Infoquake (16 page)

"What's happening?" said Natch sleepily. "What's that smell?"

"Smoke," replied Horvil with a groan. "The smell of initiation
going up in flames."

The cabins themselves were not the worst casualty of the fire. Even
frightened boys who had never spent a winter outdoors knew that trees
could be chopped down and cabins could be rebuilt. Only six of sixteen cabins had burned down completely, while three had suffered
minor damage. There was still plenty of room for all to find space
indoors.

No, the real calamity was the destruction to their tool sheds and
food supply.

One by one, the boys limped out to the fields, where most of their
perennial crops now lay under a shroud of ash. Somehow, they had
always known there was something unnatural about the variety of
nutritious grains and vegetables that sprouted every spring, despite the
harsh winters of the midwest and generations of inept teenage farming.
Their ancestors had never had such a bounty of genetically engineered
supercrops to sustain them. But now, staring at the remains of their
harvest-not to mention the twisted ruins of two of the tool sheds and
the charred silo containing most of their stored grain-the initiates
knew that this game was no longer tilted in their favor.

The origins of the fire were a mystery. Most likely it had been the
product of carelessness, someone forgetting to smother the dying
embers of a torch. Perhaps back in the civilized world they could have
scavenged for evidence and mounted an investigation, but here all they
had was vague conjecture. Before long, whispers passed through
Brone's side of the camp laying the blame on Natch's shoulders.

"Why would he do something like that?" exclaimed Horvil the
first time he heard the rumor. "Do you even have the slightest bit of
evidence?"

"The fire started near Brone's side of the camp," one of the boys
told him. "Everyone knows those two hate each other. Natch was one
of the last ones out, and his cabin is fine."

"That's totally ridiculous. That's not evidence at all."

The other boy admitted his theory had little in the way of factual
support. "But come on, Horv-you're his best friend, right? Doesn't
he scare you?"

Horvil bristled. "All I know is that Natch's test scores were higher
than half the class combined. That means he's smarter than you. And
that means he knows setting fire to the camp would hurt him just as
much as Brone." The conversation came to an abrupt halt soon after.

There was much to do. The boys went to work right away, picking
every edible seed, berry and root on the horizon, repairing and filling
the well, making defensive preparations against unknown enemies.
The boys of CAMP 11 spent their spare time in an engineering frenzy,
attempting to coax the last bit of practicality out of the everyday items
around them. A frayed rope strand and several bottles could be converted into a makeshift dumbwaiter. Broken glass could be spread
along the roads as an early intruder alert system. Spare rolls of plastic
could be conscripted to channel excess rainwater to the well.

After a week of trying to pick up the pieces and shore up the damaged cabins, it became clear to the initiates that all their preparations
might not be sufficient for them to survive the winter. An argument sprang up about how closely the proctors were monitoring their situation here in the wilderness. If the situation grew too precarious, would
the proctors come and rescue them? The Proud Eagle wouldn't just let
dozens of its pupils starve to death out here, would it?

And then, without warning, winter descended upon them.

The snow marched into CAMP 11 under an imperious wind, eager
to pound and break any human habitation in its path. Within days of
the winter solstice, the boys had abandoned all non-essential duties to
concentrate on the snow. But there was much more snow than hands
to shovel it. Milky precipitation smothered the plants and killed off
the remaining vegetation. The initiates soon discovered that, unlike
the geosynchron-regulated snow to which they were accustomed, natural snow could sting and burn. Insulation against the cold became
their biggest worry.

A debilitating flu hopped from boy to boy and gave the initiates
their first taste of real illness. Back in the civilized world, OCHREs
diagnosed all their ailments, and bio/logic programs automatically
dealt with them by consulting the Dr. Plugenpatch databases. No
more. "I remember reading that you're supposed to blow your nose when
it gets clogged up like this," Horvil announced earnestly one day.
"Does anybody know how to do that?" No one did.

The boys were startled to discover that even without OCHREs and
bio/logic programming and Dr. Plugenpatch, the human body had a
remarkable ability to heal itself. They came to realize that all the
bio/logic technology society relied on for its survival had not been constructed out of whole cloth; it was patterned after cruder motifs passed
down through millions of years of genetic heritage. Natch, Horvil and
most of the other boys quickly bounced back from the flu and resumed
their duties.

But a few of the boys lingered on in their illnesses, their bodies
unable to fully repel the alien microbes wreaking havoc in their systems. The argument about proctor intervention flared up again. But if anyone expected the proctors to suddenly swoop down from the clouds
and rescue them from their misery, they were disappointed.

And so, under a chill wind, the initiates all huddled in the center
of the camp one afternoon and tried to hammer out a strategy.

Now, under the pressure of starvation and with the added encouragement of the arson rumors, the much-discussed antagonism between
Brone and Natch surfaced with a vengeance. Natch declared that
CAMP 11 was ruined, and their only chance for survival lay in finding
one of the other encampments out in the wilderness. Some of these
other camps had to have some stored food available, he argued, as
theirs had upon their arrival. But Brone immediately raised objections
to this strategy, his opposition all the more intense because Natch proposed it.

"We can salvage what's left," stated Brone. His voice boomed with
the strong and vibrant tones of a born politician. "We can survive here.
But if we leave, there's no telling what we're going to find out in the
wilderness."

"And what are we going to live on?" yelled Natch. His voice was a
crow's squawk, the sound of metal grating on metal. "The stores we
have are almost gone."

"There are deer running around. We can hunt."

Natch let out a dismissive snort. "You're saying we should start
eating real meat? Those aren't synthetic deer out there. We'll all get
sick again, right when we can't afford to lose any time."

"But we'll survive."

The conflict raged through the afternoon, and gradually the boys
began to polarize into two separate groups. Occasionally, someone
would manage to insert a fact or an opinion into the discussion, but by
and large it remained a conflict between Natch and Brone, the two
stubborn boys at the top of their class. When the sun finally slunk
down over the horizon, someone suggested the question be put to a
vote. Should they abandon their adopted home and search for other encampments, or soldier on here at CAMP 11 and hunt for food?

Natch lost.

The boy sat in the center of the ruined camp for several hours,
oblivious to the whispers of the rest. All his frustration and humiliation from the Figaro Fi episode rushed over him in a black rage that
clouded over his senses. Eventually, the rest of the boys abandoned the
convocation and went off to find sleep.

Natch sat and sulked, his mind whirling. The stench of death lay
over Brone's plan, as obvious to Natch as the wind or the rain. He
couldn't just follow Brone to his grave, could he?

Horvil put a hand on his shoulder. "You know what Sheldon Surina
said?" he remarked to Natch quietly. "He said, The man who doesn't
know how to compromise only has himself to blame. "

"I'd rather think about what Lucco Primo said," rasped Natch in
reply.

"What's that?"

"Never bet on the optimist. "

The boys had seen little of the local wildlife during their eight months
at CAMP 11, but that didn't mean the predators weren't out there.
Generations of black bears and wolves prowled the woods nearby,
living out their own dramas of survival with nary a thought to the
humans in their midst. They were not prone to violence, but the
Autonomous Revolt had decimated their natural habitats and taught
them to be less forgiving. The miserable winter drew them closer and
closer to the human encampments in search of food.

Horvil was the first boy to run afoul of the black bears. He was
tromping purposefully through the snow gathering firewood when he
stumbled on one of the larger specimens. Two hundred-fifty kilograms
of ursine horror lunged at Horvil with no warning, sending the boy darting back to the camp at a speed he wouldn't have believed himself
capable of.

"Bear!" he yelped as he stumbled down the hillside, shedding
sticks of firewood the whole way. "Bear! Help! Bear!"

The camp instantly descended into chaos. Before anyone could propose a coherent strategy, Brone rounded up a small contingent of boys
and armed them with torches. Horvil and a number of others scampered into their cabins and barricaded the doors, assuming the bear
would wander off on its own accord. Natch, meanwhile, was out on one
of his aimless peregrinations around the woods.

The initiates would debate what happened next for many years
afterward.

Brone and his comrades located the beast soon enough. He had
headed straight for the storage silo containing their hard-earned stockpile of fruit. But the boys' bravado was quickly snuffed by the sight of
a cornered bear rising up on hind legs with claws extended. Brone
made a feint with his torch, which only succeeded in frightening the
bear into a rage. He charged at one of Brone's companions, sliced him
neatly across the chest, then tripped and fell directly onto another boy.
A few of the remaining initiates managed to toss their bleeding comrades over their shoulders and make a break for the cabins, while the
rest scattered in confusion.

Natch, returning from his walk, observed all this from a distance.
Fools, he thought. You can't accomplish anything without a strategy. He
realized that if the camp were to survive this latest incursion, he would
have to take control. It was a strange feeling, to be responsible for
others and not just oneself. He tried to pretend that he was not
accountable, that he could just run off and let the rest of the initiates
fend for themselves. Then the image of poor hapless Horvil came
unbidden to his head, Horvil standing and pleading with him, You'll
take care of me, won't you, Natch? He cursed his friend's name and
quickly devised a plan.

Seeing that the bear was now pursuing the firebrands that had
taunted him moments earlier, Natch rushed into the fray and ripped a
torch from the hand of a campmate. The boy, stunned, put up no
resistance. Natch instantly reversed course, waving his torch at the
beast and leading him in the opposite direction, away from the camp.

Natch's thoughts were jumbled, incoherent. Primal reflex took
over and dispelled any more complex emotion. He could feel the pulse
of blood rushing through his legs, the lash and sting of the branches
across his face. The bear was constantly a few steps behind, growling,
ready to pounce and devour him. Yet he knew these woods like nobody
else in the camp did. He knew exactly where he was going.

Until, as chance would have it, he spotted Brone.

Natch whipped around and headed in his direction.

Brone had made his way to a clearing on top of a low hill, hoping
to gather his wits there. His torch had snuffed out in the snow somewhere during the frantic escape from the bear, and Brone was now busy
scanning the area for a suitable branch to use as a cudgel.