going to be in some very hot water before this thing is over.”
“I’ve been there before.” Alex Porvenir looked at his associate with worried affection. “You may be in there with me, Tuck. That’s why I think it is best if you don’t know too much about what I’m really doing. For the present, I suggest you believe without reservation in the miraculous warrior-creating qualities of Serum 247-B.”
“And Serum 247-C?”
“Certainly. Mighty warriors must have brave and ferocious hondari. Right?”
“Sure makes good sense to me.”
Alex puffed on his pipe. “Trust me this once, Tuck. There’s a lot at stake. Will you help me?”
Tucker Olton did not hesitate. “Of course,” he said.
And that was that.
A child was born.
As the red sun beat down on the mud-and-dung plastered dome that was a Kwosa hut, a sweating woman crouched down and clutched her husband’s spear that had been driven into the hard-packed dirt floor. It was the only occasion on which she could touch the spear of a man.
There was a small fire burning and it was very hot and smoky. There were no windows in the hut. There was one other person inside the structure, an old toothless woman who clucked knowingly and bustled about with an air of great importance.
Outside, unsheltered from the blazing sun, the men lounged around in little groups. They did not look at the hut. They gazed at the distant hondari herds. They talked about raids and the things that made the hondari beautiful. There was no way to tell which man was the woman’s husband; his behavior was the same as all the others.
The swollen woman was in considerable pain. The child inside her was not coming easily. He was violent and kicking and stubborn. That was good.
He would be a boy.
Her face was contorted. The sweat poured from her body. She felt as though she were being torn apart.
She moaned a little. She did not cry out.
Her fingers contracted on the spear shaft until she thought she would splinter the wood. She tried to relax her grip. The spear must not be damaged.
The child emerged, slowly, encased in slime.
The old woman went into action. She was quick and efficient, despite her age. She had been through this many times.
In a matter of minutes the cord was cut and the sputtering infant was washed. Mother and child rested on the hide bed.
The old woman went to the door and gave a signal. The child’s father detached himself from his group and entered the hut. He did not hurry. He kept his dignity. He tried to appear casual.
He permitted himself a brief smile when he saw that his child was a male. The Kwosa could use warriors.
He said nothing to his wife. That was the highest approval he could give.
He yanked the spear from the floor. Carefully, he placed it under the bed. The first day was important. The child could use all the help he could get.
He went back outside to study the remote hondari. He did not speak. In time, he would say what there was to say. In the meantime, the other men would not press him.
The Kwosa named their children on the fourth day. It was dangerous to give a name too soon. So many infants did not survive and it was best not to speak of them. That was easier when they had no name.
On the second day, two men from Caravans arrived at the hut. They stuck a needle into the baby’s bottom and gave him an injection of bloodred fluid.
The baby whimpered a little but did not cry.
That was very good.
The father was proud of his son. He would give him a good name.
The Kwosa were not a people much given to group ceremonials. Dispersed and mobile as they were, there were few occasions when large numbers of people could get together for ritual observances.
There were a few important rites, however.
Like so many pastoral warrior societies, the Kwosa had an age-set system. As such organizations went, it was a fairly elaborate one. Each year, early in the summer when the grass was good and the herds could be bunched, all of the boys who had reached seventeen years of age were initiated into the warrior grade. At that time, they were circumcised and given their first man-sized spears. They were not yet full-fledged warriors, but they were no longer boys either.
Every four years all of the junior warriors — including those who had been circumcised that same year — moved up a notch, as did the groups senior to them. In time, a man served in all the warrior sets and advanced to the status of an elder.
The system was made to order for Alex Porvenir’s plan — or perhaps it would be more correct to say that his plan was neatly designed to fit the system.
Caravans was in luck that the annual initiation was only three months away. Normally, even that span of time would have been much too long to wait; the logistics of interstellar trading made it mandatory to keep on the move. But the Kwosa were a crucial test case. Even though the Others had shown no interest in them as yet, the Others changed all the rules.
Caravans had to wait.
Martin Ashtola saw to that.
And wait they did —
Waited through the rains of spring, waited while the grass grew and the water filled the dry arroyos…
Waited for boys to become men.
“It’s barbaric,” Martin Ashtola said.
“Yes,” agreed Alex Porvenir.
“It gives me the creeps.”
“Relax. You don’t have to go through it.” Alex Porvenir stuffed his pipe and lit it. He could feel his own blood racing to the pounding of the drums. “You wanted warriors. This is where you get them.”
There were some thirty boys about to be initiated. There should have been nearly fifty.
They were trying hard not to look like boys. They were naked and their bodies were painted vertically with alternating white and crimson stripes. They stood straight, rigid, their hands at their sides. They did not move a muscle.
They faced two elders, one of whom held a hammer and a small chisel.
Beyond the two elders, a third man waited with an iron knife in his hand.
Behind the boys, the gathered Kwosa danced. The drums thudded and the rattles clacked. The warriors glittered with decorations as they leaped and twisted, showing off their beauty to the young women who moaned and grunted with ecstatic appreciation. The elders leaned on their spears and watched — and remembered.
Children stayed in their huts and watched from a distance. This was no place for children.
The red sun was low in the sky, but there was still plenty of light. There had to be.
The time had come.
The man with the iron knife lifted it toward the sun. The blade glinted dully.
The first boy stepped forward without hesitation. In a firm voice he announced his name and the name of his father. He walked to the two elders and lay down in the dirt, face up. He opened his mouth.
The elder with the hammer and chisel worked speedily. He wasted no motion. He knocked out an incisor tooth on the right side of the boy’s lower jaw and then an incisor on the left side. Blood spurted from the boy’s mouth. He swallowed what he could. He made no sound.
Sometimes, jaws were broken in that operation. It was never done on purpose, but it could be a good sign if the boy did not cry out. It was a test of character.
The second elder crouched down over the prostrate boy. He stuck a needle in the boy’s left shoulder and rammed the plunger home. That was nothing.
“Serum 247-B?” whispered Martin Ashtola.
Alex nodded and puffed on his pipe. “Our little contribution to the ceremony,” he said. “It will always be done now that the tradition is established.”
The boy got to his feet. He swayed a little and spat out blood. He walked to the man with the knife. He lay down in the dirt again, face up. He spread his legs. He did not close his eyes.
The man cut him swiftly. There was considerably more blood.
The boy who was no longer a boy got to his feet. He had new crimson stripes now, on his chest and on his legs. He walked under his own steam back past the waiting boys. He did not look at them. In truth, he could hardly see.
His father came to him and covered his naked body with the cloak of a warrior. He pressed a heavy spear into his son’s taut hand.
The new warrior marched with a nearly steady pace back to the hut where his mother was waiting.
Even warriors needed a mother sometimes, and this was emphatically one of the times.
The man with the bloody knife lifted it again toward the sun.
The second boy stepped forward.
“My God,” said Martin Ashtola.
Alex Porvenir smiled grimly. “Only twenty-eight more to go,” he said.
The drums continued to throb and the dancers strutted their stuff.
The elders nodded to one another, remembering many things. It was good to become a warrior.
The Caravans’ lightship had left the system of Lalande far behind. It flashed through the gray wastes of not-space.
Martin Ashtola had filed his first field report — which would not be received by the UN ET Council for many months after it was relayed from normal space — and he was quite well pleased with himself.
Alex Porvenir had filed a decidedly different report to Caravans. Carlos Coyanosa, the senior company representative on board, had already seen it. He was not happy about it. Alex was singularly unworried. Carlos was always upset by the actions that Alex took. He was a good man but he had no imagination.
Martin Ashtola did have a few nagging doubts.
“You’re absolutely sure it will work?” he asked.
“Serum 247-B has never failed,” Alex replied truthfully.
“Then we’ve really done something, haven’t we? We’re one up on them, and that’s for sure.”
“We’ve made us some warriors,” Alex said. He was careful to speak the literal truth.
“It seems odd. I confess that I expected to see some sign of them on Lalande II.”
“The Others?” Alex, one of the few men who had actually seen their traces on Arctica, found himself accepting the fact of their existence with composure.
“Of course. If we only knew more about what they were up to, how they thought! It’s difficult operating in the dark, as it were. What are their plans for the Kwosa?”
Alex eyed the younger man. He looked quite natty in his clean blue uniform. Ah, the thin blue line, Alex thought. Here he stands, one man alone, saving Earth from the slavering hordes. “You have an awesome responsibility.”
“It’s funny we didn’t run into them.”
“Not really, Ash.” Alex took a deep breath. He had to educate this man, however painful it was. He would wake up soon enough, and then the fur would fly. “It’s only natural to expect to find Them everywhere, once we made the initial encounter. But it won’t work that way. The universe is enormous, my friend, and the worlds in just our own little galaxy are beyond counting. We traders operated in space for a very long time before we even knew that They existed. It could be centuries before our paths cross again. They may not have any plans for the Kwosa at all.”
“We can’t act on that assumption! And even if we did, we’ve gained an advantage. We’ve made a move. We’ve done something for the Kwosa they couldn’t do for themselves. We’ve turned them into magnificent warriors, and they’ll be on our side when the showdown comes.”
Hondari dung, Alex thought. “You think we did the right thing, then?”
“I’m certain of it. We have to act. We can’t just sit back and wait.”
“Yes, we must act. But there are actions and then there are actions. We are not gods, Ash. We have no private pipeline to the Ultimate Truth. We are entitled to make our own mistakes, and we’ve made plenty. But are we entitled to make decisions for other peoples?”
“You mean the Kwosa?”
“Among others, yes.”
“Don’t think I’m insensitive to the rights of native peoples! I’m here to protect them.”
“Against the nasty old exploiting trading companies?”
“Well, I didn’t mean that.”
The hell you didn’t.
“Look, Alex, I know your record — and that of Caravans. It’s a very good one.”
“Thank you.”
“We did nothing to the Kwosa that they wouldn’t want done. We know what’s best for them. They want to be warriors.”
“They also liked things the way they were. In fact, the Kwosa are among the few truly contented people I have ever known — and I have known a few.”
“Serum 247-B won’t hurt anyone.”
“Perhaps not.” Alex permitted himself a small smile. “I notice that you didn’t volunteer to take any.”
Martin Ashtola threw up his hands. He didn’t understand this man at all. “That’s totally different.”
“Why?” Alex Porvenir asked quietly.
Martin Ashtola turned on his heel and left the room.
“Maybe you’d better explain,” Tucker Olton suggested gently. “If I’m going to be in the line of fire, I’d like to know what in the hell I’ve been up to.”
Alex Porvenir poured himself some Scotch and took a long drink. He was tired and it was hard for him to look back. It was tough enough to make the decisions he had to make, year after year. It was tougher still to live with them afterward. He had no illusions about his own infallibility. He simply tried to do the best he could.
“Where do we start, Tuck? And please don’t say at the beginning.”
Tucker Olton shrugged. “As I see it, we had two basic problems with the Kwosa. Three, if you count Martin Ashtola. First, we were faced with a product loss because the Obo caste was declining in numbers and turning out less jewelry. Second, there was the long-range problem of the Others and how they might be countered or checked. Exactly what did we do?”
“We turned to good old Serum 247-B.”
“Don’t start that again.”
Alex stiffened his drink and lit his pipe. The pipe was sour, as usual. He smoked it anyhow. The Scotch sweetened it some. “We might as well call it Serum 247-B. It sounds impressive and it’s as good a name as any.”
